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safe in your arms

✨main masterlist✨

“you won’t regret this!”

pairing: idol!chan x philophobic!reader

summary: the only man you looked up to left you—now as an adult you’re left wondering if you were the problem.

genre / tags: smut, fluff, angst, reader has philophobia, swearing, childhood neglect, hurt/comfort, first time sex, gentle, dirty talk, protected sex, trauma used against her, slight body dysmorphia (let me know if I missed anything)

a/n: btw, if I made any mistakes please let me know, I want to make sure if there’s anything to improve or change in the future and if I made a mistake and put you on the taglist, let me know and I can take you off 😊

wc: 7.7k

••• minors dni— you will be blocked

You stared at your phone screen, the message from Ji-eun, your best friend, the sound filling the room of your small apartment which you shared with Beila. Another one of your friends.

It was the fifth text in a row, each one more dramatic than the last.

Ji-eun worked as a stylist in the k-pop industry, working with idols, managers, and production staff every single day.

She’d been your rock since you met during your university days, when you first moved from China to Korea, determined to build a new life far from the ghosts back home.

Beila was friends with Ji-eun since their last year of high school, entering the same University. She was a mix of you—shy but talented and kind, and Ji-eun, who was loud and outgoing.

She was the energetic type—always dragging you into social events—but this time, she was on a full-blown mission.

Ji-eun: Y/N, pleeeease come to this party with me tonight! It’s at that fancy club in Itaewon and it’s going to be epic. Idols everywhere, free drinks, amazing music. Beila already said yes and I need my besties there!

You sighed, typing back quickly. I don’t know, Ji-eun. Parties aren’t my thing. Too many people, too much noise. I’ll just stay home and binge-watch that drama we talked about.

The response came almost immediately, drowning your screen in crying emojis.

Ji-eun: Nooo! Don’t do this to me! I’m begging you. Like, on my knees right now. Imagine me whining in your ear: “Y/N-ah, please, please, please! I can’t go alone; all my work friends are coupled up or busy schmoozing. You’ll be my wingwoman!”

You rolled your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Ji-eun was relentless.

Ji-eun: Come on, you’ve been cooped up in that apartment for weeks. You deserve a night out! Think of the stories we’ll tell. Plus, there might be some cute guys… or at least free food from the caterers. I’ll even buy you that bubble tea you love on the way home. Pretty please? With a cherry on top? 🥺🥺🥺

You weren’t one for crowds, especially not ones filled with glamorous idols and industry insiders.

Your life was simple: steady job as a translator at a publishing firm, quiet evenings with books or Netflix with Beila, the occasional coffee run with Ji-eun. But Ji-eun knew exactly how to wear you down.

The next message was a voice note—her voice pitching up into full whine mode: “Y/N-ieee! If you don’t come, I’ll cry. Actual tears. Remember that time I helped you move into your apartment? Or when I covered for you at that awkward blind date? This is payback! Pleeeease, I promise it’ll be fun. No pressure, just vibes.”

You groaned, sinking back into the couch.

Ji-eun’s whining was like a constant drizzle—annoying at first, but eventually it soaked through. You thought about refusing again, but the guilt crept in.

Both girls had been there for you through everything. Mostly Ji-eun. You could do this one night for her. Fine. But only for an hour. And you owe me big time.

The squeal that came through the next voice note was deafening. Ji-eun: Yay! Picking you up at 8. Wear that black dress—you look killer in it! Love youuu!

As you got ready, slipping into the simple black dress that hugged your figure just right, your mind wandered back to why you avoided these kinds of scenes.

Your father had cheated on your mother and left with his mistress shortly after you were born. He disappeared, leaving behind a heartbroken wife and a newborn daughter who—unfortunately—looked just like him.

Same dark eyes, same stubborn chin. Every time your mother looked at you, it was like staring at the man who betrayed her.

She wasn’t overtly cruel, but the resentment simmered. “You look just like him,” she’d mutter, especially on the bad days when the bottle came out. She wasn’t an obsessive drinker, but any excuse—a stressful workday, a lonely evening—saw her reaching for rice wine or beer.

You learned early to make yourself small, to tiptoe around the house, to disappear into your room when her voice slurred.

Dinners were silent, broken only by her complaints about men and how they’d use you and leave you shattered.

School was no safe haven. Kids whispered about the “loser with no father,” the girl whose family was broken.

Your Chinese-Korean background—mother Korean, father Chinese—made you feel like you didn’t belong anywhere.

Boys either avoided you or teased you for being “cursed” by your family drama. By your teens, you’d sworn off romance completely. “Men will betray you the moment they get the chance,” your mother drilled into you, and you believed it.

No boyfriends, no crushes—just high walls to protect a heart that had already been bruised before it knew how to love.

When your mother passed from liver complications during your first year of university in Korea, you flew back to China only once—for her funeral.

Standing by the grave, you felt grief tangled with relief.

You earned your Korean citizenship soon after, shedding the old life like dead weight. But her words stayed. Trusting men? Impossible. Even friendships with guys were rare. Ji-eun and Beila weee one of the few who broke through.

Shaking off the memories, you applied a touch of makeup and met Ji-eun outside. She was buzzing, linking arms with you as you headed to the party.

“You won’t regret this! Beila is already there too!!” she chirped. “Invitation-only—idols from big groups, stylists like me, managers, even some caterers who sneak in the best snacks.”

The club was a whirlwind when you arrived. Pulsing lights, thumping bass, a sea of people laughing in clusters.

Idols in casual but expensive outfits mingled with staff, glasses clinking, trays of hors d’oeuvres floating by.

Ji-eun spotted colleagues and dragged you over for introductions. You smiled politely, nursing a soda to stay grounded.

That’s when you noticed him. Across the room, leaning against the bar with a group of guys who looked just as charismatic, was a man with sharp features, curly hair peeking from under a cap, and a dimpled smile that appeared every time he laughed.

He was dressed simply—black shirt and jeans—but was styled in a way that screamed confidence.

Your eyes met shortly and you quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks. Just a guy, you told yourself. Nothing more.

But as the night wore on, you caught him looking your way more than once.

Ji-eun was off chatting with a producer, leaving you hovering near a high-top table. You sipped your drink, pretending to scroll on your phone.

He was looking again—curious, not creepy—like he was trying to place you.

Finally, he excused himself from his group and walked over. Up close, he was even more striking: warm brown eyes. But as he smiled and said, “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met before,” you realized immediately.

It was Bang Chan. Leader of Stray Kids. The guy whose music you secretly bopped to on late-night playlists, whose leadership and kindness were legendary.

Your eyes widened; you nearly spilled your drink. “Oh my god, you’re—you’re Bang Chan. From Stray Kids. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—I mean, annyeonghaseyo,” you stammered, bowing slightly in a formal greeting, cheeks burning.

Your mind raced back to your past, the carefulness around men now screaming louder because this was a celebrity.

What if he thought you were some fangirl crashing the party?

He chuckled, a deep, genuine sound that cut through your panic. “Whoa, easy there. It’s okay, really. No need for the formalities unless… wait, you’re not like, way younger than me or something, right? That’d make this awkward.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No, no—I’m 25. You’re… 28, right? Not much of a gap.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a grin. “Uhh… how do you know that? You’re not a sasaeng, right?”

Your heart dropped. “N-no! I see videos and—wait, that sounds weird. I’ve just seen your idol profiles on fan accounts—not that I stalk you guys or anything!” The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, hands waving as if you could physically push the embarrassment away.

Chan’s eyes widened for a second before he burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Relax.” He held up both hands in surrender, still smiling. “I’m sorry, was that too harsh? I didn’t mean to make you panic. You just looked so cute trying to explain yourself.”

“It’s… fine,” you mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just—yeah. Not used to this.”

He nodded sympathetically, leaning against the table beside you. “I get it. You look a little out of your element. Everything okay? First time at one of these? Or… are you sure you’re at the right place? These industry parties can be a lot if you’re not used to them.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, first time. My friend Ji-eun—she’s a stylist—dragged me here. Begged, actually. I’m not really the party type. Too many people, you know?”

“Totally get it,” he said, voice softening. “I’m not always in party mode either, even if it looks like it. Sometimes I just come to support the guys or network. Want me to grab you a quieter spot? There’s a lounge area upstairs that’s less chaotic.”

You hesitated, old vows echoing—don’t get involved, don’t trust—but there was something about him.

No pressure, no sleazy vibes. “That… actually sounds nice. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Chan said, offering his arm in a playful, platonic way, although you just met.

“Come on, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. And hey, if you want to bail early, I won’t judge. Deal?”

As you headed upstairs with him, you felt a tiny crack in the walls you’d built so carefully.

Maybe not every mn was waiting to betray you. For tonight you’d let yourself enjoy the company.

——

The lounge upstairs was quieter, just quiet conversations and softer music.

You followed Chan to a corner booth tucked against the wall, away from people. He slid in first, then gestured for you to take the seat across from him.

“Better?” he asked, sitting back with an easy smile.

You nodded exhaling a little. “Yeah. A lot. Thanks.”

He waved it off. “No big deal. I hide sometimes when the noise gets too much.”

You gave a small laugh. “You? The leader who’s always on stage in front of thousands?”

“Exactly why I need breaks,” he said shrugging. “Even extroverts recharge.”

The conversation started light. He asked what you did for work, you told him about translating books and how half the time you were just arguing with deadlines.

He laughed at that, then shared how he spent most nights in the studio tweaking tracks until his eyes burned.

At one point he leaned forward a bit. “So… your friend—Ji-eun really had to beg you to come tonight?”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “She’s dramatic. Voice notes, emojis, the whole thing. Said she’d cry if I didn’t show up.”

“Classic,” he chuckled. “She’s good at that. I’ve heard stories from staff who’ve seen her guilt-trip other staff into staying late just so she can finish one more outfit.”

You snorted. “Sounds about right. Apparently she’s been like that since high school. I only met her properly in uni, but she latched on fast.”

He tilted his head. “High school stories and uni friends?”

“Yeah, Ji-eun collects people,” you said dryly. “Beila’s the same—she’s another one of our trio. Probably downstairs terrorizing someone right now.”

Chan grinned. “I like loyal friends. Means you’re worth keeping around.”

Your cheeks warmed again, but you hid it behind your glass, taking a quick sip.

You talked a little more—about Seoul winters versus the ones you remembered from China, about how he missed simple home-cooked food when schedules got crazy.

He listened, nodded, asked follow-ups like he actually cared about the answers.

Then the interruption came.

A familiar voice cut through from the stairs. “Hyung! We gotta bounce—manager’s already texting like crazy.”

You looked up. Changbin stood at the entrance to the lounge, waving Chan over with an apologetic look.

Chan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Already? Feels like we just got here.”

Changbin shrugged. “You know how it is. Early schedules tomorrow. Sorry.”

Chan glanced at you, then back at Changbin. “Give me one minute.”

Changbin nodded and disappeared back down the stairs.

Chan turned to you fully. “I hate cutting things short like this.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “You’re busy. I get it.”

He looked at you for a second, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen—probably carried it around for reminders or lyrics.

He scribbled quickly, tore the page off, and slid it across the table.

“My number,” he said simply. “Text or call whenever. If you ever feel weird at one of these things again, or just want to complain about deadlines. No pressure.”

You stared at the paper, the rushed yet neat handwriting staring back at you.

Your first instinct was to push it away—old habits, the voice in your head whispering that men always left, always betrayed. But something stopped you.

There was no smirk, no “you better use it” wink.

You folded the paper carefully and slipped it into your pocket instead of handing it back.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He stood up, gave you one last dimpled smile. “See you around, Y/N. Take care, okay?”

You nodded. “You too.”

He jogged down the stairs to join Changbin, and just like that, the lounge felt a little empty.

You sat there for another minute touching the folded note through the fabric of your dress.

Ji-eun would lose her mind if she knew. Beila would probably demand proof the second you told her.

Maybe you’d text him. Maybe you wouldn’t.

You got home around 12 a.m., the apartment was quiet except for the quiet buzz of the fridge.

Beila had stayed longer at the party—something about catching up with a few stylists she knew through Ji-eun—so you’d taken a cab back alone.

The black dress was already hung up, swapped for an oversized hoodie and shorts.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, the folded paper with Chan’s number still in the pocket of the dress across the room.

The front door clicked open a little after you’d settled in. Beila stumbled in, heels in hand, giggling to herself as she kicked the door shut behind her. She was tipsy, her cheeks were flushed pink, and her eyes bright but still mostly upright, thank god.

“Y/N-ah?” she called out.

“In my room,” you answered.

She appeared in your doorway a second later, leaning against the frame with a dramatic sigh. “That party was insane. I danced with like three different managers. One of them tried to teach me a choreo in the middle of the floor. I’m dead.”

You laughed softly. “Sounds about right. You good?”

“Very good. Ji-eun ditched me for some producer guy halfway through, but whatever. Free drinks.”

She flopped onto the edge of your bed, stretching out her legs. “You left early. Bored?”

“Kind of. Crowds, you know.” You kept it short and sweet.

“You okay? You look… thoughtful.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “Just tired. How was the rest of it?”

She launched into a rambling recap—someone spilling a drink on a rookie idol’s shoes, Ji-eun almost crying over a broken heel, her stealing half a tray of macarons from the caterers.

You listened, nodding and laughing in the right places, but your mind kept drifting back to the lounge upstairs.

The way he listened and engaged with you. To the folded peice of paper you kept in the pocket of your dress.

You didn’t mention any of it. Not because you didn’t trust Beila—you just wanted to keep something you were able to control.

When you were ready you would tell them.

Beila yawned eventually, patting your knee. “Okay, I’m crashing. Don’t stay up too late doom-scrolling.”

“Night, Beila.”

She waved lazily and shuffled out, door clicking shut behind her.

You glanced at the on your phone, 12:32 a.m. You were about to turn off your lamp when your phone buzzed once. Then twice.

Unknown number: Hey, it’s Chan. Made it back in one piece. You get home okay?

You stared at the screen for second before replying.

You: Yeah, got back fine. You?

Chan: Barely. Hyunjin fell asleep in the van before we even left lol. Schedules start at 6 tomorrow so I should be dead right now.

You: 6 a.m.? That’s brutal.

Chan: Tell me about it. Worth it though. Tonight was nice. Glad you came up to the lounge.

Your thumbs hovered. You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Me too. It was quieter. Thanks for that.

Chan: Anytime. Seriously. If anyone drags you to another one of these, text me. I’ll save you a spot upstairs.

You: Deal. But you should sleep. 6 a.m. is coming fast.

Chan: You’re right. Mom mode activated haha. Night, Y/N. Talk soon?

You: Night, Chan. Yeah, talk soon. Go to sleep.

He sent one last message—a simple thumbs-up emoji—then nothing.

You set your phone face-down on the nightstand, the apartment was silent now, except the distant sound of Beila’s muffled snoring from the next room.

You pulled the covers up, staring at the ceiling for a minute before eventually falling asleep.

—~~—

A few more weeks passed in the same routine. You and Chan texted almost every day now—just check ins. Nothing more, nothing less.

A photo of your latest translation project stacked on the desk, him replying with a blurry selfie from the practice room, sweat on his forehead and a thumbs-up.

Calls happened when one of you couldn’t sleep or when the day felt too busy.

He’d talk about missing the sound of his mom’s cooking or how Hannah sent him voice notes teasing him any and everything. You listened, then shared bits of your own—how quiet your childhood home had been, how you’d sit alone at lunch because kids teased when you were the girl without a dad.

One late call after you’d both gone quiet for a minute, he said softly, “You don’t have to be invisible anymore, you know. Not here.”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to.

The group hangouts became more regular. Sometimes just pizza at the dorm, sometimes coffee runs when they had a rare free afternoon.

You stayed quiet most of the time, but the members didn’t mind. Felix always saved you a seat next to him. Minho would show you pictures of his cats randomly. Seungmin started sending you playlists “for when you’re translating boring stuff.” It felt strange at first—being noticed without having to earn it—but it grew on you.

Chan never made a big deal of it. He’d just text you after: “They like you. See? Not so invisible.”

One Saturday, the girls piled into your and Beila’s apartment again.

Takeout boxes covered the coffee table, a half-finished bottle of soju between you three. Ji-eun was painting her nails a hot pink while Beila scrolled through her phone, laughing at something.

Ji-eun glanced over. “You’ve been smiling at your phone more lately. Spill.”

You set your chopsticks down. “It’s Chan. We talk a lot.”

Beila looked up, her eyebrows raised. “A lot a lot?”

“Friendly a lot,” you corrected.

“He’s… nice. Really listens. We talk about family stuff, work, random thing.”

Ji-eun tilted her head. “You sound happy about it.”

“I am,” you admitted. “It’s good to have a friend like that. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to perform or hide. And that’s all it is. Friendship. I’m not ready for anything else—not with him, not with anyone. I like where it’s at.”

Beila nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

Ji-eun reached over and bumped your shoulder gently. “As long as he’s good to you, we’re good. And if he ever stops being good, we fight him. Deal?”

You laughed, light and real. “Deal.”

The conversation changed after that—Ji-eun complaining about a client, Beila showing you dumb TikToks. The usual things.

Later, when they’d both gone quiet watching the tv, you pulled your phone out under the blanket.

A new message from Chan waited.

Just got home. Ready to sleep into next month. How’s your night?

You typed back, smiling to yourself.

Good. Girls’ night. We survived Ji-eun’s nail polish disaster so we’re watching a k-drama now.

You sent a blurry photo of the tv with the captions barely readable.

He sent back a laughing emoji, then: Looks fun. Glad you’re happy.

Yeah. You were starting to feel happy too.

A week later, you were back at the dorm for anothe hangout. The usual snack spread on the coffee table, fruits, drinks, and chips.

A show was playing low in the background, the members spread out everywhere. You’d gotten more comfortable—laughing at Felix’s jokes, rolling your eyes at Seungmin’s teasing, even talking to Hyunjin about random anything.

You stepped out to the hallway to take a quick call from your editor about a minor deadline tweak. When you hung up and turned back toward the living room, you heard voices—maybe a bit too clear.

“—come on, hyung, just admit it already,” Changbin was saying. “You light up every time she texts.”

Hyunjin laughed. “Yeah, Chan hyung’s got it bad. The way you keep checking your phone? Obvious.”

Jeongin chimed in softer. “She’s cool though. You should just say something.”

Chan’s voice came next, lower, almost embarrassed. “Guys, drop it. It’s not like that… okay, maybe a little. But she’s been through stuff. I don’t want to scare her off.”

Your stomach dropped.

The words your mom used to spit out in drunken rants flooded back—men leave, men cheat, men promise one thing and do another the second they get what they want.

You hadn’t even realized how much you’d started to let your guard down until it snapped back up.

You walked back in forcing a neutral expression. “Hey, uh… sorry, guys. My editor just texted—deadline got moved up. I need to head out.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Chan looked up immediately. “Already? You just got here.”

“Yeah, it’s… urgent. Sorry.” You grabbed your bag, avoiding eye contact.

The members said quick goodbyes, a little confused but not pushing.

They never did.

Chan stood up. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” You were already moving toward the door.

He didn’t follow, but his eyes stayed on you the whole way out.

Back at the apartment, your phone buzzed twenty minutes later.

Chan: I’m not sure if you’re actually busy with your deadline but if you heard anything back there… I hope it doesn’t mess up our friendship. Just let me know you’re okay?

You stared at the message for a long time. Then you sent a single thumbs-up emoji and turned your phone face-down.

The pulling away started small. Replies took longer. Calls went to voicemail more often. When he asked to hang out, you had excuses—work, tiredness, plans with Beila and Ji-eun.

You weren’t cruel about it. Just distant.

In the quiet hours alone, you had time to reflect and think.

He wasn’t your dad. From everything your mom had ranted about—selfish, secretive, quick to run—Chan didn’t match.

You replayed every late-night call, every small kind thing he did. The way he’d helped you get a quiet spot that first night. The number he’d written without expecting anything back. The patience he’d shown over the course of being friends

Maybe the fear wasn’t about him. Maybe it was about what letting someone close could mean—and what losing them would feel like.

After almost two weeks of distance, he texted again.

Chan: Can we talk? My studio after practice tomorrow? No one else will be there.

You stared at it for a full minute before typing back.

You: Okay. What time?

——

The next evening, you knocked on the studio door. He opened it quickly. He was wearing a simple hoodie.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

You both sat on the couch. Although it was quiet for only a few seconds, it felt like a lifetime.

“I heard them,” you said finally. “That night. The teasing.”

“I figured. I’m sorry. They mean well, but… yeah.”

You looked down at your hands. “It scared me. Brought up old stuff. I thought maybe I should pull back before it got complicated.”

“I get it,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to push anything on you. Ever.”

You met his eyes. “I know. That’s why I’ve been thinking. A lot.”

He waited, patient as always.

“I don’t want to keep running from this,” you said. “From you. Maybe… we should try it out. The two of us. See what happens.”

His face changed—relief, then something brighter. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I’m still scared. But not of you.”

He let out a shaky laugh, eyes shining. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He stood up, walked the small space, and pulled you into a hug.

It was warm and careful, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held too tight. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dropped to your lips for a second.

“Is this okay?” he asked, that soft voice that made you smile.

You nodded.

He leaned in slowly. The kiss was soft and gentle, then a little surer when you kissed back.

When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Hi,” he murmured.

You smiled back. “Hi.”

You walked into the apartment still grinning. A stupid smile you couldn’t wipe off your face. The kiss replayed in your head on loop.

Your keys clattered louder than usual as you dropped them on the entry table.

Ji-eun and Beila were already there, spread on the couch with half-eaten ramyeon bowls and the TV paused on some drama. Ji-eun looked up first.

“Y/N! You’re glowing. What happened? Spill.”

You kicked off your shoes, trying and failing to play it cool. “Nothing big. Just… Chan and I talked. Like, really talked.”

Ji-eun’s eyes widened instantly. She sat up straight, practically bouncing. “Wait. Talked talked? As in…?”

You nodded, biting your lip to keep from grinning wider. “We’re trying it. The two of us. Dating. Or… starting to.”

Ji-eun squealed, loud enough to make the neighbors complain later.

She launched off the couch and pulled you into a hug, rocking you side to side. “Oh my god! Finally! I knew it! We’re wedding planning already—colors? Venue? I’m thinking spring, cherry blossoms, very romantic—”

“Ji-eun, slow down,” you laughed, hugging her back. “We literally just kissed for the first time like an 30 minutes ago.”

“Details,” she waved off, already pulling out her phone. “I’m saving inspo boards. You’re gonna look so pretty in white.”

Beila stayed quiet through the whole thing. She’d looked up when you walked in, but now her expression had shifted.

“That’s… nice,” she said, voice even. “Happy for you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” She gave a quick smile, then stood up.“I’m gonna shower. Long day.”

She disappeared down the hall without another word.

Ji-eun didn’t seem to notice, still rambling about potential bridesmaid dresses and how she’d already decided on pastel pink for herself. You let her talk, but no matter what your mind kept going to Beila and how she reacted.

The next few days, it became clearer.

Beila wasn’t mean. She didn’t snap or ignore you outright. She still said good morning, still split the grocery list, still laughed at your dumb jokes sometimes. But it was the little things.

Texts took longer to come back. When you mentioned Chan in passing—“he sent me this dumb meme”—she’d give a polite “haha” and change the subject.

Group hangouts with Ji-eun felt a little off.

Beila would sit farther away, scrolled her phone more, left earlier with vague excuses.

If it was at your apartment, she’d go to her room early with the same excuse.

Ji-eun stayed the same—maybe even more excited.

She’d send you random links to couple date ideas, tease you about “when’s the next kiss?”, and hype up every little update you gave her. She treated it like the best news ever, no hesitation

You noticed the difference, of course. The shift with Beila was noticeable no matter how much she’d try to hide it.

Part of you wondered if you’d misread it, if she was just stressed from work or something else. The other part knew it was more than that.

For now, you let it go. The giddiness from that night in the studio still stayed with you.

Your first kiss with the right person. It made you feel like you had a chance to happiness.

—~~—

You spent the afternoon getting the apartment ready. Nothing over-the-top—just bibimbap, kimchi jjigae, and a few market banchan bowls laid out on the table.

Chan answered your invite right away. “I’d love that,” he said.

You told him to bring himself and nothing else.

Ji-eun showed up early, already talking a mile a minute while she “helped” chop vegetables.

Mostly she gossiped and rearranged your cutting board. Beila was home too, moving around quietly, filling water glasses without saying much.

Everyone was together around seven.

Chan walked in with a small bunch of white daisies, holding them out with that shy grin of his. Your stomach did a quick flip despite everything. Ji-eun immediately squealed, grabbed the flowers, and announced she had manifested the entire “couple era.”

Beila gave a polite hello then she turned back to the drinks.

Dinner started off easy enough. Chan asked Ji-eun about her latest work disasters and she launched into exaggerated stories, hands waving.

You laughed along catching his eye every so often. Each time, his dimples deepened a little more.

Beila stayed quiet, picking at her rice. No sharp comments meant no tension.

Then Ji-eun brought out dessert—her red bean mochi, soft and neatly arranged. She passed the plate proudly.

Beila took one bite, set her mochi downand looked straight at Chan.

“So,” she said, tone almost casual, “the only reason Y/N never trusted guys is because her dad left with his side chick after she was born. Left her mom and her. That’s why she’s been so careful all this time. Pulled away from you too, didn’t she?”

The room went completely still.

Ji-eun’s mochi hovered frozen near her mouth.

Chan’s gaze shifted to you—surprised, but not angry.

Beila tilted her head slightly. “What? She didn’t tell you? I thought you should know the real reason behind all that distance.”

You stared at her. “Beila.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Friends don’t keep secrets like that and neither do girlfriends.”

Ji-eun looked at her with a stern look.,“What the hell is wrong with you?”

You were already on your feet, the chair scraping loud against the floor. “That’s not your story to tell.”

Beila met your eyes without flinching. “You’ve been acting like everything’s perfect now. He deserves the full picture.”

Chan’s hand reached under the table, brushing yours gently.

You pulled away. “Dinner’s over. You can go.”

He looked at you, a hurt expression on his face. “What?”

“I said go. Dinners over.”

“Okay. I’ll go.”

He stood slowly, gave Ji-eun an apologetic glance, then looked at you again. “Text me later? Whenever you’re ready.”

You couldn’t find words. Just watched him pick up his jacket and slip out. The door closed with a quiet click.

The second he was gone, you turned on Beila.

“What is wrong with you?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to be. “Why have you been acting different ever since I told you about us? Jealous even.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like how fast everything changed. You were fine before. We were fine.”

Ji-eun stood up too. “This isn’t about fine. This is you being cruel because she’s happy and you can’t stand it.”

Beila’s jaw tightened. “I’m protecting her. Guys like him seem perfect until they’re not.”

Ji-eun let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t even know him. You barely said two words to him tonight.”

“I trusted you with everything. And you threw it in my face—in front of him—just to make a point.”

Beila looked away for the first time. She looked regretful but it disappeared quickly. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I just thought you’d stay the same. And now you’re different.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” you said quietly.

Ji-eun stepped between you. “Go to your room, Beila. Or leave the apartment. I don’t care. But you’re done here tonight.”

Beila looked at you a second longer, then turned and walked down the hall into her room.

Ji-eun pulled you into a hug immediately. “I’m so sorry. That was completely out of line.”

You let yourself lean into her. “I should’ve told him myself. On my own time.”

“You still can,” she murmured. “He’s not going anywhere. He looked like a kicked puppy walking out, but he got it. He’ll wait.”

You nodded against her shoulder.

The apartment felt too quiet now. The mochi sat untouched, cooling on the plates.

Ji-eun gave you one more squeeze. “Let’s make tea. Then you text him—whatever you want to say. He’ll listen.”

Ten minutes passed. Plates were cleared and the mochi went into the fridge.

“You don’t have to stay here tonight if it’s too much. My place is closer to the company. Chan’s probably not far if you want to see him later. Or just… get some air somewhere else.”

You looked at her. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Beila’s words kept looping in your head.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

Ji-eun nodded. No questions. She grabbed her bag. “Pack what you need. I’ll wait.”

You moved fast. Overnight clothes. Toothbrush. Charger. The old folded note with Chan’s number from that first party—you slipped it into your bag anyway.

The cab ride started quiet and Ji-eun kept her hand on your knee.

Halfway there, you pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over his name.

“I’m gonna call him,” you said.

She squeezed once. “Good.”

He answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” Chan said.

You exhaled. “Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. How it ended.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quickly. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

Ji-eun stared out her window. Pretending not to listen.

You swallowed. “Beila said something she shouldn’t have. About my dad. How he cheated on my mom right after I was born. Left us. That’s why I’ve always been careful with guys. Why I pulled away that night at the dorm. I should’ve told you myself. Sooner.”

“I get why it’s hard. And I’m not mad you waited. I just wish I’d heard it from you. In a better moment.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked a little.

“It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he said gently.

“If it felt too fast, or if tonight made you rethink everything. Just tell me. If anything changes, I’ll listen. No pressure.”

The words landed soft. Warm. He was giving you an out without making it feel like rejection.

You closed your eyes. “I do want this. It’s not you. It’s not us. It was just… bad timing. Really bad. I still want to try. With you.”

He let out a small breath. Relieved. “Okay. Then we keep going. Slow if we need to. Whatever feels right.”

“Yeah.”

“You can text or call if you can’t sleep. I’m around.”

“I will.”

“Night, Y/N.”

“Night, Chan.”

The call ended. You stared at the screen a second. Thumb brushed the call log.

Ji-eun glanced over. Small smile. “No explosions on his end.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “No. He’s… good. Really good.”

She leaned her head on your shoulder for the rest of the ride. “Told you. He’s not the type to run.”

The cab stopped at her building. You paid the tab, grabbed you bag, and followed her up the stairs.

Her apartment was smaller. Cozier. Fabric swatches everywhere. Mood boards pinned to the wall. It felt safe tonight.

She tossed you a blanket and pillow for the couch. “Crash here. Or take my bed if you want. I’ll be up late—gotta sketch some emergency bridesmaid dresses for my delusional wedding plans.”

You rolled your eyes. But the teasing felt normal despite the chaos and drama of the night.

“Thanks, Ji-eun. For everything.”

She waved it off. Already pulling out her sketchpad. “Anytime. Now go text your boyfriend so he stops worrying.”

You settled on the couch. Phone in hand.

Quick message: At Ji-eun’s. Thank you for tonight. Talk tomorrow?

His reply came fast.

Glad you’re okay. Yeah, tomorrow. Sleep well.

—~~—

A month had passed since that chaotic dinner, and things between you and Chan had settled into something steady.

You weren't rushing to slap a label on it—both of you kept calling it "trying it out"—but it was more than that.

He’d send you voice notes at 3 a.m. from the studio, humming half-finished melodies just so you could hear them first.

You’d leave sticky notes on his water bottle when you visited the dorm: “Don’t skip lunch, idiot.” He’d steal your hoodies and wear them to practice, claiming they smelled like you.

One Saturday afternoon, you got a message while you were finishing up your final draft.

Chan: Jeongin’s gone till tonight. Come over? We can order food, watch something, or just talk.

You said yes after hesitating for a while, taking your laptop bag along with you, bought two iced lattes on the way, and showed up in jeans and one of his oversized hoodies you’d “borrowed” weeks ago.

He opened the door looking soft—messy curls, his usual faded black tank top, gray sweats, barefoot.

The hug he gave you lingered, his chin rested on your head for a second than usual.

The dorm was quiet and it was peaceful. Just the distant sound of the fridge.

You kicked off your shoes, handed him his latte, and ended up on his bed like always—backs against the headboard, your open between you with some old rom-com neither of you was really watching.

Conversation drifted naturally between you two by now.

How practice had been brutal because Changbin kept challenging everyone to push-up contests, how your latest translation project was finally wrapping up but the footnotes were trying to murder yo.

He laughed at your dramatic reenactment, arm slipping around your shoulders.

His thumb started those slow circles on your arm—habit by now. You leaned into him without a word. He noticed, turned his head, and kissed you.

When his palm slid down your side and settled on your lower back—pulling you closer—you froze for a second.

He stopped right away, dropping his hands to rest lightly on your thighs instead.

You looked down at where his fingers rested, then up at him. “I’m… kind of scared,” you admitted hesitantly.

“If we keep going, you’ll see me naked. And I don’t know if you’ll like what you see. I just—my body’s not… I don’t know. I’m worried you’ll change your mind.”

Chan didn’t rush to fill the silence. He studied your face for a second, then he leaned forward just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

Chan held your eyes, calm. “This isn’t about what I like. If you don’t feel comfortable we’ll switch to whatever you actually want instead.”

His voice stayed soft and reassuring. Nothing like forcing or saying things to please you, just genuine care.

“But I already like everything I’ve seen. A lot. And I’m not gonna lie about that.”

You exhaled slowly, “I do want to keep going. I just needed to say it out loud first.”

He nodded once. “Then we keep going. And if at any point it stops feeling right, you tell me. No questions.”

You gave a small nod. He kissed you again—deeper this time, but still patient.

You pulled at the hem of his tank tol eventually. He pulled it off in one smooth motion, let you look. His skin was warm under your touch,hismuscles moving when he breathed.

He reached for your (his) hoodie next, pausing with his fingers at the hem. “This okay?”

“Yeah.”

The strawberry bra came into view—pink, tiny red berries scattered across it. He smiled, small and real. “Fuck, these are cute on you.” Thumbs brushed the straps. “Can I take it off?”

“Yeah.”

He unhooked it slow, let it fall. You crossed your arms on instinct.

He didn’t force them down—just kissed your forehead, then the corner of your mouth. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exhaled and dropped your arms.

He didn’t stare like he was judging.

He cupped one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked. Then the other. Slow, deliberate. When you arched, he leaned in, took one into his mouth—warm tongue flicking, sucking gently while his hand massaged the other, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

“Love these tits,” he murmured against your skin. “So fucking soft. Perfect in my hands.”

He kept going—kneading, sucking, thumbs brushing back and forth—until you were whimpering softly, thighs pressing together.

“This too,” he said quietly. “All of you feels so good.”

He slid your pants off with the bear panties—white, little cartoon bears and strawberry details. You felt exposed, your pulse racing but he kissed the inside of your thigh, then settled between your legs.

His mouth was slow at first—long licks along your folds, then focused circles on your clit when your hips lifted.

One finger, then two, curling just right. He built you up patiently until you came with a soft, trembling moan, thighs shaking around his ears.

He kissed back up. You tasted yourself on his tongue when he kissed you. Your hands pushed his sweats and boxers down.

He was hard. You stroked him slow and he groaned low.

“I want to try with my mouth,” you said, cheeks warm.

“Only if you want.” He sat back against the headboard.

You knelt between his legs. “Hand at the base,” he said softly. “Tip first—tongue, swirl. No teeth.”

You took him in carefully. He hissed at the touch. “Yeah… deeper if you can… cheeks—fuck, just like that.”

You caught on fast—tongue working the underside until his thighs tensed and his breath hitched.

“Shit, baby,” he groaned after long minutes. “Gonna come if you keep sucking me like that. Come here.”

You pulled off, lips slick. He kissed you hard, messy, then grabbed a condom from the nightstand. Rolled it on quick.

“Ready?” he asked, settling you on your back.

You wrapped your legs around him. He pushed in slow.

“So fucking tight,” he breathed once he was halfway. “Taking me so well already.”

The stretch eased into heat. He bottomed out, stayed still, pressing forehead to yours. “Feel that? How deep I am?” He rolled his hips once, slow. “Fuck—your pussy’s gripping me so good.”

When you rocked up, he started thrusting—deep, steady pulls, sliding almost out before sinking back in.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.” His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit slow. “So wet for me… fuck, listen to that.”

You clung to his shoulders, nails piercing his skin. He angled deeper, hitting the spot that made you gasp. “Right there?” he asked, thrusting harder once. “Yeah—feel how you squeeze when I hit it? So fucking perfect.”

Sweat slicked between you.

He kept the dirty words low against your ear: “Wish I could feel you raw, baby. No condom.You’d be dripping down my thighs.”

The words sent heat rushing through you. You moaned louder, hips meeting his. He slowed after a while. “Want to ride me?”

You nodded. He lay back. You straddled him, sank down slow—gasping at the new angle. “Fuck—look at you sitting on my cock like that,” he groaned. “So pretty taking it all.”

His hands guided your hips at first, then slid up cupping your breasts again, massaging them firmly, thumbs rolling your nipples.

“These tits bouncing while you ride me… goddamn.” He pinched lightly, drawing a whimper from you.

You rocked, then lifted and dropped—faster, harder. The angle pressed your clit against him perfectly.

“That’s it,” he said, voice strained. “Ride me just like that. Use my cock, baby—fuck yourself on it till you come.”

“Chan… so good.” Your words sounding like incoherent sounds.

You leaned forward, hands on his chest, grinding down. He thrust up to meet you, hands kneading your breasts harder.

The friction built fast and you shattered—clenching tight around him, shuddering hard, face buried in his neck with a muffled cry.

He followed seconds later—hips jerking up, low groan rough against your ear. “Fuck—coming so hard inside you… wish you could feel it all.”

You collapsed onto him. Breathing heavy. He held you close, fingers stroking your back under the hoodie.

After a minute he pulled out carefully, tied off the condom, disposed of it, wiped you both gently.

He tugged the discarded hoodie straight over you—loose, warm, his scent everywhere then slipped into sweatpants before pulling the blanket up.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, hand resting on your hip.

After a quiet stretch he spoke, voice low and rough from earlier. “Hey… Y/N?”

You tilted your head up.

“Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?”

“Yeah. I’d really like that.”

He smiled—those dimples flashing—and leaned down to kiss you slow, lingering.

The door opened without knocking.Jeongin’s voice cut through mid-sentence:

“Hyung, you won’t believe what Hyunjin did at—”He froze. Eyes dropped to the floor: your jeans tangled with Chan’s shirt, the strawberry bra half-hidden under a sleeve, panties discarded nearby.

His face went scarlet. “Oh—fuck. Uh. Never mind.”

He backed out fast, door slamming shut behind him.

You buried your face in Chan’s chest, muffling a laugh that shook your shoulders. “Poor Innie.

Chan chuckled, arms tightening around you. “He’ll be traumatized for life.”

He kissed the top of your head, voice dropping softer. “Now… where were we?”

——————————————————

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