꒰ 𝓁ee 𝓂inho x wife.ᐟreader ꒱ 𝔀𝓬 : 750 ˎˊ˗ 𝓼oft 𝄞 𝒻luffy ⸝⸝⸝ « married with baby » ⤷ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 kysa's catalogue
minho finally had the day off today, and with the sweetest wife and the cutest baby boy, he couldn't wait to spend the entire day with both of you. he had already set an alarm for early after sleeping in early yesterday, getting all the rest he needed before spending an entire day with his family.
minho woke up as his alarm rang, quickly turning it off as you were sleeping beside him, softly snoring away. your little three-year-old baby boy, joonie, was sleeping in the crib beside the bed. after glancing at both of you with loving eyes, he tiptoed into the kitchen.
yes, minho had a plan — every weekend, minho made a breakfast spread to thank you for being there for him and your lil babybun.
he pulled out all the stops. first, he whisked together a thick waffle batter with extra vanilla, pouring it into the iron until the kitchen smelled like a bakery. then, he moved to the pancakes, flipping them into perfect golden circles. for the sandwiches, he toasted thick brioche slices until they were warm and soft, layering them with savory fillings and slicing them into neat triangles. he moved onto fresh berries, washing and mashing some into joon’s warm milk and pouring a tall glass of chocomilk for you.
he looked up from the kitchen counter to find you wobbling out of the room with joonie holding your hand, both of you rubbing your eyes with one hand. the toddler gave him a toothy smile as he ran up to minho.
"appa appa appaaaaa !"
minho's face instantly lit up, abandoning the spatula to crouch down with open arms. "there’s my little baby ! did you have sweet dreams ? come here !"
he picked up the toddler, holding him securely as he flipped the last of the pancakes. you slowly moved towards him, smiling as you hugged him, his free arm wrapping around you as he dropped a soft kiss on your forehead.
"have a seat baby, i'm gonna plate the breakfast."
"you're so sweet, min," you pouted, heart melting at the sight of him.
he put the toddler in the high chair, cutting up his pancakes and topping them with syrup and chopped berries. "here you go, joonie-yah. careful, it’s still a little warm. is it yummy ?"
he assembled plates for both of you and carried them to the table. you all ate together, the room filled with the quiet, happy sounds of a perfect morning.
"min, seriously, how are you so good at everything ?" you asked, taking a massive bite of the brioche sandwich. "the waffles are so crispy, and these sandwiches are literally better than that cafe we went to last month. you're a literal chef, i'm so spoiled."
minho's ears turned a faint pink, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. "it's just breakfast, baby. as long as my two favorite people are full, i’m happy."
"stwabewwyyy !!!!" joonie cheered, pointing at his plate with a syrup-covered finger.
minho laughed, reaching over to boop the toddler's nose. "that's right, joonie. only the best strawberries for you. you like them that much, hm?"
then, suddenly, a lil excited, mischief expression appeared on your face. you leaned towards the toddler and whisper:
"say thank you to appa, baby !! he made yum yum food for us, hm?"
minho watched in wonder as joonie said, "taaank yeww," with a strawberry-filled mouth, singing his words to express his gratitude.
"you're so welcome, joonie ," minho replied, his voice dripping with honey. "appa would make you a mountain of strawberries if you asked."
"and now the special thing, baby ? mumma taught you yesterday right ? for your lovey lovey people ?"
joonie brought his small, chubby hand to his lips and a soft 'mwah' escapes his lips as he blew a flying kiss right at minho.
minho watched, astonished in adoration. his jaw dropped and he actually dropped his fork, his hands coming up to cover his mouth as his eyes crinkled with pure, unfiltered joy.
"oh my god," minho gasped, his voice barely a whisper as he looked at you with a face full of wonder. he looked back at joonie, who was giggling at the dramatic reaction. "did you just... did you send that to me ? joonie-yah, you’re trying to give appa a heart attack ?"
he reached out into the air, 'catching' the invisible kiss with both hands and pressing them firmly against his heart, leaning back in his chair with a breathless, happy laugh as you giggled at their antics. "i caught it ! i’m keeping it right here forever. can you do it again ? appa needs one more !"
kysa's note: another long pending request when the skz code with kids came out >.< oh how i love dad!skz akjsjsjsj — anyways this is a bit rushed but i wanted to get it out today :p lemme know your thoughts in the comments below — hope you enjoy .ᐟ xoxo
Summary: When you change the pet name they call you to be an insult.
Author’s note: Hai hai! This is my first smau so please be gentle ㅋㅋ maknae line will be posted soon~~ Feel free to send asks for any other smau ideas!
≔ ⋆⟢ — pairing: (bunny-hybrid!boyfriend) lee minho x (bunny-hybrid!girlfriend) female reader
◟ word count: 497
⬩➤ 【 warning 】 ᝰ. hybrid au and not proofread
You and Minho have often disagreed on things on several occasions, but don’t usually fight about it. In the instance that the two of you do argue, it leads to days of not speaking to one another, even being in close proximity makes the other annoyed. Yes it’s immature, as many have said, but the two of you eventually get back together soundly. However, it was different this time around.
Neither of you really remember what you were fighting about, though it doesn’t matter, you are locked into that stage of not talking to one another. At one point, you questioned why you had even agreed to come along with them on tour. The tension grew and everyone was practically walking on egg shells in fear of upsetting you or Minho.
“Will you give it up already, Hyung?” Jisung sighs out loud, sitting next to him.
“No.” Minho plainly and directly said, focused on his phone.
“You and Noona are so stubborn. It’s no wonder the two of you are together.” Hyunjin commented as he took a sip out of his cup.
“Want to say that again, Ferret boy? The air fryer is just getting heated.” Minho smiled threateningly.
“Eugh!” Hyunjin squeaked, getting up to escape.
“Hyung, really. You and Noona should make up already. It’s been three days.”
“And why should I?” Minho continues to protest.
“Because it’s also affecting everyone else.” Jisung admitted. “And… I heard Noona crying the other day.”
“What?!” Minho snaps, sitting up. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely! You know I wouldn’t lie to you about her.”
“Shit!” Minho cursed out, getting up to head to the other room that you frequently occupied.
He looks around carefully to spot a massive ball of fur, rolled up comfortably on top of one of the wooden tables laid out. Then without saying a word, he walks in, kneels in front of the table to hug you. Of course, you squeaked in your bunny form, alarmed by someone suddenly grabbing you.
“I’m sorry, Jagi. Don’t be mad at me anymore.” He mumbled into your fur.
You only huffed, turning your head to the other side.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He whines, scratching behind your ears where you started tapping your foot against the wooden table. “Will you forgive me?”
You looked at him and squeaked.
“Is that a yes?”
You answered by stepping forward, giving him a small lick to his cheek.
“Great, now please turn back so I can get an actual kiss.”
You did, making a loud poof sound to see you back in your human form, though in full nude glory.
“Glad to–”
“Ahhh!” Jisung squealed in shock. “I’m sorry?!”
He frantically closed the door behind him as you tried to hide yourself in Minho’s hold.
“I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes again.” You groan into his shoulder.
“Good, you shouldn’t be looking at anyone but me, Bunny.” He teased, returning the kiss onto your cheek.
summary: four ex-couples are brought together to test whether love can end, restart or transform. you’re not sure which path is yours yet - closure, a new beginning or the courage to try again
< prologue | part 2 >
the taxi slows down before it fully stops, its tires crunching softly against gravel and for a moment you wish it wouldn’t, you wish it would just keep driving. you watch the house through the window, standing there, all clean lines and wide windows reflecting the pale sky, like it’s been waiting for you specifically.
the driver says something you don’t fully catch, and you blink, pulling yourself back into your body.
“sorry?”, you say.
“we’re here”, he repeats gently.
right. here.
you nod, pay and thank him and then push the door open. you step out, your shoes meeting the ground with a soft thud and for a brief second you just stand there, staring at the house with your hand still resting on the door.
this is it.
you close the door, walk around to the trunk and pull your suitcase out. the handle clicks into place and you flinch a little at the sound. it’s stupid, there’s no one outside to hear it, but your nerves are already stretched thin, reacting to everything like it matters more than it should, because, in reality, everything about this matters.
you wave goodbye to the driver, more out of habit than anything else, and watch as the taxi pulls away. it disappears faster than you expect, leaving you alone in front of the house with nothing but the faint hum of distant traffic and the sound of your own breathing. you consider getting back in, well not literally because there’s no taxi anymore, but you consider leaving.
you’ve thought about it so many times already that it doesn’t surprise you when the thought comes back again. you thought about it when hyunjin called you to talk about the show, when you told your ex, when you both agreed to do it, when you packed your things last night.
you’ve been thinking about it every single day. and yet, here you are.
your grip tightens on the suitcase handle as you exhale slowly, steadying yourself and then, you start walking towards the house. each step feels like you’re crossing some invisible line you won’t be able to step back over. the path is neat, carefully arranged, leading straight to the front door like there’s only one direction you’re supposed to go.
you reach the door and hesitate again, your reflection faintly visible in the glass, and you look more composed than you feel. you smooth your hair back, then your clothes, you grab your suitcase again and then let out one last breath.
you know the cameras are already recording you, the people of the show told you that. which means you’ve stopped being just you ever since you left the taxi. now, you’re you on a show. you with rules, you with secrets.
you push the door open before your thoughts make you run away and step inside. the interior is quiet and brighter than you expected. natural light spills in through large windows, stretching across polished floors and soft-coloured furniture. the space feels open, carefully designed to look effortless and beautiful and you know every detail has been thought through.
you walk inside slowly, your suitcase rolling softly behind you and you let your eyes wander. the living room opens up in front of you, wide and inviting, with a large sofa facing a low table, a few scattered cushions, and subtle decorations that make the place feel lived in without being personal.
“hello?”, you ask softly, but there’s no answer, you’re the first one.
you move further in, your footsteps quiet but echoing, another sign that tells you that you’re alone. the cameras are there, you can feel them even when you don’t look directly at them. you glance towards the kitchen, drawn by the openness of it. it’s just as expansive as the rest, with clean countertops and a large island in the centre of it. you can already imagine people standing there, leaning against the counter, laughing and talking with each other.
you run your fingers along the edge of the island as you pass. everything feels a little too polished, like a stage waiting for actors, actors like you. your stomach twists at the thought.
you wonder who will walk through that door next. a girl? a boy? one of the other participants you’ve never met, who will just walk in here and introduce themselves and become part of your daily life faster than it should be possible? or-
your chest tightens again, sharper this time.
it could be him. it was one thing to see him last week, with all of the cameras and you talking and seeing each other for the first time in a year. but if he’s the next one to arrive today…
you swallow, your gaze drifting back towards the entrance as the idea settles heavily in your mind, impossible to ignore. the moment you see him, no matter if he’s the next one or not, you will have to act like you don’t know him, like there’s no history between you. you’re just strangers. the thought feels almost absurd when you try to hold it next to everything you lived together.
was this a good idea?
the question comes back again and you walk back into the living room. you leave your suitcase and then lower yourself onto the sofa. you rest your hands in your lap, your fingers loosely intertwined, and stare ahead without focusing on anything in particular as the silence stretches.
you think about how this will look from the outside - the first arrival, the quiet girl sitting alone, waiting. they won’t hear your heart beating so loud you think it will leave your chest, they won’t see the way your thoughts keep circling the same questions, they won’t hear the way your mind keeps going back to him, they won’t know how much of you is hoping and dreading that he’s the one who walks through that door next.
you suddenly hear it, the faint sound of the front door opening, and you straighten slightly, your hands tightening in your lap, your gaze flicking towards the hallway that leads to the entrance. you hold your breath as you hear the first footsteps, soft and careful.
one of the girls.
one of the boys.
him.
your chest tightens with something you don’t want to name and even though you don’t move from the sofa, every part of you feels alert, waiting. the footsteps come closer and then she appears.
a girl steps into the living room, pausing just slightly when she notices you. her eyes widen for a brief moment and then a visible wave of relief softens her expression, her shoulders dropping like she’s just let go of something she didn’t know she was holding.
you feel it too, faintly, relief spreading quietly through your chest. it’s not him, good. you stand up and you both bow politely.
“hi”, she says, her voice gentle and you see there’s a small smile on her face, “i’m lily”
“hi”, you reply, returning the smile as best as you can, “i’m y/n”
she nods her head and then glances around the room again, as if she’s taking everything in now that she knows she’s not alone.
“it’s… really big”, she says, laughing out of nerves.
“yeah, it is”, you say, laughing too, “i got here some minutes ago. i haven’t seen all of it”
“that makes me feel better”, she says, smiling a little more easily now, “i thought i’d be the first one and just… wait here awkwardly”
you shake your head, laughing more, “don’t worry. i already did that for you”
that earns another laugh from her, this time more genuine, and the tension between you loosens just a little. you both sit down on the sofa, leaving a comfortable amount of space between you.
“so…”, she starts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “were you nervous coming here?”
you let out a small breath, glancing down at your hands before looking back up, “yeah. more than i thought i’d be”
“same”, she says, nodding, “i kept thinking about it on the way here, like… why did i agree to this?”
you huff out a quiet laugh, the words hitting a little too close, “i’ve been thinking that for a while”
she smiles again and there’s something understanding in her expression that makes it easier to sit there with her. the conversation flows slowly but steadily, both of you skirting around anything too deep, too revealing, because you can’t reveal too much about yourselves, at least not yet.
you’re in the middle of responding to something she says when the sound of the front door cuts through the air again and both of you pause. your head turns towards the hallway and lily does the same beside you, her posture straightening too.
you hear footsteps, heavier this time, and your heart picks up again. the footsteps get closer and closer, until a figure appears in the living room. it’s a boy this time, and he stops when he sees the two of you and gives a small, polite nod.
“hello”, he says.
you and lily bow in greeting and he mirrors the gesture.
“i’m minho”, he adds, his voice even, controlled.
you introduce yourself and lily does the same. there’s something calm and unreadable about him but it doesn’t fully hide the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful way he moves when he leaves his suitcase next to yours and walks over to sit down on the sofa with you. you can see he’s nervous too.
three strangers in a too big, too quiet house. the silence settles again, like all three of you are waiting for someone else to be the one to break it. minho is the one who does, as he glances between you and lily and then speaks.
“are you two the first ones?”
his voice is calm, casual enough, but you can hear the hesitation there, like he’s choosing his words more carefully than necessary.
you nod, “yeah. i got here first and then lily came a bit after”
“i was really hoping i wouldn’t be the first one”, lily says.
minho laughs, “yeah, me too”
and then, you hear a soft, very audible sound breaking through the room - lily’s stomach. you blink and turn your head towards her at the same time as minho before the three of you laugh at the same time.
“oh god, i didn’t eat this morning, i’m sorry”, lily says, covering her face, her voice muffled behind her hands, “i was too nervous”
“don’t worry”, you say, still laughing.
minho tilts his head, looking at her, “i can cook something if you want”
the offer comes naturally, like it’s not a big deal at all, but it still makes you glance at him with a bit more interest. lily looks surprised too, her eyes widening just a little before she quickly shakes her head.
“no, it’s okay”, she says, “i’ll just wait until everyone gets here”
“are you sure?”, he asks her.
“yeah”, she nods, smiling, “it feels weird to start without everyone”
you glance at minho again, “you like cooking?”
he shrugs, casual, “yeah. i do it a lot”
“that’s nice”, you say, “i don’t. like, at all”
“same”, lily adds, laughing a little, “i mean i know how to cook, but i really don’t want to most of the time”
minho’s lips curve just slightly at that, like he finds it amusing but isn’t going to comment too much on it. you’re about to say something when you hear the door opening again, cutting the moment instantly.
the three of you go quiet, your attention shifting towards the hallway in sync. your heartbeat picks up again, the now familiar tightness returning to your chest before you can stop it. you see a boy stepping into the living room with a small, polite smile already in place, like he’s prepared for this moment. his eyes move across the room, landing on the three of you, and he gives a light bow.
“hi”, he says, “i’m seungmin”
you move with the others, bowing in return. your voice comes out steady when you introduce yourself, even though your heart hasn’t stopped beating faster and faster, you know it won’t calm down until everyone is here. seungmin places his suitcase next to the others and then walks over to sit in the armchair across the sofa, right in front of you.
up close like this, it’s easier to see the details - the slight tension in his posture, the careful way he settles into the seat, how his hands rest together a bit too neatly, how he keeps pressing his lips together. he looks composed and calm, but it’s the same calm you had seen in minho as well, controlled and nervous.
“did you eat?”, lily asks seungmin, her tone light.
he shakes his head slightly, “um... not much”
“me neither”, she says with a small laugh, “i was too nervous”
seungmin nods in understanding, a faint smile touching his lips and then, you decide to speak again.
“do you like cooking?”
his gaze shifts to you, “i know how to, but i don’t really like it”
“just like us”, you say, gesturing between you and lily, the two of you laughing again.
the front door opens once more and you all wait there in silence until a girl appears this time. she stops the moment she sees all of you, like completely still. her eyes widen slightly, like she wasn’t expecting to walk into a full room and she just stands there taking everything in. you recognise the feeling immediately, that brief and overwhelming awareness that this is real, that you’re all here for the same reason.
she bows quickly, almost a little too fast, “hi, i’m hae”, she says, her voice quieter than the other so far, carrying a small awkward edge that makes something in your chest soften just lightly.
you and the others greet her the same way, introducing yourselves one by one. she looks around again, as if trying to figure out where to go or what to do, and then she walks over to leave her suitcase next to the others. after a small hesitation, she moves towards the sofa, but instead of sitting near you, she chooses the far end, settling into the corner with a bit of distance between herself and the rest of you.
“did you have trouble finding the place?, seungmin asks, his tone easy, directed towards minho first.
minho shakes his head, “not really. the directions were clear”
seungmin nods, glancing briefly towards lily and you as if including everyone in the conversation, “same here”
it’s simple, surface-level, but it works, it gives everyone something to hold onto.
“and you?”, he continues, this time looking towards hae.
she blinks, then shakes her head quickly, “no… it was okay”
“good”, he says, offering a small, polite smile, then his gaze moves between all of you, “have you looked around the house yet?”
you shake your head, “not really, just the living room and the kitchen”
seungmin hums softly, like he expected that answer.
“it’s big”, minho says, glancing around again, “i think we’ll get lost at some point”
that earns a faint smile from lily and even minho’s expression softens slightly. before anyone can say anything else, the door opens again. the sound is becoming familiar now, but it still sends a small jolt through you. your body reacts before you can stop it as your shoulders straighten slightly, your attention shifting once more towards the entrance as your heart speeds up again.
another boy steps into the room with a natural ease that immediately feels different from the rest of you. he’s not completely relaxed, you can see a hint of nervousness in the way his gaze flickers across everyone, but he carries it differently.
“hi”, he says, smiling as he bows lightly, “i’m bang chan but you can call me chan or chris”
his tone is warm and open and it changes the atmosphere almost instantly. you introduce yourselves again, you honestly don’t remember how many times you’ve done that today, and he moves to join you in the living room once he sets his suitcase down with the others. he sits down on the sofa, just between hae and lily, but leaving a respectful space between all of them. he looks around at all of you, his expression thoughtful for a second before it softens again.
“so…”, he starts, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, “am i the only one that’s nervous or are you all just really good at hiding it?”
all of you laugh at that, and you miss the way chan looks at you quickly before he looks around the room again.
lily lets out a short laugh, “no, no, we’re definitely nervous”
“same”, seungmin adds quietly, clearing his throat and looking at the floor now.
you smile a little as you joke, “i think we’re all just pretending not to be”
chan nods his head, “okay good, that’s better”, he glances between all of you again, “did you guys eat before coming here?”
“we were talking about that before, saying that we were too nervous to eat anything”, minho says.
“i barely ate too”, chan says.
hae gives a small nod again, she’s quieter than the rest, but she does it to be included in the group.
you glance towards the kitchen, “do you think there’s food already here?”
“probably”, lily says, “or maybe we have to go buy some?”
chan tilts his head, “we could check”
everyone agrees and there’s a small shift in the group, like the idea of actually doing something, anything, helps ease the stillness just a little more. you’re about to say something else when the door opens again, and the tension returns. you hear high heels against the floor, and it tells you everything before you even see her - the last girl is here.
she steps into the living room, her gaze moving across all of you, “hi, i’m yeong”
everyone introduces themselves and then chan gestures towards the kitchen, “we were just about to check if there’s anything to eat”
yeong glances in that direction, then back at the group, and nods her head, “okay, that sounds good”
you stand up with the others, following them towards the kitchen, everyone filling the space that had felt too still just moments ago. the kitchen feels different now with almost everyone in it, you don’t forget that the last boy has yet to arrive. all of you move around the island, opening cabinets and checking the fridge.
“there’s some stuff here”, hae says, crouching to look into a lower cabinet.
“there’s not a lot”, minho adds, scanning the shelves.
“ramen”, chan points out, pulling out a couple of packets, “that’s something”
“of course it is”, seungmin says lightly.
there are a few other things - bread, eggs, some vegetables, meat, basic ingredients. it’s not enough for anything elaborate but it’s enough to put together something quick.
you find yourself standing near the counter, watching as everyone starts to fall into small roles without really discussing it. there’s quiet conversation, overlapping just enough to keep the silence from settling again, and yet, your thoughts drift as you glance at them one by one, almost without realising it.
some of them look more relaxed now, others are still nervous and you try to think about you and your ex and-
you stop yourself there. your gaze shifts away as your fingers brush against the edge of the counter. this is what you signed up for, a house full of strangers and questions and choices you’re not sure you’re ready for.
your chest tightens again, as the now familiar question surfaces again, was this a good idea?, quieter this time but no less present. you watch as minho opens the ramen packets, casually asking who wants what and for a moment, it almost feels normal, like you’ve done this a million times before. but underneath it, your thoughts keep moving and circling, never quite setting, because nothing about this is going to be simple.
by the time evening settles in, the house already feels different. not completely familiar, not yet at least, but it feels less distant than it did when you first met this morning. eating together had gone better than you expected and after that, the energy naturally dipped and you all moved to unpack, see the house, sit alone for a while and just breathe.
there were four rooms in the house which meant you all had to share. you end up sharing with lily and you’re quietly grateful for it because there’s something about her that makes you feel at ease. you talk a little while unpacking and it’s enough to settle some of the nerves in your chest.
everyone is nice, really nice, but you had expected something more awkward or forced. but instead it was just good, really good even. which almost makes it worse because it lulls you into forgetting, just for a second what his actually is.
now, the house is alive again, and you make your way back into the kitchen. one by one everyone gathers again, naturally falling into place like you’ve already created a routine. you step closer to the counter, glancing around.
chan is already there, his sleeves pushed up as he looks through what you can have for dinner. minho stands nearby, leaning against the counter as he looks too. lily joins you a second later before looking around as if deciding where to help. seungmin stands next to you and just when he’s about to speak, the front door opens again.
everyone pauses and looks at each other, the last boy is finally here. you hear footsteps quickly this time, faster and slightly rushed. a boy appears then, breathing just a little heavier than the rest of you had when you arrived.
“hi- sorry”, he says, bowing quickly, “i’m han and i’m really sorry i’m so late”, his voice is warm but hurried as he continues, “my job was… busy today. it took longer than i expected. sorry”
he bows again but you all stop him, there’s no need to apologise.
“it’s fine”, lily says with a small smile, “we were just about to start dinner”
“yeah”, chan says, “you didn’t miss anything important”
han lets out a small breath, visibly relieved, “okay, good. i felt bad”
you introduce yourselves again and han nods after each of you, his shoulders relaxing. he looks at his suitcase and then at you again.
“so… um…”, han starts.
“oh, you’re gonna share a room with me, here, let me show you”, seungmin says before he moves to han and the two of them go to their shared room.
everyone’s here, no more arrivals, no more waiting. all of you move to start dinner again and han slips into it easily despite arriving late, offering to help and joking when he almost grabs the wrong thing, earning a few laughs in return. when everything is ready, you all move to the table together.
there's a brief moment of hesitation - who sits where, how close, how far - but it passes quickly. chairs scrape softly against the floor as everyone settles in, plates and bowls being passed around, the clatter of utensils filling the space. you sit between lily and yeong, all of the girls on one side and all of the boys on the side. you start eating in silence but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to start again.
“we should probably figure out chores”, yeong says, glancing around the table.
“yeah”, seungmin agrees, “this place won’t stay clean on its own”
han lets out a small laugh, “i was hoping it would”
“rotating sounds better, so no one gets stuck with the same thing”, you say.
“agreed”, seungmin says.
there’s a small pause as everyone considers it, then nods follow.
“and groceries”, hae says quietly, “we’ll need more food”
“that too”, minho says, “maybe tomorrow? whoever’s free can go”
“and dinner”, han says, his gaze moving between all of you, “should we… eat together everyday?”
it’s a simple suggestion but it carries something deeper, a kind of quiet commitment.
“i think that would be nice”, you say.
“yeah”, lily agrees, “everyone will be busy during the day with their jobs and stuff, so dinner would be nice”
“then we can rotate cooking too”, chan says, “like two people each night?”
everyone agrees and then, when you finish eating, you hear the doorbell ringing again. the sound cuts through the room so suddenly that for a second, no one reacts. all of you pause almost at the same time, small movements freezing mid-action and conversations dropping off mid-sentence.
“is… someone else coming?”, lily asks quietly.
no one answers at first and it almost feels like the beginning of the day again, that same anticipation and uncertainty creeping back in.
minho pushes his chair back and stands up, “i’ll go and check”
he heads towards the front door and the rest of you stay where you are, listening, the house feeling too quiet again. there’s the faint sound of the door opening and then closing. minho reappears a few seconds later, something in his hand.
an envelope.
the moment you see it, you recognise it immediately. somewhere in the back of your mind you knew this would come, but actually seeing it, here, now, makes it real in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for.
he looks at all of you, holding it up slightly, “it’s for us”
he reaches into the envelope and pulls out several smaller ones, one for each of you. your eyes drop to them, scanning, and your breath catches when you see your name written on one. a memory flashes in your mind - sitting alone days ago in your apartment, a pen in hand as you stared at a blank page without writing anything. some of the people on the show had contacted you and said you needed to write an introduction of your ex.
you remember how hard that felt. how impossible it was to decide what to say, what to not say.
minho starts handing them out one by one. all of you take them with different expressions, different reactions, some of you are more hesitant, others are more curious. once everyone has their envelope, you all sit there, waiting until someone decides to actually do something.
“so…”, chan starts, “should we read them?”
then lily nods slowly, “out loud?”
“probably”, minho says, “i think that’s the point”
no one argues but there’s a shared understanding, unspoken but clear, that this is part of it, the beginning of everything unraveling.
lily ends up going first. she hesitates before opening the envelope, her fingers careful as she slides the paper out. you watch her expression as she scans the first lines, the way her lips press together briefly before she starts reading, her voice soft at first, slightly unsteady.
‘lily is the first girl i had a serious relationship with. she is nice, bright and smiles a lot so she gets along with everyone. she’s soft hearted and hates being alone so i think it’ll be nice if she meets someone kind and gentle and becomes the person i couldn’t be for her’
when she finishes reading, she lets out a small breath, smiling faintly as she folds the paper again.
“that was…”, she trails off.
“beautiful”, hae offers gently and lily nods.
next is minho and he doesn’t hesitate as much when he opens his envelope. his tone is steady when he reads, more than lily’s, but there are moments where something softer slips through the words he reads.
‘my first impression of minho was that he was very handsome’
he stops reading when all of you laugh at that, himself included.
‘he may seem cold at first but he’s actually a very warm person and he likes to give presents and prepare things for his girlfriend. he’s someone who’s genuine with others, so he was a very warm and reliable boyfriend’
when he finishes reading, he reacts with a slight shake of his head, like he expected that.
“that was very good”, han says.
minho hums, “it was”
yeong decides to go next and when you look at her, you notice the way her fingers hold the paper just a little tighter. her voice is clear as she reads but there’s emotion there, subtle and controlled.
‘yeong is a caring and soft hearted person who gets hurt by the smallest actions and words, but she tries to hide it because of her strong pride, so i think it would be great if you can pay attention to her and take good care of her’
when hae’s turn arrives, she goes very quiet again. she almost whispers at first, glancing down more than she looks up, but as she continues, her voice steadies, even if her hands don’t.
‘once hae sets her mind on something, she’ll do it no matter what. she’s a passionate person who likes learning new things and looks cool working. she was a very considerate girlfriend and was always there for me whenever i needed her’
you find yourself leaning slightly without realising it, listening more carefully, trying to piece things together without actually knowing anything, without seeing the image of the puzzle you’re trying to create.
han’s letter brings a different energy. he laughs once before he even starts reading, shaking his head slightly like he already knows what’s coming.
“okay… this is embarrassing”, he says, but he reads anyway.
‘han is someone who makes me feel special. i loved our time together and he was very romantic. he’s bright and funny and he talks a lot so it’s easy to talk with him. he loves music and when he’s with people he shines. i think a girl who can understand him will be a good match for him. he will treat you like a princess but he’s also the princess in the relationship’
there’s more laughter this time and it helps, just a little, to break the weight that’s been building.
chan goes after him. he opens his envelope with a small breath, scanning the page briefly before starting to read. his voice is warm, like it was when he first walked in, but there’s something more grounded in it now.
‘chan is a very warm and meticulous person. wherever he goes and whoever he’s with, he always puts others first. he takes good care of people, so while living with him, you’ll be able to see his sweet side often. he likes music and he’s sentimental, so i think he’ll be very good with a girl who has the same interests as him’
you notice the way the room quiets a bit more as he reads, the attention fully on him. when he finishes, he smiles faintly and looks at seungmin as he folds the paper.
“your turn”, he tells him.
seungmin opens his letter without much hesitation and he starts reading, his voice calm and controlled.
‘seungmin has a very detailed personality to the point he notices the minor changes in your tone. he loves baseball and he is very good at it. he usually seems calm but he’s very loving, caring and warm when you get to know him. he looks after those close to him and he took great care of me and always put me first. he’s the only boy i regret breaking up with’
everyone stays silent at the last sentence, the words quite heavy and full of regret. you try to keep your breathing steady because you know you’re next and you’re not sure if you’re ready for the words that are going to appear in front of you in mere seconds.
all eyes shift to you, there’s nowhere else for the attention to go. your heart is beating too fast again and your thoughts are too loud but still, you inhale slowly and open the envelope.
you stare at the handwriting, recognising it as soon as the letter lands in your hands. you force your eyes to focus and then, you start reading.
‘y/n has a pretty smile and laughs a lot, that’s why when you look at her, you feel happy as well. she’s someone with bright energy and loves chocolate, so if you give her something sweet, you’ll see her wide smile’
but as you go on, something shifts. you try to keep going anyway, your eyes moving across the lines, your grip tightening on the paper.
‘she is always happy and she is very caring and loving. while we were together, she made me grow and taught me many things. i remember our time together as the best time of my life’
you can feel it building - the memories behind the words, the things he chose to write. your voice softens without you meaning it to.
‘she’s soft hearted and emotional, and also strong, but please be kind to her so that she won’t get hurt’
by the time you reach the end, your chest feels too tight, your throat closing just enough to make the last words harder to get out. when you finish, you lower the paper slowly, your hands not as steady as before. your eyes sting, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down. you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, letting put a small breath that doesn’t quite steady you.
you see a hand in front of you, offering you a tissue. you look up and see seungmin, with a soft smile on his face.
“here, take it”, he says.
“thank you”, you say as you grab the tissue.
you knew this would happen. you bring the tissue to your face, brushing your cheek and wiping the tears from your face, trying to compose yourself again, even as your chest still feels tight and your emotions are sitting too close to the surface.
not long after you finish reading the letters, all of you decide it’s time to go to bed. you can still feel the weight of your letter sitting in your chest, without fully letting you go after you read it out loud. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring down at your hands, still holding the faint memory of the paper from earlier.
“hey”, lily says gently.
you look up.
she’s watching you now, her expression soft but a bit concerned, “are you okay?”
you take a second before answering, not because you don’t want to respond, but because you’re trying to figure out what the honest answer even is.
“i think so”, you say finally, “it was just… a lot”
she nods immediately, “yeah, i get it”
“it kind of hit me more that i expected", you say, looking down again.
“i could tell”, she says softly, “but it was really nice. you know, what your ex wrote”
you nod slowly, not trusting yourself to speak again. you both start getting ready for bed when your phone vibrates, both of your phones do. you look at lily and she’s already looking at her own phone. you reach for yours and you see a text from the show.
exchange: who made your heart flutter today? send them a text
this is the first actual choice you have to make and your mind starts moving, faster than you can control. you think about the day, about the boys and then you exhale quietly. you don’t even know them yet, not all of them at least. sending something to someone new feels… too much and too fast.
but if you send your ex the text… your thumb hovers over the screen for a second before you finally type.
‘thank you’
it’s simple, maybe too simple. but it’s the only thing that feels right in this moment, especially after everything that happened earlier, after the letter. you stare at the words for a second, then press send before you can overthink it.
“did you send it?”, lily asks you.
“yeah, you?”
“yeah”, she says, placing her phone down beside her.
none of you asks who you sent the text to, it’s understood, the texts have to remain anonymous, at least for now, that’s part of the rules. you start talking again, relaxing, when your phone vibrates again.
you see a new text and your heart picks up slightly as you read it.
‘i miss seeing you smile’
your breath catches and for a second you just stare at the screen and before you can think too much about it, another text appears.
exchange: your ex chose you
when you finally wake up the next day, you realise that the light filtering through the curtains is higher in the sky than it should be, and for a moment you just lie there, disoriented. your body feels heavy and your head too. it takes a few seconds before you reach your phone, your eyes still half-lidded and when you see the time, you blink, even more confused now.
it’s almost noon. last night… didn’t really let you rest. you just lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts looping over and over again. the letters, the text.
you turn on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow for a moment before pushing yourself up. your body protests just a little, still tired, but there’s no point staying there. you leave your room and go to the kitchen and you see hae as soon as you step in. she’s standing by the counter, a cup in her hands, and she looks up when she hears you enter.
“y/n”, she says, a small smile appearing, “good morning, oh, well... good afternoon”
“yeah, hello”, you reply, your voice still a little softer than usual.
“did you just wake up?”, she asks you.
you nod, rubbing lightly at your arm, “yeah… i didn’t sleep that well”
“me neither”, she says, letting out a small breath, “i think everyone was a bit overwhelmed”
you nod your head and then ask her, “where is everyone?”
“seungmin and minho went to buy groceries”, she says, “the other left earlier for work”
you nod slowly, leaning against the counter and hae looks at you again, a little more carefully this time.
“are you okay?”, she asks.
you hesitate for a second before answering, “yeah, i just… needed some time i guess”
“it was a lot”
“yeah, it was”, you agree.
you’re about to say something else when you hear the front door opening, followed by the noise of footsteps and the faint clatter of bags.
“they’re back”, hae says.
a second later, minho and seungmin walk into the kitchen, both of them carrying grocery bags.
“oh, you’re up”, minho says, setting one of the bags down on the counter.
seungmin’s gaze follows, landing on you briefly, “morning”
“morning boys”, you reply.
“have you eaten?”, minho asks, already moving to set the rest of the groceries down.
you shake your head.
“i can make something quickly”, he offers.
“no, it’s okay”, you say, “you just got back, i can-”
“it won’t take long”, he cuts in lightly and starts pulling something out of one of the bags, starting to prepare you something to eat.
you exchange a small glance with hae, who smiles faintly, then turns back to the groceries.
“let’s put these away”, she says.
you nod, stepping closer to the counter. seungmin joins you without a word, picking up one of the bags and starting to sort through it. the three of you start taking things out, placing items where they belong, and behind you, you hear minho moving around, the sound of cooking filling the kitchen.
you finish putting everything away at the same time minho finishes cooking for you and he slides a simple plate towards you with a small nod.
“thank you”, you say.
he just shrugs lightly, “eat before it gets cold”
you sit at the counter while the others linger nearby. hae pours herself some water and seungmin leans lightly against the counter, looking at his phone for a second before he puts it away again. the four of you stay there, talking as you eat slowly, the food pulling you a little more into the moment and into your body.
when you’re done eating, everyone leaves to do their own thing, it’s still too early for constant closeness, too soon to be together all the time without space. the house is shared, yes, but you’re all still figuring out how to exist in it with more people.
you go to your room and sit on your bed before reaching for your bag, pulling out a book you brought with you. reading has always been like this for you - a way to settle your thoughts, to step into your own little world just enough to understand your own mind better. and right now, your mind needs it.
you curl up against the headboard, opening the book, letting the words pull you in slowly. it takes a few pages to fully focus, your thoughts still drifting back to everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours, but eventually it quiets.
time passes without you noticing too much, and at some point you check your phone, replying to a few texts, when you start hearing movement outside your room again. voices, doors, the house filling up.
you close your book, setting it aside and stand up, stretching before heading out of your room. when you step into the living room, all of them are already there. chan and seungmin are sitting on the sofa, talking about something that makes lily laugh beside them. han is nearby, saying something animatedly while minho listens with a small, almost amused expression. hae and yeong are there too, talking together, a bit further from the group but still there.
“y/n, you’re here!”, lily says when she notices you.
you smile at her, moving closer, “yeah, i was in our room”
“how was your day?”, chan asks you, turning towards you when you sit next to him.
“quiet”, you say, “slept in and then just read for a while”
“that sounds nice”, he says.
the conversation picks up from there, and you find yourself laughing along at some point, the sound coming easier than it did yesterday. suddenly, the doorbell rings and the sound cuts through the room, immediate and clear. the doorbell rings again and then lily pushes herself up from the sofa.
“i’ll get it!”, she says, already heading towards the door.
you follow her with your eyes as she disappears down the hallway, the rest of you falling into a brief, curious silence. you hear the door opening and closing, and then lily comes back with an envelope.
she looks around at all of you, a small, almost nervous smile on her face before she opens it. the paper rustles lightly in her hands as she pulls out the contests, looking down to read.
“okay, here we go…”, she starts, her voice a little bit shakier now.
‘earlier today, the female participants were asked to name an important restaurant for them that held memories with their ex’
your stomach drops lightly.
right, that text, you remember it now, it’s one of the texts your answered before when you were reading in your room. you didn’t realise it would happen so soon, whatever this was supposed to be. lily continues, reading carefully.
‘the male participants will now choose one of these four restaurants for your first date tomorrow. please, keep in mind that the purpose of this is to meet new people’
there’s a small shift in the room, it’s subtle but you feel it.
“so… if we have to pick a restaurant that we don’t know…”, han trails off.
“it’s because we can’t pick our ex”, minho finishes, matter-of-fact.
silence settles for a second as the implication lands clearly for everyone. you swallow, your gaze dropping briefly to the table before lifting again.
lily pulls out four small cards from the envelope and places them carefully on the table in front of you. each one has the logo and the name of the restaurants the four of you have chosen - four choices, something simple but carrying more weight than they should.
everyone gathers around the table, drawn in without needing to be told. the space tightens, your shoulders almost brushing, and you feel the air shifting again.
“so… how do we decide the order?”, chan asks.
“rock, paper, scissors?”, han suggests.
the boys nod their heads and then their hands go up, small bursts of laughter breaking through the tension for just a moment as they play it out. seungmin wins so he will go first, then minho, han and chan, that’s the order.
seungmin looks at the cards and then reaches for one, the tacos restaurant. he picks it up and turns it over, all of you realising there’s a code on the back. he takes out his phone and scans it.
“what’s that?”, hae asks him.
“you scan the code and it tells us who we’re gonna have our date with”, seungmin says.
okay, so everyone is gonna know who is going with who once all of the boys choose the restaurant, perfect. you’re not really sure if that calms your nerves or not.
minho goes next and he reaches for the bbq restaurant without much hesitation. his movements are smooth, almost detached, but you can see it, the slight tension in his jaw as he flips the card over and then there’s another code, another scan, another couple for a first date.
han is next and he looks at the remaining cards for a second before choosing the italian restaurant. there’s a small smile on his face, nervous but something you’ve come to learn is so him.
“okay…”, he mutters softly, mostly to himself, as he turns the card over.
you feel it before anything happens, that strange pull in your chest, that quiet sense of something about to shift. he scans the code and pauses for a second, then two, and then, he looks up, straight at you, and everything clicks into place at once.
han is your first date.
a/n: han jisung you're OUT ❌ he's notttt the ex (i'm scared bc i know some of you are gonna come for me and i'm sorry pls don't hate me) so who's the ex???? 🤔
the library
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated 🌟
if you want me to add you to the taglist let me know in the comments ☺️
♡ lee know is the emotionally unavailable dance major who becomes quietly obsessed with taking care of his accidental roommate. he doesn’t say “i care about you.” he changes your lightbulbs, cooks for you at 2 a.m., and gets irrationally angry when anyone else gets too close. “we’re not dating” — except everyone on campus thinks you are.
☆ genres: accidental roommates | domestic tension | slow-burn yearning | emotionally constipated minho | acts of service | “we’re not dating” but we act married | subtle possessiveness | campus romance | hidden softness
☆ warnings: explicit nsfw (18+ / MDNI), heavy detailed smut scenes, domestic sex, marking/hickeys, light choking, possessive talk, praise kink, teasing/edging, semi-public risk, multiple orgasms, emotional intimacy during sex, hurt/comfort
☆ playlist: darl+ing - seventeen | angel or devil - txt | not for sale - enhypen | unplugged boy - tws | dear my darling - boynextdoor |
“Due to a system error in the off-campus housing portal, your assigned apartment (Unit 412) will be shared with one other approved tenant for the remainder of the semester. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
You had laughed when you read it. Laughed because it felt like a joke. Laughed because you were exhausted from moving boxes up three flights of stairs in the August heat. Laughed because what else were you supposed to do?
Then you opened the door to Unit 412 and stopped laughing.
Lee Minho was already there.
He stood in the middle of the living room like he owned it — black hoodie, sweatpants, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he watched you drag your last suitcase inside. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes, sharp and dark, flicked over you once before returning to the suitcase like it personally offended him.
“You’re the roommate,” he said. Not a question. A statement. Flat. Annoyed.
You straightened up, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, and gave him your brightest, friendliest smile.
“Hi! Yeah, I’m y/n. Housing mix-up, right? This is awkward but I promise I’m clean, quiet, and I don’t throw parties. We can make a chore chart or something if you want.”
Minho stared at you for a long second.
Then he turned and walked into the kitchen without another word.
You blinked.
Okay. Not a talker.
You dragged your suitcase further inside and looked around. The apartment was surprisingly nice — open layout, big windows, two bedrooms on opposite sides. One door was already closed with a small “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the knob. His room, obviously.
Minho reappeared from the kitchen holding a glass of water. He set it on the counter near you without comment.
You stared at it, then at him.
“…Thanks?”
He shrugged, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed again. “You looked like you were about to pass out.”
His voice was low, almost bored. But he didn’t leave. He just stood there, watching you with that unreadable expression.
You took the water and drank it, suddenly aware of how thirsty you actually were.
“So,” you said, trying to keep things light, “which room is mine?”
He tilted his head toward the open door on the left. “That one. I took the one with the better window. Sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry.
You smiled anyway. “No problem. I’m easygoing.”
Minho hummed, like he didn’t quite believe you, then pushed off the counter.
“Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said as he headed toward his room. “Leftovers from last night.”
You stared after him.
He cooked?
Before you could thank him, his door clicked shut.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign swayed gently.
You exhaled, looking around your new (shared) home.
The first week was a careful dance of avoidance and accidental domesticity.
Minho was gone most of the day — dance practices, classes, whatever mysterious schedule a dance major kept. You were busy with your own classes and part-time photography gigs. You barely saw each other.
But the apartment started showing signs of him anyway.
A perfectly folded stack of your laundry appeared on your bed one afternoon (he had “accidentally” mixed it with his and refused to admit it was intentional). A pot of kimchi jjigae was left on the stove with a sticky note that just said “eat” in neat handwriting. When you came home late from a shoot one night, the living room light was still on and Minho was on the couch, pretending to watch a drama while clearly waiting for you.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not my dad.”
He finally glanced at you, expression flat. “You forgot to eat again. There’s leftovers.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he stood up, walked into the kitchen, and silently reheated the food for you.
You ate at the counter while he leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching you like it was his job to make sure you actually finished the bowl.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said between bites. “We’re just roommates.”
Minho shrugged. “You’re bad at taking care of yourself. Someone has to.”
His tone was annoyed.
But he stayed until you finished eating.
And when you thanked him, he just muttered “whatever” and disappeared into his room again.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to think it might as well say “Do Not Fall For Your Roommate.”
Because Lee Minho was already becoming a problem.
The weeks after that were a masterclass in quiet chaos.
He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t messy. He was just… there. Always in the periphery, always doing small things that made your shared apartment feel less like a temporary mistake and more like something dangerously comfortable.
It started with the ramen.
You came home from a long photography shoot at 2:14 a.m., exhausted, starving, and too tired to cook. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the kitchen light. Minho was standing at the stove in black sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly messy, stirring a pot like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You stopped in the doorway.
“…Are you cooking?”
He didn’t look up. “You forgot to eat again. Sit.”
You blinked. “How do you know I forgot to eat?”
He shrugged, sliding a bowl of kimchi jjigae in front of you as you sat at the counter. “You always do when you have shoots.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there until you finished.
When you thanked him, he muttered “whatever” again and disappeared into his room.
The next morning, your laundry was folded neatly on your bed.
You knew you hadn’t done it.
When you confronted him in the kitchen later, he was making coffee, back to you.
“You folded my clothes,” you said, half-amused, half-confused.
“You did it wrong,” he replied without turning around. “Everything was wrinkled. I fixed it.”
You leaned against the doorway, smiling. “You’re strangely domestic for someone who acts like he hates people.”
Minho finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “I don’t hate people. I just don’t like most of them.”
You laughed. He turned back to the coffee maker, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The pattern continued.
He started leaving sticky notes on the fridge:
There’s leftover tteokbokki. Eat it before it goes bad. - Minho
Your plants are dying. Water them. - Minho
Stop staying up until 4 a.m. editing. Sleep. - Minho
You teased him relentlessly about it.
“You know you’re acting like a worried husband, right?” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t even pause. “Eat your food.”
But his ears turned pink.
Your friends noticed before you did.
One weekend, you invited a couple of them over for a casual movie night. Minho was supposed to be out at dance practice.
He wasn’t.
He walked in halfway through the movie, took one look at the group on the couch, and immediately went to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he emerged with a tray of perfectly cut fruit, homemade ramyeon, and drinks — placed it on the coffee table without a word, then sat on the floor beside your legs like it was his assigned spot.
Your friend Jisoo stared. “Wait… he lives here?”
You nodded. “Roommate. Housing error.”
Jisoo looked between you and Minho, who was now quietly watching the movie while occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating the fruit he brought.
“…Looks like y'all are married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re not. He’s just… like this.”
Minho didn’t comment.
But later that night, after everyone left, he lingered in the living room while you cleaned up.
“You can go to bed,” you told him. “I’ve got this.”
He ignored you and started helping anyway, silently drying dishes while you washed them.
When you bumped shoulders accidentally, he didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The clinginess showed up in quieter ways too.
One night you came home late and freezing from a shoot. Minho was on the couch, pretending to read. The moment you walked in, he stood up, disappeared into his room, and came back with one of his hoodies.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing it at you. “Your room’s heater is shit.”
You pulled it on without arguing. It smelled like him — warm, clean, faintly like his cologne.
You caught him staring for a second too long before he looked away.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
But he stayed on the couch with you until you fell asleep watching a drama, a blanket mysteriously draped over both of you.
When you woke up the next morning, he was gone.
But the blanket was still there.
And so was the faint scent of him on your hoodie.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Minho was practical. He was helpful. He was… Minho.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
And deep down, you were starting to wonder the same thing because, the domesticity didn’t stay small for long.
Minho’s care started slipping into your life in ways that felt too personal to ignore — quiet, practical, and impossibly consistent.
One rainy Thursday, you came home from a long outdoor shoot completely soaked and starting to sniffle. Your nose was running, your throat hurt, and you were too tired to do anything but collapse on the couch.
Minho took one look at you and disappeared into the bathroom.
He returned with a towel and your hair dryer.
“Sit,” he said, voice flat.
You blinked through your exhaustion. “What?”
“You’re dripping everywhere. Sit.”
You sat.
He stood behind the couch and gently dried your hair with the towel first, movements careful and efficient. Then he turned on the hair dryer, fingers combing through your damp strands with surprising gentleness. The warm air and his steady touch made your eyes flutter shut.
“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.
“I know,” he replied.
But he kept going until your hair was dry and you stopped shivering.
When he finished, he placed a blanket over your lap and disappeared into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he returned with a bowl of warm porridge and medicine.
“Eat,” he said, setting it on the coffee table. “Then sleep.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
“…Thank you.”
He shrugged like it was nothing and retreated to his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign stayed up.
But you noticed he left his door cracked open that night — just enough to hear if you needed anything.
He also started remembering things.
Your coffee order (extra shot, oat milk, one sugar). The days you had early classes. The exact brand of snacks you reached for when stressed. When your period was coming and you needed chocolate.
He never announced it. He just… did it.
One morning you woke up to find your favorite coffee and a small pack of painkillers on the kitchen counter with a sticky note that simply said:
Don’t forget to eat lunch.
No signature.
But you knew it was him.
-----
The jealousy started subtle.
You were in the shared living room one evening when a guy from your photography class, Jisung, stopped by to drop off a lens you’d lent him. He lingered in the doorway, chatting and laughing, standing a little too close as he complimented your latest shots.
Minho was in the kitchen, pretending to make tea.
But you felt his eyes on you the entire time.
When Jisung reached out to brush a stray hair from your shoulder, Minho’s spoon clattered loudly against the mug.
Jisung startled. “Oh, sorry — I didn’t know you had company.”
Minho didn’t look up. “She’s busy.”
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
But his knuckles were white around the mug.
Jisung left quickly after that.
The second the door closed, Minho set the mug down harder than necessary and walked over to you.
“You let him touch you,” he said, voice low.
You raised an eyebrow. “It was just my hair.”
He stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight.
Then he reached out and gently fixed the same strand of hair himself, fingers lingering against your cheek.
“Don’t,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned and went back to the kitchen like nothing had happened.
But that night, when you went to bed, you found one of his hoodies folded neatly on your pillow.
No note.
Just the hoodie.
The obsession grew quieter. Deeper.
He started waiting up when you had late shoots.
You’d come home at 1 a.m. to find him on the couch, pretending to watch a drama, eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to go to bed until you were safely inside.
One night you tried to tell him he didn’t have to.
Minho just looked at you, expression unreadable.
“I know,” he said.
But he stayed on the couch anyway.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Practical.
Convenient.
Nothing more.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
The domestic routine had settled into something dangerously comfortable.
Minho still acted like he didn’t care. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night ramen or the perfectly folded laundry.
But the small things kept piling up.
He started leaving the living room light on when you had late shoots. He started buying the exact brand of tea you liked when the old box ran out. He started sitting on the couch with you during movies instead of retreating to his room.
You told yourself it was just roommate courtesy.
Your friends told you you were delusional.
The tension finally snapped at a house party thrown by one of your mutual friends.
You hadn’t planned to go, but Minho had been unusually quiet that day, so you dragged him along, hoping it would loosen him up.
Big mistake.
The party was loud, crowded, and full of people who knew you as the friendly photography girl and Minho as the intimidating dance major who rarely spoke.
You were in the kitchen getting a drink when a guy from your department — Hyunjin — approached. He was charming, talkative, and had been flirting with you casually for weeks.
“Hey,” he said with an easy smile, leaning against the counter beside you. “You look good tonight. Finally taking a break from hiding behind that camera?”
You laughed lightly, friendly as always. “Trying to. You?”
Hyunjin stepped a little closer, eyes sparkling. “Better now that you’re here. Want to dance? Or we could go somewhere quieter and talk about that project you mentioned—”
A hand landed on your lower back.
Firm. Possessive.
Minho appeared at your side like a shadow, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.
“She’s busy,” he said, voice low and flat.
Hyunjin blinked, surprised by the sudden interruption. “Oh… sorry, man. I didn’t know you two were—”
“We’re not,” you started.
At the same time, Minho said, “She’s with me.”
The words came out calm. Controlled.
But his hand stayed on your lower back, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
Hyunjin raised his hands in surrender and backed off with an awkward laugh.
The second he was gone, you turned to Minho, heart racing.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the crowd.
“He was too close,” he muttered.
You stared at him. “You’re acting jealous again.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You literally just told him I’m with you.”
Minho finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, conflicted, something raw flickering beneath the usual unreadable mask.
“I don’t like it when people touch you,” he said quietly. “Especially when they don’t know you.”
The honesty hit harder than expected.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Minho was already pulling you gently by the wrist, leading you out of the noisy kitchen and toward a quieter hallway.
The moment you were alone, he stopped.
Turned.
And kissed you.
It wasn’t soft.
It was frustrated. Hungry. Like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally lost the fight. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his mouth moved against yours, deep and demanding.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his shirt.
For a moment, it felt like it would escalate — his body pressing you against the wall, thigh sliding between yours, breath ragged against your lips.
Then Minho pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t—”
“Yeah,” you agreed, equally breathless, hands still fisted in his shirt. “We’re not… we’re just roommates.”
He nodded once, but didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The hallway felt too small. The air too thick.
Minho’s thumb brushed your bottom lip once, almost reverently, before he forced himself to step back.
“Don’t let him touch you again,” he muttered, voice rough.
Then he turned and walked away before you could respond.
You stayed leaning against the wall for a long time, heart pounding, trying to convince yourself the kiss hadn’t meant anything.
It had felt like everything but it changed nothing on the surface.
Minho still acted like the same emotionally unavailable roommate — quiet, practical, and annoyingly competent. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night food or the perfectly folded laundry.
But underneath, something had shifted.
The domesticity became heavier. More intimate. Harder to ignore.
It started with the laundry again.
One morning you woke up to find several of Minho’s hoodies and shirts mixed in with your clean clothes. You knew you hadn’t washed them. When you confronted him in the kitchen, he was making coffee, back turned to you.
“You put your clothes in my laundry again,” you said, holding up one of his black hoodies.
He didn’t turn around. “They were mixed. I fixed it.”
“You didn’t have to wash mine.”
“I was already doing a load.”
You stared at his back. “You’re doing my laundry now?”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “You do it wrong. Everything ends up wrinkled. It’s practical.”
You pulled his hoodie closer without thinking. It smelled like him — clean, warm, faintly like his cologne. You told yourself you were just borrowing it because it was soft.
You wore it for three days straight.
Minho noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but you caught him staring at you in it more than once, ears faintly pink before he looked away.
Movie nights became dangerous.
One Friday, you suggested watching a new drama together on the couch. Minho agreed with his usual noncommittal shrug.
Halfway through, you fell asleep.
When you woke up hours later, the TV was still on, but you were no longer sitting upright. You were lying down, head on Minho’s chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His breathing was steady, but you could tell he wasn’t fully asleep.
You stayed very still, heart racing.
After a moment, Minho’s fingers brushed lightly up and down your back — slow, absentminded, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“…You’re warm,” he muttered sleepily when he felt you stir. “Stay.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
You fell back asleep like that — tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next morning, he pretended it never happened.
But his hoodie was still on you when you woke up.
The care kept creeping in.
When you had a bad day, he showed up at your door with your favorite takeout without being asked.
When you mentioned your favorite tea was running low, a new box appeared on the counter the next day.
When you complained about the cold in your room, he “fixed” the heater — which somehow meant he started leaving his own blanket on your bed every night.
You tried to call him out on it.
“You’re spoiling me,” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t look up from the stove. “It’s practical. You forget to eat when you’re stressed.”
You smiled, leaning against the counter. “You’re acting like a worried boyfriend.”
He froze for half a second.
Then, voice flat: “I’m not.”
But his ears were red again.
Your friends were the first to say it out loud during a casual hangout at your apartment.
One of them watched Minho quietly refill your water glass without being asked, then disappear back into the kitchen.
“…You two are basically married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re roommates.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Roommates don’t look at each other like that.”
You brushed it off.
But later that night, when Minho fell asleep on the couch beside you during another movie, his head eventually ending up on your shoulder, and you didn’t move him.
You just sat there, heart beating a little too fast, wondering when “roommates” had started feeling like something more.
Minho, still half-asleep, mumbled something against your shoulder.
“…Don’t leave.”
You froze.
He didn’t say anything else.
But his arm wrapped around your waist a little tighter.
And for the first time, you realized you didn’t want to leave either.
-----
The jealousy started escalating the week Seojun entered the picture.
Seojun was a confident, charismatic dance major in Minho’s department — loud where Minho was quiet, outgoing where Minho was reserved. He had been friendly with you for a while, but lately he’d been showing up more often, especially when you were around the dance building dropping off photos for a project.
One afternoon, you were waiting outside the practice room when Seojun spotted you.
“Hey!” he called, jogging over with an easy grin. “You here for Minho?”
You smiled back, friendly as always. “Yeah, I promised I’d bring him the edited shots from last week.”
Seojun leaned against the wall beside you, standing a little too close. “You’re too nice to him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
You laughed lightly. “He’s not that bad.”
Seojun tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You know, if you ever get tired of dealing with his grumpy ass, I’d be happy to take you out sometime. Coffee? Or dinner? No pressure.”
Before you could respond, the practice room door opened.
Minho stepped out, hair slightly damp with sweat, towel around his neck. His eyes landed on Seojun’s proximity to you immediately.
His expression didn’t change much.
But you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his hand flexed at his side.
He walked straight over and stopped right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
“She’s busy,” Minho said, voice flat and low.
Seojun raised an eyebrow, amused. “With you?”
Minho didn’t blink. “Yes.”
The tension was instant.
You tried to laugh it off. “Minho, it’s fine—”
But Minho was already gently grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward the exit without another word to Seojun.
You let him pull you along, heart racing.
The second you were outside, you turned on him.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. “He was too close.”
“You literally told him I’m busy with you.”
He finally glanced at you, eyes dark. “You are.”
The possessiveness in his voice made your stomach flip.
You stared at him. “We’re not dating, Minho.”
“I know,” he said, voice tight. “But I still don’t like it.”
He didn’t elaborate.
He just started walking you back to the apartment, staying closer than usual, his shoulder brushing yours with every step.
It kept happening.
Whenever Seojun was around, Minho’s reactions became sharper.
During a group hangout at the apartment, Seojun sat next to you on the couch and casually rested his arm along the back of the seat behind you. Minho, who had been in the kitchen, appeared seconds later and sat directly on your other side, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.
He didn’t say anything.
He just reached over and fixed the collar of your shirt, fingers lingering against your skin.
Seojun eventually moved.
Later that night, after everyone left, Minho was quieter than usual. He was washing dishes when you walked into the kitchen.
“You’re being weird again,” you said, leaning against the counter.
He didn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“You literally sat between me and Seojun like a guard dog.”
Minho’s hands paused on the plate. Then he continued washing, voice low.
“I don’t like when he touches you.”
The honesty made your breath catch.
You stepped closer. “Minho…”
He turned off the water and finally looked at you, eyes dark and conflicted.
“I know we’re not dating,” he said quietly. “But I still hate it.”
The air between you felt thick.
You didn’t know what to say.
So you didn’t say anything.
You just reached up and gently fixed a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes.
Minho closed his eyes for a second, leaning into the touch like he was starving for it.
Then he pulled away, muttering something about needing to sleep, and disappeared into his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to realize that the sign wasn’t for you.
It was for him.
Minho still kept his “Do Not Disturb” sign up like a shield, but the walls between you were crumbling faster than either of you could pretend otherwise. He was louder in his silence now — the way he’d linger in the kitchen when you were home, the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his hoodies kept mysteriously appearing in your room.
You tried to act normal.
You failed.
One Thursday night you came home from a brutal editing session, shoulders aching, eyes burning. The apartment was warm and smelled like something delicious. Minho was at the stove again, stirring a pot of samgyetang with focused precision.
“You’re back,” he said without turning around.
“Yeah. Smells good.”
He hummed. A few minutes later, he set a steaming bowl in front of you at the counter, along with a glass of water and painkillers.
“Eat,” he ordered quietly.
You sat down, suddenly too tired to tease him. The first spoonful made your eyes flutter shut. Perfect, as always.
Minho leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed, watching you eat like it was his personal responsibility. The silence felt heavier tonight. Charged.
When you finished, he took your bowl without a word and started washing it.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you said softly, standing up to help dry.
“I know.”
But he didn’t stop. His shoulder brushed yours as you worked side by side. Neither of you moved away.
Later that night, you were on the couch scrolling through photos when Minho came out of his room in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He paused, then sat beside you instead of retreating to his usual spot.
You glanced at him. “Movie?”
He nodded once.
Halfway through, your head ended up on his shoulder. His arm slowly slid around you, pulling you closer until you were curled against his chest. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your arm.
“You’re warm,” he muttered, almost to himself.
You tilted your head up. His face was inches from yours, eyes dark and unreadable in the glow of the TV.
“Minho…”
He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
This time, there was no hallway. No party. No interruption.
It started slow — hesitant, like he was still fighting himself. But the second you kissed him back, something in him snapped. The kiss deepened, turning hungry and desperate. His hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head as his tongue slid against yours.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, straddling him. Minho groaned softly into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” you whispered, rolling your hips once.
His grip tightened hard enough to bruise.
He stood up suddenly, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and walked straight to his room. The “Do Not Disturb” sign stared at you mockingly as he kicked the door shut behind him.
The second your back hit his bed, Minho was on you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving for months — deep, messy, possessive. His hands shoved your shirt up, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking a dark mark right below your ear.
“Mine,” he growled against your skin, so low you almost missed it.
You pulled his shirt off, nails dragging down his toned back. He hissed, grinding his hard cock against you through your clothes.
Clothes came off in a blur. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, both of you moaned brokenly.
“Shit— so tight,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were dark, intense, completely focused on your face as he bottomed out. “Look at me.”
You did.
He started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that made your back arch. Every stroke felt deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him. His hand came up to wrap gently around your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding you there as he fucked you.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice rough. “Better than I imagined. Fuck— been thinking about this for weeks.”
You moaned his name, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. He angled his hips and hit that spot inside you perfectly, drawing a sharp cry from your throat.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing you messily. “Let me hear you.”
He fucked you harder, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. When you came, clenching around him with a broken moan of his name, Minho cursed and followed right after, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.
For a long moment, the only sound was both of you breathing hard.
Minho didn’t pull out. He collapsed on top of you, face buried in your neck, arms wrapped around you like a vice.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered against your skin. “Just… stay.”
You stayed.
He fell asleep still inside you, holding you like you might vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.
The next morning, he was already in the kitchen when you woke up. Two plates of breakfast waited on the counter.
He didn’t mention the sex.
But when you reached for your coffee, he gently fixed the collar of the hoodie you’d stolen from him — his hoodie — and his fingers lingered against your neck, right over the hickey he’d left.
You didn’t mention it either.
But the line between roommates and something more had been completely, irreversibly crossed.
“Morning,” you said softly.
“Sit,” he replied, voice low. He slid a plate of perfectly cooked eggs, rice, and grilled spam in front of you, along with your coffee — exactly how you liked it.
You ate in silence for a few minutes. The tension from last night still hummed between you, thick and unspoken.
“You’re not going to say anything?” you finally asked.
Minho paused, chopsticks hovering over his food. “About what?”
You raised an eyebrow. “About the fact that we had sex last night.”
He shrugged, ears turning faintly pink. “It happened.”
You stared at him. “That’s it?”
He finally looked up, expression carefully blank. “We’re still roommates. Don’t make it weird.”
But the way his gaze lingered on the hickey he’d left on your neck said otherwise.
The denial didn’t last long.
Over the next week, Minho’s care became almost suffocating in its intensity. He cooked every night. He waited up every time you had a late shoot. He started doing your laundry without even pretending it was an accident. And at night…
He stopped pretending he wanted space.
One evening you came home exhausted. Minho took one look at you, walked over, and pulled you into a slow, deep kiss right in the middle of the living room. No words. Just his hands sliding under your shirt, mouth claiming yours like he’d been thinking about it all day.
He carried you to his bed again.
This time, he took you apart slowly.
Minho laid you down gently, stripping you piece by piece with patient hands. His mouth followed — kissing down your neck, sucking marks across your collarbones, tongue teasing your nipples until you were squirming beneath him.
“Minho…” you breathed.
“Shh,” he murmured against your stomach, lips brushing lower. “Let me take care of you.”
He ate you out like he had all the time in the world — slow, filthy licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you until your thighs shook around his head. He didn’t stop even after you came the first time, just kept licking you through it, groaning softly like your taste was addictive.
When he finally crawled back up and pushed inside you, it was devastatingly deep. He fucked you with long, rolling thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face the entire time.
“Look at me,” he whispered when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you.”
Every thrust felt heavy with meaning. His hand came up to wrap around your throat again — light pressure, possessive, grounding. The other rubbed your clit in perfect rhythm until you came again, clenching hard around him.
Only then did Minho let himself go. He buried his face in your neck and fucked you harder, chasing his own release with broken, quiet moans of your name. When he came, he stayed deep inside you, hips twitching as he filled you up.
Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, still connected, arms wrapped tightly around your back.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
You smiled against his chest. “Okay.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, fingers tracing slow circles on your bare skin. For once, he didn’t run back behind his walls. He just held you.
But the denial still lingered during daylight.
He still muttered “we’re not dating” when your friends teased you. He still put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door when other people came over. He still got prickly and quiet whenever Seojun texted you or when someone flirted with you on campus.
One afternoon Seojun stopped by the apartment to drop off dance footage for a project. Minho was in the kitchen, but the second Seojun leaned in a little too close while laughing at something you said, Minho appeared like a shadow.
He didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around your waist from behind and pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck — right over one of his many marks — while staring directly at Seojun.
Seojun got the message quickly.
When the door closed, you turned in Minho’s arms.
“You’re being possessive again.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like him near you.”
“You keep saying we’re not dating.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he buried it.
“I know what I said.”
Then he kissed you hard, like he could avoid the truth if he just drowned it in physical closeness.
That night he fucked you against the kitchen counter after dinner — rough, desperate, and possessive. One hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pounded into you from behind.
“Say my name,” he growled against your ear. “Only mine.”
You came moaning his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a broken groan.
Afterwards, while he was carefully cleaning you up with a warm towel, he kissed your shoulder softly.
“…Stay in my room tonight,” he whispered.
You smiled. “I thought we weren’t dating?”
Minho froze, then buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you from behind.
“Shut up,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and embarrassed.
But he didn’t let go.
And you were starting to realize that Lee Minho’s version of “we’re not dating” was beginning to sound a lot like “I don’t know how to admit I’m falling in love with you.”
Minho no longer waited for you to fall asleep on the couch. Most nights he simply pulled you into his room after dinner, wordlessly stripping you down and burying himself inside you like it was the only way he knew how to say the things he couldn’t voice.
One particular night, you came home after a long day of back-to-back shoots. The apartment was quiet, but the moment you stepped inside, Minho was there.
He didn’t speak. He just walked up to you, cupped your face, and kissed you slow and deep, like he’d been waiting hours for this exact moment. His hands slid under your shirt, thumbs brushing your ribs as he backed you toward his bedroom.
“Missed you,” he muttered against your lips. It was the closest thing to a confession he’d ever given.
He took his time with you that night.
Minho laid you out on his bed like you were something precious, mouth mapping every inch of your skin. He spent long minutes between your thighs, licking and sucking until you came twice on his tongue, fingers buried deep inside you, curling against that spot that made you see stars. He groaned every time you clenched around his fingers, like your pleasure fed something starving inside him.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was devastatingly slow. He held your gaze the entire time, forehead pressed to yours, one hand gently wrapped around your throat while the other pinned your wrist above your head.
“So good for me,” he whispered, voice rough as he rolled his hips deep. “Always so fucking perfect.”
Every thrust was measured, intentional, like he was trying to carve himself into your memory. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer, and he let out a broken sound that made your chest ache.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, Minho followed with a quiet, shuddering groan, spilling deep inside you while whispering your name against your neck like a secret.
Afterwards, he didn’t move. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as he rolled you both onto your sides. His face stayed hidden in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
You gently ran your fingers through his hair. “Minho… what are we doing?”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t know.”
But his arms tightened around you like he was scared you’d pull away.
The next few days felt like borrowed time.
Minho’s care became almost overwhelming. He started waking up earlier just to make you breakfast. He left sticky notes on the mirror after you showered: “Drink water.” “You looked tired. Sleep early.” He even started doing your photography editing backups “because your laptop is old and slow.”
You caught him staring at you more often — soft, unguarded looks when he thought you weren’t paying attention. But the second you turned toward him, the mask would slip back into place. Flat expression. “Do Not Disturb” energy.
One afternoon, while you were both in the kitchen, you decided to test the waters.
“I found a new apartment listing,” you said casually, stirring your coffee. “It’s available next month. Closer to campus, cheaper rent…”
Minho’s entire body went still. The knife he was using to cut vegetables froze mid-air.
“You’re moving?” His voice was carefully neutral, but you heard the strain underneath.
“Yeah. The housing error gets fixed at the end of the semester anyway. Thought I should start looking.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to chopping vegetables with a little more force than necessary.
That night, he fucked you like he was angry.
Bent over the kitchen counter right after dinner, your shorts shoved down, his cock slamming into you from behind with deep, punishing strokes. One hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“You’re really leaving?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “After all this?”
You moaned, pushing back against him. “You said we’re not dating—”
He pulled your head back by your hair and bit down on your shoulder, sucking a dark hickey as he fucked you even deeper.
“Don’t say that right now,” he hissed.
He made you come twice before he finally let himself go, filling you up with a low, broken groan. Afterwards, instead of his usual quiet aftercare, he carried you to his bed and held you so tightly you could barely breathe.
“Don’t look for apartments yet,” he whispered against your hair in the dark.
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t pull away either.
The next morning, Minho was quieter than usual. He made your coffee exactly how you liked it, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. When you tried to tease him about burning the toast, he barely reacted.
You hated how much it hurt.
Because the truth was becoming impossible to ignore: you didn’t want to move out. You didn’t want to leave this apartment. You didn’t want to leave him.
And Lee Minho, for all his emotional constipation and “Do Not Disturb” signs, was starting to look like he felt the exact same way.
But neither of you knew how to say it.
Yet.
-----
The argument finally exploded in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been putting it off for days, but the new apartment listing had been confirmed. You set your phone down on the counter and took a deep breath.
“I found a place,” you said quietly. “It’s available at the end of the month. I think I’m going to take it.”
Minho was stirring rice in a pan. His hand stilled completely.
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint sizzle of the food.
“You’ll survive,” you added, trying to keep your voice light. “You lived alone before me anyway.”
Minho slowly set the spoon down and turned to face you. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes darker than usual.
“I know I will,” he said flatly.
You nodded, heart aching. “Then why are you acting like this?”
He stared at you for a long second, something raw and frustrated breaking across his face. The “Do Not Disturb” mask he’d worn for months finally shattered.
“Because I liked living with you!” The words burst out of him, louder than you’d ever heard him speak. He immediately looked away, ears burning red. “More than I should’ve.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Minho gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
“I know I’m bad at this,” he continued, voice dropping. “I don’t say things. I just… do things. Cook for you. Wait up for you. Fold your stupid laundry. But every time I think about you moving out, it feels wrong. Like the apartment’s going to be too quiet. Like I’m going to be too… empty.”
He finally looked at you, eyes vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
You stepped closer until you were right in front of him. “Then ask me to stay, Minho.”
He swallowed hard. Then, barely above a whisper:
“…Stay.”
You smiled, soft and warm. “Okay.”
The tension snapped.
Minho pulled you into him almost desperately, kissing you like he’d been holding back for years. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as the kiss turned deeper, slower, full of everything he’d never been able to say.
He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping between your legs. But this time it wasn’t rushed or possessive. It was tender.
Clothes came off slowly. He kissed every inch of skin he revealed, murmuring quiet praises against your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. When he finally slid inside you, it was gentle and deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. “I’m not letting you go.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, holding him just as tightly. The pleasure built gradually, sweet and overwhelming, until you both came together — quiet moans and trembling breaths, bodies pressed impossibly close.
Afterwards, Minho carried you to his bed (your bed now, too), cleaned you up with careful hands, then pulled you against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, arms locked around you.
“No more looking at apartments,” he mumbled against your temple.
You laughed softly. “No more ‘we’re not dating’ either?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then:
“We’re dating,” he said, almost shyly. “If… you want.”
You tilted your head up and kissed him. “I want.”
-----
The next few weeks were sickeningly cute.
Minho still acted annoyed when your friends teased him about being whipped, but he no longer denied it. He started introducing you as “my girlfriend” in the most casual, deadpan way possible — like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He took the “Do Not Disturb” sign down permanently.
Now the only sign on his door (your shared door) was a small handmade one you’d made together that read: “Do Not Disturb… unless you’re y/n”
Domestic life continued, only now it was openly affectionate.
He still cooked for you at 2 a.m. when you forgot to eat, but now he’d pull you into his lap afterwards and feed you bites while pressing kisses to your neck. He still folded your laundry, but now he’d steal kisses every time he passed you a stack of clothes. He still waited up for you, but now he’d greet you at the door with a hug that lasted way too long.
One lazy Sunday afternoon, you were both on the couch watching a drama. You were wearing his hoodie (as usual). Minho had his head in your lap, eyes half-closed as you played with his hair.
“You know,” you said softly, “I never thanked the housing office for their mistake.”
Minho hummed, turning his face to press a kiss to your thigh.
“Don’t thank them,” he muttered. “Thank me for not letting you move out.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss him.
He smiled against your lips — small, genuine, and completely unguarded.
Lee Minho still wasn’t great with words.
But he didn’t need to be.
He showed you he loved you every single day — in the meals he cooked, the hoodies he let you steal, the way he held you at night like you were the only thing that mattered.
Request: Can you write skz reacting to their significant other spending more time on the skzoo than with them?
Warnings: very dramatic reactions, a bit cringe but to be cringe is to be free, kidnap joke at hyunjin's, idol!au
A/n: I feel like I've already used this pic before | daily click
Bang Chan
Acts dramatic for the sake of it
"cant believe my own partner replaced me with an inanimate object :("
"are you ignoring me :("
"do you really prefer wolfchan :("
But he's doing all of that just to annoy you
He can't even say it with a straight face
In all honesty, he finds it cute
You're giving him cuteness aggression
Has thousands of photos of you cuddling your plushie to sleep
Finds it the sweetest thing ever
Lee Know
You were spending so long with your leebit
But now it suddenly disappeared
You've already searched your entire house
And still couldn't find it
I wonder what happened...
Anyways !
Now you've got no other option than to spend all your time with the real thing
Read: Lee Minho
And if you find leebit drowned in socks at his apartment later on?
No idea how that happened
But he's gonna disappear again lmao
Changbin
He's so dramatic about this
Sighing so loudly
Giving "my partner has left me" speeches
Will sit down on the other end of the sofa
Just looking and pouting
But the funniest part is that he refuses to admit he's being dramatic
That's a very reasonable reaction after all
You're the one who's underreacting the fact you prefer a plushie over your very strong very smart and very right there boyfriend
Hyunjin
You're ignoring him for the sake of a plushie ?
Oh that's fine
He's just gonna kidnap the skzoo
Hold it hostage and only release it after you do what he's demanding
(to cuddle him
for an hour
in the very least)
After the negotiations are done, he'll give you back the mini him
For now
Han
Also gets dramatic
Like, very
But he embraces it
Fake cries, threatens quokka and does everything in his power
At this point he even forgets that his sworn enemy (skzoo) is taking the love of his life (you) away from him
He's just tryna see how dramatic he can get
It's a challenge that no one dared him to do, but he still wants to win
Felix
One of the grief stages is bargain
So he'll bargain
He'll bake you brownies!
He'll let you win on mario kart!!
He'll give you a signed I.N photocard!!!
Just please pay attention to him 😭
If it doesn't work out
Well
Let's see if you can stay paying attention at bokkari if Felix throws himself over you next
Seungmin
You can't answer because you're too busy with puppym?
That's fine
He can't answer you either
Dwaekki is calling him
He unironically would buy another skzoo and spend his time with it
Just to piss you off 😭
The message he's trying to send is crystal clear
Eventually, you give up on the skzoo
And only then he'd throw his away
I.N
???
Why'd you even do that?😭
He'd understand it if he was on tour
And you missed him or something
That'd be really cute actually
But he's right there??
Why'd you prefer a plushie over your actual boyfriend??
He's not even annoyed or jealous or whatever
He's straight up judging you
Side eyeing you every time you get the skzoo lmao
Masterlist | you'll probably like: you crying because of a character/show
Daily click
Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!
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
Summary: Everything was going great with Han... Until management gets involved.
Warnings: a lotta angst but happy ending (for real this time)
Word count: 13.2k.
a/n: AYO THANK YOU ALL FOR THE LOVE ON GAMEBOY WHAT THE HECK I LOVE YOU GUYS?? As I warned, this is heckin angsty but it's got a happy ending xo
[Part One]
“Han, stop!” you squealed as he dug his fingers into your sides under the duvet.
“Never!” he proclaimed, rolling on top of you to get a better angle. “Not until you say it!”
“Okay, okay! You’re way better at producing than Changbin!”
You gasped for breath as his fingers stopped, a smile plastered to your face as you gazed up at him, his messy hair framing his face. You still had to pinch yourself sometimes to believe that this was real. That the past few months had really happened.
He raised an eyebrow at you, smirking, and you flushed as he trailed off, knowing what he wanted.
“You’re way better at producing than Changbin… baby.”
Your flush deepened even further as his smirk softened and he leaned down to place a tender kiss on your lips, mumbling a soft “thought so”.
You huffed out a breath as he let his body weight drop on you, wrapping his arms around your waist as your own came up to wrap around his shoulders, one sneaking up to play with the hair at the base of his neck. You loved starting your days like this, in the quiet of your room with Han’s warmth warming you through, because you knew you wouldn’t be able to get this close to him again until you could be sure that no one would see.
Even though you’d been dating for a few months, neither of you had brought up the possibility of becoming official publicly. You knew that Han had a tour coming up with the rest of Stray Kids, and he knew that you were busy focusing on building your own career as a solo artist. He’d carried on helping you produce your songs, and both of you had written a song about your previous relationship with Wooyoung called Toxic Til The End. You both agreed that it was a song that didn’t necessarily need to be shared; it was just a form of therapy for you to get your feelings out in a song.
You’re brought out of your thoughts by Han shuffling around, burying his nose into your neck. You smiled softly and soothed your fingers up and down his spine, feeling him shiver slightly from your light touch. You knew you had to get up soon – management had called a last-minute meeting – but you wanted to soak up as much of the morning as you could.
You allowed yourself five more minutes before you tapped him lightly on the back, mumbling, “Jisung, I have to get ready now. I need to meet with management in an hour.”
You felt as much as heard the groan against your neck. “No,” he whined. “’m comfy here.”
You chuckled and kissed the side of his face. “I know, but I can’t miss this meeting. I can’t annoy management this early in my career.”
Han sighed and pushed up onto his elbows, showing you his pout. “Logic isn’t fair this early in the morning.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the only way I’ll leave this bed.”
You flushed again as he smiled at you suggestively, leaning in to leave a lingering kiss on your mouth. You pulled away as he tried to deepen it and giggled as you heard him groan, again. You pushed back the covers, stretching, before you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Han was still lying in your bed, but you could feel his eyes on you.
You nearly trip over your own feet walking to the bathroom, still hazy from the peace and warmth of Jisung’s body tangled with yours moments before. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rustle of sheets behind you as Han shifts in the bed.
You push your way into the bathroom, yawning as you flick the light on, but your eyes widen when you catch sight of your neck.
“Oh my God.”
Dark marks bloom across your neck and collarbone, impossible to miss against your skin. One particularly obvious love bite sits right beneath your jaw, and you clap a hand over it in horror.
“No, no, no—”
You spin around and rush back into the bedroom, one hand still pressed to your neck while you dig frantically through discarded clothes for a hoodie, a scarf, anything. From the bed, Han watches you with sleepy amusement, propped up on one elbow, hair messy and lips still swollen from his inability to stop kissing you.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still rough from lack of sleep.
“You attacked me,” you accuse, horrified. “I can’t go outside looking like this!”
He blinks at you slowly before snorting out a laugh. “Attacked you?”
“Yes, attacked me! People are going to ask questions!”
You finally find a jumper and clutch it to your chest like salvation. Han’s smile softens as he watches your panic spiral.
“And what,” he says carefully, “would be so bad about people asking questions?”
You freeze, and the room suddenly feels very still. Han sits up properly now, the blanket slipping down his waist to reveal his tattoos as he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking far more nervous than amused.
“I mean…” He glances away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. “We’ve been hiding for so long.” His voice is quieter now. “I’m tired of pretending you’re not mine.”
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. “Ji…”
“I want people to know,” he admits. “Not in some huge dramatic way. But… officially.” He smiles shyly. “If you want that too.”
The panic draining through your system is replaced by something warm and dizzying. You stare at him for a moment, trying to process the fact that the thing you’d secretly wanted for months is sitting right in front of you.
“You mean it?” you whisper.
“Of course I mean it.”
He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I hate having to act normal around you in public,” he murmurs. “I hate not being able to hold your hand when I want to. And honestly? I kinda like everyone knowing I’m the one who did that to your neck.”
You let out a startled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But you like me.”
Unfortunately, he says it with that smug little grin that makes your stomach flip every time.
Your expression softens. “I do,” you admit quietly, head cocked to the side as you take everything in.
Han’s face changes instantly at that — all fondness and relief and affection so overwhelming you can barely stand looking at him.
“So…” he says carefully, squeezing your hand, “should we tell management?”
You bite your lip, unable to stop smiling now.
“I have my meeting this morning,” you say. “I can mention it then.”
His eyes light up so brightly that it steals the breath from your lungs. “Seriously?”
You nod once, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you back onto the bed with a laugh, wrapping both arms around you tightly as he buries his face back into your neck — thankfully, the unmarked side.
“You have no idea how happy you just made me,” he mumbles against your skin.
You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair. For the first time ever, hiding doesn’t feel necessary anymore.
The excitement you carried from your conversation with Han dies the second you walk out of the meeting room.
The words still echo in your head so loudly you can barely hear anything else.
“To be desirable, you have to be available.”
You walk down the hallway numbly, fingers curled tightly around your phone. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, and the building suddenly feels cold and unfamiliar, despite the fact that you’ve spent years here.
Your contract clearly states that there will be no relationships for the next 3 years.
Three years.
You knew the clause existed when you signed. Everyone did. But back then, relationships felt hypothetical — something distant and avoidable. Not this. Not Han. Not someone who had somehow slipped into every quiet space in your life until loving him felt as natural as breathing.
You’d tried to argue. You’d pointed out that fans weren’t stupid, that idols dated all the time, that your private life shouldn’t matter more than your music, but management hadn’t budged. They’d surprised you with a tour announcement that was apparently too important to jeopardise. The company was investing too much into your debut, and they were sending you as a support act for Stray Kids’ world tour. They wanted attention on the music, on the performances, on the image they were selling.
Not on a relationship.
You stop outside the studio door and take a steadying breath before pushing it open. Music spills out instantly, along with laughter, and Han looks up immediately. The second he sees you, his entire face lights up.
“There you are!” Han practically bounces out of his chair, abandoning the headphones around his neck. “Did they tell you?”
You try to smile.
“About the tour?”
“Yes!” He grabs your hands immediately, excitement radiating off him. “We’re together for the whole thing. A whole year.” His eyes shine. “Can you believe that?”
Despite everything, your chest aches fondly at how happy he looks.
“A whole year,” you echo softly.
Han notices it then — the strain in your voice, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
His expression falters, releasing your hands in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist. “What happened?”
The room quiets around you. The others pick up on the mood quickly enough to awkwardly busy themselves elsewhere, giving you space without saying a word.
You swallow hard, staring over his shoulder. “They said no.”
Han stills. “What?”
“They don’t want us going public.” Your voice comes out smaller than you intended, wobbly. “They said it’ll distract from the tour. From the music.” You laugh bitterly under your breath. “And apparently I need to seem ‘available.’”
The excitement drains from his face so fast it hurts to watch. “They can’t seriously—”
“They reminded me about the contract.”
Han goes silent at that, and his jaw tightens. For a moment, he looks genuinely angry, the kind of anger he rarely lets himself show. His fingers squeeze yours instinctively before he looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“Three years,” he mutters.
You nod once.
The reality of it settles heavily between you. More sneaking around, careful touches when nobody’s looking. Pretending. Again.
Your throat tightens as you force yourself to say the words you know he needs to hear. “It’s okay.”
Han immediately looks back at you. “It’s not okay.”
“But it can be.” You step closer, further into his embrace, and you feel his arms tighten around you reflexively. “We still get the tour. We still get each other.”
His expression crumples slightly at that.
“I wanted to hold your hand in public,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to stop pretending.”
The honesty in his voice nearly breaks you. You reach up and smooth his hair back gently, tucking it behind his ear. It was getting long now… I need to hide the scissors, you thought distractedly.
“We will one day.”
Han leans into your touch instinctively, eyes closing for half a second.
“When?” he asks softly.
You don’t have an answer, so instead, you wrap your own arms around him tightly, trying to pour all of your frustration and care into the hug. You feel him doing the same, and the studio around you fades away completely.
“A year together,” you murmur against his shoulder, trying desperately to sound hopeful. “That’s still good, right?”
Han lets out a quiet laugh that sounds dangerously close to sad.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. It’s good.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly again, determination slowly replacing the disappointment in his eyes. “We’ll make it work.”
You nod immediately. “We will.”
Because even if the world isn’t allowed to know yet, the truth remains the same.
He’s yours, and you’re his.
And you would wait however long you needed to.
Getting ready for the event should have been fun and, honestly, part of it is.
This is your first major industry event as a solo artist. Your stylists fuss around you excitedly, management keeps reminding you how important networking is, and every few minutes, someone says something about how proud they are of how far you’ve come. But every time you look at the empty space beside you, your chest aches a little.
Because you should be arriving with Han.
Instead, you’re travelling separately, pretending there’s nothing between you except professional respect for the producer who has been working with you for months. Your phone buzzes just as your car pulls up outside the venue.
Ji 🐿️: where are you?
You: just got here, coming in now
Ji 🐿️: i’ll find you
Ji 🐿️: don’t look too pretty before i get there jagi
You can’t help smiling at the screen.
Then the car door opens, and reality crashes back in.
The event hall is enormous. Lights flash constantly from every direction as reporters crowd the entrance, shouting names over one another. Idols stand clustered beneath company banners while managers hover nearby like anxious shadows. Everywhere you look, there’s movement, designer clothes, cameras, and recognisable faces. It’s overwhelming, and you’ve never felt more out of place.
You bow politely through introductions you barely process before escaping deeper into the hall with a drink in hand, hoping to gather yourself and maybe spot Han. You linger near the edge of the room, trying not to look as lost as you feel while your eyes scan the crowd. No Han. No Stray Kids, either. You exhale slowly and take a sip of your drink as your eyes continue to wander, then you make eye contact with someone across the room and freeze, dread pooling in your stomach.
Oh no.
Wooyoung.
You haven’t seen him since the breakup. Months of carefully avoiding interviews, schedules, mutual industry events — and now here he is, walking directly toward you with that familiar confident smile that used to charm you once upon a time.
Now it just irritates you.
“Well,” Wooyoung says smoothly as he stops beside you, “there’s the superstar.”
You force a polite smile, conscious of the people around you. “Hi.”
“You look good.”
“Thanks.”
The conversation should end there, but instead, he lingers - too close. Too familiar.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, voice softening slightly. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
You almost laugh at the understatement. “I’ve been busy.”
“I noticed.” His eyes flick over you knowingly. “Solo career suits you.”
Something about the way he says it makes you uncomfortable immediately. You shift slightly away from him and glance around the room again, looking for a way out of the conversation. You finally find Han across the hall, and your heart drops as you notice that his eyes are already locked onto you. Or, more specifically, onto Wooyoung standing far too close to you.
Even from this distance, you can see the fury written across his face.
Beside him, Lee Know has a hand wrapped firmly around his arm, clearly muttering something meant to stop him from storming across the room. Your heart lurches, and you subtly widen your eyes at Han, trying desperately to communicate: Don’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of cameras.
Han’s jaw tightens visibly. You turn your back slightly toward him, hoping Wooyoung won’t notice the exchange. Unfortunately for you, he’d decided that now is the time to finally pay attention to everything again.
“You’re nervous,” Wooyoung says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“Mhm.”
You frown harder. “What do you want?”
His expression shifts then — less charming, more smug.
“I heard rumours,” he says casually. “About you and Han.”
Your blood runs cold. “They’re rumours.”
Wooyoung hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Funny,” he says, stepping closer again. “You never looked at me the way you look at him.”
Before you can answer, another voice cuts in sharply.
“Maybe because she actually likes me.”
Your stomach flips, and your eyes dart sideways. Han. He’s standing beside you now, expression controlled but visibly strained underneath it. Up close, you can tell he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper.
Wooyoung straightens immediately, then smirks. “Well, if it isn’t the problem.”
Han laughs once without humour. “Pretty sure you’re the one bothering her.”
You step between them slightly before this becomes a headline. “Can we not do this here?”
Wooyoung ignores you completely.
“You know,” he says to Han, “she used to talk about me constantly.”
Han’s expression darkens.
“And now she doesn’t,” he replies flatly.
Wooyoung scoffs softly. “You really think this is permanent? Idols break up all the time.”
Your patience snaps.
“Wooyoung.” Both men look at you, and you carry on regardless, struggling to keep your composure. “I am never getting back together with you,” you say firmly. “Ever.”
The arrogance on Wooyoung’s face falters slightly, but you continue before he can interrupt.
“I’m happy now. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.” Your voice softens instinctively as you glance toward Han. “And I love being with him.”
You smile softly at your boyfriend, and Han looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky. The anger melts from his face completely, replaced by something so unbearably soft your chest aches. You’re snapped from your moment by an unknown voice.
“Can we get a picture?”
All three of you turn to see a reporter hurrying over excitedly.
“Just one photo! The fans would love it.”
Absolutely not. You open your mouth to refuse, but somehow you end up shuffled between Wooyoung and Han before you can escape. Cameras flash instantly. You try not to look horrified. Han remains perfectly composed beside you, though you can feel tension radiating off him. Wooyoung, annoyingly, smiles like this is entertaining.
The picture is taken quickly, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank you!” the reporter chirps before disappearing again.
Wooyoung steps away first, but before leaving, he glances at you one last time.
“I don’t give up easily,” he says lightly, before walking off into the crowd.
You stare after him in disbelief, and Han immediately turns toward you.
“Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice instantly softens your irritation.
“I’m fine,” you assure him quietly. “Are you?”
He exhales slowly. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
You laugh despite yourself. Han smiles faintly before glancing around the room cautiously. Cameras still flash everywhere.
“I should probably go before someone notices I’ve been standing here too long.”
Your heart sinks a little, but you nod. Before leaving, his fingers brush subtly against yours — hidden by the folds of your outfit where nobody can see. A secret touch, a reassurance, just for the two of you.
Then he’s gone.
But for the rest of the evening, you notice little things. Chan appears nearby whenever reporters crowd you too aggressively. Changbin casually intercepts people trying to pull you into uncomfortable conversations. Minho is watching the room like a security guard.
And Han is always somewhere in your line of sight, hovering close enough to protect you, even if nobody else notices why.
And honestly? You love him a little more for it.
You’re getting really sick and tired of last-minute meetings, especially when the meeting feels less like damage control and more like punishment.
You sit silently at the long conference table while management talks at you rather than to you, every word tightening the knot in your stomach further.
“You were too obvious.”
“Han almost caused a scene.”
“You need to be more careful.”
You grip your hands together beneath the table hard enough for your nails to hurt. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
One of the executives sighs impatiently. “The issue isn’t whether you did something wrong. The issue is perception.”
Perception. Image. Marketability. Words that, at one point, felt incredibly important to you now leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
“The media response to the event has been overwhelming,” another manager continues. “Too many people are speculating about you and Han.”
You almost laugh. “Well, maybe if you let us just confirm the relationship—”
“No.”
The answer comes immediately, their tone firm, final. Your jaw clenches as you try to resist the urge to argue with them.
“We need attention redirected,” they continue. “And conveniently, the event already created another angle.”
Your stomach drops before they even say his name. “No.”
“You haven’t heard the plan yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
But they continue anyway. “Wooyoung is willing to cooperate.”
Cooperate.
Like this is business. Like you’re his business.
“You’ll be seen together casually over the next few weeks,” management explains. “Coffee shops. Restaurants. Shared exits after schedules. Nothing confirmed, nothing denied.”
You stare at them in horror as you realise what they’re implying.
“You… want me to fake-date my ex-boyfriend?”
“No,” one corrects smoothly. “We want people talking about possibilities besides Han.”
You push your chair back slightly in disbelief, wanting to create space between their words and yourself. “This is insane.”
“It’s strategic.”
“It’s cruel.”
The room goes quiet for a moment before the head executive says, “It’s necessary.”
You hate how powerless you feel.
“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “Han already hates this.”
“Then he’ll need to learn professionalism.”
The anger that flashes through you is immediate and sharp.
“He is professional.”
“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.”
You want to scream. Instead, you sit there in silence because you already know how this ends. You already know that the decision is made, and you have no choice but to accept for the sake of your contract and your career. For your future.
They all feel like they are balanced carefully above your head, like something fragile enough to shatter at the slightest mistake.
And for Han and your future together… you’d survive anything. Even this.
Later that night, your apartment feels unbearably quiet. Half-packed suitcases sit open across your bedroom floor while clothes spill from drawers and skincare products clutter every available surface.
The tour starts tomorrow, and normally, you’d be excited. Instead, dread curls heavily in your stomach. Behind you, Han lies across your bed, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone, one leg dangling off the edge.
“You’re overpacking,” he says lightly without looking up.
“I am not.”
“You packed three hoodies yesterday.”
“They’re different hoodies.”
Han snorts softly, and the sound makes your chest ache because for a few minutes, everything feels normal. Safe. And you’re about to ruin it.
You stop folding your clothes, take a deep breath and call to him, “Jisung.”
He glances up immediately. Something in your face makes him sit up slightly, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “What’s wrong?”
You suddenly can’t look at him. Management’s words replay in your head over and over until you feel sick.
“They want me to do damage control.”
Han frowns. “What does that mean?”
Your throat tightens. “They think people are talking too much about us after the event.”
His expression hardens instantly. “So?”
You force yourself to continue. “They want me to be seen with someone else.”
He stares at you as he tries to figure out what you mean. You can see the moment the penny drops and understanding dawns slowly across his face.
“No.”
You nod once miserably, shoulders hunching in on yourself.
“No,” he repeats, sharper now.
“They think it’ll distract people.”
“With who?”
You hesitate too long, and Han knows immediately who you’ve been set up with. You can see the anger on his face as he stares at you.
“You’re joking.”
“I tried to argue—”
“Wooyoung?” He actually laughs, but there’s nothing amused about it. “They want you photographed with your ex-boyfriend?”
“It won’t be official—”
“That’s even worse.”
You watch hurt replace anger in real time, and you find yourself struggling to make eye contact. You hated hurting him, couldn’t stand the guilt that was beginning to take over.
You panic as Jisung stands abruptly from the bed.
“So what? I’m just supposed to watch headlines about you and another guy for months?”
“It’s fake.”
“I know it’s fake!” he snaps.
The room falls silent instantly afterwards, and Han closes his eyes briefly, visibly trying to calm himself down. You’ve rarely seen him this upset. Even when you hurt him months ago, he hadn’t looked this angry.
“I can’t do this tonight,” he mutters finally.
Your chest tightens painfully as he grabs his hoodie from the chair. You try to stop him.
“Ji—”
“I just need air.”
He heads for the front door before you can stop him, and fear surges through you immediately. You rush after him barefoot, catching his wrist just as he reaches for the handle.
“Please don’t leave angry.”
He stills, and you can see the conflict written all over his face.
“I hate this too,” you whisper desperately. “I hate every part of it.”
He finally turns toward you, and he looks so hurt. Your eyes are already burning, but the pain on his face brings very real tears to your eyes.
“You think I want this?” Your voice cracks slightly. “You think I want to stand beside him pretending everything’s fine when all I want is to be with you?”
Han’s expression softens instantly at that, and you grip his hand tighter, begging him with your eyes to change his mind, to stay.
“I’m trying,” you say quietly. “I’m trying to protect everything.”
His shoulders sag slightly, and he looks down at your joined hands. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, but then Han steps closer again, and you feel a rush of hope.
“I know,” he murmurs.
You exhale shakily. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise for something they’re forcing you into.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“Yeah.” He gives a small, humourless laugh. “I am.”
Honesty always sounds gentler coming from him; it was something you’d always loved about him. He lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye carefully.
“I’ll learn to deal with it,” he says quietly. “I have to, right?”
The words break your heart a little, but you have no choice but to nod weakly. He smiles softly, but it’s full of sadness. He leans down and kisses you softly, and your breath stutters. The kiss isn’t desperate or heated. It’s sad.
His forehead rests against yours afterwards. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers, forcing himself to step away before either of you can change your minds.
The door closes softly behind him, and suddenly the apartment feels enormous. It’s too quiet, too empty without Jisung’s laughter filling the space. You slide slowly down against the wall until you’re sitting on the floor beside your front door, staring at the door he just walked through.
The tour hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already terrified of what all this might do to the two of you.
The dorm is quiet when Han gets back.
Most of the lights are off except for the kitchen, where Minho sits eating ice cream straight from the tub while scrolling through his phone like it’s two in the afternoon instead of nearly midnight.
He glances up as Han walks in, then pauses when he sees the look on his face.
“You look terrible.”
Han drops onto the chair opposite him with a groan, dragging both hands down his face. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Normally, the bluntness would earn a laugh. Tonight, Han just sits there staring blankly at the table.
Minho watches him quietly for a moment before setting the ice cream down. “What happened?”
Han exhales sharply through his nose. “They want her to do photo ops with Wooyoung.”
Minho’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Ah.”
“Ah?” Han repeats incredulously. “That’s your reaction?”
“I’m trying not to overreact before you finish explaining.”
Han slumps further into the chair before he tells him everything - the management meeting, the fake rumours, the “damage control.” How upset you looked while explaining it.
And, eventually, the thing that was actually eating him alive underneath all the anger.
“What if this changes things?” Han asks quietly.
Minho stays silent as he looks at him. Han stares down at the table, jaw tight, avoiding his probing gaze as he continues.
“What if people start shipping them again? What if management pushes it further? What if she gets tired of hiding and decides this is too difficult?”
The words spill out faster now, all the insecurities he’d tried so hard to swallow clawing their way free.
“I know she says she loves being with me, but this industry ruins things. You know it does.”
Minho studies him carefully for a long moment before he sighs softly and leans back in his chair. “Han-ah.”
Han looks up tiredly as Minho continues. “You know what this industry is like.”
“It’s not easy,” Minho says plainly. “It’s awful.” He takes another bite of ice cream. “But she’s no doubt miserable about it, too.”
Han goes quiet, and Minho waits a second before continuing, but more gently this time.
“Everyone can see how much she likes you.”
Han’s eyes flicker slightly at that, hallway light catching the sheen in his eyes.
“She looks at you like you hung the moon,” Minho says casually. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing sometimes.”
That finally earns the smallest snort of laughter from Han, and Minho points his spoon at him immediately, latching on to his better mood.
“I’m serious. She barely looked at Wooyoung last night unless she absolutely had to. But you?” He shakes his head. “You walk into a room, and suddenly she forgets how to act normally.”
Warmth stirs painfully in Han’s chest because underneath all his doubt, he knows it’s true. You do look at him differently… Like loving him is instinctive.
Minho softens slightly, seeing the tension ease from his face. “She told you there’s nothing to worry about, didn’t she?”
Han nods slowly.
“Then believe her.”
Silence settles between them for a moment.
Han leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling, rubbing his face. “I hate that she has to go through this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I can’t fix it.”
Minho hums quietly. “That part never really changes.”
Han closes his eyes briefly, thinking about what was coming. Tomorrow the tour starts. It would be months of hiding, of rumours, of pretending. But underneath it all is still you. You were still the girl who chased him to the door because she couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving upset. You were still the girl who said she was happy with him without hesitation.
You were still his.
Minho nudges the tub of ice cream toward him, holding his spoon out. “You’ll survive.”
Han looks at him flatly. “Your comforting skills are incredible, hyung.”
“I know.”
Despite himself, Han smiles faintly.
On the other side of town, you barely sleep. Every time your eyes close, your mind replays the look on Han’s face when he left your apartment. He was hurt but trying not to show it, trying to be understanding anyway.
By four in the morning, you give up on sleep entirely.
Your phone sits beside you on the bed the entire night, painfully silent. You don’t message him. Part of you wants to desperately — wants reassurance, wants him to tell you everything’s okay, wants to hear him call you baby in that sleepy voice that always melts the tension right out of you. But fear wins. Because what if he doesn’t answer? Or worse… What if he does, and it’s different?
By the time you’re in the car heading toward the airport, your stomach is twisted into knots so tight you feel nauseous. Tour is supposed to be exciting. Instead, all you can think is he’s going to break up with me. You hate yourself a little for thinking it, but anxiety doesn’t care about logic.
The airport is already chaotic when you arrive. Staff rush around organising luggage while security attempts to control the crowds gathered outside. Reporters swarm the main entrance, waiting for Stray Kids to arrive.
Your manager quickly ushers you toward the quieter back entrance.
“The boys are handling press out front,” they explain. “You’ll board separately.”
You nod numbly. Honestly, you’re relieved. You’re not sure you could survive pretending everything’s normal in front of Han right now.
You turn the corner and stop dead in your tracks. Wooyoung is leaning casually against the wall, waiting for you. Your heart sinks as soon as you make eye contact.
“Morning,” he says easily, a grin on his face.
Right. The photo ops. Just what you need.
Your manager brightens immediately at the sight of him. You, on the other hand, want to disappear. Instead, you force a tight smile and stand beside Wooyoung while cameras magically appear from seemingly nowhere. Questions get thrown at both of you while flashes explode in your face. You barely hear any of it. You just smile politely, nod occasionally. Pretend. Wooyoung plays the role naturally, leaning slightly closer once or twice for the cameras. You feel worse than you did in the car.
By the time you finally reach security, your chest feels tight with anxiety. It just gets worse when you look up and see Jisung. He’s standing further ahead with the rest of the members, cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, watching.
Your breath catches, and for one horrible second, you think he looks angry again. But when your eyes meet, he smiles. It’s small but soft. Reassuring.
He turns away as if nothing happened, but relief hits you so suddenly that your knees nearly give out.
He doesn’t hate you. He’s still here.
You spend the next ten minutes trying to steady your breathing as you follow the staff through the private boarding area. Exhaustion finally crashes over you all at once now that the panic is easing. You just want your seat, your headphones, and to catch up on some much-needed sleep.
You’re halfway down the corridor toward the plane when suddenly a hand grabs your wrist. You gasp in alarm as you’re quickly tugged sideways into the disabled bathroom nearby. The door clicks shut, and you spin around in panic before immediately sagging in relief.
“Jisung—”
Before you can say anything else, he pulls you tightly into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Your entire body melts against him in relief. “You scared me,” you whisper shakily. You both know you’re not just talking about now.
“I know.” His arms tighten around you. “I know, baby, I’m sorry.”
The endearment nearly makes you cry from sheer relief. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly and immediately frowns.
“You look exhausted.”
You laugh weakly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Guilt flashes across his face instantly. “Because of me?”
You don’t answer fast enough, and he closes his eyes briefly, as if the confirmation physically pains him.
“I never wanted to be the reason you lost sleep,” he says quietly.
Your chest aches. “You weren’t,” you lie softly.
Jisung gives you a look that says he knows better.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The airport noise outside feels distant compared to the tiny space you’re crammed into together.
He exhales slowly. “I was angry,” he admits. “Not at you. I swear.” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “I just hated seeing you dragged into all this because of me.”
“It’s not because of you.”
“It feels like it.”
You shake your head immediately. “I understand why you were upset.”
Han looks uncertain, and you smile sadly.
“If the situation were reversed and they wanted you photographed with an ex-girlfriend?” You huff softly. “I’d lose my mind.”
That finally pulls a small laugh from him. “Really?”
“Absolutely.”
His forehead drops gently against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmurs. “I just… need time to stop wanting to fight everyone.”
You laugh quietly despite yourself. “I noticed.”
Han groans softly. “Minho told me I was being dramatic.”
“He was right.”
“Wow. Betrayed by my own girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. The word settles warmly between you.
Your eyes soften immediately.
“I missed you,” you whisper suddenly, feeling embarrassed that it hadn’t even been 24 hours since you last saw him. You didn’t know how to explain that you missed the possible future without Jisung that your brain had fooled you into believing wouldn’t have been in your life.
Han’s expression melts completely. The exhaustion leaves his face all at once, replaced by something unbearably tender.
“I missed you, too.”
Then he kisses you.
Quick at first.
Gentle.
Like reassurance more than anything else.
But when your fingers clutch the front of his hoodie desperately, he kisses you again properly, warm and lingering and full of everything neither of you can say publicly.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless.
“We should go before people notice,” you whisper reluctantly.
Han sighs dramatically.
“You’re always ruining my plans.”
“You dragged me into an airport bathroom.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?”
You laugh for real this time.
God, you missed him.
Han brushes one last thumb beneath your eye gently before opening the door carefully.
“Come on,” he murmurs softly. “Let’s go start our tour.”
Tour becomes the strangest contradiction of your life.
You’ve never been happier… And you’ve never been more exhausted by pretending.
Still, the moment you step onto the stage for your first performance as a soloist, everything else disappears. The crowd is deafening. Lights blind you the second the music starts, adrenaline surging so hard through your veins you almost forget to breathe. Thousands of people sing your lyrics back at you, your name echoing through the arena in a way that makes your chest ache with emotion. For those few minutes, you aren’t somebody’s girlfriend. You aren’t a scandal risk or a contract. You’re just you. And when you finish the final song to roaring applause, you nearly cry backstage from the overwhelming relief and joy of it all.
The first person you look for is Jisung. He catches you before you even properly make it behind the curtain, grabbing your face with both hands.
“You were incredible.”
His eyes are shining so brightly that you almost melt on the spot.
“I messed up the second verse.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I did!”
“Nobody noticed because they were too busy falling in love with you.”
You snort out a laugh, cheeks burning, and he beams at you like he personally put the stars in the sky.
Later that night, after schedules finally finish and staff disappear to their own rooms, you unlock your hotel door expecting nothing more than a shower and sleep. Instead, your room is covered with candles. There’s soft music playing from a portable speaker set up in the corner, and rose petals are scattered across the white duvet.
You freeze in the doorway, confused, until you see him. Jisung stands near the table, looking suddenly nervous despite all the effort clearly put into this.
“Surprise?”
Your mouth falls open. “Ji…”
The look on your face makes him smile instantly.
A full dinner is laid out across the small hotel table — room service desserts, expensive wine neither of you particularly likes but thought looked romantic, and a tiny handwritten note propped beside your plate.
You stare at it all in disbelief and ask, “You did all this?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly take you out publicly,” he says sheepishly. “So I improvised.”
Your chest hurts from how much you love him. You cross the room quickly and throw your arms around his neck without another thought. Han laughs softly as he catches you, holding you close.
“Was it too much?” he asks into your hair.
“No,” you whisper immediately. “It’s perfect.”
And honestly? It is, because even hidden away in a hotel room halfway through tour preparations, he still finds ways to love you loudly.
The next few weeks settle into something dangerously domestic.
You wake up tangled together almost every morning, warm hotel sheets twisted around your legs while sunlight creeps through the curtains. Han always tries to leave before the others wake up… He’s terrible at it.
One morning, you’re still half asleep when you watch him stumble around the room trying to find his hoodie with his hair sticking up in every direction.
“You look ridiculous,” you mumble into the pillow.
“I look stealthy.”
“You walked into the wardrobe five seconds ago.”
Han glares at you weakly before leaning down to kiss your forehead anyway. “Go back to sleep.”
You giggle quietly as he sneaks out into the hallway, looking thoroughly dishevelled and deeply suspicious. Somehow, nobody catches him. Or maybe the others just choose not to say anything. Unfortunately, though, outside those hotel rooms, reality still waits.
The “sightings” with Wooyoung continue exactly as management planned.
The park is first.
You wear your hair down specifically to hide the wireless earphones tucked carefully beneath it, one AirPod playing music quietly so you don’t actually have to talk to him. Paparazzi conveniently “spot” the two of you walking side by side beneath the trees near the hotel.
From the pictures, it probably looks peaceful. Romantic, even. In reality, you spend most of it staring ahead, pretending not to notice the cameras, while Wooyoung occasionally attempts conversation, which you barely respond to.
The second sighting at the coffee shop is worse.
By then, articles are already circulating online. Could there be something between them? Fans are constantly speculating after recent appearances. You want to scream every time you see them.
The café itself is tiny and crowded with photographers waiting outside the windows. You sit across from Wooyoung with a smile plastered painfully onto your face while barely saying more than three words the entire time.
“You really hate this, huh?” Wooyoung asks eventually, stirring his drink lazily.
You don’t even bother denying it.
“I told you already,” you say quietly. “I’m happily with someone.”
His expression dims slightly, though not enough. “Still him?”
You look up immediately. “Yes,” you answer firmly. “Still him.”
And despite everything — the cameras outside, the rumours online, the constant pressure weighing on your shoulders — your heart feels lighter saying it because every night still ends the same way.
Back in secret hotel rooms, in Han’s arms, with sleepy kisses in the dark and whispered words that nobody else gets to hear.
And for now, that’s enough.
The sighting that ruins it all is the one you least expected.
You were a month into tour, and exhaustion started creeping into everything.
The performances were the easy part. You loved being on stage. You loved the crowds, the adrenaline, and the feeling of slowly becoming more confident every single night. Supporting Stray Kids has become strangely natural too — backstage chaos, rehearsals, shared meals at ridiculous hours of the night.
It’s the pretending that’s exhausting. All the hiding, the constant calculations, the carefully timed entrances and exits from hotel rooms. The way your hand instinctively reaches for Han’s, only for you to stop yourself at the last second if someone’s nearby. And most of all… Wooyoung.
The fake sightings just keep happening. Management becomes relentless once the initial rumours start gaining traction online. Every few days, there’s another “accidental” encounter planned at a restaurant or on a walk. Sometimes it’s a shared ride or a conveniently photographed conversation outside venues.
You cancel as many as you can. You genuinely do. You use rehearsals as excuses. Vocal strain. Fittings. Meetings. Jet lag. Anything you can think of. But sometimes management refuses to budge, and apparently tonight is one of those nights.
“I’m just saying,” Jisung says from where he’s pacing your hotel room, frustration bleeding into every word, “it feels like you could push back harder.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “I have been pushing back harder.”
“Then why does it keep happening?”
“Because they don’t care what I want!”
The room falls silent for half a second, and he stops pacing. You instantly regret snapping, but the exhaustion sitting heavy in your chest makes it hard to soften yourself quickly enough.
“I know,” he says, quieter now. “I know they don’t.”
But he still looks upset. Still tense. Hurt.
Part of you understands. Every time another article comes out pairing your name with Wooyoung’s, you feel sick too. But another part of you is just tired - so unbelievably tired.
“I’m doing everything I can,” you say finally, rubbing at your face. “I’m trying to keep management happy enough not to ruin my career, I’m trying to survive my first tour, and I’m trying to keep our relationship together while nobody’s allowed to know it exists.”
His expression shifts immediately, and guilt flickers across his face.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“No, but that’s what it sounds like.” Your voice cracks slightly despite yourself. “Like I’m failing some test because I can’t magically make them stop.”
“You’re not failing.”
“Then stop acting like I’m choosing this!”
Jisung goes quiet, and the hurt on his face makes your anger falter instantly, but before either of you can fix it, there’s a knock on the door. Both of you freeze, and your stomach sinks immediately. The staff member assigned to ensure you make it on time is right on time. Another knock follows when you don’t answer, and a voice carries through the door.
“We need to leave in five minutes,” a staff member calls through the door.
The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. It’s back to reality, and back to pretending. Jisung looks devastated by it.
“Seriously?” he mutters bitterly.
You close your eyes briefly, feeling the faint pain of a headache building from your stress.
“I have to go.”
“I know, but—” He steps toward you immediately. “Can we not leave it like this?”
The frustration in his voice hurts more now because you know it isn’t anger anymore. It’s worry. You grab your bag silently, avoiding his eyes because if you look at him for too long, you might cry.
There’s another impatient knock, and you feel your patience fraying as the staff member speaks up again.
“Miss? The car’s waiting.”
Han runs a hand through his hair roughly. “Just tell them to wait two minutes.”
“They won’t.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I do!” The words come out sharper than intended, patience finally wrung out. You inhale shakily before softening slightly. “I can’t keep giving them reasons to watch me more closely.”
Han falls silent, and you finally force yourself to look at him properly. His eyes are full of concern now instead of frustration.
“Baby…”
The worry in his voice nearly undoes you.
“I’ll see you later,” you whisper quietly.
Jisung still looks unsettled. Like he hates the idea of you walking out that door while things feel unresolved between you.
“I don’t want you leaving upset,” he admits softly.
Your chest aches painfully. “I’m not upset at you.”
That’s the truth. You’re upset at the situation and at management. At the constant pressure squeezing tighter and tighter around both of you.
He steps closer like he wants to kiss you goodbye properly, but another sharp knock interrupts again. “We really need to go now.”
You both flinch apart instinctively.
The moment’s gone.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the door reluctantly. Jisung catches your wrist just before you open it.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says quietly.
Your eyes burn unexpectedly before you open the door. Staff immediately begin ushering you down the hallway before either of you can say anything else. You glance back once, and Han’s still standing in the middle of your hotel room, watching you leave, looking like there are a hundred things he still wants to say.
And somehow that image stays with you all the way to the car, waiting to take you to another fake date with someone you stopped loving a long time ago.
By the time you arrive at the restaurant, your head is pounding, and you barely remember the drive there. All you can think about is Jisung standing in the middle of your hotel room, looking worried, while you walk away from him.
You hate leaving things unresolved, especially with him.
The restaurant is loud and packed with people, with warm, low-hanging golden lights, overcrowded tables, and conversations blurring into an overwhelming din. It’s easily the busiest place management has arranged for you and Wooyoung to be seen together so far, but it doesn’t surprise you. More people means more cameras, which means more opportunities for rumours.
You spot Wooyoung already seated near the windows — strategically visible, naturally. He smiles when he sees you approaching, but it fades slightly once you sit down.
“You look miserable.”
You give a dry scoff in response instead of answering.
Wooyoung studies you for a second. “You’re quieter than usual tonight.”
You stare blankly at the menu despite already knowing you won’t be hungry enough to eat much. “Maybe because I don’t want to be here.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
You look up sharply, and Wooyoung leans back in his chair slightly. “You used to talk a lot, you know.”
You roll your eyes immediately. “And?”
“I’m serious.”
“Wooyoung, please.”
He goes quiet for a moment before sighing softly. “You look stressed lately.”
Something in you finally snaps. You’re not sure why exactly. Maybe because you’re exhausted, or because you already miss Jisung. Maybe because you’re tired of everyone expecting things from you constantly.
You put the menu down harder than intended.
“Because I am stressed,” you say sharply. “I’m exhausted all the time, I barely sleep, management controls every second of my life, my relationship has to stay hidden while they parade me around with my ex-boyfriend, and if I breathe wrong, there’ll probably be an article about it tomorrow.”
Wooyoung blinks in surprise, but you aren’t finished yet.
“And I’m trying so hard to keep everything together while everyone around me acts like I’m some kind of product instead of a person.”
The words spill out faster now.
“I’m tired of cameras. I’m tired of fake smiling. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with any of this.”
A camera flashes outside the window suddenly, and Wooyoung reacts instantly, reaching across the table to grab your hand.
“There,” he murmurs quietly. “That’s why.”
Your stomach twists unpleasantly, but you immediately force a smile toward the window before smoothly pulling your hand back from his. The second the cameras lower, your expression drops flat again.
Wooyoung watches you carefully before he surprises you.
“I’m sorry.”
You blink at him. “For what?”
“For… everything, I guess.” He looks strangely sincere for once. “I wasn’t good to you when we were together.”
You stare at him for a second before rolling your eyes again. “Okay.”
His mouth opens slightly. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you forgive me?”
You almost laugh. “Wooyoung, I genuinely do not care anymore.”
And surprisingly, it’s true. Whatever heartbreak once existed there feels distant now. Faded. Unimportant compared to what you have with Jisung.
You just feel tired.
“I just want to finish this dinner,” you say quietly.
After that, the conversation dies almost completely. You eat mechanically while Wooyoung occasionally attempts small talk, which you barely engage with. Outside the windows, photographers continue lurking like vultures.
By the end of the meal, exhaustion weighs so heavily on you that you feel hollow. You just want Jisung. You want his arms around you, and you want to crawl into bed beside him and apologise properly and pretend none of this exists for a few hours. The thought alone keeps you moving as the dinner finally ends.
Outside the restaurant, cameras immediately begin flashing again.
You force yourself through one final polite goodbye. “Goodnight, Wooyoung.”
You turn to leave, but his hand suddenly catches your arm. Before you can react properly, Wooyoung pulls you toward him and kisses the corner of your mouth.
Flashes explode around you instantly, and your entire body freezes in shock. But not for long. You shove him away hard enough that he stumbles slightly.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Wooyoung looks entirely too calm.
“Relax,” he says lightly, glancing toward the cameras. “I’m sticking to the plan.”
Your stomach turns violently. “That was not the plan.”
He shrugs. “People will eat it up.”
You stare at him in complete disbelief. For one horrible second, all you can think about is Jisung seeing the pictures. Seeing that.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you snap quietly.
Something flickers across Wooyoung’s face then — annoyance, maybe guilt — but you don’t stay long enough to figure it out. You turn immediately and walk away as fast as you can, ignoring the shouting reporters behind you.
Your skin feels wrong.
Your mouth feels wrong.
And all you want is to get back to Han before the internet does.
The entire drive back to the hotel feels like drowning in anxiety.
Your phone won’t stop vibrating from constant notifications, messages, articles, and tags. The second that photo hit the internet, it spread everywhere. Fans caught it from different angles. Paparazzi posted blurry close-ups within minutes. Headlines were already appearing before you’d even left the restaurant district.
IDOLS CONFIRM ROMANCE RUMOURS AFTER SHARING INTIMATE MOMENT.
You feel sick every time you glimpse the image under the headline. It looks real. The different camera angles create an illusion of attachment, of love. Your nausea increases as you scan the article and see your own worst nightmare brought to life – people believe there’s something very real between you and Wooyoung.
By the time the car pulls up outside the hotel, panic has fully settled into your chest.
Han.
You need to explain to Han before he spirals, before he believes it.
You practically run through the lobby and into the elevator, heart hammering painfully the entire way up. Your hands shake so badly, fumbling for your room card, that you nearly drop it twice.
The door swings open, and your stomach drops when you notice that your room is empty. Han said he’d wait for you and promised that he’d be here.
“Jisung?”
Nothing. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. Your panic surges harder as you realise you might not have got here in time, and you’re already rushing back into the hallway before the door fully closes behind you.
You pound on Han’s hotel door desperately, dying to find him.
“Jisung?”
There’s no answer, and you knock again harder.
“Han, please—”
You place your ear to the door when you hear muffled voices, but you realise that it’s not coming from his room, but the room next door. Lee Know’s room.
You hurry over immediately and knock hard enough that your knuckles hurt. The voices inside stop, and you call through the door.
“Minho,” you call shakily. “Please— can I talk to Han?”
There’s a long pause, and you’re about to knock again when the door opens slightly. Minho stands there looking tired and hesitant. Your heart sinks further.
“Please,” you whisper immediately. “I need to explain.”
Minho glances back over his shoulder, deciding on how to answer, when another figure appears behind him.
Han.
Your breath catches painfully at the lack of emotion on his face. You expected anger and sadness, but his eyes looked empty, his expression defeated.
“Jisung—”
“I always worried you’d go back to him.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. “What? No—”
“It’s not even just tonight.” His voice is quiet, exhausted. “I tried not to think about it every time management sent you out together.”
You’re already shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “Han, it wasn’t my choice—”
“I know.”
But he says it in a way that sounds like it doesn’t matter anymore.
You stare at him desperately, begging him to believe you. “It’s not what it looked like.”
Han gives a tiny, sad smile that nearly breaks you in half.
“That’s the problem,” he says softly. “It looked exactly like what I was scared of.”
Your eyes fill instantly. “No, listen to me— he kissed me, I pushed him away immediately—”
“But he still kissed you.”
The hurt in his voice cracks straight through your chest. He looks exhausted – not physically, but completely emotionally exhausted.
“I kept trying to ignore it,” he admits quietly. “The photos. The articles. How natural you looked together.”
“Natural?” you repeat incredulously. “Han, I barely spoke to him!”
“But nobody else knows that.”
You step closer desperately. “It was staged.”
“I know it was staged,” he says again.
Somehow, hearing that hurts worse, because he does know. He knows you… And he’s still giving up.
Han’s eyes finally meet yours fully, and your stomach twists violently at the emptiness there.
“I just think…” He swallows hard. “Maybe this was always going to be too difficult.”
“No.” The answer leaves you instantly. You know you must look terrified, and you can't help but plead with him. “No, don’t say that.”
Han’s expression crumples slightly at the panic in your voice, but he keeps going anyway.
“We can’t even argue properly without being dragged apart for publicity schedules.” His laugh is hollow and quiet. “We hide constantly. We barely get to be real together outside hotel rooms.”
“We can fix it.”
“I don’t think we can.”
Tears spill down your face immediately. “Jisung, please.”
He looks at you for one long, awful second, and you can see it. You can see how much he loves you. You think it must be that which makes this unbearable.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, voice cracking slightly, “for the last few months.”
Your heart stops.
“No.”
“But I think it’s better if we stop now before this hurts worse.”
You actually stare at him in disbelief. You feel like your brain physically cannot process the words. You can’t believe that this morning you were waking up, wrapped in his arms, and hours later he was breaking up with you.
Han takes one slow step backwards, then another.
“Jisung, please —”
He turns away and walks back into Minho’s room. You immediately try to follow, panicked beyond reason now, but Minho steps into the doorway and blocks your path gently but firmly.
“Minho, move.”
“You need to give him space.”
“No, I need to talk to him!”
Your voice breaks completely.
Inside the room, you can hear movement, but Jisung doesn’t come back, doesn’t say another word. The silence is devastating.
“Please,” you beg Minho desperately. “Please let me in. I love him, Minho! I promise.”
Minho’s face softens slightly as you gasp for breath, the pain in your chest unbearable.
“I know.”
“Then tell him!”
“He’s hurt.”
“So am I!”
“I know,” Minho says quietly. “But right now he needs space to think.”
You shake your head immediately, tears falling harder now. “There’s nothing to think about. He’s what I want.”
The conviction in your voice makes Minho’s expression flicker sadly. But he still doesn’t move aside.
“You both need time,” he says gently. “You’re exhausted. Emotional. Everything’s been building for weeks.”
You wipe angrily at your tears. “I don’t want time. I want to fix this.”
Minho sighs softly.
“I’m tired,” he admits. “And right now my priority is looking after him.”
The words hurt more than they should because suddenly you’re outside the room. Alone.
Minho’s hand tightens slightly on the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow for soundcheck.”
You stare at him helplessly as the door closes quietly in front of you.
That night, you don’t sleep. Not even for a minute.
You lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, as the world outside slowly shifts from darkness to pale morning light. Every time you close your eyes, you see Han walking away from you again.
Thank you for the last few months.
The words replay so relentlessly in your head, you think you might actually lose your mind.
At some point, your phone buzzes repeatedly on the bedside table. First, it’s your tour staff, then it’s management. Eventually, you even get one message from Chan asking if you’re okay after missing breakfast. You don’t answer anyone, you just silence your phone and roll over to stare at the wall.
By the time soundcheck rolls around, you still haven’t moved from the bed. You physically can’t make yourself. The idea of seeing Han and pretending to function normally feels impossible. So, you stay there curled beneath the duvet in yesterday’s clothes while the hotel room remains dark around you.
Eventually, management starts panicking – there are more calls. More knocks. Messages begging for you to answer because you have the concert later. You finally drag yourself up barely an hour before it starts because you know you can’t miss the performance entirely.
Your reflection in the mirror startles you. You look awful. Your eyes are swollen from spending all day and night crying, and your skin is pale. You look like somebody hollowed you out from the inside.
The arena backstage feels painfully familiar when you arrive. Usually, you love the energy before a show — the rush of staff running around, the sound checks, the excited nerves humming through everyone. Tonight it just feels cold.
You see Stray Kids almost immediately, and your chest caves in.
Han is standing with the others while a stylist fixes his in-ear monitors. For one horrible second, instinct makes your body lean towards him automatically. Towards your comfort and your home. Then you remember that you can’t do that anymore.
Han looks up, and your eyes meet briefly. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he looks away first. The motion is small, but it devastates you anyway. There was no smile, no secret glance, no mouthed good luck like always. Nothing.
You have never felt lonelier in your life.
The rest of the members notice you, too, but the atmosphere is now painfully awkward. Changbin gives you a hesitant nod, and Felix looks openly concerned. Minho’s expression softens slightly when he sees how exhausted you look, but he doesn’t approach either. None of them know what to do, and you can't blame them because, honestly, neither do you.
You decide to keep your distance, burying your face in your phone and avoiding everyone, because you know this is hard for them, too. They’re his family before they’re your friends.
Your performance that night is… fine. Technically. You hit the notes, and you remember the choreography. The crowd still cheers and sings along to your songs, but you feel disconnected from your own body the entire time, like you’re watching somebody else perform through thick glass.
And afterwards, backstage is worse. Because Han always found you afterwards, even if only briefly. You’d gotten used to hearing his voice in your ear the second you stepped offstage.
You were amazing.
I’m so proud of you.
Tonight there’s nothing. Han walks past you once while talking quietly with Chan and doesn’t even glance your way. You almost stop breathing.
That’s when it truly sinks in.
This is really happening. You’ve really broken up.
The next two weeks become survival rather than living.
You stop laughing, you stop eating properly. Sleep becomes something distant and unreliable. Some nights you cry silently into hotel pillows until sunrise. Other nights, you just lie awake, numb and empty, while tour buses and aeroplanes blur together endlessly.
You and Han become strangers in public spaces. He’s professional and polite when needed. Distant like none of those nights tangled together in hotel sheets ever happened.
The members try in their own ways. Felix starts lingering nearby more often, and Chan checks in quietly a few times. Minho watches you with increasing concern every time you show up looking thinner and more exhausted than before.
But nobody mentions Han.
And Han never approaches you.
By the time the final Korea show approaches, you’re barely holding yourself together. Standing on stage feels harder every night. Breathing feels harder every night. Being near Han and not being able to talk to him, to touch him, feels like torture.
You make a decision, realising you can’t possibly carry on this way and still keep your sanity. So, you request a meeting with management the day of the final concert.
“I can’t continue the international leg of the tour.”
The room goes silent immediately. “What?”
You keep your expression blank because if you let yourself feel anything right now, you’ll fall apart.
“I’m exhausted,” you say quietly. “I’m not coping well physically.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I’m telling you now because I physically cannot do this for months more.”
They argue immediately. They mention contracts, schedules, money, and commitments. You sit through all of it feeling strangely detached. Eventually, you lower your gaze and say the one thing you know they’ll take seriously.
“If I collapse publicly, that’ll be worse for everyone, won’t it?”
Management exchange tense looks, the tension palpable.
You continue softly. “I need to rest. I need to go home.”
In truth, you need to escape from the tour and the heartbreak. From seeing Han every day while pretending you aren’t falling apart.
Eventually, begrudgingly, they agree to frame it as illness and exhaustion after the Korea leg finishes. They label it a temporary hiatus. A recovery period.
You nod numbly through the rest of the meeting, then leave before anyone can change their minds. You don’t tell the boys, and you don’t plan to, partly because you don’t think they’d care anymore. And partly because if Han asked you to stay without the relationship, you know you would.
You just might not survive it.
Later that day, backstage is loud. Staff rush past, carrying headsets and equipment, while stage managers shout out timings amid the arena's chaos. Usually, the noise helps settle your nerves before performances. Tonight, it barely registers.
Your final performance.
The thought feels strangely hollow, much unlike the heavy suitcases loaded into the taxi waiting to take you to the airport. You’d decided it would be best to have a clean break. There was no point hanging around for anything anymore.
You sit silently in the makeup chair with your mic resting loosely in your hands, staring blankly at nothing while stylists do last-minute touch-ups around you. You don’t even know if Han is avoiding looking at you anymore or if you’ve simply stopped trying to catch his eye.
“Hey.”
You blink slowly and look up. Chan stands nearby, expression careful.
“You okay?”
The question almost makes you laugh, but you just nod weakly instead. Chan doesn’t buy it for a second, and he glances around before pulling up a chair beside you quietly.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Your stomach twists immediately. Chan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, eyeing the floor.
“The photos,” he says carefully. “With Wooyoung.”
There it is. You lower your eyes to your microphone, thumb soothing the cool metal.
“I’m confused,” Chan admits softly. “Because I remember how badly he treated you.”
Your throat tightens painfully. Chan had seen some of it firsthand when you and Wooyoung dated. Not all of it, but enough to understand what a horrible place you were in with him.
You swallow hard. “It wasn’t real.”
Chan goes very still. You still don’t look at him as you continue quietly, voice numb from repeating this truth over and over in your own head.
“Management wanted publicity away from Han. They arranged the sightings.” Your fingers tighten around the mic. “The kiss wasn’t planned. He just did it.”
You can’t see his face, but you can hear his tone darken. “And Han knows that?”
“I tried telling him.”
The words come out hollow.
You turn slightly, and you can see Chan watching you carefully from the corner of your eye. Really watching. You know that he can see the exhaustion and the weight loss. The emptiness sitting behind your eyes.
Realisation slowly dawns across his face.
“Oh,” he says softly.
You laugh once weakly. “Yeah.”
A staff member suddenly calls your name from across backstage. “Five minutes!”
You slowly stand, smoothing your outfit. Chan rises too, but before he can speak again, you finally look at him and give him a small, tired smile.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He frowns slightly. “For what?”
“For letting me join the Korean leg of the tour.” Your voice softens further. “You’ve all been really kind to me.”
Confusion flashes across Chan’s face immediately. “What do you mean Korean leg?”
You just smile again. It’s small, sad. “Thank you for everything, Chris.”
You walk away before he can stop you, and behind you, Chan stands frozen in place.
The crowd screams the second you step onto the stage. Thousands of lights shimmer across the arena like stars while music pounds through the speakers loud enough to shake the floor beneath your feet. Normally the sound energises you, but tonight you feel strangely detached from your own body.
You move through the choreography automatically, smiling when you’re supposed to smile, singing when you’re supposed to sing. A performance built from muscle memory. Then midway through the set—
You see him.
Wooyoung.
Near the barricade.
Watching you.
And suddenly, all the hurt and exhaustion curdling inside you twists sharply into anger. You’re not angry at Han or yourself. You’re angry at him - at the person who kissed you without permission, knowing exactly what it would do.
Your heartbeat pounds loudly in your ears as you make a split-second decision. Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn sharply toward the live band stationed near the side of the stage.
“Toxic Till The End,” you say suddenly into your mic. The band members blink in surprise, but you need to do this. You need to tell him, to tell the world.
“Now.”
Your manager looks horrified from the side stage, but you ignore them completely. The crowd erupts excitedly as the musicians scramble to adjust. You step toward the front of the stage slowly, breathing hard.
“This song…” Your voice echoes through the arena. “Wasn’t originally meant to be performed yet.”
The crowd quiets slightly, listening. You don’t know if it’s the look on your face or the anger in your voice, but you carry on regardless, glancing once toward Wooyoung. You feel a thrill when his expression shifts uncertainly.
“It’s about a recent relationship,” you continue softly. “A toxic one.”
The arena falls completely silent now, and you can practically feel management panicking backstage. You don’t care anymore.
“I wrote it with somebody who means the world to me,” you admit quietly. “And despite everything… I’m thankful for every second I got to spend with them.”
Your chest aches violently from the truth behind your words, and you close your eyes briefly, composing yourself before continuing.
“Tonight feels like the right time to finally share it.”
The music starts, and the first notes ring out low and haunting through the arena.
When you begin singing, every lyric is aimed directly at Wooyoung. Every word is about manipulation and heartbreak and exhaustion sharpened by months of buried anger. You hold eye contact with him relentlessly, and you watch the confidence slowly leave his face.
Good.
For the first time in weeks, you feel honest on stage again. Real.
The emotion cracks through your voice painfully during the second chorus, and you’re confused when the crowd starts screaming. You glance sideways and freeze, mic falling from your lips. Han is walking onto the stage, mic in hand. He approaches slowly, eyes locked entirely on you as he sings the words you’ve lost.
The arena absolutely loses its mind.
You forget where you are, forget everything except him. For the first time in weeks, Han is looking at you, and you don’t know what to do. He reaches you just before your next line and gently lifts your microphone back toward your mouth with one hand. The gesture is so soft it nearly breaks you.
“Sing,” he murmurs quietly.
Your eyes immediately fill with tears, but you do. The tears finally fall when Han starts singing with you, standing close, focused just on you. It’s not officially part of the performance, not rehearsed. He’s just there beside you, voice blending perfectly with yours while the crowd screams around you. You stare at him in complete shock the entire time. Han doesn’t look away once, not during the bridge or the final chorus. Not even when your voice shakes.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the rest of the world disappears completely. You don’t notice Wooyoung storming out of the arena, and you don’t notice the managers panicking backstage. You barely even hear the crowd anymore.
Because Han is looking at you like he’s finally seeing you again. Not the version of you from that picture, not the version of you that broke his heart.
For the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.
When the final note fades into deafening screams, you barely hear any of it. Your chest is heaving from the emotion of the performance, tears still clinging to your lashes as you stare at Han in complete disbelief.
He’s here.
He came onto the stage for you.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moves. The crowd is losing their minds around you, thousands of phones raised into the air, capturing every second, but suddenly, none of it matters. Because Han is looking at you the same way he used to in hotel rooms at three in the morning.
Like you’re his everything.
And the second you realise that, the words come pouring out before you can stop them.
“I tried to tell you,” you say breathlessly.
Han blinks slightly, startled by the sudden rush of words.
“The sightings weren’t real, I swear to God they weren’t real,” you continue desperately. “I hated every single one and I tried so hard to stop them but management kept pushing and I thought if I just got through tour it would calm down and—”
“Hey—”
“And the kiss wasn’t planned,” you say quickly over him, tears slipping free now. “I pushed him away immediately, Ji, I would never- could never- do that to you.”
The arena has gone strangely quiet. Fans are desperately trying to hear you, and staff are panicking. You don’t care anymore.
“I love you,” you whisper brokenly. “I have always loved you.”
Han’s expression crumples slightly. “I know.”
You stare at him helplessly.
“I couldn’t stand you looking at me like that anymore,” you admit shakily. “Like I broke something between us.”
Han takes a small step closer instinctively, but his expression changes suddenly.
“Wait.”
You sniff weakly. “What?”
His eyebrows pull together. “What did Chan mean when he said this was your last show?”
Your stomach drops instantly.
Oh.
Chan told him.
You look away immediately, and Han’s voice softens. “What do you mean by the last show?”
Your eyes burn harder. “I can’t do it anymore.”
The honesty spills out painfully now that it’s started.
“I can’t stand being around you every day and pretending like I’m okay.” Your voice shakes violently. “I can’t keep hiding and watching everything fall apart and acting like I’m fine with it.”
Han looks horrified. “You were leaving?”
You nod weakly. “After tonight. My bags are already in the taxi.”
“Without telling me?”
“I thought you hated me.”
The words hit him like a slap, and his face twists instantly. “I never hated you.”
“But you left me.”
“I was hurt!” he says desperately. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.” Your voice cracks completely. “You never did.”
You stare at each other as you’re encompassed by a raw, painful silence. The crowd barely exists anymore. You wipe at your tears roughly and force yourself to keep going before you lose the courage.
“I’ll leave you alone after this,” you whisper shakily. “I know that’s probably what you want now, and I shouldn’t have even done this—”
Han kisses you – hard, suddenly - one hand grabbing your waist while the other cups your face as he pulls you into him like he physically cannot get close enough fast enough.
The arena explodes. Screaming erupts so loudly you feel the stage vibrate beneath your feet, but you can’t even process it.
Because Han is kissing you in front of everyone. In front of cameras, managers, and fans.
The entire world.
And he kisses you like he’s been dying to do it for weeks.
When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, and your eyes are impossibly wide.
“Jisung!” you whisper in panic. “What are you doing?”
Immediately, your head snaps toward the backstage area, where managers look seconds away from cardiac arrest. “You’re going to get in so much trouble.”
Han just looks at you for a second before smiling. It’s soft and fond and completely unbothered.
“Baby,” he says gently, brushing his thumb beneath your tear-stained cheek, “I’m Han Jisung.”
You blink at him in confusion, and he grins slightly wider.
“What are they gonna do?” His eyes flick briefly toward the horrified staff backstage before returning to you. “Fire me?”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, half hysterical and half disbelieving. Han immediately melts at the sound, leaning down to rest his forehead against your own.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly.
Your chest aches so violently with love for him that you think it might kill you.
The crowd is still screaming around you as Han continues to rest his forehead against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, right there in the middle of the stage.
There’s no more hiding. No more pretending.
Just him.
There would be consequences after tonight — furious managers, broken contracts, headlines, backlash, endless meetings, perhaps even penalties neither of you could fully predict yet. By morning, the entire industry would know. The secret you had both protected so desperately was gone now, laid bare beneath arena lights and thousands of screaming voices.
But as Han held you in his arms in your hotel room later that night, thumb brushing reassuringly across your knuckles while the world erupted online, none of it felt frightening anymore.
For months, you had lived in fear of losing your career, opportunities, and reputation. Yet lying beside him now, finally loved out loud, you realised there was something far worse than consequences: living without him. And as Han looked at you with that same soft, unwavering love that had found you on building rooftops and airport bathrooms and across crowded arenas, you knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next, you would survive it together.
As long as you had him, you felt like you could face anything.
a/n: ARE WE HAPPY? WHAT DO WE THINK? AS GOOD AS PART ONE OR PURE SHIT? lmk in the comments xo
I appreciate any and all interactions with my work xo
paring - idol!felix x idol!oc [workplace romance, mutual pinning]
summary - under jyp, the girl group, vixi performs at the same level as stray kids. during the american music awards in las vegas, vixi and stray kids both in attendance, the vixi maknae sets her eyes on one stray kids member. lee felix.
warnings - swearing, idol life inaccuracies, probably a lot of inaccuracies (pls tell me lmao), (not so) friendly jokes, inappropriate jokes, banter, arguing, bestie!han+seungmin, + more as i write (this will get updated) INCONSISTENT UPDATES
status - ongoing [260528 - ?] | taglist OPEN
authors note - first fic in a while!! and first on this account. i hope you all love felix and grace just as much as i do. and i hope this fic will bring you all happiness! (ts was corny please never let me write again :3) also yes we are pretending skz was at the AMA’s this year for the plot of the story, okay? enjoy !!
POV : your instagram story if LEE MINHO was ur boyfriend
AN: tell me why I woke up with 99+ notifications?? Omggg thank yall. I actually enjoy making these . Lowkey thinking abt making some for txt 🥹🥹🥹 kk byee I hope yall have a good day !!
tag list ; @changbinsal0n , @applesrpeak , @bunbunbl0gs , @hanniesbubuwife , @dina-10s-blog
Omggg I would say you’re complimenting yourself (I love me some good angst.) ahhh the Felix one came out beautifully too! Ohhh I’m totally honored ^-^ as I love your writing hehe! Lee know is one of my biases so I can go by pudding 🍮 anon hehe. can you please write one where you go on an amusement park date with Lee know? 🥺And he goes all out and chooses matching cute head bands to wear and is such a sweet bf (he seems like he’d be such a softie for his s/o)
The music blaring from the amusement park speakers is loud, but you are mostly focused on Minho, who’s walking beside you.
Minho turns his head to look down at you with a soft smile. "If your eyes get any wider, they’re going to fall out," he remarked, smiling like a polite cat.
"I can't help it, I haven't been here in years," you say. "Where should we go first? The roller coaster, the ferris wheel, the teacup ride, the-"
Minho cuts you off. "First, we make a quick stop. I wanna get us something." He reaches down and grabs your hand, leading you toward the souvenir shop. It’s conveniently by the entrance.
"A souvenir already?" you ask, letting him pull you inside the store.
Minho bypasses all the plushies, keychains, magnets, and the like, waltzing straight over to a display of headbands. A fond, mischievous smirk spreads across his face. "Stand still for a second.”
Before you can open your mouth to ask what he was doing, he gently slides a pair of black cat ears onto your head. His fingers brush your hair, carefully tucking a strand behind your ear.
“There.” He boops your nose. “Now everyone knows you belong with me today,” he says smugly. Then, without hesitation, he takes an identical pair of cat ears and slides them onto his own head. He giggles adjusting it. "Don't even think about taking yours off."
"Are we really going to keep it on all day?" you ask.
"Of course we are," he says, already pulling out his wallet. "It's our official date uniform.”
“Date uniform,” you echo. That sounds stupid (but it was cute).
“Stay right here, I'm paying." He quickly walks up to the register and speaks to the cashier, signaling to both your headbands. He pays.
“Let’s go!” he says giddily, dragging you outside.
Once inside the main park, Minho leads you toward the highest roller coaster. You both go in line.
"I bet you twenty bucks you scream on the first drop," he challenges.
"I’m braver than you think," you declare, crossing your arms. "I won't make a single sound. Prepare to lose your money, Lee Minho." You look at him smugly.
"Oh, really?" He smiles, taking a step closer. "We'll see how brave you really are when we're dangling upside down."
You both playfully glare at each other.
When the roller coaster plummets down the massive hill, your façade of bravery decides it wants to leave. A loud, piercing shriek ripped from your throat. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-”
Minho throws his head back and laughs. You weren’t sure if the laugh was at you or the coaster, but either way, he sounds like a psychomaniac.
As you stumble off the ride, your legs feel like jelly. Minho was just grinning, that evil cat.
"So," he teases softly, leaning down to meet your eyes. "About that twenty bucks. Will you be paying in cash or card?"
"The wind pushed the air out of my lungs, that’s all,” you defend, “it wasn't a real scream.”
He laughed confusedly. “The air what??”
Right on cue, a loud, prominent rumble comes from your stomach. *gurble gurble gurble*
Minho blinkes, slowly looking down at your stomach, then back up at you with an amused stare. "Are you kidding me? We’ve only been here for forty-five minutes."
"Let me be hungry, Minho.”
He lets out a soft laugh and scans the park. "Onward, you newborn bird," he murmurs, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he walks. "Let's get you fed before you faint on me.”
“Oh, please.”
“There's a stand over there." He leads you to a cotton candy kiosk. He buys two cotton candies, one pink, one blue.
You devour yours like a maniac. "Oh my goag, dthiz izz so yommy," you chew.
Minho takes a small bite of his. "Don't eat too fast, okay? I don't want you getting a sugar rush." [Sugar rush-ush, sugar rush-ush]
You continue to chow down on the ever-so-innocent cotton candy.
"Hold on, don't move," he says. He reaches out, thumb gently brushing against the corner of your lip to wipe away sugar. "You're a messy eater.” He licks the sugar off his thumb, still maintaining eye contact. "But you're cute."
Your cheeks burn hot. "Coulda just handed me a napkin," you mumble, looking down to hide your flushed face.
Minho chuckles, leaning back against the bench, content with how flustered you are. "Where’s the fun in that? Your face is redder than the cotton candy."
You smack him. He just giggles.
By the time you both finish eating, the sun has set. A cold breeze breezes against you, making you shiver. Minho wraps his arm around you to hopefully warm you up.
"We have time for one more ride," he said, pointing up at the massive ferris wheel. "Let's go before the line gets long."
The ride operator ushers you both into a cabin.
The ferris wheel lifts you above everyone, and the loud noises of the park fade away. By the time you stop at the tippy-top, you could see the entire city.
"Wow," you whisper, pressing your hands and face against the window. Your warm breath fogs up the glass. "Look at the view, Minho. It looks almost unreal."
"Yeah," Minho muses.
You turn around, and you realize he wasn't looking out the window at all. His gaze was fixed entirely on you. He reaches across the small bench, grabbing your hand and squeezing it gently.
"The view really is pretty," he murmurs, thumb rubbing small circles on the back of your hand.
Your breath hitches at the intense sweetness of his demeanor. "But you’re missing the city," you whisper.
"I like what I'm looking at more," he says, voice soft.
You think for a second before saying anything.
"Thank you for coming with me today," you whisper, squeezing his hand back, heart pounding. "I know amusement parks aren't really your thing."
Minho tilts his head, a cute smile on his lips. The cat ears on his head make him look really soft, you notice.
"They aren't my thing," he admits honestly. "But you are.”
Oh, he’s rizzy.
“I'd go anywhere with you,” he continues. “Even if you do scream like a banshee."
