a/n: so this is part one of what will probably be a long ass, angsty, smutty, fluffy series designed to make you feel all the feels muhahaha. If you wanna be on my taglist for my works, lmk in the comments! ♥
The bar was rammed full with people escaping the end of another week of lectures and assignments. Music pulsed through the speakers loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet, while conversations blended together into a constant roar of laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses.
Your group had somehow managed to claim a booth in the corner hours ago, and now all eight of you were squeezed around a table clearly designed for half that number. Your legs were tangled beneath the table, jackets were piled in one corner, and empty glasses were scattered between baskets of chips and half-finished appetisers.
The longer the night went on, the louder everyone became. It had started innocently enough with a couple of drinks and catching up, but now the conversation was splintering into five different arguments at once.
"No, because that's literally not what happened," Seungmin was insisting from your left.
"It is exactly what happened," Changbin argued back.
"You weren't even there!"
"I heard about it."
"That's not the same thing!"
Across the table, Hyunjin was laughing so hard he nearly spilt his drink while Felix was attempting—and failing—to tell a story nobody would let him finish.
"Can I please finish?" Felix demanded.
"No," Jeongin replied immediately.
The entire table burst into laughter at the look of outrage on Felix’s face. You could barely hear yourself think over the noise, but you didn’t mind. It had been so long since you’d been out with them all, head buried into books in the library or under a duvet as you tried to catch up on hours of sleep lost from studying.
The booth was warm from too many bodies packed together. The air smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and whatever expensive cologne Hyunjin had drowned himself in before coming out. Another round had appeared at some point, though you couldn't remember who ordered it; you were too focused on the leg pressed against yours under the table.
Han, your flatmate and the guy you were desperately in love with, was leaning into you to try to join the argument happening between Seungmin and Changbin on your left. Your breath hitched as he rested his hand on your thigh under the table, palm warming bare skin as he subtly moved it higher.
Probably not the best time to think about what those fingers could do.
You can’t remember how, or even exactly when, it happened. You were both in your second year of university, and you had met through Seungmin in your first year. You’d instantly clicked, and you fell for him fast and hard. With the chemistry you had, sex seemed like the natural next step. The first time you’d had sex was when you had started living together, along with Seungmin. You’d thought all your dreams had come at once, that maybe your feelings were reciprocated. It became abundantly clear afterwards, when he rolled off you and pulled his pants up to leave, that they weren’t. You’d managed to hide your tears and laugh the whole thing off until he’d left, when you’d crawled into Seungmin’s bed, and he’d held you as you cried to him.
It didn’t stop you from sleeping with Han the next time he initiated it, or the next. It had become a routine that you’d stuck to because, as much as it hurt, in those moments, you had Han’s attention all to yourself.
God, you felt pathetic.
You were snapped out of your thoughts by Han cracking up next to you, fingers tightening on the inside of your thigh. You were hitting the stage of the night where every joke became funnier than it actually was, and every story grew more exaggerated with each retelling. Even Seungmin, usually the voice of reason, was starting to lose his composure as laughter kept interrupting his attempts at conversation.
You leaned back against the booth, drink in hand, watching the chaos unfold around you. You couldn’t help but feel fond of the group of friends you’d built for yourself. They’d welcomed you in with open arms, a simple “any friend of Seungmin’s is a friend of ours”, and the rest was history.
Changbin took a break from arguing with Seungmin long enough to turn to Felix and ask, “When’s Lee Know getting here?”
You’d heard of Lee Know, but you'd never met him. You knew that he was one of Felix’s friends and that he sometimes joined the group for drinks, but you’d never had the chance to meet him yourself. You also knew that he didn’t get on well with Han, who had tensed next to you at the mention of his name, but you didn’t know why.
Felix, who was too busy smirking down at his phone, didn’t respond, and as you opened your mouth to tease him about it, a girl appeared next to the table.
"Hey," she said, smiling at Han. "Aren't you Han Jisung?"
The table immediately erupted with teasing, used to how this would play out.
"Here we go," Changbin muttered, smirking into his glass as he took a sip.
Han laughed at the teasing and looked back at the girl in front of him, his signature smirk coming to his face.
The girl tucked her hair behind her ear, blushing now. "I think we’re in the some of the same seminars."
"Yeah?" Han grinned.
You hated how easily his attention shifted from the conversation, from you, to her.
She nodded. "You’re really good. Really… clever."
You cringed at her attempt at flirting, nearly scoffing, but Han’s hand had already slipped away from your thigh as he turned his body towards her. The sudden loss of contact shouldn't have bothered you, but it did.
The girl glanced at the empty seat beside him. "Can I sit?"
Han shrugged. "Sure."
She slid into the booth without hesitation. Immediately, Seungmin nudged you and raised an eyebrow, a worried look on his face, but you looked away. You couldn’t bear to see the look of pity on his face when your heart was too busy aching from the conversation taking place next to you.
The girl and Han were already talking as if they'd known each other for ages. You tried to focus on Felix explaining something about Lee Know, but every few seconds Han's laugh cut through the noise. You watched as the girl touched his arm, and Han smiled, not moving away as she leaned in closer. You took a long drink, downing it in the hopes of numbing the uncomfortable feelings in your chest.
You shouldn’t care. You were just friends. Friends that fucked-
"Someone's grumpy," Seungmin murmured beside you, disrupting your thoughts.
"I'm not grumpy."
"Sure."
You kicked him under the table and managed a small smile as he complained, rubbing his shin.
A few minutes later, the girl said something that made Han laugh loudly, before she asked, "Want to get another drink with me?"
You didn't mean to listen, but you just couldn't help it.
Han looked at her. "Yeah, why not?"
You stopped yourself from reaching for him as he stood up, pretending to be busy with your phone. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the booth, and the girl smiled triumphantly. You hated her smugness.
"See you later," Han called casually to the table, not even sparing you a glance.
Nobody seemed surprised at the change in plans. Well, nobody except you. You watched as he disappeared into the crowd with her, heading towards the bar, hand resting at the base of her back. The seat beside you felt strangely empty.
"Well," Felix said, watching them leave. "That was quick."
"Five minutes," Changbin replied. "New record."
The group laughed, and you forced a smile through gritted teeth. The conversation moved on, but your attention drifted, watching as Han and the girl now moved together on the dance floor. You could see his hands on her hips, see the way they moved together in sync. It made you sick, because you knew how those hands felt on your body, how well your own body could move in sync with his.
You stared into your drink and tried to ignore the annoying feeling in your chest. Friends with benefits. That was all this was. You knew that, that Han didn't owe you anything. So why did watching him leave with someone else feel so much worse than you expected?
As soon as the door closed behind them, you stood up from your seat. You needed another drink, maybe five. You’d try anything to get rid of the jealousy you felt burning through you.
You turned to Seungmin, who was looking at you worriedly, and forced a smile on your face. “Just gonna get another drink, I’ll be right back.”
You tripped over your feet on the way to the bar, surprised by how tipsy you felt from the drinks you’d already had. You dodged the guys trying to drag you in to dance with them, uninterested in their attention. As you reached the bar, you flagged the barman down and ordered three shots and another double vodka lemonade. You downed the shots in quick succession and grimaced at the burn down your throat, rinsing it down with your drink. You smiled at the pleasant buzz that filled your system, feeling more relaxed than just minutes ago.
The third shot was definitely a mistake, you thought to yourself not long after. You knew it the second the burn disappeared from your throat and the buzz that filled your body rushed straight to your head. The tipsiness from earlier had turned into the room spinning slightly every time you turned your head.
"Another?" Felix asked.
You shook your head immediately, the movement making you dizzier than before. The table was still loud when you'd made your way back, the guys still laughing and arguing about something stupid, but suddenly it wasn't fun anymore. Probably because every time you glanced toward the entrance, part of you expected Han to come back. He never did, and you knew he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the night. The thought made you sick, and the empty seat he'd left behind hours ago felt like it was mocking you.
You stared down at your drink, the same one from earlier, and became only mildly concerned when your vision blurred.
"Oh no."
You blinked, and a tear landed on the table.
Seriously? Now?
You quickly wiped at your face, but another tear followed, more flowing not long after.
"Okay," you muttered to yourself. "Time to leave."
Nobody noticed as you slid out of the booth; Seungmin was in the toilet, and everyone else was too drunk and distracted. You were thankful for it because the last thing you needed was Changbin loudly announcing to the entire bar that you were crying over Han.
You grabbed your jacket and headed for the exit, shocked when the cold night air hit you like a truck. The second you stepped outside, you inhaled deeply… Then immediately stumbled.
"Oh. Shit."
The pavement shifted beneath your feet. Or maybe you shifted? Honestly, it was hard to tell, and you were too drunk to care. You steadied yourself against a wall. Everything felt emotional, like it was taunting you in your drunkenness. The music still echoed faintly from inside, and people laughed as they passed. Everyone seemed happy, and you suddenly felt very, very alone.
A fresh wave of tears appeared as you thought about how badly you wanted him to come back, to magically realise his feelings for you.
"Stupid Han," you mumbled, kicking the heels off your feet.
You weren’t sure when it started raining, but you slowly became aware of the dampness underfoot, of the rain dripping from the guttering you’d tried your best to hide under. The sound of a taxi pulling up to the curb nearby pulled you from your spiral, and you watched as the door opened and a man your age stepped out. You barely registered dark clothes and broad shoulders before your drunk brain came up with a solution.
A ride home! Perfect.
You immediately marched toward him. Well, ‘marched’ was generous. You wobbled like a newborn giraffe finding its feet for the first time.
The man looked up from his feet in surprise just as you collided with his chest. "Whoa."
Strong hands caught your shoulders before gravity could win, and you blinked up at him as he blinked down at you. Pretty eyes, you thought to yourself before blurting out:
"Can you drive me home?"
The man stared at you, confused, hands still on your shoulders. "What?"
You pointed at the taxi behind him. "You have transportation."
He looked genuinely confused before his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in your tear-stained face.
"...Are you crying?"
"No."
You immediately started crying harder. Brilliant, absolutely fantastic. Well done, me.
The man sighed. It was a long, tired sigh and part of you, the tiny shred of self-awareness left in you, felt bad for a second.
"Great."
You pointed a finger at him, nearly poking him in the nose as you did so. You smiled as he went cross-eyed, staring at the finger in his face.
"You're very nice."
"I haven't agreed to anything."
"You look nice."
"That's not the same thing."
You swayed dangerously, and his grip tightened on you. For a second, he looked like he was considering putting you back inside the bar, but then he glanced through the window, and whatever he saw seemed to change his mind.
"Do you know where you live?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly?"
You nodded confidently. "Most of it."
The man pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, surprisingly, he laughed. It was just once, almost like he couldn’t help it, but you were taken aback by how your heart fluttered in response.
"Okay."
You brightened immediately, smiling through the tears left on your cheeks. "Okay?"
"I'll take you home."
"You're my favourite person."
"That's concerning."
He guided you towards the back seat of his taxi and opened the door for you. You didn't question why he waited - you were far too drunk - but you quickly realised that he was waiting for you to buckle yourself in. When he realised you were lacking the coordination for even that, he sighed again and leaned over you to do it himself.
“You smell nice,” you murmured. And he did. Like oranges, you thought to yourself helpfully.
You realised too late that you should probably be embarrassed by what you had just said to a stranger, even one so good-looking, when he leant back and raised an eyebrow at you, face mere inches from your own. Once you were buckled into the backseat, the man took his own seat behind the wheel and pulled out his phone. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen, and you caught a glimpse of a message being sent, but you couldn't make out the contact name. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a reply, and he read it before rolling his eyes and putting it away.
You were already half-asleep against the window when you caught his eyes in the rearview mirror.
"What's your name?" you asked suddenly.
The man glanced over. "You don't know who I am?"
You frowned. "Should I?"
That earned another strange look. "No. I’m Lee-Minho. Minho."
You were too drunk to notice the slip-up, and you were happy to have a name for such a pretty face. "Okay. Don’t kidnap me, Minho."
He didn’t respond, but you could see he’d raised an eyebrow at your words as he started to drive. A few minutes passed, and you couldn’t help but stare at what little you could see of him in the mirror, intrigued, before once again speaking your mind.
"You have sad eyes."
Minho nearly missed a turn, surprised by your words. "What?"
"You do."
"You've known me for thirty seconds."
"I notice things."
"You're drunk."
"Never said I wasn’t."
Silence settled over the car as you tore your eyes away long enough to look out of the window. The city lights blurred, and the rain was coming down even heavier now, raindrops running down the window like the tears had done on your own face earlier.
How poetic, you mused drunkenly.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, but the sadness was returning quickly now that you were no longer distracted.
You slumped further into the seat. "...Han left with another girl."
The man sighed, and if you weren’t so distracted, you would have realised that there was a suspicious amount of understanding in it.
"You don't say."
"I don't care."
"You sound like you care."
"I don't."
You immediately started crying again, completely invalidating your own lies. The man reached into the cup holder, grabbed a packet of tissues, and handed them over without taking his eyes off the road.
"Here."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A few seconds passed before he added quietly, "For what it's worth, Han's an idiot."
You sniffled. "Do you know him?"
The man looked straight ahead, not replying. You hadn’t even noticed his lack of reply because you'd locked onto the music that was playing softly through the car speakers. You hated it. You hated every happy lyric, every stupid love song, every reminder that the world kept spinning while yours had fallen apart.
Your throat tightened at the thought of going home, of having to lie awake and hear the noises coming from his room. "Minho? Can you just... drive?"
He glanced at you through the rearview mirror, confusion in his eyes. "Drive?"
"Please. I don’t want to go home yet."
Something in your voice must have convinced him because he simply nodded and turned off his maps, choosing instead to take random roads. You curled up against the door, hugging yourself. You sat in silence for all of thirty seconds before the tears came back. They weren’t the ones from earlier - the composed, public kind – but rather ugly tears. The kind that made your chest hurt and left you gasping for breath. You pressed a hand over your mouth, hoping Minho couldn't hear, but you knew he definitely could.
You saw his eyes flick briefly to the mirror. "You alright back there?"
A laugh escaped you. A horrible, broken sound. "No."
The honesty surprised both of you.
"No," you repeated. "I'm really not."
The radio hummed softly between you, continuing with the same taunting music. You sat forward suddenly, leaning between the front seats as best as you could.
"Can you change it?"
Minho blinked. "The station?"
"Please."
Every station that he clicked through seemed determined to remind you that love was beautiful. That love lasted forever. That love always came back. You wanted to scream in frustration, balling up your hands against your eyes.
"Nothing?" he asked.
You shook your head. "I just want one sad song." Your voice cracked as you continued. "One person singing about how awful this feels."
Minho didn't answer immediately, thinking. Outside, rain rolled down the glass in endless streams. Finally, he said quietly, "Did he break your heart?"
You laughed again. "That obvious?"
"A little."
You looked out the window before answering. "I don’t know how much longer I can do this. He didn't even say goodbye. He just… left. He always just leaves. Like, my feelings don't matter. Like, I don’t matter."
Your chest tightened, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, finally sitting back in your seat.
"I don’t know what to do right now," you finished, avoiding Minho’s gaze.
"What do you mean?" he asked, quietly.
You swallowed, voice trembling as you replied. "I mean right now, at one in the morning. While it's raining, and my makeup's ruined from crying so much. While every song on the radio is about finding someone." You laughed through another sob. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
Minho was quiet for a moment before reaching over and turning the radio off completely. The car fell silent except for the rain.
"You know," he said, "sometimes people think they need advice."
You looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
"But sometimes they just need someone to sit with them while it hurts."
A fresh wave of tears hit at that. You weren’t expecting to receive such kindness from a stranger, or such compassion. You leaned your head against the cool window as the taxi kept moving through the sleeping city. The wet roads seemed to stretch endlessly ahead when you had no destination in mind, the rain tapping softly against the glass providing a gentle backdrop to your drive.
You were surprised when Minho asked if you wanted to keep driving, assuming that he’d want the random drunk girl crying in his taxi out of it as soon as possible. But you agreed, voice barely a whisper, pleading:
"Please don't take me home yet."
He nodded, and together you disappeared deeper into the rain, chasing empty roads and borrowed time, while somewhere in the darkness, your broken heart beat in time with the windshield wipers, waiting for a song sad enough to understand it.
The rain never stopped, even when your own tears eventually dried up. It drummed softly against the roof of the taxi as the city blurred past in streaks of orange and white.
You were simply exhausted, too tired to even cry. You supposed that heartbreak could only wring so much out of a person before there was nothing left. Your head rested against the cool window, eyes heavy as the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers pulled you closer and closer to sleep.
Minho glanced at you through the mirror. "You still awake?"
A tired hum was your only response, and you didn’t notice one corner of his mouth twitch fondly at your tired reply.
"Barely, then."
You blinked slowly. "Minho?"
His eyebrows lifted, wondering what would come out of your mouth next. "Yeah?"
“I think..." You yawned. "I think I'm done driving."
"Yeah?"
You nodded, mumbling sleepily, "Wanna go home."
Minho felt relieved to hear that, not because he couldn’t wait to get you out of his taxi so he could go home, but because he was glad to get you home to rest safely in your own bed. The address came out slurred and half-mumbled, but he managed to piece it together.
You must live with Han, or at least in the same building, he realised.
The rest of the journey passed in silence with Minho occasionally checking on you in the rearview mirror as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your need for sleep finally winning out. By the time the taxi pulled up outside your apartment building, you were practically unconscious.
"We're here."
"Hm?"
"We're here."
Your eyes opened slowly, your vision unfocused. "Oh."
You stared at the building, then at him, then back at the building. "Oh," you repeated dumbly.
Minho laughed softly, getting out of the taxi to open your door for you. "Come on."
Getting out of the taxi in itself was an adventure. You nearly left your phone behind, then you forgot your bag, before somehow getting tangled in the seatbelt despite already removing it.
Minho eventually leaned across and helped untangle you. "There."
"You're nice."
"I know."
You squinted suspiciously. "That wasn't humble."
"No."
You giggled at his bluntness, and the sound caught him off guard. For the first time all night, you sounded genuinely happy. It made him strangely happy in return.
As you turned to your building, you spotted someone standing outside the apartment entrance, pacing back and forth. You couldn’t see clearly due to the poor lighting, and you felt Minho’s hand come to gently wrap around your wrist as he squinted into the darkness. He hovered even closer, ready to pull you behind him, as the figure started running towards you.
"There you are!"
Minho took a step back as Seungmin stopped in front of you both, looking somewhere between furious and relieved. His hair was damp from the rain, and his hoodie was soaked. His phone was clutched tightly in one hand, and he waved it in your face as he started to vent his frustration at you.
"Do you have any idea how many times I called you?"
You blinked, one eye remaining closed as you thought. "Mmm... Seven?"
"Eighteen, Y/N."
"Oh."
"You disappeared!"
"I got in a taxi."
"I know you got in a taxi!" Seungmin shouted at you in frustration, running the hand that wasn’t holding his phone through his hair.
You considered this - way too drunk for confrontation - and tried to figure out how to respond.
"Good," you decided on, nodding your head once and immediately regretting it when the world tilted on its axis again
Seungmin stared at you. Minho even stared at you.
You smiled proudly, wagging a finger in Seungmin’s direction. "I remembered."
"Oh my god," Seungmin muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
You swayed slightly on your feet, suddenly, fatigue and alcohol taking your balance from you. The ground felt suspiciously uneven, and you decided that you wanted nothing more than your bed at this moment.
Before either man could react, you turned back toward Minho, and your sleepy brain supplied only one thought:
Goodbye.
So, you hugged him as you would with any of your friends - just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his middle. Minho froze completely, arms still by his sides, his body locked up.
"Thank you," you mumbled into Minho's leather jacket, words muffled. Definitely oranges. "And for the sad music."
"We never found any sad music."
"You listened, though."
Minho swallowed as something unexpectedly warm settled in his chest. Slowly, awkwardly, he patted your shoulder. "Yeah, no problem."
You smiled against him before letting go. Unfortunately, the moment you let go, your balance disappeared completely. You stumbled sideways and nearly walked into a bush. You corrected too hard and started toppling toward the building. Seungmin caught you before gravity could finish the job.
"I've got her."
"Good."
Minho shoved his hands into his pockets, trying very hard not to think about how small you'd felt hugging him. Or how much trust had been packed into that simple gesture.
You were already half-asleep against Seungmin's shoulder. "Night, Minho."
"Night."
You waved without turning around, then allowed Seungmin to guide you toward the entrance. The door opened, and warm light spilt out, highlighting the dried tear tracks on your face. Just before it closed, Minho spoke quietly enough that he was fairly certain you wouldn't hear. But Seungmin did.
"Take care of her, Minnie."
Seungmin paused. The nickname was familiar. Old. Comfortable. He looked back to where Minho stood beside the taxi, rain collecting in his dark hair. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Seungmin nodded, smiling softly.
"I always do."
The door shut behind you both, and Minho stood alone on the pavement for several seconds longer than necessary before finally climbing back into the taxi. As it pulled away, he caught one last glimpse through the apartment window.
You were still leaning heavily against Seungmin, exhausted and heartbroken. But you were safe.
For some reason, knowing that made it much easier for Minho to drive away.
a/n: erm... hi? how was that? yay or nay? lmk in the comments!
Summary: it’s been two years since Felix left without a word and you still can’t move on.
Warnings: heavy drinking, angst angst angst
Word count: 3.2k.
a/n: this is probably dogshit compared to my others but I tried okay I’m sorry😭
You and Felix had been inseparable for as long as either of you could remember. Your parents joked that the two of you had come as a set because you always seemed to be attached at the hip. Every childhood memory seemed to include him somehow, whether it was school sports days that you both spent avoiding, or joint birthday parties, or family holidays that you always joined the other for.
As you grew up into awkward teenagers, he was there through every difficult phase of your modelling career, cheering you on when you were still doing awkward local catalogue shoots and pageant contests, and you'd been there for every dance and Taekwondo competition he'd dragged you to. By the time you were eighteen, nobody was surprised when friendship turned into something more. If anything, people were surprised it had taken so long.
For two years, being with Felix felt easy and comfortable, but never boring. It felt like coming home at the end of a long day when you didn’t realise how tired you actually were. It was probably why it felt so strange when he suddenly stopped answering your messages.
At first, you weren't worried. Felix was terrible at replying sometimes. You'd send him three messages in a row and get a response six hours later that simply read:
Sorry, sweetheart. I was distracted.
So, naturally, when an entire day passed without hearing from him, you rolled your eyes and assumed he'd misplaced his phone again. But then another day passed, followed by another. At first, you were annoyed; your calls went straight to voicemail, and your texts remained unread. By the time nearly a week had passed with no word from him, irritation gave way to concern, and you did what you’d always done when Felix was being impossible.
You drove to his parents' house.
His mother opened the door with a smile. "Oh, sweetheart! Where have you been hiding?"
Warmth flooded through you at the sight of her, and you couldn’t help the smile that was mirrored on your face. "Is Felix at home? He's not answering anything, and I haven’t heard from him for a few days now."
The smile vanished instantly. "What do you mean?"
You frowned, confused by the look on her face. "Is he… not in?"
She looked over her shoulder, calling deeper into the house. "Honey!"
His father appeared from the kitchen, frowning at the worry in his wife’s voice. "What's wrong?"
"She doesn't know."
A terrible silence settled over the doorway, and your stomach dropped.
"Know what?"
The two of them exchanged a look. It was the kind that made your pulse quicken, the kind you saw on occasions when they had to break some bad news to Felix.
You were about to ask what was going on when his mother sighed, then spoke.
"We thought he'd told you."
You felt your heart rate pick up when you saw the disappointment on both of their faces.
"Told me what?"
"About Korea."
You stared at her, brain stalling. "Korea?"
"He left three days ago."
The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking you back a step.
"What?"
His father looked just as confused as you felt. "He got accepted into a trainee programme. He's been working towards it for months."
Months.
You couldn't process that word. There’s no way that Felix wouldn’t have told you about something like this. You couldn’t believe it.
"Months?"
His mother looked increasingly horrified. "He never told you?"
You shook your head slowly, not knowing what to say.
Neither of them spoke for a moment before his mother spoke again, uttering a simple "Oh, Felix." The disappointment in her voice was immediate, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, clearly upset. "We assumed you knew everything."
"I didn't know he was applying anywhere. He… never told me."
His father swore quietly under his breath. "That boy."
You laughed. It wasn’t a genuine one, more a gut reaction to the disbelief you felt building within you. Because surely there had been some misunderstanding.
"He wouldn't just leave."
"He did leave," his mother said gently. "But he shouldn't have left without talking to you."
You felt strangely numb. You weren’t necessarily heartbroken, just confused and trying to work out how your boyfriend of two years had apparently been planning a move to another country without ever mentioning it.
"Did he say why he didn't tell me?"
Both parents looked uncomfortable. "No."
Even though you were somewhat expecting it, the answer somehow hurt more than anything else.
The weeks that followed were painfully awkward, because Felix wasn't missing, just… gone.
Whenever friends asked where he was, you found yourself stuck in the same, disjointed conversation again and again:
"Korea."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Long distance?"
"I don't know."
The answer never got easier because you didn't know if you were still together or if he'd intended to break up with you. You didn't know if he'd planned to call eventually or if you should just move on with your life as he’d clearly done with his own.
You didn't know anything.
Months turned into years, and your modelling career continued to grow. Felix's parents remained close with your family, and whenever they received updates, they passed them on. It was much the same: he was training, working hard, learning Korean. Chasing his dream. You were happy for him, or at least you tried to be. You tried to be happy for the Felix that you’d grown up with, who always wanted to perform, not the boyfriend that had suddenly up and left you without a single word. Yet with every update from his parents, you found yourself pondering the same thing.
Why hadn't he told you himself?
Out of everything that happened, that was the part you never understood. It wasn’t the fact that he left because you'd always known how much performing meant to him. It was the fact that you would have supported him, would have helped him pack. You would have driven him to the airport and kissed him goodbye.
What hurt was being left out entirely. You felt like, somewhere along the way, he'd decided you didn't deserve a goodbye.
Two years later, people assumed you'd moved on.
Your modelling career had taken off, and you were busier than you could have ever imagined. Your face was on billboards, and you walked runways in cities you'd once only seen in magazines. Your social media was full of glamorous photos, designer clothes, expensive hotels, and smiling selfies with friends.
From the outside, your life looked perfect. You'd become everything you'd dreamed of becoming. The only problem was that Felix wasn't there to see it, and somehow, even years later, that ruined every achievement enough that every milestone felt slightly hollow. Enough that every success came with the thought:
Felix would've loved this.
You stopped talking about him after the first year. It wasn’t because you stopped caring – you were still very much in love with him – but because people got tired of hearing about him. The reactions were always the same when you brought him up.
"You need to move on."
"It's been two years."
"Maybe he met someone else."
"Maybe he just wanted a fresh start."
"You deserve better."
Maybe they were true, but none of those answers explained why he'd left without a word. Eventually, you learned to keep it to yourself. It was easier that way.
Over the past two years, work became your escape during the day, but parties became your escape at night.
You convinced yourself you were having fun, and sometimes you almost believed it. You told yourself that you were meant to be enjoying yourself when there was always another event in another club with another afterparty full of beautiful people and expensive drinks. More often than not, the music was loud enough to drown out your thoughts. The alcohol certainly helped, too.
At first, it was just a couple of drinks. But then it became a few more, until it became difficult to remember the last night you'd gone to bed completely sober.
You were trying to self-destruct.
You were just tired of feeling everything.
The consequences of your vices eventually showed. There were constant dark circles beneath your eyes, a level of exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix, and a constant ache behind your temples.
Your makeup artist, Sarah, became increasingly concerned. One morning in Paris, she looked at you in the mirror and sighed.
"Rough night?"
You winced, trying to avoid looking at your own reflection. "That obvious?"
"Only because I've known you for years."
You watched as she reached for yet another concealer palette.
"You're twenty-four," she muttered. "You should not look this tired."
You laughed weakly. "Thanks."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
The problem was that you didn't know how to stop, because whenever you were alone with your thoughts, they always found their way back to him.
By the second year after he’d left, you tried dating. Emphasis on tried. Friends set you up with people they thought you’d like, and managers introduced you to people that they thought would help your image. It was like a revolving door of attractive actors, athletes, musicians, and models. They were people you genuinely liked. People who were kind, funny, and interesting.
But they were also people who deserved more than what you were able to give them.
The dating never lasted longer than a few weeks, a month if you were really trying, because eventually they'd do something that reminded you of Felix. Or they’d fail to do something that reminded you of Felix.
And suddenly, in your mind, you were comparing them.
One man took you to dinner on a rooftop overlooking the city. The view was breathtaking, and the food was incredible. He spent the entire evening talking about himself, and you found yourself remembering how Felix used to ask about your day first.
Another sent flowers every week, and it should have been romantic. Instead, you remembered Felix showing up with a packet of your favourite snacks because he'd seen them while shopping and thought of you.
One date hated horror movies. Another refused to sing in the car. One never danced. One was always checking his phone. One forgot your birthday. One couldn't understand why you worked so much.
None of them were doing anything wrong… They just weren't him.
The worst part was that you weren't even sure you still loved the real Felix anymore, because you didn’t even know him. The version of him in your head had been frozen in time for two years. He could have changed. Maybe he wasn't the same person. Maybe if he walked through the door right now, you wouldn't even recognise him. Honestly, that didn't matter to you because the hurt wasn't really about losing Felix anymore. It was about losing the future you'd imagined with him. The future where he sat in the front row at your biggest shows, where you celebrated his debut together. The future where neither of you had to choose between love and your dreams.
A future that had disappeared the moment he boarded that plane without telling you.
One evening, after stumbling home from yet another party at three in the morning, you collapsed onto your sofa still wearing half your makeup. Your apartment was silent, dark, and empty. The only source of light came from the city lights that glowed through the windows.
You reached for your phone on autopilot. You didn’t expect anything; it was just a habit that you hadn’t been able to shake for the past two years. A stupid, pathetic one.
You opened the message thread you hadn't deleted – the one from two years ago, the last conversation between you and Felix. The final message still sat there unanswered.
Did you make it home okay?
You stared at it for a long time, numb, before you locked your phone and dropped it onto the cushion beside you.
After two years, one thing had become painfully clear. You weren't waiting for Felix to come back anymore; you were waiting for an explanation. Deep down, you were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to get one.
The article found you on a Thursday morning as you sat in your dressing room, waiting for Sarah to arrive. You’d caught a glimpse of your reflection and grimaced when you realised how much work she’d have to put in to make you look presentable. The article had come as a shock to you. You'd spent years avoiding news about Felix whenever possible in an effort to save yourself from any further heartbreak.
Your phone, however, didn’t get the memo.
A notification had appeared while you were scrolling through your Instagram. One of your friends had sent a link with no message, and you almost ignored it, assuming it was a scam. But then you saw his name, and your stomach dropped as panic seized you.
Had something happened? Was he hurt?
Without thinking, you opened it and immediately wished you hadn’t. The headline appeared instantly, engraving itself into your memory.
Felix And Nayeon: KPop’s Latest Dream Couple!
You stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar ache as your chest caved in. Instead, you felt suspiciously calm as you scrolled through the blurry photos in the article. Felix was laughing as he walked beside someone, and he looked happy. It wasn’t even the forced smile celebrities wore for cameras, but a genuine one. It was the same smile that you knew by heart, the same one you’d fallen in love with. You should have hated it, wanted to hate it. You wanted to feel angry at him for suddenly appearing on your screen with another woman after two years of ignorance.
Instead, you found yourself smiling sadly, because for the first time in years, reality hit you. Felix wasn't coming back, and it wasn’t because he wasn’t able to, but because he didn’t want to. He had built a life, a career and relationships. He’d built an entire future for himself like he'd always wanted to.
You figured that whether those dating rumours were true or not didn't actually matter. The point was that he'd moved on whilst you’d been stuck in the same rut for the past two years, waiting for answers that clearly weren't coming and for closure from someone who had never intended to give it.
The article couldn’t break your heart when it had already been broken years ago. Instead, it simply forced you to acknowledge that the person keeping you trapped wasn't Felix anymore.
It was you.
You didn't go out that night, or the next. For the first time in months, you decided to stay home. Alone. There was no music to deafen the noise in your head, no alcohol to numb the ache you’d been carrying around for years, and no distractions from the memories and questions that once plagued you.
You no longer wanted to shy away from your memories but embrace them before you let them go for good. So, you went into your bedroom, took a steadying breath, and pulled out an old storage box from the back of your wardrobe. You hadn’t opened it in two years, and a thick layer of dust covered it, obscuring the label on top that read: Felix. It contained everything you'd refused to let go of – photographs, movie tickets, birthday cards.There were little notes he'd scribbled during classes, receipts from dates, and souvenirs from places you'd visited together.They were all pieces of a life that no longer existed.
You sat cross-legged on the floor and looked through them for hours. Sometimes you laughed at the memories, and other times you cried, but your decision remained the same.
You had to lay your memories to rest.
Three days later, you held what you privately called Felix's funeral. You needed to put to rest the version of him that you held in your mind and in your heart - the version frozen at twenty-one. The same version who loved you and promised forever. You knew that that version had been gone for years and that you just hadn't accepted it. Until now.
You started with the photographs.
There were hundreds of them, dating from when you were babies all the way to just weeks before he left. You kept a handful of them – the ones with your families that held memories that belonged to more than just the two of you. The rest went into a fire pit in your garden. One by one. You watched the flames curl around smiling faces on summer holidays, beach trips, birthday parties and first dates.
Years of memories disappeared into smoke before your eyes, and it hurt. God, it hurt. But it also felt necessary, like removing a splinter that had been buried beneath your skin for years.
The hoodie was next. It was the oversized grey one he'd left at your apartment so many years ago. You'd slept in whenever you missed him, and it barely smelt of him anymore. You folded it carefully and placed it in a donation bag before immediately bursting into tears because, somehow, donating the hoodie hurt more than burning the photographs.
The hoodie had been comfort, a substitute for someone who wasn't there, but keeping it hadn't brought him back. It had only kept you stuck.
The necklace was last because it was by far the hardest.
He’d got it for you for your eighteenth birthday. It was a tiny, inexpensive silver pendant, but you'd worn it almost every day for years. You'd worn it to castings and interviews. You’d worn it to fashion weeks, award shows and photoshoots until you’d had to either take it off and hide it safely in your purse or tuck it under the collar of whatever top they’d put you in this time. You'd worn it through every heartbreak and every success. It had become part of you.
You stood in front of your bathroom mirror staring at your reflection. Your fingers found the chain automatically, just as they always did, only this time you unclasped it. The metal felt strangely heavy in your palm as you stared down at it. You realised you were crying when quiet tears dripped into your palm, landing on the pendant.
Removing the necklace felt like admitting something you'd spent years avoiding. You weren't letting go of Felix because you'd stopped loving him, but you were letting go because you still did, and you couldn't keep destroying yourself over someone who had chosen a life that no longer included you.
When everything was finished, your apartment felt different, almost lighter.
You weren’t suddenly happy or healed, and the grief wasn’t gone. The love wasn't gone either, but you suspected it never completely would be. Felix would probably always be one of those people who left fingerprints on your heart that couldn’t be erased. But for the first time in years, loving him wasn't the centre of your life. It was simply a chapter - an important one, a painfully beautiful one – but a finished one.
That night, before bed, you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was no necklace, no tears or alcohol. There was no hangover waiting for you in the morning. Just… yourself. Maybe you were still a little broken, still healing, but you were finally moving forward.
And for the first time since Felix left, the future didn't feel quite so impossible.
a/n: there will be a part two with a lot more Felix x reader interactions 🙂↕️
I HAVE MY FIRST EVER FULL LENGTH SERIES PLANNED OUT. [see below]
If you want to be on my tag list, lmk.
I’m gonna finish my SKZ Playlist, do a request and then I’ll be focussing on it properly (but I’ll post the first chapter as a teaser in the next week 👀).
Also I’ve never ever written smut and I’m starting with a series with smut with two different fucking characters [SEPARATELY] someone send fucking help and advice HAHAHA
I HAVE MY FIRST EVER FULL LENGTH SERIES PLANNED OUT. [see below]
If you want to be on my tag list, lmk.
I’m gonna finish my SKZ Playlist, do a request and then I’ll be focussing on it properly (but I’ll post the first chapter as a teaser in the next week 👀).
Also I’ve never ever written smut and I’m starting with a series with smut with two different fucking characters [SEPARATELY] someone send fucking help and advice HAHAHA
Summary: Chan has always been safe to you, but one chance encounter causes traumatic memories to surface.
Warnings: mentions of abuse, physical fight, mentions of blood, panic attack, reader has PTSD, angst angst angst
Word count: 1.2k.
a/n: I was watching Off Campus and was inspired and you guys wanted it sooner rather than later so buckle up and prepare to get your hearts BROKEN WITH NO FIX MUHAHAHA
The roar of the crowd blurred into static. You barely registered the sound of the whistle cutting through the aquatics centre, or the sharp echo of bodies hitting water. Your pulse was too loud in your ears, your stomach twisting harder with every second that passed after your ex-classmate had looked at you and smirked.
“You still flinch when people touch you?”
The words had been quiet, meant only for you. But Chan had heard them.
Before you knew it, and it must have only been a few seconds, shit hit the fan.
One second Chan had been standing beside his teammates in his university team’s swim jacket, damp hair curling against his forehead after his heat. The next, he was across the deck slamming the guy into the tiled wall hard enough to make people scream.
You’d never seen him like that. Not your Chan.
Not the patient guy who waited three months to hold your hand because he noticed you froze whenever people moved too fast. Not your gentle boyfriend who sat outside your dorm room at 2am ,when your nightmares merged with your memories into one unescapable loop , just to be there. He never once asked you to talk about them. It couldn’t be the same person, the only person, to have memorised every trigger without you having to explain.
This Chan looked dangerous, feral almost. He was completely unrecognisable.
The competitor spat blood onto the tiles beside the pool and laughed anyway, completely unbothered by the furious male pinning him to the wall.
“She’s easy to scare, right?”
You were still staring at the blood on the floor, numb from shock, when Chan hit him again. And again.
Your body finally moved, your freeze response quickly morphing to flight when faced by the fight taking place in front of you. You stumbled backward through the crowd, shaking so hard your vision blurred. Coaches shouted, teammates pushed forward to grab at Chan’s shoulders, and someone blew another whistle, the sound reverberating through your skull.
It was all too loud. Too much. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was your chest cave in, your breath eluding you with every gasp.
Your body was on complete autopilot when you started running.
Outside the centre, the winter air sliced its way into your lungs. Normally it would bother you, but you couldn’t help but feel some relief at the shock it provided to your system.
You made it behind the aquatics building before collapsing against the brick wall, hands clamped over your ears as memories crashed into you without mercy.
Locker room floors.
A hand around your wrist.
“Stop fighting me.”
The smell of chlorine.
Your breath hitched violently. You slid to the ground, head buried in the knees you’d pulled tight to your chest as panic swallowed you whole.
You had worked so hard to get past the events that had transpired at your last university - the unwelcome hands, the undesired touches. The assault. You had been to countless counselling sessions, attended numerous support sessions, and you finally felt like you were making progress. Chan had even helped with that progress.
You were too absorbed in the never ending cycle of memories from the past to hear Chan approach, but when his voice broke on a raw and frantic “Baby?”, you snapped your head up to look at him.
He was standing a few feet away, chest heaving, knuckles split open and red. His hair was still damp from the pool and there was blood on his sleeve that wasn’t his.
The sight of it made your stomach turn. You’d seen it before… but never on him.
Chan noticed your expression immediately, and his own shattered when he saw the panic and repulsion on your face.
“No, no—hey, it’s me,” he said softly, taking one careful step forward, palms up to placate you. “It’s just me.”
“Don’t.”
The word came out strangled, but he stopped instantly.
You pressed yourself harder against the wall, tears burning down your face. “Why would you do that?”
“He hurt you,” Chan snapped before catching himself. He dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “He talked about you like—like you were nothing.”
“But you look like him... Acted like him.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Chan went completely still, and your breathing became ragged again the moment you saw his face twist in hurt.
“I know you’re not him,” you cried. “I know that, Chan, but when you were hitting him I—I couldn’t breathe, and all I could think about was—”
Your voice cracked, panic clawing at your throat, restricting your words. Chan’s eyes filled instantly at how distraught you were, and all because of him. He’d swore to himself a long time ago that he’d never hurt you, never scare you, but he’d failed.
He took another cautious step towards you, hands reaching for you slowly. “Baby, please. Look at me.”
You couldn’t, though, because as much as you adored him, right now all you could see was violence. Rage. A man losing control. Your body didn’t care that it was Chan.
Trauma never cared about logic.
“I was so scared,” you whispered, sobbing at the truth in those four little words.
Chan didn’t realise how easily four little words could destroy him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes were glossy now, destroyed in a way you’d never seen before.
“I would never hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice cracked badly. “Please tell me you do.”
Fresh tears spilled down your face because you did know. You knew Chan would rather die than hurt you. But your body was shaking, and your subconscious that remembered everything from before was rebelling, anyway.
“I can’t do this,” you whispered, hands tugging at your hair.
Chan stared at you, face dropping and panic sneaking into his voice. “What? What do you mean this?”
“I can’t—” You wiped furiously at your face. “I can’t be in a relationship where I’m scared all the time waiting for something to trigger me. It’s not fair to you.”
His expression crumpled. “Don’t do this.”
You pushed yourself up from the floor, legs wobbling from the adrenaline still coursing through your system. “I need to go.”
“No.” He shook his head immediately, panic rising. “No, no, don’t say that like you’re leaving me.”
Your throat burned and you stared at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “Chan…”
He was utterly heartbroken now, standing there with bloody knuckles and desperate eyes.
“I love you,” he said shakily. “I love you so much. I know I messed up—I know I scared you—but please don’t end this because of him. Don’t let him take another thing from you.”
The sentiment was almost enough to make you stay - almost - but the flashbacks were still clawing through you, and every nerve in your body was screaming to run, to protect yourself before you got hurt again.
You forced yourself to stick to your decision, even though it was tearing you apart inside.
Chan looked terrified as he watched you move away. “You’re really leaving?”
You didn’t answer, you didn’t think you could, and he followed you a step before stopping himself, like he was afraid touching you would make everything worse.
“Please text me when you get home,” he said weakly.
You nodded once, knowing you wouldn’t.
Then you walked away while the love of your life stood in the cold behind you, bleeding and shattered, unable to follow you and comfort you like he always had.
a/n: I TOLD YOU IT WAS ANGST OKAY. Anyone heartbroken? Crying? 😈
I’ve never written smut but I’ve just had the most unhinged thought about Hannie sending that picture of Richard sitting on his fingers and reader getting sulky cos wdym she gets to sit on them and you can’t?
Just gonna go find some fucking grass to roll in cos touching it evidently isn’t enough anymore
Summary: Everything was going great with Han... Until management gets involved.
Warnings: a lotta angst but happy ending (for real this time)
Word count: 13.2k.
a/n: AYO THANK YOU ALL FOR THE LOVE ON GAMEBOY WHAT THE HECK I LOVE YOU GUYS?? As I warned, this is heckin angsty but it's got a happy ending xo
[Part One]
“Han, stop!” you squealed as he dug his fingers into your sides under the duvet.
“Never!” he proclaimed, rolling on top of you to get a better angle. “Not until you say it!”
“Okay, okay! You’re way better at producing than Changbin!”
You gasped for breath as his fingers stopped, a smile plastered to your face as you gazed up at him, his messy hair framing his face. You still had to pinch yourself sometimes to believe that this was real. That the past few months had really happened.
He raised an eyebrow at you, smirking, and you flushed as he trailed off, knowing what he wanted.
“You’re way better at producing than Changbin… baby.”
Your flush deepened even further as his smirk softened and he leaned down to place a tender kiss on your lips, mumbling a soft “thought so”.
You huffed out a breath as he let his body weight drop on you, wrapping his arms around your waist as your own came up to wrap around his shoulders, one sneaking up to play with the hair at the base of his neck. You loved starting your days like this, in the quiet of your room with Han’s warmth warming you through, because you knew you wouldn’t be able to get this close to him again until you could be sure that no one would see.
Even though you’d been dating for a few months, neither of you had brought up the possibility of becoming official publicly. You knew that Han had a tour coming up with the rest of Stray Kids, and he knew that you were busy focusing on building your own career as a solo artist. He’d carried on helping you produce your songs, and both of you had written a song about your previous relationship with Wooyoung called Toxic Til The End. You both agreed that it was a song that didn’t necessarily need to be shared; it was just a form of therapy for you to get your feelings out in a song.
You’re brought out of your thoughts by Han shuffling around, burying his nose into your neck. You smiled softly and soothed your fingers up and down his spine, feeling him shiver slightly from your light touch. You knew you had to get up soon – management had called a last-minute meeting – but you wanted to soak up as much of the morning as you could.
You allowed yourself five more minutes before you tapped him lightly on the back, mumbling, “Jisung, I have to get ready now. I need to meet with management in an hour.”
You felt as much as heard the groan against your neck. “No,” he whined. “’m comfy here.”
You chuckled and kissed the side of his face. “I know, but I can’t miss this meeting. I can’t annoy management this early in my career.”
Han sighed and pushed up onto his elbows, showing you his pout. “Logic isn’t fair this early in the morning.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the only way I’ll leave this bed.”
You flushed again as he smiled at you suggestively, leaning in to leave a lingering kiss on your mouth. You pulled away as he tried to deepen it and giggled as you heard him groan, again. You pushed back the covers, stretching, before you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Han was still lying in your bed, but you could feel his eyes on you.
You nearly trip over your own feet walking to the bathroom, still hazy from the peace and warmth of Jisung’s body tangled with yours moments before. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rustle of sheets behind you as Han shifts in the bed.
You push your way into the bathroom, yawning as you flick the light on, but your eyes widen when you catch sight of your neck.
“Oh my God.”
Dark marks bloom across your neck and collarbone, impossible to miss against your skin. One particularly obvious love bite sits right beneath your jaw, and you clap a hand over it in horror.
“No, no, no—”
You spin around and rush back into the bedroom, one hand still pressed to your neck while you dig frantically through discarded clothes for a hoodie, a scarf, anything. From the bed, Han watches you with sleepy amusement, propped up on one elbow, hair messy and lips still swollen from his inability to stop kissing you.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still rough from lack of sleep.
“You attacked me,” you accuse, horrified. “I can’t go outside looking like this!”
He blinks at you slowly before snorting out a laugh. “Attacked you?”
“Yes, attacked me! People are going to ask questions!”
You finally find a jumper and clutch it to your chest like salvation. Han’s smile softens as he watches your panic spiral.
“And what,” he says carefully, “would be so bad about people asking questions?”
You freeze, and the room suddenly feels very still. Han sits up properly now, the blanket slipping down his waist to reveal his tattoos as he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking far more nervous than amused.
“I mean…” He glances away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. “We’ve been hiding for so long.” His voice is quieter now. “I’m tired of pretending you’re not mine.”
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. “Ji…”
“I want people to know,” he admits. “Not in some huge dramatic way. But… officially.” He smiles shyly. “If you want that too.”
The panic draining through your system is replaced by something warm and dizzying. You stare at him for a moment, trying to process the fact that the thing you’d secretly wanted for months is sitting right in front of you.
“You mean it?” you whisper.
“Of course I mean it.”
He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I hate having to act normal around you in public,” he murmurs. “I hate not being able to hold your hand when I want to. And honestly? I kinda like everyone knowing I’m the one who did that to your neck.”
You let out a startled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But you like me.”
Unfortunately, he says it with that smug little grin that makes your stomach flip every time.
Your expression softens. “I do,” you admit quietly, head cocked to the side as you take everything in.
Han’s face changes instantly at that — all fondness and relief and affection so overwhelming you can barely stand looking at him.
“So…” he says carefully, squeezing your hand, “should we tell management?”
You bite your lip, unable to stop smiling now.
“I have my meeting this morning,” you say. “I can mention it then.”
His eyes light up so brightly that it steals the breath from your lungs. “Seriously?”
You nod once, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you back onto the bed with a laugh, wrapping both arms around you tightly as he buries his face back into your neck — thankfully, the unmarked side.
“You have no idea how happy you just made me,” he mumbles against your skin.
You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair. For the first time ever, hiding doesn’t feel necessary anymore.
The excitement you carried from your conversation with Han dies the second you walk out of the meeting room.
The words still echo in your head so loudly you can barely hear anything else.
“To be desirable, you have to be available.”
You walk down the hallway numbly, fingers curled tightly around your phone. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, and the building suddenly feels cold and unfamiliar, despite the fact that you’ve spent years here.
Your contract clearly states that there will be no relationships for the next 3 years.
Three years.
You knew the clause existed when you signed. Everyone did. But back then, relationships felt hypothetical — something distant and avoidable. Not this. Not Han. Not someone who had somehow slipped into every quiet space in your life until loving him felt as natural as breathing.
You’d tried to argue. You’d pointed out that fans weren’t stupid, that idols dated all the time, that your private life shouldn’t matter more than your music, but management hadn’t budged. They’d surprised you with a tour announcement that was apparently too important to jeopardise. The company was investing too much into your debut, and they were sending you as a support act for Stray Kids’ world tour. They wanted attention on the music, on the performances, on the image they were selling.
Not on a relationship.
You stop outside the studio door and take a steadying breath before pushing it open. Music spills out instantly, along with laughter, and Han looks up immediately. The second he sees you, his entire face lights up.
“There you are!” Han practically bounces out of his chair, abandoning the headphones around his neck. “Did they tell you?”
You try to smile.
“About the tour?”
“Yes!” He grabs your hands immediately, excitement radiating off him. “We’re together for the whole thing. A whole year.” His eyes shine. “Can you believe that?”
Despite everything, your chest aches fondly at how happy he looks.
“A whole year,” you echo softly.
Han notices it then — the strain in your voice, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
His expression falters, releasing your hands in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist. “What happened?”
The room quiets around you. The others pick up on the mood quickly enough to awkwardly busy themselves elsewhere, giving you space without saying a word.
You swallow hard, staring over his shoulder. “They said no.”
Han stills. “What?”
“They don’t want us going public.” Your voice comes out smaller than you intended, wobbly. “They said it’ll distract from the tour. From the music.” You laugh bitterly under your breath. “And apparently I need to seem ‘available.’”
The excitement drains from his face so fast it hurts to watch. “They can’t seriously—”
“They reminded me about the contract.”
Han goes silent at that, and his jaw tightens. For a moment, he looks genuinely angry, the kind of anger he rarely lets himself show. His fingers squeeze yours instinctively before he looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“Three years,” he mutters.
You nod once.
The reality of it settles heavily between you. More sneaking around, careful touches when nobody’s looking. Pretending. Again.
Your throat tightens as you force yourself to say the words you know he needs to hear. “It’s okay.”
Han immediately looks back at you. “It’s not okay.”
“But it can be.” You step closer, further into his embrace, and you feel his arms tighten around you reflexively. “We still get the tour. We still get each other.”
His expression crumples slightly at that.
“I wanted to hold your hand in public,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to stop pretending.”
The honesty in his voice nearly breaks you. You reach up and smooth his hair back gently, tucking it behind his ear. It was getting long now… I need to hide the scissors, you thought distractedly.
“We will one day.”
Han leans into your touch instinctively, eyes closing for half a second.
“When?” he asks softly.
You don’t have an answer, so instead, you wrap your own arms around him tightly, trying to pour all of your frustration and care into the hug. You feel him doing the same, and the studio around you fades away completely.
“A year together,” you murmur against his shoulder, trying desperately to sound hopeful. “That’s still good, right?”
Han lets out a quiet laugh that sounds dangerously close to sad.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. It’s good.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly again, determination slowly replacing the disappointment in his eyes. “We’ll make it work.”
You nod immediately. “We will.”
Because even if the world isn’t allowed to know yet, the truth remains the same.
He’s yours, and you’re his.
And you would wait however long you needed to.
Getting ready for the event should have been fun and, honestly, part of it is.
This is your first major industry event as a solo artist. Your stylists fuss around you excitedly, management keeps reminding you how important networking is, and every few minutes, someone says something about how proud they are of how far you’ve come. But every time you look at the empty space beside you, your chest aches a little.
Because you should be arriving with Han.
Instead, you’re travelling separately, pretending there’s nothing between you except professional respect for the producer who has been working with you for months. Your phone buzzes just as your car pulls up outside the venue.
Ji 🐿️: where are you?
You: just got here, coming in now
Ji 🐿️: i’ll find you
Ji 🐿️: don’t look too pretty before i get there jagi
You can’t help smiling at the screen.
Then the car door opens, and reality crashes back in.
The event hall is enormous. Lights flash constantly from every direction as reporters crowd the entrance, shouting names over one another. Idols stand clustered beneath company banners while managers hover nearby like anxious shadows. Everywhere you look, there’s movement, designer clothes, cameras, and recognisable faces. It’s overwhelming, and you’ve never felt more out of place.
You bow politely through introductions you barely process before escaping deeper into the hall with a drink in hand, hoping to gather yourself and maybe spot Han. You linger near the edge of the room, trying not to look as lost as you feel while your eyes scan the crowd. No Han. No Stray Kids, either. You exhale slowly and take a sip of your drink as your eyes continue to wander, then you make eye contact with someone across the room and freeze, dread pooling in your stomach.
Oh no.
Wooyoung.
You haven’t seen him since the breakup. Months of carefully avoiding interviews, schedules, mutual industry events — and now here he is, walking directly toward you with that familiar confident smile that used to charm you once upon a time.
Now it just irritates you.
“Well,” Wooyoung says smoothly as he stops beside you, “there’s the superstar.”
You force a polite smile, conscious of the people around you. “Hi.”
“You look good.”
“Thanks.”
The conversation should end there, but instead, he lingers - too close. Too familiar.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, voice softening slightly. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
You almost laugh at the understatement. “I’ve been busy.”
“I noticed.” His eyes flick over you knowingly. “Solo career suits you.”
Something about the way he says it makes you uncomfortable immediately. You shift slightly away from him and glance around the room again, looking for a way out of the conversation. You finally find Han across the hall, and your heart drops as you notice that his eyes are already locked onto you. Or, more specifically, onto Wooyoung standing far too close to you.
Even from this distance, you can see the fury written across his face.
Beside him, Lee Know has a hand wrapped firmly around his arm, clearly muttering something meant to stop him from storming across the room. Your heart lurches, and you subtly widen your eyes at Han, trying desperately to communicate: Don’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of cameras.
Han’s jaw tightens visibly. You turn your back slightly toward him, hoping Wooyoung won’t notice the exchange. Unfortunately for you, he’d decided that now is the time to finally pay attention to everything again.
“You’re nervous,” Wooyoung says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“Mhm.”
You frown harder. “What do you want?”
His expression shifts then — less charming, more smug.
“I heard rumours,” he says casually. “About you and Han.”
Your blood runs cold. “They’re rumours.”
Wooyoung hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Funny,” he says, stepping closer again. “You never looked at me the way you look at him.”
Before you can answer, another voice cuts in sharply.
“Maybe because she actually likes me.”
Your stomach flips, and your eyes dart sideways. Han. He’s standing beside you now, expression controlled but visibly strained underneath it. Up close, you can tell he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper.
Wooyoung straightens immediately, then smirks. “Well, if it isn’t the problem.”
Han laughs once without humour. “Pretty sure you’re the one bothering her.”
You step between them slightly before this becomes a headline. “Can we not do this here?”
Wooyoung ignores you completely.
“You know,” he says to Han, “she used to talk about me constantly.”
Han’s expression darkens.
“And now she doesn’t,” he replies flatly.
Wooyoung scoffs softly. “You really think this is permanent? Idols break up all the time.”
Your patience snaps.
“Wooyoung.” Both men look at you, and you carry on regardless, struggling to keep your composure. “I am never getting back together with you,” you say firmly. “Ever.”
The arrogance on Wooyoung’s face falters slightly, but you continue before he can interrupt.
“I’m happy now. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.” Your voice softens instinctively as you glance toward Han. “And I love being with him.”
You smile softly at your boyfriend, and Han looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky. The anger melts from his face completely, replaced by something so unbearably soft your chest aches. You’re snapped from your moment by an unknown voice.
“Can we get a picture?”
All three of you turn to see a reporter hurrying over excitedly.
“Just one photo! The fans would love it.”
Absolutely not. You open your mouth to refuse, but somehow you end up shuffled between Wooyoung and Han before you can escape. Cameras flash instantly. You try not to look horrified. Han remains perfectly composed beside you, though you can feel tension radiating off him. Wooyoung, annoyingly, smiles like this is entertaining.
The picture is taken quickly, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank you!” the reporter chirps before disappearing again.
Wooyoung steps away first, but before leaving, he glances at you one last time.
“I don’t give up easily,” he says lightly, before walking off into the crowd.
You stare after him in disbelief, and Han immediately turns toward you.
“Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice instantly softens your irritation.
“I’m fine,” you assure him quietly. “Are you?”
He exhales slowly. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
You laugh despite yourself. Han smiles faintly before glancing around the room cautiously. Cameras still flash everywhere.
“I should probably go before someone notices I’ve been standing here too long.”
Your heart sinks a little, but you nod. Before leaving, his fingers brush subtly against yours — hidden by the folds of your outfit where nobody can see. A secret touch, a reassurance, just for the two of you.
Then he’s gone.
But for the rest of the evening, you notice little things. Chan appears nearby whenever reporters crowd you too aggressively. Changbin casually intercepts people trying to pull you into uncomfortable conversations. Minho is watching the room like a security guard.
And Han is always somewhere in your line of sight, hovering close enough to protect you, even if nobody else notices why.
And honestly? You love him a little more for it.
You’re getting really sick and tired of last-minute meetings, especially when the meeting feels less like damage control and more like punishment.
You sit silently at the long conference table while management talks at you rather than to you, every word tightening the knot in your stomach further.
“You were too obvious.”
“Han almost caused a scene.”
“You need to be more careful.”
You grip your hands together beneath the table hard enough for your nails to hurt. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
One of the executives sighs impatiently. “The issue isn’t whether you did something wrong. The issue is perception.”
Perception. Image. Marketability. Words that, at one point, felt incredibly important to you now leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
“The media response to the event has been overwhelming,” another manager continues. “Too many people are speculating about you and Han.”
You almost laugh. “Well, maybe if you let us just confirm the relationship—”
“No.”
The answer comes immediately, their tone firm, final. Your jaw clenches as you try to resist the urge to argue with them.
“We need attention redirected,” they continue. “And conveniently, the event already created another angle.”
Your stomach drops before they even say his name. “No.”
“You haven’t heard the plan yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
But they continue anyway. “Wooyoung is willing to cooperate.”
Cooperate.
Like this is business. Like you’re his business.
“You’ll be seen together casually over the next few weeks,” management explains. “Coffee shops. Restaurants. Shared exits after schedules. Nothing confirmed, nothing denied.”
You stare at them in horror as you realise what they’re implying.
“You… want me to fake-date my ex-boyfriend?”
“No,” one corrects smoothly. “We want people talking about possibilities besides Han.”
You push your chair back slightly in disbelief, wanting to create space between their words and yourself. “This is insane.”
“It’s strategic.”
“It’s cruel.”
The room goes quiet for a moment before the head executive says, “It’s necessary.”
You hate how powerless you feel.
“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “Han already hates this.”
“Then he’ll need to learn professionalism.”
The anger that flashes through you is immediate and sharp.
“He is professional.”
“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.”
You want to scream. Instead, you sit there in silence because you already know how this ends. You already know that the decision is made, and you have no choice but to accept for the sake of your contract and your career. For your future.
They all feel like they are balanced carefully above your head, like something fragile enough to shatter at the slightest mistake.
And for Han and your future together… you’d survive anything. Even this.
Later that night, your apartment feels unbearably quiet. Half-packed suitcases sit open across your bedroom floor while clothes spill from drawers and skincare products clutter every available surface.
The tour starts tomorrow, and normally, you’d be excited. Instead, dread curls heavily in your stomach. Behind you, Han lies across your bed, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone, one leg dangling off the edge.
“You’re overpacking,” he says lightly without looking up.
“I am not.”
“You packed three hoodies yesterday.”
“They’re different hoodies.”
Han snorts softly, and the sound makes your chest ache because for a few minutes, everything feels normal. Safe. And you’re about to ruin it.
You stop folding your clothes, take a deep breath and call to him, “Jisung.”
He glances up immediately. Something in your face makes him sit up slightly, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “What’s wrong?”
You suddenly can’t look at him. Management’s words replay in your head over and over until you feel sick.
“They want me to do damage control.”
Han frowns. “What does that mean?”
Your throat tightens. “They think people are talking too much about us after the event.”
His expression hardens instantly. “So?”
You force yourself to continue. “They want me to be seen with someone else.”
He stares at you as he tries to figure out what you mean. You can see the moment the penny drops and understanding dawns slowly across his face.
“No.”
You nod once miserably, shoulders hunching in on yourself.
“No,” he repeats, sharper now.
“They think it’ll distract people.”
“With who?”
You hesitate too long, and Han knows immediately who you’ve been set up with. You can see the anger on his face as he stares at you.
“You’re joking.”
“I tried to argue—”
“Wooyoung?” He actually laughs, but there’s nothing amused about it. “They want you photographed with your ex-boyfriend?”
“It won’t be official—”
“That’s even worse.”
You watch hurt replace anger in real time, and you find yourself struggling to make eye contact. You hated hurting him, couldn’t stand the guilt that was beginning to take over.
You panic as Jisung stands abruptly from the bed.
“So what? I’m just supposed to watch headlines about you and another guy for months?”
“It’s fake.”
“I know it’s fake!” he snaps.
The room falls silent instantly afterwards, and Han closes his eyes briefly, visibly trying to calm himself down. You’ve rarely seen him this upset. Even when you hurt him months ago, he hadn’t looked this angry.
“I can’t do this tonight,” he mutters finally.
Your chest tightens painfully as he grabs his hoodie from the chair. You try to stop him.
“Ji—”
“I just need air.”
He heads for the front door before you can stop him, and fear surges through you immediately. You rush after him barefoot, catching his wrist just as he reaches for the handle.
“Please don’t leave angry.”
He stills, and you can see the conflict written all over his face.
“I hate this too,” you whisper desperately. “I hate every part of it.”
He finally turns toward you, and he looks so hurt. Your eyes are already burning, but the pain on his face brings very real tears to your eyes.
“You think I want this?” Your voice cracks slightly. “You think I want to stand beside him pretending everything’s fine when all I want is to be with you?”
Han’s expression softens instantly at that, and you grip his hand tighter, begging him with your eyes to change his mind, to stay.
“I’m trying,” you say quietly. “I’m trying to protect everything.”
His shoulders sag slightly, and he looks down at your joined hands. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, but then Han steps closer again, and you feel a rush of hope.
“I know,” he murmurs.
You exhale shakily. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise for something they’re forcing you into.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“Yeah.” He gives a small, humourless laugh. “I am.”
Honesty always sounds gentler coming from him; it was something you’d always loved about him. He lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye carefully.
“I’ll learn to deal with it,” he says quietly. “I have to, right?”
The words break your heart a little, but you have no choice but to nod weakly. He smiles softly, but it’s full of sadness. He leans down and kisses you softly, and your breath stutters. The kiss isn’t desperate or heated. It’s sad.
His forehead rests against yours afterwards. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers, forcing himself to step away before either of you can change your minds.
The door closes softly behind him, and suddenly the apartment feels enormous. It’s too quiet, too empty without Jisung’s laughter filling the space. You slide slowly down against the wall until you’re sitting on the floor beside your front door, staring at the door he just walked through.
The tour hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already terrified of what all this might do to the two of you.
The dorm is quiet when Han gets back.
Most of the lights are off except for the kitchen, where Minho sits eating ice cream straight from the tub while scrolling through his phone like it’s two in the afternoon instead of nearly midnight.
He glances up as Han walks in, then pauses when he sees the look on his face.
“You look terrible.”
Han drops onto the chair opposite him with a groan, dragging both hands down his face. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Normally, the bluntness would earn a laugh. Tonight, Han just sits there staring blankly at the table.
Minho watches him quietly for a moment before setting the ice cream down. “What happened?”
Han exhales sharply through his nose. “They want her to do photo ops with Wooyoung.”
Minho’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Ah.”
“Ah?” Han repeats incredulously. “That’s your reaction?”
“I’m trying not to overreact before you finish explaining.”
Han slumps further into the chair before he tells him everything - the management meeting, the fake rumours, the “damage control.” How upset you looked while explaining it.
And, eventually, the thing that was actually eating him alive underneath all the anger.
“What if this changes things?” Han asks quietly.
Minho stays silent as he looks at him. Han stares down at the table, jaw tight, avoiding his probing gaze as he continues.
“What if people start shipping them again? What if management pushes it further? What if she gets tired of hiding and decides this is too difficult?”
The words spill out faster now, all the insecurities he’d tried so hard to swallow clawing their way free.
“I know she says she loves being with me, but this industry ruins things. You know it does.”
Minho studies him carefully for a long moment before he sighs softly and leans back in his chair. “Han-ah.”
Han looks up tiredly as Minho continues. “You know what this industry is like.”
“It’s not easy,” Minho says plainly. “It’s awful.” He takes another bite of ice cream. “But she’s no doubt miserable about it, too.”
Han goes quiet, and Minho waits a second before continuing, but more gently this time.
“Everyone can see how much she likes you.”
Han’s eyes flicker slightly at that, hallway light catching the sheen in his eyes.
“She looks at you like you hung the moon,” Minho says casually. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing sometimes.”
That finally earns the smallest snort of laughter from Han, and Minho points his spoon at him immediately, latching on to his better mood.
“I’m serious. She barely looked at Wooyoung last night unless she absolutely had to. But you?” He shakes his head. “You walk into a room, and suddenly she forgets how to act normally.”
Warmth stirs painfully in Han’s chest because underneath all his doubt, he knows it’s true. You do look at him differently… Like loving him is instinctive.
Minho softens slightly, seeing the tension ease from his face. “She told you there’s nothing to worry about, didn’t she?”
Han nods slowly.
“Then believe her.”
Silence settles between them for a moment.
Han leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling, rubbing his face. “I hate that she has to go through this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I can’t fix it.”
Minho hums quietly. “That part never really changes.”
Han closes his eyes briefly, thinking about what was coming. Tomorrow the tour starts. It would be months of hiding, of rumours, of pretending. But underneath it all is still you. You were still the girl who chased him to the door because she couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving upset. You were still the girl who said she was happy with him without hesitation.
You were still his.
Minho nudges the tub of ice cream toward him, holding his spoon out. “You’ll survive.”
Han looks at him flatly. “Your comforting skills are incredible, hyung.”
“I know.”
Despite himself, Han smiles faintly.
On the other side of town, you barely sleep. Every time your eyes close, your mind replays the look on Han’s face when he left your apartment. He was hurt but trying not to show it, trying to be understanding anyway.
By four in the morning, you give up on sleep entirely.
Your phone sits beside you on the bed the entire night, painfully silent. You don’t message him. Part of you wants to desperately — wants reassurance, wants him to tell you everything’s okay, wants to hear him call you baby in that sleepy voice that always melts the tension right out of you. But fear wins. Because what if he doesn’t answer? Or worse… What if he does, and it’s different?
By the time you’re in the car heading toward the airport, your stomach is twisted into knots so tight you feel nauseous. Tour is supposed to be exciting. Instead, all you can think is he’s going to break up with me. You hate yourself a little for thinking it, but anxiety doesn’t care about logic.
The airport is already chaotic when you arrive. Staff rush around organising luggage while security attempts to control the crowds gathered outside. Reporters swarm the main entrance, waiting for Stray Kids to arrive.
Your manager quickly ushers you toward the quieter back entrance.
“The boys are handling press out front,” they explain. “You’ll board separately.”
You nod numbly. Honestly, you’re relieved. You’re not sure you could survive pretending everything’s normal in front of Han right now.
You turn the corner and stop dead in your tracks. Wooyoung is leaning casually against the wall, waiting for you. Your heart sinks as soon as you make eye contact.
“Morning,” he says easily, a grin on his face.
Right. The photo ops. Just what you need.
Your manager brightens immediately at the sight of him. You, on the other hand, want to disappear. Instead, you force a tight smile and stand beside Wooyoung while cameras magically appear from seemingly nowhere. Questions get thrown at both of you while flashes explode in your face. You barely hear any of it. You just smile politely, nod occasionally. Pretend. Wooyoung plays the role naturally, leaning slightly closer once or twice for the cameras. You feel worse than you did in the car.
By the time you finally reach security, your chest feels tight with anxiety. It just gets worse when you look up and see Jisung. He’s standing further ahead with the rest of the members, cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, watching.
Your breath catches, and for one horrible second, you think he looks angry again. But when your eyes meet, he smiles. It’s small but soft. Reassuring.
He turns away as if nothing happened, but relief hits you so suddenly that your knees nearly give out.
He doesn’t hate you. He’s still here.
You spend the next ten minutes trying to steady your breathing as you follow the staff through the private boarding area. Exhaustion finally crashes over you all at once now that the panic is easing. You just want your seat, your headphones, and to catch up on some much-needed sleep.
You’re halfway down the corridor toward the plane when suddenly a hand grabs your wrist. You gasp in alarm as you’re quickly tugged sideways into the disabled bathroom nearby. The door clicks shut, and you spin around in panic before immediately sagging in relief.
“Jisung—”
Before you can say anything else, he pulls you tightly into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Your entire body melts against him in relief. “You scared me,” you whisper shakily. You both know you’re not just talking about now.
“I know.” His arms tighten around you. “I know, baby, I’m sorry.”
The endearment nearly makes you cry from sheer relief. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly and immediately frowns.
“You look exhausted.”
You laugh weakly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Guilt flashes across his face instantly. “Because of me?”
You don’t answer fast enough, and he closes his eyes briefly, as if the confirmation physically pains him.
“I never wanted to be the reason you lost sleep,” he says quietly.
Your chest aches. “You weren’t,” you lie softly.
Jisung gives you a look that says he knows better.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The airport noise outside feels distant compared to the tiny space you’re crammed into together.
He exhales slowly. “I was angry,” he admits. “Not at you. I swear.” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “I just hated seeing you dragged into all this because of me.”
“It’s not because of you.”
“It feels like it.”
You shake your head immediately. “I understand why you were upset.”
Han looks uncertain, and you smile sadly.
“If the situation were reversed and they wanted you photographed with an ex-girlfriend?” You huff softly. “I’d lose my mind.”
That finally pulls a small laugh from him. “Really?”
“Absolutely.”
His forehead drops gently against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmurs. “I just… need time to stop wanting to fight everyone.”
You laugh quietly despite yourself. “I noticed.”
Han groans softly. “Minho told me I was being dramatic.”
“He was right.”
“Wow. Betrayed by my own girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. The word settles warmly between you.
Your eyes soften immediately.
“I missed you,” you whisper suddenly, feeling embarrassed that it hadn’t even been 24 hours since you last saw him. You didn’t know how to explain that you missed the possible future without Jisung that your brain had fooled you into believing wouldn’t have been in your life.
Han’s expression melts completely. The exhaustion leaves his face all at once, replaced by something unbearably tender.
“I missed you, too.”
Then he kisses you.
Quick at first.
Gentle.
Like reassurance more than anything else.
But when your fingers clutch the front of his hoodie desperately, he kisses you again properly, warm and lingering and full of everything neither of you can say publicly.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless.
“We should go before people notice,” you whisper reluctantly.
Han sighs dramatically.
“You’re always ruining my plans.”
“You dragged me into an airport bathroom.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?”
You laugh for real this time.
God, you missed him.
Han brushes one last thumb beneath your eye gently before opening the door carefully.
“Come on,” he murmurs softly. “Let’s go start our tour.”
Tour becomes the strangest contradiction of your life.
You’ve never been happier… And you’ve never been more exhausted by pretending.
Still, the moment you step onto the stage for your first performance as a soloist, everything else disappears. The crowd is deafening. Lights blind you the second the music starts, adrenaline surging so hard through your veins you almost forget to breathe. Thousands of people sing your lyrics back at you, your name echoing through the arena in a way that makes your chest ache with emotion. For those few minutes, you aren’t somebody’s girlfriend. You aren’t a scandal risk or a contract. You’re just you. And when you finish the final song to roaring applause, you nearly cry backstage from the overwhelming relief and joy of it all.
The first person you look for is Jisung. He catches you before you even properly make it behind the curtain, grabbing your face with both hands.
“You were incredible.”
His eyes are shining so brightly that you almost melt on the spot.
“I messed up the second verse.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I did!”
“Nobody noticed because they were too busy falling in love with you.”
You snort out a laugh, cheeks burning, and he beams at you like he personally put the stars in the sky.
Later that night, after schedules finally finish and staff disappear to their own rooms, you unlock your hotel door expecting nothing more than a shower and sleep. Instead, your room is covered with candles. There’s soft music playing from a portable speaker set up in the corner, and rose petals are scattered across the white duvet.
You freeze in the doorway, confused, until you see him. Jisung stands near the table, looking suddenly nervous despite all the effort clearly put into this.
“Surprise?”
Your mouth falls open. “Ji…”
The look on your face makes him smile instantly.
A full dinner is laid out across the small hotel table — room service desserts, expensive wine neither of you particularly likes but thought looked romantic, and a tiny handwritten note propped beside your plate.
You stare at it all in disbelief and ask, “You did all this?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly take you out publicly,” he says sheepishly. “So I improvised.”
Your chest hurts from how much you love him. You cross the room quickly and throw your arms around his neck without another thought. Han laughs softly as he catches you, holding you close.
“Was it too much?” he asks into your hair.
“No,” you whisper immediately. “It’s perfect.”
And honestly? It is, because even hidden away in a hotel room halfway through tour preparations, he still finds ways to love you loudly.
The next few weeks settle into something dangerously domestic.
You wake up tangled together almost every morning, warm hotel sheets twisted around your legs while sunlight creeps through the curtains. Han always tries to leave before the others wake up… He’s terrible at it.
One morning, you’re still half asleep when you watch him stumble around the room trying to find his hoodie with his hair sticking up in every direction.
“You look ridiculous,” you mumble into the pillow.
“I look stealthy.”
“You walked into the wardrobe five seconds ago.”
Han glares at you weakly before leaning down to kiss your forehead anyway. “Go back to sleep.”
You giggle quietly as he sneaks out into the hallway, looking thoroughly dishevelled and deeply suspicious. Somehow, nobody catches him. Or maybe the others just choose not to say anything. Unfortunately, though, outside those hotel rooms, reality still waits.
The “sightings” with Wooyoung continue exactly as management planned.
The park is first.
You wear your hair down specifically to hide the wireless earphones tucked carefully beneath it, one AirPod playing music quietly so you don’t actually have to talk to him. Paparazzi conveniently “spot” the two of you walking side by side beneath the trees near the hotel.
From the pictures, it probably looks peaceful. Romantic, even. In reality, you spend most of it staring ahead, pretending not to notice the cameras, while Wooyoung occasionally attempts conversation, which you barely respond to.
The second sighting at the coffee shop is worse.
By then, articles are already circulating online. Could there be something between them? Fans are constantly speculating after recent appearances. You want to scream every time you see them.
The café itself is tiny and crowded with photographers waiting outside the windows. You sit across from Wooyoung with a smile plastered painfully onto your face while barely saying more than three words the entire time.
“You really hate this, huh?” Wooyoung asks eventually, stirring his drink lazily.
You don’t even bother denying it.
“I told you already,” you say quietly. “I’m happily with someone.”
His expression dims slightly, though not enough. “Still him?”
You look up immediately. “Yes,” you answer firmly. “Still him.”
And despite everything — the cameras outside, the rumours online, the constant pressure weighing on your shoulders — your heart feels lighter saying it because every night still ends the same way.
Back in secret hotel rooms, in Han’s arms, with sleepy kisses in the dark and whispered words that nobody else gets to hear.
And for now, that’s enough.
The sighting that ruins it all is the one you least expected.
You were a month into tour, and exhaustion started creeping into everything.
The performances were the easy part. You loved being on stage. You loved the crowds, the adrenaline, and the feeling of slowly becoming more confident every single night. Supporting Stray Kids has become strangely natural too — backstage chaos, rehearsals, shared meals at ridiculous hours of the night.
It’s the pretending that’s exhausting. All the hiding, the constant calculations, the carefully timed entrances and exits from hotel rooms. The way your hand instinctively reaches for Han’s, only for you to stop yourself at the last second if someone’s nearby. And most of all… Wooyoung.
The fake sightings just keep happening. Management becomes relentless once the initial rumours start gaining traction online. Every few days, there’s another “accidental” encounter planned at a restaurant or on a walk. Sometimes it’s a shared ride or a conveniently photographed conversation outside venues.
You cancel as many as you can. You genuinely do. You use rehearsals as excuses. Vocal strain. Fittings. Meetings. Jet lag. Anything you can think of. But sometimes management refuses to budge, and apparently tonight is one of those nights.
“I’m just saying,” Jisung says from where he’s pacing your hotel room, frustration bleeding into every word, “it feels like you could push back harder.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “I have been pushing back harder.”
“Then why does it keep happening?”
“Because they don’t care what I want!”
The room falls silent for half a second, and he stops pacing. You instantly regret snapping, but the exhaustion sitting heavy in your chest makes it hard to soften yourself quickly enough.
“I know,” he says, quieter now. “I know they don’t.”
But he still looks upset. Still tense. Hurt.
Part of you understands. Every time another article comes out pairing your name with Wooyoung’s, you feel sick too. But another part of you is just tired - so unbelievably tired.
“I’m doing everything I can,” you say finally, rubbing at your face. “I’m trying to keep management happy enough not to ruin my career, I’m trying to survive my first tour, and I’m trying to keep our relationship together while nobody’s allowed to know it exists.”
His expression shifts immediately, and guilt flickers across his face.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“No, but that’s what it sounds like.” Your voice cracks slightly despite yourself. “Like I’m failing some test because I can’t magically make them stop.”
“You’re not failing.”
“Then stop acting like I’m choosing this!”
Jisung goes quiet, and the hurt on his face makes your anger falter instantly, but before either of you can fix it, there’s a knock on the door. Both of you freeze, and your stomach sinks immediately. The staff member assigned to ensure you make it on time is right on time. Another knock follows when you don’t answer, and a voice carries through the door.
“We need to leave in five minutes,” a staff member calls through the door.
The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. It’s back to reality, and back to pretending. Jisung looks devastated by it.
“Seriously?” he mutters bitterly.
You close your eyes briefly, feeling the faint pain of a headache building from your stress.
“I have to go.”
“I know, but—” He steps toward you immediately. “Can we not leave it like this?”
The frustration in his voice hurts more now because you know it isn’t anger anymore. It’s worry. You grab your bag silently, avoiding his eyes because if you look at him for too long, you might cry.
There’s another impatient knock, and you feel your patience fraying as the staff member speaks up again.
“Miss? The car’s waiting.”
Han runs a hand through his hair roughly. “Just tell them to wait two minutes.”
“They won’t.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I do!” The words come out sharper than intended, patience finally wrung out. You inhale shakily before softening slightly. “I can’t keep giving them reasons to watch me more closely.”
Han falls silent, and you finally force yourself to look at him properly. His eyes are full of concern now instead of frustration.
“Baby…”
The worry in his voice nearly undoes you.
“I’ll see you later,” you whisper quietly.
Jisung still looks unsettled. Like he hates the idea of you walking out that door while things feel unresolved between you.
“I don’t want you leaving upset,” he admits softly.
Your chest aches painfully. “I’m not upset at you.”
That’s the truth. You’re upset at the situation and at management. At the constant pressure squeezing tighter and tighter around both of you.
He steps closer like he wants to kiss you goodbye properly, but another sharp knock interrupts again. “We really need to go now.”
You both flinch apart instinctively.
The moment’s gone.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the door reluctantly. Jisung catches your wrist just before you open it.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says quietly.
Your eyes burn unexpectedly before you open the door. Staff immediately begin ushering you down the hallway before either of you can say anything else. You glance back once, and Han’s still standing in the middle of your hotel room, watching you leave, looking like there are a hundred things he still wants to say.
And somehow that image stays with you all the way to the car, waiting to take you to another fake date with someone you stopped loving a long time ago.
By the time you arrive at the restaurant, your head is pounding, and you barely remember the drive there. All you can think about is Jisung standing in the middle of your hotel room, looking worried, while you walk away from him.
You hate leaving things unresolved, especially with him.
The restaurant is loud and packed with people, with warm, low-hanging golden lights, overcrowded tables, and conversations blurring into an overwhelming din. It’s easily the busiest place management has arranged for you and Wooyoung to be seen together so far, but it doesn’t surprise you. More people means more cameras, which means more opportunities for rumours.
You spot Wooyoung already seated near the windows — strategically visible, naturally. He smiles when he sees you approaching, but it fades slightly once you sit down.
“You look miserable.”
You give a dry scoff in response instead of answering.
Wooyoung studies you for a second. “You’re quieter than usual tonight.”
You stare blankly at the menu despite already knowing you won’t be hungry enough to eat much. “Maybe because I don’t want to be here.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
You look up sharply, and Wooyoung leans back in his chair slightly. “You used to talk a lot, you know.”
You roll your eyes immediately. “And?”
“I’m serious.”
“Wooyoung, please.”
He goes quiet for a moment before sighing softly. “You look stressed lately.”
Something in you finally snaps. You’re not sure why exactly. Maybe because you’re exhausted, or because you already miss Jisung. Maybe because you’re tired of everyone expecting things from you constantly.
You put the menu down harder than intended.
“Because I am stressed,” you say sharply. “I’m exhausted all the time, I barely sleep, management controls every second of my life, my relationship has to stay hidden while they parade me around with my ex-boyfriend, and if I breathe wrong, there’ll probably be an article about it tomorrow.”
Wooyoung blinks in surprise, but you aren’t finished yet.
“And I’m trying so hard to keep everything together while everyone around me acts like I’m some kind of product instead of a person.”
The words spill out faster now.
“I’m tired of cameras. I’m tired of fake smiling. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with any of this.”
A camera flashes outside the window suddenly, and Wooyoung reacts instantly, reaching across the table to grab your hand.
“There,” he murmurs quietly. “That’s why.”
Your stomach twists unpleasantly, but you immediately force a smile toward the window before smoothly pulling your hand back from his. The second the cameras lower, your expression drops flat again.
Wooyoung watches you carefully before he surprises you.
“I’m sorry.”
You blink at him. “For what?”
“For… everything, I guess.” He looks strangely sincere for once. “I wasn’t good to you when we were together.”
You stare at him for a second before rolling your eyes again. “Okay.”
His mouth opens slightly. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you forgive me?”
You almost laugh. “Wooyoung, I genuinely do not care anymore.”
And surprisingly, it’s true. Whatever heartbreak once existed there feels distant now. Faded. Unimportant compared to what you have with Jisung.
You just feel tired.
“I just want to finish this dinner,” you say quietly.
After that, the conversation dies almost completely. You eat mechanically while Wooyoung occasionally attempts small talk, which you barely engage with. Outside the windows, photographers continue lurking like vultures.
By the end of the meal, exhaustion weighs so heavily on you that you feel hollow. You just want Jisung. You want his arms around you, and you want to crawl into bed beside him and apologise properly and pretend none of this exists for a few hours. The thought alone keeps you moving as the dinner finally ends.
Outside the restaurant, cameras immediately begin flashing again.
You force yourself through one final polite goodbye. “Goodnight, Wooyoung.”
You turn to leave, but his hand suddenly catches your arm. Before you can react properly, Wooyoung pulls you toward him and kisses the corner of your mouth.
Flashes explode around you instantly, and your entire body freezes in shock. But not for long. You shove him away hard enough that he stumbles slightly.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Wooyoung looks entirely too calm.
“Relax,” he says lightly, glancing toward the cameras. “I’m sticking to the plan.”
Your stomach turns violently. “That was not the plan.”
He shrugs. “People will eat it up.”
You stare at him in complete disbelief. For one horrible second, all you can think about is Jisung seeing the pictures. Seeing that.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you snap quietly.
Something flickers across Wooyoung’s face then — annoyance, maybe guilt — but you don’t stay long enough to figure it out. You turn immediately and walk away as fast as you can, ignoring the shouting reporters behind you.
Your skin feels wrong.
Your mouth feels wrong.
And all you want is to get back to Han before the internet does.
The entire drive back to the hotel feels like drowning in anxiety.
Your phone won’t stop vibrating from constant notifications, messages, articles, and tags. The second that photo hit the internet, it spread everywhere. Fans caught it from different angles. Paparazzi posted blurry close-ups within minutes. Headlines were already appearing before you’d even left the restaurant district.
IDOLS CONFIRM ROMANCE RUMOURS AFTER SHARING INTIMATE MOMENT.
You feel sick every time you glimpse the image under the headline. It looks real. The different camera angles create an illusion of attachment, of love. Your nausea increases as you scan the article and see your own worst nightmare brought to life – people believe there’s something very real between you and Wooyoung.
By the time the car pulls up outside the hotel, panic has fully settled into your chest.
Han.
You need to explain to Han before he spirals, before he believes it.
You practically run through the lobby and into the elevator, heart hammering painfully the entire way up. Your hands shake so badly, fumbling for your room card, that you nearly drop it twice.
The door swings open, and your stomach drops when you notice that your room is empty. Han said he’d wait for you and promised that he’d be here.
“Jisung?”
Nothing. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. Your panic surges harder as you realise you might not have got here in time, and you’re already rushing back into the hallway before the door fully closes behind you.
You pound on Han’s hotel door desperately, dying to find him.
“Jisung?”
There’s no answer, and you knock again harder.
“Han, please—”
You place your ear to the door when you hear muffled voices, but you realise that it’s not coming from his room, but the room next door. Lee Know’s room.
You hurry over immediately and knock hard enough that your knuckles hurt. The voices inside stop, and you call through the door.
“Minho,” you call shakily. “Please— can I talk to Han?”
There’s a long pause, and you’re about to knock again when the door opens slightly. Minho stands there looking tired and hesitant. Your heart sinks further.
“Please,” you whisper immediately. “I need to explain.”
Minho glances back over his shoulder, deciding on how to answer, when another figure appears behind him.
Han.
Your breath catches painfully at the lack of emotion on his face. You expected anger and sadness, but his eyes looked empty, his expression defeated.
“Jisung—”
“I always worried you’d go back to him.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. “What? No—”
“It’s not even just tonight.” His voice is quiet, exhausted. “I tried not to think about it every time management sent you out together.”
You’re already shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “Han, it wasn’t my choice—”
“I know.”
But he says it in a way that sounds like it doesn’t matter anymore.
You stare at him desperately, begging him to believe you. “It’s not what it looked like.”
Han gives a tiny, sad smile that nearly breaks you in half.
“That’s the problem,” he says softly. “It looked exactly like what I was scared of.”
Your eyes fill instantly. “No, listen to me— he kissed me, I pushed him away immediately—”
“But he still kissed you.”
The hurt in his voice cracks straight through your chest. He looks exhausted – not physically, but completely emotionally exhausted.
“I kept trying to ignore it,” he admits quietly. “The photos. The articles. How natural you looked together.”
“Natural?” you repeat incredulously. “Han, I barely spoke to him!”
“But nobody else knows that.”
You step closer desperately. “It was staged.”
“I know it was staged,” he says again.
Somehow, hearing that hurts worse, because he does know. He knows you… And he’s still giving up.
Han’s eyes finally meet yours fully, and your stomach twists violently at the emptiness there.
“I just think…” He swallows hard. “Maybe this was always going to be too difficult.”
“No.” The answer leaves you instantly. You know you must look terrified, and you can't help but plead with him. “No, don’t say that.”
Han’s expression crumples slightly at the panic in your voice, but he keeps going anyway.
“We can’t even argue properly without being dragged apart for publicity schedules.” His laugh is hollow and quiet. “We hide constantly. We barely get to be real together outside hotel rooms.”
“We can fix it.”
“I don’t think we can.”
Tears spill down your face immediately. “Jisung, please.”
He looks at you for one long, awful second, and you can see it. You can see how much he loves you. You think it must be that which makes this unbearable.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, voice cracking slightly, “for the last few months.”
Your heart stops.
“No.”
“But I think it’s better if we stop now before this hurts worse.”
You actually stare at him in disbelief. You feel like your brain physically cannot process the words. You can’t believe that this morning you were waking up, wrapped in his arms, and hours later he was breaking up with you.
Han takes one slow step backwards, then another.
“Jisung, please —”
He turns away and walks back into Minho’s room. You immediately try to follow, panicked beyond reason now, but Minho steps into the doorway and blocks your path gently but firmly.
“Minho, move.”
“You need to give him space.”
“No, I need to talk to him!”
Your voice breaks completely.
Inside the room, you can hear movement, but Jisung doesn’t come back, doesn’t say another word. The silence is devastating.
“Please,” you beg Minho desperately. “Please let me in. I love him, Minho! I promise.”
Minho’s face softens slightly as you gasp for breath, the pain in your chest unbearable.
“I know.”
“Then tell him!”
“He’s hurt.”
“So am I!”
“I know,” Minho says quietly. “But right now he needs space to think.”
You shake your head immediately, tears falling harder now. “There’s nothing to think about. He’s what I want.”
The conviction in your voice makes Minho’s expression flicker sadly. But he still doesn’t move aside.
“You both need time,” he says gently. “You’re exhausted. Emotional. Everything’s been building for weeks.”
You wipe angrily at your tears. “I don’t want time. I want to fix this.”
Minho sighs softly.
“I’m tired,” he admits. “And right now my priority is looking after him.”
The words hurt more than they should because suddenly you’re outside the room. Alone.
Minho’s hand tightens slightly on the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow for soundcheck.”
You stare at him helplessly as the door closes quietly in front of you.
That night, you don’t sleep. Not even for a minute.
You lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, as the world outside slowly shifts from darkness to pale morning light. Every time you close your eyes, you see Han walking away from you again.
Thank you for the last few months.
The words replay so relentlessly in your head, you think you might actually lose your mind.
At some point, your phone buzzes repeatedly on the bedside table. First, it’s your tour staff, then it’s management. Eventually, you even get one message from Chan asking if you’re okay after missing breakfast. You don’t answer anyone, you just silence your phone and roll over to stare at the wall.
By the time soundcheck rolls around, you still haven’t moved from the bed. You physically can’t make yourself. The idea of seeing Han and pretending to function normally feels impossible. So, you stay there curled beneath the duvet in yesterday’s clothes while the hotel room remains dark around you.
Eventually, management starts panicking – there are more calls. More knocks. Messages begging for you to answer because you have the concert later. You finally drag yourself up barely an hour before it starts because you know you can’t miss the performance entirely.
Your reflection in the mirror startles you. You look awful. Your eyes are swollen from spending all day and night crying, and your skin is pale. You look like somebody hollowed you out from the inside.
The arena backstage feels painfully familiar when you arrive. Usually, you love the energy before a show — the rush of staff running around, the sound checks, the excited nerves humming through everyone. Tonight it just feels cold.
You see Stray Kids almost immediately, and your chest caves in.
Han is standing with the others while a stylist fixes his in-ear monitors. For one horrible second, instinct makes your body lean towards him automatically. Towards your comfort and your home. Then you remember that you can’t do that anymore.
Han looks up, and your eyes meet briefly. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he looks away first. The motion is small, but it devastates you anyway. There was no smile, no secret glance, no mouthed good luck like always. Nothing.
You have never felt lonelier in your life.
The rest of the members notice you, too, but the atmosphere is now painfully awkward. Changbin gives you a hesitant nod, and Felix looks openly concerned. Minho’s expression softens slightly when he sees how exhausted you look, but he doesn’t approach either. None of them know what to do, and you can't blame them because, honestly, neither do you.
You decide to keep your distance, burying your face in your phone and avoiding everyone, because you know this is hard for them, too. They’re his family before they’re your friends.
Your performance that night is… fine. Technically. You hit the notes, and you remember the choreography. The crowd still cheers and sings along to your songs, but you feel disconnected from your own body the entire time, like you’re watching somebody else perform through thick glass.
And afterwards, backstage is worse. Because Han always found you afterwards, even if only briefly. You’d gotten used to hearing his voice in your ear the second you stepped offstage.
You were amazing.
I’m so proud of you.
Tonight there’s nothing. Han walks past you once while talking quietly with Chan and doesn’t even glance your way. You almost stop breathing.
That’s when it truly sinks in.
This is really happening. You’ve really broken up.
The next two weeks become survival rather than living.
You stop laughing, you stop eating properly. Sleep becomes something distant and unreliable. Some nights you cry silently into hotel pillows until sunrise. Other nights, you just lie awake, numb and empty, while tour buses and aeroplanes blur together endlessly.
You and Han become strangers in public spaces. He’s professional and polite when needed. Distant like none of those nights tangled together in hotel sheets ever happened.
The members try in their own ways. Felix starts lingering nearby more often, and Chan checks in quietly a few times. Minho watches you with increasing concern every time you show up looking thinner and more exhausted than before.
But nobody mentions Han.
And Han never approaches you.
By the time the final Korea show approaches, you’re barely holding yourself together. Standing on stage feels harder every night. Breathing feels harder every night. Being near Han and not being able to talk to him, to touch him, feels like torture.
You make a decision, realising you can’t possibly carry on this way and still keep your sanity. So, you request a meeting with management the day of the final concert.
“I can’t continue the international leg of the tour.”
The room goes silent immediately. “What?”
You keep your expression blank because if you let yourself feel anything right now, you’ll fall apart.
“I’m exhausted,” you say quietly. “I’m not coping well physically.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I’m telling you now because I physically cannot do this for months more.”
They argue immediately. They mention contracts, schedules, money, and commitments. You sit through all of it feeling strangely detached. Eventually, you lower your gaze and say the one thing you know they’ll take seriously.
“If I collapse publicly, that’ll be worse for everyone, won’t it?”
Management exchange tense looks, the tension palpable.
You continue softly. “I need to rest. I need to go home.”
In truth, you need to escape from the tour and the heartbreak. From seeing Han every day while pretending you aren’t falling apart.
Eventually, begrudgingly, they agree to frame it as illness and exhaustion after the Korea leg finishes. They label it a temporary hiatus. A recovery period.
You nod numbly through the rest of the meeting, then leave before anyone can change their minds. You don’t tell the boys, and you don’t plan to, partly because you don’t think they’d care anymore. And partly because if Han asked you to stay without the relationship, you know you would.
You just might not survive it.
Later that day, backstage is loud. Staff rush past, carrying headsets and equipment, while stage managers shout out timings amid the arena's chaos. Usually, the noise helps settle your nerves before performances. Tonight, it barely registers.
Your final performance.
The thought feels strangely hollow, much unlike the heavy suitcases loaded into the taxi waiting to take you to the airport. You’d decided it would be best to have a clean break. There was no point hanging around for anything anymore.
You sit silently in the makeup chair with your mic resting loosely in your hands, staring blankly at nothing while stylists do last-minute touch-ups around you. You don’t even know if Han is avoiding looking at you anymore or if you’ve simply stopped trying to catch his eye.
“Hey.”
You blink slowly and look up. Chan stands nearby, expression careful.
“You okay?”
The question almost makes you laugh, but you just nod weakly instead. Chan doesn’t buy it for a second, and he glances around before pulling up a chair beside you quietly.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Your stomach twists immediately. Chan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, eyeing the floor.
“The photos,” he says carefully. “With Wooyoung.”
There it is. You lower your eyes to your microphone, thumb soothing the cool metal.
“I’m confused,” Chan admits softly. “Because I remember how badly he treated you.”
Your throat tightens painfully. Chan had seen some of it firsthand when you and Wooyoung dated. Not all of it, but enough to understand what a horrible place you were in with him.
You swallow hard. “It wasn’t real.”
Chan goes very still. You still don’t look at him as you continue quietly, voice numb from repeating this truth over and over in your own head.
“Management wanted publicity away from Han. They arranged the sightings.” Your fingers tighten around the mic. “The kiss wasn’t planned. He just did it.”
You can’t see his face, but you can hear his tone darken. “And Han knows that?”
“I tried telling him.”
The words come out hollow.
You turn slightly, and you can see Chan watching you carefully from the corner of your eye. Really watching. You know that he can see the exhaustion and the weight loss. The emptiness sitting behind your eyes.
Realisation slowly dawns across his face.
“Oh,” he says softly.
You laugh once weakly. “Yeah.”
A staff member suddenly calls your name from across backstage. “Five minutes!”
You slowly stand, smoothing your outfit. Chan rises too, but before he can speak again, you finally look at him and give him a small, tired smile.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He frowns slightly. “For what?”
“For letting me join the Korean leg of the tour.” Your voice softens further. “You’ve all been really kind to me.”
Confusion flashes across Chan’s face immediately. “What do you mean Korean leg?”
You just smile again. It’s small, sad. “Thank you for everything, Chris.”
You walk away before he can stop you, and behind you, Chan stands frozen in place.
The crowd screams the second you step onto the stage. Thousands of lights shimmer across the arena like stars while music pounds through the speakers loud enough to shake the floor beneath your feet. Normally the sound energises you, but tonight you feel strangely detached from your own body.
You move through the choreography automatically, smiling when you’re supposed to smile, singing when you’re supposed to sing. A performance built from muscle memory. Then midway through the set—
You see him.
Wooyoung.
Near the barricade.
Watching you.
And suddenly, all the hurt and exhaustion curdling inside you twists sharply into anger. You’re not angry at Han or yourself. You’re angry at him - at the person who kissed you without permission, knowing exactly what it would do.
Your heartbeat pounds loudly in your ears as you make a split-second decision. Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn sharply toward the live band stationed near the side of the stage.
“Toxic Till The End,” you say suddenly into your mic. The band members blink in surprise, but you need to do this. You need to tell him, to tell the world.
“Now.”
Your manager looks horrified from the side stage, but you ignore them completely. The crowd erupts excitedly as the musicians scramble to adjust. You step toward the front of the stage slowly, breathing hard.
“This song…” Your voice echoes through the arena. “Wasn’t originally meant to be performed yet.”
The crowd quiets slightly, listening. You don’t know if it’s the look on your face or the anger in your voice, but you carry on regardless, glancing once toward Wooyoung. You feel a thrill when his expression shifts uncertainly.
“It’s about a recent relationship,” you continue softly. “A toxic one.”
The arena falls completely silent now, and you can practically feel management panicking backstage. You don’t care anymore.
“I wrote it with somebody who means the world to me,” you admit quietly. “And despite everything… I’m thankful for every second I got to spend with them.”
Your chest aches violently from the truth behind your words, and you close your eyes briefly, composing yourself before continuing.
“Tonight feels like the right time to finally share it.”
The music starts, and the first notes ring out low and haunting through the arena.
When you begin singing, every lyric is aimed directly at Wooyoung. Every word is about manipulation and heartbreak and exhaustion sharpened by months of buried anger. You hold eye contact with him relentlessly, and you watch the confidence slowly leave his face.
Good.
For the first time in weeks, you feel honest on stage again. Real.
The emotion cracks through your voice painfully during the second chorus, and you’re confused when the crowd starts screaming. You glance sideways and freeze, mic falling from your lips. Han is walking onto the stage, mic in hand. He approaches slowly, eyes locked entirely on you as he sings the words you’ve lost.
The arena absolutely loses its mind.
You forget where you are, forget everything except him. For the first time in weeks, Han is looking at you, and you don’t know what to do. He reaches you just before your next line and gently lifts your microphone back toward your mouth with one hand. The gesture is so soft it nearly breaks you.
“Sing,” he murmurs quietly.
Your eyes immediately fill with tears, but you do. The tears finally fall when Han starts singing with you, standing close, focused just on you. It’s not officially part of the performance, not rehearsed. He’s just there beside you, voice blending perfectly with yours while the crowd screams around you. You stare at him in complete shock the entire time. Han doesn’t look away once, not during the bridge or the final chorus. Not even when your voice shakes.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the rest of the world disappears completely. You don’t notice Wooyoung storming out of the arena, and you don’t notice the managers panicking backstage. You barely even hear the crowd anymore.
Because Han is looking at you like he’s finally seeing you again. Not the version of you from that picture, not the version of you that broke his heart.
For the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.
When the final note fades into deafening screams, you barely hear any of it. Your chest is heaving from the emotion of the performance, tears still clinging to your lashes as you stare at Han in complete disbelief.
He’s here.
He came onto the stage for you.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moves. The crowd is losing their minds around you, thousands of phones raised into the air, capturing every second, but suddenly, none of it matters. Because Han is looking at you the same way he used to in hotel rooms at three in the morning.
Like you’re his everything.
And the second you realise that, the words come pouring out before you can stop them.
“I tried to tell you,” you say breathlessly.
Han blinks slightly, startled by the sudden rush of words.
“The sightings weren’t real, I swear to God they weren’t real,” you continue desperately. “I hated every single one and I tried so hard to stop them but management kept pushing and I thought if I just got through tour it would calm down and—”
“Hey—”
“And the kiss wasn’t planned,” you say quickly over him, tears slipping free now. “I pushed him away immediately, Ji, I would never- could never- do that to you.”
The arena has gone strangely quiet. Fans are desperately trying to hear you, and staff are panicking. You don’t care anymore.
“I love you,” you whisper brokenly. “I have always loved you.”
Han’s expression crumples slightly. “I know.”
You stare at him helplessly.
“I couldn’t stand you looking at me like that anymore,” you admit shakily. “Like I broke something between us.”
Han takes a small step closer instinctively, but his expression changes suddenly.
“Wait.”
You sniff weakly. “What?”
His eyebrows pull together. “What did Chan mean when he said this was your last show?”
Your stomach drops instantly.
Oh.
Chan told him.
You look away immediately, and Han’s voice softens. “What do you mean by the last show?”
Your eyes burn harder. “I can’t do it anymore.”
The honesty spills out painfully now that it’s started.
“I can’t stand being around you every day and pretending like I’m okay.” Your voice shakes violently. “I can’t keep hiding and watching everything fall apart and acting like I’m fine with it.”
Han looks horrified. “You were leaving?”
You nod weakly. “After tonight. My bags are already in the taxi.”
“Without telling me?”
“I thought you hated me.”
The words hit him like a slap, and his face twists instantly. “I never hated you.”
“But you left me.”
“I was hurt!” he says desperately. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.” Your voice cracks completely. “You never did.”
You stare at each other as you’re encompassed by a raw, painful silence. The crowd barely exists anymore. You wipe at your tears roughly and force yourself to keep going before you lose the courage.
“I’ll leave you alone after this,” you whisper shakily. “I know that’s probably what you want now, and I shouldn’t have even done this—”
Han kisses you – hard, suddenly - one hand grabbing your waist while the other cups your face as he pulls you into him like he physically cannot get close enough fast enough.
The arena explodes. Screaming erupts so loudly you feel the stage vibrate beneath your feet, but you can’t even process it.
Because Han is kissing you in front of everyone. In front of cameras, managers, and fans.
The entire world.
And he kisses you like he’s been dying to do it for weeks.
When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, and your eyes are impossibly wide.
“Jisung!” you whisper in panic. “What are you doing?”
Immediately, your head snaps toward the backstage area, where managers look seconds away from cardiac arrest. “You’re going to get in so much trouble.”
Han just looks at you for a second before smiling. It’s soft and fond and completely unbothered.
“Baby,” he says gently, brushing his thumb beneath your tear-stained cheek, “I’m Han Jisung.”
You blink at him in confusion, and he grins slightly wider.
“What are they gonna do?” His eyes flick briefly toward the horrified staff backstage before returning to you. “Fire me?”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, half hysterical and half disbelieving. Han immediately melts at the sound, leaning down to rest his forehead against your own.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly.
Your chest aches so violently with love for him that you think it might kill you.
The crowd is still screaming around you as Han continues to rest his forehead against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, right there in the middle of the stage.
There’s no more hiding. No more pretending.
Just him.
There would be consequences after tonight — furious managers, broken contracts, headlines, backlash, endless meetings, perhaps even penalties neither of you could fully predict yet. By morning, the entire industry would know. The secret you had both protected so desperately was gone now, laid bare beneath arena lights and thousands of screaming voices.
But as Han held you in his arms in your hotel room later that night, thumb brushing reassuringly across your knuckles while the world erupted online, none of it felt frightening anymore.
For months, you had lived in fear of losing your career, opportunities, and reputation. Yet lying beside him now, finally loved out loud, you realised there was something far worse than consequences: living without him. And as Han looked at you with that same soft, unwavering love that had found you on building rooftops and airport bathrooms and across crowded arenas, you knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next, you would survive it together.
As long as you had him, you felt like you could face anything.
a/n: ARE WE HAPPY? WHAT DO WE THINK? AS GOOD AS PART ONE OR PURE SHIT? lmk in the comments xo
titsay
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