Joy stories

Han biased Skz fan that enjoys writing and hopes others like reading my stuff!-SFW only 🩷 TAKING REQUESTS 🩷

[joystories11]

Joystories Masterlist!

Bangchan:

Unimaginable

Learning to Love- PT.1. *NEW!*

Lee know:

Take the Leap

Changbin:

Coming soon....

Hyunjin:

Morning Moments

Han Jisung:

Cosplay Chemistry- PT.1. PT.2.

The Taste of Comfort

Cloud Nine

Felix:

Rotten Apples

Seungmin:

Love and Dreams

I.N:

The Color Yellow- Valentines Event

[joystories11]

100 FOLLOWERS

Holy crap! Thank you all so so so so SO much!!!! This is insane to me!

I now officially have 100 people that loved my writing enough to follow me and motivate me through every step of the way. I'm so grateful for this experience because I started writing just for my own joy without think much people would read it.

But here I am now! My first Fanfiction of Han Jisung at the Anime Expo was a huge success, and so has many of the other ones I've released 🩷 something like this means a lot to me, and I can't put it into words how amazing, wonderful, and ecstatic this situation is. So again thank you all SOOOOO much for this.

You mean the world to me!

(Chapter Two of Learning to Love will be released soon as well! ☺️)

[joystories11]

Learning to Love: Tethered

When you find yourself in an arranged marriage you figure maybe life won't be so hard as long as at least someones on your side. But when you find Bang Chan, the man who holds your future in his hands, has feelings for another woman how are you supposed to keep being the wife his parents want you to be?

Pairing: Arranged marriage! Bang Chan x Reader

Genre/tags: LOTS OF ANGST, I did as much of it as I possibly could. Mentions of depression, suicidal thoughts, abusive family members, expectations, and cheating. There is no comfort whatsoever in this (that'll come in later chapters)

Word count: 10k

[note]: I'm so sorry it's taken so long! I've never written like heavy angst before and there was so much I wanted to incorporate in this chapter that I wasn't sure where to go. I hope I did a good enough job with @firstdivisiongirl request, and thank you so much for being my first request! I put a lot of heart into this chapter, and included lots of symbolism which I love.

MASTERLIST

The cathedral is breathtaking. The moment you step inside, it feels less like entering a building and more like stepping into something coming right out of your dreams. Towering stained-glass windows stretch high above, each one a masterpiece of color and light. Works of glass artistry surround you on every side, their intricate designs telling quiet stories in fragments of crimson, deep sapphire, and royal violet. When you glance around at the guests filling the pews, their faces, some are familiar, some famous, and some beloved, seem almost framed by the glowing panels behind them, as if they too are part of the cathedral’s living portrait. Sunlight pours through the glass in soft, radiant streams, spilling across the stone floor in pools of red, dark purple, and deep blue. The colors drift across your dress and the polished aisles like watercolor, moving gently whenever the light shifts. Above it all, crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, each delicate strand catching the light and scattering it into a thousand pieces of light. They shimmer in a way that reminds you strangely of a crystal ball, something mystical and luminous, as though the future itself is being reflected in those tiny glints of light.

From the high arches of the ceiling, long streamers cascade downward like elegant vines. They sway softly in the faintest movement of air, their silky fabric catching the light in a way that makes them appear almost weightless. Their color matches your dress perfectly, as though the entire cathedral had been dressed for this moment alone. The faint scent of rose lingers in the air, sweet and delicate, weaving together with the low, swelling music of the orchestra behind you. Violins hum softly, cellos rise and fall in gentle waves, and the melody floats through the cathedral like a whispered promise.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve imagined a day like this. Not in the vague way children imagine their futures, but that it's actually been a guarantee since you were little. You knew somewhere along the line you would get married to the man of your dreams. You imagined the soft rustle of silk as you walk, the golden light pouring through tall cathedral windows. You thought about it so much you almost knew the hush of the crowd waiting with held breath, as though the entire world understands that something precious is about to begin. Even as a little girl, you believed in this moment with unwavering certainty. This is the day you’re supposed to get your happily ever after.

Except you won't.

In no way shape or form was this the fairytale you had imagined. You didn’t even know what to call this. Every little bit of it feels wrong in a way that makes your chest tighten with quiet frustration. The light spilling through the cathedral windows is warm and golden, perfectly arranged to look like sunlight pouring through ancient glass. But you know it isn’t real. It’s positioned lighting, carefully designed to imitate something genuine. Yes, it's beautiful, and convincing, but it's also fake. Fake. Fake. Fake. The streamers hanging high above are delicate and expensive, drifting softly in the air whenever someone moves beneath them. Silk, only the finest, the kind people brag about in planning meetings and glossy magazines. But silk was never what you would have chosen. Satin drapes better. It falls heavier, more gracefully, catching light in deeper folds instead of floating away like something that was never meant to stay. You remember thinking that once, long ago, when someone asked what kind of wedding you imagined. You would have chosen satin. The orchestra behind you swells into another sweeping melody, their instruments filling the cathedral with flawless sound. They’re world-renowned, every musician carefully selected, their presence alone meant to make the moment feel grand. And still, the music irritates you. Because it’s all wrong. Every song is safe. Familiar. The kind of melody played at a thousand weddings before this one, selected because it’s universally agreeable and impossible to dislike. It was chosen by your mother because it’s the same playlist played at her wedding. But the orchestra doesn’t know that. They play perfectly, their notes rising into the high arches of the cathedral as if this moment belongs to them more than it ever belonged to you.

Your steps echo faintly against the stone floor as you move forward, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the hall. The cathedral is magnificent, towering pillars carved with delicate patterns, walls covered in murals that scholars travel across oceans to study. Stories from history, and stories from literature. Stories that people label “beautiful”. But as your eyes drift across them, irritation settles deeper into your chest. Because these stories aren’t happy ones. They’re tragedies dressed in elegance. Lovers separated by duty. Devotion twisted into sacrifice. Grand romances that end not with joy, but with quiet resignation. Like how people say Romeo and Juliet is romantic, but at the end of the day their love still killed them. It's all simple heartbreak, carefully preserved in paint and gold leaf.

The entire place feels like a warning. Each step forward makes that feeling stronger, like you’re walking deeper into a story that has already been written for you. One you never asked to be part of.

You know the windows are fake. You noticed the moment you arrived, the way the light never shifts quite right, the way the colors look too perfect to belong to real sunlight. Artificial beauty, built to convince people they’re witnessing something timeless. Still, as you walk, you can’t shake the strange feeling of being watched. There, along the wall between towering arches, hangs a portrait that most people probably pass without noticing. A woman painted in soft, fading tones, her posture elegant, her expression composed in that careful way portraits demand. Consuelo Vanderbilt. On the day of her wedding in 1895, the ceremony was magnificent. Society crowded in to watch, newspapers praised the union, and the bride herself looked every inch the fairytale duchess the world expected. But behind her veil, Consuelo was crying. She had been in love with another man, and the life she wanted had quietly slipped away the moment she stepped onto the aisle. The marriage that followed produced heirs and titles and glittering appearances, but not happiness. Years later it would finally be undone, the union annulled after decades of quiet misery, leaving behind a story that looked like a fairytale from the outside and felt nothing like one from within.

At the end of the long aisle stands your future husband.

Bang Chan. He cuts a striking figure even from this distance, tall, composed, the dark fall of his hair perfectly styled as though not a single strand has ever dared disobey him. His eyes, sharp and restless, sweep towards you as you get closer and closer. They have always reminded people of a wolf’s: alert, intelligent, watchful. His hands move absently over the front of his vest, smoothing the fabric again and again, a quiet attempt to rid his palms of sweat. The gesture is ever so small, but it only draws attention to the strength in his arms, the way the fabric of his shirt shifts as he moves, the controlled breath rising and falling beneath it. Anyone watching would see perfection. And truly, he is the kind of man people dream about. Strong without needing to prove it. Intelligent in a way that makes people trust him almost immediately. Kind, too, painfully kind sometimes, the sort of man who remembers small details and offers gentle smiles that make strangers feel safe.

A man people fall in love with easily. A man people would envy you for marrying. Yet as you get closer your stomach drops to your feet rolling behind you as you keep moving forward and forward. Because you don’t love him, and he doesn’t love you. No matter what, this date isn’t something that will be remembered kindly in your memories. It feels like you're being shoved into a role you didn’t agree to, and the worst part is you can’t even be mad at him because he didn’t arrange it.

You step forward slowly, your hands wrapped tightly around the bouquet in front of you. If anyone in the crowd were looking closely, they might notice how stiff you seem. How your shoulders barely move. How every step lands with a dull, careful thump against the cathedral floor, as though you’re forcing your body forward rather than walking willingly. With every step, something inside you seems to give way. A dream. A plan. A future you once imagined for yourself. It's all crushed quietly beneath your feet. Maybe things wouldn’t feel so suffocating if you were being forced to marry someone ordin ary. Literally anyone else. Someone whose name wouldn’t swallow you whole.

Except Bang Chan is famous, painfully, overwhelmingly famous. The kind of famous that reshapes rooms when he walks into them. He can fill stadiums and headlines and conversations between strangers. He’s made billions from records, music videos, and the company he manages with relentless precision. People call him brilliant. Visionary. A man who built an empire with his own hands. From the outside, it looks like he is living his dream every single day. And because he shines so brightly, everyone around him fades. From this day on, you will never simply be Y/N L/N again. You will be introduced differently. Spoken about differently. Seen differently. People will look at you and see his wife before they see you. Some won’t even bother learning your name. Others will try, only to forget it moments later, replacing it with the title that now defines you. Interviews will mention you briefly. Articles will reduce you to a supporting role in a life that was never yours to begin with. And the worst part? Some will even assume everything you accomplished before today somehow belongs to him too. That your achievements were stepping stones leading neatly toward his shadow. Every single accomplishment you have ever made in your life will be chalked up to the man your chained to for the rest of your life.

A shaky breath escapes you before you can stop it, the sound thin with suppressed rage and something far more fragile underneath. Sadness. Because there is nothing you can do. Not here. Not now. There isn’t a single action you could take at this moment that wouldn’t destroy everything around you. If you stop walking, you become ungrateful. Cruel. A scandal. If you speak up, the world will twist your words until you sound heartless. So you keep walking, slowly getting closer and closer to the man waiting patiently at the end of the aisle. He won't ever mean to, but he's about to take everything from you. Life can be unbearably cruel like that.

You reach the stand, and the pope stands between you, holding the Bible carefully in his hands. His lips move, forming words that are meant to carry weight and meaning, but all you hear is a distant, muffled buzz, like a broken radio that refuses to cooperate. The sound presses against your skull, relentless, and all you can do is stand there and let it wash over you, knowing there is nothing to be done. A ray of sunlight cuts across your vision as you try to look at Bang Chan, searching for something, anything, that might feel like comfort. His eyes are steady, wolf-like, unreadable, and you aren’t sure he would offer solace even if he wanted to. The brightness stings, forcing you to squint, and your gaze wanders elsewhere in the room, trying to grasp something familiar in the overwhelming ceremony.

Your eyes fall on the tables. The people seated there are watching, waiting for something to happen, but you can’t bring yourself to meet their gaze. Instead, you fixate on the flowers arranged before them. Your favorite. Roses.

Except… They're all Dead roses.

You can’t tell if you want to laugh, wild, bitter, unhinged at the sheer irony of it all, or collapse into yourself, curling tight into a ball so small that the world might forget you even exist. The thought of crying feels heavier, somehow inevitable, and deep down you know it will win in the end. But it won’t matter. Not after today. No one will notice the tears. No one will remember the quiet fire that once burned inside you, the dreams you carried so fiercely. From this moment on, you will vanish beneath a name that isn’t truly yours, beneath a life chosen for you, beneath a man whose fame will eclipse everything you were ever meant to be.

None of it matters. “May this union be one of steadfast devotion and quiet understanding.”

None of this matters at all. “May you walk beside one another with patience, with grace, and with the strength to honor the promises made here today.”

None of it will make a difference “Though love may grow in ways unseen, may duty guide your steps, and may respect be the foundation upon which your lives together are built.”

None of your achievements will ever be yours. “For even when the heart is uncertain, the vows spoken before the world remain.”

Nothing about you matters.

You. Don’t. Matter.

It’s now the first week after your wedding, and you can count on one hand the number of words exchanged with Bang Chan outside the safe, hollow phrases of married life: “Good morning.” “How was work?” “The weather looks nice.” Every other conversation feels like a void you’re both too polite, or too distant, to fill. The mansion you now call home doesn’t help. It’s easily the largest building you’ve ever set foot in, yet it feels colder and emptier than any place you’ve known. Room after room stretches endlessly, silent, bare, and waiting for something, anything, to give it life. But what can you put in these spaces when half of your belongings are still delayed in shipping? Your wardrobe is incomplete, your furniture scattered, and the walls echo in emptiness as though mocking your presence. It’s more a hotel than a home.

Furniture sits in neat clusters as though waiting for someone to use it, but the emptiness of the walls and the silence of the floors remind you that no one ever really does. In some rooms windows rise from floor to ceiling, flooding the rooms with sunlight that feels harsh and uninviting rather than comforting. Drapes of heavy velvet hang untouched, the kind that should frame moments of laughter or comfort, yet they only emphasize the stillness. Even the staircase, sweeping and grand, feels more like an exhibit than a way to get from one floor to another, every step echoing too loudly in the cavernous halls. There are corners that are so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat in them, and rooms so vast they could host a hundred people without feeling crowded. Yet, despite all the wealth and opulence, the mansion has no soul. It doesn’t belong to anyone, and now, neither do you.

You sit staring at the clock in the living room, not that you spend much time there, it’s just a place with a clock now. The hands move faithfully, marking the hours and minutes, but there’s no heartbeat in the room, no laughter, no warmth, no life. It is a perfectly polished reminder that even in a home that should be yours, you are still a stranger. Nothing here feels alive. Not the rooms. Not the furniture. Not even you.

It’s 11:02 p.m., and Bang Chan still isn’t home. The last few nights he had been arriving around 7:30 sharp, like clockwork. The front doors would open, quiet footsteps crossing the marble foyer, and he would expect dinner to already be set neatly on the table, plates warm, silverware placed just right. And you there too, standing by the door like some picture-perfect welcome. You scoff quietly to yourself at the memory.

At the wedding, his friend Hwang Hyunjin had leaned over with an easy shrug and told you, “Just, y’know… Bang Chan likes a classic wife.” You can still hear the casual way he said it. “Sit there and look pretty. Maybe greet him at the door when he comes home from work. Be ready to give him a massage here and there.” As if he were giving helpful advice. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. You know he was just trying to help the marriage, he was aware it was something you both weren't a huge fan of so he was probably just trying to give you advice to make Chan like you more. But you're not a frickin trad wife.

Who does he think he is?

You are not a decoration to be placed neatly inside his mansion. You are not some trophy he gets to keep polished and smiling beside him. You had a life before this, things to do, people to meet, work that mattered. You had responsibilities that were yours and yours alone. Or at least you did. You had to quit your job the day after you married him. The memory still stings in a dull, irritated way, like a bruise you keep accidentally pressing. Officially it had been about privacy, about avoiding “unnecessary media attention.” About making things easier for everyone involved. In reality, it just meant your life completely stopped. And the truth is, wandering around this enormous mansion all day with nothing to do would drive anyone insane. So despite your pride, despite the irritation that crawls under your skin every time you think about Hyunjin’s stupid advice, you find yourself doing exactly what he described. Dinner gets made, and the table gets set. You listen for the sound of the front doors opening. The worst part is that the routine gives the day shape. Without it, the hours inside this house would blur together into one endless stretch of silence and marble floors. But tonight the house remains still.

The clock ticks somewhere in the distance. 11:03. He's always on time. That’s why it feels strange that he’s late.

By now Bang Chan should have been home hours ago, stepping through the tall front doors with that quietness of his. You would have been able to hear his footsteps in the foyer, the faint rustle of his jacket, maybe even a short polite exchange about dinner. Instead, the mansion remains silent. You can’t even say you’re worried. As terrible as it sounds, the honest thought creeps in anyway: if something had happened to him, most of your current problems would disappear overnight. The marriage. The expectations. The suffocating role waiting for you every evening at the front door.

But that thought doesn’t bring relief. Mostly… you’re just bored. Like embarrassingly bored. Avoiding conversation with him had somehow become your main source of entertainment. Watching the clock, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if tonight would be another awkward dinner filled with stiff small talk, it had at least given the evening some kind of event to look forward to. Now even that is gone.

With nothing else to do, you end up stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The hardwood beneath your fingertips is cool and smooth as you idly drag your fingers across it, tracing invisible patterns in the grain. Outside, the night is clear.Starlight slips through the tall windows, faint and silver, casting strange shifting shadows across the ceiling above you. The shapes twist and stretch as clouds drift slowly past, turning into something almost alive.

One of them looks like a bird with crooked wings. Another looks like a deer, missing its antlers. Every single one of them seems trapped. It makes you angry.

You start giving them names just to keep your mind at bay. It’s easier than thinking too much. Because when you think too much, your mind drifts somewhere else. It takes you back home. Back to the people you left behind. Callie appears in your memory first, as she always does when you let your thoughts wander too far. Sandy hair that never quite stayed where she put it, bright blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle when she laughed. She had this terrible habit of caring too much about everyone around her. The kind of empathy that made even small problems feel devastating.

She cried at movies, and she cried when animals got hurt, and she once cried because a stranger on the train looked lonely. You chuckle slightly because it seems in every memory you have with her she's crying. But gosh you miss her tears. Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell her you were leaving.

The thought settles heavy in your chest. God. You didn’t tell your best friend you were leaving the country. You didn’t warn her. Didn’t say goodbye. You just disappeared, cut off contact completely, like the entire life you had before this wedding was something you could neatly fold away and store in a box. Your hand stills against the floor as the realization sinks in deeper. What did you do?

You groan softly, the sound swallowed by the cavernous room as small tears prick at the corners of your eyes. The image of Callie won’t leave your mind now that it’s there. You can almost see her, pacing somewhere back home with that frantic energy she always had when she was worried. Blonde braids tied up messily, her blue eyes now oh so red and watery. She would absolutely be the type to wander the streets looking for you, phone clutched in her hand, calling again and again even after the line goes straight to voicemail. Just in case. Because Callie never gave up on people.

Your throat tightens painfully. You want to go back. Back to those late nights sitting on her bedroom floor, when everything in life felt huge and overwhelming and she would just wrap her arms around you without asking questions. She’d cry with you, even if she didn’t fully understand why you were crying in the first place. You want that again. You want to tell her how much you miss her. How painfully boring this massive, stupid mansion is. How the silence here feels like it’s swallowing you whole. You want to be with the one person who actually understands you.

And yet you aren't allowed to even look at her contact picture.

Somewhere in the house, the old beams shift slightly as a gust of wind pushes against the massive walls. The building creaks, a low, quiet sound that blends into the endless silence. Outside, a car pulls into the long driveway. The faint glow of headlights passes briefly across the tall windows, and the little starlight creatures dancing across your ceiling slowly fade away enraptured in darkness. But your mind doesn’t register it. Your world has shrunk to the tightness in your chest.

Your throat closes suddenly, panic rising in a sharp wave before it loosens just enough for you to gasp in a breath that turns into a harsh cough. The air feels thin, like your lungs have forgotten how to work properly. Your nails dig into your palms without mercy. You didn't notice the car pulling up, and now you don't register the pain coming from your palm. You aren't sure if you did, you would care. Maybe you deserve it. Your thoughts spiral darker with every passing second, searching desperately for some version of the future where things improve, where this suffocating life somehow transforms into something you can survive. But every path you imagine seems to twist the same way. The only way for things to change… is for something to break first. Worse. Worse. Worse again. A tear slips down the side of your face before you can stop it. You wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand, almost angrily. You haven’t cried yet. You've been too scared to start because you know once you do you won't be able to stop.

A quiet cough comes from the corner of the living room. You jolt upright immediately, heart leaping into your throat as you scramble to your feet. Your hands brush quickly over the back of your clothes, dusting away anything that might have clung to them from the floor. You didn't even hear Bang Chan come home from work. Or well… your husband come home from work.

He’s standing a few steps away, one hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck while his teeth catch briefly on his bottom lip. His eyes flicker downward almost immediately, like he’s suddenly fascinated by the polished floor beneath his shoes. It’s like painfully awkward. And you’re fairly sure he can see it, the faint redness in your eyes, the way your face still feels warm from almost crying. The last thing you want right now is for him to ask about it. But he doesn’t, and you’re not about to be the one to bring it up.

“Your home!” you say quickly, the words coming out a little too bright. Your gaze drops toward the floor as well, mirroring him without meaning to. “I didn’t hear you come in from the front door.”

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “I’m sure you must’ve been busy with something.” Busy. The word lands in your chest like a stone. For a moment you just stare at the floorboards, jaw tightening as frustration curls slowly in your stomach. Is he serious? Busy!? You haven’t had anything to do in this enormous house except wander through empty rooms and rot inside your own thoughts. Hell, sure you're busy. Busy pretending the silence doesn’t make you feel like you’re slowly disappearing.

When the rules for this arranged marriage were set, you hadn’t been given a say in any of it. Not one decision had been yours to make. As far as you know, it had all been decided by him and the people surrounding him, contracts signed, expectations laid out neatly like items on a checklist. He needed someone from another wealthy family. And you happened to be someone that fit that box. He set the rules. He knows you had to quit your job. He knows you cut off contact with your coworkers. Your friends. Your life. You have nothing left outside these walls. So what exactly does he think you’ve been busy with?

“Not really.” The words slip out before you can soften them.

“Oh.” Bang Chan mumbles, the quiet sound falling awkwardly into the large room. For a moment neither of you moves. A small part of you feels bad when you see the way his shoulders shift slightly, because he certainly wasn't expecting that. But another part of you, that isn't that small, feels something else entirely. It's a feeling called Pride. Because for the first time since this entire arrangement began, you actually said something real. It wasn’t much, yet it's the only real thing you've gotten since you got that damn contract.

And somehow that tiny crack in the silence feels… good. A little more can’t hurt, right? Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you search for the courage to keep going. Your heart beats a little faster now, the words building behind your teeth before you can second-guess them. You just need to say something. Literally Anything.

“Maybe if you took the time to talk to me more,” you say, your voice quieter now but still firm, “you would know that.”

Bang Chan steps into his office and shuts the door a little harder than he means to. The sound echoes through the room as he runs a hand through his hair, veins standing out faintly along his neck. His jaw tightens as the events from last night replay in his head again, and again, and again. It’s pissing him off. The night had already been difficult before that moment ever happened. For weeks now he’d been waking up with the same hollow feeling sitting heavy in his stomach, like something was wrong but he couldn’t quite reach it. It followed him everywhere, closer than his own shadow. When he woke up in the morning. When he drove to work. When he tried to fall asleep at night in a bed that suddenly felt too big. Darkness clung to every step. Sometimes he caught himself wanting to say something about it, to someone, anyone, but every time the thought surfaced, another voice followed close behind. It was always his mother’s. She was never rude, she just had so many expectations. She was getting older now, the years catching up to her more visibly every time he visited. And with that came all the wishes she had for him, the quiet hopes she never stopped carrying.

Stability. Respectability. A family.

Life had never been easy for her when he was younger. He had been a nightmare of a kid back then, always getting into fights, always pushing back against anything that tried to box him in. Teachers called constantly. Principals knew his name too well. She had fought hard to keep him on the right path. And for a while, he tried. He really did! He went to school so he could study law. Chan sat through lectures and internships and long nights staring at contracts he didn’t care about. He told himself it was the right thing to do. But every time he walked into a courtroom or opened another legal textbook, there was a quiet, irritating truth perched in the back of his mind. He loved music too much, And eventually, he chose it.

He built something from it. SKZ co is something he will never, ever regret. It's how he met his closest friends, and was able to pursue every dream of his. It was something the entire world seemed to admire. Yet somehow, standing in the middle of it all now, inside a massive office overlooking a city that practically moved to the rhythm of his name, He still felt empty. Bang Chan exhales slowly, leaning his hands against the edge of his desk as the tension in his shoulders refuses to loosen. He had been lucky, and trust him, he knows that better than anyone. His mother could have shut it all down the moment he said he wanted music instead of law. She could have forced him to stay in school, pushed him into a career that looked respectable on paper and stable in the eyes of everyone watching. But she didn’t. In fact she supported him through the long nights and terrible early recordings, through the risk of pouring everything into something that might have collapsed at any moment. When the company was barely holding itself together and every investor looked uncertain, she had still believed in him. He couldn't have asked for a better mom.

If she hadn’t… none of this would exist, and his life would look completely different. The least he could do in return, the absolute least, was give her one thing she had always wanted. Marrying someone wealthy enough to maintain the family’s standing solved everything neatly. It tied together the expectations of both families, kept the image clean, and reassured his mother that the future she worried about was secure. That was all he had to do.

So why does it feel like he can’t breathe?

His fingers tighten slightly against the desk as the contradiction creeps back into his thoughts like it always does. Because the entire world he built… stands on the exact opposite belief. Everything his company represents revolves around one simple message: follow your own calling. Be different. Be fearless. Build your life around what you love instead of what people expect from you. It’s the foundation of everything he tells the artists under him. Everything he tells the fans. Actually, everything he tells the world.

Yet every morning he wakes up in a marriage that contradicts every word of it. His mother’s wishes pull him one direction, heavy with gratitude and loyalty he can never repay. But the moment he remembers he’s married to someone he doesn’t love, the weight presses against his chest again. Two ideals, constantly colliding. His jaw tightens as the question slips into his mind again, the same one that’s been haunting him since the wedding. Is it all worth it?

Bang Chan wants to scream, and cry until he can't think. The feeling claws its way up his chest so suddenly that for a moment he has to grip the edge of his desk just to steady himself. He wants to yell at someone, anyone, about how unfair all of this feels. How strange it is that a man who built an entire empire around freedom and passion somehow ended up trapped inside a life he never truly chose. In some twisted way, it feels like every path has already been decided for him. The guilt never stops. It gnaws at him quietly every second of the day, working its way deeper into his thoughts. Because how is he supposed to say it out loud? How does he sit across from the woman who sacrificed so much for him and admit that the one thing she asked for in return might be the one thing he can’t give? His mother isn’t cruel. That’s what makes it the absolute worst.

Chan exhales shakily and sinks down into the leather chair behind his desk, the soft creak of it filling the silent office. His palms slide up to cover his eyes as he leans forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees.

Don’t cry. The words repeat in his head like a command.

Don’t cry. He presses his hands harder against his face, willing the pressure in his chest to settle.

Don’t.

Cry.

Because crying would mean admitting the thought that’s been haunting him for weeks now. Maybe he’s failing. He’s the eldest son. The one who was supposed to set the example. The leader of the biggest music company in the world, a man people look up to, rely on, admire. And yet somehow he still can’t manage the one thing his parents wanted most. The weight of it all makes his shoulders sag as he stares down at the polished office floor between his shoes. For a brief, dangerous moment, he imagines the floor simply opening up beneath him, swallowing him whole, pulling him somewhere quiet and soft where the expectations and pressure finally disappear. A place where he could just rest. Where he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the same battle in his mind every day. The thought of drifting into sleep, real sleep, the kind without responsibilities waiting on the other side, suddenly sounds almost peaceful.

He drags a shaky breath through his teeth, trying to pull himself together. He’s a man, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be the one sitting here falling apart. If anything, he’s the one who won in this situation. That thought hits him like a slap, because it’s true, isn’t it? Out of the two of you, he kept everything. Yet mainly he kept the freedom to choose his own life, and build it to become something he wants. You can't even do that. At least… that’s what you made painfully clear last night.

Your voice rings in his head again, sharp and quiet at the same time, the words cutting deeper the more he replays them. The way you stood there looking exhausted and angry all at once. Everything that night had simply just been falling apart. Before he can stop it, a broken sob slips out of his chest, the sound rough and unfamiliar in the quiet office. He bends forward in his chair, elbows on his knees again as his hands press harder against his face. The thoughts keep spiraling. What would his coworkers think if they saw him right now?

If they opened the door and saw him like this, they’d see the truth immediately. They would see that the man everyone respects so much feels like a fraud. In truth, Bang Chan feels like a pathetic excuse for a man most days. It doesn’t matter how much success surrounds him, how many achievements people attach to his name. No matter how hard he tries, the same thought always creeps back in eventually. He should be grateful. He knows he should be. But something inside him refuses to settle, refuses to be satisfied with the life he’s built, and that makes the guilt even worse. Because what kind of person has everything they ever dreamed of and still feels like something is wrong?

A fucking selfish one.

And the worst part is that even when he tried to fix something, tried to do the one thing his family asked of him, it only created another mess. Another person caught in the middle of it. You didn’t choose this. You didn’t walk into the marriage thinking it was some fair trade. Your parents arranged it just as much as his family did, pushing you into a life you didn’t want with a man you barely knew. You made that painfully clear last night too.

But then another thought slams into him just as hard. What the hell? It’s not like he asked for this either. Bang Chan straightens suddenly in his chair, his hands dropping away from his face as frustration surges through him again. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe through it, but the anger keeps building, mixing messily with everything else already boiling in his head. If he had truly been allowed to choose everything in his life, really choose, this wouldn’t be the situation he was in. It wouldn’t be you sitting in his house, It would be her. Bitterly he imagines the two of you swapped places. His jaw tightens as the image forms in his mind too easily. She would have noticed something was wrong last night immediately. She always did. One glance and she’d start asking questions until he finally cracked and told her everything he was feeling. Maybe she’d even be calling him right now. In the short time he knew her, she had felt more like his wife than the reality he’s living in now. How is he supposed to love someone he barely knows?

Your words from last night come crashing back into his mind again. The coldness, and the frustration. The way you barely even looked at him when he walked through the door. How was he supposed to love you when you can’t even be polite when he comes home from work? Tears are still streaming down his face, heavier now, falling faster than he can wipe them away. His hands curl into fists, mimicking a bitten apple.

There are too many emotions fighting inside his head at once. Each one is pulling at him, trying to take control completely, until the pressure in his chest feels almost unbearable.

He needs to suck up the pain and deal with it. He needs to be a man. He wishes he could just do the right thing. He doesn't know what the right thing is. He wishes you could be like the girl of his dreams. He wishes you could be like Florence.

Bang Chan’s hands shake as he grabs the side of his desk. Angrily, his fingers clamp down so tightly the wood creaks faintly beneath the pressure. The muscles in his forearms strain, knuckles whitening until they almost look like snow against the dark edge of the desk. For a moment, all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat. Thump, Thud, Thump. His gaze drops. There, hanging from the sharp corner of the desk, is a single tear that must have fallen from his face without him noticing. It clings stubbornly to the polished surface, trembling slightly before it falls. In that tiny drop of water, he can see a distorted reflection of himself. He's red-faced, with eyes swollen and stained. His shoulders shake in a way that makes him look far smaller than the man the world believes him to be. He gulps, trying desperately to swallow past the thick lump lodged in his throat. Slowly, almost without realizing it, he lifts one side of the desk. The heavy piece of furniture tilts under the sudden force, one leg scraping harshly across the floor.

The movement freezes him. His eyes drop to his own hands.

What is he doing? The thought cuts through the storm in his head. He’s not like this. He’s not aggressive. He's not his father.

The desk hangs there for another second, suspended in the quiet office. Then, just as slowly, the tension drains from his arms. His fingers loosen, and the desk lowers back onto the floor with a dull, controlled thud. Chan steps back immediately, as if the piece of furniture itself burned him. For a long moment he just stands there, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. It's gonna be a long night. His phone buzzes, and Chan's eyes light up because he knows that ringtone. His tongue pokes his cheek, debating what to do. He wants to pick up and say hi, tell her he misses her, that he's sorry he got married. He wants to just say hello even briefly to Florence. But it would break the contract you both signed when you got married.

Still… one call can't hurt. Can it?

It’s now week six of living in the same house as Bang Chan. A month and a half of sleeping beside a man whose favorite color you don’t even know. A month and a half of waking up each morning and wondering exactly where your life went wrong. The thought doesn’t sting as sharply as it did in the beginning, but it still lingers in the back of your mind like an old bruise almost gone, always tender. Still… something has changed since that first week. Your thoughts aren’t quite as frantic anymore. The silence of the mansion doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing you whole every second of the day. Maybe it’s because you’ve simply gotten used to it. Or maybe it’s because of something Bang Chan said one evening after dinner.

You remember it clearly. “You should probably pick up a hobby or something to do in your free time.” At the time he’d said it casually, like he was offering harmless advice. Maybe he imagined you taking up painting, or learning an instrument, or gardening in the absurdly large yard behind the mansion. You don’t think he meant drinking. But when your house is stocked with enough expensive wine to supply a small restaurant for a year… well. Why not? A soft sigh escapes your lips, followed by a small hiccup that surprises even you. You giggle quietly to yourself, the sound loose and airy as you sway a little where you’re sitting on the couch. Your phone glows brightly in your hands as you lazily scroll through whatever pops up on your screen, the words and pictures blurring together in a pleasant, hazy way.

Your cheeks feel warm. Your head feels lighter than it has in weeks. For once, the silence of the mansion doesn’t feel so heavy. It just feels… fuzzy.

You scroll lazily through your phone, half-focused as the screen fills with the usual chaos of celebrity drama. It could be a scandal, or a break up. As long as there was another carefully crafted apology posted in neat black text over a white background. Rich people’s lives crumble in front of millions. You watch it all unfold like it’s a television show, reading the comments underneath with quiet amusement. Some people mock them mercilessly, tearing apart every mistake like vultures circling something already dead.

Others beg to live their lives. “I wish I had their problems.”, “Imagine being that rich and still complaining.” You snort softly at one of them, taking another sip of wine as the warmth spreads through your chest.

If only they knew.

Your thumb keeps moving down the screen until something stops it. A post. You normally avoid anything that includes Bang Chan. It’s not exactly hatred, nothing that dramatic, but looking at him for longer than necessary always brings back the uncomfortable reminder that he’s technically your husband. So you usually just scroll past. But this one…this one is different. The picture was clearly taken from far away, probably by paparazzi. The lighting is dim, the focus slightly blurry, but it’s recent. Very recent. Your wine glass pauses halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you lower it onto the table with a quiet clink. Both of your hands wrap around your phone now, fingers tightening instinctively as you lean closer to the screen, and the pleasant haze from the wine evaporates instantly. Your eyes sharpen.

Because in the picture, Bang Chan isn’t alone. There’s actually a woman with him. You can't stop your eyes from locking onto her instantly. Dark red hair falls down her back in soft waves, catching the glow of the streetlights in the photo. Even through the grainy zoom of a paparazzi lens, it’s obvious she’s beautiful. Tall. Perfect posture. The kind of effortless elegance magazines love to print on their covers. But that’s not the part that makes your chest tighten. It’s the way she’s touching him. Her hand rests gently against his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye as he cries. It's like she knows him. They almost look like a couple. Your stomach drops. Your thumb moves before your brain can stop it. There's so many photos. More pictures appear as you scroll, the internet feeding them to you endlessly. Different angles. Different nights. Sometimes they’re standing close together, talking quietly. Sometimes they’re walking side by side. In one picture they’re pressed close enough that it looks like they’re almost… snuggling.

Your mind feels like it’s floating somewhere outside your body as you keep scrolling. You weren’t in love with him. You know that. But somehow… you also never imagined him as the type to cheat. Your fingers tighten around your phone as another image loads. It shouldn’t hurt this much. And yet with every new photo, something ugly and heavy twists deeper in your chest. Your thoughts start running in directions you hate, directions you can’t seem to stop.What does she have that you don’t? Is she kinder? Maybe Prettier? More interesting? You’ve had six weeks. Six entire weeks to try and get him to like you even a little bit. To make the awkward dinners easier. To maybe, just maybe, build something that resembled affection. Instead he’s out there with someone else, in front of cameras. Like he didn’t even care if you found out!

The articles under the photos are worse. You start reading them even though every line makes your chest ache more.

Fans speculate about Chan’s mysterious companion…

Is this the woman who finally stole his heart?

Sources say the two have been seen together multiple times…

Your vision starts to blur. You don’t even notice when the first tear slips down your cheek, or the second. By the time you realize what’s happening, you’re sitting at the dining table with your phone clutched in your hands, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs spill out of you. You stare down at the screen through watery eyes, your chest aching with a question you never expected to care about. Why doesn’t Chan love you? Why does it hurt this much that he cheated?

The front door clicks shut behind him with a quiet thud. At first, Bang Chan doesn’t notice anything unusual. The mansion is dim like it always is at night, the lights low and the rooms stretching out in long, silent hallways. His jacket hangs heavy over his arm as he steps inside, loosening the collar of his shirt. But he hears a small hic, which causes him to slowly turn over to you. You’re sitting on the floor near the dining table, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your arms wrap around them like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your head is bowed, lips pressed so hard together they’ve gone pale.

For a moment he just freezes. “Y/N?” he says. The worry hits his face immediately, brows pulling together as he walks closer. Even from across the room he can tell something is wrong. Your shoulders are stiff, your breathing uneven, and there’s something in the way you’re staring at the floor that makes his stomach twist. “Y/N,” he repeats, softer this time. He sets his jacket down without even realizing he’s done it. “What’s wrong?” His voice comes out gentler than either of you probably expect.

But the images on your phone burn fresh in your mind, the way that woman touched his face, the way he looked at her like she mattered. Like she was someone worth comforting. You know better than to fall for softness that isn’t meant for you. Of course he doesn’t care. No one does. Not your parents, who signed the papers and shipped you into this marriage like it was a business deal. Not the friends you had to abandon without explanation. Not the man standing a few feet away from you now, who still treats you like a stranger wandering through his house.

But the images on your phone burn fresh in your mind, the way that woman touched his face, the way he looked at her like she mattered. Like she was someone worth comforting. You know better than to fall for softness that isn’t meant for you. Of course he doesn’t care. No one does. Not your parents, who signed the papers and shipped you into this marriage like it was a business deal. Not the friends you had to abandon without explanation. Not the man standing a few feet away from you now, who still treats you like a stranger wandering through his house.

Your fingers tighten against your knees. He only sees you as the woman living under his roof.

You turn to him, hair wild from tugging at it in frustration, strands sticking out in every direction. Your eyes are red, slightly bloodshot, cheeks damp from the tears you’ve tried to hold back. The sight of you seems to register immediately on his face, his brows knitting together in concern, shock, disbelief, and maybe a flicker of something else you can’t quite read. You laugh bitterly, a short, sharp sound that carries more pain than humor. “What’s wrong?” you say, voice trembling but cutting through the quiet like a knife. You step forward, letting your hands drop the phone in front of him with a thud. “You’re what’s wrong! What the hell is this, Chan?!”

His eyes follow the motion, then flick down at your phone. The image of him with her, hand on her cheek, the look in his eyes as tender as it is intimate, stares back at him from the screen. His usual composure falters, and for the first time, worry overtakes his expression. His lips part, no words forming immediately, as he slowly takes in the undeniable proof. And it hurts. God, it hurts even more to see it confirmed. Every single picture you’d stumbled across, every glimpse of him with someone else, all true. He really is cheating. He really is with her. And he hasn’t even tried to know you, to love you, or even like you. “Y/N… gosh, no…” he begins, voice low and hurried, but it’s too late. You cut him off, your voice sharp now, trembling with anger and betrayal.

“No! Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t you dare try to explain this. You, how long were you planning on hiding this from me? Did you even care enough to pretend?!” Your chest heaves with every word. The betrayal stings so deeply you can barely think straight, and yet every word you spit is the truth. Your hands clench at your sides as you stare at him, daring him to meet your gaze. “For once, just admit you did it!”

Your voice cracks not gently in the slightest. Each step shakes with the tension coiled in your body. Your hands rise to your mouth, biting at your nails until the skin beneath them blisters, raw and stinging like a bitten orange. You whip around to face him fully, eyes blazing. Chan, who usually carries himself like the center of control, looks suddenly small under the weight of your anger and hurt. Every ounce of restraint you’d kept in check for six long weeks is pouring out now. “Say something real to my face!” you yell, voice trembling but relentless. “I’m tired of living like everything’s fine when it’s not!”

A bitter laugh escapes you, low and dry, scraping at the air between you. “You. Cheated. On. Me.” Each word comes out sharp, punctuated by the sway of your head from side to side, like a metronome marking your heartbreak. Chan flinches, eyes darting away. His fingers reach up automatically, pushing back the dark strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. His lips part, but no words come. You can see the conflict and shame in his expression, but it’s not enough to heal the rage and betrayal scorching through you. For once, nothing in the world could make the silence between your shouts feel safe.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Bang Chan whispers, voice low and strained, trying desperately to keep his composure. “I went over to her to say a final goodbye.” The words shatter your heart into a million numbing pieces.

“Final goodbye!?” Your voice cracks, eyes widening in disbelief as your fists clench so tightly your nails dig into your palms. “Oh, so you get that privilege and I don’t?!” Chan flinches under the force of your anger, but something else appears in his eyes, pain, regret, guilt, and it cuts you even deeper. “You… you get to go say goodbye to the love of your life, huh?” you spit, pointing angrily toward the door like it somehow holds the weight of everything he’s just done. His mouth opens, then closes, and he shifts slightly on his feet, unsure of how to respond. “What about everyone I left back home?” you continue, voice shaking with every word. “What about my coworkers? My family? My friends?!”

Each question presses down like a weight in the air between you. He swallows, shuffling on the floor where he stands, unable to meet your gaze fully. The mansion suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in around the two of you as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

In a sudden burst of frustration, Bang Chan finally raises his voice. “Well, I’m sorry you miss them!” His pauses letting out an angry breath. “How many times are you going to bring that up? I hear it almost every single day I come home from work!” He straightens, shoulders rigid, rolling his eyes as if your very existence is an irritation he can’t stand. “You aren’t the only person who lost people when we got married!” His voice grows harsher, rising with every word. “I’m stuck with you of all people to keep me company, when I could have had Florence! You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to wake up beside someone I barely know while the one I actually-”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, fists clenching at his sides. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, the anger and guilt fighting against each other so visibly it makes your stomach turn. The words hit like fire, and instead of breaking you, they ignite something sharper inside. You shake your head, fists still clenched at your sides, heart hammering with a mix of anger and disbelief. Not the worst option, you think bitterly. You’re not stupid, you know you’re not the worst choice. You shouldn’t be. “I come home hoping maybe we can have a nice conversation,” he continues, voice dripping with frustration, “but nowadays you’re drunk all the time! I mean, look at you right now, you can’t even stand up properly because you drink so much!”

You straighten your back, forcing yourself to meet his eyes despite the burn behind them. The tears haven’t fully stopped, and as you swipe at the remnants, you smudge whatever makeup you’d tried to salvage. It doesn’t matter. “Really, Chan?” you spit, voice low and dangerous, a bitter laugh rolling out afterward. “You think this is about me drinking?!” Your gaze pierces him, unflinching. “You think I’m the problem? I’m not stupid, okay? I know I’m not the only one who lost things when we got married. But I, I’m not the worst option, Chan!” Your chest rises and falls faster now, hands trembling at your sides. The anger and hurt coiled inside you spill over, unrestrained.

“You, you have the audacity to blame me for drinking when you, ” Your voice shakes as the words choke in your throat, “you, you’re the one who… you’re the one who doesn’t even try to care about me!” For a moment, the mansion is silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the tension that fills the space between you. Chan’s face shifts, something between guilt, shock, and defensiveness, but you can’t stop now. Not when your chest feels like it might tear itself open from holding it in for six long weeks.

“So excuse me that I’m not your perfect, dumb, husband-serving wife!” you scream, voice breaking on the last words. “I have goals and dreams too! And you’re the one person that’s stopping me from doing any of them! I feel like a prisoner in this house! Nothing ever, EVER, goes the way I want it to!” You stomp your feet hard against the wooden floor, each thud echoing like a warning. “It’s not like you’ve tried getting to know me!” you shout, fingers trembling as you point at him.

“It’s not like you’ve tried getting to know me either!” he fires back, pride sharpening his words like knives. The air between you crackles with tension. Both of you are too proud to admit the smallest fraction of fault, and every word you throw at each other only digs the trench deeper. No matter how much you yell, you know it won’t get better. You can’t calm down. You won’t calm down, not while the hurt and betrayal burn this hot in your chest. You stomp closer, pointing directly at his face, about to unleash the next blow of words, when,

everything comes crashing down. Literally.

The chandelier above, loosened from years of neglect and the weight of the mansion’s constant shifting, groans before plummeting toward the floor. Crystal and metal fall in slow motion, scattering shards and dust as the room fills with the deafening crash! You barely have time to scream before both of you dive in opposite directions, instinct taking over. The world tilts, glass shattering around you, and for a terrifying moment, nothing else exists but the raw, immediate terror of survival.

Your hands scrape against the floor, nails tearing into the wood as you huddle down, eyes wide with shock, heart hammering. Chan’s next to you, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes darting between you and the wreckage, breath ragged.

Silence fills the air.

And then eventually, in a whisper, barely above the sound of your own ragged breathing, you ask, “Why don’t you love me?” The words hang in the air, delicate and jagged all at once. They tremble out of your mouth like shattered crystal, sharper even than the pieces littering the floor around you. The room is silent. Not the kind of silence that comforts, but the kind that presses down, heavy and suffocating. You collapse fully to the ground, knees tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself as if to hold together what’s left of your dignity. Bang Chan freezes just a few feet away, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. How are you supposed to respond to a question like that? He stares at you, waiting for an answer he can’t give. Waiting for a truth that neither of you can yet speak. The mansion around you groans, the shards of glass glittering like cruel stars on the floor. Two people, trapped by pride, expectation, and circumstance, standing, or rather, sitting, amid the ruins of everything they never asked for.

You are in some shape and form, real and fake. A bird in a cage, and a deer missing a leg. The love of his life and the woman he hates most.

You are both a tethered and a tragedy.

Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter will hopefully be out soon, but it'll still take a while 😅🩷

Tag list: @asherally , @thecutiepieme

[joystories11]

Thank you guys!!!

Thank you to everyone who has supported me this year, and continued to read my stories. It means the absolute world to me knowing everyone likes reading my works and only makes me more determined to get things done!!! 🩷

I'm very sorry "Learning to Love" has taken such a long time to publish, especially because I would like to make it a three part series 😭

I'm working really really hard to get it done and make sure it shows all the emotions I want it to express, but I also know that isn't an excuse. I'll do whatever I can to get it finished in time I promise 😤☺️ (I got this!!!)

Again thank you all so so so SO much for the support, you're all amazing. I'm hoping to reach 100 soon as that would be a huge step! Love you all!!!

[joystories11]

Coming soon...

When you find yourself in an arranged marriage you figure maybe life won't be so hard as long as at least someones on your side. But when you find Bang Chan, the man who holds your future in his hands, has feelings for another woman how are you supposed to keep being the wife his parents want you to be?

Read Tethered, Surrender, and Proclaim in a few days!

And thank you to @firstdivisiongirl for being my first request, I hope by the time this 3 chapter series gets released I completed what you had in mind ☺️

[joystories11]

The Color Yellow- Valentines Day event!

After years of holding in your feelings your done keeping them to yourself. With it being Valentine's day and the anniversary of when you and I.N met you decide its now or never, but does he remember you from all those years ago?

Pairing: Student!I.N x Student!reader

Genre/tags: There is some light angst but its really just a simple love story between you and I.N! There is bullying throughout the story in memories, and some descriptive terms of what the reader is wearing such as a bracelet and the reader getting head gear (I was thinking about braces I.N because hes just so cute)

Word Count: 4.7k

[note]: Happy Valentines day to everyone everywhere! Today is the day of love and I want you all to know I love you very very much! Thank you to everyone that voted in my pull on what to post as well, it helped me decide which one I liked better too! Please enjoy this story ☺️

MASTERLIST

Can you really be a secret admirer if the person you love with all your heart knows you? What about if they know you, but don’t know anything about you? What if the person you can’t imagine a world without waves to you in the hallway, offers you that small, polite smile, but pauses just a second too long before saying your name, like he’s flipping through a mental notebook and hoping it’s written somewhere on the first page? Are you a secret admirer then? Or are you just someone clutching onto a hope so fragile it feels almost foolish to protect?

Because here’s the thing: you’ve liked I.N since middle school. Not in the silly, “he’s cute this week” way that comes and goes with seasons and new seating charts, or in the way your friends giggle about someone new every other month. This was something completely different. It grew roots before you even realized something had been planted.

You’ve had other crushes before. You know what it feels like to choose someone because it’s easier. Because they sit next to you in class just so someone will notice you. People want someone who might want you back because it feels safer than wanting the one who makes your chest tighten just by existing. But I.N was never a substitute. He wasn’t a distraction or a phase. He was the standard. The impossible, golden, terrifying standard.

The kind of love you feel for him doesn’t even feel like a crush anymore. It feels sacred to an extent! Like something that should be handled with quiet hands and whispered words. Sometimes it feels almost wrong to try to put it into sentences like saying it out loud would make it smaller than it deserves to be. When you look at him, you don’t just see a boy. You see the way his smile seems to lift the entire room, like the moon deciding to show up early just to make sure the sky doesn’t feel empty. You see eyes that glow with a softness that could coax life out of a dying garden. You notice the way he laughs, the way he tilts his head when he’s confused, the way he pushes his hair back without thinking. You collect these tiny details like treasures no one else seems to notice.

But there also came the fear. It’s exhausting sometimes, how naturally your mind drifts toward him, like a compass that refuses to point anywhere else. You’re almost haunted by the idea of him.

But you accept it. You accept the obsession, the way it lingers, because it distracts you from the truth. The frustrating, heartbreaking, torturous truth. To him, you are just another face in the hallway. Like a random name on a class roster. Some girl who laughs at his jokes and stands nearby during lunch. Nothing special. Nothing that would make his heart stutter the way yours does. You are nothing to him.

And you know that.

The only thing tying you to hope is a memory. A single, fragile thread you refuse to let snap. You doubt he remembers it the way you do. You’re almost certain he doesn’t. To him, it was probably just another ordinary day. Another passing moment swallowed by time. But to you?

It was the day you finally fell in love.

“Come on, Y/N. Just show us, it’ll be funny!”

Eunwoo’s voice cuts through everything else. He’s holding his phone up like this is some kind of live event. The flash goes off again, harsh and blinding, and for a second you can’t even see properly. The red reflection in his eyes from the camera makes him look almost inhuman. His friends crowd around him, shoulders bumping into yours on purpose. Someone snorts. Someone mutters, “It’s huge,” like you can’t hear them. The sun feels unbearable. It presses down on your head, on the metal around your face, on your lungs. You suddenly feel aware of everything , the way the headgear rests against your cheeks, the tight pull in your jaw, the sound of your own breathing getting too loud.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s February 14th. Everyone else showed up with heart-shaped chocolates, small gifts, shy smiles. And you showed up with braces and the biggest piece of orthodontic headgear known to mankind.

When the orthodontist handed you the mirror yesterday, you’d laughed awkwardly but told yourself it wasn’t that bad. Sure, it was bulky. Sure, it felt dramatic. But it was temporary. You even picked your band colors carefully! They were something bright and fun, something that felt like you. Now those same colors are the punchline. “Open your mouth wider!” someone calls. You swallow instead. The metal feels heavier by the second. It presses into your skin like it’s trying to fuse there permanently. You suddenly wish you could rip it off, even though you know you can’t. You wish you could disappear into the concrete beneath your shoes.

You hadn’t felt ugly this morning.

“Hah! Has she always looked like a horse?”

“I know, right? She could’ve at least chosen a pretty color. The yellow sticks out so much…”

The words stack on top of each other until they stop sounding like sentences and start sounding like noise. Your mind races trying to understand but at this point maybe it's better you don't. You can't even respond anymore. There’s no point. Anything you say would just be recycled into another joke.

Earlier by the time the bell rings for lunch, your hands were shaking. You didn't look at anyone as you left the classroom. You just walked fast, not running, because that would make it worse, but fast enough that you almost convince yourself you’re escaping. You aim for the stairs outside into the school. No one really ever uses them anymore and its not like anyone is insane enough to follow you, or at least that's what you had thought.

You had made it halfway down before you heard people following closely behind you. Someone laughs and says, “Wait, get a close-up.” Your chest tightens so suddenly it feels like you’ve swallowed something too big. You didn’t do anything. All you did was get some head gear to fix your teeth and feel pretty when you smile and people have decided it's the funniest thing they've ever seen before. You try to understand it. Maybe you missed something. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe you accidentally offended someone weeks ago. Maybe you said something wrong. But there’s nothing. That’s what makes it worse. Can people really be so mean to make fun of you when you've done nothing wrong?

You feel small in a way that has nothing to do with height or posture. Small like your existence has shrunk down to a single trait people can mock. Small like the walls are too tall and the hallway stretches on forever and there’s nowhere left that feels safe. You look around for one person, just one, who might look uncomfortable. Who might tell them to stop. Who might step in. But no one does.

Why you?

I.N stands there a little too long, fingers curled loosely at his sides, eyes fixed on the envelope like it might disappear if he blinks. The wax seal is pressed neatly into the heart. No smudges or hesitation in the design. Whoever made it meant it and goodness that's so so SO exciting. He exhales slowly but doesn’t move. It’s ridiculous, really. In all reality it’s just paper. Cream-colored, slightly rough, the kind that looks chosen instead of grabbed. But his pulse won’t calm down. It keeps jumping, tripping over itself, racing ahead of him.

He’s never been confessed to before. Or at least not seriously. Sure, there have been jokes. Teasing. Like Bang Chan nudging him and saying someone was looking at him during class. But nothing like a word for word genuine confession. His mind starts building possibilities faster than he can stop it. Maybe it’s a list of reasons. The way he smiles. The way he laughs. Maybe someone noticed small things about him he didn’t realize were noticeable. Maybe it’s a poem written at midnight. Maybe it ends with a time and a place. After school. Like a cherry tree in the animes he watches!

His chest tightens at the thought. He wants to open it. He really does. There’s something intoxicating about the idea that someone chose him. That someone looked at all the other boys in the hallway and still decided he was worth writing about. The letter feels heartwarming because even if he doesn’t say it out loud, there are days he feels invisible in a different way. He isn’t unpopular. Not at all. Bang Chan is dependable. Changbin is confident. Seungmin has that sharp wit that makes people gravitate toward him. Felix is just a cute ball of sunshine. Han is funny without trying. Hyunjin turns heads just by walking into a room. And well Lee Know is the one that does the confessing. I.N fits in. He laughs with them. He’s included. He belongs.

But when it comes to girls, he’s always felt slightly to the side. Girls normally talk to his friends first, and he tells himself he doesn’t mind. Okay… most of the time, he doesn’t. So forgive him for being utterly shell shocked a girl wrote him a love letter on Valentine's!

But all of his feelings collide with something else. The fact his heart isn't empty in the slightest. It’s been occupied for years. Yet it's not by someone he talks to every day. Not even by someone he’s close to. Just a shadow. A memory he replays more often than he should. A girl who probably doesn’t even know how much space she takes up in his thoughts. He can't give his heart to someone else when he doesn't even own it himself! So he sadly already knows what he needs to tell whoever wrote the letter. One single, simple word that seems to hold much more power then it should. The word “No.”.

He’s never seen anyone as beautiful as she was that day. And the frustrating part? He never asked her name. It’s been a few years now. Not a lifetime. Just enough time for details to start slipping through his fingers. He tries to hold onto them, but memory isn’t gentle. It blurs edges. It softens lines. It steals specifics when you aren’t paying attention.

He can’t remember the exact shade of her eyes anymore. He used to think he could. Now when he tries, the image shifts. Brown? Maybe. Or something lighter. He can’t be sure. He doesn’t remember how her hair fell , straight or slightly wavy, tied back or loose around her shoulders. That part is fading too. It's so terrible to know you love someone but not remember who that person is.

What he does remember is the feeling.

She was smaller than him, just slightly. He remembers looking down a little when they spoke. He remembers her voice, soft, but also no where near weak. Gentle in a way that made him want to lean closer so he wouldn’t miss a word. And more than anything, he remembers the way she smiled. It was bright without being loud. Warm without trying. When she smiled, something in the air changed. He always thinks of yellow when he thinks of her, not the harsh kind people complain about, but the kind that feels alive. Like sunlight through classroom windows. Maybe like daisies growing in uneven patches. Or like the smell of popcorn drifting through a movie theater lobby. He can imagine sunflowers stretching toward the sky without apologizing for taking up space whenever she flashed a quick grin at him.

So now, standing in front of a love letter sealed with a heart, he feels trapped by his own promise. Because how can he say yes to someone… when he’s still waiting for a girl he might not even recognize anymore? Even if part of him is thrilled. Even if his stomach flips at the idea that someone chose him. Even if he’s curious. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to the girl who wrote the letter. And not to the girl who still lives in his memory, bright and untouchable. He tells himself it’s loyalty, though sometimes loyalty is just a word to cover being a fool.

That he can only allow himself one star. His bright blinding yellow star.

Maybe it’s because it’s senior year. Maybe it’s because you’re tired of loving him quietly. Maybe your heart just couldn’t keep carrying something this heavy without breaking. Whatever the reason, you finally did it. You actually wrote the letter! Every thought you’ve swallowed for years. Every small moment you treasured alone. Every stupid, hopeful dream. You folded all of it into paper that suddenly felt too small to contain you. The envelope looked delicate compared to what it held. Like trying to pour the ocean into a teacup. Your hands were shaking when you sealed it. And now here you are.

Under the same stairs where everything once began for you. The same concrete walls. The same dim light. The same spot where he once sat beside you without knowing he was changing your life. You asked him to meet you here. To be honest you probably could have dressed the area up a bit to hide the chipped paint, or how there is gum stuck to the underside of the stairs. You just couldn't bring yourself to make it look any different then when you first met each other. So if he comes at least it will be romantic to you. Because this is your story. And this is the place your heart first chose him.

The waiting is unbearable. Every time footsteps pass overhead, your head snaps up. Every shadow makes your pulse spike. The clock on your phone feels like it’s mocking you, the minutes dragging instead of moving. The chocolates in your hands feel heavier than they should. You bought them this morning, hands sweating as you stood in line. They weren’t even fancy, just something simple, something sweet. Now they feel like evidence of your vulnerability. You smooth your skirt for the hundredth time. You’re sure that wrinkle wasn’t there before. You adjust your hair. Wipe your palms. Shift your weight. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Just when your thoughts start spiraling again, you see him. Walking toward you. Relief hits you so fast your knees almost give out. He didn’t ignore it. He didn’t laugh about it with his friends. He didn’t pretend he never saw the letter. Of course he wouldn’t, you tell yourself. He’s not that kind of person. Maybe that’s part of why you love him, not because he’s perfect, but because he’s kind in ways that don’t ask for attention. Still, the fear had been there.

Now time feels strange. Slow. Thick. Every step he takes seems stretched out, like the world decided to give you extra seconds to memorize him. You let yourself look. Really look at him as the rest of the world fades.

His fox-like eyes narrow slightly against the dim light, dark and sharp but somehow soft at the edges. His black hair falls just low enough to brush near them, messy in a way that looks accidental but never is. And when he notices you staring, his lips curve, that small, orange-shaped smile you’ve memorized over the years. It hits you all over again. Gosh, he’s beautiful.

You swallow and force yourself to speak before courage slips through your fingers. “Thank you for coming… I–I wanted to share my feelings for you before our senior year came to an end.” Your voice wavers at first but steadies as you go on. You gesture lightly toward the letter he’s holding. The sunflower bracelet around your wrist trembles with the movement, the tiny charms catching what little light there is. “But I guess you already know that.”

There’s a fragile smile on your face. Honest. Nervous. I.N doesn’t answer right away. His eyes move over you slowly, not in a judging way, and certainly not in a distracted way. In a searching way. Like he’s trying to place something. His gaze lingers on your bracelet. On the yellow. On the way your fingers twist together when you’re anxious. On the softness in your expression.

Why is it all so familiar to him?

“See…” You stare at your shoes the way you used to years ago, when everything felt heavier than it should’ve. Back then you felt small because the world made you feel that way. Now you feel small because he’s looking at you. And somehow, that’s different. His eyes are on you , fully, gently, and you don’t think you’ll ever forget this moment. No matter what happens next. “Ever since I’ve known you,” you begin, your voice quieter than you expected, “I’ve admired your bravery. The way you don’t let people get to you. The way you stay kind even when others aren’t.” Your hands twist together, a nervous tick you have.

This wasn’t how you rehearsed it. You had planned something smoother. Something less vulnerable. But now the words are spilling out without permission. “You were kind to me when you didn’t have to be. You made me laugh on days that felt impossible. And I don’t think you even realized what that meant.” You inhale, steadying yourself. “I love you in a way I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone else. You’re my first everything. The first person I look for without thinking. The first name that comes to mind when I wake up. The first person I’ve ever wanted to say those words to.”

Your throat tightens. Tears blur your vision, but you don’t stop.

“And that’s because I do. I love you. I really do. Even if you never noticed… you’ve always been there for me. And I just… I hope one day I can be someone like that for you too.” Silence follows. You force yourself to look up. I.N is frowning, not in anger, not in discomfort, but like he’s holding something fragile inside his chest. His eyes are glossy. Your heart sinks. You recognize that expression. You’ve prepared for this. You told yourself you were ready. You practiced hearing it in your head so many times it almost felt dull.

But standing here now, watching his lips part to speak, you realize rehearsals don’t soften reality. This will be the last day you look at him as a possibility. The last day you let yourself imagine futures.

The last day you'll be able to be in love with I.N.

You can hear a smaller voice coming from the crowd, still prominent against the glare of dozens of phones aimed in your direction. But this voice, it’s different. It doesn’t carry the sharp edge of cruelty that the others do, doesn’t slice through you like cold steel. Instead, it’s warmer, kinder, like sunlight spilling through a cloudy sky, like a flame finally finding its kindling. Your chest tenses as it breaks through the wall of mocking laughter. “Leave her alone!” the voice shouted.

Your body freezes. You want to look up, to see who has the courage to yell over everyone, to see who is trying to defend you. But fear roots you to the ground. The shame curls tight around your stomach, gnawing at you. Everyone already thinks you’re disgusting, how much worse would it be if they saw the tears now streaking down your cheeks? “You guys are such jerks! I mean seriously, don’t you know any better?” The voice rises again, steadier this time, pulling the air out of the crowd. The laughter dies, fading into awkward coughs and murmurs. People glance at each other, eyes shifting, guilty or uncertain. The silence that settles is thick, almost suffocating, like the air itself is holding its breath.

Then, sharp fingers point. Eunwoo. The one making the most fun of you and also the boy with a messy haircut he had gotten just last week, now the center of attention. “You want people to comment on that shaggy curtain you got slapped on your forehead?” The voice rings out, cutting the tension with a clarity that makes some of the snickering stop. A few small, reluctant snickers ripple through the crowd, but they’re hesitant, unsure where to direct themselves now. You notice the subtle shift, the cruel energy has been redirected, not gone entirely, but less focused on you. For a moment, you feel a spark of relief, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. It’s like someone lit a candle in the dark corners of your mind that had been stuffed with shame.

Because, in truth, it never really mattered who was being mocked. The crowd only needed a target, a way to feel superior for a fleeting moment. But now, just for a second, someone had reminded them that it mattered who the target was. And maybe, just maybe, it could stop.

“All of you need to go back to elementary school and learn how to be nice again. You’re all like kids!” The voice rang out, sharp, firm, impossible to ignore. You could hear the shuffle of feet, the murmur of disgruntled voices, and then the slow trickle of people leaving, unwilling to be called out.

“Ya, that’s right! Go and run like you’re the good guy!” A fake spit noise followed, exaggerated, meant to sound threatening, like the kid defending you was trying to growl at the world. And when the last footsteps faded, when the laughter and the glare of cameras were gone, something in the air shifted. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. A small, unbidden smile tugged at your lips. You peeked out from behind your trembling arms, heart still hammering, curiosity stronger than fear now. You wanted to see the person who had not only saved your body from ridicule but had, in some unspoken way, shielded your heart from being shattered.

And then you looked up. It was like time itself had paused, holding its breath along with you. Not just for you, though, there was a pulse, a quiet rhythm shared between the two of you, like hearts syncing without thought, like two metronomes suddenly aligned. Every beat felt like a note in a song only your souls could hear, tender and unbreakable. His eyes, warm, bright, steady, met yours. You could see it there: kindness, genuine care, and a quiet strength that didn’t need to shout. It wasn’t just warmth; it was recognition, understanding, the ability to see someone as more than what the world had cruelly forced them to believe. And in your gaze, he saw you, not just your shame, not just your fear, but the person behind the trembling smile and tear-streaked cheeks.

The whole world seemed different, suddenly lighter and more vivid. Colors were brighter, the sky sharper, the air buzzing with possibility. Everything was stunning, blindingly beautiful, as though the sunlight itself had decided to settle just there, between the two of you. And amidst it all, there was only one thought echoing in both of your minds, unspoken but absolute.

The person you're looking at reminds you so sweetly of the color yellow.

I.N immediately snaps his eyes up to yours, and for a moment, the world seems to shrink until it’s just the two of you. His mind races, a sudden, shocking clarity washing over him as he finally remembers what he had forgotten all those years ago. The face that had been sad and tentative a few minutes ago, the face that was giving into rejection, about to say it, is now lit with something brighter, something alive, almost trembling with joy. You can see it in his eyes, wide and shimmering, the hint of unshed tears catching the light like tiny stars. His thoughts spin faster than they’ve ever moved before, and one undeniable truth roots itself deep in his mind as he knows this is the face he’s saved, the one he’s carried across time and memory, the one he’s been searching for without fully knowing why.

You feel like that too, like you’ve been found. After all the fear, the embarrassment, the shaky courage to even peek at him, it’s like gravity itself pulls your chest forward, pulling your heart out of hiding. And suddenly, in his mind, you’re not just anyone. You’re his bright golden yellow star, the one he’s crossed galaxies for, the one he’s hunted through every shadow and every memory just to find, to hold, to share all the love he’s been carrying. That warmth, that light, it’s always been for you.

Just as your feet are about to turn, your chest tightening with fear, sure of the rejection that seems inevitable, his hand finds yours. The grip is gentle but insistent, pulling you back from leaving, and your pulse catches in your throat. He’s smiling, wide and unrestrained, so wide that it almost eclipses everything else, so bright you can barely see the pupils of his eyes, but they’re there, dilated, alive with unfiltered happiness. The kind of happiness that radiates from someone who’s finally found exactly what they were looking for, and in that moment, you feel it too: the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders, replaced with something raw and incandescent.

The name he had forgotten years ago slips from his lips naturally, like a melody he had hummed in his mind a thousand times without ever realizing it. “Y/N?” It’s barely a whisper, soft enough that it feels like it could shatter if spoken any louder. The excitement in his voice is palpable, trembling with awe and disbelief, as though he’s afraid that if he says it too strongly, you might vanish like a dream.

His fingers tighten slightly around your wrist, warm and gentle, but there’s no pressure, no demand. You could pull away, and he would let you, yet somehow, you don’t want to. There’s safety in that warmth, in that patience, in the quiet reverence of how he looks at you. It’s as if he’s seeing every hidden, secret piece of you, and instead of recoiling, he’s holding it all like something sacred. Your chest swells with a strange, intoxicating relief. You are no longer hidden, no longer secret. The boy you’ve loved for years, the one whose presence has haunted your dreams, whose smile has lingered in your heart, finally knows you. And he seems like he might cry tears of pure joy just from being near you, from finally knowing the truth of your existence.

In that moment, it becomes clear. Love can indeed prevail. Not just any love, not fleeting or superficial, but the kind that has survived time, absence, and uncertainty. The kind that blooms when the person is exactly right, when their heart is steady and kind and bright enough to meet yours.

The joy that floods through you is blinding, almost scary in its intensity, but underneath it is a gentleness so profound that it feels like sunlight spilling into every corner of your soul. It is warm, patient, and kind, like a sunflower turning toward the light or a star held carefully in two hands, beautiful, radiant, meant to be cherished, never crushed. From that day forward, you and I.N celebrated every Valentine’s Day together. Each one was filled with laughter, fluttering hearts, shy smiles, and small, electric touches. Every glance, every gentle squeeze of a hand, every shared secret made your bond feel unbreakable, as if the universe itself had conspired to bring you two together at exactly the right moment. The years of longing and quiet hope culminated in moments like these, pure, golden, and unforgettable.

And on each Valentine’s Day after that, you could feel it: the love that had been waiting, the light that had been searching, and the joy that would never, ever fade.

Because true love isn't pink for flirtation, or red for seductive, but yellow for the joy you feel when you've finally found the love of your life.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone 🩷

[joystories11]

Joy Chat!

Hello everyone! With Valentine's day coming up I wanted to surprise you all with something special and making a story to share, the only problem is I don't know who you all would like to read about for your gift ☺️

My requests are open but I have a Changbin one ready or an I.N one open! Whichever one people want I'll give, I figured I would do those two though since I haven't written for them yet and wanna show love for all the members!

Who should I choose?

I.N- His first ever confession

Changbin- Your Valentines Day date

Voting ended onFeb 12

Thank you to everyone that voted! With the final results, The Color Yellow is now available ☺️

Happy Valentine's Everyone!

[joystories11]

Love and Dreams

Seungmin has believed with his whole heart love was a lie from the moment he heard about it. The only reason hes talking to you is to prove to Changbin he will never date anyone ever. Yet how else can he describe that he's falling for you?

Pairing: Student!Seungmin x Student!Reader, strangers to lovers

Genre/tags: Seungmin is SUPER pessimistic about the idea of love, to the point he doesn't even say he loves hanging out with friends. IVE the kpop group is mentioned (listen to the single that dropped today! Its really good!!!), League of Legends is also mentioned. Seungmin and Changbin are best friends, and I also made a small reference to the skz movie!

Word Count: 4.3k

[note]: Sorry ive been gone for a while, this time there was a reason though as I lost my account. Thank you to everyone for supporting me, coming back and finding so many likes was one of the best things I could ask for! I hope I wrote for Seungmin well, if anyone has any advice I would be happy to know. Happy Early Valentine's everyone!

MASTERLIST

Seungmin believed love was a scam. A well-packaged lie people told themselves to soften the blow of reality, something invented so humans wouldn’t panic at the idea that there was no such thing as soulmates, or red strings, or fate. None of it made sense to him. If love were real, measurable, provable, then why did it feel so inconsistent? Why did it make people act stupid?

He understood liking things, though. That much was easy. He liked staying out too late with his friends, voices cracking as they screamed karaoke lyrics they barely knew. He liked the quiet hum of concentration when his sister painted his pinky nails light blue, her tongue poking out as she worked carefully. He liked the look on his teacher’s face when his name appeared at the top of the test scores again, equal parts impressed and resigned, like they’d expected nothing less.

But love? Love was too dramatic, too irrational, too fake.

So when Changbin told him, between bites of cafeteria food, eating some of his mom's homemade cooking, that Seungmin would be “head over heels” for his classmate in no time at all, Seungmin laughed right in his face with much more then the evil giggle he tended to let out. He leaned back in his chair and stuck his tongue out at Changbin, his big doe eyes bright with disbelief, though a flicker of annoyance slipped through anyway. “You’re insane,” he said flatly. “Absolutely delusional.” Changbin groaned, slumping forward onto the table.

“Seungmin, I’m serious. Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking.” He lightly punched Seungmin’s arm for emphasis, as if that would magically convince him. Seungmin turned his head away, lips pulling to one side in mock frustration. He’d been hearing this since lunch started, no, honestly, since last week. Changbin had not shut up about Y/N for days, always insisting she was “different” or “exactly his type,” whatever that meant. “She’s smart,” Changbin continued, undeterred. “And funny. As much as I love you, you need someone who's comedically smart, and that's exactly who she is. You’d like her.”

“That’s the problem,” Seungmin muttered. “I wouldn’t.” The seconds ticked by, the noise of the cafeteria buzzing around them, and Seungmin felt a familiar sense of dread settle in his stomach. He knew Changbin well enough to recognize that look, the one that meant he was running out of patience and rapidly approaching action. If he didn’t shut this down soon, Changbin was absolutely going to stand up, march across the room, and physically drag Y/N over.

What was the point of it all, anyway? From what he’d heard, she was amazing. Too amazing, honestly. Always volunteering, always surrounded by people, her laugh apparently loud enough to turn heads down the hallway. Changbin never shut up about how charismatic she was, how easily she talked to anyone, how she was a dog person. And Seungmin would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious. Interested didn’t mean in love, though. Interested meant polite conversation. A nod here, a dry joke there. Nothing more.

With a quick, tired sigh, he shot Changbin a glare. Changbin, who had now resorted to full-on pouting, cheeks puffed out as he began chanting his name loud enough to earn a few stares. “Seungmiiiiiiinnnn, ”

“Okay, fine!” Seungmin cut in, grimacing. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll see how things go.” He mumbled, though the words felt weighty on his tongue. Changbin’s reaction was immediate. His eyes lit up oh so bright, hands clapping together with barely contained excitement. Seungmin already knew this enthusiasm wouldn’t last long, once Changbin realized Seungmin was right, once the world continued exactly as it always had, loveless and logical.

“Oh my gosh! You’re gonna love her!” Changbin giggled, his voice jumping up several octaves, fast and breathless. Seungmin rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips anyway. Annoying as Changbin was, he was impossible to hate.

“I’ll like her,” Seungmin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“What about after school?” Changbin barreled on, completely ignoring him. “She’s got guitar lessons, I’m pretty sure. And you’re not too shabby yourself, huh?” He nudged Seungmin’s shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows. Before Seungmin could protest, Changbin wrapped his arms around nothing, swaying dramatically. “You’ll hold her like this,” he said, puckering his lips exaggeratedly. Then, in a mockingly soft voice, he added, “Oh, Y/N, you’re so good at guitar and practically the girl of my dreams. You’ve turned this frown upside down!” Seungmin recoiled instantly.

“That’s disgusting,” he said flatly, though his ears burned pink. “I would never say that.” Changbin burst into laughter.

“We’ll see how things go,” Seungmin muttered, looking away again, his expression settling back into calm certainty. His mind was already made up. This would be harmless. A conversation. Proof that love was just another exaggerated story people liked to tell.

After school, Changbin peeled off toward the gym, already halfway down the hallway before Seungmin could even respond. He shouted the directions over his shoulder, third floor, end of the hall, second music room on the left, then disappeared, wrestling bag bouncing against his back. Just like that, Seungmin was on his own.

Technically, he could leave right now. He could walk straight out the front doors, head home, and later tell Changbin he’d stopped by, that he’d met you, that it just “wasn’t his thing.” No one would fact-check him. There’d be no consequences. No awkwardness. No… whatever this was supposed to be.

But unfortunately for him, Seungmin was a man of his word. Painfully honest, even when it worked against him. He’d promised Changbin he would at least listen. Just for a little while. Five minutes, maybe ten. Then he’d go home, fire up League of Legends, and forget this whole thing ever happened.

So he found himself climbing the stairs anyway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, each step feeling heavier than the last. The hallway outside the music rooms was quieter than the rest of the school, emptied out now that clubs and practices had scattered everyone in different directions. When he reached the room Changbin had mentioned, he slowed to a stop. The classroom lights inside glowed a soft pinkish-yellow, warmer than the harsh fluorescents elsewhere. A faint winter breeze slipped through the cracked window, February’s chill fluttering the curtains gently back and forth. It felt strangely calm!

The door was closed. From behind it, a steady click, click, click echoed softly, metronome-steady and patient, paired with the low, muted hum of guitar strings. Seungmin hesitated. This was the moment. The last chance to turn around. With a quiet breath, he reached out and slowly pushed the door open, just enough to peek inside. He scanned the room carefully, eyes darting from the chairs to the music stands, half-expecting Changbin to pop out laughing and yell “Got you!” But there was no prank. No audience.

The chalkboard at the front of the room is still dusty, faint streaks of half-erased notes and music staff lines lingering from the last class. Seungmin absently thinks about how the students will probably get yelled at for it tomorrow. The desks have been pushed messily to the sides, clearing space in the center of the room where a single pale stool sits beneath the warm ceiling lights. A music stand stands just in front of it, slightly tilted, like someone adjusted it without much thought.

It all feels very normal. Underwhelming even.

And then he sees you.

If he had to describe you later, if Changbin ever asked, he isn’t sure he’d be able to do it justice. The words don’t come easily, not when his brain seems to stall the moment his eyes land on you. You’re seated on the stool, acoustic guitar resting comfortably in your hands, posture relaxed but oh so focused. There’s a kind of light around you. Not dramatic, and definitely not like the movies. Simply Bright. Almost like the room itself softened just to accommodate you. The yellowish classroom lights cast gentle shadows, and for a brief second, Seungmin forgets he’s standing in a school music room at all.

Your hair brushes lightly across your face as you move, catching just enough light to frame your features without hiding them. He notices your nose first, soft, natural, and then your lips, faintly pink, parted slightly as you focus. And when you glance up, just for a moment, your eyes catch the light too. There’s kindness in them. Real, unguarded kindness. It hits him unexpectedly, that detail. The kind of look people don’t usually carry around anymore, not in crowded hallways or noisy classrooms or competitive spaces where everyone’s trying to be louder, better, faster. It’s the kind of kindness that doesn’t demand attention, that simply exists.

Seungmin swallows, suddenly aware of how long he’s been standing there.

You peer up at him, surprise written plainly across your face. Your mouth opens into a quiet little oh, frozen there as your eyes meet his, and for a moment, neither of you says anything at all. The wind slips in from the open window, setting the small wind chimes near the sill gently echoing. A loose sheet of paper skids softly across the floor, but Seungmin barely notices. His attention is still fixed on you, like the room has narrowed down to just this one point.

Seungmin though is not a fool.

He knows you’re beautiful, he can admit that much. Anyone with eyes could. But he’s also heard of moments like this, the kind people dramatize in stories and shows, where everything lines up perfectly and suddenly the world feels cinematic. He’s always thought that was stupid and very unrealistic. This doesn’t feel perfect.

To be honest it's quite awkward.

The silence stretches just long enough to start getting uncomfortable. Seungmin makes a small popping sound with his mouth, a reflex more than a decision. You giggle. The sound is light and surprised, like it slipped out before you could stop it. And then, against his better judgment, Seungmin smiles. Not a practiced one. Not the polite kind he uses on teachers. Just a small, genuine curve of his lips. Your giggle turns into a laugh, a little louder now, and something about that makes his chest feel oddly warm. “One-man show,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

For a second, all you do is stare at each other again, small bursts of laughter bubbling up every time your eyes meet, like neither of you quite knows how to move past it yet. You nod eventually, setting your guitar down carefully against the stool. “I guess?” you say, still smiling. “I was just practicing. I don’t have a guitar at home, so I use the school one.” As you speak, you tuck a few strands of hair behind your ear, tilting your head slightly without even realizing it.

Seungmin’s eyes go wide, immediately, embarrassingly, and his head tilts in the exact same direction, like his body is following you on instinct alone. He freezes the second he notices, straightening a little too quickly. Get it together, he tells himself.

“Oh, yeah, Changbin told me about that,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Your eyes widen instantly. You straighten, hands flying up to fix your hair before dusting off your school skirt, suddenly very aware of yourself in a way you hadn’t been seconds ago.

“Oh my gosh ! You’re Changbin’s friend. I swear, I had no idea!” Seungmin lifts a hand quickly, waving it off. “It’s really not a big deal,” he says, honest. He hadn’t expected you to recognize him anyway. How much had you and Changbin even talked? He tilts his head slightly. “I probably should’ve guessed you didn’t know. I’m really bad with faces too.” That seems to relax you a little.

“No, you’re all good,” he adds, already moving further into the room. He walks over to the stool and sits down, picking up the acoustic guitar you’d set aside. The wood is warm under his fingers, familiar, but oddly, his fingertips feel a little numb. He strums absentmindedly, soft and uncommitted. Which is ridiculous. Why would he be nervous? There’s no such thing as connection, after all. “What were you playing?” he asks.

Your smile returns, easy and genuine, and something in his chest stutters unpleasantly. “I’ve’s After Like,” you say. “I thought I’d try a little acoustic cover since their new album’s coming out soon.” Seungmin rolls his eyes on instinct.

“Of course.” You laugh quietly, watching him.

“What?”

“Isn’t that a love song?” he says, glancing up from the strings. “There are so many cool guitar songs that aren’t about love, you know.” You cock an eyebrow at him, clearly amused rather than offended.

“What’s wrong with a love song?” you ask. “Valentine’s Day is coming up soon, too.”

“Love is overrated,” Seungmin says, a little too quickly, like he’s said it a hundred times before and memorized the rhythm of the words. “The chances that, out of everyone on planet Earth, you find someone who’s your exact other half is stupid.” He lets out a small scoff. “I’m sure there are people who find someone they really get along with, but everyone who says they met their soulmate? They’re just delaying the heartbreak that’s bound to come.” His fingers slow, the guitar strings humming softly before going quiet altogether. He stops strumming and looks up at you, already bracing himself. He’s used to it by now, the frown, and awkward silence. They always give this look like he’s just said something cruel instead of honest.

But you don’t frown. Your eyes light up slightly, lips curving not into a smile but something thoughtful, and Seungmin blinks, thrown off by the lack of rejection. He shifts on the stool, suddenly hyper-aware of the guitar resting against him. “Well, Seungmin,” you say lightly, pushing yourself up to sit on top of one of the desks, swinging your legs a little, “I think I finally know why Changbin wanted us to hang out.”

He looks at you his curiosity getting the better of him and he almost looks like a cute dog. Because until now, Seungmin had assumed Changbin just hadn’t been listening, maybe he had conveniently forgotten his stance on love entirely. He hadn’t really considered there might’ve been an actual reason behind all the persistence. “And what reason would that be, Y/N?” he asks, tone casual, though something in his chest tightens with curiosity.

You glance out the window. The sun is low now, dipping toward the horizon, the sky painted in soft pinks and warm oranges that bleed into each other like a watercolor left out in the rain. It almost looks like a heart if you tilt your head just right, something Seungmin absolutely refuses to acknowledge. “Well,” you say slowly, “because I think love is one of the only true feelings someone can have.”

That makes him pause. You turn back to him then, meeting his gaze without hesitation. There’s no judgment in your eyes, no need to correct him or prove him wrong, just genuine curiosity. “But,” you add, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I am interested in your theory.”

He stares at you, eyes widening despite himself. From everything Changbin had said, he knew you were smart, thoughtful, perceptive. Which only makes this harder to understand. How could you genuinely believe love was one of the only feelings people were driven by?

“Then why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asks. The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets the tone. It comes out sharper than intended, sour in a way that makes his chest tighten. He opens his mouth like he might take it back, but it’s already there, hanging between you. You don’t snap at him thankfully, because although Seungmin doesn't seem like it he actually hates getting yelled at when the person is angry. Instead, you frown slightly.

“Well… I think I just have bad luck with it all,” you admit. “I get asked for advice all the time, helping people with their relationships, listening to their problems, but no one ever comes to me looking for one.” The honesty in your voice wreaks his heart in unexplainable ways. Seungmin looks away, jaw tightening. He doesn’t want to admit how real that sounds. How familiar. Because somewhere deep down, part of him knows the reason he’s so convinced love is fake might not be logic at all, but experience. Just the lack of it.

No girl he knows has ever really been interested in him either. The similarity between you settles in quietly, uncomfortably. Same situation. Completely different conclusions.He nods slowly, a small acknowledgment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that.” Silence fills the room but is quickly erased. “So,” he asks after a moment, looking back up at you, “why still believe in it… if it’s never happened to you?”

He waits for you to think for a minute as you fiddle with your necklace. He notices its gold. Seungmin likes gold.

“Well,” you say after a second, expression suddenly lighting up, “I guess you could call me… Cupid!” You hop up from the desk and flex dramatically, even though there isn’t much muscle to show. The gesture is ridiculous on purpose, and Seungmin lets out a short breath through his nose before he can stop himself. “But, no, seriously,” you continue, dropping your arms with a laugh. “I’ve helped so many people with their relationships. I’ve watched them fall in love, watched them get happy. After a while, it just starts to make sense.” You shrug lightly. “I think I just haven’t met my person yet.”

You pause, then smile again, softer this time. “But so many of my friends are already near people they love and adore.” You tilt your head. “My best friend Sasha’s on the wrestling team, actually. And she kind of has a thing for your friend!”. That gets his attention.

You glance over at him, gauging his reaction. “Maybe it’s just hope,” you admit, “but I think Sasha and Changbin would be really good together. And if that’s true… then maybe there’s someone out there who likes me that way too.” Seungmin almost scoffs. He wants to tell you it’s foolish, that none of that proves anything. That risking heartbreak for the possibility of love is illogical at best, self-destructive at worst. Why hold onto hope when you can let go and save yourself the disappointment? Why not give up, the way he already has?

…is it wrong he gave up?

You’re smiling, not naïve or even remotely desperate, just genuinely happy at the thought. Like believing in love isn’t something you’re clinging to, but something that simply exists alongside you. And annoyingly, you’re not wrong about Changbin.

Sasha is well known on the wrestling team, confident, strong, the kind of girl who would absolutely put Changbin in his place while still caring deeply. The odds of two people like them ending up together might be low, sure, but if Seungmin’s honest, it might be the best pairing he’s ever heard for his best friend. That realization unsettles him. The confusion must show on his face, because when he looks back up, you’re already watching him, eyes curious, patient, waiting to see what he’ll say.

For once, Seungmin doesn’t have a sharp response ready.

You keep talking, voices low but animated, words flowing like they’ve been waiting for this moment. Seungmin doesn’t even think about leaving, he can’t. Changbin’s teasing words echo faintly in his mind, and for the first time, he wonders if maybe his friend was right. That maybe, just maybe, the two of you really do get along. Nothing more, he tells himself. Just a friendship.

The room is quiet now, the chaos of the sports teams long gone. Only a few janitors move in the distance, shadows shifting against the fluorescent light. The rest of the school feels abandoned, pretty cozy, as if it exists solely for this moment. And somehow, you make it feel warmer. You’re funny. So funny. Every little joke, every offhand comment, makes his chest tighten in a way he refuses to name. His heart skips at the corner of your smile, the tilt of your head when you laugh at your own jokes.

The conversation flows easily, effortlessly, like it’s meant to happen this way. Music, books, shows, hobbies, weird little interests, everything seems to line up. With you, he’s simply himself, and he likes to believe he isn't the only one. Hes laughed more today than he has all week. The weight he’s been carrying, the stress, the cynicism, the quiet self-doubt, feels lighter somehow. Even Valentine’s Day, which normally makes him tense, makes him want to shrug instead. Maybe it’s not so bad. It's definitely not bad at least if he can stay here a little longer, talking to you.

Eventually, the quiet of the empty music room encourages something different. You both settle on the floor, legs stretched out, shoulders brushing lightly. Dust coats your uniforms, tiny, imperceptible specks, but neither of you seems to notice. It doesn’t matter. He can’t bring himself to care. You stretch lazily, and he watches the way the last strands of sunlight catch in your hair, golden and soft. The guitar rests nearby, untouched now, forgotten in favor of conversation and the simple, grounding presence of each other.

Seungmin can feel his chest flutter unpredictably, a rhythm he doesn’t understand. He wants to tell himself it’s nothing, just nerves, just coincidence, just another weird high school moment. But he also knows that when he looks at you, something shifts in the room. Its still not like how its described in movies but he wonders if it could be close.

“This is fun,” you whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the quiet of the empty classroom. Your gaze drifts upward to the ceiling. Seungmin hadn’t realized before that it wasn’t a stark, clinical white, it was warm, creamy, almost inviting. Somehow, the detail feels… important now. Somehow, it feels like it matters. Why is he just noticing this now?

“Ya.” His voice comes out slower than usual, hesitant, like testing the words on a fragile surface. He shifts his head just enough to glance at you. “I… I haven’t loved spending time with someone like this in a while.”

Wait.

What did he just say?

Love?

No. No, no, no. Seungmin doesn’t, he can’t, love anything. That’s ridiculous. Love is a scam. A story people tell themselves to feel better about heartbreak they’re inevitably going to get. Love isn’t real. How could he let his guard down? A wave of panic surges up his chest. He feels his face heat, tongue thick in his mouth. Part of him wants to laugh, part of him wants to vanish into the floor. The words were too sappy, too cliché, they seem wrong. Metallic taste hits his mouth as he bites down on his tongue, why does it even taste like that? Why is he reacting this way?

And yet, Seungmin feels lighter. Like something heavy has slipped off his shoulders without him even realizing he was carrying it. It feels… nice. Admitting that he loves something. Not in a dramatic way, not in the overblown, storybook sense he’s always mocked, but honestly. Genuinely. It’s not like Seungmin hides his feelings. He never has. He’s cried in front of people more times than he can count, tears spilling out before he even realizes they’re coming. But still… he can’t remember the last time he said he loved something and truly meant it. Not liked. Not tolerated. Loved.

The closest way he can describe the feeling is like he’s standing on a glass rooftop. Beneath him, suspended and glowing, is the most beautiful ball he’s ever seen, fragile, radiant, impossible to ignore. And all it would take is one wrong step.

Is it worth the fall? His thoughts are still spinning when he notices you’ve turned onto your side, facing him now. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it softens, blurring at the edges as his mind latches onto something familiar, simple chords. You look really happy. And Seungmin loves that you're happy.

For a split second, he wonders if this is it. If maybe you think you’ve done your job, proved your point, nudged him just enough to admit love exists in some form. Maybe this was all Changbin wanted from the start. To get Seungmin to say the word out loud, to acknowledge it instead of fighting it. But the thought doesn’t stick. Because suddenly, he doesn’t even know if he cares about that anymore. The way you’re looking at him, eyes bright, smile small but sincere, makes something warm bloom in his chest. It’s contagious. Your excitement bleeds into him, and before he can stop it, he feels it too. You nod softly, like you’re confirming something for yourself.

“I love hanging out with you too.”

Seungmin believed love was a scam. A well-packaged lie people told themselves to soften the blow of reality, something invented so humans wouldn’t panic at the idea that there was no such thing as soulmates, or red strings, or fate. None of it made sense to him. If love were real, measurable, provable, then why did it feel so inconsistent? Why did it make people act stupid?

But even then he could understand why people liked the idea. The thought of someone out there meant for you, someone who would understand the parts of you you didn’t even understand yourself, it was comforting. It was a story people wanted to believe in, a story he could see the appeal of.

Maybe love wasn’t entirely a lie. Maybe, in small, fleeting moments, in sparks that caught you off guard, it could be real. A chance, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless. There was only one thing that had changed his mind.

In the one day you two had talked to each other, the very few hours he watched you, made him realize one thing.

Kim Seungmin loved you.

[joystories11]

Hi! I’m so sorry if this sounds weird, but you have one of my favorite writing styles EVER! I stumbled on your smoothie fanfic yesterday and I swear it altered my brain, I found myself walking home and narrating the night around me in your wording styles. I really want to be an author someday, and your style is just so poetic and beautiful, and it paints the world so well. You’re so talented, and you’re now an honest inspiration to me!! 💞

oh my goodness gracious thank you SO much for this 🩷

I lost my account for a little while and through all the stress got worried that it didn't matter anyway because I had barely written anything and wasn't sure how much people even liked my stories. After gathering some courage and trying hard I got my account back and the love I've received has been the best ever.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me, it means the world 🩷

[joystories11]

Take the Leap

Lee Know enjoys being alone and taking risks in life, but one day during Ballet he meets someone that's the complete opposite of him in that aspect. You're truly amazing but can he teach you how to live a little, and can you teach him the real feeling of love?

Pairing: Dancer!Lee Know x Dancer!Reader, strangers to lovers

Genre/tags: Fluff with some slight angst? The reader is written as bubbly and happy with a fear of failure as well. It's written more so from Lee Knows perspective, and he is absolutely WHIPPED. Lee Know is still an idol in this AU and does Ballet as a side hobby but his idol life isn't mentioned a lot.

Word Count: 7.9k

[note]: I was on a ROLL!!!! This one I'm actually pretty happy with and is heavily based off of the song "Catch Up To Me" by Thomas Day. There was so much that I wanted to do for this story, but I also didn't want it to be too long. I still have what I wrote saved though so if anyone would like to hear a little blurb of the Reader and Lee Know practicing together I'll include that on a separate post if asked for!

MASTERLIST

Lee Know loved being alone. It never felt lonely in the slightest, more like a gentle warmth that wrapped around him in a big hug. There was something enchanting about the fact that no one else in the world was experiencing the same moment as him. Being alone meant that the seconds, the air, the way the light moved, belonged solely to him. It was intimate in its own quiet way, like a little kid whispering him a secret he couldn’t share with anyone else.

Sure, he could forget the small, mundane things, how many eggs he’d eaten for breakfast or how the morning breeze had carried the scent of wet grass, but the fleeting moments stayed with him. The way the sun washed over dandelions peeking shyly through cracks in the pavement, the faint hum of a car in the distance, the rhythm of his shoes brushing against the dirt path as he walked home. Every little detail was a fragment of memory only he would ever hold. The idea that out of millions of people on the planet, he was the only one experiencing that exact second, that unique alignment of breath, sound, and stillness, was a thought he liked to revisit often. It made the world feel enormous, yet strangely his. But there was another truth, too. When Lee Know found himself in a room full of people, he could sometimes feel more alone than ever. The laughter, the chatter, the easy way people leaned toward each other, it all seemed to highlight the space between him and everyone else. It wasn’t that he disliked people, but being surrounded by them reminded him that everyone else seemed to have someone to talk to. Someone who looked for them in a crowd, someone who noticed when they went quiet.

He had Jisung, of course. Jisung, with his quick words and endless energy, who always tried to include him. But Jisung also had other friends, a job at the smoothie shop, a girlfriend who made him light up in a way that Lee Know could only observe from the sidelines. He didn’t blame him for it, it was just how life went, but sometimes watching Jisung drift into his own little world with others left Lee Know with a familiar ache. He didn’t want to dwell on it, didn’t want to pity himself, but it was hard not to notice the difference between being alone by choice and being alone because no one thought to ask if you wanted company.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. People often mentioned how he’d struggled to make friends growing up, and at some point, that reputation had just stuck to him, like a label that never quite peeled off. He enjoyed talking to guys, but the moment ballet came up, they’d laugh, make a few comments, and change the subject. Ballet had always been one of his greatest joys, discipline wrapped in grace, strength hidden in elegance, but it seemed no one ever understood it that way. And while he got along fine with girls, there was always that awkward divide, the invisible line that made him feel like he had to dull the edges of his personality to fit in. Too graceful to fit with the boys, too boyish to blend with the girls. He knew it wasn’t his fault. The world could be narrow-minded and unkind in quiet, casual ways. But sometimes, late at night, when the world went still and the hum of loneliness crept in, he couldn’t help but wonder, why did it have to be this way? Why did being himself make him so hard to understand?

So he learned to love solitude, not as a compromise but as a kind of freedom. Because when Lee Know was alone, there were no rules. No one to tell him how to act, no expectations to meet. He could stretch his limbs like a dancer in an empty studio, talk to himself if he wanted to, hum a tune only he knew. In solitude, he wasn’t too much or too little of anything. He was just himself. And that was something he thought was utterly, achingly beautiful.

Maybe that’s why Lee Know knew you were different from the very first moment the two of you met.

At that point, Lee Know was one of the higher-ranked dancers in his class, a fact everyone knew well. His teachers often used him as the example, calling his name whenever they needed to demonstrate proper form or control. He had earned that reputation through years of practice, injuries, and late nights spent perfecting every movement until it felt like muscle memory. He could dance blindfolded and still move with elegance, just like he did for Idol training. It wasn’t arrogance that filled him when they praised him, it was something simpler, purer. A small flame of pride in doing something he truly loved. Because when you’re good at something that makes you happy, it doesn’t just feel good, it feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

When he danced, Lee Know felt untouchable. The world around him blurred away, the noise of fans, the pressure of performances, even the quiet tension that sometimes lingered among the members. All of it dissolved. In its place, there was only movement. His body and the music were all that existed. He always thought of it as floating, like drifting in a warm current where every thought aligned with motion. Dance was strict and disciplined yet forgiving enough to let him experiment, to breathe. It was the only place where he could fail and still feel free. So when his teacher approached him after class that day, he didn’t think much of it. Harper was always kind, always soft-spoken, and she never wasted words. “Minho,” she said, her tone careful but light, “tomorrow we’re holding a mixed class, with some of the students from the lower ranks.” She paused, as if trying to gauge his reaction. “It’s sort of a workshop. We’ll be watching to see who might be ready to move up next year.”

He nodded, remembering his own experience in that same position almost two years ago. He had been terrified back then. He was so awkward and unsure, afraid to make mistakes in front of the better dancers. But the people who had helped him had been patient and encouraging. They gave him advice he still carried to this day. Now he stood in the same place they once had, part of the group that others looked up to. The realization left a small, proud ache in his chest. Harper smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you’d come help teach this time. Just to demonstrate a few techniques and give feedback.”

Lee Know blinked. Teach?

If he was being honest, the idea made his stomach twist. He didn’t want to teach twenty-year-olds how to improve their spins or posture, especially when most of them probably didn’t want to be corrected by someone their own age. And worse, he was an idol. There was always that chance someone would recognize him, whisper to their friends, maybe even record him. The thought made him sigh quietly. He wasn’t there to be seen as an Idol. He just wanted to dance. But when he looked back at Harper, her expression stopped him. She had this hopeful look in her eyes, one that reminded him of how she’d always believed in him, even before he did. She’d been there through his slumps, his frustrations, the moments he nearly quit. He owed her more than he liked to admit.

So he forced a small smile, already knowing the answer before he said it. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice soft but sure. “What time should I be here?”Harper’s smile bloomed instantly, warm and genuine.

“Thank you, Minho. I knew I could count on you!” As she walked off to gather her things, Lee Know stayed behind for a while, staring at the mirrors in front of him. His reflection blinked back, tired but composed, someone who’d learned to move through discomfort for the sake of others. He bent down to retie his shoes, humming faintly under his breath. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Maybe helping the next group of dancers find their rhythm would remind him why he fell in love with it in the first place.

The next day, Lee Know arrived at the studio a few minutes early, dressed in his black leotard and tights. His hair still carried a soft curl from the photoshoot he and the members had done the night before, it had dragged late into the evening and left him more tired than he wanted to admit. He brushed his bangs out of his face, letting out a small sigh as he stepped through the entrance doors. The familiar scent of polished wood floors and faintly lingering perfume drifted in the air, the kind of smell only dance studios ever seemed to have. He adjusted the strap of his dance bag, a water bottle clinking against the side as he rubbed at the back of his neck. His muscles ached slightly from yesterday’s rehearsals, but the moment he heard the soft hum of conversation and laughter spilling from the practice room down the hall, something inside him eased.

When he entered, the studio was alive with movement. Students were scattered across the mirrored walls, stretching, chatting, fixing their shoes, or tying their hair up. The sound of soft sneakers brushing the floor mixed with music from someone’s phone speaker. It was noisy, but not unpleasant, just the kind of energy that made the room feel full of life. He spotted a few familiar faces among the group, friends he’d trained with for years, and when one of them caught sight of him, they waved. And that’s when he noticed you. You were standing with a small group near the back corner, laughing at something one of the older students had said. He guessed you were younger, maybe twenty-four, but there was something about the way you carried yourself that stood out from the rest. Your laughter wasn’t loud in an agitating way, instead it was warm, and honest, like it made everyone else around you start smiling without realizing it. There was a lightness about you, like someone who had too many dreams to ever be pinned down.

He hadn’t even realized he was watching until one of his friends nudged him and said something he barely caught. Lee Know gave a small nod in response, pretending to look elsewhere, but his gaze found its way back to you anyway.

That was when the light hit just right.

The fluorescent bulbs overhead reflected off the floor and cast a faint shimmer across your skin, and suddenly, nothing else makes sense. You seemed almost unreal, like one of those fleeting moments in life where everything adds up. You were perfect up and down. Your hair was pulled back into a loose bun, strands already falling free to frame your face, and he could tell you hadn’t even started dancing yet. The tiny imperfections, stray hair, flushed cheeks, the way your posture was slightly relaxed, everything about you only made you look more alive. Then your eyes caught his. And they really did sparkle, not just because of the lights, but with something deeper. A kind of curiosity, a restless brightness, like there was an entire world of thoughts and emotions swirling behind them. Lee Know’s breath caught before he could stop it. You smiled, just a small, instinctive curve of your lips, and in that instant, something in his chest shifted. It wasn’t a thunderclap, not some dramatic movie moment. It was gentler, more real, like the quiet strum of a guitar on a calm evening, steady and tender.

Lee Know’s heart fluttered, and his mind went blank. He had always thought love at first sight was something people made up to sound poetic, a storybook fantasy for hopeless romantics. But now, standing there with his hands awkwardly gripping his water bottle and his heartbeat quickening for no logical reason, he understood it. The simplicity of it. The purity. The way time seemed to slow, the chatter of the room fading into something distant. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about dance, or precision, or perfection. He was just feeling, completely, and helplessly human.

“Oh my gosh! You must be Lee Know!” Your voice is bright, almost like a spark that cuts through the hum of chatter filling the studio. Lee Know looks up, startled for a moment before realizing you’re standing right in front of him. You’re smiling, clasping your hands together in this earnest, almost childlike way that makes his chest feel like it's so heavy it could drag him into the ground. He can hear his friends behind him trying, and failing, to hold back their laughter, a few of them nudging each other knowingly. It’s clear they’ve picked up on the shift in his energy before even he can hide it.

“Um, ya,” he replies quickly, his words tumbling out awkwardly, too flat, too short. The sound of his own voice makes him wince inside. Ya? Really, that’s all you’ve got? he thinks, yelling at himself on the inside. He hopes the smile that follows looks normal and not as forced as it feels. His heartbeat’s thudding somewhere between his throat and ears, the rush of it making his thoughts blur at the edges. He hates that he sounds so unsure, but at the same time, there’s this strange flicker of pride, because at least he said something, even if it wasn’t perfect. He hopes the smile that follows looks normal and not as forced as it feels. His heartbeat’s thudding somewhere between his throat and ears, the rush of it making his thoughts blur at the edges. He hates that he sounds so unsure, but at the same time, there’s this strange flicker of pride, because at least he said something, even if it wasn’t perfect. Your smile doesn’t falter though. In fact, it softens.

“I’m Y/N,” you say warmly, extending your hand just slightly before lowering it again when he hesitates. “It’s nice to meet you.” And that’s it. That's the entire first interaction. You don’t launch into conversation or start listing all the reasons you admire him or mention his performances or his fame. You just… stand there. The moment stretches, full of quiet understanding neither of you can put into words. It’s not awkward, just different. The noise in the studio fades, the laughter of his friends, the music starting up in the background, even Harper’s voice calling out warm-ups, it all turns distant, like sound underwater. All Lee Know can really focus on is you. The glint in your eyes, the light catch of your breath, the gentle way you tilt your head while looking at him. There’s something in your expression, recognition, maybe? Or something softer, like the feeling you get when you realize you’ve known someone before meeting them.

You don’t need to ask about his career or his training; you already know enough. You’ve heard stories through mutual friends, seen glimpses of him dancing from afar, and now here he is, real, close, maybe even more human than you expected. For Lee Know, the air between you feels almost electric, but not in a loud, dramatic way. It’s more like the quiet spark of static when fingers brush unexpectedly, fleeting, delicate, but impossible to ignore. He doesn’t need to tell you everything about himself. You already seem to understand the parts that matter. The discipline, and the long nights working hard. You seem to be able to tell he truly cares about Ballet. And you are here for the same reason. That’s already enough.

He watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, your lips curving as someone calls your name. You excuse yourself with a little laugh and wave, walking off toward the other side of the room. Lee Know stays still for a moment longer, his pulse refusing to settle. His friends tease him quietly, one of them nudging his arm with a grin, but he barely hears them. His thoughts are miles away, still tangled up in the way your voice sounded when you said his name.

A small bell rang through the air, light but commanding enough to hush the murmurs that had filled the practice room. One by one, the teachers began to enter, clipboards in hand, their steps purposeful, their gazes sharp with the kind of focus that made every dancer instinctively straighten up. Some were ready to judge, others to demonstrate, but all carried the same quiet authority that filled the space with anticipation. The wooden floors gleamed under the fluorescent lights, reflecting a dozen pairs of nervous feet. You hurried toward your spot along the wall, your hair bouncing slightly as you moved. The faint smell of rosin powder hung in the air, mingling with the clean, airy scent of the studio. You took your place in line, shoulders squared, eyes bright, a soft smile still playing on your lips, one that you didn’t even seem to realize was there. That same smile had already carved its way into Lee Know’s mind.

He followed a few paces behind, sliding into position a couple of dancers away from you. It wasn’t close enough for anyone to think he was being strange, but it was near enough that he could see the outline of your movements, the tilt of your head, the way your shoulders rose and fell as you took a deep breath before the music started. He told himself it was coincidence, just where he happened to end up, but even he knew it was a lie. His friend trailed behind him, muttering something about the number of students in today’s session, but Lee Know barely heard it. The instructor clapped their hands once, calling everyone’s attention to begin. As the warm-ups started, he found himself matching his breathing to yours without even realizing it. The rhythm of the music pulsed softly through the speakers, and the room filled with the sound of synchronized movement, feet brushing the floor, soft thuds, the faint squeak of tights shifting against the polished wood. But in Lee Know’s mind, it was quieter. The only sound he seemed to notice was the faint whisper of his own heartbeat. “So her name is Y/N?” he murmured under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone but his friend behind him to hear.

There was a pause before his friend answered, tone light but knowing. “Yup. That’s her. She’s a really nice person, we met a while back when she got the class times mixed up.” Lee Know let out a soft laugh, short but genuine. The image that came to mind, of you walking into the wrong class, confused but trying to act confident, somehow made him like you even more. His friend smiled faintly, keeping rhythm with the movements. “She’s hardworking, really. Always gives her best. She just… still has a lot to figure out about herself.” Lee Know frowned slightly, glancing at the instructor to make sure they weren’t being watched before whispering again.

“What do you mean?” His friend hesitated.

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s smart. Makes friends easily, and she’s honestly one of the most genuine people I know. But she’s scared sometimes. About taking risks. She doesn’t like stepping into the unknown.” Lee Know’s brows furrowed. He tried to focus on the sequence, arm out, turn, pivot, point, but his mind snagged on those words. Scared of taking risks? He couldn’t relate. His life had been nothing but a risk. Choosing to dance, becoming an idol, stepping onstage knowing that one misstep could ruin a performance, it was all risk. But it was what made him feel alive. There was always a breath before taking a shot, and that was everything. How could someone be afraid of that feeling? His friend’s voice continued behind him, calm, thoughtful. “She’s happy with how things are, I think. She’s worked for everything she has, and she’s proud of it. But it’s like, she’s afraid that if she reaches for anything more, if she tries to change what’s comfortable, everything around her might fall apart.”. There was a shrug, the faint sound of a shoe sliding against the floor. “If she doesn’t ask for more,” his friend said quietly, “then nothing can be taken away from her.” Lee Know’s hands clenched slightly at his sides, his posture faltering just enough for one of the teachers to give him a pointed look. He straightened immediately, but his thoughts burned hot. The logic made sense, on the surface. It was safe, protective, and reasonable. But to him, it was wrong.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it as he danced through the next few steps. The idea of living like that, of settling into comfort so deeply that you stopped reaching, made his chest tighten. It wasn’t living at all. It was just… standing still. Existing without the thrill of trying. He risked everything all the time. Every performance was a gamble. Everything could always be taken away. But he still did it, because the chance of something good happening, the possibility of something beautiful, was always worth it. He couldn’t understand how someone like you, someone who laughed so freely and smiled like you meant it, could be afraid of reaching too far.

He glanced toward you again, you were focused on the mirror, your expression intent and calm, completely unaware that he was watching. You looked radiant in motion, your reflection dancing beside you in perfect harmony. Lee Know exhaled, letting the music guide him again. The sound of the piano filled the air, smooth and steady. Why couldn't you take a risk?

After everyone had finished their warm-ups against the mirrored wall under the watchful eyes of the instructors , the atmosphere in the studio shifted. Sweat glistened faintly on everyone’s foreheads, the scent of resin and floor polish mixing with the faint hum of the air conditioning. The teachers began whispering among themselves, flipping through clipboards filled with evaluation sheets, before one of them clapped her hands sharply. “Alright, everyone,” she called, “we’re going to try something a little more advanced today. Some of the choreography from the recent concert performance.”

Lee Know’s heart gave a small skip. His concert. He recognized the music before it even started, a familiar track that sent a flicker of nostalgia through his chest. The choreography wasn’t easy but he was confident he could do it. In fact he already knew most of the older students could handle it, but he wasn’t expecting to feel this strange mix of nerves and anticipation. He glanced up just as you stepped forward into the group’s formation. Your hair was still tied loosely, a few stray strands brushing your face, but your focus was razor-sharp now. The teasing smile you’d worn earlier melted away, replaced by a calm intensity. When the music began, it was like a switch flipped inside you.

And you were absolutely wonderful.

You moved like the rhythm lived inside your bones. Every beat landed exactly where it should, every extension flowed seamlessly into the next. Your spins were perfectly centered, your transitions seemed so natural, it was elegant and beautiful. Even the smallest gestures , the tilt of your wrist, the way your head followed through a turn , felt intentional. The room seemed to fade away for him. The chatter, the scuffing of shoes , even the teachers’ low notes on their clipboards , all disappeared as you took over the space. You weren’t dancing in the room, you were owning it. Every leap seemed weightless, every line of your body extended as though gravity simply decided to let go of you.

You reminded him of a swan, graceful, proud, but untouchable in your beauty. Your movements carried that quiet power that made people stop what they were doing just to watch. And as you continued, Lee Know noticed he wasn’t the only one completely captivated. The teachers had stopped whispering; Harper, one of the strictest instructors, had even paused mid-note, pen hovering uselessly in the air. The older students, who usually looked confident and sure, now seemed hesitant, glancing at one another as if realizing they were witnessing something rare. And then came the finale, that one move. The signature jump, the breathtaking moment that tied the entire piece together. Lee Know knew it well. It was the part of the choreography that always made the audience gasp when performed right. His pulse quickened as he waited, because even though he’d never seen you do it before, he knew you could. You had the strength, the control, the heart, he could feel it.

You prepared, stepping back, your body aligning perfectly, eyes focused ahead. The music swelled. He could practically see it , the perfect arch, the flawless landing. And then… you stopped. Just before takeoff, your body stilled. The momentum you’d built evaporated in a heartbeat. You lowered your arms gently, almost peacefully, and stepped out of the formation. For a moment, Lee Know thought maybe it was a mistake, that you’d start again, or laugh it off, but instead, you just smiled softly, bowed your head slightly toward the teachers, and walked toward your bag.

You started chatting casually with a few friends, pulling your sweater back over your leotard, your laughter filling the space like nothing unusual had happened. But Lee Know couldn’t move. His brows furrowed, confusion tightening in his chest. Why did you stop? You’d been brilliant. You’d held the entire room in the palm of your hand, and then… you decided to let it go. Even stranger, no one seemed surprised. No teacher called out. No student snickered or whispered about it. It was as if everyone had seen this before, as if your brilliance always came with a quiet retreat at the end.

You walk out of the dance studio laughing, your voice mingling with the soft chatter of the others spilling out into the hallway. The sound of ballet slippers squeaking against the polished floor fades as the group disperses, and the bright fluorescent lights hum overhead. You wave to a few girls near the exit, telling them you’ll catch up later, your grin bright and easy. Behind you, Lee Know’s steps are quick and uneven, like his body’s trying to catch up to the thoughts tumbling around in his head. His heart is pounding, because he's honestly a little mad. The way you’d stopped so suddenly in the middle of your dance had left a splinter in his chest that he couldn’t ignore. “Hey,” he calls, his voice sharper than he means for it to be. You turn around, a little surprised but still smiling, your hair slipping loose from its bun.

“What’s up?”

“The final move,” he says, stepping a little closer, his voice low. “Why didn’t you try to do it?” You laugh softly, that gentle, airy sound that seems to wrap around him like sunlight through a window. Normally, it might’ve frustrated him, someone laughing off something he takes seriously, but there’s something different about this laugh. It doesn’t sound dismissive. It sounds… tired. He notices how your smile flickers for a second, your eyes softening, almost sad. And just like that, his chest tightens with regret. “Oh, crap, sorry,” he blurts quickly, guilt flashing across his face. “You don’t have to answer that, I just, I didn’t know why. I mean, you’re an amazing dancer! It’s just… I didn’t understand.” You shake your head, your expression kind as you step a little closer.

“No, don’t apologize! You didn’t do anything wrong.” You pause, glancing down at the floor, your voice quieter now. “I guess it probably doesn’t make any sense.” Before he can say anything, you reach forward and clasp his hands in yours. The gesture is so sudden and sincere that it steals the air from his lungs. Your hands are smaller than his, soft and warm, and he can feel the slight tremor in them as you hold on. “I just knew I had moved up a rank,” you explain, your eyes flicking up to meet his. “And I knew that if I tried to do the leap, I could fall. I could ruin it. If I fell, it might’ve cost me everything I’d already earned. So… I didn’t risk it.” You smile faintly, but there’s something fragile about it, something that tells him you’ve thought about this too many times before. You’re not proud of what you’re saying. You’re just protecting yourself.

You may be a Coward, but at least Cowards are safe.

Lee Know studies your face, his heartbeat still uneven. “But… if you had landed correctly,” he says slowly, his voice careful, “you probably would’ve moved up even higher.” You shrug lightly, a soft breath leaving your lips.

“But I didn’t. I only needed to move up one, and that’s what I did.” There’s a long silence between the two of you, one of those rare, still moments where it feels like the world around you stops. Your gaze meets his, and for a second, there’s something unspoken there. Something that feels almost like understanding or maybe a plea for him to please drop the subject so you don't feel any worse about it then you already do. Then you let out a real smile, bright and full of warmth. “Don’t worry, Lee Know. It doesn’t matter much anyway. I’d just rather play it safe.” You let out a small giggle, and only then do you release his hands. The loss of your touch makes his palms feel oddly cold, so he quickly clasps them together, trying not to think about whether they’d gotten sweaty. He doubts you’d have minded, but still, the thought makes him blush slightly.

He watches as you wave to him before walking off toward the parking lot, your laughter trailing behind you as you join a few of his friends near their cars. The way you glow under the fading daylight, it’s almost unfair, he thinks. You look so effortlessly alive, so sure of yourself, even when your words say otherwise. And he feels utterly, completely confused. He leans against the doorframe, watching you laugh with his friends, the sound soft and real. A small, helpless smile tugs at his lips. You’re incredible. Frustrating. Wonderful. And as he stares after you, one thought slips into his mind before he can stop it:

What am I going to do with you?

You did make it into the higher class, and though Lee Know didn’t want to admit it out loud, something about ballet suddenly felt different. The studio lights seemed warmer, the music sweeter, the hours shorter. He used to come in for the discipline , the perfection of form, and to get better at different forms of dance, but now he just came in for you. From the first moment you’d joined the upper ranks, you’d brought a new kind of energy into the room. It wasn’t loud or showy, but surprisingly gentle and comforting. You worked hard, but you made it look effortless. And when you danced by yourself, when the music began and the rest of the world faded out, you reached this quiet zone no one else could enter. It was mesmerizing to watch. Lee Know couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. You weren’t just a good dancer, you were simply a dream. Every gesture, and spin, every rise and fall of your body told something wordless and real. It wasn’t just practice for you or him, in some way he felt connected to you.

He would often find himself lingering near the mirrors when class ended, pretending to stretch while really watching the way you moved through your final cool-down routine. The light would hit your figure just right, and he’d think, She’s a shooting star. A brief, breathtaking thing that only existed in the moment he saw it , something he could never fully keep. He would’ve made a wish then, if he could. A wish to see you dance forever. And as the two of you got closer, he stopped trying to hide how he felt. He wasn’t good at subtlety anyway. His friends noticed the way his voice softened whenever he said your name, the way his eyes automatically sought you out the second he entered the room. It became part of his routine , his heartbeat syncing unconsciously to your laughter, his chest tightening whenever your hand brushed his arm. He’d thought his crush started off strong, but every day it grew louder, heavier, until it felt impossible to ignore. Every time he walked in and you’d run over to greet him, giggling about something so random he could never remember the details afterward, his heart would stumble over itself like it didn’t know what rhythm to keep.

He loved the way your joy filled the room. You could make him laugh at nothing, smile for no reason, think for hours about the smallest things you said. Sometimes, he’d be lying in bed after practice, staring up at the ceiling, replaying the way you’d smiled that day or the way you’d gotten too caught up in explaining a step and waved your hands around dramatically. He was utterly, stupidly, hopelessly in love with you.

But when the news reached him, that you’d been offered the main role in your next class performance and had turned it down, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He should’ve seen it coming. But he wasn’t prepared. Even after weeks of knowing you, he still saw you through the soft haze of rose-colored light , all grace and fire and beauty. Every time you refused an opportunity, something inside him cracked. It wasn’t disappointment in you, not even close, it was heartbreak for what you didn’t see in yourself. That day in class, he could tell something was wrong long before anyone said a word. You weren’t yourself.

The music started, but your movements felt quieter. Not clumsy, never clumsy, but restrained. There were moments where your usual lighthearted confidence flickered, replaced by something distant. Every few seconds, your smile would falter, and that same sad gaze he’d seen once before, the one you’d worn when he’d asked why you didn’t jump, would surface again. It hit him like a terrible déjà vu. He hated it, truly hated it, because the sadness looked so foreign on your face. You were supposed to be bright, lively, and endless. But instead, you looked deflated, like dancing couldn't make you feel better anymore.

When there was a break between practice and the actual dancing, and Harper was off in the corner talking animatedly to some guy she was interested in, Lee Know quietly made his way toward you. The room was still humming with background chatter, the squeak of ballet shoes against the floor, and the faint sound of music leaking from someone’s phone, but to him, the only thing that stood out was you. You were sitting by the mirrors, knees pulled up slightly, picking absentmindedly at the ribbons of your shoes. Your reflection looked calm, but he could see the storm brewing behind your eyes. “What’s going on with you?” Minho asked softly, crouching beside you. To anyone else, his tone might have sounded sharp, almost confrontational, but you had known him long enough, just over three months, to understand the gentle worry tucked beneath his words. He only ever got that serious when he cared. You gave a small sigh, a forced laugh slipping out before you could stop it.

“It’s really nothing, Minho… please don’t worry about me.” He froze for just a moment when he heard his real name on your lips. You’d been calling him that for weeks, ever since he told you you could, but it never failed to make his heart stumble in his chest. Something about the way you said it, so soft, like you were letting him into a secret, made him feel dizzy every time.

“Well, that can’t be true,” he said, settling down beside you. His leotard stretched across his shoulders as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Something’s going on. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…” he paused, biting the inside of his lip, his eyes darting to the floor before finding yours again, “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” The sincerity in his voice made you smile for the first time all day, really smile. You reached up to undo your messy ponytail, letting your hair fall freely.

“You’re so sweet, Minho,” you whispered, brushing a few strands from your face. “Well, to be honest…” you hesitated, fidgeting with your fingers. “I got accepted for the main role in the Class 2 show.” For a split second, his brain froze, then he gasped, spinning toward you with wide eyes, his hand flying to your arm in excitement.

“That’s amazing! Y/N, that’s huge! You’re an incredible dancer, you earned that! That would be such a good way to celebrate moving up!” But instead of smiling, you groaned and covered your face with your hands.

“No, it’s not! I’m not skilled enough to do any of those moves, Minho. Everyone will laugh at me, and then I’ll get moved back down. I’ll ruin everything.” Your voice cracked at the end, and when you looked at him again, your eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. “I don’t want to move away from everyone. I don’t want to move away from you.” You whispered the last part, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but even though saying it made your heart flutter with anxiety, it also felt right. Honest. Minho’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he didn’t know what to say, but then something shifted in his expression. He stood up quickly, moving in front of you until you were face to face, his hands settling gently but firmly on your arms. You could feel the warmth of his touch even through the thin fabric of your sleeves.

“Y/N.” His tone was different now, lower, steadier, full of something that made your stomach twist. “You have to do this.” You blinked, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. “I can’t watch you hold yourself back anymore,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re so talented. The most amazing dancer I’ve seen. Everything about the way you move, it’s like the world disappears when you’re on stage. If you don’t do the lead for yourself… then please, do it for me.” Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t smiling or teasing. He meant every word. His gaze was so earnest, so raw, that for the first time, you saw a side of him no one else got to see. “You obviously got the role because you deserved it,” he continued, squeezing your arms gently. “They wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t ready. You just… you have to believe that.”

“Minho…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Y/N.” His voice softened again. “You have to.” The world went still for a moment, just you and him, breathing in the same space, hearts pounding in quiet sync. The fear inside you was still there, heavy and loud, but now it was mixed with something else: courage. Finally, you groaned softly, looking down.

“Alright… I guess I could give it a try.” The second you said it, his entire face lit up.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing in place, clapping his hands once. His sudden excitement made you laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it.

“Why do you care so much?” you teased lightly, watching him try to hide the way his grin wouldn’t leave his face. He shrugged, cheeks turning pink.

“Because it’s you,” he said simply. And somehow, that was all the reassurance you needed. As he kept cheering for you, eyes shining brighter than the studio lights, you found yourself smiling again, really smiling. Maybe taking the role wouldn’t be so bad after all. Not if Minho was there to watch you dance.

And there was a creeping thought in the back of your head as well, Lee Know really did care. He cared so much it made you heart hurt and mind blank every time he looked at you with those soft eyes. Because you were so in love with him it was all you cared about, your mind thought of him 24/7 but you were too scared. What if he didn't like you back? What if you told him your feelings and it only ended up in failure? What if you make a mistake? But with him smiling so brightly in front of you about you taking a risk you can't help but imagine taking the leap of telling him how you feel. Maybe you will one day, when you finally gain enough courage. And although it's just a thought you feel braver then you have in a while.

The auditorium was packed, a quiet hum of voices filling the air as people shuffled into their seats, the rustle of programs and the faint scent of perfume and stage dust mixing into something almost sacred. People from all over had come to see the performance, and Lee Know couldn’t blame them. He had been counting down the days himself, even rearranging his own rehearsal schedule just so he could be there. He told the other members that it was to support the ballet company, but they all knew he wanted to see you. Down in the orchestra pit, the musicians were tuning their instruments, a flurry of warm-up notes blending into something that sounded like anticipation itself. The faint hum of strings, the soft roll of drums, it was almost as beautiful as you. Above them, the hazy golden lights shifted in soft tones of ivory, honey, and white, casting warm halos over the crimson seats that gleamed under the glow. The whole theater felt alive, breathing, waiting.

Lee Know leaned back in his seat, adjusting the cuffs of his dark suit. His hair was curled gently, a quiet nod to the day you first met, because it looks just like it did in the photoshoot. He smiled faintly at the memory and then looked down at the bouquet of flowers in his lap. Cream-colored roses, soft pink carnations, a few daisies, the kind of bouquet he’d imagined you holding in his mind. He had wrapped it himself, clumsily, but carefully. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about showing you how proud he was. Even if you two weren’t together, even if the words he wanted to say were still tangled in his chest, he needed you to know how much he believed in you. The lights dimmed, and the auditorium fell into silence. The orchestra began to play, the music unfurling like silk, and Lee Know’s heart began to race. The curtains rose, revealing the dancers poised in perfect stillness, the soft glow of stage light kissing their faces. The charcoal-gray lighting wrapped around the stage like smoke, turning every movement into its own performance.

Then you appeared, and everything stopped.

You stepped into the light, your expression serene but fierce, eyes glinting with a determination he's never seen on you before. It's new to see you with this confidence, yet oh so wonderful. The moment your body began to move, he could feel the air shift. You looked like a princess. Lee Know couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. You moved with a grace that was both impossible and effortless, your dress shimmering in a thousand sparkles that caught the light with every twirl. He could see your confidence glowing brighter than the stage itself, the energy around you transforming into something almost otherworldly. The audience gasped softly at the precision of your movements, but all Lee Know could hear was the rhythm of his own heart and the faint echo of a guitar in the back of his mind, a melody that had followed him since the first day he met you. Your melody.

He leaned forward unconsciously, his elbows resting on his knees, breath caught in his throat. You weren’t just performing, you were becoming. You were the flower finally in full bloom after seasons of uncertainty, the star that had always been destined to shine but had waited for the right night sky. Every ounce of doubt that had once clouded your eyes was gone. You were radiant, powerful, and heartbreakingly beautiful. When the music built toward the highest point, he knew what was coming, the leap. The same move you had been so afraid of, the one that had haunted you for weeks. The days after you agreed to take the lead role Lee Know found you practicing. Every morning, you arrived at the studio just early enough to get some of your own time. The air was cold, the kind that stung your lungs just a little when you breathed in, but it woke you up, reminded you that this was real. You had promised Minho you’d do it. And in some ways you had promised yourself. And yet, every time the music started and the moment for the jump came, your legs froze. It wasn’t physical, your body knew how to move, how to fly, but your mind whispered the same old fears: What if I fall? What if I’m not good enough? What if they all see me fail?

But you kept trying, over and over. And he could remember you finally getting it. Just like you had to now. His hands tightened around the bouquet. And then it happened.

You leapt.

The world seemed to hold its breath with you. Your body lifted, weightless, suspended in a perfect arc under the stage lights. The movement was absolutely flawless. You landed gracefully, your smile blooming instantly as the audience erupted into applause. But Lee Know didn’t clap. Not yet. He was still too lost in the sight of you smiling, really smiling. The way the light caught your eyes, the sheer joy in your expression, it hit him harder than any standing ovation ever could. He felt it then, the same pure, overwhelming feeling he’d had the first time he saw you, like the universe had folded in on itself and handed him a single truth: he was completely in love with you. As the performance came to a close, and the dancers bowed under the glow of golden light, he finally joined in the applause, standing and cheering with the rest. But while everyone else clapped for the beauty of the performance, Lee Know clapped for you. For your courage. For the leap you finally took.

Because for the first time ever he had met a girl that he liked being around more than he liked being by himself. Someone who he gave his heart to in her hands and was waiting for her to decide what to do with it. Yes, he was scared, but the idea that one day instead of having moments just to himself he would be able to share them with you, well he liked to think that often. And although you had his heart he knew it would take a while before you did anything with it.

But Lee Know would always be there waiting for you to take the leap, just like he did with this one.

[joystories11]

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Happy Halloween guys!!! I hope everyone enjoyed their night and had lots of fun trick or treating, sorry this post is the day after yesterday was so busy for me with all the trick or treating. Seeing everyone's costumes is always one of my favorite parts because I feel it's one of the few days everyone nerdy or not gets to dress up without being judged.

Please tell me what you were for Halloween!!!

And as a little sneak peak if anyone looked into my last story I mentioned Lee know with a girlfriend that does Ballet and that's my next prompt! I'm having lots of fun writing it right now and am excited to release it for everyone to enjoy 🩷 I based it off some songs from my playlist like Soft Spot (Keshi), Forever (Keshi), Spring Snow (10CM), Still (Jeff Bernat), and Catch Up To Me (Thomas Day).

I hope everyone has a lovely November 1st and that they had a wonderful night last night! I'll post my new story soon! 🩷🩷🩷

[joystories11]

Joy Chat!

Hey everybody!!!! This is just me thinking but If anyone wants to chat or just talk to me please feel free, I love getting responses to my posts or just anything in general and I realized that having an online friend would be really really nice!

So if anyone is a new writer as well and wants to chat please let me know! Just having someone to talk to or mentioning other people's posts makes me really happy! 🩷

[joystories11]

Unimaginable

Felix invites you over to the recording studio to meet some of his friends and once you get over your fears of being made fun of, you begin to realize one of them is one of the most amazing people you've ever met. Something about him draws you in, and for once you don't feel judged, but does he feel the same way?

Pairing: Idol!Bang Chan x Goth!Reader

Genre/tags: fluff and mentions of a little bullying? Strangers to lovers! But mainly just happiness as Bang Chan and the reader become closer! There is also mentions of what the reader is wearing but I tried leaving actual physical descriptions like hair color, eye color, etc. Out of the picture.

Word Count: 6.8k (I got a little carried away...)

[note]: this was so so so much fun to write and I loved researching the style in order to do so! Although I don't dress like this myself I've always imagined Chan with a more dark styled reader then anything else. I left a few hints to more things I'm writing as well...maybe something with Lee Know!

MASTERLIST

“Come on, Y/N!!!” Felix pleads, his fingers curling around the hem of your dress like a child hanging onto their mother’s sleeve. His voice has that soft desperation in it, breathy and slightly whiny, already laced with excitement. For some reason beyond your comprehension, he had been begging, genuinely begging for weeks for you to go to the studio with him. Maybe he remembered you once mentioning that your fingers had itched to try a mic just for a little while. Maybe it was the offhand comment you made months ago about wanting to see what a real session was like. But now, as he tugged impatiently on your skirt, it seemed he had taken your words to heart and really wanted you to go.

You glance down at his hand, his fingertips brushing the intricate lace trim sewn delicately into your black mid-length dress. The fabric color choices look absolutely wonderful on you and even though the corset you're wearing would normally look uncomfortable, it only makes you feel more confident. The neckline is heart-shaped, lined with tiny black satin rosettes, framing your chest with an almost Victorian softness. Across your arms, the chiffon sleeves flow down to your wrists like wisps of smoke, sheer but layered, moving with every breath you take. It’s a style you've always liked to dress in because it makes you feel good in a way you can't describe. The pick me up you always need after a long day is getting dressed up in your pretty goth skirts just to feel pretty. You sigh, turning back toward your vanity, the mirror reflecting the full vision you had constructed. A deep crimson headband pushes your bangs away from your eyes, the ribbon bow at the top matching your lipstick perfectly. Felix watches as you lift your eyeliner with steady fingers, dragging the inky black wing upward toward your temple in a sharp swing that looks like a dagger across your skin. The silver sparkles clustered in your tear duct catch under the vanity lights like whispers of the wind mixed with some magical glitter.

“What about the other guys?” you murmur, voice low, eyes flicking to Felix’s reflection in the mirror. “I don’t really know any of them that well.” Felix shrugs, though he’s barely paying attention to your words anymore he’s too mesmerized by your ritual. He always is. Everything about the process fascinates him. The way you tilt your chin slightly higher while putting on mascara. The way your dark dress cascades over your legs when you stand, the layers fluttering around your thighs like ink blooming in water. It's entertaining in some weird way, he gets to see a part of you that's truly you!

“I promise,” he says, stepping closer until he’s right behind you, chin nearly resting on your shoulder. “They’ll like you! You're so sweet there really isn't anything not to like.” You scoff, but his words bring a reluctant smile to your lips as you apply your red lipstick, blotting it softly with your middle finger, spreading the pigment until it looks bitten. You reach for your rings next, the silver color gentle against your skin, and slide each one onto your fingers. Felix watches each motion reverently, almost as if you were performing a spell. He had admitted once, quietly, that the first time he saw you, he was a little scared. Not because of you, but because of how you dressed. People weren’t used to this kind of style you wore, and although it may have been silly, new things could be terrifying. And yet, instead of judging you, he learned you were the sweetest person other than himself that he has ever met. Your kindness showed through in the best way, and he thought it was extremely unfair that the style you wore seemed to scare off so many people. It was your own form of expression that was all, and although he was guilty of it, nothing about it should be thought of as weird.

Felix beams now as you rise from your vanity, your black platform heels clicking decisively across the floor. The skirt of your dress sways, catching light and shadow like a cathedral curtain. You adjust your headband one last time, then turn to face him fully. He clasps his hands dramatically. “You look wonderful Y/N! Just another excuse to go to the studio.” He jokes but the compliment is serious. You roll your eyes, but the compliment warms your chest. Felix had always been there to hype you up, to admire your makeup and hair, to sit beside you as you curled your locks against hot iron, each ribboned curl falling perfectly over your shoulders. He has always been there for you, the least you could do was be there for his music.

So really…how could you say no?

You give Felix a slight nod, barely even a tilt of the chin, and he immediately reacts by blooming into a smile. He throws his head back with an excited yell, his laughter spilling out in bright bursts as he fumbles to pull his phone from his pocket. “Yes! Oh my gosh, you are going to have the best time,” he babbles, thumbs tapping rapidly across his screen as he checks the time. “And I sound so cool in the recording booth too, wait until you hear my super deep singing voice. If you think it's deep now just wait” He giggles to himself, full of nerves and pride, bouncing on his toes like he physically cannot contain the thrill racing through him. Meanwhile, you turn back to the mirror and do one final check. Your sleeves, long and sheer, embroidered with intricate black and crimson floral stitching, drape delicately down your arms in an enchanting way. You adjust the elastic off-shoulder neckline so it sits perfectly against your collarbones, the cool fabric pressing softly into your skin. The fitted bodice wraps around you, the tightness comforting, and the ribbon ties in the back forming a perfect bow that trails lightly against your spine. As you stand, the skirt swishes dramatically around your legs, layers of chiffon falling like soft shadows with every step. The silver rings on your fingers clink quietly as you smooth the fabric down, double-checking that every detail looks effortless, even though you spent twenty minutes perfecting it like any other person would do.

“I guess,” you murmur, trying to sound annoyed even though the flutter in your chest betrays you. The nerves in your stomach twist into something warm, anticipation, excitement, fear, all swirling together. “Let’s just get this over with.” Felix beams even if you sound slightly hesitant. He grabs his coat, practically hopping into his shoes, watching you with glowing eyes as you step into your black platform boots. The leather hugs your ankles, the buckles glinting beneath the light as you lace them up carefully. For a moment, your hands pause at the last buckle, fingertips stilling as your thoughts begin to spiral.

You’d heard about the members before, sometimes in funny stories about inside jokes or food fights, sometimes in quiet moments where Felix got soft, recounting late-night talks about dreams and fears. But there was one name he never spoke lightly of Bang Chan.

Felix always talked about him with an unshakable admiration. Not like a fan would speak of a celebrity, but like someone describing the sun, constant, life-giving, protective. You’d heard stories of Chan staying late in the studio to finish tracks so the others could rest, covering shifts, volunteering on weekends, buying meals without telling anyone. Every time Felix said his name, there was a gentleness in his tone that made you certain: this was not just a leader. This was someone who cared. Someone truly important.

And someone you wanted, no, needed, to make a good impression on.

Your heartbeat thrums faster as you slip on your coat, the soft fabric brushing against your dress sleeves. What if he thinks you're too much? Too dramatic? A bad influence? Your style has always sparked reactions. Which was the point, yes, but reactions could burn, and leave marks that could possibly last forever if not taken care of. You were scared to get burned by the one person Felix may prioritize over you, the idea of losing your beta friends, something you don't want to imagine. “Trust me, Y/N,” Felix’s voice echoes in your mind, his earlier words floating through your thoughts like a steadying breeze. “They’re gonna love you.” You inhale slowly, deeply and purposefully. The kind of breath you take before stepping onto a stage.

The air fills your lungs, cool and sharp, and you let it out just as slowly. Felix opens the front door, his smile brighter than ever as he gestures for you to step out first. You adjust your headband, take one last deep breath, and with every ounce of confidence you could possibly muster move forward heading to the studio.

But the studio was definitely not at all what you had imagined. In your head, you pictured something quiet and dimly lit, maybe soft music playing in the background, people hunched over soundboards concentrating deeply. Instead, before you even touched the door, you heard absolute terrors erupting from inside. Heavy thuds, like someone was physically slamming against the furniture, rattled the walls. A piercing, dolphin level cackle cut through the air, followed by overlapping shouts of laughter. It sounded less like a professional work environment and more like a frat house on game night, and every new noise only made you more certain that something feral was happening within those walls. You froze in front of the door, slowly turning to Felix with a look that could only be described as pure alarm. And the worst part was he just grinned in response. Not his normal sweet grin either, this one was truly evil. Mischief burned in his eyes, the kind that made your stomach flip, because you knew Felix Lee did not wear that expression unless something about crazy was about to unfold.

“What,” you whisper under your breath, your voice strained. “What is happening in there?”

"You’ll see,” he sings, clearly thrilled about your growing horror. You take a breath and push the door open just a little, peeking inside. And instantaneously the room freezes. You figure they just have thought you were an employee before looking because every single member whips around like meerkats sensing danger. Conversations stop. Movement stops. One guy literally drops what looks like a slipper mid-air. They all straighten their backs, suddenly adopting serious expressions and pretending to be immersed in various equipment, as if they hadn’t just been participating in whatever ungodly racket you walked in on. You blink and let out a small light hearted laugh. Then Felix casually slips in beside you, leaning half his body through the doorframe and loudly announcing, “WE’RE HEEERE!”

The room erupts again in absolutely no time. “FELIX!” One voice hollers, and you barely register who it is before Felix launches forward and tackles a tall figure with flowing hair and a familiar silver ring you've seen Felix wear. That must be Hyunjin, you think trying to remember what you know about the members. The rest of the members immediately crowd around them, launching into rapid conversation about whatever monstrosity they were doing before your arrival. Some are reenacting something in exaggerated motions, another is wheezing into his sleeve. The energy is so hyperactive it practically crackles in the air like static. But through all that movement one person isn’t acting completely crazy. He stands a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, a gentle smile still resting on his lips, but his eyes are entirely on you.

Bang Chan.

You recognize him instantly from the descriptions Felix had given you: soft curls barely visible under a black beanie, warm eyes that crinkle when he smiles, broad shoulders that still somehow manage to exude comfort rather than intimidation. And yet he wasn’t anything like you had pictured. He stood slightly apart from the others, framed by the golden studio lights that traced along the edges of his shoulders and the curve of his jaw. His hair, tousled and soft brown under a black beanie, framed his face in loose waves. A silver chain glinted at his neck, catching the warm light as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in quiet curiosity.

Those eyes so deep, warm and brown, flecked with something golden, met yours directly, unflinching but gentle. They crinkled faintly at the corners as he smiled, and you swore the air left your lungs. It wasn’t just his smile; it was what it did to the whole room. The way everything around him softened. The laughter dimmed. Everything felt steady in a way. He shifted his weight, strong forearms crossing loosely over his chest, muscles flexing subtly beneath his fitted white shirt. His posture wasn’t intimidating , it was confident, calm, like he had this quiet authority that didn’t need to demand attention to get it.

You could feel your heartbeat picking up, quick and unsteady, each thump echoing louder in your ears. You tried to tell yourself it was just the nerves, the awkwardness of meeting someone new. But deep down, you knew it was something else , something about the way his gaze seemed to see right through the lace, the eyeliner, the layers of your outfit, straight into you. It's like he watches you with quiet intensity, not judgmental or startled, but curious. His gaze drifts from the top of your headband down to the lace sleeves on your arms, to the cinched waist of your dress, pausing respectfully before flicking back to your eyes. His beanie shifts slightly as he adjusts it, almost nervously, though the rest of his demeanor stays calm. Then he gestures subtly to the others, and it's like if on command, the chaos ceases. Seven pairs of eyes slowly turning to look at you.

You anxiously press your fingers into the fabric of your skirt, but to your surprise, none of them look upset. Or bored. Or even confused. They look truly excited. Bang Chan steps forward first, bowing his head slightly, and instantly, all of them follow his lead, dipping in polite greeting. It happens so fast you almost forget to respond, eventually bowing back awkwardly, your cheeks warming. “Is this Y/N?” Chan asks, voice warm and lilting with that familiar Aussie accent Felix also had. His tone is friendly, no barrier of formality, and the smile that slowly spreads across his face makes dimples appear in the soft light of the studio. Your heart flutters as the question sounds like he's genuinely interested in you.

“She is!” Felix swiftly moves to your side, clutching again at the fabric of your black dress sleeve like you might fly away if he let go. His entire being radiates pride. “I’m so happy you guys remembered me talking about her.” Hyunjin steps closer with a tiny giggle.

“This is Y/N?” he repeats, and he just simply smiles clearly excited to meet you. You remember Felix saying he talked about you but with Hyunjin being so cheerful you only now begin to imagine how much. Another voice chimes in from the back.

“Felix literally never shuts up about you. Finally, we get to see if you’re real.” The room fills with soft chuckles, light teasing clearly filled with affection, as who you can guess is Lee Know receives a small fake punch from Felix.

"We’re happy to finally meet you. We were just about to get back to work,” Bang Chan says warmly, hands clasping together as if to gently reign in the situation around him. His voice carries easily through the room , deep and velvety, the kind of tone that sounds like it’s meant for late-night conversations and quiet reassurances. The other members immediately groan in protest, a chorus of exaggerated complaints filling the air. Han throws his head back dramatically, stomping his feet in mock frustration.

“But Chan, we just started having fun!” He only laughs in return, the sound low and easy, and for a moment you can’t help but stare. His laugh isn’t the booming kind , it’s controlled, soft, but it vibrates with genuine amusement that seems to ripple through the room and calm everyone a little. Then he looks back at you, dimples faintly appearing again as he adds, “But please, feel free to talk to us and hang out! We’re so glad you’re here.” Something in the way he says it really calms you down, it's funny because you had prepared yourself to meet a picture-perfect version of someone who only existed in your imagination, but this real version of Bang Chan, with his faint smile lines, his soft confidence, and that quiet aura of warmth, was so much better. And a lot easier to be around too! Eventually, Chan gently claps his hands once to gather everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s give Felix some space. He’s got a few lines to record, yeah?” He looks to you, offering an almost boyish grin. “You don’t mind hanging out with the rest of us, right?” You shake your head quickly, smiling.

"Not at all.” He nods, satisfied, and gestures for everyone to spread out and make room for you. Felix slips into the recording booth, shooting you a grin and a thumbs-up before the door shuts behind him. The energy in the room instantly shifts. What follows is simple yet heart warming as you begin to talk to everyone else. It's this nice kind of refreshing in the best way.

Changbin immediately flexes his arms in front of you, proudly showing off muscles that could probably crush a watermelon. “Not bad, right?” he says, smirking in that self-assured way that only lasts for a little until your attention goes else we're and your phone goes off. It's got a notification about the New Jeans court case. “Wait, New Jeans?” His entire demeanor flips. The tough guy act evaporates as he sits up eagerly, eyes wide with excitement. “Oh no way! I have been such a big fan of them for forever, I'm so happy you like them too. What's your favorite song? What about member?” He pauses for a moment to catch his breath and let out a giggle. “But I also get it's so hard to pick just one of them. They're all so amazing.* You laugh, trying to answer as he practically vibrates in his seat, running through the members one by one. “No, seriously,” he insists, “Their music is so catchy too! I've been trying to convince them to let me join their group but I guess they can't let in a guy.” He jokes and You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, his enthusiasm too genuine to mock.

Meanwhile, Seungmin sits nearby, pretending to focus on his phone. You make some light comment about how quiet he’s being, and without missing a beat, he throws a pillow straight at you making you yelp and burst into laughter. “Seungmin!” Chan says from across the room, his voice more amused than stern, “don’t terrorize Y/Nnie!”

"Wasn’t terrorizing,” Seungmin mutters, looking smug, and you can tell he’s not sorry in any way. Chan shakes his head, smiling in that way that tells you this is probably a regular occurrence. At some point, Lee Know ends up sitting beside you, and the two of you start talking about hobbies. He opens up easily after a bit, telling you about the ballet class he’s been taking. His voice softens when he talks about his girlfriend , apparently a dancer herself, feisty and stubborn, but according to him, “absolutely incredible.” There’s this little shine in his eyes when he speaks about her that makes your heart warm.

“You sound proud of her,” you say softly.

“I am,” he replies with a small smile. “She’s one of those people that make you want to be better, y’know?” You nod, smiling back, and glance across the room toward Bang Chan. He’s leaning over the control board, focused on Felix’s recording, lips parted slightly as he listens carefully through the headphones. His hands move deftly over the sliders, adjusting levels, his expression concentrated but calm. There’s something so captivating about the way he works , patient, grounded, the kind of focus that comes from loving what you do. And you can’t help but notice that same care he shows everyone here , the same quiet kindness in how he corrects a mistake gently, how he praises Felix over the intercom, how he looks up every now and then just to give you a quick, reassuring smile.

Every time he does, your stomach flips in all sorts of directions.

Eventually, the recording just stops, and the air in the studio melts into a comfortable buzz of laughter and warmth. Everyone’s sprawled around, I.N leaning on a chair with his hair sticking up in all directions, Hyunjin dramatically fanning himself with a lyric sheet, Seungmin pretending to fall asleep mid-conversation, and Bang Chan half-smiling as he cleans up the scattered water bottles and snack wrappers that seem to multiply in the corners.

It’s not as crazy as before, but it’s lively and somewhat cozy. You can feel the sense of family between them. The teasing, the laughter, the small inside jokes you barely understand but laugh at anyway because the energy is contagious. For once, you don’t feel like you’re intruding. It’s rare, feeling this kind of comfort with new people. You’d forgotten how good it felt to just exist around others without feeling like you had to perform. You think about your own friends, how most of your hangouts revolve around fashion, social media trends, and little updates about who’s dating who. You love them deeply, but this is different. This feels grounded, like real life. There’s laughter, sure, but also stories about struggles, the creative process, and dumb little moments that make you realize how human they all are. You didn’t expect to fit in here, but somehow, you do. That’s when Lee Know suddenly chimes in, his voice playful yet mischievous. “Chan doesn’t have a girlfriend though,” he says, and the sentence drops like a spark in the middle of the group.

Bang Chan immediately freezes, his eyes narrowing as he gives Lee Know a look that screams why would you say that right now as a small pink shivers across his cheeks. But Lee Know just smirks and shrugs. “What? It’s true! All of us have someone, but he’s the only one still single.” The others start chuckling, and you blink in disbelief.

“Wait, seriously?”

Bang Chan’s lips part in embarrassment, his dimple showing as he gives a shy laugh. His hand goes to the back of his neck, his fingers brushing the edge of his beanie as he looks down. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he says softly, his voice carrying that same soothing lilt that first made your heart flutter. “I’ve just… never really had the time, I guess.” You stare at him, genuinely surprised. The way Felix always talked about him, you’d imagined Bang Chan as someone effortlessly confident and maybe even a little flirtatious, but in person, he’s different. He’s gentle, humble, and so incredibly sweet. The studio light catches the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, his dark eyes sincere beneath the soft strands of hair that fall across his forehead. His shoulders are broad, yet the way he shifts nervously makes him seem almost boyish.

“Lots of girls want me,” he continues, chuckling awkwardly, “but most of the time, it’s like… they have this idea of me that’s completely different from who I actually am.” he puffs out his cheeks slightly now making eye contact with the floor. “They want Idol Bang Chan but majority of them don't really care about how I am outside of performing Red lights or Escape.” The others nod knowingly, and you feel your chest tighten at the vulnerability in his tone. “If I ever date someone,” he adds quietly, glancing up at you for just a moment, “I’d rather they know me for me… not the guy they think I am.” Your breath catches. His gaze meets yours for a fleeting second, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist in that strange, warm way that only happens when you see someone a little too clearly. There’s sincerity in his eyes, and something about it draws you in like a magnet. You nod slowly, pressing your red-tinted lips together as if to hide your smile.

"Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “That makes a lot of sense.” You figured it was normal, but at the same time, you understood exactly how it felt to have people think you were one way when you were really another. Everyone always had an idea of who you were before they even met you, an image, a label, a version of you they built from rumors or assumptions. For you, people were always surprised you weren’t some cold, heartless person. They’d see your resting expression or the way you dressed and think you were distant, maybe even mean, when in reality, you were anything but. You’d lost count of how many times someone had told you, “You’re actually really nice,” like it was a shock.

You couldn’t imagine what it must feel like for him, Bang Chan, to have that pressure multiplied by thousands of people watching, judging, expecting. The thought of it made your chest ache a little. More guys than you could count had made fun of you or treated you like you were some kind of monster before you’d even had the chance to say a word. They never said it outright, but you could see it in their eyes, the flicker of judgment, the dismissal, the way they looked right through you. So to imagine Chan having to carry that weight all the time, trying to live up to this impossible, spotless version of himself, well, it hurt in a way you didn’t expect. Your heart ached for him, not out of pity, but out of understanding. Because people often forgot that being human meant making mistakes. It meant being messy and unsure and occasionally saying the wrong thing. No one was meant to be perfect all the time. You believed that it wasn’t about avoiding mistakes, it was about what you did after them. How you treated people, how you grew, how you tried again even when it hurt.

You wondered if he ever got tired of trying to be everyone’s role model. Of being the one who had to hold it together when everyone else was allowed to fall apart. Maybe that’s why his laughter had sounded so genuine earlier, why his smile had been so warm, because even just for a moment, surrounded by friends and music and easy conversation, he got to just be. And as you looked at him again, his soft eyes focused on something across the room, his lips curved in that faint, dimpled smile, you realized you weren’t just admiring him. You saw him. The real him. And somehow, that made your heart flutter even more.

As the day drags on, the sun dips below the horizon, and the faint hum of the city night replaces the laughter echoing through the studio halls. You realize, almost with a jolt, you’ve been there far longer than you intended. What was supposed to be a short visit had turned into a full day of pure fun. You’d lost track of time completely, pulled into the whirlwind of energy that was Felix and his friends. Between the bowls of snacks being passed around, the inside jokes flying across the room, and the endless laughter that made your stomach ache and your eyes water, you hadn’t once thought to check your phone. In all fairness, the studio had no windows, meaning there was no natural reminder that time was slipping away. The walls were padded, the lights warm and soft, the air filled with music and laughter. It was like being in a little bubble where the outside world didn’t exist. But reality hit when you finally reached for your bag and saw the time. It had been nearly eight hours since you’d left your house. Eight hours since you’d last thought about work, or responsibilities, or anything beyond the comforting, noisy presence of the boys around you.

“Do you have to go?” Han whines dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch and kicking his legs like a child mid-tantrum. It’s so over the top that you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head.

"Yes, I do,” you reply, your voice soft but teasing. “Some of us have to be up early Tomorrow and do actual work.” You joke because you do highly respect being an idol, and you don't mean to be rude whatsoever. His eyes go wide and then narrow at your words, giving a pretend scowl, and the others burst into laughter. Even quiet Seungmin cracks a grin at your joke snickering slightly. You give them all a sad smile before pushing yourself up from the couch, stretching your stiff legs. “I have an early shift tomorrow, and I really don’t want to be a zombie.” A chorus of groans and protests follows your words, half-joking, half-genuine. You catch sight of Felix and I.N in the corner, both in their own little world, laughing so hard that I.N’s head is thrown back and Felix’s freckles crinkle with joy. You can’t help but smile softly at the sight. It’s rare to see him this happy and free.

“Oh! Don’t worry about me,” Felix says once he notices you hovering near the door, his tone breathless from laughter. “I’ll just have someone else drive me, Y/N. It’s no big deal.” You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make someone else deal with your sorry butt.” He sticks his tongue out at you now blue from a dumb dumb, but he quickly breaks into laughter.

"I’ll be fine! But do you want me to walk you out?” It’s sweet, so Felix of him to offer, but you can tell he’s hoping you’ll say no. He doesn’t want to leave the fun, not when the energy in the room is still buzzing and warm. You open your mouth to reply, torn between letting him stay and secretly wanting his company on the short walk out. But before you can even get a word out, a quiet, steady voice cuts through the chatter.

“I can!” Bang Chan says without a hint of hesitation, already standing and slipping into his jacket before anyone can object. His confidence catches you completely off guard. He doesn’t even wait for your response, he just decides with that soft, easy grin, like he’s known all along that you’d say yes. Your eyes widen, and a faint blush creeps up your cheeks before you can stop it. Throughout the day, he’s definitely made your heart flutter more than once, the way he’d laugh with his whole face, the way he’d tilt his head when you spoke, listening so intently that it made you want to keep talking forever, but now? Now it feels like your heart is beating just a little too fast. He glances toward Felix, who looks both surprised and a little too pleased. “I’ll make sure she gets to her car safely!” Chan calls out with a friendly pat on Felix’s shoulder, and Felix grins, eyes sparkling with the kind of teasing treat that makes you want to roll your eyes and laugh all at once.

“Alright, but don’t scare her away, hyung!” Felix jokes, earning a soft laugh from the rest of the group. You can tell by the way they’re all pretending not to watch you two and that they’re definitely going to tease him about this later. You both step outside into the night air, and the sudden quiet feels almost surreal after hours of noise and laughter. The studio door closes behind you, muffling the last traces of music, and for a moment, it’s just you and Chan. The parking lot stretches ahead, still, peaceful, and washed in a silver-blue glow from the moon. The stars are faint but visible, sprinkled across the dark sky like tiny sparks. You almost blend in but stick out in this glowing sort of way. Chan can't help but think you look slightly like a goddess with how the street lights envelope you. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the chill brushing your skin as your heels click softly against the pavement.

"Thanks for letting Felix invite me,” you say after a moment, your voice breaking the comfortable silence. “I know it must have been a little awkward having a random person show up, but I had a really great time.” Chan shakes his head quickly, his expression sincere.

"Awkward? Not at all. You fit right in, honestly. The guys really liked you.” You glance down, smiling shyly as you adjust the hem of your black skirt, lifting it slightly so it’s easier to walk. The night breeze tugs gently at the fabric, brushing against your legs, and your bracelets jingle softly as your hands move. He walks beside you, a respectful distance apart, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. The studio light glows faintly behind you both, outlining him in a soft halo. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something quietly careful about the way he walks next to you, like he’s making sure you feel safe without ever needing to say it out loud. “So of course,” he says finally, his tone gentle. “It was really nice to talk to you…” His voice trails off for a moment, and you turn your head slightly toward him, curious. He seems deep in thought, eyes glinting beneath the overhead light. Then he speaks again, quieter this time, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “You’re a lot different than I had originally imagined.”

You stop mid-step, tilting your head to the side. “Different?” you repeat, unsure how to take it. You had thought he was different then other guys and had really paid attention to you today. Had you been wrong? You knew the feeling of being judged all too well, was this just another situation? A dozen thoughts run through your head in an instant, Was that good? Bad? Did he think you’d be colder? Weirder? Less interesting? More? You let out a little laugh to mask your nerves. “What, did you think I was gonna be some scary weirdo?” He laughs softly, his dimples appearing even in the dim light, and shakes his head.

“In a good way!” he says quickly, his tone earnest, like he’s desperate for you to believe him. “You’re exactly like Felix described, but… even better.” And then he smiles, this real, warm, heart-melting smile that reaches his eyes and makes them glow softly beneath the golden parking lot light. It’s the kind of smile that feels like it was made just for you, gentle but powerful enough to make your breath catch in your throat. Your heart soars as he calms every worry inside your mind. You can feel the blush rising to your cheeks again, your chest fluttering like it’s filled with butterflies. You try to look away, but your eyes find him again, his dark hair slightly tousled under his beanie, his jawline sharp in the glow of the streetlamp, and his eyes impossibly kind.

"Even better, huh?” you say softly, trying to sound casual, but your voice gives you away. He chuckles under his breath, glancing at you with a look that lingers just long enough to make you forget what you were about to say next.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. The only sound is the wind moving gently through the trees and the faint hum of the city in the distance. You both look in the corner of your eyes as bats fly up above, just two soaring high making small noises together. But when you look back down he isn't looking at the enchanting bats, or the beautiful night sky, or even the floor but he's looking directly at you. You think maybe he'll avoid eye contact like he has been all day but this time he truly smiles as you can see a light crimson appear on his cheeks.

And that smile, that smile, has your head reeling. Because you finally see this whole time he’s been no better off than you. His posture might be casual, but his eyes give him away completely. The same playful glimmer that had danced there earlier returns, only now there’s something deeper behind it. Something intentional. His gaze drifts over you, not in a way that feels heavy or invasive, but like he’s trying to memorize every little detail, from the sparkle still lingering in the corner of your eyes to the way your skirt sways softly when you shift your weight. His eyes trail back up to yours, and when they meet, it feels like a spark jumping between you both. There’s something unspoken in that look, something real. You can feel it, the quiet curiosity, the want to know you better. His eyes hold that kind of promise, subtle but unmistakable. The kind that says so much that simple words can't even describe it.

And you can’t even pretend not to notice the way your heart answers back with a flutter. The red on your cheeks deepens, standing out against the pale smoothness of your makeup, as if your body has decided to betray you, to announce your feelings before you’ve even found the words for them. You bite the inside of your lip and look away for a second, trying to collect yourself, but it’s no use. You feel it, that pull. Because you understand what he means without him ever saying it. You’d felt the same feeling hours ago, back when you caught him laughing across the room, or when his voice wrapped around your name like it had always belonged there. It isn’t a shocking kind of realization, it’s not disappointment, or confusion, or fear. It’s a surprise, yes, but the kind that makes your chest tighten in the best possible way.

He’s not who you imagined. He’s better. Not some flawless, idealized version your mind had built from Felix’s stories, but real, authentic and grounded and quietly kind. He’s better because he laughs too loudly sometimes, and his eyes crease when he smiles, and he talks with his hands when he’s excited. He’s better because he’s not trying to be anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, he thinks the same of you. Because the way he’s looking at you right now, with that soft, open admiration, feels like he’s seeing through every layer you’ve ever built to protect yourself. As though he’s memorizing you, not the version people assume you are.

He’s better than any dream you could’ve had of him. And you’re better than any imagined version he could’ve pictured in his head.

The air between you is heavy with something unspoken yet comforting, fragile yet magnetic. Neither of you rushes to break it, letting the silence stretch and hum with possibility until you reach your car. Chan shifts on his feet, hands still tucked into his jacket pockets, his voice dropping to a softer tone that sends another ripple through your chest. “We’re scheduled for the studio again next Friday,” he says, his accent curling gently around the words. “If you want to come…” His eyes flicker up to yours, uncertain yet hopeful. “I’d really like that.” The corners of your lips lift before you even think to stop them.

“I would love that,” you say quietly, and you mean it. You feel it. The thought of seeing him again, of hearing his laugh, of sitting beside him while music fills the room, sends tiny sparks of excitement racing through your stomach. For a moment, you both stand there in the soft hum of the night, the sound of the wind and the faint buzz of the city surrounding you. The electricity between you still there and painfully obvious.

Because no matter what you look like, how you act, or what anyone has ever assumed about you, there’s something about Bang Chan that makes all those voices fade away. Around him, you stop thinking about what people see, you just are. And as you watch him turn to head back toward the studio, his hand lifting in a small, casual wave, you realize something simple but wonderful.

He’s a surprise, yes, but he’s the most beautiful, unexpected, and utterly human surprise you could have ever stumbled into.

[joystories11]

Joy Chat!

I love Han with all my heart and recently I've been absolutely obsessed with the song "Soft Spot" by Keshi! The Acoustic version just scratches my brain in such a lovely way and I would love to hear Han cover it!!!

Gosh I love him so so so much! He's genuinely so sweet! They all make me so happy! 🩷

[joystories11]

Rotten Apples

Every single person on planet earth has something about themselves that they don't like, it's a fault that we all look good to eat but are sour on the inside. But what happens when Felix sees your spoiled parts for the first time, what happens when Felix realizes that you have insecurities too?

Pairing: Idol!Felix x Childhood best friend!Reader

Genre/tags: Mainly angst and comfort, but I wanted to try writing in a more metaphorical way then I normally do! Felix and Reader are childhood besties, and Felix adores Reader.

Word Count: 4.1k

[note]: I'm really really sorry I haven't posted in a while, I got a little insecure about how I write when I was looking through some other people's posts and didn't think I was a good enough writer. But then I decided to check my account and realized that I had 40 followers!!! This is for all of you because I really really appreciate it! You guys are seriously the best!

MASTERLIST

Insecurities are such an interesting thing in themselves. It’s a word that covers such a wide, tangled range of things: broad shoulders, big noses, short eyelashes, thick lips, curly hair, freckles, thighs that touch, stomachs that blush when you sit down, even tiny ears. But for every insecurity someone has, another person has the exact opposite, wishing they looked like the first. It’s almost poetic in a cruel sort of way, one person despising what another person would give anything to have.

It could be labeled as comparison, but sometimes people don’t even have anyone to compare themselves to. They just don’t feel good enough. That quiet, aching voice says, You should’ve fixed this by now, or It’s unfair that you look like this. And soon that voice becomes louder, feeding on everything you see, until it festers. It’s like biting into what looks like a perfect apple, shiny, red, beautiful only to find the inside has gone brown and sour. That’s what insecurities do! They rot you from the inside out, softening your sense of worth until you can’t even recognize the sweetness you once had. The longer you hold onto them, the more they spread, bruising everything they touch until you feel mushy and hollow, pretending to look fine on the outside while decaying within. The most ironic part is that we always see our own rotten spots but rarely notice anyone else’s. You take a picture with your friends and your eyes immediately go to yourself, your arm looks awkward, your smile looks forced, your skin looks too pale because of the “lighting” but you know it's just yourself. But you don’t realize that your friends are doing the same thing, staring at themselves and wishing they looked more like you. It’s like everyone’s carrying around their own bruised apple, hiding it behind filters and practiced smiles, afraid someone might see the soft spots underneath. Insecurities unite us in the idea that we all want what others have, but they hold us back because we’re too embarrassed, too jealous, or too broken to admit we’re all rotting together.

Felix knew that truth better than most. He was painfully aware that everyone had insecurities he faced his own every single day. It was a constant tug of war between wanting to eat and being too afraid to disappoint fans, between loving himself and hating what he saw reflected back through screens. The worst part wasn’t the hate itself, it was knowing people were waiting, watching, ready for him to bruise. To take a bite out of him and spit it out, saying he’d gone bad.

He hated that anyone on earth could feel as terrible as he once did about himself, that feeling of rotting alive from the inside, smiling through the pain so no one would notice the worms eating away at your confidence. It’s a memory he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. Maybe that’s why people try to pick at him, he thinks. Because they’re dealing with their own rot. Maybe they’ve been spoiled by comparison for so long they’ve forgotten how to be kind. So they try to cut others down, hoping the pain will somehow taste sweeter when shared. But it doesn’t. The bitterness only spreads. And Felix knows that no matter how much rot people try to throw his way, he’ll keep trying to find the good parts that are still left like the crisp bite of something real, something healing. Because maybe the only way to stop the cycle of rotten apples is to learn how to plant something new.

So yes, Felix knew everyone had something about themselves they didn’t like, some quiet imperfection that clung to them like a stain no one else could see. He’d seen it in his friends, in fans, even in himself every time he caught his reflection under the harsh glare of a camera light. He understood that kind of pain, the type that makes you peel yourself apart piece by piece, trying to find where the rot started.

But what he couldn’t wrap his head around right now was how you of all people could understand that core sinking, gut growling feeling. You, the most fantastic and amazing girl he had ever met in his entire life. Everything you did was absolutely mesmerizing to him, you were the kind of person he thought could never be touched by doubt. Everything about you enchanted him. The way your laugh tilted your head back, the way your eyes softened when you were thinking, the way you asked him questions and hugged him like you genuinely missed him.

To Felix, you weren’t just beautiful, you were untouchably and utterly perfect. Not in the polished, camera perfect way people expected from idols, but in that real, messy, breathtaking way that didn’t need editing. You looked like the part of the apple that hadn’t been bruised by the world yet. Sweet, bright, untouched by the rot that had once eaten away at him.

And maybe that’s why it didn’t make sense.

The two of you had known each other since you were kids before either of you even knew what insecurities were, before the world began teaching the both of you where to find flaws. Your parents had been best friends long before you were even born, so you two were practically raised side by side. You went to the same schools, attended the same clubs, wore the same oversized martial arts uniforms in taekwondo, and still found time on the weekends to have sleepovers, fight over the best controller, or practice the newest trendy dance with limbs that barely listened. You were always there. Always next to him. But Felix liked to believe your friendship wasn’t just because your parents decided it, it was because he chose you, again and again, even when he didn’t have to. Because there was never a version of his life where he didn’t want you in it. He had watched you grow year after year, month after month, day after day transforming from that little kid who cried when she lost in board games to the person you were now! Strong-minded, determined, brilliant, warm, and disarmingly beautiful without even trying. Sometimes he thought back to those early days when you were both too young to understand anything about beauty or expectations. Back then, your hair was always in messy pigtails, your knees were always scraped from climbing things you weren’t supposed to, and you smiled all the fricken time. He missed it, not because he didn’t love the person you’d become but because he hated that somewhere along the line, you learned how to doubt yourself.

Felix still remembers one of the clearest turning points. One of his favorite memories, though it probably shouldn’t be. You were on a late-night call with him, face red and puffy, tears spilling down as you panicked over your AP Biology test. He hadn’t even attempted that class because he had been fully immersed in idol training by then, but you, stubborn as always, had taken it just to prove you could. And he shouldn’t have laughed, he knew he shouldn’t have. But the way you were sobbing, hiccuping dramatically, shuffling through your notes like a mad man well… it was just so you. You whined loudly about how you had no idea what a Thylakoid was, even though Felix insisted you’d repeated it “a million times,” and he felt uncontrollable giggles rising in his chest.

He knew you were going to ace the test. You always did. You wouldn’t allow anything else. That was one of the many things he admired about you how deeply you cared. It wasn’t about being the best for anyone else. It was about proving to yourself that you could. So even while you screamed at him through your tears calling him a traitor for laughing, he pressed his hand over his mouth, trying to contain it because he didn’t want to make you cry any harder. But his eyes crinkled at the corners and every few seconds a laugh forced its way through, bubbling out with warmth.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Absolutely Baffling. A total disaster by any normal person’s standards. But when he thought about it now? It was one of his favorite memories. Because that was the exact moment he realized something he’d never dared to acknowledge before. Even as tears streamed down your face. Even though your nose was running and your voice was cracking. Your hair was definitely oily because you had been so busy. Even through all that, Felix looked at you and he couldn’t find a single thing about you that wasn’t beautiful.

Yes, you looked hilarious. He’d give you that. But ugly? Never. Not in his eyes, not even once. Because beauty, to Felix, wasn’t the absence of flaws, beauty was you. You, with your gorgeous eyes that still held kindness even while panicked. You, who still let out tiny bursts of laughter whenever he couldn’t contain his own because somehow, even in the middle of your meltdown, you found something to smile at. You, who never shut him out, never hid the messier parts of yourself, never put on a mask in front of him. He didn’t realize then that those were the moments he treasured most. The unfiltered ones. The ones where you were raw, real, and utterly the most captivating person he had ever met. You were struggling, voice cracking, breath uneven your hands running through your hair in frustration but goodness, you were beautiful. Painfully beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made his chest tighten and his pulse stutter. Felix still wishes he could go back to that moment, not to stop your crying, not to fix it, though part of him always wants to shield you from pain, but to pause time itself just to admire you a little longer. To memorize the shape of your expression, the way your eyebrows pinched when you were frustrated, the way your lips trembled before curving however briefly into a crooked smile when he accidentally made you laugh.

Your smile glowed through your frown, bright and alive, the way light rises over the horizon in the morning It reminded him of when you’d stick an orange wedge in your mouth as a kid and grin around it, cheeks puffed out, lips stretched wide. Ridiculous. Endearing. Charming. The whole call had been funny objectively, it was dumb and messy and totally ridiculous but your beauty? That wasn’t something to laugh at. That was something to worship. Felix adored everything about you inside and out. To him, you were perfection in human form. Not the artificial perfection people tried to force onto idols, but something so much rarer and more precious: the perfection of authenticity, of existing boldly and kindly in a world that often rewards cruelty. You weren’t someone he believed he was fated to meet. Fate didn’t feel grand enough to explain you. No you were something he was blessed with. A miracle that chose him. Something he hadn’t earned, but was somehow allowed to love anyway.

You were kindness given flesh. A soul that didn’t just shine, you shared that shine with others. You gave and gave and gave, and Felix, without meaning to, took it all. You let him. You trusted him with your heart even when you were still learning how to trust it yourself. You were a breath of fresh air in every room, every hallway, every single area. Even when he was miles away, sitting under a blinking spotlight or a hotel ceiling that didn’t feel like home, just the thought of you, your laugh, your words, your hand briefly brushing his could calm every storm inside him. And it wasn’t just him. The other members adored you too! Not as an idol crush or a fantasy, but because you were real. Genuinely a good person. The type of girl who asked how their day was and actually waited for the answer. The type who noticed when someone was quieter than usual, and instead of calling attention to it, simply sat a little closer. You fit into Felix’s life so naturally it terrified him sometimes, that something this beautiful could truly be his reality.

But if he was honest with himself truly, painfully honest he knew his love for you had begun long before AP biology calls and sticking orange slices in mouths. It had existed in him since the moment he met you. Since childhood. Since you’d looked at him with those eyes full of possibility and said his name in a way no one else ever had. It wasn’t a slow growing feeling, it was instant. Fundamental. A quiet truth that wiggled itself into his heart before he even understood what love was supposed to feel like.

He hasn’t known a version of life without you in it. And he doesn’t want to.

Maybe that’s why Felix couldn’t believe he’d heard you correctly when those words left your mouth. He’d always known you had insecurities, sure everyone did but not like this. Not something so sharp and painfully untrue that it felt like it reached into his chest and squeezed. “Felix… I don’t know. I just don’t feel that comfortable showing up in a dress like that to a party with you.” At first, he nodded. Carefully. Felix respected you, and he always wanted you to know that. He respected your boundaries. If you were uncomfortable, he would never force you into anything! Even if he loved the idea of you in that dress, he loved you more. So he breathed through the slight disappointment and simply said, “That’s okay we can find something else you like.” But then you kept talking. And that’s when the ground fell out from under him.

“All the other girls are gonna look so much nicer than me no matter what I wear, so I don’t understand the point in showing up at all.” You said it so casually. So surely. As if it were a universal truth. As though the sun rose in the east, gravity held people to earth, and you were less beautiful than everyone else. As if that wasn’t just your opinion, but a fact the world had all agreed on. Felix's eyes flashed, His breath caught in his throat, his hands stilled at his collar, heart pounding so loudly that for a moment he wondered if you could hear it. It was like the sentence split something open inside him, a mix of disbelief, frustration, heartbreak, and something bordering on grief. To be honest, he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. A part of him wanted to shake you, not out of anger, but out of sheer desperation to make you see what he saw. To make you understand just how devastatingly wrong you were. Another part of him, the softer part, wanted to crumble right there on the floor, because the idea that you looked at yourself and found nothing worth admiring didn’t just upset him, it crushed him. Your pain became his pain, your doubt, a dagger.

“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, as he slowly walked toward you. The room was quiet except for the soft buzz of your phone and the gentle thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears. You were laying down across his bed, scrolling idly, pretending to be unbothered. But Felix could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your thumb hovered just a bit before swiping each time as if your thoughts were miles away, in a mirror Felix wished he could shatter. You wouldn’t look at him. And that was almost unbearable. Because Felix knew if you just glanced up for one second, if you could even catch a glimpse of the devastation in his eyes, you would understand how deeply your words had wounded him. Not because you hurt his pride, but because you were insulting someone he loved more than anyone else on earth.

You.

“Y/N,” he repeated, softer now, gentler. A plea disguised as your name. “What are you talking about?” You shrugged, trying to keep your gaze glued to your phone, trying to end the conversation. But Felix stepped closer, his footsteps slow, careful, as if approaching a wounded animal, fragile and ready to run. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach for you, but not wanting to startle you. “I got it because it would suit you so well,” he said quietly. His voice wavered not with insecurity, but with emotion so deep he could barely keep it steady. “Because you… because you are absolutely beautiful.”

The dress lay draped across the foot of the bed, soft and elegant. It was the one he saw and instinctively knew was made for you. Not because of the color or the shape, but he could picture you in it so clearly laughing, and having a wonderful time in a way no other dress could replicate. He had imagined standing beside you at that party, not to show you off as some accessory, but to witness others see what he’d known for years. That you weren’t just beautiful, you were positively unforgettable. But none of that seemed to matter, because right now the only thing you saw were the flaws you thought you couldn’t hide.

You scoffed slightly, trying to hide behind it, disguise the tremble in your voice, but the sound came out too thin to do much. “Felix, come on,” you muttered, lips twitching as you blinked hard, trying to stop the tears from spilling. “You’re just saying that because you have to. You’re my best friend.” The word best friend hits him like a blow to the chest. Not because he doesn’t want to be that, he treasures it more than anything but because of the way you said it. As if it reduced his words to a duty. As if caring for you, loving you, seeing you was some contractual obligation instead of the most natural thing in the world for him. You swallow thickly, eyes still glued to the glowing screen. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls all the time,” you whisper now, the poison lacing deeper into your words. “Idols, models, girls who actually look like they belong on camera. I don’t want to go to a party with all of them only to feel terrible after." Each sentence feels like its squeezing air from his lungs. He watches your fingers tighten around your phone. A video plays across your screen. Some flawless girl in the perfect angle, tiny waist, and with glowing skin. You stare at it like you’re looking at a standard you’ve failed to reach. Felix’s heart splits clean down the center. He doesn’t even think when he speaks. He doesn't calculate his response or try to soften his tone. The emotion rips through him too fast, too intense.

“Please don’t say that. Oh my gosh no.” His voice cracks, fragile and horrified, like the words themselves are blades slicing through his chest. His gentle steps, once cautious, become frantic. Urgent. His socks skid slightly on the polished floor as he rushes forward. He falls onto the bed in front of you, nearly dropping to his knees, hands reaching for you as if you were drifting away and he’d do anything absolutely anything to hold you in place. He grasps your arms. Not roughly, just firmly, with shaking hands that give away just how deeply he’s affected. His fingers tremble against your skin like he’s trying to hold back a storm. “That’s not why I say you’re beautiful,” he says breathlessly, eyes wide and pleading. “I’m not forced to do anything, Y/N. I’m not ” His voice breaks as if the very thought of you not believing him fractures something inside.

You look up finally.

And Felix swears the world stills.

Under the dim light, your lashes are wet, cheeks flushed with sadness, lips parted in disbelief. And for a heartbeat, just one, he sees you looking at him, really looking, and it almost knocks him over. Because your eyes are full of something he’s seen in the mirror Heartbreak and Fear and Longing. All the emotions you keep buried. His heart shatters at the sight. “Y/N,” he breathes, the name coming out broken, reverent, almost like a prayer. Your phone dims against the blanket, forgotten now as his presence commands every ounce of your attention. You stare at him at his face, his mouth, the way his lower lip wobbles slightly. Felix’s eyes are full of tears, glassy and bright, clinging to his lashes as if even they don’t want to stop looking at you. “I’m…” He stops. You can see the words forming in his mind, lining up behind his lips but refusing to come out in the correct order. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. His gaze flickers to your lips, then to your eyes, his throat bobbing as he swallows. You feel his thumbs brushing your arms softly in small circles, steadying himself as much as you. His hands may be shaking, but the warmth of them spreads up your skin.

“I'm in love with you.”

And suddenly, the whole world exhales. Time stretches thin, fragile as glass, while the moment you’re in becomes everything. Two hearts held in the quiet tree of destiny. Two apples loosened by gravity, falling not apart but together. Your breath stutters. A tear escapes, tracing a cold path along warm skin. Felix watches it fall as if even your tears look pretty, like it isn't the proof of every emotion you’ve ever tried to hide. His eyes glimmer with an honesty you wish you could see in everyone else around you. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone in a pattern so soft its like a feather catching wind. “I always have been,” he breathes, the confession trembling between his lips. “I don’t tell you you’re beautiful because I feel I have to. I say it because…” His voice breaks, a small sob coming from his lips. He inches closer not closing the distance, but offering you the choice. His lips hover a breath from yours, reverent. Your breaths mingle, shaking, and yet alive. “I say it because it’s a truth written into me,” he whispers, “the only truth I've ever…” he pauses. “The only truth I've ever known.”A small breath leaves your lips. “Because loving you… recognizing your beauty… It's as natural to me as living. I don’t know how to make you see what I see, but I promise, please let me show you tonight. Not as your best friend.” His lips tremble. His eyes plead. “But as the man who has loved you quietly for years. As someone who wants to hold every insecurity in his hands and dissolve them until there's nothing left.”

Your phone slips from your fingers and lands beside you, forgotten, as though nothing shallow or cruel could ever have mattered. Your hands rise slowly, almost in awe, to rest on his shoulders. And now his breath catches. “I want to take you tonight as your lover,” he says, voice cracking like lightning through still air. “As the one who will stand at your side not to show you off, but to show you back to yourself. To make you see what I’ve seen since the very beginning, that you are not just beautiful you are the very reason beauty exists.” Silence settles. A holy silence. The apples hit the earth but do not bruise. All the imagined wounds in your heart, all the cracks and shadows and whispered doubts simply disappear. The land of your shared world clears. The storm clouds part. And in the breath between fear and freedom, you do what a heart in truth can only do. You close the remaining inch between you and kiss Felix Lee.

You feel like your falling deeper and deeper. The area around you suddenly too small, yet too big. Every “spoiled and sour” part of you has gone. His hand curls around your jaw as though holding something he utterly adores. And as his lips move gently against yours, you think if Felix Lee, the boy who knows every version of you, the man who has loved every piece of you believes you are beautiful… maybe the world has been trying to tell you the same thing all along. And maybe, for the first time you’re ready to believe it too.

Maybe you aren't so rotten after all.

[joystories11]

Thank you all so much!!!

It may be a super simple thing to a lot of people but to think that people actually enjoy my writing is insane and I appreciate it more then anyone could ever imagine! Thank you all so so so much for the support and I appreciate the love, your all amazing!!!

And Thank you to my followers as well, I may not have a lot but I appreciate you all being there more then ai could possibly put into words. I promise I'll keep writing and putting in everything I can for you all!!! 🩷

As a thank you I wrote this piece that I hope you all enjoy! Have a wonderful night everyone!!!

Morning Moments

[joystories11]

Morning Moments

Hyunjin is hopelessly in love with the quietest version of you, the one he sees in the soft light of morning. Every barefaced glance, every small habit leaves him breathless, trapped in the same unshakable truth he’s too afraid to say aloud. You are his everything, and he’s falling deeper with every sunrise.

Pairing: Idol!Hyunjin x 9th member!Reader

Genre/tags: fluff and general happiness, Hyunjin is absolutely in love with Reader, although reader is the 9th member its not discussed a lot.

Word count: 2.1k

[note]: sorry it's kind of short! For some reason I've just been blanking on writing but I figured the best way to get over it would be to push through it and write every little thing that comes to mind, so I hope you all enjoy this one! And please remember, you ARE beautiful!

MASTERLIST

You’re beautiful.

It’s the only thought that comes into Hyunjin’s mind as he looks at you, soft, unguarded, and still carrying traces of sleep. The words drift through him like a breath of morning air, tender and unhurried, settling in his chest until they warm his entire being. He’s an artist, someone who should know how to summon countless words for beauty, color, texture, form, light. Yet when it comes to you, the girl before him, everything dissolves into something simple, wordless. You are beyond description, and he finds himself grateful for that.

He loves you most in these moments, when the world is quiet, when you stand at the mirror with a bare face, hair still a little tangled, humming softly to yourself as though only the dawn is listening. The little mole on your cheek, the faint heaviness in your eyelids, the curve of your lips before the day has claimed them with expressions, these details anchor him. He can’t look away. It feels almost sacred, as though to see you like this is a secret blessing only the morning grants.

It has become a ritual. For years now, ever since you first moved into the dorms, and life began to braid itself into one shared rhythm, he has woken with you. Every morning at 5:30, without fail, he finds himself rising just before you shuffle to the bathroom, slippers sliding softly across the floor. The air is cool and unhurried at that hour, carrying the faint hush of a world not yet awake. Pale light seeps gently through the curtains, catching the quiet dust suspended in the air. Everything is muted, delicate, and calm like the ocean with its gentle waves. There’s something about the silence that makes life feel balanced again. The kind of silence that isn’t empty but full, full of trust, full of presence. In that stillness, Hyunjin breathes easier, as though morning itself teaches him how to inhale again, how to find simplicity in the act of just being.

After a while, he joins you, padding into the bathroom with the weight of sleep still clinging to his limbs. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, legs stretched out, clad in his Scooby Doo pajama bottoms and mismatched slippers. The image is so mundane, so ordinary, and yet it makes him quietly happy. He doesn’t need to speak. Neither of you do. The only sounds are your soft hums and the gentle clicks of bottles as you line them neatly across the counter.

But you feel it, his quiet devotion, the way it lingers in the air like morning light stretching itself across a windowsill. When Hyunjin wakes and turns to face you, he doesn’t speak of dreams, doesn’t mention the weight of sleep or the day that waits outside your door. No, his first language is silence. His first act is to simply watch. And in that stillness, you feel how much of himself he gives you, how present he is in a world where time so often slips away unnoticed.

You brush your teeth, and he can’t help but notice your lips. He studies the curve of them, the way they move around the toothbrush, soft and unguarded. They remind him of sweetness, of cotton candy dissolving on the tongue, of bubblegum that clings playfully between teeth. They are pink in a way no shade could ever replicate, the kind of color makeup counters promise but never deliver, because yours are not purchased like lipstick. Yours are natural, alive, tender. He thinks of them as something delicate yet impossibly magnetic, a quiet temptation dressed as simplicity.

Then you gather your hair, pulling it into a ponytail. The strands resist you at first, those stubborn little pieces that always escape, wild and untamed. You hold them back with a hairband, not thinking twice, but Hyunjin aches with the wish that he could be the one to do it for you. He longs for the excuse to slip the band around your hair, to feel the strands in his hands just once, soft as spun silk, warm from your skin, still carrying the ruffled texture of dreams. In the pale light, your hair glows, threads of cotton woven together into something more than ordinary, something enchanting, almost holy. He stares, mesmerized, as though you were stitched together by the very hands of dawn.

Your eyes catch him next, as they always do. They gleam with focus as you pick up the first small bottle, droplets pooling in your palms before you smooth them gently over your skin. The motion is so habitual for you, but for him, it is captivating. The way you care for yourself feels like a ritual, a prayer spoken only in movement. Your lashes tremble, your brows furrow ever so slightly with concentration, and Hyunjin feels something sharp in his chest, an ache that’s both painful and sweet. He presses his hand against his heart as though to steady it, as though to stop the sheer force of affection from breaking him apart.

Your eyes though, oh your eyes. Even half-tired, even veiled with the last remnants of sleep, they shimmer. They sparkle with something he can never quite name, something that feels too big for language. To him, they are a dream wearing the disguise of reality. He wonders if he is awake at all, if perhaps he’s still lost in some fragile vision conjured by his own longing. And if this is a dream, he knows without doubt that he would never wish to leave it. The color of your gaze is a story in itself, rich, vibrant, alive. It feels like it was chosen to match your soul, perfectly aligned with the warmth and kindness you carry without even realizing it. He imagines getting lost in them, not once, not for a fleeting second, but forever, like a traveler who stumbles upon a garden so beautiful he forgets the path he came from.

He wants to rise, to cross the small distance between you, to cradle your face in his hands just so you would look at him longer, so those eyes could catch his own and pin him in place. Even when you meet his gaze in crowded rooms, even when you look at him across the noise of the world, he craves this version of them most: the ones that shine in the hush of morning, made golden by light, made holy by simplicity.

He watches the little habits you don’t even realize you have, like now, your tongue peeks out ever so slightly when you lean toward the mirror, hand steady as you apply mascara. It’s such a small thing, almost silly, but to him it is unbearably endearing. The sight presses a smile into the corners of his lips, though he hides it behind his hand as though keeping a secret only the morning air is allowed to know. He doesn’t think you need it, makeup, mascara, any of it. To him, you are already radiant in ways the world could never replicate. But he understands that if it makes you feel beautiful, then it makes him feel beautiful too, because your happiness colors everything around you. And still, he longs to join you, to place his hand over yours and guide the wand to your lashes. He imagines the brush in your fingers, his palm wrapping gently around the handle, your hands aligned, interlaced. The idea of touching you so casually, so intimately, lingers in his thoughts like sunlight he never wants to leave. He wonders if he would ever grow used to it, or if every brush of your skin would feel like the first time.

Time feels different with you. Unlike the stories where lovers complain of hours rushing by too quickly, Hyunjin feels as though time bends to your presence. Sometimes it slows, achingly, deliciously slow, as if stretching itself out just so he can stay longer in this quiet moment of watching you. Sometimes it feels exactly right, each second unfolding like the steady beat of a heart, reminding him that life can be tender when shared with you. He fears the day will move on too soon, yet he is grateful it doesn’t vanish in a blur. He thinks perhaps time is merciful with you, because it knows he would do anything to savor this. If it moved a little faster, maybe he would find courage. Maybe the clock would grant him permission to reach across the space and pull you against him, to breathe against your ear in the hush of morning, to whisper the thoughts that press heavy on his chest. He imagines what it would be like if the bathroom was not a shared space but theirs alone, not a dormitory’s compromise, but a home you had chosen together. A place where he could finally say aloud the words that burn his throat every dawn. That he loves you, that he has loved you all along, that he's loved you ever since pre debut.

Because you are extraordinary, not just in the brilliance that others see, but in these ordinary seconds that belong to no one but him. You are dazzling without trying, like a star that shines whether or not anyone is watching. He feels selfish, greedy even, because part of him wants to name you as his alone, to claim that light and tuck it safely into his hands. He thinks of myth and legend, of sirens who lure sailors with songs too beautiful to resist, and realizes that you have done the same to him without a word. You draw him in with every movement, every laugh, every little quirk that you don’t notice, and he is helpless against it.

And yet, there is fear. The fear that one day he will wake to find time has betrayed him after all, that you will belong to someone else, that these mornings will no longer be his to treasure. He knows you are both young, that the future stretches wide and unwritten before you, but sometimes the thought of you with another makes him feel old already, as though he has missed his chance and is left to live a lifetime of "what ifs." It terrifies him, how much he wants to keep you close, how the idea of sharing you shatters him. And yet, it thrills him too, because it proves just how deeply he feels.

So although the two of you cannot date, not openly, not under the constant gaze of the world, he learns to treasure what slips quietly between the rules. Hyunjin gathers up these fragments of time like a man collecting starlight in his hands, delicate and fleeting but achingly real. These mornings, before you become Y/N the idol with flawless skin, polished charm, and the kind of presence that commands entire stages, you are simply you. And to him, that is more dazzling than anything a camera could ever capture. In these unguarded moments, you offer him a gift you do not even realize you’re giving: your bare face, your quiet hums, your sleepy eyes. It feels like a secret doorway only he is allowed to enter, a side of you hidden from the rest of the world. No makeup, no lights, no rehearsed expressions, just the truth of who you are when the sun is still soft and the day has not yet asked you to perform. And he knows, with a certainty that steals his breath, that this is his favorite version of you.

Your bare face becomes a silent invitation, unlocking the corridors of his mind where his thoughts tumble endlessly. Each detail of you pulls him deeper: the way your skin glows with the faint traces of sleep, the way your lips part slightly as you concentrate, the way your movements are simple but unshakably graceful. Every thought circles back to the same truth, always the same conclusion no matter how many times he runs from it.

You are beautiful.

Not beautiful because the world says so, not beautiful because of stage lights or styling or perfection crafted for an audience, but beautiful because you exist, because you wake up and move through the world exactly as you are. And maybe, just maybe, when time finally moves quickly enough, or slow enough, or at just the right speed, when the future at last bends toward mercy, he’ll have the chance to tell you. Not in silence, not only through glances stolen across bathroom mirrors and mornings too fragile to last, but with words that will hang between you like a vow. One day, he hopes, you’ll understand everything he has ever thought in these quiet moments. One day, you’ll know the truth he has whispered only to himself in the pale light of dawn.

That you are the most beautiful thing he has ever known.