note: reader is an idol and canadian bc i'm from toronto 🇨🇦 and scene is set in the pandemic.
The rooftop was quiet in that way only late November could manage, cold wind, dim Seoul skyline, glass railing fogged slightly from the temperature difference.
Wonwoo had only come up for air.
Practice ran long. His head hurt. He needed five minutes where no one asked him anything.
And then he saw you.
At first, his heart dropped.
Someone was leaning against the railing—too close, body folded in on itself, shoulders shaking. For half a second, every worst thought slammed into him at once.
He broke into a run. “...hey!”
He reached you fast, hand already hovering like he might need to grab you, pull you back. But then you turned slightly, face buried in your sleeve, and he heard it.
Crying.
Not quiet sniffles.
Not polite tears.
Ugly, honest, can’t-breathe-right crying.
He stopped short, relief crashing into him so hard his knees almost buckled.
You weren’t in danger.
You were just… hurting.
Up close, he realized you were smaller than you looked on stage. Curled in on yourself, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Your lashes were wet and clumped together, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, nose red in a way that made his chest ache. The wind tugged at your hair, and you didn’t even react.
He recognized you then... not personally, just vaguely.
Vernon’s friend.
The rookie everyone said had scary stage presence.
You didn’t look scary now.
You looked like someone who’d just said goodbye to home through a phone screen.
Before he could say a single word, you turned fully and hugged him.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No apology.
Your arms wrapped around his waist, forehead pressing into his chest as another sob tore out of you.
Wonwoo froze.
His brain went completely blank.
You fit against him in a way that felt… dangerous. Too natural. Too easy. Like his arms knew what to do before he did. Slowly, carefully, he brought them up, one hand hovering before settling between your shoulders, the other steady at your back.
You shook in his hold.
“I- I’m sorry,” you choked, words muffled. “I just- I can’t go home.”
Ah.
Toronto, he remembered.
Thanksgiving.
Pandemic.
His chest tightened.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, voice lower than usual, like he was afraid of startling you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The moment he said it, something strange happened.
A flash, clear and uninvited.
You in his arms again.
Different day. Different light.
Your head tucked under his chin like it belonged there.
Another flash.
You laughing, small and bright, looking up at him like this closeness was normal.
He swallowed hard.
Get it together, he told himself.
You weren’t the confident, charismatic idol everyone saw on stage right now. You were just a girl who missed her mum. Petite. Warm. Real.
Your grip tightened slightly, like you were afraid he might disappear.
He adjusted his stance, subtly shifting you a step farther from the railing without making it obvious, his body between you and the glass. Protective. Instinctive.
You didn’t notice.
Or maybe you did and trusted him anyway.
Wonwoo stared out at the city, jaw tight, heart doing something dangerously unfamiliar.
He didn’t know you.
But standing there, holding you while the cold wind brushed past and your tears soaked into his hoodie, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
This version of you—
the quiet, broken, soft one—
was going to stay with him.
You wiped your face with your sleeve, then froze when you noticed the dark, damp patch you’d left on his hoodie.
“Oh” you sniffed, flustered, rubbing at it gently with the same sleeve like that would somehow undo it. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to...”
Wonwoo almost smiled.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly.
You took a small step back, shoulders still hunched, eyes glassy but calmer now. “Thank you,” you added, voice soft. “For… keeping me warm. And letting me cry.”
He nodded once, hands slipping back into his pockets as if holding you had been something instinctive he wasn’t meant to linger on.
Then you tilted your head, curiosity peeking through the exhaustion.
“Why are you here?” you asked. “Shouldn’t you be home for Chuseok?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “After practice, we’re all heading back. For Chuseok.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing that. Then, with a small, polite smile that felt very idol-like compared to moments ago, you bowed your head slightly.
“Then… happy Chuseok, Wonwoo-ssi.”
The way you said his name—careful, respectful—made something twist in his chest.
“Thank you,” he answered.
There was a pause. The wind brushed past again, colder now that the crying had stopped.
“And you?” he asked. “Since you can’t go back to Toronto… your team members?”
Your gaze dropped immediately.
You stared at your fingers, fidgeting with them, nails worrying at skin that was already pink from the cold.
“They all went home,” you said. “It’s okay. I’ll just… order.”
He frowned slightly. “Most restaurants are closed.”
You nodded again, like you’d already prepared yourself for that answer. “I have cup ramyeon.”
That did it.
Before he could overthink it, before common sense or distance or senior-junior boundaries could stop him, the words slipped out.
“Come to Changwon with me.”
Your head snapped up.
“What?” Your eyes were wide, panic and disbelief crashing together. “No, no, I can’t. That’s— I’d be intruding.”
“It’s just a small family dinner,” he said quickly, trying to make it sound simple. “My parents. My brother.
You shook your head immediately. “I really shouldn’t. That’s too much.”
“If that’s what you’re worried about,” he added, earnest, “I can call my mum. I’ll ask her.”
Your hands lifted, waving frantically. “No, no, really, it’s fine. I don’t want to trouble anyone.”
He studied your face for a moment, the way you were smiling now, polite and grateful and clearly trying to close the subject before it could hurt more.
So he stopped.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t insist.
“Okay...” he said simply.
You let out a breath you’d been holding, then bowed properly this time. “Thank you anyway. Really.”
He bowed back.
You turned to leave, footsteps light but lonely against the rooftop floor.
Wonwoo watched you go, the glass railing reflecting your small figure disappearing into the stairwell.
And as the door closed behind you, he thought, absurdly, quietly,
Cup ramyeon shouldn’t be eaten alone on Chuseok.
The dorm was quiet when you got back.
Too quiet.
You showered longer than usual, letting the steam fog up the mirror, letting the heat sink into your skin until the rooftop cold finally left your bones. You stood under the water with your eyes closed, breathing slowly, and without meaning to, you thought of home.
Thanksgiving and Chuseok meant turkey and kimchi fried rice at your place.
Your mum never believed in choosing just one culture when she could blend both.
You smiled softly to yourself.
There was that one year she’d stuffed kimchi into the turkey, everyone had protested, your dad especially and then somehow it turned out… really good. Tangy, spicy, comforting. Very your family. You remembered the way the house smelled, the way your mum laughed when everyone went back for seconds.
Your chest tightened.
After the shower, you pulled on an oversized hoodie and climbed into bed, hair still damp. You were scrolling absentmindedly when your phone buzzed.
Vernon.
i heard wonwoo hyung said you’re stuck in seoul for chuseok and thanksgiving.
you wanna come over? my mom is making turkey for chuseok. my sister’s here too
Your fingers hovered over the screen.
For a moment, a small, selfish moment, you almost said yes.
Almost imagined sitting at a table that smelled like home, even if it wasn’t yours.
But the thought of intruding, of being the extra person, settled heavy in your chest.
You typed anyway.
it’s okay. thank you vernon. happy chuseok
You stared at the message after it sent.
Your heart clenched, not just because you’d said no, but because a part of you had desperately wanted to say yes.
You placed your phone face-down on the nightstand.
“I’ll eat later,” you murmured to no one.
Cup ramyeon could wait.
Exhaustion finally caught up to you—the kind that came from holding yourself together all day, from crying until your body felt hollow. You curled onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin, listening to the faint hum of the building.
Just before sleep took you, an image flickered through your mind;
A rooftop.
A quiet voice.
Arms warm around you.
Your lashes fluttered.
And for the first time that night, you drifted off without crying.
You stumbled to the door, still half-asleep, hood tugged low over your head. Your hair stuck damp strands to your cheeks. When you opened it, there he was.
Wonwoo.
“Have you eaten?” he asked immediately, like that was the most important thing in the world.
You shook your head, barely keeping your balance.
“Good,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into that quiet, small smile you were slowly remembering from the rooftop. “Because I’m cooking.”
You realized too late that you hadn’t invited him in. Before you could open your mouth, he lifted two grocery bags over the counter, setting them down with a soft thud.
“Didn’t you say you’re going home?” you asked, voice still thick with sleep.
He shook his head. “You didn’t want to come, so I’m here. Also…” his gaze flicked to the window. “…the first snow just dropped. It’s blocking roads. My mom tells me to come tomorrow morning instead.”
You nodded, still trying to process. Snow. Him. Here. In your kitchen.
You stared a little too long, and he caught it. His eyes softened, lips twitching into a grin that made your chest squeeze.
“Help me?” he said, tone casual but patient.
You nodded quickly, suddenly aware of your state. Your eyes were still red from crying and sleep, cheeks puffy, and you were wearing nothing but a hoodie.
Before he could see too much, your hand jerked the carrot you were holding onto the counter, dropping it with a clatter. You bolted to your room without a word, heart thumping in panic, and threw on sweatpants.
You came back out like nothing had happened, hood still up, trying to play it cool. But the faint flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes shimmered from residual tears, gave you away.
Wonwoo didn’t comment. He just smiled again, hands already ready to start peeling vegetables.
And somehow, the awkwardness didn’t feel embarrassing. it felt… like the start of something.
You’re halfway down the stairs when you stop, fingers curling around the banister, because the kitchen looks exactly like a memory you didn’t know you’d been saving for this moment.
Your father stands at the counter in his thick knit sweater, sleeves rolled up the way he always does, methodical and calm. And right beside him—too tall for the space, shoulders slightly hunched so he doesn’t hit the cabinet—is Mingyu.
Your husband. Your boy. Your home.
He’s barefoot, hair still a little messy from sleep, wearing the old hoodie you stole from him years ago and never gave back. He’s holding a spatula like it’s a serious responsibility, nodding along as your father speaks, the pan hissing softly beneath his hands.
You don’t realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start to hurt. Behind you, your mother pauses, takes it in for half a second, then leans in and whispers with quiet satisfaction, “I knew you married well.”
She doesn’t wait for your reply, just heads down the stairs like this is exactly how things were always meant to be. “Good morning, omma,” Mingyu says immediately, voice warm and respectful, bowing his head just enough. Your mother hums happily, “Smells good.” Then Mingyu’s head lifts. His eyes find you instantly.
And there it is, that cheeky, boyish smile that’s been yours for almost ten years now. The one that says there you are without a single word. The one that still makes your chest feel stupidly full. “Morning,” he says softly.
That’s when it happens.
His hand slips. The pan shifts. A sharp hiss “Ah!”. You’re moving before your brain catches up. “Mingyu!” He winces, pinkie already flushed red, and you grab his wrist gently but firmly, tugging him toward the sink.
“Typical Mingyu...” you mutters and sigh, turning on the cold water and guiding Mingyu’s hand underneath it. He watches you instead of his finger.
You cradle his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, thumbs brushing his skin as you hold it under the stream. His shoulders relax almost immediately, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I was making your eggs,” he says, like that explains everything.
“You’ve been making my eggs for ten years,” you reply, glancing up at him. “And you still burn yourself. Everytime.". "Hazard of loving you,” he grins.
You roll your eyes, but your grip softens, thumb rubbing slow circles over his knuckle. He leans down slightly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head, voice low enough that only you hear it. “Cold?” he murmurs. “A little.”
He reaches out with his uninjured hand, tugging your sleeve down, instinctive, careful, just like earlier when he tucked the blanket over your ears before leaving the bed.
You let go of his hand only when you’re sure he’s okay. He squeezes your fingers once before turning back to the stove, pinkie wrapped in a towel now, humming softly. You step back, leaning against the counter, watching him move around your childhood home's kitchen like he belongs there. Because he does.
And when he glances back at you again—smiling, warm, completely at home—you realize something simple and steady settle into your chest.
This.
This is the life you chose.
And on a quiet winter morning in childhood home, with scrambled eggs on the stove and family all around you, it feels exactly right.
You poked your head into the Seventeen waiting room, in your stage outfit. The members were scattered — makeup, snacks, loud and chaotic as usual.
You: cleared your throat “Sorry, I’m looking for Vernon.”
There was a dramatic gasp, followed by chairs scraping. From behind the door, he popped out like an offended cat.
Vernon: “What?” he blinked.
You: “Sup, bro.” You grinned.
His entire face dropped.😐
Behind him, Mingyu choked on his water.
Joshua: murmured, “Oh no, she did it again.”
Hoshi: whisper-yelled, “She BRO-ed him.”
Vernon stepped out, closing the door behind him with exaggerated slowness.
Vernon: quietly “Y/n", leaning down to your eye level.
Vernon: “Why are you like this?”
You shrugged, innocent.
You: “It’s greeting. Bro is friendly.”
Vernon: “I told you I don’t like it.”
His voice wasn’t angry, more like defeated. He rubbed his face with one hand. You tilted your head.
You: “You don’t look happy to see me?”
He stared at you for a second. Too long. Then sighed.
Vernon: “I am happy to see you. A lot.”
Then a beat.
Vernon: “But can you just call me Hansol? Or Vernon? Like normal people?”
You pursed your lips dramatically.
You: “I’ll try, bro.”
He closed his eyes. A quiet, strangled sound escaped him.
Vernon: muttered “Okay. I’m leaving,” started walking away.
You: laughing “Come on, don’t sulk. I brought you something.” you caught his sleeve
Vernon: paused “…What?”
You pulled out a paper bag.
You: “Bagel. From that place you like.”
His entire mood did a complete 180.
Vernon: “No way.”
You: “Black sesame with cream cheese,”
He stared at you like he could suddenly forgive every sin you’d ever commit.When he reached for it, you pulled it back a little.
You: “What’s the magic word?”
He looked you dead in the eyes.
Vernon: “…don’t call me bro.”
You: snorted “Wrong. Try again.”
He exhaled through his nose.
Vernon: “…please?”
You handed it over proudly.
You: “That’s right, Hansol.”
He froze. Slowly… a smile spread across his face.
Vernon: “Thank you.”
Vernon: softer “That sounded nice.”
He sat next to you on the narrow backstage bench, legs stretched long, hoodie hood halfway over his head like a raccoon sneaking a snack.
He munched his bagel happily, then started talking, low and casual, like he always did when he was comfortable.
Vernon: “You know bagels were originally boiled before baking? That’s how they get chewy. And New York bagels are famous because the water is different. Minerals and stuff.”
You nodded slowly.
You: “Mmhm.”
Vernon: “And apparently the hole in the middle was originally so street vendors could stack them on sticks. Like—”
He mimed threading bagels onto a pole.
You stared. Not at the imaginary pole.
At him.
The way he talked, earnest and unbothered…
The way his mouth curved around words…
The stupid adorable spark in his eyes when he thought something was interesting.
Your mind? Blank.
Absolutely nothing happening.
He noticed after a moment, chewing slowing.
Vernon: “What?” he asked with crumbs on his lips.
You tilted your head, almost clinically studying him.
You: "You do look like Jack.”
Vernon: blinked “Jack?”
You: “From Titanic.”
He froze. Actually froze.
Bagel halfway to his mouth. Eyes unmoving. Breath paused.
Vernon doesn’t freeze.
Vernon is chill.
Vernon is unbothered.
Nothing rattles Vernon.
Except you.
You continued, very matter-of-fact:
You: “But you’re better looking. Cuter, I guess.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Someone dropped something in the hallway outside — neither of you reacted. His heart was doing gymnastics under that hoodie.
Finally, barely moving, he spoke:
Vernon: “Cuter,” he repeated.
You nodded, dead serious.
You: “Yeah.”
He swallowed.
Vernon: “Better looking,” he tested again, voice quieter.
You: "You are.”
He stared at you like he accidentally walked into an alternate timeline. Then he very slowly took another bite of his bagel, like he needed something to do before his brain restarted. After chewing, he said — very calm, very steady.
Vernon: “Don’t call me bro ever again.”
You blinked.
You: “Why?”
He didn’t even look at you as he answered.
Vernon: “Because the girl who says I’m better looking than Jack Dawson does not call me bro.”
You didn’t even think before saying it.
You: “But you’re a bro. Aren’t you not? Then what should I call you?”
You: paused, then very casually “Babe?”
He turned toward you.
Not fast.
Not shocked.
Slow.
Like each vertebrae rotated one at a time.
His eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, bagel forgotten.
Vernon: “…Again?”
You: smiled “Babe. Like my girlies. I call them babes.”
He stared at you.
No blinking.
Somewhere down the hall, a staff member called for sound check, and neither of you moved.
Vernon: voice low “I’m not your girlie.”
You: shrugged “No, but… babe is cute.”
Vernon: “Cute.”
He was processing.
His brain did a full reboot — lights flickered, system restarted — then he leaned back against the wall, head tilted, eyes on you.
You were in full gamer mode now. Eyes on your phone, dodging obstacles, passing staff, idols, managers like they were invisible NPCs. Light on your feet, headphones in, hyper-focused.
Everyone who saw you moved out of the way.
You didn’t notice anything.
Then your toe caught on the uneven floor.
You pitched forward—straight in the direction of Soobin, who had just stepped out of a doorway, arms full of water bottles, frozen like:
Soobin: “…?”
But before you could collide—
two hands grabbed your waist.
You were yanked backwards in one smooth motion. Your back landed against a warm chest, the familiar scent of cologne and fabric softener wrapping around you.
A breath brushed your ear.
Low. Possessive. Teasing.
Jeonghan.
His lips close enough that the words tickled your skin.
Jeonghan (whisper): careful, angel
Jeonghan (whisper): don’t fall into soobin.
Your heart jumped. Soobin blinked at the two of you, confused, hugging his bottles.
You turned your head slightly, cheeks hot.
You (whisper): i wasn’t going to!
He chuckled, soft and smug.
Jeonghan: mhm. you were.
Jeonghan: i saw it.
Jeonghan: i wasn’t going to let that happen.
One arm stayed around your waist, steady, firm. He looked at Soobin over your shoulder.
A slow smile.
Jeonghan: sorry, soobin-ah
Jeonghan: this one has a habit of falling… and i’ve decided she should only fall on me.
Soobin made a tiny squeak of a laugh, backing away with wide eyes.
You shoved at Jeonghan’s chest a little, flustered.
You: let go.
But he didn’t.
He brushed your hair behind your ear, fingers light.
Jeonghan (soft): try watching where you walk.
Then lower. Right against your ear.
Jeonghan: or just keep falling for me.
Jeonghan: i’ll catch you every time.
He finally released you, hands lingering a second too long.
