Hwang In-Chan x male!reader fluff
m!reader, mlm, hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic in-chan, post-show, established M/M relationship
Not in the unnerving way—the kind that used to make his chest tighten when he walked through the old duplex late at night, hearing only the buzz of fluorescent lights and Seung-joo’s quiet humming behind closed doors. This silence is softer. Warmer. It smells faintly of herbal tea and acrylic paint, and it settles over the space like a favorite blanket.
You find him in the back room—not in his white coat this time, but in that oversized oatmeal sweater you like. The sleeves swallow his hands, as always, and the fabric is streaked in faded flecks of ochre and blue. The window is cracked open, letting in the mountain air. His easel stands beside him, canvas still damp, half-finished with gentle brushstrokes in muted earth tones.
He doesn’t hear you at first. He’s focused on rinsing his brushes, brow furrowed in that precise, delicate way of his—like one wrong movement might unravel the whole mood.
You lean against the doorframe, watching for a moment. “You’re getting paint on your sweater.”
He turns, startled just slightly, then exhales a soft smile when he sees you. “I thought you were a patient.”
“I am your most recurring case.”
He snorts. “You’re the one case I never want to discharge.”
You cross the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He’s warm. Always is, even with the faint chill that clings to the clinic this time of year. He leans into you naturally—head tilting until it rests against yours, like your body is home and he knows exactly where to fit.
“Was today okay?” you ask, voice low, your fingers slipping beneath his sweater hem to press against bare skin.
“Better,” he says. “There was a kid this morning. Told me she’s not afraid to sleep with the lights off anymore.”
You smile against the slope of his neck. “That’s because her therapist is ridiculously good at his job.”
He hums, quiet and unsure, the way he always does when praised. You can feel the tension that lingers just below the surface—like he still isn’t used to being seen as something good.
You kiss the soft skin behind his ear, and his breath catches slightly.
“She asked if I lived alone,” he murmurs.
You pause. “And what did you say?”
He shifts in your arms, turning to face you fully. His cheeks are flushed—either from the heater or the way you’re looking at him. His voice is soft, tentative. “I said no.”
“I said I live with my partner,” he adds, “who makes terrible coffee but is annoyingly good at folding my laundry.”
“I almost choked saying it,” he mutters, and you laugh, nudging your nose against his. He smiles—really smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners—and something in your chest warms.
He looks like someone who’s still learning how to hold joy without feeling guilty for it.
You kiss him. Not deep. Just a gentle press of your lips to his, quiet and certain. And when you pull back, he doesn’t speak. He just rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, like your presence alone is enough.
The sun’s starting to dip outside, casting long shadows across the floor. His half-finished painting catches the light, and you notice now what he’s been working on: a quiet street, a clinic sign in Hangul, two coffee mugs left on the windowsill.
The clinic is shut down for the day—no more patients, no more schedules. Just the soft hum of the heater, the drip of water outside, and the way dusk folds over everything like a memory.
In-chan is curled up on the couch in the front room, legs tucked beneath him. He’s changed into that old navy cardigan you keep threatening to throw out, the one with frayed cuffs and loose threads he always fiddles with when he’s deep in thought. His glasses rest on the coffee table. His eyes are far away.
You settle beside him, wordless. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just stares at the floor, fingers laced tight.
“She was my only real friend, you know,” he says suddenly, voice low.
You stay still, letting him lead.
“Seung-joo,” he clarifies. “We met our first year of college. She hated everything—said the professors were outdated, that the curriculum lacked imagination. I liked that about her. She was always angry in the right ways.”
You nod gently. “You’ve told me she helped you get through med school.”
“She did more than that,” he says. His throat works around the words. “She was the first person I told I was gay. I was terrified. My parents… you know. But Seung-joo didn’t even blink. Just handed me a piece of chocolate and said, ‘Well, I hope your boyfriend is smarter than you.’”
You smile faintly. “Sounds like her.”
“She never told anyone. Not even when people assumed we were dating. Not even when my mom started talking about weddings.” His voice falters. “She just… protected me. Always.”
You gently reach over, slipping your hand into his. He grips it tightly.
“I made that puzzle for her,” he whispers. “The one they found pieces of at the crime scenes. It wasn’t meant to be… that. It was just a gift. She said she wanted a metaphor for the mind—something impossible to fully solve. I didn’t know she’d—”
His voice cuts off in a ragged breath. He’s not crying, not fully. Just breathing like it hurts.
“I keep thinking… if I’d said something. If I’d noticed. If I’d just paid attention. She was my anchor. My person.”
You move closer, pressing your forehead to his temple.
“She still loved you,” you say softly. “Even if she lost herself. That doesn’t erase what she was to you.”
“I keep seeing her,” he murmurs. “Making tea. Calling me lazy. Laughing at my playlists. I don’t know how to let that version of her go.”
“You don’t have to,” you whisper. “She was real, too.”
When he finally looks at you, his eyes are raw—glasslike, rimmed red. But steady. His voice is hoarse, like it’s carrying every unsaid thing. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’ll never have to find out.”
Not desperate—just slow. Soft. A little wet from grief but full of something honest. It tastes like trust, like relief, like coming up for air after holding your breath too long.
He pulls back, breath brushing your cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers.
You brush your thumb along his jaw and kiss him again—deeper this time, grounding. Your hand slips around his waist as you pull him into your chest. He leans in fully now, letting the weight of everything melt into your arms.
You stay like that for a while. Quiet. Close.
Just two people who found each other in the wreckage—and chose to stay.
gulp, first time writing mlm, and fluff, I HOPR U LIKE IT @joonok
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