Summary: Hyunjin really wants to go to the new butterfly conservatory that opened up, but all his members can't (or don't want) to go.
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The dorm was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional shuffle of feet from the hallway. Golden afternoon light spilled through the half-open blinds, painting stripes across the living room floor where Hyunjin sat curled on the couch, knees drawn to his chest.
His phone screen glowed in his hands, illuminating the promotional page for the newly opened Seoul Sky Butterfly Conservatory. A slow-motion video looped—vibrant blue wings unfolding in the sunlight, delicate and breathtaking. His thumb hovered over the "Buy Tickets" button.
Just one.
He exhaled, then opened the group chat.
Hyunjin stared at the message, the blue light of his phone casting sharp shadows across his face. Next week. The words glared back at him, sterile and unyielding. Chan always said next week—like it was a promise, not an evasion. But the weeks would bleed into months, and the butterflies wouldn’t wait forever.
He locked his phone with a sharp click and tossed it onto the couch cushion beside him, where it landed soundlessly in the plush fabric. Leaning back, he dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as if he could force the frustration out with his breath. Across the room, his laptop screen still glowed softly, the conservatory’s homepage frozen in time—a vibrant splash of emerald greens and iridescent blues, butterflies suspended mid-flight as if trapped behind the glass of his screen. The caption beneath them taunted him: Limited Engagement. Ends Soon.
A door creaked open down the hall, followed by the muffled shuffle of socked feet against hardwood.
Changbin wandered into the living room, his dark hair mussed from sleep, one side of his face still faintly lined from his pillow. He blinked against the dim light, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm before zeroing in on Hyunjin’s slumped form. His brow arched. “What’s wrong with you?”
Hyunjin shrugged, his fingers tracing the frayed edge of the couch cushion. The fabric was worn soft from years of use, threads loosening like the fraying edges of his patience. “Nothing.”
Changbin snorted, padding toward the kitchen. The fridge door opened with a quiet hum, the cool light spilling across the floor as he grabbed a water bottle. Condensation dripped onto his fingers as he twisted the cap off. “Yeah, sure. You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Hyunjin didn’t answer. Instead, he picked harder at the thread, unraveling it further.
Changbin hesitated, watching him for a beat before sighing. He took a long swig of water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fine. Spill.”
“It’s stupid,” Hyunjin muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Obviously.”
Hyunjin shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual fire. Changbin’s smirk only widened, unrepentant.
“There’s a new butterfly exhibit,” Hyunjin admitted finally, gesturing vaguely toward his laptop. “I wanted to go, but…” His gaze flicked to his phone, silent and dark on the cushion.
Changbin followed his line of sight, then let out a quiet, understanding noise. “Ah.” He took another sip, considering. “Well, I’d go, but…” He shuddered dramatically. “Bugs.”
Hyunjin groaned, flopping backward onto the couch with enough force to make the springs creak. “They’re not bugs—”
“They are,” Changbin insisted, pointing the water bottle at him. “Pretty bugs. But still bugs.”
Hyunjin threw an arm over his face, blocking out the dim glow of the lamplight. “Forget it.”
Changbin studied him for a long moment, his playful demeanor softening. He tapped his fingers against the bottle, the sound hollow and rhythmic. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Ask noona.”
Hyunjin peeked out from under his arm. “What?”
“She likes nature stuff,” Changbin said, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. “Remember when she dragged Chan-hyung to that botanical garden last month?”
Hyunjin blinked. A vague memory surfaced—a blurry Instagram post, manager-noona grinning in front of a cascading wall of orchids, Chan beside her, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but smiling anyway.
“She’s busy,” Hyunjin said automatically, even as the idea took root, curling like a vine around his ribs.
Changbin smirked. “So? Ask anyway.”
Hyunjin hesitated, then reached for his phone again, the screen lighting up beneath his fingertips. The group chat was still open, Chan’s last message sitting there, unanswered.
No new notifications.
His thumb hovered over his phone, uncertainty knotting in his chest.
He swallowed, then opened a new chat.
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You’re halfway through buttoning your blouse when the doorbell rings.
Early.
A small, knowing smile tugs at your lips as you finish adjusting your collar—the nice one with the delicate floral stitching that Hyunjin had complimented once, months ago. Of course he’d remember.
When you open the door, Hyunjin stands there looking unfairly polished for someone who’d probably spent an hour agonizing over his outfit. One hand is shoved deep in the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other clutching a takeout cup of iced coffee—your usual order, extra ice, no sweetener, the condensation already dripping down the sides like he’d been gripping it too tightly the whole way over.
His eyes dart over your blouse, then snap back up, wide and almost... hopeful.
"You’re ready," he says, voice tinged with surprise, as if he’d braced himself for disappointment.
The realization makes your chest tighten.
"And you’re early," you counter gently, taking the coffee from him. Your fingers brush against his—cold from holding the cup too long. "Couldn’t wait, huh?"
Hyunjin ducks his head, the tips of his ears turning pink. "I just... didn’t want to be late."
Liar.
You recognize the telltale signs—the restless energy thrumming under his skin, the way he’d clearly rehearsed this moment in his head a dozen times. It’s the same look he gets before a performance, equal parts excitement and fear of messing up.
You let him stew for only a second before grabbing your bag and stepping out, locking the door behind you. "Well?" You nod toward the elevator, feigning exasperation. "Aren’t you going to escort me properly?"
Hyunjin blinks, then—with a theatrical flourish—offers his arm like some princely character from a historical drama.
You can’t help but laugh, but you loop your hand through his elbow anyway, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. "Such a drama king," you tease, but there’s no bite to it.
"You literally told me to ‘act like it,’" he mutters, but there’s a lightness in his voice now as he leads you toward the elevator.
The drive is easy, the city unfolding around you in a blur of spring blossoms and sunlight. Hyunjin’s playlist hums softly through the speakers—a mix of mellow R&B and, endearingly, the occasional anime OST.
"Oh my god," you deadpan as a particularly dramatic battle theme swells. "Do I even want to know?"
Hyunjin groans, but there’s no real embarrassment in it. "It’s good, okay? The composer is—"
You let him ramble, watching the way his hands flex on the steering wheel, the way he keeps sneaking glances at you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
"Relax," you say softly, rolling down the window to let the breeze in. The scent of fresh rain and blooming magnolias fills the car. "I want to be here."
Hyunjin’s grip on the wheel loosens. "...Yeah?"
"Yeah." You reach over and flick his shoulder lightly. "Now stop trying to kill us with your nervous driving. I didn’t survive eight years of managing Stray Kids just to die because you forgot how to use a turn signal."
Hyunjin laughs—bright and startled, like he hadn’t expected to—and just like that, the tension shatters.
The rest of the ride is filled with his real voice—the one he uses when he forgets to perform, when he’s just Hyunjin, excitedly explaining butterfly migration patterns and the conservatory’s glass architecture like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
You listen, sipping your coffee, and think: This. This is why you do it.
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The moment you step through the glass doors of the butterfly conservatory, the world shifts.
The air inside the conservatory is thick with warmth and the faint, sweet scent of nectar. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling, catching on the delicate wings that float around you like living confetti. Hyunjin stands frozen for just a moment in the doorway, his usual sharp edges softened by wonder. Then, as if unable to contain it, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers trembling—not with nerves this time, but with excitement barely held in check.
"Noona, look—"
He pulls you toward a sun-drenched corner where a cluster of monarchs rest on vibrant purple flowers, their wings opening and closing in slow, rhythmic pulses. Hyunjin crouches low, tugging you down with him, his voice dropping to a hushed, reverent whisper as he points out the iridescent blue morphos flitting between the branches.
"Their wings aren’t even blue," he murmurs, eyes wide. "It’s just light bending—like a prism. Isn’t that insane?"
You nod, watching him more than the butterflies—the way his lips part in awe, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t dare. Then, without warning, a bold swallowtail drifts down and lands right on his shoulder.
Hyunjin stops breathing.
Every muscle in his body locks, his eyes darting to you in silent panic.
"Don’t move," you say, biting back a laugh.
He obeys, but the effect is almost comical—his entire body rigid, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from flinching.
"Is it—" His voice cracks. "Does it look—?"
You take him in—the way the sunlight catches in his hair, the way his lashes flutter as he tries to glance sideways without startling the creature perched on him.
"Gorgeous," you say, and you mean it. You take out your phone, snapping a quick photo.
Hyunjin flushes, but he doesn’t argue. Just smiles, small and real, as the butterfly flexes its wings once before lifting away, leaving him breathless and grinning.
For the next hour, you let him lead you through the winding paths of the greenhouse like a man possessed. He points out every flicker of movement, every hidden chrysalis tucked beneath leaves, his voice rising and falling with the same animated passion he usually reserves for his art. When he films the same butterfly taking off for the seventeenth time—"The lighting is perfect here, just—hold my coffee, quick—"—you take his drink without complaint, steadying him as he adjusts his phone angle with the precision of a director framing a shot.
When he launches into an explanation about how butterflies taste with their feet, you gasp in exaggerated horror, "Disgusting. Tell me more", to watch his face light up with laughter.
And when he lingers too long at the gift shop, agonizing over two nearly identical enamel butterfly pins, you pretend not to notice the way his fingers hover between them, his brow furrowed in quiet debate. You pretend not to notice when he buys both. And you pretend not to see later, when his hand slips into your bag for half a second, quick and furtive, leaving something small behind.
That evening, when you unpack your things, you find it wrapped carefully in a napkin, his messy handwriting scrawled across the corner: "For your blazer. -HJ"
The pin will stay fastened to your work bag for years.
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Shorter one, im sorry! I just finished my finals and passed, so ill have more time to post!
A/N: This fic really reminded me of "Ho Hey" by The Lumineers, so maybe listen to that when you're reading?
Pairing: Bang Chan x gender-neutral model Reader!
Summary: Chan misses his home, specifically a particular ice cream shop. Utterly smitten with him, you make his favourite ice cream from childhood.
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The first time you noticed, it wasn't really the first time at all.
It was the third Sunday of that month that you'd found Chan sitting by the dorm's large window, staring at something on his phone with that particular softness around his eyes - the one that made him look seventeen again. When you peered over his shoulder, it was just a Google Street View of some unremarkable Sydney intersection, the camera frozen mid-pan past a shuttered storefront with faded blue awnings.
"You'd think after eight years I'd stop checking," he'd laughed, but his thumb kept swiping, zooming in on the cracked pavement where two yellowed stickers still clung to the sidewalk - childhood graffiti from some long-gone neighborhood kids.
That night, when he thought you were asleep, you felt his fingers tracing slow circles on your back. "They used to play Crowded House over the speakers every Sunday afternoon," he whispered into the dark. "The owner, Marco - he'd let me scoop for tips when business was slow." His voice cracked on the last word, and you pretended not to notice when he wiped his face against the pillowcase.
The investigation became your secret obsession.
You started with the obvious: the address from Street View, which led to a property management company, and ultimately to a dead end. The shop had been replaced by a juice bar that lasted eleven months before folding. The trail went cold until you found an old food blogger's review from 2012 that mentioned "Marco's legendary honeycomb gelato" and — crucially — his daughter's bakery in Newtown.
The daughter remembered Chan immediately. "Chris Bahng? Oh my god," she laughed through the pixelated Skype call, her Australian accent thick as honey. "Dad used to call him his 'little shadow' who followed him around asking a million questions about the gelato machine." Her smile faded when you explained why you were calling. "The recipe... God, I haven't thought about that in years. Dad's in a nursing home now. Dementia's been bad this winter."
It took three more trips to Sydney than you'd budgeted for. Your excuses were modelling and photoshoots whenever Chan asked. Afternoons were spent sitting in Marco's sun-drenched room at the aged care facility, patiently listening to the same stories about his grandmother's village in Sicily on loop. The breakthrough came during his "good hour" one Tuesday morning, when his clouded eyes suddenly sharpened and he grabbed your wrist with surprising strength.
"You tell Chris," he wheezed, "the salt goes in after the second churn. And for God's sake, don't skimp on the vanilla — real Madagascar beans, none of that extract shit." His hands trembled as he scribbled ratios in the margins of a crossword book. "Kid always ate it too fast. Gave him brain freeze every damn time."
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The spoon trembles in Chan's grip, the metal catching the dim kitchen light as it hovers above the golden swirls of ice cream studded with dark amber chunks of honeycomb. For a moment, the entire world narrows to this single point - the way the dessert glistens slightly under his breath, how a single droplet already clings to the edge of the spoon, threatening to fall. His throat works visibly as he swallows nothing at all, his lips parting then closing again without sound.
"This is—"
The words fracture halfway through, crumbling like the honeycomb you watched Marco crush between his wrinkled palms during your last trip to Sydney. When he finally takes that first bite, it's with the reverence of someone receiving communion, his eyelids fluttering shut as the flavor hits his tongue. You see the exact moment it registers - a microscopic twitch at the corner of his right eye, the way his breath hitches so sharply it almost sounds painful. His free hand flies up to cover his mouth, fingers pressing hard against his lips as if he could physically push the emotion back inside.
You know this expression intimately. You've memorized every variation of it - backstage after Tokyo Dome when the weight of encore performances turned his limbs to lead, in green rooms when he thought no cameras were rolling as he massaged his aching wrists, those rare mornings when he'd wake from dreams of Sydney Harbor and blink up at the ceiling for minutes before remembering where he was. It's the face he makes when he's one breath away from coming undone but still believes he needs to hold himself together for everyone else.
"Hey." Your voice comes out softer than intended, barely more than an exhale as you reach for him. But he's already moving, already collapsing into you with the force of a building demolition, his face burying itself in the curve where your neck meets shoulder. The spoon clatters to the counter, forgotten, as his arms lock around your waist with enough pressure to bruise. You feel the first damp heat against your skin before the shaking even starts - once, twice - then his entire body convulses with a wet, broken laugh that isn't really a laugh at all.
"You're insane." The words scrape against your collarbone, raw and shattered. "You're actually insane. Who does this? Who—" His voice cracks open on the last syllable, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't anchor himself.
Your hand finds its way into his curls without conscious thought, nails scraping gently against his scalp the way he likes best. "Someone who loves you," you murmur into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with something uniquely Chan - sweat and faint citrus and the lingering traces of studio coffee.
The effect is instantaneous. His entire body stills, every muscle freezing as if you've flipped some hidden switch. For three terrifying heartbeats you wonder if you've overstepped, if this was too much, too soon—
Then he exhales like a drowning man breaking surface, his grip tightening to the point of pain. "I haven't tasted this since I was sixteen," he whispers, the words damp against your skin, "how did you?.." The confession feels sacred in its simplicity, weighted with years of unspoken longing. You can almost see it - a younger Chan with sun-bleached tips in his hair, soccer shorts riding up his thighs, laughing as Marco scolded him for eating straight from the tub.
"Stalker tendencies," you deadpan, because if you don't joke right now you might start crying too, and that would ruin everything.
The sound he makes is half-snort, half-sob, his shoulders shaking as he pulls back just far enough to look at you. In the yellow kitchen light, his tears catch the glow like liquid gold, tracking slow paths down cheeks that still bear the faint indentations from where he'd been pressing his teeth together to keep quiet. His smile wobbles precariously, the corners of his lips twitching upward only to fall again. "I don't deserve you," he breathes, and it's not fishing for reassurance - it's stated as simple fact, with the same certainty as announcing the sky is blue.
You press the abandoned spoon back into his hand, curling his fingers around it with deliberate care. "Too bad," you say, leaning in to kiss the salt from his cheeks. "You're stuck with me."
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The empty tub sits abandoned on the counter, its sides streaked with melted remnants and spoon marks. Around it, chaos erupts as Jeongin licks honeycomb crumbs from his fingertips with exaggerated moans while Hyunjin dramatically clutches his chest, declaring he's "tasted heaven and can never return to mortal desserts."
"Yah! That was mine!" Chan's protest rings half-hearted even to his own ears as Felix shamelessly scrapes the last caramelized strands from the container with two fingers. The Australian's eyes widen comically as he pops them in his mouth, letting out a noise so obscene Seungmin throws a dish towel at his head.
"Disgusting," Seungmin mutters, though he's still licking his own spoon clean.
Changbin elbows past them all, brandishing his phone. "I'm looking up flights to Sydney right now. Do they sell this at the airport? Do they—"
"You'll never find it," Chan says softly, and something in his tone makes them all pause. The members exchange glances - that silent communication they've perfected over years together - before Minho jerks his head toward the living room.
"Alright, children," he announces, herding them away with the efficiency of a sheepdog. "Let's go ruin Jisung's high score before he starts bragging again."
The kitchen falls quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator. Chan's hands find your waist with practiced ease, his thumbs tracing absent circles through the fabric of your shirt. When he rests his forehead against yours, his breath comes uneven, still sweet with honeycomb.
"You know," he murmurs, the words barely audible, "when my parents put me on that plane to Seoul... I packed everything I thought I'd need." His fingers tighten slightly. "My lucky soccer jersey. My favorite CDs. That stupid kangaroo keychain my little sister gave me." A shaky exhale ghosts across your lips. "I didn't realize I'd left the most important part behind."
Your throat constricts around the sudden ache. Outside, Jisung's indignant shriek ("CHEATER!") pierces through the dorm walls, followed by the thunder of 7 grown men wrestling over a game controller.
"You belong right here," you whisper, pressing closer until your heartbeat thuds against his chest. "With your members. With your music." Your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders. "With me."
Chan's breath catches. For a suspended moment, the world holds still - the raucous laughter from the next room fading to white noise, the refrigerator's hum disappearing into silence. Then his lips find yours with the certainty of a compass finding north, tasting of caramelized sugar and something infinitely sweeter.
From the doorway, a chorus of exaggerated gagging sounds erupts.
"Hyung! We have eyes!" Jeongin wails.
Chan doesn't even pull away. Just flips them off with one hand while the other anchors you tighter against him.
"Get your own soulmate," he mumbles against your mouth, and the resulting uproar shakes the walls.
(Later, when the chaos has died down and the members have scattered to their rooms, you'll find the empty tub carefully washed and placed in Chan's prized memorabilia cabinet - right between his first production award and a faded photo of Sydney Harbor. And when you catch him running reverent fingers over its edges the next morning, you'll know - without a single word spoken - that this is the most precious gift you could have ever given him.)
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Ahhh.. I made another Chan fic.. I swear I'll write about other members!!
Hope you enjoyed, I really like writing reverse comfort and taking care of the people I write about.
A/N: Im so so sorry for the long and unexpected hiatus! I hope you'll forgive me, life got in the way.
Pairing: Jeongin x Noona! Reader
Summary: When a vocal coach repeatedly undermines Jeongin's vocals, dismissing his ideas, calling him "just a kid," Manager Noona notices. But instead of stepping in immediately, she teaches Jeongin to stand up for himself, leading to a powerful moment where the maknae finally finds his voice.
Words: 3.0k
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The practice room is nearly empty, save for a few stray water bottles and the low hum of a vending machine in the hallway. The clock on the wall blinks 11:47 PM in tired red digits. Jeongin sits cross-legged in front of the upright piano, a battered lyric sheet balanced on his knee, headphones askew. His lips move silently, tracing the shape of high notes he’s determined to master before tomorrow’s vocal check.
You pause in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, a paper cup of convenience store coffee warming your hands. You know you should be home, or at least pretending to sleep in the manager’s lounge. But Jeongin is here, so you are too.
The new vocal coach—Mr. Yoon, all starched shirts and smugness, leans against the mirrored wall, scrolling through his phone. He hasn’t looked up in ten minutes. Jeongin clears his throat, tentative. “Um, Coach? Can I try the bridge again? I think I figured out the—”
Mr. Yoon sighs, not bothering to mask his impatience. “Why bother?” he drawls, eyes still glued to his screen. “Seungmin can just cover your parts. He’s got the range. Don’t stress yourself, kid.”
Jeongin’s mouth snaps shut. For a second, he just sits there, blinking, as if the words haven’t quite landed. Then his shoulders curl in, chin tucked down—a turtle retreating into its shell. You see the way his fingers twist in his hoodie sleeve, knuckles whitening.
Mr. Yoon isn’t finished. “Honestly, you should focus on dancing. Leave the high notes to the main vocals. That’s what the team needs, right?”
The silence that follows is thick and ugly. Jeongin’s eyes are fixed on the lyric sheet, but you can see the shimmer at their corners. He swallows hard and tries to shrink himself.
You step fully into the room, your footsteps echoing on the linoleum. The coach glances up, startled, then offers a half-hearted nod. “Manager-nim. Just giving some advice.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak yet. Instead, you set your coffee on the piano, the cup making a soft thud. Your grip is tight enough that the cardboard creaks.
Jeongin glances up at you, hope flickering and then dimming just as quickly. You force a smile, gentle, and brush a stray hair from his forehead. “You’re still here, Jeongin-ah?” Your voice is soft, but there’s steel beneath it.
He nods, voice barely above a whisper. “Just wanted to get it right.”
You crouch beside him, ignoring the coach entirely. “You always do,” you say quietly, just for him. “And you will. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Mr. Yoon clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I was just saying—”
You stand, turning to face him, your expression polite but unyielding. “Thank you, Coach Yoon. I’ll take it from here.”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, gathering his things. As he leaves, he tosses a final glance at Jeongin, eyebrows raised in a silent, mocking question.
The door clicks shut. The room is quiet again, save for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
You sit beside Jeongin, letting the silence settle. He wipes his eyes quickly, pretending he’s just tired. You don’t call him out. Instead, you nudge his lyric sheet closer. “Want to try the bridge again? Just us this time.”
He nods, and you see it—the tiniest spark of determination, still alive beneath the hurt. You squeeze his shoulder, gently but firmly.
“Good. Because you’re not ‘just’ anything, Yang Jeongin. And tomorrow, we start making sure everyone knows it.”
And for the first time that night, Jeongin almost smiles.
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The company’s smallest practice room is a shoebox with scuffed floors and a single, battered upright piano. The overhead lights flicker, but the space feels safe, hidden from the bustle of trainees and the scrutiny of staff. It’s just you and Jeongin, the world outside reduced to muffled echoes.
Jeongin sits on the piano bench, posture stiff, clutching his lyric sheet like a lifeline. You set your phone on the music stand, queuing up the instrumental for their comeback track. Your own coffee sits forgotten on the windowsill, gone cold hours ago.
You slide onto the bench beside him, close but not crowding. “Let’s try the bridge,” you say, voice gentle but expectant. “No pressure. Just us.”
He nods, drawing a shaky breath. He sings the first line, voice clear but thin, the high note wobbling at the end. He winces, shoulders tensing.
You hum the melody back, soft and steady. “You’re pushing too hard,” you say, tapping your chest. “It’s not about volume. It’s about support. Here—” You place a hand lightly on his back, just below his ribs. “Breathe from here, not your throat.”
Jeongin tries again, following your lead. The note steadies, just a little.
You grin. “Better! Now, imagine you’re telling a secret. High notes don’t have to be loud—they just have to be honest.”
He laughs, shy but grateful. “You make it sound easy, Noona.”
You nudge him with your shoulder. “It’s not easy. But it’s possible.” You glance at the piano, fingers tracing the worn keys. “Want to know a secret?”
He perks up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What?”
You play a gentle chord, letting the sound linger. “I used to sing. A lot, actually. Since I was younger than you are now.”
Jeongin’s eyes widen. “Really? Why’d you stop?”
You shrug, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Life. Work. I got busy helping other people chase their dreams. But I still sing, sometimes. In the car. In the shower.” You wink. “And, apparently, in secret practice rooms with stubborn maknaes.”
He grins, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Sing with me, then?”
You hesitate, but his hopeful gaze is impossible to refuse. You play the opening chords, and together you sing the bridge—your voice warm and steady, his growing stronger with each note. The harmonies blend, filling the tiny room with something bright and unbreakable.
When the song ends, Jeongin beams at you, cheeks flushed. “You’re really good, Noona.”
You ruffle his hair, laughing. “You’re not so bad yourself, Jeongin-ah. Now, let’s work on that breath control. Try singing while lying on your back—if your stomach rises, you’re doing it right.”
He flops onto the floor, giggling, and you coach him through the exercise, counting out beats and correcting his posture. Each time he gets it right, you cheer, over-the-top and dramatic, until he’s laughing so hard he can barely sing.
You spend the next hour running scales, experimenting with falsetto, and practicing tricky runs. You share little tricks—imagining the note as a color, visualizing the sound traveling up and out, not just forward.
Between takes, you share stories: your first school talent show, the nerves and the thrill, the teacher who told you “Girls shouldn’t be loud.” Jeongin listens, wide-eyed, soaking up every word.
“You know,” you say, as the clock creeps toward midnight, “singing isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being brave enough to let people hear you.”
Jeongin nods, determination shining in his eyes. “Then I’ll be brave. I promise.”
You smile, pride swelling in your chest. “That’s my boy.”
And as you gather your things, Jeongin hums the bridge under his breath—stronger, steadier, and just a little bit braver than before.
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It’s late, again. The city outside the dorm windows glows with neon, but inside, the world is hushed—just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant laughter of the older members down the hall. You and Jeongin sit cross-legged on the living room floor, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich between you, lyric sheets and practice notes scattered like fallen leaves.
Jeongin is quieter than usual, picking at the crust of his sandwich. He glances at you, then away, then back again. “Noona,” he says, voice small. “What if… what if people think I’m rude? If I talk back?”
You set your coffee down, hands folded in your lap. “Jeongin-ah, do you remember what happened in the practice room last night?”
He nods, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. “I just… froze. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking—what if I make it worse? What if everyone thinks I’m just a brat?”
You shift closer, lowering your voice so only he can hear. “Standing up for yourself isn’t the same as being rude. There’s a difference between defending your worth and disrespecting someone else. You don’t have to shout. You don’t have to fight. But you do have the right to say, ‘That’s not okay.’ Especially when someone crosses the line.”
He looks up, searching your face for any sign of doubt. “But… I’m the youngest. I’m supposed to listen, right?”
You reach out, gently squeezing his hand. “Being the youngest doesn’t mean you’re invisible. It doesn’t mean you have to swallow every hurtful word. You have a voice, Jeongin. And you have every right to use it—especially when someone tries to make you feel small.”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining. “Were you ever scared? When you started working here?”
The question catches you off guard. Memories flicker—your first days as the only woman in a room full of men twice your age, the way your ideas were dismissed, the times you forced yourself to smile when you wanted to scream. You nod, voice thick. “Every single day. But I learned—slowly—that the only way people would listen was if I made them. Not by yelling, but by standing my ground. By showing them I believed in myself, even when I was shaking inside.”
Jeongin’s hand tightens in yours. “How did you do it?”
You smile, bittersweet. “I practiced. In the mirror. With friends. I wrote down what I wanted to say, over and over, until it felt real. And every time I spoke up, even a little, it got easier.”
You let go of his hand and sit up straighter, voice gentle but firm. “Let’s practice now. I’ll be the rude coach. You be you. Tell me what you wish you’d said.”
He hesitates, then draws a shaky breath. “Um… ‘I’m trying my best. Please don’t talk to me like that.”
You nod, encouraging. “Good. Again—louder. Mean it.”
He tries again, stronger this time. “I’m working hard. I deserve respect, too.”
You grin, pride warming your chest. “That’s it. You don’t have to be perfect. Just honest. And if your voice shakes, that’s okay. It means you care.”
He laughs, wiping at his eyes. “You’re really good at this, Noona.”
You nudge his shoulder, teasing. “I’ve had a lot of practice with stubborn idols.” Your eyes flicker towards Chan, who has just entered the room, smirking.
He laughs, the sound lighter now, and you know he’s ready. Not just to sing, but to be heard.
As the city lights flicker outside, you sit together in the quiet—two voices, stronger together, ready to take on the world.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
The conference room is packed, buzzing with the nervous energy of a comeback countdown. The members sprawl around the long table—Chan with his notebook, Han doodling in the margins, Felix bouncing his leg under the table. You stand at the back, arms crossed, watching over your boys. Jeongin sits near the end, his lyric sheet folded and refolded in his lap, knuckles white.
The new vocal coach, Mr. Yoon, is at the front, running through the setlist with a laser pointer and a stack of critiques. Every time Jeongin’s name comes up, the coach’s lips twitch with barely-concealed disdain.
“And for the bridge in track four,” Mr. Yoon says, “I think we should have Seungmin cover those high notes. It’s more reliable.”
Jeongin looks up, mouth opening, then closing. You see the old uncertainty flicker in his eyes—but then, he glances at you. You give him the smallest nod, a silent promise: I believe in you.
Chan glances at Jeongin, then at the coach. “Actually, Jeongin’s been working really hard on those lines—”
Mr. Yoon cuts him off, waving a dismissive hand. “Cute, but let the real artists talk. We don’t have time for childish experiments.”
The room freezes. The words hang heavy in the air, sharp as knives. Han’s pen stops moving. Seungmin’s jaw tightens. Even Hyunjin, usually quick with a joke, goes silent.
You feel your heart hammering, but you don’t move. This is Jeongin’s moment.
Jeongin’s hands tremble, but he lifts his head. His voice is quiet, but steady. “Hyungs asked for my opinion,” he says, eyes locked on Mr. Yoon. “Unless you’ve secretly debuted, maybe you should sit down.”
The silence is absolute. The coach blinks, stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish. For a heartbeat, no one moves.
Then Chan lets out a low whistle. Han’s eyes go wide, then crinkle with a grin. Felix’s hands fly to his mouth, eyes shining. Changbin thumps the table, a bark of laughter escaping before he can stop it. Even Lee Know looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised in grudging approval.
Mr. Yoon recovers, bristling. “Excuse me?”
Jeongin doesn’t flinch. “I’ve practiced those lines for weeks. I want a chance to show what I can do. Isn’t that what practice is for?”
The coach sputters, but Chan steps in, voice cool. “We’ll decide as a team. Thanks, Coach Yoon.”
You catch Jeongin’s eye, pride swelling in your chest. He looks back at you, a little breathless, but standing tall. You give him a tiny, proud smile—one only he can see.
The meeting continues, but the energy has shifted. The members glance at Jeongin with new respect, quiet but unmistakable. Han slides him a note under the table: “Maknae ON TOP!!!” Felix squeezes his hand, tears brimming in his eyes. Changbin leans over, whispering, “That’s my boy.”
You watch as Jeongin sits a little straighter, his voice steady as he gives his input for the next song. He’s not just the maknae anymore—he’s an artist, and everyone in the room knows it.
And as the meeting ends, you catch Jeongin’s eye once more. He mouths, “Thank you,” and you shake your head, smiling.
“You did that, Jeongin-ah,” you whisper, so only he can hear. “All by yourself.”
And for the first time, you see him believe it.
The conference room empties slowly, the energy still buzzing from Jeongin’s stand. The members file out in twos and threes, tossing him proud grins and shoulder pats. Mr. Yoon is the last to leave, his expression sour, but you barely notice—your focus is on Jeongin, who lingers at the table, hands still pressed flat against the wood as if grounding himself.
You walk over quietly, letting the door swing shut behind you. The room feels suddenly too big, the echoes of laughter and tension fading into a hush. Jeongin sits down, shoulders slumping, the bravado of a few minutes ago melting away. He stares at his hands, twisting his fingers together.
You pull up a chair beside him, close enough for comfort but giving him space. “Hey,” you say softly.
He doesn’t look up right away. “Was I… too harsh?” His voice is small, almost lost in the empty room. “I didn’t want to be rude. I just—I couldn’t take it anymore, Noona. I thought my heart was going to explode.”
You reach over, covering his fidgeting hands with yours. “You weren’t rude, Jeongin. You were honest. And brave. There’s a difference.”
He finally looks at you, eyes shining with a mix of relief and leftover fear. “I was so scared. My voice was shaking. I thought I’d mess it up and everyone would hate me for making a scene.”
You squeeze his hands, steady and warm. “You didn’t make a scene. You made yourself heard. And that’s something to be proud of. I am—so, so proud of you.”
He laughs, a little watery, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I kept thinking about what you said. About how it’s okay to speak up. Even if you’re scared.”
You smile, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “It’s more than okay. It’s necessary. And you did it, Jeongin. You did it.”
He lets out a shaky breath, the tension finally draining from his posture. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you, Noona. You always know what to say.”
You shake your head, gentle. “You did this yourself. I just reminded you of what you already had.”
Before he can reply, the door bursts open and the members flood in, unable to contain their excitement any longer. Changbin sweeps Jeongin up in a bear hug, spinning him around until he squeals. Felix, teary-eyed, throws his arms around both of you, nearly knocking over a chair. Han waves a makeshift “Maknae Power!” sign, grinning from ear to ear. Even Lee Know gives Jeongin a rare, approving nod.
Chan claps a hand on your shoulder, his voice warm. “He really did it, huh?”
You nod, pride swelling in your chest. “He really did it.”
Jeongin laughs, the sound bright and unburdened, and for a moment, he’s just a kid again—surrounded by his found family, loved and celebrated for exactly who he is.
Later, when the chaos dies down, Jeongin slips you a small, handmade coupon book, the cover decorated with doodles and glittery stickers. In neat handwriting, it reads: “1 Free Hug (No Complaining).” You laugh, pulling him into a hug he pretends to protest but doesn’t let go of.
And as the night winds down, you watch Jeongin—stronger, braver, and finally, truly seen—surrounded by the people who love him most.
a sibling kind of love was amazing!! i love how you write a lot, is there any chance of you doing a small part 3 (or. like... 2.5) where the other members find her drafted resignation letter somehow? just would love to see them being nervous about losing her or reassuring her that they need her or anything like that :3
"Noona, please stay.."
Continuation of: "A sibling kind of love.."
Skz x Female Manager Reader!
Angst, fluff, Platonic!
A/N: hope this was up to your expectations, anon! Also tried with a fake texting app, tell me if you like it or not!
Warning: Shouting, anger
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The studio’s fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets as Jisung squinted at Noona’s laptop screen, his fingers trembling over the trackpad. He’d only meant to borrow her laptop for a demo file—just the demo, nothing else—but the cloud folder labeled “Admin/Urgent” glared at him like an accusation. His coffee sat abandoned, ice long melted into a sad beige puddle next to her keyboard.
The document loaded slowly, each word burning itself into his retinas.
"To the Board of Directors,
I hereby resign from my position as—"
“Hyung.” His voice cracked, barely audible over the hum of the AC. Across the room, Seungmin stirred on the couch, earbuds slipping out. “Hyung, look.”
Seungmin’s face paled as he read the timestamp—2:18 AM—and the jagged half-sentences where Noona had clearly deleted furious phrases and retyped them colder. Professional. Final.
“She’s leaving,” Jisung whispered, fingers digging into the edge of the desk. “She’s actually—”
Felix appeared in the doorway, flour dusting his sweater sleeves, drawn by the tremor in Jisung’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
Seungmin turned the screen toward him.
The color drained from Felix’s face. “No. No. She wouldn’t— She can’t—”
“She did,” Jisung choked out, pointing to the cloud’s auto-save log blinking rhythmically. “She’s been editing this tonight. While we were all asleep like idiots!”
Minho materialized behind them, still in sweat-soaked practice clothes. He scanned the document in three seconds flat. “Where’s Chan?”
“Tokyo,” Seungmin said weakly. “Meetings all day. He won’t—”
“Fuck Tokyo.” Minho snatched the laptop, eyes blazing. “She’s been breaking her back for us for years! The late nights fixing Jisung’s visa issues, covering Minho’s family emergencies, rerouting schedules when Felix’s anxiety spiked—and this is how they repay her?”
Jisung’s breath hitched. “Last week… she stayed until 4 AM helping me with lyrics. I didn’t even thank her—”
“Yesterday,” Felix interrupted, voice cracking, “she brought me soup when I had that migraine. She said… she said she’d always…” His hands fisted in his sweater.
Minho’s jaw tightened. “We need to stop her before she submits this.”
“How?!” Jisung’s voice rose hysterically. “What if she’s already—”
“We tell the others. Now.” Minho pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the screen.
Group Chat:
The chat exploded with panicked messages, each notification a knife twisting in Jisung’s gut. He stared at the resignation letter, the cursor blinking mockingly where she’d left off—Sincerely—as if she couldn’t even bring herself to finish it.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
All four heads snapped toward the sound.
“Is that her?” Felix whispered, panic-stricken.
The footsteps grew louder—too light to be Chan’s, too deliberate to be anyone else’s.
“It’s Hyunjin,” Seungmin breathed, but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
Jisung’s hands shook as he slammed the laptop shut, the resignation letter burning behind his eyelids. The footsteps paused outside the door.
Hyunjin burst into the studio, his long coat trailing behind him, hair slightly damp from the late-night drizzle. His chest heaved as he caught his breath, eyes darting around the room. Felix stood frozen by the desk, Jisung pacing frantically in circles, and Seungmin sat stiffly on the couch, his face pale and unreadable. Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly, his jaw clenched. The tension in the air was suffocating.
“What’s going on?” Hyunjin demanded, his voice sharp but tinged with worry. He’d seen the group chat messages—panicked texts flooding his phone while he was trying to sleep—but nothing had prepared him for the sight of them all looking so wrecked.
Jisung turned to him, eyes wild and glassy. “She’s leaving us!” His voice cracked as he pointed at Noona’s closed laptop on the desk. “She wrote a resignation letter! It’s timestamped tonight! Hyung, she’s really—she’s done!”
Hyunjin froze, his mind struggling to process the words. “What?” He stepped closer to the desk, his gaze flicking between Jisung and Felix. “Noona? Resigning? That doesn’t make sense.”
Felix’s voice trembled as he spoke. “It’s real, Hyunjin. We saw it. The file was open when Jisung borrowed her laptop—it was half-finished, but she’s been working on it all night.” His hands gripped the edge of the desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “She didn’t tell us anything. She didn’t even say goodbye.”
Hyunjin felt a sharp pang in his chest as Felix’s words sunk in. He couldn’t believe it—Noona, who had always been their rock, their protector, their guiding light through every storm—was planning to leave? Without a word? Without even giving them a chance to fight for her?
“She wouldn’t just leave,” Hyunjin said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly. “Not after everything she’s done for us.”
His mind raced with memories: Noona staying late to help him perfect choreography when everyone else had gone home; her gentle encouragement when he doubted himself before a performance; her quiet presence during sleepless nights when he’d cried over mistakes only he noticed.
Minho finally spoke, his tone cold and biting. “She would if she thought it was better for us.” He gestured toward the laptop with a bitter scoff. “She probably thinks she’s protecting us by walking away.”
Hyunjin’s stomach twisted at the thought. He knew Minho was right—Noona had always put them first, even at her own expense. But this? Leaving them without so much as an explanation? It felt like betrayal.
Seungmin shook his head slowly. “Chan’s in Tokyo,” he said quietly. “We didn’t tell him yet… He’d just blame himself.”
Hyunjin ran a hand through his damp hair, frustration bubbling up inside him. “This doesn’t feel right,” he muttered under his breath. “Noona wouldn’t just leave like this—not unless something pushed her over the edge.”
Jisung let out a strangled sob and sank onto the couch beside Seungmin. “It’s our fault,” he whispered brokenly. “We’re too much for her—always needing her to fix everything…”
Felix stepped forward suddenly, gripping Hyunjin’s arm with trembling hands. “You have to talk to her,” he pleaded, tears pooling in his wide eyes. “You’re good with words—you can make her stay.”
Hyunjin stared at Felix for a long moment before nodding resolutely. He didn’t know if he could fix this—if he could convince Noona not to walk away—but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t let her carry this burden alone anymore.
“I’ll find her,” Hyunjin said softly but firmly, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “And I’ll make sure she knows how much she means to us.”
As he turned toward the door, Minho called out after him: “Don’t let her go without a fight.”
Hyunjin didn’t answer—he couldn’t trust himself to speak without breaking—but his determined stride said enough.
The others watched him leave in silence, hope flickering faintly in their eyes as they waited for what came next.
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Hyunjin’s footsteps echoed through the empty hallway as he made his way to Noona’s office. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat growing louder with every step. The group chat had been chaos—panicked messages, frantic speculations, and an overwhelming sense of dread. He had volunteered to find her, to get answers, but now that he was here, standing outside her door, he hesitated.
The door was ajar, and the office was dark. He pushed it open slowly, the creak of the hinges sounding deafening in the silence. The room was empty. Her desk was neat, her chair tucked in, as if she hadn’t been here at all tonight. A faint whiff of her perfume lingered in the air, but there was no sign of her.
Hyunjin’s chest tightened as he scanned the room for any clue. The laptop wasn’t here—it must still be with Jisung and the others. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up inside him. She wasn’t here. Of course she wasn’t here. Why would she stay in an office that had probably drained her of everything she had left?
He pulled out his phone as he left the building, dialing your number with shaky fingers. The phone rang once… twice… three times before you picked up.
“Hyunjin?” Your voice was soft but tired, like you'd been on the verge of sleep. “What’s wrong? It’s late.”
Your tone hit him like a punch to the gut. To you, it probably sounded neutral—just exhaustion after a long day—but to him, it felt distant. Detached. Annoyed, even. His throat tightened as he tried to find his words.
“Noona…” His voice cracked on the single word.
“What is it?” you asked again, a little more alert now. “Did something happen?”
The concern in your voice should have reassured him, but instead, it broke him further. He imagined you sitting at home, completely unaware of the chaos you had left behind with that letter—completely unaware of how much they needed you.
“You’re leaving us,” Hyunjin whispered, his voice trembling. “Aren’t you?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “What?” Your confusion was genuine, but Hyunjin didn’t hear it through the haze of his own spiraling thoughts.
“I saw it,” he continued, his words rushing out in a torrent now. “We all saw it—your resignation letter. You didn’t even tell us! Were you just going to disappear? Just leave without saying anything?”
“Hyunjin—” you started, but he cut you off.
“You can’t do this!” His voice cracked again, tears welling up in his eyes as he walked faster down the dark street toward the dorms. “You can’t just leave us like this! Do you have any idea what you mean to us? What you mean to me?”
Your breath hitched on the other end of the line. “Hyunjin… I’m not leaving.”
“You wrote it!” he shouted back, his emotions spilling over now. “It’s there! It’s timestamped from tonight! Don’t lie to me—I saw it with my own eyes!”
“I didn’t write it tonight,” you said firmly but gently. “Hyunjin, listen to me—”
But he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “Do you know what you’ve done for us? For me? You stayed late when I couldn’t get my choreography right—you told me I could do it when I wanted to give up! You’ve been there every time I doubted myself—every time I thought I wasn’t good enough!” His voice broke completely now, tears streaming down his face as he stumbled to a stop on the sidewalk.
“Noona…” His voice dropped to a whisper as he choked on a sob. “If you leave… I don’t know what I’ll do.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment before you spoke again—softly this time, almost like a whisper.
“Hyunjin,” you said gently but firmly, “I’m not leaving.”
He froze in place, his breath hitching as your words sank in.
“That letter…” You paused for a moment before continuing carefully, “I wrote it weeks ago—before Chan talked me out of it.”
His heart stuttered at your words. “Chan… knew?”
“Yes,” you admitted softly. “He found me before I could submit it and convinced me to stay.” Your voice grew quieter still as you added, “I thought he deleted it after that.”
Hyunjin’s knees buckled slightly as relief flooded through him like a tidal wave. He leaned against a lamppost for support, wiping at his wet cheeks with trembling hands.
“You’re not leaving?” he asked again weakly, needing to hear it one more time just to be sure.
“I’m not leaving,” you repeated firmly this time. “I promise.”
He let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob and nodded even though you couldn’t see him through the phone.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment of silence between them.
“For what?” you asked gently.
“For doubting you,” he said quietly. “For thinking—even for a second—that you’d leave us without saying goodbye.”
Your voice softened further as she replied, “It’s okay to feel scared sometimes… but Hyunjin?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not alone,” you said firmly but kindly. “None of you are.”
And for the first time that night—despite everything—Hyunjin believed you.
As Hyunjin walked toward the dorms, the cool night air carried the faint scent of blooming cherry blossoms, but he barely noticed. His heart still reeled from the phone call with Noona. She was staying. The weight of that realization settled slowly, like a warm blanket wrapping around his shoulders. He quickened his pace, his footsteps echoing off the buildings as he turned onto the path leading to Dorm 2.
The door opened before he could knock, and you stood there, your hair loose and your glasses slightly askew, wearing the oversized hoodie Chan had given you last Christmas. For a moment, they just looked at each other—Hyunjin with his tear-streaked face, you with dark circles under your eyes. Then you pulled him into a hug so tight it stole his breath.
He buried his face in your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender fabric softener and ink. Your hand cradled the back of his head like you used to when he’d cry over botched choreography as a rookie. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Shhh,” you murmured, guiding him inside. The living room was lit by a single floor lamp, casting a warm glow over the space. A steaming mug sat beside the couch next to a half-folded blanket—you had clearly been waiting up for him.
Hyunjin froze when he saw the photo frame on the coffee table: the eight of them at last year’s awards show, grinning under confetti rain. His chest tightened. “We’d fall apart without you,” he whispered.
You pressed the mug into his hands—peppermint tea, extra honey, exactly how he liked it. “Sit,” you murmured, nudging him onto the couch.
But Hyunjin couldn’t stop shaking. “You’ve held us together for so long. When I couldn’t eat before debut evaluations, you smuggled me protein bars. When Jisung’s anxiety spiked during Kingdom, you stayed up rewriting his lyrics with him. Even tonight—even when I screamed at you—”
“Hyunjin.” You cupped his face, thumbs brushing away fresh tears. “You’ve held me together too.”
You ended up tangled on the couch, Hyunjin’s head in your lap as you carded fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The silence was heavy but warm, broken only by the tick of the wall clock.
“Remember when you sprained your ankle during the Maniac tour?” you asked suddenly.
He blinked up at you. “You carried my dance shoes to every venue.”
“And you,” you countered, “drew those ridiculous cartoons of Director Park to cheer me up after meetings.” A small smile played on your lips. “You’ve always known how to lighten the load.”
Hyunjin’s breath hitched. He turned, pressing his forehead against your stomach like a child seeking comfort. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled into your hoodie. “Not ever.”
Noona’s hand stilled in his hair. For a terrifying moment, he thought you'd pull away.
Then you leaned down, lips brushing his temple. “Not ever,” you promised.
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As they sat there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the doorbell rang. Jisung’s frantic voice echoed from the hallway: “Hyunjin?! Noona?! Anyone?!”
You sighed, disentangling yourself gently. “Stay,” she told Hyunjin, who was half-asleep against the armrest. “I’ll handle them.”
But he caught your wrist. “Together.”
The door swings open with a force that rattles the hinges, and suddenly they’re all there—all of them—pouring into the dimly lit living room like a storm. Jisung stumbles in first, barefoot and wild-eyed. Felix follows, clutching a pillow to his chest like a shield, his freckled face pale under the hallway’s harsh light. Seungmin’s right behind them, sleeves rolled up to ink-stained elbows, while Minho lingers at the threshold, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles blanch. Changbin’s next, hair mussed from sleep, followed by Jeongin, who’s still in his stage makeup from some late-night rehearsal, glitter smudged under his eyes.
Their collective gaze lands on you first—then flicks to Hyunjin, curled into your side on the couch, his tear-streaked cheek pressed to your shoulder, your fingers still tangled in his hair.
“What the hell is this?” Jisung’s voice cracks, accusatory and raw. His eyes dart
between Hyunjin’s trembling hands and the half-empty mug of tea you’d made him.
“You’re just… cuddling him? After everything?!”
You stiffen, Hyunjin’s weight anchoring you to the couch. “It’s not what you—”
“We’ve been losing our minds,” Felix interrupts, stepping forward. His voice wavers, but his eyes burn. “You let us think you were leaving. You let us panic. And now you’re here, comforting him like none of it matters?”
The guilt hits like a sucker punch. You open your mouth to explain—the cloud backup, the old draft, Chan’s intervention—but Seungmin cuts you off.
“You didn’t even tell us,” he says quietly, jaw clenched. His usually calm demeanor fractures, revealing the hurt beneath. “We had to find out from a file. Do you know how that feels? To think we meant so little you’d just… walk away?”
Hyunjin stirs against you, lifting his head. “She’s not leaving,” he croaks, voice hoarse. “It was a mistake—”
“A mistake?” Changbin snaps, stepping forward. His usually gruff voice shakes. “You don’t write a resignation letter by mistake, Noona. You don’t almost destroy us by mistake.”
Minho finally steps forward, his sharp gaze slicing through the tension. “You let us drown,” he says, low and venomous. “All this time, you’ve been our lifeline. And then you just… let go.”
The words land like a knife. You flinch, Hyunjin’s hand tightening around yours. “I didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought I deleted it. I never wanted you to see—”
“But we did,” Jeongin pipes up, his voice uncharacteristically small. He’s hugging himself, the glitter under his eyes catching the light like tears. “We saw it. We believed it. You’re supposed to be the one who stays.”
The room falls silent except for the hitch of Felix’s breathing. You see it then—the cracks in their armor. Jisung’s clenched fists, Seungmin’s trembling lips, Minho’s too-bright eyes. Changbin’s jaw works like he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out. They’re not angry. They’re terrified.
Hyunjin sits up slowly, wiping his face. “She’s staying,” he says, firmer now. “It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” Jisung shoots back, but his anger falters when Hyunjin stands, blocking your view.
“Enough,” Hyunjin says, voice trembling but steady. “You think she doesn’t know? You think she hasn’t carried every one of your burdens?” He steps forward, forcing them to look at him—at the raw, red-rimmed proof of his own panic. Your eyes follow and your heart clenched.
“She’s human. She’s allowed to break. And instead of hating her for it, maybe we should thank her for not breaking sooner.”
The guilt shifts. You see it in their faces—Jisung’s shoulders slumping, Felix’s pillow slipping from his grip. Minho looks away first, jaw working. Changbin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Jeongin sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
It’s Seungmin who moves first. He crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into a hug so tight it steals your breath. “You idiot,” he mutters into your hair. “You absolute idiot.”
One by one, they fold in. Felix presses his face to your back, his tears soaking into your hoodie. Jisung clutches your arm like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Changbin wraps an arm around your shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. Jeongin tucks himself under your free arm, his head resting against your collarbone. Even Minho rests a hand on your shoulder, his touch careful, as if you might shatter.
And you?
You let them hold you. Let their warmth seep into the cracks they’d carved. Hyunjin watches from the edge of the huddle, his tear-streaked face softening into something like peace.
“We’re sorry,” Felix mumbles against your shoulder.
“You’re sorry?” you rasp, laughing weakly. “I’m the one who—”
“Shut up,” Jisung interrupts, squeezing tighter. “Just… shut up and let us fix this.”
So you do.
Minutes pass—or maybe hours—as they cling to you, their breaths syncing, hearts pounding in unison. Changbin’s thumb rubs circles on your shoulder blade. Jeongin’s fingers twist into the fabric of your hoodie. Minho’s hand stays anchored to your arm, a silent vow.
When they finally pull back, their faces are softer. Jisung sniffles, rubbing his nose with a sleeve. Felix offers a wobbly smile. Even Minho’s gaze holds something warmer than ice.
“You’re stuck with us,” Changbin says gruffly, ruffling your hair. “No takebacks.”
Jeongin nods, his chin jutting out in that stubborn way of his. “If you try to leave again, I’ll… I’ll glue your shoes to the floor.”
The laugh that escapes you is wet, broken, but real. Hyunjin steps forward then, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ll do better,” he whispers. “I’ll do better.”
And as they settle around you—Jisung stealing the blanket, Felix refilling your tea, Seungmin quietly deleting the cloud file for good—you realize something:
Summary: Noona loves protecting her boys, but even she needs her down-time and care.
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The studio was cloaked in a heavy stillness at 4:17 AM, the kind of quiet that seemed to muffle the world, pressing against your eardrums like cotton. The faint hum of electronics was the only sound, blending with the soft clatter of keyboard keys under Chan’s restless fingers. The dim glow of his laptop screen bathed the room in cold blue light, casting shadows under his eyes that seemed more profound than ever. His posture was a testament to his exhaustion—hunched over the mixing desk, shoulders slumped, head drooping forward until—snap—he jerked upright again, blinking blearily at the screen. The cycle repeated like clockwork: droop, snap, blink.
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a moment. It was almost hypnotic, though it tugged at something in your chest to see him like this. He didn’t even notice you there at first, so absorbed in his battle against sleep and perfectionism. Three cycles passed before you finally stepped into the room.
"You look like hell," you said bluntly, your voice cutting through the silence as you placed a steaming to-go cup on the desk beside him.
His usual—triple-shot iced americano, no sweetener—condensation already forming on the plastic.
Chan startled at the sound of your voice, his head snapping up as if he’d forgotten other people existed. His eyes were wide and slightly dazed as they landed on you.
"Noona?" His voice was hoarse from disuse. He glanced at the clock on his screen and groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh. Again?"
"Mm-hmm." You reached over and plucked the headphones off his head before he could react, ignoring his half-hearted attempt to grab them back.
"Your ears stopped working an hour ago," you said matter-of-factly. "You’re just torturing yourself now."
He slumped back in his chair with a long sigh, rubbing at his temples as though trying to knead away the tension. "The bridge isn’t right," he muttered, more to himself than to you.
"It’s fine," you interrupted firmly, nudging the coffee closer to him. "You’re hearing ghosts."
He shot you a tired scowl but didn’t argue further. Instead, he reached for the cup and took a long pull from it like a man dying of thirst. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes; of course he’d treat caffeine like it was life support at this hour.
"When did you eat last?" you asked, already bracing yourself for the answer.
He hesitated, his gaze darting away as he suddenly found his keyboard fascinating. "...Lunch?"
"Lunch yesterday," you corrected with a pointed look before pulling out a Tupperware container from your bag. The rich aroma of kimchi fried rice filled the small studio space instantly, and Chan’s head snapped up like a bloodhound catching a scent.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the container in your hands. "Wait—you cooked?"
"Don’t sound so surprised," you muttered defensively, shoving a fork into his hand before he could say anything else.
His lips quirked into that stupid grin—the one that made him look years younger and far too charming for his own good—and he teased, "I’m just saying... I didn’t know you cared this much."
"Eat," you ordered sharply, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "Before I force-feed you."
Still grinning, he dug in without further protest, shoveling mouthfuls of rice into his mouth with an enthusiasm that made you wonder just how long it had been since he’d eaten properly. For a few minutes, silence settled over the room again—this time softer and more comfortable—broken only by Chan’s quiet hums of satisfaction between bites and the occasional clink of his fork against the container.
You watched him closely as he ate, noting how his shoulders slowly relaxed with each bite. The tension that had been coiled so tightly around him all night seemed to ease little by little until he finally leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh.
Then he turned those sharp eyes on you again and pointed his fork accusingly in your direction. "You should go home," he said suddenly. "Don’t you have that investor meeting at nine?"
You blinked at him in surprise. "How do you even know my schedule? Also, you're in that meeting too."
"Turnabout is fair play," he sing-songed smugly before shoving another bite into his mouth.
Oh no. You weren’t letting him win this one.
Snatching the now-empty Tupperware from his hands with exaggerated flair, you shot back firmly, "Nice try. But you’re going home."
Chan groaned dramatically, slumping further into his chair like a petulant child refusing bedtime. "Five more minutes—"
"Now," you repeated sternly, grabbing hold of his hoodie sleeve and giving it a firm tug.
He let out an exaggerated sigh but allowed himself to be pulled upright nonetheless. As he stumbled slightly into your side while finding his footing, he slung an arm around your shoulders for balance and grinned down at you lazily.
"Bossy," he accused with mock indignation.
You elbowed him lightly but didn’t shrug him off as you started guiding him toward the door. "Someone has to be."
The hallway outside was dimly lit by emergency exit signs casting faint red glows along the walls. The weight of Chan’s arm around your shoulders grew heavier with each step as exhaustion finally caught up with him fully.
"...Thanks," he murmured after a while, voice low and thick with sleep—and something else softer that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
You didn’t respond right away; instead, you tightened your grip on his sleeve and kept steering him toward the dorms without looking back.
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The investor meeting had been going well—or so it seemed. The polished mahogany table gleamed under the soft overhead lights, reflecting the tension that simmered just beneath the surface.
You sat stiffly in your chair, hands folded neatly in front of you, trying to focus on Director Park’s monotone presentation about quarterly profits. Across from you, Chan radiated calm professionalism, his leader mask firmly in place—shoulders squared, chin slightly raised, and a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
But you knew him too well. Beneath the surface, something was off. His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his knee under the table, each beat growing sharper, faster. You could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightened every time Director Park’s words turned condescending. It was subtle—Chan was a master at hiding his emotions—but you felt the tension building like a storm cloud ready to burst.
You tried to focus on the presentation, but unease gnawed at you. Something about Director Park’s tone felt wrong—too smug, too self-assured. He spoke about profits and projections with a practiced air of authority, but there was an edge to his words that made your stomach twist.
You glanced at Chan again, noting how his tapping fingers had stilled entirely now, his hand curling into a loose fist against his knee.
Then it happened.
"—of course, we expect better returns this time," Director Park said with a smirk that made your skin crawl. "Especially now that we’ve adjusted your team’s resources."
Your heart skipped a beat. Adjusted? What did he mean by that?
"Adjusted?" you asked cautiously, keeping your tone even despite the knot tightening in your chest.
Director Park didn’t even look at you as he waved a dismissive hand. "The temp staff cuts," he said casually as if slashing jobs was nothing more than rearranging furniture.
"Honestly, the way you coddle those boys is unprofessional. A little hunger will motivate them."
The room went cold.
You felt the blood drain from your face as his words sank in. Coddle? Hunger? He was talking about your team—the people who worked tirelessly day and night to meet impossible deadlines, who poured their hearts into every project despite being stretched thin already.
You opened your mouth to respond, anger bubbling up like lava—but before you could speak, Chan’s voice cut through the silence.
"Excuse me?"
It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. The quiet intensity of those two words sent a ripple through the room like the first crack of thunder before a storm.
Director Park blinked in surprise, clearly unprepared for Chan’s interruption. "I only meant—"
"I know exactly what you meant." Chan leaned forward slowly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that seemed deafening in the tense silence. His posture remained composed—back straight, shoulders relaxed—but there was an unmistakable fire in his eyes now.
It wasn’t anger alone; it was something deeper—a raw protectiveness that made your breath catch.
"Let me make something crystal clear," Chan continued his voice low and measured but carrying enough weight to make everyone in the room sit up straighter.
"Manager-nim’s leadership is the only reason this team functions as well as it does." He paused deliberately, letting the gravity of his words sink in before delivering the final blow: "If you ever imply otherwise again..." His tone sharpened just enough to make Director Park flinch. "...you’ll find out exactly how unprofessional I can be."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Director Park paled visibly, his earlier smugness crumbling into nervous discomfort as he shifted awkwardly in his seat. You could see him scrambling for a response but finding none under Chan’s unwavering gaze.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at Chan, stunned by the sheer force of his presence. You’d seen him angry before—frustrated with deadlines or stressed over projects—but this was different. This wasn’t about him; it was about you. About protecting what mattered most to both of you: your team.
Chan turned to meet your gaze briefly—a fleeting moment that felt stretched in time—and what you saw there made your throat tighten: resolve and reassurance wrapped in quiet fury. I’ve got this, his eyes seemed to say.
Then he straightened in his seat and turned back to the meeting with seamless ease, as if nothing had happened at all. "Now," he said smoothly, his tone once again polished and professional, "about those adjusted budgets..."
The room exhaled cautiously as conversation resumed in fits and starts, but you couldn’t shake the lingering electricity in the air—or the way Chan had stood up for you without hesitation. Your pulse still raced as you sat there silently, replaying every word he’d said and every look he’d given.
You weren’t sure what surprised you more: Director Park’s audacity—or Chan’s unwavering defense of not just your leadership but everything you’d built together with your team.
And for some reason—despite everything—you felt stronger than ever sitting beside him.
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The muted hum of the office AC filled the space as you sat at your desk, the glow of your monitor illuminating a half-finished resignation letter. The cursor blinked mockingly, each flicker echoing the doubt gnawing at your chest. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul’s skyline glittered coldly, indifferent to the storm brewing in your throat.
A knock shattered the silence.
You slammed the laptop shut too quickly. “Come in.”
Chan stepped inside, two coffee cups in hand—your usual oat milk latte, still steaming. His sharp eyes darted to the closed laptop, then to your white-knuckled grip on the edge of the desk. “Bad time?”
“Never for coffee,” you lied, forcing a smile.
He set the cup down, his fingers lingering near the laptop. “You’ve been… off. Since the meeting.”
You shrugged, staring at the condensation snaking down the paper sleeve. “Long week.”
“Try again.”
The gentleness in his tone undid you.
“Chan—”
He flipped open your laptop before you could stop him. The resignation draft glared back, raw and unfinished: “Due to recent restructuring decisions, I find it increasingly difficult to align with—”
The air left the room.
“What the hell is this?” His voice cracked, uncharacteristically loud.
You reached to close the screen, but he caught your wrist. His grip wasn’t tight—just present. Anchoring.
“They win if you leave,” he said, low and urgent. “You think I don’t know why you’re really leaving? It’s not about the temps—it’s about me.”
The accusation hung between you.
“That’s not—”
“You’re scared.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Scared if you stay, you’ll have to watch them break me next. Scared I’ll become another Park, chasing numbers over people.”
Your breath hitched. The truth of it coiled around your ribs, suffocating.
Chan exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “You remember last month? When the temporary staff kept mispronouncing Felix’s name?”
A weak laugh escaped you. “I may have… overreacted.”
“You snapped the other temporary staff's keycard in half,” he deadpanned. “Told him to ‘learn respect or get out.’, because he didn't like my music.”
“He deserved it.”
“Damn right.” His knee pressed harder against yours. “That’s who you are. The one who fights—always. So why stop now?”
The dam broke.
“Because I’m tired, Chan!” You shot up, chair screeching. “Tired of justifying why basic decency matters! Tired of watching good people get chewed up by this… this machine!”
He rose with you, crowding into your space. “Then let me help you break it!”
The raw plea in his voice froze you mid-pace.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, softer now. “The late nights you cover for Jisung’s anxiety attacks? How you reroute deadlines when Minho’s migraines flare? You carry it all alone, but—” He stepped closer, his next words a whisper. “You’re not alone.”
The resignation letter blurred on the screen.
Chan’s hand hovered over the delete key. “Let me protect you too. Please.”
You met his gaze—really met it—and saw the boy who once cried in the stairwell after his first investor rejection. The man who’d nearly dismantled a boardroom to defend your leadership. The partner who’d memorized your coffee order before learning your middle name.
“Stubborn brat,” you muttered, voice thick.
His grin broke through like sunrise. “Your brat.”
The cursor blinked once more before the page went blank. Outside, the city lights burned brighter, as if Seoul itself had been holding its breath.
You felt the weight of your exhaustion, the burden of responsibility, and the fear of losing everything you’d built. Something inside you cracked, and for the first time in years, you let go.
Without a word, you inched closer to Chan, your arms wrapping around him in a tight hug. He didn’t hesitate, embracing you back with a warmth that enveloped you like a shield. You buried your face in his shoulder, and the dam you’d held back for so long finally broke.
Tears streamed down your face, silent and uncontrolled. It was something you’d never done before—showing such vulnerability, such raw emotion. But in that moment, with Chan’s arms around you, you felt safe enough to let go.
He held you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his hands gentle on your back. The world outside receded, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a moment of pure, unspoken understanding.
For a long time, you just stood there, wrapped in each other’s silence, the city lights twinkling like stars outside your window. It was a moment that felt like a promise—a promise to stand together, no matter what came next.
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A bit shorter than usual, sorry! This is a continued little scene from my one-shot "Noona, help!"
Summary: Reader, named Riot, is a cousin of HAN. Han invited everyone to his cousin's show.. and Riot has his eyes on a certain someone.
Warnings: Spicy undertones but no actual action, idk, maybe Chan having an internal meltdown about Riot?
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The arena pulsed with energy, the crowd’s screams vibrating through the floor as the lights dimmed. Stray Kids sat in the front row, their VIP passes dangling around their necks, courtesy of Han Jisung.
"You sure this guy’s worth the hype?" Lee Know muttered, arms crossed as he leaned back in his seat.
Felix grinned, bouncing in anticipation. "Han’s been talking about him nonstop. Said he’s insane live."
"Insane how?" Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. "Like… ‘good’ insane or ‘should-we-call-security’ insane?"
Before Han could answer, the speakers roared to life with a distorted guitar riff, the stage exploding in a burst of pyrotechnics. The crowd lost it.
Then—silence.
A single spotlight cut through the dark.
And he dropped from the ceiling.
A collective gasp ripped through the audience as Riot—your stage name, your identity at this moment—free-fell from the rafters, landing dead center on the stage with a roll, popping up effortlessly like it was nothing. The music kicked back in, a hard-hitting rock beat, and you were already singing, your voice smooth, powerful, unwavering despite the stunt.
Stray Kids’ jaws hit the floor.
"WHAT THE F—" Changbin choked.
Han was already gone.
"Where’d he—?" Chan whipped his head around, but Jisung had vanished into the shadows, slipping backstage like he had a backstage pass to your soul.
Then—you moved.
The stage was yours—a kingdom of fire and sound—and you ruled it like a predator. Every step was deliberate, your boots hitting the floor in time with the pounding bass as you stalked the edge of the stage. The crowd was a sea of screaming devotion, but your gaze cut through them like a blade, locking onto the eight men in the front row.
Especially him.
Bang Chan sat frozen, his fingers gripping the armrests as you dragged your eyes over him, a slow, wicked smirk curling your lips. The music pulsed, the beat dropping into something darker, heavier—and then, with one sharp tug, you ripped your sleeveless shirt down the middle, exposing your sweat-slicked abs, the fabric hanging uselessly at your sides.
The arena erupted.
But you weren’t done.
In one fluid motion, you dropped to your knees, sliding across the stage until you were inches from Chan’s face. Your chest heaved, your breath hot as you leaned in, close enough for him to see the wild, unhinged fire in your eyes.
Then you sang—voice rough, dripping with something between a promise and a threat—
"You wanna play with fire, baby?
Better pray you don’t get burned."
Chan’s throat went dry. His pulse was a hammer against his ribs, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out, to push you away, to pull you closer—but he couldn’t move. Your gaze held him captive, dark and wanting, your lips curled in a smirk that said you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then—
You winked.
And just like that, you were gone, spinning back onto the stage like you hadn’t just set Chan’s nerves on fire. Behind you, the other members of Stray Kids were losing their minds—Hyunjin gripping Seungmin’s arm in shock, Felix’s mouth hanging open, Changbin yelling something unintelligible.
But Chan?
Chan was still frozen, your scent lingering in the air, your voice echoing in his skull.
And the worst part?
You weren’t even done yet.
Behind him, the others erupted.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!"
"HAN BETTER EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW—"
But Han was already backstage, grinning like he’d just pulled off the greatest prank of all time.
And the show had only just begun.
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The arena plunges into darkness, the roar of the crowd fading into a collective, anticipatory hush. A slow, sultry bassline slithers through the speakers, its vibrations curling around the silence like smoke. Backstage, Han leans against the edge of the curtain, his grin feral as he watches his cousin step into the single spotlight illuminating the stage.
“Oh, they’re so not ready for this,” Han mutters to himself, pulling out his phone with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. His thumb hovers over the record button, ready to immortalize the chaos about to unfold.
Onstage, RIOT stands alone, your presence commanding yet strangely vulnerable. Gone is the usual fiery bravado that defines you; in its place is something raw and devastatingly magnetic.
You tilt your head slightly, letting your shadowed gaze sweep across the audience like a predator sizing up its prey. The leather jacket draped over your shoulders slides down in one fluid motion, hitting the stage with a deliberate thud that seems to echo louder than it should. The sound sends a ripple of tension through the crowd.
A murmur runs through the audience, a mix of awe and anticipation. Stray Kids, seated in the front row, remain oblivious to what’s coming. Chan leans forward slightly in curiosity, his brow furrowed as he watches RIOT with cautious interest.
Then—You sing.
"I don’t need pride, don’t need my name,
Just tell me what you want, I’ll be your fucking game."
Your voice is broken and breathy, each word dripping with shameless desperation. Your hand tightens around the mic stand as though it’s the only thing grounding you. Slowly—achingly slowly—you drag it across the stage with a deliberate sway of your hips that feels more like a taunt than a dance move. The spotlight follows you as you prowl forward, your movements languid and feline.
And then comes the moment.
You slide the mic stand between your legs with a sinful grind of your hips before dropping to your knees at the very edge of the stage. The crowd gasps audibly as you lean forward on all fours, closing what little distance remains between yourself and Bang Chan. Your eyes—wide, glassy, and brimming with something almost too raw to look at—lock onto Chan’s like you're staring straight through him. It’s not just eye contact; it’s an unspoken confession wrapped in a challenge.
Backstage, Han has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from bursting into laughter. His phone trembles slightly in his hand as he zooms in on Chan’s face—frozen and flushed scarlet under the harsh spotlight.
“Oh my god,” Han whispers hoarsely to himself between muffled snickers. “He’s actually going to kill Chan.”
Chan doesn’t move. He can’t move. His brain is short-circuiting under RIOT’s relentless gaze. He feels pinned in place by those eyes—trapped in some kind of spell he doesn’t know how to break.
Meanwhile, Stray Kids are unraveling in real-time:
Changbin has buried his face in both hands like he can’t bear to witness another second of this madness.
Felix is fanning himself so vigorously it looks like he might take flight at any moment. Hyunjin teeters between fainting and launching himself onto the stage—his clenched fists trembling with unresolved tension.
Lee Know crosses his arms tightly over his chest, glaring daggers at RIOT but unable to hide the faint glimmer of reluctant admiration flickering behind his eyes.
But RIOT isn’t done with them yet—not even close.
Still on your knees, you lean further forward until half your torso dangles off the edge of the stage. your body arches back dramatically as you flip onto your back with an effortless grace that feels almost indecent in its intimacy. One arm dangles loosely over the stage’s edge while the other clutches at the mic like it’s an extension of yourself. Your head tilts back so far that strands of sweat-dampened hair cling to your face as you gaze upside-down at Chan through heavy-lidded eyes.
"SO BEG FOR ME LIKE I BEG FOR YOU—TEAR ME APART, I DON’T CARE IF IT RUINS ME TOO."
The final chorus rips out of you like a plea torn straight from your chest. Your voice cracks beautifully on the last note—a sound so raw it leaves everyone breathless.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. The crowd seems collectively stunned into stillness.
And then—the arena explodes.
Screams erupt from every corner of the venue as fans lose their minds entirely. The energy is electric, chaotic—a storm breaking loose after unbearable tension.
But RIOT doesn’t bask in it for long. Instead, you turn your head slightly toward Chan one last time and wink—a slow, deliberate motion that feels more intimate than any touch could ever be.
Before anyone can react further, the lights flicker violently—once, twice—and when they stabilize again… RIOT is gone.
The name RIOT flashes across every screen in jagged dark red letters that seem to drip like fresh blood against a stark black background. The music cuts out entirely as if signaling not just an end—but the end. The show is over.
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Chan remains frozen in place long after RIOT vanishes from sight. His mind races frantically:
What just happened? Was that real? Did anyone else notice how he looked right at me? Oh god—it was aimed at me.
Heat crawls up his neck and settles across his cheeks like wildfire as he tries—and fails—to compose himself.
Backstage, Han is doubled over laughing so hard that tears stream down his face. “Dude,” he gasps between wheezing breaths as RIOT strolls past him looking utterly unbothered by what just transpired. “You just murdered Bang Chan.”
You smirk lazily while wiping sweat off his brow with a towel slung over one shoulder. “Good,” he says nonchalantly before tossing Han a wink for good measure. “Now let’s go watch them try to recover from that.”
The arena is still buzzing with the aftermath of RIOT’s performance, the crowd’s screams echoing like a storm that refuses to settle. The screens are black now, save for the blood-red name that lingers ominously: RIOT. The lights remain dimmed, casting the venue in an eerie half-darkness as if the air itself is trying to catch its breath.
But Chan can’t breathe.
He’s still sitting in the front row, frozen like a statue, his elbows propped on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together to keep them from trembling. His face is flushed—burning—and no matter how much he wills himself to calm down, his heart won’t stop pounding in his chest. It’s deafening. He feels like everyone can hear it, like it’s betraying him in real-time.
What just happened? His mind replays the performance in fragments: RIOT’s voice cracking with raw desperation, the way he’d dropped to his knees, the way he’d looked at him. That wink—that wink. Chan swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. His throat feels dry as sandpaper.
“Hyung?” Felix’s soft voice breaks through the haze, but it only makes Chan flinch. He turns his head slightly, catching Felix’s worried expression through his peripheral vision.
The younger boy leans closer, fanning himself with one hand while clutching Chan’s arm with the other. “Are you okay? You look… uh…”
“Red,” Hyunjin finishes for him from Chan’s other side, his voice laced with disbelief and something sharp-edged that might be jealousy.
Hyunjin is slouched back in his seat, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly that his knuckles are white. His jaw is clenched as he glares daggers at the now-empty stage. “Like a tomato,” he adds flatly, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice that betrays him.
Chan doesn’t respond. He can’t even look at them. He stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, trying to piece together some kind of coherent thought amidst the chaos in his brain.
Lee Know, seated next to Hyunjin, lets out a low whistle and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well,” he says dryly, tilting his head toward Chan with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Looks like someone has a new admirer.”
At that, Chan finally snaps out of his daze—just barely—and turns to glare at Lee Know with wide eyes. “What? No! That’s not—he wasn’t—” His words trip over themselves as panic sets in again. “It wasn’t aimed at me,” he insists weakly, though even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie.
“Oh, come on,” Changbin groans from two seats down, finally lifting his head from where it had been buried in his hands for most of the performance. His face is still redder than usual, and he looks thoroughly exasperated as he gestures vaguely toward Chan. “Hyung, everyone saw it. He was basically crawling into your lap.”
“Stop!” Chan hisses, waving both hands frantically as if trying to physically push away Changbin’s words. His ears are burning now too; he can feel it.
“Honestly,” Lee Know muses aloud, tapping a finger against his chin like he’s deep in thought. “I’m impressed by how bold he was. That takes guts.”
“Or insanity,” Hyunjin mutters darkly under his breath.
Felix giggles nervously and pats Chan on the shoulder in what he probably thinks is a comforting gesture but only makes Chan sink further into mortification. “It’s okay, hyung,” Felix says cheerfully despite looking like he might faint at any moment. “It just means you’re really… uh… magnetic?”
“Magnetic?” Hyunjin echoes incredulously before scoffing and crossing one leg over the other with an exaggerated huff. “More like cursed.”
“Guys!” Chan snaps suddenly, louder than intended. The others fall silent for a moment as they all turn to look at him with varying degrees of amusement and concern. He takes a deep breath and runs both hands through his hair in frustration before slumping back against his seat with a groan. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“But hyung,” Felix starts again hesitantly before trailing off when Changbin nudges him with an elbow and shakes his head as if to say let it go.
Meanwhile, Seungmin has been sitting quietly on the far end of their row this entire time, watching everything unfold with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he speaks up in that calm yet cutting tone of his that always seems to hit its mark: “You do realize Han filmed the whole thing, right?”
Chan freezes again.
“What?” he whispers hoarsely after a long pause.
Seungmin shrugs nonchalantly and adjusts his glasses as if this isn’t groundbreaking news that threatens to ruin Chan’s life forever. “I saw him backstage,” Seungmin explains matter-of-factly. “He was laughing so hard I thought he might pass out.”
Chan groans again and buries his face in both hands this time. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” he mumbles miserably into his palms.
“You’re really not,” Seungmin agrees without missing a beat.
Before anyone can say anything else—or before Chan can spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment—the lights in the arena flicker back on fully, signaling that the show is officially over. The crowd begins to disperse slowly amidst lingering chatter about RIOT’s performance.
But Stray Kids don’t move right away.
Chan finally sits up straight again after what feels like an eternity and exhales shakily as if trying to regain some semblance of composure. He glances around at the others—at Felix’s worried smile, Changbin’s exasperation, Lee Know’s smirk, Hyunjin’s simmering irritation—and feels equal parts grateful and overwhelmed by their presence.
“Let’s just go backstage,” he mutters eventually while standing up and brushing off invisible dust from his pants as if that will somehow help him regain control of the situation.
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As they make their way out of their seats and toward backstage access, Chan can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over—not by a long shot.
And somewhere behind those curtains… Han is waiting for them with a video file and far too much glee for anyone’s comfort.
You step off the stage, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through your veins like a wild animal refusing to be tamed. The sweat-drenched shirt clings to your back, and you rip it off without hesitation, letting out a sigh of relief as the cool air hits your skin. Your eyeliner is smudged, and you can feel the makeup starting to run, but you don’t care. You’re too busy gulping down water from the bottle in your hand, trying to quench the thirst that seems to have taken over your entire being.
As you glance up, you catch sight of Stray Kids making their way backstage, their presence unmistakable even amidst the bustle of staff and performers. Your eyes immediately land on Bang Chan, and the sight nearly makes you laugh out loud. He looks like he’s seen a ghost—his face flushed a deep red, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mix of shock and something else you can’t quite place. His expression is so unguarded, so raw, that it’s almost endearing. Almost.
You feel a flicker of amusement curl at the edges of your lips. It’s clear he’s still reeling from your performance, and honestly, you can’t blame him. You’d gone all in tonight—left everything on that stage—and judging by his reaction, it had landed exactly where you wanted it to.
Han’s laughter cuts through the air before anyone else can speak. He’s leaning against a nearby table, holding up his phone triumphantly like a trophy. “Did you see their faces?” he cackles, pointing the screen toward you as he replays the footage he captured. “Oh my god, Chan looked like he was about to pass out! This is gold.”
You roll your eyes at him but can’t help smiling as you shake your head. “Put that away before you get us both in trouble,” you say lightly, though there’s no real heat behind your words. Han’s always been like this—chaotic, relentless, and utterly impossible to stay mad at.
“Trouble?” Han grins wider, clearly unbothered. “This is art, cousin. Pure art.”
The word hangs in the air for a moment before Stray Kids finally reach earshot. You straighten up slightly as they approach, wiping the sweat from your brow with the towel slung over your shoulder. Despite the exhaustion still weighing on your limbs, you force yourself to focus.
“Hey, guys,” you greet them with an easy smile, extending a hand in welcome. Your voice is calm—steady—a stark contrast to the whirlwind of energy you’d unleashed on stage just minutes ago. “I’m RIOT. Nice to meet you all properly.”
There’s a beat of silence as they process your words. Felix is the first to step forward, his signature sunshine smile breaking through the tension as he shakes your hand eagerly. “Nice to meet you too! That performance was insane,” he says with genuine enthusiasm, his Australian accent adding an extra layer of warmth to his words.
“Insane is one way to describe it,” Changbin mutters under his breath, though there’s no malice in his tone—just lingering disbelief as he glances between you and Han.
Hyunjin crosses his arms tightly over his chest, his sharp features set in an expression that hovers somewhere between intrigue and irritation. He doesn’t say anything yet but keeps his gaze locked on you like he’s trying to figure out what makes you tick.
Lee Know tilts his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable look of his that always seems just a little too knowing. “You’re… calmer than I expected,” he remarks dryly, one eyebrow quirking upward.
You chuckle softly at that and shrug. “The stage brings out a different side of me,” you reply simply.
And then there’s Chan—still standing slightly behind the others as if trying to blend into the background despite being their leader. His hands are stuffed into his pockets now, but it does nothing to hide how tense he is. When your eyes meet again, he quickly looks away, his cheeks flushing even deeper than before.
Before anyone can comment further on Chan’s obvious discomfort—or lack thereof—Han decides it’s time to drop his bombshell.
“Oh!” Han exclaims brightly, clapping a hand on your shoulder with exaggerated flair. “Did I forget to mention? We’re cousins.”
The reaction is immediate and priceless.
“Cousins?” Changbin blurts out incredulously, his jaw practically hitting the floor as he stares at Han like he’s just announced aliens are real.
Felix blinks rapidly in surprise before breaking into another grin. “Wait—you’re related? Like actual cousins?”
Hyunjin uncrosses his arms abruptly and narrows his eyes at Han suspiciously. “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?”
Lee Know just gives an amused snort and shakes his head as if this revelation somehow explains everything.
Chan looks like someone just pulled the rug out from under him entirely. His mouth opens slightly as if to say something but then closes again when no words come out. He glances between you and Han with wide eyes as though trying—and failing—to reconcile this new information with what he knows about either of you.
“Surprise,” Han says cheerfully, clearly reveling in their reactions.
You chuckle again and raise both hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged,” you say lightly before glancing back at Chan specifically. “Sorry for not mentioning it earlier.”
Chan blinks rapidly at being addressed directly and stammers something unintelligible before finally managing a faint nod. “It’s… fine,” he mumbles awkwardly, though the redness in his face suggests otherwise.
The conversation drifts into small talk after that—Felix asking about your training routine while Changbin peppers Han with questions about why he kept this secret for so long—but your attention keeps drifting back to Chan despite yourself.
He stays quiet for most of it, only chiming in occasionally with polite nods or murmured agreements when prompted by the others. But every now and then, you catch him sneaking glances at you when he thinks no one is looking.
It makes something stir inside you—a spark of curiosity mixed with mischief that refuses to be ignored.
As the group begins to relax around each other again, you find yourself wondering just how far this little game could go…
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As the others continue to pepper Han with questions, you seize the opportunity to pull Bang Chan aside, away from the chaos. Your eyes lock onto his, and with a gentle tug on his arm, you guide him a few steps away from the group. The sudden movement catches him off guard, and for a moment, he looks like he's not sure what to do with himself.
You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down his spine. "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?" The words are laced with a flirtatious undertone that you can't help but inject into every syllable.
Chan looks up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and curiosity. The flush on his cheeks deepens, and he nods slightly, his throat working to swallow. You can't help but notice the way his eyes dart around before finally settling on yours, like he's searching for an escape route that doesn't exist.
As you stand there, the air between you feels charged with tension. You let your gaze linger on his face, taking in the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, the way his lips part ever so slightly as he breathes. It's almost too much to resist.
"Hey, I wanted to check in with you," you say, your tone turning more serious, though the flirtation still simmers just beneath the surface. "Was it okay, putting you in the spotlight like that during the show?" Your eyes hold his, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress.
Chan looks puzzled, his brow furrowing slightly as he processes your question. "What do you mean? It was just a performance," he replies, his voice softer than usual, tinged with a hint of confusion.
You smile, feeling a flutter in your chest. It's hard to keep the sincerity out of your voice as you say, "I kind of admire you, Bang Chan." The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
But instead of catching the underlying tone, he takes it as admiration for his work as a producer. "Oh, thanks," he says with a slight smile, his eyes lighting up with pride. "I appreciate it."
You shake your head gently, a chuckle escaping your lips. It's almost too cute how he misinterprets your intentions. You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a whisper again. "No, Channie," you say softly, using the nickname to make it more intimate. Your hands find their way to his hips, pulling him closer so he can see the sincerity in your eyes.
"I meant every word I sang," you whisper, your breath brushing against his ear. The words are laced with a raw emotion that you can't hide anymore.
You wink at him, the gesture playful yet serious. For a moment, you just hold his gaze, letting him absorb the weight of your words. The air between you crackles with tension, and you can feel his heart racing against your fingertips.
Then, with a final glance that leaves him looking more bewildered than ever, you turn and head towards the changing room.
You knew Han and the rest of the members couldn't stay longer, they had events to go to tomorrow and it was late already. You waved them goodbye and sent a little wink towards Chan's way.
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Months later, same venue. You performed again, your favourite song to perform since last time..
You’re standing on stage, bathed in crimson light, the bassline thrumming through your chest like a second heartbeat. The crowd is a sea of hands and screams, their energy feeding yours as you move with deliberate precision—every sway of your hips, every flick of your wrist calculated to captivate. You’ve always loved this part—the way the stage transforms you, amplifies you into something larger than life. Tonight, though, there’s something different. Someone different.
Your eyes scan the crowd as you sing, and there he is. Bang Chan. Front and center in the platinum section, his face illuminated by the stage lights. He’s watching you with an intensity that sends a jolt straight down your spine. You hadn’t seen him in months—not since that night backstage when you’d left him flustered and red-faced after your little confession. You didn’t have his number, didn’t dare ask Han for it either. But here he is, and god, he looks good—better than you remembered.
You smirk mid-verse, letting your gaze linger on him before turning away with a teasing sway of your hips. The crowd roars louder at the movement, but you’re barely paying attention to them anymore. Your focus keeps drifting back to him. You point in his direction during the chorus, a subtle acknowledgment that’s anything but subtle to him. His eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as if he’s trying to breathe through the moment.
The performance builds to its climax—a whirlwind of sound and movement—and when it ends, you’re drenched in sweat but exhilarated beyond belief. The applause is deafening as you step offstage, grabbing a towel and gulping down water like it’s a lifeline. Your crew buzzes around you, but all you can think about is him.
And then you see him.
Chan stands at the edge of the backstage area, looking hesitant but determined as he waits for you to notice him. You don’t make him wait long. Setting down your water bottle, you stride over with the same confidence you had on stage.
“Platinum ticket?” you tease lightly as you approach, letting your voice drop just enough to make it feel intimate. “Didn’t know I had such dedicated fans.”
Chan’s cheeks flush immediately, just like they did last time. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and laughs softly. “I… uh… thought I’d come see how much better you’ve gotten.”
You raise an eyebrow at that, leaning in closer so he can hear you over the noise of backstage chatter. “Better? You mean I wasn’t already perfect?”
His laugh comes out more nervous this time, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest. You let yourself take him in for a moment—the way his shirt clings to his frame just right, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead—and then decide to push things further.
“You know,” you say casually, leaning against the wall beside him so your shoulder brushes his lightly, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
Chan shifts under your gaze but doesn’t move away. “I—well—I thought…” He trails off as if searching for words that won’t betray him.
You smile softly at his hesitation and decide to put him out of his misery—just a little.
“It’s been months,” you say quietly, letting some of your own vulnerability seep into your tone. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”
His eyes snap back to yours at that, and for a moment he looks almost guilty. “I wanted to,” he admits after a pause. “But… I didn’t know how.”
You nod slowly, understanding more than he probably realizes. Being an idol means living in chaos—constant schedules and expectations that leave little room for personal connections.
“Well,” you say after a beat, letting your voice turn playful again as you step closer to him—close enough that there’s barely any space between you now. “You could’ve asked Han for my number.”
Chan lets out a startled laugh at that and shakes his head quickly. “Yeah… no way.”
You chuckle along with him before letting the moment settle into something quieter again.
“I meant what I said last time,” you say softly, watching his expression shift from amusement to something more serious as he processes your words.
“What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.
You smile at him—slowly this time—and reach out to gently rest your hands on his hips before he can pull away or overthink it. The touch is light but deliberate enough to make him freeze under your fingertips.
“Channie,” you murmur, letting the nickname roll off your tongue like honey as your thumbs brush against his sides ever so slightly. “I meant every word I sang.”
His breath catches audibly at that—his eyes wide and searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or some elaborate joke.
You wink at him then—slowly, deliberately—and step back before he can respond or recover from the moment entirely.
“I’ll be in the changing room,” you say lightly over your shoulder as you walk away, leaving him standing there stunned and speechless amidst the chaos of backstage life.
And god—you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before he follows.
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That's it for now! Maybe I'll upload the next part tomorrow.. it'll be my first time writing something spicy, so don't judge me too hard!
Summary: Being a famous idol came with its own risks and threats.. Which is why Chan hired a bodyguard with experience. And a certain someone falls for the protective man.
Warnings: None
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The cold concrete floor was the last thing you remembered before everything went dark. The weight of the support beams, the searing pain in your arm and shoulder, and the deafening roar of the crowd above—it all blurred into a haze of exhaustion and agony.
When you came to, the world was a blur of fluorescent lights and muffled voices. The steady beep of a heart monitor punctuated the silence. You blinked slowly, your body heavy and unresponsive, as the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your nose.
The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the hum of machines. Sterile white walls surrounded you, and the faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. Your body felt heavy, weighed down by pain and exhaustion. Your shoulder and arm were immobilized in a sling, your ribs tightly wrapped in bandages. The fractured collarbone and bruised ribs made every breath a struggle, while the deep gash on your forearm throbbed beneath layers of stitches.
Between each visit, you were left alone with your thoughts. The silence was deafening, amplifying the turmoil inside you.
You replayed the moment under the stage—the creaking beams, the crushing weight, the sharp pain—and wondered if you could’ve done more to prevent it. You thought about how close you’d come to failing, to letting Chan’s platform collapse, to letting them down.
The guilt gnawed at you. You had protected them this time, but what about next time? What if you weren’t there? What if you weren’t strong enough?
Still, as each member entered the room, you pushed those thoughts aside. They needed comfort as much as you did.
Chan entered first, his footsteps hesitant as though he was afraid of disturbing you. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He sat down beside your bed without saying a word at first, his hand gripping yours tightly.
“You shouldn’t have done it alone,” he said finally, his voice low but firm.
You smiled weakly and reached out with your good arm to pull him into a one-armed hug.
“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied softly.
His jaw tightened as he looked away, his knuckles white from how hard he was holding your hand.
“You always put yourself on the line for us,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “But what happens if one day we lose you?”
You squeezed his hand gently. “You won’t,” you assured him.
His lips quivered as he fought back tears. “Promise me,” he whispered.
“I promise,” you said softly.
When his tears began to fall, you gently wiped them away with your free hand. He stayed for a while longer before reluctantly leaving with one last squeeze of your hand and a quiet promise: “Rest up. We need you.”
Minho entered next with his usual stoic expression, though it didn’t hide the worry in his eyes. He stood at the foot of your bed for a moment before pulling up a chair and sitting down.
“You’re an idiot,” he said bluntly, his tone sharp but trembling slightly.
You chuckled weakly despite the pain it caused. “Thanks.”
Minho shook his head and leaned forward slightly.
“You scared all of us,” he admitted quietly. “We thought… we thought we lost you.”
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m still here,” you replied softly.
His lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded quickly, blinking back tears before they could fall.
“Don’t do that again,” he muttered before standing up abruptly and leaving with a stiff nod.
Changbin burst into the room with an exaggerated sigh, trying to mask his worry with forced cheerfulness. He plopped into the chair beside your bed and crossed his arms dramatically.
“You’re really something else,” he said with mock frustration. “Always trying to be the hero.”
“Someone has to keep you guys out of trouble,” you teased weakly.
His grin faltered as his shoulders slumped slightly. “I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted quietly. “You’re always so strong… it’s hard seeing you hurt.”
You wrapped your good arm around him in a gentle hug. “I’ll be fine,” you assured him despite the pain radiating through your body.
Changbin stayed longer than most, cracking jokes and telling stories in an effort to distract both himself and you from the weight of the situation. When he finally left, he patted your shoulder gently and said with uncharacteristic seriousness, “Get better soon.”
Hyunjin hesitated at the door before walking in slowly, his usual confident demeanor replaced with visible anxiety. He sat down beside your bed but avoided meeting your gaze at first.
“I… I didn’t know if I should come in,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled softly and reached out to gently grasp his hand. “You should,” you replied softly.
Hyunjin’s lips trembled as he looked at you properly for the first time. “When I saw you collapse… I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard as tears welled up in his eyes.
You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I’m still here,” you said weakly.
Hyunjin nodded quickly, wiping at his face with his sleeve before anger flashed across his features.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said bitterly. “We should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner.”
“You couldn’t have known,” you assured him gently as you wiped away his tears with your free hand.
He stayed for a while longer before leaving with one last glance over his shoulder: “Thank you—for everything.”
Han burst into the room with tears already streaming down his face despite clearly trying to hold them back. His sobs were loud enough that a nurse peeked in briefly before leaving him be.
“Why do you always have to push yourself so hard?” he demanded through choked sobs as he stood at the foot of your bed.
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his hand, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Because someone has to,” you replied softly.
Han wiped at his face furiously but couldn’t stop crying as he sat down beside you. “You scared me so much,” he admitted shakily. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
You gently wiped away his tears with your free hand and whispered: “I’m not going anywhere.”
Han stayed until a nurse came in to check on you before reluctantly leaving after making sure everything was fine.
Felix entered carrying a small bouquet of flowers that looked slightly wilted from being clutched too tightly. His usual bright smile was nowhere to be seen; instead, his lips quivered as he sat down beside you.
“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he said shakily.
“Takes one to know one,” you replied weakly with a faint smile.
Felix’s eyes filled with tears as he reached out to hold your hand gently. “Don’t ever scare us like that again,” he whispered fiercely. “Promise me.”
You squeezed his hand reassuringly and wiped away his tears when they began falling freely down his cheeks: "I'll try."
You chatted for a bit before Felix left the room.
Seungmin entered quietly, his footsteps soft as he approached your bed. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by visible worry; his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides.
“You look terrible,” he said bluntly, though his voice trembled slightly.
You chuckled weakly despite the pain it caused. “Thanks for the honesty.”
Seungmin pulled up a chair and sat down beside you, his gaze fixed on your bandaged arm. “I was so scared,” he admitted softly after a moment of silence. “When I saw you collapse… I didn’t know what to do.”
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m okay,” you said softly.
Seungmin shook his head, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling. “You always say that,” he muttered bitterly. “But you’re not okay—you’re hurt because of us.”
“It’s not your fault,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “I did what I had to do.”
He looked away, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” he whispered.
“You’ll never have to find out,” you replied gently.
When a tear finally slipped down his cheek, you reached out with your free hand and wiped it away carefully. Seungmin stayed for a while longer, talking about how they’d all been worried sick and how they’d make sure nothing like this ever happened again. Before leaving, he squeezed your hand one last time and whispered, “Get better soon.”
Jeongin hesitated at the door for a long moment before finally stepping inside. His usual playful energy was nowhere to be seen; instead, he looked nervous and unsure as he approached your bed.
“I… I didn’t know if I should come in,” he admitted quietly.
“You should,” you said gently.
Jeongin sat down beside you but avoided meeting your gaze at first. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, and his shoulders were stiff with tension.
“It’s my fault,” he blurted suddenly, tears already streaming down his face. “If I hadn’t shown you that email… if I hadn’t panicked…”
“Stop,” you interrupted firmly despite your exhaustion. You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his trembling hand. “None of this is your fault.”
Jeongin shook his head vehemently, guilt etched deeply into his features. “But if I hadn’t told you—”
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” you said gently but firmly. “You told me about the threat so I could act.”
He sniffled and nodded silently but still looked unconvinced. You pulled him into a one-armed hug, letting him cry quietly against your shoulder.
“I thought we were going to lose you,” he whispered shakily.
“You won’t lose me,” you promised softly as you wiped away the tears streaking down his cheeks.
Jeongin stayed for a short while longer before reluctantly leaving with a promise that he’d work harder to protect everyone—including you.
As the member left, the silence returned—heavy and suffocating. You stared at the ceiling, replaying their words in your mind: “We thought we lost you.”, “You shouldn’t have done it alone.”, “You scared us.”
The guilt gnawed at you relentlessly. You had protected them this time, but what about next time? What if something happened while you weren’t there? What if this injury meant you couldn’t protect them anymore?
You clenched your good hand into a fist as frustration bubbled up inside you. You hated feeling helpless—hated being confined to this bed while they faced the world without you.
As visiting hours ended and each member left reluctantly, Felix returned later that night carrying a blanket tucked under one arm and a determined expression on his face.
“I’m not leaving tonight,” he announced firmly as he pulled up a chair beside your bed and draped himself in the blanket like armor against exhaustion.
“Felix…”
“No arguments.” His tone left no room for debate as he clasped your hand tightly again and settled in for what would be an unspoken vigil through the night—a silent promise that no matter what happened next, someone would be there when morning came again.
Felix talked softly about random things—funny rehearsal moments, inside jokes—but eventually fell quiet as fatigue caught up with him. He rested his head on the edge of your bed but kept holding onto your hand like it was a lifeline.
As sleep overtook him, you felt a small sense of relief wash over you—not just because someone was there but because Felix’s presence reminded you that even in moments of weakness, they would always have your back too.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The weeks of recovery felt endless. Every stretch in physical therapy was a battle, every movement a reminder of the beams that had crushed you. The fractured collarbone, bruised ribs, and stitched gash on your arm were constant aches that weighed on your body and mind. You couldn’t shake the guilt—the fear that next time, you might not be able to protect them.
But you pushed through.
You forced yourself to endure the pain, knowing that they were waiting for you. Their visits kept you grounded—Felix’s overnight stays, Chan’s quiet encouragement, Han’s tearful reassurances—they reminded you why you had held on so long that night.
Finally, after weeks of effort, the sling came off, the bandages were removed, and you were cleared to return to work. Walking into their dorms for the first time since the incident felt surreal.
The smell of food hit you as soon as you stepped inside—warm and inviting, a mix of grilled meat and spices that made your stomach growl despite yourself. Laughter echoed from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of plates and utensils.
“Jagae’s here!” Felix’s voice rang out as he spotted you at the door.
Before you could respond, Hyunjin appeared from around the corner with an apron tied haphazardly over his clothes. “You’re late,” he said with mock sternness, though his grin betrayed him.
“Blame traffic,” you replied dryly as he ushered you inside.
The dining table was packed with food—kimchi stew, bulgogi, japchae, rice bowls—and everyone was bustling around setting up plates and glasses. Han was trying (and failing) to balance a stack of bowls while Jeongin hurried to grab them before they fell.
“Careful!” Seungmin scolded from across the room. “We don’t need another accident.”
“I’ve got it!” Han protested just as Jeongin snatched the bowls from his hands.
Chan stood at the head of the table, directing everyone like a conductor orchestrating a symphony.
“Hyunjin, stop eating before we start,” he said without looking up as Hyunjin tried to sneak a piece of meat off the grill.
“I’m taste-testing!” Hyunjin argued indignantly.
“You’re stealing,” Minho corrected flatly as he carried a tray of drinks to the table.
You couldn’t help but smile at the chaos as Felix pulled out a chair for you. “Sit here,” he said brightly. “You’re the guest of honor tonight.”
“I’m not a guest,” you replied with a laugh as you took your seat.
“You are tonight,” Chan said firmly as he sat down at the head of the table. “This is for you.”
As everyone settled in and began serving themselves, the teasing started almost immediately.
“Hyunjin almost burned down the kitchen earlier,” Han said with a grin.
“I did not!” Hyunjin shot back, his cheeks flushing red. “It was just… slightly overcooked.”
“Overcooked?” Minho raised an eyebrow. “It looked like charcoal.”
Hyunjin glared at him but couldn’t suppress his laughter when Minho smirked triumphantly.
Between bites of food and bursts of laughter, subtle moments of gratitude emerged.
“It’s good to have you back,” Chan said quietly during a lull in conversation.
Changbin raised his glass dramatically. “A toast to Jagae—the human shield who saved us all!”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m invincible,” you joked lightly.
“You kind of are,” Felix said earnestly from across the table, his eyes shining with sincerity.
Hyunjin nodded in agreement. “You didn’t hesitate for even a second back there.”
Seungmin added softly from beside you, “You always put us first.”
Jeongin looked down at his plate but murmured quietly, “Thank you—for everything.”
Their words settled warmly in your chest, easing some of the lingering guilt that had haunted you since that night.
As dinner wound down and plates were cleared away, Chan brought out dessert—a simple cake decorated with strawberries—and placed it in front of you.
“It’s not much,” he said sheepishly, “but we wanted to celebrate your return properly.”
You stared at the cake for a moment before looking around at them—their smiles warm and genuine—and felt an overwhelming sense of belonging wash over you.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“No thanks needed,” Changbin replied with a grin. “You’re one of us now.”
As they began cutting slices of cake and arguing over who got the biggest piece, Felix leaned over and nudged your arm gently. “You okay?”
“I am now,” you replied honestly.
For the first time in weeks, you felt at peace—not just because your body was healing but because these eight people had become more than just idols under your protection. They were family.
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After dinner, the group decided to watch a horror movie together. The lights were dimmed, and the TV flickered to life, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Felix plopped down beside you on the couch, leaning comfortably against your non-injured shoulder.
“Felix, you’re going to get scared,” Han teased from across the room.
Felix grinned defiantly. “I’m not scared of anything.”
But as the movie progressed, it became clear that he was indeed scared. Every jump scare made him jump, his reactions loud and exaggerated as he clutched at your arm for comfort. The others laughed good-naturedly at his expense, but even they weren’t immune to the scares. Minho let out a startled yelp at one particularly intense scene, while Hyunjin covered his eyes during a gruesome moment.
You, however, remained calm throughout, a small smile playing on your lips as you watched the chaos unfold around you. It was almost amusing to see them all so on edge, their usual bravado replaced by nervous laughter and startled gasps.
“Jagae’s not even flinching,” Seungmin observed with a chuckle.
“Of course not,” Changbin replied dryly. “He’s the human shield. Nothing scares him.”
Felix leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not even scared, are you?”
You shook your head slightly. “Not really.”
He looked up at you with wide eyes. “How do you do it? You’re always so calm.”
You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Just experience, I guess.”
But deep down, you knew it was more than that. You had faced real danger, not just movie monsters. The memories of that night under the support beam still lingered, a reminder of what true fear felt like. This was just entertainment—a way for them to bond and have fun together.
“Thanks for being my rock,” he said softly.
You smiled back at him. “Anytime.”
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The movie had ended, but Felix hadn’t moved. He was still nestled against your chest, his soft breaths steady as he slept soundly. The others were sprawled across the dorm, recovering from the adrenaline rush of jump scares and laughter. The teasing had been relentless during the movie, but now the room had settled into a calm, almost intimate atmosphere.
“Look at him,” Han whispered with a grin, gesturing toward Felix. “He’s so comfortable he fell asleep.”
“Of course he did,” Hyunjin replied, smirking. “He’s practically glued to Jagae’s side.”
“Felix has been like that for weeks now,” Seungmin added softly, his tone thoughtful. “Always sticking close to him.”
Jeongin chuckled nervously. “It’s not just because of the movie. You’ve all seen it—he’s been acting like this since… well, since forever.”
You glanced down at Felix’s peaceful face, his cheek resting lightly against your chest, and felt a pang of warmth in your chest. His presence was comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.
Minho leaned back against the couch and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “He admires you,” he said simply, but there was a weight to his words that made everyone pause.
“Admires?” Changbin raised an eyebrow and scoffed lightly. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Yeah,” Han chimed in, his grin widening mischievously. “I think it’s more than admiration.”
Hyunjin smirked but didn’t say anything, his eyes flickering between Felix and you. The silence stretched for a moment before Jeongin spoke up hesitantly.
“He really cares about you,” he said quietly. “More than just… you know… as our protector.”
Seungmin nodded in agreement. “It’s obvious when you think about it.”
You looked around at them, their expressions ranging from amused to serious. They weren’t teasing anymore—not really. There was something genuine in their words, something they had been holding back until now.
“I know,” you said softly.
The room fell silent again as the others stared at you in shock.
You nodded and adjusted Felix gently so he wouldn’t wake up. “I picked up on it a while ago,” you admitted. “The way he looks at me, how he always tries to stay close… it wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Hyunjin blinked at you, clearly surprised. “And? What do you think about it?”
You hesitated for a moment before answering honestly. “I care about him too,” you said quietly. “He’s… special.”
The others exchanged glances, their shock giving way to understanding smiles.
“Well,” Changbin said with a grin, breaking the tension, “that explains why he’s practically glued to you all the time.”
Han snickered and leaned closer to Hyunjin. “I bet Felix would combust if he heard this right now.”
“Let him sleep,” Chan said firmly but warmly. “He deserves it after everything.”
As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, you glanced down at Felix again and couldn’t help but smile softly. His presence was comforting—not just for him but for you as well.
For now, you let him sleep peacefully against your chest while the others continued their playful banter around the room.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The dance studio was alive with energy, music blasting as the members rehearsed their choreography. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them move in perfect synchronization. It was moments like these that reminded you why you worked so hard to protect them—they were a team, a family, and you had become part of that dynamic.
You excused yourself to the bathroom, leaving them mid-discussion about a minor adjustment in their routine.
When you returned, the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The music had stopped, and the members were huddled together, their expressions tense and conflicted.
“Did something happen?” you asked as you stepped back into the room.
They turned toward you, startled by your sudden presence. Felix’s gaze dropped to the floor immediately, his shoulders slumping as though he couldn’t bear to look at you. Chan cleared his throat awkwardly but didn’t speak.
Hyunjin was the first to break the silence. “We heard… about the reassignment,” he said cautiously.
You frowned. “Reassignment?”
Seungmin nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s talk that you might be transferred to another artist.”
“Because of how well you handled everything at the event,” Changbin added bitterly. “They think you’re too good for us now.”
Your eyes widened in surprise as Jeongin muttered under his breath, “They probably want him protecting someone bigger.”
Felix finally looked up, his expression more than disappointed—it was hurt. “Are you leaving us?” he asked softly, his voice trembling.
The room fell silent again, their gazes fixed on you as they waited for an answer. You could see it in their eyes—the fear of losing someone they had come to rely on not just for protection but for support and care.
You chuckled lightly, breaking the tension in the room. Their confusion was immediate.
“What’s funny about this?” Han asked sharply, his brows furrowing.
You shook your head and stepped closer to them. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly.
Felix blinked at you, his lips parting slightly in shock. “You’re… staying?”
“I’m staying,” you repeated with a small smile. “I already told them I wasn’t interested in being reassigned.”
“But why?” Minho asked bluntly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You could have anyone—any artist—under your protection.”
You glanced around at them—their worried faces, their vulnerability laid bare—and felt warmth spread through your chest.
“Because I don’t want anyone else,” you admitted simply. “I want to stay here—with all of you.” Your gaze lingered on Felix just a little while longer.
The room erupted into a mix of relieved laughter and incredulous exclamations.
“You scared us!” Hyunjin exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air.
“I thought we were going to lose our human shield,” Changbin teased with a grin.
Felix didn’t say anything at first; instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your waist tightly. His head rested against your chest as he whispered softly, “Thank you.”
You returned the hug with one arm, careful not to strain your still-healing shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him quietly.
As Felix pulled back reluctantly, Han smirked mischievously and nudged Hyunjin with his elbow. “See? Told you Felix would combust if Jagae left.”
“Shut up!” Felix snapped half-heartedly, his cheeks flushing pink as the others laughed.
Chan stepped forward then, his expression warm but serious. “We’re glad you’re staying,” he said sincerely. “You’ve become part of this family.”
“And we’d be lost without you,” Seungmin added softly.
Jeongin nodded quickly in agreement before blurting out nervously, “Felix would definitely be lost without you.”
“Jeongin!” Felix hissed in embarrassment as laughter filled the room again.
You shook your head fondly at their antics but felt your heart swell at their words. They weren’t just teasing—they were expressing how much they valued your presence and what it meant to have someone who cared about them beyond their roles as idols.
As rehearsal resumed and the music started up again, Felix stayed close by your side, occasionally glancing at you with an expression that spoke volumes even without words. You knew now that your decision to stay had been the right one—not just for them but for yourself too.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The underground parking garage was suffocatingly quiet, the air damp and heavy as if it were holding its breath.
You stood near a concrete pillar, your posture relaxed but your senses razor-sharp. The faint hum of fluorescent lights above was punctuated by the distant drip of water echoing off the walls. You had spent weeks unraveling this web of sabotage and threats, tracing every clue back to the mastermind who had endangered Stray Kids—and tonight, you would confront him. The person you've been suspicious and wary of this whole time.
Footsteps broke the silence, deliberate and slow, each one reverberating like a countdown.
You turned toward the sound, your eyes narrowing as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. His stature was unmistakable, tall and imposing, but his smile gave him away—the unbearable smirk you’d seen countless times in meetings. It was the kind of smile that dripped with faux-innocence and sickening kindness, underlying with condescension and arrogance, but tonight it carried a flicker of unease.
“You’ve been busy,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but laced with bitterness.
You didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch as you studied him. His hand slipped into his coat pocket, and you tensed slightly but didn’t move—waiting.
“You know,” he continued, stepping closer, “you could’ve avoided all this if you’d just taken the reassignment. I even recommended you for it—personally.”
Your jaw tightened as realization crystallized. “So it was you,” you said evenly, your voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath it.
The smirk widened as he stopped a few feet away. “Of course it was me. You’re too good at your job—too inconvenient.”
“Convenient enough to protect them from you,” you shot back.
His expression darkened as he pulled out a small remote with a single red button on it. “You think you’ve won? This garage is rigged to collapse with one press of this button.”
You held his gaze steadily and replied without hesitation: “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” His voice rose slightly as he pressed the button.
Click!
.
.
Click! CLICK! CLICK!
.
.
.
Nothing happened.
The smirk faltered as he pressed it again—and again—his movements growing frantic. Panic flickered across his face as he realized his plan had failed.
“I disabled your charges an hour ago,” you said calmly, stepping closer. “You’re predictable.”
His composure shattered completely as he lunged at you in desperation. But you were ready. Side-stepping easily, you grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back before slamming him against the pillar. The remote clattered to the ground.
“It’s over,” you growled into his ear as footsteps echoed through the garage.
Security officers swarmed in moments later, their weapons drawn.
He thrashed against your grip but couldn’t break free.
“You’ll regret this!” he spat as they cuffed him and began dragging him away.
As they hauled him off into custody, you called out after him: “Goodbye, Ji-hoon.”
Your voice was steady but laced with finality—a dismissal that echoed through the garage like a closing door.
Back at Stray Kids’ dorms later that night, relief washed over you as soon as you stepped inside. The tension from earlier lingered in your chest, but seeing their familiar faces eased some of the weight pressing down on you.
Felix was the first to rush toward you, his eyes wide with worry. “Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly, scanning you for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine,” you assured him with a small smile.
The others quickly gathered around, their voices overlapping in a barrage of questions about what had happened.
“It’s over,” you said simply once they quieted down. “Ji-hoon has been arrested.”
Chan let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank God,” he muttered.
Hyunjin frowned slightly and crossed his arms. “You could’ve told us what you were doing.”
“And let you worry more than you already do?” You teased lightly before glancing at Felix, who hadn’t left your side since you walked in.
Felix’s gaze lingered on yours for a moment before he spoke softly: “I thought… I thought I- we might lose you.”
“You won’t lose me,” you replied firmly, stepping closer to him.
The room fell silent as Felix’s eyes searched yours for reassurance—and then something shifted between you both. Without thinking too much about it—without giving yourself time to second-guess—you leaned down and pressed your lips gently against his.
For a moment, Felix froze in shock before melting into the kiss, his hands tentatively resting on your chest as if afraid to hold on too tightly. When you pulled back slightly, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips parted in disbelief.
“You… You knew?” he stammered softly.
“I knew,” you admitted with a small smile. “And I feel the same way.”
Felix blinked rapidly as tears welled up in his eyes—not from sadness but from overwhelming relief and happiness. He threw his arms around your neck then, burying his face against your shoulder as he whispered shakily: “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me.”
Before either of you could say more, Han’s voice broke through: “Well that escalated quickly!”
Hyunjin snorted loudly while Changbin grinned mischievously from across the room.
“Felix finally confessed without confessing!”
“Shut up!” Felix snapped half-heartedly against your shoulder before pulling back slightly to glare at them—but his flushed cheeks betrayed how flustered he truly was.
“You’re lucky Jagae feels the same way,” Minho added dryly with a smirk.
Jeongin chimed in nervously: “We all knew anyway…”
“Wait—you all knew?” Felix asked incredulously, whipping around to face them while still clinging to your arm.
Seungmin shrugged nonchalantly but couldn’t hide his grin. “It was obvious.”
As laughter filled the room again and Felix buried his face against your chest in embarrassment, Chan stepped forward with a warm smile and clapped your shoulder lightly. “Welcome back—for real this time.”
You glanced down at Felix once more before wrapping an arm around him protectively and letting yourself relax for what felt like the first time in weeks. For now—for tonight—you were exactly where you were meant to be: by their side… by his side.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
That's the end! I stay up pretty late writing, so if there any inconsistencies are in the story, I apologize!
I regret not being on my main blog now to share this with more people, but perhaps I'll get out of my hiatus just for that.
It was very good, ny dear author. So much so that I stayed past my desired bedtime an hour longer because I couldn't stop myself from reading the next part, and that is rare for me.
The way it was written was wonderful and polished, not to mention the approach to the story. It's a romantic fic, but unlike so many others, the romance part wasn't in the spotlight. Or at least, not alone. And I miss that in fics, where the world and characters are fleshed out before we jump to the relationship part. So reading this? Felt like a breath of fresh air after being trapped in a damp basement for years.
Thank you so much for this. It means so much to me, that others thoroughly enjoy my work. I was worried that it wouldn't be liked as much because the romance is in the background. I'm grateful that you wrote such a long comment about my fic.
Also, sorry not sorry for keeping you up past your desired bedtime. 🤭
Summary: Being a famous idol came with its own risks and threats.. Which is why Chan hired a bodyguard with experience. And a certain someone falls for the protective man.
Warnings: None
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The cold concrete floor was the last thing you remembered before everything went dark. The weight of the support beams, the searing pain in your arm and shoulder, and the deafening roar of the crowd above—it all blurred into a haze of exhaustion and agony.
When you came to, the world was a blur of fluorescent lights and muffled voices. The steady beep of a heart monitor punctuated the silence. You blinked slowly, your body heavy and unresponsive, as the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your nose.
The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the hum of machines. Sterile white walls surrounded you, and the faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. Your body felt heavy, weighed down by pain and exhaustion. Your shoulder and arm were immobilized in a sling, your ribs tightly wrapped in bandages. The fractured collarbone and bruised ribs made every breath a struggle, while the deep gash on your forearm throbbed beneath layers of stitches.
Between each visit, you were left alone with your thoughts. The silence was deafening, amplifying the turmoil inside you.
You replayed the moment under the stage—the creaking beams, the crushing weight, the sharp pain—and wondered if you could’ve done more to prevent it. You thought about how close you’d come to failing, to letting Chan’s platform collapse, to letting them down.
The guilt gnawed at you. You had protected them this time, but what about next time? What if you weren’t there? What if you weren’t strong enough?
Still, as each member entered the room, you pushed those thoughts aside. They needed comfort as much as you did.
Chan entered first, his footsteps hesitant as though he was afraid of disturbing you. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He sat down beside your bed without saying a word at first, his hand gripping yours tightly.
“You shouldn’t have done it alone,” he said finally, his voice low but firm.
You smiled weakly and reached out with your good arm to pull him into a one-armed hug.
“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied softly.
His jaw tightened as he looked away, his knuckles white from how hard he was holding your hand.
“You always put yourself on the line for us,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “But what happens if one day we lose you?”
You squeezed his hand gently. “You won’t,” you assured him.
His lips quivered as he fought back tears. “Promise me,” he whispered.
“I promise,” you said softly.
When his tears began to fall, you gently wiped them away with your free hand. He stayed for a while longer before reluctantly leaving with one last squeeze of your hand and a quiet promise: “Rest up. We need you.”
Minho entered next with his usual stoic expression, though it didn’t hide the worry in his eyes. He stood at the foot of your bed for a moment before pulling up a chair and sitting down.
“You’re an idiot,” he said bluntly, his tone sharp but trembling slightly.
You chuckled weakly despite the pain it caused. “Thanks.”
Minho shook his head and leaned forward slightly.
“You scared all of us,” he admitted quietly. “We thought… we thought we lost you.”
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m still here,” you replied softly.
His lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded quickly, blinking back tears before they could fall.
“Don’t do that again,” he muttered before standing up abruptly and leaving with a stiff nod.
Changbin burst into the room with an exaggerated sigh, trying to mask his worry with forced cheerfulness. He plopped into the chair beside your bed and crossed his arms dramatically.
“You’re really something else,” he said with mock frustration. “Always trying to be the hero.”
“Someone has to keep you guys out of trouble,” you teased weakly.
His grin faltered as his shoulders slumped slightly. “I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted quietly. “You’re always so strong… it’s hard seeing you hurt.”
You wrapped your good arm around him in a gentle hug. “I’ll be fine,” you assured him despite the pain radiating through your body.
Changbin stayed longer than most, cracking jokes and telling stories in an effort to distract both himself and you from the weight of the situation. When he finally left, he patted your shoulder gently and said with uncharacteristic seriousness, “Get better soon.”
Hyunjin hesitated at the door before walking in slowly, his usual confident demeanor replaced with visible anxiety. He sat down beside your bed but avoided meeting your gaze at first.
“I… I didn’t know if I should come in,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled softly and reached out to gently grasp his hand. “You should,” you replied softly.
Hyunjin’s lips trembled as he looked at you properly for the first time. “When I saw you collapse… I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard as tears welled up in his eyes.
You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I’m still here,” you said weakly.
Hyunjin nodded quickly, wiping at his face with his sleeve before anger flashed across his features.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said bitterly. “We should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner.”
“You couldn’t have known,” you assured him gently as you wiped away his tears with your free hand.
He stayed for a while longer before leaving with one last glance over his shoulder: “Thank you—for everything.”
Han burst into the room with tears already streaming down his face despite clearly trying to hold them back. His sobs were loud enough that a nurse peeked in briefly before leaving him be.
“Why do you always have to push yourself so hard?” he demanded through choked sobs as he stood at the foot of your bed.
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his hand, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Because someone has to,” you replied softly.
Han wiped at his face furiously but couldn’t stop crying as he sat down beside you. “You scared me so much,” he admitted shakily. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
You gently wiped away his tears with your free hand and whispered: “I’m not going anywhere.”
Han stayed until a nurse came in to check on you before reluctantly leaving after making sure everything was fine.
Felix entered carrying a small bouquet of flowers that looked slightly wilted from being clutched too tightly. His usual bright smile was nowhere to be seen; instead, his lips quivered as he sat down beside you.
“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he said shakily.
“Takes one to know one,” you replied weakly with a faint smile.
Felix’s eyes filled with tears as he reached out to hold your hand gently. “Don’t ever scare us like that again,” he whispered fiercely. “Promise me.”
You squeezed his hand reassuringly and wiped away his tears when they began falling freely down his cheeks: "I'll try."
You chatted for a bit before Felix left the room.
Seungmin entered quietly, his footsteps soft as he approached your bed. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by visible worry; his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides.
“You look terrible,” he said bluntly, though his voice trembled slightly.
You chuckled weakly despite the pain it caused. “Thanks for the honesty.”
Seungmin pulled up a chair and sat down beside you, his gaze fixed on your bandaged arm. “I was so scared,” he admitted softly after a moment of silence. “When I saw you collapse… I didn’t know what to do.”
You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m okay,” you said softly.
Seungmin shook his head, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling. “You always say that,” he muttered bitterly. “But you’re not okay—you’re hurt because of us.”
“It’s not your fault,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “I did what I had to do.”
He looked away, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” he whispered.
“You’ll never have to find out,” you replied gently.
When a tear finally slipped down his cheek, you reached out with your free hand and wiped it away carefully. Seungmin stayed for a while longer, talking about how they’d all been worried sick and how they’d make sure nothing like this ever happened again. Before leaving, he squeezed your hand one last time and whispered, “Get better soon.”
Jeongin hesitated at the door for a long moment before finally stepping inside. His usual playful energy was nowhere to be seen; instead, he looked nervous and unsure as he approached your bed.
“I… I didn’t know if I should come in,” he admitted quietly.
“You should,” you said gently.
Jeongin sat down beside you but avoided meeting your gaze at first. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, and his shoulders were stiff with tension.
“It’s my fault,” he blurted suddenly, tears already streaming down his face. “If I hadn’t shown you that email… if I hadn’t panicked…”
“Stop,” you interrupted firmly despite your exhaustion. You reached out with your good hand and gently grasped his trembling hand. “None of this is your fault.”
Jeongin shook his head vehemently, guilt etched deeply into his features. “But if I hadn’t told you—”
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” you said gently but firmly. “You told me about the threat so I could act.”
He sniffled and nodded silently but still looked unconvinced. You pulled him into a one-armed hug, letting him cry quietly against your shoulder.
“I thought we were going to lose you,” he whispered shakily.
“You won’t lose me,” you promised softly as you wiped away the tears streaking down his cheeks.
Jeongin stayed for a short while longer before reluctantly leaving with a promise that he’d work harder to protect everyone—including you.
As the member left, the silence returned—heavy and suffocating. You stared at the ceiling, replaying their words in your mind: “We thought we lost you.”, “You shouldn’t have done it alone.”, “You scared us.”
The guilt gnawed at you relentlessly. You had protected them this time, but what about next time? What if something happened while you weren’t there? What if this injury meant you couldn’t protect them anymore?
You clenched your good hand into a fist as frustration bubbled up inside you. You hated feeling helpless—hated being confined to this bed while they faced the world without you.
As visiting hours ended and each member left reluctantly, Felix returned later that night carrying a blanket tucked under one arm and a determined expression on his face.
“I’m not leaving tonight,” he announced firmly as he pulled up a chair beside your bed and draped himself in the blanket like armor against exhaustion.
“Felix…”
“No arguments.” His tone left no room for debate as he clasped your hand tightly again and settled in for what would be an unspoken vigil through the night—a silent promise that no matter what happened next, someone would be there when morning came again.
Felix talked softly about random things—funny rehearsal moments, inside jokes—but eventually fell quiet as fatigue caught up with him. He rested his head on the edge of your bed but kept holding onto your hand like it was a lifeline.
As sleep overtook him, you felt a small sense of relief wash over you—not just because someone was there but because Felix’s presence reminded you that even in moments of weakness, they would always have your back too.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The weeks of recovery felt endless. Every stretch in physical therapy was a battle, every movement a reminder of the beams that had crushed you. The fractured collarbone, bruised ribs, and stitched gash on your arm were constant aches that weighed on your body and mind. You couldn’t shake the guilt—the fear that next time, you might not be able to protect them.
But you pushed through.
You forced yourself to endure the pain, knowing that they were waiting for you. Their visits kept you grounded—Felix’s overnight stays, Chan’s quiet encouragement, Han’s tearful reassurances—they reminded you why you had held on so long that night.
Finally, after weeks of effort, the sling came off, the bandages were removed, and you were cleared to return to work. Walking into their dorms for the first time since the incident felt surreal.
The smell of food hit you as soon as you stepped inside—warm and inviting, a mix of grilled meat and spices that made your stomach growl despite yourself. Laughter echoed from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of plates and utensils.
“Jagae’s here!” Felix’s voice rang out as he spotted you at the door.
Before you could respond, Hyunjin appeared from around the corner with an apron tied haphazardly over his clothes. “You’re late,” he said with mock sternness, though his grin betrayed him.
“Blame traffic,” you replied dryly as he ushered you inside.
The dining table was packed with food—kimchi stew, bulgogi, japchae, rice bowls—and everyone was bustling around setting up plates and glasses. Han was trying (and failing) to balance a stack of bowls while Jeongin hurried to grab them before they fell.
“Careful!” Seungmin scolded from across the room. “We don’t need another accident.”
“I’ve got it!” Han protested just as Jeongin snatched the bowls from his hands.
Chan stood at the head of the table, directing everyone like a conductor orchestrating a symphony.
“Hyunjin, stop eating before we start,” he said without looking up as Hyunjin tried to sneak a piece of meat off the grill.
“I’m taste-testing!” Hyunjin argued indignantly.
“You’re stealing,” Minho corrected flatly as he carried a tray of drinks to the table.
You couldn’t help but smile at the chaos as Felix pulled out a chair for you. “Sit here,” he said brightly. “You’re the guest of honor tonight.”
“I’m not a guest,” you replied with a laugh as you took your seat.
“You are tonight,” Chan said firmly as he sat down at the head of the table. “This is for you.”
As everyone settled in and began serving themselves, the teasing started almost immediately.
“Hyunjin almost burned down the kitchen earlier,” Han said with a grin.
“I did not!” Hyunjin shot back, his cheeks flushing red. “It was just… slightly overcooked.”
“Overcooked?” Minho raised an eyebrow. “It looked like charcoal.”
Hyunjin glared at him but couldn’t suppress his laughter when Minho smirked triumphantly.
Between bites of food and bursts of laughter, subtle moments of gratitude emerged.
“It’s good to have you back,” Chan said quietly during a lull in conversation.
Changbin raised his glass dramatically. “A toast to Jagae—the human shield who saved us all!”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m invincible,” you joked lightly.
“You kind of are,” Felix said earnestly from across the table, his eyes shining with sincerity.
Hyunjin nodded in agreement. “You didn’t hesitate for even a second back there.”
Seungmin added softly from beside you, “You always put us first.”
Jeongin looked down at his plate but murmured quietly, “Thank you—for everything.”
Their words settled warmly in your chest, easing some of the lingering guilt that had haunted you since that night.
As dinner wound down and plates were cleared away, Chan brought out dessert—a simple cake decorated with strawberries—and placed it in front of you.
“It’s not much,” he said sheepishly, “but we wanted to celebrate your return properly.”
You stared at the cake for a moment before looking around at them—their smiles warm and genuine—and felt an overwhelming sense of belonging wash over you.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“No thanks needed,” Changbin replied with a grin. “You’re one of us now.”
As they began cutting slices of cake and arguing over who got the biggest piece, Felix leaned over and nudged your arm gently. “You okay?”
“I am now,” you replied honestly.
For the first time in weeks, you felt at peace—not just because your body was healing but because these eight people had become more than just idols under your protection. They were family.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
After dinner, the group decided to watch a horror movie together. The lights were dimmed, and the TV flickered to life, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Felix plopped down beside you on the couch, leaning comfortably against your non-injured shoulder.
“Felix, you’re going to get scared,” Han teased from across the room.
Felix grinned defiantly. “I’m not scared of anything.”
But as the movie progressed, it became clear that he was indeed scared. Every jump scare made him jump, his reactions loud and exaggerated as he clutched at your arm for comfort. The others laughed good-naturedly at his expense, but even they weren’t immune to the scares. Minho let out a startled yelp at one particularly intense scene, while Hyunjin covered his eyes during a gruesome moment.
You, however, remained calm throughout, a small smile playing on your lips as you watched the chaos unfold around you. It was almost amusing to see them all so on edge, their usual bravado replaced by nervous laughter and startled gasps.
“Jagae’s not even flinching,” Seungmin observed with a chuckle.
“Of course not,” Changbin replied dryly. “He’s the human shield. Nothing scares him.”
Felix leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not even scared, are you?”
You shook your head slightly. “Not really.”
He looked up at you with wide eyes. “How do you do it? You’re always so calm.”
You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Just experience, I guess.”
But deep down, you knew it was more than that. You had faced real danger, not just movie monsters. The memories of that night under the support beam still lingered, a reminder of what true fear felt like. This was just entertainment—a way for them to bond and have fun together.
“Thanks for being my rock,” he said softly.
You smiled back at him. “Anytime.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The movie had ended, but Felix hadn’t moved. He was still nestled against your chest, his soft breaths steady as he slept soundly. The others were sprawled across the dorm, recovering from the adrenaline rush of jump scares and laughter. The teasing had been relentless during the movie, but now the room had settled into a calm, almost intimate atmosphere.
“Look at him,” Han whispered with a grin, gesturing toward Felix. “He’s so comfortable he fell asleep.”
“Of course he did,” Hyunjin replied, smirking. “He’s practically glued to Jagae’s side.”
“Felix has been like that for weeks now,” Seungmin added softly, his tone thoughtful. “Always sticking close to him.”
Jeongin chuckled nervously. “It’s not just because of the movie. You’ve all seen it—he’s been acting like this since… well, since forever.”
You glanced down at Felix’s peaceful face, his cheek resting lightly against your chest, and felt a pang of warmth in your chest. His presence was comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.
Minho leaned back against the couch and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “He admires you,” he said simply, but there was a weight to his words that made everyone pause.
“Admires?” Changbin raised an eyebrow and scoffed lightly. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Yeah,” Han chimed in, his grin widening mischievously. “I think it’s more than admiration.”
Hyunjin smirked but didn’t say anything, his eyes flickering between Felix and you. The silence stretched for a moment before Jeongin spoke up hesitantly.
“He really cares about you,” he said quietly. “More than just… you know… as our protector.”
Seungmin nodded in agreement. “It’s obvious when you think about it.”
You looked around at them, their expressions ranging from amused to serious. They weren’t teasing anymore—not really. There was something genuine in their words, something they had been holding back until now.
“I know,” you said softly.
The room fell silent again as the others stared at you in shock.
You nodded and adjusted Felix gently so he wouldn’t wake up. “I picked up on it a while ago,” you admitted. “The way he looks at me, how he always tries to stay close… it wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Hyunjin blinked at you, clearly surprised. “And? What do you think about it?”
You hesitated for a moment before answering honestly. “I care about him too,” you said quietly. “He’s… special.”
The others exchanged glances, their shock giving way to understanding smiles.
“Well,” Changbin said with a grin, breaking the tension, “that explains why he’s practically glued to you all the time.”
Han snickered and leaned closer to Hyunjin. “I bet Felix would combust if he heard this right now.”
“Let him sleep,” Chan said firmly but warmly. “He deserves it after everything.”
As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, you glanced down at Felix again and couldn’t help but smile softly. His presence was comforting—not just for him but for you as well.
For now, you let him sleep peacefully against your chest while the others continued their playful banter around the room.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The dance studio was alive with energy, music blasting as the members rehearsed their choreography. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them move in perfect synchronization. It was moments like these that reminded you why you worked so hard to protect them—they were a team, a family, and you had become part of that dynamic.
You excused yourself to the bathroom, leaving them mid-discussion about a minor adjustment in their routine.
When you returned, the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The music had stopped, and the members were huddled together, their expressions tense and conflicted.
“Did something happen?” you asked as you stepped back into the room.
They turned toward you, startled by your sudden presence. Felix’s gaze dropped to the floor immediately, his shoulders slumping as though he couldn’t bear to look at you. Chan cleared his throat awkwardly but didn’t speak.
Hyunjin was the first to break the silence. “We heard… about the reassignment,” he said cautiously.
You frowned. “Reassignment?”
Seungmin nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s talk that you might be transferred to another artist.”
“Because of how well you handled everything at the event,” Changbin added bitterly. “They think you’re too good for us now.”
Your eyes widened in surprise as Jeongin muttered under his breath, “They probably want him protecting someone bigger.”
Felix finally looked up, his expression more than disappointed—it was hurt. “Are you leaving us?” he asked softly, his voice trembling.
The room fell silent again, their gazes fixed on you as they waited for an answer. You could see it in their eyes—the fear of losing someone they had come to rely on not just for protection but for support and care.
You chuckled lightly, breaking the tension in the room. Their confusion was immediate.
“What’s funny about this?” Han asked sharply, his brows furrowing.
You shook your head and stepped closer to them. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly.
Felix blinked at you, his lips parting slightly in shock. “You’re… staying?”
“I’m staying,” you repeated with a small smile. “I already told them I wasn’t interested in being reassigned.”
“But why?” Minho asked bluntly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You could have anyone—any artist—under your protection.”
You glanced around at them—their worried faces, their vulnerability laid bare—and felt warmth spread through your chest.
“Because I don’t want anyone else,” you admitted simply. “I want to stay here—with all of you.” Your gaze lingered on Felix just a little while longer.
The room erupted into a mix of relieved laughter and incredulous exclamations.
“You scared us!” Hyunjin exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air.
“I thought we were going to lose our human shield,” Changbin teased with a grin.
Felix didn’t say anything at first; instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your waist tightly. His head rested against your chest as he whispered softly, “Thank you.”
You returned the hug with one arm, careful not to strain your still-healing shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him quietly.
As Felix pulled back reluctantly, Han smirked mischievously and nudged Hyunjin with his elbow. “See? Told you Felix would combust if Jagae left.”
“Shut up!” Felix snapped half-heartedly, his cheeks flushing pink as the others laughed.
Chan stepped forward then, his expression warm but serious. “We’re glad you’re staying,” he said sincerely. “You’ve become part of this family.”
“And we’d be lost without you,” Seungmin added softly.
Jeongin nodded quickly in agreement before blurting out nervously, “Felix would definitely be lost without you.”
“Jeongin!” Felix hissed in embarrassment as laughter filled the room again.
You shook your head fondly at their antics but felt your heart swell at their words. They weren’t just teasing—they were expressing how much they valued your presence and what it meant to have someone who cared about them beyond their roles as idols.
As rehearsal resumed and the music started up again, Felix stayed close by your side, occasionally glancing at you with an expression that spoke volumes even without words. You knew now that your decision to stay had been the right one—not just for them but for yourself too.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The underground parking garage was suffocatingly quiet, the air damp and heavy as if it were holding its breath.
You stood near a concrete pillar, your posture relaxed but your senses razor-sharp. The faint hum of fluorescent lights above was punctuated by the distant drip of water echoing off the walls. You had spent weeks unraveling this web of sabotage and threats, tracing every clue back to the mastermind who had endangered Stray Kids—and tonight, you would confront him. The person you've been suspicious and wary of this whole time.
Footsteps broke the silence, deliberate and slow, each one reverberating like a countdown.
You turned toward the sound, your eyes narrowing as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. His stature was unmistakable, tall and imposing, but his smile gave him away—the unbearable smirk you’d seen countless times in meetings. It was the kind of smile that dripped with faux-innocence and sickening kindness, underlying with condescension and arrogance, but tonight it carried a flicker of unease.
“You’ve been busy,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but laced with bitterness.
You didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch as you studied him. His hand slipped into his coat pocket, and you tensed slightly but didn’t move—waiting.
“You know,” he continued, stepping closer, “you could’ve avoided all this if you’d just taken the reassignment. I even recommended you for it—personally.”
Your jaw tightened as realization crystallized. “So it was you,” you said evenly, your voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath it.
The smirk widened as he stopped a few feet away. “Of course it was me. You’re too good at your job—too inconvenient.”
“Convenient enough to protect them from you,” you shot back.
His expression darkened as he pulled out a small remote with a single red button on it. “You think you’ve won? This garage is rigged to collapse with one press of this button.”
You held his gaze steadily and replied without hesitation: “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” His voice rose slightly as he pressed the button.
Click!
.
.
Click! CLICK! CLICK!
.
.
.
Nothing happened.
The smirk faltered as he pressed it again—and again—his movements growing frantic. Panic flickered across his face as he realized his plan had failed.
“I disabled your charges an hour ago,” you said calmly, stepping closer. “You’re predictable.”
His composure shattered completely as he lunged at you in desperation. But you were ready. Side-stepping easily, you grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back before slamming him against the pillar. The remote clattered to the ground.
“It’s over,” you growled into his ear as footsteps echoed through the garage.
Security officers swarmed in moments later, their weapons drawn.
He thrashed against your grip but couldn’t break free.
“You’ll regret this!” he spat as they cuffed him and began dragging him away.
As they hauled him off into custody, you called out after him: “Goodbye, Ji-hoon.”
Your voice was steady but laced with finality—a dismissal that echoed through the garage like a closing door.
Back at Stray Kids’ dorms later that night, relief washed over you as soon as you stepped inside. The tension from earlier lingered in your chest, but seeing their familiar faces eased some of the weight pressing down on you.
Felix was the first to rush toward you, his eyes wide with worry. “Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly, scanning you for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine,” you assured him with a small smile.
The others quickly gathered around, their voices overlapping in a barrage of questions about what had happened.
“It’s over,” you said simply once they quieted down. “Ji-hoon has been arrested.”
Chan let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank God,” he muttered.
Hyunjin frowned slightly and crossed his arms. “You could’ve told us what you were doing.”
“And let you worry more than you already do?” You teased lightly before glancing at Felix, who hadn’t left your side since you walked in.
Felix’s gaze lingered on yours for a moment before he spoke softly: “I thought… I thought I- we might lose you.”
“You won’t lose me,” you replied firmly, stepping closer to him.
The room fell silent as Felix’s eyes searched yours for reassurance—and then something shifted between you both. Without thinking too much about it—without giving yourself time to second-guess—you leaned down and pressed your lips gently against his.
For a moment, Felix froze in shock before melting into the kiss, his hands tentatively resting on your chest as if afraid to hold on too tightly. When you pulled back slightly, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips parted in disbelief.
“You… You knew?” he stammered softly.
“I knew,” you admitted with a small smile. “And I feel the same way.”
Felix blinked rapidly as tears welled up in his eyes—not from sadness but from overwhelming relief and happiness. He threw his arms around your neck then, burying his face against your shoulder as he whispered shakily: “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me.”
Before either of you could say more, Han’s voice broke through: “Well that escalated quickly!”
Hyunjin snorted loudly while Changbin grinned mischievously from across the room.
“Felix finally confessed without confessing!”
“Shut up!” Felix snapped half-heartedly against your shoulder before pulling back slightly to glare at them—but his flushed cheeks betrayed how flustered he truly was.
“You’re lucky Jagae feels the same way,” Minho added dryly with a smirk.
Jeongin chimed in nervously: “We all knew anyway…”
“Wait—you all knew?” Felix asked incredulously, whipping around to face them while still clinging to your arm.
Seungmin shrugged nonchalantly but couldn’t hide his grin. “It was obvious.”
As laughter filled the room again and Felix buried his face against your chest in embarrassment, Chan stepped forward with a warm smile and clapped your shoulder lightly. “Welcome back—for real this time.”
You glanced down at Felix once more before wrapping an arm around him protectively and letting yourself relax for what felt like the first time in weeks. For now—for tonight—you were exactly where you were meant to be: by their side… by his side.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
That's the end! I stay up pretty late writing, so if there any inconsistencies are in the story, I apologize!
Summary: Being a famous idol came with its own risks and threats.. Which is why Chan hired a bodyguard with experience. And a certain someone falls for the protective man.
Warnings: Threats, stalking, blood, breaking of bones, falling into unconsciousness
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It had been a few days since your conversation with Hyunjin in the courtyard. The dorm had settled into its usual rhythm, with the members going about their busy schedules.
You’d spent the morning accompanying Felix and Changbin to a photoshoot, but by evening, you found yourself in the kitchen again.
Han was there, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and an annoyed expression on his face. He wasn’t scrolling through his phone like usual—this time, he was glaring at a stack of papers on the counter.
The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator as Han leaned against the counter, his arms crossed and an annoyed expression on his face. He wasn’t scrolling through his phone like usual—this time, he was glaring at a stack of papers on the counter.
“Everything alright?” you asked casually as you stepped into the room.
Han glanced up at you, his annoyance evident in the sharpness of his tone. “Define ‘alright,’” he muttered before gesturing toward the papers. “Because dealing with this? Not it.”
You moved closer and glanced at the papers he was gesturing toward. They seemed to be schedules and notes from staff—plans for upcoming events, rehearsals, and promotional activities.
“What’s wrong with them?” you asked evenly.
Han groaned and grabbed a smoothie from the fridge. “What’s not wrong with them?” he replied bitterly. “It’s like they don’t even think about us when they make these plans.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “How so?”
He sighed dramatically and leaned back against the counter.
“Look at this,” he said, flipping through one of the pages. “Three back-to-back rehearsals, followed by interviews and then some random event we’re supposed to attend—all in one day.” He shook his head in frustration. “Do they think we’re robots or something?”
You nodded slowly but didn’t interrupt.
“I mean, I get it—it comes with the job,” Han continued, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “But sometimes it’s just… exhausting, you know? Like we can never just exist without being picked apart.”
“It sounds like you’re carrying more than just annoyance,” you said gently.
Han sighed and ran a hand through his hair again before offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe,” he admitted quietly.
You leaned against the counter beside him and crossed your arms. “I’ll talk to the staff about it,” you said calmly. “See if we can adjust the schedule a bit.”
Han looked at you skeptically but didn’t dismiss the idea outright.
“Thanks,” he said softly after a moment.
You nodded and straightened up from the counter. “I’ll make sure they understand that you’re not just machines,” you added firmly.
Han chuckled faintly at that but nodded in appreciation.
As you turned to leave, he called out after you, “Hey, Jagae?”
You turned back to him. “Yeah?”
“Be a scary hound dog when you talk to them,” he said with a grin. “Make them tremble with fear.”
You smirked at him. “I’ll try my best,” you replied dryly.
Han laughed at that and shook his head before adding more seriously, “Especially Ji-hoon. He’s always poking his nose into everything, acting like he’s the only one who knows what’s best for us.”
You raised an eyebrow slightly at the mention of Ji-hood, sensing that Han’s frustration might be more directed at him than you initially thought.
“Don’t worry,” you reassured him. “I’ll make sure he understands that you’re not just machines.”
Han nodded, seeming to relax slightly at your words.
As you watched him head toward the living room, you couldn’t help but notice Ji-hoon lingering nearby, trying to appear nonchalant but listening in on your conversation. His eyes flicked between you and Han before he quickly looked away, pretending to check his phone.
You picked up on the subtle nosiness immediately. Han’s earlier complaints about staff seemed to take on a new light—specifically, his annoyance might be directed at someone like Ji-hoon, who always seemed to be around at the most convenient times.
You made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Ji-hoon’s behavior, wondering if there was more to his constant presence than met the eye.
Han’s laughter faded as he left the kitchen, leaving behind the faint hum of the refrigerator and the quiet rustle of papers on the counter. You were about to leave when Felix appeared in the doorway, his arms full of baking supplies and his face lit up with excitement.
“Jagae!” Felix called out brightly. “Perfect timing! I was just about to start baking. Want to join me?”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Baking? What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Felix replied with a grin, setting down a mixing bowl and a bag of flour on the counter. “I just felt like making something sweet. Besides…” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I heard you’re pretty good in the kitchen.”
You chuckled softly and stepped closer. “I wouldn’t go that far,” you said dryly. “But I can follow instructions.”
“That’s all I need!” Felix declared, handing you a whisk. “We’re making cookies.”
Felix moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, humming softly as he pulled ingredients from cupboards and drawers. His energy was contagious, and soon you found yourself whisking eggs and measuring sugar alongside him.
“So,” Felix began as he sifted flour into the bowl, “what’s your favorite dessert?”
“Apple pie,” you replied after a moment’s thought. “Simple but classic.”
Felix gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if you’d just confessed something scandalous. “Apple pie? That’s so wholesome! I should’ve guessed.”
You smirked at his theatrics. “What about you?”
“Brownies,” he said without hesitation. “Chewy, gooey brownies with lots of chocolate chips.”
“Noted,” you said with a nod. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
Felix grinned at that before turning his attention back to the dough you were mixing together. As you worked, he began sharing stories from his childhood in Australia—his favorite beaches, how he learned to bake with his mom, and the little traditions he missed.
“You know,” Felix said as he carefully cracked an egg into the bowl, “my mom used to bake cookies every Sunday when I was little. It became our tradition.”
“That sounds nice,” you said sincerely.
“It was,” Felix replied with a nostalgic smile. “She’d let me help mix the dough—even though I’d usually make a mess—and then we’d sit together and eat them fresh out of the oven.”
You nodded thoughtfully as he spoke, appreciating how open he was being.
“What about you?” Felix asked suddenly, turning his attention to you. “Any family traditions?”
You hesitated for a moment before replying carefully. “Not really,” you admitted. “But my friends and I used to have this thing where we’d race our bikes through this old dirt trail near my house. It wasn’t much of a tradition, but it was ours.”
Felix’s eyes lit up at that. “That sounds fun! Did you ever win?”
“Once or twice,” you said with a faint smile. “But mostly I just tried not to crash... I failed to even do that once.”
Felix laughed at that, his warm energy filling the room.
As the cookies were baking in the oven, Felix reached into his pocket and pulled out a small figurine—a tiny kangaroo crafted with intricate details.
“Look at this,” he said, holding it up for you to see. “One of the staff gave it to me recently. They said it reminded them of me and Chan—because we’re both Aussies.”
You studied the figurine for a moment before commenting casually, “That’s... pretty personal for a staff member.”
Felix nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I thought so too,” he admitted. “But it was sweet of them, right?”
“Do they give gifts like this often?” you asked lightly.
“Not really,” Felix said after a pause, furrowing his brow slightly as he seemed to consider your question more seriously. “Now that I think about it… it was kind of out of nowhere.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “But they seemed genuine when they gave it to me.”
You nodded thoughtfully but made a mental note of the detail—it wasn’t just Ji-hoon’s nosiness that was raising red flags now; this oddly personal gift felt like another piece of an increasingly strange puzzle.
With everything cleaned up and the cookies baking in the oven, Felix leaned against the counter beside you.
“What do you think makes someone trustworthy?” Felix asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.
The question caught you off guard for a moment before you replied carefully. “Consistency,” you said simply. “Actions speak louder than words.”
Felix nodded slowly at that but didn’t reply immediately.
“You’re consistent,” he said after a pause, his tone soft but sincere.
You glanced at him briefly but didn’t respond right away.
“I mean it,” Felix continued earnestly. “You’ve been here for us—watching out for us—and it feels... safe having you around.”
You smiled faintly at that but kept your tone light as you replied, “That’s my job.”
Felix grinned at your response before stepping closer to stand directly in front of you.
Without warning but with complete ease, Felix wrapped his arms around your waist in a quick hug before leaning against your shoulder slightly.
“Thanks for being here,” he murmured.
You hesitated briefly before patting his back gently in return. The warmth of his gesture caught you off guard but felt genuine—a rare moment of vulnerability from someone who always seemed so cheerful.
The timer went off then, breaking the moment as Felix pulled away with an embarrassed laugh.
“Cookies are ready!” he announced brightly, quickly grabbing an oven mitt to pull them out.
As he placed them on a cooling rack and handed one to you to try, he added with a grin: "Next time we bake brownies."
Before you could take a bite out of the cookie, Felix smiled and with a mischievous glint in his eye, shoved it into your mouth. You allowed it, the sweetness and warmth of the cookie filling your senses as Felix laughed at your reaction.
“Good, right?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
You nodded, still chewing, and smiled at him.
The two of you stood there together in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the cookies and each other’s company.
The warmth of the kitchen lingered as Felix finished tidying up, his laughter still echoing faintly in your ears. The cookies had turned out perfectly, and the shared moment of baking had been a rare reprieve from the otherwise busy and chaotic schedule. Felix had left with a plate of cookies in hand, heading to share them with the others.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Days passed, and the group’s schedule became even more hectic as they prepared for their fifth official fan meeting, 'SKZ 5'CLOCK'. The event was a whirlwind of performances, games, and fan interactions, with each member showcasing their talents in unique ways.
On one of the breaks during the fan meeting, you found yourself standing near the backstage area, keeping a discreet eye on the members as they took short breaks between performances. Seungmin appeared beside you, his expression calm but slightly worn from the non-stop activity.
Seungmin leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the bustling backstage area before focusing on you.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper over the din of the crowd and the sound checks happening nearby.
You nodded at him. “Hey.”
Seungmin took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he let out a slow exhale. “It’s crazy how fast these events go by,” he remarked, his gaze drifting toward the stage where the other members were preparing for the next segment.
You agreed silently, watching as he composed himself for the next performance.
“Have you ever had to protect someone under... intense public scrutiny before?” Seungmin asked suddenly, his tone curious but laced with a hint of concern.
The question caught you off guard for a moment before you replied carefully. “I have,” you admitted. “It comes with its challenges.”
“Like what?” Seungmin pressed gently.
You considered your words for a moment before answering. “Balancing visibility and discretion,” you said finally. “Being close enough to step in if needed but not so close that it disrupts their life or draws attention.”
Seungmin nodded thoughtfully at that. “That sounds... complicated.”
“It can be,” you agreed. “But it’s about adapting to their needs and understanding what makes them feel safe.”
Seungmin seemed to mull that over for a moment before speaking again. “What about handling pressure?” he asked quietly. “How do you deal with it when everyone’s watching?”
You met his gaze, sensing that this question was more personal than professional. “Pressure is inevitable,” you said after a pause. “But it helps to focus on what you can control—your actions, your responses—not what others expect or think.”
Seungmin’s lips quirked into a faint smile at that. “That’s easier said than done,” he remarked.
“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth trying.”
For a moment, there was silence between you as Seungmin seemed lost in thought.
“Do you ever miss being out of the spotlight?” he asked suddenly.
You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not really in the spotlight,” you pointed out.
Seungmin chuckled softly. “You know what I mean,” he said with a small smile. “Before this—before working with us—didn’t things feel... simpler?
You hesitated briefly before replying honestly. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I like what I do now—helping people stay safe.”
Seungmin nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful again.
“What about you?” you asked after a moment. “How do you handle being under constant scrutiny?”
Seungmin let out a soft sigh and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I try not to think about it most of the time,” he said quietly. “But there are moments when it feels... overwhelming.”
He paused before adding softly, “Like no matter what I do, someone’s always watching—waiting for me to mess up.”
“That’s not an easy weight to carry,” you said gently.
“No,” Seungmin agreed with a faint smile. “But I guess it comes with the territory.”
“It does,” you acknowledged. “But it doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”
Seungmin looked at you then, his gaze steady but warm. “Thanks,” he said simply.
The quiet between you felt less heavy now—more reflective than tense—as Seungmin straightened up and pushed off the wall.
“You’re good at this,” he remarked casually as he headed back toward the stage.
“At what?” you asked curiously.
“Listening,” Seungmin replied with a small smile before disappearing into the crowd of staff and performers.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The rehearsal room buzzed with activity. Music blared from the speakers as the members practiced their choreography, their movements sharp and synchronized despite the sweat dripping down their brows. You stood near the wall, your gaze sweeping across the room. It was your usual spot—close enough to intervene if needed, but far enough to remain unobtrusive.
Jeongin had been particularly lively today, his youthful energy shining through as he nailed each move with precision.
But during a short water break, his demeanor shifted.
He sat in a corner, scrolling through his phone, when suddenly his face went pale.
His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the screen.
“Jagae,” he called quietly, his voice tight with panic. He stood and walked toward you, clutching his phone like it might slip away.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so no one else could hear. “What’s wrong?”
Jeongin handed you his phone without a word. The screen displayed an email from an unknown sender: “Protect your leader.” The subject line was blank, and the sender’s address was nothing more than a string of random characters.
Your eyes narrowed as you read it. “Did you open anything suspicious recently? Click on any weird links?”
“No!” Jeongin whispered fiercely. “I don’t even know how this got here.”
Before you could respond, movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention. Near the emergency exit at the back of the room, a figure in staff attire slipped out quickly and quietly. Their hurried steps didn’t match the casual pace of everyone else in the room.
“Stay here,” you told Jeongin firmly, handing him back his phone before moving toward the door.
You pushed it open and stepped into the hallway beyond, but whoever had been there was already gone. The corridor was empty except for faint echoes of footsteps disappearing around a corner.
When you returned to Jeongin moments later, he was still standing where you’d left him, his face pale and worried.
“They’re gone,” you said quietly. “But I need you to stay alert—and don’t tell anyone else about this yet.”
Jeongin nodded hesitantly, clutching his phone tightly like it might shield him from whatever threat loomed.
“We’ll figure this out,” you assured him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “But for now, focus on rehearsal.”
As practice resumed, Jeongin rejoined the others on the dance floor with a visible effort to appear normal. You stayed close by, scanning every face and corner of the room for anything out of place.
During another break, Changbin wandered over to a nearby table where someone had left a deck of playing cards. He picked them up with a grin and fanned them out clumsily in his hands.
“Hey, Jagae!” he called out loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Check this out!” He attempted what looked like an overhand shuffle but ended up spilling half the cards onto the floor.
Hyunjin snickered from across the room. “What are you even trying to do? That’s embarrassing.”
Changbin laughed at himself and waved you over. “Come on! Jagae, can you do any better?”
You smirked and took the deck from him, squaring it neatly with three sharp taps against your palm. “Watch closely.”
Holding half the deck in each hand, you arched both stacks inward with your thumbs resting along their edges. With a quick motion, you released the cards in alternating cascades, letting them interweave perfectly before bridging them together with a satisfying snap.
Changbin’s jaw dropped. “Okay, that was cool.”
Hyunjin leaned closer with interest. “Can you do more?”
Without answering directly, you moved into another trick.
Palming the deck in your left hand, you used your thumb to split it midair while spinning one half between your fingers before landing it neatly atop the other half—all in one fluid motion.
Felix clapped enthusiastically from where he sat on the floor.
“That was awesome! Where’d you learn that?”
“Old habit,” you replied casually as you shuffled again.
Plucking a single card—the ace of spades—from the deck, you held it up between two fingers for everyone to see. With a quick flick of your wrist, it seemed to dissolve into thin air before reappearing moments later behind Changbin’s ear.
“What?!” Changbin exclaimed, laughing as he grabbed at his ear in disbelief.
The group gathered around now, intrigued by your skills. Even Jeongin seemed momentarily distracted from his earlier worry as he watched intently.
Finally, gripping the deck at both ends, you compressed it slightly before releasing a waterfall of cards that snapped from one hand to the other in a glittering arc. The worn edges of the cards glinted under the studio lights as they cascaded smoothly between your fingers.
Hyunjin tried—and failed—to replicate it immediately after. The cards flew everywhere as Felix doubled over laughing.
“You make it look so easy,” Hyunjin grumbled good-naturedly as he bent down to pick up stray cards.
“It’s all about practice,” you said with a faint smile before tossing him the deck again. “Your turn.”
While Hyunjin and Changbin continued attempting tricks (with varying degrees of success), Jeongin approached you quietly again.
“Can we talk?” he asked softly.
You nodded and gestured for him to follow you toward a quieter corner near the restrooms. Once inside, Jeongin leaned against one of the sinks while clutching his phone tightly.
“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Why would someone send me something like that?”
You leaned against the wall opposite him and crossed your arms.
“Sometimes people send threats just to scare others,” you explained calmly. “It doesn’t mean they’ll act on it.”
Jeongin frowned deeply but didn’t reply immediately.
“You’re safe here,” you added firmly. “That’s why I’m here—to make sure nothing happens.”
He nodded slowly but still looked unconvinced.
“Don’t let this email get into your head,” you continued gently but firmly. “Whoever sent it wants to rattle you—but they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
Jeongin let out a small laugh at that despite himself, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the sink.
“Thanks,” he murmured before splashing some water on his face and rejoining practice with renewed focus.
Then a few days later, there was a massive event, thousands of SKZ fans there.
The venue throbbed with energy, fans screaming lyrics as Chan took center stage. You stood at the soundboard, eyes tracking every movement in the crowd. Then your phone buzzed—a photo of Chan's mic stand with the timestamp NOW and a message: "He'll fall harder than ever before."
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The promotional event was in full swing, the stage a dazzling spectacle of lights and energy as Stray Kids performed their hit "S-Class."
The crowd roared, their chants blending with the pounding bass of the music.
Backstage, you stood on high alert, scanning the monitors and listening to your comms. Everything seemed to be running smoothly—until the voice crackled through your earpiece.
“Unusual activity at Stage Right support beams,” a security team member reported urgently.
Your stomach dropped. You quickly pulled up the live feed on your tablet and froze. A figure crouched near one of the I-beam supports, dressed in staff attire but tampering with the structure. They were unscrewing bolts.
“Shadow Team, Stage Right,” you barked into your mic. “Secure hydraulics and isolate suspect.”
You sprinted toward the area, weaving through cables and crew members. The music thundered around you, masking the faint sound of metal scraping against metal. As you reached the beams, your heart sank—the saboteur had already loosened several bolts.
The structure swayed ominously under the weight of Chan’s platform as he stepped onto it for his solo performance.
The saboteur glanced at you briefly before bolting into the chaos backstage. You hesitated for a split second—chase them or stabilize the beam? The decision was made for you as the platform above groaned loudly, threatening to collapse.
Without hesitation, you dove under the stage and grabbed one of the loosened beams with both hands.
The cold steel bit into your palms as you braced yourself against it, using every ounce of strength to keep it steady.
“Code Red!” you shouted into your comms, panic creeping into your voice. “Stage Right support compromised! Immediate backup required!”
Above you, Chan performed his solo choreography flawlessly, unaware of the danger beneath his feet. The platform swayed with every step he took, each movement sending vibrations down the beam that rattled through your arms.
Your breathing quickened as fear clawed at your chest.
It’s going to fall, a voice screamed in your head.
I can’t hold this much longer.
Sweat poured down your face as your muscles burned from exertion.
The music transitioned into "Levanter," signaling the encore performance. Fans screamed louder as Chan’s platform began its ascent for his climactic backflip. The creaking grew louder—a sharp metallic groan that pierced through the noise like a warning bell.
You adjusted your stance desperately, wedging one foot against another support to counteract the shifting weight above. But as you shifted slightly for better leverage, your foot slipped on a patch of grease.
The beam lurched forward violently, and before you could react, another loosened beam above shifted downward—crushing against your shoulder and pinning you in place.
Pain exploded through your body like fire. You screamed involuntarily. The weight bore down on you. It pressed harder with every movement above.
Blood trickled down from where sharp edges had torn into your arm and shoulder.
Through blurred vision, you saw Felix glance toward Stage Right mid-performance. His eyes flickered with realization as he noticed something was wrong. Without missing a beat, he launched into an improvised solo sequence—a dramatic blend of sharp arm movements and stomping footwork that drew attention away from Chan’s platform.
The crowd roared in approval, oblivious to what was happening beneath their feet. Felix’s movements were precise and commanding—each stomp masking the creaks and groans from below as you fought to keep the structure intact.
“Felix,” you gasped into your mic, barely able to form words through the pain. “Keep going… don’t stop…”
Backup security finally arrived just as Felix finished his sequence and transitioned seamlessly back into choreography with Hyunjin.
Two guards rushed to secure the loosened bolts while another team pursued the saboteur backstage.
Through sheer willpower, you held on until one of them radioed back: “Suspect detained.” But the description that followed, didn't line up with the person you thought was behind this. But you couldn't think about that.
Relief flooded through you—but it was short-lived as another surge of pain wracked your body. Your arms gave out momentarily before backup reinforced the beams completely.
As Stray Kids lined up at the edge of the stage for their bow, Chan’s platform finally stabilized enough for him to step off safely—but only because you refused to let go despite being pinned under crushing weight.
The lights dimmed for their exit, and with all immediate danger resolved, adrenaline drained from your body like water through a sieve. Your vision darkened at the edges as dizziness overtook everything else.
You barely registered someone shouting your name before collapsing onto the cold concrete floor beneath the stage.
When you opened your eyes again, bright lights flooded your vision—medical personnel surrounded you while Chan knelt beside you, gripping your hand tightly.
“You held everything together,” he said softly, his voice shaking slightly despite his calm demeanor.
You tried to speak but couldn’t muster anything beyond a faint whisper.
Pain radiated from every part of your body where steel had pressed against flesh and bone.
“You’re being taken to a hospital,” Felix said quietly from beside Chan. His usual cheer was gone, replaced by worry etched deep into his features.
“No…” you croaked weakly. “I need… to stay…”
Chan shook his head firmly as paramedics lifted you onto a stretcher. “You’ve done enough,” he said gently but firmly. “We’ll handle things from here.”
As they wheeled you away from Stray Kids’ backstage area toward an ambulance waiting outside, tears pricked at your eyes—not from pain but from leaving them behind when they still needed protection most.
The last thing you saw before losing consciousness again was Chan standing resolutely at the entrance to the corridor—watching over everything in your absence.
Summary: Being a famous idol came with its own risks and threats.. Which is why Chan hired a bodyguard with experience. And a certain someone falls for the protective man.
Felix x Ex-military! Male! Bodyguard! Reader
Warnings: stalking, paranoia
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The rhythmic sound of your polished boots echoed through the marble-floored lobby of JYP Entertainment’s headquarters. You adjusted the strap of your tactical duffel bag slung over your shoulder, the weight familiar and grounding. The receptionist had directed you to a private conference room on the top floor, where Bang Chan and the company’s management were waiting. You were used to high-pressure environments, but this was different—less battlefield, more boardroom. Still, you knew better than to let unfamiliar territory shake your composure.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a sleek hallway lined with framed posters of Stray Kids and other JYP artists. You stepped out, scanning the area instinctively. Old habits die hard. Your military training had conditioned you to assess every space for potential threats—exit points, blind spots, anything that could compromise safety.
At the end of the hallway stood a set of frosted glass doors. You pushed them open and entered the room. A group of people turned to look at you. Sitting at the head of the table was Bang Chan himself, his signature curly hair slightly tousled, his expression a mix of curiosity and exhaustion. He looked smaller in person than he did on stage, but there was an undeniable presence about him—a quiet strength that demanded respect without asking for it.
“Ah, you must be…” Chan began, standing up and extending his hand toward you.
You introduce yourself, shaking his hand firmly. “But you can call me Jagae."
Chan’s grip was strong but unassuming, his eyes studying you with genuine interest rather than suspicion. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
You nodded once, keeping your tone professional. “I read the briefing on my way here. Threats against your safety have escalated recently?”
Chan exchanged a glance with one of the managers seated beside him—a middle-aged man in a tailored suit who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The manager cleared his throat and spoke up.
“We’ve been receiving anonymous messages targeting Chan specifically. They started as vague threats but have become increasingly detailed—mentioning concert venues, rehearsal times, even his daily schedule.”
You frowned slightly but kept your expression neutral. “And no leads on who’s behind them?”
The manager shook his head grimly. “None so far. We’ve tightened security at events and hired additional personnel for the building, but we need someone experienced to watch over him.”
Chan leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “I don’t want this affecting the group,” he said quietly but firmly. “We’re in the middle of preparing for our comeback, and I can’t let this derail everything we’ve worked for.”
His words struck a chord with you—not because you understood K-pop or comebacks (you didn’t exactly research this type of industry beforehand), but because you recognized that unwavering sense of responsibility. It reminded you of your own time in the military—the weight of leading others while trying to shield them from harm.
“I’ll do my job without interfering with yours,” you assured him. “My priority is your safety, but I’ll make sure my presence doesn’t disrupt your work or your team.”
Chan nodded slowly, seeming satisfied with your answer.
“Good,” he said simply.
The manager gestured toward an empty chair at the table. “We’ve prepared a detailed itinerary for Chan’s schedule over the next few weeks,” he explained as you sat down and began flipping through the folder they handed you.
Concert rehearsals, recording sessions, promotional events—it was a packed calendar with little room for downtime. You’d have to be vigilant; threats like these often escalated during public appearances when security was stretched thin.
As you studied the itinerary, Chan spoke again.
“Have you ever worked in entertainment before?” he asked curiously.
You looked up from the folder and shook your head. “No,” you admitted honestly. “But I’ve protected people in far less predictable environments.”
Chan smiled faintly at that—a subtle but genuine expression that hinted at his trust in your abilities despite your unfamiliarity with his world.
“Well,” he said lightly, “welcome to chaos.”
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The meeting wrapped up shortly after that, and as you followed Chan out of the conference room toward his rehearsal studio, you couldn’t help but notice how easily he carried himself despite everything weighing on him—the threats, the pressure of leading Stray Kids through their comeback, and now having a stranger shadowing his every move.
You didn’t know much about K-pop yet or what it meant to be an idol in this industry, but one thing was clear: Bang Chan wasn’t just someone worth protecting—he was someone worth respecting.
You two walked down to the studio, you trailing behind Chan with your guard up.
The rehearsal studio was buzzing with energy as Stray Kids warmed up for their choreography practice. Music pulsed through the speakers, sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, and laughter echoed as the members playfully teased each other between stretches. Bang Chan stood near the entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the room. Despite his usual warmth, there was a seriousness in his demeanor today.
“Alright, everyone,” Chan called out, clapping his hands to get their attention. The music faded as Hyunjin reached over to pause it, and the group gathered around him. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
You stepped into the room behind him, your posture straight and professional. The members’ chatter quieted as they turned to look at you, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
“This is Jagae,” Chan said with a small smile. “He’s going to be working with us for a while as my bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” Changbin asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
Chan hesitated for a moment before replying carefully, “It’s just precautionary. You know how things can get… intense sometimes.”
The group exchanged glances but didn’t press further. You nodded politely toward them, keeping your tone steady but approachable. “It’s nice to meet you all. I’ll do my best to make sure everything runs smoothly for you.”
Felix stepped forward first, his signature warm smile lighting up his face. “Welcome! It’s good to have someone looking out for Chan.” He extended a hand, which you shook firmly.
Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, studying you with an artist’s curiosity. “You don’t look like the typical security type,” he remarked bluntly.
You smirked faintly at that. “I’m not your average security guard.”
Lee Know crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes playfully. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered under his breath, earning a laugh from Han.
As introductions continued, Chan watched closely, gauging how the members were reacting to your presence. Despite their initial surprise, they seemed accepting enough—though Lee Know and Han’s teasing hinted at some skepticism.
“Alright,” Chan said finally, clapping his hands again. “Let’s get back to practice. Jagae will be observing today, so don’t mind him.”
The group dispersed back into their positions as the music resumed. You positioned yourself near the wall, scanning the room instinctively for blind spots and potential vulnerabilities while keeping an eye on Chan.
As practice went on, you couldn’t help but notice Ji-hoon—the assistant manager—hovering near the doorframe with a clipboard in hand. He smiled warmly when he caught your eye and gave a small wave before disappearing down the hall. Something about him seemed overly attentive—helpful almost to a fault—but you brushed it off for now.
Chan glanced over at you during a break and offered a reassuring nod. Despite the lighthearted atmosphere in the studio, there was an underlying tension in his expression that hinted at why you were there.
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As the rehearsal came to a close, Bang Chan nodded to you in appreciation before turning to the others. “Alright, let’s wrap it up for today. We’ve got a long night ahead of us in the studio.”
The members began packing up their gear, chatting softly among themselves as they headed out. You watched them leave, your eyes lingering on the empty rehearsal room before following Chan to the studio.
The night air was crisp as you walked alongside him, the city lights casting long shadows behind you. Chan’s usually calm demeanor was tinged with a hint of tension, his eyes scanning the surroundings more intently than usual.
“Let’s get started on those tracks,” he said finally, pushing open the studio door. “We’ve got a lot to get through tonight.”
You nodded and followed him inside, the studio’s familiar hum enveloping you as you settled in for a long night of work.
The studio was dimly lit, its walls lined with soundproof panels that seemed to absorb the outside world entirely. The faint glow of the computer screen illuminated Bang Chan’s face as he adjusted the levels on a track, his brows furrowed in concentration. A small desk lamp cast a warm pool of light over scattered papers, lyric sheets, and empty coffee cups—evidence of hours spent perfecting every detail.
You leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, observing him quietly. The room carried a faint hum from the equipment, a soothing rhythm that contrasted with the tension in Chan’s posture. His fingers danced across the keyboard and mouse with precision but urgency, as though he were racing against an invisible clock.
“You’ve got an eye for perfection,” you remarked, breaking the silence. “Or maybe it’s an ear.”
Chan chuckled softly but didn’t look away from the monitor. “It’s more like an obsession,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “There’s always something that could be better.”
You glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands ticked past 1 AM, yet Chan showed no signs of slowing down. His shoulders were hunched slightly, his movements deliberate but heavy—like he was carrying far more than just the weight of the music.
“Do you ever take a break?” you asked, stepping closer to his desk.
Chan leaned back in his chair and stretched, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness. He met your eyes briefly before glancing at the mess of papers on his desk. “Not really,” he admitted with a tired shrug. “There’s too much to do. If I don’t do it… who will?”
You studied him for a moment, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest of his chair.
“You’ve got a team,” you said gently, your tone firm but not unkind. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Chan hesitated for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. He reached for his phone lying face-down on the desk and flipped it over absentmindedly. His thumb hovered over the screen as if debating whether to say something.
“It’s not just about the work,” he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough. Like I’m just pretending to be something I’m not.”
His words hung in the air, a vulnerability that caught you off guard. You pulled up a chair and sat down beside him, keeping your voice calm and steady. “You’re not pretending,” you reassured him. “You’ve made incredible music, and your members trust you completely. That’s what matters.”
Chan looked at you skeptically but didn’t interrupt.
“I’ve seen it before,” you continued, leaning forward slightly. “When I was in the military, there was this guy in my unit—our leader—who thought he had to do everything himself because he didn’t want us to feel burdened. He worked harder than anyone else, barely slept… until one day he collapsed during an operation.”
Chan’s eyes widened slightly as he listened.
“We had to carry him out,” you said quietly. “And after that? He realized that leading isn’t about doing everything alone—it’s about trusting your team to carry some of that weight with you.” You paused meaningfully before adding, “Your members trust you completely. You should trust them too.”
Chan exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair again, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he said nothing, staring at the ceiling as though processing your words.
“I guess I’ve always felt like… if I don’t give 110%, I’m not doing enough,” he confessed finally. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. If I’m just fooling myself into thinking I’m good enough.”
You placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re more than good enough,” you said firmly. “And even if you weren’t, your passion and dedication would make up for it. You’re not alone in this, Chan. You’ve got a team that believes in you.”
Chan nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion etched into his features. “You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “I just… forget sometimes.”
The phone buzzed suddenly on the desk, breaking the momentary stillness. Chan picked it up and frowned at the screen before flipping it face-down again without saying anything.
“Another message?” you asked carefully.
He nodded slightly but didn’t elaborate. “It’s probably nothing,” he muttered dismissively, though his fingers drummed nervously against the desk.
Before either of you could say more, a faint sound reached your ears—a soft shuffle of footsteps outside in the hallway. It was quick and subtle but enough to make you straighten instinctively.
“Did you hear that?” you asked sharply.
Chan glanced at you with mild confusion and shook his head. “Hear what?”
You moved toward the door cautiously and opened it just enough to peer into the dimly lit corridor beyond. The hallway stretched out in both directions, empty except for shadows cast by flickering fluorescent lights overhead. A distant hum from machinery filled the space, but there was no sign of movement.
Lingering for another moment, you scanned every corner before stepping back inside and shutting the door quietly behind you.
“Probably just someone passing by,” you remarked evenly, though an uneasy feeling settled in your chest like a stone.
Chan tilted his head slightly as if trying to gauge your expression but didn’t press further.
“Why don’t we call it a night?” you suggested gently after sitting back down beside him again. “You can finish this up in the morning when you’re fresh.”
Chan hesitated briefly before nodding in agreement. “I guess you’re right,” he said finally, saving his work and shutting down the computer.
“Let’s head back to the dorms,” you added as he gathered his belongings. “You can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”
As Chan stood up and stretched, his eyes seemed to cloud over for a moment before clearing again with determination. He smiled faintly as he slung his bag over one shoulder.
“Yeah… let’s get some rest,” he said softly but with more conviction this time.
You nodded and led him out of the studio into the quiet hallway beyond. Despite the eerie silence lingering around you both, there was relief in leaving behind those four walls—and heading toward something brighter tomorrow.
The walk back to the dorms was quiet, the city streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Bang Chan walked beside you, his bag slung over one shoulder, his steps slower than usual. The tension from the studio still lingered in the air, but the promise of rest seemed to lighten his mood slightly.
As you approached the building, Chan glanced at you and offered a faint smile. “Thanks for tonight,” he said quietly. “I needed that.”
You nodded but didn’t reply immediately, letting the moment settle. The door clicked shut behind you both as you entered the dorm, and Chan headed toward his room with a tired wave.
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The next day came quickly, and by mid-morning, you found yourself back at the rehearsal studio. The atmosphere was different now—livelier, more energetic—but something still felt off.
The rehearsal studio was alive with energy, the sound of Stray Kids’ synchronized movements and the beat of their latest track filling the space. Sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as the group worked through another intense choreography session.
Despite the liveliness, Lee Know stood off to the side during a break, practicing alone.
His movements were sharp and deliberate, each step executed with a precision that bordered on perfection.
He repeated a particularly difficult move over and over again, adjusting his posture slightly each time until it was flawless. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he paused briefly to catch his breath.
“You’re relentless,” you remarked from your spot near the wall, your tone laced with admiration.
Lee Know glanced at you briefly before wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “It’s all about precision,” he replied simply, his voice calm but focused.
You nodded in understanding. “It’s impressive,” you said. “But don’t forget to pace yourself. You don’t want to burn out before the next performance.”
He smirked faintly at that but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to his spot on the floor and resumed practicing, his movements fluid yet calculated.
As you observed him, your attention drifted toward the far end of the room where one of the doors leading to the hallway stood slightly ajar again. It wasn’t unusual for staff to pass through during rehearsals, but something about it caught your eye—a shadow moving just beyond the frame before disappearing entirely.
You straightened instinctively but stayed where you were, keeping an eye on both Lee Know and the door.
“Something wrong?” Lee Know asked suddenly, breaking your focus.
You shook your head quickly and offered a reassuring smile.
“No,” you replied evenly. “Just keeping an eye out.”
Lee Know raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. He grabbed his water bottle and took a sip before leaning against the wall beside you.
“Do you ever feel like someone’s watching us?” he asked abruptly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
The question caught you off guard. “What makes you say that?” you asked carefully.
Lee Know shrugged but didn’t look at you directly.
“I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment’s pause. “It’s probably nothing… just feels weird sometimes.”
You considered his words carefully before replying. “If there’s anything—or anyone—you’re worried about, let me know,” you said firmly.
Before Lee Know could respond, a loud laugh erupted from across the room as Han and Changbin started play-fighting near their water bottles.
Han lunged forward dramatically, trying to grab Changbin’s bottle, but in his exaggerated movement, he accidentally flung it across the room in your direction.
Without turning or even looking at it, your hand shot out instinctively and caught the bottle mid-air. The motion was smooth and effortless as if it were second nature.
The room fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to look at you in awe.
“Whoa!” Han exclaimed, breaking into laughter. “Did you see that? Jagae’s got reflexes like a ninja!”
Changbin whistled appreciatively while Felix clapped enthusiastically from where he was sitting on the floor. Even Bang Chan cracked a smile as he shook his head in disbelief.
Lee Know smirked beside you, clearly impressed but trying not to show it too much. “Not bad,” he muttered under his breath before taking another sip of water.
You tossed the bottle back toward Han without missing a beat. “Try not to lose control next time,” you said dryly, though there was a hint of amusement in your tone.
Han caught it awkwardly and grinned sheepishly. “Noted.”
The music started up again suddenly as Bang Chan called everyone back into formation for another run-through of their routine. Lee Know pushed off from the wall and joined the others without another word, leaving you standing there with an uneasy feeling lingering in your chest.
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The next morning came quickly, and by mid-afternoon, you found yourself accompanying Changbin to the gym. The air was filled with the sharp clang of weights and faint echoes of music playing from speakers overhead. Changbin was already in his element, lifting heavy weights with ease and grinning confidently as he challenged himself.
The gym was bustling with energy: the clang of weights hitting racks, the low thrum of upbeat music playing over the speakers, and the occasional grunt from someone pushing themselves to their limit. Changbin thrived in this environment, his energy infectious as he adjusted the weights on a barbell, his grin wide with excitement.
“Alright, Jagae,” he called out, his voice carrying over the noise. “Let’s see if you can keep up with me today.”
You smirked and grabbed a dumbbell from a nearby rack. “Are you sure you want to challenge me?” you replied evenly. “I don’t want to embarrass you in your own domain.”
Changbin laughed loudly at that, his confidence unwavering. “Embarrass me? Please. I’m the gym king here.”
He set himself under the barbell for squats, his form flawless as he began his set. Each lift was powerful yet controlled, his muscles flexing with every repetition. He glanced at you between reps, clearly enjoying the chance to show off.
“You know,” he teased as he finished his set and racked the barbell, “I’m pretty sure I could bench press you.”
You raised an eyebrow at him but kept your tone light. “Maybe if I let you,” you shot back.
He chuckled as he stepped aside and motioned for you to take over. “Alright, Jagae—show me what you’ve got.”
You adjusted the weights slightly and began your own set of squats, matching his pace with ease. Changbin watched closely, his playful smirk replaced by genuine curiosity as he studied your movements.
“Not bad,” he admitted as you finished and racked the barbell. “I guess all that military training paid off.”
You wiped the sweat from your brow with a towel and shrugged casually. “It did,” you said simply.
Changbin leaned against a nearby bench and tilted his head curiously. “So… what was it like?” he asked suddenly. “The military, I mean. What rank were you?”
“I was a captain by the time I left,” you replied evenly. “I received an honorable discharge for my service and efforts.”
His eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Captain? Seriously?”
You nodded as you grabbed your water bottle for a sip. “It wasn’t easy,” you admitted after a moment. “But it taught me discipline—and how to stay calm under pressure.”
Changbin grinned at that and crossed his arms over his chest. “That explains why you’re so chill all the time,” he remarked playfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you panic.”
You chuckled softly but didn’t reply immediately. Instead, you glanced around the gym briefly before adding, “Staying calm is important when people are counting on you.”
Changbin’s expression shifted slightly at that—his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more thoughtful.
“Do you ever miss it?” he asked after a pause.
You considered his question carefully before answering. “Sometimes,” you admitted honestly. “But I like being here—watching over all of you.”
He smiled warmly at that but quickly masked it with another teasing remark: “Well, don’t get too comfortable—I might recruit you into my workout routine.”
Before either of you could respond, Changbin stepped back toward the barbell for another set of squats. He adjusted the weights on one side absentmindedly, ready to continue his workout
As Changbin began his lift, something went wrong. The right side of the barbell dipped sharply, throwing off his balance mid-squat.
“Whoa!” Changbin exclaimed as he stumbled backward slightly, struggling to steady himself under the uneven load.
Reacting instantly, you stepped forward and grabbed the heavier side of the barbell before it could tip completely out of control. Your grip steadied the weight just in time, preventing both Changbin and the equipment from crashing down.
The clang of weights settling echoed through the gym as Changbin let out a breath of relief. He looked at you with wide eyes before breaking into nervous laughter.
“Man… that was close!” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for saving me there.”
You set the barbell back onto its rack carefully and turned to him with a smirk. “Maybe next time double-check your weights,” you suggested dryly.
Changbin laughed louder at that but nodded in agreement. “Fair point,” he admitted, still catching his breath.
As he inspected the plates on either side of the barbell more closely, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait… these are labeled as 20 kilograms each,” he muttered aloud.
He lifted one plate experimentally before switching to the other side.
“This one’s definitely heavier,” he said after a moment, looking up at you with disbelief. “How does that even happen?”
Ji-hoon, that assistant manager again.., entered the gym moments later carrying a clipboard and wearing his usual cheerful smile. He glanced briefly at the barbell but didn’t comment directly on what had just happened.
“Morning! You two are really dedicated,” Ji-hoon said brightly.
Changbin grinned at him while grabbing his water bottle again. “Yeah, we’re working hard!” he replied casually.
You turned to Ji-hoon, your expression serious. “Actually, we just had a close call with this barbell,” you explained. “The weights are mismatched—both are labeled as 20 kilograms, but they’re clearly not the same.”
Ji-hoon frowned slightly and took one of the plates from Changbin, turning it over in his inspection.
“That’s strange,” he muttered. “These should all be standardized.”
“They’re not,” you said firmly. “Manufacturing defects like this aren’t uncommon, especially if quality control during production is poor. It’s something gyms need to be vigilant about.”
Ji-hoon nodded slowly but didn’t respond immediately. You continued, your tone calm but authoritative. “When equipment like this malfunctions, it can cause serious injuries. Imagine if Changbin had been lifting heavier weights or if he hadn’t been able to steady himself—this could have ended badly.”
Changbin chimed in from his spot on the bench, still recovering from the incident. “Yeah, I felt it as soon as I started lifting,” he said sheepishly. “I thought I’d messed up my form or something.”
“It wasn’t your form,” you reassured him before turning back to Ji-hoon. “This isn’t just about safety—it’s about accountability. Gyms are responsible for ensuring their equipment is properly maintained and free of defects.”
Ji-hoon nodded again, his expression thoughtful now. “I’ll report this to management,” he said finally. “We’ll check all the weight plates and barbells to make sure there aren’t any other issues.”
You gave him a measured look before adding, “It’s not just about checking existing equipment—it’s about understanding where these problems come from.” You gestured toward the barbell again as you explained further.
“Manufacturing defects can happen during production—things like missing bolts or cracks in materials can lead to instability,” you said calmly. “Sometimes it’s poor-quality control that lets these issues slip through unnoticed.”
Ji-hoon glanced down at his clipboard and jotted something quickly before looking back at you. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Start by weighing every plate and inspecting every barbell for signs of wear or damage,” you replied immediately. “If there are discrepancies, replace them with properly calibrated equipment from a reliable supplier.”
Changbin leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued by your explanation. “Is this something that happens a lot?” he asked curiously.
“It can,” you admitted honestly. “Especially in gyms that don’t prioritize regular maintenance or rely on cheaper equipment with less stringent quality control.”
Ji-hoon nodded again but hesitated before speaking. “I’ll make sure this gets taken care of,” he said finally, his tone more serious now.
You watched him leave toward the manager’s office, your gaze lingering for a moment before turning back to Changbin.
“You alright?” you asked him.
He grinned faintly and nodded. “Yeah, thanks to you,” he said warmly before standing up and grabbing his towel.
As Changbin headed toward the locker room, you glanced back at the barbell one last time. The incident was resolved for now, but something about Ji-hoon’s timing—and his initial casual reaction—still didn’t sit right with you
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The day had been a whirlwind of activity, from the gym session with Changbin to the usual buzz of rehearsals. By the time evening arrived, the dorm was quieter than usual. Most of the members were scattered in their rooms or lounging in the common area. You found yourself in the small courtyard outside, enjoying the cool breeze and a rare moment of calm.
Hyunjin appeared a few moments later, his long hair tied back loosely as he stepped into the courtyard with a cup of tea in hand. He spotted you leaning against the railing and walked over with his characteristic grace.
“Taking a break from babysitting us?” he teased lightly, his tone warm but playful.
You smirked at him. “Something like that. Needed some fresh air.”
Hyunjin nodded and leaned against the railing beside you, his gaze drifting toward the darkening sky. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” you replied.
The two of you stood in comfortable silence for a while, the faint hum of city life in the background. Hyunjin sipped his tea thoughtfully before glancing at you with a curious expression.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he began, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. “What’s it like… shaving your head? You know, for the military.”
You raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question but couldn’t help chuckling. “It’s not as dramatic as people think,” you replied. “You get used to it pretty quickly—though I’ll admit, it’s strange at first.”
Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair instinctively, as if imagining himself without it. “I don’t think I could ever do it,” he said with mock horror. “My hair is too much a part of me.”
You glanced at him and smirked. “You’d survive,” you teased. “Though I imagine there’d be a lot of tears involved.”
Hyunjin laughed at that, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “I’d probably cry every day until it grew back.”
“You’d look fine without it,” you said casually. “Hair doesn’t define who you are.”
Hyunjin tilted his head thoughtfully, his expression softening. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, “but it feels like a part of how I express myself. Cutting it all off would feel… strange.”
“You’re an artist,” you replied simply. “It makes sense that your appearance is part of your self-expression.”
He nodded slowly before turning to face you more fully. “What about you?” he asked suddenly. “Why did you shave your head? Was it hard for you to let go of that part of yourself?”
You paused for a moment, choosing your words carefully. “In the military, it’s not really about personal choice,” you explained. “Shaving your head is just one way they strip away individuality—it’s about becoming part of something bigger than yourself.”
Hyunjin studied you intently, his curiosity deepening. “And now?” he pressed gently. “Do you ever miss that—being part of something bigger?”
You met his gaze evenly but deflected smoothly. “I think I’ve found something meaningful here,” you said simply, gesturing toward the dorm behind you.
Hyunjin smiled faintly at that but didn’t push further.
Instead, he shifted topics slightly, though his tone grew more serious. “You know… I’ve been wondering why someone like you was hired to protect us,” he said carefully.
“What do you mean?” you asked lightly.
“Well,” he began hesitantly, “you’re clearly overqualified for this kind of job—military background and all that.” He paused before adding softly, “It makes me wonder if there’s something we don’t know about why we need someone like you here.”
You leaned back slightly and shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m here because I’m good at what I do,” you replied smoothly.
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes slightly but didn’t press further, sensing that was all he was going to get from you.
After another brief pause, he sighed and looked back up at the sky. “Sometimes I feel like there’s so much going on around us that we don’t see—or maybe don’t want to see,” he admitted quietly.
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye but remained silent, letting him continue.
“I don’t know… maybe I’m just overthinking things,” Hyunjin said softly before turning back to face you fully again. His expression was open now—vulnerable in a way that caught you off guard.
“Sometimes I worry about whether we’re safe,” he admitted finally. “Not just physically—but emotionally too.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “It feels like there’s always so much pressure on us to be perfect—to never show weakness.”
You nodded slowly, your voice calm and steady when you finally spoke. “Perfection is an illusion,” you said simply. “No one expects it from you except yourself—and maybe those expectations are worth rethinking.”
Hyunjin blinked at that but didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he looked down at his tea thoughtfully before murmuring, almost to himself: “Maybe…”
The quiet between you felt less heavy now—more reflective than tense—as Hyunjin seemed to process your words.
“Thanks for listening,” he said finally, offering a small smile as he straightened up from the railing.
“Anytime,” you replied sincerely.
As Hyunjin headed back inside, leaving you alone in the courtyard once more, you couldn’t help but feel a quiet respect for him—not just for his openness but for his willingness to confront his fears and doubts head-on.
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More to come! This'll be a three-part fic. Hope you enjoyed so far!
dismissal of feelings, overstepping boundaries, body-shaming, little bullying, racism, anger, referral to reader as she/her, noona and manager-nim
Summary:
Noona is the protective manager that stray kids need.
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"What time is it.." you mutter tiredly to yourself, checking the clock on the bedside table.
4:32 AM
You groan, thirty minutes till your alarm goes off. That was too short of time to go back to sleep. You've had sleeping problems lately, stress building up and disrupting your sleep frequently. You get up with a fell swoop, lazily making your bed. You brush your hair a little before grabbing your laptop and walking out of your room with your silk pajamas.
You had about an hour left before the members should get up, you being their wake-up alarms more often than not.
You stagger whilst walking to the common room, setting the laptop down on the coffee table and continuing to walk to the kitchen; you make yourself a cup of hot coffee and grab something out of the cabinet, a croissant.
With a drink and snack in hand, you walk back to the common room. Setting down the coffee, you bite into the croissant, leaving it hanging from your mouth. You grab your little work laptop and open multiple tabs, immediately working on e-mails and responding to questions from business partners. You continue eating your food and drinking your coffee, knowing the workload that's sitting on your laptop. You open a spreadsheet tracking upcoming schedules and cross-checking dates with broadcasters and advertisers. Another tab displays a draft of a contract negotiation, your latest effort to secure a high-profile endorsement deal for your group. A negotiation you've been putting much effort in the last few days due to the difficult business partner.
A message pops up from higher-ups, asking for your input on next year’s tour strategy. Meanwhile, your phone buzzes with updates from the chief manager about a last-minute change in today’s filming schedule.
With a deep breath, you massage your temple and take a sip of coffee. This is just another day as a head manager—juggling business deals, long-term planning, and crisis control, all while keeping the group’s reputation and success at the forefront. No two days are the same, but that’s what makes the job thrilling and often, very stressful.
Another e-mail pops up, informing you that today there will be a lot of replacement staff. This is due to an unfortunate car accident that blocked off downtown Seoul, where most of the staff resided.
You groan and shake your head, "That's going to be a pain..." Taking a deep breath, you acknowledge the message and mentally prepare yourself for a stressful day.
Time flies by as you continue working and replying to e-mails. You look at the clock hanging on the wall, reading the time.
5:34 AM
None of the members are out yet, so you save your files, send off the last e-mails before closing your laptop, and put it back onto the coffee table.
You get up from the couch, your movements more awake and less groggy. You walk down the hall and reminisce back when Stray Kids had just debuted, and all the members just got to know each other. Especially Baby Bread, maknae of the group, I.N, had stayed by your and Chan's side.
You knock on the first door, Lee Know's room.
You step softly, and his cat named Dori meows at you. He is lying on his chest, so you gently touch his shoulder. "Minho, wake up..", you murmur.
He grumbled in response, "....Five more minutes.." in turn, you chuckled softly, shaking him a little. "You have dance rehearsals today, Minnie, you need to get up.."
Lee Know turns over and purses his lips as he stretches, yawning in laziness. "Ah, right. The ‘being an idol’ thing. Forgot I signed up for that", Lee Know responds, rolling his eyes in faux-annoyance.
His sarcastic response made you smile, "Be at the table in 10, okay? I'll go wake up the others."
You step out of the room and continue to walk down the hall towards Felix's room, next to one of the bathrooms in the dorm. You knock softly at his door before coming in. You open the door slowly, wincing slightly at the small creak it eeked out. Something that needs fixing. You think to yourself as you look around the room. You notice his gaming monitor is still on; you walk over to it to shut it off and press the button before walking quietly to Felix. He was lying on his side, his back towards you. You gently trace your finger along his spine, murmuring a sweet "Good morning,"
He hums, his head burying his face deeper into the blanket as you smile, "Lixie, wake up, rehearsals today." Seems like he hadn't had the best sleep last night. You gently play with his hair, trying again, "C'mon, Lixie, get up... Minho's already up."
After a moment of stillness, he moves around a little, stretching before sitting up causing you to retract your hand. "...Noona, you’re being too nice. This is a trap, right?" Felix grins, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes as you shake your head, "I always wake you up like this, Lixie. Now come, I need to wake up Seungmin and I.N-"
Felix grinned mischievously, his eyes sparkling with ideas, "Manager-nim~! What if—hear me out—I, the Hwang Hyunjin-certified Sunshine of Dorm 2, took over Seungmin’s wake-up duty? Think of the benefits!"
You shake your head sighing, "Felix, last time you ‘helped,’ Seungmin locked you in the balcony. Hard pass."
The blonde pouts before smiling, "I’ll… uhh… buy you three iced americanos next week! And—AND—! I’ll do your next TikTok challenge without complaining!"
You huff before giving in "You’re doing this anyway, aren’t you? Fine, but if he actually kicks you out the window, I’m not filling out the incident report."
Felix cheers a little before hugging you, swiftly getting out of bed. You can hear the barging in, screams of "SEUNGMIN-AH! THE SUN IS SHINING! THE BIRDS ARE SINGING! YOUR FACE IS—"
You shake your head and smile in contentment, getting up and closing Felix's door as you leave his room. Walking over to the last member's room, sweet little I.N.
You knock at his door, opening the door to see him curled up on the bed, he is lying on his left side, his hair spread all over his pillow. You make your way through his fairly large room, plushies neatly stacked on top of each other. Though it seems neat and clean, you just knew that closet of his was a pure mess.
You gently touch his right cheek, whispering, "Jeongin-ssi, wake up, please.." He pouted, his eyes fluttering open, "Mmmghh... Manager-nim? Did I oversleep..?"
You chuckle, shaking your head, "No, just an early schedule, I.N, rehearsals and we might go out later, remember?" Your voice was soft, careful to not wake him up so abruptly.
The young member whines, "What if... I go tomorrow instead? I’ll be extra cute tomorrow. Pinky promise!" and this little protest makes you smile, "What if... you get up now, and I'll treat you to whatever food you'd like to eat later, hm?" You parrot him, gently ruffling his hair.
"Okay.. fine.." he mumbles sleepily, yawning adorably.
"Your hyungs are up already, and I'm sure they've made breakfast. I need to check on Felix and Seungmin, see if they haven't torn each other apart."
That comment made the maknae giggle, getting up slowly and you leave to hear snarky comments being thrown by Seungmin.
You walk back to the Kitchen/common room and you watch amused, as Felix tries to help Lee Know with pancakes. Key word: tries. The blonde was much more busy singing cracked notes to songs from Day6, annoying Seungmin even more.
"I BECAAAAME A ZOMBIEEE—" he sang, terribly off-key, turning into laughing as he looked at Minnie
"I’m adding ‘felicide’ to my 2025 bingo card." Seungmin groaned, his forehead hitting the tabletop of the breakfast bar.
"He did get you up in record time." Lee Know commented, smiling as he continued to make pancakes.
I.N. came to the common room, standing by your side as he listened to the usual ruckus. You pat his head, beckoning for him to sit down. Walking up to the boys, you greet them good morning together. You make them all a coffee before starting to talk about the planned and packed day ahead. Lee Know gave all of them a plate with a pancake, the boys thanking him aswell as you when you place them their coffees.
"Okay, listen, I know you disrupt planned schedules, but please try and stick to them today. In about.."
You look at the clock on the wall,
6:13 AM
"An hour, Lee Know you have pilates-" the mentioned idol tries to speak up but, "No, you can’t ‘just stretch with the cats instead", he then shuts his mouth and nods in defeat.
You then point to Seungmin, "Vocal warm-ups in a little more than an hour. The second I hear you singing DAY6 in the shower, I’m cutting the hot water." The moody boy grumbled, "That’s a violation of human rights." You dismiss his comment, shaking your head as you move on to Felix, "Felix, you have a British radio interview at 8:00. They’re six hours behind, so no slang, no ‘mate,’ and also no Vegemite rants."
Felix protests, his mouth full of pancakes, "But-! What if it's educational slander?" You shake your head, playfully closing his mouth with my hand, "No. Also, stop talking with your mouth full, Lix." Then you turn to I.N., humming, "You... You have dance practice at 8:00, but they want to do a little outfit fitting for you, so get to the studio by 7:15, okay? Your knee pads are in my bag already."
"Later, Felix, you will be doing an ‘Unfair’ stage rehearsal with Hyunjin. Felix, no improvising flips. Hyunjin already texted me to 'please control Felix.' Seungmin and I.N., you will be duet recording for the new OST. And I.N., stop changing the lyrics to meme references. Minho, you have free time—which means not stalking cat cafes. Your cats will revolt. Again."
The members nod, continuing to eat and joking around. Remembering the email, you quickly grab your laptop from the common room's coffee table. "Right, today's staff will be different from the usual due to a blockage in downtown Seoul, okay? Be a bit more patient than usual when they don't do things perfectly."
The members nod in unison, and I smile, settling next to I.N. as I continue to work on my laptop.
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Time flies by, each member getting ready for the day.
You wear a crisp black blazer with pockets full of emergency snacks, band-aids, and some chewing gum alongside comfortable tailored pants. Your shoes were a pair of low boots from Doc Martens, having chosen them specifically after some rogue members decided sprinting away from each other would be funny before a music video shoot. You wait in the common room and sit on the sofa, working on the laptop once more.
Then Lee Know walks out of his room with his phone out. He wears a black compression shirt and some gray joggers and fits for pilates. Though his outfit is covered quite in cat hair from his sweet, snuggly kittens.
You smile at him, handing him a new case of AirPods because he had forgotten them in a venue a day or two ago. He smiles, grabbing them from your hands as he thanks you.
Then Seungmin walks up to you, Felix chatting his ear off, both all dressed and ready.
Minnie was wearing a beige knit sweater, some dark slacks, and loafers without socks. You roll your eyes, smiling because he was trying to peeve you off with that. Lixie, on the other hand, had a crisp white button-up on and had his sleeves rolled up. His shirt was unbuttoned a little too much, so you get up from the couch and button his shirt up just once. "Don't show too much, okay, Lix?" You smile, patting the younger one's head. He also had some tailored black jeans on, just for the subtle professional casualness.
"Sneakers, Felix?" Seungmin teased, smirking as he looked the boy up and down.
Felix grinned, leaning on Minnie's shoulder, "Just in case I have to run away from Vegemite questions!"
Then came the last Idol, the maknae of the group, dear Jeong-in. His hair was brushed through, walking up to Minho, leaning over to watch what the elder was doing on his phone.
He, unlike the others, was dressed fairly casually. An oversized graphic tee, which you assumed came from Hyunjin, and some sweatpants, for comfortable movement.
You greet Jeong-in, "I have your kneepads, okay?" and he nods absent-mindedly, still focused on Lee Know's phone.
As the members are finally out together, you give them a once-over before humming: "Alright, you guys ready? I'll be in the company building and on work grounds, so if there are any problems with the replacement staff, I'll be right there," you explain, "they might not tailor to your liking immediately, so please speak up about that."
Felix pipes up with joking concern, "What if they don’t know I.N’s specific way of folding his sleeves? It’s an art. A science!"
Seungmin goes along with it, "Define ‘problems.’ Like, if they play the wrong music in the dance studio? Or if they don’t let I.N eat snacks mid-recording? These are critical issues."
Even I.N giggles, "What if we ‘accidentally’ lose the replacement staff and just… go home?"
You sigh, shaking your head. How did Bang Chan handle these boys?
"I’ll be five minutes away. Felix, no backflips. Seungmin, no mutiny. I.N, no spice crimes. Lee Know… just keep them alive."
Lee Know looks up from his phone, tilting his head in confusion "I’m not their babysitter.… How much are you paying me?"
You roll your eyes before signaling that you should finally go before you're too late. Of course, this doesn't go smoothly, as the boys joke around while getting to the car, two of the road managers already waiting.
The boys split up into two groups to get into two separate cars. You get into a car with I.N and Felix, you sitting in the passenger seat. You reach into the bag behind your seat, where Felix sits in the backseat. You pulled out the knee pads for I.N.
"Jeong-In, I have your knee pads, don't forget them, okay?" The younger nodded, thanking you before he stuffed it into his small travel bag.
The two cars didn't take too long to drive to the JYP buildings, traffic being light on the way there. Once you arrive, you get out of the car and open the door for Felix. When you see the four boys together, you smile and grab their attention, "Boys, you all know the plan till noon. When you finish your work, go to the common room on the 2nd floor. You'll most likely see Chan or Han and wait till everyone finishes their activity. I will be there at 9:30. However, if you need me in one of your sessions, text me or call me, and I will be there as needed."
The members nod in unison, looking at you attentively, "And I.N, you don't have to give it your all in your dance rehearsal, since after, all of you will rehearse for the next tour. Everything clear? yes? Okay, off you boys go."
The boys smile goodbye and walk off to the building, leaving you with the road managers, who you wave off to let them take care of their own duties.
You grab your overstuffed work bag with a resigned sigh, bracing yourself for another whirlwind day. First up: back-to-back meetings with executives, where you'll fight for budgets and schedules like a seasoned diplomat. Then comes the meticulous puzzle of calendar planning - juggling flights, recordings, and promotions without letting a single commitment overlap. But your real specialty? Crisis control for your eight chaotic boys. Whether it's a last-minute meltdown over lyrics, a mysterious glitter explosion in the dorm, or just convincing a certain sunshine Aussie that, no, he can't add a backflip to every performance - you're always on call for their disasters.
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You were in the middle of meddling with another executive, discussing the fact that - no, the boys would never do something out of their comfort zone just for popularity or money, nor would you allow it - but the damned higher-up just couldn't think about anything else. Then a message buzzed from your phone, from I.N,
Bby Bread: "Noona, sorry to bother so early, but the temp. staff wont stop haggling me about the outfit.."
You murmur some curse words under your breath, looking up at the executive, "We'll discuss this later, write an email, I need to go somewhere." He reluctantly lets you walk away, clearly feeling your more than slightly annoyed mood.
You walk quickly with your bag on your shoulder, moving towards the dance studio on the same floor as you were. You hear the whispers before you even open the door. You don't knock, why would you with the clear message from I.N just screaming 'I'm uncomfortable, save me.' You swing the door open hard enough for it to bounce off the wall.
I.N jumped at the sound, but the stylist seemed to be deaf - she hadn't noticed even with the sound the door made.
I.N seemed almost threatened by the stylists, the stylist not giving a second look at him, her back turned to you, "Just suck it up, it’s not that bad." She sneered, shaking her head.
I.N stands in the center of the room, rigid as a statue. The new stylist—some agency hire you’ve seen twice—is yanking at the chains of a leather harness digging into his shoulders. The mesh shirt beneath is practically translucent. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, fingers gripping his own elbows like he’s holding himself together.
Your blood boils, and your eyes narrow.
"Stop."
The stylist jumps, turning with a plastered-on smile. "Oh! We’re just finalizing the dominATE loo—"
"Finalizing?" You stride forward, already reaching for the harness buckle. "He looks like he’s about to bolt. Did you even ask if he was okay with this?"
I.N’s eyes dart to yours—relief and embarrassment warring in them.
The stylist scoffs. "It’s just styling. He’s an idol, he’ll survive."
Something in you snaps.
"Out." You don’t raise your voice. That’s worse. "Now."
For a second, she hesitates. Then your stare wins. The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence.
I.N exhales shakily. "I—I tried to say something, but—"
"I know." Your fingers make quick work of the harness. "This isn’t happening."
You snatch the black turtleneck off the rack—his favorite, the one he wears when he wants to feel grounded—and toss it to him. "Mesh goes over this. And we’re swapping the pants."
He clutches the fabric like it’s armor. "They said it wouldn’t fit the concept."
"Bullshit." You kick the discarded harness aside. "Dominance isn’t about chains. It’s about owning the stage. And you can’t own anything if you’re too busy hating your skin."
He blinks.
"Now." You jerk your chin at the changing screen. "Fix it. Then we’re burning that clipboard."
A laugh punches out of him—small, but real.
Good.
You’ll deal with the stylist later. Right now?
Your kid comes first.
You turn away as he changes, listening to the quiet shuffle of fabric—the mesh shirt hitting the floor with a relieved sigh. A moment later, you feel his arms slip around your waist from behind, his forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.
"Thank you," he murmurs, voice muffled against your jacket. His grip is tight, almost desperate, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
You pat his wrist gently. "It’s okay. Do you remember her name?"
A beat of silence. Then, a damp chuckle against your back. "No. But I’ll recognize that harness in my nightmares."
You laugh, and he finally loosens his hold, letting you turn to face him. He’s swimming in the black turtleneck now, sleeves pulled over his knuckles, the leather pants swapped for soft slacks. His eyes are a little pink, but he’s smiling—small and real.
"Can we still burn the clipboard?" he asks, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"Tempting," you admit, straightening his collar. "But let’s settle for a passive-aggressive email instead."
He groans, but hooks an arm around your shoulders,"Fine. But you owe me spicy tteokbokki. Extra fish cakes."
"Deal."
You spend half an hour in the member's vicinity, keeping him in your sight. You make sure to make it clear to this replacement staff that under your care, comfort comes first.
You were continuing your chat per email with the executive you left hanging; your phone buzzes against the conference table. Seungmin's text flashes:
"Hyunjin is five seconds away from committing a crime. The new stylist won't back down. Get here now."
You're out of your seat before the screen locks.
The shouting hits you before you reach the dressing room.
"I said NO HEAT!" Hyunjin's voice cracks like a whip.
"You don't get to make demands!" the stylist snaps back.
You kick the door open hard enough to send it slamming against the wall.
Hyunjin stands frozen in front of the mirror, half his hair perfectly styled, the other side visibly singed and frayed. His hands grip the edge of the vanity so tight his knuckles have gone white.
The stylist turns to you with a scoff. "Maybe you can talk some sense into—"
"Out."
The word drops like a guillotine.
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
You cross the room in three strides and snatch the still-hot curling iron from his hand. "I don't repeat myself." You slam it down on the counter. "You're done."
"This is ridiculous! I was just—"
"Burning his hair after being told not to. Ignoring direct instructions. Harassing one of my artists." You pull up his contract on your phone. "Which part of that sounds like keeping your job to you?"
His face pales as you scroll through the violation clauses.
Hyunjin lets out a quiet breath behind you.
You don't look away from the stylist. "Leave your badge. Don't come back."
He opens his mouth-
"Now."
The door clicks shut behind him a moment later.
Silence.
You turn to Hyunjin. His shoulders have slumped, the fight drained out of him.
"Let me see."
He doesn't protest as you examine the damage. The ends are dry and split, but not beyond repair. You grab the emergency repair kit from your bag and work in silence, carefully trimming the worst of it.
"...Thanks," he mutters after a minute.
You snort. "Next time, throw the curling iron out the window. Or at the stylist."
A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Noted."
The recording studio is bathed in soft amber light, the soundproof glass separating the booth from the control room slightly fogged from the late summer humidity. Inside, Hyunjin leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his other hand idly twisting the volume knob on his headphones as he waits for the next segment to begin. Beside him, Seungmin adjusts his mic, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the table—some unheard melody stuck in his head.
You, however, are a storm contained within the corner of the control room.
Your laptop screen casts a harsh blue glow over your face, the reflection of the email draft glaring back at you like an accusation. The subject line is already typed in all caps, bolded for maximum impact:
Your fingers strike the keys with enough force to make the sound engineer, Minsoo, flinch from his seat across the room. He came a little after the stylist decided he needed to style Hyunjin for a radio recording and shoots you a nervous glance but wisely says nothing.
Let me make this abundantly clear: the incompetence displayed today by your so-called "temporary staff" is not just unprofessional—it is unacceptable.
Attached is photographic evidence of the damage done to Hyunjin’s hair after repeated ignored instructions regarding heat styling. Also attached is the invoice for the emergency repair session required to salvage it—a cost that will not be coming out of our budget, but yours.
Furthermore, the incident involving I.N and the harness—which I have video evidence of, courtesy of our security cameras—will be forwarded to legal if I do not receive confirmation by EOD that these individuals are permanently removed from consideration for any future work with JYPE artists.
Effective immediately, any temp staff assigned to Stray Kids must undergo a mandatory orientation—led by me. If I have to explain one more time that Hyunjin’s hair is not a community craft project, or that I.N’s waist is not a suggestion box, I will start charging hazard pay.
You’re halfway through attaching the files when a sharp tap-tap-tap against the glass makes you look up.
Hyunjin is staring at you through the booth window, eyebrows raised. He mouths, "Are you murdering someone?"
You flip him off.
Seungmin, catching the exchange, snorts and leans into his mic. "Uh, listeners, we’re experiencing some…technical difficulties," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "Our manager is currently composing what I can only assume is a scathing email to HR."
Hyunjin grins, twisting his mic closer. "Ooh, can we hear it?"
You shoot them both a look, but before you can respond, Minsoo clears his throat. "Manager-nim, your, uh… typing is picking up on the mic."
A beat of silence.
Over the speakers, Hyunjin’s voice rings out, gleefully: "—Wow, was that thunder? Or just our manager ending someone’s career?"
Seungmin doesn’t even try to hide his laugh. "Sounds like a strongly worded email to me."
Minsoo mutes their mics with a sigh.
You take a deep breath, lower your hands—and then deliberately type one last line:
PS: Audio attached of your stellar hires ruining $800 worth of styling products. Enjoy.
You hit send with a satisfying click.
Hyunjin grins through the glass, giving you a thumbs-up. Seungmin just shakes his head, deadpan: "RIP to whoever’s reading that."
You lean back, finally smiling. "Worth it."
Then your phone buzzed against the mixing console.
"Manager. SOS." Han’s message popped up, followed immediately by: "New engineer just told Chan his pre-chorus sounds like 'a dying fax machine.’ Hyung’s doing that thing where he smiles but his eye is twitching."
A second text came through—Changbin, this time: "I WILL TURN THIS MAN INTO A DYING FAX MACHINE."
You set down your iced coffee—barely touched—and turned to Minsoo, the only competent sound engineer in this godforsaken building. "Take over."
The walk to Studio 3 was short but violent. The hallway’s fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering slightly as you passed, your shadow stretching long and ominous across the linoleum.
The door was cracked open. Inside:
Han leaned against the vocal booth, his usual morning cheer replaced by a murderous calm. His fingers drummed against his bicep in a staccato rhythm that matched the tick of the studio clock.
"Took you long enough," he whispered as you entered, voice low and dangerous.
Changbin loomed over the console like a thundercloud, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight. His usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by a flat stare that made even you pause.
The new engineer—some kid with a "I know better than you" smirk—was mid-rant: "—seriously, just stick to singing. The real producers will handle—"
Chan sat frozen in the producer’s chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The screen reflected in his glasses showed a half-edited track—his track, the one he’d been tweaking since 4 AM. His silence was louder than any scream.
You stepped inside.
The room went dead silent.
The engineer blinked. "Oh—manager-nim! I was just—"
You didn’t let him finish.
With one smooth motion, you plucked the keycard from his lanyard and held it up, the morning light glinting off the plastic.
"This?" you asked, voice dangerously soft. "This is what you think gives you the right to talk to 3RACHA like they’re your interns?"
A beat. Then—
SNAP.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Han grinned. Changbin cracked his knuckles. Chan finally exhaled—a heavy, shuddering sigh of desperation and relief all at once.
The engineer stared at the broken pieces on the floor like they were his career. "You can’t just—"
"I can," you said, turning to Minsoo. "Get security."
The engineer ran.
Silence.
Then—
"...Can we frame the broken keycard?" Han mused, tilting his head.
Changbin snorted. "I’ll get the glitter glue."
Chan buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "God, I love you guys."
You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your chest finally eased. "Next time," you pointed at them, "tell me sooner. I don’t like ruining my morning over amateurs."
Changbin slung an arm around your shoulders, his grin sharp. "No promises."
Outside, the city buzzed to life—completely unaware that in Studio 3, the natural order had just been violently restored.
You ruffle Chan's hair, making sure to get him back into the flow. You messaged on your phone, organizing for a new and experienced engineer. You check on them before leaving to go back to the radio recording studio, to grab your bag and laptop which you left in anger and hurry.
Your phone buzzed again just as you were picking up your abandoned iced coffee—now mostly water and regret.
"Manager." Lee Know's message was clipped. "Lounge. Now. New staff are fucking with Felix. He's pretending it's fine but I'm about to commit a crime."
Your stomach dropped. You rub your temple, grab your bag and laptop, and bolt.
The walk to the lounge was a blur of fluorescent lights and mounting rage. The door was cracked open, revealing:
Felix curled on the couch like a wounded sunbeam, knees drawn up, fingers picking at his sweatpants. His usual golden aura was dimmed, mouth pressed into that thin smile he only wore when biting back words.
Across from him, two staff members—replacements from the same useless batch as the engineer—were giggling over a clipboard.
"Felix-ssi," one said in exaggerated slow Korean, "maybe try saying it in English? Since that's all you're good for."
The other snorted. "Or should we call you Phe-lix? Like the real Australians do?"
Felix's fingers stilled. "Ah...it's not important," he murmured, gaze fixed on his lap.
Lee Know, perched on the armrest like a pissed-off panther, locked eyes with you. His glare could've melted steel.
The moment you stepped inside, the staff's smirks faltered.
"Manager-nim!" one chirped, voice suddenly sweet. "We were just—"
You didn't let them finish.
With slow, deliberate steps, you crossed until you loomed over them, morning light catching the sharp edges of your silhouette. "Let me educate you," you said, voice dripping with venomous calm. "His name is Felix. His Korean is flawless. And your careers?" You leaned in. "Over."
One opened their mouth to protest—
"Out," you snarled. "Before I have security drag you out by your racist tongues."
They scrambled up so fast they knocked over a chair.
Silence.
Then—
A small, broken laugh from Felix. "...They kept calling me Phe-lix all morning." His voice cracked on the word.
Before you could respond, Felix suddenly stood and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, his face buried in your shoulder. You felt him take a shaky breath as his fingers clutched the back of your blazer.
You immediately hugged him back, one hand cradling the back of his head. "Listen to me," you murmured into his hair, firm but soft. "You never have to tolerate that. Not from anyone. Ever."
Felix nodded against your shoulder, his grip tightening slightly.
Lee Know appeared beside you, pressing a juice box into Felix's hand—where he'd produced it from, no one knew—and muttered, "Next time, I'm throwing the first punch."
Felix finally pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glistening but smiling properly now. "...Thanks, Noona."
You brushed his bangs out of his face. "Always."
Outside, the morning sun streamed through the windows, painting you all in gold.
After that chaotic day, you call off any more plans for the day. The members were glad, knowing that with the new replacement staff, the day would've been more work anyway. HR can kiss your ass.
You make sure they buy food and eat properly, of course with your card. You didn't mind, as long as they ate, it was fine. You all stayed in the bigger common room on the first floor. And then came the last problem.
The first-floor common room was bathed in warm afternoon light, the large windows overlooking the busy Seoul streets below. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of chopsticks filled the space as the boys finally relaxed after the morning's chaos.
You sat slightly apart from the group at a small side table with Chan, both of you picking at shared containers of japchae and fried mandu. Chan's laptop was open beside his plate, his fingers occasionally tapping at the trackpad between bites—always working, even when he was supposed to be resting. You nudged a piece of beef toward his side of the container without comment, and he shot you a grateful half-smile before popping it in his mouth.
Across the room, the others were sprawled in various states of contentment:
Felix and Lee Know shared an oversized platter of tteokbokki, their shoulders pressed together as Felix animatedly recounted something in a mix of Korean and English, his earlier tension gone. Lee Know listened while stealing bites, occasionally wiping sauce from Felix's cheek with his thumb in a rare show of affection.
Han and Changbin had commandeered the coffee table, surrounded by an absurd spread of side dishes. Han waved his chopsticks dramatically as he debated the merits of different fried chicken brands with Seungmin, who sat cross-legged on the floor, shaking his head but smiling.
I.N was curled in an armchair, happily munching on a kimbap roll while scrolling through his phone, his socked feet tucked under him.
The peace was shattered by two unfamiliar voices near the doorway.
"Jesus, do they always eat like this?" one staff member muttered, just loud enough to carry.
"No wonder the company's always complaining about budgets," the other replied with a snicker. "These kids eat like they're training for a marathon."
Every head in the room snapped up.
Felix's smile froze. Changbin's chopsticks hovered mid-air, a piece of chicken dangling forgotten. Han's animated chatter cut off abruptly.
You didn't even realize you'd stood until your chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Chan's hand closed around your wrist before you could move. "Let me," he murmured, already pushing back his own chair.
But you gently shook your head, squeezing his fingers once before letting go. "I've got this."
The two staff members—young, probably new hires from some sub-department—paled as you approached. The taller one swallowed hard. "M-manager-nim! We didn't see—"
"Clearly," you said, your voice dangerously pleasant. You stopped just close enough to make them lean back slightly. "Because if you had seen me, you might have remembered that I approve every meal request. I know exactly what they eat. And that I don't tolerate anyone making my artists feel guilty for basic human needs."
The shorter one opened his mouth to protest, but you continued, your tone dropping to something icy and precise.
"You're dismissed. Permanently. I'll be speaking with HR about ensuring your attitudes don't infect any other teams."
"You can't just—"
"She can," Chan said from behind you, his deep voice calm but carrying. He hadn't moved from the table, his laptop now closed, his full attention on the confrontation. "And she did."
The staff members looked between you and the silent, staring members of Stray Kids, then fled without another word.
The door clicked shut.
For a beat, no one moved. Then—
"...So," Han said loudly, breaking the tension, "who wants to help me convince noona to expense dessert too?"
Felix burst out laughing, the sound bright and relieved. Changbin immediately threw a napkin at Han's face. "You're impossible." You smile, shaking your head as you point to your card on the table.
You returned to your seat beside Chan, who wordlessly pushed the container of mandu toward you. His knee bumped yours under the table—a silent thank you. He rests his head on your shoulder, continuing to eat.
Outside, the sun dipped lower over Seoul, casting long golden shadows across the common room floor..You'd fight all of hell to keep these boys safe and happy, because they deserved it.
How's that for a first fanfic? I hope you liked it, and please tell me if there are any mistakes! Because this was written over the timespan of 3 days, so.. yeah!
Love you, darling!
Continued little scenario: Bang Chan x Manager Reader;
