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Safe place

Bangchan x F!Reader

What happens when you get spiked at a bar and the man who comes to your rescue is none other than Bangchan….

A slow burn love story fic happens 😈

I’ve actually been working on this one for a long time, not knowing if I should release it or not. I’ve gone back and made so many changes, rewritten so many parts, but I finally decided it’s time. No smut in this one—just some angst, comedy, and a hell of a lot of fluff. This is probably the longest fluff piece I’ve ever written.

Warnings: spiked drink, alcohol, 1 single gross dude in a bar.

Word count: ~6800

Master list

Lmk if you want to be added to my tag list! ☺️

You didn’t remember the guy’s name. You barely remembered his face.

The bar had been crowded. Too many people packed into the too-small space, the air thick with heat and spilled alcohol. You weren’t even sure why you said yes to coming out tonight—this wasn’t your scene. But your friends had insisted. They were already off somewhere in the crowd, dancing or flirting or doing shots.

You just wanted to sit down.

So when the guy with the too-perfect smile handed you a drink and said, “You looked like you needed a pick-me-up,” you didn’t question it. You sipped it. Smiled back. Laughed politely at something you couldn’t remember a moment later.

And then it hit you.

Or maybe… everything hit you. Your head, first. Then your stomach, turning uneasily. Then your knees, buckling just slightly as you tried to stand. The music got louder. The lights started smearing. Your arms felt wrong, like you were floating out of your body. You gripped the edge of the bar.

“I don’t feel so good,” you mumbled.

The guy leaned in. “Let’s get you some air.”

You didn’t want air. You wanted your bed. But your words wouldn’t form, and your feet wouldn’t move where you wanted them to. He wrapped an arm around your waist and started steering you toward the door.

“Just need some air, sweetheart,” he said, voice too close to your ear.

You didn’t know why your heart was pounding. Something was wrong. You knew something was wrong. You just couldn’t fight it.

You stumbled.

And then a voice—calm, firm, but quiet—cut through the noise.

“Hey, is she with you?”

The guy tensed.

You couldn’t see well. Vision was going fuzzy now, but the voice that spoke next had an edge to it. Gentle steel.

“She’s with me,” the man lied.

There was a pause. A long one.

Then the voice again. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

You didn’t see what happened next. But you felt the arm around your waist release. You heard something hit a table. Heard voices—angry, confused. Someone shouting. Someone else apologizing.

Then a warm hand on your back.

“Hey. I got you. You’re safe, okay?”

You wanted to cry. Instead, you just leaned toward the warmth.

“Your voice is hot,” you slurred. “You… wow. You look like Bang Chan. That’s wild. You’re a guy though, so you probably don’t know Stray Kids.”

The hand paused for a second.

Then: a soft laugh. Low. Deep. Him.

“Yeah? Is that a compliment?”

You nodded enthusiastically. Or tried to. It felt more like a full-body lurch.

“He’s like, sooooooo hot,” you mumbled. “Like, unreasonably. It should be illegal. You—wow. You really look like him.”

“Noted,” he said, voice amused.

He picked you up—actually picked you up—and you didn’t even care. You didn’t feel scared. Just dizzy. Warm. Safe. His chest was solid against your cheek.

“Thank you for not being a creep,” you whispered. “Like that other guy. He was icky. You’re not icky.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m not.”

⸻

You woke up to the smell of something warm and clean. Detergent. Maybe fabric softener. Sunlight slipped through the curtains. Somewhere nearby, you heard the low hum of someone humming—off-tune and low enough it was barely audible.

Your head pounded.

You groaned and sat up, barely registering the foreign room until your elbow smacked a pillow that definitely wasn’t yours.

You weren’t in your apartment.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You whipped the blanket back, checking you were still dressed—thank god, yes—but your shoes were gone, and your earrings were sitting neatly on the nightstand. There was a glass of water. A box of crackers. And—

A post-it note?

You grabbed it with shaky fingers.

“Hey— You were feeling sick last night, so I brought you somewhere safe. Everything’s fine. Nothing happened. No pressure. Just rest. Knock on the door across the hall when you’re up — or whenever you’re ready. -C :)”

C?

You blinked. Looked around the room. The decor was… basic. Not messy, but clearly lived-in. Posters on the walls. A keyboard in the corner. A pair of oversized sneakers half-tucked under the desk.

You stood up slowly and tiptoed to the door, opening it just a crack. A short hallway led to a slightly open living area. Music played from a phone speaker—muffled, faint. There were voices now too. Two of them.

You followed the sound.

“I’m just saying,” one voice grumbled. “You could’ve woken me up. I wanted to meet her!”

“You’ll scare her,” the other said with a chuckle. “Let her get her bearings first.”

That voice again.

The voice.

Deep. Smooth. Calm. With just a hint of something Aussie curling at the edges.

Your heart started racing again.

Then someone stepped into the hallway—shirtless, towel slung around his neck, fresh from the shower.

I.N

Fucking Yang Jeongin.

You froze.

He froze.

He blinked. “Oh! You’re awake!”

Your jaw dropped. You were suddenly very aware that you were wearing an oversized black hoodie with sleeves that went past your hands, clearly not yours, and had what looked like a SKZOO patch on the hem.

No. No fucking way.

Your voice came out in a whisper. “W-where… where am I?”

Before he could answer, the door behind him opened.

And there he was.

Bang Chan.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt, his curls still damp, a mug of coffee in his hand.

He stopped.

And you stared.

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “It was you.”

His smile was small. Careful. Warm. “Hi.”

⸻

You stood there frozen, heart thundering, body suddenly very aware of every piece of borrowed clothing on your frame—especially the oversized hoodie that, upon closer inspection, absolutely had “CB97” embroidered discreetly into the sleeve cuff.

Your eyes met his. Brown, warm, and devastatingly familiar.

Bang Chan.

Leader of Stray Kids.

Savior of your entire goddamn existence last night.

He looked like every daydream you’d ever tried to talk yourself out of.

You wanted to melt into the floor.

Instead, you stood there blinking, bare-faced, hair a mess, still wearing your mascara smudges from the night before.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time. Like you were a scared animal he didn’t want to spook.

Too late, sir.

Jeongin took a long sip of his smoothie. “So you do know Stray Kids.”

You spun to him, hands flying up like please. “I—okay. Yes. But,”

“Wait,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You—last night—you didn’t tell me who you were.”

Chan gave a tiny shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t really seem like the time.”

Your stomach flipped. You remembered some of what you’d said. Not much. But definitely—

“You look like Bang Chan.”

Oh god.

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“I said that. Out loud. I said that out loud. I thought I was hallucinating.”

He laughed, and it was somehow even worse—because it was kind. Sweet. The sound of a man who didn’t think you were crazy, just… human.

“You also said I wasn’t icky,” he offered.

You peeked through your fingers. “I stand by that.”

Jeongin laughed so hard he choked on his drink.

Chan cleared his throat and gestured gently toward the kitchen island. “Do you want to sit? Eat something? There’s soup if you want, or we’ve got toast, cereal, rice…”

You nodded weakly, not trusting yourself to speak.

⸻

Ten minutes later, you sat across from Chan at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea you hadn’t asked for but somehow was exactly how you liked it.

He sat across from you, elbows resting on the wood, sleeves pushed up, forearms ridiculously unfair to your blood pressure. He watched you gently, giving you time.

“You were drugged,” he said finally, voice low. “He tried to take you out of the bar. You didn’t look okay, and he didn’t want anyone talking to you. That’s… usually a bad sign.”

You swallowed hard, nausea curling low in your stomach—not from the tea, but the memory.

“I don’t remember much,” you admitted.

“That’s probably a good thing.”

You nodded.

“I just—I wanted to make sure you were safe. Didn’t want to leave you alone or take you to a hospital if you weren’t lucid enough to consent. And I didn’t know how to explain to a stranger, ‘Hey I’m Bang Chan and I’m trying not to get arrested for kidnapping a STAY’.”

That made you snort into your tea.

“I was waiting for you to wake up to make sure you were okay,” he added. “But then Jeongin woke up first. And then… this.”

He gestured between you both with a sheepish smile.

You were too aware of the warmth in your chest. Of the man across from you who had literally carried you out of danger. Stayed up with you. Gave you water. Tucked you into bed.

Not “Bang Chan the idol.” Just… Chan. Human. Protector.

You set your mug down carefully.

“Thank you,” you said. “I… I can’t say that enough. I don’t even know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, really. Like—how do I explain this to normal people? ‘Oh yeah, I blacked out at a bar and woke up in my bias’s dorm, wearing his hoodie while his maknae watched me spiral’—”

Jeongin howled from the hallway.

Chan looked down at his tea to hide his laugh.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “I’m leaving. I’m going home. I’m going to bury myself and never come out.”

Chan’s voice was warm. “You can stay as long as you want.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re safe here. No pressure. No cameras. No press. Just people who care.”

The ache behind your eyes surprised you. You blinked fast, but it was too late—your throat already thickened.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, smile going soft.

“You already did,” he said. “You called me hot.”

You dropped your head onto the table with a groan.

⸻

You didn’t mean to see him again.

You meant to go home, cry in the shower, and process your emotions like a normal person with a normal amount of sanity and not an obsessive K-pop brain.

But Chan texted you that night. Just once.

Chan: You okay?

It was a simple message. No emojis. Just him checking in.

You stared at it for a full thirty minutes before replying.

You: Yeah. Still embarrassed. But okay.

Chan: Don’t be embarrassed. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

And then:

Chan: Jeongin said you like hot pot.

You paused.

Did you say that?

Was that in your ramble?

You didn’t even want to know.

You: …I do.

Chan: We’re making some tomorrow night. No pressure. Just friends.

Just friends.

You reread that part five times. Let it sink into your bones like cold water.

Right.

This was going to be a problem.

⸻

It was just dinner.

That’s what you told yourself the entire walk to the dorm.

Just dinner. With a guy who saved your life. Who happened to be your bias. Who also happened to look way too good in sweatpants and a sleeveless hoodie, even when he was just standing in the doorway waving you in with a casual, “Hey.”

Your knees buckled a little. Not visibly, but emotionally? You were wrecked.

“Come in,” he said, voice warm. “Shoes off, we’re a no-shoes household—except Hyunjin, he’s a menace.”

You giggled. Then froze.

Don’t giggle.

Be cool.

Be a person, not a stay-at-home simp with a secret photo album full of this man’s selfies.

You stepped in, and immediately—

“Whoaaaa, you’re real?” A voice from the living room.

You turned to see Han Jisung peeking out from behind the couch.

“Chan-hyung said we weren’t allowed to swarm you,” Han said, half-whispering like it was a secret. “But I swarmed anyway. Hi. I’m Han. You’re like… the one he wouldn’t shut up about yesterday.”

“I—he what—?”

“Jisung,” Chan said warningly.

“What? I’m being welcoming!”

Another head popped up.

“I’m also welcoming,” Felix said brightly. “Hi! I’m the sunshine.”

“You’re all terrifying,” you said without thinking.

They all beamed.

“Oh, you’ll fit right in,” Seungmin muttered from the kitchen.

⸻

Hot pot at the Stray Kids dorm was loud. Chaotic. And yet, somehow, the most homey meal you’d had in ages.

You sat squished between Hyunjin and Felix, the latter of whom kept spooning extra enoki mushrooms into your bowl and winking dramatically whenever Chan got up to get you something.

Every time you tried to help, Chan just waved you off. Refilled your drink. Reached over your shoulder to stir the pot. Gently warned, “Careful, that one’s spicy,” when he saw your hand moving toward a peppery broth.

You hated how you noticed it all.

How your body leaned a little toward him whenever he walked past.

How he tugged his hoodie sleeves up and you immediately locked in on his arms like you had no self-control.

You were so screwed.

“Don’t worry,” Jeongin murmured next to you. “You’re being subtle.”

You nearly dropped your chopsticks.

“W-what?”

He just grinned. “You’re fine. Totally normal. Not at all obvious that you’re in love with—”

You smacked him with your napkin.

⸻

Later, the boys peeled off one by one—Hyunjin leaving to take selfies in better lighting, Han dragging Jeongin away to record “something stupid,” Seungmin retreating with a book and a sarcastic “try not to combust.”

That left you and Chan alone on the floor, leaning back against the couch, a little too full and a little too quiet.

He glanced over. “You good?”

You nodded. “Better than good. That was… actually really nice. Thank you.”

He shrugged, bashful. “Just dinner.”

No. Not just dinner.

You didn’t say it, but he must’ve sensed it anyway. He looked down at his fingers, twisting a hair tie around one wrist.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t either,” you admitted.

“Why?”

You hesitated. Then: “Because I didn’t want to be that fan.”

He tilted his head.

“The one who… gets weird. Who crosses lines. Who mistakes kindness for something else.”

His eyes softened.

“You’re not that,” he said firmly.

You looked down. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t brag or post or… freak out. You just let me help you. And then you were embarrassed for it.”

“Because I still can’t believe it,” you whispered.

Chan was quiet for a moment. You weren’t sure if you’d gone too far. But then he sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Sometimes I forget I’m him.”

You turned to him.

“Him?”

“The Bang Chan you see. The one in videos. On stage. I forget that people look at me like that. I don’t… I’m not used to being seen the way STAYs see me. Not when I’m home. Not when I’m just being me.”

That hit you right in the chest.

You could only whisper, “I see both.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

A long pause.

Then he smiled.

And for a second, it felt like the room shrunk down to just the two of you.

⸻

You started texting.

Every day.

Stupid things at first—memes, food pics, song links. Then gradually longer messages. Thoughts. Check-ins. Random midnight bursts of “you ever think about how weird elevators are?” followed by philosophical spirals and voice notes filled with sleepy laughs.

He never failed to reply.

Sometimes instantly. Sometimes hours later with apologies and 3-minute voice messages to make up for it.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

You didn’t talk about how safe you felt when he carried you. Or how your heart leapt when he smiled. Or how his voice was starting to feel like a place you could rest in.

You didn’t talk about how he’d started remembering all your favorite things—how he sent you a playlist with your comfort songs. How he asked about your anxiety, your work, your art. How he saw you.

You didn’t talk about how it was getting harder not to fall. And you didn’t know that he was feeling the same thing.

Because neither of you were ready.

Not yet.

But soon.

⸻

Chan texted you around 7:00 p.m.

Chan: Working late at the studio. Want to come hang out?

The words sit in your chest like a lit match.

You pace your room for ten minutes before replying something chill like:

You: Sure. Want me to bring snacks?

He replies immediately.

Chan: You offering to feed me? Is this love?

You throw your phone across the bed.

⸻

You show up with three bags of snacks and an energy drink in hand, feeling way too self-conscious in your oversized hoodie and biker shorts. The hallway outside the studio smells like stale coffee and fried food. There’s a soft bassline pulsing from the room ahead.

You knock once.

Chan opens the door.

And, of course, he looks like that. Curls loose under a black beanie, plain white tank clinging to his chest, a chain around his neck that shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. There’s ink smudged on his hand and a pencil behind his ear.

“Hey,” he says, smiling like you make sense.

You try not to melt on the spot. “I brought snacks. And caffeine. So you don’t die.”

He opens the door wider. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

You blink. “Your favorite what?”

Chan just winks and grabs the snacks.

You forget how to breathe.

⸻

His studio is a comfortable mess. Blankets in the corner. A few hoodies on the back of his chair. Notebooks stacked like Jenga towers. Water bottles. Two empty mugs. His laptop screen is full of waveforms and color-coded layers.

He settles into his chair, one leg folded up under him like a gremlin, and spins halfway toward you.

“Okay, full disclosure—some of this might be boring.”

You sit on the little couch behind him. “That’s fine. I like boring. Boring is underrated.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Good. ‘Cause I’m very boring.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“Okay, fair.”

He clicks around for a minute, looping a beat. Humming softly. Scribbling lyrics.

You watch him work.

And it’s terrifyingly attractive.

The way his jaw clenches when he concentrates. The way he taps his pen against his lip while he’s thinking. The way he mutters little things under his breath like “nah, too heavy” or “no, don’t force it” and then rewrites whole verses without blinking.

“You look at music like it’s alive,” you say suddenly.

He pauses.

Then—“That’s because it is.”

He doesn’t explain further. And you don’t ask.

⸻

About thirty minutes later, he leans back with a groan.

“I’m stuck.”

You glance up. “What part?”

“The chorus. I have the melody. I just—” He sighs. “I don’t know how honest I want to be with the lyrics.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He spins toward you slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair.

“I mean… it’s personal. It’s about someone I shouldn’t feel things for.”

You freeze.

“Oh?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Someone I shouldn’t want. But I do.”

Your mouth is suddenly dry. “And why shouldn’t you?”

Chan shrugs. Looks down. “Because it’s not part of the plan.”

There’s a silence. Thick. Charged.

He glances at you. “You ever feel something for someone that you’re not supposed to?”

You meet his eyes.

Always, you want to say.

Instead, you whisper: “Every day.”

The air shifts.

He holds your gaze a second longer.

Then clicks play.

The track that fills the room is raw. Bare bones. Just a soft piano progression, a quiet beat pulsing behind it, and Chan’s voice—unpolished but haunting.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just watches the screen, face unreadable.

When the chorus ends, he hits stop.

The silence afterward is louder than the music.

“Chan,” you say softly.

He finally turns to you.

And his face is unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was probably too much.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath. Still trying to feel your hands.

“Was it about…?” you start to ask.

But he interrupts gently.

“Don’t. Don’t ask me that unless you’re ready to hear it.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your heart is pounding.

But you nod.

And he says nothing.

Because neither of you are ready.

Not yet.

⸻

It was past 1:30 a.m. by the time Chan shut down the studio.

You didn’t even realize how tired you were until you stood up and your knees wobbled. He caught your elbow instinctively, grounding you with one warm palm and that quiet, amused voice.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… gravity.”

He smiled. “That’s the realest thing I’ve heard all day.”

⸻

You both stepped out into the night air. It was cold. Sharp. The kind of air that made your lungs ache a little, that made your arms instinctively cross over your chest.

Chan noticed. Of course he did.

Without saying anything, he peeled off his hoodie and held it out to you.

You blinked. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m good,” he said. “You’re smaller.”

You slipped it on.

It smelled like him.

You were so unbelievably screwed.

⸻

“Come crash at the dorm,” he said as you walked. “It’s too late to head home.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

He gave you a look like it wasn’t even a question. “Couch is all yours.”

So now… you were sitting on said couch. Wrapped in one of Chan’s blankets. Watching him move around the kitchen like he’d done it a thousand times before, pulling out mugs and boiling water like it was the middle of the afternoon.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You want tea or hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” you said before you could talk yourself out of it.

He grinned. “Knew it.”

Of course he did.

⸻

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet the dorm was at night. I.N was asleep. Everything was still. Just you and him and the soft hum of the kettle heating on the stove.

He handed you a mug without a word.

Your fingers brushed.

You swore you stopped breathing.

He didn’t move away.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

He nodded.

“If I hadn’t… if none of that stuff at the bar happened—would we have ever met?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “Probably not.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But…” he continued. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have wanted to.”

You looked up at him.

Chan’s gaze was steady. Kind. A little sad.

“I don’t meet people easily,” he said. “Not outside of work. Not without walls.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He leaned his hip against the counter, mug cradled in both hands.

“But with you, it was different. I didn’t feel like I had to be anyone else.”

Your throat tightened.

“You didn’t even know who I was,” he added, chuckling softly. “You just thought I looked like me.”

You laughed. “You do look like you.”

“You called me hot.”

“Oh my god—”

He grinned wide.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down.”

“Not a chance.”

You were laughing. God, he made it so easy to forget how fragile everything was. How close you were to feeling too much.

Then your laughter softened. And the space between you did too.

The silence returned.

But it wasn’t heavy. It was full.

There was something hanging there—unspoken but so loud.

His eyes dipped to your mouth for the briefest second.

You didn’t imagine it.

You felt it.

And just when you thought maybe—just maybe—he’d move closer, he took a small step back.

“Bedtime,” he said gently.

Right.

Of course.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for the drink.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

You padded back to the couch, his hoodie still warm on your body.

You curled up under his blanket.

And you heard his door close quietly down the hall.

⸻

The studio was dark when you got there.

You didn’t mean to show up unannounced. You’d texted. Twice. No response. But you figured he was just deep in the zone like usual.

What you didn’t expect was to crack the door open and see him passed out on the couch, hoodie half-off, legs dangling over the side like a giant golden retriever after a long day of running his own emotional support group.

Your breath caught.

He was beautiful like this. Quiet. Soft. Face slack with exhaustion, hair pushed back by a headband, chest rising and falling gently.

On the coffee table beside him: his lyric notebook.

You knew it instantly. The battered brown cover. The red elastic band. The one he always tossed into drawers the second someone got too close.

You hesitated.

But the notebook was cracked open, a page half-exposed. Just a few words visible, scrawled in that fast, messy print of his.

You didn’t mean to look.

You really didn’t.

But your eyes drifted before your brain could stop them.

Your breath caught.

You blinked.

Read it again.

And again.

Your fingertips grazed the edge of the paper before you quickly pulled your hand back like it burned.

Because it did.

Your stomach twisted.

You backed away. Slowly. Carefully. Every cell in your body screamed DON’T READ MORE, but your heart was already aching.

You stood there, frozen.

Until his voice broke the silence.

“…You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You turned.

He hadn’t moved. Eyes still closed. One arm draped over his stomach. But his voice—low, rough from sleep—cut through the room like glass.

“I didn’t mean to—” you started.

“I know,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”

You stepped closer. “Chan…”

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking himself awake.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quickly. “I get it. You write things. Doesn’t mean they’re—”

“They’re all about you.”

The words landed like thunder.

You stared.

His eyes met yours. Tired. Honest. Wide open.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

“I wrote that one last week,” he said. “After you left. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how you sat on my kitchen floor in my hoodie drinking cocoa like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“Chan…” you breathed, but there were no words after it.

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” he said softly. “Or feel anything. I just…”

He paused.

“I don’t want to lie anymore. Not to myself. And definitely not to you.”

You blinked fast, swallowing the lump in your throat.

And then the door slammed open.

“OKAY, WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

You jumped.

Han stomped in, flailing his arms dramatically like he was breaking up a crime scene. “Did you confess? Are you crying? Did you confess? Why are there tears? What the hell is going on, I left for two hours—”

Chan groaned. “Han, please.”

“Don’t ‘Han’ me, I’ve had enough. Do you know how many weeks I’ve had to listen to you mope? How many poetic sighs I’ve endured?! Hyunjin is losing his mind.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Too bad! You brought her here again. You let her into your emotional songwriter den. That’s basically a marriage proposal. So what now, huh?”

You blinked.

Chan looked like he wanted to die.

Jeongin appeared in the doorway, sipping juice like it was movie night. “Is this the part where they finally kiss or what?”

“GUYS—” Chan groaned.

You stood there, wide-eyed, still overwhelmed, still processing.

And then—

You laughed.

Because the chaos was so them.

Because the moment was so you and him.

Because after everything—the fear, the tension, the words left unsaid—you were still standing here. Still breathing.

Still looking at him like maybe… you were ready.

You stepped closer to him.

Everyone immediately shut up.

Chan looked up at you.

And in the quiet, you said the one thing that wasn’t scary anymore.

“I feel it too.”

His eyes softened.

And he whispered, “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The room was dead silent.

Han clutched Jeongin’s arm. “Don’t. Move. They’re so close.”

But you didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

You sat next to him instead.

Let your shoulder press into his. Let his hand brush yours.

And you both smiled like something had finally shifted.

Because it had.

⸻

It started with a compliment.

Just a simple, harmless comment.

Or it should’ve been.

You were in one of the smaller JYPE practice rooms, sipping iced tea and scrolling your phone while Chan wrapped up a quick mentoring session with some of the newer trainees. You hadn’t meant to tag along—but when he looked at you that morning, all soft eyes and hopeful “You don’t have to stay, but I’d like it if you did,” there was really no way you were going home.

So here you were. Hoodie. Sneakers. Minding your business.

Until he walked over.

One of the trainees—maybe 18? 19? Tall, pretty, confident in that eager way new idols always are.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at your phone screen. “That a music app?”

You nodded, surprised. “Oh—yeah. Just a playlist.”

“Cool.” He smiled, a little too charming. “Did you make it? You’ve got good taste.”

“…Thanks,” you said slowly.

He took a sip of his drink. “I’ve seen you here before. Are you… a producer? Or maybe… an idol’s girlfriend?”

The way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was fishing. Curiosity mixed with just enough flirtation to make your skin prick.

You smiled politely. “Just a friend.”

“Of Chan-hyung?” he asked, raising a brow. “Or someone else?”

Across the room, Chan’s head snapped up.

He was supposed to be finishing feedback with another trainee. But his eyes were locked on you now.

And they did not move.

You didn’t notice at first.

You were busy blinking at the trainee, trying to figure out how to politely tell him to calm his whole ass down.

He smiled again, stepping closer, just barely in your space now. “Well, if you’re not dating anyone here, maybe I could show you my practice room sometime. Or maybe we could grab a coffee?”

You opened your mouth—but before a single word came out, the air changed.

“Is something wrong?”

The voice came from behind you.

Low. Firm.

Chan.

The trainee straightened immediately. “Oh—no, hyung, I was just talking to—”

“She’s busy,” Chan said. Not sharp, not rude. But definite. “We’ve got work to do.”

You blinked, turning slightly. “I—”

“Right,” the trainee said quickly, backing off with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, hyung. Sorry, noona.”

And then he vanished.

You turned to Chan slowly, brows lifted. “She’s busy?”

He looked calm. Too calm. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Not looking at you.

You bit back a smile. “Chan.”

“…What?” he said, tone a little too casual.

“Are you… jealous?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He didn’t answer. Just fiddled with his fingers, eyes pointedly on the floor.

You stepped closer. “He was just being polite.”

“He was flirting.”

You grinned. “And?”

Chan finally looked up. His voice was quieter now. Raw.

“I don’t like watching people flirt with you.”

You stilled.

He stepped forward—just a little—and now there were barely a few inches between you.

“I know we haven’t defined this,” he said slowly, “but I need you to know… it’s not just friendship to me. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

You swallowed hard.

Your heart was pounding.

“Then tell me what it is.”

He exhaled. Like he’d been holding the words for months.

“It’s everything.”

He looked right at you.

“It’s—me thinking about you all the time. Wanting to make you laugh. Needing to keep you safe. Writing songs I’ll never show anyone else because they’re just about you.” His voice dropped.

“It’s me feeling like my chest might cave in every time I almost tell you how I feel and stop myself.”

Your breath hitched.

And still—he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t cross that line.

Because he was waiting for you.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he said quietly. “Not because I own you. Because I’m scared someone else will get it right before I do.”

You didn’t hesitate this time.

Your hand reached up, brushing gently against his chest. Right over his heart.

His eyes closed. Just for a second. Like the touch alone grounded him.

“I don’t want anyone else either,” you whispered.

His eyes opened again.

And this time, he smiled.

Small. Tender. Like you’d handed him the rest of the oxygen he’d been living without.

But even now—he didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Come with me,” he said softly.

“Where?”

He leaned in.

“To finally finish a song I started the day I met you.”

⸻

You didn’t expect to end up at the dorms again that night.

You really didn’t.

But after the studio—after watching Chan pour out his heart in a song so raw it made your chest ache—you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. He didn’t ask you to stay. He just glanced over, eyes shining under the glow of his monitor, and said:

“You look tired.”

You had whispered, “So do you.”

And then he nodded once, offered his hand without a word, and led you back to the dorm.

It was late when you arrived. Past midnight. The air was soft and still, and the I.N was clearly already asleep.

Or… pretending to be.

You kicked your shoes off quietly in the entryway, glancing around.

“Where am I sleeping this time?” you whispered.

Chan looked at you.

Held your eyes.

And didn’t say a word.

You blinked. “Chan—?”

“I was gonna give you the couch,” he said, voice low. “But I don’t want you there.”

You stepped closer. “Why not?”

“Because I want to fall asleep next to you.”

The silence between you was heavy. Electric. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a second—so fast you almost didn’t catch it.

And that’s when you knew.

He wasn’t going to wait anymore.

He led you to his room. Quiet. Gentle.

You stepped in after him, heart beating like a drumline.

The lights were off. Just the faint glow of his monitor and the soft city light pouring through the blinds.

You stood there by his door, frozen. You could feel him behind you. The warmth of his presence. The tension bleeding into the air like smoke.

He was so close you could hear him breathe.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

You nodded.

“Are you scared?”

You turned slowly to face him. “Of what?”

“Of… this,” he said, gesturing between you. “Of what we’re turning into.”

You looked up at him.

Took a breath.

And told the truth.

“Not if it’s you.”

He broke.

Just a little. Just enough.

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and you felt the world shrink to nothing but his body, his breath, his gaze. His hand reached up, tentative, brushing a stray hair from your face, then lingering along your cheekbone like you might disappear if he blinked.

And then, finally—

Finally—

His lips met yours.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like he was still asking permission.

You leaned in.

Gave it.

And then he kissed you again—this time deeper, fuller. One hand cupping your jaw, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him like he’d waited forever for this and wasn’t risking it for a second longer.

You melted.

The world dissolved.

Your hands found his hoodie, curling into the fabric like it was the only thing holding you upright.

And Chan—sweet Chan—kissed you like he was breathing for the first time.

He tasted like mint and warmth and every late-night longing you’d buried for months.

He kissed you like a confession. Like a promise.

Like he meant it.

When he finally pulled back—forehead pressed against yours, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon—he whispered:

“I’ve wanted to do that every damn day since I met you.”

You smiled, dazed. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckled softly, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Can I do it again?”

You nodded.

“Good,” he said, voice husky. “Because I’m not done.”

⸻

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

All you remembered was the feeling of his lips—soft and slow and full of something unspoken. The way his hands stayed respectful even when his breath grew ragged. How he pulled back when your body leaned in too close, whispering something like “not yet” against your skin, and then gathered you into his arms instead.

You remembered the sound of his voice.

You remembered warmth.

Now—morning light sliced through the blinds in faint golden strips across the room. You stirred slowly, groggily, your limbs heavy and tangled in unfamiliar sheets.

Then you felt it.

A warm arm around your waist. A chest behind your back. The even rise and fall of someone breathing next to you.

You froze.

No way.

Your eyes snapped open.

You were in Chan’s bed.

In. His. Bed.

Last night came flooding back in fragments: the studio… the look in his eyes… the first kiss… the second one… falling asleep in his arms while his thumb traced slow circles into your hip.

Your heart thundered in your chest.

Was this real?

Was any of it?

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him—and immediately felt his grip tighten.

“Mm-mm,” he mumbled against your hair, voice rough and thick with sleep. “Too early.”

You went still again.

“Chan?” you whispered.

“Mhm.”

“…Are you awake?”

A long pause. A faint chuckle.

“You asked me a question, baby. What do you think?”

Baby.

The word fried something behind your eyes.

You turned slowly in his arms to face him.

And there he was.

Messy curls, smushed against the pillow. Sleep-swollen lips. Half-lidded eyes that drank you in like sunlight.

He looked unfairly good in the morning.

You whispered, “So that really happened.”

His brow furrowed, just a little. “You thought it didn’t?”

You glanced down, cheeks warm. “Kind of felt like a dream.”

He shifted, propping himself on one elbow, head tilted. “Do you regret it?”

Your eyes flew up to meet his. “No. God, no. I just… didn’t think—” You swallowed. “I didn’t think you liked me like that.”

He gave you a look. One that said, Seriously? “I’ve been a mess about you since the second night we met.”

You blinked. “The night you saved me?”

He nodded slowly.

“That was months ago.”

“Yup.”

Your heart did a weird little flip.

You reached for the edge of the comforter, pulling it higher over your chest, suddenly shy.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He studied you for a beat. Then, soft: “Because you’re a fan.”

That stung a little. “So?”

“So… I didn’t want to ruin anything for you. Your image of me. The boundary. The—”

You cut him off. “Chan.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“I don’t care about the boundary.”

Silence.

Then—

“You don’t?”

You shook your head, smiling softly. “I care about you. Not the idol version of you. You. The one who makes me ramen when I cry. The one who helped me feel safe again. The one who didn’t take advantage when he could have—who took care of me that night instead of getting into bed.”

His face crumpled for a second—like you’d touched something tender—and then he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“I’m so screwed,” he muttered.

You giggled. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop falling for you.”

Your breath caught.

And then—

A knock on the door.

And a very, very familiar voice.

“Hyung? You awake? I wanna grab my laptop real quick—”

Chan’s eyes went wide.

You both sat up way too fast.

“Shit,” he hissed, raking a hand through his hair.

“I.N??” you squeaked, diving under the blanket instinctively even though you were fully clothed.

The door opened.

Jeongin stepped in.

Stopped.

Stared.

And then gave the most dramatic, knowing, “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” you’d ever heard in your life.

Your soul left your body.

“YOU GUYS FINALLY KISSED, DIDN’T YOU?” he exclaimed.

Chan sighed, flopping back into the pillows. “Can you please just get your laptop and go?”

“I knew it!” Jeongin pointed between the two of you like some kind of gossiping gremlin. “I knew this stupid tension wouldn’t last forever—!”

“Jeongin,” you whined, dragging the blanket over your head.

“I’m telling Hyunjin.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m absolutely telling Hyunjin.”

And just like that—he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall, voice already echoing gleefully.

Chan groaned. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

You peeked out from the covers. “At least we got the kiss.”

He turned his head toward you, smiling softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “We got the kiss.”

TYSM for reading!!

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