You have exactly seventy-two hours before the plane leaves. Seventy-two hours to say goodbye to the only version of your life that has ever felt like it was built just for you.
The dorm turns into a war zone of love the second the news leaks.
You’re in the middle of it all, sitting on Changbin’s lap on the couch because he refuses to let anyone else have you tonight, when Han climbs onto the coffee table with a paper crown he made from a convenience-store receipt.
“Speech!” he yells. “From our beloved noona who is tragically being kidnapped by TXT!”
You bury your face in Changbin’s neck, laughing even though your eyes are already stinging. “I’m not being kidnapped, Jisung.”
Changbin’s hand slides under your shirt at the small of your back, thumb stroking slow circles against bare skin. He hasn’t stopped touching you since the meeting. Like if he lets go, the clock will speed up.
Later, after the chicken is gone and Felix has cried twice and Lee Know has threatened to adopt you legally, everyone starts drifting. Chan hugs you so hard your ribs creak and whispers, “We’ll visit. I already checked flight prices.” Seungmin leaves a tiny cactus on your counter with a Post-it that says “Don’t kill it. Or yourself.” Hyunjin kisses both your cheeks and tells you he’s painting you into his next piece.
Then it’s just the four of you left: you, Changbin, Ria, and Jeongin.
Ria yawns into Jeongin’s shoulder. He looks at you, eyes big and pleading.
“Can she… stay?” he asks. “Just one more night. I’ll sleep on the couch. I swear.”
You glance at Changbin. He nods once, soft.
“Go,” you tell them.
They disappear into your spare room giggling like teenagers. The door clicks shut.
Changbin turns the lock on your bedroom door with deliberate slowness.
The second it’s closed, the air changes.
He backs you up against it, hands framing your face, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to memorize every freckle.
“Seventy-two hours,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not wasting a single one.”
He kisses you like the world is ending, deep, desperate, a little angry at the universe. Clothes come off in a messy trail to the bed. When he finally pushes inside you, you both make the same broken sound.
He keeps the pace torturously gentle at first, forehead pressed to yours, whispering “I love you” between every thrust like he’s scared you’ll forget. Then you dig your nails into his back and beg him to go harder, and the gentleness snaps.
He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark, deep, relentless, one hand over your mouth because you’re loud when you’re this emotional. You come twice before he finally lets himself go, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name like a prayer.
After, he doesn’t pull out right away. Just holds you there, still connected, breathing hard against your skin.
“We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers. “Six months is nothing compared to the rest of our lives.”
You cry a little. He kisses the tears away.
The next day is worse. You spend it at the practice room because it’s the only place that still feels like home. Everyone shows up even though they don’t have to. They run through choreo just so you can watch from your usual stool in the corner. Changbin keeps glancing over at you like he’s checking you’re still there.
Jeongin pulls you aside during a water break.
“I told Beomgyu to take care of you,” he says quietly. “Or I’ll fly out and fight him.”
You ruffle his hair. “You’re not allowed to fight anyone.”
“Watch me.”
Ria hugs you so tight you can’t breathe. “Text me every day. Even if it’s just a fox emoji.”
You promise.
That night Changbin takes you to the same Italian place in Seoul he found after the first music show. Same corner table. Same pasta. Different everything.
He slides a small velvet box across the table. Your heart stops.
“It’s not a ring,” he says quickly, ears red. “Not yet. But… open it.”
Inside is a thin silver chain with a tiny eyeliner brush charm and a little fox. The fox has a heart on its tail.
“So you remember who you belong to,” he says softly. “Even when you’re doing someone else’s liner.”
You put it on with shaking hands. He leans across the table and kisses you right there in the restaurant, slow and sweet and full of every unsaid thing.
The last morning is the hardest. You wake up tangled in him, his arm heavy across your waist, face buried in your neck. The alarm is set for the airport. Neither of you moves to turn it off.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “Come back to me.”
“I will,” you promise. “Always.”
He drives you to the airport himself. The others wait in the parking garage because they know you’ll cry if they all show up at departures.
At the gate he kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to, deep, desperate, hands cupping your face. When he pulls back his eyes are wet.
“Go be amazing,” he says. “And then come home and be mine again.”
You nod, throat too tight to speak.
Then you walk through security with your kit on your shoulder and his necklace warm against your collarbone.
Seventy-two hours are gone. The tour is waiting.
The first thing you notice about TXT’s dressing room is the smell.
It’s… different. Not bad, just not yours. Less hairspray and banana milk, more expensive cologne and the faint sweetness of Soobin’s favorite peach drink. The mirrors are bigger. The lights are brighter. The chairs feel wrong.
You set your kit down anyway.
Soobin is the first to greet you, bowing so politely you almost laugh. “Noona, thank you for coming. We heard you’re the best.”
Yeonjun winks from the next chair. “We also heard you’re taken. Tragic.”
Beomgyu appears out of nowhere, slinging an arm around your shoulders like you’ve known each other for years. “Jeongin already threatened me by text. Said if I flirt with you he’ll post that one baby picture where I’m crying.”
You snort. “Good. Keep that energy.”
Taehyun just nods at you calmly. “I like the way you did Changbin-hyung’s liner on the last tour. Sharp but soft. Can you do that for me?”
Huening Kai bounces over with a plushie. “Noona! Do you like penguins? I brought one for emotional support.”
You’re laughing before you even start working. They’re loud and sweet and chaotic in a completely different way than your boys. It’s… nice.
But it’s not home.
The first show is in Seoul. You do their makeup in the same building where you used to do SKZ’s. The muscle memory is dangerous, you almost reach for Changbin’s favorite foundation shade before catching yourself.
Beomgyu notices. “You okay, noona?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… new routine.”
He gives you a knowing look but doesn’t push.
On stage they kill it. You watch from the side, heart swelling with professional pride even as it aches with something else. When they come off, sweaty and buzzing, they all swarm you for touch-ups like ducklings.
Yeonjun leans in while you fix his highlight. “Changbin-hyung is live right now, you know. He’s watching.”
Your hand stills. Later, in the hotel, you call him.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, baby,” he says, voice soft. “You did so good tonight. I saw the fancams. Your liner on Beomgyu looked insane.”
You curl up on the hotel bed, phone pressed to your ear. “I almost used your shade on him by accident.”
He laughs, low and warm. “He’d probably cry if he knew.”
You talk for two hours. About nothing. About everything. Felix keeps asking when you’re coming back. When you finally hang up, the room feels too quiet.
The second show is in Osaka. The third in Tokyo. By day five you have their skin types memorized. By day seven you’re already texting Changbin at 2 a.m. because you can’t sleep without hearing his voice.
TXT notices you’re a little quieter than they expected. Soobin leaves a peach drink on your station every morning. Huening Kai draws you little penguin doodles on sticky notes. Yeonjun starts calling you “noona-in-law” just to make you laugh.
Beomgyu pulls you aside after a night show.
“Jeongin told me you’re struggling,” he says gently. “If you ever need to talk… or if you want me to fly him out here to visit… I can make it happen.”
You blink back tears. “You’d do that?”
He shrugs, smiling. “He’s my friend. And you’re making us look good. Least I can do.”
That night you cry on the phone with Changbin for twenty minutes straight.
“I miss you so much it hurts,” you whisper.
“I know, baby,” he says. His voice is thick. “Me too. But you’re doing amazing. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”
You fall asleep with the phone still on the call, his breathing steady on the other end.
The first week ends in Nagoya.
You’re packing your kit when your phone lights up with a new group chat notification.
SKZ + Mira + Ria
Jeongin: [picture of him and Ria holding hands in front of a convenience store]
Jeongin: She says hi
Felix: We miss you noonaaaaaa
Changbin: [selfie of him in your old makeup chair at the practice room, wearing your favorite hoodie]
Changbin: Come home soon. The chair’s empty without you.
You smile through the tears and type back.
Mira: Tell the chair I’ll be back before it forgets me. And tell my boyfriend I love him.
The replies flood in instantly.
You close your kit, necklace warm against your skin, and step out into the Japanese night.
You’re still theirs.
And they’re still yours.
Osaka, night three. The dressing room is loud, Yeonjun practicing his English rap in the mirror, Huening Kai humming off-key while he scrolls TikTok, Soobin quietly stress-eating ramyeon. You’re exhausted, jet-lagged, and still tasting the salt from last night’s 2 a.m. call with Changbin where you cried because the hotel pillow didn’t smell like him.
Beomgyu drops into your chair last, like always. He’s the only one who waits until everyone else is done, claiming he “likes the quiet at the end.”
You pick up your favorite blending brush without thinking. “Same as yesterday?”
“Same as yesterday,” he confirms, tilting his head back automatically. Then he grins up at you, that mischievous fox smile that somehow reminds you of Jeongin and also absolutely does not. “But make the wing sharper today. I want to look dangerous.”
You snort. “You want to look like you could fight Changbin and win.”
He gasps, dramatic. “Noona! I would never. I respect my hyung.” His voice drops, playful. “Mostly. Sometimes. Especially when he’s not stealing the prettiest makeup artist on the planet.”
You flick his forehead lightly, ignoring the tiny flutter in your stomach. “Sit still or I’ll make it crooked on purpose.”
He obeys, but his mouth keeps moving. “You know, Jeongin texted me again this morning. Said if I make you cry he’s flying out here just to punch me in the stomach.”
You laugh despite yourself, the first real one all day. “He’s dramatic.”
“He’s in love with your little sister and terrified you’ll hate him forever if I mess up,” Beomgyu says, eyes closed while you work the shadow into his crease. “Same thing.”
Your hands pause for half a second. “You talk to him every day?”
“Every day,” he confirms. “He sends me updates like I’m his personal spy. ‘Is noona okay? Did she eat? Does she miss us?’ I told him you ate three onigiri yesterday and he sent me a fox emoji with heart eyes.”
You feel something warm and painful bloom behind your ribs. “He’s ridiculous.”
“He’s basically your kid brother,” Beomgyu says softly. Then his voice lightens again, teasing. “And honestly? I get it. If I had someone like you doing my makeup every night, I’d be texting my friends daily updates too. ‘She made me look hot again. Send help.’”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Flattery won’t get you extra shimmer, Beomgyu.”
“Worth a try,” he murmurs, and when you glance down, his eyes are open now, watching you with that soft, curious look that makes your cheeks feel a little warm.
From that night on, something shifts.
Beomgyu becomes your last client every single show. The others notice. Yeonjun starts calling it “Beomgyu’s special treatment hour.” Taehyun teases that you save the best brushes for him. Huening Kai asks if he can get “the girlfriend treatment” too, and Beomgyu throws a cushion at his head while shooting you a wink.
You don’t correct them. Because somewhere in the middle of late-night touch-ups and 3 a.m. bus rides, Beomgyu turns into the person who makes the new normal feel… survivable.
He sits in your chair in Nagoya and tells you about the time he and Jeongin tried to sneak out of a joint schedule and got caught by both managers. You tell him about the night Changbin brought you banana milk on the SKZ bus and accidentally confessed he liked you while half-asleep.
He listens like it matters. Then he leans in a little closer while you’re doing his liner and says, voice low and playful, “Changbin-hyung is a lucky guy. If I had someone who remembered my favorite banana milk order and made my eyes look this sharp… I’d never let her leave the country.”
You tap his chin to tilt his head. “Behave.”
“I am behaving,” he says innocently. “I’m just saying the truth. You’re kind of impossible not to notice, noona.”
You laugh it off, cheeks warm, but the compliment lingers in a harmless, fluttery way. He never pushes. Never makes it weird. Just… sprinkles in these little lines that make you feel seen on days when the distance from Changbin feels like a bruise.
In Seoul again for a special stage, he brings you a tiny keychain of a fox wearing eyeliner. “For the noona who makes us all look dangerous,” he says, clipping it to your kit bag before you can protest. His fingers brush yours a second longer than necessary. “And maybe so you think of me sometimes when you’re doing someone else’s makeup.”
You text Changbin a picture of it at 2 a.m. your time, along with the truth.
[Beomgyu got me this. He’s… actually really sweet. In a chaotic little brother way. He also flirts a tiny bit but it’s harmless. Miss you more.]
Changbin replies with a selfie of himself pouting in the practice room mirror, wearing your favorite hoodie.
[He better keep it harmless or I’m flying out there with the whole group. But I’m glad you have someone who makes you laugh. Tell him if he steals too many of your smiles I’m coming for his eyeliner privileges.]
You fall asleep smiling for the first time in a week.
By the end of week three, Beomgyu is officially your favorite in TXT to do makeup on.
Not because he’s the prettiest but because he makes the chair feel like yours again. He lets you ramble about SKZ inside jokes. He asks real questions about how you met Changbin, about Ria, about whether you’re sleeping enough. And yeah, he flirts. Just enough to make the long nights lighter.
One night in Taipei, after a show that ran long and left everyone drained, he’s the only one left in the room. You’re packing up when he leans against the counter, arms crossed.
“You okay, noona?” he asks quietly. “You’ve been quiet all day.”
You hesitate, then admit, “Changbin had a rough recording session. He sounded tired. I hate that I can’t be there to fix his dark circles in person.”
Beomgyu nods like he understands perfectly. Then he steps closer, voice soft and teasing. “If I were him, I’d be counting down the days until I could steal you back. But until then…” He reaches out and gently tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “You’ve got me. And I’m pretty good at making you smile, right?”
Your breath catches for half a second. He pulls his hand back immediately, grin turning sheepish. “Too much?”
You shake your head, laughing. “Just enough.”
He grins, bright and genuine. “Good. Because I like making you smile. Even if it’s only until Changbin-hyung comes to claim you again.”
Later that night you call Changbin and tell him everything, how Beomgyu is loud and annoying and exactly the kind of friend you needed right now, and yeah, he flirts a little, but it’s the harmless kind that just makes the days easier.
Changbin is quiet for a second, then says, voice warm with that familiar possessive edge, “Good. I’m glad you have him. Just… tell him if he steals too many of your smiles I’m coming for his eyeliner privileges. And remind him you’re still mine.”
You grin into the phone. “I’ll pass the message.”
Beomgyu never crosses the line. He just borrows a little space in your days, enough to make the ache feel smaller, until the tour starts to feel less like exile and more like another chapter.
And every time you finish his makeup, sharp liner, perfect wing, that signature dangerous sparkle, you feel a little less lost.
Because even thousands of miles away, you still have your people.
One of them just happens to be a chaotic fox who’s quickly becoming your favorite person to paint dangerous on stage… and who knows exactly how to make a tired noona smile.
Taipei, week five. The show ended two hours ago, but the adrenaline still hums under your skin like static. You’re in your hotel room, solo suite for once, a rare mercy from the tour coordinator, sprawled on the bed in oversized sweats, hair still half-damp from the shower. The TV is on low, some random variety show no one’s really watching.
Beomgyu and Soobin are here because they knocked on your door twenty minutes ago with food, controllers, and the promise of “noona needs to relax.” You didn’t have the energy to say no.
Now the three of you are cross-legged on the carpet, Switch controllers in hand, screaming at Mario Kart like it’s life or death.
“Cheater!” Beomgyu yells as Soobin’s Bowser drifts perfectly around the final corner and crosses the line first. “You blue-shelled me on purpose!”
Soobin just smiles that gentle, unbothered smile. “Skill issue.”
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, leaning sideways into Beomgyu’s shoulder for balance. He doesn’t move away. Just nudges you back with his elbow, eyes bright.
“You’re supposed to be on my team, noona,” he whines, dramatic as ever. “Betrayed by my favorite makeup artist. Again.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m Switzerland. Neutral. Also, you threw a banana peel at me two laps ago.”
“Strategic,” he says, winking. “I wanted to see if you’d still look pretty when you’re mad.”
Soobin snorts into his ramyeon. “Smooth.”
You’re about to fire back when there’s a sharp knock at the door. All three of you freeze.
You glance at the clock, 11:47 p.m. Staff usually texts first. Room service doesn’t knock that aggressively.
Beomgyu’s already on his feet, protective mode kicking in. “Stay here,” he says, like he’s about to fight someone.
You stand anyway, tugging your hoodie down. “It’s fine. Probably just housekeeping.”
Another knock. Firmer.
Changbin is standing there in a black hoodie pulled low, mask tugged under his chin, eyes tired and bright and so fucking familiar it hurts. Behind him, half-hidden but unmistakable, Jeongin, wearing a bucket hat that’s doing nothing to disguise him, grinning like he just won the lottery.
You make a sound that’s half sob, half scream, and launch yourself at Changbin before the door’s even fully open.
He catches you mid-air, arms locking around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing. His face buries in your neck, breathing you in like he’s been starving for it.
“Surprise,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper. “Couldn’t wait another month.”
You’re crying already, hot, messy tears soaking into his hoodie. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”
Jeongin pushes past both of you, slamming the door shut behind him. “Noona! We made it! And I didn’t even get caught at the airport!”
You pull back just enough to look at Changbin’s face, dark circles worse than usual, but his dimples are showing, eyes shining. He cups your cheeks, thumbs wiping your tears.
“Four days,” he says. “We’ve got four whole days before I have to go back. No schedules. No cameras. Just us.”
You kiss him then, hard, desperate, right there in front of everyone. He kisses back like he’s been dreaming about it for weeks, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
A dramatic cough from behind you. You break apart, breathless.
Beomgyu and Soobin are standing frozen in the middle of the room, controllers still in hand, ramyeon forgotten.
Beomgyu’s mouth is open. Soobin’s eyes are wide, but he’s smiling that soft, knowing smile.
Jeongin waves cheerfully. “Hey! Thanks for taking care of noona. Also, I brought snacks from Korea.”
Changbin finally sets you down but keeps an arm around your waist, possessive and unapologetic. He looks at Beomgyu, sizing him up for half a second, then breaks into a grin.
“Thanks for the fox keychain,” he says dryly. “And for keeping her smiling.”
Beomgyu recovers fast, bowing dramatically. “Anytime, hyung. I was just warming up the chair for you.”
Soobin stands, offering a polite bow. “We’ll… give you the room?”
“No,” you say quickly, wiping your face. “Stay. Please. It’s fine.”
Changbin raises a brow at you. You shrug.
“They’re my friends now,” you say simply. “And Jeongin already looks like he’s about to explode if he doesn’t get to hug me.”
Jeongin doesn’t wait for permission, he barrels forward and wraps you in a bone-crushing hug. “I missed you so much,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “Ria says hi. She made me promise to take pictures.”
You laugh wetly. “Tell her I love her.”
The room turns chaotic in the best way.
Beomgyu immediately challenges Changbin to Mario Kart. “Hyung, if you beat me, I’ll stop flirting with your girlfriend. Deal?”
Changbin snorts, dropping onto the carpet and grabbing a controller. “Deal. But I’m winning anyway.”
Jeongin plops down beside you on the bed, stealing your phone to FaceTime Ria. “Look who I found!”
Ria’s face appears on screen, screaming, then crying, then demanding Jeongin turn the camera so she can see you and Changbin together.
You end up tucked against Changbin’s side on the floor, his arm around your shoulders, watching him destroy Beomgyu in three straight races. Every time Changbin wins, Beomgyu throws himself backward dramatically, yelling “Noona, he’s cheating with love power!”
You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
At some point Beomgyu leans over, stage-whispering to you while Changbin’s distracted trash-talking Jeongin.
“He’s even cooler in person,” he says, genuine. “You’re lucky.”
You look at Changbin, sweaty from laughing, eyes bright, hand never leaving yours, and feel something settle deep in your chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “I really am.”
Later, after Soobin and Beomgyu finally leave with promises to “guard the door like knights” and Changbin locks the bedroom door.
He turns to you, all the teasing gone, just raw want and relief in his eyes.
“Four days,” he says again, stepping close. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
You pull him down onto the bed.
“Good,” you breathe against his mouth. “Because I’m not letting you go either.”
He kisses you slow this time, deep, claiming, like he’s rewriting every lonely night into this one moment. Clothes come off slower than usual. Hands linger. Whispers turn into gasps.
When he finally slides inside you, it’s homecoming in every thrust, slow, deep.He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, murmuring “I missed you” and “you’re mine” between every breath. You cling to him like he might vanish, nails in his back, legs wrapped tight.
“Beomgyu’s not bad,” he admits quietly. “He kept you safe. Made you laugh. I owe him.”
You kiss his collarbone. “He’s a good friend. But he’s not you.”
Changbin’s arms tighten. “Never will be.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled, warm, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.
Four days isn’t forever. But right now, with Changbin here and Jeongin snoring softly in the next room, it feels like enough.
The tour still has months left.
But tonight, you’re not alone anymore. And that makes all the difference.
Synopsis: Y/N and Felix were best friends. Practically inseparable, until he was recruited to train as an idol in Korea. Distance and Life pulled them apart, until tragedy struck. Felix reentered her life when she needed it the most, but will he be able to help her heal after being dealt such an unfair hand?
This fanfiction contains explicit adult content, including themes of breeding kink, daddy kink, and consensual rough sex. It is intended for mature audiences only (18+). All characters are depicted as consenting adults. This is a work of fiction and does not represent real events.
۶ৎ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:
In this fanfic, Felix experiences intense baby fever after watching his wife, Y/N, interact with a baby during a fan meet. Overwhelmed by his desire to start a family, his breeding and daddy kinks take over, leading to a passionate, possessive night where he claims her as his perfect little wife.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The fan meet was buzzing with energy, the kind that always left Felix exhilarated but exhausted. Stray Kids had just wrapped up their latest comeback promotions, and today was a special event for STAYs, complete with games, autographs, and plenty of heartwarming interactions. Felix, with his signature freckles and bright smile, was in his element, waving at fans and posing for selfies. But his eyes kept drifting to you, his wife of two years, who was standing off to the side, helping out with the staff as she often did.
You weren’t officially part of the team, but as Felix’s partner, you’d become a familiar face behind the scenes. Today, though, something unexpected happened. One of the fans, a young mother, had brought her infant daughter along, a tiny bundle of joy wrapped in a pink blanket, cooing softly amid the chaos. The fan had asked if someone could hold the baby for a moment while she got her photo with the group, and without hesitation, you volunteered.
Felix watched from the stage as you cradled the baby in your arms, your face lighting up with a soft, genuine smile. The little girl reached up with chubby fingers, grabbing at your hair, and you laughed, a sound that hit Felix right in the chest. You bounced her gently, whispering nonsense words to keep her calm, and in that moment, Felix felt something shift inside him. It was like a switch flipped. You’d always talked about kids someday, but seeing you like this, nurturing, patient, so naturally maternal, ignited a fire he hadn’t expected.
Baby fever. That’s what it was. Pure, unfiltered baby fever. His mind raced with images: you swollen with his child, your body changing because of him, the two of you building a family. He wanted it. Needed it. And as the meet wrapped up, he couldn’t shake the possessiveness bubbling up. You were his perfect little wife, and tonight, he was going to show you just how badly he wanted to put a baby in you.
By the time you both got back to your shared apartment in Seoul, the sun had dipped low, casting a warm glow through the windows. Felix was unusually quiet in the car, his hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles that sent subtle shivers up your spine. You glanced at him, curious.
“Everything okay, Lix?” you asked, using the nickname that always made him smile.
He turned to you, his deep brown eyes darker than usual, filled with an intensity that made your stomach flutter. “Yeah, angel. Just… thinking about today.”
You nodded, assuming he meant the fans or the performance. But as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Felix was on you. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as he backed you toward the living room couch. His lips crashed into yours, hungry, demanding, like he couldn’t wait another second.
“Felix—” you gasped between kisses, your fingers tangling in his soft, blond hair. He tasted like the mint gum he’d been chewing, and his body heat enveloped you completely.
“You were so good with that baby today,” he murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough. His teeth grazed your skin, nipping lightly. “Holding her, smiling like that… Fuck, Y/N, it drove me crazy.”
You blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. “The baby? At the meet?”
He nodded, his hands sliding under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin. “Yeah. Seeing you like that… it made me want one. Our own. Right now.”
Your heart skipped. You and Felix had discussed kids before, someday, when the timing was right. But the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only thing in his world, made heat pool low in your belly. “Lix, are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” he growled, lifting your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes raked over your body, appreciative and possessive. “You’re my wife. My perfect little wife. And I want to fill you up, make you mine in every way. Put a baby in you.”
The words sent a thrill through you. Felix had always been sweet, playful in bed, but this… this was different. Primal. His breeding kink, something you’d explored lightly before, was in full force now. And mixed with his daddy kink? You knew you were in for it.
He pushed you down onto the couch, hovering over you as he stripped off his own shirt, revealing the lean muscles from years of dancing and performing. His freckles stood out against his flushed skin, and you reached up to trace them, but he caught your wrist, pinning it above your head.
“Not yet, babygirl,” he said, his Australian accent thickening with lust. “Daddy’s in charge tonight.”
The word “daddy” slipped from his lips so naturally, and it made you whimper. You nodded, surrendering to him completely. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girl.” He rewarded you with a deep kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth as his free hand unclasped your bra. He broke away to trail kisses down your chest, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make you arch off the couch.
“Felix—Daddy, please,” you moaned, your hands itching to touch him.
He released your wrist but shook his head. “Hands to yourself until I say so. I want you to feel everything.”
His mouth continued its assault, alternating between your breasts, leaving them sensitive and aching. Then he moved lower, hooking his fingers into your pants and pulling them down along with your panties. You were exposed to him now, and the cool air made you shiver—but not as much as the way he stared at your core, like he was starving.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his fingers parting your folds gently. “So wet already. All for me? For Daddy?”
“Yes,” you breathed, hips bucking instinctively.
He pressed a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “Gonna stretch you out first. Make sure you’re ready for me. Because tonight, I’m not pulling out. I’m gonna breed you, fill you up until you’re dripping with my cum.”
The dirty talk was new, intense, and it had you clenching around his finger. He added a second, pumping them in and out while his thumb circled your clit. You were a mess already, moans spilling from your lips, but Felix wasn’t done teasing.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his eyes locked on yours. “Tell Daddy you want his baby.”
“I want it,” you gasped, the words tumbling out. “I want your baby, Daddy. Please, breed me.”
That seemed to snap something in him. He withdrew his fingers, making you whine at the loss, but then he was shedding his pants, his hard length springing free. Felix was always impressive, thick, veined, with a slight curve that hit all the right places. But tonight, he looked even more commanding as he stroked himself, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He positioned himself between your legs, rubbing the head against your entrance. “You’re mine, Y/N. My wife. And I’m gonna make you a mommy.”
With that, he thrust in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You cried out, nails digging into the couch cushions as he stretched you perfectly. He gave you a moment to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned. “So tight, so perfect for me.”
Then he started moving, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every inch of him. But as the pleasure built, his pace quickened, turning rougher, more insistent. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he pounded into you.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted, sweat glistening on his skin. “Gonna breed this pretty pussy until you’re pregnant. You want that, babygirl? Want Daddy’s cum deep inside?”
“Yes, Daddy! Please, give it to me,” you begged, your own climax building fast.
He shifted angles, hitting deeper, and you shattered around him, walls pulsing as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. But Felix didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release, his thrusts erratic now.
“Take it,” he growled, and with a final, deep thrust, he came, hot ropes of cum spilling inside you, just like he promised. He stayed buried deep, plugging you up as if to ensure nothing escaped.
For a moment, you both just lay there, panting, his body covering yours protectively. He kissed your forehead, then your lips, softer now.
“I love you,” he whispered. “And I meant it. I want this with you.”
You smiled, cupping his face. “I love you too, Lix. Let’s make it happen.”
But the night wasn’t over. Felix’s baby fever was far from quenched. After a brief respite, where he fetched you water and cuddled you close, he was hard again, his hands roaming your body possessively.
“Round two?” he asked with a smirk, but his eyes were serious.
You nodded, eager. This time, he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you were on all fours. “Gonna take you like this. Breed you properly.”
He slid back in easily, your combined arousal making it slick and messy. The new angle let him go even deeper, and you moaned into the pillows as he set a punishing rhythm.
“Daddy’s gonna make sure,” he said between thrusts. “Gonna cum in you again and again until it takes.”
His words, combined with the slap of skin on skin, had you climbing toward another orgasm. One hand reached around to rub your clit, the other spanking your ass lightly, enough to sting, enough to heighten everything.
“Come for me, wife,” he commanded. “Milk Daddy’s cock.”
You did, screaming his name as you clenched around him. Felix followed soon after, spilling inside you once more, his groans echoing in the room.
By the third round, you were both exhausted but insatiable. He had you in his lap now, facing him on the bed, riding him slowly as he whispered praises. “Such a good girl. Taking it all for me. Gonna look so beautiful pregnant.”
His hands caressed your belly, imagining it round with his child. The thought spurred him on, and when he came this time, he held you down, ensuring every drop stayed inside.
Finally, as dawn crept in, you collapsed together, tangled in sheets. Felix pulled you close, his hand resting protectively over your stomach.
“Someday soon,” he murmured sleepily.
You kissed him. “Someday soon.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you knew this was just the beginning.
short syn. trapped in a devastating fire, you’re rescued by firefighter Seo Changbin, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something more—either way, neither of you is walking away from this unshaken.
wc. 20.7k (IKR IM SO PROUD OF MESELF)
cw. angst, character self-doubt and insecurities, life-threatening situations, high-tension moments of danger, intense physical strain, medical procedures, emotional vulnerability, minor injuries sustained during the fire, hospital checkup, unresolved issues, fluff, sweet and tender care, silly banter and emotional conversations, and I think that’s all, folks!
[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]
You blink a couple of times, as you stare down at the table in front of you. It was… a weird sentence. One that after hearing it —even if it doesn’t mean to— leaves a soap-like aftertaste in one’s mouth.
“I overstepped, didn’t I?”
Your eyes drift back at your friend’s, and suddenly, it’s as if the noise coming from the room next door pops back into play, the rest of the friend group already back on track. as if someone noticed they pressed pause by accident, and then mindlessly started back up and kept on going.
You’re not sitting in front of the table anymore. You’re in the kitchen, and your friend meets your eyes with what seems to be genuine emotion.
She’s trying to apologize.
Quick things aren’t scarce in life, and one of them has to be how your smile reaches your face before your friend gets to frown worriedly. She does eventually, before you start speaking.
“No, like, I get it.” You sigh gently, turning to face her and comfortably leaning back on the counter behind you, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re all a bit worried for me, it’s fine.” You wait until the nervousness leaves your friend and she lets her shoulders relax. Only then, you continue. “But really, it’s not like that. it’s just…”
“Complicated.”
Your friend repeats the same word you mentioned when the topic first struck. You pay attention to the tone she uses, and you too relax, because she’s taking this seriously.
“Yeah. I… I’m sorry…”
Your hand reaches her shoulder, and that’s as far as the conversation goes.
However, when you get to your car and let your head fall limp against the steering wheel, less than half an hour later, it’s almost as if you don’t believe it yourself. As if complicated was nothing more than a mere excuse.
If someone had told you back when you were in high school that you would end up within the same troubles as a grown up, you would’ve frowned —curse, even—, but it still remains true. Just like stages of some kind of game —a boring one, perhaps, but a game nonetheless. A game that with each world, one encounters the same obstacles.
It’s not like you have anything against anyone in particular. These people you were with were your group of friends— but are they your friends, though.
As if it wasn’t self-deprecating enough, you buckle your seatbelt and leave your friend’s home early, like always. With no one wondering about it. Like always.
Surely, exclusion comes off too strong a word for it. Besides, they probably didn’t know about it —except for today, of course, because someone noticed, and you’re sure the others did too—, but there’s little to no use in lying to yourself, which you have done before.
You lied to yourself when you started feeling insecure because your group of friends started liking and dating and doing all sorts of things— just not with you. You lied to yourself when you noticed that most things within the group you were unaware of. You hadn’t known about the issues prior to a big fallout before high school ended. No, you lied to yourself and shrugged it off, because even with two people less in the group, five people were a number high enough. Good enough. Then, you lied to yourself when you started dating in your first year in college, something that ended just as fast as it had started. Something that didn’t quite feel… right.
But you refuse to lie to yourself now, when all of your friends are starting to get married. It’s ridiculous because you can’t really do anything about it. Marriageable men don’t show up on your doorstep, and even if they did, considering the ten-story apartment you lived in —located on the cheaper side of the city—, they were probably busy being already married to your other neighbours.
You can’t even recall exactly why it was that your friend had made that specific comment. She hadn’t started the conversation, someone else had, going on and on about how her soon-to-be-husband and her were really excited for their wedding, that would happen sometime in june, because —as she repeated on, and on, and on…— the weather in june is not too warm yet and it still feels nice, but she wants a wedding in summer, not in autumn. You couldn’t help but get a bit tired of the topic, while cheers and giggles continued all over the room, as she was met with understanding hums and comments about how they too wanted a wedding in the summer, because they couldn’t be bothered to prepare in case it rained…
And then it hit you. Unrestrained, unprepared, and unwarranted. The tone, teasing, as if it was just some sort of joke. The sentence, weirdly prickly. Like some sort of cactus that stings your tongue as you force yourself to swallow it, feeling it as it passes down your throat.
Your name first, followed by, “Don’t you ever get worried that you’ll be the last one left? Or are you having too much fun being single?”
You scoff as you park, and you jingle your keys in your hand as you walk to your doorstep. Marriage. What was marriage even for? Originally, marriage made sense when the main purpose was the exchange of assets. A wealthy lady meets a wealthy man, they marry, and they stay wealthy. A not-so-wealthy man meets a wealthy lady, they marry, and problem solved.
“Maybe I should marry rich,” you mumble absentmindedly as you go up the floors inside the now-empty elevator, and you shrug when you reach your floor, opening your door.
And as you kick your shoes off by the entrance, leave your keys in the nail that sticks out the wall because of the painting you removed, and discard your clothes to the chair, you can’t help but feel a bit tired.
You can’t really place it. Like some nagging feeling in the back of your head. Not quite fuck-i-forgot-something, but rather one that sinks in your chest.
You close the window before heading to bed, and whatever it is that you last think of before falling asleep, it is not related to marrying rich.
[.]
Fire.
It’s the first thing that comes to your mind once you wake up, smoke all over your room, as one does.
Now, we’ll keep the sarcasm because it’s funny, but still, words happen to scatter away at the thought of the fire, because, how to describe a fire except from scary, far too hot, and… scary again? Well, no one can blame you for that, so, this author thinks we should leave it to someone who has a little more experience with the flamy subject.
Changbin wakes up that Tuesday with no thoughts in his head. Maybe it’s because he wakes up really early, but when I say no thoughts, I mean it. Completely blank. Nothing. Zero. Nada. He doesn’t quite remember how he mentioned that to his buddy and coworker either, but he remembers how Chan laughed.
“Blank?” Chan chuckles, opening another medical kit to check if everything was in order or whether he’d need to restock it, as he sips from his too-dark-for-normal-humans coffee.
To which Changbin shrugs, a downturned smile on his face. He doesn’t mind Chan laughing. He likes it, if he is honest. Refilling oxygen tanks alone with his blank, empty mind on a chilly Tuesday at around 5:30 am isn’t exactly how he had expected he’d go about his day. He’d rather listen to kangaroo giggles and smell burnt coffee in the air.
“As white as… I don’t know. Snow?”
“Wow,” Chan does exactly what he’s there for, and he giggles, refilling the Band-Aids in bag number 4. “I can’t believe you’re not some sort of poet. What a simile, dude.”
Had the firetruck been closer, Changbin would’ve dosed that stupid Australian with the hose. He says that out loud, which only makes Chan giggle even more.
“I’ll beat you up with this oxygen tank,” Seo threatens with a cheeky smile.
“What’s that thing Hyune called you back in the bar last night?” Chan asks out loud, but his eyes widen as his smile gets bigger, figuring it out himself, “Ah, yeah! Omega male!” He laughs—no, cackles, his eyes like slits as he throws his head back. “Only omega males do that.”
Maybe Changbin should throw the oxygen tank to his flatmate, Hyunjin.
“I’m so not an omega male,” Changbin starts. “In fact, Hyunjin’s an omega. Because I say so.”
Chan’s laugh ends with that weird sigh that people sometimes do after they laugh. Like a sigh, but with sound, and he scratches his eye, smiling funnily.
And surely you wouldn’t expect a conversation like this between two firemen. The best of the best in the city, as it stands. But hey, omega males can do anything. Even be firemen.
“Shut up,” Changbin side-eyes at Chan, who can’t help but snort. “Let’s change the subject. Was it your turn to make lunch for today, or was it mine?
But as if someone had heard that —won’t say god, because it’d be quite dark to think that god starts all fires, and it’s far too early for that— and decided that talking about lunch wasn’t a good enough change of subject, the alarm shatters the little silence that remains in between different sentences.
Changbin’s body falls right into alert mode with a quick flinch. Not because he’s scared —which does happen, don’t get me wrong—, but because of the sharp, blaring tone that now echoes through the station, followed by the dispatcher’s voice crackling over the intercom:
“Engine 3, Engine 5, Engine 7, Engine 9—Ladder 2, Ladder 5—Battalion 1, Battalion 2—respond to a structure fire at 143 City Street. Ten-story residential building, fire reported on the second floor, spreading upwards. Multiple occupants trapped. Time out: 5:26.”
The shift is instant, almost as fast as how a video moves in two times speed, but even with the urgency, it still comes out routine-like. Everything moves fast: how he closes the oxygen tanks and loads up the trucks —the engines available in the station—, how the whole station chaotically wakes up, sleepiness forgotten.
Chairs are scraped back, half-eaten meals are abandoned. Boots thud against the floor as the firefighters bolt for the gear racks, moving on muscle memory.
Changbin steps into his boots—one, two—yanking the heavy turnout pants up over his waist. His coat followed, the Velcro and buckles snapping shut as his brain caught up to the adrenaline now pounding in his chest. Huh. Maybe a snow-blank brain can actually be helpful for something. The Nomex hood was next—over his head, down his neck.
Someone shouted the address again, and he’s glad he’s not the one who drives today, because he can’t think of the fastest route to get there.
Helmet on. Gloves stuffed into his coat pocket for now. He settles the oxygen tank’s straps over his shoulders, the familiar weight pressing into his back. His hands work fast—clipping his radio to his coat, checking his mask, securing everything.
By the time he climbs into the truck, sirens already wailing, his blank mind starts buzzing alive. Four engines, two ladders, and two battalions? His palm itches, and he’s glad he hasn’t put his gloves on yet, scratching it subconsciously.
Four trucks solely to extinguish the fire —engines manage the hoses and water supply—, and two ladders —self-explanatory enough, thanks— together don’t sound good.
His mind turns from white to smoky grey, as the two trucks from his station leave barely three minutes after the alert.
[.]
Fires in real life look quite similar to those in movies, only this time, the fire is real.
There are no make-up artists waiting at the entrance of some fake building when the firetrucks pull over the closest to what used to be your classic, everyday building in the middle of a busy city. That's a real building— a shell of what it used to be, covered in ash, thick black smoke on top, and fire that roars through some broken windows. Changbin's heart beats to the rhythm of glass windows shattering due to the amount of heat that takes hold of the structure.
Other fire teams are already there, and his team swiftly joins them, as he and Chan rush towards the building, following the rules of their Incident Commander.
"Team 3!" the Commander lets out loudly as soon as they jump out of the fire engine. "You three, with the attack team. You —that’s him and Chan who he points at—, join the search team. Get inside, now!"
Protocol isn't something Changbin needs to revise before an emergency. After all this time, it rushes through his veins like the adrenaline he so desperately needs right now.
Steps one and two are done, because the other engines have already assessed the situation —bad, very bad, terrible in fact, or so it seems to him— and located different sources of water throughout the neighbourhood. And so, step three follows. Search and rescue.
And, vulnerably so, with his mouth dry and his pulse beating in his ears, he enters the inferno of a building in front of him.
There are no colours except the dull yellow of his suit and the darkened tone his helmet glasses settle over his eyes, as the orange tone of fire seeps and destroys everything in its way.
"What were the quick assessment results?" Changbin hears Chan on the helmet's headphones.
"Four victims reported on different floors, seen through the windows." He recognizes the voice of one of the members of Team 6, Yeonjun. "Commander said we should check for victims on the higher floors. The fire spread really fast."
It's tense, it's fast, and it's heavy, everything happening like a buzz behind his eyes as Changbin and the rest of the firefighters sprint up the stairs.
Doors and windows, broken. Changbin doesn't know the name of the person he's searching with, as the teams separate into different pairs to search.
"Floor six is hellfire!" Team 4 member Jeongin lets out, and Changbin sweats as he hears his erratic breathing through the headset in his helmet. "I need backup, stat!"
"There's someone here!" his neck almost hurts when he turns to watch his pair partner exit the apartment's main room with a young man in his arms.
"Unconscious?" Changbin watches the fireman nod, and he nods, too. He lets out a heavy breath as quickly as he moves to activate the microphone on his shoulder. "Is floor five handled?"
"Floor five is clean now!" Team 4 Hongjoong replies in less than a beat. "Me and Taehyun have our hands full!"
Changbin's eyes roam over his partner's suit until he finds his name tag. "Jongho will join you downstairs. Join the attack team after leaving the victims outside. Jeongin, status?"
His last question is said as he rushes upstairs. He crosses the ventilation team, breaking windows. Everything that happens around him feels nothing more than madness, as he feels the fresh air on the back of his neck.
Whatever he thought floor six could be, he underestimated it. Smoke—thick, dark, and suffocating—billows out, rolling down the side of the building like a heavy fog, threatening to climb even higher. Still, inside, the air is unbearable. The heat doesn’t just sting—it crushes. It moves like a living thing, clawing at oxygen, making it harder and harder to breathe were it not for their oxygen tanks. The ceiling groans under the strain of the fire eating through wooden beams and drywall. The wallpaper has curled back into ash.
The floor is a danger zone. Flames creep along corridors, swallowing door frames. Sprinklers either don’t work or sputter uselessly, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the blaze. Every time a door is forced open, the sudden rush of air feeds the fire, making it roar louder, hotter.
It’s a nightmare. The heat distorts his vision even through his face mask, and the smoke reduces visibility to almost nothing. His radio crackles with reports of the attack team several floors down, about how the fire is spreading—crawling into the walls, threatening the floors above. It’s a race against time—if the fire breaches the stairwell or weakens the floor too much, the structure might give. And we all know what that could mean.
More members dash in, but they all halt by Seo’s side.
"Jeongin, status?" he asks again.
He hears the sound the suit makes when one of the members by his side moves and calls for what he hasn’t done yet—or maybe he doesn’t quite dare—as the fire burns and creates havoc in front of his eyes, and dares to trespass and ruin his insides too. He hears what he hasn’t done yet, and someone calls for the rapid intervention team. A team whose sole mission is to rescue firefighters in trouble.
"RIT team, stand by —firefighter unaccounted for."
“RIT team ready, waiting for further instructions.”
Speedy as always.
Seo’s heart stops in his chest, and Chan joins him, patting his shoulder. "Bin, we should let the RIT get in with the attack te-"
"I'm okay!" Jeongin unknowingly interrupts Chan, coughing out panted words through the mic. "Floor six is a fucking nightmare, but it’s clear!"
And Changbin's ears stop making his world spin. He takes a big breath, thanking science for his oxygen mask as Jeongin comes out of the fire and another fireman —Chan, maybe, from what Changbin’s lost, weary eyes could decipher— hugs him tightly.
Downstairs, downstairs, downstairs. His breathing is all over the place, the weight of his gear pressing down on his shoulders, the oppressive heat seeping through his suit like a second skin, and he’s grateful for all the times he’s done cardio this full month, thankful he does exercise on a regular basis, and he thanks deities he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t fall down the stairs. The five people he is with all need to get the fuck out and join the attack team or ventilation team, depending on the Commander’s orders.
Until, as if someone had summoned him, his voice roars in his helmet.
“Search team, report status.”
Chan’s hand is faster than his in getting to his microphone and replying. “We’re heading down, sir.”
“Sir, we have an issue.”
Changbin frowns. He doesn’t recognize that deep, low voice, and he’s been working with the same people for years. He may be bad with names, but not with voices. And it seems his ears stand corrected, for he hears distinctly the Commander’s voice again.
“Who else is using this line?”
“Sir, it’s a man from the medical unit.” He recognizes Wooyoung’s voice, member of Team 4 and one of his old training partners.
That isn’t good. This is out of the usual protocol.
“What the fuck is he doing in my voice channel?”
There’s a slight gasp of hesitation as the low, unknown voice speaks again.
“I’m using the microphone on this man’s jacket because I have a hyperventilating patient who claims that there’s someone still in the building.”
And that is the moment Changbin’s heart sinks. There is no rain outside —that would have been too good for how the situation is now— but he feels as if a storm is settled right over them. Not with the clarity and hope it would usually mean for a fireman, but with the dread that a bolt of lightning has struck, and another fire is on its way.
“What?” He doesn’t know which of the firemen he’s with said that, but they all stop in their tracks, slowing down in the hall on the third floor.
“What?” The Commander repeats the question, unaware he has done so. “Search team, the floors were all clear, yes?”
“Affirmative, Commander,” Yeonjun replies, uneasy as he stands next to Seo. “Firefighter Yang Jeongin was the last one to need to check floor six.”
Changbin’s arms rest impatiently on his sides, the heat radiating through his suit, sweat pooling at the small of his back despite the heavy protective layers, as the situation unfolds. He grows restless as the wood in the building creaks, burns, and churns, his body sweaty and his suit covered in deep, dark ash. He looks at Chan, only to find his own reflection in the fireman’s glasses.
“Who does she say is missing?”
“A young woman in her late twenties. Lives on the seventh floor.” He hears the low voice groan softly in what seems like tense annoyance. “The patient is refusing care until that woman is taken care of.”
It’s then and there when Changbin’s soul threatens to leave his body. It’s… It’s practically a death sentence. If the sixth floor was that bad, the seventh floor…
“Commander, there’s… there’s no way that woman is still alive.”
Changbin can almost hear the gears on the Commander's head tick and clack as the man thinks, and as silence claims the chat for itself. Like glissandos in a violin piece, it all falls in one solid, stoic slide of a hand.
“Changbin.”
Seo hasn’t even realized his body has moved toward the stairs again, the heat gingerly intensifying with each step closer, a blistering yet somehow teasing reminder of what awaits him above. As if the fire is tempting him to go upstairs. Threatening him with the life of a woman he does not know.
His feet stand before the first step. “Chan, I-”
“No.” Ye-ouch. “We all need to leave.” He states lowly. Clearly, too, if it weren't for the slight tremor in his low voice. “Now.”
“Commander.” Seo turns his head to his microphone. “It’s Seo Changbin. Permission to head upstairs.”
Changbin can’t see how Chris’ piercing stare threatens to kill him before he heads up, and he, on his own, risks killing himself.
The Commander, however, doesn’t hesitate to tell him.
“Permission?” The Commander’s voice crackles through the line with incredulity, a rare pause stretching too long. There’s a beat of silence—just long enough for the weight of the question to settle. It almost weakens him. Almost. “You want permission to barbecue yourself, Changbin?”
He doesn’t turn around, but Jeongin does, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing the shorter man to look at him, Jeongin’s visor off, allowing Changbin to see the buzzing tension behind the young man’s eyes, right under his deep frown. Seo doesn’t allow himself to accept and truly feel how the fireman’s grasp makes burning shivers travel through his whole body. He’s a proud coward, because accepting how scared he is nearly threatens to make him sob.
“What are you-?” A question that Jeongin fails to end, his voice shattering just as Changbin reaches for his microphone again.
“Commander.”
It isn’t a question. Maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t want to ask again, in fear of feeling glad to be rejected.
“Goddamnit.” Someone murmurs, as the six of them all pace around in the third floor’s hall.
“You can’t be serious, Bin.” Chan’s voice is low. “That floor is suicide. The woman could already be dead.”
“And if she isn’t?” Changbin states in a fierce, stoic tone, determination being one of the sole things that makes him able to hold himself straight. “Commander, orders.”
“I can’t fucking think.”
The Commander lets out a sharp sigh. His hesitation only adds to the gravity of what Seo is truly asking, as the six firemen stand motionless while the building gives in to the roars of fire. Until, finally, he lets out the six words that could have damned his sleep for long.
“Officially, you have my absolute denial.”
And it could have ended there, with a quick snap of the commander's sharp-edged tongue. Until he sighs, and quieter, almost like he’s spitting out the words, he mutters.
“But damn me if I know you’re gonna do it anyway, so make it worth the fucking risk. Understood, firefighter Seo?”
“Bin.” Chris’ hand is faster than Changbin’s affirmative response to the Commander. “If you so much as hesitate, you turn the hell back.”
The words slam into him harder than the heat pressing against his suit. For a brief, flickering moment, something cold trickles down his spine—not from the sweat pooling at the base of his neck but from the weight of what Chris is saying. Hesitate. Like the word itself could tether him to the ground, hold him back from running headfirst into flames. He clenches his jaw.
There’s no room for hesitation. There can’t be.
Hesitation is not and will never be part of protocol.
“Chan-”
“It’s an order as your team’s captain.”
Both of their faces turn solemn. The air between them feels heavier than the smoke outside.
“Yes, captain.”
At 5:44, the firemen and engines arrived.
At 5:54, the search and rescue team were in the third floor’s hall, already exiting the building to let the attack unit manage.
It’s at 5:56 that firefighter Seo Changbin runs straight toward what could be his final rescue.
[.]
His body moves on instinct, muscle memory propelling him forward even as the heat gnaws at his suit. The building groans, an eerie symphony of burning wood and collapsing metal, and Changbin doesn’t think—he can’t think—because if he does, he might stop. He might hesitate. And there’s no room for that now.
He keeps going up the stairs. Up, up, up. If he stops before the seventh floor, he fears his legs might give out. And his knees do buckle once he realizes the state in which the stairs are now.
The heat meets him like a wall as he keeps on going up the stairwell, each breath through his oxygen mask feeling thinner, shallower, like the air itself is fighting back. The roar of the flames above isn’t just a sound—it’s a presence, a living thing that crackles and howls, angry and impatient. Every step is a countdown, every second a reminder that he’s racing not just against the fire, but against death itself.
His weight threatens to damage the stairs further. The crackle of flames overpowers the chatter and loudness that takes hold of the voice chat the attack team uses, coordinating with the ventilation unit to attempt to control the fire in the floors below him.
He coughs, not because of the smoke, but because his breathing is erratic now, and he has to find a way to calm it before his oxygen tank betrays him and leaves him stranded.
Changbin jumps and keeps running. He does not care if the stairs have just fallen beneath his feet. He does not care if he has to duck and roll before the ceiling crushes him. He keeps running until he finally reaches the seventh floor.
It’s then and there that the view before him threatens to change his beliefs. He wouldn’t describe himself as a religious man, but as the scene unveils right before his very own eyes—a place of “black darkness” where “weeping and gnashing of teeth” is all that will be heard, and what awaits before him can only seem “a lake that burns with fire and sulfur,” Changbin isn’t sure if it had been God or himself that had damned him, but as he curses and rushes in, he swears the feeling may compare with that of entering the thresholds of Hell.
The apartment on the seventh floor is a blur of grey. Smoke bleeds from door frames, and the air is so hot it feels solid—like breathing through wet fabric. Seo keeps his right hand against the wall, moving fast but steady.
“Fire department!” he shouts through his mask. “Call out if you can hear me!”
But he himself can’t hear anything. There’s a loud beeping noise in his ears that buzzes with his every move, fueled by the adrenaline that keeps him moving. He swears, biting his lip. He needs to stop thinking he’s going to die buried by scraps of burnt wood.
“Firefighter Seo, the structure is weakening faster that we can control it.” His dizzy mind can’t tell if that’s the Commander speaking or someone else. “Get the hell out!”
He looks back. As if to punish him, the door he has just broken down falls and collapses into the flames nearby. He ignores protocol and trusts his gut. He faces forward again. The conditions are the same, if not worse. The stairs could fall. The ceiling could cave. He doesn’t stop.
“Fire department! Call out if you can hear me!”
He doesn’t know why he’s not walking towards the exit, but his legs move him against the only safe wall he can find, and he gasps as he leans against it for a millisecond.
It’s as if then, the beeping noise in his ears goes away. He can faintly hear the Commander swearing, but he lowers the volume of his headphones, the flames sounding even more, until he hears it again.
A faint cough. Then another.
He pushes forward, boots heavy against the heat-buckled floor.
“Fire department!” He screams, louder than what his throat can manage before feeling sore.
He moves around, trying to find a way toward that room in the apartment, to no avail. The floor had collapsed close to the door, close to the sole entrance.
“Firefighter Seo. Commander, I’ve found her.”
“Jesus Christ on a motorcycle, Changbin, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
He doesn’t know how, but Seo finds the energy to chuckle.
“Window on the east side, facing the street,” he pants into the mic, his head popping out the window and looking below. “I’m going to need a ladder rescue.”
“Mate, I can’t get you a ladder to the seventh floor,” Chan answers speedily.
“Get one.”
His tone is matter-of-fact, and Changbin doesn’t care if there are no engines with tall enough ladders, nor does he hear Chan anymore as he breathes in slowly before breaking the window and turning toward the coughs he had heard.
You know that feeling you get sometimes when you’re standing on a high place? Sudden urge to jump? Changbin swallows as he steps on the broken windowsill.
He doesn’t have it.
His body screams at him—not to move, not to step, not to breathe. Every instinct drilled into him from years of training begs him to stay put, to retreat, to survive. The human part of him, the part that understands fire as a predator and not an opponent, wants to back away.
But the part of him that’s a firefighter—the part that moves without permission, without fear—pushes forward.
He doesn’t have the urge to jump. He has the urge to save.
Changbin grips the jagged edge of the broken windowsill, the glass biting through his gloves, but he doesn’t flinch. His pulse is a relentless drumbeat in his ears, louder than the fire raging behind him. The other window —the one leading to the room where the woman is trapped— feels both impossibly far and dangerously close, a cruel tease of safety.
He knows the floor won’t hold for long. His body screams at him to back away, to anchor himself somewhere solid, but there’s no time to think—only move.
Without a second thought, he plants one foot on the frame, his heel slipping slightly against the blackened wood. The drop yawns beneath him like an open jaw, but his focus tunnels to the window ahead. His legs coil, muscles burning, and then—
He jumps.
The air feels thick and unforgiving, a second too long stretching between him and the next ledge. His fingers slam against the other windowsill. The impact rattles his bones, but he grips tight, white-knuckled, and hauls himself up. His knee scrapes against the frame, the fire’s glow licking at his back, and all at once, he’s there.
He’s on the windowsill.
“Firefighter Seo, just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
He doesn’t answer just yet, because he isn’t dull enough to let his hands off the top part of the window. No, instead, he breathes in, breathes out, grabs the brick-like edge over his head, and pushes himself forward, breaking the window with hard kicks.
He’s in.
His head snaps toward the sound, and he sees it. A shape, moving shakily behind a thin curtain of smoke.
Finally.
You’re huddling by the door, one hand pressing against it as if trying to push the air outside closer. Your other arm clutches your chest—struggling to breathe, coughing so hard it doubles you over.
“W-what?” you mumble weakly, drowsily turning to the big silhouette that stands over you. “How did you-”
“My name is Changbin, I’m with the fire department,” he says, his voice soft as he kneels beside you, moving you from the smoke that creeps from under the door. “I’m gonna get you out.”
But you don’t move. You don’t think you can, even if your arm attempts to reach for him. Your wild, tear-streaked eyes aren’t focused on his uniform or his words—they dart past him, back to the now broken window.
“No—no, it’s too hot—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I can’t—We can’t go out there—and I certainly can’t jump out the—the window—”
He slowly passes his arm behind your back, careful not to spook you. “Listen to me," his voice is low, a honey-like kind of soft that threatens to lull close your tired, weary eyes. "We can’t stay here. We need to move—now.”
You shake your head, panic pinning you to the spot. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—I—”
Changbin’s heart slams. If you froze up, if you refused to move—this can turn deadly very fast. Too fast, if what he wants is to get out and brag about his jump to Chan.
He crouches a little further, keeping his voice calm even though the fire is growling below them.
“I know it’s hard—" his hand reaches for his mask, unclipping a spare oxygen mask from his gear—"but you need to trust me, okay, gorgeous? Put this on.”
Your hands tremble so badly you can’t grab the mask, so he does it for you—gently but quickly pulling the straps over your head.
You suck in a sharp, filtered breath—and something cracks outside. The broken window? No—a floor beam, groaning under the weight of the fire.
The sound is like a gunshot, and Changbin’s spine stiffens as you flinch, stumbling forward—and clinging to him.
Your fingers fist the front of his turnout coat—clutching so tightly it almost knocks him off balance, and your hands don’t stop yet, surrounding his neck and hugging him tightly as you sob.
The weight of you against him—the human desperation in your grip—hits him like a blow to the chest. But there’s no time to feel it.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not without you.” Changbin’s voice is steady, but his mind is already calculating: the stairs might be gone. The fire is moving fast. He can feel the heat pushing up from below—this floor isn’t safe.
While his left hand keeps you steady, the other grabs his radio.
“Commander, we need a ladder rescue, stat.”
The windows. That’s your only shot now.
Your breathing is still ragged even through the mask, and you are still clinging to him like a lifeline—but he would be out of his mind to think about pushing you away. Not after what he’s gone through to get to you.
He’s not letting you go.
“We’re getting out of here,” Changbin smiles, his hand firm on your shoulder. “Hold onto me, okay?” He takes one of his gloves off, his palm sweaty and his touch cold in contrast to your face, red from crying and dirty with soot.
Seo coos at you as he wipes off soot and tears from your cheek. “Can you stand up?”
He watches you hold back tears and softly shake your head. “I… I tripped when I woke up… I don’t know if I can—”
Licking his lips, he doesn’t wait for you to finish your response. “Hold onto my neck, gorgeous,” he says, letting out a soft sigh before carrying you in his arms. His muscles scream—not from your weight, but from the gear, the heat, and the unrelenting pressure burning through his nerves like a second fire.
Moving now the both of you, Changbin looks out the window—no ladder in sight. He clicks his mic. “Commander, I really need a ladder at the fifth or sixth floor—somewhere I can actually reach.”
A crackle, then the Commander’s gruff voice. “We’re working on it. How about you get your asses somewhere safer, huh?”
His mind works quickly, scanning for another path—an adjoining room, a hallway that hasn’t collapsed. Anything to get you closer to a floor the ladder can reach.
And all the while, the fire creeps closer, threatening the four walls and door that protect you two.
The heat gnaws at his back, at his neck, at the seams of his suit. His ears ring—not from the fire, but from the thundering beat of his own heart. There’s a fine line between panic and focus, and Changbin knows if he slips into the wrong side of that line, you’re both done for.
There’s so much he can risk, and he will not risk your life. Not when it’s in his hands. Quite literally, in fact.
A broken window too far to reach is the shittiest escape he can fathom, so he forces himself to think. Think, Changbin, think. He moves and, with his free hand, punches the wall in front of him, and he lets out a grin. It’s drywall—a thin drywall, already blistered from the heat. His jaw tightens, but he can’t help but let out a chortle.
He can break it. Sure, he can.
He must.
“Hold on tight,” he mutters, although unsure if it's more to himself or you. Shifting your weight carefully, he presses your face into his shoulder to shield you from the smoke, dust, and scraps of drywall that will come out, then grabs the halligan bar strapped to his side.
With a sharp, determined breath, he swings.
The drywall cracks, a jagged hole splitting through the center. Another hit, and the gap widens. He’s not thinking—just moving, muscle memory guiding every strike. His shoulder slams into the weakened wall, breaking through in a cloud of dust and soot.
“Almost there,” he breathes, feeling your arms clawing at him in weakened strength.
He kicks pieces of drywall, and he sighs, stroking your head with his ungloved hand as he passes to the now-open room.
“It’s okay, gorgeous. I need you to breathe slowly for me, okay?” He looks at your face, and although your eyes are red and teary from the smoke and from crying, you press your lips together in a thin line, trying to control your breathing. The sight shoots hope straight to his heart. “You’re doing great.”
The next room is just as bad—scorched walls, a half-collapsed ceiling—but through the haze, he spots it: the emergency stairwell, right through the window, barely hanging onto its hinges. Fucked up is certainly a way to describe the full view. The stairs are damaged, warped by heat, parts of the railing missing. It’s a death trap—but it’s your only shot.
“Commander,” Changbin says into his mic, voice steady despite the chaos, “we’re heading for the emergency stairs, north side. Let me know when that ladder’s ready.”
“Changbin—” It’s the Commander’s voice, sharp and urgent. “Ladder’s set at the fifth floor. You need to move.” He’s pretty sure the Commander sighs. “You’re out of your goddamn mind, Changbin.”
“Copy that.”
He tightens his grip on you. “We’re gonna take it slow, alright?” he says softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I need you to hold onto me like your life depends on it.”
Because it does. But he’d rather not say that out loud, judging by how your eyes —wide, tense, scared— water once more. Now, taking that you’re alive, breathing next to his chest, he’d take crying over dying any day, but his mom taught him better than to make pretty girls cry.
He sits on the windowsill and rests his boots on the metal surface. It creaks below him, and you shriek, tightening your grip on him. He shushes you quickly, while he steps onto the narrow platform, his boots skimming over the metal that shudders beneath his weight. It creaks again, an awful, high-pitched sound—like the building itself is warning him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he smiles. “At the count of three, we’re heading downstairs, okay?” He states toward you tenderly, smiling widely when he watches you nod.
He notices you shivering, and he nibbles on his lower lip. And while a reasonable part of his head screams curses at him with a voice that resembles that of the Commander —or maybe Chans’?— he lets the other part of him win —not sure which, if his heart or his brain, but still.
“Hang on.”
He shifts his grip on you, careful not to unsteady you both as he sits on the windowsill and he sits you on his lap, unzipping his jacket with one hand. It’s a clumsy, rushed motion, but he still manages to slip it off and drape it over your shoulders. He grins sheepishly. His heart also grins, proudly so when you, too, grin as he helps you pull your arms through the sleeves, and you chuckle, tugging the zipper up as high as it’ll go.
“Better?” he grins, heart thumping louder than the creaking metal beneath his feet.
You blink at him—then smile. Small, gingerly weak, but real.
And that’s enough for him.
He stretches his shoulders and holds you again, his arms traveling behind your nape and your knees. The moment his boots shift further onto the emergency stairs, the metal groans again—louder this time. A sickening crack splits the air, echoing up the side of the building. The platform dips an inch.
You gasp, clinging tighter to Changbin’s neck, your breathing sharp and panicked against his shoulder.
“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, though his own heart is hammering against his ribs. He just hopes you can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to make you nervous —not more than you are. “We’re okay. I’ve got you.”
But the stairs don’t feel okay. They feel like they’re hanging on by a thread. Seo knows they are.
He grips you tighter, arms firmer beneath your knees and your nape, and locks his gaze through the bars, on the surface below—the fifth floor, a safer floor, where the engine ladder will meet them. He sees the engine moving, the ladder turning towards them, just a few meters lower.
“See that, gorgeous?” He says with as much cheer as he can muster up. “We’re getting out. Just a bit more.”
Every step is a gamble, the heat from the floors below curling upward like a living thing, licking at the metal. Changbin moves slowly—one boot, then the next—testing the strength of the platform with every shift of his weight.
Another screech. Another shudder beneath his feet.
“Firefighter Seo,” the Commander calls through the headset. “Fuck that. Changbin, don’t run—” the Commander’s voice crackles in his ear.
He sighs, pondering, but his mind is back to its snow-white state. He’s aware he can’t move carefully—there’s no time for careful.
“Okay.” He’s running out of words, and the building is running out of time. “Okay. One… Two…”
He has to make this quickly.
“...three.”
And Changbin, taking a leap of faith, runs.
There’s a garbled response that comes from his headset right after he starts moving—static, probably a curse—but Changbin isn’t listening, not when the sounds next to him—the stairs and the loud scream you let out—overpower the Commander’s voice. He can’t care. Secretly, he doesn’t. His focus is on the next landing. The fifth floor. The place where the ladder settles is close now—so close—but the stairs beneath him tremble like a dying animal.
Each rushed step sends a pulse of movement through the brittle structure, the stairs groaning under the strain, but they stay intact—just enough to keep going. His breaths are sharp, controlled. His legs move on instinct. The world shrinks to the next step, the next landing—his grip on you and the echo of the Commander’s voice crackling in his ear.
He’s on the fifth floor in the blink of an eye. A firefighter waits at the top rung of the ladder, hands outstretched. “Changbin!” That voice.
It’s Chan. Chan is here. Oh, thank God.
The stairs keep letting out sickening screeches behind him. Changbin doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.
“Hold tight,” he breathes, and then—he steps onto the ladder.
It wobbles beneath their combined weight, but Chris grabs Changbin’s arm, steadying him as he transfers you carefully into the other man’s waiting hands.
“Got it!” Chan shouts, his grip firm as he pulls you in.
And then—for the first time since entering the building’s seventh floor—Changbin stops.
He leans heavily on the fence-like structure at the top of the ladder, his mask slipping off with a rough tug. His chest heaves, each breath jagged as if the air itself is too thick to fully inhale. It’s not just the smoke or the heat—it’s the adrenaline, the sudden crash of it, roaring through him like a second fire. His muscles, once taut with instinct and urgency, now feel like they’ve turned to water. His fingers twitch against the ladder’s metal frame, and for a brief, dizzying second, his mind struggles to catch up with his body.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
And then he exhales—long, shaky, almost like he’s forcing the flames inside him to burn out.
His head turns, and he sees Chan setting you onto the ladder’s surface.
Chan’s okay. He’s okay.
He sees you nod to Chan, but he ignores what you two are talking about, watching you as you zip up his jacket on further and you stuff your hands into its pockets.
You’re okay.
[.]
He knows he physically couldn’t, but had he had the ability, Changbin is pretty sure his ears would have perked up at the pained gasp you let out when you try to walk off the engine’s ladder by yourself.
Chan is already gone, because the job isn’t done yet and he’s needed elsewhere as team 3’s captain, so Changbin approaches you, his hand stopping you from moving any further as he gently settles it on your shoulder.
“Wait, I’ll get down first and help you,” he solves with a charming smile, and easily hops off the engine, his calves screaming at him for such nonsense considering what he has already put each and every of his muscles through in the past hour or so.
He turns and looks up to face you, and in the quietness of his mind —ignoring the screams and barks from the Commander on his helmet’s headset— he giggles a bit when he sees how you look. He didn’t call you gorgeous out of the blue —for the lack of a name, sure, but it still matches the subject at hand. You do look pretty. Pretty covered in soot, and pretty tiny as you wear his gigantic turnout coat.
Pretty, nonetheless.
In your eyes there’s still leftover fear and tension, but you let his warm ones help as his now ungloved hands hold you by your waist to get you off the engine.
Still, Changbin doesn’t put you down. Instead, he maneuvers you without letting your feet touch the ground, holding you with his arms behind your nape and knees again as he takes you to the closest ambulance.
“Is that her?”
Changbin recognizes the low voice from minutes ago —even if it feels like ages— that had used Wooyoung’s microphone to warn them of your absence. He turns, and he’s met with a blond guy with freckles. His brain tells him that his low voice doesn’t match his face, but he shrugs off the thought.
“Yeah.” Changbin lets out as he puts you down, and you sit on the edge of the ambulance. Two paramedics rush closer, hand him his jacket back as they cover you with a blanket, and he just… stays there. He knows what he should do, so he isn’t really aware if he’s waiting for something to happen.
He should go back to his team. Join whatever unit the Commander tells him after what most likely will be a heated, well-deserved worded beat-up. He kind of kicked protocol in the shin, so he gets it.
Nevertheless, he doesn’t move. His eyes stay glued to you as the low-voice blond approaches you.
“Hi, my name is Felix,” the blond smiles, but you don’t, coughing instead. You would smile, but you don’t have it in you just yet.
Changbin sighs as he watches the blond start protocol. He should follow it too, so he lets out a low sigh and moves to leave the ambulance as paramedics start hovering over you, voices sharp but steady, oxygen mask back and snug against your face. A blood pressure cuff wraps around your arm, the beeping of the heart monitor a steady pulse in the chaos. And he just stands outside the open doors, his boots still covered in soot, his turnout coat hanging from his arm after a paramedic returns it to him. Like his body is here, but his mind is still back in that burning building.
His chest heaves with every breath, but now it’s not just from the smoke. It’s from the way you're looking at him.
Dazed. Scared. Still clinging to him in ways he didn’t expect nor fully understand.
“We’re taking her to the hospital,” one of the paramedics says, voice firm but not unkind. “She inhaled a lot of smoke.”
Changbin nods, even if he isn’t sure if the paramedic is talking to him or to his team.
He should step back. Let them do their job, at least.
He’s done this before. This is the part where he leaves.
But then—
“Wait—”
Your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper behind the oxygen mask, but it’s enough. Your hand, still trembling, shoots out and catches his wrist.
“Don’t go,” you rasp, your fingers curling around the grimy fabric of his coat. “Please, just— stay?”
It’s a small, broken plea, but it slices through him sharper than any scream or flame he has ever encountered during his career.
He blinks, his throat working around words he can’t quite form. The paramedics exchange a glance, but neither of them tells him to move away.
“Hey,” Changbin says softly, his free hand resting over yours, swallowing the tremor in your fingers. “You’re safe now. These guys are solid, trust,” he attempts to joke.
Your grip doesn’t loosen.
For a second, just a second, the world goes quiet. No sirens. No smoke. Just the weight of your hand on his, your trembling gaze holding his. And though he knows he can’t stay, a part of him —the part that still feels the heat on his back and the way your heartbeat pounded against his chest— doesn't want to leave either.
And that’s… new.
“Alright, alright,” he breathes, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles, while the other cleans a bit of soot on your forehead, moving your hair out of your face. “I’m right here, gorgeous.”
To say the ambulance ride passes in the blink of an eye would be true, but only to you, because you pass out the moment the vehicle starts.
Thinking back now, the only memories that appear are the fleeting thought regarding the intense white light that doesn't favour anyone, and the distinct memory of a young man smiling at you before your eyes drifted. A paramedic, perchance. You can’t be too sure. You remember thinking he was cute.
When you blink your eyes open, the first thing you notice is the smell, antiseptic and faintly floral, the sharp sting of alcohol wipes mixing with the artificial sweetness of whatever cleaner they use on hospital floors. It’s sterile, cold, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth in the room, maybe because of the thin blanket draped over you, you breathe in slowly, noticing the lingering scent of smoke still clings to your skin.
But what you’re sure also contributes to the warmth in the room is the second thing that you notice.
The weight on your lap.
It’s late. Well, not late late, because judging by how the sun attempts to peek through the blinds, it’s probably barely past dinner. Lunch, if you’re lucky. Still, the soft glow of the bedside lamp is the main source of light, which ends up casting some very interesting long shadows across the white walls. The muted beep of the heart monitor hums in the background, a steady rhythm, as if reminding you you’re still here. Still alive.
You blink slowly, your head heavy, but when you shift —or at least try to— there’s resistance. And that’s when you notice him.
Changbin, right?
Guess the handsome young man in the ambulance hadn’t been a paramedic after all.
He’s slumped over at the side of the hospital bed, head resting on his folded arms —and on you. His temple presses against your thigh, his body curled awkwardly in the small space that the hospital stool allows him, his turnout jacket draped over the chair on the corner he clearly gave up on using. He isn’t wearing his firefighter clothes anymore though, instead wearing a no-sleeves shirt and glasses, crooked on his face as he lets out shy snores.
Asleep.
For a long moment, you allow yourself to just stare.
His brows are slightly furrowed even in sleep, like some part of him is still braced for disaster. His hand, rough and calloused—one of the hands that had saved you—, lies close to yours, as if he had fallen asleep holding it and only let go when unconsciousness took over. His hair is a mess, dark, curly strands falling into his face, and there’s a faint streak of soot he must’ve missed when wiping himself clean.
It’s only then when the realization somehow clicks in your head: he is human. A human —a handsome human— who saved your life. Dared to almost sacrifice his own just for that. Heck, you can’t even believe he had jumped from the windowsill and then broken a wall, but now you’re forced to believe that the huge, caring guy that has carried you through a fire and two floors below is the same man whose head is curled up in your lap?
Your chest aches, but it’s not from the smoke. You fail to hold back a smile as your heart happily prances around.
It’s a true fear that suddenly strikes when you think that if you get too flustered, the machine you’re plugged into might speed up and wake him. Because of that, your heart can’t help but giggle, nodding at what your brain starts to ponder.
You want to move, to touch him, to speak —all at the same time, and a sneaky part of your heart wants to add in a kiss to his cheek too—, but you’re scared the moment will shatter like glass.
Still, it isn’t a deliberate motion when your fingers move and settle his glasses right. You don’t even know when you pieced that thought out.
“Changbin…” your voice is soft, hoarse from hours of smoke inhalation. It doesn’t seem yours, the low sound of your voice unfamiliar.
He doesn’t stir, but you don’t mind. Your heart high-fives your brain to that, in fact. A part of you prefers it that way. You can’t be too sure you would have known what to say. “Thanks for not letting me die?” Ew, you shake your head sideways softly, smiling like an idiot. You swallow, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and something warm flickers inside you.
He… stayed.
Even after you made it out of the fire, even after the ambulance ride, he stayed. And now, he’s here, asleep at your side, like keeping watch over you was the only thing that made sense after everything.
Your fingers twitch, hesitating for a moment until then, carefully, you lift your bandaged hand and brush a strand of hair away from his face.
He shifts, murmuring something under his breath.
Your lips tremble into a soft smile.
“Thank you,” you mouth, not risking speaking just in case he wakes up, and to take care of your throat.
And for a moment, it feels like the fire or the smoke never touched you at all.
But then, the soft thud of steps sends a jolt through you.
Your heart stumbles in panic, instinct even, and before you think about it, your eyes flutter shut. You steady your breathing, slow and measured, feigning the steady rhythm of sleep, hoping the beeping machine collaborates just this once.
The footsteps are quiet, purposeful. They’re heading here. The door creaks open.
“Bin.”
It’s a whisper, but you recognize the voice in a pulse. Chan. The other firefighter.
There’s a rustle of fabric, followed by a quiet sigh —maybe a groan, honestly—, and you can almost picture the way Changbin must be running a hand through his hair right now, stretching his back because of the uncomfortable position he has been resting in for a while.
His voice drifts in from the doorway, the faint creak of the hinge a quiet reminder that the door remains half-open, as if Chan’s unsure whether to step inside or let Changbin be.
Silence. Chris sighs, leaning against the doorframe.
“She’s stable, mate. I just talked to the doc. Said she just needs rest now.”
The words linger in the room, gentle but firm, in that classical Chan tone that at least makes Changbin chuckle out a smile. You hold back a gasp when the calloused touch of his hand holds yours, and he starts fidgeting with your fingers, almost absentmindedly. It’s not the same as how Chan’s words echo, but still similar in meaning. Chris' words remain in the room and surround Seo, like a hand meant to guide him back to reality —back to the part where his job is done. Where he can leave.
Another pause.
Changbin’s voice follows, rough with exhaustion but steady as ever.
“I know.”
It’s a muffled response, and you can only venture and guess why, not daring to crack your eyes open and interrupt them, in fear of what would happen and secretly hoping Changbin’s warm hand doesn’t leave yours for a bit longer, but his voice and diction make it seem like his other hand holds his face up, his palm resting on his chin.
His words carry a weight that the silence can’t quite swallow, not a protest, but something like a quiet refusal to move.
There’s another beat of silence, and it’s somehow heavier this time. Not empty, but full, swollen with something unspoken, something clawing at the edges of the quiet.
Until Changbin finally voices what’s been eating him alive, his words slow and rough, like they hurt coming out.
“But the nurse said she doesn’t have any emergency contacts,” he mutters. “Something about her file or something—I don’t know. I don’t care.” His voice dips lower, hoarser. “But what that means is that no one’s coming for her.”
The words hang there, sharp and aching.
“No one… no one knows what happened to her. Or if anything happened at all.”
There’s a break in his voice, subtle but there, a quiet grief for someone he barely knows, for someone who asked him to stay because there was no one else.
Your heart clenches so hard it almost hurts, and you pray the machine besides you doesn’t rat out the sudden motion.
Chan’s voice drops lower, almost cautious. He’s never seen Changbin like this after an alert. Not ever, if he thinks about it hard enough.
“So you stayed.”
It isn’t a question. It doesn’t remotely sound like one, but nevertheless, Changbin shifts. You hear the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor, the rustle of the bed sheets as he readjusts his weight. His hand doesn’t leave yours, and his voice sounds as if he was talking to you.
He doesn’t turn to Chan to answer the no-question. “She… she asked me to.”
The words hang there, simple but heavy. And yet, there’s a quiet edge to his voice, not defensive. Like a man standing his ground over something that doesn’t need explanation. Like leaving was never even a choice.
You can hear his shoe and his leg move restlessly.
“She didn’t want me to go,” he says softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “And I promised I would stay.”
Chan doesn’t respond right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, more careful. “Bin… you don’t have to take this all on yourself.”
A long sigh escapes Changbin. “I know.”
It’s not defensive, just tired.
Another rustle of fabric, and a few soft steps, and you feel a presence closer. Chan pats him on the shoulder, a silent gesture of support. “Alright,” Chan says at last, his voice calm but firm. “But don’t burn yourself out,” he jokes.
Changbin chuckles softly, though it lacks humor. “Sure, mister insomnia.”
A quiet snort from Chan. “Yeah, yeah.” A pause. “Want some?”
You don’t see the exchange, but you now can hear the faint sound of someone eating.
“Chan,” Changbin says after Chris heads back towards the door. Seo licks his lips, a hand over his mouth, food inside. “You can leave. It’s okay.” It’s like his sentence is meant to end there, but then he grimaces. “Bitch, you gave me a burger with pineapple?”
There’s a faint chuckle.
“I’ll check in later.”
The door clicks shut, and the room is silent again.
You don’t dare open your eyes yet, not when your heart is thudding against your ribs, not when the weight of his words still hangs in the air.
He stayed. Because you asked him to.
Because you have no one else.
And even though your eyes are closed, you can feel it, the way his presence anchors the room, the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing as he eats whatever leftovers Chan gave him.
For a moment, there’s only stillness, like when it’s really late at night and the only sound in the house is made by the fridge’s engine.
Then, a small sound, the faint scrape of a chair leg being nudged back. You hear the quiet shuffle of his shoes, and the gentle creak of the furniture as it is moved, accompanied by the soft grunts the firefighter lets out.
You dare to open your eyes, but not fully, and it’s at the view that your heart threatens to swoon.
Changbin’s making himself a bed on the sofa.
You close your eyes when he turns around, and he’s close again. So close you can smell the faint traces of smoke still clinging to his clothes, the clean bite of hospital antiseptic mixing with something undeniably him, a warm, steady scent.
A rough sigh escapes him —almost a whisper—, and you feel the shift of his hand as he carefully brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His touch is soft, barely there, but it sends a ripple through you.
“Still asleep, huh?” he murmurs, although he can't be sure if it’s more to himself or to you. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but the tenderness in it makes your chest ache again. Your heart reels in happiness, starting to roam around your insides, looking for a ring.
His voice is low, almost careful, like he's afraid anything louder might break something fragile. Afraid the reality of sound breaks the illusion that his heart screams as his hand can't seem to leave yours. As if your touch is one of the sole things that keeps him there, hooked to your side searching for time to answer the questions in his head, because why is his chest so tense? Why does he want to stay until you wake up and help you leave the hospital in one piece? What makes you so different that he can’t bear the thought of leaving?
There's a weight to his words, not from familiarity, but from everything you’ve both been through tonight, the smoke, the fear, the fact that for a moment, neither of you were sure you’d make it out at all.
He doesn’t move away. Not yet. His heart tells him to kiss your wrist to feel your pulse, his brain asks him if he’s looking for a mental asylum, because he’s definitely going crazy. His fingers linger at his side, and his breathing is just a bit slower now, like he's still steadying himself.
For a fleeting second, you wonder if this quiet, this ginger ache in his voice, is how he holds onto the people he saves.
Because even if you're just another name on a report, to him, you're still here. Still breathing. And to you, he’s still there. He’s staying.
And somehow, that seems to matter.
Another quiet sigh threatens to make your heart feel like it might break in tears, because it’s just ridiculous how much it suddenly means to you that he’s keeping his promise. Not the silly little thing he added when he entered the ambulance, no. He’s keeping the promise he made after he had run up flame-filled halls and jumped from the windowsill to find you. The one he had cooed at you softly before he broke a wall and rushed down broken stairs to get you both to safety.
And now, even as sleep tugs at him, even as exhaustion threatens to drag him under, he’s still… protecting you. Even in sleep. Prepared to fight flames if they dare trouble you in your sleep again.
You fight the urge to lift your hand, to brush your fingers through his hair, to soothe the lines of tension etched into his face.
No. Instead, you stay still, pretending to be asleep, even though your heart is wide awake.
And so, you stay like this —him asleep, you pretending—, the silence between you thick with things unsaid. The hospital room hums softly with the rhythm of machines, the distant murmur of voices in the corridor, but it all feels far away. Here, there’s only the quiet rise and fall of his breath, the slight furrow of his brow even in sleep, like he’s still bracing for disaster.
Your fingers twitch at your side. The urge to reach for him —to brush a hand over his hair or trace the slope of his knuckles— simmers beneath your skin. It’s foolish, really. He’s just a firefighter. You’re just a girl he saved. That’s all this is.
And yet. And yet.
The weight of his head on your lap, the way his body has angled itself as if to shield you from something unseen feels like more. Too much.
A lump rises in your throat, and you swallow it down, willing your heartbeat to settle.
But then, a sound.
The door creaks open again, its hinges groaning softly into the hush of the room. Your heart stutters, even if your eyes stay shut the entire time.
Footsteps. Quiet, but firm. Someone trying to be gentle but too used to rushing. Soft footsteps that pad into the room, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric. It can only be a nurse, moving with silent efficiency. The clipboard clicks as they check the monitors beside you, the steady beep of your heart rate betraying the erratic thrum in your chest.
There’s a pause, a slight hesitation, as if they’ve just noticed the man asleep at your side.
“Sir?” The nurse’s voice is soft, polite, but questioning.
A beat. Changbin stirs, a slow exhale leaving him as he blinks himself back to consciousness. His head lifts from your lap, and as his cheek loses the warmth of your leg, a strange, pained feeling settles in his chest.
For a moment, he just stares at you. At the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the bandage peeking out from beneath the hospital gown. Even asleep, you look fragile, too still, and something tightens behind his ribs. He wonders, not for the first time, if you have someone —anyone— coming for you.
He clears his throat, voice rough. “Sorry,” he mutters, straightening in the chair. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep and the lingering feel of your warmth. “I… uh… she asked me to stay,” he solves.
The nurse is quiet for a moment, the sound of a pen scratching against the clipboard filling the silence.
Changbin shifts, his jaw tight. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have made it sound like it mattered so much, even if his heart keeps screaming at him that it does.
“The doctor said there weren’t emergency contacts listed,” he adds quietly, like an explanation, though he’s not sure if it’s for the nurse or himself. “I… didn’t want her to be alone.”
It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?
Because when you grabbed his arm in the ambulance, voice hoarse but certain, something in him buckled, as if the moon had suddenly made the tides raise havoc upon the shore, salt and water raining all over the port —all over his heart. Because, even now, hours later, he’s still here. Because the thought of you waking up alone in this sterile, empty room feels… wrong.
“Well,” the nurse says softly, a faint smile in his voice, “seems like she’s not alone, then.”
You nearly flinch at that.
And to him, the words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do.
But oh, they do.
And as Changbin lets out a slow breath, settling back into the chair, his gaze drifts to your hand —inches from his own— and he wonders what it would feel like to take it again. Maybe you’d wake up. And maybe you’d squeeze his hand in reassurance, and thank him for staying. He’d say… well. He’d figure it out.
His fingers twitch once, then go still again.
The nurse moves with practiced quiet, his hands gentle as he checks the monitors, the steady beep of your heart rate, the soft hiss of oxygen flowing through the tube near your bed. He jots something down on a clipboard, his pen scratching softly against paper.
Then comes the IV check. A light touch on the line running from your arm to the bag hanging by your bedside. He adjusts the flow, tilts his head at the readout. Everything seems normal.
Changbin’s jaw tightens.
He’s watching him now, not fully awake, but not asleep either. His gaze flickers to the monitor, tracking the subtle jump in your heart rate when the nurse gently lifts your bandaged hand to inspect it.
“Has she woken up at all since she was brought in?” the nurse asks, his voice a whisper.
Changbin's throat bobs with a swallow. “No,” he mutters, his voice hoarse from sleep and something else. Something heavier. He doesn’t quite know how to describe it. “She hasn’t.”
The nurse nods softly, lowering your hand back onto the blanket. Another note scribbled onto the clipboard.
“Did she mention any pain or trouble breathing when you got here?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “She didn’t say much. Just…”
He stops, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the edge of your blanket in a small, repetitive motion. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t say: she only asked me to stay.
The nurse lingers for a moment longer, adjusting the blanket over you. When he turns away, Changbin watches him with a careful intensity, as if making sure he doesn’t miss anything, as if his presence alone might be enough to keep you safe.
“I’ll be around this hallway for the rest of the evening and night,” he says softly. “My name is Minho. If there’s anything you need, or anything happens to her, I’m right here.”
Changbin acknowledges him with a nod and a soft smile, and the door clicks shut softly behind him.
Silence again. Changbin curls up his head in his arms, and finally caves in, holding your hand.
He just hopes you wake up soon to fill it.
And you too fall asleep, feeling the warmth that radiates off of him lull you back in.
[.]
The room remains dim, bathed in the muted glow of a single white light near the doorway. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is the only sound, a quiet metronome against the hush of the hospital night.
Changbin hasn’t moved much, only a small shift here and there, the weight of sleep keeping him grounded, his hand still wrapped loosely around yours. His head remains pillowed on his arms, his breathing deep and even, though a slight furrow still mars his brow, as if even in sleep, he’s standing guard.
And for a while, so are you. Asleep, but not fully. Your mind drifts in that fragile space between rest and remembrance, where the smoke still curls at the edges of your thoughts and the heat still nips at your skin.
It happens slowly at first. A subtle twitch of your fingers. The tiniest furrow of your brow. Your breathing —steady, smooth— starts to shift, each inhale just a bit sharper than the last.
Then the dream grips you.
A flash of fire. The suffocating weight of smoke. The roar of collapsing walls.
Your chest tightens. The flames creep closer. You can’t move. You can’t breathe—
A ragged gasp rips through the silence as you bolt upright. The heart monitor spikes, a frantic beeping that shatters the calm.
Changbin is already awake.
“Hey, hey, gorgeous.” His voice is raspy from sleep, but his hand is steady, already reaching for your arm, until it reaches your cheek, careful not to touch anywhere bandaged. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Your wide eyes dart around the room. The sterile white walls, the IV in your arm, the dim glow of hospital lights. No fire. No smoke. Just… a hospital.
And him.
Your breathing stutters, and your hand —the one not hooked to the IV— grips his forearm before you even register the movement.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move an inch.
“You’re safe,” Changbin says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek in slow, steady circles. It’s the same motion you felt on your knuckles before falling asleep. “It was just a dream. You’re here now.”
It’s his voice that grounds you. The rough gentleness of it. The steadiness, like a hand on your back guiding you out of the smoke and helping you cough it out.
And finally —finally— the world stops burning.
Your grip on his arm loosens slightly. You close your eyes for a second, trying to steady yourself, but when you open them again, he’s still there. Still watching you with that same quiet intensity.
“Did I… wake you?” you rasp, voice hoarse from sleep, and from the lingering effects of smoke.
Changbin’s lips twitch into the faintest smile. “You could say that.”
But there’s no frustration in his voice. Only relief.
Because you’re awake now, and that's all that matters.
The heart monitor slows, the beeping settling into its steady rhythm again. The silence that follows feels… different.
Not like before.
It’s not the heavy quiet of waiting or the emptiness of unspoken fear. It’s something softer, a silence that hums with everything left unsaid. Something lighter, as you and Changbin sit there, breathing, your hearts yearning for any kind of excuse to justify the need to keep looking at each other eye to eye.
Your hand still rests on his arm. His thumb still traces small, timid circles on your face.
Neither of you moves to pull away.
And for a long moment, you just… stare at each other.
His dark hair is a mess, strands sticking out in every direction, evidence of too many hours spent with his head pillowed on his arms. His shirt is wrinkled, the smell of smoke still faintly clings to him. His eyes, though—those sharp, intense eyes—are soft now. Warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You notice a faint shadow beneath them. A subtle tightness around his mouth, almost as if there’s exhaustion carved into his every movement, but his gaze is steady.
And you? You’re pretty sure you're a mess too. Bandages, an IV, a raspy voice —but you’re awake. You're alive.
And so is he. With no injuries, too.
Your breathing hitches for a beat. It’s not from panic this time, but something else entirely. Something harder to name. A raw blend of relief, disbelief, and something soft and fragile that flutters in your chest every time his thumb brushes your skin.
And by how his eyes seem to soften, chances are it hits you both at the same time. A sudden, silent realization that you made it. That he saved you. That he’s still here. That for some reason —some quiet, unspeakable reason— it means more than it should. That the danger is behind you. That there’s no fire, no smoke.
Just… this. This strange little pocket of quiet where you’re both here, in front of each other, still breathing, still here, and it feels... unreal.
The seconds stretch.
The weight of it presses into your chest, something fragile and unfamiliar, an ache that isn’t painful but still makes it hard to breathe. The kind of feeling that grows in the aftermath of fear—when the adrenaline fades but the person who pulled you through is still standing there.
If he’s feeling the exact same thing, you don’t know. With a sheepish lick of his lips, Changbin lets out a short sigh, as if he had just remembered that breathing is a necessity, not a choice. His arm gingerly moves from your face, afraid at the possible implications of his tender touch, but at the same time, he ends up with his hand over yours. As if the intensity of him holding your hand was a tiny bit more manageable than your face.
And then, you…
You laugh.
Quiet at first, just a soft exhale, but it bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Breathy, almost startled by its own existence. You don’t know why. Maybe there is nothing that can describe whatever it is that you’re feeling, so you keep laughing. It’s not funny —not even close— but the feeling is too much, too big to contain. It spills out in giggles, a release of all the tension that’s been wound tight since the moment you woke up, and even before, when you faked being asleep. The fire, the rescue, the nightmare, and now this, sitting in a dim hospital room, staring at the firefighter who saved your life like he's the only person in the world.
Changbin blinks—once, twice—before his own lips twitch into a smile.
Then, he chuckles.
Not because it’s funny —although it’s starting to seem that way, because your laugh is cute—, but because what else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t have the words for what he feels —not yet, at least— so the laugh comes instead. Quiet, but real.
And just like that, you’re both giggling. Like mad teens after a stupid joke. Like children that get away with breaking mom’s favourite mug even when they were told not to play with the ball inside and they managed to blame dad successfully.
It’s not loud, rather still hushed by the weight of the night, but it’s… real. You can’t really describe it with many other words that could convey its full meaning. It’s that shaky, breathless kind of laughter that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, like you both just realized how ridiculous this all is. A fragile kind of laughter, that trembles at the edges, as if acknowledging how close everything came to breaking. How strange it feels to be alive and here, together, after everything.
For Changbin, it’s a release. A break in the tight grip of fear he hadn’t even noticed was still holding onto him. The fear that you wouldn’t wake up, that you’d slip away silently like smoke through his fingers. A smoke he couldn’t control, burning in a fire he couldn’t save you from. But now, you’re laughing, and it’s the most beautiful sound he's heard in days.
You cover your mouth to muffle the sound, but Changbin just grins wider, his shoulders shaking as his hand drags down his face.
“Sorry—” you whisper between small gasps of laughter. “I-I don’t know why—”
“I don’t either,” Changbin admits, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But his voice is different now—less rough, less burdened. Like, for the first time since the fire, he’s let himself breathe.
And for a few stolen seconds, there’s nothing. Just two people, safe and awake and alive, sharing silly giggles in the quiet.
You can’t piece together how he ends up too shy and moves away, standing up, still giggling, but now, unbeknownst to you, blushing. He curses for the new-formed distance he can only blame himself for, excusing it with not wanting to overwhelm you by being too close.
He manages —you can’t comprehend how— to fit, broad back, huge muscles and all, into the tiny surface area of the makeshift bed he’s created with the sofa in the room.
Then, he turns off the lights.
And then, nothing.
You’re too afraid to move around in your bed, now painfully aware of the IV line plugged into your arm, and afraid to damage the bandages on your hand.
But it’s too quiet. Too still. And even though the fire is gone, the smoke long cleared, something inside you still smolders. Some kind of restlessness, a need to fill the space with something. Anything.
“Can you sleep?” your voice comes out in a whisper, rough but soft enough not to break the delicate quiet.
Changbin huffs a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. He could kiss you right now just for speaking, and —according to a dark, hidden part of his heart he didn’t usually listen to— if he wasn’t such a damn coward, he would. “No, not really.”
You purse your lips together and shift slightly against the pillow, careful not to jostle your bandaged hand. “Me neither.”
There’s another beat of silence, but this one feels expectant, like both of you are waiting for the other to speak.
And then, you turn on the lamp on the nightstand.
“Would you rather…” Your voice is a little stronger now, a teasing edge creeping in. “Fight one horse-sized duck… or a hundred duck-sized horses?”
For a moment, there’s nothing.
And then Changbin lets out an incredulous chuckle. Soft, and full of disbelief.
“You’re kidding.”
You shrug. Well, the best version of a shrug you can manage with your injuries.
“You’d be surprised to know I am deadly serious.”
He sits up on the sofa and turns to face you, sitting almost crisscrossed, with a knee raised. There’s a soft ‘hmm’ he murmured as he ponders while stretching, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit.
“The duck,” he says after a moment, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Get it by the neck and hold on for dear life.”
You blink, biting back a smile. “Solid strategy.”
He tilts his head, his own smile creeping in again. “Your turn.”
“Ask ahead then,” you grin teasingly. “Or should I say fire away?”
Changbin blinks. “Oh, god no. You’ve spoken with Chan once and you already have his stupid jokes.” He teases with a sarcastic dread in his tone.
“Sure, sure, but go on. Blaze ahead.”
“Shut up,” he whines playfully, laughing, trying to come up with another would you rather question.
“C’mon, mister fireman. Ignite me.” You giggle, hugging your knees. “I’m burning with curiosity.”
“Okay, okay, goddamnit,” he laughs. “Would you rather… have to wear a superhero cape every day or bunny ears for a year?”
You smile. “That’s easy. Bunny ears for sure.” He leans against the sofa, propping his head up with his hand as he listens to you. “I mean. They can look half decent,” you solve with a shrug. “Besides, if good cinema ever taught me anything, it’s that capes are nothing but a nuisance.”
“Isn’t that from The Incredibles?” He snorts. “Like, the kids movie?”
“Oh, hell yeah it is. But that movie is solid gold, c’mon.”
And just like that, the weight of the night shifts again, the stillness breaking apart as the two of you slip into this quiet, strange game.
Two people who can’t sleep.
Two people who survived.
At some point you tease him to such an extent he moves back to the stool —to prove a point, sure, and to shorten the distance, most likely. You find out that Chan had packed clothes for Changbin to change into in the hospital, and when he goes to grab a sweater, out of the backpack falls a forgotten deck of UNO cards, loosely tied together by what Seo recognizes to be one of Hyunjin’s lost hair ties.
There’s only a chorus of playful snickers as the duel begins between the two of you and the colourful cards being settled on the edge of the nightstand.
Two people who don’t want to sleep right now.
Two people who are alive.
And maybe —just maybe— two people who are starting to feel something more.
At least, more than your average firefighter-victim relationship.
[.]
Eventually, the game slows. The stack of UNO cards sits forgotten on the nightstand, a few strays scattered across the blanket between you. Neither of you says it, but the thrill of competition has fizzled out, replaced by something quieter. Something neither of you wants to name just yet.
Changbin leans back in the chair, his arms crossed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess we’re both too stubborn to lose,” he says. You grin.
A beat of silence. Then…
“So…” you say, shifting slightly under the blanket. “Would you rather… go back to Would You Rather?”
He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head, but there’s no protest, merely teasing. “Fine,” he says, his grin matching yours. “But only because you’re clearly terrible at UNO.”
You gasp in mock offense, and the banter starts again, light, easy, a comfortable rhythm.
The questions start off silly.
“Would you rather only eat spicy ramen for the rest of your life or never eat ramen again?”
“Would you rather glow in the dark or leave a trail of sparkles everywhere you go?”
But slowly, without either of you meaning to, the questions shift. Until.
“Would you rather be anywhere else but here right now?”
It’s a quiet question —not a joke, not a tease— and it hangs between you for a moment too long.
Your smile trembles in your lips.
You think quietly. Would you? Be anywhere else? Because, if you dare to be true to yourself, this is the first time you’ve felt at home ever since you moved to the city. No fake smiles. No jokes you don’t understand. No friends with inside comments you don’t get, and that apparently you can’t because ‘you just had to be there.’ No stingy comments. Just the warmth of a foreign body next to yours. A stranger.
The warmest stranger you’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. And even though warmth —fire— seems quite scary right now, your answer still stands.
You don’t look at him when you answer. “No,” you whisper. “I wouldn’t.”
The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t.
Because you’re still here —still breathing, still alive— and maybe you don’t want to be anywhere else because here, at least, you aren’t alone. With him, you don’t feel alone. Not as much as you felt the moment you went to bed.
Changbin doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you, his thumb absently brushing over the edge of the blanket. A small, repetitive motion.
And then softly, like he’s choosing his words carefully —almost like it’s not a game anymore—, his tongue twisted with the weight of his next few words, almost as heavy as yours.
“Would you rather… be alone tonight?”
Your heart skips.
The answer is already there, caught in your throat. But it still takes a moment for you to say it. To admit it. Although you’re not quite sure if it’s to you, to him, or rather the certainty that saying it out loud brings.
“No.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, your voice, quiet but steady this time, breaks it again.
“Will you… stay?” You swallow dry. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—“
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”
And for a long moment, neither of you moves.
Until, finally, you shift. Barely, just slightly, but still making enough room on the bed. An invitation.
He hesitates again. A part of him knows it’s not because he doesn’t want to, but because there’s a line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross.
But then, carefully —like he’s afraid to disturb the moment, the bed, the silence, and the worded weight around you two— he sits.
The bed dips under his weight, a soft shift that somehow makes the silence heavier. You don’t move away, and neither does he. There’s a space between you, but it’s small. Smaller than it was before.
His shoulder brushes yours, his hand too, and for a moment, that’s all there is. The quiet thrum of the heart monitor. The faint buzz of the nightstand light. The soft rhythm of two people breathing in the same pocket of air.
Changbin leans back against the wall, his head tilting just enough that the side of it barely grazes the top of yours. He smells like faint smoke and clean laundry. Like something steady. Something safe.
For a long while, neither of you speaks.
Until you do.
“Do you do this often?” you whisper.
He blinks. “What?”
There’s a tremor of hesitation in your voice. As if a part of you doesn’t want to know. Nevertheless, you clarify the question.
“Stay with people like this.” You lick your lips.” After saving their lives.”
His throat bobs with a swallow, and there’s a beat before he answers. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t.”
Your fingers curl into the blanket, but you nod like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like the fact that he’s still here doesn’t send a quiet flutter through your ribs.
His voice, rough but gentle, breaks the silence again. “Would you rather… talk about what happened?”
The question hits like a spark in the dark, soft, but impossible to ignore.
Your chest tightens. The fire, the smoke, the feeling of heat licking at your heels, your arms, your hand, your face. It’s all there, just beneath the surface.
But then there’s him. Here. Real.
“No,” you whisper. “Not right now.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why. Instead, he shifts —the smallest movement— and for a brief, fleeting second, his hand brushes yours. A ghost of a touch.
And maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else.
But your fingers catch his before he can pull away.
He freezes.
Outside the hospital, the night is cool and quiet, the air thick with the lingering scent of rain. Rain after the storm of fire that raged, and now, calm. The pavement glistens under the dim glow of streetlights, slick with leftover droplets that catch the light like tiny stars. A soft breeze rustles through the trees lining the sidewalk, their leaves whispering secrets to the dark. In the distance, the occasional hum of a passing car cuts through the stillness, but here, just through the window of your hospital room, the world feels hushed. As if it, too, is holding its breath.
“Would you rather… stay like this?” you ask softly.
His hand, rough and calloused, slowly —carefully— closes around yours. His warmth seeps into your skin like a quiet promise. His grip, steady but gentle, as if afraid you might regret it and pull away, as if anchoring himself just as much as he’s anchoring you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, absentminded motion, a silent reassurance, a quiet reply.
He voices it. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I would.”
And for the first time all night, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.
It feels like a promise.
The warmth of his hand lingers, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect. You swallow, the weight in your chest shifting—not disappearing, but settling into something softer, something known.
It triggers what, at first, you don’t mean to say out loud. But the words slip past your lips, quiet and a little broken. It’s a confession that hangs between you both, soft yet heavy, like smoke that hasn’t quite cleared.
“I’m scared to fall asleep.”
Changbin lets the silence settle, not uncomfortable, but steady, giving you the space to breathe through it. To own the fear without rushing to fix it.
Then, just as your chest tightens from the weight of your own words, his voice cuts through the quiet. Low, rough around the edges.
“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “Not alone.”
And something about the way he says it —as if it’s the easiest promise in the world— makes your throat burn. Not from smoke this time.
You inhale slowly, shakily, and exhale even slower. And before you can stop yourself, you shift —again, just a little— until your head finds the slope of his shoulder.
It’s tentative at first. A question more than a gesture.
But when Changbin leans into you and squeezes your hand, just enough to let you know it’s okay, the tension inside you unravels.
Your breathing evens out, the beep of the heart monitor blending into the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath your cheek.
And for the first time since the fire —since the fear— you start to feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re safe. At least with him by your side.
And yet, even if his actions don’t let you see through it, your words tug at something deep in him.
Because for hours —since pulling you from the flames— he’s been fighting a battle no one can see. A war of what ifs and almosts.
What if he hadn’t found you in time?
What if the fire had moved faster?
He’s a firefighter. He’s used to running into danger, to carrying people out of the worst moments of their lives —but it’s never felt like this before.
It’s never felt so… personal.
And now, with you here —breathing, alive, safe— his chest still aches like he’s been the one pulled from the smoke.
Your head rests lightly on his shoulder, and Changbin doesn’t move.
At first, it’s because he doesn’t want to startle you —doesn’t want to make you second-guess the small, fragile moment unfolding between you. But then the reason changes.
He doesn’t move because he can’t.
Because suddenly, the weight of you against him —soft, real, alive— is the only thing holding him together. It hits him like a slow burn, the kind of feeling that creeps in quietly before it consumes everything. All the panic he’s been swallowing since the fire. All the fear he’s ignored since he carried you out of that building.
It’s never bothered him before —the risk, the running headfirst into danger —but this is different. He has no idea why, but you are different.
And now that you’re here, leaning into him, trusting him enough to admit you’re scared, he feels the ache in his chest shift into something else entirely. Something harder to name.
He lets out a slow breath, careful not to disturb the way you fit so perfectly against him, your head on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck.
It’s terrifying, in its own way. How easy this feels. How natural it is to have you this close, like you’re not a stranger he pulled from the fire, but someone he’s always known. His hand moves, fingers threading, his thumb stroking the back of your palm. Touch you like he needs it. To reassure himself you’re still there.
He watches the rise and fall of your chest, the soft flutter of your eyelashes as you fight to stay awake, and somewhere in the quiet, with the scent of antiseptic in the air and the distant hum of hospital machines, a single, unshakable thought roots itself in his mind.
He’s not just protecting you anymore. He wants to.
Not because it’s his job. Not because he’s a firefighter.
He doesn’t move because… he likes it.
It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens in the middle of the night, when the world feels smaller, softer. And somehow, despite the distinct sterile smell of hospital all over, and the distant hum of machines, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
It feels safe.
And that’s what surprises him most. Not that you leaned into him, that he doesn’t mind. His heart dares to encourage it, screaming at him to put his arm around your shoulders, to try and make you more comfortable.
What surprises him is that it feels… easy. He isn’t sure what to make of it. You’re still somewhat of a stranger —someone he pulled from the fire, someone he met hours ago— but that doesn’t change the fact that right now, the weight of your head against his shoulder and your hand in his feels more grounding than anything else has all night.
He’s not overthinking it, not really. He doesn’t have the energy to pick it apart. All he knows is that you asked him to stay, and somehow, that is all it takes.
So he stays.
It’s daring, his heart beating in his chest loudly. He’s almost afraid you can hear it, but his actions don’t falter, as he softly —tenderly— moves the two of you lower on the bed, and even softer now, he moves your head closer to the crook of his neck, letting you use his arm as a pillow below your head.
He lets out a slow breath, careful not to disturb the moment. For the first time since the fire, since the smoke, since the chaos, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.
He smiles as you fall asleep next to him.
And he, too, as he watches you breathe, ends up falling asleep.
[.]
The morning light filters through the thin hospital curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the room. The world outside has begun to stir —distant footsteps in the hall, the squeak of a wheel on a gurney— but here, in this small pocket of time, it’s still quiet.
Changbin’s eyes flutter open first.
For a moment, he doesn’t move —doesn’t even breathe too loudly—, because the weight of your head is still there, resting on his arm, that while he was asleep dared to surround your shoulders and pull you just a bit closer. The scent of antiseptic and smoke has long faded into something softer, something he can’t quite name, but it feels like you.
He should move. Move you, too. He should sit up and stretch the cramp out of his neck, maybe step outside to get a coffee.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his lashes lower again, and he lets himself go still, pretending to be asleep, even though his heart is wide awake.
He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s the way your breathing syncs with his, soft and even. Maybe it’s the fragile stillness of the moment, and how moving might break whatever delicate thread is holding it together.
Your eyelids twitch before they lift, a slow, groggy blink as the world slips back into focus. The dull ache in your limbs, the sterile scent of the hospital, the soft warmth of a body against yours —it all comes back at once.
And then you notice him.
Changbin, head tilted just slightly toward your neck, your face, breathing steady, eyes closed.
Still here. Your heart gives a little stutter, almost like a giggle.
For a second, you just watch him. Watch the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. You miss that, contrary to the last time you watched him asleep, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep isn’t there. As if even the part of him that is always ready to wake up, always ready to move also relaxes against you. The calloused hand that rests near yours, not quite touching anymore, but close enough that a shift —a single slip of your pinky— would bridge the gap.
It’s a quiet, still moment. One you could hold onto for a little longer if you wanted. But then your body betrays you —a sight, a slight shift of your neck, a sharper inhale— and Changbin’s lashes flicker. His breathing changes.
And even though you don’t notice at first, the rise and fall of his chest is a little too controlled, his head just a little too still.
You blink at him.
He’s awake.
Your lips twitch.
He’s pretending to be asleep.
The corners of your mouth lift, your heart a strange mixture of warm and restless in your chest. You dare to wobbly move closer to him, and you almost laugh when his breathing stills.
“You’re a terrible actor,” you murmur next to his ear, voice hoarse from sleep but carrying enough playfulness to break the quiet.
Changbin’s lips twitch —just barely— before his eyes open softly, a dark brown gaze meeting yours like he’s been caught.
“Was worth a shot,” he rasps back with a smile. His cheeks blush without him knowing.
“I’m glad you’re a firefighter,” you tease again. “Keep in mind not to act.”
A small laugh escapes you—hoarse, a little fragile, but real. It slips through the quiet like a spark, and you catch the way Changbin’s smile softens in response, his head still resting against yours.
“You do this often?” you tease, your voice still scratchy but playful. “Fake sleeping next to… strangers?”
His smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Only when they ask me to stay.”
The words hang in the air for a second too long.
Something shifts—like a silent inhale neither of you dare to take—and suddenly, the joke feels heavier. Not enough to crush the moment, but enough to remind you both why you’re here, why his shoulder is under your head, why neither of you really want to move just yet. He’s close. Really close.
It’s Changbin who speaks first, his voice quieter now. “How… how do you feel?”
You swallow, licking your lips. “Well.” Your bandaged hand travels to scratch your eye. “Like I’ve been in a fire.”
That earns a chuckle from him—a little rough, but genuine—and the sound makes your chest swoon in a way that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation. The smile lingers on his face, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. Concern, maybe, or something close enough to it. His hand shifts, fingers that move a strand of hair away from your face, and then lowering, grazing the hem of your blanket, like he’s not sure what to do with them now.
“You really stayed the whole time?” you ask softly.
Changbin’s gaze drops for a beat, then lifts back to yours. “Yeah.” A small shrug. “Didn’t really want to leave.”
Your heart does something strange—tightens and warms all at once.
Neither of you speak after that. Not immediately.
And when you shift just a little closer, as if wanting to melt in the warmth that surrounds him and that lemon-scented soap he must have used, your shoulder still pressed against his, your hand resting near his on the blanket—he doesn’t move away.
If anything, it feels like he leans in too.
The quiet between you stretches —not uncomfortable, but something else. Something that feels like a held breath.
You glance at his hand, resting just inches from yours, and for a fleeting moment, you think about closing the distance. Last time, it came out as a reflex, but now, you can’t help but think. About what it might mean. About how absurd it is that this man —this firefighter you barely know— has somehow anchored himself into this strange, raw part of your life.
But before the thought can settle, there’s a soft knock at the door. Changbin’s heart panics and he sits up, although his hand doesn’t move an inch away from yours.
It’s the nurse. Minho. He pokes his head in, offering a small smile. “Good to see you awake,” he says warmly. “The doctor will be in soon to talk about your discharge.”
Discharge.
The word hits harder than you expect. And it shouldn’t, because this is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? To get out of the hospital, to go back to your life, to leave all of this behind —the fire, the smoke, the fear, the sterile smell of antiseptic.
But suddenly, it feels like a thread is about to be cut.
You nod slowly, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” and the nurse slips back out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence again.
Changbin’s hand twitches —just a small movement, but enough to pull your attention back to him. His jaw works for a moment, like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t know how to spit out.
“So,” you say, because the quiet feels too heavy now. “Guess I’m leaving soon.”
His gaze flickers to the door, then back to you. “Yeah. Looks like it.” There’s a smile on his face, but it’s softer now —something caught between relief and hesitation. “It’s a good thing.”
Another pause.
You should say something —anything— but the words knot in your throat.
It’s Changbin who finally breaks the silence.
“Will you be… okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than before. “When you go home?”
The question is simple, but there’s something underneath it —something more than concern. Something almost like please don’t make this the last time we talk. And you feel it too.
It’s then when it hits him.
You haven’t called anyone. Not since you woke up. Not once.
He keeps his voice steady, but there’s a new edge to it now, a careful sort of concern. “Did you want to… let someone know? That you’re okay?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question. “What?”
“Family, a friend, a…,” he says, a little too quickly, like the words have been sitting on his tongue for a while now. The last one somehow doesn’t come out, as if he struggles with it. “I just… noticed you haven’t called anyone.”
Your throat tightens. He’s right, you didn’t. You hadn’t even thought about it.
The realization makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation.
Your lips part, but no words come.
Because the truth settles in like a stone in your chest.
You can’t call your family, your dad long gone, your mom in another country and your grandma in a nursing home too far away. Calling would just make them worry.
And you… don’t want to call your friends.
The realization creeps in slowly, like smoke slipping under a door. Quiet, suffocating. There’s no one waiting outside the hospital for you, no missed calls from anyone who knows what happened—because no one knows, at least not that you know too. Just silence.
Your throat tightens. You blink down at your lap, your fingers curling into the edge of the bedsheet, where Changbin had slept. “I… don’t know,” you mutter finally. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either —just something soft enough to hide behind.
Changbin watches you carefully, his gaze steady, the line between his brows deepening. “No one?”
You shake your head once, keeping your focus fixed on the folds of fabric in your lap. “Not really.”
It’s quiet for a moment, long enough for your heart to thud against your ribs, for the ache behind your sternum to press even harder.
Then Changbin clears his throat softly. “What about… a partner?”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “What?”
He shrugs, his voice quieter now. “Just thought… maybe you’d want to call them. Let them know you’re okay.”
A pause. Then, a small, dry chuckle slips from your lips —not bitter, but slightly amused. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Changbin blinks, his mouth parting just slightly. “Oh.” It’s not much, but the surprise in his voice is unmistakable. His brows twitch, his lips part slightly —like the answer catches him off guard more than it should.
The room feels quieter now.
You glance down at your lap, your fingers playing with the edge of the hospital blanket. “No emergency contacts… no boyfriend…” you say softly, more to yourself than him. “It’s just me.”
It’s the first time either of you really acknowledges it. The fact that when you woke up, there was no one else to call.
No one but him.
And Changbin, without thinking, starts fidgeting with his hands, scratching the small bits of dead skin around his nails —not out of anxiety, but something else entirely. Something he can’t name yet.
Another beat of silence.
Changbin doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits there, still as stone. It’s not like he expected you to have someone waiting in the wings — a boyfriend, a best friend, a sibling— but the fact that you didn’t… the fact that when you woke up, he was the only one sitting at your bedside…
It settles into him like a slow-burning flame. Like a candle that cheekily refuses to light while you battle to not burn your fingers as you hold the lit match closer to it. Because suddenly, it’s not just about the fire anymore. It’s not just about the rescue or about saving someone because it’s his job.
It’s about you.
He thinks about the way you clung to his sleeve when he tried to leave you in the ambulance. The way you asked him to stay, like he was the only steady thing in the chaos. The way you fell asleep in his arms last night, breathing slow and soft like maybe, just maybe, being close to him made you feel a little safer.
And now, the quiet way you admit like it’s just a fact, not a tragedy that it’s “just you” makes something tug in his chest, something sharp and strange, because you don’t have anyone else right now, but his heart somehow stands with pride.
You’re still here, his heart says. You can stay longer.
And for reasons he can’t explain —reasons he’s too mentally drained to untangle— Changbin suddenly wants to be someone for you. Maybe not the person. Maybe not anything special. But someone.
Someone who stays.
[.]
The discharge process moves forward around you, impersonal and efficient.
A nurse removes the IV from your hand with practiced ease, placing a small piece of gauze over the spot before securing it with medical tape. “You’re all set,” she says. “Doctor will be in soon with your paperwork. Just take it easy for the next few days.”
You nod, murmuring a quiet thanks, but your attention is elsewhere, on the way Changbin hasn’t moved from his spot by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring outside like the world beyond the hospital walls holds some kind of answer he’s not ready to face.
You crack your knuckles absentmindedly —only the ones in your healthy hand, just in case—, and also rubbing at the faint indentation the IV left behind. The room feels… different now. Lighter, maybe. Too light, like something’s being lifted away before you’re ready to let it go.
“So,” you say, just to fill the silence. “Guess I’m finally getting kicked out of here.”
Changbin exhales a short, amused breath, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess so.”
A pause. Too long. Too loaded.
You don’t know what to say to make this feel normal. You should be relieved—you are relieved—but there’s something about the way the past several hours have unfolded, about how much space he’s taken up in them, that makes leaving feel… strange.
He turns to you then, shifting his weight like he’s about to say something important, but the door swings open before he can.
The doctor steps in with a clipboard, professional and efficient, talking about medications, follow-up care, rest. You try to focus, nodding in the right places, but your thoughts are still tangled somewhere between the hospital bed and the quiet weight of Changbin’s presence beside it.
And when the doctor finally hands you the discharge papers and tells you you’ll soon be good to go, the realization settles in.
You don’t want to. Not yet.
And you’re not sure if it’s the hospital you’re reluctant to leave—or the person standing across from you, watching you like he might not be ready either.
Changbin turns around again. Changbin hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. Arms crossed, shoulders tense, he watches the city outside, bathed in the dim glow of streetlights. The world keeps moving—cars humming down rain-slick roads, neon signs flickering against the glass, people going about their lives as if nothing has changed.
But everything has changed.
He exhales, watching his breath fog faintly against the cold surface, only to realize something else reflected in the glass.
Someone else.
You.
Seated on the edge of the hospital bed, fingers grazing the fresh gauze on your hand, eyes lowered in quiet thought.
He stops looking at the view. And Seo starts looking at you.
Your expression is unreadable, lips slightly parted like there’s something on the tip of your tongue you haven’t decided whether to say. There’s something almost fragile about the moment—like if he moves too suddenly, it might break.
And he doesn’t want to break it.
So he just… watches. Takes in the way exhaustion still clings to you, the way you breathe a little slower now, steadier, but not quite at ease.
And then, as if you can feel his eyes on you, your gaze lifts—and meets his through the glass.
His breath catches.
And suddenly, the view behind the glass doesn’t seem so important anymore.
“Take a picture, mister firefighter,” you smile. “It’ll last longer.”
You shift in the bed and pat the space beside you, inviting him closer. His eyes tell some kind of story you want to read but don’t know the language. Yours blink. Your heart knows it’d make you learn it in a beat if it meant staying longer in this no-smoke bubble.
Changbin huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t look away just yet. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s debating saying something, but instead, he just watches you for a second longer before finally pushing away from the window.
He hesitates for only a breath before accepting the silent invitation, moving to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, neither of you say anything.
Up close, you notice the exhaustion still clinging to his features, the way his shoulders seem a little heavier, the way his eyes flicker with something unreadable. And yet, there’s also warmth there, something steady in the way he stays.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable, but thick with something unsaid.
You steal a glance at him, only to find him already looking at you. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
And you… Well, you don’t want this to end.
Your fingers curl slightly into the blanket as if you could somehow hold onto this moment, but before you can find the words, he beats you to it. Except—
“You—”
“I—”
You both stop, startled into a quiet laugh. Changbin exhales through his nose, shaking his head, and then—he gives up.
“I want to…” He hesitates just long enough for your breath to catch. But then, instead of finishing the thought, he turns to the nightstand, grabbing the pen from the forgotten clipboard.
The scratch of ink on paper is soft, deliberate.
And when he’s done, he tears the corner of the page and holds it out to you.
“Just… call me when you want someone to stay.”
He presses the slip of paper into your palm and steps back. Not far, just enough. Just enough to pretend like this is normal. Like this doesn’t feel like some invisible —red, perhaps— thread pulling tight between you.
Then he turns, heading for the door.
And even after the nurse steps in, after she greets you softly and pulls out a bundle of neatly folded clothes, Changbin lingers just outside. Not leaving. Not quite staying. Just there.
Seo exhales—long and slow, like it might clear the weight pressing down on his chest. It doesn’t.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. He should go. He should be walking out of here, leaving this behind like any other rescue. That’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what he always does.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead, his mind latches onto the way your fingers brushed his when you took the paper, and how you held his hand even asleep. The way your lips parted, like you wanted to say something but never did.
His chest feels too tight.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s done his job. You’re safe. That should be enough.
But it’s not.
He lets his head thud lightly against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He shouldn’t be indulging in this. Not when he knows better. Not when he’s spent years keeping distance between himself and the people he saves. Not when he’s been told what happens when one gets too close, again and again by the other firefighters he works with.
But it’s already too late, isn’t it?
Because you’re not just another person he pulled out of a fire. You’re the one who looked at him like you weren't afraid anymore. The one who made him laugh at two in the morning with dumb would-you-rather questions and stupid UNO strategies. The one who fell asleep on his shoulder like you trusted him.
And now, as he waits—just a few feet away, just out of sight—he can feel it. That quiet, aching part of him that already wants to go back inside. Just to see if you’re still there, even if he knows you are. Just to see if you’ll look at him one last time before you leave.
The hospital lobby is quiet at this hour, save for the occasional rustle of papers and the low murmur of the receptionist confirming details on a form. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a dull glow over everything, making the world outside the glass doors seem softer, almost unreal in contrast.
Changbin stands a few feet away, hands tucked in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tells himself he’s just waiting. Just making sure everything is settled before he goes. But really, he knows that’s not it.
You’re focused on the papers in front of you, signing where the receptionist points, nodding along to instructions about rest, about medications, about things that should concern him far less than they do.
He should leave.
Really, he should.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
His gaze drifts to the reflection in the glass doors. He can see you there, the slight furrow of your brows as you concentrate, the way you lift a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s nothing. A simple, everyday motion. But for some reason, it tugs at something deep in his chest.
Changbin knows he shouldn’t linger.
Not just because of the hour or because his shift technically ended long ago—but because of what he is. A firefighter. His job is to step in when disaster strikes. To pull people from burning buildings, to keep them breathing, to make sure they see another day. But that’s all it should be. A duty. A moment in time. He’s not supposed to indulge in anything beyond that.
He’s not supposed to care like this.
And yet, he stands there, watching you in the reflection of the glass doors, fingers curling and uncurling in his pockets.
You don't look at him. Don’t seem to notice he’s still here. But maybe that’s how it should be. Because he shouldn’t be here still.
You keep your eyes on the forms in front of you, pen poised but unmoving. You could look at him—just once, just for a second—but you don't. You can’t.
Because if you do, you’ll see him watching you. You’ll see the way he lingers, the way he hesitates. And you’d know. You would know that whatever this is, it’s most likely not one-sided.
And that terrifies you, because it would be easier if it were. It would be easier if this was just gratitude, just the remnants of fear clinging to your bones. If you could shake this feeling off like soot after a fire.
But you can’t.
And you’re scared that if you reach for him, if you hold on too tight, he’ll slip through your fingers like smoke. So you keep your head down. Focus on the receptionist’s voice, on the weight of the pen in your hand, on anything but the man standing just a few feet away. If you look at him, you might do something reckless.
Like ask him to stay.
Neither of you will know what the other one thinks, not as you scribble and nod to the receptionist in front of you, or as he exhales, slow and quiet, and turns toward the exit. Steps forward, each footfall feeling heavier than it should. Out into the night, away from whatever this was, full of a strange tightness in his chest and a sense of melancholy, driven only by his own thoughts.
Maybe it was just a moment, they both think, hoping it that way in a chance to make it easier to leave. Maybe it’s not something worth turning back for.
Still, something inside Changbin makes him look back, wondering if he should go inside again, until his phone rings. He picks it up, and quickly heads outside.
The receptionist smiles at you, but then curses lowly, apologizing and telling you she needs to go print another document for you to sign. As she stands up and leaves, you look back.
Changbin isn’t there anymore.
Maybe it’s the receptionist, in that absentminded, routine way people have, that when she gets back and hands you the last document and casually says, “Sign here, and then you’re all set.”
All set.
It should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? You should want to leave. You do want to leave. But the words land too heavily in your chest, and for a split second, you forget how to move. How to write your own stupid signature.
Because all set means it’s over. It means the space between you two is about to stretch too far, and suddenly, it feels like there’s not enough air in the room.
You grip the pen too tightly, signing. He looks inside the hospital one more time, and clenches his fists at his sides, leaving.
You don’t look at each other. Because if you do, you might not be able to let go.
You might be all set after exiting the hospital on your own.
But with the weight on your chest as you look up to the window of the room you’ve just been in, there’s a gnawing feeling in the back of your throat that makes you think—
things are far from over.
[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]
~kats, who’s brain did indeed rot and is now in love with firefighter binnie.
best friend bangchan and best friends friend/new friend I.N x reader
summary: when your best friend chan invites you to meet his roomate, sparks fly between you, much to his dismay. will chan be able to confess before jeongin asks you out? or will he be forced to watch you fall in love with someone else?
sc: 27
cw: strong language, angst, fluff, unresolved
a/n: heyyy! i hope you guys enjoy my new series!
masterlist .... series masterlist
please note that there is a poll at the end of this post, so you will be able to vote on who you think reader should end up with hehe sorry there will be a part 2!
best friend bangchan and best friends friend/new friend I.N x reader
summary: when your best friend chan invites you to meet his roomate, sparks fly between you, much to his dismay. will chan be able to confess before jeongin asks you out? or will he be forced to watch you fall in love with someone else?
sc: 27
cw: strong language, angst, fluff, unresolved
a/n: heyyy! i hope you guys enjoy my new series!
masterlist .... series masterlist
please note that there is a poll at the end of this post, so you will be able to vote on who you think reader should end up with hehe sorry there will be a part 2!
✧ Summary: When the sleepy kisses and whispered I love you’s fade away, you realize his attention has drifted to someone else.
✧ CW: non-idol!Changbin, gamer!Changbin, heartbreak, emotional cheating, other person has she/her pronouns, "Binnie" used once. Please let me know if I missed any warnings.
✧ A/N: Not usually the type of thing I write, but this is helping me cope with some stuff. Hope you “enjoy” reading it anyway. Not proof read. (And sorry to Changbin for bringing him into this lol)
✧ Masterlist or read on AO3 ✧
You were always a light sleeper. So when Changbin came to bed late, you’d stir. You never fully opened your eyes, but you always knew what to expect. He’d brush your hair back, press a kiss to your cheek or the top of your head, and whisper “I love you”, even after you’d spent the whole day together.
But those moments have died.
At first, you told yourself you were just in a deeper sleep. Maybe you were finally getting good rest, sleeping through the night. But now you know that’s not it. He just doesn’t do it anymore. It faded so slowly you didn’t notice until the silence felt like rejection.
Now, Changbin slips into bed, careful not to touch you, careful not to make a sound. He’s coming to bed later and later. It’s not even just late nights anymore, now it’s at sunrise. You watch the light creep in through the blinds as you hear the door open and feel the mattress dip beside you. You don’t say anything. You lie still, breathing like you’re asleep, hoping maybe he’ll think to reach for you this time. But the kiss, the touch, the whispered “I love you” never comes.
His excuses are always the same. “Late night with the group. Couldn’t beat one of the bosses.” But you’ve heard her. You’ve caught the end of her laugh, clear through his headset. You’ve heard her over everyone else. You’ve seen the game lobby with just two names, his and hers. He tells you she’s the only one who plays that game. That it’s nothing. That you’re just imagining things. But you’re not.
You know what it looks like when someone lights up for someone else. Changbin can’t stop talking about her, even to you, but he doesn’t even talk about you to his friends anymore. He used to smile at his phone when you texted. Now he barely looks up when you speak, and your texts go unanswered for hours.
Last week you caught a glimpse of his phone, just for a second, when it lit up on the counter. Two things caught your eye. One, a notification from her. Two, his new background photo. It used to be you. Now it’s replaced by a city skyline. Pretty, sure, but neutral. The kind of background you use when you don’t want anyone asking about your personal life.
You didn’t say anything then. You thought maybe you were overthinking, like he said. You trusted him. Maybe he just needed a change. But since the beginning, his background has always been you or the two of you.
Now Changbin lies there beside you, for the first time in a long time, scrolling through his phone like he's alone in the room. Like you're not inches away. Like he never used to trace circles on your arm just because he liked the way your skin felt.
You couldn’t take the silence anymore. You didn’t plan on saying anything, but the words tumbled out of your mouth, voice breaking.
“When did you stop loving me, Binnie?”
It’s not an accusation. It’s not even a question, really. It’s a quiet plea for the truth you already know.
Changbin doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t reach for you. He just sighs, like your pain is an inconvenience. Like your heartbreak is just something he has to endure. Like he just wants everything to go back to normal.
You lay there, back to him, staring at the wall, waiting for him to say something, anything.
And then finally, he does, “I still love you.” You go limp. Not because it comforted you, but because the moment he said it, you felt like a cold hand was tightening around your ribcage.
It was a lie. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.
You slowly turn to look at him and his eyes won’t meet yours. “Say it again” you whisper, your voice small, raw. He blinks, confused, “What?” he says. “Look at me and say it again, Changbin.” you demand.
When he finally forces his gaze to meet yours and says “I love you” again, it almost sounds normal, but there’s a hint of shame.
Your heart breaks so loud inside your chest it feels like it should have echoed in the room. Like he should flinch from the sound of what he’s done, but he just sits there, quiet. And the silence is worse than anything he could have said. Yelling at you would have hurt less.
You nod once and turn back around, pulling the blanket higher, not because you want to sleep, but because it’s the only way to hide how badly you’re shaking. He puts his phone away and stares at the ceiling. The bed feels wider now, like miles separating you.
And now that you know the truth, you finally allow yourself to break. Quietly. Face turned away so he won’t have to watch the damage he’s caused.
Your mind is racing, remembering all the little things. The subtle shifts. The things you ignored, or tried to ignore, because love is supposed to be patient. Love isn’t supposed to feel like you’re being slowly erased from someone’s world while they still keep you in it out of convenience.
You remember the nights when he laughed too hard at his headset, voice low and warm, like it used to be with you. The way he started bringing his phone everywhere, even to the bathroom. The way he turned the screen away from you so you wouldn’t see what he was doing. The way he stopped telling you about his day because he’d already told her.
Finally, you find the courage to speak. “You could’ve just told me you were done.”
Changbin turns to look at you, but you don’t face him. You don’t have it in you to meet his eyes.
“It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.” he says. “You care more about her than you do about me” you reply, blinking away the tears. He just sighs.
You start feeling your heart building walls around itself, because it knows it can’t survive another wound.
You whisper, more to yourself than to him, “I don’t think you even noticed the moment you left me.” It was true, he didn’t. It happened slowly, but he’d been gone for a while. He just didn’t have the courage to say goodbye.
You stare at the wall in silence until you fall asleep.
When you wake up, Changbin is already out of bed. Without a second thought, you pack a bag, just the essentials, for a few days. You need space. Time to think.
When you walk past him, he mutes his mic. You don’t have to wonder who’s on the other end. You already know. He says your name, soft, almost pleading, asking you not to leave.
You don’t turn around. You’ve spent too long waiting for the version of him who used to love you to come back. And he’s not coming back.
There was no storming out, no making a scene. You just walked out, door clicking behind you. You wish he’d fight for you, for the relationship you built together. But he already let it go a long time ago.
And for the first time in forever, you chose yourself.
Do not copy, translate or repost my work anywhere.
✧ Ending >>
✧ Support banner by @/cafekitsune ✧
✧ Disclaimer: This is purely fictional and does not portray anyone in real life. Fanfiction is fiction.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ │ smau, crack, fluff, cursing, chan is a single dad who is constantly working, chan has a daughter named jia but everyone calls her bug/buggie, age gap undefined but its there
⟶ [ 𝐤𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ] ngl i didnt think the first part would get that much interaction, thank you for the love! ♡ ︎ [ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢 ]
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE
series tag : @deaddcrow @jikseuseu @readr1221 @fanficwriter5 @hiitzstar @kpopgirliez @hyvneluv @teffyx @dylanowhyyien @babystay7 @sunlix143 @lailac13 @feelikecinderella @miellette @i-kylie @akindaflora @wobblewobble822 @bunbunbl0gs @puppyminnnie @ikeues @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @realrintaro @whydolife @ohmygays0 @hirayahhh @ebnabi @itstiredteenager0207 @maknaeontopof @yxna-bliss @smiileflower @h0rnyp0t @talkingsaxy @thatgirlangelb @stargazer-fox @sunfk88 @barbie-girl84 @ayedomino-08 @obsessivestay @seungminnieinthebuilding if im missing your tag please let me know, its hard doing this on one device :D
Its something about mirror sex and Chan that gets the me going so here is all my channeled feral energy I've been feeling about that menaces silver hair 😖
Silver Reflections - Bang Chan Smut
Word Count: 2,308
Rating: 🔞 Explicit
Warnings: Switch Chan, Brat Top Energy, Teasing & Denial, Mirror sex, Rough sex, Masturbation
You almost dropped your phone the first time he sent one of those selfies. Hair the color of stormlight, mussed from rehearsal; a chain glinting at his throat; the faintest smirk at the corner of his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing. Since the dye job, something wild clung to him, silver bright where shadows kissed, feral at the edges like he had stepped out of another world and only half belonged in this one. And he weaponized it. A snap of tousled hair falls into his eyes every morning before schedules. Every break in the studio: a low-angle shot of him with sweat dripping down his jaw. At night, just as you settled in, a text: Miss me? Paired with an image that made missing him hurt in places you didn't want to admit. And then he'd vanish into work, smug brat that he was. He thrived on it, pushing your patience, feeding the edge until it frayed.
Tonight, you decide, enough. You spend the afternoon preparing like it's a ritual: hair done nicely just to be ruined by the end of the night, your skin kissed with the perfume he always notices, lingerie chosen not for modesty but for how it looks barely veiled beneath the cheeky drape of a silk robe. The lights in the bedroom are dimmed to a golden hush, shadows pooling in corners, a single lamp angled to make the mirror gleam. The robe ties loose at your waist, so it's easy to let slip.
When the lock clicks and you hear his voice—"
Baby? You home?" You don't move.
"In here," you call, soft, deliberate.
His footsteps pad down the hall, hesitant at first, then firmer. The bedroom door creaks open, and he leans on the frame, hair damp from a late shower at the gym, still carrying the outside chill. His brow furrows when he sees you cross-legged on the bed, silk robe glimmering in the low light.
"What's this?" His chuckle is lazy, but his eyes dart quickly, betraying nerves.
You tilt your head, lips curling. "This is me... evening the score."
He raises his brows, but lets you guide him with a light tug to the bed. You make him sit facing the mirror, legs spread slightly, silver hair catching the lamplight in a way that makes your throat dry. “Don't move," you murmur. His shirt comes off slowly under your hands, fabric sliding over his toned arms. You lean down from behind, brushing your lips along the line of his jaw, his neck. His breath hitches softer than you expected. A pitiful little sound vibrates against your mouth, and when you glance up, his cheeks are flushed already.
"Such pretty noises," you whisper in his ear, letting your smirk bloom when you see his reflection. "But tonight... you're just going to look."
He shifts, confused. "Look?"
You don't answer. You lean back, circling until you kneel on the rug directly in front of him. The mirror frames you both: Chan, already restless, and you, silk robe falling open to reveal lace that leaves little to the imagination—his breath stutters.
You spread your knees deliberately, the fabric of your robe sliding down your shoulders. The only barrier left is delicate lace, the soft pattern drawn taut by your posture. You slowly trail a hand down your body, never breaking eye contact with him through the glass.
"Watch," you say simply.
The word lands heavily. His Adam's apple bobs, sweat pricks along his temple. He grips his knees to ground himself, eyes blown wide. In the reflection, you see him shift, the shape of his need obvious in the grey fabric of his sweats.
You keep your movements unhurried, teasing the straps of your bra, letting the silk fall completely open so that the lace and the skin beneath it are his only view. His lips part, a shaky exhale escaping. He groans softly when your fingers dip just below your stomach, brushing the lace but not yet slipping past.
"God, y/n..." His voice is hoarse, already breaking.
You bite your lip, savoring how his control unravels every second. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to breathe. But you clear your throat, sharp. "Open. Eyes on me."
The way he obeys, brown eyes snapping to yours in the mirror, glassy with need, sends a thrill down your spine. The lace of your underwear is a delicate barrier, shifting and teasing as you draw slow, deliberate circles over your pussy, feeling the heat build beneath your fingers.
Your breath hitches, a practiced rhythm that you know drives him wild. His knuckles turn white as he grips his thighs, the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort of restraint. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat beading at his temples and clinging to his silver strands of hair, glistening against his damp skin.
Pitiful noises spill from him, half-suppressed whines that escape despite his best efforts. Every time you moan his name, the sound drags a strangled groan out of him, his reflection trembling under the strain of his desire. His eyes are dark with need, begging for more.
The game intensifies as you lean back slightly, one hand braced behind you for support, the other tracing teasing paths lower, until the lace of your underwear strains and shifts aside. You feel the cool air against your skin, the anticipation building as you tease yourself, your fingers skimming over your clit, making you gasp.
His eyes widen, his breathing becoming more erratic as he watches your every move. You can see his body's tension and how his muscles coil. It is as if he's ready to spring forward, but he can't. He's at your mercy, a slave to your every whim.
The mirror reflects your pleasure, your face flushed and your eyes heavy-lidded. You can feel the wetness between your legs, the heat that builds with each touch. You know he's watching, his eyes never leaving your form, his body aching with need. His hips jerk forward with an involuntary spasm, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles bulge beneath his taut skin. "Y/n..." he pleads, his voice cracking with desperation, shivering with barely contained desire. In the mirror, his reflection is a picture of ruin, sweat glistening along the cords of his neck, pupils dilated to black pools of need.
You watch him unravel, his body trembling with the effort of restraint as he gazes at you, his erection straining against the thin fabric of his sweats. You hear the needy noises escaping from his throat, a symphony of raw, unfiltered lust. The imagined sight of his sweat-sheathed face above you, the promise of his body claiming yours, is almost too much to bear. But you hold back, wanting him to shatter first, to lose himself completely. You watch him teeter on the edge, his body trembling with the effort of control. The chain at his neck glints as he shudders, sweat beading and rolling down his flushed skin. You let yourself moan louder, a sound of pure, unadulterated desire, pushing him further until his hands clench into fists, knuckles white with strain.
Then, suddenly, he breaks.
A hand comes down, rough and trembling, cupping your chin and tilting your face to meet his gaze. His eyes lock onto yours, no longer through the mirror, but directly, filled with a feral, primal need that sends a shiver down your spine.
"Y/n." It leaves him as a plea and a growl, a sound that is both a question and a demand, a promise of the pleasure to come. You smirk, a slow, triumphant curve of your lips, just before his mouth crashes against yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, a clash of teeth and tongues as his moan spills against your lips. You slide your hand against his huge, throbbing bulge, teasing him, feeling him pulse beneath your touch. He grabs your wrist, his grip tight, unable to take any more of your torment. His eyes meet yours, dark with lust, almost feral in their intensity.
"What can't you handle a little teasing?" you taunt, your voice a low, sultry murmur. He grumbles, a sound that is half frustration, half anticipation, as he bends you over, his body pressing against yours, ready to claim you completely. "We'll see how much you can handle."
The switch is instantaneous, like a storm cloud rolling over the sun, casting a sudden shadow. His reflection looms behind you, a dark and dominating presence, as he teases your dripping cunt, rubbing the tip of his cock through your folds with excruciating slowness.
You bite back the pitiful noises threatening to escape your throat, the same desperate sounds he made as he watched you. You look down, putting your face into the mattress, arching your back, offering yourself to him. His voice is a dark purr, low and dangerous.
"Ah, ah," he chides. A sharp smack lands against your butt, not cruel but firm enough to make your body jolt. "You made me watch. Now it's your turn. Eyes open."
Your gaze flicks up, and the reflection hits you like a physical force. Your skin is flushed, your trembling thighs betraying your arousal. He looks at you with a predatory intensity, his eyes dark with desire as he continues to tease your hole. He sticks the tip in just a little bit, pulling back out, torturing you with the promise of more. Your body betrays you as you scoot back, practically begging for more, a whine leaving your mouth. He's no longer a want but a need, a primal force you can't resist.
"Look at you," he growls, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "Pathetic. So desperate. And still trying to be in control."
"Please," you whimper finally, the word broken and raw with desperation. The sound shatters whatever restraint he has left. He claims your mouth again, his breath ragged and hungry, before thrusting into you slowly, filling you up with every inch of his big, veiny cock. He lets out a low growl, watching your reaction in the mirror, his eyes locked on yours as you moan, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock stretching you, claiming you completely. Through the mirror, you see the feral gleam in his eyes, the way dominance sits on him like it was always waiting to be woken. His Thrusts become more complex and urgent, each pushing you deeper into the mirror's reflection. His hands grip your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he uses your body for his pleasure, and yours.
"Look at you," he growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your body. "So fucking beautiful, taking my cock like a good girl. Watch yourself in the mirror. Watch how well you take it." His words are a mix of praise and command, spurring you on as he fucks you harder. You can see his reflection, his muscles tensing with each thrust, his eyes locked on your body, your face, your eyes.
He fucks you with a relentless intensity, his cock driving into you with a force that steals your breath and scatters your thoughts. Each thrust is a claim, a possession, a promise of more. You can feel him everywhere, his hands gripping your hips, his body pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. The room is filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of your bodies coming together, a primal symphony of desire and need.
Your moans start low and desperate, countering his grunts and growls. They rise and fall with each thrust, a constant soundtrack to your pleasure. You can't help but let your eyes close, your body overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations.
"Look at you... can't even keep your eyes open, can you?" he taunts, his voice a low chuckle. "You're so fucking close, aren't you? I can feel your pussy clenching around me." His words mix praise and mockery, pushing you closer to the edge. He speeds up again, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more urgent. He's claiming you, marking you, and you're helpless to resist. Your moans become louder, more whiny, a symphony of pleasure.
"Good girl," he praises, his voice a low growl. "You're doing so fucking well. Now, watch yourself come undone for me." You follow, your eyes locked on your reflection as he goes deeper, hitting your G-spot again and again. Your orgasm rips through you, your body convulsing around his cock. Your moans turn into screams, your body shaking with the force of your release.
Even as you reach your climax, the intensity of the orgasm rippling through you, he doesn't stop. His hips continue to drive into you, chasing the final waves of pleasure, determined to fill you, and you meet him with equal fervor.
Chans body tenses as the first spurt of his orgasm hits, the sensation intense and overwhelming. He groans deeply, a sound of pure pleasure, as he feels his cum spill, filling you deeply. Each pulse of his release sends a fresh wave of warmth and satisfaction, coating your inner walls. He can feel every spasm, every ripple of your body as you take him in, your own pleasure heightened by the sensation of him flooding you. His lips press soft, tender kisses along your temple, down your cheek. The mirror reflects both of your flushed bodies, tangled and wild, eyes half-closed but soft with satisfaction.
"You drive me insane," he murmurs, his voice raw with emotion and exertion.
"You love it," you reply, voice a breathy whisper, spent but with a smile that speaks volumes. His answering chuckle is the final note of the symphony, a testament to your shared bliss.
Warnings: smut (minors DNI), dirty talk, pet names (babygirl), unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, power play, established relationship, dom!Chan, softdom!Chan, fingering, dom/sub dynamics, she's a little bratty, he's a bit of a brat tamer, choking, metal/rings, praise, teasing, consent is sexy, daddy kink (mockingly).
Summary: When the hotel door clicks shut behind him, I can’t hold back. Heat, metal, and need collide as I tease and surrender, rings biting, fingers claiming. Brats beware—submission has never felt this delicious.
Writer's note: This is a very short blurb inspired by Chan's look on MFW 2025.
━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━
The second the hotel door clicks shut behind him I’m already moving—no hesitation, no small talk. He startles, then melts, like heat finding ice; his hand comes up to cradle my jaw, fingers heavy and sure, anchoring me to him. The cool kiss of his rings bites at my flushed skin and the ache in my core climbs sharp and bright.
“I missed you too,” he breathes into my mouth, a soft laugh wrapped around the words.
“Prove it,” I dare him.
His head tilts, eyes hooded with lazy certainty, lips curving just enough to flash that dimple. The kind of look that says he’ll let me play brat all I want—only to break me down when he’s ready.
He steps away just long enough to shrug his coat off and drop it over the nearest chair, the motion slow, predatory. He watches me the whole time, every inch of him tuned to my response. Rings glint as he begins to slide them off.
“Don’t.” The word slips out before I can stop it.
His face softens in surprise—then he slides the band back down his finger without argument and closes the last sliver of space. His hands settle at my hips, solid and claiming, pulling me into the plane of his chest until I’m pressed to him.
“Why’d you stop me?” he murmurs, teeth grazing the corner of my mouth. “Is it the contrast?” His palms creep under my top, calluses and cool metal skimming warm skin. “Is it how they bite?” He tightens his hold; the rings press into me, edges sharp enough to sting. I shudder into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed.
When I open them, I find his—daring, hungry—and the words fall out of me like a challenge. “Choke me. Keep the rings on.”
He swears—low, guttural—then his hand is at my throat. The wall behind me becomes solid and immediate as he drives into me, thumb rubbing my pulse, pressure graduating from gentle to deliberate. The world narrows to the press of his palm, the scrape of cold metal, the rush of air when his mouth takes mine. His kiss is less question and more claim.
One hand slips under the waistband of my sweats, practiced fingers ghosting over fabric to find me. I grab for purchase on his shoulders, legs trembling; it’s humiliating how quickly I’ve gone slick—always for him, always like this.
When his fingers finally part my last layer, he makes a small, shocked sound. “Shit, you’re soaked.”
He presses forward. The hardness at my hip impossible to ignore.
“Just fuck me already,” I pant, breath thin.
His fingers squeeze harder—his metal-studded fingers digging into my neck. The ache between my thighs turns molten heat and I clench around nothing.
“Where would be the fun in that?” his mouth curves into a knowing smirk.
He teases—deliberate, and maddening. His fingers flirt with my entrance, toy with my sensitive core, then slide up to circle my clit before descending again. He repeats it, patient and wicked. The restraint is a living thing between us until I can’t take it.
“Chris, if you don’t—” I start, my voice breaking, and his fingers respond not with mercy but with precision. He slips in, then pumps hard and fast, filling and dragging and flattening his palm against me so friction lands right where it needs to. My back arches; my head knocks the wall with a sharp sound as my cry is swallowed by his mouth.
“I love that sound,” he rasps, teeth catching my lower lip, tongue sweeping the trapped flesh. The small noises I make spur him on—he devours each one.
My nails dig into his forearms, anchoring, begging for more while my body betrays me and wants the whole thing—his heat, his weight, him inside. “Please, Chris—come with me. Inside.”
He groans low, pulling back—one hand slipping from my throat, the other from between my thighs. The sudden absence makes me ache, my skin tingling where his fingertips had pressed.
“Strip from the waist down,” he orders, voice rough as he works the button of his trousers.
I don’t hesitate. The ache inside me leaves no room for it. He lays each piece with deliberate care atop his coat—methodical, precise—muscles in his back flexing as he bends. The sheer fabric of his shirt clings to him, translucent enough to tease every line of muscle, every shift of sinew, and it makes the burn between my thighs go molten. His boxers follow, folded with the same neatness, before he turns back to me, cock in hand, lazily stroking. Pearls of precum catch the light.
My mouth waters. I want him on my tongue.
“Later,” he chuckles, catching the thought as easily as if I’d spoken it aloud.
I reach for him anyway, palms splayed on his hips. The lace of his shirt brushes my skin, a soft drag that only sharpens the need gnawing at me.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he commands.
The second he hooks his hands beneath my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, I obey. My ankles cross behind him, locking us together.
“Such a good girl tonight?” he purrs, lips grazing mine.
“I know how to behave when I want to get dicked down,” I murmur against his mouth, biting playfully at his bottom lip.
His laugh rumbles through me, low and bright. “Hold on tight.”
“Yes, daddy,” I tease, pitching my voice high and mocking.
He grins, wicked and unbothered. “One day, I’ll wring it out of you for real. Make you beg for it.”
“I’d like to see you try.” My lips trail the cut of his jaw, lower, to his throat. My teeth catch his earring, tugging gently.
His answering groan vibrates against my mouth as he drags his cock against me, then thrusts in one sharp, brutal motion. The world narrows to the stretch, the shock of him filling me all at once. We moan together, the sound raw, jagged.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps, his forehead pressing to mine.
“Fuck, you’re big,” I breathe, eyes fluttering shut as my walls clench around him.
He laughs softly, his chest trembling with it. For a moment he stays still, letting my body adjust, peppering soft kisses against my cheek—almost tender, at odds with the way he stretches me open. Then he leans back, studying me with heat pooled dark in his eyes.
“Ready?” he asks, voice low, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” My breath comes fast, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Wreck me, baby.”
So he does.
He pulls out until only the tip remains, then slams back in with a force that rattles me against the wall. The rhythm he sets is merciless—not rushed, not leisurely, but paced with intention, each thrust a demand. His fingers clamp tighter around my thighs, the cool bite of metal carving into my skin, leaving the promise of bruises.
I fist his hair, angling his mouth to mine, and the kiss turns chaotic—teeth, tongue, need. He swallows every broken sound I make, and the grip on my thighs turns brutal each time my moans break free. Then he shifts, upping the pace—harder, faster, relentless—driving every filthy sound out of me, claiming them like they belong to him. The slick slap of our bodies echoes in the room, obscene and perfect.
“Fuck,” I gasp into the sliver of air between us. “I love it when you fuck me like this.”
“Yeah?” His voice is ragged, every word shuddering with effort.
“Yeah,” I hum, almost smug, letting the hand in his hair trail down, tracing the corded ridges of his arm.
“Tell me more,” he urges, his forehead pressed to mine, strands of silver hair sticking damp to his skin. His hips snap forward, sharp and precise, each thrust punctuating his words. “Is it the sounds we make?” The smack of skin against skin is loud, relentless, underscored by my moans. “Is it the way I fuck you raw?” He slows just enough for me to feel the drag of him inside me, stretching me with agonizing care. “Or is submitting?” His hands spread my thighs wider, opening me further for him, his voice dipping to a murmur.
“All of it,” I breathe, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek—gentle, almost reverent—wildly at odds with the way he’s wrecking me.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans, voice strangled. “Touch yourself for me, baby. I want to feel you lose it on me.”
I obey without hesitation. My hand slides down, fingertips finding the swollen bundle of nerves aching for relief. The jolt makes me clutch his shoulder tighter, my own rhythm frantic as I circle, faster, tighter. He growls, pounding into me harder, chasing every reaction.
“Yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, eyes locked on where my fingers move and he disappears inside me. “Use me however you need.”
The combination is too much—his cock pounding deep, my fingers working fast—and I break. “Fuck, Chris,” I sob, “don’t stop—I’m right there—”
My head falls back, thunking against the wall as the orgasm crashes through me, sudden and violent. My body seizes, then shatters, his name spilling from my lips like prayer. He holds me up, fucking me through the waves, driving harder still as he chases his own end.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he stammers, thrusts turning ragged, desperate.
With a final groan, he spills into me, his body shuddering, forehead dropping to my shoulder. His breath comes uneven, chest heaving against mine.
“Holy shit,” he laughs softly, the sound incredulous.
“Agreed,” I pant, sliding trembling fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp gently as the high ebbs.
“I’m gonna put you down,” he warns, easing his grip. The release of his hands leaves the sting of pressure behind, and I wince slightly as my feet hit the floor. The marks will be there tomorrow—bright, purple, shaped by steel and skin.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, guilt lacing his voice.
“Don’t be,” I answer before he can spiral. My legs wobble, but I steady myself. “I asked you to keep them on.”
His smile blooms, dimple deep and wicked. “Worth it?”
I return it, breathless and sure. “Very.”
Hidden into the Light @hiddeninthe-light - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
gummygunk
stormborns
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
