➥ Contains: Just domestic wholesomeness feat. a dorky loverboy who gets horny at the thought having kids with you
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Dead dove do not eat: playful banter and physical intimacy in a loving relationship
➥ Chris has been in the trenches with your cat ever since your “HAHAHA WE’RE JUST FRIENDS” phase, and you made it very clear to him that he can’t get into your pants until he has her blessing. As a JOKE.
But he took it so seriously that he’s actually trying to win her over, and it’s fucking hilarious to watch the lengths your man will go to touch you.
*a/n: Your Domestopher fix so you don't forget me, based on a cute video I’ve seen on YouTube. This is to give you a false sense of security before I unleash three counts of absolutely deranged filth on you.
“You’re joking,” Chris stares at you in disbelief.
“No sir, I’m not jaurking at all. Rules are rules,” you purse your lips. “Unless she likes you, we can’t have sex.”
“But baby, she hates me!” he vehemently protests. “I don’t think I ever walked out of this house without a scratch, and I mean that literally.”
“Well, never say never,” you knowingly grin at him. “I was convinced I’d never hear you call me baby one day, but that happened, so…”
Aaaand you’re wet.
When he does that stupid thing with his stupid dimples, your brain turns off. If he adds that stupid giggle frosting on top, your heart melts.
And motherfucker knows that because the night you finally, and very much drunkenly, confessed your feelings to each other, that was word for word what you said to him!
“You wanted me to call you baby that much?” he wraps his arms around your waist.
“Are you trying to charm me into caving?” you put your hands on his shoulders.
“Is it working?” he speaks against your lips.
When does it not, though, this MOTHERFUCKER!
Every time he takes your lips within his, your spine immediately evaporates. Willpower? Nope. Feminism? Never heard of her.
But if you fold like the wettest napkin even at make-believe, then what the hell are you gonna do if you will have to stand your ground one day?
“NO!” you stop him with a smack on his peach-shaped ass. “My word is final. She either purrs on your chest, or we’re not doing it.”
“Oh, come ON!”
You quickly remove yourself from the room to go take a cold shower because you don’t believe a word of what you just said. If he kisses you for ten more seconds, you will jump him yourself, and in a very Victorian-man-seeing-an-ankle fashion. If you can survive tonight, then you can train yourself to not turn into a fucking puddle every time he blasts the puppy eyes at you. And also…
Chris might be one of the better apples of the bunch, but he’s still a man. You kinda wanna see how long it’ll take him to snap and get aggressive on the seduction.
And it’s kinda hot to think about.
Thanks to whatever stars aligned, you’ve managed to survive the night despite his sexy as hell scent, his habit of sleeping naked, and even the discreet dry humping incident. Come the morning, you pat yourself on the shoulder for a job well done, and almost wheeze at the hysterical sight of a morning wood situation going on. Though the comedy lasts for only about five seconds when you’re suddenly consumed with this urge to taste him.
You slap yourself to get it together and make a mental note of the three different wake up calls you want to try on Chris starting tomorrow morning.
After a quick shower, you get ready for work and head to the kitchen for your caffeine intake, but you don’t know what to make of the bizarre sight you’re met with. Chris is crouching on the living room floor, not moving an inch.
“Baby, what are you doing?” you cackle at the weird tactical assault position.
“Slow blinking,” he explains in lowercase letters. “I heard that’s how cats show affection.”
Oh my GOD?!
Well, no, you did not think he would actually go for it, thank you very much, but there’s your big buff Samoyed man, trying to make himself as small for your palm-sized girl as he can so he wouldn’t look as threatening. AT 7 AM IN THE MORNING!
You didn’t have any intention to actually abide by your arbitrary rule, but on the other hand, this show seems very bingeable.
Within the next few days, Chris becomes a total catthropologist, studying every single detail about Magda. Wherever he randomly runs into her, he kneels and extends his hand so she gets used to his scent. He picks up on her quirky habit of stashing hair ties all over the house, buys an entire pack to “hunt” with her, and even goes out of his way to fill up half the snack cabinet with tasty treats.
“Don’t spoil her this much!” you whine upon seeing the newest Churu pack.
“Hey, everything is fair in love and war, and this is active fucking warfare that you started,” Chris refutes, pointing at you. “I’m conditioning her to think I’m a tube machine; I don’t give a fuck.”
That evening, you finally come home after working so late, wondering what kind of hilarity you’ll be greeted by this time. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if you find Chris actually building a parkour for Magda.
“Hey, baby, I’m home,” you call out towards the TV sound. “Are you watching a Big Cats documentary or something?”
When you walk into the living room, your heart almost pops like a champagne.
It’s not a Big Cats documentary, but there is a bird feeder livestream on the screen. Chris has dozed off on the couch, several hair ties scattered on the floor like gigantic Froot Loops, and Magda has turned into a croissant on his chest like the fluffiest sleep paralysis demon in existence.
Oh, it’s so cute, you’re gonna DIE!
You take a short video of the wholesomest thing you’ve ever seen and snap a few pictures back to back, then head towards them, gently sitting on the couch to not disturb either. Magda instantly wakes up and moves to your lap to continue her nap. You caress Chris’s rioting curls for a while with a fond smile on your face, and eventually overcome by your excessive adoration, you place a big kiss on his forehead.
“Mm, welcome home, baby,” he greets you with a smile, then proudly declares. “I think I’ve made some progress today.”
“Yeah?”
“But I think I still have some ways to go,” he rubs his eyes and sits up. “Is it cheating if I suggestively meow at her?”
Is it weird that you suddenly want to have his babies? WHY IS HE BEING SO ADORABLE?
“Why don’t you suggestively meow at me first?” you scratch under his chin, and he immediately flinches.
“Baby, please, I’m… I’m not…”
“You what?”
“How do I put this delicately? I’ve been, um…” he scratches his nape sheepishly, “saving all my love for you, so…”
You crack up at his choice of words and grab your phone, presenting the evidence to end his misery.
“NO FUCKING WAY, THAT DID NOT HAPPEN!” he borderline screams, scaring Magda into hiding.
“I believe the saying goes as ‘Pics or it didn’t happen’, but suit yourself,” you lock your screen.
“That means she likes me now, right? RIGHT?” he asks again just to confirm. “That has to be like third base in cat-timacy.”
“I think so,” you feign cluelessness.
“Then can we now please, but please,” he cozies up to you, “do other stuff than cuddling?
“I can’t fucking believe you,” you finally burst out laughing. “I really thought you would just go ‘fuck this’ like on day two.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he frowns. “You told me we can’t have sex unless she purred on my chest.”
“And it’s very cute that you believed it,” you squish his cheeks, “but I had every intention of fucking you tonight no matter what because enough is enough.”
“YOU’RE TELLING ME I DIDN’T HAVE TO PUT MYSELF THROUGH THIS AND THAT AT ALL?”
“Well, no, BUT!” you point at him, “because you did, you deserve a very special treat.”
“Y–Yeah?” he instantly backpedals, loving what he’s hearing. “What–What kind of a treat?”
“Anything you want,” you whisper into his ear.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” he folds in half like he’s about to cum.
“As if you’re capable of asking for something freaky,” you let out a hearty laugh. “I’ve known you my whole life. The most you’ll ask, IF you can, is maybe anal.”
“And if I ask… you’ll…” he hesitantly asks. “You’ll do it?”
“Do you want our first time to be anal?”
“I’m asking, like… hypothetically at SOME point in time but maybe like next week since it’s my birthday,” he rapid-fire raps the sentence to tackle his embarrassment to the ground. “Would you say yes?”
“If you can persuade me,” you rub the tip of his reddened ears teasingly.
“Oh, I’m gonna eat your pussy so hard, you’ll black out.”
And that’s Chris’s all-time favorite kiss. The kind where he kisses into your smile. Your laughter. Your giggles. Because every time without fail, he contracts it from you, and you end up laughing like idiots in the middle of kissing.
Every time without fail, you fall deeper in love with each other.
“Well, since I can have anything,” he tucks your hair behind your ear, “I do have a special request.”
He whispers it in your ear as if there is a crowd in the room that shouldn’t hear your intimate secrets. You can’t help but laugh again, and after giving him one last kiss, you head to the bedroom to get ready. Shortly after, you emerge again and find Chris in the kitchen doing the dishes, tightly wrapping your arms around his waist to press your breasts on his back.
He’s so excited, you can actually feel his body perk up at your touch.
“No looking,” you tickle his sides as a threat and turn him towards the bedroom door, still behind him. “Come this way, lover boy.”
The ambiance is just right with the dim lights and the scent of Chris’s favorite candles on the nightstand, and when you enter the bedroom, his heart starts beating in his ears. He sits on the bed, covering his eyes per your request. You close the door, finally ready to present yourself.
“Alright, you can look now.”
He opens one eye first, and his face immediately falls, completely awestruck. He thickly swallows and his lips part, leaving you wondering just how the heck he can breathe this heavily from only this much. He extends one hand to you to come closer, and you catwalk your way to him, clad in nothing but fishnet stockings and high heels, perching on his lap.
“Let the record show that I love and respect you very very much,” he utters staring at your breasts, excited to the point of a blackout.
“Where did that come from all of a sudden?” you snort.
“Because I’m about to fuck you like you’re my government-assigned whore.”
You let slip a little shriek through your giggles when he slams you on the mattress, inhaling your lips as he guides you both towards the headboard. You are so consumed by your lust for him that you’re about to shred his clothes to pieces. You almost cum untouched when he stands on his knees, letting you take in the overwhelming beauty of his gorgeous physique. How he looks like he’s sculpted by gods. How he looks like he’s made of marble. How everything on his body is so hard, and how his cock is leaking like it’s about to burst.
You gasp when he tangles his fingers into the fishnets and tears the fabric just around the crotch area.
“You’ve been dying to bounce on this for days, haven’t you?” he makes you palm his girth, throwing his head back when you gently squeeze it. “Had fun dragging me through hell?”
“Yes,” you shamelessly smirk at him.
“Can’t believe I’ll finally get to taste you,” he growls as he descends between your legs. “But gotta check something first.”
He puts his thumb on your mound and his pinky right under your stomach, seemingly measuring something.
“What are you doing?” you chuckle.
“Nothing,” he purses his lips. “Just reference.”
“Reference for w— OH MY GOD, CHRIS!”
He doesn’t hear the question. He doesn’t hear anything other than how you moan his name and the lewd sounds he makes on your sopping wet pussy, losing himself in the taste he’s been yearning for for years.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he inaudibly whispers into you. “And now all mine.”
You don’t need to hear it—you feel each and every one of those words echo in your ribcage, and they inflate your heart to a size that takes up all the space in your chest. It’s true. And now he’s all yours too.
You have never loved anything as much as you love this man.
“S–So close. Please,” you reach for his hands. “Baby, I’m almost there. A little fa— Oh, yes, like that. Like that. God, I’m gonna cum so hard for you…”
You say “for you”, and something explodes within Chris. He starts moaning into you so loudly that it’s as if he’s trying to say something through screams. You don’t need to hear it. You too would die for him in a heartbeat.
For the first time in your life, as your entire body gets shocked from head to toe, you moan an “I love you” when you cum.
Without giving you a moment’s respite, he flips you over and takes a delicious bite from your ass, ripping the fabric covering your hips completely.
“On fours for me,” he instructs with a gentle tap on your thighs, pumping himself to full hardness, then presses his tip against your oozing entrance. “Teases are the worst kinds of flirts, baby. You had this coming.”
“YES!”
He rams his cock into you, unwittingly sending himself to another dimension. He’s lost count of how many times he’s imagined this exact moment, but no matter how vividly he’s tried picturing it, it could never compare to the real thing.
“Harder,” you grit your teeth. “Go harder. I can take it.”
“Mm, good girl. Gooood girl. Learning to take your man properly,” he pulls your hair a little, grazing his teeth against your jawline. “Feels full, yeah?”
“So much,” you claw at the pillows. “So… S–So full…”
“All for you. It’s all for you. Taking it so well, my beautiful angel,” he leaves wet kisses all over your neck. “Turn around. Let me see your pretty face.”
He quickly realigns himself, but takes his sweet time sinking in, loving the way his cock disappears into you. He sucks in such a sharp breath in delight, his face all contorted, dying of how maddeningly pleasurable your pussy feels around him. He suddenly throws your legs on his shoulders and leans forward, making you whimper at the sensation.
“So fucking wet for me. Your walls are soooo swollen, baby,” he pants as he picks up his pace, fingertips sinking deeper into your flesh. “I could totally knock you up like this.”
“Trying to be my baby daddy?” you flash him a fucked out smile.
To your absolute surprise, Chris lets out a very loud exhale and throbs inside you so hard that you feel it in your stomach.
“Oh my GOD, really?!”
“SHUT UP! I’ve always wanted to be a father,” he tries to bury his embarrassment under the bed. “So what if I want it to be with the love of my life?”
“I’m…” you look up at him, on the brink of tears for no reason. “I’m the love of your life?”
“You can’t be serious,” he slows way down and lowers himself to be closer to you. “Did an entire decade we’ve known each other NOT tip you off?”
If happiness had a shape, it would be in the shape of Chris. You’re so endeared, you start laughing all of a sudden, pulling him into a kiss. You don’t even understand how that can happen. You can physically feel yourself to be at the absolute capacity of the love you can hold for him, but every time you kiss, you still fall deeper in love.
Every single time without fail.
“I love you. God, I love you so much,” he drowns your face in pecks. “You’re my everything.”
“What I’m about to say might make you shrivel like a prune, but I’m just gonna,” you blurt out.
“W–What is it?”
“I want a forever with you, Chris.”
You didn’t need to say it—he knows. He’s known all this time. But when he finally hears it directly spilling from your lips, he feels each and every one of those words echo in his ribcage, and they inflate his heart to a size that takes up all the space in his chest.
He has never loved anything as much as he loves you.
“Then it’s yours,” he holds your face. “Everything I have, everything I am, all of it is yours forever.”
“Cum inside me,” you hold onto his shoulders. “Let me have you.”
“No, cum with me,” he urges. “Go on baby, cum with me.”
Any other person in the world, and a climax is a total gamble. The odds are never in your favor because the house always wins. But when it’s with Chris, it’s terrifying how easy it is. When the man you’ve been in love with your whole life just asks for it, turns out it’s the same thing as having him devour you between your legs for hours on end. It feels like you merge into this single entity when he finally finally empties himself inside you with loud cries of your name. And you wish you could spend the rest of your life in this bed in each other’s arms, just letting him rest on your chest as much as he wants while you stroke his hair.
God fucking knows he’s been running far too fast for far too long.
When you finally come to your senses, a sound steals your attention, which alerts you that Magda is about to scratch her way into the bedroom. You welcome the cuntress in as you leave to get some water, and she immediately bolts towards the bed. When you return with a sweating glass bottle, you find her on top of Chris, shoving her tiny head into the crook of his neck.
“Oh crap, this early in the relationship, and I already have to share you?” you giggle, bursting with endearment. “I really didn’t think this through, did I?”
“Nah, it’s fine. We’ll just get a big ass doggo brother for her, and he’ll snuggle with you,” he puts out the remnants of the wildfire inside him with the ice-cold water, then threateningly points at you with his eyes psychotically widened. “Don’t even think about revoking sex until his training is complete, or I swear to god I’ll fucking riot!”
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to co-parent a stray with Chris.
Summary: Binnie desperately tries to make things right.
Warnings: SO angsty in the beginning but a nice fluffy happy ending.
Word count: 11.6k.
a/n: erm, holy heck I wasn't expecting the first part to be as popular as it was? So hello, here's part two and your happy ending, guys!
[Part One]
Changbin has never hated traffic more in his life.
The whole way home, every red light feels personal, and every car ahead of him is taunting him, moving deliberately slowly. Time seems to stretch as he feels every second tick away against him. His knee bounces violently, and he checks his phone at every opportunity. You haven't messaged again, but that could be because you’re still waiting for an answer. Because in his haste, he stupidly didn't answer.
“Fuck.”
He should have answered. What kind of idiot sees why? from the woman he loves and thinks I'll explain when I get there?
He can’t stop thinking about your message and how easily you’d accepted what he’d said, mistake or not. As if all you wanted now was to understand why the man who kissed you goodbye yesterday morning apparently decided by the next day that he wants to be free of you. There had been no anger, no disbelief. You’d just sounded resigned to it.
He grabs his phone at another light and starts typing.
Bin ❤️: baby please
The car behind him honks, and Changbin swears as he drops the phone onto the passenger seat. He’s five minutes away now, and his mind keeps constructing images he refuses to look at directly.
You crying.
You packing.
You calling somebody.
You deciding you've had enough.
You leaving before he gets there.
That last possibility makes his chest tighten.
“No.”
He grips the steering wheel harder. You have to be at home. You’re probably sitting on the sofa, furious with him. He can handle furious - wants furious. He wants you to shout at him, maybe throw a cushion at his head and tell him that he’s an idiot for scaring you.
Anything except silence.
He parks badly, but he doesn't care. His priority right now is explaining everything to you. His bag is barely over his shoulder when he starts running towards the building. Before he realises, he’s outside the flat’s door, keys in hand.
His hands shake so badly he misses the lock on the first attempt.
The door opens on the second attempt, and he charges inside in a rush, calling, “Baby?”
The only response he gets is silence.
“Baby?”
His voice echoes faintly when he tries again, and his stomach drops as his pulse picks up.
“Baby, I'm home.”
When he walks around the flat, checking each room carefully, they all turn up empty. For several seconds he simply stands there. His brain refuses to process what he's seeing because you aren't here.
“Okay.”
He tries to take a deep, steadying breath in but fails. His mind is running rampant with excuses for your absence. You probably just went out, and that’s fine because you’re an adult and you can go out. You don't need permission to leave your own flat.
Especially after what you think he just sent you.
“Okay.”
He turns around and walks back towards the kitchen.
That's when he sees it.
Your phone is on the floor, lying face down beside something dark. He walks closer and sees that it’s his hoodie on the floor next to your phone. The one you'd been wearing earlier this week. But this time, it's crumpled on the floor.
Changbin's stomach drops, and he bends down to snatch your phone up.
“No.”
The screen wakes, and his messages are right there, clear for anyone to see. He can also see your last message to him.
why?
There’s nothing after that, and he struggles to keep his composure. He’d made so many plans on the way home. He'd told himself that he would tell you everything in person. That he’d show you the file he had actually meant to send and play I Do for you himself if he had to. He wanted to show you the timestamps, the folder, and the stupid, mislabelled demo.
He would have dragged Chan into the flat to verify the whole thing if that's what it took.
Instead, he’s left surrounded by silence and your memories.
“Baby?”
He calls it louder now, checking the flat again. He feels ridiculous when he’s desperate enough to check the wardrobe and under the bed.
Why would she be under the bed, you idiot?
“Fuck.”
His breathing starts changing as he stands in the middle of the bedroom, your phone still clenched in his hand. Why would you leave without it? You never leave without your phone.
His eyes land on your bedside table, and he sees that your purse is gone, along with your keys. Changbin rushes towards the entrance and sees that only one pair of shoes is missing, too. He figures that that must be somewhat of a good sign. If only one pair of shoes is missing, then that means you’re coming back, right?
His thoughts begin tripping over each other when he thinks of what state you must have been in.
You were probably devastated. You thought he'd broken up with you. You asked why, and he didn’t answer.
And then you left the flat without your phone.
“Fuck.”
Changbin runs.
He checks the convenience store first but finds nothing. The cashier recognises him enough to look startled when Changbin rushes in.
“Did she come in?”
The cashier blinks, and Changbin realises how insane that sounds. He fumbles for his phone before remembering he's holding yours.
“My girlfriend. She—she comes here a lot. About this tall, probably wearing—”
What are you wearing?
Fuck. He doesn't know. He was at Felix's. He didn't see you this morning.
“I don't know.” The cashier looks confused by Changbin's sudden change of direction, and his chest tightens further. “Sorry.”
He leaves and heads to his next best guess – the café. When he gets there, the lights are off, and there are no signs of life inside. He spins on his heel and runs to the little park three streets away. It’s empty except for an elderly man walking a tiny white dog. Changbin circles the paths, checking the benches but still finds nothing. He calls your name once, then again. A woman jogging into the park looks at him strangely, but he doesn’t care.
Maybe the river?
You sometimes walk there, so he heads in that direction. His phone is in his pocket now; yours is in his hand because he doesn't want to leave it at home even though logically carrying it means you can't call it.
That thought makes him stop.
Maybe you went somewhere to call someone. Except without your phone, who would you call? Felix would be his first guess, but you don’t know his number off the top of your head. You don’t think you’d call any of his other bandmates either. His thoughts spiral faster as he realises that you have money for a taxi, a train if necessary.
His thoughts fracture, and he tries to breathe. He tries to tell himself that it’s fine because it’s only been -
How long?
He checks the time. Twenty-six minutes since he got home, but that means nothing. You could have been gone an hour before then, if not more. The fact he doesn’t know makes his stomach twist and his chest clench.
“Baby?” he calls as he sees the river.
He walks faster, and every person ahead of him briefly becomes you. They suddenly have the same colour jacket, similar hair, the same height. Every time, his heart leaps before crashing again. He starts calling people, Felix first.
“Hyung?”
“Is she with you?”
Felix goes quiet. “What?”
“Is she there?”
“No.”
“Has she called you?”
“No. Changbin, what happened?”
“I sent the wrong song.”
“What?”
“I sent her Way Out.”
There’s silence from the other end for a second before an uncharacteristic -
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.” Changbin hears the break in his own voice. “I got home, and she was gone.”
“Maybe she went for a walk.”
“Her phone's here.”
Felix's voice changes at the news. “Okay.”
Changbin suddenly bristles and asks, “Why are you saying it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like something's wrong.”
“I didn't—”
“She left her phone.”
“I know.”
“She never leaves her phone.”
“Hyung, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
He's not. At least, not properly. He ends the call before Felix can say anything else. He tries Seungmin next, then Han, Hyunjin, I.N. Nobody has seen you, and every call shrinks his world further.
He checks the park again but doesn’t know why exactly. He tells himself that he could have somehow missed you. Maybe you went to the park after he left. He circles it twice, but it’s just as empty as the first time.
He walks towards the bus stop, wondering if you took a bus.
Which one?
Where would you go?
If you went to your friend's house, which friend?
He knows your friends, but suddenly names have disappeared from his head. He can't think, and his chest feels strange. Tight. He pulls his phone out and calls you instinctively. The vibration startles him when your phone buzzes in his other hand. Changbin stares at it, and for half a second, his mind doesn't understand.
Then a horrible sound escapes him.
“Fuck.”
He ends the call. His hands are trembling badly now as he sits down on the bus-stop bench. He stands again, too restless to sit still for even a second. He walks three steps but then turns back on himself.
Where the fuck are you?
He should have answered, should have typed wrong song. He should never have left last night, never have said those things. He should never have made you believe—
His chest constricts sharply, and Changbin stops. He tries to breathe in, but nothing happens. He tries again, and his breathing is too shallow. His heart begins beating painfully hard.
“No.”
He presses a hand against his chest.
Not now.
He needs to find you.
He starts walking again, but his legs feel wrong. They feel too light, and the pavement seems oddly distant. He sucks in another breath, but it catches halfway down.
“Come on.”
He bends slightly, palms on his knees. People pass, but he barely notices them because his heart is hammering now. It’s too fast.
He knows this feeling.
He hates this feeling.
“No, no, no.”
He tries to straighten, but it’s a bad idea. The world tilts, and he reaches for the bus shelter, gripping the metal frame. His fingers are numb, and his lips feel strange. His chest won't open enough.
Changbin tries to count.
One.
Two.
Three—
Where are you?
The thought destroys the count.
What if something happened?
No. Don't.
What if you were crying and stepped into the road?
Stop.
What if somebody—
Stop.
What if—
“Fuck.”
He pulls his phone out, but his fingers don't cooperate. It takes three attempts to open his contacts. He finds Chan’s contact and hits call.
Chan answers quickly. “Bin?”
Changbin tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Bin?”
“I can't—”
His voice breaks, and Chan's tone changes immediately. “Where are you?”
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean you don't know?”
“I can't find her.”
There is a pause.
“What?”
“I sent—wrong song—and she asked why and I didn't answer because I was coming home and when I got there she wasn't there and her phone was on the floor and I've looked everywhere and nobody's seen her and I can't—”
The words become tangled as his breathing gets faster.
Chan interrupts. “Changbin.”
“I can't find her.”
“I know.”
“She doesn't have her phone.”
“I know.”
“What if she—”
“Bin.” Chan's voice is firm now. “Look at me.”
Changbin almost laughs hysterically. “You're on the phone.”
“You know what I mean. Listen to me.” Changbin shuts his eyes. “Where are you standing?”
“I don't know.”
“Look around.”
Changbin forces his eyes open. He sees the bus shelter, the pharmacy and the bakery next to it.
“The bus stop near the pharmacy.”
“Okay. Good.”
“I need to keep looking.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
Changbin's eyes widen. “No.”
“Bin.”
“No. I can't just sit there.”
“You're having a panic attack.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
“I need to find her.”
“And you're not going to find her while you're barely breathing and running around without any idea where you're going.”
Changbin grips the shelter harder. “She could be anywhere.”
“I know.”
“She thinks I broke up with her.”
“I know.”
“She asked me why, and I didn't fucking answer.”
“I know.”
His voice breaks completely. “What if she doesn't come back?”
Chan goes quiet for half a second before his voice softens. “She left her phone.”
Changbin swallows. “Yeah.”
“She left her things there.”
“Some of them.”
“Then there's every chance she just needed to get out of the flat because she was upset.”
Changbin presses his forehead against the cold metal of the bus shelter, eyes welling up. “You don't know that.”
“No. I don't. But I do know that if she comes home and you're gone, she's going to be alone again.”
Changbin stops as Chan’s words land, and the elder realises that he’s finally getting through to him.
“Go home.”
“But—”
“I'll look.”
Changbin closes his eyes. “What?”
“I'll come to your area. I'll check the routes she usually walks. The park. Cafés. Anywhere obvious.”
“Hyung, you have—”
“I don't care.” Chan's voice is immediate. “Go home and wait for her.”
Changbin's knees feel weak. “I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I don't want to sit there.”
“I know.”
“I'll lose my mind.”
“You're already halfway there.” Despite everything, something like a broken laugh catches in Changbin's throat, and Chan takes advantage of the tiny change. “Walk home slowly.”
Changbin tries to breathe in but fails. He tries again as Chan’s voice filters through the phone again.
“Tell me when you start walking.”
Changbin pushes himself away from the shelter, onto shaky legs. “I'm walking.”
“Good.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“What if she's not there when I get back?”
“Then you wait.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Changbin's eyes sting. “Hyung.”
“Yeah?”
“I really hurt her.”
Chan exhales softly. “Yes.” Changbin winces. “But this isn't the moment to decide what that means for your relationship.”
“I didn't want to break up.”
“I know.”
“I don't.”
“I know, Bin.”
“I was trying to send her I Do.”
“I know.”
“She doesn't know that.”
“You'll tell her.”
“If she comes back.”
“When she comes back, you'll tell her.”
Changbin doesn't correct him. He needs Chan's certainty even if neither of them can guarantee anything.
He walks, forcing one foot in front of another. His breathing gradually begins to slow to a more survivable rate. He checks every side street as he walks anyway. Scans every passing face and bench.
Nothing.
When he reaches the building, his stomach knots. “I’m here.”
“Go upstairs.”
The corridor feels endless as he unlocks the door.
“Baby?” He knew there’d be silence, but it doesn’t hurt any less as he says, “She's not here.”
“Okay.”
Changbin closes the door. The flat looks exactly as it did when he ran out as he sinks onto the sofa, legs finally giving up.
“I'm home.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting shoes on.”
“Hyung.”
“I said I'd look.”
Guilt immediately rises. “You don't have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Changbin closes his eyes, leaning forward. His elbows rest on his knees, your phone between his palms. The screen is dark.
“Chan.”
“Mm?”
“What if she heard the whole song?”
Chan pauses. “She probably did.”
Changbin presses his lips together. “What if she believes every word?”
“Right now she might.” His chest tightens again at his hyung’s honesty. “But that doesn't mean she'll believe it forever.”
Changbin looks around at the flat. Your shared life. He looks at the photographs of happier times, the blanket you usually cuddle under on your movie nights, the favourite mug you’d left drying by the sink. Everything that this morning he stupidly assumed would still be here no matter how badly he behaved.
Now the silence terrifies him.
“I should've stayed.”
Chan doesn't ask when, just says, “Last night.”
Changbin nods even though Chan can't see him, repeats, “I should've stayed.”
“Probably.”
“I should've just told her.”
“Yes.”
“That I'm scared.”
“Yes.”
“That Minho leaving makes everything feel real.”
“Yes.”
“That every time I look at her I think about having to leave her, too.”
“Yes.”
Changbin's voice cracks. “I made it happen early.”
Chan goes quiet. “Made what happen, Bin?”
“I was so scared of leaving her someday that I pushed her away now.” The realization is unbearable. Changbin bows his head, and his tears fall onto your phone screen. “I did exactly what I was scared of.”
“Bin.”
“She probably thinks I don't love her.”
“She knows you love her.”
“How could she?” The question comes out sharper than he intends. “After last night? After that fucking song? How could she possibly know that?”
Chan doesn't answer immediately because there isn't an easy answer. Eventually he says, “Then when she comes back, you remind her.”
Changbin wipes his face roughly. “And if she doesn't want to hear it?”
“Then you listen to her instead.”
Changbin looks down at your phone. He presses the side button and the screen lights up. His own face looks back at him from your wallpaper. It’s a photograph you took months ago when he fell asleep against you during a movie. His cheek is squashed against your shoulder, and your hand visible at the bottom of the frame, tangled with his. Changbin stares at it, then remembers his message.
i wrote this for you. i hope it explains how i feel.
He closes his eyes. “I need to tell her that wasn't it.”
“You will.”
“I need her to know.”
“She will.”
“I Do was for her.”
“I know.”
“I wrote it because—”
His throat closes. He can't finish, but Chan understands anyway.
“I know why you wrote it.”
Changbin presses your phone against his forehead. Outside, somewhere beyond the windows, life continues like nothing has happened. Cars drive by, people walk along the pavement. He hears someone laugh from below.
And Changbin sits alone in the flat he shares with you, surrounded by every ordinary piece of the life he almost shattered in less than twenty-four hours.
“Find her, hyung.”
Chan is already on his way out the door. “I'll look.”
“Please.”
“I will.”
The call ends, and the silence that follows feels enormous. Changbin stays on the sofa. For once, he does exactly what he's told. He waits. Every sound in the corridor makes him shoot upright - every lift door, every footstep, every voice. His heart leaps and crashes over and over again. He watches the minutes tick by. He cannot stop staring at the front door.
At some point he retrieves his hoodie from the floor - the one you dropped beside your phone. He holds it in both hands and notices a damp patch near the collar. Changbin stares at it, and his face crumples when he realises that it’s your tears that have wet the fabric. He brings the fabric to his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Please come home.”
There is nobody there to hear him, but he says it again. It’s quieter, more broken as he begs, “Please come home.”
You don’t know how long you’ve been walking. Long enough for your feet to start aching, at least. Long enough that the streets around you have stopped feeling immediately familiar. Long enough that the sharp, choking panic you felt when you first left the flat has dulled into something heavier.
Not better.
Just different.
You walk without any real destination, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders hunched against the breeze tunnelling between the buildings. People pass you in both directions - some alone, some talking. A couple argues quietly outside a café. A mother pulls an impatient little boy along by the hand. Two students laugh over something on one of their phones.
Everybody else seems to know where they’re going while you don’t.
You reach another junction and stop. The pedestrian light is red, and for one strange second, you stare at it, realising that you have absolutely no idea whether you were intending to cross. Your mind has been somewhere else entirely. It’s back at the flat, with Changbin and his song.
Your throat tightens again, and you look away from the light as it changes. Everybody around you moves, and you follow the flow of movement. It is easier to just keep moving at this point. You’ll figure everything else out later.
Except later is beginning to feel terrifying, too, because at some point you have to stop walking and decide what you’re actually going to do.
Your life doesn’t separate cleanly from Changbin’s. It isn’t as simple as going home, crying for a few days and deleting his number.
Home is Changbin.
Or it was.
You live together. The flat is both of yours. Your clothes hang beside his, your food is mixed together in the cupboards, your books are scattered between his things on the shelves. You split bills and share streaming accounts. Your emergency contact is probably still him on half the forms you’ve filled in over the last few years. His mother messages you directly, and sometimes your parents ask about him before they ask about you. A lot of your friends overlap. His friends became yours so gradually that you stopped remembering when Felix and Seungmin and Chan stopped being Changbin’s friends and became people you genuinely loved in their own right.
Your routines are built around his as his are built around yours. You know which side of the bed he prefers. He knows exactly how you take your coffee. You know which socks he likes for the gym. He knows you hate sleeping with the bedroom door open. You know which takeaway he orders when he’s had a terrible day. He knows when you’re pretending you don’t want dessert so he orders something you like anyway.
Your entire life has been stitched into his, tiny thread by tiny thread, until you stopped being able to see where one ended and the other began.
And now apparently you have to pull it apart.
Your eyes burn, and you blink hard to clear the tears that are fighting to run free. You don’t want to cry in the middle of the street again. You’ve already done enough of that.
How do people even do this? Who gets the flat? Who takes the photographs down? Do you divide the mugs? The blankets? The stupid matching keychains Felix bought you as a joke that you both secretly use anyway? What happens to the little plant Changbin bought because you complained the living room looked too bare?
Technically, he bought it, but you’re the one who keeps it alive. The thought is so absurd that a broken laugh almost escapes you. Your relationship has ended, and you’re thinking about custody of a houseplant.
Maybe that’s what heartbreak does.
Your mind searches desperately for small, manageable things because the large ones are impossible.
Changbin doesn’t want you anymore. You push that away because it’s too large. Instead, you start making a mental list of things you’ll need straightaway: clothes, toothbrush, laptop, chargers, medication. Maybe even your passport. You can collect everything else later.
Later.
The word feels like a cliff edge because later means returning. Later means going back into that flat when Changbin is there. It means sitting across from him while you work out whose belongings are whose. Maybe he’ll offer to leave, or maybe you will. You don’t know. You don't even know whether you can afford somewhere else immediately. You could probably manage for a little while. Maybe.
Your brain starts calculating deposits, rent, and commute times before it slams to a stop.
No.
Not today. You can't do this today.
You need somewhere to go first. Somewhere that isn't the flat where you can sleep without staring at Changbin's empty side of the bed. Somewhere nobody will expect you to know what happens next.
Your parents.
The thought arrives so suddenly that you stop walking.
Your parents. Chuncheon. Home.
Not the home you've built with Changbin. The other one. The older one.
Your childhood bedroom that your mother still hasn't completely changed despite repeatedly threatening to turn it into a hobby room. Your father's slippers lined up by the entrance. Your mum asking whether you've eaten approximately ten seconds after you walk through the door. The familiar view outside the window. The places that existed before Changbin.
Your chest tightens.
You could go home.
The thought alone nearly breaks you. You reach automatically for your phone, but your pocket is empty. You freeze briefly before you remember that you’d left it on the floor next to Changbin’s hoodie in your haste to escape the flat. You close your eyes, and for several seconds, you can see it perfectly. The screen lighting beside dark fabric, his face on your wallpaper. The message you had sent.
why?
The lack of response.
Your throat aches, and you start walking again. Maybe going without your phone is a good idea. You don't want to know if he's replied. You aren't ready for an explanation or for him to tell you that the song said everything he couldn't say himself. You aren't ready for the possibility that he might apologise in a way that somehow makes you want to forgive him.
That thought scares you almost as much as the breakup itself. You still love him, and it just makes everything that much harder.
Apparently love does not have the decency to disappear just because someone hurts you.
You still love Changbin so much that your body keeps forgetting what's happened. A black car passes, and for half a second you wonder whether it's his. Someone ahead of you laughs loudly, and the sound is close enough to his that your heart jumps. You pass a bakery and remember him bringing you pastries from there months ago because you'd had a terrible morning.
Everywhere you look, your brain tries to find him.
You hate it.
You need your parents.
The certainty settles deeper. You need your mum and your dad. You need somebody who loved you before him. You need people who know a version of you that existed without him. Maybe they can help you find her again.
The problem is contacting them. In leaving your phone at the flat, you’ve left any way to contact them behind. You keep walking until you spot the entrance to a subway station ahead, and a thought occurs.
A public phone.
Do they even still have those?
You aren't sure, but you head downstairs anyway.
The station is busy enough that nobody pays much attention to you. Good. You don't want anybody looking too closely. You catch your reflection briefly in the glass beside a ticket machine and immediately look away. You look awful - eyes swollen, hair a mess, face pale. You don't need visual confirmation of how bad you feel.
You wander along the concourse. You see advertisements, machines, maps. Then, tucked farther along near a wall, almost out of sight, a payphone. You almost laugh. Somehow, in the middle of possibly the worst day of your life, you have been rescued by technology you haven't used since you were a child. You approach it, then stop. You need coins.
Do you have coins?
Your hands shake slightly as you dig through your bag. Wallet, receipts, lip balm, a pen, random hair tie.
There.
Coins.
You stare at them in your palm, then at the phone. You know your parents' number. It's one of the few numbers permanently lodged in your brain from before everyone stopped memorising numbers because phones did it for you. You pick up the receiver, and your heart begins beating harder. You dial, then wait as the ringing starts.
“Hello?”
Your mother answers the phone, and your entire body goes weak as her sweet voice floods your ears. You grip the phone harder, and for one horrible second, you can't speak.
“Hello?”
“Mum.”
The word comes out cracked. There’s a moment of silence before she speaks again, and you sob as she says, “Sweetheart?”
You shut your eyes, taking a deep breath. “Hi.”
“What happened?”
You try to laugh, try not to worry her too much, but it comes out dangerously close to one of your sobs.
“Nothing.”
“Don't tell me nothing, aegi. What's wrong?”
You bite your lip as a person walks past behind you. You turn slightly towards the wall. “Mum.”
“Yes?”
“Can I come home?”
The question destroys whatever control you had left. Your face crumples, and you press the heel of your free hand against your eyes.
There is a brief silence, your mother clearly shocked, before she says, “Of course you can.”
Your breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Of course. You don't have to ask that.”
You nod even though she can't see you. “Okay. Thank you.”
“What's happened?”
You swallow. “I just—” Your voice breaks, and you stop, taking a deep breath. You try again. “I need somewhere to stay for a bit.”
“You can stay here as long as you want.” Your mother's voice is gentler now. It’s the kind she used when you were little and sick. “Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I'm fine.”
Not true.
But you know what she means. You're physically safe. Nothing has happened to you. Well, nothing except your entire future apparently changing overnight.
“Where are you?”
“Seoul.”
“I assumed Seoul.” Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you, and your mum pounces on it immediately. “There you are.”
The warmth in her voice nearly makes you cry harder. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologise.”
You hear movement on the other end, then your father, muffled somewhere in the background. “Who is it?”
Your mum replies with your name, and you can picture the look they share before he asks, “What's wrong?”
You close your eyes. Apparently you're having this conversation with both parents now.
“Nothing.”
Your father makes a sound that makes it clear that he doesn't believe you.
Your mother asks again. “Did something happen with Changbin?” Your chest caves at the use of his name. You don't answer quickly enough, and your mother inhales sharply. “Oh.”
Your father says something you can't make out, and you grip the receiver. “Mum.”
“What happened?”
You stare at the wall. There is an advertisement for some skincare product in front of you. The model is smiling, and her skin is perfect. Life looks perfect.
You hate her slightly.
“We're not together anymore.”
There’s real silence now from the other end. You think you could hear a pin drop. Your parents don't speak, and you hear faint background noise from their house.
Eventually, your mother speaks again. “What?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Changbin and I broke up.”
“But—”
She stops herself, and your father takes over, speaking more clearly now.
“Since when?”
You almost laugh. “Today.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
Your mother sounds genuinely stunned. “I don't understand.”
Neither do you.
“Was there an argument?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“We've just...”
You search desperately for words that don't involve explaining that your boyfriend apparently broke up with you using an unreleased song. You can't say it. It's too humiliating, too strange. If you say it aloud, it becomes real in a way you aren't ready for.
“We haven't been seeing eye to eye lately.”
Even to you, it sounds weak. Your parents know it, too.
Your father asks quietly, “Did you end it?”
You stare at the payphone. “No.”
There’s another pause before your mother's voice softens. “He did?”
Your throat closes, and you nod. Again, uselessly.
“Yes,” you croak.
“What did he say?”
You can’t answer that because technically, he hadn’t said anything. He sent a song, you asked why, and then there was silence.
You grip the receiver tighter. “I don't really want to talk about it.”
Your mother doesn't push, but your father does, a little. “Are you sure this is what happened?”
You frown, annoyed. “What?”
“I mean, are you certain it's over?”
The question stings. “Yes.”
“I'm not saying you're wrong,” he says quickly. “I'm just surprised.”
“Yeah. Well. So am I.”
“You two were—”
“Dad.” He stops, and your voice wobbles. “Please.”
There’s a long pause as your dad no doubt weighs up whether it’s worth pushing the matter any further. He decides not to.
“Okay.”
Your eyes fill again, and your mother takes over. “Sweetheart, if he ended things, then you come home.”
The simplicity of it is almost unbearable.
“Okay.”
“You don't have to explain anything today.”
“Okay.”
“You don't have to figure anything out today either.”
You cover your mouth as another tear slips down your cheek. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”
You hadn't meant to say that. The confession falls out quietly, and suddenly you feel about eight years old.
Your mum's voice sounds the same as then, too. “Oh, honey.”
Your face crumples. “My stuff is there.”
“I know.”
“And the flat.”
“I know.”
“And everything is—” The sob comes before you can stop it. You turn completely towards the wall, your shoulders shaking. “I don't know how to separate everything.”
Your mother waits until you can breathe again. “You don't have to separate everything today.”
“I'll have to eventually.”
“Yes. But today,” she continues, “you pack enough for a few days.” You listen as she continues. “Clothes. Anything important. Bring what you need.”
“Okay.”
“You come here. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
That phrase again.
Later.
From her, it doesn't sound quite as terrifying.
Your father speaks. “You can stay as long as you need.”
“I don't want to inconvenience—”
“You are our daughter.” His voice is firm. “You are not an inconvenience.”
Your eyes squeeze shut. “Okay.”
“Do you need us to come get you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” You don't want them driving all the way into Seoul because you're falling apart. “I can get the train.”
“Do you have enough money?”
“Yes.”
“Your phone?”
You freeze, and your mother notices immediately. “What?”
“I left it at the flat.”
“You left your phone?”
“I just went out for a walk.” You hear concern in both their silences, and you try to justify your poor decision. “I just needed air.”
“Okay,” your mother says carefully.
“I'll go back and get it.”
“You sure you want to go back alone?”
Your stomach twists. You didn’t want to, but what choice do you have?
Your things are there, but perhaps Changbin isn't. Maybe he's still at the studio. Maybe you can get in, pack quickly and leave before he returns. That would be easier.
Wouldn't it?
“Yes.” You say it with more certainty than you feel. “I'll be fine.”
“Call us when you're on the train.”
“I will.”
“From your phone.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile. “Yes, Mum.”
“And if Changbin is there—”
She stops, and you tense. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
Your mum sighs. “Just don't let yourself get dragged into a conversation if you're not ready.”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.”
“You don't owe anybody an immediate conversation when you're this upset.”
Her words resonate somewhere deep in your chest because some part of you already knows that if Changbin is there and he looks at you with those eyes and says your name in that soft voice he uses when he's scared, then you'll break.
Whether that means screaming at him or throwing yourself into his arms, you don't know.
Both possibilities terrify you.
“I should go.”
“Okay.”
“I need to get back.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
Your mother's answer is instant. “We love you, too.”
Your father adds, louder in the background, “Come home.”
The tears return. “I will.”
You hang up. The receiver settles back into place with a click, and you stand there for several seconds, completely still. People move around you. Trains arrive somewhere below. An announcement plays over the speakers. You press both hands against the edge of the little payphone shelf.
You are going home.
The thought feels strange because you still instinctively think of the flat when you say that.
Home.
Changbin asleep beside you. Changbin cooking badly. Changbin singing under his breath while he cleans. Changbin leaving shoes in stupid places. Changbin calling your name from another room because apparently walking ten steps to find you is too much effort.
Your chest aches.
“No.”
You wipe your face.
Chuncheon.
You're going to Chuncheon. Your parents' house. Just for a few days, but maybe longer. You don't know, but you don't have to know right now. Your mum said so.
Today, you only have to do the next thing.
Go back.
Pack.
Leave.
You repeat the sequence internally.
Go back.
Pack.
Leave.
Nothing else. You don’t need to make any decisions about the flat or have any conversation about your future. You don’t have to wonder right now whether you'll ever see Changbin's parents again or which friends you'll lose.
You really don’t need to imagine him eventually bringing someone else into the home the two of you built.
Your stomach turns violently at that one.
“Stop.”
You push away from the payphone. You know the way back, even if it takes a moment to orient yourself because you've wandered farther than you realised. You find a station map and trace your route. You're several stops from the neighbourhood.
You stare. “When did I come this far?”
Apparently grief is good for cardio.
You almost laugh again. Instead, you head towards the platform. You can take the subway back, get your phone, pack a bag. You picture the bedroom and the wardrobe where Changbin's clothes hang beside yours. Your heart twists, but you force the thoughts away.
Clothes.
Laptop.
Chargers.
Toiletries.
Something comfortable for the train.
That's all. You can return for the rest when he isn't there, or maybe somebody can come with you. You’ll think about it later.
You board the train and find a seat near the door. Your reflection looks back at you from the dark glass across the carriage, but this time, you don't look away. You barely recognise yourself as you wipe the remaining tears from beneath your eyes. You take a breath, then another.
You are going back to the flat. You aren’t going to fix anything or ask Changbin anything else. You’re not going to beg him to reconsider or to find out whether he still loves you. You are going back because your things are there. Because your phone is there. Because you need enough of your life packed into a suitcase to survive the next few days.
After that—
You don't know.
The train starts moving, and you stare at your reflection.
“Chuncheon.”
You whisper it like a promise.
You are going home. Even if you still don't know which place deserves that name anymore.
By the time you step out of the subway station, you have a plan. It’s a very simple one. So simple, in fact, that you repeat it to yourself the entire walk back to the flat because if you let your thoughts drift even slightly, they start dragging you somewhere much darker.
Go in.
Get your phone.
Call work.
Pack a bag.
Leave.
That is all. You just need to get through the next hour, maybe less.
You turn onto your street, and your stomach twists immediately.
Go in.
Get your phone.
Call work.
Pack a bag.
Leave.
If Changbin is there—
Your steps falter, and you tighten your grip on your bag. If Changbin is there, the plan does not change. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. If Changbin speaks to you, you will answer only if you have to. If he apologises, you will not let it derail you.
If he tries to explain—
Your chest tightens. You can't think about that. If he is there, you will not cry.
Do not cry.
It becomes the latest addition to the list. You can cry on the train. You can cry when you get to your parents' house. You can lock yourself in your childhood bedroom and cry until your head hurts if that's what you need.
But you are not crying in front of Changbin. Not again.
He already saw enough last night. You won't give him another front-row seat to the damage he's caused.
Your building comes into view, and your heart starts pounding. You slow down without meaning to. For one weak second, you genuinely consider turning around. You could stay in a hotel or call your parents again. You could ask your dad to come and ask literally anyone else to collect your things.
But your phone is inside. Your laptop, your clothes. You need them. You're not going to be afraid of walking into your own home.
Former home.
Current home?
Whatever it is.
You swallow hard, telling yourself, “Go in.” Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
You enter the building, and the lift ride is unbearable. You stare at the changing numbers and rehearse again.
Phone.
Boss.
Bag.
Leave.
If he's there—
Don't cry.
The doors open, and you step into the corridor. Your keys feel too cold in your hand when you reach the door. You stop, taking some steadying breaths before you unlock the door. When it opens, you barely get one foot inside before someone moves in the living room.
Changbin.
He had been sitting on the sofa, but now he's standing. He moved so quickly that for half a second he looks almost startled by his own movement. His hair is a mess, clothes wrinkled. His face is pale, eyes red and swollen with exhaustion.
And the moment he sees you, something in him completely collapses.
Relief.
Not irritation or resignation or the awkward guilt you expected from someone seeing the person they'd just broken up with.
It looks like relief so intense that you actually stop.
Changbin breathes your name but it's barely a word, more like an exhale. “Oh my God.”
His shoulders sag, and his eyes close for half a second. When they open again, they're wet. You're so confused that your plan disappears from your mind. Just briefly.
Why does he look like that?
Changbin takes a step towards you. “You're okay.” Your brows draw together, and he takes another. “Baby—”
You move around him. The movement is instinctive. You don't want him touching you because if Changbin touches you right now, there is a very real chance you will fall apart. His hand drops immediately.
“Where's my phone?”
Your voice is rough, and Changbin just stares at you. For a second, he seems unable to answer before he gestures towards the coffee table.
“There.”
You walk past him. Your phone is sitting beside the sofa where Changbin has apparently plugged it in. Some ridiculous little domestic kindness in the middle of all this has your throat tightening.
Don't.
You unplug it and your screen lights up to notifications everywhere. Missed calls from Changbin, messages. You don't open them yet. Instead, you scroll straight to your boss's number.
Changbin follows you with his eyes. “What are you doing?”
You press call, and your boss answers after a few rings.
You force your voice into something resembling normal. “Hi. Sorry to call suddenly.”
Changbin's expression changes, and he moves towards you again.
You turn away. “I was wondering if I could take a few days off.”
You start walking towards the bedroom, and Changbin follows. You can hear him behind you when he says, “Baby—”
You look over your shoulder, and one looks is all it takes for him to stop talking. Your boss asks whether everything is okay, and you swallow.
“Yeah. I just have a family thing I need to deal with.”
The lie comes easier than expected. You suppose that technically it’s not a lie. You're going to your family. You push open the bedroom door, and Changbin stays behind you. He’s not close enough to touch you, but he’s close enough for your to feel him there. You pull your suitcase from the wardrobe as your boss is saying something reassuring.
You nod automatically. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
You put the suitcase on the bed and Changbin's eyes drop to it. All the colour drains from his face.
“No.”
You ignore him as your boss asks when you expect to be back.
“A few days. I'll keep you updated.”
Changbin takes another step, and you look at him again. He freezes, mouth closing. You turn back to the wardrobe and begin checking things off. Clothes, underwear, socks. There’s nothing coordinated or sensible; it’s just whatever you can get your hands on.
“Thank you,” you tell your boss again. “I'm sorry for the short notice.”
The call ends, and silence fills the bedroom. You lower the phone, and Changbin immediately speaks.
“Where are you going?”
You put your phone on the bed. “Home.”
His face twists. “This is your home.” You stop in your tracks, turning to him sharply and he realises too late what he’s said. His eyes close briefly. “I mean—”
“Chuncheon.” You turn back towards the wardrobe. “My parents said I can stay with them.”
Changbin goes completely still. “You called your parents?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Payphone.”
“Pay—” He shakes his head as though that detail is too ridiculous for his brain to process right now before his attention snaps back to the suitcase. “You're leaving.”
“Yes.”
“No.” You look at him, and Changbin swallows. “I mean—please don't.”
Your fingers curl around a jumper. “I need some space.”
“I'll go.”
You blink, not expecting that. “What?”
“I'll leave.” His words come quickly. “You stay here. I'll stay with Felix and Seungmin. Or Chan. Or Minho. I don't care. You don't have to go all the way to Chuncheon.”
“Changbin.”
“Please.”
His voice breaks, and you have to look away.
Don't cry.
You put the jumper into the suitcase. “I want my parents.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you focus on your checklist – which apparently went to shit the moment you walked through the door – when he speaks again.
“The song was wrong.”
Your hands stop. You knew this was coming, but hearing it still makes your stomach twist.
Changbin takes a cautious step towards you. “The file was wrong.”
You laugh once, quiet and bitter. “Of course it was.”
“It was.” You keep packing, attempting to block out his words. “I meant to send you something else.”
“Changbin.”
“Please listen.”
“I am listening.”
“No, you're not.” You turn and his face crumples immediately. “I'm sorry.”
You stare at him. His eyes are frantic, terrified. You hate that some part of you still wants to comfort him.
“I meant to send you a song called I Do.”
You shake your head. “Stop.”
“It's true.”
“Stop.”
“Chan can tell you.”
“I said stop.”
Your voice cracks, and Changbin’s mouth closes immediately. You turn away quickly, blinking hard.
Don't cry.
Your hands start moving again as you move around the room to grab your toiletries and charger. You aren't even sure what you're putting in the bag anymore. Behind you, Changbin whispers your name, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“Please don't, Changbin.”
“I need you to know.”
“I heard you.”
“No. You heard the wrong song.”
Your control slips, and before you know it, you’re spinning around. “And why would I believe that?”
Changbin recoils. The words hang between you, and you can see the lack of decent response on his face. You laugh again, but this time it sounds dangerously close to a sob.
“Exactly.”
“Baby—”
“Don't call me that.”
He looks like you've slapped him. You hate yourself for noticing, and you hate that it hurts you too. You turn away again, but Changbin doesn't move this time. You shove another shirt into the suitcase as your vision blurs.
“I don't know what you want me to say,” he says.
“I don't want you to say anything.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice is shaking now. “You think I'm lying.”
“I do.” The admission feels awful, but it’s true. Changbin's breath catches, and you continue before he can respond. “We had an argument.”
“I know.”
“You told me everybody needed something from you.”
“I know.”
“You told me I wanted too much of your time.”
“I didn't mean—”
“You left.”
His mouth closes, and you look at him again. “You left me here.”
Changbin's eyes fill. “I know.”
“And then you didn't contact me.”
“I was trying to give you—”
“You didn't contact me.”
His shoulders fall. “No.”
“You went to Felix's. You woke up. You went to work.”
“I was going to come home.”
“But you didn't.”
“I got called in.”
“Changbin.”
“I know.”
“Do you hear how it sounds?” He goes quiet, and your breathing trembles. “You spent the whole night away from me after telling me I was basically another responsibility you couldn't handle.”
“You aren't.”
“Then the next morning you send me a song about wanting to be free.”
“It was an accident.”
“And then I ask you why.” Your voice finally breaks. “And you don’t answer.”
Changbin's face crumples. “I was coming home.”
“I didn't know that!”
“I know.”
“No, I sat here waiting for you to explain why you didn't love me anymore.”
“I do love you.”
You shake your head, helpless. “I don't know that.”
“I do.”
“I don't know that!”
The words rip out of you, and tears spill before you can stop them.
So much for not crying.
You wipe them away angrily. Changbin takes an instinctive step towards you, but you move backwards. He stops immediately, hands lifting slightly. He’s not even trying to touch you now. Just stands there, looking just as helpless as you feel.
You laugh through your tears. “Maybe you changed your mind.”
“No.”
“Maybe you sent it, realised I'd actually leave and panicked.”
“No.”
“Maybe you don't want the hassle of separating everything.”
“No.”
“Then what am I supposed to think?”
“I sent the wrong fucking file!” The desperation in his voice shocks both of you, and Changbin immediately lowers it, rubbing both hands over his face. “I'm sorry.” His chest rises hard. “I am sorry. I'm not shouting at you. I'm just- I need you to believe me.”
“I can't.”
Changbin stares at you, and something in him seems to break. His shoulders lower and his expression changes from frantic insistence into something rawer. “Okay.”
You weren't expecting that. Your brows pull together as Changbin nods slowly. “Okay.” He wipes beneath one eye. “You don't have to believe me yet. But please just let me explain everything.”
Your chest hurts. You don't answer, and maybe that’s enough for him because he takes a shaky breath before speaking again.
“Chan called me this morning because he wanted help with lyrics. He didn't know we fought. I was going to come here first.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the suitcase as you look away, but he carries on regardless. “I should've told him no anyway. I told him what happened eventually.” Changbin swallows. “I told him why it happened.”
Your gaze shifts back. “Why?”
His eyes meet yours, and for a second, he doesn't speak. You see the moment his eyes harden with resolve, the moment he decides to tell you everything.
“Because I'm scared.”
The answer catches you off guard. “Scared? Of what?”
“Everything apparently.” He laughs weakly, but you don't smile, and Changbin looks down at his hands. “Minho hyung is leaving soon.”
Your expression softens so slightly, despite yourself, when you understand. “Enlistment.”
He nods, and his voice is quiet when he explains. “It made mine feel real. I know it's not tomorrow. I know I still have time. But suddenly it feels like everything has an expiration date.” His eyes lift. “And then I started looking at you and thinking about having to leave you.” Your throat tightens at the thought, and he shakes his head quickly. “Not because I wanted to. Never because I wanted to.” Changbin moves to lean against the edge of the dresser rather than approach you. “I kept thinking about you waiting for me. About what you'd do while I was gone. Whether you'd be lonely. Whether you'd get used to me not being here… Whether you'd realise your life was easier without me.”
Your anger falters, and you make a quiet noise of disbelief in your throat. “Bin.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know that's stupid.”
“It is.”
“I know.” You think he’s going to laugh, but his face crumples instead. “But it got into my head. I was already stressed about the comeback, and everything felt too much, and every time you did something nice for me I felt guilty.”
Your brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because you were giving me everything and I felt like I was giving you nothing.”
“That wasn't your decision to make.”
He nods immediately. “I know. Chan said the same thing.” He takes a deep breath as he admits, “Instead of telling you all of that, I made you feel like you were the problem.”
You wipe another tear away. “Yes.”
“I know.” He doesn't defend himself. Doesn’t soften it or make excuses. “I was horrible.”
Your mouth trembles. “And then you left.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Changbin's eyes close. “Because I was a coward. I thought I needed space.” He opens his eyes, but you’re looking away from him, too caught up in your own pain to mask it. “I think really I was scared you'd look at me and realise I wasn't worth all the effort, so I left before you could tell me.” Your chest aches at his words, and Changbin gives a broken laugh. “It sounds really fucking stupid when I say it out loud.”
“A bit.”
“A lot.”
Your mouth almost moves, twitching into a hint of a smile, before it disappears just as quickly. Changbin notices anyway, and hope flashes across his face so quickly that it hurts. He doesn't push his luck, though. Instead, he continues.
“This morning, Chan told me to send you the song.”
You glance at your phone. “He was willing to let you leak an unreleased track?”
A tiny, watery laugh escapes Changbin. “That's what I said.”
Despite everything, your lips twitch again before the weight of the memory returns. “You sent a song about wanting a way out of a crappy relationship.”
“I know.” His expression twists. “The file was labelled wrong, and I didn’t check it.”
You look away. “Why?”
“I'd slept for less than an hour.” Your eyes snap back, but Changbin shrugs weakly, rubbing his face again. “I wasn't exactly functioning. I thought it was I Do. I attached it. I wrote that message. I sent it.”
“And you didn't listen first?”
“I should have.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
You stare at him. He looks exhausted enough that you almost believe that part before you can stop yourself.
“What did you do when you realised?”
Changbin's face changes. “Ran home. Chan had called me, and he asked which file I’d sent. Then he told me.” He swallows, and the memory seems to physically hurt him. “I called you. I tried messaging you.”
You look at your phone, remembering the missed calls and the unopened messages. Right.
“I didn't have my phone.”
“I know.” Something in his voice makes you look at him, and Changbin's eyes fill again. “I got here, and you were gone.” You freeze at the stress on his face, and he looks down to break eye contact with you. His breath is shaky when he speaks again. “Your phone was on the floor. Next to my hoodie.”
“Oh.”
“I thought—” He stops, swallows. Tries again. “I didn't know what happened.”
Your anger softens another fraction. “I was just walking.”
“I know that now.” His eyes widen before he says, “Chan's still looking for you.”
Your eyes widen in turn. “What?”
“I called him.” Changbin gives a miserable little laugh. “I kind of... lost it.”
Something in your chest twists. “What do you mean?”
“Panic attack.”
Your face falls. “Binnie.”
“I'm okay.”
The words come automatically, and you nearly laugh at the irony before you look away. He wipes his palms against his trousers.
“I thought something happened to you.”
“I just needed to get out.”
“I know.”
“The flat was too much.”
His expression crumples once more. “Because of me.”
You don't answer, but you don't need to. For a while, the room goes silent. The open suitcase sits between you like a threat.
Changbin looks at it, then at you. “Where were you going?”
“My parents'.”
“In Chuncheon.”
“Yes.”
“Do they know?”
You swallow. “Yes.”
His face pales slightly. “What did you tell them?”
“That we broke up.”
Changbin closes his eyes. The words clearly hurt. “You think we did.”
You shrug. “I thought you ended it.”
“I didn't.” He opens his eyes. “I swear to you.”
You hug your arms around yourself. “I want to believe you… But I don’t know if I can.”
His whole face softens. The hope doesn't disappear, just changes. Becomes gentler.
“Okay.”
You stare at him. “Stop saying okay like you're fine.”
He gives a faint, humourless laugh. “I'm not fine. I feel like I'm going to throw up.”
That is, unfortunately, very Changbin. Your lips twitch again, and this time he sees it. He stands upright slowly, and you tense. He stops.
“Can I show you something?”
Your eyes flick towards him. “What?”
“The right song.”
Your chest tightens. “Bin—”
“You don't have to forgive me.” He says it quickly. “You don't even have to believe me after. But please. Just listen.”
His eyes shine as you stare at him. At the man who has been your whole life for longer than you know how to separate. At the man who hurt you badly enough that you called your parents from a subway station and asked to come home. At the man who currently looks like he hasn't slept in days because apparently the idea of losing you scares him, too.
You should say no.
Maybe.
“One song.”
Changbin breathes a sigh of relief, releasing a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Okay.” He reaches for his phone, and his hands shake slightly. Neither of you mention it. Changbin finds the file and then pauses.
“This one.”
He turns the screen towards you, and the filename is different. Actually different. You stare at it as Changbin presses play. The opening fills the bedroom quietly. You sit on the edge of the bed because suddenly standing feels like too much. Changbin doesn't sit beside you, just stays several feet away as you listen.
And within the first stretch of lyrics, you understand why he wanted to send it.
Your eyes begin filling again at its painful sincerity. It was like Changbin took every feeling he struggles to say without turning it into a joke and put it somewhere he could actually look at them.
Commitment. Certainty. Choosing someone. Loving them through whatever comes next.
Your throat closes, and you look at him. Changbin is already watching you. His eyes are red, his jaw tight. He looks terrified.
“This was for me?”
His lower lip trembles slightly as he nods, and you feel like your heart breaks in your chest at the sight. You always hated it when he cried.
You look back at the phone as the song continues. Every line seems to contradict the one you heard earlier. This song isn’t about freedom, escape, or wanting an end. It’s about a choice.
You.
Your tears spill, and Changbin moves instinctively before stopping himself. You notice his hesitation, and it suddenly feels like the most painful thing in the world. When the song ends, the room is completely silent. Changbin doesn't speak first.
You wipe your cheeks. “So, Chan knew?”
Changbin nods. “He knew I wrote it about you.”
“And he told you to send it.”
“Yes.”
“Before the album comes out.”
“Yes.”
“He must really like me.”
Changbin lets out a startled laugh. Small and broken, but no less real. “He does.”
You look down at your hands. “I don't know what happens now.”
Changbin's laughter disappears. “Whatever you need.”
“I was going to leave.”
“I know.”
“I still might.”
The words cost you something. You see that they hurt him, but he nods. “If you need to go to your parents for a few days, go.”
Your eyes lift. “You're not going to ask me to stay?”
His expression twists. “I want to.”
“Then why aren't you?”
“Because last night I made everything about what I needed.” You go still as Changbin swallows. “And I don't want to do that again.”
The answer settles somewhere deep in your chest. He takes a breath before speaking again, voice shaking. “I want you here. I want you here so badly that I spent half the morning running around the neighbourhood like a lunatic because I thought I'd lost you. I want to unpack that suitcase and pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened.” He looks at you then, and your eyes are burning from his words. “But I don't get to decide that.”
You stare at him, and Changbin's face crumples slightly, a tear slipping down his cheek.
“I love you. I love you when I'm stressed. I love you when I'm scared. I love you when I have too much work.” His voice breaks. “I love you when I have to leave. I'll love you when Minho hyung goes.” He takes a shaky breath. “I'll love you when it's my turn… And if you wait for me, I'll spend every day being grateful that you chose to.” Changbin wipes his cheek roughly, and a sob catches in your throat. “I don't want to be free of you. I don't want a way out.” He laughs weakly through his tears. “I want every way back.”
That does it.
You break. One second you're sitting there desperately trying to keep yourself together, and the next you're crying so hard you have to cover your face.
Changbin looks terrified. “Can I—”
You nod, and he crosses the room immediately. Changbin drops to his knees in front of you because you're sitting on the edge of the bed and apparently getting close enough fast matters more than dignity.
His hands hover before he asks, “Can I touch you?”
Another nod and his arms are around you. The second you feel him, everything inside you gives way. You fold into him, and Changbin makes a broken sound and pulls you closer. Your arms lock around his shoulders, and his face disappears against your neck.
He's crying, too.
You can feel it.
“I’m sorry,” he cries as you grip the back of his hoodie. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You hurt me, Bin.”
“I know.”
“I thought you didn't want me.”
“I know.” His hold tightens. “I do. I do want you. So much.”
You cry harder. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His face is wet, eyes swollen. You think he looks beautiful. Like yours.
“I want you,” he says again. “Not because I'm scared you'll leave. Not because our lives are complicated. Not because it's easier.” His hands gently cup your face. “Because it's you.”
You close your eyes, and your forehead falls against his. “I was going to Chuncheon.”
“I know.”
“I told my parents you dumped me.”
Changbin winces. “I'll apologise to them for the rest of my life.”
Despite yourself, you laugh, and it comes out wet and shaky. He manages a weak smile as you sniff. “My dad is probably already planning your murder.”
“Understandable.”
“My mum will help.”
“Also understandable.”
You laugh again, and Changbin does, too.
Then the laughter fades.
You look at him. “I'm still angry.”
“You should be.”
“I don't forgive you completely.”
“I know.”
“You can't do that again.”
“I won't.”
“You can't decide I'm better off without you.”
“I won't.”
“You can't push me away because you're scared.”
Changbin nods, serious. “I won't.”
You narrow your eyes. “You're agreeing very quickly.”
“Because I am extremely motivated not to watch you walk through that door with a suitcase.”
A tiny smile pulls at your mouth, and Changbin looks at it like it's the first sunrise he's seen in years.
“Don't,” you mumble shyly.
“What?”
“Look at me like that.”
“I can't help it.”
“You're annoying.”
“I know.”
You breathe out. Your fingers brush beneath his eye, and Changbin closes his eyes briefly at the touch. Such a tiny gesture that changes something. It doesn’t fix it, doesn’t erase it. Just begins changing it.
“I think I still want to go to my parents' for a couple of days.”
His eyes open and the pain in them is immediate, but he nods, nonetheless. “Okay.”
You squeeze his cheek slightly. “But not because we're broken up.”
Changbin freezes. You watch the words register.
His mouth parts. “You mean—”
“We have things to work through.”
“Yes.”
“A lot.”
“Yes.”
“And you need sleep.”
“I absolutely do.”
“So do I.”
“You really do.”
You glare, and Changbin almost smiles before he asks, cautiously, “But we're not...”
He can't seem to finish, but you understand anyway. “No.”
His eyes fill again, and you give him a gentle shove, teasing, “Don't start.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I'm not.”
“You're literally crying.”
“I'm sleep deprived.”
You laugh, and Changbin laughs too before he pulls you into him again. This time you go willingly. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, and his hand moves slowly along your back. The suitcase remains open behind you. You will still pack it, still go to Chuncheon. You need your parents and a few quiet days to let the hurt settle into something you can actually talk about.
But it no longer feels like packing away the remains of a relationship.
It's just a bag for a few days, and then you can come home.
Changbin presses his lips against your hair. “I love you.”
You close your eyes. “I love you, too.”
His breath shudders, and after a moment, you pull back, remembering something. “One thing.”
“Anything.”
“You're calling Chan.”
Changbin blinks. “Why?”
“Because apparently he's wandering around Seoul looking for me.”
“Oh. Oh shit.”
“Yes. Oh.”
Changbin scrambles for his phone, and you watch him call.
Chan answers immediately. “Did she come back?”
Changbin looks at you. For the first time all day, the expression on his face isn't panic. It's relief. The kind that finally has somewhere to land.
“Yeah, hyung.” His eyes stay on yours. “She came home.”
There’s a pause, and then Chan says something loud enough that you hear the exasperation through the speaker. You laugh as Changbin winces.
“Sorry.”
Another burst from Chan.
“I know.”
You hold your hand out, and Changbin raises an eyebrow. You wiggle your fingers, and he gives you the phone.
“Chan?”
“Oh, my God.”
You pull it slightly away from your ear, wincing. “Hello to you, too.”
“Are you okay?”
Your eyes drift towards Changbin, who’s watching you carefully. You think about the last day. About the argument, the empty bed, the wrong song, the payphone and your parents. You think about Changbin running around Seoul convinced something had happened to you. The right song.
You take a deep breath before answering. “Getting there.”
Chan exhales. “Good.”
You smile faintly. “Thank you for looking for me.”
“Of course.”
“And thanks for letting him leak the song.”
There’s a brief silence before Chan asks, “He told you that?”
You look at Changbin, and he immediately looks guilty. “Yes.”
Chan sighs dramatically. “For the record, this is a one-time exemption.”
You laugh, and Changbin protests from beside you. “He said it was fine!”
“I said your relationship was more important!”
“Same thing!”
“It absolutely is not.”
You laugh harder, and maybe that's when you know. Not that everything is magically fixed, because it isn't. Tomorrow you'll still be hurt, and Changbin will still feel guilty. You'll have difficult conversations. There will be trust to repair, boundaries to redraw, and fears that Changbin can no longer hide behind anger.
But you're laughing.
Changbin is sitting beside you, and Chan is complaining through the phone. And when you glance down, Changbin's hand has found yours. His fingers curl carefully around them, asking. You lace your fingers through his, and Changbin looks down, then up at you and smiles.
Later, you'll go to Chuncheon. You'll tell your parents that things were more complicated than you thought. Your father will probably still threaten Changbin whilst your mother will probably demand details. Changbin will probably spend the next several weeks overcompensating so aggressively that you'll eventually have to tell him to stop asking whether you're okay every six minutes.
But right now, the actual version of I Do is still sitting paused on his phone.
You look at it, then at him. “Play it again.”
Changbin's eyes widen. “You want to?”
You nod, and he smiles. Softly this time. He starts the song again, and this time, when Changbin reaches for you, you let him. Because the first song was an accident. Last night wasn't. The hurt was real, and the things that need fixing are real.
But so is this.
His arms around you, your fingers tangled with his. The suitcase you'll take to Chuncheon for a few days instead of forever.
And the song Changbin actually wrote for you is playing quietly in the room while he holds you like he finally understands what he almost lost.
a/n: AHHHH I HOPE IT WAS OKAY GUYS? LMK IN THE COMMENTS xo
Summary: When the pressure gets too much for Binnie, he pushes you away. When he tries to fix it, he only ends up making things worse.
Warnings: angst angst angst and MORE ANGST.
Word count: 8.8k.
a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BINNIE BABYYY! This is Part One of Binnie's birthday fic, and Part Two will be up soon (once I've edited it).
Changbin has been stressed before.
You know what stressed Changbin looks like. You know the difference between tired Changbin and irritated Changbin, between the version of him who needs an hour at the gym to shake something off and the version who needs to sit silently beside you while you scratch your nails gently through his hair. You know the particular tension that settles across his shoulders when a deadline is creeping closer, the way he starts checking his phone during meals when there are too many people waiting for answers from him, the way he sometimes wakes in the middle of the night and lies perfectly still because he thinks you’re asleep and doesn’t want you to know his mind is still running.
Comeback season has never been easy, but this one already feels different.
Maybe it’s because there’s something hanging over all of them now that nobody seems to know how to talk about properly.
Minho is leaving.
Not forever. You know that, and Changbin knows that. Hell, everyone knows that. There’s a date and a length of service and promises about messages and visits and meals when he gets leave. There have already been jokes about Minho coming back somehow even more terrifying than before, and Minho has threatened all of them approximately seventeen times for acting as though he’s being shipped off to another planet.
But he’s still leaving.
And once Minho goes, it becomes harder to pretend the clock isn’t ticking for everybody else.
For Changbin.
He hasn't said that part aloud, and you know him well enough not to make him. You also know him well enough to understand that sometimes loving Changbin means letting him come to you rather than dragging something out of him before he’s ready to give it. So you’ve waited. You’ve listened when he complains about choreography changes, recording schedules, and meetings that should have been emails. You’ve rubbed his shoulders when he comes home aching. You’ve left food in the fridge when he texts at midnight to say he still hasn’t left the company. You’ve swallowed your disappointment when plans disappear because something ran over again.
You have tried - God, you have tried - which is why it hurts so much when he looks at you tonight like you're another problem he doesn't have time to solve.
“I said I'm fine.”
The words are clipped. You stand on the opposite side of the kitchen island, staring at him because Changbin doesn't look fine. He looks exhausted. His cap is still pulled low over his forehead even though he's been home for nearly twenty minutes, and his hoodie hangs loose around his body. He hasn't taken his bag off properly; he's dumped it beside one of the stools like he intends to leave again at any moment. His dinner is sitting untouched on the counter between you.
You'd reheated it twice. The first time, when he said he was twenty minutes away; the second, when forty-five minutes had passed. But you don't mention that.
“I didn't say you weren't fine.”
“You keep asking.”
“Because you came through the door looking miserable.”
“I'm tired.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
You blink, taken aback. “Doing what?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely between you, irritation bleeding into his voice. “This whole thing where I come home, and you start asking me what's wrong.”
Your stomach twists, but you tell yourself not to react. You know that he's tired and stressed. You know that this isn't necessarily about you.
Except… He's looking directly at you.
“I'm asking because I care about you, Bin.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“So can we just leave it?”
There is something dismissive about the way he says it that makes your jaw tighten.
You nod anyway. “Fine.”
You turn towards the sink, and it should end there. You’ll even think about that later—how easily it could have ended there. How if Changbin had gone to shower or you had gone to bed, maybe the entire night could have been saved. Maybe you'd have woken up tomorrow with his arm heavy around your waist and his face buried against the back of your neck, and he would have apologised for being short with you.
Instead, behind you, you hear him let out a frustrated sigh. Your hands immediately stop beneath the tap, shoulders tensing, but you don’t turn to face him just yet.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You turn the water off. “Changbin.”
“I said nothing.”
“You sighed.”
“What? Am I not allowed to sigh now?”
You finally turn to meet his eyes, but they close immediately. For half a second, regret flashes across his face until his phone buzzes and he looks down at the screen. You can see the moment his shoulders hunch up, see the way his face pinches from an unknown pressure.
You don't know who messaged him exactly. You don't know whether it's Chan asking about a track, a manager changing tomorrow's schedule, or one of the members sending something completely innocent. All you know is that it’s enough for him to check out of your conversation and back into idol mode.
The damage has been done, and you don’t think that it’ll be fixed any time soon.
“Forget it,” you murmur, turning back around.
“What does that mean?”
“It means forget it.”
“No, because now you're annoyed.”
You laugh once, incredulous, scrubbing at the plate in your hand harder as your own frustration grows.
“You just snapped at me for asking what was wrong, and now you're annoyed because I'm not asking?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Changbin drops his phone onto the counter. “Can you not do this tonight?”
Something inside you cracks, and you spin back around to face him, asking, “Do what?” His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Before you can stop yourself, you’re talking again. “No, seriously.” You fold your arms, more to hold yourself together than anything else. “What exactly am I doing, Changbin?”
“I don't know.”
“Clearly you do, because apparently I've been doing it since you walked through the door.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He drags both hands over his face. “I just don't have the energy for an argument.”
“We weren't arguing.”
“We are now.”
“Because you started one!”
His head snaps up, and he points at himself, looking incredulous. “I started one?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
“You came home in a mood, I asked if you were okay, and somehow you've turned that into me being the problem.”
“I never said you were the problem.”
“You're acting like I am!”
His jaw clenches, and you can see him fighting something. Usually this is where Changbin catches himself. Usually this is where his shoulders fall, and he exhales and reaches for you. Even if he's still angry, even if you're still angry, one of you remembers that this is the person you love standing across from you.
Tonight, something is different. Tonight, he's already drowning, and when you reach for him, he pushes you away.
It would hurt less if he’d done so physically.
“I can't keep doing this every time I come home.”
You’re temporarily shocked into silence as you stare at him. You don’t know how your evening turned into this, but you desperately wish you could turn back time and go back to before this argument began.
The anger drains out of you so quickly it leaves you cold. “Doing what?”
Changbin seems to realise what he said, and his expression shifts. He looks hesitant, but he doesn’t take back his words.
You swallow. “Changbin. Doing what?”
“Having to—” He stops and shakes his head. “Forget it.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No, you don't get to say something like that and then tell me to forget it.”
“I didn't mean it like that.”
“Then explain how you meant it.”
His fingers curl against the edge of the counter. “I have a million things going on right now.”
“I know.”
“I have rehearsals. Recording. Meetings. We have the comeback. Everything needs to be ready, and it isn't, and every time we fix one thing something else changes. I'm trying to keep up with everything, and everyone needs something from me—”
“I don't need anything from you.”
“Yes, you do. You always do.”
You recoil as if he’d slapped you. Changbin notices, and you see the instant he wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth. It’s too late, though. You’re hurt, and you’re so tired. You might not have a comeback or thousands of people waiting for you to perform perfectly. You might not have cameras waiting to catch every sign that you're exhausted or unhappy. But you have spent weeks watching the person you love disappear into himself, and apparently all your attempts to keep him afloat have been another weight around his ankle.
“What do I need from you?” you ask quietly.
“That's not—”
“No. Tell me.”
“You want time with me.”
The fact that he says it as though it's unreasonable nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. “I haven't complained once.”
“I didn't say you complained.”
“I haven't complained when you've cancelled plans. I haven't complained when you come home at two in the morning. I haven't complained when you answer calls during dinner or spend half the night working when you're supposed to be resting. I've been trying to make this easier for you.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes!”
“Because right now you're making it sound like loving me is another fucking appointment you don't have time for.”
Changbin goes completely still. Your eyes burn, and you hate it. You hate crying during arguments because it makes you feel as though you've lost control of yourself, so you blink quickly and look away.
Changbin's voice drops, hesitation creeping into his tone. “I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Then stop making me guess what you mean!”
“I don't know what I mean!”
His voice echoes through the kitchen, and both of you freeze. Changbin's chest rises sharply. You can see the panic underneath the anger now. You think that it's been there the whole time, but you just didn't recognise it because he buried it so well.
“I don't fucking know,” he says again, quieter. “I don't know what I'm doing right now.”
Your anger softens despite yourself, and you reach out for him. “Bin—”
“Don't.” Your face falls, and his eyes squeeze shut from guilt. “Please,” he says. “Just... don't.”
You let your hand fall back to your side. “Okay.”
You don't know what else to say. He wants space, so you’ll give him space. Except apparently that hurts him too, because his expression twists when you step backwards. For one impossible second, he looks like he might cry before he looks away.
He clears his throat and says, “Minho hyung leaves soon.” The words come so quietly you almost don't hear them. You don't move as Changbin stares down at the countertop. “And then what?”
You know exactly what he means. Still, you let him say it.
He laughs, but there's nothing amused about it. “Then we keep going. We do everything we're supposed to do. We smile and tell everyone it'll be fine and that we'll be back together before they know it. And then someone else goes. I go.”
Your heart aches. “Changbin.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“You’re already talking about it.”
“Because you wouldn't leave it alone!”
The softness vanishes. It happens so quickly that you flinch, but this time you can’t drop it. You can’t keep letting him take his frustration out on you. Doesn’t he understand that you’re also thinking of him going off to the military? That you’re counting down the days, dreading the time half your heart is away from you?
“I wouldn't leave you alone?” you repeat.
“That's not what I—”
“I'm sorry.” Your voice cracks, and you turn away before he can see the tears properly. “I'm sorry I asked if you were okay.”
“Baby—”
“No.” Now you're the one stopping him. You swipe furiously beneath your eyes. “I get it.”
“No, you don't.”
“You want me to leave you alone. Fine.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You've spent the last ten minutes saying exactly that!”
“Because I can't breathe!”
The words rip out of him, and when you turn back he looks wrecked.
But so do you.
“I come here, and I know you're waiting for me,” he says, words spilling faster now, too fast for him to control them. “And I know you've made dinner, and you've stayed awake, and you've changed your plans around mine, and I know I'm supposed to be grateful—”
“Supposed to be?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then stop!” Your voice breaks into a shout. “Stop saying things you don't mean!”
“I can't think!”
“Then don't take it out on me!”
“I'M NOT TRYING TO!”
“But you are!”
Silence crashes down so suddenly that your ears ring. You're both breathing too hard, staring at each other across the kitchen, his plate of dinner left untouched between you.
“I don't know what you want from me,” you whisper.
His expression crumples for half a second, because neither does he. That's the problem. He doesn't want you to fix anything, to leave. He doesn't want to admit he's scared, or to think about the comeback, or Minho leaving, or his own enlistment, or how different everything is going to look in a year.
He wants time to stop.
And you're standing here asking him what's wrong when the answer is everything.
“I think I need to go.”
Your heart stops. “What?” Changbin is already reaching for his bag, and you watch him sling it over his shoulder. “Changbin.”
“I need to get out.”
“Out where?”
“I don't know.”
“It's nearly midnight.”
“I'll go to Felix's.”
The casualness of it hurts more than anything else tonight. The way he says it… It sounds like it’s easy to leave you.
“Right.” He pauses at the easy acceptance. You fold your arms again, desperately trying to hold the pain in until you have a minute to yourself. “Go, then.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Don't do that.”
A humourless laugh escapes you. “Do what, Changbin?”
“Act like I'm abandoning you.”
Your eyes widen. “I didn't say that!”
“You're looking at me like—”
“Like what?” He doesn't answer, so you push on. “Like my boyfriend just started an argument with me over nothing and is now walking out instead of dealing with it?”
“I told you, I need space.”
“And I'm giving it to you.”
“You're making me feel guilty for it.”
That does it.
You stare at him for a second, genuinely unable to believe what you're hearing before you shake your head.
“No. Absolutely not.” You walk away from him, and you keep going, even when he calls your name. It had started with him needing space, but now you needed it yourself. “You do not get to make me responsible for that too,” you say, turning around in the hallway. “You feel guilty because you know you're being horrible to me.”
His face falls, but you don’t care at the moment. You're crying properly now, and you hate it, but you're too angry to care.
“I have done everything I can to support you. Everything. I've given you space. I've cancelled things without complaining. I've stayed awake waiting for you because I know you hate coming home to an empty flat after schedules. I've cooked for you knowing half the time you're going to be too tired to eat it. I've listened when you wanted to talk and shut up when you didn't. And tonight I asked you one question. One. I asked if you were okay.”
“I know.”
“And you made me feel like I'm suffocating you.”
His eyes shine with his own unshed tears. “I know.”
“So if you want to go, go.”
He doesn't move, and for a few seconds you’re both stood staring at each other until Changbin whispers your name.
You shake your head, hand raised in protest. “Please don't.”
His mouth closes.
You don’t want him to apologise just yet, because you know that you’ll forgive him straightaway, but you’re too hurt at the moment to want to do that. You need him to understand that, to understand that being scared doesn't give him permission to tear into the safest person in the room.
Changbin looks down as he nods slowly. “Okay.”
He puts his shoes on. You stand at the end of the hallway and watch. Every part of you is screaming at him to stop, and every part of him looks like it's waiting for you to ask. Neither of you does, though. His hand closes around the door handle, and he hesitates. It’s brief – just a second – before the door opens and then closes behind him.
The click of the latch is horrifyingly quiet.
You stand there and wait, but you don’t know what for. Maybe footsteps coming back or the door opening. Maybe Changbin realising halfway down the corridor that this is stupid, that none of this was worth it, that he should come back and wrap himself around you and finally tell you he's terrified.
Nothing happens.
Eventually, your legs carry you back into the kitchen where his dinner sits cold and untouched. You stare at it before your knees buckle, and you collapse into the nearest chair as you cry.
Felix opens his door at twelve seventeen in the morning, wearing pyjama bottoms and an expression of immediate concern.
“Hyung?”
Changbin can't speak, but apparently that tells Felix everything he needs to know. He steps aside as Changbin walks in. Seungmin is sprawled across the sofa with his phone held above his face. He looks up when Changbin enters, eyebrows lifting.
“What happened?”
Changbin dumps his bag onto the floor. “Can I stay here?”
Felix closes the door behind him, frowning at Seungmin as he says, “Of course.”
Seungmin sits up. “What happened, hyung?”
Changbin sinks onto the opposite end of the sofa. He puts his elbows on his knees before he covers his face with both hands. Neither Felix nor Seungmin speaks for several seconds. They share a concerned look as Felix sits beside him.
“Did you two fight?”
Changbin nods.
“About what?”
“I don't know.”
Seungmin's eyebrows lift. “You don't know?”
“I started it.”
The words wipe the faint amusement from Seungmin’s face, and he realises just how serious the situation is when Changbin drags his hands from his face, and he sees the tears in his hyung’s eyes.
“I don't even know why.”
He knows he’s lying when he says that. He knows exactly why he started it. He sees Minho's enlistment date every time he looks at the calendar, the comeback schedule beneath it. He sees rehearsals and recordings and promotions and fan calls and flights and performances and deadlines.
And somewhere among all of that is you, waiting for him. Loving him unconditionally. Accepting the scraps he offers you at his busiest times.
And lately that terrifies him too.
Because every time he looks at you, he thinks about leaving. Not like tonight, but in the future. He thinks about shaving his hair. About saying goodbye. About you going home without him. About all the ordinary pieces of your relationship continuing somewhere he can't reach. He thinks about whether you'll be lonely, and whether he'll be different when he comes back.
Whether you'll be different after two years without him.
And because Changbin is apparently an idiot, instead of saying any of that, he came home and punished you for asking if he was okay.
“I was horrible to her.”
Felix's expression softens. “I'm sure you weren't horrible.”
“I made her cry.”
Seungmin winces, and Felix goes quiet, unsure of what to say.
Changbin stares at his hands. “She asked me what was wrong.”
That's it. That's the entire crime you committed. You cared about him, and he’d punished you for it.
His throat closes. “And I basically told her she was another thing I had to deal with.”
“Hyung,” Felix murmurs.
“I didn't mean it.”
Seungmin leans back against the sofa. “But you said it.”
Changbin looks at him as Felix shoots Seungmin a warning glance, but Seungmin was nothing if not brutally honest.
“What?” Seungmin asks quietly. “He doesn't need us telling him it's fine if it wasn't.”
Changbin looks back down. “No. He's right.”
Seungmin studies him for a moment. “Why did you leave?”
“She told me to.”
“Did she really?”
Changbin thinks about it.
If you want to go, go.
His stomach turns. “Fuck. No.”
Seungmin nods. “You told her you needed space.”
“Yeah.”
“And she got upset.”
“Yeah.”
“And then you left.”
Changbin swallows, voice cracking as he repeats, “Yeah.”
Felix rubs his back. “You were overwhelmed, but hyung… That doesn't make what you said okay.”
“I know.”
“But it at least explains why you snapped.”
Changbin's eyes sting. He hates that twenty minutes ago he was angry enough to walk out and now all he wants is to go home. His phone feels impossibly heavy when he pulls it from his pocket to check for what he knows won’t be there.
It still hurts when he sees that there are no missed calls or messages.
His heart sinks, and Felix glances at the screen as he asks, “Do you want her to text?”
Changbin laughs weakly. “I told her to leave me alone.”
“Technically,” Seungmin says, “you told her she wouldn't leave you alone.”
Changbin groans and drops his head into his hands again. “Why are you like this?”
“Because somebody has to tell you when you're being an idiot.”
“I know I'm an idiot.”
“Good. Saves time.”
Felix nudges Seungmin's leg with his foot, and he sighs. His voice comes out softer when he speaks again.
“Hyung.” Changbin looks up, and Seungmin continues. “Don't go back tonight.”
His stomach drops. “What?”
“Not because you shouldn't go back,” Seungmin clarifies. “Because you're still all over the place. And she's probably upset. You going back because you feel guilty isn't going to magically fix it.”
“I don't want her alone.”
“She might want to be alone.”
That hurts.
Changbin looks at his phone again, and Felix squeezes his shoulder. “Message her.”
He opens your conversation, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I'm sorry.
Too small.
I didn't mean any of it.
Not good enough.
Can I come home?
Selfish.
He locks the phone, shoving it back into his pocket. “I don't know what to say.”
Seungmin watches him. “Then don't say something just because silence makes you uncomfortable.”
Felix almost smiles, but Changbin doesn't. He sits there staring into space, mind crowded with thoughts of the argument.
Across the city, you're curled beneath your duvet on his side of the bed. You don't know why. Maybe because the pillow smells like his shampoo, or because you're angry and heartbroken and stupidly desperate for something that feels like him.
Your phone lies face-up beside you, silent.
You keep telling yourself you don't care. You don't care if he messages or calls. He wanted space, so he can have it.
Except every time headlights move across the ceiling from the street below, your heart jumps because some ridiculous part of you thinks he's come back.
But he doesn't.
And sometime after one in the morning, you finally turn your phone face-down because staring at an empty screen hurts too much.
At Felix's, Changbin lies awake on the sofa. At your flat, you lie awake in your bed. Neither of you sleeps, but neither of you reaches out. And for the first time since the two of you fell in love, the distance between you has absolutely nothing to do with schedules.
Changbin gets approximately forty-three minutes of sleep. He knows this because he checks the time the last time he gives up on pretending he isn't watching the clock - 4:38am - and then wakes with a violent jerk at 5:21am because his phone slips out of his hand and hits him directly in the mouth.
For one disorienting second, he doesn't know where he is.
The ceiling isn't right. The sofa beneath him is too narrow, and his neck hurts. There is a blanket twisted around one ankle, someone is snoring faintly from somewhere down the hall, and his phone is lying on his chest after nearly breaking his front teeth.
But then yesterday comes rushing back.
You.
The kitchen.
Your face.
Because right now you're making it sound like loving me is another fucking appointment you don't have time for.
Changbin closes his eyes. “Fuck.”
He rolls onto his side and immediately opens your messages, but there’s nothing new to see. He hadn't expected anything, but he’d still hoped anyway. His thumb hovers over your name, rereading the last thing in your conversation, which is from yesterday afternoon.
Bin: running late again 😭
Bin: don't wait to eat
You: I already started cooking :(
You: I'll wait
Bin: baby 😭❤️
Bin: i love you
You: love you too. hurry home ❤️
Changbin stares at it until his eyes burn.
You'd waited for him, made him dinner, greeted him when he finally came through the door and asked whether he was okay.
And he'd made you cry.
His stomach rolls. He sits up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
He needs to go home.
That's the first coherent thought he has.
He can’t – won’t – hide behind phone calls or messages. He’ll go home and face you, because he needs to stand in front of you and apologise properly. He needs to tell you about Minho and the comeback and the horrible ticking clock that seems to have appeared somewhere inside his head. He needs to explain that when he said everybody needed something from him, he hadn't meant that you were a burden.
You are the complete opposite.
You're the place he goes when everything else becomes too much, which, Changbin thinks bitterly, makes what he did even worse. He took the one person who makes him feel safe and made you feel unsafe instead.
He gets off the sofa as Felix appears, hair sticking up in every conceivable direction.
“Hyung?” Changbin looks over but doesn’t say anything as Felix blinks at him in surprise. “I’m surprised you’re awake already.”
“Didn't really sleep.”
“Neither did I.”
Guilt immediately joins the collection of unpleasant feelings already occupying Changbin's chest. “Sorry.”
Felix waves him off. “You were moving around like you were fighting demons.”
He finds his hoodie where he abandoned it over the back of a chair and pulls it on. His heart is already beating faster. He doesn't know what he'll find when he gets there. You might still be asleep or refuse to speak to him. Maybe you’ll-
His spiralling thoughts are interrupted by his phone ringing, and when he looks at the screen, he sees it’s his oldest hyung calling. He nearly declines it on principle, but years of instinct win.
“Hello?”
“Bin?”
Chan sounds far too awake, and Changbin closes his eyes because he can just tell that he should never have picked up the phone.
“Were you asleep?”
“No.”
Technically true.
“Good. Can you come in?”
Changbin stares at the front door. “Now?”
“Please. I was going over the second verse again, and I think something's bothering me. I need another brain.”
Changbin almost laughs. He currently possesses approximately twelve percent of a functioning brain. “Hyung—”
“Won't take long.”
Changbin hesitates, and Felix watches him from across the room. When Changbin looks at him, expression desperate, the younger mouths, What?
Changbin mouths back, Studio.
Felix grimaces sympathetically as Changbin looks at the time. If he goes to you now, he isn't leaving quickly. He doesn't want to leave quickly. And the last thing he wants is to arrive at home, open this enormous wound between you, and then announce halfway through the conversation that he has to go to work. Chan doesn't know what’s happened. That's the part Changbin can't even be angry about. Chan has absolutely no idea that Changbin spent last night detonating his relationship. To Chan, this is an ordinary morning where work needs doing, and Changbin is awake and reliable.
“Yeah,” Changbin sighs. “Okay.”
“You're the best.”
“Don't say that.”
There's a pause. “...Okay?”
“I'll be there soon.”
He hangs up.
Felix raises an eyebrow. “Studio?”
“Studio.”
“Does Chan hyung know?” Changbin shakes his head, and Felix winces in sympathy before asking, “You going to tell him?”
“No.” Felix looks thoroughly unimpressed by his response, and Changbin sighs before he corrects himself. “I don't know.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I need to talk to her first.”
“Then tell Chan you can't go.”
Changbin looks at his phone. He could tell him; Chan would understand if Chan knew why. But that requires explaining, and Changbin doesn't even know how to explain what happened without sounding like the biggest asshole alive. Besides, it's work. The comeback that's partly responsible for all of this in the first place.
He rubs his face. “I'll go. Fix whatever he needs fixing. Then I'll go home.”
Felix doesn't look convinced, but neither is Changbin.
You don't sleep much either. You're awake when the sky begins turning grey beyond the curtains. You've migrated back to your side of the bed at some point, although you don't remember doing it. Changbin's pillow is still clutched against your chest.
You shove it away when you realise, and it lands on his empty side.
Your eyes sting, and everything hurts. Your head is pounding, throat red raw. Your chest aches from all the sobbing you’d done overnight. Even your jaw aches from how tightly you've apparently been clenching it.
You reach for your phone and see nothing new. You hate how much that hurts, but you hate yourself even more for checking. You throw the phone onto the mattress, but five minutes later, you pick it up again.
Still nothing.
“Fine,” you whisper, voice hoarse.
You get out of bed to a flat that feels different without him. You think it’s ridiculous because Changbin isn't always here. There are plenty of mornings when you wake alone because he's left early. Plenty of evenings when you're alone because schedules run late.
This isn't unusual.
Except his shoes aren't by the door, his bag isn't on the stool, and his jacket isn't thrown somewhere you've told him approximately four hundred times not to leave it. The plate from last night is still sitting in the kitchen, and you stare at it. You’d forgotten all about his dinner after the mess of the night before. For some reason, that’s what brings tears to your eyes again.
You grab the plate and scrape everything into the bin. The aggression with which you do it is childish, but you don't care. It feels cathartic. You wash the plate and the pan. You wipe down an already-clean counter. You make coffee but forget to drink it because every few minutes, your eyes drift towards your phone.
Nothing.
Chan knows something is wrong within three minutes of Changbin entering the studio. Changbin doesn't even make it into the chair before Chan swivels around and stares at him.
“What happened to you?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
Chan stares, but Changbin simply stares back.
“How much?”
Changbin drops into the chair. “Enough.”
“How much?”
“Can we do the lyrics?”
“Seo Changbin.”
“Bang Chan.”
Chan's eyebrows rise at the younger’s response who sighs before answering.
“Like an hour.”
“What the hell were you doing?”
Having the worst argument he's ever had with the woman he loves.
Walking out.
Lying awake on Felix's sofa thinking about every terrible thing he said.
Imagining you crying alone because of him.
“Nothing.”
Chan doesn't move as Changbin opens the project on the computer. “What was bothering you?”
“Bin.”
“Second verse?”
“Bin.”
Changbin's hand stops on the mouse, and he closes his eyes. “Can we please just work?”
Something in his voice must tell Chan to leave it alone. Or at least, for now.
“Okay.”
Chan works as Changbin attempts to. It takes him four tries to understand a sentence Chan says. He reads the same line so many times that the words stop looking real. He suggests changing something and then, ten minutes later, suggests changing it back because he's forgotten he was the person who wanted it changed in the first place.
Eventually Chan pushes himself away from the desk, sighing.
“Okay.”
Changbin looks over. “What?”
“We're stopping.”
“No, we're not.”
“You're useless.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Changbin glares as Chan crosses his arms. “You're sitting there physically, but your brain is somewhere else.”
“My brain is fine.”
“You just rhymed a word with itself.”
“It was stylistic.”
“You rhymed night with night.”
“Could be powerful.” Chan just stares at him, unamused, before Changbin's shoulders collapse. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
Silence settles over the studio as Chan waits for Changbin to explain. Changbin has always known that his hyung knows how to wait. He doesn't fill every silence because it makes him uncomfortable. He just sits there until eventually you realise he's giving you somewhere to put whatever you've been carrying.
Changbin stares at the floor when he finally speaks. “We fought.”
Chan's expression immediately changes. “You and—”
“Yeah.”
“Last night?”
Changbin nods.
“Bad?”
“Mm.”
Chan leans forward. “What happened, Bin?”
Changbin laughs bitterly. “I happened.”
“That doesn't tell me anything.”
“I was stressed.”
“Okay.”
“I came home. She asked if I was okay.”
“Okay?”
“And I snapped at her.” Chan waits for more information as Changbin rubs his hands together. “I basically told her everybody needs something from me.”
Chan's face tightens. “And she thought you meant her.”
“I did mean her.” The admission tastes awful and Changbin tries to backtrack immediately. “I mean, not—” Changbin shakes his head violently. “Not like that. I didn't mean she was a burden. I just meant...” He stops, looking down at his hands, trying to keep his tears at bay as he explain himself more clearly. “She waits for me. She rearranges everything around me. If I say I might finish early, she keeps the evening free. If I'm late, she waits up. If I'm tired, she looks after me. And lately every time she does something nice for me, I just feel fucking guilty.”
His voice breaks on the last word, and he realises that he’s crying.
Chan just slides closer in his chair, softly asking, “Why?”
“Because I can't give any of it back.”
“That's not true.”
“It feels true.”
Chan goes quiet again, giving him time to process his thoughts and feelings.
“And I know it's stupid because we've known this was coming forever.”
“Knowing doesn't make it easy.”
“I keep thinking about when it's me.” Chan doesn't say anything so he continues. “I look at her and I think about leaving her.”
There it is. The thing he couldn't tell you, hidden underneath everything else.
Changbin's eyes burn. “I think about how long I'll be gone. What she'll do. Whether she'll be okay. Whether she'll get used to me not being there.” His voice grows quieter. “Whether she'll realise she's happier when I'm not.”
“Bin.”
“I know.”
“No.” Chan leans forward. “Listen to me.”
Changbin reluctantly looks at him. “You don't get to decide that for her.”
“I know.”
“If she wants to wait for you, that's her choice. If she wants to rearrange an evening because there's a chance she gets to see you, that's her choice too.”
“I know.”
“And if you feel guilty about it, talk to her. Don't push her away because you're scared she'll leave eventually.”
Changbin's throat tightens. “I really fucked up.”
“Probably.”
“Thanks.”
“You want me to lie?”
“No.”
Chan's mouth twitches. “Did you apologise?”
“I left.”
Chan's smile disappears. “You what?”
“I said I needed space.”
“And then?”
“She told me to go.”
“Did she actually tell you to go, or did you make her feel like you wanted to leave until she finally said it?”
Changbin doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
Chan exhales, exasperated when he says, “Bin.”
“I know.”
“Where did you go?”
“Felix's.”
“And she was alone?”
Every question somehow makes it worse. “Yes.”
“Have you spoken this morning?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was going home.” Changbin gives him a pointed look. “Then somebody called me into the studio.”
Chan's eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You should have told me.”
“You didn't know.”
“I would've told you not to come.”
“I know.”
Chan immediately reaches for his phone. “Go.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
Changbin looks at the computer. “We haven't finished.”
“I'll survive.”
“Hyung—”
“Your relationship is more important than whether I like three lines in a verse.”
That catches Changbin off guard, and Chan looks mildly offended when he notices.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Changbin shrugs. “You're usually the one telling us work comes first.”
“I tell you to take your job seriously. That's not the same thing.”
Changbin looks down as Chan studies him before something changes in his expression.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I have an idea.”
Changbin immediately distrusts that sentence. “Oh God. What?”
Chan turns back towards the computer. “Send her the song.”
Changbin blinks. “What song?”
Chan gives him a look, and Changbin's exhausted brain takes several seconds to process what he said before-
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's unreleased.”
“So?”
Changbin stares at him. “So? Hyung, you're the person who nearly has an aneurysm if somebody plays five seconds of an unreleased track with a window open.”
“That's different.”
“How?”
“Someone might hear it.”
“Someone might hear this!”
“Is she going to leak it?”
“No!”
“Then what's the problem?” Changbin simply stares, mouth agape, as Chan grins back at him. “Send her I Do.”
Changbin's chest tightens.
The song.
His song.
The one he'd written while thinking about you so much that he'd almost been embarrassed when he'd first shown Chan the lyrics. The things he wants to say when ordinary words don't feel enough. The promises that have been sitting inside him beneath all this fear.
“You're serious?”
“Completely.”
“Before the album?”
“Bin.” Chan's voice softens. “It's her.”
Something in Changbin's face crumples when he realises how much his hyung actually knows. Because he knows what you are to Changbin. He knows that when Changbin talks about home, sometimes he means a building and sometimes he means you.
“You're really okay with it?”
“Yes.”
Changbin looks at the files, his heart is hammering now. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe sending you a song after what happened isn't enough.
Hell, it isn't enough.
He knows that, but it’s a start at least. A door cracked open. Something that says please listen to me before he comes home and says the rest himself.
Chan watches him make his decision.
Changbin reaches for his phone, and he finds the folder they'd been using for the album demos. There are several audio files, some with proper names whilst others are simply working titles or numbers. Some are apparently labelled by people who hate organisation and happiness.
He finds the one marked I DO_final_demo, and his eyes are so tired the letters blur slightly. He downloads it nevertheless and attaches it to your conversation. Then he stares at the empty message box.
“What do I say?”
Chan glances over. “I don't know. It's your girlfriend.”
“Helpful.”
“Tell her the truth.”
Changbin thinks before he types.
I wrote this for you.
He pauses before adding another sentence.
I hope it explains how I feel.
His thumb hovers over send, and his stomach twists.
“Hyung.”
“Yeah?”
“What if she doesn't answer?”
Chan's expression softens. “Then you give her time.”
“What if she hates it?”
“She won't.”
“What if—”
“Changbin.” He looks over, and Chan looks serious now as he says, “Send it.”
Changbin breathes in, then out, before he finally presses the button. The message delivers, the audio file following close behind.
His entire body seems to deflate into his chair. “Fuck.”
Chan laughs softly. “Feel better?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Changbin rubs both hands over his face. “Maybe a little.”
For the first time since last night, there is something besides dread inside his chest. There’s hope, small and fragile but still there. He imagines you seeing the message and listening to his song for you. He imagines you understanding what he couldn't explain. He thinks that you might cry, but at least they’d be happy tears this time. He hopes that you might message him or that maybe by the time he gets home, you'll at least be willing to hear him out.
Changbin looks at the clock. “I should go.”
“You should.”
He stands, his phone silent in his hand. For the first time since the argument, he isn’t stressed, though. The song is several minutes long, and you might be asleep or need time. He grabs his bag, and Chan pats his shoulder as he passes.
“Talk to her.”
“I will.”
“And Bin?” Changbin turns, eyebrows raised in silent question. “Don't make decisions for her because you're scared.”
Changbin nods. “I won't.”
This time he really means it.
Your phone buzzes at 8:47am. You're sitting on the sofa with your cold coffee between both hands, and you nearly spill it when the noise breaks the eerie silence of your flat.
When Changbin's name appears on your screen, your heart lurches so violently it hurts. For several seconds, you don't touch it. When you put the mug down, your fingers are shaking that badly that you struggle to unlock the screen. When you do, multiple messages are waiting for you.
The first is an audio file, and you frown in confusion when you realise that it’s not a song you’re familiar with. Underneath the audio file, there are two messages, short and to the point.
Bin ❤️: i wrote this for you.
i hope it explains how i feel.
You stop breathing. Whatever you expected, it wasn't that. Your eyes immediately fill.
“Oh, Bin.”
You cover your mouth in shock. Changbin has always been better at music than conversations when his feelings become too large, and you know that he writes things he struggles to say. He builds melodies around emotions he doesn't know how to hold in ordinary sentences.
And he's written something for you.
Your chest aches, and last night suddenly looks different. You’re not suddenly excusing his behaviour because you’re still hurt by his words and his actions. But this… This is him reaching for you.
Your thumb brushes across his message.
I hope it explains how I feel.
You imagine him sitting somewhere writing it, thinking about you. Maybe this is everything he couldn't say last night, or maybe it’s his apology. Maybe this is him telling you he's scared.
Your eyes blur, and you laugh shakily as you wipe beneath them. “Idiot.”
Fond. Heartbroken. Still completely in love with him.
You press play, and the opening begins. You curl deeper into the sofa, pulling your knees towards your chest as you listen. For the first few seconds, you're simply overwhelmed by the fact that this is his, and that nobody else has heard it yet. The album isn't even out, and Changbin has trusted you with something unfinished and private because apparently ordinary words weren't enough.
But then you start listening properly, and your smile fades.
Something feels… wrong.
You frown in confusion, because surely you’re misunderstanding something. You listen harder, and the warmth in your chest begins to cool as you take in his lyrics because the song isn't about holding on. It isn't an apology or a love letter. It's—
Your stomach drops.
No.
You sit straighter as the track continues. Every line seems to pull the floor further from beneath you.
Leaving.
Distance.
A relationship that has reached its end.
Wanting out.
Wanting freedom.
Wanting to finally let each other go.
Your hands turn cold, and you stare at Changbin's message above the audio player.
i wrote this for you.
Your pulse starts hammering in your ears.
No.
i hope it explains how i feel.
“No.”
You whisper it aloud this time, and you finally stop the song. The flat goes silent, but you simply stare at your phone, wishing you’d misunderstood or that perhaps you were being too emotional. Maybe—
You press play again, starting from the beginning. This time you listen to every word, and you quickly realise that there is no misunderstanding. Whatever tiny scraps of hope you'd managed to gather overnight disappear one by one as last night plays through your head.
I have a million things going on right now.
Everyone needs something from me.
You want time with me.
I can't keep doing this every time I come home.
I can't breathe.
I think I need to go.
You'd told yourself he was overwhelmed and that he'd said things he didn't mean. You'd told yourself this morning that eventually he'd come home and apologise and the two of you would work through it. But apparently Changbin had spent the night thinking too, and this is his answer.
A breakup song.
Your vision blurs, and you pause it again before your hand comes up to cover your mouth to stifle the sob that escapes anyway.
He couldn't even say it to you.
That thought is the one that destroys you because after everything, after all the years of loving him, supporting him, waiting for him, building your life around the chaos of his—
He couldn't come home and tell you.
He sent you a song instead. A song telling you he wants to be free.
Your phone slips from your hand onto the sofa as you stand. You don't know why you stood up because there’s nowhere to go. You make it three steps before your knees feel weak enough that you grip the back of a chair. Your chest hurts, and you breathe in sharply to try and relieve the ache in your chest, but it doesn’t help.
“Okay.”
The word comes out broken, but you nod to yourself, nevertheless.
“Okay.”
He wants out. That's what he was trying to tell you last night, but you just hadn't let yourself hear it.
Everyone needs something from me.
Including you.
Especially you.
Maybe this has been building for months. Maybe every cancelled date really was a relief. Maybe every time you'd waited awake for him, he'd walked through the door and wished you hadn't. Maybe every dinner you'd made was another obligation.
Your thoughts spiralled rapidly as you thought of every message asking if he'd eaten, every call, every kiss goodbye. Every time you sent messages checking when he’d be home or telling him that you loved and missed him.
Need.
Need.
Need.
Your stomach rolled over, and you rushed to the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet.
“Oh God,” you sobbed.
You press both hands over your face. You're embarrassed, humiliated even. You’d thought that you were helping him, making things easier, but all this time, maybe you were just another person pulling at him.
And last night he'd finally snapped.
Your phone buzzes in the next room and for one stupid second, hope surges through you. You push yourself up from the bathroom floor onto shaky legs before you finally make your way to the next room to grab it.
Changbin.
Bin ❤️: i'm coming home now
You stare at the message, and your heart stops. He was coming home to collect his things. He had clothes and equipment here, his stupid protein powder taking up half the cupboard, his toothbrush beside yours. There were pieces of him everywhere that he needed to collect.
You felt sick all over again when another message came through.
Bin ❤️: please don't go anywhere
A sob catches in your throat, and you almost laugh at the ridiculousness of the message because where would you go? This is your home too.
Or it was.
You look around the flat, and suddenly everything feels temporary. The photographs, the shoes by the door, the blanket his mother gave you, the ridiculous mug Felix bought the two of you. Changbin's hoodie hanging over the dining chair because apparently you've been living with an animal incapable of using a wardrobe.
Your eyes land on it before you walk over to it and pick it up. It smells like him.
That finally breaks whatever control you had left, and you sink onto the kitchen floor with his hoodie clutched against your chest and sob.
Changbin is halfway down the studio’s corridor when his phone vibrates.
He stops when he sees your name on his screen, and his heart jumps in his chest until he opens the message.
You: why?
Changbin stares in confusion. There’s no heart or pet name. Nothing more than the one-word question. His stomach twists when he realises that you're probably still angry. He knows he deserves that, though.
He types quickly.
Bin ❤️: i'm sorry
Bin ❤️: i know a song isn’t the best explanation
Bin ❤️: i want to explain everything properly when i get there
He sends them and watches for the messages to deliver. When there’s no response, he sighs and puts his phone away.
You're hurt, but he's going to fix this. Maybe not immediately, but he’ll listen to everything you have to say, and he’ll apologise for being such a jerk. He'll stop trying to protect himself from a future that hasn't happened yet by destroying what he has now.
He reaches the lift just as his phone rings.
Chan-hyung.
Changbin answers, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Hyung?”
“Bin.”
Something about Chan's voice makes him stop. “What?”
“Where are you?”
“Leaving.”
“Okay.”
There’s a pause, and Changbin starts to worry when he realises that his hyung sounds panicked at the other end of the phone.
“Why?”
“Which file did you send her?”
Changbin's stomach tightens. “What?”
“The song.”
“I Do.”
“Which file?”
Changbin presses the lift button as he answers. “The one labelled I Do final demo.” When there’s silence from the other end of the phone, Changbin pulls his phone away from his ear to check that the call is still connected before asking, “Hyung?”
“Oh, fuck.”
Changbin goes cold. “What?”
“Bin.”
“What?”
“That file isn't I Do.”
Everything inside him stops. The lift doors open, but Changbin doesn't move. He’s frozen to the spot by his hyung’s words.
“What do you mean?”
“I just opened it.”
Chan sounds horrified, and Changbin's fingers tighten around the phone. “What song is it?”
“Bin—”
“What fucking song did I send her?”
Chan goes silent.
And then he says the two words that make Changbin's entire world drop out from underneath him.
“Way Out.”
Changbin can't breathe.
No.
No, no, no.
“That—” His voice disappears, and he tries again. “That's the breakup song.”
“I know.”
“The one about—”
“I know.”
Changbin swears and quickly opens the last messages he sent to you.
i wrote this for you. i hope it explains how i feel.
His blood runs cold.
“Oh my God.”
He sees your reply.
why?
Not angry. Not asking what the hell he's doing.
Just—
Why?
Changbin's bag slips from his shoulder and hits the floor. “Oh my God.”
“Bin, call her.”
He already is. He ends the call with Chan without saying goodbye and presses your name. The phone rings again and again.
“Come on… Baby, please.”
Voicemail.
Changbin calls again, and there’s still no reply. In a panic, he opens your messages, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Bin ❤️: WRONG SONG
Bin ❤️: BABY THAT WAS THE WRONG SONG
Bin ❤️: PLEASE ANSWER ME
Bin ❤️: THAT IS NOT WHAT I WANTED TO SEND YOU
Bin ❤️: I DON'T WANT TO BREAK UP
Bin ❤️: PLEASE
He stares at the screen and sees that the messages are delivered but go unread. His hands are shaking as he grabs his bag from the floor and starts running.
Twenty minutes ago, Changbin thought the worst thing he'd ever done to you was make you feel like loving you was a burden. Now, somewhere across the city, you believe he's decided his life would be better without you.
And the last thing you sent him was—
Why?
a/n: now y'all BE NICE NOW OKAY? In all seriousness, I missed writing intense angst hehehe. We okay? Part Two will be better guys xo
Hello! Such a good idea to give out lemonade in this hot summer (in Europe at least)!
I'd like a spiked lemonade with ice cubes, pulp in and whipped cream to share with Felix (SKZ). Thank you ❤️
- ɴᴏᴡ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ › ꜱᴘɪᴋᴇᴅ ʟᴇᴍᴏɴᴀᴅᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴄᴇ ᴄᴜʙᴇꜱ, ᴡʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʟᴘ ⸝⸝ ft. felix , enjoy ! 18+
cw: breeding, cum play, soft dom
an: ahh it’s been so long since this was requested but i hope the heat wave has calmed down for my fellow luvs in europe!! i lowk got realllyy into the cum play here, so i’m gonna continue it as a part two so that it’s not much longer than the rest of the fics for this celly, i’ll tag u if u want me to! :)
“Shit- you feel so good.” Felix moaned. One hand resting on the bed next to your head and the other one holding your waist.
You whined into the pillow you held in front of your face. Feeling him twitch inside of you.
The mess of his last orgasm leaked out around him, some of it coating his cock, some dripping onto the bed and the rest on your guys’ thighs. Strings of cum connected the two of you even more.
“Look at me.” Felix chuckled, hand coming up to move the pillow from your face.
You opened your eyes, face flushing in embarrassment. But god if the sight above you didn’t do things to you-
His hair was mussed, some strands sticking to his forehead. Freckled face flushed ‘n sweaty. You could see where he’s been biting his lips.
He chuckled, looking down at you. You turned your head away, too embarrassed to look back at him.
“Stop,” You whined. Voice breathless as you moaned. His cock hitting that sensitive plushy spot inside you.
Another, smaller whine escape your lips as he leaned down, resting onto his forearm. Body hot against yours as he pushed his body against you. Lips finding your neck. “Why? You sound so pretty.” He hummed before placing open mouth kisses along your neck.
“Too much-“ You whimpered. Mix of heat, sweat and pleasure making you dizzy. Heels of your feet kicking instinctively against his back. Nails scraping down his back as you practically wrapped yourself around him.
“Just one more baby.” He pulled his head up from your neck, smiling with a mix of amusement and arousal. “Promise.” He leaned down, placing a light kiss to your cheek. “Then we’re done.”
You let out a mix of a broken huff and moan, arms coming up to wrap around him while he continued sucking hickeys onto your neck.
“You feel the mess we made?” He hummed between breaths. You nodded as much as you could, feeling the sticky mess on the back of your thighs.
★ Synopsis: Your boyfriend called you while he was on tour. When he tells you he misses your touch, you're more than happy to help him out.
★ Pairing: Felix x reader
★ Additional information: Written in 2nd person, Established relationship
★ Warnings: Phone sex, Masturbation, Reader talks him through it, Praise kink, Needy Felix
Felix missed you. The tour started a couple of months ago and wanted nothing more than for you to be here. It never seemed to get any easier with every day that passed by. Sure, you were going to fly over and join him at an upcoming stop, but that day couldn't come any sooner.
As of right now, it was late at night. He was fresh out of the shower and settled into bed. He wished you were here with him. To enjoy traveling around the world and to see him perform.
He couldn't get you out of his head. He missed you so much. Your touch. He needed to talk to you. He knew you were awake right now, so he picked up his phone and called you.
.
.
.
.
*Back at home*
You were bored out of your mind. You were currently sitting in bed, watching TV, but you stopped paying attention at some point. Your mind wandered to your boyfriend. You missed him so much.
It felt like he must've read your mind because your phone started ringing. You smiled when you saw your boyfriend's name and the cute photo you set as a profile picture. You clicked the answer button and put it up to your ear.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hey.
“How has the tour been so far?”
Felix cleared his throat. “It's good. Great, actually.”
“That's good,” you replied. “Isn't it late over there?”
“Yeah, but I miss you,’ he whined.
You hummed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah…” he breathed out.
Interesting. You decided to press him further.
“How much have you missed me?” you questioned. You could hear him let out a shaky breath on the other end of the phone.
“So much,” he answered.
"Hm... are you calling me just because you miss me…” you paused for a moment. “Or is there something else you're not telling me?"
“I need you.” he mumbled. There it is.
That tone. You have heard it before. When he spoke that way… it was usually because he was horny and desperate.
“Poor thing,” you cooed. “Just aching for my touch, hm?”
He gulped. “Yes…”
“It's a good thing I'm here, right?” you said. “Where are you? Alone, I hope.”
He nodded, even though you couldn't see it. “Yeah, I'm alone.”
“Perfect. Be a dear and take your shirt off for me,” you instructed. The shuffling of fabric could be heard through the speaker. “Good. Now pull your pants down your hips.”
“Okay,” he replied.
Felix slowly pulled his pajama pants down. Enough to reveal the boxers he wore. It had a tent due to his hard cock straining against the fabric.
“Place your hand on your chest and drag it down,” you explained. “Slowly. Explore yourself.”
He did what he was told, placing a hand on his bare chest. The tips of his fingers traced the warm skin of his toned body. He took his time. To let himself savor the moment, despite his patience waning. Slowly, but surely it made its way down. Lower and lower.
“How do you feel?” you asked. Your voice cut through his laser focus.
“I feel hot all over,” he said. “My skin feels tingly and hot beneath my fingers.”
You hummed. “Good. Keep going.”
His hand continued its path downward. His heart raced within his chest. His stomach prickled with heat. A wave of anticipation washed over him when his fingers touched the elastic band of his boxers. He brushed his hand over his hard-on. He sharply inhaled in response.
“There it is. Good…” you whispered. “Now palm yourself through your underwear.”
Felix took in and let out a deep breath. He pressed down and gave himself an experimental squeeze. He groaned and bucked into his hand. The friction from the fabric sent shocks up his spine.
He gained a rhythm, grinding against his hand. He was so worked up. Precum leaked from his cock and stained the front of his underwear. He moaned into the phone. The sounds sent heat through you, but you didn't let your focus waver. Your voice broke the silence.
“Stop,” you ordered.
“Come on,” He groaned in protest. “Please… let me touch myself.” You tutted.
“Shh… patience, my love,” you assured. “If there's lotion or any lubricant nearby, I want you to use it.”
He looked over the bedside table. On it was a bottle of lotion. Luckily, he had left a bottle of it there earlier. He grabbed it and applied a generous amount into his palm.
“I've got it.”
“Great. Now…” you muttered in the speaker. “Touch yourself, pretty boy.” He reached into his underwear and pulled his cock out. “Start slow and work from there.”
His hand wrapped around himself and started stroking it. The starting pace was slow, almost torturous. Once he gets it started, he falls into a rhythm. An occasional moan would slip from his parted lips.
“How do you feel?”
“Good. So good,” he panted.
“Excellent,” you praised. “Go on and pick up the pace for me, why don't you?” You didn’t need to tell him twice.
With ease, he quickened the pace. Pleasure pulsated within his belly. His skin prickled with heat all over. His tan skin was painted with a flush from the tips of his ears down to his chest.
His bottom lip was red from how bitten up it was. It was getting hard to keep quiet, but it was late in the night. The last thing he wanted was to be too loud in the hotel. He was so focused that he almost didn't hear you speak.
“I can tell you're holding back, sweetheart,” you noted. “There's no need to be so quiet. I want to hear you.” Felix let out a moan of your name slip. “Good boy. That's it.”
Every word of praise you uttered had him throbbing. His hips twitched and his back arched. Praise from you during sex wasn't unheard of. However, the frequency you were hurling it towards him had him reeling.
His hand made quick work on himself. Occasionally, he alternated between a slower pace and a quicker one. Anything to extend the pleasure he felt. He fucked up into his hand in desperation, arching his back.
Meanwhile, you listened on the other end of the call. Hearing every heavy pant. Every moan and hitch in his breath. You'd be lying if you said it didn't make you all hot and bothered.
What could be hotter than hearing your boyfriend, fucking his hand with you on the phone, because he missed you? However, tonight wasn't about you. You were focused only on his pleasure for now.
While he was touching himself, he had brushed his thumb against the tip. Fuck. He whined into the speaker. His hips bucked up into his hand.
“A-ah!”
“Oh… that's certainly a sound. Sensitive, are we?” you purred. “Whatever has you sounding like that… keep doing it.”
He kept going, only to repeat the motion before. Touching such a sensitive part of his cock had him whimpering. Precum dribbled out the more he did it. It felt like electricity shocked him with every touch. It was overwhelming, but euphoric.
If you were the one doing it right now, he'd surely be losing it. You would tease him to no end. Purposely pushing his buttons until he was to the point of tears. Until he was overwhelmed and then made him cum so hard he'd be seeing stars. The thought made him feel hot all over.
“You seem lost in thought,” you pointed out. “What's going through that pretty head of yours?”
“You,” he croaked. “Wishing you were here with me right now.”
You sighed softly. “I wish I was there, too. I can only imagine how frustrating it is. I bet you wish it was my hand instead of yours stroking that pretty cock, hm?” Felix lets out a mewl. “Answer me, baby.”
“Y-yes! Oh, yes, I wish it was you touching me right now!” he exclaimed.
“So good for me, aren't you?” you cooed. “Doing what I asked. Sounding so pretty for me.”
He couldn't help but moan. His hand relentlessly stroked his cock. Every word of praise was like adding coal to the hot furnace of arousal in his abdomen. He wasn't going to last much longer.
"I'm so close..." he parted
"Not yet, handsome. Just hold on a little longer,” you coaxed. “Can you do that for me?” Felix let out a deep groan into the phone. The sound sent a shiver through you.
He shook his head as if you could see him. "I don't know if I can."
"Just try, okay? I know you can do it.”
He was quiet for a moment until he spoke. “Okay.”
“Good,” You hummed in approval. “You're doing so good, baby. Did you know that? So good.”
It almost felt like you were doing this on purpose. To push his buttons. He was trying so hard not to just blow a load into his hand. It took everything in him not to. You cooing into his ear wasn't helping his case whatsoever.
You listened to him through the phone. The image it produced was delectable. Your boyfriend, laying in bed shirtless with his pants pulled down. Skin flushed and glistening with a layer of sweat. Panting and moaning as he so desperately fucked his hand, wishing it was yours. You wanted nothing more than to be there.
“Fuck, please,” Felix mewled. “I can't hold on much longer.”
The coil tightening in his stomach was threatening to snap. His legs started to shake and his toes curled. His free hand gripped at the bedsheets. He was teetering on the edge of orgasm. So close, but not quite there yet.
“Please…” he gasped. It was hard to deny him when he sounded so pretty whilst begging.
“Go on, then,” you ordered. “Cum for me.
That was all he needed for the coil to snap. Felix cried your name as he toppled over the edge. His orgasm pulsated through him. Streaks of cum painted his hand. Some of it landed on his stomach.
His body continued to twitch from residual aftershocks. Once the orgasm dissipated, it made way for exhaustion. His once tense body now laid completely lax on the bed. He took a moment to catch his breath. Taking slow, deep breaths to calm his heart. With time, the heart racing in his chest slowed to an even rhythm.
You broke the silence. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I'm okay,” he breathed out. “Thank you…”
With what little energy he had left, he got himself cleaned up and dressed into his clothes. The second he relaxed again, exhaustion hit him like a freight train. He almost couldn't keep his eyes open.
“It's getting late. You should get some rest. I'll talk to you later.”
“Wait!” he exclaimed. “Can you… stay on the phone with me and talk? Until I fall asleep at least.”
“Yeah… yeah, of course.”
Felix sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
The two of you talk on the phone. It was mostly one-sided with you doing the talking. You didn't mind it, though. You knew how much hearing your voice soothed him, so you'd do anything to make him feel less homesick.
Every passing minute, his response time grew slower as his mind started slipping into sleep.. Replies turned into almost inaudible hums of acknowledgement. Eventually, he stopped responding altogether.
All you could hear now were his even breaths. It was clear that he had fallen asleep. You waited to be sure before you decided to hang up.
“Good night,” you whispered. “I look forward to seeing you at the next stop.” You ended the call.
