within reach ⟢ seo changbin
── .✦ You move in expecting only a quiet beginning, you never expect Changbin, the neighbor next door who doesn’t believe in love. He’s kind, generous, and carefully distant, someone who doesn’t date and doesn’t do relationships, as if keeping his heart untouched will keep everything simple. And yet, through shared walls and passing moments, his presence becomes impossible to ignore. Laughter lingers, silences soften, and despite every rule he’s set for himself, falling in love with him feels inevitable.
pairing: neighbor!changbin × afab!reader genre: friends → lovers; hurt/comfort; slice of life rating: smut, mature 18+ wc: 16k tw: [themes of casual sex and family trauma, mentions of divorce, alcohol use, heavy themes of jealousy, strong language] warnings: [explicit and detailed smut, unprotected sex, creampie, insecure reader, softdom!binnie, sub!binnie, angst, fluff, slowwwww burn]
ᝰ.ᐟ Holy crap, y'all. Happy New Year! Lowkey I have been gatekeeping this one for a bit, but I'm so excited for you guys to read it. It's been a while since I wrote for Binnie; Emergency Contact was my baby, but I'm so in love with this Changbin. As always, let me know what you think. Tysm everyone for supporting! See you on the next one, dolls.
: ̗̀➛ masterlist ੈ✩‧₊˚ message me! ੈ✩‧₊˚
You meet Changbin on a terrible day. Your arms are loaded, sweat sticks to your forehead, and the cardboard digs into your palms as you struggle with a box up the narrow stairs of your new Seoul apartment. You already wish you’d paid for movers as the box starts to tip.
“Careful—”
The warning comes too late—the box slips, bumping into the railing with a dull thud. You gasp and scramble to save it, but then steady, warm hands catch the bottom before everything falls out.
“I got it,” he says easily.
You look up, your breath stuck between panic and surprise, and that’s when you really see him.
He’s obviously attractive. Broad shoulders fill out a plain black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up his forearms, hair a little damp like he’s been working or running. His eyes crinkle when he smiles at you, as if he already knows this will be a story you’ll laugh about later.
“Wow,” he adds, glancing at the box. “You moving in or fleeing the country?”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out lighter than you feel. “Moving in. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunate for the box,” he says. “Great for the building. I’m Changbin. You want help before gravity wins?”
You pause for just a moment before nodding. He lifts the box easily, holding it at his hip. You follow him up the stairs, trying not to stare but failing right away. He asks which floor, jokes about how stairs build character, and somehow makes the whole thing feel less miserable.
“Yah! We’re neighbors! I live next door,” he says, pointing to the front door one down from yours.
He greets neighbors by name and waves as they pass.
Halfway through unloading, a group of kids comes barreling down the hall, sneakers squeaking.
“Changbin hyung!” one of them yells. “Are you playing soccer today?”
Changbin lights up instantly. “Later,” he promises. “After I help our new neighbor. Same time as yesterday.”
They cheer and run off, and you’re left blinking at him.
“You’re popular,” you say.
He shrugs, a little bashful. “They’re good kids. Way better at soccer than me, honestly.”
You don’t believe him for a second.
Inside your apartment, he stacks the boxes neatly, asks where things should go, and jokes about labeling and how everyone promises to unpack right away but never does. You notice his hands again and the way he laughs with his whole chest. You realize you’re already in trouble—instant crush. No warning.
As he lifts the last box inside, footsteps echo in the hallway. A woman’s voice follows, light and familiar.
“Changbin?”
You freeze.
He turns, smiling softly as a girl steps into your doorway. She’s pretty, relaxed, and clearly comfortable enough to come looking for him. She glances at you, then back at him.
“Oh,” she says. “You’re helping someone move?”
“Yeah,” he replies easily. “She just moved in.”
Something in your chest sinks before you can stop it. Girlfriend, your brain supplies immediately. Of course.
They talk quietly as he sets the box down, and then, without any awkwardness, they step into the apartment next door together. The door closes gently behind them.
Changbin gives you one last wave before disappearing.
You stand alone in your half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and the echo of his laughter, trying to ignore the tight, unexpected disappointment in your stomach. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous—you just met him.
A few weeks go by, and Changbin stops being just the hot neighbor who helped you move in. He becomes something more dangerous: familiar.
You see him in pieces at first. In the mornings, when you’re rushing out with coffee balanced precariously in one hand and your phone in the other, he’s usually just coming back from a run, hair damp, breathing easy like it didn’t nearly kill you to climb the stairs. He always says hi. Always smiles and waves. Sometimes he asks where you’re sending people this week, like being a travel agent is the most interesting thing in the world.
With your busy schedules, you talk in short bursts. Five minutes in the hallway. A quick chat by the mailboxes. A laugh when the elevator breaks again. It all feels easy. Maybe too easy.
In the afternoons, you see him outside with the neighborhood kids. At first, you just watch from your balcony as he kicks a soccer ball with them, laughing when they gang up on him and pretending to lose. Then one day, he notices you.
“Y/N-ah,” he shouts, pointing up at you. “Come here. We need teams.”
You try to protest. You really do.
It doesn’t work.
Soon you’re out there too, your shoes scuffing the pavement while the kids shout rules that change every half minute. When one of them calls your name without the honorifics, Changbin stops playing.
“Yah,” he says gently but firmly, crouching down. “What do we call her?”
The kid groans. “Noonaaa.”
“Exactly,” Changbin says, grinning at you with pride. You feel something warm twist in your chest.
You start to notice a pattern. Different women come and go, sometimes the same ones. You hear laughter through the walls at night, then see polite distance the next morning. There’s no hand-holding or lingering kisses in the hallway.
The only red flag about him.
You tell yourself you’re fine with that. After all, you’re just neighbors. Friends, maybe. Still, every time he smiles at you, every time he chooses to sit next to you on the steps while the kids play, every time he casually exists in your orbit, you feel it settle deeper.
The first time it happens, you think you’re imagining it.
It’s late, Seoul humming softly outside, when a sound slips through the shared wall—laughter first, then a voice that obviously isn’t his. You freeze in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart stuttering. The walls are thin. You knew that. Still, your face burns as the sounds shift, quieter but unmistakable. You turn the volume up on the YouTube video you’re watching, willing it to disappear.
The second time, you recognize the pattern.
Laughing. Then later, the low moans bleeding through the drywall, followed by breathy noises you absolutely do not want to be hearing from your neighbor’s lovers. You shove a pillow over your head, mortified, annoyed at yourself for feeling annoyed. You tell yourself it’s none of your business. You tell yourself you don’t care.
Weeks go by, turning it into a montage you never wanted. Some nights it’s brief. Other nights it drags on, the rhythm so familiar your stomach twists before you realize it. You lie there, jaw clenched, feeling ridiculous—jealous of someone you never had, embarrassed for listening even though you tell yourself you’re not.
The worst part isn’t the noise.
It’s the mornings after. Changbin in the hallway, with a soft smile, and his hood pulled up. Joking like nothing echoed through your wall hours ago. Like you didn’t lie awake, annoyed now—not at him, not really, but at yourself for letting it get under your skin.
By the time it happens again, you don’t blush.
You sigh, roll over, and think, irritated and sharp:
Yeah. I get it.
You’re awake before it starts.
You hear the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, the soft murmur of voices, and instead of heat creeping up your neck, you feel resigned. You turn onto your side, pulling the blanket higher, and listen. It’s rhythmic, consistent, unmistakable. You count the beats, your heart beating in time with the headboard thumping against the wall.
Then you hear high-pitched moans. You wonder if she’s faking it or if he’s really that good. You sigh and turn onto your other side.
The moans keep going, getting louder and more dramatic. You roll your eyes and pull the pillow over your head, hoping it will block out the noise.
Suddenly, there’s a pause. Silence. Then you hear a muffled, "Changbin, oh my god" and you wince. He answers, his voice low: "Shh." The moans start again, even louder. You throw your pillow across the room in frustration. "Seriously?"
By the time you hear it again, you’ve had enough.
It’s 11:30 on a Wednesday, your alarm is set obscenely early, and your patience is already worn thin by weeks of this. You stare at the clock, then the wall, then sit up with a sharp exhale.
Another thump. Another moan.
That’s it.
You shove your feet into slippers, throw on a hoodie, and march out of your apartment before you can overthink it. You stop in front of his door, hesitate for half a second, then knock. Harder than you mean to.
The door opens a few moments later, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
Changbin stands there, shirtless, hair messy, in baggy sweats. Your eyes betray you, flicking once—chest, collarbones, the faint sheen of sweat—before you snap them back up to his face, mortified.
“Oh,” he says, blinking in surprise. “Hey.”
You swallow. “Hi. Sorry. I—I really hate to do this, but…” Once you start, the words just come out. “The walls are really thin, and it’s late, and I’ve been hearing…everything. For weeks. Could you maybe keep it down?”
Your face is on fire. You can’t believe this is your life.
Changbin’s expression shifts immediately. His eyes widen slightly.
“Oh,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize it was carrying that much.”
He glances back over his shoulder, then back at you. “That’s on me. I’ll fix it. Promise.”
Relief washes over you so quickly that it almost makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” you say right away. “I’m really not trying to be—”
“No, you’re totally right,” he interrupts gently. “I should’ve been more aware. Thanks for telling me.”
He smiles at you and steps back. “Get some sleep, yeah?”
You nod, mumble a goodnight, and turn to leave before your heart can embarrass you further. As you walk back to your apartment, the hallway feels quieter. Lighter.
Changbin watches you before closing his door softly.
The wall stays silent.
You think it’s finished.
The next morning, you step into the hallway with your bag over your shoulder, still tired but relieved. The silence lasted. You slept. You’re almost over it.
“Hey.”
The voice is sharp and accusing.
You turn, and there she is—the girl from last night. One you’d seen before. Up close, she looks irritated more than intimidating, arms crossed tight against her chest, eyes already narrowed at you.
“You,” she says, pointing like she’s confirming something she already decided. “You’re the one who knocked.”
Your stomach drops. “I—”
“You ruined my night,” she cuts in, words tumbling fast now. “Do you know we didn’t even finish because of you? He completely lost the mood. I mean, who does that? It was so embarrassing.”
You stare at her, stunned. Heat crawls up your neck, your brain scrambling for something—anything—to say. “I just asked him to keep it down,” you manage weakly. “The walls are—”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “It’s an apartment building. What did you expect—silence?”
Before you can respond, the door opens.
Changbin steps out of his apartment, now fully dressed, hair still a little messy, but his expression immediately sharpens when he takes in the scene. His eyes flick to you first, then back to her.
“What are you doing? Stop,” he says, calm but unmistakably firm.
She whirls on him. “Are you serious right now? She embarrassed me—”
“No,” he interrupts, voice steady. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
He doesn’t sound angry, but there’s a clear line in his voice. You can feel it between them.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he continues. “We were too loud. She asked politely. End of story.”
The girl splutters, clearly not used to this. “So you’re just kicking me out?”
“I’m asking you to stop,” Changbin corrects, stepping closer to her—not aggressive, just unmovable. “And don’t talk to my neighbor like that.”
The hallway goes quiet. After a beat, she huffs, bag swinging, and storms past you without another word.
Changbin watches her go, then exhales softly and turns to you. His expression gentles immediately.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “You didn’t deserve that.”
You shake your head, still a little stunned. “I didn’t mean to cause problems.”
“You didn’t,” he says firmly. “I did.”
There’s a pause. The air between you feels heavier now—not uncomfortable, just real. He gives you a small, apologetic smile.
“…You okay?”
You nod, even though your heart is still racing.
Changbin hesitates instead of immediately going back inside.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, gaze drifting down the hallway like he’s making sure she’s really gone. When he looks back at you, there’s something more serious in his expression than you’ve ever seen before.
“I should probably explain,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You don’t have to. Really. It’s not my business.”
“I know,” he replies right away. “But…I consider you a friend. And I don’t want you thinking I’m just an asshole.”
That makes you laugh softly despite yourself. “I wasn’t.”
He leans against the wall, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed, but his voice thoughtful. “I don’t do relationships,” he says again, like he’s testing the words. “Not because I don’t like people. Or because I’m scared of commitment in the cliché way.”
You stay quiet, giving him space.
“My parents divorced when I was younger,” he continues. “Bad one. Lots of promises, lots of love talk, and then suddenly they couldn’t even be in the same room. Watching that mess up two people who were so sure…it broke the illusion for me.”
You open your mouth, instinctively wanting to soften it for him. “Changbin—”
“I know,” he says gently, shaking his head. “People fall in love and stay together. I’m not saying it never works.” He pauses. “I just don’t think romantic love is what people think it is. I think it’s something they confuse with comfort, or habit, or timing.”
His eyes flick to you, careful. “And I don’t want to promise something I don’t believe in.”
The hallway is quiet again, but this silence feels different. It feels intentional.
You nod slowly. “That actually makes sense.”
He smiles a little, relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Still not my business, though.”
He chuckles at that, tension easing. “Fair.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Changbin straightens, giving you that familiar, easy smile again.
“Thanks for listening,” he says. “And, uh…thanks for being cool about last night. Seriously.”
You watch him head back into his apartment, the door closing quietly behind him.
This time, your chest feels tight for a different reason. Knowing him better somehow makes wanting him both harder and riskier than before.
For the next few days, Changbin’s words sit with you like something unfinished.
They follow you on the subway, pressed between strangers, replay in your head while you answer emails and build itineraries for honeymoons and anniversaries. You keep thinking about the way he said it—not bitter, not angry. Just…resolved. Like he’d already closed a door and learned how to live comfortably without ever checking if it might open again.
You believe in love. You always have.
Not in the fairytale way, not in destiny or soulmates written in the stars, but in the weight of it. The way it settles in your chest. The way it’s emotional and physical all at once, tangled and messy and real. If love were just a chemical cocktail, you think, then heartbreak wouldn’t feel like grief. It wouldn’t hollow people out. It wouldn’t linger the way it does.
You know heartbreak because you loved.
That’s the part Changbin is missing.
You catch yourself watching him differently now: how patient he is with the kids, how he listens when you talk, how careful he is with other people’s feelings, even when he refuses to offer them more. Someone like that doesn’t lack depth. He lacks belief.
Belief can be challenged.
The idea forms slowly, then all at once: not a confession, not a grand gesture. You’re not going to corner him or try to change him overnight. You’re smarter than that. This isn’t about proving him wrong. It’s about showing him what love looks like when it’s quiet, consistent, and chosen.
You’ll start small. Conversations. Time. Moments that aren’t charged, just honest. Let him see that love isn’t confusion or habit. It’s showing up. It’s care without expectation.
You’re not trying to make him fall in love with you.
You’re trying to make him believe it exists.
And if your heart has to be involved for that to happen, well—
You already knew this wasn’t going to be safe.
You show up at Changbin’s door on a Saturday morning armed like you’re about to defend a thesis.
Binder tucked under one arm. Loose papers threatening to escape. A tote bag bulging suspiciously. You knock once, then adjust your grip, already rehearsing your opening line.
The door opens.
Changbin blinks at you. “Hey—”
You immediately hold up the binder. “I have a plan.”
He looks from your face to the binder, then down at the tote bag. “Should I be scared?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Actually, yes. But in a good way.”
That makes him laugh, the soft, surprised kind. He steps aside automatically. “Do you want to come in, or are you staging some kind of intervention in the hallway?”
You march past him, already unzipping the tote bag and spreading its contents across his kitchen counter like you’re revealing evidence in court.
“Okay,” you say, breathless. “So. You said you don’t believe in romantic love. I’ve thought about it extensively, and you’re wrong.”
Changbin leans against the counter, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. “Wow. Not even easing into it.”
You flip open the binder. It’s color-coded.
“This,” you say, tapping the first tab, “is a structured itinerary designed to prove that love is not just chemical confusion. Section one: experiences. Museums, long walks, shared meals—”
He peers over. “Is this a flyer for the National Museum of Korea?”
“Yes.”
“And is it laminated?”
“Yes,” you repeat firmly. “Because love is about preservation.”
He snorts. “I like that you committed to the bit.”
You wave him off. “Please focus.”
You flip to another page. “Section two: media. Movies. Carefully curated. No toxic romances, no tragic misunderstandings that could reinforce your point. Emotional intimacy. Growth arcs.”
He reads a title. “You put Pride & Prejudice on here.”
“Obviously.”
“That movie ruins people.”
“Exactly,” you say triumphantly. “Why would it ruin people if love wasn’t real?”
Changbin laughs again, shaking his head. “Is this a debate or a hostage situation?”
“Both,” you say. “But friendly.”
You’re too excited to notice the way his teasing slowly softens into something quieter, more attentive. He lets you talk about emotional permanence, about heartbreak, about how love is an action, not a promise. He makes small jokes, tries to derail you, but you just barrel forward, glowing with purpose.
When you finally stop, breathless, he’s smiling—not amused now, just thoughtful.
“So,” he says gently. “You made all this for me?”
You blink, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you look standing in his kitchen with a binder full of feelings disguised as logic.
“…Yes.”
Changbin exhales a soft laugh. “You’re incredible,” he says, and this time there’s no joke attached.
The moment doesn’t last forever.
Changbin’s smile fades just a little, twisting into something gentler. Careful. Skeptical, but kind. Like he’s choosing his words so they won’t bruise.
“This is…a lot,” he says softly, tapping the edge of the binder. “And it’s sweet. Really. But I still don’t think—”
“Changbin,” you interrupt, already shaking your head. “You think too much. That’s the problem.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’re saying that to a man?”
“Forget about gender,” you shoot back.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But believing in love because of museums and movies feels optimistic.”
“It’s not about the museums,” you argue, stepping closer, animated. “It’s about shared experiences. About choosing to care. You already do that—you just refuse to call it love.”
“That’s different,” he says gently. “I care about people. Kids. I just don’t think romance is anything more than—”
“—chemicals,” you finish for him, rolling your eyes.
You go back and forth like this, voices calm but insistent, neither of you angry. He’s respectful, thoughtful, and frustratingly reasonable. And you can feel him slipping back into that emotional distance you hate—the polite wall he keeps up so no one gets hurt.
So you sigh and pull out the final card.
“Fine,” you say, flipping to the very last page in the binder. “Do it as a favor.”
He blinks. “A favor.”
“Yes,” you say, nodding seriously. “For me. For the weeks I had to lie in bed, listening to your…escapades. For my trauma.”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“That’s—” He laughs, incredulous. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” you say sweetly. “I’m not asking you to change your worldview. I’m asking you to follow an itinerary. Museums. Movies. Conversations. That’s it.”
He studies you for a long moment, searching your face for something—pressure, expectation, a trap. You give him none of it. Just hopeful stubbornness.
Finally, he exhales, rubbing his jaw.
“You’re impossible.”
You grin. “You already knew that.”
He glances at the binder again, then back at you. “If I do this,” he says carefully, “it doesn’t mean I’ll believe in love at the end.”
“I know,” you say, softer now. “I just want you to try.”
Another pause. Then, reluctantly, fondly, Changbin nods.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it. For you.”
Your heart leaps, ridiculous and triumphant.
You don’t notice it yet—but that’s already the most dangerous thing he’s said.
You’re sprawled on Changbin’s living room floor with your binder open between you like it’s sacred text.
“This,” you say, pointing dramatically, “is where you confuse lust with love.”
Changbin snorts from the couch. “Already accusing me. We’re five minutes in.”
“You said romantic love is just chemicals,” you continue, undeterred. “Lust is chemicals. Dopamine. Adrenaline. That whole mess.”
“And love isn’t?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Oxytocin doesn’t exist now?”
“It exists,” you say, sitting up straighter. “But love stays. Lust shows up, wrecks your sleep schedule, and leaves through the fire exit.”
He laughs. “Wow. That’s harsh.”
“You’ve literally demonstrated this for weeks,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the shared wall.
“Ouch,” he says, hand to his chest. “Attacked in my own home.”
You grin. “See? Lust jokes don’t hurt. Love arguments do.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, then explain heartbreak. If love is so real, why does it end so badly so often?”
You don’t hesitate. “Because it mattered.”
He pauses. You see it land.
“If it was just chemicals,” you go on, softer now, “people wouldn’t grieve it like a death. You don’t mourn caffeine withdrawal for years.”
“That depends,” he mutters. “Have you talked to me before coffee?”
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, laughing, but his expression shifts to thoughtful again.
“So you’re saying,” he says slowly, “lust is instinct, love is choice?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “Choice. Action. Staying when it’s inconvenient. You already do that with everyone who lives here except yourself.”
He looks at you for a long moment. “That’s unfair.”
You shrug. “Truth usually is.”
Silence settles—not awkward, just full. Then he smiles, small and genuine.
“You know,” he says, “for someone arguing for love, you’re very aggressive about it.”
“Passion,” you correct. “Another thing you confuse.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and for a second it feels easy. Too easy. Like something is quietly shifting under the jokes.
Changbin flips the binder closed with one finger, like he’s drawing a line in the sand.
“Okay,” he says, sitting back. “My turn.”
You narrow your eyes. “I knew this was coming.”
He smiles, slow and thoughtful. “If love is real—if it’s more than chemicals and habit—why does it fade? Why do people wake up one day and feel nothing? My parents didn’t stop choosing each other all at once. It just drained out.”
The room goes quiet.
For the first time tonight, you don’t immediately answer. You blink, mouth opening, then closing again. He watches you carefully—not smug, not triumphant. Just curious. Waiting.
You exhale, then sit cross-legged, grounding yourself.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “That’s a good question.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “High praise.”
You ignore that. “Love doesn’t fade because it was fake. It fades when people stop protecting it.”
He waits for you to continue.
“It’s like language,” you say, seeing him not immediately rejecting the idea. “If you grow up bilingual and stop speaking one language, it doesn’t mean it never existed. It just means you stopped practicing. Love needs attention. Maintenance. Effort. When people assume it should survive on memory alone, it starves.”
Changbin doesn’t interrupt.
“Your parents didn’t fall out of love,” you finish quietly. “They stopped feeding it.”
Silence stretches.
Changbin looks away, jaw tight, eyes unfocused like he’s somewhere else entirely. When he looks back at you, his teasing is gone.
“That’s not fair,” he says again, but this time it’s softer. “You’re not supposed to have an answer for that.”
You shrug, gentler now. “You asked.”
He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the couch. “I hate that that makes sense.”
You smile faintly. “You don’t hate it. You’re scared of it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The moment lingers—quiet, heavy, unfinished—until a knock cuts through it.
Changbin glances at the door, then at his phone on the table. He taps the screen, and the time lights up.
“Oh,” he says. “…Right.”
You don’t need him to explain. You’re already reaching for your binder, stacking papers with exaggerated calm.
“It’s fine,” you say lightly. “Your chemistry experiment has arrived.”
He winces. “You don’t have to—”
“I absolutely do,” you reply, sliding everything back into your tote. “Can’t interrupt your ongoing research.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear the timing just—”
“—is impeccable?” you finish, grinning. “Tragic, really.”
The knock comes again. You’re already on your feet.
“I’ll get it,” you say, breezing past him before he can stop you.
You open the door to find her standing there—one you haven’t seen before. Pretty, put together, clearly expecting a very different scene. Her eyes flick past you, confused.
“Oh—” she starts.
You smile warmly. “Hi! I’m his neighbor.”
Her confusion deepens. “Neighbor?”
“Yep,” you say cheerfully. “We were just…debating.”
Changbin groans softly behind you. “Please don’t say it like that.”
You glance back at him, amused. “Love versus lust. Very academic.”
The girl blinks.
You step aside, grabbing your bag. “Anyway, have fun. Walls are thin,” you add, sing-song sweet, then look at Changbin. “Remember—moderate volume. For science.”
He laughs despite himself. “You’re evil.”
“Convincingly loving,” you correct.
As you pass him, your fingers brush his arm—unintentional, fleeting. His smile falters for just a second.
You don’t look back as you head down the hall, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.
Behind you, the door closes.
Movie night turns out to be a terrible idea.
Not because the rom-com is bad—honestly, it’s doing its job just fine—but because Changbin cannot shut up.
Five minutes in, he leans over and whispers, “Statistically, there’s no way she trips into his arms again.”
You shove popcorn into his mouth without looking. “Chew. Quietly.”
He chews loudly on purpose.
On screen, the leads make eye contact in the rain.
“Oh come on,” Changbin mutters. “If that were real life, someone would be getting pneumonia.”
You hiss his name. He grins.
Another dramatic pause. Swelling music. The almost-kiss.
He gasps dramatically. “Wait, is this the scene where they misunderstand each other because no one communicates like an adult?”
You grab a fistful of popcorn and stuff it into his mouth harder this time. “If you ruin this for me—”
He muffles, “Mmph. Aggressive affection. Interesting love language.”
An elderly woman in front of you slowly turns around. Her glare could curdle milk.
“Shhh,” she says, deadly serious.
Changbin straightens instantly. “Sorry, ma’am.”
She turns back.
He leans toward you again, whispering, “See? Even she believes in love. That look was passion.”
You snort despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
He steals popcorn from your bucket. “Yet here I am. On a date.”
“This is not a date.”
“Sure,” he says lightly, eyes on the screen. “Then stop smiling.”
You do. Immediately. Obviously.
Ten seconds later, you’re smiling again.
While you’re focused on the screen, Changbin isn’t.
He tells himself he is. He tells himself he’s watching the plot unravel, the predictable arc, the inevitable confession he’s already complained about twice. But his eyes keep drifting sideways, betraying him.
You’re leaning forward slightly, chin resting on your knuckles, eyes bright with focus. The glow from the screen softens your face, catches on your lashes. You smile at something small and earnest on-screen, like you believe in it completely.
Something twists in his chest.
It’s brief. Sharp enough that he notices, but quiet enough that he can dismiss it just as fast. He exhales through his nose and leans back, crossing his arms like that might contain it.
Friendly affection, he tells himself.
That’s all this is.
You’re his neighbor. His debate opponent. The only person who’s ever brought a binder into his apartment with the sole purpose of dismantling his worldview. Of course, he likes you. Anyone would. You’re funny. Passionate. Annoyingly convincing.
That doesn’t mean anything.
Still, his gaze flicks back to you when you laugh softly at a joke in the movie, unguarded and warm. He notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear without thinking. The way your mouth curves when you’re fully absorbed in something you love.
He swallows.
You’re pretty, he thinks, then immediately corrects himself.
No. You’re beautiful.
The realization lands heavier than he expects. He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening, forcing his eyes back to the screen just as the characters on-screen finally kiss.
“Unrealistic,” he mutters automatically, more to ground himself than to tease.
You don’t hear him. You’re too busy smiling.
And that feeling in his chest—he doesn’t name it. He presses it down, buries it under logic and habit and old conclusions.
But it lingers anyway.
Quiet. Stubborn.
Waiting for him to slip up.
The museum trip is your idea. Obviously.
You march Changbin through the entrance like you’re leading a field trip, pamphlets already in hand. “Okay,” you announce, “today’s theme is Love as Artistic Motivation.”
He squints at the banner overhead. “I thought today’s theme was ‘I get dragged places against my will.’”
“Same thing,” you say brightly.
You start with classical paintings: lovers frozen mid-glance, tragic embraces, dramatic yearning. Changbin tilts his head at one canvas, arms crossed.
“See,” he says, “this guy looks miserable. That’s not love. That’s bad communication.”
“That,” you reply, pointing, “is devotion.”
“That,” he counters, pointing right back, “is neck pain.”
You move on to sculptures. Marble bodies leaning into each other, hands eternally inches apart.
“Explain this,” you say triumphantly.
He circles one slowly. “Okay, but imagine holding that pose forever. My arms would fall off. Romance ruined.”
You groan. “You’re impossible.”
He grins. “You love it.”
You pause. “Don’t say that.”
He raises his hands. “Friendly affection.”
In the modern art wing, you stop in front of an abstract piece—chaotic colors, overlapping shapes.
Changbin studies it. “This looks like what you described heartbreak feels like.”
You blink. “Okay, rude, but also accurate. I’ll be sure to tell my therapist you’re available for guest lectures.”
You read plaques aloud with dramatic flair. He pretends to yawn. You threaten him with the pamphlet. At one point, he catches you staring a little too long at a painting of two people dancing, faces soft, unaware of the world.
“You’re imagining us in that one, aren’t you?” he teases.
You scoff. “Please. That guy’s posture is terrible.”
But you don’t move on right away.
By the time you exit through the gift shop—him holding a postcard you forced on him “for reference,” you buzzing with victory—he sighs.
“I still don’t believe in romantic love,” he says.
You smile, satisfied anyway. “You don’t have to. Art already does.”
He doesn’t argue.
You’re still basking in your artistic victory lap when it happens.
You’re standing a little too close to Changbin, both of you arguing about whether a painting is “yearning” or “emotional constipation”, when an elderly couple shuffles up beside you. They’re holding hands, matching hats, the whole lethal combo.
“So sweet,” the old woman says warmly. “Young love.”
You and Changbin freeze.
“Oh—no,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We’re not—”
“—together,” you both finish, overlapping again.
The couple beams harder.
“Oh, you remind us of us,” the old man says, squeezing his wife’s hand. “Always bickering.”
“We fought all the time,” the woman adds cheerfully. “Still do.”
“Sixty years,” the man says proudly.
Changbin chokes. “Sixty?”
“Married at twenty-two,” she continues. “Everyone said love wouldn’t last. Look at us now.”
You and Changbin exchange a look—pure panic, mirrored perfectly.
“That’s amazing,” you manage.
“You’ll see,” she says knowingly, patting your arm. “You’re already halfway there.”
Changbin bows so fast he nearly throws his back out. “Thank you, but we’re really just friends.”
“Yes, yes,” the woman says, waving him off. “That’s how it starts.”
They shuffle away, still cooing.
The silence afterward is deafening.
You bow politely in their direction, then turn to Changbin, eyes gleaming. “Sixty years.”
He groans. “Absolutely not.”
“Exhibit A,” you say, pointing after the couple. “Love. Real. Durable.”
“That’s survivor bias,” he mutters.
“You’re just scared,” you sing.
He sighs, rubbing his face. “Why are strangers emotionally attacking me today?”
You grin as you walk on. “Because love is persistent.”
Behind you, Changbin shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.
And you count that as another win.
You’re still mid-argument by the time you reach the apartment complex.
“Sixty years,” you repeat, jabbing the elevator button like it personally offended you. “That’s not a fluke. That’s commitment.”
“That’s endurance,” Changbin counters, stepping in beside you. “Very different skill set.”
The elevator dings, mercifully saving you from yourselves. You’re both grinning now, the fight purely recreational.
His phone rings halfway down the hall.
Changbin checks the screen. “Tattoo shop.”
You gesture grandly. “Put it on speaker. Let me hear more evidence that I’m right. If someone’s getting their ex’s name covered, that’s not heartbreak—it’s asset protection.”
He answers anyway. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then his mouth twists.
“…A name?” He exhales. “How big?” Another pause. “Mm. Yeah. Classic.”
He hangs up and looks at you like he’s been handed a winning argument.
“You called it,” he says. “Someone wants their ex’s name covered up. Love isn’t real. It’s a bad decision with a budget.”
You scoff. “Wrong.”
“Oh?” He crosses his arms. “Convince me.”
“They loved hard,” you say immediately. “Hard enough to put it on their body. You don’t permanently mark yourself over something fake.”
“Or,” he says, “they were young and impulsive.”
“And now they’re hurting,” you shoot back. “Because it mattered. If love wasn’t real, breakups wouldn’t cost money.”
He laughs despite himself. “That’s the worst argument you’ve made.”
“It’s also flawless,” you insist. “No one gets a cover-up for a casual crush.”
Changbin slows outside his door, considering it. “Still seems inefficient.”
“Love isn’t efficient,” you say. “It’s meaningful.”
He opens his door, shaking his head. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pauses before stepping inside. “Same time tomorrow?”
Your heart jumps, but you keep your tone light. “Obviously. You still owe me movie number three.”
He smiles, easy and warm, and disappears into his apartment.
You linger in the hallway a second longer than necessary, keys cold in your hand, watching Changbin disappear into his apartment.
The door closes with a soft click.
And that’s when it hits you.
This isn’t just a crush anymore. It’s not just banter, stubborn debates, or proving a point. It’s the way you look for him without meaning to. The way your chest feels lighter when he laughs and heavier when he doesn’t. The way you keep building arguments for love that sound suspiciously like confessions.
That realization scares you enough that you finally turn away.
Inside your apartment, the silence greets you like an accusation. You lean back against the door, eyes shut, heart doing something reckless.
Don’t, you tell yourself.
He warned you. He drew the line. You’re the one choosing to walk closer.
Next door, Changbin drops onto his couch like gravity finally remembered him.
He stares at the ceiling for a beat, exhales, then pulls out his phone—meaning to distract himself, to scroll, to reset. Instead, he opens his camera roll.
Museum photos. Abstract art. Sculptures. A blurry shot of a plaque he definitely doesn’t remember reading. He swipes idly, then stops.
There you are.
Laughing mid-argument, eyes bright, hand frozen in a dramatic gesture. Another one: you squinting at a painting, head tilted, completely absorbed. He doesn’t remember taking them. He remembers wanting to.
Changbin swallows.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Familiarity. Comfort. He tells himself a lot of things.
Still, his thumb hovers, then goes back. Lingers. Zooms in without permission.
“Idiot,” he mutters, locking the phone and tossing it aside.
He stares at the ceiling again, chest tight in a way that feels suspiciously like the thing he doesn’t believe in.
That night, on either side of the wall, you both lie awake longer than usual.
And neither of you is ready to admit that something has already started.
And then things change.
A text pushed back an hour. Then another one canceled entirely.
Sorry—shop’s busy.
Rain check?
Next week for sure.
Next week never comes.
You still see him, technically. In passing. A flash of a black T-shirt on the stairwell. The sound of his door opening and closing at odd hours. Laughter bleeds through the wall again. Different voices. Familiar pattern.
Changbin buries himself.
In work first. You hear about it from neighbors before you hear it from him—late nights at the tattoo shop, double bookings, cover-ups stacked back to back. He looks more tired when you do catch a glimpse, shadows under his eyes, smile still there but thinner. Polite. Distant.
The women come back.
You don’t need proof. You recognize the cadence now. You sit on your bed staring at the wall, jaw tight, heart doing something stupid and bruised.
You tell yourself it’s fine. This is exactly what you knew would happen. He said he doesn’t do relationships. He didn’t promise you anything. You were the one who brought binders and belief into his apartment like a fool.
Still, it hurts.
And next door, Changbin knows exactly what he’s doing.
He stays late on purpose. Says yes when he should say no. Lets distraction pile up until there’s no room left to think. When he’s alone, the photos on his phone feel too loud. When he’s not, the silence afterward feels worse.
He calls it coping.
He calls it habits.
He calls it anything but what it is.
Avoidance.
Because every time he thinks about you—laughing in the museum, arguing on his floor, looking at him like love is something he could still learn—his chest tightens in a way that scares him more than loneliness ever has.
So he runs.
The problem starts with one drink.
Then another.
Then the third, which you absolutely did not need but finished anyway because your thoughts were loud and your apartment was too quiet. The wall stays silent tonight.
You check your phone.
Working late, he’d said earlier.
You hear a thud from next door.
You laugh into your glass, humorless. “Liar,” you tell the room.
By the time you slip on your shoes, you’ve decided this is less a bad idea and more a necessary confrontation. Liquid courage counts as courage. Probably.
You knock on his door harder than you mean to.
Nothing.
You knock again, swaying slightly. “Changbin,” you call, muffled by the wood. “Open up. I know you’re in there.”
There’s a pause. Then the door opens.
Changbin blinks at you, startled. He’s fully dressed, hair soft and undone, the glow of the TV spilling out behind him. The sound is low—some late-night documentary murmuring calmly about marine life or history or anything other than a rom-com.
“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”
You stare at him, then past him. At the couch. The blanket.
“You’re not at work,” you say flatly.
He hesitates just long enough. “I got home early.”
You laugh, sharp and tipsy. “Funny. You couldn’t come over early. Or text. Or—” You gesture vaguely between your apartments. “Exist.”
Changbin’s expression tightens, guilt flashing before he smooths it away. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Congratulations,” you say. “You still have eyes.”
He steps aside automatically. “Come in before you fall over.”
“I’m not—” You stumble slightly. “Fine. Maybe I am.”
You walk past him, pointing accusingly as you go. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
He closes the door softly, like volume control matters. “I haven’t.”
“Oh, please,” you scoff, turning on him. “You canceled movies. Museums. Arguments. Lunch. You disappeared into work and random women like it’s a full-time job.”
He winces. “That’s not fair.”
You laugh again, voice wobbling now. “Neither is ghosting your friend.”
Silence.
The TV hums quietly behind you.
Changbin exhales slowly, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“But you did,” you say, quieter now. “So congrats. Very efficient.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to bleed the tension out of his body.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he says carefully at first. Too carefully. “I didn’t ask you to insert yourself into my life and start trying to fix me.”
The word lands harder than anything he’s said tonight.
You straighten, blinking. “I wasn’t fixing you. I was helping.”
He lets out a short laugh, incredulous. “By what? Giving me homework? Debates? A syllabus on how to feel?”
“Yes,” you snap back, stepping closer. “Because you shut yourself off, Changbin. You pretend you’re fine, but you’re terrified of wanting something real.”
“That’s not true,” he says quickly.
“It is,” you insist. “And I didn’t do it for fun. I did it because I care about you.”
Something in his face shifts at that—panic, maybe—but it hardens just as fast.
“I don’t need help,” he says, louder now. “I didn’t ask to be your project.”
Your chest tightens. “You think this was a project?”
“What else was it?” he fires back. “You deciding I’m broken because I don’t want the same things you do?”
“I never said you were broken,” you say, voice shaking now. “I said you were scared.”
He stops pacing and looks at you, jaw clenched.
“I’m happy,” he says, voice rising despite himself. “I like my life. I like my work. I like not promising things I can’t keep. I like not waking up one day and realizing I ruined someone because I tried to believe in something I don’t.”
The words hit like glass.
“Then why run?” you ask softly. “Why avoid me?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
Because the answer is standing right in front of him, eyes too bright, heart too open. Because you make things feel real in a way he doesn’t know how to control.
Instead, he says, “Because you don’t listen.”
You laugh, hollow. “I listened to everything you said. I just didn’t agree.”
Silence crashes between you, heavy and messy and full of everything neither of you wants to admit.
The TV keeps murmuring uselessly in the background.
His frustration finally snaps.
“Maybe this isn’t about love at all,” Changbin says, voice sharper now, words coming faster. “Maybe you’re just…jealous.”
It’s tossed out casually at first like a theory, like he’s testing it in the air between you.
“Because it kind of feels like you like me,” he adds, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “And you don’t like that I don’t—”
The room goes silent.
Your breath catches so hard it’s embarrassing. You stare at him, and whatever expression crosses your face gives you away instantly. There’s no covering it. No joke. No argument ready.
Changbin freezes. “Oh,” he says quietly.
The realization hits him all at once, crashing straight through his defenses. His jaw slackens, chest tight, eyes searching your face like he’s hoping he’s wrong.
“Wait,” he says, panic creeping in. “I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have—”
You step back. “Don’t,” you say, voice trembling but firm. “Don’t try to take it back now.”
“I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “I didn’t think—I wasn’t trying to hurt you—”
“You did,” you cut in. The words sting your throat on the way out. “And you’re right. I do like you. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be here.”
He takes a step toward you instinctively. “You don’t have to go—”
“Yes,” you say, already reaching for the door. “I do.”
Your hand shakes as you open it. You don’t look at him again.
“Leave me alone, Changbin,” you say softly. “You’re good at that anyway.”
The door closes behind you before he can answer.
Changbin stands there in the quiet, heart pounding, the weight of what he said echoing louder than any argument—knowing, too late, that calling it jealousy was the first honest thing he’s admitted in years.
The first text comes an hour later.
Bin: Did you make it home okay?
You see it light up your phone while you’re brushing your teeth. You flip the screen face down and don’t answer.
The next day, he tries again. Casual. Safe.
Bin: So when’s the next “love seminar”? Museum round two?
Nothing.
That evening, a joke.
Bin: I just walked past a flower shop and thought, “wow, she’d definitely use this as evidence.”
Three dots never appear.
Changbin stares at the screen longer than he should, thumb hovering, then drops the phone onto the couch like it burned him. He tells himself you’re busy. You’ll cool off. You always bounce back. You’re stubborn, not gone.
Except you are.
You rearrange your life with surgical precision. Longer hours at work. Extra clients. You say yes to things you used to put off. You come home late, leave early, and if you hear his door open, you turn the other way. When you pass him once in the stairwell, you nod politely like he’s just another neighbor.
That hurts more than yelling would have.
Three days later, his resolve cracks.
Bin: I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
The next day.
Bin: I shouldn’t have said that.
And then the day after.
Bin: I miss you.
You read them over and over, chest tight, fingers numb.
You don’t reply. You archive the conversation like it’s a closed chapter, even though it feels unfinished.
Changbin throws himself into work again. Late nights. Ink-stained hands. Clients who tell him their worst stories and leave pieces of themselves behind. He listens. He’s good at that.
But when he’s alone, his phone always ends up in his hand.
Museum photos. You laughing. You arguing. You looking at art like it’s speaking directly to you. He tells himself he’s just deleting clutter.
He never does.
Instead, he scrolls back. Lingers. Zooms in. Then locks the screen and stares at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart heavy.
On either side of the wall, life goes on.
Just not together.
At first, Changbin does what he always does.
He fills the space.
A text sent. A door opened. Someone new stepping into his apartment with an easy smile and expectations he knows how to meet. It should work. It used to work. Familiar motions. Familiar laughter. A practiced version of himself that never asks for more.
But it’s different now.
The moment they sit on his couch, he’s aware of the wall.
Of you on the other side of it.
Every laugh feels too loud. Every touch feels misplaced. When someone leans into him, his chest tightens—not with excitement, but with a strange, creeping discomfort. He finds himself listening instead of participating, mind drifting to whether you can hear this, whether you’re awake, whether this is hurting you.
It ruins everything.
One night, in the middle of a kiss, he pulls back without thinking.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, already standing. “I—this isn’t a good time.”
She looks confused. Hurt. He apologizes, because he always does. He lets her leave with grace, with kindness, with no explanation that would make sense.
After that, he tries again. Once more. Just to be sure. Same result.
The wall feels louder than any sound ever did before.
Eventually, he stops answering messages. Stops inviting people over. Stops pretending that distraction feels like freedom. The quiet settles in—not peaceful, but honest.
He lies on his couch at night, staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand, your photos open again without him remembering how he got there. You smiling. You arguing. You looking at him like he was something worth fighting for.
His chest aches now when he thinks of you.
And there’s no one left to blame for it but himself.
Changbin doesn’t numb it.
He lets it hurt.
You’re not doing any better.
It hits you at the most inconvenient times—standing in line for coffee, halfway through answering an email, brushing your teeth before bed. Something small reminds you of him, and suddenly your chest aches so sharply you have to stop what you’re doing.
You cry quietly when you think about how close you got. Every “lesson” you dragged him into hadn’t felt like a project at all. It felt like dates. Like choosing each other, even if neither of you ever said the word out loud.
That’s what hurts the most. Because it was real to you.
You fell in love somewhere between banter and honesty, between shared popcorn and quiet glances. You fell in love with the way he listened, the way he cared without realizing it, the way he tried to protect himself so hard it broke something anyway.
And now you hate yourself for it. You hate that you started it. That you knocked on his door with a binder and belief and hope like you weren’t walking straight toward a cliff. You tell yourself you should’ve listened when he said he didn’t do relationships. You should’ve stayed just neighbors. Just friendly. Just safe.
Instead, you wanted more.
You curl up in bed, wishing you could go back to when the silence didn’t hurt. When wanting him felt harmless.
Now it feels like grief. And the worst part—the part you don’t say out loud—is that even if you could do it over again, you’re not sure you’d choose differently.
Two months is supposed to be enough time to move on.
That’s what you tell yourself as you walk back to the apartment complex, heels clicking, arm loosely trapped in Eunwoo’s grasp. He’s handsome in a way that feels rehearsed: perfect smile, perfect hair, and perfectly aware of it. Dinner had been fine. Conversation less so. He talked about himself like he was pitching a brand.
You’re tired. More than tired. You’re done.
At your door, you fish for your keys, already planning your polite goodbye. Eunwoo steps closer instead, crowding your space, smile turning confident.
“So,” he says, leaning in, “should we keep the night going?”
“No,” you reply lightly, stepping back.
He follows.
“I had a really good time,” he insists, hand brushing your wrist, then your waist.
“I didn’t say I didn’t,” you say, firmer now. “But I’m going inside.”
He laughs like you’re joking and leans in again, clearly expecting compliance.
“Hey,” you snap, pushing his chest. “Get off.”
Your voice echoes down the hallway, sharp and unmistakable.
The door next door opens immediately.
He’d been listening since he heard your soft voice travel down the hallway.
Changbin steps out of his apartment, eyes immediately locking onto the scene—Eunwoo too close, your posture rigid, your hand still braced against his chest. The shift in Changbin’s expression is instant. Gone is hesitation. Gone is distance.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice calm but edged with something dangerous.
Eunwoo scoffs, straightening. “We’re fine, man. Just saying goodnight.”
You don’t hesitate. “I told him to stop.”
That’s all it takes.
Changbin steps fully into the hallway, placing himself just slightly between you and Eunwoo. He doesn’t touch you, just makes himself unmistakably present.
“She said stop,” Changbin says evenly. “So stop.”
Eunwoo bristles. “This is between us.”
Changbin meets his gaze without blinking. “Not anymore.”
The silence stretches. Finally, Eunwoo throws his hands up. “Whatever. Didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t,” you say flatly.
Changbin doesn’t correct him.
Eunwoo mutters something under his breath and storms off, footsteps fading fast.
The hallway goes quiet, and you’re suddenly very aware of your breathing. Of Changbin standing close. Of how familiar and unfamiliar that feels all at once.
“You okay?” he asks, softer now, turning to you.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I am now. Thank you.”
He hesitates, like there are a hundred things he wants to say and none of them feel safe. Finally, he nods.
“Good,” he says. “If you ever—” He stops himself, then exhales. “Just knock. Okay?”
Your chest tightens, but you don’t respond.
As you turn back to your door, fingers fumbling with your keys, Changbin doesn’t move away.
“So,” he says, quieter now. “Have you been going on dates?”
The question makes your shoulders tense. “Yes,” you answer shortly, metal clinking as you miss the lock the first time.
He hesitates, then asks, “Do you—are they…good?”
That does it.
You stop trying to unlock the door and turn on him, frustration sharp and sudden. “What do you want, Changbin?”
He looks startled by the directness, like he didn’t expect to be called out so plainly. For a second, he says nothing. Then his voice drops.
“I’ve missed you,” he admits. “The past two months. I think about you. A lot.”
Your chest tightens, anger flaring hot enough to burn through the ache. “You don’t get to say that now.”
“I’m just being honest—”
“No,” you cut in. “You were honest when you avoided me. When you canceled. When you disappeared.”
He winces. “You didn’t text back.”
You laugh, bitter. “Because you made it very clear where I stood.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t do relationships,” you remind him. “You don’t need help. You’re happy. Remember?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
You turn back to your door, finally finding the lock. “I’m your neighbor, Changbin. That’s it. That’s all I ever was.”
The words land between you, heavy and final.
As the door closes, he stands there in the hallway, realizing too late that distance was the one thing he asked for—and now it’s the only thing you’re willing to give.
You don’t even make it halfway to your bedroom before there’s a knock.
You freeze, hand still on the strap of your bag. For a moment, you consider pretending you didn’t hear it. Then it comes again.
You open the door just enough to glare at him. “Changbin, go home.”
“I can’t,” he says quietly.
“That’s not my problem.”
You try to shut the door, but he steps forward, determined. His hand braces the doorframe, and slips inside with an apology already on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just—please. I need to say this.”
“Changbin,” you warn, heart pounding. “You can’t just—”
“I know,” he interrupts, gentle but urgent. “I know. And if you tell me to leave again, I will. I swear. Just…let me say it first.”
You stand there, torn between anger and exhaustion, before opening the door wider, letting him in. You watch him take in your apartment like it’s something fragile. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t move closer. He just looks at you like he’s been carrying a thought for two months and it’s finally gotten too heavy.
“I messed up,” he says. No jokes this time. No deflection. “I thought distance would fix it. I thought if I buried it long enough, it would go away.”
You cross your arms. “And?”
“And it didn’t,” he admits. “It got louder.”
The silence stretches.
“You told me to leave you alone,” he continues softly. “I tried. But seeing you tonight—someone else touching you like that—” He swallows. “I realized I don’t get to pretend anymore.”
Your voice shakes despite yourself. “Pretend what?”
“That I don’t feel anything,” he says.
The word hangs there, fragile.
You look away, jaw tight. “You don’t get to decide this now.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. Or to believe me. I just needed you to know.”
You finally meet his eyes. They’re earnest. Unarmed. Terrified.
“Know what?” you ask.
“I was wrong,” Changbin says.
The words come out steady, but his hands give him away—fists opening and closing at his sides like he’s bracing for impact.
“I know I said I didn’t believe in love,” he continues, voice low. “I know I said it was confusion, chemistry, convenience. I was wrong.” He swallows. “Because whatever this is—what I feel when I think about you—it’s not any of that.”
You don’t move. You don’t trust yourself to.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, the admission raw. “Everything reminds me of you. Movies. Shows. Something I see on my way home. Music. Arguments I rehearse in my head like you’re still there to interrupt me.” A breath, shaky. “I tried to bury it. Work. Women. Silence. None of it worked.”
He takes a step closer, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. For making you feel small that night. For acting like you were a problem I needed distance from. For pushing you away because I was scared of wanting something I couldn’t control.”
Your chest tightens; your eyes burn.
“I know I hurt you,” he goes on. “And I know apologies don’t erase that. But I need you to know I see it now. I see you.” His voice cracks, just barely. “And I can’t spend another day pretending I don’t.”
He stops in front of you.
“I don’t want to not talk to you,” Changbin says softly. “I don’t want to not see you. I don’t want another day where you’re just a wall away, and I act like that’s enough.”
The room is quiet except for your breathing—uneven and unsteady.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. “And that scares me. But losing you scares me more.”
You swallow, arms crossing tighter over your chest like you’re holding yourself together.
“What about the women?” you ask quietly. “The ones you buried yourself in.”
Changbin doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks relieved you asked.
“I stopped,” he says immediately. “After the first week you stopped answering me.” He shakes his head. “It felt wrong. Every time. I couldn’t do it knowing you were on the other side of the wall, not talking to me.”
You hesitate. “You expect me to just believe that?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I don’t.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket like it’s been waiting there for this moment. Unlocks it. Opens his messages. Then, almost too fast, he presses it into your hand.
“Look,” he says. “I deleted the contacts. I stopped replying. I stopped inviting anyone over. I didn’t do it for points. I did it because it made me feel sick.”
You scroll despite yourself. Empty threads. Names erased. Unanswered messages left on read weeks ago.
His voice is tight now. “I know this doesn’t erase anything. And I know you don’t owe me trust just because I say I changed.”
You hand the phone back slowly, skepticism still buzzing in your chest. “People say things when they’re scared of losing someone.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m not asking you to take my word for it.”
He looks at you—really looks at you—eyes open, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.
“Tell me what to do,” Changbin says softly. “Not grand gestures. Not promises I don’t understand yet.” A breath. “What can I do to show you I’m in love with you?”
There’s no confidence in the question. No charm. Just honesty. And fear. And hope tangled together.
You stand there, heart racing, realizing this is the part where belief becomes terrifying. Because whether you do or don’t answer, things have already changed.
You take a breath, steadying yourself.
“Consistency,” you say finally. “That’s what I need.”
Changbin stills, listening like every word matters.
“I don’t need promises about forever,” you continue. “I don’t need labels or grand declarations. I need you to show up the same way tomorrow as you are right now. I need you to respect my boundaries. To be okay if I’m not ready. To not disappear the moment things get uncomfortable.”
He nods immediately. “Okay.”
“You don’t get to rush me,” you add. “And you don’t get to punish me if I need space.”
“I won’t,” he says, voice firm. “I swear.”
You search his face, looking for cracks, for hesitation. There isn’t any, just resolve.
“I’m not saying yes to anything,” you clarify. “Not yet.”
“I know,” Changbin says gently. “And I’m okay with that.”
He steps back, deliberately giving you space. “I’ll be consistent. I’ll be here. And if you tell me to stop, I will. No arguments.”
Something in your chest loosens—not trust yet, but the possibility of it.
You nod slowly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Changbin exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he says quietly. “As long as it takes.”
He does exactly what he promises.
It starts small. A good-morning text before you even open your eyes. A good night one when you’re half asleep, no pressure attached. It’s him letting you know he’s thinking of you. He never misses a day. Not once.
Every week, without fail, there are flowers. Always fresh. Sometimes sunflowers. Sometimes something soft and pastel. Once, something wild and imperfect that makes you laugh because it’s so Changbin. He never asks if you like them. He just leaves them on your doormat when he knows they’re probably starting to wilt.
On nights you come home late—exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door—there’s a text sent right away.
Bin: I made too much. You hungry?
He hands you containers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No expectations. No hovering. Just food made with care, still warm, still yours even if you don’t eat it until midnight.
And when you allow him into your home again, he tells you he loves you in a hundred quiet ways.
By asking how your day actually went and listening. By remembering things you said weeks ago. By showing up when he says he will. By never disappearing again.
You still live in your apartment. He still lives in his. The wall remains, but it doesn’t feel like distance anymore.
Some nights, when you’re brushing your teeth or lying in bed, music seeps through the wall. Love songs. Old ones. Soft ones. Sometimes embarrassingly earnest ones. Just loud enough for you to hear.
You smile every time.
He doesn’t rush you. He gives you consistency like it’s sacred. Like it’s the proof you asked for.
And slowly and carefully, you start to believe him. Because love doesn’t have to be loud to be real, sometimes, it just has to keep showing up.
A few weeks into this—into flowers and food and songs through the wall—Changbin finally asks.
It’s not dramatic. No big speech. Just him standing in your doorway, hands a little nervous at his sides.
“Would you…go on a real date with me?” he asks. “No binder this time.”
You don’t even pretend to think about it. “Yes.”
The relief on his face is instant and breathtaking, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he first knocked on your door months ago.
And then the dates. So many of them.
Late-night street food runs where he insists you try everything and pretends not to notice when you steal bites off his plate. Long walks along the Han River, shoulders brushing, fingers brushing until he finally intertwines his with yours. Quiet cafés where he watches you talk like it’s his favorite pastime. Arcade nights where he’s ridiculously competitive and dramatically offended when you beat him.
They always end with him walking you to your door and lingering like he’s afraid to blink.
And then the kisses start.
The first one is soft, tentative—outside your apartment, his hand hovering at your waist like he’s asking permission even now. You say yes by leaning in.
After that, they happen more easily.
Before you part ways. In the quiet after laughter. Under streetlights. In doorways. Slow, warm, and certain.
And now, every date ends with his forehead pressed to yours, lips finding yours like it’s exactly where they belong. And every time, he pulls back just enough to smile at you like he still can’t believe this is real.
You don’t debate love anymore. You live it.
Date night this time is accidentally themed.
“You wore black,” Changbin says, eyeing your outfit as you step out of your apartment.
“You wore black,” you shoot back.
He looks down at himself, then grins. “We’re coordinated. This is basically destiny.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” you say, locking the door. “I dressed like this because I was late.”
Dinner is easy. Comfortable. He tells a ridiculous story about a client who brought in three reference photos of completely different people. You laugh so hard you nearly knock over your drink. He dramatically saves it, bowing like he deserves applause.
Outside your apartment, you both linger.
“This was fun,” he says, then pauses, suddenly more serious. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you say immediately, like you’ve been waiting to say it all night.
His smile is slow, stunned, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to be this happy. He leans in and kisses you—soft at first, then deeper, laughter caught between breaths when you bump noses.
You pull back just long enough to tug him toward your door. “Do you want to come in?”
He raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Are you inviting me, or is this another experiment?”
You grin. “Strictly practical research.”
He laughs, steps inside with you, and the door clicks shut behind you.
Once inside, you both take your shoes off at the door, quietly and slightly nervous. You both know why you invited him in.
You walk to the kitchen, feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. “You want something to drink, Bin?” You ask, hearing his own footsteps following.
He follows you, his heart pounding in his chest. The sight of you—your hair slightly disheveled from the walk, cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from the kiss outside—it does something to him. "Water is fine," he says softly, his voice slightly hoarse. He leans against the counter, watching you pour two glasses.
His mind races with thoughts he usually suppresses around you. You hand him the glass, your fingers brushing briefly.
You both drink the water, eyes locked over the rim of the glass. He sets his down at the same time you do, clearing his throat before stepping forward.
Your eyes stay firmly on his, heart racing.
He reaches out, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him. There's no teasing in his touch now, only sincere intent. His other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in. The kiss starts slow—deep, lingering—like he's committing every sensation to memory. His fingers tighten on your waist as he walks you backward until you hit the counter, caging you in gently.
You breathe out a soft sigh when your lips connect, hands gliding up his clothed chest—firm and solid—to wrap around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. Your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, sending chills down his spine at the sensation.
He responds by pressing even closer, his mouth slanting over yours hungrily. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, he hopes. He wants evidence of this on your skin, wants you to wake up tomorrow and remember exactly how he kissed and touched you as if his life depended on it. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, seeking permission and finding it instantly. You part your lips on a gasp, letting him deepen the kiss further.
And then he’s pushing you into the counter harder as he presses the evidence of his desire against your stomach, making you pull away. You try to catch your breath as he trails his lips along the heated skin of your neck. “Bin,” you breathe out, eyes closed and head tilting.
He freezes, listening and waiting. Your neck is bared to him, vulnerable and inviting. He tests it, kissing gently where your pulse point thrums wildly. Once. Twice.
"Yes?" He breathes against your skin, knowing exactly what he's doing. His hands on your hips squeeze possessively, pulling you even closer, your bodies aligned perfectly. "Too much?" He asks softly, nipping your earlobe gently. He knows it's not—your body language is screaming for more.
“Not enough. Need more,” you whisper, clinging to him.“Bedroom,” you manage to say.
He lifts you in his arms and carries you swiftly to the bedroom, his arms wrapped securely around you. The moment you hit the mattress, he follows you down, covering your body with his own. His kisses are frenzied now—mouth moving from your lips to your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—roaming over your curves, pulling at your clothes with urgent need. "Too slow?" He pants between kisses, already shrugging off his own jacket and shirt. His abs flex with the movement, drawing your eyes momentarily.
You reach up and drag your fingers along the hard ridges and planes of his chest and abdomen, marveling at the sight of him. “Holy shit, you’re sexy.”
He freezes for a second, surprised and incredibly pleased by your words. Then he's grinning and leaning down against your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point. "You think so?" He murmurs, his hips pressing down against yours deliberately. He's hard and thick behind the fabric of his jeans, and the friction makes you gasp. He rocks against you slowly, torturously. "Or do you need more proof?" His voice is low and seductive, dripping with promise.
“Ugh, you’re annoying,” you say playfully, biting your lip and grinning up at him as he pulls your shirt up and over your head—your pretty lace bra deliberately chosen for this exact moment.
He throws the shirt aside carelessly, his gaze fixed on the delicate fabric covering your chest. His hands hover over the cups, fingers twitching with the urge to touch. "This is cute," he comments, running a finger along the lace edge. "Too cute." His eyes meet yours, dark and intense. "I'm going to ruin it." You nod eagerly, arching your back to give him better access. He unhooks the bra with ease and tosses it aside.
But you don’t give him time to look too long before you’re reaching to pop the button of his jeans open, pulling the zipper down, and palming him through his boxers.
He groans deeply, hips jerking into your touch. "Careful," he warns, but his words are breathless, lacking conviction. His own hands move to your jeans, unbuttoning them with shaking fingers. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs, revealing your matching lace panties. "Goddamn," he mutters, taking in the sight of you half-naked beneath him. He kicks off his own jeans and boxers in one smooth motion. "I'm trying to go slow here."
“I get it, babe. I really do, but you don’t understand how long I’ve needed this,” you say, pulling your panties down and throwing them to the side somewhere.
He watches them go with a hungry expression, his pupils dilated. "How long?" He asks hoarsely, ripping the rest of his clothes off before settling between your legs. His hardness rests against your wet heat, and you both groan at the contact. "Tell me how long you've been wanting this." He moves his hips slowly, sliding against your core. "Because I've been imagining it for a very long time." His confession sends a jolt of pleasure through you.
You pause, looking up at him, eyebrow raised. “Like how long?” You ask.
He pauses, his hips stuttering against yours. "Too long," he admits gruffly, his forehead resting against yours. "Since you smiled at me for the first time.” He kisses you roughly, his tongue sliding against yours. "Too fucking long." His hips move more deliberately now, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. "So if I'm not being gentle right now—"
It’s when he feels how wet you are that he remembers he doesn’t have a condom on, prompting him to pull back.
"Fuck," he curses, his face flushing red. "I'm not— I don't have a condom. Shit." He sits back on his haunches immediately, his breath ragged. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—" He looks mortified, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair. "Just give me a second. I'll go get one—" He moves to get up, but you wrap your legs around his waist, stopping him. "What are you doing?" He asks breathlessly.
“Did you use condoms every time with them?” You ask, cheeks tinging red. It was awkward, but you had to know. The fact that he was on his way to get one clued you in, but hearing him say it would ease you.
He freezes completely, then exhales heavily. "Yes," he says immediately. "Always. Every single time.” His eyes soften. "I got tested after the last time. I'm clean." His eyes search yours seriously, seeing your hesitation but also understanding why you're asking.
You use your legs to push his hips forward, trapping his throbbing cock against your wet pussy, looking up at him and nodding.
"Are you...?" He starts, but then you move your hips deliberately, sliding against his length, coating him completely in your wetness, and he loses his train of thought entirely. "Fuck, baby, if we're doing this—" His voice cracks slightly as you lift your hips again, seeking friction.
“Unless you don’t want to…” You trail off, pulling back slightly.
He grabs your hips firmly, pulling you back against him with a sharp intake of breath. "No," he says firmly but gently. "I want this. I want you." His thumb presses against your clit as he positions himself at your entrance again. "Please," he whispers urgently. "Let me feel all of you." His cock head presses against your opening slightly without pushing in fully yet, waiting for permission or encouragement from you.
You reach down and wrap your hand around him, stroking him as you arch up, wanting his lips on yours. He leans down and groans against your mouth as you do, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate kiss. He breaks the kiss to murmur, "Guide me in," against your lips before capturing them again hungrily. His body shakes with restraint as he waits patiently for whatever signal tells him ‘go’.
You moan against his mouth as you tease him by holding him flush against your folds with your palm, rocking your hips up and down the length of him.
"Stop teasing me," he growls into the kiss, his hips jerking involuntarily as he tries to chase the sensation of your pussy sliding along his length. He breaks the kiss again, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. "Fuck, baby—please—just—" He pauses, looking down between them, watching as you continue to torture him. "Put the tip inside. Just a little. Please." His voice cracks on the last word, revealing just how much he wants this—how much he needs you.
You smile, kissing his forehead as he looks down. “Maybe I like teasing you,” you say playfully, wrapping your legs around him tighter.
He groans deeply, his hips moving slightly to rub himself against your slick folds. "Then tease me properly," he retorts softly, his voice strained. "Because if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come just from this—without even being inside you." His tongue slides out to lick your bottom lip. "So if you're gonna torture me, do it right." His hips jerk again, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance more firmly this time. "Put me inside you. Even if it's just the tip."
You kiss his lips, giving in and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. You let go and wrap your arms around him, hands resting on his shoulders. “No, baby. I want you inside me fully.”
He breaks the kiss with a shuddering breath, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he slowly pushes forward. The tip of his cock slips inside you easily due to your wetness and his pre-come coating him. He pauses there, giving you time to adjust before pushing deeper with a low groan. His forehead rests against yours again as he whispers hoarsely, "Is this okay?" His hips are trembling slightly with effort not to thrust fully into you, yet wanting desperately to feel all of yourself around him completely. "Please tell me if I'm hurting—"
“Binnie, please,” you whimper, arching, eyes closing. “I can take you.”
The nickname makes him groan deeply, his hips jerking forward instinctively at the sound. "Fuck," he breathes out, sinking deeper into you slowly but steadily now that you've given permission. He's bigger than anyone you've been with before, stretching you perfectly, but not painfully.
"You feel so good," he pants against your mouth. "So tight and wet around me." He's finally fully seated inside you now, his hips flush against yours. "I'm not gonna last long like this."
“It’s okay,” you whisper, head pressed back into the pillows, breathing hard as you adjust to his size. “Jesus. No wonder,” you say, thinking back to how many girls he had over. A simple thought has now turned into overthinking. Is he comparing right now?
He notices your sudden stillness and the slight change in your expression. His hands cup your face gently, forcing you to look at him. "Hey," he says softly, kissing you deeply to distract you from whatever thoughts are creeping in.
His hips start moving slowly. Gentle thrusts designed to pleasure rather than going through the motions like he might have done with others. His focus is on you—the only person that matters.
“Stop thinking,” he murmurs against your lips. “Just feel me.”
You look into his eyes and see him staring back just as intensely. You crane your neck up and press your forehead to his. “I love you,” you whisper.
The declaration makes his heart swell in his chest. "I love you too," he says firmly, kissing you deeply before kissing along your neck and up to your ear. “You feel so good on my cock, baby,” he whispers. “Your pussy was made for me.”
And just like that, you’re back in the present with him. His filthy words remind you that he is yours. That he wanted you.
You tilt your head back into the pillows—gripping the muscles of his back because they’re yours to grip. Kissing his lips because you can. Moaning his name as he hits that spot deep inside you because only you can say his name with that much passion now.
He groans into your kiss as you press your lips to his. Your words—your voice—it's the most erotic sound he's ever heard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you even closer as he thrusts deeper and slower into you. "Say it again," he demands between kisses, his hips moving in a steady rhythm now. "Say my name again." His voice is low and commanding, yet desperate for the sound. "Please." The word is softly whispered against your lips. "Baby—"
“Bin!” You cry out, head tilted back as he starts snapping his hips into yours. Your breasts bounce with his rhythm, distracting him. He leans down and latches onto your hard peaks, grunting into your sensitive skin. You arch at the feeling, hands flying everywhere on him, too lost in pleasure to know what you're doing.
He groans deeply against your breast, hips stuttering in their rhythm briefly before picking up again. He sucks and bites gently at the sensitive flesh, his hands reaching up to palm your other breast roughly. The sight of you—head thrown back in ecstasy, hands clawing at his skin, breasts bouncing with every thrust—it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He releases your breast with a wet pop to look up at you, his mouth open and panting.
He watches you, eyes roaming your pretty face as he fucks into you, hips stuttering when your mouth parts erotically. He groans and buries his face in your neck, so close to coming.
“I’m coming!” You say frantically, already feeling your pussy tightening, the pressure building between your thighs.
"Fuck," he curses against your neck, his arms wrapping around you tightly. He feels your pussy clamp down on him, the rhythmic contractions pulling him deeper. "Come on, baby," he whispers urgently into your ear, his hips moving faster now, chasing his own release as he feels yours building. His hand slides down between your bodies to rub circles over your clit desperately—wanting both of you there together. "Let me feel it," he begs hoarsely against your skin. "Come for me—"
You cut him off with a cry of his name and a high-pitched moan. Your body curls around him, seizing and writhing as you ride your orgasm, his hips never ceasing until you’re lying beneath him, limp and breathing hard.
He kisses you softly before pressing his mouth against your ear. “Can I keep going, baby?” He asks, patiently waiting for your permission to keep thrusting—needing to finish inside you.
You nod weakly, too sensitive to speak.
His hips start moving again immediately, almost apologetic for needing more. He reaches between your legs, gently pushing your knees up and out to give himself deeper access. The new angle hits you just right, causing you to whimper at the feeling of him sliding in and out of you deeper. "Too much?" He asks quietly, checking in despite his own desperate need to come. His hands gently squeeze your inner knees, keeping them open for him. "Want me to stop?"
You shake your head, still breathing hard.
You can feel the mess between you, hear the steady thlump thlump thlump of his wet skin meeting yours.
The sound drives him absolutely wild, making him groan loudly. "God, listen to us," he pants against your neck, thrusting steadily into your soaked pussy. The wet sounds grow louder as he picks up speed slightly, your bodies sliding perfectly against each other. He buries his face in your neck to muffle his moans against your skin—not wanting to disturb the neighbors with how pornographic it sounds.
You hold him tight against you as his pace starts to get choppy and uneven. “Come inside me,” you whisper into his ear, kissing the side of his head repeatedly.
His entire body tenses at your words—your permission making him snap his hips forward sharply twice before holding deep inside you with a choked cry against your neck. He comes hard and long, filling you completely as his arms shake around you tightly.
The feeling of his release triggers another small orgasm in you unexpectedly—your pussy clamping down on him rhythmically as he empties himself into you completely. He kisses everywhere he can reach while riding out your highs together, deeply connected physically and emotionally, now more than ever before.
The aftermath is familiar.
You’re standing at the foot of the bed holding your end of the fitted sheet while Changbin wrestles with one of the corners, already laughing.
“Okay,” he says, pointing accusingly, “that mess was mostly you.”
You gasp. “Excuse me? You’re the one who—”
“I was responding,” he interrupts, smug. “Very generously.”
You smack his arm. “Unbelievable. Zero accountability.”
He laughs harder, completely unbothered, finally snapping the corner into place like it’s a personal victory. “I’m just saying, if we’re assigning blame—”
“We’re not,” you say firmly. “We’re moving on.”
You both end up tangled in the sheets together, collapsing into laughter that fades into something softer. Changbin reaches for you without thinking, pulling you close, forehead resting against yours.
“I love you,” he says quietly, like it still amazes him.
You smile, thumb tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “I love you too.”
The room settles. The city hums faintly outside.
You curl into him, his arm tightening around you instinctively—exactly where you both belong.
The tattoo shop smells like cleaning supplies, a faintly citrus scent, and freshly brewed coffee. There’s low music playing and a faint buzzing sound somewhere. You hover just inside the door for a second, suddenly aware of yourself, of how personal this space feels compared to the apartment hallways and shared walls you know so well.
You’re basically living together now. Your lease is almost up, which, according to Bin, means it’s a sign to move in officially.
He brings it up casually at first, like it’s just another shared fact of life. “By the way,” he says one night, scrolling on his phone, “you’re not renewing.”
You blink. “I—what?”
He looks up, confused by your confusion. “Your lease. You’re moving in with me.”
“That was not a conversation,” you say.
“It was,” he replies calmly. “You just weren’t present.”
You argue. He nods along, completely unbothered. He’s already made a list. Closet space is divided with alarming confidence. Your mug is already in his cabinet. Your side of the bed already decided.
“You share a wall with me,” he says. “This is the natural next step.”
You point out logistics. He counters with affection.
In the end, he grins, kisses your forehead, and seals it.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You can still pretend you have your own place.”
You let him win.
Probably because you want that too.
Almost six months of feeling like accidentally winning an argument with the universe and having to live with being right every day.
Although he’s still chaotic and dramatic and loud and far too comfortable with you, he’s also the same gentle, kind, overly generous man you met the day you moved in. He still plays soccer with the neighborhood kids. Still carries groceries for the ajummas. Still fixes things without being asked. Still the greenest flag you’ve ever seen.
The difference now is the way he loves you.
The way his hand finds yours without thinking. The way he checks on you like it’s instinct. The way he looks at you like he can’t believe this is his life—and he somehow won it.
Changbin looks up.
His face lights up instantly, grin spreading. “Hey,” he says, voice softer than you expect in a place full of buzzing machines. “You came.”
“I said I would,” you reply, smiling back. “Took me long enough.”
He steps toward you, stopping short like he is remembering he is at work. “Give me two minutes. Jisung, I’m taking a break.”
“Wow,” a voice says from behind a divider. “Special treatment.”
Jisung emerges, tattoo gun in hand, hair pushed back, eyes immediately flicking to you. He freezes for half a beat, then brightens with interest. “Oh. Hi.”
You laugh politely. “Hi.”
Changbin is already watching this with narrowed eyes.
“I’m Jisung,” he says, flashing a charming smile. “You’re new. Changbin’s girlfriend, or are we still in the mysterious category?”
Before you can answer, Changbin speaks. “She’s my girlfriend.”
The certainty in his tone makes your chest warm.
Jisung blinks, then looks between the two of you. “Oh. Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” He recovers fast, grin returning. “Still though, you’re really pretty. Had to shoot my shot.”
Changbin steps closer to you without hesitation, one hand settling at your waist. “No need.”
“Wow,” Jisung mutters. “Crazy.”
Changbin does not respond. He just leans down and kisses you, slow and deliberate, enough to leave no room for interpretation.
When he pulls back, Jisung has his hands up in surrender. “I see it. I respect it. I will be over here minding my business.”
You laugh, cheeks warm. “Nice to meet you.”
Jisung grins. “Nice to almost meet you.”
He disappears back behind the divider, still muttering about audacity.
Changbin looks down at you, eyes dark. “I’m not sorry about that.”
“I know,” you say. “It was kind of hot.”
He chuckles, ducking his head. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He gives you a tour like he is proud of every corner. His station. His sketches. The way his voice changes when he talks about his work. You watch him talk to clients, gentle and attentive, all steady hands and careful smiles.
When you finally sit beside him, his knee brushing yours, he leans in and whispers, “I like you here.”
You smile. “I like you everywhere.”
He kisses your temple, quick and affectionate. Across the room, Jisung glances over, shakes his head, and goes back to tattooing.
Then you clear your throat. “There’s actually another reason I came,” you say.
He turns to you, curious. “Yeah?”
You take a breath. “I want a tattoo.”
He stares at you again, this time stunned. “From me?”
“Yes,” you say, giggling. “From you.”
His expression softens into something almost reverent. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I trust you.”
Changbin exhales slowly, smiling like he has been given something precious. “I’d be honored,” he says. Then, quieter, just for you, “And just so you know, that was a trick question. I’ll be the only one touching you. Always.”
Your heart flips at the certainty in his voice.
Changbin is still smiling, still processing the idea of you wanting a tattoo from him, when you pull out a folded sheet of paper from your purse and hold it out.
“I already know what I want,” you say.
That gets his full attention.
He takes the paper carefully and opens it. His breath catches almost immediately.
On the page, the words 끝까지 are written cleanly and deliberately. Beneath the phrase is a small dot. From the dot, a single fine line extends outward.
Changbin stares at it in silence.
“끝까지,” he repeats softly.
Kkeutkkaji.
To the end.
You nod. “The dot is where it started. Where we fell in love. The line is everything after. The rest of it. Together.”
For a moment, he cannot speak. His throat works as he swallows, eyes flicking from the paper to you like he needs to confirm you are real.
“And I want it here,” you add quietly, touching your shoulder, just above your collarbone. “Right here.”
His gaze follows your fingers, and something in him softens completely.
“That’s my favorite place,” he says without thinking.
You smile. “I know.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the cologne you bought him. Close enough that the rest of the shop fades away. His thumb brushes the spot gently, reverent, like he is already imagining the lines there.
“I kiss you there when I come home tired,” he murmurs. “When you fall asleep on the couch. When I hold you in my arms.”
You smile up at him.
He pauses, lowering his voice. “When you’re underneath me, and I’m inside you,” he says, your cheeks reddening. “When I can’t think of anything else to say because you render me speechless,” he continues.
Your chest tightens.
Changbin looks back down at the design, then back at you, eyes bright. “I’ll make it perfect,” he says. “I promise.”
You believe him.
Changbin finally breaks the heavy moment with a crooked smile.
“So,” he says, folding the paper carefully and setting it on his station, “you’re really getting a tattoo before me. From me.”
You laugh. “Someone has to break the curse.”
He clicks his tongue, stepping closer until you can feel his warmth. “Unbelievable. I’m a professional tattoo artist. Years of training. And my girlfriend gets inked first.”
You raise a brow. “Jealous?”
“Deeply,” he says, eyes flicking to your shoulder again. His voice drops, playful and warm. “Especially since it’s going right there. You know that’s unfair, right?”
Your stomach flips when his gaze lingers. “Changbin.”
He grins, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying. Sexy choice. Sexy meaning. Sexy girlfriend.”
You sputter a laugh and immediately shove him back by the chest, not hard, just enough to put space between you. “Stop. You’re at work.”
He stumbles back exaggeratedly, hands up. “What? I’m being supportive.”
“There are people here,” you hiss, glancing around. A couple of his coworkers pretend very badly not to be listening. One customer looks up, amused.
Changbin lowers his voice but not his grin. “I can still think you’re sexy professionally.”
You cover your face, giggling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” he replies easily.
You peek at him between your fingers, smiling. “Unfortunately.”
He softens then, stepping closer again but keeping his hands to himself this time. “I’ll behave,” he promises. “Mostly.”
You shake your head, still laughing, heart full and fluttering.
He presses the paper to his chest for a moment, grounding himself, then leans down and kisses that exact spot on your shoulder, tender and unhurried, like a quiet vow.
“끝까지,” he whispers, and both of you pause, taking in the meaning.
He breaks the moment when he claps his hands, a grin on his handsome face, as he leads you to his station.
“Okay,” Changbin says, pulling on gloves with exaggerated seriousness. “From this point on, I’m Artist Changbin. Very calm. Very focused. Very not distracted by how good you look.”
You eye him skeptically as he cleans your skin. “You literally just called me sexy ten minutes ago.”
“That was before gloves,” he replies. “Different person.”
You laugh as he adjusts the chair. “You’re still flirting.”
“I’m reassuring the client,” he says smoothly. “Client morale is very important.”
Jisung passes by and stage-whispers, “You good over here, boss?”
Changbin doesn’t even look up. “Thriving. Don’t you have a stencil to mess up?”
Jisung gasps dramatically and walks away.
Bin leans in close to your ear as he positions your shoulder. “You nervous?”
“A little,” you admit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He grins. “I’ve been waiting months to legally mark you.”
You shove his arm lightly. “Seo Changbin.”
“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, laughing. “Mostly. Hey—look at me.”
You do. His expression softens immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he says, quieter now. “Trust me.”
You nod, taking a deep breath as he positions the stencil, checks the placement one last time, then steps back.
“Okay,” he announces. “This is the dramatic part. Think powerful thoughts. Like…love. Or revenge. Or both.”
“I hate you,” you say, smiling.
“No, you don’t,” he replies, lifting the gun and checking to make sure everything was working properly.
No, you don’t. Not ever.
He presses the gun gently to your skin.
You inhale, eyes lifting to the ceiling, smiling through the nerves, heart full and steady.
The buzzing starts.
BINNIEBB 2025 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡
this was amazing i cant formulate another word just amazing
