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CURSED TO BE YOURS 🐾
LEE MINHO x READER
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ requested!
Cursed by an old man, Minho turns into a puppy. He needs an owner—but breaking the curse means falling in love with you.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🐰❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The man smelled weird.
That was the first thing Minho noticed.
Not the glowing eyes. Not the way his fingers curled like he was about to grab something that didn’t belong to him. Not even the fact that he had stepped directly into Minho’s path like some badly written plot device.
No.
It was the smell.
Minho paused mid-step, nose scrunching slightly as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
“You’re in my way.”
The man didn’t move.
Of course he didn’t.
People never did when they were about to be annoying.
Minho sighed, already exhausted, shifting his weight as he glanced around the street. It wasn’t crowded—just dim streetlights, the quiet hum of passing cars, the distant chatter of strangers who had nothing to do with him.
Perfect.
Or it was supposed to be.
“Do you believe in curses?”
Minho blinked. Slowly.
Then he gave the man a once-over—head to toe, unimpressed, unbothered, already deciding this interaction was a waste of his time.
“No.”
He stepped to the side to walk past him.
A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.
Minho froze. Not because he was scared.
The air shifted.
The city noise dulled, like someone had pressed pause on the world. The streetlights flickered once, twice—and then steadied into something colder. Sharper.
Minho’s gaze dropped to the man’s hand gripping him.
“Let go.”
The man smiled.
It was wrong. Too wide. Too knowing.
“Find an owner,” he murmured.
Minho frowned. “What—”
“Let them love you. Feed you. Give you a home.”
Something tightened around his wrist.
Like invisible threads wrapping, sinking into his skin.
Minho’s expression darkened, “You have five seconds to—”
“And when you fall in love with them…”
The man leaned closer.
“…you’ll be free.”
Minho yanked his hand back. Or he tried to.
Because suddenly the world tilted.
It started in his bones.
A sharp, twisting crack that made his breath hitch—except it didn’t come out right. His knees buckled, but the ground felt… too far? Too close?
Everything was wrong.
His vision blurred—then sharpened too much. Colors bled into each other before snapping into painful clarity. Sounds grew louder—too loud—like the scrape of a shoe against pavement echoed in his skull.
Everything grew huge. His clothes collapsed around him in a messy pile.
His hands… paws. Tiny, fluffy, cream-colored paws.
A soft tail curled behind him.
“What the—”
The words didn’t come out.
Instead, a bark.
Minho froze. “…No.”
Another bark.
His breathing hitched—quick, uneven—as he tried again, jaw opening, throat tightening.
Nothing but another pathetic sound.
Minho stood there on the cold pavement, surrounded by the legs of rushing pedestrians, heart pounding with fury and panic.
His body dropped lower, balance completely off.
Minho looked down.
Paws. Small. Fluffy.
Absolutely unacceptable.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then violently shook his head, as if that would fix it.
It didn’t.
His ears—ears—twitched at the movement.
Minho went very still. “…This is a joke.”
A bark.
His eye twitched.
He turned—slowly, mechanically—looking around for the man.
Of course he was gone.
Minho’s chest rose and fell, panic threatening to claw its way up his throat—but he shoved it down, forcing himself to think.
Okay. Fine. This was… temporary. It had to be. People don’t just turn into—
He glanced down again.
They do now.
His gaze snapped back up, jaw tightening—well, as much as it could in this ridiculous form.
“Find an owner.”
“Let them love you.”
“Fall in love.”
Minho’s expression twisted into something sharp, offended, borderline murderous.
Absolutely not.
He would rather stay like this forever than—
A cold breeze swept through the street.
Minho shivered.
He froze.
He curled slightly into himself, instinctively seeking warmth before immediately stiffening again, horrified.
“I refuse.”
A small, traitorous whine slipped out.
Minho shut his eyes.
This was humiliating. Worse than humiliating. This was degrading.
He took a step forward.
His legs wobbled. He stumbled. Caught himself.
Barely.
“…Get it together.”
Another step. Better.
Still awful.
Somewhere in the distance, another dog barked.
Minho’s ears twitched. He went rigid.
“Don’t.”
Another bark—closer this time.
Minho turned his head slowly, dread creeping up his spine.
From the end of the street, a larger dog trotted into view. It paused. Sniffed the air. Then locked eyes with him.
Minho stared back.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The dog started running toward him.
Minho’s eyes widened.
“Oh, absolutely not—”
He turned and bolted.
Tiny paws hitting pavement too fast, too frantic, heart pounding as the sound of claws scraped behind him.
This was it. This was how he died.
Chased down by a dog. Turned into a dog.
In the middle of the street.
Because of some man.
“This is insane—!”
Another bark. Louder. Closer.
Minho swerved around a corner, slipping slightly before catching himself, darting between trash bins and narrow alleyways, lungs burning as he pushed himself faster.
Until—
He collided with something. Soft. Warm.
And very much not pavement.
“Oof—!”
Minho tumbled backward, landing on his back as the world spun for a second.
Above him…
You.
Looking down, surprised, eyes wide.
“…Oh my god—are you okay?”
Minho blinked up at you.
Processing.
Out of everything that had happened tonight—
This might be the worst part.
You crouched down slowly, careful, hesitant.
Your hand hovered.
“…You’re… kind of cute.”
Minho stared at you. Utterly appalled.
Behind him, the other dog skidded to a stop at the alley entrance, watching.
Waiting.
Minho glanced at it. Then back at you. Then at it again.
A pause.
A long, heavy, pride-shattering pause.
He turned back to you.
And very, very slowly stepped closer.
Like this was his choice.
Like he wasn’t being forced into it by circumstance.
Like this wasn’t the beginning of his downfall.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Oh…”
Your hand lowered, gentle as it brushed against his head.
Minho flinched. Stiffened. Endured it.
“…Hi, baby.”
His soul left his body but he didn’t move.
Because behind you he can sense safety, warmth, food.
And, apparently, his only way out.
Minho shut his eyes.
Just for a second. Just long enough to accept it.
Temporary, he told himself.
This was temporary.
You smiled, scooping him up before he could protest.
“Come on… you look like you need a home.”
Minho went rigid in your arms.
Already regretting everything but he didn’t jump.
Didn’t bite.
Didn’t run.
Instead, he let you hold him. As the curse settled deeper into his bones.
And somewhere, far away a voice whispered.
“Good.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Your place was… small.
Neat, but lived-in. A blanket tossed over the couch, a pair of shoes by the door, soft lighting that made everything feel warmer than it should.
Minho took it all in the moment you stepped inside, eyes scanning like he was evaluating property.
Acceptable, he decided.
For now.
You gently set him down on the floor.
“There you go…”
Minho landed stiffly, immediately regaining his composure—well, as much as one could when cursed into this.
He sat.
Not like a dog.
Like a person who had dignity and bills to pay.
You blinked.
“Why are you sitting like that?”
Minho stared at you. Judging.
You tilted your head, slowly crouching in front of him. “You’re… kind of weird.”
You reached out again.
Minho’s body tensed instantly—but this time, he didn’t flinch away. He endured it, your fingers brushing over his head, softer now, more certain.
“You’re not scared at all, huh?”
He wasn’t.
He was offended, irritated, humiliated, but not scared.
Your hand lingered a second longer before pulling away. “Okay… wait here.”
Minho watched you walk off.
Then glanced around again. Quiet. Safe.
No other dogs.
No threats.
No… man.
His ears flicked at the memory.
Find an owner.
His jaw tightened.
“…Temporary.”
A beat.
“This is temporary.”
You came back with a bowl.
Minho eyed it suspiciously.
“I don’t know what you eat,” you admitted, placing it down carefully. “But this is what I have.”
He stepped closer.
Sniffed.
Paused.
Then, he recoiled slightly.
“….”
Absolutely not.
You noticed immediately. “What? You don’t like it?”
Minho looked at you. Then at the food. Then back at you in disbelief.
“You’re picky?” you asked, incredulous.
Yes.
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay… okay, wait.”
You stood again, disappearing into the kitchen.
Minho exhaled slowly.
At least you were trainable.
Five minutes later.
You returned with something else.
“Try this?”
Minho sniffed again.
Paused.
Then—reluctantly—took a bite.
Then another. He froze.
Then quickly looked away like it meant nothing.
You gasped.
“Oh! You like that one!”
Minho continued eating. Calm. Controlled.
Like he hadn’t just accepted defeat.
You beamed.
“Okay, got it. Noted. You’re high maintenance.”
Correct.
That night, you didn’t question it when he followed you.
Didn’t question it when he refused to settle anywhere except right next to you on the couch.
Didn’t question it when he stared at you like he was analyzing your entire existence.
“You’re really clingy for a stray,” you murmured.
Minho stiffened.
Clingy? He was not—
You shifted slightly, making space beside you.
“Come here.”
Minho stared.
Then, with great reluctance and even greater dignity, he climbed up. Slowly.
Like this was a decision he was making of his own free will.
He settled beside you. Not touching.
Just… close.
You smiled softly, reaching out to adjust the blanket around him.
“You can stay for tonight, okay?”
Minho didn’t react. Didn’t move.
But his eyes flicked toward you.
Tonight, he repeated internally.
That was fine.
One night.
That was all he needed.
The next morning came too quickly.
Minho woke first, of course. The sun was barely up, but his internal clock—sharpened by years of early practices—had him alert. He was still on the couch, curled in the exact spot he’d claimed last night, body stiff and proper even in sleep. No sprawling. No relaxed puppy loaf. Just neat, contained dignity.
You were still asleep on the other end, breathing soft and even, one arm dangling off the cushion.
He watched you for a long moment. The way your hair fell across your face. The faint crease between your brows like you were already worrying about the day ahead even in dreams.
You look exhausted. Did you even eat properly last night?
Minho shook the thought off like an annoying fly. He wasn’t supposed to care. This was temporary. A means to an end. He would find that old man, break the curse, and return to his real life.
Right?
He hopped down from the couch with careful grace and padded over to the kitchen area, nose twitching. The leftover chicken from last night was still in its container on the counter. He sat beneath it and stared upward, willing it to fall into his mouth through sheer force of disdain.
It didn’t.
You stirred behind him, groaning softly as you sat up. “Morning already…? Ugh.”
Your eyes found him immediately. That same small, surprised smile tugged at your lips. “You’re up early. And still sitting like you’re waiting for a business meeting.”
Minho turned his head slowly, giving you the most unimpressed look possible.
Business meeting? This is survival.
You laughed under your breath—quiet, tired, but genuine. “Okay, Mr. Serious. Let me get you breakfast before I head out.”
You moved around the small space with practiced efficiency, warming up more of the chicken and adding a tiny bit of rice you’d cooked the night before. When you set the bowl down, Minho approached it with the same suspicious sniff as before but this time he ate without complaint.
You watched him, chin resting on your hand. “You really are the weirdest dog. Most strays would be scarfing it down. You eat like you’re at a five-star restaurant and judging the plating.”
Because your plating is questionable, he thought, but kept eating neatly, not a crumb out of place.
After he finished, you crouched again, gently wiping a stray bit from his whiskers with your thumb.
“I have to go to work. I’ll be back by evening. There’s water in the bowl, and… I guess you can wander around. Just don’t chew on anything important, okay?”
Minho sat taller, ears forward.
As if I would lower myself to chewing.
You hesitated at the door, looking back at him one more time. “You can stay another night if you want. I don’t mind.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t wag. Didn’t make a sound.
But as the door clicked shut behind you, Minho let out the tiniest, most reluctant sigh.
Another night. Fine.
By the time you returned that evening, soaked from an unexpected drizzle and looking even more drained than yesterday, Minho was waiting by the door.
Not pacing.
Just sitting. Posture perfect. Eyes sharp.
You blinked down at him, surprised. “You waited?”
He turned his head away, as if the idea was beneath him.
You smiled anyway, kicking off your wet shoes. “Okay, high-maintenance boy. Let’s get you dinner. And maybe I’ll talk your ear off about my terrible day while I eat mine.”
Minho followed you to the kitchen, jumping onto the stool beside the counter so he could watch you prepare food.
He didn’t lean in. Didn’t beg.
But he listened.
Every word.
When you finally collapsed onto the couch after dinner, exhausted, he climbed up without being asked and settled beside you again—close, but not touching. His small body radiated quiet warmth.
You reached over and scratched lightly behind his ears. “Thanks for being here. It’s stupid, but… it feels nice having someone wait for me.”
Minho’s eyes softened, just barely. The disgust at the whole situation was still there, simmering low. The humiliation of being small and dependent lingered.
But something else was growing underneath it. Something warmer. More dangerous.
He leaned the tiniest fraction into your touch.
One more night, he told himself firmly.
Just one more.
But deep down, in the part of him that was already starting to crack, he knew the truth.
This wasn’t temporary anymore.
Not really.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Days passed.
Then more.
And somehow, Minho never left.
Not because he couldn’t. Because… he didn’t.
The apartment had started to feel smaller in the best way possible, every corner quietly marked by his presence even though he was barely bigger than a loaf of bread.
He had claimed the left side of the couch as his unofficial throne, the exact spot where the sunlight hit in the late afternoon. He had learned the rhythm of your footsteps on the stairs, the particular jingle of your keys, the way you always sighed the second the door clicked shut behind you.
“You’re still here,” you said one morning, voice laced with mild surprise as you shuffled into the living room, hair messy and eyes still heavy with sleep.
Minho was already awake.
Of course he was.
Sitting in the same spot. Watching.
Waiting.
Perfectly upright, front paws aligned like he was attending an important meeting, ears alert but expression utterly unimpressed with the world at large.
He blinked at you.
Slow.
Measured.
Obviously.
You huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “You act like you own the place.”
Minho held your gaze.
Unapologetic.
His tiny body radiated quiet confidence, as if daring you to challenge the fact that yes, in his mind, he did own the place now.
At least temporarily.
At least until he figured out how to hunt down that old man and reverse this entire humiliating ordeal.
You started talking to him.
At first, it was small things tossed out while you made coffee or changed out of your work clothes.
“Work was annoying today.”
The words came while you were stirring sugar into your mug, shoulders a little slumped.
“I think my boss hates me.”
This one slipped out during dinner, spoken around a mouthful of rice as you scrolled through your phone with a frown.
“I forgot to eat lunch again…”
That one was softer, almost embarrassed, said while you were already halfway through reheating leftovers at nine in the evening.
Minho would sit there on the floor or on the arm of the couch, posture impeccable, head slightly tilted.
Listening.
Always listening.
He never made a sound, never interrupted with a bark or a whine. He simply absorbed every word like it mattered, storing away the details—the names of difficult coworkers, the deadlines that kept piling up, the way your voice grew quieter when you admitted you felt invisible some days.
You never expected a response. You just… talked.
The words flowed easier after that, turning into long, rambling monologues while you folded laundry or washed dishes. Minho would follow you from room to room, a silent shadow with sharp, intelligent eyes that made you feel strangely seen.
One evening, you came home later than usual.
Your steps were slower.
Heavier.
The door opened with a tired creak, and the usual burst of energy you carried was missing entirely.
Minho noticed immediately.
He was already by the door before you even turned the key, small body tense with anticipation, ears pricked forward.
The moment you stepped in, he stilled.
Something was off.
You didn’t greet him with your usual soft “Hey, little guy” or that tired but genuine smile.
Didn’t smile.
Just kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag a little too carelessly onto the floor, the thud echoing louder than it should have.
“…Hey,” you mumbled, like an afterthought, voice flat and distant as you shrugged off your damp coat.
Minho followed you.
Silent.
Watching.
Every movement catalogued: the way your shoulders curved inward, the slight drag in your steps, the absence of the usual light in your eyes.
You sank onto the couch.
And just… stayed there.
Still.
Too still.
Like the weight of the entire day had finally crushed whatever strength you had left.
Minho hesitated for only a second, tail perfectly motionless as always.
Then he jumped up beside you, landing with careful grace so he wouldn’t startle you.
You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at him.
Minutes passed. Too many.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.
A quiet, broken sound slipped from your throat.
Minho froze.
Your shoulders trembled.
Your hands came up to your face.
And suddenly you were crying. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… quiet.
Like you didn’t want anyone to hear, like you were trying to fold the pain back inside yourself before it could escape.
Something twisted in his chest.
Unfamiliar.
Unwelcome.
A tight, aching pull that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way you looked so small on your own couch.
Minho stood there, stiff, unsure.
He didn’t do this. He didn’t… comfort.
He didn’t know how to fix tears or quiet sobs or the kind of exhaustion that sank into bones.
He was Lee Minho—sharp-tongued and independent, not the one who offered softness.
You curled in on yourself.
Small.
Alone.
And something in him snapped.
Before he could think, before pride could stop him, he moved.
Clumsy, awkward, completely out of his depth.
He climbed onto your lap, paws slipping once on the fabric of your pants before he found balance.
You startled slightly, breath hitching as you looked down at him through blurred eyes.
Minho froze.
For a second, he almost backed away.
Almost pretended it didn’t happen, almost let his usual judgmental stare take over to hide how exposed he felt.
But then, you let out a shaky breath.
“…Hi.”
Your voice cracked on the single syllable, raw and fragile.
Your hand came up, resting gently against his back.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he might disappear if you pressed too hard.
Minho didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t even complain when you pulled him closer, burying your face into his soft fur with a trembling sigh.
Your tears soaked into him, warm and quiet against his neck.
He hated it.
He hated how helpless you looked.
How broken you sounded.
How his chest ached in a way that made no sense, like something inside him was cracking open against his will.
Slowly, he leaned into you.
Just a little.
Just enough to let you feel his steady warmth, his small body a solid anchor in the middle of whatever storm you were weathering.
Your grip tightened around him, fingers curling gently into his fur.
“Thank you,” you whispered, the words muffled and wet.
Minho’s eyes flickered.
Something in him shifted.
Deep. Quiet. Irreversible.
A quiet surrender he wasn’t ready to name.
That night, he didn’t sleep beside you.
He slept against you.
Pressed close.
Listening to your breathing even out into something calmer, steadier.
Making sure you were okay.
His tiny heart kept time with yours, the earlier panic slowly easing into something warmer, more protective.
Across the room.
The shadows stretched long and thin under the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
And something unseen stirred.
A low, familiar voice echoed faintly in the back of his mind, cold and amused,
“You’re getting closer.”
Minho’s eyes snapped open.
Terrified.
For the first time.
Not of the curse.
But of what it meant.
Because this feeling in his chest, this quiet pull toward you, this need to stay…
No.
He shut his eyes again.
Tense.
Unwilling to name it.
Temporary, he told himself firmly, repeating the word like a shield.
It was still temporary. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, then the curse wasn’t the problem anymore.
He was.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Minho started noticing it before he admitted it.
The way his ears would perk at the faintest sound outside the door. The way his body would automatically move—paws padding quickly across the floor, positioning himself right by the entrance like it was instinct. Like he was waiting.
He hated that.
He hated how predictable it was becoming, how his tiny frame betrayed him every single day without fail.
He was Lee Minho, not some lovesick stray.
Yet here he was, ears twitching at every footstep in the hallway, heart doing something annoyingly complicated whenever the clock ticked closer to your usual return time.
The click of your keys.
His head snapped up.
Before he could stop himself—before he could even pretend he didn’t care—he was already there.
His body froze mid-step.
His tail was wagging.
Minho stared at it like it had personally betrayed him, eyes wide with pure horror at the uncontrollable little motion.
“Stop.”
It did not stop.
The door opened.
And the moment you stepped in,
“Hi, baby—oh!”
You barely had time to react before he was at your feet, circling, pressing against your legs, small sounds slipping out of him that he definitely did not approve of—soft whines and eager little huffs that made his own ears burn with embarrassment.
You laughed, surprised, balancing your bag as you looked down at the sudden whirlwind of cream-colored fluff. “Whoa—okay, what’s gotten into you?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
You bent down, hands instantly finding him, scratching behind his ears with that familiar gentle pressure.
Minho melted.
Immediately.
Shamelessly.
Disgustingly.
His eyes half-closed despite himself, body leaning hard into your palms like he had no control left.
“You missed me?” you teased softly, voice warm and amused as you continued the scratches.
He did not.
He refused to acknowledge that.
But he leaned into your touch anyway.
Your smile softened, the tired lines around your eyes easing just a little.
“I missed you too.”
Minho stilled.
Just for a second.
Then—without thinking—he climbed up your leg, paws pressing insistently until you sighed and lifted him into your arms with a fond huff.
“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re clingy today.”
He settled in your arms like he belonged there.
Like that was where he was supposed to be.
And when you pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head, Minho’s brain short-circuited.
He went completely still. Eyes wide.
Heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with running.
The soft press of your lips against his fur sent a spark straight through him, warm and electric and entirely unfair.
“….”
You didn’t notice.
Just walked further inside, still holding him close to your chest.
Talking.
Rambling about your day—the annoying meeting, the coffee that spilled on your notes, the way the train was delayed again.
And Minho, for once, didn’t mind the sound.
He let it wash over him, eyes half-lidded, secretly cataloguing every detail like it mattered more than anything else in his cursed little world.
It became a routine.
A pattern.
Something dangerously close to comfort.
He would wait.
You would come home.
And no matter how much he tried to act indifferent, the moment you walked in,
He was yours.
Until the day you didn’t come home alone.
The moment the door opened, Minho was already there.
Ready.
Waiting.
Expecting you.
Only you.
But then another scent hit him.
Wrong. Unfamiliar. Too close.
Minho’s body went rigid, every muscle tensing under his soft fur.
You stepped in, laughing lightly at something behind you, the sound bright but casual.
“I’m telling you, it’s not that serious—oh, wait, hold on—”
You turned slightly.
And a man followed you in.
Minho froze.
Everything in him sharpened instantly—senses heightened, instincts flaring like wildfire.
Who. Was. That.
The man stepped inside comfortably, like he belonged there.
Like he had the right to be in your space, smiling easily as he glanced around your small apartment.
Minho’s gaze darkened.
Low. Dangerous. His ears flattened against his head.
His body lowered slightly.
And then, he barked.
Aggressive.
The sound echoed off the walls, far fiercer than his small size should have allowed.
You startled. “Oh!”
The man paused mid-step. “Whoa—”
Minho moved in front of you immediately.
Blocking.
Positioning himself between you and him without hesitation, tiny frame planted like a living shield.
Another bark.
Then a growl.
Don’t come closer.
You blinked, confused, setting your bag down slowly. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”
Minho didn’t look at you.
Eyes locked on the man like he was a threat that needed to be eliminated right then and there.
The man raised his hands slightly in surrender, chuckling awkwardly. “Uh… I don’t think he likes me.”
Correct.
Minho bared his teeth, a low rumble still vibrating in his chest.
You frowned, stepping forward. “No, he’s not usually like this—”
Minho panicked the moment you moved.
He turned, pressing himself against your leg, practically climbing you, small whines mixing with his earlier aggression, paws scrabbling for purchase.
Stay back.
Stay with me.
Don’t go near him.
You looked down at him, surprised, voice softening despite the confusion. “Hey…”
He clung tighter.
Possessive.
Desperate in a way he didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand.
The man shifted awkwardly by the door. “Do you… want me to wait outside?”
“Yes,” Minho thought immediately, the word burning in his mind like a command.
“No, it’s fine,” you said at the same time, waving a hand.
Minho’s head snapped up.
No, it’s not.
You sighed softly, crouching down to his level, one hand reaching out. “Hey… what’s gotten into you, huh?”
Your hand came up, cupping his face gently.
Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Minho leaned into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment despite the storm still raging inside him.
But his eyes flicked back to the man.
Still there.
Still too close.
Still wrong.
A quiet growl slipped out again, involuntary and sharp.
You frowned. “That’s not nice…”
I don’t care.
You glanced back at your friend, apologetic. “Sorry, he’s usually really calm.”
The man chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay… I think he’s just protective.”
Protective.
The word echoed in the quiet space.
Minho stilled.
“…Protective?” you repeated softly, almost to yourself, a strange note in your voice.
Minho didn’t react. But something about the way you looked at him shifted — subtle and curious.
Like you were seeing him a little differently now, eyes lingering on his tense little body with newfound wonder.
And he didn’t like that.
Didn’t like how aware he suddenly felt under your gaze.
Didn’t like how his chest tightened when you looked away from him.
Back at the man.
“Anyway,” you said, standing up again with a small smile, “come in. I’ll make some tea or something.”
Minho’s heart dropped.
You stepped away.
Just a step.
But it felt too far.
He barked again. Sharper this time. More desperate.
You turned. “Hey!”
Minho moved immediately, following, pressing against your leg again, refusing to let any space exist between you, weaving between your feet like a living barrier.
Mine.
The thought hit him so suddenly he froze.
…What?
He swallowed.
Confused.
Frustrated.
But when the man laughed at something you said, or when you smiled at him, easy and familiar, Minho felt it again.
That sharp, ugly twist in his chest.
Worse than before.
Stronger.
And for the first time, he didn’t feel in control of it.
That night, the man left. Eventually.
Too late for Minho’s liking, the goodbye at the door dragging on with polite laughter and promises to hang out again soon.
The moment the door closed behind him, silence.
Minho didn’t move from where he sat in the middle of the floor.
Watching.
Waiting.
You sighed, leaning back against the door for a second, rubbing your temples.
“What was that about?”
Minho looked at you. Still. Unreadable.
You crouched down slowly, studying him with that same curious tilt to your head. “You didn’t like him?”
No. Not even a little.
You studied him for a moment longer, fingers brushing lightly over his head.
Then, softly,
“Were you jealous?”
Minho froze.
His entire body went still, every muscle locking up as the word landed like a direct hit.
Your lips twitched slightly, like you weren’t fully serious—but not entirely joking either, a playful glint in your tired eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, reaching out to pet him again, voice warm and fond.
But this time, Minho didn’t just lean in. He climbed into your lap without hesitation. Without dignity.
Pressing himself close like he needed to erase any space that had existed earlier, burying his face against your stomach with a quiet huff.
You blinked, surprised.
Then laughed quietly, the sound gentle in the quiet apartment. “Okay… okay, I get it.”
Your arms wrapped around him naturally.
Easily.
Like it was second nature now.
Minho closed his eyes.
Relief washing over him in a way that made no sense.
That felt too big.
Too real.
Your fingers traced softly along his back in slow, soothing strokes.
“You’re really attached to me, huh?”
Minho didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because if he did—if he even tried to think about it—he’d have to admit something he wasn’t ready to face.
Something the curse had already begun to whisper in the back of his mind.
Something that was becoming harder to deny with every passing day.
Across the room, that same voice lingered.
Teasing.
“Say it.”
Minho’s eyes snapped open.
Heart pounding.
But he didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Not yet.
Because the moment he did—
Everything would change.
But deep down, he knew better.
Because the curse had never made his heart race when you hummed while cooking.
It had never made him feel warm all over when you apologized for being late and immediately checked if he had enough water.
It had never made him want to bite anyone who made you smile the way that man had.
No.
This was something else. Something worse. Something real.
And then it hit him.
All at once.
He had fallen.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
Not because the curse demanded it.
Not because he needed an owner to survive.
But because you were you.
The truth was already there, loud and clear in every beat of his small, stubborn heart.
He loved you.
And for the first time since the curse began, he didn't know if he wanted it to end.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It started with a dream.
At least—that’s what it felt like.
Minho could feel warmth.
Not just the usual kind—the kind from blankets or your hands or the quiet comfort of being near you.
No.
This was… different.
Heavier.
Deeper.
Like something was pulling at him.
A strange pressure built under his skin, tugging at every cell, every bone, every inch of the small fluffy body he had grown far too used to.
His body jerked. A sharp inhale tore through his chest.
And suddenly, everything hurt. Not unbearable.
Just… too much.
Limbs too long. Breathing too big. Heartbeat too loud.
Minho’s eyes snapped open in your room.
The bed felt impossibly large beneath him, the mattress dipping under a weight that no longer belonged to a tiny puppy.
The air against his skin was cooler than it should have been, and the faint scent of your laundry detergent clung to the sheets in a way that made his head spin.
He shifted. And froze. Because that wasn’t right.
His hand pressed against the mattress.
Fingers. Long. Human.
Minho stared at it.
Unmoving.
The fingers flexed slowly, joints cracking faintly, nails blunt and clean instead of tiny claws. He turned the hand over, watching the way the veins shifted under the skin, the subtle play of muscle.
“….”
Slowly, he pushed himself up.
The blanket slid slightly off his shoulder. Cold air hit his skin.
Skin. Not fur.
Minho’s breath caught in his throat, a rough sound that felt foreign in his own ears.
His other hand came up—touching his arm, his chest, his face like he didn’t trust it was real. He traced the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar slope of his nose, the soft strands of dark hair falling over his forehead.
“…No way.”
His voice. His actual voice.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Processing.
Trying to catch up with what had just happened.
The room spun slightly as memories rushed back. The curse had finally answered.
Reality hit.
He looked down.
And immediately grabbed the blanket.
“…This is worse.”
He was completely naked, the thin fabric barely covering anything important. His long legs were tangled in the sheets, bare chest exposed to the cool night air, and the realization sent a flush of pure mortification up his neck.
You stirred.
His head snapped towards you, heart slamming against his ribs.
“No, no—wait—”
Too late. You shifted and slightly turned your body to the side.
You lay there, half-awake, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, hair messy from sleep and wearing an oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder.
“…Did I hear—”
You stopped.
Your eyes landed on the figure sitting there.
A man.
In your room. In your bed.
Wrapped in your blanket. Bare shoulders exposed. Hair messy. Eyes wide.
Staring right back at you with that same sharp, feline intensity you had seen every day for weeks—only now they belonged to a very human, very real face.
Your brain tried to process it.
Failed.
The pillow you had been clutching slipped from your fingers.
“What...”
Minho didn’t move.
His grip on the blanket tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“I can explain.”
Your scream tore through the apartment.
Scrambling and falling off the bed.
“WHAT THE HELL—?!”
You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your own feet as you grabbed the nearest thing you could find—a pillow—and held it up like a weapon, arms shaking.
“WHO ARE YOU?!” you demanded, voice shaking with pure terror. “HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!”
Minho flinched.
The sharp sound cut through him worse than any curse ever had.
“Can you not scream—”
“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO?!”
Fair.
You pointed at him, horrified, eyes wide and glistening with panic. “WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!”
Minho looked down at himself, then immediately looked away, ears burning red.
“That’s not the main issue right now.”
“THAT IS VERY MUCH THE MAIN ISSUE?!”
You backed up another step, panic rising, eyes darting around the room like you were calculating escape routes, weapons, anything that could help.
Minho tightened the blanket around himself, jaw clenching as he tried to keep his voice steady and calm.
“This is going to sound insane,” he said, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment, “but you need to calm down.”
“I AM NOT CALMING DOWN—THERE IS A STRANGE NAKED MAN IN MY BED?!”
This was worse than he thought.
You shook your head rapidly, hair flying. “No—no, I’m calling someone—this is—this is insane—”
You turned slightly, reaching for your phone on the nightstand with trembling fingers.
“Wait.”
Something in his voice made you pause. Not fully. But enough.
You hesitated. Just for a second. Minho saw it and took the chance.
“I didn’t break in.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh, sharp and edged with fear. “Oh, really? So you just spawned there?!”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“You’re insane.”
“I was a dog.”
“WHAT?!”
Minho squeezed his eyes shut for a second, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“Not just any dog,” he muttered, voice low and careful. “Your dog.”
You stared at him.
Blank.
“I’m actually going to call the police now.”
“Wait—!”
He leaned forward slightly. The blanket slipped dangerously low.
You gasped, eyes widening in fresh horror.
“OH MY GOD—STOP MOVING?!”
He yanked it back up instantly, equally horrified, cheeks flushed. “I’m not doing it on purpose—!”
“DON’T EXPLAIN—JUST—STAY THERE?!”
“I am!”
“STAY MORE!”
You made a strangled sound, half-sob, half-laugh of pure disbelief.
This was a nightmare.
This had to be a nightmare.
You pointed at him again, hand shaking so badly the pillow trembled in your grip. “If you say one more insane thing—”
“You named me ‘baby.’”
You froze.
Minho watched your expression carefully.
“You talk to me when you’re tired,” he continued, voice quieter now, almost gentle. “You complain about your boss. You forget to eat unless someone reminds you.”
Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles went white.
“You cry quietly,” he added, softer now, like he was handling something fragile. “Like you don’t want anyone to hear.”
Your breathing hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“And you always,” he said, even softer, “leave a small light on. Even when you say you don’t need it.”
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Your eyes searched his face. Really looked this time.
Not just panic. Not just fear.
But something else. Recognition. Faint.
Impossible.
The same quiet intensity you had seen in those tiny judgmental eyes every single day.
“…That’s not…” your voice faltered, barely above a whisper, “…that’s not possible.”
Minho swallowed, throat tight.
“I know.”
A beat.
“You’re really weird,” you whispered, the words shaky but no longer screaming.
He huffed weakly, a tiny, self-deprecating sound that somehow sounded exactly like the little huff the puppy used to make.
“You have no idea.”
Your gaze dropped briefly—to the blanket, to the way he clutched it like it was the only thing keeping his dignity intact.
Then back to his face.
“If you’re lying—”
“I’m not.”
“If this is some kind of joke—”
“It’s not.”
You hesitated. Still unsure. Still scared.
But not screaming anymore.
The pillow lowered just a fraction.
“Where is my dog?” you asked quietly, voice cracking on the last word.
Minho met your eyes.
“Right here.”
Your breath caught.
And for the first time, you didn’t step back.
You just stared at him.
Like you were trying to find something familiar in someone completely unknown.
And Minho, for the first time since waking up, didn’t feel like running.
Because even like this, even human again, the only place he wanted to stay was still right in front of you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
⤷ ゛ TAGLIST ˎˊ˗
@cheribloss @viisstrayy @hanjinology @phoebemebe @kaydxncx @dudettrin101 @doodlebob2005 @vegemitedonut @daphnnie @thatgirlangelb @lee-does-not-know @pvppymin @a2dkive @whitejuliana1204 @skzmatcha @hehebeanis @sunymoon18 @tearsofgenshin @mallowsweethl16 @rianzysworld @goquokkaaa @genders-waterfall @lonleyswing @xallyouneedislovexx @hyuneskkami @lexlikesbts @aghostatheart @savebangchan1997 @angelchannieeee @written-by-music @asesinas @cb97nini9694 @chandlxa @niku0704
COCKY.
CHAPTER THREE
Hyunjin x reader. (s)
MASTERLIST
Synopsis: When you signed up for a paid product testing program, you expected free samples and money. What you didn’t expect was to be paired with Hwang Hyunjin and assigned to test a series of increasingly questionable sexual wellness products together. (21,7k words)
Author's note: Here's what you've been waiting for. Hope you enjoy it. Pls let me know what you think about it after ❣️
Two years ago. Back when your desk was smaller, tucked in the corner of the marketing floor, just close enough to the project manager’s office for you to be called in at any second. Back when your job was simple. No decisions, no authority. Just work.
You remembered how you liked it that way. Predictable, manageable. Safe. You also remembered the struggle, the menial tasks, the scoldings you got when you made mistakes. You also remembered that one particular morning. So clearly. Not because it was special, but because of how ordinary it felt before everything shifted.
You were halfway through organizing a stack of campaign drafts, color-coded tabs lined up perfectly, your laptop open beside you with three different timelines pulled up, when the office felt different. Quieter and more aware. Like everyone in the room held their breath. You were used to it by then—whispers about someone important visiting, someone from the family. It happened often enough that you learned not to care because… who would care with someone like you?
“Hey,” your project manager called from her office doorway. “Drop that for a second.”
You glanced up, mildly confused but already pushing your chair back. “Yes?”
She gestured for you to come over, her expression unusually attentive. You walked up to her and then noticed someone standing beside her. You didn’t get to see his face as he was standing with his back turned to you.
“Let me introduce you to someone,” your project manager said.
And that was when he revealed himself.
The first thing you noticed was his calmness and the steady, confident way he carried himself. Not arrogance. Not humility either. Just… awareness.
“Well,” your manager started, clearing her throat slightly, “this is—”
“Seungmin,” he finished for himself. His eyes met yours and stayed. “I’ll be joining the marketing team for a while.”
Joining. You processed the word like you had heard it for the first time in your life. Not overseeing. Not observing. Joining.
“Field learning. Part of the rotation,” your project manager explained.
That was when you learned that he was one of them. A part of the family who owned the company. A few of them had taken their part in the company, so you guessed it was his turn. You nodded, a professional smile already in place. “Ah, I see.”
Your manager nodded and then gently placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’ll help him get up to speed.”
“M-me?” you slightly stammered, a mix of surprise and confusion.
“Yeah, you.” She waved it off like it was obvious. “You knew the workflow, you were organized—just let him shadow you, show him how things ran.”
You hesitated not because you couldn’t do it, but because this wasn’t your job. You were just an assistant, and he—
You glanced at Seungmin again, and he was watching you.
“Sure,” you finally said, because saying no would cause you problems. Or worse, your dismissal.
Your manager smiled, already halfway back into her office. “Great. I’ll leave him to you.”
And just like that, it was the two of you standing there, and the silence stretched between you until you awkwardly turned, gesturing toward your desk. “You could—uh, sit there.”
There wasn’t even a proper chair for him yet, and you noticed that a little too late. Thankfully, Seungmin didn’t comment on it. He just walked over, pulled the spare chair from the adjacent desk without asking, and sat.
You watched him for a second and then sat back down yourself. “So,” you began, fingers hovering over your keyboard, “we were currently working on an event campaign. The timeline was tight, so things moved fast.”
He put his hands neatly on his lap and nodded once. “I’ll keep up,” he politely said.
You glanced at him again, and there was something about the way he listened and gave you all of his attention—not interrupting, not pretending to know more than he did. It threw you off more than it should have.
“Okay, you can start here,” you said, turning your screen slightly toward him.
You expected questions or confusion. At least something. But instead, Seungmin leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the screen, taking everything in without a word.
Minutes passed, and then he looked at you and said, “This doesn’t align.”
You stiffened in your seat. “What?”
“This timeline and the vendor confirmation. They overlap,” he explained.
You looked at it closer, and there was a minor detail that you had clearly missed. You glanced at him again, and he was still looking at the screen with observant eyes.
“Thank you for pointing it out,” you said with a flustered smile.
He hummed softly, leaning back again. “You missed it because you were working on too many layers at once.”
You playfully narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’d been here for five minutes.”
“And I was right,” he simply said.
“You were,” you replied, not even trying to argue.
For the first time, you saw his smile. A smile that matched the softness in his gaze, and something about it—about him—stuck. More than you realized at the time. Because if you had known what his presence would become in your life… you might’ve kept your distance, might’ve drawn a line, might’ve protected yourself before it ever got complicated.
But you didn’t, because that was the day you met him—and the day everything started.
-
And today, standing here in front of Seungmin brings you back when you were younger, brighter and eager. And you know that this time it’s different. He’s different and you’re different as well because now— now you know better.
Your name is spoken somewhere in the middle of introductions and that’s when his gaze finds you again. Steady. Unwavering. And then—there it is, that smile. Soft yet controlled like he’s keeping a secret from everyone else but you.
“Please greet our new CMO,” someone says beside him, voice bright with forced enthusiasm.
Seungmin nods once, acknowledging it, but his attention doesn’t stray. It stays on you.
There’s no avoiding it now as he steps forward and holds his hand out at you.
For a second, your body doesn’t move. A part of you holding you back from welcoming him. but everyone is watching and they grow antsy for each second that passed with you just staring at Seungmin’s hand.
So you take a step forward and take his hand out of courtesy, out of respect and nothing more than that. And the moment your hand meets his, it’s like something clicks back into place that you didn’t ask for. A rush. A flicker. A thousand small, buried things clawing their way up at once.
You pull away quicker than necessary, not willing to let the memories floods back in. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sir,” you say, your voice steady in a way that surprises even you.
Seungmin doesn’t respond immediately but his eyes linger, taking you in like he’s measuring the distance between who you were and who you’ve become.
“You’re the event planner now?” he asks, an eyebrow quirks up in curiosity.
You open your mouth, but Gabe gets ahead of you, eager to make a great first impression. Which reminds you of you from two years ago. “Oh, she’s more than that, she basically runs everything related to client events and internal functions,” she says with a proud grin.
You appreciate her for answering on your behalf but you’re not really want to impress anyone in this moment. Especially Seungmin. Not now. Not ever.
He’s still looking at you when he nods. Then, as innocent as it gets, he says, “It’s good to see again.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Something that sits just beneath the surface. You can’t tell if it’s genuine. Or if it’s a way to coax a reaction out of you.
You do the only thing you can. You smile a polished, careful smile and say, “Thank you.”
The always observant, Gabe, of course, doesn’t miss a thing. Her eyes flick between the two of you, curiosity practically sparkling. “Wait… you two know each other?”
Seungmin smiles again and this time, it’s softer, closer to something real.
“We have a history,” he casually says.
The second those words are out of his mouth, you can almost feel all the eyes, the attention shifted to you. You can’t believe he said it just like that, out in the open, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything more than that.
Before anyone can twist it to fit their narrative, Seungmin looks at you, still smiling and adds, “She helped me a lot when I first started here in the company. I joined the marketing team two years ago.”
Low gasps of relief ripples through the room, Gabe’s included. “Oh, that’s amazing,” she says rather too cheerfully.
You almost laugh because you can see that she’s slightly disappointed. Instead, you keep your expression neutral.
“Well, we’re happy to have you back!” Gabe says with a saccharine smile.
Seungmin smiles and then turns to you as he asks, “Are you?”
“Pardon me?” you ask, suddenly being put on the spot.
He tilts his head slightly and asks the question again, clearer this time. “Are you happy to have me back?”
Everything always circles back to you and for a moment, the office disappears. All you can see is him. All you can feel is the echo of what used to be—late nights at the office, shared glances over coffee cups, conversations that stretched a little too long, meant a little too much. And how it all ended.
Yeah, they were happy, warm memories but what matters is the one that still lingers: the hurt.
So you lift your chin slightly and daringly meet his gaze to let him know that what you’re going to say next don’t mean more than what it is. “Yes. We’re happy to have you back in the company.”
For a fraction too long, his eyes falter but he quickly masks it with a smile. And somehow, he makes it seems like he’s still winning with the way he almost looks like he’s been waiting to hear that.
“Then I’m happy to be back,” he simply concludes, his smile widening.
Luckily, someone beside him starts talking again and starts to pull him to another direction to meet more people and do more introduction. Soon, the rhythm of the office picks back up like nothing just happened.
“Okay—” Gabe’s voice snaps you right out of it.
You quickly turn back just in time to see her already halfway leaning over your desk, tablet forgotten in her hand, eyes lit up with something dangerously close to excitement.
“Don’t even try to act normal right now,” she says, pointing at you like she’s caught you red-handed. “You know I’m going to ask.”
You sigh, already moving back to your chair, pulling it out and sitting down like routine alone can save you from this conversation. “What?” you mutter and sigh as you open your laptop.
“What what? That—” she gestures vaguely toward the hallway where he disappeared, “—was not just a ‘we used to work together’ situation.”
You don’t look at her and put top much focus on your emails, opening the ones you already read and replied. Refresh. Scroll. Anything.
“He literally said you have history,” she presses, dropping into the chair across from you without invitation. “People don’t just say that unless—” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “—unless there’s something there.”
There isn’t. But there was.
“We didn’t work together for long,” you say, finally glancing up at her. “He joined the team for a bit, that’s all. Then he left abroad.”
Gabe watches you for a second, clearly trying to read between the lines. “And that’s it?” she asks, skeptical.
You nod once. “That’s it.”
It hangs there. Not convincing. But not disprovable either.
Gabe leans back slowly, still eyeing you like she doesn’t buy it entirely but then, just as quickly, her expression shifts. “Okay, but can we talk about him?”
Here we go. You close your eyes for half a second. Enough to brace yourself for it.
“He’s—” she searches for the word, then gives up entirely, “—he’s insane.”
You raise a brow. “Insane?”
“In a good way! Like—calm, put-together, but you can tell he’s not boring, you know? That kind of dangerous quiet type?”
Dangerous. If only she knew. You huff a quiet breath, looking back at your screen.
“And the way he talks?” Gabe continues, fully invested now as she clutches her tablet close to her chest. “So polite, but not fake. And his smile? Did you see that? It’s like—subtle but also—ugh, I don’t know, it just—works.”
Yes. You did see it. In fact, you’ve seen it a hundred times before.
“And he’s CMO,” Gabe adds, like that’s the final, undeniable point. “Like, that’s insane. He’s young, he’s smart, he’s—”
“Gabe,” you cut in, not sharply, but enough to slow her down. “You’re getting carried away.”
She narrows her eyes at you again, but there’s a grin tugging at her lips now. “You’re just saying that because you knew him before he got hot.”
You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you finally turn your attention fully back to your laptop. “Yeah, something like that,” you mumble.
Gabe lets go for now as she stands, smoothing out her floral dress, already halfway back into work mode. “Well, if there’s anything you’re not telling me, I’ll find out eventually,” she says, glancing back at you,
You don’t doubt that. You worked with her long enough to know how tenacious she can be. She gives you one last look before walking off, already tapping away on her tablet again.
The moment you’re left by yourself, alone with your thoughts — the noise dips, your fingers stop moving over the keyboard and your mind… goes right back to him. To the way he looked at you. To the way your name sat in his mouth like it still belonged there. To everything you didn’t say.
You might have told Gabe you didn’t work together for long, long enough for it to mean anything. That it was just… a brief overlap.
But the truth is… his presence begs the question that you’ve been wondering but now afraid to find out the answer: Have you really moved on past it? past him?
-
When you receive the email of the new CMO asking the marketing team to gather for a meeting first thing in the morning, you know he means business. To everyone else, it seems like Seungmin is trying to make an impression on his new job title. But to you, that’s just Seungmin, focused and ambitious, going straight for what he wants and work hard on it, fights for it until he gets it.
The meeting room is already half full when you step in, the low hum of conversation bouncing off walls and tables. Laptops open, chairs scraping, people settling into place with the kind of energy that only comes when someone important is about to walk in. You take a seat somewhere in the middle, blending in with everyone else as Gabe slides into the chair beside you.
A minute left to the appointed time, the door opens and Kim Seungmin walks in with that ease, that same certainty like he knows he was born with it, born into it and he’s going to make use of it.
Conversations fade as everyone’s attention is now locked on Seungmin. He takes his place at the head of the table, setting down a thin folder before glancing around the room, taking everyone in.
“Good morning, everyone,” he begins with a warm, polite greeting. His voice is calm. Even. Controlled in a way that makes people listen without trying. “I won’t take too much of your time, but I do want to address something important.”
The screen behind him lights up, showing slides, timelines, clean layouts.
“The company’s anniversary is coming up. This isn’t just another annual event,” he continues, hands resting lightly against the table as he leans forward just slightly. “It’s an opportunity.”
His gaze moves across the room again, measured, intentional. “To reinforce the company’s identity. To make an impression—internally and externally.”
He pauses to let what he says sit with everyone. “You’re all here because you’re capable of delivering that.”
There’s no fluff in his tone. No exaggerated praise. Just expectation. “And I expect exactly that,” he adds.
You somehow find yourself sitting a little straighter. So does everyone else.
“I want your best ideas. Your best execution. No shortcuts. No half-measures. And if there are challenges—bring them up early. Solve them early. I’d rather deal with problems head-on than clean up after them.”
This part is familiar. The way he speaks. The way he leads. It pulls something from memory you didn’t ask to revisit. Two years ago. Standing beside him in smaller rooms, team meetings, when he was still learning, but even then, he sounded like this. Like he always knew where he was going.
“And for the event itself. I’ll be working closely with the planning team,” Seungmin continues.
You stiffen at that. Just slightly.
“Coordination between departments will be key.”
There’s a brief pause and then, almost casually, his gaze hovers and then lands on you. This time, it stays.
“Which means I’ll be relying on you,” he says.
He addresses not your title. Not “the team.” You.
The room follows his gaze and you feel every pair of eyes turning, curious, expectant. You keep your expression steady and professional.
“Understood,” you reply, voice even.
Seungmin nods once and then moves on to the next things. But you’re still reeling from it because the way he said it— feels like this wasn’t about work. Which leads you to believe that this isn’t just another project. Not with him here. Not with things the way they are. Because whether you like it or not, you’re working with him again.
And this time, there’s a lot more at stake.
-
By the time you step back into your office, you’ve already slipped back into your role, mind reorganizing itself into lists and timelines, planning the next steps.
Gabe is right behind you and she doesn’t even wait for you to sit. “Okay,” she starts, dropping into her chair like she’s been holding it in this entire time, “be honest—has he always been like that?”
You pause halfway through pulling your chair out. “Like what?”
Gabe gestures vaguely, searching for the words. “Cool. Composed. Charismatic. Like he walked in and just—owned the room?”
You sit down, turning your laptop toward you, buying yourself a second. “I don’t know,” you answer, a little too quickly. “We didn’t work together that long, remember?”
You know that’s not true. You knew him. You knew exactly how he was. But it’s safer that way, sticking to your initial response. Dismissive, even.
Gabe doesn’t look convinced but she hums and nods, letting it slide.
“Good morning!”
The voice comes with a grin you can feel before you even look up and you already know.
You sigh, deep and annoyed before finally looking up and see Hyunjin walking toward your desk, one hand casually holding a tablet like it weighs nothing, the other shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans, hair tied in that effortless half-up style that somehow looks intentional. And that grin. Always that grin.
You paste on a smile but your eyes? Your eyes shoot a laser glare that could bore a hole between his eyes.
Hyunjin doesn’t flinch. Not even a little. Instead, he walks right up to your desk like the rest of the office doesn’t exist, plants one hand against the surface, and leans down just enough to meet you at eye level.
“Rule number one,” you mutter under your breath with jaws clenched. “Remember?”
He just smiles and instead of answering, he hands you the tablet. “Here’s the revised designs for the event invitations,” he informs.
You stare at him and then at the tablet. Then back at him. Your eyes still suspicious but you take it anyway. Leaning back into your chair, you start flipping through the designs and assessing them.
Meanwhile, Hyunjin makes himself at home. Literally. He perches on the edge of your desk, completely unbothered, and then—because he cannot help himself—he turns to Gabe.
“I like your glasses. They suit you really well.”
You don’t even need to look to know Gabe melts from Hyunjin’s compliment. She giggles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like this is a completely normal reaction. You resist the urge to roll your eyes and continue assessing the designs.
“So, ladies,” Hyunjin suddenly says, picking up your stress ball and squeezing it absentmindedly, “what do we think about the new CMO?”
Your fingers stop hover over the tablet screen for a second.
Gabe, however, lights up immediately. “Oh, I think he’s amazing. Handsome, charismatic, smart—like, the whole package,” she says without the slightest of hesitation.
Hyunjin nods slowly, like he’s considering it. “Is he your type, Gabe?”
“No,” Gabe shortly answers, shaking her head before turning to Hyunjin with a pointed look, “you are.”
You quietly scoff and roll your eyes.
Hyunjin, to his credit, plays it cool. “Good to know,” he says, winking at Gabe.
Gabe giggles again and props a hand under her chin. “I think he feels more like her type,” she adds, glancing at you now.
Your eyebrow twitches and you force to keep your focus on your work. However, from your peripheral, you see the way Hyunjin shifts, turning slightly and his attention moves back to you.
“Is he your type?” he asks.
You keep your eyes on the tablet, flipping to the next design like this conversation is beneath you. “He’s… alright,” you say, noncommittal. It’s the safest answer you can give.
Hyunjin hums, like he’s filing that away.
But Gabe, sweet little Gabe is thriving in it. “They actually used to work together, you know,” she chimes in, way too casually like this is a public knowledge.
You close your eyes for a brief moment hoping that it would help you escape this. No. No, no—
“Is that true?” Hyunjin asks, looking at you again.
Before you can answer, Gabe confirms proudly. “It is! He even said it himself—said they ‘have history’.”
You don’t even process the exact words because all you notice is the way Hyunjin goes still for a second. “History, huh?” he repeats, quieter now.
You don’t let it breathe and grow. You decide to cut it off from here. “Designs look good,” you say quickly, sitting up and handing the tablet back to him. “This one needs a slight font adjustment, but overall, it’s fine.”
Hyunjin takes the tablet from you and with it, he lets the conversation slides. Or at least, it looks like it. He hops off your desk, attention shifting back to the screen as he nods. “Got it.”
For a second, you think he’s leaving and you’re about to let out a sigh of relief when he suddenly turns back and grins.
“One more thing,” he says, holding up a finger like he’s just remembered something.
Of course.
He taps on his tablet, pulling something up before holding it out toward you. “Which one should I wear for the anniversary party?”
Is he serious? On the screen are photos of suits. On the left is a pinstripe with a pocket square. On the right is a sleek black one, minimal, no tie.And you just know—there are way more options in there, but he’s only showing you these two.
He’s waiting for your answer and you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Not because you don’t have an opinion. But because your head is… somewhere else.
Gabe, bless her, jumps in immediately. “I personally think you’d look good in anything,” she says, then points to the left one, “but I vote pinstripe.”
Hyunjin nods, accepting it with an easy smile. “Noted.”
You think that’s the only answer he needs but his eyes flick back to you, still waiting. After a moment passes with no answer, he exhales softly, like he expected that and closes the tablet.
“I’ll give you more time to think,” he says, almost teasing. He presses the tablet lightly against his chest and takes a step back.
“Have a great day,” he adds, glancing between you and Gabe before turning to leave.
You watch him walking away in wide, confident strides and with this ease within him, effortless and almost reckless. So different from the other person. So— you stop that thought immediately because you know where it leads and you’re not going there.
You shake your head once, hard enough that you feel like it’s about to roll down the floor and turn back to your laptop.
-
The days start to blur after that. Deadlines stack. Emails multiply. Meetings bleed into one another until you can’t quite tell where one ends and the next begins. The anniversary event sits at the center of it all and you handle it as best as you can.
The exhaustion eventually gets to you in the way your shoulders ache a little more each night. In the way your thoughts lag just a second too long. In the way sleep doesn’t quite feel like rest anymore.
So one morning, you wake up tired and lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather enough energy just to get up. Eventually, you do and you get to your routine like always.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re already running through your schedule for the day. But when you open the fridge, there’s no overnight oats for you, no chia pudding you prepared for a busy morning like this. You stare at it for a second longer than necessary before closing it with a quiet sigh.
You don’t feel like cooking. Even the thought of it is already making you tired. You drag yourself toward the counter, reaching for a mug, deciding on coffee first to help your brain works faster.
But when you open the cabinet and see Hyunjin’s cereal box, a thought pops in your head. Yeah, you’re sworn to never touch it, not even considered it. But… considering that it’s an urgent situation and you kind of need the energy to get through the day—
You glance around the kitchen, once, twice like he might suddenly appear out of nowhere, leaning against the counter, grinning at you like he caught you doing something you shouldn’t. But after a while, you realize how stupid it is.
“He’s not here,” you scold yourself.
You reach for the cereal box and slowly take it out of the cabinet. Like you’re committing a minor crime. You put just enough cereal to fill half a bowl and then pour the milk after. You grab a spoon and take it to the dining table with you.
You sit, open your laptop and then shove a spoonful of cereal into your mouth. You taste it and oh, it’s not that bad. It’s sweeter than your preferred taste but now you get it why he likes it so much. It’s simple and easy. Comforting, almost.
You huff out a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly as you take another spoonful. “Alright. I see it now,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything.
-
The anniversary is tomorrow and at this point, you’re running on caffeine and fumes.
You push the door open to the control room with your shoulder, one hand still clutching your tablet, the other already reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
The space greets you with a low mechanical hum of panel full of blinking buttons and toggles and little monitors. It’s quiet and peaceful in here, but with Hyunjin in the room, you doubt it stays like that.
He sits in one of the swivel chairs, long legs stretched out, tablet recklessly sits on his thigh. His hair is tied in a messy bun with a few strands falling loose, beautifully framing his small, angular face. When he hears the door open, he doesn’t turn immediately. He waits and then slowly, he tilts his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, that familiar grin already there like he’s been expecting you.
“Look who finally showed up.”
You don’t entertain it. Instead, you walk straight past him, placing your tablet down on the console as your eyes immediately go to the main screen. “Have you tested the final render?” you ask, all business.
Hyunjin spins the chair around lazily, stretching his arms above his head like he’s just woken up from a nap. “Relax. I was waiting for you.”
“Go ahead and play it then,” you say, standing closer to the panel.
Hyunjin nudges the operator sitting next to him and says, “You hear the boss lady.”
The operator flicking a few buttons and not long after, the screen on the main stage comes alive. The opening sequence rolls out smoothly across the massive display, colors blooming in rich gradients, transitions clean and fluid. The theme of the anniversary threads through every frame. It’s… good. No—better than good.
“Oh—” you let out softly, stepping a little closer to the glass window. “This…”
Hyunjin only looks at you, patiently wait for you to finish your sentence.
You glance at him briefly before looking back at the visuals. “It’s perfect,” you shake your head slightly, impressed despite yourself. “It’s simple, but it works. It feels… expensive.”
A small smile tugs at your lips as you look at him and genuinely praise him for his work. “You did a good job.”
You already brace yourself for his witty respond or a tease but Hyunjin isn’t smirking. He’s just looking at you, something quieter sitting behind his eyes.
It throws you off. You narrow your eyes slightly. “What?”
He nods once, like he’s snapping out of something. Then the corner of his mouth lifts into a soft smile, eyes forming into crescents. “Just didn’t expect you to compliment me so sincerely.”
You scoff lightly, turning back to the panel. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I will. I might even frame it,” he jokingly says.
You shake your head, but there’s a faint breath of amusement in it. “So, have you decided what you’re wearing tomorrow?”
Hyunjin hums, tapping his pen against his screen. “Nope.”
You glance at him. “Still?”
“I’ll look good in anything anyway,” he says with a coy shrug.
You roll your eyes at that. “That wasn’t the question.”
He grins, unapologetic.
You exhale through your nose before stepping closer and reaching for his tablet. “Give me that.”
He hands it over without resistance, watching you with quiet curiosity as you scroll through the gallery. And you were right — he actually saved more outfit photos on his gallery. You scan through them, brows knitting slightly in concentration until one catches your eye. You stop, tilt the screen toward him. “I vote for his one.”
Hyunjin leans in, studying it and his lips slowly curl into a smirk. “Interesting…”
“It suits you. Better than the others,” you say, handing the tablet back.
He takes it, still looking at the image for a second longer before nodding. “Alright. I’ll trust you.”
Hyunjin leans back on his chair and looks at you. “How about you?” he suddenly asks.
“What about me?”
“Have you decided what you’re going to wear tomorrow night?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“Want my help?”
“No,” you instantly refuse.
But you can see his fingers moving, already typing something into the search bar. A second later, he turns the tablet toward you, showing you a picture of a leopard print dress.
“I vote for this one,” he says with a wide, unapologetic grin.
You let out a short laugh under your breath. “Absolutely not.”
“It’d look hot,” he insists, completely serious.
“Nope,” you flatly reject the idea.
“What are you going to wear then?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure there’s something lying around in my closet.”
Hyunjin clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “No. You can’t. You should wear something special.”
Special? You scoff at that. What you need to wear is something simple since you’d be running around the place to make sure everything is running smoothly. You wave him off, already turning away—done with the conversation.
That’s when you see him. Seungmin. He stands by the doorway, unnoticed until now. His gaze moves from you to Hyunjin, then back to you again.
“Everything going well?” he asks.
You straighten immediately and your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Yes—everything is on track. We’ve finalized the visual assets, lighting cues are being synced, and we’re running full tests today to ensure everything transitions smoothly during the event.”
You keep going with the details, timelines, backup plans and anything to fill the space, to keep it professional, distant.
Seungmin listens, nodding occasionally. “Good. Keep me updated,” he says when you finally pause.
“Yes, of course,” you politely answer.
That’s all he needs to know but Seungmin’s eyes linger on you, a little too long. You catch something flickers in his eyes before he smooths it over with a polite smile. “I’ll leave you to it.”
You give him a polite nod and then watch him walk away. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it leaves you in a quiet rush.
Behind you, Hyunjin leans back and crosses his arms together. A hand comes up to his lips, absentmindedly rubbing on it as he solemnly thinks. “Wow, I can see why he’s your type,” he mutters, voice laced with amusement.
“Ugh. Don’t start,” you groan, shoulder slumped.
“Yeah. I can see the chemistry,” he teasingly says with eyes slightly narrowed.
You exhale sharply. “There’s nothing.”
“You two definitely have a history,” he teases with a grin plastered to his face.
You refuse to be his entertainment. Not now. You huff a breath and mutter, “Whatever.”
You look down at your tablet, put your focus back on work, but you’re barely reading anything. Because all you can think about is the way Seungmin looked at you and the way Hyunjin noticed.
-
By the time the last checklist in your head ticks itself off, you finally allow yourself to let out a long exhale of air before turning on your heel and leave the hall.
The building feels quieter as you step out into the hallway. You’re aware that it’s because most of the employees have already been dismissed early, rushing home to get ready for the anniversary party. Their absence leaves behind a strange kind of calm like the pause before something big begins.
Your heels echo faintly against the floor as you make your way upstairs to your office. You push the door open, already listing what you need to grab before heading home. But you stop once you noticed there’s a big paper bag sitting on your desk.
Your brows pull together, puzzled. “What?”
You glance around instinctively, like someone might suddenly appear and explain it, but the office is empty. There are only a couple of janitors emptying trash cans and sweeping the floor.
It’s just you and the bag. You circle your desk, stopping just behind your chair, staring at the thing like it might explain itself if you look hard enough. There’s only a small card hanging from the handle with your name written on it.
So, the bag is clearly meant for you but now, you wonder who sent it. You peek inside and there’s only a big box. You can’t see exactly what it is yet, not without taking it out. Before your hand can reach inside, your phone chimes on your desk and the screen lights up. You don’t check the notification that just came, but at the time.
You gasp because you’re running out of time so without thinking, you shove all of your things into your bag and decide to grab the mysterious paper bag, taking it home with you.
When you get home, you barely remember kicking your shoes off or setting your bag down somewhere along the way. You go straight on getting ready for the night. You showered, dried your hair as best as you can and put on some skincare. By the time you step out of the bathroom, you feel lighter. Still tired, but much lighter.
With a towel still wrapped around you, you head for your closet to choose something to wear but the sight of the paper bag stops you on your track. It’s been sitting there on the bedroom floor, reminding you of its mysterious content and sender.
You walk toward it, staring at it before finally, reaching inside for the box and take it with you. You sit on the edge of the bed and place the box next to you. Your fingers move to the lid, slowly and carefully like whatever’s inside might be fragile.
The lid comes off with barely a sound and inside is fabric, black fabric. Folded neatly, wrapped in thin layers of tissue paper that crinkle softly as you peel them back. You slip your fingers under the material and almost gasp when you feel the softness of the fabric, then carefully lift it out like you’re afraid it might tear.
The dress unfolds in your hands and it’s beautiful. It’s black, with a clean square neckline that frames the collarbone, lace detailing woven delicately along the edges. It’s simple yet elegant in a way that doesn’t try too hard.
To get a better look at it, you get up and hold the dress close to your body. Something slips from between the fabric. A small piece of paper drifting down onto the bed. You fold the dress on your arm as your other arm reaches for the card. You flip it over and you instantly recognize the handwriting, cursive letter with delicate curls on certain letters.
Can’t have you wearing what’s lying around in your closet.
It says on it and your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the card when you catch the name of the sender on the bottom corner. Kim Seungmin.
Your heart dips because that means… he heard it. Yesterday. That conversation you had with Hyunjin in the control room. He was there. He heard it. And worse, he took notes and decided to act on it.
Your gaze drifts back to the dress and your grip loosens just slightly. Because now, it’s not just a dress. It’s what it means. It’s the fact that after all this time, after everything— he still notices. Still pays attention. Still cares.
And that, that’s what unsettles you the most.
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. Your eyes flicker between the dress and the card again, staring at them while wondering why it still affects you this much.
You don’t take either of them, but put everything back into the box and pretend that you didn’t just open it. You sit on your vanity and start doing your makeup. Then you do your hair next. You don’t give yourself a time to sit and think but keep moving, keep going.
Your closet door slides open with a quiet sound, revealing rows of familiar choices. Your hand moves, brushing past fabrics, pulling one dress out… then another. You lay them on the bed, side by side, evaluating.
But your eyes— your eyes drift without permission to the box still sitting there on the edge of your bed. The sheen of the black fabric catches the light just enough to draw you in again, inviting you to take another look.
You look away and shake your head lightly, like that alone is enough to clear it. “No,” you murmur under your breath.
Because what would that even mean? Wearing it. Accepting it. Letting Seungmin have that kind of… presence over you again.
You turn back to your closet, firmer this time and pick one dress you’ve worn before. You slip it on, adjust it, turn toward the mirror. And, it’s fine. That’s all.
You stare at yourself for a second longer than necessary. Then you exhale, peel it off. You put on the next one, check the mirror again and still, it’s not right.
“Why does this feel…” you trail off, not finishing the thought.
None of them feel right. Each one ending the same way—half a second of consideration before that quiet dissatisfaction settles in your chest again. Your room grows messier with each attempt, discarded options piling onto the bed, onto the chair, onto the floor. And through it all, that box sits there. Unbothered.
Your gaze drifts back to it again and don’t fight it this time. You look at the dress and how it falls so effortlessly even when it’s not being worn. You know exactly this is a bad idea. A terrible idea.
Wearing it would send a wrong message and you don’t even know what the message is, you just know that it will. And then you look at the mirror, at your reflection. Then at the clock.
Time is slipping and you don’t have the luxury to overthink this anymore.
“Just pick something,” you mutter.
But your feet stay there, they don’t move toward the closet. They move toward the bed. You stop in front of the box and look down at it.
One last chance to walk away and you don’t take it. Instead, you reach in. Your fingers wrap around the fabric, lifting it out again, feeling the weight of it settle into your hands. And with an exasperated sigh, you’ve decided.
You slip the dress over your body, the fabric gliding over your skin like it was made to sit there and as expected, it feels right. Like it was always meant to be worn. You adjust the neckline, smooth the sides and turn toward the mirror.
You look good and more than that, it feels good. And from the look of it, you know it’s expensive and it would be a shame to not wear it. Right?
But you also can’t ignore the fact that now, you have to face what comes with it.
-
The anniversary part is going as planned and a part of it, is because of you. You stand at the edge of it all, half-hidden from the spotlight, your eyes scanning the room like you’re still expecting something to slip through the cracks. The walkie-talkie stays glued to your hand as your eyes sweep through the room.
“Lighting check, west side,” you murmur into it.
A beat later, a confirmation crackles back.
You nod to yourself, even though they can’t see it. Your gaze moves again to the scattered tables, the stage, VIP booths on the second level, entrances and everything in its place. Everything right.
Still, you don’t relax. You don’t give yourself a chance to slack off. Anything can get—
“Here, you can have the first sip,” a voice says, a hip flask pressed toward you, close enough that you catch a whiff of that sharp, strong smell of alcohol.
You slowly turn your head to the side and find Hyunjin there, standing beside you like he’s been there all along, a grin already playing on his lips as he lifts the flask slightly in your direction. “You look like you need it.”
You glance at the flask. Then back at him. “No thanks,” you say, lightly pushing his hand away.
Hyunjin shrugs like he expected that, bringing it to his lips anyway. He takes a small sip and immediately winces. “Ugh,” he mutters under his breath, capping it again.
You take a step back, finally letting your eyes properly take him in and realize that he’s wearing the suit you picked. And as expected, the 70s cut fits him perfectly, especially with the tall, lean figure he was born with. Added with the fact that he let his hair down, giving the look that much needed flair of a 70s rockstar.
You nod, almost unconsciously. “So you went with my suggestion.”
Hyunjin glances down at himself, then back at you, acting like it’s no big deal. “Maybe.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him a little more openly now. “You look like George Harrison,” you say.
Then, with a faint smirk, you teasingly add, “If I squint hard enough.”
He cracks a laugh. “That your favorite Beatles?”
You innocently nod. “Yeah.”
He pouts slightly, thoughtful. “I thought you’d be a Paul McCartney kind of girl.”
You scoff lightly. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
Hyunjin nudges your shoulder, leaning in just a little too close, his voice dropping into something teasing. “Does that mean I’m your favorite?”
You scoff again, shaking your head. “If you grow the mustache, then I might consider it.”
He chuckles at that, staying right there beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without even trying.
For a moment, you both just watch. The room alive in front of you. The night unfolding exactly the way it should.
You glance at him briefly and smile. “You must be having fun.”
He tilts his head. “Why’s that?”
You gesture vaguely toward the crowd. “This is your playground. All the hot girls in this company are here tonight.”
Hyunjin follows your gaze, nodding once. But he doesn’t say anything.
That alone makes you narrow your eyes slightly. You playfully nudge him and tease, “So, who’s the lucky girl, Romeo?”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, shrugging. “Don’t think my type’s here.”
You scoff, turning your head to scan the room again. Your eyes land on a group of girls gathered around one table, dressed to impress, drinks in hand, they’re chatting and laughing but their eyes, the eyes are actively searching.
You lean slightly closer to Hyunjin, pointing subtly at the girl in pink chiffon dress that looks beautiful against her fair skin. “What about her?”
He doesn’t even look. “What about her?”
You shoot him a look. “I think she has potential.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod, serious now, like you’re evaluating a candidate. “Great hair. Pretty face. Nice smile. She looks like she could handle a charming fuckboy like you. There’s a chance that she has a high tolerance in bad jokes too.”
Hyunjin clutches his chest dramatically, offended. “Ouch.”
You laugh in satisfaction but then his arm comes up, settling loosely around your shoulders as he turns you slightly, guiding your attention elsewhere. “Look over there,” he murmurs.
Your eyes follow to the VIP section where a group of older executives, seated comfortably—but one stands out. White hair, ash grey suit, posture stiff, a walking stick resting in front of him.
Hyunjin leans in closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “That one looks like he’d enjoy a heated argument as foreplay.”
You snort at that.
“And would absolutely love your overnight oats the morning after.”
You turn your head toward him and it doesn’t faze you that his face is merely inches away from yours. “Shame on you. I already have my type of man with me tonight,” you murmur, a hint of amusement still in your voice.
An eyebrow raised in intrigue. “Who?”
Instead of answering, you lift the walkie-talkie slightly in your hand. Then you shrug his arm off your shoulders, stepping away.
“Control room, confirm stage reset in five,” you speak into it, already slipping back into work mode.
Hyunjin’s confused look replaced with something brighter, almost like a relief as he watches you walk away.
Feeling mischievous, you walk straight toward the table where the girls are gathered and to the girl you pointed out earlier. You gently tap her shoulder gently.
She turns, confused. But before she can say anything, you lean in slightly. “That guy—” you point subtly toward Hyunjin, “—says you look beautiful tonight.”
Her eyes widen just a little before immediately finding him across the room, already riveted by Hyunjin’s appearance.
Behind her back, you look at Hyunjin, giving him a thumbs-up and mouth. You can thank me later.
Then you turn away like nothing happened, bringing the walkie-talkie back to your lips as you disappear into the flow of the night again. Back where you belong, on the sidelines and in control.
Even if, for a second there, you weren’t.
-
The kitchen is chaos as waiters come and go, delivering trays of finger foods and drinks for guests and you’re right in the middle of it as you help arranging delicate portions onto pristine plates meant for people who will barely take two bites.
You don’t notice Gabe at first until her voice cuts clean through the noise. “What are you doing?”
You barely glance up, too busy cleaning the edge of the plates with a napkin. “Plating for the VIP section. They mixed up the—”
“No,” she cuts in again, firmer this time, stepping closer. “What are you doing here?”
You properly look at her, brows knitting just slightly. “I just told you—”
“And I’m telling you that’s not your job tonight,” she says and something in her tone makes you stop moving for a second.
You open your mouth to argue, to insist, to default back into responsibility because it’s easier than… whatever else is out there but Gabe is faster. She plucks the walkie-talkie straight out of your hand.
“Hey—” You protest dies down as she shoves it into her purse like it’s been confiscated.
“Nope.” She grabs your wrist next, already pulling you away from the counter. “You’ve done enough. If something explodes, someone else can handle it for once.”
“I need to—”
“No. You need,” she interrupts, dragging you through the swinging kitchen doors, “to stop acting like the entire company will collapse if you’re not supervising every olive on a toothpick.”
The music hits you the second you step back into the hall. The DJ’s taken over now, the atmosphere completely different from earlier. The lights are lower, shifting with the beat. People are laughing, dancing, leaning into each other like the night has finally loosened its grip on professionalism.
Gabe snatches a glass of champagne from a passing tray, and shoves it into your hand. “There,” she says, looking at you like she just handed you a lifeline. “Drink.”
You stare at the glass. Then at her. “Gabe, I really—”
“Stop worrying,” she scolds, gentler now but no less firm. “Just… enjoy it. For once.”
There’s no room left to argue. Not with the way she’s looking at you. So you lift the glass and in one go, you drink it down completely. The bubbles burn a little on the way down. You barely even taste it.
Gabe’s expression softens, just slightly, like she’s satisfied enough. “Good. Now go.”
Before you can question that, she nudges — no, pushes you forward, right into the edge of the dance floor. Bodies move around you instantly, caught in the rhythm of the music. You just stand there for a second, completely out of place, like someone dropped you into the wrong scene.
You turn back and Gabe’s still there, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk. And somehow, that’s more intimidating than anything else tonight. So you do the only thing you can think of, you nod and turn.
Instead of staying where she can see you, instead of even attempting to blend in with the dancing crowd, you slip sideways—cutting through people, murmuring quick apologies, weaving your way out with practiced ease. An escape route.
You’re almost at the exit, hand lifting to push the door open when something catches your eye. Off to the side, near one of the cocktail tables is Hyunjin. He’s leaning in slightly, that easy posture, talking to the girl you pointed out earlier.
For a second, you just watch and then you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Then, you push the door open and step out into the quiet beyond, the music dulling instantly behind you as it closes.
And for the first time all night, you finally breathe.
-
The balcony is not empty, not crowded either. There’s a couple of people scattering around, chatting and laughing in muted voices, curls of smoke escaped in between them. You slip past them without much thought, drawn instinctively to the far end, the quieter side of the balcony where the railing overlooks the stretch of city lights glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky. You lean against it, palms pressing lightly to the cool metal and then… you breathe. Slow. Deep. Again. And again.
It feels like the first real breath you’ve taken all night—maybe all week. The tension that’s been sitting tight in your shoulders finally loosens, just a little. The music inside becomes a distant pulse, muffled by glass and distance, no longer demanding your attention.
For a moment, you let yourself exist without thinking. Just stay there, enjoying the night while ignoring the gust of wind sweeps through the balcony, slipping easily past the thin fabric of your dress. You shiver, instinctively crossing your arms over yourself, hands gripping your upper arms as if you can trap some warmth there.
It doesn’t quite work but still, you stay. Still, you breathe.
And then, something settles over your shoulders. You stiffen immediately before slowly turning to find Seungmin there.
He’s closer than you expected, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer before he lets them fall away. A soft smile lingers on his lips, subtle, controlled like he’s holding more of it back. He steps beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence without him touching you again, his gaze shifting out to the city like he belongs here just as much as you do.
For a moment, neither of you say anything.
“You did well tonight,” Seungmin says, his voice calm and familiar in a way that does something to your chest. “You and your team… it shows. The anniversary is a successful night.”
You nod, almost automatically, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric draped over your shoulders. “We’re just doing our job,” you say, deciding on a safe, humble answer.
Seungmin hums softly, like he expected that answer. “Still, I should treat everyone to a meal soon,” he announces.
You give him a polite smile. “You don’t have to.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “I want to.”
It goes quiet again but it’s filled with things unsaid. With things remembered. You keep your eyes on the city. But you notice it anyway, the way he turns slightly toward you, the weight of his attention settling fully on you.
“We haven’t had time to properly catch up,” he says, loosely clasping his hands together in front of him.
You actively telling yourself to not look at him. Stay still. Stay steady.
Then he turns his head and asks, in the most innocent way possible. “How are you?”
It’s such a simple question. So normal but at the same time, so… unfair. Because it makes it sound like nothing happened. Like time didn’t stretch and pull and break in between the last time you saw him and now. Like the space between then and now can be folded neatly into a polite conversation on a balcony.
You could tell him. You could tell him about the months that felt like the hardest part of your life you had to go through. About the way everything shifted after he left. About how long it took to feel like yourself again.
However, the words don’t come. Because you don’t even know if he remembers it the same way you do. If he remembers it at all.
“I’m fine,” you say and it comes out easier than you expect.
Seungmin nods, taking it as it is. Then he nods and says, “I’m happy to see you doing well.”
Something about it feels like he’s trying to poke at you. Like he knows just enough to acknowledge it, poking around it without having to address it directly.
You do what you always do in this situation. You offer him a smile, a polished, detached smile.
“I feel great knowing we’ll be working together again,” he says.
That makes you look at him, just for a second, just to see if there’s a clue flickering in his eyes.
“It’ll feel like old times. Just you and me.”
Old times? If there’s anything you want, you hope that’s not the case. You shake your head slightly, forcing a small, dismissive smile. “You won’t need that. There are plenty of people here who’s more than willing to help you.”
He doesn’t respond right away but when he does, it’s quieter but more direct. “You know it’d mean more to me if it’s you.”
Another gust of wind cuts through the balcony, colder and sharper. Something catches in your eye, making you flinch slightly, your hand lifting instinctively to shield your face as you blink it away.
Then, his hand is there, warm against your jaw. He tilts your face up just slightly, his other hand moving to gather your hair away from your face. His fingers brush along your temple as he tucks it behind your ear, holding it there for just a moment longer than necessary.
He waits until you’re looking at him to say, “I want you by my side.”
This, right here — feels something like old times. His eyes, they haven’t changed. The warmth. The same quiet intensity. The same way they used to look at you like you were something dear, something certain, something… his. The same eyes that made you believe he wouldn’t let you go.
But he did. He did let you go and the realization crashes into you all over again like a bucket of cold-water washes over you.
You take a step back and it forces his hand away from you. You hurriedly shrug off the jacket from your shoulders, the warmth suddenly too much, too suffocating, and press it back into his hands without meeting his eyes again.
“I have to get back inside,” you say while avoiding his eyes.
You don’t wait for a response but start walking toward the door. A few steps later, you hear him softly calling your name, so softly that his voice blurs with the wind.
You stop, debating for a second whether to turn or keep walking. Curiosity gets to you and your feet moving before your brain can catch up. You turn around, finding him leaning against the railing now, the suit jacket hanging on one arm.
“It looks great on you,” he says, his lips curling into an amused smile.
You’re puzzled for the first five seconds until he gestures toward you. Toward your dress. Oh, shit, the dress.
Now that he’s seen it, you have no other option but acknowledge it and say the magic word. “Thank you,” you say, politely and in defeat.
He nods and smiles. “You’re very welcome,” he says.
With that, you turn away and walk back toward the noise, the lights, the crowd. Just anywhere but here. Anywhere but with him.
-
From the upper level, the party looks different. Like a wave finally pulling back after crashing all night.
The crowd has thinned—clusters breaking apart, people slipping out in twos and threes, heels in hand, jackets thrown over shoulders. The music still plays, but it’s lost its urgency now, settling into something slower, something that hums instead of pulses.
A few remain on the dance floor, stubborn or simply unwilling to let the night end. Their laughter drifts upward, faint but warm. You lean slightly against the railing, watching it all unfold and thinking. You try not to—but your mind circles back anyway. To the balcony. To him. To the way Seungmin looked at you like nothing had changed. Like time hadn’t carved distance between you. Like you could just… step back into it. You don’t even know if he remembers it the same way. If it meant the same thing to him. If it still does.
No. You’re not doing this tonight. You tear your gaze away from the floor below, forcing yourself to move. You head down and find Gabe almost immediately. She’s exactly where you’d expect her to be—lounging at the bar, one elbow propped up, looking far too relaxed for someone who’s been running alongside you all week.
You slide onto the stool beside her. “How’s everything?”
She turns her head slowly before looking back at the small cluster of people on the dance floor, swaying their bodies to the slow music. “As you can see, it’s wrapping up,” she says, like she’s already answered this question a hundred times. “You can stop hovering now. It’s a successful night.”
You nod and let on a small smile. “Yeah, it is a successful night,” you murmur in part pride, part relief that this is over.
This calls for a proper celebration. You lift your hand, signaling the bartender. “Two champagnes.”
Gabe raises a brow but doesn’t argue, and a moment later, two glasses are placed in front of you. You pick one up, handing the other to her. “To surviving this week,” you say.
She clinks her glass against yours. “To you finally letting go for five minutes.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, bringing the glass to your lips. This time, you don’t rush it.
You let yourself actually taste it —that hard-earned sweetness of triumph fizzles your tongue. You set the glass down after, turning to her. “You can leave. I’ll stay and handle the tear-down.”
Gabe doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”
You scoff in disbelief at the sheer rebelliousness in the way she answered. “No?”
She turns fully toward you now, grabbing your shoulders like she’s about to physically shake sense into you. “You’ve done enough. This is where you trust your team to do their job.”
You scoff again, but there’s no bite in it. “That’s a dangerous suggestion.”
“I’m serious.”
You exhale, leaning back slightly, finishing the last of your champagne. “…So I can leave early?” you ask, more carefully this time.
Gabe squints at you. “Depends. Are you leaving early to go to an after party or—”
“There’s no after party,” you cut in, already shaking your head. “I just want to go home.”
She pauses and then snorts. “Yes. You can go home early, grandma,” she says, waving you off. “
You softly laugh and grab her arm, gently squeezing on it. “Thank you.”
You slide off the stool and pull her into a quick hug, brief but tight. “I’m trusting everything to you,” you murmur.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, pushing you away lightly. “Go before I change my mind.”
You grin, stepping back. “Thanks again.”
The hall feels different now as you walk through it like it’s already letting go of the night. You move past lingering conversations, past laughter that doesn’t quite reach you anymore. And then, you feel that pull and your gaze lifts without meaning to.
There, on the upper level, mid-conversation with someone is Seungmin. His suit jacket is still nowhere to be seen. As if he feels the same pull, his eyes find you and lingers.
Oh, no. Not again. You don’t give him the chance. You look away immediately, picking up your pace, heels clicking faster against the floor as you head toward the lobby. You’re almost there when you suddenly feel a hand catches your arm.
You nearly gasp, heart jumping before you turn and see Hyunjin. He’s grinning like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Why are you here?” you ask, breath still slightly uneven.
“I’m… an employee here therefore I’m invited and we talked earlier,” he rambles as he explains everything.
You inhale air and exhale it slowly before speaking. “No, I mean, why are you still here?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“So I can drive you home.”
Huh? He waited for you to drive you home. The intention is good but a part of you still wondering why he goes to this length. But you can feel some of the tension slips off your shoulders, just a little.
Before you can say anything else, his arm swings around your shoulders, casual and familiar, pulling you into his side. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’ve been drinking. How are you going to drive?”
He turns his head, grinning down at you. “That’s where you come in.”
You abruptly stop walking. “What?”
“I need you to drive.”
So the intention is not fully good. You try to shrug him off, but his hold only tightens slightly, not enough to trap you—just enough to keep you there.
“It’s been great night,” he murmurs, already steering the both of you toward the exit. “Let’s not ruin it.”
You shake your head, but you don’t fight him anymore. And just like that, the two of you walk out together, his weight leaning into yours just enough that you can feel it, his presence warm and steady at your side.
Behind you, the party fades.
Ahead of you, the quieter night waits.
-
The drive is quieter than you expect and with it, the city has thinned out, streets stretching wider, calmer.
Hyunjin, on the other hand, is anything but quiet. He’s sunk into the passenger seat, one arm draped lazily against the door, the other resting somewhere near his lap. Too comfortable. Way too comfortable for someone who insisted he needed a ride.
You keep your eyes on the road. Your tone flat but edged with curiosity as you ask, “So, where do you live?”
“I’m not going home,” he shortly answers.
You glance at him, puzzled. “So where are we going?”
“We’re going home,” he corrects, like it’s obvious. “Your place.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary before looking back at the road. “No.”
“I’m staying over tonight.”
You let out a dry breath, tightening your grip on the steering wheel. “My house is not a hotel.”
He shrugs like that’s irrelevant. “We have a test tomorrow and since you’re all about punctuality…” a small smirk tugs at his lips, “…I figured I’d make it easier for both of us.”
You roll your eyes, shaking your head slightly. “Can’t argue with that logic,” you mutter, even though you absolutely could.
Yes, you’re annoyed that he’s treating your house like a hotel but on the positive side, you get to be home sooner. And you just can’t wait to finally be able to relax, mind and body. And sleep, oh… just the thought of it tantalizes you.
By the time you pull up in front of your house, the exhaustion settles deep into your bones. You barely get the engine off before Hyunjin is already leaning into you, arm slinging around your shoulders as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Hyunjin,” you sigh, trying to nudge him off as you step out of the car, “you’re not even that drunk.”
He ignores you completely. He clings to you as you fumble with your keys, his weight warm and inconvenient as you unlock the door. The second it opens, he’s the first one inside to stumble in like he owns the place before collapsing dramatically onto your sofa. Limbs everywhere. Legs spread. Head tilted back.
You watch him for a second, at how at home he looks, even more than you do. Then shake your head, closing and locking the door behind you. “Unbelievable.”
Hyunjin opens his arms, grinning. “Come here.”
“No,” you answer with an exhausted tone.
“I’m offended.”
“I’m tired.”
He makes a small, exaggerated noise of complaint before digging into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulling out his flask. “There’s still some left,” he says, giving it a small shake. “Help me finish it.”
You raise a brow. “I’m surprised there’s anything left at all.”
“Come on,” he whines and pouts, kicking his long legs in the air like a fussy child. “I know you barely drank tonight. You deserve it.”
You stare at him. Then at the flask. Then back at him. And honestly? He’s right, you deserve it. And also, you don’t have any energy left to argue with him.
“Fine,” you sigh, walking over and dropping onto the sofa beside him. Your body sinks into the cushions, exhaustion catching up instantly.
Hyunjin’s grin returns like he just won something. He uncaps the flask, takes a sip, then hands it to you.
You take the flash and stare at it. You already know how this will end—headache, regret, maybe a little dizziness in the morning. But then again, everything about tonight calls for alcohol. You lift it and take a sip.
“God—” you cough lightly, wincing as the burn hits your throat and settles uncomfortably in your chest. “That’s awful.”
Hyunjin laughs, taking it back. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is.”
He takes another sip like he’s proving a point, then hands it back.
You lean your head against the back of the sofa, eyes half-lidded as the warmth starts to spread. After a moment, you glance at him and in awe at how his dishevelled look only makes him more attractive.
“What happen with the girl earlier? Did you blow your chance?” You casually ask.
He licks his lips after a sip, shrugging. “You’ve got it wrong. She couldn’t handle me.”
You snort softly, taking the flask again. “Right.”
Another sip. Another wince. But no cough this time. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing the day the office heartthrob failed to take a girl home,” you tease, feigning sympathy.
Hyunjin turns toward you, smirk sharp and immediate. “But I did take someone home tonight.”
You groan, elbowing his side lightly. “I drove you here.”
He almost spills the flask, laughing as you snatch it from him.
“I’m the one who took you home,” you correct, taking another sip.
He watches you, amused, then leans in just slightly. “Can’t believe I’m seeing the day you took the office heartthrob home.”
You choke and cough, glaring at him as he takes the flask back, clearly pleased with himself.
He studies you for a second then, gaze lingering just a bit longer than usual. “Hey, you look kind of hot tonight.”
You close your eyes for a second and then scoff. “Wow. I’ve been waiting all night for you to finally notice me,” you sneer.
He chuckles, handing the flask back. “You would look hotter in that dress I suggested,” he says.
You shake your head, but there’s no zest left in it anymore. You just… feel tired. Done. So instead of arguing, you lift the flask and finish what’s left in one go. It burns worse this time.
You shove the flask back into his hand. “There. Finished it for you.”
And before he can say anything else, you push yourself off the sofa. “I’m going to bed.”
“Come on. Stay a bit longer,” he calls after you.
You wave him off, already heading toward the stairs. “It’s past my bedtime.”
He groans and this time, he’s not just kicking his feet in the air, he’s also flailing his arms.
You ignore him, climbing the stairs anyway. “Goodnight,” you call over your shoulder.
“You’re not going to do anything with the office heartthrob you took home?” he shouts after you.
You don’t even look back and continue climbing the stairs. “No, thanks.”
His laughter follows you up the stairs, echoing faintly as you reach your bedroom door.
And for the first time tonight, you finally get to be alone.
-
Sleep doesn’t come.
It lingers somewhere just out of reach—close enough that your body aches for it, heavy and worn from the day, but your mind… your mind refuses to follow. You lie there, eyes closed, one arm draped over your stomach, the other tucked under your pillow.
Downstairs, the house isn’t quiet. You can hear Hyunjin and the slow, unhurried sound of his footsteps moving across the floor. A door opening. Closing. The faint clink of something—glass, maybe. And then, softer… a low hum, off-key, barely there, like he’s singing to himself without even realizing it.
It’s strangely comforting, knowing someone else is there and that you’re not alone in the silence. For a moment, you focus on it. On him. Letting the sound ground you, pull you away from everything else.
It almost works until your mind drifts back to the balcony. To Seungmin. It comes back too easily. Too clearly. Like your memory has been waiting all night for you to finally slow down enough to replay it. The way his hand felt against your jaw. The way he tilted your face like it was nothing. Like he still had the right to. The way he looked at you— Like he used to. Like you were still something he could reach for.
“I want you by my side.”
You inhale sharply, eyes tightening shut. You turn your head against the pillow, like you can physically shake the memory out of you. But it doesn’t go away.
It’s in this quiet, you realize that the true problem lies on you. It’s the way that just for a second, you almost leaned into it. Almost let yourself fall back into that warmth. That version of him. That version of you that believed in it.
God, you hate it. You hate that part of you. That small, stubborn part that still remembers too well. That still aches in places you thought had healed. That still—despite everything—wants.
It’s embarrassing. Frustrating. Pathetic, almost. You drag a hand over your face, exhaling slowly into the darkness. You turn onto your side, curling slightly into yourself, fingers gripping lightly at the fabric of your sheets. You should be over this. You are over this. Aren’t you?
The question lingers longer than you want it to and the worst part, you don’t have an answer. So you lie there, awake in the dark, with the faint echo of someone else moving in your house… and the far louder echo of someone who once felt like home.
-
You wake up late the next day. Your body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry wrong. Limbs heavy, head faintly spinning, that dull, sluggish dizziness sitting right behind your eyes. For a moment, you just lie there, trying to remember how you even made it up here last night. It all comes back in fragments—music, champagne, Gabe’s scolding, the balcony, Seungmin—
You sit up too fast and realize too late that it’s a bad idea. The room tilts just enough to make you pause, eyes squeezing shut as you press your fingers to your temple. “Great,” you mutter under your breath, voice rough from sleep and dehydration and maybe a little regret.
You drag yourself out of bed anyway and downstairs, the house is already awake. The first thing you see is Hyunjin is sprawled across your sofa like he pays rent here. Long legs hanging off the edge, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling on his phone. Headphones on, completely at ease.
He looks up the moment you step into view and then—of course—he grins. He pulls one side of his headphones down, eyes bright despite last night. “Good morning—” he pauses, glancing dramatically at his phone, “—not sure if it’s still considered morning though.”
You don’t even dignify that with a response. You just walk past him and head straight to the kitchen.
Hyunjin follows, trailing behind you like a puppy. You hear the soft thud of his bare feet against the floor until he hoists himself up onto the kitchen counter like it’s his designated seat. He settles there comfortably, watching you like this is his favorite show.
“I already made coffee,” he announces, a little too proud of himself.
You don’t answer. You just open the fridge and immediately regret it because it’s empty. Not completely, but close enough. A couple of lonely items sitting there like they’ve been abandoned. Your eyes land on the only viable option, bananas and grab one.
Behind you, Hyunjin hums. “You really don’t have much in there, huh?”
No kidding. You mutter inside your head.You peel the banana slowly, taking your time like you’re not already running on fumes, and reach for a mug just as Hyunjin does the same. He grabs one from the cabinet above him and hands it to you without a word this time.
You take it and pour yourself coffee. First sip hits your system like a small act of mercy. You lean against the counter, taking another bite of the banana, letting the caffeine settle in, grounding you just a little.
Hyunjin watches you for a while. “We should go grocery shopping,” he says casually.
You ignore him and how he addressed the two of you like you’re a pair, like he has the rights to claim space in your fridge. Another bite. Another sip. Then—
“I need to buy cereal too,” he adds.
Your chewing stops for a fraction before you force yourself to keep calm, act normal.
“…because somehow,” he continues, narrowing his eyes at you now, “my cereal box is mysteriously emptying.”
You keep your face completely neutral. You chew and swallow. Take a sip of coffee. Like you have nothing to hide.
Hyunjin tilts his head, studying you. “You couldn’t possibly eat my cereal, right?”
Inside, your heart gives a small, traitorous thump—but outwardly? You’re steady. Composed. Unimpressed, even.
He watches as you shove the last of your banana and you hold his gaze. Refuse to give anything away. It lingers there for a second too long that it starts to feel like a standoff.
Then, his lips twitch and a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. He pushes himself off the counter and steps closer, and closer until he’s right in front of you. So close that you can see the faint smudge of sleep still clinging to his eyes, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead, the hint of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.
He looks straight into your eyes and you force yourself to not look away. The silence stretches again before he exhales a quiet laugh.
“Still bad at lying,” he says as he gives your nose a playful boop.
And before you can react, he’s already turning away, like he didn’t just do that.
“Come on, loser,” he says over his shoulder, stretching his arms lazily. “We’re going grocery shopping.”
You stare at his back, still chewing and processing. A mug of coffee in one hand. “We are not—”
“We are,” he cuts in easily, already heading toward the living room. “You have no food. I have no cereal. This is a crisis.”
You scoff, pushing yourself off the counter. “That’s not a crisis.”
He glances back at you, grin back in full force. “It is to me.”
You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair, already feeling the faint headache forming behind your eyes again, but somehow, despite it all…
There’s something annoyingly grounding about this. About him. About the normalcy of it. And you hate how easy it is to fall into step with it.
-
To make up for the improper breakfast earlier, you bought half dozen of donuts and iced coffee. You’re eating it while pushing the cart through the supermarket aisles. You might experience the sugar rush soon but God, it feels so good.
Hyunjin, on the other hand, disappears the second you pass the entrance, like a kid who’s just been released into a playground with no supervision. One second, he’s beside you, the next, he’s gone.
You don’t even try to follow. You just roll your eyes and keep going, steering the cart toward the first aisle, taking a slow bite of your donut, letting the sugar settle in your system and then have a sip of the iced coffee.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin comes jogging back into view with arms full of things. A box of cereal, instant noodles, a bag of plain bagels, something that looks suspiciously like imported snack.
“Hyunjin,” you start, already tired.
He ignores you completely and dumps everything into the cart with zero hesitation.
You stare at the growing pile. “You’re paying for your own things,” you warn.
He’s already backing away and you guess is to get more things. “Yeah, yeah, add it to my tab,” he waves you off, not even listening,
“What tab—” you haven’t even finished your sentence but Hyunjin has gone again. You sigh before pushing the cart forward like you’ve accepted your fate.
Eventually, you make your way to the fresh produce section, the bright colors of fruits and vegetables a sharp contrast to the chaos Hyunjin has created in your cart. You reach for a plastic bag, starting to pick out apples, something normal, something reasonable. Something that makes you feel like at least one of you is functioning like an adult.
You’re mid-selection when he reappears, still with arms full and this time with bags of chips and candies that he casually tosses into the cart like he’s contributing something meaningful.
You glance at the pile, then at him. “You should just get your own cart.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge that. Instead, he turns toward you. His eyes widen slightly like he’s noticed something. Then, his hand lifts.
You barely register it before his thumb brush against your lips. Light and quick, gone just as fast. “What are you…”
“Cream. From your donut,” he casually answers like he didn’t just lick his thumb after. Like he didn’t just do all that.
Your brain lags a second behind and then you quickly grab a napkin, wiping your mouth with it.
“Dinner’s on me tonight,” he suddenly announces, picking up an apple and tosses it in the air. “What do you want?”
“On what occasion?” you carefully ask, not even trying to tease, just curious.
Hyunjin only shrugs and then puts the apple he’s been juggling in the air into the plastic bag.
You don’t want to tease and change his mind about dinner. Because duh! Free food is free food.
You just answer, the first thing that comes to mind. “I want steak.”
He nods immediately. “Okay. Got you.”
And just like that, he’s gone again.
You stare after him, iced coffee halfway to your lips, utterly baffled. You keep shopping, bagging more fruits and vegetables, ignoring the way your cart now looks like a chaotic mix of your life and his.
It takes a while before he finds you again and this time, he walks up with a plastic bag swinging from his fingers, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Got the steak.”
You glance at it and then at him. You take a second to process what you think he promised and what he actually promised. “I thought you meant… you’re going to treat me to a steak… at a restaurant,” you say, slightly stammering.
He looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “The point is… steak.”
“Yea, but that’s raw.”
“Yeah.”
You stare at him and he stares back in utter seriousness. He’s not right but not wrong either. It’s something that is lost in translation. You decide that it’s best not to argue. Not today. Not with him.
You take the bag from him, dropping it into the trolley with everything else, already bracing yourself for what kind of chaos he’ll bring with his cooking. But on the brighter side, you can cross out cooking dinner from your to-do list.
-
The initial plan is to sit back and let him do his thing, but that lasts maybe… about thirty seconds. Because Hyunjin moves around the kitchen recklessly, his movements are fast, completely unbothered and just everything about is has your eye twitching.
“Hyunjin—” you start, already getting up from you dining chair and approach him.
He hums, not even looking at you as he unwraps the steak.
“You’re not even marinating it properly.”
“It’s marinating,” he says, tone lazy.
“That’s not marinating, that’s touching it with seasoning.”
He snorts, taking your words like a joke instead of an instruction.
You’re already beside him now, reaching for the bowl, adjusting things without asking, adding a bit more, rubbing it in properly. “Give it time,” you mutter.
He watches you for a second, amused, then leans back against the counter. “Thought you said dinner’s on me.”
“It is,” you shoot back, not looking at him. “I’m just preventing a disaster.”
He grins and you can feel it without even looking. Still, you let him take over again when he moves to the stove. You step back, telling yourself that you’re not going to interfere. But seeing him setting the flame too high have you biting your lower lip in worry.
“Isn’t that too hot?”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re going to overcook it.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re—Hyunjin—”
“I know what I’m doing,” he cuts in, glancing at you with a look that’s half challenge, half amusement.
At this point, you worry that there’ll be anything left to eat for dinner. Despite it, you let him continue. Under your strict supervision. You hover, restless and unable to just sit still while he moves around your kitchen while knocking things off the counter — a spatula, a fork, a pack of herbs. Eventually, you give up pretending and turn toward the fridge, pulling it open.
“Are you making anything else?” you ask.
“No.”
You pause, one hand on the fridge door. “No?”
“You said steak. So I make steak,” he simply says with a proud grin.
“I kind of expected that,” you mumble, already reaching for ingredients. Lettuce, tomatoes, whatever you can throw together quickly. “If we’re eating steak, we’re having something on the side.”
Behind you, Hyunjin takes a step back from the stove and glances at what you’re gathering on the counter. Then he groans. “Why can’t we just eat it without vegetables?”
“Because, we need a balanced meal,” you reply flatly, already chopping,
He steps forward, standing right behind you, head hovering close to yours as he watches you work. “Cool people die a fast, gruesome death, you know,” he mutters, almost matter-of-factly.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes and grimace. “Well, I don’t want to be cool,” you say as you get back to chopping. “I want to die a natural, healthy way.”
He rolls his eyes so hard you can practically hear it. “Whatever.”
Time passes easier after that. Somewhere between your quiet chopping and his focused cooking, the chaos settles into something manageable. Comfortable, even.
A long moment later, dinner is ready. You stand there for a second, genuinely surprised at what the two of you could make out of a great teamwork. The steak… looks amazing. Perfectly seared, glossy, resting just right before he slices into it. The inside is cooked beautifully—tender, juicy, exactly how it should be. He plates it anyway, slicing it into thin pieces before setting it down on the table. You bring over the salad, placing it beside it like a quiet compromise.
You both sit and start distributing cutlery, filling the glasses with red wine. Once you’re settled, you look at him and smile. “Thank you for the food,” you genuinely say.
“Thank you for the food,” Hyunjin says back with a smile.
You reach for a slice first, bringing it to your mouth, not expecting much and your brows lift. Surprised by the taste that is out of your expectation. It’s good. No—it’s really good.
“It’s good,” you say it out loud on the third time.
Hyunjin is already watching you. His grin spreads instantly, cheeks already full as he chews. “I know.”
You roll your eyes but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. And because you can’t help yourself, you decide to tease. “The meat is already good. You didn’t do much, but add salt and pepper.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up in a sneer, small eyes narrowed. “You just can’t let me have it, can you?” he grumbles, stabbing at his food.
You laugh and can’t help but tease him more. You reach for the bowl of salad, placing a portion of it onto his plate. “Eat this,” you say sweetly.
Hyunjin pouts as he stares at it and then looks at you. Then, he stabs through it with his fork. Reluctantly, he shoves it into his mouth and chews.
You hide your smile behind your glass as you take a sip. “Ooo… you eat so well,” you coo with a smirk.
Dinner slows without either of you noticing when it happens. The plates sit half-forgotten, pushed slightly aside as the wine takes over, as the conversation stretches and bends into something lighter, easier. Hyunjin leans back in his chair, one arm slung over it, glass dangling lazily from his fingers as he shares funny episodes he had in the office.
“…and then he still said the font looked ‘too emotional,’” Hyunjin finishes, shaking his head in disbelief.
You let out a laugh, soft but genuine, bringing your glass to your lips. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” he scoffs, leaning forward now, animated. “Since when do fonts have emotions?”
“They kind of do,” you counter, playing along. “Some of them look… desperate.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, and launches into another story and you find yourself leaning in this time, listening, throwing in small comments, disbelief slipping into your tone without effort.
It’s easy being with Hyunjin. You don’t have to think about the feelings you had and wondering if you still have that feelings. There’s no reading between the lines. There’s no need for you to constantly tell yourself to stay focus, be professional. It’s just easy and comfortable.
Before you know it, the night is getting late and the two of you are clearly losing the main reason why the two of you are here for. You have another sip of wine before setting the glass aside. “Let’s talk about the test!”
Hyunjin looks up from his glass of wine and sets it down. “Yep, right,” he says, then a grin spreads across his face. “I was wondering when you’d bring it up.”
You straighten slightly in your seat, shifting gears, pulling yourself back into something more structured, more controlled. Also, because you have something to say and compromise. “I know that we’ve decided that we’ll test the hands-free couple vibrator tonight,” you begin.
“Yes,” Hyunjin responds is immediate, grin widening, like he can’t barely contain his excitement anymore.
“And properly test it,” you carefully continue, not wanting to let anything lost in translation. “I think we need a few more… preliminary practices.”
His grin falters just slightly. “Preliminary?” he echoes, brows lifting.
You nod, like this is purely logical. “I read the instruction manual on it and I learn that we need a full penetration to use the product to its main function.”
This time, Hyunjin’s grin drops into a taut smile. Like he’s finally aware of where this conversation is going and too afraid to make a comment. He lifts his wine glass instead, to have something to do.
“And you know, we’ve been struggling with it,” you continue.
He lifts his wine glass closer to his mouth, taking a sip.
You choose your words carefully for what you’re going to say next. “I think it’s better if we focus on deepening our penetration first.”
He chokes as the wine seems to go down the wrong pipe, and he coughs, turning slightly as he tries to recover, one hand braced on the table.
Noticing that a drop of wine dribbling down his chin, you hurriedly hand him your napkin. “Are you okay?” you ask, voice tinted in concern.
He holds up a hand, still coughing lightly. He wipes his mouth with the napkin and a while later, he finally manages, “You can continue.”
You almost laugh at how this fazes him more than usual. “It’s just a suggestion,” you say, softer now, giving him an out.
“No—I think, it’s—” he clears his throat, straightening slightly, trying to regain his usual composure. “It’s a good suggestion.”
You tilt your head slightly and watch him, trying to get a clue whether he’s serious or just get along with it.
He avoids your eyes for a second, glancing down at his glass instead. “So what’s your idea?”
You take your time answering. “I think we should test another product first.”
His gaze lifts back to yours, more focused now, curious. “And what product you have in mind?”
You don’t hesitate to answer this time. “The vibrating cock ring.”
This time, Hyunjin chokes on nothing. He manages to catch it as he coughs into his hand, shoulders shaking slightly.
There’s something strangely amusing about this. About how easily he loses his footing when you’re the one leading. You lean back and just watch him before adding, “I think it’ll help to deepen the penetration.”
He presses his lips together, clearly trying not to react, but you catch the way his ears redden just slightly, the way his grip tightens around his glass. “Right,” he mutters.
You lean forward just a bit and rest your elbow on the table. “What do you think?”
For once, he goes quiet. His eyes flicker to yours, then away, then back again, like he’s recalibrating, trying to figure out where he stands in this conversation now. “I think it’s a good idea,” he finally says.
You tilt your head, studying him. Then lean just a little closer. “Can we test the cock ring tonight?”
“Yes,” he says a little too fast. Then, more composed. “Yes. We can.”
You nod, like this is all perfectly normal. Like you didn’t just completely throw him off balance. You lift your glass, taking another slow sip and put it down. Then look at him again.
“Can we start now?”
Hyunjin coughs, splutters, nearly knocks his glass over before catching it just in time. “Now?” he echoes, voice rough.
You daringly hold his gaze. “Is there a better time?”
He stares at you for a second longer. A short, breathless laugh slipping out despite himself as he wipes his mouth again and says, “Yeah, we absolutely can… do it now.”
-
You step into the guest bedroom first, Hyunjin right behind you, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. The door clicks shut softly, and suddenly it’s just the two of you and the bed sitting there in the middle of the room like it’s part of the conversation. You both look at it and then at each other.
Hyunjin clears his throat lightly. “So… how do we start?” he asks, voice a little less certain than usual.
“We undress,” you answer without a beat.
He nods immediately, like that makes sense, like he’s been waiting for instruction. “Right,” he says, immediately turning around.
For a second, you just stare at his back. Then you step closer, lifting your hand, placing it gently on his shoulder. You wait until he slowly turns back to face you. “I was thinking…” you say, softer now, your hand still resting there, “maybe we can try your idea tonight.”
“What idea?” He carefully asks.
“To help each other undress.”
Surprise flickers across his face like he didn’t expect you to meet him there this time. “Okay,” he says, a little slower.
You turn facing each other and his eyes are instantly on you. You suddenly hesitate and you pull your hand back, reconsidering. “Actually… maybe we start simple.”
His brows lift slightly. “Okay?”
“We can undress while facing each other,” you clarify.
He nods. “That works too.”
Even so, neither of you moves at first. You take the initiative to be the first, your fingers find the first button of your blouse, slipping it free, then move to your skirt next. The quiet sound of fabric shifting fills the space between you.
Hyunjin follows as he hooks his fingers at the hem of his sweater and pulls it up, the motion slow and smooth. The fabric lifts, exposing the sleeveless white top he’s wearing underneath, revealing glimpses of skin, the subtle tension of muscle on his chest.
You don’t look away and don’t even try to. And neither does he. Piece by piece, layer by layer, the space between you changes. Less distance. Less barrier. Just skin, warmth, breath.
Your hands move slower now, aware that he’s watching and you watching him. There’s something almost careful about it, the way he moves. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he’s giving you time to see him.
You do see him. Your gaze drifts, unintentional but undeniable, tracing over him—his shoulders, the line of his chest, the way his body holds itself under your attention.
When you look back up, he’s already looking at you. The same way. His eyes linger, softer now, like he’s taking you in just as slowly, just as thoroughly.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say something.
But you step forward and close the distance. Your hand lifts again, sliding to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly there as you guide him toward you and then you kiss him.
His reaction is immediate. Like something in him clicks into place. His hands find you quickly, instinctively, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens, as the space between your bodies disappears completely. Skin meets skin, warm and real and impossible to ignore.
Your chest presses to his and his breath catches just slightly against your lips. The heat builds. The closeness. The way your bodies start to move without thinking, fitting, adjusting, moulding against each other.
His hands slide to your waist, grip tightening just enough to ground you and you gasp into his mouth when your feet lifted off the floor. He guides you back, steps forward until the back of your legs meet the edge of the bed. Then, slowly, he lays you down onto the bed and he follows right after.
Barely a second passes with his body hovering over you, he’s pressing closer, his mouth finds yours again and this time deeper. Less careful. More certain. And for a moment, that’s all there is. His lips locked with yours, skin rubbing against skin and the growing heat that fills the space between you.
Your lips barely leave his before finding their way back again and again and again like you haven’t quite learned how to stop. Each kiss lands a little deeper, a little hungrier, his breath slipping into yours, your fingers curling into his shoulder just to steady yourself against the pull of him.
Somewhere in between, your hand drifts down the length of his body, fingers grazing the skin of his chest and lower, lower still until you find his hardening length, hot and firm against your palm, the tip brushing your thigh. Your fingers circle around the head before wrapping them around the girth. Your hand begins to slowly stroking him, letting the rhythm build naturally.
He exhales sharply into your mouth at the contact, his own hand slipping between your legs, mirroring you, fingers dipping into your wetness. His movements get gentler around your bundle of nerves, using just the tip of his fingers to rub on it. The heat building, spreading until it hums under your skin.
Another second, another breath, and you pull away just enough to speak, your lips still ghosting his. “I read that it has to be… fully erected,” you murmur so low it’s almost a whisper, almost thoughtful. “For the ring.”
Hyunjin is clearly a step behind, trying to piece together where your mind has gone while his is still somewhere lost in the feeling. “Right,” he says after a beat, nodding like he’s catching up, even if his expression still holds that slight confusion.
“Maybe I can help you with that,” you say.
Without giving him time to catch up, you shift beside him. You reach for the testing box, rummaging through various things before finding the one you’re looking for. When you return, he’s watching you with focused, curious eyes flicking between your face and what you’re holding. The edible lubricant.
“I’m going to put it on you,” you tell him.
He only nods and at this point, it seems like he’s submitting himself to you.
The cap flips open with a soft click. You pour a small amount, the clear liquid coated your fingers, the sweet scent of cherry is faint yet noticeable, and the coolness of it making you pause for half a second before you bring your hand back to him.
You glance up at him one last time as if to check if he’s still on board with this. But Hyunjin is too focused on your hand as it hovers close to his flushed cock. Cautiously, you land a gentle touch on it, spreading the lubricant along his thick, veiny shaft. You don’t rush, you let yourself feel it, learn it. The contrast of the heat, hardness of his cock with the cool, slick lubricant draws your focus in.
You glance up and find him watching your hand stroking his cock like he forgot how to breathe. “Is this okay?” you ask with a low, soft voice.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, nodding quickly. “Yeah… it’s—yeah.”
So you continue. Your fingers move with a little more confidence now, tracing, circling, learning the way he reacts—the slight shifts in his breath, the way his shoulders tense and relax beneath your touch. It’s… interesting. Fascinating, even. Not just what you’re doing, but how it affects him.
Curiosity creeps in before you can stop it. You look up again, catching his gaze. “I don’t think I’m… good at giving oral but… I want to try,” you thoughtfully say.
That throws him off completely. He just stares at you, lips parted, like he’s not sure if he heard you right.
“Would you let me try?” you ask again, a little more hopeful than you intended.
It takes him a good minute to finally nod, giving you the permission.
With that, you shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, one hand brushing your hair aside so it doesn’t fall forward and pin it there on your shoulder. For a second, you just look at it, Hyunjin’s length. For a second, you’re in disbelief that you’ve taken him. Not fully, but still… it surprises you that this big, swollen thing had been inside you.
You’ve never been confident in giving oral but this time, you’re willing to learn. You wet your lips first and then lean in. The first contact is his tip pressing against your slightly parted mouth, tongue slightly darting out to place a kitten lick. You can taste him then. From the precum leaking through the little slit. There’s a strange metallic taste to it and a hint of saltiness, mixed with the cherry flavored lubricant.
You tilt your head to the side. You put your tongue out a little more and you land a long stripe of lick, from the base to the tip of his cock. You lick him repeatedly, enough times for you to memorize the trail of vein coiling his length. You drop your head to the other side to do the same. More licks, collecting more of Hyunjin’s taste and the cherry lubricant. In between, you look up to see the way he reacts, to the subtle shifts in his breathing, to the way his body tightens and loosens under you.
You pull back just slightly, drawing in a breath to try something new. You hand wrapped firmly around the base, aligning it with your mouth and then slowly, taking him in. Just an inch or more. It slides easily into your wet mouth and you decide to begin stimulating him, gently sucking on the sensitive flesh that feels hot in your mouth.
After a moment, you dare to him a little bit more. Another inch goes into you. And another. Then you continue with the stimulations. He’s only halfway into your mouth when you feel it hitting the back of your throat and you quickly stop yourself, pulling away with a small, almost sheepish exhale.
“I can only take as much,” you shyly say with mouth wet with a mix of your saliva and lubricant.
He looks like he’s still catching up to reality, eyes fluttering, breathing a little unevenly. “That’s—” he clears his throat softly, “that’s okay.”
You sit back up, wiping your mouth as best as you can and realize that he’s more than ready for next. You look at him, breathing a little unsteady and then ask, “Can I put the condom on for you?”
You don’t wait for him to answer right away—you’re already reaching for the small foil packet sitting among the items inside the testing box. It crinkles softly between your fingers, loud in the quiet room, louder than your own heartbeat that’s picked up somewhere along the way.
You can feel his eyes on you without even looking up, in the way your skin prickles under his attention. You slowly tear the packet open, remembering his note about being careful with the thin material. When you glance up, he’s still staring, lips slightly parted, chest rising a little heavier than before.
“Relax,” you murmur, softer than you expect yourself to be.
It’s almost funny how the roles blur so easily. How he, who usually carries that careless confidence like a second skin, now looks like he’s the one trying to catch up.
You shift closer on your knees, the mattress dipping under your weight. You wrapped your fingers around him again, guiding, aligning—your touch more certain now that you know what you’re doing, or at least pretending well enough.
“Just… stay still,” you add, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh of disbelief, but he obeys.
Carefully, you roll the rubber down his length, your fingers smoothing it down inch by inch, making sure it sits right. You remember the instructions, the little details, and you follow them even though your pulse says otherwise. Surprisingly, your hands don’t shake despite the way he’s watching you with unwavering, attentive eyes.
When you’re done, your fingers linger for just a second longer than necessary, adjusting, pressing lightly as if to confirm it’s secure—though the real reason feels like something else entirely. You look up again and his expression has changed. Still soft, still a little dazed, but there’s something darker threading through it now. Something urgent. Hungrier.
Suddenly, you’re aware of where you are. Of what you’re doing. Of how close he is. You shift back slightly, giving yourself just enough space to breathe, though your eyes don’t leave his.
“That’s… done,” you mutter.
Hyunjin lets out a slow exhale, dragging a hand through his hair, pushing it back as if trying to ground himself. It doesn’t quite work. “Well done,” he playfully says with a smile tugging at his lips.
Before you forgot about it, you reach for the bottle of lubricant again and pour a little more onto your fingers. The cool sensation of it barely registers this time as you return your attention to him, smoothing it over his length, making sure everything is… prepared.
Once you’re done, you reach for the cock ring. You squeeze some lubricant around the inner ring before guiding it into place. You never had any experience with the product before so you rely on instruction you’ve read, sliding it down his length and then adjusting it to his girth, making sure it sits right.
When it finally settles at the base, you tilt your head to the side and then the other, studying it like you’re checking your work. “Is it too tight? Or too loose?” you ask, glancing up at him.
There’s no answer but his lips curve into a sly smile. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
Your brows knit slightly, missing the tease at first. “I read that it’s important that it fits perfectly. Otherwise, it won’t—”
A soft chuckle cuts you off. Hyunjin shaking his head a little as he says. “I’m messing with you. It fits. Just right.”
You nod, taking that in, but you don’t move on just yet. “How does it feel?”
He shifts slightly, like he’s actually considering it now. “It’s… good. Not too tight. Doesn’t feel restrictive.” Then, after a second, “The part underneath though… the motor—it’s a bit bulky.”
“Oh—wait.” You gasp, remembering something. You reach for your phone, unlocking it quickly. “It’s connected to app I downloaded earlier.”
His head whips to your direction. “You connected it to your phone?”
You glance at him briefly, almost defensive. “I was just checking how it works. I didn’t mean to, I just… ended up downloading it.”
Another quiet laugh leaves him, softer this time. “That’s kind of hot.”
You’re slowly looking up. “What is?”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes still on you. “You. Taking control like this.”
You ignore that on purpose and focus back on your phone. “I’m going to test the connection. And start with level one.”
You tap the screen, moving the toggle on vibration to level one as mentioned. Your finger slips and accidentally moves the toggle straight to level 8.
Hyunjin jolts, his whole body tensing as he inhales through his teeth.
“Oh—shoot—wait—” You scramble to adjust it, dragging the level back down quickly. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
The vibration settles and silence follows for a second.
Then he exhales, long and slow, dragging a hand through his hair. “Oh… That’s something,” he breathes out.
“At least, now we know it works,” you sheepishly say, turning it off completely after that, just to be safe.
He lets out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking his head before looking back at you. “So… how are we actually testing this?”
You hesitate for half a second and answer like you’ve already thought it through. “We go through each level. And… test it during penetration too.”
You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch at your choice of words and add, “And, I reckon it might be easier if I… get on top this time.”
Outside, Hyunjin seems unfazed by it. But you notice — you notice the way he straightens slightly, the way his gaze lingers on you a second longer than before.
“So you know… I can control the depth,” you carefully add.
There’s a brief pause. Then he clears his throat, looking away for a split second before nodding. “…Yeah. That—sounds like a good plan.”
When his eyes come back to you, there’s something different in them now. Anticipation.
Somehow, that encourages you to keep going. You slowly shift over him until you’re straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.
He leans back slightly, one hand braced behind him, the other hovering like he’s not sure where to touch without breaking whatever this is between you. His eyes stay on you as he asks, “Ready?”
You nod, even if your heartbeat says otherwise. “I think it’ll be easier with the lubricant,” you murmur, more to steady yourself than anything.
He studies you for a second and then nods, trusting you on this.
You take a breath and then slowly, you ease yourself down. The stretch makes you pause almost immediately, your fingers tightening around his shoulders as you lower yourself inch by inch. It’s not the first time you do this, but in a way, it feels like it. It still demands your patience.
You let your body adjust, let yourself settle until you’ve taken as much as you comfortably can, and then you stop. You glance down to see that you’ve taken half of his size now but it feels like you’re taking more than that.
Hyunjin lets out a shaky exhale. His grip finds your waist like he needs something to hold onto. “Give it a second,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to you.
You nod, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you steady your breathing, adjusting to the fullness, to the closeness, to him. It’s a lot. For both of you.
When you open your eyes again, you reach for your phone, fingers a little slower now. “We’ll start with level one,” you say.
He nods and a second later, the faintest hum starts, barely audible, but you feel it. Not just at the base of his cock where the ring settled, but deep inside you, a soft buzz that makes you sharply inhale air.
Now that the product is functioning, you have to do your part as well. You begin moving your hips, pulsating it just lightly, just enough to send him slipping in and out of you. Your hands stay on his shoulders, using him for balance as you control your movement, careful not to push too far too fast. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the way his hand tightens just a fraction at your waist.
When you look down, you find him looking up at you, eyes staring straight into yours. “Slowly…” he lowly murmurs.
You take it as a reminder not to haste on it, no matter how good he feels inside you, how his size gives you that delicious fullness feeling. You let yourself revel on it for a moment, until you remember why you’re holding the phone.
“I think we can take it up to the next level,” your voice sounds small against the heat, the tension in the room.
He nods. His voice rough when he adds, “Let’s do level three.”
You slide the control up to level three like he asked. The change is immediate—still not overwhelming, but stronger, deeper. The buzzing sensation spreads, builds, settles into something that makes your movements falter for a second before you find your rhythm again.
This time, you let yourself take a little more. Not all at once. Just enough to make you grip his shoulders tighter, nails digging into the flesh. Your body leans forward instinctively, closing the distance between you, your hands sliding from his shoulders to brace against him.
When you look at him, his eyes are already on you. Focused yet darker now. “I think… we can do level five now.”
Your fingers fumble slightly as you reach for your phone again, your vision just a little unfocused now. You manage to slide it up to level five as suggested.
The vibration intensifies. The buzzing sensation grows deeper. Like it’s coming from within you instead of the ring. A soft gasp escapes you as the pleasure pulls through you, making your movements less controlled, more instinctive. Your head dips forward, finding the curve of his neck without thinking.
Hyunjin uses the chance to plant his mouth there, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, on the column of your throat, your jaw and eventually, your lips. There’s nothing careful about the kiss, it’s raw and consuming.
“You okay?” he roughly murmurs after breaking the kiss.
It sneaks up on you. The pleasure that slowly builds inside you is now on the verge of bursting out of you. You can barely get the word out, but you try anyway. “I think I—” A breathless moan caught in your throat. “I think I’m about to come.”
He doesn’t let you finish. Instead, he closes the distance, cutting off your words with a deep, hard kiss that steals the air out of your lungs. When he pulls back, it’s only just enough for you to breathe. “Then don’t stop. Just… let it happen,” he breathlessly mutters.
With that, your movements lose their careful edge, turning into something more natural, more urgent—guided by feeling rather than thought. The pleasure builds too quickly, in such urgency until your body stutters, tension snapping through you all at once, leaving you breathless, weightless, unraveling right there in his arms. Your grip loosens and your body follows next, folding into him. It feels less like a fall, more like letting go.
You barely register the moment the vibration stops but feel the way Hyunjin’s arms come around you, tight and steady. Like he’s holding you together while you come undone. Then he moves you gently, guiding you down onto the mattress until you’re lying back. He stays hovering above you, patiently waiting as you’re relishing your orgasm and then letting you gather your senses.
Time stretches for you don’t know how long. You feel his warm breath brushes your lips as he playfully, lightly nudges your nose with his. “You good now?” he murmurs.
There’s no way you’re saying it out loud so you nod.
His lips curve at that like he’s already expected that answer. He slightly tilts his head to the side, angling it just right before lowering his mouth on you.
You feel good knowing that you can properly return his kisses now. Your hand drifts up without thinking, resting against his chest before letting it roam around, feel the taut muscles on his chest and lower to his abdomen. As he deepens the kiss, your hand drifts lower and that’s when you feel that he’s still rock hard.
It slips out of you before you can stop it. “You’re still… hard.”
He lets out a soft laugh against your lips. “Isn’t that the point of a cock ring?”
Right. Of course it is. Your face heats from the late realization. You look away, suddenly very interested in literally anything else, but a thought lingers, rather stubbornly. “Since we’re aiming to… deepen the penetration,” you say, a little too carefully.
“Mm,” he hums, amusement laced in his smile.
“I think we should continue the test.”
“Uh-huh.”
You still don’t look at him. Then add, almost as an afterthought, “Only if you want to, of course.”
Hyunjin doesn’t answer but his arm moves, reaching for something on the bed. Then he leans in, lips hovering as he seductively murmurs, “As long as you’re the one controlling it.”
He pressed your phone back into your hand and just like that, you’re reminded that this is still part of the test. Even if it doesn’t feel like it anymore. You nod, fingers curling around the device as you close your eyes for a brief moment, resetting the motive in your head.
He leans in, presses a brief kiss to your lips and then pulls back to settle himself between your legs. He doesn’t rush but patiently goes through the process again. The blunt tip of him rubbing between your slick folds, smearing your essence all over, using it as a lubricant to enter you once more.
When the crease returning between his brows, your brace yourself. You open your legs wider as he aligns his length to your entrance. Thanks to the previous session, he can penetrate you easier now. Yet, he chooses to do it slowly, carefully. Soon, you feel the gradual closeness, the way he eases forward, stopping when he thinks it’s enough, like he’s waiting for your body to say yes before going any further.
For a second, his eyes are locked to where your bodies connected. He looks rather mesmerizes by how much of him disappeared into you, how tightly you wrapped around him and of course, the feeling enveloping every inch of his cock.
A groan about to falls out of his mouth but he quickly presses his lips together. When he opens his eyes, he looks at you and mutters, “I think we can start at five.”
You understand the request right away. You lift your phone, fingers slightly unsteady as you slide the control. The mechanical hum cuts through the silence in the room. The vibration catching you off guard all over again.
A low, unrestrained sound slips from his parted mouth and it does nothing to help you stay composed. If anything, it arouses you more. His hands find your hips, grounding, steadying him to finally start moving.
His thrusts are slow, measured. Not willing to lose it too fast despite the pleasure that overwhelms him at once. It doesn’t take long for him to lean down once more, closing the space between you. The kisses he places on your open mouth are messier, sloppier like he’s losing patience with the distance.
When he pulls away, it’s only to murmur, “Let’s take it up a notch.”
You don’t need him to explain. Your thumb moves on its own, setting the vibration level higher to eight. The shift makes him falter for half a second, a strained groan escaping his gritted teeth before he finds his rhythm again. Harder, almost relentless.
You feel it building again, faster this time, your body responding before your mind can catch up. Your legs lift instinctively, wrapping around him, drawing him closer, deeper.
The groan escapes his mouth is rough, his grip tightening as he adjusts, following the new angle. And suddenly, it’s not just the vibration, the buzzing sensation—it’s the closeness. Heat. Pressure. Everything layered on top of each other until it feels like too much.
Your hand fumbles for your phone and through the haze it all, you manage to press the off button on the app. The moment the vibration cuts out, everything stills.
He stops immediately. Like it’s an alarm for him to check on you. “Okay?” he asks and it seems to be the only word he can compute at the moment.
You shake your head quickly, tightening your arms around him, holding him close until he’s flushed against you. “No. Don’t stop,” you breathlessly mutter in urgency.
Hyunjin doesn’t ask further but obeys you. He continues thrusting, slower but not less intense. The absence of vibration somehow makes it more intimate, like you can feel each other better. Tangible, almost. Overwhelmed, he drops his head until his forehead resting against yours.
When you open your eyes, they immediately locked in a gaze with him and you can see everything in the brown of his eyes. The restraint, the pleasure, the push and pull in between them. Also, in the way he looks into your eyes, like you’re something fragile but at the same time, the need to ruin you. The more you move, the longer you maintain the eye contact with it, the more you feel like this is not just a test. These are two bodies learning, adapting with each other, moving in unison. Bonding. Becoming one.
“I can feel you… deeper,” you say with a quivering voice. But you don’t tell him that it’s not just physically.
The change in his expression is subtle, but you see it. Then he leans down again to kiss you and this time, something feels different. Like something unspoken is threading itself between you.
Your fingers tighten around your phone again and with your half-lidded eyes, you move the toggle all the way up, to the highest setting. Ten.
The maximum vibration hits both of you at once—strong, overwhelming, impossible to ignore—and whatever control either of you had left dissolves almost instantly. His movements lose their careful edge and yours follow not long after.
And suddenly, you’re not testing anything. You’re just… chasing that high. Together. Until it crests again. Faster, stronger, harder to hold. And when it finally breaks, it pulls you both under completely.
-
You lie there for a moment, completely still, your body heavy against the mattress, breath coming in uneven pulls as everything slowly settles. The moment you gather the slightest of senses, your hand fumbles for your phone, fingers clumsily tap the screen and shut the app off completely.
The silence follows but it’s content. With everything that has been done and left unsaid. You turn your head slightly, finding Hyunjin lying beside you, stretched out on his back, chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. There’s a faint sheen on his skin, his hair a mess, lips parted and there’s this satisfied curve to his mouth that makes something in your chest tighten.
Neither of you says anything for a while.
Then he exhales and pushes himself up with a soft groan. He moves with that same ease as he takes the cock ring first. You lift your head just enough to watch him as he works on removing the condom next. You swallow air at the sight of his seed filling, weighing the end of the condom. And honestly, you’re in slight shock of how much he’s unloaded.
You drop your head back on your pillow, still in daze and also in awe while Hyunjin moves, slipping off toward the bathroom without a word. You pull the duvet up over yourself, curling slightly into it, letting the warmth settle around you as you close your eyes.
Unlike before, you allow yourself time to breathe, to gather yourself because that was… You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together.
Beyond. Beyond anything you’ve ever experienced with someone.
Of course, your mind doesn’t let you drift elsewhere and tries to file it under something logical—testing, evaluation, data—but it doesn’t quite stick.
The bathroom door opens again and Hyunjin rejoins you, settling back beside you with a quiet sigh, one arm flung over his eyes like he’s blocking out the world for a second.
Silence stretches again and then—
“A thousand out of ten.”
It comes out of nowhere.
You snort, turning your head toward him despite yourself. “Are you giving your review right now?”
He nods without moving his arm. “Mm.”
You shift slightly, propping yourself up just enough to look at him. “That for comfort or stimulation rating?”
“Stimulation.”
You huff out a small laugh. “And for comfort rating?”
“Ten.”
You nod, like you’re actually logging it somewhere official, even if your voice gives you away. “Alright… noted.”
He lowers his arm then, glancing at you, curiosity and amusement flickering in his eyes.
You filled the evaluation form enough to memorize the questions and decide play along with it, chuckling as you move to the next one. “Describe your experience with the product.”
He runs a hand through his already messy hair, thinking thoughtfully, which makes it somehow funnier. “I like that it’s adjustable. But I like it more that it has enough level of vibration.”
You nod along, agreeing with him while also taking mental notes. “Right. The intensity range is good.”
He glances at you again, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Using the lubricant was a smart move.”
“I know,” you respond with an approving smile.
“And I like that it really does help maintaining hardness and with the duration of the uh…” Hyunjin’s words trail off, slightly flustered to continue talking.
You hum in agreement, saving him form finishing the sentence. Then, turning your head toward him again, you ask, “Any additional feedback?”
He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I mentioned it before. The motor’s a bit bulky.”
“Fair.”
Then he adds, almost lazily, “Still worth it though.”
You smile faintly at that and before you can even ask the next question, he beats you to it—
“Yes, I’d buy it. And recommend it.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head slightly. “Didn’t even ask yet.”
“Saving you time,” he mutters followed with a smug smile.
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. Then, after a second, you glance at him again. “Final comment?”
He turns his head this time, properly meeting your eyes. That same smirk from earlier creeps back. And then, without a hint of hesitation, he says, “Fucking amazing.”
Maybe it’s just you and how everything has just unfolded between the two of you, but the way he looks at you and with the way he says it makes it sound like it’s not just about the product anymore.
-
Product Evaluation Submission Participant Product Testing Program Product Name: Dynatos – Vibrating C Ring. Product Code: D-V-CR-419 Participant 1 ID: P-260319 Participant 2 ID: P-260320 Date of Evaluation: Saturday, April 4. 1. Rate Comfort (1–10) Participant 1: 10 Participant 2: 10 2. Rate Stimulation Intensity (1–10) Participant 1: 10 Participant 2: 10 3. Describe Your Experience Using the Product The product fits securely without causing discomfort or excessive constriction. The adjustable nature allows it to accommodate different sizes while maintaining stability throughout use. The wide range of vibration levels provides flexibility and the intensity scales appropriately. Higher levels deliver strong, noticeable stimulation for both partners. The accompanying app integration functions effectively, with responsive controls that allow real-time adjustments. 4. Additional Feedback Motor casing slightly bulky — could be refined for better ergonomics Adding lubricant significantly enhances overall performance Highly effective for enhancing shared stimulation 5. Are you satisfied with the product? (Rate 1-10) Participant 1: 10 Participant 2: 10 6. Would You Buy This Product? (Rate 1-10) Participant 1: 9 Participant 2: 10 7. Would You Recommend This Product To Others? (Rate 1-10) Participant 1: 10 Participant 2: 10 Final Comment The overall experience with the vibrating cock ring was highly satisfactory, exceeding expectations in both performance and user experience. From initial application to extended use, the product demonstrated strong reliability, adaptability, and effectiveness in enhancing shared stimulation between partners. Submission Status: ✔ Successfully Submitted
-
✨ COCKY: CHAPTER FOUR is available on Patreon✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
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ENVIRONMENTAL KINGS ℘ SKZ's!
( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ when jisung puts his phone on silent, the rest of the world (and your seven other boyfriends) can only watch in horror as he casually spills every domestic secret you own. it turns out "saving the environment" by sharing a shower is much harder to explain to the internet than it was to the group chat.
12ss mildly suggestive banter & themes (hanji has a hickey) established polyamorous relationship accidental reveal han does not put his media training to use everyone is downbad for iyen minho is a softie
idk man there's nothing i love more than poly skz
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
🏷️ ( stray kids general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @unlikelypainterpeacekitten @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae @whosmerii
Lover (Conrad Fisher x Reader)
It’s been five years since you’ve been back to Cousins, Massachusetts; and Belly and Jeremiah are getting married.
You and Conrad were best friends once, will you ever be best friends again?
Warnings: Swearing, alcohol and substance abuse, eventual sex/smut, mentions of death/cancer. 18+
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
Read it on AO3 here!
Fic Masterlist here!
The lover. playlist here!
NO NUT NOVEMBER
*°࿐ cw: explicit sexual content (MDNI), fingering, dry humping, grinding, penetration
a stupid bet, a sugar-sweet kitchen, and a boyfriend who wants you way more than he’s supposed to.
*°࿐ notes: as part of emmie and attie's secret stay writing event for the talented, beautiful, amazing @emmiesoverthemoon. i was sooo hyped to see that i had been assigned to you i couldn't wait to post this lol. hope you like it, you deserve the world!!
Hyunjin kisses you like he’s got nowhere else to be.
There’s a slow, unhurried weight to it. The TV is still on in the background, some drama muttering away to itself in soft, unsubtitled chaos, but the sound is blurred under the rush of your own pulse and the little wet catch of his breath every time your mouth moves against his.
You’re folded into the corner of your couch with him, half on, half around him. At some point you’d started the night sitting side by side; now his back is pressed against the armrest and you’re straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hoodie riding up in the back. One of his hands is anchored at your waist, fingers spread, thumb tracing absent circles into the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The other is splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you steady each time you lean in and kiss him a little deeper.
This is familiar. This is easy. You know the way his mouth moves, the way he always starts soft and then forgets himself. The way he chases you when you pull back to breathe, lips parting, eyes half-open and almost offended that you’d dare put distance between you.
You tilt your head, kiss him again, slower this time. He makes a sound in his throat—quiet, pleased—and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist. You can feel the tension coil in him, the way his chest expands under your palms, the little hitch when you let your teeth graze his bottom lip before soothing the sting with your tongue.
He tastes faintly like hot chocolate and something minty. You’d shared a mug an hour ago, knees knocked together on the coffee table, laughing at some ridiculous scene on screen. Now the mug is forgotten, abandoned on the coaster.
“Hyun,” you murmur against his mouth, not really meaning anything by it. His name comes out as more exhale than word.
“Mm,” he answers, equally articulate, and drags you a fraction closer.
His hoodie is soft under your hands, but the strip of skin it doesn’t quite cover at his waist is warm, a different texture entirely. Your fingers slip lower, tracing the hem, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You’ve been here a hundred times—on this couch, on his bed, in the backseat of his car on nights when you’re both too impatient to make it inside. There’s a well-worn path from “this” to “more”, a map your bodies know by heart.
You start to follow it without thinking.
Your hips shift, just a little. Just enough to settle more firmly over him, to close the last bit of space between your stomachs. The movement drags the seam of your leggings against him and you feel, very distinctly, the way his breath stutters. The hand at your back flexes. His fingers press into you like he’s grounding himself on your spine.
You do it again, slow, barely there.
This time the reaction is sharp. His jaw tightens. A sound escapes him, low and almost pained, and for a second you think, triumphantly—got you.
Then he breaks the kiss.
One moment his mouth is moving with yours, hot and open and eager; the next, his lips are gone and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder instead, breath gusting hot through the fabric of your shirt. His hands haven’t moved—he’s still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slide off his lap if he lets go—but the rest of him has gone very, very still.
You blink, dazed, heart thudding. It takes your brain a second to catch up with the fact that he’s not kissing you anymore.
“…Hyunjin?” you say, after a beat.
He groans. Not sexy this time—just a long, miserable sound from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Okay,” he says into your shoulder. “Okay. Wait.”
You freeze. A tiny, cold flicker of something unpleasant touches the back of your neck. You sit back just enough to see his face, hands sliding up to frame his jaw.
“Did I do something?” you ask, searching his expression. “If I hurt you or—”
His eyes fly open. “What? No.” He looks horrified at the very idea. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, muscles working like he’s biting down on the rest. “…too much, actually. That’s the problem.”
You stare at him. He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever is going on inside his head. His hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He also looks like he’s in physical pain.
You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended.
“You kissed me first,” you point out, because you’re not above stating the obvious. “On my couch. With zero warning. While I was minding my business.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That part was extremely stupid of me.”
“Okay, now I’m confused.”
You tilt his face up a little more so he has to meet your eyes. He does, reluctantly, like a school kid being called on in class when he definitely did not do the homework.
“Something happened today,” he says. “At the practice room. With the guys.”
“Is this the setup to a horror story?”
“Honestly?” He scrubs one hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. “Yes.”
You wait. He watches your mouth for a second too long, then drags his gaze back up with visible effort.
“Promise you won’t laugh?” he tries.
“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.
He winces. “Okay, but hold your laughter internally, at least.”
“No promises.”
He presses his lips together like he’s bracing for impact. “We made a bet.”
Of course they did. You can already feel your eyebrows climbing.
“Go on,” you say slowly. “What kind of bet?”
He hesitates. Looks at the wall over your shoulder. The ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally gets the words out, they’re muttered like he’s ashamed of them.
“No Nut November.”
Silence.
You blink once. Twice. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The drama on TV hits a particularly dramatic background music swell that feels almost intentional.
“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “You’re going to have to say that again, because my brain auto-censored it.”
He drags his gaze back to you, eyes wide, lips pushed out in a sulky little pout you’d find adorable if you weren’t so busy processing.
“No Nut November,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly like he’s in class. “You know. That stupid internet thing? We… monetized it.”
“You—” You clamp your mouth shut, because the laugh is right there, bubbling in your chest. “You and the boys made a No Nut November bet.”
He nods, miserable.
“For money.”
He nods again.
“You voluntarily signed up,” you say slowly, “for thirty days of self-inflicted suffering. While you have a girlfriend. Who lives ten minutes away. Who you routinely climb like a tree the second you walk through the door.”
His shoulders lift in the closest thing to a defensive shrug he can manage with you still on his lap. “When you say it like that it sounds dumb.”
“That’s because it is dumb, Hyunjin.”
“I know,” he says, defeated. “But there’s a cash prize.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “How much?”
He tells you the number. It’s not nothing; they clearly took this seriously. You do the math quickly in your head and still can’t restrain your snort.
“Hyun,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re already rich. That is, like, two pairs of shoes to you.”
“It’s not about the amount,” he protests. “It’s the principle. And the bragging rights. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your mouth before dragging back up again. “I was going to spend it on you.”
That short-circuits your sarcasm for a second. “…What?”
“If I win,” he says, pushing past his own embarrassment in a rush, “I’m taking you somewhere stupid romantic. Mountains, or a beach, or that resort you sent me with the heated pool and the really fluffy robes. The money we all put in would cover the whole thing. It’d be, like, a victory trip.”
You blink. Your chest does an inconvenient little squeeze.
“You could just… book that now,” you point out, a little more gently. “You don’t need a bet to take me on vacation.”
He smiles, small and stubborn. “Yeah, but it feels different if I earn it. You know? Like, ‘look what I suffered through for us.’”
You stare at him. At his earnest face, his messed-up hair, the way his hands are still sitting so carefully on your hips like you’re made of glass and temptation at the same time.
“You are insane,” you decide, affection curling through the exasperation. “Romantic, but insane.”
“Is that a yes to supporting my insane romantic quest?” he asks, hope creeping into his voice.
You sigh, dramatically, just to watch his mouth twitch.
“Let's recap,” you say. “You and your idiot bandmates shook hands on a no-sex, no-anything deal for the month, and you want me to be, what, your moral support? Your… chastity coach?”
He laughs, finally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Please never call yourself that again.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” His fingers flex, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.
“It’s just us,” he adds, more carefully. “The boys. I’m not asking you to… sign a contract or anything.”
“How generous,” you deadpan.
“I’m serious,” he says, and he is. You can hear it—threaded under the teasing, under the mortification. “You don’t have to change anything. I’m the one who signed up for torture.”
“Then why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “do I feel like I’m about to get drafted anyway?”
He hesitates. It’s tiny, but you feel it, the way his hands tighten on your hips for half a second before he makes himself relax.
“Because,” he says slowly, “if you keep doing… that—”
“Doing what?” You blink at him, the picture of innocence. You are still in his lap. Your shirt is still slightly crooked. Your mouth still tingles from his.
His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, like his own body is answering the question for him. His tongue darts out, quick, almost nervous, before he catches himself.
“Existing like this,” he mutters, giving your waist the faintest, helpless squeeze. “Sitting on me. Making those little noises.” His voice dips, embarrassingly earnest. “Looking at me like that.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “I was literally just kissing my boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”
The corner of your mouth twitches. You want to be annoyed on principle—because you were very much enjoying yourself five minutes ago—but the way he’s looking at you makes it hard.
You drop your hands from his jaw, smoothing them instead over his shoulders, down the line of his hoodie. He lets out a slow breath, like your touch isn’t making anything better, but he’s too gone on you to pull away.
“You’re really going to try,” you say.
“I am,” he says. And he means it. For all his dramatics, there’s steel underneath. “I have self-control. I can do this.”
You hum. “With me around?”
He turns his head, meets your gaze. That stubborn spark flares again. “Especially with you around.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to say when you just almost combusted because I moved my hips an inch.”
His ears go pink. “That was… an adjustment period.”
“Mm.”
“Warm-up,” he insists. “I’ll get used to it.”
“You’ll get used to… not having sex with me,” you say flatly. “For a month.”
A shadow of uncertainty flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows.
“Well, when you put it like that,” he says faintly.
You feel the tiniest, petty part of you preen at that. Because there it is, laid bare between you: it’s not sex in general he’s missing. It’s sex with you. It’s your laugh in his ear, your fingers in his hair, your teeth on his shoulder.
You drag your thumbs over his cheekbones, smoothing the faint flush you put there. “You know this is going to be harder on you than me, right?”
“How do you figure?” he asks, wary.
“You’re the clingy one,” you say. “You’re the one who turns every movie night into a makeout session. You’re the one who can’t sit next to me without holding something—my hand, my leg, my entire body.”
His mouth curves, despite everything. “You love it.”
“I do,” you admit. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”
“Because I’m competitive,” he says. “And stupid. And I like the idea of saying, ‘I survived No Nut November while dating you.’ It makes me sound strong.”
“Or deranged.”
You sigh, long and theatrical, and for a heartbeat his eyes soften like he thinks you’re actually upset. You’re not. Annoyed, a little. Wound up, definitely. But underneath it there’s a thread of fondness that won’t loosen no matter how hard you tug.
“Fine,” you say at last. “I will… attempt to support your deeply questionable life choices.”
His whole face lights up, relief washing over his features so visibly it almost knocks you back. “Really?”
“Really,” you say. “I will try not to sabotage you. I will not seduce you on purpose. I will, to the best of my ability, refrain from climbing into your lap at every opportunity.”
His gaze flicks down to where you are currently planted. “Starting when?”
You pause. Consider the logistics. Consider the way his hands tighten when you shift even a little, the way his pupils are blown wide already.
“…Tomorrow,” you say.
He laughs, bright and helpless. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “Yes.”
You lean in and press a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his lips—just a peck, nothing that could be construed as dangerous, even if he still chases it faintly when you pull back.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he said the words No Nut November out loud. His hands slide up your back, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, and he pulls you in, just enough to tuck you against his chest.
A few days pass, and for the most part, it’s… fine.
You see him in little pockets of time carved between schedules—quick coffee before practice when he’s already in sweats and a beanie, a rushed goodbye in the lobby when his manager honks from the curb, a FaceTime call with his hair still damp from the shower and his voice soft with sleep. The bet lives in the background of everything, like a bad inside joke. There’s a running tally in the boys’ group chat he shows you once, all ugly emojis and worse nicknames.
You make fun of him every time he mentions it. He rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead. It’s almost easy to forget that there’s a line between you now, even if it’s one he drew himself.
By the time Friday crawls around, you’re exhausted in a way that feels low and heavy. The kind of tired that turns your bones to sand. You spend the evening cleaning in lazy bursts—loading the dishwasher, half-folding laundry, wiping crumbs off the coffee table—and then give up around eleven, flopping onto the couch with a blanket and your phone.
He texts you sometime after that.
HYUNJIN: done late today 🥲 HYUNJIN: leaving now, might be closer to 2 HYUNJIN: don’t wait up if you’re tired okay
You send back a half-assed heart emoji and stubbornly decide you’re going to stay awake anyway.
You don’t.
Sleep sneaks up on you the way it always does—slow eyelids, heavier blinks, the show you were pretending to watch turning into background noise. You curl onto your side, phone slipping from your hand to the cushion, the apartment washed in the soft blue light of the TV. The last thing you remember is thinking you should get up and brush your teeth.
The next thing you’re aware of is the soft metallic click of your front door.
You surface slowly, in layers. The dimness of the room. The quiet shuffle of shoes being toed off. The low, familiar murmur of his voice as he whispers something to himself and drops his bag by the wall.
You don’t move right away. You’re warm and heavy under the blanket, lungs rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Footsteps pad across your floor. A shadow passes between you and the TV.
“Baby?” he says quietly.
You crack an eye open.
Hyunjin stands at the end of the couch, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp and curling around his forehead. There’s a mask hanging from one ear and a plastic bag looped around his wrist. The digital clock on your cable box informs you, unhelpfully, that it’s 2:14 a.m.
“You’re late,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
He smiles, the kind of soft, crooked thing that makes the trip worth it. “Hi to you too.”
He sets the bag down on the coffee table carefully, like it’s precious cargo. Something inside clinks faintly—takeout containers and chopsticks knocking together. The smell hits a second later, warm and savory, oily in the best way.
Your stomach flutters in vague interest, but the rest of you is too tired to respond.
“I brought food,” he says, needlessly. “In case you were hungry.”
“ ‘M not,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall closed again.
He glances at the phone wedged between you and the back cushion, screen dark.
“I made it to…” You blink, brain scrambling for a landmark. “Some guy got slapped. Might’ve been episode one. Might’ve been a commercial.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re adorable.”
You feel the couch dip as he sits down near your feet, the springs sighing under his weight. The rustle of the plastic bag, the little rip as he tears open the knot. The sharp, plasticky snap of chopsticks split apart.
You peel your eyes open again, just enough to see him through your lashes.
He’s turned sideways, one knee up on the couch, container balanced on the coffee table in front of him. The screen light catches on his jaw, on the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck. He looks tired in that way you’ve learned to read—creases at the corners of his eyes, shoulders slumping for the first time all day—but there’s still a fizz of energy under his skin. The schedule high hasn’t completely worn off yet.
“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask.
“I’m starving,” he says around a mouthful of rice. “Also, I have news.”
You shift a little, tugging the blanket up under your chin. “Good news or stupid news?”
“Both,” he says cheerfully. “Han lost.”
That wakes you up more effectively than the smell of food.
“Already?” You blink at him. “It’s been, like… what, five days?”
“Four,” he says. “And it was technically last night, so three and some change.”
You snort. “What happened?”
He grins, eyes lighting up with the kind of glee reserved for watching your friends suffer consequences.
“Apparently he had a dream that started off all innocent and then—” Hyunjin makes an unhelpful, vague hand motion. “—turned into a lot of things very fast. Woke up already… you know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Already?”
“That’s what he said.” Hyunjin shrugs, then takes another bite.
“So Han’s out,” you say, prodding. “What about you?”
His gaze flicks to you, amused. “I’m great.”
“You’re really going to sit there,” you say, “and claim this is easy?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Hasn’t been that bad so far.”
You study him, skeptical. He looks… okay, actually. Still a little keyed up from work, but not feral. His leg is bouncing a bit where his foot rests on the rug, but that might just be habit. His eyes skitter over you once—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, blanket burrito—and then obediently return to his food.
“Huh,” you say. “So you weren’t lying about self-control.”
He pretends to preen, shoulders squaring. “Told you. Mind of steel. Also, practice has been insane. I barely have the energy to think about sex.”
You hum. “Must be nice.”
His mouth curves, just enough. “Are you suffering?”
You give him a flat look.
He reaches over with his free hand, fingers searching blindly under the blanket until they find your ankle. His palm is warm where it closes over your skin, thumb rubbing absent circles over the bone. It’s casual, familiar, easy in a way that doesn’t immediately set your nerves on fire.
“Have you…” He trails off, lashes dipping as he looks down at the food again. “You know. Been okay?”
You tilt your head. “You mean, am I climbing the walls without your dick?”
He chokes on a grain of rice.
“Don’t say that while I’m chewing,” he wheezes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His grip on your ankle tightens in affronted self-defense. “I could’ve died.”
You smile, lazy and mean. “You walked into that.”
He recovers with a theatrical sigh, shoving another piece of chicken into his mouth like he needs to occupy it with something other than words.
You think about giving him a real answer. About the way your brain keeps replaying little moments from before the bet, about the heat that hums under your skin when he hugs you from behind, about the way you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once this week. But he looks tired and proud of himself in the same breath, so you just shrug.
“It’s been… fine,” you say. “You’re busy. I’m tired. I’ve been mostly falling asleep before my brain has time to be annoying.”
He seems relieved by that, tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction.
“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want this to feel like—” He makes a face, searching for the word. “Like I’m withholding something from you.”
“You kind of are,” you say lightly. “But it’s consensual withholding, I guess.”
“Sexy,” he mutters. “Love when my girlfriend talks about things like a lawyer.”
You nudge his calf with your toe. “You’re the one who turned your sex life into a contract.”
“Don’t remind me.”
For a while, the apartment settles into a sleepy kind of quiet. The TV murmurs to itself in the background, all dim colors and looped soundtrack. Hyunjin eats, methodical and unhurried, and you watch him with half-lidded eyes, floating in that strange in-between space where you’re too tired to get up but not tired enough to sink all the way under again.
He looks at home here, in a way that makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too hard. His socks are mismatched—one black, one gray—and his hoodie rides up when he leans forward to grab another piece, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his waist. There’s a small stain on the cuff. His bag is half unzipped by the door, phone charger peeking out.
He catches you staring eventually.
“What?” he asks, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”
“At my chewing?” he says doubtfully.
“At my boyfriend,” you correct.
The expression that crosses his face is almost comically soft. His shoulders drop, eyes going warm at the edges, mouth curving in that way that says you could ask for the moon and he’d at least google how to get it.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
“You’re already here,” you point out, but you scoot anyway, pushing yourself up and crawling the short distance until you’re within reach.
He abandons the food for the moment, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and lifts the blanket in invitation. You tuck yourself against his side, head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his thigh. He settles an arm around you automatically, palm spreading over your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing lines.
This isn’t new. You’ve done this a hundred times. In other months, on other nights, this is the position that leads to wandering hands, to his mouth finding yours, to something more tangled and breathless and messy.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
You feel the awareness of that hovering between you like a held breath. The way his fingers pause for half a second on your arm before resuming their pattern. The way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, maybe a bit deeper than usual.
“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur, eyes slipping closed again.
He huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling against your ribs. “I told you. I can do it.”
“This is only the beginning,” you remind him. “Don’t get cocky.”
You fall quiet after that, lulled by the steady motion of his hand and the low, steady noise of the TV. Sleep creeps up again, heavier this time. Your muscles go slack one by one, your thoughts dissolving into half-dreams. Somewhere above you, Hyunjin’s voice blurs into a comforting hum as he narrates his day.
Eventually, his words start to slow. He finishes the last bites of his food one-handed, sets the empty container back in the bag, and leans forward to tie it closed, careful not to jostle you too much.
When he settles back, you make a small, unconscious sound and burrow closer. His arm tightens around you automatically, his other hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You could say the same—about him, about this stupid bet, about the next three weeks that are going to test both of you more than either of you realize. But right now, it’s still easy. Right now, it’s just his voice, his warmth, the soft press of his lips against your forehead as the room blurs out.
You let your mind go quiet, let your body sink into his.
For week one, at least, cuddling really is safe.
It’s a Tuesday when you head to the dorm after work, the hallways too bright and too quiet at the same time. Changbin opens the door with a fork in his mouth and a hoodie half on, half off his shoulder.
“Oh,” he says around the fork, then catches himself and pulls it out. “Hey. He’s here—just showering.”
“Hi,” you smile. “Whatchu eating?”
He lifts the plastic container he’s demolishing. “Protein.” Then, because he’s not actually a monster, “There’s more in the fridge if you want. I picked up extra.”
“I’m okay.” You toe your shoes off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
He waves you down the hall, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Make good choices.”
You snort and leave him to his protein and plausible deniability.
Hyunjin’s room is the same it’s always been—two plants clinging valiantly to a windowsill, a paint-smeared tote hooked over a chair, a candle he probably isn’t supposed to have tucked half-behind a stack of books. You sit on the edge of his bed and listen to the water shut off, the muffled thump of the bathroom door, the soft slap of bare feet down the hall.
He comes in toweling his hair, damp shirt clinging in places you’re trying not to think about. There’s a drop of water clinging to the hollow beneath his ear; you feel it like a physical tug somewhere deep and unhelpful.
“Hey,” he says, and it’s stupid how much better the room feels just because he’s in it. “You got here quick.”
He tosses the towel onto the chair and crosses the room in two long steps, leaning in to press his mouth to your forehead. The kiss is quick, chaste, the kind that shouldn’t do anything to you at all.
It does.
You try to hide it by reaching for the ends of his hair, tugging at damp strands to fluff them. He ducks his head obligingly, that lazy, pleased sound rumbling in his chest.
“Long day?” he asks, and he’s close enough that you can see the damp darkening his lashes, the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.
You shrug, noncommittal. “Fine.”
His mouth tilts. “Liar.”
“I am attempting nonchalance,” you say primly.
“Terrible attempt,” he says, even softer. His hands slide to your hips like they belong there—because they do—and then stop, a tiny check you feel more than see. He studies your face for a beat, all the easy teasing peeling back. “Talk to me.”
You look away. The words feel ridiculous even inside your head. You’re fine. You are. It’s just that every time he looks like this—clean and warm and a little undone by the shower—your body sings a single, unhelpful note and refuses to shut up about it.
“I’m… tired,” you say, which is true. “And you look like that.”
“Like what?” He follows your gaze down the curve of his own throat, as if he might discover the problem alone. When he looks back up, he’s smiling, but it’s gentler now. “Come here.”
You go easily, because you always do. He pulls you up the bed and sits back against the wall, legs long and relaxed, and you settle sideways into his lap, your shoulder to his chest, your knees tucked beside his ribs. His hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt without fanfare, palm spreading warm over your stomach, the other arm bracketed around you, a cage you have never wanted to run from.
For a minute, you let the room be small and quiet. You listen to the city mutter through the window and the dorm’s ancient heating rattle like a ghost down the vent. His thumb moves in slow circles at your waist. Your breath takes its cues from his.
It would be easy to leave it here. It would be smart.
You shift.
It’s small. An inch, maybe less. A recalibration that has you closer to the heat of him, to the clean smell of his skin, to the damp line of his jaw when you tip your head back to look. He doesn’t move when you do it. He doesn’t even breathe, for one held second. You feel the restraint in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hand flattens against your stomach like he can anchor both of you to something that isn’t this.
“Baby,” he says, and it’s not a warning so much as an acknowledgment. A you’re not wrong, I feel it too.
You swallow. “I know.”
His eyes skate over your face. Whatever he sees there makes a decision for him. He exhales through his nose and dips his head, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Kisses that are careful, not cold. Kisses that say I want to and I promised myself I wouldn’t in the same breath.
You catch his jaw with your fingers when he tries to duck away from your mouth again. He goes still under your hand, eyes flicking to your lips.
“Hyun,” you say, and you hate how rough it sounds. “I’m really… I’m not trying to make this harder, but—”
“I know,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that. He cups your face, thumb skating under your eye. Up close like this he looks a little wrecked himself, damp hair curling, mouth soft and pink, pupils a little too big. “I can tell.”
Your cheeks heat, humiliation and relief tangling together. “It’s stupid.”
His mouth flickers like he wants to argue with that on principle. He doesn’t. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropped low.
“Do you want me to help?”
You go silent. The question hangs between you, honest and easy. He’s not teasing. He isn’t trying to talk you out of anything. He’s offering.
“Help… how,” you ask, and your voice breaks exactly where his eyes do.
“However you want,” he says, like it’s simple. His hand leaves your stomach and slides to your hip, not pulling, just there. “I can take care of you. Just you.” His mouth quirks, apology-soft. “Let me.”
The worst part is how fast your body answers for you. Heat rushes bright and immediate under your skin; your breath catches and you feel yourself lean toward him on a string you didn’t know you’d given him.
“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s not about fair,” he says, and he means it. “It’s about you.”
You search his face for the crack in the offer, the place where it costs him too much. All you find is want and patience layered over it like gauze. He’s careful even in this—like his own restraint is something he can set down for a second if it means you get to breathe again.
Your hands have found the back of his neck without permission. Your thumb strokes a damp curl flat, the kind of thoughtless, tender touch that should make this easier and doesn’t at all.
“What if you—” You stop, because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate. Your eyes flick to his mouth and back. “What if this makes it worse for you?”
His smile is crooked and honest. “It already is worse for me.” He tips his forehead to yours. “But I can live with worse if it means you sleep.”
You press your lips together, a small, involuntary pout he sees and promptly chases with a soft kiss, like he can kiss the indecision off your mouth.
He murmurs against your lower lip, “Say the word.”
The room narrows to his breath and your pulse. To the way his fingers curl at your hip, not urging, just steady. To the warm, damp smell of his t-shirt and the faint thread of citrus in his hair. You could nod. You could fall into the shape of the offer and let him handle it, and you know with a weird, fierce certainty that he’d be devastatingly good and even more devastatingly gentle.
You want it.
You want him.
And yet there’s a stab of stubbornness you didn’t know you had, something that says later, not like this, not when he’s already walking a tightrope for you both.
“I…” You exhale and press your face to his throat, buying a second against his skin. Your voice comes small. “If you start, I won’t let you stop.”
He swallows, the motion brushing your cheek. “You don’t have to.”
“Hyun.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s a soft capitulation, not to the bet but to you.
“Okay,” he says, and kisses your hair. “Okay. Then let me do something else.”
Before you can ask, he shifts, easing you down the bed. He lies on his side and tucks you in against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy over your waist. His knee slides between yours, not indecent, just there, a solid line to lean into. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw, the place below your ear that makes your whole nervous system light up, and he kisses you slowly, like he has time to spare, like he can bleed the ache out by degrees.
You melt, traitorously. His hand spans your lower belly, the heel of his palm applying the gentlest pressure in time with your breath, a rhythm that asks and asks until your body answers by unclenching.
“Better?” he whispers after a while, voice gone husky with concentration.
You nod, the movement dragging his mouth along your skin. “A little.”
“More?” he asks, and even now it’s a question.
You find his hand where it rests at your waist and bring it lower. No coyness—your fingers slot between his and you guide, decisive, until his knuckles meet the inside of your thigh. His breath catches against your jaw.
“Here,” you say, already breathless. “Like this.”
He doesn’t make you show him twice. His palm curves over the heat of you through your leggings, a careful pressure that has your hips tilting before you can stop them. He follows the shift without comment, mouth moving at your neck in slow, coaxing kisses while his fingers learn the shape of what you need—broad strokes, then tighter, then right where you’re aching.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I want to get it right.”
“You are,” you manage, and then you’re not managing at all because he is, the heel of his hand catching exactly where the ache peaks. You exhale a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. He swears under his breath, almost reverent.
There’s the faint, traitorous scrape of the bedframe when you roll your hips into his hand. He stills for a heartbeat, listening; from the living room comes the distant murmur of Changbin’s TV and a laugh that might be at a meme or a dog video or nothing at all.
Hyunjin’s mouth ghosts your ear. “Quiet for me, yeah?”
You nod too fast, the motion tugging a gasp from your chest when his fingers press a fraction harder. It’s not enough; it’s too much; it’s perfect. You grab his wrist and push—just a little more, just there—and he groans like the simple trust of it does him in.
“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked-soft. “Okay, baby.”
He works you through the fabric until it’s damp, heat pulling heat, your thighs clenching around his hand like you could keep it there forever. You can’t think in full sentences; your world narrows to the steady drag of his palm and the way his lips keep finding you—temple, jaw, the corner of your mouth when you turn blindly toward him. Every time he feels you shiver he makes one of those low, encouraging sounds that never fails to set you off.
It still isn’t enough.
You catch his wrist again, firmer, and tug his hand under the waistband. He goes without protest, breath stuttering as his fingers slip against you, nothing in the way now but your own restraint. The first touch is shockingly gentle; the second has intent behind it. He finds slick heat and then slides lower, tasting the whine you can’t swallow.
“Like that?” he asks, barely there.
“Mm—” Your head tips back against his shoulder. “Yeah. More.”
He gives you more. Two fingers, careful at first, easing you open, his palm angling so his thumb can circle right where you want it. The sound you make is embarrassingly soft and he swallows it with a kiss to your cheek, then your mouth, then back to the place below your ear that makes your knees go loose even though you’re lying down.
You don’t realize you’re grinding until he breathes a shaky laugh at your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Use me.”
You do. You rock into his hand, chasing what he’s giving you, and something in him slips its leash.
“God—” His fingers tighten on your hip like he’s steadying himself, then he’s moving you with him, guiding the grind, setting the rhythm he wants from you—long, deliberate strokes that land you right over his thumb every single time. His breath saws against your neck, hot and uneven. “Look at you. Fuck.”
You try to be quiet. You try. But the way he angles his wrist, the way his fingers curl just right and stay right, drags a sound out of you that’s too loud for the thin dorm walls.
He clamps a palm over your mouth before it’s even fully out, reflex-quick. “Shhh,” he breathes, voice frayed. “Baby—quiet. Please.”
It should be mortifying; it only makes your pulse ricochet. You nod against his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewards you by pressing in deeper, circling faster, like he’s losing the map and loving it.
“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s it, that’s it.” He’s gone pink high on his cheeks; his pupils are huge, swallowing the brown. He can’t keep still—hips twitching once behind you before he forces them flat to the mattress with a strangled noise. His jaw flexes like it hurts. “You feel so—” He cuts himself off on a quiet groan when you clench around his fingers. “Please. Do that again.”
You do, because you’re helpless for him, because his hand is relentless and every soft, wrecked little sound he makes sinks straight to where you’re aching. He slips a third finger in only when you drag his wrist down and ask for it with a needy roll of your hips; he swears into your shoulder and gives it to you, patient for exactly two strokes before his control frays again and he’s driving you through it, thumb never leaving the spot that’s turning you inside out.
Another moan swells; his palm seals your mouth a second time, more desperate now, his fingers splayed across your cheek. “I know,” he whispers, nearly panting. “I know, I know—be good for me. I’ve got you.”
You are far past good. Your nails bite at his forearm; the bed gives a perilous creak. He presses closer to muffle it, chest flush to your back, forearm banded across your waist to hold you right where he wants you. You can feel the tremor in him, the fine shake running through his shoulders. You can feel him hard and ignored, pressed hot against the curve of you, and the quiet, broken sound he lets out when you grind back by mistake is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.
“Don’t—” His warning shatters into a laugh that’s barely a breath. “Don’t do that to me, I’m hanging on by a thread.”
You’re not sure if you apologize or whine; it dies under his hand either way. He kisses the hinge of your jaw like thanks, like apology, like please. Then he sets himself to finishing you—no mercy, no pause, just intent, the pads of his fingers dragging the way he knows drives you crazy, his thumb ruthless and steady.
The wave hits fast. You try to tell him—his name, the word close, anything—but all that comes out against his palm is a panicked sound, so you grab his wrist and squeeze, nails digging in.
“I know,” he says, strangled. He buries his mouth against your shoulder, breath scorching. “Let go. Let me have it.”
Two more circles and you break—silent first, too much for sound—and then a gasp rips free anyway, high and wild. His hand holds firm over your mouth, muffling it; his other arm pins you tight while you shake through it, fingers never letting up until the aftershocks start to make you twitch away.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, easing you down, slowing, softening. His palm leaves your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth while you find air again. “Good girl. So good.”
You float for a moment, boneless, every muscle unspooling at once. He slips his fingers free with ridiculous care, tugs your waistband gently back into place, then brings his hand up and licks his fingers clean.
You turn in his arms and see it: how ruined he is. Hair a damp mess, lips swollen, pupils blown, a flush licking down his throat. He’s breathing like he just ran stairs. He’s buzzing—the kind of taut, vibrating restraint that makes your post-release brain go soft with something feral and fond.
“Hyunjin,” you whisper, reaching for him.
He catches your hand and threads your fingers together to stop you from going anywhere dangerous, laugh cracking on the edges. “Don’t. Don’t touch me or I'm going to nut in my fucking pants."
He’s laughing when he says it, but it’s wrecked—too high at the edges, too close to something he doesn’t trust.
He scrubs a hand over his face, drags in air, then blows it out slow like he’s extinguishing candles. “I need a… God. I need a colder shower.”
“You literally just—”
“A colder one,” he bites, already peeling himself away from you like you’re a live wire. He kisses your forehead in apology and swings his legs off the bed. “Two minutes.”
You watch the way he stands—careful, like any wrong move might undo whatever thread he’s got left—and you’re a little in love with him for choosing distance when everything in him is screaming closer.
You let him go, because you love him, because you’re sated and soft and this is the part where you be kind. He crosses the room in long strides, hooks his thumbs in his sweats, and—because modesty has never been a thing with you two—shucks them and his briefs in one smooth, catastrophic motion. Stark naked, he’s all flushed skin and long lines and want he’s trying to pretend isn’t chewing through him. You watch his back flex as he grabs a towel and a spare tee from the chair, then he’s out the door with a muttered “two minutes” like a promise to both of you.
Week three arrives with sugar in the air and Hyunjin starfished on your kitchen rug like a defeated prince.
You’re at the counter with a mixing bowl, scraping browned butter down the sides while the oven hums to temp. He’s in sweats and a wrecked ponytail, one sock on and one sock nowhere to be found, forearm over his eyes. Every so often his ankle bumps your cabinet. Thunk. A soft hum. Thunk.
“You’re going to dent my cupboards,” you say, dropping vanilla into the mixing bowl a slow, amber ribbon.
“Mm,” he answers, noncommittal.
“You’re staying for the christmas party, right? Next month? I’m not doing sugar-cookie assembly line by myself.”
“Mm.”
“I’m thinking two kinds. Classic trees and those little star sandwiches with the jam. You’ll be on sprinkle duty.”
A quiet smile in his voice. “Mmhm.”
You flick a glance down. “This is a conversation, you know.”
He slides the forearm off his eyes. Blinks hazily at you from the floor. “I’m participating,” he says, deadpan, then ruins it by softening, gaze raking you slow like he forgot he’s supposed to be alive and not a ghost. “You’re pretty.”
Your first instinct is to preen. Your second is to throw flour at him. You settle for a smug tilt of your head. “You say that now. Wait till I’m covered in powdered sugar.”
He huffs a laugh that buzzes the rug. “Can’t wait.”
You hold up the whisk. “Do we like gooey or crisp?”
“Mm. Gooey.”
“Okay, king of strong opinions.”
He smiles up at the ceiling. Another thunk. Another hum.
You pour the butter-sugar mix into the flour. Fold. Breathe. The apartment feels small and warm and very, very you—his hoodie drying on a chair back, a reusable tote on the knob, your playlist low on your phone. For a minute, he’s content to be a warm obstacle on your floor, soaking you up.
He speaks without moving his arm. Almost conversational. “Hypothetical.”
You glance down, fighting a smile. “Hit me.”
“What if,” he says, voice too even, “I put the tip in.”
Your wrist doesn’t even pause. “Tip of what?”
Silence.
You scrape around the edge of the bowl, utterly absorbed. “Like—piping tips? For the cookies? I told you, we don’t need the fancy snowflake nozzles, they’re so annoying to clean—”
“Baby,” he says, and his forearm finally slides off his face.
You still don’t look. “Or did you mean baking tips? Because, sure, here’s one: don’t eat all the dough before it hits the tray—”
“Babe.”
You sigh like he’s interrupting something deeply important and set the whisk down. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Hyunjin. I’m not a mind reader.”
He’s already looking at you like you are, eyes dark in a way that doesn’t match the lazy sprawl of his body. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ponytail sliding over his shoulder, gaze dragging from your bare legs to the hem of your shorts and back up.
“The tip,” he says slowly, like he’s testing every word before he lets it out. “Of my dick. In you.” A beat. “Hypothetically.”
You blink once. Twice. “Ohhh.” You click your tongue. “That tip.”
His mouth falls open. “You are insufferable.
He’s up before you can reply, a shadow at your back, hands sliding under your elbows to the counter so you’re bracketed, caged, warmed. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw like muscle memory.
His mouth opens against your pulse on a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He sets his hands on your hips and moves you—one step forward, one to the side—until your thighs kiss the counter and the mixing bowl wobbles. He steadies it with one hand without taking his eyes off you, then slides it out of reach, batter-slick whisk clinking in the sink.
“Hands on the counter,” he says.
You look over your shoulder, innocent. “Why?”
“So I don’t break your stupid mixing bowl.”
“Responsible,” you say, even while your fingers are already spreading on the laminate, flour dust ghosting your skin.
He crowds in, chest to your back, palms skimming down your hips like he’s fitting you to a blueprint only he can see. The oven clicks; the air smells like butter and sugar and the cold outside dying in the radiator. He bends to your neck. Kisses. Bites once, soft. Breathes out like he’s been underwater for days.
His voice drops an octave you feel in your knees. “I want to get off on you,” he says, every word deliberate. “I want to grind against you raw on this counter until I forget my own name, and then I want to fuck you.”
Heat hits you so fast you have to grab the edge of the counter to steady yourself. Your laugh comes out thin. “Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?”
“Hypothetically,” he agrees, and then he’s doing it—tilting your hips, slotting his thigh between yours, the rough press of his sweats catching the thin cotton of your sleep shorts as he drags you back along him. The first grind is exploratory; the second has purpose. He uses your waist like a handle, sets the tempo he wants, long, mean drags that line his length over the place you’re already burning.
You try to be smug, to keep the pretense, but your breath betrays you, breaks jagged on the exhale. Flour dust jumps off the counter with each push, lighting the air like static. His ponytail has half-escaped; a damp strand falls into the hollow of your shoulder as he noses there, breathing you like oxygen.
“Hyun,” you manage, warning, plea, everything.
“Yeah,” he answers, a torn sound. His hands are big and careless and perfect where they grip, thumbs digging into soft skin so he can pull you back harder. “Yeah, baby. Take it.”
He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s something feral in between, a man who’s been good for weeks and finally lets himself be selfish. He steers you so your belly meets the counter edge; the leverage is obscene. You arch, helpless, and he goes a little unhinged at the sight—hips stuttering, breath breaking hot against your neck.
“God—look at you.” He groans into your skin, the sound strangled. “This is what you do to me. You hear me? This. Every night.”
You push back, meeting the roll of him with greedy, short little rocks that make the cabinet rattle. He laughs—wrecked, disbelieving—and tightens his grip until all you can do is let him use your body to chase what he needs. Your thighs tremble; slick heat soaks through cotton; the room narrows to the rhythm, to the knock of the cupboard, to his voice unraveling in your ear.
A moan swells before you can catch it. He grins into you neck. “Thats it. Let me hear you,” he whispers, ragged, like prayer. “Be good for me.”
You are good. You are ruined. Your lashes stick from the heat. He ruts through the damp mess he’s made of you, the drag so precise you see stars at the edges. He says your name like he can anchor himself in it.
The oven beeps ready; neither of you moves. He presses you deeper to the counter, one hand flat beside yours, the other spread over your belly to feel every desperate twitch while he works you. His pace goes tight and deliberate—grind, drag, pause; grind, drag, pause—until you’re slipping, chasing, whining.
He breaks first.
“Fuck the bet,” he says, sudden, hoarse. “I’m done. I’m done.” His mouth finds your ear and his voice is all teeth. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” you gasp into his palm, wrecked.
He’s already there—sweats shoved low enough to free him, the quick-rough sound of cotton surrendering. Your shorts follow with a jerk, no ceremony, just the urgent rustle of fabric and the brief, cool kiss of air on your skin before he’s there, hot and heavy and real against you.
“Spread,” he says, and his knee knocks yours wider, his hand guiding, uncaring of flour handprints and sugar smudges. He drags the head of himself over you once, twice, slicking himself in what you’ve already given, and then does it again—slower, meaner—like he’s trying to memorize the way you go soft against the counter when he catches your clit on the upstroke.
“Hyun—” It’s barely a word.
“I know.” His voice is dark honey, ruined at the edges. He slots himself between your thighs and ruts there, bare skin to bare skin now, the length of him sliding through the mess he’s made of you. No thrust yet—just long, grinding passes that smear heat everywhere and light up each nerve he touches. His grip on your hips is possessive, fingers denting flour into your skin. “Let me use you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Let me—”
He guides your pelvis so you ride him back, makes you take his rhythm: drag, press, catch, shiver. Your belly bumps the counter each time; a dusting of sugar lifts into the air like static. You’re wet enough that it’s obscene, the glide slick and noisy in the warm quiet of your kitchen. His ponytail snags in the nape of your neck; he noses under it, inhales like he’s starving.
“Look at this,” he mutters, half-crazed. “Look at what you do to me—feel what you do to me.” He rocks up so the head grinds just under your clit and you jolt, a strangled sound tearing loose. “That’s it. Be sweet.”
You are, because you can’t be anything else like this. Your thighs clamp; you chase every pass without pride, cheeks hot. He’s shaking behind you—actually shaking—hips stuttering once when the underside of him slips just right against you.
“Fuck—” He laughs, hoarse and unbelieving. “I could cum like this. I could—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, throttling the thought. “No. Not before I—” His teeth find the hinge of your jaw, a quick bite that lands more like a kiss. “I need in.”
You nod so hard your forehead taps the cabinet. He shifts his hand from your mouth to your jaw, turning you just enough to catch your profile with his lips, a messy brush that says sorry and thank you and mine all at once.
“Tell me,” he says, words breaking, the tip riding your clit on purpose now, cruel. “Say it.”
“Inside,” you gasp, shameless. “Hyun, inside—please.”
“Yeah?” He lines up, the head nudging your entrance, pushing and retreating in tiny, maddening presses that make you see white. “Just the tip,” he promises, like a liar and a saint. “I’ll be good.”
You feel the tremor in his thighs when he finally breaches you: slow, steady pressure and then the hot, perfect give of your body taking him. He stops with just the crown nestled inside, jaw locked, breath a ragged shudder against your shoulder. Your fingers claw at the laminate.
“Jesus,” he says into your skin, awed and wrecked. “You’re—I forgot how good you feel.”
You try to move; his arm bands across your waist, pinning you. “Don’t,” he grits, almost laughing at himself. “If you move I—” His hips twitch, helpless. You whine, crushed under the wanting.
He holds there for two, three breaths, like a man at the edge of a cliff telling himself not to jump—then the cliff gives. He eases a fraction deeper, a slow, shallow roll that feeds you a few more millimeters and steals the air from your lungs. You gasp; he groans raggedly like your reaction hits him straight in the spine.
“Just—” Another tiny push, another desperate bite of his lip. He’s barely inside, and somehow it feels like everything. “Just the tip. I swear.” He nuzzles your cheek, voice a trembling whisper. “Let me have this.”
You do. You let him have you: let him set the smallest, filthiest rhythm—out a breath, in a breath—each shallow press a tease that builds pressure until you’re shaking against the counter. He never leaves you; he never takes more than an inch. It’s torture cut into lace, and he’s falling apart in it with you, muttering praise and nonsense into your skin.
“Perfect. Perfect. Taking me so good—there you go—” His thumb sneaks lower to feel where you’re stretched around him and the sound he makes at that is shattered, reverent, almost boyish in its wonder. “You’re making a mess of me.”
You are. He is. You feel him pulsing, the restraint a live wire under your hands. Your body clamps down, greedy, and his control howls.
“Okay,” he says, like a surrender and a warning braided together. He presses a kiss behind your ear, soft as sugar. “One more. Just—” His hips roll, deep as he dares, shallow as he can stand. The head nudges that spot again, deliberate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. “Just like that.”
Then suddenly, something in him snaps—audible, almost—and the careful, pretty rhythm you’ve been holding together goes feral. His grip bites, his hips lurch, and he slides in a rough, shallow stroke that punches a sound out of both of you. Another, tighter. A third that’s barely anything at all, just the thick, blunt head grinding where you’re slickest, and he’s gone.
“—ohhhh, fuck—” The word breaks on a groan. He bites into your shoulder as the noise tears out of you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, body strung bow-tight as it hits him. Heat floods; his hips stutter and lock, jerky little pulses betraying him while he tries to stay buried only that impossible inch.
You feel him shake through it, every tremor telegraphing to your spine: weeks of restraint burning up in seconds. He slams home and finishes inside of you, messy and hot, fingers clenched tight around your hips.
For a heartbeat it’s only breathing—his, wrecked and ragged; yours, caught under his palm in quick, shocked pulls. The oven timer chirps again, unbearably cheerful.
He blinks back into himself by degrees. The hand at your mouth slides to your cheek, thumb stroking once like apology. He leans his forehead to the nape of your neck and laughs once, breathless, incredulous, doomed.
“I lost,” he says into your skin, like a eulogy. Then, with immediate, dramatic conviction: “This is your fault.”
He doesn’t move. If anything, he melts closer, chest sealed to your back, nose buried under your ear like he could crawl inside your skin and be done with it.
“My fault?” you echo.
“Absolutely,” he says, kissing the line of your jaw like penance. “A conspiracy. You, butter, sugar, tiny kitchen. I never stood a chance.” Another kiss. Another. He’s clingy in that way that makes you gooey—hands roaming with nowhere to land, mouth greedy for reassuring you’re-here-you’re-mine pecks that trail from your temple to your cheek to the corner of your lips. “I was strong until you did the—” he gestures vaguely at your hips, voice cracking into a helpless laugh, “—that exact thing.”
You tilt your head back, catching his mouth. “Poor baby.”
“Savage temptress,” he counters, already nuzzling, already smiling against your skin like he’s high on you. He finally peels away an inch to grab a paper towel, wipes you and the counter with gentleness that makes your throat sting, then tosses it and wraps himself around you again like the clingy, overheated octopus he is.
“Hyun, the timer,” you remind, soft.
He groans theatrically and still doesn’t let go. “I’m emotionally compromised.”
You bump his hip with yours; he gasps like you shot him and tightens his arms. “Okay! I’m going. I’m going.”
He peels himself off you in slow inches, fingers dragging along your waist until the very last second, like Velcro that refuses to unstick. The oven timer chirps again, smug. He mutters something rude at it under his breath and grabs an oven mitt.
You watch him cross the kitchen: sweats low on his hips, ponytail half dead, cheeks still a little pink. He looks wrecked and soft and yours, and something hot and fond curls under your ribs.
He opens the oven, a blast of heat puffing his hair back, and wrestles the tray out. “Look at that,” he announces, setting it on the stovetop with a hiss of metal on metal. “Perfect. Unlike my failure.”
You snort. “You act like you didn’t sprint to failure the second you had an opening.”
“Defamation,” he says, affronted, but his eyes are laughing. He leans on the counter next to the cookies, shoulders heaving once in a leftover shiver, then glances at you with the expression of a man who just remembered something terrible. “Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“The group chat,” he groans. “We have to tell them.”
You blink. “We?”
“We are in this together,” he insists immediately. “If I go down, you’re my accomplice.”
You wipe a thumb through a stray streak of flour on the counter. “Or,” you say, “you could… not tell them.”
He blinks. “Not… tell them?”
“Not tonight,” you amend. “You can confess your tragic downfall in the morning. When you’re less—” you wave a hand at his whole flushed, wrecked self “—like this.”
He considers that, chewing his lip. Then he sighs, dramatic. “Postponed execution. I’ll allow it.” He chucks his phone onto the table without unlocking it and steps back into your space like a magnet snapping home.
You squeak when he scoops you up by the waist, spinning you lazily once before setting you on the counter beside the cooling tray. His hands find your hips again and stay there, thumbs rubbing little circles over the fabric.
“Hyun,” you laugh. “Cookies are hot.”
“So am I,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Equal threat level.”
You roll your eyes, but your fingers are already in his hair, loosening the half-dead ponytail, combing through the strands at his nape. He melts, actually melts, tipping his forehead into your shoulder with a tiny, content sound.
For a minute, that’s all it is: his arms around your waist, your nose tucked into his damp hair, the kitchen warm with butter and sugar and the soft tick of the cooling oven. His heartbeat is a steady thump against your ribs. The sharp edge of earlier has dulled to something slow and syrupy.
He speaks without lifting his head. “Just so you know,” he mumbles into your shirt, “I’m taking you anyway.”
You stroke the back of his neck. “Hm?”
“The trip.” He turns his face so his cheek is pressed over your heart, words softer, clearer. “I still want to go. With you. Even if I lost like, spectacularly.” His mouth quirks. “Maybe because I lost spectacularly.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to take me on vacation, you know.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s no bravado in it now. Just that earnest, stupid-sweet honesty you’re a little bit addicted to. “I just… liked the story in my head. Suffer all month, win the pot, whisk you away with my noble restraint.” He tips his chin up to look at you, eyes soft. “But I think ‘couldn’t keep my hands off my girlfriend while she was making cookies’ is a pretty good story, too.”
“A little embarrassing,” you correct.
“Still vacation-worthy.”
You search his face. “You’re sure?”
He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and certain. “I’m sure,” he says against your lips. “I wanted the trip with you. The rest was just… decoration.”
Your chest does that inconvenient squeeze again. You thread your fingers with his where they rest on your thighs, squeezing.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then we’ll go.”
His whole body relaxes, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He grins, bright and boyish and a little relieved, then tucks back into your shoulder, arms cinching you closer until you’re basically welded together.
He smiles against your collar, and the kitchen, your stupid cookies, the ruined bet—all of it settles into something small and sweet and yours. No charts, no prize money, no rules.
Just Hyunjin, sticky with sugar and soft with relief, promising you a vacation he was always going to take you on anyway, and you, letting him hold you there on your own counter until the only thing left humming in the air is the certainty that he’d lose a hundred bets, and choose you, every single time.
taglist: @emmiesoverthemoon @makeitworse @katdish @firelordtsuki @hynjinnnnsmuse @madirye062 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @dazzlingjade @stayville-citizen @joenjenny @eyes-ofhell @veronica123 @four_eyes13 @madebybec @thisisnotjacinta @aaassshhhaaa @a-brilliante-mariposa @vember77 @soechangbinsrightboob @meloncremesoda @sweetley @ima-jellybeanz @elenas-kaleidoscope @starlostjisung @bahngarang
i call this phenomenon "god hates me"
Just because you don't require much; doesn't mean you deserve the bare minimum!
─── 𝄞 Texts with bf!seungmin
Warnings: cursing, reader bullies seungmin a lot
Screenshot count: 16
a/n: i love seungmin sm
a/n: peep the removal of the time stamps.. i don’t like this as much as the other one but it’s ok. (lowk gave you guys quantity over quality cause i felt bad for the lack of the latter) feed back is very much appreciated, thank you and love you!!
Taglist is now open, comment, ask or dm to be added
via jeonginbiscuit
Switched
bang chan x f! reader
synopsis: In a world where everyone has a soulmate and the markings vary based on each pair, you were stuck with one of the most annoying markings: the unknown. When you find out that your identifying mark is body switching, and your soulmate happens to be the idol Bang Chan, your life gets a little bit more difficult.
Ever the independent (stubborn) person you are, you want to keep your array of problems to yourself. Chan seems determined to change that.
tags: hurt/comfort, eating disorder, anxiety/insecurity, soulmates au
wc: 13,866
–
In a world where everyone has a soulmate and the markings vary based on each pair, you were stuck with one of the most annoying markings: the unknown.
Some people had their soulmate’s first words to them, some had a countdown. Red string, lost items, colorblindness, shared pain. You had none of the above. You didn’t even have a mental marking, like feeling their emotions or tasting what they ate. No, you had absolutely nothing.
You knew, logically, that many people were the same. It didn’t mean you didn’t have a soulmate, it just meant that your marking was likely something physical. You’d know it when you touched them or when you saw them.
It was frustrating. Sometimes you thought you’d never find your soulmate, since there was nothing actually leading you to them. It was just luck—or, you supposed, fate—if you would meet them.
It turned out that you were wrong. So, so wrong.
When you felt a sudden wave of dizziness and opened your eyes to see that you were definitely not on the couch of your apartment anymore, you thought you were hallucinating. You were exhausted, had been up all night studying; you must’ve passed out on the couch and were having a lucid dream.
You slowly looked around, noting your new surroundings. You were in a living room you’d never seen before, standing behind a large brown couch that faced a flat screen TV. There were a few paintings on the walls, blankets scattered around, and various knick-knacks and trinkets littering the TV stand and tables. It was homey.
You didn’t know why you were dreaming of a room you’d never been in. As you walked around, touching blankets and observing pictures, you thought that this seemed a little too real. You were in grad school for law, not neuro or psych or whatever studied the human brain, but even you knew that lucid dreams weren’t normally this… lucid.
You also felt off. You didn’t know how to describe it. Your body felt different. Taller, maybe. Stronger. As you walked, you felt like you were controlling a body that didn’t belong to you, feeling weirdly uncomfortable in your skin.
(You would soon find out that your description was extremely accurate.)
“Chan?”
You startled, stumbling as you whipped your body around to face the speaker. You hadn’t realized that anyone else was in the room with you or had entered, too caught up in your dream-not-dream.
You now faced a brown-haired man you had no recollection of, but for some reason felt the slightest bit familiar to you. Like you’d seen him before. You briefly remembered something you’d read online—your brain couldn’t come up with new faces—so this must be some random stranger you’d seen on the street or something, here to play a starring role in your incredibly realistic dream.
“Hi?” You asked after a very long pause.
The man—who for some reason reminded you of a squirrel—just stared at you, eyes wide and expressive. He seemed concerned, confused, looking at you like you’d gone crazy. He’d probably seen you earlier, looking at blankets and pictures way too intensely to be normal. Yeah, that made sense.
“Are you– are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“You seem really out of it, Chan. Are you, like, tired or something?”
There was that name again. Why was he calling you that?
“Who’s Chan?”
The man’s face, already concerned, seemed to grow even more worried at that.
“Are you joking? Is this a prank? You’re scaring me, hyung.”
You were starting to get scared, too. Was this actually a dream? It felt way too real. You slowly brought your hand to your arm and pinched yourself as hard as you could. Nothing happened, except for the shock of pain that quickly ran through your arm.
“Wait. This is real? I’m not dreaming?” Your expression mirrored the stranger’s. He stayed silent, apparently too confused or in shock to talk. “What is going on?” You asked again, voice growing louder.
Your conversation drew attention, and soon two more men you didn’t recognize but felt the same familiarity of entered the room.
“Is everything okay?” Asked the one with huge muscles. “We heard you yelling.”
“I think Chan’s gone crazy,” replied the squirrel guy. “That, or he’s playing a really weird prank on me.”
“Who are you? Where am I?” You asked, ignoring their words. You were scared now, very much so, because you were not dreaming which meant somehow you had left your room and ended up in this house being called ‘Chan’ instead of your name.
“You’re at home. In our living room. What the hell is wrong with you, Chan?” Asked the third man, who had the most insane face card you’d ever seen.
“I don’t know,” you said, voice quiet and shaky. “I- I need to use the bathroom.” You quickly rushed past the confused men, down the hallway and through a door, somehow getting to the bathroom on the first try. How did you know this room was the bathroom? It was like your body knew, even though your mind didn’t.
You turned to the mirror, hoping to regain your bearings, but instead let out a yelp of surprise at what greeted you. Looking back at you in the mirror wasn’t you, but a man.
Well, not just a man. The most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. Pink lips, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, all combining to form a man who, if you saw on the street, would make you stop walking for a minute just to reconnect with reality, because men should not be allowed to look this good.
But that was besides the point. You were in someone else’s body. In someone else’s house. Talking to their roommates. How the fuck did this happen? What was going on?
A quiet knock sounded on the door, and you opened it after hesitating for a second. All three men were standing, worried, in the doorway.
“I’m not Chan,” you blurted, needing to express the situation to someone, no matter how insane you might sound. When they looked at you with blank faces, you continued. “This isn’t my body. I don’t know what’s happening. I was in my room, in my house, and then I looked up and I was here and I’m so confused and I don’t know what’s going on and–” Your rambling was cut off by hands resting on your shoulders, pulling you out of your panic.
It was the buff man, now looking you in the eyes, trying to calm you down. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I think I know what’s happening.”
“You do?” You asked at the same time as the squirrel man and face card man.
“Body switching. It’s a soulmate mark, though it’s really rare. You don’t have some other mark, do you?”
“No.”
“Chan doesn’t either,” face card man chimed in, putting the pieces together. “Oh, that’s crazy! Body, switching, holy shit.”
Well. It seemed your soulmark wasn’t a mystery anymore. And it definitely wasn’t boring, or based on luck—this was all fate.
The boys led you back to the living room, sitting down on the couch. They introduced themselves, and you found out that the squirrel man was Jisung, the face card man was Hyunjin, and the buff man was Changbin. You didn’t know why those names sounded so familiar.
You and the boys talked for a while, growing more comfortable with each other as time went on. Your soulmate’s roommates were really nice, and hilarious. Also, gorgeous. You didn’t understand how all four of these men could be so beautiful. It was unusual.
Not long after, you felt another wave of dizziness wash over you, and you were back on your couch.
–
When Chan suddenly found himself in a stranger's room, alone, he didn’t know what to think. He pulled his phone from his pocket, hoping to check his location or call a friend or do anything to help him get his bearings, but immediately realized that what he held was not his phone.
A quick check in the phone camera revealed a pretty girl he’d never seen before, but then the information registered and he blanched because why was the camera showing him a random girl and not his own face?
After a bit of thinking and a lot of stressing, he finally came to the conclusion that this was his soulmark. It calmed him down, having an answer, but his mind was still reeling. Body switching was an incredibly rare mark, and it was so sparsely documented that he had little idea what it actually entailed. All he knew was that the two of you would keep switching bodies at random until he met you in person.
He didn’t want to invade your privacy, but Chan was also bored and extremely curious, so after a short internal debate, he began looking around your house. It was small, one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. Not very big, but enough for one person to live comfortably.
It was warmly decorated, with soft rugs, plants on every shelf, ceramic bowls holding random items and various posters brightening the walls. It was very homey. He liked it.
A bit more observation revealed that you were a student—a fact which almost sent Chan into a spiral before he realized, with a wild amount of relief, that you were a grad student—textbooks and notebook paper littered all over your desk and kitchen counter, all heavily annotated.
It was too bad you lived alone. He wished he could talk to someone, a roommate or friend or sibling. He wanted to learn more about you. He sat back down on the couch. Before he could consider doing anything more, the same dizzy feeling came over him and he was back in his own house.
Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jisung were all on the couch with him, looking at him expectantly.
“Are you… back?” asked Jisung.
“Yeah, I’m back.”
His friends broke into exclamations immediately.
“Oh my god-!”
“Can you believe-!”
“-seemed really sweet-!”
“-your soulmate!”
Chan laughed at his friend’s shock. “Yeah,” was all he said. He was happy.
–
“Did you get his number?”
You looked at your friend blankly. It had been a day since your body switching experience, and you were finally able to tell your friend about it. You didn’t feel like it was something to share through text, so you’d forced her out to get coffee with you this morning before class.
She’d freaked out, asked a million questions that you tried your best to answer, and froze. Then, she’d asked this. You stopped. Thought for a second. Then another second.
“Shit.”
“Are you kidding me, [Y/N]? You didn’t get his number? This is your soulmate, for god’s sake, you need his number!” She took a furious sip of her iced latte.
“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it. I was so caught up in the moment, at first, and then I was too busy talking with his roommates.”
Yuna looked at you, thinking. “So, just how gorgeous were they?”
You let out a small laugh. You’d only briefly mentioned that part during your retelling, but it seemed she’d come back around to the topic.
“Insanely. Like, they could all be male models. And my soulmate, god, he was just perfect. I can’t believe it.”
“Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. If your man really is that gorgeous.”
You didn’t miss the subtle jab at your appearance, but you didn’t take offense. Yuna was right, you really could stand to look a little better. You could be skinnier, put on makeup more often, wear cuter outfits. Your appearance has always been a pretty big insecurity of yours, and this new soulmate thing definitely wasn’t going to help.
You hadn’t told Yuna Chan’s name, some part of you feeling like it was better to keep it secret. You couldn’t ignore the nagging inside you that you recognized it, somehow, so when you got home you looked him up on your computer.
You only had his first name, so it didn’t give you much, but the real shock came when you looked up his and his roommate’s names all at once.
Stray Kids.
Your soulmate was the leader of Stray Kids. The incredibly famous, incredibly talented K-pop group. You didn’t really listen to their music, but you’d heard of them before and seen pictures, which was why all the boys looked so familiar to you.
You spent a lot of time after that researching, finding pictures and reading articles, unable to stop yourself.
Yeah, this was definitely not good for your self-esteem.
–
The second time you switched, it was right before class started. You were sitting near the back of the lecture hall, pulling out your notebook and pens—this teacher didn’t like students using their computers in class—when you felt that same dizziness.
You were in a big, open room, mirrors taking up an entire wall and smooth floors underneath you. It was entirely void of furniture, the only items being various bags and water bottles stuffed against the wall and a single table with a computer and speaker on it.
Also, there were seven boys standing around, staring at you.
You recognized Jisung, Hyunjin, and Changbin from last time, and the rest of them from the looking online you’d done. You still weren’t sure of their names, though.
“Hey,” you said, drawing out the word. “I’m back.”
Jisung’s face lit up into a smile. “[Y/N]?”
“Yeah.”
The four boys you hadn’t met were in shock, all speaking over each other.
“Wait, [Y/N]??”
“Chan’s soulmate?”
“You switched again?”
“Oh my god!”
You let out an awkward laugh. You weren’t used to having so much attention on you. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s nice to meet you all.”
The rest of the boys introduced themselves to you—Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin, Minho.
After you’d gotten over the initial shock of switching again and meeting new people, you realized where you were. The lack of furniture, mirrors, and speaker? This was a dance studio.
You turned to the three roommates with a bone to pick. “Hey, you guys didn’t tell me you were idols! I would’ve appreciated the information, y’know.”
“Sorry, it slipped my mind!” said Jisung.
“Yeah, I didn’t even think to mention it,” added Hyunjin.
Changbin just shrugged.
You huffed, not actually upset.
“I hate to say this, but we do kind of have to practice our dance while we’re here. We don’t have much time in the studio today,” Minho said.
“[Y/N], you should watch,” Felix exclaimed.
“Well, she’s in Chan’s body. Do you think she knows the choreo?”
“Oh, that would be cool!”
“I kind of doubt it.”
You just listened as the group argued over whether or not you would know the dance if they put the music on. It was cute. They seemed like a really nice group of friends. You wished your friends were like this. You didn’t have many, but even the friends you did have weren’t as lively or as fun.
“Well, let’s just see, shall we?” You joined the conversation, feeling bad that you were stopping them from practicing.
After a series of agreements, everyone got into their positions. Minho showed you where to stand, then moved to start the music.
As soon as it started playing, you felt something take over your body. Muscle memory, but on another level. You immediately started moving, not at all knowing what you were doing or how you were doing it but somehow managing to stay in time with the members and hit the right moves.
It was an amazing feeling. You weren’t a particularly active person, spending much of your time studying or going to class, so dancing like this felt… freeing.
You messed up a few times but fixed yourself and kept going until the song ended. When you finally stopped dancing, the muscle memory no longer overtaking you, you looked around and saw everyone looking at you. They seemed to do that a lot. You didn’t like it.
“What?”
“That was amazing!”
“You knew the whole dance!”
You flushed, embarrassed at the praise. “Well, I did mess up a few times.”
“In the exact spots that Chan always messes up,” Seungmin added quietly, more to himself than the group.
“Wait, really?”
“Body switching is so cool.”
You laughed at the boys’ antics. This was fun.
–
Chan was in a class. In school. God, he did not miss this. The professor had been talking for almost an hour about the most boring and incomprehensible thing he’d ever heard. He wanted badly to zone out, or to just leave, but he knew he couldn’t. For your sake, he couldn’t.
When the class finally ended, Chan almost jumped for joy, packing up your bag, very ready to leave. As he exited the lecture hall, he heard a girl yelling your name. He turned, seeing two girls walking up to him.
“[Y/N], hey! How have you been?” One girl asked.
“Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever since we hung out!” The other added.
“Oh, I–” Chan paused. He wanted to talk to your friends, that was true, but he wasn’t sure how close you were to these girls. He didn’t know if you’d told them about the soulmark, or if you even wanted them to know. He figured he wouldn’t risk it. “I’m good. Yeah it’s – it’s been a while. We should make plans soon.” If he couldn’t tell them they’d switched, then he’d just talk to them as you. Easy enough, right?
“Are you free right now? Let’s go to lunch!”
At the question, Chan somehow immediately knew that yes, he was free, and that he didn’t have another class until the next morning. He didn’t know how he knew that. He agreed to lunch, walking with the girls to the dining hall. He felt something else, this time a sense of dread. Weird. He ignored it.
Listening to the girls talk to each other as they walked, he learned that their names were Jiyeon and Nari. They talked mostly to each other, only sometimes asking him questions to let him join in the conversation. Kind of odd, considering they had asked him to lunch.
The three of them bought lunch at the dining hall and found a seat by the windows. Jiyeon and Nari immediately began gossipping about various other people and events that Chan pretended to understand. He couldn’t help but notice how mean they were, though. He really hoped that the girls they were talking about weren’t their friends, because Jiyeon and Nari ripped into them with no remorse, criticizing outfits and new haircuts and talking about situations that they weren’t even a part of.
Chan hoped that you weren’t like this. He didn’t want his soulmate to be as mean as her friends were—if these even were your friends. From how little they included him in the conversation, he was starting to think that maybe you weren’t very close with them. It was an odd dynamic.
When they did say something to Chan, it was usually a poorly-hidden jab or passive aggressive comment that he was beginning to realize wasn’t in good spirit. They made fun of a bad outfit they’d seen, then described it as being similar to a specific piece of clothing you owned. They talked about a difficult class they were taking, then said, “even you wouldn’t be able to get an A.” On the surface it seemed harmless, but the way they said it made Chan feel like they were making fun of you.
Chan was starting to think of these girls as bullies more than friends. He understood now why he felt that sense of dread when he agreed to hang out. That must’ve been a gut feeling from you, who knew how these girls really were.
As much as he hated the way they treated you, it did bring him some relief to know that you weren’t like them. Which he pretty much knew already, from the raving reviews he’d received from his roommates after the first switch.
When he finished his lunch and watched as the girls shared a look with each other about it, he knew it was time to leave.
“Wow, the dining hall food must have been really good today,” Jiyeon said. It would have seemed like an innocent comment if Nari hadn’t snorted quietly in response, clearly at your expense.
Chan put the fakest smile he could on his face. “I actually have to go now. I just remembered I have plans. See you guys later,” he excused himself, quickly throwing out his trash and leaving the premises. He wished he could have defended you more or been a little more direct, but he knew it wasn’t fair of him to do anything in your body that might come back to bite you later. So, he left peacefully. For now.
Chan didn’t like your friends.
–
When you returned to your body, you were in a good mood. You’d had a lot of fun hanging out with the boys. You thought about what Chan might have done in your life today, and immediately your smile dropped. Your class. Shit.
It was an important one—well, they were all important to you, but that was beside the point—so not being actually present in class today to remember anything wasn’t good. This teacher was awful, never posting any notes or reviews online, explaining that it was your fault if you missed class or didn’t pay attention. You could ask someone else for notes, but the only friends you had in that class were Jiyeon and Nari, and there was no way in hell you were asking them for anything. You were not going to open that can of worms.
In the middle of your internal panic, you felt a sudden urge to check your notebook. You didn’t know why, but you listened to it, pulling it from your bag and flipping to the most recent page.
What greeted you was notes, meticulously written, documenting the entire class you’d missed. Well, you hadn’t actually missed it. Chan was there. Chan was there, and he’d taken notes so that you wouldn’t fall behind. Tears welled up in your eyes that you quickly blinked away.
He was so nice. He was gorgeous, and kind, and thoughtful. You didn’t deserve him. Why would the universe pair you with someone so perfect? He was too good for you.
Once you’d gotten over your slight internal breakdown, you noticed something in the top corner of your notes. It was a message from Chan. All it said was ‘text me :)’ with his number written underneath. You broke into a smile. You’d forgotten, yet again, to leave your number for him, but thankfully he hadn’t forgotten.
You added it into your phone, but paused, finger hovering over the keyboard. What were you supposed to say to him? ‘Hi, I’m your soulmate’? Maybe. Simple was probably better. You tried not to overthink it. He was the one who told you to text him, after all.
You typed out a simple ‘hi,’ hitting send before you could regret it. Then, you added, ‘this is [Y/N]!’ Good enough.
You set your phone down, but felt a buzz and immediately picked it back up. Chan sure was a fast texter.
When you looked at the notification, you saw that it wasn’t Chan replying, no, it was someone much worse. It was Jiyeon.
‘Hey girl, you seemed a little off at lunch today. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I hope you feel better! We should definitely do it again soon!’
You stared blankly at your phone. You had lunch today. With Jiyeon. Chan had lunch with Jiyeon. Yeah, that wasn’t good.
The text seemed nice. If anyone else was looking at it, they would think it was sweet, a friend checking in on you. But you knew better. When Jiyeon called you ‘off,’ that meant that you hadn’t done a good enough job at hiding your reactions to her insults. When you were too quiet, your face showed a hint of the hurt you felt, or, god forbid, you actually said something back to her and defended yourself. That was you being ‘off.’
You didn’t know what they’d said to Chan, or how he’d reacted, and honestly you didn’t want to know. You’d rather just forget it happened. You hoped Chan forgot it, too.
So, when he replied to your text a few minutes later with a ‘hey!!’ you didn’t say anything about it.
–
It had been a few weeks since you and Chan had last switched bodies. You’d been texting ever since he left his number, and he had to say, he really enjoyed it.
After the initial period of awkwardness, you’d warmed up to each other, and now texted each other every day. You would text just to talk about random things that happened throughout the day. Chan talked a lot about the kids’ antics, which you enjoyed since you’d met them all. You only really talked about your classes and what you were doing, which was usually just studying or reading.
It made Chan a little sad, that you didn’t seem to do much else. He knew that law school was serious, but that shouldn’t mean that you never got to do anything fun. He hoped that you were doing more fun things than you let on, but you never let a conversation get very far. You seemed like an open book, but the more Chan thought about it, he realized that he actually didn’t know very much about you.
He hoped that you were just shy and still getting to know him; maybe you’d tell him more later. After all, though it had seemed like you’d known each other for a while, you’d only had that first switching experience a little under a month ago.
He would learn more about you soon, anyway. It was hard not to when he was in your body, in your life.
–
You weren’t doing very well. Finals were approaching, and you stayed up late every night to study. You were exhausted, not getting anywhere near enough sleep, and were often so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to eat.
You were also lonely. You didn’t have very many friends, and the ones you did have were just as busy as you. You lived alone, so you didn’t have many interactions throughout the day. The only person you had was Chan. His texts were the only things keeping you going, encouraging you and giving you someone to talk to.
It didn’t help that after finals, you had to visit home for a week. You hated being home. Your eomeoni never got off your back about anything, always finding something to criticize. If you didn’t do well on finals, it would be about your grades. About not being able to make it as a lawyer. Plus, she never let a single visit go by without mentioning that you had gained weight and needed to ‘take care of yourself,’ even if you’d actually lost weight since you’d last seen her. It didn’t matter that you were a full adult in grad school. She was always the same.
So, with all that in mind, you studied even harder, forgot to eat even more, and isolated yourself in your apartment. You wanted to give your eomeoni as little as she could to insult, even though you knew she’d manage to find something anyway.
Still, you made sure to keep your texts to Chan upbeat and happy. He didn’t need to know about this. It was your problem, not his. He probably already didn’t like having you as his soulmate, and this would just solidify that in his mind.
–
Chan was worried about you. You were texting him less often, and although nothing in them implied something was wrong, he just felt… off. Something felt wrong within him, and he thought it had to be traced back to the soulmate bond. Something was wrong with you. He just wished he knew how to fix it.
He was lounging on a couch backstage, waiting for his turn for hair and makeup before an interview, when he felt that familiar dizziness that had eluded him for weeks.
All he could think about before his vision blacked out was that this was not good timing.
He regained his sight to find himself in an entirely unfamiliar location. He was in a bedroom, sitting at a desk with various makeup products in front of him. He assumed you’d been doing your makeup when you’d switched—funny coincidence.
Still, he had no idea where he was. He’d been in every room of your apartment, and this was not it. He noticed some of your items strewn about the room. Were you at a parent’s house, maybe? A friend’s?
As he stood up to get a better look around, a sudden wave of exhaustion and dizziness washed over him, though not the comforting dizziness that accompanied a body switch. No, a terrifying one that had him gripping the desk to stay upright. Why was he so tired, and why did he feel so awful? Were you sick?
A few seconds later, your phone began ringing, violently vibrating against the wooden desk. He picked it up, noticing that it was his number that was calling. Ah, so it was you. He smiled.
“Hey.”
“Chan,” your—his—shaky voice greeted him, quickly dropping his smile.
“[Y/N]? What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Chan, you need to listen to me. Please, this is important,” your stressed tone had him stressed, too, though he still couldn’t help but think how weird it was to hear his own voice over the phone. You two had never called before, only texted, so this was new.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Chan, you’re at my parents’ house right now. I’m home for a week over break.” So he’d guessed right. You continued, “my parents don’t know about the body switching. I didn’t tell them anything. So you can’t say anything, okay? Please, I need you to pretend you’re me.”
Chan froze. It had been a month, and you still hadn’t told your parents? “Why haven’t you told them?” He asked. “Is something else wrong? [Y/N], please, talk to me.”
After a moment’s hesitation and quiet, shaky breath, you responded. “Chan, my eomeoni and my abeoji aren’t– they aren’t nice people. They’re not nice to me, so they won’t be nice to you today. I don’t talk to them very often, so I haven't had a chance yet. I was– I was going to tell them this week.” Your voice grew quieter. “But I don’t want that to fall on you. So you need to pretend, please.”
Chan’s heart ached for you. “Of course, I can pretend.”
You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And, please try not to let them get to you. They’re talking about me, not you. And don’t try to defend me, either. It just makes things worse. Okay?”
Chan was getting nervous. What could they possibly be like to preempt this kind of conversation? “Okay. Oh, by the way, you have your work cut out for you today, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have an interview today. In, like, an hour. I don’t know where you’re calling me from, but you need to go get your hair and makeup done,” Chan explained. When he received no response, he kept going. “And I’m the leader, so they’re going to expect me to talk the most—you to talk the most.”
“What??” You blanched.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the term of endearment slipped from his mouth easily. “The boys will help you. Tell them what’s going on, and they’ll cover for you if you need it. It’ll be okay.” He tried his best to sound reassuring, not wanting to add any more stress onto what he knew you were already feeling.
“Oh – okay. Um, I should go, then. Bye,” you said.
“Bye,” Chan replied, hanging up the call.
He tried not to show it on the call, but your words set him on edge. He had no idea what he was about to encounter when he went downstairs. He needed to prepare himself.
He looked in the mirror, making sure he looked okay. You had been in the middle of doing makeup, so he didn’t want to go downstairs with only half his face done or something. When he was sure that the makeup looked fine and he was dressed in a normal outfit, he left the room. Your phone told him it was ten in the morning.
He entered the kitchen, noticing who he assumed was your mother sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. She looked up at his arrival.
“Oh, look who’s finally up. Really, [Y/N], you need to wake up earlier. You won’t get anything done when you sleep in half the day.”
Wow. What a lovely first thing to hear in the morning.
“Uh– sorry, eomeoni,” Chan replied, using the same word you’d used to refer to your mother earlier.
She barely acknowledged the apology, turning back to her newspaper. After a long minute of silence, she started talking again, not looking up from the paper. “Your abeoji and I are going out with friends today for lunch. You’ll have to fend for yourself. We’re having dinner together tonight, though, so be sure you’re home for that.”
“Yes, eomeoni.”
It seemed that that was the end of the conversation. Chan opened the fridge, looking for something to eat. He was starving. There wasn’t much in there, so he settled for cereal and some fruit.
He felt wildly uncomfortable. This was your parents’ home, and he had no idea how to act. What did you normally do when you were here? Where did you sit, what did you talk about, did you even talk at all? He didn’t want to give himself away, but also had no clue what to do. He should’ve asked, but he knew he couldn’t now. You were busy in an interview.
A bit later, your parents left for their lunch plans. Chan let out a sigh of relief, glad that he didn’t have to be under scrutiny anymore. Not that your parents had even glanced his way or said a word to him since breakfast.
He wasn’t used to this. His parents were kind, he loved his siblings, and their home was always a lively one. It was nothing like this.
He decided to go for a walk. He didn’t know where he was, so he figured a little tour of the neighborhood could be a fun way to pass the time.
He quickly learned that you’d grown up in a small, adorable town. The center wasn’t a far walk from your house, so he’d found it soon into his walk. He went in and out of stores, browsing and talking to the workers and townspeople. They all seemed to know you. Almost everyone he walked by waved or said hi, and some even stopped to chat and ask about law school. He tried his best to come up with vague but satisfying answers.
He got lunch in town, finally returning home hours later. He really liked it here. It was quaint, and very homey. Though he couldn’t ignore how an uncomfortable feeling settled over him as soon as he walked back through the threshold of your house.
He was surprised that he was still in your body. The switches had never lasted longer than a few hours, but it seemed that today was different. Your parents hadn’t returned yet, so he went back to your room and opened the computer that was sitting on your desk. He’d been meaning to do some more research on his soulmark, but hadn’t had a chance. Now was as good a time as any.
Though information was scarce due to the rarity of the soulmark, he still found a few good articles and webpages. Soulmates with this mark would switch bodies at random, starting on a random date and not stopping until they met in person. The longer they went without meeting, the more often the switches would occur and the longer they’d last.
Chan thought about this. Things had been okay so far, but with his job, switches were bound to happen at inopportune times if they became a more common occurrence. Today was just the start of that, with you being forced to do an interview for him. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if you switched during an exam. He would definitely fail it, and he would never forgive himself. He hoped it didn’t come to that.
He needed to meet you, and soon. He knew you went to a university in Seoul, so you really couldn’t be very far from each other. He just needed to find a time to meet you. He hoped you would be okay with that—you seemed like the type to want to take things slow.
Some time later, Chan heard your eomeoni calling you down for dinner. Time had flown by, it seemed. He’d hoped that you would’ve switched back by now, because he really wasn’t prepared for a whole dinner with your parents. He didn’t know what to say. He took a second to hope that everything would go well, and then walked downstairs.
Your parents were already sitting at the table, so Chan sat in the only available seat left, across from them. Dinner started silently, no one saying a thing as they served dinner onto their plates. Finally, your eomeoni spoke.
“So, [Y/N]. How did you do on finals?”
The information came to Chan’s brain immediately, words coming out of his mouth before he could even think them. “Good, eomeoni. I passed them all. I emailed you all my scores, remember?” Chan was surprised by his own words, but tried not to show it. This must be muscle memory, or something. He liked it. It would definitely help him get through dinner.
“Yes, I did see them,” she replied, tone dismissive. Chan wondered why she would ask if she already knew what they were. “You passed, but that’s it. Really, [Y/N], an eighty-five on Administrative Law? A ninety on Civil Procedure? You can do better.”
Chan had to stop himself from showing the absolute shock he felt on his face. Those scores were amazing, if you asked him. You were in law school in one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the lowest scores you received on finals were an eighty-five and a ninety? To him, that made you a genius. He didn’t understand why your eomeoni thought they were so bad.
He tried to take your advice to not defend you, but he couldn’t just let it go. “Those are good scores, eomeoni. Much better than most other people in my classes.”
“I don’t care about the other people in your classes, I care about you. And I know you can do better,” she rebutted immediately. Chan had no idea what to say to that. “Work harder next time.”
After a long moment of inner struggle, Chan replied, “yes, eomeoni.” The words came to him so easily, like he’d said them a million times before in a million conversations just like this. That was probably exactly right, he realized, for you.
The conversation continued after that, your mother reminding him very much of your friends, Jiyeon and Nari—she insulted so many people that Chan assumed were her friends or neighbors, speaking scathing comments about things that didn’t seem very serious to Chan. She soon turned her insults onto you, talking about how a friend’s daughter “really needs to lose some weight, and speaking of that, you seem like you’ve changed since last break too, [Y/N].”
She mentioned it casually, but it was clear by the emphasis she put on ‘changed’ and the tone of her voice that she had been looking for a way to bring the topic up.
“Really, honey, what do I tell you every time? That just because you need to spend so much time studying, that doesn’t give you an excuse to stop eating healthy.”
Chan wasn’t sure what to say. He’d heard many conversations like this before, most of them back as a trainee when he’d overheard managers talking to the female trainees. They were harsh conversations, but it was always direct, to the point, and not as passively cruel as your eomeoni was currently being. Also, you weren’t even an idol! Chan disagreed with the dieting culture as a whole for idols, but your mother didn’t even have that excuse. You were just a regular girl, who, by the way, was absolutely just fine the way you were. Chan didn’t think you needed to change anything about yourself.
Still, Chan didn’t know quite what to say to that, and felt something in his head urging him not to reply. Before he could decide what to do, your eomeoni changed the topic. “But really, honey, if you want to be unhealthy and are fine with the way you look, that’s your choice. Anyway, did you see Mrs. Choi’s daughter in town today? She really needs to fix–” Chan stopped listening, your mother’s words becoming a blur in his head as he fumed in anger. His fists were clenched under the table so hard it almost hurt, and he was sure that if anyone looked at him, his feelings would be made perfectly clear by his expression.
He was going to say something. He was. You didn’t deserve to be spoken about like this. He didn’t care that you said not to defend you, not anymore. He opened his mouth to speak—
—and felt a sudden, familiar wave of dizziness. No. Not right now, not now. He tried to fight it, but Chan was powerless to the will of the universe. He opened his eyes and was back in his own body.
–
You had prayed to not switch bodies with Chan while visiting your parents. You begged, pleaded with the universe, not ready for Chan to see that part of your life. You were not listened to.
When you switched, you almost fell into a full-blown panic attack, painfully aware of what Chan was going to encounter in your life today. You couldn’t, though. Not here. Actually, where were you?
Distracting yourself from your inner panic, you looked around. You were in some sort of dressing room, sitting on a couch with Felix and Jeongin, who were both busy on their phones. Lining the walls were small desks covered in makeup products and mirrors with bright lights hanging on the walls in front of them. The room was bustling, staff members running around, yelling things, calling times that had no meaning to you.
You didn’t care. Wherever you were, whatever was happening, it could wait. You needed to call Chan.
You grabbed your phone, jumping up from the couch and slipping out the door, finding a bathroom to hide yourself in. On your way out, you missed Felix and Jeongin’s surprised glances and confused “where are you going”s.
You sunk down on the bathroom floor and unlocked Chan’s phone, extremely grateful for facial recognition. He picked up immediately.
Voice shaky and holding back tears, you were sure you sounded awful, but you didn’t care as you quickly explained the situation. You were thankful for Chan’s hesitant agreement, hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind when he actually met your parents.
You stalled at his mention of the interview. “What??” you said into the phone, already falling back into the panic you’d barely managed to wrench yourself out of. Chan’s assurance that the boys would help you calmed you down a bit, but you ended the call quickly after, not wanting to stress him out too much with your worries.
An interview. That’s why everyone was getting their makeup done and staff was running around like someone was chasing them. You needed to get back.
You returned, relief dawning on Felix and Jeongin’s faces as soon as they saw you.
“Chan! Oh, thank god you’re back. Where did you go? Are you okay?” Felix asked.
“It’s your turn for makeup,” Jeongin said, gesturing to a waiting makeup artist, antsy with impatience.
You felt disconnected from your body, unsure what to do. “Oh, okay,” you said, coming out much calmer than you felt, body on autopilot as you sat down in the empty chair.
As the artist began applying product to your face, you saw realization dawn on Jeongin’s face. “Wait, Chan, did you–”
“Yes,” you cut him off, voice quiet and laced with anxiety.
Felix gasped. “Oh, shit, you swi–”
Minho cut Felix off this time with a harsh glare, apparently having overheard the conversation. “Not here, Felix,” he said, eyes flitting to the various staff members within earshot.
“Right, sorry,” Felix replied. Before he could say anything else, he was ushered away to another chair to get his own makeup done. Minho, seemingly all made-up with nowhere else to be, stayed by your side as you got your own make up done. When your artist left for a minute to find an eyeliner she’d let someone else borrow, Minho immediately began talking to you in a low tone.
“This is an interview about our new album. Have you listened to it?” You nodded, and he continued, “okay, good. Then if someone asks about a song or something, just answer as truthfully as possible. If any of that dance muscle memory works with talking, too, use that. If you look like you need help, we’ll jump in. I’ll tell everyone else. Okay?”
You stared at him for a second, still taking in the barrage of information he’d just relayed to you. Your brain, overwhelmed from everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, was a bit slow on the uptake.
“Okay,” you replied eventually. The make-up artist came back, then, effectively ending your conversation. Minho gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before walking off to inform the others.
The next half hour passed in a blur. You were ushered from room to room, finishing your makeup, changing into your interview outfit, getting your hair done. Before you knew it, you were sitting in a comfy chair with the seven other boys, cameras pointed towards you and lights shining bright in your eyes.
A brief countdown sounded, and the interview began.
As soon as the cameras turned on, you felt something take over your body. An unknown force pushed you out of the driver’s seat and you were left to observe, your body acting on its own, just like in dance practice. You answered questions with words you didn’t even think of before you spoke them, yet as you talked you knew it to be true.
You didn’t want to push the limits of whatever this was that was helping you, so you stayed relatively quiet, letting the other members do most of the talking. Still, when a question was directed toward you, you somehow knew exactly what to say, playing the perfect ‘Bang Chan’ role.
The interview finished, and with the sound of the cameras being turned off, you felt yourself come back to your body. Internally, you mused how Chan must have his idol persona drilled into him for it to be able to overtake you so fully when the cameras were on.
The minute you and the other boys were left alone to get changed back, you were tackled into a hug by multiple members.
“[Y/N], that was amazing!”
“You’re a natural!”
“I would’ve never been able to tell it wasn’t Chan!”
You blushed at the praise, unused to so much attention. “Thanks, guys,” you said softly.
The eight of you got unready and then were taken back to the company for the rest of the day’s schedule, which consisted solely of dance and voice practices—no more public appearances for you today, thank god.
When you finally got a minute to yourself on the car ride back to the dorms, you remembered Chan, and where you’d left him today. Your stomach sank. You’d been so busy that you forgot all about it, but now, you were terrified. You hoped your parents hadn’t done anything crazy or said anything particularly mean to him, though you knew that was highly unlikely.
He hadn’t texted you, but that was probably just because he knew you’d be busy. Now that you thought about it, you’d been switched for quite a long time today—much longer than usual. The universe seemed like it was out to get you, switching you today of all days and having it last for the entire day.
The boys noticed you lost in your thoughts and tried to ask what was wrong, but you just gave a vague answer and changed the subject. There was no reason to involve them in your own issues. It wasn’t fair to them.
Seeing that you weren’t going to give them a real answer, they instead decided to just be very rowdy and energetic, all coming back to Chan’s shared dorm at the end of the day. You played video games and had dinner, and you had to admit, it was fun. Chan was lucky to have such good friends.
Still, when the dizziness took over your vision, you almost felt thankful. You didn’t think you could handle all the happiness anymore. You didn’t deserve it. Chan deserved to be having fun with his friends right now, not stuck in your miserable childhood home with your parents.
Your vision cleared, and you found yourself at your parents’ kitchen table, untouched food in front of you. Your mom was in the middle of one of her usual rants, talking about the latest neighborhood gossip—which girl had found a bad influence of a boyfriend, which old high school acquaintance was currently doing better than you in life, the usual. You weren’t even a little bit surprised that your parents hadn’t noticed the switch. You never talked much at dinner anyways.
–
Chan’s concern for you grew by the day.
It had been a week since the last switch. You were back in your apartment now, and Chan felt a surprising amount of relief at knowing you weren’t at your parents’ place anymore. He’d texted you the day after the switch, but you’d brushed him off. You said it was fine, your eomeoni was always like that, it wasn’t that serious, and so on. Chan didn’t believe you.
Chan was worried about a lot of things. He was worried about your friends, your parents, your over-studying, your eating habits, your sleep schedule (if that exhaustion he felt when he first entered your body was anything to go off). He was worried. But he didn’t want to ask you about it, he didn’t want to seem like an overbearing boyfriend. You weren’t even technically dating, since you hadn’t had that conversation yet, hadn’t even met in person, but Chan wondered if being soulmates allowed him to breach those topics.
Still, even being soulmates, Chan never found a time he felt comfortable bringing any of it up. It didn’t help that you primarily talked through text, with calls being few and far between, and text didn’t seem like the right method of communication for this conversation. So he waited.
Chan did the next best thing: he talked to his friends about it. He hated to share your personal issues with them, but they were basically your friends too, he reasoned, and it was important. He was trying to help you.
“Wow, they sound awful,” Jisung said after Chan told them all about his experience with your parents.
“God, no wonder she ran off so fast to call you. She looked really scared,” Felix added, remembering your panicked eyes as you’d jumped off the couch that day.
“I don’t know what to do. Her parents are awful, and so are her friends. Or, at least, the ones I’ve met. I don’t know if she has anyone to lean on, and she won’t talk to me,” Chan explained, defeated. “I don’t know how to help her.”
“You need to see her. In person. Maybe you’d get through to her then,” Hyunjin suggested.
“I really want to, but you know how busy we are right now. I’d need to plan a whole outing, which wouldn’t be able to happen for weeks, and I don’t even know what I’d tell the company,” Chan replied.
“Ah, right. They don’t know,” Changbin said. Chan had decided not to tell anyone but the boys about the soulmark, worrying about what the company might do. Force you two to see each other so the switching would stop and then ban you from seeing each other again? That seemed most likely. JYPE wasn’t exactly the biggest supporter of idol relationships, even if it was soulmates.
The conversation had continued with more suggestions, but it was fruitless. There was nothing Chan could do for you right now. He felt better that the boys knew, though. Maybe next time you switched, they could talk to you for him.
–
You were spiraling. After the week of the cruel and unusual punishment that is your parents’ house, you were finally back at your apartment. You were supposed to be better now that you were back—that’s what you told yourself every day of last week until it was time to come home—but you were failing even at that.
Being back home meant being back at school, so you were immediately back on your grind, staying late at the library to study, or in your kitchen with the lights on late into the night.
You were eating less, too. Much less. You hated to say it, but your eomeoni had gotten to you. The combination of her comments all throughout the week, your friends’ regular digs, and your stress at having Chan as your soulmate broke you. It wasn’t even very difficult, either. You were always in class or studying, so you’d often forget to eat or not notice your hunger anyway.
You were eating less than you ever had before, skipping most meals but always making sure to have just enough in your system to get you through the day. The last thing you wanted was to collapse in front of someone—it was mortifying even to think about.
What spurred you on even more was the encouragement you were receiving. Jiyeon and Nari had stopped you after class again this week, wanting to walk with you and chat, and they both complimented you, saying “girl, you look good!” It was a genuine comment, which threw you for a loop, because you’d never heard an actual compliment from them the entire time you’d known them. Yuna, your closest friend, had also noticed, telling you quite directly that you looked “so skinny, oh my god.”
You were glad. For the compliments, for one, but also for the fact that they didn’t seem to notice the heavy eye bags you tried so hard to cover or the effort it took for you to walk long distances. You were just so tired lately. It was okay, though. Nothing you couldn’t handle.
Chan texted you a lot, which only increased the guilt you felt for putting this on him. You tried your best to brush it off, change the topic, tell him you were doing fine, but he just wouldn’t let it go. You could tell that he was trying to seem unbothered, but the did you eat yet texts every day and the good night, get some rest texts every night gave him away, especially because you knew Chan wasn’t going to bed when he texted you good night. His workaholic tendencies and insomnia kept him up just as late as you, if not later, you were sure.
Chan was so sweet, so caring, and it was getting harder to ignore the voice in your head that told you you didn’t deserve him. It got louder every day, every time he texted you a reminder to eat and you lied that you’d eaten already, every time he asked how your day was and you told him it was great. You were a burden, an exhausted, ugly burden with too many problems and you couldn’t bear the thought of Chan taking them on for you. It wasn’t his job—his job was to be an idol, and he already had plenty on his plate that came with that. You just needed him to stop worrying about you. You could take care of yourself.
–
Last time you and Chan had switched, Chan complained about the timing. Well, the universe must have heard him and decided to one-up itself, because this had to be the worst timing in the world.
He and the rest of the Stray Kids were backstage at an awards show, waiting to perform. They watched in the wings as another group performed. After that, there would be an award and a speech, and then they would go on to perform.
As he stood, half watching and half listening to his members’ whispered conversations with each other, he felt the all too familiar and in this moment, incredibly awful feeling of dizziness that accompanied a body switch.
As soon as he opened his eyes to his new surroundings—the kitchen table of your apartment—a huge wave of exhaustion and hunger and a different, worse kind of dizziness crashed over him, and he was sure he would’ve collapsed to the ground if he weren’t already sitting down.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, hands gripping the table, desperate for something to ground himself while he recovered from and adjusted to the drastic change in feeling. He felt something like this last time you’d switched, but it wasn’t anywhere close to this level. When he’d finally recovered enough for thoughts to get through his head again, he swore. Loud and harsh and unlike him, but he couldn’t help it. He’d messed up.
He tried to get through to you, to talk to you, but you kept brushing him off, saying you were fine. And after a while, he started to believe it. At least a little. He could’ve done more, damn it, he should’ve done more. All he’d done for the past two weeks was ask if you were eating and imply for you to go to bed. And for the past two weeks, you’d clearly been lying to him, sending responses only to placate him, to make him believe that you were okay.
But you weren’t okay. And Chan couldn’t help but think that it was all his fault for not noticing.
He needed to do something. He was in your body, right? So what could he do to help? He got his answer from the loud rumble that sounded through your stomach.
Chan slowly stood up, careful not to fall back down onto the chair, and made his way over to your fridge. He internally wondered how you’d gotten anywhere recently, considering how tiring it was just for him to stand up and walk to the fridge.
The fridge was worryingly empty, only holding some fruit and few, scarce leftovers that he assumed were from meals you didn’t finish. He pulled everything out, heating up some old pasta and washing and cutting the fruit into a bowl. If you wouldn’t eat, then he would have to do it for you.
He ate the pasta quickly, the fruit following soon after. His stomach felt better for a second, glad to finally have some real food in it. Then, it flipped. A sudden but strong wave of nausea shot through him, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time before he was puking out everything he’d just eaten. Fuck.
Of course, he was so fucking stupid. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial in who knows how long, so of course your body wouldn’t react well to a sudden influx of food. He wanted to hit himself for being so dumb.
Once he’d finished emptying his stomach and cleaned himself up, the only thing he had enough energy left to do was stumble to the couch and collapse on it. He didn’t know how long he laid there for until a rush of energy woke his body.
He jerked up, suddenly finding himself standing, back at the awards show (dressing room? he registered sluggishly), surrounded by his friends. He must have been so out of it in your body that he didn’t even feel the dizziness. That wasn’t good.
The complete change in feeling jarred him, again, even though it was a change for the better. His legs wobbled and he pitched forward, managing to catch himself on Changbin’s shoulder. His friend, concerned, quickly moved to help support his weight, letting Chan lean on him until he was able to regain his balance.
“Chan? Are you back? What’s wrong?” Changbin asked.
Chan righted himself, taking a step back to look at everyone. They were all sweaty, out of breath, but glowing—aside from their current worry for him. Chan took stock of his own feelings, finding himself to be a bit tired (though compared to what he’d just felt in your body, he actually felt so energetic he could run a marathon) and adrenaline coursed through him, like it always did after a performance. His eyes widened, remembering.
“Did we perform? Did she perform? How did it go?” He asked instead, in a panic now that he had enough energy to feel anything other than exhaustion.
“Wha- Chan, forget about the performance! What happened to you?”
It was apparently clear that Chan was in a state, but he had no care of how he looked right now. All he cared about was you.
“I’m fine, but [Y/N]’s not. She’s not okay, guys. It’s so much worse than I thought, fuck, it’s bad,” he rambled, unable to stop thinking about how awful he felt for the short time he was in your body, how awful you must have felt for weeks without anyone knowing. “I need to find her, I need to help her. Please, we need to go–”
Seungmin gripped his shoulders. “Chan, calm down. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Take a breath.”
“No, you don’t understand!”
Another hand came to rest on his back, rubbing slow circles. His friends talked to him, but the words didn’t make it through to his head. His breaths came out fast and shallow, and he slightly registered someone trying to get him to follow their breathing. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, and what he’d just felt.
Eventually, he came back to himself. Everyone looked extremely worried. For him, his brain supplied, because he’d just had a panic attack.
“I’m okay,” he said, ever the leader, because he absolutely was not okay, but he didn’t want his members worrying for him any more. He heard a chorus of relieved sighs, his friends glad he was finally back and lucid. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Chan,” said Jeongin.
“Yeah, we’re here for you.” Felix.
“Can we do anything to help?” asked Minho. “Tell us what to do and we’ll do it.”
–
You were sitting at your kitchen table trying to study, books and papers spread out in front you, to no avail. You just couldn’t seem to focus, and you knew why. You were tired, dizzy, hungry, and your body protested so much that you couldn’t get anything done. Usually you were okay, you could push through no problem, but today was worse.
You’d had a test this morning, an important one, so last night you’d stayed up studying. You only got an hour of sleep, maybe two, and it was coming back to bite you today. Thankfully, you’d made it through the test and actually thought you did pretty good, but the exhaustion hit you as soon as you stepped out of the classroom. It was probably the relief that did it, the sudden release of tension that allowed all the other feelings you’d pushed away to come back full force.
You pushed the books away from you, giving up. Maybe you should just call it a day and take a nap or something. You could give yourself that, right?
As you decided on what to do, a different kind of dizziness came over you, and your sluggish brain only remembered what that meant just as your vision changed.
You were in a big, dark room, surrounded by people trying to be as quiet as possible. Following the only source of light you could find, you turned to see curtains, and beyond them, a stage.
You weren’t thinking about the connotations of that realization, though, because as soon as the body switch had been completed, a sudden and violent rush of energy crashed into you, feeling more like a bad thing than good with the force of it.
You stumbled but quickly caught yourself, standing still to feel the new energy coursing through your body. It felt amazing. You’d been feeling so bad for the past few weeks that you forgot how it felt to be fully energized, and god, did you miss it. It felt so good that you almost considered stopping your recent habits, but you quickly brushed that thought off. It was working. What you were doing was working, if the compliments you’d received recently had anything to say about it, so you could handle a little tiredness. It was worth it.
You were drawn out of your thoughts as a whispered conversation near you grew louder. You looked back to the stage, finally realizing what that actually meant for you, and paled. You looked down at yourself and found you were wearing very fancy and high-quality clothes. Your hair felt hard, like it had been sprayed in place, and you could feel the makeup on your face.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Your head whipped to look at the people closest to you, which happened to be the ones having the whispered conversation. Seungmin and Jeongin. They saw you looking, and mistook your expression for you being mad at them for being loud. “Sorry, Chan,” Jeongin said, quieting down.
You shook your head. “I’m not Chan,” you whispered, voice barely audible. The boys must have heard you, though, because their eyes immediately widened, surprise and worry clear in their gaze.
“Oh, fuck,” Seungmin said, full volume. That drew the attention of the rest of the members, who came over to see what was going on. “It’s [Y/N],” Seungmin explained quietly once everyone had gathered.
A series of gasps sounded from the group.
“What do I do? What are you even performing?” You asked.
“It’s okay. You have that weird muscle memory thing, right? Won’t you know the dance?” Jisung said, hopeful.
“Oh, yeah! Like in dance practice,” Felix said.
“And the interview,” Hyunjin added.
“Um, yeah, I guess so. I just– I’m not super confident in it.”
The boys tried their best to reassure you, but it was clear they were worried as well.
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do. You have to go on, so just do your best,” Minho told you, ever the voice of reason.
“Yeah. You’re right,” you agreed, taking a deep breath. You could do this. You could do this.
In the background, you heard the voice of someone announcing Stray Kids’ performance. The lights dimmed. You walked on stage with the boys, finding your place, whole body shaking. Fuck, this was scary.
Last time, in dance practice, you’d known the moves but messed up where Chan usually messed up—at least, that’s what the boys said. You only hoped that Chan knew this dance well enough for you to not mess up at all right now.
The lights came up, the music started, and your body moved. You didn’t know what you were doing, but you were moving, dancing, singing, an ‘oh thank god’ ringing in your head as you hit every count. You let yourself get carried away in the dance, ignoring the huge audience that, if you paid full attention to, would probably scare you out of your muscle memory.
When the song finally ended, feeling like it had lasted for years, you quickly excited the stage with the rest of the group, out of breath but glowing. You felt incredible. It probably felt even better than it otherwise might have, given that you felt like exactly the opposite of this constantly in your own body. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t worth it. What you were doing to yourself. You didn’t know.
You followed the group to an empty dressing room, being told that you could change and get ready again before heading back out to sit in the audience. Instead of changing, the boys immediately turned to you, cheering and patting your back at a job well done.
You smiled at their praise, but it faded in your ears, replaced by overwhelming dizziness, and then nothing.
It was quiet. Silent. No one was talking anymore. You lifted your head up, seeing your kitchen table, and winced as your exhaustion slammed back into you. Well, great. You were back now. Yay.
Really though, you were happy to be back, if at least it meant that Chan wasn’t suffering anymore. You didn’t deserve to feel happy and energetic if it meant that he felt like this. You chose to do this to yourself, so you would be the one to deal with it. Not Chan.
You stood up slowly, carefully, and walked to your bedroom. You had done enough today. You’d allow yourself a break, an early bedtime. It was Friday, too, so no classes tomorrow. You collapsed on your covers, falling asleep before you could even crawl under the blankets.
When you woke up, it was to three missed calls and ten messages, all from Chan. Whoops. You scrolled through them, reading them with eyes still bleary from sleep.
Are you okay?
Please call me back
[Y/N], I’m worried about you
Please just answer the phone
Are you sleeping?
Just text me if you’re reading these
I’m here for you
You can tell me if something is wrong
[Y/N]
Please answer
Oh, shit. You checked the time. It was eleven in the morning. Shit, you never slept this late. Thank god it was the weekend.
Chan had called you three times last night and sent half the texts. Then he’d texted the last few at eight in the morning. Fuck, he’d been worried about you all night? You hated that you slept through it all.
You quickly typed out a response, not trusting yourself to be able to keep up the act if you talked to him directly.
I’m fine
I’m sorry, I was asleep. I just saw all of these
I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m okay though
Chan’s response came immediately, like he’d been staring at his phone, waiting for a reply. Honestly, he probably was.
Are you sure?
When we switched yesterday, it just seemed like
Well, I don’t know. You just didn’t seem okay
You almost started crying at how nice he was being. He didn’t need to care this much about you. No one else did. You needed him to stop caring.
I swear I’m fine
You don’t need to worry about me, I can take care of myself
Chan took longer to reply this time. His speech bubble popped up and disappeared multiple times before he finally replied with a simple, okay.
You sighed and set down your phone, feeling relieved but also strangely guilty. You got what you wanted—Chan to stop worrying, stop asking if you were okay, at least for now. But you really didn’t like lying to him. Hopefully if he stopped asking, you’d stop needing to lie.
You crawled out of bed, feeling much better than yesterday after all the sleep you’d gotten. You still felt the ever-present rumble in your stomach, but that wasn’t anything new.
Yesterday was one of your worst days, which was mainly just because of the stress and lack of sleep due to the test you had. You usually were much more functional. You felt bad that Chan had experienced that particular day in your life—it wasn’t a good example to go off of.
You walked to the bathroom, beginning your morning routine. You washed your face, did your skincare, and ate a granola bar for breakfast. You got dressed in comfy clothes, not having the need nor the energy to look cute today. Then, you set off to the library. You needed to find a specific book to help with an essay you were working on.
You brought your laptop to the library with you, thinking that the quiet and calming ambience of the building would help you get some essay writing done after you’d located the book. You were right, and you ended up staying in the library for much longer than you’d planned.
By the time you returned home, bag heavy with your laptop and books—okay, so maybe you’d gotten carried away while looking for that one book—your stomach was growling much louder now, upset at being ignored for so long. You paid no attention to it.
You set your bag down and promptly dropped yourself down on the couch, not quite tired enough to call it a ‘collapse’ but still pretty close. You sunk into the comfort of the fluffy pillows, but your relaxation time was soon ended with a knock at your door.
Your eyebrows furrowed. Who would be knocking on your door right now? Your friends weren’t really the type for spontaneous hang-outs, at least not without texting first. You stood up on shaky legs and padded over to the door, opening it.
You were greeted with a very familiar face.
“Chan?” you asked, eyes raking over his gorgeous frame. Everything you’d seen online and in the mirror when you were him—perfect skin, dreamy eyes, and literally everything else about him because he was perfect, despite the mask and hood he currently wore—was now directly in front of you, and my god was he even more incredible to see in person.
Once you’d finished admiring Chan’s beauty, you started to wonder why he was actually here. He seemed incredibly nervous, his eyes were wide and concerned, and he was here standing in your doorway oh my god what was Chan doing at your apartment? He’d said okay, you thought that meant he’d drop the subject, not find where you live and meet you on a random Saturday!
Chan said nothing, instead stepping forward and engulfing you in the most comforting hug you’d ever felt. You froze for a second, surprised, but quickly melted into it, wrapping your arms around him. He held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You felt the unmistakable feeling of your soulmate bond running through you, especially strong now that you were physically meeting and touching each other. Now that you had met, you two would never switch bodies again.
As you stood in your doorway, wrapping in Chan’s embrace, you allowed yourself a moment of happiness. You felt good in his arms. Safe.
He finally let you go, seemingly less nervous than before. You let him into your apartment, not wanting anyone to walk by and recognize him, or even just wonder why you were hugging a random man outside your door.
When you’d closed the door behind him and stood to face him directly, mask and hood off, he finally spoke.
“[Y/N].” Your name sounded like a prayer on his lips. You stood still, waiting to see what he was going to say. Was something wrong? Did he come find you just to stop switching bodies, because it was such a hassle? Was he going to break up with you, if there was even anything to break? The suspense was killing you. Then, he smiled. “You’re even more gorgeous in person.”
Oh. You were not expecting that.
You let out a startled laugh, a self-deprecating smile forming on your face. “What?” You asked, looking down at the sweatpants and ratty crewneck you’d thrown on this morning. You didn’t have any makeup on, your hair was down but definitely frizzy and tangled, and you were wearing your glasses instead of your regular contacts because, like you’d thought this morning, there was no need to look cute today. You were an insane contrast to the effortlessly beautiful man that stood across from you, so much so that his compliment was literally laughable. You couldn’t keep the disbelief from your voice when you spoke.
Chan’s smile dropped at that, eyebrows furrowing as he stepped closer to you, raising a hand to cup your face. He tilted your head up, making you look at him.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “You are.” The look in his eyes as he said it was hard to argue with.
“Oh – Okay,” you stuttered. “You’re also, um. Well. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever seen in my life, I think,” you rambled out, your nerves making you spew out every thought in your head, no matter how embarrassing or badly worded. Chan just chuckled, murmuring out a ‘thanks,’ but you could tell by the slight flush of his cheeks that he felt similar to you.
“What are you—I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you, because I absolutely am, but—what are you doing here?” You asked.
“I needed to see you,” he replied. “I just – I was worried. About you.” The way he said it made you think there was more to the explanation that he wasn’t saying.
“Chan, that’s so sweet, but I told you. I’m fine, there’s no need to worry,” you told him. “Besides, aren’t you, like, a famous idol? Isn’t there some event or practice you need to be in right now?” You didn’t mean to sound like you were trying to push him out, but you didn’t like him being so worried over you. It was embarrassing, really, that he was so worried about something that was so not serious.
“No,” Chan replied, a tad aggressively. He looked hurt, or like he was hurting for you. “No, [Y/N], I’m supposed to be here right now. I got them to let me come because I’m worried about you. Rightfully. Because you’re not fine,” he said, gaining steam as he talked. You were too shocked at how serious he seemed to be on the matter to interrupt. “[Y/N], what I felt when we switched yesterday—that’s not fine. That’s not normal! I – I’d never felt so bad before, and you – you feel like that all the time? That’s not fine, you’re not fine.”
You stood, frozen, as Chan argued. He was worried, stressed. About you. You felt your heart constrict, some unknown feeling flooding through you. No one had ever cared this much. No one had ever even sent a text to check in when you were sick, much less track you down to find you and help you even after being told you were fine and could handle yourself.
Chan cared about you. The realization hit you like a train. He didn’t think you were ugly, he didn’t loathe the fact that he had a soulmate or that you were his soulmate. He didn’t think you were a burden, he didn’t come find you just so you would stop switching bodies. You’d never even met before, only texted for like a month, and he still cared about you so much that he dropped everything after finding out something was wrong to find and help you.
Tears welled in your eyes, and you didn’t have the energy to try to stop them or blink them away. You didn’t have the energy to do anything. You were so tired, so hungry. You’d been doing such a good job at ignoring all the pain and exhaustion you felt for weeks, but now the floodgates were open and everything was rushing out. All it took was a few sentences from Chan, and everything was coming out.
Chan had been waiting for a response from you, it seemed, because he’d just been staring and looking deep into your expression the entire time you’d stood still, thoughts running rampant in your head. Because of his focus, he noticed the second that tears began rolling down your face. He lurched forward, hands coming up to cup your face and thumbs moving under your glasses to wipe away the tears.
As soon as you felt his skin against yours, you went limp. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. You fell into him, and he caught you, hands shooting down to hold your waist, steadying you. When it was clear that you would not be regaining your balance any time soon, Chan carefully picked you up and carried you to the couch.
“It’s okay, baby,” he reassured softly. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you, you can let it out. It’s okay.” He rubbed circles on your back with one hand, the other brushing your hair from your face as you cried into his shoulder. You were curled into his side on the couch, leaning fully against him with your head buried in between his neck and shoulder.
He held you until your cries stopped and your breath evened out, not saying anything until you lifted your head to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. You didn’t know what to say. You looked at his shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “I’m sorry,” you let out, voice hoarse from crying. You weren’t sure if the sorry was for the shirt or for forcing him to comfort you as you sobbed.
“No, baby, don’t apologize,” Chan replied, and you didn’t know when or why he started calling you ‘baby’ but you’d definitely be lying if you said you didn’t like it. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah."
“Good,” he smiled, arm still slung around your back, his hand now rubbing soothingly up and down your arm. You weren’t sure if he even knew he was doing it.
“So you–” you hesitated, unsure. You took a deep breath. “You don’t have anywhere else to be? You can – you can stay?” You weren’t used to being so open, so vulnerable with anyone. But with Chan, you felt like you could be.
Chan hummed in agreement. “Nowhere to be,” he said, “I’m staying right here.”
You gently laid your head back on Chan's shoulder, and he used his arm around you to pull you closer. You closed your eyes, content. You could get used to this.
𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦.
|| ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ: 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥; 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.
|| ᴡᴄ: 𝟷𝟾.𝟽𝚔 (𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜)
|| ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 (𝘨𝘯) 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘟 𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨
|| ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺; 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴-𝘵𝘰-𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴-𝘵𝘰-𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴; 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴; 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘵; 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩-𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱; 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘤 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦.
—
monday morning starts the way it always does.
you blink awake to the gentle press of sunlight on your cheek. it peeks through the blinds in quiet, golden stripes, pooling on the floor beside your bed like something spilled.
you stretch, slow and stiff, one arm reaching toward the ceiling, the other curling protectively back over your chest. your sheets fall away without ceremony and you rise to start your day. you dress with muscle memory more than intention: favorite sweatshirt. soft jeans. the necklace you never take off.
in the kitchen, the tile is cold under your bare feet as you move to plug in the coffee pot. the cord sticks a little– same as always. you nudge it into place and press the button without looking. no measuring, no adjusting. you’ve done this a hundred times before.
somewhere in the background, your phone buzzes. you don’t check it right away.
you stare at the countertop instead. not lost in thought, exactly– more like you’re feeling the way the quiet sits around you, seeps into you. the silence isn’t heavy. it’s just… present. like a guest who never quite leaves.
it’s been this way for a long time. too long. you hug your arms around yourself as the coffee drips into the mug steadily.
your phone buzzes again.
you glance toward the sound but don’t move to grab it just yet. the coffee’s still pouring behind you, slow and fragrant. you sigh into the air and wait for the moment to pass.
another buzz.
you finally reach for it, thumb dragging lazily across the screen. a text sits there, waiting– a group chat, a name you know well enough from your ethics class. a casual invite:
felix: hey! a couple of us are forming a study group for midterms. first meet-up on the quad today around 1? very low-key. lmk if you’re free :)
you stare at it for a long second.
it’s harmless; purely friendly. not a big deal.
but your fingers hover anyway, unsure.
you type out a no—“sorry i can’t, my schedule is packed”—then delete it.
you start again. “maybe next week?” nope. delete.
your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s dread or… something smaller. lighter. like the flutter of something you don’t trust anymore.
you: “sure, i’ll be there :)”
you send it before you can change your mind again.
and then you immediately want to take it back. you’re not looking for anything. it’s just a study group. you’re not hoping for—
(yes, you are.)
you scold yourself for wondering if someone cute will be there, wondering if you should dress a little nicer today. pushing down the foolish hopes that, even for a second, someone might see your heart. that someone out there might want it.
you grab your mug and turn off the coffee pot, dumping a little too much sugar into the cup.
–
you leave a little early today.
not on purpose, really. just… early enough to walk slow. you give yourself time to enjoy the weather. the coffee cup warms your hands as you step outside, door clicking gently shut behind you.
the sprawling campus stretches ahead, familiar and golden. the early fall sun has a way of softening everything: buildings you’ve walked past for years, old bricks and ivy-framed windows, trees just starting to burn red around the edges. the breeze tousles your hair like it knows you. gentle, playful. kind.
your shoes shuffle across sidewalks you could trace in your sleep. you wave at a few familiar faces– people from past classes, old group projects. it’s nice, in a distant sort of way. the kinds of easy small smiles that keep you tethered to the world around you.
you’re in a genuinely good mood today; there’s something about the barely-there chill in the autumn air that makes you feel a little lighter. you hum a bit to yourself. sip your coffee. smile without thinking as you walk steadily.
and then—
your arm swings as you walk, fingertips brushing empty air.
it’s small. a blink of a moment.
but it’s there.
just a flicker of a thought: no one’s there to reach back.
you press your fingers into your palm, subtly. quietly. like you’re pretending someone’s hand is there, after all. like you’re pretending the loneliness doesn’t bother you anymore.
you keep walking.
–
your class passes in a gentle blur.
the lecture is fine– theories scrawled across the board, your professor’s voice a steady drone that hums like background music– but your mind drifts.
you sit near the window, elbow propped on the desk, cheek resting against your palm. your pen taps absentmindedly against your notebook, bouncing lightly on the margin of a half-started page. the ink smudges where you’ve been doodling.
outside, the trees sway just slightly. the midday sunlight catches on the leaves like gold thread. there’s something beautiful about the way the world keeps turning without waiting for anyone– coffee cups in passing hands, laughter echoing faintly through open windows, someone skateboarding by with a scarf trailing behind them like a ribbon.
you let yourself daydream. only for a moment.
not about anything in particular. softness, maybe. a warm laugh beside you. hands laced together under a shared blanket. the quiet weight of someone’s shoulder against yours; someone to soak up the silence with you. someone who stays.
then you catch yourself.
you blink once, twice, then shake your head and glance back at the front of the room.
you’re not hoping. you’re not doing that again.
still, a little smile lingers on your lips as you pack up your bag after class, tucking your notebook away carefully like the daydream might still be pressed between the pages.
–
the walk across campus to the quad feels lighter than usual, the sun casting long, soft shadows across the grass. blankets spread like patchwork quilts, books splayed open, voices low but full of urgency– deadlines looming, caffeine fueling focus. it’s a humdrum little festival of college life.
you spot felix before you get close: sprawled out on the grass with knees pulled up, headphones dangling around his neck like a trophy. his grin is infectious; a wide, easy smile that makes the world seem less heavy for a moment. he catches your eye, hand reaching out in the kind of wave that says you belong here without needing words.
“you actually came,” he teases as you settle beside him, the grass cool beneath your legs.
you shrug, a smile tugging at your lips. “you promised low-key.”
felix snorts, nudging your shoulder with an affectionate jab. “yeah, yeah, ‘low-key.’ famous last words.”
he gestures to the others gathered: a couple of familiar faces from your classes, some new ones you don’t recognize, and then…
someone you’ve definitely never met before.
because you’d remember it if you did.
he’s standing half-turned from the group, his hand moving steadily as he jots notes in a well-worn notebook. his hoodie sleeve is pulled over one wrist, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the cover as if the rhythm helps him think. brown strands of hair fall just enough for the curls to catch the sunlight, and when he looks up, his round eyes gleam like a kind of quiet fire you don’t see coming.
felix catches your gaze and grins knowingly. “that’s han. new-ish to the program, but he’s got this… this golden retriever vibe. you know? friendly, loyal, kind of makes everyone around him feel like they matter.”
before you can respond, han’s head turns, and his eyes find yours. he steps toward you with an easy confidence that feels warm, not overwhelming. he gestures to the space next to you, where felix is already scooting over to make room.
“hey,” he says, voice low but steady, like he’s sharing something just between the two of you, “mind if i sit by you? i forgot my sunglasses, and you’re in the shade.”
your heart stutters– brief and startled– but you manage to nod, cheeks warm.
“sure,” you say softly.
and just like that, he’s beside you. the quiet between you isn’t awkward; it hums with something unspoken, like the space is holding its breath, waiting.
he grins at you with a friendly twinkle in his eye, holding out his hand. “i’m han.”
you take his hand and offer a smile back, mouth moving before your mind: “i know.”
han pauses for a second, and you instantly move to do damage control, “not– not like that, i mean… felix told me your name, just now. that’s all.” you recover.
han laughs, a warm, rich sound, and your embarrassment melts away as quick as it came.
“glad my reputation precedes me, then. what’s your name?”
your smile widens before you can help yourself. “i’m y/n.”
he shakes your hand a beat longer than necessary before dropping it. “nice to meet you. so, you’re in ethics too, right?”
“yeah,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “ethics is... kind of a headache, but i guess that’s the point.”
han chuckles softly. “sometimes i feel like these discussions tell us more about ourselves than the cases.”
you nod, “i know, right?”
he leans back on his hands, eyes bright with the blooming conversation. “what’s your take on the train problem? i know it’s a classic, but it always sparks debate.”
you laugh, tapping your pencil against your knee. “oh, the train problem. save the few, sacrifice the many? or the other way around? i never know which answer makes me sound like a monster.”
han grins, a slow smile spreading. “yeah, no right answer, just a zillion shades of gray.”
you feel a flicker of ease settling between you. it feels like the start of something simple, but promising.
and that alone should be sending alarm bells ringing in your head.
you glance down at your notebook, jotting down answers to questions on theory and politicisms. a quiet sigh escapes without meaning to.
han’s eyes flick up to you, soft and steady. “long day?”
you shrug, voice low. “just feels like there’s always something, you know? deadlines, expectations. doesn’t help that my professor runs a tight ship… it’s just a lot sometimes.”
han nods, shifting a little closer but not crowding you. “yeah, i think you’d have to be crazy not to feel like that. college isn’t exactly a walk in the park.” he validates you flawlessly, like it takes nothing to agree with you, to understand the weight.
you meet his gaze, surprised by the simplicity of the words. for a moment, it feels like the ghost of a fist around your heart lightens, just the tiniest bit.
you drift into comfortable silence as the group finds its footing, everyone flipping to a chapter in the textbook to read over before discussion.
pages rustle. pencils tap. someone nearby cracks open a granola bar with a crinkle that sounds criminally loud in the otherwise calm space.
han leans a little closer to you, squinting at the text. “wait… does this say utilitarianism argues for the ‘greatest good’ or ‘greatest food’?” he blinks, then laughs at himself. “okay, yeah. wow. i think my brain’s starting to short-circuit.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “depends, are we sacrificing passengers or handing out snacks?”
“train snacks,” he says solemnly. “it’s a lesser-known branch of ethical theory.”
you shake your head, smiling down at your page. “careful. blink twice and i might just believe you.”
there’s a beat— soft and unspoken— where his eyes linger on you like he’s seeing something more. like he sees right through you, down to your bleeding heart.
you meet his gaze, wondering if he truly sees so much of you already. wondering what you’re gonna do about it if he does.
then someone sneezes aggressively two blankets over, and the spell breaks. you both glance away, smiling quietly.
but the warmth lingers.
and the warning signals in your mind begin going off.
–
as the group flips pages and settles into rhythm, the conversation slowly shifts: textbooks give way to weekend chatter, young adult laughter woven between underlines and margin notes.
someone across the blanket– a guy from your stats lecture who you think is named chris– leans back on his elbows. “hey, by the way, i’m throwing a small thing on friday. just a chill get-together, rooftop vibes, music, drinks. you guys should come.”
a few heads nod. someone else chimes in about bringing chips. felix perks up immediately: “i’m so in. i’ll even bring that dumb bluetooth disco light.”
“god, not the disco light,” someone groans, grinning.
you smile, polite and soft. a laugh almost makes it out. but inside?
your chest tightens— just barely.
your first thought isn’t that sounds fun.
it’s i’d feel so alone in a room full of people who have someone waiting on them.
you glance at your notebook like it’s suddenly very interesting; let the conversation blur at the edges.
they’re still talking, still laughing. and maybe part of you wants to say yes. maybe part of you wants to show up in a good outfit and pretend the ache in your chest doesn’t follow you everywhere.
but that’s the problem, isn’t it?
it always follows.
you tug your sleeve down over your hand, fingers curling into your palm like they’re holding something they can’t quite name. something that leaves you feeling hollow.
felix nudges your knee. “you in?”
you lift your head, smile like it’s easy, like you don’t live inside your head. “we’ll see,” you say in a tone much lighter than you feel. “depends on how buried in midterms i am by then.”
he rolls his eyes playfully. “lame excuse, but okay.”
han doesn’t say anything, just nods. but when your eyes flick to his, he’s already looking at you.
not pushing. not prying. just… there.
like he noticed the way your smile didn’t quite reach.
you let your eyes dip back down to your textbook as chatter swirls around you, study guides filling with answers and notebooks capturing thoughts and revelations.
before you know it, you’ve been out on the quad for over an hour; some of the people in the group rise and make hasty goodbyes, rushing off to their last class.
the sun’s dipped lower by the time the rest of group starts packing up— books shut with soft thuds, empty coffee cups get tossed in a nearby bin, the buzz of campus life shifting into the late afternoon hum.
chris claps his hands once. “alright, phones out. no excuses, you’re all coming friday.”
groans and laughs ripple through the group, but everyone humors him. phones pass around like trading cards, names and numbers typed with quick thumbs. someone accidentally calls someone else. there’s a chorus of “whoops” and “sorry, that was me.”
you offer your phone up when it’s your turn. fingers moving automatically, even as your brain quietly whispers, you won’t actually go.
you add the person to your left. then someone named seungmin. then, without meaning to hesitate—
han.
he takes your phone with a soft smile, his touch light against yours as he taps in his number.
“don’t worry,” he says gently, eyes twinkling, “no spam texts. maybe one meme a week, tops.
you laugh under your breath, a real one this time, even if it fades too fast. “deal.”
chris points at all of you with faux authority. “friday. rooftop. be there or be square. or be both. like, a cube. i don’t know.”
someone groans. someone else chuckles. the group starts to scatter.
you linger just a second longer, tucking your notebook under your arm.
“see you around?” han asks, backpack slung over one shoulder now.
you meet his gaze, steady and warm.
“yeah,” you say, something like hope flickering in your chest before you can stomp it down. “see you.”
he gives a small wave, nothing grand. just two fingers, a gentle goodbye. then he turns, falling into stride with a few of the others, laughter trailing behind him as they walk.
you watch them go. and then you start walking too.
your route home is familiar; sidewalks cracked in the same places, lampposts flickering on one by one. the quiet settles over you again, that same hush from the morning, only heavier now.
not sad, exactly. just there. always close.
you press your fingers into your palm again, like maybe if you hold yourself tight enough, the ache won’t get in.
but it already has.
–
a few days pass, and the ache stays quiet. not gone; just… softer. a hum that lives under your skin instead of one that rings in your ear.
you’ve been busy– genuinely. a thousand papers to write, even more chapters to skim, your brain working just hard enough to distract your heart. and for the most part, it’s been enough.
today, you end up at the campus coffee shop; not because you’re desperate for a change of scenery, but because it’s nice to hear other people living around you while you work. the buzz of espresso machines and whispered conversations is a comfort. it fills the space a little, gives you the illusion of connection without asking anything from you.
you settle into a seat by the window, a little table tucked near the back under the sun. the light is warm here and the corner is quiet. your drink steams gently beside your laptop, and the cinnamon scone you grabbed on impulse is already half gone before you even open your document.
you like studying like this: the quiet hum of it, the chatter and music and whir of coffee machines. the drone of noise that makes you feel like you’re part of the setting.
your cursor blinks on the essay in front of you, the page staring back as you roll the next few sentences around in your head. you scroll back up to reread your last paragraph, trying to figure out what you meant to say about moral frameworks before your brain gave up.
you don’t hear him until he’s already close.
“hey, y/n,” han jisung says, voice gentle. “small world, huh?”
you blink up in surprise.
he’s standing just beside your table, one hand hooked on the strap of his backpack, the other holding a lopsided to-go cup with his name scrawled in marker on the side. he’s in another hoodie today– blue this time, sleeves long over his wrists– and his hair looks softer than usual, like he must’ve ran his hand through it on the walk over.
you blink again, slower this time.
“hi han,” you say, startled into honesty.
he smiles. not too wide. not too careful. just… warm.
“mind if i sit?” he nods to the chair across from you. “i’ve got a pile of ethics notes and zero motivation. figured maybe if i churn through them near someone responsible-looking, i’d feel ashamed enough to actually start.”
you hesitate, but only for a second before you nudge your bag off the opposite chair.
“of course you can sit.”
he grins again, softer this time. like he’s grateful you said yes.
“thanks.”
he settles in without fanfare, pulling out a notebook and a tangle of highlighters that he immediately begins sorting like it's an act of ritual. a pink cap flies off and rolls across the table; you catch it without thinking and hand it back.
“nice reflexes,” he jokes, mock-impressed.
“i live on the edge,” you tease back before you can help yourself.
his laugh is low and genuine. you don’t realize how much you like the sound of it until it fades.
a few minutes pass like that; not awkward, not at all. just… easy. companionable silence, broken only by the keys tapping away on both your computers.
his pen scratches softly across the page. your mouse clicks sporadically. you both sip at your drinks, not quite in rhythm, but not far off.
you catch him glancing at your screen once, curious but not nosy.
“heavy stuff?” he asks.
you shrug. “only if you consider the ethics of consequentialism light reading.”
he makes a face. “ugh, nevermind. too big for my brain to handle today.”
you smile, eyes flicking back to your screen. “what about you?”
“revising an old paper,” he mutters. “trying to make my argument sound smarter than i actually am.”
you chuckle lightly, “fake it till you make it, yeah?”
he shoots you a playful grin. “exactly.”
the silence that follows isn’t really silence. it’s filled with small sounds: the clink of your spoon against your cup. the brush of his sleeve as he shifts in his chair. the lo-fi playlist crackling from the speakers overhead.
your knee bumps his under the table by accident.
you freeze.
so does he.
and then– he just shifts slightly. not away, but not any closer, either. just… making space. no comment, no reaction. no big deal.
he lets you breathe.
you glance up once. his head is bent over his notebook again, curls falling low across his brow like an afterthought.
you exhale quietly and return to your screen.
another few minutes pass. someone behind the counter drops something metallic; it clatters, loud and unexpected. both of you flinch at the same time. when you glance up, jisung’s looking at you with a tiny smirk.
“maybe we’re both running on too little sleep,” he says.
you laugh softly, shoulders easing. “that, or too much caffeine.”
he hums in agreement. and then– he says it, without fanfare. just an offhand truth that makes you feel understood without trying:
“i like working near people,” he says. “makes it feel less isolated, y’know? like even if you’re not talking, you’re not… alone.”
you blink.
it’s not a loaded statement; he doesn’t really linger on it. doesn’t look up like he expects you to answer.
but the words settle in your chest like something warm. like a weight you didn’t know you were carrying has shifted, just slightly.
“yeah,” you say quietly, after a beat. “i get that.”
you don’t say more. you don’t have to.
you both go back to your respective tasks, and an hour slips by without either of you noticing.
you get work done. so does he. there are breaks for small talk, mutual gripes about your professors, and one shared look of horror when you both realize you’ve been reading the same confusing case study in opposite ways.
it’s not the most productive you’ve ever been; but it might be the most at ease you’ve felt all week.
when jisung finally checks his phone, he groans.
“i gotta head to my next class,” he says, sliding his papers back into his bag messily enough to make you cringe. “which is unfortunate, because i was finally reaching peak productivity.”
“pretty tragic,” you murmur, making him crack a lazy smile.
he zips his bag, then pauses.
“thanks for letting me crash your table,” he says, like it genuinely mattered to him. “you make this place feel… less like a fishbowl.”
you raise a brow. “a fishbowl?”
“yeah,” he says, grinning. “you ever sit in a public place and feel like everyone’s watching you pretend to be productive?”
you snort. “constantly.”
he straightens up, tosses his cup in the nearby bin. “well, with you here, i got some real work done. so thanks.”
your stomach twists, just slightly. not in fear this time. but you don’t want it to be hope, either.
“see you around?” he asks, backpack slung over one shoulder.
you nod, heart thudding gently. “yeah,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “see you.”
he gives you a two-finger salute and turns on his heel, not looking back when he walks away.
but this time, you catch yourself smiling after he’s gone.
you stare at your screen for a long moment, hands still wrapped around your now-cold coffee cup.
you realize you accidentally kept his pink highlighter. your fingers curl around it before slipping it into your bag, and you pull out your phone and shoot him a text before you can second-guess yourself, saving his contact from the study group text chain.
it’s just a marker, after all.
you: hey han, it’s y/n, you left one of your highlighters at the coffee shop. i’ll give it back next time i see you??
you hit send despite the way you bite your lip uncertainly. your phone buzzes before you have the chance to pocket it:
han jisung: ah, i knew i forgot something!! just keep it for now, i’m sure i’ll see you around soon :)
–
friday night rolls around, bringing with it the party chris all but threatened you to go to– but you almost don’t show.
you tell yourself your hesitation is because of midterms. or because your headache’s hovering right behind your temples. or because you won’t know most of the people there, and pretending to be comfortable in a crowd always drains you.
but the truth is more simple, and somehow much worse:
you don’t like how hope feels in your chest. like it’s trying too hard to bloom somewhere it shouldn’t.
and you know you’ll look for him.
even if you tell yourself you won’t.
but still… you go.
you wear your favorite jeans and a shirt that makes you feel steady in your own skin. you put on lip balm with the faintest shimmer, letting your hair hang loose around your shoulders.
and when you get to chris’s building a few blocks from campus, you take a deep breath before climbing the last stair up to the rooftop.
and you tell yourself— it’s just for a few hours. just to say hi.
just be normal.
the rooftop is buzzing when you step out.
music pounds from a bluetooth speaker near the door— something bass-heavy, something danceable. led lights have been strung in chaotic loops across the perimeter, blinking mismatched colors into the dark in sync to the songs. someone’s set out snacks on the rail near one side: bags of chips, soda bottles, a very ambitious fruit tray already starting to wilt in the night air. there’s alcohol, too– lots of it– but you’re not really the drinking type.
you hover near the entrance, sipping from the water bottle you brought.
you hang to the side, a bit lonely, a bit smiley; no one’s rude, no one ignores you. a few familiar faces nod hello—felix takes a breather from where he’s fake-djing on his phone to come give you a friendly hug—but you still feel a little like static. like you’re here, but not in it. not that you need to be… but you knew it’d feel like this.
so you do what any true introvert would: you start counting songs in your head, telling yourself you’ll leave by the fourth one.
you’re on song two when you hear his voice.
“you made it.”
you look up.
jisung is already heading toward you. he’s backlit by the string lights, curls a little wind-tousled, hoodie sleeves– green today– pushed up like he couldn’t decide if he was warm or cold.
he’s smiling. not wide, not expectant, just… like he’s truly glad you’re here.
your breath catches just a little.
“i wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says, stopping just a little out of reach; not too close. not assuming.
you shrug, “i figured i could spare a couple hours. midterm prep break and all that.”
“brave of you,” he says teasingly, “trusting your brain to come back after this level of chaos. mine definitely won’t be.”
you laugh softly. “i’m not totally convinced mine will.”
he nods toward the middle of the roof, where a small crowd has started moving with the music. “there’s dancing, if you’re feeling brave.”
you glance over, then back to him with a dry look. “absolutely not.”
his mouth quirks. “figured. had to ask, though, just in case you were secretly a party girl.”
you roll your eyes, “not even close.”
“good,” he says, just a little too quickly. then he adds, more under his breath, “i wouldn’t have survived the betrayal.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “what, you don’t dance either?”
he lifts a shoulder. “only in grocery store aisles. and only if the playlist’s good.”
you can’t help the easy banter that falls. “let me guess, a little one-two step in the produce aisle? shimmying in the checkout line?”
his smile softens into something wry. “more like… breakdancing while waiting for something sweet to go on sale.”
you laugh again— low and surprised at how natural it comes— and when you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you like that sound was the highlight of his night.
“you wanna sit?” he asks, nodding toward the edge of the rooftop, where a few chairs and crates have been dragged into a loose semi-circle. “less noise over there, probably more sky.”
you hesitate. he catches it and adds, casually, “no pressure. i can bring the sky to you.”
a small grin breaks, and you’re already moving. “you’re so weird.”
he follows with a shrug. “i’ve been told it’s my best quality.”
you settle into a seat near the ledge, legs crossed, water bottle clasped in your hands. the breeze up here is stronger than you expected—your sleeves stretch over your knuckles without thinking.
you toy with the hem on your wrists, fingers brushing against one another around the bottle. it’s grounding; comforting. you know exactly what the weight of your own hands feels like.
jisung sits beside you; not touching, not crowding. just there.
you both stare out over the campus skyline. dorm lights flicker on and off like constellations. laughter echoes across the roof from the group behind you, but it feels far away now, more muffled.
“not your scene either, huh?” you murmur, catching the way he looks back at the noise.
he shakes his head. “not even a little.”
“why’d you come?”
he shrugs, then takes a sip from his own bottle– soda, by the look of it. “dunno, really. chris is a friend of mine, so i’m here often anyways. maybe i was getting a little too cooped up in my dorm.”
you nod. “yeah, i get that way too if i stay inside too long.”
silence falls again– the comfortable kind, but it doesn’t have time to settle over you.
“besides,” he says after a beat, “i was hoping you’d come.”
you freeze.
his tone doesn’t change; you don’t detect much weight behind it– no implications, nothing dangerous. he’s not trying anything.
he’s just telling the truth. and somehow… that feels a little scarier.
you glance at him sideways. “why?”
he looks down, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “i’d consider us friends at this point, since we keep bumping into each other. plus i like talking to you.”
you sit with that for a second, let his boyish grin say the rest.
and then you surprise yourself.
“me too,” you say quietly.
he raises a brow. “you what? think we’re friends, or like talking to me?” he teases you.
you laugh softly and curl your hand tighter around your drink. “both, you clown.”
he chucks, the sound sweet and satisfied, and looks up at the sky again as if the stars might come out behind the clouds.
for the next stretch of time, you don’t talk much; just making passing comments about classes, friends, life, occasional gripes about the playlist– someone’s clearly in their 2010s party hits mood tonight. jisung mimics a bad dance move for you. you roll your eyes, but you’re laughing breathlessly anyway by the time he finishes the awful routine.
someone sets off a sparkler near the corner, and the light flares against the night for just a second— too bright, too fast.
and you wonder, distantly, if that’s what this is: this fluttering, warm feeling you’ve had since you met han jisung.
something small. something bright. something just beginning.
your smile falls just a little when you wonder whether it, too, will burn too bright. too fast. something you won’t be able to hold without burning yourself.
when your social battery runs out, jisung doesn’t offer to walk you home. he doesn’t ask for anything more than the conversation you shared, the smiles you gave.
he just nudges your shoulder gently and says, “glad you came.”
you nod, heart warm in your chest. something fizzy and dense is lodging there, something terrifying and easy all at once. but you’re pushing it away for now, brushing it off with the wave you give han as you leave the party.
“me, too.”
he gives his signature two-finger salute and starts to turn away. then he pauses.
“hey,” he adds, half over his shoulder. “text me if you get home late. just so i know the wind didn’t blow you away.”
you roll your eyes again, but your lips curve anyway. “okay. deal.”
when you step off the rooftop and back onto the stairs, you realize something:
you don’t feel like static anymore. you feel… seen, or close to it.
and something akin to panic and relief swells in your throat– tangling together until you can’t tell what’s what anymore.
–
you quickly discover that despite his softness, han jisung can be loud.
not in the voice-cracking, attention-hogging kind of way— more like he’s silly, clumsy, inevitably present. he fills the quiet spaces in your life like sunlight through curtains, warm and a little noisy and utterly unignorable. he hums when he writes notes at your kitchen table. makes sound effects when he scrolls through the memes you’ve started sending back and forth at ungodly hours of the night. narrates his own actions under his breath, often in a terrible british accent and to no one in particular.
he says your name like it’s a reaction, not a formality; you say it’s annoying, but he grins every time.
you don’t know exactly when it happened. maybe it started with the pink highlighter, or chris’s party, or the quiet understanding that bloomed on the quad; but somehow— sometime between mid september and now— han jisung has become a fixture in your life.
you’ll glance up on your walk back from a lecture and he’s already halfway across the block, waving with both arms like he’s flagging down a helicopter.
he stops by the vending machine near your lecture hall with alarming regularity; you’ve never seen someone look so serious while choosing between sour gummies and chocolate-covered pretzels. he always shares half of whatever he chooses with you, and you’ve learned it’s useless to turn him down.
he starts sending you music, too– not sappy songs or trending tiktok artists. not even curated playlists. just… links with captions. “lo-fi beats that help me not throw my laptop,” you think was the name of the first one. “you might vibe.”
and you do. you start a playlist of your own and loop it when you study together: sometimes in the library, sometimes at his dorm, sometimes in yours.
he shows up with your favorite candy bar the third time he steals your ramen. you call him dramatic and make empty threats to lock your pantry, but he always makes up for it. always proves he won’t take without giving.
he always asks if you’ve eaten– not like he’s checking off a list, but like he cares. and he always takes it in stride when you call him overbearing or grandmotherly.
sometimes he waits outside your exam room without texting first, backpack slouched at his feet, phone in hand. “figured you might want to yell about freud the minute you got out,” he’ll shrug– and god, you always do.
you’re not used to this.
to the safety he brings, the unassuming charm, the staying.
you’re used to having friends, sure– but people sticking around for the non-glamorous parts? the part where you’re tired, or snappy, or quiet for no reason at all? you’re used to carrying it yourself. it’s not that heavy anymore, and you didn’t know anyone else would want to help you hold it.
but jisung doesn’t flinch.
he just learns your rhythms, your life, your story; memorizes the way you tick like only a true friend can. stays steady through all of it.
now it’s december, and your living room is a warm little cave of soft lamp light and scattered notebooks. the shitty dorm room heater clicks rhythmically in the background. your legs are folded up on your chair, a pencil tapping lightly against your lip as you squint at your textbook, prepping for finals.
jisung sits across from you, red hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, one leg bouncing anxiously under the table. his highlighter squeaks every few seconds as he underlines something in neon yellow. he’s muttering, too, a half-chant of key terms under his breath.
you don’t know what he’s saying exactly; but it’s familiar now. it’s a new kind of routine that keeps all the ache you’ve learned to live with at an arm’s length– not gone, but muted, like the dial turns down when he’s around.
“what’s the one about moral relativism again?” he asks suddenly, blinking like he just woke up from a long nap.
you yawn, checking your own notes. “it’s the one where you can’t say someone’s wrong just because their culture sees it differently.”
“right,” he says. “you’d think that’d be an easy one, but my brain keeps turning it into moral realism, which is the total opposite, and now i have no idea what’s real anymore.”
you glance up. “you’re spiraling.”
“correct.” he flips his notes dramatically. “i’m doomed. there’s no way i’m remembering all this for friday.”
you throw a gummy bear at him; he tries to catch it in his mouth and fails, and the gummy bounces off his chin before it rolls on the floor under your chair.
a silence falls— not awkward, not empty. just full of the night’s quiet weight. you reach for your tea as jisung fiddles with his pen cap, both of you locked in notes and review sheets and flashcards.
he stands up suddenly, pushing his chair back enough that you’re sure the dorm below you hears the squeak, and marches into your kitchen like a man on a mission. you hardly look up from the screen of your laptop.
“what’re you looking for?” you mumble, typing into a blank key on a worksheet.
you hear him shuffling around until he finds whatever he was hunting for.
some distant part of your brain registers him padding back over to the table as he says, “my reading glasses, i knew i brought them with me. the words are starting to blur together in my textbook.”
you’re mid-spell check when you feel him behind you, hands on the back of your chair as he leans forward. you go completely still.
“whatcha workin’ on, y/nnie?” he asks casually, letting his head rest on your shoulder.
you think you short-circuit.
his breath floats by your ear, body heat radiating all around you like a blanket. his arms don’t touch you, but it feels like he’s got them wrapped around you just the same; his chin isn’t heavy on your shoulder, just… there, like he knows how to exist in your bubble without popping it.
you forget to breathe for a second, until your lungs are screaming at you to inhale and jisung is scanning your screen like this is normal.
maybe it is normal for him, for others; you wouldn’t know.
you haven’t let anyone get close enough for a while now to know.
“i’m, uh…” you start, distracted by how fluffy his hair looks in your periphery and the thought that it would be so easy to run your fingers through it, “review?” you end up squeaking out.
he chuckles and pulls back to a stand, rounding the table back to his own chair like nothing happened.
“not to be mean or anything, but i’m so glad we don’t have the same professor,” he says lightly. “i think i’d die if i had to do that much homework for one semester.”
you think you’re the one dying.
he goes about his own review like the sky didn’t shift overhead, like the lights didn’t burn brighter and the floor didn’t sway wildly underfoot.
and maybe… maybe it didn’t for him.
maybe you’ve gone so long without it, so long alone, that a simple touch feels like everything, even when it means nothing.
or maybe you’re doing what you swore you wouldn’t:
hoping. reading into things. wishing and wanting so long and hard that you mistake the mundane for the magical, that you latch onto all the small things and give them weight they simply aren’t meant to carry.
so you bite the inside of your cheek, curl your free hand into the fabric of your sleeve, and let it be.
let it melt away, let whatever meaning you thought you found in the fleeting touch slip into the comfort of a night spent over notebooks with a friend who’s proven that he’s safe.
“you’re lucky,” you find the voice to tease him back, “you wouldn’t make it two minutes with my professor.”
he gives you a cheeky grin and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “that’s what i’m saying.”
you flick a crumpled sheet of paper at his head and he collapses into a fit of laughter, dragging you along with him until your notes are forgotten and your bellies ache.
and for once, it’s safe to be exactly as you are.
warm. silly. tired– all of it.
with him; your friend.
–
friday comes in a whirlwind of last-minute notes, number two pencils, and protein-packed breakfasts; but when it’s all said and done, you and han are laughing on the steps to the building you won’t have to see again next semester, and you have the light kind of feeling that always comes after acing a test.
han is sure he failed, and you’re sure he didn’t. you’re arguing over the semantics of some of the exam questions when you reach his dorm building, and you prepare to wish him goodbye for the holidays.
you come to a stop outside his building and wait for him to go in.
instead, he turns to you with his hands in the pocket of his winter coat, scarf looped loosely around his neck. his nose is turning pink from the cold. “whatcha doing, y/n?”
you stare confusedly. “i thought… aren’t you, like, leaving for break?” you stumble, tilting your head until your beanie threatens to fall off.
han grins like a little kid and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “nope, my folks are going on some big trip that lasts into the start of next semester, so i’m sitting my happy ass right here for the holidays.” he says, and the thought that you won’t be alone this christmas washes over you in a wave of knee-weakening relief.
relief, and something stronger, less shallow– something that tastes hesitant. something like hope.
you smile, real and unguarded, a delighted laugh leaving you. “no way, i’m staying on campus for break, too!” you tell him with glee, “now i have someone to force to watch home alone and the great british bake-off with me this year.”
he laughs, but doesn’t say anything– and the floating feeling in your chest yanks back hard, like a string pulled taut before a deadweight drops. you trail off, “unless… do you have plans with chris and felix already?”
you’re about to continue, to wrap your arms around yourself and say something past the lump in your throat about how that’s cool and dandy, when han sees the way you deflate and grabs your gloved wrist without a second thought.
“y/nnie, not only do i happen to be a baking show superfan,” he reassures you effortlessly as your brain sparks and sputters at the warmth bleeding through the fabric of your glove, “but i also need someone to build a snowman with me, one bigger than this campus has ever seen. i’m talking school-paper kinda big. you in?”
you nod dumbly.
he’s holding your hand.
well– not really; but the grip he has on your wrist is as good as any. it makes your head muddy and your cheeks flush, makes your eyes search his.
you don’t remember the last time anyone held any part of you like this except yourself.
you’re still reeling when he lets go and fistbumps your outstretched hand with a chuckle, brain still spooling like a loading screen buffer as your legs propel you forward next to him in the direction of your dorm.
his voice is still floating in, but it sounds like everything is underwater; he says something about cookies and cocoa, about having campus to yourselves to wreak havoc and sleep in as late as you want, but you’re only half-listening.
your wrist still tingles with warmth.
and try as you might, you can’t bury the feeling next to all the others you’ve put to rest in the graveyard of your too-soft heart’s foolish hopes.
but when you walk back into the safety net of your own dorm room, fairy lights twinkling and heat cranked up high, you breathe a little easier.
maybe it isn’t the heat at all.
maybe… it’s him.
–
later that night, you’re curled into the corner of your dorm couch, mug warm between your palms, fairy lights casting the walls in a sleepy gold haze. the cocoa from a mix you both snagged from the near-empty dining hall is already cooling, a film of marshmallow froth clinging to the rim. your legs are half-tucked under a fuzzy throw blanket, shoulders slack for the first time in weeks.
it’s holiday heaven: cocoa, warm blankets, and “frosty the snowman” playing as snow falls in steady flakes outside, making the dorm feel like your own little slice of winter magic.
han, as per usual, is in the middle of doing something that borders on unhinged.
“i’m just saying,” he announces from the center of the room in front of the tv, “if a literal snowman came to life, the first thing that would happen is full-body panic. not a musical number.”
he throws his arms up. “like— okay, picture this: frosty’s eyes open, right? and suddenly it’s ‘oh god i have consciousness, but no internal organs, and i’m actively melting.’ that’s realistic.” he starts wobbling in slow, exaggerated horror, voice wavering dramatically as he slumps to the floor like a deflating blow-up toy.
he mimes what his version of the christmas cartoon would look like as theatrically as any oscar nominee. “help meeeeee, karen, i can feel my soul evaporating through my noseee—”
you nearly spit cocoa all over yourself.
“jisung, please—” you start cackling, the laughs leaving you sounding more and more feral by the minute.
he flops onto his back with a wheeze. “frosty dies a slow death every time the sun comes out and no one talks about it. tragic.”
you’re doubled over, half-hiding your face in your blanket, shoulders shaking from laughter. he’s giggling too, still sprawled on your carpet like a crime scene, until he drags himself upright and plops onto the couch beside you.
he doesn’t make a show of it— doesn’t inch too close, doesn’t throw an arm around your shoulders like he’s earned the right– just leans back, hands braced behind his head, and settles into the cushion with a sigh.
you glance over as the laughter dies down. he meets your eye, tilts his head innocently.
“should i rewind the last five minutes?” he asks like nothing happened. like he didn’t just act out the most horror-film rendition of a lovable cartoon you’ve ever seen.
you nod, lips quirking. “i can’t believe you just disrespected a children’s christmas special like that.”
“you’re welcome,” he says proudly, sipping his cocoa like a man with no convictions.
frosty dances on screen when you rewind a few scenes; you watch him come alive again, wobble through town on snowy legs, joyfully unaware of his mortality. you try to pay close attention, sipping occasionally from your now-cold cocoa.
but even as you watch, you think about melting. about second chances. about how warm jisung is even when he’s not touching you at all; like there’s snow around your heart, and he’s determined to thaw it.
the movie goes quiet for a minute. so does the world.
he doesn’t look away from the screen when he mumbles casually, “so what do you normally do for the holidays? when you’re not here at school?”
your stomach tightens, just a little. you stare into your mug.
there are easy answers— jokes, deflections, the kind of casual brush-off that won’t shift the weight of the room— but his voice was soft when he asked. soft enough to feel like a hand reaching out, a small-but-growing voice telling you it might be okay to unburden yourself; just to him, just for a little. just for a moment.
you curl your fingers tighter around the mug, thumbs brushing over your knuckles in a longstanding habit you haven’t had the gall to start breaking.
“…i mostly just hang out,” you say after a beat, aiming for light but honest. “not a lot of traditions in my family to carry with me to school. not many people around to do them with, really.”
you don’t say lonely. you don’t have to.
“but it’s okay,” you add on, “sometimes the quiet isn’t so bad.”
han doesn’t ask anything else. doesn’t pry, doesn’t offer pity or compensate with a joke.
he just takes a slow sip of his drink and hums, “my christmases are always too loud. too bright. too many cousins, too many board games, too much sugar. it’s a whole thing.”
you smile at that, soft and wistful. “that sounds nice.”
“sometimes,” he shrugs. “sometimes it’s pretty overwhelming.”
you glance over. he’s still watching the movie, but his voice is pointed now, like he means every word more than he’s letting on.
“but i think you’d like it,” he says next, more quietly. “maybe next year.”
your breath catches; your palms clutch your mug a little tighter.
then, with a grin, he elbows you lightly. “unless you revoke my friendship for being a frosty truther.”
you snort into your empty cup. “you’re on thin ice, han.”
he gasps. “oh my god, did you just make a snow pun? i knew there was hope for you!”
you giggle, and the weight in your chest lessens. not gone. not erased.
just… lighter.
like this— this tiny moment between mugs and movies and quiet, reciprocal understanding, rich with the promise of new traditions with a friend who might not leave— is enough.
and maybe it is.
you settle back into the couch, turning the volume up.
–
the movie is nearing its end when you realize han has stopped reacting.
there’s no dramatic narration in your ear; no impassioned critique of rudimentary animation, no frosty slander or humming of the closing credits song.
just silence.
you glance to your right and— sure enough— he’s out cold.
his legs are curled loosely up on the couch, hand tightly gripping the throw blanket pooled across his lap. his head’s tilted against the armrest, one cheek smushed into the pillow in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. the collar of his sweatshirt has bunched up, and his hair’s all fluffy and mussed, curls sticking out like static clung to them on the way down.
you don’t move for a moment.
you just look at him. take a longer peek at this boy who burst into your life like a comet and somehow left softness in his wake instead of fire.
his face is peaceful, but there’s something else there too— something that snags in your chest like yarn on a hook.
he’s sleeping soundly, but something in his face looks a little… lonely.
not sad, not quite restless. just unguarded; in a way you haven’t seen before. like all the charm and noise and jokes have slipped away, and what’s left is someone who’s always been the life of the party, but maybe not the center of anyone’s quiet space.
someone who sets himself on fire if it means others get to bask in just a little bit of light.
you don’t touch him; you don’t drape a blanket over him or tuck his hair behind his ear, though you heavily consider readjusting his poor neck.
but you simply stay for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, like even his dreams are animated.
he didn’t plan this. didn’t fake-doze off to get closer or enact some ploy. he just… got tired, like anyone would after a day of snow. he fell asleep, plain and simple.
in your space. on your couch.
so… you let him.
you stand slowly, careful not to jostle the cushions, and tiptoe around to the light switch. you leave the tv on— just barely audible, just enough to fill the room with background hum— because you remember he said once that silence makes him overthink.
then you pad quietly into your room.
the sheets are warm when you slip under them, swaddled in your comfiest pajama pants. your toes are still a little cold, and your hoodie smells like cocoa and cinnamon and faintly of han. your heart is beating a little slower than usual, and the quiet of your dorm doesn’t feel quite so empty tonight.
and for the first time in a long time, you feel something bloom in your chest that’s not ache. not fear. not empty.
something whole and soft takes its place, even if only for the night:
content.
you think to yourself that this must be what people mean when they talk about christmas cheer.
you close your eyes, and for once, you’re not bracing for loneliness to find you in the dark.
because he’s here– your best friend is crashed on your couch, dreaming like it’s already christmas eve.
and for the night, you let him be.
–
you wake to the faintest clatter from the other room.
at first, you think you’re dreaming— some lingering sound effect from last night’s movie bleeding into your REM cycle. but then there’s the unmistakable crinkle of plastic, a microwave door opening, followed by a very dramatic sigh.
you get up slowly, heart thumping.
when you peek around your bedroom door, the sight that greets you is somehow both unsurprising and absolutely absurd.
han jisung— hair even fluffier than last night, sweatshirt rumpled and socks mismatched— is standing in your kitchenette with a cup of instant ramen in one hand and a packet of seasoning in the other. he looks focused. determined. the kind of intense concentration reserved only for critical operations and late-stage winter break hunger.
you blink. “jisung. what the hell are you doing.”
he jumps, startled, and nearly drops the ramen. “oh my god, don’t sneak up on me like that! i’m operating heavy machinery.”
“you’re making ramen,” you deadpan. “at—” you glance at the clock, “—nine in the morning.”
“yeah, because i’m hungry,” he whines, ripping the packet open with his teeth. “and someone didn’t leave out any cinnamon rolls or waffles or breakfast burritos— y’know, like a good hostess would.”
you gape. “ramen is not a breakfast food!”
he shrugs, utterly unfazed. “i’ve eaten it for breakfast before. besides, the dining hall is cold and empty and i didn’t wanna go alone.”
you stare at him, dumbfounded.
he pouts. “don’t judge me, y/n. i’m a fragile man.”
you snort, arms folding across your chest. “clearly. you fell asleep on my couch and now you’re cooking noodles at sunrise.”
“it’s not sunrise.” he argues adamantly.
you gesture vaguely to the frosty light streaming through the window, “feels like it.”
he looks at you then— really looks— and his grin tugs a little softer at the edges. “good morning, y/nnie,” he says, growing sheepish.
you sigh but smile despite yourself, jarring your heart a little bit– you can’t recall the last time you woke up to something so endearing. “morning, dummy. now put the ramen up.”
he starts to protest, waving the cup around. “but—”
“i’m taking you to get real food.” you cut him off, already walking to the closet to grab your coat and scarf.
he stares. “you’d brave the arctic tundra for me?”
you glance sidelong at him, heart thrumming in your chest. “yeah, but only because i’m starving, too.” you bury the pulse of feeling with a joke, letting the moment wash away before it can really take hold.
he puts the ramen down with a dramatic sigh, like he’s giving up a child. “fine. but you better believe i’m getting pancakes stacked to the ceiling.”
and oh, you believe him.
you brave the snowy day side by side, walking through the winterstruck campus that looks like you’ve just been caught in a snowglobe.
the dining hall is nearly empty when you get there.
one student sits by the window, earbuds in and eyes closed. another is camped out near the coffee machines, bleary-eyed and half-awake. otherwise, it’s quiet; peaceful, in a weird sort of way. like the campus is still asleep, still holding its breath, blanketed in fresh snow and post-semester quiet.
you and han pile your trays high with pancakes, hash browns, eggs, fruit cups. he finds chocolate chips and dumps an offensive amount on his plate. you grab two cartons of chocolate milk and slide one across the table to him when you sit down.
he smiles at you, sleepy and soft and half-snuggled into his hoodie. “my hero.”
your heart skips– once, twice. ‘my hero’. he called you his– in a weird, cartoonish sort of way, but still. you short-circuit.
he goes on like nothing happened. “kinda weird, huh,” he says around a mouthful of syrupy pancake. “seeing it like this. all empty ‘n stuff.”
you nod, glancing out the big window by the far wall. snow glitters across the quad, undisturbed except for a few scattered footprints. “feels like we’re in a movie.”
he hums. “yeah... like, time’s still going, but we slipped out of it.”
you look at him then; look at his messy, ruffled hair and tired eyes, the way he holds his fork like a little kid and bounces his foot under the table without realizing.
he’s always talking. always making you laugh. but it’s in moments like this— quiet, sleepy, a little dazed— that you realize how steady he’s become. how much space he’s taken up in your life without demanding any of it. how right it feels to always have him near.
you sip your milk. “thanks for staying.”
he looks up, confused. “huh?”
you shrug, eyes back on your plate. your voice dips, softness hushing your tone like a secret. “just… thanks. for not going home. for being here.”
he doesn’t say anything right away. but when he does, his voice is low and laced with understanding.
“wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else, y/nnie.”
and somehow, the silence between you fills up with something lighter. something warm despite the frost lining every window.
–
the snow starts falling again midmorning in lazy, drifting flakes that turn heavier as noon stretches toward afternoon.
you’re both bundled to the ears in mismatched scarves and puffy coats, standing on the edge of the quad with gloves already dusted in white. the campus is nearly silent around you, blanketed in soft stillness and patches of untouched snow.
the biggest snowman you think you’ve ever helped build looms in front of you, so tall that han had to lift you to put the nose on. you turned redder than rudolph’s nose for the entire time his hands were around your waist; but somehow, you kept from melting into a pile of goo, and now you proudly stand back and admire your work.
jisung whistles lowly. “that’s what i’m talking about.”
you nudge his side like you’ve known him for years; like this isn’t your first winter with him. “not bad, huh?”
he elbows you back with a warm grin. “not bad at all.”
you snap a picture of the snowman and pocket your phone, wiggling your fingers in your gloves as you survey the campus. there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the quad, wrapping everything in white; the world looks too still, too untouched. like you and han are the last ones left.
“i feel like we’re breaking the law or something,” you whisper, looking around like someone might catch you two existing.
han grins, eyes squinting against the wind. “good. makes it more fun.”
you barely have time to respond, to ask what he means, before a snowball hits you square in the thigh.
you gasp. “you traitor!”
he’s already sprinting across the lawn, laughing his ass off.
you grab a fistful of snow and give chase to him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. he ducks behind a bench; you sneak around a tree. you pelt each other for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes.
he fake-surrenders once— hands in the air, voice high-pitched and pleading— before hitting you with a surprise attack the second you let your guard down.
you’re both shrieking, slipping, cackling, until you’re doubled over on opposite sides of a picnic table, red-faced from the cold and the wind with snow soaking through your socks.
he grins across at you, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “worth it?”
you can’t even pretend to be mad. it’s the most fun you’ve had in ages.
you nod, smiling so wide your jaw aches, “so worth it.”
you stop by his dorm on the way back to yours so he can change. he tries to offer you his fluffiest hoodie– sputtering things like “i have a spare! and it smells like fresh laundry!”— but you wave him off, already looking forward to being in your own dry clothes again.
by the time you’re both curled up on your couch, you’ve got popcorn between you, fuzzy socks on your feet, and ‘home alone’ queued up on screen.
outside, the world is still frozen and glinting and quiet, the sun just beginning to set over the white-blanketed landscape. inside, the heat hums softly and the string lights glow golden around the edges of the room.
you’re bouncing slightly in place, trying not to seem too eager as the movie starts, even though every part of you is buzzing. this is the first time in years— too many of them— that christmas doesn’t feel like something you have to survive.
you sneak a glance at han. he’s watching you, not the movie.
you blink. “what’s up, hannie?”
he just smiles. “you really like christmas movies, huh?”
you shrug, tugging your sleeves down over your hands and curling your fingers into the material. “this is my favorite movie. i even watch it in the summer if i feel like it sometimes. i know it’s silly, but...” you trail off.
“nah,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours, the touch deceptively simple. “you look happy.”
you swallow around something warm and dangerous in your throat. something that gives you leeway to keep talking.
“most years it’s just me,” you admit after a moment, voice small. “my family doesn’t really do holidays anymore. i stopped decorating my dorm after the first year ‘cause it felt… weird, i guess. when i had roommates, they didn’t celebrate much either.”
he nods, quiet. doesn’t push, doesn’t pry; just looks at you, silently telling you it’s okay to tell him more.
you rub your thumb along your own hand— an old habit, a silent comfort. “i guess it just… feels different. this time. with you, i mean.”
han notices. of course he does. but he doesn’t mention it. just tosses a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth and says, “well, you’re stuck with me now.”
you laugh. it comes out uneven, a little too sharp, a little too much like a cover for something you’re trying like hell to stamp down.
“i mean it,” he says, softer this time. “you and me, rocking the holidays together. it’s a new tradition.”
you blink fast, heart lurching somewhere behind your ribs.
“yeah,” you murmur, letting yourself lean a little closer. “i’d like that.”
the credits roll before you know it. neither of you moves.
you’re full of warmth and sugar and laughter and the kind of ache that isn’t painful– just proof that you’re still healing. proof that the hollow of loneliness melts in the right kind of presence.
he’s still next to you, steady and gentle and silly and here. every breath he lets out seems to whisper to you to let your walls down, to let him in. you don’t know how to… but you think for him, you can learn.
and maybe, just maybe, this is what christmas is supposed to feel like.
—
it’s early march, and the snow has finally stopped clinging to the sidewalk corners.
campus smells like cold mud and fresh air, and the trees still look dead, but there’s something new in the breeze— something light, like a promise that things will soon be blooming.
by now, the rhythm of a new semester has fully set in: early morning classes, cheap coffees, last-minute quiz reviews whispered under your breath. han’s presence, as always, has folded itself into the edges of your days like second nature.
he’s in your psych lecture now— along with felix, who keeps things mildly unhinged and wholly entertaining— but it’s han who walks you there most days. han who always saves you the seat by the sunniest window, who pokes your cheek with the end of his pen when your eyes start to drift closed mid-lecture.
he drapes his arm lightly over your shoulders sometimes when he’s laughing, leaning his weight into you like it’s effortless. he taps your ankle with his foot under the library table when you’re zoning out. he steals bites of your snacks and offers you his hoodie when the lecture hall AC goes haywire.
and it’s all… fine. it’s normal. it’s just jisung.
except his gaze lingers longer than it used to.
except sometimes, you catch him looking at you like he’s memorizing, not glancing– like he’s searching for something, quiet and careful.
except his eyes don’t match the jokes anymore. they’re too soft, too sweet, to knowing.
and it’s driving you a little bit insane.
you’ve never had someone this close before; not just in proximity, but in rhythm. in belonging. when you walk, your steps are in tandem. when you laugh, you look to each other first. you know him now, and he knows you. and there’s a part of you— one you’ve worked hard to keep small and manageable and silent— that wonders if he’s ever wanted to know you this much for a reason.
but you don’t ask.
instead, you sit on the floor of his dorm room on a rainy thursday afternoon and watch him strum chords on his beat-up guitar, tongue poked out slightly as he concentrates.
“okay,” he says, brows furrowed, “so we’ve got… frontal, parietal, occipital, temporal. we need a melody that slaps. something unforgettable. like… a brain-based banger.”
you snort. “you say that like it’s gonna go platinum.”
“it should,” he insists, dramatically flicking his pick like a mic. “if the class doesn’t give me a standing ovation next week, i’m reporting them to the APA.”
you give him a blank stare. “you mean the psychology APA?”
“all the APA’s. i’ll find more.” he huffs indignantly.
you laugh so hard you nearly spill your tea.
he grins at that, one of those open, crinkly-eyed grins he gives out freely that make your stomach tilt a little. his fingers find a chord again, slow and soft this time, and he hums a nonsense line to match the lobes. it’s dumb and borderline incoherent, but he sings it with so much heart that you giggle your way through the whole verse.
“stop,” you gasp, clutching your stomach. “this is so bad.”
“excuse you,” he says, offended. “this is the future of neuroscience education.”
“you rhymed ‘frontal lobe’ with ‘shut your robe.’” you argue through another laugh.
he sinks back against the couch and whines, “it’s innovative lyricism. you just don’t get the vision, y/nnie.”
you can’t breathe. your face is warm from laughter, from how close he is, from how natural this feels— his knee brushing yours, his gaze darting to your face like he’s checking your smile before letting his own loose.
“i think you’re just making excuses to get me to study with you,” you tease, eyes narrowing.
han doesn’t deny it. just smiles, soft and small, and goes back to plucking his guitar.
and for a moment, you forget to wonder what he’s thinking.
you just feel.
him, beside you. the lull of rain against his window. the warmth of his presence, the steady comfort of this closeness you’ve grown into like a second skin.
and still, under it all—
hope. aching and unsure.
but not unwelcome.
and that should bother you, shouldn’t it? it used to, at least. but you’ve spent so long alone that han’s steady presence is rewriting what you thought you knew about— well, everything. about feelings big and small, about friendship, about things you won’t dare name for fear of acknowledging more.
so you hum along, half-teasing, mimicking the awful little tune he just invented. but the second your voice joins his melody, han freezes.
he’s quiet— struck dumb, really— and you don’t notice at first because you’re still humming, still trying to match the cadence. “is that a major key? you seriously wrote a bubblegum-pop neuroscience anthem for your project instead of doing slides like the rest of us?” your voice is lilting, teasing.
you look up, and he’s staring.
not just watching— staring.
like you’ve just done something impossible. like you’ve reached into the sky, carved out a star, and handed it to him on a silver platter.
you blink. “what’s wrong?”
he seems to come back to himself all at once, eyes flicking away, mouth twisting into a grin that’s too quick to be real. “nothing. just… didn’t expect you to actually sing it. gonna have to start charging royalties.”
you flush instantly, all heat behind your ears and in your chest. “it wasn’t singing, it was just me humming. badly.”
he cracks a wide grin. “hmm, dunno. pretty sure it was technically a performance.”
you groan and smack him lightly with a throw pillow. he deflects with ease, laughing full-force again, but his gaze lingers a half-second longer than it should when he looks back at you.
you pretend not to notice.
you reach for your flashcards instead, desperate for some ground to stand on because your cheeks are still warm, and his eyes feel like too-much.
“okay, if we’re actually doing this—” you flip to a card and hold it up like a cue. “—then let’s make sure we’re not spreading misinformation in the name of music.”
“you wound me,” he says, clutching his heart. “i am a man of science.”
you blink. “you’re a man of rhyming ‘cerebellum’ with ‘overwhelm-’em.’”
he sits up straight, sputtering. “that’s my poetic license!”
you roll your eyes and scoot closer to help him with his project, angling the cards toward both of you. your knees bump. his shoulder brushes yours. and slowly, naturally, you settle into the kind of quiet teamwork that always seems to find you with han: shared space, shared rhythm, shared laughter under your breath as you try to rhyme “thalamus” without sounding like you’re making up words.
you keep turning cards, and he keeps watching you.
not in a weird way. not even in a ‘look-at-me’ kind of way.
just… soft. steady. like you’re something he’s still trying to understand. like every word out of your mouth adds another note to the song he’s building in his head, like you’re a melody he can’t wait to hear.
you catch him once.
just a flicker— eyes lingering on your mouth as you speak, then darting up to meet yours when he realizes you’ve gone quiet.
he doesn’t look away.
but he doesn’t lean in, either. doesn’t reach for your hand, doesn’t crack a joke to fill the silence this time.
just meets your gaze and holds it— like that’s all he’ll allow himself to do.
it’s too much.
you glance back at the cards with a shaky breath, pretending to be absorbed in your notes. he lets you go without a word.
you’re grateful. and aching.
because part of you wants to ask, part of you wants to lean in; wants to believe this could be something.
but another part— deeper, skittish, more bruised— remembers what it feels like to fall first. remembers what it feels like to fall alone.
so instead, you scribble a lyric about the medulla in your notebook and snort when han tries to rhyme it with “enchilada.”
he laughs with you.
and his eyes… they say the rest. even though you can’t decode it yet.
–
late march sunlight filters through still-bare branches as you and han cross the quad, side by side on the worn cement path that curves toward the dining hall. your breath still clouds faintly in the cool air, and the wet grass lining the walk is speckled with stubborn little snowmelt puddles. winter hasn’t let go completely, but the seasons are shifting. you can feel it in the light.
“i’m just saying,” han is insisting as you walk back to the dorms from class, chin tilted up and hair ruffled by the breeze, “if freud had heard felix’s theory about subconscious snack cravings being linked to childhood trauma—”
you snort and finish the sentence like it’s muscle memory, “—he would’ve spontaneously reanimated, dragged himself out of the grave, and sued.”
han gasps. “you get me.”
“someone has to,” you deadpan, hugging your sweater tighter around your arms.
he grins. that stupid, stupid grin. all teeth and crinkled eyes and dimples, like he’s never had a single unkind day when he’s with you.
and you— idiot that you are, you who never learn— you grin right back. because of course you do.
you’re mid-comment, about to tell him that freud would probably also blame felix’s love of gummy sharks on a repressed oedipus complex, when—
it happens fast.
a loud shout— rubber scraping pavement— wheels spinning out—
and then:
“watch it—!”
his hand.
it hits your waist first.
not hard— never hard— but firm, urgent. reflexive.
his other hand wraps around your wrist and he pulls, swift and clean, like he doesn’t even think about it; like his body just exists to protect yours.
and suddenly, you’re off the path, standing in the soggy grass, blinking like you’ve just been dunked under ice water.
you register it all in pieces:
a guy on a skateboard skidding wildly to a stop, arms flailing. a muttered curse. the faint scrape of denim against asphalt.
“sorry!” the guy calls out, already moving again.
you don’t answer. you can’t. because han’s hands are still on you.
one arm is wrapped fully around your waist, fingertips splayed through the fabric of your sweater, the other loosely cradling your wrist where he grabbed you.
his breath comes out in a huff against your forehead— close, so close.
“you okay?” he asks, eyes scanning you like he’s mid-checklist. no smile now, just open concern, steady and grounding and raw.
you nod. or at least, you try to.
but your body has gone silent. no thoughts. no words.
just him.
his hands, his eyes, his touch bleeding across your body til it settles in your heart with a weight you both adore and despise.
he’s not teasing, not goofy. just… there, keeping you safe like it’s what he was born to do. solid. steady. him.
and you— you go still as stone, because now you know.
now you know what it feels like to be held by him.
and it’s everything.
everything you weren’t supposed to want, everything you’ve been trying not to imagine, to daydream about, to crave. it’s better than any dream you shove away upon waking, better than any stray thought you lock up deep in your mind every time he looks at you with those soft, knowing eyes.
you swallow hard, eyes still on his chest so you don’t have to look higher; so you don’t have to risk seeing your own heart reflected in his face. because if you don’t look, then maybe he won’t see it, either.
he lets go gently, like he knows you’re braced for it— like he doesn’t want to startle you further. his touch leaves slow, like dusk pulling off the edge of the sky.
you exhale. the sound is a quiet, rattled thing.
he doesn’t tease; doesn’t make a joke. doesn’t act like he just touched you like you mattered. he just waits and lets you find your breath.
and when you finally muster a nod and a shaky, “i’m fine,” he just smiles: small, soft, more with his eyes than his mouth.
“good,” he murmurs. “didn’t mean to scare you.”
you try to wave it off. you try to match his steadiness. but inside, your whole chest is trembling. because you’re not fine.
you’re ruined. wrecked by a moment you weren’t ready for.
because now that you know what it feels like to be pulled into him, you don’t want to go back to not knowing, to pretending you don’t want to melt at the thought of his arms around you.
you don’t want to forget the warmth, or the weight, or the stillness. you don’t want to keep up the tiring act of not hoping.
but you won’t give yourself the choice. so you walk beside him the rest of the way in silence, shoulder brushing his every few steps, and you pretend.
but your hand still remembers.
and your heart is still holding on.
–
you lie in bed that night, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling paint, blankets curled around your body like a shield.
the dorm heater clicks quietly in the corner. the hallway beyond your door is dead silent. the world has gone still.
but your mind hasn’t.
it won’t shut up, actually. because you’re replaying it— again.
the moment. his hand. your wrist. his voice in your ear, low and steady, asking you okay?
you’ve heard it a hundred times since you got back, maybe more. like an echo with too much weight to disappear. like a memory playing on a loop just behind your ribs.
you press your palms to your eyes and groan into the darkness; you’re being ridiculous. you know you’re being ridiculous.
because it was just instinct. anyone would’ve pulled someone out of the way like that– at least, anyone with decent reflexes and a basic sense of self-preservation.
you would’ve done the same for him.
but—
but.
he touched your waist. he touched your wrist.
he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, something precious.
and it wasn’t the first time. wasn’t the first hand brushed, wasn’t the first lingering glance, wasn’t the first time you’ve felt like gravity has shifted every time he so much as says your name. and that’s the problem: you can’t pretend the dam hasn’t cracked.
you turn your face into your pillow and groan again, softer this time. more like a whimper than a sound. because you’re spiraling, and you know it.
you’re acting like some lovesick teen with a crush. replaying every look of something you can’t name, every subtle brush of his shoulder against yours, every stupid little song he’s made up just to make you laugh.
you can feel yourself slipping.
every smile, every inside joke, every morning walk to lecture and lunch of stolen fries and every text that reads y/nnie, i need to scream about this assignment—
he’s everywhere. he’s everything.
and it terrifies you.
because… what if you’re wrong?
what if you’re misreading it all? what if the warmth you feel is just kindness, and the sparks are just static, and the feeling is something you conjured from the dark to replace the lonely ghost of wanting that always follows you?
you don’t want to ruin this. you can’t ruin this.
because han— han is your friend. your best friend. he’s the one who stays when no one else does, the one who knows your rhythms, who memorizes the way your face scrunches when you’re annoyed and the way you talk faster when you’re excited. he’s the one who knows how you take your tea and who always makes space on his couch for your laptop and your legs and your stress.
and if you lose him— if you reach too far, feel too much, fall too hard—
you’ll lose it all.
you curl into yourself, fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over your own hand like it’s enough to stop the ache.
it isn’t.
you hate this. hate the wanting. hate how helpless it makes you feel.
because you know what it’s like to fall alone. you know how it feels to mistake kindness for affection, to hope too hard, to end up in pieces, clutching the scraps of something that was never really yours to begin with.
you thought you were past this. thought your heart had learned better.
but han… han is different.
and maybe that’s the scariest part of all: because he’s safe. and he’s kind. and he’s yours.
not in the way you want; not yet, maybe not ever. but in the ways that count.
and if you let yourself fall any deeper, you don’t know if you’ll survive hitting the bottom.
you breathe in.
you breathe out.
and the sound of your name in his voice plays through your head like a song you’ll never be able to stop singing.
you squeeze your eyes shut… and you let it ache.
–
it’s nearly one in the morning on the first day of april, and han’s dorm is a mess.
not the bad kind— nothing gross, nothing catastrophic– it’s just... lived-in. crumpled flashcards scatter the floor like confetti. two mugs sit abandoned on his desk, one still half-full of cold tea. his hoodie’s slung over the desk chair, your blanket’s draped over the back of the couch, and on the whiteboard beside his door, someone (probably felix) has drawn a very anatomically incorrect brain diagram with the label “read it and weep, sucker”.
it smells like him in here.
that clean-laundry, vanilla-lip-balm, instant-ramen kind of scent. soft and warm and uniquely jisung. it's in the air, clinging to the fibers of your clothes, your hair, your skin.
it makes your heart ache in that quiet, helpless way again.
you’re sitting on the floor with your back against his bed and your laptop balanced on your knees. han’s beside you, cross-legged, scribbling in a notebook and muttering about neurotransmitters. his hair is fluffy and too-long; he’s wearing his glasses and the sweatshirt you love most— green, too big, sleeves swallowing his hands.
you think you’ve read the same sentence in your study guide nine times and absorbed none of it.
because he’s everywhere.
his presence. his voice. the brush of his knee against yours, the sound of his pen tapping, the way he squints when he’s confused, the fact that he’s humming again— low, under his breath, the same way he did the night you met. his lo-fi playlist is droning softly and his guitar stands tall in the corner.
it’s killing you.
you’ve been trying to keep it buried since the skateboard incident. since the warmth of his hand wrapped around your waist. since the fire that the moment lit in your chest started eating its way outward.
you can’t stop thinking about him.
you’re not even pretending anymore; not to yourself, at least. not when every moment you spend with him makes it harder to keep your face neutral and your voice light, harder to stay present instead of withdrawing into the lonely solitude you used to know so well.
he’s not even doing anything; just sitting there, studying. being han.
and it’s too much.
you close your eyes, let your head fall back against the bed for a minute. you need to breathe. you try to count your exhales, slow and even, like they taught you in high school when everyone was anxious about college apps. in—one, two, three. out—one, two, three.
you focus on the rhythm of your heart, the feel of the carpet under your socked feet, the dull ache of too much screen time behind your eyes. you stay like that for a while, drowning in your thoughts, trying to stay afloat so you don’t ruin the one true friendship you’ve ever known.
you don’t focus on han shifting next to you.
and you definitely don’t focus on the warmth that creeps closer, the way the air shifts like he’s leaning in.
you think you’ll go insane.
then—
his fingers brush your face; gentle, featherlight.
you barely register the touch at first, so soft it could be imagined— until it isn’t.
his hand cups your cheek.
just for a second.
just enough for your breath to stutter, just enough for the world to stop.
his palm is warm; careful. you feel it first at your jaw, a press that coaxes more than it startles.
then— his thumb, slow and tender, brushing along your cheekbone. not searching. not hesitant. intentional.
like he’s trying to bring you back gently. like he wants your first awareness to be him.
“hey,” he whispers, barely louder than the hum of the heater. “y/n, wake up.”
your pulse goes wild.
he thinks you’re asleep— he’s trying to wake you up.
and you… god, you wish you were. it would be easier. easier than sitting here, skin burning under his touch, heart tripping over itself like it’s never been held before.
but you’re not asleep.
you’re so awake it feels like a curse.
his touch lingers on your cheek just a moment longer— long enough to be deliberate, long enough to brand itself into your memory. and then, as gently as it came, it’s gone. his hand withdraws. the air cools where his warmth was.
you hear him shift back beside you with a soft exhale, the kind that you think means i didn’t want to let go. a creak of his notebook spine. the muted click of his pen cap.
but all you can feel is the shape of his hand on your face.
you keep your eyes closed.
you have to. because if you look at him right now, you’ll fall apart.
because if you look at him right now, you’ll say it.
i love you, i love you, i love you, i don’t know how not to anymore.
so instead, you pretend a little longer.
you let your heart pound, let the memory of his touch sear itself into your skin, let the safety of his hand and the danger of your feelings fight a brutal war inside your ribcage.
because you’re doomed.
you’ve been utterly, irrevocably doomed since he sat across from you in the coffee shop with a pink highlighter and a sleepy smile, since he pelted you with snow on a clear winter morning; doomed from the moment he sang you a brain song on his guitar, doomed when he pulled you out of harm’s way like it was instinct. like it was nothing.
it was everything.
and now… so is this.
you finally open your eyes, slow and cautious, and glance at him from the corner of your vision.
he’s focused on his notes. scribbling something with furrowed brows. his glasses have slipped slightly down his nose. he looks soft. he looks real.
he looks like someone you could love for a very, very long time.
and the worst part is— you already do.
you don’t know when it happened.
maybe it was the first time he remembered your favorite candy bar without making a big deal of it. maybe it was the snowman. or the stupid song for his psych project. or the way he always sits just close enough to keep you tethered, never too far, never too much.
or maybe— maybe it’s just been blooming under your skin this whole time; slow and creeping, quiet and insistent.
it didn’t start as love. that’s what keeps wrecking you.
it started as safety. as friendship.
real, gentle, uncomplicated friendship— the kind you never thought you’d find in someone like him. someone who fills every space with sound and light and laughter. someone who reads you like a rhythm, who never forces closeness, who gives just enough to make you feel known without ever asking for something in return.
but you didn’t notice how deep it ran until now.
until you were half-curled on his dorm room floor, brain fried from midterm prep, air full of soft background music and instant ramen and that familiar scent of his shampoo clinging to the throw pillows behind your head.
you didn’t notice how much you wanted him until he touched you.
until he touched you like that; until he cared enough to wake you gently.
until his thumb traced across your cheekbone like it mattered. like you mattered.
your hands are trembling in your lap. you hope he doesn’t see.
he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t looked over. he just sits beside you, notebook open, pen scratching quietly. his leg bumps yours when he shifts, and it’s so casual it hurts.
how can he be so calm?
your heart is caving in, and he’s just… just here. steady. warm. everything he’s always been.
he makes it so easy to forget that people can leave; so easy to believe he never will.
but he could.
you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to push the feeling down. smother it with logic. remind yourself that he’s your friend. your best friend.
that you could ruin it.
you could lose him.
you breathe out slow and shaky.
“you still with me?” he asks softly, nudging your knee with his. not teasing. just checking in.
you blink, and your gaze lands on the side of his face— glasses slightly askew, hair curling around his ears, a pencil smudge on his cheek. he’s not looking at you.
and maybe that’s a small kind of mercy.
you mumble, “yeah.”
he hums, satisfied. flips to the next page of notes. “okay, let’s try the temporal lobe again. no cheating this time.”
you nod, barely, and the studying continues.
but you feel like you’re balancing on the edge of a cliff.
and his voice is both the push off the ledge, and the only thing holding you steady.
–
it’s raining when han shows up at your door a week later, sleeves damp where his yellow hoodie peeks out under his coat, curls frizzed adorably around the edges of his glasses.
“still on for bake-off night?” he asks, like there was ever a world where you’d say no.
you let him in without a word, already clearing his favorite spot on your couch. he toes off his shoes at the door, plops down with a dramatic sigh, and immediately whines about how the weather tried to assassinate him.
you throw a blanket over his head and he yelps like he’s been attacked. it only makes you laugh harder.
twenty minutes later, you’re both curled under that same blanket, your knees knocked together, shoulders brushing in that now-familiar way that sets your alarms off in one breath and quiets them in the next, the easy silence filling with warm pulses and quiet awareness.
the episode plays on, voices soft and lilting through the speakers. han keeps making little commentaries under his breath— he’s emotionally invested in this batch of tiramisu and insists he could do better with a bag of ice and a dream— and it makes your whole body feel like a smile.
somewhere between rounds of the competition, you shift to lean your head on the back cushion, and han leans too— closer this time. his arm slants behind you, not quite touching, but it’s enough to cage you in gently. to bracket you against the shape of him.
you’re barely breathing.
it could be casual; but it isn’t, not to you. and not to your brain who never learns how to stop wanting, to stop hoping for the impossible.
then— so quiet you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already attuned to the sound of his voice like it’s a melody you’ve memorized by heart— he says it.
“you’re dangerous, you know that?” it’s barely a murmur, the words sounding almost unintentional.
your heart stutters wildly.
you glance at him, but he’s staring ahead, a faint, crooked smile playing at his lips like he didn’t just detonate a landmine in the once-quiet hollow of your chest.
you swallow hard. “what?”
his eyes flick toward you, and they’re soft. heavy with something unspoken.
“you’re dangerous,” he repeats, and this time, he gives you a small, bashful grin, before he goes on with a joke that you’re doubting he meant to say at first. “hazardous to my blood pressure. the way you gasped at that sponge cake collapsing? i kinda thought you were about to cry.”
you shove his arm, flustered and flushed and reeling from the way your heart is pulling madly in your chest like it’s trying to break free and crawl to him, and he laughs like you’re the best part of his week.
maybe you are.
he doesn’t say anything else. just nudges your knee with his like he’s tagging you back in, like nothing happened—like he didn’t just toss a live wire between you and leave it humming.
you try to focus on the screen again. on the bakers, on the ganache mishap, on the way han mutters rookie mistake like he’s been training for this his whole life. but your mind is somewhere else entirely.
or maybe it’s still right here.
caught in the weight of his gaze, the softness of his smile. caught in the way his words— you’re dangerous— wrap around you like a question you’re not ready to answer.
you stay like that until the episode ends, nestled in silence that feels less like quiet and more like a breath held too long.
eventually, you shift to sit up, brushing imaginary crumbs from your lap even though you haven’t eaten a thing. “i should…” you start, then trail off, not sure how to finish.
but he knows– whether he believes you care so much about a test or can just read you so well he knows when to go, he nods and shifts on the couch. “you definitely need to get enough sleep for that test tomorrow,” han hums, already standing to grab his coat from where it hangs by the door.
your smile is equal parts relieved and crestfallen. “want me to walk you back?”
“nah,” he shakes his head. “it’s barely drizzling now. i’ll be fine.”
you nod like you understand— like you’re letting him go, even though part of you hopes he won’t. but he just opens the door, steps out, and gives you that two-finger salute before he disappears down the hallway.
and it makes your chest ache to see him go.
you tuck your hands into your sleeves, heart full to the brim with something sad and bright and anxious and dangerous.
and you’re not sure if you’re ready for it to bloom.
but nevertheless… you can’t stop yourself from wanting it to.
–
it’s a sunny mid-april afternoon when han shows up to start prepping for another exam.
he doesn’t knock this time; just taps the doorframe gently with the back of his knuckle and steps inside like he’s always belonged there, like he’s never had to ask for permission.
“psych review?” he says softly, like a question he already knows the answer to.
you nod. “psych review.”
he settles on the floor across from you in your living room, notebook in hand, red hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. his hair’s still damp from a quick shower, curling around his temples, and his face is open in that way that always makes you feel seen, even when you wish you weren’t.
you’ve already pulled out the flashcards. you’ve already queued up the playlist. you’ve already lit the candle that smells like cinnamon and calm– even though nothing about you feels particularly calm right now– and start studying.
you’re trying.
god, you are trying.
you smile when he cracks a dumb joke about freud again. you groan when he quizzes you on the same brain lobe twice in a row. you tap your pen against the couch and twist your fingers in your sleeves and pretend like the feeling of his hand on your face the other night hasn’t replayed in your head over a hundred times since.
he hasn’t mentioned it.
he’s acting normal; he’s being han.
but when your hand trembles slightly as you reach for a card, his eyes flick to it. and they don’t leave.
you pretend not to notice.
but then he says your name. quietly.
just— “y/n.”
you look up, meeting his eyes fully for what feels like the first time in weeks.
his pen is still in his hand. his notes still sit between you. but his gaze is on you, sharp and unreadable, something buzzing underneath it.
you swallow. “yeah?”
a pause. then—
“did i do something wrong?”
you blink. hard.
“what?”
“the other night,” he says. “you were— i thought you were asleep when we were studying at my place. but then you weren’t. and after i…”
he trails off, shaking his head, like the words keep dissolving in his mouth before they can land.
you stare at him. your lungs forget how to work.
“i dunno, you’ve been acting weird ever since then. so… i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable,” he says quickly, voice soft, too soft. “really, i am. i didn’t mean to. i just— you looked so—”
he cuts himself off again. breathes out harshly through his nose. looks down at his notes like they might save him.
“never mind,” he mutters. “forget it. not important.”
but you don’t say anything. you can’t.
and that silence— your silence —it cracks something in him. you see it happen. you see it ripple across his shoulders, the slope of his back. you watch the tension coil tight until it snaps clean in two.
“god,” he says suddenly, pushing a hand through his hair. “this is driving me insane.”
your heart jumps to your throat. “what is?”
he looks up, finally. eyes bare. voice rough.
“you.”
a beat.
“you’re driving me insane.”
your breath catches. he leans in toward you like he’s making sure you’re listening; and when you don’t run, when you don’t back away, he keeps talking.
“i’ve been trying to—fuck, i don’t know. to be normal. to be fine. to be the version of me you like. the version who knows when to back off, when not to ruin a good thing. but you—” he exhales again, scrubbing his palms down his face. “you’re sitting there acting like your hands aren’t shaking, like you don’t feel it too. like i’m the only one falling apart over here.”
you go unnaturally still.
“so i need to know,” he says, voice steadying, quieter now, dangerous. “are you really that good at pretending, or do i just want this too much?”
you stare at him, open-mouthed, gut-sick with hope.
you want to say a hundred things.
you want to reach for him.
you want to fall, and fall, and fall.
but all you manage is—
“han…”
and he flinches, just slightly. eyes pulling away.
“it’s okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to say anything. just—if i’m wrong, tell me. and i’ll stop. i’ll be the good friend until the day you decide you want more.”
you finally find your voice.
“han… you’re not wrong.”
his eyes flick up. fast. wide with hope and a million other things you thought you’d been imagining all this time.
you keep going. you have to.
“i’ve been pretending for weeks. maybe months.” you laugh, but it sounds too much like a sob. “i just didn’t know how to say it. i didn’t want to lose you.”
han stares at you, soft and shattered. stares like you put the very stars in the sky, tremulous hope building behind his eyes.
“say it now,” he murmurs. “whatever it is. just say it.”
you inhale. sharp. real.
then:
“i think i’m in love with you.”
silence.
not heavy. not startled. just... full, bursting at the seams. warm and impossible.
his breath catches audibly— like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, not really. like maybe he’s spent weeks dreaming about it, torturing himself with it, letting it echo in his chest with no hope of it ever being returned. and now here it is.
here you are.
his eyes— wide, dark, disbelieving— search your face like he’s trying to prove to himself that he didn’t hallucinate it, that you aren’t joking or pulling some sick prank.
“say it again,” he breathes.
your heart stutters.
you didn’t even mean to say it once. you didn’t think you ever could.
but you look at him now— at the boy who’s been your safest place and your deepest fear, the boy who sings stupid songs about brain lobes and holds you like you matter, the boy who’s been breaking and healing your heart in the same breath for months— and you say it again. let the words pour out, let the feelings finally brim.
“i think i’m in love with you, han.”
his hand reaches for yours instantly— fingers brushing yours like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to touch you yet, like he’s waiting for you to disappear.
you don’t.
you curl your fingers around his instead of your own for the first time, anchoring him. let him feel the certainty in your grip, even while your voice shakes.
“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “i didn’t want to ruin anything. you mean so much to me, and i— i thought it was safer not to say anything. i didn’t want to lose the only good thing i have, hannie.”
he exhales, sharp and soft all at once, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. his forehead tips forward, resting against yours.
your noses brush. your fingers stay tangled.
he still hasn’t kissed you.
he could.
you know he wants to. you want him to kiss you more than you want your next breath.
but instead, he just lets his next words spill out, like they’ve been carved into him for weeks. like if he doesn’t say them now, he’ll shatter.
“do you know what it’s been like,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, “watching you fall asleep next to me, pretending i’m not falling in love with every inch of you?”
you freeze. your breath catches in your throat.
he meets your eyes— really meets them. his hand comes up again, soft at your cheek.
“i wanted to kiss you the day we built that snowman,” he says. “i wanted to kiss you when you hummed that awful psych song with me. i wanted to kiss you every time you stole my hoodie and every time you laughed at my stupid jokes and every time you held your own hand because you’re too used to keeping yourself together."
his voice goes quieter. “but i didn’t. because i didn’t want to be the reason you stopped trusting the one safe place you had.”
your eyes are burning now. your heart is full to bursting, stretched tight with everything you’ve ever wanted and been too afraid to ask for.
“you’ve always been safe,” you whisper, and your voice breaks on it. “that’s the thing, han. i didn’t fall in love despite you being my best friend. i fell in love because you were. because you’ve been the one thing i never had to earn.”
his hand slips down to your jaw. his thumb brushes your cheek.
his voice is laced with restraint and wonder when he says, “you don’t ever have to earn this love from me.”
your next breath trembles as it leaves you.
and then, finally—finally—he leans in.
not all at once. not desperate. not rushed.
just slow, soft.
inevitable.
you meet him halfway; and when your lips touch, it’s not a question. it’s not a test.
it’s a promise.
the kiss is warm; steady. no sparks, no explosions— just a quiet, overwhelming rightness that roots itself deep in your chest and says, home is here now.
his lips part on yours and he kisses you with aching tenderness, slow and careful and eternal. his hand finds the back of your neck. your fingers twist in the sleeve of his sweatshirt, closing over his hand, but not to push it away; just to hold it. to hold onto him as he holds you together.
“i was never afraid of loving you,” you whisper against his lips, “i was terrified of losing you. i was so scared i was imagining everything.”
he kisses you again gently, tucking your hair behind one ear and cradling your face like you’re something precious. “i know, y/nnie. i didn’t want to be someone you were scared to love, so i never did anything i thought you wouldn’t want.”
your eyes are glistening when you look at him. “you’re all i’ve wanted this whole time.”
your lips meet again and while it’s not intense, it’s impossibly, wondrously deeper. his tongue traces the edge of your lip but goes no further; your hand slides from around his fingers to drape your arms around his neck, pulling him close. you don’t ever want to pretend like you don’t crave him again. you don’t ever want to feel far away from this.
he kisses you like you’ve rewritten his life just be being in it. he kisses you like he’s making up for every time hes wanted to but didn’t. you kiss him back for all the almosts, all the should-haves, all the maybe’s that threw up walls between you for months. you let him hold you, let him see you, let him love you.
and he does. wholly. fully. unashamedly.
when he pulls back, you’re both breathless. not just from the kiss, but from finally having said it. from finally being allowed to want.
you smile first– a soft, dazzling thing, stretching across your face until it threatens to pull you apart from joy.
he laughs— quiet, dazed, radiant. he leans in again, bumping his forehead against yours.
“i’ve loved you for a while, you know,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.
“yeah?” you whisper, giggling.
he hums, the sound warm against your lips, “yeah, i thought it was just a crush at first. then you made me tea when i had a migraine the first time i came over to your place and i started planning our wedding.”
you snort, rolling your eyes even as your fingers find their way into the fluffy mass of hair you’ve been aching to touch for months.
he kisses you again. like he can’t stand to go without you anymore– like he never could to begin with.
and this time, you let yourself fall without fear.
–
it’s strange, how easy the quiet is now. how much brighter your days are around the edges.
strange how the space next to you— once a hollow you never let yourself notice too much for fear of it eating you alive— feels like it’s been his all along.
you’re walking together to some boba shop he swears he knows the way to downtown, steps even and slow because the streets are still wet from last night’s rain. your hands are in your sleeves, twisting the cuffs the way you’ve done for years without thinking. a little pressure, a little anchor to yourself— just enough to know where you end and the empty air begins.
han glances down mid-sentence, catches the tiny motion.
he doesn’t tease. doesn’t ask– doesn’t have to. he knows every tell, every habit, every little quirk that made him fall for you in the first place.
he just gently works your fingers free and slides his hand into yours like it’s nothing; like it’s everything. like it’s the only thing he’s ever meant to do. his palm is warm, and he laces your fingers with a firmness that makes your shoulders drop before you even realize they were tense.
you keep walking, pulse settling into the rhythm of his thumb brushing over your knuckles. for once, you don’t miss the press of your own palm against itself. you don’t need it. he’s steady enough for both of you.
at the bus stop, you cross your arms out of habit. a shield you’ve carried since before him, since before you realized love believed in you, too.
he doesn’t say anything— just steps closer until his chest fits to your back, wrapping his arms over yours. you stand there, stiff for a heartbeat, then melt into his embrace before you can stop yourself. one of your hands lifts, resting over his forearm. it’s not defense this time. it’s something else. something that feels deliriously like trust– like love.
his thumb skims the back of your hand as his arms stay wrapped around you, rubbing like he’s smoothing out creases you’ve been carrying for years. you laugh without meaning to; he kisses your hair and hugs you tighter. it feels absurdly… right.
like you’re not hard to love.
like loving you comes as easy as breathing.
you still find yourself running your palm down your arms sometimes, the old self-comfort a habit too hard to kick yet. but now, when you do, han catches it— his hands tangling your fingers together casually, thumb tracing over your wrist in the same quiet rhythm, an echo that makes your chest ache. you tuck your hair behind your ear and he’s already reaching to do it for you, tucking the strand with the same care you’ve learned to give yourself.
and maybe that’s the difference. the love leaking into every little gesture.
you’re not fixed. you still fidget, still hold yourself when the air feels too big. but now, for every time you twisted your fingers in your sleeve, han is lacing his with yours. for every time your hand swung alone in the air, he’s there to hold it. for every time you wrapped your arms around yourself, he’s holding you instead.
you kept yourself together for so long.
now, you’re learning what it feels like to be kept.
to receive the love you’ve always been so full of.
and han… he makes it easy.
he always has.
the end.
—
LOVE OFF THE FIELD !
── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ athlete!seungmin x f!reader ˒˓ strangers to lovers 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. smau, college au, fluff, cursing, y/n is a biology major, identity theft (?), seungmin is an idiot but he’s a cute idiot lol
[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — so i got bored last night and made this for funsies, lmk what u guys think !! also there’s a part 2 that will be posted tmrw bc i couldn’t fit all the screenshots 💔
perm taglist: @justwonder113 @emilyywhyy @min-doesnt-know @alnex05 @velechi @leeknowslefteyebrow @kayleefriedchicken @jeonginsbaee @thelittletobsterthatcould @queenofdumbfuckery @met30rc1ty @geni-627 @amarecerasus @stayar1 @emma-your-goofy-girlfie @n4tr3ad5 @cowboylikemalika @obsessivemuso-withnofriends @skzfangirl143 @mmarusa @myfavoritedelusion @velvetskize @seungmyynie @n-inah @my-neurodivergent-world @yourgirljasmiin @xryusarax @natcap25 @bussdownflockiana @yvessntually @browniesandsunshine @jeonginslittledoll @beal-o @camryn-haitani @hansmic @rhys-cosmos @lilscast @crookedt44th @norabugz @sowntears @sleepisnotneeded2688 @mintchip17 @ilovetocas1 @jellycool @tirena1 @mariahxrrera @kjinwoon @wishiwascutersstuff @ljh-lana @furfoxsake22 (50/50)
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑾𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅 ~ 𝑩𝑪
⤜WORD COUNT: 17.8K
⤜ PAIRING: Chan x Fem!Reader
⤜ GENRE: fake dating, grumpy x sunshine, destination wedding romance, emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn, found family, fluff with a splash of angst, fade to black (mentions of weight gain, bullying from family about weight)
⤜ TROPES: fake dating, one bed, ex-hockey player, protective male lead, grumpy x sunshine, mutual pining, he falls first, standing up to toxic family, strangers to lovers, secret softie, small town charm, leads on to more fics for each member
⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - August 2025
⤜MASTERLIST
The morning sun was spilling through the living room windows of your house, making it warm under your bare feet. You were sitting in the bay window seat reading through the local gossip column of your small town - Citrus Cove - and the gossip was popping off this morning. The owner of the local bakery - Mrs Jones - had spotted a moving fan coming into the town, and the dinner owner had commented, mentioning the guy moving in was incredible to look at. You smirked to yourself as you shook your head, reading through the comments.
Citrus Cove was a small town with a population of maybe 800 people, which meant that everyone knew everyone, and of course, gossip was a must in a small place such as this one. It had been the same when you’d first moved here; everyone knew who you were before you’d even finished unpacking your boxes, but you wouldn’t change a thing about it.
You loved the small coastal town in the middle of nowhere. It had almost everything you could need, sure, the nearest mall was almost an hour's drive, but at least you weren’t surrounded by millions of people. Besides, who didn’t want to live somewhere where the main street was filled with small businesses and cafes? It was the heart of Citrus Cove. Then you had the local coffee shop where everyone hung out. The daily squeeze. Which was run by the cutest elderly lady - Mrs Dalloway - who had given you your first job in the town until you worked in the local inn.
The place was lovely, but there wasn’t too much to do besides the pier where everybody seemed to hang out, and the library/Rec center, where there was also a nursery where you tried to help out as much as possible. The joys of small-town life meant everyone was willing to help one another.
“Oh my god,” You giggled to yourself as you saw the old football coach mentioning the guy moving in was handsome as well. It seemed that whoever the mystery guy was, he already had a lot of the elder generation wrapped around his fingers. You sipped your coffee and looked up and out of the window when you saw it:
A white van pulled into the house next door. The For Sale sign had come down last week, but no one knew who had bought the place — and in Citrus Cove, that was basically a national emergency. Which now explained the gossip in the town's group.
You squinted out the window, trying to get a peek at the guy everyone was chatting about.
A guy jumped down from the driver's seat. Tall. Broad shoulders. He was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards. He moved stiffly as he picked up the boxes, and you could almost swear that there was a slight limp as he moved.
New neighbor alert.
And you were wearing pajama pants with a hole in the knee.
You hesitated for like a full thirty seconds, then grabbed your hoodie and headed outside anyway. It was the neighbourly thing to do to offer to help, right? You wanted to help him, and it had nothing to do with wanting to know more about him…Though curiosity always won in this town, and you were going to be neighbours with him.
“Hey!” you called, jogging up the drive as he wrestled with a lamp sticking out of a box. “Need a hand?”
Chan looked up — and you blinked. No wonder the guy had won the hearts of people in town. He was breathtaking. But even then, that didn’t feel like the right way to describe him; truly, the man looked like something ripped from a magazine.
Dimples. Brown eyes that looked like the shade of a perfect hot chocolate at the start of autumn. Then his smile?! It was the kind of smile that probably ruined a few hearts over the years. Chan grinned as he looked at you, his eyes lingering on the PJs you were wearing that had a few holes in them, and the cartoon characters were slightly faded.
“Nice pajamas.” He chuckled softly, and you detected an Australian accent, your heart skipped a beat, a little before you felt the self-consciousness creeping in. Here he was looking like he just came out of a magazine, and you had just gotten up.
You tugged the sleeves of your hoodie a little and could feel your cheeks beginning to heat up. He’s not like them. You tried to convince yourself. You’d grown up with a family that made it known to you that you were being judged heavily by them, and sometimes it still played on your mind when someone would playfully tease you.
“Thanks. I call this look ‘just woke up and emotionally unprepared for social interaction.’” You laugh softly and do a small spin for him so he can get a good look at you, and Chan laughs wholeheartedly. He’d barely spoken to you, and he already felt at ease…And you weren’t screaming in his face, asking for a photo or autograph, so that was always a plus.
“I like it,” he said easily, shifting the box into one arm. There was a chance you had no idea who he was, which was a relief to him. When his manager had suggested this small town to get away from everything, part of him worried people would know him, but everyone he’d seen that morning was the wiser.
“Very bold.” He teases, and you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop your smile. It seemed as though he was going to be a nice neighbour to have at least. And he didn’t seem like the guy who lived there before. He’d been a huge hoarder. After he’d left Citrus Cove, you’d helped Alan, the real estate agent, get the home ready for pics, and there were thousands of board games everywhere as well as plastic spoons.
“I’m Y/N. I live next door.” You tell him with another smile, picking up one of his boxes and following him inside as you both put them down. Chan turned to look at you and nodded,
“Chan,” he offered, then paused. There was a chance that if he gave you his last name, you might Google him…but would it look weird if he didn’t give it to you? “Like... just Chan. No last name right now. Still unpacking that part of my identity.” You laughed a little and nodded.
“Mysterious. I like it, Just Chan.” You laugh, and he chuckles shyly, going back out to the van with you.
The two of you continued to bring in the boxes from the van and into the house, you following his every order on where he wanted things put. You’d also popped out to get changed and grabbed you both some coffee and had insisted on paying for it all since he was new in town.
“When you’re unpacked, we should check out Mrs Jones’s cafe. I swear to god, she puts crack in the cinnamon rolls.” You tell him as you sit on the kitchen counter, sipping on your coffee, as Chan chuckled,
“Yeah? Is it close?” Chan wasn’t exactly used to small towns. The last place he’d lived was a city, and everything was pretty far from where he lived in his apartment.
“Five-minute walk, and then next to her place, there's a diner, which by the way, has the best breakfast burrito, and you’ll totally be getting one of those at some point this week.”
“Is that an excuse for you to get one and just give me one too?” He smirks, nudging you with his foot a little, and you whine at him,
“I usually get one on Wednesday mornings on my way to work,” You corrected him, and he smirked at you. Usually, Chan didn’t want to be around people too much, but there was something about you that made him feel at ease, and he wanted to get to know you more.
“Where do you work?” he quizzes as he jumps up onto the counter opposite you and drinks from the to-go cup you’d gotten. Damn, the coffee was amazing. He didn't even want to imagine the baked goods Mrs Jones was selling.
“There’s an inn just outside of town, the Clementine Inn.” You mentioned, and Chan nodded. It was where he was supposed to stay originally when he was coming into town, but he’d managed to get the house earlier than he’d expected.
“Oh! Yeah, I was meant to stay there, but my real estate agent got the paperwork finished early.” You smiled a little and nodded. You couldn’t remember speaking to anyone with an Aussie accent over the phone, so you could only assume it was your friend who had booked him in.
“You probably spoke with me on the phone then, that or-”
“It was a girl who sounded like she’d had a little too much sugar that morning?” He offered, and you giggled a little and nodded, it sounded like your best friend, alright.
“That would be our other neighbour. She’s away on holiday, so you don’t have to worry about her for now.” You tease and shake your head at him.
“Do you know everyone in town then?” He arched his brow.
“Almost, but it’s nice. Last winter, the hardware store owner came out and fixed my window and lock because my front door was shit.” You shake your head. You’d been so glad to Fred since you didn’t have to freeze your ass off all winter.
“Seems like a nice town then,” He kept talking, but your phone buzzing inside your pocket drew your attention away for a second, and you pulled it out, checking it over, but you wished you hadn’t. As soon as you saw your sister's contact information on the screen, your stomach bottomed out.
Sister 🐍: Just a reminder about the wedding next week. I assume you’re still coming? You'd better have booked that room — we don’t have space otherwise.
Sister 🐍: Also, please don’t wear anything weird. This is my big moment. Try not to make it about you for once x
Right, as if you could forget about it. The wedding. Her wedding…To your ex.
Your sister had taken a lot from you over the years: clothes, friends, your confidence. But this? This had been the final nail in the humiliation coffin for you. You and Daniel had been together for almost six months when you finally took him home to meet your family. You knew you weren’t able to avoid them forever, and you’d been wise to do it until then.
But as soon as you’d introduced him to your sister, you knew your mistake, instantly. She spent the whole night batting her lashes at him, flipping her hair, and giggling at everything he said, and your parents went along with it.
“Yn? You okay?” Chan asked as he tilted his head, bringing you back into the room. You hesitated a little and shook your head, putting your phone down onto the counter.
“My sister is getting married…to my ex, and she expects me to show up to the wedding and smile about it,” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, and instantly Chan feels rage. She’s taken someone from you? Not only that, but someone had left you for her? What kind of shit eating human did that kind of balls?
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Trust me, I wish.” You groan a little and shake your head. Whenever people found out about this, they had the same reaction. Every single person thought you were joking and then they'd either side with your sister, if they knew her, or call her a raging bitch, which you agreed with.
“Was it someone from here?” He questioned, ready to fight the guy if he ever came across him around the town.
“God no, it was before I moved to Citrus Cove. It was the reason I moved here; here, no one knew me. I know that probably sounds silly.” You grumbled and shook your head. Chan bit back the urge to tell you he understood more than you would think.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking…”
“My whole life, my sister has just been awful to me…I never knew why. I figured when we were younger, she’d grow out of it, but she never did. She took my clothes, friends…Toys…Every boyfriend I’d had in high school.” You shook your head a little, and Chan’s heart softened even more for you. He’d never imagined growing up with someone like that; his family had always been close, and he and his siblings got along.
“I was always referred to as the plain Jane…I wasn’t anything special, I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t pretty either compared to her. My family likes to remind me every now and again I’ll never be like Stacey.” You sigh and stop, realising you were now trauma dumping on someone you’d met less than three hours ago,
“Keep going,” he urges, poking your leg with his foot.
“Stacey is big on special media…Like huge. When I took Daniel home to meet my family, she set her eyes on him, and that was it. Not even a day after we got home, he ended things with me, and she posted him all over her feed, and they’ve been together since.”
“What a piece of fucking shit,” He growls out. He could hardly believe what he was hearing from you,
“First, you’re fucking stunning, even in your faded pajamas and just woken up to right now, with sweat covering your head and tired from lugging my boxes around,” He rambled a little, and your heart began to pick up speed. He thought you were pretty? God, you were fighting butterflies right now.
“T-Thanks, Chan. I’m honestly dreading it, the wedding is in Spain, and I keep trying to tell myself I can avoid them, but I know them. They’ll organise meals together and make snide comments about how I’m clearly not over Daniel.” You sigh, pushing your head in your hands. Chan bit down on his lip.
For some reason, he had the overwhelming urge to help you. He knew exactly how,
“Do you need a fake boyfriend?” He questioned. You finally pulled your hands away from your face and blinked at him, afraid you’d heard him wrong.
“Huh?” Chan shrugged casually. It happens in books and movies all of the time, right? What was the issue with doing it in real life? It would help you out, and he would get to go to Spain for a while…Plus, he was really enjoying his time with you.
“It’s a classic. Works in movies all the time. I’m new here, and have nothing to do. You need moral support. Boom. Win-win.” He made it sound as if this was something he would do on a regular basis, and you laughed a little but stared at him.
“You want to fly to Spain with me to pretend we’re dating?” You gestured between the two of you, and he grinned at you.
“Sure. I’ve got a passport. And I look great in wedding photos,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you. You had no doubt in your mind that he looked good in all the photos that there ever were of him.
Your mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. You weren’t entirely sure if he was just pulling your leg or was giving you a real proposition for you to consider…and part of you hoped it was real.
“…are you serious?” You ask him slowly, unsure if this is some kind of joke.
“Deadly,” Chan said as he took your empty coffee cup and put it into the bin, moving around the kitchen as he unpacked some of the plates and bowls, putting them into various cupboards, all the while you watched him.
“Let me get this straight,” you said slowly, handing him a mug and then another.
“You’re willing to fly across the world with a girl you just met, pretend to be in love with me, survive my toxic family, and eat hotel food for four days?” You looked up at him, and he grinned down at you with a shrug of his shoulders.
“You forgot ‘look great in photos.’” You gave him a look, one that said you didn’t believe him or you were unsure of it.
“You’re either very nice or a little unhinged,” Chan smirked at you and shook his head.
“Can’t I be both?” You shook your head at him, completely flustered by his offer. This was insane, right?
“I can’t ask you to do this.”
“You didn’t. I offered.” You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Chan seemed calm…Almost too calm, as if he’d done things ten times more intense than faking a relationship before.
“…What did you used to do before moving here?” you asked casually. He’d not mentioned what he’d done before coming to Citrus Cove; there was something about him that seemed like he wasn’t your normal townie. Chan glanced away for a second, just a flicker as he made himself seem busy:
“A little bit of travel. Some sports stuff. Mostly just... noise.” He shrugged, trying to keep it as vague as possible. For the first time in years, he wasn't a famous hockey player (Well, ex-hockey player), he was just Chan, next door neighbour to the incredibly cute girl he wanted to get to know.
“Noise?” You arched your brow this time, following him as he moved to put some more kitchenware away
“Yeah. Big crowds. Cameras. It got loud,” he grumbled a little. Everything had gotten too much toward the end. A giant accident on the ice left him unable to skate. He’d snapped two bones in his ankle and nearly lost two of his fingers. The constant paparazzi following him everywhere, never any privacy. This was his one shot at being normal, and he could see that with you.
“You were famous?” Chan chuckled under his breath, not meeting your eyes and shaking his head.
“Not really. Just... known.” He lied a little, playing it down as though it wasn’t a big deal. He used to be, not anymore, but you didn’t need to know everything. There was something about the way he deflected that made your curiosity spark.
Before you could press further, your phone lit up again, and you sighed.
Sister 🐍: Did you book your plus one? Or are you still coming alone?
Your chest tightened as you stared at the screen. You knew she wanted you to be alone. So she could stand at the altar, beside your ex, and know she had won again. You’d be the pathetic sister in the corner. The forgotten one.
Your jaw clenched. You thought about Chan again and then nodded your head. This would be the one thing you could do to get back at all of them. To show you that you didn’t give a shit about Daniel because you truly didn’t.
The second he’d gone after your sister, you’d lost all feelings for the man, and sure, it had hurt, but you weren’t going to stay hurt about it when there was nothing you could do to change the outcome. That and you knew that being hurt would only give your sister more fuel against you.
“…Okay,” you said suddenly. “Let’s do it.” Chan looked over at you, his heart picking up ever so slightly.
“Yeah?” He smirks, and you nod.
“You’ll have to meet my family. They’re... a lot.” You warned him, but Chan didn’t seem to waver. In fact, he seemed more sure that he could do this than before.
“I can handle it.” He promises you as you bite your lip a little. Your family was the worst. You knew everyone said that, but they truly were.
“They’ll probably judge your entire life.” You warn him, hoping you weren’t somehow talking him out of this, but Chan simply shrugged it off again with his shoulders.
“I’m used to critics.” You blinked at that. Now you were more focused on seeing what it was he did in his life to make him used to critics and noise. You narrowed your eyes a little and moved closer to him as if you could see it written on his skin,
“Okay, see, now you sound like a retired popstar.” Chan chuckled and looked at you, smirking as you got closer and narrowed your eyes at him.
“Promise I’m not.” You hum a little at his answer and fold your arms over your chest.
“Were you on The Bachelor?” He laughed out loud. If he had, it would have made national news. No. Chan had never been one to date - at least in the public eye.
“God, no. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.” He still didn’t elaborate further, and you were about to open your mouth and ask him more about it, but he cut you off by holding out his hand,
“Deal?” You looked at his outstretched palm. His hand was callused and strong, but there was a scar on one knuckle—like it had been split open once. You swallow a little. It wasn’t like your family would ever know you were faking a relationship. It would be a few days in Spain together, and you could figure things out.
“Deal.” You said before shaking his hand.
“Good, now help me unpack the kitchen, and we can go and grab some food at that diner, I’m starving.” He smirks at you with a wink, and you begin to work on helping him with the rest of his gear.
Two days had passed since then, and now the two of you were standing inside the tiny regional airport with your suitcases beside you. The two of you had spent the last two days trying to get to know one another and learn as much as you could so that you could appear real in front of your parents.
You stood in leggings and a baggy shirt while Chan was wearing a plain black hoodie, jeans, and a pair of sunglasses tucked into his hoodie collar; he looked casual yet effortlessly sexy. It is completely unfair given the amount of stress sweat that was pouring out of you.
“This is a terrible idea,” you whisper as you both make your way toward security, and Chan smirks a little. You’d tried to back out of this four times in the last two days, but he wasn’t about to let you do that. There was no way he was going to let you show up to your bitchy sister alone, not when he wanted to help you.
“You need to relax,” He chuckles, “It’s a nice break in Spain. We’ll see your sister, and I’ll drag you sightseeing so you can use that as an excuse.” He tells you happily
“But-”
“You already told her you had a plus one, it’s too late to back out now. We’ve committed to the bit.” He tells you as he wraps an arm around your shoulder and drags you into his side, you groan a little. Your stomach was already twisting in knots at the thought of lying. You didn’t feel guilty, but you were worried that they were going to find out the truth.
“I’m going to throw up.” You mumbled, rubbing your stomach. Chan quickly lets you go and points over his shoulder as he says,
“If you do, aim away from the nice old lady behind us.” You glared at him, nudging him with your shoulder as he winked down at you and chuckled.
“Everything’s going to be fine, sunshine.” He sounded so sure of himself, you had no reason not to believe him, and you nodded a little. Trying to calm yourself down as you made it into security.
Surprisingly, security had gone really smoothly; you thought for sure that you were going to get stopped since you looked so suspicious. You were super nervous, travelling with a man too attractive for his own good, and you even flinched when the TSA agent asked how long the two of you had been together.
Chan didn’t, though; he’d leaned his arm on the counter and smiled casually,
“Six months. We met in this cute coffee shop after she spilled tea all over me.”
Security was surprisingly smooth, considering how suspicious you looked: nervous woman, traveling with a man too attractive for his own good, pretending to be together. You even flinched when the TSA agent asked how long you'd been dating.
“Because you made a dumb joke about oat milk,” you added without thinking. The two of them had come up with the lie about where you met the day before, deciding you needed something easy to remember for your family to believe you.
Now the two of you were just leaving the shop with some drinks while you were waiting to board, you’d grabbed snacks and drinks since you were pretty hungry and had at least two hours before the plane left. Now you were trying to come up with a plan about the hotel room since you didn’t think he would want to share a bed with you.
“When we get there, I’ll ask if we can get a cot for the room. I drool in my sleep, so I don’t want to subject you to that.” You felt embarrassed mentioning this to him, but he needed to know in case it somehow came up from your sister. Which, knowing her, she would bring up just to make you feel tiny.
“I’ll say you snore or something so badly it keeps me up.” You shrug a little, and Chan chuckles. You were right about the snoring, which was funny to him.
“It’s fine. I do snore.” You turned to him, horrified. “Do you?” You watched him closely, and he nodded his head at you.
“Yeah, my old team-roommates, used to tell me I would keep them up sometimes whenever I got some sleep. I suck at it, got insomnia.” He chuckles a little and takes a sip of his drink. You were about to question him about the slip-up of words when you heard someone gasp in front of you,
“Oh my word! You look just like that hockey boy my grandson used to watch! What was his name?! Chris?! Or… Ch—” Chan coughed loudly, his orange juice spitting back into the bottle, and you rubbed his back softly, trying to stop him from choking.
“I get that a lot,” he lies quickly, he didn’t need you finding out in the middle of a crowded airport who he really was. Chan laughed a little and wrapped his arm around you, leading you toward the seating area.
“Come on, sunshine.” He whispers, and you blink at him.
“That was weird. Do you actually look like someone famous?” You squinted at him, trying to figure out if you thought he looked like someone, and he shrugged a little, scratching the back of his neck.
“Apparently.” He laughs, but it wasn’t his usual carefree laughter he gave you. This one felt forced and tighter somehow,
“You gonna tell me who?” He popped the cap off his juice bottle and shook his head.
“Nope. Figure it out alone.” He winks at you, and you pout your bottom lip at him.
“Rude.”
“Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery,” he said with a smirk, nudging your shoulder as you both made your way to the seats and dropped down beside each other. Chan silently hoped no one else came up to him while he was with you. Not that he was ashamed to be seen with you, but he liked being Chan with you, instead of famous hockey player Chris Bhang.
The whole flight, Chan had been unbearably calm. Every time you told him something you were worrying about, he gave you an explanation for it.
What if they bring up our first date? What if they ask about your siblings? What if they figure it out? Every question you threw at him, he had an answer for. And you’d done your best not to stare at him the whole flight. He’d been sitting there, his head leaned back and his eyemask over his eyes. You’d watched him closely, noting the small scar by his temple, the way his fingers flexed even in his sleep…Like his body wasn’t used to being so still all the time.
But now you were here, and after a tense bus ride, you’d decided you wanted to go home already. You were covered in a thin layer of sweat, your hair out of place, and yet Chan looked as though he’d woken up with a team of stylists around him.
“It’s not fair, how do you always look so good?” you grumble as you get out of the bus and grab your bags. Chan bent down and picked up your carry-on before wheeling both suitcases behind him and shaking his head with a smile on his lips.
“You think I look good, sunshine?” He wriggles his eyebrows at you, and you roll your eyes at him. He knew you thought he looked good, god, sometimes you wondered how you could even speak around him. He was that good-looking. This was never going to work. You’d told yourself a million times. He was too good-looking, your sister was never going to believe Chan would want you, of all people.
As if reading your mind, Chan took your hand in his quickly and stopped you from moving. You turned to look at him, about to spew out more what-ifs, but he was quick to stop you.
“We’re going to have fun. We’re going to tan by the pool and you’re going to look breathtaking by my side, okay?” he asked rhetorically before cupping your face in his hand and running his thumb over your bottom lip, feeling how sore it was from you biting it the whole plane ride.
“We’ll go to our room, we’ll get you some chapstick, and we’ll take it one thing at a time, okay sunshine?” He asks again, and you nod your head, feeling better with him by your side, and the two of you begin making your way into the hotel.
The hotel was a luxury villa resort that practically screamed, Look at me, I’m better than you. Because, of course, your sister was going to pick something like this for her wedding. The walls were whitewashed, palm trees swaying over a marble entrance, and a staff that looked like they’d all stepped out of an influencer’s reel. It screamed everything your sister loved about herself while you felt yourself shrinking back. You took your suitcase, and Chan laced your fingers together as you began walking into the glittering lobby. You could feel your stomach flipping out as you held hands.
You weren’t supposed to be nervous. It was fake. So why did it feel like you were starting something real with him?
At the check-in desk, the concierge smiled politely at the two of you as he looked up from the computer screen. “Ah, Miss Y/L/N. Welcome. You're here for the Delgado wedding, yes?” Delgado. She’d already started using his last name from the moment they started dating, so it shouldn’t have surprised you that she was using it now, but she did.
Chan squeezed your hand softly, bringing you back to reality, and you nodded, forcing your best not-dying-in-spite-of-it smile.
“That’s me.” You giggle, trying your best to appear as though you really wanted to be there.
“And this is…?” The concierge asks, looking up at Chan. For a moment, Chan thought he’d been found out, but there wasn’t a look of realisation on the concierge’s face.
“My boyfriend,” you said quickly, before the word could catch in your throat. “Chan.” Chan smiled easily, reaching over to rest a hand on your lower back like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your spine, and you almost forgot how to breathe.
“Room 409,” the concierge confirmed. “It’s a deluxe suite, king bed, ocean view.” He smiles sweetly at you, giving you both your own key and snapping his fingers at the bell boy to come and take your bags, but your head was caught on what he’d said.
“Sorry, did you say king bed?” He nodded politely. You’d called on the bus to ask for a double room or for a cot to be delivered since your ‘boyfriend’ snored, but it was clear now that wasn’t going to work.
“I asked if we could get a cot, if you heard this man snore, you’d understand,” you laughed anxiously, and Chan rubbed your lower back,
“Yes, I know, but, unfortunately, due to the wedding booking being out of most of our capacity, there were no rooms left with two beds or adjacent doubles...And the cots are all used. The bride is having her bridesmaids sleep in her suite…Would you like extra pillows?”
Pillows are not the issue, sir. You wanted to bite out at him, but you knew that he wasn’t the issue here. The universe was clearly trying to force you to embarrass yourself in front of Chan and make a bad impression.
“One bed’s fine.” Chan quickly told him, and you looked up at him.
“Is it?” You whispered to him, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by sharing a bed with you when the two of you had only just met one another, but he just leaned down, lips brushing your ear,
“Unless you’d rather cuddle with your stuffed animal, I know you packed,” he smirks, and you push his stomach softly and shake your head.
The room was, of course, beautiful. You hadn’t expected anything less from a place like this one, but it felt too romantic for your liking.
Cream walls, soft gold accents, and breezy curtains framing the balcony doors. The ocean stretched out just beyond the glass like a postcard. You wanted to appreciate it. Really, you did. But your attention was firmly fixed on the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. Chan had put your bags in the wardrobe and stood at the foot of it with his hands on his hips, staring at the bed.
“Well,” you said slowly, clearing your throat a little as you stared at the bed. You suddenly felt so awkward around him, and Chan hated that. He needed you to feel relaxed around him for this to work, and you had been up until now.
“That’s a big bed.” You finished, but Chan threw himself onto it with zero shame and snuggled into the pillows with a soft sigh, his whole body relaxing against the memory foam mattress.
“Big enough for boundaries. I don’t bite unless asked.” He says suggestively, and you roll your eyes, picking up one of the decorative pillows and hitting him softly with it.
“Not funny.” He shrugged, arms behind his head as he snuggled into the covers.
“Could be worse. Could’ve been bunk beds.” He sits up a little, and you stare at him.
“You say that like you’ve done this before.” Your gaze landed back on Chan, and you noticed that his smile faltered for half a second, barely noticeable, but you’d caught it. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the bed, sitting close to him. It was big enough that the two of you would be right up close to one another.
“Let’s just say I’ve survived worse sleeping arrangements,” he said, tone a little lighter now. “We’ll survive this one,” he assures you.
“Fine, but we need ground rules.” Chan sat up straight and crossed his legs, sitting across from you as he nodded, letting you continue on.
“No spooning. No accidental boob grazes. No sleep-talking confessions of love.”
“Noted.” He held up three fingers and then held his other hand on his chest as he looked into your eyes.
“I solemnly swear not to fall in love with you in my sleep.” He smirks a little. Mostly because he could already feel himself catching feelings, and it was easier to play it off than to admit that out loud right now. You gave him a dry look; you needed him to take this seriously.
“I’m serious, Chan…No accidental grabbing, unless someone is around…” Chan could hear the desperation in his voice, and he nodded his head, rubbing his hand on your knee.
“I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour unless we’re around your family and you need me to pretend.” You relax a little, and Chan moves his hands to your shoulders, shaking you a little.
“Now, unpack. We’ll steam our outfits, make sure we look like we’re models, yeah?” He watches you closely for any sign of uncertainty, but you nod and get up from the bed, making your way to the wardrobe to start unpacking.
“Get up, though, we might be boyfriend-girlfriend for the weekend, but I’m not touching your underwear.” You giggle, making Chan smirk. Your giggle made his whole chest feel light whenever he heard it, and he just knew the promise he made about not falling in love…was going to be the best promise he would ever break.
“I say we go down to the beach for a walk, we could get some ice cream, and then watch the sunset,” Chan states as he stands on the small balcony of your room. You watch him closely. He seemed so relaxed here. Dressed in some shorts and a nice smart shirt, he looked like he belonged here…but that was just who he seemed to be. He seems to fit in anywhere.
Back home, it was like he’d lived there his whole life. He got along well with every shop owner. Even Mrs Jones had taken a liking to him and made sure to set aside cinnamon rolls for you both the last two times you’d been in.
“Sure, I promised Mrs Jones we’d get her a couple of magnets as well, so maybe we can find a gift shop.” You suggested. Walking out onto the balcony to join him, you leant on the wall and looked out at the beach. If it wasn’t for the wedding happening, this would have been the perfect moment.
“I checked out the one downstairs, and I’m not paying $15 for one magnet.” You giggle a little and shake your head. The afternoon breeze was so nice on your skin right now, it felt perfect…Too perfect.
Your phone buzzed, and just like that, your entire mood soured.
Sister 🐍: We’re by the pool. Everyone’s here. Don’t take too long, babe. It’s cocktail hour.
You swallowed hard as you read the messages, reality hitting you that you were actually going to have to see and speak to your family now and not just hide out with Chan the whole time.
“I’m gonna have to face them, aren’t I?” you muttered. Chan straightened as he watched you.
“You’re not alone this time, though.” He reassured you by making you meet his eyes. You’d done nothing but warn him for the last two days what he was going up against, but now he was actually going to face them,
“You don’t even know what you’re walking into.” You mumble, and he just smiles at you, as if nothing could ever bother him.
“Then I’ll walk in first. Go put on that stunning dress and we’ll head down.” He pats your back softly, and you sigh, moving back into the hotel room to change.
You stood in the lobby in your simple blue satin dress because your sister never sent you the group color code, on purpose, but you weren’t so sure. The fabric hugged you perfectly, skimming over your curves, but it didn’t cling to you too tightly. Chan’s heart was racing as he took in your appearance. He’d barely taken his eyes off you since you came out of the bathroom dressed like this.
There was a subtle slit up one side of your dress, and it made the dress sway with every step. You’d told him it was boring and plain, but something about you in that dress made you look… glowing. Chan thought you looked like a secret no one else had ever been lucky enough to know, and one he was going to keep close to him forever.
“You okay?” he asked gently, stepping up beside you. The lobby was empty besides a couple of workers who were all staring in your direction, wondering why you were just standing there when everyone else involved with the wedding was outside.
You didn’t look at Chan, you couldn’t bring yourself to. You felt seconds away from throwing up or passing out, neither of which you wanted to do in front of Chan.
“I don’t think I’ve ever dreaded seeing my own family more.” As much as he wanted to push you to go out there and show your family who you were, he wasn't going to push you into something you really didn’t want to do. He shifted a little and pulled you to the side in front of the reception desk.
“Do you want to go back upstairs? Skip the whole thing?” You exhaled a breath you hadn’t even realised that you were holding. You knew hiding was only going to fuel your sister's story about you “still being in love with Daniel”. The last thing you wanted was to make her feel like she's right.
“She’ll tell people I’m still in love with him.” You grumbled, and Chan watched you. He could tell by the look in your eyes that you weren’t, but part of him still needed to ask…he had to be sure that there was no chance you would ever go back to him.
“You’re not, right?”
“No way in hell,” You scoff, and he smirks, seeing the smile on your face. That was all he needed to make sure that you were okay and back to your smiling self.
“Anyway, I can’t not go…that would make her too happy. She thrives on my disappearing or being miserable…We need to go out there and be the best damn couple we can be.” You told him, and he smirked, nodding his head.
“We’re doing this together. You’re not alone in dealing with them now, you’ve got me, sunshine.” He tells you as he takes your hand in his, falling too easily into the boyfriend role with you.
“I mean it, whatever they throw at you tonight—I’ll be there. Right beside you. They don’t get to talk to you like you’re nothing.” Your throat tightened hearing him sound so sure of this. He promised you that he wasn’t going to leave you, no matter what.
“You don’t even know me,” You whisper a little, the self-consciousness creeping in, and Chan smiles weakly. He hated seeing you so broken down like this. He wanted the bright and sunshine girl he’d gotten to know over the last few days he’d spent with you.
“I don’t need to. I’ve seen the way you try so hard for people who don’t try for you. That tells me everything.” You blinked rapidly, trying not to let your eyes fill with tears, and you quickly looked away from him.
“You’re too nice.” He bumped his shoulder into yours before squeezing your hand tightly
“Or maybe you’re just not used to being treated right.” Silence followed as you looked up at him, and he just grinned down at you.
“Come on,” he said finally, nudging you toward the door. “Let’s go let your sister know she’s not the only one who can turn heads.”
The pool was surrounded by fairy lights that were making beautiful reflections on the water. No one was in the pool, which was to be expected. It was shut off for your sister, and she’d never get her hair wet or risk someone else getting it wet by jumping in the pool. Every single person was dressed in some form of rose gold dress, and the men looked smart and casual. Once again, you were wearing the wrong colour.
You were the smudge on a flawless portrait, the forgotten sister who everyone invited out of pity. And somehow, Chan looked like he belonged here. Casual, golden, confident. He fit in with all of them, and you stuck out like a sore thumb. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned around, ready to leave and change, but your hip hit the table, and it caused people to look up.
“Yn-” Chan tries to speak, but he’s quickly cut off by someone else.
“Y/N, there you are,” came the too-sweet voice of your sister, gliding over in a silk wrap dress, her makeup perfect and eyes sharper than diamonds. Nothing short of perfect as she made her way over to you.
“We were wondering when you’d show.”
“If she’d show,” You heard one of the bridesmaids snicker to the others. You opened your mouth to respond, but she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking at Chan, automatically assuming he wasn’t with you.
“Oh,” she said, voice lighting up. “You’re not from around here, are you?” She flipped some of her hair over her shoulder and made her way over, holding her hand out for him to take, but Chan just smiled politely at her.
“The pool is closed for a wedding event, but you’re more than welcome to join us! The more the merrier.” She giggles too happily, and your stomach dips. Of course, she didn’t think that Chan was here with you. Chan was a born-again Greek God, and you were…you.
“I’m Delilah. Bride. Sister of the chaos tornado over here.” She thrust her chin in your direction as if she were too good to even say your name, and you winced. She had no idea you and Chan were here together and hadn’t even introduced you to him.
“Nice to meet you.” He said through gritted teeth. He already hated her with a burning passion, and he wanted to take you back home, not just to the hotel room but back to Citrus Cove, where the two of you could ignore your family forever.
You opened your mouth to tell her that you were there together, but she shot you a look, one you knew all too well that meant, “Shut up. I’m talking.” Delilah’s eyes sparkled with something vicious.
“So… are you staying here too? On holiday?” She quizzed, walking over to him a little too close for your liking, and for Chan, it seemed. He’d taken a step back and moved toward you again. Before he could correct her and tell her what he was really there for, she barreled on.
“If Y/N’s annoying you, I deeply apologize. She’s always been a bit much. You know, clingy. Intense. Scared of being alone.” She laughed like it was a charming anecdote. You weren’t scared of being alone at all. Your whole life, you’d been alone, your parents only favoured her, and you’d spent most of your life like that.
“We used to call her little limpet when we were kids—she just latched on to anyone who gave her attention.” She laughed wildly while your heart plummeted into your stomach. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and you stared down at the pool so you wouldn’t cry in front of her. That was what she was aiming for.
Chan’s jaw clenched tightly as he noticed the look of hurt on your face, and all he wanted was to push your sister in the pool, but he knew he couldn’t. Delilah, still smiling and unable to read the room, stepped closer to him.
“Don’t worry, though, you’re not the first guy she’s followed around. It’s kind of her thing. God, remember when she cried for three days because some guy in college told her she was plain?” She laughed again, all teeth. All of the bridesmaids, who had once been your friends too, laughed along with her loudly.
“We thought she’d never get over herself.” Delilah continued as she shook her head. The girls moved toward you and Chan while he stayed silent, counting to ten over and over again in his mind to keep himself calm.
“She cut all of her hair short and got that piercing.” Katie, one of your old best friends, laughed obnoxiously loud, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole and never let you out again. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for this, but nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared you for a full attack.
“That got super infected! God, she was so gross.” Delilah squealed before everyone laughed.
You wanted to sink into the pool fully clothed. Or maybe into the earth. You wondered if anyone would notice you making a run for it, but by now, there were multiple people staring in your direction, and there was no way out.
“C-Chan’s my date.” You said, finally finding your voice as Chan looked down at you, his hand finding yours and giving it a squeeze. Delilah blinked. Laughed…Actually laughed, but it died out when she realised you were being serious.
“Wait…What?” She scoffs a little as she looks you up and down before looking back at Chan. You knew you didn’t match. She knew you didn’t match. But Chan spoke up, quiet but firm.
“She’s not following me. I’m here because I want to be. I’m her boyfriend.” He states sternly this time, and this time it shuts her up…Just long enough for her to reload.
“I mean, sure,” she said, recovering from being shut down so quickly. There was no way your sister was going to give up, not when her friends were around her.
“If that’s what we’re calling it. Just don’t let her guilt you into anything. Y/N’s a master at playing the victim.” She giggles. You stared down at the cobblestones, all the while Chan's grip on your lower back tightened by a small fraction. It was a subtle sign you weren’t going through this alone.
Slowly, you turned to look up at him. The way his fingers twitched against your back made it seem like he wanted to do something, say something back at her, but he remained silent. You’d asked him to, back in the room, you’d asked him that no matter what he heard, he wouldn’t say anything back…That your sister wasn’t worth it.
Delilah patted you on the arm like you were a sad puppy; you could see the smirk on her lips.
“Don’t take it personally, sweetie. You know I love you. We’re just so different, you and I. Always have been.” She walked away before you could reply, her hair bouncing, voice already lifted for someone else more important.
You swallowed hard, forcing your breath steady.
“…She’s right,” you said quietly, not looking at Chan. You stare down at the floor, you hated how weak she always made you feel. No matter what you did, you were never good enough in her or your parents ' eyes.
“We’ve always been different.” Chan didn’t reply right away; he was too busy counting to 20 in his head, trying to keep himself calm. All he wanted to do was rip into your sister for the shit she’d just said, but he needed to play nice, make a good impression before making them realise what they were missing out on without you.
“She’s a raging bitch.” He grumbles harshly, and your head flies up to look at him. Chan was still looking at the crowd of people, his face looked as though it was made of stone, and his eyes were hard.
You managed a weak smile. At least someone here finally agreed with you about your sister.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I didn’t say it for you. It’s true. What kind of bitch says that to her own sister?” He grumbles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he leads you in the direction of the bar. It was going to take a lot of Soju or whiskey to get him through this night without taking your sister down.
You, however, glanced over your shoulder in the direction of your sister and her friends. All of them were staring in your direction, pointing and laughing, you already knew you were the centre of their jokes. Chan ordered drinks, but your mind was already preoccupied by a voice in your head reminding you that your sister was right, you were different.
Luckily for the rest of the night, you’d managed to avoid taking Chan to your parents, the two of you sat together on some sun loungers, and you told him stories about everyone in the pool area, since he needed to know their names anyway.
The morning sun filtered weakly through the sheer curtains of the bridal suite. You sat stiffly on a plush chair and watched as people fluttered around the room. You’d been woken up at 6 that morning with a reminder that you were supposed to be a bridesmaid for your sister. Maybe it was her way of torturing you, sending you up there to watch her marry your ex.
You weren’t exactly bothered seeing it, as a matter of fact, you wanted them to be together and hoped they ended up happy, since she was going through so much trouble with you because of it.
Delilah and her bridesmaids buzzed around the room happily, giggling with one another, and the air felt so thick you could barely breathe. All you wanted was to go back to the room and order room service with Chan, who, when you left, had been asleep on the bed.
One of Deliah’s bridesmaids—a tall, sharp-faced woman named Camilla—approached you with a clipboard in her hand. She looked up from it for a moment,
“So,” Camilla said, her eyes flicking over you like you were a project she didn’t want to waste time on, you could see the disgusted look on her face as she saw you sitting in the bridesmaid dress.
“How are you feeling about the dress?” You swallowed, unsure. The green dress was considerably tight to your body, which was odd. A few months ago, when your sister had asked for measurements, you’d made sure to get them done properly and sent them over to her.
“It’s-”
“Tight.” Camilla finished for you, biting down on her tongue as she looked you up and down and back at her chart, clearly reading through whatever was on it. This time, Delilah chimed in from behind, lips curved in a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes - clearly fake.
“Oh, you’re doing great, sweetie. It’s just… maybe we could find you a bigger dress? The last fitting was a few weeks ago, and you never showed up.” She shrugs her head, looking at the dress that was clearly too tight for you. It showed off everything you hated about yourself.
You looked down at your body, suddenly self-conscious. You’d noticed the way your jeans felt tighter lately, maybe you’d gained weight? Delilah was smirking to herself, seeing you come undone.
“Is it… the weight?” you asked hesitantly.
“It’s a surprise Chan is with you, he’s got a major gym body and you’ve got…fridge.” She giggles, and the other girls all join in with her. Camilla laughed so hard she accidentally showed the measurements for each girl, and yours was wrong.
“Maybe I could get a bigger size-”
“They’re custom-made. There was no way I was going to let my girls have dresses from a store.” Delilah snaps harshly.
“You’ll just have to sit in the back and not be in the wedding,” She shrugs, and you look back at the dress. It was just two sizes too small; clearly, she’d done this on purpose. But if she didn’t want you in the wedding to torture you, why would she do all of this? Was it just to show she had power all over again?
“That’s for the best. We do have a lot of cameras here filming Deliah and the wedding.” Camilla states, causing you to frown. There hadn’t been a single camera in the room during the fitting.
“Oh. I already told them not to capture YN anyway.” Delilah shrugged as she looked down at her nails. You really were here just to be the butt of her jokes and the one that they could kick around like it meant nothing. You wanted to speak, to say you were fine, that you didn’t care about the dress or the cameras, but the words caught in your throat.
“It’s settled, we’ll just have Ani replace her. She’ll fit in the dress no problem.” Delilah snapped her fingers, and you were practically shown out of the chair, and Camilla stared at you.
“Take it off. We need to make sure you don't stretch the material too thin.” Camilla grumbles, and you nod, heading toward the small bathroom to get changed.
“W-Where do you want me to stand at the wedding?” You questioned, your eyes flicking to your sister, who couldn’t seem less bothered if she tried.
“The back. Make sure your ‘date’ is front row though, we can pull views in through him.” Delilah says, but the way she’d called Chan your ‘date’ didn’t sit right with you. It was like she didn’t believe the lie you were selling.
When you got back to the hotel room that morning, you’d barely spoken to Chan, which didn’t sit right with him. He’d even ordered you some lunch, but you gave him some excuse about not being hungry, so he ate it instead.
Now the two of you were sitting at a dining table alone, you’d been pushed to the side because there “wasn’t enough room” on the main table. The table was dressed with white linens, candles in tall holders, and laughter echoed around the room. The small voice in your head is telling you that everyone was laughing at you.
There was a salad in front of you, but your appetite had vanished; it had vanished since earlier that day.
“You okay?” Chan asked, leaning down to whisper into your ear but making it look like he was pressing a warm kiss to your head. You nodded stiffly, Chan didn’t believe you for a second.
“She’s barely touched her plate,” your mother said rather loudly to Delilah, who looked up and shrugged her shoulders.
“She’s feeling a little rounder these days, she’s probably trying to lose some weight,” Delilah said with a cruel smile, loud enough for you to hear, unfortunately, Chan had heard too, and his jaw tensed tightly.
Your ex-boyfriend, Daniel, smirked, glass in hand. “Yeah, Y/N, you putting on weight or something? Didn’t think Spain would be good for your diet.” The room chuckled, but the joke was a dagger that twisted deep inside your chest.
“Did you ever end up finding something that fits for tomorrow?” Your cousin asked from across the room, and Chan’s frown deepened.
“What does she mean? I thought you were going to be a bridesmaid?” He brushes his hand over yours, and you look down at the table. You hadn’t even had the chance to tell Chan you’d been kicked off that duty,
“She's too fat for the dress. So we gave the spot to someone else.” Delilah said so matter-of-factly, you wanted to throw up right there and then.
“They took my measurements and ignored them…I don’t think she wanted me to be a bridesmaid…Just wanted me here for humiliation." You whispered, finally finding your voice. Chan, however, went deathly quiet. He was seconds away from ripping into someone for what was being said.
“That dress she’s wearing now doesn’t even go with the theme.” Someone grumbles,
“She’s always been…unique,” Delilah said. But the word almost sounded like a slur. You didn’t look up; you were used to it. Used to the way they all laughed and belittled you. You just wanted to blend back into the background like you always had.
“Chan must be a saint to deal with someone so difficult.”
“Especially when she’s fat and ugly,” Daniel commented, and that was it. Chan’s fork hit the table with force, and he stood up abruptly.
“Enough!” He said, his voice cold and harsh as he stared around the room. People turned to look at him as everything fell silent. Chan’s eyes locked on Daniel’s face as he stared down at him.
“You want to talk about weight? How about talking about your character instead?” Daniel’s smirk faltered a little; none of them were used to someone sticking up to them, and it showed.
Chan continued, voice rising just enough to fill the room, he made a point to stare at your sister, parents, and ex-boyfriend as he addressed them.
“Y/N is here, standing strong while you waste your breath throwing insults. Maybe if you spent less time tearing people down, you’d realize what you lost.” You felt tears prick your eyes, but Chan shook his head.
“Every single one of you should be ashamed! You sit here in your perfect little outfits and pretend that you’re better than her? You tear her apart for existing differently than you…because she doesn’t need to scream to be heard?” He looks down at you, his chest heaving a little,
“Because she doesn’t want to play your twisted little mind games. Yn is the kindest, strongest, most patient person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He snaps, your breath caught in your throat, hearing him say this out loud. Did he mean it? Was he just playing a role?
“And you?” Chan turned to look at your sister,
“You’re marrying her ex, mimicking her smile, stealing her memories like they’re things you earned. You think you’re the center of the universe, newsflash…you’re not. You’re no one. People will forget you once they see you for what you truly are.” Your sister looked as if she was seconds away from vomiting, and your mother was gasping for air.
Chan looked back at you, your eyes were filled with tears, but you quickly blinked them away. This was the first time in years you’d ever felt seen. Someone actually defended you.
Chan sat back down, softer now, and reached for your hand under the table. You squeezed it softly, letting him know that you were okay. The rest of the room was deathly silent; all that could be heard were the sounds of glasses and mumbled chatter.
“T-Thank you,” You whisper to him, breaking the silence. Chan squeezed your hand back,
“You’re amazing, okay? I won’t take any bullshit about it.” He winked at you, and you felt your heart picking up in speed while your cheeks felt heated.
Later that night, you found yourself on the balcony outside of your room again, the cool Spanish air brushing your skin and teasing away some of the heat that the day had left behind. Sighing a little, you sank down onto a wrought-iron chair, staring out at the distant lights of the town. You’d been rethinking dinner all night.
After Chan’s outburst, not a single comment was made about you or in your direction. Your sister had refused to say anything and went back to filming on her phone like nothing had happened.
Chan stepped outside onto the balcony, but didn’t sit beside you. Instead, he leaned against the railing, shoulders squared but relaxed. For a moment, neither of you spoke; you silently listened to the waves crashing against the sand and the distant chatter of other people inside the resort. In your little room, your own bubble, it was perfect.
“You didn’t deserve any of that tonight,” Chan said, finally breaking the silence and glancing over at you. He needed you to know that none of what was being said was true, or that you deserved to hear any of it. You swallowed thickly and shifted against the seat.
“I’m used to it.”
“No,” he said, turning to meet your eyes. His whole body moves to face you,
“No, you shouldn’t be. And that’s what makes me… I don’t know. It makes me want to—” He stopped himself, the words catching somewhere in his throat. He’d promised you not to catch feelings, but something about being here with you…and even back home was making it damn near impossible not to.
Everything new he learnt about you, he found he adored. Taking in a deep breath, he tried to clear his head before speaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair and sinking down into the chair opposite yours.
“That sounded stupid.” He finished, and you nudged him with your foot, forcing him to look you in the eyes.
“What were you going to say, Channie?” Chan hesitated; the nickname sounded like heaven coming from your lips, and he desperately wanted to hear you calling him it over and over again, so he shook his head. He didn’t want to risk any of this,
“Nothing important.” He lied. But the way he looked at you, like you were suddenly the only thing that mattered, said everything he wouldn’t say. Your chest was starting to hurt as you watched him,
“Hey. You just defended me in a room of almost 100 people…You can tell me.” You teased, and Chan gave an almost shy smile to you and sighed, looking up at the night sky.
“Maybe I’m breaking one of the rules…M-Maybe I’m starting to care more than I should.” He admitted out loud. You felt your heart fluttering, warmth spreading through you all over as you looked back at him.
“You’re not alone,” you said softly, letting him know that his feelings weren’t just one-sided. Chan felt his heart skip a beat. God, it had been years since he’d confessed a crush on someone; he felt like a middle schooler all over again. But he just nodded his head, his eyes fixed on the sky as a blush crept onto his cheeks.
A calm silence hung in the air, and you smiled, laying your head on your knees as you both enjoyed the silence together. Neither of you reaches for the thread of something more hanging between you…not yet, at least.
“Tonight, I’m promising you a nice walk on the beach,” Chan told you as you sat together on the daybed, he’d pulled the canopy over so you were both in the shade.
“Sure, maybe I can finally get the magnets for everyone back home,” You relax a little, pulling sunglasses on over your eyes, snuggling into the pillows. Your sister had arranged for everyone to have a chill day by the pool today since the wedding was tomorrow.
“Oh, don’t forget, Nancy wants us to get photos at the wedding. She said we’ll look good.” Chan smirks. In reality, Nancy hadn’t asked for anything, but Chan wanted a photo of the two of you so he could have it as his new lockscreen. You’d taken a few selfies, but he wanted to be different. He wanted a real photo of you both together.
“She’s cute, she’ll probably put it on the board in the cafe, you know.” You laugh a little. You open your mouth to speak again, but you can feel eyes on you. Slowly, you looked around the area to figure out who it was. Felicity - yours and Delilah’s cousin - was staring straight at you.
“Isn’t it adorable that Yn thinks she can wear a bikini?” She hisses,
“Bless her heart, she’s trying so hard to fit in.” Felicity giggled, making Delilah smirk, her gaze flicking between you and Chan, who was now clenching his fists by his side. He’d had enough of your shitty family, and he thought last night would have been the end of it all.
“Can’t even keep their mouths shut,” He grits out, but you slowly reach out and hold his hand, squeezing it softly and smiling sweetly at him. You were trying to show him silently that it wasn’t bothering you.
“Oh, she’s definitely trying, honestly, it’s embarrassing.” Delilah giggles, flicking her hair over her shoulder and getting up. She was in a white bikini, showing off her perfectly toned body. She looked as though she would be on the arm of someone like Chan.
“Yn looks fucking hot today. Doesn’t she?” Chan asked loudly to one of the waiters, who began stuttering over his words. Your cheeks were heating up, and you whined at Chan, hiding into his neck as he chuckled to himself.
“Couples volleyball!” Delilah screamed out.
“Let’s see how real these relationships are!” She giggles, and you look at Chan. You knew none of them were being subtle about it. Chan simply nodded at you and got up from the chair, following you to the pool.
“I bet she’s paying him. She doesn’t deserve this level of hot,” Someone mumbles as you get into the water. Chan instantly wrapped his arms around you from behind and cuddled into you.
“You ought to be careful, Chan. She used to write poems about my brother in school,” Lia giggles, making your whole body tense up. She knew you’d had a crush on her brother in high school; she’d pushed you toward him, claiming she wanted you as a sister in law.
“Let’s just play. Yeah?” he grumbles at your family, and they nod.
The teams ended up being uneven, so you’d all merged into a chaotic free-for-all of “who can keep the beach ball up longest,” but it quickly devolved into a war of egos before long. Mainly your ex’s. He kept smashing the ball toward Chan like he was trying to test his reflexes, daring him to mess up, either that or he was trying to smash the ball into his face.
But it never worked; Chan never missed a beat in hitting the ball back to your ex and your family, making it look like it was nothing to him. He moved like water; he was fluid, fast, and effortless. Every hit was precise, powerful, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Every movement made your heart race. Your ex was livid. And you were absolutely loving it.
“Not bad for a washed-up athlete,” Daniel muttered under his breath, chest heaving as he stared at Chan. You frown a little, watching the two of them.
“Not bad for a guy clinging to his high school glory days,” Chan murmured back, just loud enough for you and Delilah to hear him. Delilah smirks to herself before swimming over to him, draping an arm casually over the side of the pool next to his shoulder. Your stomach twisted watching her as she attempted to flirt with your ‘boyfriend’. You’d never been jealous before, but this had you raging.
“You’re actually kinda good at this,” she said, voice high and girlish, feigning a laugh. “If you ever get tired of playing house with my sister, come find me, yeah?” You froze, hearing her. She was getting married…tomorrow…to your ex. Now she was attempting to get with another one?!
“She’s my girlfriend,” Chan said, gaze fixed straight ahead on you, he didn’t give a shit about your sister.
“And you should really stop talking about her like she’s not standing right here.” Your sister pouted out her bottom lip and scoffed a little,
“Don’t be so fucking sensitive, it was a bloody joke,”
“That wasn’t funny,” Chan said with a blank expression. Tension rippled through the water, and no one moved for a minute. You were counting the seconds down in your head, waiting for your sister to snap or say something back…but it never came.
Someone splashed another person, easing the tension a little. You smiled weakly when someone threw the ball your way, trying to play along, and to get rid of the tension, you hit it. Your fingers were shaking, but you hit it, sending it flying into someone's mimosa on the side of the pool. A round of grumbles and curses from people followed,
“Maybe sit this one out, babe,” your sister called out, sickeningly sweet.
“You’ve never been sporty!”
“Remember when she tried out for cheer and broke someone's wrist trying to flip?” Felicity giggles, and people explode in laughter around her. You stepped back, pointing over your shoulder to the sunbed.
“I-I’m…I-I’m gonna take a break,” You said softly, backing your way toward the side of the pool. You were halfway to the steps when Chan wrapped his arm around your waist and held you close.
“You don’t have to pretend with her anymore. I know she's a lot, Chan, just come and hang out with us.” Your sister called out, but Chan didn’t even glance at her; he looked down at you and stared into your eyes.
“I’m right where I want to be.” He whispers, kissing your forehead and climbing out of the water. He turned back to you, offering you his hand to help you out of the pool. You took it, dripping wet, your cheeks heating up and not from the sun but from the attention he was giving you.
“Shall we go back to our room and watch TV?” He suggests. Grabbing his towel and wrapping it around your shoulders. You looked up at him. He somehow looked even better now his hair was wet and dripping down his head, you could almost see the slight curls in his hair.
“Order room service and eat all our weight in pasta?” You raised an eyebrow, Chan’s heart picked up, and he nodded his head. It sounded like the perfect day to him, much better than sitting here with your family.
“Run up, I’ll grab our stuff.” He nods to you, quickly kissing your lips before sending you on your way. The kiss was so quick and so easy that it felt as though it was only natural for him to do. His cheeks were turning red as you bit your lip, heading up to your room, glancing over your shoulder at him with a shy smile before finally disappearing.
Chan was about to grab his stuff when Daniel bumped into his shoulder, shoving him to the side,
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said to him.
“Girls like her always latch onto someone better to make themselves feel worthy. She’ll move on when the pity runs out.” It would have bothered Chan, but you had no idea who he was. So he was letting the words rush off him like water off a duck's back.
The sun was setting beneath the waves, leaving a golden look over everything it touched. The waves were crashing gently against the whore, and the sand was so nice and warm beneath your feet as you and Chan walked across it. Your hand was locked in his, your shoes were shoved inside one of the bags he was carrying.
There had to be about four of them, all tiny little souvenir bags from your day together. The two of you had gone on a small tour of the town you were staying in and took lots of pictures while picking up a lot of gifts for everyone back home.
The two of you had gotten a little competitive about who could get the tackiest magnet,
“I still think the dancing bull figurine was a bold choice,” You giggled, nudging his hips with yours. Chan grinned down at you, cocking his eyebrow.
“Please. You bought a magnet shaped like a lady with boobs that jiggle and say ‘squeeze me’ on them. You got me beat.” You laughed so hard you almost let out a small snort, making Chan smirk to himself. God, your laugh was so full and bright, it made his chest flutter whenever he heard it, and he’d heard it a lot today.
It turned out that getting away from your family was the key to seeing you relax and finally let go. Chan pulled you closer to him as you walked, both of you enjoying the closeness you had with one another, without thinking about it too much.
“Oh! I also got Mrs Jones that rose tea she loves. And the twins at the inn, I got them mini flamenco dolls…They’ll love them,” Chan smiled down at you. He loved that you’d cared enough to try and get everyone back at home a gift.
“You always think of everyone else.” He states that as you stop walking, just looking out at the waves together, he bit his tongue. He wanted to open up to you a little without having to tell you about his life before you.
“I got something for the Coach, too,” He said slowly, trying to gauge your reaction. Your head slowly turned away from the waves to his eyes, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. You were barefaced, your hair natural, and you just looked like someone from his dreams.
“Are you trying to sweeten him up?” You tease, nudging him in the side, but Chan shrugged a little. You’d heard whispers of the high school back home wanting a new coach, and you knew Chan had a sporty side.
“He’s retiring, and I want to throw my name in for the job.”
“You are pretty sporty.” You shrug a little, thinking nothing more of it. The fact that you didn’t press him for more information made him relax. It was clear you wouldn’t care if he used to be famous.
“Y-Yeah…S-So I got him some keychains for the kids on the team and I got him a hat to replace his tattered one.” He smiles fondly before looking down at you, moving his free hand to cup your face in his hand, brushing his thumb over your lip.
“I got you something, too.” He whispers, Your eyes lit up.
“You did?” You gasp a little, only making Chan chuckle softly to himself. He had it in one of the bags, but he wasn’t going to show it until you were back in the hotel room together.
“Mhm. But you’re not allowed to see it until later.”
“Why not?” You scoff,
“Because I said so.” He winked, tugging your hand so the two of you would start walking together again.
“You’ll like it, I promise.” He chuckles softly. You pretended to pout, tugging lightly on his hand, but he didn’t let go. Neither of you even noticed that you hadn’t let go of one another all day. The space between you just didn’t exist anymore — your bodies moved in sync, like this was the most normal thing in the world…Like you were a couple…
And the scariest part of all of it? It didn’t feel like pretending anymore to you.
You glanced up at the hotel in the distance, its lights twinkling like stars just beginning to blink into the sky. You were getting hungry, and you had the wedding in the morning, so you already knew you were going to have to be up early to get ready.
“I’ll head up and order room service. You still want that pasta?” You quizzed right as you got off the beach, sliding into your sandals. Chan nods as he stretches his back a little.
“Definitely,” he said. “Extra parmesan. And maybe something made of chocolate for dessert.” He groaned, rubbing his stomach like he’d not eaten all day, but you’d been sneaking food while you were out.
“Got it. I’ll go and grab some extra towels from reception.” He squeezed your hand before letting go, gently.
“Don’t be long, if that chocolate comes before you, I can’t promise it’ll be there,” You tease and rush off.
The hallway going up to the room was nearly deserted, the only light coming from the soft glow of sconces along the polished walls. Chan’s steps were echoing as he made his way up to your door. In his hand were the spare towels and a surprise he’d gotten for you. It wasn’t much, but it was a rose gold dress that nearly matched the theme of the wedding. As well as a bracelet he’d picked up for you.
He knew you weren’t exactly upset about being kicked to the back of the room of the wedding, but he wanted you by his side, in a dress that made you feel and look like a million bucks…But you always looked that way to him. Even early in the morning when you’d just woken up and were having coffee together…
He’d thought you were stunning when you stood on his porch in pajamas that were faded with holes in them. Tonight, he was going to admit that to you; he didn’t care that you’d both promised not to fall for one another, he knew you were falling for him too.
Just as he reached the corner of your door, Daniel stepped out from the shadows with a mocking grin all over his face.
“What is it?” Chan grumbled, his voice laced with annoyance that your ex was even here right now.
“Just came to see the famous Ex-hockey ‘playboy’ who couldn’t even last his last season before some injury had him crying for the exit.” Daniel sneers, making Chan’s stomach twist. The injury wasn’t just “some” injury, it had nearly killed him,
It had been an accident on the ice, resulting in him almost losing his fingers; he’d broken his knee and his ankle in two places. Then there was the skate that had gone into his temple; he was lucky to even be alive.
“I’d love to see you try and survive a skate to the face, dickface.” Chan said, his eyes meeting Daniel’s with a calmness behind them.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Daniel sneered, stepping closer, invading Chan’s space, but Chan didn’t flinch; he wouldn’t give the motherfucker the satisfaction.
“But let’s be honest — you’re nothing more than a charity case in this whole mess. Y/N’s using you, making herself feel better by dragging you into her mess so she doesn’t have to face me alone.” Chan stared at him, refusing to crack,
“Did she act like she didn’t know you?” Daniel tilts his head at him, and this time Chan had a reaction. His eye twitched just a little, but his face remained stoic.
“You don’t know her,” Chan said quietly. Daniel laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed off the walls.
“She really pulled one over on you, huh? Sweet little Y/N. Always was quiet, always playing the victim.” He gave a mock pout and shook his head.
“But she’s smarter than people give her credit for. She knows exactly what she was doing bringing you here.” Chan’s jaw tensed this time. There was no way you knew who he was…You seemed surprised whenever someone knew him. You were blind to everything about his old life…Right?
“She knows who you are. She has to. I used to watch your games all the time — she sat right there on the couch next to me. You don’t think she recognized you? Come on, man. She’s playing you.” That seed of doubt hit its mark and buried deep in Chan’s gut.
“She brought you here because you’re a shield. A distraction. Someone to take the heat off her for once.” His voice dropped lower, venom curling around every word. Chan felt his heart shattering at the thought of it all. You knew him…You’d played him…Were you going to sell the fucking story?
No…He couldn’t even bring himself to think that way about you.
“Maybe you’re right,” Chan finally said, his voice shaking a little.
“Maybe I am just what she needed to take the pressure off. A washed-up loser she can parade around, but at least she wants me.” Chan grumbles at him, and Daniel just smirks at him. He was proud he’d planted doubt in his mind.
“Whatever, man. You’re going to be the butt of everyone's jokes. The vlog will go up and you’ll be a laughing stock…Again. All because you fell for that ugly bitches lies.” Daniel sniggers as he walks away.
Chan had no idea how long he’d been standing there after Daniel had left, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. His words were still bouncing around in his head.
She knows who you are.
She’s using you.
You wanted to take the heat off her.
You’ll be a laughing stock.
He knew he shouldn’t have listened to him; he should have just gone straight to the hotel room to spend the night with you. He knew, deep down, that Daniel was cruel and petty, the kind of man who got off on cutting others down just to stand a little taller himself. But that didn’t stop the words from digging in deep.
He’d been too eager. Too willing to believe in the soft way you looked at him, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes, the way your hand fit so naturally in his. He let it all mean something when maybe it didn’t.
He swallowed thickly, jaw tense, and stared down at the small box in his hand. The surprise he’d picked up for you from a little beachside stall. A delicate charm bracelet, each charm shaped like something they’d seen that week. A seashell. A lemon. A tiny plane. One for each day they’d spent pretending.
Pretending.
His chest twisted.
He should’ve known better.
When he got back to the room, you were already on the bed, cross-legged, you were wrapped in the hotel rope, and looking up from your phone. Instantly, he freaked out inside his head,
Were you texting someone about him? Were you writing notes about him?
Your eyes lit up when you saw him. “Hey,” you said softly. “Took you a while, I nearly ate all of the food alone,” You said with a small, awkward laugh. Chan didn’t answer you, though; he set the box down on the desk and went into the bathroom without another word.
You stared at the closed door, your heart sinking. Something was wrong…he’d been fine until now.
You shifted in the bed, turning over about to greet Chan like you had every morning lately, but the bed was cold. You sit up and look around the room, just as the bathroom door opens. Chan was dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt.
“Morning, you wanna eat?”
“Can’t. Got to go to the gym. See you at the reception.” He said, his voice low and clipped, before he walked out of the room. The door slamming shut behind him, leaving you stunned.
You’d fallen asleep the night before, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom; had he stayed in there all night? Your fingers trembled a little as you got up and opened the box he’d left on the desk for you. Inside was a beautiful gown and bracelet.
Your chest grew heavy as you stared down at them both. If he wanted you to wear these, why was he acting so cold toward you?
At the wedding ceremony, you felt like a ghost among the crowd. You’d attempted to move to the front of the wedding, but your sister blocked it from happening. Telling you she wanted you in the back of the room so you wouldn’t draw too much attention to yourself.
You’d tried to get Chan’s attention during the vows, but he kept his head forward, avoiding you. As if looking at you might shatter him.
Every single time his eyes caught yours, he was quick to look away, and each time it made your heart shatter.
Around you, the guests smiled and whispered, but you felt isolated, trapped in a moment that should have been joyful. What happened? The two of you had been working so well until the night before…
The reception was held in a grand hall decorated with twinkling lights and fragrant flowers. It was fucking loud too, you’d tried to catch Chan on the way out from the vows, but he’d slipped you in the huge crowds of people.
Delilah flitted around like a queen bee, demanding attention and ensuring she remained the center of the room. You were trying to find Chan, but it was like he’d vanished into thin air. You slid a glass from a waiter and moved toward the terrace. You needed some air to clear your head on what you were meant to do now.
Did he hate you? What had you even done?
And then you heard it. Two men were talking behind you, voices low but careless as they laughed together and shook their heads. You frown but move closer without being seen, wanting to know what was going on.
“Dude, you know who that is, right?” Caleb said to one of Daniel’s friends.
“Chan Bang. Yeah. Played pro hockey — until his knee blew out and he took a skate to the face,” Your breath caught in your throat. That explained the scar on his temple…not to mention the weird interactions that had been happening. No wonder he only gave you his first time. He was probably freaked out.
“Can’t believe he’s with her. No offense, but she’s punching.” The insult didn’t even sting as it came from Caleb's lips.
“She’s not with him. Daniel told me the whole thing — she’s using him. Pretending. He said she probably just wanted someone famous so the attention wouldn’t all be on her sister for once.” You completely froze in place, the glass in your hand slipping to the floor and smashing.
People stared in your direction, but you didn’t give a shit. Your blood was running cold. Daniel was lying…Telling people that you were using Chan?! That you knew who he was…Like, this was some kind of desperate stunt to make yourself look relevant.
Your whole body was heating with rage. Real, full-bodied rage, you’d never let yourself feel until right now. Like fate was twisting the knife, you heard Daniel speaking loudly and across the room.
“All that hype, just to end up a washed-up has-been with a limp. What’s next? Teaching hockey to toddlers in some middle-of-nowhere town?” He laughed coldly, and everyone surrounding him joined in. Your whole body ached, and you kicked off your heels.
“You really thought she liked you? Come on, mate. She knew exactly who you were. She just wanted someone shiny enough to draw attention.” Chan stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. But he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to himself.
“Enough.” The voice came out clear and harsh. Chan looked up to see you standing there. Dressed in the gown he’d gotten for you. Earlier, when he’d spotted you, he wanted to tell you how perfect you looked, but he’d stopped himself. He couldn’t tell you how pretty you were when he thought that you were using him.
“The little girl came to rescue the loser-” Champagne splashed over Daniel’s face and suit, cutting him off short. You stare at them all, your eyes burning with a rage Chan had never seen in you before.
“You can mock me all you want,” you said, eyes locked on Daniel.
“You’ve been doing it my whole life. My clothes. My weight. My hair. My friends. Even my relationships. But you don’t get to talk about him like that.” You hiss out. Daniel blinked, caught completely off guard.
“He is more of a man than you will ever be. You’re fucking jealous he can make a living skating while you’re still living out your glory days from high school.” No one spoke a word. Champagne glasses were clattering as people listened. No one ever expected you to.
Chan’s eyes were on you; he couldn’t look away. You looked so hot right now.
“I didn’t know who he was,” you continued. It was the one lie you needed to clear up right now, but your voice was cracking with so much emotion.
“But I know who he is. I know how he makes me feel safe in a room full of people who’ve spent their entire lives making me feel small. I know he looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing. And I won’t let you take that away from me.” The silence after your words was louder than the music had been.
Daniel muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Chan hadn’t moved until you turned to him slowly, and your hands were trembling.
“I swear, I didn’t know Chan.” You whispered, your eyes pleading with him as you stepped in front of him, reaching for his hand but stopping, allowing him to connect with you if he did.
“But I do now, and it doesn’t bother me…I’m not letting you go without a fight…and I can fight, Chan.” You whisper. He stares at you for a long second, reaching for your hand. It was a small touch, but your whole world seemed to relax with that one touch.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice thick. “For seeing me. I’m sorry, I believed that asshole.” He sighs, leaning down and pressing his forehead to your own. You glance around and pull him toward the terrace, you didn’t want anyone to overhear this and report back about it.
Once you were outside, you leant on the wall and looked up at him,
“I was scared you knew who I really was,” he admitted. It wasn’t a good excuse; it was all he had to offer to you.
“and that this was all just… fake for you…When I was falling harder than I ever expected to,” Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, it was the first time you’d seen him not look so confident in himself.
“Chan,” you whisper. He moved closer to you, taking your face in his hands and running his thumb under your eyes.
“This was supposed to be a favor…a fake thing, but it stopped being fake the minute you looked at me like I mattered.” You whisper to him, his breath hitching as you admit that to him.
“I never thought I’d see someone who sees past all of the shit in my life…The injury, the hockey shit, all of the mistakes I made…but you see me for who I am…Not the hockey star, just me.”
“Just Chan.” You whisper, remembering how he’d told you he was “just chan” in his kitchen. Chan chuckled softly, leaning his head on yours as you giggled a little.
“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore.” He whispered,
“I was coming back to the room to tell you that last night when Daniel cornered me.” He shudders at the memory, moving his hands from your face to your waist and drawing your body closer to his.
“I don’t care about the past,” you reminded him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck.
“All I care about is us.” Chan’s lips curled into a genuine smile—warm, hopeful.
“Us,” he echoed, leaning down toward you but stopping midway to make sure that you wanted this as well. The kiss was unrushed, a little unsure at first. Just a peek on the lips…Then it moved into more.
A soft press of lips, his hands gripping your hips tightly and pulling you closer to him. Above you, fireworks exploded - no doubt your sisters work for her vlog. You deepened the kiss a little, sliding your tongue into his mouth as he resisted the urge to pick you up and take you right there and then.
“W-We should go slow,” He whispers, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting heavily.
“We do have that big bed…” You whisper, your heart racing and Chan’s pants getting tighter,
“Afraid you wouldn’t keep up?” You tease, running your hand down his front toward the belt of his pants, and he grunts, bucking his hips a little.
“N-No…I wanted to be a gentleman,”
“Be one tomorrow…Fuck me tonight.” You whisper, biting his lip softly and smirking as you pull away to leave the terrace, Chan following behind you like a needy puppy.
The elevator doors slid shut behind you both. You were already rummaging around in your small clutch bag to find the room key, practically bouncing with excitement. Your heart was racing, Chan’s was pounding against his chest, and he was scared you’d be able to hear it somehow.
“F-fuck, where is it?!” You whine, more to yourself than to him, as you went through the bag, desperate to get into the room. There was no way you were going to miss this night.
“Relax, sunshine. It’s almost as though you’re excited,” He teases, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, pushing your need to the edge. You were seconds away from letting him take you right there in the hallway.
“I-I can’t find it,” you hiss. Chan’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and grinding his hardness against your ass so you could feel just how hard he was for you.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he murmured, voice low and husky against your skin. Your fingers finally grabbed the key, and you practically threw the door open.
The door had barely closed behind you both before Chan’s mouth was on yours, you threw your bag behind him, and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck. There was no hesitation, no pretending, just pure raw and real heat between you.
“I need you,” You whisper as you kiss down his neck, your hands working on undoing his tie as you then rip his shirt open, buttons flying across the room. Chan chuckled darkly, looking down at you, his hands moving to frame your face. He was holding you like he was something precious, something breakable.
He was kissing you like he’d been dying to, like he’d spent every second in silence today dreaming of this moment with you. Your fingers slid into his curls, tugging gently, and the low growl that left his throat made your knees wobble,
“I’ve wanted you since that first day in your pajamas…I was done for,” He whispered between the kisses, backing you slowly toward the bed. You giggled a little
“You called them cute.”
“I was trying not to lose my mind,” he muttered, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your neck.
“I was imagining them on my bedroom floor…You have no idea what you do to me…” You gasp as his teeth graze against your skin, you slowly lie down onto the bed, and look up at him shyly.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, stepping back for just a beat to take you in. He was never going to get enough of you. You giggle a little, slowly pulling your dress off and dropping it by the bed, leaving you naked in front of him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He whispers. Heat grew all over your body, not just from what he was saying, but it was the way he was looking at you, he was looking at you like he meant every single word. That you were the only one for him.
Chan stepped forward again, slower now, like he wanted to savor this moment with you, which he did. His hands slid along your hips, thumbs brushing your bare skin, and you leaned into him, kissed him again — deeper this time, needier.
“Tell me this is real,” you whispered, voice trembling as he hovered above you, his lips brushing yours. He cupped your cheek, eyes locked on yours.
“This stopped being fake the minute I got to share a bed with you, sunshine.” You kiss him again, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him closer to you, ready to be intimate with him and seal the deal.
As the bus pulled into the small station of Citrus Cove, you felt the warm, familiar breeze wrap around you like a welcome hug. God, it felt good to be out of the summer heat in Spain and off the bus. You needed to crack your back in at least seven places,
“Wanna crack my back?” you groan, twisting awkwardly as you stretch. “It’s driving me nuts.” Chan pulls a face like you just offered him a plate of raw sardines, and he takes a step back from you.
“Absolutely not. That sound is cursed.” You stare at him, scandalised. Surely, he’d heard much worse in his hockey days?
“You’re a hockey player! You’ve definitely heard worse.” You scoff at him, and Chan smirks down at you.
“Yeah— my own bones, sunshine. Every snap sucked. I’m traumatised. You’re on your own.” He tells you, holding his hands up in defence while you pout dramatically.
“We just got back, and already you’re abandoning me? I feel betrayed.” He rolls his eyes, tossing his cap into his bag as you both walk toward the exit of the bus station.
“Says the girl about to run off and play Santa with all the gifts we picked up.” He smirks at you, and you stop walking and scoff playfully at him.
“Okay, rude. But then I’m coming right back for movie night. With snacks.”
“You staying over?” he asks casually, like it’s no big deal, but you catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You both couldn’t stay away from each other, god, there had been a moment on the plane, he thought he was going to have to sneak you into the toilets…but he was good and kept himself calm.
“I don’t think I can sleep without you anymore… you’ve ruined me. I’m a ruined woman, Chan.” You say dramatically, laying your hand over your forehead, but the action only made him smirk at you, completely smug and unbothered,
“In more ways than one.” He whispers in your ear suggestively, you gasp, swatting him with your neck pillow, his laughter echoing around you as you chase him out of the exit, but you freeze in place, seeing people from the town waiting for you.
There were signs made with “Mr and Mrs Bhang” written on them, and Chan’s cheeks were turning bright red.
Mrs Jones was practically squealing as she looked at you both, swatting Jamerson's hands as she whispered something to him about you both holding hands.
“We heard about Spain! What a wedding!” Mrs. Henderson, your friendly neighbor from down the lane, called out as you passed by her. Your cheeks were heating more and more.
“And the kiss… the kiss was all over TikTok yesterday!” added a teenage girl clutching her phone, cheeks flushed from excitement. You bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely. You knew your sister had been recording the wedding, but you thought the kiss was private.
“Did you know Chan was famous? Like, seriously?!” Mrs Jones asks, opening her car door for you and Chan to climb inside. You shook your head, still a little stunned by how quickly the news had spread. Chan, standing behind you, caught your flustered expression, and his eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.
“You’re officially mine now, princess.” He whispers, sealing the promise with a kiss.
Life in Citrus Cove settled back into its normal and easy rhythm. Chan threw himself into coaching the school’s hockey team, the kids adored him — even the stubborn ones found themselves working harder under his calm, steady guidance. You adored seeing him work every night, doing something he enjoyed. It gave him back something he thought he’d lost a long time ago.
You, meanwhile, returned to the inn like you’d never left. Your best friend had taken a couple of days off lately, and you wanted to catch up with her. On the days you had a night shift, Chan made sure to come and sit with you in the lobby, making himself useful by learning to fold napkins and even make beds.
Your mornings were spent in bed, with breakfast together. You spent more time at his place than your own. You were working on getting out of your lease soon, too. Your evenings were filled with laughter and soft touches exchanged between you and Chan.
Finally, though, you’d tracked down your best friend and were forcing her to come and sit with you for a while. Mrs Jones had just bought over your coffee and cake order before leaving the two of you alone.
Your best friend let out a dramatic sigh, stirring her drink without taking a sip. She looked exhausted, with bags under her eyes, and even her clothes were messy. Your friend was someone who prided herself on her fashion; she did work in a fashion magazine after all.
“The toddler next door is going to be the death of me. She’s got lungs like an airhorn — and no concept of sleep.” She sighs, running her hands over her face. You raised a brow, there was no one in town who had given birth lately, but you knew one of Chan’s ex-teammates had moved to Citrus Cove,
“Isn’t that the new guy? Minho, right? He moved into the old Jenkins place?” You quizzed, sipping on your coffee as she nodded her head.
“Yeah,” she said, blowing on her coffee. Clearly, she needed it; the whole time you’d known her, she’d never touched a drop of tea. She was usually strictly tea only.
“Single dad. Quiet. Hot, in a brooding dad kind of way. But that kid’s got a scream that could shatter windows. I swear, kids gonna be a fucking opera singer,” You grinned at her. She was on “break” from the magazine for a while. “Break” being code for “creative block,” and she needed time off to get her mind back into the game.
“Didn’t you used to be a nanny before you moved here? Maybe you could offer to babysit. Give him — and yourself — a break…You’re on a break from the magazine...” She blinked, surprised. It had been nice when she used to be a nanny, and Minho did seem like he would need a little help.
“You think I should?” You shrugged a little.
“This is Citrus Cove. People leave casseroles on porches for strangers. My kiss with Chan was trending. I’m pretty sure knocking on the door and offering help is normal. And hey, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the brooding single dad either…” You smirk, wriggling your eyebrows at her.
“Getting laid might help with the block, too.” You wink at her, she laughs, already pulling her phone out and nodding.
Neither of you knew it yet, but this one small decision that was about to shift everything…
