Synopsis: You learn to protect yourself from hurt by building walls around you. Then Hyunjin comes, showing you that love can be soft, patient and gentle — and worth the leap. (17k words)
The gallery is louder than Hyunjin remembers it ever being.
Voices overlap in polite admiration and thinly veiled competition, laughter ringing too sharp against the white walls. The annual student exhibition always draws a crowd.
His painting hangs at eye level, exactly where the faculty suggested it should be. Oil on canvas. Controlled strokes. Composition honed through months of revisions. He stands near it, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that has been practiced into muscle memory over the years. People drift in and out of his orbit easily.
“This one’s yours again, Hyunjin,” someone says with a laugh, nudging his shoulder.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” another adds, eyes bright with admiration.
“Second years in a row—legendary.”
Everyone keeps saying, assuming the same thing just because he won the student art prize last year. To Hyunjin, winning has never been something he allows himself to assume—not because he lacks confidence, but because he knows how fragile it is. Art doesn’t belong to expectation.
Hyunjin answers questions thoughtfully. He talks about process, about intention. He never talks about victory. He smiles when he’s expected to. Nods. Thanks them. But he never lets it settle because the moment he believes he deserves something, it stops listening to him.
As the crowd shifts, his attention wanders to other paintings lining the walls, to names printed neatly on placards. He scans instinctively, cataloguing styles, techniques and then, he realizes something. There’s a gap. Not an empty wall, but a presence he doesn’t recognize.
At the far end of the gallery, tucked slightly away from the main flow, a painting holds a quiet gravity that doesn’t beg to be noticed. Green dominates the canvas, lush and layered, alive in a way that feels deliberate rather than decorative. Flowers bloom unapologetically, vines twisting into one another like they’re holding secrets.
He steps closer before he means to and at first glance, it’s beautiful. Serene, even. The kind of work that soothes viewers, that gives them something pleasant to praise. He almost turns away—
And then he sees the space between the leaves sharpens. Shadows pull into shape. Two eyes look back at him, not directly, but as if they’re watching from somewhere just beyond the room. A face emerges slowly, fragmented, hidden beneath the growth. And behind it all—thin, careful lines etched into the canvas. Old wounds. Healed badly. Covered, not erased.
Hyunjin stills because the longer he looks, the more the painting changes. Then he glances at the placard beneath it. A name he doesn’t recognize.
He looks around instinctively, expecting to find the artist nearby so he can ask further about their work, but no one stands there. The space around the painting is empty like it’s been left alone on purpose.
Hyunjin exhales slowly, something unfamiliar settling in his chest. Not jealousy. Not fear. Curiosity.
Because whoever painted this—
They weren’t trying to win. They were trying to be understood.
-
The night stretches on in a slow, gilded blur.
Hyunjin answers more questions, accepts more praise than he knows what to do with. Someone presses a champagne flute into his hand, he takes a polite sip and sets it aside untouched. Every few minutes, his gaze drifts back to the green painting at the end of the room like a reflex he hasn’t learned to control yet.
His curiosity deepens as the artist never appears until eventually, the lights dim just slightly—a subtle cue that the night is reaching its peak. Conversations soften, people instinctively drawing closer to the podium located in the center end of the gallery where the judges gather.
Hyunjin straightens without thinking, smoothing a hand over his sleeve. Around him, bodies shift. Eyes flick toward him, then away again, then back. Expectation hums in the air.
Someone near him murmurs, “Here we go,” under their breath.
He feels that collective assumption settling like a weight on his shoulders. Two years of precedent. Two years of predictability. He doesn’t resent it, but he doesn’t claim it either. He keeps his expression calm the way he always does.
Art isn’t a crown you wear. It’s something you offer and then let go of.
The head judge steps forward, microphone catching softly. They speak about growth. About voices. About courage in creation.
Hyunjin listens carefully, more than most. His pulse remains steady.
“And this year,” the judge continues, “the winning piece moved us not because of its polish but because of its honesty.”
A few students glance at him again, smiles already forming, ready to hear his name being called.
Hyunjin doesn’t move. His fingers curl slightly at his side.
“And the winner of this year’s Art Prize is…”
The name is spoken and it’s not his.
For a heartbeat, the gallery goes silent. The kind that comes from surprise, not disappointment. Hyunjin feels the shift immediately, like the room has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
Around him, students turn in unison, eyes flicking from him to the far end of the gallery, to the painting cloaked in green. Whispered confusion ripples outward and buzzing in place.
Hyunjin doesn’t feel the loss. There’s no sting. No hollow drop in his chest. Instead, something else unfurls.
He looks again at the painting, seeing it now not as an anomaly, but as an answer. The judge continues speaking, calling for the artist to step forward, but no one does. A pause stretches and then another.
The artist isn’t here.
A quiet murmur spreads, surprised, uncertain. Hyunjin barely hears it. His attention stays anchored to the canvas, to the pair of eyes hidden in the leaves, to the face that never quite steps into the light.
Who paints something like that and doesn’t come to watch it win?
He exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely in intrigue.
Whoever you are, he thinks, you didn’t paint this for applause.
And suddenly, he wants to know you.
-
Hyunjin sits through his lectures with the same attentiveness he always has, but there’s a thread pulling at the back of his mind, tugging his focus loose every few minutes. Sketches form beneath his pen without him realizing—leaves, curved lines, negative space that keeps resolving into eyes when he looks too closely. He frowns, closes the notebook, forces himself to listen.
By lunchtime, he eats with friends, nods along to conversations about critiques and deadlines and the shock of the prize going to someone new. Your name surfaces again and again, each time spoken with the same puzzled tone.
“You know who painted it?” someone asks him.
Hyunjin shakes his head. “No.”
That answer sits strangely on his tongue.
Between classes, he starts asking around. Just curiosity disguised as coincidence.
“Hey, do you know who painted the piece that won the art prize?”
“Oh, her? She’s in the illustration track, I think.”
“She’s quiet. Never really talks.”
“I don’t think she hangs around much.”
Most answers trail off into shrugs. Finally, near the end of the day, he catches up to someone from one of the shared studios. He keeps his tone light, conversational.
“Do you know where she usually works?”
The student thinks for a moment. “Yeah. She stays late. Always does.”
“Where?”
They jerk their chin toward the older buildings at the edge of campus. “Studio H. The abandoned one after that fire. Barely anyone uses it anymore. She’s almost always there after school.”
Hyunjin thanks them and turns away before they can read too much into his expression.
The last class of the day drags. He packs up the second it ends, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping out into the frosty winter air. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across campus, students spilling out in clusters toward buses and cafes and home.
Hyunjin walks in the opposite direction and the farther he goes, the quieter it gets. The chatter fades, replaced by the sound of his own footsteps and the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.
The building comes into view gradually—older, narrower, one of the walls still has smoke stains from a fire that happened almost a year ago.
Hyunjin slows as he approaches, something like reverence settling over him. The windows glow faintly, warm against the encroaching dusk. He pauses at the entrance, fingers brushing the strap of his bag, suddenly aware of the intrusion his presence might be.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, only that he needs to see the person who painted something like that. So pushes the door open quietly and steps inside.
-
The studio isn’t what Hyunjin expects.
There’s no familiar scent of oil paint or turpentine, no easels or canvas lined neatly against the walls. Instead, the air is thick with clay and dust, cool and damp in a way that settles into the lungs. Half-finished sculptures crowd the room—torsos without heads, hands reaching for nothing, faces frozen mid-thought. It feels less like a classroom and more like a place where people disappear into their work.
Someone stands at a table near the entrance, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in a block of clay. He wears headphones, head bobbing faintly to a rhythm Hyunjin can’t hear. The sculptor glances up when the door opens, eyes flicking over Hyunjin with mild curiosity before returning immediately to their work. Unbothered.
Hyunjin steps farther inside, careful with his footing. His eyes instinctively search for an easel, canvas, brushes, anything that confirms the person he’s looking for belongs here. He doesn’t find one but what he does find is you.
You sit on a wooden stool near the back, posture slightly hunched, fully absorbed. A half-body sculpture rests in front of you. Your hands move with steady familiarity, thumbs pressing, fingers smoothing. Clay clings beneath your nails, streaks your apron, catches in a loose strand of hair by your temple.
Hyunjin hesitates, suddenly aware of the intrusion. He knows this feeling too well because he too, hates when someone interrupt him in the middle of painting.
Still, he clears his throat softly. “Hi.”
You glance at him then. Just enough to register his presence. Your eyes meet his for half a second before dropping back to your sculpture, hands never pausing. No greeting. No dismissal either.
Hyunjin exhales quietly. He decides to be quick. “Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know where I can find—” He says your name.
Your hands keep moving. You don’t turn to him. “That’s me.”
Hyunjin is puzzled once more. His gaze drifts back to the sculpture, then to you, recalibrating everything he thought he knew. A painter, he had assumed. Not this.
“I—” He catches himself, straightens. “I’m Hyunjin. We haven’t met. But I saw your work at the exhibition.”
Your shoulders tense, just slightly.
He continues carefully, “I wanted to congratulate you. Your painting—it was incredible. I really admired it. And winning the student art prize—”
“I didn’t win anything.”
The interruption is flat and final.
Hyunjin frowns, confused. “But your painting was there. You won this year’s art prize.”
You press your thumb into the clay a little harder than before. “Someone else submitted it without my consent.”
That stops him cold but he isn’t offended. Only sincerely, utterly confused. That painting, raw and deliberate and brave, doesn’t feel like something that should be taken from its creator. And the thought unsettles him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he says honestly.
You finally look at him again, this time longer but there’s no warmth in it. Just distance, hollow.
“If you don’t mind,” you say coolly, already turning back to your sculpture, “I’d like to work in peace.”
Hyunjin nods immediately. He understands that tone. He’s used it himself. “Of course. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I hope you have a good day.”
He backs away slowly, careful not to bump into anything, and slips out the door as quietly as he entered.
Outside, the air feels lighter but his chest only tightens. Hyunjin reaches the doorway, hand hovering over the handle, but he quickly pauses. Because now, more than ever, he wants to know why someone who creates like that would let their work speak without them.
And why they’d rather remain unseen.
-
You’re halfway through cleaning clay from beneath your nails when your phone vibrates on the edge of the sink, screen lighting up with your professor’s name. The subject line is polite and you skim most of it, finding out that she wants to see you in her office later.
So after lunch, you make your way there. Her office smells faintly of paper and old coffee, sunlight spilling in through tall windows that make everything feel exposed. She gestures for you to sit, her expression unreadable in that careful way professors master over the years.
“I wanted to talk to you about the exhibition,” she begins.
You already know about what she did with your painting without your permission. Thanks to whoever came to the studio the other day, telling you that you won something you didn’t even know you were a part of in the first place.
She folds her hands on the desk. “I submitted your painting for the student art prize.”
The words land exactly where you expect them to, and still—they irritate. Settle under your skin.
“I didn’t give my consent,” you say evenly.
She sighs, not frustrated—more thoughtful. “I know. And I understand why you’re upset.”
Upset isn’t the word. But you let her continue.
“It won,” she adds.
You look at her then, exasperated but don’t know how to express it since she’s your professor and your respect her too much. “That doesn’t change anything.”
She studies you for a moment, gaze softening. “You’re exceptionally talented. But you hide. You always have. Your work deserves to be seen.”
You inhale air to calm yourself before speaking. “I don’t need validation. Or praise. Or awards.”
There’s no bitterness in your voice. Just fact.
She leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the armrest. “It’s not about validation. It’s about connection. About letting others know they’re not alone.”
You stiffen because she’s hovering too close to the very thing you don’t want to talk about.
“Your painting,” she continues, careful now, “it heals. Art heals. People like you—people who don’t know how to speak yet—they see it and feel understood.”
You look down at your hands, at the faint cracks in your skin, clay still embedded in the lines of your palms.
“I don’t make art to heal people,” you murmur. “I make it so I can breathe.”
She nods, accepting that. Then she reaches into a drawer and places the certificate on the desk, followed by the small trophy. They look out of place between stacks of papers and books. “I won’t argue with you. But I won’t apologize either,” she says.
You consider pushing back but you’re too tired and arguing won’t unpaint what’s already been seen. You take the certificate and the trophy, not in triumph, but in defeat.
“Since you won,” she adds, stopping you at the door, “your painting is being showcased in the main hall now.”
You close your eyes briefly. Eyelids fluttering as you hold yourself back. You nod once, hand tightening around the edge of the certificate as you step back into the hallway. The door closes behind you with a soft click, leaving you alone with the echo of her words and the weight of something you never asked to share.
You exhale slowly at the fact that more people know about the painting and the one who painted it now. And you’re not sure how that makes you feel—only that there’s no taking it back.
-
The hallway feels longer after stepping out of your professor’s office. Your footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor, certificate tucked under your arm, the trophy weighing your already packed bag.
Students pass you in pairs and clusters, voices overlapping, laughter brushing past you without catching. You keep your eyes forward, jaw set as you think about the painting. You never meant for it to leave your hands.
It wasn’t created for walls or spotlights or circles of admiration. You painted it late at night, alone, when the studios were empty and no one could watch you hesitate. It’s the most honest you’ve ever been—every brushstroke a confession you never learned how to say out loud. You didn’t plan for anyone to see the face hidden beneath the leaves, the way the wounds rest beneath something alive.
You showed it to your professor because you trusted her. Because she asked gently. Because she never pushed. You thought that it would stay between the two of you, safe in that small space of understanding.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
The main hall opens up ahead of you, wide and bright, sunlight flooding in through the tall and wide entrance of the building that leaves nowhere to hide. You slow without meaning to, pulse ticking louder in your ears. A small crowd lingers near the center wall in that particular way people get when they know something is important but don’t quite know why.
You see it then. Your painting hangs there, framed neatly, too clean for what it contains. The green looks brighter under the lights, the flowers more alive than you remember. From a distance, it almost lies, almost convinces. Up close, the truth waits patiently for anyone willing to look long enough.
You notice one person in particular stands in front of it, unmoving. Tall. Lean. Long, silky black hair falling just past his eyes, catching the light when he tilts his head. His posture is relaxed but intent, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jeans like he’s afraid to touch anything. There’s a stillness to him that sets him apart from the others drifting in and out.
You recognize him immediately as the guy who came to the studio the other day. He introduced himself and it takes you a while to recall his name.
Hyunjin.
He isn’t looking at the placard. He isn’t glancing around to see who’s watching. His gaze stays fixed on the canvas, expression stripped of anything performative. Just quiet focus like he’s listening to something only the painting is saying.
A strange, uncomfortable thought settles in your chest. Because out of everyone here, he’s the one who’s really seeing it.
You stop a few steps away, heart knocking unevenly, caught between wanting to turn around and wanting to know what he sees when he looks at something you never meant to share. This time, you don’t feel annoyed by his presence. You feel exposed.
You stay where you are as he shifts his weight slightly, head tilting as if he’s following a line only he can see, eyes tracing the edges of the leaves, the spaces between them. He leans in, just a fraction, like he’s careful not to miss anything.
You wonder what he wants from you. When he showed up at the studio, you assumed curiosity sharpened by ego—another artist wanting to size you up, to confirm that the prize made sense. Or maybe obligation. A polite congratulations delivered because it was expected of him, because everyone was watching.
But now, standing here, alone with your painting, he doesn’t look like someone checking a box. He looks… thoughtful.
You wonder if he knows how close he stands to the face hidden in the green. If he’s seen the eyes yet. If he’s noticed the cuts behind the leaves, softened by color but still there, still real. You wonder if he understands that the painting isn’t brave—it’s just tired of being quiet and you hate how much it matters.
You quickly remind yourself that his intentions don’t concern you. That whatever he thinks about your work, about you, doesn’t change the fact that it was never meant to be here.
As if sensing the weight of your gaze, Hyunjin turns and his eyes meet yours immediately. Surprise flickers briefly across his face, then fades into something gentler.
Neither of you speak. The moment stretches thin, suspended between the two of you.
You look away and turn on your heel, heart thudding a little too hard, and start down the hallway toward your next class.
Behind you, you don’t hear him follow. But you feel the echo of his attention linger long after you’ve gone and you don’t know yet whether that unsettles you more than the painting being seen.
-
Studio H has gotten a renovation done months ago but many students choose not to use it anymore because of the fire, the building is old and narrow, and secluded from the rest of the school. This space understands silence better than most people do and for you, that’s the whole charm of it.
There’s only one other person using the studio other than you. Ben. He’s a fellow sculptor, doesn’t talk much and keeps it to himself most of the time which is why you’re comfortable sharing the space with him.
You greet him with a small nod as you step inside. He lifts a hand in return, already half-lost in his work, headphones slipping over his ears. You walk to your usual spot near the back, the stool already molded to the shape of you from hours spent there. The half-body sculpture waits exactly where you left it, surface still bearing the marks of your last touch. You hang your bag, take your apron and put it on.
The door bangs open and someone stumbles in carrying far too much at once—an easel clattering against the frame, a box filled with what looks like paint tubes and brushes threatening to spill, two blank canvases pressed awkwardly under one arm. A backpack recklessly hangs off one shoulder.
Hyunjin freezes for half a second when he spots you, then grins like the disruption is part of his charm. Unfazed, he crosses the room and drops everything into the far corner, directly across from your space.
You watch him quietly as he straightens, dusts off his hands, then shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m a student here. I can use whichever studio I want,” he says with a coy shrug.
You don’t respond but tie your apron and pick up your sculpting tool, turning back to your work as if he isn’t there. But he is.
You feel the way his presence alters the room, the subtle shift in energy. The scrape of the easel as he adjusts it. The soft clink of paint tubes. The rustle of canvas. You try to tune it out, focus on the curve of the shoulder you’re shaping, the line you want to soften. But it doesn’t work because you’re fully aware that he’s there, close enough to matter, close enough to be intentional.
And that’s what bothers you most. You don’t know why he’s here, but you have the uneasy feeling that at least part of the answer is you.
-
People drift between studios all the time, especially this one, tucked away and forgotten. Hyunjin will get bored, you think. He’ll realize there’s nothing here for him.
But on the next day, his easel is already set up when you arrive. The third day, he’s rearranged the corner just enough to make it his. He moves through the space with an ease that unsettles you, like he’s found comfort faster than he should have.
It annoys you more than you expect. You try to ignore him, the same way you ignore most people. You focus on your sculpture, on the press and pull of clay beneath your fingers. Still, you register everything: the scrape of his chair, the soft hum of music leaking from his headphones, the way he pauses sometimes, staring at his canvas like he’s waiting for it to answer back.
A few days in, he starts bringing coffee. He arrives one afternoon with a cardboard tray balanced in one hand, steam curling up toward the ceiling. He offers cups around casually like he’s always been part of this routine. Ben accepts one with a surprised laugh, pulling off their headphones to say thanks.
Hyunjin doesn’t ask you. He just sets a cup down on the empty table near your station and moves on, as if he knows you’ll decide for yourself.
You don’t touch it, but the warm, bitter, faintly sweet smell lingers longer than you want it to.
Another day, you glance up briefly and find him leaning against Ben’s table talking quietly. They’re smiling and chatting. You don’t hear what’s being said, only catch the way Hyunjin’s hands move when he talks, expressive, animated. It’s strange, seeing him like this here, in a space that never belonged to him before.
Hyunjin laughs at something Ben says and the sound makes your chest tighten, just a little. A few minutes later, he wanders over to your station. You feel him before you see him, the air shifting as he stops beside you. You keep working, carving carefully, refusing to acknowledge him. He doesn’t say anything but stands there, watching. Finally, you glance up and he smiles at you, quiet and unintrusive. Not the kind meant to impress or demand. Just… there.
You look back down at your sculpture, irritation curling low in your stomach. You still don’t know what he wants. But it’s becoming harder to pretend he isn’t slowly making himself impossible to ignore.
-
You already know you’ll see Hyunjin.
The thought settles in your mind sometime between your last class and studio H, and instead of following it, you turn the other way. You leave campus behind, cut through streets you know by heart, and end up at the city park just as the afternoon light begins to thin.
The fountain is cold and still, icicles hanging off the edge like flows of water frozen in time. You sit on a bench nearby and pull your sketchbook free, tucking your hands into your sleeves between strokes. The winter air bites, stiffening your fingers until you have to stop every few minutes, rubbing your palms together, breathing warmth into them before continuing. You don’t mind it. This is your version of rest.
You sketch without thinking too much, letting the page take whatever your hands give it. The sky shifts slowly above you, washed in pale gold and fading blue. People come and go—joggers, couples, someone walking their dog—sometimes sharing the bench for a moment before moving on. You notice them only in passing, vaguely, like background noise.
“Hey,” a voice says. “Do you mind if I sit?”
You look up from your drawing and Hyunjin stands there, hands hooked into the straps of his bag, breath fogging faintly in the cold. He smiles when he sees you, easy and confident, like this was always a possibility.
You slowly look back down at your sketchbook. “It’s a public space. Sit wherever you want.”
He takes that as permission.
He drops down beside you immediately, close enough that your sleeves brush. You stiffen, but he doesn’t comment. He just starts pulling things out of his bag: sketchbook, pencils, eraser. He lines them up neatly on the bench between you.
When you think he’s done, you hear the quiet tear of plastic. All of a sudden, he presses something into your hand. You look down to find a small heat pack, warm and humming faintly against your palm.
Hyunjin doesn’t look at you but flips open his sketchbook to a clean page like he didn’t just do all that and starts drawing, pencil moving with slow confidence. You sit there, stunned, heat seeping into your fingers. And for a long moment, you let him.
The two of you draw in silence, the space between you filled with the scratch of pencil and the distant sound of the city. Your hands loosen. The cold eases. The sky darkens until the last streak of color slips below the horizon, and the park gradually empties, footsteps fading one by one.
When it’s finally quiet enough to hear your own breathing, you close your sketchbook and turn to him. “Say what you want.”
Hyunjin pauses, pencil hovering. He pretends to think about it, eyes drifting upward like he hadn’t come here with intention stitched into every step. Then he looks at you with eyes soft, smile gentler than you expect.
“Uhm… Coffee?”
-
The café is warm in a way that slowly seeps into your bones. Steam curls up from your cup, fogging the space between you and the table, carrying the earthy, comforting scent of coffee. You don’t drink it right away. You just sit there and watch him.
Hyunjin cradles his cup like it’s something fragile. He lifts it, inhales first with eyes closing briefly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before taking a careful sip. He looks at ease like he isn’t sitting across from someone who’s wound tight enough to snap.
You keep watching and he doesn’t call you out on it, doesn’t shift or fidget or ask what you’re staring at. He just lets you look, like he’s used to being observed and has nothing to hide.
It’s been a moment and you’re not exactly enjoying his company so you decide being the one who breaks first. “I know you won the student art prize last year,”
He nods once, swallowing another sip. “Yes.”
“So I’m assuming all of this—congratulating me, suddenly working in my studio, following me around—”
“I didn’t stalk you,” he cuts in calmly.
You pause, eyes narrowing.
“Ben told me you go to the park when you skip the studio,” he adds, unbothered. “I just… guessed.”
You ignore that entirely, lean back slightly and look at him properly now. “Did you do all this because you were hurt? Because you didn’t win this year, and some unknown did instead?”
Hyunjin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t defend himself. He simply sets his cup down on the table with care, porcelain meeting wood softly. Then he looks at you and smiles as he says, “I did it because I admire your work.”
You scoff before you can stop yourself. “How? You only know me now.”
He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not too late to like something.”
You don’t respond. Mostly because you don’t want to entertain him further.
Silence stretches between you, but Hyunjin doesn’t rush to fill it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, sincere. “Technically, your painting is incredible. Your control of color, the way you layer greens without letting them turn muddy. Your brushstrokes feel intentional, not decorative. And the composition—how the eye keeps getting drawn inward instead of outward—it’s hard to do that without forcing it.”
You stare at the surface of your coffee, jaw tightening. Then you notice the way his tone shifts.
“But what stayed with me,” he continues, “was the feeling. The restraint. The way the painting doesn’t ask to be understood, but it waits. The honesty in it—how you didn’t soften anything just to make it easier to look at.”
He looks at you steadily now and somehow, you can’t look away. “That takes courage… Being that bare. Not everyone can do that.”
Something in you recoils. It feels like being cut open—not violently, but precisely. Like he’s peeled back layers you never gave permission to touch, standing there with clear sight of everything you keep hidden. You stiffen, spine straightening, walls sliding back into place.
Because this isn’t flattery. This is real. And it terrifies you.
You inhale slowly, forcing calm into your voice. “I appreciate your comments about my painting.”
You stand before he can say anything else. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor as you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder. There’s a tightness in your chest now, something burning and dangerously close to anger.
“But I’d appreciate it more,” you add, not quite looking at him, “if you stopped coming to the studio. Paint somewhere else.”
You don’t wait for his response but walk straight to the door, push it open, and step outside. The winter air rushes to meet you, cold brushing your cheeks, your hair, stealing your breath for a second. As you head down the street, hands shoved deep into your pockets, you frown to yourself. You don’t understand why you’re so mad at him.
Only that somehow, he saw too much and you weren’t ready for that at all.
-
You walk toward the studio with your shoulders drawn in, jaw set, already bracing yourself.
You tell yourself not to but you do anyway. You picture him there before you even reach the door. Hyunjin, exactly where he’s been these past days, sprawled into the space like he belongs, like your words from last night were nothing more than background noise.
You inhale deeply before pushing the door open. Warm air rushes out to meet you as you slip inside, and you’re quick to shut it behind you, muttering a quiet curse at the cold before it can follow.
“Hey, Ben,” you say, out of habit.
Ben looks up from his station and grins, lifting his thumb in a silent thumbs-up. You nod back, automatic, already moving further inside. And oh, you’re dreading it cause you’re going to see—
Hyunjin’s spot is empty. No easel angled just a little too close to yours. No canvases leaning against the wall. No careless backpack slung over a chair, no presence stretching across the space and into your awareness. It’s… bare.
The corner looks wrong without him like something’s been erased.
Ben notices the pause. He slips one side of his headphones down and follows your line of sight. “Oh, Hyunjin came about an hour ago. Packed up his stuff and left,” he says casually.
You hum in response, like that information means nothing to you. You don’t ask why. You just move. Your feet carry you to your station on instinct, hands already reaching for your apron, body slipping back into the familiar rhythm of work. Clay beneath your fingers, cool and solid, grounding you as you pick up where you left off.
Still, your eyes betray you. They flick up now and then, drifting to that empty corner across the room. Each time, they pause for half a second too long, as if they’re waiting for something to fill the space, as if they need time to adjust.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a habit you’ll break.
-
The cold deepens quietly, the kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s already settled into your bones. Each day, the walk to the studio becomes a struggle—air biting at your cheeks, breath fogging in front of you like a small, constant reminder that winter has decided to stay. You haven’t seen Hyunjin since that night in the café. Not in the studio. Not in the halls. Not hovering in places you didn’t ask him to be. You tell yourself that’s good. That it’s what you wanted.
Today, snow is already falling by the time you reach the studio. It crunches beneath your boots, a soft, brittle sound that follows you all the way to the door. Inside, warmth wraps around you instantly.
“God, it’s freezing,” Ben groans when you greet him.
You hum in agreement, shrugging off your coat, slipping back into routine like muscle memory. Clay under your fingers. Silence where it belongs. Time dissolves without asking permission.
You don’t notice how late it’s gotten until Ben starts packing up. He pulls on his jacket, shoulders his bag, glancing out the window with a frown. “Weather’s supposed to get bad tonight. You might want to head out early,” he says in quiet concern.
“I’ll wrap up soon,” you assures him.
He smiles in understanding. “Be safe, okay?”
You nod and with that, Ben leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and the studio exhales into stillness.
It’s quiet in a way that feels heavier without other people to dilute it. You lean back against the wooden table and look out the window. Snow flutters down in uneven patterns, catching the light, softening the world into something distant and muted. There’s a strange ache in watching it—something slow and sinking that you don’t bother naming.
You work for another hour anyway and when you finally stop, your hands are numb. You wash them thoroughly, watching the clay spiral down the drain, then button your coat all the way up, tugging it tight around your throat. Bag over your shoulder. You take one last glance around the studio and then you step outside.
The snow comes down immediately, clinging to your hair, your sleeves, the lashes of your eyes. You shut the door carefully behind you, already dreading the long, freezing walk to the bus stop. You turn toward the school gate and halt to a stop when you see someone there.
Hyunjin, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his coat pockets, snow caught in his hair, dusting the collar of his coat and the red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looks like he’s been standing there for a while, long enough for the cold to settle into him. Yet, he smiles when he sees you like all of that doesn’t bother him.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, incredulous.
“Waiting for you,” he says easily. Then, as if it’s obvious, “You didn’t want me in your studio.”
“So?”
“So I waited outside.”
That only makes it worse. “Why?”
He coyly shrugs. “I figured you’d be out late. And the buses stop running when the weather gets like this.”
He glances at the snow, then back at you. “So I’ll… drive you home.”
None of it makes sense. You don’t understand why he’s here. Why he’s worried. Why he’s standing in the cold like this is something he owes you. You’re no one to him. You should tell him to leave. You should say thank you. You should say anything that resembles civility. Instead, what comes out is sharp and raw and unfiltered.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Hyunjin just smiles, breath fogging in the air as he once again, coyly shrugs.
-
The car is warm in a way that makes you too aware of everything else.
Hyunjin drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes steady on the road, posture relaxed but attentive. He doesn’t put music on, doesn’t fill the silence with idle talk. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the soft crunch of tires rolling over snowed road.
You watch the world slide past the window as streetlights blurred into halos, sidewalks smoothed over by white, everything looking quieter, cleaner. Snow has a way of making the city feel forgiven like nothing bad has ever happened here, like nothing bad ever will. It’s almost convincing.
When he stops in front of your apartment building, you don’t move right away. The engine clicks off. Silence pours into the car, low and intimate. The windows fog slowly, your breath and his blurring the glass until the outside world feels very far away.
This time, he’s the one who speaks. “I tried. After you asked me to stop,” Hyunjin says quietly. “I really did.”
He exhales, fingers loosening on the steering wheel. “But every time I walk past your painting… it just—” He shakes his head, a soft, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It makes me like you more.”
The words are simple, almost innocent. You take them the way you’ve learned to take things like this. As intentions. As strategies. As something said with a desired outcome already in mind. You can already see where this goes—hopes raised too high, expectations forming, the inevitable collapse waiting patiently at the end. Disappointment. Pain. Regrets. More Pain.
So you scoff, soft but sharp. “So that’s what you want now? Us?”
You finally turn to him, eyes steady but intense. “You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?”
Your voice stays calm, but there’s something mocking beneath it.
Hyunjin doesn’t flinch as he easily says, “Yeah.”
Then, just as quickly, he adds, “We don’t have to do all of that. Not yet.”
You let out a short laugh because he really doesn’t seem to hear the sarcasm woven in your words.
Hyunjin shifts closer, an arm reaching into the backseat. The movement catches your attention despite yourself as his head lingers so close to yours for a brief moment. He pulls out a folded brochure and holds it out to you.
It takes you a second to register that it’s a brochure for an art exhibition of your favorite sculptor. Your fingers close around it before you can stop them.
“We can start with this,” he says softly.
You hate that you’re considering it, hate that the thought doesn’t feel heavy or terrifying and that it’s easy and possible.
“It’s this Saturday,” he adds, smiling.
You swallow, then hand the brochure back. “I don’t do this,” you say.
“Do what?”
You hesitate for a moment. Then—
“This. Going out. You and me—” You trail off, choosing not to finish the sentence.
He studies you for a moment, then nods like he’s reached a conclusion all on his own. “That’s okay. You don’t have to come.”
Relief barely has time to settle before he continues. “Just so you know, I’ll be waiting outside. In case you change your mind.”
You know what he’s doing. You recognize the shape of it. Emotional leverage dressed up as patience.
You decide not to respond. You unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers steady despite everything tightening in your chest. “Thank you for the ride,” you say.
The cold rushes in the second you open the door. You step out, shut it behind you, and don’t look back.
-
Hyunjin tells himself this was a bad idea. Standing outside the gallery, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, cold seeping through the soles of his shoes, he replays the conversation in his head for the hundredth time.
Waiting outside. In case you change your mind. He winces at his own words.
What was he thinking? This only gives you a way out. He should’ve picked you up, should’ve insisted, should’ve bribed you with something. Anything would’ve been better than this self-inflicted purgatory.
Snow gathers along the edges of the sidewalk. People pass him, couples slipping into the warmth of the gallery, chatting lightly, shaking snow from their coats.
He checks his watch and it’s only been twenty-eight minutes from the appointed time. It hasn’t even been that long, and yet he already senses the disappointment. He exhales, breath fogging in the air, shaking his head at himself.
Of course you wouldn’t come. He knows better than to be angry about it. You were clear. He’s the one who chose to hope anyway. That’s on him.
A few minutes later, acceptance settles in. He reaches into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against his car keys, ready to call it. Ready to leave before he makes a bigger fool of himself.
Then, he looks up and there you are, climbing the steps toward the entrance, coat pulled tight around you, expression calm and composed as always. His hand stills mid-motion, keys half out of his pocket. For a moment, he honestly thinks he’s imagining you.
You stop right in front of him. Your eyes briefly flick to the keys in his hand. “Planning to leave?” you ask flatly, a teasing edge cutting through your deadpan tone.
He gulps, then recovers fast. Too fast. “No. Just—uh—making sure I had my car keys with me.”
You raise an eyebrow in doubt. “Thought you were giving up. Figured you’d assume I wasn’t coming.”
“I didn’t,” he replies immediately, way too quick to be believable.
He sees the way your lips twitch, the split second where a smile almost breaks through before you look away, eyes fixed on the gallery doors instead.
“Can we go in? It’s cold,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets.
Relief hits him so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “Yeah—yeah,” he says, already turning, holding the door open for you. “Of course.”
-
Walking through the gallery with you feels nothing like Hyunjin imagined.
It’s quieter than the campus halls. White walls. Soft lighting. The kind of space that asks people to lower their voices, even their thoughts.
You move slowly, hands tucked into your coat sleeves, stopping in front of each sculpture like you’re greeting an old acquaintance. Hyunjin stays half a step behind you, watching the way your eyes trace lines and shadows before you even look at the plaque.
“So,” he says, stopping beside you in front of a tall, abstract piece, “tell me everything.”
You glance at him. “You can read the brochure.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Or,” you add dryly, “ask the curator.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “That defeats the purpose.”
You sigh. “And what purpose is that?”
“Bringing you,” he says easily.
You scoff. “Why me?”
He smiles, eyes warm. “Because you’re the only sculptor I know.”
“That’s a lie,” you reply immediately. “Ben’s a sculptor.”
Hyunjin barely thinks before answering, “Yeah, but there’s nothing romantic about taking Ben here.”
You stop walking and turn to look at him. “I came because I thought it supposed to be educational,” you say.
“It is,” he says, grinning. “With romantic undertones.”
You shake your head, muttering something under your breath as you move on, but a few steps later, you start talking anyway. About the negative space. About balance. About how the sculptor clearly wanted the weight to feel like it’s leaning forward even though it isn’t.
Hyunjin listens, genuinely, eyes flicking between you and the piece. At one point, he tilts his head and says, far too casually, “I don’t know. Sculptors always seem like they’re just… attacking their materials.”
You stop mid-sentence, clearly offended by what he said. “Excuse you? That’s such a lazy take. Sculpting is about dialogue—about resistance and cooperation. You don’t dominate the medium, you listen to it.”
Hyunjin’s smile slowly blooming on his face, wider and brighter. “Oh, she has opinions,” he pokes fun.
You keep going, words tumbling out faster now, hands moving as you talk. You’re defending it with your whole chest, and it hits him all at once—how alive you look like this. How open.
You catch yourself a second too late. Your voice trails off. Your cheeks warm. You look away.
Hyunjin laughs softly. “Wow. I didn’t know you could talk this much.”
You shoot him a glare that lacks real bite and Hyunjin lifts his hands in surrender. But he sees you almost—almost—laugh and he counts that as a win.
By the time you reach the last room, the crowd has thinned. Hyunjin feels that soft winding-down of the evening, the way the energy shifts when there’s nothing left to discover but the exit.
You stand in front of the final piece a little longer than necessary, then step back, hands slipping into your coat pockets. “Well,” you say, turning to him, voice measured. “That’s the end of the educational trip.”
Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat. He shakes his head, slow and confident. “Disagree.”
You narrow your eyes. “On what grounds?”
“It continues,” he says.
“With what?”
He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice like this is the most serious thing in the world. “Learning Italian cuisine.”
You stare at him, an eyebrow raises higher than the other.
He holds your gaze, completely unbothered, then smiles. “There’s an Italian place not far from here.”
He watches you think like this is a decision that will alter the trajectory of your life. Your jaw tightens. Your eyes flick toward the exit, then back to him.
Hyunjin doesn’t rush it. He’s learned better than that. Finally, without saying a word, you turn and start walking.
It takes him half a second to realize what just happened.
He catches up to you easily, falling into step beside you, a triumphant smile pulling at his lip, but careful as to not scare the moment away.
-
This Italian restaurant is what Hyunjin expected to be after reading the reviews on the internet. Farfalle, a restaurant that earned three stars rating. Great place, great food, great service but of course, you don’t care with such thing. Hyunjin doesn’t mind, he likes it that you’re more at ease with a glass of wine within reach.
The food arrives not long after and for a long while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence. Then curiosity gets the better of him.
“So,” Hyunjin says between bites, “why sculpture?”
You look up at him sharply. “What, you think that means I’m bad at it?”
He freezes for half a second. “No—no, that’s not what I meant.”
You hold his gaze, then the faintest smile appears, like a crack in glass. “I like it more. I like that it’s tangible. Heavy. Real.” You gesture lightly with your fork. “It takes patience. Time. You can’t rush it.”
Hyunjin nods, listening closely. Giving you all of his undivided attention.
“Painting,” you continue, quieter now, “is personal. I don’t do it for anyone else. It’s like… a private journal.”
That lands somewhere deep in his chest. He takes a sip of his wine, thoughtful.
“What about you? What do you do besides painting?”
Before he can swallow and answer your question, you tilt your head and add, “Let me guess—you take half the girls at school on ‘educational trips’ like this.”
He coughs once, then laughs, setting his glass down. “First of all, they were not educational.”
You hum as you reach for your wine glass. “Of course.”
“And second,” he adds, shameless, “I stopped because apparently it’s bad for me financially.”
You gasp softly, eyes widening in mock horror. “What a revelation!”
Then you lean back, fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. “And how about this one?”
Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate. He looks at you in the eyes as he confidently answers, “Special occasion.”
You don’t look impressed, but he catches the way your lips curve as you lift your wine glass.
“Whatever,” you say, clinking your glass lightly against his. “You’re paying.”
Hyunjin holds your gaze as you both take a sip, smiling into the moment.
-
Outside, the cold greets you immediately and Hyunjin feels bad for telling you that he’s parked his car down the street so the two of you have to walk through the park to get there. You sigh like it’s an inconvenience carved directly into fate, but you nod and step forward anyway.
He barely lets you take two steps before stopping you. You turn, ready with another comment, but he’s already unwinding his scarf and drapes it around your neck with utter gentleness, careful.
You roll your eyes. “I was fine.”
“I know,” he says, smiling.
You let it happen and that feels nice. It matters to him.
The park is quiet and empty at this hour, snow floating lazily through the air, settling onto benches and pathways like the city has decided to hold its breath. Each step crunches softly beneath your shoes. Hyunjin listens to the sound of the night folding itself around the two of you. He smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. “We had a pretty romantic night, don’t you think?”
You glance at him. “You mean educational?”
He laughs. “Fine. Educational exhibition. Then a romantic dinner.”
“Also educational.”
He hums, pretending to consider. “So what’s next on the list?”
He remembers your words in the café and it’s playing in his head like a tune. You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?
He smiles at himself as he recalls it. Then looks at you. “We could try holding hands.”
“Pass.”
He nods solemnly. “Okay. Kissing?”
“Hard pass.”
Hyunjin stops walking altogether, drawing in a dramatic breath. “Dancing under the snow?”
You turn to him, unimpressed. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“This isn’t some romcom. It’s real life. People don’t just… dance under the snow.”
Hyunjin tilts his head, eyes bright and mischievous. “I beg to differ.”
Before you can react, he takes your hand and tugs you forward. You resist at first but barely. Then he feels the moment where resistance softens into reluctant allowance. He guides you gently, twirling you once, twice, laughter slipping into his voice as snow clings to your hair.
You look annoyed but he continues anyway. He spins you out, then pulls you back in a little too hard, too fast. You crash into his chest just as his foot slips on the slick pavement.
“Oh my—”
You both crash down as gravity wins. Hyunjin hits the ground first, breath knocked out of him, and you land squarely on his chest. Cold seeps through his coat, but he barely notices.
“Are you okay?” he blurts, hands already hovering, panicked.
You lift your head and you’re… laughing. Full, unguarded, breathless laughter. It catches him off guard so badly that he starts laughing too, the sound echoing into the quiet park. He asks again, softer this time. “Are you okay?”
You nod in confirmation, still laughing as you roll off him and collapse beside him.
You both lie there, side by side, staring up at the dark sky as snow drifts down, tickling your cheeks, melting into your hair. The hilarity continues for another moment until laughter slowly fades, leaving behind something tender and fragile.
Hyunjin feels this quiet, glowing fullness in his chest. A happiness so simple it almost scares him. He turns his head toward you and his heart sinks when he sees tears sliding silently into your hair.
He knows better not to rush you or interrupt you as you’re processing emotions. He watches for a moment, lets you have the space to feel whatever is breaking open inside you. Then he rolls onto his side, close but not crowding. He finds your red-rimmed eyes, shining, holding a sadness that seems too great to hold by yourself. He lifts his hand, knuckles brushing gently along your cheek, wiping the tears away. His cold skin meeting your hot tears.
“I just…” your voice breaking, heavy with sadness as you whisper, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
Something slides into place. That’s it. That’s the wall you built around yourself. Not indifference. Not pride. But fear, old and crippling.
Hyunjin wipes another tear from your temple, then cups your face fully, grounding you, steady and sure. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he quietly assures you.
You nod, even as tears cling stubbornly to your lashes.
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Then his lips meet yours in a soft, fragile kiss, almost reverent. Not a promise of forever. Not a demand. Just proof that he’s here for anything but hurt you. He kisses you slowly, carefully because he’s aware of how easily this could shatter if handled wrong. Your lips tremble against his, and he keeps his hand steady at your cheek, grounding you and himself in the moment.
Hyunjin closes his eyes because he knows that this is something sacred. Fragile. Earned. And whatever happens next, he’ll carry this with him as something precious he was lucky enough to be given.
When you pull back, snow settles softly into your hair. Hyunjin looks at you then and understands something with quiet clarity. This isn’t something he won. It isn’t something he charmed his way into or stumbled upon by luck alone. This is permission. This is trust. This is you opening a door just wide enough for him to stand in the threshold and he knows how rare that is.
He presses his forehead lightly to yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air, and makes himself a promise. He won’t waste this. He won’t rush you. Won’t take more than you’re ready to give. He’ll stay. He’ll prove it, not with grand gestures or pretty words, but with patience, gentleness, and care.
Because being let in like this isn’t something to take for granted. It’s something to earn. And Hyunjin knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his chest, that he wants to spend whatever time it takes earning you.
-
Hyunjin waits by the back exit with his breath fogging faintly in the cold. Both hands are buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes fixed on the path you always take to the studio.
As expected, you appear a moment later with your coat buttoned up, bag slung over your shoulder, expression calm as ever.
He smiles before he can stop himself and he notices the subtle curl of your lips when you see him. Small. Almost nothing. But to him, it’s more than enough.
You keep walking and Hyunjin falls into step beside you, matching your pace easily.
“Going to the studio?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Want to spend time with me instead?”
“Nope.”
The word is flat, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away.
Hyunjin steps ahead of you suddenly, blocking your path. He turns, hands still in his pockets, a sly grin spreading across his face. “How about somewhere warm and quiet—where I’ll let you draw this pretty face of mine?”
He watches as you scoff but he already knows how this goes. You pretend you’re immune. You aren’t.
You sigh, defeated. “Yes to the warm and quiet. No to the pretty face.”
Despite it, Hyunjin’s grin widens. Before you can reconsider, he reaches out and takes your hand. You tense immediately, instinct flaring, trying to pull away but he holds firm. He shoves your interlocked hands into his coat pocket, warmth closing around both of you, and starts walking.
Hyunjin feels your hesitation soften just a little and he knows—this, too, is something he’s earning, step by step.
-
The city library is warm and quiet as Hyunjin promised. In fact, it’s too quiet that the only sounds that can be heard is the rustle of papers as people flips the pages on theirs book and that low, haunting creaks coming from the trolley the librarian pushes around to return the books to its shelf.
Hyunjin sits beside you on the wide windowsill on the third floor, knees drawn up slightly, sketchbook balanced against his thigh. Outside, the city stretches out in muted winter tones, rooftops dusted with snow, the skyline hazy and distant.
For a while, neither of you speak. Just pencil against paper. Breathing. Existing.
“You draw here often?” you ask suddenly, not looking at him.
“You’d know about it too,” he says lightly as he glances over at your drawing of the city skyline, “if you didn’t coop yourself up in that abandoned studio.”
Hyunjin smiles to himself because he knows your silence by now—how it’s not dismissal, just refusal to indulge him.
The quiet returns and Hyunjin steals glances at you as he draws. The way your brows knit when you focus. The way your shoulders relax when you forget you’re being watched. There’s something unguarded about you like this—soft, real, almost painfully beautiful.
He can’t help but wanting to know more what’s inside that pretty head of yours.
“What’s your favorite season?” he asks.
“Fall.”
Honestly, Hyunjin didn’t expect that you’d answer immediately. He didn’t even expect that you’d answer at all. He holds himself back from doing any form of celebration and pretends to continue drawing to ask more.
“Favorite singer?”
“Nina Simone.”
“Favorite food?”
“Shrimp scampi.”
“Favorite movie?”
“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
“Favorite color?”
“Lilac.”
He leans in slightly, opening his mouth for another question and he closes it again when he finds you glaring at him.
“Stop asking questions,” you firmly scold.
He pouts, lower lip jutting out dramtically, genuinely offended. “I was going to ask if you want coffee.”
Your expression softens immediately. It’s subtle, but he sees it. “I’d like coffee,” you say quietly.
Hyunjin smiles and sets his sketchbook aside, then, just to push his luck, leans his head against your shoulder, letting it rest there for a beat. “Wait here, yeah?” he murmurs.
You hum in response.
He lifts his head and looks at you seriously. “I’m serious. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes to the side. “Yes. I’ll be here.”
Satisfied, Hyunjin smiles again before walking off, warmth settling in his chest.
-
It’s hard to act calm when Hyunjin leans in too close and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek when he tells you to wait here. His voice drops, soft but serious in a way that surprises you.
“Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”
It doesn’t sound teasing. It sounds like he means it like he’s afraid that if he turns his back, you’ll disappear. You inhale air before turning your head to look at him.
“Yes,” you steadily says even though something in your chest tightens. “I’ll be here.”
Only then does he nod, satisfied, before finally turning and walking away.
You exhale slowly once he’s gone and force yourself to focus back on your sketchbook. You draw because drawing is easier than thinking, but your eyes somehow keep drifting to Hyunjin’s sketchbook that sits beside you, unattended and flipped open. The page catches the light from the window, graphite smudged at the edges.
You hesitate because you know that you shouldn’t look into someone’s personal thing. You’d hate it too if someone does that. But you can’t resist for long, you pick it up and flip one page, then another.
They’re drawings of people. Strangers, mostly. A boy laughing with his head thrown back. An old woman with deep smile lines. Flowers sketched with detailed attention, places caught mid-breath. All of it beautiful in that quiet, unshowy way that feels honest.
“You know, most people ask first,” a voice says from behind you.
You jolt, nearly dropping the sketchbook.
Hyunjin stands there, coffee in hands, eyebrows raised, not amused.
“I—I didn’t mean to. I just—” you stammer, fully aware that you did wrong.
“Who allowed you to look through my sketchbook… without me?” he asks flatly and then breaks into a big, smile. The kind that makes his eyes form two crescent moons.
He sits back down beside you and hands you your coffee first before setting his aside. He gently takes the sketchbook from your hands. “Since you’ve already seen it, I might as well explain,” he says, the smile still etched on his face.
He flips the pages to the beginning. He eventually stops, pointing to a sketch. “This is from last summer. Kids playing in a fountain. I ruined my shoes that day.”
You smile despite yourself.
He turns the page to show a different drawing. “This one’s a little girl petting a puppy. It wasn’t even her puppy. It just came to her, asking to be petted.”
More pages, more behind stories of his drawing. Flowers from the botanical garden. A garden from one of his trips, drawn with memory rather than precision. He talks with his whole body—hands moving, voice warm, eyes lit with something unguarded.
You watch him more than the drawings. This love for his art that spills out of him naturally. Then he flips to a rough sketch of something familiar, something you’ve seen before.
You place your hand on his wrist, stopping him from flipping the page. “Wait.”
He looks at you, surprised.
“Is that… the sketch of your painting? The one that won last year’s art prize?”
He stills, not expecting that. “You know that one?”
“Yeah,” you admit. “I can see why you won. You’re… really talented.”
You hesitate, then add with sincerity, “I think you were born for this. Painting. Creating beautiful things.”
Hyunjin goes quiet, so quiet that fear flickers through you. You wonder if you somehow crossed a line, if you said too much. Then he smiles and your worries melt away with it.
“Thank you,” he says with a soft, almost disbelieving smile. “That… means a lot. Coming from you.”
You smile, a little shy. You didn’t expect that your words hold that kind of effect on him. You shake your head quickly. “You don’t have to—”
Hyunjin leans in and doesn’t stop until his plush lips meet yours in the most innocent kiss of lips meeting lips, softness on softness. He kisses you like he’s careful not to scare something fragile away.
You stiffen for half a heartbeat and honestly, you’re tired of fighting it. You cave in, slowly part your mouth open, allowing him to deepen the kiss, allowing him more of you to taste.
He retaliates by sliding his hand to the back of your head, holding you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He tilts his head, angling his head with such calculation to deepen the kiss the way he wants it. He parts his mouth just slightly and a soft gasp slipped out of you when you feel his tongue slipping between your lips.
In the next moment, Hyunjin pulls away for a brief moment only to have your lower lip tugged between his lips, sucking at it gently. He lets go to kiss you again, deeper, a little harder.
You can hear your own loud heartbeat and somehow, the sound of the kissing is even louder in your ears. Your heart flutters wildly, cracking open, and your fingers clutch the edge of his sketchbook like it’s the only solid thing you can hold on to.
When he pulls back, he smiles. Then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and keeps it there. “Thank you,” he says once again and you’re not sure if he’s thanking you for your words, the kiss or both.
You mind goes blank as he presses another quick kiss to your lips, lighter this time. He puts an arm around you as he looks out of the window.
“We should go,” he says, noticing the snow coming down in flurries now. “Before the weather gets bad.”
You nod, moving on instinct, heart still unsteady, still airborne. But he takes your hand and somehow, that’s enough to keep you grounded as you walk together into the falling snow.
-
The city lights blurring past the windows like smeared paint. Snow taps lightly against the windshield, rhythmic, almost soothing. You cradle the warmth of your coffee between your palms, watching his reflection in the glass. He glances over after a while like he’s been thinking about saying something and finally gives in.
“Do you want to grab dinner first?” he asks casually, cautiously.
You shake your head, already smiling a little. “No. It’s too cold.”
He nods easily, accepting it without fuss, eyes back on the road.
For a second, that seems like the end of it. Then you add, almost absentmindedly, “We could order food instead. And just… have it at my place.”
The words settle in the car but you see the exact moment it clicks. Hyunjin stills for half a beat. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice: the slight tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the steering wheel tightens before he loosens it again. He keeps his eyes forward, like if he doesn’t look at you, he can play it cool.
“Oh,” he says. Then, a breath later, “Yeah. We can definitely do that.”
You turn your face toward the window, biting back a smile as warmth blooms in your chest. You can practically feel the nerves rolling off him now, hidden behind that calm tone like he’s trying very hard not to overthink the fact that you just invited him into your space.
Snow keeps falling as the car keeps moving and you keep smiling to yourself, holding onto the small thrill of knowing you’re the reason his heart’s probably racing just a little faster right now.
-
In your bedroom, you change into comfortable clothes—an old sweater that smells faintly like laundry detergent and home, leggings worn thin at the knees. You take a breath before stepping back out like you’re crossing some invisible line.
Hyunjin is in your living room, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, moving slowly as if the space might spook if he’s too loud. He stops in front of the small painting on the wall—the one of your childhood pet cat, all crooked whiskers and warm amber eyes. He leans in a little, studying it with genuine focus.
“Did you order the food?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.
He startles, just a bit. “Yeah—yeah, I did. It should be here soon.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He looks… lost. Awkward. Like he’s been dropped into unfamiliar territory without a map. It’s strangely endearing, especially considering the rumors, the reputation—Hyunjin, who supposedly knows exactly what to do in every room he walks into.
“You can sit,” you tell him gently. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He nods, then pauses when you add, “Do you want something to drink?”
“A glass of water would be nice,” he says.
You head into the kitchen, already reaching for a glass, but you hear his footsteps trailing after you. You glance over your shoulder to see him standing by the fridge, eyes scanning the cluttered door.
He points at the collections of fridge magnets and then his gaze lands on the slightly faded Christmas card tucked under one of them.
“Can I see that?” he asks, softer now.
After dinner, you stand at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running over your hands as you wash the dishes one by one. Hyunjin stands beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brush, carefully drying each plate before setting it aside. He hums under his breath, something absentminded, and you pretend not to notice how domestic it all feels.
He glances out the window and stills. Snow is coming down harder now, thick and relentless, the streetlights outside blurred into soft halos.
“I should probably head home soon,” he says, wistful.
Something in your chest tightens. The thought of him leaving, of the door closing behind him and the apartment going quiet again, makes you uneasy in a way you weren’t prepared for. Before you can overthink it, the words slip out. “You can stay,” you say, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything.
A beat later, you quickly add, “I just think that it’s not safe to drive in this weather.”
He turns to you slowly, brows knitting together in confusion, like he’s trying to figure out if he heard you right. Then a teasing grin spreads across his face as he leans closer.
“Are you worried about me?” he playfully asks.
You roll your eyes, focusing a little too hard on the plate in your hands. “Never mind. I take it back.”
Hyunjin moves behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. You freeze as he presses closer, his solid chest against your back, his chin settling into the crook of your neck. He nuzzles there and your breath catches despite yourself.
“You’re so considerate, so kind for not letting me drive in this weather,” he murmurs followed with a quiet laugh. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
You fight the smile threatening to give you away, squirming in his hold. “Let go,” you say, failing to sound firm.
He doesn’t obey right away but you stop resisting, letting yourself lean back just a fraction, let the moment stretch until it feels dangerously easy to stay there.
After a while, you clear your throat and try again. “I still need to finish the dishes.”
He gasps dramatically like the idea has only just occurred to him. “Oh. Right. Dishes.”
He releases you at once, stepping back with a sheepish grin, and picks up the towel again. As he resumes drying the dishes, his smile lingers while your heart keeps doing things you pretend not to notice.
-
You pull the blanket free and give it a sharp shake, letting it settle over the mattress. Hyunjin stands on the other side of the bed, holding the extra pillow, that same smile glued to his face like he’s won something and decided not to gloat about it out loud.
“What,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him as you tuck one corner of the blanket in. “Why do you look like that?”
He only shrugs, still smiling, eyes following your hands as you work. It makes you oddly self-conscious, like every small movement is being carefully memorized.
You straighten up and meet his gaze. “Just so we’re clear, we’re sharing the bed because the sofa is too small for you. That’s it.”
Hyunjin nods like he’s been expecting this explanation all along. “I know. Blaming my long legs as we speak,” he says but he looks satisfied. Content in a way that makes your chest feel tight.
“And,” you add quickly, “nothing is going to happen.”
This time, he tilts his head, considering it for a second before shrugging. “Who knows?”
The smirk that follows is immediate and infuriating. You swing the pillow in your hands and hit him lightly in the chest.
He laughs and catches the pillow mid-air before it can fall. Instead of tossing it back, he hugs it to his chest, still grinning at you like this is exactly where he wants to be.
“Violence already?” he says, amused. “And we haven’t even gone to bed yet.”
You turn away to hide your face, busying yourself with smoothing the sheets, pretending your heart isn’t beating too fast.
Behind you, Hyunjin stays right where he is—smiling, pillow clutched to his chest, looking entirely too happy for someone who’s been warned that nothing is going to happen.
-
The night stretches quietly around you.
The lamp by the bed is dimmed low, casting soft shadows along the walls, and beyond the window the snow keeps falling. You and Hyunjin lie side by side under the blanket, warm and snug, a careful space kept between your bodies like an unspoken agreement. Close, but not touching.
You talk about the paintings around your apartment, the small ones tucked into corners and above shelves. You tell him which ones are yours, which ones were made by your mom.
There’s a pause, then he turns his head slightly toward you. “Can I ask about the Christmas card?”
“What about it?”
“Your grandparents called you ‘little beaver’ in it.” His tone is gentle, curious. “Why’s that?”
This is the kind of thing you don’t usually give away. It feels small, harmless but it’s yours, and it comes with the risk of being seen too clearly. Still, he’s lying there on his side, facing you, eyes patient and open, waiting without pressure.
So you give in. You keep your voice soft and low as you share. “When I was little. I was obsessed with beavers. Like—really obsessed.”
You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh before continuing. “I even made up this… beaver dance. I used to perform it for my grandparents on family gatherings, birthdays, Christmases… Anway, it was stupid.”
You wince, bracing for teasing. Instead, Hyunjin’s smile widens, warm and earnest. “That’s adorable.”
You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t quite land. “That’s why they still call me that. Little beaver. Even to this day.”
He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Are you still obsessed with beavers?”
“…A little,” you admit, a soft chuckle slipping out before you can stop it.
He grins. “Do you still remember the dance?”
“Barely.”
His eyes light up as he turns more fully toward you. “Do you think I’ll ever get to see it?”
You snort. “Never.”
“Ever?”
You shake your head firmly. “Never. Ever.”
He sighs dramatically, disappointed in a way that’s clearly exaggerated, but still sincere enough to make you smile. “That’s tragic.”
Silence settles after that, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. You glance at him without meaning to and he’s already looking at you. Soft, dark brown eyes deeply staring into yours.
Your gaze drops and notice his hand resting in the empty space between you. Palm turned up and open. Fingers relaxed, slightly curled, like an invitation.
Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for it. Your fingers brush his first, testing, before slipping between his. You lace them together loosely, like you might pull away at any second.
You can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone like this. Under the same blanket. Talking about nothing and everything. Offering childhood memories instead of defenses. Being listened to—truly listened to.
Once upon a time, you did this without fear and it broke you.
You remember what came after: being hurt, manipulated, lied to. Cheated on. Your heart shattered so completely that you were sure it would never fit back together the same way. So you built strong walls. Grew a thicker shell. Learned how to survive by keeping everything out. You told yourself that strength meant distance.
But lying here now, fingers tangled with his, you realize something else: you’re strong because you’re fragile. Because you feel things deeply. Because you still can. And it terrifies you.
The fear creeps in quietly at first, then all at once. Your chest tightens. Your breath turns shallow. Your heart shakes like it’s shrinking in on itself, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe.
“I’m… scared,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your throat.
Hyunjin turns fully toward you, concern flickering across his face but not panic. Just understanding. He knows exactly what you mean.
“I’m here,” he says it so low like a whispered prayer. “You can hold on to me.”
You see it in his eyes: sincerity, patience, something steady and real. He isn’t rushing you toward anything. He’s just offering to stay.
You scoot closer before you can talk yourself out of it and the moment you do, his arms gently come around you, pulling you into his chest. He’s warm, solid, familiar already. His scent surrounds you, calming something deep in your chest you didn’t realize was still hurting.
You realize then that loving someone is a leap—an act of faith. It’s stepping off the edge and trusting that someone will catch you.
And right now, wrapped in Hyunjin’s arms, you’re not sure you’re ready for it but your hand clutches at his shirt, clinging onto his chest because it feels like you’re already falling.
-
The weather’s been kinder lately. You notice it halfway through class, the way the light slips in through the window without that harsh winter glare, the sky pale instead of heavy. Snow still lingers in corners of the campus, but the air feels forgiving like it’s giving you a break. You rest your chin against your palm and stare outside a little too long, thoughts drifting somewhere warm and soft and entirely distracting.
The bell rings before you realize it. You gather your things and step out into the hallway. You stop short the second you notice the long, silky hair, the stance that oozes quiet confidence and the eyes that forms into crescents as he smiles.
Hyunjin stops leaning against the wall outside your classroom, his whole face lights up like he’s been waiting only for this exact second. Before you can say a word, he’s already grabbing your hand.
“I still have another class and—” you start, but he’s moving, pulling you gently into the flow of students flooding the hallway.
“I know,” he says easily, like he’s reading your mind.
You glance at him, suspicious. “Then why are you—”
He veers sharply to the side, tugging you with him and slipping into an empty classroom. The door shuts quietly behind you, cutting off the noise of the hallway.
“Hyunjin,” you warn, half-amused, half-confused.
He turns to face you, eyes gleaming. “Do you have your apartment keys with you?”
Your brows knit together. “…What?”
He tilts his head, patient but clearly pleased with himself. “Your keys.”
Slowly, you nod. “Yeah?”
“Where?”
Still confused, you reach into your bag, fingers rummaging past notebooks and pencils before closing around the cold metal. You pull them out and Hyunjin snatches them from your hand.
“Hey—!” you protest.
“I’m borrowing these,” he says cheerfully.
“For what?”
He smirks. “It’s a surprise.”
You groan immediately. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“That’s because you don’t like surprises,” he counters, clearly enjoying this far too much.
He steps closer, hands settling on your arms, grounding you in place. “One more thing,” he says, suddenly serious. “You’re not allowed to come home before seven.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Hyunjin—”
He cuts you off by leaning in and kissing you. It’s long and lingering, the kind that steals your breath and leaves your thoughts scattered. His lips are warm, familiar now in a way that still makes your chest flutter.
When he finally pulls back, he flashes you a crooked grin, eyes bright with mischief. “See you later,” he says.
You don’t answer—just let out a long, defeated sigh.
He laughs softly, already turning to go. But after two steps, he spins back around and presses another quick peck to your lips, stealing it before you can react.
This time, he leaves for real—half-jogging down the hallway, giggling like he’s just won something. You watch him go, the messy bun bouncing at the back of his head, your heart doing something reckless in your chest.
It’s only when the hallway starts to empty that you realize you’re almost late for your next class.
-
You’ve got a little more than two hours to kill. Which feels illegal, somehow—being told not to go home to your own apartment. You end up walking to the studio out of habit, letting your feet decide for you while your mind keeps circling back to the same thing: seven o’clock.
When you step inside, the familiar scent of clay and dust greets you. Ben’s already there, hunched over his sculpture, headphones on, head nodding slightly with whatever he’s listening to.
Noticing your arrival, Ben slips one side of his headphones down and looks at you, eyebrows lifting. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You halt to a stop. “Why not?”
He squints at you, then smirks. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Thought you and Hyunjin would be… I don’t know. Have plans.”
You scoff, a short laugh escaping you before you can stop it. So that’s the kind of “surprise” Hyunjin’s cooking up. A valentine’s day surprise.
You shake your head and walk to your usual spot. The motions come back to you easily: apron on, hands working the material, body remembering what to do even when your mind refuses to cooperate. You used to lose yourself here.
Now, your phone keeps stealing your focus. You check the time. Put it away. Work for five minutes. Check again.
The sculpture takes shape under your hands, but you’re not really seeing it. Your thoughts keep drifting out of your body back to Hyunjin, smirking as he snatched your apartment keys from your hand.
You catch yourself calculating instead of creating. How long it takes to walk home. What time you’d have to leave to arrive around the allowed time for you to come home. You feel restless, anticipatory in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes at yourself.
When you finally glance at the clock and realize it’s time, you don’t hesitate. You peel off your apron and grab your bag.
Ben looks up just as you’re heading for the door, one eyebrow arching. “Leaving already?” he asks.
You pause and smile. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t tease you. Just nods and says, “Be safe on your way home.”
“I will,” you reply, soft.
You wave once and step outside.
The cold hits immediately, but this time, you don’t brace yourself against it. You pull your coat tighter and start walking, breath fogging in the air, heart steady and warm. Because now you have something to come home to.
-
You inhale air before pushing the door to your apartment open and the first thing that hits you is the smell. Something warm, rich… and dangerously close to burning.
You step inside, frowning slightly, and you find Hyunjin in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair tied messily, standing over the stove like he’s in the middle of a battle. Steam rises aggressively from a pot of pasta he’s just strained, curling into the air as he waves a towel uselessly at it, half-coughing, half-cursing under his breath.
For a second, you just stand there and watch him.
When he turns his head and finds you there, his eyes widen, panic flashing across his face like he’s just been caught committing a crime. “Why are you here?”
“Because this is my apartment,” you simply answer.
He stares at you, horrified, then asks more urgently this time. “No, why are you here this early?”
You calmly pull out your phone and hold it up between you, the screen glowing. 7:14 p.m.
“I came right on time.”
Hyunjin gasps like the realization physically knocks the air out of him. “Oh—shoot.”
He whips his head back toward the stove, muttering under his breath. “I lost track of time—oh my god—”
He spirals for a second, moving between the counter and the stove, hands everywhere, unsure whether to save the pasta, turn off the heat, or simply lie down on the floor and accept defeat.
He eventually stops. Straightens his back. Takes a breath. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reboot himself. He turns back to you, forcing a smile that’s a little too tight but very sincere. “Okay. So. I need… like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. To set things up.”
You open your mouth, ready to say you can help but one look at him tells you he’s already juggling too much. You don’t want to be another thing he has to manage so you nod.
“Go get changed,” he says gently, ushering you toward the hallway. “I’ll call you when it’s… ready.”
You nod once again and then turn toward your bedroom. As you close the door behind you, the sounds of clattering pans and frantic movement resume on the other side. And despite yourself, despite the smell of nearly burnt pasta, despite the chaos on the other side of the door, despite the way everything is clearly not going according to plan— you smile.
-
It’s been twenty minutes since you sit on the edge of your bed, already changed, already ready.
You quietly open the door just a crack to have a peek into situation on the other side of the door. Hyunjin crossing the living room, disappearing into the kitchen, coming back with something in his hands. He doesn’t look done. Not even close.
So you quietly push the door shut again, giving him the grace of time. You us the spare time to brush your hair slowly, add a sheer layer of lipstick—just enough color to look alive. A few sprays of perfume at your wrists and neck.
When you peek again, the living room lights are off. Your heart does a small, traitorous flip.
You close the door gently this time, clear your throat, and raise your voice just enough to carry. “Can I come out now?”
There’s a pause and then the sound of movement that is rather clumsy.
“Give me a second,” Hyunjin says, slightly breathless.
You bite back a smile, picturing him rushing around your apartment, adjusting things, fixing something that probably doesn’t need fixing.
A moment later, he announces, “Okay. You can come out now.”
You inhale air, steady yourself and then turn the knob.
The living room is dark, save for the soft glow spilling from the kitchen and the amber flicker of candles arranged on the dining table. The light dances gently, low and intimate, casting shadows that make the space feel smaller like the world has narrowed down to just this room.
Hyunjin stands beside the table, changed into a white shirt and a tie. And— blue jeans?
You almost laugh at the combination, but the thought dissolves the second you take in his whole look and honestly, he looks good in everything. What you like the most though is the way he’s standing there now, a little nervous, a little proud, smiling at you like this moment matters more than anything.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.
Once upon a time, you would’ve scoffed. Rolled your eyes. Thought it was corny. Cringe. Too much. But now, standing here on the receiving end of candlelight and effort and someone wanting to make something special just for you, you understand.
Those reactions were never about the romance. They were about never being chosen like this. And right now, you feel special.
You take slow steps toward him, the candlelight catching in your eyes, and Hyunjin’s smile never wavers even for a second, a little too soft for someone who used to feel so untouchable. Then he reaches behind his back.
“Uh—” he starts, and pulls out a bouquet.
You stop right in front of him as he offers it to you, both hands like it’s something precious. You take it, fingers brushing his, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.
“I didn’t know your favorite flowers,” he says quickly, a little sheepish, “but you said your favorite color is lilac, so… I got lilac.”
You lift the bouquet to your nose, breathing in the subtle floral scent, hiding your smile behind the soft petals.
“And,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “apparently there are a lot of kinds of lilac. So I kind of… got all of them.”
In this light, stripped of rumors and confidence and reputation, Hyunjin is just… a boy—slightly silly, a bit awkward, visibly nervous and somehow, that makes him unbearably adorable.
You lower the bouquet, take one more step closer. “Thank you,” you murmur.
Before you can change your mind, you lean in to press a quick kiss on his lips. When you pull away, you see the surprise flicker across his face, eyes wide for half a second before he blinks.
You grin. “My lipstick got on you.”
He smacks his lips together experimentally, like he’s tasting it. “Oh.”
You tilt your head. “Never mind. It looks good on you.”
His smile turns slow, dangerous in the gentlest way. “You should put more on me then.”
You laugh. “I’ll go grab it from my room real quick.”
“Never mind,” he says quickly, moving to pull out your chair. “Sit.”
You raise an eyebrow, playful. “Wow. Very demanding.”
But you obey, sitting down and placing the bouquet carefully on the table. Up close, you really take in the effort—the candles, the plates, the way he’s tried to make everything feel intentional.
“Can I eat now?” you ask hopefully. “I’m starving.”
He holds up a finger, stopping you. “Wine first.”
You wait patiently as he uncaps the bottle, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation and fear. When the cork finally pops, his shoulders jump, and you both burst into laughter. He pours the wine, rich red filling your glasses, the aphrodisiac smell of it wafting around the room.
“To—” he starts, lifting his glass, then hesitates.
“To what?” you ask.
He goes quiet, genuinely thinking.
“How about… successfully not setting my apartment on fire?”
He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. That.”
You clink your glasses together, finally having that sip of sweet, earthy tone of the wine.
“Okay. Now can we eat?” you ask impatiently.
His hands fly to the lids covering the plates of dinner and sighs dramatically before reveal them. “Your favorite. Shrimp scampi.”
You lean in, impressed. It looks… good. But you don’t skip the chance to tease him. “Is it safe to eat though?”
He nods confidently. “I followed the recipe. I just can’t remember if I added salt or baking soda.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you for the food.”
You have a taste of it and it’s not exactly how you like it, but it’s good. For someone who made it for the first time in his life, he did well.
He watches you too closely. “Well?”
“It’s good,” you say.
“You can be honest.”
“It’s good because I’m hungry,” you jokingly say.
He smiles, entirely unoffended.
Dinner continues like that, filled with teasing, light conversation, easy laughter that comes naturally and sitting there, you realize something quietly—
You feel content.
-
The plates are empty now, pushed to the side, crumbs wiped away. The candles have burned lower, wax pooling lazily at their bases, and the room feels warmer like it’s wrapped itself around the two of you.
“So,” Hyunjin says, swirling the dark red in his glass. “Did you like the dinner?”
You nod without hesitation. “Surprisingly, I did.”
His face brightens immediately, pride blooming so openly it makes your chest ache a little. But you lift a finger before he can bask in it too long. “I liked everything. Except the part where I wasn’t allowed to come home to my own apartment.”
His lips form a coy pout. “I’m not sorry.”
You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it. Silence settles again, gentle this time. You take another sip of your wine, then look at him, sitting there in your space, surrounded by candlelight and effort and intention.
“…Thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t remember the last time someone did something like this for me.”
“Yeah,” he says lightly, “I can tell.”
You shoot him a look but it does make him feel the slightest but intimidated like you hope it would.
“That look doesn’t scare me anymore,” he says with a soft chuckle.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
He drinks from his glass, then glances at you over the rim. “By the way, did you prepare a gift for me?”
Your brows knit together. “What gift?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave you plenty of time to think of a gift.”
You gape at him. “You didn’t even tell me you were doing this. I only found out it's Valentine’s Day from Ben.”
“Oh, so you had a source,” he counters.
“That doesn’t count!”
The argument dissolves quickly into bickering and slowly descends into hilarity, then burst into laughter, the kind that makes your shoulders loosen and your chest feel light.
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “You don’t have to get me anything.”
You nod. “Good.”
“But,” he adds, eyes glinting, “it doesn’t have to be an object.”
You narrow your eyes, not liking the sound of it.
His gaze flicks past you, toward the fridge, toward the Christmas card. He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes crinkling as his voice softens into something dangerously sweet. “Can I see the beaver dance?”
You groan, leaning back in your chair. “Absolutely not.”
He clasps his hands together. “Please.”
“I barely remember it.”
“I’ll take a glimpse. A hint. A historical reenactment,” he tries his best to coax you.
You mumble something incoherent, dragging a hand down your face. Every instinct tells you to refuse, but then you look at him. At the care. The effort. The way he looks at you like this moment matters.
It’s just a silly little dance, you tell yourself.
With a long sigh, you cave. “Fine.”
His grin is immediate and radiant, like he’s just been handed the greatest gift in the world.
You drain half your glass in one go before you can change your mind, the wine warming your chest as you stand up from the table.
“Sit,” you tell him, pointing at the sofa like it’s an order.
Hyunjin obeys immediately, a little too happily, hands clasped together on his lap, eyes bright with anticipation.
You stand in front of him and inhale. Exhale. You wait another second to let the wine takes effect on your nerves.
This is a terrible idea. You tell yourself but begin moving anyway. You lift one hand then immediately cringe.
“Wait. I need another second,” you mutter, grabbing your glass again and taking another long sip before returning to your spot.
Okay. Let’s get it over with.
You stare at the floor, replaying fragments of memory you haven’t touched in years. Made up lyrics only you remember. Movements half-lost to time. Your hands curl into small fists, lifting under your chin, elbows tucked in as you sway awkwardly from side to side the way a beaver does.
You mumble-sing under your breath about a beaver who can swim, about it eating apple, about things that made sense only to a child once. You shuffle, hop a little, mimic gnawing motions, cheeks burning, laughter bubbling up because you can’t believe you’re actually doing this.
The whole time, you’re avoiding Hyunjin’s eyes, hate to catch that smile of satisfaction on his devastatingly beautiful face. You continue until you can’t recall the rest of the choreography from memory but you finish with one last ridiculous beaver pose.
That’s when you finally glance up—still laughing, still breathless, ready to see him doubled over, teasing you forever about this.
However, Hyunjin isn’t laughing. He is very still. He looks at you with something so soft, so full, it almost hurts to see. Fondness, yes—but also something deeper. Wistful. Like he’s been shown a piece of sunlight he didn’t know he was missing.
Your stance falter, so does your smile. “…You can just say it,” you joke weakly. “I look silly. Or funny. Or—”
He stands before you can finish. In two long strides, he closes the distance, takes your hands gently, and guides you down onto the sofa. Then he kneels in front of you, right there. Your hands are still in his as he looks up at you, eyes shining even in the low light, voice trembling just enough to be honest.
“I don’t know how much you’ve been hurt. But I hate, I hate whoever made you feel like you had to hide this part of yourself.”
Your chest tightens but you daringly look back into his eyes, holding his gaze steadily.
“I hate that someone made you build walls,” he continues, gaze never leaving yours. “When there’s something this beautiful inside you.”
Your heart quivers because he sees it. All of it. And he isn’t flinching.
“Thank you,” he whispers, squeezing your hands. “For trusting me with this. With you.”
Your vision blurs as tears pooling in your eyes. It’s the way he looks at you, touched you with words that aren’t just words, they’re heavy with meaning and intentions and emotions.
“I promise,” he says, voice steady now, full of conviction, “I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. To make you smile. To make sure you never feel like you have to hide again.”
Tears spill despite yourself and in that moment, you know it with bone-deep certainty. He’s there. He’s not stepping back. He’s on his knees, ready to catch you.
So you lean forward and kiss him.
And this time, you don’t hesitate.
You take the leap.
-
The snow that once clung stubbornly to the ground is gone now, reduced to wet patches and darkened sidewalks, and the light outside feels softer, warmer. The sky is pale and open, the air no longer biting. You smile to yourself because spring is coming—you can feel it in the way the world seems to be slowly loosening its grip.
When the bell rings and you step out into the low hum of the hallway, Hyunjin is already waiting outside your class, leaning against the wall like he’s always been meant to be. His smile is warm and beautiful when his eyes find yours, and something in your chest eases at the sight of it. You walk straight into his space without thinking, rising onto your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. He lets out a soft laugh, surprised but pleased, and when your fingers slide into his, he laces them together like he’s been doing it for years instead of weeks.
You move down the hallway hand in hand, carried along by the crowd but somehow separate from it, talking over each other about nothing and everything—coffee or a walk, somewhere quiet or somewhere familiar, now or later.
Hyunjin squeezes your hand as he talks, glancing at you like he’s trying to remember this exact moment, as if this ordinary afternoon matters. You bump your shoulder into his on purpose, smiling, already knowing you’ll figure it out together, wherever you end up.
And maybe that’s how it begins and continues.
Maybe the future is unclear, maybe there are still questions neither of you are ready to answer yet, but as you walk beside Hyunjin, you know one thing for certain: you are no longer afraid of wanting, of choosing, of loving out loud.
And if loving Hyunjin means stepping forward without knowing exactly where you’ll land, then this time, you’re willing to do it bravely, openly—together.
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Synopsis: One night, you accidentally found a diamond ring hidden in the closet. Naturally, you assume your boyfriend, Seungmin, is going to get on his knee and pop the question. Since then, every dinner, every date, every tender look from Seungmin feels like it could be ‘the moment’ — until it isn’t. (22,6k words)
Author's note: It's been a while since my last Seungmin fic so I hope you enjoy this fluffy (and just a tad bit angsty fic) ❣️
You aren’t just good at your job—you are brilliant.
Vice President at one of the most prestigious firms in the city, your days are built on back-to-back meetings, business proposals, and decisive strategy calls. You thrived in it all. There is something intoxicating about the fast-paced rhythm and high-stakes negotiations, the weight of your signature at the bottom of a multimillion-dollar deal.
You walk through skyscraper hallways like you belong there and you do. Still, no matter how polished your days looked in heels and tailored blazers, the part you always looked forward to most is coming home.
Your apartment—shared with your boyfriend of five years—sits high in a sleek building that towered above the glittering city skyline. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can watch the sun melt into orange and gold behind the glass silhouettes of the skyline, the lights of the world flickering to life beneath you.
You toe off your shoes at the door, setting your bag down on the console table. You roll up the sleeves of your silk blouse and head to the kitchen. You start by washing your hands, hair loosening from the tight twist it lived in all day.
Cooking helps you unwind. You grab the ingredients for dinner and hum a little tune as you chop and stir, your voice mixing with the soft jazz playing from the portable speaker.
It’s simple and domestic in a way that feels earned. Because even with all your success, all the accolades and titles and salary numbers most people your age only dreamed of—you still cherished this: a quiet evening while anticipating for your boyfriend’s return.
You’re just setting the table when you hear the sound of the door unlocking. Keys jingling, then a soft click and then he’s there.
“Smells like someone’s trying to win girlfriend of the year,” Seungmin calls out as he steps inside, the familiar edge of exhaustion softened by affection.
You glance over your shoulder and smile, finding Seungmin dressed in navy suits. The jacket already draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened at the collar. His hair is a little tousled, like he ran his hands through it on the elevator ride up—his version of unwinding.
“I thought I already won that last year,” you say, setting down the last plate.
“You did,” he grins, shrugging off his bag and making his way to you. “But I like that you’re not getting complacent.”
He leans in to press a sweet kiss to your cheek. It’s gentle, but it says everything—I missed you, I see you, we’re here now.
Seungmin is just as much a force in his world as you are in yours. A high-stakes corporate lawyer known for his razor-sharp mind and unbeatable composure in the courtroom. He thrives under pressure, commands rooms without raising his voice, and has the kind of reputation that even senior partners take seriously.
That’s what you have in common, really. The ambition. The passion. The shared understanding that success isn’t something you luck into—it’s something you grind for. But even more than that, you both believe that relationships, like careers, needed investment. Time. Intention.
So, you make time. No matter how late your meetings run or how chaotic his court schedule gets, you always come back to this: dinner, together. Phones down, minds open, hearts soft.
You both eventually settle at the table. The city glows outside the window behind him, casting golden light over his features as he fills your glass with wine.
“So,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, eyes trained on you, “tell me everything. Wins, losses, scandalous office gossip—what’s the highlight reel today?”
You laugh, reaching for your fork. “Well, let’s just say the intern who accidentally CC’d the entire company on her resignation email now has a fan club.”
He chuckles, and just like that, the stress of your day begins to peel away. This is how the two of you survive the whirlwind—by anchoring yourselves in these moments.
And in moments like this, you can’t help but think: if you were to spend the rest of your life exactly like this, it would still be more than enough. You just didn’t know how much that thought would start to shift soon.
-
Later, the two of you move in sync, the way only people who know each other’s routines by heart do.
You're in the bathroom now, side by side at the sink. You’re patting toner into your cheeks while Seungmin brushes his teeth, bent slightly over the sink in a faded gray tee and sweatpants that sit a little too low on his hips.
You catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair is still slightly damp from his quick shower, and he gives you a lazy smile, foamy toothpaste making him look younger than usual.
It’s such a simple moment, but it feels like home.
You turn to grab your moisturizer just as he leans in to spit, and your shoulders bump. “Oops, sorry,” you say, voice soft.
He tilts his head slightly, flashing you a half-smirk. “Shoulder check me again and we’re gonna have a problem.”
You roll your eyes with a laugh and nudge him again, just because you can.
By the time you finish up and head to the bedroom, the city has quieted. The only sounds are the faint traffic several stories below and the rustle of sheets as you both climb into bed. You propped up by a pillow against the headboard, a book resting open in your hands. You’re halfway through a paragraph when the bed dips beside you.
Seungmin crawls up from the foot of the bed, slow and catlike, until he’s beside you, leaning over with a soft, almost mischievous smirk. His lips press to your cheek, featherlight, then to your jaw. You don’t look up from your book, but the corners of your mouth curve.
“Hi,” you murmur.
He hums a greeting into the space behind your ear, then kisses just below it. “How far in are you?” he asks, voice muffled slightly against your skin.
“Chapter fourteen,” you reply, flipping the page. “The main character just found out her sister’s been lying to her for, like, five years.”
He lets out a thoughtful little noise, lips drifting lower—along your jawline, then to your neck, pausing to linger at that one spot that always makes you squirm. “Sounds dramatic,” he says, his voice a little too casual for someone currently distracting you from the plot.
“Very,” you say, holding back a smile. “I would be more into it if someone wasn’t trying to seduce me with neck kisses.”
“I’m not seducing you,” he murmurs, now kissing down the curve of your shoulder. “I’m appreciating you.”
Then, he pauses. “Wait… are you using a new lotion?”
You finally glance at him, raising a brow. “Yep.”
He leans in and inhales lightly near your shoulder. “Smells like coconut.”
Your smile grows. “Correct. Bonus points for identifying the scent.”
“I’ll collect them later,” he murmurs, grinning against your skin before resuming his trail of kisses, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush at all.
You try—really try—to keep your eyes on the page, but Seungmin makes it nearly impossible. His lips keep moving—down your shoulder, along your collarbone, ghosting over your chest with featherlight kisses that trail heat in their wake. You shift slightly, book still in hand, but your focus has long since slipped through your fingers.
“Seungmin,” you murmur, half a warning, half a sigh.
“Keep reading,” he says softly, voice low and teasing near your waist. “Don’t mind me.”
You let out a quiet whine, a protest laced with laughter, but you don’t stop him.
Seungmin doesn’t stop either. His mouth continues its slow descent, inch by inch, kisses landing on the curve of your stomach, your hip, then lower still. The hem of your sleep shorts shifts as he settles between your legs, nudging the fabric aside, his breath warm against your skin. Then his fingers hook around your underwear, and in one smooth motion, he tugs it down.
You glance away from your book now, heart skipping, only to find him looking up at you with that wild, naughty glint in his eyes.
“You worked hard today,” he says, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Let me help you relax.”
A soft laugh escapes you, caught between amusement and desire. “Is this a reward system now?”
He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “Mm-hmm.” He nods, slowly, smug and sweet all at once. “Positive reinforcement.”
Your cheeks flush, but your smile grows with it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he replies, pressing one last kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.
You shake your head, biting back a smile, and with a quiet breath, you let yourself lean back fully against the pillows, parting your legs for him.
He looks up at you one more time, a soft, knowing expression on his face—affection woven seamlessly with desire. And in that look, you feel it again: how much he sees you, how much he chooses you. Every time.
Despite having Seungmin’s head between your legs as he pleases you with his mouth, you try to keep your eyes on the page. The words blurring slightly as you breathe through the sensation building between your legs from the way he licks and sucks, flicking his tongue on the right spots.
The book trembles faintly in your grip, your fingers tightening around it each time Seungmin’s mouth moves just right. He’s slow, attentive—almost too much so. Then he hums against your drenched cunt. A deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your core, making you gasp softly.
He pauses for just a beat to say, “God, I missed this.”
Your head tips back against the headboard, a breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “You missed going down on me?”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to play coy. “Yeah,” he says, looking up at you with that maddeningly proud smile. “Think about this sweet, little pussy all day.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous chuckle, your free hand covering your face for a second before falling to your side. “You’re so—”
“I know.” He kisses your inner thigh again, grinning into your skin. “Lucky for both of us, I get to do something about it now.”
You give up on the book entirely, dropping it to the side, pages folding shut as your body arches instinctively toward him. Your hand slips into his hair, fingers curling as he gets back to work, tongue and lips relentless, methodical in the way only Seungmin can be when he’s determined to ruin you.
It doesn’t take long for him to do that. You’re a mess beneath him—moaning, trembling, your fingers fisted in his hair like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. Each movement of his mouth feels more precise, more purposeful, like he’s reading every sound you make, every shiver that ripples through you.
The way you fall apart under him only drives him further. He’s focused—relentless in that quiet, devoted way of his, like this is something he needs to do for you.
Your breath catches, hips stuttering beneath his hands as your body tightens, and you manage a desperate, shaky whisper of his name. “Seungmin—Oh...”
He hums with his mouth full of your wet cunt and it sends another wave through you.
That’s all it takes. You come with a soft, broken cry. Your thighs trembling around him, hand tugging sharply in his hair as your back arches off the bed. He holds you through it with mouth still coaxing every last flicker of pleasure from you until you’re gasping, limp and boneless against the sheets. Only then does he pull back, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression soft and smug all at once.
“You okay?” he casually asks, crawling back up beside you, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your forehead.
You can only nod, eyes half-lidded, breath still catching in your throat.
He smiles and leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then one to your lips—gentle and full of the affection that’s always been the heart of what you share. “Reward systems,” he murmurs, chuckling. “Highly effective.”
You’re still catching your breath when you shift slightly, your body pressed against Seungmin’s side, cheek resting on his chest. He’s warm and steady beneath you, arm draped lazily around your waist like he’s content to stay like this for hours, but you’re not done with him just yet.
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You know,” you murmur, voice low and playful, “you work hard too. Day and night.”
His eyes flick down to meet yours, lips twitching into a smile. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, hand drifting down, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You palm his cock gently, feeling the way his body reacts to your seductive touch—quick and eager, the tension building beneath your fingers as you give his length slow, gentle strokes. “I think you’ve earned a reward too.”
Seungmin exhales sharply, his muscles tensing as he watches you with growing interest.
“Go on,” you add with a smirk, fingers curling ever so slightly. “Collect your bonus points.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, eyes narrowing with playful warning. “Dangerous game you’re playing.”
But you only smile wider, hand continuously stroking him. “I like high stakes,” you whisper, leaning down to press a kiss just below his jaw.
Seungmin groans softly, hands gripping your hips. “So do I.”
He hovers above you, his face close, breath mingling with yours. He repeatedly rubs the tip of his cock between your folds, letting your essence drenching every inch of his throbbing length. The longer he does it, the more you anticipate it. When he finally pushes in, the sheer size gives you that delicious stretch, making you moan in both pain and pleasure.
“I know you can take it,” he murmurs as he pushes the remaining length with such intensity that a cry slips out of your parted mouth.
The two of you taking a moment to savor it — the feeling of connecting to one another, physically and emotionally. He runs his hand down your front and then rests it on your abdomen.
He looks at you, his eyes heavy with both lust and love. “I'm going to move now, yeah?” he asks, his gaze tender yet smoldering.
With that, your bodies move together in a slow, steady rhythm—his hips rolling into yours, his chest brushing yours with every thrust. His forehead rests gently against yours at first, and the low sounds he makes—those quiet, breathy groans, the occasional broken whimper—fill the silence between kisses like a melody only you were meant to hear.
You reach up, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering on his temple. “Seungmin,” you whisper, voice trembling from pleasure, “you make me feel so good.”
His eyes flutter open at that, gaze locking with yours. The look he gives you is raw, open, like he’s trying to say everything he feels without words. He takes a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your hard nipple before he lets go with a popping sound.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, breath catching as he sinks into you again. “Every time.”
The pace turns slower yet deeper, drawing out the tension between you, making every movement feel more intimate, more intense. He keeps his eyes on you, like he wants to remember every expression, every sound you make.
You moan his name again, soft and needy, and he shudders above you, his control slipping just a little. He presses his lips to your jaw, to your neck, to your shoulder like he can’t get close enough, like he wants to memorize your skin.
He keeps moving like that—changing pace, adjusting his angle—until you're gasping beneath him, your nails digging into his back as your legs tighten around him. And when he finally lets himself go, buried deep inside you with a choked, desperate sound, you feel it in every part of you—not just the heat, not just the tension snapping, but the emotion behind it.
Because with Seungmin, it’s never just physical. It’s love, every time. And he makes sure you know that with his hands, with his body, with the way he holds you after.
-
The scent of freshly ground coffee and melting butter fills the kitchen. Sunlight streaking through the blinds in warm, golden bands. The city is just beginning to wake outside, but inside your apartment, it’s slow and quiet—the kind of morning that only belongs to weekends.
You’re standing by the stove, slowly stirring scrambled eggs, carefully watching their texture. They’re just starting to come together, soft and glossy, not too dry. You tilt the pan slightly, flicking your wrist the way Seungmin always says brings out the perfect consistency.
Behind you, Seungmin stands by the counter, completely focused on the kettle. He holds the thermometer just above the water, brow furrowed, waiting for the precise number to hit before pouring it over the coffee grounds in steady, slow circles.
You glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk. “You’re acting like you’re defusing a bomb.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because good coffee is a must in this household.”
You laugh under your breath and return to the eggs, taking them off the heat just before they finish cooking, leaving them soft, just how he likes them. You add a pinch of salt, a bit of cracked pepper, then plate them while he finishes pouring the last of the water into the carafe.
By the time you both sit down at the small dining table, everything is quiet again. Coffee, eggs, toast. Then you clink your mugs together in a mock toast before taking your first sip.
“This is nice,” you murmur, resting your cheek in your palm as you watch him butter a piece of toast like he’s doing brain surgery.
He glances up with a soft grin. “Mm. Still think I make better eggs than you.”
“You do,” you admit, stealing a bite from his plate anyway. “But I’m still the fun one.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No argument there.”
Weekends are sacred in your relationship. An unspoken promise to reconnect after a long week of endless meetings, deadlines, and case files. Sometimes that means spending the whole day together—brunch, errands, movies on the couch, lazy evenings tangled up in each other. Other times, it means giving each other space. Because loving each other also means understanding that you are your own people, too.
“So,” he says between sips of coffee, “baseball game starts at five. Jisung's meeting me there. Should be back before midnight.”
You nod. “Yes, I remember cause you’ve been talking about it all week.”
He gives you a little look—half proud, half sheepish. “I might yell.”
“You will yell,” you say knowingly, grinning. “Just don’t get too carried away and angers everyone around you.”
He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “Not my fault they made that stupid call in the seventh inning.”
You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your coffee.
“And you?” he asks. “Still doing that girls’ night?”
“Mhm. Marion’s coming over later. We’re doing the full thing—masks, sugary cocktails, probably something embarrassing on Netflix.”
Seungmin raises a brow, mock serious. “Try not to drink too much and gossip about me behind my back.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “I could do that.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I like you, you know.”
You nonchalantly shrug. “I know.”
And just like that, the rest of the morning unfolds in soft conversation and shared glances—two people perfectly in rhythm, building a life that’s equal parts warmth, work, and a little bit of mischief.
-
Marion shows up right on time, wearing loose linen pants and a graphic tee, sunglasses still perched on her head despite the setting sun. The moment you open the door, she throws her arms around you.
“God, it feels like forever,” she says into your shoulder.
You hug her tightly, laughing. “It’s been a week.”
“Exactly. Forever.”
When she pulls back, she holds up a brown paper bag with a smug grin. A long-necked wine bottle is very visibly poking out the top, along with what looks like a skincare sheet mask box and possibly a pint of ice cream tucked at the bottom.
“I brought the essentials,” she says proudly.
You eye the wine and nod in approval. “You understood the assignment.”
Behind you, Seungmin is just finishing up, adjusting the hem of his jersey and tossing on a cap that matches it perfectly. He steps into the entryway and flashes Marion a grin. “Hey, Marion.”
“Hey, Seungmin,” she replies. “You look like you’re about to fight someone over a bad pitch.”
“Not ruling it out,” he immediately replies, grin widening. Then he turns to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you lift your chin to meet him.
He kisses you fully, just shy of teasing. It’s the kind of kiss that says I'll miss you, even if you’ll be apart for just a few hours. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against yours. “Don’t drink too much,” he murmurs.
You chuckle. “No promises.”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath like he’s half-exasperated, half-entertained. You lean in and plant a quick kiss on his jaw, grinning. He always looks too cute when he’s annoyed in that quiet, worried way of his.
The two of you move toward the front door, and as he puts on his sneakers, he glances over his shoulder. “Marion, I expect my girlfriend is still in one piece when I'm back, yeah?”
Marion doesn’t miss a beat. “Can’t make any promises. But if I do, I’ll probably just take a bite out of her.”
You laugh, watching them with a shake of your head. Seungmin’s tying his laces, but he’s smiling. Once he’s done, you reach for his wrist, tugging him gently back toward you. You press one more kiss to his lips—longer this time.
He sighs into it, like he doesn’t actually want to go, and you whisper, “Have fun.”
But Seungmin squints at you, narrowing his eyes. “You. Don’t have too much fun.”
You can’t help but laugh again. “That also, I can't promise,” you say, for the second time.
He rolls his eyes, muttering something in mock defeat, but there’s that charming smile again as he lifts a hand in farewell and steps out the door. You watch it close behind him, the quiet clicking into place like a soft punctuation mark.
When you turn back around, Marion is already in the kitchen, holding up two glasses of mimosas with a satisfied grin.
“Cheers to nights in and no boys allowed,” she says.
You take your glass, clinking it against hers. “Cheers.”
-
It starts with the idea of “just one cookie.”
One cookie turns into an attempt to make a whole batch. That turns into realizing neither of you have measured anything quite right. That turns into the first tray coming out entirely too dark on the bottom. Marion swears they’re “extra toasty,” but even she admits the crunch sounds suspicious.
Now, you’re both leaning against the counter, wine glasses half-full again, laughing as the second batch bakes and this time with the timer actually set and taken seriously.
“You know,” Marion says between bites of a still-warm cookie from the improved batch, “I always thought Seungmin was super serious when I first met him. Like, scary lawyer energy. And then you told me he sleeps with one sock on because he can’t stand it when both feet are warm.”
You nearly choke on your wine. “Oh my God—don’t expose him like that.”
“I like him, but come on,” she laughs. “That’s a little unhinged.”
You nod, grinning. “He says it’s about temperature regulation, but I think he’s just stubborn.”
Marion wiggles her fingers dramatically. “Genius boy logic.”
You swirl your glass, smiling softly into it. “Honestly, sometimes he says things that are so dry I don’t know if he’s joking or judging me. But then he breaks and laughs at his own joke for like, a full minute. It’s the cutest thing.”
“That’s criminally cute.” Marion nudges your arm. “You’re so gone for him.”
You shrug, but the smile on your lips betrays you. “I really am.”
She sighs, setting her glass down and hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. “Isn’t it crazy? Like, we’re at that age where we’re not just dating people who are fun. We’re dating people who we could actually see in our lives for a long time.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, nodding. “And somehow it still feels just… easy.”
Marion sips her wine before nodding in agreement. “That’s so true.”
“What about you and Leo?”
“Oh God,” she groans in mock embarrassment. “He’s convinced he can dance. And he can’t. At all. But he’ll do this horrible little shoulder wiggle every time he brushes his teeth and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror.”
You both burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the kitchen as the smell of sweet dough fills the air again. The timer goes off, and this time, the cookies come out golden and perfect. You each grab another and lean against the counter again, barefoot and tipsy, warm with wine and sugar and the feeling of knowing someone who knows you.
In this moment, everything feels light and easy. Well, until Marion spills her mimosas on the couch. You’re both laughing about it while you rummage through the linen closet in the hallway, muttering about how everything in this apartment magically disappears when you actually need it.
You’re halfway to tipsy and elbow-deep in a search for extra towels. You tug at a thick stack of folded tablecloths near the back, pulling them forward and— thunk.
Something small and soft hits the hardwood floor at your feet. You blink and look down. A square velvet box sits there, deep navy in color. Your brows knit together as you crouch down, curiosity tugging at your fingers as you pick it up and open it.
Inside, nestled in the cushioned lining, is a ring. Not just a ring. That kind of ring. Gold band. A classic cut diamond. Undeniably meant for a certain question and a promise.
“OH MY GOD,” Marion shrieks behind you.
You nearly drop the box as you jolt in surprise, whipping your head around to find her standing in the hallway, eyes wide, hand over her mouth like she just watched a K-drama twist unfold in real time.
“What?” you ask, still crouched, heart hammering, your voice weirdly flat compared to the chaos in your chest. “What is this?”
Marion walks over in slow, careful steps, like she’s approaching something sacred. “Are you serious? Are you serious right now?”
You look down at the ring again. It sparkles faintly under the hallway light. “I mean… it’s a ring. But—”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “You dummy! It’s your ring!”
You blink up at her. “What are you talking about?”
Marion throws her hands up, pointing down at the velvet box. “That is an engagement ring. That’s a proposal ring! Look at it—it’s literally from that high-end designer boutique. I recognize the box! And the cut of the diamond—come on, that is classic proposal energy.”
Your mouth opens. Then closes. You look at the ring again, mind slowly catching up with her words. “I mean…” you start, hesitating, “he hasn’t said anything. And it was just in the linen closet, not like… hidden hidden.”
“Oh my God,” Marion groans. “It was between tablecloths and towels. Do you think he’d just toss a ring like that there if it wasn’t meant to be a surprise?”
You fall silent, your gaze dropping to the ring again.
She crouches beside you now, her voice softening. “He’s going to propose to you. He probably has a plan. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment. Or maybe he’s just… trying to figure out how to keep it a surprise because he knows you’ll pick up on it.”
You don’t want to get your hopes up. You really don’t. But the ring is stunning. The kind of ring Seungmin would pick—classic, simple, elegant. You remember how he once made a comment about how you always liked things that lasted. And now it’s sitting in your palm, blinking at you like a secret trying not to be found.
Your chest flutters. Hope blooms slowly, cautiously. “Maybe he is,” you whisper.
Marion grins, eyes misty with excitement. “Girl… he is.”
And for the first time that night, you’re not tipsy on wine, but on possibility. You stay crouched there a second longer, staring down at the ring as if it might suddenly explain itself.
Marion is still next to you, practically vibrating with excitement when you finally whisper, “What do I do?”
She grabs your shoulders like she’s about to shake you. “You put it back.”
“What?” you ask, slightly confused.
“Put. It. Back.” She points emphatically at the linen closet. “Exactly where you found it. Pretend you never saw it.”
You glance at the velvet box in your hand again, hesitant. “What if he notices?”
Marion grins. “Then you say nothing, act innocent, like you have no clue he’s about to propose and marry you. And probably cry when he does it.”
You slap her arm, laughing in disbelief. “Stop.”
She only cackles harder as you carefully tuck the box back between the tablecloths and towels where it had been hidden, adjusting the folds to make it look untouched. You close the linen closet gently, almost like it’s sacred now.
The moment the door clicks shut, Marion shrieks again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, you’re gonna get married!” she says, grabbing your hands.
“Marion,” you hiss through a laugh, trying to hush her. “We don’t even know if that’s what it is.”
She ignores you entirely. “I mean, we need to think colors. Do you want something classic? Romantic? I can already see you in an off-shoulder satin gown—”
“Okay, stop,” you say again, cheeks burning, waving her off as you walk back toward the kitchen. “Nothing’s confirmed.”
She follows you, still buzzing. “But it will be. I know that man. Seungmin is calculated, strategic. If he bought that ring, it’s happening. You're gonna walk into brunch one day wearing that thing and act like you’re surprised. You better start practicing your gasp.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding inside your chest, louder than before. You try to brush it off and try to tell yourself that maybe it’s not what it looks like. That maybe it’s a ring for something else, or a decoy, or a mistake. But your fingers still feel the weight of the velvet box.
And no matter how hard you try not to let it take over your thoughts… You can’t help but wonder. What if it is?
-
You pause at the doorway of the bathroom, watching him from behind. Seungmin is standing by the sink, toothbrush in hand, head slightly tilted as he brushes with quiet focus. The dim bathroom light casts gentle shadows on his back, the lines of his shoulder blades, the slope of his neck, the soft dishevel of his dark hair. You find yourself staring, studying the way the fabric of his white tee stretches across his shoulders, the curve of his jaw in the mirror’s reflection.
Sometimes, in mundane moments like this, you still can’t believe he’s yours.
He spits, rinses, then glances up and catches your eyes in the mirror. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “Stop watching me, you creep.”
You laugh softly, stepping forward. “But I’m your creep.”
He shakes his head in amusement as you walk up to him, not caring that he’s now smoothing moisturizer over his face. You slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, melting into his warmth.
He doesn’t even hesitate to wrap his free arm around you, pulling you in closer as he continues gently patting his face with the tips of his fingers.
You tilt your head back slightly, watching him. You could say it now. Ask about the ring. About the velvet box in the linen closet, about what it means. The words press lightly at the back of your throat, but you swallow them down.
Not now. You tell yourself. Because you know Seungmin. He doesn’t rush anything and he’s never made you feel like something was missing. Maybe it’s not the right time, or maybe he is waiting for the right moment. And if it never comes? You’d still choose him. Like this. Like now.
His eyes drop to yours suddenly, as if sensing the thoughts spiraling in your head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shake your head with a smile and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I missed you.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow, comforting circles. “Marion must’ve made you drink a lot, mmh?”
You scoff into his neck. “That’s the whole point of a girls’ night in.”
He hums in agreement, reaching for a tube of lip balm with one hand and applying it methodically.
You pull back a little just to watch him, lips pursed, face content and freshly moisturized. “Did you miss me too?” you teasingly ask.
He caps the tube and places it down, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face up so your eyes meet. “Of course I missed you,” he answers without a beat.
You scoff at that. “Lie. You forget about everything whenever you watch a baseball game.”
Seungmin lets out a soft chuckle and then he kisses you. It’s tender and slow, thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone as he deepens it just enough to make your heart skip. Just enough to remind you how much he means it, even if he doesn’t say much. Even now, after almost five years together, his kiss still makes your chest flutter.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are warm, lips curved in that subtle smile of his. “Let’s go to bed.”
You nod but don’t let go. Instead, you jump up, wrapping your arms and legs around him. And he catches you without missing a beat, grunting slightly in surprise. You press a quick kiss to his lips, giggling into it.
Seungmin steadies you, arms securely around your thighs, and gives you that amused grin. “You’re such a big baby.”
Then he gives you a light, playful slap on the butt and carries you out of the bathroom.
You smile against his shoulder, already half-asleep in his hold, completely at peace and content with everything you have. And quietly hoping for what might come next.
-
The week passes in a blur and somewhere along the way, the memory of the ring tucked between the tablecloths and towels fades to the background, replaced by spreadsheets and strategy decks and late nights staring at your laptop until your eyes burn.
By Friday afternoon, you’re buried in emails when your phone starts buzzing on your desk. You glance at the screen. Seungmin.
It’s rare that he calls when you're in the middle of work. You frown slightly, sliding your finger across the screen and lifting it to your ear. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
You expect the worst—something urgent, a change of plans, maybe even bad news. But instead, you hear a soft chuckle on the other end.
“I’m fine,” Seungmin calmly says, “Just wanted to let you know that we’re going out for dinner tonight.”
“Oh?” you say, slightly surprised. “What’s the occasion?”
There’s a brief silence, and then you can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a surprise.”
Before you can press him for more, he hangs up. You lower the phone slowly, staring at it like it might offer an explanation. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You don’t want to assume. But your thoughts are already spinning.
A surprise dinner. On a Friday night. No reason, no hints. And suddenly, the memory of that ring box floods back in. Could it be?
You exhale slowly, catching yourself before your imagination runs completely wild. Even if it’s just a regular dinner, you tell yourself, there’s no harm in looking good.
You press the intercom button on your desk. “Hey, Jess? I’m going to step out early today.”
Your assistant’s voice crackles through. “Sure. Want me to clear your schedule for the rest of the day?”
“Yes, please. Something came up. I have... an event tonight.” You smile to yourself.
The moment you end the call, you grab your bag, already planning a visit to the boutique two blocks down. Maybe get something simple yet chic and elegant.
Whatever this night holds, you want to be ready. Just in case.
-
The vanity light glows softly, casting a warm sheen over the organized chaos of your skincare and lipsticks. Your hair is still wrapped in a towel, damp strands clinging to your neck, and your makeup is only halfway done.
In your hand is a champagne flute. Or, well... mostly champagne. You’d started with the idea of a pomegranate spritz, but at the last second, you’d added another splash—or two—of champagne. For courage. For nerves. For what might be happening tonight.
You take a long sip, eyes darting to the hallway. And then, as if your feet move on their own, you walk toward the linen closet. It’s stupid, maybe. But a part of you just wants to know. You’re not trying to ruin anything, you just want confirmation. Or reassurance. Or some kind of sign that your hope isn’t misplaced.
You slowly open the door, the quiet creak of the hinges sounding louder than usual in the apartment’s stillness. Your hand slides between the stacks of towels and tablecloths, fingers searching the familiar spot, seeking the edge of that velvet box. But all you touch is folded fabric and the smooth, empty wood of the shelf beneath.
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You push the towels aside, check the corners, even lift a few things just to be sure. It’s gone. The ring box isn’t there. Your heart lurches. A rush of adrenaline floods your chest, so fast it’s almost dizzying.
It’s happening. It has to be.
You scramble to put everything back just the way it was, flattening the towels, smoothing out the tablecloths, trying to erase any trace of your little search mission. Just as you shut the closet door with a quiet click, you hear the jangle of keys at the front door.
You make a quick dash to the bedroom, practically throwing yourself into the chair at your vanity. You unwrap your towel, tossing it aside, and reach for your foundation with shaking hands, trying to look like you haven’t just been rooting through a closet like a hopeful maniac.
A moment later, you hear footsteps. Then Seungmin appears in the doorway, still in his sleek work attire except that his tie now slightly loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled from the wind outside.
You meet his eyes in the mirror and smile, trying to keep it casual. “Welcome home,” you sweetly greet.
He walks up behind you, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “You smell good,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smile against your skin.
You hum softly as he places another kiss on your jaw, your cheeks warming at that.
He straightens, gently tugging at your robe’s collar in that playful way of his. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”
And then, with a grin, he adds, “And I’m using your fancy body wash. The expensive one.”
You chuckle under your breath. “So long as you smell like me by the end of it, I won’t complain.”
He winks, already backing toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he disappears behind the door.
You exhale slowly. Your heart is thudding so hard it echoes in your ears, and your reflection is practically glowing with excitement, nerves, and disbelief.
He took the ring. He’s taking you out to dinner. And yet, you still don’t know.
But God, you hope.
-
The city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and muted reflections in the car windows. Seungmin’s hand rests on the wheel, his other on the gearshift, navigating familiar roads with the kind of effortless ease that only comes from years of doing life together. You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded on your lap, your eyes darting to the glowing dashboard clock—7:08 PM.
He hasn’t said where you’re going so you try to puzzle it out in your head, thinking through every restaurant the two of you have been to. If it’s the Italian place downtown, maybe it’s just a regular Friday night date. But if he’s heading toward the hills, toward the rooftop spots or places with skyline views, then maybe— You shake your head and try to stay calm.
The hum of the engine fills the silence between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… charged. And then the car slows, stopping at a red light.
Seungmin glances over at you, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out and takes your hand gently, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it. The touch is soft and thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, just laces his fingers through yours and holds on. Then, casually, like he’s not slowly unravelling you, he asks, “You hungry?”
You swallow the nerves that are caught in your throat and manage a nod, smiling back. “Actually? Famished.”
At that, Seungmin pulls a dramatic face and squints at you. “Don’t tell me that’s because you drank your weight in pomegranate spritz before dinner.”
You wince with a small laugh, but this time, instead of teasing him back like you normally would, you just shake your head and bite your tongue. You’re afraid if you say too much, he’ll notice the way your voice shakes. The way your hands keep fidgeting in your lap. The way your eyes keep drifting to the glove compartment where, maybe, a ring box might be tucked away. So, you stay quiet.
Seungmin just squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing along your knuckles, and keeps his eyes on the road. Just then, the light turns green and the car moves forward.
Belle Vue. It's the restaurant. The kind of place where people wear tailored suits and sleek dresses and speak in hushed tones over candlelight and wine that costs more than your electricity bill.
Seungmin pulls up to the valet, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you. His expression is unreadable, calm in that effortlessly cool way he always is. You school your face into something neutral just as the valet opens your door.
“Good evening,” the young man says, and murmur a thank-you as you step out, smoothing your dress and clutching your purse a little tighter than necessary.
Seungmin walks around the car, handing the keys over with a quick nod before he turns back to you and reaches for your hand. And together, you walk into the restaurant and the maître d’ looks up with a smile as you approach.
“Reservation under Seungmin Kim,” Seungmin says smoothly.
The host glances at the list, nods, and gestures with a polite smile. “Right this way.”
You trail after him, heart pounding in your chest like it’s trying to beat out the truth. The restaurant is beautiful and intimate. Each table lit by the soft flicker of candlelight, crystal glassware gleaming, then the host stops.
Your table is by the window. The one that offers a stunning view of the city skyline, glittering like a dream just outside the glass. It's the kind of table people book months in advance. The kind of table people get proposed to at. You sit down slowly and carefully, like one wrong move might shatter the moment.
Seungmin takes the seat across from you and thanks the host, who gives a small bow before slipping away.
The signs are everywhere. The view. The reservation. The tone of the night. You barely hear Seungmin when he speaks. “Are you okay?”
You glance up to find him watching you. Not suspiciously, but curiously. Like he knows something’s off. You laugh too softly and wave it off with a smile. “I think it’s the pomegranate spritz. I drank too much while getting ready.”
He squints at you, giving you that signature unimpressed look. “I told you not to drink before dinner.”
You flash a grin, but your fingers tighten slightly around your water glass. “I know. I deserve the lecture.”
He lets it go with a mock sigh and leans back in his seat, casually scanning the menu as if he didn’t just lead you into the most romantic restaurant in the city on a Friday night, sitting across from you looking godly attractive and every bit the man you’ve built a life with.
You nod to yourself, trying to stay composed, but even as the waiter comes by and pours water into your glasses, all you can think is: This could be it.
-
Dinner flows surprisingly well, despite the nerves bubbling just under your skin. Seungmin, as always, is composed. He’s cutting into his entrée with the same precision he approaches everything. He tells you about a new case at work, one that’s been dragging for weeks, and you listen with your chin propped on your hand, your glass of wine untouched for the past few minutes.
The conversation slips easily from work, to life, to a recent player transfer on his favorite baseball team. His voice lights up when he talks about it, and you smile at the familiar passion in his tone—the way he gets animated about stats, potential lineups, strategy.
And then, mid-sentence, he pauses and looks at you. Really looks at you. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says softly.
A smile tugs at your lips as you glance down at your dress. “I snagged the last one in the boutique. Lucky find.”
Seungmin shakes his head slowly. “It’s not the dress. It’s you,” he says. “You look beautiful tonight.”
You’ve received compliments from him before. Lots of them. Casual, playful, sincere. But this one… this one land differently. Maybe it’s the quiet conviction in his voice. Or the way his hand reaches across the table and wraps around yours, fingers fitting together like they always do. Maybe it’s the way his eyes hold yours—tender, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the moment.
You smile, cheeks warming as you gently squeeze his hand. And then you let your eyes roam over him, fully appreciating the sight before you. Seungmin in a tailored black suit, his white shirt perfectly crisp beneath it, collar resting just right to frame the sharp line of his jaw.
“Look at you,” you murmur, letting your voice drop just enough. “Sitting there looking like a main entrée.”
You smirk as you lower your voice and teasingly add, “I can’t wait to take that white shirt off of you tonight.”
Seungmin leans back in his seat, giving you a slow, dangerous grin. “Let's see if you're lucky tonight.”
You grin back at him, playful and smug, but your heart is racing now—not because of the banter, but because the night is almost over.
As the waiter reappears and begins clearing the plates, he asks, “Are you ready for dessert?”
You barely register the question as you're lost in your head. “Excuse me,” you say quickly, offering a polite smile as you slide your chair back. “I need to go to the restroom.”
Seungmin nods, lifting your hand for a brief kiss before letting you go. “Don’t take too long.”
You nod as you get up from your seat. But as you walk toward the restrooms, your stomach twists. The dinner is nearly over and if he’s going to do it—if tonight is the night—then it’s happening soon.
In the restroom, you lean over the sink, both hands braced on the cool marble countertop, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You look stunning—anyone would say that. But your face is tense, your eyes a little too wide, your lips pressed tightly together like you’re holding in a thousand thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go. You inhale. Exhale. Shake out your hands like you’re about to give a keynote speech in front of a thousand people.
This is ridiculous. You’re not even sure if it’s happening tonight. Still, the nerves are real. Palpable. You reach for your purse to find your lipstick, but instead, your fingers brush against your phone. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you tap Marion’s name and press it to your ear.
She doesn’t pick up on the first call. You curse under your breath and hit redial, pacing a slow circle around the restroom. This time, she answers, slightly breathless. “Sorry! I missed the first call—I’m having dinner with Leo. What’s up?”
You don’t even hesitate and blurt out. “I think Seungmin’s going to propose tonight.”
There’s a pause and then a sudden shuffle on the other end of the line. You hear her muffled voice excusing herself before a door shuts in the background, and then—
WHAT?” Marion says quickly. “Now tell me everything. Start from the top.”
You press a hand to your forehead. “Okay, so… he called me this afternoon out of nowhere. Said we’re having dinner tonight. Wouldn’t tell me where. Just that it’s a surprise.”
Marion gasps.
“And then,” you continue, pacing again, “I was getting ready and I—okay, I checked the linen closet. The ring box’s not there anymore. It’s gone.”
“Oh my god.”
“And then he takes me to Belle Vue. Best seat in the house. Full skyline view.” You glance at your reflection again, voice growing quiet. “And the way he looked at me tonight, Marion… I don’t know. It felt like something. Something big.”
There’s a beat of silence before Marion lets out a shriek of joy so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “I KNEW IT! I knew he was going to propose soon! Everything—literally everything—makes sense!”
You laugh, nerves bubbling over again. “But I... I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
“Girl,” Marion says, her voice dropping into dead-serious mode, “he took the ring out of the closet. He brought you to a place that takes a month to book. And he’s looking at you like you hung the stars. What else could it be?”
You rub your temple, heart racing. “What do I even do if he does?”
“You keep breathing,” Marion says firmly. “You apply a fresh coat of lipstick. Fix your hair. And start practicing your surprised-but-still-glowy-yes-face.”
You snort softly. “Right.”
“I’m serious! I expect a full report by the end of the night. Don’t you dare leave me hanging.”
“Okay, okay,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Love you. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it. Just say yes.” She hangs up with one final squeal, and you sigh as you slip your phone back into your purse.
You want to brush it off, laugh it away. But… maybe there’s nothing wrong in being prepared. So you do exactly what Marion said. You blot and reapply your lipstick. Fluff your hair. Practice your smile in the mirror and feel your heart flutter in your chest. You take a final breath to steady yourself, then step out of the restroom and walk slowly, carefully, back toward your table.
Seungmin’s already there, sitting tall with his black suit pristine under the golden glow of the restaurant lights. He looks up the second you appear and smiles. “There you are,” he says. “Dessert’s here.”
You return his smile as gracefully as you can manage and settle back into your seat, murmuring a polite thanks to the server as they place a second silver spoon beside your plate.
The dessert is gorgeous. Artfully plated with swirls of ganache, caramel glass, and something delicate and dusted with powdered sugar. The kind of thing that would usually make you beam with delight. You take a bite and it’s perfect. Silky, rich, melt-on-your-tongue perfect. And yet, your stomach is still in knots.
The air around you feels like it’s waiting for something. Like you’re waiting for something. You sit quietly, your spoon gliding through the dessert, letting yourself hope for just a few more seconds.
Seungmin glances at you from across the table. Then he chuckles. “You got real quiet.”
“It’s the dessert,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Too good to talk through.”
He nods, still smiling, like nothing’s out of the ordinary. And then, his hand disappears into the inner pocket of his jacket.
This is it. This has to be it. Your heart skips. Your whole body stills. You watch, barely breathing, your fingers tightening around your spoon as he pulls something from behind the lapel.
But it’s not a velvet box. It’s his card wallet. He places it on the table, sliding the bill check toward himself. “Figured I’ll take care of it now,” he says casually, flipping it open to slip in his card.
And just like that, the illusion unravels. The anticipation that’s been building all night collapses into the hollow space behind your ribs. You lower your eyes to your plate and push another bite of dessert into your mouth just to keep your expression from cracking.
You’re not sure what disappoints you more—that it didn’t happen… or that you let yourself believe it would. You manage a small smile, nodding at nothing in particular as he chats with the waiter. Because this is just a regular night. Just dinner. Just dessert. And the ring? Whatever it was… maybe it was never for tonight at all.
-
The night air is cooler now, the city buzzing gently in the background as you and Seungmin make your way back to the car. He opens the passenger door for you like he always does, and you slip inside quietly, your mind still reeling from the way dinner ended in… nothing.
You fasten your seatbelt, settling in, trying not to let disappointment cling too heavily to your skin. You glance at him as he gets in on the driver’s side, buckles his own belt, and starts the engine.
Before Seungmin shifts the gear into drive, he pauses. He turns to look at you and with that same soft gaze from earlier, calm but with the slightest hint of mischief. Then, he says: “You ready for the real surprise?”
Your fingers still on your lap as your heart stutters. “There’s more?”
He just smiles and for a moment, you don’t say anything. You’re careful now, cautious—wary. You don’t want to spiral again. You don’t want to go through another round of quiet expectations and louder disappointment. But it’s already happening, isn’t it?
Because maybe he didn’t mean to propose at the restaurant. Maybe he wants somewhere more private. More personal. Somewhere it’s just the two of you. Your thoughts start spinning all over again, and just like that… your hopes are up.
You exhale a little laugh, eyes flicking over to him as you lean back against the headrest. “Should I be nervous?”
Seungmin grins as he puts the car in gear, easing the vehicle into motion. “You’ll see.”
You glance at him as he drives, trying to read something from the side of his face. His lips curve in a satisfied little smirk, like he’s proud of himself—like he’s planned something sweet and thoughtful. You want to match his energy, you really do, but your mind is moving too fast.
The car eventually slows in front of a low-lit building, all glass windows and minimalist signage. You squint at it through the windshield—it looks closed. Not a single light flickers inside.
You frown, confused, but Seungmin just turns off the ignition and steps out like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You follow, heels quiet on the pavement. “What is this place?”
“Trust me. You'll love it,” he says with a small grin, already walking ahead.
The door is shut. The hallway inside is dark, empty. You hesitate as he holds it open for you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back as he leads you inside. And then, the door at the end of the hallway opens, spilling warm golden light into the shadows, and a man greets you with a polite smile. “Welcome. Right this way.”
Seungmin glances back at you, still grinning. “Surprise.”
You follow the waiter down a flight of velvet-covered steps, into the glow of a dimly lit jazz club tucked secretly beneath the city. A stage glows at the center, a band tuning their instruments, the soft rustle of glassware and hushed laughter scattered across booths and tables.
Seungmin’s hand remains on your back as he follows close behind, guiding you into a cozy, curved booth lit by a single low-hanging lamp. As you settle in, the scent of citrus and woodsmoke and fresh linen lingers in the air.
The ambiance. The music. The romantic lighting. You take it all in and despite everything—despite how beautiful it is, how thoughtful it is—you feel a dull ache press against your chest. Because this was supposed to be the night. Because you once mentioned in passing how you wanted to come here, how you read about the craft cocktails and the underground ambiance and Seungmin remembered. But… that’s all it is. Just a surprise date night. Just thoughtful. Not life-changing.
He turns to you, resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Do you like it?”
You look up at him and manage a small. “I love it.”
But Seungmin studies you for a second longer than you’re comfortable with. He’s too smart, too attentive not to notice. “You don’t look like you love it,” he murmurs, brow creasing.
You panic a little—not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to feel like he failed at something he worked hard to plan. So you lean forward and pull him in by his collar, kissing him with more emotion than you planned. It’s soft, deep, thankful—and just a little desperate.
“Thank you,” you whisper as you pull back, your hand still on his cheek. “Really. I love it.”
His eyes search yours for another beat and then he smiles, wide and bright, as if you’ve successfully reassured him.
You lean back into your seat, brushing your fingers along the rim of the menu in front of you. “So…” you say, raising a brow. “Does it mean I can have as many cocktails as I want?”
Seungmin lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course,” he says, already flagging down a server. “That’s one of the perks of dating someone as responsible and reliable as me.”
The way he says it with that cocky grin that first won your heart makes you smile despite the weight in your chest. You order something strong and pretty, something with a salted rim and citrus notes. You sip your first drink slowly, savoring the taste as much as the dull numbness it brings because tonight didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.
And you still love him. You still want him.
-
You wake up late the next morning, the light already soft and golden through the curtains. Your head aches faintly, a dull throb behind your eyes, and your mouth feels dry from the cocktails the night before. You roll onto your side, rubbing the sleep off your eyes before getting up.
The moment you step out of the bedroom, you immediately spot Seungmin standing by the stove. He’s still in his navy sweater from the night before, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and his face is bare, just the soft kind of beautiful you’ve only ever seen when it’s just the two of you.
He glances up and catches your eyes. A smile tugs at his lips as he sweetly greets you. “Morning, sleepyhead. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
You hum in reply and have a seat in the dining table. You prop your chin in your hand, watching him move around the kitchen.
He’s calm, efficient, pouring eggs into a pan, flipping toast, sliding cabinet drawers open with ease. He turns back a minute later with a steaming cup in his hand and walks over to you. “Here,” he says gently, leaning down and holding it out. “Coffee first.”
You take the mug from him with both hands, and before you can say anything, he reaches up and cups your face with one warm hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Hungover, mmh?” he murmurs with a knowing smile.
You pout, lips pushing out as you nod.
His touch lingers as he brushes your hair behind your ear, gaze full of amusement and affection. “Do you want something for the headache?”
You give him another nod.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of your head, fingers curling softly around the back of your neck. “I’ll go get it.”
You watch him stand and walk off toward the bathroom, his socked feet padding lightly against the floor. And you feel… small. Not in a bad way. In a protected way. Cradled. Cared for.
In that moment, sitting there in his sweater, with the warmth of the cup of coffee seeping into your hands, your head foggy from the night before, you ask yourself how you could possibly be mad at someone who treats you like this.
It isn’t his fault. He didn’t promise anything. He never gave you reason to believe it would happen last night. That was all you. All your wishful thinking, your hope spun too tightly around small signs. You expected something that didn’t belong to a timeline, something he might be holding onto for later.
You hear him returning before you see him. His steps light but steady, then the faint clink of a glass in his hand. He appears by your side, holding a small white pill and a glass of water.
“Here you go,” he says, handing them over.
You take the ibuprofen and pop it onto your tongue, then chase it down with a long sip of water.
Seungmin watches you quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When you hand the glass back to him, he sets it on the table. Then, without a word, he gently pats the top of your head, his fingers trailing lightly through your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs with playful affection. “Took it like a champ.”
Your lips curl into a soft smile, heart fluttering at the way he’s looking at you right now—fond, warm, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers linger, gently caressing your temple.
You gaze up at him and say with a quiet, almost bashful smile, “I feel better already.”
And despite everything you’re holding in, you mean it. Even if your chest still aches, even if the ring never left his pocket, even if last night didn’t turn out the way you dreamed. Right now, with Seungmin beside you like this, brushing your hair and taking care of you with such ease, it’s enough.
Even if it still hurts a little.
-
The scent of freshly baked pastries and espresso greet you as you step into the café. It’s a bright Sunday morning, but you keep your face composed even though you know exactly why Marion asked to meet today. She hasn’t said it outright, but her texts were filled with excited emojis and vague exclamation points. And you’ve been dodging her calls since yesterday. She’s convinced she knows what happened Friday night. And you? You’re still trying to push the embarrassment down far enough not to wear it on your face.
You stop to scan the room and there she is, already seated by the window, her smile wide and warm as she waves both hands at you. You smile back and walk over, forcing your expression into something sunny and relaxed. She stands to hug you the second you’re close, and you go through the familiar motions—press cheek to cheek, squeeze briefly, sit across from her as if everything is normal.
“Hi, you look amazing,” Marion says, practically glowing. “I’ve missed you.”
You chuckle softly and nod. “Missed you too.”
Before she can get a word in, you flag down a waiter, already pointing at the brunch menu. “Let’s order right away. I’m starving.”
You buy yourself a few more minutes, drinking from your water, nodding when she makes a comment about the décor, but it doesn’t last long.
Once the waiter walks away, Marion leans forward with that signature glint in her eyes. “So,” she begins carefully, “how are you?”
You breathe in. Smile. “I’m good— Great. You?”
“I’m… I’m good,” she says, then breaks into that smile, a little brighter than usual. The one that radiates something new, something big, and then—she lifts her left hand.
Your eyes fall to it instantly. A delicate diamond glints under the light, elegant and perfectly set. Your breath stills.
“He proposed,” she beams, barely holding back a squeal. “Leo proposed last night.”
“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Marion…”
“We were just having dinner at home!” she continues, talking quickly, hands flying. “Like nothing out of the ordinary. He made pasta and opened a bottle of wine and then—God—I turned around and he was on one knee. I thought he dropped something! I literally asked him if he lost a contact lens.”
You laugh, even though it catches a little in your throat. “That’s so Leo.”
“I cried like a baby. It was so us. No big gesture, no fancy restaurant. Just home. And him. And this.” She gestures again to the ring, her fingers shaking slightly.
You nod, trying to swallow around the sudden lump forming in your throat. “It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”
And you mean it. You do. But your chest still aches.
Marion reaches across the table and takes your hands. “We’re both going to be brides,” she says, glowing. “Can you believe it?”
Something in you cracks. Just a little. You try to smile, try not to let it show, but she sees it. Marion always sees it.
“Wait. Did… did it not happen?”
You pause and then, softly, you shake your head. “No. He didn’t propose.”
“Oh…” Her voice quiets. “I thought—”
“I did too,” you say honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I found the ring, remember? In the linen closet. And then he planned that whole night. The dinner. The jazz club. It just… I really thought…” You trail off, eyes fixed on the table.
Marion squeezes your hands tightly. “Hey. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”
You smile at her, small and tired. “I know. I just… I shouldn’t have assumed. That was my mistake.”
“No,” she says firmly. “No, that’s not a mistake. Anyone would’ve thought the same. And maybe he’s just—taking his time. Planning something special.”
You nod, because it’s the kind thing to do. “Yeah. Maybe. And if not… that’s okay too.”
Marion scoffs. “Please. This is Seungmin we’re talking about. Of course he’ll propose to you. The guy practically worships you.”
You want to believe her. You do. But you don’t say anything—just press her hand, smile, and try your best not to let your heart show.
“You know what? Let's ditch the coffee,” Marion says as she gestures the nearest waiter hanging around the table. “Let's order sweet cocktails with the umbrellas.”
-
You come home with your arms full of shopping bags and a headache that the brunch cocktails didn’t manage to blur out. Your shoes click softly against the floor as you step inside the apartment, eyes briefly flicking toward the living room where Seungmin’s seated cross-legged on the couch, a controller in hand, the screen flashing with bright movement from whatever game he’s playing.
Glancing over his shoulder with a grin, he calls out, “Did you buy the entire mall?”
You don’t answer. Not even a smile. You head straight to the bedroom. The bags thump softly as you drop them near the closet, shedding your jacket and slipping off your shoes like they suddenly weigh too much. You feel too tired to process your thoughts—your conversation with Marion still ringing in your ears, the ring still nowhere in sight, your emotions swinging too close to the edge.
A few moments later, you hear Seungmin’s footsteps approaching. He leans against the doorframe for a beat, watching you, then steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He peeks into one of the bags like a curious cat. “So… how was brunch? Did you have fun?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, voice flat as you pull your sweater over your head and toss it aside. “It was fine.”
Seungmin hums, clearly sensing something but not pressing—yet. He reaches into one of the shopping bags and pulls out a folded piece of delicate fabric. “Ooh,” he says, lifting the silky nightdress with a playful raise of his eyebrows. “Nice pick. Are you wearing this tonight?”
You manage a soft chuckle and shake your head. “Maybe.” You take it gently from his hands and tuck it back into the bag.
Seungmin watches you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” you lie, forcing a thin smile.
But he’s already moving. He reaches for your wrist just as you bend to lift the shopping bags again, tugging you gently toward him. The bags slip from your fingers and land on the floor with a soft thud as he pulls you into his lap.
Seungmin wraps his arms around you as if you’re something precious and fragile, his hand brushing your hair away from your face. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks again, voice low, gentle.
You hesitate because a part of you want to say it. You want to ask about the ring, the night that didn’t go how you expected. But the fear of sounding demanding coils around your throat like a knot. So instead, you ask the one question that’s been sitting quietly in your heart: “Do you love me?”
Seungmin blinks, startled. And then, with a teasing smile, “You bought all this and none of it is for me? My love just dropped a point.”
You smack his chest—not hard, but enough to make your point. “Be serious,” you whine, your voice tight and unexpectedly shaky. “Please.”
His expression softens immediately. “Hey, hey…” he pats your head, chuckling lightly. “Who are you and what did you do to my girlfriend?”
You smack his chest again, harder this time.
He yelps, but a smile still tugs at his lips. Then, gently cupping your face in both hands, he studies you closely. “You’re not acting like you. You’re usually the one giving me affirmations in the middle of the day. What’s going on?”
You look at him and almost say it. But instead, you shake your head and murmur, “Just answer the question.”
He exhales and smiles at you. The kind of smile that makes everything feel okay for a second. His eyes never leave yours. “Of course I love you,” he says quietly, sincerely. “You know I do.”
And then he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he repeats, like a promise.
You can feel how much he means it. In the way he holds you. The way your heart stutters just hearing the words from his mouth. But before you can melt completely, he pulls back just enough to flash a cheeky smile. “I’ll love you more if you put on that silk dress, though.”
You swat his shoulder—aiming for it, at least—but your hand lands on his jaw instead. He yelps again, a hand flying up to cradle it. “Ow! That hurts!”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you laugh, leaning in to kiss the spot. “It didn’t even hurt.”
“It did, actually,” he pouts dramatically, but he holds your waist tighter, tilting his head slightly to give you better access as your lips trail a few more apologetic kisses along his jaw. Then, gently, your lips find his again. This time, slower. Sweeter.
After everything, this is what you needed. His arms. His quiet, unshakable love. You pull away just enough to look into his eyes. “I love you,” you whisper, this time with everything in you.
Seungmin’s smile is soft and full of warmth. Then he presses his forehead to yours. “I know,” he murmurs.
In that moment, it really is enough. Even if your heart still carries a tiny, unspoken ache.
-
Later that night, you’re wrapped in the familiar quiet of your bedroom, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely audible under the weight of your slow breathing. Seungmin lies behind you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing light shapes over the silk fabric of your nightdress—the one you didn’t plan on wearing tonight but somehow ended up in anyway. You shift slightly, pressing your back closer to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Comfortable?”
You hum your answer, your eyes fluttering shut. “Mhm. Yeah.”
He chuckles softly, the sound warm against your skin. “Guess I’ll have to ruin that.”
His hand slides along your waist, slow and teasing, until it finds your bare thigh peeking through the slit of your nightdress. He palms the skin there gently, his touch both grounding and electrifying. You turn slightly toward him, enough to meet his gaze in the soft light of the bedside lamp.
There’s something about the way he’s looking at you like you’re something to be cherished and devoured all at once. You lean in, brushing your lips over his, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond. The kiss deepens easily, naturally, as if the day hadn’t worn on you at all. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you closer, pulling you into his space until you’re tangled together, mouths moving in sync, breathes shared and stolen between kisses.
The silk of your nightdress shifts under his touch, soft fabric slipping aside as his hands roam with purpose, memorizing the curves he already knows by heart. You gasp softly against his lips when his thigh presses between yours, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging at it with unspoken need.
“You're so hot. How can I not love you?” he whispers, just barely, his voice thick and quiet.
You breathlessly giggle as you're threading your fingers through his hair as he begins to kiss lower, trailing heat down the curve of your throat and over your collarbone. And in the stillness of your shared space, with limbs entwined and hearts laid bare, you let go of everything else. Because in this moment, it’s only him. Only you. Only love.
The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the shared breaths between your lips as your mouths meet again, slow and deep and unhurried. Seungmin propped on one elbow as he's leaning over you with that familiar half-smile playing at his lips—the one that always makes your chest ache in the best way. His hand roams beneath the silk nightdress, slow and deliberate, brushing over your waist, your hip, until it finds its way between your thighs.
You suck in a sharp breath against his mouth as his fingers move lower, his touch gentle but firm, and entirely sure of you.
“Still comfortable?” he murmurs, the words laced with teasing as he palms your clothed sex, his thumb easily tracing your bundle of nerves through the flimsy fabric.
You nod, breathless, your fingers gripping his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Too comfortable,” you whisper, echoing his earlier words with a shaky laugh.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower still. His fingers never stop moving against the dampness forming on your underwear, his touch slow and coaxing, driving you quietly out of your mind. He knows your body—knows how to build you up with the softest strokes, how to make your toes curl and your breath catch without a single word.
Your body arches slightly, your head falling back against the pillow as he whispers something against your skin—words that are low and loving, and just a little cocky.
You barely register them because all you know is the warmth curling low in your stomach, the way he’s making you unravel piece by piece while holding you so close, as if you might disappear if he didn’t.
Seungmin continues his exploration, fingers circling on your clit—slow and steady—until you’re clutching the sheets and gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember.
Your breath is uneven, your cheek resting against the pillow as your body melts into the mattress. You feel Seungmin’s weight shift beside you, then the soft press of his lips against your shoulder.
He trails more kisses along your skin, slow and unhurried, until he’s hovering above you, his chest brushing against your back, warm and solid. One of his hands remains on your heating wetness, still touching you, fingers moving with knowing precision, making you shiver despite the heat of his body. “You’re not tired yet, are you?” he murmurs against your neck, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless. “Should I be?”
Instead of answering, he presses a slow kiss to the base of your neck, his hand moving just a little firmer now, drawing another soft sound from your throat. Then you feel his hips settling closer, the subtle grind of him against you, the heat of his arousal unmistakable even through the layers of fabric still between you.
He doesn’t say anything, just breathes against your skin, letting his body do the talking. The slow, steady roll of his hips, the way he fits against you, the heat, the hardness. You squirm beneath him, not to escape but to tease back, and he groans low in his throat—a sound that sinks into your bones.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, voice rough now, his hand still moving, coaxing every bit of response from you as his hips grind against you again, slower this time, deliberate.
You tilt your head slightly to the side, glancing at him from over your shoulder, your lips parted, your body flushed and pliant beneath his. He meets your eyes and there's no more teasing in his expression. Only want. Only love. And the soft weight of him above you feels like the safest place in the world.
You hum softly as Seungmin’s lips continue their gentle exploration of your shoulder and neck, each kiss fluttering against your skin like a secret. His hand never leaves your body, drifting across your stomach before inching lower again. Then, with a breathy chuckle against your ear, he murmurs, “I take it back.”
You smile, eyes still closed. “Take what back?”
“This nightdress,” he says, his voice low and teasing as his fingers slip beneath the hem and slowly tug it upward. “I hate it.”
A laugh bubbles from your throat, soft and breathless, as he continues, “Hate it so much.”
The fabric slides higher as his hands move with purpose, and you oblige with a grin, pushing yourself up slightly so your back meets his chest. You tilt your head against his shoulder, lifting your arms in silent invitation. He takes the cue without hesitation, sliding the dress up and over, tossing it somewhere off the bed without even looking.
Warm hands return to your bare skin immediately, greedy and reverent. He touches you like he’s missed you—even though you’ve been right here the entire time. Fingers trace every familiar curve, rediscovering you with a tenderness that contradicts the hunger simmering in his breath.
His hands come to rest on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands with gentle insistence, his palms hot against your skin. You gasp as his thumbs brush softly over your sensitive nipples, and your body melts further into his. He leans in, mouth seeking the spot just below your jawline, where he nips and sucks, leaving behind the echo of his affection in the form of wet heat and marks.
You feel boneless in his arms, pliant and undone, every breath you take shivering out of you as he holds you like something he never plans to let go of.
He groans softly against your neck, his hands never still. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
But you do. You feel it in every kiss. Every touch. And as you press your hand over his where it rests on your chest, you whisper back, “I think I do.”
With that, you lower yourself onto the bed, the sheets cool against your warmed skin as Seungmin’s hands glide down your sides slowly, reverently. His fingers catch the edge of your underwear, and in one fluid motion, he eases it down and off, leaving you bare beneath his gaze.
He shifts above you, mouth returning to the soft skin of your neck, where he plants teasing kisses and playful nibbles. You giggle when his breath tickles your ear, your shoulder curling slightly as you squirm beneath him, not from discomfort but anticipation.
“Seungmin...” you whisper out of want, need.
His response is another kiss—this one pressed just below your ear—and then he begins to trail down your spine, every slow kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. When he reaches the curve of your back, his hands settle on your hips, his thumbs stroking slow circles before sliding lower.
You feel him—hot and hard—pressed against your wet cunt, not quite pushing forward, just teasing. Testing. His grip tightens ever so slightly, and you gasp when he slips his cock in between and rubbing it against your wetness, giving just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to satisfy.
“Seungmin,” you whisper, breath trembling. “Please…”
His chuckle is low and indulgent as he leans in, mouth brushing over your ear again. “So needy for me,” he murmurs, almost amused. “How can I not love you?”
And finally, finally, he gives in. He pushes his cock inside you slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving to where his length disappearing into you, savoring the way you take him inch by inch. The breath you release is a stuttering moan, muffled into the pillow beneath you, your hands clutching the sheets as your body adjusts to him.
It stays like that for a moment and when Seungmin deems you're ready for more, he begins moving with the kind of rhythm that feels both intentional and instinctive like he knows your body as well as his own, knows every subtle shift in your breath and how to pull the sweetest sounds from your lips.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, your skin tingling with every deep thrust, and when you turn your head to look at him, he meets your gaze—his dark eyes full of heat and tenderness. That look alone nearly undoes you.
“Seungmin, baby, you feel so good inside me...” you mewl as you look at him with half-lidded eyes.
Without needing to hear it, he can tell just from reading the expression on your face, the way your body arches into his, how your voice catches every time he hits that perfect spot. And he responds the way only he can—his pace changing without warning, suddenly fast, then slowing again just enough to tease, to keep you on edge, to build that need higher. He’s loving you like it’s everything he knows how to do—with devotion in every movement, and passion in every kiss he leaves along your skin.
By the time he finds that final rhythm—deep, fast, overwhelming—you’re a breathless mess beneath him, your moans spilling out freely, loud and broken, as the bed rocks beneath the intensity of it all. You don’t even care anymore if the neighbors hear. He’s lost in it too, letting out low, desperate sounds against your skin, his grip on your hips tightening as if he’s trying to hold on just a little longer.
When the wave crashes, it takes both of you with it.
Seungmin buries himself deep one last time before letting go, his body trembling slightly as he spills his seed inside you, collapsing against your back as the weight of his pleasure and exhaustion hits him all at once. His chest heaves against you, damp skin pressed to yours, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of sheets.
You turn your head just enough to find him, to brush your lips to his. He kisses you back slowly, softly, like he’s still catching his breath. And then, in the quiet that follows, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”
He doesn’t need to say it back right away—you can feel it in the way he kisses you again, in the way he shifts just enough to hold you better, closer. But then, you hear it anyway—soft and sincere, right against your temple. “I love you so much.”
And in that moment, with your bodies tangled and your hearts bare, it’s all you need.
-
The kitchen is a delightful mess—flour dusted across the countertops, chocolate smudged on your wrist, and a mixing bowl dangerously close to tipping off the edge of the sink. You and Marion are both slightly tipsy, giggling over a cocktail shaker that’s lost its lid mid-shake and sent droplets of raspberry gin fizz onto the cabinets.
“Are we even doing this right?” Marion asks, peering into the brownie batter as you try to fold in the chocolate chunks without splashing anything else.
You shrug, your cheeks flushed from laughter and the alcohol. “I mean, if the batter tastes this good, the final result can’t be that bad.”
Marion dips a spoon in and tastes it with a dramatic moan. “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re both laughing again, this time harder, and she almost knocks over the tray as you slide it into the oven. You set a timer, then lean against the counter, clinking your glass gently with hers.
“To very serious bakers,” you toast.
“And to very responsible drinking,” she adds with a wink.
Once you both settle on the floor with a throw pillow each, the buzz mellowing into that warm, glowy feeling, Marion sighs and rests her head back against the cupboard. “I can’t believe I’m getting married.”
You glance over and smile. “I can. You and Leo are disgustingly perfect.”
She snorts. “We’re just… learning. Growing. Like… I don’t know, good wine or something.” Then she quiets for a second, her voice softening. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. All the clichés? They’re real. I’ll see him in the kitchen making coffee and suddenly I’m like, ‘God, I want to spend the rest of my life watching this man make terrible pour-overs.’”
Your laugh is soft this time, fond. “I’m really happy for you, Mar.”
She turns to you, eyes shining a little. “And I’m so happy you’re my maid of honor.”
Your chest warms at the words. “I’m going to be the best maid of honor ever. Just watch.”
She grins wide. “And threaten Leo with bodily harm if he ever makes me cry.”
You toast your nearly empty glass with hers again. “That’s a given.”
There’s a pause, a comfortable one, and then Marion leans her head gently against your shoulder. “You’ll be next,” she murmurs.
You don’t say anything right away. Just smile and keep looking at the oven, the faint ticking of the timer filling the silence. You don’t need to answer—not tonight.
Once brownies has cooled down, you take the first bite of the brownie and blink in disbelief. “Wait… why is this actually good?”
Marion’s eyes widen as she chews her own piece. “Did we accidentally summon domestic goddess energy?”
You both laugh, mouths full of gooey chocolate, your cocktail glasses sitting mostly forgotten on the coffee table. The brownies have that perfect crispy edge with a soft, fudge-like center, and it feels like an accomplishment far beyond its baking difficulty—maybe because it’s wrapped in the comfort of laughter, drinks, and easy friendship.
But as the minutes pass and Marion continues sipping, then pouring a little too enthusiastically, it becomes clear that your best friend is crossing the line from tipsy to gone. Her cheeks are flushed, her head wobbles when she moves, and she’s singing along to a song playing from her phone in a voice so off-key, it’s almost impressive.
You, a little lightheaded yourself, shake your head with a smile. “Marion,” you say gently, nudging her. “It’s not even ten-thirty.”
“I’m great,” she declares, wobbling as she tries to stand. “I feel like I could plan a wedding and solve world peace right now.”
“Mhm,” you mutter, looping an arm around her shoulders when she stumbles again. “Let’s aim for just making it to your bedroom without breaking anything.”
She slumps into you, leaning heavily as you walk her slowly down the hall. “You know what we should do?” she says, her words slurring slightly. “We should totally get pregnant together.”
You pause mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah,” she continues dreamily. “Me and you. Pregnant together. Baby bumps and morning sickness and matching diaper bags. Our babies can have playdates and grow up to be best friends like us.”
You snort, half laughing, half trying not to tip over. “That’s a very... ambitious plan.”
Marion nods solemnly. “Synchronize our cycles. Manifest the future.”
“Okay, Drunk Oracle,” you say, trying not to laugh too hard. “Let’s just start with you getting to the bed.”
You manage to get her onto the mattress in one final push. She immediately curls up into a fetal position, already half-asleep. You pull the duvet over her gently and take a moment to look at her soft, peaceful expression—marriage-bound, impossibly hopeful, and dreaming of coordinated pregnancies and pastel nursery paint.
You reach out to brush a bit of hair from her face and sigh, not entirely sure what to feel. The air is still warm with laughter, but there's a quiet twinge in your chest. You flick off the bedside lamp, casting the room in darkness, and close the door behind you.
With Marion already tucked into bed, you're left with the cleaning task to yourself. You sigh before moving around Marion’s kitchen, cleaning up the mess the two of you made earlier. There’s flour dusted across the counter like a fine layer of snow, smears of chocolate batter dried onto the mixing bowl, and spatulas sitting lazily in the sink. It’s quiet now without Marion’s laughter or the clinking of glasses, and the silence presses in gently, nudging you into your thoughts.
As you rinse the dishes one by one, Marion’s drunken rambling echoes in your head like background music. “You’ll be next. Let’s plan our pregnancies together. Baby playdates. Matching diaper bags.”
You shake your head with a smile, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. She was drunk. But even so… the picture forms easily in your mind. You and Seungmin. A modest house filled with warmth. Little footsteps running down the hallway. A baby with Seungmin’s eyes and pout. Him in sweats with a sleepy toddler cradled on his chest, the glow of Sunday morning light filtering through the windows. It makes your chest flutter in the softest way.
You’re still standing at the sink, sponge in hand, when the sound of the front door clicks open, shattering your daydream. The soft thud of keys hitting the entry table follows, and then the familiar voice.
“Hey,” Leo says gently as he steps into the kitchen and sees you. “You’re still here.”
You turn and offer a small smile. “Just waiting for my taxi. Didn’t want to leave a crime scene behind.”
He glances toward the living room, then toward the hallway. “She’s out, huh?”
“Out cold,” you confirm with a chuckle. “Didn’t even make it to 10:30.”
Leo laughs under his breath and grabs a glass from the shelf. “That sounds about right.”
You start drying your hands as he fills his glass with water. There’s a beat of comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft rush of water from the tap.
“You can hang out for a bit,” Leo says, taking a sip. “Seungmin would kill me if I let you leave without making sure you got in your ride safely.”
That makes you chuckle. “Sounds like him.”
Leo leans against the counter and tilts his head slightly. “You know… I always thought Seungmin would do it first.”
“Do what first?”
He raises a brow, like it’s obvious. “Propose.”
The word hits you with a weight you didn’t expect, but you try to keep your expression casual. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Leo nods. “I mean—funny story actually. The day I bought the ring for Marion? I ran into him at the jewelry store.”
You look up sharply. “You did?”
“Yup,” he says, smiling at the memory. “I asked what he was doing there and he said—” Leo lifts a hand to mimic air quotes, “—‘just returning something.’ Total deadpan. Didn’t even blink.”
You force a small laugh. “Also sounds like him.”
Leo shrugs, grinning. “But knowing Seungmin? I think he just didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I mean, guy’s got a poker face made of steel.”
You nod slowly, but your heart sinks just a little deeper than before. Because now you're not so sure. Was it really a lie to keep a surprise? Or… was it the truth?
You swallow hard, trying to keep your expression smooth as you offer him a polite smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
But your chest is heavy again, and as you glance at your phone to check the time, you wish more than anything that you hadn’t opened that damn linen closet at all.
-
You fasten the clasp of your earrings as you glance at yourself in the mirror, the morning light slipping through the blinds and catching on the satin fabric of your dress. Marion texted you twenty minutes ago with three exclamation points and an “ARE YOU READY YET” that you haven’t had the heart to respond to. You’re not late—just… taking your time.
Because when you're alone like this, brushing on a little blush and slipping into heels, your thoughts begin to loop again. About the ring. About that empty space in the linen closet. About what Leo said.
He said he was just returning something. But… what if he really was?
It’s been days, and still nothing. No big gestures. No changes in the way Seungmin acts. And you're trying not to let it eat you alive.
You're meant to be excited for Marion today—maid of honor, dress shopping, champagne flutes and dramatic tears—but your head’s a noisy place. You're halfway through slipping into your dress when the bedroom door creaks open.
“Need help?” Seungmin asks from behind, already closing the distance.
You nod, standing still as he gently gathers the zipper at the small of your back. His fingers are warm, smooth, careful. The sound of the zipper sliding up echoes too loud in the quiet room. Once it’s zipped, his arms immediately slip around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder and lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Marion’s stealing you for the whole weekend now, huh?”
You smile faintly at his reflection in the mirror. “Well, I am her maid of honor. This is part of the job.”
He pouts against your shoulder. “You’re gonna be so busy helping her plan stuff. I’ll barely see you.”
You tilt your head, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Doesn’t that just mean no one’s interrupting your video game marathons?”
He frowns like you just offended him. “That’s not the point. I want to play with you too.”
You turn in his hold, facing him, his hands still warm on your waist. For a fleeting second, you want to ask about it. About the ring. About Leo. About the jewelry store. Instead, you lift a hand to cup his jaw, tracing your thumb gently along the curve of it. His skin is soft from shaving, and his eyes are impossibly warm.
You softly kiss him, lingering just enough to let him know you mean it. When you pull back, your hand stays on his cheek as you smile faintly. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be out all day.”
Seungmin sighs and lets his forehead bump gently against yours. “I hate it.”
You giggle and break away, reaching for your shoes. “Behave.”
“You behave,” he mutters, clearly not letting go of the pout.
You lean in for one last kiss as you sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at him one more time—and there’s that stupidly cute smile. The one that crinkles his eyes and shows off the dimple in his cheek. The one that made you fall in love with him years ago.
“Have fun,” he says, still holding your hand as you reach for the door.
You smile at him over your shoulder and realize that is why you can never stay mad at him.
-
The second you and Marion step into the bridal shop, you both instantly enveloped in a world of white and ivory and shimmer. The space smells faintly like fresh flowers and lavender. Soft piano music floats in the background, almost drowned by Marion’s giddy gasp as she takes it all in.
Rows of gowns hang like clouds on gold racks, each dress more breathtaking than the last. You follow Marion as she practically skips ahead, already flipping through lace, satin, and embroidered tulle. “This one has your name written all over it,” you say, gently tugging out a sweetheart neckline dress with hand-sewn appliqué.
She lets out a squeal, taking it from you like it’s made of spun sugar. As she continues browsing, her eyes alight with excitement, your mind drifts. You glance around at the other brides-to-be in the boutique—smiling, glowing, radiant in anticipation. However, when you try to ignore it, you feel that sting again. You don’t even realize how quiet you’ve gotten until Marion turns to look at you.
“Hey,” she says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “You okay?”
You give a small nod. Then you sigh and admit, “Leo said something… the other night.”
Marion raises a brow. “Uh-oh.”
So you tell her everything. About Leo bumping into Seungmin at the jewelry store. About how Seungmin said he was ‘just returning something’. About how it’s been swirling in your head ever since. “I keep thinking… maybe he had a change of heart,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe he bought the ring and then changed his mind.”
Marion stares at you for a moment, then she blinks and waves a dismissive hand like she's physically swatting the idea away. “Nope. Not buying that. That man is obsessed with you. I see the way he looks at you like he wants to give you the world.”
You let out a quiet laugh at that, but it's tight.
Marion gently bumps her shoulder into yours. “He probably lied because he’s trying to keep it a surprise. He’s meticulous like that. You know he is.”
“I know,” you murmur. “But I’ve just been overthinking everything. And the longer nothing happens, the more I can’t stop wondering.”
Marion gives you a knowing look, then turns toward the bridal shop staff and says brightly, “I think I’m ready to start trying some dresses on!”
One of the attendants smiles and gestures for her to follow. Marion turns back to you, squeezing your hand before heading off. “Stop spiraling. I’m telling you—it’s coming. Just breathe.”
As Marion disappears into the fitting area, you remain in the middle of the boutique, surrounded by future promises sewn into fabric. Trying to believe that maybe yours is just still in progress.
The buzz of the boutique continues around you. You sit quietly on the velvet cushioned bench, hands resting on your lap as you wait. You’re surrounded by joy, by promise, and still, your mind refuses to settle.
A staff member approaches you with a delicate smile, holding a silver tray with two tall champagne flutes. You take one and thank her, nodding politely as she walks away. You bring the glass to your lips, the bubbly drink cool and crisp on your tongue. You hope it’ll ease the tangle of thoughts knotting in your head but it doesn’t.
You’re halfway through the flute when the curtain rustles, and Marion steps out in her first wedding dress. You gasp despite yourself. She looks ethereal—floating in a sleek A-line gown with embroidered floral details and a delicate train behind her. The sweetheart neckline frames her perfectly, and the way she smiles makes it glow even more.
“Oh my god, babe,” you breathe. “You look… breathtaking.”
Marion beams at your reaction, spinning slowly for you to take it all in. “Right? I didn’t think I’d love this one, but wow—this might be it!”
You try your best to focus, offering compliments, suggestions, small smiles, but your energy is off and you know it.
She disappears again into the fitting room, and one dress after another, she keeps emerging in tulle, lace, satin, sleeves, no sleeves—and all you can manage are soft nods and faint hums of approval. You’re trying. You really are. But your smile slips too easily, your thoughts keep drifting.
When she comes out in a fitted mermaid gown with a dramatic low back and doesn't hear the familiar excited gasp from you, she places a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. “Okay. That’s it.”
You glance up at her. “Wha—”
“Get out of your head,” Marion says with a gentle firmness only a best friend could manage. “This is my wedding dress moment. I need you here, babe. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. All of it.”
Your heart drops a little at her words, not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right. And the last thing you want is to take this moment away from her.
You set your glass down and stand, walking over to her, guilt clouding your expression. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’m really sorry, Marion. I want to be here for you—I am here for you—I just…”
Instead of her usual understanding nod or the warm squeeze of reassurance, Marion stares at you. Her eyes linger for a beat too long, her lips pressed into a flat line. You expect her to soften, to offer one of her teasing but gentle replies.
This time, she lets out a short, sharp laugh, void of humor. “You know what?” she says, voice low but cutting. “Maybe Seungmin did change his mind. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame him.”
You freeze. “What?”
She crosses her arms, still standing in her wedding gown. “This was supposed to be my day. One day. One moment. And somehow, you’ve still managed to make it about you.”
“Marion…” you mutter so low it's almost a whisper.
She cuts you off, frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “All week, you’ve been moping, overthinking, spiraling—and I get it, I do, but today is about me. And instead of showing up like my best friend, like my maid of honor, you’re just… wallowing. In something that hasn’t even happened.”
Her words land like stones. Heavy. Sharp. And maybe it’s the stress, or maybe it’s the part of you that’s still wounded from your own disappointment, but your chest tightens.
You pick up your purse, slowly, trying to keep your face blank, even though it’s already twisting. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I get it.”
“Wait—” Marion starts, her tone flickering with regret already, but it’s too late.
You sling the strap of your purse over your shoulder, blink back the sting in your eyes, and walk right past the mirror-lined walls, the racks of white lace and silk, the staff who glance up with startled looks. You don’t stop until you’re out of the boutique and the glass door swings shut behind you.
You step out onto the sidewalk, the air kissing your flushed skin, and only then do you let yourself exhale. Because you didn’t expect the hurt to come from her. Not today. Not like this.
-
When you step into the apartment, Seungmin looks up from the couch with that familiar glint in his eyes, already ready to tease. “Back already?” he says, setting down his phone. “Did you miss me that much?”
You walk right past him, brushing his shoulder lightly, without a word. Your heels click softly against the floor until you reach the bedroom. The purse slips from your fingers and lands on the floor with a soft thud, and you follow it, collapsing face-first onto the bed. The tears come almost instantly, soaking into the pillow before you even have the chance to catch your breath.
A few seconds later, you hear the sound of footsteps, the creak of the door, and then the bed shifts under Seungmin’s weight as he climbs in beside you.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
You don’t answer. You just keep crying, your chest rising and falling with quiet, shuddering sobs.
Seungmin shifts closer, concern painting every inch of his voice now. “Are you hurt? Did someone—did someone say something to you?” He brushes your hair back, his fingertips feather-light on your cheek, but you still don’t look at him. “Who hurt you, baby? Tell me.”
He gets it, then. Whatever this is—it’s not something you’re ready to talk about. So he doesn’t push. Instead, he slides closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You feel his breath against your neck. He presses the softest of kisses to your shoulder, then to the side of your neck, and one more at the edge of your jaw. His hand moves slowly up and down your arm in comforting strokes, no words, just presence. Just him.
“I’m here,” he whispers eventually, voice barely audible. “Okay? I’m right here.”
And maybe that’s all you need for now. Not answers. Not promises. Just this—Seungmin’s arms holding you close as you let yourself fall apart.
By the time your tears have dried, the room is steeped in quiet. Outside the window, the sky has turned deep blue, the last of the evening light fading into night. But inside, Seungmin is still holding you just the same—arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft kisses along the slope of your neck, the curve of your jaw, grounding you with every touch.
“Seungmin,” you croak out, voice raw from crying.
He hums in response, his hand still rubbing slow, gentle circles on your back.
You hesitate, but then ask, barely above a whisper, “Do you think I’m… a selfish person?”
Seungmin stills, then leans back enough to look at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Why would you ask me that?”
You shift on the bed, turning to face him. He instantly loops his arms around your waist again, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand comes up to brush strands of hair away from your face, wiping at the dampness still lingering under your eyes.
You stare at him, and the words fall out of your mouth again, more fragile this time. “Do you think I’m selfish? Is that... Is that why you don’t want to marry me?”
He flinches slightly—not out of anger, but surprise and then the silence stretches a little, filled with nothing but your shaky breath.
“I found the ring,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible. “The one you hid in the linen closet. It fell when I was looking for a tablecloth.”
Realization flashes in Seungmin’s eyes. His mouth parts slightly. “Oh…” he lets out a soft gasp as it all clicks into place, and a breath escapes him in a long, quiet sigh. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
You give a faint, bitter laugh, eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “So it was for me?”
Seungmin cups your face with both hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks as he nods. “Yes. It was always for you.”
“Then why did you return it?” you ask softly, searching his face, trying to keep the heartbreak from bleeding through your voice. “Leo… he saw you at the store. He said you told him you were returning something.”
Seungmin lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I didn’t return it because I changed my mind about you,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I returned it because I found a new one—a better one. One that suits you more.”
You sniffle. “You… did?”
He nods again, still gently stroking your cheek. “Yeah. That first one—it didn’t feel like you. I kept thinking about how you deserve something that really fits who you are. So I exchanged it. I wasn’t trying to lie or confuse you… I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
You fall quiet at that, your chest tightening with emotion—not from sadness, but from the weight of your own misunderstanding. You had made up so many things in your head. So many wrong assumptions.
Seungmin presses his palm to your cheek, coaxing you to look into his eyes. “You’re not selfish,” he says firmly, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket. “A selfish person doesn’t cook me dinner even when she’s tired. She doesn’t stay up late to watch me play video games or take care of me when I’m sick. She doesn’t let me drag her to baseball games or listen to me talk about player stats for hours.”
You laugh softly, another tear slipping down your cheek.
“You’re amazing,” Seungmin whispers. “You’re strong and kind and honest. You're true to yourself. I love you for all of that.”
Then he smiles, eyes sparkling even in the dim light. “If anything… I’m the selfish one.”
You frown in confusion. “Why would you say that?”
He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Because I want all your love just for me. All of it. Every day. Forever.”
A fresh wave of tears rushes into your eyes, but this time, they’re light and full of warmth. You bury your face in his chest again, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as you start crying again—but now, you’re smiling too.
Seungmin kisses the top of your head, his hand slipping into your hair. “You just ruined my proposal plans, by the way,” he mutters playfully. “Guess I’ll have to come up with a new one.”
Despite the storm of emotions, you laugh into his chest, muffled and breathless. “Sorry…”
He chuckles softly. “Not really, though.”
You tilt your head up, looking into his eyes. Everything you need to know is there, written so clearly in the way he looks at you. With love. With certainty.
And when he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow and deep, a promise in itself. “I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.
And in a voice full of all the love you’ve ever felt, you whisper back, “I love you too.”
And that—more than a ring, more than a proposal—is everything.
-
The next morning unfolds slowly, gently—sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the kitchen tiles beneath your feet. There’s music playing softly from your phone, and you’re still in Seungmin’s oversized shirt, sleeves rolled clumsily up your arms, your hair slightly messy from sleep.
Seungmin is beside you, flipping pancakes with exaggerated concentration, while you stir scrambled eggs in the pan next to him. His arm brushes yours every few seconds. You both steal kisses in between chores—on his cheek, on your temple, on the side of your neck—sometimes just for fun, sometimes just because you can. He reaches over your shoulder to grab the pepper and presses a kiss behind your ear on the way, making you giggle and squirm.
There’s a lightness in your chest this morning, a clarity you haven’t felt in days. Because now you know, he’s not going anywhere. He’s here. With you. Choosing you every day.
As you both set the plates onto the table, getting ready to finally eat, the doorbell rings. You pause, glancing at Seungmin. He lifts an eyebrow at you, mouth already full of a bite of pancake. “Who is that?” he says with his mouth full.
You shrug and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel as you pad to the door. When you open it, Marion is standing there. She looks… uncertain. Hesitant. But when her eyes meet yours, she smiles softly and lets out a breath. “Hey.”
You blink in surprise, then give her a faint smile. “Hey.”
Marion hesitates, fidgeting with her hands. “I just—” she sighs. “I’m sorry. For what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”
You stay quiet, letting the weight of her words hang in the air for a beat.
“I was overwhelmed with everything,” she continues, “and I didn’t know I was holding all that tension until it snapped. But that’s no excuse. I was wrong. And I’m really, really sorry.”
You look at her and, in her eyes, you see nothing but sincerity. And maybe just the tiniest bit of shame. But your heart is already softened. You’ve cried enough. You’ve carried enough weight. And you don’t want to carry bitterness too.
A small smile curves on your lips. “It’s okay, Mar. It's all water under the bridge.”
Marion's shoulders drop in relief and a big, bright grin takes over her face. She rushes toward you, throwing her arms around you.
You hug her back tightly, burying your face into her shoulder, holding on for just a second longer than necessary. When you pull away, still smiling, you grab her hand and tug her inside. “Come in. Join us for breakfast.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” you say, already leading her toward the kitchen. “We made pancakes.”
“Say no more,” she grins. “I’m in.”
Seungmin looks up from the table as you both enter, and he offers Marion a nod of greeting. “Hey,” he says casually. “Hope you like slightly burnt pancakes.”
Marion laughs as she sits down. “I like everything when it’s free.”
The three of you settle around the table, warm plates in front of you, coffee cups steaming gently between sips and bites. The late morning light glows through the window, making everything feel softer, slower, sweeter.
Marion takes a sip of her coffee, hums in appreciation, then glances at Seungmin. “Okay, wait. This coffee? This is actually really good.”
Seungmin shrugs with a cocky grin. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”
You grin as you pick up your cup. “This is exactly why I want to marry him. He makes good coffee.”
Marion pauses, blinking in a half-surprised, half-delighted way as she shifts her eyes from you to Seungmin. “Wait, what?”
You glance at Seungmin, who’s already giving you a warning squint across the table. You bite back a smile and turn to Marion. “Seungmin’s going to propose soon,” you say, teasing just enough to make him squirm.
Marion gasps, all wide eyes and giddy hands clasped to her chest. “Oh? Really?!”
You laugh and quickly explain, “He already knows we found the ring in the linen closet. It wasn’t that sneaky.”
Marion immediately gasps louder, turning to Seungmin with the most wicked grin. “So you are proposing. And you’ve been dragging it out this whole time?!”
Seungmin groans and drops his fork dramatically onto his plate. “Wow. You two are literally talking about me like I’m not even here.”
“That’s because you took forever,” Marion teases, smirking.
“You know,” Seungmin points his fork at both of you, “I should’ve just proposed in secret and eloped. Peace and quiet.”
Marion leans in, nudging her elbow against yours with a conspiratorial grin. “You know what? Maybe wait until after my wedding to propose.”
Seungmin gapes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, smug. “She’s my maid of honor. Which means, until my wedding’s over, she’s mine.”
“She practically owns me,” you say with a laugh.
Seungmin dramatically scoffs, “That explains so much. I always knew something was up. You’ve been using her!”
Marion flips her hair and lifts her chin proudly. “Absolutely. And I plan to keep using her until the very last hour of the reception.”
Seungmin narrows his eyes at her, then looks at you like a betrayed puppy. “Do you hear this? I’m just... background noise now. Replaced. Overtaken.”
You burst out laughing, watching the two of them bicker like siblings. “Don’t worry,” you say, reaching over to rest a hand on Seungmin’s. “You still make the best coffee.”
-
It’s a rare, golden kind of day—the one where everything falls into place. Marion’s out of town, the maid of honor duties are on pause, and for once, your calendar is blissfully empty. Seungmin had insisted that you both take advantage of it, and now here you are, walking into a crowded stadium, your hand snug in his, the warm scent of grilled food in the air, the hum of excited fans filling every inch of the space.
Seungmin’s face is practically glowing as he guides you to your seats. You barely get a chance to settle in before he excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd. When he returns a long moment later, his arms are full—two large beers and a tray of snacks balanced precariously.
You quickly reach for them, steadying the tray so nothing spills. “I don’t know how you made it through that crowd in one piece,” you say with a grin.
“I’m just that good,” he replies, settling into his seat and taking a long sip of beer. “Okay, so here’s the deal—my team’s playing their biggest rival today. It’s going to be intense. Their defense is solid, but if our pitcher holds it down, we’ve got this.”
You rest your chin on your hand as you watch him talk. He’s so passionate, so animated, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes light up with excitement. He catches your stare mid-sentence and falters, cheeks warming slightly before he leans over to kiss you, quick and sweet.
You laugh after taking a bite of corn dog. “I was just thinking you look cute when you get all serious about baseball.”
He tries to hide his smile behind his beer, and just as he starts talking strategy again, the jumbotron begins cycling through advertisements, then team previews, and finally, the kiss cam. You watch it playfully, giggling at the awkward and adorable kisses caught onscreen.
And all of a sudden, your face appears. You blink, mid-sip, then turn to Seungmin with a startled laugh. “Oh my god—we’re on the screen.”
He doesn’t hesitate, just leans in and kisses you, and the crowd erupts into cheers as the kiss cam switches to another couple.
Both of you break into shy laughter, your heart thudding with the strange mix of public attention and private affection. “That was embarrassing,” you murmur.
“Why? People liked it,” Seungmin says with a shrug, almost a little too casually.
You give him a suspicious look. “What do you mean ‘people liked it’?”
But before you can question further, the kiss cam cuts back to you two again.
“What? Again?” you ask, shocked, but Seungmin just chuckles and kisses you again.
The crowd cheers louder this time, and you feel your face flush. You pull away, laughing nervously. “Okay, what is happening? Why are we on again—”
Seungmin is already leaning in for another kiss, his lips brushing yours with more intention this time. The crowd roars yet again.
When the camera doesn’t move on after this one, your confusion grows. And then you notice that the words KISS CAM fade away. New words begin to scroll across the jumbotron in big white letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?
Your brain short-circuits and when you turn to Seungmin, and he’s no longer beside you. He’s on one knee. In his hand, a velvet box—open to reveal a ring you’ve never seen before. A white gold band cradling a stunning cushion-cut diamond, surrounded by the softest halo of pink diamonds. It’s delicate and beautiful and so you. And suddenly the jumbotron, the repeated kiss cams, the look he gave you earlier—clicks into place.
Seungmin looks up at you with those warm, impossibly sincere puppy eyes. He smiles, his voice steady but soft—just for you, even though an entire stadium is listening.
“Will you marry me?”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers and people chanting, “Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!”
You’re already nodding before the words come out, tears brimming in your eyes as you cover your mouth with trembling fingers. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”
Seungmin’s smile could light up the whole field. He carefully takes the ring from the box and slips it onto your finger with gentle hands. Then he stands, pulls you into his arms, and kisses you as the crowd erupts in wild applause. Fireworks explode across the jumbotron in a burst of color as congratulary words flashing on the screen as confetti cannons go off in the background and strangers all around are clapping, cheering, congratulating.
It’s loud and chaotic and perfect. And right there, in the middle of a packed stadium, you’re holding the only person in the world who matters. And he’s yours.
-
It’s just the two of you now—back in your shared space, the world quiet, and the buzz of the proposal still pulsing through your chest like a second heartbeat.
You’re in bed, wrapped around each other as if trying to make the moment last forever. You’re sitting on his lap, legs looped around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair while his arms hold you tightly against him, as though letting go would break the magic.
Seungmin’s lips are on yours in slow, deep kisses that taste like champagne and forever. Your bare skin pressed against his is warm, comforting, electric. You can still feel the outline of the ring on your finger, even as you cradle his jaw between your hands and kiss him again, smiling into it.
There’s laughter between kisses—whispers of disbelief that this is real, that this is happening. That you’re engaged. And you feel it in your bones—the security, the joy, the love so big it hums through every part of you.
“I still can’t believe you pulled that off,” you whisper against his lips.
Seungmin chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re not the only one who knows how to keep a secret.”
You smile into the kiss, breath catching slightly when Seungmin pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze lingers, soft and glowing with something deep and unshakable. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret just for you.
Your heart flutters, and the smile blooming on your face feels unstoppable, too wide to hide. You don’t want to hide it anyway—not from him. Not from this moment.
He reaches for your hand, the one now bearing the engagement ring, and lifts it gently to his lips. His kiss is reverent against the band, and somehow that small gesture makes everything even more real.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Gosh, I love you so much.”
He kisses you again, longer this time, his arms tightening around your waist. “I love you. Always.”
Slowly, you lift yourself just enough to allow you to ease yourself down onto his throbbing cock, your breath catching as your body adjusts to the closeness, the stretch, how hard he is inside you. When you fully take all of him, you hum in pleasure and press your forehead against his.
There’s no rush—just stillness and the quiet awe of feeling everything at once. His hands find your hips, grounding you, steadying the soft tremble in your breath. You stay like that for a moment—joined, wrapped up in the warmth of love and commitment and the tenderness of what comes next.
And then, as you begin to move, it’s slow and meaningful—each motion a silent vow, each look shared a quiet promise. You keep your eyes on him, letting him see everything as you make love to him with all of your heart.
Your fingers find his jaw, holding him steady beneath your gaze. “I can’t wait to be yours,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion. “To have all of you… just for me.”
Seungmin’s thumb brushes over your hip, his breath hitching at your words. His eyes are full of love, of you.
“I already am,” he says softly. “All yours.”
-
The music begins and you take a deep breath before stepping out onto the aisle with the other bridesmaids. The soft rustle of fabric follows your steps, and though you try to keep your focus ahead, you can feel Seungmin’s gaze like a gentle tether, pulling your heart toward where he’s seated.
When you steal a glance at him, there he is. Sitting tall in his suit, his eyes never leaving you, filled with a quiet, radiant pride that sends warmth cascading through your chest. You know exactly what he's thinking because you're thinking it too. One day, it’ll be you walking down the aisle in white and he'll be waiting at the altar, just like Leo is now, with that same kind of look in his eyes. Maybe even deeper.
As Marion appears at the end of the aisle, music swelling to greet her, you look forward again. Leo's reaction is instant and visceral—his breath visibly hitching, eyes already glossy, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches her take each step closer to him. And you, watching him, can't help but imagine Seungmin looking at you like that. One day. Not far from now.
During the ceremony, with Marion’s vows still hanging delicately in the air, you glance across the crowd again. And Seungmin is already looking at you. There's something reverent in his expression, something soft and deep and full. He just mouths it like a sacred promise, “I love you.”
It takes a second to register. Your heart leaps. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’ve heard him say it so many times, but this… this moment makes it different. It’s not just the words—it’s the truth in his eyes, the forever behind it.
You bite your lip, trying not to smile too hard or cry too openly, and you mouth it back through the flicker of your tears, “I love you.”
For a few heartbeats, time feels suspended between you. Just you and him, exchanging silent vows of your own in the middle of someone else’s wedding. And honestly, you can’t wait for your turn.
-
The music has quieted into a soft, dreamy melody. The dance floor is mostly empty now, save for a few lingering couples swaying gently under the glow of string lights and the night sky is dotted with stars. You and Seungmin sit side by side at your table, shoes off, champagne flutes in hand. The bubbly has long gone lukewarm, but neither of you minds. It’s not about the drink—it’s about the moment.
You glance over at him. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his arm draped behind your chair. There’s something so comfortably tender about him like this.
Then come Marion and Leo, walking hand in hand like they haven't been married for just a few hours but for lifetimes already. Marion doesn’t hesitate to plop down in the chair next to you, letting out an exaggerated sigh as she kicks off her heels with zero ceremony. She props her feet up on Leo’s lap, and he takes them in stride, starting to massage them as though it's the most natural thing in the world.
"God, I’m exhausted," Marion groans, leaning back and resting her head on the edge of your chair. "But worth it. You," she says, turning her head toward you, eyes half-lidded and full of gratitude, "are a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Best maid of honor award? Goes to you, obviously."
You laugh, cheeks warm from the champagne—or maybe from the pride blooming quietly in your chest. “I’ll take that,” you say with a grin, raising your glass.
Marion raises hers too, clinking it softly with yours. Then she turns to Seungmin, her gaze suddenly mischievous. “Now it’s your turn,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. “Hurry up with the wedding. She and I have already decided we’re getting pregnant together, so our kids can have playdates and matching Halloween costumes and trauma-bond over how annoying their moms are.”
Seungmin raises his eyebrows, slowly turning to look at you with an exaggerated expression of mock-betrayal. “You’re making pregnancy pacts now?”
You snort into your champagne, nearly choking. “Apparently.”
“She’s already picked out names,” Marion adds matter-of-factly.
“I am petrified,” Seungmin deadpans, but there's a glimmer of laughter in his eyes as he leans closer to you, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I marry you and I get Marion in the package too?”
“It's a buy one, get one,” you say, grinning.
“You’re welcome,” Marion adds.
Leo just chuckles, his fingers still kneading gently into her tired feet. “You’re all insane,” he mutters fondly.
But as the music fades out and the final notes echo across the quieted venue, Seungmin turns to you, his hand brushing over your knee, thumb circling gently. You catch the way he looks at you in that moment—something quiet and sure. Like he already sees that future Marion joked about, and maybe it doesn’t seem so far away anymore.
-
With your maid of honor duty is officially come to an end, you and Seungmin walk hand-in-hand back to your hotel room. Your heels dangle from your other hand, your makeup slightly smudged from the long day, but there's a glow to your skin that has nothing to do with highlighter. It’s been a full day of laughter, vows, dancing, tears and now, just the two of you, the quiet is welcome.
Seungmin swings your hands a little between you. “So…” he begins casually, but there’s a glint of curiosity in his voice. “About what Marion said earlier.”
You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Which part?”
“The part where she said you two are planning on getting pregnant together.” He looks at you like he's testing the waters, but his voice is half-serious.
You burst out laughing. “Please tell me you didn’t take that seriously. Marion was drunk on love and cake.”
Seungmin stops walking, tugging your hand gently so you turn to face him. His expression is still light, but there's something sincere underneath it. “But what if I did take it seriously?” he asks. “What if I actually… want to talk about it?”
You stare at him, caught off guard, your heart tripping in your chest as the mood subtly shifts.
“Like… how many kids do you want?” he asks again, quieter this time.
Your lips part in surprise before you lean into playfulness to mask the sudden emotion curling in your chest. “I don’t know,” you say, squinting at him. “Do I want little Seungmin running around?”
His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Excuse you? Little Seungmins would be adorable.”
“One Seungmin is already a headache,” you tease, poking a finger into his chest. “I don’t know if I can handle another one who hogs the blanket and never loads the dishwasher correctly.”
He gasps, affronted. “First of all, I do load the dishwasher correctly. My method is called organized chaos. And second,” he says, stepping closer, slipping his arms around your waist, “I don’t care how many kids we have—one or five—but we should definitely start working on making little Seungmin now.”
Your eyes widen. “Seungmin—!”
But before you can finish, he scoops you up into his arms in one smooth motion, carrying you bridal style down the rest of the hallway.
You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck, laughter spilling out of you as he walks with a cocky grin on his face, clearly enjoying himself. “Put me down!” you whisper-shout, still giggling.
“Too late. You’ve offended me. You must now suffer,” he says dramatically, nudging the hotel room door open with his foot after expertly swiping the key card.
“And what exactly is my punishment?”
He gives you a look that’s half mischief, half promise. “Let’s just say… we’ll see how you feel about little Seungmins after tonight.”
And as the city lights dimmed beyond the hotel windows and the world quieted into the hush of midnight, you found yourself curled against Seungmin’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your spine.
In that moment, you find a clarity that everything you once feared or doubted had led you here. Not just to a proposal, or a ring, or a kiss under stadium lights, but to something greater: a life built hand in hand, with love that stayed steady through uncertainty, with a future you no longer needed to imagine, because it was already unfolding—right here, beside him.
-
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GASPING 🫢 WAIT REALLY!?! I lowkey love video games but I don’t play too much anymore. Resident Evil has been one of the trilogies I’ve wanted to play but I’m scared to bc it looks so hard 😭😭 I just watched the trailer tho and the graphics LOOK AMAZING!!
synopsis : You and Minho pretend to be dating just to get a special discount for couples at a cafe, and from that day forward he decides it’d be a funny idea to treat you as his girlfriend. Just for funsies, yes, ofc.
📝 writing lino is so fun he’s so tsundere-like. Also I almost named this as ‘case 143’ but I thought it wouldn’t really convey the fic vibe idk 🤷♀️ anyways i hope u enjoy it !! <3
tags : Lee Know x fem!reader, fluff, friends to lovers, fake dating as a starting point, ‘what are we’ kinda vibe, sarcasm, mixed signals (not on purpose tho, you’re both just confusing with your emotions lol), lino is referred as Minho
reminder: this is all a made-up fan-fiction just for fun!
It was hard to describe your relationship with Minho. Well, you’re friends. At least that’s what you’re supposed to be.
It was known he wasn’t that open with his emotions and always had a sarcastic comment to make instead. It was hard to tell what’s on his mind, but maybe that’s why you both clicked so well. You were more reserved yourself after all. Just like that, what began as jokes and sillyness evolved into a strong friendship like no other. Over time he became the most trustworthy person you knew. And funniest. And very, very good looking. You might also have this tiny little crush on him. But that’s only a detail, of course.
At this point, you were used to hiding what you felt. However things started getting complicated after that stupid idea. And now you couldn’t tell if he might feel the same or not.
evidence i.
“There’s a discount for couples today,” Minho commented as you both read the big letters on the cafe poster you were about to enter.
“You’re not thinking what I’m thinking,” you say already laughing, and the mischievous look on his face told you everything.
“It’s 35% off, that’s almost a free extra drink!” He chuckles. “Come on, I think we can be very convincing if we try,” he adds already taking your hand on his, intertwining your fingers and leading you inside. You can’t hold back the big smile that forms on your lips.
You both go straight to the attendant to ask for the promotional drinks, hoping for the best.
“Yes, our smoothies are on a special promotion for love birds,” the lady on the balcony explained politely. “Choose two flavors and you get the 35% off.”
“Great!” Minho cheered, his hand leaving yours to go firmly on your waist, bringing you closer, and you hope the way your eyes slightly widen isn’t obvious. He takes the menu. “I think I’ll go with strawberry banana. What about you, love?”
It took you a second to realize he was actually talking to you. Like yes, you’re ‘love’.
“Oh, I… I’d like the same as you, honey,” you say fast so you wouldn’t have to think too much, the pet name sounding strangely nice.
The woman nods as she registers your order. You’re opening your purse to get your wallet when Minho interrupts you.
“I’ll pay, don’t worry babe,” he winks, making you pause in confusion.
“Huh?” You tilt your head. You then steal a glance at the lady and remember you’re supposed to be playing along. You quickly try to disguise your surprise. “We can split, darling, I don’t mind.”
“Come on, it’s our anniversary, of course I’ll pay for us,” he improvises, already tapping his card on the payment terminal before you could protest.
“Oh, anniversary?” The lady looks up at you with curious eyes. “How long have you been together if you don’t mind me asking?”
“One year,” he replies promptly. You nod.
“Aw, that’s sweet. You two look so lovely together, I can tell just by the way you look at each other,” she compliments.
“We get that a lot,” he comments with a small laugh, his hand squeezing your shoulder. You grin to be polite, a bit too aware of his hand on you. It almost makes you miss the way his ears get redder.
“I’ll get your drinks, wait just a moment, please,” the attendant smiles as she turns her back to prepare the drinks.
“Copy cat,” Minho whispers when she’s not looking anymore. “You were supposed to choose a different flavor so I could steal from you.”
“I didn’t expect this to work, I’m nervous!” You whisper back.
“Why wouldn’t it work? You thought they’d ask us to kiss as proof or something?”
“Of course not, that’s not what I meant!” You hiss with your voice low, your cheeks getting a bit warmer.
“Here’s your order,” the friendly woman comes back with tasty smoothies, making you cease your banter immediately. “I hope you have a very special day today. You’re very lucky to have such an attentive gentleman by your side,” she says playfully glancing at you.
“Of course, thank you so much,” you shyly reply, trying to ignore the smirk that was growing on Minho’s face.
You sit on a table near the window, smoothies in hand. You can’t help but feel distracted by all that just happened.
“Wasn’t the discount the whole point of doing this?” You finally ask when you felt your cheeks weren’t on fire anymore.
“Yeah, she did discount it.” He shrugs with the straw between his teeth, already finished with almost one quarter of his drink.
“Then why did you pay for both of us? You ended up spending more anyways.”
He averted his eyes for a second before that smirk returned to his face. “Can’t I be a gentleman to my girlfriend?”
“We’re not actually dating,” you manage to say.
He pinched your cheek. “I got you a 100% discount, so stop complaining.”
evidence ii.
After that day at the cafe, for some unknown reason, Minho thought it’d be a funny idea to treat you as his girlfriend from time to time and started using pet names nonstop. Ironically, of course, as if it was an innocent inside joke. Or at least that’s what it looked like. But your heart couldn’t differentiate a joke from the real thing apparently.
That Tuesday you were at his place helping him with ideas to finish writing a sketch needed for a project which deadline was like, yesterday.
“Can you get the red pen for me, princess?” He asked you after taking some notes.
“Sure.”
“Thank you, honey,” he gave you his signature smirk before going back to writing frantically.
It all sounded like teasing, it definitely was, but it was starting to drive you crazy. Minho’s mixed signals were getting to you, and you couldn’t tell anymore if that was his way of flirting or if he was messing around as usual.
“Shoot, Chan’s already coming to get this paper,” Minho woke you up from your thoughts as soon as his phone screen lid up with a notification. “He’s gonna nag at me the whole day if this isn’t done when he gets here…”
“You kinda deserve it,” you chuckle.
“It’s not like he didn’t finish his part on the last minute either,” he pouts, still writing.
“Ask him to buy snacks or cat food on his way,” you suggest. “That will buy you at least 15 minutes to finish it.”
“Ooh, genius,” he snapped his fingers and quickly picked up his phone to type the message to Chan, but not without teasing you first. “You’re not just a pretty face after all, huh?”
You didn’t know whether to feel complimented or insulted. He glanced at you and immediately laughed at your expression.
“Can you at least thank me properly for saving you here?” You lightly push his shoulder as retort, the tips of your ears redder.
He looks up at you, that stupid grin still plastered on his face. “Sorry, sorry. You know I’m just messing with you.” The corners of this mouth relax into a more genuine smile. “I’m aware you’re very smart and you’re really, really helping me a lot today. Even if you didn’t have to, you are,” he emphasizes in a sincere tone, carefully tucking a hair strand behind your ear, fond eyes looking straight into yours.
“Of course,” you play it off, trying not to sound as shy as you were getting. “You’ve helped me a lot before too so… It’s only natural.”
“Hm-hum. We’re partners in crime,” he nods, and pauses as if he realizes what he just said. He then gives you a look, his smirk making a return. “Who else would I call in this situation if not my beautiful lover?”
Oh, this again.
“Yeah, sure. Now finish this quickly before Chan gets here,” you chuckle, trying to disguise the way your heart skipped a beat.
evidence iii.
“Horror movie? I’m not sure…” You mumble as you both stand at the movie theater entrance, Minho’s film suggestion not being exactly to your taste.
“This one is not that scary, it’s just a bunch of silly jumpscares. Come on, it will be fun! I’ll even let you embrace me if you’re that terrified, since I’m so reliable.” He bumps your shoulder trying to convince you. “Seriously, you’ll like this one, I promise!”
“You’re insufferable.”
You end up agreeing to go anyways.
He guided you to the tickets balcony with a hand securely on your shoulder. The attendant showed you the available seats on the computer screen. It wasn’t sold out, but it wasn’t empty either, so you still had a few options to choose from.
“Wanna get the seats for couples in the back?” He suddenly suggested.
You knew what he was talking about. The last seats on that movie theater were reserved for couples because you could fold up the center armrests in order to cuddle your partner closer. Now why was he offering that.
You turned to look at him, and he playfully lifted his eyebrows at you. Gosh. He was just teasing you wasn’t he. Why would you cuddle in a horror movie session anyway.
“No thanks,” you answer without thinking, but your heart was thumping on your ears. “Let’s just stick to the seats next to the stairs,” you say, avoiding his eyes this time.
“Pshh, you’re no fun,” he breathes out a small laugh, but selects the seats you picked anyways. He went a bit quieter as he bought popcorn. Meanwhile, you just stood there not sure how unserious he was with all of this.
You couldn’t really focus on the movie that day.
And he didn’t try anything the whole session besides laughing when you got scared.
evidence iv.
“I kinda missed you,” he said with a genuine smile when you bumped into each other by coincidence.
“It’s been barely a week,” you shrugged, trying to keep it together.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied, his lips curving into a smirk. “Can’t I miss my girlfriend?”
Yeah, sure.
You sigh. How you wish this could be true. But what if you speak up your mind and make a fool out of yourself? Would it ruin your friendship? What if he laughed at your face?? One hundred different scenarios go through your head to make you give up. …but suddenly your eyes lid up as an idea came to mind. If he was just teasing you, you could correspond jokingly as well. Just to test the waters.
“If you wanted to see me that much you could have asked me out on a date.”
He stiffens instantly, like he didn’t expect you to actually play along. You never did until now.
“Date?” He echoes just to make sure, eyes slightly widened.
“Yes, honey. That’s what lovers usually do.”
“Really?” He tilts his head, trying to get the teasing tone back to his voice without much success. “So you won’t run off if I ask you out?”
“Run off? You’re ridiculous,” you can’t help but chuckle at his reaction, but you try to stay in character. “Why would I? We’ve been on dates before, haven’t we? The movies and that cafe.”
“…I see.” He finally nod, a tint of red coloring his cheeks. He clears his throat, and you could swear you’ve never seen him act so shy, his behavior changing so suddenly. “In that case, would you like to go out with me? I could… pick you up tomorrow afternoon.”
You felt like your heart was going to burst.
evidence v.
That day, there weren’t pet names. There weren’t couple jokes either. Actually, you were both a bit tense about the date.
“You know, I chose the cat cafe in hopes it wouldn’t be so awkward but I guess it didn’t work,” he says eventually with an embarassed laugh.
“No, it did work, the cats are cute,” you say quickly while caressing the feline sitting next to you. “I’m just a little distracted today.” A beat. “You’re also quieter.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, eyeing the kitten sleeping close to his leg.
“Yet you’re the one who was entertaining the whole lovers thing the most,” you comment. “I thought you’d be full of that today.”
“Well, yes, I was. But actually, I wanted to tell you that... How do I say it…” he bites his lip. “Today isn’t just teasing or playing pretend. I meant it when I asked you out.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. “I know,” you nodded. “I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah?” His tone softens. “I wasn’t sure if you were a fan of the idea since you were kinda pushing me away,” he admits as he fidgets with the straw of his drink.
“What? No, I wasn’t! Really,” you immediately try to explain, the cat next to you meowing in complain of your sudden move. You take a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve actually been overthinking it because I didn’t know whether it was all just a joke or if there was something more to it, so I was afraid of… you know… playing along and end up liking you even more to the point there wasn’t going back anymore,” you quietly finish.
He finally meets your eyes, taking a moment to really look at you.
“…That was the risk I was taking too.”
Your breath catches on your throat. He notices your silence and speaks again.
“I started this couple play-pretend thing because… You know.” He scratches the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “It felt like this way I could say and do all that stuff without scaring you off or sounding weird. Since we’ve been close friends for so long.”
Oh. Oh my.
“It wouldn’t sound weird. It would have worked from the beginning if you were just honest,” you say sheepishly, still trying to process his words.
“Yeah, I realize it now from that cute blush of yours,” he points out, making you redder.
“Oh, shut up,” you look down at the cat peacefully lying beside you again. It was almost impossible to contain the big smile forming on your lips.
“So…” he clears his throat. “May I take you to that cafe again this week? So we can get another couple discount and so I can do things for real this time. No play-pretends.”
And just like this, that excited, insistent smile you’ve been trying to hold back appears on your lips.
“…Will I get that 100% discount again?” You can’t help but tease.
“Sure, pretty.” He breathes out a laugh, not hiding his heart eyes either.
— ahhh this was longer than I expected but it’s kinda rushed at the same time..? anyways i think I’m happy with how it turned out ig dkdndjdj Lemme know what u guys think :))
Chapter Synopsis: Two weeks pass of indescribable emptiness. Seungmin talks to Chan and by the end of it, Chan is trapped in a cycle of regret and love he can no longer act on.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome back. Another chapter posted today. As always, I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Two weeks slipped by, indistinct at the edges. Sometimes, if you’re quiet enough, you can still taste the salt on your lips from that last kiss—how it lingered, sharp and uncertain, long after he was gone.
Memories circle, never quite settling, their edges blurred and shifting. You find yourself tracing them in the quiet, fingers brushing over what might have been yours, or maybe just something you invented to fill the silence. Sometimes it feels like memory is just another way to keep yourself company, even if it means believing in a story that never happened.
You let the phone ring until it fades, the knocks dissolving into the hush that fills your apartment. It’s easier to disappear this way, to let yourself drift into a place where no one can reach you. Lost, but it feels almost expected—like you’ve been here before.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Chan moved through the days without sleep, food untouched. Apologies from Han blurred together, soft and repetitive, while Minho’s voice drifted in from somewhere behind, saying there was nothing to be sorry for, that maybe Chan should have ended things long before.
He typed messages he never sent, thumb pausing over your name, the blue glow of the screen painting his hands in the dark. The words always felt wrong—too much or not enough. He told himself that silence was a kind of mercy, even if it left everything unfinished, suspended in the space between.
When he closes his eyes, the first date comes back in pieces: your voice, steady and soft, talking about school, about wanting to make things better. He remembers the way you spoke about your dreams, the small changes you hoped for. There was a goodness in you that unsettled him, something effortless, unreachable. It pressed against the places he tried to hide, made him feel smaller, less certain. Being near you felt like stepping into a room he wasn’t meant to enter, a quiet perfection he might ruin just by staying too long.
In time, Chan understood—this was the moment to let you go, truly this time. The ache was familiar, like slipping beneath water and watching the world blur, distant and unreachable.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
One Sunday night, a knock comes from your door.
You sigh, standing up to open the door, thinking it's the food you ordered.
You open the door and are met with your dad; you freeze. “What are you doing here?”
He holds up a take-out bag, “I picked up some food.”
You roll your eyes, “Thanks, but I already had it handled.”
You go to close the door, but his hand stops you, “Please, Y/N-ah.”
“No,” you snap. “I’m tired of letting people into my life, my space, just for them to disappoint and lie to me.”
Jin-young looks at you, guilt flooding his body. “I didn’t mean for—”
“You did, you wanted this to happen.”
“Y/N,” he says softly.
“Please go.”
He drops his hand from the door, letting you close the door fully this time.
You listen to his footsteps fading down the hall, the soft crinkle of the bag trailing behind. Leaning into the door, you feel your eyes sting, the quiet settling over you like a second skin.
Even your father feels far away now, trust slipping out of reach like something you forgot to hold onto.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Jin-young leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching Chan at the mixing table—headphones slipping off, laptop open, the blue light from the monitors cutting through piles of lyric notebooks and empty cans. The whiteboard behind him still held the week’s schedule, deadlines and rehearsals layered in red marker. Chan’s phone buzzed again, another reminder from the company chat, another revision, another deadline. The room felt heavy with it all—the music, the pressure, the weight of what everyone expected.
“Have you eaten?” JYP asks the younger boy softly.
No response.
“You should go home and sleep.” He suggests.
Chan lets out a scoff, “I am home. I need to get this shit done, or else we can’t raise sales, remember?”
Park looks at Chan for a second longer, then he looks down at his feet, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I’ve heard that a lot from you recently.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“It doesn’t exactly matter either,” Chan says back. He turns in his chair, eyes settling on the older man. “You know, I’ve taken a lot of shit from you over the years. A lot. But this…this takes the cake.” Chan shakes his head.
“It’s not all my fault,” JYP counters. “You could’ve said no.”
“But you knew that I wouldn’t. Not when it came to the group or the company,” his tone is sharp, analyzed. “Because no matter how fucked up this industry is or how ass-backwards some of the people here are, this is my dream. This is what I’ve wanted for over a decade.”
JYP looks at Chan; he sees someone he hardly recognizes. It’s not because of the bags under his eyes or the fact that he looks like he hasn’t showered in days. It’s the emptiness, the lack of light in his eyes.
Chan swallows thickly, “So tell me why that now that I’ve accomplished this dream, it’s no longer enough?”
Park glances away from Chan. “I’m sorry.”
“I know…” Chan says weakly. “But it’s not what I need.”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Nights slipped by, the others drifting through the studio, their presence barely more than a shift in the air.
Sometimes Felix would appear in the doorway, setting a cup of tea on Chan’s desk without a word, gone before the steam faded.
Minho lingered for a few moments longer, fidgeting with the sound equipment and breaking the silence with a dry, "You know the room smells like feet, right?"
Jeongin watched Chan from the corner of his eye, uncertain, as if afraid to be caught caring. Hyunjin offered a quiet pat on the back one night, then disappeared before Chan could say anything. Seungmin kept his distance, and Han did too—worry flickering in the spaces where words should have been.
Sometimes the others nudged Seungmin toward Chan, as if he might be the last one who could reach him, even for a moment.
“Stinks like ass in here,” Seungmin says as he walks into the studio.
Chan looks up, something close to relief flickering in his eyes before it fades.
Seungmin studies him, anger still simmering beneath a thin layer of concern. His voice is quiet. "You look terrible."
Chan lets out a small laugh, “Thanks.”
“I’m serious, Hyung.” Seungmin walks over to the studio couch and slowly sits down. “This is going to be a stupid question, but are you okay?”
Chan hums, looking down. He nods before answering, “No.”
Seungmin sighs, “I won’t lie, you kinda deserve this shit, man.”
Chan looks at Seungmin. “Yeah,” he mumbles.
“But you’re scaring everybody. Han doesn’t even want to talk to you; he’s scared out of his mind that you hate him.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, he doesn’t know that, hm?” The silence lingers. Seungmin watches Chan, noticing the way he sits, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s never seen someone look so lost, guilt and loneliness settling over him like a shadow.
"I miss her," Chan says, voice barely above a whisper. "And it hurts."
Seungmin stays silent, offering a small nod to encourage him to keep talking.
Chan exhales, voice thin. "That’s all. I miss her. It’s my fault she’s gone." He shrugs, but it doesn’t cover anything.
“Don’t pretend this isn’t hard for you.”
“It’s not.”
“But it is,” Seungmin says. “I mean shit, dude. You loved her.”
“But-”
“No buts. That’s what it is. You loved her, and you let her go because you loved her.” Seungmin's voice is steady as he speaks. “I’m not saying to chase after her. Give her some time, but this doesn’t have to end here.”
“I can’t let what happened happen again.” Chan shakes his head.
“It’ll be different next time.”
“How do you know?”
Seungmin sighs, “Because hyung, it won’t be based on a lie. You’ll love her because you want to, not because you need to.”
Chapter Synopsis: Chan shows up at Y/N's apartment after she finds out that their relationship was built off of a deal with her dad.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome back. Another chapter posted today. As always, I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Chan moves through the hallway as if something unseen is at his heels, breath snagging in his chest. He can’t remember ever moving this quickly, not for anything that felt like it mattered.
You don’t get credit for feeling guilty about something you’re still doing.
Seungmin’s words hang in the air, sharp and unfinished, echoing in the hush between each hurried step. He tries to catch up to you, but the hallway stretches out, impossibly long, as if distance itself is conspiring to keep you apart.
By the time he reaches the lobby, you’re already getting into the backseat of a cab. The door closes with a hush, a soft finality that settles in his chest.
He stands there, fingers tangled in his hair, watching the taillights dissolve into the night.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Midnight slips in quietly. Through the window, laughter drifts up from the street, voices weaving in and out—some returning home, others just beginning to wander the night.
It’s strange, how the world keeps moving, how joy can exist so close to the quiet collapse blooming inside you.
You sit on the couch, blanket gathered at your knees. The lights hum overhead, a faint ache in the silence. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the electricity, restless and low, threading through the quiet.
You turned your phone off as soon as you left the studio. You know there are calls you’re missing—Chan, maybe Han. But you can’t bring yourself to be angry with Han. He did what was right, even if it slipped out by accident. It’s more than you can say for Chan.
The knock at your door is insistent, almost desperate. You know it’s him before you even move, the certainty settling somewhere beneath your ribs.
“Y/N, please just open the door,” Chan said. His voice was breathless, like he’d run a marathon. “Please, let me explain.”
You stand, the blanket slipping away, and cross the room. Anger and hurt settle into your bones, heavy and familiar, as you open the door before you can think better of it.
Chan’s fist hovers midair, caught in the act of knocking again. When he sees you, his hand falls. His voice is small, almost apologetic. "Hey."
“Hey?” The word tastes strange. “You lie to me for months, and all you have to say is 'hey?'”
Chan sighs, “Please, let me in, and I’ll explain everything to you.”
You look at him for a long moment, as if the truth might surface if you wait quietly enough.
You step aside, just enough for him to pass. It’s barely a gesture, but somehow it’s enough.
He exhales, slow and shaky, as if he’s been holding his breath for years. He moves carefully, as if any sudden motion might undo this fragile permission.
You don’t close the door right away. The air is heavy. When it finally clicks shut behind you, the sound feels distant, as if the room itself is bracing for what comes next.
You turn to find him standing in the middle of your living room, eyes tracing the unfamiliar space. He always said it was easier at his place. Now you wonder if it was just distance, dressed up as convenience.
“Your place is nice,” he mumbles.
You say nothing, watching his back. When he turns, there’s uncertainty in his eyes, as if the words he practiced have slipped away.
You move past him, sinking into the couch. Your voice is quiet, almost lost. "I want the truth. All of it."
He nods, hesitating before sitting on the edge of the coffee table. His posture is rigid, hands restless in his lap.
“Do you remember when we first met?” He asks softly.
You watch him, vision blurring at the edges, but you make yourself listen.
“We met on the balcony at your dad's birthday party. It was fucking freezing, but I guess we both needed an escape that night.” He looks at his hands, not able to look up at you. “I remember talking to you, and it immediately felt like breathing after drowning for so long.”
You swallow, the memory of that night pressing in.
"I didn’t know you were his daughter when I met you on the balcony."
"Okay." The word feels strange in your mouth, unfamiliar and thin.
He sighs, “When I walked back into the party and saw your dad, he’d explained to me that you’d just gotten back from studying abroad. That he was worried about you, that he had to force you to even show up to his own birthday party.”
“I don’t—”
“Please, just let me explain.” He cuts you off desperately, his eyes finally finding yours.
You nod, unsure, the movement barely there.
Letting out a breath, he continues. “It was then that he told me that Stray Kids wasn’t doing well. We weren’t making enough sales, and our engagement levels were dropping. He had a plan to make us better… relevant.”
You hold yourself still, confusion settling deeper with every word, heavy as rain.
“I was confused by his plan. I didn’t understand how seeing you would help with Stray Kids' popularity, not until the paparazzi showed up at the restaurant.”
“Wait,” you cut him off. “My dad told you to see me or date me in order to help the group?”
He nods.
“And you agreed?”
He nods, hesitantly, “Well, that was before I knew it was you.”
“And that makes it okay? Knowing you would’ve done this to another girl?”
Chan pauses, and guilt washes over him. He looks at you, speechless.
“And the paparazzi?”
He pauses, “That night, I got a call from your dad after I dropped you off. He basically told me he planned for the paparazzi to show up.”
“What?” You look at him, dread coursing through you.
Chan nods, “I know, I know. I had no idea he was going to do that. But because there was a swarm of paparazzi there, fans caught wind of what was going on. He had no idea that what happened with that fan would happen.”
Chan looks at you, gaze soft. “I was so confused about why being with you would make us better, not until that night. I realized that was just the first step in his plan.”
“I kept remembering the look in your eyes that night. The fear. I couldn’t let that happen again. If that was just the first step, I didn’t want to see what the second or third would mean for you. What it would do.”
You look at him, heart thudding in your chest. "So you pulled away from me?"
“I thought I was doing what was best for you.”
You cut him off, your voice shaking. "You did so without my input; you decided what was best for me. You lied to me, Chan."
Chan looks down at his hands, voice subdued. "I should've done things differently. The guys kept telling me..."
"The guys?" The words come out sharper than you mean. "How long did they know?" You thought it was just Han, the one who let the truth slip tonight.
“I told them everything the day before they met you.”
You let out a breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. "That long?"
Chan keeps his gaze on his hands.
"Jesus, Chan." Your voice cracks as you stand, the sound brittle in the quiet.
“I know—”
“No, you don’t, Chan!” You raise your voice as you turn to look at him. “So all those comments from Seungmin?”
“He’s upset with me.”
"He’s not the only one." You cross your arms, holding yourself together as Chan stands, the space between you growing colder.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I am. You have no idea how sorry I am.”
You stare at him, disbelief settling in. "You lied for months. We kissed, and you let me believe it meant something. I thought that maybe you loved me."
“I do!”
"Where?" Your voice splinters, thin and sharp.
Chan pauses, his eyes glistening. “Wh-what?”
"Where’s this love?" Your eyes shine, tears threatening. "You lied to me for months. You only saw me because you needed something."
Your voice softens, the truth settling in. "You needed something, and it was never me."
Chan opens his mouth and closes it, “I need you now…that’s enough, right?”
You look at him, tears slipping down your cheeks, silent and unstoppable, as if they belong to someone else.
Chan shakes his head, voice breaking as he knows what you’re about to do. "No, don’t go. Please." Tears streak his face, and something in him unravels.
“You need to go,” you whisper.
“No,” his voice cracks.
"Please go, Chan." The words tremble between you. "If you love me, you’ll leave. I need you to love me enough to let me go."
He stands there, looking at you for a moment before he walks over, slow and careful. He takes your face in his hands. You don’t know why you let him, but you do.
He kisses you, slow and soft, as if he’s trying to memorise something sweet before leaving you with such bitterness.
This is the moment everything shifts, quietly, the world tilting beneath your feet.
His goodbye lingers in the space between you, quiet and unfinished.
In some other life, maybe there’s a girl and a boy who look like you, like him. Maybe there, it was never a deal. Maybe there, it was always real. And maybe, in this life, too, a part of both of you will keep searching for that place where it could be different—where, one day, the timing is right, and you find your way back to each other, just a little braver, just a little more whole.
Chapter Synopsis: Silence follows Y/N and Chan as he continues to pull away without explanation, leaving her confused and heartbroken. Han accidentally reveals the truth as to why Chan's been pulling away, leaving Y/N in disbelief.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome back. Another chapter posted today. As always, I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The walk home felt hollow, each step echoing louder than it should, as if the city had emptied itself out just for you. There was a slow ache blooming in your chest, the kind that arrives quietly, unnoticed until it’s everywhere. You couldn’t name the moment it shifted, only that it had. The silence between you and him had thickened, no longer just quiet but something dense and pressing, crowding out everything else.
Somewhere between the hush of streetlights and the threshold of your door, it settled in your bones: Chan was holding something back.
It sat low and heavy, a quiet weight curling in your stomach. Your body moved on, but the city blurred behind you, each step carrying the hush of something left unspoken. The elevator’s hum clung to you as you unlocked the door, the shift from night air to hallway light too abrupt, too sharp.
“Maybe I don’t need to be reached for.”
“You’re too much right now.”
His words lingered, sharp-edged and circling. You tried to understand how someone who once looked at you like you were sunlight could let their gaze grow so distant.
“Maybe if I’d approached him differently,” you think to yourself.
That was when you began folding your own pain, turning his words over and over, as if holding them gently might make them less sharp.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Days slip by. Chan tries, in the way he knows how. Messages arrive every few hours, small signals that he hasn’t disappeared.
His words come clipped, careful. There’s something beneath them—guilt, maybe, where warmth used to be. You keep circling the question of what he’s sorry for.
You watch your phone the way you’d watch the sky before rain, every vibration a flicker of unease. You never know which version of him will appear, or if he’ll vanish altogether.
Sleep drifts out of reach. Meals blur or disappear. Your replies shrink to fit his, words growing smaller, more distant each time.
Still, Chan must sense you’re holding back. You’ve always been the one who says too much, especially with him.
You’d tried to hang out with the boys.
But even they feel different now, a little off-kilter, as if everyone is speaking in a language you almost remember.
Han is louder than usual, his laughter too bright, as if he’s trying to fill the space before anything real can slip in.
Every time you try to bring up Chan, Han says the same thing: “Chan Hyung’s just under a lot of pressure lately.” The words hang between you, but you know it’s more than that. It’s the way the comeback schedule devours his nights, choreography shifting beneath his feet, meetings where every decision feels too heavy. There’s always a camera, a fan, a trainee needing something, and Chan lets it all settle on his shoulders. Some days, you watch him chase deadlines, fighting to keep the group from slipping, even for a moment. The pressure isn’t just exhaustion—it’s the impossible weight of always being strong, always being perfect, never letting anyone down.
Felix’s eyes are wide, holding something you can’t quite name—sadness, maybe, or something softer. He lingers near you, and when he hugs you, it’s gentle but fiercely warm, arms wrapping tight, his chin resting on your shoulder a moment longer than anyone else’s. The scent of vanilla clings to him, a trace of the cookies he bakes after practice. His voice stays soft, threading in those little endearments he’s known for, his questions gentle enough to melt some of the ache inside you. Felix’s presence is a quiet reassurance, steady and warm, just as everyone says he would be.
Seungmin surprises you the most. There’s a quiet anger in him now, never pointed at you. It’s always Chan. Seungmin has always watched more than he speaks, his eyes tracking Chan’s unraveling and your own silent self-blame.
He offers small truths, quiet words that land heavier than they sound.
“Communication isn’t hard when someone wants to do it.”
“You’d be surprised what people can hide when they’ve already convinced themselves it’s for a good reason.”
“If someone keeps making you question where you stand with them… you probably don’t stand where you thought you did.”
When Seungmin speaks to Chan in front of everyone, it sounds like banter at first, but you start to hear something sharper underneath.
Seungmin clicks his pen every few seconds in the studio, and you can feel Chan growing more and more irritated. Only a minute passes before Chan snaps.
“Can you stop?” Chan’s voice was full of annoyance and anger. But that’s never really scared Seungmin before.
Seungmin looks at Chan quickly, “Can you?”
His words used to skim the surface, but lately they cut deeper, exposing things you were never meant to see.
He’d told you one time, “You trust people very easily.” You laughed it off, not thinking anything of it until you saw the way Chan stiffened.
“I don’t think you’re the problem here.”
“You ever feel like everyone in the room knows something except you?”
That one stops you. You don’t know what to say or who to turn toward.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
You never hear what’s said behind closed doors, but you imagine Seungmin’s words don’t soften when no one else is listening.
Game night at Chan and Jeongin’s. Felix and Han had to push for it, as if even being together felt fragile now.
Seungmin sits on the loveseat, body loose but gaze unyielding. He doesn’t look away from Chan, who sits across from him, beer balanced between his thighs.
Chan's jaw was clenched as he spoke, “You just gonna keep staring at me all night, Minnie?” His voice was cold, thick. He took a sip of his beer.
Seungmin scoffs, “Does she even know how much of a dick you are?”
The others keep playing, voices dropping, ears tilting toward the tension threading between Seungmin and Chan.
Chan looks at Seungmin, “Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming not, considering she’s still around, hoping you’ll let her in.” Seungmin shrugs, taking a sip of his beer.
“I’m doing what’s best for her.” Chan’s voice comes through a little sharper, his eyes never wavering from the younger boy.
“Are you?” Seungmin tilts his head, “Because to me, you’re a guilty piece of shit who should’ve told her the truth a long time ago. So is this really what’s for the best?”
Everyone turns, no one arguing, just startled by how plainly Seungmin says it. He stands, crossing the room, eyes never leaving Chan.
Chan looks up at Seungmin, swallowing thickly.
“Do us all a favor, Chan, grow a pair and stop dragging her through your little guilt trip pity party.”
Seungmin leaves, the door closing behind him. Changbin follows him, rushed with words lost in the space they leave.
Chan looks around at the rest of the boys. He lets out a laugh before taking another sip of his beer, “What? You assholes got something you want to say too?”
Minho shakes his head, arms crossed. “He’s right, and you know it.”
Han looks down at his hands from beside Minho, and he nods hesitantly. “You’re not being fair to her, Hyung.”
Minho stands, Han trailing after him. They slip out, leaving the room quieter than it was before.
The rest stay, shifting in their seats. Hyunjin presses play, the game’s noise filling the silence, Felix and Jeongin letting themselves drift back in.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
A week slips by before everything unravels. You’re at the JYPE building, surrounded by the boys.
Chan left earlier with Jeongin and Changbin to get food. The studio empties out until it’s just you and Han, quiet settling in around you.
Han talks about some new anime he’s making Minho watch. You try to listen, but your stomach twists, sadness curling quietly inside you.
Han stops mid-sentence, noticing the way you’ve gone quiet. He reaches out, hand warm on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You manage a small smile. "Yeah."
Han watches you for a moment, then lets his hand fall away. "We’re all worried about you," he says, voice soft. "And Chan, too."
"I’m worried about him, too," you say, voice barely above a whisper.
Han looks down, hands folding in his lap. "What’s even happening between you two? It seemed fine, and then suddenly it wasn’t."
You shake your head. "I wish I knew. I keep asking myself, but I never find an answer."
"He hasn’t said anything?" Han asks, voice uncertain.
“He keeps saying he’s fine, but he keeps pushing me away. Sometimes I wonder if he only keeps me around because he feels bad, or maybe he’s afraid of what my dad would do if he broke up with me.” You try to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right.
Some nights, you wonder if this was always inevitable, because it started out strange from the beginning. He came out of nowhere, you piquing his interest too quickly. Your dad being too involved, more than you’d let yourself believe.
Han shakes his head, "It’s not your dad. He’s worried about us—the group." fake anymo—” Han pauses, his eyes going wide. “Um…”
Your heart stutters, waiting. "Fake?"
“I just meant that—”
The door opens before he can finish. Chan, Changbin, and Jeongin walk in, laughter trailing behind them. Chan stops when he sees you and Han, but it’s the way you’re both looking at him that quiets him.
Han’s eyes go wide, panic flickering there, as if he’s seen or heard something he can’t name.
And you—he’s never seen you look at him like this. Your eyes are sharp, questions rising, disbelief settling in.
“Hey, we got you guys some Japchae,” Jeongin says with a smile before pausing, noticing what Chan had seconds prior. “What’s going on?”
Han stands, taking hurried steps towards him as his hands shake. “Hyun—”
“What’d you do?” Chan asks, his gaze not moving from you. The two of you are holding eye contact.
“It slipped out, I didn’t—”
“What slipped out?” Chan’s eyes move to Hans, his gaze cold and full of warning.
You stand, slow and steady. "He just said what should have been said a long time ago." You grab your bag, moving past them before anyone can reach for you.
Chan looks at Han with wide, glassy, panicked eyes. “What the hell did you do? What did you say?”
“I—” Han hesitates, his gaze flicking to Jeongin and Changbin. “We were talking, and I asked her what was going on between you two, and she said she thinks you only keep her around because you’re scared of what her dad would do if you broke up with her.”
“And?” Chan asks carefully.
Han bites his lip, looking down. “I told her you’re not worried about her dad…but that you’re worried about us.”
Jeongin and Changbin look at each other, knowing what’s about to be said.
Chan, on the other hand, forces himself to ask, “Why would I be worried about the group?” He asks, his voice still careful, calculated. “What’d you tell her? Hm?” He tilts his head.
“Because it isn’t fake anymore.” Han mumbles.
For a moment, silence falls over the room. Chan’s face changes, tension flickering in the brief clench of his jaw. He looks at Han as if the world just tilted, staring but not seeing, breath caught in his chest. Something breaks through the careful calm he’s worn for weeks—a flicker of panic, a flash of hurt tangled with anger and confusion. His fingers tighten around his phone, knuckles pale. You see that his eyes are shining, but he blinks them away before anyone can say a word. “What?” His voice is barely more than a rasp, heart sinking to his stomach.
“That’s what I told her,” Han says, looking at Chan again. “I told her that what you two had wasn’t fake anymore.”
Chan stares at Han with wide eyes. He shakes his head. “Fuck!”
The others watch as Chan leaves, the room echoing with everything left unsaid.
Chapter Synopsis: Y/N spends days lost in silence as Chan pulls away without explanation, leaving her confused and frustrated. When she finally confronts him at his dorm, he insists nothing is wrong, but his distance feels deliberate. She leaves with the unsettling uncertainty that he's hiding something.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome back! I'm so sorry for the late posts, they'll be coming in hot within the next few days. I had exams, school always gets in the way but it's important LOL. I also got around to watching Weak Hero on my short summer break. It's so good. Currently, I'm watching Mr. Plankton and I may have another series coming soon *wink, wink*. As always, I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The call never came.
A week passed without a word from Chan. Each day, his messages dwindled—first, a few scattered updates. Then less. Each offered a new excuse, but none of them was enough.
“Things are busy at the studio.”
“We had meetings all day.”
“We ran into some management issues.”
“Rheserals were intense, can we talk later?”
You tried to swallow the ache. You watched him, absorbed in his work—the heartbeat of his world, everything he lived for. Still, you craved to be part of it, to lose yourself in the pulse of his dream, not just waiting at its edge, left behind.
On day nine, silence is complete. Your phone stays dark—no message, no knock. Still, you wait and watch the screen for him. The quiet thickens, almost tangible. Each message you send disappears, unanswered. The distance becomes a wall.
You ache for him, for the outlines of a love slipping away. Underneath the ache, jagged hope claws up—fragile, stubborn, impossible to quell. Doubt gnaws at you, and you sit in the shadow of it, every breath weighted with confusion and pain.
How do you reach someone who seems to be so unreachable?
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
“Okay… what’s going on with you?” your dad asks, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed but not as firm as he wants them to be.
He’s been watching—longer than you realize.
Chan is unraveling in quiet ways. He snaps at the staff. He locks himself in the studio, as if the walls might swallow the noise for him. He throws himself into the upcoming release, desperate, like it’s the only thing holding him together. The pressure’s gotten worse lately—eyes everywhere, opinions multiplying online, every move under a microscope. Then, last week: the moment Chan pushed back, sharp and unfiltered, before walking out.
Jin-young hadn’t said anything then.
But he didn’t forget it either.
You glance up at him, spoon hovering over the ice cream before you drop your gaze again. “Nothing,” you mumble, digging back into the tub, like you can bury the question under something cold and sweet.
“Is it Chan?”
Your hand stills.
The ice cream melts on your tongue, sticky-sweet and sickening, a comfort that curdles rather than soothes.
Jin-young exhales slowly. “I know we don’t usually… talk about this kind of thing,” he says, more carefully now. “But something’s off. With both of you.”
You look up at that. “What do you mean?” There’s a flicker of urgency in your voice now, something fragile and searching.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
“He’s been tense,” he says finally. “Snapped at me last week.” His gaze drifts, then comes back to you, measuring. “More than usual.”
You frown. “Because of the restaurant?”
An uneasy pause lingers, heavy as an accusation.
“Among other things,” he says, too lightly.
It’s subtle. Easy to miss.
But something about the way he says it doesn’t sit right.
“You knew about that?” you ask, quieter now.
He lets out a breath. “Of course I did.”
Silence wraps around you like a shroud. You gaze down, absently stirring the melting ice cream, watching it fade into shapelessness, echoing the emptiness inside.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” you admit. Your voice emerges, so faint it almost dissolves into the air.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve barely heard from him.” The words come out sharper this time, frustration cracking through. “He used to at least text. Even if it was late. Now it’s just… nothing.”
Jin-young straightens, something unreadable passing over his face before he moves toward you. His hands settle on your shoulders, steady, grounding—almost too deliberate.
He pulls you into a hug.
You don’t resist.
Tears spill before you can stop their sting.
“I don’t know what to do, Appa,” you choke, gripping his shirt. “I don’t— I don’t get it. One second everything’s fine, and then he just—” your voice breaks, “he’s gone.”
“Shh,” he murmurs, resting his chin lightly against your head. “It’s okay.”
But his hand pauses for just a second against your back.
Like, there’s something he isn’t saying.
After a while, he gently pulls away but keeps his hands planted on your shoulders. His grip is firmer now, as though he’s making a decision.
“You should talk to him,” he says. “Go to his place.”
You blink at him.
“If he won’t answer his phone,” he continues, his tone tightening just slightly, “Then don’t give him the option. Make him talk to you.”
There’s something in his eyes when he says it.
Not just concern.
Something closer to expectation.
Like this conversation matters more than it should.
Like he’s waiting to see what happens next.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The hallway stretches out, distance growing in absence.
You linger outside his door, hand raised. Last time, laughter and shouting filled the space. Now, the quiet feels thick.
You knock.
Nothing.
Your chest tightens. You knock again, this time softer, your knuckles barely tapping as if afraid of what an answer or more silence will bring.
Footsteps. Slow. Then the handle turns.
The door opens, and there he is.
For a moment, Chan’s face softens—relief flickering before vanishing.
Then it’s gone.
His shoulders draw tight, posture straightening. Something shutters behind his eyes so quickly you wonder if you imagined the softness. He clears his throat, gaze sliding past you.
“Why are you here?”
The words hit harder than expected. You blink, unsteady, but compose yourself.
“I just… needed to see you,” you say, quieter than you meant to. Your fingers curl into your sleeve. “Can I come in?”
There’s a pause. He studies you like he’s trying to solve something, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he steps aside.
You slip past him through the slightly open door and step into the dorm, glancing over your shoulder to see him close it behind you.
The room is dim, lit only by a faint glow from the hall. The air feels untouched, as if no one’s lived here in days. No music, no voices, none of the warmth you remember.
The silence presses against your ears.
You glance back at him as he shuts the door firmly behind you. The click of the latch echoes unnaturally loud in the silent room.
“Is Jeongin not here?”
Chan shakes his head, already turning away from you. “No. He left. Hasn’t been home much.”
Something about that feels off, but you nod and shift your weight. You twist your hands, following him into the dim dorm.
“My dad says you’ve been kinda… tense lately,” you start carefully. “That you’ve been snapping at people?”
“I’m fine,” he says immediately.
Too fast. Too flat.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, steps around you, and heads into the living room. You follow, your feet dragging and your posture still tense.
The room hasn’t changed, but it doesn’t feel like the same place.
Weeks ago, it was loud and alive. Cluttered with noise and movement. Now, it’s hollow; something essential is missing.
“I guess I’m just trying to figure out where you’re at,” you say, stopping a few feet behind him.
He switches on a lamp. The light is harsh, slicing across his face, catching on the tightness in his jaw.
“I already told you I’m fine.”
“But are you actually?” Your brows knit together, frustration slipping in. “Because you’ve been distant for weeks.”
“I’ve been busy, Y/N.”
“And I get that,” you say quickly, stepping closer. “I do. I know your work matters. I’m not trying to take that away from you.” Your voice softens, but it doesn’t hide the edge underneath. “But it doesn’t take more than two minutes to send a text, Chris.”
“I don’t have two minutes.”
“But you do.”
Your voice steadies. You square your shoulders and look him in the eyes, searching for something real.
“You had the day off,” you continue. “You could’ve texted me. Called me. Let me know you were still—” you stop, swallowing the rest. “Still here.”
"I don’t owe you anything," Chan spits, the words slicing through the air, raw and brutal.
The words hang between you, sharp and sudden.
“I don’t have to update you on every single thing that’s going on in my life.”
You blink as something inside you shatters. A broken laugh ripples out, sharp and wounded, closer to a sob than a sound.
“I’m not asking you to,” you say, shaking your head as you take another step forward, despite wanting to hold back. “I’m not your mom, Chris.” Your voice is gentler now. “But you’ve been distant. You can’t pretend you haven’t.”
He shrugs, eyes slipping away from yours, unable to hold the weight. "Okay. Yeah. I’ve been distant."
“Okay—why?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Why, Chan?” you press, your voice tightening.
“Because,” he says, like that’s enough.
You stare, disbelief on your face, grip tightening. "Because what?"
Your voice cracks before you can stop it.
"Chris, I’m unraveling," you whisper, voice trembling. "I’m lost. I can’t reach you." Your hands shake at your sides.
Silence settles between you, heavy and unmoving.
You search his face, eyes flickering over every subtle change, desperate to find something familiar, anything soft to hold onto.
But his expression is closed, distant. It feels like standing in front of someone you used to know.
“Maybe I don’t need to be reached for,” he says quietly.
Something in you breaks, sending pain flooding through every part of you, hollowing you out with one wordless ache.
“What are you trying to say, Chan?”
“I’m saying I need space.”
He steps closer. It reduces the physical space between you, but the emotional gap only seems to widen. The proximity feels more like a barrier than an invitation.
“I’m saying you’re too much right now.”
His words cut, sharp and merciless, leaving you raw in their wake.
You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Too much?” Your voice rises despite you trying to keep it down. “You haven’t seen me in eleven days, Christopher.”
“Because I didn’t want to see you!” he fires back.
The sharpness of his voice makes you flinch.
“I can’t look at you,” he continues, voice cracking at the edges now. “After what happened that night—with the paparazzi, that fan—I can’t—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once as he needs somewhere to put the energy. For a second, something raw flickers in his eyes. It’s not just anger or frustration, but something more vulnerable, like shame tangled with fear. Maybe it’s the memory of you caught in the chaos, the way his own mistakes didn’t just hurt him but spilled over onto you. The guilt seems to weigh heavily across his shoulders, and for a breath, you sense how much he wishes he could take that night back, or at least protect you from the mess his life has become.
You shake your head immediately. “No. No, I don’t buy that.”
Your voice steadies, resolve carving out space in your chest.
“You’ve been like this before that,” you say. “You were already pulling away.”
“No, I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.”
You step closer, unwilling to let him disappear behind half-answers.
“Chan, I can’t even remember the last time we talked, and it didn’t feel forced.”
That lands.
You see it—a flicker, a crack. Guilt, maybe, or something heavier.
For a moment, it looks like he might say something. The truth hovers, just out of reach.
His mouth opens.
Closes.
The silence that follows is heavier than any answer he could’ve given.
You swallow. Your voice is quieter now, edged with something new.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He freezes.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just still.
Too still.
Your heart stutters.
“Chan,” you say, softer this time. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
Your chest tightens. Something cold settles where warmth once was.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, he lifts his head.
For a second, you hope something real might break through. That he’ll finally say what he’s been holding back for weeks.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, what comes is smooth. Controlled.
Wrong.
“I already told you,” he says, voice steady in a way that feels practiced, like he’s said it before, maybe not to you, but to himself. “There’s nothing going on.”
For a fleeting second, his hand curls tighter around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. His gaze drifts toward the window, lingering on something out of sight, and for a moment his jaw twitches as if holding back words he can't quite let slip.
The words land, but they don’t settle.
Now you see it—the hesitation before he spoke, the way his jaw tightens after, as if he’s holding something back so tightly it hurts. There’s a version of this conversation somewhere else, one where he tells the truth.
But he doesn’t choose it.
Something shifts in your chest.
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just a quiet, sinking realization.
This isn’t just distance. This isn’t just stress.
This is hiding.
You nod, slow and delayed, as if your body is only now catching up to what your heart already knows.
“Okay,” you say.
The word feels thin as it leaves you.
Because it isn’t okay.
And somewhere between the way he won’t look at you and the way he chooses silence over honesty, something else settles in.
Not just hurt.
Not just confusion.
But the quiet, creeping understanding settles in—that whatever is between you now isn’t just yours anymore. You start to wonder if maybe something or someone else is tangled up in this, too. Maybe it is the pressures from his label, or people whispering in his ear. Maybe there is trouble with one of the members, or something with his family, or even shadows from the company always hanging over him. The uncertainty is sharp, making your mind spiral with possibilities.
Chapter Synopsis: Y/N realizes she's in love with Chan. Between confessions, laughter, and quiet moments, their bond deepens—but unspoken truths still linger, making the future feel both thrilling and uncertain.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome to the fourth chapter of my new series. I hope you guys enjoy and as always thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The days drift past after meeting the boys. You replay the night in fragments: laughter echoing, Chan’s hand finding yours in the dark, the hush that fell when you spoke. For a while, you let yourself believe you belong. Then something shifts—quiet, unnamed—and the air between you and Chan grows thin, as if a window has opened somewhere, letting the warmth slip out.
Chan stays close, his smile bright but careful, as if he’s rehearsing it for someone else. There’s a hush inside him now, a quiet you can’t touch. Conversations unravel, his eyes drifting to his phone. You tell yourself it’s just work, just tiredness, but the explanation never settles. Sometimes he pulls you in, too quickly, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away before he remembers how it feels to hold you.
You keep telling yourself it’s nothing—just exhaustion, nerves, the way life knots itself when you’re not looking. Still, worry grows, quiet and persistent, at the edges of your days. You watch him, tracing the lines on his brow, his gaze drifting somewhere you can’t follow. You try to remember the last time his hand felt like a promise, not a question.
Sometimes you reach for him and wonder if he feels the same ache, or if he’s already somewhere else. You miss the ease you once had, when laughter came without searching, when words didn’t hide. Still, you hold on, pretending it’s enough just to be near him, even as the silence presses in.
Confusion settles in, but Chan isn’t the only weight you carry.
Lately, your dad keeps finding reasons for you to see Chan. He calls, asks you to drop something at the JYPE building, and when you arrive, he’s already with Chan, leaving the room before you can hand him whatever it was. You wonder if it’s coincidence, or if there’s something he isn’t saying. Maybe he wants you and Chan together, or maybe he just wants to keep an eye on Chan for reasons you can't quite figure out.
There are times he lingers in the doorway, watching the two of you with a look you can’t decipher—pride, maybe, or calculation. You remember how he once said, almost offhand, that trust in this business is never simple. Maybe that’s what this is: his way of testing both of you. Or maybe there’s another reason for these small orchestrations, something he’s keeping close for now.
You try not to read into it, but the thought tugs at you, especially when you catch him watching you both, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
Sometimes you run into the boys: Han and Hyunjin are all easy smiles and hugs, making things feel almost normal with their jokes and teasing. Han would lean over the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and grinning as he tosses a sly joke your way, but his gaze flickers to Chan every few minutes, searching Chan's face for a reaction; Han even leaned back, glancing between the two of you before nudging Chan's shoulder. His laughter lifts the energy, but his eyes always look for some unspoken answer in both of you.
Hyunjin would throw himself onto the couch beside you, flicking a stray lock of hair from his cheek. He’d tell a story about their latest dance practice, voice animated, making exaggerated faces. He'd laugh brightly, grabbing your wrist to reel you into his story, but the laughter comes softer when he'd catch your expression, offering you a quick squeeze on the arm. He often murmured things quietly, trying to convince you, or maybe everyone, that things will be okay.
The others are quieter now. Minho sits across the room, half-hidden by his phone. Sometimes you catch him watching. When your eyes meet, he nods and looks away, tension in his jaw.
Felix hovers over Chan, smiling warmly and giving an encouraging words. His gaze often found Chan, full of concern for his leader.
Seungmin and Jeongin sit on the floor, backs to the wall, talking in low voices. When you laugh at Han's joke, Seungmin glances up and offers a hesitant smile, while Jeongin, once the loudest, stays quiet, fiddling with his hoodie strings. When you meet Jeongin’s eyes, he looks away for a split second, a shadow crossing his face. Then he manages a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes—his gaze is always uncertain, as if he wants to say something but can't find the words. Their smiles feel practiced now, words measured.
You feel their eyes on you and Chan, glances flickering from the corners of the room. The warmth from that first night has faded, replaced by a hush you can’t quite name. It settles between you and them, a quiet shifting—loyalty, worry, something you can’t hold. Doubt lingers, soft and insistent, no matter how you try to brush it aside.
You don’t know who to turn to. Everyone you trust is tangled up with Chan, and the words you want to say catch in your throat. Maybe it would be easier to ask him, to let the questions spill out and see what’s left when the silence settles.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
You sat on the studio couch.
Studio dates had become a regular occurrence recently, Chan's become more tangled with work lately.
“Chris,” you pick at your nails.
He hums, not turning around to look at you. “Yeah?”
“Have you noticed how my dad’s been acting recently?”
Chan stills, the studio comes to a pause before he moves again, continuing to type on the keyboard of his computer. Chan has to clear his throat before he speaks, trying to gather himself. “Weird how?”
“He’s been pushy since he found out we're dating.” You glance up, pausing your movements of picking at your nails. “I don’t know, he’s just been weird.”
Chan hums, not offering an immediate response, his shoulders still tense.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Chan mumbles after a beat.
You nod, but the movement barely registers. Your hand rests in your lap, still. The room feels colder, as if trust has slipped out quietly, leaving only the faint outline of what was there before. You think about asking him again, but the words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your mouth.
There’s a tiredness that settles in your bones. Not anger exactly—just the slow ache of wanting something you can’t name. It feels like waiting at a door that never opens. You watch his back as the space between you grows, silent and unmoving. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just nerves. But the thought rings hollow. For the first time, you wonder if holding on is just another way of letting go.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The next night, you and Chan sit across from each other in a restaurant washed in low light. A single flower sits between you, petals catching the glow. Outside, the air is warmer than it should be, the sky clear. Laughter drifts from other tables, the sound of friends and couples folding into the night. It should feel perfect.
Chan pushes his fork through his pasta, slow and absent. His gaze flickers to you, then away. You keep your eyes on your plate, letting the quiet settle. Something uneasy lingers—a hollow space neither of you names.
He clears his throat, “We learned new choreo today.”
You glance up before looking back down at your plate, “Really?”
He hums nodding, “Han tripped over his feet a few times, almost planted into Minho’s back.” He laughs softly.
A small smile finds you, brief and uncertain. He exhales, as if that’s all he needed. "He'll get the hang of it."
Chan looks at you, silence filling the space between the two of you again.
“I’m sorry," he says softly.
Your eyes meet his, “What?” Your eyebrows are furrowed.
He clears his throat again, “I know things have been a little busy,” his phone buzzes.
He glances at it before looking at you again, “I’m trying to get back on track with—” his phone goes off again.
"Chan, just answer it," you try to make sure your voice isn't too harsh.
He picks up his phone, not mentioning that you called him 'Chan' instead of 'Chris.' His shoulders tense. The name on the screen is JYP. His thumb hovers over the answer button. You watch his jaw clench, a bead of sweat gathering at his temple. His gaze drops for an instant, eyes shadowed. His free hand curls tightly in his lap. For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something, but the words die before they reach his lips.
Inside, you sense his thoughts tumbling, a wildfire of worry behind his practiced calm. The conversation slips away, unfinished. You can’t shake the feeling that Chan is holding onto something he can’t say. The timing of these messages is always wrong, always interrupting, leaving a quiet question hanging in the air.
Once dinner's done, Chan pays. The two of you are walking to the restaurant entrance when you notice a group of people outside waiting, cameras in hand, some flashing already.
You look at Chan, confused, and he curses under his breath before gripping your hand.
“Chan—” you begin to say, but it’s too late, he’s already dragging you outside.
Cameras immediately flash around you. If it weren’t for his hand dragging you to the car, you would have tripped over your own feet.
Shouts from paparazzi and fans fill the crowded streets.
“Bang Chan over here!”
“Is that JYP’s daughter?”
“Bang Chan, are you two dating?”
“Y/N!” Someone yells your name.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You and Chan are almost to the car when someone yanks you from his grip—a girl, stunning and intense, brunette with big brown eyes locking onto yours. Panic flares, cold and electric, your hand still tingling from where Chan held you.
“What’re you doing with him?”
The camera's strobe flashes in your vision, dizzying, your mind buzzing with static. A grip clamps around your arm; your breath catches. Then you hear Chan, his voice strained but sharp, cutting through the chaos.
“Back off! Give her space.” He all but yells at the paparazzi and crazed fans.
His iron grip rips you from the crowd, quickly dragging you to the car and unlocking it. He throws the passenger door open and runs to the driver's side.
Upon entering the car, he immediately locks it, starts the engine, and peels out of the parking spot with ease.
Your heart thuds, too loud in the small space. You sit up straighter, one hand pressed to the dash, the other digging into the center console. The car feels smaller, thick with the noise neither of you can quiet.
Chan’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, his knuckles turning white. He mutters curses and ‘sorry’s’ under his breath.
“How’d they know we were there?” You ask, voice shaky. Your heart is pounding in your ears.
“I don’t know,” his voice is thick and harsh.
“Did someone call them?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did they know we were there, Chan?” Your voice rises.
“Fuck, Y/N, I don’t know!” He yells.
You both freeze. You stare at him with wide eyes as his face pales. He shakes his head, "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I just don’t know how the fuck any of this happened." His voice quivers, and there’s a rawness in his eyes, like he’s fighting to hold something back, struggling not to fall apart in front of you.
There is something underneath his words that you can almost reach, a secret trembling between you. You watch his hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles white as he looks anywhere but at you. He swallows, jaw clenched, as if the truth is pressing up hard against his teeth. For a moment, his gaze flickers to his phone, and you see something ripple across his face—panic, and then a shadow of resignation.
Something flickers across his face—a flash of guilt, maybe fear, as if he’s carrying a secret that might break free if he lets down his guard. You remember rumors you’ve heard before, the way Chan hesitates before speaking about management, the way he changes the subject when certain things come up. "I’m sorry," he whispers again, tears filling his eyes.
“Chan,” you whisper, voice full of empathy. 'You can’t think about yourself, he needs you too.' you remind yourself. “It’s okay.”
“Someone put their hands on you," his voice is raw, filled with so much guilt.
You shake your head, body slightly trembling from the adrenaline. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” he snaps again, his eyes find yours before looking straight ahead that road.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Chan drops you off and walks you to your apartment door. The two of you stand there, looking anywhere but at each other.
You swallow, voice barely more than a breath. "Everything’s going to be okay," you look up, searching his face for something to hold onto, some sign that the ground won’t give way beneath you. "Right?"
He looks down at you, guilt and pain flickering in his gaze, something colder underneath. He nods. "Yeah." His voice is thin, he swallows thickly.
You look up at him, desperation and heartbreak threading through your voice. "Call me tomorrow?"
He doesn’t answer, he offers the smallest nod. If you'd have blinked then you would've missed it. He steps closer, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead. His eyes squeeze shut, silent tears slipping down his face.
You close your eyes as his lips brush your forehead, the warmth lingering after he pulls away. When you open them, he’s already turning, his figure growing smaller with each step down the hallway.
Chapter Synopsis: When Chan invites Y/N over to meet the boys, he comes clean to his bandmates and best friends about the deal he made with their boss. While she steps into Chan and Jeongin's shared dorm, she's greeted into a world of warm, chaotic, friendship. But Chan carries a secret that shadows every smile and touch.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome to the first chapter of the second act of the series. I hope you guys enjoy and as always thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't leave my house:)
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୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
“What?” You stare at Chan, who’s sat across from you, shock coursing through your body.
He smiles, clearly enjoying your panic. “I want you to meet the guys.”
You chew the piece of tteokkboki slowly, your eyes looking down at the table. “Like the guys...or the guys?”
Chan laughs, “They’re the same people, love.”
“I know, but they’re important to you,” You say softly, “I just don’t want to mess it up with them.”
“You won’t, besides, you’re my girlfriend, they should probably meet the one who keeps me distracted during schedules.” he glances up at you and notices your glare, he laughs.
It’s only been a little over a week since you and Chan started calling it real. He’d come to your door in the middle of the night, the hour when the world is quiet and you’re always awake. You remember the way he blurted it out, words tumbling over themselves, his voice catching on nerves he couldn’t hide. For a moment, your heart stopped, a twist of hope and fear pulsing together. You tried to steady yourself, caught between disbelief and giddiness, but what lingered beneath was an ache of longing—because if you lost each other now, you’d lose so much more than the excitement of something new. You’d lose trust, this fragile spark, the promise of being truly seen. You laughed, sharp and bright in the hush of the hallway, and for a heartbeat, it felt safe to say yes. He looked at you then, a soft, almost shy smile on his face, as if he was afraid the possibility might slip away. He had something to gain, too—someone who saw past everything expected of him, someone who could see him. And what he risked was just as sharp: the fear that you’d turn away if you ever truly understood him. You said yes, your cheeks aching from smiling, hands trembling with something that felt like hope. Later, you’d tease him about it, and he’d let you, but sometimes, when you miss him, you replay that night in your mind—the sound of his voice, the way the world seemed to pause, just for you.
You sigh, “You don’t think it’s too soon? To meet them, I mean.”
He furrows his eyebrows, “Do you?”
“I just don’t want to jinx us.”
Chan snorts out a laugh, “You’re not gonna jinx us by meeting my mates.” He reaches over, grabbing one of your hands. “Everything will be fine, it’s better sooner than later.”
“Why would it be better?” It’s your turn to be confused.
“The boys have been extra dramatic lately.” He says simply. “And by boys, I mean Hyunjin and Han.”
You laugh, looking at him as he takes another bite of tteokkboki. You sigh, “When?”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
The next day, Chan gathers the boys. Hyunjin and Han sit close on the long couch, Felix folded in beside Han, Minho leaning against Hyunjin’s shoulder. Seungmin curls into the lounge chair, Changbin and Jeongin cross-legged on the floor. Chan stands at the edge, watching them, the air heavy with something unspoken.
“So,” Seungmin starts, “Why are we all here?”
“Is this one of those family meetings?” Han asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
“You mean an intervention?” Hyunjin looks at Han, who nods, snapping his fingers.
“Yeah, that.”
Chan shakes his head, “No...but this is kinda important.”
All the boys stare at Chan, anticipating. Chan just stares back before clearing his throat. Why were his palms so sweaty? “Okay, so I may or may not be dating our boss’s daughter.”
“What?!” almost all the boys scream in unison, except Seungmin. “He has a daughter?”
“Yeah, he has a daughter,” Chan says.
“Wait, how’d you guys meet? She’s like never around.” Changbin asks.
Chan laughs softly, not a funny laugh but one underlined by unease. “So about that-”
Han cuts in, bouncing in his seat. “They met at JYP’s birthday party back in December. He originally wasn’t going to go for it, but then JYP said we needed to up our sales because we were losing a bunch of money, and they made a deal: Basically, Chan dates his daughter, JYP would put more effort and money behind pushing our music to up our sales. They would prioritize our comebacks and give us better opportunities, thereby boosting profits. So they’ve been going on all these dates, and he’s slowly been realizing that he’s in love with her, and now he kinda wants to cut the deal off.”
As Han says it, Chan feels a knot in his stomach. He hates that the beginning of all this was never about real feelings, only about pressure and doing what was best for the group. Every time he looks at you now, guilt digs a little deeper, reminding him that even though he never meant to hurt anyone, he can’t undo how things started. He wishes he could say he was proud of the decision, but mostly, he just wishes he had chosen differently. The relief he feels when he’s with you is always haunted by the fear of what will happen if you ever find out.
“Huh?!” All the boys, aside from Minho, Hyunjin, and Han, stare at Chan, eyes wide.
Chan glares at Han, “You didn’t have to dump it out like that.”
Han shrugs.
Felix nods a little, “Yeah, I think we’re gonna need the whole story.”
Chan tells them everything: how you met, the awkward first date, and even last night, when he asked you to meet them. The boys’ disappointment is quiet, settling in the way Seungmin looks away, in the hush that follows. No one asks if you know. They don’t need to. Chan’s eyes flicker to the floor, his hands restless. The secret sits between them, silent and heavy, changing the shape of the room.
“I know it sounds bad—”
“Sounds bad?” Changbin says.
“Dude, you’re stringing this girl along, and it’s not just any girl,” Felix chimes in.
“But I actually like her; the deal doesn’t really even matter anymore,” Chan says, slightly defensive.
“And, uh,” Minho leans forward. “Have you actually canceled this little deal yet?”
“Um, I,” Chan stumbles over his words. “I’m going to.”
Han nods, “Yeah, he said he was going to talk to JYP.”
“And is this before or after she finds out you’ve been using her?” Seungmin crosses his arms as he leans on the back of the lounge chair.
“Hopefully before,” Han looks at Seugnmin as if he’s the stupid one for asking the question.
Chan gives Seugnmin a look. “I’m not using her,” Chan says, his tone so sure. “Okay, maybe I was in the beginning, but for one, I was doing that for us as a team, and for two, I actually like her now.” Chan winces at his words.
“You’re kind of a dick, dude,” Jeongin says. “I honestly didn’t think you’d be capable of this,” he laughs in disbelief.
Chan shakes his head, choosing to ignore Jeongin's words. “Anyway, we’re serious now, and I want her to meet you guys.”
Changbin shakes his head, “Nuh-uh.” He points his finger at Chan, “You’re not dragging us into this messed-up game.”
It’s not a game,” Chan says, but the words land wrong, too loud in the hush. There’s a small shift then—your eyes narrow, just slightly, as if trying to read the meaning behind his insistence. For a split second, you wonder if you’ve missed something, a joke you don’t understand or a story he hasn’t told. The feeling hums at the edge of your awareness, a faint prickling between your shoulder blades. But before you can catch hold of it, Chan looks down, the room closing in around him. Guilt presses against his ribs, sharp and restless. He imagines your face if you knew, the way your eyes might shutter, the quiet that would follow. Fear settles in his hands, cold and unmoving. Sometimes, when your laughter drifts to him, or when you catch his gaze across a crowded room, he wonders if this is the last time. If you’ll turn away when the truth finally finds you. He wants to tell you, to let it spill out, but the words knot and tangle, caught somewhere deep.
“I really like her,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I know it didn’t start right. I wish it had. But she’s warm. She notices things no one else does. With her, the world softens. Sometimes I feel like I’m just another face, but then she looks at me, and everything else slips away. She makes me want to be better. It isn’t about the deal anymore. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me. When I’m with her, I forget who I’m supposed to be.”
The boys, even the three who knew about all of this beforehand, stare at Chan, shocked.
“Chan-ah,” Minho starts softly.
Seungmin lets out a small laugh, “You’re a pabo.”
“What?” Chan asks.
Felix shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “You’re in love.”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Sleep slips away. Chan lies on his back, watching shadows drift across the ceiling. Restlessness pools in his bones. The question circles, quiet and insistent: is this what love feels like?
He’s watched you, quietly. The way your fingers worry at your nails when you’re nervous, how you pocket small stones from every place that matters. You complain about lens cleaner, saying it only makes things worse. He knows you—maybe better than he knows himself. He’s memorized the words you trip over, the way you laugh at your own mistakes. Sometimes you just lie beside him, listening to whatever song he plays, eyes on the ceiling, no phone, no distractions. He’s seen you call strangers pretty, never expecting anything back. He loves that. He remembers your handwriting, the way you smell—sweet, familiar, like home. He knows—oh. Oh.
He’s in love.
He is in love with you.
By morning, he sends the message: the boys want to meet you tonight. The words feel strange, as if they belong to someone else. Jeongin keeps glancing at him, unsettled by how much Chan is cleaning, even for him. The hours stretch thin. Chan checks the clock, again and again, nerves coiling tight in his chest. What if they don’t like you? What if you see through him? He rehearses what he’ll say, every version of tonight looping in his mind. The moment creeps closer, and he isn’t sure he’s ready.
You check your phone again, scrolling through Chan’s messages, wishing you’d said something different, something that didn’t sound so strange. Your hands are clammy, thumb hovering over his name before you lock the screen. Blue light flickers across your face. The room is thick with quiet, broken only by the radiator’s low hum. Each glance at the clock sends a rush through you—excitement tangled with dread, your heart too loud in the hush. Your fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the desk. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing, or trip over your own feet? You replay introductions in your mind, voices borrowed from Chan’s stories. You change your outfit again, smoothing the fabric, wiping your palms on your jeans. Hope and fear knot together in your chest. All you can do is wait.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
You hesitate at his door, heart pounding. You fix your hair and adjust your shirt again and again. Too dressed up? Not enough? Does your makeup look okay? Did you remember deodorant? The questions tumble, restless and small.
Before you can second-guess yourself again, the door opens. Chan’s face, tense a moment ago, softens when he sees you. “Hey,” he says, and pulls you into his arms.
You immediately wrap your arms around him, “Hi,” you pause a little. “How did you know I was here yet?”
He shrugs into the hug, “Spidy senses.”
You snort as he pulls away, looking down at you with a smile. “Come on, they’re all waiting. I swear, Hyunjin and Han have been restless.”
He opens the door wider, and noise spills out—voices tangled, someone shouting. You step inside, glancing at Chan. He laughs, “They’re playing Mario Kart.”
You laugh softly, about to respond before being cut off by a loud voice.
“Is she here?” someone yells, voice filled with excitement. Running footsteps approach, and suddenly, Han is in view. He gasps and walks over to you — arms stretched out. He pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, “Oh my god. I literally have heard way too much about you.”
Your eyes widen, patting his back at an awkward angle since your arms are trapped beneath his. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” you let out a small laugh.
Chan shakes his head, “Yah, give her space.” Chan pulls Han off of you.
“I’ve had to endure you talking about her for the past few months. Let me have this moment,” Han glares at Chan but doesn’t make any effort to crowd your space again.
“Is she here, Han?” Hyunjin walks around the corner, and he meets your eyes. He smiles brightly, “I honestly was kinda thinking you were fake. I couldn’t really find any photos of you online.” He walks over and gives you a quick hug.
“Hyunjin,” Chan looks at him.
You laugh, “It’s fine.” You tell Hyunjin.
It takes nearly five minutes for you and Chan to make it past Han and Hyunjin and into the living room. The game pauses the moment you step inside.
Changbin is the first to stand, grinning as he pulls you into a sideways hug. “You're kinda crazy to want to date Chan.” His confidence is easy, unforced, and you find yourself smiling back, surprised at how quickly the nerves begin to slip away.
Felix bounces up next, eyes crinkling with a smile that feels like sunlight. He hugs you, warm and genuine. “It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he says, voice bright. His energy is contagious, and for a moment, you understand what Chan meant when he said Felix lights up a room. You laugh, relief blooming quietly in your chest.
Jeongin shifts, a little awkward, “Hi,” he says, a small smile flickering as his eyes dart away, then back. The gesture is quiet, careful. He fidgets with his hoodie. You recognize the nerves in him, something familiar, and offer your best smile in return.
Seungmin and Minho raise their eyebrows in greeting, nodding with the smallest of smiles. Minho’s smirk is almost a challenge. “It’s a good thing you’re here. We need another good player.”
Seungmin’s voice is dry. “Hope you have thick skin. Han and Hyunjin are the worst winners and losers out of all of us.” They’re harder to read, but their glances say enough—they’re watching out for Chan. You nod back, cautious, wanting them to see you mean well.
Seungmin raises an eyebrow, something hidden behind his eyes. “So where did you guys meet again?”
You smile, eyes glinting. “Oh, we met at my dad's birthday party.”
Seungmin hums, “And you guys just started hanging out like that?”
You nod, forcing a laugh. “Kinda, yeah.”
Seungmin nods, lips pursed. Minho glances at Seungmin — catching his eyes, you notice the look they give each other before Seungmin speaks again. “Interesting,” he holds your gaze for a beat.
Changbin shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Don’t mind him. He’s just upset because he doesn’t get Chan’s attention as much anymore.”
The room erupts in laughter, voices tumbling over each other, and Chan glares at Seungmin, who stares back, anger flickering in his eyes. Anger because every boy in this room knows what Chan is doing to you, behind your back, and can still see how good you are.
Across the room, Minho forces a tight smile, fingers drumming restlessly against his knee. He is always the first to call people out, but this time he bites his tongue, his loyalty to Chan fighting his discomfort about the secret.
Beside him, Felix's laughter fades just a little too soon, his eyes darting to Chan with something like worry. Guilt pinches at the corners of his smile; Felix hates dishonesty, and keeping this from you feels wrong, yet he stays quiet for his friend’s sake.
Jeongin keeps laughing, but there's a nervous edge to it, his hands tightening around the controller. He avoids your gaze, not trusting himself to keep the secret if you ask him something directly.
Han bites his lip, gaze flickering between you and Chan. His leg bounces incessantly, torn between his affection for you and his deep loyalty to Chan. Han dislikes being in the middle, but worries the truth will hurt you both even more if it stays hidden.
For a moment, all the boys are caught between wanting to protect you and knowing it's not their place to say a word. Each of them carries the weight of it differently: frustration, guilt, anxiety, or silent resignation. It hangs between them now, invisible but thick as smoke.
You don’t notice the tension in Chan’s shoulders or the sharp look Seungmin gives your boyfriend. What you do notice is that, for the first time tonight, you feel the edges of belonging, the possibility that you might fit here after all.
Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as you feared.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
You glance at the screen, then back at them. “Okay, wait—are we actually playing or just arguing about playing?”
“Both,” Changbin says.
“At the same time,” Felix adds.
“That sounds stressful,” you mumble.
“It is,” Jeongin nods.
Han scoots over on the couch, patting the spot next to him. “Sit, sit—before Hyunjin picks something annoying again.”
“I heard that,” Hyunjin says, already scrolling through characters.
“That’s the point,” Seungmin mutters.
You sit, tucking your legs in a little as you balance the soda in your hand. “I feel like I’m being thrown into something.”
“You are,” Minho says.
“Great.”
“What character do you use?” Han asks, already leaning too close.
“Um… usually Yoshi?”
Han gasps. “Safe choice.”
“What does that even mean?” you laugh.
“It means you don’t want problems, you stick with what you’re comfortable with,” he says.
“You got all that from a character? Maybe she just likes Yoshi, Han.” Felix says.
Hyunjin clicks his tongue. shaking his head. “No, it says a lot.”
“It says nothing,” Chan cuts in.
Seungmin snorts quietly.
“Okay, but,” you say, looking back at the screen. “Who’s actually good?”
A beat.
Then everyone starts talking at once—
“Me—”
“Not him—”
“Definitely not Chan—”
“Yah—”
You blink, then laugh, shaking your head. “So, I’m assuming not Chan then?”
“Exactly,” Minho says.
Han hands you a controller. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah,” Jeongin adds, “just don’t trust anything he says,” he nods to Han. “He’s a schemer.”
“Why is everyone against me today?” Han frowns.
“It’s fun,” Seungmin says.
“You literally lost the last round,” Changbin adds.
“I was sabotaged.” Han furrows his eyebrows in defense.
“You drove into a wall.”
“It was trying to throw you guys off.”
You laugh under your breath. Felix nudges your shoulder, his smile easy. “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.” You nod, a small smile blooming.
You glance over at Chan for a second. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks down at his phone. He glances up and sees you looking at him.
You hold his gaze for a beat, questions flooding your eyes, but you ignore it. You promised you wouldn’t doubt him anymore. You shake the thoughts, smiling a little more genuinely as you look at him.
He smiles back, a little slower, and the tiniest bit of relief fills his body.
“Yah,” Seungmin says suddenly, not looking away from the screen. “Pay attention. You’re going to lose.”
You turn to the screen, fingers curling around the controller. Chan keeps watching you, his gaze soft yet filled with something else. Beside him, Minho bumps his shoulder, gently.
He leans in, “She’s good for you,” he whispers softly.
For a moment, Chan goes still.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Later that night, Chan offers you a place to stay. Jeongin groans, but you say yes.
It’s 2 a.m. Chan is still awake, his gaze tracing your back, now wrapped in one of his shirts. He didn’t want you to sleep in something uncomfortable, so he handed you an old white t-shirt, soft and a little too big. He’d gotten a text from JYP, another update on profit increase. It was small but still better than it was.
Minho’s words echo: she’s good for you. Simple, true, and somehow it unsettles him. You are good for him, and that’s the problem. You still don’t know about your father, about the deal. It won’t matter how real this feels when the truth comes out. Guilt burns in his stomach, sharp and constant. In the dark, he turns the question over and over: does he tell you now, or keep pretending it might stay hidden a little longer?
Part of him wants to let it spill, to be free of it, but something holds him back. He watches your breathing, steady and soft, and wonders if he’s brave enough to risk it. The way you trusted him tonight, the way you smiled at him, clings to him long after the lights go out. He knows all it might take is one unexpected question from you or the boys—a single moment where the truth nearly slips out—for everything to unravel. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe soon. The thought settles over him: he can't keep this buried, not when you're starting to let him all the way in. Would he still have you like this? Unguarded, content. Happy.
You rolled over in your sleep, facing Chan. You slowly opened your eyes, expecting Chan to be asleep, but the moonlight peeked through, and you saw his eyes open, blinking softly as he looked at you.
“You’re still awake?” you whisper to him.
He hums, not fully responding.
You stare at him, “You okay?”
He hums again, and you laugh softly. “I’m gonna need more than some hums, Chris.”
He smiles soflty, almost forced. “Nothing, just can’t sleep.”
“And why’s that?”
He shrugs, “My head just won’t stop thinking.”
You furrow your eyebrows.
“Nothing bad,” he lies, but he’s quick with it. So quick that you don't even catch the way his voice trembles slightly and how his hand clenches. “You were good with the guys tonight. They really liked you.”
“Well,” you smile softly. “I’m glad I didn’t make a fool of myself.”
He shifts closer, hand at your waist, fingers tracing the loose fabric. There’s a quiet warning in your chest, a sense that something is off, but the words to reach him slip away. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said something wrong, or if he’s holding back words he can’t give.
His smile is gentle in the moonlight, but a shadow flickers in his eyes, and you shiver. You want to ask, but the question catches in your throat. The room feels colder. You study his face, searching for a crack in his calm, something left unsaid. Suddenly, you remember a moment from earlier in the night, his hand pulling away just a beat too fast when Han made a joke, the way he laughed, but didn't quite meet your eyes. There’s a small crease at his brow that he only gets when he’s holding something back.
Doubt stirs, sharp and unwelcome. You replay his words, wondering if there is something you're missing. Underneath it all, your chest tightens as fear and hope mix together, leaving you caught in a strange limbo. Is it just nerves that make everything feel so fragile, or is something slipping through your fingers without you noticing? You want to trust him, to believe in this fragile happiness, but confusion gnaws at the edges. For a moment, you wish he would just tell you whatever it is that sits between you. The feeling lingers, restless, refusing to leave.
Chan’s gaze meets yours, silent and searching. For a moment, his eyes soften, and the worry slips away. But it doesn’t last. He remembers the promise he made to Han, the conversation he still owes JYP. But what’s done is done. It was too late the moment he said yes.
“Ya know,” he whispers, his eyebrows a little furrowed. “You’re kinda becoming my favorite person.”
“Kinda?” you joke slightly, but you notice the strange look on his face.
He hums, “You are. You are my favorite person.”
Your heart stutters, you smile softly. “Don’t let Seungmin hear that.”
He snorts softly, tensing a little at the mention of his member’s name.
You smile at the sound, reaching up to rest your hand on his cheek, and your thumb traces his skin. “If it means anything, you’re kinda my favorite person.”
Chapter Synopsis: Y/N realizes she's in love with Chan. Between confessions, laughter, and quiet moments, their bond deepens—but unspoken truths still linger, making the future feel both thrilling and uncertain.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome to the fourth chapter of my new series. I hope you guys enjoy and as always thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Chan eventually walks out to stand next to you. He slips his hand effortlessly on your waist as he comes to a stop next to you. You don’t flinch; he feels you relax in his arms. He watches you watch the fireworks.
You glance at him and notice his stare, “You’re missing the fireworks.”
“But if I looked away, I’d be missing you.”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, “You can’t just say things like that.”
He smiled, turning his gaze to the fireworks. You watched him instead—the line of his nose, the softness of his mouth, the way his lashes caught the light. He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. You hadn’t known what was missing until he filled the space, made you feel seen, precious. For a moment, you let yourself believe you were rare, and he was the only one who could find you. The feeling had been there all along, quietly growing. You realized then what you’d been feeling earlier that morning.
love.
You were falling in love with Bang Chan.
You were falling in love with Chan.
You were in love with Chris.
You pause as you look at him; he somehow notices the shift. He looks down at you, “What?” with a small smile on his face.
You swallow thickly, eyes held on his, you shake your head softly. “Nothing.” You breathe in, “I just want to thank you.”
“Thank me? You’ve thanked me twice for dinner alre-”
“No, not that. I mean, thank you for that, but not that. Thank you for being here. For seeing me.”
He turns to face you fully, and you face him back. “I’ve spent so much of my life looking for ways to fit in, to be seen by someone other than my father, or be a part of some scheme for someone else’s benefit.” You smile softly, “I just-I want you to know that this means a lot to me; that you mean a lot to me.”
Chan swallows, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he can feel it in his throat.
“You said earlier that you don’t want to date me because of what I can offer, but because of who I am.” You nod softly, “I still don’t see what you see in me,” you let out a breathy laugh. “But I know that when I’m with you, there’s no awkward silence, no second-guessing where I stand in every conversation.”
Chan stares at you, his eyes soft. Shock, guilt, joy, love, everything flooding his system at once.
“But I also kinda owe you an apology.”
Chan furrows his eyebrows, “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I do,” you glance over at where the fireworks are still going off. “I questioned you a lot during the time that I’ve known you. I may not have been direct about it, but I did...I still somewhat do.”
Chan’s heart sinks at your words, guilt overcoming him. You had every reason to doubt him, every single reason, and you didn’t even know that half the stuff you questioned him about was almost all true.
“You’ve proved me wrong, Chris. A lot. So I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, "You have every reason to question me," he says softly. "Things happened fast, but that doesn’t mean I regret it." But he does, in ways he can’t admit. He regrets how it started, how open you are, how you’re apologizing for doubting him.
Under the soft colors of the fireworks, a flicker of guilt crosses his face, so quick you almost miss it. There’s a part of him that aches to tell you everything, as if confession might bring relief, but fear knots his tongue. Memories crowd his mind: the agreement made before he ever texted you, the promise whispered in a manager's office, the way your father's hopes had pulled subtle threads between all his choices since the beginning.
He wonders if you’d take the apology back when you find out the truth, and whether the secret sitting heavy behind his ribs will change everything. Deep down, a single thought circles: if you knew that his first message to you was never only his idea, would any of this feel the same? Some truths, he tells himself, are too tangled to speak aloud. Not yet.
You look up at him, “I don’t regret it either.”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
By the time Chan dropped you off at your apartment and headed into the studio to distract himself, it was almost 2 am.
Chan sat hunched over the mixing console, notebook open and pages crowded with restless handwriting. Piano chords filled his headphones, the melancholy notes echoing something he couldn’t quite name.
The keys were so loud that he hadn’t heard Han walk into the studio. He’d called out to Chan three times before finally putting a hand on his shoulder. Chan jumped, throwing the headphones off.
“Jesus, Han.” Chan put a hand over his heart, as if that’d calm him down.
“Sorry,” Han says, looking at Chan with concern. “I called you a few times, and you didn’t hear me.”
Chan mumbles that it’s fine, and Han takes a seat next to the older boy. “What’s going on with you?”
Chan shakes his head, “Nothing.”
Han hums, not believing him.“How’d your date go with JYP Jr.?”
“First off, her name is Y/N,” Chan says, his full focus on the younger member. “Second, it was good.”
“Just good?” Han raises an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Actually?”
Chan and Han look at each other, holding each other's gaze. The heavy silence stretches, just long enough for Han to smirk and wiggle his eyebrows. "You sure you two didn’t elope and forget to invite us?" he teases, nudging Chan with his elbow.
Chan can't help the faint smile tugging at his lips before he finally breaks, sinking back into the chair. "Okay, no, it was perfect. She’s perfect, which makes all of this so much more fucked up."
Han grins, shaking his head. "You sound like Hyunjin when he lost his AirPods—absolutely tragic. Should I call Minho and tell him you finally lost it?" Chan lets out a reluctant laugh, the familiar warmth of his members' teasing settling over him.
A beat later, the studio door creaks open, and Hyunjin pokes his head in, drawn by the commotion. "Oh? Are we gossiping about Chan's love life again?" Minho isn't far behind, already rolling his eyes but with a crooked smile.
Hyunjin drops onto the couch, tossing a knowing look Chan's way while Minho sits on the armrest, arms folded. "He hasn't shut up about her," Hyunjin says to Han, "Every time his phone dings, he acts like he got called up by the president."
Han snorts, and Minho adds, "At least now his love songs are less Fifty Shades of Grey. She must be good for him."
There's a gentle camaraderie in the room, everyone quietly rooting for Chan, even in their teasing. When Chan glances around at his friends, the relief and solidarity soften something inside him. In their own chaotic ways, the others rally around him, making him feel like whatever happens next, he won't be facing it alone.
Han watches his leader, eyes soft. “You really like her.” It wasn’t a question; he could see right through Chan. He’d seen how he was in his last relationship, but somehow everything was amplified when it came to you.
Chan nods.
Minho lets out a breath, “So be honest with her.”
Chan’s eyes widen, “What? I can’t do that.”
“Chan, you’ll only be hurting her more if you drag this lie out further,” Hyunjin says softly, “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since you’ve begun this whole thing, it’s that you don’t want to hurt her.”
“She’ll hate me.”
“Maybe...but I don’t think she’d have stuck around after the night you met if she didn’t think you were going to be worth a fight.” Han fidgets with his hands a little.
Chan looks at Han, completely shocked at the boy's words. He’d never seen Han so sure of anything before. It gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would work out for the better. You’d know the truth and still stay in his life. “Fine, but I’ll have to talk to Jin-young.”
They spend the next hour looking at what Chan’s been working on. The three other boys may or may not have made fun of Chan for being all lovey-dovey and cryptic all at the same time.
Alone in bed, morning pressing at the window, Chan realized how much lighter everything felt with you in his life. Breathing, speaking, even thinking—it all came easier, as long as he knew you were there. Yet beneath that ease, a familiar ache stayed with him, quietly gnawing at his chest. He wondered when he would finally tell you the truth, and if the trust you’d given him could survive it. Fear crept in, but so did hope, threading through the uncertainty like gold through darkness. Some part of him believed you might still reach for him, even after everything, and he found himself wanting to be worthy of that. As his eyes drifted shut, a quiet promise settled in his heart: he would hold onto this growing love, nurture it, and fight for the future flickering just out of reach. He was falling, faster than he ever had before, and for once the prospect didn’t scare him—it felt like hope.
Chapter Synopsis: As things between Y/N and Chan begin to deepen, both struggle to stay out of each other's thoughts. Through quiet moments, late-night calls, and a Lunar date, their connection grows into something more real - and more dangerous. Y/N opens up about her past and insecurities, Chan measures her in ways no one else ever has. But while she begin to trust him, Chan struggles with the hidden truth behind how this all began. By end of the night, one thing becomes clear to the two of them; this isn't casual anymore and it might already be too late to turn back.
Authors Note 💌: Hi Loves! Welcome to the third chapter of my new series. I hope you guys enjoy and as always thank you for the amazing support and love 🩷 reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated (plz talk to me, I don't have any friends:)
If you want to be added to the taglist, please fill this form out. If you've already filled it out and your @ isn't included, please comment and I'll be sure to add you!
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
He lingered in your mind long after you closed your apartment door, the echo of his arms around you still warm on your skin. It was almost embarrassing, how quickly he’d become a part of you—how safe you felt, without him even trying. Each morning, you woke with his name on your lips, half-expecting him to appear if you whispered it softly enough. At night, you carried him into your dreams, hoping he’d meet you there so the waiting wouldn’t feel so endless.
Chan’s messages arrived at odd hours, a little bolder each time. Blurry selcas from the studio, Hyunjin making hearts in the background, Han flashing a peace sign—small snapshots of their world, sent just for you. Sometimes he slipped in inside jokes, the kind only you would catch: a complaint about Felix stealing his hoodies, a note about his favorite spicy ramen, even though he couldn’t handle the heat. He started calling more than texting, finding pockets of time between rehearsals, as if your voice steadied him. There were moments he’d ask your dad about you, and your dad—contrary to what most believed—seemed delighted, almost too amused.
Your dad saw the shift before you did—the way your shoulders loosened, how your smile slipped out without effort, how your eyes darted to your phone at every vibration. You found yourself reaching out, words spilling in a way they hadn’t since childhood. Later, your dad sent Chan a message: 'I’m not sure what you’re doing, but keep doing it.' Gratitude, quiet and steady, settled somewhere deep, lingering long after the words faded.
Chan’s anxiety lingered, but something in him eased. The others—Minho, Hyunjin, Han—noticed the shift, the guilt that once pressed heavily was now lighter, almost bearable. When your name appeared on his phone, his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. Even JYP’s sudden arrivals didn’t shake him the way they used to. The boys agreed, quietly, that you were good for him. Maybe he’d needed that, even if he hadn’t realized.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
You visited your dad the night before the Lunar New Year. He’d insisted, knowing you’d be busy for the holiday. You hadn’t said much, but something in you sensed he already knew what you’d be doing, maybe even who you’d be with.
In the kitchen, you leaned against the island, your two little sisters perched beside you. You fed them strawberries, eating a few yourself, while your dad chopped vegetables for dinner.
He glances over his shoulder at the three of you before looking back down at the cutting board. “So...”
You glance up at your dad’s tone, “What?” you ask as your sisters dig their hands in the bowl holding the cut-up strawberries. “What’s that tone?” you laugh softly.
Your dad glances again, “It seems one of my idols had taken a liking to you.” He smiles at you with a raised eyebrow.
Your cheeks flush immediately, your neck heating up. You force out a nervous laugh, “Really?”
Jin-young nods, a smile on his face. “I’m happy for you two. I mean Chan needs someone to make him relax more, and you, well, you’ve been...brighter lately.” His words were full of sincerity.
Your heart stuttered at the mention of Chan. The words meant more than you could say—enough to make you want to cry, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the hope you’d been holding onto, the quiet prayers for proof that this was real, not some beautiful illusion or a dream you’d wandered into by mistake.
“Well,” you stand up straighter, “I am happy.”
He smiles at you, “Good, that’s all I want.”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Morning crept in, gold spilling through the curtains, painting your small loft in soft lines. You woke from dreams of him, a fullness in your chest edged with emptiness. It was hard to tell if the ache came from wanting something impossible or from realizing it might already belong to you.
Chan woke with a familiar knot in his stomach, reaching for his phone before his eyes had even opened. No message from you yet. You filled his thoughts, pushing everything else aside, and he couldn’t seem to stop it. The wanting was restless, almost sharp, but he let it linger.
He didn’t know how to quiet his mind, how to move through the day without you pressing in at the edges. Once, he almost messaged JYP to call everything off—he didn’t need a reason to want you anymore, and that was the part that unsettled him most. Still, he remembered what Minho had said. He’d made his choice, and he wasn’t the type to leave when things got tangled.
He was grateful for the day off, for the space to let his nerves settle and anticipation gather. The thought of seeing you again—just holding your hand—blurred everything else. It frustrated him, how deeply you’d settled inside him, how impossible it was to shake you loose.
He managed only three hours of sleep, tossing and turning, staying up too late, distracting himself with a new track that sounded suspiciously like a love song. He sent you a simple good morning, told you to be ready by five, and reminded you to wear something a little nicer.
When his name appeared on your screen, your heart tripped over itself. The rush was dizzying, too much and not enough. You tried to fill the hours until evening with anything that might quiet your nerves, but nothing really worked. This felt different—sharper, more real—than the first time you met him, or the easy comfort of late-night calls.
By 4:30, you were ready. The cherry-red dress skimmed your skin, ribbon soft against your collarbone. Sheer tights for the lingering cold, gold rings on your fingers, a bracelet catching the light. Your hair fell smoothly down your back, ends curling just so. Everything felt simple, intentional—enough to say you cared, but not so much it looked like you were trying.
Chan texted just as you finished, asking if he could be a little early. You cursed yourself for not needing more time. You told him to wait a few minutes, slipped on your heels and jacket, grabbed your purse and phone, and rushed out, locking the door behind you.
You paused at the elevator, then again at the front doors, nerves prickling under your skin. Still, you stepped out into the evening. His car stood out, sleek and out of place. He was already out, waiting, and your smile slipped out before you could stop it. Across the street, his heart stuttered as he saw you.
Once you’re in front of him, he wraps his arms around you. “Hey,” he says with a smile, his ears slightly red. “Happy New Year.”
You hug him back, smiling into his neck. “Happy New Year.”
As you pull away, you notice the two of you matching. He wore a maroon-red silk suit, a black undershirt, and dress shoes. “We totally look like a couple,” you say without thinking as you gesture to his outfit.
His cheeks redden, his smile bigger.
Your eyes widen as you realize what you said, “I didn’t mean-”
He laughs, “We make a good couple then.”
Your cheeks redden, he turns and opens the passenger door. “We should go; I don’t need any fans seeing me with such an exceptional woman.”
“Flatterer,” you murmur, sliding into the passenger seat. Through the window, you catch the shape of his smile as he circles the car. Your heart trips over itself, almost annoyed at how easily he unsettles you in the best way possible.
He slips into the driver’s seat, and you face him as you buckle yourself into his car. “Where are we going?”
He laughs softly, “This is giving me deja vu.” He starts the car, “I made reservations at Bicena.”
You stare at him with wide eyes, “Bicena? Chris, that place is expensive.”
He glances over at you as he begins to drive. “You’ve been?”
“It’s expensive, of course, I haven’t been there.”
He furrows his eyebrows, “Your dad talked about it quite a bit when he went a while back.”
“I didn’t go with him.” You stare out the window, pulse quickening at the thought of what tonight might cost—not just in money, but in what you might risk by letting yourself enjoy it. The idea of accepting something this extravagant, letting Chan spoil you, feels both exhilarating and unsettling. You wonder if taking this step will mean risking your guarded heart, letting him see the softer parts of you that long for love and celebration.
Blinker on, he glances over at you, a proud smile on his face. "Well, this isn't simple. It's a date, and it’s Lunar New Year's, and an early celebration of your graduation from university." He glances at you again, pride evident in his features. "You deserve to celebrate properly."
You roll your eyes, glancing at him. Though your annoyance is clearly fake with the small grin plastered on your lips, “Now you’re just trying to find reasons to convince me to go.”
He shrugs, “Maybe, but we’re still going no matter what.”
He reaches for your hand, squeezing it three times—steady, certain. You realize, quietly, that this is going to be a long road.
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Chan’s hand found yours as you stepped into the restaurant, unhurried, unhidden. He moved through the room as himself, not shielding you from curious eyes. The openness unsettled you, but there was beauty in it, too.
The host, a younger man, shows you to your private table, away from others’ dining. Chan pulls your chair out for you and helps you in before sitting across from you.
“I don’t even know how these places work,” you laugh lightly, a little embarrassed.
Chan smiles at you, “It’s okay, I don’t really enjoy these kinds of places much. Too much happening.”
“Why’d you pick it then?”
He looks at you, gaze softening. “You deserve it.”
You looked at him, words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, unable to move.
He turns his gaze to the menu, “Do you like red wine?” He glances up, and you have to force yourself to nod.
The waiter comes to the table with a smile on his face, a cart being pulled behind him, full of the welcome starters, and says, “Welcome to Bicena, I’ll be your server for this evening. Can I get you guys started on any of our alcohol selection?”
The two of you smile at the waiter. Chan nods, “We’re interested in the...”
You watched him speak to the waiter, the world fading to a hush. The way red suited him, the line of his jaw, the quiet confidence in his voice—it felt unreal, as if someone had carved him from memory and longing.
The waiter leaves, and Chan looks at you. You blink, eyes dropping to your lap. A quiet sigh escapes, a smile tugging at your lips before you can stop it.
“What?” Chan asks with a smile on his own face, yours having caused his.
You shake your head, “I don’t know if I like you or the places you take me.”
He laughs softly, “You mean the little restaurant owned by an older woman who reminds me of my mother, and then this place with way too many fork options?” He shakes his head, “You like me...when did that happen?”
“I liked that little restaurant.” You laugh a little. “I think when you showed up, and you didn’t cancel on me.”
He hums, “It’s what I do best, showing up for the people I care about.”
You nod, “You do. No hesitation, no fear.”
He tilts his head, “Why should I be scared to care about you?”
You swallow softly, “It’s not just that. It’s all of this. The dinners, you picking up the bill, driving me around. You’re investing a lot in me.”
He looks around, the warm lighting making his dark eyes gleam. “I just want our dates to be romantic.”
“How expensive or cheap a meal is makes the date romantic?”
“Doesn’t it?”
You furrow your eyebrows, looking at him.
“When we first met,” he starts, hands folded in his lap. “You’d asked if knowing that your dad was my boss would make a difference. Does it?” He asks you gently.
“Does it what?”
“Does it make a difference that your dad is my boss?”
You lick your lips, shrugging a little. “I don’t know. Does it?”
He stares at you, you stare back. Your hands are in your lap as you lean against the back of your chair. “I won’t lie, I’ve been a little,” you pause, trying to find the right word. “On edge, skeptical since you’ve come into my life.”
Chan’s heart drops to his stomach, but it doesn’t show. He just tilts his head and asks why.
“You came into my life out of nowhere. We met at my dad's birthday party, and then the next day you’re texting me.”
He nods, heart thumping in his chest. “So why does that make you skeptical?”
“Because you work for my dad, maybe you need something from him.” You purse your lips a little before looking down and laughing a little. “It sounds paranoid, I know. I just... I've seen people try to get close before, all friendly smiles and borrowed affection, and it always ends with them needing something only my dad could give.”
If his heart didn’t already feel like it was in his stomach, it might as well have been ripped from his chest. Things were adding up for him, your words only further proving that when you found out about all of this, you’d be a wreck. He could almost feel the space widening between what he wanted to tell you and what he was allowed to say. As you spoke, a single phrase echoed in his mind—the reason he’d first reached out, the promise that still pressed at the edges of every moment with you. He wondered if you would ever forgive the one thing about your story that he had never made his own choice in. That secret pulsed quietly inside him, desperate for daylight, even as he forced himself to stay silent.
You continue softly,”Once, when I was fourteen, a girl in my class suddenly wanted to be my best friend. She showed up at my place every weekend, joined all our family dinners, always talking about how lucky I was. I thought she really wanted to get to know me, but then I found out she’d been asking my dad for backstage passes and introductions to the artists he worked with. He thought I was going with her to these things, that’s why he did it so willingly.”
“After that, the texts stopped. There was another time, not that long after I came to live with my dad, when a caretaker at the orphanage started calling my dad all the time, giving him advice on how to be a good parent, all in hopes that he’d make it in the industry if he was helpful to my dad.”
Chan listened silently. His eyes never wandered; they were solely on you.
“I started to feel like an opportunity instead of a person. Sometimes I wonder if I built this wall so high because I had to, or if I’m just scared of being fooled again.” The low murmur of the restaurant swells around you, the faint clink of glasses and the distant laughter making me feel alone even across this candlelit table.
“It's hard to believe someone wants me for myself, not because of who adopted me, or the doors only I can help open.” The table is cool beneath your palms, and through the window, the city glows in blurred halos. My chest aches, tight with memories, and the taste of longing is bitter at the back of my throat.
Chan looks at you, he stares, taking you and all your beauty in, worried this might be the end. He’s already thinking of what he’d tell your dad, already calculating how many hours he’d work extra just to keep his mind off of you. He watches as you lean forward, elbows resting on the table.
“But then you took me out on our first date. You took me somewhere meaningful to you and asked me questions about myself like you were genuinely interested.”
“I am.” He says quickly.
“I know.” You say just as fast.
Silence fills the space between you. The waiter comes back with the opened wine, pouring it into the wine glasses that were set on the table when the two of you’d arrived. He places the specials on the table, briefly explaining the items, sensing the shift in tone, and quickly walks away.
Chan looks at you, “So are you still nervous? Skeptical?”
“Yeah,” your voice is soft, heart pounding in your chest.
“Why?”
“Because you could do so much better than me.”
He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Can I?”
You raise your eyebrows now, a silent ‘are you kidding me’ look. “Chris, you know you can. In the world we live in, there are hundreds of women and men fawning over you, publicly and privately. If they don’t know you, then there are people out there praying to meet a man like you. You’re like a unicorn.”
He lets out a laugh before he can stop it, “A unicorn?”
You nod, “You are an impossible fantasy. All of the boys in your group are unicorns. The reason why so many people can’t lower their expectations is that, against all odds, no matter how shocking it is, men like you do exist.”
Chan looks down, “I’m sure there's something wrong with me.”
You shake your head softly, a small smile on your face. “You’re perfect.”
Chan looks at you as you continue, “You’re smart, you have ideal income, the dream job, ideal lifestyle.” You look at him, eyes softened. “You’re good-looking, you have a great body, you’re charming, and kind. But it's more than that. You care deeply about people, you notice the little things, and you make everyone around you feel understood. You’re resilient, too, even when things get tough. You have empathy for people most would overlook, and I admire how you never turn away from someone who needs help.”
“Maybe I’m just a good person,” he says softly.
You hum, nodding. “Maybe, but you can take a girl to any place, fancy or not, and not even blink when the bill is handed to you. You don’t have a drug habit, alcohol addiction, or sleep with random women when you’re bored.” You look at his outfit, “You even know how to dress.” You shake your head, “You have taste. You are a 10/10. A complete package.”
Chan watched you, eyes gentle, a faint line between his brows.
“So, I don’t know why you’re trying to throw it all away on someone like me.”
That hurt him more than he’d like to admit. Because not only is it not true, but he can’t admit that he wants you deeper than the deal ran through. Chan shakes his head, scoffing a little. “And what’s someone like you?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. I’m younger than the woman you could be dating, which means we’re on two completely different paths of life right now. The things I’ve yet to experience, you probably have gone through twice. I’m still in college, barely even starting my career. And as much as I would love to be a mom, I’m not ready for kids.”
“You think I am?” he laughs softly, trying to lighten the mood.
You shake your head. "I was born poor, raised in an orphanage until I was eight, until this man with money and a dream to be a father walked in and chose me. Even with an amazing dad, I’m terrified he’ll wake up one day and realize he made a mistake." Your hands twist under the table, knuckles white, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Heat rushes to your cheeks, shame prickling along your skin, your heart squeezing the air out of you.
You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because something inside you is cracking and you need to keep the pieces together. "I have nothing to offer you."
“Does it look like I need you to offer me something?” Chan’s words come out a bit condescending, more than he’d like to admit.
“It doesn’t make sense. I’m not the girl you’d spend the rest of your life with, and I’m definitely not who your fans would expect you to be with. So what are you doing with me?”
Chan stares at you for a moment before shaking his head. “You say you think I’m smart, but you’re talking to me like I’m a caveman. I wouldn’t date you or take you on dates if I didn’t see the value in you. I’m not like other idols or millionaires you may know or have met. I’m not looking for the prettiest rich girl who likes me back.”
You swallow thickly as he continues, “I don’t want to date you because of who your father is, or for your material assets, though I do think you’re underselling them by a significant margin. Material Assets are cheap.” his eyes soften as he looks at you. He leans forward, his arms on the table.
“They don’t last. I want to be with you for your intangible assets. What motivates you, what keeps you going. Those are good investments. They don’t degrade, they get sharper. Besides, I have enough material assets for both of us.” He tilts his head, eyes flickering to your lips, then your eyes. “As for what I can do for you, I think I might be the only celebrity you can stand.”
You smile softly, shaking your head. “I don’t like you because you’re Bang Chan of Stray Kids.”
“Then why do you like me?”
You rest your chin on the palm of your hand, “Because you make me feel valuable.”
“You are valuable,” he says softly. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Your eyes soften, a little shocked by how much he sees of you. He reaches over and grabs your free hand, kissing it softly. Your heart quickens at the feeling of his lips on your hand. He looks up at you, “And I will continue to think you are until you believe it yourself.”
A smile slips past your teeth, “Just until then?”
He laughs, “Long after that. I will always see you, Y/N.”
୨୧ ───────────────── ୨୧
Dinner stretched on, hours slipping by unnoticed as you talked about nothing and everything. Each time your eyes met across the table, something fluttered in your chest—strange, a little frightening, but you let it stay.
After dinner, Chan recommended driving to N Seoul Tower to watch the Lunar fireworks, and you agreed.
He took your hand as you walked toward the tower, and when your shoes faltered, he carried you on his back, laughter echoing between you. By the time you reached the top, he feigned exhaustion, collapsing against you, and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“Chris, don’t even-” before you can finish your sentence, he leans all his weight on you.
“I’m passed out, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum at his response, about to respond when a firework goes off. You both jump a little and look in the direction it came. You look at Chan, and then the tower doors.
“Come on,” you don’t wait for him as you walk to the tower doors. You reach the top before Chan does.
At the top, he paused in the doorway, watching you watch the fireworks. Light caught in your hair, and for a moment, everything else faded. The old anxiety slipped away, replaced by something heavier, sweeter. He realized how much he wanted this—wanted you—every midnight, every quiet moment. The wanting was terrifying, but he let it settle inside him.
Unaware of his gaze, you pressed your hands to the glass, breath fogging softly in the chilly air, letting bursts of color wash over you. The city lights felt far below, the night intimate and aching. For the first time, your chest didn’t feel so tight. Each firework blooming in the sky echoed the sharp, bright rush swelling in your heart. It scared you, how much you hoped for this to last, but it felt good to let yourself want something so openly—with him standing right there, caught in all that golden light.
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