Pairing: idol!Hongjoong x f!reader
Genre: fluff, established relationship, romance, slice of life
It starts with the soft click of the front door, the sound you’ve come to recognize as Hongjoong trying to sneak back into the apartment without waking you. Normally, you’d be asleep by now. He knows that, counts on it even. But tonight something keeps you hovering at the edge of consciousness. Maybe it’s the cold December air seeping through the curtains, or the faint glow bleeding from under the studio door.
Or maybe it’s just him. It’s always him.
A few days before Christmas, everything around you feels dipped in gold. The living room twinkles with lights, the faint smell of cinnamon still drifting from the cookies you’d baked earlier. You’d wanted him to help, but he’d been busy with schedules, meetings, rehearsals, busy being Hongjoong. You never complain. But he still caught the disappointment you tried to hide, the way he always does.
You shift quietly out of bed and pad across the hallway, socks muffling your steps. The studio door is cracked open, a slice of warm yellow cutting through the dark. You push gently, letting your eyes adjust.
He’s hunched over his desk, shoulders slightly tense, blond hair messy and falling into his eyes. A soft lamp glows beside him, illuminating his hands, ink stained fingers working slowly, meticulously at something small and delicate. He doesn’t notice you at first. His concentration is too intense.
You lean against the doorway and whisper, “Joong?”
His head jerks up in surprise, and then he smiles, sheepish, tired, but soft in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “What are you doing awake?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He sighs dramatically and drops his head back. “I was supposed to finish this before you woke up. Guess that didn’t go as planned.”
You step closer, curiosity pulling you forward. On the desk sits a tiny collection of beads, thin cords, and a few metal charms shaped like stars and snowflakes. It looks like something you’d find at a craft market, handmade, imperfect, absolutely full of heart.
“Are you making something?” you ask, even though the answer is obvious.
He presses his lips together, embarrassed. “It was supposed to be a surprise for Christmas. Or maybe before Christmas. I haven’t decided.”
Your eyes widen a little. “You’re making it? By hand?”
“That was the idea.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I know I could’ve just bought something, but” his voice softens “I wanted you to have something that I put time into. Something that feels like you’re worth the effort.”
Something warm rushes to your chest. “Hongjoong…”
He waves you off quickly, cheeks pink. “Don’t say anything yet. It’s not done.”
Despite his protests, he lets you settle beside him. The room feels smaller now, cozy, wrapped around the two of you. A winter song plays softly from his speakers, barely audible but enough to make the moment feel cinematic.
You watch his hands move again, steady and careful as he threads a small star shaped charm onto the cord. “I had this idea a few weeks ago,” he says quietly. “You told me once that you loved handmade gifts because they feel like pieces of someone. Like they’re giving you time instead of an object.”
“I did say that,” you whisper.
“Well.” He nudges your knee with his. “I don’t have much time to give. But the time I have, I want to spend it on you.”
Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement, but coming from him, someone who lives in constant motion, who sacrifices sleep and rest and peace for his dreams, it feels monumental.
He looks down at the charm again, threading another bead. “I know I haven’t been around much. I know you were lonely today. And yesterday.” His voice cracks just barely. “I hate that.”
“You’re doing your best,” you tell him immediately. “I never want you to feel guilty for chasing what you love.”
“But I love you too,” he says without hesitation. “And I never want you to feel like you’re waiting alone.”
Your heart beats so hard it almost hurts.
The bracelet is nearly finished now, silver and white beads, tiny accents that look like falling snow. Small imperfections dot the string, but they make it even more beautiful. You can see him in it. Earnest, meticulous, a little messy, a lot wanting to love you well.
He holds it out to you unsurely. “It’s not much. But I wanted you to have something I made with my own hands.”
You reach for it slowly, like it’s something fragile. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles, soft and relieved. “Let me put it on you?”
You nod, and he gently wraps it around your wrist, fingers brushing your skin with careful reverence. When he ties the final knot, he looks up at you with eyes full of something warm and aching.
“It suits you,” he whispers.
“It feels like you,” you answer.
He laughs under his breath, and then his arms pull you closer, slowly at first as if giving you the chance to pull away, but you don’t. You tuck yourself against him, breathing in the faint scent of paint, cologne, and winter air lingering on his jacket.
“I’m sorry for all the nights I came home late,” he murmurs into your hair.
“And I’m grateful for every night you come home at all,” you reply.
He tightens his hold around you. “I’ll make it up to you. Not just with gifts or little things like this. I want to be present. Even if it’s ten minutes before bed. Even if it’s just making you a cup of tea before I leave for practice.”
“You’re here now,” you say simply. “That’s enough.”
He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Merry almost Christmas, baby.”
You look down at the bracelet, shimmering in the warm lamplight. “It’s going to be a good one.”
“With you,” he whispers, “it always is.”
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