“uh… why is sensei doing push-ups?” yuji asks, when he, nobara, and megumi enter the classroom.
satoru’s pushing himself up and down with one hand because, according to you, normal push-ups weren’t enough. but even then, he’s barely breaking a sweat. and he’s grinning, while you stand over him, watching with your arms crossed.
his uniform jacket is folded over the back of a chair, leaving him in his compression shirt, arm bulging and back tensing with each lift and fall of his body.
“i upset my-- hah beautiful, smart-- hah strong, gorgeous, perfect wife,” he pants, “punishment fits the crime.”
he really is right where he wants to be.
megumi doesn’t even bat an eye - this was the least unusual thing that you and satoru do. he slides into a chair with a sigh.
“how many does he have to do?”
“a hundred,” you say. satoru lifts his head to look up at you, mouth parted, little pink hearts in his eyes peering at you over the rim of his glasses. “he’s on seventy-two.”
his grin widens. “you know, this isn’t a challenge for me. why don’t you sit on my back, sweetheart?”
you crouch down in front of him and his eyes light up. “i know what you want, and you don’t deserve my touch.” you push his head down so he’s facing the floor again, and he grunts when you press extra weight, forcing his body down. “only twenty-three left. you can do it, my love.”
if his heart wasn’t beating fast enough before, it definitely was now. especially with the saccharine tone you used at the end of your sentence.
god, was he down bad.
“… call us when you’re done,” megumi says, already out of the classroom.
silly thought inspired by this video HAHA can you tell he makes me a little a lot insane
You haven’t stopped pacing since entering Chan’s room. He initially offered you a seat on the couch, but you declined. Sitting still feels impossible right now.
Meanwhile, he’s been sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, eyes tracking you back and forth.
“Are you going to sign?” he calmly asks.
You stop pacing.
“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“What is there to talk about?”
You lift the contract in your hand.
“Fendi blackmailing us would be a decent starting point.”
“It’s not blackmail.” His tone stays maddeningly even. “It’s a business decision. Protecting the brand’s reputation is their priority.”
“I understand that part. I just think there has to be another option besides marriage.”
You finally sit, perching on the edge of the coffee table across from him.
“This would be three years of our lives, Chan. Three years trapped in a lie.” You tighten your grip on the contract. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
His expression doesn’t shift.
“I don’t want to marry you,” you continue quickly. “I don’t want to marry anyone. You know that.”
“I do know that.”
“Then why would you sign this?”
“I didn’t exactly have two-million-dollars lying around to break my individual contract,” he says. “Unless you came here to lend it to me?”
You press your lips together.
The five hundred thousand in your own contract suddenly feels insignificant in comparison. Still impossible. Just . . . less impossible.
“We agreed to uphold a certain image as ambassadors and we failed to do that,” he continues. “We should be grateful they’re giving us an opportunity to make amends.”
And therein lies the difference between the two of you.
Chan upholds the title of ambassador like it means something sacred.
When Fendi extended an offer to you, you saw it as a means of escape. A way to get out of your parents’ house. A way out from beneath your mother’s control. A way to build a life that actually belonged to you.
Now the contract in your hand feels like a new leash.
“Already with the ‘we’ stuff?” you huff. “It was a dumb night in Vegas. People do worse every weekend.”
His jaw tightens.
“I feel like a public apology would’ve sufficed,” you continue before that moment can linger. “Of all the things one could get caught doing, this doesn’t feel that bad.”
“And what would qualify as ‘that’ bad to you?”
“If I photographed bent over the car while you fucked me from behind.”
“Can you stop turning this into a joke for one second?” he snaps.
The sharpness of it cuts clean through you.
“Just think about it,” he says, quieter now. “The PR team would’ve gone through every possible outcome before landing on this. They picked the option that benefits the company most.”
“Which brings us back to the blackmail.”
He exhales through his nose, frustration brimming.
“I already signed it, y/n. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to give me a good reason why you signed so quickly, without even talking to me.”
The pleading in your own tone is foreign to your ears.
“A sham marriage is the exact opposite of what you want,” you press on. “You want love. Marriage. Kids. All that domestic shit. So how are you okay playing house for three years?”
His eyes snap to yours. “I never said I was okay with it.”
The room goes still.
In front if you is not the Bashful Bang you get a kick out of teasing.
This is no nonsense Chan.
“I just don’t see another option,” he says quietly.
You swallow hard.
You’d been counting on his practicality to uncover some alternative. But if he can’t find a way around this, neither can you.
Chan stands first, and the movement seems to end the conversation before you were ready for it. He walks toward the door, and after a second, you follow.
“Read the contract,” he says. “Then make whatever decision you can live with.”
He opens the door for you.
“I’ve made mine.”
You rub at your temples as the endless legal jargon starts to blur together. The only enticing part thus far was the generous monthly compensation package.
While in the comfort of the hotel supplied bathrobe, you read through the shared residence section next. It requires you and Chan to choose between New York City or Los Angeles as your primary home base. And there’s a clause requiring both of you to reside there whenever work doesn’t pull you elsewhere.
Your stomach tightens—you were holding onto hope that your private life could still remain yours.
The wedding section is worse.
A chateau in Rome for the venue. A week-long stay leading up to the ceremony. Accommodations and flights for both of your immediate family members included.
You aren’t ready to even think about sending an invitation home.
Or telling Seungmin and the others about this.
Finally, you get to the bold heading of the last page: EARLY TERMINATION / EXIT PROVISION.
Your pulse quickens. Maybe this is your way out.
1.1 Mutual Termination
In the event both Parties jointly elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date, each Party shall remit a termination fee to the Brand in the following amounts:
Female Ambassador: $3,000,000 USD
Male Ambassador: $5,000,000 USD
Your face twists.
Five hundred thousand dollars already felt impossible. Two million feels suffocating. Even with the compensation package, it would take you the duration of the contract to save up that amount.
You keep reading.
1.2 Termination Initiated by Female Ambassador
Should the Female Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:
The Female Ambassador shall remit a reduced termination fee of $500,000 USD.
The Male Ambassador shall assume all remaining financial liability, totaling $7,500,000 USD.
You blink at the page.
That can’t be right.
You read it again.
Slower this time, like the numbers might change.
They don’t.
1.3 Termination Initiated by Male Ambassador.
Should the Male Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:
The Male Ambassador shall remain solely responsible for all financial penalties otherwise due under Clause 1.1.
Your chest tightens around the math of it.
If you both walk away, you both drown in debt.
If you walk away, Chan takes most of the hit.
And if Chan walks away—you lose nothing.
You stare at the page, trying to make sense of it.
Then your eyes land on the initials beside sections 1.2 and 1.3.
C.B.
Below them, in neat handwriting: NON-NEGOTIABLE.
Your breath catches.
These are Chan’s addendums.
Backstage at the Fendi fashion show is hectic.
You’re seated in front of a vanity with your eyes closed while a team works around you—hands in your hair, makeup brushes sweeping across your skin.
You try to let the noise drown everything else out. You focus on the chatter. The heels clacking against the floor. The slam of makeup cases.
Anything but the nervous storm churning in your stomach.
Try as you might, nothing can make you forget that it’s official now. You signed the contract last night and Lucia’s intern came to collect it personally.
Tonight, the world finds out you’re engaged to Chan.
And you haven’t spoken to him since leaving his room yesterday.
You don’t even know what you’d say if you did.
Your phone buzzes on the vanity. You blindly reach for it and peek an eye open to see who it is.
Mommy Dearest.
You nearly decline the call out of instinct.
It’s been close to a month since you last spoke to your mother—not for lack of effort on her part, and entirely because of the faithful ignore button on yours.
But with tonight’s announcement looming over your head, blindsiding her feels significantly more dangerous.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetie!” she immediately gushes with far too much energy for it to be 9am back home. “I’ve just uploaded the pictures from yesterday and the fan account is going ballistic.”
You inwardly groan.
She runs an unofficial page dedicated to you despite repeated hints that maybe she shouldn’t.
“Especially the pictures with Felix,” she continues. “And—what’s the Versace boy’s name again?”
“Hyunjin.”
“Yes. Hunjin,” she mispronounces it anyway. “He is gorgeous. If I were in your shoes, I’d—”
“Mom,” you cut her off quickly. “Listen, there’s some news coming out tonight.”
“Oh?”
Your throat tightens.
Even without the glam team around you, you wouldn’t know how to get out the words engaged and fiancé without dying.
“I can’t really explain right now,” you say carefully, “but just . . . prepare yourself, okay?”
Your phone buzzes with another incoming call.
Lucia.
“I gotta go. Work is calling.”
You switch calls before she can protest.
“Hello?”
“I just ran an idea by the executives and they loved it,” Lucia says, rather than a proper greeting. “We’re implementing it for the show.”
You close your eyes again, bracing yourself.
“You’ll be the last woman to walk out,” she continues, “and Chan will be the first man.”
She pauses dramatically, but you’re already sitting on pins and needles without the theatrics.
“You’ll pose at the end of the runway, then the two of you will cross paths on your return. As you pass him, you’ll brush hands. The touch should linger as you both continue in opposite directions.”
Another pause.
“The longing it will imply. Ugh! The press will eat it up. It’s perfect.”
You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror.
Makeup aside, you hardly recognize yourself. Not that you ever really could. Growing up, there was never space to figure out who you were beneath everyone else’s expectations..
You don’t see an engaged woman staring back at you.
You don’t really see anyone at all.
“What do you think?” she asks.
As if your opinion factors into any of this.
“I’ll do it,” you answer flatly.
“Buono. And remember—a lingering brush of hands, okay? Down to the fingertips—think The Creation of Adam.”
The line clicks dead.
You lower the phone slowly.
The Creation of Adam?
You’re already under enough pressure walking the runway. Now you’re expected to recreate Michaelangelo’s art in under five seconds.
The team finishes moments later while you quietly update Lucia’s contact name to Lucifer.
You slip into your look for the show.
The top is a dark, collared short-sleeved button-up shirt, oversized enough to look stolen from a boyfriend’s closet. On your lower half is a pair of black high-waisted boy shorts beneath a sheer skirt. The skirt is embellished with delicate floral embroidery. Nude heels and a blush-toned handbag complete the look.
You move into position with the rest of the lineup as the music begins thundering through backstage.
One minute.
That’s all this is.
One minute of pretending you’re perfectly composed and in love.
Surely you can handle that.
But it won’t end there.
You press the heel of your hand to your sternum. Your heartbeat feels uneven.
Publicly alluding to a relationship like this isn’t your style at all.
Then again, you’re not entirely sure you even have a style when it comes to relationships.
You’ve never kept anyone long enough to figure it out.
“y/n,” a production assistant calls. “You’re next. In three . . . two . . . one . . . go!”
You straighten instinctively. Shoulders back. Chin up. Expression blank.
The moment you step onto the runway, everything else disappears beneath the adrenaline.
Camera flashes burst across the crowd.
You keep your gaze forward as you reach the end of the runway, strike your pose, then pivot smoothly.
And immediately forget how to breathe.
Chan is walking toward you.
A long leopard-print coat is draped over his broad shoulders with no shirt underneath. He is fucking shredded.
If you’d seen that in Vegas, he would have had to forcefully throw you off him.
The black slacks hang dangerously low on his hips don’t help right now either. The sharp v-cut of his abdomen is exposed and putting way too many despicable thoughts in your head of what lies beneath.
The stylist deserves prison time.
Then another horrible realization hits: your outfit looks halfway stolen from a man’s closet . . . his is missing the shirt entirely.
The looks were coordinated.
Lucifer.
You continue walking. Left foot. Right foot.
Wait, what were you supposed to do again?
Right. Just touch his hand. Innocent. Longing. Fingertips.
Easy enough in theory.
But the abs are approaching and holy fuck do they make you wanna drop to your knees on this runway.
You force your gaze back up to his face to find his eyes already on you.
Your pulse stumbles.
This man is your fiancé as of today.
He will soon be your lawfully wedded husband.
You falter, tripping over your own feet in the tight, sheer skirt.
You feel it before it happens—the horrifying split second where your body knows you’re about to fall and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
The audience collective gasps as gravity takes you.
But the impact never comes.
Chan catches you.
A wave of camera flashes erupt across the runway as heat floods your face.
This is going to be everywhere.
Chan steadies you against him. You slowly lift your eyes to his, searching for reassurance and finding it far too easily.
His hand rises to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His brow raises slightly—a silent question: You okay?
You give the smallest nod.
His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin before he jerks his head toward the end of the runway behind him.
Keep going.
You somehow manage to continue walking without combusting on the spot.
Only once you disappear behind the backstage barrier do you let out a huge sigh, shoulders dropping.
That was definitely not what Lucia told you to do.
“We need you out in five minutes,” Lucia’s intern says, guiding you down a hall backstage.
He came to grab you almost immediately after you changed into a long sleeved, camel toned dress and matching heels.
A knot has formed in your stomach within the past half hour. The thought of walking the red carpet as a couple has now consumed your thoughts.
But before you do, you have to meet with Chan.
But you still aren’t sure what to say to him.
The assistant opens a door and steps aside.
It’s storage room with empty clothing racks, chairs, and vanity desks cluttering most of the space.
Chan stands at the center of the chaos, clad in a black suit and tie. The white button up shirt beneath it has the Fendi motif emblazoned along the collar.
Despite both of you being fully covered now, your pulse still quickens.
And it's another well-paired outfit for tonight's announcement.
Damn it. Lucia's good.
The door closes behind you.
“You signed.” Chan says, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I did.”
You come to a stop in front of him as he pulls out a small square box.
You don’t have to guess what is.
Your new leash.
“You’re meant to wear it any time you’re in public.” He opens the box, presenting you with the ring inside. “Starting tonight.”
You don’t budge.
After a beat, Chan takes matters into his own hands. He plucks the ring out and snaps the box shut before slipping it back into his pocket. He then holds his hand out for yours.
You lift your left hand and start to place it in his.
This moment feels like a scene you’re not meant to be in. But here you are, playing a lead role. Getting engaged.
You don’t mean to, but you recoil, pulling your hand back to your chest.
He tilts his head and speaks softly, “We signed already, y/n.”
You take a deep breath.
There really is no turning back.
You place your left hand in his.
He gently slips the gold band onto your ring finger. Right at the center is the Fendi logo, each F filled in with several small diamonds.
“I’m surprised Lucia didn’t make you give this to me in front of the press,” you muse, moving your fingers to see it sparkle in the light.
It really is a beautiful ring. It’s a shame it feels unnaturally heavy on your hand.
“She tried.”
You meet his gaze.
He refused.
You don’t know why, but somehow you doubt it was pride. Maybe even Chan has lines he doesn’t want this contract crossing.
“Chan,” you murmur. “The contract terms you negotiated . . . I don’t understand.”
He shrugs. “If you decide this isn’t something you can do, I don’t want money being the reason you stay.”
“You’re willing to be indebted for millions if I get cold feet?”
“I’d rather lose money than have someone feel like they’re trapped.”
He’s giving you a way out, owing nothing more than you do now.
But that’s a lot of fucking money.
You quirk a brow. “And you don’t think you’ll be the one to walk?”
Chan doesn’t answer immediately.
When he finally does, there isn’t a trace of uncertainty in his voice.
“Correct.”
The knock comes before you can process that.
“Lucia’s waiting.”
Neither of you move.
Then you look away first, muttering, “We should go.”
a/n: really enjoying building the tension between these two right now but even i can't wait until they rip each others clothes off 😫
a/n: taking us back to where it all began before we move forward 😉 happy reading!
[ read chapter one here ]
Chapter Two: Vegas x Fendi
The marriage contract is exhaustingly thorough.
You read through the first few sections on the drive back to the hotel. Obligations. Timelines. Public appearances—starting tomorrow night, when the relationship goes public, should you agree to this farce.
But you can’t sign this. For a multitude of reasons.
You assumed Chan would have the same reservations.
ONE MONTH AGO
It’s only three days into the New Year and you’re already back to work. No complaints on your end, though. Work means money. Money equals freedom.
And the job is in Las Vegas.
Accepting the invitation was a no-brainer.
The new Fendi storefront, located in the Fontainebleau Hotel and Casino, is impossible to miss.
Pale travertine marble wraps the exterior, gold trim framing the entrance. Massive glass windows reveal carefully curated displays where every bag and mannequin are staged with intention.
The grand opening isn’t until tomorrow, but you are allowed inside for a sneak peek and to pick out a few complimentary items.
Aside from employees, the store is empty. You half expect to see Chan somewhere among the displays but he’s nowhere in sight. You make quick work of getting content. When you’re done, you drift between racks and settle on your items. The employee bags it up for you and then you’re free for the rest of the day.
On the elevator ride to your room, you send Chan a text. Fendi assignments featuring just the two of you are surprisingly rare and you were banking on spending time with him instead of being alone in your hotel room.
YOU
When does your flight get in?
The elevator stops on the 8th floor and the doors open, revealing Chan clad in black shorts, a damp black tank top clinging to his torso, and a white towel slung over his shoulder. You can only assume he’s just left the hotel gym. And the veins protruding from his biceps suggest it was an arm day.
He glances up from his phone to you, then back to the phone as if trying to piece together the coincidence as well.
“Gym?” you smirk. “Should I expect more thirst traps on my feed?”
The flush that spreads across his cheeks is dangerously cute as he steps into the elevator.
Chan is objectively attractive. Unfortunately, so are all of your friends, and sleeping with people in the group sounds like an excellent way to make everything weird. But a little harmless flirtation never hurt anyone.
“You’ve seen those?” He moves to press his floor but stops when he realizes you’ve already selected it.
“Me and a million other people, babe,” you reply. “Good stuff.”
The blush deepens.
“Did you already check out the store?” you ask.
He clears his throat.
“Yeah, my flight got in this morning, so I went earlier.” He glances down at the Fendi bag in your hand. “What’d you get?”
“One of those colorful matching sets, they’re so cute,” you gush. “And a coat for Milan. You?”
“Some sunglasses and a beanie.”
“That’s it? You know it’s free, right?”
“I’m a simple man, y/n,” he replies. “And I paid for mine.”
For someone who embodies temptation in his photoshoots, Chan is absurdly down to earth. You could stand to learn a lot from him, if you were open to being taught.
“Okay, big spender,” you tease.
He chuckles as the elevator door opens again.
“Whatcha got planned for tonight?” you ask as you start down the hall.
“Just ordering room service.”
“But we’re in Vegas,” you state, matter-of-factly.
“I’ve been here before,” he shrugs.
He stops at his door—yours is three down.
“Me too,” you say, donning your most charming smile. “But there’s something I didn’t do last time. You can come with me.”
His lips quirk. “Is that what I can do?”
“I mean, unless you want me to tell Hyunjin and Felix you’re lame and left me to fend for myself.”
“That’s not a great reason. They already think I’m lame.”
“Well then we’ll prove them wrong tonight,” you counter.
He pretends to consider it.
“Okay but nothing too crazy. We have to work tomorrow.”
“We’ll keep it tame.” You place a hand over your heart. “I’ll leave the drugs in my room.”
His expression shifts to one of genuine concern.
“I’m joking,” you laugh. “You’re so easy to mess with.”
“Maybe I’ll just order room service after all . . . ”
You open your mouth to object, then stop when you see the smug look on his face.
“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be back out,” he says.
You smile, nodding as you press the keycard to the lock. Your smile lingers another second after the door shuts behind you. Then the room goes still, and the feeling fades with it.
Fremont Street hits as soon as you step out of the Uber—dense crowds, street performers, music spilling at you from every direction.
You’re wearing jeans, a dark hoodie and denim jacket layered over top. Chan is dressed similarly for warmth with his new Fendi beanie pulled over his head.
You walk to the first bar you see and order four shots.
“Four?” Chan repeats as the bartender places them in front of you. “What happened to keeping it tame?”
You slide two toward Chan and keep the others for yourself.
“The first is to curb the cold,” you say, tapping your glass to his before knocking it back. “The second is to loosen you up a little.”
He grimaces after taking it. “We have work.”
“You are never beating the lame allegations,” you stare pointedly. “Look, for every shot, we’ll have a glass of water. It’ll even out.”
“I don’t think that’s scientifically accurate.”
“Damn . . . that worked on Felix.”
You take the second shot before heading back into the crowd. You pass a man playing the steel drums, showgirls, and nuns in full habit strategically altered to flash their tits.
“This place is insane,” Chan mutters.
“City of Sin for a reason,” you laugh, sneaking a photo as you pass them. “I hear you’re working on a new project?”
“Yeah,” he grins, proud. “In talks to launch a collab next summer.”
“So you’re in this for the long haul with Fendi?”
He nods. “You’re not?”
“I just renewed for a third year with them, but I don’t know, honestly,” you murmur. “In terms of jobs, it’s consistent work. Way better than scrambling for modeling gigs.”
“Then why wouldn’t you stay on as an ambassador?”
Chan pries. A lot.
But he does it with good intentions.
The others open up to him freely, knowing he’ll listen and provide sound suggestions. You, on the other hand, always have that seed of doubt that people won’t stick around if they get to know the real you.
So, you refrain from revealing too much and convince yourself it’s the polite thing to do.
Thankfully, this topic isn’t too personal.
“Age and gravity are bound to start affecting our bodies at some point, right? I’m twenty-five. I don’t know what comes after this.”
“Whatever you want,” he says, as if it’s common sense. “Just make a plan.”
“Of course you’d say that. What’s your plan?”
Before he can answer, a set of screaming voices sound off from overhead. You glance up, watching as they whizz by on a zipline.
“We’re here!” you grin, already taking him by the wrist.
“Hard pass,” he shakes his head, planting his feet and making it nearly impossible to pull him. “No heights.”
“Come on,” you tug. “Don’t be lame.”
“You can’t keep using that word against me all night.”
“Can and will,” you retort.
He relents, letting you drag him to the ticket booth. From there, you’re led toward a set of stairs and start climbing your way to the top, where a small group waits ahead of you.
Chan glances over the railing, then quickly turns back around.
“Keep talking,” he says. “Distract me.”
“Hmm . . . what’s your big life plan?”
He exhales a breath. “It’s really just goals I want to accomplish by certain ages.”
“Pushing thirty has you spinning already?”
“Maybe a bit,” he chuckles. “I’d like to start my own jewelry line in the next five years. Then get married and start having kids.”
The admission catches you off guard. Most men want to delay those milestones as long as possible. Yet Chan seems to be counting down the days until it happens.
“You wanna be held hostage?”
His brow furrows. “You hear marriage and your first thought is lifelong imprisonment?”
“I enjoy my freedom,” you defend yourself. “I don’t see marriage in the cards for me.”
He frowns.
“Alright, you two step onto the platform,” the attendant instructs.
You both walk to the awaiting harnesses and get strapped in. You’re adjusted until you’re suspended horizontally, arms free, body angled toward the open air.
“Ready?”
You nod.
“In 3 . . . 2 . . .”
You glance over at Chan, he’s holding onto the straps for dear life, eyes squeezed shut.
The mechanism releases and you’re launched forward into the night.
A startled sound tears from your throat—half scream, half laugh—as cold wind rushes across your face and steals the breath from your lungs. Tears spring to your eyes as you stretch your arms wide, surrendering to the sensation of flying.
Nothing else exists for a moment.
There is only speed, air, and freedom.
You don’t expect anyone to understand why you crave it so much.
Somewhere behind you, Chan is stretched into a Superman pose, screaming into the night.
It takes less than two minutes to make it to the other side. You start to slow down, and a pair of hands catch the harness. Once free, you approach Chan—his cheeks flushed pink from the wind and adrenaline.
“Round two?”
He glares.
“Okay, okay. I won’t push my luck.”
Back on the ground level, you purchase the video of Chan, as proof to send the others.
“Thanks for coming out tonight.”
“Of course,” he shrugs it off. “Where to next?”
You smile, happy he’s not ready to turn in just yet.
“Hmm,” you hum, glancing around.
There’s an endless supply of things to do. You settle on the first thing that grabs your attention—a giant, mechanical grasshopper with flames shooting out of its antennae.
“That thing.”
You gently grab his arm and turn him in the appropriate direction to start walking. You nestle your hand in the crook of his arm, not wanting to get separated in the crowd.
He doesn’t seem to notice at first. Or maybe he does, because after a while his arm shifts subtly against yours, bringing you closer instead of away.
“Container Park?” he reads the sign behind the grasshopper.
“A fitting name,” you muse, looking at the various shipping containers that make up the enclosure, stacked three levels high.
Inside is an open courtyard with a playground for kids, tables and a performance stage at the back. You grab food and drinks before finding a table near a patio heater. As you eat, Chan fills you in on the collab he’s working on—the opportunity that will hopefully help him with his own line in the future.
You’re almost envious of his business savvy. He can claim to not have a thorough plan, but hearing him speak, you know every decision he makes is well thought out. You’ve kind of just been going with the flow, riding this wave of success without knowing where it’s going to drop you off.
After your meal, Chan’s eyes settle on you in a way that you know he wants to ask something.
“What is it?”
He hesitates a moment longer before finally asking, “You really wanna spend the rest of your life alone?”
“What is your obsession with marriage?” you ask, rather than answer the question.
“I’m not obsessed. I just think about it a lot. I’ve always wanted to be a husband and dad.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice when he says it.
He gestures to the kids running around the playground behind you. “That doesn’t look like fun to you?”
You turn around, watching as a pregnant mother struggles to get her wailing toddler off the slide.
You shake your head. “That looks exhausting.”
“Wait—look again,” he urges.
You turn around once more, watching as a man you presume is the father enters the area. He squats down, speaks to the child, and picks him up out of the slide, placing him on his hip. He then leans over and kisses the top of his wife’s head before taking her hand and guiding them away from the playground.
You turn back to Chan before the scene can settle too deeply under your skin.
“Nothing?”
“Plenty of people don’t want kids or to get married these days,” you shrug.
“I’d be married with kids by now, if I could.”
“What’s holding you back?” you ask, happy to shift the conversation back to him.
“The industry we’re in. I don’t want that part of my life to revolve around clicks and engagement numbers,” he explains. “I’d want to keep it private. Plus, with all the traveling we do. . . I can’t really have the family life I want if I’m not around.”
“Well I hope you meet the perfect woman for you someday.”
“Thank you.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “And I hope you like cats.”
“Good one.” You nod, biting your lip to hide your laugh. “Lucky for me, I love them.”
“Alright, future spinster,” he says, standing. “It’s about to get colder once the sun sets. I’ll call another Uber.”
“It’s not that bad. Let’s walk.”
Together, you leave Container Park and start heading back towards the hotel. The farther you get from Fremont Street, the thinner the crowds become. The music fades into the distance until the two of you can finally talk without half-shouting over it.
As the temperature continues to drop, you keep one hand tucked into the crook of Chan’s arm for warmth, the other buried deep in the sleeve of your hoodie. By the fourth time you blow warm air into your sleeve, he abruptly steers you into a souvenir shop.
“Wait here,” he says, nodding toward the industrial heater near the entrance.
You linger there while he disappears between racks of magnets, sweatshirts and novelty sunglasses.
When he returns, he hands you a matching white scarf and glove set.
You blink at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You were freezing.”
The simple certainty in his voice catches you off guard more than the gesture itself.
“Thank you,” you say more quietly this time.
You wrap the scarf around your neck and pull on the gloves while he holds his arm out for you again automatically, like he already expects you there.
Your gloved hand slips back into the crook of his elbow with embarrassing ease.
And maybe that’s the part throwing you off the most.
Just how natural this feels.
The two of you keep walking, shoulders brushing every now and then beneath the glow of neon signs and flickering streetlights.
Then your eyes catch on a sign ahead.
A Little White Chapel.
You point toward it. “Here we have our struggles with marriage, and some people come here just to elope with an Elvis impersonator.”
Chan snorts, then reads the text below the sign. “Michael Jordan was married there? I don’t know if that’s exactly a glowing endorsement.”
“Oh my god,” you gasp. “It has a drive thru option.”
Before he can respond, you’re already pulling him toward the driveway.
A pink Cadillac convertible sits beneath the tunnel, a nearby sign proudly informing you it once belonged to Elvis himself.
“You can get inside if you like.”
You both turn to find the owner of the voice. An employee, just finishing his smoke break, approaches you with a smile. He’s not being nice for the sake of it, no. He’s under the impression that you two are the couple who just paid for their ceremony.
He opens the car and you and Chan climb inside. You snap a couple of selfies and a few pictures together, too.
“Your names again?” the employee asks.
Neither of you take note of the ‘again’ part.
“Chan and y/n,” you tell him.
He straightens and clears his throat. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love and commitment of Chan and y/n.”
You and Chan turn to each other.
“Is this a bit?” you whisper.
He shrugs. “We haven’t paid for anything . . . ”
“Maybe he’s rehearsing.”
You share a look, unsure whether to stop him.
“Chan, do you take y/n, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and cherish, through joy and sorrow, and whatever life may bring?”
Chan quirks a brow. You cover your laugh with your hand.
He turns back to the officiant. “You know what . . . I do.”
The officiant then asks you the same question.
“He seems pretty swell. Why not? I do!” you exclaim, giddy at the absurdity of it all.
“You may exchange your rings, now.”
“We don’t have any,” you say, feeding more into whatever this is. “We’re nontraditional.”
“I dig it,” the officiant says with a wink. “Chan and y/n, you have declared your love and intent. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss.”
Chan turns to you once again, his expression absolutely befuddled.
“Do we have to?” He whispers so only you can hear.
“For the bit.” You giggle and lean across the seat to place a quick kiss to his lips.
It’s meant to be nothing more than a peck.
It isn’t.
The kiss lingers a second too long—long enough to stop feeling like part of the joke.
Chan is the first to pull away.
“Congratulations, newlyweds. You have another ten minutes with your package for pictures with the car,” he says before leaving towards the entrance.
You hardly register any of his words.
You can’t think of anything other than the way Chan’s lips felt against yours—so soft and plump and warm.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His eyes flick downward briefly before he rubs at his bottom lip, oddly thoughtful.
The gesture sends heat creeping up your neck.
“That was—”
“Did he—”
You both stop at the same time, then laugh.
“Did he say with our package?” you ask.
“He did. We didn’t sign anything, right?”
You shake your head, and promptly exit the car. “Let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong.”
The walk back to the hotel takes another thirty minutes, but neither of you seem to notice.
The insanity of what happened keeps sending you both into another round of laughter every few minutes.
Husband. Wife.
The words should feel ridiculous.
But the careful distance that normally exists between you feels far too thin. As if some invisible barrier quietly dissolved somewhere between Fremont Street and a fake wedding ceremony.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline from the zipline.
Maybe it’s the way he keeps reaching for you without thinking now—like his hand at your back each time you cross the street.
Whatever it is, you aren’t ready to start questioning it yet.
When you make it back to your floor of the hotel, Chan walks you to your door.
“Traditionally,” he says, reaching to open the door after you tap your card, “I think I’m supposed to carry you over the threshold.”
You blink.
“Purely ceremonial,” he adds quickly. “It’s my first time and I wanna do this right . . . for the bit.”
“For the bit,” you repeat, amused.
His arm slips behind your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly you’re airborne. You squeal, grabbing instinctively at his hoodie.
Both of you misjudge the doorway entirely and there’s a dull thunk as your head meets the doorframe.
“Ouch.”
Chan freezes. “Oh shit—are you okay?”
“I think so,” you groan.
He steps into the room and lowers you immediately before guiding you onto the bed. The humor has vanished from his face.
“Stay right here,” he says. “Don’t move, I’ll get ice.”
“Chan, I’m fine, really—”
But he’s already gone.
He dashes to the minibar to grab the ice bucket, comes back for your keycard, then exits the room.
You sit there, kicking your shoes off and laughing to yourself because of course this is how your wedding night would go.
He’s back in under two minutes. He removes the plastic bag full of ice from the bucket and sits at your side, careful hands pressing the cold gently against your head.
“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you reply.
He doesn’t look convinced.
He watches your face closely.
There’s nothing careful or composed about him right now.
Just genuine concern.
“I’m so sorry, y/n, really,” he says softly.
“I’m fine,” you insist. “Do you want me to do a backflip on the bed to prove it or something?”
He perks up at that. “Can you? That would be quite impressive, actually.”
“Not without further injuries.” You lean away from the bag. “It’s too cold.”
He puts it back into the ice bucket before returning to inspect your face.
“Maybe a small bruise, but it shouldn’t swell.”
There are no injuries on his face for you to fuss over in return, but you study him just as closely. The curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose, his slightly tired eyes.
And then his eyes lock on yours, too.
You’ve never been close enough to notice their particular shade—a warm, espresso brown.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have Americano eyes?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” he chuckles.
The sound is so soft, so intimate, that you find yourself leaning forward to capture it for yourself. What little space remains between you slowly disappears.
He doesn’t retreat. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes.
You don’t know what this is, but the air between you feels different now.
And you want to change it even more.
You wrap your arms around his neck, slowly pulling him closer.
He lets you.
He cradles your jaw, stroking your chin with the pad of his thumb.
And you let him, too.
“Kiss me.” You whisper.
That seems to be all he needs to hear. He closes the distance between you, planting his lips on yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you melt into him with a soft sigh.
Your tongue snakes out first, gliding across his lips, seeking entrance. He obliges, and in the next instant he’s kicking his shoes off before joining you on the bed. You both lay on your sides, facing one another, lips still locked.
He’s a good kisser.
Of course he is.
Damn it.
You alternate between soft kisses and deeper ones, hand wandering freely—mostly above the waist until you hike a leg up and he starts caressing your thigh.
You try not to think how dangerous this feels.
Not the kissing, but the tenderness.
You know there’s no version of this that survives beyond tonight.
But knowing that doesn’t change how good it feels to have him pressed against you.
You rearrange yourself, shifting so that you’re on top of him, straddling his waist. You slowly roll your hips against his, feeling his cock twitch beneath his jeans.
“Fuck,” you moan before leaning down to capture his lips again.
You continue rocking your hips against his, growing bolder with each movement.
“y/n,” he groans, breaking the kiss. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” you murmur, brushing your lips against his.
“I’m not—I don’t . . . I don’t do hookups or one-night stands,” he sighs.
You place your hands on either side of his head, propping yourself up. “Of course I accidentally marry the one man with morals in this industry.”
He thrusts his hips up, pressing his hard cock between your legs. “I want to, believe me. But I can’t.”
You know this is the right choice.
You’re not what he wants long term.
And he’s not someone you could stomach hurting when you’d inevitably cast him aside.
You lean forward for a quick kiss, then rest your forehead against his.
“But kissing is okay?”
“If we keep our hips still.”
You pepper his cheek and neck with kisses and when you pull away, he’s smiling up at you.
“You’re actually kind of sweet.” He says, though it sounds more like a question.
“Don’t tell anyone.” You playfully threaten.
He stays for a while longer.
The two of you talk quietly in between kissing, conversation drifting from teasing remarks, stories from past campaigns, and pinky promises to never talk about this night again.
At some point, the adrenaline from the night finally starts to wear off and he leaves sometime around midnight, insisting you sleep off your “near-fatal head injury.”
After he’s gone, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
Being with Chan feels safe.
You wish you found comfort in that.
Instead, it unsettles you more than if he’d simply ripped your clothes off, fucked you senseless, and left without saying goodbye.
Because sex is easy.
Relationships, commitment and feelings are not.
So much was said that night about marriage, freedom, the kind of futures you each wanted.
If anything, Vegas should have made this contract an obvious no.
Agreeing to spend the next three years trapped inside a manufactured relationship is the exact opposite of what either of you claimed to want.
Yet Chan signed anyway.
You stand outside his hotel room in Milan, contract clutched tightly in hand, heart pounding harder with every passing second.
You only need one question answered.
Why the fuck would he agree to this?
[ read chapter three here ]
a/n: match made in heaven, wouldn't ya say!? i was perusing downtown las vegas, saw the wedding chapels and this idea was born 😂 figuring out how to get these two there was the challenge. more coming soon. thank you for reading!
warnings|| insecurity, could be read as chubby/overweight reader, fluffff, chan is the embodiment of perfect
────୨ৎ───
not even in a dirty way, he just want to cuddle while watching a movie, maybe make you sit there as you two work on your own thing, he wants to feel you as close as possible to him, yet everytime he asked you to, you found a way to change the topic and get out of it without refusing directly, you never told him why and he never asked too much, he just assumed that you wanted your time to get comfortable, but that time wouldn't stretch to a year and a half?
year and a half of bangchan yearning from afar for you, a year and a half of failing attempts to get you in his lap, even while sleeping you don't want to lie on top of him, how he managed to live this whole year without combusting is beyond him.
he should be crowned for bravery and patient, no man can handle not having the love of their life molding into their skin, what's the point of all that weight lifting if he can't get you to be on him?!
so he started throwing bigger hints, the bubble workout videos, the outrageous weight he lifted, all for you to see how strong he is, he'd send them privately "look how much i have improved, love. what do you think?" "that's so cool I'm proud of you!!"
cool? cool?! that's not what he wanted to hear! where is the "can you lift me?" the challenge he expected to come from you! then he'll show you just how strong he is and come literally lift you up then you'll be all impressed and you'll finally sit on his lap, where is all of that? can't you see how much he's doing and hinting at you? all he want is for his love to lean on him why is that so much to ask?
so after millions of failed hints he finally decided to come and talk about it clearly—you were in the kitchen doing whatever you were doing when he suddenly appeared beside you, leaning on the counter and looking intensely at you.
you looked at him in confusion "um, everything's okay?" you asked, feeling weirded out from his intense gaze. "no," he said simply, taking a step closer to you "i have a question and i need you to answer it", you looked around nervously before giving a forced smile "sure...?"
he let out a sigh and gave you a worried look "tell me, do i make you uncomfortable?" you paused—looking at him dumbfounded "what? no! where did that come from??" you frowned in concern, have you done something to make him feel like that? god, bangchan was the perfect boyfriend you could ask for, why would he ever feel like this
"then please tell me, why do you always avoid being close to me?"
"i don't–" "yes you do, you don't sit on my lap and you don't want to lay on my chest when we sleep, you always refuse to ride on my back when i do pushups even i specifically ask you to! i just want to know if I'm doing something wrong..." the pleading, worried look he was giving you made it so hard to avoid answering him.
you look away, biting your lip as you wonder how to phrase your answer "it's not you, i just.." you murmur fidgeting with your fingers "..i don't want to hurt you" you glanced up at him only to see his expression shifting to confusion "hurt me?" he asked, "i mean, like I'm a bit heavy so i don't want to hurt you" you said fast, fighting yourself to not get teary eyed.
"are you serious?" chan was looking at you like you said the most outrageous thing he has ever heard in his life "love, i lift weights that at least three times of yours" "i know but it—" you cut yourself off when you saw him stepping closer to you, and in a blink of an eye you feel yourself getting lifted off of the ground, you let out a yelp as your upper half dangled on his shoulder while he had a strong grip on your legs.
you grabbed his shoulder and looked back at him "chan put me down!", "no" he said simply and adjusted your position like you weighted nothing, now he had his arm around your thighs in a more comfortable grip "if you won't listen to words then I'll show you that i can handle you" he said and started walking around the house
all your fussing and struggle went on deaf ears, bangchan was determined to show you how absurd your excuse was when he was your boyfriend, so you spent the next three hours lying on his shoulder as he did random things around the house.
so the next time you better just accept your fate and sit on his lap because he will do it again.
────୨ৎ───
a/n|| i feel like i forgot how to write oh my god i did so much smau/fake texts and didn't write at all for weeks, please tell me i didn't forget how to write and this is still good cause im gonna cry
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ִֶָ. ..𓂃 @imsleepingwhataboutu @dina-10s-blog @loonarixsxx @hanniesbubuwife @hyunjinsslut12 @lilyxii @anastarsia-00 @chrispypineappleburger @1-aria-1 @leeknaurrrr @koala-wonderland @jeonginsfavglazer @yngjgn @ren0325 @yourstargirlyyy @viisstrayy @bunbunbl0gs @vernorica123 @naenaen if you want to be added OR removed please feel free to send an ask or comment!!
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: all the above (f,s,a)
cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy
soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify
* ✩˚word count: ~7k ˚✩ *
The café Chan mentioned turned out to be small and warm, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat near the edge of downtown.
The kind of place with different kinds of seating, many hanging plants, and soft music low enough that conversations blended together quietly beneath it.
You spotted them near the window almost immediately.
Jia sat on her knees in a booth beside Chan, coloring while he scrolled through his phone with his coffee untouched beside him.
He looked up the second you walked in, and there it was again. That subtle shift in his face every time he saw you lately.
“Hey,” he said as you approached.
“Hi.”
Jia looked up next, immediately brightening. “You came.”
“I did.”
“Daddy thought you were gonna cancel.”
Chan blinked once. “Okay.”
You laughed softly as you slid into the booth across from them. “Did he now?”
“Jia,” he sighed out, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. She looked completely unbothered by his tone and went back to coloring.
Your eyes drifted toward him again. “You thought I was gonna cancel?”
Chan looked faintly embarrassed, “I don’t know,” he admitted with a small shrug. “You said yes pretty fast.”
The words slipped out naturally. “That’s because I wanted to come.”
The barista called your pickup order a second later, breaking whatever had started settling between you.
“I’ll grab it,” Chan said automatically, already standing.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” The quiet answer lingered strangely in your chest while you watched him walk toward the counter.
Across from you, Jia looked up from her coloring book. “Daddy smiled in the car today.”
Your heart betrayed you instantly. “Oh?”
Jia nodded very seriously. “Usually traffic makes him grumpy.”
“Yeah?”
Jia nodded very seriously, leaning closer across the table like this was important information.
Your smile softened before you could stop it. “Maybe he was excited for cake pops.”
Jia considered that for a second, then shook her head. “No. He smiled before I asked for pops.”
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to look over at Chan while he stood at the counter waiting for the order. “That sounds like a good morning, then.”
Jia nodded once, satisfied with that answer, before returning her attention to the coloring page in front of her.
By the time Chan came back, you were still pretending your chest hadn’t done something incredibly inconvenient. He slid your coffee toward you first, then set Jia’s cake pop carefully beside her crayons.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“Of course.”
The morning crowd moved quietly around you after that, but somehow the little booth by the window still felt oddly separate from the rest of the café. Like the three of you had slipped into your own corner of it.
Jia carefully peeled pieces off her cake pop while you and Chan drifted into easier conversation across the table.
Work.
The neighborhood block party.
The fact that Jia apparently believed every stuffed animal in existence had emotional needs.
“She cried because I washed Leebit once,” Chan admitted, sounding deeply tired about it.
Your eyebrows lifted immediately. “You washed her best friend?” you asked in mock horror.
“She smelled like applesauce.”
“That’s not the point.”
Jia gasped softly beside you like she couldn’t believe either of you would reopen such a traumatic event, and you both ended the conversation with a chuckle.
She then took another thoughtful bite of her cake pop before looking back up at you. “Where’s your husband?”
You nearly choked.
Across from you, Chan went completely still. “Jia!” he said immediately, sounding genuinely horrified this time.
“What?” she asked softly, blinking between both of you. “Nana said grown-ups usually have one.”
You felt your whole body heat up.
Chan dragged a hand over his face. “Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “We are not interrogating people this morning.”
Jia frowned slightly. “I was just asking.”
“I know, bug.”
His voice softened automatically at the end despite the obvious embarrassment threatening to kill him where he sat.
Your eyes dropped briefly toward your coffee cup while you tried to regain control of your nervous system.
The question shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but somehow it settled directly into every quiet part of your life you usually avoided thinking about too long.
Chan looked over at you carefully then. “You absolutely do not have to answer that,” he said gently.
The sincerity in his voice made something ache unexpectedly in your chest.
You let out a small laugh, mostly to buy yourself a second to think. “No husband,” you admitted softly.
Jia tilted her head immediately. “Why?”
“Jia.”
“What?!” she whisper-shouted back.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Chan looked moments away from dissolving into the floor.
“I think,” you said carefully, glancing down into your coffee for a second, “it just never really happened for me.”
Jia considered this very seriously while taking another bite of her cake pop. “It’s okay,” she said seriously. “Daddy was married to my mommy. But not anymore.”
Silence settled over the table instantly.
Chan closed his eyes briefly. “Bug,” he muttered softly.
“What?” she asked, confused again. “I’m helping.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in her voice, because she thought she was making you feel better.
Chan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before glancing toward you apologetically. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” you said quietly.
His gaze lifted toward yours again after that. Searching in that way he always did when something mattered more than he knew how to say out loud.
“Still,” he murmured.
Before either of you could figure out where the conversation was heading next, Jia held her cake pop toward you suddenly.
“You can have some.”
The offer was immediate. Serious enough to make your chest ache all over again.
Chan huffed a soft laugh beside her, shaking his head slightly. “That’s how she fixes everything,” he admitted quietly.
Your eyes stayed on Jia for another second before you finally smiled. “That’s a pretty good system,” you murmured softly.
Jia nodded like she already knew that.
Chan watched the two of you quietly from across the table, fingers resting loosely around his coffee cup now gone cold.
Something in his expression had changed again. Softer than before. More careful, somehow.
Like he was realizing this wasn’t just Jia getting attached anymore.
Outside the café windows, people drifted past beneath the late morning sunlight while the quiet buzz of conversation carried around you.
But sitting here with them somehow felt strangely separate from the rest of the world.
Jia yawned suddenly beside Chan, tiny shoulders lifting dramatically with it.
He glanced down immediately. “You getting tired already?”
“No.” The answer came too fast to be believable.
Chan smiled faintly into his coffee. “Mm.”
Jia ignored him completely before looking back at you instead. “Daddy has to work later.”
Your eyes lifted toward Chan automatically “Today?”
He nodded once. “Friend of mine needed help at the garage.”
“Uncle Hyunjin,” Jia added around another bite of cake pop.
“Mhm,” Chan hummed. “Uncle Hyunjin.”
“He lets me sit on the toolbox.”
“Which is very unsafe,” Chan muttered.
“But fun.”
A laugh slipped out of you softly. “So that’s who keeps stealing you on weekends.”
Chan leaned back slightly in the booth. “Pretty much.”
“If you want,” you added carefully, “Jia and I can hang out later?”
Chan looked faintly surprised by the offer. “You don’t have plans?”
“Not really.”
Jia gasped softly beside him. “We can color.”
“That sounds less like a suggestion, and more so a demand." You laughed out.
“She does that,” Chan murmured into his coffee.
Jia ignored him completely. “And maybe cartoons.”
“Wow,” you nodded seriously. “Big plans ahead.”
A quiet laugh escaped Chan before he could stop it. “If you’re sure,” he said.
Your eyes flicked toward him again. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
Something in his expression softened briefly at that before Jia shoved the remaining piece of cake pop dramatically into her mouth.
“So, I’m coming over?”
You looked over at Jia, who already seemed entirely certain of the answer. “I think that’s what we agreed on, yeah.”
“Okay.” She nodded once. “Can Leebit come too?”
“I don’t think she’d forgive me if I said no.”
Jia smiled brightly at that before returning to the last few crumbs of her cake pop.
Across the table, Chan shook his head softly. “We really walked into this one.”
“Into what?”
“Now she’s going to expect you every time I have to work last minute.”
Something about his words lingered strangely in your chest, and before you could figure out why and respond, Jia held up frosting-covered fingers toward Chan.
“Sticky.”
Chan sighed quietly and reached for napkins immediately.
You smiled into your coffee as he cleaned frosting from her hands with the tired patience of someone who’d clearly done this a thousand times before.
And somewhere between the coffee going cold in your cup and Jia humming softly beside him, the morning slipped into something comfortable and easy.
The kind of easy that felt a little dangerous if you thought about it too long.
𝜗𝜚
“Daddy said I can only have one juice box.”
You looked up from the living room floor where you’d been helping Jia get crayons from the zipper pocket of her backpack.
“Sounds like we better listen to daddy.”
Jia sighed dramatically. “He says too much sugar makes me crazy.”
“I think he might be onto something there.”
“I’m already crazy.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled across your apartment while cartoons played quietly in the background, the volume low enough to blend into the rest of the room.
Across the coffee table, Jia carefully lined up 7 other stuffed animals beside Leebit.
Meanwhile, Chan had been gone for less than an hour, and somehow, his absence was already noticeable. Which felt ridiculous. You barely knew him.
“Can you braid hair?” Jia asked suddenly.
Your eyes dropped toward the doll currently being shoved into your lap. “I-I do. How many braids does your baby want?”
Jia looked down at the doll seriously. “Three.”
“Three?”
She nodded once. “So she can be fancy.” Jia scooted closer beside you on the rug while cartoons played quietly in the background.
You carefully separated the doll’s tangled hair between your fingers while Jia watched with complete concentration.
“Daddy can’t braid,” she informed you.
“No?”
“He tries.” Jia paused thoughtfully. “Then he gets frustrated and says bad words.”
A laugh escaped you softly “Poor daddy.”
Jia nodded sympathetically before handing you another tiny hair tie from the floor.
Outside, the afternoon had started slipping slowly toward evening, sunlight stretching gold across the living room walls.
And somewhere across town, Chan was probably elbow-deep in an engine while you sat cross-legged on your floor learning how his daughter liked her dolls’ hair styled.
𝜗𝜚
Once 8:30 rolled around. Jia was already fed and tucked in your bed fast asleep by the time Chan was knocking at your door.
The second you opened it, he looked exhausted. Grease still smudged faintly along one forearm. Dark curls a mess from repeatedly running his hands through them. “I’m so sorry.”
Your eyebrows lifted immediately. “For what?”
“For being late.”
He glanced past you automatically, already searching for signs of Jia. “Hyunjin and I lost track of time.”
“Chan.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“She’s fine.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders immediately. Not all of it. Just enough for you to notice how much of it he’d been carrying.
“She ate dinner, we watched cartoons, and she passed out about twenty minutes ago.”
Chan blinked. “Already?”
“Completely knocked out.”
A tired breath escaped him “Thank God.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Honest enough to make something in your chest ache.
“Long day?”
Chan let out a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The porch light cast a warm glow across the front steps while crickets hummed somewhere deeper in the neighborhood.
“Come in,” you offered softly. “She’s sleeping in my bed.”
He froze for half a second. Not because of the invitation. Because of the image it created. “Okay,” he said quietly.
You stepped aside to let him in. The house was dim now, lit mostly by a lamp in the living room and the light over the stove.
He shut the door gently, instinctively quieter now that he knew Jia was asleep. “She wasn’t any trouble, was she?”
Your eyes immediately narrowed. “Chan.”
“I’m just asking.”
“She spent half the afternoon making me braid hair.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sounds exhausting.”
“I barely survived.”
A tired laugh escaped him. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he looked like he was finally starting to relax. The silence that followed settled comfortably between you.
His gaze drifted toward the hallway towards your bedroom, where Jia was currently asleep beneath your blankets.
Safe, warm, and completely unaware her father had spent the last thirty minutes worrying about getting back to her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You opened your mouth immediately. “Chan.”
“No.” The interruption was firm and gentle, causing your heart to flutter.
His eyes found yours again. “I know you don’t think it’s a big deal. But it is.”
The house suddenly felt very warm, because he wasn’t talking about dinner. Or cartoons. Or braiding hair.
He was talking about trust.
About coming back after a long day and knowing Jia had been happy; knowing she had been taken care of.
His gaze dropped briefly before he added, softer this time, “She had a good day then,” he then pauses, “she really likes you.”
The words settled somewhere deeper than they probably should have. You glanced toward the hallway before looking back at him.
“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Me?”
Suddenly, you became very aware of how that sounded.
“Did you have a good day?” you clarified, a little too quickly.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I think I did.”
Something about the answer felt like it meant more than the words themselves. The silence that followed stretched comfortably between you. He leaned against the couch, his gaze drifting to the dark outline of your front yard in the window.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, then he asked, “What’s with the garden?”
You blinked. “The garden?”
He nodded. “Every time I see you outside, you’re messing with something out there.”
Warmth settled in your chest unexpectedly. Not because of the question. Because he’d noticed.
“I’ve always kinda liked doing it.”
Chan hummed softly. “That’s not really an answer.”
You laughed. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“There isn’t more to it?” His curious gaze lingered on you. “People don’t spend hours in the heat pulling weeds because they kinda like something.”
Your smile faltered slightly. “You judging my hobbies?”
“I’m saying there’s probably a story there.”
“I…” You looked down briefly. “I think I just find it healing.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“You put something in the ground, nurture it, and eventually it becomes something beautiful.” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “There’s something comforting about that.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then he muttered out a quiet, “Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly toward his hands, “I never thought about it that way before.”
You tilted your head slightly. “The gardening?”
Chan nodded. “The waiting.”
The answer surprised you. “Waiting?”
A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You put time into something. Take care of it every day. Hope you’re doing it right.”
His eyes drifted toward your bedroom for the briefest second before returning to your curious stare. “And then one day you look up and realize it’s become something completely different from what it was when you started.”
Your chest tightened. Suddenly this conversation wasn’t about tomatoes or flowers anymore.
Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Maybe that’s why I like watching you out there.”
Your heart stumbled. “In my garden?”
“Yeah.”
His smile softened. “Reminds me that some things take time and patience.”
And somehow that felt like the most personal thing he’d told you all night. Your eyes stayed on him for a moment longer than they probably should have. He didn’t look away. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence.
Then he glanced toward the hallway again. “She’s really asleep?”
A smile pulled at your mouth. “I could take Leebit and she wouldn’t even know.”
His laugh came easier this time. “Good.”
The word lingered. Not because of Jia. Because for the first time all evening, he looked like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Like he had finally found a place to sit down, and stay for a minute.
Your heart gave an uncomfortable little squeeze as you watched him relax.
“What?” Chan asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ve been staring at me for a minute now.”
Something uncomfortable and fluttery settled in your chest. “That’s not true.”
“It’s a little true.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“That’s your defense?”
“It’s all I’ve got.” You laughed out.
Somewhere along the way, the two of you migrated from the front door to the couch. The conversation stopped needing a direction. One story became another.
Chan told you about his first car.
You told him about the pepper plant you accidentally killed three summers in a row.
You learned he hated mushrooms.
He learned you couldn’t keep a houseplant alive unless it lived outside.
Then neither of you noticed how the hours slipped by quietly.
Outside, the neighborhood settled into sleep.
Inside, Chan’s laughter had become easier. Less guarded and more frequent.
Every now and then you’d catch yourself staring at him. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and his dimple deepened. you could’ve melted on the spot every time he smiled wide. The way he looked at you as he listened. Like every story mattered. Like what say you mattered.
You glance up.“Wait.”
He followed your gaze. “What?”
You stared at the clock on the wall. “Is that right?”
His eyes widened. “No way.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“How?” He questioned.
“I genuinely have no idea.”
Then he eventually glanced toward the hallway, reality returning all at once. “I should probably get her home.”
The words landed quietly as you nodded. “Probably.”
Neither of you seemed willing to be the first one to leave, and as he ducked his head trying to unsuccessfully hide a smile, he mumbles. “We’re really bad at ending these conversations.”
A laugh escaped you. “Are we?”
“I think so,” he paused, It’s a good thing.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately. It sounded less like an observation, and more like he planned on having more conversations like this. Then he reluctantly pushed himself up from the couch, like he wasn’t entirely convinced leaving was the right choice either.
You led him down the hallway, and by the time you reached your bedroom door, he had already slowed.
Once you opened the door, Jia was asleep exactly where you’d left her. One arm wrapped around Leebit, half the blanket kicked off. Completely sprawled across the middle of your bed.
Chan stared for a second. Something in his expression shifted. Not the way it usually did though.
You stayed beside him quietly. Neither of you wanting to disturb her. Finally, he exhaled softly through his nose.
“She really made herself at home.”
“A little.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sorry about that.”
“You apologize too much.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
He froze, then he turned his head toward you. The hallway light caught in his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your voice came out softer than intended.
“You don’t have to say sorry every time someone does something nice for you.” Suddenly you became very aware of how close he was standing.
And for once, he didn’t immediately have a response, he just looked at you, like he was trying to decide what to do with this new feeling.
His gaze dropped briefly, towards your mouth, then right back up. A tiny movement of course, something that was easy to miss.
But for you, impossible to ignore.
Your breath caught and so did his.
And suddenly the space in between you felt very little, very quiet.
Very very concerning.
Then from the bed, “Daddy?”
Both of you jumped, and he immediately looked away. The spell breaking all at once. “I’m here, bug,” he answered softly as he walked further into your room.
Jia made a sleepy sound from beneath the blankets. “Okay.”
Then, “Leebit too?”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Chan pressed a hand over his eyes briefly “Yeah.”
Jia settled immediately. “Okay.” Within seconds, her breathing evened out again. Like she’d only woken up long enough to do a quick room check.
The room fell quiet once more, but not the same kind of quiet. The moment from before had slipped away, leaving something else behind.
He looked down at his daughter for a second before carefully pulling the blanket higher over her shoulder.
And when he turned back toward you, something in his expression had changed. Like he was suddenly very aware of how close you’d been standing too. Neither of you said anything. There wasn’t really anything to say. Not without making things better or worse.
Chan cleared his throat first. “I should get her home.” The words sounded slightly rough around the edges.
You nodded. “I agree.”
Neither of you sounded particularly enthusiastic about it, he smiled faintly after you spoke. Then leaned closer towards your bed to carefully to gather Jia from the bed. This definitely seemed more intimate having him in your room now.
She stirred the moment he lifted her. Small hands immediately finding the front of his shirt. Head tucking beneath his chin. Still mostly asleep.
The way she fit in his arms made your chest ache.
Chan adjusted her weight effortlessly. One arm beneath her legs. The other supporting her back. “Thank you,” he said quietly. This time, there wasn’t an apology attached to it. Just gratitude.
Your smile softened. “You’re welcome.”
For a second, neither of you looked away. Then Jia let out a sleepy sigh and buried her face deeper into his shoulder.
The spell broke again.
He adjusted her again against his chest before glancing toward the doorway. “I should let you get some sleep.”
You laughed softly. “Says the man who got here three hours ago.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Fair.”
He lingered for another second anyway. Eventually, he shook his head softly. “Goodnight.” The word felt strangely intimate. Like it belonged to something much more familiar than this.
Your chest tightened. “Goodnight, Chan.”
His eyes held yours for a moment, then he smiled before turning toward the front door.
You waited until the door closed behind him.
Waited until you saw the porch light next door flicker on through the window. Only then did you let yourself exhale.
Because somewhere between coffee, cartoons, talking about your hobbies, and three accidental hours on your couch…something had changed, and neither of you had missed it.
As you crawled into bed, your phone lit up.
Channie: She woke up long enough to ask if Leebit made it home safely.
You stared at the message, then laughed out loud.
You: And? Did she?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Channie: She’s safe. Mildly traumatized from being dropped in the street, but safe.
Another laugh escaped you.
You: Thank God.
Channie: Jia also wanted me to tell you goodnight.
Your smile softened immediately.
You: Tell her I said goodnight too.
The reply came a minute later.
Channie: Will do.
Three dots appeared again.
Disappeared.
Then returned.
Channie: Thanks again. For today.
You stared at the message longer than necessary. Somehow it felt different from the thank you he’d given you at the door, like it wasn’t just about babysitting anymore.
You: Anytime.
The message sent.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then vanished.
Nothing else came.
Yet somehow, as you set your phone on the nightstand and turned off the lamp, you found yourself smiling into the darkness.
Sleep definitely didn’t find you for a while.
𝜗𝜚
Three days later, you were halfway through watering your garden when a shadow fell across the flower bed.
“Question.”
You looked up immediately to see Chan standing on the other side of your fence.
Hair damp.
Black tank stained with what looked like chalk.
Still looking unfairly hot right where he was standing.
“I should have an answer.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Jia wants to know if tomatoes are fruits or vegetables. She says fruits.”
You blinked. “That’s the question?”
“I’ve been informed it’s important.”
“And you couldn’t Google it?”
“I did.”
“And you still came here?” You laughed.
He leaned his forearms against the fence. Looking entirely too comfortable. “She said you’d know more.”
You stared at him for a second smiling. “Tomatoes are fruits.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Cucumbers too.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Seeds.”
“That’s a ridiculous system.”
A laugh escaped you. “Take it up with science.”
He looked as if he was considering this. “I’m not arguing with science.”
“Coward.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Let Jia know she’s right.” You pointed at him immediately.
“I can’t phrase it like that.”
“Why not?”
“She’ll never let me live it down.”
“Good.”
For a moment neither of you looked away. The late afternoon sun warmed the air between you while a breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
“Another question?” He asked, this time softer.
“Hmm?” You look back down watering the seedlings.
“Or well,” he pauses looking slightly flustered which gained your full attention again. “M-my mom is taking Jia for the weekend,” he starts while rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Oh!” You smile. Really?”
Chan nodded. “Saturday.”
“Twenty-nine right?”
He nodded.
You immediately winced. “Wow.”
“Wow?”
“That’s serious.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes, though a smirk started to appear.
You went back to watering the seedlings, but only for a second before looking up again. “Sooo you came over to tell me that?”
He immediately looked flustered again, “No.”
“Okaaay.”
“I mean, yes, but not just that.”
His gaze stayed on yours a second longer than necessary, like he was still deciding whether to actually say it out loud or swallow it back down and pretend this moment never tried to happen, but then he exhaled, “I was wondering,” he said, slower now, more careful, “if you’d want to come with me to a jazz festival this weekend.”
That landed differently and your heart was definitely fluttering.
Not just a casual night out. A whole event. A crowd. Music bleeding through open air. Something alive and loud and full of people he didn’t quite seem built for, and yet, he was inviting you into it.
You blinked. “A festival?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Downtown. It’s…a few days. Different sets, food trucks, all that.”
A pause flickered between you.
“It’s just music,” he added on, then immediately softened it. “I just thought you might like it. And I was given more than one ticket and I—” He stopped himself, rubbed the back of his neck like he could physically erase the awkwardness. “I’d like you there.”
There it was. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just honest enough to sit in the air between you and raise the temperature even more.
You didn’t answer right away, and you could see him start to brace for impact. That subtle tightening in his shoulders. The way people did when they were preparing to recover from a “no.”
So you didn’t make him wait too long. “I like jazz,” you said.
His eyes flickered a glimmer of hope. “Yeah?”
“And I like food trucks,” you added.
That earned a quiet breath of relief from him, almost a laugh that didn’t fully form.
“Okay,” you said finally.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“I’ll go.”
The word hit him like it needed a second to fully translate in his brain. “You will?”
You nodded. “Festival. Jazz. Food I probably don’t need to spend money on but will anyway.”
He looked away briefly, like he was still processing the fact that you’d said yes. Then he spoke quieter, almost in disbelief, “Cool. Friday?”
“Friday works.”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said. This time, it didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like something he needed to do.
And when you nodded, he gave a small exhale, like he’d just stepped off a ledge and discovered the ground was still there.
Chan lingered for another second, the smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Dad!” Jia’s voice carried across the driveway.
He laughed. “Duty calls.”
𝜗𝜚
Friday was four days away, which shouldn’t have mattered.
Yet somehow, Chan became painfully aware of it every time he looked at a calendar.
Every time someone mentioned the weekend.
Every time his phone lit up.
It was ridiculous. He was turning twenty nine . Not sixteen.
And yet, by Tuesday, Hyunjin had accused him of smiling at an alternator. In which Chan denied smiling at it.
Hyunjin had to remind him that he's a terrible liar.
By Wednesday, Jia wanted to know why he kept checking his phone.
“I’m not checking my phone.”
“You just checked it.”
“That’s different. It lit up and I looked at it”
“How?”
Chan had no answer for that.
Thursday evening found Chan standing in his kitchen watching water on the stove as he was trying to decide whether he hated the blue button-down or merely disliked it. His grey v-neck was always an option, he thought to himself.
Then his phone rang.
Mom. The sight of her contact poster stirred suspicion in his gut.
“Hello?”
“Did you ask her?”
Chan closed his eyes. “There wasn’t even a hello.”
“I know who I raised.”
A sigh escaped him. “Hi, Mom.”
“Did you ask her?”
“You called specifically for this?”
“I bought those tickets specifically for this.”
Chan stared at the ceiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Did she say yes?”
The fact that she asked so quickly told him everything. His mother already knew the answer. She was simply enjoying herself.
As she waited for a response, a smile threatened to spread across his face despite his best efforts.
“Oh my God.”
“Mom.”
“She said yes?”
Chan rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe.”
A gasp echoed through the phone. “Jack!” she yelled.
“Jessica!” Chan called into the phone.
A muffled voice responded somewhere in the background before he heard his mother clearly again.
“I told your father she said yes.”
“I have to go…..Jia needs me.”
“Aht aht! No you don’t.”
“Actually, I do.”
“Tell my grandbaby I said hello.” She laughed out. “Your neighbor too.”
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: all the above (f,s,a)
cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy
soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify
* ✩˚ word count: 12.1K ˚✩ *
Sundays were your favorite.
Everyone else hated them because it meant the weekend was over, but every other Sunday meant catching your new neighbor in his garage with the door rolled open, grease staining his hands while he worked on whatever car currently had its guts spread across the driveway.
Was this borderline stalking? Probably
But he’d never introduced himself, and neither had you, and it had somehow been almost a month since he moved into the small corner house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Everyone in the cul-de-sac knows each other.
Except him.
He was still an enigma.
Instead of peeking through the blinds like a stalker, you convinced yourself that opening every blind in the house was a perfectly normal alternative.
And there he was, standing in the middle of his driveway with a phone pressed to his ear instead of working on the unfamiliar car sitting with its hood popped open.
He looked worn out actually. Still attractive, unfortunately. But exhausted.
The brutal summer heat probably wasn’t helping either, and before you could stop yourself, one singular thought drifted into your mind:
Is he staying hydrated?
Which immediately sparked an entire chain of questions that could only be answered if you actually spoke to him for once.
So now you were standing in your kitchen cutting apples and making lavender lemonade.
Generic? Maybe.
But it felt like a decent way to introduce yourself without sounding insane.
You definitely weren’t going to tell him you made it specifically for him, though.
You didn’t care much about presentation either.
The apple slices got tossed into a sandwich bag, and you poured two glasses of lemonade. Less in yours to make it look like you’d already been drinking it, and more in the one meant for him.
The outfit, though, took a little more thought.
It was way too hot outside for sweatpants, and if you were finally going to talk to him, the last thing you wanted was to sweat through your clothes.
So, summer shorts and a cute tank it was.
Nothing wrong with showing a little skin when your neighbor spent half his life shirtless in the driveway anyway.
𝜗𝜚
As you headed for the door, you peeked out the window one last time to assess his current predicament.
The phone was gone now, and half his body was buried beneath the hood of the car as he worked, completely unaware that you were seconds away from walking across the street with a quick pick-me-up and several weeks’ worth of curiosity.
The closer you got, the more clearly you could hear the soft spill of saxophones and low bass drifting from the garage speakers.
And unfortunately for your sanity, he looked just as good from the back as he did from the front.
“Jazz fan?” you asked softly, careful not to startle him beneath the hood of the car.
The reaction was immediate.
He jerked hard enough to smack his head against the underside of the hood with a loud clank.
“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step while rubbing the spot with grease-stained fingers.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no,” he laughed breathlessly, still wincing. “That’s my fault. I think I lost the ability to hear anything besides this engine like twenty minutes ago.”
Up close, he looked even more exhausted.
Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes, damp curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. There was grease smeared along his forearm, another streak near his jaw, and somehow the whole thing only made him more attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d crossed the street carrying homemade lemonade just because he looked tired.
His gaze finally dropped to the midday snack in your hands. “…Is that for me?” he asked carefully, like he genuinely wasn’t sure.
“Uh,” you started, suddenly very aware of how suspicious this probably looked.
“I was already making some for myself,” you lied smoothly. “And you looked like you were one second from passing out, so…”
His gaze flicked between you, the lemonade, and the apples in the sandwich bag. “Right,” he said slowly, like he absolutely did not believe you.
Which was fair. Nobody casually made lavender lemonade in this economy.
Still, he took the glass from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second.
“Well,” he said, softer this time, “thanks. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” you replied, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that your entire nervous system had just short-circuited over brief hand contact.
He took a long sip almost immediately, and the faint tension in his shoulders eased a little.
“Okay,” he admitted after a second, glancing down at the cup, “this is actually really good.”
“Thank you,” you said, maybe a little too fast. The corner of his mouth twitched before the soft sound of saxophone filled the brief silence between you again.
You nodded toward the speaker tucked near the back of the garage.
“So you are a jazz fan.”
Chan glanced over his shoulder at the music before looking back at you. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone trying to figure out if you’re secretly eighty years old.”
That finally earned you a real laugh. Warm, low, slightly tired around the edges. “Jazz is timeless,” he defended.
“That’s not helping your case, actually.”
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. You bring me lemonade and immediately start attacking me.”
“Keeps you humble, I think.”
“I don’t think I was arrogant to begin with.”
“You mow your lawn shirtless,”
It went completely silent.
Fuck. I said way too much.
Chan stared at you for two full seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched
“In my defense,” he said carefully, “it was ninety degrees.”
Chan took another sip of lemonade, “So you like watching your neighbors do lawn work?”
All of a sudden you were burning up. “I was curious that morning.”
“Mm.” Chan glanced down at the lemonade. “Curious enough to start bringing me refreshments.”
“I’m being neighborly,” you defended immediately.
Chan hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And the apples?”
“Also already cut.”
“Right.”
“You’re being really judgmental for someone accepting free lemonade.”
That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, like he was finally relaxing into the conversation instead of standing awkwardly inside it.
“Well, since we’ve both noticed each other and somehow still never spoken…” you said, “I think that makes us equally guilty.”
Chan’s smile widened behind the rim of his cup.
“Equally guilty, huh?”
“Painfully guilty.”
“Good to know I’m not the only terrible neighbor here.”
“You’re still worse,” you said. “You moved in and didn’t introduce yourself.”
“You watched me mow my lawn shirtless and didn’t introduce yourself either.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it immediately.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you said, even though it absolutely was not.
Chan looked far too entertained by your suffering.
“So,” he said, leaning back against the car, “how long was I under neighborhood surveillance before you finally decided to talk to me?”
“Surveillance is a strong word.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”His laugh came easier now, lighter than before.
“For the record,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the garage, “you’re kind of hard to ignore.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That so?”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “That sounded less embarrassing in my head.”
“Good to know my hard work is appreciated.”
“Your hard work?” you repeated incredulously.
“Maintaining a lawn is serious business.”
“You’re standing here covered in engine grease trying to flirt about landscaping.”
He blinked at you. "I'm not flirting.” The denial came way too fast to sound convincing.
You stared him for a second. "Sure."
His mouth twitched again before he looked away, suddenly seeming very interested in the rag beside him. "Okay, maybe a little."
The admission sounded accidental. Honest in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Like realizing he’d been charming without fully meaning to be.
He wiped his hand against the rag before finally holding it out toward you. “I should probably introduce myself properly before my neighbors start opening investigation files on me,” he said. “Chan.”
You told him your name, trying not to focus on how warm his hand felt when your fingers slipped into his.
“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles before letting go.
The gesture was brief enough that you could’ve imagined it. Unfortunately, your brain decided to replay it anyway.
“So,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, “what exactly are you working on?”
Chan glanced back toward the car like he’d almost forgotten it existed. “Customer’s car,” he explained. “Or… technically my friend’s customer. I’m helping him out.”
“Meaning you’re fixing someone else’s problem on your day off?”
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds terrible.”
He laughed softly. “You get used to it.”
You watched him take another sip of lemonade before his shoulders relaxed again, just slightly.
“Long day?” you asked before thinking too hard about it.
Something flickered across his face then. Quick enough that you almost missed it.
“Long month,” he admitted instead.
The answer settled between you more honestly than expected.
And for the first time since moving in, the mysterious neighbor across the street stopped feeling mysterious at all.
Just human.
Right on cue, his phone started ringing again.
And just like that, the same expression from earlier returned. The softness in his face tightened almost instantly, exhaustion settling back over his features like something heavy and familiar.
Chan glanced at the screen and exhaled quietly through his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured, already reaching for it.
“No, you’re okay,” you replied quickly.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he answered the call with a tired, “Hey, Mom.”
Mom?
Your curiosity immediately sharpened, but you stepped back anyway, lifting a hand in a small goodbye to give him some privacy.
Chan glanced up from the call almost immediately.
“Wait,” he said quickly, covering the phone against his chest for half a second.
The suddenness of it made you pause.
“Thanks for the lemonade,” he added, softer this time. “And for finally introducing yourself.”
Something warm fluttered annoyingly in your chest. “Try not to die of heatstroke,” you replied.
A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “No promises.”
As you walked back across the street, you heard him sigh quietly into the phone behind you
“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Just bring her back. It’s fine. Thanks.”
Her?
Your steps slowed for only half a second before you forced yourself to keep walking.
It wasn’t your business.
Probably.
𝜗𝜚
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly after that.
You watered your plants. Folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for two days. Pretended very hard not to glance out the window every ten minutes.
Around an hour later, movement across the street finally caught your attention again.
A familiar older woman pulled into Chan’s driveway in a silver SUV. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.
A little girl climbed out of the backseat holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, her tiny sneakers lighting up against the pavement with every step she took.
And suddenly, everything clicked into place.
Chan appeared from the garage almost immediately after hearing the car door shut.
The exhaustion you’d seen earlier softened the second the little girl spotted him.
“Daddy!”
She launched herself across the driveway at full speed, stuffed rabbit bouncing wildly behind her.
Chan barely had time to crouch before she collided into him, and just like that, the intimidatingly attractive mechanic across the street completely melted.
“Hey, bug,” he laughed softly, catching her against his chest with practiced ease. “Miss me already?”
The little girl nodded dramatically against his shoulder.
From your window, you watched him press a kiss to the side of her head before standing again, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The older woman said something to him then, too far away for you to hear clearly.
You watched see him sigh in response.
She reached up to squeeze his shoulder before heading back toward her car.
Mom.
Well that explained the grocery bags.
The little girl kept talking animatedly while he listened, nodding along despite the lingering exhaustion still written all over him.
And against your better judgment, something in your chest tightened at the sight.
You really tried not to stare after that.
Tried being the important word.
Because the next thing you knew, Chan was balancing the little girl on his hip while attempting to close the garage with the other hand, and she was very seriously holding his lemonade for him like it was an important assignment.
Your lemonade.
Which somehow made the entire thing feel weirdly intimate. The little girl took a curious sip from the straw before immediately making a face.
Chan laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired, polite kind he’d given you earlier, but something fuller. Easier.
The sound carried faintly across the street even through your closed window. Then, like she could feel herself being observed, the little girl suddenly looked up.
Directly toward your house.
Your body reacted before your brain did, ducking beneath the window.
“What am I doing?” you whispered to yourself from the floor.
Slowly, cautiously, you lifted yourself just high enough to peek over the windowsill again.
He was already looking directly at your house. Specifically, at the exact window you’d just disappeared from.
Mortification hit instantly.
The little girl was still perched on his hip, tiny hands wrapped around the lemonade cup while she whispered something into his ear.
Chan started to smirk.
Oh god.
She definitely noticed you spying.
Before you could disappear for a second time, the little girl suddenly lifted her arm and waved enthusiastically through the window.
Bright, excited and completely unashamed.
Chan glanced down at her, then back toward your house, and to your complete horror, he smiled too. Soft and sleepy around the edges.
Well there went your ability to act normal around this family.
𝜗𝜚
Things only got worse the following evening. Or better. Maybe.
Unfortunately, the distinction was becoming harder to make.
You were dragging grocery bags out of your trunk when you heard tiny sneakers slapping against pavement.
“Hi!”
You looked up just in time to see the little girl from yesterday standing at the edge of your driveway.
Up close, she looked even smaller. Big dark eyes, messy curls, and the same stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm like it legally belonged to her.
Chan trailed a few steps behind her carrying two takeout bags and looking deeply apologetic already. “I’m so sorry,” he called out immediately. “She saw you and escaped.”
“I did not escape,” the little girl argued.
“You absolutely escaped.”
She ignored him completely and looked back at you instead. “Daddy said you made magic lemonade.”
You blinked once. Then slowly turned toward Chan. “Magic lemonade?”
Chan looked mildly horrified. “That’s not what I said.”
“You said it had flowers in it.”
“…That is unfortunately true.”
The little girl stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically like she was sharing a very serious secret. “Daddy talked about your lemonade all night.”
Chan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and genuine embarrassment. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the sky for patience. “I think that’s enough sharing for today.”
“I like your flowers too,” she added helpfully.
“Okay, seriously, whose side are you on?” Chan asked.
She gasped softly. “Yours.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You finally laughed, unable to help it anymore, and something in Chan’s expression softened immediately at the sound.
The little girl beamed proudly at the fact that she’d apparently succeeded in making everyone equally uncomfortable.
“I’m Jia,” she announced suddenly.
“Jia,” Chan repeated with the deep weariness of a man who knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “What do we say when introducing ourselves to strangers?”
She thought about it very seriously. “…My dad is twenty-eight?”
Chan closed his eyes. “That is not remotely what I meant.”
“You asked me to be polite,” Jia defended immediately.
“I did,” Chan agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d start listing my personal information like a tiny government employee.”
Jia looked completely unbothered by this comparison. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to laugh yourself into cardiac arrest in your own driveway.
“Twenty-eight, huh?” you repeated lightly before you could stop yourself.
Chan pointed at you instantly. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m just processing the information I was given.”
“Against my will.”
Jia tugged on his sleeve. “Can we have nuggets now?” The dramatic betrayal faded from his face immediately.
“Yeah, bug,” he sighed softly. “We can have nuggets now.”And there it was again. That softness. The one that seemed to appear every time he looked at her.
You’d kill for him to look at you like that.
Which felt slightly dramatic considering you’d known this man for less than forty-eight hours.
But still.
Chan adjusted the takeout bags in one hand before nodding toward you.
“Sorry again,” he said. “She’s decided privacy is optional.”
“I heard that,” Jia informed him.
“I know you did.”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think I’ve learned more about you in five minutes than I did the entire month you lived here.”
“That’s because my roommate keeps violating confidentiality agreements.”
Jia looked delighted by this accusation.
Before he could start ushering Jia toward the house again, you crouched slightly to her level. “Well, Jia,” you said seriously, “I should probably introduce myself properly too.”
Once you told her your name, Jia stared at you for a second before slowly lifting the stuffed rabbit into view. “And this is Leebit.”
“Leebit?” you repeated carefully.
Jia nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable name for a stuffed rabbit. “She’s sensitive.”
“I understand completely,” you replied.
Chan laughed quietly behind her, softer this time. “Okay,” he sighed, finally steering Jia back toward the house before she revealed his blood type next. “Dinner before you expose anything else about this family.”
“Bye!” Jia called, already halfway up the driveway.
Then she stopped suddenly and turned back around. “Wait,” she gasped dramatically. “We forgot to say thank you for the magic lemonade.”
Chan sighed toward the heavens. “It was lavender, Jia.”
“That’s magic to me.”
Honestly? Fair enough.
You smiled, folding your arms lightly against your chest. “You’re welcome.”
Jia beamed at you one last time before finally allowing herself to be herded toward the front door.
He lingered behind for half a second longer. The porch light caught softly against the tired edges of his face, but for the first time since you’d met him, he looked lighter somehow.
“Sorry in advance,” he said quietly, glancing toward the tiny chaos already disappearing inside the house. “She gets attached to people fast.”
Your stomach betrayed you instantly. “That makes two of us,” you almost said.
Instead, you just smiled. “I think I can handle her.”
Chan looked at you for a second too long before finally nodding once. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chan.”
You spent the rest of the night trying not to think about them.
Which was difficult when your kitchen still smelled faintly like lavender and fresh lemons. Worse, every time you closed your eyes, your brain insisted on replaying tiny moments like an aggressively edited romantic comedy montage.
Chan laughing softly in the driveway.
Jia introducing Leebit with complete sincerity.
The way his face changed whenever he looked at his daughter.
By the time morning rolled around, you’d managed to convince yourself to act normal about the entire thing.
That resolution lasted until approximately 10:14 a.m. Because when you opened your front door to grab a package, Jia was sitting on your porch.
Alone.
Holding Leebit.
And coloring directly on your welcome mat with sidewalk chalk.
“Jia?” you blurted immediately, eyes widening.
She looked up from the chalk drawing completely relaxed, as if this had always been her porch too. “Hi,” she said happily. Leebit was tucked beneath one arm while pink chalk dust coated her fingers.
Your heart nearly stopped. “Why are you over here by yourself?”
Jia pointed vaguely behind her with the chalk, “Daddy’s sleeping.”
Oh.
“Jia,” you said carefully, crouching down a little, “did you sneak out?”
She gasped like you’d accused her of a serious crime. “No.”
A pause.
“I walked out.”
You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing at the worst possible time.
“Okay,” you said slowly, “that’s still not something you’re supposed to do by yourself.”
Jia considered this information while drawing another aggressively pink line across the concrete. “Daddy was sleeping,” she explained again, like that answered everything.
Which, honestly, explained enough.
Your gaze flicked across the street toward Chan’s house. The curtains were still closed.
A tiny thread of concern tugged at your chest.“How long have you been over here?” you asked gently.
Jia shrugged. “Since cartoons.”
That was not a measurement of time.
“Jia,” you said carefully, “what does that even mean?”
She blinked up at you like you were the confusing one.“The blue dog cartoons.”
…Still not a real answer.
Your concern must’ve shown on your face because Jia suddenly held Leebit out toward you reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said confidently. “I know where my house is.”
“That’s not my concern, sweetie,” you said gently. “Some cars drive really fast around here. What if you got hurt?”
Jia’s expression faltered slightly for the first time since you opened the door. “But I looked both ways,” she defended quietly.
Your heart squeezed a little. “I know you did, sweetie,” you replied softly. “But you still can’t leave the house without telling your dad, okay?”
Jia looked down at the chalk in her hand.“…Okay.”
And suddenly the situation felt a lot less funny.
“Come on,” you said gently, standing back up. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want your dad waking up and panicking because he can’t find you.”
Jia’s eyes widened slightly. “He’ll panic?”
“Absolutely.”
She looked genuinely thoughtful about this revelation before quietly gathering her chalk pieces into a tiny pile.
Leebit was tucked securely beneath her arm again as she reached for your hand without hesitation.
And that tiny, instinctive trust nearly took you out on the spot. Crossing the street with her tiny hand wrapped around yours felt strangely domestic. Girl, get it together.
The front door of Chan’s house was unlocked when you gently pushed it open, calling out a cautious, “Chan?”
No answer.
The house was quiet in that heavy, sleepy kind of way that suggested someone had crashed hard after being exhausted for too long.
Jia immediately slipped off toward the living room like this was a completely normal morning adventure.
You followed after her just in time to see him asleep on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes. Phone still in his hand.
The television played softly in the background to absolutely nobody.
The second Jia climbed onto the couch beside him, Chan jolted awake so fast it genuinely startled you.
“So sorry for the intrusion,” you blurted out immediately. This was definitely not how you envisioned the first time stepping inside his house.
Chan blinked at you for a second, still visibly caught between asleep and awake, before his gaze snapped toward his daughter.
“Jia.”
Uh oh.
“I went to visit,” she explained confidently from beside him.
“Without telling me?” The panic in his voice was subtle, but there.
Real enough that guilt twisted in your chest a little on Jia’s behalf.
Chan sat up fully now, running a hand down his face before looking back at you. “Did she cross the street alone?”
“Technically…” you started carefully.
“I looked both ways,” Jia added helpfully.
Chan stared at the ceiling for a long moment like he was asking the universe for strength.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” you said gently. “I already told her that was dangerous.”
Chan exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the panic easing from his shoulders.
Jia immediately took advantage of this. “See?” she said proudly. “I got lectured already.”
“That’s not exactly something to be proud of,” Chan muttered. Still, his hand found the back of her head automatically, smoothing down her messy curls just to reassure himself she was there.
The tiny gesture did something weird to your chest again.
This was probably a terrible idea, but your mouth was already moving before you could stop.“Hey, um…” you started awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“If you ever need extra rest or need to handle stuff around here, I can hang out with her for a bit.”
Chan looked at you like nobody had offered him that in a very long time.
Jia, meanwhile, looked ready to adopt you on the spot. “Really?” she gasped.
Chan blinked once before rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t have to do that,” he said softly. But he sounded tired enough that it almost hurt to hear.
Before you could respond, Jia spoke up from the couch.
“Nana’s been busy lately.”
Chan’s expression shifted instantly. Not angry. Just… exposed, somehow. Like a private part of his life had been accidentally placed on the table between all of you.
Jia, completely unaware, kept talking while hugging Leebit to her chest. “So Daddy’s extra tired now.”
Your heart squeezed painfully.
Chan let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face again.
“Nana?” you asked quietly.
Chan glanced toward you before answering. “My mother,” he said softly. Something in his expression gentled when he said it, but the exhaustion never fully left his face.“She usually helps a lot with Jia, but work’s been keeping her busy lately.”
Jia nodded solemnly from the couch like this was a very serious family meeting. You looked between the two of them for a moment.
Chan sitting there barely awake on the couch. Jia curled against his side with Leebit in her lap. The quiet television humming in the background.
The lived-in warmth of the house despite the exhaustion hanging over it.
It hit you suddenly then. He wasn’t distant because he was unfriendly. He was drowning. Working, parenting, moving into a new neighborhood, fixing cars on his days off, surviving on what looked like four hours of sleep and caffeine.
And somehow still managing to be gentle.
“The offer still stands,” you said softly.
Chan looked up at you immediately.
“Even if it’s just so you can nap without worrying she’s gonna escape and start another neighborhood tour.”
“I did not tour,” Jia argued sleepily.
“You trespassed.”
“I visited.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.
Chan watched you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You barely know us,” he said finally.
“Yet,” you pointed out gently, “I’m kind of the only person you guys know in the neighborhood right now.”
Chan went quiet at that, because unfortunately, it was true.
The moving boxes still stacked near the hallway.
The unfamiliar street.
The exhaustion.
All of it suddenly felt a little heavier in the silence.
Jia leaned against his arm, already looking half-asleep again. His gaze dropped briefly toward her before returning to you. Something softer settled into his expression then. Not just appreciation, but relief as well.
“J-just let me know,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how personal this conversation had become. “No pressure or anything.”
Chan’s expression softened even further at the stumble in your voice. “Right,” he said quietly. “No pressure.”
But he looked at you like the offer meant more than you realized.
Sensing the sudden shift into dangerously intimate territory, you started backing toward the front door. “I should probably let you guys get back to your morning,” you said lightly.
Jia immediately looked disappointed, and Chan, somehow, looked a little disappointed too. Which absolutely did not help your situation.
“Wait.” Chan stood from the couch before you could make it more than two steps toward the door.
Jia immediately flopped sideways into the cushions the second his arm moved away from her, completely exhausted from what had apparently been a very eventful morning.
Chan glanced toward Jia briefly before looking back at you.
“At least let me repay you somehow,” he said. “You returned my runaway child.”
“That sounds way more dramatic than what actually happened.”
“Does it?”
You smiled despite yourself. “You really don’t have to repay me.”
“Maybe I want to.”
And suddenly the foyer felt a little too small.
Chan leaned lightly against the wall near the doorway, still looking half-awake. Somehow, it only made him more unfairly attractive.
“You like coffee?” he asked after a second.
“That depends,” you replied carefully. “Are you trying to bribe me into future babysitting?”
A tired laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe a little.”
“Then yes. I love coffee.”
“Good,” he murmured. “There’s a café like ten minutes from here. She likes the cake pops and I survive off iced americanos.”
“A balanced diet.”
“Exactly.”
His smile lingered this time. “Come with us sometime?” he asked.
The question landed so casually it took your brain a full second to process it.
Come with us?
Not me.
Us.
And somehow that made your chest ache even worse. “Yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”
His shoulders loosened almost immediately, like he’d been oddly nervous about asking. Which felt insane considering this man looked like that while standing barefoot in sweatpants at eleven in the morning.
Jia suddenly lifted her head from the couch cushions. “Can I get two cake pops?”
“No,” He answered instantly.
“One and a half?”
“That’s not a real number of cake pops.”
Jia thought about this carefully. “Then two.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and he looked over at you again with that same softened expression from earlier.
Like he was quietly cataloging every sound you made.
“Alright,” you said finally, forcing yourself to continue toward the door before your feelings developed a mortgage in this house. “I’ll let you guys rest.”
Jia waved lazily from the couch. “Bye.”
“Bye, Jia. Bye, Leebit.”
The stuffed rabbit stared at you with the same emotional support energy as before.
He walked you to the door despite looking seconds away from passing out where he stood.“Thanks again,” he said quietly once you stepped onto the porch.
“For returning your escape artist?”
“For…” He paused briefly, glancing back toward the living room. “Being nice to us.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.
Your chest tightened a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
He looked at you for a moment like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Still going to.”
After you parted ways, reluctantly, you walked back across the street trying very hard not to replay the entire interaction in your head.
In which you failed immediately.
By the time you made it back inside your house, your brain had already decided to obsess over approximately seventeen separate things.
Chan asking you to get coffee with them.
Jia holding your hand without hesitation.
The way he’d said us.
The fact that his house already felt strangely familiar after only ten minutes inside it.
Which was absolutely not normal.
You dropped onto your couch with a dramatic groan, staring at the ceiling.
“This is how people end up emotionally attached to single fathers,” you informed yourself aloud.
𝜗𝜚
The front door clicked shut behind you, leaving their house quiet again aside from the low murmur of cartoons still playing from the television.
Chan stayed standing there for a second. Longer than necessary.
“Dad,” Jia said from the couch, “you’re staring at the door.”
“I know.”
He scrubbed a tired hand down his face before finally locking it, though the motion felt pointless considering Jia had apparently started wandering the neighborhood at sunrise.
His heart still hadn’t fully recovered from waking up and realizing she’d walked out.
Across the room, Jia hugged Leebit tighter. “She’s nice.”
His gaze drifted automatically toward the front window, then toward the house across the street. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “She is.”
The thing was, he’d noticed little details long before the lemonade.
It was hard not to.
You watered the flowers along your porch every morning before the heat got too bad, usually still half-asleep and wearing clothes that looked thrown on five minutes earlier.
Your car was the little dark-colored sedan with a small dent near the back bumper.
Sometimes you sang absentmindedly while bringing groceries inside.
Sometimes you sat on your porch at night scrolling on your phone with your legs curled beneath you.
And sometimes, when he worked in the garage with the door open, he could feel your eyes on him from across the street.
Not in a creepy way.
Like you’d been trying to figure him out from a distance the same way he’d been trying to figure you out.
He hadn’t expected the neighborhood to feel this lonely.
New house. New routines. New streets.
Most days it felt like he was still unpacking pieces of his life that no longer fit together properly.
Then somehow, within forty-eight hours, the neighbor across the street had walked into his garage with lavender lemonade and looked at Jia like she mattered immediately.
He’s fucked.
“Dad?”
He hummed tiredly from where his head rested against the couch.
Jia tilted her head up at him.“Can we keep her?”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “You ask that like she’s a stray cat.”
“Okay.....then can she come over again?”
He glanced toward the front window again before answering. The flowers on your porch swayed lightly in the summer heat, bright against the white railing.
Your curtains shifted, probably from you moving around inside. And for some reason, the thought settled warmly in his chest.
“Maybe,” he said finally. Jia grinned triumphantly before settling back against him.
The room went quiet again after that, filled only by cartoons and the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the heat.
His eyes drifted shut briefly. Only for a second, before his phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside him.
His mother.
He sighed before answering. “Hey, Ma.”
“Is Jia better?” his mother asked immediately.
Chan looked over at his daughter, currently half-asleep with chalk still smeared across one cheek. “She’s fine.”
His mother laughed softly through the speaker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help this weekend.”
Guilt hit instantly. “Ma, it’s fine.”
“Christopher.”
Ah. Full government name.
Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Seriously,” he murmured. “I’ve got it handled.”
His mother went quiet for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “You don’t always have to handle everything alone, you know.”
“Kind of hard,” he admitted quietly, “when you and Dad are basically my only support systems.” The words slipped out more honestly than he intended. Silence filled the other end of the call for a moment.
Then his mother sighed softly. “Christopher…”
He stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t meant it as guilt. Just fact.
Moving here had been necessary. Better schools. Better neighborhood. More space for Jia.
But starting over somewhere new while trying to hold everything together alone felt a lot heavier in practice than it had on paper.
Especially on mornings where his daughter wandered across the street while he accidentally passed out on the couch.
“You’re doing your best,” his mother said gently.
Chan laughed quietly under his breath.
“Yeah. Some days my best loses the kid before ten a.m.”
“And some days your best fixes cars until midnight and still makes dinosaur pancakes the next morning.”
His chest tightened unexpectedly at that.
Across the couch, Jia shifted sleepily against his side, still clutching Leebit by one ear. He smoothed a hand over her curls automatically. “I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want her growing up feeling like everything’s unstable all the time.”
His mother was quiet for a second before speaking again.“You know what she’s going to remember?”
Chan leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “What?”
“That her father loved her enough to keep trying even when things were hard.”
Well, that hit directly in the sternum.
He went quiet after that.
Because what was he even supposed to say to that?
His mother had always been unfairly good at reaching straight into the center of a problem and pressing on it gently until he stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.
“And,” she added after a moment, her tone shifting lighter, “your neighbor seems nice.”
Chan immediately frowned. “Jia talked to you already?”
His mother laughed outright this time. “Christopher, that child would leak classified military information for a fruit snack.”
Fair.
“She said the neighbor brought you lemonade.”
He stared toward the front window again before he could stop himself. “Lavender lemonade,” he corrected absentmindedly.
A pause, then, “You sound fond already.”
“Ma.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re definitely saying something.”
“Mm.” His mother sounded far too entertained. “And are you denying it?”
…Annoyingly, no.
“Christopher.”
He already didn’t like the tone of her voice.
“Don’t start planning your wedding in your head because a pretty neighbor brought you lemonade.”
“I am not planning a wedding,” he muttered immediately.
His mother hummed skeptically through the speaker. “You noticed she was pretty awfully fast.”
Damn.
“Ma.”
“I’m just happy you sound interested in something again.”
The teasing softened around the edges near the end of the sentence. Enough that his chest tightened a little. Because he knew what she meant. The last year had been survival mode.
Work.
Jia.
Bills.
Moving.
Rebuilding routines from scratch.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d stopped noticing things outside of necessity.
Then suddenly there was a woman across the street who sang while carrying groceries and crouched down to speak to Jia like she deserved full eye contact during conversations.
And apparently that had been enough to restart something in him. Which was terrifying, honestly.
𝜗𝜚
Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.
One: Jia had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.
And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.
“Dad,” Jia whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”
He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.
He barely had time to fully think and react before Jia started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.
“HI!”
Half the grocery store turned to look first. Then you glanced up in confusion before spotting them. And then you smiled.
God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem for him.
“Well,” you laughed softly as you walked closer, “there’s my favorite escape artist.”
“I didn’t escape today,” Jia informed you proudly.
“We’re aiming for growth,” Chan added.
Your eyes flicked toward him then, warm amusement immediately settling into your expression. “And look at that,” you teased lightly. “She brought her emotional support dad with her too.”
Chan stared at you for a second before an unwilling laugh escaped him.
Yeah. He was absolutely screwed.
"We ran out of dino nuggets," Jia explained gravely.
"Apparently it's a crisis," he confirmed.
“I can tell.” You dropped a few mangoes into your basket before glancing into their cart.
There were approximately six different snacks, apple juice, coffee creamer, and absolutely no actual dinner ingredients.
Your eyebrows lifted slowly. “Interesting grocery strategy.”
He looked down into the cart before sighing. “In my defense, she was helping.”
“I picked the Oreos,” Jia said proudly.
“Yeah?” A quiet laugh escaped you as Chan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was supposed to stop by after work yesterday,” he admitted, “but I got home late and we ended up ordering takeout instead.”
Your expression softened immediately. “You guys eaten today?”
Jia raised her hand from the cart. “We had waffles.”
“Chocolate chip waffles,” Chan corrected weakly.
You stared at him for a second.
Then at the cart.
Then back at him again.
“You know what?” you said suddenly. “Come over for dinner tonight.”
Chan blinked.
Jia gasped, “Really?”
“Only if you want to,” you added quickly, looking back at him now. “I was already planning to cook anyway.”
Chan hesitated for maybe half a second before Jia answered for the both of them, "We want to."
"Jia."
"What? We do."
You laughed softly.
"Seven okay?
He nodded slowly.
"Y-yeah. Seven's good."
The conversation moved on easily after that. Way too easy.
Like this was normal.
As if people invited him and Jia over for dinner all the time.
As if he hadn't spent the better part of last year feeling isolated in ways he didn't know how to explain to anyone.
Neither of you seemed in much of a rush to end the conversation, but eventually the aisle ran out before the talking did.
"Don't let her convince you to buy more snacks," you called lightly before turning your cart away.
Jia giggled as he mumbled a distracted, "Okay." He watched you leave for a second too long.
“Dad?”
"Yes, bug?"
"Why haven't we moved?"
He blinked, finally looking down at her.
"What?"
Jia pointed in the direction you'd disappeared. "You stopped walking."
𝜗𝜚
By six-thirty, you had already changed outfits three times. Which was ridiculous. They were your neighbors.
Not royalty. Not a date.
Definitely not a date.
And yet your kitchen somehow looked like you were preparing for a full dinner party instead of feeding a tired mechanic and his tiny accomplice.
You checked the pasta sauce simmering on the stove for the fifth time before groaning dramatically into your hands. “Why am I nervous?” you demanded aloud to absolutely nobody.
Because realistically, the worst thing that could happen was Jia not liking the food.
Or Chan thinking this entire thing was weird.
Or realizing halfway through dinner that you were getting emotionally attached to his little family at genuinely alarming speed.
Okay.
Maybe there were several worst-case scenarios.
- - -
“No.”
Jia gasped from the middle of the living room floor. “But Leebit wants to come.”
Chan glanced down at the growing pile of stuffed animals beside her.
“Leebit can come,” he agreed carefully. “The other six absolutely cannot.”
Jia crossed her arms immediately. “They’ll feel left out.”
“They’re stuffed animals.”
“They have feelings.”
Chan rubbed a tired hand down his face before glancing toward the clock again.
Why was he nervous?
It was dinner. Just dinner.
With the neighbor. The very pretty neighbor.
…Okay, maybe that was part of the problem.
His gaze drifted toward the unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Was bringing wine too much?
Too formal?
Weird?
Did people even bring wine to casual neighbor dinners anymore?
He barely knew you, but somehow the idea of showing up empty-handed felt worse.
- - -
The knock at your front door came at exactly seven o’clock. Chan definitely seemed like the type to apologize for being thirty seconds late.
Your stomach flipped anyway.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself while smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your shirt. “Normal.”
Which immediately became impossible the second you opened the door.
Chan stood on your porch with one hand resting lightly on Jia’s shoulder.
Freshly showered. Dark curls still slightly damp.
Black t-shirt. Black jeans.
And somehow he looked even more unfairly attractive without engine grease smeared across his face. Which felt rude, honestly.
Jia, meanwhile, looked delighted to be there. “Hi!” she chirped instantly, holding Leebit up toward you like proof of life.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Your gaze flicked back toward Chan just in time to catch him already looking at you.
Something unreadable softened briefly across his face before he held up the bottle in his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know if bringing wine was weird,” he admitted immediately.
Your heart did something genuinely embarrassing inside your chest. “No,” you said quickly. “That’s actually really sweet.”
He looked weirdly relieved by the answer. “Okay, good,” he laughed softly. “I stood in the grocery store for like ten minutes trying to decide.”
“Daddy almost bought flowers too,” Jia announced helpfully as she stepped past him into the house.
Chan froze.
You blinked.
Jia blinked back innocently.
“Jia.”
“What?”
Heat climbed straight up Chan’s neck as he shut the front door behind them. “I was not going to buy flowers.”
Jia looked deeply unconvinced. “You stared at them for a long time.”
“That’s because I couldn’t reach the wine.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Chan immediately looked both embarrassed and relieved that you were laughing instead of judging him.
“For what it’s worth,” you smiled, “I think flowers would’ve been nice.”
He stared at you for half a second too long. “Yeah?”
Jia, blissfully unaware of the psychological warfare occurring above her head, wandered farther into your house with Leebit tucked beneath one arm.
“Do you have toys?”
He sighed softly. “Jia.”
“What? I’m just asking.”
“It’s okay,” you said, smiling. “I don’t have toys, but I do have markers and coloring books somewhere.”
Jia’s entire face brightened. “For me?”
“For you and Leebit, if she wants.”
Jia looked down at the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
“She does.”
Chan watched the exchange quietly, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked like he wanted to say something.
Like maybe thank you again.
Like maybe something else entirely.
Instead, he just followed you toward the kitchen, after getting Jia settled. “Need help with anything?”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, “You’re a guest.”
“I’m bad at that.”
“At being a guest?”
His mouth twitched, “At sitting still.”
You still shooed him away despite it all.
Unfortunately, he turned out to be exactly as incapable of sitting still as advertised.
You’d barely finished setting plates on the counter before he was beside you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up slightly as he glanced around for something to do.
“What can I help with?”
“You can sit down and relax for more than five minutes.”
"That's impossible."
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you pointed toward the stove.
“Fine. Stir that for me.”
“See? This is why I offer help.”
He moved beside you easily after that, close enough that you became painfully aware of how little space your kitchen actually had.
Which had never been an issue before.
Now suddenly every movement felt catastrophically noticeable.
Especially when you turned at the exact same time he did.
He caught himself quickly, one hand bracing against the counter behind you to avoid knocking directly into you.
But it still left him close.
Very close.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s okay,” your voice came out quieter than intended.
Neither of you moved right away.
Then Jia’s voice floated in from the living room.
“Daddy, Leebit wants juice.”
Chan blinked like he’d temporarily left his body. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back again. “Juice. Important.”
You stared very hard at the vegetables in front of you while he disappeared into the living room.
Unfortunately, the universe apparently wasn’t done with you yet.
Because ten minutes later, Chan reached around you for the spoon on the counter at the exact moment you bent down to grab something from the cabinet.
His hand brushed lightly against your waist.
Both of you froze instantly.
“Sorry,” he said again, this time sounding genuinely flustered.
“You’re okay,” you answered quickly.
He lingered for half a second before stepping back again, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.
“Small kitchen,” he muttered.
“Apparently.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned back toward the stove like neither of you had just short-circuited over two seconds of accidental contact.
Neither of you spoke for a second after that.
The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, or maybe that was just you.
Chan busied himself with grabbing glasses from the cabinet while you focused very hard on stirring the pasta with too much force.
Which was ridiculous.
It was a hand brushing your waist.
Unfortunately, your nervous system seemed committed to disagreeing.
From the living room, Jia’s voice drifted toward the kitchen, “Daddy, Leebit needs to go potty!"
And just like that, the tension loosened slightly around the edges.
Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose beside you. "Bathroom?"
"First door down the hall."
“I should probably go handle that crisis,” he murmured.
“Probably.”
You risked glancing up just in time to catch him already looking at you again, seeing something softer flickered briefly across his expression before he disappeared back toward the living room.
You started setting the table while Chan helped Jia wash her hands in the bathroom. It gave you something to do with yours.
After the kitchen incident, your body still felt a little too aware of him. The brief brush of his hand. The way he’d stepped back so quickly. The way neither of you had really known where to look afterward.
You set down plates. Then napkins. Then adjusted the forks even though they were already straight.
Completely normal behavior.
From down the hall, you heard the faint rush of water, Jia’s tiny voice, then Chan’s quieter response.
You couldn’t make out the words.
Maybe that was worse.
Because even without hearing him clearly, you could still picture the patience in his face. The tired curve of his shoulders. The gentle way he spoke to her even when he looked like he was running on fumes.
You exhaled slowly and reached for the glasses to pour wine.
Dinner. Focus on dinner.
Jia reappeared first, climbing into one of the dining chairs while Chan lingered behind her in the hallway for a second.
Your gaze lifted automatically.
He’d rolled his sleeves up slightly while helping Jia wash off the chalk, exposing strong forearms, which unfortunately did not help your situation at all.
He caught you looking for a second before your attention snapped aggressively back toward the plates. Great.
"This looks really good," he said quietly as he stepped toward the table.
The sincerity in his voice caught you a little off guard.
"I-it's just pasta."
"Still," he murmured. And for some reason, the way he said it feel like he meant more than the food.
Jia looked between the two of you briefly before narrowing her eyes. “You guys are being weird.”
Both of you answered at the exact same time.
“We’re not.”
Silence.
Jia gasped softly. “That was the same voice.”
He immediately dragged a hand down his face while you nearly choked on air across the table.
“Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “Can we play detective later?”
"Mhm"
Dinner settled into something more comfortable and quiet after that.
Jia swung her legs lightly beneath the chair while absentmindedly feeding tiny pieces of bread to Leebit between her own bites of pasta.
“Daddy sleeps on the couch when he works too much,” she said suddenly.
Chan went still for half a second.
“Bug.”
Jia frowned slightly, confused by his tone. “What?” she asked softly. “It hurts your neck.”
The concern in her voice softened something in your chest immediately.
Chan looked down at his plate for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose.
“I didn’t know you noticed that.”
“I notice,” Jia informed him simply.
And somehow, that felt less like a joke this time.
Your eyes lifted toward him automatically.
He looked embarrassed.
Not because Jia had exposed him, but because someone else had heard it too.
“You should probably sleep in your bed more,” you said gently before thinking too hard about it.
His gaze flicked toward you briefly. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”
Silence settled briefly around the table after that, not awkward; just quiet in the way good conversations sometimes became.
The kind where nobody felt rushed to fill every second.
Jia eventually went back to eating, humming softly to herself while kicking her feet beneath the chair.
Chan watched her for a moment before glancing toward you again.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She overshares.”
“She gets that from you?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Definitely not.”
“Mm.”
Chan leaned back slightly in his chair then, studying you for a second over the rim of his glass.
“What about you?”
Your fork paused briefly. “What about me?”
“You know basically my entire life story already,” he said lightly. “Feels unfair.”
Warmth crept into your face immediately.
“I do not know your entire life story.”
“You know enough to ruin me in court.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you took another sip of your drink.
“Fine,” you conceded. “What do you want to know?”
Chan looked strangely thoughtful for a second.
Like he was trying to decide which question he actually cared about asking most.
You expected something casual. Favorite color. What you did for work.
Maybe whether or not you always invited near-strangers over for dinner after knowing them for less than a week.
Instead, Chan asked quietly, “Are you always this nice to people?”
The question caught you so off guard you actually blinked at him.
Across the table, his expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.
“I…” You let out a small laugh, glancing down at your plate for a second. “That’s kind of a heavy question for pasta.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t look away.
Jia hummed softly to herself beside him, completely absorbed in attempting to feed Leebit microscopic pieces of garlic bread.
You watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I guess I just think people should look out for each other.”
Your fingers traced lightly against the side of your glass.
“We stick together in our little corner of the neighborhood.”
The words settled softly between all of you.
Chan’s gaze held yours for a second too long afterward. Like maybe nobody had included him in something that gently in a very long time.
Jia yawned dramatically beside him a few minutes later, the earlier excitement of the evening finally starting to wear off.
Chan glanced down at her immediately. “You getting tired?”
“No,” she answered automatically.
Then she yawned again so hard her entire body folded forward.
You smiled into your drink while Chan shook his head softly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s convincing.”
Jia ignored him completely, leaning more heavily against his side instead. He adjusted without even looking. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
You watched them while your heart pounded at the sight. "You can lay her on the couch if you want," you offered softly.
He glanced up at you.
"You sure?"
You nodded as you got up from the table, "I'll go grab her a blanket."
He watched you disappear briefly down the hallway before looking back at Jia curled sleepily against his side.
Something in his expression softened.
Not just because you offered, but because of how naturally you did it. Like making space for them in your home hadn’t required a second thought.
By the time you returned with the blanket folded over your arms, Jia was already half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder.
He looked up as you approached, “Thank you,” he said gently.
The sincerity in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You handed him the blanket and watched him lay his daughter down carefully across the couch, making sure to tuck Leebit beneath her arm before pulling the blanket over both of them.
The sight felt almost unbearably tender. So tender, that you had to force yourself to look away before your feelings developed roots in your living room.
So instead, you escaped into the kitchen under the excuse of cleaning up. Which would’ve worked better if he hadn’t followed you with the dirty dishes a minute later.
“You know,” you said as he set them beside the sink, “most guests usually pretend to relax after dinner.”
“I told you,” he replied quietly, rolling his sleeves up slightly again. “I’m bad at staying still.”
The kitchen felt smaller now.
Quieter too.
Without Jia’s constant chatter filling the house, every little thing suddenly felt more noticeable.
The clink of dishes.
The brush of his arm beside yours.
The way he kept drifting close without seeming to realize he was doing it.
You tried very hard to focus on packing leftovers into containers instead. “Take these home with you guys,” you said, sliding one of the lids into place.
He looked over immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered on you for a second before softening slightly. “You always do things like this?”
“Feed people?”
“Take care of them.”
The question landed quieter than expected. Your hands paused briefly against the counter. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a second. “I like making people feel comfortable.”
He leaned lightly against the counter beside you, close enough now that you could smell soap lingering faintly against his skin underneath everything else.
“That explains Jia,” he murmured.
Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. You busied yourself with another container before looking over at him again.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Why’d you move here?”
Chan went quiet. His eyes drifted briefly toward the living room where Jia slept curled beneath the blanket.
“Fresh start,” he answered finally.
The words were simple. But heavy enough that you didn’t push immediately.
Chan exhaled softly through his nose before continuing anyway.
“Things got messy where we were before.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And Jia deserved somewhere quieter than all that.”
Something in your chest ached a little at the honesty in his voice.
“You'd do anything for her,” you said softly before thinking too hard about it.
Chan looked at you immediately after that. Like the answer to that question was the easiest thing in the world.
“Without a doubt." The certainty in his voice settled heavily in your chest.
Your eyes drifted toward the living room automatically, toward Jia asleep beneath the blanket with Leebit tucked against her chest.
“She’s lucky,” you murmured.
Chan was quiet for a second beside you. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
Something about the way he said it nearly took you out at the knees.
You focused very hard on snapping another lid onto a container before your face betrayed you completely.
“You make it sound easy,” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“Being there for someone like that.”
Chan leaned back against the counter slightly, studying you with an expression that had gone softer somewhere in the middle of the conversation.
“It’s not easy,” he said honestly. “You just keep choosing them anyway.”
Your hands slowed against the container in front of you before you glanced back toward him carefully. “What happened to her mom…” you asked softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Chan went still.
Quiet in a way that immediately made you wonder if you’d crossed a line.
“You don’t have to answer that,” you added quickly.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the living room again to watch Jia. “No,” he murmured after a second. “It’s okay.”
The kitchen felt smaller somehow while you waited.
Chan rubbed a hand slowly across the back of his neck before speaking again.
“She left when Jia was two.”
The words were calm, and straightforward. Like he’d repeated them enough times that they no longer sounded sharp coming out, but something in his face still tightened anyway.
“At first it was supposed to be temporary,” he admitted quietly, at least that's what it seemed like. “Then it just… wasn’t.”
Your chest ached instantly.
Chan laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t much humor in it.
“I think I spent a long time trying to convince myself I could fix it if I just worked harder.” His eyes lowered briefly toward the counter. “Turns out relationships don’t work like cars.”
The honesty in his voice made something twist painfully inside you.
“Chan…”
He shook his head lightly before you could say anything else.
“It’s better now,” he said quietly. “Or at least… calmer.” His gaze drifted toward Jia again, softening immediately. “And she’s happy.”
The way he said it made it painfully obvious that Jia’s happiness had become the center of his entire world.
Even at the expense of his own.
Silence settled quietly between you after that. Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy in a way that made you suddenly very aware of how close he was standing beside you.
The sink ran softly while you rinsed out one of the pots, mostly just to give your hands something to do.
He stayed leaned against the counter nearby, arms loosely crossed now. Open in a way he probably wasn't used to.
“I didn’t mean to make things depressing,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before.
You looked over immediately. “You didn’t.”
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.
“People usually get uncomfortable,” he admitted eventually. “Once they realize it’s just me and Jia.”
Your chest tightened slightly. “Why?”
He gave a small shrug, gaze dropping briefly toward the counter.
“Single dad thing, I guess.” A faint breath of laughter escaped him. “People either think you’re barely surviving or they start looking at you like you’re some kind of tragedy.”
You frowned. “That’s stupid.”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by how quickly you answered.
"I mean it," you continued softly. "You're a great dad, Chan."
He broke eye contact first, "I'm trying," he admitted quietly.
Something about the honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected, because he didn’t sound like someone asking for praise.
Just a parent who was tired.
The rest of the cleaning happened quietly after that.
Softer now, like something between you had shifted slightly without either of you fully acknowledging it.
Chan dried dishes while you put dishes away, the occasional brush of your arms still enough to make your heartbeat stumble embarrassingly fast. Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time the kitchen was finally clean again, the apartment had gone almost completely still.
Jia remained curled beneath the blanket on the couch, one tiny hand still wrapped around Leebit’s ear.
He glanced toward her before exhaling softly through his nose. “She’s out cold.”
“I think the pasta took her down.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes drifted toward the half-finished bottle of wine still sitting on the counter.
“You want me to head out?” he asked.
The question sounded polite, but not like he actually wanted to leave.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass before you answered.
“You can stay a little longer if you want.”
Chan looked at you then, something in his expression softened in a way that immediately made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, the two of you ended up back in the living room with fresh glasses of wine while Jia slept peacefully nearby.
The television stayed off.
Neither of you seemed to mind the quiet.
He leaned back carefully into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched loosely along the cushion behind Jia while you sat a little farther down the other end.
Close enough to talk softly. Close enough to notice things.
Like how his voice got rougher when he was tired.
Like how he listened with his full attention whenever you spoke.
Like how neither of you seemed in much of a hurry for the night to end anymore.
The conversation drifted easily after that.
Slower than before. Less careful.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Or maybe the two of you had simply crossed whatever invisible line existed between strangers and something else entirely.
“So,” Chan murmured after a while, turning his glass slowly between his hands, “how’d you end up here?”
You smiled faintly. “In this house specifically?”
“In this aggressively nosy neighborhood.”
A laugh slipped out of you softly enough that Jia stirred slightly beneath the blanket before settling again.
Both of your eyes immediately flicked toward her. Chan’s expression softened automatically once he realized she was still asleep.
It did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system.
“I grew up around neighborhoods like this,” you admitted quietly once the room settled again. “Everybody knowing each other. Neighbors bringing over food, or having neighborhood cookouts. Somebody’s aunt always watching from a window somewhere.”
Chan huffed softly into his wine. “That last part definitely tracks.”
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your glass.
“You’re never letting the spying thing go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
His smile lingered afterward. Softer now.
Less teasing than before. Like he’d relaxed enough to stop hiding behind it quite so much.
“I think I missed this,” he admitted after a moment.
Your expression eased slightly. “The spying?”
Chan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze drifted around the house briefly before settling back on you. “Just… this.”
The room. The conversation. The calm.
You understood immediately anyway.
Something in your chest tightened gently. “It gets lonely?” you asked softly.
Chan was quiet for a second. “Sometimes it feels like I only exist as somebody’s dad now.”
The honesty in the sentence settled heavily between you. He looked almost surprised after saying it out loud. Like he hadn’t meant to.
“Not that I mind being her dad,” he added quickly, glancing toward Jia again. “I just…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of work and bills and trying to keep everything together, I think I forgot how to be a person outside of taking care of everybody else.”
Your heart genuinely hurt for him then, because he said it so casually.
Like he’d gotten used to carrying that feeling around alone.
“Chan,” you said softly.
His tired eyes lifted toward you again.
The wine had loosened something in him tonight. Not enough to make him reckless.
Just enough to make him honest.
“You know what the weird part is?” he admitted quietly after a second. “I don’t even think I noticed how lonely I was until recently.”
Your chest tightened immediately. “Recently?”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his glass.
“Yeah.”
The single word landed warm. Heavy with implication neither of you addressed directly.
You looked down at your wine before smiling softly to yourself. “I think,” you admitted carefully, “sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget they’re allowed to want more than that.”
Chan went very still across from you. Like the sentence had landed somewhere deeper than you intended, or maybe exactly where you intended.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The house had gone completely quiet around you.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The soft ticking of your kitchen clock.
Jia breathing steadily beneath the blanket a few feet away.
Chan’s gaze stayed fixed on you longer than it probably should have. Not intense. Not even flirtatious, really. Just… searching.
“You always know the right thing to say,” he mumbled eventually, voice rougher now.
Warmth crept up your neck immediately. “No,” you laughed softly. “Most of the time I’m just hoping I don’t sound insane.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You don’t.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.
Like he wasn’t just reassuring you. He genuinely meant it.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.
You’re easy to talk to too,” you admitted quietly after a second.
Chan looked faintly surprised by that. “Yeah?”
You nodded once, tracing your thumb along the stem of your wine glass.“Most people don’t actually listen anymore. They just wait for their turn to talk.”
Chan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose at that, gaze dropping briefly toward the floor.
“Occupational hazard, maybe.”
“Mechanics are good listeners?”
“Single dads,” he corrected softly.
Something in your chest shifted at the answer.
Chan leaned back further into the couch afterward, looking more relaxed now than you’d seen him all night, or maybe just less guarded.
“I think I forgot what it felt like to sit somewhere and not feel stressed the whole time,” he admitted after a moment.
Your eyes lifted toward him immediately. He sounded almost confused by the realization himself.
Before you could think too hard about it, the words slipped out, “You can come here whenever you need a break.”
He looked at you. Holding that steady kind of attention that always made you feel like he was listening to more than your actual words.
Your pulse stumbled almost instantly.
“That’s a dangerous thing to offer me,” he said quietly.
Your breath caught slightly at the softness in his voice. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Chan’s gaze lingered on you for a second. “Because I think I’d get used to it.”
The confession settled between you gently. Not flirtatious. Somehow worse.
Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately looked down into your wine glass just to regain composure.
He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late because a quiet laugh escaped him afterward, softer around the edges now.
“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “That sounded more intense out loud.”
“A little,” you admitted weakly.
His smile widened faintly. “The wine’s making me honest.”
“I think you were honest before the wine.”
Chan looked at you carefully after that. Like he was trying to figure out whether you understood how much he already meant every word he said to you.
The terrifying part was, you did.
Chan glanced away first this time, exhaling quietly through his nose before leaning forward to set his glass down on the coffee table.
“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Your eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Why?”
“Because Jia gets attached easily.” His gaze flicked toward the couch automatically. “And I didn’t want to assume…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t know. That we could just suddenly start showing up in your life all the time.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at the wording.
Showing up in your life.
Like he’d already been thinking about the possibility.
“Chan,” you said softly, "you guys are not a burden to me."
Chan looked down briefly, thumb dragging once against the side of his glass before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You say things like that so casually,” he murmured.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why do you say that?”
His eyes lifted toward yours again, “You don’t realize what hearing that does to someone.”
Your heart stuttered.
From the couch, Jia shifted sleepily beneath the blanket with a soft little whine.
Both of your heads turned automatically.
Chan checked the time on his phone and immediately grimaced. “Okay,” he muttered quietly. “I definitely overstayed.”
“You didn’t.” The reassurance slipped out before you could stop it.
Chan looked at you for half a second before his expression softened again in that dangerous way you were rapidly becoming too attached to.
“Still,” he said gently, pushing himself up from the couch. “She’s gonna be impossible to wake up for school tomorrow if I don’t get her home.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly as the reality of the night ending settled in.
Suddenly, the house already felt quieter.
Chan crossed the living room slowly before crouching beside the couch. “Bug,” he murmured gently, brushing a curl away from Jia’s face. “Time to head home.”
Jia squinted up at him sleepily from beneath the blanket.
“M’tired.”
“I know.”
“Carry me?”
Chan’s expression softened immediately. “Always.”
Your heart nearly folded in on itself right there.
Jia lifted her arms sleepily toward him while he carefully gathered Leebit and the blanket first before reaching down for her.
Like this exact routine had happened a hundred times before.
Jia curled against his chest almost instantly after he picked her up, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Half-asleep already.
“Tell your neighbor thank you,” Chan murmured quietly.
Jia peeked one eye open toward you. “Thank you for pasta,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Her eyes drifted shut again immediately afterward. Chan adjusted her slightly higher against his chest before glancing toward you.
“Sorry again for staying so late.”
“Chan.”
He stopped immediately at your tone.
“You don’t have to apologize for being here.”
Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Like hearing it still caught him off guard.
Summary: Drunk you has no filter and your husband has always been a weak, weak man when it comes to you. He just didn’t expect your family planning conversation to awaken the caveman part of his brain or a raging breeding kink in both of you.
Warnings: smut!MDNI, established relationship, trying to conceive, pregnancy, soft dom!cheol, domestic fluff, humor, healthy communication, breeding kink awakening, enthusiastic consent, multiple + creative locations and one very smug husband who knocked you up in paradise, married life, baby fever, hormone-induced chaos, obsessed husband!Cheol x obsessed wife!reader, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 18.1k
Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.
Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.
His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.
“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”
He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.
“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”
His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”
You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.
You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.
“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”
He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.
You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”
A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”
The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.
“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”
He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.
“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.
“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.
Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.
He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”
“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”
“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”
Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.
His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.
Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.
“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”
“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.
Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.
“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”
“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”
You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.
“I said hold still.”
“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.
“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”
You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”
“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”
“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”
“Ooh, would you—”
“No.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”
“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.
“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”
“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”
“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”
“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”
He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”
You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.
“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.
“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”
The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.
“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”
“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”
“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”
“No promises.”
He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.
“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”
“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.
“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”
“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”
Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”
“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”
“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”
He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”
“Really?” you sniffle.
“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”
You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”
A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“But am I prettier?”
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”
Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”
“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”
“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”
“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”
“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”
“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”
“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”
You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”
Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”
“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”
“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”
You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.
“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.
“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”
“We’re literally married.”
“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”
“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”
He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”
“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”
He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”
“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”
“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”
He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.
“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.
You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”
“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.
You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.
“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.
“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Cheol?” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know.”
“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”
“Woman, I swear to—”
“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.
“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”
You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.
“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”
You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.
“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”
Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.
Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.
“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”
“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.
“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.
“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”
“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”
His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.
“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”
“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”
“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”
“Third date,” he repeats faintly.
“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”
Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.
“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.
“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”
But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.
Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”
“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.
“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.
“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”
“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”
You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”
He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”
“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”
“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”
“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”
“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.”
But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.
But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.
But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.
Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.
Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—
Your eyes fly open.
“Oh no.”
The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.
“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.
He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.
“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.
“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”
“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”
His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Cheol.”
“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”
“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”
“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”
“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”
“I was a disaster.”
“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”
“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.
“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”
“Seungcheol.”
He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”
“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”
Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.
“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.
“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”
“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”
“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”
“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…
“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”
The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”
“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”
Your breath catches.
“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”
“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”
“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”
“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.
Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.
You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.
“Cheol?”
“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”
You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.
“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”
“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.
“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”
Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.
“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”
“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”
It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”
His grip tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”
You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,
“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.
“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”
“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”
He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”
You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”
You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”
This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.
His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”
You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”
“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.
“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”
You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.
“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.
“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”
“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”
Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”
“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.
“What’s not fair?”
“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”
“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”
Your breath catches. “Are we?”
“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”
“Seungcheol—”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”
You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.
“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”
“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Yes, god, yes—”
His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…
“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”
His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.
“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”
“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”
“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”
You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”
So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.
About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.
“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.
“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”
“You’re a fein.”
“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”
“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”
“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”
“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.
“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.
“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.
“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”
One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.
“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”
“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.
“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”
“Need what, baby? Use your words.”
“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”
He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.
“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.
“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”
“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.
“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.
“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.
“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.
“You really did research.”
“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”
Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”
“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”
His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”
“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.
“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”
And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.
Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.
Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.
“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”
And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.
“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”
“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”
“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”
The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.
“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.
He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.
“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”
“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”
“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”
“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”
“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”
“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.
You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“And if not?”
“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”
His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”
“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”
“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”
“And then?”
“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”
“Again?!”
“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”
You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.
“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”
“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.
After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.
The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”
“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”
“That’s not—oh—”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”
“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”
“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”
“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.
This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.
“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”
“Cheol, baby please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”
You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.
The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.
You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.
You made it halfway through your sandwich.
“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“I’m eating—”
“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”
“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.
“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”
“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.
The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.
“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, god, anywhere—”
“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”
The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.
“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”
You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.
“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.
“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.
When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.
“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”
“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.
“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”
The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.
“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”
You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.
When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.
You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.
“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.
“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”
“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”
He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”
“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”
He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”
“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”
“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”
“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”
You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”
And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?
Well.
You’d had worse problems.
“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”
“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.
Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.
You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.
“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”
“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.
What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.
You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.
The office after hours? Check.
The car in the parking garage? Check.
The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.
But this—this was a new level, even for him.
“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”
“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”
“That’s not the point—”
“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”
“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”
You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.
It was romantic. Just also obscene.
“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”
There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.
“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”
“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”
“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.
“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”
His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”
The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.
“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.
“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.
“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”
You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”
“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”
“You’re counting?”
“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.
“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”
“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.
“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”
“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”
“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”
“We literally just finished—”
“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”
It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.
“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.
“Anything.”
“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”
His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”
“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”
He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.
This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.
“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”
He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”
“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”
“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”
“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”
But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.
Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.
You didn’t make it to dinner.
Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.
“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”
“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”
“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”
“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”
“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”
His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”
“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”
“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”
“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”
“You’ve been planning this.”
“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”
And he did.
You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.
Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.
“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”
“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”
“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”
Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.
“Cheol, this is going to tip—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.
“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.
“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.
His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.
“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”
“Cheol! You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”
“Someone could see—”
“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”
“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”
His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.
“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”
You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”
You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.
“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”
You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.
The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.
“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”
“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.
“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”
“Kids, plural?”
“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”
“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”
“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”
“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”
You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.
“Morning,” you murmured.
“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”
“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”
“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”
“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”
The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”
“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”
“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.
You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.
“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.
You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”
“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.
“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”
His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”
He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?
Totally worth it.
The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.
You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.
“Did I forget something?”
You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.
“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”
“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”
“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”
His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”
Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”
His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”
“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”
“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”
“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”
“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”
“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”
“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”
“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”
Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.
Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.
“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”
“To seduce me before dinner?”
“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”
His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”
“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”
He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”
“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”
“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”
“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.
“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“We haven’t even finished dinner.”
“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”
You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.
“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
“About the baby thing.”
That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”
You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”
“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”
“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”
“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”
“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”
He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”
“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”
“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”
“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.
You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.
Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.
“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat.
And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.
Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.
Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.
“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.
“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”
The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”
“Que?”
You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.
“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”
Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…
“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”
Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.
“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”
Your own heart seems to stop entirely.
“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”
“How early were you testing?”
“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”
“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”
The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.
“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”
Your baby.
“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.
“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”
“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”
“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”
Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.
“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”
“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”
Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.
“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”
“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”
“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”
“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”
“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”
“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”
“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”
“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”
“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”
The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”
Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”
“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”
“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”
“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.
“Little bit. You?”
“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.
“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.
“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”
“So spoiled.”
“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”
“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”
“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”
“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”
“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.
“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”
“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”
“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”
“Planning what?”
“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”
You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.
“Let’s go home,” you say softly.
Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.
“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”
“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.
All those months of trying.
All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.
Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.
Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.
You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.
Best surprise ever.
You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.
Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.
“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.
“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”
You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”
“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”
“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”
“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”
“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”
“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.
“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”
Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.
His baby. The thought still makes him feral.
“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”
And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.
“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.
“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.
“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”
“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”
You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.
“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.
“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”
“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”
“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.
“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”
“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”
“You just…we literally just—”
“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.
Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.
He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.
You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.
He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”
His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.
“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”
“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.
He does.
“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.
“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”
“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.
“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”
“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.
“I look pregnant.”
“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”
You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”
“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”
“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”
Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”
“Cheol.”
“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”
“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”
“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”
“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”
“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”
“Exactly, very responsible.”
“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”
“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.
“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.
The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.
This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.
This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.
Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.
Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.
With her large wicker basket circled around her wrist, Y/N started to laugh. Sky was tugging at a particularly thick branch, and despite her efforts, the raspberry she was trying to pluck stayed secure on its holding.
“Why is the branch so stretchy?” The six year old toppled over and landed flat on her bottom, her face taking on a defeated expression. She frowned and scrambled up to her feet again, reaching for the same raspberry and tugging at it again.
Y/N's laughter increased, as did Noah's when he stepped into the harden. She set the basket down by her feet. “Look, Ky baby, let me show you.”
Disgruntled, Sky paused and watched as her mother closed her fingers around a different berry. “If you tug at it, it won't come off and will probably get squished in the process. But if you twist it, the little leafy prongs easily lift from the fruit, and … “
With a gentle twist of her fingers, the raspberry fell from the branch and into Y/N's palm. She rolled it into Sky's basket with a smile.
Sky's eyebrows swept up her forehead. Still clutching the problematic berry she had been battling with, the girl did as her mother had told her and twisted it - it popped right off, and her mouth fell open in shock.
“You've got green thumbs now,” Noah grinned.
Sky shook her head and wiggled her sticky juice stained fingers in his direction. “Red thumbs. And fingers.”
Just then, the telltale whirring sound of Chris's juice machine faintly echoed from inside the house. It made Sky giggle, and she jumped around until the sound stopped, before picking another raspberry.
“How much juice is he gonna make?” Felix grumbled lightheartedly from the tomato vines. “He's been doing this all morning."
“All morning, every day,” Noah said. “He's obsessed. He's addicted to juice.”
“I think he just likes playing with the machine,” Y/N giggled as she plucked a small, ripe melon from another section in her garden. “He finds it satisfying.”
“I want raspberry juice,” Sky declared.
“You need more than three raspberries for that, Ky,” Felix grinned.
Sky wrinkled her nose. “I know. I'm trying but they keep squishing.”
Abandoning his tomatoes, Felix made his way to the raspberry bushes. He leaned in close to Sky, trying to teach her how to stop all the berries from turning into mush; after a few more attempts, Sky let Felix help her pick them, and her little basket filled up much quicker than before.
From a little way away, Y/N squealed to herself. “The pineapple is ripe!”
“You have pineapple too?” Felix asked, aghast. “What do you not have?”
“Garlic,” Noah said. “Because no one here likes garlic.”
“Yucky,” Sky stuck her tongue out. “And the purple thingies.”
“Eggplant?” Felix chuckled.
Sky shook her head. “No it has a fancy name.”
“Aubergine?” Y/N suggested.
“Aubegine!” Sky nodded.
Noah smiled. “They're the same thing, Ky Ky.”
Sky blinked. “Really? That's so stupid. Why two names?”
“You have two names,” Felix pointed out.
“Oh. That's true.”
From her pineapple plant, Y/N stood up and proudly flourished the plump fruit up to the little group. “Pineapple! Your dad is gonna go mad seeing this.”
“You should put some in a burger for him,” Felix said with an angelic smile. “You know … for memories.”
Sky had been gawping at the pineapple, but her face turned into one of disgust. “Why would you put pineapple in a burger? Uncle Lix you're gross … “
Inside the house, Chris was in seventh heaven as he pressed down on his juicer for the hundredth time.
“Green!” He exclaimed, pointing to the juice that flooded out into his bucket sized jug.
Sitting at the kitchen counter, Seungmin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no shit.”
“But Seungmin, it's green,” Chris grinned widely. “Isn't that so cool?”
“It's a fucking wad of kale, you lunatic,” Seungmin grumbled. “Obviously it's gonna be green.”
Chris sighed as he reached for another handful of vegetables, thought it was half heated and did nothing to quell the joy on his face. “You just don't get it. You don't understand the fine art of juice making. There's nothing like fresh juice. It smells good, it tastes good, it's healthy, there's no weird preservatives or chemicals or - “
Out of nowhere, Minho yelled loudly, cutting the man off. The sound was like a car horn, and everyone jumped at the sudden intrusion, and Chris stopped talking, gaze travelling to him in perplexity.
“What?” Chris blinked.
“Nothing,” Minho smiled.
From beside him, Hyunjin burst into laughter. He was already on his third glass of juice, and he held it delicately in his slender fingers as he sketched in a notebook on his lap.
Just then, Sky clattered into the kitchen with her small basket. “Daddy, daddy, daddy - “
She tripped over a barstool leg, and Chris immediately grabbed at her arm, stopping her from falling. She started to giggle as Chris shook his head fondly at her.
“Be careful,” Chris chuckled. “Whatcha got there, little one?”
“Raspberries,” Sky said proudly. “Daddy, daddy, daddy will you make me raspberry juice? I already washed them outside with the hose … well, mama did and I just watched but - “
“Okay, okay,” Chris's grin was large and it lit up his whole entire face as he took the basket from his daughter. “Sure you don't want anything else in it? Maybe some … cucumber? Cucumber's really good for you.”
“Ewww,” Sky's tongue hung out of her mouth, clearly repulsed by the idea. Seungmin's face looked much the same as he stared at the cucumber in vehemence, and Sky giggled, thudding over to him.
“You sure?” Chris teased as Seungmin pulled the girl easily onto his lap. “I mean … it could taste good, but you'll never know.”
“I don't want to know,” Sky gagged. “Raspberries and cucumbers are not friends, daddy.”
“Yeah, listen to her,” Seungmin smirked. “Stop putting cucumber in everything.”
Chris smiled sweetly. “Do you want some lovely, refreshing cucumber juice, my dear Kim Seungmin?”
Seungmin's smile was just as sweet. “Would you like the cucumber in your eye, my dear Bang Chan?”
The entire room erupted into laughter, as did Chris, the man pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He pushed away his jug of green juice and pulled off the components of his juicer, rinsing them so the leftovers wouldn't mix with his daughter's raspberries.
“Woah, you picked enough raspberries to feed the whole street, Ky Ky,” Chris hummed. He plucked out a particularly fat one and held it out to Sky, the girl greedily gobbling it down. “Anyone else want raspberry juice?”
“Lord have mercy on all our souls,” Jeongin said mildly from the corner. “If you feed us any more juice we'll all explode.”
Sky turned around in Seungmin's lap and giggled at Jeongin. “What have you had, uncle Yenie?”
“No idea,” Jeongin shook his head. “Something orange, something yellow, something weird and brown - “
“It was purple,” Chris protested, ears flushing.
“Weirdest purple I've ever seen,” Hyunjin said. “I'll have some raspberry juice.”
“Okay, raspberry for Hyunjinnie … “ Chris turned away and pulled out another glass, setting it beside Sky's. “Anyone else? Bin? Hannie?”
“No,” Changbin groaned. “I want steak.”
A chorus of agreement flooded through the kitchen.
“Steak juice,” Jisung choked, cracking up st his own words.
Chris tutted, dropping handfuls of the ruby coloured berries into the juicer. “This is … nature's steak.”
A chorus of groans flooded through the kitchen, too.
Sky's eyes twinkled with mischief. “Don't be mean to my daddy. He's making me raspberry juice!”
“Aww,” Chris's face crumpled, and he reached out to tickle the underside of Sky's chin. “You like juice, don't you?”
Sky nodded eagerly. “But only if it's raspberry.”
“Okay,” Chris chuckled. He placed his hand on top of the juicing rod. “Cover your ears if you want - it's gonna be loud.”
Sky clamped her hands over her ears, and Chris grinned as he pushed the rod down the juicer tunnel, squashing the raspberries. The crimson juicer trickled into Sky's glass and she gasped, leaning forward and almost pressing her face up against it in wonder.
“Seungmin, look!” Sky turned and looked up at her uncle's face.
“Hey! When I said it was cool you started bullying me,” Chris faked a sob as he reached for more berries.
Seungmin grinned. “Yeah, because you're an old man and she's six.”
Mumbling under his breath, Chris continued to juice the raspberries - he filled up the two glasses and pushed them both to Sky with a tender smile.
“Give that one to Uncle Jinnie, baby,” Chris said.
“Okay daddy,” Sky slid off of Seungmin's lap and picked up the second glass, shuffling over to Hyunjin. He looked up at her with a bright smile as she handed him the juice, and his hand smoothed over her head in a fond gesture before she ran away again to the garden door.
“Ky, your juice!” Chris called after her. But she disappeared into the garden, and the man chuckled to himself, reaching for his half full green juice jug again.
A few moments later, Sky returned with her mother, Noah, and Felix, whose cheeks were stained with pink.
Chris raised an eyebrow at him. “What've you been eating?”
“Berries,” Felix said demurely.
“We brought you more stuff,” Y/N said then, placing her large basket onto the counter. Chris's eyes almost popped out of their sockets upon seeing the abundance of ripe fruit and vegetables filling every crevice of the basket, and his immediate reaction was to turn around and grab a dozen clean bottles from the worktop behind him.
“Looks like we're starting a juice shop,” Y/N giggled, kissing him on the cheek. She moved to the fridge and pulled it open; a row of filled bottles in an array of colours already stacked the top shelf, and the woman stared. “How much have you made?”
“Not enough,” Chris said happily. He looked down at Noah who reached over and stole a chunk of cucumber from the chopping board, and Chris grinned at the eleven year old, his hand gently caressing his face.
“We got you something else,” Noah said, tilting his head up at him. “Ky has it.”
Chris cocked his head to the side. “Oh yeah? What is it?”
Sky started giggling. She brought her hands out from behind her back and held the medium sized pineapple aloft, its spiky leaves ruffling upon movement.
Chris gasped. “A pineapple?"
“Pineapple,” Sky nodded. “For you.”
Squealing with joy, Chris took the fruit and immediately pushed his green juice to the side. “Anyone want fresh pineapple juice?”
This story is a new adult/college sports romance and contains mature themes intended for readers 18+. It includes explicit language, detailed sexual tension, innuendo, power dynamics, alcohol use, party culture, and eventual explicit sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
The list will be added once chapters with warning content occur.
Dedication:
"This one goes out to all the readers who dreamed of becoming something greater — to the ones who stayed up late chasing impossible goals, who pushed through doubt and setbacks, who quietly believed they could rise above the noise. Whether you're still fighting for your dream or finally living it, this story is for you. Keep becoming."
Chan
"Oh fuck," I groan deeply, my voice rough with pent-up need. Gracie's warm, wet mouth slides up and down my thick cock with eager, practiced strokes, her tongue swirling around the swollen head every time she pulls back. College has been a brutal grind lately endless practices, brutal games, and exams that make my head throb. Right now, though, all that stress is melting away thanks to this eager little puck bunny on her knees between my spread thighs.
"That's it, Stacy—fuck, just like that," I moan, my hips bucking up instinctively.
The pleasure suddenly vanishes as she pulls off with an audible, wet pop, strings of spit still connecting her swollen lips to my glistening shaft.
"Uh... my name is Gracie," she says, that sharp, offended tone cutting through the hazy bass thumping from the party upstairs.
I blink, still hazy with lust, my cock twitching angrily in the cool basement air. "That's what I said, didn't I?" I reply with a lazy shrug, trying to play it cool like I always do. It's not the first time I've mixed up a name mid-blowjob, and it sure as hell won't be the last.
"No, you called me Stacy," she snaps, rising to her feet and planting her hands on her hips. Her perky tits are still out, nipples hard from the cool air and earlier attention, lipstick smeared messily around her mouth. The dim string lights in the hockey house basement cast soft shadows over her flushed skin, making her look even hotter when she's pissed.
I smirk, not bothering to cover myself. My heavy cock stands proudly, veined and slick with her saliva, bobbing with every heartbeat. I lean back further into the worn leather couch, legs spread wide in arrogant comfort.
"Gracie, Stacy... whatever, babe," I say, flashing her the same cocky grin that gets me out of trouble on and off the ice. "You gonna stand there pouting with those pretty tits out, or are you gonna finish what you started? I've got practice at six tomorrow and I need to drain these balls so I can actually sleep tonight."
Her mouth falls open in disbelief, eyes wide. For a second, real annoyance flashes across her face. "Wow. You're actually serious right now?" she huffs, cheeks burning brighter. "I've been sucking your dick for ten minutes straight and you can't even get my name right?"
I roll my eyes and wrap my fist around my throbbing length, stroking it slowly from base to tip right in front of her, making sure she watches every lazy pump. "Look, you're fucking hot, and that mouth felt incredible. But if you're gonna throw a tantrum every time I slip up, there's fifteen other girls upstairs who won't care. Your choice, princess."
She glares at me, chest heaving. The silence stretches, filled only by the muffled thump of music and distant laughter from the party. Her eyes keep flicking down to my hand working my slick cock, pupils dilating with that familiar hungry conflict. Mad... but still turned on. Still addicted to the rush of being the girl who made the star forward feel good.
Finally, she bites her glossy lower lip.
"...You're such an asshole," she mutters, but she's already sinking back down to her knees on the sticky basement floor, crawling between my thighs like she never left.
I chuckle low in my throat, victorious, and slide my fingers into her soft hair, gripping just tight enough to guide her.
"Yeah, but I'm the asshole whose dick you're dying to swallow. Now be a good girl, Gracie," I emphasise her name with a mocking lilt, "and make me forget how shitty this semester's been."
She shoots me one last fiery glare before wrapping her warm lips around me again. This time she takes me deeper, relaxing her throat until her nose presses against my abs. The wet, filthy sounds of her sucking fill the small room obscene gags and slurps that make my balls tighten.
"Fuuuuck, that's it," I groan, head falling back against the couch as pleasure surges through me. I tighten my grip in her hair, guiding her rhythm, occasionally pushing her down until her throat squeezes around me. "Good fucking girl... just like that. Deeper."
Her hands come up to cup my heavy balls, massaging them gently while she bobs faster, hollowing her cheeks. Spit drips down my shaft and over her chin as she works me with everything she has. The pressure builds fast, tight, hot, and relentless.
I look down at her ruined makeup, watery eyes staring up at me, and feel that familiar rush of power. "Gonna cum," I warn, voice strained. "Swallow it all like a good puck bunny."
She moans around my cock in response, the vibration pushing me over the edge. With a deep, guttural groan, I thrust up and explode, pulsing thick ropes of cum straight down her throat. She keeps sucking through it, milking every drop until I'm completely spent and twitching.
I finally loosen my grip on her hair, breathing hard, a lazy, satisfied smirk spreading across my face as she pulls off and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Fuck... that was perfect," I murmur, giving her hair one last pat before tucking myself back into my jeans and zipping up. I stand and stretch, the heavy weight of the semester's stress finally drained from my body.
"C'mon," I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her up off her knees. "Let's head back upstairs. I need a beer."
Gracie quickly fixes her top and smooths her hair as I lead her up the creaky basement stairs, my hand resting on the small of her back. The thumping music grows louder with every step. When we push through the door into the main floor, the party hits us full force bodies grinding, red cups everywhere, and the air thick with weed and cheap booze.
I keep my hand on her waist, steering her through the crowd. A couple of my teammates shout my name and I nod back, still buzzing from the release.
"Thanks for that, Macy," I say casually, leaning down so my lips brush her ear as we move toward the kitchen.
"Your mouth is fucking magic. Exactly what I needed after this brutal week."
She stops dead in the hallway, yanking her arm free like I burned her.
"Macy?! Are you fucking kidding me?!" she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the music. A few people nearby glance over, eyebrows raised.
I blink down at her, feigning confusion. "What? I said Gracie... didn't I?"
"No! You called me Macy!" Her face is bright red, eyes blazing with real anger now. "I just sucked your dick, swallowed everything, and you still can't get my fucking name right? You're actually pathetic."
I shrug, flashing a half-smirk. "Gracie, Macy, whatever. They rhyme. It's not that serious, babe—"
But she's already done. She shoves my chest with both hands, not hard enough to move me, but hard enough to make her point.
"Fuck you," she spits, voice shaking with humiliation and rage. "Find one of your other fifteen puck bunnies. I'm done."
Before I can say another word, she spins on her heel and storms off through the crowd, pushing past people with her head held high. I watch her go, her tight jeans and messy hair disappearing into the sea of bodies.
A slow, genuine wave of relief washes over me. Thank fuck.
I let out a low chuckle and roll my shoulders, already feeling lighter. No more attitude. No more bitchy corrections. No risk of her clinging to me for the rest of the night like some stage-five clinger. Just sweet, peaceful freedom.
I head straight for the keg, grinning as I pour myself a fresh beer. One of my line-mates claps me on the back.
"Who was that?" he asks, nodding toward where Gracie disappeared.
I take a long sip, the cold beer tasting like victory.
"No idea," I say with a shrug. "Some chick named... something. Doesn't matter." And just as I pour myself a beer, I head upstairs to get some well-earned rest
...
Saturday 6 am
My alarm goes off and I mute that shit within seconds. "Fuck," I groan, rolling over and out of bed. I'm not hungover, I only had one drink last night. I don't like to drink during the season, and this is my last season with the Racers. I want to do well. I want to lead us to the finals for the Third year in a row.
I plant my feet on the cold floor of the old on-campus house I share with four other guys. The place is a total pig sty, red cups and bottles on the coffee table, scrap that not just on the coffee table but everywhere, and the faint smell of sweaty gear that never fully goes away no matter how much we spray. My room's the biggest only because I'm the senior captain. The others are still dead to the world: I can hear Hyunjin snoring like a chainsaw through the wall, Jeongin probably passed out face-down after sneaking back in at 2 a.m., and Han and Minho are crashed in the living room after last night's video game marathon.
I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the familiar tightness in my left shoulder from that big hit in the conference semifinal last season. Still not 100%, but close enough.
Coffee first. I shuffle into the tiny kitchen we all fight over and hit the button on the machine I set up the night before like clockwork. While it brews, I drop into a plank on the worn living room rug, then knock out push-ups until my arms burn. The ache feels good. Reminds me I'm still fast, still strong, and I've still got one more year to make my mark before the real world hits.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Coach:
Morning skate 8 sharp. Full contact. Don't be late, Keller.
Me:
Wouldn't dream of it, Coach.
The Racers. My Racers for one last ride. We've bled on the ice together since freshman year, won two conference titles, and come heartbreakingly close. This year feels different. The young guys are hungry, the juniors are stepping up big, and as captain I've got that fire in my chest that says we're not leaving without the national championship.
I chug the coffee black, throw on compression leggings and a hoodie, then grab my gear bag from beside the door. Han stirs on the couch as I pass. "Skate's at eight, Get your ass up soon or I'm dragging you," I mutter. He groans something unintelligible and rolls over.
...
The early morning air is crisp as I step outside the house and head toward the arena. The campus is still quiet, frost on the lawns, my breath fogging in front of me. I pop in my earbuds and crank Are you gonna be my girl - Jet mixed with whatever chaos the group chat is blasting. The walk wakes me up the rest of the way.
This isn't just another season. This is the one I've been working toward since I first stepped on campus. One last chance to leave a legacy with my guys in this beat-up house and on that ice.
college hockey romance • captain x student monitor • forced proximity • opposites attract • slow burn • he falls first • emotionally exhausted golden boy • grumpy x sunshine-ish • college chaos • “you need to loosen up” 18+ content
Bang Chan is Blackwood University’s golden hockey captain campus favorite, future draft pick, and one bad decision away from losing everything.
Thea Vale is the student assigned to keep him under control.
She’s organised, responsible, and completely unimpressed by his reputation. He’s reckless, overworked, and dangerously good at getting under her skin.
Their arrangement is supposed to be simple:
keep Chan eligible, survive hockey season, and avoid distractions.
Instead, it turns into late-night study sessions, hockey parties, empty ice rinks, and Thea slowly realising the charming captain everyone loves is barely holding himself together behind the scenes.
And Chan?
Chan’s starting to fall for the one girl who sees right through him. ❄️
after a long day, mingyu’d just want to come home to you and cuddle until you both fall asleep; you’re more than happy to oblige. but as he flops down to the bed and squirms closer to you, the way his body tenses and sags would catch your attention. so, as he cuddles into you, face buried in the crook of your neck, you call out his name. he answers with a soft hum. a soft smile finds it way to your face and you dip your head a bit to level with his.
your lips busy themselves with his as one of your hands travel down the expanse of his torso, caressing the soft but tired skin, until you stop just above the waistband of his sweatpants. mingyu sighs into the kiss as you slip your hand past the garter and his boxers, palming his hardening cock. he’d start whining the longer you stalled, eventually hiding his blushing face in your chest, making you chuckle.
you decide to cut him slack and move down his body, kneeling beside him as you pull out his member from his pants. mingyu releases a mewl when you kitten-lick his sensitive head; his chest rises and falls rapidly as the pleasure in the the pit of his stomach increases. you smile softly before poking out your tongue again, this time to lick the underside from base to tip. the shaky breath mingyu lets out only feeds your pride. he finds enough strength to call out to you, though his voice is wavering and whining. “baby, baby please, i need to cum, please make me cum.”
and really, how could you ever say no to him? especially when he’s so good, begging and asking so nicely. you take his head into you mouth, sucking gently and softly, your tongue licking and prodding at the slit every now and then; one is hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping slowly, while the other is holding his hips down, fingers tracing small patterns into his honey skin. you look up at him through your lashes, an adoring smile breaking out when you see how deep he is in pleasure- eyebrows furrowed, eyes scrunched closed while his lips part in a silent moan.
you rest your head on his thigh while your hand pumps him faster, eliciting a long and high pitched whine from his cherry lips. mingyu’s hand scrambles for your free one. you hold it and intertwine your fingers. squeezing your hand, he finally moans out. “i’m gonna c-cum, g-gonna cum, b-baby, p-please-”
you latch your lips to his head again, pumping faster as you swirl your tongue on the tip, sucking gently. with your coercion, he cums in your mouth as whines and moans escape him, chest heaving and hand squeezing yours. once you swallow and he’s ridden his high, you detach from him- not without protests from mingyu, but you manage. even through his dazed and sleepy state, he reaches out for you, grabby hands that make you giggle and coo at him. you sit next to him, towel in hand, and start cleaning him up gently, careful because you’re pretty sure he can’t handle another round.
mingyu nuzzles his face into your chest while you play with his hair, kisses of thanks landing on whatever exposed skin he could reach. soon enough, he’s snoring, and with a soft smile you peck his temple and drift off to sleep yourself.
their favourite spot for you to get your hands on !
note: decided to start a tag list so pls comment or send your user into my asks to be added to my skz (and/or bts when i start) list !
chris | abs
loves it when he feels your hands wrapping around his midsection, digging your fingers into the crevices between his abs.
his skin erupts into goosebumps when he feels you drag your fingers around his skin, either on top or beneath his shirt.
you could be idly chatting, laying in bed, sitting next to each other, but there’s more of a chance your hand will have found his abdomen sometime between conversation.
you can’t get enough of the sight of your fingers rippling as you pass over his abs, the bumps and ridges you can memorize like your own skin.
“having fun?” chris hums, one eyebrow raised.
“i am, thank you for your astute observation,” you give him a cheeky smile, digging your thumb into his navel. he jumps at the pressure, nostrils flaring as he pushes your hand away, “hey wait-!” you slap both hands onto his muscle, pushing yourself up and over, straddling his thighs. “i was not done here.”
chris’s mouth gapes like a fish out of water. what the hell is wrong with you, he wants to say.
as if you can read his mind you smile a devious thing, “nothing is wrong with me, can i not simply admire the effort my lovely boyfriend has put into sculpting his body?” his brows crease together, probably concerned for you.
“well- i didn’t- i don’t-” chris stutters, unsure of how to counter you.
so he doesn’t, he allows your assault of his abdomen, for all things considered, it’s really not that big of a deal. and he likes knowing you appreciate his hard work.
minho | thighs
he let you lay between his thighs once, count that, once (1), bigggg mistake.
you asked him to squish your head between his thighs one day, he asked if you were okay in the head. you replied, no.
there’s hardly a time where your hand isn’t rested on the skin of his thigh, feeling the warmth and solid muscle beneath your fingers.
if you’re lucky, minho will let you sit between his legs on the ground, while he sits on the couch, if there’s people over or not enough space where he is, and rest your head on his thigh.
the apartment fills with the chatter of over eight people, a night where finally everyone is off. you reemerge from the kitchen, four drinks expertly split between your fingers. as you set them on the coffee table between everyone, you scan the living room, looking for a good place to stay. minho notices and gestures you over, as if he was going to let you sit between jisung and felix, you may never come back alive.
you assume he wants you to sit on his lap or something, which you’d happily oblige, but he shuffles his feet apart slightly. your eyes widen, finally.
you turn, sit and scoot backwards until your back touches the front of the couch between minho’s legs. your head immediately falls to the side, feeling the solid muscle beneath your head. you’d probably be content to die here, you figure.
changbin | biceps
loooooooves when you wrap your hands around one of his biceps, touching, feeling, memorizing.
he’ll subtly flex, (not so subtle when your arms are the size of his), letting you feel the fruit of hours of work. you press the pads of your fingers into his skin, pushing, poking, prodding.
changbin’s happy to be dragged around, or have you walk by his side with your hand grasping his arm, a type of searing possessive brand attached to his side.
don’t get me started on when he lets you use his bicep as a pillow, you could 100% die happy.
it wasn’t even ten minutes ago that you’d gotten ready for bed, slipping in silently, next to changbin, who, you assumed, was sleeping. when you settled, he rolled over, wrapping an arm around you, leaving the other bent under his own head. in his sleep, he began to feel uncomfortable. changbin’s eyes cracked open, trying to figure where he could puzzle his arm, he figured that you wouldn’t mind if he slid it underneath your head, under your pillow.
being still awake, you felt him shifting around, and your pillow being jostled left and right. you push yourself onto your palms and changbin freezes. you toss your pillow aside, laying his arm straight. you turned to face him, his hand now on your back, and rested your head on his arm, nose pressed dangerously close to his beating heart.
you slept like a baby.
changbin could not feel his arm come morning time.
hyunjin | fingers
hyunjin’s nimble fingers cannot escape your grasp
laying in bed? playing with his fingers. sitting on the couch? playing with his fingers. shopping? playing with the fingers of the hand that isn’t holding a bag for you.
you like to watch while he paints or draws, how he’s able to spin paint brushes and pencils around his fingers like they’re lighter than air.
you’re unsure of where your obsession stemmed from, but hyunjin doesn’t mind when you take his hand into your own and spin the rings around his fingers or bend and unbend them.
you’re both on the couch, coexisting together as you do separate tasks. he’s working on something on his laptop and you’re trying to reply to emails. since when did they pile up. why is there so many of them. can people learn to not hit reply all, god that annoys you. sometime as you were caught in your mind, you started wringing your fingers together, bending them slightly unnaturally. hyunjin notices and places his hand between your own.
you immediately take to spinning his rings around, subconsciously. it was a small gesture but you zoned back in sometime after, realizing you weren’t holding your hand, but the hand of your lover. you raise his fingers to your mouth and give them a small kiss as a thank you. hyunjin understands and rests his hand in your own, you think the emails can wait until tomorrow.
jisung | hands
much like hyunjin, jisung’s hands are never far from yours
it’s a mutual thing, really. he likes yours as much as you like his.
you’ll trace little shapes and letters into his palm, keeping your touch light as he occupies himself with work or whatever else.
in bed? hands held. in public? hands swinging together like school children. lounging around? someone’s getting their hands played with.
often times, when jisung is nervous, he’ll wring his hands together, or pick at his nails. in an attempt to cease his habit, you’ve taken to just holding his hands in your own:
“let me see your hands,” you hold out your own for jisung to place his palms in. he complies, laying his hands in yours. nothing happens for a minute, he gives you a confused look. “they’re heavier than mine.”
“were you…” he scans your face, “weighing my hands?” his head tilts to the side with a ridiculous smile on his face.
you weren’t. you were getting him to stop subconsciously picking at his cuticles, and wanted an excuse to have his hands in yours.
felix | ass
he absolutely loves it for one reason or another when he can feel your hand slither its way into the back pocket of his jeans, laying on his ass.
he’s not sure if it’s the surefire possessive touch or just that out of all places, you chose his back pocket to rest your hand.
you could be at home, in public, or just standing around somewhere, it’s like there’s a magnet attracting your hand to his ass.
if you’re feeling adventurously brave, you’ll ask felix to lay face down and lay your head on him, content to scroll your phone or read.
felix feels the hand on his waist slowly lower to the back pocket of his jeans. before you can wriggle your fingers into the jean, his eyes snap to yours. “we’re in public.”
“i’m aware.” you smile, not looking away from the board in front of you. “what are you gonna get?” you gesture to the station. felix huffs, turning back to the kiosk. he flicks through a few pages before settling on something he always gets.
somewhere between him trying to sound intimidating and picking his order, your hand slid into his back pocket. “someone could see…” he tries but you’re having none of it.
“if they see my hand then they’re looking at your ass,” you finally look at him, his cheeks are bright red, flushing out the sight of his freckles.
seungmin | neck
seungmin feels utterly helpless when your fingers rest on the skin of his neck. whether they’re on his nape, near the pulse points or around the front, he simply adores it.
he feels like he’s being publicly claimed as yours when your fingers drum against his neck. blood rushes to his cheeks, warming them significantly.
when you’re in the privacy of your home, he allows himself to be guided around by the hand on his nape, pulling and pushing.
sometimes, he’ll take your hand and bring it to his shoulder, silently asking for you to rest your fingers around his neck. it’s never in a mean way, he really just likes having the weight of your hand nearby.
you come home to seungmin on the phone, chatting away to whomever is on the other end. he doesn’t hang up when you come to stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder and pressing a kiss to the back of his head. seungmin takes a hold of your fingers mid conversation, you raise a brow, unsure if he’s doing it absentmindedly or if he’s just feeling particularly like he doesn’t care. he places your hand on the junction where his shoulder meets his neck and pushes your fingers in.
he continues to talk into the phone, you figure bangchan is on the other end when you hear his hearty laughter through the microphone, they must be talking about something with scheduling, or so. whatever it is, it’s got seungmin tense.
you push and pull as his skin, massaging the place he put your hand. you can slowly feel his shoulders giving up as his head rolls to the side, giving you better access.
with the phone still pressed to his other ear, you lean down and press another kiss to his head, keeping your hand comfortably on his neck as he finishes with chan.
jeongin | collarbones
despite the sensitive skin over his collarbones, jeongin loves when you trace lines and shapes over the bone. you keep your touches light, knowing that further pressure can actually really hurt.
you’ll be laying with your head on his shoulder, and suddenly he’s asking you to switch positions so that you can drag your nail across his skin.
it started when you were absentmindedly drawing shapes into the skin of his chest, your hand wandered up and ghosted across his collarbones
since then, it’s been his favourite source of comfort
the bedroom door creaks open, you should really get that fixed, revealing jeongin. his sleep shorts don’t reach far but his sweater basically swallows him whole. you immediately open your arms up, inviting him in. “long day?” he hums as he falls into your hold.
as soon as he’s comfortable, he grabs your closest hand, playing with your fingers. you know what he’s too shy to ask, so you free your hand from him and brush your them across his collarbones, distracting him from whatever is plaguing his mind. he doesn’t usually get needy enough to simply fall into you, but everyone has their off days. you’re just glad you have a surefire way to comfort him when he does.
you feel jeongin press closer into you, at this point, you’re sure that if he was a cat his whole body would be reverberating with purrs.
i wanted to exhibit my need to touch. | @ hosungie masterlist
pairing: f1 driver! husband! father! yoon jeonghan x wife! mother! fem! reader
genre & warnings: angst, lots of fluff, childbirth
desc: it's eight months after revealing your pregnancy to your husband, and you've gone into labour...whilst jeonghan is on the track in japan..
wc: 2.1k
note: ahh i'm so in love with hannie :3 really tempted to just write a full-length yjh f1 au at this point lol...ᯓ𝄞 anyone else but you by the moldy peaches & i've never met anyone i thought i could really love (until i met you) by westside cowboy
Pregnancy is hard, harder than most things life throws at you, harder than anything you could’ve possibly imagined.
It’s difficult to remember every single supplement in the morning, especially when you’ve spent most of the night over the toilet bowl. It’s difficult to fit your trainers on your swollen feet at week thirty. It’s especially difficult to wave Jeonghan onto a jet and watch him speed at almost two hundred miles per hour on your TV screen.
Watching the jet door suction shut, the click too familiar now as you sat in your car on the runway, waving innocently to Jeonghan whose eyes didn’t leave your distant figure until you reversed and drove off.
It was always common knowledge that your pregnancy with Jeonghan wasn’t going to be easy. Especially when you refused to let him skip a season.
‘You above everything else, baby, that’s what I said in Italy when we slid these rings on our fingers!’ Jeonghan’s voice was raised, not quite shouting, but he held his left hand up, exaggeratedly pointing at his wedding band.
You sighed, a long one. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant now, and the new season was rolling around rapidly — and with that, Jeonghan’s hesitation to leave his pregnant wife’s side.
But you insisted.
You refused to let him stop now, not when the momentum was so strong, his placing on podium last season setting him up for the perfect pole this season.
‘Jeonghan,’ your bump was particularly visible now, sticking out of your slightly cropped tee as you leaned against the island in the kitchen. ‘Don’t let yourself give this up right now, please.’
He was ready to refuse, shake his head almost violently until your glassy eyes met his. You knew how important racing was for him; being here every day would drive him insane. You knew he needed to be out there. ‘Please.’
After days of talks between the two of you, he agreed on many conditions. He would not race leading up to your due date. Ferrari could cope without him for one race. If he, god forbid, were involved in any sort of collision, he would step back for the rest of the season, and the moment you needed him, he would drop everything. He wouldn’t hesitate.
So whilst he lapped around Sazuka, your due date comfortably two weeks away, you were on the way to the hospital, your best friend Seungcheol behind the wheel.
Jeonghan had thought of every scenario of your labour. Including this. One late night, when you’d found your husband pacing your vast conservatory, face etched with stress, he explained the plan in detail.
If, or when, you were to go into labour whilst he was away, Seungcheol was to call him immediately. In the rare, or not so rare, chance that he was on the track when it happened, Seungcheol was to ring Minghao immediately.
From there, Minghao was to alert your husband. And Jeonghan would stop, get his car off the track and go straight to the landing strip to fly straight to you.
‘Simple as that.’ He finished, his hands holding yours tightly as you nodded, agreeing, knowing that he needed this more for his mental health than anything.
Breathing in heavily and exhaling with a painful huff. Sweat slipped down your head like you were in a shower. Your thighs were wet, but you were in too much pain to even think about Cheol’s expensive Audi seats.
Through the pitching pain, you could hear Cheol’s voice beside you, his engine roaring as he weaved through the busy Seoul streets.
‘Hao,’ He said, voice slightly shaky as he looked at you, tears running down your face as your contractions overtook your body.
‘Fuck, it’s time?’ The man’s voice bled through the car speakers, the instant shuffle of commotion caught by the microphone.
In the humid Japanese climate, Minghao ran across the pit lane. Seungcheol’s one word was enough to spring Jeonghan’s well-rehearsed plan into action.
The heat stuck to everyone, the blinding track lights making everyone look particularly sickly right now. The CEO couldn’t decide if he felt sick or if everyone around him looked unwell. Gripping his headset, he nodded to the race engineer in silent understanding.
Letting out a big breath, he let himself be heard by the Ferrari driver, who was on lap thirty-five of fifty-three.
‘Jeonghan,’ Minghao spoke with deadly calm, despite his horrific nerves. ‘She’s gone into labour, it’s time.’
On the track, it felt like the entire world had slowed; his brain was speeding as the surroundings blurred, your husband was processing the information as fast as his car was moving. The cheering of the crowd and the roaring of the engine were deafened as Jeonghan only thought about you, across the East Sea, breathing heavily, your child hours away from being born.
Back in Seoul, Seungcheol was helping you out of the car, your pants and grunts loud and alerting as he pulled in front of the rather fancy private hospital Jeonghan insisted you attend.
Seungcheol wasn’t just Jeonghan’s best friend — he was the best man at your wedding, he was there the day you met, the pair of you young and immature as you leaned over the railing in Baku, a microphone in your hand, Jeonghan in a trance as he looked up at you above him.
He’d drop everything for both of you, his absolute best friends, and it’s how he landed the job of being your makeshift number one in this situation.
‘Fuck Cheol,’ you tried to bark out a laugh, that turned into a teeth-clenching roar of pain.
Jeonghan was pulling into the vast landing strip, the jet he’d paid to be prepared at every location so far, ready just as he had anticipated. His mind was racing as he sped, rather illegally, through the streets, wondering how you could be in labour two weeks early when everything was going perfectly.
Without a second thought, he ditched the sports car, chucking the keys to the designated staff before practically sprinting onto the plane, his phone held to his ear.
‘Choi, this better be going exactly as I planned.’ He tried to joke, but he was tense, strapping himself into the seat as he gripped the phone as if it could ground him.
‘She’s in,’ His best friend sounded stressed, a heavy sigh escaping with the words. ‘She’s in pain, but the nurses have said everything is healthy.’
‘Do-do we have an estimate on timings?’ Jeonghan felt himself beginning to well up, the pressure and anxiety of him missing the birth of your child sitting on his shoulders like the heaviest weight he’d ever felt.
No race, championship or season had rattled him like this. No amount of looming pre-race anxiety or adrenaline could even begin to compare to what was pumping through his veins at the moment.
‘Nurses said anywhere between three and five hours.’ Seungcheol reassured your stressed husband. ‘Fly safe, Han, I’ll see you soon.’
When Jeonghan arrived at the hospital, everything seemed to move in slow motion around him. Seungcheol stood at the door, a scowl on his face, before he enveloped Jeonghan in a hug, an arm around his shoulder as he guided Jeonghan through the endless corridors.
He listened intently to his best friend’s words but couldn’t escape the ringing that persisted until the door to your suite opened, and like a vacuum seal breaking, sound and movement burst into his periphery. Your husband didn't hesitate; he was at your side instantly, your skin coated with sweat as your hair stuck to your face.
‘Baby,’ you gritted out, taking in his dishevelled appearance as you turned your head to him, your gorgeous eyes even glowing right now.
‘My angel,’ he replied, instantly smoothing your hair off your face and kissing the top of your head.
For the hours to come, Jeonghan didn’t leave your side; he swore he wouldn’t leave your side ever again. He was there, the force of your hand squeezing his harder than any g-force he’d ever felt. He was there, a hand running through your wet hair to attempt to soothe you as you arched back into the pillow. He was there, dabbing your head with a cool towel as your child was born.
Love swelled out of him that day, blooming into something so beautiful that no feeling came close to the love he felt for you and your child. Tears streaming freely as you held the baby in your arms, Jeonghan’s arm around both of you, his smile wider than any grin he’d ever mustered.
⏱︎ NINE Months Later
The sun beat down on the vast English countryside, Silverstone shining within the greenery. The cool breeze wisped Jeonghan’s hair as he stood in the paddock, his fire suit tied on his hips.
Engineers held tablets up to him, pointing out statistics and discussing manoeuvres. It all dulled as you appeared through the paddock door, pushing a stroller with a neat parasol looming over it.
The pair of you spent the first five months of your son’s life cocooned away in your house on the outskirts of Seoul. Spending sleepless nights together, cooing at the small being as he babbled in your expansive garden and nestling him to bed wrapped in both of your arms.
However, as always, another season rolled around, and as a compromise, you agreed to come along, baby and wife at each and every race. Little ear defenders on his son’s ears as soon as his father’s booming engine powered up.
Jeonghan’s changing room in the motorhome became home to a cot, a fridge full of milk and a nappy bin. And, even on the hardest days, he knew he’d have it no other way.
Without hesitation, Jeonghan stepped away from the fuss, nodding absentmindedly at his crew, and he beelined to you. A large and enthusiastic grin on his lips at your wave, his arm pulling you into him, his lips landing on yours like they were magnets.
The scary and rather sassy driver became a muddle of coos as he leaned down to see his son in the stroller. The little being began to giggle and kick at the sight of his father’s smiley face.
‘Hey little one,’ he said softly, your arm rubbing his back as you swooned for your husband and son, both of the boys in your life bringing such intense and immense joy.
Jeonghan picked his son up, ever so cautiously and cradled him in his arms, letting you park the stroller out of the way as the crew became enchanted with the sight of their fiercest driver becoming a mush of cuteness with his son in his arms.
‘Mother of the year,’ Minghao greeted you, pulling you into a hug.
‘Minghao,’ you replied happily, letting him sling his arm around you as you both observed Jeonghan softly. Your husband was introducing the baby to everyone, letting your son grip the finger of the pr manager — who, despite all the shit you’d both put her through, would do it again in a heartbeat.
‘How is it going?’ He questioned as you both leaned over the small balcony.
‘Good,’ you say, Jeonghan turning to you with a smile that was reserved just for you, your gaze catching his milky chocolate eyes across the paddock as he winked at you. ‘Great, in fact.’
Minghao ruffled your hair, letting a sweet sigh leave his mouth. ‘It’s so lovely to have you here, he seems more…’ the man breathed out, pondering on his next words, ‘calm, when you’re both close by.’
For the first time in a long while, you felt truly relaxed, truly at home. It didn’t matter that it was the paddock, surrounded by commotion or disarray, because Jeonghan was here, stealing loving glances at you, your son was here, healthy and gabbling away and stealing the attention of one of F1’s most prestigious teams, your family, each and every person in this paddock was here, caring for you and your husband with such tenderness at times it felt unbelievable.
As Jeonghan pulled up to the start line today, he glanced up to the balcony, catching your figure, your smile noticeable through the hordes of people, your son bouncing on your hip, his ear protection almost flooding his head as you pointed at his father’s car.
Now he had two people to win for. There was always the team and the fans. But his wife and his son trumped everyone else a million times over. He forced himself to look away and towards the start line, his race engineer speaking over the headset.
Me after seeing the fic after fic, in which the reader is a brat to be tamed
I am not shaming, nor am I calling anyone out. I don't shame people for what they like because I hate it when people do it to me. This is more of a me thing. Obviously, I scroll because if something is for me, I don't have to read it. But sometimes I don't catch it. Im a control freak and hate being wrong. So the idea of someone taming me into submission because I'm being mean, and I have no reason to be mean. Irks something in me that I don't know how to fully express. The idea of being called a brat triggers my fight or flight.
🌕 pairing: husband!dad!seungcheol x fem!reader
🌕 genre/content: parent au, idol au
🌕 warnings: suggestive babymaking at the end LOL
🌕 summary: Seungcheol thinks about the best gift he's ever received
🌕 a/n: you ask for more dad seungcheol, i deliver!
🌕 dad!seungcheol series: a chance encounter | mess | snow
You smile at your husband as he walks around to your side of the bed and places a glass of water on your nightstand. He then immediately proceeds to climb on top of you to get to his side of the bed instead of going around again.
You laugh while shoving Seungcheol off of you.
“Babe, you’re heavy,” you groan when he stops moving and lies his whole body on you.
“Funny, you weren’t saying that the other night,” he teases with a cheeky wink.
“Ugh, you’re nasty!” you laugh, successfully pushing him off of you.
He rolls next to you and gets under the covers so he can pull you into his chest. Not before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
This is his favorite part of your nighttime routine. Just a quiet moment before bedtime before…
“Daddy!”
He spoke too soon.
You and Seungcheol watch as your six year old son comes running into the room holding a book and his big black bear plushie.
Seungcheol reluctantly lets go of you so he can pull his son into his lap.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“Daddy, what is the best gift you’ve ever gotten?”
Seungcheol pauses for a moment to deeply think about life’s greatest gifts, even though he already has an answer.
Getting approached in the street by Pledis for an opportunity that would blossom into something bigger than he could’ve ever imagined when he was in middle school.
Building an incredibly strong relationship with the twelve other members of his group over twenty years. They’ve taught so much about what it means to work hard, have fun, and be kind.
Having a flourishing career that has allowed him to make his own music with his friends, travel to many parts of the world with unique cultures, meet people who love and support him beyond words, and pursue opportunities that take him outside of his comfort zone.
The day in September when he went to the animal shelter and saw a small white dog, whom he ended up adopting. Kkuma taught him responsibility and gave him a reason to go home every night. And it was Kkuma who led him to … you.
You. You are the love of Seungcheol’s life. While he loved his career, it was incredibly difficult to maintain romantic relationships. He was always away, always trying to be better, always careful with his every move, and after a few failed relationships, he stopped trying. But then he met you and knew he had to give love another chance.
And here you are years later, married with two children.
With a quick, dimpled smile at you, Seungcheol adjusts his son in his lap and pretends to think out loud.
“Hmmmmm,” he ponders with a finger to his chin and his eyes to the ceiling.
“My favorite gift?”
Your son giggles, holding his bear close while he waits for his dad to answer.
“The best gifts I’ve ever received are you and your sister!” Seungcheol exclaims with a poke to his son’s tummy.
While your son tells his dad how pleased he is with this answer, you take a long look at your husband.
Yes, he’s handsome and has a nice body and nice arms, but this is who you fell in love with. Seungcheol, who would insist you go back to sleep when your son was a newborn and crying at 2 in the morning. Seungcheol, who changed diapers and read bedtime stories and bought mountains of toys. Seungcheol, who did it all over again when you had a daughter a few years later. Yes, you loved Seungcheol as a husband, but you have loved him even more as a father.
He wears his heart on his sleeve, out in the open. He teaches your children to be kind and grateful. He reminds them how much he loves them.
You don’t think you could’ve picked a better man to be the father of your children.
Your son leans over to give you a hug good night and you watch Seungcheol carry him to bed.
Fatherhood looks good on your husband. But you always knew that.
When he comes back a few minutes later and gets into bed, you get closer and grasp his face in your hands and kiss him. He’s surprised at first, but he instantly takes over and lays you down on your back so he can kiss you harder. When you pull apart, you’re both breathing heavily. His eyes have gone a shade darker. He licks his lips as he looks down at you, thinking about where he wants this night to go. You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper how much you love him.
୨୧ cw:
Mature 18+, established relationship fluff, heavy teasing, intense dirty talk (both ways), physical intimacy, shower proximity, mild alcohol consumption, smut, and highly suggestive behavior.
୨୧ synopsis:
After months of grueling schedules, Bang Chan finally gets forty-eight hours off to entirely lose himself in the domestic comfort and fiery passion of his three-year relationship. When a sudden rainstorm traps them inside, a fancy date night dissolves into kitchen counters, candlelit teasing, and an unforgettable night that leaves them more deeply in love than ever.
The front door of your apartment didn’t just open; it practically groaned under the weight of Christopher surrendering to gravity.
For three months, you had loved a ghost. You had loved a voice through FaceTime at 4:00 AM, a frantic text sent from a studio which was across the sea, a blurry selfie of a tired smile in a recording studio. But when the lock clicked and the heavy wooden door swung inward, the idol persona vanished. He dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood with a dull thud, not even bothering to kick off his sneakers before his eyes found yours.
"Come here," he breathed. His voice was raw, a low gravelly thing scraped raw from flights and rehearsals.
You didn't even have time to cross the kitchen before he closed the distance. Chan didn’t just hug you; he consumed you. His large, calloused hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off your feet until your legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling so deeply against your skin it felt like he was trying to memorize your scent all over again. He smelled like airport air, expensive cologne, and the distinct, comforting warmth that was just him.
"Three years," he muttered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear as he swayed you slightly, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged sighs. "Three years of this, and I still feel like I’m dying every time I have to leave you.... God, you’re so warm." he snuggles closer
"You're late," you whispered, though your fingers were already tangled deep in his messy, unstyled curls, pressing him closer.
"Traffic was hell, baby," he mumbled, a soft laugh vibrating against your collarbone. He set you down slowly, though his hands stayed firmly anchored to your hips, his thumbs rubbing small, possessive circles through the fabric of your shirt. His dimples finally peeked out, shadowed by a faint, attractive hint of stubble. "But I am entirely yours for the next forty-eight hours. No phones. No managers. Just you."
Before you could answer, his eyes scanned the living room, noticing the baskets of laundry you’d piled up and the slight clutter on the coffee table. You’d been working overtime too, trying to clear your own schedule so you could match his.
"Tell you what," Chan said, a mischievous glint cutting through the exhaustion in his dark eyes. "We do a quick reset. We clear the space, clear our heads, and then..." He leaned down, his lips brushing yours so lightly it was agonizing. "...we don't leave the house until Monday..except the date tonight, i made reservations..." you nodded kissing his cheek a unsaid 'thenks baby' in return.
The next hour was a whirlwind of domestic chaos. Chan refused to let you be more than three feet away from him. When you went to fold the laundry, he took the other side of the sheets, turning it into a game of tug-of-war until you were both laughing so hard your chest ached. When you reached up to dust the top of the bookshelf, two large hands suddenly clamped around your waist, lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing.
"Chan! Put me down, I'm going to drop the cloth!" you gasped, your fingers gripping his broad shoulders for balance.
"Nah, you're doing great up there, sweetheart. Keep going," he teased, looking up at you with a cheeky, upturned grin, his bicep flexing hard against your thigh to keep you steady. He kissed your waist line through your sweatpants before finally sliding you back down his front, letting every inch of his body friction against yours on the way down.
By the time the apartment was spotless, a light sweat had broken out over your skin, your hair tied up in a messy, loose bun. Chan was leaning against the kitchen counter, his oversized black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick veins and pale skin of his forearms. He was watching you, his gaze heavy and unblinking.
"I need a shower," you muttered, wiping a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "I'm gross."
"Me too," Chan said instantly.
You rolled your eyes, turning toward the bathroom. "The shower is barely big enough for one person, Chris. Go use the guest one."
You walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the steam slowly fill the small, tiled space. You peeled off your clothes, stepping into the spraying warmth, sighing as the tension of the last few weeks began to melt off your shoulders.
You’d barely finished rinsing your face when the bathroom door clicked open. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, you saw his tall, broad silhouette strip down without a shred of hesitation. The door slid open, a blast of cooler air hitting your skin before Chan stepped inside, immediately closing the space between you.
The shower was small. With Chan’s massive chest and broad shoulders inside, the world shrank until there was nothing but the sound of rushing water and his heat.
"I told you to use the other one," you complained weakly, though you didn't step back.
"Save water, love. It's the right thing to do," he murmured in that thick, sleepy Australian drawl he only used when he was completely relaxed. He took the bottle of shampoo from the ledge, pouring it into his palms before reaching out. His large hands slid into your wet hair, his thumbs massaging your scalp with an agonizingly perfect pressure.
You let your head drop back against his chest with a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut. "Okay, fine. You can stay."
"Thought so," he whispered. His hands moved down from your hair, his soapy fingers tracing the column of your neck, sliding over your shoulders. But as his hands moved lower, the domestic sweetness in the air began to shift. The water slicked his dark hair back, exposing the sharp, lethal line of his jawline. His gaze darkened, dropping to your lips.
"You know," Chan murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, thicker. He stepped closer, his wet chest pressing firmly against your back, pinning you gently against the warm, tiled wall. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you gasp. "I spent three hours on the plane thinking about how good it was going to feel to have you against these tiles."
A shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the water. You turned around in his grip, your front now pressed against his, your eyes locking onto his. "Oh yeah? Is that all you thought about, Chris?"
Chan leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot against your mouth. "No. I thought about how loud you’re gonna be when I finally get inside you. I thought about how much I missed hearing my name slip out of your mouth when you can't take it anymore."
You let out a shaky breath, your hands sliding down his wet chest, your fingers intentionally grazing lower, mapping the hard lines of his abdomen until you felt him twitch against your thigh. He was already rock hard, his heat pressing insistently through the rushing water.
"You talk a big game for someone who looks like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion," you teased, your voice dropping into a low, challenging purr. You arched your hips slightly, deliberately rubbing against him, watching his pupils dilate instantly. "Are you sure you can handle me right now?"
A dark, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His grip on your hips tightened until it almost bruised, lifting you slightly so you had to look up at him. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. I might be tired, but I’ve got more than enough energy to ruin you for the rest of the weekend. You think you can handle me when I'm like this? When I’ve been starving for you for months?"
"Prove it then," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs, your teeth catching your lower lip as you looked at him through wet eyelashes. "Stop talking and do something about it."
Chan let out a low, guttural growl, his forehead leaning against yours as he ground his hips into yours, making you whimper. "Not yet," he growled, his voice pure sin. "I’m gonna make you wait. I’m gonna make you beg for it tonight until your voice is as raw as mine. Now, please help me wash my back, beautiful, before I lose my mind and break my promise."
--
The cool bedroom air hit your damp skin, a stark contrast to the thick, humid fog you’d left behind in the bathroom. True to his word, Chan had kept his hands to himself after that agonizing shower—mostly. He’d given your hips one last, heavy squeeze under the rushing water before turning you around so you coulf wash his back, his low, rumbling chuckles vibrating against your palms every time you intentionally slid your hands a little too low.
Now, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, lazy shadows across the bedroom floor. You stood in front of the vanity mirror, the soft fabric of your outfit draped over the bed behind you. “A proper night out, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your wet shoulder before vanishing into his own closet. “Somewhere we can actually sit down, order a nice bottle of wine, and I can look at you without a clock ticking down.”
You chose a dress you knew he loved but rarely got to see you in. It was an elegant, emerald-green silk slip dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, stopping at your mid thighs. The back was entirely open, held together only by a delicate satin lace that required a frustrating amount of patience to tie by yourself.
As you stood there, trying to tie the strap behind, you caught sight of Chan’s reflection in the mirror.
He was leaning against the doorframe, already half-dressed in a pair of sharp, tailored black slacks. His satin ruby dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick veins of his forearms, a ring on his index finger, a silver watch on his wrist and glasses resting on his nose. He was holding a glass of water, but he hadn't taken a sip in minutes. He was just... staring.
His dark eyes traveled down the line of your spine, tracking the smooth expanse of your bare back where the green silk V-ed out. Chan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He mentally scolded himself, clenching his jaw as his eyes wandered lower, lingering on the way the silk clung to the curve of your hips. Get a grip, Christopher, he told himself fiercely. You promised her a nice dinner. Don't ruin it before you even make it to the restaurent.
But God, he loved you. It hit him in waves sometimes—not just a flutter in his chest, but a heavy, grounding certainty that settled deep in his bones. Looking at you right now, framed by the warm bedroom light, he didn't see a girlfriend of three years. He saw his future. He saw the woman he wanted to come home to when the stadium lights finally went dark for good. He was absolutely, unconditionally sure he wanted to marry only you.
"Need some help, baby?" his voice broke the quiet, his Australian accent thick and lazy as he set his glass down.
"Please," you sighed, dropping your arms. "This is actively trying to kill me."
Chan walked over, his footsteps soft against the rug. He didn't immediately touch the string. Instead, he leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your shoulder blades just a second before his lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between your shoulder blades. A helpless shiver ran through you.
"You look beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his hands finally coming up to gather the delicate satin lace. His fingers were large and calloused, but he handled the thread with an incredible, practiced gentleness. He slowly tied the back of the dress, his knuckles occasionally brushing against your bare skin, sending tiny electric shocks straight down your spine. he dropped another soft kiss—one on your shoulder, one at the base of your neck, another right in the center of your back.
When he finished, he stepped around to face you. His eyes were dark, full of an intensity that made your breath hitch.
"Now for the hard part," you murmured, pointing toward the edge of the bed where your heels were sitting. They were a pair of black, strappy stilettos with long satin ribbons meant to wrap around your ankles.
Without a word, Chan smiled—that soft, dimpled expression that always melted you completely—and knelt down on one knee on the floor right in front of you.
"Chris, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, but he caught your ankle, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin just above your heel.
"Shh. Let me," he whispered, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You placed your hand on his broad shoulder for balance as he gently guided your foot into the shoe. He took his time, his large fingers carefully wrapping the thin ribbons around your ankle, crisscrossing them perfectly up your lower calf before tying them into a secure bow. He repeated the process with the other foot, his movements almost reverent. Before he stood up, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the top of your foot, his eyes locking onto yours with a look of pure devotion.
"There," he murmured, standing up and dusting off his slacks. He looked down at you, his hands instantly finding your waist, pulling you an inch closer. "Perfect."
You reached up, fixing the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his jawline. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Bang."
He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound, and leaned down to press a deep, slow kiss to your lips—one that tasted like a promise.
But just as he pulled away, a sudden, blinding flash of light illuminated the bedroom window, followed less than two seconds later by a deafening clap of thunder that literally shook the floorboards. Within moments, the sky completely opened up, a torrential downpour slamming against the glass so loudly it sounded like pebbles thrown against the pane.
Chan blinked, turning his head toward the window, then looked back down at your stunning dress and your perfectly laced heels.
"Well," he muttered, a wry, amused smile spreading across his face as the wind howled outside. "I reckun our reservations and plans are officially ruined."
The howling wind outside slammed sheets of water against the glass, but inside the apartment, the atmosphere had shifted into something entirely separate from the storm.
Chan looked from the window back to you, a soft, helpless laugh huffing from his lips as he took in the sight of you. You were still standing there in your stunning emerald silk dress and wrapped stilettos, looking like an absolute goddess with nowhere to go.
"Well, sweetheart," he murmured, his hands sliding down to your hips, his thumbs catching the hem of your dress just enough to lift it an inch. "I'm not letting this outfit go to waste. Change of plans."
Before you could ask what he meant, Chan hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You let out a gasped laugh, your hands instantly flying to his broad shoulders for balance as he carried you out of the bedroom and straight into the kitchen. He didn't set you down on the floor; instead, he hoisted you right up onto the smooth, marble kitchen counter. Your heels clicked against the edge, your legs dangling as he stepped between your knees, effectively trapping you.
"Stay right here," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that always made your stomach do a flip.
You watched, completely mesmerized, as Chan went to work. He completely transformed the room. He turned off the harsh overhead kitchen lights, leaving only the soft under-cabinet lighting. Then, he wandered around the apartment, gathering every single scented candle you owned. He lined them up along the counter and the dining table, striking a match until the space was bathed in a flickering, amber glow. The shadows danced over the sharp lines of his jaw and his tailored black slacks.
"Since I can't take you to a restaurant, I guess I'll just have to be your personal chef," he teased, walking back over to you and leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. He smelled like vanilla candles and pure sin.
He pulled ingredients out of the fridge, deciding on a quick pasta dish you both loved. As he chopped garlic and heated the pan, he refused to actually leave your side. Every single time he passed the counter, he stole a kiss. It started out playful, but it didn't stay that way. He’d lean in, his lips brushing yours, his tongue casually tracing your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper before he pulled back with a smirk.
"Chris, you're going to burn the food if you keep doing that," you breathlessy complained.
"Let it burn," he muttered, stepping right back into your space. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding up your thigh, his calloused thumb smoothing over the skin right above your knee. "Besides, I'm just tasting the appetizer."
You flushed, a heavy heat pooling in your lower stomach at his subtle dirty talk. To distract yourself from the way his hand was slowly wandering higher up your leg, you slid off the counter for a moment. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. You're lucky you're dating a professional."
Chan chuckled, watching you walk over to the bar cart. Before you had met him —back during your university days—you had worked as a bartender to pay the rent. You grabbed the shaker, the alcohol, and the bitters, your hands moving with an effortless, practiced rhythm. You mixed up two custom cocktails, keeping the alcohol content perfectly manageable since you both wanted to actually remember the night.
When you handed him his glass, his eyes darkened with pure appreciation. He took a sip, humming in approval. "God, you're amazing. Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?"
He didn't let you go back to the counter. Instead, he pulled you against his chest, his back to the stove while he stirred the sauce with one hand and kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist. The warmth of the stove combined with the heat of his body was intoxicating.
As you stood there, the flickering candlelight caught the slight dip of your collarbone and the soft curve of your side. You subconsciously shifted, trying to pull the silk dress tighter. Like anyone, you had your little insecurities—things you picked apart when you looked in the mirror too long.
But Chan noticed everything. He always did.
Feeling you tense, he set the wooden spoon down. He turned you around completely, his hands mapping the exact spots you tried to hide. He bent down, pressing his warm lips to the soft curve of your hip, then up to the slight dip of your waist, kissing every single inch of your skin with a fierce, worshipful reverence.
"Stop hiding," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough and thick. "You are so beautiful. Every single part of you. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes just for one second."
He pulled you back up, his hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you deeply, a quiet sigh escaping him. He rested his forehead against yours, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence.
"It's crazy, isn't it?" Chan murmured softly, a sudden, gentle giggle bubbling up from his chest. He looked down at you, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "How unexpected all of this was. If you told me four years ago that we'd be here..."
"What, you didn't think we'd make it?" you teased, tracing the collar of his shirt.
"No, I mean—we were such idiots," he laughed, shaking his head at the memory. "We were literally best friends since child hood who only spoke on calls scared to face each other. I was so completely gone for you, but I was too terrified to say anything......remember how we used to talk to each other? Trying so hard to sound 'just like friends' while my heart was practically beating out of my chest every time you looked at me."
He giggled again, the sound rich and warm. "Man, we were so stupid. All those wasted months because we were both too scared to confess."
His laughter faded, replaced by a gaze so intense it made your knees feel weak. The playful boy vanished, leaving only the man who loved you entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with a slow, heavy finality.
"But I’m glad we got here," Chan whispered, his thumbs wiping a stray tear of happiness from your cheek. "Because now that I have you... I want no one else. Forever. It's only ever gonna be you, sweetheart."
The sheer intensity of his words left you breathless. You reached up, cupping his jawline, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a silent promise. When you finally broke away, your cheeks were flushed against the warm candlelight.
"If you don't stop looking at me like that, we're never going to actually eat," you teased softly, playfully swatting his chest.
Chan let out a breathless laugh, stepping back just enough to let you move around the kitchen. The menu had completely evolved from just a simple pasta dish into an absolute feast. Together, you turned cooking into a coordinated dance. You rolled out dough to make a heart-shaped pizza—Chan insisting on crimping the edges perfectly—while a golden, seasoned chicken roasted in the oven alongside a crisp, fresh salad you tossed together.
By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled incredible. You carried the plates over to the candlelit dining table, the heavy rain outside providing a soothing backdrop to your makeshift indoor date.
As you ate, the conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from lighthearted banter into the deep, heavy layers of life and the future. Chan reached across the table, his fingers tangling with yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand.
"I want to grow old with you," he murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the tiny flames of the candles. "I want the quiet mornings, the wrinkly skin, all of it."
You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest. "I want that too. And... I want a kid. Eventually."
Chan’s face instantly softened, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his features, making his dimples dip incredibly deep.
"I’d love a daughter," you admitted softly, feeling a bit shy but completely safe sharing it with him. "But honestly, it doesn't matter to me. As long as the kid is healthy."
"A little girl who looks just like you?" Chan breathed, his gaze turning incredibly fond. "God, I'd be wrapped around her finger. But you're right. Just healthy." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute certainty. "I want to marry you first. I want to roam the world with you, make a million memories, and establish our own rules. Like, if we ever have a huge fight—because we're human, we will—we promise to sort it out before we ever go to bed. No sleeping angry."
"Deal," you whispered, your heart swelling.
"And we need a bigger place," he continued excitedly, his inner producer and planner taking over. "We'll design it together. A massive bar for you, a studio space for me, and a huge backyard." He smiled, leaning over to lovingly serve another portion of pasta onto your plate.
As the dinner wound down and the plates were cleared, you still wanted something sweet. You walked over to the freezer and scooped a generous portion of vanilla ice cream into a small bowl. Instead of heading back to your own seat, you walked over to Chan, pulling him back into his chair by his shoulders.
Without asking, you turned and sank right onto his lap facing him, your emerald silk dress pooling over his tailored black slacks. Chan didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his large hands immediately found your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh gently as you settled against him.
"Sharing?" he grinned, his voice a low rumble against your lips.
"Maybe," you murmured, taking a bite of the cold ice cream before offering him some. As you pulled the spoon away, a tiny bit of ice cream lingered on your bottom lip. Chan leaned in instantly, his tongue darting out to lick the sweet cream right off your lips, his lips lingering for a soft, teasing pressure that made your stomach drop.
His hands wandered a little higher on your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, anchoring you tightly to his lap. You took another bite, but the combination of his warmth, the alcohol from the cocktails, and the sheer tension in the air made your hands a little unsteady. A drop of the rapidly melting ice cream escaped the spoon, trailing down your chin and slipping right down the column of your neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of your green dress.
You both knew how gravity worked. You both knew food didn't just magically spill like that unless a certain someone was plotting something entirely deliberate.
Chan caught it instantly. A dark, wicked grin spread across his face, his eyes darkening into pure, unadulterated hunger.
"Oh, you are a menace," he growled softly, the teasing Australian lilt completely vanishing into something raw and dominant.
He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Chan leaned forward, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back. He pressed his lips to the base of your throat, his warm tongue sliding upward, licking the melted ice cream off your sensitive skin. A sharp, gasping whimper left your lips as he followed the path with a sequence of open-mouthed, bruising kisses, his teeth gently nipping at the junction where your neck met your shoulder.
The cold sweetness of the ice cream was completely eradicated by the scorching heat of his mouth.
Realizing you were entirely finished with desert, you blindly reached back and set the bowl away on the table behind you. You let your head fall back completely against his broad shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands tightened on your thighs, his breath hot and demanding against your skin
Without a word, he hooked both hands under your knees, lifting you effortlessly along with himself off the dining chair, your legs wrapping around his waist. You gasped, both hands flying to his shoulders as he carried you through the candlelit living room toward the hallway.
"Chan—the ice cream—" you protested weakly, laughter bubbling in your throat... this was trouble, a likeable trouble.
"I'll get it later," he growled against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Right now, I'm starving for something else."
He pushed the bedroom door open, and the soft lamplight spilled across the rumpled sheets. He didn't put you down. Instead, he pressed you against the doorjamb, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so deep and hungry that your toes curled inside your heels. His tongue slid along your bottom lip, then swept inside, tasting the lingering sweetness of vanilla and chocolate. You melted into him, your fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
He carried you to the bed, but before laying you down, he paused, letting you slide down his body until your feet touched the floor. His hands roamed your back, the bare skin of your backless dress heating under his palms. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze, and then leaned in to press your lips to the side of his neck.
Soft at first—a barely-there brush of your mouth. Then you parted your lips, grazing your teeth over his pulse point, and sucked gently. Chan's breath hitched, his fingers digging into your hips. You lingered there, tasting the salt of his skin, knowing you had to be careful. His fans would notice. They always noticed everything—a hickey on his neck during a live broadcast would send the internet into a frenzy. So you pulled back, leaving only a faint pink mark, barely visible unless you were looking for it.
He looked down at you, his eyes dark and knowing. "Tease," he murmured, but there was nothing but approval in his voice.
His hand found the thin satin lace-up at the back of your dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, the bow unraveled, and the fabric loosened around your chest. He didn't rush. He slid the straps down your shoulders, the emerald silk pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your strapless stick-on bra, black lace panties, and heels.
He stepped back just long enough to shrug off his black button-up, his fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. The shirt fell open, revealing the defined lines of his chest and his toned abs. You didn't wait. You stepped forward, your hands sliding up his abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle flex under your touch. You pressed your lips to his sternum, then lower, kissing a path down his stomach. Your tongue darted out, licking a stripe across his abs, tasting the faint salt and heat of his skin. You sucked gently at the hollow beside his navel, and he groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head.
"Fuck, baby," he breathed, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're gonna make me lose it."
You looked up at him, a wicked smile on your lips, and continued your journey lower, your mouth trailing over the waistband of his slacks. But he stopped you, gripping your chin and tilting your face up.
"Not yet," he said, his voice roughened with want. "I want to taste you first."
His gaze dropped to your chest, where the stick-on bra held your breasts in place. A knowing grin spread across his face. "No straps," he observed, his thumb brushing the edge of the adhesive cup. "Clever."
He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours—a silent question that he never needed to ask out loud. You nodded, a soft "yes" escaping your lips.
He pulled the bra away in one smooth motion, the adhesive releasing with a quiet peel. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his stare. He didn't look away. He leaned in, his tongue flicking over one nipple, then drawing it into his mouth, sucking gently. You gasped, your back arching, and your hands flew to his shoulders for balance.
His other hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, and between your legs. He groaned against your skin as his fingers found you—soaked, slick, ready.
"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "I haven't even done anything yet, and you're already dripping. Is that all for me?"
You bit your lip, nodding, your breath coming in shallow pants.
"Good girl." He pressed a finger inside you, slow, then a second, curling them just right. At the same time, his mouth returned to your nipple, sucking and teasing with his tongue. The dual sensation sent a shock through your body. Your hands fisted in his hair, your hips grinding against his hand, moaning his name like a prayer.
"Chan—please—"
"Please what, baby?" He pumped his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. "You feel so fucking good wrapped around my fingers. Tell me what you need."
You couldn't form words. The pleasure was building too fast, a coil tightening low in your belly. Your thighs trembled, your moans turning into broken cries.
"That's it," he praised, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my hand."
And you did. Without warning, the orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing as you cried out his name. He didn't stop moving his fingers, guiding you through every wave, drinking in the sight of you undone.
When the last tremor faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious."
Then he gently pushed you fully onto the bed, spreading your legs open, and buried his face between them. His tongue swept through your folds, lapping up your release, his nose pressing against your clit. A strangled moan tore from your throat as he devoured you, his tongue dipping inside you, then dragging back up to suck gently on your clit. He worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, prolonging the aftershocks until you were a panting, writhing mess.
Only when your hips stopped bucking did he lift his head. He reached over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer, and retrieved a foil packet. With a grin, he tore the wrapper open with his teeth, spat it aside, and rolled the condom down his length. Even after all these months, the sight of him—thick, veined, impossibly hard—made your breath catch. He was huge, and no matter how many times you'd had him, it always surprised you. The way he filled you, stretched you, like he was made to fit inside you.
He hauled your legs onto his shoulders, leaning forward until the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push in—not yet. He held still, teasing, letting you feel the pressure, the promise.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft but dominant.
You nodded, and he thrust forward.
Slow. Deep. Inch by inch he sank into you, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the grip of your walls. You felt the familiar stretch, the slight burn that melted into pure pleasure. He paused when he was fully seated, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispered. "Every single time."
He began to move—long, languid strokes that hit so deep you could feel him in your throat. One hand held your calf, his lips pressing kisses to your shin, then your ankle, reverent and tender even as he fucked you. His other hand roamed your body, fingers tracing your waist, then sliding up to tease your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
A glance down and you saw it—a faint bulge in your lower belly, where his dick pressed against your insides from the inside. The sight sent a rush of heat through you. You arched your back, a moan spilling from your lips.
"Look at that," he breathed, his thumb pressing lightly on the bulge. "Look how deep I am inside you. You take me so fucking well, baby."
His pace quickened, but still controlled, each thrust deliberate. Your hands clawed at the sheets, your moans growing louder, more desperate.
"Faster," you begged, your voice cracking. "Please, Chan—faster—"
He obeyed. He pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips into the air before slamming back into you. The new angle was brutal—deeper, harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. His hand gripped your hip, the other pressed flat on the small of your back, forcing you to arch impossibly deeper.
"This what you wanted?" he growled, his voice low and filthy. "You wanted me to fuck you like this? To take you apart until you can't think, can't breathe?"
"Yes—angh..yes—fuck—chrisss"
He leaned over your back, his mouth at your ear, his thrusts pounding into you. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're close, aren't you? I want you to come. Come on my dick."
You were already there. The rough pace, his dirty talk, the overwhelming fullness—it sent you spiraling. You screamed his name as your orgasm crashed, your body trembling violently around him.
He didn't stop. He rode you through it, his own breathing ragged, until he pulled out with a shudder. He yanked the condom off, stroked himself twice, and came with a guttural groan, spilling into the latex. Then he collapsed beside you, chest heaving.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Your body ached in the best way. Chan pushed himself up first, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
"Stay there. I'll be right back."
He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the water run. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned between your legs, his touch tender. Then he wiped himself down, disposed of the condom, and slid back into bed.
He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. His hand found the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles where you'd arched hardest.
"Your back's gonna be sore tomorrow," he murmured into your hair.
You hummed, nuzzling into his neck. Your lips found his, a soft, lazy kiss.
He smiled against your mouth. "I love you so much."
You kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you too."
The marks on your neck were dark now, blooming like violets under your skin. He traced one with his fingertip, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest.
"Sorry about those."
"I'm not," you whispered, your eyes already heavy.
He pulled the blanket over both of you, his hand never stopping its soothing massage on your back. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek—it pulled you under.
Within minutes, you were both asleep, tangled together in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
--
You woke up slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the cracks of the blinds. As you shifted beneath the heavy duvet, a dull, deep ache resonated through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, lingering reminder of exactly how Chan had kept his promise to ruin you. You sat up slowly, clutching the soft blanket tightly against your chest to keep yourself covered.
A soft chuckle sounded from the side of the bed, and you turned your head to see Chan walking into the room. He had already showered, his messy curls damp, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. In his hands, he carried a tray loaded with a fresh breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a mug of coffee made exactly the way you liked it.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep. He set the tray down carefully across your lap, then climbed onto the mattress behind you.
As you reached for the coffee, taking a grateful sip, Chan shifted closer. His large, warm hands slid beneath the blanket, finding the bare skin of your lower back. His calloused thumbs began to work in slow, firm circles, expertly massaging the tight, sore muscles of your spine. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, leaning back into his solid chest.
"Sore?" he whispered, a hint of a smug, satisfied grin in his voice.
"Shut up," you muttered playfully, though you didn't pull away from his touch.
Chan just laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right against your back. He leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head before gently reaching up to brush a few stray tangled hairs away from your face. He watched you eat with a quiet, peaceful intensity, as if he still couldn't quite believe he had you all to himself for a little while longer.
You turned your head slightly, catching his eye, and leaned in to press a sweet, lingering kiss right against his dimpled cheek.
Chan’s smile broke wide and brilliant, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated affection. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as the quiet morning carried on, the rest of the world completely forgotten.
