( 恍 ) nct wish × fem. reader・approx.300 WC・slow-burn, fluff includes! lingering touches, unsaid feelings, falling in silence, bestfriend dynamics
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It’s after a long night of studying together. You're half-asleep on his shoulder, mumbling about snacks and dreams. He looks at you—hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, your hand resting barely an inch from his—and he feels something twist in his chest. It’s not new, he realizes. It’s always been there. He just didn’t know it had a name until now. He brushes a crumb off your cheek and thinks, “This is what love feels like… and it’s been right here all along.”
It hits him when you're dancing like a maniac to a dumb song in his living room, socks sliding on the floor, absolutely unbothered by how chaotic you look. You trip, he catches you, and you both burst into laughter. But when your eyes meet—just for a second—it lingers. His smile softens, and his heart stumbles. “Oh… oh no.” He stares at you afterward while you raid his snack drawer, suddenly unsure if he can keep calling you “just a friend.”
He’s always been protective—holding your bag, texting to make sure you got home safe, offering his hoodie without asking. But one day, you're ranting about something small, face scrunched up in that way he secretly finds adorable, and all he can think about is how much he wants to kiss you mid-sentence. It freaks him out. He laughs it off, but that night, lying in bed, he whispers to the ceiling: “I think I’m in love with her.” And then adds, “Doubt.”
You fall asleep on a train, head resting on his shoulder, and he doesn’t move the entire ride just so you stay comfortable. Everyone probably thinks you’re dating. He used to laugh when people assumed that—now his stomach flips at the thought. When you open your eyes and smile sleepily at him, something clicks. He’s not just your safe place. You’re his too. “How do I tell her without ruining everything?” he wonders, biting his lip.
It happens during a storm. You're both stuck inside, sharing snacks and watching old movies. You jump at a loud thunderclap, and without thinking, he reaches over and holds your hand. You don’t pull away. You never do. Later, you fall asleep on the couch, your head on his lap, and he brushes your hair from your face. “She trusts me with her whole heart,” he realizes. “And I want to protect it for the rest of my life.”
You’re out buying plushies—him, as usual, pretending he’s “just helping you choose,” even though he’s the one hugging every soft toy first. You hold one up to his face and say, “This one kinda looks like you,” laughing. He grins, cheeks a little pink, but thinks nothing of it. Later, walking home with matching plushies in your arms, he says, “You’re my favorite person to do this with,” completely unaware that his heart is already gone—and you're the one holding it.
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