[ ▸ ] — at marigold hills, summer mvp is supposed to reward professionalism, teamwork, and excellent guest service. unfortunately, your biggest competition is christopher bang, a cocky lifeguard with a lollipop habit, a shirtless ego, and half the country club wrapped around his whistle. you want the parking spot for next summer, the bragging rights, and the satisfaction of humbling him, but after one locker room argument, winning starts to look a lot less important.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist
[ ✐ ] — 8k
[ ⌗ ] — lifeguard!chris x lifeguard!reader enemies to lovers kind of crack fic? cocky!chris graphic & detailed smut anal play oral ( m receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — ayyyyy! and so it begins. welcome to a wet hot skz summer, babes! so excited to kick this off finally. like joy mentioned, this has been in the making for three months, so we were bursting at the seams to finally drop this for you guys! heavily inspired by billy in stranger things ( dacre you have my heart <3 ) but i also just wanted to picture chris shirtless more than he already is teehee. please listen to connected from skz-replay before, during, and after. this is his theme song here lol as always, hunnies, if you do enjoy please drop a like, comment, or reblog. always appreciate feedback and just genuinely love to see your guys' thoughts <3
By the end of June, the Marigold Hills Country Club Aquatics Center had stopped feeling like a summer job and started feeling like a sun-baked gladiator arena where the weapons were whistles, sunscreen bottles, customer-service smiles, and the rare but devastating guest compliment delivered directly in front of your manager’s clipboard.
The clipboard mattered.
You weren’t the kind of person who needed external validation from a man named Craig who wore khaki shorts with a braided belt and treated the aquatics staff like you were all one bad Yelp review away from public execution, but somewhere between Memorial Day weekend and the fourth consecutive shift of Christopher Bang smirking at you over the rim of his stupid mirrored sunglasses, Summer MVP had become less of a workplace incentive and more of a blood oath.
The prize wasn’t even that good.
A reserved parking spot near the front entrance for next summer, a fifty-dollar gift card to the club restaurant, and a laminated certificate Craig would probably hand over with a toothy grin.
It should not have mattered.
It absolutely mattered.
Because Chris had made it matter.
At the beginning of the summer, during the first staff meeting of the season, when Craig stood in front of the lifeguard office explaining “member experience standards” while everyone sweat through their uniforms, Chris had leaned against the lockers beside you with a blue raspberry lollipop tucked into one cheek, his sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, and the kind of easy, irritating smile that made you want to throw a rescue tube at his head.
You had not looked at him. “Congratulations. You discovered incentives.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and amused, “don’t worry when I win. I’ll wave at you from the good spot.”
You had turned then, slowly, because some moments demanded eye contact before violence.
Chris looked back at you with his lashes lowered, his mouth glossy from the candy, his shoulders already broad and sun-warm under the red guard tank he had somehow made look indecent by existing inside it.
You smiled. It was not a nice smile.
“And here’s my wave,” you said, giving him the finger.
His grin spread.
And just like that, because men were a plague and pride was a disease you had apparently caught through chlorine exposure, your entire summer turned into a competition.
It was ridiculous and humiliating, but it was also the only thing keeping you from losing your mind while working eight-hour shifts among screaming children, over-served parents, and rich people who believed the phrase “country club standard” could summon fresh towels out of thin air.
Marigold Hills itself was beautiful in the overfunded, morally suspicious way country clubs tended to be beautiful—all white cabanas, blue umbrellas, polished stone, glassy pools, and flowers kept alive by people whose hourly wage could not afford the salad menu. The aquatics area sprawled across the back of the property like a luxury resort had gotten drunk and reproduced. It had a main pool, lap lanes, a lazy river, a splash pad, two hot tubs, a diving board, a shallow family area, and enough lounge chairs to support every affair, divorce, and passive-aggressive brunch conversation in the county.
Which meant there were a lot of lifeguards.
There had to be.
On busy weekends, your red-uniformed little army spread across the pool deck in rotations, scanning water, blowing whistles, bandaging scraped knees, dragging umbrellas across the concrete, fishing abandoned goggles from filters, and pretending not to hear club members say things that should have gotten them banned from polite society and possibly pepper-sprayed in the parking lot.
You had worked there with Chris since high school, back when both of you were sixteen and new enough to the job that a screaming toddler could send your adrenaline into orbit. Through senior year, through college summers, through certification renewals and first-aid refreshers, through the annual chaos of Memorial Day opening weekend, you and Chris had returned to Marigold Hills like cursed migratory birds in matching red.
Somewhere along the way, Chris had gone from cute in an annoying, dimply, boy-next-door kind of way to offensively hot.
He was cocky about it too, which made the whole thing worse.
He walked the pool deck shirtless whenever he could get away with it, sunscreen gleaming on his shoulders, rescue tube tucked under one arm, whistle resting against his chest, black hair damp and curling over his forehead in thick, messy pieces whenever he got out of the water. He wore his sunglasses like a man auditioning for a calendar called May Cause Divorces, and he always had a lollipop in his mouth, because apparently being broad, tan, Australian, and annoyingly good with children wasn’t already enough of a public nuisance.
The mothers loved him. That was not an exaggeration.
The mothers stared at him in a way that made their husbands stare angrily into their gin and tonics, because no amount of money, golf memberships, or boat shoes could compete with Christopher Bang crouching beside the kiddie pool to help a toddler fix her floaties while saying, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’re ready,” in a voice warm enough to fog sunglasses.
You watched it happen every shift.
You watched Mrs. Delaney touch his forearm while thanking him for finding her son’s goggles.
You watched Mrs. Cavanaugh ask whether he worked “every weekend” with faux casual interest. You watched a woman named Bianca, who wore a diamond ring large enough to count as a flotation device, drop her towel three separate times in front of him.
Chris picked it up every time.
He also winked every time.
And Craig wrote something down every fucking time.
“He’s such a whore,” muttered Alex from the adjacent lifeguard chair one afternoon, peering through his sunglasses as Chris handed a pool noodle to a little boy and somehow got thanked by the child’s mother with a smoothie.
“He’s not even subtle,” you said, watching Chris accept the smoothie with a smile so bright you hoped his teeth overheated.
Alex tilted his head. “Do you think Craig gives points for slut energy?”
“Craig gives points for whatever makes the members happy.”
“Then Chris is Summer MVP of the century. Half these women look like they’d renew their membership for another glimpse of his abs.”
“Don’t say abs.”
“Why?”
“Because then I think about them.”
Alex turned to look at you slowly.
You kept scanning the pool.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up, Alex.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say you’re handling this competition with a lot of maturity.”
“You were not.”
“No, I was about to call you a whore.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Unfortunately, your own tactics were not exactly noble.
Chris had mothers. You had men with wedding rings and the audacity of medieval kings.
It had started accidentally, sort of, when Mr. Ralston asked whether you could help him find the locker rooms despite the sign being directly above his head, and Craig, standing nearby with his clipboard, had written something down after you smiled, guided him politely, and did not tell him that literacy was free. The next day, Mr. Halverson asked for sunscreen recommendations and complimented your “attention to detail” when you explained SPF like he was not staring at your boobs through the entire conversation.
Craig had written that down too.
From there, the moral slope got slippery.
You carried lemonade pitchers for older men who called you “darling” in ways that made your spine try to leave your body. You helped Mr. Leighton find his missing sunglasses, which were on his own head, while his wife sat five feet away pretending not to hear him ask if you gave private swim lessons. You told a father of three that his butterfly stroke looked powerful even though it looked like he was having an actual stroke, because Craig was watching from the towel station and you were not above lying for the parking spot.
“Powerful?” Chris repeated later, appearing beside the first-aid cabinet while you restocked bandages. “That man swam like he was five seconds away from dying.”
You didn’t look up. “He appreciated the encouragement.”
“He appreciated your tits.”
You snapped your head toward him.
Chris’s jaw tightened like the words had come out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a creep,” Chris said.
“He’s also a member.”
“He’s still a fucking creep.”
“And Mrs. Cavanaugh asking if you do personal swim coaching isn’t creepy?”
Chris opened his mouth.
You lifted a brow.
“That’s different,” he said finally.
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
“I didn’t flirt with her.”
“You winked.”
“She winked first.”
“You smiled like you were picturing her naked already.”
Chris laughed despite himself, and the sound annoyed you because it was too warm for the amount of irritation you were trying to preserve.
“You jealous?”
“Of middle-aged women who smell like Chanel and marital dissatisfaction? No.”
“Then why are you watching?”
“Because you’re loud.”
“I was standing completely still.”
“You’re loud standing completely still.”
His grin returned, slow and poisonous. “You spend a lot of time noticing me.”
You slammed the first-aid cabinet shut. Chris stepped back just enough to avoid losing a finger, still smirking.
“You spend a lot of time being noticeable,” you snapped.
“Good.”
“Bad.”
“Liar.”
You hated him. Or, more accurately, you hated the way he made hating him feel like a contact sport.
Because the worst part was not that Chris was hot, although that was irritating enough to require some sort of training. The worst part was that he was actually good at the job. When he was scanning the pool, nothing slipped past him. When a kid panicked in the deep end, Chris was in the water before anyone else had finished inhaling. When a toddler busted her chin on the splash pad, he had her laughing through tears within thirty seconds. When elderly members needed help adjusting umbrellas or carrying bags, he treated them with a patience that looked irritatingly real, not just performative for Craig.
It would have been easier if he sucked. Instead, he was competent. Competence, tragically, was hot.
By the third week of July, the other lifeguards had started treating your competition with Chris like a staff-wide entertainment program.
Mia kept score on a napkin taped inside the guard office.
Felix, who worked mostly swim lessons, had created categories with little hearts and skulls beside them.
“Guest compliments,” he said one morning, clicking a pen as you and Chris stood on opposite sides of the break table glaring at each other over a container of grapes. “You have twelve. Chris has thirteen.”
“Bullshit,” you said.
“Mrs. Redding complimented me twice yesterday,” Chris said.
“Mrs. Redding wants to climb you like pool furniture. That doesn’t count.”
“It does if she says I’m attentive.”
“She said your shorts looked snug.”
Alex, lounging on the bench, choked on his iced coffee.
Chris laughs annoyingly. “My shorts work hard keeping my huge—,”
“Stop right there, slut.”
Felix pointed his pen at you. “Sassy points for you.”
Mia leaned in from the doorway. “Does that count as harassment?”
“Only if a complaint is filed. But I kinda liked it,” Chris said, grinning around his lollipop. It was cherry that day, red and glossy and deeply obnoxious.
You wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it into the pool filter. You also wanted, very briefly and very shamefully, to taste it. That thought was so unacceptable you threw a grape at him.
He caught it in his mouth and the room erupted.
“Fucking show-off,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
Chris chewed, swallowed, and winked.
Craig chose that moment to enter with his clipboard, which meant everyone immediately scattered into suspicious productivity.
“Good energy today,” Craig said, squinting at the room.
“Team morale,” Felix said brightly.
“More like ‘more hell’,” Mia muttered.
Craig ignored her. “Big Saturday crowd tomorrow. I expect focus, professionalism, and strong member engagement. Summer MVP is still anyone’s game.”
Chris looked at you. You looked at Chris.
Saturday arrived with the kind of brutal, glittering heat that turned the entire pool deck into a griddle and made every guest behave as though sunscreen, patience, and basic manners had evaporated by noon.
Children ran, screamed, cried, cannonballed, stole each other’s diving rings, and treated “walk, please” like a foreign concept. Parents drank frozen margaritas under umbrellas and pretended they did not see their offspring attempting minor crimes near the shallow end. The lazy river jammed twice because one child refused to exit his tube and another had somehow smuggled in a pool noodle suspiciously shaped like a dick. Someone dropped nachos near the splash pad. Someone else lost a retainer in the lap lanes.
It was chaos with cabana service.
You were stationed near the family pool, scanning through the glare, when you spotted Mr. Halverson near the bar with his phone in one hand and confusion wrinkling his sunburned face.
Perfect.
Mr. Halverson was gross, yes, in the damp, overly familiar way of men who treated wedding vows like background noise, but he was also influential, wealthy, and exactly the kind of member who would corner Craig near the office to compliment “excellent staff responsiveness” if you solved a minor inconvenience while smiling through your suffering.
You climbed down from the chair.
Across the pool, Chris noticed immediately.
He was crouched beside a little boy with a scraped knee, one hand pressing an ice pack gently to the child’s shin while the kid’s mother hovered nearby, gazing at Chris and his stupidly sculpted back. Chris’s eyes slid past her shoulder and locked onto you as you headed toward Halverson.
His jaw shifted.
You smiled—not at Halverson—at Chris. Then you turned all your polished, poisonous sweetness toward the man by the bar.
“Mr. Halverson,” you said, bright enough to make yourself nauseous. “Everything okay?”
He looked up, relief blooming across his face, eyes scanning your swimsuit-clad body from head to toe. “There you are,” he said, which immediately made you want to walk into the deep end with rocks in your pockets. “This damn app keeps asking for my cabana number.”
You glanced at the brass number mounted directly beside his head. “You’re in cabana twelve.”
He followed your gaze, laughed, and touched your side.
You didn’t flinch. You became marble.
“Guess I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached,” he said.
“Good thing we’re trained for emergencies,” you replied, smiling hard enough that you could hear your teeth grind in disgust.
Behind you, a whistle chirped.
You turned. Chris was already walking over, wet from some recent dip into the pool, black hair pushed back from his forehead before falling forward again in damp pieces, sunglasses hooked into the waistband of his trunks, lollipop tucked into one cheek, and expression pleasant in a way that made you instantly suspicious.
“Everything alright over here?” he asked.
His voice was polite, but his eyes were not.
Mr. Halverson’s hand dropped from your side.
“We’re fine,” you said.
Chris looked at you, then at Halverson, then at the phone. “App trouble?”
“I have it handled.”
“Of course you do,” Chris said, smiling. “You’re very helpful.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Halverson chuckled, delighted by tension he had no business enjoying. “You two always like this?”
“Unfortunately,” you said.
“Only when she misses me,” Chris said.
You snapped your head towards him. He smiled around the lollipop. Somewhere behind him, Craig materialized near the towel station, clipboard lifted like a weapon from hell.
Chris noticed. You knew he noticed because his posture changed by half an inch, straightening into that effortless lifeguard golden-boy stance he used when guests were watching, the one that made him look responsible and fuckable in the same breath, which was frankly very inconsiderate.
“Actually,” Chris said, reaching gently for Halverson’s phone, “I can take care of this. Y/N’s been running around all afternoon, and we don’t want her overheating.”
Oh, that smug, shirtless, candy-sucking bastard.
Your smile froze. “How thoughtful,” you said.
Chris leaned closer as he took the phone, enough that the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and green apple sugar slipped under your skin with humiliating precision.
“You do look a little flushed,” he murmured.
You kept smiling because Craig was watching, but your voice dropped. “You do look a little killable.”
Chris’s mouth curved. “Cute.”
“I’m not being cute.”
“You are when you threaten me.”
“I hope a pool noodle lodges in your ass.”
Halverson made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
Craig’s pen moved.
Chris solved the app issue in less than ten seconds, handed the phone back, and earned a hearty clap on the shoulder from Halverson, who announced, “Thanks, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”
Chris looked directly at you.
“That’s what the certification says.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you said.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re a parasite.”
“With great member feedback.”
Your manager wrote something down again, and something inside you snapped cleanly in half.
The rest of the shift became war. Not metaphorical war. No, no, no, no. An actual war…if war involved customer service, fake smiles, and two college-age lifeguards competing to see who could be more publicly helpful without getting fired for making it erotic.
Chris helped a crying child locate a missing stuffed turtle named Gregory, then returned it with such gentle sincerity that even you, against your will, felt a tiny flicker of warmth before remembering you hated him.
You carried three lunch trays to a cabana full of women who called you “honey” and asked whether Chris was single.
You told them he had a personality disorder.
One of them laughed and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes you need a little crazy,” with a wink.
Chris heard about it within five minutes because Alex had the loyalty of a politician.
“You told Mrs. Bellamy I have a personality disorder?” Chris asked when your rotations crossed near the diving board.
“You told Mr. Halverson I was overheating.”
“You were.”
“I was plotting.”
“Sure you were.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ask nicer.”
You nearly swallowed your whistle. Chris smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and jogged backward toward the shallow end before you could commit a felony in front of children.
At four, you found Mrs. Redding struggling near the towel shelves, her cane balanced against her hip while she reached for a stack placed just slightly too high.
A gift from God.
You moved instantly. Chris also moved instantly. The two of you converged on the towel station from opposite directions like heat-seeking missiles with lifeguard certifications.
“I’ve got it,” you said, arriving first by half a second.
Chris’s hand reached over yours and grabbed the stack anyway.
“We’ve got it,” he said, handing Mrs. Redding two towels with a smile so bright it could blind.
Mrs. Redding looked between you, eyes bright behind her oversized sunglasses.
“Well,” she said, delighted, “aren’t you both attentive?”
“Yes,” you and Chris both said.
Mrs. Redding laughed, touched both your arms, and wandered away.
Craig watched from near the snack bar, pen not moving.
You and Chris stood in silence. Then Chris said, “Joint credit.”
You looked at him. “That’s worse than losing,” you said.
“I know.”
For one dangerous second, you both laughed.
It startled you more than it should have, the shared burst of it, easy and sharp and familiar in a way that reached backward through years of summers, years of chlorine-soaked shifts and closing duties and training drills. Years of Chris being the person who irritated you most consistently and somehow knew exactly when to hand you water without saying anything about it.
Then he ruined it by biting down on his lollipop and crunching it between his teeth.
You grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”
“You were smiling.”
“I had heatstroke.”
“You’ve been flushed all day.”
“You’ve been staring all day.”
His eyes dipped to your body, then lifted. “Yeah,” he said.
Then a child screamed near the lazy river, and the moment shattered back into chlorine, noise, and professional responsibility.
By closing, you were exhausted enough to feel personally victimized by Christopher Chan Bang.
The last members packed up, the cabanas emptied, the pool lights clicked on beneath the blue surface, and the aquatics center shifted into that strange post-chaos hush where everything smelled stronger: wet concrete, sunscreen, fried food from the snack bar, damp towels, and the faint metallic bite of pool water cooling under evening air.
Craig gathered the staff near the guard office for end-of-day notes.
Everyone looked like shit. Beautiful shit, maybe, because summer staff sometimes looked golden and half-feral after too much sun. But shit nonetheless.
Chris stood beside you, hair still damp, shoulders warm, lollipop gone but mouth no less irritating. Every time his arm brushed yours, your body reacted like he had done it on purpose. Which he probably had.
“Good work today,” Craig said, clipboard tucked against his chest. “Strong member engagement overall. A few preventable issues with towel inventory, but good responsiveness, especially during the lazy river backup.”
Mia muttered, “The dick noodle fucked us.”
Felix coughed.
Craig paused. “Please don’t refer to pool equipment that way.”
Mia shrugged. “It knew what it did.”
Craig wisely moved on. “I also want to recognize both of you,” he said, nodding toward you and Chris, which immediately made every other guard perk up like gossip-starved meerkats. “You’ve shown initiative throughout the month, and today especially, I noticed several examples of guest support, teamwork, and conflict management.”
You whispered, “Conflict management my ass.”
Chris whispered back, “You offering?”
You elbowed Chris hard.
He grunted, then laughed under his breath, and the sound grazed every nerve you had been trying to keep disciplined.
Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”
“No,” Chris said.
“Yes,” Mia deadpanned.
Craig sighed. “Summer MVP will be announced next Friday. Until then, keep up the professionalism.”
“Absolutely,” you said.
“Always,” Chris added.
Felix, too softly for Craig but loudly enough for you, murmured, “Lying in the house of chlorine.”
The meeting ended. People scattered toward closing duties and locker rooms, laughing under their breath, dragging rescue tubes, stacking chairs, collecting lost toys. You headed toward the guard office for your bag, fully prepared to rinse off, go home, and spend the night not thinking about Chris’s blunt little “yeah” when you accused him of staring.
Naturally, Chris followed. Because he was a rash in human form. “You okay?” he asked behind you.
You grabbed your bag from the hook. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
“Ask a normal question?”
“You don’t ask normal questions.”
“You look pissed.”
“I am pissed.”
“At me?”
You turned sharply. Chris stopped close enough that your bag bumped his thigh. “You cut me off with Halverson,” you said. “You stole towel credit with Mrs. Redding. You spent all day making Craig think you’re Summer MVP Jesus in tight swim trunks, and then you have the nerve to ask if I’m okay like you’re not the problem.”
Chris’s expression shifted, amusement dimming. “Halverson had his hand on you.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“He touched you.”
“So?”
“So he’s a creep.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s still true.”
“And that gives you the right to sabotage me?”
“No.” Chris dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back before it fell forward again in those dark, messy pieces that made your irritation feel less structurally sound. “It gives me the right to be pissed.”
You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You were pissed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious, which only made you angrier, because if the answer was obvious then your body had known it before you did, and you did not appreciate being betrayed by your own organs.
“Use your words, Christopher.”
His jaw flexed. Around you, the remaining staff noise faded down the hallway, leaving the two of you in the heavy quiet of the nearly empty guard office.
Chris took a step closer. “Because I don’t like watching him touch you.”
Your pulse jumped. “That’s not your business.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to act jealous.”
“I know.”
“You flirt with half the pool deck.”
“So do you.”
“For points.”
“Bullshit,” he said, and there it was, his own temper finally sparking through the charm. “You do it because you know I’m watching.”
You could have denied it. You should have denied it. Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”
Chris’s laugh was low, humorless, and a little wrecked.
“Fuck,” he said, looking away for half a second. “You drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He looked back at you. Something hot and stupid moved between you, dragging every unfinished argument, every ugly little spark, every glance across the pool deck into one narrow stretch of air.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of saying you like me,” he said.
“I don’t like you.”
“No?”
“No.”
Chris’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “Then tell me to fuck off.”
“Fuck off.”
“Mean it.”
You said nothing.
His smile returned, but it was different now, not bright or performative, not meant for mothers or managers or the cheering section of nosey lifeguards listening from around corners. This smile was smaller, slower, aimed directly at the space where your confidence had begun to smoke. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
You pushed past him before you could do something catastrophic in the guard office.
“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Chris called.
You threw him a look over your shoulder. “You do it all the time.”
“Yeah, and it pisses you off.”
“That’s because everything you do pisses me off.”
“Then don’t follow me.”
You stopped. He had turned toward the men’s locker room.
The bait hung there, obvious and glittering. You knew it was bait. Chris knew you knew it was bait.
Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.”
You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly.
You stood in the hallway for two seconds, maybe three, which was enough time to consider your choices and reject wisdom as a concept. Then you followed him.
The men’s locker room was empty, humid, and coolly lit, smelling of cedar benches, chlorine, clean tile, aerosol deodorant, and the lingering chemical ghost of teenage boys who had once believed spraying themselves in a choking cloud of body spray counted as hygiene. Rows of gray lockers lined the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the shower area with a patient, echoing rhythm.
Chris stood at his locker, spinning the combination. He glanced back when the door swung shut behind you, eyebrows lifting. “Pretty sure this is the men’s locker room.”
“Pretty sure you invited me.”
“I said don’t follow me.”
“You said it like an asshole.”
“Because I knew you would.”
You crossed your arms. “You are so fucking smug.”
“And you’re in the men’s locker room giving me shit after hours, so maybe don’t climb too high up that moral ladder.”
“I came in here because you’ve been acting like a territorial dick all day.”
Chris opened his locker with a metallic clank. “I was acting like a dick before today too. Don’t erase my history.”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think if I don’t laugh, I’m going to do something very stupid.”
The honesty of that landed harder than the joke.
You watched him pull a towel from the locker shelf, watched the muscles in his shoulder shift with the movement, watched the damp ends of his hair cling to the back of his neck. He looked too casual for how charged the room had become, too comfortable in the tension, like he had been living inside it all summer and was only now letting you see it fully.
“What stupid thing?” you asked.
Chris turned. His eyes were darker in the locker room light.
“You know what stupid thing.”
Your mouth went dry. “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“Definitely.”
“You’re still avoiding the point.”
“I’m trying not to make one.”
“You never try not to make points. You’re made of points. Horrible little ones.”
He laughed, real and warm, his head dipping for a second before he looked back at you with something dangerously fond in his expression. “God, you’re mean.”
“You deserve it.”
“Probably.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Then why are you still here?”
The question settled between you.
You could feel the answer in your body, which was unfortunate because your body had terrible politics and no respect for narrative pacing. It had been answering him all day, in every glance, every flare of irritation, every stupid rush of heat when he got too close and smelled like sugar and sun-warmed skin and man.
Chris watched you realize it. Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a truly confident man could manage, he reached for the waistband of his red swim trunks.
Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing.”
“In front of me?”
“You’re in the men’s locker room.”
“That does not mean you get to just whip it out like a hostile work environment.”
Chris barked a laugh, bright and startled. “Whip it out?”
“Do not repeat my words when I’m angry.”
“You followed me into my locker room.”
“To yell at you.”
“Then keep yelling at me.”
“I am yelling.”
“You got quiet.”
“Because you’re undressing, you lunatic.”
He shrugged, thumbs still hooked in the waistband, mouth tilted like he was enjoying himself far too much. “You can leave.”
The challenge was obvious. Obscene, really.
You should have left. Instead, you turned your head toward a row of lockers with the stiff dignity of someone who had just lost a staring contest with the waistband of a man’s swim trunks.
Chris laughed under his breath. “Oh, now you’re shy?”
“I’m being respectful.”
“That’s new.”
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“Sure.”
Fabric shifted. Your soul briefly left your body, checked the hallway for witnesses, and returned with a clipboard full of complaints.
“Tell me when you’re decent,” you snapped.
“That depends on your definition.”
“Christopher.”
“I’ve got a towel on.”
You made the mistake of looking.
The towel was, technically, on.
It was just low enough on his hips to suggest it had signed a contract with Satan. His chest was still bare and his hair fell over his forehead in damp black pieces that made him look like he had stepped out of a swimwear ad designed specifically to ruin your ability to win arguments.
You forgot what you were saying.
Chris noticed. His grin went slow. “Careful,” he said. “Craig might give me points for member engagement.”
“You’re not engaging members.”
He looks down at himself, bulge pressing against the fabric.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re the one staring at me.”
“You dropped trou in front of me.”
“Then report me.”
“Gladly.”
“To Craig?”
“To God.”
Chris laughed again and turned toward the showers.
You watched him go, watched the towel sit low on his hips, watched his wet hair curl against the back of his neck, watched the muscles in his shoulders shift with every easy, arrogant step, and for one blistering second you hated him so much you could feel it in your teeth.
Then you realized it was not hatred. Or not only hatred. It was the same thing that had been burning beneath every argument all summer, every look across the pool deck, every stupid little competition, every insult that landed too close to flirting, every time his eyes dragged over you when he thought you were too busy pretending not to notice.
You were tired. Tired of smiling at disgusting married men for Craig’s clipboard. Tired of watching mothers touch Chris’s biceps like the country club had installed him for recreational use. Tired of pretending his lollipop, his hair, his body, his mouth, his entire cocky, chlorine-soaked existence did not make you want to spread your legs for him.
So when he reached the shower entrance, you said, “Fuck it.”
Chris paused and turned slowly, one hand braced against the tiled wall, and the amusement on his face shifted when he saw your hands go up.
“What?”
You reached for the straps of your swimsuit and pulled it down, peeling the damp fabric away from your skin with far less grace than you would have preferred, but apparently seduction looked different when you were half-feral from sun exposure and rage. The suit landed somewhere, your whistle followed, bouncing once against the bench before going still.
For once, Chris did not have a joke ready.
His gaze moved over your naked form, quick at first, almost instinctive, before he dragged it back to your face with visible effort—like a man forcing himself to remember that staring too long without an invitation would ruin the very good thing clearly unfolding in front of him.
His mouth curved slowly. “Goddamn, baby,” he said.
The words slid down your spine.
He took one step toward you, towel hanging low on his hips, erection straining against the front of it, damp hair falling over his forehead in messy black pieces, and the look on his face was pure trouble, all heat and arrogance and restraint held in place by the thinnest fucking leash.
He stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air between your skin and his felt charged, but he still didn’t touch you. He stood there looking like sin in a staff locker room, smug as hell, and still left the last inch to you like he knew he didn’t need to chase.
His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to grin too wide and lose the last scrap of composure he had.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get me fired.”
“You’ve been asking for it all summer.”
“I’ve been asking for a lot of things all summer.”
The way he said it made your pulse kick hard.
Chris’s gaze dropped again. This time, he let himself look. His dark eyes followed the curves of you, from your breasts to your legs, pausing at the junction of your thighs. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“You good?” he asked.
It was casual, almost lazy. But there was a line beneath it, clean and unmistakable, and you knew that if you gave him anything other than yes, if your expression shifted wrong, if your body backed up even half an inch, he would stop.
Cocky bastard. Respectful bastard. Fuck, you wanted him.
“Yes,” you said.
Chris’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
He leaned in slightly, still not touching. “Say it twice.”
Your breath caught, and he noticed. Chris noticed everything when he wanted to, every swallow, every glance, every crack in your voice and tremor in your attitude.
You stepped closer. “I’m good,” you said, quieter, meaner, because if he wanted the words then he could choke on them. “I want this. I want you. Happy?”
For a second, the smugness slipped. Just a second. Then he exhaled a low, pleased curse and reached for you. “Fucking thrilled.”
His hand caught your waist, hot and firm, dragging you against him with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he had been waiting for permission and now considered permission a loaded weapon. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, not gentle exactly, but controlled, his fingers curling there as he brought his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was filthy immediately. Chris kissed you like he had been imagining your mouth for weeks and was pissed he’d had to wait this long, all heat and pressure and slick, cherry-sugar memory, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your hand fly to his shoulder.
You dug your nails in, making him groan against your mouth.
“Shit,” he breathed, smiling into the kiss. “You like that shit, baby?” Chris smirked, dark and delighted, and backed you toward the lockers.
Your back met metal with a dull thud, and before you could snap at him about bruising, his hand was already there behind your head, cushioning the impact like it was muscle memory, mouth still on yours, body still pressing close, arrogance still humming through every inch of him.
“You’re still annoying,” you said, breathless, when he dragged his mouth down your jaw.
“You’re still naked letting me kiss you,” he said, voice rough against your throat.
His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your hip with enough grip to make your thoughts scatter. He tilted his head, caught your gaze, and gave you one last out with nothing but his eyes and a low, wicked murmur. “Tell me no and I stop.”
You stared at him. He stared back, water-dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from yours, towel barely hanging on, every inch of him looking like a bad decision that knew exactly how bad it was.
You reached for the edge of his towel.
Chris’s grin went sharp. “That’s not no.”
“No shit.”
The towel dropped, his control with it.
He kissed you again, harder this time, and whatever had been left of the argument collapsed under the heat of his hands, the slick press of damp skin, the obscene satisfaction of finally letting the whole stupid summer sharpen into one impossible point.
“You have no idea,” he said, breath hot against your mouth, “how many times I’ve thought about this.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky.
“In the employee locker room? That’s disturbing.”
“On the pool deck,” he said, kissing down your throat. “In the office. Behind the towel station. Every time you bend over to pick up some rich asshole’s sunglasses and then look at me like you know I’m watching.”
“You are so gross.”
“You love it.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and certain. “You don’t.”
You growled, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “No,” you said, mouth brushing his. “I don’t.”
Chris’s smile flickered, less smug for half a second and more real, which you absolutely could not tolerate under current conditions. So you kissed him before he could do anything stupid with it.
He made a rough sound into your mouth, gripped your waist, and dragged you tighter against him, all cocky hunger and barely leashed restraint, the kind of man who knew how badly he was wanted and still waited for you to choose it anyway.
Chris hauls you into the shower stall, his grip iron-tight on your wrist, and the fluorescent lights catch the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his cock juts out from his hips, thick and angry and already leaking at the tip.
"You're insane," he hisses, shoving you under the spray before the water's even warm.
The initial blast is ice-cold and you gasp, back arching away from the wall, your nipples pebbling instantly, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Chris steps in after you, his body crowding yours, his hands planting on either side of your head against the tile.
"Insane," he repeats, "following me in here like that. Getting me fucking hard."
The water warms and steam billows around you both. You're drenched now, your hair plastering to your shoulders, water streaming down the valley of your breasts, rushing over the curve of your hips. Chris is just as wet, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his dark eyes sharp and hungry as they roam over your body.
Then his lips are on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, his hand fisting in your wet hair, his hard cock pressing against your belly and smearing precum across your stomach. You kiss him back like you're trying to consume him, your hands sliding over his slick shoulders, digging into the muscles of his back.
He leans back, biting your lower lip, tugging it, and letting it snap back. "On your knees, beautiful."
The tile is hard and cold under your knees but you don't care, don't hesitate, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver. You're eye-level with his cock now, watching it bob with his pulse, thick and flushed, a vein running along the underside that you trace with your fingertip just to watch him twitch.
"Stop teasing."
"Stop being desperate." You look up at him through your lashes, water streaming down your face, and you see the exact moment his patience snaps.
His hand is in your hair again, guiding you forward, and you open your mouth without resistance because you want this just as badly as he does. Maybe more. Maybe you've wanted this all summer, every argument just foreplay, every insult a way to get his attention without having to admit you craved it.
The head of his cock passes your lips and you seal them around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely Chris. He groans above you, his hips jerking forward, pushing deeper into your mouth.
"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Fuck, that's—your mouth is—"
You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, breathing through your nose as you swallow around him. Your hand wraps around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your mouth, twisting on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently in your palm.
"God, you're fucking good at this." His voice is strained, wrecked.
You hum around him and his whole body shudders. Your eyes water but you don't pull back, don't stop, setting a rhythm that has him cursing under his breath, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him getting close—the way his balls draw up tight, the way his cock swells on your tongue, the way his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain.
"I'm gonna—" He yanks you off suddenly, and you gasp, drool and precum stringing from your lips to his cock. "Not like that. Not yet."
He pulls you to your feet and spins you around, pressing your front against the wet tile wall. The water beats down on both of you, running in rivulets down your spine, pooling in the hollow of your lower back. His body cages yours, his chest against your back, his cock sliding between your thighs, notching against your entrance but not pushing in.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Tell me you need it."
"I need it, Chris. I need your cock inside me. Please."
"Please?" He laughs, dark and low. "Where's all that fight now? Where's the girl who was going to steal my MVP title?"
"Inside me. Where your cock should be."
"Filthy." He notches himself at your entrance and pushes in, one long, relentless thrust that has you crying out, your palms slapping against the wet tile. He fills you completely, stretching you, the slight burn mixing with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the tile, mixing with the spray of the water and both of your moans. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back, and he bites along the column of your neck, sucks a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.
"This pussy is mine," he growls against your skin. "Say it."
"Yours. This pussy is yours."
"Every fucking inch of you." His free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, dipping between your thighs to find your clit. He circles it with rough, relentless pressure, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Going to make sure you never think about another cock without remembering how I feel inside you."
"Yes, god, yes—"
"Going to fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Going to pump you full of my cum, watch it drip down your thighs when I'm done with you."
The words hit something deep in your core, something primal and desperate. You push back against him, meeting each thrust, your nails scraping uselessly against the tile. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm creeping closer with every stroke of his fingers, every snap of his hips.
"Chris, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He slows his pace, torturously slow, and you whimper. "Not until I say."
"Please, please, I need—"
His thumb shifts, sliding back, pressing against your asshole. You tense for a moment, then force yourself to relax, and he groans at the way your body yields to him.
"Look at you," he breathes, jaw dropping at the visual of his thumb rubbing your tight hole. "So fucking desperate for it. Huh, baby? You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"
"Anything. Anything you want."
He pushes just the tip of his thumb past the ring of muscle, and the fullness has you seeing stars. He resumes his pace, fucking you hard again, his thumb working in and out in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you higher and higher, and you're sobbing with it, begging with sounds that barely qualify as words.
"Come for me," he says in your ear. "Come on my cock and make me come inside you."
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, every muscle clenching and releasing at once, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans loud enough to echo. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks you through it, drawing out every last wave until you're shaking, until your legs barely hold you.
"Good girl." His rhythm stutters, becoming erratic. "Good fucking girl. I'm gonna fill you up now, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy."
"Yes, god, yes, give me everything—"
He slams home one final time and holds, his cock pulsing inside you, rope after rope of hot cum flooding your core. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly. You can feel it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the sensation triggers another smaller orgasm that has you writhing against the wall.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of water and breathing. Then he pulls out, and you feel his cum immediately start to slip down your thighs, mingling with the water, washing away the evidence of what you've done. His hands are gentle now, turning you around, brushing wet hair from your face.
"You're still not winning MVP," he says, but his voice is soft.
"We'll see about that." You're breathless, wrecked, but you manage a smile. "I think I just proved I can make you lose your mind. That's got to count for something."
He laughs, this real sound, and kisses you again—slower this time, less frantic.
"We're not done," he murmurs against your lips. "Not even close. You started a war when you followed me in here, and I intend to win it."
"Bring it on, Chris."
He grins, and there's something wicked in it, something that makes your spent cunt clench in anticipation.
"Round two in the locker room," he says, already reaching for you again. "I want to bend you over one of those benches and hear you scream."
The water runs cold around you both, but neither of you cares. And something tells you that by the end of it, neither of you will remember why you were fighting in the first place.
genre: Fluffy, angsty, and if you squint hard enough a sprinkle of smut
tags: emotional themes (grief, abandonment, burnout) slow burn, so much praise, insecurities and self-worth issues, emotional intimacy, single dad au, strangers to lovers
summary: he moves into the house across from yours in the quiet cul-de-sac and you don’t think much of it at first. Just a new neighbor, that’s all. You don’t know much about him, only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to be a problem on purpose, and always looks a little too tired. Should be easy to ignore. Right?
𐙚
Part One
summary: A quiet cul-de-sac, a man who keeps to his garage, and a life that looks sealed off from the outside. Until a little girl opens the door you didn’t know was there. What starts as curiosity turns into small everyday crossings of distance, where tired hands, shared meals, and soft routines begin to blur the line between neighbor and something more.
preview:
Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.
One: His daughter had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.
And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.
“Dad,” the toddler whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”
He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.
He barely had time to fully think and react before his daughter started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.
“HI!”
𐙚
Part Two: (sunday 6/7)
summary: You didn’t mean to become part of their routine.But somewhere between late dinners, early mornings, and a child who loves loudly without hesitation, the line between helping and staying starts to disappear quietly, without permission.
preview:
For once, Chan didn’t immediately have a response, he just looked at you, like he was trying to decide what to do with that.
His gaze dropped briefly, towards your mouth, then back up. A tiny movement of course, something that was easy to miss.
But for you, impossible to ignore.
Your breath caught, and so did his.
And suddenly the space in between you felt very little, very quiet.
A/N: Why did you guys almost lynch me for Part 2? 😥
Well… fucking hell.
Chan sat stiffly in the meeting room, that room where the air always felt too cold and too heavy at the same time. The long table stretched in front of him, water bottles untouched, notebooks open just for show. Their label manager stood at the very front, talking and talking—something about schedules, promotions, numbers. Always numbers.
“We will need stronger promotion for the new album… maybe something trending on TikTok… and I expect a better result than what we got from the last PR manager during the previous comeback.”
Y/N looked up at that. Just for a second. Her pen paused mid-scribble before she straightened slightly.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best,” she said quietly.
Then her gaze dropped again, and she continued writing, like she could hide inside her notebook if she tried hard enough.
Chan swallowed hard. His jaw tightened as he bit down on his lip, way too hard, to the point where he was pretty sure he tasted blood. He didn’t dare look at her again. Not directly. Not for longer than a second.
Because every time he did, it came rushing back.
He could feel Changbin staring at him from the side. Not subtle at all. Of course not. Changbin noticed everything.
Chan shifted in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the table, trying to focus on literally anything else—the manager’s voice, the buzzing lights, the stupid pattern in the carpet.
Anything but her.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───
Later, in the studio, the atmosphere was completely different—but somehow worse.
It was quieter. More personal.
Too much space to think.
Too much space for Changbin invading his thoughts.
Changbin dropped into the chair beside him, spinning it slightly before leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“So… what’s up with you?” he asked, eyes narrowing just a bit. “You’ve been weird all day.”
Chan didn’t even look up, just kept clicking through settings on the recording console, pretending to be busy.
“This comeback is just… stressing me out,” he muttered.
Flat. Too flat.
Changbin raised an eyebrow immediately. He wasn’t buying it. Not even a little.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “Sure.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment, filled only by the quiet hum of the equipment.
Chan exhaled through his nose, shoulders tense.
Because that wasn’t the truth. Not even close.
The truth was so much worse.
Embarrassing. Messed up. Completely out of line.
His grip tightened on the edge of the console.
Because all he could think about—no matter how hard he tried not to—was her.
Y/N.
And the way she rode a fucking Dildo.
Fuck.
Heat rushed up his neck at the memory, his jaw clenching as he squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
He just couldn’t unsee it.
The way she moved. The sounds. The way she looked completely different from the quiet, professional girl sitting in that meeting room earlier.
It messed with his head.
Badly.
Chan let out a quiet curse under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair before forcing himself to focus again. His fingers hovered over the controls before he pressed a few buttons, adjusting levels that didn’t even need adjusting.
Anything to keep his mind busy.
Anything to drown it out.
But it didn’t work.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───
Well… at least the gym existed.
It was the only place where Chan could shut his brain up for more than five seconds.
The familiar burn in his muscles, the weight of the bar in his hands, the sound of metal clinking—it grounded him. Forced him back into his body instead of his head.
He pushed the weights up with a sharp exhale, arms straining, jaw tight. One rep. Two. Three.
Across the room, Hyunjin was working out too—if you could even call it that. Chan let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking his head slightly as he watched Felix casually lean over, way too close, saying something that made Hyunjin break into that soft, distracted smile.
Chan snorted under his breath.
“This little shit is just there to distract him,” he muttered to himself, a small grin tugging at his lips.
For a second, things felt normal again.
He pushed the weights up once more, focusing on the rhythm, the strain, the way his arms started to tremble.
Then the door opened.
Chan froze mid-movement.
Voices. Familiar ones.
He set the weights back into place a little too quickly, sitting up as his eyes flicked toward the entrance—
Han.
Their label manager.
And—
Fuck.
Y/N.
His stomach dropped instantly.
She didn’t even look at him.
Not once.
Actually—no, that wasn’t new. She hadn’t looked at him properly in a week. Ever since… yeah. Ever since.
“Chan, get here,” the manager called, already walking further into the room.
Chan let out a quiet sigh, dragging a towel over his face before standing up. His body still felt hot from the workout, but now it had nothing to do with the gym.
As he walked over, he noticed Y/N immediately—how stiff she stood, how her fingers fumbled with her work phone like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.
Nervous.
Way too nervous.
“She’ll be filming some gym content for the next few days,” the manager said, glancing between them. “Stays love that kind of thing. Just—make sure you look decent.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out again, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb and left.
Great.
Han mumbled something about getting back to his set and slipped away too, leaving the two of them standing there.
Alone.
Silence.
Heavy. Awkward. Suffocating.
Y/N still wouldn’t look at him.
Chan pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly as if that would somehow fix the situation.
“Do you… want me to just—” he started, gesturing vaguely toward the equipment.
She nodded quickly. Too quickly.
“Yeah—just… do your thing. I’ll film,” she said, voice quiet, almost rushed, her eyes glued to her phone screen like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Chan hesitated for half a second before nodding.
“Right.”
He turned, walking back to his spot, trying to ignore the weird tension crawling under his skin as she positioned herself behind the camera.
He sat down, hands resting on his thighs for a moment before reaching for the weights again.
“Can I ask you something?”
Her voice cut through the noise, softer this time. Careful.
Chan looked up.
And fuck.
That was a mistake.
Because now he was actually looking at her—really looking—and it hit him all over again. The way she stood there, a little unsure, biting the inside of her cheek.
She looked… nothing like the version burned into his brain.
She was way more Beautiful.
And somehow that made it worse.
“Yeah?” he said, quieter now.
She swallowed, her grip tightening around her phone.
“Can you… just keep it to yourself?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush. “I promise I won’t tell anyone anything either, I just— I really need this job. It’s the best one I can get right now, and I need the money from… from the other one too…”
Her voice wavered at the end, and she quickly looked down again, blinking a little too fast.
And that’s when Chan realized—
She thought he’d expose her.
That he’d use it against her.
Something in his chest twisted.
He straightened immediately, glancing around out of instinct, lowering his voice.
“Hey—no. I’m not gonna tell anyone anything,” he said, firm but gentle. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
He paused for a second, softer now.
“Seriously. I’m not an asshole.”
Her shoulders dropped just a little, like she’d been holding that tension in for days.
Chan rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling quietly.
Yeah, he was embarrassed as hell.
Confused. Messed up over it.
But he wasn’t going to ruin her life over it.
Not even close.
She spent the rest of the day behind the camera.
Filming him.
Listening to him.
Every strained breath, every low groan when he pushed through another rep, every quiet curse under his breath when the weight got heavier—it all got picked up by her phone.
And she hated how much her body reacted to it.
It didn’t make sense. It really didn’t. This was Chan— technically her boss right now—and yet every sound, every flex of his arms, the way his shirt clung slightly to his skin… it all got under her skin in a way she couldn’t ignore.
She swallowed hard, shifting her weight slightly, forcing herself to focus on the screen. Angles. Lighting. Framing. Anything professional.
Anything but the way her stomach kept tightening for no reason.
Get it together.
By the time she finally lowered her phone, the gym had gone quiet.
The others had already left one by one—laughing, talking, grabbing their things—until it was just… them.
Chan set the weights down with a soft thud, rolling his shoulders before grabbing his towel. He wiped his face, slightly out of breath, before glancing over at her.
“How does it look on camera?” he asked, walking over.
Her throat felt weirdly dry.
“Oh—uh, yeah. I think I got some really good angles,” she said quickly, stepping closer and holding up her phone.
He leaned in beside her.
Too close.
She could feel the warmth coming off him, could smell that faint mix of detergent and sweat, and it made her brain short-circuit for a second.
Focus.
Chan took the phone, casually swiping through the clips. His expression stayed neutral, focused—but she could barely even see the screen anymore.
Because she was suddenly very aware of everything.
She was so Horny she felt DIZZY.
Her pulse. Her breathing. The fact that she needed to calm down immediately before it became obvious.
Where the hell was this even coming from?
She took a slow breath in, then another, forcing her shoulders to relax.
“These look good…” Chan muttered, still scrolling. “Not sure if Stays will love it, though.”
“They will,” she said a little too quickly, then cleared her throat. “I mean—yeah. They will. I’ve seen fan pages on my personal TikTok. Trust me, this kind of content does really well.”
He glanced at her for a second at that.
Something unreadable in his expression.
“Same time tomorrow?” she added, softer now.
Chan nodded. “Yeah.”
A small silence settled again.
She shifted slightly, trying—really trying—to ease the tension that kept creeping back in.
“You’re… really consistent,” she said, attempting a light tone. “I wish I had that kind of gym motivation.”
Chan looked at her properly this time.
Not just a glance.
And it made her heart skip in the most annoying way.
“Well,” he said slowly, tilting his head just a little, “bring some gym clothes tomorrow. I’ll show you.”
She blinked. “I don’t think I’m allowed—this is your—”
“You are if I say so.”
It caught her off guard completely.
Before she could even respond, he tapped lightly against the Stray Kids sign on the door as he passed, like that alone explained everything—then pushed it open.
And just like that, he was gone.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Y/N stood there for a moment, still holding her phone, staring at nothing.
Then she let out a slow breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.
“…What the hell is happening,” she whispered to herself.
Because there was no way—
no actual way—
that this was what her life had turned into.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───
She pushed the gym door open.
No hesitation this time.
Jeongin didn’t even flinch when she walked in on him standing shirtless in front of the mirror, turning slightly as he flexed like he was checking every possible angle. Changbin stood behind Hyunjin, spotting him while he struggled with a heavier set, muttering encouragement. Felix was on the floor nearby, doing push-ups—completely in his own world, softly singing to himself between breaths to train for the stage.
It was… normal.
Comfortably chaotic.
And then there was Chan.
Sitting on the bench, exactly where he always was.
He looked up the moment she stepped in—
—and for the first time, it threw him off.
Not just a little.
Actually.
His gaze dropped before he could stop himself.
Leggings.
Of course she’d wear leggings to the gym.
But these—
they fit her like they were made for her. Every line, every curve, nothing hidden, nothing left to the imagination.
Chan swallowed, his grip tightening slightly on the edge of the bench.
Through the mirror, he caught Jeongin noticing too—his eyes flicking toward her reflection for just a second too long.
Chan’s jaw ticked.
Y/N, completely aware now, awkwardly zipped her jacket up a little higher, like that would somehow fix anything. Then she lifted her phone, clearing her throat softly.
“Let’s go?” she said, trying to sound normal.
Chan looked at her for a second longer—
then smiled, slow and unreadable, before reaching up and pulling his tank top off in one smooth motion.
Her brain short-circuited.
“Well—fuck me,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
Silence.
Then her own gasp hit her a second too late.
Chan let out a quiet snort, clearly amused.
“Maybe later,” he said casually, already reaching for the weights.
That did not help.
At all.
She just stood there for a second, completely thrown, before forcing herself to move—stepping behind him, opening the camera, focusing.
Work.
Just work.
In the background, the others started wrapping up. One by one, they drifted out—Changbin first, then Jeongin. Hyunjin lingered just long enough to grab Felix by the waist, pulling him along with a quiet laugh as Felix protested half-heartedly.
Y/N quickly angled the camera away.
Yeah. Not filming that.
She refocused on Chan instead—his back, the way his muscles moved under his skin with every rep, controlled, steady, focused.
She swallowed again.
When he finally stopped, she stopped the recording too.
Silence settled.
Again.
“Are you a weight lifter?” Chan asked, glancing back at her.
“Not really…” she admitted.
A pause.
Then—
“Do you want to try?”
Her first instinct was to say no.
Her second was to run.
But instead, she nodded.
“…Okay.”
Chan grabbed his tank top and pulled it back on, like he needed that layer again.
“You should take off the jacket,” he added, voice more neutral now. “Easier to move.”
She hesitated for half a second—then nodded, reaching for the zipper.
She pulled it down slowly.
Chan regretted suggesting that immediately.
Because the tank top she had on underneath—
Yeah.
That wasn’t helping him think straight.
At all.
“Sit,” he said, a little too quickly.
She did.
He adjusted the weights, making them lighter, then stepped closer—guiding her hands into position.
“Like this… yeah.”
His voice dropped slightly without him noticing.
Her fingers brushed against his for a second, and it sent something sharp up her spine.
She glanced up at him through her lashes—
—and he licked his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on her for just a fraction too long.
Her brain went blank.
Right.
Weights.
Focus.
She lifted.
It was heavier than she expected.
A small sound slipped out of her before she could stop it, and she quickly lowered the bar again, breathing a little harder now.
“That was good,” Chan said quietly.
Then—without thinking—
“Don’t give up. Come on, gorgeous—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Too late.
The word hung in the air between them.
Chan bit down on his tongue, like he could physically take it back.
But he couldn’t.
And now they were both very, very aware of it.
Chan had always been careful.
Too careful, some would say.
NDAs, boundaries, rules stacked on top of rules—he made sure everything was controlled, clean, safe. Not just for himself, but for the boys too. No scandals, no risks, no stupid mistakes.
He’d never slipped.
Never even come close.
Until now.
Because this—whatever this was—felt different. Messier. Harder to control. Like something that kept slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold onto it.
“Did you… stream last night?”
The question came out more hesitant than he intended.
Y/N froze for a second.
Then color rushed to her cheeks.
“No… I haven’t since…” she trailed off, her gaze dropping for a moment—then, without meaning to, drifting over him. His arms. His chest.
“…since the call.”
Chan’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Why?”
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“I felt ashamed.”
That made him look at her properly.
“Of what?”
She swallowed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tank top.
“Of what I do…” she murmured. “It’s… a terrible thing.”
Chan frowned immediately, shaking his head a little.
“You didn’t have much of a choice,” he said, voice low but firm. “The pay here isn’t exactly great either. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes flicked back up to him at that, something conflicted in her expression.
“Well… it’s not really something I can explain away easily,” she said softly. “If I ever meet someone… a man… and I have to tell him what I do…”
Chan straightened slightly at that.
“If he thinks less of you for it,” he said, without hesitation, “then he’s not the right one.”
She hesitated.
There was something else on her mind—something she almost said, then stopped herself.
“…Would—” she started, then cut herself off.
Chan tilted his head slightly.
“Would you what?”
She looked down again, playing with the fabric like it suddenly became very interesting.
“Would you date a girl like that?” she asked quietly.
There it was.
Chan didn’t even need to think about it.
“I’d date a girl like that,” he said, just as quietly. “And I’d make sure she didn’t have to keep doing something that makes her feel like this.”
Her head lifted again, eyes searching his face like she was trying to figure out if he meant it.
He did.
But the moment stretched a second too long, the air shifting into something heavier again—so Chan cleared his throat lightly.
“Come here,” he said, changing direction. “Let me help you properly.”
She blinked, then nodded, scooting slightly forward on the bench like he asked.
Chan moved behind her.
Close.
Too close.
He sat down, his legs bracketing the bench on either side of her, steadying it as he leaned in just enough to guide her posture again.
“Back straight,” he murmured.
His hand hovered for a second before lightly adjusting her arm.
Professional.
That’s what this was supposed to be.
But the space between them felt anything but.
She could feel the warmth of him behind her, the solid presence, the way every small movement made her more aware of him.
And Chan—
Fuck these weights.
"Your body is perfect," Chan mumbled. Her eyes fluttered.
"You are perfect…," he looked at her through the mirror in front of them.
"I still have you riding this dildo in my brain on loop. I keep replaying it mentally," he whispered. She felt the heat between her legs.
"Chan…,"
"Delete the account. Let me spoil you…. you won't have to worry about any type of bill ever again….," her eyes locked in on his.
"I need you….. I can't keep fighting against it. " he mumbled. He inhaled her scent.
"But what if your fans….,"
"Nobody will know anything, the company will protect you, I will, I will make sure nothing will happen, I promise you baby She leaned her head to the side. He kissed her neck. She closed her eyes. His hands grabbed her waist and he pulled her back closer to his chest.
Y/N moaned when he bit her neck and pressed his boner against her lower back. He continued kissing her more upwards and she turned her head enough for him to kiss her properly. Her tongue and his.
God, he was such a good kisser. His hand grabbed one of her tits through her top and groped them. He was so rough but soft at the same time. "Will you let me fuck you?" he asked between the kisses. "Mhmm…… yeah," she was so out of it already. Her brain full of only one thing.
Chan. Chan. Chan. Chan's cock….. His hand got down and spread her legs; she put either of them on one of his legs.
He held them wide and his hand grabbed her pussy through her leggings. "No underwear huh?" "Aesthetic purpose," she sighed. "Sure," he kissed her again. Then he pulled down the hem of her tank top. Her tits bounced free. "Been wanting to play with these ever since you tried that little bikini on that one stream," he said.
She smiled slightly as he played with her nipples. She looked in the mirror again.
Nobody ever told her that you'll get a confidence boost from looking at yourself being played with by Bang Chan. But here we are.
She could see a wet spot between her legs and blushed. "Take your leggings off," she put her legs together and did it so fast while he threw his top away.
He pulled her back in. Y/N was only wearing her tank top that looked like a belt from the way Chan pulled it down to see her tits. He made her legs go on his again to spread them again.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck….," he took his finger and spread her pussy lips. Investigating it almost. "I don't think there could be a prettier pussy than yours.," she blushed.
He played with her pussy lips and she watched him.
Then he rubbed her clit and she bit back the moan. "Always wanted to know how good you feel…… looked so damn hard to stick a dildo in you," he pushed a finger in, she was so wet. And fuck. She was tight. "I need to put my dick in you holy shit," he moaned. She whimpered and nodded.
She felt him pushing down his pants enough. With ease he lifted her high enough for his tip to coat itself in her wetness. He rubbed his dick between her lips, watched it while he went up and down. She was a moaning mess. It slid so easily between her folds, and then without warning he slipped inside her.
She moaned out loud. He pulled out. The sound of her wetness and his cock filled the air. He only pulled out until the tip. He groaned when he slid inside again. Slowly at first. He pulled out again. "Baby you feel like heaven I need to be slow or else I will cum in a second," Chan moaned.
Her head fell back against him. He slid in again. Groaning again. Her walls stretched against him.
"How does it feel?" "So big," she babbled. "So big and thick," he started with a slow rhythm of fucking her. "You like that?" she nodded.
He played with her nipples again. Flicking them. She took his hand and slid it down her stomach. She watched it in the mirror while her head was still leaning against him. His big hand over her pussy while he slid in and out.
"Slap it," she breathed while moaning. He slapped her clit and she was almost drooling. He did it again. She tried her best to help him with riding and she let her body go forward. Her hands on the bench. She bounced on Chan's dick, made her ass twerk in front of him. And he couldn't resist slapping her ass now.
"God look at you, so happy that you're mine… this pussy won't stay unfucked for a long time," he fucked her hard watched her ass bounce even more. "Keep your eyes open," he spanked her harder and she looked at herself in the mirror. "Gonna cum Chan," she moaned between the thrusts.
"Yeah? Then do so come on baby," she rode him harder, lifted herself up again and Chan was fucking slamming into her.
Her eyes rolled back and she came hard.
Seconds after he felt himself pumping his seed into her. She tried to catch her breath.
Her back fell back against his chest and his dick slid out of her.
His cum pooling out of her gaping pussy. "Who will clean this up," she asked tiredly.
"I will….,"
Chan kissed her cheek.
"I will take care of anything from now on babe…..," she smiled and dozed off.
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: all the above (f,s,a)
cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy
soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify
* ✩˚ word count: 12.1K ˚✩ *
Sundays were your favorite.
Everyone else hated them because it meant the weekend was over, but every other Sunday meant catching your new neighbor in his garage with the door rolled open, grease staining his hands while he worked on whatever car currently had its guts spread across the driveway.
Was this borderline stalking? Probably
But he’d never introduced himself, and neither had you, and it had somehow been almost a month since he moved into the small corner house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Everyone in the cul-de-sac knows each other.
Except him.
He was still an enigma.
Instead of peeking through the blinds like a stalker, you convinced yourself that opening every blind in the house was a perfectly normal alternative.
And there he was, standing in the middle of his driveway with a phone pressed to his ear instead of working on the unfamiliar car sitting with its hood popped open.
He looked worn out actually. Still attractive, unfortunately. But exhausted.
The brutal summer heat probably wasn’t helping either, and before you could stop yourself, one singular thought drifted into your mind:
Is he staying hydrated?
Which immediately sparked an entire chain of questions that could only be answered if you actually spoke to him for once.
So now you were standing in your kitchen cutting apples and making lavender lemonade.
Generic? Maybe.
But it felt like a decent way to introduce yourself without sounding insane.
You definitely weren’t going to tell him you made it specifically for him, though.
You didn’t care much about presentation either.
The apple slices got tossed into a sandwich bag, and you poured two glasses of lemonade. Less in yours to make it look like you’d already been drinking it, and more in the one meant for him.
The outfit, though, took a little more thought.
It was way too hot outside for sweatpants, and if you were finally going to talk to him, the last thing you wanted was to sweat through your clothes.
So, summer shorts and a cute tank it was.
Nothing wrong with showing a little skin when your neighbor spent half his life shirtless in the driveway anyway.
𝜗𝜚
As you headed for the door, you peeked out the window one last time to assess his current predicament.
The phone was gone now, and half his body was buried beneath the hood of the car as he worked, completely unaware that you were seconds away from walking across the street with a quick pick-me-up and several weeks’ worth of curiosity.
The closer you got, the more clearly you could hear the soft spill of saxophones and low bass drifting from the garage speakers.
And unfortunately for your sanity, he looked just as good from the back as he did from the front.
“Jazz fan?” you asked softly, careful not to startle him beneath the hood of the car.
The reaction was immediate.
He jerked hard enough to smack his head against the underside of the hood with a loud clank.
“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step while rubbing the spot with grease-stained fingers.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no,” he laughed breathlessly, still wincing. “That’s my fault. I think I lost the ability to hear anything besides this engine like twenty minutes ago.”
Up close, he looked even more exhausted.
Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes, damp curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. There was grease smeared along his forearm, another streak near his jaw, and somehow the whole thing only made him more attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d crossed the street carrying homemade lemonade just because he looked tired.
His gaze finally dropped to the midday snack in your hands.
“…Is that for me?” he asked carefully, like he genuinely wasn’t sure.
“Uh,” you started, suddenly very aware of how suspicious this probably looked.
“I was already making some for myself,” you lied smoothly. “And you looked like you were one second from passing out, so…”
His gaze flicked between you, the lemonade, and the apples in the sandwich bag. “Right,” he said slowly, like he absolutely did not believe you.
Which was fair. Nobody casually made lavender lemonade in this economy.
Still, he took the glass from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second.
“Well,” he said, softer this time, “thanks. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” you replied, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that your entire nervous system had just short-circuited over brief hand contact.
He took a long sip almost immediately, and the faint tension in his shoulders eased a little.
“Okay,” he admitted after a second, glancing down at the cup, “this is actually really good.”
“Thank you,” you said, maybe a little too fast. The corner of his mouth twitched before the soft sound of saxophone filled the brief silence between you again.
You nodded toward the speaker tucked near the back of the garage.
“So you are a jazz fan.”
Chan glanced over his shoulder at the music before looking back at you.
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone trying to figure out if you’re secretly eighty years old.”
That finally earned you a real laugh. Warm, low, slightly tired around the edges.
“Jazz is timeless,” he defended.
“That’s not helping your case, actually.”
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. You bring me lemonade and immediately start attacking me.”
“Keeps you humble, I think.”
“I don’t think I was arrogant to begin with.”
“You mow your lawn shirtless,”
It went completely silent.
Fuck. I said way too much.
Chan stared at you for two full seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched
“In my defense,” he said carefully, “it was ninety degrees.”
Chan took another sip of lemonade, “So you like watching your neighbors do lawn work?”
All of a sudden you were burning up. “I was curious that morning.”
“Mm.” Chan glanced down at the lemonade. “Curious enough to start bringing me refreshments.”
“I’m being neighborly,” you defended immediately.
Chan hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And the apples?”
“Also already cut.”
“Right.”
“You’re being really judgmental for someone accepting free lemonade.”
That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, like he was finally relaxing into the conversation instead of standing awkwardly inside it.
Well, since we’ve both noticed each other and somehow still never spoken…” you said, “I think that makes us equally guilty.”
Chan’s smile widened behind the rim of his cup.
“Equally guilty, huh?”
“Painfully guilty.”
“Good to know I’m not the only terrible neighbor here.”
“You’re still worse,” you said. “You moved in and didn’t introduce yourself.”
“You watched me mow my lawn shirtless and didn’t introduce yourself either.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it immediately.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you said, even though it absolutely was not.
Chan looked far too entertained by your suffering.
“So,” he said, leaning back against the car, “how long was I under neighborhood surveillance before you finally decided to talk to me?”
“Surveillance is a strong word.”
“Observation, then.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”His laugh came easier now, lighter than before.
For the record,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the garage, “you’re kind of hard to ignore.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That so?”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “That sounded less embarrassing in my head.”
“Good to know my hard work is appreciated.”
“Your hard work?” you repeated incredulously.
“Maintaining a lawn is serious business.”
“You’re standing here covered in engine grease trying to flirt about landscaping.”
He blinked at you. "I'm not flirting.”
The denial came way too fast to sound convincing.
You stared him for a second. "Sure."
His mouth twitched slightly before he looked away, suddenly seeming very interested in the rag beside him. "Okay, maybe a little."
The admission sounded accidental. Honest in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Like realizing he’d been charming without fully meaning to be.
He wiped his hand against the rag before finally holding it out toward you. “I should probably introduce myself properly before my neighbors start opening investigation files on me,” he said. “Chan.”
You told him your name, trying not to focus on how warm his hand felt when your fingers slipped into his.
“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles before letting go.
The gesture was brief enough that you could’ve imagined it. Unfortunately, your brain decided to replay it anyway.
“So,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, “what exactly are you working on?”
Chan glanced back toward the car like he’d almost forgotten it existed. “Customer’s car,” he explained. “Or… technically my friend’s customer. I’m helping him out.”
“Meaning you’re fixing someone else’s problem on your day off?”
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds terrible.”
He laughed softly. “You get used to it.”
You watched him take another sip of lemonade before his shoulders relaxed again, just slightly.
“Long day?” you asked before thinking too hard about it.
Something flickered across his face then. Quick enough that you almost missed it.
“Long month,” he admitted instead.
The answer settled between you more honestly than expected.
And for the first time since moving in, the mysterious neighbor across the street stopped feeling mysterious at all.
Just human.
Right on cue, his phone started ringing again.
And just like that, the same expression from earlier returned. The softness in his face tightened almost instantly, exhaustion settling back over his features like something heavy and familiar.
Chan glanced at the screen and exhaled quietly through his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured, already reaching for it.
“No, you’re okay,” you replied quickly.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he answered the call with a tired, “Hey, Mom.”
Mom?
Your curiosity immediately sharpened, but you stepped back anyway, lifting a hand in a small goodbye to give him some privacy.
Chan glanced up from the call almost immediately.
“Wait,” he said quickly, covering the phone against his chest for half a second.
The suddenness of it made you pause.
“Thanks for the lemonade,” he added, softer this time. “And for finally introducing yourself.”
Something warm fluttered annoyingly in your chest. “Try not to die of heatstroke,” you replied.
A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “No promises.”
As you walked back across the street, you heard him sigh quietly into the phone behind you
“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Just bring her back. It’s fine. Thanks.”
Her?
Your steps slowed for only half a second before you forced yourself to keep walking.
It wasn’t your business.
Probably.
𝜗𝜚
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly after that.
You watered your plants. Folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for two days. Pretended very hard not to glance out the window every ten minutes.
Around an hour later, movement across the street finally caught your attention again.
A familiar older woman pulled into Chan’s driveway in a silver SUV. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.
A little girl climbed out of the backseat holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, her tiny sneakers lighting up against the pavement with every step she took.
And suddenly, everything clicked into place.
Chan appeared from the garage almost immediately after hearing the car door shut.
The exhaustion you’d seen earlier softened the second the little girl spotted him.
“Daddy!”
She launched herself across the driveway at full speed, stuffed rabbit bouncing wildly behind her.
Chan barely had time to crouch before she collided into him.
And just like that, the intimidatingly attractive mechanic across the street completely melted.
“Hey, bug,” he laughed softly, catching her against his chest with practiced ease. “Miss me already?”
The little girl nodded dramatically against his shoulder.
From your window, you watched him press a kiss to the side of her head before standing again, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The older woman said something to him then, too far away for you to hear clearly.
You watched see him sigh in response.
She reached up to squeeze his shoulder before heading back toward her car.
Mom.
Well that explained the grocery bags.
The little girl kept talking animatedly while he listened, nodding along despite the lingering exhaustion still written all over him.
And against your better judgment, something in your chest tightened at the sight.
You really tried not to stare after that.
Tried being the important word.
Because the next thing you knew, Chan was balancing the little girl on his hip while attempting to close the garage with the other hand, and she was very seriously holding his lemonade for him like it was an important assignment.
Your lemonade.
Which somehow made the entire thing feel weirdly intimate. The little girl took a curious sip from the straw before immediately making a face.
Chan laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired, polite kind he’d given you earlier, but something fuller. Easier.
The sound carried faintly across the street even through your closed window. Then, like she could feel herself being observed, the little girl suddenly looked up.
Directly toward your house.
Your body reacted before your brain did, ducking beneath the window.
“What am I doing?” you whispered to yourself from the floor.
Slowly, cautiously, you lifted yourself just high enough to peek over the windowsill again.
He was already looking directly at your house. Specifically, at the exact window you’d just disappeared from.
Mortification hit instantly.
The little girl was still perched on his hip, tiny hands wrapped around the lemonade cup while she whispered something into his ear.
Chan’s mouth twitched.
Oh god.
She definitely noticed you spying.
Before you could disappear for a second time, the little girl suddenly lifted her arm and waved enthusiastically through the window.
Bright, excited and completely unashamed.
Chan glanced down at her, then back toward your house, and to your complete horror, he smiled too. Soft and sleepy around the edges.
Well there went your ability to act normal around this family.
𝜗𝜚
Things only got worse the following evening.
Or better.
Unfortunately, the distinction was becoming harder to make.
You were dragging grocery bags out of your trunk when you heard tiny sneakers slapping against pavement.
“Hi!”
You looked up just in time to see the little girl from yesterday standing at the edge of your driveway.
Up close, she looked even smaller. Big dark eyes, messy curls, and the same stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm like it legally belonged to her.
Chan trailed a few steps behind her carrying two takeout bags and looking deeply apologetic already. “I’m so sorry,” he called out immediately. “She saw you and escaped.”
“I did not escape,” the little girl argued.
“You absolutely escaped.”
She ignored him completely and looked back at you instead. “Daddy said you made magic lemonade.”
You blinked once. Then slowly turned toward Chan. “Magic lemonade?”
Chan looked mildly horrified. “That’s not what I said.”
“You said it had flowers in it.”
“…That is unfortunately true.”
The little girl stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically like she was sharing a very serious secret. “Daddy talked about your lemonade all night.”
Chan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and genuine embarrassment. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the sky for patience. “I think that’s enough sharing for today.”
“I like your flowers too,” she added helpfully.
“Okay, seriously, whose side are you on?” Chan asked.
She gasped softly. “Yours.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You finally laughed, unable to help it anymore, and something in Chan’s expression softened immediately at the sound.
The little girl beamed proudly at the fact that she’d apparently succeeded in making everyone equally uncomfortable.
“I’m Jia,” she announced suddenly.
“Jia,” Chan repeated with the deep weariness of a man who knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “What do we say when introducing ourselves to strangers?”
She thought about it very seriously. “…My dad is twenty-eight?”
Chan closed his eyes. “That is not remotely what I meant.”
“You asked me to be polite,” Jia defended immediately.
“I did,” Chan agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d start listing my personal information like a tiny government employee.”
Jia looked completely unbothered by this comparison. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to laugh yourself into cardiac arrest in your own driveway.
“Twenty-eight, huh?” you repeated lightly before you could stop yourself.
Chan pointed at you instantly. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m just processing the information I was given.”
“Against my will.”
Jia tugged on his sleeve. “Can we have nuggets now?” The dramatic betrayal faded from his face immediately.
“Yeah, bug,” he sighed softly. “We can have nuggets now.”And there it was again. That softness. The one that seemed to appear every time he looked at her.
You’d kill for him to look at you like that.
Which felt slightly dramatic considering you’d known this man for less than forty-eight hours.
But still.
Chan adjusted the takeout bags in one hand before nodding toward you.
“Sorry again,” he said. “She’s decided privacy is optional.”
“I heard that,” Jia informed him.
“I know you did.”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think I’ve learned more about you in five minutes than I did the entire month you lived here.”
“That’s because my roommate keeps violating confidentiality agreements.”
Jia looked delighted by this accusation.
Before he could start ushering Jia toward the house again, you crouched slightly to her level. “Well, Jia,” you said seriously, “I should probably introduce myself properly too.”
Once you told her your name, Jia stared at you for a second before slowly lifting the stuffed rabbit into view. “And this is Leebit.”
“Leebit?” you repeated carefully.
Jia nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable name for a stuffed rabbit. “She’s sensitive.”
“I understand completely,” you replied.
Chan laughed quietly behind her, softer this time. “Okay,” he sighed, finally steering Jia back toward the house before she revealed his blood type next. “Dinner before you expose anything else about this family.”
“Bye!” Jia called, already halfway up the driveway.
Then she stopped suddenly and turned back around. “Wait,” she gasped dramatically. “We forgot to say thank you for the magic lemonade.”
Chan sighed toward the heavens. “It was lavender, Jia.”
“That’s magic to me.”
Honestly? Fair enough.
You smiled, folding your arms lightly against your chest. “You’re welcome.”
Jia beamed at you one last time before finally allowing herself to be herded toward the front door.
He lingered behind for half a second longer. The porch light caught softly against the tired edges of his face, but for the first time since you’d met him, he looked lighter somehow.
“Sorry in advance,” he said quietly, glancing toward the tiny chaos already disappearing inside the house. “She gets attached to people fast.”
Your stomach betrayed you instantly. “That makes two of us,” you almost said.
Instead, you just smiled. “I think I can handle her.”
Chan looked at you for a second too long before finally nodding once. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chan.”
You spent the rest of the night trying not to think about them.
Which was difficult when your kitchen still smelled faintly like lavender and fresh lemons. Worse, every time you closed your eyes, your brain insisted on replaying tiny moments like an aggressively edited romantic comedy montage.
Chan laughing softly in the driveway.
Jia introducing Leebit with complete sincerity.
The way his face changed whenever he looked at his daughter.
By the time morning rolled around, you’d managed to convince yourself to act normal about the entire thing.
That resolution lasted until approximately 10:14 a.m. Because when you opened your front door to grab a package, Jia was sitting on your porch.
Alone.
Holding Leebit.
And coloring directly on your welcome mat with sidewalk chalk.
“Jia?” you blurted immediately, eyes widening.
She looked up from the chalk drawing completely relaxed, as if this had always been her porch too. “Hi,” she said happily. Leebit was tucked beneath one arm while pink chalk dust coated her fingers.
Your heart nearly stopped. “Why are you over here by yourself?”
Jia pointed vaguely behind her with the chalk, “Daddy’s sleeping.”
Oh.
“Jia,” you said carefully, crouching down a little, “did you sneak out?”
She gasped like you’d accused her of a serious crime. “No.”
A pause.
“I walked out.”
You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing at the worst possible time.
“Okay,” you said slowly, “that’s still not something you’re supposed to do by yourself.”
Jia considered this information while drawing another aggressively pink line across the concrete. “Daddy was sleeping,” she explained again, like that answered everything.
Which, honestly, explained enough.
Your gaze flicked across the street toward Chan’s house. The curtains were still closed.
A tiny thread of concern tugged at your chest.“How long have you been over here?” you asked gently.
Jia shrugged. “Since cartoons.”
That was not a measurement of time.
“Jia,” you said carefully, “what does that even mean?”
She blinked up at you like you were the confusing one.“The blue dog cartoons.”
…Still not a real answer.
Your concern must’ve shown on your face because Jia suddenly held Leebit out toward you reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said confidently. “I know where my house is.”
“That’s not my concern, sweetie,” you said gently. “Some cars drive really fast around here. What if you got hurt?”
Jia’s expression faltered slightly for the first time since you opened the door. “But I looked both ways,” she defended quietly.
Your heart squeezed a little. “I know you did, sweetie,” you replied softly. “But you still can’t leave the house without telling your dad, okay?”
Jia looked down at the chalk in her hand.“…Okay.”
And suddenly the situation felt a lot less funny.
“Come on,” you said gently, standing back up. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want your dad waking up and panicking because he can’t find you.”
Jia’s eyes widened slightly. “He’ll panic?”
“Absolutely.”
She looked genuinely thoughtful about this revelation before quietly gathering her chalk pieces into a tiny pile.
Leebit was tucked securely beneath her arm again as she reached for your hand without hesitation.
And that tiny, instinctive trust nearly took you out on the spot. Crossing the street with her tiny hand wrapped around yours felt strangely domestic. Girl, get it together.
The front door of Chan’s house was unlocked when you gently pushed it open, calling out a cautious, “Chan?”
No answer.
The house was quiet in that heavy, sleepy kind of way that suggested someone had crashed hard after being exhausted for too long.
Jia immediately slipped off toward the living room like this was a completely normal morning adventure.
You followed after her just in time to see him asleep on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes. Phone still in his hand.
The television played softly in the background to absolutely nobody.
The second Jia climbed onto the couch beside him, Chan jolted awake so fast it genuinely startled you.
“So sorry for the intrusion,” you blurted out immediately. This was definitely not how you envisioned the first time stepping inside his house.
Chan blinked at you for a second, still visibly caught between asleep and awake, before his gaze snapped toward his daughter.
“Jia.”
Uh oh.
“I went to visit,” she explained confidently from beside him.
“Without telling me?” The panic in his voice was subtle, but there.
Real enough that guilt twisted in your chest a little on Jia’s behalf.
Chan sat up fully now, running a hand down his face before looking back at you. “Did she cross the street alone?”
“Technically…” you started carefully.
“I looked both ways,” Jia added helpfully.
Chan stared at the ceiling for a long moment like he was asking the universe for strength.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” you said gently. “I already told her that was dangerous.”
Chan exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the panic easing from his shoulders.
Jia immediately took advantage of this. “See?” she said proudly. “I got lectured already.”
“That’s not exactly something to be proud of,” Chan muttered. Still, his hand found the back of her head automatically, smoothing down her messy curls just to reassure himself she was there.
The tiny gesture did something weird to your chest again.
This was probably a terrible idea, but your mouth was already moving before you could stop.“Hey, um…” you started awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“If you ever need extra rest or need to handle stuff around here, I can hang out with her for a bit.”
Chan looked at you like nobody had offered him that in a very long time.
Jia, meanwhile, looked ready to adopt you on the spot. “Really?” she gasped.
Chan blinked once before rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t have to do that,” he said softly. But he sounded tired enough that it almost hurt to hear.
Before you could respond, Jia spoke up from the couch.
“Nana’s been busy lately.”
Chan’s expression shifted instantly. Not angry. Just… exposed, somehow. Like a private part of his life had been accidentally placed on the table between all of you.
Jia, completely unaware, kept talking while hugging Leebit to her chest. “So Daddy’s extra tired now.”
Your heart squeezed painfully.
Chan let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face again.
“Nana?” you asked quietly.
Chan glanced toward you before answering. “My mother,” he said softly. Something in his expression gentled when he said it, but the exhaustion never fully left his face.“She usually helps a lot with Jia, but work’s been keeping her busy lately.”
Jia nodded solemnly from the couch like this was a very serious family meeting. You looked between the two of them for a moment.
Chan sitting there barely awake on the couch. Jia curled against his side with Leebit in her lap. The quiet television humming in the background.
The lived-in warmth of the house despite the exhaustion hanging over it.
It hit you suddenly then. He wasn’t distant because he was unfriendly. He was drowning. Working, parenting, moving into a new neighborhood, fixing cars on his days off, surviving on what looked like four hours of sleep and caffeine.
And somehow still managing to be gentle.
“The offer still stands,” you said softly.
Chan looked up at you immediately.
“Even if it’s just so you can nap without worrying she’s gonna escape and start another neighborhood tour.”
“I did not tour,” Jia argued sleepily.
“You trespassed.”
“I visited.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.
Chan watched you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You barely know us,” he said finally.
“Yet,” you pointed out gently, “I’m kind of the only person you guys know in the neighborhood right now.”
Chan went quiet at that, because unfortunately, it was true.
The moving boxes still stacked near the hallway.
The unfamiliar street.
The exhaustion.
All of it suddenly felt a little heavier in the silence.
Jia leaned against his arm, already looking half-asleep again. His gaze dropped briefly toward her before returning to you. Something softer settled into his expression then. Not just appreciation, but relief as well.
“J-just let me know,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how personal this conversation had become. “No pressure or anything.”
Chan’s expression softened even further at the stumble in your voice. “Right,” he said quietly. “No pressure.”
But he looked at you like the offer meant more than you realized.
Sensing the sudden shift into dangerously intimate territory, you started backing toward the front door. “I should probably let you guys get back to your morning,” you said lightly.
Jia immediately looked disappointed, and Chan, somehow, looked a little disappointed too. Which absolutely did not help your situation.
“Wait.” Chan stood from the couch before you could make it more than two steps toward the door.
Jia immediately flopped sideways into the cushions the second his arm moved away from her, completely exhausted from what had apparently been a very eventful morning.
Chan glanced toward Jia briefly before looking back at you.
“At least let me repay you somehow,” he said. “You returned my runaway child.”
“That sounds way more dramatic than what actually happened.”
“Does it?”
You smiled despite yourself. “You really don’t have to repay me.”
“Maybe I want to.”
And suddenly the foyer felt a little too small.
Chan leaned lightly against the wall near the doorway, still looking half-awake. Somehow, it only made him more unfairly attractive.
“You like coffee?” he asked after a second.
“That depends,” you replied carefully. “Are you trying to bribe me into future babysitting?”
A tired laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe a little.”
“Then yes. I love coffee.”
“Good,” he murmured. “There’s a café like ten minutes from here. She likes the cake pops and I survive off iced americanos.”
“A balanced diet.”
“Exactly.”
His smile lingered this time. “Come with us sometime?” he asked.
The question landed so casually it took your brain a full second to process it.
Come with us?
Not me.
Us.
And somehow that made your chest ache even worse. “Yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”
His shoulders loosened almost immediately, like he’d been oddly nervous about asking. Which felt insane considering this man looked like that while standing barefoot in sweatpants at eleven in the morning.
Jia suddenly lifted her head from the couch cushions. “Can I get two cake pops?”
“No,” He answered instantly.
“One and a half?”
“That’s not a real number of cake pops.”
Jia thought about this carefully. “Then two.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and he looked over at you again with that same softened expression from earlier.
Like he was quietly cataloging every sound you made.
“Alright,” you said finally, forcing yourself to continue toward the door before your feelings developed a mortgage in this house. “I’ll let you guys rest.”
Jia waved lazily from the couch. “Bye.”
“Bye, Jia. Bye, Leebit.”
The stuffed rabbit stared at you with the same emotional support energy as before.
He walked you to the door despite looking seconds away from passing out where he stood.“Thanks again,” he said quietly once you stepped onto the porch.
“For returning your escape artist?”
“For…” He paused briefly, glancing back toward the living room. “Being nice to us.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.
Your chest tightened a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
He looked at you for a moment like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Still going to.”
After you parted ways, reluctantly, you walked back across the street trying very hard not to replay the entire interaction in your head.
In which you failed immediately.
By the time you made it back inside your house, your brain had already decided to obsess over approximately seventeen separate things.
Chan asking you to get coffee with them.
Jia holding your hand without hesitation.
The way he’d said us.
The fact that his house already felt strangely familiar after only ten minutes inside it.
Which was absolutely not normal.
You dropped onto your couch with a dramatic groan, staring at the ceiling.
“This is how people end up emotionally attached to single fathers,” you informed yourself aloud.
𝜗𝜚
The front door clicked shut behind you, leaving their house quiet again aside from the low murmur of cartoons still playing from the television.
Chan stayed standing there for a second. Longer than necessary.
“Dad,” Jia said from the couch, “you’re staring at the door.”
“I know.”
He scrubbed a tired hand down his face before finally locking it, though the motion felt pointless considering Jia had apparently started wandering the neighborhood at sunrise.
His heart still hadn’t fully recovered from waking up and realizing she’d walked out.
Across the room, Jia hugged Leebit tighter. “She’s nice.”
His gaze drifted automatically toward the front window, then toward the house across the street. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “She is.”
The thing was, he’d noticed little details long before the lemonade.
It was hard not to.
You watered the flowers along your porch every morning before the heat got too bad, usually still half-asleep and wearing clothes that looked thrown on five minutes earlier.
Your car was the little dark-colored sedan with a small dent near the back bumper.
Sometimes you sang absentmindedly while bringing groceries inside.
Sometimes you sat on your porch at night scrolling on your phone with your legs curled beneath you.
And sometimes, when he worked in the garage with the door open, he could feel your eyes on him from across the street.
Not in a creepy way.
Like you’d been trying to figure him out from a distance the same way he’d been trying to figure you out.
He hadn’t expected the neighborhood to feel this lonely.
New house. New routines. New streets.
Most days it felt like he was still unpacking pieces of his life that no longer fit together properly.
Then somehow, within forty-eight hours, the neighbor across the street had walked into his garage with lavender lemonade and looked at Jia like she mattered immediately.
He’s fucked.
“Dad?”
He hummed tiredly from where his head rested against the couch.
Jia tilted her head up at him.“Can we keep her?”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “You ask that like she’s a stray cat.”
“Okay.....then can she come over again?”
He glanced toward the front window again before answering. The flowers on your porch swayed lightly in the summer heat, bright against the white railing.
Your curtains shifted, probably from you moving around inside. And for some reason, the thought settled warmly in his chest.
“Maybe,” he said finally. Jia grinned triumphantly before settling back against him.
The room went quiet again after that, filled only by cartoons and the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the heat.
His eyes drifted shut briefly. Only for a second, before his phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside him.
His mother.
He sighed before answering. “Hey, Ma.”
“Is Jia better?” his mother asked immediately.
Chan looked over at his daughter, currently half-asleep with chalk still smeared across one cheek. “She’s fine.”
His mother laughed softly through the speaker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help this weekend.”
Guilt hit instantly. “Ma, it’s fine.”
“Christopher.”
Ah. Full government name.
Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Seriously,” he murmured. “I’ve got it handled.”
His mother went quiet for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “You don’t always have to handle everything alone, you know.”
“Kind of hard,” he admitted quietly, “when you and Dad are basically my only support systems.” The words slipped out more honestly than he intended. Silence filled the other end of the call for a moment.
Then his mother sighed softly. “Christopher…”
He stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t meant it as guilt. Just fact.
Moving here had been necessary. Better schools. Better neighborhood. More space for Jia.
But starting over somewhere new while trying to hold everything together alone felt a lot heavier in practice than it had on paper.
Especially on mornings where his daughter wandered across the street while he accidentally passed out on the couch.
“You’re doing your best,” his mother said gently.
Chan laughed quietly under his breath.
“Yeah. Some days my best loses the kid before ten a.m.”
“And some days your best fixes cars until midnight and still makes dinosaur pancakes the next morning.”
His chest tightened unexpectedly at that.
Across the couch, Jia shifted sleepily against his side, still clutching Leebit by one ear. He smoothed a hand over her curls automatically. “I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want her growing up feeling like everything’s unstable all the time.”
His mother was quiet for a second before speaking again.“You know what she’s going to remember?”
Chan leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “What?”
“That her father loved her enough to keep trying even when things were hard.”
Well, that hit directly in the sternum.
He went quiet after that.
Because what was he even supposed to say to that?
His mother had always been unfairly good at reaching straight into the center of a problem and pressing on it gently until he stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.
“And,” she added after a moment, her tone shifting lighter, “your neighbor seems nice.”
Chan immediately frowned. “Jia talked to you already?”
His mother laughed outright this time. “Christopher, that child would leak classified military information for a fruit snack.”
Fair.
“She said the neighbor brought you lemonade.”
He stared toward the front window again before he could stop himself. “Lavender lemonade,” he corrected absentmindedly.
A pause, then, “You sound fond already.”
“Ma.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re definitely saying something.”
“Mm.” His mother sounded far too entertained. “And are you denying it?”
…Annoyingly, no.
“Christopher.”
He already didn’t like the tone of her voice.
“Don’t start planning your wedding in your head because a pretty neighbor brought you lemonade.”
“I am not planning a wedding,” he muttered immediately.
His mother hummed skeptically through the speaker. “You noticed she was pretty awfully fast.”
Damn.
“Ma.”
“I’m just happy you sound interested in something again.”
The teasing softened around the edges near the end of the sentence. Enough that his chest tightened a little. Because he knew what she meant. The last year had been survival mode.
Work.
Jia.
Bills.
Moving.
Rebuilding routines from scratch.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d stopped noticing things outside of necessity.
Then suddenly there was a woman across the street who sang while carrying groceries and crouched down to speak to Jia like she deserved full eye contact during conversations.
And apparently that had been enough to restart something in him. Which was terrifying, honestly.
𝜗𝜚
Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.
One: Jia had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.
And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.
“Dad,” Jia whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”
He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.
He barely had time to fully think and react before Jia started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.
“HI!”
Half the grocery store turned to look first. Then you glanced up in confusion before spotting them. And then you smiled.
God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem for him.
“Well,” you laughed softly as you walked closer, “there’s my favorite escape artist.”
“I didn’t escape today,” Jia informed you proudly.
“We’re aiming for growth,” Chan added.
Your eyes flicked toward him then, warm amusement immediately settling into your expression. “And look at that,” you teased lightly. “She brought her emotional support dad with her too.”
Chan stared at you for a second before an unwilling laugh escaped him.
Yeah. He was absolutely screwed.
"We ran out of dino nuggets," Jia explained gravely.
"Apparently it's a crisis," he confirmed.
“I can tell.” You dropped a few mangoes into your basket before glancing into their cart.
There were approximately six different snacks, apple juice, coffee creamer, and absolutely no actual dinner ingredients.
Your eyebrows lifted slowly. “Interesting grocery strategy.”
He looked down into the cart before sighing. “In my defense, she was helping.”
“I picked the Oreos,” Jia said proudly.
“Yeah?” A quiet laugh escaped you as Chan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was supposed to stop by after work yesterday,” he admitted, “but I got home late and we ended up ordering takeout instead.”
Your expression softened immediately. “You guys eaten today?”
Jia raised her hand from the cart. “We had waffles.”
“Chocolate chip waffles,” Chan corrected weakly.
You stared at him for a second.
Then at the cart.
Then back at him again.
“You know what?” you said suddenly. “Come over for dinner tonight.”
Chan blinked.
Jia gasped, “Really?”
“Only if you want to,” you added quickly, looking back at him now. “I was already planning to cook anyway.”
Chan hesitated for maybe half a second before Jia answered for the both of them, "We want to."
"Jia."
"What? We do."
You laughed softly.
"Seven okay?
He nodded slowly.
"Y-yeah. Seven's good."
The conversation moved on easily after that. Way too easy.
Like this was normal.
As if people invited him and Jia over for dinner all the time.
As if he hadn't spent the better part of last year feeling isolated in ways he didn't know how to explain to anyone.
Neither of you seemed in much of a rush to end the conversation, but eventually the aisle ran out before the talking did.
"Don't let her convince you to buy more snacks," you called lightly before turning your cart away.
Jia giggled as he mumbled a distracted, "Okay." He watched you leave for a second too long.
“Dad?”
"Yes, bug?"
"Why haven't we moved?"
He blinked, finally looking down at her.
"What?"
Jia pointed in the direction you'd disappeared. "You stopped walking."
𝜗𝜚
By six-thirty, you had already changed outfits three times. Which was ridiculous. They were your neighbors.
Not royalty. Not a date.
Definitely not a date.
And yet your kitchen somehow looked like you were preparing for a full dinner party instead of feeding a tired mechanic and his tiny accomplice.
You checked the pasta sauce simmering on the stove for the fifth time before groaning dramatically into your hands. “Why am I nervous?” you demanded aloud to absolutely nobody.
Because realistically, the worst thing that could happen was Jia not liking the food.
Or Chan thinking this entire thing was weird.
Or realizing halfway through dinner that you were getting emotionally attached to his little family at genuinely alarming speed.
Okay.
Maybe there were several worst-case scenarios.
- - -
“No.”
Jia gasped from the middle of the living room floor. “But Leebit wants to come.”
Chan glanced down at the growing pile of stuffed animals beside her.
“Leebit can come,” he agreed carefully. “The other six absolutely cannot.”
Jia crossed her arms immediately. “They’ll feel left out.”
“They’re stuffed animals.”
“They have feelings.”
Chan rubbed a tired hand down his face before glancing toward the clock again.
Why was he nervous?
It was dinner. Just dinner.
With the neighbor. The very pretty neighbor.
…Okay, maybe that was part of the problem.
His gaze drifted toward the unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Was bringing wine too much?
Too formal?
Weird?
Did people even bring wine to casual neighbor dinners anymore?
He barely knew you, but somehow the idea of showing up empty-handed felt worse.
- - -
The knock at your front door came at exactly seven o’clock. Chan definitely seemed like the type to apologize for being thirty seconds late.
Your stomach flipped anyway.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself while smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your shirt. “Normal.”
Which immediately became impossible the second you opened the door.
Chan stood on your porch with one hand resting lightly on Jia’s shoulder.
Freshly showered. Dark curls still slightly damp.
Black t-shirt. Black jeans.
And somehow he looked even more unfairly attractive without engine grease smeared across his face. Which felt rude, honestly.
Jia, meanwhile, looked delighted to be there. “Hi!” she chirped instantly, holding Leebit up toward you like proof of life.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Your gaze flicked back toward Chan just in time to catch him already looking at you.
Something unreadable softened briefly across his face before he held up the bottle in his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know if bringing wine was weird,” he admitted immediately.
Your heart did something genuinely embarrassing inside your chest. “No,” you said quickly. “That’s actually really sweet.”
He looked weirdly relieved by the answer. “Okay, good,” he laughed softly. “I stood in the grocery store for like ten minutes trying to decide.”
“Daddy almost bought flowers too,” Jia announced helpfully as she stepped past him into the house.
Chan froze.
You blinked.
Jia blinked back innocently.
“Jia.”
“What?”
Heat climbed straight up Chan’s neck as he shut the front door behind them. “I was not going to buy flowers.”
Jia looked deeply unconvinced. “You stared at them for a long time.”
“That’s because I couldn’t reach the wine.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Chan immediately looked both embarrassed and relieved that you were laughing instead of judging him.
“For what it’s worth,” you smiled, “I think flowers would’ve been nice.”
He stared at you for half a second too long. “Yeah?”
Jia, blissfully unaware of the psychological warfare occurring above her head, wandered farther into your house with Leebit tucked beneath one arm.
“Do you have toys?”
He sighed softly. “Jia.”
“What? I’m just asking.”
“It’s okay,” you said, smiling. “I don’t have toys, but I do have markers and coloring books somewhere.”
Jia’s entire face brightened. “For me?”
“For you and Leebit, if she wants.”
Jia looked down at the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
“She does.”
Chan watched the exchange quietly, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked like he wanted to say something.
Like maybe thank you again.
Like maybe something else entirely.
Instead, he just followed you toward the kitchen, after getting Jia settled. “Need help with anything?”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, “You’re a guest.”
“I’m bad at that.”
“At being a guest?”
His mouth twitched, “At sitting still.”
You still shooed him away despite it all.
Unfortunately, he turned out to be exactly as incapable of sitting still as advertised.
You’d barely finished setting plates on the counter before he was beside you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up slightly as he glanced around for something to do.
“What can I help with?”
“You can sit down and relax for more than five minutes.”
"That's impossible."
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you pointed toward the stove.
“Fine. Stir that for me.”
“See? This is why I offer help.”
He moved beside you easily after that, close enough that you became painfully aware of how little space your kitchen actually had.
Which had never been an issue before.
Now suddenly every movement felt catastrophically noticeable.
Especially when you turned at the exact same time he did.
He caught himself quickly, one hand bracing against the counter behind you to avoid knocking directly into you.
But it still left him close.
Very close.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s okay,” your voice came out quieter than intended.
Neither of you moved right away.
Then Jia’s voice floated in from the living room.
“Daddy, Leebit wants juice.”
Chan blinked like he’d temporarily left his body. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back again. “Juice. Important.”
You stared very hard at the vegetables in front of you while he disappeared into the living room.
Unfortunately, the universe apparently wasn’t done with you yet.
Because ten minutes later, Chan reached around you for the spoon on the counter at the exact moment you bent down to grab something from the cabinet.
His hand brushed lightly against your waist.
Both of you froze instantly.
“Sorry,” he said again, this time sounding genuinely flustered.
“You’re okay,” you answered quickly.
He lingered for half a second before stepping back again, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.
“Small kitchen,” he muttered.
“Apparently.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned back toward the stove like neither of you had just short-circuited over two seconds of accidental contact.
Neither of you spoke for a second after that.
The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, or maybe that was just you.
Chan busied himself with grabbing glasses from the cabinet while you focused very hard on stirring the pasta with too much force.
Which was ridiculous.
It was a hand brushing your waist.
Unfortunately, your nervous system seemed committed to disagreeing.
From the living room, Jia’s voice drifted toward the kitchen, “Daddy, Leebit needs to go potty!"
And just like that, the tension loosened slightly around the edges.
Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose beside you. "Bathroom?"
"First door down the hall."
“I should probably go handle that crisis,” he murmured.
“Probably.”
You risked glancing up just in time to catch him already looking at you again, seeing something softer flickered briefly across his expression before he disappeared back toward the living room.
You started setting the table while Chan helped Jia wash her hands in the bathroom. It gave you something to do with yours.
After the kitchen incident, your body still felt a little too aware of him. The brief brush of his hand. The way he’d stepped back so quickly. The way neither of you had really known where to look afterward.
You set down plates. Then napkins. Then adjusted the forks even though they were already straight.
Completely normal behavior.
From down the hall, you heard the faint rush of water, Jia’s tiny voice, then Chan’s quieter response.
You couldn’t make out the words.
Maybe that was worse.
Because even without hearing him clearly, you could still picture the patience in his face. The tired curve of his shoulders. The gentle way he spoke to her even when he looked like he was running on fumes.
You exhaled slowly and reached for the glasses to pour wine.
Dinner. Focus on dinner.
Jia reappeared first, climbing into one of the dining chairs while Chan lingered behind her in the hallway for a second.
Your gaze lifted automatically.
He’d rolled his sleeves up slightly while helping Jia wash off the chalk, exposing strong forearms, which unfortunately did not help your situation at all.
He caught you looking for a second before your attention snapped aggressively back toward the plates. Great.
"This looks really good," he said quietly as he stepped toward the table.
The sincerity in his voice caught you a little off guard.
"I-it's just pasta."
"Still," he murmured. And for some reason, the way he said it feel like he meant more than the food.
Jia looked between the two of you briefly before narrowing her eyes. “You guys are being weird.”
Both of you answered at the exact same time.
“We’re not.”
Silence.
Jia gasped softly. “That was the same voice.”
He immediately dragged a hand down his face while you nearly choked on air across the table.
“Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “Can we play detective later?”
"Mhm"
Dinner settled into something more comfortable and quiet after that.
Jia swung her legs lightly beneath the chair while absentmindedly feeding tiny pieces of bread to Leebit between her own bites of pasta.
“Daddy sleeps on the couch when he works too much,” she said suddenly.
Chan went still for half a second.
“Bug.”
Jia frowned slightly, confused by his tone. “What?” she asked softly. “It hurts your neck.”
The concern in her voice softened something in your chest immediately.
Chan looked down at his plate for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose.
“I didn’t know you noticed that.”
“I notice,” Jia informed him simply.
And somehow, that felt less like a joke this time.
Your eyes lifted toward him automatically.
He looked embarrassed.
Not because Jia had exposed him, but because someone else had heard it too.
“You should probably sleep in your bed more,” you said gently before thinking too hard about it.
His gaze flicked toward you briefly. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”
Silence settled briefly around the table after that, not awkward; just quiet in the way good conversations sometimes became.
The kind where nobody felt rushed to fill every second.
Jia eventually went back to eating, humming softly to herself while kicking her feet beneath the chair.
Chan watched her for a moment before glancing toward you again.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She overshares.”
“She gets that from you?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Definitely not.”
“Mm.”
Chan leaned back slightly in his chair then, studying you for a second over the rim of his glass.
“What about you?”
Your fork paused briefly. “What about me?”
“You know basically my entire life story already,” he said lightly. “Feels unfair.”
Warmth crept into your face immediately.
“I do not know your entire life story.”
“You know enough to ruin me in court.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you took another sip of your drink.
“Fine,” you conceded. “What do you want to know?”
Chan looked strangely thoughtful for a second.
Like he was trying to decide which question he actually cared about asking most.
You expected something casual. Favorite color. What you did for work.
Maybe whether or not you always invited near-strangers over for dinner after knowing them for less than a week.
Instead, Chan asked quietly, “Are you always this nice to people?”
The question caught you so off guard you actually blinked at him.
Across the table, his expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.
“I…” You let out a small laugh, glancing down at your plate for a second. “That’s kind of a heavy question for pasta.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t look away.
Jia hummed softly to herself beside him, completely absorbed in attempting to feed Leebit microscopic pieces of garlic bread.
You watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I guess I just think people should look out for each other.”
Your fingers traced lightly against the side of your glass.
“We stick together in our little corner of the neighborhood.”
The words settled softly between all of you.
Chan’s gaze held yours for a second too long afterward. Like maybe nobody had included him in something that gently in a very long time.
Jia yawned dramatically beside him a few minutes later, the earlier excitement of the evening finally starting to wear off.
Chan glanced down at her immediately. “You getting tired?”
“No,” she answered automatically.
Then she yawned again so hard her entire body folded forward.
You smiled into your drink while Chan shook his head softly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s convincing.”
Jia ignored him completely, leaning more heavily against his side instead. He adjusted without even looking. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
You watched them while your heart pounded at the sight. "You can lay her on the couch if you want," you offered softly.
He glanced up at you.
"You sure?"
You nodded as you got up from the table, "I'll go grab her a blanket."
He watched you disappear briefly down the hallway before looking back at Jia curled sleepily against his side.
Something in his expression softened.
Not just because you offered, but because of how naturally you did it. Like making space for them in your home hadn’t required a second thought.
By the time you returned with the blanket folded over your arms, Jia was already half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder.
He looked up as you approached, “Thank you,” he said gently.
The sincerity in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You handed him the blanket and watched him lay his daughter down carefully across the couch, making sure to tuck Leebit beneath her arm before pulling the blanket over both of them.
The sight felt almost unbearably tender. So tender, that you had to force yourself to look away before your feelings developed roots in your living room.
So instead, you escaped into the kitchen under the excuse of cleaning up. Which would’ve worked better if he hadn’t followed you with the dirty dishes a minute later.
“You know,” you said as he set them beside the sink, “most guests usually pretend to relax after dinner.”
“I told you,” he replied quietly, rolling his sleeves up slightly again. “I’m bad at staying still.”
The kitchen felt smaller now.
Quieter too.
Without Jia’s constant chatter filling the house, every little thing suddenly felt more noticeable.
The clink of dishes.
The brush of his arm beside yours.
The way he kept drifting close without seeming to realize he was doing it.
You tried very hard to focus on packing leftovers into containers instead. “Take these home with you guys,” you said, sliding one of the lids into place.
He looked over immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered on you for a second before softening slightly. “You always do things like this?”
“Feed people?”
“Take care of them.”
The question landed quieter than expected. Your hands paused briefly against the counter. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a second. “I like making people feel comfortable.”
He leaned lightly against the counter beside you, close enough now that you could smell soap lingering faintly against his skin underneath everything else.
“That explains Jia,” he murmured.
Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. You busied yourself with another container before looking over at him again.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Why’d you move here?”
Chan went quiet. His eyes drifted briefly toward the living room where Jia slept curled beneath the blanket.
“Fresh start,” he answered finally.
The words were simple. But heavy enough that you didn’t push immediately.
Chan exhaled softly through his nose before continuing anyway.
“Things got messy where we were before.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And Jia deserved somewhere quieter than all that.”
Something in your chest ached a little at the honesty in his voice.
“You'd do anything for her,” you said softly before thinking too hard about it.
Chan looked at you immediately after that. Like the answer to that question was the easiest thing in the world.
“Without a doubt." The certainty in his voice settled heavily in your chest.
Your eyes drifted toward the living room automatically, toward Jia asleep beneath the blanket with Leebit tucked against her chest.
“She’s lucky,” you murmured.
Chan was quiet for a second beside you. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
Something about the way he said it nearly took you out at the knees.
You focused very hard on snapping another lid onto a container before your face betrayed you completely.
“You make it sound easy,” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“Being there for someone like that.”
Chan leaned back against the counter slightly, studying you with an expression that had gone softer somewhere in the middle of the conversation.
“It’s not easy,” he said honestly. “You just keep choosing them anyway.”
Your hands slowed against the container in front of you before you glanced back toward him carefully. “What happened to her mom…” you asked softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Chan went still.
Quiet in a way that immediately made you wonder if you’d crossed a line.
“You don’t have to answer that,” you added quickly.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the living room again to watch Jia. “No,” he murmured after a second. “It’s okay.”
The kitchen felt smaller somehow while you waited.
Chan rubbed a hand slowly across the back of his neck before speaking again.
“She left when Jia was two.”
The words were calm, and straightforward. Like he’d repeated them enough times that they no longer sounded sharp coming out, but something in his face still tightened anyway.
“At first it was supposed to be temporary,” he admitted quietly, at least that's what it seemed like. “Then it just… wasn’t.”
Your chest ached instantly.
Chan laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t much humor in it.
“I think I spent a long time trying to convince myself I could fix it if I just worked harder.” His eyes lowered briefly toward the counter. “Turns out relationships don’t work like cars.”
The honesty in his voice made something twist painfully inside you.
“Chan…”
He shook his head lightly before you could say anything else.
“It’s better now,” he said quietly. “Or at least… calmer.” His gaze drifted toward Jia again, softening immediately. “And she’s happy.”
The way he said it made it painfully obvious that Jia’s happiness had become the center of his entire world.
Even at the expense of his own.
Silence settled quietly between you after that. Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy in a way that made you suddenly very aware of how close he was standing beside you.
The sink ran softly while you rinsed out one of the pots, mostly just to give your hands something to do.
He stayed leaned against the counter nearby, arms loosely crossed now. Open in a way he probably wasn't used to.
“I didn’t mean to make things depressing,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before.
You looked over immediately. “You didn’t.”
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.
“People usually get uncomfortable,” he admitted eventually. “Once they realize it’s just me and Jia.”
Your chest tightened slightly. “Why?”
He gave a small shrug, gaze dropping briefly toward the counter.
“Single dad thing, I guess.” A faint breath of laughter escaped him. “People either think you’re barely surviving or they start looking at you like you’re some kind of tragedy.”
You frowned. “That’s stupid.”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by how quickly you answered.
"I mean it," you continued softly. "You're a great dad, Chan."
He broke eye contact first, "I'm trying," he admitted quietly.
Something about the honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected, because he didn’t sound like someone asking for praise.
Just a parent who was tired.
The rest of the cleaning happened quietly after that.
Softer now, like something between you had shifted slightly without either of you fully acknowledging it.
Chan dried dishes while you put dishes away, the occasional brush of your arms still enough to make your heartbeat stumble embarrassingly fast. Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time the kitchen was finally clean again, the apartment had gone almost completely still.
Jia remained curled beneath the blanket on the couch, one tiny hand still wrapped around Leebit’s ear.
He glanced toward her before exhaling softly through his nose. “She’s out cold.”
“I think the pasta took her down.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes drifted toward the half-finished bottle of wine still sitting on the counter.
“You want me to head out?” he asked.
The question sounded polite, but not like he actually wanted to leave.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass before you answered.
“You can stay a little longer if you want.”
Chan looked at you then, something in his expression softened in a way that immediately made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, the two of you ended up back in the living room with fresh glasses of wine while Jia slept peacefully nearby.
The television stayed off.
Neither of you seemed to mind the quiet.
He leaned back carefully into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched loosely along the cushion behind Jia while you sat a little farther down the other end.
Close enough to talk softly. Close enough to notice things.
Like how his voice got rougher when he was tired.
Like how he listened with his full attention whenever you spoke.
Like how neither of you seemed in much of a hurry for the night to end anymore.
The conversation drifted easily after that.
Slower than before. Less careful.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Or maybe the two of you had simply crossed whatever invisible line existed between strangers and something else entirely.
“So,” Chan murmured after a while, turning his glass slowly between his hands, “how’d you end up here?”
You smiled faintly. “In this house specifically?”
“In this aggressively nosy neighborhood.”
A laugh slipped out of you softly enough that Jia stirred slightly beneath the blanket before settling again.
Both of your eyes immediately flicked toward her. Chan’s expression softened automatically once he realized she was still asleep.
It did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system.
“I grew up around neighborhoods like this,” you admitted quietly once the room settled again. “Everybody knowing each other. Neighbors bringing over food, or having neighborhood cookouts. Somebody’s aunt always watching from a window somewhere.”
Chan huffed softly into his wine. “That last part definitely tracks.”
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your glass.
“You’re never letting the spying thing go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
His smile lingered afterward. Softer now.
Less teasing than before. Like he’d relaxed enough to stop hiding behind it quite so much.
“I think I missed this,” he admitted after a moment.
Your expression eased slightly. “The spying?”
Chan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze drifted around the house briefly before settling back on you. “Just… this.”
The room. The conversation. The calm.
You understood immediately anyway.
Something in your chest tightened gently. “It gets lonely?” you asked softly.
Chan was quiet for a second. “Sometimes it feels like I only exist as somebody’s dad now.”
The honesty in the sentence settled heavily between you. He looked almost surprised after saying it out loud. Like he hadn’t meant to.
“Not that I mind being her dad,” he added quickly, glancing toward Jia again. “I just…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of work and bills and trying to keep everything together, I think I forgot how to be a person outside of taking care of everybody else.”
Your heart genuinely hurt for him then, because he said it so casually.
Like he’d gotten used to carrying that feeling around alone.
“Chan,” you said softly.
His tired eyes lifted toward you again.
The wine had loosened something in him tonight. Not enough to make him reckless.
Just enough to make him honest.
“You know what the weird part is?” he admitted quietly after a second. “I don’t even think I noticed how lonely I was until recently.”
Your chest tightened immediately. “Recently?”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his glass.
“Yeah.”
The single word landed warm. Heavy with implication neither of you addressed directly.
You looked down at your wine before smiling softly to yourself. “I think,” you admitted carefully, “sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget they’re allowed to want more than that.”
Chan went very still across from you. Like the sentence had landed somewhere deeper than you intended, or maybe exactly where you intended.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The house had gone completely quiet around you.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The soft ticking of your kitchen clock.
Jia breathing steadily beneath the blanket a few feet away.
Chan’s gaze stayed fixed on you longer than it probably should have. Not intense. Not even flirtatious, really. Just… searching.
“You always know the right thing to say,” he mumbled eventually, voice rougher now.
Warmth crept up your neck immediately. “No,” you laughed softly. “Most of the time I’m just hoping I don’t sound insane.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You don’t.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.
Like he wasn’t just reassuring you. He genuinely meant it.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.
You’re easy to talk to too,” you admitted quietly after a second.
Chan looked faintly surprised by that. “Yeah?”
You nodded once, tracing your thumb along the stem of your wine glass.“Most people don’t actually listen anymore. They just wait for their turn to talk.”
Chan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose at that, gaze dropping briefly toward the floor.
“Occupational hazard, maybe.”
“Mechanics are good listeners?”
“Single dads,” he corrected softly.
Something in your chest shifted at the answer.
Chan leaned back further into the couch afterward, looking more relaxed now than you’d seen him all night, or maybe just less guarded.
“I think I forgot what it felt like to sit somewhere and not feel stressed the whole time,” he admitted after a moment.
Your eyes lifted toward him immediately. He sounded almost confused by the realization himself.
Before you could think too hard about it, the words slipped out, “You can come here whenever you need a break.”
He looked at you. Holding that steady kind of attention that always made you feel like he was listening to more than your actual words.
Your pulse stumbled almost instantly.
“That’s a dangerous thing to offer me,” he said quietly.
Your breath caught slightly at the softness in his voice. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Chan’s gaze lingered on you for a second. “Because I think I’d get used to it.”
The confession settled between you gently. Not flirtatious. Somehow worse.
Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately looked down into your wine glass just to regain composure.
He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late because a quiet laugh escaped him afterward, softer around the edges now.
“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “That sounded more intense out loud.”
“A little,” you admitted weakly.
His smile widened faintly. “The wine’s making me honest.”
“I think you were honest before the wine.”
Chan looked at you carefully after that. Like he was trying to figure out whether you understood how much he already meant every word he said to you.
The terrifying part was, you did.
Chan glanced away first this time, exhaling quietly through his nose before leaning forward to set his glass down on the coffee table.
“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Your eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Why?”
“Because Jia gets attached easily.” His gaze flicked toward the couch automatically. “And I didn’t want to assume…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t know. That we could just suddenly start showing up in your life all the time.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at the wording.
Showing up in your life.
Like he’d already been thinking about the possibility.
“Chan,” you said softly, "you guys are not a burden to me."
Chan looked down briefly, thumb dragging once against the side of his glass before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You say things like that so casually,” he murmured.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why do you say that?”
His eyes lifted toward yours again, “You don’t realize what hearing that does to someone.”
Your heart stuttered.
From the couch, Jia shifted sleepily beneath the blanket with a soft little whine.
Both of your heads turned automatically.
Chan checked the time on his phone and immediately grimaced. “Okay,” he muttered quietly. “I definitely overstayed.”
“You didn’t.” The reassurance slipped out before you could stop it.
Chan looked at you for half a second before his expression softened again in that dangerous way you were rapidly becoming too attached to.
“Still,” he said gently, pushing himself up from the couch. “She’s gonna be impossible to wake up for school tomorrow if I don’t get her home.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly as the reality of the night ending settled in.
Suddenly, the house already felt quieter.
Chan crossed the living room slowly before crouching beside the couch. “Bug,” he murmured gently, brushing a curl away from Jia’s face. “Time to head home.”
Jia squinted up at him sleepily from beneath the blanket.
“M’tired.”
“I know.”
“Carry me?”
Chan’s expression softened immediately. “Always.”
Your heart nearly folded in on itself right there.
Jia lifted her arms sleepily toward him while he carefully gathered Leebit and the blanket first before reaching down for her.
Like this exact routine had happened a hundred times before.
Jia curled against his chest almost instantly after he picked her up, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Half-asleep already.
“Tell your neighbor thank you,” Chan murmured quietly.
Jia peeked one eye open toward you. “Thank you for pasta,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Her eyes drifted shut again immediately afterward. Chan adjusted her slightly higher against his chest before glancing toward you.
“Sorry again for staying so late.”
“Chan.”
He stopped immediately at your tone.
“You don’t have to apologize for being here.”
Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Like hearing it still caught him off guard.
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