when you're toxic family invites your ex for christmas, your roommate seungmin suggests he go with you as your fake boyfriend. what could go wrong?
*°࿐ notes: as part of A Very Merry K-Popmas. check out everyone's work!! i've divided this into two parts just because it couldn't all fit into one because i litr do not know when to stop. READ PART ONE FIRST.
The house sounds different after midnight.
The laughter’s gone, the TV’s finally silent. What’s left is the low hum of the heater, the occasional creak as the old bones of the place settle, and the faint jingle of ornaments as you shift the boxes in your arms.
You pause at the bottom of the stairs, bare toes curling against cold hardwood. The living room is lit only by the lamps and the soft glow from the string of lights someone draped haphazardly over the curtain rod earlier. The tree stands in the corner, a dark, hulking silhouette waiting to be turned into something softer.
Daniel is already there.
He’s crouched by one of the boxes, sleeves pushed up, forearms roped with familiar lines of muscle. He looks up when he hears you, grin loading like it’s an automatic setting.
“There she is,” he says. “My fellow elf.”
You set your boxes down harder than necessary. “Let’s just get it done.”
He chuckles, like you’ve said something cute. “Still all business, huh?”
You don’t dignify that. You flip open the nearest lid, tissue rustling, the smell of cardboard and old pine sap puffing out. The ornaments glint up at you—some cheap, some delicate, some with your childhood handwriting baked into the glaze.
He joins you at the box, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh when he bends. You shift a fraction away.
“Same system?” he asks. “You do top, I do bottom? Or you want to trade this year?”
“Whatever’s fastest,” you say.
He watches your profile for a beat. “You always say that,” he murmurs. “Then spend forever.”
You grab the first thing your fingers land on—a faded paper star with crooked scissors marks—and straighten up. “Maybe don’t talk so much and it’ll go quicker.”
His smile hooks. “There she is,” he says again, softer this time. “I missed the attitude.”
You ignore that and move to the tree.
It’s muscle memory at first—the way your hands find branches spaced just right, the way you tuck the older, uglier ornaments deeper in, the ones from your grandmother front and center. Daniel works around you, looping lights with practiced ease, humming along tunelessly to the Christmas playlist he’s pulled up on his phone.
For a while, it’s almost bearable. You talk about nothing: how tall the tree is this year, which kid broke which ornament in what year, whether the stand is listing to one side. You keep your answers short, factual. His keep sliding sideways—small hooks, tossed lightly.
“Remember when your mom bought those awful blue lights and you cried?” he asks, untangling a stubborn knot.
“I was thirteen,” you say. “I hated change.”
“You still do,” he says.
You tighten the wire of a tiny bell around a branch until it bites your fingers. “I adjusted, didn’t I?”
He glances over his shoulder at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Eventually.”
The music switches to something slow, some old crooner you can’t even name, all strings and nostalgia. You feel it like pressure, pushing around the edges of the room.
“Grandma looked good today,” he says after a while.
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “She lit up when she saw you.” A beat. “And when she saw me.”
Your jaw clenches. “She likes people who visit.”
He lets that sit for a second, then: “We used to be good at that. Visiting.”
You shove a glass bauble deeper into the tree than it needs to go. “You had your hands full,” you say flatly. “With your new family.”
There. You’ve said it out loud.
He doesn’t flinch the way you hoped he will. He just exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s been expecting the punch.
“You’re still mad about that,” he says. Not a question.
You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You cheated on me and got her pregnant. I’m not sure ‘mad’ covers it.”
He sets down the lights, leans his shoulder against the tree, branches brushing his arm. He looks at you properly now, all traces of easy grin smoothed into something softer, manufactured.
“I made a mistake,” he says quietly. “A stupid, drunk, one-night mistake that turned into… more.”
Your stomach churns. “You have a daughter,” you say. “And she’s three. That’s not a mistake. That’s a whole life you built after me.”
He spreads his hands, like he’s offering you something. “And I’m owning it,” he says. “I’m a dad. I show up. I pay. I’m there. You think that’s what I planned?”
“Yes,” you say. “I do.”
He chuckles once, disbelieving. “You think I didn’t want it to be you?”
Your fingers go numb around the porcelain angel you’re holding. “Don’t,” you say. “Do not say that to me in this house.”
He pushes off the tree, closing a little of the distance between you. “Why? Because it’s true?”
You turn away, shove the angel onto a branch harder than necessary. It wobbles; you catch it with shaking fingers.
“Because it’s irrelevant,” you manage. “We’re done. You made choices. I made choices. We live with them.”
His voice follows you around the tree. “You left,” he reminds you, like you need reminding. “You took that internship and ran. You didn’t even try.”
“You were already sleeping with her,” you bite out. “What exactly was I supposed to try for?”
He is quiet for a moment. The lights glow weakly between you, half the strands still unplugged.
“I was scared,” he says. “You were talking about grad school and moving to the city and all these big plans. I didn’t know where I fit. She…” He shrugs, a bitter twist to his mouth. “She was easy. Close. Made me feel needed.”
“And I didn’t,” you whisper.
He steps closer. “You made me feel like I had to be more,” he says. “It’s not the same thing.”
The words thread into all the old cracks in you, the ones you thought you’d plastered over. For a second, the room blurs at the edges.
You hate that he still knows where the weak spots are.
“Can we not do this?” you say, blinking hard. “It’s late. We’re here to hang tinsel and lie to children. That’s it.”
He searches your face, then nods slowly, like he’s granting you a favor.
“Okay,” he says. “Tree now. Emotional honesty later.”
“There is no later,” you mutter.
He doesn’t answer, but something in his eyes says we’ll see.
You move faster after that, mechanical. Hooks, branches, boxes. You keep a buffer of needles and plastic between you whenever you can, circling opposite sides like you’re orbiting something that might explode if you get too close.
He keeps trying anyway.
You give him nothing but the bare minimum—yes, no, fine, sure. Your voice comes out sharp enough that you hope the walls hear you.
When you’re done, you both end up standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, looking at your work. The tree glows, ornaments catching the light. It does look good. It always does.
For a moment, you let yourself just see that. The soft, warm, pretty thing you’ve made out of all this.
“Still the dream team,” Daniel says, low.
You take a step forward to grab the empty ornament box. He moves when you do, cutting across your path.
“Hang on,” he says. “One more thing.”
“I’m going to bed,” you say. “We’re done.”
He doesn’t move. You shift right to get around him; he mirrors you. It’s subtle, a lazy little block, but effective. You end up backing up a fraction instead.
“You mad I spoke up earlier?” he asks. “With your boyfriend?”
You bristle. “You mean when you told him to relax?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “He was being dramatic.”
“He was defending me.”
He huffs. “From what? Hanging ornaments with your ex? We’re not monsters.”
You try again to sidestep. Again, he steps with you, shepherding you gently but firmly into the space between the coffee table and the doorway arch.
“Move,” you say, a thin edge creeping into your voice.
“Hey.” He holds his hands up, palms out, but doesn’t actually step back. “I’m just talking.”
You’re about to tell him exactly where to shove his “just talking” when you feel the shift in the air above you—a faint tickle, like the ghost of leaves overhead.
You glance up.
Mistletoe. Hung in the archway, tied with the same red ribbon your mother has used every year since you were small.
Of course.
When you look back down, his smile has changed. Softer. Hungrier.
“It’s tradition,” he says quietly.
Your heart stutters, unpleasantly. Your spine goes rigid, every muscle suddenly unsure of what to do.
“No,” you say. It comes out small.
He steps in, closing the last sliver of space, one hand bracing lightly on the wall beside your head. Not touching you, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him like a threat.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “It’s just a kiss. It’s Christmas.”
Your brain does the stupid thing it’s been conditioned to do in this house: it freezes and starts flipping through old versions of yourself on autopilot.
You remember being nineteen and dizzy with him for the first time, kissing under this same stupid plastic plant while your cousins squealed.
You remember, too, the last time you saw his name pop up on your phone beside a picture of a newborn that wasn’t yours.
Your nails bite into your palms. Your feet don’t move.
He watches your face, misreading the paralysis as something else. “You still feel it,” he says softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You can’t look at me like that and tell me it’s gone.”
“I’m not looking at you,” you manage.
He laughs under his breath. “You always were a terrible liar.”
He shifts closer, the hand on the wall sliding down, fingers hovering just above your hip now. Your back bumps the molding. There’s nowhere else to go without climbing furniture.
“Daniel,” you say, fighting for air.
He tilts his head, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Say you don’t want me,” he says. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll back off.”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because you do want something—an apology that feels real, a do-over, a universe where he wasn’t such a coward, a house where you didn’t feel like a girl pressed into an old script. Want and hurt and anger are a knot in your chest and your tongue can’t pick one thread to pull.
He sees the hesitation and smiles, soft and triumphant.
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, starting to lean in.
“You should step back.”
The voice is flat and sharp and comes from behind him.
Daniel’s shoulders tense. He half-turns, annoyance already creasing his brow.
Seungmin stands in the archway from the hall, barefoot in sweats and an old t-shirt, hair rumpled from the pillow. His eyes are wide awake. And furious.
Daniel snorts. “You again,” he says. “Relax, man. We were just—”
“Spare me the sound of your voice,” Seungmin cuts in.
The words are quiet, but they hit like a slap.
A beat of silence stretches. The tree hums faintly with its own electricity. Your pulse roars in your ears.
Daniel straightens, squaring his shoulders like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Look,” he starts, glancing between the two of you, “I get that this is… weird for you. First love, history, all that. But this is our thing. We always—”
“Walk away,” Seungmin says.
No inflection. No please. Just instruction.
Daniel’s mouth twists. “You think you can just roll up here and—”
“Man.” Seungmin finally moves, stepping forward into the arch so he’s half in the room, half in the hallway. He’s still not raising his voice, but something in it sharpens. “You’re not that interesting. Go to bed.”
For a second, Daniel just stares at him, actually thrown.
Then he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head like this is all beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he mutters. He drops his hand from the wall, steps sideways out of the doorway, brushing past Seungmin with a little deliberate shoulder bump.
Seungmin doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t even look at him.
“You done?” he asks, eyes still on you.
Daniel pauses in the hallway, like he might lob one last comment over his shoulder. Whatever he sees on Seungmin’s face makes him think better of it.
“Night,” he tosses instead, voice light and empty. “Tree looks good.”
His footsteps retreat down the hall. A door clicks shut.
Silence slams down in his wake.
The silence after Daniel’s door clicks shut is loud enough to make your ears ring.
You’re still pinned to the doorway like part of the molding, lungs fluttering, fingers numb. The tree glows obliviously in the corner, throwing soft light over everything that just happened.
Seungmin doesn’t move at first.
He stands there in the archway, chest rising and falling a little too fast, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes are on the hallway, like he’s making sure there aren’t any reruns.
Then he looks at you.
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is low, rough around the edges. The anger’s still there, but it’s pulled back a layer, concern bleeding through.
You try to nod. Your head feels separate from your body. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out thin. “I’m fine, I just—”
“Are you still in love with him?”
The question hits so fast it cuts your sentence in half.
You blink. “What?”
“Don’t,” he snaps, and the word cracks like a whip. “Don’t act confused. Are you still in love with him?”
You just stare at him. You’ve seen him irritated, exasperated, quietly pissed on your behalf.
You have never seen him like this.
His jaw is tight, shoulders tense under the worn cotton of his t-shirt. There’s a sharpness to him you don’t recognize, all the softness burned off.
“That’s not a fair—” you start.
“It’s a yes-or-no question,” he says. “Which part is unfair?”
“Everything,” you hiss back, remembering to keep your voice low at the last second. “The timing, the place, the fact that we’re at my parents’ house at midnight—”
“So you can’t answer,” he says. “That’s an answer.”
Heat spikes up your neck. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide what my non-answers mean.”
He lets out a quiet, ugly laugh. “I just walked downstairs and saw your ex boxing you in under mistletoe while you stared at him like someone hit pause,” he says. “Sorry if I’m not feeling super charitable about nuance right now.”
Your hands ball into fists. “What did you want me to do? Start screaming? Wake up my grandma so she can watch me have a breakdown in front of the nativity set?”
“I wanted you to move,” he bites out. “Push him, duck under his arm, do something that wasn’t just letting him get closer and closer while you looked like you were about to pass out.”
“I froze,” you say, teeth clenched. “That’s what I do when I panic. Sorry I didn’t pick the reaction that would make you feel less insecure.”
His eyes flash. “This isn’t about my insecurity.”
“Really?” you whisper. “Because it kind of feels like it is.”
Something ugly flickers across his face. He takes a step into the room, closer to you, like he can’t decide if he wants to get in your face or get away and his body picked for him.
“I—” you start.
“You brought me here,” he says over you, voice still low but fierce enough to vibrate in your chest. “You asked me to be your boyfriend in front of these people. Do you understand what that means?”
“I didn’t ask,” you snap. “You offered.”
“Because I thought your ex was a footnote,” he shoots back. “Not the main fucking plot.”
You flinch.
He sees it. He doesn’t back off.
“I thought I was coming to run interference,” he goes on. “Smile when they’re rude, hold your hand when they’re shitty, make sure you don’t end up crying in a bathroom somewhere. I did not sign up to watch you almost kiss the guy who cheated on you while I stand in the doorway like an idiot.”
“It wasn’t almost—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how close it was.
He pounces. “You can’t even finish that sentence.”
Your throat closes. “You’re twisting this.”
“I’m looking at it,” he says. “You’re the one twisting, trying to make it look like something it’s not.”
You press your back harder against the wall, like you can sink through it. “You don’t know what it’s like with him,” you say, barely above a whisper. “In this house. With everyone… expecting things. You’ve been here two days and you think you have it all figured out—”
“I know he cheated on you and knocked up someone else,” Seungmin says. “I know he let your mom rewrite the narrative so it somehow turned into your fault. I know he hasn’t apologized in a way that actually matters. And I know that the second he corners you, you go quiet.”
“That’s—”
“You could have said, ‘I don’t want you anymore,’” he says. “Five words. He literally asked you to. You opened your mouth and nothing came out.”
The worst part is that he’s not wrong.
“It’s not that simple,” you say, voice fraying. “You don’t just flip a switch and stop caring that someone blew up your life. I hate him, and I still—” You cut yourself off, biting down hard enough on your tongue that you taste metal.
His eyebrows rise slowly. “And you still what?”
You stare at him, furious at yourself, at him, at this whole house. “I still… feel things,” you grind out. “Residual whatever. You happy now?”
“No,” he says, and the way he says it makes your stomach drop. “I’m really fucking not.”
Your eyes sting. “I just—I’m trying, Min. I’m really trying not to explode this whole thing while my grandma is in the next room and my mom is one passive-aggressive comment away from a meltdown. I’m doing the best I can.”
“And your best is what?” he asks. “Letting them shove you back into the old script while I stand there and clap?”
“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” you say, anger finally matching his. “You made this big show about being there for me, and now you’re pissed at me for needing it.”
“I’m not pissed at you for needing me,” he says, and his voice cracks for the first time. “I’m pissed that you apparently still need him too and somehow I’m the one who looks crazy for being bothered by that.”
The word hangs between you like a slap.
You swallow hard. “I don’t—”
“Are you still in love with him,” he repeats, each word deliberate. “Yes or no.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. You feel nineteen again, under this same doorway, with your mom watching from the couch and everyone chanting kiss-kiss-kiss while your heart tried to beat its way out of your ribs.
“I don’t know,” you finally choke out. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t fucking know. I hate him and I miss who I thought he was and I can’t untangle it in the middle of my parents’ living room with you glaring at me like—”
“Like what?” His eyes are bright, too bright. “Like I care? Like I’m not okay being your prop while you figure out if you still want the guy who treated you like a hobby?”
“That is not what I’m doing,” you hiss. “I agreed to let you come so I wouldn’t drown. Not so you could stand here and demand a clean emotional spreadsheet.”
He laughs, low and mean. “A clean—? You’re unbelievable.”
“Oh, I’m unbelievable?” you hiss. “You’re the one acting like you got tricked into this. Like I lured you here, tied a bow on you, and forgot to mention my trauma at the door.”
He steps right up to you then, close enough that the wall digs into your shoulder blades again. His voice stays low, but every word is a shard.
“You think I don’t know you’re traumatized?” he says. “I’ve watched you flinch at every text with his name in it for three years. I’ve held your hair while you threw up because phone calls with your mom make you sick. I’ve slept on the couch because you couldn’t be alone and wouldn’t admit you were scared.”
Your eyes blur. The lights smear.
“I know you,” he says. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
Your breath shudders out. “Then why are you acting like this is news?”
“Because I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He shakes his head, a bitter half-laugh catching in his throat. “That maybe if I came here and did this right and they saw how much better you were with someone who actually gives a shit, it would finally click for you. That you’d look at him and feel nothing.”
“That’s not how feelings work,” you whisper.
“I know that,” he says. “My feelings haven’t gone anywhere for a year and a half.”
The words slam into you.
You stare at him. His chest is rising and falling, eyes searching your face like he wants to yank the understanding into you.
“And now,” he says, softer but no less furious, “I’m standing here choking on it while you stand under mistletoe with him and tell me ‘it’s complicated.’”
Your voice breaks. “You didn’t tell me,” you say. “You never said—”
“Yeah,” he snaps. “Because I didn’t want to be another person who made you responsible for their shit. I didn’t want to be one more thing you had to manage. I was fine being… just your roommate. Your friend. Whatever.”
“You’re not ‘just,’” you say, stunned and hurting. “You know you’re not.”
“Do I?” he asks. “Because tonight it kind of felt like I’m the guy you drag home to piss off your ex and calm your mom, and he’s still the one you can’t say no to out loud.”
“That is so fucking unfair,” you whisper. “You walked in at the worst possible second and decided that’s the whole story.”
He scoffs. “Worst possible second? Or the most honest one?”
You push at his chest then, a little shove that doesn’t move him much, but he rocks back half an inch.
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you say. “If you wanted to know how I feel, you could have asked before tonight. Before we were stuck here with my entire family sleeping upstairs.”
“I’m asking now,” he says. “And you’re telling me you don’t know.”
“Because I don’t,” you whisper. “I know I don’t want to be with him. I know I don’t trust him. I know the idea of actually getting back together makes me sick. But if you’re asking if some stupid part of me remembers what it felt like before he fucked everything up—yeah. It does. Brains are messy. I can’t shut it off just because you need me to pick a team right this second.”
His face twists, like that answer physically hurts.
“That’s what I needed,” he says. “Not because I want you to perform for me. Because I’m in love with you, and it feels fucking insane to stand here and wonder if the biggest thing in my life is just… background noise compared to your nostalgia.”
Your heart lurches.
You grab for his shirt without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric. “It’s not,” you say. “You’re not. You’re—”
You stall, because the word you’re about to say terrifies you almost as much as everything else.
His eyes flick to your mouth, then up again, jaw clenching.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “I’m what?”
You swallow. “Important,” you manage. “You’re… you’re everything, okay? You’re home. You’re the only reason I’m not losing my mind here.”
He laughs once, broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You make a helpless noise. “You’re twisting my words now.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Maybe I learned from the best.”
The words hang between you, meaner than he meant them, uglier than either of you deserve and you flinch.
He sees it. His face changes—just a flicker, guilt breaking through the anger—then shutters over again. He lets out a rough breath, steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the conversation.
“This is pointless,” he mutters. “I’m going upstairs.”
He turns, shoulders tight, already half in the shadows of the hallway.
Something in you panics.
“Wait,” you say, too fast, too small. Your hand shoots out on instinct, catching the hem of his t-shirt before he can get away.
The cotton bunches in your fist. He stops dead.
For a second, neither of you moves.
You can feel your own pulse beating in your fingers where they’re curled in his shirt. The house hums around you—heater, distant fridge, the faint buzz of the tree lights—everything too loud and too far away at once.
“Min,” you start, because you don’t know what else to say except his name.
He looks down at your hand on him, at your white-knuckled grip, then back up at you.
Whatever was holding him together snaps.
“Stop,” he says, but it comes out wrecked. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” you whisper.
“Grabbing me when you’re about to let go,” he spits, spinning back toward you in one sharp motion. “You can’t keep—”
He doesn’t finish.
One second he’s mid-sentence, eyes burning, chest heaving; the next he’s crowding you back into the doorway, his hands catching your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.
His mouth hits yours.
There’s no hesitation, just the crash of a wave that’s been building for too long. You gasp against him, more from shock than anything, and he takes the opening, kissing you like he’s been starving and someone finally handed him air.
Your back smacks lightly against the trim. One of his thumbs digs into the hinge of your jaw; the other hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He’s shaking, just a little. You feel it everywhere he’s touching you.
You should push him away.
You don’t.
Your hand that was still fisted in his shirt drags him closer instead, knuckles catching on his ribs as you haul yourself up into him. The other finds his shoulder, then the back of his neck, fingers digging in like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid for the first time all night.
He makes a low sound into your mouth—frustration, relief, something wild—and tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s messy, teeth clicking once, your noses bumping before you both adjust. His breath tastes like mint and leftover bitterness. Yours stutters against his, catching on all the words you didn’t say.
The anger is still there, threaded through every movement—too tight, too urgent—but there’s something else underneath it, older and softer and terrifyingly bare. Every time his mouth drags over yours it’s I’m mad at you and I’m mad at me and I love you, I love you, I love you, no matter how hard he tries not to.
You match him without meaning to. All the fear and shame and want you’ve been choking down rise up at once, pouring out of you in the way your fingers clutch at him, in the way your lips part, in the tiny, helpless sound that slips out when his teeth catch your lower lip.
He freezes at that, just for a heartbeat—like he heard it, really heard it—and then kisses you harder, like he’s answering something you didn’t know you asked.
Your knee bumps his thigh. His hand slides down from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading over your hip, pulling you closer into the line of him. The tree glows warm at the edge of your vision, ornaments blurring into streaks of red and gold.
Somewhere above you, a floorboard creaks. The house reminds you that it exists.
The sound cracks through the moment like cold air.
Seungmin jerks back.
It’s abrupt enough that your head knocks lightly against the wall. You suck in a breath like you’ve been underwater. He’s still close—too close—but his hands have dropped away, hanging uselessly in the small space between you.
His lips are red. His pupils are blown wide. He looks horrified.
“Shit,” he breathes. “I—”
You can’t say anything. Your mouth tingles. Your heart is trying to punch a hole through your ribs.
He drags both hands back through his hair, fingers lacing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to hold his head on.
“That shouldn’t have…” He trails off, jaw working. “Fuck.”
“Min,” you manage, voice wrecked.
He winces at the way it sounds. His eyes flick to your mouth, then wrench away, like looking hurts.
“This is exactly what I meant,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I can’t— I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
You swallow, throat raw. “Do what?”
“Any of it,” he says. “Be your fake boyfriend, your real… whatever. Watch you deal with him. Pretend I’m not—” He cuts himself off, biting down hard.
His hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you again.
You almost let him.
You almost grab him first.
Instead, you both stand there, breathing each other’s air, the aftershock of the kiss buzzing under your skin like static, the argument still sitting between you like a live wire.
The tree lights blink once, twice.
Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime the hour.
Seungmin is the first to move.
He steps back like he’s just realized how close he still is to you, like he’s been standing with his hand on a hot stove and finally felt it. His gaze skates over your face—mouth, eyes, the place on your neck where his fingers were a second ago—then jerks away.
“I can’t,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t do this right now.”
He turns on his heel, already heading for the hallway.
Panic spikes through you, sharp and stupid. You lurch forward, fingers catching at his wrist.
“Wait,” you say. It comes out cracked. “Don’t just—don’t go.”
He stops so abruptly you almost bump into his back.
For a heartbeat he doesn’t turn. You can feel the tension roped in his arm under your hand, the way his muscles have gone rock-solid. His head dips once, like he’s breathing through something.
Then he rips his wrist gently but firmly out of your grip and spins around.
His eyes are bright, mouth pulled tight. He looks furious. He looks wrecked.
“Do you have any idea how cruel you’re being?” he says, very quietly.
The word shocks you more than if he’d yelled.
“Cruel?” you repeat, stunned. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says. “You might not mean to, but you are. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep grabbing me every time you feel yourself slipping and then freezing the second you have to actually look at what that means.”
Your throat burns. “I didn’t—”
“You kissed me back,” he says, over you. “In case you’re tempted to pretend that was all me. You grabbed me and you held on and you made that noise and—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. “Do you think I don’t notice? Do you think that doesn’t… fucking wreck me?”
You swallow hard. “Min, I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part. You’re doing it without even looking at it.”
He takes a step closer, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him again.
“You know how I feel about you,” he says. Not a question.
You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You never said—”
“I just did,” he bites out. “Have been, all night, using every word except ‘I’m in love with you’ because apparently I have a self-preservation kink I didn’t know about.”
The words land like a kick to the chest. You grip the doorway behind you to stay upright.
He laughs once, broken. “There,” he says. “Is that clear enough? Does that finally make it into your calculations?”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain is a static hiss—him, the tree, Daniel’s door down the hall, your grandmother asleep two rooms away, all crashing into each other.
“Say something,” he says, and there’s a plea under the anger now. “Anything that isn’t ‘it’s complicated.’ Are you ready to deal with that? With me actually wanting you? Not as a bit. Not as a favor. For real.”
He waits. The house hums.
You try.
You really do.
You think about saying yes, about stepping off the cliff you’ve been standing on for months—years. You think about saying no, about shutting it down clean and watching something in him go out.
Your tongue won’t pick either.
“I…” you start, and your voice breaks on the first syllable. “I don’t know how to answer that right now.”
His face shuts down so fast it’s almost audible.
“Right,” he says. “There it is.”
“Min—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. I get it. You’re not ready, you’re overwhelmed, everything’s messy.” He nods once. “Good news is, you don’t have to be ready tonight.”
He takes another step back, toward the hall this time. Away.
“I told you I’d play the part,” he says. “I will. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll hold your hand and smile for the pictures and pretend I don’t want to put Daniel through a wall every time he opens his mouth.”
Your chest squeezes. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” he says. “Away. Anywhere that isn’t this house with him down that hall and you under this—” he jerks his chin up at the mistletoe, eyes flashing “—like some fucked-up set piece.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, horrified. “You can’t just—”
“I’m a grown man,” he says. “I can get a cab. Sleep on a friend’s couch. Sit at a twenty-four-hour diner until my brain stops trying to crawl out of my skull. I’ll figure it out.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.
He looks at you for a long, long moment. Whatever softness is left in his face is held together by threads.
“I do,” he says. “Because I can’t stand in this living room one more second looking at you and wondering if I’m just the guy you grab when you’re drowning and let go of the second you’re back in shallow water.”
Your eyes sting. “That’s not what you are.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But until you’re ready to say what I am to you, I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart and I’m… I’m done pretending it’s not.”
You step forward, hand reaching out again on instinct. “Seungmin, please—”
He flinches away from your touch like it burns.
“Don’t,” he says, and now he sounds exhausted more than angry. “Don’t do that if you’re not going to follow through. Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.”
The words cut clean.
Your hand drops.
His shoulders sag for half a second, like taking himself out of your reach physically hurts. Then he straightens, pulls in a breath, and pastes on something that almost looks like calm.
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” he says. “You can tell your mom I went for a walk if anyone asks.”
“Min,” you say again, helpless.
He steps backward into the hall. Shadows swallow him up to the chest, leaving his face in the spill of tree light. It paints him in green and red and gold, like he’s already half a memory.
He hesitates one last time.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.
Then he turns and walks away.
Seungmin is back before you open your eyes.
You know it in that weird half-waking way you know when someone enters your room in the dark. The draft under the door shifts. The floorboard by the dresser gives its familiar, traitorous creak. Zipper teeth whisper, then a soft thud of a bag.
You stay still.
The room smells like cold air and the outside, clinging to his hoodie. The mattress dips a little as he sits on the edge of the bed, just for a second. You feel the weight of him through the covers, through your own rigid attempt at playing dead.
You think he might say something. Your name. A curse. Anything.
He doesn’t.
The bed lifts as he stands. A drawer slides open. Fabric rustles—clean shirt, probably—and then the bathroom door clicks shut, light slicing under it.
You open your eyes to the dim winter morning of your childhood room and focus on the wrapped box at the back of the closet shelf.
Small. Neat. Green paper with gold stars. The gift you bought him: the limited edition vinyl you spent months tracking down and then meeting with a shady seller you met on the internet to retrieve. You don’t know much about these sorts of things but the way he spoke about it longingly made you determined to get it.
You stare at the box until your vision blurs.
Then you shut the closet and pretend it isn’t there.
Christmas Day wears your nerves down by degrees.
You and Seungmin move around each other like people in a crowded kitchen who don’t know each other well enough to bump hips. You trade space instead of warmth.
He carries things, helps your grandma to her chair, reads instructions on the toy packaging. You refill water glasses, pass napkins, slice bread. You say “thanks” and “here” and “careful, that pan is hot” and nothing that touches last night at all.
Everyone notices without knowing what they’re noticing.
Your mom’s eyes flick between the two of you more than usual. Your aunts trade looks, the kind that say Is something up? without words. Your dad squints like he’s trying to solve a crossword clue.
Daniel notices and knows exactly what he’s seeing.
He’s been smug all day—the relaxed, loose-shouldered kind of smug that comes from a win only he can see. When you catch his eye across the room, he smiles like you’re sharing a private joke.
You look away every time.
Seungmin seems to have ironed his expression into something mild and blank. He laughs when appropriate, answers questions about work, about the city. He’s perfectly polite. Perfectly decent. Perfectly distant.
He doesn’t look at you unless he has to.
You don’t give him the present. You carry it in your head all day, its outline as sharp as a stone in your shoe. Every time you think about sneaking it into his bag, leaving it on his side of the bed, pressing it into his hand with a muttered “this is stupid, just take it,” you hear his voice from last night:
Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.
So you keep your hands to yourself.
By the time dinner rolls around, you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline and the tight, buzzing feeling of a fire alarm that never stops.
The table looks the same as it always has on Christmas: too much food, not enough space. Platters jammed in wherever there’s a gap, bowls nesting on top of other bowls, gravy boats perched like they’re waiting to leap.
You take your usual seat without thinking—third from the end, left side, good view of the tree. Seungmin ends up beside you because there’s nowhere else for him to go. Daniel drops into the chair across and one over, the same spot he’s occupied for years.
You fold your napkin into your lap and keep your eyes on your plate.
Conversation bubbles up around you—your aunt complaining about airport security, your dad asking your cousin about college, your mom narrating every dish like it’s a cooking show no one asked for. Cutlery scrapes. Glasses clink. Someone passes the rolls the wrong way and your grandmother scolds them with fond irritation.
Beside you, Seungmin is careful. That’s what it feels like, more than anything. Every move measured. He says “thank you” and “please” and “no, I’m good, this is plenty, thank you” with a politeness that climbs higher every time someone insists he take more turkey. He pours water for your grandma before she asks. He cuts his ham too small, like he needs something to do with his hands.
He doesn’t look left.
You don’t look right.
Daniel looks everywhere.
He’s relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms in that practiced casual way he has. He laughs at your uncle’s story, compliments your mom’s potatoes, makes a fuss over your grandmother’s cranberry sauce.
He catches your eye once, mid-laugh, and gives you a little half-smile like you’re in on something together.
You stare at the mash on your plate until the smile slides off your peripheral vision.
You get through the first round of food without saying a word.
You nod when you have to. You smile when someone looks directly at you. You chew. You swallow.
It’s almost survivable.
Then Daniel tips his chair back a fraction, lazily stabs at his potatoes, and says, “So, Seungmin.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.
Beside you, you feel rather than see Seungmin straighten a millimeter. “Yeah?”
Daniel’s grin is gentle, interested. It’s the one he uses on strangers he’s about to sell something to.
“Where’d you go last night?” he asks. “You disappeared.”
The word lands with a little clink, like dropped cutlery.
Your mom’s head snaps up. “What?”
Seungmin’s jaw flickers. He sets his fork down carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb.
“I went for a walk,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“At midnight?” your aunt echoes, brows shooting up. “In this weather?”
Your dad frowns. “Did you at least take the car? Roads are a mess at that hour.”
“No, I just—” Seungmin starts.
“Front door woke me up,” Daniel cuts in pleasantly. “Sounded more like leaving than a little walk around the block.”
There’s a soft hum around the table. A shifting. People settling in.
Your mother’s mouth pinches. “You went out in the middle of the night and didn’t tell anyone?” she says. “What if something had happened? Your poor grandmother would’ve thought we were being robbed.”
Grandma waves a dismissive hand, but she’s drowned out.
“It’s not safe,” your dad adds. “You don’t know this area. There are deer, black ice—”
“It’s fine,” Seungmin says, voice still low, still calm. “Nothing happened.”
“But it could have,” your mom presses. “Honestly, if you were upset about the tree thing, you could have just said so. Sulking off into the night is a bit much, don’t you think?”
Across from you, Daniel hides a smile in his glass.
One of your aunts clucks her tongue. “Kids these days,” she says. “No coping skills.”
“He’s not a kid,” another aunt says. “He’s—how old are you again?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Old enough to know better.”
Your uncle chuckles. “City boys,” he says. “Drama, drama.”
“He wasn’t being dramatic,” your grandmother mutters, but again, she’s swallowed by the tide.
Seungmin sits very still. His shoulders are set, his hands folded on either side of his plate now. He looks like he’s back in the interrogation room from last night—only this time, you’re not holding his hand under the table.
You feel your pulse start to pound in your ears. Heat crawls up your chest, into your throat, hot enough it makes your eyes sting.
Daniel takes a slow sip of water, watching it all unfold like a show he’s already seen the ending to.
“I just asked where he went,” he says lightly, when your mom gives him an approving look. “It’s weird to sneak out like that when you’re a guest, isn’t it? Especially when your girlfriend is still up. All alone.”
Your mom’s gaze snaps to you. “You were awake?” she says. “And he left?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
“She was finishing the tree,” Daniel goes on, easy, relentless. “I told him he was overreacting. Guess he needed some alone time to cool off.” He smiles, all concern. “No hard feelings, right, man?”
Seungmin’s fingers flex once, knuckles whitening. His eyes stay on his plate.
“Right,” he says.
The word is flat enough that anyone paying attention would hear it for what it is.
No one is.
Your aunt leans forward. “Sweetheart, did you know he went?” she asks you, scandalized on your behalf. “If my husband walked out like that on Christmas Eve, I’d have his head.”
“She probably didn’t want to make a fuss,” another says. “She hates conflict, remember?”
“Well, she certainly knows how to pick complicated ones,” your mother sighs. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”
Something in your chest tears.
Your hand tightens around your fork until the metal bites your fingers.
Daniel is still watching you. Waiting. Enjoying.
“Maybe he just doesn’t like being reminded he’s the rebound,” he says mildly.
You stop hearing individual words.
You hear tone—teasing, judgmental, indulgent. You hear your name, couched in “we’re only worried” and “we just want what’s best” and “you always were so intense about these things.” You hear Seungmin’s name in your mother’s mouth and the way it bends around Daniel’s history like gravity.
You hear your own heartbeat, loud and furious in your ears.
Beside you, Seungmin inhales like he’s about to say something.
You beat him to it.
BANG.
Your fork slams into the table.
The tines bounce once, ringing against porcelain. Gravy splashes the edge of your napkin. Every head at the table jerks toward you.
You’re already sitting up straight, shoulders squared, hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking.
“Thats enough,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it hits the table like a dropped stone.
Everything stops.
Your aunt’s mouth freezes mid-word. Your dad’s fork hangs in the air. A kid halfway to shoving a pea up his nose pauses, finger suspended.
Next to you, Seungmin goes very still.
You look straight at Daniel.
“Do not call him a rebound again,” you say. “Ever.”
He blinks, actually thrown. “I was joking—”
“No, you weren’t.” You turn your head, sweeping the table. “None of you are joking. You’re all sitting here picking him apart because it’s easier than admitting you’re being cruel.”
“Sweetheart—” your mom begins, scandalized.
“Mom, stop.” Your hands curl against the table edge to keep from shaking. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted this trip. I came home. I smiled. I ignored half the digs you threw at my life choices. You made me decorate the tree with the guy who cheated on me and knocked someone else up, and I let it go.” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “But you don’t get to sit here and drag Seungmin for leaving the room before he said something he’d regret.”
“It’s not dragging,” your aunt says tightly. “We were just saying—”
“You were all ganging up on him,” you cut in. “He left for a few hours because he was overwhelmed. That’s it. He didn’t throw anything, didn’t scream, didn’t pick a fight. He took a walk. He removed himself from a situation that was hurting him. That’s textbook healthy.”
Your dad sets his fork down. “Watch your tone,” he says.
“No,” you say, and your voice is steadier now. “Actually, I’m done watching my tone while everyone else gets to say whatever they want.”
Your mom’s eyes flash. “We are only worried about you,” she says. “You always choose the difficult path. We tried to give you a chance to remember what you had with Daniel—”
You laugh. It comes out sharp and incredulous. “By rigging the names?”
The color drains a little from her face. “Excuse me?”
“The bowl,” you say. “You think I didn’t see you tuck slips back in when you pulled the ‘wrong’ ones? You chose me and Daniel. You decided for us. Because God forbid you let me have one Christmas without your fantasy reunion.”
A ripple goes around the table. Your dad frowns. “Is that true?”
She stiffens. “I was trying to recreate a tradition,” she says. “You always decorated together. You were happy then—”
“I was nineteen and too stupid to notice half the ways he made me feel small,” you say. “And you liked him because he smiled pretty and agreed with you about everything. He cheated on me, Mom. He has a child with someone else. And somehow you spent more time asking what I did wrong than you ever spent being angry at him.”
Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Okay, that’s not fair—”
“You know what’s not fair?” You swing your gaze back to him. “Cornering me under mistletoe last night after all of that and acting like my inability to spit out a perfectly scripted speech for closure is a sign I still want you.”
“You didn’t say you didn’t,” he says quietly, watching you too closely.
Your chest squeezes. “I shouldn’t have had to,” you say. “You lost that right the second you lied to me and then let my family build a shrine to you in this house.”
You suck in a breath, feel it scrape. “So for the record—since everyone here seems so invested in my romantic status—let me be really, painfully clear.”
You look at your mother first.
“I am never getting back together with Daniel,” you say. “Not in a year, not in ten, not in some made-up Hallmark future you’ve written in your head. That door is closed. Dead-bolted. Bricked over.”
You turn to Daniel.
“You are not the one that got away,” you say. “You’re a pathetic loser who can’t handle not being worshiped.”
His face goes flat, color climbing into his cheeks.
“Don’t speak to him like that at my table,” your mom snaps.
“You’ve let him speak about me like I’m a problem he almost solved for years,” you say. “Consider us even.”
Your pulse is pounding so hard it makes your fingers tingle. You press your palms down harder into the tablecloth, feel the pattern under your skin.
“And second,” you say, your throat tightening around the words and forcing you to slow down, “Seungmin is not a rebound. He’s not a prop. He’s not some convenient boy I dragged home to make a point.”
You feel him react beside you before you see it—his knee jumps, the slightest shift of air as his head turns toward you. You keep your eyes forward.
“He is the one who sat with me at three a.m. while I sobbed over the way this house makes me feel,” you go on. “He’s the one who walked me to campus in the snow because my anxiety was eating me alive. He’s the one who held my hand in the car yesterday so I wouldn’t claw my skin off before we pulled into this driveway.”
Your eyes sting. You blink hard.
“He is the one Grandma trusted with me after five minutes,” you finish. “Because she’s right. I’m a storm. And he’s the tree.”
A couple of your cousins look confused. Your grandmother makes a tiny, satisfied noise.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.
“I love him,” you say.
No one moves.
You hear it echo in the silence—small, terrified, true. It lands on the table between the gravy boat and the cranberry sauce like something alive.
Your mom stares at you like you’ve slapped her. Your dad’s mouth is a hard line. Your aunts look between you and Seungmin as if expecting someone to deny it.
Beside you, Seungmin goes red from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.
It’s instant, like someone flipped a switch. His head ducks on reflex, hair falling into his eyes. His hand clenches once on his thigh, then releases. When he looks over at you, it’s quick, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
You meet his gaze. You don’t look away.
Everyone sees that.
You inhale, shaky, and push your chair back. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talk about him like he’s some unstable stranger ruining your Christmas because he dared to reach his limit,” you say. “He doesn’t owe you that. I don’t owe you that.”
Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud and ugly and perfect.
“We’re leaving,” you say.
Your mom’s hand slams down on the table. “You are not walking out in the middle of Christmas dinner,” she says. “Don’t you dare make a scene.”
“This is the first time in my life I’ve ever made a scene,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
There’s a beat where no one moves.
Then you turn to Seungmin and hold out your hand.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask a single question. He just laces his fingers through yours and stands up with you, chair pushed back neatly with his leg.
He looks at your family then, shoulders squared, jaw still tight but eyes steady.
“Thank you for having me,” he says, and his voice is so polite it almost sounds like a weapon. “Dinner was great. And I’m really grateful you let me spend time with your grandmother.”
Grandma beams at him. “You’re welcome any time,” she says.
Your mom looks like she might actually combust.
“After everything we’ve done for you—” she starts.
“Mom,” you say. “Stop. Please.”
You don’t trust yourself not to cry if she says one more thing.
“Sweetheart, don’t be rash,” your dad says. “You’re overreacting—”
Daniel leans back in his chair, arms folding like he’s settling in to watch you crash. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Let her go. We all know she’ll come back when she realizes city boy isn’t going to put up with her drama forever.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when Seungmin looks at him.
The shift is small but seismic. He goes from politely neutral to something colder, cleaner.
“Daniel,” he says, tone still maddeningly calm, “Kindly, shut the fuck up.”
The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the kids stop chewing.
Your aunt drops her fork. Someone chokes on a sip of wine. Your mother sputters your first and middle name like she can somehow contain the swear by addressing you.
You don’t flinch.
A slow, stunned grin spreads across your grandmother’s face.
Daniel stares, actually blindsided for once. Color creeps up his neck. “You can’t talk to me like that—”
“I just did,” Seungmin says. “You’ve had plenty to say about me for two days. That’s my contribution.”
He turns back to you then, like he’s just finished answering a dull question at work.
“Ready?” he asks.
Your throat is too tight to speak, so you nod.
You lean over to kiss your grandmother’s cheek. Her fingers catch your wrist for a second, squeeze.
“About time,” she murmurs in your ear.
You swallow around the burn in your chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” you whisper back.
Then you straighten, still holding Seungmin’s hand, and look at the rest of the table.
“Merry Christmas,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you don’t take it back. “Really. I hope it’s everything you wanted.”
You don’t wait for an answer and you don’t look back. You don’t need to—you can feel the table behind you like a pressure between your shoulder blades, all those eyes on your spine, your mother’s anger, your father’s disappointment, Daniel’s bruised ego burning a hole in the wallpaper.
Seungmin’s hand stays locked with yours all the way up the stairs.
Neither of you speaks.
In your room, you let go of him only because you have to. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the house to a dull, distant hum. Your heart is still beating too hard, too fast. Your fingers tingle.
Seungmin drags a hand through his hair and exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the dining room.
“About what you said—” he starts.
“No.”
One word, sharper than you mean it to be.
He goes quiet, eyes flicking to your face.
You swallow. “Not yet,” you say, softer. “Please. Just… can we pack first?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, it looks like he might push anyway, like the last twenty-four hours are right there behind his teeth.
Then he nods once.
“Okay,” he says.
That’s it.
You move.
You grab whatever is yours in arm’s reach—chargers, the book on the nightstand, the pajama shirt you shoved under the pillow this morning. You fold badly, shove worse. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t let you carry anything heavier than a hoodie.
When you reach for your duffel, his hand gets there first.
“I got it,” he says.
You open your mouth.
He just lifts an eyebrow.
You close it.
He shoulders his own bag, then yours, then grabs the tote before you can touch it. By the time you fumble your coat on, he’s already holding your scarf out to you.
“Here,” he murmurs.
You slide into it without thinking. His fingers brush the back of your neck as he settles it, quick and impersonal and familiar enough to make your throat burn.
You don’t talk on the way down the stairs.
No one is in the hallway. You can hear the murmur of voices from the dining room—your mother’s sharper now, your dad’s low, your name tossed around like a problem set they’re working through together. Your grandmother’s cough. A child asking what “fuck” means.
You keep walking.
The air outside hits you like a slap. It’s full dark now, the kind of cold that bites the inside of your nose. Fairy lights blink from the gutters, oblivious. The plastic reindeer on the lawn lists slightly, one leg sunk deeper into the snow.
Seungmin goes straight to the car, breath puffing white. He unlocks it, loads his bag into the trunk, then yours, then tucks the tote in last.
You stand there on the driveway, arms wrapped around yourself, fingers dug into the meat of your elbows.
He reaches up, grabs the trunk lid, and swings it down. It thunks shut with a solid finality that makes your heart jolt.
Before he can turn fully away, you move.
You step in and shove at his chest. It’s not hard—just enough to make him stumble back half a step until his shoulders bump the car. One of his hands flies out to catch the edge of the trunk, more on reflex than because he needs the support.
“Whoa,” he says, startled. “What are you—”
“Don’t,” you blurt. Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater, bunching the knit under your fist. “Just—don’t say anything yet, okay? Please.”
He blinks down at you.
You’re close enough to feel his breath ghost over your forehead, to see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them—back to his sides, on your hips, nowhere at all.
“Let me talk first,” you rush on, staring hard at his chest because you absolutely cannot handle his eyes right now. The wool under your grip is warm from his skin. “Before the adrenaline wears off and I freak out and pretend I didn’t just explode my entire life in there.”
He swallows. You feel the movement under your knuckles.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at—”
You tighten your fist deeper into his sweater, knuckles brushing his sternum, head ducking further like you can burrow into the stitches.
“No,” you say, voice shaking but firm. “If I look at you, I’m going to lose my nerve. So just… stay there. Don’t move. Don’t be nice. Don’t make a joke. Just let me say this, and then you can decide if you still want to get in the car with me.”
Your breath fogs between you in quick, uneven bursts. The yard is silent, the house looming behind you like a stage you’ve just walked off.
Seungmin exhales slowly, like he’s physically pushing words back down.
“Okay,” he says at last, and his voice is rough but steady. “Go ahead.”
Your fingers are still knotted in his sweater. You stare at the stitches like you can line your thoughts up between them.
“For the record,” you start, and your voice comes out thin and breathless, “I didn’t plan any of that. The speech. The… ‘I love him’ thing. It just—came out.”
You feel him go a little stiffer against the car.
“I figured,” he says quietly.
“I’m not saying that so you think it doesn’t count,” you rush. “I’m saying it because it wasn’t some performance for them. It wasn’t—” You swallow. “It wasn’t about them at all.”
Your throat burns. You press your forehead against the center of his chest, hiding in the rough knit, fingers fisting tighter.
“Last night,” you say, words muffled, “you asked me if I was still in love with him, and I said I didn’t know. And that was… not quite right.”
He doesn’t move. His breath is slow and shallow under your cheek.
“I don’t know how to flip a switch on hurt,” you say. “I still feel sick when I think about what he did. I still remember what it felt like to be happy here with him, and that makes me want to throw up, because I hate that those memories exist in my head at the same time. And when he cornered me, my brain just went—static. It always has in this house.”
You suck in a shaky breath. Cold air burns your lungs.
“But I do know some things,” you go on, softer. “I know I don’t want him. I know I don’t want to get back together with him now, or ever. I know that even before he cheated, I was already shrinking to fit what everyone wanted, and I’m done doing that.”
Your hand shakes in his sweater.
“And I know that when you walked in last night and saw what you saw, it looked really bad,” you whisper. “I hate that. I hate that I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Seungmin. You didn’t deserve to be standing in that doorway wondering if you’re just… filler until I decide if I want to be stupid enough to try again with him. That’s not what this is.”
His fingers twitch at his sides. You feel the almost-touch like a phantom.
“It felt like that,” he says, low.
“I know.” The words scrape. “I know it did. And I made it worse. I froze. I gave the worst possible answer and then expected you to magically understand everything I was too scared to say out loud.” You let out a humorless breath. “I keep doing that with you. Hoping you’ll just… read my mind so I don’t have to risk saying the thing that might break everything.”
You press your forehead harder into his chest, like you can shove the fear straight through him and out the other side.
“I brought you here because you’re the safest person I know,” you say. “I didn’t think about what it would feel like from your side. How it would look to stand in a house full of people who still worship my ex while I tell you ‘it’s complicated’ and make you wait in the hallway with your feelings in your hands.”
The image makes your stomach twist.
“I’m not confused about you,” you say, voice barely above a breath now. “Whatever residual garbage is left over from him, whatever my brain is still untangling—that’s just… noise. You’re the part that makes sense.” You swallow. “You’re the future part. You’re the one I want in the car with me, and on my couch, and at three a.m. when I’m spiraling, and… at stupid family dinners where I finally grow a spine.”
His chest rises under your cheek, slow and deep.
You tighten your grip on his sweater until your knuckles ache.
“I love you,” you say again, smaller now, just for him. “Not because you came here and played the part. Because you’ve been here the whole time. I should have said it before last night. I should have said it before we ever knocked on that stupid door.”
You feel his fingers finally land—one hand settling, carefully, at your hip, the other bracing light against the small of your back like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
You shake your head against his chest. “You promised you’d let me finish.”
“That sounded pretty finished,” he murmurs. “And I’m not going to decide anything while you’re talking to my sweater.”
A wet, shaky laugh jerks out of you. “I’m serious,” you say. “If you decide you’re done after this weekend, I won’t blame you. You tried. You warned me. I just… needed you to know that if you walk away, it’s not because I don’t want you. It’s because I didn’t figure this out fast enough and that’s on me, not you.”
His hand at your hip tightens.
“God,” he mutters. “You really think that little of me?”
Your head snaps up before you can stop it.
He’s closer than you thought—obviously, because you shoved him here—but seeing his face this near, this night-lit and raw, makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark and blown-wide, lashes spiked slightly from the cold. His mouth is set in that flat, stubborn line you know means he’s two seconds from saying something he thinks you won’t like.
“Don’t tell me what I’d decide,” he says, steady. “You’re not the only one who gets to choose here.”
You open your mouth, flustered. “I wasn’t—I just—”
“I hated last night,” he says, clean and unvarnished. “I hate that I saw you stuck and couldn’t tell if you were frozen or… tempted. I hate that you had to deal with that at all. I hate that every person at that table thinks they know what’s best for you and somehow I still let them make me feel like the crazy one for having a problem with it.”
His thumb is moving without him realizing it, a small, tight stroke against your hip.
“But I don’t love you because it’s easy,” he says. “And I’m not in this because your family will throw me a parade. I’m in this because I’ve spent a year and a half watching you try to hold yourself together with duct tape and bad jokes, and every time you let me help, it feels like the only part of my day that makes sense.”
Your eyes sting again. “Seungmin…”
“You froze,” he says. “Okay. You panic. You go quiet. None of that makes what he did less shitty, and none of it makes me less pissed about how it looked. But you walking out of that house for me? Telling them you love me in front of… all of that?” He huffs, disbelief and something like awe tangled together. “That doesn’t look like someone keeping me around as a prop.”
You make a helpless noise in the back of your throat.
“I’m still mad,” he warns, because he’s him.
“I know,” you say. “You’re allowed to be.”
“I’m going to bring it up in, like, three separate arguments six months from now,” he adds.
You let out a watery laugh. “That’s fair.”
“But I’m not done,” he finishes quietly. “Not with you. Not because of this.”
The relief hits so hard your knees wobble. Your hand in his sweater loosens, then fists again, because you’re not risking letting go just yet.
“I’ll do better,” you say quickly. “Next time—”
“There’s not going to be a next time with him,” Seungmin cuts in. “That’s kind of the point.”
You breathe out a shaky smile. “Yeah,” you say. “There really isn’t.”
He studies you for a beat, the sharpness in his face softening at the edges. You can see him replaying the dining room, the way you said his name, the way you stood up. The way you walked out with your hand in his.
“Say it again,” he says, almost under his breath.
Your chest flutters. “Say what again?”
His mouth tips, not quite a smile. “You know.”
You swallow. “I love you,” you say, a little stronger this time. “Kim Seungmin, I am stupidly, completely in love with you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to stop being a coward about it.”
His throat works. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “That one.”
Your heartbeat is in your mouth now. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you still have him pinned to his car, fingers curled in his sweater like a lifeline.
“Okay,” you whisper. “That was the speech. You can… say whatever you want now. Or leave. Or laugh in my face. Or—”
“God, shut up,” he says, and then he’s leaning down.
He doesn’t give you a chance to overthink it.
“God, shut up,” he says, and then his mouth is on yours.
It’s not cautious, not testing the way you half-expected. It’s like the thread that’s been pulled taut between you for a year and a half finally snaps and all that tension has to go somewhere.
His first kiss lands hard enough that you stumble back a bit. His hand on your hip tightens, dragging you that last inch closer so there’s no space left to negotiate. His other hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading at the back of your head like he’s terrified you’ll move away.
You don’t.
You tilt up into him, fingers fisting higher in his sweater, and the sound he makes—low, rough, like he’s been holding it in for months—goes straight down your spine.
The cold disappears fast. All you can feel is his mouth moving against yours, a little desperate, a little clumsy with how hard he’s trying not to be. He kisses you like he’s been dying to and finally, finally got permission.
When you part your lips on a shaky inhale, he doesn’t hesitate. He deepens it immediately, tilting his head, catching your bottom lip between his, sucking just enough that you gasp against him. His thumb presses at your waist, anchoring you; his fingers tighten in your hair.
You break away for half a second—just enough to breathe—and he follows, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance.
“Seungmin,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked, more plea than warning.
“Yeah?” he mutters against your lips, like that’s an answer, and kisses you again.
It’s messier now, all teeth and breath and relief. His nose bumps yours; you laugh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like he wants to keep it.
“Say it again,” he breathes, not really pulling back, words brushing your lips.
You manage to get enough distance to look up at him—barely. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed high with cold and something hotter.
“I love you,” you whisper.
He groans, actual, honest-to-god groans. His hand drops from your hair to your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek as he kisses you like repeat, repeat, repeat. Each time you try to catch air, he’s there again, softer, then deeper, like he literally cannot help himself.
Your fingers slide from his sweater to the back of his neck, pulling him down. He goes willingly, pressing you up more firmly against him.
“Been trying not to do this for months,” he mutters between kisses, lips dragging along your jaw, back to the corner of your mouth. “So if you wanted me to stop—too late.”
You laugh, breathless, and hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging. “Not complaining,” you manage. “Just… air. Occasionally.”
He pulls back an inch, panting, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs between you, mingling with yours.
“Right,” he says, voice wrecked. “Air.”
He doesn’t move.
You tip your head just enough to brush your mouth against his again, a quick, soft kiss that turns into three, four, because apparently he really can’t stop. Every time he pulls away, his lips find some new bit of you—your top lip, the edge of your smile, that spot just beside your mouth that makes your stomach flip.
“Okay,” he says finally, like he’s negotiating with himself. “We… should go. Before your dad comes out here with a snow shovel.”
“Probably,” you murmur, kissing him once more anyway.
He laughs, a short, disbelieving burst against your lips, and gives in for one last, lingering kiss that feels like a promise and a problem all at once.
When he pulls back this time, it’s slow, like it physically pains him. His hand slides from your jaw to your shoulder, squeezing once.
“Get in the car,” he says gently. “Before I start something we really can’t finish in your parents’ driveway.”
You snort, half-hysterical. “Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the lit windows. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
You peel yourself off the car with effort, fingers reluctantly letting go of his sweater. The air hits you properly again, sharp and cold, rushing into all the places he just warmed up.
You slide into the passenger seat. The upholstery smells faintly like him and stale coffee and the little pine-scented air freshener your mom passive-aggressively stuck on the vent before you left the city.
He gets in on his side, slamming his door against the cold. For a second you both just sit there, hands in your laps, breaths visible in the dim.
Then he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you.
“Really?” you say, voice small and fond all at once.
“Motor skills drop after that many kisses,” he says. “I don’t trust you not to concuss yourself on the dashboard.”
“You kissed me.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And I’d like to keep doing it, so—seatbelt.”
You roll your eyes, but his hands are steady, fingers brushing your collarbone once as he clicks it into place. Your chest tightens stupidly.
He sits back, starts the engine. The heater coughs to life, whirring hard, blowing cold air that will eventually be warm if you give it time.
You clear your throat. “So… what now?”
He keeps his eyes on the windshield. A long breath fogs out of him. “Now,” he says slowly, “I drive us back to the city. You put on the least cursed Christmas playlist you can find. We both crash for sixteen hours. Tomorrow we order obscene amounts of food and pretend the only family we have is your grandmother.”
A tiny smile pulls at your mouth. “That’s a plan.”
“And,” he adds, fingers flexing on the wheel, “somewhere in there we have a conversation that doesn’t involve your ex, your mom, or the threat of snow shovels.”
You nod, staring at your hands. “Okay.”
He glances over then, like he’s checking your face for cracks. “Unless you were looking for something more… official.”
The word makes your stomach swoop.
You twist in your seat to face him properly. “I mean, kind of?” you say. “I did sort of tell my entire extended family I love you and then drag you out of their house, so it’d be a little embarrassing if you were like, ‘thanks for the field trip, roommate.’”
His mouth twitches. “You were never just my roommate.”
“Still,” you say. “I’d like to know what we are when we get back home. So I don’t… wake up tomorrow and convince myself I hallucinated all of this.”
He watches you for a long beat, engine idling, the dashboard throwing soft light over his face.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s be really, painfully clear for once.”
Your heart stutters.
“You’re my girlfriend,” he says simply. “I’m your boyfriend, if you’ll have me. No fake clauses, no ‘just for the weekend.’ I am fully, stupidly in love with you and have been for an embarrassingly long time. If you try to downgrade me back to ‘roommate’ I will sue.”
You huff out a shocked laugh. “On what grounds?”
“Emotional damages,” he says. “Plus hazard pay for the last forty-eight hours.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a wobbly smile. “You’re really sure,” you say, half awe, half warning.
“You called me your tree in front of your entire family,” he points out. “I’m pretty locked in, hurricane.”
The word catches you off guard. “What?”
His eyes soften. “Your grandma was right,” he says. “You’re a storm. Loud and messy and too much for people who’d rather keep everything neat.” His hand leaves the wheel for a second, fingers brushing the back of your wrist. “I like storms.”
Heat prickles behind your eyes. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
He shrugs, hand finding yours properly now, tangling your fingers together over the console. “I’m stubborn,” he says. “I can handle some wind.”
You look down at your joined hands. His knuckles are pink from the cold; one of your fingers still has a faint smear of cranberry sauce near the nail.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Then you’re my boyfriend. For real. No refunds.”
He exhales, something in his shoulders finally dropping. “Good,” he says. “Because if you’d tried to demote me after that driveway performance, I’d have just kept kissing you until you changed your mind.”
You snort. “Bold strategy.”
“Effective, though,” he says, smirking a little now. “Data suggests it works.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love me,” he reminds you.
You meet his eyes, steady. “Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”
He looks away first this time, ears going pink again as he shifts the car into reverse. “Buckle up,” he mutters. “We’re getting the hell out of Maple Lane.”
“You already buckled me,” you say.
“Right,” he says. “See? Boyfriend of the year.”
You laugh, the sound lighter than anything that’s come out of you in days.
As he backs out of the driveway, you glance up at the house one last time—the porch lights, the sagging reindeer, the glow of the dining room window. A shadow crosses past the curtain. For once, you don’t flinch.
You turn back to the car, to the boy at the wheel, to his hand warm in yours.
“Hey, Min?” you say, as the house shrinks in the mirrors.
“Yeah?”
You lean over the console and press a quick, sure kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
He blows out a soft, incredulous breath, the corners of his mouth tipping up.
“Merry Christmas, hurricane,” he says.
The road opens up ahead, dark and clear. You lace your fingers tighter through his and let him drive you home.
Tattoo Artist!Bang Chan x Reader | Ink-stained hands. Hoodie mornings. He marked you with his initial and fucked you like he meant forever
🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. One letter. One fucking letter. You sit on his counter in his hoodie, typing invoices, and Chan can’t stop staring — at your bare skin, at the way you’ve never let anyone touch you like that, at the way you’re about to let him mark you. His initial, on your ring finger. C. It’s supposed to be quick. Clean. Just a tattoo. But Chan’s a menace with veiny hands and a filthy mouth, and you’re his — his girl, his wife-to-be, his baby mama before either of you even realize it. Tattoo ink, sweat, messy kisses, and him whispering filth against your skin like he’s worshiping you. And later? Sunlight, pancakes and a velvet ring box.
💌a/n: WOW. WE FUCKING DID IT. The last fic of the Tattoo Artist AU is HERE, and holy shit, what a way to close it out. Yeah. I wrote this grinning like a menace the whole damn time. Thank you for riding this ink-stained, veiny-handed rollercoaster with me, you whores and sluts — you’ve been feral, loud, and absolutely unhinged in the BEST way, and I love you for it 💋. Chan’s fic had me extra soft and disgusting in love because he’s so domestic while still being THE filthiest man alive. So yeah, I hope you love this sticky-soft mess as much as I loved writing it.
p.s. Reblog like your life depends on it, sluts🖤
p.p.s. Next stop: SQUID GAME AU because clearly I clearly can't stop.
p.p.p.s. No, I’m not normal about this man and no, I won’t ever be. Thanks for asking.
⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Established relationship / long-term domestic filth | Tattoo scene (consensual, soft Chan being meticulous) | Oral (f. receiving), fingering, overstimulation | Protected? LMAO nope. Breeding kink. Creampie. Pregnancy. Wrap it up in real life whores | Praise, possessiveness, soft feral Chan energy | Counter sex (shop & kitchen), messy kisses, filthy dirty talk | Chan being clingy, soft, and lovesick to the point of feral | Proposal + pregnancy reveal (domestic fluff overload)
📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Breathe. Thank your tattoo artist. Sit on his lap later.
You’d known Bang Chan long before the words NO SAINT INK ever got painted across the front window.
Back then, it was just an idea — a rough sketch in one of his notebooks, coffee stains on the corner, his messy handwriting scrawled next to crude machine diagrams. He was still working out of a cramped backroom studio at the time, doing flash tattoos for cheap just to save enough for something bigger. He’d talk about it constantly, eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he believed in something too much to let it go.
"One day, I’ll have my own shop. Not just a shop — a family. A place people feel safe walking into. Somewhere that feels alive."
You’d smiled at him from across that coffee-stained notebook, already half in love with him then.
And somehow, you became part of it all before you even realized what was happening.
You weren’t a tattoo artist — you weren’t even in that world at first. You’d met through mutual friends, hit it off instantly, and before long you were the one keeping him company during late-night sketch sessions, organizing his invoices when he couldn’t figure out his own system, and ordering takeout when he forgot to eat.
Chan had this way of making you feel like you’d always belonged in his life. He’d tease you endlessly, call you his “unofficial business manager” even when you weren’t actually on his payroll. Somewhere between long nights spent helping him research licensing laws and drunken 2 AM confessions about your dreams, you’d fallen for him.
The first time he kissed you was on the shop floor of what would later become NO SAINT INK — back when it was still just an empty building with peeling paint and dust on the windows. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, laughing about how ugly the place looked, and he’d just leaned in, kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Guess we’ll make it pretty together, huh?" he’d said after, forehead pressed to yours.
The years after that were a blur of paint-stained clothes, takeout containers, and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing a dream. You helped him sand down tables, choose paint colors, set up booking systems, and — maybe most importantly — keep his books balanced when the shop finally opened and started booming.
By the time he’d hired Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, and the rest of the crew, you were already his. Not just his girlfriend — you were the person who made this entire world possible for him.
He’d tell you that all the time.
"This place wouldn’t exist without you."
"You’re the only reason I haven’t burned out."
"You’re my home, you know that, right?"
And you believed him because you felt the same. You lived together now, shared a quiet little apartment above a bakery a few blocks away, and most nights ended with you curled against his chest while he sketched designs in bed.
The thing about Chan was that even after all these years, even after all the late nights and busy schedules, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And yet... Despite living with one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city, you didn’t have a single piece of ink on you. Not one.
Everyone at NO SAINT INK teased you about it. Jisung had made it his personal mission to convince you to let him do a little flower on your ankle. Seungmin swore you were secretly afraid of needles. Minho had bet Chan a week of free lunches that you’d cave eventually.
But Chan?
Chan loved it.
"You’re perfect like this," he’d murmur sometimes, brushing his fingers over your bare skin. "Untouched. Mine to mark first, whenever you let me."
And you’d roll your eyes, laugh it off, because you weren’t avoiding tattoos out of fear — you just hadn’t found anything that felt right. You’d promised yourself that your first tattoo would be something that mattered. Something permanent, like a milestone in your life.
You didn’t know it yet, but tonight would be that milestone.
The shop was quiet now, just the low hum of the lights and the soft tapping of your fingers on your laptop keys. You were perched on the counter, cross-legged in one of Chan’s hoodies, glaring at the screen as you typed in numbers.
"Channie, do you seriously need to order this much black ink? You’re going through cartridges like water."
Chan, leaning against his workbench with his arms folded, just grinned at you — that soft, amused grin that made his dimple peek out.
"You know I’m still not over the fact you don’t have a single tattoo? My own girlfriend — living with me, dating me for years… and still pure. Untouched."
You glanced up, arching a brow. "Well, you never had the time to do it, Mr. Overbooked Shop Owner."
He tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Oh, I have time tonight. I want to be the first, baby. The only."
You closed the laptop, heart thumping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.
And then you said it.
"Then… give me your initial. Right here."
You held up your left ring finger.
"C."
Chan froze. His eyes widened slightly, his playful grin faltering into something softer, almost stunned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You’re gonna kill me, you know that? My initial, on your finger… you’re actually trying to ruin me, huh?"
You watched him carefully — the way his fingers flexed against his folded arms, the way his mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
"Chan?"
He blinked, snapped out of it, and his grin returned — softer now, almost shy around the edges. "You’re serious? You actually want my initial? On your finger?"
You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Why not? Seems fitting. You’re the one drowning in ink all day, anyway. Might as well leave your mark on me properly."
The look he gave you then? Wrecked.
"You have no idea what you just did to me, baby." He his hand came up to gently hold your wrist, thumb brushing your ring finger as if he was already tattooing it in his mind. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your laptop, typing a little too quickly to hide your own flustered grin. "Yeah, well, you can have your emotional breakdown later, Mr. Clingy. I need to finish these numbers before you overspend on needles again."
Chan didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t — he never did.
Instead, he dragged one of the rolling stools closer and sat right next to you, his knee bumping yours. He was always close, always touching — even now, he leaned his arm against your thigh as if the contact grounded him.
But his mind was clearly elsewhere.
You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you glanced down, Chan had already grabbed a fresh sheet from his sketchpad.
"What are you doing?"
"Shhh," he murmured, already grabbing a nearby pencil. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together. "Cursive or block? Thin line? Micro script or thicker strokes? I want it to look perfect."
You snorted. "Chan, it’s literally just the letter C."
"Not just a letter," he shot back, not even looking up, pencil already gliding over the page. "It’s going on you. It’s… fuck, it’s going to be on your hand, angel. Everyone’s gonna see it. It has to be right."
You bit your lip to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, watching as his fingers moved quickly, sketching out variations of the letter like he was designing a whole damn mural.
You’d seen Chan sketch a million times before, but this was different — he was dialed in, hyper-focused.
Chan’s tattooing style had always been clean precision combined with emotional storytelling. Somehow he always made it perfect. His line work was razor-sharp, soft where it mattered and it was needed, even his boldest designs felt delicate. His specialty? Fine-line realism mixed with abstract accents. Imagine feathers that looked like that they could blow away in the wind, roses with petal tips melting into geometric shading, animal portraits with splashes of watercolor ink behind them. His signature touch? Hidden details only the person having the tattoo would notice. They could be tiny initials woven into a flower stem, microscopic constellations tucked into shading, and so on. They were always meaningful but discreet.
And right now, Chan was pouring all of that into a single letter.
"Your hand is small, so micro-script will suit you better. But if I make the serif too sharp, it’ll look harsh, and I don’t want harsh on you," he murmured half to himself, scratching out a version before starting again. "Cursive feels more… personal. But if I make it slanted too much, it might age weird. No, no, I’ll—"
"Chan."
"Hmm?"
"You’re overthinking a single letter."
"I’m tattooing my fucking initial on my girlfriend’s finger, babe. I’m allowed to overthink."
You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t stop him. Honestly? Watching him obsess over it like this made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. Chan finally glanced up, brown eyes soft, voice dropping lower. "You trust me with this? Really?"
"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."
His jaw tightened for a moment, and he gave you a look that made your heart flip. "Okay, honey," he said quietly, thumb brushing your knee. "Let me mark you."
You watched him as he switched from the paper sketch to his iPad, pulling it closer with a determined little huff. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he dragged his Apple Pencil in smooth, decisive strokes.
It was ridiculous, how serious he looked — this was one letter, and yet he was treating it like he was designing a full back piece for a celebrity client.
"Stop staring," he muttered without looking up, voice soft, teasing.
"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re obsessing."
Chan’s ears flushed, but he didn’t break focus, swiping through brushes until he found the exact weight he wanted. "Not cute. Perfect. This has to be perfect."
"For a C."
"For my C," he corrected immediately, glancing up with that look that always made your stomach flip — the one that was soft and wrecked all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried not to smile too much, leaning back slightly and pretending to focus on your laptop. But your fingers hovered over the keys instead of typing, watching as he tilted the screen toward you.
"Okay, look — final version. Clean cursive, micro-script, no harsh edges. Soft curves to match your hand. What do you think?"
The letter was delicate, elegant — a tiny looping C that looked like it had been written by hand just for you. Which, of course, it had.
"It’s perfect."
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, but his eyes softened in that way they always did when you said something that got to him.
"Perfect on you, yeah," he murmured, hitting print before you could respond.
The little thermal printer by his workbench spat out the stencil sheet, and Chan moved, slipping it into his setup like he’d done a thousand times before — except this time, every motion felt slower, more deliberate, because it was you.
"Save your work, honey," he said suddenly, glancing at your still-open laptop.
"I—what? You’re really doing this right now?"
"You think I’m gonna let you change your mind? Not a chance." He grinned, soft but sure, already pulling on his black nitrile gloves. "Come on. Let me mark you before I lose my mind."
You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head as you hit save and closed the laptop. The reality of it was starting to hit you now — you were about to let Bang Chan tattoo you.
Not just any tattoo — his initial. On your ring finger.
He offered you his hand like you were going somewhere far more serious than just across the shop. His palm was warm and he squeezed your fingers gently as he guided you toward the main studio room. The air in there was cooler and smelled like disinfectant and ink — Chan’s world, his kingdom.
He motioned for you to sit on the padded chair, pulling his rolling stool close. Of course he was close, always close, his knee brushing yours as he adjusted the footrest for you.
"Comfy?" he asked softly, his usual teasing tone replaced by something almost reverent.
"You’re acting like I’m about to get a whole sleeve."
"You’re letting me put my initial on your hand, angel. That’s bigger than a sleeve."
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t ignore.
Chan pressed the stencil gently to your ring finger, his thumb brushing the side of your hand as he smoothed it down. His touch lingered even after he peeled the paper away, leaving behind the faint purple outline of the letter.
He stared at it for a long moment, quiet, his gloved fingers tracing the air above it without touching.
"Looks good on you already," he whispered, mostly to himself before moving away to start preparing.
Chan snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You watched him move through his setup with practiced precision — disinfecting the area, lining up his ink caps, adjusting the needle depth like muscle memory. He was in work mode now, but his eyes kept flicking back to your hand like he couldn’t believe this was real.
“Won’t take long,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “But I want it clean. No rushing.” He glanced up at you, the corners of his eyes soft, before bending back to his work.
The machine buzzed to life, low and steady, and Chan adjusted his stool closer until his knee pressed against yours. He rested your hand gently in his gloved one, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he spoke again.
“Tell me if you need a break, okay? Even if it’s just for a second.”
“Chan, it’s one letter. I’ll survive.”
He smirked, head tilted, dimple flashing for half a second. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”
And finally, he lowered the needle to your skin. The first sting made you inhale sharply, and immediately Chan glanced up, the machine pausing mid-line.
“Too much?”
You shook your head quickly. “No, keep going. Just… feels weird.”
His mouth quirked slightly, a soft, amused look flashing across his face before he focused again. His left hand steadied yours while his right moved with quick, sure motions — the way he always tattooed, precise but fluid. Watching him like this was different. You’d seen Chan tattoo other people countless times, but there was something about the way he worked on you — the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles against your palm, how his eyes softened every time they darted up to check on you.
“You’re doing good, honey,” he said quietly over the hum of the machine. “Almost done with the outline.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “I told you I’d survive.”
Chan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning closer as he wiped the excess ink away. His gloved thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary before he dipped back into the cap.
Every line he pulled felt heavier than usual. Not because of difficulty — this was easy work for him — but because of what it meant.
You. His name. On your ring finger.
His mind kept flashing with thoughts he couldn’t say out loud:
My initial. On her hand. Forever. She’s really letting me do this. She’s mine. She’s really mine.
And worse — he kept thinking about the little velvet box hidden in his desk drawer at home, about how he’d been planning to propose soon anyway. Now? He had to actively fight the urge to pull the ring out tonight.
“Done,” Chan finally said after another careful wipe, voice quieter than usual. He switched off the machine and set it aside, holding your hand up gently like it was something fragile.
The tiny cursive C sat perfectly on the side of your ring finger — simple, clean, elegant.
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he echoed, still staring at it. He didn’t let go of your hand, his gloved fingers tracing just above the fresh ink, not daring to touch it yet. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“Chan,” you said with a laugh, “you’re staring at it like you just won an award.”
He looked up at you then, and his expression made your heart skip — soft, overwhelmed, a little wrecked.
“Feels like I did,” he said simply.
He finally peeled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, but his hands were back on you immediately, holding your wrist like he needed to ground himself.
“Gonna clean it and wrap it,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower now. “Then… then I’m probably gonna kiss you stupid, just warning you.”
You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
Chan’s grin turned into something softer, hungrier. “You just let me put my name on you, baby. You have no idea what that does to me.”
He reached for a clean pad of gauze, his hands moving with that same tattoo-artist precision — but his eyes never left yours. He dabbed gently at the ink, careful not to press too hard, and you could feel how soft his touch was, how deliberate.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.
“Barely,” you said, smiling. “You’re good at this, you know.”
His mouth twitched into a small, crooked grin. “Better be. I’m not letting my first piece on you heal ugly.”
He set the gauze aside and grabbed the ointment, squeezing out the smallest amount before rubbing it across the fresh ink with slow, tender strokes. His fingers lingered, spreading the balm with feather-light movements, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like he was working — it felt like he was touching.
You tilted your head at him, amused. “You do this for all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”
Chan didn’t even look up, his thumb brushing over your hand with an almost possessive weight. “No one else gets this soft. No one else gets me like this.”
When he finally wrapped the finger with clean film, he pressed a kiss to the bandaged spot before he could stop himself.
“There,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “My C. Looks right on you.”
You laughed softly, trying to tease the tension away. “Chan, it’s literally a letter. You’re acting like—”
But before you could finish, his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly as he stepped between your knees. His gaze locked on yours, darker now, his usual soft warmth edged with something else entirely.
“Like what?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher now.
You blinked up at him. “Like… like you’re losing your mind.”
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hands gripping your waist now. “That’s because I am, honey. You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
His thumb brushed over the bandaged finger, lingering. “You just let me put my name on your ring finger. My initial. Forever. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s casual.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but Chan cut you off with a quiet, frustrated groan, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again.
“You’re mine, angel. Always were. But this? Fuck—this is proof. You marked yourself for me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to…”
He trailed off, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and hungry.
“Want to what?” you asked, heart hammering.
“Worship you. Ruin you. Both,” he said, voice low and trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself back. “Can I?”
You didn’t even get to answer properly — the second your hand slid up his chest in silent permission, Chan kissed you. Hard.
He grabbed your hips, pulling you forward on the padded chair until you were right against him, his hands gripping like he was terrified you’d slip away. His mouth moved against yours with the same obsessive precision he tattooed with — deep, focused, possessive.
When he finally pulled back for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this. Years, angel. Years of staring at you in my hoodies, doing my books, taking care of me… and now you’re sitting here with my letter on your finger—fuck, you’re perfect.”
One of his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing teasing circles on your waist. For a moment, he stared. Stared at you before suddenly, picking you up with ridiculous ease, sitting you back on the counter where you’d been earlier, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. His kisses turned messier, desperate, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the spot below your ear that made you gasp.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, his words spilling out in a low, feral growl. “Gonna make you feel how much I love you. Gonna make you remember this every time you look at that little C.” Chan’s hands were firm on your thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth was everywhere — hot, urgent kisses along your jaw, nips at your neck that made your breath hitch.
“Chan—” you gasped between kisses, trying to catch your breath as his hands slipped under your hoodie again, palms spreading over your waist. “Wait, what if Minho’s upstairs? He’s gonna hear us—”
Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin crooked and sinful, his breath already rough. “Nope. He isn’t. He’s out with Jisung and Felix—fuck knows where, probably terrorizing someone at karaoke. We’re alone, angel. Completely alone.”
Your protest died in your throat when his fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upward.
“Then—Chan—”
“Then nothing,” he interrupted, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”
And with that, he pulled the hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands were immediately back on you, tracing the curve of your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. “Every time I see you like this, I wonder how I got this lucky. My girl. My everything.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but the words melted into a soft gasp when his lips found your collarbone, kissing down slowly, deliberately, as if he was marking you everywhere.
His hands roamed everywhere — palms sliding over your back, fingers squeezing your hips, his thumbs brushing circles on your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth pressed against your neck.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cut in, smirking against your skin, his voice dropping lower. “You’re worked up just from me touching you.”
You tried to roll your eyes, but it came out more like a whimper when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing under the band of your bra.
“Chan,” you warned, though your tone was anything but serious.
“Yeah?” His grin was pure trouble as he finally slid the strap off your shoulder. “Something you need, honey?”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging teasingly.
“Gonna take these off,” he said, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to yours for permission even as his hands moved. “Need to see you. Need to feel you.”
“Chan, we’re in the shop,” you tried again, though your body betrayed you by lifting just enough to help him pull them down.
“Exactly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “Our shop. My walls. My counter. I’ve wanted you here since the day I opened this place, honey.”
You let out a shaky breath, and that was all he needed. He slid your leggings down, tossing them aside with the same careless ease he’d discarded your hoodie. Now you were perched on the counter in just your bra and panties, his hands everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over every inch of exposed skin.
Chan looked wrecked already, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark as he dragged them over you slowly. “God, you’re perfect.” he whispered, almost to himself.
Then, with one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down.
You gasped, heat rushing to your face as he slid them off your legs, tossing them to join the growing pile of your clothes on the floor. His hands came right back to you, spreading over your bare thighs like he was claiming you.
“Fuck,” Chan groaned under his breath, his eyes dragging down between your legs, lingering, his jaw tightening. “You’re already dripping for me.”
Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, his long, veiny fingers trailed upward slowly, teasing, skimming along the inside of your thigh without giving you what you wanted yet. Chan leaned in close, ips pressing hot kisses to the soft skin just below your hip.
Fingers finally sliding higher, brushing you lightly, and you gasped, your hips jerking instinctively. “Shh, baby,” Chan murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you still. “Let me take care of you.”
Those hands — god, those hands. Large, warm, veiny, the same hands that just minutes ago held a tattoo machine with precision now moving over you with something close to worship.
One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other moved slowly, teasing, his long fingers sliding against your soaked folds. He groaned low, almost like he was in pain, when he felt how wet you were.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he rasped, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit while his fingers teased lower, slipping just barely inside before retreating. “So good for me, angel. Always so good for me.”
Your head fell back slightly, a soft whimper slipping out, and Chan’s mouth curved into a wrecked grin against your thigh.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing higher, closer to where you needed him. “Give me more sounds, honey. I want to hear you.”
Two of his fingers finally slid into you, slow but sure, curling just right as his thumb pressed to your clit. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the counter, and Chan’s breath hitched at the way you clenched around him.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your thigh as he moved his fingers faster, deeper. “You feel so perfect. So tight for me.”
Chan couldn’t stay away for long. His mouth moved from your thigh to your hip, kissing, nipping, his breath hot against your skin. Then he looked up at you, eyes blown and desperate.
“Wanna taste you,” he murmured, his fingers still moving inside you, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns on your clit. “Can I?”
You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.
He pulled your hips closer to the edge of the counter, his fingers didn’t stop, but now his lips were on you — kissing your inner thighs first, soft, reverent kisses before finally leaning in to press his mouth against you. The first flick of his tongue made you moan, and Chan groaned against you, the sound vibrating where his mouth moved.
“God, you taste so good,” he rasped between licks, his pace quickening as he sucked lightly on your clit. “My perfect girl. All mine.”
His hands gripped your thighs tight, holding you in place as he devoured you, his fingers thrusting in time with his mouth. Every time you whimpered, his groans got louder, more desperate, like he was addicted to every sound you made.
“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mumbled against you, his words hot and filthy. “Wanna feel you fall apart for me, baby. Come on, angel — give it to me.”
Chan's tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, groan vibrating against your cunt and the sound alone made your hips jerk, but he held you firmly in place. “Stay still, angel,” he rasped between licks, his voice wrecked already. “Lemme take care of you. Lemme… fuck—lemme have you.”
His fingers now curling up just right, just the way he knew you liked, just the way he knew your body would react. Finger-fucking you with a steady pace, wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room. His thumb occasionally pressing harder against your clit when his mouth pulled away for breath.
You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, but Chan wasn’t letting you get away from him. His free hand slid to your hip, pushing you flat against the surface while he leaned in deeper, tongue flicking against your clit with increasing intensity.
“Ch-Chan—!”
He hummed in response, and the vibration sent another wave of pleasure through you. He didn’t slow down — if anything, the sound of your shaky voice made him more desperate. His fingers pumped faster now, hitting that spot inside you that made your back arch, his tongue swirling around your clit like he’d been studying you for this exact moment.
“God, listen to you,” he groaned against you, pulling back for a split second to look up at you. His face was flushed, his lips glistening, and his eyes — fuck, his eyes were wild. “Dripping all over my fingers, baby. You’re so wet for me. So perfect for me.”
Before you could respond, he dove back in, tongue and fingers working together in a messy, frantic rhythm. He finger-fucked you harder now, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust, while his mouth sucked at your clit like he was addicted to you. Your moans grew louder, filling the studio, and Chan groaned at the sound.
“That’s it,” he mumbled into you, his words muffled but still clear enough to make your stomach flip. “Come on, baby… I know you’re close. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart on my fingers, yeah?”
Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue.
“Chan—oh my god, I—”
“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his pace relentless, his thumb pressing harder as his fingers curled just right. “Give it to me. Cum for me. Wanna taste you, angel. Need it.”
And then you broke.
Your whole body shook, your hips jerking helplessly against his grip as you came, moaning his name. Chan didn’t stop — if anything, he doubled down, licking you through it, his fingers fucking you deeper, slower now, dragging out every last wave of your orgasm until you were trembling under him.
When you finally slumped against the counter, breathless, Chan pulled back just enough to look at you — his lips swollen, chin slick with you, his chest heaving.
“Fuck,” he breathed, licking his lips as if he couldn’t get enough. “You taste so fucking good. My perfect girl. My perfect everything.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing up. And the look in his eyes made your heart stop. He was completely cunt-drunk, lips parted and panting, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left in them.
“Not done,” he said, voice low and rough as his hands slid to your waist. “You think I’m stopping after just that? Nah, baby.” His hands moved to his belt, fingers fumbling with it, moving too fast, almost shaky with how eager he was.
“Chan—”
“Can’t wait,” he cut you off, finally yanking the belt free and shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself. His thick cock sprang up, flushed and leaking, and he hissed under his breath as his hand wrapped around the base, giving himself one slow stroke as his eyes raked over you.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, stepping between your legs again. His free hand slid to your thigh, spreading you open wider. “Sitting here all pretty for me, dripping, still tight from cumming on my fingers… you’re killing me, honey.”
Your breath hitched as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.
“Chan, please—”
That was all it took.
With a low, broken groan, he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch. His head fell forward against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sank in deeper, bottoming out with one final thrust.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice shaking as his hips pressed flush to yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm, squeezing me so fucking good. God, I’m never letting you go.”
Once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. His pace was quick from the start — deep, hungry thrusts that made the counter creak beneath you. Every push in had his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, every pull out slow enough to make you whimper before he slammed back in.
“That’s it, baby,” he panted against your mouth, his words broken between messy kisses. “Taking me so well. My perfect girl, all fucked out just for me. You feel so good—fuck, you feel made for me.”
You moaned against his lips, and Chan groaned back, swallowing every sound, his kisses messy and desperate. His tongue slid against yours sloppily, his teeth nipping your bottom lip before he kissed down your jaw.
Chan buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin there, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into nips. “You’re gonna look so pretty tomorrow,” he murmured against your throat, his thrusts never faltering. “My marks all over you. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at your chest, his gaze dropping, and then he dipped lower. “Fuck, I need these,” he groaned before his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over it, his teeth grazing lightly before he switched to the other, his free hand squeezing your breast as if he couldn’t get enough.
Your back arched into him, and Chan moaned against your skin, his thrusts growing even rougher.
“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he growled, his mouth still on your chest. “You like that? Like when I fuck you like this? Fuck.”
His hips snapped into you harder now, faster, the wet sounds of him fucking you filling the room along with your broken moans. Chan was panting against your chest, his forehead resting between your breasts as he fucked into you.
You were moaning so loud at this rate, instinctively squeezing around his cock tighter, your pussy not wanting to let go, in fact dragging him in deeper.
“Shit, baby, do that again,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and red. “Clench around me like that again, and I’m gonna lose it.”
You couldn’t help it — your body obeyed, and Chan swore under his breath, his pace growing relentless.
“God, you’re gonna make me cum so fast like this.” he panted, leaning forward to kiss you again, messy and desperate.
The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and filthy, echoing off the walls of the studio. Chan was relentless now, his hips snapping into you with a pace that bordered on desperate, every thrust pushing you further into the counter, making it creak under the force.
Your body was melting, every muscle trembling, your head falling back as broken moans spilled from your lips. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe — you were completely cock-drunk, lost in him, in the way his thick length filled you so perfectly, stretching you just right.
“Look at you,” Chan panted, his forehead pressed against yours now, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. “All fucked out… taking me so good, honey.”
Your walls clenched around him again, and he swore, his hips stuttering for half a second before he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Tightest little pussy, just for me. Made for me, baby. You’re mine, all mine.”
You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew even rougher.
“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back just enough to watch your face. His thrusts were brutal now, hips slamming into yours, wet sounds filling the air. “You’re gonna cum for me again, angel. Wanna feel you squeeze me, wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”
You tried to shake your head, gasping, “I can’t—” but your body betrayed you, already tightening, that coil snapping faster than you could stop it.
“Yes, you can, baby. Give it to me,” Chan ordered, his voice rough, commanding now. His thumb slid between you, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles as he fucked you harder. “Cum for me, angel. Right now. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”
And then you did.
Your body arched, your vision went white, and you cried out his name, your orgasm slamming into you so hard it made your legs shake. You clenched down around him helplessly, milking his cock, and Chan lost it.
“FUCK,” he growled, his voice cracking, his pace faltering for just a second before he shoved in deep, groaning as your tightness squeezed him over and over. “That’s it, that’s my girl—god, you feel incredible when you cum on me.”
He didn’t slow down — if anything, feeling you come undone on him only made him more feral. He kept thrusting, deep and fast, riding you through it, his hips slapping against yours with every sharp movement.
You were gone — cock-drunk, trembling, babbling his name — and Chan was absolutely wrecked, panting against your neck, kissing and sucking at the damp skin there like he couldn’t get enough.
“Not done,” he groaned into your neck, his voice desperate, hips still pounding into you. “Not stopping till I fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep in you, fuck—don’t wanna pull out. Ever.”
You whimpered something incoherent, and Chan kissed your temple, his thrusts somehow even deeper now.
“That’s it, honey. One more. Be good for me, yeah? Give me one more before I cum. Can you do that for me?”
Chan’s pace was brutal now, his hips snapping against yours so hard the counter creaked with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your chest as he buried himself in you over and over, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
You were already trembling, your body overstimulated from your last orgasm, every nerve burning — but Chan wasn’t slowing down. “Ch-Chan, I—” Your words were broken, barely formed, nothing but gasps and whimpers spilling from your mouth.
“Yes, you are,” he growled, leaning closer, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna cum one more time for me, honey. Be good for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me again before I fill you up.”
His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, circling it in fast, precise motions that had you sobbing.
“Too much—”
“Shhh, baby.” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the shop.
Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your body betrayed you again, tightening around him as the pleasure built up impossibly fast.
“That’s it, baby,” Chan panted, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”
Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you like fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you screamed his name.
“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”
You babbled it over and over, lost in the pleasure, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body convulsed around him. Chan groaned loudly, his own thrusts growing sloppy as you clenched tight around him, pulling him closer and closer to his own breaking point.
“Fuck, honey, that’s it,” he growled, his hips driving into you hard, desperate now. “You feel too good — gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep, fuck my cum into you until it sticks. Wanna keep you full of me, angel. All mine.”
Your name left his mouth in a groan as his pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, until finally he slammed deep one last time, burying himself inside you completely.
“Fuck—”
His head fell to your shoulder as his body shuddered, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, hot and deep. His hips kept grinding against yours through it, slower now but still firm, like he was determined to push every drop into you.
“God, baby,” Chan panted against your neck, his voice shaking, almost broken. “So good. Took me so well. Full of me now, yeah? My perfect girl.”
He stayed buried in you, his hips rocking gently, slower now, more tender. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as he pressed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.
You hummed weakly against him, completely gone, your brain pure mush as you slumped against his chest. Your body felt boneless, cock-drunk and warm, and Chan smiled against your cheek at how pliant you were in his arms.
“Accounting’s not getting done tonight,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse, slurred from exhaustion.
Chan chuckled, kissing your hairline. “Yeah, no shit, angel. You can barely sit up.”
He finally, carefully pulled out, groaning quietly at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. His hands immediately slid to your thighs, thumbs brushing over the marks his grip left behind.
“Stay still for me, baby,” he said gently, already reaching for the roll of paper towels and a clean cloth. “I’ll clean you up, okay? Just relax.”
He worked carefully as if you were made of glass. One hand held your hip steady while the other gently wiped between your legs, soft circles, his expression focused but tender. Every so often he’d pause to press a soft kiss to your knee, your inner thigh, or your bandaged ring finger like he couldn’t stop himself.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured under his breath as he cleaned you. “Still dripping from me, still letting me take care of you. Love you so much.”
You were too far gone to reply properly, just humming again, your head resting against his shoulder. Chan’s smile softened at the sound, and he kissed your temple, whispering, “Mushy-brained, huh?”
“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.
He laughed quietly, finishing up and tossing the used wipes into the bin before bringing over the clothes he discarded off of you and helping you back into your panties and hoodie.
“Come here,” Chan said softly, sliding an arm under your thighs and another around your back.
“Chan, I can walk,” you mumbled, though your legs felt like jelly.
“Nope,” he said, smirking as he easily lifted you off the counter. “You’re not walking anywhere. You’re mine to take care of tonight.”
He carried you bridal-style through the shop, nudging the studio door open with his foot before settling you gently onto the worn leather couch in his back office — the same couch you’d spent countless late nights on, working through shop invoices together.
He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. “Water or juice, honey?”
“Water,” you whispered, and Chan pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge, uncapping it and handing it to you before sitting down. His other hand moving on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he still couldn’t stop touching you.
“Small sips, angel,” he said gently, watching you drink like you might spill it on yourself.
You gave him a tired look. “I’m not five, Chan.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, grinning as he plucked the bottle back after you’d had a few sips. “You’re mushy-brained and wobbly. That’s basically toddler mode.”
You groaned and slumped against the couch, tugging his hoodie tighter around you. “This is your fault.”
“Mm, best fault I’ve ever had,” he said, his grin softening as he sat beside you. He pulled you into his lap again, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. “You okay? Nothing hurts?”
“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.
“Good sore or bad sore?”
You smirked weakly. “Good sore. Very good sore.”
Chan chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “That’s my girl.”
You both stayed there, with Chan holding you close on that worn leather couch, softly kissing your hair every few minutes, and you? Mushy-brained and completely unaware of the fact that he almost ruined his own surprise by proposing right there and then.
TWO MONTHS LATER
The shop was quiet again, but for a very different reason this time.
You were sitting on that same back-office couch, curled up in one of Chan’s hoodies, thinking about the little white stick you had done that morning. Two faint pink lines.
Positive.
You’d taken it that morning, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst, and you hadn’t stopped staring at it since.
The past few weeks suddenly made sense — the random waves of nausea, the constant exhaustion, the way your period never came even though you swore it was just stress. You’d been hoping it was stress. Well… maybe half-hoping, half… wondering.
Now you knew.
And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.
You pulled your knees to your chest, groaning softly. “How the hell do I even say this? ‘Hey, by the way, you knocked me up the same night you tattooed me?’”
You chewed your lip, glancing at the bandaged ring finger where his little C had healed perfectly now, the tiny cursive letter smooth against your skin. Your stomach flipped thinking about it — his initial on your ring finger, and now his baby in your belly.
Chan was going to lose his mind. Not in a bad way — you knew he loved you more than anything — but… still. You wanted it to be special.
You considered just blurting it out. Or maybe buying one of those cheesy “#1 Dad” mugs and handing it to him. Or even putting a tiny onesie in one of his ink supply boxes and letting him find it himself.
But Chan deserved better than that.
You wanted to make it yours, something that meant something to the both of you.
Your brain kept spinning, debating whether to do it at home or here at the shop, when the studio door creaked open behind you.
“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated in, warm and familiar. “You hiding in here again? Everyone’s gone, you know. It’s just us.” He stepped in, hair slightly damp from his post-workout shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing those veiny arms that made your brain short-circuit every time.
He smiled when he saw you, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, mushy-brain. You look tired. You okay?”
You forced a smile. “Just… a little tired. Long day.”
Chan crouched in front of you, tilting his head to study you. “You sure? You’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve been… I dunno, different.”
Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”
He shrugged, smiling softly. “Just… softer. Quieter. And you’ve been wearing my hoodies more than usual, which I love, but also—” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not sick, are you?”
You laughed nervously, your heart hammering. “No, not sick.”
“Hmm.” He searched your face for a long moment before leaning in and kissing your temple. “Okay. But if you are sick, I’m making you soup and not letting you do any more accounting for a week.”
“Noted,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.
You were going to tell him soon.... Very, very soon.
The smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment before you were even awake. It was soft morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains, painting everything gold, and the faint hum of music playing low from Chan’s phone.
You blinked groggily, sitting up in bed, stretching under the duvet. The apartment above the bakery always smelled faintly of bread in the mornings, but today it was different — richer, heavier, like butter and sugar and… coffee.
Chan.
You padded out of the bedroom, still in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair messy, and found him in the kitchen.
He was barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, muscles flexing as he whisked something in a bowl. His hair was sticking up in that I-woke-up-early-just-for-you way, and there was flour on his cheek.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the soft smile he gave you was enough to make your chest ache.
“Morning honey,” he said, setting the whisk down. “Go sit, breakfast’s almost done.”
You raised a brow, leaning against the doorway. “You’re awake before me… cooking? Should I be worried?”
He laughed quietly, dimples flashing. “Nope. Just wanted to do something nice for you. Now sit before you burn your feet on the cold floor.”
You shook your head with a small smile but obeyed, slipping into your usual spot at the small table by the window. The sun hit just right there, warming your legs as you watched him move around the kitchen. You were completely unaware of why he was doing this, but one thing you were aware of sat heavy in your chest: you were telling him today.
Chan had spent weeks thinking about how to propose — fancy dinners, maybe the shop, maybe even flying you somewhere. But every plan felt too loud, too not you.
Because you? You weren’t someone he needed to impress with fireworks. You were his girl who sat on the shop counter doing accounting in his hoodies, who kissed his cheek while he worked, who let him mark you with his initial like it was the most natural thing in the world.
So this morning, he decided: domestic, quiet, soft. You, him, breakfast, and the sunlight. That was perfect. The ring box sat tucked in his pocket as he plated pancakes, his hands only shaking slightly when he set the table.
“Fancy,” you said as he placed a plate in front of you — pancakes stacked high, drizzled with syrup, fresh berries on the side. “What’s the occasion? Did you blow something up at the shop and you’re buttering me up before I find out?”
Chan sat across from you, grinning. “No explosions. Just wanted to spoil you.”
You narrowed your eyes playfully, cutting into the pancakes. “This better not be your way of bribing me into doing shop inventory later.”
Chan laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. No shop talk today. Just us.”
You smiled softly at that, taking a bite — and holy hell, they were good.
“Wow. Okay, maybe I should marry you just for these pancakes,” you teased without thinking.
Chan’s fork froze midair, his smile twitching into something softer, something that made your heart skip — but you were too focused on working up the courage to tell him to notice the way his hand brushed against the pocket of his sweatpants, where that little velvet box sat.
You set your fork down, suddenly nervous. “Chan?”
He looked up immediately, brown eyes soft. “Yeah?”
You bit your lip, your heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out your voice. “I… I need to tell you something.”
His brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” You exhaled, staring down at your plate for a moment before forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
“I’m pregnant.”
And the room went silent — except for the soft hum of morning music and Chan’s sharp inhale as the words sank in. His fork clattered against his plate as his mouth opened slightly, blinking at you in stunned silence for half a beat before a smile started pulling at his lips — slow, soft, and so wrecked.
“Are you…” His voice was almost a whisper, warm and trembling, as his hand slid across the table to grab yours. “Are you serious?”
You nodded, biting your lip, tears already pricking your eyes. “Yeah.”
For a second, Chan just stared at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes shining — and then he laughed, a quiet, breathless laugh, before standing and pulling you up with him. He hugged you tight, burying his face in your neck. “God, I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. “You’re having my baby. Our baby. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”
When he finally pulled back, his hands were still on your waist, his grin wide and teary.
“Baby,” he said, suddenly serious but smiling so big you could barely breathe. “I was gonna wait… do this all proper later… but screw it.”
Your brows furrowed, confused, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.
Your breath caught. “Chan—”
“I was gonna do something fancy, but I don’t care anymore. You’re having my baby, you’re literally wearing my letter on your ring finger already, and I… fuck, I can’t wait another second.”
Chan didn't even drop to one knee, no, he just held you close to him, his eyes glued on your face as he opened the box to reveal a simple but stunning ring that caught the morning light perfectly.
“It's not crazy, it's not a fancy proposal. But... it's us. And I wanted it to be special and not artificial. So... will you marry me?”
Your breath caught, the world narrowing down to just him — his hopeful, teary eyes, the velvet box in his hand, the way his thumb rubbed nervously against your waist like he was trying to ground himself.
“Chan…”
You didn’t even let him finish panicking in his head. You nodded, tears welling up instantly. “Yes.”
His breath hitched, his smile breaking into something wrecked and overwhelming, his dimples deepening as he laughed — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “Yes?”
“Yes,” you repeated, laughing through your tears, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Of course yes, you idiot.”
He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing over it as if he couldn’t believe it was real. His eyes darted between your hand and your face, his grin softer now, almost shy.
“My fiancée,” he murmured, tasting the word like it was honey. “My future wife.” And then his lips crashed onto yours. It started soft — his lips brushing yours gently, his hands cradling your face like you might break. But it didn’t stay soft for long.
Because Chan never could stay soft when it came to you.
The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry, desperate, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and Chan groaned, taking the chance to slide his tongue against yours, the kiss turning messy and heated.
When you pulled back for air, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, panting softly. “You’re gonna kill me, angel. Pregnant with my baby, wearing my ring, looking at me like that… fuck, I can’t keep my hands off you.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but Chan had already slid his hands lower, gripping your hips possessively. His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly.
“Chan—” you tried, but your voice came out more like a whimper, which only made him smirk against your throat.
“Say it again,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on your neck.
“Say what?”
“That you said yes.” His teeth grazed your pulse point now, sucking lightly. “Wanna hear it.”
You swallowed, your voice shaky. “I said yes.”
“Mm, my perfect girl,” Chan groaned, his hands sliding to the back of your thighs. “My fiancée. My baby mama. My everything.”
Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, sitting you on the kitchen counter, just like he had at the shop weeks ago. His mouth trailed down your neck, his hands slipping under your t-shirt to spread over your stomach.
“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered against your skin, his tone reverent and filthy all at once. “Full of me in every way now.”
Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed slow circles over your lower belly. “Chan…”
He kissed your jaw, his grin wicked now. “Gonna have to be careful with you now, angel. But I still need you. Right here. Right now.”
His breath hitched as his lips trailed down to your collarbone, leaving soft kisses that slowly turned into open-mouthed licks and nips. You gasped softly when his hands pushed your t-shirt higher. “My baby mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “My fiancée. My everything.”
Then his gaze flicked back up to you, dark and desperate. “Can I? Please, angel. Need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”
You nodded, breathless, and that was all the permission he needed.
Chan lifted that t-shirt all the way off, tossing it to the side before leaning in to kiss you again — slower this time, his hands cradling your face. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, but his body was trembling with restraint, every muscle tight.
You cupped his jaw, smiling softly into that kiss as you murmured. “I’m yours, Chan.”
His breath caught at those perfect breathy words, eyes softening for half a second before turning darker again. “Yeah, you are. Mine. All mine.”
Chan’s hands were on your thighs again, tugging at the waistband of your shorts. He slid them down slowly, almost teasingly, before tossing them aside. His big hands gripped your bare thighs, spreading you gently as he stepped closer.
“You’re already wet for me.” he groaned, his thumb brushing along your folds through your panties.
Your breath hitched, your hips twitching slightly under his touch. “Chan—”
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your knee before tugging your panties down in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees between your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.
“I should take my time,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “Worship you properly. But I’m already so fucking hard for you. Can’t wait much longer.”
He stood again, tugging his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his thick cock. His hand wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, as he stared at you like you were the only thing that existed. “Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you again, his voice soft but desperate. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”
You nodded, and Chan lined himself up, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned low in his chest.
Your walls clenched around him as he bottomed out, and Chan swore under his breath, his hips stuttering for a moment.
“Feel so good,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “So warm, so soft… made for me.”
Chan started moving, slow at first, careful, but the hunger in his eyes was impossible to hide. Every deep thrust had him groaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips tight but gentle, as if he was holding himself back with everything he had.
“Taking me so good, angel,” he praised, his lips brushing your ear. “Even now, you’re perfect for me. You’re incredible.”
Your moans filled the kitchen, soft and breathy, and Chan kissed you again, swallowing them down, his tongue sliding against yours in a messy, hungry kiss.
The pace stayed slow but deep, each thrust hitting just right, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. Chan groaned at the way you squeezed him, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re killing me, honey,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Wanna fuck you hard, wanna ruin you, but… god.Just wanna take care of you. My everything.”
Chan’s restraint started to crack.
He was trying — god, he was trying — to keep it slow, to keep you safe, to worship you like you deserved. But the way you clenched around him, the way your soft whimpers filled the warm kitchen air, hair messy, ring glittering on your finger… it was undoing him.
“Fuck, baby.” he groaned against your neck, his thrusts growing deeper, heavier.
You gasped as his pace picked up, controlled but harder now, every deep thrust dragging against that spot that made your back arch.
“Chan—oh my god—”
“That’s it, honey,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. “Say my name like that. My perfect fiancée, my perfect baby mama. God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. He rubbed slow circles at first, matching his thrusts, but the second you gasped and clenched around him, his pace quickened, his thumb pressing harder.
“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he groaned, his hips snapping into you deeper, controlled but harder now, his cock hitting perfectly with every thrust. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come on, baby, cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”
Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Chan buried his face in your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.
“Such a good girl for me. Gonna make you cum so hard. Come on baby, cum on my cock.”
The combination of his deep thrusts and his relentless rubbing on your clit had you spiralling fast. Your moans grew louder, desperate, and Chan swore, his hips driving into you harder.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, angel. Milk my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me dry. You can do it for me. Be good for me.”
You broke with a cry, your body tensing and shaking as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around him tight and hot.
“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Chan groaned, his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him, milking him exactly how he wanted. “So tight, so perfect, gonna make me cum, angel.”
Chan’s pace turned sloppy, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you through your orgasm. His thumb slowed on your clit, now just rubbing soft circles as he focused on burying himself deep inside you.
“Gonna fill you up, honey.” he panted, his voice wrecked.
One last deep thrust, and Chan groaned your name, his hips grinding into yours as he came, hot and deep. His body shuddered against you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he stayed buried, his cock twitching as he spilled every drop.
“I love you,” he murmured against your cheek, kissing it softly as his thrusts slowed to nothing. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Chan stayed inside you, breathing hard, kissing your jaw, your neck, your temple, murmuring soft praises between each press of his lips.
“My girl.” kiss
“My wife-to-be.” kiss
“My baby mama.” kiss
“My everything.” kiss, kiss, kiss
You were still trembling slightly, completely cock-drunk, and Chan smiled softly against your skin, kissing your forehead.
“Let me take care of you, honey,” he whispered, finally pulling out carefully, his hands already reaching for a towel. “Gonna clean you up, then hold you for the rest of the day. No more moving, just me, you, and our baby.”
You laughed softly, still breathless. “Our baby.”
Chan froze for half a second, looking at you with that same wrecked, lovesick grin as before. “God, I love you so much.” He didn't move right away, not for a few good minutes that is. Because even after pulling out, he stayed pressed against you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if letting you go might make the moment disappear. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally slowing, but his thumbs kept brushing soft circles on your hips like he couldn’t stop touching you.
You shifted slightly, still perched on the counter, and he immediately murmured, “Don’t move, angel. Stay right here. Just let me hold you for a minute.”
You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “You’re clingy.”
“I’m engaged to the love of my life who’s carrying my baby,” he shot back without missing a beat, his grin sleepy and lovesick. “You’re lucky I’m not duct-taping us together permanently.”
You laughed, leaning in to kiss him softly. He melted into it instantly, sighing against your lips, before resting his head back on your shoulder.
After a long moment of silence, you spoke up, your tone teasing.
“So… we’re gonna need a new place, huh?”
Chan blinked, pulling back just enough to look at you. “What?”
“Well,” you said, biting back a grin, “you wanna raise a baby and run a shop while we live in a tiny apartment above a bakery?”
He stared at you for a beat, then burst into a quiet laugh, kissing you again before resting his forehead to yours. “Guess I better start looking,” he murmured, smiling so big it made your chest ache. “Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… maybe a whole room just for baby stuff.”
“And a bigger table for all your breakfast experiments,” you teased.
“Damn right,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. Chan then pulled back just slightly, his grin turning mischievous. “Actually, scratch the bigger table. I just need one strong enough to keep doing this.”
You raised a brow, laughing despite yourself. “Chan!”
“What?” he said innocently, kissing your cheek. “You’re the one who brought up moving. I’m just thinking about practical needs.”
You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” he shot back immediately, dimples deepening as he kissed your nose.
You sighed, pretending to be exasperated even as you smiled. “Fine. Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… and a table strong enough for your practical needs.”
Chan laughed, hugging you tight. “That’s my fiancée. Already making the smart choices.”
“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Smartest choice I ever made was saying yes to you.”
Chan froze for a beat, then smiled so big you thought his face might split. “…God, you’re never getting rid of me now.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” you teased.
“Good,” he said, kissing you again — soft, warm, and still grinning against your lips.
→ genre/warning: fluff, angst, reversed comfort? and maybe a little bit of comedy (i mean, i tried); might contain grammatical errors and typos, swearing, mentions of soonie being sad :(, etc.
→ author note: been writing these kind of fics for two times in a row... gotta write a happy one now... btw!! i'm really sorry if there's any typos or errors! i was editing when my phone suddenly restarted by itself and the first edit was gone and so i had to re-edit T^T &&& as always, i suck at endings pls forgive me haha T^T happy reading! <3
"hello! i'm here for seventeen's hoshi?"
"oh, just walk pass through."
you giggled at the sour tone of the woman in front of you, contrasting her pretty smile - joo, receptionist of the agency building. having to come in and out of the place pretty often for a while now, resulting in you exchanging these kinds of friendly banter with the sweet woman - she's only a few years older than you, after all.
"you're bringing food again?"
"mm!" you smiled, reaching into the bag you're holding before handing her a smaller one with a lunchbox inside. "i brought one for you too, if you want."
"aw, thank you!" she happily sighed while taking the bag, throwing a wink towards you while saying, "have a nice time with hoshi!" which makes you laugh.
"have a nice evening, ms. joo!"
"you too, love bird!" her bright-toned laughter was still ringing in your ears until you turned into the elevator corner, waiting for one to arrive.
it was a little bit after 7 pm, and your activities for the day were finished. soonyoung didn't answer any of your calls earlier - which is a common thing when he's too immersed in choreographing and stuff - so you decide to stop by with some food, thinking the boys must be having a really busy practice.
"(y/n)!"
a voice startled you from behind, and you turn around to see jun staring back at you, eyes filled with mischief and a big goofy grin on his face. you snickered before smiling. "way to scare a girl, wen junhui."
"long time no see~ i missed you!" the brown haired male briefly hugged you from the side before noticing the bags you're holding. "are those... food?"
seeing how his eyes and tone turned in anticipation, you hummed with a small laugh. "yes, indeed. i brought more than enough for all of you."
his feet excitedly stomped on the floor while he giggles, his hands reaching to take the bags. "thank youuu! let me bring the bags, they must be heavy."
you laughed again while handing them over to him.
"by the way, what are you guys doing today? i couldn't reach soonyoung at all earlier. are you guys practicing?"
"oh..." his giggle stopped and jun blink his eyes at you for a second, as if he's trying to find the perfect words to say. "we were practicing... but we stopped about an hour ago and i went to the agency park for a bit to... cool down."
you lifted your eyebrows at his tone. "why? did something happened?"
"hoshi... blew up. like, snapping at every single person in the room, kind of blew up. i got kinda mad at him too earlier, that's why i went to the park."
just in time, the elevator arrived. the two of you walked in while he explains further about what happened earlier, and by the time he finished, it left a frown on your face along with a tug on your heartstrings. "that's bad..."
"yeah. but it's okay, though, i think he's just not feeling well then accidentally lashed out at every single person around him. one of those days, you know?" he smiled again. "he will come around. hoshi can never be mad for too long, he loves us too much."
"that, i agree." you giggled, his words slightly easing the tight feeling in your chest.
the elevator opened.
"since we're here, how about you go talk to him? we knew he just needs to be alone so we told hoshi to take some time and rest in the studio alone while the rest of us stays in the practice room - well, except me. i'll bring the food to the others, i bet they're hungry~"
"alright, then. i purposely seperated one lunchbox in there, that's soonyoung's food, so don't touch that. oh, and tell the members to eat slowly." you emphasized the last word, knowing well how chaotic it can be when the members meet food. jun laughed at that, saluting you while cheering, "we will, mom!" before you both part ways.
when you arrive at the studio, it was dark, only lighting came from the opened door and the slightly dimmed neon signs. then you saw a familiar figure slumping on the couch; soonyoung, with a cap covering his face and a blanket draped over his lap.
you thought he was asleep until he rasped out, "i still need some time alone." you bit your lips at his cold and unfamiliar tone before replying. "it's me."
soonyoung twitched, slowly removing the cap from his face. he looked more tired than you've ever seen, half-lidded eyes staring back at you while his chapped lips are slowly parting when he recognize you.
"(y/n)?"
"hey." you smiled, quickly walking over to sit on the couch too. the close-up sight of his face broke your heart even more. "i came by since you weren't answering my calls, and i brought some food-"
you stopped talking when he suddenly drops his head on your shoulder, hands hastily circling around your waist to pull you closer. "five minutes." you felt his heavy breath on your neck. "please stay here for five more minutes."
his tone was softer, like a glass that could break at any moment with a single touch. one of your hand started to rub soothing circles on his back while the other ran through his hair. the sweats from his forehead damped your shoulder, but you didn't care at all.
"it's okay." you murmured. "i'll stay here for as long as you want."
it went quiet for a while, the only sounds coming from both of your breathing and your fingers rustling on his shirt. you wondered about his feelings; what was he feeling, how bad was the feeling. the thought lasted like forever until you feel a kiss on your neck.
"soonie?"
"hmm?"
"are you okay?"
he sighed, and you feel his arms tightening as he shakes his head. "no."
"do you... want to talk about it?" you hesitantly asked, changing your hand gesture to pat his back softly. "it's okay if you don't want to, though."
"i just... i don't know what- how. i don't know how to talk about it."
"mm..." with a hum, you gnawed on your lips for a second before mumbling to his hair. "let's start with your feelings."
"now?"
"now is okay."
"warm, and a bit better than before. you always makes me feel that way." soonyoung pressed another kiss on your neck, and you could somehow feel his smile when he mumbles again. "thank you for coming, by the way."
"you know i would never mind." you mumbled back, finally feeling a bit warm in your chest. "can i ask... how were you feeling?"
the room went silent for the second time, and you were slightly nervous thinking you've asked the wrong question to him. but then soonyoung sighed again, shifting to rest his chin on your shoulder as his fingers rub against yours in a small movement. "i was feeling like shit. it's awful, i even got mad at the members when i really am just frustrated in myself."
"do you want to tell me why were you frustrated?"
"it's just one of those days, you know?" the similarity of his words and jun's made you smile for a second, but the ones after left a frown on your face. "where i feel everything's going really wrong; like i'm not feeling enough, the choreographies aren't good enough, and... and then i'd think about how long had it since the last time i really saw you, spent time with you, talked to you about anything. and then i'd... feel worse. like i'm not a good boyfriend for you."
"hey." you crouched your head, trying to stare into his eyes. your gaze on him were firm and a little bit upset - soonyoung had never seen you looking at him like that before. "you're not good, you're an amazing boyfriend for me. people have responsibilities - i have one too, soonie, and yours is pretty big. i understand you're now a little bit busy with your idol life, that you need to fully focus on that. so you don't need to feel bad about me, alright? you do you. you know i'll wait until you finish everything; there still a whole lot amount of time for us to spend together again."
he sighed once more, bringing his fingers up to graze over your hair. "you're too kind for me, you know?"
"shush. i wasnt done talking." then soonyoung let out a small grin at your scolding tone while you scrunched your nose. "and you are enough. those days where you feel bad, think of them as a rock you stumbled on while you walk or run. no matter how big it may seem, how heavy it may weigh, you'll get through them eventually. remember what you always told me everytime i'm too stressed over things?"
"i said... take one step at a time..."
"yes. now, i want you to take your own advice, baby. take one step at a time." you lean to kiss the tip of his nose. "now is a good start. have some time alone to sort your thoughts and take lots of deep breaths to calm down, then go to your members to talk about those thoughts. you guys have the strongest bond i've ever seen, you know? i believe in you, in the members. it's going to be okay."
you watched as his eyes soften, a layer of tear covering his black orbs. you puffed at that, pulling him back into your embrace while repeating your last sentence. "it's going to be okay."
after a few muffled sniffles from him and kisses you dropped on top of his head, soonyoung pull away and begin to wipe his cheeks. you smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair before resting your hands on the sides of his face.
"look at me for a second."
"mm?" soonyoung dropped his hands, eyes blinking as they stare back at you. you leaned again, softly kissing his lips before letting out a wide grin. "i love you."
"pretty~ i love you too~" with a pout and a whine, he started to attack your face with light kisses. the sudden mood change made you laugh out loud while you try to squirm away, but his hands were caging you on the couch.
"a- hahaha- alright, alright. i think you need to eat now."
"ah!" he dropped one more kiss on your nose before grinning too. "you said you brought food! where is it?"
"in the practice room. i told the members to put yours aside."
soonyoung's wide grin turned into an adorable pout again, his eyes filling with worry. "i'm still feeling guilty after snapping on the members earlier... what if they're still mad at me?"
"they won't. you know the members loves you as much as you love them." you kissed the tip of his nose again, before taking his hand into yours and standing up. then you tugged on his hand. "now, come on, tiger. you need to eat and talk with the members."
all the way to the practice room, he kept swaying your hand back and forth like a nervous little kid, only stopping when you kiss him on the cheek.
"i'm nervous."
"soonyoung, you're not even that nervous when you perform. why are you nervous when you're just meeting your members?" you laughed.
"i'm nervous~!" he whined, turning to you. "i think you need to give me another kiss to calm down."
"what- seriously?"
"come on!"
your eyes crinkled in amusement but you eventually lean in, planting your lips on his.
"oh, come on! it's the hallway, get a room or something!"
the protest made you pull away, and you immediately noticed jihoon standing at the door with his face crumpling in disgust. you giggled. "hi, jihoon. how's the food?"
"it was delicious, (y/n). now, please get a room if you and soonyoung want to make out. thank you."
"ji." soonyoung called out to his friend. "i'm sorry for snapping at you earlier."
jihoon stared at the blonde haired for a while, lips slowly curling into a small smile as he bring his hand up to pat his shoulder. "it's alright. i'm just glad you're normal again, you were being an asshole, you know?"
"i'm sorry..."
"yeah, yeah. don't get all sappy like that, it doesn't fit you."
your eyes softened at the sight, gently squeezing soonyoung's hand in your grasp. "alright, you two, stop bickering."
the black haired let out a short laugh before bidding his goodbye, and the two of you continue to walk into the practice room. most of the members were sitting on the floor with lunchboxes scattered all over the place, leaving seungkwan and chan running around the room.
"hoshi hyung, just in time! seungkwan was about to eat your food!" chan reported while running.
seungkwan gasped, hands stretching to grab the younger boy. "no, i wasn't!"
you giggled again at them, slowly untying your hand from him. "go."
soonyoung turned at you, giving you a smile and a soft kiss on the cheek. "thank you, pretty." then he joined the members in the middle of the room, while you took a seat before crossing your hands and turning your attention to the two boys still running around.
"seungkwan, chan, finish your food!"
"we did, noona!"
"hey, (y/n). thanks for the food." wonwoo sat next to you, a bottle of water in his hand. you turned to him with a smile. "your welcome, woo!"
"how is he?"
his question made you feel warm all over as you smiled.
see? the boys really do have a strong bond.
"i talked to him." you answered, nodding at wonwoo before turning to soonyoung. your heart swelling at the sight of him now laughing next to jeonghan and reaching forward to hit mingyu's arm. "he's alright."
"wow. you really do have that big of an effect on him, don't you?"
if wonwoo's words didn't make your heart warmer, soonyoung's words from across the room sure did.
"jeon wonwoo! don't flirt with my pretty girlfriend!"
