(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || In the quiet intimacy of a parked car with fogged windows, Jisung's careful restraint crumbles into desperate, hungry kisses, hands in hair, on throats, beneath shirts. But when the heat becomes too much, he stops, pressing his forehead to hers and promising that she deserves better than rushed moments in a cramped front seat.
The car is quiet now, the kind of quiet that isn't empty but full, full of everything neither of you has said yet. The engine's been off for a while, and the windows have started to fog just slightly at the edges, blurring the streetlights outside into soft halos of gold.
Jisung is still talking, but his words have slowed, lost their usual frantic rhythm. He's been telling you something about practice, about a mistake he made in the choreography, but his eyes keep dipping. To your mouth. Away. Back again.
You stopped listening about thirty seconds ago. You're not sure he remembers what he was saying either.
His voice trails off mid-sentence, and the silence rushes in. He's looking at you now, fully, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, nervous, hopeful, like he's standing at the edge of something and waiting to see if you'll meet him there.
"I've been thinking about it," he admits quietly, and he doesn't have to specify what it is. The first kiss. The one that happened fast and soft and left you both blinking at each other afterwards like you'd accidentally touched a live wire.
"Me too," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a nervous habit you've noticed a thousand times, but this time it makes your stomach flip. He shifts in the driver's seat, angling his body toward you, and the leather creaks underneath him.
"Yeah?" The word is barely a whisper. Almost hopeful. Almost afraid.
You nod.
Jisung exhales, a shaky little breath, like he's steeling himself, and then he's leaning in.
The first kiss is barely there at all.
His lips meet yours so softly, so tentatively, that for a second you're not sure it's even happening. Just a whisper of contact. A question. His mouth is warm and a little dry, and he holds it for only a heartbeat, two, before pulling back just enough to look at you. Checking. Always checking.
Your eyes flutter open, and he's right there. So close. His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing brown, and there's the faintest flush creeping up the sides of his neck. His bangs are falling into his eyes but he doesn't move them. Doesn't move anything.
He presses his forehead to yours instead.
His skin is warm. A little damp at the temple, nerves, maybe, or just the heat building in the enclosed space of the car. His eyes slip shut, and you can feel the way his breath comes unevenly, warm puffs of air ghosting over your lips. He stays like that, forehead resting against yours, not moving, not pushing, just... breathing you in.
Your hand has found its way to his chest without you realizing it. Under your palm, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, his heart is hammering. Fast. Wild. Nothing like the casual, teasing persona he wears like armor.
"I don't want to mess this up," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it. His eyes are still closed, lashes dark crescents against his cheekbones.
He's so close you can count his moles if you want to. The tiny one on his cheek. Another near his temple. All the constellations of him.
And something about that, the softness of it, the care, the way he's holding himself back even though you can feel the slight tremble in his hand where it's come to rest on your knee, makes your heart clench.
Your hand slides up from his chest, fingers trailing along the column of his throat, just a brush, just enough to feel his pulse jump beneath your touch, before your palm curves around the nape of his neck. The hair at the back of his head is soft, slightly tangled from a long day, and you let your fingers thread through it as you tilt your head and close the distance.
This kiss isn't a question.
Your lips part against his, and for a breathless second Jisung freezes, like his brain has short-circuited, like he can't quite believe this is happening. Then something in him melts. His shoulders drop. The tension bleeds out of his spine. His mouth softens, opens, meets you with a kind of aching, desperate relief.
The kiss is slow but deep, the kind where lips slot together and pull apart and find each other again, over and over, like neither of you can stand to break contact for more than a heartbeat. Open-mouthed, warm, tender. No tongue yet, just the give and press of it, the quiet wet sound of lips catching and releasing. It's messy in the gentlest way. Intimate in a way that makes the rest of the world fall away.
His bottom lip catches between yours for a moment, and he exhales sharply through his nose. The hand on your knee tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans, anchoring himself. Like he needs something to hold onto.
Your fingers flex in his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp, and the sound he makes, a small, broken thing from somewhere deep in his chest, sends a shiver cascading down your spine. His head tilts further into your hand, unconsciously, chasing the feeling, and it changes the angle of the kiss entirely. New. Better. Deeper.
You pull back just slightly and close the kiss with sealed lips. Soft. Deliberate. A period at the end of a sentence. Then another. Another. Small, lingering presses of your mouth against his, each one a little slower than the last, like you're memorizing the shape of him. Like you're savoring it.
Jisung follows your lead without hesitation. When you pull back, he doesn't chase, he lets you go, but only just. His forehead finds yours again, and this time his eyes are open, dark and glassy and fixed on you like you're something he's afraid might disappear.
"Okay," he breathes, the word barely audible. His voice is wrecked already, a little hoarse, and he hasn't even been kissed properly yet. "Okay, wait. Give me a second. I need a second."
His chest is rising and falling under your other hand. Fast. Uneven. His lips are pinker now, slightly swollen, and they curve into a dazed, helpless smile that he can't seem to control.
"I've thought about this," he says, and then immediately squeezes his eyes shut like he can't believe he admitted that. "I mean, not in a weird way. Just. You know. Since the first one. I've thought about it a lot. Too much. Minho told me I was being insufferable."
He's rambling now, nervous energy spilling out of him, but his hand hasn't moved from your knee and his forehead hasn't left yours. You're still tangled up in each other. Still breathing the same air.
"I know," you whisper, lips brushing his as you speak, "but I can't-"
You don't get to finish.
Because Jisung's hand is suddenly on your hip, fingers pressing into the soft dip of bone and flesh with an urgency that wasn't there before, and he's pulling. Dragging you closer across the center console, and the seatbelt digs into your side for half a second before you're shifting, twisting, letting him reel you in until there's no space left between your bodies.
His other hand finds the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair, and he brings your mouth back to his like he's starving for it. Like the thirty seconds you spent talking were thirty seconds too long.
The kiss picks up right where it left off, open-mouthed and deep and devastatingly slow, but there's something different now. Something hungrier. The careful restraint he'd been clinging to is fraying at the edges, thread by thread, and you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten in your hair. The way his thumb presses into your hip, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to let you know he's not letting go. Not this time.
He kisses you like he's been waiting weeks for this. Months. Forever.
Your hand is still at the nape of his neck, and you feel the muscles shift as he tilts his head, changing the angle, finding a new way to fit his mouth against yours. Each kiss bleeds into the next without breaking. Open mouth, closed lips, open again, a rhythm that neither of you planned but both of you fall into like you've been doing this for years.
The windows are fully fogged now, the world outside reduced to nothing but smeared light and shadow. The car has become its own universe. Small. Warm. Breathing.
Jisung's nose presses into your cheek when he shifts, and he stays there for a moment, just breathing you in, lips parted against the corner of your mouth. Not kissing. Just... hovering. Trembling. His fingers massage slow circles into your scalp, and it's so gentle, such a stark contrast to the grip he still has on your hip, that your head goes a little fuzzy.
Then his mouth finds yours again.
This time he's the one to part his lips first. He catches your bottom lip between both of his, a soft, sucking pull, and releases it with a quiet sound that's almost a whimper. His forehead drops to yours for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, and then he's tilting his head the other way and sealing his mouth over yours again. And again. And again.
The kiss deepens by degrees, not by leaps. He's still holding back, you can feel it, the slight tremor in his hand, the way his breathing stutters every time your fingers flex against his scalp. He's letting you set the pace, even now, even when his restraint is visibly crumbling.
But his hand is sliding from your hip to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide over the fabric of your shirt, and he's pulling you closer still. You're practically halfway over the console now, one hand braced against the passenger seat, the other still buried in his hair. The position is awkward. Uncomfortable, even. Neither of you cares.
Outside, a car passes somewhere in the distance. The sound barely registers. There's only this, his mouth, his hands, the soft ragged noises he makes every time the kiss shifts from open to closed and back again. There's only the way he whispers your name against your lips, not asking for anything, just... saying it. Like a prayer. Like he can't quite believe you're real.
Like a dam breaking. Like whatever thin thread of restraint Jisung had been clinging to finally snaps.
One second his lips are soft, searching, reverent. The next, he's kissing you so hard it almost hurts.
His mouth crashes against yours with a desperate, bruising intensity, no more hesitation, no more careful restraint. Just raw, aching hunger. His fingers tighten in your hair, fisting in the strands, and he uses the grip to angle your head exactly where he wants it. Where he needs it.
Your head falls back against the passenger seat headrest with a soft thud, and he follows you down.
He doesn't break the kiss. Doesn't even pause. His body leans across the center console, crowding into your space, filling it, consuming it. One hand stays tangled in your hair, holding you steady, while the other braces against the passenger seat beside your head. He's caging you in now, not trapping you, never that, but surrounding you completely, and the shift in power makes your stomach swoop.
The kisses are hard now. Desperate. His lips press and part and press again with a force that steals your breath, like he's trying to pour every unspoken word, every sleepless night, every frantic thought he's had since that first kiss directly into your mouth. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops.
Your hand slides from his neck to his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there, and he groans against your lips. Actually groans, low and rough and so genuine it makes your toes curl inside your shoes.
"Been wanting-" he starts, but he doesn't finish, can't finish, because he's already kissing you again. Hard. Desperate. His teeth graze your bottom lip, just barely, a hint of something sharper underneath all the softness, and then he's pulling back just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the hinge of your jaw.
But he always comes back. Always finds your lips again.
Your head is pressed firmly into the passenger seat now, neck arched, and he's leaning over you so completely that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. The console is digging into your hip. Your back is twisted at an awkward angle. None of it matters.
Your fingers find his hair again and you pull, not gently this time, and the sound he makes is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. His hips shift in the driver's seat, his body straining toward you like a plant toward sunlight, and his forehead drops to yours for just a moment. Just a breath.
His eyes are squeezed shut. His lips are parted, slick, redder than before. His chest is heaving.
"Tell me if it's too much," he pants, and his voice is so broken, so vulnerable despite the iron grip he still has on your hair. "Promise me you'll tell me."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes back into yours, hard and desperate and searching, and the world outside the fogged-up windows ceases to exist entirely.
And then, without warning, he pulls back.
Not completely. Not enough to break contact. But the bruising pressure of his mouth softens, eases, becomes something featherlight and almost lazy. His lips barely graze yours now, a ghost of a kiss, a tease. The grip in your hair loosens until his fingers are just resting there, cradling instead of clutching.
It's such a sudden shift that it takes your brain a second to catch up.
You chase him instinctively, leaning forward, trying to recapture the heat of his mouth, but he moves with you, just a fraction of an inch, just enough to keep the distance. His lips brush yours once. Twice. Barely there. A whisper of contact that leaves you aching and frustrated and dizzy with want.
A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. A whimper. High and needy and completely mortifying, but you can't help it. The absence of him is unbearable. The softness is unbearable. You need him back, need the weight and the heat and the desperation, need him to stop teasing and kiss you properly.
Your fingers fist in the front of his hoodie, yanking him toward you with a strength you didn't know you had.
"Don't," you breathe against his mouth, and it comes out wrecked and pleading. "Don't stop."
You don't give him the chance to respond.
You kiss him hard, harder than before, harder than you've kissed anyone in your life, pouring all that frustration and longing and desperation directly into his mouth. Your teeth catch his bottom lip and you tug, just shy of painful, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
That's when you feel it.
Against your lips, unmistakable and infuriating and devastatingly attractive: a smirk.
The absolute audacity of him. He's smirking. Even as you kiss him senseless, even as his hand tightens reflexively in your hair, even as his breathing goes ragged and uneven, Han Jisung is smirking against your mouth like he's just won something. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like the sound of you whimpering for him was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Knew it," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough and unbearably smug. "Knew you wanted this as bad as I do."
His thumb traces a slow circle at the nape of your neck, soothing and maddening all at once, and he lets you kiss him hard for another breathless moment before he kisses back just as fiercely, meeting you blow for blow, hunger for hunger, smirk still ghosting at the corner of his mouth.
He's not teasing anymore.
But he knows now. He knows the power he holds, knows the effect he has on you, and there's something devastating in the way he kisses you after that revelation. Confident. Certain. Like he's finally, finally letting himself believe this is real.
His hand moves.
Slowly. Deliberately. Testing.
His fingers slip from your hair, trailing down the side of your face with a touch so light it's almost not there. He traces the shell of your ear, the hinge of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, feather-soft, exploratory, like he's mapping territory he's only dreamed about. Like he's memorizing every inch of you by touch alone.
Then his fingertips find your neck.
They don't grab. Don't squeeze. Don't do anything except rest there, so lightly you could almost convince yourself you're imagining it. Just the pads of his fingers, warm and calloused from guitar strings, pressed gentle as a secret against the side of your throat.
Your breath stutters. Actually stutters, catches in your chest like a hiccup, comes out shaky and uneven against his lips. He pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice.
Then his fingers trail downward.
They skate along the column of your throat, barely touching, tracing the line of your windpipe down to the hollow where your collarbones meet. Back up again. Softer than soft. The lightest pressure imaginable. And yet your pulse is hammering beneath his fingertips, betraying you completely, and you know he can feel it. Know he's cataloguing every flutter, every skip, every stuttered breath you take.
His lips are still moving against yours, but slower now. Distracted. His focus has split between kissing you and touching you, and the combination is devastating.
His fingers wander to the other side of your neck, tracing the tendon there, and your breath catches again. Hitches. Breaks.
He hums, a low, thoughtful sound against your mouth, and does it again. Drags his fingertips along the same path, watching your reaction with his eyes closed, feeling it in the way your lips falter against his. In the way your hand tightens on his shoulder.
Then his palm curves around your jaw.
Not your neck. Not yet. Just your jaw, fingers splayed along the bone, thumb resting in the divot beneath your bottom lip. He tilts your face slightly, just enough to change the angle of the kiss, and his grip is firm but still so careful. Still asking. Still checking.
His other hand hasn't moved from the back of your head. He's cradling you now, holding you like something precious and breakable, even as his kisses remain deep and desperate and consuming.
His thumb traces your jawline, back and forth, back and forth, and then his fingers drift again, down the side of your throat, featherlight, just a whisper of touch, and your breathing stutters so hard you have to break the kiss for half a second just to gasp.
He smiles against the corner of your mouth.
Not the smirk from before. Something softer. Something almost tender. Like he's discovered something about you that he's going to keep tucked away, a secret just for him.
"Noted," he whispers, and the word is a promise.
You don't plan it.
It just happens, a flicker of boldness, a surge of want, a need to give him something back after all his teasing. Your tongue darts out, soft and tentative, and traces the curve of his bottom lip. Just a lick. Barely there. A question.
Jisung freezes.
Every muscle in his body goes taut. His hand stills against your jaw. His breathing stops entirely for one suspended heartbeat. You feel the shudder that rolls through him, shoulders to spine to the fingers tangled in your hair, and for a terrifying second you wonder if you've broken him completely.
Then his hand moves.
It slides from your jaw to your throat in one fluid motion, palm settling warm and sure against the front of your neck. His fingers curl around the sides, not squeezing, not yet, just holding. Just there. His thumb rests on one side, his middle and ring fingers on the other, and the pressure is barely existent. Barely anything at all.
But it's there.
The weight of his hand. The heat of it. The way his palm fits against your throat like it was always meant to be there. He's still checking, still watching, still giving you every opportunity to pull back or shake your head or tell him no. His eyes are open now, dark and searching, scanning your face with an intensity that makes your chest ache.
You don't pull back.
Instead, a sound escapes you. Soft. Breathless. A moan so quiet you barely register it as your own, but Jisung registers it. You know he does, because his eyes flutter half-shut and his lips part and the sound he makes in response is nothing short of devastating.
It's low. Rough. Torn from somewhere deep in his chest. A moan that matches yours and amplifies it, vibrating against your lips, and the knowledge that you did that to him, that the sound of you, the feel of you beneath his hand, affected him that much, sends a bolt of heat straight through your core.
"You have no idea," he rasps, voice shredded, "what you do to me."
His fingers tighten.
Not hard. Not painful. Just... present. Just enough pressure that you feel it in your pulse, in your temples, in the pleasant fog settling over your brain. The perfect amount. Like he's done this before, or like he's just impossibly attuned to you, to your body, to every signal you're giving him.
And then he's kissing you again, hard. Desperate. Messy. The careful restraint from earlier has evaporated entirely, replaced by something raw and hungry and completely unrestrained. His mouth crashes against yours with bruising intensity, and his hand stays right where it is, wrapped around your throat, holding you steady as he kisses you senseless.
His tongue finally slides against yours, hot and seeking, and the combination, the hand on your throat, the tongue in your mouth, the way he moans every time you make a sound, is overwhelming. Consuming. The kind of kiss that erases every coherent thought from your head and leaves nothing behind but sensation.
Your hand on his chest flies up to grip his wrist on your throat, not to pull him away, never that, but to hold him there. To keep him exactly where he is. Your fingers wrap around the bones of his wrist, feeling the flex of tendon and muscle as he adjusts his grip just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch again.
He groans into your mouth.
"Like that?" he asks, barely pulling back enough to form the words. "Is that-"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish. Because you're already nodding, already pulling him back in, already kissing him so hard your lips will be swollen for hours and you don't care. You don't care about anything except his hand on your throat and his mouth on yours and the way he's looking at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked.
Two can play this game.
Your fingers loosen around his wrist, and you let your hand drift. Up the inside of his forearm, light as a breath, feeling the fine hairs there rise beneath your touch. Over the crease of his elbow. Along his bicep, still curled tight with the effort of holding himself back.
Then your fingertips find his neck.
You don't grab. You don't squeeze. You just let your nails graze the skin, barely there, just the faintest whisper of contact along the side of his throat. Down. Up. Tracing the tendon that stands out beneath his jaw, the one that's pulled taut from the way he's leaning over you.
Jisung shudders.
It's a full-body thing. A tremor that starts somewhere in his shoulders and rolls down his spine like a wave, and you feel it everywhere, in the hand still wrapped around your throat, in the lips still pressed to yours, in the way his breath punches out of him in a shaky, broken exhale. His eyes flutter, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, and for a moment he looks utterly undone.
You do it again.
Your nails drag lightly along the side of his neck, slower this time, and you watch him crumble. His jaw goes slack. His lips part against yours but he doesn't kiss you, can't kiss you, he's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. The sound he makes is barely audible, a quiet, wrecked little exhale that ghosts warm across your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes. Just that. Just the one word, reverent and ruined.
Your hand curves around the front of his throat now, soft, barely any pressure, mirroring exactly what he did to you. Your palm rests against his Adam's apple, feeling it bob as he swallows hard. You hold it for a moment. Two. Three. Just long enough for his eyes to meet yours, glassy and desperate and full of something that looks a lot like worship.
Then you pull back.
Your hand drops away from his neck entirely, retreating to his shoulder, your nails dragging lightly along his collarbone on the way down. The loss of contact makes him whimper, actually whimper, a small broken sound that he'll probably be embarrassed about later, and his hips shift restlessly in the driver's seat.
But you're not done.
You bring your hand back. Nails grazing the other side of his neck now, tracing a path from behind his ear down to the hollow of his throat, featherlight and devastating. Back up again. You repeat the pattern, touch, retreat, touch, retreat, and every time you pull away he chases the feeling, head tilting, eyes fluttering, breath coming faster and more uneven with every pass.
"You're-" he starts, but whatever he was going to say dissolves into a shiver when your nails scrape gently against the nape of his neck. His whole body jolts. His hand tightens reflexively in your hair, fingers twisting into the strands, pulling just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.
"You're killing me," he manages finally. His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely recognizable as the bright, teasing tone he uses with everyone else. This voice is just for you. "You know that, right? You're actually killing me."
He doesn't sound mad about it.
His hand flexes in your hair again, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to expose more of your throat to him. But he doesn't kiss you yet. He just looks at you, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes so dark they're almost black, and shakes his head like he can't quite believe you're real.
"Do that again," he whispers. Not demanding. Begging. "Please. Do that again."
You do.
Your nails find the back of his neck again, dragging slow and deliberate from the base of his skull down to where his shoulder begins. You feel the goosebumps rise beneath your fingertips, feel the shudder that wracks through him, feel the way his breath stutters and breaks against your lips.
And then his hands move.
The one in your hair tightens, fingers twisting deep into the strands, fisting, pulling. Not gentle. Not tentative. He tugs your head back with a firm, steady pressure that arches your neck and bares your throat completely to him. The sting of it radiates across your scalp, sharp and sweet, and your mouth falls open on a gasp you couldn't have suppressed if you tried.
At the same time, his other hand is still on your throat.
He doesn't let go. Doesn't ease up. If anything, the pressure increases, just slightly, just enough, as his palm settles more firmly against the front of your neck. His fingers press into the sides, finding the perfect angle, the perfect amount, and the combination of it all is devastating. The pull in your hair. The weight on your throat. The way he's looking at you like he wants to consume you whole.
A moan tears out of you.
Loud. Unrestrained. Completely involuntary. It fills the small space of the car, bounces off the fogged-up windows, and you can't even be embarrassed because the sound he makes in response is just as wrecked. Just as desperate. His hips buck slightly in the driver's seat, an unconscious movement he probably doesn't even register, and his eyes roll back for half a second before snapping to your face again.
"Again," he breathes, and his voice is absolutely destroyed. Raw and gravelly and shaking at the edges. "Let me hear you. Please. I want, I need to hear you."
He tugs your hair again.
The moan that escapes you this time is even louder. Your back arches off the passenger seat, body moving without permission, chasing his touch, chasing the sting and the pressure and the heat of him. Your nails dig into his shoulder, leaving little crescent moons in his skin through the fabric of his hoodie, and he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it," he murmurs, and his lips are against the corner of your mouth, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. "That's it, baby. God, you sound so-"
He doesn't finish. He kisses you instead, hard and messy and completely uncoordinated, like he's lost the ability to be smooth, lost the ability to be anything but desperate for you. His hand flexes on your throat while his other keeps its grip in your hair, and he's holding you in place now, completely in control, and you don't want him to stop. Not ever.
Every sound you make, he swallows. Every moan, every gasp, every stuttered breath, he drinks them all down like he's starving for them. And every time you get louder, every time the pressure or the pull drags another broken noise out of you, he responds in kind. A groan. A whimper. A whispered curse against your lips.
"Love that," he pants, pulling back just far enough to look at you. His eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely a ring of brown left. His lips are red and slick and curved into something that's not quite a smile, too wrecked for that, too overwhelmed, but close. So close. "Love the sounds you make. Could listen to you forever. Never gonna get tired of that. Never."
He loosens his grip on your hair just to run his fingers through it, soothing the sting he left behind, and the tenderness of it, in the middle of all this desperation, makes your heart clench.
Then he tightens his grip again.
His hand slips from your throat.
The absence is immediate, jarring, a sudden loss of heat and pressure that leaves you feeling almost untethered. But before you can mourn it, his palm is already moving. Gliding down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the line of your shoulder. His fingers trail down your arm first, featherlight, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then they change direction.
He finds the curve of your waist.
His hand slides along your side, palm pressing flat against the fabric of your shirt, and the warmth of his touch seeps through the thin material like it's not even there. He moves slowly, deliberately, tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, the outer curve of your thigh. Mapping you. Learning you. His fingers flex against your side, not quite grabbing, just... holding. Just feeling.
And then you pull back.
You don't mean to go far. You just need air, just need a second, just need to clear your head before the fog consumes you completely. Your lips break from his, your spine straightens, and you lean back into the passenger seat, barely an inch, barely any distance at all.
But it's too much for him.
His hand shoots up from your side and finds your throat again in an instant, not squeezing, not hurting, just grabbing. Just holding. His palm curves around the front of your neck, fingers pressing into the sides with that same perfect pressure from before, and he pulls you back in.
Not gently.
His grip on your throat is firm and sure as he drags you across the center console, back into his space, back into him. Your breath catches, half surprise, half something else entirely, and then his mouth is on yours again, hot and insistent and desperate. Like the few seconds you were apart physically hurt him.
"Don't," he rasps against your lips, and the word is wrecked, shaking, almost angry if it weren't so pleading. "Don't pull away from me. Not yet. Not-"
He kisses you again before he can finish. Hard. Deep. His tongue slides against yours and his hand stays wrapped around your throat and his other hand is still tangled in your hair, and he's holding you like you might disappear if he lets go for even a second.
"Stay," he breathes into your mouth, and it's not a command, it's a plea. Desperate and raw and so vulnerable it makes your chest ache. "Just stay right here. Please. Don't go anywhere."
His thumb strokes along the side of your neck, a tender counterpoint to the firmness of his grip, and his forehead presses to yours as he catches his breath. His eyes are squeezed shut, lashes damp, whether from exertion or emotion, you can't tell. Maybe both.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper.
His eyes open. Dark. Glassy. Full of something that looks a lot like relief and a lot like hunger and a lot like the beginning of something neither of you are ready to name yet.
"Good," he says. And then his grip tightens just slightly, and his mouth crashes back into yours, and the world outside the fogged-up windows disappears all over again.
His hand loosens from your throat, but this time it doesn't go far.
It slides down slowly, over your collarbone, tracing the neckline of your shirt, following the path his eyes have traveled a hundred times before but his hands never dared. His palm is warm, almost hot, and it leaves a trail of tingling skin in its wake.
Down. Down. Over your ribs, your waist, the dip where your hip meets your thigh.
Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt.
He pauses there. Just for a breath. Just long enough for his eyes to flick up to yours, checking, always checking, even now when he's trembling with want and barely holding himself together. His thumb traces the edge of the fabric, back and forth, back and forth, a question he doesn't speak out loud.
You don't stop him.
His hand slips beneath the hem.
Just barely. Just his fingertips. They skim along the strip of skin above your waistband, featherlight and searing hot, and the sensation of his bare touch against your bare skin makes your stomach clench. Your breath catches. Your hand tightens on his shoulder.
He watches your face the whole time.
Watches the way your eyes flutter. Watches the way your lips part. Watches the way your chest rises and falls faster as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along the sensitive skin just above the waist of your jeans. He's barely under your shirt at all, just the tips of his fingers, just a hint of what could come next, and yet it feels like the most intimate thing he's done all night.
"There," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice. Awe. Like he's discovered something sacred. "Right there. You feel that?"
His fingers splay wider, palm pressing flat against your side now, skin to skin. His hand is so warm. His touch is so gentle, despite everything, despite the hair-pulling and the throat-grabbing and the desperate, bruising kisses. This is something else. Something softer. Something reverent.
Then his hand retreats.
Slides out from under your shirt, back to safer territory, your hip, your waist, the curve of your thigh. But he doesn't go far. His fingers curl around your hip, thumb pressing into the bone, and he pulls you closer again. Closer. Like even the inch of space between your bodies is too much.
His other hand is still in your hair, still holding, still gentle now. He's cradling you again, cradling and clutching all at once, like he can't decide whether to treat you like something precious or something he wants to devour.
"Been wanting to do that," he admits, voice hoarse and quiet. His thumb traces small circles on your hip, right over the waistband of your jeans. "Been wanting to touch you. Really touch you. Since-" He laughs, a broken little exhale. "Since way longer than I should probably admit."
His fingers dip beneath the hem of your shirt again, just for a second, just a brief teasing brush of skin against skin, and then retreat once more. Back to your hip. Back to safe ground. But the promise is there now, hanging in the air between you, and you can feel it in the way his hand trembles slightly against you. In the way his breathing has gone shallow and uneven.
In the way he's looking at you like you're everything.
And then, slowly, the storm begins to calm.
His lips find yours again, but softer now. Lighter. A peck. Just the briefest press of mouth against mouth, chaste and sweet and almost shy, like he's rediscovering the beginning of this all over again. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes still dark but softening at the edges, and then he does it again.
Another peck.
And another.
Each one gentler than the last. Each one lingering a little longer, like he's memorizing the feel of you without the urgency behind it. His thumb strokes your hip. His fingers in your hair have loosened completely now, just cradling the back of your head, just holding you close. The desperation has bled out of him, replaced by something quieter. Something tender.
He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your forehead.
And then he stops.
His eyes squeeze shut. His forehead drops to yours, and he stays there, breathing ragged, chest heaving, hands still trembling slightly where they rest against you. The silence stretches out, filled only by the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe normally again.
"We have to stop," he whispers.
The words sound like they physically pain him.
"If I keep going..." He swallows hard, and you feel the movement of his throat against your fingers. "If I keep going right now, I'm not going to be able to stop. At all. And I-" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is so open, so raw, so painfully sincere that it makes your heart squeeze. "I don't want that. Not like this."
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"You deserve better than a car," he says quietly. "You deserve better than rushed and desperate and-" He huffs out a shaky laugh. "You deserve a bed, at the very least. And candles. Or something. I don't know. Something that isn't my cramped front seat with the parking brake digging into my thigh."
He's rambling now, nervous energy creeping back in, but underneath the rambling is something solid. Something sure. His eyes meet yours, and they're still dark, still wanting, but there's resolve there now too.
"We just started this," he says, softer. More serious. "Whatever this is. Us. I don't want to rush it. I don't want to mess it up by moving too fast. I want..." He pauses. Searches for the words. "I want to do this right. I want to take my time with you. I want to remember every second of it."
His thumb traces your bottom lip, featherlight.
"Okay?" he asks. "Is that okay? Tell me that's okay."
His voice wavers on the question, just slightly, a flicker of insecurity beneath all that certainty. Like he's still, even now, a little bit afraid you'll disappear. A little bit afraid this isn't real.
"Okay," you whisper. "That's more than okay."
The relief that washes over his face is immediate. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them, and the smile that spreads across his swollen lips is so soft, so genuine, so purely Jisung that it makes your heart ache in the best way.
"Yeah?" He lets out a breathy laugh, half-disbelief, half-joy. "Okay. Good. Great. I was, I was really hoping you'd say that."
He presses one last kiss to your forehead, lingering, deliberate, like he's sealing a promise, and then he's pulling back, shifting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't involve the gear shift digging into his hip. The center console is still an obstacle, still an awkward barrier between your bodies, and he frowns at it like it's personally offended him.
"This thing," he mutters, slapping it lightly with his palm. "Who designed this. Why is it here. I'm filing a complaint."
You laugh, and the sound feels good, feels normal, feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. He grins at you, that familiar mischievous spark finally flickering back to life in his eyes, and something settles in your chest. Something warm and steady.
You shift in your seat, turning to face him properly, and your hand finds his arm. Your fingers wrap around his bicep, not suggestive, just... grounding. Just wanting to keep touching him, even now, even after everything. He glances down at where you're holding him, and his expression goes soft all over again.
"C'mere," he murmurs, and he doesn't have to ask twice.
You lean across the console, and he meets you halfway. You end up tangled together in a way that's more comfort than heat, your arms wrapped around one of his, your head resting against his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. It's a little awkward. A little cramped. Neither of you cares.
His free hand finds your legs, settling warm and heavy on your thigh. Not grabbing. Not teasing. Just... there. Just touching. His thumb draws lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans, and the rhythm of it is soothing, hypnotic, the kind of absentminded touch that speaks to how comfortable he already is with you.
Your nails start to move before you even realize you're doing it.
Up and down his forearm. Light. Slow. Tracing the lines of his veins, the faint ridges of old scars and new calluses. Back and forth, back and forth, nails grazing just barely against his skin. You remember him telling you once, months ago, when you were just friends, when none of this had happened yet, that he loved this feeling. That it calmed him down. That it made his brain go quiet.
His hand on your thigh squeezes gently, an unconscious reaction, and he sinks deeper into the driver's seat with a contented sigh. The tension that had been coiling in his shoulders for the past forty-five minutes is melting away beneath your fingertips, and you watch it happen in real time, the way his jaw unclenches, the way his brow smooths out, the way his lips curve into a small, peaceful smile.
"Could fall asleep like this," he mumbles, voice already going drowsy at the edges. "Right here. With you doing that. Best feeling in the world."
He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to your hair.
"What were we even talking about before?" he asks suddenly, and there's genuine confusion in his voice. "Before all the, you know." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "The thing. The kissing thing. I genuinely can't remember a single thing I said before that."
You laugh, and the vibration of it travels through his arm, and his smile widens.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || When a routine reconnaissance job goes wrong and you're stabbed protecting him, lifelong friend and stoic protector Kim Geonwoo pushes you away with cruel words to keep you safe, only to spend every night silently watching you from three blocks back, unable to truly let go.
The air in the van tasted like iron and old coffee. Not the kind from a café, the bitter, burnt kind that had been sitting in Woojin's thermos since Tuesday. You sat in the back, your shoulder pressed against the cold metal wall, watching the city lights smear into neon streaks through the rain-soaked windows.
Geonwoo was driving.
He always drove.
You watched the back of his head. The way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape, still damp from the shower he'd taken at the gym two hours ago. The way his knuckles flexed on the steering wheel every time he checked the rearview mirror. He hadn't spoken in seventeen minutes. You'd been counting.
"You're staring," Woojin said from the passenger seat, not looking up from his phone. He was scrolling through the building schematics again, even though you'd all memorized them three days ago.
"I'm thinking," you corrected.
"You're staring at Geonwoo while thinking. Same thing."
Geonwoo didn't react. His jaw was set in that familiar line, the one that meant he was running through scenarios in his head, planning for every possible way this could go wrong. You knew that face better than your own reflection. You'd known it since you were nine years old, sitting on the curb outside his family's restaurant, watching him carefully split a single bottle of strawberry milk into two cups so you could share.
Twenty years. Twenty years of that jaw, those eyes, those hands that had taught you how to throw a punch when the boys in the neighborhood wouldn't stop pulling your hair.
"This is a simple job," you said, more to his reflection than to Woojin. "In, watch, out. We're not even engaging."
Geonwoo's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Just for a second. Just long enough to meet yours.
The building was a concrete skeleton in the industrial district, one of those half-finished construction projects that had run out of money during the pandemic and never recovered. Now it belonged to the kind of people who didn't need working elevators to conduct their business.
Kim Myeong-gil's people. Or what was left of them.
The job was reconnaissance. Pure and simple. A rival crew had been sniffing around the old Bloodhound territory, trying to pick at the bones of an empire that had mostly collapsed after Myeong-gil's death. Geonwoo's contact said they were using the fourth floor of this building as a meeting point. Your job was to confirm it, count heads, note faces, and leave without a trace.
No contact. No confrontation. No heroics.
You'd done this a hundred times.
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time you parked three blocks away. Geonwoo killed the engine and turned to face you both for the first time.
"Woojin, you take the west stairwell. Stay on the third floor. I want eyes on the main entrance from above."
Woojin saluted lazily. "And if I see something interesting?"
"You text. You don't move."
"Boring."
"Safe," Geonwoo corrected. His gaze shifted to you. Something flickered there, something soft, barely perceptible, gone before you could name it. "You're with me. East side. We take the fourth floor together, confirm the meeting, and pull back."
"I know the plan," you said. "You debriefed us three times."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like I'm going to trip over my own feet."
Woojin snorted. Geonwoo's expression didn't change, but his ears went slightly pink. That was his tell. Had been since childhood. You'd called him out on it when you were twelve and he'd refused to speak to you for an entire afternoon.
"Just stay close," he said finally. "Please."
The please caught you off guard. Geonwoo didn't say please. Geonwoo gave orders and expected them to be followed. Geonwoo was the anchor, the steady one, the marine who had seen too much and felt too deeply and buried it all under layers of quiet control.
But tonight, there was something in his voice. A thread of tension you hadn't heard since the night his mother died.
You reached forward and flicked the back of his head gently.
The building smelled like wet concrete and rust. Your footsteps echoed in the stairwell as you climbed, Geonwoo in front, you behind. His back was broad, blocking most of your view, but you didn't need to see. You knew his rhythm. You matched it without thinking.
Third floor. Fourth floor. The door to the main corridor was heavy steel, propped open with a chunk of broken cinderblock.
Geonwoo held up a hand. You stopped. He listened, head tilted, eyes half-closed, every sense trained on the darkness beyond the door.
Then he nodded. Clear.
You slipped through behind him, your sneakers silent on the dusty floor. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doorless rooms and gaping holes where windows should have been. Pale moonlight filtered through the gaps, painting everything in silver and shadow.
The meeting was supposed to be in the large room at the end of the hall. Room 412. You could see the door from here, closed, but with a thin line of light bleeding from beneath it.
Geonwoo pointed to a doorway on your left. Room 408. Empty. Good vantage point. You both moved into it, pressing against the wall, and he pulled out his phone.
Geonwoo: In position. Woojin?
Woojin: Third floor clear. Bored. There's a pigeon up here. I named it Geonwoo Jr.
Geonwoo: Focus.
Woojin: Geonwoo Jr. says hi.
You bit back a smile. Geonwoo exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Four men. One you recognized, Park Junseok, a mid-level enforcer who'd worked for Myeong-gil's money laundering operation. The other three were unfamiliar. Younger. Harder faces. The kind of men who'd grown up hungry and stayed that way.
They were talking in low voices, walking toward the stairwell you'd just come from. Geonwoo pressed a hand against your stomach, pushing you deeper into the shadows of Room 408. His palm was warm through your jacket. You held your breath.
The men passed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs.
Geonwoo's hand didn't move.
You looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, illuminated by that thin sliver of moonlight. His eyes were fixed on the corridor, but his jaw was tight again. Tighter than before.
"Geonwoo," you whispered. "They're gone."
His hand finally dropped. He stepped back, putting distance between you, and typed quickly on his phone.
Geonwoo: Four men. One identified. Meeting room empty. Moving to clear it.
Woojin: Copy. Want me to stay or move?
Geonwoo: Stay. Two minutes.
He pocketed the phone and looked at you. "Quick sweep. Photos of anything left behind. Then we're gone."
Room 412 was a hollowed-out office space with a folding table in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. A single battery-powered lantern sat on the table, casting harsh shadows against the bare walls. Papers were scattered across the surface. Maps. Printouts. A few photographs.
You moved to the table while Geonwoo checked the corners of the room. Your phone was already out, camera ready. You snapped photos of everything, wide shots, close-ups, anything that might be useful later.
That's when you saw it.
A photograph, half-hidden under a map. It showed a familiar face.
Kim Geonwoo.
Not a recent photo, this was from years ago. His marine days, maybe. His hair was shorter, his face younger, but those eyes were the same. Dark. Watchful. Haunted.
Written across the bottom of the photo in red marker was a single word: 찾았다.
Later, you would try to piece together exactly what happened. The order of things. Who moved first. Who said what.
It didn't matter. It happened too fast.
Two men. Not the ones who had left, these were different. They must have been waiting in one of the other rooms. Maybe they'd heard you. Maybe they'd been watching the whole time.
The first one came at Geonwoo with a pipe. Geonwoo blocked it with his forearm, you heard the crack, saw his face twist, and then he was moving, all that coiled tension releasing in a single devastating strike. His fist connected with the man's throat. The man went down gasping.
But the second one was already on you.
You saw the knife. A folding blade, the kind you could buy at any hardware store. Cheap. Sharp. Coming toward your ribs.
You twisted. Training kicked in. You caught his wrist, redirected the blade, brought your knee up into his stomach. He grunted, stumbled, but didn't drop the knife.
Behind you, Geonwoo was finishing the first man. You heard the wet sound of another punch landing.
I can handle this, you thought. I've handled worse.
The man lunged again. You sidestepped, grabbed his arm, used his momentum to slam him against the edge of the table. The lantern toppled. The room plunged into shifting shadows.
But the knife was still in his hand. And he was stronger than he looked.
He shoved back. Your grip slipped on his sweat-slick wrist. The blade arced through the darkness-
The pain wasn't immediate. That was the strange thing.
First came the pressure. A deep, wrong pressure, like someone had punched you with a fist made of ice. You looked down. The knife was buried in your left side, just below your ribs. The man's hand was still on the handle.
Then he yanked it out.
That's when the pain hit.
White. Blinding. A scream tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Your knees buckled. You went down hard, one hand pressed against your side, and the warmth that flooded between your fingers told you everything you needed to know.
Too deep. Too much blood. This is bad.
The man with the knife was saying something, cursing, maybe, or gloating, but you couldn't hear him over the roaring in your ears. He raised the blade again.
He never brought it down.
Geonwoo hit him like a freight train.
You'd seen Geonwoo fight a hundred times. Sparring in the gym. Scraps in alleys. The brutal, efficient violence of a man who had been trained to kill and had chosen not to. But you had never seen him fight like this.
This wasn't technique. This wasn't controlled.
This was rage.
He grabbed the man by the throat and drove him into the concrete wall. Once. Twice. The knife clattered to the floor. Geonwoo's fists kept moving. Punch after punch after punch, each one landing with a sound like raw meat hitting a counter. The man's face dissolved into red. Still Geonwoo didn't stop.
"Geonwoo." Your voice came out wrong. Thin. Wet. "Geonwoo, stop."
He didn't hear you.
The man went limp in his grip. Geonwoo let him drop. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, knuckles dripping, staring down at the crumpled body like he was deciding whether to keep going.
Not horror. Not fear. Something worse. Something that looked like recognition. Like he had seen this exact moment before, in a different place, with a different person bleeding out in front of him.
His mother. He was seeing his mother.
"Geonwoo." You tried to sit up. The world tilted. "I'm okay. I'm-"
He was on his knees beside you in an instant. His hands pressed down on your side, hard, and you screamed. You couldn't help it. The sound ripped out of you, raw and animal, and something in his face fractured.
"Woojin." His voice was steady. Too steady. The voice of a man holding himself together by threads. He pulled out his phone with one blood-slick hand, the other still pressed against your wound. "Fourth floor. Now. Bring the kit."
"Geonwoo-"
"Don't talk."
"I'm fine-"
"You're not fine." His eyes met yours. They were wet. Kim Geonwoo, who you had seen break bones without flinching, who had carried his mother's coffin without shedding a single tear at the funeral, was crying. "You're not fine, and you're going to stay awake, and you're going to keep looking at me. Do you understand?"
You wanted to make a joke. Something about how bossy he was. Something about how this was definitely going to scar and he'd owe you for life.
But the darkness was creeping in at the edges of your vision, and all you could manage was:
"Geonwoo."
"Stay awake."
"Geonwoo, I-"
"Don't you dare." His voice cracked. His hand, the one not holding pressure on your wound, cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheek. It was shaking. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
You wanted to tell him you weren't going anywhere. You wanted to tell him that you'd been by his side for twenty years and you weren't about to stop now.
But the darkness was so heavy. And his voice was so far away.
The last thing you heard before everything went quiet was him screaming your name.
The room was white. Too white. Too bright. Your side felt like someone had replaced your ribs with broken glass and then set the glass on fire. You blinked against the fluorescent lights and tried to remember how you'd gotten here.
Woojin was asleep in the chair next to your bed, his head tilted back at an angle that was going to destroy his neck. His hand was wrapped around yours, loose and warm.
Geonwoo wasn't there.
"Woojin." Your voice came out as a croak. You tried again. "Woojin."
He jerked awake so fast he nearly fell out of the chair. "What, you're, you're awake. You're awake. Oh thank god." He was on his feet, hovering, his hands fluttering like he wanted to hug you but was afraid of breaking you. "Do you need water? Pain meds? I should call the nurse-"
"Where's Geonwoo?"
Woojin's face did something complicated. It was there and gone in an instant, but you caught it. Guilt. Worry. And something that looked like anger.
"He's... around," Woojin said carefully. "He's been handling things. Cleanup. Making sure those guys don't come back."
"Has he been here?"
Woojin hesitated.
"Woojin."
"He was here the whole time you were under," Woojin admitted. "Three days. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just sat in that chair and stared at you like you were going to disappear if he blinked." He ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "And then you woke up this morning, briefly, you probably don't remember, and he just... left. Said he had to take care of something. Hasn't come back."
Something cold settled in your chest. Something that had nothing to do with the knife wound.
"He's blaming himself," you said.
"He's always blaming himself."
"This is different."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat back down, took your hand again, and said, "Yeah. This is different."
They kept you for four more days. Observation. Antibiotics. Pain management that never quite managed enough.
Geonwoo didn't visit.
Woojin came every day. He brought food you couldn't eat and jokes you couldn't laugh at because laughing felt like being stabbed all over again. He told you about the cleanup, the men you'd encountered were low-level, no major connections, nothing to worry about. The photo with Geonwoo's face had been a coincidence, probably. Old intel from Myeong-gil's network. Nothing actionable.
You didn't believe him. But you were too tired to push.
On the fifth day, they discharged you. Woojin drove you home in Geonwoo's van, because Geonwoo had apparently been taking his motorcycle everywhere since the night you got hurt. The van still smelled like him. Like cheap coffee and the cedar soap he used and something underneath that was just Geonwoo.
You sat in the back, your hand pressed against your bandaged side, and watched the city blur past.
A week after you got home, you decided to stop waiting.
Your side was healing. Slowly. The stitches pulled every time you moved too fast, and you couldn't stand up straight without a sharp reminder of exactly where the blade had gone in. But you could walk. You could function. You could fight, if you had to.
You pulled on a loose hoodie, laced up your sneakers, and went to find him.
He wasn't at the gym. Wasn't at his apartment, you had a key, you let yourself in, the place was empty and too clean, like he hadn't been sleeping there. Wasn't at any of the usual spots.
You finally found him at the boxing gym near the river. The old one. The one where he used to train when you were teenagers, before everything got complicated.
He was alone.
The gym was closed, it was past midnight, but the back door was unlocked. You pushed through and heard it before you saw it. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists against a heavy bag. The harsh exhale of breath. The sound of a man trying to punch his way through something that couldn't be reached with fists.
He was shirtless. His back was to you. You could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin, the scars scattered across his shoulders and spine. Old wounds. New ones. The fresh bruises on his knuckles from where he'd beaten that man into unconsciousness.
He was hitting the bag like it had personally wronged him.
"Geonwoo."
He stopped mid-swing. His whole body went rigid.
"Go home," he said. He didn't turn around.
"I was in the hospital for a week. You didn't visit. I came home. You didn't call. Woojin's been lying to me about where you are and I'm tired of it." You took a step forward. Your side screamed in protest. You ignored it. "Turn around and look at me."
He didn't.
"Geonwoo."
"I said go home."
"And I said no."
He turned.
The sight of him stopped you cold.
He looked wrecked. Not just tired, destroyed. Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His cheeks hollow, like he hadn't eaten properly in days. His lips cracked. His hair unwashed, hanging limp across his forehead.
But it was his eyes that hit you hardest. They were empty. The way they'd been after his mother died. Like someone had reached inside him and scooped out everything that made him Kim Geonwoo, leaving only the shell behind.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"I shouldn't be a lot of places. I'm here anyway."
"You're still healing."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice was flat. Dead. "You almost died. Because of me."
"Because some asshole with a knife got lucky. That's not your fault."
"He got lucky because I let my guard down. Because I was too slow. Because I-" He stopped. His jaw clenched. He looked away. "It doesn't matter. You're done."
Something cold slithered down your spine. "What do you mean, done?"
"You're not coming on jobs anymore. I already talked to Woojin. We'll handle things without you."
You stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. The moment where he'd crack a smile, that rare, precious smile, and tell you he was joking.
It didn't come.
"Geonwoo, it was one hit. I'll heal. I've had worse-"
"That's the problem." His voice cut through yours like a blade. "You've always been too slow. Too weak. I've been covering for you for years. I'm tired of it."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You actually took a step back, your hand pressing against your wounded side as if to protect it from this new, different kind of pain.
"That's not true." Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "We've been doing this together since we were kids. You taught me-"
"I taught you because I felt sorry for you."
The gym went very, very quiet.
"You were this pathetic kid with no one," he continued, each word deliberate and cold. "Following me around like a stray dog. Sitting outside my family's restaurant every day, waiting for scraps. I didn't have the heart to tell you to leave then. I'm telling you now."
You couldn't breathe. Your lungs had forgotten how.
"Geonwoo." His name cracked in your mouth. "You don't mean that."
He looked you dead in the eye.
"I mean every word."
Nothing. There was nothing in his gaze. No warmth. No recognition. No trace of the boy who had split his strawberry milk with you, who had taught you how to make a fist, who had let you sit beside him in silence on the worst night of his life.
"You're a liability," he said. "You almost died because you were too stupid to watch your own back. I can't afford to babysit you anymore. Grow up. Find something else to do with your life." A pause. Then, quieter: "Stay out of mine."
He turned back to the heavy bag.
You stood there for what felt like hours. Waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for the mask to crack. Waiting for something.
He started hitting the bag again. Slow. Methodical. Like you weren't even there.
You made it three blocks before your legs gave out.
You sat down on the curb outside a closed convenience store, your hand pressed against your side, and you waited for the tears to come.
They didn't.
You were too empty for tears. He had scooped out everything inside you and left nothing behind. Twenty years. Twenty years of friendship, of partnership, of something that had always felt like it might become more if either of you were brave enough to name it.
And he had thrown it away like it meant nothing.
Like you meant nothing.
You sat on that curb for a long time. Long enough for the streetlights to flicker. Long enough for the distant sound of the river to become familiar.
Then you stood up. You went home. And you didn't look back.
You didn't go to the gym. You didn't answer Woojin's calls, not after the first few, when he'd tried to explain, tried to make excuses, tried to tell you that Geonwoo didn't mean it, that he was just scared, that he'd come around.
You blocked his number.
You found a job. A boring one. Safe. A coffee shop near your apartment that needed someone to work the morning shift. The pay was terrible and the customers were worse, but it was something. It was a reason to get out of bed.
You were walking home one night, late, after closing, the streets quiet and damp with recent rain, when you felt it.
That prickle at the back of your neck. The sense of being watched.
You didn't turn around. You kept walking, your pace steady, your hand drifting toward the pocket knife you still carried out of habit. At the corner, you paused under a streetlight and pretended to check your phone.
In the reflection of the screen, you saw him.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing perfectly still in the shadows of a closed pharmacy.
Kim Geonwoo.
You didn't turn around. You didn't call out. You just stood there, staring at his reflection, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
After a full minute, you pocketed your phone and kept walking.
The next night, he was there again.
And the next.
And the next.
He never approached. Never spoke. Just watched you walk home from a distance, a silent guardian who had told you to stay out of his life but couldn't seem to stay out of yours.
You didn't know what to do with that. So you did nothing.
You walked home. You locked your door. And you tried very hard not to think about the boy on the curb, the strawberry milk, or the way his voice had sounded when he screamed your name in the dark.
Four weeks since Geonwoo had looked you in the eye and told you that twenty years of friendship had been charity. Four weeks since you'd walked out of that gym with his words lodged in your chest like shrapnel.
You were healing. Physically, at least. The wound in your side had closed, leaving behind a raised pink scar that pulled tight when you stretched too far. You'd trace it sometimes at night, lying in bed, unable to sleep. A reminder. Of the knife. Of the blood. Of the way his voice had sounded when he told you to stay out of his life.
The coffee shop job was mind-numbing. You'd gone from running recon in abandoned buildings to remembering that the woman in the green coat wanted oat milk, not almond, and no foam, and for the love of god make sure it's extra hot. It should have been peaceful. Safe. Exactly what he wanted for you.
You hated every second of it.
But you kept showing up. Because the alternative was sitting in your apartment, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation over and over until you drove yourself insane.
You were walking home after closing. The streets were slick with rain, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night pojangmacha stalls that lined the main road. Your shoes made soft sounds against the wet pavement. Your side ached, it always ached when it rained now, and you were focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Then you felt it.
That prickle. That awareness. The distinct sensation of eyes on the back of your neck.
You'd been in enough fights to trust your instincts. You didn't turn around. You didn't change your pace. You just kept walking, your hand drifting casually toward the pocket of your jacket where your keys were, heavy enough to do damage if you gripped them right.
At the intersection, you paused under a streetlight. Pretended to check your phone. Tilted the screen just enough to catch the reflection behind you.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing in the shadow of a closed bookstore.
You knew that silhouette. You'd known it your entire life.
Kim Geonwoo.
Your heart did something complicated. A lurch. A twist. A surge of anger so hot it burned going down.
What the hell are you doing?
You wanted to turn around. You wanted to march back there and demand answers. You wanted to grab him by the collar of whatever dark jacket he was wearing and shake him until his teeth rattled and ask him why, why, he was standing in the rain watching you like some kind of ghost when he'd made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with you.
But you didn't.
Because you remembered his eyes in the gym. Empty. Cold. Like you were a stranger. Like twenty years meant nothing.
Always the same distance. Three blocks. Never closer. Never further. A silent sentinel in the dark, watching you walk from the coffee shop to your apartment, disappearing the moment you stepped through your building's front door.
You started to notice details against your will.
He'd lost weight. His clothes hung looser than they should. His posture was wrong, still straight, still soldier-straight, but there was a heaviness to it now. Like he was carrying something that was slowly crushing him.
His knuckles were always wrapped. Always fresh. Like he'd been at the heavy bag before coming to stand in the rain.
One night, you saw him bring a hand up to his face and press the heel of his palm against his eyes. Hard. Like he was trying to push something back in.
You were closing the coffee shop, wiping down the espresso machine for the fifth time because you weren't ready to go home yet. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with the promise of more. You heard the bell above the door chime and didn't look up.
"We're closed."
"Good. I'm not here for coffee."
Your hand stilled on the machine. You knew that voice. You'd known it almost as long as you'd known Geonwoo's.
Kim Woojin stood in the doorway, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His jacket was soaked through. He looked like he'd been standing outside for a while, working up the courage to come in.
"Go away, Woojin."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." He walked toward the counter, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "You blocked my number. You haven't been to the gym. You're working at a coffee shop, of all places. What are you doing?"
"Living my life. Safely. Like I was told to."
His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" You set down the rag and finally looked at him. Really looked. "You want to talk about fair? I took a knife for him, Woojin. I bled out on a concrete floor while he screamed my name. And then he told me I was a liability. That he only ever tolerated me because he felt sorry for me. That I should stay out of his life." Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated that it cracked. "So don't stand there and tell me about fair."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a plastic bag. He set it on the counter between you.
"Open it."
"I don't want-"
"Just open it. Please."
You stared at him. Then at the bag. Then back at him. With a sigh that came from somewhere deep and exhausted, you pulled the plastic apart.
It was a photograph.
The three of you. Teenagers. You couldn't have been more than fifteen. Geonwoo was in the middle, taller than both of you, already broad-shouldered, already carrying that quiet weight in his eyes. You were on his left, grinning at the camera, your hair a mess, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. Woojin was on his right, throwing up a peace sign, mid-laugh.
Geonwoo's mother had taken this photo. You remembered the day. She'd made tteokbokki and insisted on documenting the moment because, in her words, "You three are going to be trouble together. I can tell."
She'd been right.
"He keeps this on his nightstand," Woojin said quietly. "Has for years. It was facedown when I went to his apartment last week. First time I've ever seen it like that."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because he's destroying himself." Woojin's voice was raw. Stripped of its usual humor. "He doesn't sleep. He barely eats. He spends hours at the gym hitting that bag until his knuckles bleed, and then he wraps them up and goes to stand outside your coffee shop like some kind of, of guard dog who forgot what he's supposed to be guarding."
"He told me to stay out of his life."
"He lied."
"I know he lied." Your voice rose. "I know he lied, Woojin. That's the worst part. He looked me in the eye and said things he knew would break me. On purpose. Because he decided, without asking me, without talking to me, without giving me a single say in the matter, that pushing me away was better than letting me make my own choices."
Woojin was silent.
"He doesn't get to do that." You were shaking now. Anger and grief and something else, something that had been building for five weeks, pressing against your ribs like a second wound. "He doesn't get to decide what I can and can't handle. He doesn't get to throw away twenty years because he's scared. And he sure as hell doesn't get to follow me home every night like some tragic hero in a drama while pretending I don't exist."
"You're right." Woojin's voice was soft. "You're absolutely right."
"Then why are you here?"
He met your eyes. And for the first time, you saw how tired he looked. How worried. The dark circles under his eyes matched the ones you'd seen on Geonwoo's face in the reflection of your phone screen.
"Because if you don't do something, I'm going to lose him." His voice broke on the last word. "Not to a fight. Not to a knife. To himself. He's been drowning since the night you got hurt, and he won't let me pull him out. He won't let anyone pull him out." He swallowed hard. "Except maybe you."
The coffee shop was very quiet.
"He's at the old spot," Woojin said finally. "Behind his mom's restaurant. He's been there for hours. I don't know if he's drunk or just... sitting. But I've never seen him like this. Not even when she died."
Behind his mother's restaurant. The curb where you'd sat with him in silence, sharing strawberry milk, waiting for him to be ready to talk. The place where he'd finally cried into your shoulder, three hours after the funeral, when he thought everyone else had stopped watching.
"I can't fix this for you," Woojin said. "But someone has to try. And I'm out of ideas."
He turned and walked toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"He meant what he said in the gym," he said without looking back. "Just not the way you think. He meant that he can't survive losing you. And he thought making you hate him was better than watching you die."
The bell chimed. He was gone.
You stood behind the counter for a long time, staring at the photograph. At Geonwoo's face. Young. Unburdened. Before the marines. Before his mother. Before everything.
Then you grabbed your jacket and went to find him.
After his mother died, Geonwoo couldn't bring himself to sell it. Couldn't bring himself to reopen it either. So it sat there, gathering dust, the sign faded and the windows dark, a monument to everything he'd lost.
You rounded the corner and saw him immediately.
He was sitting on the curb. Same spot. Same posture. Knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, head bowed. His back was to the street. To the world. He looked smaller than you'd ever seen him. Diminished. Like someone had let the air out of him and he'd never bothered to fill back up.
Your footsteps echoed in the empty street. He didn't move.
You stopped a few feet behind him.
"Woojin sent you."
His voice was rough. Raw. Like he'd been screaming or crying or both.
"Yeah."
"Go home."
"No."
Silence. A car passed on the main road, its headlights sweeping across the alley, illuminating him for just a moment. His knuckles were bloody. Fresh. Unwrapped. He'd been at the bag again.
You walked forward and sat down next to him on the curb.
Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to be present. The way you had when you were nine. When you were fifteen. When you were twenty-three and his mother was in the ground and he had no one else.
He didn't look at you. But you felt him tense. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, like he was bracing for a blow.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
The rain started again. Soft at first, then steadier. Cold droplets soaking through your jacket, plastering your hair to your forehead. You didn't move. Neither did he.
"There was so much blood."
His voice was barely audible. A whisper dragged over gravel.
"You were on the ground and I saw her. I saw my mother. I saw you dead in that alley and I couldn't breathe." His hands were shaking. You watched them tremble against his knees. "I carried you to the van. You were so light. Too light. Like you were already-" He stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking, 'This is it. This is what I deserve. Everyone I love dies.'"
"Geonwoo-"
"I sat in that hospital room for three days." He kept going, the words spilling out like he'd been holding them back for weeks and the dam had finally broken. "I watched the machines beep. I watched your chest rise and fall. And every time you twitched in your sleep, I thought you were crashing. I thought you were leaving. And it would be my fault. Like her. Like always."
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Hard. His shoulders shook once.
"When you woke up, I couldn't-" His voice cracked. "I looked at you and I saw her. I saw the funeral. I saw the coffin. I saw everything I'd have to do if you, if you didn't-"
He couldn't finish.
"So I decided to make you hate me."
The words hung in the rain-soaked air.
"I thought if I made you hate me, you'd stay away. You'd be safe. You'd live." A laugh, broken, bitter, nothing like the rare smiles you remembered. "I thought I could survive you hating me. I thought anything was better than watching you die because of me."
You sat there, rain dripping down your face, and let his words settle.
Then you spoke.
"I've been living without you for five weeks, Geonwoo."
He flinched like you'd struck him.
"I wouldn't call it living."
Silence.
"I got up every morning. I went to work. I made coffee for strangers. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I went home. I slept. Or tried to." You stared straight ahead at the darkened restaurant. "And none of it mattered. None of it felt real. Because you weren't there."
"Don't." His voice was raw. "Don't make this sound like-"
"Like what? Like you're the most important person in my life? Like I've spent twenty years by your side and I wasn't planning on stopping?" You finally turned to look at him. "You don't get to decide that for me. You don't get to push me away because you're scared. That's not how this works."
"I was trying to protect you."
"You were trying to protect yourself."
He went still.
"You thought if you pushed me away first, you wouldn't have to watch me leave." Your voice was softer now. The anger draining out, leaving only the truth behind. "But I wasn't going to leave, Geonwoo. I was never going to leave. You're the one who left."
He turned to look at you.
And god, he was a mess. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. His cheeks were wet, from rain or tears, you couldn't tell. His jaw was trembling, that strong jaw you'd watched set itself against the world for two decades, finally cracking.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to keep you safe without losing you. Tell me how. Tell me and I'll do it. Anything. I'll do anything."
You reached out and took his hand.
His fingers were cold. Bloody. Shaking. You laced them with yours and held on.
"You stop pushing me away," you said. "You let me fight next to you. And if I go down, I go down knowing I was where I belonged. Not hiding in some apartment. Not making coffee for strangers. With you."
"I can't lose you."
"Then don't push me away."
"I'm scared." His voice broke on the word. "I'm so scared. All the time. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you spar. Every time you smile at me like I'm worth something. I'm terrified."
You squeezed his hand.
"Then be scared. But be scared with me. Not without me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Rain dripped from his hair, traced the lines of his face, clung to his lashes. He looked like a man who had been drowning for weeks and had just realized someone was holding out a hand.
He didn't take the hand.
He pulled you into his chest instead.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't smooth. It was desperate, his arms wrapping around you like you might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough, his face pressing into your rain-soaked hair, his whole body shaking with the force of everything he'd been holding back.
You felt his shoulders heave. Once. Twice. A sound escaped him, raw and broken, muffled against your scalp.
Kim Geonwoo was crying.
You wrapped your arms around him and held on.
"I'm sorry." His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. You were never weak. You were the strongest person I knew. You still are. I was just, I was so scared. I'm still scared."
"I know."
"I thought if I said it enough, I'd believe it. That you were better off without me. That I was doing the right thing."
"You were wrong."
"I know." A shaky exhale. "I know."
You stayed like that for a long time. Kneeling on the wet curb, wrapped around each other, the rain falling around you like a curtain. His heart was pounding against your ear. Fast. Too fast. Like he was still bracing for you to pull away.
You didn't pull away.
Eventually, his grip loosened. Not completely, he kept one arm around you, like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go, but enough that he could pull back and look at you.
His eyes were red. His face was a mess. He'd never looked more beautiful.
"I meant what I said in the van," he said quietly. "That night. When you were bleeding out."
"You said a lot of things."
"I said stay awake." His hand came up, trembling, and cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone. Gentle. So gentle. "I said don't close your eyes. I said you don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
"I remember."
"There was more." He swallowed. "I said it while you were unconscious. While Woojin was driving. I didn't think you could hear me."
Your breath caught.
"I said-" His voice cracked. He pushed through it. "I said I loved you. I said I'd loved you since we were fifteen years old and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie Woojin made us watch. I said I was sorry I never told you. I said if you woke up, I'd tell you every day for the rest of my life."
The rain fell. The city hummed in the distance. And Kim Geonwoo looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"I'm telling you now," he whispered. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm sorry it took almost losing you to say it."
You kissed him.
It wasn't graceful. Your noses bumped. His lips were cold from the rain. You could taste salt, his tears or yours, you weren't sure anymore. But his hand tightened on your face, and his other arm pulled you closer, and he kissed you back like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
When you finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. His eyes were still wet.
"Stay," he said. Not a command. A plea. "Please. Stay."
"I was never going anywhere," you said. "You just had to let me come back."
He laughed. Wet and broken and real. The first real laugh you'd heard from him in over a month.
"You're still an idiot," you added.
"Yeah." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I know."
His couch, specifically. You were wrapped in a blanket that smelled like cedar soap and him. Weak morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling.
Geonwoo was sitting on the floor next to the couch, his back against the cushions, his head tilted back. Asleep. Finally. His hand was wrapped loosely around yours, like he'd fallen asleep holding on and couldn't bear to let go even in unconsciousness.
You watched him breathe for a moment. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way the tension had finally eased from his jaw. He looked younger like this. Softer. Closer to the boy you'd fallen in love with fifteen years ago.
You reached down with your free hand and flicked his ear.
He startled awake so fast he nearly hit his head on the coffee table.
"What, I'm up-"
"You're drooling."
He blinked at you, disoriented. Then his gaze focused. On you. On your joined hands. On the fact that you were here, in his apartment, wrapped in his blanket, alive.
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. Warmed.
"Hey," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.
"Hey."
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were warm. Gentle. His eyes didn't leave yours.
"I meant what I said last night," he said quietly. "Every word. I'm going to tell you every day. Until you're sick of hearing it."
"I don't think I'll ever get sick of it."
"Good." Another kiss to your knuckles. "Because I have twenty years of it saved up."
You smiled. A real smile. The first one in weeks.
"Then start talking."
He did.
And on the nightstand, the photograph of the three of you, young, laughing, alive, was facing up again.
It was late, past midnight, the kind of hour when the city outside grew quiet and the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of fists against leather and the occasional creak of old plumbing. You were sitting on the edge of the ring, legs dangling, watching Geonwoo work the heavy bag with that focused intensity he brought to everything.
Your side was still healing. The scar had faded from angry red to soft pink, and the doctor had cleared you for light activity. Geonwoo had interpreted "light activity" as "absolutely no sparring, no bag work, no anything that might make you bleed again." You'd argued. He'd given you that look, the one where his jaw set and his eyes went soft at the same time, like he was trying to be stern but couldn't quite manage it because he kept looking at you like you hung the moon.
You'd lost the argument.
So you sat on the ring and watched him. Which wasn't exactly a hardship.
He was shirtless. Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and back, tracing the lines of muscle and scar tissue. His movements were precise, economical, every punch landing exactly where he intended. You'd watched him train a thousand times over the years, but something was different now. Maybe it was the way he'd glance at you between combinations, checking to make sure you were still there. Maybe it was the way his ears went pink when he caught you staring.
Maybe it was the fact that you were allowed to stare now.
"Okay, I'm going to be sick."
Woojin's voice cut through your thoughts. He was sprawled on a bench near the mirrors, a towel draped over his face, pretending to be exhausted from the minimal amount of bag work he'd actually done.
"You've been watching him like that for twenty minutes," he continued, voice muffled by the towel. "Twenty. Minutes. I've been timing it. You haven't blinked once."
"I blinked."
"You didn't. I was watching you not blink while you watched him not blink while he watched you. It's a closed loop of non-blinking. It's unnatural."
Geonwoo's rhythm on the bag didn't falter, but his ears went from pink to red.
"Woojin," he said, not turning around. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying." Woojin sat up, letting the towel fall. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in twelve different directions. "This is worse than before. At least when you two were silently pining, it was tragic and interesting. Now it's just... domestic. You keep handing her water bottles. You fixed her hand wraps three times even though she told you they were fine. Yesterday you made her soup."
"I like soup," you said.
"He made you soup at 2 AM because you mentioned you were hungry. He went to the store. At 2 AM. For soup ingredients."
Geonwoo stopped hitting the bag. His shoulders tensed.
"It was cold," he said quietly. "She needed something warm."
Woojin stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
"Oh my god," he said. "You're that couple. You're going to be the couple that shares a single blanket and feeds each other at restaurants and calls each other pet names in public."
"We don't have pet names," you said.
"Yet," Woojin countered. "Give it a week. He's going to call you something disgusting like 'jagi' and you're going to melt into a puddle and I'm going to have to find new friends who don't make me want to vomit from secondhand sweetness."
Geonwoo walked over to the ring and grabbed his water bottle. He took a long drink, his throat working, and you watched a drop of sweat trace down his neck and disappear beneath his collarbone.
Woojin made a gagging sound.
"You're doing it again," he said. "The staring thing. Right now. In front of me. Like I'm not even here."
"You're always here," Geonwoo said flatly.
"That's my point! I'm always here! Which means I have to witness-" He gestured wildly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. The longing gazes. The casual touches. The way you stood behind her yesterday while she was making coffee and just... hovered. Like a very large, very anxious bodyguard who also wants to kiss her forehead."
Geonwoo's jaw tightened. "I don't hover."
"You hover."
"I stand nearby."
"You hover like a helicopter. A handsome, emotionally repressed helicopter."
You laughed. The sound bubbled up before you could stop it, bright and genuine, and Geonwoo's gaze snapped to you. His expression shifted, the tension in his jaw easing, his eyes warming, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.
"There," Woojin said, pointing. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You laughed and he looked at you like you just invented laughter. It's been a week and I'm already exhausted."
"You could leave," Geonwoo suggested.
"And miss this? Absolutely not. Someone has to document this for posterity. For science. For future generations who will want to study the exact moment Kim Geonwoo became a lovesick puppy."
Geonwoo threw his towel at Woojin's face.
Woojin caught it, grinning.
"See? Defensive. Classic symptom." He stood up and stretched, his joints popping audibly. "Anyway, I'm leaving. Not because you told me to, but because I have a date. A real date. With a real person who isn't my childhood best friend."
"You have a date?" you asked.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm delightful. Charming. Incredibly handsome." He struck a pose in the mirror. "The total package. Unlike this one, who needed twenty years and a near-death experience to confess his feelings."
Geonwoo's hand twitched. You reached out and caught it before he could throw something else.
"Go," you said to Woojin. "Have fun. Be safe."
"Always." He headed for the door, then paused. Looked back. His expression was softer now, the humor giving way to something genuine. "Hey. I'm glad you two figured it out. Really. Took you long enough, but... yeah. I'm glad."
Then he pointed at Geonwoo.
"Hurt her again and I'll break your other hand."
Geonwoo nodded once. Serious. "I know."
"Good." Woojin's grin returned. "Also, use protection. The walls in this gym are thin and I don't need to hear-"
The water bottle Geonwoo threw hit him square in the back of the head as he fled through the door, laughing.
Just the hum of the fluorescent lights. The distant sound of traffic. The soft rhythm of Geonwoo's breathing as he stood beside you, his hand still caught in yours.
"He's not wrong," you said.
"About which part?"
"All of it. The hovering. The staring. The soup at 2 AM." You tugged his hand gently, pulling him closer. He came willingly, stepping between your knees where you sat on the edge of the ring. "You're very obvious, Kim Geonwoo."
He looked up at you. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. His cheeks were still flushed from the workout. His eyes, those dark, watchful eyes you'd known your whole life, were fixed on your face like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I don't know how to be subtle," he admitted. "I never learned. With you, I just..."
"Just what?"
"Want to be close." His free hand came up, fingers brushing your knee. Light. Tentative. Like he was still afraid you'd disappear. "All the time. It's annoying. Even to me."
"It's not annoying."
"It is. I know it is. I keep-" He exhaled, frustrated with himself. "I keep checking. Where you are. If you're okay. If you need anything. I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to look at you to make sure you're still breathing. Woojin's right. I hover."
You reached out and cupped his face. His stubble was rough against your palm. His eyes fluttered half-closed at the contact, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"You spent five weeks thinking I was going to die," you said softly. "You spent years thinking everyone you love leaves. It makes sense that you need to check. I don't mind."
"I should be better."
"You're perfect."
His eyes opened fully. Something raw flickered there. "I'm not."
"You are to me."
The words hung between you. His hand tightened on your knee. His other hand came up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek.
"I love you," he said. Quiet. Certain. Like it was the most obvious fact in the universe. "I don't say it enough. I'm trying to say it more."
"You said it this morning."
"I want to say it more."
"Geonwoo-"
"I love you." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "I love you." Another kiss to your wrist. "I love you." Your forearm. "I love you."
You were laughing now, breathless, your heart doing something dangerous in your chest. "You're going to wear out the words."
"Never." He looked up at you through his lashes. His lips were curved in that rare, precious smile. The one that transformed his whole face. The one that made him look young and unburdened and impossibly beautiful. "I have twenty years to make up for. Let me."
You pulled him up.
He came easily, rising between your knees, his hands finding your waist. You were still sitting on the edge of the ring, which put him at the perfect height. Your arms wrapped around his neck. His forehead pressed against yours.
"Hi," you whispered.
"Hi."
"You're very close."
"I know." His nose brushed yours. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
"Good." His voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher. "Because I've been thinking about this all day."
It started soft. Gentle. The way all your kisses had started this week, careful, tentative, like he was still learning the shape of you and afraid of getting it wrong.
But something was different tonight.
Maybe it was the empty gym. Maybe it was the adrenaline still humming from his workout. Maybe it was the way Woojin's teasing had cracked something open, made him bold.
His hands slid from your waist to your hips, gripping tight. He pulled you forward until you were perched on the very edge of the ring, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. The new position pressed you flush against him, his chest to yours, his warmth seeping through your thin tank top.
"Geonwoo-"
"I know." His lips moved against yours as he spoke. "Tell me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
He made a sound. Low. Rough. It vibrated through his chest and into yours.
His mouth found your jaw. Your throat. The sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and grip his shoulders. He lingered there, learning it, mapping the sound you made when his teeth grazed your skin.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your neck. "No idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
His hands tightened on your hips. Hard enough to bruise. You didn't care. You wanted the marks. You wanted proof that this was real, that he was here, that after twenty years of dancing around each other you'd finally crashed together.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. Hungry. His lips were red and slightly swollen.
"Here?" His voice was rough. "Now?"
"The door's locked."
"Woojin has a key."
"Woojin is on a date."
"He could come back."
"He won't." You traced your fingers down his chest. Felt the muscles jump beneath your touch. "And even if he did, he'd survive. He's survived worse."
Geonwoo stared at you for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifted. The last thread of restraint snapping.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He kissed you again. Harder this time. Deeper. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him there, matching his intensity, your fingers threading through his damp hair and pulling. He groaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed between you, and walked forward until your back hit the ropes of the ring.
The ropes gave slightly, cradling you. Geonwoo followed, one hand bracing against the top rope beside your head, the other still gripping your hip. He was everywhere. Surrounding you. His scent, sweat and cedar and something uniquely him, filled your lungs.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your lips.
"So are you."
He was. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back. You could feel it in his hands, his chest, the way his breath came in uneven bursts.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Your side-"
"Is healed."
"Not completely."
"Enough." You pulled back to meet his eyes. "Geonwoo. I've been waiting twenty years for you to touch me like this. Don't make me wait longer because you're afraid of a scar."
Something cracked in his expression. The worry giving way to want.
He kissed you again. And this time, he didn't hold back.
The kiss deepened into something urgent. Desperate. His hands roamed your body, your waist, your ribs, the curve of your back, touching everywhere he could reach like he was trying to memorize you through fabric. Your own hands weren't idle. You traced the lines of his shoulders, his chest, the ridges of old scars that told the story of every fight he'd survived.
He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt off completely. You'd seen him shirtless a hundred times. In the gym. At the beach. In the aftermath of fights when you'd helped patch him up.
This was different.
This was for you.
"Beautiful," you breathed. "You're so beautiful."
His ears went red. "I'm not-"
"You are." You pulled him back down, pressing your lips to his collarbone. His shoulder. The scar on his chest from a knife fight three years ago. "Every part of you. I've always thought so."
"You never said."
"Neither did you."
He laughed. Breathless. Wrecked. "We're idiots."
"The biggest idiots."
He kissed you again, smiling into it, and the joy of it, the sheer giddy joy of finally having this, having him, bubbled up in your chest until you were laughing too, the kiss dissolving into shared breath and foreheads pressed together and hands tangled in hair.
"I love you," he said again. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I know." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you too. I've always loved you. Since we were fifteen and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie."
"That was Woojin's shoulder."
"What?"
"Woojin's shoulder. You fell asleep on his shoulder. I was on your other side. I was so jealous I couldn't focus on the movie at all."
You stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"Completely." His thumb traced your bottom lip. "I wanted to switch places with him so badly. But I was too scared to move. Too scared to wake you. So I just sat there and watched you sleep and thought, 'This is it. This is the person I'm going to love forever.'"
Your heart cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to let him in deeper.
"Kim Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're the most ridiculous person I've ever met."
"I know."
You kissed him. Soft. Tender. Pouring fifteen years of unspoken feelings into the press of your lips against his.
When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. His breathing was uneven.
"We should go home," he said.
"Probably."
"Before Woojin actually does come back."
"Good idea."
Neither of you moved.
"Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're still holding me."
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I don't want to let go."
The night air was cool against your flushed skin. Geonwoo's hand was wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knuckles. Your shoulders brushed with every step. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to.
Halfway home, he stopped.
"What?"
He was looking at a convenience store. The same one you'd passed a thousand times. The fluorescent lights glowed through the windows, illuminating rows of snacks and drinks.
"Wait here," he said.
He disappeared inside. You stood on the sidewalk, confused, watching through the window as he browsed the refrigerated section. A minute later, he emerged holding two items.
Strawberry milk. Two bottles.
You stared at them. Then at him.
"Geonwoo-"
"You always liked the strawberry one best." He held one out to you. "When we were kids. You'd always pick strawberry even though I liked banana. And I'd always buy strawberry anyway because I wanted you to be happy."
Your throat tightened. "I remember."
"I know it's stupid. It's just milk. But I saw it in there and I thought-" He looked at the bottle in his hand. "I wanted to give you something. Something that meant something. To us."
You took the bottle. Your fingers brushed his.
"It's not stupid," you said. "It's perfect."
He smiled. Small. Shy. The smile of the boy on the curb, sharing his drink because he didn't know how to say I care about you but he could show it.
You twisted off the cap and took a sip. It was cold. Sweet. Exactly the same as you remembered.
"Good?" he asked.
"Perfect," you said again.
He opened his own bottle and drank. You stood there on the sidewalk, two adults drinking strawberry milk at midnight, and it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.
"I'm going to marry you someday."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Geonwoo choked on his milk.
"What?"
You felt your face heat. "I didn't, that was, ignore that. I don't know why I said that."
He set his bottle down on a nearby bench. Then he took yours and set it down too. Then he cupped your face in both hands and looked at you with an intensity that stole your breath.
"Say it again."
"Geonwoo-"
"Please." His voice was rough. "Say it again."
You swallowed. "I'm going to marry you someday."
His eyes went bright. Wet. He blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing down his cheek.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Tasting like strawberry milk and salt. "I'm going to marry you too. Someday. Whenever you want. Tomorrow. Next week. Ten years from now. I don't care. As long as it's you."
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was hard to tell anymore.
"You're crying," he said.
"So are you."
"Yeah." He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm happy. I didn't know I could be this happy."
You kissed him again. Right there on the sidewalk. Under the convenience store lights. With strawberry milk waiting on the bench.
When you finally broke apart, he picked up the bottles and handed yours back.
"Come on," he said, taking your hand. "Let's go home."
Home.
His apartment. Your apartment. It didn't matter. Anywhere with him was home.
Woojin stood in the doorway of Geonwoo's apartment, holding a bag of takeout, staring at the scene before him.
You were on the couch, wrapped in Geonwoo's hoodie, the gray one that was too big on you and smelled like him. Geonwoo was next to you, his arm around your shoulders, your legs draped over his lap. A drama was playing on the TV, but neither of you were watching it. You were too busy looking at each other.
"What did I say?" Woojin continued, walking in and setting the food on the counter. "What did I specifically say? I said you'd become that couple. And here you are. Being that couple. In his hoodie. Sharing a blanket. Probably whispering sweet nothings."
"We weren't whispering," you said.
"You were thinking about whispering. I could see it in your eyes."
Geonwoo didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on you, soft and warm, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.
"Geonwoo," Woojin said. "Geonwoo. Hey. Earth to lovesick puppy."
"Hm?"
"I brought food. Jjajangmyeon. Your favorite."
"Thanks."
"That's it? Thanks? You're not even going to look at me?"
Geonwoo turned his head slowly. Looked at Woojin for approximately one second. Then turned back to you.
"Unbelievable." Woojin threw his hands up. "Three months. Three months of this. I've created a monster. I pushed you two together and now I have to suffer the consequences."
"You love us," you said.
"I do. Unfortunately. Against my better judgment." He started unpacking the food, pulling out containers and chopsticks. "But I'm establishing new rules. Rule one: no kissing when I'm in the room. Rule two: no longing gazes that last longer than five seconds. Rule three: if you're going to be disgusting, at least feed me while you do it."
Geonwoo stood up. Walked over to Woojin. Took the containers from his hands.
"Thank you for the food," he said. "You can leave now."
"I just got here!"
"We're busy."
"Busy doing what? Staring at each other? You can do that while I eat."
Geonwoo looked at you. A question in his eyes.
You shrugged. "He can stay. He did bring food."
"See?" Woojin grinned. "She likes me better."
"She's known me twenty years. She's known you twenty years. It's equal."
"But I'm more charming."
"You're more annoying."
"That's the same thing."
Geonwoo sighed. It was a long-suffering sound, the sigh of a man who had been dealing with Kim Woojin for two decades and would probably deal with him for two more. But there was fondness underneath it. The fondness of family.
He brought the food to the coffee table and sat back down beside you. His arm found its place around your shoulders automatically, pulling you into his side.
Woojin settled into the armchair across from you, already opening his container of jjajangmyeon.
"So," he said around a mouthful of noodles. "When's the wedding?"
You choked on air. Geonwoo's hand tightened on your shoulder.
"Woojin," Geonwoo warned.
"What? I'm asking. As your best friend. As the person who will obviously be the best man. I need to plan my speech. It's going to be long. Very long. I have twenty years of material."
"Woojin."
"I'm going to tell the strawberry milk story. And the time you fell asleep on my shoulder and he was jealous. And the time he carried you five blocks because you twisted your ankle and refused to let anyone else touch you-"
"We're not engaged," you interrupted.
"Yet," Woojin corrected. "The key word is yet. I saw the way he looked at you when you said that word. Marriage. He's been thinking about it. Planning it. Probably has a ring hidden somewhere in this apartment."
Geonwoo's ears went red.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Do you?"
"I'm not answering that."
"You do." Woojin cackled. "You absolutely do. Kim Geonwoo, you romantic disaster. Where is it? Under the bed? In the sock drawer? In the gym bag you think no one looks in?"
"Finish your food," Geonwoo said flatly.
"I'm going to find it."
"You're not."
"I'm going to find it and I'm going to take a picture and I'm going to show everyone at the gym-"
Geonwoo threw a pillow at him. Woojin caught it, still laughing, and threw it back.
You watched them bicker, warmth spreading through your chest. This was your family. These two idiots who had been by your side for twenty years. One who made you laugh. One who made you feel safe.
One who loved you enough to buy strawberry milk at midnight and think about forever.
Geonwoo caught your eye. His expression softened. The bickering with Woojin faded into background noise.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You nodded. "More than okay."
He smiled. Small. Private. Just for you.
"Good," he said. "Me too."
Under the blanket, his hand found yours. Squeezed once.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || Based on the song; Nikki by Logic. Just like in the song, Chan is the addict. The reader is the nicotine. He knows it's killing him, he tries to quit, but the withdrawal is unbearable, and the "high" of being with her is the only thing that makes him feel alive. The tragedy is that by the time he realizes she's what he needs, he's already poisoned the well.
Bang Chan x Reader
Main Category: Angst.
Sub Category: Smut
Warnings: Rough sex, Hate sex / Punishment sex, Breath play / Choking (consensual within the scene), Possessive sex, Sex with emotional manipulation, Unprotected sex
Word Count: 14.8k
I know it's him before I even look. My phone buzzes against the nightstand, once, then again, like he's impatient, even after all these months. Like the silence between us is somehow my fault.
Unknown Number: You up?
I stare at the screen until it goes dark. Three months. It's been three months since the last time. I've almost started to feel like myself again, like a person who doesn't spend her weekends waiting for a man who treats her like a secret, a habit, a drug he's trying to quit.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Don't. I've had this conversation with myself a dozen times. I've even said it out loud to my friends, watching their faces soften with that familiar pity.
He's bad for you.
He only comes around when he needs something.
You deserve better.
I know all of this. I know it the way an addict knows the damage, intellectually, completely, and without any power to stop it.
The phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: I know you're awake
I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows me well enough to know I'd still be up, reading, pretending I'm not waiting for something I told myself I'd stop waiting for.
My fingers move before my brain can stop them.
Me: What do you want, Chan.
The response is immediate. Like he was holding his breath, waiting for me to prove I'm still weak.
Unknown Number: Can I come over
It's not a question. It never is.
I should say no. I should type out something cutting, something final, something that makes him feel even a fraction of what I've felt every time he's walked out my door without looking back.
Instead, I stare at the message until the screen blurs.
He's at my door in twenty-three minutes. I know because I counted.
When I open the door, he's leaning against the frame like he owns it, like he owns the air between us. Hood pulled up, mask down around his chin, eyes tired in that way that used to make my chest ache with worry before I learned that his exhaustion was never about me, it was always about everything but me.
"Hey," he says. Voice low. Familiar.
"Hey," I say back. Flat. Guarded.
He looks past me into the apartment, like he's checking if I'm alone. The audacity of it makes something hot curl in my stomach. Like he has any right to care.
"I'm alone," I say, and I hate how defensive it sounds. How much it sounds like I'm reassuring him.
His eyes come back to mine, and there it is, that small, almost-smile that used to undo me completely. "I know."
He does know. That's the worst part. He knows I haven't moved on. He knows I've tried, and I've failed, and that every time he shows up at my door, I let him in.
"Can I-" he starts, but I'm already stepping aside.
He walks through my apartment like he's done it a hundred times, because he has. He shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall over the back of my couch. Kicks off his shoes without being asked. There's a familiarity to it that makes my throat tight, the way he knows where the bathroom is, where I keep the good glasses, the spot on my couch where the cushion is perfectly worn to his shape.
I close the door and lean against it, arms crossed. Watching.
"You look good," he says, settling onto the couch like he lives here.
"Don't."
He looks up at me, and for a moment, the mask slips. He looks tired. Not idol-tired, not schedule-tired, something deeper. Something that makes me want to cross the room and sit next to him, to ask what's wrong, to fall back into the rhythm of taking care of him even though he never stays long enough to take care of me back.
"Sorry," he says, and he almost sounds like he means it. "That was, sorry."
I wait. I've learned that if I wait long enough, he'll fill the silence. He always does.
"Comeback prep is killing me," he finally says, rubbing a hand over his face. "We've been in the studio for sixteen hours a day. Changbin's about to murder someone. Jisung hasn't slept in three days."
I nod. This is how it always starts, with the stress, the pressure, the weight of being Bang Chan. He comes to me when the walls close in, when the responsibility of leading seven other men and carrying the hopes of a company and the love of millions becomes too heavy. He comes to me because I'm the one place he doesn't have to be Bang Chan.
He comes to me because I let him be Christopher. And then he leaves, and Christopher disappears back inside Bang Chan, and I'm left holding the pieces of someone who only exists in my apartment after midnight.
"And you thought of me," I say. My voice comes out bitterer than I intended.
He looks at me then, really looks. His eyes are dark, unreadable. "I always think of you."
The words land somewhere in my chest and settle there, warm and dangerous.
"That's not fair," I whisper.
"I know."
He doesn't move from the couch. He doesn't come to me. He waits, and maybe that's the cruelest part of all, that he's learned to let me come to him. That he's made me so used to closing the distance that I don't even fight it anymore.
I cross the room slowly, like walking toward something I know will hurt me. And maybe that's the definition of stupidity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
But when I sit down next to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to smell that familiar mix of fabric softener and something that's just him, I stop thinking about consequences.
He turns to face me, and up close, I can see the cracks. The shadows under his eyes. The slight tremor in his hands. He's running on empty, has been running on empty for years, and somehow he always ends up here when he's about to collapse.
"I missed you," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
"You don't get to say that."
"I know." His hand comes up, hesitates, then settles on my knee. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my sweats. "I know I don't."
"Then why are you here, Chan?"
He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, slow enough that I could pull away, slow enough that the choice is mine.
I don't pull away.
His forehead touches mine. His breath is warm against my lips. We stay like that for a moment, close enough to feel each other breathe, close enough that the world outside my apartment ceases to exist.
"I'm here," he whispers, "because you're the only thing that makes the noise stop."
And that, that is the thing that undoes me. Not the words themselves, but the way he says them. Like it costs him something to admit it. Like I'm not just a convenience, not just a body, but something he actually needs even though he's spent years trying to convince himself otherwise.
My hands come up to frame his face before I can stop them. His skin is warm, a little rough from exhaustion, and he leans into my touch like a man starved for it.
"Christopher," I breathe, and I watch his eyes flutter closed.
"Say it again," he murmurs.
His mouth crashes against mine, and it's not a kiss, it's a collision. Three months of radio silence, of feigned indifference, of me pretending I don't check my phone every time it buzzes, all dissolving in this single, brutal point of contact. It's hungry and desperate, his lips parting against mine with a groan that's half relief, half pain. His hands are in my hair, not gentle, fisting the strands to hold me still, to keep me from pulling away, as if he knows I still have the sense to.
I don't.
I kiss him back with just as much force, my own hands grabbing the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there's no space left between us. This is the part I hate, the part that feels like a betrayal of my own sanity, the way my body responds to him like a flower to the sun, even when I know he's poison. The anger is still there, a hot, sharp thing in my gut, but it's tangled up with a need so profound it makes my knees weak. I bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, and the sound is a victory. A small, pathetic victory.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, his voice wrecked. He doesn't pull back. He presses closer, his body a hard, heavy line against mine. "I can't... I tried..."
"Shut up," I snarl, dragging my mouth down his jaw. I don't want to hear about his attempts. I don't want to hear about the others. I just want this. I want the high. I want to feel alive for a few precious minutes before he leaves me to die again.
His hands leave my hair, roaming down my body with an urgency that borders on frantic. He pushes my shirt up, his palms hot and rough against my skin, and I arch into the touch. It's not tender. It's claiming. He's not exploring; he's reminding himself. Reminding himself that this body, this skin, this response belongs to him. His thumb finds the peak of my breast through the thin lace of my bra, circling it until I'm gasping into his neck, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Chan," I gasp, and it's a mistake. Using his stage name feels like a challenge, a reminder of the world outside this apartment, the world he belongs to but won't let me into.
He growls, a low, possessive sound from deep in his chest. "No," he grunts, his hand fisting in my shirt again. "Not that." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild in the dim light. "Say my name."
"Christopher," I breathe, and the word is a surrender.
His control snaps. He stands, pulling me up with him, and the world spins. My back hits the wall next to the couch with a soft thud, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. He's on me instantly, his body pinning mine, his thigh pushing between my legs. The pressure is immediate, a shockwave of pleasure that makes my head fall back against the wall with a dull thud.
He doesn't give me time to think. His hands are everywhere, tugging my sweats down over my hips, his own following in a clumsy, hurried rush. There's no finesse, no romance. This is pure, unadulterated need. He's not making love to me; he's using me to feel something, anything, other than the crushing weight of his own life. And I'm letting him. God, I'm letting him because I'm doing the same thing.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough as he hooks one of my legs around his waist. I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. He looks destroyed. Beautifully, tragically destroyed. "I need to see you."
And then he's inside me, one deep, hard thrust that steals my breath. It's too fast, too much, but it's exactly what I need. It's a shock to the system, a jolt of electricity that erases every lonely night, every unanswered text, every lie I told myself about moving on. I cry out, my head falling back against the wall again, but his hand is there, cradling it, his fingers tangling in my hair.
"No," he says again, his voice a strained whisper against my ear. "Here. With me."
He starts to move, and there's no rhythm to it, no grace. It's just a desperate, punishing pace. Each thrust is a question, a plea. Did you miss me? Do you still want me? Am I still the one? And my body answers for me, my hips rising to meet his, my leg tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. The sounds we make are raw and unfiltered, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps for air, the broken whispers of his name.
His mouth finds mine again, and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, more devastating. It's the apology he can't say out loud. It's the confession he won't make. It's everything he can't give me in the light of day, poured into this single, stolen moment in the dark. One of his hands slides down my body, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and the world whites out.
"Christopher," I sob against his mouth, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. "Please..."
"Come for me," he groans, his thumb circling faster, his hips driving deeper. "Let me feel it."
The command is my undoing. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me with a force that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him tense, his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge, his face buried in the crook of my neck, a guttural cry torn from his throat as he pours himself into me.
For a moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing the only sound in the quiet apartment. He's heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone, but I don't push him away. I hold him, my arms wrapped around his neck, my face pressed into his hair. This is the part I'll miss later. The quiet aftermath. The illusion of peace.
It lasts for exactly ninety-seven seconds.
I know because I counted.
He stirs, lifting his head slowly. His eyes are closed for a moment, and when he opens them, the raw desperation is gone. It's been replaced by that familiar, guarded look. The wall is back up.
He pulls out of me gently, and the loss is immediate, a cold, hollow ache. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, avoiding my eyes. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words.
"I have to go," he says, his voice flat. Emotionless.
I don't move from the wall. I just watch him, pulling my own clothes back on, my hands trembling. "I know," I whisper. I always know.
He finishes dressing, runs a hand through his messy hair, and finally looks at me. There's regret in his eyes, but it's the shallow kind. The kind that's sorry for the moment, not the pattern.
"Y/N..." he starts, but I shake my head.
"Don't."
I can't hear it. I can't hear the empty apology, the promise that this is the last time. I can't hear him tell me he's sorry for using me, for breaking me, for being the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.
He nods, understanding. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to argue. He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looks back at me, one last time, and for a fleeting second, I see Christopher again. The man I fell for. The man I'm still in love with.
But then it's gone. And it's just Bang Chan, standing in my doorway, ready to walk back into a life that doesn't include me.
"Lock the door behind me," he says.
And then he's gone. The click of the latch is the final, fatal sound. The end of the high. The beginning of the crash.
I know because I watch the numbers change on my nightstand clock, minute by minute, after the door closes behind him. My body is still humming, still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. But my chest is already caving in.
I don't sleep. I never sleep after.
Instead, I lie in the dark and run through the arithmetic of us. The equation never changes. Chan plus me equals pleasure plus pain, and the sum is always the same: I end up alone, staring at a ceiling that feels too far away, wondering why I keep letting him subtract pieces of me until there's nothing left.
At 8:47 AM, my phone buzzes. My heart lurches before my brain catches up.
Unknown Number: Thank you
Two words. That's what I get for three months of silence, for the way I let him take me apart against my own wall. Thank you. Like I'm a convenience store. Like I'm a transaction.
I don't respond. This is part of the pattern too, the hollow gratitude that's supposed to make him feel better, absolve him of the guilt he doesn't actually feel. If I don't answer, maybe he'll sit with it. Maybe he'll feel a fraction of what I feel.
I go to work. I come home. I eat meals I don't taste and watch shows I don't see. I tell myself this is healing. I tell myself the silence is a gift, that every day he doesn't text is another day I get to rebuild the walls he keeps knocking down.
But at night, alone in my bed, I replay it. The way he said you're the only thing that makes the noise stop. The way his hands shook. The way he looked at me when I said his real name, like I was the only person in the world who could still reach him.
I hate that I miss him. I hate that I'm already waiting for the next text.
It comes on a Thursday. 10:03 PM.
Unknown Number: Can I see you
No pretense this time. No how are you, no I've been thinking about you. Just the ask. The demand dressed up like a request.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say no. I could type I'm busy or I'm not home or I can't do this anymore. I've rehearsed those lines a hundred times, in the shower, in the car, in the dark at 3 AM when my resolve feels strongest.
But I'm not busy. I'm home. And I know, with a certainty that makes me sick, that I'll never be strong enough to say no to him.
He's at my door in nineteen minutes this time. Faster. Like he was already nearby. Like he was waiting for permission.
When I open the door, something is different. He's not leaning against the frame, casual and careless. He's standing straight, hands in his pockets, and when he looks at me, there's something in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time.
Vulnerability. Real, unguarded vulnerability.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is soft. Uncertain.
"Hi," I say back. I don't move aside immediately. I make him wait, make him stand in the hallway while I search his face for the lie.
But he just stands there, patient, and after a moment, I step back.
He walks to my kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out two waters. He knows where they are. He knows where everything is. He hands me one, and our fingers brush, and he doesn't pull away.
"You look tired," he says, leaning against my counter.
"I am tired."
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see something flicker across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know I'm-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. It's longer than last time, curling at the nape of his neck. I used to run my fingers through that hair, in the before times, when we were something other than this.
"You're what?" I ask when the silence stretches too long.
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say it. I'm sorry. I'm wrong. I'm toxic. But he doesn't.
"I'm trying," he says instead. And then, softer: "I'm trying to figure out why I keep running from the only thing that makes sense."
The words land somewhere in my chest and lodge there. I don't know what to do with them. I don't trust them. He's said things like this before, in the dark, when his defenses were down. But never standing in my kitchen under fluorescent light, looking at me like I'm something more than a body to forget in.
"What are you saying, Chan?"
He sets his water down. Takes a step toward me. Then another.
"I'm saying I don't want to just-" He pauses, jaw tightening. "I don't want to just show up and leave. I don't want to keep doing this thing where I pretend I don't need you."
"You do pretend," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word.
"I know." He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that I can see the exhaustion etched into his features, the war playing out behind his eyes. "I'm tired of pretending."
My heart is a traitor. It's beating too fast, leaning toward him even while my brain screams caution. This is the pattern. This is the part where he gives me just enough hope to keep me hooked, just enough warmth to make the next cold silence unbearable.
But when his hand comes up to cup my face, slow and careful, I don't pull away.
"Tell me what you want," I whisper. It's a test. It's always a test with him, even when I don't mean it to be.
He doesn't answer with words. He leans in, forehead touching mine, just like last time. But the energy is different. There's no desperation in it, no frantic hunger. Just, stillness. Just him, breathing the same air as me, letting the silence settle around us like something fragile.
"I want to stay," he says, so quiet I almost miss it.
My breath catches. "Stay how?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight. "Tonight. I want to stay tonight."
This is new. This has never been part of the pattern. He always leaves. Always. The leaving is what makes it safe for him, what lets him pretend that what happens in my apartment stays contained, separate from the rest of his life.
"Why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How hopeful.
He doesn't have an answer, or maybe he just can't find the words. Instead, he leans in and kisses me.
But this kiss isn't like the last one. It's not a collision. It's slow, almost hesitant, like he's relearning the shape of my mouth. His lips move against mine with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. His hand slides into my hair, but he doesn't pull. He just holds, fingers threading through the strands like I'm something precious.
I kiss him back, and I don't know if I'm crying or if I just feel like I am. This is what I've wanted. This is what I've been waiting for, through all the cold mornings and empty texts. Not just the sex, not just the release, this. The tenderness. The illusion that I'm more than a habit he can't break.
He pulls back, rests his forehead against mine again. "Can we-" He pauses, swallows. "Can we go to your room?"
Not the couch. Not against the wall. My room. My bed. The place he's never stayed through the night.
I nod, because I can't speak. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something I can't take back. I love you. Please don't hurt me again. Please mean this.
He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and leads me down the hallway.
He doesn't flip on the light. The only illumination comes from the city bleeding through my blinds, painting the room in muted shades of gray and silver. It's perfect. It's a lie, and it's perfect.
He stops by the edge of the bed, his hand still holding mine, and just looks at me. In the dim light, his face is all soft edges and shadows, the harsh lines of exhaustion smoothed away. He looks younger. He looks like the boy I met years ago, before the world got its hands on him.
"Can I-" he starts, then stops, a faint flush creeping up his neck. It's the first time I've ever seen him look unsure of himself with me. "Can I take this off?"
His free hand hovers over the hem of my shirt, not touching, just waiting. I nod, my throat too tight to form words.
His fingers are gentle as they lift the fabric, slow and deliberate. He doesn't rush. He pulls it over my head, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. He lets the shirt drop to the floor, his eyes tracing the lines of my body, not with hunger, but with something that looks terrifyingly like reverence.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and it's not a line. It's not something you say in the heat of the moment. It sounds like a confession.
I reach for the hem of his hoodie, my hands trembling slightly. He lets me pull it over his head, and my breath catches at the sight of him. The familiar landscape of his chest, the muscles I know so well, but here, in the quiet of my room, he looks different. Softer. More real.
I lean in, press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. It beats steady and strong against my lips. His hand comes up to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, not pulling, just holding me there.
We undress each other slowly, like we're unwrapping something fragile. My sweats, his jeans, my bra, his boxers, each piece falls away until there's nothing left but skin and shadow and the space between us that's charged with everything we've never said.
He guides me down onto the bed, settling over me with a careful weight that feels like an anchor. He doesn't kiss my mouth right away. Instead, he kisses my forehead, my eyelids, the line of my jaw. He kisses the pulse point on my wrist, his lips lingering there like he's trying to feel my life force. He kisses the soft skin of my stomach, and I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing. This is worship. This is a prayer. This is everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I can't have.
"Christopher," I breathe, and his name is a benediction, a plea, a surrender all at once.
He finally looks at me, his eyes dark and searching. He lowers his head, and when his lips meet mine, it's not a collision. It's a homecoming. It's slow and deep and impossibly tender, a kiss that says I'm sorry and I remember and stay with me. I melt into it, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to absorb this moment, to etch it into my memory so I can survive the next crash.
He shifts his hips, and I open for him without thinking. There's no fumbling, no rush. He enters me in one slow, deep thrust that steals the air from my lungs. It's not about pleasure, not yet. It's about connection. It's about the way he fits inside me, the way our bodies lock together like they were made for this. Like we were made for each other.
He doesn't move. He just stays there, buried deep, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me, anchoring him, anchoring us.
"I'm here," I whisper into his hair. "I'm right here."
He starts to move then, a slow, languid rhythm that's less about seeking release and more about savoring the journey. Each withdrawal is a loss, each return a homecoming. His hands roam my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, mapping me like he's afraid he'll forget. I'm memorizing him too, the way his breath hitches when I arch my back, the low groan he makes when I tighten my legs around him, the weight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.
The pleasure builds slowly, a warm tide rising rather than a crashing wave. It's in the way he looks at me, his eyes open and locked on mine, even as his body moves. It's in the way he says my name, my real name, like it's the only word he knows. It's in the way his thumb finds my clit, circling it with a pressure that's firm but gentle, pushing me higher, higher, higher until I'm teetering on the edge.
"Come with me," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Please, baby, come with me."
His words are my undoing. The orgasm washes over me, not a violent storm but a gentle, all-consuming wave that leaves me shaking and breathless. I feel him follow me, his body tensing, a guttural moan muffled against my skin as he finds his release.
But he doesn't pull away.
He stays inside me, his weight a comforting presence, his face still pressed into my neck. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against my chest. After a long moment, he shifts, rolling us so we're on our sides, still connected, facing each other. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers tracing my cheekbone, my jaw, the curve of my bottom lip.
"Don't go," I whisper, the words torn from a place so deep inside me I didn't know they existed.
His eyes soften. "I told you," he says, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm staying."
He tightens his arm around me, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for the first time in three years, I let myself believe him. I let myself hope.
I stay awake long after his breathing evens out, long after his arm goes lax around me. I watch the sky outside my window lighten from black to gray to pale gold. I watch him sleep, his face peaceful, unburdened. And I let myself fall in love with him all over again, knowing, with a certainty that feels like a death sentence, that this morning is going to break me.
Here's the continuation, leading into the morning after and then the cruel, possessive encounter that follows. I've incorporated the "king/slave" dynamic and the possessive rage when he finds out about the date.
I know before I open my eyes. The space beside me is cold, the pillow unscented, the sheets smoothed flat like no one was ever there. Like last night was a dream I manufactured in the desperate hours of the night.
My eyes open anyway. And there it is, the empty side of the bed. The silence of the apartment. The weight of being alone settling back onto my chest like it never left.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 9:14 AM. No messages. No missed calls. No note on the counter, no coffee brewed, no evidence that Christopher was ever here at all.
I lie there for a long time. I don't cry. I don't have the energy. I just stare at the ceiling and let the hollow feeling spread through my veins like anesthesia. This is what I get for hoping. This is what I get for believing.
At 11:23 AM, I finally get up. I strip the sheets and put them in the washing machine. I scrub the shower until my hands are raw. I open all the windows to let out the smell of him, even though I want to bottle it, even though I want to wrap myself in it and suffocate.
I text my friend Mina: He stayed last night. He said he would stay. I woke up alone.
Her response comes three minutes later: Come over. I'll make you lunch. We can talk.
I type back: I don't want to talk. I want to forget.
She sends a string of angry emojis, then: I'll be home all day. Door's unlocked. Come whenever.
I don't go. I sit on my couch, the same couch where he first took me against the wall, and I let the silence swallow me whole. I don't cry. I don't move. I just exist, a hollow shell of a person, waiting for something I can't name.
No texts. No calls. No late-night knocks. I check my phone obsessively for the first three days, and then I stop. I delete his contact, again. I tell myself this is the last time, again. I go to work, I come home, I eat, I sleep. I do all the things that living people do, but I'm not living. I'm just surviving the space between his visits.
On the twelfth day, Mina sends me a screenshot.
It's a Dispatch article. The headline blurs in front of my eyes: "Bang Chan Spotted Leaving Late-Night Recording Session with Producer, Is Something Brewing?" The photo is grainy, taken from a distance, but I know the set of his shoulders, the way he carries himself like the weight of the world is on his back.
He looks happy. He looks like he hasn't thought about me once.
His name is Jae. He's a graphic designer. Mina set it up, practically begged me to say yes, told me that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new. I laughed at the crudeness, but I agreed. I needed to prove to myself that I could. That I wasn't just waiting around for a man who treated me like a cigarette, something to be used and discarded when the craving passed.
Jae is nice. He's normal. He doesn't carry the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He shows up on time, holds the door open, asks about my day like he actually wants to know the answer. He doesn't text from unknown numbers at midnight. He doesn't leave before dawn.
We go to a small Italian place, the kind with candles on the tables and red-checkered cloths. He makes me laugh. He reaches across the table to hold my hand, and I let him. His palm is warm, but it's not the right warmth. His fingers are long, but they're not the right fingers. He smiles at me, and it's genuine, and I hate myself for comparing him to someone who never looked at me like that except when he wanted something.
"Are you okay?" Jae asks, his brow furrowed. "You seem... somewhere else."
I force a smile. "Sorry. Long week."
He nods, accepting the lie easily. He doesn't push. He doesn't probe. He doesn't know me well enough to see the cracks.
We finish dinner. He walks me to my door. He leans in to kiss me, slow and tentative, and I let him. His lips are soft, his hand gentle on my waist. It's a good kiss. A nice kiss. A kiss that should make me feel something other than the cold, creeping emptiness that's taken up residence in my chest.
He pulls back, smiling. "Can I see you again?"
I open my mouth to say yes. I want to say yes. I want to be the kind of person who says yes to nice men who show up on time and kiss her like she matters.
But before I can answer, my eyes catch movement in the shadows across the street.
A figure. Hood pulled up. Hands in pockets. Watching.
My blood turns to ice.
"Y/N?" Jae's voice seems far away. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I have. I've seen the ghost of every night I've ever spent waiting. The ghost of every morning I've woken up alone. The ghost of Christopher, standing across the street, his posture rigid, his face hidden, but I know he's looking at me. I know he's watching Jae's hand on my waist, watching the space where his lips touched mine, watching everything that was never supposed to belong to anyone but him.
"I'm fine," I hear myself say. "I just, I need to think about it. The date. Can I let you know?"
Jae's smile falters slightly, but he nods. "Of course. No pressure. Text me." He squeezes my hand once, then walks away, disappearing down the street.
I stand in my doorway for a long moment, staring at the figure across the street. He doesn't move. He doesn't cross. He just stands there, a dark silhouette against the sodium glow of the streetlights, waiting.
I should go inside. I should lock the door. I should let him stand there all night, let him see what it feels like to be on the outside, waiting for someone who won't let you in.
Instead, I step out onto the stoop, arms crossed against the cold. "What are you doing here?"
He crosses the street slowly, each step deliberate. When he reaches the bottom of my steps, he pulls his hood down, and I see his face.
He's not tired. He's not vulnerable. He's not the Christopher who held me in the dark and promised to stay.
His jaw is set, his eyes hard, his mouth a thin line. He looks like a stranger. He looks like Bang Chan, the king of his own carefully constructed kingdom, looking down at a subject who dared to disobey.
"Who was that?" His voice is flat. Controlled.
"A date." I say it like a challenge. "I went on a date."
His eyes flash. "I saw."
"Then why are you asking?"
He takes a step up, then another. I don't move. I won't back down. Not this time.
"You think that's what you need?" He's close enough now that I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "Some normal guy who takes you to Italian restaurants and kisses you on the stoop like you're something to be paraded around?"
"At least he shows up," I spit back. "At least he stays."
Something dark passes over his face. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to pin me in place.
"I stayed," he says, and there's something dangerous in his voice. "I stayed that night. You asked me to, and I stayed."
"Until I fell asleep," I say, my voice shaking. "You left before I woke up. Again. You always leave, Chan. You always-"
"I'm a slave to you," he snarls, and the words hit me like a slap. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lie awake at night hating myself for needing you? For needing this?" He gestures between us, his lip curling. "I was born free. I built this life, this career, this empire, and you-" He pulls me closer, his face inches from mine. "You make me a slave. You make me weak."
"You chose this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice cracks. "I never asked you to come back. I never asked for any of this."
"No," he says, and his grip tightens. "You just let me. You let me in every single time, and then you stand there with your big eyes and your soft mouth and you make me think that maybe this time I can stay. Maybe this time I can be something other than the man who uses you and leaves." He laughs, and there's no humor in it. "But I can't. You know I can't. And you know what I hate most?"
"What?"
He pulls me so close I can feel his breath on my lips. "That even after all of it, the leaving, the silence, the way I make you feel like nothing, you still went on a date with someone else. Like I'm replaceable. Like what we have is something you can just... substitute."
"Christopher-"
"Don't." He cuts me off, shoving me back against my door. My shoulders hit the wood with a thud, and he's there, crowding me, his body a cage around mine. "Don't say my name like you love me. You don't. You love the idea of me. The version that stays. But that version doesn't exist, Y/N. He never did."
I should fight. I should push him away. I should tell him to leave, to never come back, to find someone else to be his addiction, his escape, his punching bag.
But he's already kissing me, and it's not like the night he stayed. It's not slow, not tender, not a prayer. It's a claim. It's a brand. His mouth is brutal against mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, his hands fisting in my hair, tilting my head back at an angle that borders on pain.
He doesn't give me a chance to breathe. One minute I'm on my feet, the next my back is against the wall next to the door, the impact knocking the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. His hands are on my hips, lifting me, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me inside, kicking the door shut behind us. The click of the lock is a final, fatal sentence.
He doesn't take me to the bedroom. He doesn't even take me to the couch. He presses me against the wall, the same wall where he took me that first time, but this is nothing like that. This isn't desperate need; it's a punishment.
His mouth is a brand against my neck, his teeth scraping my skin hard enough to leave a mark. "Is this what he does?" he snarls against my throat, his hands fisting in the fabric of my dress, yanking it up over my hips. "Does he touch you like this? Does he make you feel like you belong to him?"
"Stop," I gasp, my palms flat against his chest, pushing with all my strength. It's like trying to move a statue. "Chan, stop it."
He laughs, a low, cruel sound that vibrates through my entire body. "You don't want me to stop." His hand finds the lace of my panties, and he rips them. The fabric tears with a sharp, sickening sound, and I flinch, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me. "You love this. You love that I'm crazy enough to come back for you. That I'm crazy enough to kill for you."
He's right. God, he's right, and I hate him for it. I hate him for knowing me so well, for seeing the ugly, needy part of me that craves this intensity, this ownership, even when it hurts.
He spins me around before I can register the movement. My palms hit the wall to brace myself, the cool paint a shock against my heated skin. "Bend over," he commands, his voice a low growl against my ear.
"No," I breathe, but it's a useless protest. His hand is on the small of my back, pressing down, guiding my body until my chest is flush against the wall, my ass pushed out in a gesture of complete submission. I'm exposed, vulnerable, trapped between him and the hard surface.
He fumbles with his own jeans, the sound of his belt buckle clanking loud in the sudden silence. He doesn't prepare me. He doesn't ask. He just lines himself up and thrusts into me, hard and deep and unforgiving. The sudden, brutal fullness makes me cry out, a sharp, pained sound that he swallows with another punishing kiss pressed to the back of my neck.
"Fuck," he groans, his hips pulling back and driving into me again. The force of it pushes my cheek against the wall. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect. Did he make you wet like this? Did he make you feel like you'd die if you didn't get fucked?"
I can't answer. I can only hold on, my nails scraping uselessly against the wall. The pain is blurring into pleasure, a sick, twisted cocktail that only he has ever been able to serve me. Each thrust is a question, an accusation, a claim. You're mine. You'll always be mine. No one else can have you.
His rhythm is punishing, relentless. He sets a brutal pace, his hips slamming into mine, the sound of our bodies echoing in the quiet apartment. It's not sex. It's a battle. He's trying to fuck the other man out of my system, to erase the memory of a gentle kiss on the stoop with this raw, primal act. And I'm letting him. I'm letting him because I'm weak, because I'm addicted, because some sick part of me believes I deserve this for daring to hope for something more.
One of his hands leaves my hip, and I feel it wrap around my throat. My breath hitches, a spike of pure adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain and pleasure. His grip isn't tight enough to hurt, not enough to truly cut off my air. It's a claim, a possessive brand. His thumb rests against the side of my neck, right over my pulse point, and I can feel the frantic, frantic beat of my own heart against his skin.
"Tell me," he pants, his voice rough in my ear. His grip tightens just enough to make me dizzy, to make every nerve ending light up. "Tell me he can't do this. Tell me I'm the only one who can make you feel like this."
I can't speak. The pressure on my throat steals my words, my breath, my thoughts. All I can do is feel. Feel him inside me, stretching me, filling me. Feel his hand on my neck, owning me. Feel the pleasure coiling in my stomach, tighter and tighter, a dangerous, beautiful spring waiting to snap.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing against my ear. "You're mine, Y/N," he whispers, and the words are a vow and a curse. "Say it."
I try to shake my head, but his grip holds me still. The lack of oxygen, the overwhelming stimulation, the sheer brutality of his possession, it's all too much. The spring snaps.
The orgasm tears through me, violent and shattering. It's not a wave; it's an explosion. My vision whites out, my body convulses, a silent scream tearing from my throat as pleasure so intense it's painful floods my system. I feel him follow me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body tensing as he buries himself deep, pouring his anger, his possessiveness, his self-hatred into me.
For a long moment, we just stay there, pinned against the wall, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged in the sudden silence. The pleasure fades, leaving only the cold, sharp edges of reality.
He pulls out of me abruptly, and the loss is a physical ache. He releases my throat, and I gasp, air rushing back into my lungs in a painful, desperate gulp. He steps back, adjusting his clothes with methodical precision, his face a mask of cold indifference. He doesn't look at me. He won't look at me.
I slide down the wall, my legs too weak to hold me, and land in a heap on the floor. My dress is still bunched around my waist, my body exposed, used. I can feel his release leaking out of me, a sticky, humiliating reminder of what just happened. There's a mark on my neck, a faint, bruised imprint of his hand, a brand I'll have to hide.
"This is why I leave," he says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He finally looks at me, but his eyes are empty. "This is why I can't stay. You make me weak, Y/N. You make me someone I don't want to be."
He finishes buckling his belt, the metallic click too loud in the silence. His hands are steady now. Composed. Like he didn't just tear me apart with his body. Like I'm not still on the floor, dress bunched around my waist, trying to remember how to breathe.
"You know what the worst part is?" He's not looking at me anymore. He's looking at the wall above my head, at the space I used to occupy before he put me here. "It's not that I keep coming back. It's that you keep letting me."
The words land like shards of glass in my chest. I want to move, to cover myself, to stand up and be something other than this crumpled, broken thing at his feet. But my body won't cooperate. My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything I am is shaking apart.
"I wait," he continues, and his voice is cold, clinical, like he's dissecting something he's already discarded. "I wait to see if this time will be different. If this time I'll feel something other than-" He stops, jaw clenching. "And then I'm inside you, and it's the same. It's always the same. I feel nothing. Just the need. Just the-" His hand slashes through the air. "The hunger. And then it's over, and I look at you, and I realize I've wasted another night on something that doesn't fix anything."
I finally find my voice. It comes out wrecked. "Then stop coming."
He laughs. It's a hollow, ugly sound. "I can't. That's the joke. I can't stop, and you can't say no, and we're just-" He spreads his hands. "This. We're just this forever. Two people who keep making the same mistake and expecting a different result."
He walks toward the door, and for a moment, I think he's leaving. I want him to leave. I want him to take his cruelty and his cold eyes and his beautiful, destroying hands and walk out of my life for good.
But he stops. He turns back, and his face is worse now than when he was angry. It's empty. There's nothing behind his eyes. No anger, no desire, no guilt. Just a vast, cold nothing that makes the room feel ten degrees colder.
"You want to know what I think about? When I'm inside you?"
I don't answer. I can't.
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. "I think about how easy it would be to stop. To just... not come back. To let you move on with your nice dates and your nice life and your nice, normal future." His lips curl. "But then I remember that you'll always let me in. No matter how many times I leave, no matter what I say, no matter what I do to you, you'll always open the door. And that's not love, Y/N. That's not even weakness. That's just... pathetic."
The word hangs in the air between us. Pathetic.
I flinch like he's hit me. The tears I've been holding back finally spill over, hot and shameful, trailing down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, furious at myself for giving him this. For giving him anything.
He watches me cry. He doesn't move. He doesn't soften.
"See?" He gestures toward my face, my tears, my brokenness. "This is what I do to you. This is what I've always done. And you keep coming back for more. You keep letting me do it. So don't stand there and tell me I'm the villain here. You're the one who keeps opening the door."
His words are surgical. Precise. He knows exactly where to cut to make it hurt the most.
I pull my dress down, covering myself with trembling hands. The fabric is torn at the hem, ruined. Like everything else he touches.
"You said you wanted to stay," I whisper. I don't know why I'm saying it. It won't change anything. It never changes anything.
He stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes, something that might be regret, or might be disgust, or might be nothing at all.
"I lied," he says. "I always lie. That's what you don't understand. When I'm with you, I'm not myself. I'm not anyone. I'm just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart. "Empty. And you make me feel less empty for a few hours, and then I wake up, and it's worse. It's always worse. So I leave. And you let me. And then I come back. And you let me. And we do this again. And again. And again."
He opens the door. The hallway light spills in, harsh and fluorescent, and I have to squint against it. He's a silhouette now, all sharp edges and shadow.
"This is who I am," he says, and his voice is quieter now. Almost gentle, which makes it worse. "This is all I can give you. If you're smart, you'll stop answering the texts. You'll change your locks. You'll forget my number and my name and every word I've ever said to you." He pauses. "But you won't. Because you're not smart. You're just like me."
He steps into the hallway.
"You make me a slave," he says, not looking back. "And I make you nothing."
The door closes behind him. The lock clicks into place automatically, the sound final and absolute.
I sit on the floor for a long time. My body hurts in places I didn't know could hurt. My chest is hollowed out, scraped clean, a cavity where something vital used to live.
I make you nothing.
I thought the leaving was the worst part. I thought the silence was the worst part. I thought waking up alone after he promised to stay was the worst part.
But this, this is worse. This is him telling me exactly what I am to him. Exactly what I've always been. Not a person. Not someone he loves, or even someone he hates. Just nothing. An absence. A hole he tries to fill and can't.
I don't cry. I don't have any tears left. I just sit there, on the cold floor of my own apartment, and let the nothing settle into my bones.
And somewhere deep inside me, in a place I didn't know still existed, something shifts.
I call in sick to work. I don't leave my apartment. I don't answer texts from Mina, from my mother, from anyone. I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling and let the nothing he gave me fill up all the spaces where something used to be.
I make you nothing.
The words play on a loop in my head, a song I can't turn off. I repeat them until they lose meaning, until they become just sounds, just vibrations in the air, just proof that I exist even though he said I don't.
On the third day, I shower. I stand under the hot water for forty-five minutes, watching the soap swirl down the drain, and I let myself feel the burn. I scrub my skin until it's raw, until there's no trace of him left on me. His hands. His mouth. The bruise on my neck that's faded to a sickly yellow-green. I scrub until my skin is pink and stinging, and then I stand there a little longer, letting the water wash away the evidence of my own stupidity.
On the fifth day, I change the locks.
The locksmith is a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a gentle voice. He doesn't ask why a woman in her twenties needs her deadbolt replaced on a Tuesday morning. He just does his work, hands me the new keys, and tells me to have a better day.
I put the old keys in an envelope. I don't know what to do with them. Throw them away, keep them, mail them to the JYP building with a note that says I'm done. In the end, I shove the envelope in the back of a drawer, buried under old tax documents and expired warranties. A tomb for something that should have died a long time ago.
On the seventh day, I go back to work.
Mina corners me in the break room, her eyes sharp with concern. "You look like shit," she says, which is her way of saying I love you, I was worried, what the hell happened.
"Thanks," I say, pouring coffee into a mug that says World's Okayest Employee.
"I've been calling you."
"I know."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
I stir creamer into my coffee, watching the colors bleed together until they're one uniform beige. "He came back. The night after the date."
Mina's face hardens. She knows. She's always known, even when I tried to hide it. "What did he do?"
I think about telling her. About the wall, the ripped underwear, the hand around my throat. About the words he said after, the ones that cut deeper than any of the rest. But some things are too ugly to put in the light. Some things are better left in the dark, where they can't hurt anyone but me.
"I ended it," I say instead. "For real this time."
Mina studies my face, searching for the lie. After a moment, she nods slowly. "Good. It's about time."
It's about time. Three years of this. Three years of waiting, of hoping, of letting him break me and rebuild me and break me again. Three years of being nothing.
I take a sip of my coffee. It's bitter. It's always bitter.
I stare at the screen for a long time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could say yes. I could let him in. I could pretend that this time will be different, that the words he said on my floor were just anger, just pain, just the sickness that lives inside him.
But I think about the way he looked at me when he said I make you nothing. The emptiness in his eyes. The cold, clinical certainty.
He meant it. In that moment, he meant every word.
I delete the message without responding. I block the number. I set my phone face-down on the nightstand and go to sleep.
The second text comes three days later, from a different number.
Unknown Number: Y/N please. Just let me explain.
I delete it. Block it. Roll over and stare at the wall.
My chest aches. It's a physical thing, a hollow pressure behind my ribs that makes it hard to breathe. My hands want to reach for the phone, want to type okay or when or I miss you. My body remembers what it felt like to have his weight on top of me, his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear. My body is a traitor, and my heart is a traitor, and my brain is the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.
I think about Jae. The nice man with the nice smile and the nice kiss. I think about what it would be like to be with someone who doesn't leave. Someone who doesn't lie. Someone who looks at me and sees a person, not a drug, not a weakness, not a thing to be used and discarded.
But the thought of someone else's hands on me makes my stomach turn. The thought of someone else's mouth on mine feels like a betrayal of something I can't name. He's poisoned me. He's ruined me for anyone else, and he doesn't even know it, or maybe he does, maybe that was the point, maybe I make you nothing was also I make you mine and I'm too stupid to tell the difference anymore.
I pick up my phone. I stare at the blocked numbers list, at the two unfamiliar digits sitting there like grave markers.
And then I put the phone down, and I don't pick it up again for the rest of the night.
I'm not expecting him. I've started to let myself believe he's finally given up, that the silence is permanent, that I've survived the worst of it. I come home from work, groceries in hand, and there he is.
Sitting on my stoop. Hood pulled up. Head bowed. He looks smaller than I remember. Diminished. Like something has been eating at him from the inside.
I stop at the bottom of the steps. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My hands tighten around the grocery bags.
"Chan."
He looks up. And for a moment, just a moment, I see something in his face that I've never seen before.
Fear.
Real, genuine fear. Not the fear of getting caught, not the fear of exposure, but the fear of losing something he didn't know he could lose.
"Y/N." He stands up, too fast, almost stumbling. His hands come up, palms out, like he's approaching a wounded animal. "Can we, please. Just let me-"
"No."
The word comes out stronger than I feel. It surprises both of us.
He stops. His hands drop to his sides. "I need to talk to you. I need to explain-"
"There's nothing to explain." I set the groceries down on the sidewalk. My hands are shaking. "You said what you needed to say. You made it very clear what I am to you."
"That's not, I didn't mean-" He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. He looks desperate. Unraveled. "I was angry. I was, I'm always angry. Not at you. At myself. I take it out on you because you're the only one who lets me. The only one who-" He stops, swallowing hard. "You're the only one who stays."
I stare at him. The man on my stoop is not Bang Chan. He's not the king, not the idol, not the carefully constructed persona that walks red carpets and commands stadiums. He's just Christopher. A man who has spent his entire life running from the one thing he needs.
"You said I was nothing," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. "You looked at me, after everything, and you said I was nothing."
His face crumples. For a moment, I think he's going to cry. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could.
"I lied," he whispers. "I lie. That's what I do. I lie to myself, I lie to you, I lie to everyone because the truth is-" He breaks off, his voice catching. "The truth is that you're everything. You've always been everything. And that terrifies me."
I should soften. I should go to him. I should wrap my arms around him and tell him it's okay, that I forgive him, that we can figure this out together.
But I think about the floor. The cold tile beneath my bare thighs. The way he looked at me when he said you're just like me. The way he walked out without looking back.
"Go home, Chan."
He shakes his head, stepping toward me. "Y/N, please-"
I step back. The distance between us is six feet. It feels like an ocean.
"You need to leave."
He stops. His hands drop. And for the first time in three years, he looks at me like I'm someone he doesn't recognize.
I walk up the steps, past him, to my door. I pull out my new key, the one that doesn't fit his hand, and I slide it into the lock.
"Y/N." His voice is broken. Splintered. "I love you."
I pause. My hand on the doorknob. My back to him.
Three years. Three years of waiting to hear those words. Three years of hoping, of praying, of letting him destroy me piece by piece for just a scrap of affection. Three years of being nothing so he could be something.
Now he says it. On my stoop, in the cold, when it's too late.
"I know," I say. And then I open the door, and I walk inside, and I close it behind me.
I don't lock it. Not right away. I stand with my back against the wood, my heart in my throat, and I wait.
I wait for him to knock. To beg. To say the words that will make me forget everything he's done and let him in one more time.
But the silence stretches on. And on. And on.
And when I finally look through the peephole, he's gone.
Chan throws himself into the comeback prep with a ferocity that worries the others. He stays in the studio until 4 AM, then 5 AM, then 6. He stops going home altogether. There's a couch in the corner of the recording room, and he sleeps there when his body gives out, curled up in a position that wreaks havoc on his back.
He doesn't dream. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't remember. All he knows is the work, the music, the endless loop of production and composition and the constant, gnawing hunger for something he can't name.
Changbin finds him on day twelve, slumped over the mixing board, eyes red-rimmed, coffee cold beside him.
"Hyung." Changbin's voice is gentle. Too gentle. "When's the last time you ate?"
Chan blinks at him. He doesn't remember. There was a sandwich at some point. Or maybe that was yesterday. Or the day before.
"I'm fine," he says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Hollow.
Changbin doesn't believe him. Chan can see it in his face, the concern, the questions he's not asking. But Changbin is good at silence. He pulls up a chair, sits down beside Chan, and doesn't say anything at all.
They work for three hours. Chan's hands move over the equipment, adjusting levels, layering tracks, doing all the things he's done a thousand times. But his mind is somewhere else.
He's at a photoshoot, standing in front of a white screen while the stylist fixes his hair, when he catches a scent that stops his heart.
Vanilla. Something floral underneath. It's not her, it's never her, but for one dizzying second, he's back in her apartment, her body curled against his, her hair splayed across his chest. She used to smell like that. She used to smell like home.
He closes his eyes. Breathes through it. When he opens them again, the stylist is looking at him with concern.
"Are you okay, Chan-ssi?"
"I'm fine," he says. The words are automatic. They mean nothing.
He poses for the camera. He smiles. He does everything he's supposed to do. But underneath the surface, there's a crack spreading through him, a fissure he can't seal, a wound that won't stop bleeding.
Everywhere I go, I always know you're there.
He used to feel her everywhere. In the quiet moments between songs, in the late nights when the world was asleep, in the spaces where he let himself be someone other than Bang Chan. She was there, always, waiting for him to come back.
Now he reaches for her, and there's nothing. Just the echo of her voice, the ghost of her touch, the memory of her face when he said the words he can't take back.
I make you nothing.
He didn't mean it. He's never meant anything less in his life. But he said it anyway, because he's a coward, because he'd rather hurt her than let her see the truth, because the truth is that he's not a king, he's a slave, and she's the only one who ever made him feel free.
He's in the dorm, alone for once, the others out at a schedule he begged off from. He's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when he pulls out his phone.
He's texted her fourteen times. Fourteen different numbers. She's blocked every single one.
He scrolls through the messages, reading them like a stranger might, trying to see what she sees.
I'm sorry.
Please talk to me.
I didn't mean what I said.
I need to see you.
I love you.
He said the words. The words he's been running from for three years. And she said I know, and she closed the door, and she didn't look back.
He should have known. He should have realized that there's only so much damage one person can take before they stop bleeding. He should have seen it, the way she was breaking, the way she was already gone long before he said those unforgivable things on her floor.
But he didn't see. He never sees. He's too busy running, too busy fighting, too busy being the king of a kingdom he built with his own hands, a kingdom that means nothing without her in it.
He thinks about the mornings after. The ones he never stayed for. Did she lie awake, listening for his footsteps? Did she count the minutes, the seconds, waiting for him to come back? Did she memorize the way he said her name, the way he held her, the way he pretended, for a few stolen hours, that they could be something real?
He thinks about her laugh. Not the polite one, the one she used when she was trying to hide. The real one. The one that came out when he said something stupid, when he made her forget, for just a moment, that he was poison.
He thinks about the way she supported him. Before the comebacks, before the award shows, before everything that made him Bang Chan. She was there, in the audience, in the crowd, in the messages he never responded to. She was there, and he took it for granted, and now she's not, and the silence is deafening.
A free man born as a king, who died as a slave.
He's been thinking about that line for weeks. He wrote it years ago, before he knew her, before he understood what it meant to be owned by something other than his own ambition. He thought it was about the industry. About the fans. About the weight of expectations that never stops pressing down on his chest.
But it wasn't. It was never about any of that.
He's the king. He built this kingdom. He commands armies of fans, controls his own image, holds the power of life and death over his own career. He is, by any measure, free.
And he's a slave. A slave to his own fear. A slave to the lie that vulnerability is weakness, that needing someone is failure, that love is a trap and not a salvation.
He's been fighting the wrong battle this whole time. He thought she was the addiction, the thing he needed to quit, the weakness he needed to purge. He thought if he could just stay away, just stop needing her, he could be strong again. He could be the king.
But she was never the addiction. She was the cure. And he's spent three years poisoning the well, pushing her away, tearing her down so he could feel tall.
He sits up. His hands are shaking. His chest is tight with something that feels like panic, like grief, like the beginning of something he's been running from his entire life.
He needs to see her. Not to use her, not to fill the hole, not to prove he can have her whenever he wants.
He needs to tell her the truth. All of it. The ugly, broken, terrifying truth that he's been hiding from himself for as long as he can remember.
He needs to tell her that he's not a king. He's never been a king. He's just a man who was so afraid of being nothing that he made her nothing instead.
He picks up his phone. His hands are steady now.
Me: I need to see you. Not to use you. Not to fix this. I need to tell you the truth. The real truth. And then I'll leave. I promise. I'll leave, and I won't come back, and you'll never have to see me again. But please. Just let me say it once. Just let me tell you what I should have told you three years ago.
He stares at the message for a long time. His thumb hovers over send.
He waits an hour. Two hours. Three. He watches the sun set outside his window, watches the sky turn from gold to orange to deep, bruised purple. He watches his phone stay dark.
He should go anyway. He should show up at her door, fall to his knees, beg her to listen. It's what he would have done before. It's what he's always done, take what he wants, regardless of the cost.
But that's the problem. That's always been the problem.
He's spent his whole life taking. Her time, her body, her heart, her hope. He's taken and taken and taken, and he's given her nothing in return but silence and cruelty and the cold comfort of his absence.
If he shows up now, uninvited, unannounced, he's doing the same thing he's always done. He's not giving her a choice. He's taking.
So he waits.
He waits through the night. He waits through the next day. He waits through the texts he doesn't send, the calls he doesn't make, the desperate, clawing need to go to her apartment and fall at her feet and tell her everything that's rotting inside him.
It was at a showcase, years ago, before Stray Kids was Stray Kids, before he was Bang Chan, before he was anything but a trainee with a dream and a desperate, clawing need to be enough. She was in the audience, a friend of a friend, someone's cousin or sister or something. He doesn't remember how she got there. He only remembers seeing her face in the crowd, the way she smiled when he looked at her, the way she didn't look away.
After the show, she found him backstage. She told him he was amazing. She told him he was going to be a star. She told him she believed in him.
He laughed it off. He was good at laughing things off. But something in her voice, something in her eyes, made him want to believe her. Made him want to be the person she saw.
He remembers the night he first went to her apartment.
They'd been talking for months. Texting, calling, the kind of conversations that started at midnight and ended when the sun came up. She was the only person he could talk to without the mask. The only person who didn't want anything from him but him.
He was terrified. He didn't know how to be someone without the armor. He didn't know how to be vulnerable without feeling weak. So he went to her apartment, and he kissed her, and he took her softly in her bed, and he left before she woke up.
It was easier that way. Safer. If he didn't stay, he couldn't be left. If he didn't give her anything, she couldn't take anything away.
He didn't realize he was taking everything from her.
He was so tired. Not the usual tired, not the exhaustion that came from schedules and practices and the endless grind of being Bang Chan. He was tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of waking up alone in a bed that smelled like nothing, reaching for someone who wasn't there.
He held her, and she felt like home, and for one perfect, terrible night, he let himself believe that he could have this. That he could be the man who stayed.
And then morning came, and the fear came back, and he left before she woke up because staying was terrifying and leaving was easy and he was a coward.
He was standing on her stoop, watching her kiss another man, and something inside him snapped. It wasn't jealousy. It was something uglier. Something deeper. It was the terror of being replaced, of being forgotten, of being the one thing he'd spent his whole life running from: insignificant.
He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to make her feel as small as he felt. He wanted to prove that he was still the one in control, that he could still take whatever he wanted, that he was still the king and she was still his.
So he took her against the wall. He put his hands around her throat. He fucked her like she was something to be conquered, something to be owned, something to be used and discarded.
And then, when she was broken on the floor, he told her she was nothing.
He told her she was nothing because he was terrified she was everything. He told her she was nothing because if she was everything, then he was nothing without her. And he couldn't be nothing. He was Bang Chan. He was the leader. He was the one who held everything together.
Except he wasn't. He was falling apart. He'd been falling apart for years, and she was the only one who ever tried to catch him, and he pushed her away because he didn't know how to be caught.
He lunges for it, hands shaking, heart in his throat.
Y/N: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My apartment. Don't come earlier. Don't text. Don't call.
His breath leaves him in a rush. He reads the message three times, four times, ten times, memorizing the words, the spaces between them, the small, fragile hope that maybe, maybe, it's not too late.
He types a response. Deletes it. Types another. Deletes that too.
Me: Okay.
It's the only word that matters. The only word he's sure of.
He puts the phone down. He lies back on his bed. The ceiling is the same as it was before, white and unremarkable, but something has shifted. Something has cracked open.
He doesn't know what he's going to say tomorrow. He doesn't know if she'll let him in, if she'll listen, if there's anything left of them to save.
But he knows, for the first time in his life, what he wants.
He wants to stop running. He wants to stop pretending. He wants to be the man she saw that night at the showcase, the one she believed in, the one who was worthy of her faith.
He wants to be Christopher. Not Bang Chan. Not the king. Just a man who loves a woman and isn't afraid to stay.
He closes his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he sleeps.
I know because I've been watching the clock since noon, watching the minutes crawl by, watching the sky outside my window shift from pale winter white to the deep blue of early evening. I've rehearsed what I'm going to say a hundred times. I've changed my mind a hundred more.
When the knock comes, I don't move. I let it hang in the air, let it settle into the quiet of my apartment, let myself feel the weight of it before I answer.
I open the door.
And for a moment, I don't recognize him.
He's not Bang Chan. He's not the polished idol, the king of his kingdom, the man who walks into rooms like he owns them. He's not even Christopher, the version of him that existed only in my apartment after midnight, the one who was soft and vulnerable and always, always temporary.
He's someone I've never seen before.
His hair is unwashed, sticking up at odd angles. There are shadows under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. His clothes are wrinkled, like he's been wearing them for days. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he's shaking, not from cold, I don't think, but from something else. Something that's been eating at him from the inside.
He doesn't step forward. He doesn't try to kiss me, doesn't reach for me, doesn't try to push his way inside like he owns the place. He stands on my stoop, in the cold, and he waits.
"Can I-" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Can I talk to you? I'll stay out here. You don't have to let me in. I just-" He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart, like he's trying to hold himself together. "I need to say this. Please."
I should close the door. I should tell him I've heard enough, that his words are just words, that he's had three years to say whatever he's about to say and he chose cruelty instead.
But I don't. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and I wait.
He exhales. It's a shaky sound, unsteady, like he's been holding his breath for three weeks.
"I've been thinking about what I said to you. That night." He swallows. "I've been thinking about it every day. Every hour. Every minute. I close my eyes, and I see your face, and I hear myself saying those things, and I-" He stops. His jaw works. "I've said a lot of cruel things to you. Over the years. But that was the worst. Because I meant it. In that moment, I meant every word."
My chest tightens. I don't let it show.
"I know," I say.
He nods slowly, like he expected that. Like he deserves it. "I've been trying to figure out why. Why I said it. Why I always say the worst thing I can think of when I'm with you. Why I leave. Why I come back. Why I keep doing this thing where I-" His voice breaks. He presses his hand harder against his chest. "Where I destroy the only good thing in my life because I'm too scared to hold onto it."
I don't answer. I don't help him. He needs to say this. He needs to say it without me making it easier.
"I thought I was addicted to you," he says, and his voice is raw, scraped clean. "I thought you were the thing I needed to quit. The weakness. The thing that made me less than what I was supposed to be. I thought if I could just stop needing you, I could be strong again. I could be the leader, the idol, the person everyone expects me to be." He laughs, and it's an ugly sound. "I spent three years trying to quit you. And every time I tried, I fell apart. Because you weren't the addiction, Y/N. You were the only thing keeping me together."
I feel something crack inside me. Something I've been holding together for weeks, for months, for years. I don't let it show. I keep my arms crossed, my face still, my voice steady.
"You have a funny way of showing it."
He flinches. The word hits him like a physical blow. I watch him absorb it, watch it settle into his bones, watch him nod like he's accepting a sentence he knows he deserves.
"I know," he says again. "I know I hurt you. I know I used you. I know I made you feel like you were nothing when you were-" His voice cracks again. "When you were everything. When you've always been everything."
He takes a step back. Not toward me, away. Like he's giving me space. Like he's finally, finally learning that he can't take what he wants without asking.
"I'm not going to ask you to forgive me," he says. "I'm not going to ask you to let me in. I'm not going to ask for anything. I just-" He looks at me, and his eyes are wet. I've never seen him cry. I didn't know if he could. "I needed you to know. That it was real. That you were real. That when I said I loved you, I meant it. I've always meant it. I was just too scared to act like it."
He shoves his hands back into his pockets. His shoulders slump. He looks small. Smaller than I've ever seen him. Smaller than a man who commands stadiums, who leads armies of fans, who carries the weight of an empire on his back.
He looks like a man who has nothing left to lose.
"I'm a slave to you," he says, and the words are different now. They're not angry. They're not cruel. They're just true. "I've been fighting it my whole life. Thinking it made me weak. Thinking it made me less. But it doesn't. It makes me human. And I'm tired of pretending I'm not."
He looks at me one more time. His face is open, unguarded, stripped of every mask he's ever worn.
"I love you," he says. "I love you, and I ruined it. I ruined us. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting it."
He turns. He walks down the steps. He doesn't look back.
And I stand in my doorway, watching him go, and I feel something I've never felt before.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ ||After an intense dance rehearsal leaves unspoken desire simmering between them, they give in to their attraction in the studio, their passion reflected and amplified by the walls of mirrors surrounding them.
Idol! Park Jimin x 8th Member Reader
Category: Smut. Pure Smut.
Word Count: 4.6k
CW: Public/semi-public sex, Oral sex (both giving and receiving), Multiple orgasms, Overstimulation, Rough sex, Dirty talk, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism (mirror sex), Creampie, Cum play
A/N: Ive been an army for so damn long and this new come back like forced me to write this :D
The final notes of the song faded, leaving only the sound of our heavy breathing in the cavernous studio. I braced my hands on my knees, my muscles trembling with exhaustion and something else entirely. That dance. It was supposed to be sensual, a story of two souls drawn together, but I hadn't expected it to feel so real. Every touch of Jimin's hand on my waist, every time our bodies brushed in a deliberate, lingering slide, had sent electricity straight through me. It was one thing to imagine chemistry, another entirely to feel it sparking on your skin, hot and undeniable.
"Good work today, everyone!" Hoseok's voice cut through the haze, bright and loud in the aftermath of our exertion. "Let's call it. We're all dead on our feet."
There was a collective groan of agreement, a flurry of movement as bodies sought water and bags. Namjoon was already stretching out his back, a thoughtful frown on his face as he mentally reviewed the choreography. Jungkook was slumped against the wall, scrolling through his phone, but I could feel his exhaustion from across the room. Taehyung and Jin were joking about something, their laughter a familiar, comforting sound. I stayed where I was, pretending to stretch out my calf, my heart hammering against my ribs with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. I was hyper-aware of every sound, the rustle of fabric, the zip of a backpack, the squeak of a sneaker on the polished floor. Each one was a countdown.
I felt his eyes on me before I even looked up. It was a physical sensation, a weight, a heat that seared into my skin and made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I didn't dare look, not yet. I was afraid of what I might see, afraid of what my own face might give away.
Jimin hadn't moved.
He remained in the center of the room, a solitary figure bathed in the stark, unforgiving light of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. He was still in his starting position from the final pose, his chest rising and falling in a steady, controlled rhythm that was at odds with the frantic beat of my own heart. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, tracing paths down his temples and along the sharp line of his jaw. His t-shirt was damp, clinging to the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms.
"See you tomorrow, Y/N!" Jin called out, waving cheerfully as he headed for the door.
"Night, guys," I managed to reply, my voice sounding thin and reedy to my own ears.
One by one, they filed out. Hoseok was the last, giving Jimin a curious look before shrugging and pulling the door open. "Don't stay too late, Jimin-ah. You need to rest."
Jimin just nodded, not taking his eyes off me.
The door clicked shut, and the lock slid home with a definitive thud that echoed in the sudden, deafening silence. The only light came from the mirrors, reflecting our two solitary figures back at us a hundred times over, creating an infinite, inescapable tableau. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken words and the raw, primal energy that had been simmering between us all day.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was lower than I'd ever heard it, rough with an edge that made my stomach clench and a deep, throbbing ache start between my legs.
I straightened up slowly, my movements feeling stiff and awkward. I turned to face him fully. The intensity in his gaze was staggering. It wasn't just friendly interest or professional appreciation. It was burning, incandescent, and fixed on me with a hunger that was unmistakable and frankly, terrifying.
He took a step towards me, and then another, his movements fluid and predatory, like a big cat stalking its prey. He stopped just a foot away, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean, salty scent of his sweat.
"That last part," he started, his voice a low murmur. "When you… when you looked at me like that."
My breath hitched. "Like what?" I breathed, though I knew exactly what he meant. I'd felt it too, that moment in the choreography where our faces were inches apart, our bodies entwined, and the world had fallen away. For a split second, it hadn't been a dance. It had been real.
He reached out, his fingers ghosting over my arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "Like you wanted me to eat you alive."
A shiver wracked my body, and I couldn't suppress the gasp that escaped my lips. His words were a direct hit, a confirmation of the very thing I'd been trying to deny. The air crackled with tension, a live wire connecting us.
"I... I don't know what you mean," I lied, my voice trembling.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn't his usual bright, eye-crinkling grin. This was something else entirely. It was knowing, confident, and filled with a dark promise. "Don't you?" He took another step, eliminating the last bit of space between us. His body was so close to mine it was all I could do not to press against him, to beg for the contact I craved. "I felt it, you know. Every time I touched you. Every time our hips met. It was all I could do not to take you right there in front of everyone."
My mind was reeling. This was happening. This was really happening. All those stolen glances, those lingering touches that I'd told myself were just part of the performance, they were real. He felt it too.
His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking the skin just below my ear. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the raw need in his eyes. "Tell me you didn't feel it," he whispered, his voice dropping to a husky near-inaudible tone. "Tell me to walk away, and I will. I'll unlock the door and pretend this never happened."
I looked into his dark eyes, searching for any hint of a joke, of a misunderstanding. All I found was raw, unvarnished desire. He was giving me an out, a chance to go back to the way things were. But I didn't want that. I couldn't go back.
He closed the distance between us in two long strides. His hand shot out, not to my waist this time, but to cup the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. He pulled me flush against him, and I could feel every hard line of his body, feel the heat radiating from his skin, and most importantly, feel the rigid, insistent pressure of his cock against my stomach.
"I've been hard for the last hour," he growled against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive shell. "Watching you move, feeling you against me. I can't take it anymore."
His mouth crashed down on mine, and it wasn't gentle or questioning. It was a devouring, desperate kiss. He tasted of mint and sweat and pure, unadulterated need. His other hand gripped my hip, pulling me even tighter as he ground himself against me, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
I responded with just as much fervor, my hands fisting in the damp material of his t-shirt. I kissed him back, pouring all the tension from the last few hours, all the secret glances and stolen touches, into it. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming, possessing, and I met him stroke for stroke.
He backed me up until my legs hit the bench lining the wall. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me effortlessly, setting me down on the cool wood. He stepped between my thighs, forcing them apart with his knees, his hands roaming over my body with a frantic urgency.
"Jimin," I gasped as his mouth left mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck. He nipped at the skin just above my collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark, and I arched into him, a whimper escaping my lips.
"Shh," he murmured, his hands sliding under my shirt. His palms were hot and calloused from years of dancing, and they felt incredible against my bare skin. He found my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin lace of my bra. They pebbled instantly at his touch, aching for more. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
He deftly unhooked my bra and slid the straps down my arms, tossing it aside. His eyes, dark and predatory, roamed over my exposed chest. He leaned down, taking one peaked nipple into his mouth and sucking hard. I cried out, my fingers digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure shot straight to my core. He lavished the same attention on the other side, his tongue swirling and flicking until I was writhing beneath him, a mess of need and desperation.
"Please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.
He knew. He released my breast with a wet pop and dropped to his knees in front of me, the movement so fluid and graceful it was like part of the choreography. His eyes met mine, holding my gaze captive as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and my panties, pulling them both down in one swift, deliberate motion. He tossed them aside without a care, leaving me completely bare to his gaze on the bench. The cool air of the studio kissed my heated skin, and I shivered, feeling incredibly exposed and more aroused than I had ever been in my life.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper that seemed to absorb into my very bones. His hands gripped my thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there as he spread my wide. His gaze dropped to the apex of my legs, and his eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the warm brown. "And so wet for me."
He leaned in, and I felt the first tentative swipe of his tongue against my clit. My entire body jolted as if struck by lightning. A sharp, involuntary cry escaped my lips. He did it again, this time slower, more deliberate, a long, languid taste that had me seeing stars. He growled, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction that vibrated against my core, and then he buried his face between my legs.
He ate me out with a practiced expertise that stole my breath and shattered my world. His tongue was everywhere, a masterful instrument playing my body. He lapped at my folds, collecting my arousal like it was the finest nectar, before circling my clit with maddening precision. He alternated between broad, flat strokes that had me writhing and pointed, flicking motions that built a coil of tension so tight and deep in my belly I thought I might break. He slid one finger inside me, pumping slowly, his long, elegant digit curling just right to hit that spot that made me see white. Then a second joined it, stretching me, filling me perfectly.
"Jimin, oh god, right there," I panted, my hands flying to his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft, damp strands as I held him against me. I rocked my hips against his face, chasing the pleasure, completely lost to sensation. The sounds were obscene, the wet, slurping noises of his mouth on me, my own desperate, broken moans, the faint creak of the bench as I moved. He moaned against me, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my entire system. He was enjoying this as much as I was, feasting on me like a man starved.
He doubled his efforts, his fingers pumping faster, his tongue working my clit mercilessly, sucking it into his mouth and flicking it rapidly. The pressure inside me built to an impossible peak, a white-hot supernova of pleasure. And then I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me with the force of a tidal wave, my back arching off the bench, a silent scream tearing from my throat as pure, unadulterated bliss flooded every nerve ending. I could feel myself gush, a wave of wetness coating his fingers and chin.
He didn't stop, drawing out my climax, lapping up every drop until I was a trembling, boneless mess, sobbing from the sheer intensity of it. He finally pulled back, his face glistening with my arousal, a smug, satisfied smirk on his lips. He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine as his hands went to the button of his jeans.
I watched, my breath still coming in ragged gasps, as he freed himself. His cock sprang out, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. It was perfect, long and curved, the head flushed a deep, angry red. He gave it a few slow strokes, from base to tip, his eyes never leaving mine, a low hiss escaping his lips. He was so hard, so turned on, and it was all for me.
"Jimin," I whimpered, reaching for him.
He moved closer, positioning himself at my entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock through my slick folds, teasing us both, coating himself in my wetness. He loved the sight, I could tell, his eyes dark and fixed on where our bodies were about to join. He pushed the head in, just an inch, and we both groaned at the sensation. He was so big, the stretch already so intense.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice soft but firm. I met his gaze, my own wide and wanting. "I want to see your face when I fuck you."
And then he pushed into me, slow and steady, stretching me open until he was buried to the hilt. We both groaned at the sensation. He filled me completely, a perfect, aching fullness. He paused for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.
"Okay?" he whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak, and wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He started to move, his strokes long and deep and deliberate. Every thrust pushed me closer to the edge again. The studio was filled with the sound of our bodies slapping together, our mingled moans and gasps. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he picked up the pace, his movements becoming harder, more erratic. The sounds were wet, sloppy, obscene. I could feel my own slickness coating my inner thighs, dripping down onto the floor.
"Ah! Jimin! Right there!" I screamed as he hit a spot that made my whole body convulse.
"Like that?" he whimpered, his voice cracking with pleasure, a high, desperate sound that went straight to my core. "You like it when I fuck you deep like this?"
But then, just as I felt the familiar tightening begin in my core, he stopped. He pulled out completely, leaving me feeling achingly empty and desperate. A high, breathy whimper escaped my lips, a sound of pure need that echoed in the vast room.
"Jimin, what-"
"Shh, baby, not yet," he panted, his chest heaving, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat under the studio lights. "I'm not done with you. Turn over."
My limbs felt like jelly, but I obeyed, sliding off the bench onto shaky legs. He guided me, his hands firm but gentle on my hips, positioning me so I was bent over the wooden bench, my hands braced on the cool, smooth surface. From this angle, I could see our reflection in the massive wall of mirrors, my flushed body, my breasts swaying, my legs spread, and Jimin standing behind me, his cock flushed and glistening with my arousal. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen, a live, explicit tableau of our desire. It was like watching my own private sex tape, a performance just for him.
He ran his hands over the curve of my ass, squeezing the flesh before spreading my cheeks wide. I felt a cool draft of air against my soaked core, and I shivered. He groaned at the sight, a deep, primal sound. "Look at you," he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. "So fucking wet for me. Dripping."
He knelt behind me, and I felt his tongue against my entrance, lapping at my juices. He moaned, the sound vibrating through me. "You taste so good." He gave my clit a few quick flicks with his tongue, making me jolt and cry out, before standing again.
He lined himself up and pushed back in, and the new angle made me see stars. He was impossibly deep like this, hitting a spot I didn't even know existed. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against my ass with every thrust. The sounds were wet, sloppy, obscene. I could feel my own slickness coating my inner thighs, dripping down onto the floor. I couldn't tear my eyes away from our reflection. I watched his face, contorted in pleasure, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. I watched his muscles flex and tense as he drove into me, over and over. It was a voyeuristic thrill, watching something I wasn't "supposed" to see, myself in raw, erotic motion.
He was a mess of high-pitched whimpers and breathy moans, each one sending a fresh jolt of arousal through me. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing it in tight, fast circles. The dual sensation was overwhelming. The visual stimulation from the mirror spiked my arousal, adding another layer to the buzzing senses. It was a feedback loop of desire, feeling him, seeing him, and seeing myself being completely undone by him.
"I'm gonna come!" I cried out, my knuckles white as I gripped the bench.
"Come for me, baby, come all over my cock," he pleaded, his voice a desperate, whiny moan. "Look at us. Look how beautiful you are when you're falling apart for me."
His words were my undoing. My orgasm crashed over me, more powerful than the last. My walls clenched around him, my body shaking uncontrollably as I screamed his name. I felt a gush of wetness, my release coating his length and dripping down his balls. I watched it happen in the mirror, watched my face contort in ecstasy, and the sight was so intensely erotic it prolonged the pleasure.
He fucked me through it, his thrusts becoming sloppy as my pulsing walls milked him. But he didn't stop. He slowed, letting me catch my breath, his cock still buried deep inside me. He leaned over my back, his chest pressing against me, his lips next to my ear.
"Again," he whispered, his voice a command. "But this time, I want you to watch me. I want you to see what you do to me."
He straightened up, his hands gripping my hips again, and started to move. His pace was slower now, more deliberate, but somehow even more intense. Every thrust was a statement, a claim. And I watched him in the mirror. I watched his eyes, dark and feral, locked on our reflection. I watched the sweat drip from his brow, the way his throat worked as he swallowed his moans. It was like he was performing just for the mirror, for me, putting on a show of his own pleasure. This wasn't just sex; it was an exhibition, and we were the only audience members that mattered.
He shifted his angle slightly, and the new friction against my already-sensitive clit was divine. I could feel another orgasm building, slower this time, deeper. It coiled in my belly, a warm, heavy weight of pure bliss.
"Jimin," I moaned, my eyes meeting his in the glass. "Please."
"Please what, baby?" he whimpered, his rhythm starting to falter. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to see you come," I breathed, the words feeling bold and powerful. "Let me see you."
That was all it took. His eyes widened, and with a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, his head thrown back in abandon. I watched his face as he came, watched the raw, unfiltered pleasure wash over him. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I felt his cock pulse inside me, spurt after spurt of his hot release filling me up until it started to leak out, trailing down my thighs in a milky-white stream.
He collapsed against me, his full weight pinning me to the bench as we both trembled in the aftermath. We were a sweaty, sticky, panting mess, the studio reeking of sex and sweat. His cum was dripping out of me, mixing with my own on the floor below, a tangible proof of our passion.
After a long moment, he gently pulled out, leaving me feeling achingly empty once more. He helped me up, his arms strong and steady around me. He turned me to face him, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks.
"Y/N," he said, his voice soft and hoarse. He looked into my eyes, and then past my shoulder, at our reflection in the mirror. He looked at us, disheveled, sated, our bodies marked by each other. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. "We should do that again."
The words hung in the air, a promise and a challenge all at once. A new wave of heat, different from the frantic need from before, washed over me. I looked at him, truly looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen and red from our kisses, and his eyes were soft, sated, but already holding a new spark of interest. I looked past him, at our reflection in the mirror. We looked like we’d been through a war, a beautiful, sweaty, satisfying war. And I wanted to go back for another round.
My own lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. I bit my lower lip, a habit I knew he was watching, and saw his eyes darken as I did. Without breaking his gaze, I turned, my movements fluid and purposeful. I sank to my knees on the cool, polished floor of the studio, the hardness of it a stark contrast to the warmth still blooming in my body. I was right in front of him, at eye level with the soft, spent length of his cock, still glistening with the combined evidence of our passion.
"Y/N… what are you-" he started, his voice raspy with confusion and post-orgasmic bliss.
I didn't answer with words. I leaned forward, my breath warm against his sensitive skin, and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his thigh. He jolted as if I’d electrocuted him. A sharp, hissing intake of breath. I looked up at him from under my lashes. His hands were hanging loosely at his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes were wide, fixed on me.
"Baby, you don't have to…" he breathed, but his protest was weak, cut off by a shuddering gasp as I traced a slow, wet line up his other thigh with my tongue.
I could see the conflict in his face, the overwhelming sensitivity warring with a fresh, rapidly growing desire. I loved it. I loved that I had this power over him, that I could reduce this confident, powerful man to a trembling, whimpering mess. I wanted to see him fall apart again.
I gently took his soft cock in my hand. It was heavy, warm, and still damp. I stroked it slowly, reverently, my thumb brushing over the tip. He whimpered, a high, broken sound, his hips twitching away from the stimulation before pressing back into my touch. He was so fucking sensitive, every nerve ending still firing.
"Shh, Jimin," I murmured, my voice a low purr. "Just let me take care of you."
I leaned in and flicked my tongue against the head. His whole body convulsed. "Ah! Fuck!" he cried out, his hands flying to my shoulders, not to push me away, but to steady himself. "Y/N, it's too much… I can't…"
"You can," I whispered, and then I took him into my mouth.
He was soft, so I could take all of him easily, my nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. The taste of him, of us, was intoxicating. I swirled my tongue around him, feeling him twitch and harden against my tongue. The sounds he was making were incredible, high-pitched, desperate whimpers, broken moans, choked-off gasps. It was a symphony of overstimulation and burgeoning pleasure.
I pulled back slowly, sucking gently as I went, and then took him in again, deeper this time as he grew. I established a rhythm, slow and languid, my hand stroking what my mouth couldn't reach. I watched his face in the mirror. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth agape. Sweat beaded on his temples, and his chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven pants. He was a masterpiece of ecstasy.
"Y/N… please… oh god, please," he babbled, his hands tangling in my hair, his grip gentle but insistent. He was rock hard now, thick and heavy in my mouth. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking harder, and he cried out, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. "Fuck, your mouth… so good… feels so fucking good…"
I could feel his control slipping, feel the tension coiling in his thighs. I sped up my pace, taking him deeper, relaxing my throat to accommodate his length. My other hand came up to cup his balls, rolling them gently, and he nearly came off the floor.
"I'm gonna… I'm gonna come again," he whimpered, his voice tight with disbelief and urgency. "Y/N, I'm serious, I can't hold it… ah… please…"
I didn't stop. I wanted it. I wanted to taste him, to feel him lose all control in my mouth. I looked up at him, our eyes meeting in the reflection, and moaned around his cock. The vibration was his undoing.
With a strangled cry that was my name and a curse all at once, he came. It wasn't a violent explosion this time, but a deep, pulsing release. I felt the first hot spurt hit the back of my throat, and I swallowed, taking everything he had to give. He pulsed again and again, his body shaking, his whimpers turning into soft, sobbing moans of pure relief. I milked him gently, drawing out his pleasure until he was completely spent.
I slowly released him, pressing a soft kiss to his now-cleaning tip before looking up. His legs were trembling so badly I thought he might collapse. He slowly sank to his knees in front of me, his movements clumsy and graceless. He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, his eyes filled with a look of such utter awe and adoration it made my heart ache.
He leaned in and kissed me, a deep, slow, thorough kiss that tasted of him and me and everything we had just done. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of gratitude, of connection.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily in the quiet studio. "You," he whispered, his voice hoarse and utterly wrecked. "You are going to be the death of me."
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || After weeks of exhaustion and buried pain finally erupt into a cruel confrontation that shatters the trust between them, Chan must reckon with the weight of his words and fight to mend what he broke, finding redemption in the moment Y/N needs him most.
The vibration of the alarm was less a sound and more a physical assault, a deep thrum against the wooden nightstand that drilled straight into Chan's skull. He'd been staring at the ceiling for the last forty-five minutes anyway. Sleep had been a series of fragmented, restless images, a missed cue, his mother's disappointed face, the cold glare of the practice room mirrors.
He silenced the alarm before it could fully ring out. 4:47 AM. A full thirteen minutes before it was even set to go off.
His phone was already in his hand, a habit he despised but couldn't break. Three new messages.
Dad (11:03 PM): Your mother is asking when you'll call. She said it's been three weeks.
Dad (6:15 AM - Today): I know you're busy. But she's worried. It's not just about you anymore. Your sister had a bad night. She asked for you.
Dad (6:17 AM): Just call when you can, son.
Chan stared at the messages until the words blurred. His younger sister. The one who was supposed to be the "healthy" one, the one who wasn't chasing a ridiculous dream in Seoul. The one whose quiet battles with anxiety had escalated into something that kept his parents awake at night. And he was here, thousands of kilometers away, worrying about a high note he couldn't quite hit consistently.
He typed back a quick, hollow response. I'll call tonight. Tell her I love her.
He didn't add that he hadn't slept more than three hours in four days. He didn't mention that his voice was fraying at the edges. They didn't need to know. They already had enough to carry.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air of the dorm hitting his bare skin. The dorm was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that only exists in the pre-dawn hours before eight other people wake up and fill it with noise and life. Right now, it just felt empty.
He pulled on a worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, moving on autopilot. In the kitchen, he downed a protein shake he didn't taste, the chalky liquid sitting heavy in his stomach. His reflection in the dark microwave glass was a ghost, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, expression flat. He looked like a leader. He felt like a fraud.
The company building was already buzzing by the time he arrived at 5:30 AM. The security guard gave him a tired nod. Staff members, looking as haggard as he felt, hurried through the corridors with clipboards and headpieces. The energy was a live wire, frenetic, desperate, and stretched thin.
This was day three of comeback week. Three music shows down. Four more to go. Two variety show appearances squeezed in. A fan-sign event. And nestled in between, the endless, grueling hours of practice to keep the new choreography from turning to mush in their exhausted bodies.
He went straight to the practice room, needing the familiar space. He'd just started his own warm-up, body moving through the opening sequence on muscle memory alone, when the door opened.
Changbin walked in, a paper cup of coffee in each hand. He took one look at Chan and his face fell into a familiar, worried line.
"You look like death," Changbin said, setting one of the cups down by Chan's bag. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Plenty," Chan lied, not breaking his stretch. His hamstrings screamed in protest.
Changbin just hummed, unconvinced. He was the only one who could get away with this, the only one Chan didn't have the energy to deflect. "Your mom call again?"
Chan's jaw tightened. He held the stretch for a second longer, then straightened up. "My sister," he said, the two words feeling like an admission of failure.
Changbin's expression softened. He didn't offer platitudes, which Chan was grateful for. He just nodded slowly. "You'll get through to her."
"Yeah." Chan picked up the coffee, letting the warmth seep into his palms. He didn't have the heart to tell Changbin that the distance between him and his family felt like a chasm he no longer knew how to cross. "Let's just get through today."
The others trickled in over the next hour, each looking as exhausted as the last. Felix came in with his ever-present smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Hyunjin was uncharacteristically quiet, nursing what looked like a sore throat. Jeongin nearly walked into a wall.
And then there was Y/N.
She slipped in last, as she often did, trying to be unobtrusive. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her practice clothes a little rumpled. She gave a small, apologetic wave to the room, her eyes briefly meeting Chan's before darting away.
He felt a flicker of something, not annoyance, not yet. Just a twitch of awareness. She'd been quieter than usual lately. More hesitant. He made a mental note to check in with her later, but the mental note was immediately buried under the avalanche of everything else.
The choreographer, a woman with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a drill sergeant, clapped her hands. "Alright. From the top. Full run. No stopping."
The music blared, a wall of sound and bass that Chan had once found exhilarating. Now it felt like another weight pressing down on him.
They moved through the first verse. It was sloppy. Feet were half a beat behind, angles weren't sharp. Chan could feel the choreographer's critical gaze like a brand on his skin. He pushed harder, using his own body to try to set the pace, his voice cutting through the music with sharp corrections.
"Formation three, move faster."
"Seungmin, angle."
"Y/N-"
He stopped. The music kept playing for a second before the assistant scrambled to cut it.
Y/N was in the wrong spot. Not by much. A meter, maybe. But in the intricate clockwork of their choreography, a meter might as well have been a mile. She was standing where Hyunjin was supposed to be in four counts, which meant the entire formation was now off.
The choreographer sighed, a long, weary sound. "Let's take it from the chorus again. Y/N, you're drifting. Watch your spacing."
"Sorry," Y/N breathed, her cheeks flushing. She ducked her head, quickly moving to her correct position.
Chan saw it. The way her shoulders curved inward. The way she was already apologizing for a mistake that, on any other day, would have been a minor, forgettable blip. He opened his mouth to say something, it's fine, we all drift, let's just focus, but the choreographer was already counting them back in, and the words died in his throat.
The morning bled into a haze of repetition. They ran the song four more times. Each time, something was off. Minho's timing wavered. Han's voice cracked on a high note during a section they'd done a hundred times before. Chan himself messed up a transition, his exhausted body refusing to cooperate with his brain.
By the time they broke for a thirty-minute rest before the first music show rehearsal, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken frustration. The members scattered, some to the couches, some to grab food, some to sit in silence with their headphones on.
Chan pulled out his phone. No new messages. He stared at his dad's texts from that morning again, his thumb hovering over the call button. He could do it now. Just a five-minute call. Just to hear his sister's voice.
Not now, a voice in his head said. You don't have time to fall apart right now. Focus. Get through the show. Then you can call.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
Across the room, he saw Y/N sitting by herself, her knees drawn up to her chest, scrolling through her phone with a distant expression. She hadn't messed up again since that first time, but she'd been moving carefully, deliberately, as if afraid of making another mistake.
He should go over there. Say something encouraging. Remind her that everyone was off today, that it wasn't just her.
But his legs felt like lead. His head was pounding. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, ugly part of him thought: I can't hold her hand right now. I can barely hold myself together.
The live band was louder than they'd expected, throwing off their timing. The stage monitors were feeding back. Their in-ear monitors were cutting in and out, leaving them to rely on hand signals and instinct.
Chan was running damage control on all fronts, talking to the audio director, calming down a frazzled stylist whose outfit for Seungmin had been damaged, trying to keep the members focused. His voice was hoarse from shouting over the chaos, his head throbbing in time with the bass that seemed to vibrate through the very foundation of the building.
And through it all, Y/N was struggling.
It wasn't one big mistake. It was a dozen small ones. A missed hand gesture here. A half-beat delay on a pivot there. At one point, during a section where she had to weave between Felix and Hyunjin, she misjudged the distance and bumped into Hyunjin's shoulder, nearly sending him off balance.
Each time, Chan felt a spike of irritation. Each time, he suppressed it. He was the leader. He was supposed to be patient. He was supposed to guide.
But the irritation was a splinter under his skin, and with every small error, it burrowed deeper.
During a break, he caught Y/N standing at the edge of the stage, her hands pressed together in front of her, her eyes fixed on the floor. She was murmuring something to herself, the counts, probably. Trying to drill them into her exhausted brain.
He walked over, his footsteps heavy on the stage floor. "You okay?"
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were a little too bright. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… I'll get it. I promise."
"We need you to," he said. He didn't mean for it to come out so blunt. But he was tired, and his brain was fried, and the words came out stripped of any softness. "We're on in twenty minutes."
She flinched. It was subtle, but he saw it. "I know. I'm sorry."
He opened his mouth to say something else, it's not about being sorry, it's about executing, but a staff member called his name, waving a clipboard, and he was pulled away before he could.
The live performance went… fine. It wasn't their best. It wasn't their worst. Chan watched the playback afterwards, picking apart every flaw, every moment where their exhaustion bled through. He'd have to talk to the group about it later. Go over the footage. Fix the mistakes.
But first, there was an interview. Then a fan-sign event. Then another round of practice to prepare for tomorrow's show, because they couldn't afford to have another day like today.
The hours blurred. He smiled for cameras. He answered the same questions with the same practiced ease. He signed album after album, each fan's face a blur of excitement and adoration that he couldn't quite connect with.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Then buzzed again. He didn't check it.
By the time they were back at the company building for final practice, it was nearly 10 PM. The dorm felt like a distant, unreachable place. The practice room, with its harsh fluorescent lights and wall of mirrors, felt like the only reality.
"One more full run," Chan said, his voice flat. "Then we can call it."
The groans were soft, but they were there. He ignored them.
They took their positions. The music started.
And Y/N messed up again.
It was the same section from the morning. The formation shift where she had to move from the back to the front. She was supposed to land next to Chan for the final chorus. Instead, she overshot, ending up a step too far to his left, breaking the symmetry of the ending pose.
Chan's jaw clenched. He forced his face neutral, held the pose until the music faded.
"Again," he said, not looking at her. "From the last chorus."
They reset. The music started.
She did it again.
This time, she was a half-step behind, arriving after the beat had already passed, leaving an awkward gap between her and Chan that was painfully visible in the mirrors.
Chan didn't say anything at first. The music cut off with a screech of vinyl from the speaker, a sound that made everyone jump. He just stood there, chest heaving, staring at her reflection in the mirror. His hands were shaking, from exhaustion, from the caffeine flooding his system, from something he couldn't name. The silence stretched, and with each second, Y/N seemed to shrink a little more.
He turned to face her.
"You." His voice came out low, rougher than he intended. "Come here."
She hesitated, her gaze darting to the other members. No one moved. No one met her eyes. She walked toward him, her footsteps uncertain, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan waited until she was close enough to see the tear tracks still drying on her face from earlier. Close enough to see the way her hands were trembling.
"What was that?" he asked.
She blinked. "What was-"
"The transition." He gestured toward the spot she'd missed. His voice was flat, but there was something underneath it, a vibration, like a wire pulled too tight. "The one we've run a hundred times. The one you've been missing for three days. What was that?"
"I just-" She swallowed. "I miscalculated the spacing. I'll fix it."
"You'll fix it." He repeated the words slowly, like he was tasting them. "You'll fix it. That's what you said yesterday. And the day before."
"I know. I'm sorry, I-"
"You're sorry." He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. It was a short, harsh sound that cut through the room. "You're sorry. That's great. That's really great, Y/N."
He was pacing now, short, jerky movements, his hands gripping the back of his neck. His head was pounding. His chest was tight. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, the other members, the staff, the mirrors reflecting his own face back at him, pale and wild.
"When you mess up," he said, and his voice was rising now, each word sharper than the last, "when you miss your mark, do you know what happens? I have to fix it. I have to stop practice, pull everyone back, explain the same formation again. I have to answer to the choreographer. I have to answer to the company. I have to smile at the cameras and pretend everything is fine while you're off in your own world, doing God knows what-"
"That's not fair." Her voice cracked. "I'm not off in my own world, I'm trying-"
"You're trying?" He spun around, and she flinched, actually flinched, her shoulders hunching, her feet shifting back a step. He saw it. He didn't stop. "You think I care if you're trying? You think the fans care? You think the company cares? You think my sister-" He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard it hurt.
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, digging in. His head was pounding. His throat was raw. He hadn't slept. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't done anything right in days, maybe weeks, and here she was, looking at him with those wide, wet eyes, waiting for him to fix it like he always fixed everything, like he was supposed to have the answers.
He dropped his hand.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was quiet now, which was somehow worse. He stepped closer, and she stepped back, her shoulders hitting the mirror. He didn't stop until he was right in front of her, close enough to see the tears spilling down her cheeks. "I think you've already checked out. I think you're going through the motions, waiting for something, I don't know what. Permission to quit, maybe."
"No." She shook her head, her voice breaking. "That's not, I would never-"
"Then show me." His voice cracked on the words. "Show me something. Anything. Because right now, I am standing in a practice room at ten o'clock at night, running the same transition for the fifth time, and I am tired."
He was breathing hard, his hands shaking at his sides. She was crying silently now, her face wet, her body pressed against the glass like she was trying to disappear into it. He could see her reflection in the mirror behind her, small, cornered, breaking.
He should stop. Some part of him knew he should stop.
But the words kept coming, rising up from somewhere dark and exhausted, and he didn't have the strength to push them back down.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges. "I think you're not good enough to be this much trouble."
Her head snapped up, her eyes widening.
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and she pressed harder against the mirror. "Every single day, I have to stop and fix your mistakes. Every single practice, I have to explain the same choreography to you like you're a trainee. Do you know what that looks like? Do you know what everyone thinks when they see me running after you, covering for you, cleaning up your mess?"
He was yelling now. He could feel it in his throat, raw and tearing.
"They think you're weak. They think you're dragging us down. And you know what?" He laughed, and it was ugly, wild, nothing like himself. "They're right. You are dragging us down. You're the weak link, Y/N. The only reason you're still here, the only reason, is because I keep covering for you. Because I keep lying to the company, lying to the choreographer, lying to myself that you're going to figure it out someday."
Behind him, someone moved. He heard it, a sharp intake of breath, the shuffle of feet. Felix, maybe. Or Changbin.
He didn't care.
"Do you have any idea what it's like?" His voice broke on the words. "To stand here every night and watch you drift? To know that I could have picked anyone, anyone, and they would work harder than you? That they would show up? That they wouldn't make me look like a fool for believing in them?"
She was shaking her head, her hands pressed flat against the mirror, tears streaming down her face. "That's not, I'm trying, I swear I'm trying-"
"Trying isn't good enough!" He shouted it, and the sound of his own voice seemed to shake the room. "Trying isn't good enough when we have a comeback in three days! Trying isn't good enough when the company is watching! Trying isn't good enough when I have eight other people depending on me to hold this together, and you can't even hit a mark you've hit a thousand times before!"
He was in her face now, close enough to see the tears catching on her lashes, to see her lips trembling. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Maybe you should just quit."
The words came out quieter than he expected. Almost calm.
She went still. Completely, terrifyingly still. Her hands stopped shaking. Her tears kept falling, but her face was blank now, hollow, like something inside her had simply turned off.
"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, each word deliberate. "If you can't do this, if you're going to keep making the same mistakes, keep dragging us down, keep making me explain to everyone why you're worth the trouble, then maybe you should just quit. Walk away. Find something you're actually good at."
He heard it then. A sharp, audible breath from behind him. Not a gasp, something angrier. Changbin's voice, low and urgent: "Chan."
He didn't turn around. He was watching Y/N's face, watching the last light drain out of her eyes.
"I didn't fight for you," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word, "so you could make me regret it every single day."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The words hung in the air between them. He watched them land, watched her face crumple, watched something behind her eyes go dark.
She didn't say anything. She just stood there, pinned against the mirror, her hands pressed flat against the glass on either side of her like she needed it to hold herself up. Her tears were falling faster now, but she wasn't making a sound.
Chan opened his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say, something to take it back, something to make it worse, something that would close the distance between what he was feeling and what was coming out of his mouth.
She moved first.
She pushed off the mirror, her body sliding past his, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was brief, accidental, but he felt it like a burn. She walked to her bag, her steps unsteady, her hands shaking so badly she dropped her water bottle once, twice, before she managed to pick it up.
No one moved to help her. No one said a word.
She was almost at the door when his voice, stripped of all its earlier heat, came out of him without permission.
"Y/N."
She stopped. Her hand was on the handle, her back to him. He could see her shoulders shaking.
He didn't know what he wanted to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't go. The words were there, somewhere, buried under the exhaustion and the guilt and the growing, sickening realization of what he'd just done.
But she didn't wait. She pulled the door open and walked through, and the soft click of it closing was the loudest sound Chan had ever heard.
He stood there in the center of the room, surrounded by mirrors, watching himself fall apart in triplicate.
Behind him, someone exhaled shakily. He didn't turn around.
He just stared at the door, at the space where she'd been, and waited for the feeling to come back into his hands.
Chan stood in the center of the practice room, surrounded by mirrors that reflected back every angle of his failure. His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. And all he could think about was the look on Y/N's face, the devastation, the shame, the complete and total collapse of someone he was supposed to protect.
He'd spent years building a family. And in one moment of weakness, one frayed thread finally snapping, he'd taken a blade to its most vulnerable member.
He'd used his love for her, his belief in her, as a weapon.
The dorm was quiet when Chan finally dragged himself through the door three hours later. He'd stayed in the studio, staring at a blank screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard but unable to produce a single note. His phone sat face-down on the desk. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't called anyone.
He walked past the kitchen, past the living room, his feet carrying him toward his room on autopilot. But something made him stop outside the door to the room Y/N shared with no one, the single room she'd been given as the only female member, a small mercy in a living situation that was otherwise a constant negotiation of boundaries and awareness.
The light was off. The door was closed.
He stood there for a long moment, his hand raised to knock. He could picture her inside, curled up in bed, maybe, or sitting against the headboard with her knees drawn up, the way she did when she was trying to make herself small. He could picture the tear tracks on her face, the way her hands would be shaking.
He owed her an apology. A real one. He owed her to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness for the words that had come out of his mouth, words that he couldn't take back, words that had been sitting in the back of his throat for days, weeks, waiting for the wrong moment to escape.
But his hand wouldn't move. His voice wouldn't come.
Coward, he thought. You're a coward.
He lowered his hand. He walked to his own room. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his head in his hands, and he didn't sleep.
He just sat there, replaying the moment over and over, the look on her face, the way she'd crumbled under the weight of his words.
And somewhere down the hall, in a room where the light stayed off all night, Y/N lay awake too, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she was supposed to face tomorrow when she wasn't sure she deserved to be there at all.
The morning came whether Chan was ready for it or not.
He hadn't slept. He'd spent the night staring at the ceiling, the same ceiling he'd stared at before the alarm had gone off what felt like a lifetime ago. His phone sat on his chest, the screen dark. He'd typed out a message to Y/N seven times. Deleted it seven times.
I'm sorry. Too small.
I didn't mean it. A lie.
Please come back. Selfish.
He'd thrown the phone across the room instead. It had hit the wall with a satisfying crack, the screen spider-webbing into a constellation of fractures. He hadn't picked it up.
Now, at 6:15 AM, he stood in the kitchen of the dorm, a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands. The others were moving around him, showers running, doors opening and closing, the low murmur of exhausted voices trying to find the energy for another day. He heard it all from a distance, like he was underwater.
Changbin appeared at his elbow, freshly showered, his hair still damp. He didn't say anything at first. He just leaned against the counter next to Chan, their shoulders almost touching, and waited.
"I fucked up," Chan said finally. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by hours of silence.
"Yeah," Changbin said quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. Just acknowledgment. "You did."
"I don't know how to fix it."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. "You start by talking to her."
Chan let out a hollow laugh. "And say what? 'Sorry I told you that you don't deserve to be here? Sorry I made you flinch? Sorry I, '" His voice cracked. He couldn't finish.
"You say exactly that," Changbin said, turning to face him. His expression was serious, his eyes steady. "You say all of it. And then you let her decide if she can forgive you."
Chan shook his head. "She shouldn't. I don't deserve-"
"That's not your call to make." Changbin's voice was firm now. "You don't get to decide what she deserves. You just get to show up and do the work. The same way she's been doing every single day while you've been too in your own head to see it."
The words hit Chan like a slap. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of a door opening down the hall made him stop.
They both turned.
Y/N emerged from her room, and Chan's heart stopped.
She was dressed for practice, the same worn leggings, the same loose t-shirt, her hair pulled back in the same messy ponytail. But everything else was different. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow, dark circles so deep they looked like bruises. She moved like someone carrying something heavy, her shoulders curved inward, her steps slow and deliberate.
She didn't see them at first. She was looking at her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently. Counting, maybe. Or rehearsing. Chan couldn't tell.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met across the kitchen, and Chan felt something crack open in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to say her name, to say something, anything, but before he could, she flinched.
It was small, barely a movement. A slight recoil, a tightening of her shoulders, her gaze dropping instantly to the floor. But Chan saw it. He saw it like a blade to the ribs.
She didn't say anything. She didn't acknowledge him at all. She just turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps quick now, almost frantic, like she was trying to escape.
"Y/N-" he started, his voice rough.
She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, her back to him, her entire body rigid.
"Please," she said, and her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it. "Please don't."
She didn't wait for him to respond. She pulled the door open and was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that echoed the one from the night before.
Chan stood frozen, the coffee cup cold in his hands, his throat so tight he couldn't breathe.
Changbin let out a long, slow exhale. "Give her space," he said quietly. "For now. But Chan?" He waited until Chan looked at him. "You can't let this go. You can't let her disappear into herself. You saw her. She's already halfway there."
Chan had seen her. He'd seen the hollow look in her eyes, the way she'd flinched at the sight of him, the way she'd practically fled from the room. He'd done that. He'd put that look on her face, that fear in her eyes.
He set the coffee cup down. His hands were shaking again.
Chan arrived early, as he always did, but Y/N was already there. She was in the corner, her back to the door, going through the transition in slow motion. Her arms moved through the choreography with mechanical precision, her lips counting the beats silently, her feet marking the steps with careful, deliberate movements.
She didn't turn around when he walked in. She didn't acknowledge him at all. Her shoulders tensed, he saw it, the subtle tightening of her frame, but she didn't stop moving.
Chan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She was thinner than he remembered. When had that happened? When had she stopped eating properly? When had the circles under her eyes gotten so deep?
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to take her hands, to make her look at him, to tell her that he was wrong, that she was the most deserving person he'd ever met, that he'd been a monster,
But Changbin's voice echoed in his head. Give her space.
So he didn't move. He walked to his usual spot, set his bag down, and started his stretches. He didn't look at her. He didn't trust himself to.
The others trickled in over the next twenty minutes. The atmosphere was different, subdued, fragile, everyone moving carefully, speaking in hushed voices. Felix glanced between Chan and Y/N's corner, his expression tight with worry. Hyunjin kept opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again. Minho's jaw was set, his eyes hard, his usual humor nowhere to be seen.
No one mentioned last night. No one had to.
The choreographer arrived at 7:30, her clipboard in hand, her expression businesslike. She didn't comment on the silence, didn't ask why Y/N was already in position while everyone else was still stretching. She just clapped her hands and said, "From the top. Let's go."
Chan took his position. He was acutely aware of Y/N three meters to his left, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her body angled slightly away from him. The gap between them was small, just a few feet of polished floor, but it felt like an ocean.
The music started.
They moved through the first verse. It was better than yesterday, cleaner, sharper. The exhaustion was still there, but there was something else now. Something desperate. Chan could feel it in the way the others moved, like they were trying to compensate for something, to fill a space that had suddenly become too big.
The first chorus came. The formation shift. Y/N moved from the back to the front, and Chan felt his breath catch.
She hit her mark. Perfectly. Not a centimeter off, not a beat late. She landed next to him exactly where she was supposed to be, her arm brushing his for a split second before she pulled away like she'd been burned.
Chan almost stumbled. He caught himself, finished the move, but his mind was reeling. She'd pulled away from him. She'd flinched away from his touch.
The music continued. They finished the run, and the choreographer nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Better," she said. "Y/N, your spacing was much cleaner. Keep that energy."
Y/N nodded. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't look at Chan.
"From the second verse," the choreographer said. "We need to tighten the bridge. Let's go."
They reset. The music started again. And again, Y/N was perfect. Her movements were precise, her timing impeccable, her form flawless. She didn't make a single mistake. She didn't miss a single mark.
Chan watched her from the corner of his eye, and his chest ached. She was moving like a machine, no emotion, no joy, no spark. She was technically perfect, but the life had drained out of her. The thing that made her Y/N, the warmth, the energy, the quiet determination that had made him fight for her in the first place, was gone.
He'd killed it.
They ran the song three more times. Each time, Y/N was flawless. Each time, she pulled away from him the moment their choreography brought them close. Each time, Chan felt something inside him crack a little more.
During the water break, she retreated to her corner again, pulling out her phone, her earbuds in, her body language screaming do not approach. The other members glanced at her, then at Chan, then away. No one knew what to say. No one knew how to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
Chan stood on the other side of the room, his water bottle forgotten in his hand, watching her. She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving mechanically, her expression blank. She looked exhausted. She looked broken. She looked like someone who was running on empty and had been for a very, very long time.
He thought about what Changbin had said. You can't let her disappear into herself.
He took a step toward her.
She looked up immediately, like she had a radar for his movement, and he watched her face shut down. The blankness became something harder, something more defensive. Her shoulders curved inward, making herself smaller. Her hand tightened around her phone.
Chan stopped. He was ten feet away from her, but it felt like a hundred.
"Y/N," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"
She didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, her eyes wide and wary, and for a moment he saw something flicker there, fear, yes, but something else too. Something that looked like exhaustion. Like she was so tired of being afraid, of being careful, of waiting for the next blow.
"I need to practice," she said finally. Her voice was flat. Empty.
"Please." He didn't mean for it to come out as desperate as it did. "Just, give me five minutes."
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she pulled her earbuds out, slowly, deliberately, and tucked them into her pocket. She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She just stood there, waiting, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan took a breath. He could feel the other members watching, could feel their eyes on him, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the girl in front of him, the girl he'd hurt, the girl who was looking at him like he might hurt her again at any moment.
"What I said last night," he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "What I said was, it was cruel. It was wrong. I was-" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I was taking things out on you that had nothing to do with you. Things I should have dealt with. Things I should never have made you carry."
Y/N didn't move. Didn't speak. Her face was carefully, terrifyingly blank.
"I never should have said you don't deserve your spot," Chan continued, his voice rough. "That's not true. That's never been true. You-" He had to stop again, his throat tight. "You're one of the hardest working people I've ever met. You're talented. You're dedicated. You're-" You're everything I said you weren't. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
Silence.
Chan watched her, waiting, hoping for something, a nod, a word, anything that would tell him she'd heard him, that maybe, someday, she could forgive him.
But Y/N just stood there. Her arms were wrapped tighter around herself now, her knuckles white. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere between them, not meeting his gaze.
"You don't have to forgive me," Chan said quietly. "I know I don't deserve that. But I need you to know, I meant what I said when I fought for you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You belong here. You've always belonged here. And I'm-" His voice broke. "I'm sorry I made you doubt that."
Y/N was quiet for a long time. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Chan felt like he was drowning in it.
Finally, she spoke.
"Okay," she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible. But there was something in it, not forgiveness, not yet, but something. A crack in the wall she'd built around herself. "Okay."
She looked up at him then, and Chan's heart clenched. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, but she wasn't crying. Not yet. She looked tired. So, so tired.
"I need to practice," she said again, and this time it wasn't a deflection. It was just… the truth.
Chan nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
He stepped back, giving her space, and she let out a breath, small, shaky, but there. She didn't smile. She didn't reach out. But she didn't flinch when he moved, and that, Chan realized, was more than he deserved.
She walked back to her position, her steps still careful, still measured, but there was something different in the set of her shoulders. Something that wasn't quite so broken.
Chan watched her go, and for the first time since last night, he let himself breathe.
It wasn't fixed. It wasn't even close to fixed. But it was a start. And right now, a start was all he could ask for.
The choreographer clapped her hands again. "From the bridge. Let's go."
Chan took his position. Y/N was three meters to his left, her eyes forward, her body angled toward the mirror. She wasn't pulling away from him anymore. She wasn't leaning in either. She was just… there. Present. Surviving.
It was enough.
The music started, and they moved together, nine bodies in sync, and for the first time in days, Chan felt like maybe, just maybe, they might be okay.
Y/N showed up to practice. She hit her marks. She performed with technical precision that made the choreographer nod in approval. But she was quiet. Too quiet. She didn't laugh at Felix's jokes during breaks. She didn't join Hyunjin and Seungmin when they bickered over snacks. She didn't sit with Chan during meals, didn't meet his eyes across the practice room, didn't give him any opportunity to bridge the distance that still yawned between them.
She was surviving. But she wasn't living.
Chan watched her shrink. It was subtle at first, a missed meal here, a sleepless night there. But he saw it. He saw the way her clothes fit looser, the way her smiles came slower, the way she drifted to the edges of rooms like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. He saw the way she flinched when someone raised their voice, the way her hands shook during quiet moments when she thought no one was looking.
He tried. God, he tried. He brought her coffee in the mornings, setting it next to her bag before she arrived so she wouldn't have to take it from his hands. He made sure there were snacks she liked in the practice room, the ones she used to eat before everything fell apart. He stopped correcting her during rehearsals, letting the choreographer handle it, terrified that his voice, even gentle, even kind, would send her back into herself.
But she kept slipping away, and Chan didn't know how to pull her back.
Changbin caught him in the hallway three days before the first concert of the tour. Chan was leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed to the cool plaster, his eyes closed.
"She's still not okay," Changbin said. It wasn't a question.
Chan shook his head. "She's hollow. I hollowed her out."
"You didn't-"
"I did." Chan opened his eyes, and Changbin took a step back at the look on his face. "I told her she didn't deserve to be here. I told her I regretted fighting for her. I made her flinch, Changbin. She's terrified of me, and I don't know how to fix it because every time I get close, she pulls away, and I can't blame her because I'm the one who hurt her."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've been trying to fix this the way you fix everything. You're trying to control it. You're trying to find the right words, the right actions, the right sequence of events that will make everything okay again." He paused. "But this isn't a choreography, Chan. You can't perfect your way out of this."
Chan stared at him.
"Stop trying to fix her," Changbin said, his voice gentle but firm. "Stop trying to manage her. Just… be there. Be present. Let her come to you when she's ready. And if she's not ready-" He shrugged. "Then you wait. However long it takes."
Twenty thousand fans packed into the arena, their light sticks a sea of shimmering color that stretched from the stage to the highest rafters. The energy was electric, a living thing that crackled in the air and made the hairs on Chan's arms stand up.
He stood in the wings, watching the chaos of last-minute preparations. Stylists flitted between members, fixing hair, adjusting micro packs. Stagehands ran final checks on the risers and pyrotechnics. The roar of the crowd was a constant hum, a wave of sound that built and built and built.
And in the corner, Y/N stood alone.
She was dressed for the opening number, a fitted black top that had once fit her perfectly, now hanging slightly loose on her frame. Her hair was styled, her makeup done, but none of it could hide the shadows under her eyes or the way she was gripping her own arms like she was holding herself together.
Chan wanted to go to her. Every instinct screamed at him to cross the room, to take her hands, to tell her that she was going to be incredible, that twenty thousand people were here to see her, that she deserved every second of this.
But Changbin's words echoed in his head. Stop trying to fix her. Just be there.
So he stayed where he was. He caught her eye across the chaos, and for a moment, just a moment, he let her see everything he couldn't say. The apology. The regret. The love he'd never stopped feeling, even when he'd been too broken to show it properly.
She looked away first. But her grip on her arms loosened, just slightly.
The stage manager's voice crackled over the headset. "Thirty seconds."
The members gathered in the darkness behind the stage, forming their opening formation. Chan took his place, his heart pounding. Y/N was three people away from him, her face illuminated by the dim backstage lights, her eyes fixed on the floor.
He closed his eyes. Please, he thought, to no one and everyone. Please let her feel this. Please let her know she's not alone.
The countdown began. Three, two, one.
The lights exploded. The music crashed. And they were moving.
The first three songs were a blur of adrenaline and muscle memory. Chan's body moved on autopilot, hitting every mark, every beat, while his mind raced ahead, cataloging the members, checking their energy, watching for any sign of fatigue or struggle.
Y/N was performing. Not the hollow, mechanical perfection she'd been showing in practice, something else. Something raw. She was throwing herself into the choreography with a desperation that made Chan's chest ache, like she was trying to prove something. Like she was trying to earn something she already deserved.
The crowd was going insane. Twenty thousand voices singing along, screaming their names, waving light sticks in perfect unison. Chan fed on the energy, let it fill the hollow spaces inside him, let it push him through the exhaustion that had become his constant companion.
But he kept coming back to Y/N.
He watched her during the first ment, standing at the edge of the formation while the others spoke to the crowd. She was smiling, a real smile, or close to it, waving at the fans in her section, her eyes bright. The fans were screaming for her, their signs held high, their voices raw with love.
Chan saw one sign near the front row: Y/N, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD. Another: WE SEE YOU, Y/N. WE LOVE YOU. A third, held by a girl with tears streaming down her face: Y/N, YOU ARE ENOUGH.
Chan's throat tightened. He looked at Y/N, wondering if she'd seen them, and saw her gaze catch on the signs. Saw her smile falter. Saw her hand drop to her side, her fingers curling into her palm.
She'd seen them.
The mnet ended. The next song started. Chan moved through the choreography, but his focus was split, his attention always drifting back to Y/N, watching for the moment when the weight of the fans' love would either lift her up or break her open.
It happened during the ballad.
They were spread across the stage, each member in their own spotlight, the arena hushed as the opening piano chords filled the air. Chan was stage left, his voice low and steady, his eyes scanning the crowd. Felix was center stage, his deep voice wrapping around the melody like a warm blanket. Seungmin's vocals soared, clear and pure.
And Y/N was stage right, her voice soft, her eyes closed, her face turned up toward the lights like she was searching for something in the darkness.
Chan watched her sing, and for a moment, she looked like herself again. The old Y/N, the one who laughed too loudly and danced too hard and loved her members with everything she had. The one he'd fallen in love with, though he'd never been brave enough to say it.
Then she opened her eyes.
Her gaze landed on the front row, where a sea of signs had been raised during her verse. Not generic signs. Signs with her name on them. Signs with words that made Chan's heart stop. Signs that made it obvious her pain was known to everyone.
Y/N, WE BELIEVE IN YOU.
Y/N, YOU BELONG HERE.
Y/N, YOUR VOICE SAVED ME.
Y/N, DON'T GIVE UP. PLEASE.
He saw the exact moment it hit her.
Her voice cracked on the next note. It was small, barely audible over the backing track, but Chan heard it. He saw her hand fly to her mouth, saw her eyes fill with tears, saw her shoulders start to shake.
She was crying. On stage. In front of twenty thousand people.
The fans saw it too. The screams that rose from the crowd weren't the usual excited shrieks, they were something else. Something softer. A wave of support that rolled through the arena, fans chanting her name, holding their signs higher, reaching toward her like they could physically hold her up.
Chan moved before he could think.
He crossed the stage in a dozen long strides, his spotlight abandoned, his solo forgotten. He was aware, dimly, of the other members adjusting around him, covering for him, letting him go. He was aware of the crowd's roar intensifying as he approached her.
But all he could see was Y/N.
She was crumbling. Right there on stage, in front of everyone, her carefully constructed walls coming down all at once. Her hands were pressed to her face, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs, her microphone hanging useless at her side.
Chan reached her. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as he dared, his face buried in her hair, his heart shattering into a million pieces.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice raw, his lips against her ear. "I've got you. I'm here."
She collapsed.
Her hands fisted in his jacket, her body shaking with the force of her tears, her face pressed into his chest like she was trying to disappear into him. She was saying something, he could feel the vibrations against his skin, but he couldn't hear her over the crowd, over the music that was still playing, over the pounding of his own heart.
He pulled back just enough to tilt her face up, to see her eyes, red-rimmed and streaming, looking up at him with an anguish that made his knees weak.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, her fingers tightening in his jacket. "I thought-" she choked out. "I thought you didn't want me here. I thought you regretted-"
"No." The word came out fierce, desperate. "No. Never. Never, never, never." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears that kept falling, kept falling, like a dam that had finally broken. "I was wrong. I was so wrong. You deserve this. You deserve everything. You're the strongest person I've ever met, and I was too stupid and too scared and too tired to see what I was doing to you."
"You were tired," she whispered, like she was trying to make excuses for him. Like she was still trying to protect him, even now, even after everything.
"That's not an excuse." His voice broke again. "That's not an excuse for what I said. For how I made you feel. For making you think-" He couldn't finish. The words lodged in his throat, sharp and jagged.
She pulled back slightly, looking at him through her tears. "I thought I'd lost you," she said quietly. "I thought I'd lost all of you."
Chan shook his head, pulling her back into his arms, holding her so tightly he was afraid he might hurt her, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't let go. "You didn't. You never could. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going anywhere."
She was crying again, but it was different this time. Softer. Less like breaking and more like healing. Her arms came up around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder, her body pressed against his like she was trying to climb inside his skin and stay there.
The crowd was still screaming. The music had faded to a soft instrumental, the other members having quietly guided the band into an extended improvisation, giving them time. Chan was vaguely aware of Felix's hand on his back for a moment, a brief squeeze of support, before he stepped away.
Chan didn't care. The only thing that existed in the universe was the girl in his arms.
"I love you," he said into her hair, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was quiet, meant only for her. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me almost destroying us to say it. But I need you to know. I need you to know that I've never regretted fighting for you. Not for one second. The only thing I regret is not fighting harder for you when you needed me to."
She pulled back again, her eyes wide, her tears still falling. "Chan-"
"I know," he said quickly, his heart pounding. "I know this isn't, I know you might not, I just needed you to know. I needed you to hear it."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke through the tears. It was small, fragile, the first real smile he'd seen from her in weeks, and it was the most beautiful thing Chan had ever seen.
"I thought I'd imagined it. That you'd never felt anything at all."
Chan let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, pulling her close again, pressing his forehead to hers. "I've felt everything," he said. "I've been feeling it since the day you walked into that practice room and tried to pretend you weren't terrified. I was just too scared to admit it."
She laughed, a real laugh, watery and broken but real, and Chan felt something in his chest unlock. Something that had been tight and twisted for weeks, for months, maybe for years.
Around them, the crowd had settled into a steady chant. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Twenty thousand voices, calling her name, lifting her up.
Chan pulled back, keeping one arm around her waist, and turned her toward the crowd. "Look," he said softly. "Look at them. They love you. They see you. They know what I've always known."
Y/N looked out at the sea of light sticks, the signs still held high, the faces of twenty thousand people who had come to see her, who believed in her, who were chanting her name like a prayer.
She started crying again, but this time, she was smiling. And Chan held her through it, his arms around her, his heart wide open, finally, finally where he was supposed to be.
The other members closed in around them, Felix with his arm around Y/N's shoulders, Hyunjin squeezing her hand, Jeongin pressing a kiss to her hair, Minho pretending he wasn't wiping his own eyes. They surrounded her, protected her, held her up.
And Chan stood at her side, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through hers, holding on like he'd never let go.
The music swelled again, the next song starting, and Y/N took a deep breath. She looked at Chan, and he saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in weeks.
Hope.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
She nodded. Squeezed his hand. Smiled.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
They stepped forward together, into the lights, into the music, into the love of twenty thousand voices calling her name.
And Chan knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would spend the rest of his life making sure she never doubted her place in this world again.
She deserved everything. And he would spend forever making sure she got it.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || A woman's world shatters when the person she trusted most betrays her in the worst possible way, forcing her to rebuild her life from the ruins of everything she believed in.
The world was still dark when Seungmin's arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest. You were half-awake, floating in that warm space between dreaming and consciousness, but you felt him, the steady beat of his heart against your back, his breath warm against your neck, the familiar weight of his body curled around yours.
"Time is it?" you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Early." His lips brushed your shoulder. "Go back to sleep."
You should have. You really should have. But this was your last morning together for three months, and every second counted. You turned in his arms, facing him in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His hair was messy, eyes barely open, lips curved in that soft, sleepy smile that belonged to you and only you.
"Can't," you whispered. "Won't."
He chuckled, low and warm. "Stubborn."
"Your favorite quality."
"It's one of my favorite qualities." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek. "Among many."
You traced the line of his jaw, the sharp angle you'd memorized years ago. "What time do you have to leave?"
"Hour." He glanced at the clock on your nightstand. "Maybe less now."
Your heart clenched. An hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. You'd done this before, said goodbye for tours, for schedules, for the endless demands of his life, but it never got easier. Every time he walked out that door, a piece of you went with him.
"I'm going to miss you," you said, and the words felt too small for everything you meant.
"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I'm going to miss you too. So much it's stupid."
"Stupid amounts of missing?"
"The stupidest." He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'll call you every day."
"You'll be busy."
"So? I'll call you anyway." Another kiss, this time on your cheek. "I'll text you from every city. Send you photos of everything I eat."
"You always send photos of everything you eat."
"Because I know you like seeing them." He kissed your other cheek. "I'll send you voice recordings. Of songs I'm working on. Of the members being idiots. Of-" He stopped, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Of whatever you want. Just to hear my voice."
"Your voice is my favorite sound."
"Mmm." He smiled, that genuine, eye-crinkling smile that cameras never quite captured. "Good. Because you're stuck with it. Forever."
Forever. The word settled in your chest like a promise. Like a truth you'd always known.
You kissed him then, slow and soft, trying to pour every unspoken thing into it. I love you. I'll wait for you. Come back to me. He kissed you back like he understood, like he was saying the same things in his own language.
When you finally pulled apart, his eyes were glossy. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay, that's enough of that or I'm never leaving this bed."
"That's the goal."
He laughed, bright and genuine, and you wished you could bottle the sound. "Three months. Then I'm home. And we're going somewhere. Just us. No schedules, no members, no cameras. Somewhere quiet. Just you and me."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kissed your forehead, lingering. "I love you."
"I love you too, Min."
He held you for the rest of that stolen hour. Neither of you slept. You just existed together, memorizing the feeling of each other, building a store of warmth to last through the cold months ahead.
When he finally got up, when he showered and dressed and packed the last of his things, you followed him to the door like a shadow. He stood there, hand on the handle, looking back at you like he was trying to capture a photograph with his eyes.
"Just come back safe," you said. "That's all I want."
He nodded, throat working. "I will. I promise."
One last kiss. Quick, because if it lasted longer neither of you would survive it.
Then the door opened. Then he stepped through. Then it closed.
You stood there for a long moment, hand pressed to the wood, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. When you couldn't hear them anymore, you walked back to bed and buried your face in his pillow. It still smelled like him.
You fell asleep smiling.
You didn't know it yet, but that smile was the last pure one you'd have for a very long time.
The first week of tour was chaos, but the good kind. Seungmin called every night, sometimes twice. He'd be exhausted, voice rough from performing, but he'd still find time to tell you about his day.
"Tonight's crowd was insane," he said on day three, face illuminated by his phone screen in a dark hotel room. "Like, insane. I could barely hear myself during my parts."
"Must be terrible, being so loved," you teased.
"The worst." He grinned. "Absolutely terrible. I hate it here."
"You clearly hate it so much."
"I do. I'm miserable." He paused. "I miss you, though. That part's real."
Your heart did the familiar flip. "I miss you too. But I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." His expression softened. "I know. It's kinda the only thing keeping me going sometimes."
"That and coffee?"
"That and coffee." He laughed. "And the members. And food. And, okay, a lot of things. But you're at the top of the list."
"Top of the list. I'll take it."
"You should. It's very competitive up here."
The calls were like that, easy, warm, full of inside jokes and quiet confessions. He'd show you his hotel rooms ("It's nice but the pillows are wrong"), the weird food he found ("This is not what I ordered but I'm eating it anyway"), and the members being idiots in the background.
Felix waved at you once, yelling, "TELL HIM TO STOP TALKING ABOUT YOU, IT'S ANNOYING," before Seungmin shoved him off camera.
Chan sent a voice message through Seungmin's phone: "Keep him sane, yeah? He's useless without you."
Hyunjin, during one call, stole the phone just to say, "He wrote another song about you. It's disgustingly sweet. Make him stop."
You laughed, warm and full, and Seungmin grabbed the phone back, face red. "I did NOT, okay I did but it's private-"
"YOU SANG IT IN THE SHOWER," Hyunjin yelled from off-screen.
"I sing everything in the shower!"
"NOT LIKE THAT YOU DON'T."
You were still laughing when the call ended, heart so full it hurt.
Those nights, you'd fall asleep with his voice in your ears, replaying his "goodnight, I love you" over and over. You'd scroll through photos of him from fan accounts, saving your favorites. You'd text him little things, a picture of your dinner, a meme that made you think of him, a random "miss you" just because.
He always replied. Sometimes immediately, sometimes hours later, but always. Always.
It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. 2 AM your time, which meant afternoon for him. Your phone buzzed, and you smiled when you saw his name.
"Hey, you," you answered, voice thick with sleep. "What's up?"
"Heyyyy." His voice was slurred, giggly. Definitely drunk. "Miss you."
"Miss you too. Are you okay? You sound..."
"Drunk?" He laughed. "Maybe. Little bit. Party after show. Lots of people. Fun."
"Fun sounds good." You sat up, rubbing your eyes. "Anyone interesting there?"
"Mmmm. Lots of people. This one girl-" He paused. Music in the background. Voices. "She's really funny. She keeps making me laugh."
Your stomach tightened. Just a little. "Oh yeah? Who is she?"
"I dunno. Just someone. She's-" Another pause. You heard a female laugh in the background, close to him. "She's nice. You'd like her."
"Would I?"
"Yeah. She's..." He trailed off. "I wish you were here."
"I wish I was too."
"You'd have fun. You'd like everyone. They'd like you. Everyone always likes you." His voice went soft, sincere. "You're the best, you know that?"
"You're drunk."
"Doesn't make it less true." A beat. "I love you."
"I love you too, Min."
"I'm gonna go. People are... people. I'll call tomorrow. Promise."
"Okay. Be safe."
"Always. Bye, baby."
The call ended. You lay there, phone still pressed to your ear, the silence heavy around you.
You told yourself it was nothing. A drunk boyfriend missing you. A random girl at a party. Normal.
You'd remember that call later. You'd replay it in your head, analyzing every word, every pause, every distant laugh.
It was 3 AM. You'd tried everything, warm milk, no phone, counting sheep. Nothing worked. Your brain kept circling back to him, to the distance, to the growing silence.
On impulse, you opened Twitter. Just to scroll. Just to see if there were any new updates from the tour.
You found a fan account. One you'd never seen before. It was dedicated to tour content, photos, videos, updates from every stop.
You scrolled mindlessly, looking for him.
Then you stopped.
A photo. Candid. From a few nights ago. Some after-party, some gathering. He was sitting close to someone. A girl. Very close. Their shoulders touched. He was laughing at something she said, head tilted toward her like she was the only person in the room.
She was pretty. Long hair, bright smile, eyes fixed on him like he was the sun.
Your heart hammered.
It's nothing, you told yourself. Fans are dramatic. They sit close. They laugh. It's nothing.
You scrolled to the comments.
"Who is she?"
"They look cozy."
"Probably just a fan, don't worry."
"She's at a lot of their stops though..."
"I thought he had a girlfriend? Or is that just rumors?"
"I thought he was taken but idk anymore."
You kept scrolling. Kept searching. Found more photos. Different cities. Same girl. In the background of group shots. At restaurants. Leaving hotels. Always near him. Always looking at him.
Your hands shook.
You found a video. Someone's Instagram story, re-uploaded. A few seconds. Him and her, laughing together. Then, he reached up. Touched her face. Just briefly. A thumb brushing her cheek. It was intimate. It was not friendly.
You'd seen him touch people platonically a thousand times. This wasn't that.
The room spun.
You looked at the clock. 3:47 AM. Afternoon for him.
You called.
He answered on the third ring. "Hey, what's wrong? It's late there."
Your voice came out strangled. "Who is she?"
Silence.
"The girl. In all the photos. The one whose face you touched. Who is she?"
Longer silence. You heard him breathe. Heard him shift. Heard the world crack open.
Then, quietly: "I can explain."
Four words. The worst four words in any language.
You knew before he said another word. You knew. And the knowing broke something inside you that would never quite fit back together.
The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap.
"I can explain," he said again, and something about the way he said it, careful, measured, like he was choosing each word, made your stomach turn.
"Then explain." Your voice was quiet. Calm. You didn't recognize it. "I'm listening."
More silence. You heard him breathe in, then out. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lighter. Almost confused.
"Wait," he said. "What photos? What are you even talking about?"
Your grip on the phone tightened. "Seungmin."
"No, seriously, I'm confused. You're calling me at-" a pause, like he was checking the time ", whatever ungodly hour it is there, and you're asking about some girl? What girl?"
"The one you're in every photo with for the past two months."
"Photos where? Babe, I'm on tour. I'm in photos with lots of people. Fans, staff, random people at events. That's literally my job."
Your heart wavered. Just for a second. Was it possible, ?
No. You'd seen the video. You'd seen his hand on her face.
"The video, Seungmin. The one where you touch her face. Is that your job too?"
Silence. Longer this time. When he spoke again, the lightness was gone, replaced by something almost like irritation.
"Okay, that, that's not what it looked like."
"Oh really? What was it then?"
"She was crying, okay?" The words came faster now, like he'd been waiting to use them. "She was having a rough night. Personal stuff. She was upset and I was just... comforting her. That's it. That's literally it."
"You comfort people by touching their faces?"
"Sometimes? I don't know, I wasn't thinking about it. She was crying and I just, it was a reflex. It didn't mean anything."
"And the photos? All of them? Every city? She just happens to be everywhere you are?"
"She's part of the tour staff, okay? Local crew in each city. She's been helping with-" He hesitated, just a fraction of a second. ", logistics. That's why she's in photos. It's literally her job."
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly it was a physical ache.
But something wasn't right.
"Which city was she from originally?"
"What?"
"You said she's local crew in each city. But she's in photos from Seoul. And Tokyo. And every stop since. That's not how local crew works, Seungmin."
The silence this time was different. Heavier. You could almost hear him thinking, scrambling, searching for an exit.
"Maybe I got that wrong," he said finally. "I don't know, I'm not keeping track of her schedule. She's just... around."
"Just around."
"Yes."
"For two months."
"Yes." Defensive now. Sharp. "Why are you interrogating me? I'm on tour, I'm exhausted, I'm doing my best, and you're calling me at, whatever time, accusing me of, what exactly? Being near a woman? Touching someone's face when they're crying? That's what this is?"
Your throat burned. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm asking questions."
"They feel like accusations."
"Because you're not giving straight answers."
"I AM giving straight answers. You're just not hearing what you want to hear."
"And what do I want to hear?"
"I don't know! That I'm miserable? That I never leave my hotel room? That I don't talk to anyone? Is that what you need? Because I can't give you that. I'm around people constantly. That's my life. You know that's my life."
Tears pricked your eyes. "I know."
"Then what is this? Why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm scared." Your voice cracked. "Because something feels wrong. Because you've been distant and your calls are shorter and your texts feel empty and I see you with this girl in photo after photo and I'm scared, Seungmin. I'm scared and I'm alone and I just need you to tell me I'm being crazy. Tell me I'm being crazy and mean it so I can believe it."
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. The irritation replaced by something that almost sounded like pity.
"You're not crazy."
Hope flickered. "I'm not?"
"You're not. You're just... you're lonely. I get it. I'm lonely too. And when you're lonely, your brain plays tricks on you. You start seeing things that aren't there. Reading into things that don't mean anything."
The hope flickered harder. "So you're saying-"
"I'm saying I love you. I'm saying there's nothing going on. I'm saying I miss you and I wish you were here and I'm sorry I've been distant. I'll do better. Okay? I'll call more. I'll text more. Just... please don't do this. Don't push me away because you're scared."
You closed your eyes. His voice. His words. They felt like medicine. They felt like poison. You couldn't tell anymore.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you."
A breath. His or yours, you didn't know. "Thank you. I love you."
"I love you too."
"Get some sleep, okay? It's late there. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Yeah. Okay. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The call ended.
You sat in the dark, phone clutched to your chest, and tried to breathe. Tried to believe. Tried to make yourself stop shaking.
The conversation replayed in your head on a loop. His words. His tone. The way he'd pivoted from confused to irritated to soft, like he was navigating a maze he knew by heart.
You're just lonely. Your brain plays tricks on you. Don't push me away.
You wanted to believe it. You really did.
But you couldn't stop thinking about that pause. The one when you asked about the crew. That fraction of a second where he'd hesitated before saying "logistics."
You opened your phone. Went back to the fan account. Scrolled through every photo again.
And then you saw it.
A comment you'd missed before. From someone who claimed to work at one of the venues.
"She's not crew. She's just some girl who's been following them. Staff has been trying to keep her away but she keeps showing up. It's weird."
Your heart stopped.
Not crew.
Not crew.
You scrolled faster. Found another comment. Another person. Different city.
"She was at the after-party. Got really close with one of the members. Don't know which one but they were together all night."
Another.
"She's been at multiple stops. Definitely not staff. Something's going on."
Another.
"I heard she's been staying at their hotel. Same floor even. Someone I know works there."
The phone slipped from your hand.
He'd lied.
He'd looked you in the eye, well, through a phone, but still, and he'd lied. Smooth and easy and convincing. Made you doubt yourself. Made you feel crazy. Made you apologize for asking questions you had every right to ask.
The anger came second. First came the grief. The gut-punch realization that the person you trusted most in the world had just proven he wasn't trustworthy at all.
Then the anger came.
You picked up the phone. Called him.
He answered on the second ring. "Hey! I was just about to-"
"She's not crew."
Silence.
"You said she was local crew. She's not. She's just some girl who's been following you. Staying at your hotel. Getting close with 'one of the members.'" Your voice shook with rage. "Was that you, Seungmin? Were you the member?"
"Where are you getting this-"
"From people who were there. From fans. From witnesses. So don't you dare lie to me again. Not again. I'm done with that."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay. I'll tell you the truth."
The words landed like stones in your stomach. You'd wanted the truth. You'd begged for it. But now that it was coming, you realized you'd rather have stayed in the lie.
Just those three words, and something inside you died.
"I met her the first week. After a show. She was at the venue, and then at the after-party, and she was just... there. Everywhere. And she was nice. Funny. Easy to talk to."
Your throat burned. "Easy to talk to."
"Yeah." He sounded ashamed. "And I was lonely. And drunk. And she was there. And one night, after too much to drink, I-" He stopped. Swallowed. "It happened."
"Once?"
Longer pause. "No."
The word hit you like a physical blow.
"No," you repeated. "How many times?"
"I don't know. I lost count."
"Ballpark, Seungmin. How many times?"
"A few. More than a few. Different cities. She'd show up, and I'd, I don't know. It just kept happening."
You couldn't breathe. "While you were calling me. While you were saying you loved me. While I was here, waiting, trusting you, you were with her."
"I know."
"Hours after. Did you call me hours after?"
Silence.
"Did you call me hours after?"
"Sometimes. Yes."
You made a sound. You didn't know what it was, a sob, a laugh, something broken between the two.
"I told you I loved you," you said, voice cracking. "And you'd just come from her." you paused, your voice breaking “you probably still smelt like her, still had her fucking pussy all over you. And you talked to me like nothing ever happened.”
"I know. I know what I did. I know how terrible it is."
"Do you? Do you really? Because I don't think you do. I don't think you have any idea what you've done to me."
"I ruined everything." His voice broke. "I know. I ruined us. I ruined you. I ruined the best thing I ever had."
"Then why? WHY?"
"Because I'm stupid! Because I'm weak! Because she was there and you weren't and I'm an idiot who makes terrible choices and I didn't think, I never thought about consequences, I just thought about right then, and now-" He was crying. You could hear it. "Now I've lost you. And I deserve it. I know I deserve it."
"You do." The words came out cold. "You deserve every bit of this."
"I know."
"Do you love her?"
"No!" Immediate. Desperate. "God, no. I don't even like her. She was just, a distraction. A mistake. A hundred mistakes. I love you. Only you. Always you."
"Don't." Your voice sharpened. "Don't you dare say that. Don't say always. Don't say only. You lost the right to those words."
He was quiet. Just breathing. Crying.
"I have to go," you said.
"Wait, please, don't hang up-"
"I have to go."
"When can we talk? Tomorrow? Please. I'll do anything. I'll come home. I'll leave tour. I'll tell everyone. Whatever you need. Just-"
"I don't know what I need. I don't know anything right now. I just know I can't talk to you anymore."
"Please-"
You hung up.
Then you turned off your phone.
Then you sat in the dark and didn't move for a very long time.
You sat on your bedroom floor, back against the bed, phone dead in your lap. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. Every corner held a memory of him, the couch where you'd watched movies, the kitchen where he'd tried to cook and failed spectacularly, the bed where he'd held you just nine weeks ago and promised to come back.
When I get back, we'll go somewhere. Just us.
Liar.
You didn't cry. Not yet. You were too numb for tears. Too hollow. The grief was there, waiting, but right now all you felt was the cold shock of impact. Like being hit by a car. The body doesn't feel pain immediately. It just goes numb.
Hours passed. Maybe minutes. You didn't know.
At some point, you turned your phone back on.
The notifications flooded in.
47 texts from him.
23 missed calls.
Voicemails. So many voicemails.
You opened the first text.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The second.
"Please respond. Please just tell me you're okay."
The third.
"I know I don't deserve you. I know. But I'm begging you. Don't disappear."
Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. All the same. Apologies, pleas, desperation.
You stopped reading.
You opened the voicemails instead. You don't know why. Some cruel curiosity. Some need to hear him suffer the way you were suffering.
The first one: "Hey. It's me. I know you don't want to talk. I get it. Just... I need to know you're okay. Please. Text me something. Anything."
The second: "I told the members. Chan knows. He's... disappointed doesn't even cover it. Felix won't look at me. Hyunjin called me a, well, he called me a lot of things. I deserve it. I deserve all of it."
The third: Just him crying. No words. Just breathing and crying and the occasional broken sound. You saved it. You don't know why.
The fourth: "I keep thinking about that morning. The one before I left. You were so sleepy. So warm. And I promised I'd call every day. I promised I'd come back. I broke both. I broke everything."
The fifth: "I love you. I know that doesn't matter now. I know it doesn't fix anything. But I need you to know that what I felt, what I feel, was real. The rest was stupid and weak and horrible, but my love for you was real. Is real. Will always be real."
You listened to all of them. Every single one.
Then you deleted them. Every single one except the third. The one with just crying. You don't know why you kept it. You'll never listen to it again. But you can't bring yourself to delete it.
The sun came up eventually. You watched it through your window, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and you thought about how the world kept turning even when yours had ended.
Your phone buzzed one more time.
"I'll wait. However long it takes. I'll wait forever if I have to. I love you. I'm sorry. Goodnight."
That was the cruelest part. You woke up the next morning, if you could call it waking, after an hour of restless, nightmare-filled sleep, and the sun was still shining. Birds were still singing outside your window. Your neighbor was still walking their dog at 7 AM like they did every morning.
Everything was exactly the same.
And everything was completely different.
You called in sick to work. Your voice was hoarse, raw from crying you didn't remember doing. Your boss didn't question it. You probably sounded as terrible as you felt.
Then you lay on your bedroom floor and stared at the ceiling.
Your phone was off. You'd kept it off since blocking him. You knew there would be more messages, from him, from the members, from people who'd heard something through the grapevine. You couldn't face any of it.
So you just lay there.
At some point, hunger forced you to the kitchen. You opened the fridge. Stared at the contents. Closed the fridge. Ate a stale cracker from the pantry instead.
His hoodie was draped over the back of a chair. He'd left it here months ago, before tour. "I'll get it when I'm back," he'd said.
You picked it up. Held it to your face. It still smelled like him.
Then you threw it in the trash.
Then you took it out of the trash.
Then you put it in the back of your closet where you couldn't see it.
When you finally turned it on, the notifications were overwhelming.
Texts from friends: "Are you okay? I heard from [name] that something happened. Call me."
Texts from acquaintances: "Saw some rumors online. Hope you're alright."
Texts from people you barely knew: "Is it true about Seungmin?"
And then, the messages you weren't expecting.
From Chan: "Hey. It's Chan. I don't know if you want to hear from any of us right now, and I completely understand if you don't. But I wanted you to know that we know. He told us. And we're all... I don't even have words. I'm so sorry. Not on his behalf, he can speak for himself. But just... as someone who cares about you. I'm so sorry this happened. If you need anything, anything at all, I mean it. You're not alone."
From Felix: "I don't know what to say. I keep thinking about how happy you guys were. How happy YOU were. And I'm so angry at him. Not just for what he did, but for taking that from you. From us. You're my friend too. You matter to me. And I'm here. Always. No matter what."
From Hyunjin: "I called him every name I could think of. It wasn't enough. You deserved better. You deserve better. I hope you know that."
From Lee Know: "I know what it's like to be hurt by someone you trusted. It's not the same, and I won't pretend it is. But I know. And if you need someone to sit in silence with, or someone to yell at, or someone to bring you food and leave it at your door without asking questions, I'm here. No pressure. Just here."
From Changbin: "He's an idiot. A selfish, stupid idiot. You're worth more than that. Always were."
From Jeongin: "I don't really know what to say. I'm young and I haven't been through this and I probably sound stupid. But I keep thinking about how you always brought snacks to our hangouts and laughed at my jokes even when they weren't funny. You're one of the good ones. He messed up. I'm sorry."
From Seungmin: Nothing. Because you'd blocked him.
You read each message multiple times. Cried through most of them. Didn't reply to any of them. Not yet. You couldn't.
But you saved them. All of them. Proof that you weren't alone, even when it felt like it.
Everyone pretended not to notice your red eyes. Or they were too polite to mention them. Either way, you made it through the day on autopilot, going through the motions, saying the right words, being a person when you felt like a ghost.
On the subway home, you saw a couple laughing together. The girl leaned her head on the guy's shoulder. He kissed her hair.
You had to get off at the next stop to throw up in a public trash can.
That night, you finally replied to one of the messages.
You: "I don't know what I need. But thank you. For seeing me."
You sent it to Chan. You don't know why him. Maybe because he was the leader. Maybe because his message felt the most like a hug.
He replied immediately.
Chan: "Always. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. I mean it."
You didn't reply again. But you saved that message too.
You'd been avoiding social media, but curiosity got the better of you. One search. That's all it took.
"Stray Kids Seungmin cheating rumors"
"Seungmin girlfriend speculation"
"Who is the girl following SKZ tour?"
Fan accounts were losing their minds. Some defended him blindly. Others had put the pieces together. A few had even found your account, or at least, accounts they thought were yours. You got a few strange DMs. You blocked and moved on.
The worst part was the photos. They were everywhere now. Him and her. Laughing. Touching. Leaving hotels. Entering hotels. Someone had even captured a blurry kiss through a window.
You stared at that photo for a long time.
Then you closed the app. Deleted it from your phone. You'd look again tomorrow. You always did.
Two weeks since your life split into before and after.
You were functioning now. Mostly. You ate regularly. You slept sometimes. You laughed at a joke a coworker made and felt guilty about it for hours afterward, like laughing meant you were over it, like being over it meant what he did was okay.
It wasn't okay. It would never be okay.
But you were learning to exist alongside the pain instead of drowning in it.
That night, you got a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: "It's me. Please don't block this one yet. Just... please read this. Then you can block me again. I won't try again after this. I promise."
You should have deleted it. You should have blocked the number without reading.
You didn't.
Unknown: "I know I don't deserve to talk to you. I know nothing I say can fix this. But I need you to know a few things. Not because I want you back, I know that's not happening. But because you deserve the truth. All of it."
Unknown: "I ended things with her. The day after you found out. I told her it was over, that I never should have started it, that she was just someone to make me feel better. She deserved someone who could actually be with her and that person wasn't me. She didn't take it well. I don't care. She was never who I wanted."
Unknown: "I told the company. Not because I had to, I don't think anyone would have found out if I kept quiet. But I couldn't live with the lie anymore. I couldn't let you be some secret I carried. They're... handling it. I don't know what that means yet. I might be in trouble. I don't care about that either."
Unknown: "I told my parents. I had to. My mom cried. Not because of the scandal, she doesn't care about that. She cried because I broke your heart. She loved you. She still loves you. She asked if there was anything she could do. I said no. There's nothing anyone can do."
Unknown: "I write songs about you. I always have. The ones I showed you, the ones I didn't, they were all you. They'll probably always be you. I don't know if I'll ever be able to write about anything else."
Unknown: "I dream about you almost every night. In the dreams, we're still together. You're happy. I'm happy. Everything is fine. Then I wake up and remember what I did and I have to live with it all over again."
Unknown: "I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. Don't feel sorry for me. I did this. I broke us. I deserve every consequence. I just... I need you to know that you weren't wrong to love me. I was wrong to betray that love. There's a difference. And I need you to know that."
Unknown: "I'll never stop loving you. I know that doesn't matter now. I know it doesn't change anything. But it's true. And I'll carry it forever. Along with the guilt. Along with the regret. Along with every memory of you that I don't deserve to keep."
Unknown: "This is the last time I'll contact you. I promise. If you want me gone from your life completely, I'll be gone. If you ever need anything, anything at all, Chan knows how to reach me. Or Felix. Or any of them. They're still your friends. They're allowed to be. I won't interfere."
Unknown: "I'm sorry. I know that's not enough. It'll never be enough. But I'm sorry. For everything. For all of it. For the girl. For the lies. For making you doubt yourself. For making you feel crazy. For making you love someone who didn't deserve it."
Unknown: "Goodbye. Be happy. You deserve that more than anyone."
You read the messages three times.
Then you blocked the number.
Then you cried until you couldn't anymore.
Then you got up, made tea, and watched the sun set through your window.
You didn't reply. You couldn't. But somewhere, deep in the wreckage of your heart, a tiny voice whispered: He loved you. He really did. He was just too broken to love you right.
You were starting to feel like yourself again. A different self. A self that had been through something terrible and survived. But yourself nonetheless.
You'd started replying to the members. Short messages at first. Then longer ones. Felix sent you cat videos. You sent him eye-roll emojis. It felt almost normal.
Minho sent food to your apartment. You ate it on your couch and cried, but they were different tears. Gratitude, maybe. Or just the relief of being seen.
Chan called you once. Just to talk. About nothing. About everything. About how he was worried about Seungmin but more worried about you. About how he didn't know what to do with either of you. About how being a leader meant watching people you love hurt each other and being powerless to stop it.
"He's not eating," Chan said quietly. "He's not sleeping. He's not... functioning. We're all worried. But I'm not telling you this to make you come back. I'm telling you because... I don't know why. Because you should know? Because he's still my member and I'm scared for him? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
"No," you said softly. "It's okay. I... I'm glad he's suffering. Is that terrible?"
"No. It's honest."
"I don't want him to die or anything. I just want him to feel even a fraction of what I felt."
"He does. Trust me. He does."
You didn't know if that made you feel better or worse.
You woke up one morning and realized you hadn't thought about him first thing. It took until mid-morning to remember. And when you did, it didn't hurt quite as much.
Progress.
You went out with friends that weekend. Real friends, the ones who'd held you together without you even asking. You laughed. Actually laughed. It felt foreign but good.
Someone bought you a drink. A guy. Cute, nice, clearly interested. You thanked him, took the drink, and spent the rest of the night talking to your friends instead. You weren't ready. You didn't know if you'd ever be ready.
But you'd been noticed. By someone other than him. And it didn't make you want to throw up.
Progress.
That night, alone in your apartment, you opened your closet and looked at the hoodie in the back. The one that still smelled like him. The one you couldn't throw away.
You took it out. Held it one last time.
Then you washed it.
The smell disappeared. So did a little piece of the weight you'd been carrying.
You were okay now. Not great. Not healed. But okay.
You'd stopped checking fan accounts. Stopped looking for photos. Stopped waiting for his name to pop up on your phone. He was a part of your past now. A big part. A painful part. But the past.
You still thought about him. Every day. But it didn't hurt the same way. It was more like an ache now. A scar you touched sometimes, just to remember.
You'd gone on a date. Just one. It hadn't gone anywhere, you weren't ready, and you'd been honest about that, but you'd tried. That counted for something.
Felix still sent you cat videos. Chan still checked in sometimes. Lee Know still sent takeout on random nights, sat with you in comfortable silence on facetime to make sure you ate, and left without expecting anything.
You were building a life that didn't include him.
It was smaller than before. Quieter. But it was yours.
And for the first time in two months, that felt like enough.
The tour had ended. He was back in Seoul. You knew because Felix mentioned it casually, then immediately panicked. "Sorry, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to-"
"It's okay," you said. And you meant it. "He's allowed to exist. I'm not going to fall apart because he's in the same city."
Felix looked at you carefully. "You really are getting better, huh?"
"Yeah." You smiled. Small, but real. "I really am."
That night, you walked past a café you used to go to together. You paused at the window. Saw the table where you'd always sat. Remembered the way he'd steal your fries and pretend he didn't.
Nothing special about the day. Overcast, but not raining. Cold enough for a jacket, but not freezing. You'd gone to work, come home, made dinner, watched TV. A normal day. A boring day. The kind of day you'd learned to appreciate after months of chaos.
Then your phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "It's me. I'm outside. Please. Just five minutes. Then I'll leave forever if you want."
You stared at the message.
Your heart didn't race. Your hands didn't shake. You just felt... tired. So incredibly tired.
You put the phone down. Picked up your remote. Continued watching your show.
Five minutes later, another buzz.
Unknown Number: "I know you saw the message. Your read receipts are on. Please. Just come to the door. That's all I'm asking."
You hadn't realized your read receipts were on. You turned your phone face-down on the coffee table.
The show continued. You didn't absorb any of it.
Another buzz. Another. Another.
Unknown Number: "I'll wait."
Unknown Number: "All night if I have to."
Unknown Number: "I'm not leaving until I see you."
You muted the TV. The silence of your apartment pressed in around you. You looked at the window, though you couldn't see the street from here. Was he really out there? Really waiting?
Part of you wanted to look. Part of you wanted to go to the door, throw it open, scream at him, hit him, fall into his arms, do something.
But most of you just wanted him to go away.
You turned the TV back on. Turned the volume up. Didn't watch it. Just listened to the noise.
You almost laughed. Almost. Of all the things to say. Of all the manipulative, guilt-tripping, pathetic things to text someone you'd destroyed.
You didn't respond.
Unknown Number: "I remember that time we got caught in the rain. Coming back from that café you liked. We ran the whole way and still got soaked. You laughed so hard you couldn't breathe. I'd never heard you laugh like that before. I think that's when I knew."
Unknown Number: "Knew I loved you. Knew I wanted forever. Knew I'd never find anyone else who made me feel the way you did."
Unknown Number: "And then I threw it away. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing."
Unknown Number: "You meant everything. You mean everything. You'll always mean everything."
You put the phone in a drawer. Muffled the buzzing.
You told yourself it was because of the noise, he'd stopped texting, but now you were listening for him, wondering if he was still there, hating yourself for caring.
At 2:47, you got out of bed. Walked to the window. The one that faced the street.
Pulled the curtain back just an inch.
He was there.
Sitting on the bench outside your building, hunched over, phone dark in his hand. The streetlight cast him in sickly yellow. He looked small. Broken. Nothing like the boy who'd left for tour, full of promises and smiles.
He looked up suddenly, like he'd felt your gaze. You dropped the curtain, heart hammering.
Had he seen you?
You waited. Breathed. Listened.
No knock. No buzz. Just silence.
After a long moment, you looked again. He was still there. Staring at your window now. Even from here, even in the dark, you could see his face.
He looked like he was crying.
You dropped the curtain again. Got back in bed. Stared at the ceiling until dawn.
You got up. Showered. Dressed. Made coffee. Went through the motions like a ghost inhabiting a body.
You didn't look out the window. You couldn't.
At 7:30, you left for work.
He was still there.
Asleep on the bench, curled up like a child, shivering in the morning cold. His face was pale, exhausted, tear-streaked. He looked worse than you'd imagined. Worse than you'd hoped, if you were being honest with yourself.
You walked past him.
Your footsteps on the pavement. The jingle of your keys. The sound of your own breathing.
You were ten feet past the bench when you heard him stir.
"(Y/N)?"
His voice. Hoarse, broken, barely a whisper. But unmistakably his.
You kept walking.
"(Y/N), wait, please-"
Footsteps behind you. Hurried, stumbling. Then a hand on your arm.
You stopped. Turned. Looked at him.
And felt... nothing.
Well, not nothing. You felt something. But it wasn't love. It wasn't even anger anymore. It was just... exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of someone who'd carried pain for so long it had become part of their skeleton.
He was crying. Ugly crying, the kind that distorted his face and made him unrecognizable. "Please. Just, just talk to me. Five minutes. Three minutes. One minute. Anything."
"You need to let go of my arm."
He dropped it immediately. "Sorry. Sorry. I just, I've been waiting all night-"
"I didn't ask you to."
He flinched like you'd hit him. "I know. I know you didn't. I just, I had to see you. I had to try."
"You tried. You sent a hundred texts. You left a hundred voicemails. You had your members reach out. You wrote a song. What more do you want from me?"
"Nothing. I don't want anything from you. I just-" He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing tears. "I needed you to know. In person. How sorry I am. How I'll never stop being sorry. How I think about it every second of every day. How I'd give anything, anything, to go back and change it."
"You can't."
"I know."
"You can't go back. You can't change it. You can't undo what you did."
"I know."
"So what do you want from me?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I don't know. Forgiveness? A chance? Closure? I don't know. I just know I can't breathe without you. I can't function. I can't-" His voice cracked. "I can't live with what I did."
"You should have thought of that before you slept with her."
The words landed like stones. He absorbed them, nodded, cried harder.
"I know. I know. I'm not, I'm not asking you to fix me. I'm not asking you to come back. I just, I needed to see you. One more time. To tell you I'm sorry. To tell you I love you. To tell you-" He broke off, choking on a sob. "To tell you goodbye. Properly. If that's what you want."
You looked at him. This boy you'd loved. This stranger who'd broken you.
"It is."
His face crumbled. Completely, utterly crumbled. For a moment, he looked like he might collapse. Like his legs might give out and he'd fall to the ground and never get up.
But he didn't. He stood there, shaking, crying, and nodded.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Then... goodbye."
He waited. For what, you didn't know. For you to change your mind? For you to say it back? For you to throw your arms around him and pretend the last three months hadn't happened?
You didn't.
You just stood there, watching him fall apart, and felt nothing but the cold morning air on your skin.
Finally, he turned. Walked away. Slow, stumbling steps, like he didn't know where he was going.
He was gone. The bench was empty. Just a few scattered cigarette butts (he didn't smoke, when did he start smoking?) and what looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
You picked it up. Unfolded it.
I'm sorry. For everything. I'll love you forever. - Min
You stared at the note for a long time.
Then you crumpled it again and threw it in the trash.
You'd stopped checking for his name. Stopped listening to his songs. Stopped looking at photos. He was a ghost now, someone who'd once been everything, now just a memory you visited less and less.
Felix still texted. So did Chan. They'd learned not to mention him. You appreciated that.
You'd started dating again. Nothing serious. Just coffee, dinner, the occasional second date. You were learning that you could be attracted to someone without giving them your whole heart. It was safer that way.
One night, scrolling through your phone, you saw a notification from a news app.
"Stray Kids Seungmin Opens Up About 'Difficult Past Year' in Emotional Interview"
Felix mentioned it casually, then immediately panicked. "Sorry, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to-"
"It's fine," you said. And it was. "I hope he's happy."
Felix looked at you carefully. "Are you?"
"Yeah." You smiled. Real. Warm. "I really am."
You were. Your life was small and quiet and yours. A good job. Good friends. A cat you'd adopted who slept on your chest and purred you to sleep. Mornings that felt like possibilities instead of punishments.
You didn't think about him much anymore.
Sometimes, late at night, when you couldn't sleep, you'd remember. The way he laughed. The way he held you. The way he promised forever and meant it until he didn't.
But those moments passed. Like clouds. Like rain. Like everything.
You were at the park with your daughter. She was three, with your eyes and her father's laugh. She was chasing a butterfly, shrieking with joy, and you were watching her from a bench, heart so full it hurt.
Someone sat down next to you.
You glanced over. And froze.
He was older. Gray at his temples. Lines around his eyes. But unmistakably him.
Seungmin.
He looked at you. Smiled. Small, sad, genuine.
"Hi."
"Hi." Your voice came out strange.
"I'm not, I didn't follow you here. I swear. I was just... walking. And I saw you. And I couldn't not-" He stopped. Shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'll go. I just, you look happy."
"I am."
"Good." He nodded, eyes glossy. "That's... that's really good."
Your daughter ran over, grabbed your hand. "Mommy! Mommy! There's a butterfly! A yellow one!"
You picked her up, settled her on your lap. "I saw, baby. It's beautiful."
Seungmin watched. His face did something complicated, pain and longing and loss and something that looked almost like peace.
"She's beautiful," he said quietly.
"She is."
A long moment. The sounds of the park. Children laughing. Birds singing. Life, moving forward.
He stood. "I should go."
You nodded.
He took a step. Stopped. Turned back.
"I meant what I said. In the letter. I'll love you forever."
You looked at him. This stranger who'd once been your whole world.
"I know," you said softly. "But I don't love you anymore."
He absorbed it. Nodded. Smiled that sad smile.
"I know. That's how it should be."
He walked away.
You watched him go. Just like you had five years ago. But this time, it didn't hurt.
This time, you turned back to your daughter, kissed her forehead, and watched her chase butterflies.
Rumors, mostly. Things Felix mentioned when you ran into him at the airport. Things Chan let slip during rare catch-ups. Things you didn't ask for but heard anyway.
"He's still not over it. Her. You. He writes songs about you. Still. After all these years."
"He dates sometimes. Nothing serious. He always ends it. Says he can't give them what they deserve."
"He still talks about you. Not often. But when he does... it's like it happened yesterday."
"He still loves you. I think he'll always love you."
You didn't know how to feel about that. So you didn't feel anything. You had a life. A husband. A daughter. A second child on the way.
You were old now. Really old. Your husband had passed five years ago. Your children visited when they could. You spent most days in a chair by the window, watching the world go by.
One day, a letter arrived.
No return address. Just your name in handwriting you hadn't seen in decades.
You opened it with shaking hands.
I'm dying.
Not soon, probably. But eventually. Like everyone.
I've spent my whole life loving you. I know you didn't ask for that. I know you moved on. I know you found happiness. I'm glad. I've always been glad.
But I needed you to know, one last time, that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. And losing you was the worst.
I don't expect forgiveness. I don't expect a reply. I just needed to say it. One more time.
I'll love you forever.
Even now.
Especially now.
Goodbye.
- Min
You read the letter three times.
Then you folded it carefully, tucked it into the drawer beside your bed, and looked out the window at the setting sun.
You thought about him. About the boy who'd broken you. About the man who'd spent his whole life paying for it.
You didn't cry. You were too old for tears.
But somewhere, deep in the place where you kept your oldest memories, you felt a tiny ache. Small and distant and soft.
Then the sun set. You closed your eyes. And you let him go.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || When years of tension finally snap at a high-fashion gala, Y/N and Minho find themselves hiding in a dark closet, where the line between pretending and surrendering disappears completely.
The room was a pressure cooker of champagne bubbles and forced smiles. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of designer fabrics and glittering jewelry, transforming the hotel's grand ballroom into a gilded cage. Y/N felt like a fraud wrapped in silk, the elegant fabric of her deep emerald gown clinging to her skin like a second, sweatier layer. Every clinking glass was a tiny hammer against her skull, every peal of laughter a knife in her ears. She was playing the part of "K-pop idol at a high-fashion gala," smiling until her cheeks ached, making small talk with people whose names she'd forget by morning.
But the real source of the suffocating heat was standing ten feet away, radiating an energy that was making it hard to breathe.
Minho.
He was in a black suit that should have been illegal. It was tailored within an inch of its life, sharp and severe, hugging the lines of his body in a way that was both elegant and brutally distracting. The charcoal fabric was a perfect second skin, commanding his shoulders, cinching at his waist, the cut of the trousers a quiet testament to his dancer's physique. His hair was swept back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. He looked untouchable. He looked like a sin she desperately wanted to commit.
He was laughing at something their manager said, a polite, practiced curve of his lips, but his eyes weren't in it. His eyes were scanning, restless, and then they locked onto hers.
It was a physical impact. A jolt that shot down her spine and settled low in her stomach. The air crackled, thickening instantly. For a beat, the entire room, the executives, the idols, the shimmering lights, faded into a dull, irrelevant hum. It was just him and the magnetic pull between them, a force so potent it felt like it should bend light.
He didn't smile. He just held her gaze, his expression unreadable but heavy with a thousand unspoken things. It felt like a challenge. A dare. The noise of the party seemed to compress, becoming a dull roar in her ears. The smile he offered wasn't the polite, professional one he'd been flashing all night. It was a slow, private curve of his lips, a flicker of heat in his eyes that was meant only for her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the stem of her champagne flute, but the damage was done. A low hum of awareness now vibrated under her skin.
"Y/N-ah, you're glowing," a senior producer said, appearing at her side. She wrenched her eyes away from Minho, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass.
"Thank you, sunsaengnim. It's a wonderful event."
"We're so proud of all of you. The whole group is here tonight, making such a good impression." The man's words were just noise, a drone she had to endure while she felt Minho's stare like a physical touch on the side of her face.
Then came the mandatory group photos. "Stray Kids, let's get a few together!" a photographer called out. This was it. The moment the space between them would have to shrink from ten feet to zero.
They all shuffled into formation. By some cruel twist of fate, she ended up standing directly in front of Minho. She could feel the warmth of him before he even touched her. Then, his hand settled on the small of her back.
It was supposed to be a casual, supportive gesture. But his fingers spread wide, his palm pressing firmly against the silk. It wasn't a pat; it was a claim. For the camera, it looked perfectly acceptable. But then the first flash went off. And his hand didn't move. Hidden from view, his thumb pressed gently, finding the base of her spine, and began to move in a slow, deliberate circle. A tiny, maddening stroke that was hidden from every lens but burned through her dress, through her skin, right into her bones.
Her breath hitched. She had to consciously stop herself from leaning back into it, from arching into his touch like a cat in heat. Her smile froze in place for the second, third, fourth photo. The camera flashes went off, blinding and temporary, but the pressure of his hand was permanent. The contact lasted mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity of shared electricity.
The photographer waved them away, and the moment was gone. Minho's hand dropped. He didn't look at her as they dispersed. Y/N was left standing there, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin.
The rest of the evening became a masterclass in exquisite torture.
An important CEO from their label's fashion partner cornered them, his smile slick and eyes calculating. Y/N was forced into small talk, her brain foggy, the ghost of Minho's thumb still tracing lazy circles on her lower back.
"Minho-ssi, Y/N-ssi, you two have such a striking chemistry on stage," the man said, his eyes darting between them. "The fans love it."
Y/N felt a flush creep up her neck. She opened her mouth to offer a generic, polite response, but Minho beat her to it.
"We're just comfortable with each other," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. But as he spoke, he looked directly at Y/N. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. The words were for the CEO, but the look, the dark, heavy-lidded, possessive look, was all for her. It was a lie. They weren't comfortable. They were a live wire, constantly sparking, always on the verge of an overload.
Later, during a round of polite chatter with a French designer, Y/N fumbled a word, her brain short-circuiting. From beside her, she heard a soft, familiar huff of amusement. She glanced at Minho, who was looking down, swirling his drink, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. He knew. He was laughing at her. And that shared, private joke, that tiny glimpse of their real dynamic in this sea of fakery, was more intimate than any touch.
The CEO finally moved on, and they were left standing in a pocket of suffocating silence. The space between them felt too small and too vast all at once. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes, and Minho's arm brushed against hers as he reached for one. The touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a jolt through her so intense she almost dropped her own glass.
He didn't pull away. He let his arm rest against hers for a second too long, the fabric of his suit jacket a rough texture against her bare skin. He leaned in, his lips near her ear, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than a scream in the noisy room.
"You look like you're about to shatter," he murmured. His breath was warm, smelling of mint and something uniquely him. "Are you okay?"
The irony was so thick she could have choked on it. He was the reason she was about to shatter. She turned her head slightly, her mouth inches from his. "I'm fine," she lied, her voice trembling. "Just a little overwhelmed."
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw and predatory in their depths. "Me too," he admitted, and the confession hung between them, heavier than any chandelier in the room.
They had to navigate the crowd to reach their table. He was slightly ahead of her, then paused to let a waiter pass. She came up behind him, and as he stepped forward again, the movement was slightly off. His entire back pressed against her front, solid and warm, for the span of a heartbeat. He froze for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment of the contact, before moving away.
"Excuse me," he murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper meant for her alone, the words practically breathed against her hair.
She couldn't speak. She could only nod, her throat tight. The simple, courteous phrase was loaded with a tension so thick it was a wonder the air around them didn't crack.
She made her way to the table on shaky legs, taking her seat between Changbin and Felix. She could hear Minho's voice as he chatted with Jeongin further down the table, smooth and easy. He sounded so normal. So unbothered.
Across the white linen and gleaming silverware, she caught his eye. He was mid-sentence, a lazy smile on his lips, but when his gaze met hers, the smile didn't waver. It was his eyes that changed. The light in them deepened, focused, became something dark and intent. It was a look that stripped away the couture gown, the diamonds in her ears, the entire glamorous facade. It was a look that said he remembered exactly how the curve of her spine felt under his thumb. It was a look that promised more.
He was still standing too close in her memory. Still looking at her like he wanted to devour her whole. The tension wasn't just obvious anymore; it was a palpable, living thing, coiled in the space between their bodies, waiting to strike. And it was only a matter of time before it demanded to be set free.
Y/N had finally extracted herself from the group, needing air and space from the suffocating weight of Minho's attention. She'd found a quiet corner near the bar, nursing a glass of water she had no intention of drinking, when a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Y/N-noona?"
She turned. San from Ateez stood a few feet away, looking devastating in a deep burgundy velvet jacket that somehow made his sharp features even more striking. His smile was warm, genuine, and utterly disarming.
"San-ah!" The relief at seeing a friendly, uncomplicated face was immediate. "You're here too?"
"Unfortunately." He groaned dramatically, closing the distance between them. "These things are torture. I've been smiling so much my face is going to freeze like this." He demonstrated an exaggerated, frozen grin, and she laughed, a real laugh, the first one all night.
They fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about the variety show they'd filmed together, complaining about the food, making fun of the overly serious expressions on some of the executives' faces. It was normal. It was comfortable. It was exactly what she needed.
She should have known better.
San was a natural flirt, everyone knew that, and his attention was flattering in its simplicity. He leaned in closer as they talked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. His hand landed on her forearm to emphasize a point. Then again, a few minutes later, to guide her out of a waiter's path. Then again, just because.
Each touch was innocent. Each one went unnoticed by her.
Each one was noticed by someone else.
Across the room, Minho watched.
He'd been watching all night, of course. Watching the way the emerald silk of her dress caught the light. Watching the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was nervous. Watching the way her smile faltered every time their eyes met, like she was remembering something she shouldn't.
But now he was watching something else.
He was watching another man touch her. Another man make her laugh. Another man lean in close enough to breathe the same air she was breathing.
His hand tightened around his champagne flute until his knuckles went white.
"Minho? You okay?" Felix appeared at his side, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Fine." The word came out clipped, sharper than intended. Minho forced his jaw to unclench, forced his expression to smooth into something neutral. "Just tired."
Felix followed his gaze across the room. Understanding dawned on his face. "Ah. San's just friendly, you know. He's like that with everyone."
"I know."
But knowing it didn't stop the primal, possessive thing in his chest from snarling. Didn't stop the image of San's hand on her skin from burning into his brain like a brand. Didn't stop the sudden, overwhelming need to cross the room, insert himself between them, and remind every single person in this godforsaken ballroom exactly who Y/N belonged to.
He didn't move. He couldn't. If he moved, he wouldn't be able to stop.
Then San leaned in again, his lips brushing close to Y/N's ear to say something, and her laugh rang out, bright, genuine, unguarded, and something inside Minho snapped.
He set his glass down. He didn't remember doing it. One moment it was in his hand, the next it was on a passing tray, and he was moving.
The crowd parted around him. Or maybe he just didn't see them anymore. All he could see was her. All he could see was the space beside her that should have been his.
"San-ssi."
His voice was smooth. Pleasant. Perfectly controlled. But when San looked up, something in his expression flickered, a split second of recognition, like a smaller animal sensing a predator.
"Minho-ssi!" San's smile didn't waver, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "I was just keeping your Y/N company."
Your Y/N.
The words hit Minho like a shot of whiskey, warm, burning, and utterly intoxicating. He wanted to hear them again. He wanted to hear him say them.
His hand found the back of Y/N's chair. His fingers brushed her shoulder. A casual touch. A claiming one.
"She's hard to miss tonight," Minho said, his eyes dropping to Y/N's face. For a moment, just a moment, he let her see it. All of it. The hunger. The heat. The desperate, clawing need that had been building all night. "Unfortunately, I need to steal her. Manager's looking for us."
It was a lie. They both knew it. San's eyes flickered between them, and that knowing smile returned.
"Of course. Wouldn't want to keep you from important business." He squeezed Y/N's hand, one last touch, one last tiny defiance, and murmured, "See you around, noona."
Minho's hand was on her elbow before San had even finished speaking. His grip was firm, possessive, pulling her gently but inexorably away from the bar, away from the crowd, away from the man who'd dared to touch what was his.
"Minho-" she started.
"Don't." His voice was low, rough, barely controlled. He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed ahead, scanning for an exit, for privacy, for somewhere, anywhere, away from all these people. "Just keep walking."
She did.
He led her through the crowd with single-minded focus, his grip never loosening. Past the bar. Past the photographers lurking near the entrance. Past clusters of important people who didn't matter, whose names he'd already forgotten. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the fingertips pressed against her skin.
He found a corridor. Empty, lined with abstract art, leading away from the noise. He pulled her into it.
At the far end, there was a door. A service door, plain and unmarked. He didn't know where it led. He didn't care. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and pulled her in after him.
The door clicked shut.
Darkness. Silence. The muffled thump of music from somewhere far away.
They stood inches apart, breathing hard, the heat of their bodies mingling in the small space. He could smell her perfume, something soft and floral that had been driving him crazy all night. He could hear her heartbeat, fast and unsteady, matching his own.
His hand was still on her elbow. But now it was sliding up, over her forearm, over her wrist, until his fingers laced with hers. He lifted their joined hands and pressed them against the door beside her head, caging her in.
"San," he said, and the name came out like a curse. His voice was wrecked, stripped of all pretense. "He touched you. He was flirting with you. Right in front of me."
"He's just friendly-"
"I don't care." His forehead dropped to rest against hers. His breath was ragged, uneven, his control hanging by a thread. "I don't care if he's the nicest person on the planet. I don't care if he was just being polite. I saw his hand on you and I wanted to-" He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.
Y/N's free hand came up to cup his face. Her palm was cool against his heated skin. "You wanted to what?"
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. Then her wrist, where her pulse fluttered wildly. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and burning in the sliver of light from under the door.
"I wanted to drag you somewhere private and remind you exactly who you belong to."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and electric.
Y/N's breath stuttered. "Minho-"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was barely a whisper, rough with restraint, with desperation, with three years of wanting her in every way that mattered. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk out that door and never mention it again. I'll go back to pretending. I'll go back to watching you from across every room and dying inside. Just tell me to stop."
She didn't speak. She didn't move.
But her eyes, her beautiful, endless eyes, dropped to his lips.
That was all the answer he needed.
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a collision. The moment his lips met hers, three years of restraint shattered into a million pieces. His mouth was hot, demanding, claiming hers with a desperate urgency that stole the air from her lungs. His free hand came up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as if he feared she might disappear.
Y/N met him with equal ferocity. Her hands, which had been cupping his face, slid up into his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp. She kissed him back with everything she had, pouring all the frustration, all the longing, all the secret glances and stolen touches into this one moment. There was no finesse, no technique, only raw, unfiltered need.
His tongue swept against her lower lip, a silent, insistent question. She opened for him instantly, a soft gasp swallowed by his mouth. The first slide of his tongue against hers was electric. It was slow, deliberate, a deep, thorough exploration that made her knees weak. He tasted like champagne and mint and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Minho. He tasted like home.
Their tongues met, then danced, then dueled. It wasn't a fight for dominance but a frantic, desperate joining, a silent conversation they'd been waiting three years to have. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and she followed his lead, meeting his intensity with her own. Every stroke, every swirl was a confession, a promise, a plea. The world outside that small, dark room ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his mouth, the taste of him, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she moaned softly into the kiss.
The hand that had been pinning hers to the door released her, only to travel down her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip before settling on the small of her back. He pressed her closer, eliminating any remaining space between them. The silk of her dress was a flimsy barrier against the hard lines of his suit, and she could feel every ridge and plane of his body against hers. The pressure was delicious, a tantalizing preview of what she'd been craving all night.
The need for air became a burning necessity, but breaking apart felt impossible. It was Y/N who finally pulled back, gasping, her forehead resting against his. They were both breathing hard, their chests heaving in the darkness.
"Minho," she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.
He didn't answer with words. He answered with action. His hands moved from her hair and her back to grip her waist, lifting her slightly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, and he took two steps forward, pinning her against the door again. The new angle was devastating, allowing him to kiss her even deeper, more thoroughly. His tongue stroked hers in a rhythm that was both slow and desperate, a contradiction that mirrored the storm raging inside her.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric. She wanted to feel his skin. She wanted to feel all of him. The thought was so overwhelming, so potent, that it sent a jolt straight through her.
He must have felt it too, because a low groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her lips. He broke the kiss, but only to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His tongue traced the frantic pulse beating there, his teeth scraping gently against her sensitive skin. She tilted her head back, giving him better access, a silent invitation for more.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up her ribcage, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, tracing the curve of her spine. Each touch was a brand, each caress a promise of more to come. The tension coiled tighter and tighter inside her, a spring wound to its breaking point.
He captured her lips again, and this time, the kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, impossibly more intimate. His tongue moved against hers with a languid, deliberate rhythm that made her entire body ache with want. It was a kiss that said, "I've got you. I'm not letting go."
And then, gravity intervened.
Whether it was his shifting weight or her trembling legs, the balance shifted. He stumbled back a step, trying to steady them, but his foot caught on something unseen in the darkness. They went down in a tangle of limbs and silk and wool, landing on the floor with a soft thud that was barely audible over the sound of their ragged breathing.
He landed on his back, and she landed on top of him, her body draped over his. For a moment, they just lay there, stunned into stillness. The impact had knocked the wind out of them, but it had done nothing to dampen the fire between them.
If anything, it had poured gasoline on it.
She was straddling him now, her dress bunched around her thighs, her hands braced on his chest. She could feel the frantic, steady beat of his heart under her palms. In the dim light filtering under the door, she could see his face, his lips swollen from their kisses, his eyes dark and burning with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the universe.
He looked up at her, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his fingers gripping her through the silk. "Well," he said, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through her entire body. "That's one way to end up on the floor."
A breathless laugh escaped her. "Are you okay?"
"Never better," he replied, and then he was pulling her down, his mouth finding hers again.
This kiss was different from the others. It was slower, deeper, impossibly more intimate. There was no desperation now, only a profound, soul-deep certainty. His tongue slid against hers in a languid, deliberate rhythm that made her entire body ache with want. It was a kiss that said, "I've got you. I'm not letting go." It was a kiss that tasted like forever.
Her hands roamed over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his suit jacket before moving to the buttons of his shirt. She needed to feel his skin, needed the reassurance that this was real, that he was real. His hands mirrored her movements, sliding up her thighs, over her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her dress.
The world outside that small, dark room had ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body against hers, the taste of his mouth, the sound of their mingled breaths in the darkness. It was a perfect, beautiful, chaotic mess, and she wouldn't have traded it for anything.
The slow, deep kiss was a lie. It was a beautiful, fragile illusion of control, and it shattered the second she shifted her weight on top of him. The friction, even through the layers of her dress and his trousers, was a spark to a gasoline-soaked rag. A choked sound tore from Minho's throat, half-groan, half-sob, and his hands, which had been resting on her hips, convulsed. His fingers dug into her flesh, not bruising, but desperate, like a man drowning clutching at a lifeline.
His hips bucked up, a single, sharp, involuntary thrust that sent a bolt of pure electricity straight through her core. It was clumsy. It was raw. It was the most honest thing he had done all night.
"Fuck," he gasped against her mouth, the word muffled, broken. "Y/N, I-"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. She understood.
Her body answered for him. Her own hips rolled down, a slow, deliberate grind that met his frantic energy with a searing wave of her own. The pressure was exquisite, a delicious agony that had her seeing stars behind her closed eyelids. It was a question and an answer, a desperate, non-verbal plea for more.
That was it. The last thread of his restraint snapped.
He was no longer kissing her. He was devouring her, his mouth slanting over hers with a renewed, frantic hunger as his body took over. His hips began to move, a stuttering, desperate rhythm that was completely uncoordinated and utterly perfect. He wasn't grinding; he was rutting. There was no other word for it. It was a primal, shameless search for friction, for pressure, for any kind of relief from the unbearable ache that had been building for hours, for years.
Each thrust was a confession. I wanted you when you laughed at my stupid joke. I wanted you when you fell asleep on my shoulder in the van. I wanted you tonight when you looked at me in that fucking dress. His movements were jerky, almost violent in their intensity, his breath coming in ragged, panted gasps against her lips.
And she met him thrust for thrust.
Her own body was moving with a mind of its own, a desperate, grinding rhythm that matched his. She was chasing the same high, seeking the same release. The silk of her dress was a torment, a flimsy barrier that amplified the sensation without ever being enough. She could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, and the knowledge that she was the cause, that he was this hard and this desperate for her, was the most intoxicating thing she had ever known.
His hands abandoned her hips, sliding up her back to tangle in her hair again, holding her to him as if he could absorb her into his very skin. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving to her neck, his teeth scraping against her pulse point before his tongue soothed the sting. He was marking her, a primal, instinctual act of possession that made her whine low in her throat.
"Minho," she panted, his name a broken, breathless mantra. "Please, please, please."
She didn't know what she was begging for. More pressure? More speed? For him to rip off their clothes and finally bury himself inside her? It didn't matter. He understood.
His rhythm grew more frantic, his thrusts harder, faster. The sound of their bodies moving together was obscene in the quiet darkness, the slick slide of silk on wool, the soft, desperate grunts from his throat, the breathy moans she couldn't hold back. It was a symphony of desperation, and they were both playing their parts perfectly.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and the new pressure against her clit sent a jolt so intense through her that her entire body seized. A sharp cry escaped her lips, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, at the fabric of his suit jacket, trying to find purchase in a world that had dissolved into pure sensation.
"Right there?" he gasped, his voice ragged, triumphant. "Fuck, right there?"
He did it again, a deliberate, hard grind of his hips that had her seeing white. That was it. That was the spot. The coil of tension in her stomach tightened to an impossible degree, winding so tight it was painful. Every muscle in her body went rigid, her back arching, her head thrown back.
"Minho, I'm-"
"Come on," he growled, his voice a low, guttural command that was her undoing. "Come for me, baby. Now."
The words, combined with one final, brutal thrust, sent her flying over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that stole her breath and her sanity. She cried out, a sharp, unrestrained sound of pure ecstasy as her body convulsed, waves of release washing over her again and again.
He followed her instantly. With a hoarse, broken shout of her name, he buried his face in her neck, his body going rigid as his own orgasm tore through him. She felt the hot, wet pulse of his release through his trousers, a final, intimate proof of his desperate need for her.
For a long moment, they just lay there, a tangled, panting heap on the floor of the dark, silent room. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, muffled thump of a bassline from a world they had completely forgotten.
Slowly, shakily, reality began to seep back in. The hard floor beneath her. The cool air on her sweat-slicked skin. The weight of him, solid and real and still trembling slightly.
Minho lifted his head, his movements slow, heavy. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and soft in the gloom, his face still flushed with release. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch infinitely tender after the frantic desperation of moments before.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw. "Are you okay?"
She could only nod, her throat too tight to form words. She reached up, her hand trembling as she cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking the sharp line of his jaw. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, a look of profound relief and utter exhaustion washing over his features.
They were a mess. Her dress was wrinkled and probably ruined. His suit was disheveled. They were hiding in a dark closet, their bodies humming with the aftershocks of a desperate, dry-humped orgasm.
And it was perfect.
He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath her, a warm, solid anchor in the darkness. But as the waves of her orgasm subsided, a new, more terrifying wave of need crashed over her. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. The release had been a temporary reprieve, a small sip of water when she was dying of thirst. She wanted to drown.
"Minho," she whispered, her voice still shaky. She shifted her hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his still-hard cock.
A sharp hiss escaped him. His hands, which had been stroking her back soothingly, went rigid, his fingers digging into her silk-clad flesh. "Y/N… don't."
But she couldn't stop. It was like a switch had been flipped inside her, bypassing every rational thought and leaving only pure, animal instinct. She did it again, rolling her hips in a tight circle, feeling the thick, hard length of him press against her through the layers of their clothes. The friction was a torment, a promise of what she truly wanted.
"Fuck, stop," he groaned, but his voice was losing its edge, turning strained, breathless. "I just… I can't again. Not yet."
She didn't listen. She leaned down, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of his throat, and she bit him gently, a sharp, possessive nip. Her hips moved with a newfound urgency, a desperate, seeking rhythm that was entirely for her own pleasure now. She was chasing something, the ghost of a feeling that was already slipping away.
"Y/N, you're killing me," he gasped, his hands coming up to grip her waist, trying to still her movements. But his hold was weak, his thumbs stroking her ribs instead of pushing her away. "It's too much."
"Then make it stop," she panted against his skin, her words a challenge, a desperate plea. She ground down harder, and his whole body jerked, a choked moan tearing from his lips. His hips bucked up involuntarily, meeting her frantic rhythm. "Or don't. God, Minho, don't you dare stop."
That was all it took. His control, already frayed to within an inch of its life, finally disintegrated. With a guttural, desperate sound that was half-surrender, half-raw need, he rolled them.
Suddenly, she was on her back on the hard floor, and he was over her, his body blanketing hers. He bracketed her head with his arms, his forearms pressing into the floor on either side of her shoulders. The new position was even more intoxicating. She could feel the full weight of him, the solid, desperate heat of his body pinning her down.
"Is this what you want?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her entire body. His eyes were wild, burning with a frantic, feral light in the gloom. "You want me to lose my fucking mind?"
"Yes," she breathed, her hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down. "Yes, that's exactly what I want."
He kissed her then, and it was nothing like the kisses before. It was a punishing, bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation. His hips began to move again, a slow, deliberate grind that was meant to torture, to tease. But it was torturing them both. Every thrust was a reminder of the barriers between them, of the clothes that were in the way.
"Fuck this," he snarled against her mouth. He pushed himself up, his movements clumsy, frantic. "I can't… I need…"
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely work the buckle. Y/N watched him, her own hands moving to the hem of her dress, bunching the fabric in her fists and pulling it up her thighs. The air was cool on her overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire burning between them.
He finally got his belt open, then the button and zipper of his trousers. He shoved them down just enough, freeing himself. In the dim light, she caught a glimpse of him, hard, thick, flushed a dark, angry color, the tip already wet with pre-cum. The sight sent a fresh jolt of pure lust through her.
He didn't wait. He didn't ask. He fell back over her, his hand fumbling between them, his fingers finding the soaked lace of her panties. He didn't bother trying to pull them down. With a frustrated groan, he hooked his fingers in the fabric and ripped.
The sound of tearing lace was loud in the quiet room, a final, violent act of surrender.
And then he was there, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, ragged.
She met his gaze, her own eyes wide and desperate. "Minho."
"Tell me," he breathed, his forehead resting against hers. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this," she whispered, the words a sacred vow. "I want you."
That was it. The end.
He pushed into her in one long, slow, relentless stroke. He filled her completely, stretching her in a way that was almost painful but was so overwhelmingly right it brought tears to her eyes. He was inside her. Finally. After all this time, all the wanting, all the pretending, he was here.
He gave her a moment to adjust, his body taut with restraint, his breath coming in harsh pants. But she didn't need a moment. She needed him to move.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Move," she demanded, her voice a raw, desperate whisper. "Minho, move."
And he did.
He started to move, and it was frantic, desperate, and utterly perfect. There was no rhythm, no grace, only a primal, driving need to get as close as humanly possible. His first few thrusts were deep and hard, each one a possession, a claim. He was fucking her on the floor of a dark closet, and it was the most profound, meaningful moment of her life. The slick heat of her around him was a revelation, a homecoming he hadn't known he was searching for. Every pull of her body was a siren's call, begging him deeper.
"Fuck, Y/N," he panted against her mouth, his voice ragged. "You feel… God, you feel perfect."
"So do you," she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, and she wanted it gone. She wanted his skin against hers. "Don't stop. Please, don't ever stop."
He kissed her again, a messy, desperate clash of tongues and teeth as his hips pistoned into her. The sounds were obscene, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths mingling in the darkness, the desperate, broken words they couldn't stop themselves from saying. He was relentless, driving into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs, each withdrawal a devastating loss, each return a blissful, overwhelming homecoming.
"Mine," he growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through her entire chest. He punctuated the word with a particularly deep thrust that made her cry out. "You're mine."
"Yours," she agreed, her head falling back, her throat exposed to his hungry mouth. "All yours." He took the invitation, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire down her neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin above her collarbone. It was a brand, a public declaration of this private moment.
The tension was building again, coiling tight and hot in her stomach. But this time it was different. This time it wasn't a frantic, desperate rush. It was a slow, steady climb, a wave building in the deep ocean, gathering strength and power before it crashed. He could feel it too. He slowed his pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more torturous. He was drawing it out, making her feel every inch of him, every agonizingly perfect second.
"Minho," she whimpered, her body starting to tremble uncontrollably. "I'm close."
"Me too," he groaned, his rhythm becoming erratic once more, his thrusts harder, more desperate. "Come with me, baby. Let go. I've got you."
His words were her undoing. With a sharp cry, she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her breathless and boneless. It wasn't just a release; it was a supernova, a blinding explosion of pleasure that started in her core and radiated out to every nerve ending. Her inner walls clenched around him, a spasm of pure, unadulterated pleasure that milked him for all he was worth.
He followed her over the edge with a hoarse shout of her name, his body going rigid as he buried himself deep inside her, his own release pulsing through him in hot, powerful waves. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
For a long moment, they just lay there, a sweaty, panting, tangled mess of limbs and ruined clothes. The silence that followed was heavy, profound, filled with the sound of their hearts beating in tandem. But the fire between them hadn't been extinguished. It had merely banked, waiting for the slightest breath to roar back to life.
Minho stirred first, lifting his head just enough to look at her. In the dim light, his eyes were soft, but the hunger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. "We're not done," he murmured, his voice a low, husky promise.
Before she could respond, he was moving. He pulled out of her slowly, the loss an immediate, hollow ache. He stood up, his movements surprisingly fluid for a man who had just been thoroughly undone. He shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then his tie. Then his shirt, each button a small victory in the war against their clothing.
He knelt back down beside her, his bare chest gleaming with sweat in the low light. He was beautiful. All sharp lines and lean muscle, a dancer's body built for power and grace. He reached for the hem of her dress, his fingers hooking under the fabric.
"Lift up," he commanded softly.
She obeyed, raising her hips off the floor. He peeled the silk dress up her body and over her head, tossing it aside. Now they were both naked, exposed in the darkness. The air was cool on her heated skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze roamed over her body, hot and possessive, like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle.
"Come here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He lay back on the floor, pulling her with him. He positioned her so she was straddling his face, her knees bracketing his head. "I want to taste you."
"Minho, I-" she started, but her words dissolved into a gasp as his tongue flicked out, tasting her. He was slow at first, exploratory, his tongue tracing her folds, learning her. But his restraint was a fragile thing, and it didn't last long. He became more demanding, his mouth devouring her, his tongue delving deep, his lips closing around her clit and sucking.
Her hands flew to the wall in front of her, bracing herself as he ate her out with a single-minded intensity that was utterly overwhelming. He was worshipping her with his mouth, his hands gripping her ass, holding her in place as he took his pleasure from giving her hers. The coil of tension began to build again, faster this time, a frantic, desperate spiral towards oblivion.
"Minho, God, right there," she panted, her hips rocking against his face. He hummed against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot, that magical spot that made her see stars.
The dual stimulation was too much. With a cry that was half his name, half a sob, she came again, her body convulsing, her juices flooding his mouth. He drank her down, his tongue lapping at her until the tremors subsided.
He gently eased her back down his body, her limbs feeling like jelly. She collapsed against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. His cock was hard again, pressing insistently against her stomach.
"Again," he whispered, his voice a raw, ragged plea. "I need to be inside you again."
She didn't have the strength to move, to straddle him. But he understood. He rolled them again, so he was on top, his body blanketing hers. He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wide, opening her completely to him. He entered her in one smooth stroke, and this time, it was different. It was slower, deeper, more intimate.
He moved inside her with a languid, deliberate rhythm, his eyes locked on hers. There was no desperation now, only a profound, soul-deep connection. He was making love to her, and the thought was so overwhelming, so perfect, that tears welled in her eyes again.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thrusts slow and deep. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," she breathed, her hands stroking his sweat-slicked back. "I love you, Minho."
He kissed her then, a slow, tender kiss that was a stark contrast to the frantic, desperate ones from before. It was a kiss that sealed their fate, a promise of a future that was finally within their reach. The tension built slowly, a gentle, cresting wave of pleasure that was more emotional than physical.
When they came this time, it was together, a quiet, shared release that was less of an explosion and more of a surrender. It was an acknowledgment of everything they were, everything they had been, and everything they would become.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting, familiar presence. He didn't pull out, just nuzzled his face into her neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
They were a mess. They were on the floor of a dark closet. They had a gala to get back to, a world of pretending waiting for them just outside that door.
But none of it mattered. In that moment, they had everything they had ever wanted.
The silence in the small, dark room was no longer heavy with desperation, but thick with a new, profound reality. It was the sound of a world remade. Minho’s weight on her was no longer a frantic pressure, but a grounding, comforting anchor. She could feel his heartbeat, a slow, steady drum against her own, gradually calming from its frantic race.
He didn't move for a long time, just breathed against her neck, his face buried in her hair. Then, with a soft, reluctant groan, he shifted, carefully withdrawing from her. The loss was immediate and surprisingly sharp, a hollow ache where moments ago there had been a perfect, consuming fullness.
He rolled to the side, his arm still draped heavily across her waist, refusing to break the contact completely. The cool air hit her skin, and she shivered, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way she hadn't moments before.
"Are you cold?" he whispered, his voice a low, husky rumble that was still rough from their exertions.
"A little," she admitted, her own voice barely audible.
He sat up, his movements slow and fluid in the dim light. He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. He found his discarded shirt and leaned over her, gently draping the soft, expensive cotton over her naked body. It smelled like him, like cologne and sweat and sex. She pulled it around herself, a small, private smile touching her lips.
He stood up, and she watched him, her heart swelling with a tenderness so fierce it almost hurt. He was a silhouette against the sliver of light under the door, all lean muscle and long limbs. He found his trousers, stepping into them but leaving them unfastened. He picked up her dress, holding the ruined silk in his hands for a moment before setting it aside.
He came back to her, sinking to the floor and leaning against the wall. He didn't say anything, just opened his arms. She went to him without hesitation, curling into his side, her head resting on his chest. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, his hand stroking her hair in a slow, rhythmic motion.
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, a quiet island of peace in the middle of a chaotic world. Outside, the party was still raging, a distant, irrelevant hum. In here, there was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies, and the unspoken truth that now lay between them, solid and real.
"We have to go back out there," she said finally, her voice muffled against his skin. The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "But not yet."
He tilted her chin up, his fingers gentle, and looked at her. In the faint light, she could see the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely showed anyone. "Hey," he murmured. "Look at me."
She did, her heart clenching at the raw emotion she saw in his gaze.
"This wasn't just… this wasn't a mistake, or a moment of weakness," he said, his voice serious, firm. "This was inevitable. This is the only thing that's felt real in years."
Tears pricked at her eyes again, and she blinked them back. "I know," she whispered. "For me too."
He leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of reverence. It was slow and soft, a gentle sealing of a promise. It was a kiss that said, Now what?
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and daunting. They were idols. Their lives were not their own. This thing between them, this beautiful, terrifying new reality, was a landmine.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, the fear finally creeping in.
He sighed, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I don't know," he admitted, his honesty a balm to her frayed nerves. "But we're going to figure it out. Together. I'm not letting you go, Y/N. Not now. Not ever."
The conviction in his voice was enough to quiet the storm of doubt in her mind. She believed him.
"Okay," she whispered. "Together."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, just holding each other. Then, with another reluctant sigh, Minho started to move.
"Okay," he said, his voice all business. "Let's get you dressed. Or… as dressed as you can be." He picked up her dress, holding up the torn section. "I'll pay for a new one. A dozen new ones."
She laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign and wonderful. "You owe me at least a dozen."
He helped her up, his hands gentle on her waist. She slipped into the ruined dress, the torn lace at her hip a secret, intimate mark of what they'd done. He fastened his own trousers, then pulled on his shirt, leaving it untucked and unbuttoned at the collar. He looked deliciously disheveled. They both did.
He picked up his jacket and tie, shoving them into his pockets. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it, but it was hopeless. They both looked like they'd just been thoroughly ravaged in a dark closet. Which, she supposed, they had.
"Ready?" he asked, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing with hers.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Ready."
He squeezed her hand. "Stay close to me. If anyone asks, we were feeling unwell and needed some fresh air. We got lost looking for a restroom."
It was a flimsy excuse, but it was the best they had.
He leaned in and gave her one last, quick kiss. "Whatever happens," he murmured, his eyes locking with hers, "we face it together."
She nodded, her heart swelling. "Together."
He opened the door a crack, peering out. The corridor was empty. He pulled her out after him, his hand never leaving hers. They walked back towards the ballroom, their steps slow, deliberate. With every step, the noise grew louder, the lights brighter, the world more demanding. The bubble was about to burst.
Just before they stepped back into the fray, he stopped her, pulling her into a small alcove. He looked down at her, his expression serious.
"Y/N," he said, his voice low and intense. "No matter what happens out there… no matter who we have to pretend to be… just remember this. Remember us. This is real."
She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. "This is real," she repeated, sealing the promise.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and led her back into the gilded cage. The party was still in full swing, the champagne still flowing, the smiles still forced. But as they stepped back into the light, their hands no longer linked but brushing against each other deliberately every so often, hidden from view, Y/N knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
I would like to request for a Han jisung spider man au because honestly I think I have read every single one on the internet and your writing is chef’s kiss.
So my idea Han x femreader and you can write anything you want but I really like the scene where spider man is hanging upside down from an ally and the he kisses the reader ( so cute )
I would be honored if u do my request please and thank u
XOXO
From sunny ☀️
| Webs and Coffee Beans - Han Jisung
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || A late-night barista becomes the unexpected safe haven for a exhausted university student, only to discover he's actually Spider-Man, and that he's been hiding in her café, and his heart, all along.
The Comfy Bean was the kind of place that existed in the perpetual twilight of fluorescent lighting and the rich, bitter aroma of coffee that had long since seeped into the walls. At 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, it was also the kind of place where time seemed to blur, where the line between night and early morning dissolved into something soft and indistinct.
Y/N wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time, her movements automatic, her mind somewhere else entirely. The shop was empty except for a guy in the corner, hunched over his laptop like it held the secrets to the universe. Or at least the secrets to passing whatever class had him here at this ungodly hour.
She'd noticed him before. Hard not to.
He was always alone, always in that same corner spot near the outlet, always with those massive over-ear headphones clamped over a head of fluffy brown hair that looked perpetually disheveled in the most endearing way. His fingers flew across his laptop keyboard in bursts of inspiration, then would pause while he stared at the screen with an intensity that bordered on comical, his lips moving silently as if arguing with whatever he was working on.
Cute, Y/N thought for the millionth time. Really cute. Probably doesn't even know I exist cute.
She shook her head, focusing on restocking the sugar packets. This wasn't the time or place for crushes. This was the time for getting through her shift without falling asleep standing up.
The bell above the door chimed, and she looked up automatically. Just her luck, the cute guy was leaving. He was shoving his laptop into a battered backpack, the movement hurried, almost frantic. He grabbed his empty cup and headed for the door, giving her a quick nod as he passed the counter.
"Night," he mumbled, his voice rough from hours of silence.
"See you," Y/N replied, because apparently that was all her sleep-deprived brain could manage.
He was halfway out the door when it happened.
The change he'd left on the counter for a tip, a small handful of coins, slipped from his fingers as he fumbled with the door handle. They scattered across the floor in a metallic cascade, glinting under the fluorescent lights like tiny, fallen stars.
"Oh, crap, sorry, I'm so sorry-" He was already on his knees, scrambling to gather them, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His hands were shaking, Y/N noticed. Actually shaking, like he'd had way too much caffeine or not nearly enough sleep.
Or like someone who'd just had a really, really bad night.
She was around the counter before she could think about it, kneeling down to help. "It's fine, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."
Up close, he looked even more exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of concealer could hide, and his cheeks had that slightly hollow look of someone who'd forgotten to eat. Multiple times. In a row.
But it was the bruise that made her pause.
It was small, mostly healed, a faint yellowish-purple mark along his jawline that he'd probably hoped his jacket collar would hide. Y/N's eyes lingered on it for a second too long, and she saw him tense, saw the way his hand instinctively came up to touch it.
"Skateboard," he said quickly. "I'm... really bad at skateboarding."
She looked at him. At his nervous smile. At the way his eyes darted away from hers. At the small, almost imperceptible wince when he reached for a quarter that had rolled under a table.
Sure, she thought. Skateboarding. That explains the bruise on your jaw and the way you move like your ribs hurt.
But she just smiled and handed him the coins she'd collected. "Here. Wouldn't want you to lose your... skateboard fund."
He laughed, a short, surprised sound that seemed to catch him off guard. "Yeah. Thanks. I really appreciate it." He stood up, shoving the change into his pocket without counting it, and made for the door again.
"Hey," Y/N called out before she could stop herself.
He turned, one hand on the door, and for a moment, under the harsh fluorescent lights, he looked impossibly young and impossibly tired.
Y/N grabbed a cookie from the display case, one of the oversized ones with chocolate chips the size of her thumbnail, and held it out to him. "Here. On the house. You look like you need it more than the store's profits tonight."
He stared at the cookie like she'd just offered him a winning lottery ticket. Then his gaze traveled up to her face, and something in his expression shifted. The tiredness was still there, but underneath it, something warm flickered to life. His lips curved into a genuine smile, not the polite, automatic one from before, but a real one that made his eyes crinkle into happy crescents and completely transformed his face.
"You're an angel," he said, and his voice had lost its rough edge, replaced by something softer, almost wondering. "A real-life, cookie-giving angel."
Y/N felt her cheeks warm. "I'm a barista with an expired food budget and too many cookies. But I'll take the upgrade."
He laughed again, and this time it was fuller, warmer, the kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again. He walked back to the counter, accepting the cookie like it was something precious.
"I'm Jisung, by the way." He extended his free hand. "Han Jisung. Regular customer, terrible skateboarder, and apparently the recipient of your charity."
She shook his hand. His grip was warm, his fingers calloused in a way that didn't quite match the "music student" vibe she'd mentally assigned him. But then, what did she know? Maybe piano did that.
"Y/N," she said. "Night shift survivor, professional coffee pourer, and apparently, philanthropist."
"Y/N," he repeated, like he was tasting the name. "Nice to officially meet you, Y/N. Thanks for saving my night."
"It's just a cookie."
He looked down at it, then back at her, and there was something in his eyes, gratitude, yes, but also something deeper, something that looked almost like loneliness meeting kindness for the first time in a while. "No," he said quietly. "It's not. Trust me."
The moment stretched between them, fragile and unexpected. Then the bell above the door chimed again as a group of loud, laughing college students stumbled in, and the spell broke.
Jisung stepped back, tucking the cookie carefully into his jacket pocket like it was made of glass. "I should... go. Early class." He grimaced. "Well. Later today class. In a few hours. Sleep would probably be smart."
"Probably," Y/N agreed, already moving toward the new customers. "See you around, Jisung?"
He was at the door again, but he turned back, and that smile, the real one, made another appearance. "Yeah. See you around, Y/N."
The door swung shut behind him, and Y/N found herself smiling at nothing as she took the new customers' orders.
Y/N hadn't been waiting for him, exactly. She'd just... noticed when he walked in. That was all. Normal barista things.
He looked better this time, less like he'd been through a war, more like he'd at least gotten a few hours of sleep and a proper meal. The bruise on his jaw had faded to a barely-there smudge of yellow, and his movements were smoother, more coordinated. He gave her a small wave as he made his way to his usual corner, and Y/N felt an ridiculous little flutter in her chest.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. He's a customer. A cute customer who you gave a cookie to one time. That's all.
But when she brought his usual order, an americano, black, no sugar, to his table instead of making him come get it, she told herself that was just good customer service.
"Special delivery," she said, setting the cup down next to his laptop.
He looked up, startled, and his face broke into that familiar smile. "Oh, wow. They usually make you guys come to the counter for a reason, you know. It's, like, exercise or something."
"Consider it a reward for not losing all your change this time." She nodded toward the neat stack of bills he'd already placed at the edge of the table. "Very responsible of you."
He laughed, and yeah, that sound was definitely going to become a problem. "I'm learning. Slowly. Against my will."
"What are you working on, anyway?" She gestured at his laptop screen, which was covered in some kind of audio software she didn't recognize. "If you don't mind me asking. You're always here, always working on something. I'm nosy, clearly."
For a second, he looked almost shy. He ducked his head, running a hand through his already messy hair. "It's... music stuff. Producing. I'm in the music production program at the university, so..." He gestured vaguely at the screen. "Homework. Basically. But also not homework? Like, the fun kind of homework that's also stressful because it's your actual passion and also your grade depends on it and-" He cut himself off with a self-deprecating grin. "Sorry. I ramble when I'm tired."
"I don't mind," Y/N said, and meant it. "So you make beats? Like, actual songs?"
"Attempt to make songs. The results vary wildly." He tilted his head, studying her with sudden interest. "Do you like music? I mean, obviously everyone likes music, but do you actually listen to it? Like, really listen?"
Something in his intensity made her smile. "I do. Not as professionally as you, probably, but yeah. I'm that person who has playlists for everything. Walking to class playlist. Studying playlist. Pretending I'm in a movie while looking out the bus window playlist."
His eyes lit up. "Okay, but the movie playlist is essential. What's on it? Wait-" He held up a hand. "No, don't tell me. Let me guess."
"You're going to guess my bus window movie playlist?"
"I'm very intuitive. It's a gift." He leaned back in his chair, studying her with exaggerated concentration. "Okay. You're a night shift barista, so you're either a night owl or a procrastinator or both. You gave a stranger a cookie for no reason, so you're nice but also maybe a little impulsive. You noticed I had a bruise, which means you pay attention to details." His eyes sparkled with playful mischief. "Your movie playlist is... indie. But not pretentious indie. Like, coming-of-age indie. Stuff with good soundtracks and bittersweet endings. Lots of shots of people walking through cities at night."
Y/N stared at him.
He blinked. "What? Was I close?"
"How did you-" She shook her head, laughing. "That's actually... disturbingly accurate."
"Ha!" He pumped his fist in a small victory gesture. "I knew it. My powers of observation are unmatched."
Apparently, Y/N thought, remembering the bruise she'd noticed, the way he moved carefully, the way his hands had shaken. They really are.
"I should get back to work," she said reluctantly, nodding toward the counter where a new customer was waiting. "But... maybe you could play me something sometime? One of your songs?"
The shy look was back, but underneath it, she caught a flicker of genuine pleasure. "Yeah? You'd want to hear my stuff?"
"I just watched you correctly guess my entire personality based on nothing. I think I owe you at least one listen."
He grinned. "Deal. But you have to promise to be honest. No polite nodding."
Over the next few weeks, Y/N learned a lot about Han Jisung.
She learned that he was actually funny, not just cute-in-a-shy-way funny, but genuinely, laugh-out-loud funny when he let himself relax. She learned that he was passionate about music in a way that made her own interests feel shallow by comparison, but he never made her feel dumb for not knowing technical terms. He'd explain things with such obvious joy, his hands moving as he talked, his eyes bright, and she found herself fascinated not just by the information but by him, by the way he came alive when discussing something he loved.
She learned that he was anxious. Not in a casual "oh I'm so stressed about this test" way, but in a deeper, more constant way that she recognized because she felt it too sometimes. He'd check his phone repeatedly during their conversations, his jaw tightening at certain notifications. He'd tense up when someone came in wearing a uniform or carrying a walkie-talkie. He'd sometimes go still and alert for no apparent reason, his head tilted like he was listening to something no one else could hear, before slowly relaxing again.
Weird, she thought. Really weird. But also... not in a bad way?
She learned that he liked his coffee black but would occasionally accept a pastry if she insisted. That he wrote lyrics in a battered notebook covered in stickers and coffee stains. That he had a habit of humming under his breath while he worked, melodies she'd catch fragments of before they disappeared. That he smiled more easily now when he saw her, that the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease when she sat down across from him during her breaks.
And she learned, one night when he'd stayed particularly late, that he was hiding something.
It was nearly 4 AM. The café was empty except for the two of them, and Y/N was supposed to have closed twenty minutes ago. But Jisung was still there, his headphones around his neck, staring at his laptop screen with an expression of intense concentration. She'd been sweeping around him, not wanting to rush him, when his phone buzzed.
She saw him glance at it. Saw his whole body go rigid. Saw something that looked almost like fear flash across his face before he masked it.
"I have to go," he said, already shoving his laptop into his bag with that same frantic energy from their first real interaction. "I'm so sorry, I know you're closed, I just, I have to-"
"Jisung." She put a hand on his arm, and he froze. Under her fingers, she could feel him trembling slightly, could feel the coiled tension in his muscles like he was ready to spring. "It's okay. Go. I'll get the door."
He looked at her, and for a moment, his guard dropped completely. She saw exhaustion and worry and something that looked almost like guilt. Then he was moving, shoving his phone in his pocket, heading for the door.
"Wait-" She grabbed a muffin from the display, wrapped it in a napkin, and pressed it into his hands. "In case you don't get to eat. And Jisung?"
He paused at the door.
"Be careful. Whatever it is. Just... be careful."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude. Or both.
"I will," he said softly. "I promise."
And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and Y/N was left alone in the quiet café, wondering what exactly she'd gotten herself into.
Two hours later, she was closing up, exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. She'd just locked the door when her phone buzzed.
An unknown number. A single text:
Thanks for the muffin. And for not asking questions you definitely have. I'll explain someday. Maybe. If you still want to talk to me after. - J
She stared at the message for a long moment. Then, before she could overthink it, she typed back:
I make really good cookies. They're excellent bribes for explanations. Just so you know.
The reply came almost instantly:
Noted. ☺️
Y/N smiled at her phone, standing alone in the dark alley behind the café, and tried very hard not to think about how much she was looking forward to seeing him again.
The text messages became a thing.
It started small, a good morning here, a funny observation about a customer there. Jisung would send her pictures of his laptop screen covered in production software with captions like help I've created a monster or this beat is fighting me and I'm losing. Y/N would send him photos of ridiculous coffee orders, a venti extra hot soy no foam caramel macchiato with three pumps of vanilla and an extra shot, because apparently some people needed that specific of a caffeine delivery system.
You're telling me someone actually ordered that with a straight face? he texted one night.
With complete seriousness. Then complained that it wasn't hot enough.
Some people have never known true struggle and it shows.
She laughed out loud at that one, earning a weird look from a customer. She didn't care.
The texts were safe. Easy. They let her learn him in smaller doses, without the intensity of those late-night café conversations where she found herself forgetting to breathe when he really looked at her.
She learned he was a massive dork. He sent her memes that made no sense and then spent fifteen minutes explaining why they were funny. He had strong opinions about pineapple on pizza (pro) and the correct way to load a dishwasher (extremely pro, apparently, and willing to die on that hill). He sent her voice messages of him singing random snippets of songs he was working on, his voice rough and beautiful and so full of emotion it made her chest ache.
You're really good, she texted after one of them. Like, actually good. Not just "oh that's nice" good. Actually talented good.
His response took a while.
Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. ☺️
She was still smiling at her phone when her coworker Mina nudged her. "Okay, who is it? You've been making that face for like twenty minutes."
"What face?"
"The face. The 'I'm texting someone cute and trying to pretend I'm not' face." Mina grinned. "Spill."
"There's nothing to spill. He's just a customer. A regular."
"A regular who you give free cookies to and smile at like he hung the moon?" Mina raised an eyebrow. "Honey, I've seen you interact with actual celebrities who came in here. You did not make that face at them."
Y/N shoved her phone in her pocket. "His name is Jisung. He's in the music program. He's funny and kind of weird and I think he might be hiding something but I don't really care because when he smiles it's like-" She stopped, realizing she was rambling.
Mina's eyebrows had climbed so high they'd practically left her face. "Like?"
"Like everything gets brighter. Like the whole café feels warmer. Like I forget that I've been on my feet for eight hours and haven't had a real break." Y/N sighed. "I'm pathetic, aren't I?"
"You're smitten. There's a difference." Mina patted her shoulder. "Bring him around when I'm working. I want to see this sun-person for myself."
,
The next time Jisung came in, Mina was working.
Y/N had warned her to be normal, which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Mina's version of "normal" involved way too many questions and absolutely zero subtlety.
"So you're Jisung!" Mina said brightly as he approached the counter. "Y/N talks about you all the time."
Jisung's eyes flicked to Y/N, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Does she now?"
"She does not," Y/N said quickly, her face heating. "Mina, I need you to restock the cups."
"In a minute. So, Jisung, what do you think of our Y/N? Isn't she the best? Such a hard worker. Very loyal. Great at remembering orders."
"Mina!"
Jisung was fully grinning now, his eyes doing that crinkly thing that made Y/N's stomach flip. "I think she's pretty great, yeah. Best barista in the city. Possibly the world." He leaned on the counter, addressing Mina but looking at Y/N. "She once saved my night with a cookie. I'm basically indebted to her for life."
"It was one cookie."
"A life-changing cookie. Don't minimize your impact."
Mina made a sound like a tea kettle reaching boiling point. "Oh, you two are adorable. I'm going to go restock cups now. Take your time."
She disappeared into the back, leaving Y/N and Jisung alone at the counter. He was still smiling at her, soft and warm, and she had to remind herself how to breathe.
"Your coworker is... intense," he said.
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "For the record, I also think you're pretty great. Just in case that wasn't clear."
Y/N's heart did something complicated. "Noted. Your usual?"
"You know it."
,
That night, he stayed late again.
The café emptied out around midnight, and by 1 AM, it was just them and one older man in the corner who was either deeply focused on his book or asleep with his eyes open. Jisung had abandoned his corner spot for a seat at the counter, his laptop pushed to the side while he nursed his third americano.
"You're going to vibrate out of your skin," Y/N observed, wiping down the counter next to him.
"Worth it. I finished something tonight. A track I've been working on for weeks." He bounced slightly in his seat, unable to contain his excitement. "It's actually good. Like, I'm not just saying that because I made it. I think it's genuinely good."
"That's amazing! Can I hear it?"
He hesitated, that familiar shyness flickering across his face. "Now? Here?"
"Why not? It's just us. Well, us and Steve." She nodded toward the sleeping man in the corner. "I don't think he'll complain."
Jisung bit his lip, considering. Then he pulled his headphones from around his neck and handed them to her. "Okay. But close your eyes. I can't watch you listen."
"That's weirdly specific."
"I'm a weirdly specific person. Close your eyes."
She closed her eyes.
He put the headphones over her ears, his fingers brushing against her hair, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. Then the music started, and she forgot about everything else.
It was soft at first, a gentle piano melody that felt like morning light through curtains. Then a beat dropped, subtle but insistent, and layers built on top of each other, synth and bass and something that sounded almost like rain. Vocals came in, his voice, processed and layered, singing words she couldn't quite make out but could feel. It built and built until it reached a peak that made her chest expand with something she couldn't name, and then it fell away, leaving just the piano again, fading into silence.
She opened her eyes.
Jisung was watching her with an expression she couldn't read, hopeful and terrified and vulnerable all at once.
"Well?" His voice was small.
Y/N took off the headphones slowly, carefully, like they were sacred. "Jisung."
"Yeah?"
"That was..." She shook her head, searching for words big enough. "That was beautiful. Like, actually, genuinely, makes-me-want-to-cry beautiful. You made that? You created that from nothing?"
The hope in his eyes grew. "You really think so?"
"I really think so." She reached across the counter and grabbed his hand without thinking. "You're so talented. I don't know if you know that, but you are. That song made me feel things I didn't know I could feel from a track."
He looked down at their hands, then back up at her, and something shifted in his expression. Softened. Deepened.
"Thanks, Y/N." His voice was rough. "That means... really. Thank you."
They stayed like that for a moment, hands connected across the counter, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Then Steve snorted awake in the corner, and the moment broke.
Jisung pulled his hand back, but he was smiling. "I should probably go. Let you actually close up."
"Yeah. Probably."
He packed up his laptop slowly, like he was in no hurry to leave. At the door, he paused. "Hey, Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for listening. For real. I don't... I don't usually let people hear my stuff. It's kind of a big deal."
"I'm honored."
He smiled, that real one, the one that made his eyes disappear, and slipped out into the night.
,
The next week was weird.
Jisung didn't show up for three days.
At first, Y/N told herself not to worry. He was a student. He had a life. He didn't owe her nightly appearances just because she'd gotten used to them.
But by day three, she was checking her phone constantly, re-reading their last conversation.
See you tonight? she'd texted. I saved you a cookie.
No response.
She tried not to read into it. Tried not to imagine all the reasons he might have suddenly gone silent. Tried not to replay every interaction, looking for signs she'd misread everything.
By day four, she was genuinely worried.
She was wiping down the same spot on the counter for the fifth time when Mina appeared at her elbow. "Still no word from mystery boy?"
"No."
"You've texted?"
"A few times. Nothing."
Mina's expression softened. "Hey. I'm sure there's an explanation. Maybe his phone broke. Maybe he's swamped with finals. Maybe-"
The bell above the door chimed.
Y/N's head snapped up.
It wasn't Jisung.
It was a delivery guy, holding a small envelope. "Order for Y/N?"
"That's me."
He handed it over and left. Y/N stared at the envelope like it might bite her. Her name was written on the front in handwriting she recognized, messy, slightly chaotic, with a tiny doodle of a spider next to it.
She tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in his scrawl.
Y/N,
I'm so sorry for disappearing. Something came up. Something I can't really explain. Not yet. But I'm okay. I promise.
I know I owe you an explanation. And probably several cookies worth of apology. But I wanted you to know I'm thinking about you. And I wrote you something. It's not finished, but it's for you. So you know I didn't forget.
-J
P.S. The song is called "Coffee and Constellations." Because that's what you feel like. Warm and constant and full of light.
Tucked inside the envelope was a USB drive.
Y/N held it like it was made of glass.
, -
The USB drive sat on Y/N's nightstand for three days before she worked up the courage to listen to it.
She wasn't sure why she waited. Fear, maybe. Fear that the song wouldn't be as good as she remembered his other work being. Fear that it would be too good, that it would mean too much, that she'd somehow built this whole connection with Jisung around something that wasn't real.
But mostly fear that listening to it would make her miss him more, and she already missed him enough that it felt like a physical ache.
When she finally plugged it into her laptop, late on a Sunday night when the city was quiet and her apartment felt too empty, she wasn't prepared.
The song opened with the sound of a coffee machine, she recognized it immediately, the specific hiss and gurgle of the espresso maker at The Comfy Bean. Then a piano came in, simple and warm, and then his voice.
She was crying before the first verse ended.
It went on like that, verses about late nights and stolen glances, about feeling seen for the first time in years, about someone who made the weight of the world feel a little lighter. It was specific to her, to them, to every moment they'd shared in that café.
And it was beautiful.
Y/N listened to it four times in a row, crying through each one, before she finally texted him.
I listened.
His response came immediately, like he'd been waiting.
And?
And I don't have words big enough.
A long pause. Then:
Can I see you?
When?
Now?
She looked at the clock. 11:47 PM. She had work tomorrow. She didn't care.
He was waiting outside when she got there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his jacket pockets. The street was quiet, the café dark, and he looked up when he heard her footsteps with an expression that made her heart stutter.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi yourself."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure how to bridge the distance. Then Jisung pushed off the wall and closed the gap between them, stopping just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For disappearing. For not explaining. For making you worry."
"You sent me a song."
"I did."
"A song you wrote about me."
His ears went pink. "Yeah. That."
Y/N looked up at him, at his tired eyes and the faint shadow of a bruise along his cheekbone that he probably thought she couldn't see in the dim light. "What happened, Jisung? Where did you go?"
He hesitated. Opened his mouth. Closed it.
"I can't-" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "There are things I can't explain. Not because I don't want to. Because I can't. Not yet."
"Try."
"I'm trying. I just-" He laughed, a frustrated sound. "What if I told you I have a really demanding part-time job? One that's unpredictable and sometimes dangerous and keeps me up all night and leaves me with bruises I can't explain?"
"I'd say that sounds like a terrible part-time job."
"It is. But it's also... important. And I can't quit. And I can't talk about it. And I hate that I can't talk about it, especially with you, because you're-" He broke off, looking away.
"I'm what?"
He looked back at her, and there was something raw in his expression, something vulnerable and unguarded. "You're the first person in a long time who makes me feel normal. Who looks at me like I'm just... Jisung. Not whatever else I am. Just me."
Y/N's throat tightened. "You are just Jisung. That's all I've ever seen."
"Yeah?" His voice was small.
"Yeah."
He smiled then, wobbly but real. "Okay. Okay, good. That's... really good."
They stood there in the quiet, the city humming softly around them. Y/N wanted to push, wanted to demand answers, wanted to know what he was hiding and why. But she also wanted this, wanted him here, wanted his smile, wanted whatever this fragile thing was between them.
So instead she said, "The song is incredible. You know that, right?"
His ears went pink again. "You really think so?"
"I really think so. I've listened to it like twenty times."
"Twenty?"
"Maybe more. I lost count."
He grinned, and it was like watching the sun come out. "I'm going to write you more. A whole album. You'll be sick of me."
"I doubt that."
Something sparked in his eyes, warm and hopeful. "Yeah?"
"Jisung, I-"
The rest of her sentence was lost to the sound of sirens.
They blared in the distance, growing closer, and Y/N saw Jisung's whole body tense. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something she couldn't hear, and his expression shifted, focus, alertness, something that looked almost like instinct.
"I have to go," he said, already stepping back.
"Now?"
"Now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He was already moving, backing toward the alley. "I'll explain. Someday. I promise. Just-" He paused, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Wait for me? Please?"
Before she could answer, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Y/N stood alone outside the locked café, listening to the sirens fade into the night, and wondered what she'd gotten herself into.
Jisung would show up at the café, tired and bruised, with some story ready. Skateboarding accidents. Late-night study sessions that ran long. A friend who kept needing help moving furniture. A part-time job with weird hours.
Y/N listened to each excuse and nodded along, even when they didn't make sense. Even when the bruises were in places skateboard falls couldn't reach. Even when he'd flinch at sudden loud noises or go completely still for no apparent reason.
She didn't believe him. But she also didn't push.
Because in between the excuses, there were moments that felt real.
Like the night he stayed until close and helped her scrub the espresso machine, making up silly songs about coffee beans and complaining about the smell of old milk. Like the way he remembered her favorite pastry and started bringing one for her every time he came. Like the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching, soft and wondering, like she was something precious.
Like the night he fell asleep at his corner table, head pillowed on his arms, and she covered him with her jacket and just... watched him breathe for a while, his face peaceful in sleep in a way it never was when he was awake.
"You've got it bad," Mina observed, watching from the counter.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're literally staring at a sleeping boy like he's a work of art."
"He's just tired. It would be rude to wake him."
Mina snorted. "Sure. That's definitely the reason."
Y/N was mid-shift when a delivery guy walked in with a small envelope. Same messy handwriting. Same tiny spider doodle.
Y/N,
I know I keep disappearing. I know I keep making excuses. I hate it. I hate that I can't tell you the truth. I hate that every time I leave, I'm scared it might be the last time you'll wait for me.
But I keep coming back. Do you know why?
Because you're the only place that feels like home.
I'll explain everything someday. When I can. When it's safe. Until then, I hope you'll keep letting me sit in your corner and drink your coffee and pretend I'm just a normal guy with a normal crush on a normal girl.
You're not normal, though. You're extraordinary. And I'm really, really glad you exist.
-J
P.S. I wrote you another song. It's called "Waiting."
Y/N read the note five times. Then she tucked it into her pocket, right over her heart, and finished her shift with a smile she couldn't wipe off her face.
The night everything changed started like any other.
Jisung was at his usual table, laptop open, headphones around his neck. Y/N was behind the counter, pretending to organize cups while actually watching him work. He'd been there for hours, and she was supposed to close in twenty minutes.
Then the lights flickered.
Jisung looked up immediately, his whole body going alert. The lights flickered again, and somewhere in the distance, Y/N heard a strange humming sound, low and building.
"What was that?" she asked.
Jisung was already standing, his laptop forgotten. "I don't know. Stay here."
"What? Jisung-"
The lights went out.
Complete darkness. The kind that pressed in from all sides, disorienting and absolute. Y/N heard customers gasp, heard someone drop something, heard the hum growing louder outside.
Then she heard Jisung's voice, close to her ear.
"I need you to lock the door behind me. Do not open it for anyone. Do you understand?"
"Where are you going?"
"I have to check something. Stay safe. Please." His hand found hers in the dark, squeezed once. "I'll come back. I promise."
"Jisung-"
But he was already gone. She heard the door open, heard the night sounds of the street rush in, and then silence.
The emergency lights kicked in a moment later, dim and flickering, casting long shadows through the café. Customers were muttering, pulling out phones, trying to figure out what was happening. Y/N moved on autopilot, reassuring them, handing out free bottles of water, all while her mind screamed one question on repeat:
One moment, The Comfy Bean was humming along, fluorescent lights buzzing, espresso machine hissing, the low murmur of late-night customers. The next, everything went dark.
Y/N froze mid-wipe, the rag in her hand suddenly useless. Around her, customers cursed and fumbled for their phones, tiny screens flickering on like fireflies in the sudden darkness.
"Everyone stay calm," she called out, her voice steadier than she felt. "Emergency lights should kick in any second."
They did, dim, flickering things that cast long shadows and made the café feel like something out of a horror movie. Y/N moved on autopilot, apologizing to customers, handing out bottles of water, explaining that yes, the registers were down, no, she couldn't make coffee until the power came back.
Within twenty minutes, the café was empty.
Y/N should have closed up. Should have locked the doors and waited for the power to come back or gone home. But something kept her there, lingering by the counter, her phone battery draining as she scrolled through her last messages with Jisung.
You coming tonight? she'd texted hours ago.
Wouldn't miss it, he'd replied. Got something to show you.
But he hadn't shown. And now the city was dark, and she had no idea where he was, and the worry that had become her constant companion these past weeks was coiling tight in her chest.
He's fine, she told herself. He always is. He'll show up with some ridiculous excuse and a new bruise and you'll pretend to believe him and everything will be fine.
She grabbed her keys and decided to head home.
The back alley was pitch black. Her phone flashlight cut a weak path through the darkness, illuminating dumpsters and stacked boxes and the metal fire escape stairs zigzagging up the building. She fumbled with the lock, the keys slipping in her sweaty fingers,
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Y/N's scream was muffled into nothing. An arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her backward, dragging her away from the door. She kicked, she struggled, she tried to bite, but whoever held her was too strong, too big.
"Got a live one," a voice growled near her ear. Smelled like smoke and sweat. "Boss said anyone near this area tonight. Looks like we found someone."
No no no no-
She fought harder, terror giving her strength, but he just laughed and tightened his grip. She could see others now, shadows moving at the mouth of the alley, a van with its lights off. They'd been waiting. They'd been watching.
"Hold her still," someone else said.
And then,
THWIP.
The arm around her waist jerked away. The hand over her mouth disappeared. She heard a yelp, a thud, the sound of something, someone, hitting the dumpster hard.
She spun around.
The man who'd grabbed her was stuck to the dumpster. Both hands, pinned there by something white and glistening. Webbing. He was struggling, cursing, but he wasn't going anywhere.
Another thwip. Another thug, the one who'd been approaching from the side, suddenly found his feet glued to the pavement. He toppled forward with a shout.
And then a figure dropped from above, landing silently between Y/N and the rest of the alley.
Red and blue. White lenses. The spider emblem on his chest.
Spider-Man.
He stood there, back to her, shoulders relaxed like he didn't have a care in the world. "Sorry for the dramatic entrance," he said, his voice modulated but somehow still managing to sound cheeky. "Rough night for crime, I guess. You might want to pick a different alley next time. The ambiance is terrible."
The remaining thugs hesitated, exchanging glances. There were three of them still standing, plus the two he'd already webbed up.
"You think you're funny?" one of them spat.
"I know I'm funny. It's a whole thing." He tilted his head, and something about the gesture made Y/N's breath catch. "Now, here's the deal. You're going to get in your van and drive away. Or-" He held up a hand, and she saw something glinting between his fingers. "I make you drive away. Your choice."
They chose wrong.
What happened next was a blur. Movement so fast she could barely track it. Thwips and thuds and shouts. Bodies hitting walls, getting stuck to dumpsters, webbed to the pavement. It was over in seconds.
And then he was turning to face her, and the alley was quiet except for the sounds of the thugs groaning and cursing behind him.
"You okay?" he asked, and his voice was softer now, concerned. "Did any of them hurt you? Talk to me. Are you hurt?"
Y/N stared at him.
She stared at the suit, at the mask, at the way he held himself, weight slightly on one foot, like he was ready to move at any second. She stared at his hands, gloved fingers twitching slightly, a nervous habit she'd seen a hundred times across a café counter.
She stared at the way he tilted his head, waiting for her answer, and something clicked into place.
"Jisung?" she whispered.
He froze.
Complete, absolute stillness. Even the twitching stopped. The white lenses of his mask somehow conveyed pure panic.
"Uh," he said. "I... who's Jisung? Cool name. Very... handsome name, I'm sure. Is he your boyfriend? He sounds great. Really great guy. You should go find him. I'll just-" He gestured vaguely toward the rooftops. "Swing off. Do Spider-Man things. Very busy. Lots of crime to-"
"Jisung."
He stopped mid-gesture.
Y/N felt a smile tugging at her lips, relieved, overwhelmed, and impossibly fond. "Thank you, Spider-Man," she said softly, putting just enough emphasis on the name to make her point.
He deflated. His shoulders dropped, his head tilted forward, and a sound escaped him, half sigh, half laugh. "You know," he said quietly. "Of course you know. Because I'm an idiot who can't even-"
"Jisung."
He looked up.
She was smiling at him. Really smiling. Through the terror and the confusion and the thousand questions racing through her mind, she was smiling at him.
"You saved me."
"I mean. Technically. But also I've been lying to you for weeks, so-"
"Come here."
He blinked. "What?"
"Come here." She gestured him closer. "I can't reach you from there."
He hesitated for just a moment. Then he moved, not walking, exactly, but flowing into motion, a handspring that ended with him hanging upside down from the fire escape ladder, his masked face suddenly level with hers.
Y/N's heart stuttered.
He was right there. Inches away. Hanging upside down like it was the most natural thing in the world, his gloved hands gripping the ladder above him, his body swaying slightly in the night breeze.
"You're not freaking out," he observed, his voice small and vulnerable even through the modulator.
"I was scared," she admitted. "And you were here. So no. I'm not freaking out."
"But I'm Spider-Man. I've been lying. I've been making up stupid excuses and disappearing and-"
"You're also Jisung." She reached up, her fingers finding the edge of his mask where it met his jaw. "You're the guy who writes me songs and sends me bad memes and falls asleep in my café. You're the guy who saved my life."
He swallowed. She could see the movement in his throat. "Y/N..."
"Can I?" she whispered, her fingers hooking gently under the edge of the mask. "Just... can I see you?"
He nodded. The tiniest movement, but full of trust.
She pulled the mask up slowly, carefully, revealing his jaw first, then his lips, then his nose, then,
His eyes.
Jisung's eyes. Wide and vulnerable and shining with something that looked an awful lot like love. He had a fresh bruise on his cheekbone and dark circles under his eyes and he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
"There you are," she breathed.
"Hi." His voice cracked. "I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you. I wanted to, every day, but I was scared you'd-"
She didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. The apology, the fear, the months of distance, it all dissolved in the space between them. She closed the small gap, her hands framing the exposed line of his jaw, and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a soft, gentle kiss. It was desperate. A collision. It was the answer to every unanswered text, every hollow excuse, every time she'd watched him walk away and wondered if she'd imagined the connection between them. His lips were warm and chapped, yielding for a half-second before he was kissing her back with a matching ferocity. This wasn't the tentative exploration of a first kiss; it was the frantic, hungry reunion of two people who had been starving for each other without ever knowing it.
The awkward angle of him being upside down vanished. All she could feel was him. The solid, grounding pressure of his mouth, the way his free hand flew from the ladder to tangle in her hair, his fingers gripping the strands like he was afraid she might disappear. She felt the rumble in his chest, a low groan that vibrated through her, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He wasn't holding anything back anymore. The mask was gone, the secret was out, and all that was left was raw, unfiltered Jisung.
She poured every ounce of her fear for him, her anger at his lies, and her overwhelming, aching love into the kiss. She tasted the rain on his lips, felt the slight scrape of his stubble against her chin, inhaled the scent of city rain and something uniquely him. He tilted his head as best he could, deepening the kiss, and it was a brand new kind of intoxicating. It was a surrender. He was giving her everything.
When she finally pulled back, it was because her lungs were burning. They were both breathing hard, their breath mingling in the cold air. His eyes, those beautiful, familiar eyes, were wide and dark, blown wide with a dizzying cocktail of shock, awe, and something so profound it made her chest ache. A single tear had escaped and traced a path through the grime on his temple.
He didn't say "wow." He just stared at her mouth, then back to her eyes, as if trying to commit the entire moment to memory.
"That," he finally managed, his voice a raw, shaky whisper, "was not upside down." He swallowed hard. "That was right side up. For the first time in a long time."
She laughed, giddy and relieved and still shaking from everything. "You're ridiculous."
"I know." He smiled, that real smile, the one that made his eyes disappear. "But I'm your ridiculous. If you'll still have me."
Y/N looked at him, this impossible, wonderful, terrifying boy hanging from a fire escape in a Spider-Man suit, his mask pushed up just past his lips, looking at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
"I'll have you," she said.
His smile widened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And then he kissed her again, because apparently once wasn't enough, and she wasn't about to complain. His lips moved against hers, soft and sweet, and she felt his thumb trace gentle circles on her cheek, and for a moment, the dark alley and the unconscious thugs and the blacked-out city all faded away.
There was just them. Just this.
When they finally broke apart, he was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.
"We should probably go inside," he said. "Before more criminals show up. Or before I pass out from happiness. Either way."
Y/N laughed. "Inside sounds good."
He flipped down from the ladder, landing gracefully beside her, and she grabbed his hand before he could move away. His fingers intertwined with hers like they belonged there.
"Jisung?"
"Yeah?"
"We're going to talk about this. All of it. No more secrets."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "I promise. No more secrets."
"And you have to warn me before you ditch me to fight guys with weird weapons."
He laughed, that full, bright laugh she loved. "Deal."
"And you have to let me help. However I can. First aid kits and snacks and someone to talk to when it gets hard. I'm in this now, whether you like it or not."
He stopped walking. Turned to face her, his expression soft and wondering.
"You're amazing," he said. "You know that?"
"I'm a barista who just got saved by Spider-Man. You're the amazing one."
"No." He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "You're the one who stayed. You're the one who looked at me, all of me, the complicated scary parts, and didn't run. You're the one who kissed me while I was hanging upside down like an idiot." He smiled. "You're the amazing one. I'm just the guy who's lucky enough to have you."
Y/N felt her eyes sting. "Jisung..."
"I mean it." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Every word."
They stood there for a long moment, foreheads together, breathing the same air. Then Y/N pulled back and tugged him toward the café door.
"Come on. I have cookies. And about a million questions."
The café was dark, lit only by the glow of emergency lights and the occasional sweep of headlights through the front windows. Jisung sat on one of the overturned stools, he'd flipped it right-side up after nearly knocking it over in his nervous rambling, while Y/N rummaged behind the counter.
"I know there's a first aid kit somewhere," she muttered, opening and closing cabinets. "Mina's always moving things. She says organization is 'fluid' and I say she's chaotic, but-" She emerged with a small red case. "Aha."
Jisung watched her approach, something warm and aching in his chest. She moved like she always did, purposeful, efficient, but with a gentleness underneath that he'd noticed from that very first night. The night she'd given him a cookie and changed everything.
"I really am sorry," he said again. It felt like he'd said it a hundred times already. It still didn't feel like enough.
Y/N set the kit on the counter beside him and pulled up another stool. "You've apologized. Several times. Very sincerely."
"But I haven't explained. Not really." He looked down at his hands, bare hands, no gloves, just his fingers twisting together in his lap. "I wanted to tell you. So many times. Like, embarrassing number of times. I'd literally be swinging home from stopping a robbery and thinking, okay, tonight, I'm just going to say it. And then I'd see you, and you'd smile, and I'd think, what if that smile goes away? What if you look at me differently? What if-"
"Jisung."
He looked up.
Y/N was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Soft, though. That much he could tell. "You're rambling."
"I do that when I'm nervous."
"I know." She reached out and took one of his hands, stilling his fidgeting. "I've noticed. It's kind of cute."
His heart did something complicated. "Cute?"
"Cute." She squeezed his fingers. "Now. Tell me. All of it. But maybe start from the beginning? Because I have approximately one million questions, and the first one is, how long have you been Spider-Man?"
He took a deep breath.
And then he told her.
He told her about the spider bite, about the powers that had seemed like a miracle until he realized what they cost. He told her about Uncle Ben, his voice cracking on the name even now, years later. He told her about the weight of responsibility, the nights he couldn't sleep, the people he couldn't save. He told her about the loneliness, the absolute, crushing loneliness of being the only one who could do what he did, of having no one to talk to about the things he saw, the things he carried.
He told her about the café. About how he'd stumbled in one night after a particularly brutal fight, bruised and exhausted and not sure he could make it home. About how he'd sat in the corner and tried to disappear, and how she'd looked at him, really looked at him, and seen someone worth saving.
"That cookie," he said, his voice rough. "It sounds stupid, but that cookie meant everything. Someone saw me. Someone cared, even for a second, with no idea who I was. And I kept coming back because... because you kept seeing me. Night after night. You'd smile, you'd ask about my music, you'd save me pastries and pretend it was because they were going to expire. And for those few hours, I wasn't Spider-Man. I was just Jisung. Just some tired student with a caffeine addiction and a crush on the prettiest barista in the city."
Y/N's eyes were bright. "A crush, huh?"
"A massive crush." He laughed, wet and a little shaky. "Embarrassing, soul-crushing, write-songs-about-you-in-the-middle-of-the-night crush. Still have it, by the way. Probably always will."
"Good." She was smiling now, tears spilling over despite the smile. "Because I have one too. On some idiot who can't stop getting hurt and disappears in the middle of conversations and writes me songs that make me cry."
"That's me." He squeezed her hand. "That's definitely me."
She leaned forward and kissed him again, soft, brief, a punctuation mark rather than a sentence. When she pulled back, she cupped his face in her hands, thumbs brushing away the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"I like Han Jisung," she said firmly. "The one who sends me bad memes and falls asleep in my café and hums while he works. And I think Han Jisung, the amazing, dorky, music-producing Spider-Man, is pretty great too." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Just... maybe try not to get hurt? And warn me before you have to ditch a date to fight a guy with a lightning gun?"
He laughed, full and bright and absolutely giddy with relief. "Deal. I can do that. Probably. I mean, the warning part. The not-getting-hurt part is... less guaranteed. But I'll try. I promise I'll try."
"You better." She kissed him again, quicker this time. "Now hold still. I'm going to clean up that cut on your cheek, and you're going to tell me more about the lightning gun guy. Fair warning: I'm going to have opinions."
The next few weeks were an exercise in learning to balance.
Jisung had spent so long keeping his worlds separate, Spider-Man in one box, Han Jisung in another, never the two meeting, that integrating them felt like defusing a bomb while riding a unicycle. But Y/N made it easier.
She started small. A first aid kit appeared on the fire escape outside his apartment window, tucked behind a loose brick where he couldn't miss it. Inside, she'd packed bandages and antiseptic wipes and painkillers, along with a sticky note that read: For when you're stupid. Love, your favorite barista. ❤️
He found it at 3 AM after a particularly rough night, bleeding from a gash on his arm and so tired he could barely stand. He'd laughed until he cried, sitting on his fire escape in his suit, clutching that little kit like it was made of gold.
The snacks started appearing too. Protein bars in his usual café corner. A bag of his favorite chips tucked into his backpack when he wasn't looking. Once, a fully assembled sandwich with a note: Eat this. You forgot lunch again. I can tell by the way you're looking at the pastry case like it owes you money.
He brought it with him on patrol that night, eating it while perched on a water tower, and decided it was the best sandwich he'd ever had.
For Y/N's part, she learned to read him in new ways.
She could tell now when the tiredness in his eyes was just sleep deprivation versus when it was the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who'd spent hours swinging through the city, stopping crimes, carrying weight no one else could see. She could tell by the way he moved, smooth or stiff, fluid or careful, how bad the night had been.
She learned to ask questions without pushing, to offer comfort without making it obvious she was offering. She'd slide a coffee across the counter and ask, "Late night?" and he'd know she meant Are you okay? and he'd answer honestly, sometimes with words, sometimes just with a look.
And when the answers were bad, when he couldn't quite hide the shadows in his eyes, she'd find an excuse to sit with him. A break that lasted longer than it should. A sudden need to reorganize the sugar packets at his table. She'd be there, quietly present, and somehow that made everything feel more bearable.
"You're really good at this," he told her one night, his head pillowed on his arms on the counter, watching her wipe down the espresso machine.
"At wiping counters?"
"At... this." He gestured vaguely between them. "At being... you. At making everything feel less heavy."
She set down her rag and came to stand in front of him. "That's because you're not alone anymore. You don't have to carry everything by yourself."
"I know." He reached out and hooked a finger through her belt loop, tugging her closer. "It's still weird. Good weird. But weird."
"Good weird I can work with." She ran her fingers through his hair, and he leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. "You hungry? I have leftover cookies."
"I'm always hungry. But also-" He looked up at her, eyes soft. "Can we just stay like this for a minute? You're really comfortable."
She laughed softly. "We can stay like this as long as you want."
Little origami spiders, folded from napkins, appearing in unexpected places. One tucked into her apron pocket. One balanced on the edge of her coffee cup. One sitting on her pillow when she got home one night, she still didn't know how he'd gotten in, and she'd decided she didn't want to know.
He left her voice messages of song snippets, unfinished melodies that he'd hum into his phone in the middle of the night. She'd listen to them on repeat, picking out the threads of emotion woven through each note, and text back her favorites.
He left her pieces of himself, the vulnerable parts, the scared parts, the hopeful parts, and she held each one like it was precious.
The first time she saw him suit up and leave, knowing where he was going and why, was harder than she'd expected.
They'd been at her apartment, watching a movie, well, she had been watching a movie; he'd been half-asleep against her shoulder for the past hour. The buzzer on his wrist had gone off, quiet but insistent, and he'd gone from drowsy to alert in the space of a heartbeat.
"I have to-"
"I know." She'd already grabbed his bag, the one he kept by the door with spare web fluid and a change of clothes. "Go."
He'd looked at her, torn. "I hate leaving like this."
"I know that too." She'd kissed him quick and firm. "Come back safe. Text me when you can. I'll leave the window unlocked."
He'd smiled, grateful, worried, full of something that made her chest ache. And then he was gone, a blur of red and blue disappearing into the night.
She'd sat by the window for two hours, phone in hand, until finally a text came through: All safe. Tired. Coming home.
And he had. Climbing through her window at 4 AM, suit half-off, exhaustion written in every line of his body. She'd pulled him into bed without a word, held him until he fell asleep, and kissed his forehead when he mumbled her name in his dreams.
"You're different lately," Mina observed one afternoon, watching Y/N organize the pastry case with more attention than it required.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Lighter? Happier? You smile at your phone a lot. Like, a lot a lot." Mina leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing. "Is this about mystery boy? The one who writes you songs?"
Y/N felt her cheeks warm. "His name is Jisung. And yes. Things are... good. Really good."
"Good how?"
"Good like-" Y/N paused, searching for words that wouldn't give everything away. "Good like I finally feel like I know him. All of him. And he knows me. And it works."
Mina studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look. The 'I've found my person' look." She smiled, genuine and warm. "I'm happy for you, Y/N. Even if he is a mysterious night owl with questionable sleep habits."
That night, Jisung showed up at the café with his laptop and a nervous energy that Y/N recognized immediately.
"You finished something," she said, setting his coffee in front of him. "I can tell by the bouncing."
He grinned. "I finished something. A whole something. An album something."
Y/N's eyes went wide. "An album? Like, a real album?"
"Like a collection of songs I've been working on. Some of them you've heard. Some of them..." He ducked his head, ears pink. "Some of them are new. And they're all for you. Or about you. Or because of you."
"Jisung."
"I know it's a lot. You don't have to listen to all of it at once. You can take your time. Or never listen to it at all. I just-" He took a breath, looked up at her. "I wanted you to know. What you've done for me. What you mean to me. And music is how I say things I can't say any other way."
Y/N felt tears prick at her eyes. "Can I listen now?"
"Now? Here?"
"There's no one here. And I have fifteen minutes left on my break." She came around the counter and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Play it for me. Please."
He hesitated for just a moment. Then he pulled out his headphones, the big over-ear ones she'd seen a hundred times, and settled them gently over her ears. His fingers lingered at her temples, warm and careful.
"Close your eyes," he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
The first song started, and she recognized it immediately-"Coffee and Constellations," the one he'd written after their first real conversation. But it was fuller now, more polished, with layers she hadn't heard before. Then came "Waiting," the one from his note, and then new songs-"Late Night Regular," "Fire Escape," "The Girl Who Saw Me."
Each one was a piece of their story. Each one was a love letter set to music.
By the time the last song faded, an instrumental piece called "Home" that made her think of warm coffee and safe spaces and a boy who'd finally found somewhere to belong, tears were streaming down her face.
She opened her eyes.
Jisung was watching her with that expression, hopeful and terrified and so full of love it made her breath catch.
"Y/N?" His voice was small. "Are you okay? Was it too much? I can-"
She didn't just pull the headphones off; she ripped them away, letting them clatter to the floor. The music was gone, but its echo was still vibrating in her bones, in her soul. Before he could finish his nervous question, she launched herself forward, her hands framing his face, pulling him into her.
This wasn't a kiss. It was a confession. It was every unspoken "I love you" he had ever layered into a melody, now given form. Her lips met his with a force that was born from the overwhelming symphony still playing in her head. It was desperate and deep and utterly consuming. She poured the sound of "Coffee and Constellations" into it, the ache of "Waiting," the triumphant joy of "Home." She tasted the salt of her own tears on his lips, mingling with the raw, unguarded emotion pouring from him.
He made a sound, a choked, breathless gasp of surprise that was instantly swallowed by the ferocity of her kiss. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, flew to her back, one splaying wide between her shoulder blades, the other fisting in the fabric of her shirt at her waist. He wasn't just kissing her back; he was holding on for dear life, pulling her flush against him as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had just been completely remade. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and it was no longer just her confession, it was his. It was the bridge of every song, the crescendo, the final, crashing chord that resolved everything into this one, perfect, breathtaking moment. It was a kiss that said, "You heard me. You finally, truly heard me." And her answer was a resounding, silent, "Always."
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"I love them," she whispered. "I love all of them. I love you."
His eyes went wide. "You-"
"I love you, Jisung. The real you. All of you. Spider-Man and music nerd and anxious mess and the most talented person I've ever met. I love you."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then his face crumpled into something that was half smile, half sob, and he pulled her into a hug so tight she could barely breathe.
"I love you too," he mumbled into her hair. "So much. So, so much. I've been wanting to say it for weeks but I was scared it was too soon or too much or-"
"It's not too much." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
"I'm really not."
"You are to me."
He laughed, wet and happy, and kissed her again, softer this time, sweeter, like they had all the time in the world.
Later, after the café closed and they'd walked hand in hand through the quiet streets, they ended up on a rooftop. Not because he had to fight anyone, just because he wanted to show her his city from above.
They sat on the edge, legs dangling over the side, watching the lights flicker below. Jisung had one arm around her, and she was tucked against his side, warm and content.
"This is where I come sometimes," he said quietly. "When I need to think. Or when I can't sleep. Or when I just need to remember why I do this."
She looked out at the city, sprawling and beautiful, full of light and shadow. "It's incredible."
"It's home." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And now you're here. Which makes it even better."
She smiled, leaning into him. "I'm glad you showed me."
"Me too."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the city breathe below them. Then Jisung shifted, pulling something from his pocket.
"I made you something," he said, slightly sheepish. "Another thing, I mean. Besides the album. Which was already a thing. A very big thing. This is smaller. But also, just, here."
He pressed it into her palm. A small origami spider, but different from the napkin ones, this one was made from something shiny, metallic, that caught the light.
"It's from one of my old suits," he explained. "The fabric has this weird reflective property. I thought, I don't know, I thought you might like something that's part of that world. Part of me. So you always have a piece of it. Of me."
Y/N looked at the little spider in her palm, then at him, at this impossible, wonderful boy who'd given her his heart in songs and secrets and tiny folded pieces of his old life.
"I'll treasure it forever," she said. "Just like I treasure you."
He smiled, that real smile, the one that made his eyes disappear, and kissed her again, soft and sweet, right there on the rooftop above the city.
Jisung still swung through the city at night, still stopped crimes and saved people and carried weight no one else could see. But now, when it got too heavy, he had somewhere to go. Someone waiting.
He'd find himself on a rooftop across from The Comfy Bean, watching through the window as she wiped down tables or laughed with customers. And when he dropped by later, not as Spider-Man, just as Jisung, she'd look up and smile like he was the best part of her night.
Sometimes he'd stay until close, helping her clean, making her laugh with ridiculous stories. Sometimes he'd show up exhausted and bruised, and she'd pull him into the back room and patch him up without a word, her touch gentle and sure. Sometimes he'd climb through her window at 3 AM, too wired to sleep, and they'd lie in the dark and talk about nothing and everything until dawn.
And sometimes, on the good nights, the quiet nights, he'd take her to his favorite rooftops and they'd watch the city together, and he'd think about how different everything was now. How he wasn't alone anymore. How the weight felt lighter because someone was helping him carry it.
"You're staring," Y/N said one night, not looking up from the espresso machine.
"I'm appreciating." He was at the counter, chin in his hand, watching her work. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Staring is creepy. Appreciating is romantic. I'm being very romantic right now."
She glanced up, amused. "By watching me clean coffee grounds?"
"You make everything look beautiful. Even coffee grounds." He paused. "Especially coffee grounds."
She laughed, that full, bright sound he loved, and shook her head. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
"I love you." She came around the counter and kissed his forehead. "Impossible tendencies and all."
He caught her hand before she could pull away, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Best thing that ever happened to me. You know that?"
"I'm a barista who gave you a cookie."
"You're the person who saw me. Who stayed. Who looked at all of me and didn't run." He smiled up at her. "You're everything."
Her eyes softened. "Jisung..."
"I mean it. Every word."
She leaned down and kissed him properly, right there in the middle of the café, and he thought, not for the first time, that this was what home felt like.
Not a place. Not a city. Not even a rooftop with a view.
Later that night, after the café closed and they'd walked home together, Jisung stood on her fire escape, ready to swing back to his apartment. But he paused, looking through the window at her inside, moving around her small kitchen, making tea, glancing up to smile at him through the glass.
He pulled out his phone and typed quickly.
Thanks for existing.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. He watched her read it, watched her smile, watched her type back.
Thanks for letting me exist alongside you.
Always.
Goodnight, Spider-Man.
Goodnight, my favorite barista.
He put his mask on, took one last look at her through the window, and swung off into the night. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter where he went, no matter what he faced, he'd always have somewhere to come back to.
The alley behind The Comfy Bean was a canyon of shadows, smelling of damp brick and week-old garbage. It was the long exhale after a busy shift, the moment the day's armor of customer-service smiles and the hiss of the espresso machine fell away, leaving only the echo of her own footsteps and the cold city air. Y/N's keys were a familiar, jagged weight in her palm, her knuckles white as she walked, a practiced rhythm of glances over her shoulder. The vulnerability was a shiver down her spine, a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety.
She never heard him coming.
One moment, the only sound was the scuff of her worn sneakers on the pavement. The next, a soft thwip cut through the night, a sound like a tape measure snapping back. A shadow detached itself from the fire escape above, resolving into the familiar, impossible shape of him. He hung there, a silent, upside-down figure against the murky orange glow of the distant streetlights, his white lenses gleaming like two new moons.
"Evening, gorgeous," Spider-Man's voice came, a warm, intimate baritone filtered through the mask's modulator. It was a sound reserved only for her. "Taking the scenic route? I hear the dumpsters are particularly fragrant tonight. Very atmospheric."
The jolt in her chest was a familiar thrill, a lightning strike of fear and delight. "I'm going to have a heart attack," she breathed, her hand flying to her throat. "My obituary is going to say 'death by boyfriend-induced whiplash'."
"First of all, that's a terrible headline. Second of all-" He lowered himself in a slow, controlled sway, his body a fluid arc against the brick, until his masked face was inches from hers. "-you'd miss me too much."
And she would. God, she would.
This was their ritual. A secret communion in the city's forgotten spaces. He came to her after the night had tried to break him, and she was here to put him back together. Sometimes he was vibrating with a fight's energy, words spilling out in a torrent of near-misses and clever quips. Other times, like tonight, he was quiet, the stillness of the alley a mirror for the exhaustion she knew clung to his bones.
Her hand rose, not with hesitation but with the certainty of a well-loved prayer. Her fingers traced the seam where the red fabric met his jaw, a path she knew by heart. She felt the slight tension in the muscles there, the way he held himself perfectly still, surrendering to her touch. His lenses widened, a silent gasp. She hooked her fingers under the edge and pulled, slowly revealing the landscape of him. The sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the stubborn slope of his nose. She stopped just short of his eyes, leaving him half-hidden, half-revealed.
Jisung's breath hitched, a quiet, audible surrender. It did every time.
"There you are," she whispered, the words a benediction.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't a simple press of lips. It was an anchor. She leaned into him, pouring all the warmth from the café, all the safety she wished she could wrap around him, into the connection. His lips were soft and warm against the cool night air, and for a moment, he was perfectly still, just receiving it. Then he kissed her back, and it was like a dam breaking. His gloved hands, capable of punching through concrete, came up to frame her face with impossible gentleness, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her cheeks. It was a kiss of desperate relief, of finding your only port in a hurricane. He poured the night's chaos into her, and she met it with her own unwavering calm, a silent promise: I'm here. You're safe. You're home.
When they broke apart, the world rushed back in, the distant wail of a siren, the drip of water in a downspout. He was grinning, she could feel it in the way his lips curved against hers, even with the mask still bunched under his nose.
"You know," he said, his voice slightly muffled, thick with emotion, "this is probably in the top five weirdest things about our relationship."
"Only top five?" she teased, her own smile wide. "I'm disappointed."
He laughed, a real, unguarded Jisung laugh. "Rough night?"
"Better now," he said, his voice soft and sincere.
"Same place tomorrow?"
"Always."
He squeezed her hands once more before pushing off, his body a graceful arc as he soared back up to the fire escape. He paused, a silhouette against the sky.
"Hey, Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"I really do love you," he said, his voice carrying down to her, clear and true. "Just in case the upside-down-alley-kissing wasn't obvious enough."
She looked up at this ridiculous, wonderful, self-sacrificing boy, her heart so full it felt like it might overflow. "It's the clearest thing in the world, Jisung. I love you too."
With a soft, happy sound, he was gone, a blur of red and blue melting into the labyrinth of the rooftops. Y/N stood there for a moment longer, the alley no longer feeling quite so dark or menacing. She shook her head, a smile still playing on her lips, and continued her walk to the car, the weight of her keys feeling a little lighter now.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || A long-distance relationship finally bridges the gap when one person travels across the world to be with the other, leading to them building a new life together in a foreign country surrounded by found family.
Incheon International Airport | Arrivals Hall | 8:47 PM
The flight was fourteen hours of barely-contained chaos.
You couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't do anything except stare out the window at the clouds and think about the fact that on the other side of this plane, on the other side of this ocean, Felix was waiting.
Felix.
Your Felix. The boy who'd flown across the world for you. The man who'd bought you a plane ticket without asking because he was that sure you'd come. The idiot who'd somehow convinced his manager to help him pull strings and call your boss pretending to be a record executive.
You still couldn't believe that worked.
Now you're standing in the arrivals hall, suitcase in one hand, passport in the other, scanning the crowd of strangers for a face you'd know anywhere.
The crowd parts.
And there he is.
He's not holding a sign. He's not grinning like an idiot. He's just standing there, leaning against a pillar with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black hoodie, looking like he's been carved from the shadows. The hood is up, casting his face in darkness, but you see the way his entire body goes rigid the moment he spots you. He doesn't wave or call out. He just pushes off the pillar and starts walking toward you, his movements slow and deliberate, cutting through the stream of people with an unnerving focus.
You don't run. You can't. Your feet are rooted to the floor as he closes the distance between you. He stops right in front of you, so close you can feel the chill coming off his clothes.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and rough.
"Hey," you manage to whisper back.
His eyes, dark and intense, scan your face like he's memorizing every detail all over again. "You look tired."
"Fourteen hours in a metal tube will do that to you."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Yeah. I know the feeling."
For a moment, you both just stand there, the airport chaos fading into a dull roar around you. Then he reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The touch is so careful, so reverent, it sends a shiver down your spine.
"I was worried you wouldn't come," he admits, his voice barely audible.
"I told you I would."
"I know. But..." He trails off, his thumb stroking your cheek. "It's a long way to come for someone like me."
You finally find the strength to move, closing the remaining inches between you and wrapping your arms around his waist. He freezes for a second before his arms circle you, pulling you flush against him. His face buries in your hair, and you can feel him take a deep, shuddering breath.
"Felix," you murmur into his chest. "I'm here. I'm really here."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face. His expression is raw, vulnerable, all traces of his usual playful charm gone. This is the Felix no one else gets to see—the one who looks at you like you're the only thing holding him together.
Then he kisses you.
It's nothing like you expected. It's slow and deep and desperate, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity that steals the air from your lungs. There's no show for the crowd, no performance. It's just Felix, kissing you like he's been drowning and you're his first breath of air.
When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily.
"Your manager is going to kill you for this," you say softly.
"Worth it," he breathes, his eyes still closed. "Every second."
You pull back to look at him properly. "She's going to have opinions about the public display of affection."
He opens his eyes, and they're shining with something you can't quite name. "Let her. Right now, I'm taking my girlfriend home."
Girlfriend.
The word settles in your chest like a warm weight.
"Okay," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "Take me home."
The city is a blur of lights through the window. Neon signs in languages you can't read. Towering buildings that seem to touch the sky. Streets packed with people even at this hour.
Felix holds your hand the entire drive, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin.
"What are you thinking?" he asks quietly.
"That this is insane. That I'm in Seoul. That you're real. That we're doing this."
"Insane good or insane bad?"
You turn to look at him, his face illuminated by passing streetlights.
"Insane everything. The good kind of insane. The kind that makes me feel like I'm dreaming."
He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
You've seen the dorm in video calls and fansign photos, but seeing it in person is different. It's lived-in. Real. There's a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, empty ramen cups on the coffee table, a pile of shoes by the door that you can't identify.
"It's not much," Felix says, suddenly self-conscious. "It's small and messy and the guys are loud, but-"
"It's perfect." You step inside, taking it all in. "It's yours. It's where you live. I've wanted to see this for years."
He smiles, soft and warm.
"Welcome home, pretty."
The door opens behind you.
"Yah, Felix, did you forget to, OH."
You turn to find a guy frozen in the doorway, grocery bags in both hands, eyes wide as saucers.
He's tall. Sharp features. Dark hair falling across his forehead. He stares at you, then at Felix, then back at you.
"You didn't tell me she was arriving TODAY."
Felix winces. "Hyung, this is-"
"Of course I know who she is, I've been hearing about her for THREE YEARS." He sets down the groceries and bows, quick and flustered. "I'm Changbin. I'm so sorry for walking in like that. I didn't know, Felix said you were coming but he didn't say WHEN and I would've, I'm making a mess of this, aren't I?"
You laugh, genuinely laugh, because he's so flustered and earnest and clearly trying so hard.
"Hi, Changbin. I'm Y/N. It's nice to finally meet you."
He straightens, relief flooding his face.
"Finally! Oh thank god, you're nice. Felix talks about you so much I was worried you'd be intimidating."
"Intimidating?" Felix sputters. "When have I ever-"
"All the time. 'Y/N would never put up with this.' 'Y/N's stronger than all of us combined.' 'Y/N once caught a spider with her bare hands and released it outside.'"
"That was ONE TIME-"
"And it's incredibly intimidating, okay? Normal people don't catch spiders."
You're laughing so hard now that tears are forming.
"It was a small spider!"
"It doesn't matter! The principle-"
The door opens again.
This time it's a guy with blonde hair and the warmest smile you've ever seen. He takes one look at the scene, Felix red-faced and sputtering, Changbin gesturing wildly, you doubled over laughing, and just... grins.
"Ah. You must be Y/N."
You manage to straighten up. "That's me. Sorry, I've been here fifteen minutes and I'm already causing chaos."
"Don't apologize. This is the most alive Felix has looked in three years." He holds out his hand. "I'm Chan. Welcome to our chaos."
You shake his hand, and there's something so steady about him, so immediately comforting, that you understand instantly why Felix talks about him like an older brother.
"Thank you for having me. I know this is-"
"Exactly where you should be." Chan's eyes are kind but serious. "Felix has been counting down the days. We all have. You're family here."
Your throat tightens.
"Okay, that's enough emotional stuff for now." Changbin claps his hands. "Y/N, have you eaten? The food on planes is terrible. Felix, why haven't you fed her yet?"
"I was going to-"
"No time like the present. Chan, help me cook. Felix, show her around and keep her out of the way."
And just like that, you're swept into the warm chaos of eight men who've apparently been waiting to meet you.
By the time Felix finishes the "quick tour" (which takes forty-five minutes because he keeps stopping to show you photos and tell stories about each room), the kitchen is full of people.
Felix does introductions, pointing as he goes.
"That's Minho, he pretends to hate everyone but he's secretly the softest. That's Hyunjin, he's beautiful and he knows it. Jisung is the one making inappropriate gestures, Jisung, STOP. That's Seungmin, he's already judging all of us. That's Jeongin, he's the baby and we protect him with our lives."
Jeongin waves shyly. "Hi, noona. Felix talks about you constantly."
"Ignore him," Felix says. "He's lying."
"He's not lying," Jisung chimes in. "It's actually concerning. We had to implement a 'no mentioning Y/N during practice' rule because he kept getting distracted."
"There was no rule-"
"There should have been a rule."
"Jisung."
Everyone's laughing, including you, and it feels so natural, so easy, like you've known these people for years instead of minutes.
Minho appears beside you with a bowl of rice.
"Eat," he says simply.
"Oh, I, thank you."
He nods once and disappears back into the kitchen chaos. Felix leans close to your ear.
"He likes you. He doesn't cook for just anyone."
"How can you tell he likes me?"
"He made you rice."
"Is that... a test?"
"No, it's just, Minho expresses love through food. If he feeds you, you're in."
You look at the bowl in your hands, then at Minho's back as he stirs something on the stove, and something warm blooms in your chest.
Somehow, eight grown men (plus you) have squeezed around a table designed for six. You're pressed against Felix's side, his arm draped over the back of your chair, and you've never felt more at home.
"So, Y/N," Hyunjin says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint. "Tell us the real stories. The ones Felix has been hiding."
"Hyunjin-" Felix warns.
"What? We deserve to know."
You smile innocently. "What kind of stories?"
"The embarrassing ones. The ones he'd never tell us himself."
You pretend to think. "Well... there was the time he tried to cook me dinner and set rice on fire."
The table erupts.
"RICE?" Jisung howls. "How do you set RICE on fire?"
"It was a small fire!"
"You set RICE on FIRE and it was a SMALL FIRE?"
"It was a PANIC, okay? I was trying to be romantic and everything went wrong and-"
"And she still loves you," Seungmin observes dryly. "That's actually impressive."
"Love conquers all," Jeongin says sagely.
"Even burnt rice," Chan adds.
Felix groans, burying his face in his hands. You laugh and lean into him.
The dorm has finally quieted. The others have retreated to their rooms, and you're alone in Felix's space, surrounded by his things.
It's small. A bed, a desk, a closet, posters on the walls. But it's him. His hoodies hang on hooks. His books are stacked on the nightstand. His laptop is open to a playlist you recognize.
You sit on his bed, suddenly shy.
"So this is where you live."
"This is where I live." He sits beside you, close but not touching. "It's not much, but-"
"It's perfect." You run your hand over his blanket. "It's yours. I've been imagining this for years. What your room looks like. Where you sleep. The view from your window."
"You imagined my room?"
"I imagined everything. Every detail I could piece together from photos and calls and things you mentioned. I wanted to be able to picture you, really picture you, even when you were far away."
He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
"I did the same. With your apartment. I memorized every photo you sent. The way the light comes through your curtains in the morning. The crack in your ceiling that looks like a duck."
"It DOES look like a duck!"
"I know. I've stared at photos of that duck for hours."
You both laugh, and the tension breaks, and suddenly he's pulling you into his arms and you're on his bed, tangled together like you've always been there.
"I can't believe you're here," he whispers. "In my room. In my bed. Actually here."
"Believe it."
"I'm trying. But every time I close my eyes, I'm scared I'll wake up and you'll be gone."
You cup his face, making him look at you.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for two whole weeks. And after that-" You hesitate. "After that, we figure it out. Together."
"Together," he echoes.
He kisses you, soft and slow, and it feels like a promise.
Felix has a schedule today. A short one, he promised. Just a few hours of practice, then he's all yours.
Except you're here. In the building. Because Manager Lee apparently decided that leaving you alone in the dorm was "not secure" and "a liability" and "Felix would be useless anyway if he was worried about you."
So now you're sitting in a small observation room, watching through a window as eight men run through choreography.
It's mesmerizing.
You've seen the dances on screen, of course. Watched the music videos, the fancams, the performances. But seeing it live, in person, is completely different. The precision. The power. The way they move as one organism, perfectly synchronized.
And Felix.
God, Felix.
He's different here. Still your Felix, still the boy who cries at movies and sets rice on fire, but also this. This dancer. This performer. This man who commands every movement like he was born to do it.
The music stops. They break formation, laughing, breathing hard. Felix looks up at the observation window and waves, grinning.
You wave back, and your heart is so full it might burst.
The door opens. Manager Lee slips in, closing it quietly behind her.
"You must be Y/N."
You stand quickly. "Yes. Thank you for, for arranging all this. For letting me be here."
She studies you for a long moment. Her expression is unreadable, and you're suddenly very aware that this woman holds Felix's career in her hands.
"You're the one he flew to Australia for."
"Yes."
"The one he fought three scheduling managers for."
"...Yes."
"The one he's been insufferable about for three years."
You're not sure how to answer that.
Manager Lee's face softens, just slightly.
"Good." She sits beside you, watching the boys through the window. "I've watched him for years. Seen him work himself to exhaustion. Seen him smile for cameras and fade the moment they turn off. He's been running on fumes and dreams, and I didn't know how to help him." She glances at you. "Then you came. And he started actually living again."
Your throat tightens.
"I don't want to hurt his career-"
"His career will survive. It's him I'm worried about." She pauses. "Take care of him. The way only you can. And if you need anything, help with visas, paperwork, logistics, come to me. I'll make it happen."
You stare at her.
"Why?"
"Because I've been in this industry for twenty years. I've seen what happens to idols who lose themselves. I've watched them burn out, break down, disappear. Felix is one of the good ones. He deserves to be happy." She stands, straightening her jacket. "And you make him happy. That's enough for me."
She leaves before you can respond.
You sit there, stunned, watching through the window as Felix laughs at something Jisung said, his whole face lit up.
The streets are packed with people, music pouring from shops, the smell of food from street vendors. Felix is in full disguise, mask and cap, but his eyes are bright as he leads you through the crowd.
"This is where we used to come as trainees," he explains. "Before debut. When we had free time, which was never, but sometimes we'd sneak out and, oh, you have to try this."
He pulls you to a food stall and orders something in rapid Korean. The ajumma behind the counter smiles and hands you a paper cup filled with something that smells incredible.
"What is it?"
"Tteokbokki. Spicy rice cakes. My favorite."
You take a bite and immediately understand why it's his favorite. It's chewy and spicy and perfect.
"Oh my god."
"Good, right?"
"So good."
He grins, that real grin, and you walk through the crowded streets eating from the same cup, sharing bites, stealing kisses when no one's looking.
This. This is what you dreamed of. Normal. Easy. Together.
The cable car ride up the mountain is beautiful, Seoul spreading out below you like a glittering map. Felix holds your hand the entire way, quiet, watching your face instead of the view.
At the top, the city stretches endlessly, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk falls.
"It's beautiful," you breathe.
"Not as beautiful as you."
You roll your eyes. "Smooth."
"I mean it." He turns you to face him. "I wanted to bring you here because, because this is where I come when I need to think. When I miss home. When I miss you. I'd stand here and look at the city and imagine you beside me." He takes both your hands. "And now you are. You're really here."
Your eyes sting.
"Felix..."
"I know it's early. I know we have so much to figure out. But I need you to know, I'm not letting you go. Not ever. Whatever it takes, whatever we have to do, I'm in. All in. Forever."
"Forever," you echo.
"Yeah. Forever."
The city lights blur as he leans in, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to the space between your faces. His thumb traces your jawline, a gesture so tender it makes your breath catch. Then his lips meet yours, not hesitant, not questioning, but with the certainty of someone who has been waiting years for this exact moment. It's slow at first, a deliberate exploration that tastes of promise and the cool evening air. His hands slide from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you closer until there's no distinction between where he ends and you begin.
The kiss deepens, becoming something almost desperate in its intensity. Years of missed chances and unspoken words pour into this single act, his tongue sliding against yours, the way his fingers press into your back as if afraid you might vanish. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, a frantic rhythm that matches your own. The city below fades to nothing but distant glitter, the stars above pale compared to the fire building between you. When you finally break apart, gasping, his forehead rests against yours, both of you trembling with the force of it. "Forever," he whispers against your swollen lips, and you know, right here, right now, that he means every word.
You've been here five days, and somehow you've already become part of the furniture.
Tonight, you're sprawled on the couch with Felix, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair. The others are scattered around, some on the floor, some in chairs, all watching a movie that no one's really paying attention to.
"Y/N-noona," Jeongin says from his spot on the floor. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What's Felix like at home? Like, really at home?"
You look down at Felix. He's watching you with soft eyes, waiting.
"Lazy," you say immediately. "He's incredibly lazy. He'll sleep until noon if you let him. He leaves his socks everywhere. He once wore the same hoodie for a week because he 'didn't want to do laundry.'"
"Traitor," Felix mutters, but he's smiling.
"But he also-" You pause, searching for the right words. "He also notices everything. When you're sad before you even know it yourself. When you need someone to just sit with you in silence. He leaves little notes everywhere. He remembers the small things, the things you mentioned once months ago, and brings them up later like they're important. He makes everyone around him feel seen."
"That's Felix," you say simply. "That's who he's always been."
Felix reaches up and pulls you down into a kiss, right there in front of everyone.
"Get a room," Jisung complains.
"Technically we're in the common room," Seungmin points out.
"Then get a different room."
You pull back, laughing, and Felix grins up at you like you hung the moon.
"I love you," he whispers.
"I love you too."
"Okay but can we finish the movie?" Changbin interjects. "The monster is about to, oh, too late, someone died."
Chaos erupts as everyone argues about who wasn't paying attention, and you settle back into the couch, Felix's head in your lap, surrounded by laughter and warmth and the feeling of belonging.
Felix has a rare free afternoon, and he's using it to show you his favorite spot.
The Han River glitters in the afternoon sun. Families picnic on the grass. Couples bike along the path. It's peaceful in a way the city center isn't.
You're sitting on a bench, sharing fried chicken from a convenience store, because apparently that's a thing here and it's the best thing you've ever eaten.
"I could get used to this," you say, watching a group of kids fly kites.
"Used to what?"
"This. Being with you. Having time together that isn't stolen or rushed."
Felix is quiet for a moment.
"Then stay."
You look at him.
"What?"
"Stay. Not just for two weeks. Stay for real. Move here."
"Felix-"
"I know it's crazy. I know it's fast. I know there's a thousand reasons it won't work. But I also know that I'm miserable when you're gone. That every day without you feels like something's missing. That I've spent three years dreaming of having you here, really here, and now that you are, I can't go back to just phone calls and video chats."
He takes your hands.
"I'm not asking for forever right now. Just, try it. Give it a chance. Stay for a month. Two months. See if you can build a life here. See if this can work. And if it doesn't, if you hate it, if you're miserable, I'll buy you a plane ticket home myself. No questions asked. But at least we'll know. At least we'll have tried."
You stare at him.
"You've thought about this."
"I've thought about nothing else since you landed." He laughs, a little helpless. "I know it's a lot. I know I'm rushing. But I spent three years waiting and watching you slip away. I can't do that again. I need you here. With me. In my life, not just on the edges."
Your heart is pounding.
"Felix, my job, my apartment, my whole life is in Australia-"
"I know. And I'm not asking you to give it up forever. Just, expand it. Add Seoul. Add me. See if you can build something here too."
You think about your apartment. Your job. Your friends. Your life.
Then you think about the past eight days. The laughter. The warmth. The way it feels to fall asleep next to him and wake up still in his arms. The way the others have welcomed you like family. The way Manager Lee offered to help.
"I'll think about it," you whisper.
His face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. No promises. But I'll think about it."
He pulls you into a hug so tight you can't breathe.
Someone (probably Jisung) decided that a group outing was necessary, and now you're surrounded by eight men arguing about who has to carry the picnic blanket.
"You're the youngest, you carry it."
"That's not how age lines work, Hyunjin-hyung."
"It is today."
"Yah, stop fighting and just carry it together."
"Why are you yelling at us, Minho-hyung, you're not carrying anything-"
"I'm carrying the emotional burden of this group, which is heavier than any blanket."
You're laughing so hard you have to stop walking. Felix grins at you, his hand warm in yours.
"This is normal," he says. "This is every day."
"How do you survive?"
"Barely. Lots of patience. Even more love."
You watch them bicker and laugh and eventually figure it out (Jeongin carries the blanket, Hyunjin carries the snacks, everyone carries their own drama). And you think: I could get used to this.
The afternoon is perfect.
You eat more fried chicken. You play games that you don't understand the rules of but everyone explains patiently (except Minho, who explains once and then acts betrayed when you forget). You take approximately eight thousand photos, most of them blurry, all of them precious.
The kite is a disaster.
Jisung runs with it, trips, faceplants. Hyunjin laughs so hard he falls over. Changbin is yelling instructions in a mix of Korean and English that no one understands. Minho has given up entirely and is now taking photos of a duck.
You're sitting on the picnic blanket, knees pulled up, watching the chaos with a smile so wide your cheeks hurt.
Chan settles beside you.
Not close enough to be awkward, but close enough that you feel his presence. Solid. Steady. The kind of person who makes a space feel safer just by being in it.
"They've been trying to fly that kite for forty-five minutes," he says, amused.
"I'm starting to think it's impossible."
"Oh, it's possible. They're just... approaching it with their usual strategy."
"Which is?"
"Chaos and hope."
You laugh, and Chan's eyes crinkle with warmth.
For a while, you just watch. Felix has taken over kite duty now, and he's actually doing better, the kite lifts, wobbles, stays airborne for a full ten seconds before nosediving into a bush.
"FELIX!" Jisung shrieks. "THAT WAS MY BUSH!"
"Your bush?"
"I CLAIMED IT! EMOTIONALLY!"
You're laughing so hard you have to wipe your eyes. When you look over, Chan is watching you with a soft, knowing expression.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just, you fit."
"Fit?"
"Here. With us. With him." He gestures at the chaos. "Some people come into this life and they don't get it. They don't understand the chaos, the closeness, the way we are with each other. They try to change things. Or they get overwhelmed and pull away." He glances at you. "You just... jumped right in. Laughed at the chaos. Became part of it."
You're not sure what to say.
"I've known Felix since trainee days," Chan continues, his voice softer now. "I've watched him grow, struggle, succeed. He's always been bright, always been warm, but there was always something... missing. Some part of him that was back in Australia. Some piece he couldn't bring with him." He glances at you. "You're that piece. Now that you're here, he's whole."
Your throat tightens.
"Chan-"
"I'm not saying this to pressure you. I'm saying it so you know. Whatever you decide, whatever happens, you've already given him something no one else could." He smiles, soft and kind. "And for what it's worth, I hope you stay. We could use more of whatever you bring out in him."
You don't know what to say. So you just nod, and watch Felix laugh as the kite finally, miraculously, takes flight.
The boys cheer. Jisung cries actual tears. Hyunjin does a victory dance. And Felix,
Felix looks back at you, eyes bright, grin wide, and waves.
You wave back, and your heart is so full it might burst.
Later, after the kite has crashed approximately seventeen more times and everyone's sprawled on blankets eating convenience store snacks, you find yourself beside Chan again.
He's showing you photos on his phone, production behind-the-scenes, stupid moments in the studio, Felix asleep in odd positions.
"That one's my favorite," he says, zooming in on Felix drooling on a couch, his face half-smushed into a cushion.
"Oh my god, send me that."
"Already did. I put it in the group chat."
"There's a group chat?"
"There is now." He grins. "Jisung made it last night. It's called 'Y/N's Korean Family' and it's already out of control."
You pull out your phone and find it, 9 participants, 347 unread messages, the last one being a photo of Minho's cat with the caption "she approves of Y/N."
"I've only been here ten days," you say, amazed.
"And? We adopt fast. Felix has been talking about you for three years. You were basically family before you arrived."
Something warm blooms in your chest.
"Chan... can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"How do you do it? Lead them? Keep them together through everything?"
He's quiet for a moment, watching the others argue about something meaningless.
"I listen," he says finally. "That's the main thing. I listen to what they say and what they don't say. I pay attention to who's tired, who's struggling, who needs space or a hug or someone to tell them it's okay to rest. I try to be the person I needed when I was younger." He glances at you. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Felix talks about you like you're his brother. Like you're the reason he survived trainee days. And I wanted to understand why."
Chan's expression softens.
"Felix..." He shakes his head, smiling. "Felix is one of the most special people I've ever met. He works harder than anyone. He cares deeper than anyone. He feels everything so intensely that sometimes I worry about him. But he also has this light, this warmth, that makes everyone around him better. And you-" He looks at you directly. "You're part of that light. You always have been. Even from across an ocean."
You don't know what to say. So you just lean over and rest your head on his shoulder for a second, a silent thank you.
He doesn't react, doesn't make it weird. Just lets you have the moment.
When you sit up, he's smiling.
"Hey," he says. "Whenever you need someone, to talk, to vent, to help you navigate this crazy life, I'm here. Okay? Not just as Felix's leader. As your friend."
"Okay," you whisper. "Thank you."
"Anytime, little sister."
Little sister.
The words settle into your heart and stay there.
Later that night, back at the dorm, you're curled up with Felix when your phone buzzes.
Chan (in the group chat): today was good. Y/N, you're officially part of the chaos now. no take backs.
Jisung: CHAN HYUNG SAID IT FIRST BUT I WAS GONNA SAY IT
Hyunjin: you were not
Jisung: I WAS
Minho: you were asleep in the car for the whole ride home
Jisung: DREAMING ABOUT SAYING IT
Seungmin: that's not how dreams work
Jeongin: welcome to the family noona!!! 🎉
Felix (beside you, on the couch): she's blushing. i can feel it.
You: I AM NOT
Felix: you definitely are
You: traitor
Felix: your traitor ❤️
You smile at your phone, at the chaos, at the family you never expected to find.
Minho asked you to get coffee. Just the two of you. Felix was nervous ("What if he's going to threaten you? What if he's going to be weird?") but you reminded him that Minho made you rice on day one, so clearly you're on his good side.
Now you're sitting across from him in a tiny cafe tucked away from the main streets. It's warm, smells like roasted beans, and plays quiet jazz that Minho seems to know by heart.
For a while, neither of you speaks. It's not awkward, just comfortable. Minho has that effect, you're learning. He doesn't need to fill silences.
"You like cats," he says finally. It's not a question.
"I do. I had one growing up. A tabby named Mochi."
His eyes light up, just slightly. "Mochi. Like the rice cake?"
"Yeah. She was round and soft and exactly the color." You smile at the memory. "She used to sleep on my pillow and push me off gradually throughout the night."
Minho huffs a quiet laugh. "Soonie does that. He thinks the whole bed belongs to him."
"You have three, right? Felix showed me photos."
The conversation shifts, easy and natural. Minho pulls out his phone and you spend a solid twenty minutes looking at photos of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori. He narrates each one with the kind of detailed affection that most people reserve for their children.
"This is Soonie judging me for coming home late. This is Doongie in a box he's been ignoring for months but suddenly loves. This is Dori attacking my shoelaces at 3 AM." He scrolls. "This is all three of them lined up like they're posing for an album cover."
"They're beautiful," you say, and mean it.
"They're chaos." But his voice is fond.
The waiter brings more coffee. Minho thanks him in Korean, then turns back to you.
"Felix talks about you a lot."
"I've heard."
"He doesn't even realize he's doing it most of the time. We'll be in practice and he'll say 'Y/N would find this choreography funny' or 'Y/N once told me a story about, ' and then he stops, embarrassed." Minho sips his coffee. "But we all know. We've always known."
"Known what?"
"That you're his person. The one he measures everything against." He sets down his cup, thoughtful. "When we were trainees, there were moments when he'd get really quiet. Really far away. The rest of us would be exhausted, stressed, but with him it was different. It was like he was somewhere else entirely. And then his phone would buzz, and he'd look at it, and suddenly he was back. Present. Himself again."
You don't know what to say.
"It was always you," Minho continues. "Even then. Even before debut. You were the thing that grounded him. The thing that reminded him who he was underneath all the training and pressure." He glances at you. "I used to wonder what kind of person could do that from across an ocean. Could matter that much without even being here."
"And now?"
"Now I get it." He shrugs, simple. "You're real. You're not here because he's an idol or because of the life he can give you. You're here because you love him. And he loves you. And that's... rare. In this world, that's really rare."
Your throat tightens.
"Minho-"
"I'm not saying this to be deep." He almost smiles. "I'm saying it because I'm glad. Glad you're real. Glad you came. Glad he has something that's actually his, not the industry's, not the fans', not anyone else's. Just his."
You're quiet for a moment, processing.
"Can I ask you something?"
He nods.
"Do you ever feel lonely? With all the people, all the schedules, all the chaos, do you ever feel alone?"
He considers the question seriously, the way he seems to consider everything.
"Sometimes," he admits. "Less than I used to. The others, they're not just members. They're family. But there are moments when the cameras are off and the doors are closed and it's just... quiet. In those moments, yeah. It can feel lonely."
"What do you do?"
"I make tea. I sit with my cats. I remind myself that this-" He gestures vaguely. "This life, this dream, I chose it. And the hard parts are worth it for the good parts."
"And what are the good parts?"
He thinks. "The laughter. The music. The moments when everything clicks and we're all exactly where we're supposed to be. And-" He pauses. "Knowing that somewhere out there, people like you exist. People who love us not because we're idols, but because we're us. That matters more than you know."
You reach across the table and touch his hand, just briefly.
"You're not as alone as you think," you say quietly. "You have Felix. You have all of them. And now, if you want, you have me too. Not as a fan. As a friend."
Minho looks at you for a long moment. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft.
"The cats like you," he says finally.
You blink. "They've never met me."
"I showed them your photos. They didn't hiss. That's their version of approval."
You laugh, surprised, and Minho's lips twitch into something that's almost a smile.
"Come over sometime," he adds. "Meet them properly. Felix can come too, I guess."
"I guess?"
"He hogs the couch and scares Dori with his laugh." But there's no bite in it. "You, though. You can come anytime."
Something warm blooms in your chest.
"Thanks, Minho."
He nods once, picks up his coffee, and the conversation shifts to something lighter, Felix's terrible cooking, Jisung's latest chaos, the time Hyunjin accidentally dyed his hair green.
By the time you leave the cafe, you're not sure what just happened. But you know, somehow, that you've made a friend. A real one.
---
Later that night, you're curled up with Felix when your phone buzzes.
Minho (in the group chat): y/n. the cats have voted. you're allowed in the inner circle.
Jisung: THERE'S AN INNER CIRCLE??
Minho: there is now.
Hyunjin: what are the qualifications??
Minho: cats approve.
Seungmin: that's actually the most exclusive club in Korea.
Jeongin: noona how does it feel to be chosen??
You smile at your phone.
You: honored. truly.
Minho: as you should be. i'll send you more cat photos tomorrow.
Felix reads over your shoulder, laughing.
"He never sends me cat photos."
"That's because you scare Dori."
"That was ONE TIME-"
You kiss him quiet, still smiling.
"You're stuck with me now," you murmur. "The cats voted."
For a moment, panic grips you. Then you hear voices from the common room, quiet laughter, the clink of cups.
You pad out in one of Felix's hoodies and find the kitchen full of people. Felix, Chan, Changbin, Jisung, all huddled around the stove, whispering furiously.
"What are you doing?"
They freeze.
Jisung turns, grinning. "Good morning! We're making you breakfast! As a farewell! Because today is sad and we're compensating with food!"
You blink. "At 6 AM?"
"The early bird gets the, whatever the phrase is. Pancakes! We're making pancakes!"
You look at Felix. He looks exhausted and fond and slightly worried about the state of his kitchen.
"They insisted," he says. "I tried to stop them."
"You did NOT try to stop us," Changbin counters. "You said, and I quote, 'she loves pancakes, please don't burn the kitchen down.'"
"Which implies TRUST-"
"Which implies you're aware of our limitations."
You lean against the doorframe, watching them bicker and cook and somehow produce a stack of surprisingly edible pancakes. Your heart aches, but it's a good ache. The kind that comes from being loved. From being part of something.
Breakfast is chaos. Someone forgot the syrup. Someone else used the wrong pan. The pancakes are slightly burnt on one side and slightly undercooked on the other. But they're perfect because they were made for you, by people who barely know you but already love you because Felix does.
"This is the best breakfast I've ever had," you say, and mean it.
Jisung preens. "Told you we were good cooks."
"You set a napkin on fire," Chan reminds him.
"A small fire. It's fine."
You laugh, and Felix's hand finds yours under the table, and you think: I don't want to leave.
You're not standing at the curb, watching him disappear into security. You're both at the gate, because he insisted on seeing you off, because Manager Lee apparently approved a "special exception" (after much negotiation and several promises).
He holds your hands, thumbs tracing circles on your skin.
"Two weeks wasn't enough."
"I know."
"Come back soon."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He leans in, and the bustling airport fades to a dull roar, the world shrinking to just the two of you. This kiss isn't a frantic grab at what's left, but a quiet, profound declaration. His lips move against yours with a familiar tenderness, a slow, deliberate pressure that speaks of shared memories and unspoken promises. It's a kiss that says "I'll see you soon" with every gentle sweep of his tongue, a kiss that tastes not of goodbye, but of the next hello. His hands hold yours firmly, grounding you, a physical anchor against the impending distance.
When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours for a lingering moment. His eyes are clear, free of the panic that once shadowed them at goodbyes. This is the look of a man who knows his place in your life, who trusts in the foundation you've built together. It's a kiss that carries the weight of your two weeks together, sealing them not as a final chapter, but as the solid beginning of everything still to come.
When you pull back, his eyes are wet.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Text me when you land. Call me when you're home. Video chat me before you sleep."
"Every step of the way."
He laughs, a wet, broken sound.
"Okay. Okay. Go before I beg you to stay."
"See you soon."
"See you soon."
You walk toward the gate. You look back once. He's still there, watching, waving.
You're sitting in the middle of your living room, surrounded by a decade of memories, trying to decide what makes the cut. Clothes. Photos. Books. The blanket from your couch that Felix loves. The hoodie he left behind.
Everything else? Donated, sold, or given to friends.
Sarah sits across from you, cross-legged on the floor, holding a mug of tea.
"I can't believe you're actually doing this."
"Me neither."
"Moving to Seoul. For a boy."
"For Felix."
"Same thing, apparently." She smiles, soft and sad. "I'm going to miss you."
"I'm going to miss you too. But you're going to visit. Right?"
"Obviously. Someone has to make sure he's treating you right."
"He will."
"I know." She sets down her mug. "I've never seen you like this. So sure. So... lit up. It's like you're finally where you're supposed to be."
You think about Felix. About Seoul. About the boys who've become family. About the life you're building, piece by piece, across an ocean.
No sign. No disguise. Just Felix, in a sweater you've never seen, holding flowers you've never received, grinning like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You drop your suitcases and run.
He catches you, lifts you, spins you, holds you like he'll never let go.
"You came back."
"I told you I would."
"For real this time?"
"For real this time."
He sets you down, cups your face, kisses you like it's the first time and the last time and every time in between.
You found a place. Small, yes. Expensive, definitely. But yours. And close enough that Felix can walk over on free days, close enough that you're part of the neighborhood, close enough that this feels real.
Tonight, the apartment is full.
The boys are sprawled across your furniture, eating your food, making your space their space. Chan's helping you cook (read: doing most of the work while you watch). Minho's on the floor with your neighbor's cat that wandered in and refused to leave. Jisung and Hyunjin are arguing about something stupid. Seungmin's reading in the corner, pretending he's above it all. Jeongin's showing you photos on his phone, explaining who everyone is.
And Felix,
Felix is watching you from across the room, his eyes soft, his smile warm.
You cross to him, settle into his side.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just, looking."
"At what?"
"At you. Here. In our life." He presses a kiss to your hair. "I used to dream about this. You, me, the guys, all together. I never thought it would actually happen."
"And now?"
"Now I'm never letting it go."
You look around the room. At the chaos. At the laughter. At the family you've somehow found.
"Good," you say. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
When you can't sleep, when Chan's working late, when the world feels too loud or too quiet, you end up here. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you just exist in the same space, comfortable in the silence.
Tonight, Felix is with you, sprawled on the small couch with his head in your lap. Chan's at his desk, working on a track you've heard evolve over weeks.
"Play her the new part," Felix murmurs, eyes closed.
Chan glances back. "You think it's ready?"
"She'll tell you honestly. That's why you need her opinion."
Chan plays it. A new layer, something soaring and emotional, woven into the beat.
You close your eyes, listening.
"It needs..." You pause, searching. "It needs something lighter here. Like-" You hum a few notes, not quite right, but close.
Chan's eyes light up. He turns back to his equipment, fingers flying. A few adjustments, and he plays it again.
The new notes fit perfectly.
"That's it," you breathe. "That's exactly it."
He grins at you over his shoulder. "You're a natural."
"I just know what sounds right."
"Same thing."
Felix opens one eye, smirking. "Careful, babe. He's going to recruit you as an unofficial producer."
"Would that be so bad?" Chan asks.
You laugh. "I know nothing about music production."
"You know what sounds good. That's half the battle." He turns back to his work, but there's a smile in his voice. "You're officially my second pair of ears. No take backs."
You look at Felix. He's watching you with soft eyes, full of love.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just, you fit. Here. With us. With him." He glances at Chan. "He doesn't let just anyone into his space. Especially not at 2 AM."
"I know."
"He trusts you."
"I know."
"That's rare."
You stroke his hair, smiling. "I know."
Felix closes his eyes again, content.
And you sit there, in Chan's studio, surrounded by music and warmth and the family you never expected to find, and think:
Neither can Felix, apparently, because he's here too, sitting on the roof of your building, looking at the city lights.
You sit beside him, and he wraps an arm around you without a word.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
"Too much thinking."
"About what?"
You hesitate. Then: "About how we got here. About how different my life is now. About how I never thought I'd be this happy."
He's quiet for a moment.
"Me neither," he admits. "I spent so long just... surviving. Pushing through. Telling myself that happiness was something I'd find later, after debut, after success, after I'd made it. But it was always right here. Waiting for me to stop running long enough to see it."
You lean your head on his shoulder.
"I love our life," you whisper. "Even the hard parts. Even the schedules that keep us apart. Even the days when I miss home. Because at the end of them, I have you. And that's enough."
"It's enough for me too."
You sit in comfortable silence, watching the city breathe.
"Hey," Felix says after a while. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Do you ever regret it? Moving here? Leaving everything behind?"
You think about it. Really think.
"No," you say finally. "I don't. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss the life I had. But I don't regret this. Not for a second. Because this-" You gesture at the city, at him, at everything. "This is where I'm supposed to be. With you. That's always been true. It just took us a while to get here."
He pulls you closer, presses a kiss to your forehead.
It happens sometimes, the city noise, the thoughts that won't quiet, the way your brain decides 3 AM is the perfect time to replay every moment of your life. Tonight, you've given up on pretending. You've slipped out of bed, pulled on Felix's hoodie (the one he left here weeks ago that you may or may not wear more than he does), and climbed to the rooftop.
The city is beautiful at this hour. Quieter. Softer. The lights blur together like someone smudged watercolors across the darkness.
You don't hear him come up.
Arms wrap around you from behind, and you startle, then relax instantly at the familiar warmth.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is rough with sleep, his cheek pressed against your hair.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I woke up and you weren't there." He tightens his arms. "Thought I dreamed you."
You turn in his embrace, facing him. His eyes are barely open, his hair a mess, and he's so beautiful it makes your chest ache.
"I'm here."
"Good." He kisses your forehead. "Always want you here."
For a while, you just stand there, wrapped together, watching the city breathe. His chin rests on your head. Your fingers trace patterns on his chest.
"I was thinking," you murmur.
"Dangerous at 3 AM."
"About us. About how we got here. About how different my life is now."
He's quiet, letting you speak.
"I never thought I'd have this," you continue. "A life in a different country. People who feel like family. A person who-" You pause, searching. "A person who looks at me like I'm the answer to a question they've been asking their whole life."
His arms tighten.
"You do that, you know. Look at me like that. Every single day. And I still don't know how I got so lucky."
"Pretty sure I'm the lucky one."
You lift your head, about to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you.
It's different tonight. Softer. Deeper. Like he's seeing you for the first time and the millionth time all at once.
"Come sit with me," he says quietly.
He leads you to the old couch you dragged up here months ago, the one with the cushions that are slightly too flat and the blanket that's always covered in cat hair from when Minho's cats visit. You curl into his side, your legs tucked under you, his arm around your shoulders.
The city hums below.
"I have something for you," he says.
You look up. "Now? It's 3 AM."
"Now's perfect." He reaches into his pocket, and for a moment, you think it's going to be a candy wrapper or a receipt or something mundane. He's always pulling random things from pockets.
Instead, he pulls out a small box.
Your heart stops.
"Felix-"
"Wait." His voice shakes. "Just, let me say this. I've been practicing for weeks and if I don't get it out now I'll forget everything."
You can't breathe.
He shifts, turning to face you fully. One of his hands holds the box. The other reaches for yours, fingers trembling against your skin.
"I met you when I was twelve years old," he begins. "You were eating a sandwich in the schoolyard and you had mustard on your face and I thought you were the weirdest person I'd ever seen."
A wet laugh escapes you.
"Then I got to know you. And I realized you weren't weird. You were everything. You were the person who made me laugh when I was sad. Who held my hand through every hard moment. Who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. Who waited for me, waited, through three years of me being an absolute idiot who forgot birthdays and missed calls and let distance get in the way."
His voice cracks.
"I flew across the world because I couldn't lose you. I fought my company because you were worth fighting for. I asked you to move here because I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. And every single day since, you've proven that I made the right choice. The only choice."
He opens the box.
Inside, a ring catches the faint city light, simple, elegant, perfect. A thin band with a small diamond that sparkles like a star.
"I was going to do this big thing," he admits, voice raw. "At Namsan Tower. Or the beach. With the guys hiding nearby and cameras and all of it. But every time I pictured it, it felt wrong. Because this-" He gestures at the rooftop, at the city, at the two of them alone in the dark. "This is us. Quiet moments at strange hours. Just the two of us. No audience. No performance. Just us."
His eyes meet yours, wet and shining.
"Y/N." His voice breaks on your name. "I've loved you since we were kids. I'll love you until I'm dust. You're my home. You're my heart. You're my forever. Will you marry me?"
The word catches in your throat. You can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except look at him, this boy who became a man, this man who became yours, this person who crossed oceans and fought battles and stood on this rooftop at 3 AM asking you to spend forever with him.
"Yes."
The word comes out broken, tear-filled, certain.
"Yes. Yes, Felix. Yes."
He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
The world tilts on its axis as he kisses you, and it's nothing like any kiss that's come before. This isn't a kiss of longing or reunion, but of sealing, of binding. It's a collision of desperate relief and overwhelming joy, his mouth crushing yours with the force of every unspoken fear and every answered prayer. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with his, the raw, vulnerable emotion pouring from him into you. His hands are everywhere, one tangled in your hair, holding you steady as if you might float away, the other gripping your waist, pulling you so close you can feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heart beating against your own chest. It's not just lips and tongues; it's the culmination of a lifetime, the physical manifestation of a promise whispered into the dark.
When you finally break apart, gasping for air that suddenly feels too thin, you don't go far. Your foreheads press together, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. The city below is a forgotten blur of light, the distant hum a meaningless soundtrack to the universe that has just contracted to the space between your bodies. His eyes, shimmering in the dim light, hold an adoration so profound it feels like a physical weight. "I love you," he whispers, the words a sacred vow against your swollen lips. You can't answer with words, so you show him, pulling him back into another kiss, slower this time, deeper, a silent affirmation that this is real, this is forever, this is everything.
"I love you," he whispers against your lips.
"I love you too."
"I'm going to spend the rest of my life making you happy."
"You already do."
He pulls you into his chest, holding you so tight you can barely breathe. You don't care. You'd stay here forever.
After a long moment, you pull back just enough to look at the ring. It catches the light, small and perfect.
"When did you, how did you-"
"Months ago." He laughs, wiping his eyes. "I've had it for months. Been carrying it everywhere like an idiot. Kept waiting for the right moment."
"And this was the right moment?"
He looks around, at the rooftop, the city, the stars, you.
"Yeah," he says softly. "This was exactly the right moment."
You kiss him again, slow this time. A promise. A beginning.
"I have one question," you murmur against his lips.
"Anything."
"Did you really plan to have the guys hiding with cameras?"
He groans. "Jisung's idea. He had a whole spreadsheet."
You laugh, bright and real.
"We should still tell them. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." He kisses your forehead. "Tonight, it's just us."
You settle back into his side, watching the city together. The ring feels warm on your finger. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.
You wake to an empty bed again, but this time you're not worried. You can hear voices in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the unmistakable sound of Jisung yelling about something.
You pad out in Felix's hoodie (yours now, really) and find the apartment full of people.
Eight men freeze in various states of chaos.
Chan at the stove. Minho on the floor with the cat. Jisung mid-gesture. Hyunjin holding a carton of juice. Changbin with a spatula. Seungmin in the corner, watching. Jeongin halfway through pouring cereal.
Felix stands in the middle, grinning like an idiot.
"Morning, fiancée."
The room erupts.
"FIANCÉE?"
"WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?"
"LAST NIGHT? WHILE WE WERE ASLEEP?"
"FELIX YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WAIT FOR THE SPREADSHEET-"
"THE SPREADSHEET WAS BEAUTIFUL-"
"SHOW US THE RING-"
"CONGRATULATIONS NOONA-"
"EVERYONE CALM DOWN-"
You're laughing, overwhelmed in the best way, as they swarm you with hugs and questions and chaos.
Chan reaches you first, pulling you into a tight hug.
"Congrats, little sister," he murmurs. "Welcome to the family for real."
Minho appears next, cat still in his arms. He looks at the ring, nods once.
"The cats approve."
"That's all I needed."
Jisung tackles you in a hug. Hyunjin kisses your cheek. Changbin pats your head awkwardly. Seungmin gives you a thumbs up from the corner. Jeongin bounces on his heels, excited.
And Felix,
Felix watches from across the room, his eyes soft, his smile warm.
You cross to him, slip your hand into his.
"Good morning, fiancé."
"Good morning, future wife."
"Breakfast?"
"Chaos, more like. But yes. Breakfast."
You look around at the people filling your small apartment, at the family you never expected to find, at the life you've built together.
"You know," you say quietly, "I used to think forever was just a word. Something people said without meaning it."
"And now?"
You squeeze his hand, look up at him.
"Now I know it's real. Because it's you. It's always been you."
He kisses you, soft and sweet, right there in the middle of the chaos.
Minho stood in the entryway for a long moment, just staring at the wall. His shoulders were up somewhere near his ears, his bag still slung across his chest like he'd forgotten it was there. The kind of day that didn't have a name. Not a bad day in the dramatic sense, no disasters, no fights, nothing he could point to and say that's what broke me. Just a thousand tiny cuts. A schedule that ran overtime. A producer who talked over him. A dancer who kept missing the same count, and Minho had to smile and say "again, you've got this" when what he wanted to do was scream.
He heard you before he saw you. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Then you were there, in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his hoodie and absolutely nothing else of consequence.
You looked at him. Just looked.
No questions. No "how was your day?" No "what's wrong?" Just your eyes, scanning his face, reading the lines he hadn't learned how to hide yet.
Then you turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Minho blinked. He should probably move. He should probably take off his bag. He should probably,
The sound of your voice, slightly muffled because you were already on the phone. "Yeah, the usual. Double the dumplings. And the spicy rice cakes. Yes, to this address. Thanks."
Minho's bag hit the floor.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, scrolling through something on yours. You caught his eye and, there it was. That small, crooked smile. The one that said I see you. I've got you. You don't have to say anything.
You hung up. "Forty minutes."
"How did you-"
You shrugged, like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just reached into his chest and massaged the knots out of his heart without him saying a single word. "You get this little line. Right here." You stepped forward and pressed your fingertip gently between his eyebrows. "Between the eyes. Means you need dumplings."
He caught your wrist. Held it. Pressed his lips to your palm.
"I love you," he said, and it came out wrecked, because it was true in a way that terrified him sometimes.
"I know," you said softly. Then you tugged him toward the couch. "Come on. There's a variety show marathon. You're not allowed to think until the food gets here."
You pulled him down beside you, and he went willingly, gratefully, his head finding its natural resting place on your shoulder. Your fingers found his hair.
He still hadn't told you about his day. He didn't need to.
Not literally. But there was something in his mouth, something soft and vaguely offensive, and he was already mid-cough when he opened his eyes to find Soonie's tail draped directly across his face like a mustache from hell.
He sputtered. Swatted blindly. Soonie, offended by this betrayal, leapt off the bed with a yowl of protest.
Beside him, you were shaking.
Not with cold. Not with fear. With laughter. Silent, shoulder-shaking, hand-over-your-mouth laughter that you were desperately trying to contain and failing spectacularly.
Minho turned his head. Blinked at you with cat hair clinging to his eyelashes. "You saw that."
"I saw nothing," you gasped. "I was asleep. Completely asleep."
"You let him suffocate me."
"You're so dramatic. He was just-" You lost it, a snort escaping despite your best efforts, and that set you both off. Minho tried to stay dignified, he really did, but your laugh was infectious, that full-body thing you did, and soon he was laughing too, cat hair be damned.
You reached for him. He leaned into it instinctively, the way he always did, the way he'd been doing for years without thinking. Your thumb found the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, brushing away the evidence with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"There," you murmured, still smiling. "All better. Very handsome."
He caught your thumb with his lips before you could pull away. Pressed a kiss to the pad of it. Watched your eyes go soft and warm.
"You have cat hair on your face too," he whispered.
"Liar."
"Absolutely. Right there." He leaned in, touched his nose to yours. "Let me get it."
And he kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting morning and you and the life he still couldn't quite believe was his.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with that expression. The one that undid him every single time. Like he was something precious. Something miraculous.
"What?" he asked, suddenly shy.
You just shook your head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just-" You reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "You're here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of wonder. Like you couldn't quite believe it either.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.
You didn't answer. You just pulled him back down, cat hair and all, and held on.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's choreography, worrying about tomorrow's schedule, spiraling about things that hadn't even happened yet.
He turned over, intending to stare at the ceiling instead, and froze.
You were facing him. Asleep, clearly asleep, your mouth slightly open, your breathing deep and even, one hand tucked under your pillow. The moonlight from the window painted half your face silver.
And Minho couldn't look away.
He'd seen you asleep a thousand times. A thousand nights of this. You stole the blankets. You talked in your sleep sometimes, nonsense words that made him smile. You reached for him in the dark, your hand finding his chest or his arm or his hair, pulling him closer even in unconsciousness.
But tonight, for some reason, it hit him differently.
How?
How did someone like you, you, with your laugh and your kindness and the way you remembered that he liked his coffee with just a splash of milk, the way you defended him to people who didn't matter, the way you looked at him like he hung the moon, how did someone like you choose someone like him?
He wasn't being self-deprecating. He genuinely didn't understand it. He was loud, sometimes too much. He was competitive, sometimes too much. He was insecure in ways he'd never learned to hide, and you'd seen all of it, the ugly parts, the tired parts, the parts he tried to keep from the world, and you'd stayed.
Not just stayed. You'd chosen him. Every day. For years.
Your hand twitched in your sleep, searching. Finding his arm. Curling around his bicep like it belonged there.
Minho's breath caught.
He lifted his free hand, slowly, carefully, and hovered it just above your cheek. Not touching. Just feeling the warmth radiating from your skin. Just tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
I don't deserve you, he thought. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
But he was too selfish to give you up. Too in love to question it too hard.
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you," he whispered, so quiet it was barely air. "I hope that's okay."
You stirred, just slightly. Your lips curved, just slightly. A sleepy, unconscious smile.
"Love you," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft.
Minho's eyes burned.
He closed the distance, pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, and finally, finally felt sleep tugging at him too.
"Love you more," he whispered against your skin. "Always."
Outside, the world kept spinning. Inside, in the dark, with you in his arms, Minho had everything he'd ever need.
Minho was standing at the stove, stirring the kimchi jjigae he'd been perfecting for months, your favorite, the one you always asked for when you'd had a hard day, when you appeared in the kitchen doorway. Same hoodie. Same bare feet. Same soft look on your face.
But something was different.
"Hey," you said. Casual. Easy.
"Hey yourself," he replied, not turning. "Dinner's almost ready. I added extra tofu, like you-"
"Minho?"
Something in your voice made him turn. Made the spoon pause mid-stir.
You were holding the rice cooker insert. Empty. Looking at it with an expression he couldn't quite read. Confusion? Frustration? Something in between.
"Did we..." You trailed off, shook your head slightly. "Sorry, this is dumb. Did we already eat? I was about to make rice and I can't remember if-"
"You asked me to make dinner," Minho said slowly. "An hour ago. You said you were craving the jjigae."
You blinked. Looked at the rice cooker. Looked at the pot on the stove. Looked at him.
"Right," you said, but it came out wrong. Too quick. Too automatic. "Right, of course. Sorry, I just-" A small, self-deprecating laugh. "Brain fog. Long week."
Minho smiled. He made himself smile, because that's what you do when someone makes a joke, when someone explains away a tiny, insignificant thing.
"Yeah," he said. "Long week."
You set the rice cooker down. Came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face between his shoulder blades. He felt you breathe in, slow and deep.
"It smells amazing," you mumbled against his back.
He covered your hands with his. Held them tight.
"Anything for you," he said.
—
Three days later, you forgot Dori's name.
You were on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when the ginger menace jumped into your lap and started kneading your stomach with intense, focused determination.
You laughed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, buddy. Where'd you come from?"
Minho looked up from the photo album he was organizing, a project, he'd told you, just for fun, just to have all the pictures in one place.
"His full government name is Dori," he said lightly. "But he also answers to 'the menace' and 'get off the counter.'"
You smiled. Nodded. Kept scratching.
And Minho watched you.
Watched you look at the cat you'd had for four years. The cat you'd found as a kitten, soaking wet in the rain, and carried home in your hoodie pocket. The cat you'd named after your favorite character from your favorite movie, the one you made Minho watch at least twice a year.
You didn't say his name. You just called him "buddy."
Minho told himself it was nothing. You were distracted. You were tired. You called people the wrong names all the time, you'd called him Jisung once, early in the relationship, and they'd never let either of them live it down.
Minho was in the bedroom, folding laundry, your sweater, his shirt, the socks that never seemed to match no matter how carefully he paired them, when you appeared in the doorway.
You looked... small. That was the only word for it. Small in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said, setting down the sweater. "What's up?"
You didn't come in. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, and stared at a spot on the floor.
"I need to tell you something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Minho felt the ripples before he understood why.
"Okay," he said carefully. "I'm listening."
You took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"It's happening more often. The-" You gestured vaguely at your head. "The forgetfulness. Little things. What I went into the kitchen for. A word I was looking for. Whether I already told you something." A pause. "I forgot Chan's name yesterday. When we were texting. I had to scroll up to see who I was talking to."
Minho's hands had gone still on the laundry.
You looked up. Met his eyes. And he saw it, the fear. The real, raw fear you'd been hiding behind smiles and self-deprecating jokes for weeks.
"I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow," you said quietly. "Talk about it. It's probably nothing. Stress, or sleep, or-" You stopped. Swallowed. "But I wanted you to know. Before I... before I didn't."
Minho crossed the room in three steps. Took your face in his hands. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
You let out a shaky breath. Leaned into him. Let him hold you up.
"It's probably nothing," you said again, like a prayer.
"Probably," he agreed, because he needed to believe it.
But his heart was already pounding. Already knowing. Already starting to break.
That night, you fell asleep in his arms, your breath warm against his neck, your hand curled loosely over his heart.
Minho didn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you against him. Listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. Every inhale. Every exhale. The way your eyelashes fanned against your skin. The tiny mole behind your ear that you hated and he loved.
It's probably nothing.
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and have you be fine, have this be a blip, a scare, a story you'd tell later with a laugh and an eye roll.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was wrong.
And for the first time in his life, Minho had no idea how to dance his way out of it.
He tightened his arms around you. Pressed his lips to your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark. "No matter what. I've got you."
You stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled deeper against him.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho held on tight and prayed to every god he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be different.
Minho was in the middle of practice when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Choreography was already behind schedule, and Jisung kept messing up the transition, and Chan had that look on his face that meant they weren't leaving until they got it right. One more run. Then another. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
He glanced at it between takes. Your name on the screen. Three missed calls.
His blood went cold.
"Give me a second," he muttered, already reaching for his phone, already stepping away from the mirrors and the music and the bodies around him.
"Hyung, we're in the middle-"
"Give me a SECOND."
The studio went quiet. Minho didn't notice. He had the phone to his ear, your contact photo staring back at him, you at the beach last summer, squinting into the sun, laughing at something he'd said.
You picked up on the first ring.
"Minho?"
Your voice. But wrong. Thin and stretched and scared in a way he'd never heard before.
"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
A breath on the other end. Shaky. Too shaky.
"I'm at the doctor's office. The, the neurologist. I came in for those tests, the memory ones, and they-" You stopped. He heard you swallow. "They want me to call someone. To come in. They said I shouldn't be alone for the results and I didn't know who else to-"
"I'm coming."
"The traffic is bad this time of day, you don't have to-"
"I'm coming. Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
He was already grabbing his bag. Already heading for the door. Chan called after him, worried, confused, and Minho just shook his head, couldn't form words, couldn't do anything but move toward you.
"Minho?" Your voice, small through the phone.
"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm almost there. Just, just stay on the phone. Okay? Stay on the phone with me."
The neurologist's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Minho burst through the door like a man being chased, hair disheveled, chest heaving, still in his sweat-soaked practice clothes. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he was already scanning the room, already searching,
You stood up from a chair in the corner. You looked so small. That was the only word for it. Small and pale and young in a way that made his heart crack right down the middle. You were wearing his hoodie again, the gray one, the one you'd stolen months ago and never given back, and your hands were shaking.
He crossed the room in four steps and pulled you into his arms. You crumpled against him. Let him hold you up. Let him be the thing that kept you from falling apart right there in front of everyone.
"I didn't know who else to call," you whispered into his chest. "They said to bring someone and I just, I just wanted you. I just wanted you here."
"I'm here," he said fiercely. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
A door opened. A nurse with a kind face and sympathetic eyes looked at them both.
The doctor's office was small. Cluttered with diplomas and anatomical diagrams and a box of tissues placed strategically on the corner of the desk. Minho hated it immediately. Hated the tissues most of all.
You sat in the chair across from the doctor. Minho stood behind you, one hand on your shoulder, because he couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. Needed to be touching you or he might shatter.
The doctor was a woman. Middle-aged. Gentle eyes. The kind of face that delivered bad news for a living and hadn't quite learned how to hide the toll it took.
"Thank you for coming in," she said to Minho. Then she turned to you, and her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. "I have the results of your cognitive assessments and the MRI."
Your hand found Minho's. Squeezed.
"Okay," you said. "Just, just tell us."
The doctor nodded. Opened a file. Looked at it for a moment, then set it aside and met your eyes directly.
"The MRI shows significant hippocampal atrophy. That's the area of the brain responsible for memory formation and retrieval." A pause. "Combined with your cognitive test results and the symptom pattern you've been reporting, we've arrived at a diagnosis."
The room was very quiet.
"It's a form of early-onset neurodegenerative disease. Specifically, a variant of accelerated retrograde amnesia." The doctor's voice was gentle but unflinching. "It's rare, especially in someone your age. But the pattern is clear. Your brain is struggling to consolidate new memories and is beginning to degrade existing ones, starting with the most recent and moving backward."
Minho's hand tightened on your shoulder. You reached up and held it there.
"What does that mean?" you asked. Your voice was steady. Too steady. "What does that mean for, for us? For our life?"
The doctor hesitated. Just for a moment. But Minho saw it. Saw the way she braced herself before continuing.
"The progression rate varies, but based on the scans, we're looking at an accelerated timeline. The memories you've formed in the last few years are the most vulnerable. As the disease progresses, you'll lose them. First recent events, then older ones. Eventually-" Another pause. "Eventually, you may lose most of your autobiographical memory. The people in your life. The experiences you've had."
"You're saying," Minho heard himself speak, his voice rough and strange, "you're saying she'll forget. She'll forget everything."
The doctor looked at him with those gentle, terrible eyes.
"I'm saying we need to prepare for that possibility. There are treatments that may slow the progression. Therapies that can help with coping strategies. But yes. The trajectory suggests significant memory loss over the coming months."
Months.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
You turned in your chair. Looked up at Minho. And he saw it, the moment you realized what this meant. What this would do to him. To the life you'd built together.
"Minho-"
"No." He shook his head. Dropped to his knees in front of you so you were eye to eye. Grabbed both your hands in his. "No. Don't. Don't you dare start worrying about me right now."
"But if I forget-"
"Then I'll remember." His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I'll remember for both of us. Every single day. I'll be here every morning and I'll tell you who I am and I'll make you fall in love with me again and again and again if that's what it takes."
Tears were streaming down your face. You didn't seem to notice.
"That's not fair to you," you whispered. "That's not, you can't spend your life-"
"Watch me."
He said it like a vow. Like a challenge to the universe itself.
The doctor was saying something about treatment plans, about support groups, about clinical trials. Minho heard none of it. He was too busy looking at you. Committing this moment to memory. The way your nose crinkled when you cried. The way your bottom lip trembled. The way your hands shook in his.
"I love you," he said. "I love you and I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just don't forget this. Don't forget this right now. Me telling you. Me promising you. Hold onto this as long as you can."
Neither of you spoke in the car. Minho drove. You stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shapes and people going about their ordinary lives, completely unaware that the world had ended.
At a red light, you reached over and took his hand.
He looked at you. You were still staring out the window, but your fingers were laced through his, holding on like he was the only solid thing left.
"Can we get ice cream?" you asked quietly. "The place with the weird flavors? The one we went to on our first date?"
Minho's throat closed.
"Of course," he managed. "Yeah. Of course we can."
Later, after the ice cream, after the crying, after the phone calls to family that neither of you had the strength to make yet, you fell asleep in his arms.
Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But everything was different now.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in his life, he was afraid of the morning.
Because tomorrow, you might wake up and know him.
Or tomorrow might be the first day you didn't.
He held you tighter. Pressed his lips to your hair. Closed his eyes against the dark and made himself a promise.
I'll be here. Every single day. I'll be here.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho began to say goodbye to someone who was still, impossibly, right there in his arms.
He watched the clock change. 2:13 AM. 3:47. 4:02. 5:19. The numbers glowed green and indifferent, and he watched them all, your body warm against his, your breath steady, your hand curled over his heart like it had always belonged there.
At 6:34, the alarm went off.
Not his. Yours. The one you set every morning because you liked to wake up slowly, to stretch and groan and burrow deeper into the pillows before finally surfacing.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Shifted away from him, reaching for the phone on your nightstand to silence it.
Minho held his breath.
You turned back over. Faced him. Your eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, soft in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
And then you blinked.
Focused.
Looked at him.
Your body went still.
Minho felt it happen. Felt the exact moment the warmth in your eyes flickered and died, replaced by something else. Something cold and unfamiliar.
Stranger danger. That's what they called it in animals. That instinctive freeze when confronted with the unknown.
You were looking at him like he was the unknown.
"Hi," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. He hadn't used it in hours. Hadn't cried either, not yet, but his voice was wrecked anyway.
You pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to create space between your bodies. Your hand slipped away from his chest.
"Who-" You stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes darted around the room, the familiar walls, the unfamiliar man, the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He'd known this was coming. He'd prepared for this. He'd promised himself he'd be strong, be gentle, be whatever you needed him to be.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice cracked on his own name. "I'm your, I'm your boyfriend."
You stared at him.
He watched your brain working, searching for something, anything, that would make this make sense. Your brow furrowed. Your lips parted. Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," you said, and it was polite. So painfully, horribly polite. The voice you used with strangers who stopped you on the street. "I don't, I don't remember."
Minho nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"That's okay," he lied. "That's, that's okay. The doctor said this might happen. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You were still looking at him like he was a puzzle you couldn't solve.
"How long?" you asked quietly. "How long have we been together?"
Four years. One thousand four hundred sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand sixty-four hours. I stopped counting the minutes because it hurt too much to realize I'd never get them back.
"A while," he said instead. "A few years."
You looked down at yourself. At his hoodie you were wearing. At the bed you were in. At the cats who were still sleeping, oblivious, at the foot of it.
"I should-" You started to move, to get up, to escape. "I should go. I shouldn't be here. This isn't, I don't know you, I shouldn't be in your bed, I'm sorry-"
Minho's heart shattered.
"No, no, wait-" He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air between you. "Please. Just, can I show you something? Before you go? Please?"
You hesitated. Looked at his hand. Looked at his face.
Something in his expression must have reached you, because slowly, carefully, you nodded.
Minho reached for his phone on the nightstand. Hands shaking. Opened his photos. Scrolled past a thousand memories you no longer carried.
He turned the screen toward you.
It was a photo from two summers ago. You at the beach. Sand in your hair. Ice cream on your nose. Laughing at him for taking yet another picture, for documenting everything, for being ridiculous and sweet and so in love with you it was embarrassing.
You took the phone. Studied the image.
"That's me," you said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And that's..." You looked up at him. Back at the photo. At the way his arm was wrapped around your waist, the way he was looking at you in the picture like you were the sun. "That's you."
"Yeah."
You stared at the photo for a long time.
Minho watched you. Committed this to memory too. The way the morning light caught your eyelashes. The way your lips moved slightly as you tried to find words. The way your hand trembled holding his phone.
"I don't remember," you whispered finally. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of it."
The tears came before he could stop them.
He turned his face away, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to get himself under control. But they kept coming, silent and hot, because you were right here and you didn't know him and you were sorry and God, it hurt, it hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and now you sounded scared. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to, I don't know why I'm here, I don't know you, I'm sorry-"
"It's not your fault." He forced the words out through the wreckage of his throat. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just, I'm just sad. That's all. I'm just sad."
You reached out.
Hesitated.
Then, gently, so gently it broke him all over again, you touched his cheek. Wiped a tear away with your thumb.
The gesture was so familiar. So you. Even when you didn't know him, your body remembered. Your body knew how to comfort him.
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You were looking at him with confusion, yes. With fear, yes. But underneath it, something else. Something soft. Something curious.
"You really love me," you said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." His voice broke on the word. "Yeah. I really do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you looked down at his hand, still lying on the bed between you. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and took it.
"I don't remember you," you said. "But I think, I think I'd like to. If that's okay."
Minho squeezed your hand. Held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"That's more than okay," he whispered. "That's everything."
You sat at the kitchen table in his hoodie, your hoodie, the gray one, but you didn't know that, and watched him make coffee.
He could feel your eyes on him. Studying him. Trying to piece together who this stranger was who claimed to love you.
"What's my favorite food?" you asked suddenly.
He turned, surprised by the question. "Tteokbokki. The spicy kind. You say it's the only food that's allowed to make you cry."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's specific."
"You're specific. You have opinions about everything. You once spent twenty minutes explaining why the rice at that one restaurant was wrong. I didn't understand half of it, but I loved watching you talk about it."
You ducked your head. Almost shy.
"What else?"
He leaned against the counter. Let himself look at you. Really look.
"You hum when you're happy. Not songs, exactly. Just, melodies. Made-up ones. You don't realize you're doing it." He paused. "You steal the blankets. Every single night. I wake up freezing and you're wrapped up like a burrito and I wouldn't change it for anything."
Your cheeks pinked.
"You snore," he continued, smiling now despite everything. "Just a little. Only when you're really tired. You deny it every time I mention it. You say I'm lying and then you fall asleep on my chest and snore again."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You laughed. Just a small one. Just a breath. But it was real.
And Minho realized, with a ache so deep it almost doubled him over, that this was his life now. Collecting your laughs like precious coins. Hoarding every smile. Falling in love with you over and over again, knowing you'd forget by tomorrow.
He brought you coffee. Made it exactly how you liked it, light roast, a splash of milk, no sugar. Handed it to you.
You took a sip. Your eyes widened.
"This is perfect," you said. "How did you know?"
"I know everything about you," he said simply. "Every single thing."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. Something shifted in your eyes. Something warmer.
"Tell me more," you said softly. "Tell me everything."
And so he did.
He told you about the first time he saw you, at a friend's party, laughing at something, your whole body committed to it. He told you about your first date, the ice cream place with the weird flavors, how you'd ordered something called "sweet potato and honey" and made him try it. He told you about the cats, how you'd found Dori in the rain and carried him home in your hoodie pocket. He told you about the way you danced when you thought no one was watching, all wrong and beautiful and so perfectly you.
You listened. Asked questions. Laughed in the right places. Cried a little when he told you about the night you first said "I love you."
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his coffee was cold and the morning had somehow slipped away into afternoon, you reached across the table and took his hand.
"I don't remember any of it," you said quietly. "But I believe you."
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
You squeezed his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" you asked. "When I wake up and don't remember again?"
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
"Yes," he said fiercely. "Every tomorrow. Every single one. I'll be here."
You smiled. That small, kind smile. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
That night, you fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Minho carried you to bed. The same bed you'd woken up in this morning, terrified of the stranger beside you. The same bed you'd share tonight, trusting him because he'd spent the whole day earning it.
He tucked you in. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Brushed the hair from your face.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Your hand found his and held on.
"Minho," you whispered. Just his name. But you said it like you knew him. Like you remembered.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I'm here."
"I'm glad." Your eyes were still closed, your voice thick with sleep. "I'm glad you're here."
Tears slid down his cheeks. Silent. Endless.
"Me too," he whispered. "Me too."
He stayed there until your hand went slack, until your breathing evened out, until he was sure you were asleep. Then he pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead and whispered the words he'd say every night for the rest of his life:
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
He turned off the light.
Walked to the living room.
Sat on the couch in the dark and finally, finally let himself break.
Not in any way a stranger would notice. The furniture was the same. The photos on the walls were the same. The cats still slept on the same pillow, chased the same sunbeams, meowed at the same time every morning for food.
But the apartment had changed.
There were sticky notes now. Dozens of them. On the bathroom mirror: Your name is ____. You are safe. Minho is your person. On the refrigerator: Food inside. Eat something. Minho made it. On the nightstand: This is Minho. He loves you. You love him too.
Minho had gotten good at writing them. Short. Clear. Kind. Nothing that would scare you, nothing that would make you feel broken.
He wrote new ones every night before bed, because you'd been known to wake up in the middle of the night disoriented, and he needed you to see his words before you saw your own panic.
Tonight, he sat at the kitchen table with a stack of sticky notes and a pen that was running out of ink.
The photo album sat in front of him.
He'd finished it last week. Three months of work, distilled into fifty pages. Your life together. Your love story. Page after page of proof that you had existed, that you had been happy, that you had chosen each other.
He'd shown it to you this morning.
You'd flipped through it slowly. Studied each photo like a detective examining evidence. Asked questions he'd answered a hundred times before.
Who's this? That's us at the beach. You buried me in the sand and then left me there to get ice cream.
When was this? Two years ago. Your birthday. You said you wanted to go somewhere warm, so I booked flights that night.
Why are we making that face? Because you dared me to eat a whole lemon and I actually did it. You laughed so hard you cried. That's you crying in the photo. Right there.
You'd laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. And Minho had felt his heart crack open and heal itself in the same breath.
But then you'd gotten to the last page. A photo of the two of you at home, ordinary Tuesday night, you in his lap and both of you smiling at the camera like idiots in love.
You'd stared at it for a long time.
Then you'd looked up at him, and your eyes were wet, and you'd said the words that would haunt him forever:
"I wish I could remember loving you. It must have been amazing."
He'd held it together until you went to take a shower. Then he'd sat on the bathroom floor and cried into a towel so you wouldn't hear.
You came out of the bedroom wrapped in his hoodie, the gray one, always the gray one, even though you didn't know why you loved it so much, and sat across from him at the kitchen table.
He slid a cup of coffee toward you. Perfectly made.
You smiled your thanks. Took a sip. Made that small satisfied sound that made his chest ache.
"I have a question," you said.
"Anything."
You set down the cup. Looked at him with those eyes that held no memory of him but held everything else, your kindness, your curiosity, your stubborn beautiful soul.
"Why do you stay?"
Minho blinked. "What?"
"I've been here a month. I know because of the notes. I write the date on them now, so I can keep track." You tapped the edge of the table. "Every morning I wake up and I don't know you. Every morning you're here, with coffee and kind eyes and a photo album full of a life I don't remember. And I just-" You shook your head. "Why? Why do you stay? This has to be destroying you."
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the table and took your hand.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The first week, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought it would kill me. Waking up every day to the person I love most looking at me like a stranger. Having to introduce myself over and over. Watching you search your own mind for something that isn't there anymore." His voice wavered. He steadied it. "I cried every night. I cried in the shower. I cried in the stairwell so you wouldn't hear. I thought about leaving. Not because I didn't love you, but because I thought maybe you'd be better off without some stranger in your apartment every morning, claiming to be yours."
Your hand tightened on his.
"But then-" He smiled. Small and sad and real. "Then I'd make you coffee. And you'd take that first sip and make that little sound. The one you've made every morning for four years. And you'd look at me over the cup, and you'd smile, and you'd ask me a question about myself. Because that's who you are. You're curious. You're kind. Even when you don't know me, you want to know me."
Tears were forming in your eyes. You didn't blink them away.
"Every day, I get to fall in love with you all over again," he continued. "Every day, I get to see you for the first time. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you talk to the cats like they understand every word. Every single day, I get to discover you again."
He squeezed your hand.
"And every night, when you fall asleep in my arms, you hold onto me. Even when you don't know who I am, your body remembers. You reach for me in the dark. You say my name in your sleep. And I think, I think maybe some part of you knows. Some part of you remembers loving me. Even if your mind can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.
"So that's why I stay," he whispered. "Because loving you, even like this, especially like this, is the best thing I've ever done. And I'm not going to stop. Not ever."
You were crying now. Quietly. Beautifully.
"You deserve so much better than this," you said.
"I have you," he replied. "That's the only thing I deserve. That's the only thing I want."
You stood up. Walked around the table. Climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He held you. Rocked you gently. Pressed kisses to your hair.
"I don't know why I love you," you whispered against his neck. "I don't remember why. But I do. I feel it. Right here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "It's like, like my heart knows you even when my head doesn't."
Minho closed his eyes. Let the tears fall.
"That's enough," he breathed. "That's everything."
Later, you fell asleep in his arms. Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But tonight, something was different.
Just before sleep took you, you stirred. Lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light from the window.
"Minho?" you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His heart clenched. "I know, baby. I know."
"What if one day I wake up and I don't just forget you? What if I forget how to love? What if I forget how to feel?"
He pulled you closer. Held you tighter.
"Then I'll love you enough for both of us," he said. "I'll feel enough for both of us. I'll remember enough for both of us. You don't have to be scared. I've got you. I'll always have you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Searching his face. Finding whatever it was you needed to find.
Then you smiled. Soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.
"I believe you," you whispered. "I don't know why, but I believe you."
"That's all I need."
You kissed him. Just a gentle brush of lips. Just a promise.
Then you settled back against his chest, your hand over his heart, and within minutes you were asleep.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, holding you close.
And he thought about all the tomorrows ahead. All the mornings he'd wake up a stranger. All the coffees he'd make. All the introductions. All the photo albums. All the moments of recognition that would fade by nightfall.
It would be hard. It would be devastating. It would break him over and over again.
But right now, with you in his arms, breathing softly, trusting him even though you didn't know why,
At 3 AM, Minho carefully extracted himself from your arms. You stirred, mumbled, but didn't wake.
He went to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Pulled out a fresh sticky note and the pen that was almost out of ink.
He wrote:
Good morning. I'm Minho. I'm the luckiest person in the world because I get to love you. Today, I'll make you coffee. I'll show you photos. I'll tell you stories. And by the end of the day, you'll smile at me like I'm someone special. You'll hold my hand. You'll fall asleep in my arms.
You won't remember tomorrow. But I will. I'll remember every single second.
And I'll be here. Waiting. Ready to fall in love with you all over again.
Always yours,
Minho
He placed it on the nightstand, right where you'd see it when you woke.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulled you gently against his chest, and closed his eyes.
That's what the doctor had called it, anyway. A last-ditch effort. An experimental treatment that had shown promise in early stages. Not a cure, never a cure, but maybe a slowdown. Maybe a few more months of memories. Maybe a little more time.
You'd agreed before the memory loss fully hit. Sat in that same office with the gentle-eyed doctor and the box of tissues and signed your name on page after page of consent forms. Minho had held your hand the whole time. Had watched you scribble your signature with a determination that made his chest ache.
"I want to fight," you'd told him afterward, in the car, with the rain streaming down the windows. "I want to try. For us. For more time."
He'd kissed you. Right there in the parking lot. Long and slow and desperate.
You'd go to the hospital, sit in a room with pale blue walls and a television that only played cooking shows, and they'd hook you up to an IV. The medication was clear. Unremarkable. It dripped into your veins for three hours while you watched chefs compete and Minho held your hand and you both pretended this was normal.
For the first three months, it seemed to work.
You still forgot. Every morning was still a reintroduction. But the forgetting seemed... slower. Smaller. You remembered the cats' names more often. You remembered the gray hoodie was yours. Sometimes, just sometimes, you'd look at him and something would flicker in your eyes, recognition, maybe, or something close to it.
You were burning up. Literally burning. Your skin was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, and you were shaking, violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bed frame.
Minho was awake instantly.
"Hey. Hey, baby. Can you hear me?"
Your eyes were open but unfocused. Glassy. Your lips moved but no sound came out.
He grabbed his phone. Dialed. Pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while the other held your face, tried to ground you, tried to bring you back.
"The clinical trial hotline," he said when someone answered. "My girlfriend. She's in the trial. She has a fever and she's shaking and she's not responding-"
The ambulance came.
Minho rode in the back, holding your hand, watching your chest rise and fall, praying to every god he'd never believed in.
The hospital was too bright. Too loud. Too full of people going about their ordinary lives while yours hung in the balance.
Minho sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at a wall that was painted a color designed to be calming. It wasn't calming. Nothing was calming.
A doctor came out after what felt like hours. Young. Tired. Sympathetic in that practiced way that meant bad news.
"Mr. Lee?"
Minho stood. His legs almost gave out.
"She's stable," the doctor said quickly. "The fever is responding to treatment. But we need to talk about the clinical trial."
Minho just looked at him. Waiting.
"The reaction she had, it's a known risk. Severe neuroinflammation. Her body is rejecting the treatment." The doctor paused. "We can continue the infusions, but the likelihood of another reaction is high. Each one could be worse than the last. Seizures. Organ stress. Potentially-" Another pause. "Potentially fatal."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What happens if we stop?" Minho heard himself ask.
"The memory loss will accelerate. The timeline we discussed initially, it will move faster. Weeks instead of months." The doctor's eyes were gentle. Cruelly gentle. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
So pale. So small. Tubes and wires connecting you to machines that beeped and hummed and kept you alive.
But your eyes were open. And when you saw him, you smiled.
"Minho."
It was your voice. Your smile. Your eyes looking at him with recognition, real recognition, not the polite confusion of a stranger.
He crossed the room in three steps and was at your side, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles, crying without making a sound.
"Hey," you whispered. Your voice was rough. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I was scared. Because you're here and you know my name and I don't know how to handle any of this."
Your fingers tightened on his. Weak, but there.
"I remember," you said softly. "Today. I remember today. The ambulance. The lights. You holding my hand." A pause. "I was so scared. But you were there. You're always there."
"I'll always be there," he promised. "Always."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then your eyes drifted to the window, to the gray sky beyond, to the ordinary world going about its ordinary day.
"What did the doctor say?" you asked quietly.
Minho's heart stopped.
"About what?"
"Don't." You looked back at him. "Don't protect me. I can tell by your face. It's bad. Just tell me."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell you everything was fine, that you'd go home tomorrow, that you'd have more time.
But you'd asked him never to lie. Back when you still remembered everything. Back when you'd made him promise.
"The treatment is hurting you," he said. "The fevers, they'll keep happening. Each one could be worse. They said we can stop, but if we stop-"
"The memory loss gets faster." You finished his sentence. Nodded slowly. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe."
You were quiet for a moment. Processing. Accepting.
Then you squeezed his hand and smiled that small, brave smile that destroyed him every time.
"Then we stop."
"Baby-"
"Minho." You reached up with your free hand, touched his face. So gently. "I don't want to spend what time I have in a hospital. I don't want you to watch me seize and burn and maybe die in a room with pale blue walls. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our bed. I want the cats to sit on my lap. I want to drink your coffee and watch you dance and-" Your voice broke. "And I want to make as many memories as I can before I can't anymore."
He was crying. Both of you were crying.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
You pulled him down. Pressed your forehead to his.
"How long do I have?" you asked. "Before I forget everything? Before I forget you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I need to know," you said. "I need to know so I can, so I can say goodbye properly. So I can tell you everything I need to tell you."
Minho closed his eyes. Let himself feel the weight of it.
"A month," he breathed. "Maybe two. The doctor said, the doctor said at this stage, with the accelerated timeline-"
"A month." You said it like you were testing the weight of it. "Okay. Okay. One month."
You pulled back. Looked at him with those eyes that held so much. Love. Fear. Grief. Gratitude.
"Then we have one month to live a lifetime," you said. "Can we do that?"
He kissed you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say.
"We can do anything," he whispered against your lips. "As long as I'm with you."
The apartment felt different. Sacred, almost. Every corner held a memory you might not have tomorrow. Every object carried weight.
You stood in the living room, looking at the photo album on the coffee table. At the sticky notes on the walls. At the cats weaving between your ankles.
"It's strange," you said quietly. "Knowing I won't remember this. Knowing that right now, this moment, will be gone tomorrow."
Minho came up behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your hair.
"Then let's make it count," he said. "Let's make every second count."
You turned in his arms. Faced him.
"Teach me something," you said.
"What?"
"Teach me something I've never learned. Something new. Something I won't forget because I never knew it before." You smiled. "Give me a memory that's just for today."
So he did.
He taught you a dance move. The one from the music video, the one you'd tried to teach him a lifetime ago. You laughed at your own clumsiness, at his patient corrections, at the way you kept stepping on his feet.
And when you finally got it, finally nailed the sequence, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him, full of joy and triumph and the fierce beauty of being alive.
"Did you see that?" you laughed. "I did it!"
"I saw," he said, smiling through the ache in his chest. "You were amazing."
You beamed at him. So proud. So present.
And Minho made himself a promise.
He would give you this. Every single day. A new memory. Something just for today. Something the thief couldn't steal because it had never been stolen before.
You sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he'd written a hundred sticky notes, and you wrote. For hours. Page after page.
When you finally came to bed, your eyes were red and swollen.
"What did you write?" he asked gently.
"Letters." You crawled into bed beside him, settled against his chest. "Letters to myself. For when I forget. Reminders of who I am. Who you are. What we had." A pause. "What we have."
He held you tighter.
"There's one for every day," you continued. "For as long as I can. When I wake up, I'll read one. And for a few minutes, I'll remember. I'll know."
Minho's throat was too tight to speak.
You lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light.
"You're in all of them," you whispered. "Every single one. You're the reason I wrote them. You're the reason any of this matters."
He kissed you. Long and slow and full of everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I know," you whispered back. "I love you too. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay."
"I will," you promised. "I'll stay until I can't."
Panic seized him. He threw off the covers, ran to the living room,
You were there. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the photo album in your lap.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and fear.
You looked up. Your eyes were wet.
"I wanted to remember," you said quietly. "I wanted to look at these and really see them. While I still can."
He sat beside you. Pulled you against his side.
Together, in the dark, you looked at photos of a life you were losing.
The beach. The ice cream. The cats as kittens. Your first anniversary. The time he surprised you with tickets to your favorite band. The time you surprised him with a cake that looked nothing like the picture but tasted perfect anyway.
Page after page of proof that you had existed. That you had been happy.
"This one's my favorite," you whispered, pointing to a photo of the two of you in the kitchen, flour on both your faces, laughing at something the camera didn't capture.
"Why that one?"
"Because we're not posing. We're not trying to look good. We're just, happy. Real happy." You traced the image with your fingertip. "I want to remember this. Even if I forget everything else, I want to remember this."
You made a list. Things you wanted to do. Places you wanted to see. Foods you wanted to eat one last time.
Minho made it happen.
The beach where you'd had your first real conversation. The ice cream place with the weird flavors. The park where you'd first said "I love you." The rooftop where you'd watched the stars and talked about the future you thought you'd have.
Every day, a new adventure. Every night, you fell into bed exhausted but smiling.
And every morning, you woke up and read your letter and knew, for a little while, who you were and who he was and what you meant to each other.
Not just from the letter. Not just from the photos. You knew him. You looked at him and your eyes lit up with recognition, with love, with everything.
"Minho," you breathed, and it was his name, his name, the way you'd always said it, full of warmth and belonging.
"Yeah," he whispered, tears already forming. "Yeah, it's me."
You pulled him down. Kissed him like you'd never stop.
"I remember," you said against his lips. "I remember everything. Today. Right now. I remember."
You spent the day like you used to. Before the forgetting. You made breakfast together, pancakes, messy and imperfect and perfect. You danced in the living room, wrong and beautiful and so full of joy it hurt. You talked about nothing and everything. You held hands on the couch. You kissed in the kitchen. You laughed until you cried.
And at the end of the day, as the sun set through the window, you looked at him with eyes that held four years of love.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For loving me even when I couldn't love you back." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For giving me a lifetime in a month."
He cupped your face in his hands. Brushed the tear away with his thumb.
"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Thank you for being the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for every single day, even the ones you forgot."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I'll try to remember tomorrow," you said. "I'll try so hard."
"I know you will." He kissed your forehead. "And if you can't, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
That night, you fell asleep in his arms.
And Minho held you close and prayed to a god he still didn't believe in that tomorrow, just once more, you'd know his name.
He'd gotten into the habit. Those final minutes of darkness, with you still asleep in his arms, were the only time he wasn't bracing for impact. The only time he could just be with you, without the weight of your empty eyes.
He watched the sunrise paint your face gold.
Committed it to memory. The soft part of your lips. The way your eyelashes fluttered during dreams he'd never know. The small sound you made when you were surfacing from sleep.
Please, he thought. Please. Just one more day. Just let her know me one more time.
You stirred.
Your eyes opened.
And Minho knew immediately.
There was nothing there. Not confusion, not fear, not the polite curiosity of a stranger. Just, nothing. Empty. Like a house where someone had turned off all the lights.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked at the room. Looked at your own hands like you'd never seen them before.
It was a scream of not knowing. Of existing without context, without memory, without any thread connecting you to the world.
You scrambled backward, away from him, falling off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that should have hurt but you didn't seem to notice. Your back hit the wall and you pressed yourself against it, arms wrapped around your knees, rocking.
"No no no no no-"
Minho was on his knees in front of you, hands up, palms out, trying to be small, trying to be unthreatening.
"Hey," he said, voice shaking. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're in your home. My name is Minho, I'm your-"
You looked at him.
And the look in your eyes stopped his heart.
Not fear. Not confusion. Nothing. Absolute vacancy. Like looking at a person through a window made of ice.
"Who am I?" you whispered.
"You're-"
"WHO AM I?" Louder now. More desperate. Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair, pulling. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. There's nothing. There's nothing in my head. Why is there nothing in my head?"
Minho reached for you.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
He froze. Hands still in the air. Tears streaming down his face.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I won't touch you. But please, please let me help you. You're sick. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But you're safe. You're in your home. I'm here to help you."
You stared at him.
And then you started hitting yourself.
Not hard at first. Just slapping your own temples, your own forehead, like you could shake something loose, like you could force your brain to work.
"Come back," you muttered. "Come back come back come back. There has to be something. There has to be something."
Minho lunged forward. Caught your wrists. Held them tight.
You fought him. Actually fought, kicking, thrashing, screaming. Not at him. At the universe. At the emptiness inside your own skull.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO I NEED TO FIND IT I NEED TO FIND MYSELF-"
"You're right here," he sobbed, holding on, taking the hits because he couldn't let you hurt yourself. "You're right here. You're safe. Please. Please, baby, please-"
You went still.
Looked at him with those empty eyes.
"Baby," you repeated. Like the word meant nothing. Like it was sounds without sense.
One arm around your torso, pinning you gently but firmly to his chest, the other fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. You were still fighting, still thrashing, still making sounds that weren't words anymore, just raw, animal noises of distress.
"911," he gasped when someone answered. "Please. My girlfriend. She has memory loss. She woke up and she doesn't know anything. She's, she's hurting herself. She's terrified. Please. Please hurry."
He gave the address. Dropped the phone. Wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"Shh," he whispered against your hair. "Shh. I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe."
You didn't stop fighting until the paramedics arrived.
Minho watched them do it. Watched the medication flood your system, watched your eyes go from wild and empty to slowly, heavily closed. Watched them strap you to a gurney and wheel you out of the apartment you'd never remember living in.
He rode in the ambulance again.
Held your hand again.
Watched your chest rise and fall again.
But this time, when you opened your eyes, there was nothing there. And he knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that there never would be again.
The same doctor. The same gentle eyes. The same box of tissues on the corner of the desk.
Minho hated her. Hated this room. Hated the universe for putting them here again.
"She's in a state of complete autobiographical memory loss," the doctor said quietly. "Not just recent memories. Everything. Her name. Her age. The concept of self. It's all gone."
Minho stared at a spot on the wall.
"The terror she's experiencing, it's not something she can control. Imagine waking up in a world you don't recognize, in a body you don't recognize, with no context for anything. No language, even, beyond the instinctive. She doesn't know what a hospital is. She doesn't know what help is. She only knows fear."
"Fix it," Minho said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You're doctors. Fix it."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"There is one option."
Minho looked at her.
"The clinical trial. The one we stopped. If we restart it, at a higher dosage, there's a chance, a small chance, that some memories could return. Fragments. Impressions. Enough to give her back a sense of self."
"But?"
The doctor met his eyes.
"But the side effects will be worse. The fevers will be worse. The inflammation will be worse. She'll need round-the-clock monitoring. She'll need to stay here, in the hospital, indefinitely. And even then, there's no guarantee. She might never know who she is again. She might never know you."
Minho's hands were shaking.
"And if we don't?"
"Then she'll remain in this state. Permanently. She'll need full-time care. She won't recognize anyone or anything. She'll live in a world of strangers, including herself."
The room was very quiet.
"There's one more thing," the doctor said. "If we restart the trial, she can't go home. The risk of seizures is too high. She'll need to be here, in the neurology wing, for the foreseeable future. You can visit, but-"
"She can't come home."
"No. I'm sorry."
Minho closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, something broke for good.
They let him see you before they moved you to the neurology wing.
You were awake. Sedated, but awake. Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and there was nothing in them. No recognition when he entered. No fear, either, thanks to the drugs. Just... absence.
He sat in the chair beside your bed. Took your hand.
You didn't react.
"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "And I don't know what you'd want. I don't know if you'd want to fight, or if you'd want to let go. I don't know anything anymore."
You blinked slowly. Your eyes drifted to his face. No spark. No flicker.
"You're in there somewhere," he said, his voice cracking. "You have to be. You're too bright to just, to just go out. You're too you."
Nothing.
He lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one.
"I'm going to say yes," he whispered. "To the trial. Because if there's even a chance, even a tiny chance, that you could come back, even for a moment, even just to know your own name... I have to take it. I have to."
You looked at him. Empty. Peaceful. Gone.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."
Page after page. Consent forms. Waivers. Acknowledgement of risks. Acknowledgement that you might die. Acknowledgement that you might never come back. Acknowledgement that even if you did, you might not know him.
He signed them all.
Then he went back to your room, your room, in the neurology wing, with the pale blue walls and the television that only played cooking shows, and sat beside you until visiting hours ended.
A nurse came. Gentle. Kind. "You should go home. Get some rest. She'll be here tomorrow."
Minho looked at you. Still staring at the ceiling. Still empty.
"Will she know me?" he asked. "When she wakes up?"
The nurse's silence was answer enough.
He stood. Leaned down. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll always come back. I promised you that, remember? Even if you don't."
You didn't respond.
He walked out of the room.
Walked down the hallway.
Walked out of the hospital and into the night and drove home to an apartment that would never feel like home again.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie. Winding around his ankles, meowing for food, for attention, for the person who wasn't there.
Minho stood in the entryway and looked at the life they'd built.
Your shoes by the door. Your hoodie on the back of the chair. The photo album on the coffee table. The sticky notes on the walls. The half-empty cup of coffee you'd never finish.
He walked to the bedroom.
Your side of the bed was still rumpled. The sheets still held your shape. The pillow still smelled like you.
He lay down on your side. Buried his face in your pillow. Breathed in the last traces of you.
And for the first time since this started, really started, Minho let himself break completely.
He sobbed until he couldn't breathe. Sobbed until his throat was raw. Sobbed until there was nothing left, just empty heaves and the sound of his own heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.
The cats jumped on the bed. Curled up around him. Dori licked the tears from his face.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were gone.
Not dead. But gone.
The person he loved, the one with the laugh that filled rooms, the one who stole blankets and snored and made him coffee and looked at him like he was something precious, that person was somewhere inside a body that didn't know her own name.
You were awake. Sitting up in bed. Your eyes were clearer today, less sedated, but still empty. Still vacant.
A nurse was helping you eat breakfast. You opened your mouth mechanically when the spoon approached. Chewed. Swallowed. No expression.
Minho stood in the doorway.
The nurse noticed him. Smiled gently. "She's had her first infusion. No reaction yet. That's good."
He nodded. Walked to your bedside.
"Hi," he said softly.
You looked at him. Nothing.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice only cracked a little. "I'm the person who loves you most in the world. I know you don't know me. That's okay. I'm going to keep coming anyway. Every day. I'm going to keep telling you who I am. I'm going to keep hoping."
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, your hand moved.
Reached out.
Touched his face.
Minho's breath caught.
Your fingers traced his cheek. His jaw. His lips. Like you were trying to read him through touch. Like your body was searching for something your mind had lost.
"No," you whispered.
His heart stopped.
"No what?"
You frowned. Concentration. Effort. Like you were trying to climb out of a deep, dark hole.
"No... don't..." You shook your head slightly. "Don't... cry."
Minho realized there were tears on his face. He hadn't noticed them falling.
"You don't know me," he whispered. "How do you know I was crying?"
You looked at him. Still empty. Still lost.
But your hand stayed on his face.
And for one moment, one tiny, impossible moment, he thought he saw something flicker in your eyes.
Then it was gone.
You pulled your hand back. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Minho sat beside you for the rest of visiting hours. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Telling you stories about a life you'd never remember.
Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes you were asleep. Sometimes you were in the middle of a fever, shaking and burning and surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed.
He was there for all of it.
He read you letters, the ones you'd written, the ones you'd never read yourself. He showed you photos from the album, even though your eyes slid off them like water. He told you about the cats, about Dori's latest mischief, about Soonie's favorite sleeping spot.
And every day, before he left, he kissed your forehead and said the same thing:
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I love you."
You never responded.
But sometimes, when he said it, your fingers would twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Minho held onto that like a drowning man holds onto air.
Three weeks into your hospitalization, Minho found a letter he hadn't seen before.
It was tucked into the back of the photo album. Your handwriting on the envelope. His name. He opened it with shaking hands.
Minho,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. Not dead, I made the nurse promise she'd give you this if I ever got to the point where I couldn't communicate anymore. So if you're reading this, I'm in that place. The empty place. And you're still here, being you, being the most stubbornly loving person I've ever known.
I need you to know something.
I'm not scared.
I know that sounds crazy. I should be terrified. But I'm not, because I know you're with me. Even if I don't know it in the moment, even if my eyes are empty and my hands don't hold yours back, some part of me knows. Some part of me feels you. And that part is peaceful.
You gave me that. You gave me a love so big it exists even when I don't.
I need you to promise me something. You're going to want to stay in that apartment forever, surrounded by my things, trapped in a life that's half-empty. Don't. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll laugh again. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy, even if it's without me.
I know that seems impossible right now. But I need you to try. For me. For the person who loved you more than anything.
I don't know if there's an afterlife. I don't know if I'll be watching. But if I am, I'll be cheering for you. I'll be so proud of you. I'll be so grateful for every single second you gave me.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for loving me even when I couldn't love you back.
You were my whole heart. You will always be my whole heart.
Forever yours,
(Your name)
P.S. , Take care of the cats. They miss me. Tell them I love them.
Minho read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, placed it in his wallet, and went to the hospital.
You were having a good day. No fever. Eyes open. You even looked at him when he walked in.
"Hi," he said, sitting beside you. "I brought a letter. From you. From before. Do you want to hear it?"
You stared at him. Empty.
He read it anyway.
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his eyes were wet, you reached out and touched his face again.
He sold the apartment. Packed up your things carefully, reverently. Kept the gray hoodie for himself. Donated the rest to a women's shelter, because you would have wanted that.
He found a smaller place. Closer to the hospital. Easier for visiting.
He took the cats.
And every single day, he went to see you.
You never knew him again. Not really. There were moments, flickers, glimpses, tiny windows where your eyes would focus and your hand would reach for his. But they never lasted. By the next visit, you were empty again.
But Minho kept coming.
He kept talking. Kept reading. Kept holding your hand.
Because somewhere, deep inside the empty, he knew you were there. The real you. The one who laughed with her whole body and stole blankets and made him coffee and looked at him like he was the sun.
Minho sat beside your bed, holding your hand, telling you about Dori's latest adventure. The cat had gotten stuck in a paper bag and stumbled around the apartment for an hour before Minho rescued him. It had been hilarious. You would have laughed.
He was mid-sentence when your fingers tightened on his.
He stopped. Looked at you.
Your eyes were open. Clear. Focused.
"Minho," you whispered.
Not a question. Not a stranger's polite confusion. His name. His name.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's me."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I remember," you said softly. "I remember everything."
Minho's world stopped.
"You-"
"For a minute. Maybe less. But I remember." You lifted your free hand, touched his face. "I remember loving you. I remember being loved by you. I remember everything that matters."
Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.
"I've been waiting," he choked out. "I've been waiting so long."
"I know." Your thumb traced his cheek. "I know. I felt you. Every day. Even when I couldn't respond. I felt you here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "Right here."
He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Your voice was getting weaker. Your eyes were fluttering. "I'll try to come back. I'll try to remember again."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be here. I'll always be here."
You smiled one more time.
Then your eyes closed, and you were gone again.
Minho sat beside you, holding your hand, crying without making a sound.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's visit, replaying your empty eyes, replaying the one moment of clarity you'd given him a week ago.
I remember loving you.
He held onto those words like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it before the sound could fully register, heart already pounding, because phones don't ring at 3:47 AM for good news.
The screen said: HOSPITAL.
He answered. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Mr. Lee?"
"Yes."
"It's Dr. Park. From the neurology wing." A pause. The kind of pause that stretches into eternity. "I'm so sorry to call at this hour. There's been an incident."
Minho was already standing. Already pulling on clothes. Already moving toward the door.
"What happened?"
"She had a seizure. A severe one. The team responded immediately, but-" Another pause. Longer this time. "It was too aggressive. We couldn't stop it. Her heart-"
The words stopped.
Minho stopped too. Frozen in the middle of his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, the cats watching him with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lee? Are you there?"
"She's gone." His own voice. He barely recognized it.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She wasn't in pain. I need you to know that. She wasn't in pain."
Minho's legs gave out.
He sank to the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
"She was alone," he whispered. "She was alone and she didn't know who she was and she died alone."
"There was a nurse with her. She wasn't alone. And Mr. Lee-" The doctor's voice cracked, just slightly. Professionalism giving way to something human. "In her final moments, she said a name. Just once. Before the seizure took her."
Minho's heart stopped.
"What name?"
"Yours. She said 'Minho.' Clear as anything. And then she was gone."
The sob that tore out of him was animal. Primal. It came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed.
She remembered. At the end. She remembered.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you for telling me."
"Someone will be in touch about, about arrangements. Take your time. There's no rush. And Mr. Lee?"
"Yes?"
"She was lucky to have you. I've never seen anyone fight as hard for someone as you fought for her."
The line went dead.
Minho sat on his living room floor at 3:47 AM, one shoe on, one shoe off, and held the phone in his hands.
The cats came to him. Dori first, then Soonie, then Doongie. They curled around him, pressed their warmth into his shaking body.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were really gone.
Not empty. Not waiting. Not somewhere inside a body that didn't know itself.
Gone.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. You were too bright, too alive, too much to just be gone.
But the phone call was real. The silence was real. The empty apartment was real.
One moment he was on the floor with the cats. The next, he was in the parking lot, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like he'd been holding it for hours.
The sun was rising. Pale pink and orange over the buildings. Beautiful. The kind of sunrise you would have dragged him outside to see.
He sat in the car and watched it and thought about how the world kept spinning even when his had stopped.
A nurse met him at the entrance. The kind one. The one who always smiled at him when he came for visits.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "She's still in her room. They haven't, they haven't moved her yet. I thought you might want-"
"Thank you."
His voice was automatic. His legs were automatic. Everything was automatic except the gaping hole where his heart used to be.
He stood outside it for a long time. Staring at the crack of light. Listening to the machines that weren't beeping anymore.
She's not in there, he told himself. She's not in that room. She's somewhere else. She's free.
But his hand still shook when he pushed the door open.
You were in the bed.
Still. So still. Your eyes were closed, your face peaceful, your hands folded over your chest like you were sleeping.
But you weren't sleeping.
He knew because your chest wasn't moving. Because the machines were dark. Because the room had the terrible quiet of finality.
He walked to your bedside.
Sat in the chair he'd sat in a thousand times.
Took your hand.
It was cold.
Minho lifted it to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one. Just like he'd done a million times before.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm always here. Remember?"
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
But he kept talking anyway.
"The cats miss you. Dori tried to steal my food this morning. Soonie slept on your pillow again. They know something's wrong. They keep looking at the door like you're going to walk through it."
He laughed. A broken, wrecked sound.
"I keep doing that too. Looking at doors. Expecting you."
He pressed your hand to his cheek. Held it there.
"The nurse said you said my name. At the end. Thank you for that. Thank you for remembering. Even for a second."
Tears dripped onto your cold fingers.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be in a world without you. I don't know how to wake up tomorrow and not come here. I don't know how to exist when half of me is gone."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to your still shoulder.
"You were supposed to forget me. Not leave me. You were supposed to be here, even if you didn't know me. I could handle that. I could handle anything as long as you were breathing."
A sob wracked his body.
"But you're not breathing. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye."
He stayed like that for a long time. Holding your hand. Crying into your shoulder. Saying everything and nothing.
Eventually, a gentle hand touched his back.
The kind nurse. Tears streaming down her face.
"It's time," she whispered. "They need to, they need to take her now."
Minho nodded. Sat up. Looked at your face one last time.
He leaned down. Kissed your forehead. The same spot he'd kissed a thousand mornings.
"I love you," he said. "I loved you from the moment I met you. I'll love you until the moment I die. And after that, if there's anything after that, I'll find you. I'll always find you."
He stood.
Let go of your hand.
Walked to the door.
Turned back one last time.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wherever you are. Wait for me."
Then he walked out of the room, and you were gone.
Your family. His family. A few close friends who had watched this whole tragedy unfold from the sidelines, helpless.
Minho stood at the front and didn't cry.
He'd done all his crying in that hospital room. Now there was just emptiness. Just the mechanical motions of existing.
They played your favorite song. The one you used to dance to in the living room. Minho stood perfectly still and listened and thought about the way you'd grab his hands and pull him into your ridiculous choreography, laughing, always laughing.
Afterward, people touched his arm. Said words he didn't hear. Cried tears he couldn't join.
He nodded. Thanked them. Waited for it to be over.
When everyone was gone, he stood alone by the grave. Looked at the headstone with your name on it. Your real name. The one he'd whispered a million times.
"I brought something," he said quietly.
He pulled the gray hoodie from his bag. Your hoodie. The one you'd stolen years ago and never given back.
He knelt. Folded it carefully. Laid it on the fresh earth.
"So you're not cold," he whispered. "Wherever you are."
The wind picked up. Rustled the leaves. Carried something that might have been a whisper or might have been his imagination.
He stood. Looked at the sky. Thought about all the mornings he'd wake up without you.
"I'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. I'll be okay because you'd want me to be. I'll laugh again. I'll dance again. I'll live again."
A pause.
"But I'll never stop loving you. Not for one second. Not ever."
That night, Minho sat on his couch with three cats on his lap.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie.
They purred. They kneaded. They looked at him with eyes that held their own kind of grief.
"She loved you," he told them. "So much. She found you in the rain, Dori. She carried you home in her hoodie pocket. You were so small you fit in one hand."
Dori blinked slowly.
"She used to talk to you guys like you understood every word. Maybe you did. She seemed to think so."
Soonie meowed. Soft. Questioning.
"Yeah," Minho whispered. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry. She's not coming back."
The cats curled closer. Pressed their warmth into him.
And for the first time since the phone call, Minho cried.
Not the violent sobs of that first morning. Not the wrecked grief of the hospital room. Just tears. Silent, endless tears, falling onto the fur of the creatures you'd loved.
He cried for you. For him. For the life you should have had.
And when the tears finally stopped, he sat in the quiet and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
Not happiness. Not okay-ness. But peace. The knowledge that you weren't suffering anymore. That you weren't scared or empty or lost.
You were free.
And someday, a long time from now, he would be too.
He sat at the kitchen table, the same table where you'd written your letters to yourself, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that was almost out of ink.
Dear y/n,
I don't know where you are. I don't know if you can hear this. But I need to talk to you anyway.
It's been a year. A whole year without you. I don't know how that's possible. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever.
The cats are good. Dori still steals food. Soonie still sleeps on your pillow. Doongie still follows me from room to room like he's making sure I'm okay. I think they remember you. I think they're waiting too.
I moved. Just last month. A new place. Smaller. Closer to the park where we used to walk. I brought your hoodie. The gray one. It's in a drawer next to my bed. I don't wear it, I'm scared of wearing it out, but sometimes I take it out and hold it and pretend you're still here.
I laughed yesterday. Really laughed. Jisung told a stupid joke and I laughed before I could stop myself. It felt strange. Like betraying you. But then I remembered what you wrote in your letter-"Promise me you'll laugh again", and I think maybe you were cheering somewhere.
I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay. But I'm here. I'm living. I'm trying.
Because that's what you asked me to do.
I love you. I'll always love you. Every single day for the rest of my life, I'll love you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Minho
He folded the letter. Put it in an envelope. Wrote your name on the front.
Then he went to the cemetery and buried it in the earth beside you.
On a quiet Tuesday, many years later, an old man sat in a chair by a window.
His hair was gray now. His body was tired. But his eyes were still sharp, still bright, still full of a love that had never faded.
Three cats, descendants of the originals, slept at his feet.
In his lap was a photo album. Worn. Pages yellowed. Held together by love and tape.
He turned the pages slowly. Smiling at each one.
The beach. The ice cream. The kitchen covered in flour. The cats as kittens. A thousand small moments that added up to a lifetime.
He stopped at the last page.
A photo of you. In the gray hoodie. Laughing at something off-camera. Beautiful. Alive. His.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm getting close now. I can feel it."
The cats slept on.
"I hope you're still waiting. I hope there's something after this. I hope I get to see you again."
He traced your face with a trembling finger.
"If there is-" His voice cracked, old and soft. "If there is, I'm going to run to you. I'm going to hold you and never let go. And if there isn't, if this is all there is, then thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything."
He closed the album. Set it gently on the table beside him.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Because somewhere, in the space between heartbeats, he heard it.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || A girl spends three years waiting, hurting, and almost moving on from her childhood best friend turned K-pop idol, only for him to fly across the world and fight like hell to remind her that some loves are worth the distance.
Idol! Lee Felix x Reader
Category: Slight angst (not really), Fluff!!
Word Count: 16.2k
A/N: sorry if paragraphs are big! had to put them together due to the limit here on tumblr!
The goodbye dinner was a nightmare. Not because anyone was mean, his family loves you, they've basically adopted you at this point, but because everyone was pretending. Pretending this was normal. Pretending he wasn't leaving for Seoul in less than twelve hours. Pretending everything would be fine.
You ate his grandma's japchae and smiled and laughed at his uncle's jokes and felt like you were drowning the entire time. Now you're in your car, parked at the curb, and the silence is somehow worse. Felix is slumped in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. The streetlight casts half his face in gold, the other half in shadow. He hasn't said anything since you pulled over.
You should go. It's almost 3 AM. He needs sleep. His flight is at noon. But your hands won't leave the steering wheel.
"I don't want to go."
His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You turn to look at him. He's still staring forward, jaw tight, hands gripping his thighs.
"Lix-"
"I know." He cuts you off, sharp, then immediately softens. "Sorry. I know I have to. I know this is my dream. I've wanted this since I was thirteen. I just-" His voice cracks. "I didn't think it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
He finally looks at you, and the rawness in his eyes makes your chest cave in.
"Like I'm leaving half of myself behind."
The words hang in the dark air between you. You can't breathe. You can't think. All you can do is look at him, really look, and see the fear he's been hiding for weeks. He's always been the brave one. The one who talked about debut like it was destiny, who practiced until his feet bled, who never let anyone see him doubt. But right now, in the dim light of your beat-up car, he looks fifteen again. Scared. Unsure. Yours.
"Felix." You don't know what you're going to say, but his name falls out like a prayer.
"I'm scared." The words tumble out now, like he can't stop them. "I'm so fucking scared. What if I get there and I'm not good enough? What if I can't keep up? What if I change? What if I come back and I'm not-" His voice breaks completely. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "What if I come back and I'm not me anymore?"
You don't think. You just move. You're out of your seat belt, leaning across the center console, pulling his hands away from his face. His cheeks are wet. You've seen Felix cry before, at movies, at your high school graduation, when his dog got sick, but this is different. This is terror. This is grief. This is the first time in your entire friendship that he's let you see him truly, completely fall apart.
"Hey." Your voice is fierce. "Hey, look at me."
He does. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears, and he's still the most beautiful person you've ever seen.
"You are not going to change," you say. "Not the parts that matter. You're going to work hard and you're going to debut and you're going to be amazing, and underneath all of it, you're still going to be Felix. My Felix. The one who cried during Finding Nemo. The one who holds my hair back when I'm sick. The one who-" Your voice wobbles. "The one who's had my heart since we were twelve years old."
His breath catches. You realize what you said. You realize it's too late to take it back.
You don't take it back.
"What if you find someone else?" he whispers. "Someone who's actually there? Someone you can actually-"
"Not possible."
"You don't know that-"
"I know." You grab his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "I know because there's no one else. There's never been anyone else. There's never going to be anyone else. Do you understand me?"
He stares at you. Something shifts in his expression, fear melting into something softer, something wondering.
"Say it again," he breathes.
"There's no one else. Just you. Always you."
His hands come up to cover yours where they frame his face. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture is so tender, so him, that your eyes finally spill over.
"Come inside," he whispers.
"What?"
"Come inside. Just for a while. I don't, I can't say goodbye yet. Not like this. Please."
You should say no. You should tell him to get some sleep, that you'll see him in the morning, that this is only making it harder. Instead, you nod.
It's quiet. His parents went to bed hours ago. The living room is dark except for the nightlight his mom still keeps in the hallway. You've been in this house a thousand times, but tonight everything feels different, charged, fragile, precious.
You end up in his room.It's chaos. Half-packed suitcase on the bed, clothes everywhere, empty ramen cups on his desk. The posters are still up, the same ones from freshman year. His bed is unmade. His laptop is open to a playlist he never finished.
You stand in the middle of the mess, suddenly awkward. This is his space, his sanctuary, and in a few hours it won't be his anymore. He closes the door behind you.
"Sorry about the mess," he says quietly. "I meant to clean up, but-"
"You've been a little busy."
A wet laugh. "Yeah. A little."
Neither of you moves. You're standing three feet apart, but it feels like miles and inches at the same time. Then he crosses the distance.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, and you go willingly, eagerly, burying your face in his hoodie. The same hoodie you lent him years ago. He still has it. He's wearing it tonight.
"You're shaking," you murmur.
"So are you."
He's right. You are. From cold? From fear? From the weight of everything unsaid? He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands stay on your waist, warm even through your jacket. Your hands are on his chest, right over his heart. It's racing.
"I meant what I said," he whispers. "About leaving half myself behind. You're-" He swallows. "You're the best thing about here. About home. About everything."
"Felix-"
"Let me finish. Please." His thumbs trace small circles on your hips. "I don't know what happens tomorrow. I don't know what happens next year. I don't know if I'll make it, if I'll debut, if any of this will work out. But I know-" His voice breaks again. "I know that I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like not to. And I'm not saying that to make this harder. I'm saying it because if something happens, if the plane goes down, if I get hit by a bus tomorrow, if I never get to come back, I need you to know. I need someone in the world to know that Felix Lee loved someone with his whole heart before he left."
You're crying again. So is he.
"I love you too," you whisper. "I've loved you since the talent show in 7th grade when you forgot the lyrics and just started dancing instead. I've loved you through every bad haircut and every stupid fight and every moment we've ever had. I love you, Felix. I love you so much it scares me."
He kisses you.
It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's a collision, a desperate, messy, perfect collision of years of unspoken words and denied feelings. His mouth crashes against yours, and it's not practiced or polished; it's raw and real and Felix. One of his hands slides from your waist to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like you're the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control. The other hand presses firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there's no space left between your bodies, until you can feel the frantic, terrified rhythm of his heart beating against your own.
You kiss him back with everything you have, your arms locking around his neck, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his hoodie. You can taste the salt of his tears on his lips, mingling with your own. It's not a kiss of discovery; it's a kiss of recognition. This is the mouth you've watched laugh a thousand times, the lips you've seen form words that have both comforted and infuriated you. This is the culmination of every shared glance, every accidental touch, every moment you've spent pretending your friendship was just that.
There's a frantic edge to it, a breathless urgency that says now, now, now. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a soft, broken sound escapes his throat, half sob, half sigh. It's the most vulnerable sound you've ever heard, and it shatters something in you. You pour every promise you can't make, every reassurance he needs, every ounce of your love into that single, searing kiss. It's messy and wet and perfect, your noses bumping, teeth clashing slightly in your desperation. You're not just kissing him; you're trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, the feel of his lips, the way he breathes your name into the space between you when you finally, mercifully, pull back to gasp for air. He rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting, his eyes still squeezed shut as if he's afraid to open them and find that this was all a dream.
"I don't want to go," he whispers again.
"I know."
"I mean it. I'll stay. I'll give it all up, I'll-"
"Don't." You press your fingers to his lips. "Don't you dare. You're going to Seoul and you're going to be a star and you're going to come back and tell me all about it. That's the deal."
"But-"
"No buts." You kiss him again, softer this time. "I'll be here. Waiting. However long it takes."
He pulls you into another hug, holding you so tight you can barely breathe. You don't care. You'd stay here forever if you could. Eventually, you end up on his floor, sitting with your backs against his bed, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder. The mess surrounds you like a fortress.
"Tell me a memory," he murmurs. "A good one. Something to take with me."
You think for a moment. Then you smile.
"Remember the beach trip? Summer before junior year?"
He laughs softly. "When I almost drowned?"
"You didn't almost drown. You just panicked because a fish touched your leg."
"It was a BIG fish."
"It was the SIZE of my HAND, Felix."
"Traumatic. Completely traumatic."
You're both laughing now, and it feels like coming up for air. You spend the next hour trading memories, the bad talent show, the time you got locked in the school basement, the night you stayed up until dawn watching the stars from his roof. Somewhere around 5 AM, you fall asleep against his shoulder.
You wake to sunlight and the sound of his mom calling his name. For one blissful second, you don't remember. Then it all crashes back, the car, the confession, the kiss, the promise. You're still on his floor. There's a blanket over you that wasn't there before. Felix is gone.
Panic lurches in your chest, and then he's there, kneeling beside you, already showered and dressed in his airport clothes. He looks exhausted but calm.
"Hey," he whispers. "You fell asleep. I didn't want to move you."
"What time is it?"
"Almost nine. We leave in an hour."
You sit up too fast, head spinning. "I should go. Let you finish packing, let you say goodbye to your family-"
"Hey." He cups your face, steadying you. "Breathe."
You breathe.
"Last night-" you start.
"Was real." His eyes are soft, certain. "It was the most real thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm still scared. I'm still terrified. But now I have something to hold onto."
He kisses you, soft, sweet, a promise.
"I love you," he says against your lips. "I'm coming back. Wait for me?"
You stand on the porch with his parents, watching the car pull away. His mom is crying. His dad has his arm around her. You're strangely numb, hollowed out, like everything that happened last night was a dream.
Then your phone buzzes.
Felix: look in your jacket pocket
You reach in. Your fingers close around something small and worn, a photo booth strip from the fair, ages 14 and 15, making stupid faces. The one he's carried in his wallet for years. Under it, a note in his messy handwriting:
"So you have something of mine until I come back to claim it. I love you. Wait for me. - Lix"
You press the photo to your chest and finally let yourself cry.
Month 1: The first week, he calls every night. You're lying in bed, phone pressed to your ear, listening to him complain about the dorm food and the early mornings and the guy who snores so loud it shakes the walls. His voice is tired but happy, full of stories about new friends and impossible choreography.
"I miss you," he says, and it's become a refrain. "I miss your laugh. I miss movie nights. I miss falling asleep on your shoulder."
"I miss you too." You trace patterns on your ceiling like you're drawing his face. "But you're doing it. You're really doing it."
"Yeah." A pause. "I couldn't have gotten here without you."
You fall asleep with the phone still connected, his breathing a lullaby.
Month 3: The calls become every few days. Then weekly. You understand. You do. Training is brutal, sixteen hour days, no breaks, constant pressure. He's exhausted. You tell yourself it's fine.
But you start noticing things.
His texts are shorter. His replies come later. Sometimes he sends a selfie with new friends, laughing, arms around each other, and you zoom in on their faces, these strangers who get to see him every day. You don't tell him about your bad days anymore. He has enough to worry about.
Month 6: You text him about your mom being sick. Nothing serious, just a cold, but you're worried and you need someone to tell.
He replies 48 hours later: "that sucks :/ hope she feels better"
Attached is a photo of him with a group of trainees at a barbecue. He's grinning, cheeks full of food, surrounded by people you don't know. You stare at the photo for twenty minutes. You don't reply.
Month 9: He calls at 3 AM his time. You're in the shower. By the time you see the missed call and text back "sorry!! what's up?", it's been four hours.
He never responds. You fall asleep with your phone in your hand, waiting.
You take the day off work. You buy your favorite cake. You put on a nice dress, just in case he wants to video call. Your phone stays silent.
At 11:47 PM, a text: "happy bday!! hope u have the best day sorry im late been crazy here miss u!!"
Eight words. Two exclamation points. No call. No voice. No memory of the tradition you've had since you were thirteen, midnight birthday calls, always the first to wish each other happy day.
The music video drops at midnight your time. You watch it immediately, heart pounding. And there he is. Your Felix. The boy who used to steal your fries and fall asleep in your lap. He's on screen, glowing, dancing like he was born for this. He looks like a star. You watch it three times. You cry through all of them.
You text him: "You did it. I'm so proud of you."
He doesn't reply for three days. When he does, it's just a heart emoji.
You tell yourself it's self-preservation. You tell yourself you're giving him space. You tell yourself a lot of things. The truth is, it hurts too much. Every unanswered text is a small death. Every short reply is a reminder that you're not his priority anymore.
You start lurking on fan sites instead. It's pathetic and you know it, but at least there you can see him, really see him, without the crushing weight of expectation. The fans post everything. Fancams. Photos. Translations of his lives. You learn things about his life from strangers on the internet.
He likes his coffee iced now. He's scared of thunderstorms. He has a habit of touching his earring when he's nervous. He mentioned once, in a fansign, that he has a best friend back home who he's known since childhood. The fan video cuts to him smiling softly, almost sadly, and saying: "She's my person. She always will be."
You watch it seventeen times. You're not sure if you're crying because you're happy or because you're heartbroken. Maybe both.
Month 22: You see a photo of him with a female idol.
It's nothing, just a music show behind-the-scenes, them laughing at something off-camera. Professional. Friendly. Normal. You stare at it for an hour.
She's pretty. She's there. She shares his world in a way you never can. They probably have inside jokes now. Probably text each other. Probably, You close the tab. You open it again. You close it. You hate yourself for feeling this way. You have no claim on him. He's not yours. He never was, not really, not beyond friendship and one desperate night and promises made in the dark.
He works in the cubicle two rows over. He has kind eyes and a steady laugh and he brings you coffee without being asked. He's here. He's present. He looks at you like you're the only person in the room. You've been on three dates. The first was awkward. You spent the whole time comparing him to Felix, his laugh isn't as bright, his jokes don't land the same, he's never seen your favorite movie. You went home feeling guilty for no reason.
The second was better. You laughed a few times. You let him hold your hand. When he kissed you goodnight, chaste, sweet, respectful, you felt... something. Not fireworks. But something. The third is tonight.
You're getting ready, staring at your reflection, when your eyes drift to your nightstand. The photo strip is still there. Felix at fourteen, making a stupid face, forever frozen in a moment that's been over for years. You should put it away. You should move on. You should,
The date is... nice. Dinner at a little Italian place. He tells stories about his family. You tell stories about work. He reaches across the table to hold your hand, and you let him. When he walks you to your door, he kisses you longer than before, and you kiss him back.
It's fine. It's good. It's normal.
"Same time next week?" he asks, hopeful.
You open your mouth to say yes. Your phone buzzes. Unknown number. Late. Too late for anything good.
"I should-" you start.
He nods, understanding. "Call me tomorrow?"
"Sure."
You wait until he's gone before you answer.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
His voice. His voice. After months of silence, after years of distance, after you'd finally started to let go,
"Felix?"
"Yeah." A pause. "I know it's late. I just, I needed to hear your voice."
Something in his voice cracks. He sounds raw, exhausted, so young it hurts.
"What's wrong?" The words come out before you can stop them.
"Nothing. Everything." A shaky breath. "I just, I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. I'm surrounded by people all day every day and I've never felt more alone. No one here knows me. Not really. Not like you do. Not like-"
He stops. You hear him breathing.
"Are you okay?" you whisper.
"No." A wet laugh. "No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay in years. I've been running on adrenaline and caffeine and dreams, and I thought if I just kept going, if I just made it, everything would feel worth it. But I made it. I debuted. I'm living my dream. And I've never felt more empty."
You sink onto your bed, heart pounding.
"Felix-"
"Do you remember that night? Before I left? In my room, on the floor, you said you'd wait. You said-" His voice breaks completely. "You said there's no one else. Just me. Always me."
"I remember."
"Did you mean it?"
The question hangs in the air. You think about Junwoo. About his kind eyes and steady presence. About the way he looks at you like you matter. About how you almost said yes to a fourth date.
"I-" Your voice catches. The silence stretches. You can hear him waiting, barely breathing.
"That's what I thought." His voice is quiet now. Dead. "I don't blame you. I don't. I've been a shit friend. I disappeared. I made you feel like you didn't matter. Of course you-"
"Felix, stop."
"Why? It's true. I checked your Instagram. I saw you with him. At that restaurant, the one we used to-" He cuts off. Swallows. "He's handsome. He looks nice. I hope he treats you well."
Something in you snaps.
"You hope he treats me well?" Your voice comes out sharp, incredulous. "You hope? Felix, I haven't heard your voice in four months. Four months of radio silence, and you call me at midnight to tell me you hope the guy I'm dating treats me well?"
"That's not-"
"What did you expect?" You're on your feet now, pacing. "Did you expect me to just wait forever? To sit by my phone like a loyal puppy, hoping for a text that never comes? To watch from afar while you build this whole beautiful life without me?"
"I never said-"
"You didn't have to say it. You showed it. Every missed call, every short reply, every birthday you forgot, you showed me exactly where I stand." Silence. When he speaks again, his voice is small.
"I didn't forget your birthday."
"Could've fooled me."
"I-" He takes a shaky breath. "I recorded a video for you. That night. I sat in the practice room at 2 AM and talked to my phone for twenty minutes because I couldn't call. I told you about debut. About how scared I was. About how much I-" His voice cracks. "About how much I love you. And then I deleted it because I was too scared to send it. Too scared that hearing your voice would break me." You stop pacing.
"I think about you every day," he continues, raw and broken. "Every single day. When I'm dancing, when I'm recording, when I'm supposed to be sleeping. I think about your laugh. Your smile. The way you used to fall asleep on my shoulder during movies. I think about that night, the car, your room, the way you held me like I was something precious. And then I think about how I threw it all away because I was too stupid to pick up the phone."
"Felix-"
"I don't expect you to wait. I don't deserve it. I just, I needed you to know. Before you move on completely. Before you marry that guy and forget I ever existed. I needed you to know that I love you. I've always loved you. I'll always love you. Even if you're not mine anymore."
You're crying. You didn't notice when it started.
"You're an idiot," you whisper.
A wet laugh. "Yeah. I know."
"A complete idiot."
"The biggest idiot in Korea. Probably the whole world."
"You forgot my birthday."
"I know."
"You stopped calling."
"I know."
"You made me feel like I didn't matter."
Long pause. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked.
"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't have an excuse. I was drowning and I didn't know how to reach out without pulling you under with me. But that's not fair to you. You deserved better. You deserve-" He breaks off, choked.
"What if I don't want better?" The words hang in the air.
"What?"
"What if I don't want someone who's here and present and easy? What if I want the idiot who forgot my birthday but still wears the bracelet I made him in 9th grade? What if I want the boy who cried during Finding Nemo and holds my hair back when I'm sick and looks at me like I'm the only person in the world?"
"But I'm not, I can't-"
"I know you can't be here. I know it's hard. I know you're busy and exhausted and living a life I can't be part of. But I also know-" Your voice breaks. "I know that I tried to move on. I really did. Junwoo is nice. He's kind. He's everything I should want. And I felt nothing. Because he's not you. He'll never be you."
"Baby-"
"Don't." You're crying harder now. "Don't call me that if you're just going to disappear again."
"I won't." Desperate now. Urgent. "I swear I won't. I'll do better. I'll call every day. I'll text every chance I get. I'll, I'll fly you out here. Next break I get. Just, please. Please don't give up on me. Not when I finally-" He stops, breathes. "Not when I finally figured out what I've been missing."
"And what's that?"
"You." Simple. Certain. "It's always been you. It'll always be you. There's no one else. There's never been anyone else."
Your knees give out. You sink to the floor, back against your bed, phone pressed so tight to your ear it hurts.
"You really hurt me," you whisper.
"I know."
"For years, Felix. Years of feeling like I was losing you piece by piece."
"I know. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me."
"You can't promise that. You're an idol now. You have schedules, fans, a company-"
"I don't care." Fierce now. "I'll find a way. I'll always find a way. You're my person. You said it yourself, distance doesn't change that."
You laugh, wet, broken, but a laugh.
"You remembered that?"
"I remember everything. Every word you've ever said to me. Every look. Every touch. I've been replaying them in my head for two years just to survive."
"Felix..."
"I love you." Three words, simple and devastating. "I love you and I'm sorry and I'm going to do better. Just, give me a chance. One more chance. Please."
You close your eyes. Think about Junwoo. About the path you almost took. About the life you almost chose. Then you think about Felix. About his laugh. His smile. The way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. The way he's looking at you now, even through a phone, even across an ocean.
"One chance," you whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But Felix?"
"Anything."
"If you forget my birthday again, I'm flying to Seoul just to kill you myself."
He laughs, that bright, beautiful laugh you've missed for years.
Later that night: You fall asleep on the phone, just like old times. At 3 AM, you wake to him still there, breathing soft and steady.
"Lix?" you whisper.
"Yeah?" His voice is sleepy, warm.
"I'm glad you called."
"Me too."
"Don't disappear again."
"I won't. I promise."
"Good." You snuggle deeper into your pillow. "I love you, idiot."
"Love you too. Always."
In the morning, you text Junwoo: "I'm so sorry. You're wonderful, but my heart belongs to someone else. I hope you understand."
He replies with a single heart emoji and nothing else. You feel guilty for approximately thirty seconds. Then your phone buzzes with a selfie, Felix, clearly just woke up, hair a mess, smiling so wide his eyes disappear. The bracelet is visible on his wrist.
Felix: good morning ❤️
You save the photo immediately.
You: good morning idiot
Felix: that's IDIOT WHO LOVES YOU to you
You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Maybe waiting wasn't so stupid after all.
The ceiling of his bedroom has cracks in it.Felix has stared at these cracks for hours over the past three years, during trainee days when he couldn't sleep from nerves, during debut celebrations when his mind wouldn't quiet, during lonely nights when home felt like a dream. He knows every line, every imperfection, every shadow.
Tonight, the cracks look like your face. He's been on the phone with you for two hours. It's 2 AM here, which means it's 2 AM there too, you're both night owls, always have been, and some habits don't die. You're telling him about your day, your voice soft and tired through the speaker, and he's listening to every word like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
"-and then the printer jammed, obviously, because the universe hates me, and I had to take the whole thing apart, and I found an old receipt from 2019 inside, which is somehow both disgusting and impressive-"
He laughs. It's automatic, instinctive, the way he's always laughed at your stories. But underneath it, there's something twisting in his chest. Your voice sounds wrong. Not bad wrong. Just... tired wrong. Faded wrong. Like the color's been drained out of you and you're trying to paint it back on with words.
"-so anyway, that was my day. Exciting stuff. How was yours?"
He hesitates. "You first. Are you okay? Really?"
A pause. Too long.
"I'm fine, Lix. Just tired."
"You've been tired for three weeks."
"Wow, thanks for noticing my beautiful under-eye bags. Really doing wonders for my self-esteem here."
"Stop." He sits up in bed, running a hand through his hair. "Stop deflecting. Talk to me."
Silence. Then, so quiet he almost misses it: "I don't know how to anymore." The words hit him like a physical blow.
"What?"
"I don't know how to talk to you about the hard stuff anymore." Your voice is small, fragile in a way he hasn't heard since that night in his room, years ago, when everything changed. "I got so used to protecting you from my life. From my problems. From anything that might be too heavy for you to carry across an ocean. And now I don't remember how to just... let you in."
"That's not, you don't have to protect me-"
"I know. I know. But it's been years, Felix. Years of me handling things alone because you weren't here. Years of me telling myself 'he's busy, he's tired, he has enough to deal with, don't add to it.' It became a habit. And habits are hard to break."
He's out of bed now, pacing his small room, heart pounding.
"Break it," he says. "Break it right now. Tell me what's wrong. Tell me everything. I don't care if it's heavy. I don't care if it's hard. I'm here. I'm listening. I want to carry it with you."
Another pause. Then a sound that destroys him. You're crying. Not loud crying, quiet crying, the kind you do when you're trying to hide it, when you've been holding it together for so long that finally breaking feels like failure.
"I'm just so tired," you whisper. "I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of pretending I'm okay when I'm not. I'm tired of loving someone who's always somewhere else. I'm tired of-" A shuddering breath. "I'm tired of missing you. It never stops. It just never fucking stops."
He stops pacing. His room is silent except for your breathing, cracked and broken through the phone. He thinks about all the nights you've done this alone. All the times you needed someone and he wasn't there. All the years you've spent waiting, hoping, hurting.
"I'm coming."
The words come out before he can think about them.
"What?"
"I'm coming. I don't know how yet, but I'm coming. I need to see you. I need to hold you. I need-" His voice breaks. "I need to remind you that this is real. That we're real. That I'm not just a voice on the phone or a face on a screen. I'm yours. I'm still yours. And you're not alone. You're never alone. You just forgot because I've been shit at reminding you."
"Felix, you can't just, your schedule, the company, the-"
"I don't care."
"You have to care. You're an idol. You can't just drop everything and-"
"Watch me."
The conviction in his voice silences you.
"I'll figure it out," he says, softer now. "I'll move mountains. I'll fight anyone. I'll do whatever it takes. Just, hold on. Okay? Hold on a little longer. I'm coming."
"...Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." A wet laugh. "You're insane."
"Yeah. Insane about you. Now get some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow. I love you."
"I love you too. Idiot."
He hangs up and stands in the dark, heart racing. Then he picks up his phone and calls his manager.
9:00 AM , JYP Entertainment | 3rd Floor Conference Room
The conference room is gray. Gray walls, gray table, gray chairs, gray faces of the three scheduling managers staring at Felix like he's just asked to cancel a world tour for a dental appointment.
"You want a week off." Manager Kim's voice is flat. "During comeback prep."
"Yes."
"During photoshoots."
"Yes."
"During recording sessions."
"Yes."
"During dance practices."
"Yes."
"During-"
"I get it," Felix interrupts, because he's been up since 6 AM and he's running on coffee and desperation and the sound of your crying echoing in his head. "I know it's the worst possible time. I know you have every reason to say no. I'm asking anyway. Please."
Manager Kim exchanges a look with Manager Park. Manager Park shrugs. "He's been like this since 3 AM. I've tried reason. I've tried threats. I've tried reminding him about his contract. He's not budging."
"Why?" Manager Lee speaks for the first time. She's the youngest of the three, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, and she's looking at Felix with something like curiosity. "Why now? What's so important?"
Felix meets her eyes.
"Someone I love is hurting," he says simply. "And I haven't been there for them in years. I need to fix that. I need to try. If I don't-" He swallows. "If I don't, I'll lose them. And I can't lose them. I'd rather lose everything else."
Silence. Manager Lee's expression softens, just slightly.
"It's a girl," she says. Not a question.
Felix nods. No point denying it.
"Best friend since childhood?"
Another nod.
"The one who makes you smile like that when you talk about home?"
Felix blinks. "How did you-"
"I've been your manager for two years. I've seen your face when you get texts from her. I've heard you talk about her in your sleep during tour. I'm not blind." She turns to the others. "Give him the week."
Manager Kim sputters. "We can't just-"
"We can and we will." Manager Lee's voice is calm, firm, final. "We'll reschedule the photoshoots. Push the recording sessions. He'll work double when he's back. But if we don't let him go now, he'll be useless anyway. Have you seen him lately? He's been running on fumes for months. He needs this."
Manager Kim opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"Fine," he mutters. "Five days. Not a week. Five. And you owe us. Big time."
Felix could kiss them all.
"Thank you," he breathes. "Thank you thank you thank you-"
"Go," Manager Lee says, waving him off. "Pack. Book your flight. And for god's sake, wear a mask at the airport. If Dispatch finds out about this before we have a statement ready-"
"They won't. I'll be invisible. I promise." He's already out the door.
The suitcase is a disaster. Felix throws things in randomly, clothes, shoes, the hoodie you lent him years ago that he's been saving for a moment like this, a photo of you two from high school, the bracelet you made him that never leaves his wrist. He's moving too fast, heart too fast, mind too fast. His phone buzzes.
Chan-hyung: manager lee just told me. you going home?
Felix: yeah. flight tonight.
Chan-hyung: is everything okay?
Felix pauses, hands full of shirts.
Felix: i don't know. i hope so. i need to see her.
Chan-hyung: the best friend?
Felix: yeah. the one.
A long pause. Then:
Chan-hyung: I've seen the way you talk about her. the way your whole face changes. go. be with her. we'll hold things down here.
Chan-hyung: and felix?
Chan-hyung: don't come back empty-handed. bring her with you. even if it's just for a visit. you deserve to be happy. both of you do.
Felix stares at the message. Then he adds another shirt to the suitcase.
6:00 PM , Incheon International Airport | Boarding Gate 23
He's wearing a baseball cap pulled low, a mask, glasses, and the most nondescript clothes he could find. Manager Lee walks slightly ahead, scanning for cameras, phones, anyone who might recognize him. So far, so good.
"Remember," she murmurs as they approach the gate. "No talking to anyone. No taking off your mask. If someone asks, you're just a regular passenger. You're not Felix. You're-"
"Kim Minseok, 28, office worker visiting family." He's memorized the fake ID she gave him. "I know. I've got this."
She stops walking and turns to face him. For a moment, her professional mask slips. She looks at him, really looks, and he sees something almost maternal in her eyes.
"Felix." Her voice is quiet, private. "I don't know what's waiting for you at home. But whatever it is, whatever happens... you're one of the good ones. Don't forget that."
He's caught off guard. "Manager Lee-"
"Go." She waves toward the gate. "And when you come back, you owe me big. My niece wants a signed album. She's been asking for months."
He laughs, surprised. "Done. Ten albums. A hundred."
"One is fine. Now move. Your flight's boarding."
He hugs her. It's impulsive and probably inappropriate and definitely against some company rule, but he does it anyway, wraps his arms around this woman who fought for him today, who made this possible, who saw how much he needed this and didn't ask questions.
"Thank you," he whispers.
She pats his back, awkward but not unkind. "Go get your girl, kid." He goes.
14 Hours Later , Somewhere Over the Pacific | Window Seat, Row 34
Felix can't sleep. He's tried. He's closed his eyes, counted sheep, listened to calming music. Nothing works. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Hears your voice cracking on the phone. Remembers the sound of you crying alone in the dark.
I'm tired of missing you. It never stops.
He presses his forehead against the cold window and watches the stars. He's been gone for three years. Three years of phone calls and texts and video chats that never felt like enough. Three years of watching you from afar, building a life you couldn't share, becoming someone you only knew through screens and stories.
What if you don't recognize him anymore? What if he gets there and everything's changed? What if he's too late?
His phone is on airplane mode, but he opens his photos anyway. Scrolls through years of memories, screenshots of your texts, photos you've sent, that one video of you laughing at his stupid joke that he watches when he's lonely.
You're so beautiful. You've always been beautiful, but there's something different now, something older, wearier, like the years have carved themselves into your smile. He put some of those years there. He knows he did.
"I'm coming," he whispers to your frozen image on his screen. "Just hold on. I'm coming."
6:47 AM , Sydney International Airport | Arrivals Hall
He's been in Australia for approximately thirty seconds when he's hit by three things simultaneously:
1. The humidity. God, he forgot about the humidity.
2. The smell. Eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely home that makes his chest ache.
3. The overwhelming, terrifying realization that you're somewhere in this city, about to see him for the first time in three years, and he has no idea what to say.
Manager Lee arranged everything, a car waiting outside, a hotel room under the fake name, strict instructions to text her the moment he lands. He does:
Felix: i'm here
Manager Lee: good. remember. mask on. hood up. don't talk to anyone. text me before you go anywhere.
Felix: i'm going to her. that's the only place i'm going.
Manager Lee: i know. be careful. and felix?
Felix: yeah?
Manager Lee: good luck.
He pockets his phone and walks toward the exit. The car is waiting. Black sedan, tinted windows, driver holding a sign that says "KIM MINSEOK" because Manager Lee thinks of everything. Felix slides into the back seat, pulls off his mask for the first time in fourteen hours, and gives the driver the address he's had memorized since he was thirteen years old.
Your address. "Take me here, please."
The driver nods. They pull away from the airport. Felix watches Sydney roll past the window, streets he hasn't seen in years, shops he used to go to, the park where you two used to hang out after school. Everything looks the same and completely different, like a dream he once had and forgot. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth.
8:15 AM , Your Apartment Building | Across the Street
The car pulls over. The driver turns around.
"This it?"
Felix looks out the window. Your building. Small, unremarkable, four stories of beige brick and fire escapes. He's seen it in photos a hundred times, the view from your window, the stoop where you sometimes sit, the corner store next door where you buy coffee. He's never seen it in person.
"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "This is it."
The driver waits. Felix doesn't move.
"You okay, mate?"
No. He's not okay. He's terrified. What if you're not home? What if you're at work? What if you're with someone, that guy from your Instagram, the one with the kind eyes, the one who got to take you on dates while Felix was thousands of miles away?
What if you don't want to see him? What if you've moved on and he's too late?
"Give me a minute," he says.
The driver shrugs and pulls out his phone. Felix stares at your building. He thinks about the phone call. Your voice, broken. Your tears, quiet. The way you said I'm tired of loving someone who's always somewhere else. He's here now. He's here. Whatever happens next, at least he showed up. At least he tried. He opens the car door.
8:22 AM , Outside Your Apartment | Third Floor, Door 3B
The hallway is narrow, carpeted in something beige and vaguely stained, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Felix stands outside your door like an idiot, heart in his throat, mask back on because old habits die hard.
He should knock. His hand is literally raised. He can't move. What if you're asleep? What if you're with someone? What if you open the door and look at him like he's a stranger, like the years have erased everything you were? His phone buzzes.
Manager Lee: did you make it?
Felix: i'm outside her door.
Manager Lee: so knock.
Felix: i'm scared.
Manager Lee: you flew 14 hours across the ocean. you fought three scheduling managers. you're standing in front of her door. and you're scared to knock?
Felix: ...yes?
Manager Lee: felix. knock.
Felix: what if she doesn't want to see me?
Manager Lee: she cried on the phone because she misses you. she wants to see you.
Felix: what if she's with someone else?
Manager Lee: then you apologize for the interruption and leave. but at least you'll know. not knowing is worse.
He's right. Not knowing is worse. Felix pockets his phone. He knocks.
You've been awake since 4 AM, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the phone call. About the way his voice broke when he said I'm coming. About how you want to believe him but you're scared to hope.
He's said things like this before. Promised to call more, to text more, to be more present. And he tries, you know he tries, but the distance always wins. The schedules always win. The life he's building always comes first.
You understand. You do. That doesn't make it hurt less.
The knock startles you.
You're not expecting anyone. It's too early for deliveries, too late for neighbors. You pad to the door in your pajamas, old sweats and one of his hoodies that you've worn so much it barely smells like him anymore, and look through the peephole.
There's a man in your hallway.
Baseball cap, mask, nondescript clothes. He looks vaguely familiar but you can't place him. Some delivery person? Wrong apartment?
You open the door a crack. "Can I help you?"
He pulls down his mask.
Time stops.
It's him.
It's him.
Three years of distance collapse into a single moment. He's older, sharper cheekbones, tired eyes, hair a different color, but it's him. It's Felix. It's your Felix, standing in your shitty apartment hallway like he just stepped out of a dream.
"Hi, pretty," he whispers.
You can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think.
"Felix?"
"Yeah." His voice cracks. "It's me. I'm here. I'm really-"
You don't let him finish.
You launch yourself at him.
He catches you, of course he catches you, he's always caught you, and you're crying before you even hit his chest, sobbing into his neck, clinging to him like he might disappear. He holds you just as tight, one hand cradling your head, the other wrapped around your waist, and you feel him shaking.
"I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. "I'm here. I've got you. I'm here."
"You came." The words are muffled against his hoodie. "You actually came."
"Of course I came. I told you I would. I told you I'd-"
"I know, I just-" You pull back just enough to look at him, to really look. His eyes are red, his cheeks wet, and he's so beautiful it hurts. "I didn't believe it. I wanted to, but I didn't-"
"I know." He cups your face, thumbs brushing away tears. "I know. I've given you so many reasons not to believe. But I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."
"Your schedules, the company, how did you even-"
"I fought." A shaky smile. "I fought like hell. And I won. Five days. That's all I have. But I'm here for all of them. Every second."
Five days. Five whole days.
It's not enough. It'll never be enough. But right now, with his hands on your face and his eyes on yours, it feels like everything.
"I can't believe you're here," you whisper.
"Believe it." He presses his forehead to yours. "I'm here. I'm yours. I'm never letting you go again."
You don't wait for another word. You don't wait for the world to start spinning again. You reach up, your hands finding his chest, and feel the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath his clothes.
It’s a hesitation, a softness in the way you step closer, bridging the distance between you until there is no space left at all. The air between you shifts, heavy with the scent of him, soap, rain, and something uniquely him, and it feels like coming home after a long, exhausting journey you didn't know you were taking.
He doesn't rush. He lets you guide him, his hands settling gently on your waist, thumbs stroking the fabric of your hoodie. You look up at him, and the love you feel in your eyes must show, because his expression softens completely. It’s not the sharp relief of before; it’s something warmer, something deep and quiet.
You close your eyes and lean in, and his hand comes up to cradle your face, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. The kiss is tentative at first, barely more than a brush of lips, testing the reality of the moment. It’s sweet and soft, a question that doesn't need an answer.
Then, you deepen it.
It’s not demanding or hungry. It’s an offering. It’s full of so much love it physically hurts. You feel it in the way he holds you, like you’re the most precious thing in the world, fragile and safe in his arms. His lips move against yours with a reverence that makes your chest ache. This isn't about passion; it's about connection. It’s about the way your souls finally align after drifting apart for three years.
He tilts his head, kissing you slowly, lingering on every curve, every breath, as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. The kiss is warm and gentle, a soothing balm to the ache in your heart. You can taste the salt of your tears on his lips again, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he kisses them away, his own eyes closing as he pours every ounce of his love and regret and longing into the gesture.
It feels like time stands still. There is no urgency, no need to prove anything. Just the two of you, existing in this perfect, quiet moment. You feel grounded, anchored, safe. When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, your noses brushing. He’s smiling, a slow, tender curve of his lips that reaches his eyes, and the sight of it makes you cry all over again.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his hand still cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. "I'm never letting go again."
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a tight hug, burying your face in his shoulder, just breathing him in. Right now, this is enough. This is everything.
When you finally pull back, he's smiling that real smile, the one just for you.
"Can I come in?" he asks. "Or do you want to keep crying in the hallway?"
You laugh, wet and broken and real.
"Idiot."
"Yeah." He grins. "Your idiot. Now let me inside. I've been on a plane for fourteen hours and I really need to pee."
He looks around your space like he's memorizing it.
The photos on your wall, some of them include him, old snapshots from high school, from beach trips, from birthdays. The bookshelf overflowing with books he's never read. The blanket on your couch that you've had since college. The small kitchen where you make coffee every morning alone.
"It's small," you say, suddenly self-conscious. "Not like your fancy dorm or whatever."
"It's perfect." He's still looking, taking it all in. "It's you. I've been trying to imagine this place for years, from your photos and your stories. It's exactly how I pictured it."
"You've imagined my apartment?"
"Of course." He turns to look at you, and there's something so open, so vulnerable in his expression. "I imagined everything. Your life here. Your routine. The way you move through this space. I wanted to be part of it so badly."
Your throat tightens.
"You are part of it," you say quietly. "You've always been part of it. Even when you weren't here."
He crosses the room in three steps and pulls you into another hug.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For all of it. For every missed call, every forgotten birthday, every moment you felt alone. I'm so sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"I can't. Not until you believe me."
"I believe you." You pull back to look at him. "I believe you're here. I believe you fought for this. That's enough. That's more than enough."
He kisses your forehead.
"Okay. Then show me your life. Show me everything. I have five days and I want to spend every second catching up."
You smile, really smile, for the first time in months.
"Where do you want to start?"
"Breakfast." His stomach growls on cue, and you both laugh. "I haven't eaten in like twelve hours. I was too nervous."
"You? Nervous?"
"Terrified." He says it simply, honestly. "I was so scared you wouldn't want to see me. That you'd moved on. That I was too late."
You think about Junwoo. About the almost-relationship you almost had. About how close you came to letting go.
"You're not too late," you say. "You were never too late. I just... I needed to know you'd show up. Really show up. And you did."
"I'll keep showing up." He takes your hand, squeezes. "Every time. Forever. That's a promise."
"Okay." You squeeze back. "Then let's start with breakfast. There's a cafe down the street that makes the best pancakes you've ever had."
"Masks?" he asks.
"Masks. And you're buying."
He laughs, that bright, beautiful laugh, and it fills your small apartment like sunshine.
The cafe is tiny and warm and smells like coffee and sugar. Felix insisted on a booth in the corner, back to the wall, baseball cap still on. He's been scanning the room since you walked in, hyperaware of every glance.
"You're stressed," you observe, stirring your coffee.
"Just... careful." He pulls his mask down just enough to take a sip of his latte. "Manager Lee would kill me if I got recognized on day one."
"Would that be so bad? People seeing you with me?"
He pauses, cup halfway to his lips.
"No," he says slowly. "It wouldn't be bad. It might even be-" He stops, searching for the word. "Freeing. But I need to protect you. Until we figure out how to do this, how to be us in public, I need to keep you safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From fans who might not understand. From media who might twist things. From people who might try to hurt you because you're close to me." His jaw tightens. "I've seen what happens to idols' partners. The hate comments. The scrutiny. The invasion of privacy. I won't let that happen to you."
You reach across the table and take his hand.
"Hey." You wait until he looks at you. "I'm not scared of that. I'm scared of losing you again. Everything else I can handle."
He stares at you for a long moment.
"How did I get so lucky?" he murmurs.
"You cried during Finding Nemo. I'm not sure 'lucky' is the right word."
He laughs, surprised, and the tension breaks.
"Okay, okay. Point taken." He squeezes your hand. "Now feed me. I was promised the best pancakes of my life."
They are, in fact, the best pancakes of his life.
Or maybe that's just because you're across the table, smiling at him like he's not a stranger, like the years apart never happened.
You're not sure why you brought him here. It just felt right.
The school looks smaller than you remember, the way everything does, when you've grown up and moved on. The paint is faded, the field a little worn, but the bleachers are the same. You sat here a thousand times during lunch, during free periods, during the hours you should have been in class but weren't.
Felix sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.
"Remember when you tried out for the football team?" he asks.
You groan. "I was fifteen and delusional. I weighed like a hundred pounds. They laughed me off the field."
"I thought it was brave." He's smiling at the memory. "You just walked up to Coach Kim and said 'I want to try out' like it was the most normal thing in the world. No fear. No hesitation. That's who you've always been."
"That's not who I am anymore."
He turns to look at you.
"What do you mean?"
You shrug, uncomfortable. "I don't know. I just... I used to be braver. Before. When you were here. When I had you."
"Hey." He tilts your chin up. "You're still brave. You've been holding everything together for years, alone, and you're still here. That's not weakness. That's strength."
"Some days it doesn't feel like strength. Some days it feels like I'm just... surviving. Going through the motions."
"Then let me help you do more than survive." His voice is soft, earnest. "Let me help you live. Really live. That's what I want. For both of us."
You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.
"I missed this," you whisper. "Just... being with you. No phones. No distance. Just us."
"Me too." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Me too."
The water is cold, the sky is gray, and Felix is standing at the edge of the waves like he's facing an enemy.
"This is the spot, isn't it?"
"Yep." You're trying not to laugh. "Right there. Where the fish touched your leg."
"It was a BIG fish."
"It was the size of my HAND."
"Traumatic. Completely traumatic. I still have nightmares."
You crack up, really crack up, the kind of laugh that doubles you over and leaves you breathless. He watches you with a soft smile, and something in his chest loosens.
This. This is what he came for. Your laugh. Your smile. The way your whole face lights up when you're happy.
"Come here," he says.
You straighten, still giggling. "What?"
He holds out his hand. "Come here."
You take it. He pulls you close, wraps his arms around you, and just holds you there with the ocean in front of you and the whole world behind you.
"I love you," he says. "I've loved you for so long. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never forget it."
You tilt your head up to look at him.
"That's a pretty big promise."
"Good thing I'm a pretty determined guy."
You kiss him, soft, sweet, salt-tanged from the sea air.
"I love you too," you whisper. "Even if you're dramatic about fish."
"IT'S NOT ON FIRE, IT'S JUST, OKAY IT'S A LITTLE ON FIRE."
"HOW DO YOU SET RICE ON FIRE?"
"I DON'T KNOW, OKAY? I'M AN IDOL, NOT A CHEF."
You're both laughing so hard you can barely breathe, smoke billowing from the pan, fire alarm blaring. You grab the lid and slam it on the pan, cutting off the oxygen, and the flames die with a sad little hiss.
"Wow," you say, leaning against the counter. "Michelin star material."
"I panicked!"
"You set RICE on FIRE."
"In my defense, I was trying to be romantic."
You look at him, flour on his cheek, panic in his eyes, completely and utterly ridiculous, and your heart swells so big it hurts.
"It's the most romantic fire I've ever seen," you say.
He grins. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Now order pizza. I'm not letting you near my kitchen again."
Pizza Box on the Coffee Table, Movie Paused Mid-Scene
You're curled against his side, his arm around you, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder. The movie has been paused for twenty minutes. Neither of you has noticed.
"Can I ask you something?" he says quietly.
"Anything."
"That guy. From your Instagram. The one you went on dates with."
You tense slightly. "Junwoo?"
"Yeah. Did you-" He hesitates. "Did you love him?"
You think about it. Really think about it.
"No," you say finally. "I wanted to. I tried to. But no. He was nice, and kind, and he was here, and I thought maybe that was enough. Maybe I could learn to love him, given time. But-" You look up at him. "He wasn't you. And I couldn't pretend anymore."
Felix is quiet for a long moment.
"I was so scared," he admits. "When I saw those photos. When I saw you with him. I thought-" His voice catches. "I thought I'd lost you. That I waited too long. That someone else got to have the life I wanted."
"You didn't lose me." You reach up to cup his face. "You could never lose me. I'm yours. I've always been yours. I just forgot for a little while because it hurt too much to remember."
"I'm sorry it hurt."
"I know. And I forgive you. But Felix?" You wait until he meets your eyes. "You have to mean it this time. The promises. The effort. I can't do this again, the hoping, the waiting, the disappointment. If you're not all in, I need to know now."
He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle, and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. The beat is strong and steady, a constant rhythm against your palm.
"I am all in," he says, his voice low and earnest. "Completely. Totally. Forever. I don't care how hard it is. I don't care what it costs. You're my person. You're my home. And I'm never letting you go again."
You search his eyes for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might break you later. You find none. Just the raw, unwavering truth of him.
"Okay," you whisper, the word barely a breath. "Then I'm all in too."
That's all it takes.
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you meet him halfway. This kiss isn't like the others. It’s not a collision or a desperate plea. It's a vow.
His lips are soft, impossibly soft, and they move against yours with a tenderness that brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes. It’s not a kiss of passion, but of profound, soul-deep devotion. He's not trying to consume you; he's trying to merge with you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, not to hold you in place, but to anchor himself to you.
You melt into him, your body going pliant against his. There's no urgency, no frantic need. Just a deep, languid exploration. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a gentle request, and you open for him willingly. The slide of his tongue against yours is slow and deliberate, a conversation of forgiveness and future. It’s the taste of three years of "I love you" and "I miss you" and "I'm sorry," all spoken without a single word.
The kiss deepens, becoming something more intimate, more sacred than any you've shared before. It feels like he's pouring every ounce of his being into you, his regret, his hope, his unwavering love. You feel it in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, a slow, rhythmic caress that soothes the last of your fears. You feel it in the way his other hand tightens almost imperceptibly on your hip, a silent promise of stability.
This is the kiss that heals. It mends the broken pieces of your heart, stitching them back together with the thread of his promise. It's the quiet certainty that the waiting is over, the hurt is soothed, and you are finally, truly, safe.
When you finally part, it's not an ending, but a beginning. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet room. The movie is still paused, the pizza is cold, but for the first time in three years, your world feels whole.
Somehow, in the night, you migrated from the couch to your bed. You don't remember when. You just remember falling asleep with your head on his chest, his heartbeat under your ear, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
He's still asleep.
You take a moment to just... look at him. Really look.
He's beautiful. You've always known that, objectively, obviously, but seeing him like this, soft and unguarded, is different. His lips are slightly parted. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His hair is a mess, falling across his forehead.
The bracelet is still on his wrist. The one you made him in 9th grade. Faded now, a little frayed, but still there.
You reach out and touch it gently.
"I've never taken it off."
His voice is sleepy, rough. You look up to find him watching you with half-lidded eyes.
"Morning," you whisper.
"Morning." He pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair. "What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep."
"Mmm. Don't wanna. Wanna stay awake with you."
"You're barely conscious."
"Still counts." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This is real, right? I'm not dreaming?"
"It's real."
"Good." He relaxes against you. "Best dream I've ever had."
You smile into his chest. "Idiot."
"Your idiot."
He falls back asleep within minutes. You stay awake, holding him, memorizing every detail.
You don't know why you keep bringing him to places from your past. Maybe because you need him to see them, to understand the life you had before he left, the person you were when he was still part of your everyday.
This park bench is where you sat after school one day in 8th grade and had your first real conversation. Not small talk. Not jokes. Real conversation, about your parents, your fears, your dreams. It's the day you stopped being just friends and started being people to each other.
Felix sits beside you, looking around.
"This is it?"
"Yeah." You point. "That tree over there, I was so nervous I kept staring at it instead of you."
He laughs softly. "I remember. I thought you were bored. I almost stopped talking."
"I wasn't bored. I was terrified. I realized, sitting here, that you were the most important person in my life. And I didn't know what to do with that."
He takes your hand.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
"Always."
"That night, before I left. When we were in my room. I almost told you. A dozen times. Every time I looked at you, the words were right there. I love you. I'm in love with you. Please don't let me go. But I was too scared. Scared you didn't feel the same. Scared it would make things weird. Scared I'd lose you either way."
"I was scared too."
"I know. We were both idiots."
You laugh. "Pretty much."
"But I'm glad we waited." He turns to face you fully. "I'm glad we went through all the hard parts. Because now I know, really know, that this is real. That we're not just holding onto nostalgia or comfort. We're choosing each other. Every day. Even when it's hard."
"You've gotten wise in your old age."
"Three years in the idol industry will do that to you." He grins, but it fades quickly. "I mean it, though. I choose you. Today, tomorrow, forever. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," you echo.
He kisses you on the park bench where it all began.
Felix has decided your apartment needs "Felix touches."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means I'm leaving pieces of myself here so you don't forget me when I'm gone."
You watch, amused, as he moves through your space like a tiny tornado. He adds a photo of you two to your fridge. He puts one of his hoodies (the one he brought, the one that smells like him) on your bed. He leaves a note in your book, the one you're currently reading, tucked between pages like a bookmark.
"There," he says, satisfied. "Now I'm everywhere."
Your building has a rooftop. It's not fancy, just a flat space with some old furniture someone left behind, but it's where you come when you need to think. When you need to breathe. When you need to feel small and connected at the same time.
You've brought Felix here because you want him to see your world. All of it.
"It's beautiful," he says, looking at the city lights.
"It's just the city."
"It's your city. The place you live. The place you've been surviving without me." He turns to look at you. "I hate that you had to do that alone."
"I wasn't completely alone. I had friends. I had-"
"I know. But you didn't have me. And I hate that."
You move closer, slipping your hand into his.
"Hey. Look at me."
He does.
"I survived. I'm here. And now you're here too. That's what matters."
He nods, but there's still something heavy in his eyes.
"Three more days," he says quietly. "Then I have to go back."
"Don't think about that now."
"Hard not to."
"Then let's not think at all." You tug him toward the old couch. "Come on. Lie down with me. Let's look at the stars."
You end up sprawled on the couch, him on his back, you curled into his side, both of you staring up at the sky. The city hums below. The stars flicker above. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.
"Can I ask you something crazy?" he says after a long silence.
"Always."
"Come with me."
You go still.
"What?"
"Come to Seoul. Not forever. Not even for long. Just, visit. Stay with me for a week, two weeks, however long you can. I want to show you my world the way you've shown me yours."
"Felix, I have work, I have-"
"I know. I know. It's crazy. It's probably impossible. But I'm asking anyway. Because I can't-" He takes a breath. "I can't go back to just phone calls. Not now. Not after this. I need something to hold onto. Something to look forward to. And I want it to be you. In my space. In my life. Really there, not just on a screen."
You're quiet for a long moment.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
"You want me to fly to Korea. To stay with you. In the idol dorm."
"...When you say it like that, it sounds insane."
"It IS insane."
"I know." He laughs, a little helplessly. "I know it's insane. But I also know that I've spent three years being careful and sensible and doing everything right. And it almost cost me you. So maybe, maybe insane is what we need."
You lift your head to look at him.
"I'll think about it."
His eyes light up. "Really?"
"Really. No promises. But I'll think about it."
He pulls you into a kiss, grinning against your lips.
"That's more than I hoped for."
"Don't get too excited. I might still say no."
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're looking at me like I'm the only person in the world. Same way I'm looking at you." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "We're in this together now. For real. And together, we can figure out anything."
You were fifteen. He asked if you wanted to go to the museum with him. You said yes. You both pretended it wasn't a date. It was definitely a date.
Walking through the same halls now, years later, feels like time travel.
"Remember the mummy exhibit?" he asks.
"You were terrified."
"I was NOT terrified. I was... respectfully cautious."
"You screamed."
"It was a MANLY yelp of SURPRISE."
You're both laughing, weaving through families and tourists, hands intertwined. He's wearing his disguise, cap, mask, glasses, but his eyes are visible, crinkled with joy.
"Look." He stops in front of a display case. "The ancient jewelry. This is where you spent like twenty minutes staring at one necklace."
"It was beautiful!"
"It was a rock on a string."
"It was art, Felix."
He pulls you close, speaking low near your ear. "You know what else is beautiful? You. Right now. In this museum, looking at rocks on strings, making that face."
"What face?"
"The face you make when you're happy. It's my favorite face."
You blush. Actually blush, like a teenager.
"Shut up."
"Never." He kisses your temple. "I'm storing up memories. Every second. So when I'm back in Seoul, I can replay them."
Your heart aches, but it's a good ache. The kind that comes from being loved.
"They're my friends. They've heard about you for years. They want to meet you."
"What if they hate me?"
"Then I'll never speak to them again."
"Don't say that-"
"Felix. They're not going to hate you. They're going to love you. Because I love you. And they love me. Trust me."
He trusts you.
Now he's sitting in a booth at your friend Sarah's cafe, mask off because she swore the back room was private, being interrogated by three of the most important women in your life.
"So." Sarah, sharp-eyed and direct. "You're the famous Felix."
"That's me." He smiles, nervous. "Well, famous is a strong word-"
"You're literally an idol. You're on billboards."
"In Korea-"
"My cousin lives in Seoul. She sends me photos. You're on billboards."
He laughs, surprised. "Okay, fair point."
Maya, the gentlest of the three, leans forward. "Are you going to break her heart again?"
Straight to the point.
Felix meets her eyes. "No."
"How do we know that?"
"You don't. Not yet. But I'm going to spend every day proving it. To her. To you. To anyone who cares about her." He reaches under the table for your hand. "I made mistakes. Big ones. I hurt her when I never wanted to. And I'll carry that forever. But I'm not running from it. I'm going to do better. Be better. For her."
Jenna, the quiet observer, speaks for the first time.
"He means it," she says simply. "I can tell."
Sarah and Maya exchange a look.
"Okay," Sarah says finally. "But if you hurt her again, we have connections. We will find you."
"I don't doubt it."
The tension breaks. They're all laughing now, and Felix is smiling, and you squeeze his hand under the table.
After the chaos of friends and museums and memories, the quiet of your apartment feels like a gift.
You're on the couch, him lying with his head in your lap, you running your fingers through his hair. Some movie plays on TV. Neither of you is watching.
"Today was good," he murmurs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Your friends are great. Terrifying, but great."
"They liked you."
"Did they?"
"Sarah already added you to the group chat."
He laughs. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. She said, and I quote, 'he's allowed in the club. but tell him one wrong move and i have his address.'"
"That's... deeply threatening."
"Welcome to my life."
He turns to look up at you, his eyes soft.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For letting me in. For trusting me again. For giving me this." He gestures vaguely at the room, at you, at everything. "I don't deserve it, but I'm going to spend forever trying to."
"Felix." You lean down and kiss his forehead. "You don't have to earn me. You already have me. You've always had me."
"I know. But I want to be worthy of having you."
"You are. You always were. You just forgot for a while."
He reaches up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that still makes your heart flutter.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Three more days until I have to go."
"Then let's not waste a second."
He pulls you down, and the world narrows to the space between your lips. The kiss starts soft, a gentle press of his mouth against yours, a quiet affirmation. It's the comfortable ease of lovers who have found their way back to each other, a language spoken in the soft slide of lips and the gentle sigh of contentment.
But then, the thought of his leaving, a ticking clock in the back of your minds, infuses the moment with a new, gentle urgency. The kiss deepens, not out of desperation, but out of a desire to savor, to memorize. His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close not with force, but with a quiet, possessive need.
You shift, leaning into him more fully, your hand still stroking his hair as your lips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. It's a kiss that says "I'm here now." It says "This moment is everything." His lips part yours, a slow, sensual exploration that's less about passion and more about connection. You can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ribs, a constant rhythm that grounds you.
This is what you missed. Not the grand gestures or the frantic reunions, but this. The quiet intimacy of a Tuesday night, the simple act of breathing the same air, the feeling of his hands on your skin like they were made to be there. The kiss is a promise whispered against your lips: I will remember this. I will hold this feeling close when I'm gone.
When you finally pull back, it's only by an inch. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes closed, your breath mingling in the soft light of the television. The movie plays on, forgotten. The world outside can wait. In this moment, you have everything you need.
Your parents have known Felix since you were kids. They've watched him grow up, seen him at every family dinner, every holiday, every important moment. But that was before. Before he left. Before the distance. Before you spent years crying over someone who wasn't there.
Your mom opens the door.
For a long moment, she just looks at him.
Then she pulls him into a hug.
"You're here," she says, voice thick. "You're finally here."
Felix hugs her back, eyes wet. "I'm so sorry it took so long."
"Don't apologize. Just, don't disappear again."
"I won't. I promise."
Your dad appears behind her, and there's a moment of tension, he's always been protective, always been the one who worried most when you were hurting. But then he nods, once, and holds out his hand.
Felix shakes it.
"Take care of her," your dad says. "Really take care of her. Or I'll fly to Korea myself."
"I will, sir. I swear."
Dinner is loud and warm and exactly what Felix needed. Your mom fusses over him. Your dad tells embarrassing stories from your childhood. Your little brother demands to see dance moves. By the end of the night, Felix is laughing freely, comfortably, like he's always been part of this.
On the way home, he's quiet.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "I just, I forgot what this felt like. Family. Home. Being part of something."
"You are part of something. You're part of me."
He pulls the car over.
Just stops in the middle of the road, puts it in park, and turns to look at you.
"What are you-"
"I need you to know something." His eyes are intense, burning. "I'm going to marry you someday."
Your heart stops.
"What?"
"I'm going to marry you. I don't know when. I don't know how. But someday, when this is all figured out, when we can be public, when we can be together without hiding, I'm going to ask you to marry me. And I hope you say yes."
"Felix-"
"You don't have to answer now. I'm not asking now. I'm just, I need you to know. That's where this is going. That's where we're going. If you want that."
You stare at him.
Then you burst into tears.
"Hey, hey, baby, what's wrong-"
"Nothing's wrong." You're laughing and crying at the same time. "Nothing's wrong. I just, I love you so much. I've loved you so long. And I never thought, I never let myself hope-"
He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight.
"Hope," he whispers. "Hope as much as you want. I'm going to spend forever making sure you never stop."
You hold each other in the parked car on a quiet street, and it feels like a promise.
You came back to the beach because you wanted to end where you almost began. Or something poetic like that.
The truth is simpler: you just wanted to be near the water with him.
Today is harder. The weight of tomorrow is pressing down on both of you, even though you're trying not to show it. His flight leaves at 7 AM. Five hours from now, he'll be gone.
"I don't want to go." He says it quietly, watching the waves.
"I know."
"I mean it. I'll quit. I'll move back. I'll-"
"Felix." You take his hand. "You're not quitting. You worked too hard. You dreamed too long. We're going to figure this out. Together."
"But-"
"Together." You squeeze his hand. "That's the key word. We're not apart anymore. We're just... temporarily in different places. But we're together. Always."
He looks at you, and there's so much love in his eyes it hurts.
"How did you get so wise?"
"Years of missing you. Gives you time to think."
He laughs, but it's sad.
"I'm scared," he admits. "Scared that when I leave, everything will go back to how it was. The distance. The silence. The-"
"Then we don't let it." You turn to face him fully. "We make a plan. We stick to it. We call every day. We text constantly. We video chat. We visit when we can. We make this work."
"And if it's not enough?"
"It will be. Because we'll fight for it. Both of us. Not just me waiting. Not just you calling. Both of us, together, fighting."
He pulls you close, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the coming dawn. The ocean breeze is cool, carrying the salty scent of the sea and the promise of his departure.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"I'm sorry I have to leave."
"Then stay until the very last second."
He doesn't say another word. He just lowers his head, and his lips find yours.
This kiss is different from all the others. It's not the frantic collision of your reunion, or the tender vow of your reconciliation. This is a kiss of defiance. It's a quiet rebellion against time, against distance, against the inevitable pain of goodbye.
His mouth is firm and certain against yours, moving with a slow, deliberate purpose. It's not about passion, but about permanence. He's trying to pour every unspoken promise, every ounce of his will, every shred of his being into this single moment. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you not just physically, but emotionally, anchoring you to him.
You kiss him back with equal intensity, your hands gripping the fabric of his jacket, clinging to him as if you can absorb his strength. You can taste the salt on his lips, from the sea air or from unshed tears, you don't know. The kiss is deep and lingering, a conversation your souls are having without words. It's a promise whispered against your lips: This is not an end. This is a new beginning.
The sound of the waves crashing on the shore becomes the rhythm of your heartbeats, a steady, powerful pulse that underscores the moment. The world around you, the gulls crying overhead, the distant chatter of people, fades away until all that exists is the circle of his arms and the certainty of his mouth on yours.
When you finally part, it's a slow, reluctant separation. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breath warm against your cheek. He doesn't open them right away, as if he's trying to lock the feeling of this moment into his memory forever.
"We're going to be okay," you whisper, though you're not sure if you're saying it to him or to yourself.
He finally opens his eyes, and they're clear and full of a resolve that settles the fear in your own heart.
"Together," he says, his voice steady and sure.
And as the sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon, you believe him.
You've been avoiding it all day, but now it's here. The last night.
His suitcase is packed by the door. His flight confirmation is on his phone. In eleven hours, he'll be gone.
You're on the couch, curled together, neither of you speaking.
"I have something for you," he says finally.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small box.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
Inside is a necklace. Simple silver chain, small pendant, a tiny compass.
"It's so you always know which direction to find me," he says softly. "Seoul is north-ish from here. But also-" He touches the pendant. "The compass points home. And you're my home. So wherever you are, that's where I'm pointing."
You can't speak. Your throat is too tight.
He takes the necklace and fastens it around your neck. The metal is cool against your skin.
"Now you have something of mine to wear," he says. "And I have this." He touches the bracelet on his wrist. "We're connected. Even when we're apart."
"Felix." Your voice breaks. "I don't know how to do this. Say goodbye again."
"Then don't." He cups your face. "Don't say goodbye. Say 'see you soon.' Because you're coming to visit. Right?"
You laugh through tears. "Right."
"And I'm coming back. As soon as I can."
"Right."
"And we're going to talk every day. No more silence."
"Right."
"And someday-" He smiles softly. "Someday we won't have to say anything at all. We'll just be together. Forever."
"Forever," you echo.
He kisses you, and it's soft and sad and full of hope all at once.
The sun isn't up yet. The airport is quiet, fluorescent lights humming, a few tired travelers dragging suitcases. You stand near the security checkpoint, holding his hand like you'll never let go.
"I should go," he says quietly. "Check-in, security-"
"I know."
"Five days wasn't enough."
"It never would be."
"Then come with me." He says it half-joking, half-desperate. "Right now. Buy a ticket. Come to Seoul."
"Felix-"
"I know, I know. Work, life, responsibilities. But a girl can dream, right?"
You smile. "Right."
He pulls you into a hug so tight you can't breathe. You don't care. You'd stay here forever if you could.
"I love you," he whispers into your hair. "I love you so much."
"I love you too."
"See you soon. Not goodbye. See you soon."
"See you soon."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, a desperate, possessive touch. Then he leans in. It's not a quick peck. It's a collision, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of coffee and unshed tears. His mouth moves against yours with a frantic urgency, a silent plea to stay, a promise to return. It's a kiss that tries to say everything: I don't want to go. I'll miss you every second. Remember this. Remember me. You pour everything you have into it, every ounce of your love, your own desperation, clinging to him as if you could fuse your very souls together in that one, stolen moment.
He pulls away, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat, both of you breathing raggedly. He looks at you one last time, commits every detail to memory. Then he turns and walks toward security, his shoulders set.
He looks back once.
You raise your hand in a small wave. He does the same.
Then he's gone.
You stand there for a long time, touching the compass at your throat.
His hoodie is on your bed. His note is in your book. His photo is on your fridge. He's everywhere and nowhere, and you miss him already with a physical ache.
Your phone buzzes.
Felix: made it through security. waiting at gate.
Felix: i miss you already
Felix: that's ridiculous. i literally just left
Felix: i don't care. i miss you
You smile through tears.
You: i miss you too idiot
You: fly safe
You: come back soon
Felix: i will. i promise.
Felix: and you're coming to visit. start planning.
Felix: i love you
You: i love you too
You put your phone down and touch the compass again.
Felix: i have a schedule in an hour but i was thinking about you
Felix: always thinking about you
You: good morning!! just got to work
You: my boss is already being annoying
You: send help
Felix: i'll call him and sing him a lullaby. that'll fix everything.
You: please do i want to see his face
Felix: on it
You: DON'T ACTUALLY-
Felix: too late. already dialing.
You: FELIX
Felix: jk jk 😉
You: i hate you
Felix: no you don't
You: ...no i don't
Felix: ❤️
Felix: hey
You: yeah?
Felix: i meant what i said. at the airport. we're gonna make this work.
Felix: you and me. forever.
You: forever sounds pretty good
Felix: yeah?
You: yeah
Felix: good. because i already bought your plane ticket.
You: WAIT WHAT
Felix: surprise! you're coming to seoul in three weeks. manager lee helped me arrange it. your boss already approved the time off (i may have had chan-hyung call pretending to be a record company executive but that's a story for later).
Felix: so yeah. you're coming to see me. surprise.
You stare at your phone.
Then you laugh so loud your coworkers stare.
You: you're INSANE
Felix: insane about you ❤️
You: i can't believe you did this
Felix: believe it. i told you. i'm never letting you go again.
You: three weeks?
Felix: three weeks. and then you're here. in my city. in my arms.
You: i can't wait
Felix: me neither. now get back to work before your boss actually catches you.
You: fine. but this conversation isn't over.
Felix: it never is.
You: i love you
Felix: i love you too. always.
You put down your phone, smiling so wide your face hurts.
Three weeks until Seoul. Three weeks until him. And after that, who knows? Forever, maybe.
The studio was dim at 1 AM, lit only by the glow of his monitor and the ring light perched on his desk. Jisung had pulled his chair close to the camera, knees tucked up, hoodie swallowing his hands. The black fabric dwarfed him, made him look younger than twenty-five, made him look like the trainee he used to be.
"Okay, okay, last question before I actually let you guys sleep," he said, grinning at the camera. The chat exploded with protests, noooo Hannie five more minutes we're nocturnal anyway, and he laughed, the sound bright and easy in the small studio.
"I'm the one who needs sleep! Do you know what time Chan-hyung makes us practice? Disgusting. Inhumane. I'm basically a zombie by noon."
More hearts. More laughter. More of the easy back-and-forth that made these late-night lives feel like hanging out with a friend.
He scrolled through the comments, reading aloud.
"'What's your favorite song off the new album?' Ooh, dangerous question. Don't make me choose between my children."
"'Will you do a vlive with Felix soon?' I'll ask him, but you know he just falls asleep on camera. He's too peaceful. It's unfair. How is someone that pretty asleep?"
"'What's your favorite memory from trainee days?'"
Jisung read the question out loud, voice lilting with curiosity. "Favorite memory from trainee days? Oh man, that's a tough one. There were so many, "
He stopped.
Just for a second. Just a beat of silence that probably no one noticed, probably got lost in the scroll of chat, probably meant nothing to anyone watching.
But something shifted behind his eyes.
"There was this person," he said.
His voice had changed. Softer. A little further away. Like he was looking at something far in the distance instead of a camera lens.
"We trained together. At the same time, I mean. Same company, same dreams, same terrible cheap ramyun diet." A small laugh escaped him, fond and warm. "They were... they were my person, you know?"
He smiled at the memory.
"We'd stay up all night writing. Not because we had to, because we wanted to. Because the ideas wouldn't stop coming and neither of us wanted to be the first to give up and go to sleep. We'd fall asleep in the practice room sometimes, just... collapsed against each other, waking up with stiff necks and someone else's hoodie draped over us."
The chat was slowing down now. People were listening.
"They believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. And that's... that's not easy. I wasn't easy." He laughed, self-deprecating, familiar. "I'm still not easy. Ask anyone. Ask Chan-hyung, he'll give you a list."
He tugged his hoodie sleeves over his hands, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken.
"But they just... stayed. Every time. No matter how many times I panicked or spiraled or fell apart. They just stayed. They'd sit there on that disgusting practice room floor and wait for me to come back to myself. And they never once made me feel guilty for needing time."
His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused. Seeing something the camera couldn't capture.
"I don't talk about them much," he admitted. "It's... I don't know. We're not, " He paused, searching for the right word. "We're not as close as we used to be. That happens, right? Life happens. Schedules happen. You look up one day and it's been months and you haven't called and you don't really know how it got that far."
He shrugged, trying for casual. Not quite making it.
"They're still around. They're still... they're just a call away. I know that. I know that. But knowing and doing are different things. And I keep thinking, " He stopped. Swallowed. "I keep thinking I'll reach out tomorrow. Next week. When things calm down. When I have more time."
The smile he aimed at the camera was soft, a little sad, achingly human.
"But you guys know how that goes. There's always something. There's always another schedule, another practice, another reason to put it off. And they're not going anywhere, so it's fine, right? They'll be there when I'm ready."
He looked down at his hands. The hoodie sleeves. The space where someone should be.
"They've always been there."
The silence stretched for exactly one second too long.
Then Jisung did what Jisung always does. He laughed. Bright and sudden, shaking off the weight like a dog shaking off water.
"Okay, enough sap! You guys are gonna make me cry and then Stay will get angry at me for being emotional again. Let's talk about something fun. Felix fell asleep in the studio again yesterday and Jeongin drew on his face. I have proof."
The chat erupted with laughter and demands for photos. The mood shifted. The moment passed.
Jisung dove into the story with his usual energy, hands flying, voice animated, the picture of perfect idol enthusiasm.
But every few minutes, his eyes would drift, just for a second, to the corner of the room. To the empty space where no one was sitting. To the phone in his pocket that hadn't buzzed with your name in longer than he wanted to admit.
They're just a call away.
He believed that.
He had to believe that.
Because the alternative, that one day you'd stop being a call away, that one day you'd just stop, wasn't something he could think about at 1 AM with thousands of people watching.
The live continued.
Jisung laughed and joked and sang and performed.
But underneath it all, underneath the sunshine and the noise and the endless motion,
There was you.
There was always you.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered:
Call them. Call them tomorrow. Don't wait. Don't keep waiting.
Jisung sat in the sudden silence, staring at the black screen. The ring light still hummed. His monitor still glowed. His chest felt... full. Not hollowed out the way it usually did after late-night thoughts. Full of something warm. Something that had been sleeping for a while and just woke up.
Talking about you had done that.
Pulling you out of the locked box in his heart, dusting you off, holding you up to the light, it hurt, but it also fed something. A part of him that had been running on empty for longer than he wanted to admit.
He should sleep. Practice in five hours. Chan would kill him.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
The photos were in a hidden folder. Password protected. Locked away not because he was ashamed, but because some things are too precious to leave lying around. Some things you have to choose to visit, or you'd never leave.
He typed the code. Watched the folder open.
And there you were.
Not a memory fading at the edges. You. Warm and his, frozen in digital amber, preserved exactly as you were when the world still made sense.
He started scrolling, and the smile that spread across his face was nothing like the one from the live. This one reached his eyes. This one was real.
The practice room. That awful, wonderful practice room with the broken radiator and the scuffed floors and the mirror that made everyone look slightly distorted. You were asleep against his shoulder, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. A thin line of drool trailed from the corner of your lips to the fabric of his hoodie.
Jisung laughed out loud, alone in the studio.
He remembered taking this. Remembered the exact moment. You'd been up for thirty-six hours straight, helping him refine a melody he couldn't get right. You'd refused to go home, refused to sleep, refused to do anything except sit on that cold floor with your back against the mirror and your headphones around your neck and your eyes getting heavier and heavier.
"You're gonna crash," he'd told you.
"Mmm," you'd said, which was not a denial.
Five minutes later, you were unconscious. Your head had found his shoulder like it was magnetized, like your body knew where it belonged even when your brain was too tired to direct it.
He'd sat there for an hour. Didn't move. Didn't wake you. Just... let you sleep. Let himself feel the weight of you against him, the warmth, the trust. You trusted him enough to fall asleep. You trusted him enough to be vulnerable.
He'd taken the photo so he could prove it to you later. See? You drool. You're not as cool as you think you are.
But really, he'd taken it so he could keep this feeling forever.
You, mid-laugh, hand reaching toward the camera like you were trying to grab it. Your eyes were scrunched shut, your nose wrinkled, your whole face ruined by joy in the most beautiful way. Behind you, the practice room mirror showed Jisung holding the phone, also laughing, also ruined.
He remembered this.
He'd been chasing you around the room with the camera, threatening to take embarrassing photos and use them as your contact photo. You'd been running, dodging, failing to hide because there was nowhere to hide in an empty practice room.
"Jisung, I swear to god, "
"You swear to god what? You swear to god you'll pose nicely for one photo?"
"I swear to god I'll delete your entire music folder."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
He'd tackled you. Gently. You'd both gone down in a heap of limbs and laughter, and he'd ended up on top of you, phone still in hand, your faces inches apart. For a moment, just a moment, everything had gone quiet. Your laughter had faded into something softer. Your eyes had searched his face like you were looking for something.
He'd wanted to kiss you.
He hadn't.
Instead, he'd taken the photo. Captured the moment right as you started laughing again, right as the tension broke, right as you shoved him off and called him an idiot.
You, crying. Ugly crying. The kind where your face goes red and your nose runs and you can't breathe properly. You were pointing at the camera, clearly mid-threat, and behind you, Jisung could see himself photobombing with the biggest, goofiest, most inappropriate grin.
Bad evaluation day.
You'd bombed your monthly assessment. The judges had been harsh, cruel, even. You'd walked out of that room with your jaw set and your eyes bright with tears you refused to let fall, and you'd made it all the way to the practice room before the dam broke.
Jisung had followed you. Of course he had. Where else would he go?
You'd been sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled up, face buried in your arms. Your shoulders shook with the kind of sobs that don't make sound, the kind that are too big for noise.
He hadn't said anything.
He'd just sat down beside you. Close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. And he'd waited.
Twenty minutes later, you'd lifted your head. Your eyes were swollen. Your face was a mess. You'd looked at him and said, voice wrecked: "Why are you still here?"
And he'd said: "Where else would I be?"
You'd stared at him for a long moment. Then you'd laughed. A wet, broken, ridiculous laugh that turned into another sob that turned into another laugh. And then you'd grabbed his phone from his pocket, he still didn't know how you'd done it so fast, and taken a selfie of the two of you, you crying, him grinning like an idiot.
"For blackmail," you'd said, voice still shaky. "If you ever tell anyone about this, I have proof you enjoyed it."
"Of course I enjoyed it," he'd said. "I'm with you. I always enjoy being with you."
Your birthday. Paper crown askew on your head, tilted so far to the side it was practically falling off. You were blowing out a single candle on a sad little cupcake, the kind you buy in a pack of six from the convenience store. Your eyes were closed, your cheeks puffed, your whole face lit by the tiny flame.
No one else had remembered.
Not your family. Not the other trainees. Not the company, which was too busy preparing for the next batch of debut candidates to care about someone who probably wasn't going to make the cut anyway.
But Jisung had remembered.
He'd saved up for a week. Bought the cupcake. Stole a candle from the kitchen. Found you in the practice room, where else?, and walked in singing happy birthday so off-key it was practically a different song.
You'd stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You remembered," you'd whispered.
"Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you."
You'd cried. Just a little. Just enough to make the candle flame blur when you leaned in to blow.
He'd taken the photo right as you blew it out. Captured the moment. Captured you.
You'd eaten the cupcake together, sharing it because neither of you had ever been good at keeping things just for yourselves. You'd let him have the last bite, and he'd pretended not to notice you giving it to him, and you'd pretended not to notice him pretending.
A text conversation. Old. From before debut, before everything, when you were both just nobodies with dreams too big for your bodies.
His message, 2:47 AM: I'm scared I won't make it.
Your reply, immediate: Then I'll make it for both of us. And I'm taking you with me. That's not a promise, that's a fact. Deal with it.
His reply: Deal.
Your reply: Good. Now go to sleep. You have practice in four hours and I won't carry your exhausted ass to the studio.
His reply: You would though.
Your reply: ...Yeah. I would. But don't push it.
He'd screenshot it so he'd never forget. So he'd always have proof that someone believed in him. So on the days when the doubt got too loud, he could pull this up and remember: You exist. You see me. You're not going anywhere.
He scrolled through more.
Your message: What if you forget me when you're famous?
His reply: Forget you? You're stuck with me forever. I don't care how famous I get, you're the only one who knows me. The real me. I'm not going anywhere.
Jisung stared at that last exchange for a long time.
I'm not going anywhere.
He'd meant it. He'd meant every word.
You hadn't gone anywhere.
You were still right there. Just a call away. Just a message away. Just... waiting. The way you'd always waited. The way you'd always been there.
And he'd just... stopped showing up.
Not because he didn't love you. God, he loved you so much it was stupid. So much that sometimes he couldn't breathe with it. So much that he'd built his whole career on the foundation you'd helped him lay.
But because showing up meant facing the fact that he'd left. That he'd chosen this, the dream, the debut, the noise, over you. That every day he didn't call was another day proving that his promise had been empty.
He scrolled to your contact.
Your name. Your photo, that stupid crying photo you'd taken, the one you'd made your profile picture as a joke. Your number, unchanged for years.
Just a call away.
His thumb hovered.
Call them. Call them now. Don't wait.
He could. He could call right now. It was almost 3 AM, but you'd pick up. You always picked up. You'd probably be sleepy, confused, maybe a little annoyed, but you'd pick up. And he'd hear your voice. And you'd hear his. And maybe, just maybe, he could start making it right.
His thumb moved toward the screen.
Then stopped.
What would he even say?
Hey, sorry I disappeared for years. I was busy being famous. Miss me?
Hey, I know I never call, but I was thinking about you tonight and felt like hearing your voice. Hope that's okay.
Hey. I love you. I've always loved you. I'm sorry I never said it.
None of it was enough. None of it could bridge the gap he'd let grow between you. None of it could undo the silence.
He put the phone down.
Pressed his palms to his eyes.
Took a breath that shook on the way in.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I'll call tomorrow. When I know what to say. When I've figured out how to apologize for everything.
Tomorrow would come.
It always did.
He just had to make sure that this time, he actually picked up the phone.
He opened it without thinking. The last one in the folder. The one he looked at least often because it hurt the most.
You and him. Together. Arms around each other. Grinning at the camera like you'd just won something. You were wearing his hoodie, the one you'd stolen years ago and never given back. He was wearing your smile, the way he always did when he was with you.
Someone else had taken this. A fellow trainee, probably. Some random day that hadn't seemed important at the time.
But Jisung remembered.
He remembered the exact weight of your arm around his waist. The exact warmth of you pressed against his side. The exact sound of your laugh when the photographer said something stupid.
He remembered thinking: I want this forever.
He still wanted it forever.
He just didn't know how to have it anymore.
He closed the folder.
Put the phone down.
Looked at the ceiling and whispered, so quiet only the ghosts could hear:
"I miss you. I miss you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll call tomorrow. I promise. I promise this time."
The studio didn't answer.
But somewhere, in a place he couldn't see, he hoped you heard him anyway.
Jisung was still in the studio. Still in the same chair. Still holding his phone.
He'd been sitting here for an hour, scrolling through the same photos, reading the same messages, circling the same thought like a shark in bloody water:
Call them.
Just call them.
What are you so afraid of?
He knew what he was afraid of. He'd always known.
He was afraid you'd be angry. Afraid you'd be cold. Afraid you'd say "who is this?" because it had been so long since you'd heard his voice that you'd forgotten it.
He was afraid you'd moved on. Found new people. Built a life that didn't have a Jisung-shaped hole in it because you'd finally learned to fill that space with someone who actually showed up.
He was afraid you'd forgiven him.
That was the worst one. The one that kept him up at night. If you forgave him, if you were warm, if you were kind, if you said "I missed you" instead of "fuck you", he'd have to face it. He'd have to face what he'd done. He'd have to look at the love you still had for him and see, reflected in it, every day he'd chosen not to call.
Anger he could handle. Anger made sense.
Love? Love would destroy him.
But tonight, talking about you, remembering you, feeling you so close it was like you were in the room, tonight, the fear was quieter. Tonight, the love was louder.
He opened your contact.
Stared at your name.
Stared at the photo, that stupid crying photo, your face a mess, your middle finger up, your eyes somehow still shining with something that looked like joy even through the tears.
You'd taken that photo yourself. Set it as your contact photo on his phone without telling him. He'd found it days later and laughed so hard he'd cried.
Jisung's heart hammered. His mouth went dry. He hadn't planned what to say, he never planned, that was the problem, that was always the problem,
Four rings.
Five.
Pick up. Pick up. Please pick up. I know it's late. I know I don't deserve it. Just, please. Let me hear your voice. Let me try.
Six rings.
Then:
"The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."
A beep.
Silence.
Jisung's brain short-circuited. Voicemail. He'd gotten voicemail. He hadn't even considered voicemail. He'd been so focused on the possibility of you answering that he hadn't prepared for the possibility of you not answering.
What did he say? What could he say? How did you summarize years of silence in sixty seconds?
The voicemail tone beeped again, impatient. Recording.
"Hey," he said.
His voice came out wrong. Smaller than he meant it. Younger.
"It's... it's me. Jisung. Obviously. You probably know that. You probably have my number saved even though I, " He stopped. Swallowed. "Even though I haven't used it in a while."
He laughed, nervous, stupid.
"A while. That's funny. It's been... it's been a long time. Too long. I know that. I've known that every day. I just, I didn't know how to, "
He ran a hand through his hair. Tugged at the ends. A nervous habit you'd always made fun of.
"I talked about you tonight. On a live. Someone asked about trainee days and I just... started talking. About the practice room. About the ramyun. About how you'd stay up all night with me even when you were exhausted. About how you believed in me when no one else did."
His eyes burned.
"I looked at our photos after. All of them. The drool one. The crying one. Your birthday. The texts where I promised I'd never go anywhere. I looked at all of it and I just... I missed you. I miss you so much it's stupid. It's been years and I still, I still reach for my phone to tell you things. I still turn around at concerts to see if you're there. I still save you a seat in my head. In my heart. Everywhere."
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I stopped calling. I'm sorry I stopped showing up. I don't have an excuse. There's no excuse. I just... I got scared. I got busy. I told myself I'd call tomorrow and tomorrow never came and now it's been years and I don't know how to make that right. I don't know if I can make it right."
His voice cracked.
"But I want to try. If you'll let me. If you're still, if you still want me in your life. I know I don't deserve it. I know I threw away something precious. But you're... you're my person. You've always been my person. And I can't, I can't keep living like this, carrying you everywhere but never actually holding you. I need you. I've always needed you. I just forgot how to say it."
Silence.
The voicemail beeped. Thirty seconds left.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out raw. Unpolished. True.
"I've loved you since that night in the practice room when you fell asleep on my shoulder. I've loved you through every stupid photo and every shared meal and every moment we spent together. I've loved you through the silence too, even when I didn't show it. Even when I was too much of a coward to pick up the phone. I've loved you every single day. And I'm sorry it took me this long to say it."
He took a breath that shook.
"I'm gonna call again. Tomorrow. Next week. Every day until you answer. You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to say anything at all. Just... pick up. Let me hear your voice. Let me try to be the person you always believed I could be."
Another beep. Ten seconds.
"I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry. And I'll wait. As long as it takes. I'll wait forever if I have to. Just like you waited for me."
A final beep.
The call ended.
Jisung stared at the screen. At the words Voicemail Sent. At your name, your photo, your number that still worked even though you'd never hear this message.
He put the phone down.
Rubbed his face with both hands.
And then, because he was alone, because no one was watching, because the live had ended hours ago and the studio was empty and the only witness was the ghost of you in his heart,
He cried.
Not the pretty kind. Not the silent tears that slide down cheeks in movies. The ugly kind. The kind that doubled him over, that made sounds he didn't know he could make, that left him gasping and wrecked and empty.
He cried for you.
He cried for himself.
He cried for the call that would never come, the voicemail you'd never hear, the words he'd said too late to someone who'd been gone for six years.
Same studio. Same chair. Same phone on the desk. Same Jisung, except smaller somehow. Like someone had let the air out of him.
"Jisung."
No response.
Minho walked closer. Saw the red eyes. The dried tear tracks. The way Jisung was holding himself like he might shatter if someone breathed too hard.
"You didn't sleep."
It wasn't a question.
Jisung shook his head.
Minho pulled up a chair. Sat beside him. Waited. The way he'd learned to wait in the years since that phone call, the one that had come at 4 AM, six years ago, during debut prep, when Jisung had answered and gone white and dropped the phone and Minho had picked it up and heard a stranger's voice saying words that didn't make sense.
Car accident. On the way to the showcase. She was so excited. She had signs. She made signs. She was just, she was just driving and then,
Minho had held Jisung while he screamed.
He'd been holding him ever since. Not physically, Jisung didn't need that, didn't want that, couldn't bear to be touched for months after. But in other ways. In the watching. In the waiting. In the quiet presence that said I'm here without demanding anything in return.
"I called them," Jisung said.
His voice was wrecked. Barely there.
Minho didn't react. Didn't say who? because he knew. He always knew.
"I called. Left a voicemail. Said all the things I should have said years ago." A laugh, hollow and broken. "Told them I loved them. Told them I was sorry. Told them I'd wait forever for them to pick up."
He looked at Minho. His eyes were glassy, desperate, empty.
"They're not gonna pick up, are they?"
Minho’s throat tightened.
"They're not gonna pick up," Jisung answered himself. "They've been not picking up for six years. They're gonna keep not picking up forever. Because they can't. Because they're, "
He stopped.
Couldn't say it.
Didn't need to.
Minho’s hand landed on his shoulder. Gentle. Solid. The only anchor in a storm that had been raging for half a decade.
Opened the hidden folder. Scrolled past the photos, the drool, the crying, the birthday, all of it, to the last image. The one he'd taken from the news article, years ago, when he couldn't make himself believe it was real.
A photo of you. A professional one. The one your family had given to the media when they released the statement.
Former trainee Y/N L/N killed in car accident en route to debut showcase.
He'd read those words so many times they'd lost meaning.
Killed.
En route.
Debut showcase.
You'd been coming to see him.
You'd made signs, the neighbor said. Spent all week on them. Glitter and markers and inside jokes that only you two would understand. You'd been so excited. So proud. You'd told everyone in your building that your best friend was debuting, that you had to be there, that nothing would stop you from seeing him finally get what he'd always dreamed of.
Nothing stopped you.
Except a truck that ran a red light.
Except a driver who didn't see you coming.
Except a universe that didn't care about signs or dreams or people who'd waited too long to say the words that mattered.
Jisung stared at your photo.
They're just a call away.
That's what he'd told Stay. That's what he told himself. That you were just a call away, just a message away, just waiting for him to reach out.
It was a lie.
The cruelest kind of lie, the one you tell yourself because the truth would destroy you.
You weren't a call away.
You were nowhere away. You were in a place phones couldn't reach, where voicemails piled up unlistened, where promises rotted in digital graveyards.
They're not going anywhere.
He'd said that too. On the live. "They're not going anywhere."
God, he'd been right.
You weren't going anywhere. You'd never go anywhere. You'd stay exactly where you'd been for six years, in a grave, in a urn, in a box of ashes somewhere, in the hearts of people who'd loved you and lost you and couldn't let go.
Not going anywhere.
The cruelest kind of truth.
They've always been there.
This one was true too. In a way.
You'd always been there. In his memories. In his photos. In the way he still turned to share things with you before remembering you couldn't see. In the shape of the hole in his chest that nothing else could fill.
You'd always been there because he carried you everywhere.
"I went to the cemetery last month," Jisung said quietly.
Minho looked at him.
"First time in two years. I couldn't, I couldn't make myself go. Every time I thought about it, I just... froze. But I went."
He pulled up another photo on his phone. Showed it to Minho .
A grave. Simple headstone. Your name. Your dates. A line at the bottom: Beloved daughter, friend, and dreamer.
In front of the grave, someone had left flowers. Fresh ones. Not from him, he hadn't been there in years. From someone else. Someone who still showed up.
"I stood there for an hour," Jisung said. "Didn't say anything. Couldn't. What do you say to someone who died waiting for you to call?"
Minho didn't answer. There was no answer.
"I thought about all the times I almost reached out. All the times I had my phone in my hand, your name on the screen, and I put it down because I was busy, because I was tired, because I'd do it tomorrow. And tomorrow never came. And now, "
He stopped.
Swallowed.
"Now I'm standing at your grave and 'tomorrow' is a word that doesn't mean anything anymore."
He put the phone down.
Pressed his palms to his eyes.
"And I'd just... stopped showing up."
The words hung in the air.
Stopped showing up.
He'd meant it earlier, in the studio, when he was looking at your photos and thinking about how he'd let the distance grow. He'd meant it about calls and texts and visits.
But now, sitting here with Minho , knowing what he knew, living with what he'd done,
It meant something else too.
He'd stopped showing up at your grave.
He'd stopped showing up at the place where you actually were. The only place you could be. The cold ground where your body had been lowered six years ago while he was on stage, performing, living the dream you'd helped him build.
He'd stopped showing up because showing up meant facing it. Meant admitting you were really gone. Meant standing in front of a headstone and accepting that the person he loved most in the world was ash.
So he'd stopped.
He'd let months become years become never.
And somewhere, in the dark earth, you kept not going anywhere. Kept waiting. Kept being there.
"Do you think they know? Do you think they can see me? Hear me? Do you think they know I still love them?"
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "I don't know, Hannie. I really don't know."
"I hope they do." Jisung's voice broke. "I hope they know I never stopped. I hope they know I think about them every day. I hope they know I'd give anything, anything, to go back and pick up the phone. Just once. Just to hear their voice one more time."
He looked at the ceiling. At the empty air. At the place where you might be, if anywhere, if anything, if the universe had any mercy at all.
"I hope you know," he whispered. "I hope you know I'm sorry. I hope you know I love you. I hope you know I'll never stop carrying you. Even if I'm too broken to visit. Even if I can't make myself stand where you're buried. You're here."
He pressed a hand to his chest.
"Right here. Always. Forever."
The studio was silent.
No reply came.
None ever would.
But somewhere, in a place Jisung couldn't see, in a language grief couldn't translate, he hoped you heard him anyway.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind Jisung had talked about on that live, the kind that pressed against your ears until you felt hollowed out. The kind that made breathing feel like a choice.
He stood at the edge of the path, hands in his jacket pockets, hood pulled up against a rain that hadn't started yet. The sky was grey. Heavy. Holding something back.
He'd been here before. Twice. Both times within the first month after you died. Both times he'd stood exactly where he was standing now, unable to move forward, unable to do anything except stare at the headstone from a distance and feel his chest cave in.
Then he'd stopped coming.
Six years.
Six years of telling himself he'd come tomorrow. Next week. When he was ready. When it didn't hurt so much.
Six years of not showing up.
And you'd stayed here the whole time. Not going anywhere. Just waiting. The way you'd always waited.
Smaller than he expected. That was the thing about graves, they never looked big enough for a person. Never looked big enough for you. You'd filled rooms with your presence. You'd made practice spaces feel small with the force of your laugh, your energy, your life.
And now you were under this.
A slab of stone. Your name carved into it. Dates that didn't make sense because you should have had more of them.
Y/N L/N
Beloved daughter, friend, and dreamer
Friend.
That's what they'd put. That's what your family had chosen. And it was true, you were his friend. You'd been the best friend he'd ever had.
But you'd been more too.
You'd been the person he reached for in the dark. The person he wanted to tell first. The person whose opinion mattered more than anyone else's. The person he'd imagined a future with, even if he'd never been brave enough to say it out loud.
Jisung stood in front of the grave and couldn't move.
He'd imagined this moment so many times. Practiced it. Told himself he'd know what to say when he finally got here. He'd apologize. He'd explain. He'd make you understand.
Now he was here and his throat was closed and his chest was full of glass and he couldn't remember how words worked.
So he just stood there.
The wind moved through the trees. Somewhere behind him, a bird was singing. Life kept happening, the way it always did, the way it had kept happening for six years while you stayed here in the silence.
"I'm sorry."
The words came out wrong. Too small. Too late.
"I'm sorry I didn't come. I'm sorry I stopped showing up. I'm sorry for all of it."
He pulled his hands from his pockets. Stuffed them back in. Pulled them out again. Didn't know what to do with them. Didn't know what to do with any of himself.
"I called you," he said. "A few nights ago. Left a voicemail. Said all the things I should have said years ago." A broken laugh escaped him. "Probably the first time I've ever been on time for anything in my life, and it's six years too late."
He looked at the name on the stone. Your name. Your name.
"You'd laugh at that. You'd say 'Jisung, you're late to your own funeral' and then you'd, " He stopped. Swallowed. "You'd laugh. And I'd pretend to be offended. And then we'd both laugh. And everything would be okay."
Right on the ground. Right in front of the grave. Didn't care that the grass was damp. Didn't care that his jeans would be soaked. Didn't care about anything except being close to you. As close as he could get.
"Six years," he said quietly. "Six years since you, " He couldn't say it. Still couldn't say it. "Six years since I lost you. And I've spent most of them pretending you're just... far away. Just busy. Just a call away."
He pulled his knees up. Wrapped his arms around them. Made himself small.
"I told Stay that. On a live. Said you were just a call away. Said you weren't going anywhere. Said you'd always been there." He shook his head. "I wasn't lying. Not exactly. I just... I wasn't telling the truth either. I was telling myself the story I needed to believe. The one where you're still out there. Still alive. Still waiting."
His voice cracked.
"Because the other story, the real one, I can't live in that story. I can't breathe in that story. In that story, you're here. In the ground. In the cold. And I'm walking around above you, living my life, breathing your air, and you're just... you're just here. Alone. In the dark. Waiting for someone to visit."
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
"And I didn't. I didn't visit. I left you here alone for six years because I couldn't face it. Because facing it meant admitting you're really gone. And if you're really gone, then all those days I didn't call, all those nights I put down the phone and said 'tomorrow', they're not just neglect. They're not just being busy. They're wasted. They're time I could have had with you that I'll never get back."
His breath came faster. Harder.
"You were coming to see me. That night. You were driving to my debut. You had signs. You made signs, glitter and stupid jokes and all the things that made you you. And you were so excited. The neighbor said. She told me. Years later. She said you'd been talking about it all week. Said you couldn't stop smiling."
He looked up at the grey sky. At the clouds that wouldn't break.
"You were smiling. On your way to see me. And some truck driver ran a light and, " He couldn't finish. "And you never got there. You never saw me debut. You never saw me become what you always said I'd become. You never heard me say, "
I love you.
The words stuck in his throat.
"I never said it," he whispered. "Not once. Not out loud. Not in a way that counted. I had years. Years of you being right there, right next to me, looking at me like I mattered. And I never said the one thing you deserved to hear."
He pressed his forehead to his knees.
"I love you. I love you. I love you. I've loved you since that night in the practice room when you fell asleep on my shoulder. I've loved you through every stupid photo and every shared meal and every moment we spent together. I've loved you through the silence too. Through every day I didn't call. Through every night I put down the phone. Through every year I spent pretending you were just a call away when really you were, "
He stopped.
Looked at the grave.
"When really you were here. Waiting. The way you always waited. The way you promised you would."
I'm not going anywhere.
"You kept your promise," he said. "You're still here. You never left. You never could leave. And I, " His voice broke. "I stopped showing up. I stopped coming. I left you here alone because I was too scared to face what I'd lost."
He reached out. Touched the headstone. The stone was cold. Smooth. Nothing like you. You'd been warm. You'd been alive.
"I'm here now," he whispered. "I know it's late. I know it's six years late. But I'm here. I'm finally here. And I'm not gonna stop showing up again. I promise. I promise. I'll come every month. Every week. Every day if I can. I'll sit here and talk to you and tell you everything I should have said when you could still hear me."
He traced the letters of your name with his fingertip.
"I'll tell you about my days. About the music. About the members. About all the things you missed. I'll tell you about the solos I've written, the awards we've won, the stages we've crushed. I'll tell you about the fans who love me, who'd love you too, if they'd had the chance to know you. I'll tell you everything. Every single thing. So you don't miss any more of it."
A tear fell. Then another.
"And one day," he said, voice barely there, "one day I'll come here and I won't have to say it all. Because you'll already know. Because somewhere, in whatever comes after this, you've been watching. You've been proud. You've been waiting for me to finally show up and tell you what you already know."
He pressed his palm flat against the headstone.
"I love you. I've always loved you. I'll always love you. And I'm sorry. For all of it. For every call I didn't make. For every day I didn't show up. For leaving you here alone. For making you wait, even in death, for me to finally come home."
The wind moved through the trees again. Softer this time. Almost gentle.
Jisung closed his eyes.
And for the first time in six years, standing in front of your grave with rain beginning to fall, he didn't feel alone.
Because you were there.
Not in the way he wanted. Not in the way he dreamed. But in the way that mattered, in his heart, in his memory, in the space you'd always occupied and always would.
Talked until his voice gave out. Told you about the live, about the question, about the way your memory had flooded back so suddenly he couldn't breathe. Told you about the photos he'd looked at, the videos he'd watched, the voicemail he'd left that you'd never hear.
Told you about the guilt. The grief. The weight he'd been carrying for six years that had finally, finally started to lift.
Told you he loved you. Over and over. Like saying it enough times might somehow reach you.
When he finally stood to leave, his legs were stiff and his jeans were soaked and his eyes were red and his heart was full.
He looked at the headstone one last time.
"I'll be back," he said. "Next week. I promise. I'll keep showing up. For the rest of my life. I'll keep showing up."
He pressed his fingers to his lips, then to your name on the stone.
"I love you. Wait for me. Not like before, not waiting for me to call. Just... wait. Save me a seat. Wherever you are. I'll get there eventually."
You weren't asleep. You hadn't been able to sleep for weeks, not really. Not since Jisung started looking at you differently. Or maybe you started looking at him differently first, at this point, you couldn't tell anymore. All you knew was that the space between you had become a living thing, breathing and pulsing with everything you weren't saying.
Your door didn't have a lock. It never needed one. Until now.
The door swung open without a knock, without warning, and you barely had time to sit up before Jisung was crossing your room in three long strides. His eyes were wide, bright even in the darkness, and there was something frantic in the way he moved.
"Come on," he whispered, voice rough.
Before you could ask what, where, why, his hand found yours. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly, and they laced through yours like they'd done it a thousand times before. But this time felt different. This time, his grip was desperate.
With his other hand, he grabbed the corner of your blanket, yanking it off the bed without ceremony.
"Jisung, what the, "
"Shh." He pressed a finger to his lips, still tugging you toward the door. "Just trust me."
You followed because you always followed him. Because since the day you both debuted, since the trainee days before that, trusting Jisung was as natural as breathing. Even when your heart was pounding against your ribs. Even when his hand in yours felt like it was setting your skin on fire.
He led you through the dark hallway, past the other members' doors, his footsteps sure and silent. You wondered if he'd done this before, sneaked out in the middle of the night alone. Or worse, with someone else. The thought made something ugly twist in your stomach.
The stairwell to the roof was cold, the concrete walls amplifying every soft footfall. Jisung finally slowed when you reached the heavy door at the top, pausing with his hand on the push bar.
"Close your eyes," he said, turning to look at you.
The moonlight from the small window above the door caught his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it. He looked beautiful. He always looked beautiful, and that was the problem.
"Why?"
"Humor me." A ghost of his usual grin flickered across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes.
You closed your eyes.
The door opened, and cold air hit your face, carrying the smell of the city, exhaust and night and something metallic. Jisung's hand never let go of yours as he guided you forward, his other hand on your shoulder now, steering you carefully.
"Okay," he said softly, his lips close to your ear. You shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. "Open."
You did.
The roof was the same as always, concrete, air conditioning units humming, the Seoul skyline sprawling endlessly in every direction. But Jisung had made it different. A thick blanket was spread on the ground near the edge, the one from the dorm's living room that you both always fought over during movie nights. Two cushions from the couch were tossed haphazardly on top. A thermos sat to the side, and next to it,
Your breath caught.
A lighter. And a blunt.
You looked at him, questions flooding your face. Jisung just shrugged, but there was tension in his shoulders, a nervous energy vibrating off him.
"Couldn't sleep," he said, like that explained everything. "Thought you might want company."
He finally let go of your hand, and the absence of his warmth was immediate, almost painful. He walked to the blanket and dropped down onto it, patting the space beside him.
You stood there for a moment, watching him. In the pale light, he looked younger somehow. Softer. The mask he wore for cameras, for fans, for the other members, it was gone. This was just Jisung. Your Jisung.
Your Jisung. When had you started thinking of him like that?
You crossed the roof and sank down onto the blanket beside him, pulling your knees up to your chest. He handed you the thermos without a word. Coffee. Still warm. He'd made it just before coming to get you.
"Thanks," you murmured.
He nodded, picking up the blunt and the lighter. You watched his fingers as he worked, slender, elegant, the same fingers that wrote songs that made fans cry, that tapped rhythms on tabletops when he thought no one was watching. The same fingers that had held yours just minutes ago.
He lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his face. Then he took a long drag, held it, and offered it to you.
You took it. Your fingers brushed again, and this time neither of you pretended not to notice.
The first hit burned, but it was a good burn. Warmth spread through your chest, loosening something tight you hadn't realized you'd been holding. You passed it back.
For a while, you just sat like that. Passing the blunt back and forth. Sipping coffee. Watching the city lights flicker and pulse like a slower, steadier heartbeat. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it never was with him, but tonight it felt charged. Electric. Like the air before a storm.
The blunt had made its way back and forth between you a few times now. The city lights below had started to blur slightly at the edges, that warm fuzzy feeling settling into your bones like a blanket from the inside. Your shoulders had dropped from where they'd been living up near your ears for weeks. You hadn't even noticed until now.
Jisung was stretched out beside you, one arm behind his head, the other holding the blunt loosely between his fingers. He was looking up at the sky, that small private smile on his face that he only ever wore around you.
You watched him for a moment. The way his chest rose and fell. The way his lips parted slightly as he exhaled. The way the city lights reflected in his eyes.
"Why?" you asked.
He turned his head, eyebrows pulling together. "Why what?"
You gestured vaguely at everything, the blanket, the cushions, the thermos, the blunt now burning slowly between his fingers. "This. All of this." You paused, chewing on your bottom lip. "Weed isn't cheap, Jisung. And you... you went out and got this. For me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he sat up slowly, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He stared out at the city instead of looking at you.
"I could tell you were struggling," he said finally. His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the night air. "These past few weeks. You've been... off. Distant. You laugh at the right times during schedules, but it doesn't reach your eyes. Not anymore."
Your throat tightened.
"I see you," he continued, still not looking at you. "I always see you. Even when you're trying to hide." He let out a small breath, almost a laugh but not quite. "You think I don't notice when you're hurting? When you barely eat at dinner? When you stay in your room instead of coming to watch movies with us?"
You didn't know what to say. You hadn't realized he'd noticed. You thought you'd been so careful.
"I just..." He finally turned to look at you, and the raw honesty in his eyes made your chest ache. "I wanted you to relax. Even for one night. Even just for an hour." He gestured at the blunt. "I know it's not a solution. I know it won't fix anything. But I thought maybe... maybe if I could give you one night where your brain shuts up, where you can just breathe..." He trailed off, shrugging. "I don't know. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid," you whispered.
He looked at you, surprised.
You shook your head, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them back furiously. "It's not stupid. It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a really long time."
Jisung's expression softened into something so tender it almost hurt to look at.
"You'd do the same for me," he said quietly. Like it was simple. Like it was obvious.
And he was right. You would. You'd do anything for him.
You held out your hand for the blunt, and he passed it to you. Your fingers lingered against his this time, neither of you in a hurry to pull away.
When you finally did, you took a long drag and let the smoke curl from your lips, watching it dissolve into the night sky.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "For seeing me."
Jisung smiled, a real smile, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his whole face light up.
"Always," he said.
The blunt had burned down about halfway when you made the mistake of actually looking at him.
You'd been staring at the city, at the way the lights blurred and sparkled through the haze settling over your brain. Comfortable silence. Easy silence. The kind you'd always had with Jisung.
But then he shifted beside you, and something made you turn your head.
Big mistake.
He was tilted back on his hands, his face turned up toward the sky, and the moonlight caught him in a way that made your breath stutter. His throat was exposed, long and pale and elegant, and you watched, mesmerized, as he brought the blunt to his lips.
His mouth closed around it, lips parting just enough to take it in. You watched the way they wrapped around the paper, soft and pink and slightly chapped from the cold. He inhaled slowly, and you could see the movement in his throat, a subtle bob of his Adam's apple as the smoke went down.
Then he held it.
His eyes fluttered closed. His jaw relaxed. The tension bled out of his shoulders.
And when he finally exhaled, tilting his head back further, you watched the smoke curl from between those same lips, slow and lazy, disappearing into the night air like a secret. His mouth stayed slightly open afterward, wet and soft, and you had to look away before you did something stupid.
You looked away.
But your eyes found him again almost immediately. You couldn't help it. It was like he was the only thing on this rooftop worth looking at.
He was passing the blunt to you now, and you took it automatically, but your eyes were still on him. On the way his chest rose and fell. On the way his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. On the way his eyes, half-lidded and dark, were suddenly looking back at you.
You froze.
He'd caught you staring. There was no pretending otherwise, not with the way your hand was hovering in mid-air, the blunt forgotten between your fingers.
But he didn't call you out. He didn't smirk or tease or make it weird.
He just... looked at you.
And slowly, so slowly you almost missed it, his gaze dropped. Down to your own lips. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to notice.
Then it was back on your eyes, dark and questioning and full of something that made your stomach flip.
You should have looked away. You should have laughed it off, made some joke, broken the tension before it could coil any tighter.
You didn't.
Instead, you brought the blunt to your own lips, slowly, deliberately, and you watched him watch you do it. You watched his eyes follow the movement. You watched his throat work as he swallowed. You watched his fingers twitch against the blanket like he wanted to reach for something.
The smoke filled your lungs. You held it. You exhaled.
And through the haze, you saw him smile. Small. Knowing. Like he understood exactly what you were doing.
Neither of you said a word.
He held out his hand for the blunt. You passed it to him, and this time your fingers brushed deliberately, his pinky against your thumb, lasting a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm. So warm.
He took a drag, and you watched again. You couldn't stop watching. The way his lips formed that perfect O. The way his jaw worked as he inhaled. The way his eyelashes cast tiny shadows on his cheeks when his eyes drifted closed.
When he opened them again, they found yours immediately. Like he knew exactly where you'd be looking. Like he'd been feeling your gaze on him the whole time.
"You're staring," he murmured. Not accusatory. Just... stating a fact. His voice was lower than usual, rough around the edges from the smoke.
"So are you," you whispered back.
His lips curved. Not his usual grin, something softer. Something dangerous.
"Maybe I like looking at you."
The words landed heavy in the space between you. You felt them in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers that suddenly wanted very badly to reach out and touch him.
"You've been looking at me a lot lately," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
"Have I?"
"You know you have."
He didn't deny it. He just kept looking at you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and you felt like you were falling into them.
He brought the blunt to his lips again, slow, deliberate, like he knew you were watching. Like he was doing it for you. His eyes stayed on yours the entire time. Even as he inhaled. Even as he held it. Even as he let the smoke drift slowly from between his lips, a lazy curl that rose between you like a curtain.
You couldn't breathe. And it had nothing to do with the smoke.
The blunt was almost gone now. A small roach between his fingers. But neither of you moved to stub it out. Neither of you moved at all.
The city hummed below. The air grew colder. The space between you grew smaller.
His knee was touching yours. You didn't know when that happened. His hand rested on his own leg, close enough that if you shifted just an inch, you could cover it with your own.
You didn't.
But you thought about it.
And from the way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a moment, just long enough to make your heart stutter, you had a feeling he was thinking about it too.
The blunt had burned down to nothing. Jisung stubbed it out on the concrete, tucking the remains into his pocket without a word.
The silence settled back over you, but it was different now. Heavier. Charged in a way that made your skin feel too warm despite the cold.
You should let it go. You should thank him for the night, gather the blanket, head back inside before one of you did something you couldn't take back.
Instead, you reached into the pocket of your hoodie and pulled out a small glass jar.
Jisung's eyes caught the movement immediately. He watched as you unscrewed the lid, revealing the flower inside. His eyebrows rose.
"Since when do you, "
"Since last month." You didn't look at him, focused on pulling out a paper from your other pocket. "Felix introduced me to his guy. Said it helps with the anxiety. I was about to go out and use it when you barged into my room."
"You've been holding out on me."
"Didn't know you were interested."
He laughed softly, a low, warm sound that did something complicated to your chest. "I'm interested in a lot of things you don't know about."
Your fingers fumbled with the paper.
You didn't look up, but you felt his gaze on you like a physical weight. Watching your hands work. Watching the way you sprinkled the flower onto the paper, spread it carefully, started rolling.
"You're good at that," he observed.
"Practice."
"Quiet practice? Without me?"
Now you did look up. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch the expression on his face, curious, amused, and something else. Something warmer.
"You're not entitled to all my secrets, Jisung."
"Maybe I want to be."
The words landed soft and heavy. You looked back down at the blunt in your hands, rolling it between your fingers, tucking the edges. Your heart was pounding. He had to be able to hear it.
You brought the blunt to your lips to seal it, running your tongue along the edge of the paper. When you glanced up, Jisung was staring at your mouth again. He didn't look away this time when you caught him.
"Problem?" you asked.
"Nothing I can solve tonight."
Your breath caught. You held his gaze as you reached for the lighter, lit the blunt, took the first drag. The smoke filled your lungs, and you held it, and you watched him watch you.
When you exhaled, you passed it to him.
His fingers closed around it, and around your fingers. He didn't let go right away. His thumb pressed against your knuckles, just once, just enough to make your pulse jump.
Then he took the blunt and brought it to his own lips. His eyes stayed on yours.
The tension was unbearable. It was everything. It was the only thing.
You shifted on the blanket, pulling your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. Trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to create some distance before you did something reckless.
But then his hand moved.
Slowly. Casually. Like he wasn't even thinking about it.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
That was all. Just a brush of his fingers against the shell of your ear, against the hair at your temple. It lasted two seconds, maybe three.
It felt like forever.
You turned to look at him. He was already looking at you, his face soft in the dim light, his hand still hovering near your face like he was debating whether to pull away or touch you again.
"You had hair in your face," he murmured.
"You could have just told me."
"I could have." He didn't move his hand. His fingers grazed your cheek now, feather-light, barely there. "This was better."
You should tell him to stop. You should move away. You should do literally anything other than sit here and let him touch your face like you were something precious.
You didn't.
Instead, you leaned into it. Just barely. Just enough.
His eyes darkened.
The blunt hung forgotten between his other fingers, smoke curling up into the night unnoticed. All of his attention was on you. On the way your cheek fit against his palm. On the way your eyes fluttered half-closed at the contact.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered.
The words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your eyes fully, searching his face for any sign he was joking, teasing, being cruel.
There was none. Just honesty. Just Jisung, looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
"Jisung..."
"I know." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "I know. You don't have to say anything. I just..." He swallowed. "I needed you to know."
His hand started to pull away.
You caught it.
You didn't think. You just moved, your hand closing around his wrist, stopping him, holding him there against your cheek.
His breath hitched.
"Don't," you whispered.
"Don't what?"
*Don't stop. Don't pull away. Don't make me go back to pretending I don't feel this too.*
But you couldn't say any of that. So instead, you just held his wrist and looked at him, and hoped he understood.
From the way his eyes searched yours, hopeful, terrified, full of longing, maybe he did.
The blunt had gone out. Neither of you moved to relight it.
His thumb started moving again, slow strokes against your skin, and you let your eyes close. Just for a moment. Just to feel it without the overwhelming intensity of his gaze.
"Can I, " His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Can I move closer?"
You nodded without opening your eyes.
You felt him shift on the blanket. Felt the warmth of him as he moved nearer. Felt his knee press against your thigh, his other hand come up to frame your face, both palms cradling your cheeks now like you were something fragile.
"You're shaking," he observed quietly.
"So are you."
He laughed softly. "Yeah. Guess I am."
You opened your eyes.
He was so close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes, see the tiny mole near his eye, watch the way his pupils dilated in the dim light. His breath mingled with yours, warm and smelling faintly of smoke.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi."
His thumbs traced your cheekbones. Your hands found his wrists, holding on like he might disappear if you let go.
"I've wanted to do this for weeks," he admitted. "Just... be close to you. Touch you. Not in a weird way, I just, " He huffed a frustrated breath. "I'm explaining this badly."
"You're doing fine."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He smiled. Small and nervous and so incredibly Jisung that your heart ached.
The city lights blurred behind him. The cold didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except this, except him, except the way he was looking at you like you were everything.
His forehead dropped to rest against yours.
"Is this okay?" he breathed.
"More than okay."
His nose brushed against yours. Accidental. Deliberate. You couldn't tell anymore.
His lips were so close. If you tilted your head just slightly, if you closed the smallest distance,
You didn't.
Neither did he.
But you both stayed there, foreheads together, breath mingling, hands on each other like you'd finally found somewhere safe to land.
The night stretched on around you. The city hummed below. And on a rooftop in Seoul, two people who'd been dancing around each other for months finally stopped running.
The tension on that rooftop was a palpable thing, a third presence in the space between you. It was in the way the city lights seemed to hold their breath, in the way the hum of the air conditioners faded into a distant, insignificant drone. All that existed was the circle of light on the blanket, the lingering scent of coffee and smoke, and the inches of air separating your mouth from his.
His forehead was still pressed against yours, his thumbs stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your cheeks. You could feel the faint tremor in his hands, a mirror to the one running through your own body. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
You were the one who broke the stalemate.
It wasn't a decision made in your head, but a compulsion that originated somewhere deeper, in the part of you that had been starving for this exact moment. You tilted your head, a fraction of an inch. It was the smallest movement in the world, but it changed everything.
Your lips brushed his.
It was a feather-light touch, a question asked without words. For a second, he was perfectly still, and a wave of panic crashed over you. You’d misread it. You’d ruined everything.
Then he kissed you back.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was a kiss of weeks of frustration, of sleepless nights and stolen glances, of words swallowed before they could be spoken. His lips moved against yours with a desperate, hungry pressure that stole the air from your lungs. One of his hands slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you to him like he was afraid you might vanish.
You responded in kind, your hands releasing his wrists to grip the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. The world narrowed to the sensation of his mouth on yours, the taste of smoke and coffee and something uniquely Jisung. It was a collision, a surrender, a homecoming all at once.
When you finally broke apart, it was only by a few centimeters. You were both breathing heavily, your foreheads still pressed together. The city lights swam in a blurry sea behind his head.
"Wow," he breathed, the word a puff of air against your swollen lips. "Okay."
"Okay?" you managed, your voice shaky.
"Yeah," he said, and a real, genuine smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the smile you loved, the one that was just for you. "Okay is a massive understatement, but my brain is currently a pile of mush, so it's the best I've got."
A laugh escaped you, a watery, relieved sound. He kissed you again, softer this time. A slow, deep exploration that was less about desperation and more about discovery. He mapped the shape of your lips, learned their texture, their taste. His thumb stroked the skin behind your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
"I've wanted to do that," he murmured against your mouth. "God, I've wanted to do that for so long."
"Me too," you confessed, the admission feeling like the most important truth you'd ever spoken. "Jisung, I- "
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and serious and full of an emotion that made your chest ache. "Don't," he said softly. "Not yet. Let's just... have this. Just for tonight. Let's not put a name on it. Let's not think about tomorrow or schedules or what happens when we go back inside."
You knew he was right. The weight of reality was a heavy thing, and you weren't ready for it. Not yet. So you just nodded, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He shifted, settling back on the blanket and pulling you with him until you were curled against his side, your head on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you securely. You could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.
You lay there in comfortable silence, watching the last of the smoke dissipate into the Seoul sky. The unspoken questions were still there, hovering at the edges of the moment, but for the first time in weeks, they didn't feel like a threat. They felt like a promise.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Hey," he whispered.
"Hey."
"You're shivering."
"It's cold."
"Come here." He tightened his arm around you, maneuvering the discarded blanket from the living room until it was draped over both of you. It was warm, smelling faintly of the dorm and of him. "Better?"
You snuggled closer, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. "Much."
You felt more than heard his quiet hum of contentment. The city continued its silent pulse below, but up here, on this rooftop, wrapped in his arms, the world had finally, blissfully, gone quiet. And for the first time in a long, long time, sleep didn't feel like an impossibility. It felt like a promise waiting for the sun to rise.
The quiet was a fragile thing, a thin layer of ice over a deep, churning ocean. You could feel it in the tight coil of Jisung’s arm around you, in the way his fingers traced mindless patterns on your shoulder. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence; it was a waiting one. Every nerve ending in your body was tuned to him, to the steady beat of his heart against your ear, to the warmth of his breath stirring your hair.
You tilted your head back, just enough to see the sharp line of his jaw in the dim light. He was already looking down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, but the soft curve of his mouth told you everything you needed to know.
This time, you didn't hesitate.
You pushed yourself up, twisting in his embrace until you were facing him, kneeling on the blanket between his legs. The movement was slow, deliberate, a silent question. His hands found your waist, his grip firm, pulling you closer until your knees were bracketing his thighs. The fabric of your jeans brushed against his, a whisper of friction that sent a jolt straight through you.
You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking the soft skin of his cheeks. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When he opened them again, the raw vulnerability there stole your breath.
You kissed him.
It was different from the first time. That had been a collision, a frantic release of pent-up tension. This was a deliberate act of worship. You poured every unspoken word, every sleepless night, every secret glance into the slow, deep slide of your lips against his. He met you stroke for stroke, his mouth opening under yours, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, a silent request for more that you granted without a second thought.
The kiss deepened, spiraling into something hungry and all-consuming. His hands slid from your waist down to your hips, gripping you, pulling you flush against him until there was no space, no air, nothing but the frantic heat building between you. You tangled one hand in his hair, the silky strands slipping through your fingers as you angled his head to deepen the kiss further. He tasted like faint mint and coffee and the lingering, earthy ghost of the smoke, a heady combination that made you dizzy. You could feel the low groan that vibrated in his chest, a sound you felt more than heard, a sound that resonated deep in your own bones.
It was a fire, and you were both willingly burning.
Then, as suddenly as he’d started, he pulled back.
The loss was a physical ache. You were breathing hard, your lips tingling and swollen, your chest heaving. He was watching you, his chest rising and falling just as rapidly, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the light. A fine sheen of sweat glittered at his temples.
"Jisung," you breathed, the name a broken plea. "Don't stop."
He didn't answer. He just shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. His gaze held yours as he reached down to the forgotten blunt, his movements sure and steady despite the tremor you could still feel in his hands. He pulled out the lighter and the small, crumpled roach.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you watched him. He didn't look away from you as he brought the blunt to his lips, as he flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the darkness and illuminating the intense focus on his face. He took a long, slow drag, the cherry glowing bright red for a moment before he lowered his hand, the smoke held captive in his lungs.
He set the blunt down carefully on the concrete ledge beside the blanket. Then his hands were on you again, guiding you, his grip gentle but insistent. "Lay back," he murmured, his voice a low, rough command.
You did, sinking down onto the thick blanket, the wool scratchy against your back through the thin material of your hoodie. The sky was a vast, inky canopy above you, the city lights a smear of distant jewels. But all of it faded into insignificance as Jisung moved over you, bracing himself on one arm beside your head, his body hovering just above yours.
He leaned down, his face so close to yours that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He didn't kiss you, not yet. He just hovered, his eyes searching yours, asking for a permission you were more than willing to give. You brought a hand up, curling it around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, pulling him down.
He finally closed the last inch.
His lips met yours in a soft, open-mouthed kiss. And then he exhaled.
The smoke flowed from his lungs into yours, a slow, warm, intimate rush. It wasn't harsh or burning; it was a shared breath, a ghost of a sensation. You could taste the earthy, sweet flavor of it, feel it fill your chest, mingling with your own air, with his essence. It was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced, a moment of complete and total surrender. You inhaled deeply, pulling the smoke and him into yourself, your body arching up into his as you did.
The kiss deepened as the smoke dissipated between you, becoming something frantic and needy. His free hand roamed your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, his touch setting your skin alight even through layers of clothing. You lost yourself in the sensation, the weight of him above you, the desperate slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him and the smoke and the night air.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, the world felt tilted on its axis. The city lights seemed to spin above you. Jisung rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"Still cold?" he whispered, a teasing note in his voice that was at odds with the raw emotion in his eyes.
You shook your head, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. "Not even a little bit."
The world had narrowed to this: the solid press of Jisung’s body over yours, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats hammering against each other, the taste of smoke and desperation on your tongues. The kiss was a vortex, pulling you under, and you were willing to drown in it.
His hand, which had been tracing idle patterns on your hip, grew bold. It slid down, over the curve of your ass, and pulled you flush against him. The contact was electric. Even through the barrier of your jeans and his sweats, you could feel him, hard and insistent, a perfect, searing pressure against the apex of your thighs.
A choked sound escaped your throat, a mix of surprise and pure, unadulterated want. Your body responded on instinct, your hips rocking up to meet his, seeking more of that friction. It was a clumsy, desperate movement, but it was everything.
Jisung broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a ragged puff of air against the fabric of your hoodie. "Don't, don't do that if you don't want…"
His voice trailed off, but you knew what he was asking. You answered by doing it again, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips that ground you against him. The friction sent a jolt of pleasure so intense it made your toes curl.
He let out a low groan, muffled by your shoulder. "Okay," he rasped, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were wild, dark, and utterly undone. "Okay."
And then he was moving.
It started as a slow, experimental rhythm. He would press down, and you would arch up, your bodies finding a sinful, perfect cadence. Each drag of cloth against sensitive skin was a new revelation. The rough denim of your jeans against the softer cotton of his sweats, the way the seam of your pants caught perfectly against your clit with every upward thrust. The pleasure was a slow-building tide, cresting higher and higher with each movement.
The kiss became messy, desperate. Teeth clicked, lips were bruised, tongues tangled in a frantic race. It wasn't about finesse; it was about need. His hands were everywhere, one tangled in your hair, gripping the strands and holding you in place for his devouring kisses, the other splayed wide against your lower back, urging you on, pulling you harder against him.
"Jisung," you gasped, breaking away for a breath of cold air that did nothing to cool the fire burning under your skin. "Please."
"Please what?" he panted, his mouth trailing down your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive skin of your neck. He found that spot just below your ear that made you see stars and sucked hard, intent on leaving a mark.
"More," you whimpered, your hands fisting in the material of his hoodie. "I need… more."
He understood. He always understood.
He shifted his weight, bracing himself more firmly on his forearms. The new angle changed everything. It allowed him to thrust with more force, more precision. The pressure against your clit became constant, a relentless, delicious torment. The fabric of your underwear, already damp with arousal, was rubbed against you with every movement, a maddening tease of what was to come.
You were lost in a haze of sensation. The scratch of the blanket against your back, the cold night air on your exposed neck, the solid weight of him pinning you down, the obscene, slick sound of your bodies moving together, the low, guttural sounds he was making in your ear. It was an overload, a symphony of pleasure that was building to an unbearable crescendo.
The pleasure was a coiling, tightening thing, a spring winding tighter and tighter in your belly with every delicious drag of his hips. You were right there, balanced on the knife's edge, the city lights blurring into a watercolor painting behind your closed eyelids.
Just as you felt the first tell-tale tremors begin, he stopped.
The sudden cessation of movement was a physical shock. Your eyes flew open, a whimper of protest catching in your throat. He was still hovering over you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with an intensity that was almost feral.
"Jisung," you breathed, your voice a ragged plea. "Why…?"
A slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips. It wasn't the playful grin you were used to; this was something else. Something possessive. "Because I'm not done with you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body.
He shifted, moving down your body until he was kneeling between your legs. His hands went to the button of your jeans, his fingers sure and confident. He didn't ask; he just acted, and you lifted your hips to help him, eager for the promise in his touch. He peeled the denim down your legs, the rough fabric a fleeting caress against your skin, and tossed them aside. The cold night air hit your exposed thighs, a stark contrast to the fire burning within you.
He didn't give you a moment to adjust. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pushing them open, baring you completely to his gaze. He lowered his head, and the first touch of his tongue against your core was a shock of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He wasn't gentle. He was ravenous. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, his tongue flat and firm, and your back arched off the blanket. A cry tore from your throat, swallowed by the vastness of the night sky.
He set a merciless rhythm, his tongue flicking and circling your clit with a precision that had you seeing stars. One of his hands left your thigh, and you felt the press of his fingers against your entrance. He teased you for a moment, circling the slick opening before sliding one long finger inside you.
You gasped, your inner walls clamping down around the welcome intrusion. He began to move his finger in time with his tongue, a slow, deliberate pumping that quickly built in intensity. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a perfect storm of pleasure that had you writhing beneath him.
Just as you were getting lost in the sensation, he pulled back slightly. With his free hand, he reached for the discarded blunt and the lighter. Your eyes, hazy with pleasure, watched as he lit it, taking a long, deep drag and holding the smoke in his chest.
His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, never left yours as he leaned back over you. He didn't seal his mouth over yours this time. He brought his lips to yours, hovering just a breath away.
"Open," he commanded, his voice a low, rough order.
Your lips parted instinctively. He brought his own mouth close, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, and then he exhaled slowly. The thick, sweet smoke drifted from his lips to yours, a ghost of a kiss, and you inhaled, pulling it deep into your lungs. The effect was immediate and disorienting, a heady rush that mingled with the pleasure already coursing through your veins.
Before you could even process it, his mouth was back on you. His tongue found your clit with unerring accuracy, and his finger, slick with your arousal, began to pump into you again, faster this time, more demanding.
The combination was devastating. The haze in your head from the smoke made every sensation sharper, more intense. The wet heat of his mouth, the relentless pressure of his tongue, the perfect, curling drag of his finger inside you, it was all too much. It was exactly what you needed.
"Jisung," you sobbed, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands and holding him to you. "Oh god… Jisung…"
He responded by adding a second finger, stretching you, filling you. He curled them just so, finding that sensitive spot inside you that made your vision blur. The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly, winding so fast you knew you were about to snap.
He could feel it, too. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue working the sensitive bundle of nerves with relentless, focused pressure as his fingers pumped into you faster, harder.
"Let go," he commanded against your skin, his voice a low, dominant growl that was your undoing.
The command shattered you. The pleasure that had been building crashed over you in a blinding, all-consuming wave. Your entire body bowed, a strangled scream tearing from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you. It was more intense than before, a powerful, pulsing release that left you trembling and breathless, your inner walls spasming around his fingers.
He worked you through it, his tongue and fingers slowing, milking every last drop of pleasure from your body until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him. He finally pulled away, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling back up your body to hover over you.
He looked down at you, his face glistening with your arousal, a look of pure, masculine satisfaction on his face. He looked beautiful. He looked dangerous. He looked like he was just getting started.
The world slowly came back into focus, one hazy sensation at a time. The rough texture of the blanket against your back. The cool night air on your sweat-damp skin. The solid weight of Jisung’s body pinning you down, his face hovering just above yours, his expression a mixture of awe and raw, predatory satisfaction.
You were boneless, spent, but a new kind of energy was beginning to hum beneath your skin, a deep, aching need to give him the same earth-shattering pleasure he had just given you.
You pushed at his chest, a silent signal, and he rolled onto his back without hesitation, his movements fluid and graceful. He propped himself up on his elbows, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes fixed on you as you moved. The city lights behind him cast him in silhouette, but you could still see the gleam in his eyes, the way his lips were parted in anticipation.
You knelt between his legs, your hands going to the waistband of his sweats. You didn't tease; you didn't hesitate. You hooked your fingers into the elastic and pulled, dragging both his sweats and his boxers down in one smooth motion. He lifted his hips to help you, and the sight of him, hard and flushed and leaking for you, sent a fresh jolt of desire straight through your core.
You leaned down, not taking him into your mouth yet, just breathing over him, letting your warm ghost of a breath tease his sensitive skin. He let out a shuddering groan, his head falling back against the blanket.
"Please," he whimpered, the sound so uncharacteristically vulnerable it made your heart clench. "Don't tease."
You smiled to yourself before finally leaning in and taking him into your mouth. The first taste of him, salty and clean on your tongue, was intoxicating. You started slow, swirling your tongue around the head, tracing the sensitive ridge, savoring the desperate little sounds he was making. His hips bucked up involuntarily, a silent plea for more.
"Oh, fuck," he breathed, his voice already shaky. "That's… that's so good."
You took him deeper, establishing a slow, steady rhythm, bobbing your head and using your hand to stroke what you couldn't take. It was then that he truly started to unravel. The quiet, controlled Jisung from moments before was gone, replaced by this whiny, whimpering mess who was completely at your mercy.
"Please, please, please," he chanted, his hands flying to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "Just like that. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
His voice was high and thin, breaking on the words. Every whimper, every desperate gasp, went straight to your clit. You could feel yourself getting wet again, your own pleasure building in time with his. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him as deep as you could, and he cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
You pulled back almost all the way, just the tip resting on your bottom lip, and looked up at him through your lashes. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open, his face a mask of pure ecstasy. You flicked your tongue against the slit, a quick, teasing gesture, and his entire body jerked.
"Shit! Okay, okay, you win," he gasped, his eyes flying open to plead with you. "No more teasing, I'm serious. Please, I can't… I need it."
You took pity on him, sinking back down and taking him fully into your mouth. You set a relentless pace, your head bobbing, your hand working in tandem, twisting slightly on the upstroke. The wet, obscene sounds of your mouth on him filled the quiet night, mingling with his increasingly frantic whimpers.
"You're so good at this," he panted, his hips beginning to twitch, unable to stop themselves from chasing the pleasure. "So, so good. Your mouth… fuck, your mouth is perfect."
You hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight through him. He cried out, his grip on your hair tightening almost to the point of pain.
"Oh god, do that again," he pleaded. "Please, do that again."
You did, and the sound he made was something between a sob and a moan, a high, desperate noise that went straight to your core. You could feel him getting closer, his thighs tensing, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. His whimpers became constant, a continuous stream of broken, needy sounds.
"Please, please, please," he chanted, his voice cracking. "I'm… I'm gonna… I can't hold it… I'm gonna cum."
You could feel it in the way his entire body went taut, in the frantic, irregular rhythm of his breathing. You doubled your efforts, determined to push him over that edge, taking him deep and swallowing around him.
And then his hand was on your shoulder, pushing you away with surprising force.
"Stop," he gasped, his voice strained. "Stop. Stop."
You pulled back immediately, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him before breaking. You looked up at him, confused and a little dazed. He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought for control.
"What's wrong?" you asked, your voice raspy.
He shook his head, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths before opening his eyes to look at you. They were dark, almost black, with a frantic, desperate need that made your stomach clench.
"Nothing's wrong," he said, his voice still rough. "But I'm not cumming like this. Not yet."
He reached down, grabbing your arms and pulling you up his body until you were straddling his hips, your knees bracketing his. He was still hard, a rigid, demanding pressure against your core.
"I want to be inside you," he breathed, his hands gripping your waist, holding you in place. "When I cum, I want to be buried so deep inside you that you can't think about anything else."
His words were a brand, searing themselves into your very soul. You didn't need to think, you didn't need to question. You just moved. Lifting your hips, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers wrapping around his rigid length. He was impossibly hard, hot and heavy in your hand, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your touch.
You guided him to your entrance, sliding the slick head through your folds, teasing yourself as much as him. His hands on your waist tightened, his knuckles white, his entire body taut with a barely leashed restraint.
"Please," he whimpered, the word breaking on a desperate sob. "Don't make me wait."
You sank down on him in one slow, deliberate movement.
The feeling was overwhelming. A perfect, searing stretch as your body yielded to his, inch by inch. He filled you completely, a deep, aching fullness that stole the air from your lungs. You both let out a ragged moan as your hips met, your bodies finally, impossibly joined. You stayed like that for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, just breathing, just feeling.
Then he started to move.
His grip on your waist tightened as he lifted you, guiding you into a slow, grinding rhythm. It wasn't the frantic pace from before; this was deeper, more deliberate. Every roll of your hips sent a jolt of pleasure through you, the head of his cock dragging against that sensitive spot deep inside with every movement. You braced your hands on his chest, your nails digging into his sweat-damp shirt, using him for leverage as you rode him.
The sounds he made were obscene. A constant stream of whimpers and gasps and choked-off moans. "Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed and vulnerable. "So tight. So wet for me."
His words were gasoline on a fire. You moved faster, chasing the pleasure that was building again, coiling low and hot in your belly. The city lights spun above you, a dizzying kaleidoscope, but all you could focus on was him, the feel of him inside you, the sound of his voice, the desperate look in his eyes.
He sat up suddenly, his arms wrapping around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The new angle was devastating. He was even deeper like this, and you cried out, burying your face in his neck as he began to thrust up into you, hard and fast. His mouth found yours in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and shared, ragged breaths.
"I can't," he gasped against your lips, his rhythm becoming erratic. "I'm not gonna last. You're gonna make me cum."
"Cum for me," you breathed, your own release barreling towards you. "Jisung, please, cum with me."
With a guttural groan, he flipped you, his strength surprising you. Suddenly you were on your back, the blanket scratchy against your shoulders, and he was over you, his hips snapping into yours with a renewed, frantic urgency. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, opening you up to him completely, and drove into you, again and again, chasing his release.
The pressure was too much. The friction, the depth, the sight of him above you, his face contorted in pleasure, his mouth open as he panted your name like a prayer. It all shattered at once.
Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed beneath him. Your inner walls clamped down around him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that was his undoing.
He buried himself deep inside you with one final, powerful thrust and stilled, a hoarse cry tearing from his lips as he came. You could feel it, the hot pulse of his release filling you, a final, intimate act of possession that left you trembling and spent.
He collapsed onto you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure. You lay there for a long time, a tangled, panting mess, your limbs heavy and your bodies slick with sweat. The only sounds were the frantic slowing of your heartbeats and the distant hum of the city.
He finally lifted his head, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. "Hi," he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked.
You managed a weak smile, your arms coming up to wrap around his back, holding him close. "Hi."
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath your ear. He tucked the blanket around both of you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full. Full of everything you hadn't said for weeks, everything you hadn't even let yourself admit. It was a quiet, peaceful understanding that things were different now. That this was the start of something, not the end.
You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart. He tightened his arm around you, pressing his own kiss to the top of your head.
The world returned in pieces. The scratch of wool on your back, the weight of him, a pleasant, grounding heaviness, and the deep, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear. You were a tangled mess of limbs, sweat-slick and boneless, the cold night air a welcome shock against your overheated skin. For a long while, the only sounds were your ragged breaths slowly evening out and the distant, indifferent hum of the city below.
He shifted, a slow, careful movement, and the loss was immediate. A soft, wet sound as he slipped from your body, followed by a quiet, shared whimper of loss from both of you. It was a small, vulnerable sound that spoke of a deeper connection than just the physical. He rolled to his side, pulling you with him, his arm a secure band around your waist. He tucked the blanket more securely around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your arm.
"Hi," he whispered again, his voice a raw, wrecked thing in the quiet darkness.
You tilted your head back, a tired, blissful smile on your face. "Hi," you whispered back, your own voice hoarse.
You lay there for another moment, just breathing, just being. But the chill was starting to creep back in, and the reality of the rooftop setting began to reassert itself. With a collective sigh, you knew the moment had to end, at least this part of it.
"Clothes," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest.
He hummed in agreement, his lips finding the top of your head. "Probably a good idea."
Getting dressed was a clumsy, intimate dance. You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest as he hunted for your discarded jeans in the dim light. He found them and handed them over, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a final jolt through you. You watched as he pulled on his own sweats, the muscles in his back shifting under the soft fabric. You helped him, your hands lingering at his waist as you smoothed the material down. He helped you into your hoodie, that you dont even remember getting taken off, his knuckles brushing against your cheek as he zipped it up, his gaze soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache. There were no words, just soft touches and shared, knowing glances.
Once you were both decently covered, you settled back onto the blanket, the space between you charged with a new kind of energy. Jisung reached for the small tin he kept his supplies in, popping it open to reveal the rest of his stash and rolling papers. He took one out, his movements practiced and sure.
You shifted closer, your shoulder pressing against his. "Let me," you said softly.
He looked at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. He handed you the paper, his fingers lingering on yours. "Okay."
You took the paper, your fingers a little clumsy as you began to sprinkle the flower and herb into the crease. He watched you, his head tilted, his eyes dark and focused. You could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Your hands stilled for a second as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
"Focus," he teased gently, his breath warm against your ear.
You shivered, a smile playing on your lips as you went back to the task. You rolled it carefully, tucking the edges and licking the seal, your eyes flicking up to meet his. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted. He leaned in again, this time capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of him and the night and everything that had just happened. It was a kiss of possession, of contentment, of promise.
You finally finished, holding up the perfectly rolled joint for his inspection. He took it from you, his fingers brushing yours again. "Perfect," he murmured, and you knew he wasn't just talking about the blunt.
He brought it to his lips, flicking the lighter. The small flame danced in the darkness, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and the intense focus in his eyes. He took a long, slow drag, the cherry glowing bright red. He didn't offer it to you. Instead, he set the lighter down and turned to you, cupping your face in his hands. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours.
"Open," he whispered, the same command from before, but this time it was softer, more intimate.
You parted your lips, and he sealed his mouth over yours, exhaling slowly. The thick, sweet smoke flowed into your lungs, a warm, shared breath that made you feel dizzy and connected and completely, utterly his. You inhaled deeply, pulling it all in, your hands coming up to rest on his chest.
He pulled back, taking the joint from his own lips and bringing it to yours. You took it, your fingers brushing his, and took your own drag, the smoke a familiar comfort. As you exhaled, a plume of white drifting into the cold night air, he nuzzled your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin.
"Better?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, passing the blunt back to him. "Much," you sighed, content.
The city continued its silent pulse below, but up here, wrapped in his arms, sharing a smoke and soft, stolen kisses, the world had finally, blissfully, gone quiet. And for the first time in a long, long time, tomorrow didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a promise waiting for the sun to rise.
The blunt burned down to a small, warm nub between his fingers, the last of the smoke curling into the crisp night air. A comfortable silence had settled over you both, heavy and sweet with unspoken words. The initial fire had banked into a steady, glowing ember, and with it came the creeping chill of reality. Your hoodie was thin, and the blanket wasn't enough to ward off the deep, biting cold of the rooftop for much longer.
Jisung seemed to feel it too. He shifted, his arm tightening around you. "It's getting cold," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your ear.
You hummed in agreement, snuggling deeper into his side. "A little."
"We should head back," he said, though he made no move to get up. It was a statement of fact, but one he seemed reluctant to act on.
You knew he was right. The magic of the rooftop was fleeting, a stolen moment outside of time. But the thought of leaving it, of breaking this fragile, perfect connection, was unappealing. "Back to our separate rooms?" you asked, the question barely a whisper.
He was quiet for a long moment, and you could feel the conflict in the tense line of his shoulders. He finally sighed, a sound of resignation. "No," he said, his voice firm. "Not tonight. I can't… I don't want to be alone."
Your heart gave a little flip. "Me neither."
He finally moved, disentangling himself from you with a reluctant groan. He stood up, pulling you with him, his hands steady on your waist. You worked together in silence, folding the blanket, your hands brushing, your eyes meeting in the dim light. The world felt sharper now, more real, but the connection between you was a tangible thing, a warm anchor in the cold.
The walk back to the dorm was a quiet, conspiratorial affair. The hallways were dark and silent, every creak of the floorboards and hum of the refrigerator sounding like a shout. You moved on tiptoes, his hand finding yours in the darkness, his fingers lacing with yours, a silent promise. It was a risk, a stupid, reckless, wonderful risk, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
He paused outside his door, glancing down the hall towards yours. The choice hung in the air between you, unspoken. He squeezed your hand, and then turned the knob, pushing the door open with a soft click.
His room was a mess, a familiar chaos of discarded clothes and lyric sheets, but it felt like a sanctuary. He closed the door quietly behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. You didn't bother with the light; the city glow filtering through the window was enough.
You kicked off your shoes, and he did the same, his hoodie hitting the floor with a soft thud. There was no hesitation this time, no slow build-up. You just fell into each other, a tangle of limbs and tired, happy sighs as you collapsed onto his bed. It was smaller than the rooftop, the ceiling lower, but it felt more intimate, more real.
He pulled the duvet over both of you, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. You tucked your head under his chin, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him, mingled now with the faint, lingering ghost of smoke and the night air.
"Jisung?" you whispered into the darkness.
"Hmm?"
"What happens tomorrow?"
He was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking slow, soothing circles on your back. "I don't know," he said, his voice honest. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
You closed your eyes, a sense of peace settling over you, deep and profound. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a quiet certainty. The world outside could wait. For tonight, here in his arms, you were exactly where you were meant to be. And for the first time in a long, long time, sleep didn't feel like an impossibility. It felt like a promise, waiting for the sun to rise.
For as long as you could remember, silence had followed you like a shadow.
Not the peaceful kind, no, this was the kind that pressed against your ears until you felt hollowed out, the kind that sat heavy in your chest and made breathing feel like a conscious decision.
Your apartment was spotless. Too spotless.
White walls. Clean counters. A fridge full of food you forgot to eat. A life that looked functional from the outside and felt unbearably empty from within.
You used to think noise was something you hated.
Then Seo Changbin left, and you realized noise had been the only thing keeping you alive.
You and Changbin had trained together, late nights in practice rooms that smelled like sweat and cheap energy drinks, music bleeding through thin walls, knees bruised from choreography neither of you had nailed yet. You were supposed to debut together. That was the plan everyone whispered about.
Until it wasn't.
They told you that you weren't ready.
That you were talented, but not marketable.
That you should be proud of how far you'd come.
Changbin never repeated their words. Not once.
He exploded instead.
You remembered his voice cracking the air that night, hands shaking at his sides, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might shatter. He'd dragged you out of the building before you could break down in front of anyone else, shoved you onto the curb outside the company, and crouched in front of you like the world was ending.
"Hey," he'd said, rough and breathless. "Breathe with me. Just-fuck-look at me. Follow my lead."
He hadn't asked if you were okay. He'd known you weren't.
Changbin had always been like that, too loud, too intense, too present. When panic clawed at your lungs, he grounded you with his hands on your shoulders and his voice right in your face. When the fog in your brain told you to disappear, he made too much noise for you to slip away quietly.
You were survival partners.
When Stray Kids debuted without you, the world didn't end.
It just went quiet.
You watched from your couch the night they went live for the first time, screen glowing in the dark like a wound you refused to bandage. Changbin looked bigger somehow, sharper, more confident, fire wrapped in charisma and sweat and ambition.
He was exactly where he was supposed to be.
And you were... nowhere.
The calls came less often after that. Not because he didn't care, because his life became noise in a way that didn't leave room for silence anymore. Schedules. Tours. Practices that stretched until sunrise. Fame that swallowed him whole.
You told yourself it was fine.
You told yourself you were proud.
At night, the silence told you otherwise.
The day he came back to your apartment, you weren't expecting him.
You were curled at the edge of your couch, wrapped in an old hoodie that still smelled faintly like him, TV muted because the flickering light was better than nothing. Your phone buzzed somewhere nearby, unread notifications piling up like dust.
Then the door slammed open.
Not gently. Never gently.
"HEY."
You flinched hard enough to knock the blanket off your shoulder.
"Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?"
Changbin stood in the doorway, hair damp from the rain, eyes blazing with something feral and familiar. The air felt different the second he stepped inside, warmer, louder, alive.
You stared at him like he wasn't real.
He crossed the room in three strides.
Before you could speak, his hands were on you, solid, grounding, gripping your arms like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn't. He pulled you to your feet, and suddenly the world tilted as he spun you once, breathless laughter bursting out of him before he could stop it.
"You scared the shit out of me," he muttered, forehead pressing to yours. "Don't ever go quiet on me like that again."
Your chest ached. Your voice shook.
"You're busy now."
His expression snapped. Not angry-hurt.
"Don't do that."
He looked around your apartment then. The emptiness. The quiet. The way everything looked untouched.
His hands tightened.
"I got in," he said suddenly, words tumbling out like they'd been clawing at his throat all day. "Top-tier. They lost their minds. Said the production was insane, said the flow was genius-"
He stopped, eyes locking onto yours.
"-and I told them I didn't get there alone."
Your breath hitched.
"I told them every song I write still sounds like you," he said, voice low and fierce. "Every time I breathe before a verse, it's because you taught me how to survive long enough to finish it."
You laughed weakly. "Changbin-"
"No," he cut in, stepping closer. "Listen to me."
He pressed his forehead to yours again, hands warm, real, unshakable.
"I'm going to the top," he said. "And you're coming with me. I don't care if you're onstage or not. I don't care if you're behind the scenes, off the books, invisible to everyone else."
His voice softened, just barely.
"I don't win if you're not okay."
Tears burned your eyes. "You'll forget this place. You'll forget me."
"Like hell I will."
He pulled you into a hug so tight it stole the air from your lungs-and somehow gave it back at the same time. His chin rested against your shoulder, breath warm, grounding, loud in your ear.
"I'm your noise," he murmured. "I don't care how far I go-I'm calling. Every day. Every night. Until this place doesn't feel like a grave anymore."
He stayed.
He made you eat. Made you talk. Made you breathe with him when the silence tried to swallow you whole again.
And when he finally left, his footsteps echoing down the hall, the quiet didn't feel quite as lethal.
Because this time, the noise had promised to come back.
And you believed him-
because you had to.
--
The first month after that night, Changbin kept his promise.
He called at 3:00 AM, voice wrecked from practice, sprawled across some practice room floor with his phone propped against a water bottle. You'd watch him through the screen-dark circles, sweat-soaked hair, that stupid fucking smile he only ever gave you.
"Still awake?" he'd mumble.
"Still awake."
He'd tell you about the new track they were working on. The member who kept messing up the formation. The way Chan burned toast that morning and nearly set off the fire alarm. Small things. Human things. Noise you could hold onto.
Sometimes he'd just breathe.
You'd lie in bed, phone against your pillow, eyes closed, pretending he was right there. Pretending the space beside you wasn't empty. Pretending the silence in your room was just him being quiet instead of him being gone.
Those nights, you could almost believe the distance wasn't real.
***
The second month, the cracks started showing.
"Can't talk long," he said more often now. "Schedule's packed. You know how it is."
You nodded even though he couldn't see you. You know how it is. Did you? You knew how it was to train until your bones ached. You knew how it was to want something so badly it consumed you. But you didn't know how it was to have it. To be him now.
The calls became scheduled. Timed. Ten minutes here, fifteen there, always with an expiration date.
"Don't hang up yet," you caught yourself saying one night, voice smaller than you wanted it to be.
He paused. Something flickered across his face-guilt, maybe. Or exhaustion. Maybe both.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said softly.
But you could hear voices in the background. Someone calling his name. Laughter from down the hall. A world that kept moving whether you were in it or not.
"I know," you lied.
He kissed two fingers and pressed them to the camera. "Sleep well, yeah?"
The screen went black.
You stared at your reflection in the glass for a long time after that.
The shift didn't happen with a fight. It happened with a missed call. Then another. Then a week of them.
You told yourself it was fine. He was debuting. He was living. You were still here, in this apartment that got quieter every day, but that was fine too. You'd adjust. You'd find the new shape of things.
The first time he forgot your birthday, you spent the whole day waiting.
Your phone sat on the kitchen counter like a shrine. You checked it at 9 AM. Noon. 6 PM. 11:47 PM, when you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling, telling yourself he'd remember. He always remembered.
At 2:34 AM, your phone buzzed.
Shit. Y/N. I'm so sorry. It's still your birthday there right? Happy birthday. I love you. Talk soon.
You replied: It's okay. I know you're busy.
You didn't sleep that night.
Not because you were angry-you couldn't be angry at him, you'd never learned how. You didn't sleep because the space between his name and his words felt wider than it had ever been, and you didn't know how to cross it anymore.
***
The calls became scheduled after that.
Tuesday nights. 10 PM. Thirty minutes if you were lucky, fifteen if someone needed him for something. You'd sit by your phone those nights, counting down the hours, feeling pathetic and desperate and too aware of your own need.
When he called, you tried to sound normal.
"Hey," you'd say, like your whole week hadn't been building to this moment.
"Hey," he'd reply, and his voice was the same-low, warm, yours-but the background wasn't. There was always something behind him now. Voices. Music. A world that kept moving while you sat frozen in yours.
"How was your week?" he'd ask.
And you'd lie.
"Good. Busy." You weren't busy. You hadn't left the apartment in three days. "How was yours?"
He'd talk. You'd listen. And for thirty minutes, the silence in your chest would quiet just enough for you to breathe.
Then he'd say, "I have to go," and the silence would come back sharper than before.
***
The first time you called him and he didn't pick up, you told yourself he was in a meeting.
The second time, you told yourself he was practicing.
The third time, you called seven times in a row, and when he finally texted back-Can't talk right now, what's wrong?-you didn't know how to explain that everything was wrong, that you couldn't breathe, that the walls were closing in and he was the only one who'd ever been able to push them back.
Nothing, you typed. Just wanted to hear your voice.
He left it on read.
***
You started watching everything.
Fancams. Lives. Variety shows. Any content where you could see his face, hear his voice, pretend for a moment that you were still part of his world. You learned the other members' names. Learned their jokes, their dynamics, the way Changbin laughed when someone said something stupid.
You watched him on a live broadcast once, sitting between two other members, relaxed and loud and alive. Someone in the chat asked what he did when he was stressed, and he grinned.
"I write," he said. "Always have. Music's the only thing that keeps me sane."
You remembered nights in the practice room, both of you too exhausted to stand, him handing you earbuds and saying, Listen to this. Tell me if it's trash.
You remembered being the first person to hear every song he ever wrote.
You closed the video and didn't open another for a week.
***
The messages you sent changed after that.
Not desperate-not yet. Just... smaller. Quieter. Easier to ignore.
Saw your performance. You were amazing.
Read. 3 hours later.
Thinking of you. Hope practice is going well.
Delivered.
I miss you.
Read.
No reply.
You told yourself he was busy. Told yourself he was becoming something huge, something important, and that you were still part of it even if you couldn't see it. Told yourself that love didn't disappear just because someone stopped saying it out loud.
At 3 AM, alone in your bed, you told yourself a lot of things.
***
The first time you saw him tagged in a photo with someone else, your chest went hollow.
Not a girl-nothing like that. Just another idol. Someone from another group, laughing with him at some award show afterparty, their shoulders touching, their faces bright with the kind of happiness you used to be the reason for.
The caption read: Best hyung I could ask for 💕
You stared at the photo for twenty minutes.
Zoomed in on his face. His smile. The way his eyes crinkled exactly the way they used to when he looked at you.
He looked happy.
He looked like he didn't need you at all.
***
You didn't text him that night.
Or the next night.
Or the night after that.
You told yourself you were giving him space. Giving yourself space. Letting the silence settle so you could figure out what was left when it did.
On the fourth night, he texted you.
You okay? Been quiet.
You stared at the message.
Typed: Yeah. Just tired.
Deleted it.
Typed: I saw the photo. You looked happy.
Deleted it.
Typed: Do you ever think about me anymore?
Deleted it.
Finally: I'm okay. Just miss you.
He replied immediately: Miss you too. Talk soon?
Sure.
You waited.
He didn't call.
***
The night it really broke-the night the silence finally swallowed you whole-you were sitting in the dark.
Not crying. Just sitting. Staring at the wall. Feeling the weight of the apartment press down on your chest until breathing felt like a choice you kept making for no reason.
Your phone was in your hand.
You'd been scrolling for hours. Watching him. Watching them. Watching a life you used to be part of unfold in real time without you.
He'd posted a story an hour ago. Behind the scenes at a photoshoot. Him laughing with the stylist, someone fixing his hair, his eyes bright and focused and there in a way they hadn't been with you in months.
You watched it twelve times.
Then you typed a message.
Changbin. I don't feel good.
Delivered.
You waited.
Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.
Delivered. Never read.
You sent another.
I know you're busy. I just need to hear your voice. Five minutes. Please.
Delivered.
Another.
I'm scared. I'm always scared now. And I don't know how to make it stop without you.
Delivered.
Another.
Please.
Delivered.
At 4 AM, you stopped waiting.
You curled up on the bathroom floor, phone clutched to your chest, and let the silence win.
***
In the morning, there was a notification.
Not a call. Not a message.
Just a story.
Him, backstage somewhere, hood up, coffee in hand, smiling at whoever was behind the camera. The caption read: Good morning 💪
You stared at it.
Stared at the space where your messages sat, still marked Delivered, still unanswered, still screaming into a void he couldn't hear anymore.
And you realized, with a clarity that felt like dying:
He wasn't ignoring you.
He just didn't need you anymore.
***
The guilt didn't hit Changbin all at once.
It arrived in fragments. Small things. A lyric he couldn't finish because the melody sounded like your laugh. The way someone's hoodie in the practice room reminded him of the one you'd stolen from him years ago. A late-night craving for the cheap ramyun you used to share between practices, back when surviving meant splitting a pack because neither of you had money for two.
Three months into his world exploding-three months of music shows, fan meetings, recording sessions that stretched until dawn-he finally had a night off.
No schedule. No cameras. No demands.
Just silence.
He sat on the edge of his bed in the dorm, staring at his phone. The group chat was active-Hyunjin posting dumb selfies, Felix sending voice messages in that too-soft Australian accent, Chan trying to wrangle everyone for a movie night.
Changbin scrolled past it.
Opened his messages with you.
The last text was from him. Missed you last night. Hope you're okay. Let me know when you're free?
Three weeks ago.
No reply.
He scrolled up. Read the conversation backward-watched his replies get shorter, his response times get longer, his words become efficient instead of real. Watched your messages shift from excited updates to quiet check-ins to something smaller. Something fading.
I miss you.
Delivered.
Watched your performance today. You looked happy.
Read. 2:47 AM.
Do you ever think about what it would be like if I was there with you?
No response.
He remembered getting that one. Remembered staring at it during a break, thumbs hovering, wanting to type something true-I think about it all the time, it hurts, I wish you were here, I wish you were everywhere-but then someone called his name and the moment passed and he told himself he'd reply later.
Later never came.
***
"Shit."
The word fell out of him like a stone.
He hit the call button without thinking. Pressed the phone to his ear. Listened to it ring once, twice, three times-
The person you are calling is not available.
He frowned. Tried again.
The person you are calling is not available.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He switched to KakaoTalk. Video call.
User not found.
His thumb pressed harder against the screen, as if pressure could force a connection that wasn't there anymore.
***
He called Jeongin first.
Not because they were close-because Jeongin was young, still had connections to trainees who hadn't debuted yet, might have heard something.
"Hyung?" Jeongin's voice was sleepy. "It's 2 AM."
"Y/N," Changbin said. "Have you talked to them lately?"
A pause. "Uh... no? Not since training days. Why?"
"Just-" Changbin ran a hand through his hair. "Never mind. Go back to sleep."
He called Chan next.
Chan, who always knew everything. Chan, who'd trained beside both of them, who'd seen the way Changbin used to look at you across the practice room, who'd pulled him aside once and said "Don't lose that one, she's special."
"Bin?" Chan's voice was alert immediately-leader instincts kicking in. "What's wrong?"
"Y/N. When's the last time you talked to them?"
The silence on the other end lasted too long.
"I... honestly? Not since debut prep. I assumed you were keeping in touch."
Changbin's jaw tightened. "I was. I mean-I thought I was." He stood up, started pacing. "Their number's disconnected. Kakao's dead. I can't find them anywhere."
"Have you tried calling their family?"
Changbin thought about it. Realized he didn't even know if you had family you talked to. Realized there were gaps in what he knew about you-gaps he'd always assumed he'd have time to fill later.
"No," he said quietly.
"I'll ask around," Chan said. "See if anyone's heard anything. Bin-" A pause. "Don't spiral. Okay? There's probably an explanation."
But Chan's voice didn't sound convinced.
***
The next three days, Changbin became a ghost in his own life.
He showed up to schedules. Smiled when cameras pointed at him. Rapped lyrics about ambition and dreams while his brain screamed a different song entirely.
At night, he searched.
Scrolled through old training photos, looking for tags of you. Found nothing-your social media had gone dark months ago. Sent DMs to every mutual acquaintance he could think of.
Hey, weird question-have you talked to Y/N recently?
The replies blurred together.
Oh wow, not since trainee days!
I thought they were with you guys?
Wait, I haven't seen them around. Are they okay?
He didn't know.
He didn't know.
***
On the fourth night, he found something.
A comment on an old video-one of those "pre-delete trainees" compilations fans made. Someone had tagged a username he didn't recognize, asking "Isn't this you?"
He clicked it.
A private account. No posts. Profile picture: a silhouette against a window.
He sent a message anyway.
Hey. It's Changbin. I don't know if this is you. I don't know if you'll see this. But I've been looking for you. Please-just tell me you're okay.
He waited.
An hour.
A day.
Two days.
Nothing.
***
The night he finally broke, he was in the studio.
Alone. 3 AM. A beat looping on the speakers that he couldn't write over because every word he tried to put down sounded like an apology.
He thought about the last time he'd really seen you.
Not on a screen. Not in a text. In person.
Months ago. That night he'd shown up at your apartment, slammed the door open, pulled you into his arms and promised-promised-he'd never let the silence win.
He thought about how quickly he'd broken that promise without even noticing.
He thought about your face when you'd asked "Do you ever think about what it would be like if I was there with you?"
He thought about not answering.
He thought about you reading that silence.
He thought about what silence did to you-what it had always done to you-and how he'd known, he'd known, and he'd still let himself become part of it.
His hand pressed against his chest. Right where it hurt.
***
At 4 AM, he called your number again.
Just to hear it.
The person you are calling is not available.
He called again.
The person you are calling is not available.
Again.
The person you are-
He threw the phone.
It hit the wall, cracked the screen, clattered to the floor.
The studio went quiet.
Changbin sat in the dark, head in his hands, breathing too fast, thinking about how you used to do that for him-ground him when the panic got too loud-and now he didn't even know if you were alive to ground yourself.
He thought about the last message you'd ever sent him.
Hey. Coffee still an option?
He hadn't even asked who it was for.
***
The next morning, Chan found him still in the studio. Screen cracked. Eyes red. A beat looping that sounded like grief.
"Bin."
No response.
Chan sat down beside him. Didn't speak. Just stayed.
After a long time, Changbin's voice came out raw and broken.
"I told them I'd be their noise."
Chan waited.
"I told them I'd call every day. Every night. I told them I'd make sure they never felt alone again."
His hands shook.
"I don't even know if they're breathing, Chan."
Chan's hand landed on his shoulder. Steady. Solid.
"Then we find out," he said quietly. "Together. However long it takes."
Changbin looked at him.
For the first time in months, he looked like someone who'd just realized the most important thing in the world wasn't the one he'd been chasing.
It was the one he'd left behind.
***
Changbin didn't tell anyone where he was going.
He left the dorm at 3 AM, didn't pack a bag, didn't leave a note. His phone buzzed continuously in his pocket-Chan's calls, Felix's worried texts, the group chat exploding-but he couldn't hear any of it.
All he could hear was your voice.
Do you ever think about what it would be like if I was there with you?
He'd read that message and told himself he'd reply later.
Later never came.
***
The taxi ride to your neighborhood took two hours.
He spent every minute staring out the window, watching Seoul blur past, thinking about the last time he'd made this trip. That night he'd burst through your door, spun you around, promised you the world.
He thought about how easy that promise had been to make.
How easy it had been to break.
***
The street was too quiet.
That was the first thing he noticed when the taxi pulled away. The kind of quiet that felt wrong-pressed down on your ears like you were underwater. No kids playing. No music from open windows. Just the hum of a streetlight and the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere blocks away.
Changbin stood outside your building, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
He'd been here dozens of times. Hundreds. He knew the crack in the third step, the way the elevator smelled like kimchi on Tuesdays, the sound your door made when you unlocked it-that small click that meant he was home.
Now it all felt. Foreign. Like a place he'd only read about in books.
He walked up the stairs because the elevator would take too long. His legs moved without permission, carrying him toward something he wasn't ready to find.
***
The fourth floor.
His feet stopped.
There, on your door, was a small black ribbon.
Silk. Tied in a neat bow. The kind they put on doors when-
"No."
The word fell out of him like a stone.
He stood there staring at it. The ribbon was fresh-someone had been here recently. Someone had cared enough to mark the door, to tell the world that someone who lived here was never coming back.
But not him.
He hadn't cared enough.
He hadn't cared until it was too late.
***
He didn't knock.
Changbin stood frozen, staring at the silk bow.
His hand reached out, trembling fingers brushing against the fabric. It was soft. Delicate. The kind of ribbon you'd tie on a gift-except this wasn't a gift. This was a goodbye.
He should kick the door down. He should break in, find you, prove the ribbon was some kind of mistake-
But his feet wouldn't move.
Instead, they turned. Toward the neighboring door. Toward the sliver of light spilling from 4B, where an elderly woman stood watching him through the crack.
She opened the door before he could knock.
"You're looking for the one who lived there," she said. Not a question.
Changbin nodded. His voice didn't work.
The woman-grey hair, tired eyes, a house dress that had seen better decades-pulled her shawl tighter. She looked at him the way people look at funerals: with pity, and the desperate hope that they're just passing through.
"When did you last see them?" she asked.
"A few months ago." His voice came out wrong. "I-we-I've been busy. I thought they were-"
"Busy." She repeated the word like it tasted bad.
Then she told him.
About the smell, first. How it started seeping through the vents about a month ago. How the other neighbors complained, thinking it was a dead animal, a plumbing issue, something fixable.
How she knew it wasn't.
"I've smelled death before," she said quietly. "You don't forget it."
Changbin's stomach turned.
"The police came after three days," she continued. "The smell was too strong to ignore. The building manager had to let them in."
She paused. Looked past him, at your door, at the ribbon.
"They found them in the bedroom."
Changbin's lungs stopped working.
"The... the doctors said it must have been weeks. Maybe longer. The body was..." She shook her head, like she was trying to shake the image out. "They say she used the silk curtians... They said the decomposition was advanced. The heat in the apartment... it speeds things up."
Decomposition.
The word hit him like a physical blow.
"The worst part," the woman continued, her voice softening, "was the phone. It was on the floor, right underneath them. The screen was still lit. Like they'd been holding it when they..."
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
Changbin saw it: you, standing on something-a chair, the bed-phone in hand, scrolling through old messages one last time. Looking for something. Hoping for something. Waiting until the very last second for a notification that never came.
Then letting go.
The phone falling.
The screen staying lit, displaying a conversation that ended not with a goodbye, but with silence.
"She kept to herself, that one," the neighbor said. "But she seemed kind. Sad, but kind. I used to hear her humming sometimes, through the walls. Pretty songs. Then one day... the humming stopped."
Changbin pressed his palm against the wall, right where your bedroom would be.
Right where you'd stopped humming.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The woman nodded once. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
She closed the door.
Changbin stood in the hallway for a long moment, the silence pressing in, the image of your final seconds burned into his brain.
Then he turned back to your door.
And he kicked it down. The wood splintered, the frame cracked, and suddenly he was inside your apartment and the silence hit him like a physical force.
It was empty.
Not just quiet-empty. The furniture was gone. The pictures were gone. The blankets you used to wrap yourself in, the books you stacked on the coffee table, the stupid little plants you kept killing and replacing-all gone.
Just walls. Just floors. Just the echo of his own breathing.
He walked through the living room like a ghost.
The kitchen counters were bare. He remembered you sitting on them while he cooked, legs swinging, telling him about your day. He remembered burning garlic and you laughing-laughing-and how he'd pretended to be annoyed just to hear that sound again.
The sound was gone now.
Everything was gone.
***
The bedroom door was closed.
Changbin stood in front of it for a long time. His hand hovered over the handle. His chest felt like someone had filled it with cement.
He knew before he opened it.
Some part of him had known since the moment he saw that ribbon.
But he opened it anyway.
***
The room was stripped bare.
No bed. No dresser. No mirror. Just empty walls and bare floors and the smell of industrial cleaner trying desperately to cover something else. Something underneath. Something that would never wash away.
And then he saw the floorboards.
Near the center of the room, the wood was darker. A stain that had soaked too deep to scrub out. It wasn't large-maybe the size of a person curled up-but it was unmistakable.
Changbin's knees hit the floor before his brain registered moving.
He reached out with one hand, trembling fingers hovering over the dark wood. He didn't touch it. Couldn't. Because touching it would make it real, and if it was real then you were really-
A sound came out of him.
Not a word. Not a scream. Something between. Something that didn't belong to any language.
***
He found the envelope on the windowsill.
White. Unmarked. Propped against the glass like it had been waiting for someone to find it.
His name was on the front.
Changbin.
Your handwriting. Slightly shaky, like your hand hadn't been steady when you wrote it. Like you'd been crying, or tired, or both.
He opened it with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
***
Changbin,
If you're reading this, it means I finally stopped waiting.
I don't say that to hurt you. I don't say it to make you feel guilty. I say it because it's the truth, and I think you deserve the truth, even if it's ugly.
You were my noise. You were the thing that kept the silence away. When you were here-really here, present, mine-I could breathe. The world made sense. The dark didn't feel so dark.
But somewhere along the way, you became someone else's noise.
And I don't blame you for that. I really don't. You're supposed to be loud. You're supposed to be heard. The world was always going to notice you eventually. I just... I thought I'd still be there when they did.
I thought I'd still matter.
The worst part isn't the distance. It's not the unanswered texts or the calls that never came. It's not even watching you become everything you always wanted to be without me.
The worst part is knowing I was the one who taught you how to be loud enough to leave me behind.
Every song you write-I hear myself in it. Every time you breathe before a verse, I remember teaching you how. Every time you step on stage and the crowd screams your name, I remember the nights you screamed mine in empty practice rooms, telling me I was the only one who believed in you.
I was wrong.
Everyone believes in you now. Everyone loves you now. And I'm just... I'm just the person who used to know you before.
I can't be that person anymore, Changbin. I can't be the memory you visit when you're lonely. I can't be the "before" while you live in the "after."
So I'm letting go.
Not because I don't love you-god, I love you so much it's destroying me. But because loving you from here, like this, is worse than not loving you at all.
Please don't blame yourself. Please don't carry this. You have too much to carry already. Just... live. Be loud. Be happy. Be everything you were always meant to be.
I'll be watching from somewhere quiet.
And for what it's worth-
I'm glad you're doing well. Truly.
I hope the noise never stops for you.
Y/N
***
The letter crumpled in his fist.
Then smoothed out again.
Then crumpled again.
Changbin couldn't decide whether to hold it close or tear it apart, whether to keep it forever or burn it so he'd never have to read those words again.
I was the one who taught you how to be loud enough to leave me behind.
He read it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, new words carved themselves into his chest.
I was the one who taught you how to be loud enough to leave me behind.
I'm just the person who used to know you before.
I'll be watching from somewhere quiet.
He scrolled through his phone, pulling up your old messages. Reading them in order-watching himself disappear from your life in slow motion.
Your excitement when he debuted: I'm so proud of you. You were always meant for this.
His reply, three days later: Thanks.
Your check-ins: How's the new song coming?
His reply, a week later: Good.
Your smaller messages, the ones that got quieter over time: Miss you. Hope you're okay.
No reply.
Your smallest message, the one that broke him: Do you ever think about what it would be like if I was there with you?
He'd read that one. He remembered reading it. Remembered thinking I'll reply later, and then getting pulled into practice, into schedules, into a life that didn't leave room for later.
Later never came.
But you did.
You came every day. You sent messages into the void. You waited by a phone that never rang, hoping he'd remember you, hoping he'd come back, hoping the promises he'd made meant something.
And when you finally stopped hoping-
He found your old texts. The ones from years ago. From training days, when you were both nobodies with nothing but dreams and each other.
I'm scared I won't make it, you'd written once.
His reply had been immediate: Then I'll make it for both of us. And I'm taking you with me. That's not a promise, that's a fact. Deal with it.
Another message, from a night you couldn't sleep: What if you forget me when you're famous?
His reply: Forget you? You're stuck with me forever. I don't care how famous I get-you're the only one who knows me. The real me. I'm not going anywhere.
He read those words now.
His own words.
I'm not going anywhere.
"Liar."
The word came out choked, wet.
"Fucking liar."
He threw the phone. It hit the wall, cracked, fell to the floor-right where yours had fallen. Right where you'd dropped yours when you couldn't hold on anymore.
He crawled to it. Picked it up. Read your final message to him again.
I hope the noise never stops for you.
"You were my noise," he whispered to the empty room. "You were the only noise that mattered. And I-"
He couldn't finish.
Because there was no finishing. There was no fixing. There was no bringing you back.
There was only this: a cracked phone, a stained floor, and a lifetime of messages he'd keep sending to a girl who'd never read them.
"I'm not going anywhere," he repeated, your words or his, he didn't know anymore.
"I'm here. I'm here. I'll stay here forever if I have to. Just-"
He looked at the ceiling, at the empty space where you'd taken your last breath.
"Just come back."
The apartment didn't answer.
It never would again.
He pressed his forehead to the floor. Right where the stain was. Right where you had-
No. He couldn't think it. Couldn't let the image form.
But it formed anyway.
You, alone. In the dark. Silk in your hands. Standing on something-a chair, maybe-looking at the empty room, the silent phone, the life that had become waiting and nothing else.
You, deciding that waiting wasn't worth it anymore.
You, stepping off.
You, alone, for weeks, while he was on stage. While he was laughing. While he was living the life you'd helped him build.
Every song you write, I hear myself in it.
He screamed into the floor.
It wasn't a word. It wasn't even a sound. It was just grief, raw and animal, pouring out of him like blood from a wound that would never close.
***
He didn't know how long he stayed there.
Hours, maybe. The light through the windows shifted, dimmed, disappeared. He lay on the floor where you'd died, clutching your letter, sending texts into the void.
I'm here. I'm at your apartment. I'm sorry.
Delivered.
I read your letter. I read every word. I'm so sorry.
Delivered.
I love you. I never said it enough. I never said it at all. But I love you. I loved you then and I love you now and I'll love you forever in this empty room where you waited for me.
Delivered.
He watched the screen.
No "Read" receipt.
No three dots.
Just blue bubbles floating in digital space, messages to a phone that would never light up again.
***
At some point, Chan found him.
He didn't know how, maybe tracked his phone, maybe guessed, maybe just knew because that's what leaders did. Chan stood in the doorway of your empty bedroom, taking in the scene: Changbin curled on the floor, the stained wood, the crumpled letter, the cracked phone still sending messages.
"Bin."
No response.
Chan walked slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something wounded. He sat down on the floor beside Changbin. Didn't touch him. Didn't speak. Just stayed.
After a long time, Changbin's voice came out broken.
"I told them I'd be their noise."
Chan waited.
"I told them I'd call every day. Every night. I told them they'd never be alone again."
His body shook.
"I wasn't there. I wasn't there, Chan. They were here...here...alone, in the dark, and I wasn't there. I was on stage. I was smiling. I was living the life they helped me build and I didn't even- I didn't even-"
He couldn't finish.
Chan's hand landed on his shoulder. Gentle. Solid. The kind of touch that said I'm here without promising anything else.
"You didn't know," Chan said quietly.
"I should have."
"You couldn't have-"
"I SHOULD HAVE."
The scream echoed off the empty walls.
Changbin sat up, eyes wild, chest heaving. "I saw their messages, Chan. I saw them. 'I miss you.' 'Do you ever think about me?' 'I don't feel good.' I saw every single one and I told myself I'd reply later. I told myself they'd wait. I told myself they'd always be there because they'd always been there before."
His voice cracked.
"I banked on their love like it was infinite. Like it didn't need to be fed. Like they could survive on memories while I gave everything I had to everyone else."
He looked at the stain on the floor.
"They couldn't."
***
Chan didn't leave.
He stayed through the night. Listened to Changbin talk about you, the training days, the shared ramyun, the way you used to hum while you worked, the sound of your laugh, the weight of your head on his shoulder. He listened to Changbin describe the last real conversation you'd had, the promises he'd made, the way he'd broken them without even noticing.
He listened to Changbin read your letter out loud.
And when Changbin finally ran out of words, when his voice gave out and his eyes went empty, Chan just sat there.
Because sometimes there's nothing to say.
Sometimes the only thing you can do is stay in the dark with someone who's lost their light.
***
The sun came up eventually.
Changbin didn't move.
He was still holding your letter. Still staring at the floor. Still sending texts to a dead girl's phone.
I'm still here.
Delivered.
I'm not leaving.
Delivered.
I'll wait here forever if I have to.
Delivered.
He knew you'd never read them.
But he also knew he'd never stop sending them.
Because this was his silence now.
This empty room. This stained floor. This phone full of messages that would never be answered.
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon