✩‧₊ !! nora !! ౨ৎ˚

📍pretty girl avenue

[bunniestial]

WELCOME SCROLLER!

TAGLIST GOOGLE FORM

GROUPS I AM ACTIVELY STANNING:

ULT GROUPS:

STRAY KIDS (SKZ SERIES) (SKZ ONE SHOTS)

I've been passively listening to their music since they debuted, however I didn't start stanning properly until late last year (2024)

jeongin biased, han bias wrecked, OT8

BTS

ULT GROUP! I've been a fan since early 2019, lost a bit of interest over their enlistment (still casually listening), but now I'm very much a full on army again now!

yoongi biased, jungkook bias wrecked OT7.

SMAU RESOURCES/ APPS

KATSEYE

I've stanned katseye since Pop Star Academy! I know there not technically kpop, but idc I'm obsessed anyways

Yoonchae biased

BLACKPINK

First group I've ever stanned, got into them when I was a kid in 2018. Less of a fan than I used to be, but the love is still there.

Rosé biased, Jisoo bias wrecked

pintrest: bunniestial

[bunniestial]

Is it real that heesung has left enhypen??? WTFFFF

[bunniestial]

every time someone joins my taglist I giggle and kick my feet - like omg you like reading my stupid thoughts gahhh can we kiss ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 8: BIG BROTHER

SS: 9

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Felix to chan:

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

[bunniestial]

(30) Felix tags 0.2: @mocharacha @wolfs-howling @snclols @jeonginslittledoll @n0y4 @ilovvesleepp @justwonder113 @adaglas74 @spearbokkie @ilovedallywinston @Beppybeesnuggets @4ng3l-ch1ld @realrintaro @littlewolfieposts @soph77326 @wrenisrad @allisoncasey21 @foreverfelix @qwonyoung23 @wisetriumphpeach @dearmynayeon @kisses4cb97 @mangalovesanime-blog @vounexvoo @leeknowsimpstay @angstylittleb1tch @hirayahhh @you-dont-know-my-name @i-am-fork @httpsxnox 

[bunniestial]

(17) Felix tags 0.3: @writteninessence @staytinyluv @jisuperboard @ateez-atiny380 @missvanjii @tashiagalinda @chrofeisnightmaregf @urmomsfavlesb @thatonehjpstan @Cosmic-Rainestorm @rrhwang @Hinanitiram @222.kr1stalee @zenfries @stayville-citizen @wonwoosdimplesaremykink @m00nspiece02 

[bunniestial]

(30) PERM Taglist: @dlizzzy @changbinsdwaekkiball @katsukis1wife @bbokari711 @geni-627 @weird-bookworm @plus-ultra0 @ihrtlix @halluci-nati0n @chimmyn0chu @daniiixoxo @torkorpse @yangstjeongin @wickedbutlovely @brbwritingfanfic @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @strayk1ds143 @straykidsobsessionandenha @pochacco-baby @felixsonlyrealwife @katchowbbie @aria-again @kochothehoe @luvvvivi @Skzworlddomination04 @inc0gnitoinvasium @Skzfangirl143 @uhnanix @artfairyyyyy @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts 

[bunniestial]

(17) PERM tags 2.0: @yongboksgf @idiotmaterial @brekkers-whore @casperlikej @ilovedallywinston @wheresangel @Salmonellafearsme @queen-in-the-shadows @saru-83 @wooyonyangatiny @ladyanonreader @diekleinesuesse @xhannahxjaynexx @udontknowmeppl @imobsessedwitholiviarodrigo @Stay—0801 @sawturnzzz 

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 8: BIG BROTHER

SS: 9

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

Felix to chan:

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

[bunniestial]

(30) Felix tags 0.2: @mocharacha @wolfs-howling @snclols @jeonginslittledoll @n0y4 @ilovvesleepp @justwonder113 @adaglas74 @spearbokkie @ilovedallywinston @Beppybeesnuggets @4ng3l-ch1ld @realrintaro @littlewolfieposts @soph77326 @wrenisrad @allisoncasey21 @foreverfelix @qwonyoung23 @wisetriumphpeach @dearmynayeon @kisses4cb97 @mangalovesanime-blog @vounexvoo @leeknowsimpstay @angstylittleb1tch @hirayahhh @you-dont-know-my-name @i-am-fork @httpsxnox 

[bunniestial]

(17) Felix tags 0.3: @writteninessence @staytinyluv @jisuperboard @ateez-atiny380 @missvanjii @tashiagalinda @chrofeisnightmaregf @urmomsfavlesb @thatonehjpstan @Cosmic-Rainestorm @rrhwang @Hinanitiram @222.kr1stalee @zenfries @stayville-citizen @wonwoosdimplesaremykink @m00nspiece02 

[bunniestial]

(30) PERM Taglist: @dlizzzy @changbinsdwaekkiball @katsukis1wife @bbokari711 @geni-627 @weird-bookworm @plus-ultra0 @ihrtlix @halluci-nati0n @chimmyn0chu @daniiixoxo @torkorpse @yangstjeongin @wickedbutlovely @brbwritingfanfic @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @strayk1ds143 @straykidsobsessionandenha @pochacco-baby @felixsonlyrealwife @katchowbbie @aria-again @kochothehoe @luvvvivi @Skzworlddomination04 @inc0gnitoinvasium @Skzfangirl143 @uhnanix @artfairyyyyy @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts 

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 8: BIG BROTHER

SS: 9

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

Felix to chan:

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

[bunniestial]

(30) Felix tags 0.2: @mocharacha @wolfs-howling @snclols @jeonginslittledoll @n0y4 @ilovvesleepp @justwonder113 @adaglas74 @spearbokkie @ilovedallywinston @Beppybeesnuggets @4ng3l-ch1ld @realrintaro @littlewolfieposts @soph77326 @wrenisrad @allisoncasey21 @foreverfelix @qwonyoung23 @wisetriumphpeach @dearmynayeon @kisses4cb97 @mangalovesanime-blog @vounexvoo @leeknowsimpstay @angstylittleb1tch @hirayahhh @you-dont-know-my-name @i-am-fork @httpsxnox 

[bunniestial]

(17) Felix tags 0.3: @writteninessence @staytinyluv @jisuperboard @ateez-atiny380 @missvanjii @tashiagalinda @chrofeisnightmaregf @urmomsfavlesb @thatonehjpstan @Cosmic-Rainestorm @rrhwang @Hinanitiram @222.kr1stalee @zenfries @stayville-citizen @wonwoosdimplesaremykink @m00nspiece02 

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 8: BIG BROTHER

SS: 9

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

Felix to chan:

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

[bunniestial]

(30) Felix tags 0.2: @mocharacha @wolfs-howling @snclols @jeonginslittledoll @n0y4 @ilovvesleepp @justwonder113 @adaglas74 @spearbokkie @ilovedallywinston @Beppybeesnuggets @4ng3l-ch1ld @realrintaro @littlewolfieposts @soph77326 @wrenisrad @allisoncasey21 @foreverfelix @qwonyoung23 @wisetriumphpeach @dearmynayeon @kisses4cb97 @mangalovesanime-blog @vounexvoo @leeknowsimpstay @angstylittleb1tch @hirayahhh @you-dont-know-my-name @i-am-fork @httpsxnox 

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 8: BIG BROTHER

SS: 9

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

Felix to chan:

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

[bunniestial]

ik this song doesn’t rlly match the laufey style readers going for but the lyrics are a little too good not to suggest for milkshakes and heartaches. paranoia by driant on soundcloud is sooo reader to me💔 the lyrics give like “i see you everywhere mentally when you drown me with the thought of you and i see you everywhere physically everytime i pass a billboard w your face on it” like yk

maybeee reader has a style change and wants to release it idek not saying u even have to add this song this js a suggestion 🥹

ill have a listen and see what i can do!! any other songs u think match readers vibe lmk!

[bunniestial]

Hi!

I was wondering if I could be added to the L.Felix and childhood friend story.

I legit just read all of the chapters that are out in one go. 😅😅

added!

[bunniestial]

If I don't get BTS tickets I'm making milkshakes and heartaches have a sad ending

[bunniestial]

I'm 60,000 in line for a venue capacity of 65,000

[bunniestial]

If I don't get BTS tickets I'm making milkshakes and heartaches have a sad ending

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 7: WALK-IN

W.C: 2.2k

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The bell above the diner door rings at exactly 7:02 a.m. 

You know because you are watching the clock like it personally wronged you. 

“Morning,” Mrs. Kline chirps, the elderly woman, already sliding into her usual booth by the window. Her husband follows behind her, slow and careful, hand wrapped around his coffee thermos like it is an extension of his body. 

“Morning,” you echo, forcing a smile as you grab two menus you both know they wont read. 

“Black coffee,” Mr. Kline says. 

“And black coffee,” Mrs. Kline adds, smiling at you over her glasses. “Two sugars on the side, though. You always forget.” 

“I do not,” you say automatically, already pouring. “You just like to accuse me.” 

She laughs. “Keeps you humble.” 

You set the mugs down and turn away before they can say anything else. You are not in the mood for gentle teasing or familiarity or anything that reminds you this place still exists exactly the same way it did before your life decided to quietly implode. 

The diner smells like burnt toast and fryer oil. The radio hums softly behind the counter, an old pop station that cycles the same songs every three hours. Nothing has changed. 

Except you. 

“Hey,” your coworker Jina calls from the register. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Why?” 

She squints at you. “You poured decaf.” 

You look down at the pot in your hand. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Sorry. I will fix it.” 

Mr. Kline waves you off. “No worries, sweetheart. Keeps the heart steady.” 

You force another smile and switch out the pot. Your hands feel clumsy today, like they do not quite belong to you. 

“Long weekend?” Jina asks when you pass her. 

“Something like that.” 

She hums. “You look like you fought a war in your sleep.” 

“Lost,” you say. 

She snorts. “Fair.” 

The bell rings again. 

A man you do not recognize steps in, mid-twenties maybe, hoodie pulled tight around his neck. He pauses just inside the door, glancing around like he is looking for something specific. 

“Sit anywhere,” you call automatically. 

He nods and slides into a stool at the counter instead of a booth. He does not look at the menu. He just stares at the counter like it might start talking. 

You grab a glass and fill it with water, setting it in front of him. 

“What can I get you?” 

He looks up. Really looks. 

“Oh,” he says. “It is you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“Sorry?” 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocking it and shoving the screen toward you without warning. A familiar thumbnail stares back at you. Your face cropped poorly. Your song title 'Trouble' in bold white text. 

“I did not think it was actually you,” he says quickly. “I mean, it sounds like you, but still.” 

You swallow. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.” 

He laughs, awkward and breathless. “No, no. It is you. My roommate has been playing your song nonstop.” 

“I don't have a song,” you say, too flat. 

He blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, the song. On TikTok. The sad one.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“imma...uh... take a coffee,” he adds hurriedly. “Black. Sorry. I didnt mean to be weird.” 

“You're not being weird,” you say, lying. “Black coffee. Coming up.” 

You turn away before he can say anything else. 

Your hands shake as you pour. Jina watches you from the corner of her eye. 

“You sure youre okay?” she asks quietly. 

“People are not usually weird about coffee orders,” you mutter. 

She raises an eyebrow. “That guy looked like he had seen a ghost.” 

You say nothing. 

She opens her mouth to ask more, then the bell rings again. 

“Daddy!” a small voice squeals. 

The divorced dad comes in, two kids in tow, both wearing backpacks too big for their shoulders. He looks exhausted, like he always does, hair unwashed, shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” you greet, plastering on cheer. “Pancakes?” 

“Yes!” the girl shouts. 

The boy nods solemnly. “With chocolate chips.” 

"And smiley syrup?"

"Duhh"

“Of course.” 

As you write it down, the dad glances at you. 

“You look tired,” he says gently. 

You laugh. “You say that every week.” 

“Because it is always true.” 

“Fair.” 

He hesitates, then says, “My daughter has been listening to your song.” 

Your pen freezes. 

“Sorry?” You ask, hoping you misheard due to some sort of sleep deprived delirium. 

He winces. “Sorry. That came out strange. She showed me this video. Said it made her cry.” 

The little girl beams. “It is really pretty miss waitress.” 

You force yourself to breathe. 

“That's nice of you,” you say carefully. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

The dad shakes his head. “She insists it is you. Says your voice matches.” 

You glance at Jina. She is watching now, openly curious. 

“Well,” you say. “Kids hear things.” 

The girl frowns. “Why are you lying?” 

You flinch. 

“I'm not,” you say softly. 

She tilts her head. “But it is you.” 

The dad clears his throat. “Okay. Pancakes. Let's focus on pancakes.” 

You nod, grateful, and walk away before the pressure in your chest spills out of your mouth. 

Behind the counter, Jina leans closer. 

“What is going on?” She whispers. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

“That is the third person.” 

You freeze. “Third?” 

“Yeah. Someone earlier asked if we knew you were famous now.” 

Your pulse spikes. “What did you say?” 

She shrugs. “That you still forget orders and spill coffee like a normal person.” 

“Good,” you say quickly. “Thats good.” 

Jina studies you. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

She pauses. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Fine. But if paparazzi show up, I am charging extra.” 

You huff out a weak laugh. 

Around noon, the diner fills up in the way it always does. Plates clatter. Coffee refills. The hum of conversation presses in on you from all sides. 

Every time the bell rings, your shoulders tense. 

Every time someone looks at you a little too long, your heart stutters. 

“Hey,” the American med student says from the corner booth. “Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” 

“Same as always,” you reply. “SEOULDINER123.” 

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Also, uh. Cool song.” 

Your grip tightens on the coffee pot. 

“Everyone is a comedian today,” you mutter. 

He flushes. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” 

You retreat to the back hallway, pressing your forehead against the cool wall. 

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. “Just breathe.” 

The door to the walk-in creaks open. 

“You hiding?” Jina asks. 

“Thinking,” you say. 

“Same thing.” 

She leans against the doorframe. “You want me to cover you for five?” 

You hesitate. “I can’t leave.” 

“You can,” she says gently. “I’ve got you.” 

You nod, grateful, and step into the walk-in. The cold air wraps around you like a shock. You sink onto an overturned crate, hugging your arms around yourself. 

------------- 

The bell above the diner door rings just after three. 

It’s a lull hour. Lunch rush is gone, dinner is still far off. The radio murmurs low behind the counter, something old and forgettable. Jina is wiping down menus with unnecessary intensity. 

You are still in the back. 

Chan notices immediately. 

Not you specifically, not at first. Just the absence. He scans the room out of habit, eyes catching on empty spaces, counting bodies the way he always does. One waitress moving between tables. One at the register. No one refilling the coffee at booth three even though the cup is visibly empty. 

He steps aside as a man exits, then pauses just inside the doorway. 

“Hey,” the waitress, Chris looks at her name tag, Jina, says automatically. “Seat yourself.” 

Chan doesn’t move. 

“She’s not out here,” he says. 

Jina looks up. Really looks. Recognition flashes across her face, masked quickly by caution. 

“She’s busy,” Jina says. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. I figured.” 

He doesn’t push. He slides into a stool at the counter instead, resting his elbows lightly on the laminate. The surface is sticky, faintly tacky beneath his palms. 

“What can I get you?” Jina asks. 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

She pours it without asking how he takes it. 

“You here for food or…?” she trails off. 

Chan offers a small, polite smile. “Just checking in.” 

Jina hesitates, then sighs. “She’s in the walk-in.” 

Chan’s expression tightens. 

“Has she been there long?” 

“Long enough to scare me,” Jina says. “She said she was fine. But she said it like she was lying.- I work in customer service, we can always tell” 

Chan nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He stands, leaving the coffee untouched, and moves toward the back hallway without another word. 

The door to the walk-in is closed. 

Chan doesn’t knock right away. 

He leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal, breathing out through his nose. Then, softly, “Hey. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

Then a muffled, “Go away.” 

Chan almost smiles. Almost. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand here then.” 

He hears you shift. A crate scraping faintly against the floor. 

“You’re supposed to be busy,” you mutter. “With like... I don't know... Idol stuff?” 

“I am,” Chan replies. “This is part of it.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

He shrugs even though you can’t see it. “I lie professionally- on interviews, fan calls, livestreams, I think I may be the best liar the world has ever known.” 

A beat. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

“I didn’t know if you’d answer. ” 

You huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell through the door. 

Chan waits. 

Eventually, the latch clicks. 

The door opens just enough for your face to appear. Your eyes are red. Your cheeks blotchy. Your apron twisted tightly in your hands. 

“You look like shit,” you say ironically, obviously knowing you don't look the best either. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step aside. 

He slips into the walk-in, careful to keep distance, and lets the door close behind him. 

Cold air wraps around both of you. 

Neither of you speak at first. 

“You don’t get to say ‘I told you so,’” you say finally. 

Chan leans back against the wall. “Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“You don’t get to fix anything.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t get to explain Felix.” 

“I’m not here to.” 

You look at him sharply. “Then why are you here?” 

Chan meets your gaze, steady. “Because you ran into a fridge to breathe and no one should have to do that alone.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“I’m not breaking down,” you say defendively, despite there being no accusation. “I’m just… recalibrating.” 

“Sure,” Chan says. “Looks like it sucks.” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “That obvious?” 

“You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re fine by over-explaining.” 

You drop your gaze. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want people looking at me like I’m a product.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want him to be the reason anyone listened.” 

Chan’s voice softens. “I know.” 

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still feel like I should be grateful?” 

Chan considers that for a moment. 

“Because you’ve been surviving so long that you don’t trust anything that looks like help,” he says. “Even when it’s messy.” 

You laugh again sharply, and humorlessly. “God, you sound like a therapist.” 

“I’ve had practice,” he says. “Group of emotionally constipated men will do that to you.” 

That earns a real smile. Brief, but real. 

You sink back onto the crate, pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“I don’t want to hate him,” you admit. “But I don’t know how not to.” 

Chan crouches slightly, bringing himself to your level without crowding. 

“You don’t have to decide that today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or this week.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “What if this ruins it?” 

“What’s ‘it’?” 

“Everything,” you whisper. 

Chan shakes his head. “You being heard doesn’t ruin your work. Even if the path there was fucked up.” 

You breathe out slowly. 

“And Felix?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t rush his answer. 

“He likes you,” he says carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t automatically make someones actions fine.” 

You scoff “He told me that he loved me... over text.” 

You can see the immediate annoyance on Chan's face, seemingly cursing out Felix in his head.  

“He unblocks me after years, and tells me he loves me? How fucked is that?” 

Chan straightens. “He knows he messed up.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“I know.” 

Silence settles again. This one less sharp. 

“You going back out there?” Chan asks eventually. 

You glance at the door. “I have to.” 

“Want me to sit and drink bad coffee until your shift ends?” 

You snort. “You hate diner coffee.” 

“I hate worse things.” 

You stand, smoothing your apron. “You can’t save me, you know.” 

Chan smiles gently. “Good. I’m terrible at it.” 

You open the door. 

Before stepping out, you pause. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming to talk to me” 

He nods. “Anytime.” 

You step back into the noise of the diner. The bell rings. Orders get called. Life resumes its rhythm. 

Chan stays behind for a moment, then follows you out, taking his seat at the counter. 

He finally lifts the coffee, takes one sip, and grimaces. 

“God,” he mutters. “This really is awful.” 

You glance over your shoulder and smile despite yourself. 

For now, that’s enough. 

--------------------

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

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[tashiagalinda]

chan being the bestest friend ever 🥹🥹🥹🥹, also her verbalizing that she feels like she needs to be grateful is such a valid internal thing due to the circumstances, my poor girl :(((

[bunniestial]

Just need to say that I really look forward to your reblogs and thoughts 🩷🩷🩷

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 7: WALK-IN

W.C: 2.2k

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

The bell above the diner door rings at exactly 7:02 a.m. 

You know because you are watching the clock like it personally wronged you. 

“Morning,” Mrs. Kline chirps, the elderly woman, already sliding into her usual booth by the window. Her husband follows behind her, slow and careful, hand wrapped around his coffee thermos like it is an extension of his body. 

“Morning,” you echo, forcing a smile as you grab two menus you both know they wont read. 

“Black coffee,” Mr. Kline says. 

“And black coffee,” Mrs. Kline adds, smiling at you over her glasses. “Two sugars on the side, though. You always forget.” 

“I do not,” you say automatically, already pouring. “You just like to accuse me.” 

She laughs. “Keeps you humble.” 

You set the mugs down and turn away before they can say anything else. You are not in the mood for gentle teasing or familiarity or anything that reminds you this place still exists exactly the same way it did before your life decided to quietly implode. 

The diner smells like burnt toast and fryer oil. The radio hums softly behind the counter, an old pop station that cycles the same songs every three hours. Nothing has changed. 

Except you. 

“Hey,” your coworker Jina calls from the register. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Why?” 

She squints at you. “You poured decaf.” 

You look down at the pot in your hand. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Sorry. I will fix it.” 

Mr. Kline waves you off. “No worries, sweetheart. Keeps the heart steady.” 

You force another smile and switch out the pot. Your hands feel clumsy today, like they do not quite belong to you. 

“Long weekend?” Jina asks when you pass her. 

“Something like that.” 

She hums. “You look like you fought a war in your sleep.” 

“Lost,” you say. 

She snorts. “Fair.” 

The bell rings again. 

A man you do not recognize steps in, mid-twenties maybe, hoodie pulled tight around his neck. He pauses just inside the door, glancing around like he is looking for something specific. 

“Sit anywhere,” you call automatically. 

He nods and slides into a stool at the counter instead of a booth. He does not look at the menu. He just stares at the counter like it might start talking. 

You grab a glass and fill it with water, setting it in front of him. 

“What can I get you?” 

He looks up. Really looks. 

“Oh,” he says. “It is you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“Sorry?” 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocking it and shoving the screen toward you without warning. A familiar thumbnail stares back at you. Your face cropped poorly. Your song title 'Trouble' in bold white text. 

“I did not think it was actually you,” he says quickly. “I mean, it sounds like you, but still.” 

You swallow. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.” 

He laughs, awkward and breathless. “No, no. It is you. My roommate has been playing your song nonstop.” 

“I don't have a song,” you say, too flat. 

He blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, the song. On TikTok. The sad one.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“imma...uh... take a coffee,” he adds hurriedly. “Black. Sorry. I didnt mean to be weird.” 

“You're not being weird,” you say, lying. “Black coffee. Coming up.” 

You turn away before he can say anything else. 

Your hands shake as you pour. Jina watches you from the corner of her eye. 

“You sure youre okay?” she asks quietly. 

“People are not usually weird about coffee orders,” you mutter. 

She raises an eyebrow. “That guy looked like he had seen a ghost.” 

You say nothing. 

She opens her mouth to ask more, then the bell rings again. 

“Daddy!” a small voice squeals. 

The divorced dad comes in, two kids in tow, both wearing backpacks too big for their shoulders. He looks exhausted, like he always does, hair unwashed, shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” you greet, plastering on cheer. “Pancakes?” 

“Yes!” the girl shouts. 

The boy nods solemnly. “With chocolate chips.” 

"And smiley syrup?"

"Duhh"

“Of course.” 

As you write it down, the dad glances at you. 

“You look tired,” he says gently. 

You laugh. “You say that every week.” 

“Because it is always true.” 

“Fair.” 

He hesitates, then says, “My daughter has been listening to your song.” 

Your pen freezes. 

“Sorry?” You ask, hoping you misheard due to some sort of sleep deprived delirium. 

He winces. “Sorry. That came out strange. She showed me this video. Said it made her cry.” 

The little girl beams. “It is really pretty miss waitress.” 

You force yourself to breathe. 

“That's nice of you,” you say carefully. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

The dad shakes his head. “She insists it is you. Says your voice matches.” 

You glance at Jina. She is watching now, openly curious. 

“Well,” you say. “Kids hear things.” 

The girl frowns. “Why are you lying?” 

You flinch. 

“I'm not,” you say softly. 

She tilts her head. “But it is you.” 

The dad clears his throat. “Okay. Pancakes. Let's focus on pancakes.” 

You nod, grateful, and walk away before the pressure in your chest spills out of your mouth. 

Behind the counter, Jina leans closer. 

“What is going on?” She whispers. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

“That is the third person.” 

You freeze. “Third?” 

“Yeah. Someone earlier asked if we knew you were famous now.” 

Your pulse spikes. “What did you say?” 

She shrugs. “That you still forget orders and spill coffee like a normal person.” 

“Good,” you say quickly. “Thats good.” 

Jina studies you. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

She pauses. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Fine. But if paparazzi show up, I am charging extra.” 

You huff out a weak laugh. 

Around noon, the diner fills up in the way it always does. Plates clatter. Coffee refills. The hum of conversation presses in on you from all sides. 

Every time the bell rings, your shoulders tense. 

Every time someone looks at you a little too long, your heart stutters. 

“Hey,” the American med student says from the corner booth. “Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” 

“Same as always,” you reply. “SEOULDINER123.” 

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Also, uh. Cool song.” 

Your grip tightens on the coffee pot. 

“Everyone is a comedian today,” you mutter. 

He flushes. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” 

You retreat to the back hallway, pressing your forehead against the cool wall. 

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. “Just breathe.” 

The door to the walk-in creaks open. 

“You hiding?” Jina asks. 

“Thinking,” you say. 

“Same thing.” 

She leans against the doorframe. “You want me to cover you for five?” 

You hesitate. “I can’t leave.” 

“You can,” she says gently. “I’ve got you.” 

You nod, grateful, and step into the walk-in. The cold air wraps around you like a shock. You sink onto an overturned crate, hugging your arms around yourself. 

------------- 

The bell above the diner door rings just after three. 

It’s a lull hour. Lunch rush is gone, dinner is still far off. The radio murmurs low behind the counter, something old and forgettable. Jina is wiping down menus with unnecessary intensity. 

You are still in the back. 

Chan notices immediately. 

Not you specifically, not at first. Just the absence. He scans the room out of habit, eyes catching on empty spaces, counting bodies the way he always does. One waitress moving between tables. One at the register. No one refilling the coffee at booth three even though the cup is visibly empty. 

He steps aside as a man exits, then pauses just inside the doorway. 

“Hey,” the waitress, Chris looks at her name tag, Jina, says automatically. “Seat yourself.” 

Chan doesn’t move. 

“She’s not out here,” he says. 

Jina looks up. Really looks. Recognition flashes across her face, masked quickly by caution. 

“She’s busy,” Jina says. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. I figured.” 

He doesn’t push. He slides into a stool at the counter instead, resting his elbows lightly on the laminate. The surface is sticky, faintly tacky beneath his palms. 

“What can I get you?” Jina asks. 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

She pours it without asking how he takes it. 

“You here for food or…?” she trails off. 

Chan offers a small, polite smile. “Just checking in.” 

Jina hesitates, then sighs. “She’s in the walk-in.” 

Chan’s expression tightens. 

“Has she been there long?” 

“Long enough to scare me,” Jina says. “She said she was fine. But she said it like she was lying.- I work in customer service, we can always tell” 

Chan nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He stands, leaving the coffee untouched, and moves toward the back hallway without another word. 

The door to the walk-in is closed. 

Chan doesn’t knock right away. 

He leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal, breathing out through his nose. Then, softly, “Hey. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

Then a muffled, “Go away.” 

Chan almost smiles. Almost. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand here then.” 

He hears you shift. A crate scraping faintly against the floor. 

“You’re supposed to be busy,” you mutter. “With like... I don't know... Idol stuff?” 

“I am,” Chan replies. “This is part of it.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

He shrugs even though you can’t see it. “I lie professionally- on interviews, fan calls, livestreams, I think I may be the best liar the world has ever known.” 

A beat. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

“I didn’t know if you’d answer. ” 

You huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell through the door. 

Chan waits. 

Eventually, the latch clicks. 

The door opens just enough for your face to appear. Your eyes are red. Your cheeks blotchy. Your apron twisted tightly in your hands. 

“You look like shit,” you say ironically, obviously knowing you don't look the best either. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step aside. 

He slips into the walk-in, careful to keep distance, and lets the door close behind him. 

Cold air wraps around both of you. 

Neither of you speak at first. 

“You don’t get to say ‘I told you so,’” you say finally. 

Chan leans back against the wall. “Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“You don’t get to fix anything.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t get to explain Felix.” 

“I’m not here to.” 

You look at him sharply. “Then why are you here?” 

Chan meets your gaze, steady. “Because you ran into a fridge to breathe and no one should have to do that alone.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“I’m not breaking down,” you say defendively, despite there being no accusation. “I’m just… recalibrating.” 

“Sure,” Chan says. “Looks like it sucks.” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “That obvious?” 

“You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re fine by over-explaining.” 

You drop your gaze. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want people looking at me like I’m a product.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want him to be the reason anyone listened.” 

Chan’s voice softens. “I know.” 

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still feel like I should be grateful?” 

Chan considers that for a moment. 

“Because you’ve been surviving so long that you don’t trust anything that looks like help,” he says. “Even when it’s messy.” 

You laugh again sharply, and humorlessly. “God, you sound like a therapist.” 

“I’ve had practice,” he says. “Group of emotionally constipated men will do that to you.” 

That earns a real smile. Brief, but real. 

You sink back onto the crate, pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“I don’t want to hate him,” you admit. “But I don’t know how not to.” 

Chan crouches slightly, bringing himself to your level without crowding. 

“You don’t have to decide that today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or this week.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “What if this ruins it?” 

“What’s ‘it’?” 

“Everything,” you whisper. 

Chan shakes his head. “You being heard doesn’t ruin your work. Even if the path there was fucked up.” 

You breathe out slowly. 

“And Felix?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t rush his answer. 

“He likes you,” he says carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t automatically make someones actions fine.” 

You scoff “He told me that he loved me... over text.” 

You can see the immediate annoyance on Chan's face, seemingly cursing out Felix in his head.  

“He unblocks me after years, and tells me he loves me? How fucked is that?” 

Chan straightens. “He knows he messed up.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“I know.” 

Silence settles again. This one less sharp. 

“You going back out there?” Chan asks eventually. 

You glance at the door. “I have to.” 

“Want me to sit and drink bad coffee until your shift ends?” 

You snort. “You hate diner coffee.” 

“I hate worse things.” 

You stand, smoothing your apron. “You can’t save me, you know.” 

Chan smiles gently. “Good. I’m terrible at it.” 

You open the door. 

Before stepping out, you pause. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming to talk to me” 

He nods. “Anytime.” 

You step back into the noise of the diner. The bell rings. Orders get called. Life resumes its rhythm. 

Chan stays behind for a moment, then follows you out, taking his seat at the counter. 

He finally lifts the coffee, takes one sip, and grimaces. 

“God,” he mutters. “This really is awful.” 

You glance over your shoulder and smile despite yourself. 

For now, that’s enough. 

--------------------

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[bunniestial]

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[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 7: WALK-IN

W.C: 2.2k

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

The bell above the diner door rings at exactly 7:02 a.m. 

You know because you are watching the clock like it personally wronged you. 

“Morning,” Mrs. Kline chirps, the elderly woman, already sliding into her usual booth by the window. Her husband follows behind her, slow and careful, hand wrapped around his coffee thermos like it is an extension of his body. 

“Morning,” you echo, forcing a smile as you grab two menus you both know they wont read. 

“Black coffee,” Mr. Kline says. 

“And black coffee,” Mrs. Kline adds, smiling at you over her glasses. “Two sugars on the side, though. You always forget.” 

“I do not,” you say automatically, already pouring. “You just like to accuse me.” 

She laughs. “Keeps you humble.” 

You set the mugs down and turn away before they can say anything else. You are not in the mood for gentle teasing or familiarity or anything that reminds you this place still exists exactly the same way it did before your life decided to quietly implode. 

The diner smells like burnt toast and fryer oil. The radio hums softly behind the counter, an old pop station that cycles the same songs every three hours. Nothing has changed. 

Except you. 

“Hey,” your coworker Jina calls from the register. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Why?” 

She squints at you. “You poured decaf.” 

You look down at the pot in your hand. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Sorry. I will fix it.” 

Mr. Kline waves you off. “No worries, sweetheart. Keeps the heart steady.” 

You force another smile and switch out the pot. Your hands feel clumsy today, like they do not quite belong to you. 

“Long weekend?” Jina asks when you pass her. 

“Something like that.” 

She hums. “You look like you fought a war in your sleep.” 

“Lost,” you say. 

She snorts. “Fair.” 

The bell rings again. 

A man you do not recognize steps in, mid-twenties maybe, hoodie pulled tight around his neck. He pauses just inside the door, glancing around like he is looking for something specific. 

“Sit anywhere,” you call automatically. 

He nods and slides into a stool at the counter instead of a booth. He does not look at the menu. He just stares at the counter like it might start talking. 

You grab a glass and fill it with water, setting it in front of him. 

“What can I get you?” 

He looks up. Really looks. 

“Oh,” he says. “It is you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“Sorry?” 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocking it and shoving the screen toward you without warning. A familiar thumbnail stares back at you. Your face cropped poorly. Your song title 'Trouble' in bold white text. 

“I did not think it was actually you,” he says quickly. “I mean, it sounds like you, but still.” 

You swallow. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.” 

He laughs, awkward and breathless. “No, no. It is you. My roommate has been playing your song nonstop.” 

“I don't have a song,” you say, too flat. 

He blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, the song. On TikTok. The sad one.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“imma...uh... take a coffee,” he adds hurriedly. “Black. Sorry. I didnt mean to be weird.” 

“You're not being weird,” you say, lying. “Black coffee. Coming up.” 

You turn away before he can say anything else. 

Your hands shake as you pour. Jina watches you from the corner of her eye. 

“You sure youre okay?” she asks quietly. 

“People are not usually weird about coffee orders,” you mutter. 

She raises an eyebrow. “That guy looked like he had seen a ghost.” 

You say nothing. 

She opens her mouth to ask more, then the bell rings again. 

“Daddy!” a small voice squeals. 

The divorced dad comes in, two kids in tow, both wearing backpacks too big for their shoulders. He looks exhausted, like he always does, hair unwashed, shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” you greet, plastering on cheer. “Pancakes?” 

“Yes!” the girl shouts. 

The boy nods solemnly. “With chocolate chips.” 

"And smiley syrup?"

"Duhh"

“Of course.” 

As you write it down, the dad glances at you. 

“You look tired,” he says gently. 

You laugh. “You say that every week.” 

“Because it is always true.” 

“Fair.” 

He hesitates, then says, “My daughter has been listening to your song.” 

Your pen freezes. 

“Sorry?” You ask, hoping you misheard due to some sort of sleep deprived delirium. 

He winces. “Sorry. That came out strange. She showed me this video. Said it made her cry.” 

The little girl beams. “It is really pretty miss waitress.” 

You force yourself to breathe. 

“That's nice of you,” you say carefully. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

The dad shakes his head. “She insists it is you. Says your voice matches.” 

You glance at Jina. She is watching now, openly curious. 

“Well,” you say. “Kids hear things.” 

The girl frowns. “Why are you lying?” 

You flinch. 

“I'm not,” you say softly. 

She tilts her head. “But it is you.” 

The dad clears his throat. “Okay. Pancakes. Let's focus on pancakes.” 

You nod, grateful, and walk away before the pressure in your chest spills out of your mouth. 

Behind the counter, Jina leans closer. 

“What is going on?” She whispers. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

“That is the third person.” 

You freeze. “Third?” 

“Yeah. Someone earlier asked if we knew you were famous now.” 

Your pulse spikes. “What did you say?” 

She shrugs. “That you still forget orders and spill coffee like a normal person.” 

“Good,” you say quickly. “Thats good.” 

Jina studies you. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

She pauses. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Fine. But if paparazzi show up, I am charging extra.” 

You huff out a weak laugh. 

Around noon, the diner fills up in the way it always does. Plates clatter. Coffee refills. The hum of conversation presses in on you from all sides. 

Every time the bell rings, your shoulders tense. 

Every time someone looks at you a little too long, your heart stutters. 

“Hey,” the American med student says from the corner booth. “Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” 

“Same as always,” you reply. “SEOULDINER123.” 

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Also, uh. Cool song.” 

Your grip tightens on the coffee pot. 

“Everyone is a comedian today,” you mutter. 

He flushes. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” 

You retreat to the back hallway, pressing your forehead against the cool wall. 

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. “Just breathe.” 

The door to the walk-in creaks open. 

“You hiding?” Jina asks. 

“Thinking,” you say. 

“Same thing.” 

She leans against the doorframe. “You want me to cover you for five?” 

You hesitate. “I can’t leave.” 

“You can,” she says gently. “I’ve got you.” 

You nod, grateful, and step into the walk-in. The cold air wraps around you like a shock. You sink onto an overturned crate, hugging your arms around yourself. 

------------- 

The bell above the diner door rings just after three. 

It’s a lull hour. Lunch rush is gone, dinner is still far off. The radio murmurs low behind the counter, something old and forgettable. Jina is wiping down menus with unnecessary intensity. 

You are still in the back. 

Chan notices immediately. 

Not you specifically, not at first. Just the absence. He scans the room out of habit, eyes catching on empty spaces, counting bodies the way he always does. One waitress moving between tables. One at the register. No one refilling the coffee at booth three even though the cup is visibly empty. 

He steps aside as a man exits, then pauses just inside the doorway. 

“Hey,” the waitress, Chris looks at her name tag, Jina, says automatically. “Seat yourself.” 

Chan doesn’t move. 

“She’s not out here,” he says. 

Jina looks up. Really looks. Recognition flashes across her face, masked quickly by caution. 

“She’s busy,” Jina says. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. I figured.” 

He doesn’t push. He slides into a stool at the counter instead, resting his elbows lightly on the laminate. The surface is sticky, faintly tacky beneath his palms. 

“What can I get you?” Jina asks. 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

She pours it without asking how he takes it. 

“You here for food or…?” she trails off. 

Chan offers a small, polite smile. “Just checking in.” 

Jina hesitates, then sighs. “She’s in the walk-in.” 

Chan’s expression tightens. 

“Has she been there long?” 

“Long enough to scare me,” Jina says. “She said she was fine. But she said it like she was lying.- I work in customer service, we can always tell” 

Chan nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He stands, leaving the coffee untouched, and moves toward the back hallway without another word. 

The door to the walk-in is closed. 

Chan doesn’t knock right away. 

He leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal, breathing out through his nose. Then, softly, “Hey. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

Then a muffled, “Go away.” 

Chan almost smiles. Almost. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand here then.” 

He hears you shift. A crate scraping faintly against the floor. 

“You’re supposed to be busy,” you mutter. “With like... I don't know... Idol stuff?” 

“I am,” Chan replies. “This is part of it.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

He shrugs even though you can’t see it. “I lie professionally- on interviews, fan calls, livestreams, I think I may be the best liar the world has ever known.” 

A beat. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

“I didn’t know if you’d answer. ” 

You huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell through the door. 

Chan waits. 

Eventually, the latch clicks. 

The door opens just enough for your face to appear. Your eyes are red. Your cheeks blotchy. Your apron twisted tightly in your hands. 

“You look like shit,” you say ironically, obviously knowing you don't look the best either. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step aside. 

He slips into the walk-in, careful to keep distance, and lets the door close behind him. 

Cold air wraps around both of you. 

Neither of you speak at first. 

“You don’t get to say ‘I told you so,’” you say finally. 

Chan leans back against the wall. “Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“You don’t get to fix anything.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t get to explain Felix.” 

“I’m not here to.” 

You look at him sharply. “Then why are you here?” 

Chan meets your gaze, steady. “Because you ran into a fridge to breathe and no one should have to do that alone.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“I’m not breaking down,” you say defendively, despite there being no accusation. “I’m just… recalibrating.” 

“Sure,” Chan says. “Looks like it sucks.” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “That obvious?” 

“You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re fine by over-explaining.” 

You drop your gaze. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want people looking at me like I’m a product.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want him to be the reason anyone listened.” 

Chan’s voice softens. “I know.” 

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still feel like I should be grateful?” 

Chan considers that for a moment. 

“Because you’ve been surviving so long that you don’t trust anything that looks like help,” he says. “Even when it’s messy.” 

You laugh again sharply, and humorlessly. “God, you sound like a therapist.” 

“I’ve had practice,” he says. “Group of emotionally constipated men will do that to you.” 

That earns a real smile. Brief, but real. 

You sink back onto the crate, pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“I don’t want to hate him,” you admit. “But I don’t know how not to.” 

Chan crouches slightly, bringing himself to your level without crowding. 

“You don’t have to decide that today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or this week.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “What if this ruins it?” 

“What’s ‘it’?” 

“Everything,” you whisper. 

Chan shakes his head. “You being heard doesn’t ruin your work. Even if the path there was fucked up.” 

You breathe out slowly. 

“And Felix?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t rush his answer. 

“He likes you,” he says carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t automatically make someones actions fine.” 

You scoff “He told me that he loved me... over text.” 

You can see the immediate annoyance on Chan's face, seemingly cursing out Felix in his head.  

“He unblocks me after years, and tells me he loves me? How fucked is that?” 

Chan straightens. “He knows he messed up.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“I know.” 

Silence settles again. This one less sharp. 

“You going back out there?” Chan asks eventually. 

You glance at the door. “I have to.” 

“Want me to sit and drink bad coffee until your shift ends?” 

You snort. “You hate diner coffee.” 

“I hate worse things.” 

You stand, smoothing your apron. “You can’t save me, you know.” 

Chan smiles gently. “Good. I’m terrible at it.” 

You open the door. 

Before stepping out, you pause. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming to talk to me” 

He nods. “Anytime.” 

You step back into the noise of the diner. The bell rings. Orders get called. Life resumes its rhythm. 

Chan stays behind for a moment, then follows you out, taking his seat at the counter. 

He finally lifts the coffee, takes one sip, and grimaces. 

“God,” he mutters. “This really is awful.” 

You glance over your shoulder and smile despite yourself. 

For now, that’s enough. 

--------------------

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MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 7: WALK-IN

W.C: 2.2k

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The bell above the diner door rings at exactly 7:02 a.m. 

You know because you are watching the clock like it personally wronged you. 

“Morning,” Mrs. Kline chirps, the elderly woman, already sliding into her usual booth by the window. Her husband follows behind her, slow and careful, hand wrapped around his coffee thermos like it is an extension of his body. 

“Morning,” you echo, forcing a smile as you grab two menus you both know they wont read. 

“Black coffee,” Mr. Kline says. 

“And black coffee,” Mrs. Kline adds, smiling at you over her glasses. “Two sugars on the side, though. You always forget.” 

“I do not,” you say automatically, already pouring. “You just like to accuse me.” 

She laughs. “Keeps you humble.” 

You set the mugs down and turn away before they can say anything else. You are not in the mood for gentle teasing or familiarity or anything that reminds you this place still exists exactly the same way it did before your life decided to quietly implode. 

The diner smells like burnt toast and fryer oil. The radio hums softly behind the counter, an old pop station that cycles the same songs every three hours. Nothing has changed. 

Except you. 

“Hey,” your coworker Jina calls from the register. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Why?” 

She squints at you. “You poured decaf.” 

You look down at the pot in your hand. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Sorry. I will fix it.” 

Mr. Kline waves you off. “No worries, sweetheart. Keeps the heart steady.” 

You force another smile and switch out the pot. Your hands feel clumsy today, like they do not quite belong to you. 

“Long weekend?” Jina asks when you pass her. 

“Something like that.” 

She hums. “You look like you fought a war in your sleep.” 

“Lost,” you say. 

She snorts. “Fair.” 

The bell rings again. 

A man you do not recognize steps in, mid-twenties maybe, hoodie pulled tight around his neck. He pauses just inside the door, glancing around like he is looking for something specific. 

“Sit anywhere,” you call automatically. 

He nods and slides into a stool at the counter instead of a booth. He does not look at the menu. He just stares at the counter like it might start talking. 

You grab a glass and fill it with water, setting it in front of him. 

“What can I get you?” 

He looks up. Really looks. 

“Oh,” he says. “It is you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“Sorry?” 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocking it and shoving the screen toward you without warning. A familiar thumbnail stares back at you. Your face cropped poorly. Your song title 'Trouble' in bold white text. 

“I did not think it was actually you,” he says quickly. “I mean, it sounds like you, but still.” 

You swallow. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.” 

He laughs, awkward and breathless. “No, no. It is you. My roommate has been playing your song nonstop.” 

“I don't have a song,” you say, too flat. 

He blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, the song. On TikTok. The sad one.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“imma...uh... take a coffee,” he adds hurriedly. “Black. Sorry. I didnt mean to be weird.” 

“You're not being weird,” you say, lying. “Black coffee. Coming up.” 

You turn away before he can say anything else. 

Your hands shake as you pour. Jina watches you from the corner of her eye. 

“You sure youre okay?” she asks quietly. 

“People are not usually weird about coffee orders,” you mutter. 

She raises an eyebrow. “That guy looked like he had seen a ghost.” 

You say nothing. 

She opens her mouth to ask more, then the bell rings again. 

“Daddy!” a small voice squeals. 

The divorced dad comes in, two kids in tow, both wearing backpacks too big for their shoulders. He looks exhausted, like he always does, hair unwashed, shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” you greet, plastering on cheer. “Pancakes?” 

“Yes!” the girl shouts. 

The boy nods solemnly. “With chocolate chips.” 

"And smiley syrup?"

"Duhh"

“Of course.” 

As you write it down, the dad glances at you. 

“You look tired,” he says gently. 

You laugh. “You say that every week.” 

“Because it is always true.” 

“Fair.” 

He hesitates, then says, “My daughter has been listening to your song.” 

Your pen freezes. 

“Sorry?” You ask, hoping you misheard due to some sort of sleep deprived delirium. 

He winces. “Sorry. That came out strange. She showed me this video. Said it made her cry.” 

The little girl beams. “It is really pretty miss waitress.” 

You force yourself to breathe. 

“That's nice of you,” you say carefully. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

The dad shakes his head. “She insists it is you. Says your voice matches.” 

You glance at Jina. She is watching now, openly curious. 

“Well,” you say. “Kids hear things.” 

The girl frowns. “Why are you lying?” 

You flinch. 

“I'm not,” you say softly. 

She tilts her head. “But it is you.” 

The dad clears his throat. “Okay. Pancakes. Let's focus on pancakes.” 

You nod, grateful, and walk away before the pressure in your chest spills out of your mouth. 

Behind the counter, Jina leans closer. 

“What is going on?” She whispers. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

“That is the third person.” 

You freeze. “Third?” 

“Yeah. Someone earlier asked if we knew you were famous now.” 

Your pulse spikes. “What did you say?” 

She shrugs. “That you still forget orders and spill coffee like a normal person.” 

“Good,” you say quickly. “Thats good.” 

Jina studies you. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

She pauses. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Fine. But if paparazzi show up, I am charging extra.” 

You huff out a weak laugh. 

Around noon, the diner fills up in the way it always does. Plates clatter. Coffee refills. The hum of conversation presses in on you from all sides. 

Every time the bell rings, your shoulders tense. 

Every time someone looks at you a little too long, your heart stutters. 

“Hey,” the American med student says from the corner booth. “Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” 

“Same as always,” you reply. “SEOULDINER123.” 

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Also, uh. Cool song.” 

Your grip tightens on the coffee pot. 

“Everyone is a comedian today,” you mutter. 

He flushes. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” 

You retreat to the back hallway, pressing your forehead against the cool wall. 

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. “Just breathe.” 

The door to the walk-in creaks open. 

“You hiding?” Jina asks. 

“Thinking,” you say. 

“Same thing.” 

She leans against the doorframe. “You want me to cover you for five?” 

You hesitate. “I can’t leave.” 

“You can,” she says gently. “I’ve got you.” 

You nod, grateful, and step into the walk-in. The cold air wraps around you like a shock. You sink onto an overturned crate, hugging your arms around yourself. 

------------- 

The bell above the diner door rings just after three. 

It’s a lull hour. Lunch rush is gone, dinner is still far off. The radio murmurs low behind the counter, something old and forgettable. Jina is wiping down menus with unnecessary intensity. 

You are still in the back. 

Chan notices immediately. 

Not you specifically, not at first. Just the absence. He scans the room out of habit, eyes catching on empty spaces, counting bodies the way he always does. One waitress moving between tables. One at the register. No one refilling the coffee at booth three even though the cup is visibly empty. 

He steps aside as a man exits, then pauses just inside the doorway. 

“Hey,” the waitress, Chris looks at her name tag, Jina, says automatically. “Seat yourself.” 

Chan doesn’t move. 

“She’s not out here,” he says. 

Jina looks up. Really looks. Recognition flashes across her face, masked quickly by caution. 

“She’s busy,” Jina says. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. I figured.” 

He doesn’t push. He slides into a stool at the counter instead, resting his elbows lightly on the laminate. The surface is sticky, faintly tacky beneath his palms. 

“What can I get you?” Jina asks. 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

She pours it without asking how he takes it. 

“You here for food or…?” she trails off. 

Chan offers a small, polite smile. “Just checking in.” 

Jina hesitates, then sighs. “She’s in the walk-in.” 

Chan’s expression tightens. 

“Has she been there long?” 

“Long enough to scare me,” Jina says. “She said she was fine. But she said it like she was lying.- I work in customer service, we can always tell” 

Chan nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He stands, leaving the coffee untouched, and moves toward the back hallway without another word. 

The door to the walk-in is closed. 

Chan doesn’t knock right away. 

He leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal, breathing out through his nose. Then, softly, “Hey. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

Then a muffled, “Go away.” 

Chan almost smiles. Almost. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand here then.” 

He hears you shift. A crate scraping faintly against the floor. 

“You’re supposed to be busy,” you mutter. “With like... I don't know... Idol stuff?” 

“I am,” Chan replies. “This is part of it.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

He shrugs even though you can’t see it. “I lie professionally- on interviews, fan calls, livestreams, I think I may be the best liar the world has ever known.” 

A beat. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

“I didn’t know if you’d answer. ” 

You huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell through the door. 

Chan waits. 

Eventually, the latch clicks. 

The door opens just enough for your face to appear. Your eyes are red. Your cheeks blotchy. Your apron twisted tightly in your hands. 

“You look like shit,” you say ironically, obviously knowing you don't look the best either. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step aside. 

He slips into the walk-in, careful to keep distance, and lets the door close behind him. 

Cold air wraps around both of you. 

Neither of you speak at first. 

“You don’t get to say ‘I told you so,’” you say finally. 

Chan leans back against the wall. “Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“You don’t get to fix anything.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t get to explain Felix.” 

“I’m not here to.” 

You look at him sharply. “Then why are you here?” 

Chan meets your gaze, steady. “Because you ran into a fridge to breathe and no one should have to do that alone.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“I’m not breaking down,” you say defendively, despite there being no accusation. “I’m just… recalibrating.” 

“Sure,” Chan says. “Looks like it sucks.” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “That obvious?” 

“You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re fine by over-explaining.” 

You drop your gaze. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want people looking at me like I’m a product.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want him to be the reason anyone listened.” 

Chan’s voice softens. “I know.” 

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still feel like I should be grateful?” 

Chan considers that for a moment. 

“Because you’ve been surviving so long that you don’t trust anything that looks like help,” he says. “Even when it’s messy.” 

You laugh again sharply, and humorlessly. “God, you sound like a therapist.” 

“I’ve had practice,” he says. “Group of emotionally constipated men will do that to you.” 

That earns a real smile. Brief, but real. 

You sink back onto the crate, pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“I don’t want to hate him,” you admit. “But I don’t know how not to.” 

Chan crouches slightly, bringing himself to your level without crowding. 

“You don’t have to decide that today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or this week.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “What if this ruins it?” 

“What’s ‘it’?” 

“Everything,” you whisper. 

Chan shakes his head. “You being heard doesn’t ruin your work. Even if the path there was fucked up.” 

You breathe out slowly. 

“And Felix?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t rush his answer. 

“He likes you,” he says carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t automatically make someones actions fine.” 

You scoff “He told me that he loved me... over text.” 

You can see the immediate annoyance on Chan's face, seemingly cursing out Felix in his head.  

“He unblocks me after years, and tells me he loves me? How fucked is that?” 

Chan straightens. “He knows he messed up.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“I know.” 

Silence settles again. This one less sharp. 

“You going back out there?” Chan asks eventually. 

You glance at the door. “I have to.” 

“Want me to sit and drink bad coffee until your shift ends?” 

You snort. “You hate diner coffee.” 

“I hate worse things.” 

You stand, smoothing your apron. “You can’t save me, you know.” 

Chan smiles gently. “Good. I’m terrible at it.” 

You open the door. 

Before stepping out, you pause. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming to talk to me” 

He nods. “Anytime.” 

You step back into the noise of the diner. The bell rings. Orders get called. Life resumes its rhythm. 

Chan stays behind for a moment, then follows you out, taking his seat at the counter. 

He finally lifts the coffee, takes one sip, and grimaces. 

“God,” he mutters. “This really is awful.” 

You glance over your shoulder and smile despite yourself. 

For now, that’s enough. 

--------------------

(30) Felix tags: @thatcuntblog @hyunjinsfavwif3 @0335tiny @plus-ultra0 @starrylixq @chasinghxran @iambangchanswife @chaeone1 @peskybirdysya @wilmalovegood @mafiulaputaama @technicallyimportantsweets @beal-o @sweatynightnight @Robinnotgood24 @16lotonhermind @pegassus-101 @afararraaaa @jennibahng @jaemdonut @strsforjsb @strwbrryzhra @channiesbighugs @I-am-not-dal @starssfall @hyunjinslongasslegs @Starssfall @luvbangchan @realrintaro @Shinygubbins 

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(30) Felix tags 0.2: @mocharacha @wolfs-howling @snclols @jeonginslittledoll @n0y4 @ilovvesleepp @justwonder113 @adaglas74 @spearbokkie @ilovedallywinston @Beppybeesnuggets @4ng3l-ch1ld @realrintaro @littlewolfieposts @soph77326 @wrenisrad @allisoncasey21 @foreverfelix @qwonyoung23 @wisetriumphpeach @dearmynayeon @kisses4cb97 @mangalovesanime-blog @vounexvoo @leeknowsimpstay @angstylittleb1tch @hirayahhh @you-dont-know-my-name @i-am-fork @httpsxnox 

[bunniestial]

MILKSHAKES & HEARTACHES

L.Felix x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.

CHAPTER 7: WALK-IN

W.C: 2.2k

Prev / Series Masterlist / Next

The bell above the diner door rings at exactly 7:02 a.m. 

You know because you are watching the clock like it personally wronged you. 

“Morning,” Mrs. Kline chirps, the elderly woman, already sliding into her usual booth by the window. Her husband follows behind her, slow and careful, hand wrapped around his coffee thermos like it is an extension of his body. 

“Morning,” you echo, forcing a smile as you grab two menus you both know they wont read. 

“Black coffee,” Mr. Kline says. 

“And black coffee,” Mrs. Kline adds, smiling at you over her glasses. “Two sugars on the side, though. You always forget.” 

“I do not,” you say automatically, already pouring. “You just like to accuse me.” 

She laughs. “Keeps you humble.” 

You set the mugs down and turn away before they can say anything else. You are not in the mood for gentle teasing or familiarity or anything that reminds you this place still exists exactly the same way it did before your life decided to quietly implode. 

The diner smells like burnt toast and fryer oil. The radio hums softly behind the counter, an old pop station that cycles the same songs every three hours. Nothing has changed. 

Except you. 

“Hey,” your coworker Jina calls from the register. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Why?” 

She squints at you. “You poured decaf.” 

You look down at the pot in your hand. 

“Shit,” you mutter. “Sorry. I will fix it.” 

Mr. Kline waves you off. “No worries, sweetheart. Keeps the heart steady.” 

You force another smile and switch out the pot. Your hands feel clumsy today, like they do not quite belong to you. 

“Long weekend?” Jina asks when you pass her. 

“Something like that.” 

She hums. “You look like you fought a war in your sleep.” 

“Lost,” you say. 

She snorts. “Fair.” 

The bell rings again. 

A man you do not recognize steps in, mid-twenties maybe, hoodie pulled tight around his neck. He pauses just inside the door, glancing around like he is looking for something specific. 

“Sit anywhere,” you call automatically. 

He nods and slides into a stool at the counter instead of a booth. He does not look at the menu. He just stares at the counter like it might start talking. 

You grab a glass and fill it with water, setting it in front of him. 

“What can I get you?” 

He looks up. Really looks. 

“Oh,” he says. “It is you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“Sorry?” 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocking it and shoving the screen toward you without warning. A familiar thumbnail stares back at you. Your face cropped poorly. Your song title 'Trouble' in bold white text. 

“I did not think it was actually you,” he says quickly. “I mean, it sounds like you, but still.” 

You swallow. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.” 

He laughs, awkward and breathless. “No, no. It is you. My roommate has been playing your song nonstop.” 

“I don't have a song,” you say, too flat. 

He blinks. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, the song. On TikTok. The sad one.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“imma...uh... take a coffee,” he adds hurriedly. “Black. Sorry. I didnt mean to be weird.” 

“You're not being weird,” you say, lying. “Black coffee. Coming up.” 

You turn away before he can say anything else. 

Your hands shake as you pour. Jina watches you from the corner of her eye. 

“You sure youre okay?” she asks quietly. 

“People are not usually weird about coffee orders,” you mutter. 

She raises an eyebrow. “That guy looked like he had seen a ghost.” 

You say nothing. 

She opens her mouth to ask more, then the bell rings again. 

“Daddy!” a small voice squeals. 

The divorced dad comes in, two kids in tow, both wearing backpacks too big for their shoulders. He looks exhausted, like he always does, hair unwashed, shirt wrinkled. 

“Hey, guys,” you greet, plastering on cheer. “Pancakes?” 

“Yes!” the girl shouts. 

The boy nods solemnly. “With chocolate chips.” 

"And smiley syrup?"

"Duhh"

“Of course.” 

As you write it down, the dad glances at you. 

“You look tired,” he says gently. 

You laugh. “You say that every week.” 

“Because it is always true.” 

“Fair.” 

He hesitates, then says, “My daughter has been listening to your song.” 

Your pen freezes. 

“Sorry?” You ask, hoping you misheard due to some sort of sleep deprived delirium. 

He winces. “Sorry. That came out strange. She showed me this video. Said it made her cry.” 

The little girl beams. “It is really pretty miss waitress.” 

You force yourself to breathe. 

“That's nice of you,” you say carefully. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

The dad shakes his head. “She insists it is you. Says your voice matches.” 

You glance at Jina. She is watching now, openly curious. 

“Well,” you say. “Kids hear things.” 

The girl frowns. “Why are you lying?” 

You flinch. 

“I'm not,” you say softly. 

She tilts her head. “But it is you.” 

The dad clears his throat. “Okay. Pancakes. Let's focus on pancakes.” 

You nod, grateful, and walk away before the pressure in your chest spills out of your mouth. 

Behind the counter, Jina leans closer. 

“What is going on?” She whispers. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

“That is the third person.” 

You freeze. “Third?” 

“Yeah. Someone earlier asked if we knew you were famous now.” 

Your pulse spikes. “What did you say?” 

She shrugs. “That you still forget orders and spill coffee like a normal person.” 

“Good,” you say quickly. “Thats good.” 

Jina studies you. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

She pauses. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Fine. But if paparazzi show up, I am charging extra.” 

You huff out a weak laugh. 

Around noon, the diner fills up in the way it always does. Plates clatter. Coffee refills. The hum of conversation presses in on you from all sides. 

Every time the bell rings, your shoulders tense. 

Every time someone looks at you a little too long, your heart stutters. 

“Hey,” the American med student says from the corner booth. “Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” 

“Same as always,” you reply. “SEOULDINER123.” 

“Thanks,” he says, then adds, “Also, uh. Cool song.” 

Your grip tightens on the coffee pot. 

“Everyone is a comedian today,” you mutter. 

He flushes. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” 

You retreat to the back hallway, pressing your forehead against the cool wall. 

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. “Just breathe.” 

The door to the walk-in creaks open. 

“You hiding?” Jina asks. 

“Thinking,” you say. 

“Same thing.” 

She leans against the doorframe. “You want me to cover you for five?” 

You hesitate. “I can’t leave.” 

“You can,” she says gently. “I’ve got you.” 

You nod, grateful, and step into the walk-in. The cold air wraps around you like a shock. You sink onto an overturned crate, hugging your arms around yourself. 

------------- 

The bell above the diner door rings just after three. 

It’s a lull hour. Lunch rush is gone, dinner is still far off. The radio murmurs low behind the counter, something old and forgettable. Jina is wiping down menus with unnecessary intensity. 

You are still in the back. 

Chan notices immediately. 

Not you specifically, not at first. Just the absence. He scans the room out of habit, eyes catching on empty spaces, counting bodies the way he always does. One waitress moving between tables. One at the register. No one refilling the coffee at booth three even though the cup is visibly empty. 

He steps aside as a man exits, then pauses just inside the doorway. 

“Hey,” the waitress, Chris looks at her name tag, Jina, says automatically. “Seat yourself.” 

Chan doesn’t move. 

“She’s not out here,” he says. 

Jina looks up. Really looks. Recognition flashes across her face, masked quickly by caution. 

“She’s busy,” Jina says. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. I figured.” 

He doesn’t push. He slides into a stool at the counter instead, resting his elbows lightly on the laminate. The surface is sticky, faintly tacky beneath his palms. 

“What can I get you?” Jina asks. 

“Coffee’s fine.” 

She pours it without asking how he takes it. 

“You here for food or…?” she trails off. 

Chan offers a small, polite smile. “Just checking in.” 

Jina hesitates, then sighs. “She’s in the walk-in.” 

Chan’s expression tightens. 

“Has she been there long?” 

“Long enough to scare me,” Jina says. “She said she was fine. But she said it like she was lying.- I work in customer service, we can always tell” 

Chan nods slowly. “Thanks for telling me.” 

He stands, leaving the coffee untouched, and moves toward the back hallway without another word. 

The door to the walk-in is closed. 

Chan doesn’t knock right away. 

He leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal, breathing out through his nose. Then, softly, “Hey. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

Then a muffled, “Go away.” 

Chan almost smiles. Almost. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand here then.” 

He hears you shift. A crate scraping faintly against the floor. 

“You’re supposed to be busy,” you mutter. “With like... I don't know... Idol stuff?” 

“I am,” Chan replies. “This is part of it.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

He shrugs even though you can’t see it. “I lie professionally- on interviews, fan calls, livestreams, I think I may be the best liar the world has ever known.” 

A beat. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

“I didn’t know if you’d answer. ” 

You huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell through the door. 

Chan waits. 

Eventually, the latch clicks. 

The door opens just enough for your face to appear. Your eyes are red. Your cheeks blotchy. Your apron twisted tightly in your hands. 

“You look like shit,” you say ironically, obviously knowing you don't look the best either. 

Chan nods. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step aside. 

He slips into the walk-in, careful to keep distance, and lets the door close behind him. 

Cold air wraps around both of you. 

Neither of you speak at first. 

“You don’t get to say ‘I told you so,’” you say finally. 

Chan leans back against the wall. “Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“You don’t get to fix anything.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t get to explain Felix.” 

“I’m not here to.” 

You look at him sharply. “Then why are you here?” 

Chan meets your gaze, steady. “Because you ran into a fridge to breathe and no one should have to do that alone.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“I’m not breaking down,” you say defendively, despite there being no accusation. “I’m just… recalibrating.” 

“Sure,” Chan says. “Looks like it sucks.” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “That obvious?” 

“You’re doing the thing where you pretend you’re fine by over-explaining.” 

You drop your gaze. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want people looking at me like I’m a product.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want him to be the reason anyone listened.” 

Chan’s voice softens. “I know.” 

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still feel like I should be grateful?” 

Chan considers that for a moment. 

“Because you’ve been surviving so long that you don’t trust anything that looks like help,” he says. “Even when it’s messy.” 

You laugh again sharply, and humorlessly. “God, you sound like a therapist.” 

“I’ve had practice,” he says. “Group of emotionally constipated men will do that to you.” 

That earns a real smile. Brief, but real. 

You sink back onto the crate, pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“I don’t want to hate him,” you admit. “But I don’t know how not to.” 

Chan crouches slightly, bringing himself to your level without crowding. 

“You don’t have to decide that today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or this week.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “What if this ruins it?” 

“What’s ‘it’?” 

“Everything,” you whisper. 

Chan shakes his head. “You being heard doesn’t ruin your work. Even if the path there was fucked up.” 

You breathe out slowly. 

“And Felix?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t rush his answer. 

“He likes you,” he says carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t automatically make someones actions fine.” 

You scoff “He told me that he loved me... over text.” 

You can see the immediate annoyance on Chan's face, seemingly cursing out Felix in his head.  

“He unblocks me after years, and tells me he loves me? How fucked is that?” 

Chan straightens. “He knows he messed up.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“I know.” 

Silence settles again. This one less sharp. 

“You going back out there?” Chan asks eventually. 

You glance at the door. “I have to.” 

“Want me to sit and drink bad coffee until your shift ends?” 

You snort. “You hate diner coffee.” 

“I hate worse things.” 

You stand, smoothing your apron. “You can’t save me, you know.” 

Chan smiles gently. “Good. I’m terrible at it.” 

You open the door. 

Before stepping out, you pause. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming to talk to me” 

He nods. “Anytime.” 

You step back into the noise of the diner. The bell rings. Orders get called. Life resumes its rhythm. 

Chan stays behind for a moment, then follows you out, taking his seat at the counter. 

He finally lifts the coffee, takes one sip, and grimaces. 

“God,” he mutters. “This really is awful.” 

You glance over your shoulder and smile despite yourself. 

For now, that’s enough. 

--------------------

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