MONTREAL, QUEBEC - MAY 21: Franco Colapinto of Argentina and Alpine F1 and Pierre Gasly of France and Alpine F1 play a game in the Paddock during previews ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Canada at Circuit Gilles-Villeneuve on May 21, 2026 in Montreal, Quebec.
📸 Photo by Mark Sutton - Formula 1/Formula 1 via Getty Images.
Holis!!! Busco Mutis de Tumblr para ir a ver a Franquito este domingo que se la banquen de temprano (maso 5 am allá) y que seamos la banda de Tumblr (ay Julián somos tres).. creo que mi viejo me deja colgada así que busco ir con alguien 🫶🏻
Yo voy al sector gratuito porque me agarró con la billetera que lo único que tenía era polvo así que voy con una campera (por el frío) y un sueño 😁
summary: chan accidentally airdrops you something, and that ends up with the two of you starting to go on dates. that makes you a perfect new addition to his body count(not the sexual one) but you escape when he tries to kill you, and he ends up missing you. then falling for you. then not being able to let go of you.
warnings: violence, serial murder, blood references, problematic main characters, codependency, implied stalking, chan breaking into your fucking home, obsessive love, mentions of sex but no smut written, not as funny as my first fic
word count: 10k
your phone pings. it’s an airdrop.
chris’s iphone would like to share a note
you frown. you don’t know a chris. but you accept it anyway.
you’re sitting in a public place. we don’t even have to name it because it’s not significant for the story whatsoever(i’m lazy to think of anything) the world is going on around you. a baby crying. someone aggressively typing on a laptop. you? pink sweater. minding your business. then the airdrop notification comes. a note.
the pink sweater girl looks cute
you freeze.
pink. sweater.
you look down at yourself. confirmed. you are, in fact, the pink sweater girl. congratulations.
your head lifts slowly, like an animal sensing danger, except instead of a predator it’s… men. two of them. mid twenties. baseball caps. both holding their phones, one obviously because he sent the note, the other because he received it. they’re grinning at each other, doing that handshake dap half hug thing men invented instead of therapy. (like in my other fic i’ll just clarify instead of describing looks, it’s felix and chan)
then they both glance up, because it’s natural that you’re gonna look at someone you’re talking about.
they make eye contact with you.
and immediately look away.
pink sweater girl (you) glances back down at the phone. maybe coincidence. but no, one of them looks at his screen again. you physically watch the realization crawl across his face. eyebrows lift. smile drops. eyes flick to you. back to phone. back to you.
oh no.
oh no, he sent it to you.
he smacks his friend’s arm.
friend looks at the phone. friend’s mouth forms a silent “OHHHHH”
the other one, who airdropped you, runs a hand over his face like when he remembered he left a body somewhere.
soon, he mans himself up and you watch him approach. up close, he’s annoyingly good looking, great body, a smile with a huge body count. (socially and not socially)
“hey.” he says, easy. smooth.
you blink at him. “you airdropped me, right?”
he laughs. it’s warm. disarming. suspicious. “okay, in my defense, that was meant for him.” he points to his friend, who gives a useless little wave.
“in your defense, that’s worse.”
“yeah, no, that’s fair. i was just trying to tell my friend you looked cute.” he continues. “privately. sorry.”
you stare at him.
“can i sit?” he asks, already halfway sitting.
you do not say no. he’s cute.
“chris. chan. whatever you like.” he says, offering his hand.
“…y/n.” you say, accepting it and smiling now. because he deserves it, he came over with a good intention after all. (absolutely not.)
“sooo…” he says, nodding at your phone. “scale of one to calling the police, how bad was that first impression?”
you look at him. this disaster of a man. then sigh. “i’ll let it slide. for now.”
he laughs, and it’s bright and easy and absolutely beautiful.
you don’t know it yet, but this is the worst luck of your life. because chan is very good at what he does. just not at this.
you start seeing him. not dates, just casual hangouts, or accidental meets. first it’s “oh you’re here again?” at the same coffee spot. then it’s “i was in the area” which is a lie because no one is ever in the area of that place on purpose. then it’s full blown planned-but-we-pretend-it’s-not meetups.
he asks about you. remembers things. little things. you go on walks, sit in parks, get food. he does that thing where he walks on the outside of the sidewalk like a gentleman, which is unnecessary and honestly feels like he’s preparing for a car to jump the curb at all times.
he never overshares. but not in a shady way. in a “healthy boundaries king” way. which is honestly more alarming. who taught him that.
you like him.
you like how he listens. how he teases you without being mean. how he never pushes. how being around him feels weirdly calm. and yeah, sure, how good he looks. so when he invites you over one evening, you say:
“yeah. okay.”
and chan smiles, and it’s warm and bright and absolutely not the face of a man with a secret life.
“cool.” he says. “cool, cool.”
and yeah, his place is… annoyingly nice. because you’re there now.
you step inside. “shoes off?” you ask.
“yeah, i mean, only if you want. no pressure. i’m not like, a shoe cop.”
he is absolutely a shoe cop. you take them off.
you hang out on the couch while he cooks. it’s unsettling how good he is at being gentle. at some point he hands you a spoon to taste the sauce. your fingers brush. he pretends that didn’t affect him, but it did. you can tell. this idiot is gone for you.
you eat. you talk. he remembers that story you told three weeks ago about your third grade enemy. who remembers that? psychos. and… boyfriends.
you laugh a lot. he looks at you like that’s the best sound he’s ever heard, which would be cute if it wasn’t a lie. and if the best sound he’s ever heard wouldn’t actually be his victims screaming.
while other kids learned empathy, chan learned curiosity. in like… the worst direction. he didn’t feel things the way he was supposed to. he studied them instead. it started with things that made adults say “boys will be boys” when they really should’ve said “we need several professionals immediately.”
he grew up. got smarter. learned the rules. learned how to smile at the right times. how to mirror. how to be what people needed. he built a version of himself that could pass.
and he’s very, very good at it.
later, you’re still talking, closer now. the air shifts. quieter. charged.
“you trust me?” he asks.
you shrug. “i mean. you haven’t murdered me yet.”
he smiles. but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. something moves behind them.
he stands. slow, calm. too calm.
and there it is. the vibe shift. the sudden, bone deep understanding that prey animals probably get right before they bolt.
your body knows before your brain does. “chan?”
“i didn’t want it to be you.” his voice is gentle, almost sad.
EXCUSE ME?
“okay.” you say, standing up too. “we’re gonna rewind, actually—”
you move back a step. he moves forward.
he reaches for you.
you react on pure, untrained survival instinct and shove him, harder than you knew you could.
he stumbles back into the coffee table. something crashes. a lamp.
you look at him, realizing your situation. realizing that this is not a game anymore and not cute. so you step backwards, then start running to the door.
footsteps. coming after you.
the situation has escalated in a way that feels, frankly, rude.
you’re trying to open the front door, which is locked, when you hear the kitchen drawer. The specific metal on wood sound every human being recognizes. you don’t need to look to know he got a knife out.
when he starts coming your way from the kitchen, you run into the living room again.
you turn.
he’s there, knife in hand.
you both just stand there for a second, breathing.
you point at the knife. “so that’s new.”
“yeah.” he says, like he also just noticed it. “that escalated.”
“you think?”
silence stretches. he’s watching you carefully.
you swallow. “are you, like… a psycho? or what’s the deal here?”
he exhales through his nose. “yeah.” he says after a second. “i mean. that’s the short version.”
you shift a step sideways. he mirrors you, slow.
“like… diagnosed?” you ask.
“no.”
“self aware?”
“mm.” a shrug. “i know i’m not like other people.”
“i can tell.”
you keep circling the coffee table. it’s almost calm, if you ignore the knife. don’t ignore the knife.
“you do this a lot?” you ask.
“yeah.”
“how many?”
he thinks, not counting, recalling. “uh. i don’t know. i stopped keeping track.”
“right.”
a beat.
“that’s not great.” you say.
“mm.”
you both pause as you accidentally end up at the same side of the table. you both adjust. social awareness king even now.
“you were normal.” you say. “that’s annoying.”
“i am normal.” he says.
you just stare at him.
he gestures at himself. “i have a job. i pay rent. i recycle.”
“you also kill people.”
“yeah.”
“you ever try therapy?” you ask.
he gives you a look. “you think i’d say this out loud in a room with a stranger?”
“fair.”
a weird silence settles. your heart is slamming.
“so what, you’re just gonna… do it?” you ask.
“yeah.”
you grab the nearest object without looking, a hardcover book, and whip it at his head.
it hits his shoulder. he barely reacts.
you grab a pillow. throw it. it lands on the floor.
he actually looks offended by that one. “you could at least try.” he says.
“oh, shut up, dude. i am trying.”
“are you?”
“i am.”
“you’re clearly not.”
“i am so trying.”
you make a quick step. so does he. you stop. so does he.
you keep on circling. “so what, this is like… a hobby? what are we talking? you’re, what, secretly evil? since when?”
“always, kinda.”
“cool.”
he shrugs one shoulder.
“i don’t feel things that much, not like other people do.” he says. “didn’t. ever. i learned how to act like i do. most of the time it’s fine. i can do the right responses, it’s just… not attached to anything.”
“that sucks.”
“it’s not like a choice-choice.” he adds. “it’s just how it is.”
“yeah, i gathered you didn’t wake up and decided to kill someone today.’”
a beat.
“…i mean.” he says.
“oh.”
“yeeeaah.”
he lifts the knife slightly. the circling slows. you’re both just standing now, a few feet apart. the room feels too small.
“so what, you just decided people were the move?” you ask.
“animals first.” he says. “when i was a kid.”
you close your eyes briefly. “of course.”
“i wanted to see how things worked.”
“yeah. most kids use youtube or pornhub.”
you keep moving. backward. he mirrors you, forward.
you reach behind you, grab a little plant off a shelf, and throw it at him. you miss and it hits the wall. doesn’t break, but falls loud.
“please stop throwing my stuff.” chan whispers.
“stop trying to stab me.
“but that’s… different.”
silence.
he speaks again. seems like he enjoys talking about himself. “it’s not, like, a trauma thing. before you ask.”
“i wasn’t going to ask.”
“alright.”
you stop circling. he stops too. you resume. so does he.
“you ever try, like, not killing people?” you ask.
“yeah. it builds up.”
you stare at him. “that’s insane. no offense.”
“none taken.”
a bit of silence. tension.
your voice is softer when you speak next. “so what, i was just… next?”
he keeps eye contact when he nods. he’s not shy about wanting to kill you.
“sorry.” he says, not sincere. you know that too, and he knows you know.
your eyes flick to the hallway. distance. objects.
he notices.
the vibe shifts again. decision time.
his grip tightens slightly on the knife.
you bolt to the kitchen. you don’t know why.
he’s right behind you now. closer. you can hear his breathing, still steady. that’s the worst part bro, this is cardio for you and a light walk for him.
you grab a chair, shove it behind you, it slows him maybe half a second. you throw a dish towel. useless.
“stop throwing soft things.” he calls, mildly.
“shut up.”
you reach the counter, hands scrambling blindly. you fling a fruit bowl. apples everywhere, and only one nails him in the chest.
he looks down at it like it was a little bird flying into him.
you run again.
hallway, bedroom. wrong choice. always a wrong choice.
you spin back out before he can corner you, nearly colliding with him. you both jolt back on instinct, like two strangers doing the awkward sidewalk dance.
“sorry.” you both say at the same time.
your foot hurts. you look down, then look back up at him.
“you stepped on my foot.” you say.
chan blinks, then looks down. “oh.”
you slap his arm. not hard, just as correction. “watch it.”
“my bad.” he says automatically.
your heart is beating so hard it’s starting to make you feel dizzy.
you look at him again. “you’re not even out of breath.” you say.
“i run.” he replies.
“of course you do.”
you start moving again, slower now, both of you drifting sideways in the narrow hallway.
he studies you. he feels the usual things, the focus, the clarity, the hum in his chest that’s been with him since he was a kid standing in a backyard with some small and warm animal in his hands, wondering what would happen if he would cut it up. and he did, later.
but it’s tangled now. weird. something else joined it. irritation, interest, a tight, unfamiliar pressure behind his ribs.
“you’re not scared?” he asks.
“i’m terrified.” you say, plain, honest.
he searches your face. he adjusts his grip on the knife.
you both shift at the same time again, hallway too small, lives too big for this space. you shoulder brushes his chest and your body flinches.
he notices that. there it is. the fear. not in your face, but the recoil. in the space your body tries to create.
you move first, sudden, slipping past him again.
behind you, he turns smoothly. and now he knows you’re scared.
you round the corner into the living room again, lungs burning, legs starting to feel unreliable. behind you, his footsteps.
“your layout sucks.” you say, breathless.
“yeah, I’ve been meaning to open it up.” he replies, right there behind you. not rushing, enjoying the chase.
you grab the back of a chair and drag it behind you like that’s going to stop a man who jogs daily and murders as a hobby.
“do you stretch before this?” you ask.
“usually.”
“good for you.”
you both slow again, circling opposite sides of the couch now. it’s absurdly normal looking.
“you could just sit down.” he says.
“so could you.”
“when we’re done, maybe.”
you both adjust direction at the same time again. that awkward almost collision energy thing.
“does anyone know?” you ask, breath tight. “about… this. about you.”
“no.”
“no one at all?”
“no.”
“friends?”
he gives you a look.
“right.” you say. “i suppose we don’t count felix either.”
a pause.
“it must be lonely.” you add, before you can stop yourself.
he doesn’t react right away. just watches you. then says “ow.” but like in that sassy way.
you clock the sign in his eyes that your words hit.
you also clock the plate rack by the sink.
you get a plate, then turn back toward him. “this is such a stupid way to spend a night, by the way.”
“i was having a good time earlier.” he says.
“yeah. same.”
he shifts his weight, just a second. adjusting his grip.
seeing that as your window, you move, fast. you adjust your grip on the plate and swing.
it connects with the side of his head with a horrible, solid sound. the porcelain shatters. chan drops the knife, and his knees buckle.
then he drops to the floor hard.
you stand there, plate shard in hand, chest heaving.
you wait.
one second, two. chan doesn’t move.
“oh my god.” you breathe. “oh my god.”
your hands start shaking now. bad. delayed reaction finally cashing in or whatever they call this shi.
you kick the knife away far, under the table.
he’s out. actually out.
you don’t check his pulse, you don’t lean closer, and you most definitely don’t do anything brave or smart or cinematic. you just search his pockets for keys with shaking hands, and when you have them, you run.
you don’t even put your shoes on, you just unlock the door and yank it open, stumble into the hallway, slam it behind you like that helps. and you don’t look back. you go down the stairs, out the building. you don’t stop until the building is small behind you. then smaller, then gone.
your phone is in your pocket, you know that. police exist. you know that too.
and you don’t call them.
maybe you’re in shock. maybe you don’t want to explain any of this out loud. maybe some part of your brain hasn’t caught up and still thinks this was just a very bad date. or maybe it’s the look on his face earlier. when you said lonely. that half second of something almost human, buried under everything else. or maybe…
you don’t know.
you just go home. and you don’t call.
now, it’s been a few days since that. which is insane, by the way. you haven’t slept right since that night. every noise is a thing, and every man with dark hair gets a double take. but you’re here. functioning.
you’re at work now. you’re halfway through lunch, sitting with two coworkers, when the office door opens. no one looks at first, then omeone does a little “…oh?”
you glance over.
a delivery guy stands there holding the largest fucking bouquet you’ve ever seen. it’s fucking brutal. genuinely.
he looks around. “uh, i have a delivery for y/n.”
your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a step on the stairs.
your friends light up. “OOOHHH.” one of them says. “okayyyy, secret admirer!”
you take the flowers. they’re heavy, man.
“who’s it from?” one of them asks.
“there’s a card.” you say.
you slide the little envelope out with fingers that only shake a little if you don’t look directly at them.
you open it.
you left without your shoes.
rude.
i had a good time, though. you’re hard to plan for. i like that.
dinner again soon? i’ll be more careful.
-chan
your vision tunnels. sound goes weird. like you’re underwater and that fuckass coworker of yours is speaking from the surface.
you never told him where you work, not once, not accidentally. you are extremely careful with that, always have been. your brain starts flipping through memories. coffee shop, park, walks, his place. that’s it.
“that’s so romantic.” one of your coworkers says, peeking over your shoulder. “wait, what does that mean, ‘more careful’? that’s kind of dark haha.”
you fold the card slowly. “yeah.” you say. your mouth is dry. “he’s… weird.”
understatement of the fucking century.
you look at the flowers again. big, expensive, smelling good.
he knows where you work.
he sent this during business hours.
he wanted you to open it here. in public. surrounded.
your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest now. your skin feels too tight, too hot. you’re going to fucking collapse right here right now.
he’s not done, not embarrassed, not scared. he’s enjoying this.
“are you okay?” your friend asks, finally noticing your face.
you nod automatically. “yeah. yeah, i just, uh. need some air.” you stand up too fast. the chair screeches, too loud. everything’s too loud. you carry the bouquet with you because leaving it feels worse.
out in the hallway, the smile drops off your face.
“fuck.” you whisper, hands shaking so hard the flowers rattle.
he found you.
he waited.
he sent a gift.
somewhere, deep under the terror, under the nausea, under the oh my god he could be outside right now, you understand something. you didn’t call the police. and now he thinks this is still between just you and him. which, in his fucked up brain, means you’re still playing.
you throw the flowers into the trash.
to get home, you get a taxi, check the mirrors every thirty seconds, heart banging against your ribs the whole ride. when you get to your building, you scan the street. nothing.
you go inside, up the stairs, keys between your fingers like claws even though you know damn well that doesn’t do much.
you hands are shaking when you unlock your door.
you step in, and flip the light switch.
“i’ll get that.”
the door shuts behind you with a soft, final click.
your brain doesn’t process it, not at first. the voice hits before the meaning does.
then it lands. it wasn’t you saying that. it was a man’s voice telling you he’ll get that.
you turn, and chan is right there. inside your apartment. he’s been waiting. relaxed posture, jacket off, weapon nowhere visible, which somehow feels worse.
you suck in air to scream, but his hand covers your mouth instantly. other hand reaches past you, calmly turning the lock.
“mm-mm.” he murmurs, correcting you.
your whole body goes rigid, panic blowing up in your body so fast it almost whites you out. you claw at his wrist, trying to twist away, breath coming sharp through your nose.
he looks at you, softly, then he puts a finger to his lips.
shh.
you want to bite him. you want to claw his eyes out. you want to wake up.
after a second, he slowly takes his hand off your mouth.
you stumble back from him like he’s physically burning you.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap, voice loud and shaking and furious. “What the FUCK is WRONG with you?!”
you shove his chest. hard. he rocks back half a step, not surprised nor affected.
“are you actually insane? you broke into my apartment?! you followed me to work?! what the fuck is this?! are you out of your fucking mind??”
you shove him again. he lets you.
“how did you even survive?” you ask.
“I have a hard head.” he says.
“yeah, no shit!”
he glances around your apartment. takes it in. the photos. the couch. your dumb little lamp. then, calm as ever: “where are the flowers?”
you stare at him. “are you— i threw them out!”
he frowns. “they were expensive.”
“i don’t give a fuck, chris!”
you shove him again, and this time it’s messy, more emotion than force. he lets you.
“this is not a thing. this is a crime. multiple crimes. a fucking bundle pack of crimes. are you aware of what you’re doing?” you ask.
he watches you. “you didn’t call the police.”
your jaw tightens. “that does not mean i want you around.”
“it means something.” he says.
“it means i was in shock, you psycho!”
a beat.
“what do you want from me?!”
silence.
“i want to take you out.”
you blink. “what.”
“on a date.”
you just stare at him. “you broke into my house.”
“yeah.”
“you tried to kill me.”
“yeah.”
“you stalked me.”
“mhm.”
you stare at him. you actually can’t fucking believe this is happening. “are you concussed? is the plate thing delayed?”
“i mean it.”
“you TRIED TO KILL ME.”
he nods once. “that part didn’t go how i thought.”
you make a sound. “no. are you hearing yourself?”
“i don’t want to kill you.” he says.
“you already tried!”
“that was before.”
“before WHAT?!”
he runs a hand through his hair. “before i knew.”
“knew what, that i have a job?!”
“that i like you.”
you just look at him. flat. done. “that is not my problem.”
he steps closer, not fast this time and not grabbing you. “please.”
you freeze. that word does not belong in his mouth.
“don’t do that, you fucker.” you warn.
“i can’t stop thinking about you.” he says, voice tighter now. “you’re in my head all the time. that doesn’t happen. ever.”
“that is not romantic, chan.” you say. “that is a medical issue.”
“i don’t care.” he says. “just one. one date. in public. you pick the place, and i won’t bring anything. i won’t—” he gestures. “i just want to sit across from you again.”
“you are insane.”
“i know.”
“you need help.”
“probably.”
you shake your head, backing away. “no. you don’t get to beg your way into my life after THIS.”
“i don’t know how else to do it.” he says, honest, but still not emotional.
“go to therapy.” you snap.
“y/n.”
“chan, i would rather fight a bear.”
he looks genuinely stressed now. like this is the hardest thing he’s ever done, and that includes murder.
“please.” he says. “i don’t want to stop seeing you.”
your heart is still racing, and your fear is still there, but now there’s something else in the room too. your brain is actually debating it.
his shoulders drop, his voice lowers half a notch, like he’s stepping into a different character.
“i’m not right.” he says. “you know that. i’ve never been right.”
ohhh here we fucking go.
you fold your arms. “don’t.”
“i didn’t choose this.” he continues, staring at the floor now. “i’ve always been like this. since i was a kid. something’s missing.“
yea sure bro throw the tragic backstory card in. fucking asshole.
“i try.” he says. “i watch how people act. i copy it. i learned how to be normal. that’s work, all the time. you have no idea how hard that is.”
you just look at him.
yeah, maybe that’s true. and also not your fucking problem.
“i don’t connect to people.” he goes on. “not really. they’re just… shapes. but you’re not. and i don’t know what to do with that.”
he runs a hand over his face like he’s exhausted by being a horrible person.
you feel it, the pull. the very human reflex to soften when someone sounds sad. to help, to be there.
THIS IS MANIPULATION.
self pity. poor me, i’m wired wrong, look how hard my life is, please ignore the crimes.
he’s not confessing for you. he’s building a case for himself. every sentence is don’t hold me accountable wrapped in a vulnerability act.
you point at him. “cut it the fuck off.”
he looks up.
“that.” you say. “that thing you’re doing? the sad little ‘i’m fucked up, life is hard’ speech? shut the fuck up.”
he blinks.
“i don’t care if you’re sad about you being the way you are. you are still choosing to do shit. repeatedly.” you continue.
he watches you.
“that wasn’t an apology.” you say. “that was acting, chan.”
a beat.
“…yeah.” he admits.
silence stretches.
“okay.” he says finally.
“okay what.”
“i won’t do that.”
“good.”
another pause.
“can i have a glass of water?” he asks.
you stare at him.
“you broke into my home.” you say slowly.
“yeah. i’m still thirsty.”
unbelievable.
you walk to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it. your hands are steadier now, weirdly. you hand it to him.
“thanks.” he says, and drinks it. it looks adorable.
you sit on the arm of the couch, watching him.
“you don’t show up unannounced anymore.” you say.
“okay.”
“you don’t follow me to work.”
“okay.”
“you don’t get to send me anything. ever. no gifts. no notes. no bullshit.”
“…okay.”
“you don’t come here again.”
he hesitates.
you glare.
“…okay.”
“say it like you mean it.”
“i won’t come here again.”
you study him. he means it the way he means things, not emotionally, but as a rule.
he hands the empty glass back to you. “bathroom?”
you point down the hall automatically, then freeze. “why did i just—”
“thanks.” he says, already walking.
you rub your face. “this is insane. fucking asshole.”
from the hallway: “i can hear you.”
“good.”
he comes back a minute later, drying his hands on his jeans. “you can pick where we go.” he says.
“somewhere loud, with people. cameras. witnesses. preferably a location with multiple exits.”
“okay.”
you rub your temples. “jesus.”
“there’s that that place on—”
“no.” you cut in immediately.
“why.”
“too dim.”
“okay.”
“no place with booths.”
“…okay.”
“no parks. no walking after.”
“i get it.”
“i don’t think you do.”
he actually pulls his phone out. “tomorrow?” he asks.
“no, i need time.”
“for what.”
“to process this shit.”
he nods slowly. “two days.”
you shrug. “fine. two days. six p.m. that diner about half an hour away, the ugly one.”
he smiles faintly. “i know it.”
he knows every location within a mile radius of your existence. fantastic.
“you arrive alone.” you say. “you sit the whole time and you don’t follow me if i leave.”
a pause. then “okay.”
you narrow your eyes. “that one took too long.”
“i’m adjusting.” chan says.
you just shake your head. this is brutal. you actually can’t believe this is happening to you, bro.
you point to the door. “leave.”
he walks to the door, unlocks it, opens it. normal movements. ordinary. then he leaves without a word. which is weirder than the whole thing that just happened between the two of you, because… who the fuck leaves without saying bye? what is this guy’s fucking problem???
“fucking psycho.” you whisper to the empty apartment.
and the date ends up going… fine. yeah, it’s fine, no use denying what’s true. women look at him, one at the counter full on stares, another smiles when he walks past to sit down. heads turn. it pisses you off more than it flatters you, because this shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does.
chan does not notice a single one. he’s only looking at you. and he doesn’t say anything weird. you talk about surface things, work, movies, people, how the diner looks.
it feels like sitting across from a guy. just a guy. which is deeply, deeply fucked.
and just like that, you two become a thing. not a relationship, you don’t call it that, or at least don’t want to. you don’t label it, and you don’t tell people.
you meet in public places, always your choice, always crowded. he follows the rules with unsettling precision, bc he’s terrified of breaking the system you built. coffee shops. sometimes you take him with you for late night grocery shoppings.
weeks pass. then months. you discover chan listens more than he talks, now that he knows he can show you the real him. asks questions that are too observant. remembers everything. your schedule shifts? he notices. you’re tired? he notices. you cut your hair half an inch? he notices.
he never brings up what he is, and you never pretend you forgot. but sometimes you forget for ten minutes. fifteen, if you’re laughing. then he’ll say something slightly off, not creepy, just… detached, and you remember you are building something… something like this.
you also start recognizing the difference between how he looks at strangers and how he looks at you.
strangers: flat, measuring.
you: focused, curious.
you two fight a lot.
“you were ghosting me.” you snap once outside a café, acting like you weren’t begging him to leave you alone months before. yes, you caring about him not answering says a lot already.
“i wasn’t ghosting. i was busy.”
“with what, burying a body?”
he just blinks at you. “you don’t want the real answer.”
“correct.”
and sometimes he says things that remind you what he is. being too calm about violence in movies, too accurate about how long it takes for people to notice someone missing.
creep.
then to top it off, you’re coming home once. it’s not even that late, but you didn’t have a good day. ready to go to bed, you open your apartment door and… chan is sitting on your couch. you just stare at him.
“hi.” he says.
you close the door very slowly. “we had a rule.”
“mhm.”
“then why are you here.”
“i wanted to see you.”
you’re so tired for this right now. “you can’t just show up when you feel like it.” you say, dropping your bag. “i thought i’ve made that clear.”
he stands when you step closer, and now you’re in his space, pushing his chest with your palm.
“you don’t listen.” you say. “you just decide things.”
“i do listen.” he says calmly.
“no, you don’t.” you shove him again. he lets you, because you’re not trying to hurt him, you’re trying to move the frustration out of your body.
you push him once more, and he catches your wrists. not tight at all, he would never, just stopping the motion.
you freeze. he’s close. closer than he’s ever been without space or witnesses or rules between the two of you.
“let go.” you say.
“you’re shaking.” he says.
“because you broke into my home again, you psycho!”
your breathing is uneven, anger, fear, an endless swirl of emotions inside of you.
a beat hangs there.
then he leans in and kisses you. soft, careful. especially soft.
you just… stop. you can’t really process it, but your body knows it likes it. so much.
after a second, you pull back. “what the fuck.” you breathe.
“i wanted to do that.” he says.
“that’s not— you don’t just— you ASK—”
“i didn’t know how else to let you know.” he says, frustrated for real now. “i don’t know how to make you feel what i feel.”
you just stand there, heart racing, furious and rattled and very, very aware of how close he is.
but what says the most, is that you don’t tell him to leave.
after that, things change to be closer. he sits next to you sometimes, shoulder to shoulder. he doesn’t reach unless you do first. you two also argue a lot, you call him out constantly. he doesn’t get offended though.
the rule about your apartment is the only one he can’t keep. you catch him multiple times sitting on the steps outside your building when you get home, leaning against the wall down the hall like he “was just in the area” which is bullshit and you both know it.
“you said you wouldn’t come here.” you tell him every time.
“i know.” he says every time.
he means the apology, he just doesn’t stop.
tonight, you’re both on the couch. your show is playing, but neither of you are watching it. he’s on the other end at first.
you can feel him looking at you, though.
“what.” you say without looking at him.
“nothing.”
you glance over. he’s already closer than he was a minute ago. you didn’t see him move.
“chan.”
“yeah.”
“you’re doing the weird staring thing.”
he doesn’t deny it, instead, he shifts slowly. he puts one knee on the couch, then the other. then he’s pathetically moving toward you on all fours, careful.
he stops right in front of you, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face. his hands press into the couch on either side of you, but he’s not trapping you. there’s room to move.
relief crosses his pretty face, then he leans in and kisses you, slow. and now, you let yourself feel it.
you know it’s wrong, you know it’s fucked, and you know every rule you built bent tonight. but you’re tired of fighting every second. so you don’t pretend, you don’t justify it. you just accept the truth sitting heavy in your chest.
you forgave him.
which is, objectively? morally? spiritually? a terrible decision. absolute clown behavior. girl what the fuck.
and yet, you like him after all.
so yeah. you’ve accepted that he’s kinda your boyfriend now. and he feels that. he feels that you let go now, and how does he show that he gets you? he’s always touching you.
not grabby, just wants contact. his hand on your knee. fingers hooked in your sleeve. his forehead against your shoulder.
“you’re on me.” you mutter.
“yeah.”
“why.”
a pause. you can feel him thinking. “…i like it.”
you sigh but don’t move him. because you like it too.
you never ask where he’s been when he disappears for a night, and he never tells you. well, he would, but he knows you don’t want to hear it.
you’re in the kitchen one night and he’s literally following you step for step. you turn around suddenly and he almost walks into you.
“stop haunting me.” you murmur.
“i live here now, kinda.” he shrugs and reaches out, thumb brushing your jaw.
you end up laughing at him. god, he’s cute. (serial killer btw)
you know what he is, you know what you’re doing, and you most definitely know this ends badly in every possible timeline. but you’re the first person he’s ever wanted near him without an end goal. without wanting to chop you up. well, we know it started as that, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore.
and that’s why he keeps breaking the rule about your home. your place smells like you. sounds like you. is you. and god, he can’t fucking stay away from you.
you, on the other hand, are not missing pieces like he does. yours are just… bent. you feel everything. too much, if anything. fear, guilt, affection, anger, all of it overlapping, constant. you don’t lack a moral compass, you actively ignore it.
that’s the difference.
you know he’s wrong. you know staying is wrong. you know your own bad decisions. still do them.
part of it is control. you survived him once, you set rules, and he follows most of them. being with him tricks your brain into thinking you have power over something you absolutely do not.
and part of it, is that you know you’re his only one. being the only picture of love for a powerful asshole like this feels fucking amazing.
most days, you exist in this strange middle smth. you’re on the couch, and he’s half draped over you, heavy, warm, his arms around you. he wants you all over him so much.
then one night, you’re in your apartment, barefoot, in the kitchen. when the door unlocks, your shoulders tense automatically, but then you relax, it’s chan. you gave him a key weeks ago after arguing with yourself for three straight days.
“hey.” you call.
when he doesn’t answer, you turn. and your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your knees.
there’s blood on his shirt. not a little, not a cut. it’s smeared across the front. dark and drying.
“chris.” you say.
he looks at you, calm, eyes clear and… too clear.
“what happened?” you ask, voice already shaking.
he glances down at himself like he forgot. “oh.”
OH?
“you’re bleeding?” you ask.
“no.”
“then whose is that?”
a pause. he doesn’t answer.
now, you get a taste of reality.
“chan.” you say, backing up. “no. no, no, no. not in my kitchen. not… don’t bring that here.”
he goes still. “i didn’t mean to—”
“i don’t care what you meant!”
he steps toward you. you step back.
“you said— you said you’d keep it away from me.” you say. “away from my life.”
he looks… off balance. his smart but fucked up little brain obviously doesn’t know what to do with this. “i don’t want you to look at me like that.” he says quietly.
“like what?!”
“like i’m—”
“what you are?”
that hits, you can tell. he exhales, shaky now. “i don’t know how to split it.” he says. “i don’t know how to be with you and not be… me.”
“that’s not my job to fix!”
“i know.” his voice cracks on the last word.
he closes the distance fast, not aggressive, just desperate, and grabs you, not hard, just holding on.
“i don’t want you to leave.” chan says, pathetic suddenly. “i don’t—“
“you’re not the victim.” you’re rigid in his arms. heart racing, hands hovering, not sure about what to do.
“i know.” he says again. “i know. i just… i don’t know how to stop being this.” his grip tightens, clinging to you.
despite everything, the blood, the horror, the reality crashing through your denial, you let him hold you. not because he deserves it, but because somewhere along the way, you stopped knowing how to let go.
“i messed up.” he says.
“no shit, chan.” you whisper, your tone affectionate despite how rude the words are.
“i didn’t think—”
“that’s the problem, baby. you don’t think about what happens after. you just do it and then show up here.”
he runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smear across his forehead. oh your fucking god bro.
“i don’t have anywhere else.” he says.
“that is not my responsibility!” you raise your voice again. he deserves it.
his breathing changes, faster now. uneven. “i don’t want you scared of me.” he says.
“i am scared of you.” you reply.
he pulls you into him then, desperate. that’s how he deals with all these feelings, it seems like. this is what he needs when it’s too much. your touch.
you stiffen, then shove at him weakly. “you’re covered in blood—”
“i know.” he says into your shoulder. his voice shakes, actually shakes. “i know. i know. i know.”
he’s freaking out now too. not about what he did, but about you pulling away.
then his hands drop from you. the air changes. “y/n, don’t do this to me.”
you shake your head. “i’m not doing anything, chris. i’m reacting to the fact that you walked in here drenched in someone else—”
“you think you’re better than me.” he cuts in. he looks… scary. terrifying, actually. that’s because he’s panicking.
“…i never said that.”
“you don’t have to.”
he steps back, running both hands through his hair, smearing red across his temples. he looks fucking crazy.
“you knew what i was.” he says. “you don’t get to act shocked now.”
“i’m not acting!” you shout. “i am shocked! there’s a difference between knowing and seeing it in my fucking living room!”
he kicks the leg of the coffee table hard enough that it scrapes across the floor. the sound makes you jump.
“i try.” he says, voice rising. “i follow your rules, your places, your times, your conditions, and the one time i can’t clean it up perfectly, suddenly i’m too much.”
“you ARE too much right now!”
that shuts him up for a second. his chest is rising fast, hands flexing, and you can see the restless, we can even say dangerous energy crawling under his skin. not directed at you exactly, but not not either.
but you know he’s not losing control because of what he did. he’s losing control because he thinks he’s losing you. that fear, for him, doesn’t look like retreat. it looks like attack.
“chan. baby.” you say, voice lower now, and you slowly step closer. “you’re not losing me.” you say.
his eyes are sharp, searching, suspicious. “you just said you were scared.”
“i am.” you say. “and it is what it is. but do you see me going anywhere?” you brush your hand over his pretty cheeks. “no. i just need you not to bring that here. i need separation. i need a line. not from you, but from other people’s guts in my living room. most people don’t like that, and i’m one of them. and that’s okay. it doesn’t mean i like you any less, and you know that.”
his eyes flick to the blood on his hands like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time. “i didn’t think.” he mutters.
“i know. and that’s okay. i know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
his breath shudders out of him.
“i don’t want to fight you.” you add softly. not entirely true. you are furious. you are shaken. but you want him calm more than you want to win this moment. because calm means safe.
“…i can try.” he says. he means keeping allat human remains away from you, and you know that. no need for clarification. it’s not a promise, though. it’s the most he has.
you nod, because right now de-escalation matters more than truth.
“thank you. go clean up.” you say quietly.
he doesn’t move.
“bathroom.” you add. “now.”
a beat, then he nods. obedient isn’t the right word, it’s not submission. it’s… trust in your direction.
you lean up and press the smallest kiss against his cheek before he pulls away from you and goes to the bathroom.
when you can hear the water running from there, you stand, staring at nothing.
your boyfriend is in your bathroom washing blood off his hands.
your boyfriend.
you love him.
you shouldn’t, but you so do.
when he comes back, he’s shirtless, hair damp, skin scrubbed red in places as if he tried to sand himself down to something cleaner underneath. he stands there awkwardly.
you open your arms. “c’mere, baby.” you insane fucking bitch.
chan comes to you immediately, no hesitation. he folds into you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your shoulder, into your neck. you hand goes to the back of his head automatically, fingers in his hair, the other hand spreads across his back.
he’s warm, solid, a man who has done unforgivable things. a man who melts the second you touch him like this.
“you’re okay.” you murmur.
he exhales hard against your skin.
“i didn’t mean to bring it here.” he murmurs.
“i know.”
is that fully true? does he mean it in the way you mean things? you don’t know, but you know he didn’t mean to hurt you. and that’s the line you have chosen as enough.
you smooth your hand down his back slowly, repetitive. “you’re okay.” you repeat. “you didn’t mean it.”
that part isn’t true. he meant what he did out there. somewhere. to someone. but he didn’t mean to crack open your safe space. he didn’t mean to make you look at it.
“i don’t want you scared.” he says into your shoulder, tightening his adorable grip on you.
“i’m not.” you lie softly. you are. you always are, a little. but you also know him, the way his system works, how he came here knowing this was a safe place.
you rest your cheek against his head.
you evil boyfriend. your terrifying, capable, deeply fucked up boyfriend. held in your arms like he’s the one who needs protection.
so yeah, that… went like that. he learned from it, you learned from it. you have calmed down about it since then.
and he’s still very, very gentle with you. for an example, you’re in the kitchen with him standing somewhere behind you. it’s morning. you’re pouring yourself tea, when you feel something nudge your elbow.
you look down. his mug has silently, slowly slid across the counter toward you.
you stare at him. “use words.”
he blinks once. “tea.”
“you are capable of full sentences.”
he considers that. “more tea would be… good.” brutally charismatic dream man to the world btw.
you pour it.
“thanks.” he says quietly, hands wrapping around the mug.
it’s adorable, if you ignore literally everything else.
he’s on your dick constantly. shoulder touches. fingers hooking in your belt loop when you walk past. forehead pressing into your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth. physical contact is how his little feelings come to the surface.
once, like in the MIDDLE of the fucking night, you’re asleep. actually calm in your sleep too, when the mattress dips.
you wake up just enough to process the arm that slides around your waist and a face pressing into the back of your neck.
you mumble, half conscious. “cold.”
“sorry.” chan whispers.
you reach back blindly, grabbing his wrist, pulling his arm tighter around you. you smell soap. strong. recently used. you’re awake enough to translate that into “he recently killed somebody and just washed up then immediately came to you” but too tired to think much of it. and too in comfort now that he’s here, so you fall back asleep.
in the morning, you will see his shirt in the sink, confirming your theory from last night. and you will not ask.
then one day you realize you stopped thinking of the worst when he comes home late. stopped asking where he was. and it’s not because of you wanting to ignore it anymore. it’s from acceptance now.
“you’re late.” you say one night to the man who you once told to stay the fuck away from your place, and now wait for before going to bed.
“yeah.” chan answers.
you glance back. he’s standing there, a little too still. shirt in his hand this time.
you sigh, tired more than shocked. “shoes off. bathroom. now.”
he nods. “sorry.” he adds, already walking.
you turn back to the stove, jaw tight. “jesus.” you mutter, stirring harder. “i made pasta.”
from the hallway: “i like your pasta.”
“i know.”
he doesn’t understand guilt the way people describe it. he understands consequences, and he understands loss. you are the only loss that terrifies him, because he loves you with his whole, damaged system. it should scare you more, and sometimes it does, but mostly, when he’s got his face buried in your neck, breathing slow, hands warm against your back, he’s just your boyfriend. your awful, terrifying, weird, quiet boyfriend who pushes his mug toward you instead of speaking and crawls across furniture to ask permission to kiss you.
and you love him so much.
sometimes, in very quiet moments, when he’s asleep beside you, face relaxed into something almost boyish, you study him.
this man could end lives.
this man panics if you don’t text back.
and what’s even more brutal is how he performs to the world. because he performs perfectly.
you watch it sometimes, and it’s fascinating. it’s horrifying. it’s the same face that rests in your lap at night, blank and quiet and real.
you remember the first time he walked up to you, casual, charming, disarming.
you didn’t stand a chance.
nobody does.
because he holds doors, makes eye contact like the person talking is the only one in the room. waiters like him, strangers tell him things, women glance twice. he laughs at the right volume, tips well, knows just enough about everything to keep conversations moving. he’s the guy moms hope their daughters bring home. he’s not shy to show you off, always behind you in public, arms loosely around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
you fell for that guy. then, you fell for the actual guy under the costume.
and the guy under the costume would do anything for you. you’re in a parking garage once after you asked him to take you shopping. you’re mid-sentence, telling him about something, keys in hand, when chan goes still. not even that dramatic fucking bullshit that movies do, just… still.
you notice because he was touching you a second ago, hand at your lower back, and now he’s not.
“what?” you ask.
his eyes are over your shoulder, and you turn. a guy is walking past too close, hoodie up, moving weird, fast, then slow. his gaze flicks between you, your bag, the car. your brain also starts doing that thing, the math, but chan’s obviously faster with it because he steps slightly in front of you.
“hey.” the random ass guy says(an: insert that “who’s this” meme from tiktok comments omfg guys), already too near. “you got the time?”
“no.” chan replies, calm.
the guy’s hand moves, too fast. you, inexperienced little you, don’t even process it fully, just that the motion is wrong. but chan is not inexperienced, and soon, there are bodies colliding with the side of the car. a grunt. a hard, final sound you’ll pretend later you didn’t recognize.
chan is standing.
the other guy isn’t.
you stare.
“are you hurt?” you ask chan. that’s your first question. not what just happened. not oh my god. chan is the first thing you care about, not even the violence anymore. that says a lot about your relationship’s improvement.
“yeah.” he says.
you step closer immediately, checking him over, hands on his arms, his sides, his chest. your fingers come away shaking, but not from what’s on them. from adrenaline.
“you okay?” you ask again.
“i’m fine.”
your gaze flicks past him, to the body on the concrete. meanwhile chan looks at you like he’s waiting. for fear. for disgust. for the moment you finally see him clearly and step away.
you don’t, well, you do see him clearly, but you also don’t step away. at all. you grab his jacket instead.
“let’s go.” you say.
when he’s driving you home, you’re scared, but not of him. you’re scared of what just rearranged inside you. because you replay it, the moment, the motion, the outcome, and your mind keeps landing on one thing.
chan moved without hesitation. between you and danger. and the only emotion that cuts through the shock is relief. relief that he was there.
and while driving, he just reaches over slowly and puts his hand on your knee.
at home, you can obviously see that he feels guilty that you saw that. but you step into him, and press your face into his chest. he immediately wraps around you.
“i only care that you’re okay.” you say into his shirt.
it’s true.
something settles after that night in the garage. the constant internal argument quiets. the this is wrong/but i love him/but this is wrong loop loses volume. you stopped trying to solve it. acceptance is ugly, but it’s peaceful.
and chan feels it immediately. he is a fucking expert in you, so when you stop freaking out when he brings blood home, when your body language loses that last thread of tension around him, he softens too.
he kisses you more, for an example. passing by you in the kitchen, kiss to your temple. sitting beside you, absentminded press of his mouth to your shoulder. lips on your forehead when you’re half asleep. you shoulder when you’re brushing your teeth. the top of your head when you’re sitting and he’s standing behind the couch.
you’re on your laptop once, deep in something, and he just leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.
you don’t even look up. “hi.”
“hi.”
he walks away.
that’s it. that’s the interaction.
he’s still not verbally expressive, still not a “talk about feelings” person. but physically, he’s all there. touch is this asshole’s way of expressing his love for you.
the sex is better too. this new honesty makes everything between you more direct, makes the communication easier, and boy does it make you cum harder. he’s fucking amazing in bed, you couldn’t even deny that when you were still scared of him. but now? oh your fucking god.
and after sex, when you’re asleep, he watches you longer and differently. his little eyes are literally shining when he looks at you, especially when you’re naked and guard down and asleep next to him. he feels so lucky.
you still argue. you’re both stubborn, both wired wrong in ways that clash. but neither of you want to argue really.
“you’re not listening.” you say one evening, arms crossed.
“i am.” he replies, calm.
“then don’t just nod. actually respond.”
a pause. “…i don’t know what the correct response is.”
you sigh, some of the heat draining. “try anything.”
“…i don’t like when you shut down.” he says finally. it’s clumsy, so blunt, but so so so real.
you blink. “okay. that’s something.”
progress, yes, though he still disappears sometimes and still comes back late. but! he tells you more now.
“i’ll be gone tonight.” he says some days.
“okay.”
“don’t wait up.”
“i won’t.”
a beat.
“be careful.” you add.
he nods.
one night, you’re both on the couch, your legs over his lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your ankle.
“you’re calmer.” he says.
“so are you.”
“that’s because you’re calmer.”
you glance at him. “don’t make me responsible.” then you nudge his side with your foot gently.
he catches it, and presses a brief kiss to your ankle bone. the same man that removed ankle bones before btw.
you know exactly what kind of man you love now. you’re not pretending he’s good, you just… chose him anyway.
he talks more, too. you’ll be lying in bed and he’ll say: “i don’t like when they panic early. it’s loud.”
you stare at the ceiling. “cool. hate that sentence.”
he nods into your shoulder. “yeah.”
another night: “i prefer planning. impulse is messy.”
“please stop workshopping murder in my bed.” you mutter.
he kisses your collarbone lightly. “okay.”
he keeps talking, in pieces, over weeks. just… information. and you realize this is his version of intimacy. letting you see the internal logic, the preferences, the way his brain categorizes things most people couldn’t even think about without unraveling. he’s not confessing, he’s including you. and you just listen, sometimes telling him to shut up, sometimes asking questions, like that “letting my horse take me places to let him know i care about his interests too” tiktok trend or idk how it goes.
once you’re in a bookstore. some guy is talking to you about a novel you’re holding, being overly friendly in that way men do when they think they’re charming. you’re polite, nodding, listening, when an arm slides around your waist from behind.
chan’s chin rests briefly on your shoulder.
“hey.” he says, voice so so so charismatic, smiling at the guy like they’re old friends. “did you find what you were looking for, baby girl?”
you close your eyes for half a second. oh my god. you can feel chan turn the public personality on. relaxed posture, perfect smile, protective but casual. like he just wandered over from being handsome somewhere else.
“yeah.” you say dryly. “book.”
“nice.” he says, kissing the side of your head.
the stranger mumbles something about having to go. chan watches him leave, expression pleasant. then, quietly in your ear: “he was standing too close.”
“i had it handled.”
“oh, i know.” he doesn’t remove his arm, and you don’t make him.
it’s insane how easily he switches. but you can catch it now perfectly. when his face goes blank between expressions, when he talks about things he knows only you can be told about, when his hand tightens slightly in his sleep. and now you just brush your thumb over his knuckles until he settles.
what changes, in the end, isn’t that he becomes better. it’s that he becomes unguarded. with the world, he still has that mask. but with you, that starts crumbling, because somewhere along the way, his brain filed you under safe.
like you’re in your room, drawer open, looking for a charger. chan appears behind you like he always does, silent, looming, curious.
“what are you looking for?” he asks.
“nothing you need to help with.” you reply.
too late, his hand has already reached into the drawer. you turn just in time to see him pull out your vibrator, and examining it.
you snatch it out of his hand so fast you almost dislocate your own shoulder.
he blinks. “i thought—“
“that is a private object, chan. it’s okay if we use it during sex, you do not need to pull it out now.”
“i wasn’t using it.”
“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”
he nods slowly, processing. “privacy.” he repeats.
“yes. privacy. personal. mine. it’s okay for you to touch it when it’s in context, otherwise it’s not pleasant to have you throw it around.”
“okay.”
five minutes later he opens your bathroom cabinet while brushing his teeth.
you smack the door shut.
he looks at you, toothbrush in mouth.
“…privacy?” he tries.
“privacy.”
“right.”
he’s not being creepy on purpose. he just genuinely does not have the instinct most people have that says this is someone else’s space inside their space. his brain works like this: your house = your shared environment = accessible. drawers? shelves? phone screens? all just… objects in the environment.
you’re folding laundry. he walks past, casually picks up one of your panties and starts examining it.
you slap his hand away. “what are you DOING.”
“i was looking.”
“AT WHAT.”
“you.”
you sigh.
he looks at you. “…context matters?”
“yes, good job.”
he still forgets sometimes, he just feels so comfortable around you, and he really wouldn’t mind if you were the one snooping around in his things, because he doesn’t have any secrets from you. you start realizing that because he doesn’t attach taboo to things the way most people do, he also doesn’t instinctively categorize them as off limits. to him, objects are objects. curiosity is neutral.
another time, you come out of the shower and nearly die on the spot. he’s sitting on the bed, reading your journal. not snooping in a sneaky way, not hiding it, just sitting there, legs crossed, flipping a page.
you freeze. “what are you doing.”
he looks up. “you think in lists.”
you snatch it from him.
“i wasn’t judging.” he says calmly. “i wanted to understand you better.”
“i appreciate that, baby, but this is a no.”
“…so journals are private.”
“YES.”
a pause.
“what about notes apps.”
you point at the door. “OUT.”
this man can plan crimes down to the minute. he can read people in seconds. he can charm strangers, disappear in crowds, control his expressions like a trained actor. but understanding why he cannot open your nightstand without warning? that takes fifteen separate lectures. you’ve scolded him in every room of your house at this point. kitchen: “stop opening containers that aren’t yours.” living room: “that’s my journal, don’t touch it.” bedroom: “knock. yes, even here. no, i don’t have a problem with you seeing my body, i just need my privacy.” bathroom: “if the door is closed, you WAIT.”
“you’re very complicated.” he tells you once, but he still tries, because you are the only person whose discomfort registers that high.
but he opens drawers, he reorganizes things “more efficiently.” he once moved your entire bathroom counter layout and then looked confused when you stood there staring at it.
“it’s better.” he said.
“it’s WRONG.”
“functionally—”
“emotionally wrong, babe!”
then something shifts again. not in him. in you. because one night he’s sitting beside you, close but not touching, clearly trying very hard to stay in his lane, hands in his lap, wanting to go through stuff. it’s in his little instincts. and you feel it. the restraint. the way he’s holding himself back because you said no before. and instead of relief, you feel… something else. tenderness.
so you tell him to go the fuck on and snoop around.
you let him do it now. whatever.
he starts wearing your hoodie sometimes. you start not caring. he uses your shampoo. you just buy more. he sits on your side of the couch. you sit on him instead. somewhere along the way, your space stops being mine and becomes ours, and you don’t remember signing that lease, but here you are.
you catch him one afternoon in your room while you’re working at the table, fiddling absently with something on your dresser, bored, waiting for you to finish.
you look up. your fucking vibrator is in his hands again.
and you just sigh. “don’t break anything.”
he doesn’t. you let him play around.
what he doesn’t understand though, is when you baby his ass. that absolutely fries his system. you’re on the couch, he’s half lying on you, and you grab his face suddenly.
“who’s a menace?” you coo.
he blinks.
“you are. yes you are. big scary menace.” you pinch his cheek.
“why are you talking like that?” he asks.
“because you’re cute. look at your face. stupid.”
“…okay.”
you kiss his nose.
affection he understands. playful nonsense affection? no. but he lets you do it, every time.
from the outside, he’s still perfect. charming. polite. magnetic. then he comes home, drops the mask, and stands in your kitchen in your socks, drinking juice straight from the carton while you smack his arm.
“glass!”
he gets one immediately.
you shake your head. “unbelievable.”
he kisses your temple on the way past.
and you don’t even care anymore that he comes home drenched in other people sometimes.
author’s note: i only tagged people who asked to be on my general taglist. if you asked to be tagged for sorry we tried to kill you part 2 but didn’t mention my general taglist and you’d like to be tagged for my other works too, let me know :) this just means i didn’t tag those people this time because i wasn’t sure if you meant only part 2 or my other upcoming works as well. let me know. love y’all<3 (also the fact that you’re reading this rn, which tells me you’re THAT interested in my work, deserves a reward, which is me telling you that the part 2 of sorry we tried to kill you is coming out next, theeeen a separate serial killer felix like this)
summary: despite the fact that joining the already established stray kids as their 9th member is the most challenging thing you've ever done, you're determined not to give up. things don't always go according to plan.
word count: 2.5k
tags/warnings: 9th member au, angst
a/n: in a perfect world i would have spent much more time on this idea and made it a full like 15-20k word multi-chaptered fic with a lot more dialogue and stuff but i was pretty sure i would lose interest by then so here we are! this is actually the second fastest i've ever written a fic (only took 1 week!) so i'm going to count this as a win lol anyway i do have a pt 2 in mind but haven't decided what kind of ending to give it or whether i even want to write it!
part 2 | read it on ao3 | masterlist
Having been a trainee for all of your teenage years, you've seen a lot of the darker sides to the industry and you've trained yourself for practically any situation you could imagine. You've spent hours honing your skills and trying to become more well-rounded, spending time practicing rap, dance, singing, producing, choreographing, acting, and languages.
Yet nothing could have prepared you for when management sits you down and tells you that they're considering for you to debut as a member of the already established, all boys group, Stray Kids.
Honestly, after so many years with nothing to show for it, you had thought that it was more likely that they were dropping you as a trainee. After all, even though you had consistently been praised by instructors, you had never made it to being short-listed for any groups or considered to be a soloist.
So even though you know it’s purely experimental, that practically none of the fans would want this to happen, that this would likely end up to be one of the most controversial debuts ever, you say yes. If this is your one and only chance to become an idol, you’re going to take what you can get and give it your all.
You sign the papers that same day and management organises a time for you to meet the members a couple days later.
You want to meet them as soon as you can so that there’s less of a chance they’ll scrap the idea, but as you stand outside the room that the members are in, you start to doubt yourself. You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, then raise a shaky hand to knock on the door. You overhear Chan’s voice right as your fist is about to make contact and manage to pull back just in time.
“Listen,” he says. “I know this isn’t ideal, but we don’t have much of a choice. Let’s just try to make the best of this and see what happens. As long as the eight of us can stick together, lean on each other, I know that we can get through this. She’ll be coming soon, so let’s try to be nice, okay?”
Well, that definitely answers your question on whether the members were involved in the decision-making process for your addition to the group. Chan framed it perfectly, it’s less than ideal. Of course you’d prefer to join a group that actively wants you, but you have to take what you can get. At your age, you can’t exactly afford to be picky.
It’s disheartening to hear right before you’re about to meet them for the first time, but you hope that once you start working with them, you’ll be able to prove yourself.
Over the next few weeks, you come to learn that it doesn’t exactly work like that. The boys are nice, but not overly welcoming. Exceedingly polite, but guarded. Helpful, but not going out of their way to get to know you. At the end of the day, they’re coworkers who know they have no other option but to try and get along with you. You wish things were different, but at the same time, you can't blame them.
3Racha work with you the most. You spent enough time as a trainee producing on your own that the company pushes you to spend time in the studio with them. You learn a lot from them, amazed by the ease with which Chan utilises Cubase to create tracks, the unique rhythms that Changbin adds to songs, the speed that Jisung spits out new lyrics, how their talents complement each other.
Knowing that you're an outsider to all of this and not wanting to interrupt, you jot down your thoughts on a tiny notebook that you carry around. On occasion, when you build up enough courage to mention an idea you have, they listen to you, but usually override it later on in the process. They’re not trying to be rude, but after so many years, they’ve already figured out their own flow when it comes to making music and it doesn’t have space for you.
You even move into the dorms with them and Hyunjin. Management has informed you that they considered giving you a place to yourself, but hoped that sharing a living space with them would aid with your integration in the group.
It's not exactly successful. You almost never see them around even though your schedules are practically identical. At first you think it's just unfortunate timing or even them wanting to give you space to settle in and feel more comfortable. But after a few weeks, you can tell it's more than a coincidence that the common areas are always empty when you're around. They're avoiding you.
You start to spend more time away from the dorms, feeling bad that you're taking away the one space they have to themselves. You always pulled long hours at the company as a trainee, but now you're pretty sure that you're breaking records for time spent in the dance studios. You have a lot to catch up on anyway and by the time you finish practice, it's usually so late that everybody else is already in bed, or you don't even bother to go home.
In the beginning, the boys try to make the effort to invite you along whenever they eat dinner together. But it’s hard to ignore the sense that you don’t quite belong. You don’t understand the inside jokes that they laugh about, aren’t familiar with half the names that they mention, you don’t know when to jump into the conversation versus when to just listen.
But team dinners are far and few between, meaning your opportunities to hang out with the members outside of schedules are also rare. During schedules and practices, you feel like an annoying ninth wheel that they have to drag along with them.
You get one month to prepare and train with the group before the company officially announces your addition to the group. The feedback is generally what you expect.
Some are curious about who you are and what skills you have to offer, but as expected, the vast majority were openly against you joining Stray Kids.
They wonder what the company was thinking to suddenly add a new member, and a female one at that, and you're honestly wondering the same thing.
The comments pick on your height, weight, hair, skin, anything and everything about your appearance, how strong your voice is, and any slight missteps you make while dancing. They notice all the awkward interactions between you and the members that are caught on cameras, hesitations when answering questions about you or jokes that seem a little too forced.
You do your best to ignore all the criticism, instead throwing yourself headlong into ensuring that you’ve perfected every move and note for upcoming performances. At first it's not too bad, it's easy to stay away from social media when you keep yourself so busy.
But the fans get creative, they send protest trucks and funeral wreaths to the company building. During the couple performances that you do shortly after debuting, the crowd always goes completely silent when it comes to your part or really any time that you're shown on screen. You get assigned a plain clothed security detail for any time that you have to be out alone in public after fans start following and harassing you.
It all comes to a head when the comeback finally happens. It's just a digital single, but management has decided to market it almost like a single album, spending time to film a music video, dance practice video, even organising a whole press junket for promotion.
And it's the worst performing comeback Stray Kids has ever had. Numbers and engagement is even lower than when the group had first debuted and were still relatively unknown. You've seen how Stays are rallying together to boycott the comeback and telling others to avoid interacting with posts.
You see how it drains the boys. They've had to work hard in preparation and for it to do so poorly is more than disappointing. To your face, they try to stay polite, but tempers are shorter when you're around and you know that they all, rightfully, blame you for this disastrous comeback.
You can handle the hate when it's directed to you, and while you know it's impossible, you really were hoping that the rest of the group wouldn't be significantly affected. It kills you, knowing that you're the reason for the fans boycotting the group and you consider if it would be best to graciously leave the group. But selfishly, you still don't want to give up.
It's challenging and it's tiring and most of all, it's lonely.
You're surrounded by people all the time, spend most of your days with the same eight boys, and yet you've never felt so alone.
But you knew that. You had hoped that if you ever debuted, you would consider the group to be a second family, of course you had. But at the same time you knew that it was just wishful thinking. You weren't guaranteed to like the other members and they might not like you.
So you don't complain. You bite your tongue and hold back your tears and you dance and sing and continue making songs that you knew 3Racha will never accept. To be on stage, even if the crowd was full of fans that hated you, it was enough.
—
It's hard not to be nervous when you get a text from one of your managers, Daon, late one evening, telling you that you're being excused from morning dance practice to attend a meeting. He says it's a regular check-in, but it's hard to believe when they haven't bothered to have any other meetings in the past.
In fact, you were surprised that there hadn't even been a meeting to inform you when the company was going to announce your debut to the public. Of course, you had been monitored continuously in the month beforehand and you assume the trainers and managers had been at least somewhat satisfied with how you were doing since you continued practicing with the group, but nobody had sat you down and let you know that they had decided to officially make you a member.
All the promotions for the comeback are long finished now and although preparations are starting for the next one, a mini album, you know that everybody has the same question in mind. Will you still be with the group by then?
The uneasy feeling that something terrible is about to happen just intensifies when you arrive at the room and find that along with Daon are a number of faces from different levels of management, many that you've never spoken with before.
“Y/n-ssi, thank you for coming today,” Daon starts, as if you had a choice whether to attend or not.
You murmur a quick greeting in response, still unsure what the purpose of the meeting is.
“As you know, it has been three months since you officially debuted. Based on your compatibility with the rest of the group and the reaction from the fans, the decision has been made to terminate your contract as a member of Stray Kids,” Daon says. His tone is bland and unapologetic, as if he was reading pages from a phonebook rather than telling you that your career as an idol was over after only a few short months.
“Effective immediately,” the man beside Daon adds, as if the situation wasn't already bad enough.
“We would like to get the boys back on track as soon as possible,” Daon explains unnecessarily. “You understand, don't you?”
“Of course,” you reply automatically. But you don't. You have no idea what's happening. How this could be happening so suddenly. Of course, you knew that being dropped was always a looming threat, but you had always assumed that there would be warning signs, that you'd have a chance to fix things.
“Great,” Daon says.
“Did- did you talk to the other members about this?” you ask, finally finding your voice and cutting him off. “Did they agree that they didn’t want me in the group anymore?”
“The other members will be informed of your official removal from the group this evening. Their opinion during the decision-making process was irrelevant.”
“I see,” you say weakly.
Actually, you’re a little grateful that the boys weren’t actually involved in this decision. Although it probably would have been a unanimous vote anyway, if there was anything that could make you hurt any more than you already are, it would be having that confirmed.
“You'll be escorted back to dorms and will have some assistance packing all of your belongings.” Daon continues on. “I understand that you lived in Seoul prior to being a trainee, so I trust that you will be able to find new accommodations on your own. Please ensure that you return your employee ID before you leave the building and any equipment you may have borrowed from the company can be collected by the staff who will help you pack.”
“I understand,” you whisper. “There’s- there’s nothing I can do? To change your minds or-”
“Unfortunately this is not a decision that can be changed. We appreciate your talent, Y/n-ssi, and all the years you have been with the company, but we just don't see you with a future at JYPE. I'm really sorry.” Daon says, sounding anything but.
Before you can say or do anything else, Daon and the rest of the staff in the room stand, bow, and exit the room, leaving you alone.
6 years as a trainee, 4 months as a member of Stray Kids, and all it took was a 5 minute meeting to end it all.
True to Daon’s word, after you give up your employee ID, you're escorted out of the building and to the dorms, where a staff member helps you as you mechanically pack all your belongings.
It only takes you two hours to remove every trace of your existence from the dorm. You suppose that Hyunjin will be glad to get the room back to use for his paintings. He's been storing things in his room while you've been in the group, but has complained that the smell of paint makes it more difficult for him to sleep. Just one more reason it's better for you to leave, you think.
In fact, in the time that you've been packing, you haven't been able to think of any argument against the termination of your contract. Maybe that's the worst part, as much as you hate it, you know the company is making the smarter, better choice to cut you out. You've brought nothing but bad things to the group.
Once you’ve packed everything, the staff member leads you out. You hand over your keys and watch from the sidewalk, surrounded by all your belongings, as he gets into the company car and drives away.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
New Beginnings - Part Eight - Stray Kids x female!9th Member
Pairing: Chan X 9th Member
Summary: Schedules being pushed up means everything comes along with it whether you want it to or not.
Warnings: Mentions of stress, avoiding eating, emotional distress
A/n: Hi everyone! Back with a new chapter so I hope you all enjoy! Please let me know what you think <3 I did proofread this but only once and I was too excited to have a new chapter finished so please forgive any mistakes or errors
Part Seven
Masterlist
────୨ৎ────
Chan’s room is spotless.
It always is.
The bed is made properly, corners tucked in tight, desk clear except for his laptop and a neatly stacked notebook. Shoes lined up. A t-shirt folded over the chair like he actually plans to wear it again instead of grabbing a new one.
You stand there for a second, taking it in, lips twitching.
“You know,” you say lightly, nudging one of his perfectly aligned shoes with your toe, “I’m convinced you’d have a breakdown if you stepped foot in my room right now.”
He snorts, already halfway across the room to put it back. “Breakdown? No. I’d just start cleaning. For my own sanity.”
You laugh, soft and fond. “You’d last maybe five minutes before judging me.”
“Five is generous,” he shoots back, easy and familiar. “There’s probably clothes on your floor that predate our debut.”
“Those are vintage,” you say defensively. “Very important. Very intentional.”
He just shakes his head, amused, that fond little smile tugging at his mouth as he reaches for his hoodie and peels it off. It lands beside you, folded by habit even as it slips from his hands.
You pick it up without thinking.
It smells like him. Clean laundry, warmth, something familiar enough to make your chest ache.
He notices, of course. He always does.
Instead of saying anything else, he reaches out and tugs you gently back against him, guiding you down onto the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And it is.
The mattress dips as he lies beside you. You turn automatically, curling into him, fitting against his chest like you’ve done this a hundred times before. His arm comes around your waist without hesitation, hand resting warm and steady against your back.
No words.
Just him.
His chin settles on the top of your head. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Somewhere between habit and need.
You feel him relax — that subtle shift only you ever notice, like the weight of the day finally slipping off his shoulders now that you’re here. Like this is where he’s meant to be.
His hand moves in slow, absent strokes along your spine. Not searching. Not asking. Just grounding. Familiar.
You tuck your face into the space beneath his jaw, nose brushing his collarbone. He smells like home in a way nothing else ever has.
It’s quiet.
Safe.
Your legs tangle with his easily. He shifts just enough to make room, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you at all. The kind of closeness that would normally feel dangerous but right now?
Effortless.
You can feel his heartbeat — steady, reassuring — under your ear. Your breathing slowly matches his. The world narrows down to warmth and weight and the quiet knowledge that you’re being held.
There’s a moment, it’s brief, fragile but you almost look up.
Almost speak.
But you don’t.
Neither of you does.
Because breaking this silence? Too much, too loaded. It would disturb the small moment of quiet you’re allowed. No as long as it stays like this, it’s safe.
His hand slips up, thumb brushing lazily over your shoulder, tucking you closer. Protective without trying to be. Possessive without meaning to be.
You feel yourself drifting off like that — wrapped around him, held together by muscle memory and years of unspoken understanding.
────୨ৎ────
You wake up like you’ve been dropped.
Your eyes snap open, breath tearing painfully into your lungs like you’ve surfaced too fast. The warmth is gone — ripped away so suddenly it makes your chest ache.
Your room is dark.
Too dark.
The air feels wrong against your skin, cold where his body should be. Your arm tightens instinctively, reaching for weight that isn’t there.
Nothing.
Your fingers close around empty sheets.
The bed is too big. The silence is too loud.
Your heart hammers, disoriented, still half-convinced you’ll hear him breathe if you just stay still long enough. That his arm will tighten around you again, maybe pull you back down. That this is what isn’t real.
But it is.
Your room stares back at you, unfamiliar in the worst way. Clothes are scattered across the floor, a chair buried under jackets, makeup left open on your desk. Your mess — loud and unmistakably yours.
Not his clean, careful space.
Not his arms.
Your phone lights up beside you, harsh and blinding in the dark.
4:03AM.
The number feels like a punishment.
Your throat tightens, emotion crashing in all at once — grief, longing, humiliation at how badly you’d believed it. At how safe you’d felt.
Your body still remembers him.
Your room doesn’t.
Cold settles deep into your bones as you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself like you can replace what’s missing.
You can’t.
The dream leaves behind a hollow ache, like something has been taken from you and you don’t know how to get it back.
And no matter how hard you try to lie still, sleep doesn’t come again.
────୨ৎ────
You know the kitchen lights are too bright but you flick them on anyway, wincing as the overhead glow cuts through the dark. Everything feels louder in here. The hum of the fridge, the click of the kettle, the thud of your footsteps against the floor.
You move on autopilot.
Water. Mug. Kettle on.
Your hands shake just enough to notice.
You lean against the counter, staring at nothing while the kettle heats, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.
Footsteps shuffle down the hall.
“Why are the lights on?”
Seungmin appears first, hair sticking up in every direction, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He squints at you like his brain hasn’t fully booted up yet.
Then he really looks at you.
“…You okay?”
You nod immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
The kettle clicks off. The sound is sharp in the quiet.
Seungmin doesn’t say anything else, just grabs a glass of water and lingers by the counter instead of going back to bed. He’s always been good at noticing when something doesn’t add up.
Another door creaks open.
Changbin stumbles out next, yawning so hard his whole face scrunches up. “Why does it smell like sadness and instant coffee in here?”
“Go back to bed,” Seungmin mutters.
Changbin squints at you. “Is it one of those mornings already?”
You manage a weak huff of a laugh as you pour the water, hands steady now only because you’re concentrating too hard. “Go back to sleep, Bin.”
He does but not before giving you a long look, the kind that says we’ll talk later.
Bare feet pad across the floor again.
Felix appears in the doorway, blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He takes one look at your face and immediately walks over, stopping just close enough to be present without crowding you.
He doesn’t ask.
He just rests his shoulder lightly against yours.
It’s the gentlest thing in the world and it makes your chest ache.
You stare into your mug like it might swallow you whole.
Felix’s voice is quiet. “Bad dream?”
You swallow. Nod.
Not a lie. Not the truth either.
Seungmin glances between the two of you, then looks away on purpose. “You want toast?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
No one believes you.
But no one pushes.
The kitchen fills with small, normal sounds — Seungmin opening a cupboard, Felix shifting his weight, Changbin’s door slamming as he goes back to his room. Life continuing like nothing cracked open inside you an hour ago.
Felix finally nudges you with his elbow. “You don’t have to be up yet, you know.”
You take a sip of your drink. It tastes like nothing. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He hums softly, understanding in his bones. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You stand there together for a few quiet minutes, the world holding its breath around you.
Somewhere down the hall, a door opens again — heavier footsteps this time.
Minho pauses at the end of the kitchen, eyes sharp even through exhaustion. He takes in the scene in half a second: you up at an ungodly hour, Felix glued to your side, Seungmin pretending not to hover.
His jaw tightens.
“…What happened?”
You meet his eyes.
For a split second, you consider telling the truth.
Instead, you lift your mug and shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Minho doesn’t look convinced.
But he nods once. “Try not to burn yourself out before the day even starts.”
Then, softer — only for you. “We need you.”
The words settle heavy on your shoulders.
You nod again.
Felix stays until your mug is empty. Seungmin leaves the toast out anyway, just in case. Minho disappears back down the hall, already carrying the weight of what today will bring.
And when the kitchen finally empties, you’re left alone again staring at the clock on the microwave as it ticks forward.
The day is coming whether you’re ready or not.
And you already feel like you’re running on borrowed pieces of yourself.
────୨ৎ────
Chan wakes up like he’s been shoved.
No sound. No nightmare he can remember. Just a sharp inhale and the sudden awareness that something is wrong.
The room is dark, curtains barely letting in the dull glow of streetlights. His clock reads 5:19 AM.
He stares at it for a moment, chest rising too fast, hand pressed flat against his sternum like he’s checking to see if his heart is still behaving.
It is.
Barely.
He exhales slowly and rubs a hand down his face, already tired in that bone-deep way that sleep doesn’t touch anymore.
Something had been warm.
That’s the first thing that hits him.
The ghost of weight beside him. Heat at his side. The faintest sense of being held — not dramatic, not urgent, just there. Safe.
And then nothing.
His bed is empty.
He turns onto his side without thinking, hand reaching out like muscle memory — and it lands on cold sheets.
Chan swallows.
“Yeah,” he mutters to the ceiling. “Okay.”
He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes. The room is exactly how he left it — spotless, shoes lined up perfectly by the door, hoodie folded over the back of the chair. Nothing out of place.
And yet he feels like he’s missing something.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and just sits there for a moment, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
His chest feels tight. Not panic. Not pain.
Longing.
Which is worse.
He presses his thumb into the heel of his palm, grounding himself, then stands and pads quietly out into the hall. The dorm is still, the kind of silence that only exists when everyone is asleep — or pretending to be.
He pauses outside your door.
Doesn’t knock.
Doesn’t reach for the handle.
Just stands there, forehead resting briefly against the frame, eyes closed.
For half a second, he considers waking you. Saying something stupid. Something safe. Something like you good?
He doesn’t.
He knows better.
He backs away like he’s retreating from a line he can’t afford to cross.
Instead, he heads to the kitchen.
The light is on.
It’s bright and harsh and it makes his chest tighten.
His eyes track automatically.
A mug in the sink.
Your mug.
There’s still a ring of coffee at the bottom, cold now.
A plate on the counter.
Two slices of toast.
Barely touched.
One bite taken out of the corner like you’d tried — really tried — and then given up.
The smell of it still lingers faintly in the air, warm and lonely.
Chan doesn’t move for a long second.
Then he steps closer, fingers brushing the edge of the plate like it might tell him something if he touches it long enough.
You’d been here.
Wide awake.
Unsettled enough to eat — or try to.
He exhales slowly, eyes closing for half a beat.
I should’ve checked.
The thought lands heavy and immediate.
He pictures you standing here alone, coffee going cold in your hands, the quiet pressing in on you the same way it has been on him — and his stomach twists.
He’d been right outside your door.
He could’ve knocked.
Could’ve said something stupid. Something safe.
Instead, he’d walked away.
Now all that’s left is evidence.
He rinses the mug without really thinking, sets it carefully on the drying rack like that might make up for something. He slides the plate closer to the sink, hesitates, then wraps the toast in a napkin instead of throwing it out.
A stupid, instinctive hope that you might come back and finish it later.
He leans his hip against the counter, hands braced on the edge, head tipping forward.
“Idiot,” he mutters quietly — not sure if he means himself or the situation.
Because he knows now.
He hadn’t imagined it.
You hadn’t been sleeping either.
You’d both been awake at the same hour, restless in parallel rooms, orbiting the same hurt — and missing each other by one hallway, one knock, one second of courage.
The dorm remains silent.
Too silent.
Chan straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing himself for the day ahead.
He turns off the kitchen light before he leaves — but not before glancing back once more at the counter, at the empty space where you’d stood.
A missed opportunity.
One of many.
And somehow, the worst part isn’t the ache in his chest.
It’s the certainty that if he doesn’t stop letting moments like this slip through his fingers…
Eventually, there won’t be any left to miss.
Back in his room, he sits at his desk and opens his laptop — not to work, just to do something.
The screen lights up.
His phone buzzes on the desk beside it.
An email from management. Another schedule tweak. Another reminder that today is going to be long.
He exhales through his nose and sets the phone face down.
He lets his eyes drift to the case.
The Polaroid.
He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked at it properly in days. But he doesn’t need to — he knows exactly what it shows. The way you’d been mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, guard completely down.
He reaches for it before he can stop himself, taking it free from the back of his phone.
Holds it between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge like it might disappear if he doesn’t anchor it.
“Get it together,” he murmurs to himself.
────୨ৎ────
The meeting room was too bright for how tired you felt.
Rows of documents, laptops, and screen projections cluttered the table. The boys were scattered in their seats, hair still damp from rushed showers, coffees half-drunk, dressed in hoodies and track pants — that perfect blend of idol and exhaustion. You sat upright with your notes in front of you, a pen held tightly in your hand, and your expression carefully neutral.
Chan sat across from you, his arms folded, eyes sharp. He hadn’t said much.
You hadn’t looked at him.
The meeting was already running long when the slide shifted — a bold header across the top: Y/N Solo & Duet: Visual Content Timelines.
“We’ve seen an excellent response to the teaser footage,” a marketing team member said, eyes scanning the room. “Especially from the solo content. The comments are strong, engagement is up. Fans are speculating about the concept already.”
Hyunjin let out a low whistle. “Y/N trending again. What’s new.”
You forced a smile you didn’t feel.
The staff member kept going, glancing your way. “So we’re proposing to push up the filming for your full solo dance practice video. Also, we want to bring forward the shoot dates for your solo music video and the duet music video with Chan.”
The room stilled.
You barely blinked. “How much earlier?”
“Three days for the dance practice shoot, about a week for the MV. We’ve spoken with the studio about set availability. If we finalise costumes and lighting this week, it’s possible.”
Minho turned to you. “Is that doable?”
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Even though you hadn’t run it full out since the last choreography update. Even though the backup dancers weren’t ready. Even though your schedule was already stacked and every late-night practice was eating away at your sleep.
Chan’s eyes hadn’t left you.
You could feel it. Like static.
“And the duet video?” someone asked, you weren’t sure who.
The room was starting to spin.
“We want to lock it before the album drops. If the choreography is strong enough to shoot soon, it’ll help support the rollout.”
You nodded once, even as something inside you twisted painfully.
“I’ll finalise it,” you said. “I’ll run the backup rehearsals this week.”
The meeting moved on.
The boys’ timelines came next. Solo shoots, live rehearsals, content blocks. Every one of them confirmed and locked — because you’d made sure of it. Because you’d been putting their needs above your own for weeks.
And now that everything was sliding forward, you didn’t dare ask for more time.
Because they all counted on you.
You felt Chan shift. Heard the scrape of his chair as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He didn’t have to.
You knew he saw it.
The exhaustion under your eyes.
The way your fingers tapped too tightly against your notepad when no one was looking.
The way you agreed to everything too quickly but still smiled and nodded and filled in the notes on your copy of the schedule like it didn’t hurt.
Because you were professional.
Because you could handle it.
Because you wouldn’t be the one to slow them down — not now.
────୨ৎ────
The bass shook through the floorboards as the speakers blared your track on loop.
You stood at the front of the mirrored wall, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sweat already sticking to the nape of your neck. The backup dancers flanked you on both sides, trying to keep up with the intricate choreography you’d finished finalising just hours ago.
You hadn’t stopped moving since the meeting. Hadn’t stopped thinking since the schedule was confirmed.
Now it was all catching up.
"From the bridge again," you said, voice sharp — not cruel, just clipped. Tired. “And watch your transitions. The pause after count four needs to land like an impact, not like your waiting for your next move.”
They nodded. Moved into position.
You replayed the music. Again.
And again.
And again.
Your body moved like it was on autopilot — precise, sharp, intentional — but your chest ached with each breath. Not from exertion. From everything else.
The meaning behind the song.
The fact that Chan would have to watch this soon.
That the choreography wasn’t abstract anymore — not when every step felt like it came from the ache you'd refused to speak aloud.
The practice room had once been a safe haven now it felt more like a battleground.
You glanced to the side.
The boys had filtered in at some point, seated along the back wall, sipping water and scrolling half-heartedly through their phones. But they weren’t really distracted.
Minho watched you with sharp eyes. Jisung’s knee bounced with quiet nervous energy.Jeongin had stopped filming behind-the-scenes content twenty minutes ago, holding the camera in his lap.
You pushed through, from the top again.
You weren’t happy with the turn out.
You weren’t happy with yourself.
You could feel it slipping — the perfection you always demanded. Every small mistake hit like a bruise. A count too early. A breath too shallow. A line too soft so you called for another take.
────୨ৎ────
You were still catching your breath, one hand braced against the mirror, when Minho approached. The backup dancers had filtered out. The boys lingered near the speakers, trying to look distracted — but their eyes never strayed too far from you.
Your shirt clung to your spine. Your hair was sticking to your temple. You didn’t want to sit. You didn’t want to stop moving.
Because stopping would mean feeling everything else.
Minho didn’t speak right away. He just offered you a towel and a bottle of water, expression unreadable but familiar. Grounding. You took the water, unscrewed the cap, held it for a second before even taking a sip.
“You need to stop doing that,” he said, voice low. “Running yourself like you’re not a human being.”
You didn’t meet his eyes. “I have to finish it. They moved the schedule.”
“You already finished it. Three rehearsals ago.”
You scoffed. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re allowed to breathe, Y/N.”
“I am breathing.”
“Not survival breathing. Not autopilot. Real breathing. The kind that doesn’t cost you everything.”
Your fingers tightened on the water bottle, but you didn’t argue this time.
“You are,” he said simply. “We all know it. Even if you don’t admit it.”
You didn’t respond.
But the crack in your silence said enough.
“Chan knows,” he added. “He watches you like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.”
That hit too close to home.
Before either of you could say anything else, the door flung open with too much energy for the room it entered.
“Y/N!” chirped one of the content managers, too bright, too loud. “Sorry to interrupt! Wait, no I’m not — I’ve got great news!”
She strutted into the room, tablet in hand, hair perfectly blown out, a grin far too enthusiastic for the exhausted silence around her.
You blinked, slowly straightening.
“Your rehearsal clips from today? We uploaded one and guess what? Performing like crazy. Comments are flooding in. Sooo... we’ve decided to fast-track the official dance practice recording — we’re gonna shoot it tomorrow!”
The room stayed silent.
Minho’s jaw tensed. Changbin and Hyunjin exchanged a look. Jeongin winced behind his water bottle.
Chan didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But you could feel him shift — like a storm cloud rolling in with no place to go.
Too stunned to even blink. “Tomorrow?” You choked..
“Yes!” she said, chipper as ever. “You’re already rehearsed, the footage will edit quickly, and we want to ride the buzz from the teaser. Quick turnaround. Great exposure!”
You nodded once. “Fine.”
“Perfect! Expect an email about the call time tonight.”
She waved and left — just like that. Like she hadn’t just bulldozed through your last inch of control.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence thickened. Chan still hadn’t looked at you, he stared at the door instead like he might go through it.
“They’re using your perfection against you,” he muttered, loud enough for the boys to hear.
You let out a breath. Sharp. Frustrated. Numb.
Jisung kicked the wall lightly. “I swear she has a random word generator of buzzwords.”
Felix muttered, “Tomorrow?”
“I’m gonna lose my mind,” Jeongin whispered.
You finally took a sip of the water. Cold. Useless.
Minho leaned closer, dropping his voice, dry as ever. “Expect an email.”
You side-eyed him.
“She can expect my foot in her ass if she changes my schedule one more time.”
He snorted. “Gonna cc me on that reply?”
You cracked half a smile. “I’ll bcc you. I’m not dragging you down with me.”
Minho grinned. “Appreciate your loyalty.”
Before the moment could settle, Chan stepped forward. He hadn’t said a word the whole time. But now, his voice was low, careful. He didn’t look at the others — just you.
“Do you want me to go above her?” he asked. “I can push back on the schedule. We’ll say it’s too soon. That you need more time.”
You paused.
You could feel the weight in the offer — not just the gesture, but how hard it must’ve been for him to say it. To try and shield you when he knew how fiercely you fought to stand on your own.
But you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly. “It’s fine. Might as well just get it over with.”
His jaw twitched. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
You didn’t say what you were doing instead.
And he didn’t push it.
He just nodded, lips pressed together, eyes still on you like he didn’t believe a word of it.
But he respected your choice.
Even if it hurt to watch you make it.
────୨ৎ────
The dorms were quiet.
Not peacefully so — just quiet in the way that tension muted everything. A pause between storms.
You hadn’t slept.
Not really.
Your alarm went off at 5:00AM, but you’d been awake long before it — staring at the ceiling, heartbeat skipping unevenly, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name.
It wasn’t exhaustion.
It was anticipation.
Fear.
Hope.
All twisted into one.
You stood in the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes fixed on your reflection. There were faint lines under your eyes. Your skin looked pale under the yellow light. You hadn’t eaten much the day before. Hadn’t done much except run choreography until your legs shook and pretend you were fine.
You blinked hard in the mirror.
Pulled yourself back.
The reality of the day was heavy in your gut. You were about to dance to a song you wrote about him. You were about to bare yourself on camera, in choreography that cut too deep. In front of the staff. The dancers. The boys. And Chan.
You moved through the dorm like a ghost.
Everyone was already up.
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of spoons in cereal bowls. Minho watched you closely from across the room as you poured coffee. Jisung tried to fill the silence with small talk. It didn’t work.
Even Jeongin — usually the last one to wake and the loudest to complain about it — was subdued.
Felix greeted you softly, Seungmin silently offered a piece of toast like the day before. You shook your head.
“I’ll eat later,” you mumbled.
Chan hadn’t said a word yet.
He was leaned against the counter near the sink, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, hair still damp from the shower. His eyes flickered to you, once. Held a moment too long.
Then dropped again.
No one said what they were thinking.
But the air was thick with it.
Something was coming.
And you were all bracing for the impact.
────୨ৎ────
The practice room was already too bright.
It always was on filming days.
The overhead lights buzzed like they were trying to fill the silence — a silence heavy with tension, with nerves, with too much left unsaid.
You walked in with the boys trailing behind you, Chan just a step behind — always close, always silent now.
You barely got two feet inside before a stylist gently tapped your shoulder and gestured toward the partition screen in the corner.
“Can’t film in that hoodie,” she said, tone casual but firm. “We’ve got wardrobe prepped for you.”
You hesitated for a half-second.
It was his hoodie.
You’d worn it so many days now that it didn’t feel like just his anymore. It felt like protection. Familiar. Safe.
But you nodded as always.
You peeled it off slowly and handed it to him without looking and he took it without a word, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.
It made your skin prickle. Like a warning. Or a goodbye.
You stepped behind the divider, changed into the simple black crop top and sweatpants they’d prepared. They felt wrong. Not yours, some brand deal you should probably care about more than you did right now. Goosebumps ran up the bare skin and you immediately longed for the safety of the sleeves again.
You stepped out and sat on the small stool at the side of the room as the team started tugging your hair back. It was messy, far from perfect but easy to redo if need be. It was all quick, sharp movements. No time for questions. No care for gentleness.
One of them dabbed lightly under your eyes, then paused. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
You didn’t answer.
“They can fix it more in post if they have to.” she added, brushing on concealer.
“Don’t stress,” another one said as she adjusted the hair tie. “You’ll still be perfect. You always are.”
The words made your stomach turn.
You could feel it — the way perfection had stopped being a compliment a long time ago. The way it had started to feel like a prison.
From across the room, you could see Chan’s expression harden.
He was sitting near the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly. His leg bounced. His eyes never left you. Not once.
The others didn’t know where to look.
Jisung hovered near the snack table, uncharacteristically quiet.
Jeongin had his earbuds in but no music playing.
Minho paced once, then stopped, arms folded, jaw set.
Changbin stood nearest to you, watching the stylists with a wary expression like he wanted to step in — but knew he couldn’t.
“Can you hold still?” one of them asked as they smoothed down your ponytail.
You blinked. Nodded once.
Chan’s jaw flexed.
When they stepped back and declared you camera-ready, you stood slowly, adjusting your top and tugging it down like it could protect you. Your hands shook, just slightly.
“Ready in five.” someone from the production team called out.
The stylists dispersed.
The others gave you space, not because you asked for it.
Just because it was obvious — in the way you were barely blinking, standing a little too still in the center of the room, arms folded like they were holding you together. Everyone scattered to opposite corners. Even the staff gave you a wide berth, double-checking lights and angles instead of giving directions.
Chan was the only one who stepped closer.
You didn’t turn when you felt him behind you. But he didn’t expect you to. His presence was steady. Familiar. Quiet enough that it didn’t startle.
“Y/N,” he said softly.
You blinked. The sound of your name in his voice almost hurt.
“I can still stop this,” he added, just above a whisper. “Tell them you’re not ready. Tell them we’ll shoot it next week. I’ll handle it.”
You exhaled slowly.
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He wasn’t accusing you — just observing. Quiet. Careful.
You didn’t answer.
You looked ahead, into the mirror, at your reflection. The makeup. The clothes. The lighting. You didn’t look like yourself. You looked like the version of yourself they expected. The one that couldn’t falter. The one who was always just… enough.
You swallowed hard.
“I just want it over with.” you said finally.
Chan shifted a step closer. You could feel the warmth of him at your back now — not touching, just there.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he said. “Especially not like this.”
“I’m not proving anything,” you whispered.
“What are you doing then?”
You finally looked at him.
And for a second, the mask you’d been holding cracked. Just a little.
His eyes flickered across your face like he was trying to memorize it. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. His hands twitched at his sides but he didn’t.
Because the camera crew was watching. Because the boys were still in the room. Because if he touched you now, neither of you might survive it.
So instead, he stepped back.
And as the production manager called “Positions!” across the room, you turned back to the mirror, forced a smile. Took one last breath.
And stepped in front of the lens.
────୨ৎ────
“Rolling,” the director called out. “Take one.”
The music started.
Your body moved before your mind did — instinct, repetition, discipline.
You didn’t let yourself feel it.
Not yet.
Not when you were surrounded by cameras. By expectations. By the pressure that wrapped around your lungs tighter than your crop top ever could.
The choreography was sharp. Exact. Every beat drilled into you from long nights and silent rehearsals.
And yet—
“Stop,” you called after the second chorus, breath already shallow. “Reset.”
The staff exchanged glances.
“We’re still rolling,” someone called. “What happened?”
“I was ahead of the beat on the last drop.” Your voice was flat, clipped.
To them, it had been barely a fraction of a second.
You walked back to your mark. Lifted your hand again.
Chan’s jaw tensed where he sat by the wall with the others. Minho’s arms were folded, one finger tapping against his bicep. Jisung looked at the floor.
“Take two,” the director said, more hesitantly this time.
You moved again.
Faster. Cleaner.
Until — the final spin, your heel caught just slightly.
To anyone else, it was smooth. To you, it was wrong.
“Stop. Again.”
“Y/N,” someone on the crew said gently, “it’s barely noticeable—”
“It is noticeable.”
You didn’t even glance back.
You just reset.
Felix shifted on the floor, glancing at Chan. Jeongin whispered something to Seungmin, who only shook his head once
On the third take, you made it through the full song. You even held the ending pose for two full seconds before lowering your arms. Then you walked to the monitor, watched the playback silently, and shook your head.
“Again.”
No explanation this time.
Chan stood slowly. Almost instinctively.
The fourth take.
“This transition was weak,” you muttered as you reset. “My arm didn’t extend far enough.”
The fifth.
“I blinked too much. My head angle was off.”
The sixth.
“My knee didn’t lock on the drop. It looked unstable.”
The seventh.
“I lost energy on the jump.”
The backup dancers started exchanging glances. No one argued, but their fatigue was obvious in their posture, in their breathing. They were professionals — they kept going. But they didn’t know why anymore. Because it wasn’t them.
It was you.
Take eight.
“My foot was too close to center. It throws my position off.”
Chan couldn’t stay still anymore. He hovered at the back of the room, arms crossed too tightly over his chest, watching like it hurt to breathe. His hoodie still sat on the bench — untouched — the last thing you’d held before they made you change.
Hyunjin had stopped watching. His head was down, brows drawn together in quiet frustration.
The staff whispered now between takes, voices low, confused. No one could see what you saw. No one could feel what you felt.
Except maybe Chan.
Maybe Minho.
Because they both knew what this was. It wasn’t about the footwork. It wasn’t about the jump.
It was about holding yourself together with impossible standards — so no one could say you were falling apart.
And it was starting to break you anyway.
Still you danced.
“Take nine,” the assistant called.
Your arms shook as you took your mark.
But you nodded.
And the music played again.
Because perfection was expected.
Because you were the one who expected it most.
Even if it left you wrecked.
────୨ৎ────
He couldn’t breathe.
Not properly.
Not while watching you tear yourself apart in front of a full room of people who couldn’t even see it happening.
Take after take.
Mistake after invisible mistake.
He stopped counting at eleven.
Stopped watching the choreography and started watching you — how your hands began to tremble more with each cut, how your feet stumbled on transitions you’d done flawlessly a thousand times.
How your chest was rising too fast even when you weren’t dancing. Like you couldn’t fill your lungs enough to keep going — and yet you kept going anyway.
“Again.” you called, sweat soaking through your shirt, skin flushed, eyes blank.
“No.” Chan whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.
He didn’t know who he was saying it to. You? The staff? Himself?
You went again.
Twelfth take.
“Her ankles going to go,” Minho muttered from beside him. “She’s not even breathing properly.”
“Because no one’s stupid enough to argue with her when she’s like this,” Changbin muttered.
“But she’s—” Jeongin started, then stopped. His hands were balled into fists in his lap.
Chan’s hands were clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
He watched as you finished the run, barely able to hold your own weight. You stumbled once on the final beat. Not enough for anyone to comment — but enough that he knew you would.
And sure enough, you turned to the team and said, “One more.”
That was it.
Something inside him cracked.
“No.”
It was loud enough this time to stop everything.
The music. The staff. The boys. You.
Your head turned so fast he saw the flicker of disbelief in your eyes. The anger. The betrayal.
“Chan—”
“She’s done,” he said, striding across the floor.
The director lifted a hand nervously. “We can just give her a break—”
“No,” Chan snapped. “Not a break. Enough.”
Even the backup dancers froze.
But he didn’t stop.
He stopped in front of you.
You were panting, flushed, angry.
You looked like you wanted to throw something at him. But all he wanted to do was hold you up before you collapsed.
“I’m fine.” you bit out.
“You’re not.”
“I just need one more—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I can do this—”
“I know you can,” he said, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “That’s the problem. You always do. You don’t stop, no matter what it costs you. And I’m done watching you bleed yourself dry just to prove something no one’s asking you to.”
Your mouth opened, but the words never came.
He took advantage of the moment — grabbed you by the waist, lifted you over his shoulder.
“What the fuck—” you gasped, flailing as he started toward the door. “Put me down! I swear to God—Chan!”
“Holy shit,” Jisung breathed.
“Did he just—” Felix gaped. “Oh my god.”
“She’s gonna kill him.” Hyunjin said, but he didn’t sound amused — just worried.
One of the stylists gasped. Someone dropped a clipboard.
“Hyung—” Changbin said behind him, uncertain.
“I’ll deal with it,” Chan called without slowing.
Minho didn’t move. “He’s doing what we all should’ve done an hour ago.”
You pounded on Chan’s back with a weak fist. “I’m fine! I’m not a child!”
“Then stop acting like one.”
“I hate you right now.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Maybe that’ll keep you from doing this again.”
He marched you down the hall, ignoring the stares, the quiet whispers from staff you passed. You squirmed and kicked and cursed until he reached the studio door.
Only then did he let you down — not roughly, but not gently either.
You landed on the studio couch with a thud, hair wild, eyes furious, chest still heaving.
Before you could speak, he crouched in front of you and said, voice low but trembling, “Enough is enough.”
You blinked.
And blinked again.
Because you heard it now.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Desperation.
“I’ve watched you do this for weeks,” he said. “And I let it happen because I thought maybe… maybe it was how you coped. How you got through. But this—”
His hand hovered in the air between you, like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t.
“This is you setting yourself on fire to keep everyone else warm. And I can’t let you keep doing it.”
You stared at him — and suddenly, your face broke.
Not into tears. Not yet.
But into something close.
Something cracked and tired and scared.
“I’m not asking you to stop being strong,” he said. “I’m asking you to give yourself permission to rest.”
And this time, you didn’t argue.
You just sat back into the cushions, shaking.
He stayed there with you in the silence. Grounded, steady, and most importantly, not leaving.
The way I panicked last night bc Tumblr suddenly closed while I was reading an au and I couldn't find it bc I didn't like it (I usually do it before I start reading in case I end up reading it later) AND I SEARCHED FOR AN HOUR..
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
areudirty
theartofmadeline
