ꪀꫀꪜꫀ᥅ ᥇ꫀ ꪶ꠸ᛕꫀ ꪗꪮꪊ - ᥇ꪖꪀᧁ ᥴꫝꪖꪀ
Synopsys: From studio chaos and midnight phone calls to gentle confessions and years of longing finally unraveling, this is a story of love that doesn’t explode—it grows. Softly. Quietly. Steadily. Because some love stories don’t start with fireworks. Some start with a shared dream—and a boy who always brought you dinner.
Word count: 10k
Warnings: none, I think?
Enjoy!
Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.
It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.
Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.
That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.
You met as trainees—both wide-eyed and tired, shoved into dance studios and vocal booths with a dozen other hopefuls. You didn’t want to be an idol, not really. It was your parents’ idea. “Just try,” they said. “You’re talented. See where it goes.”
It went exactly as far as it needed to. Long enough to meet him.
You dropped out before debut. Not because you couldn’t keep up—but because you realized the spotlight was never yours to chase. What you loved was the storytelling, the world-building. Not standing center stage—but shaping what the audience would feel when the curtain rose.
So you stayed. You worked your way through internships and freelance projects until you were offered the role that finally felt right.
Creative Director — one of the youngest in the company.
Now, you’re the one behind every comeback concept. The one in charge of moodboards and visual narratives, teaser aesthetics and tour stage designs. It’s your job to build the world fans fall in love with.
And for Stray Kids, that means working closely—sometimes painfully closely—with their leader, your best friend.
Because if Bang Chan is the engine behind every song, you’re the one driving the car.
And it’s never just work, not with him. It’s ramen eaten at 2AM over concept moodboards. It’s his sleepy laugh when he watches your editing notes play out in real time. It’s the way he rests his chin on your shoulder while watching final cuts of music videos, completely unaware of how still the world goes when he’s that close.
He’s your best friend.
You’re the one who reminds him to sleep, to eat, to take breaks—not because he needs to be looked after, but because he forgets he's allowed to pause. You notice the signs before they show: the way his voice gets quieter when he’s tired, how he stares through screens when he’s overwhelmed.
The boys call you omma when you’re scolding them over cluttered dressing rooms or skipped meals—but with Chan, it’s different. It’s quieter. Closer.
He never resists. He’ll let you steal his laptop mid-session if it means getting ten minutes of fresh air. He’ll groan but follow you when you tug him out of his chair, muttering about deadlines he’ll still meet anyway. He listens when you speak, even if it’s just to say, “You good?” after a long day.
And Chan… he leans into it. Into you. Not because he needs saving. But because with you, he finally lets himself breathe.
The meeting is scheduled for noon, but you’re already in the conference room ten minutes early, iced americano in one hand, your tablet in the other. You’re flipping through early design concepts for the album visuals—dark tones, nostalgic accents, a slightly rough edge to match the overall sound.
Then the door swings open, and in walks Bang Chan with the most unbothered smile on his face and a paper cup balanced on top of his head like some kind of crown.
“Royalty has arrived,” he announces with mock grandeur.
You don’t even look up. “You’re late.”
“I’m ten seconds late.”
“You’re ten minutes late.”
He drops into the chair across from you, the coffee crown still perched atop his curls. “Semantics.”
You set your tablet down and give him a look. “I listened to the tracklist demo last night.”
His eyes sparkle—proud, expectant. “And?”
“It’s solid,” you admit, then pause, narrowing your eyes. “Except for Railway.”
He gasps. Full drama mode. “Railway is a masterpiece.”
“It’s a sensual R&B track in the middle of an emotional, identity-driven concept album,” you say, deadpan. “Explain how that makes sense.”
“It’s a song about trains,” he says, with a straight face that doesn't even crack.
You blink. “It’s not about trains.”
“It’s literally called Railway. It has train sounds in the background.”
“You added those in post.”
He grins, finally cracking. “Okay, but metaphorical trains. It’s layered. Nuanced.”
You roll your eyes so hard it almost gives you whiplash. “You wrote a thirst trap and tried to sneak it in between two ballads.”
Chan shrugs, leaning back in his chair like a kid who just got caught red-handed and couldn’t care less. “Balance. Gotta give the people what they want.”
“I am the people and I want you to pick a concept and stick to it.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not the target audience of Railway.”
Your cheeks burn immediately, but you recover fast. “Bold of you to think I haven’t heard all fifteen versions of it in the studio, including the one with the backup moaning.”
He chokes on his own coffee.
You smirk, victorious.
The meeting continues—technically. You both talk about visual elements, comeback schedules, and how to pace the release teasers. But between the points on your shared document, there's laughter, teasing, soft eye contact that lingers a second too long. You bicker like co-workers. You banter like best friends. And somewhere between debating whether red or gray better fits the mood of the lead single, you feel it again—that quiet undercurrent of something warmer. Something slower.
Maybe it's love. Maybe it's just him. But either way, you don’t say it out loud. Neither does he. Not yet.
Jeongin’s girlfriend wasn’t usually the nervous type. She had pitched branding concepts to CEOs and fought tooth and nail over key visuals with entire creative teams. But today was different. Today, she was presenting her draft designs for Stray Kids’ new comeback album—to Bang Chan and you, the group’s creative director.
She’d heard the stories.
Chan was a perfectionist. Jeongin said he’d once rejected a logo because the spacing between the letters felt “too emotionally distant.”
And you? Jeongin didn’t say much, but Hyunjin’s flower girl had muttered once that you could make even the cockiest stylist cry if a color palette didn’t align with the concept vision. Apparently, you had taste and weren’t afraid to weaponize it.
So, yeah. She was a little terrified.
She arrived exactly on time, nerves bundled in her chest, carrying her portfolio and a neat little stack of mock-ups. The meeting room at JYPE’s creative wing was bright, modern, and—thankfully—quiet.
Chan was already there, lounging back in his chair with a coffee half-forgotten beside him. And you were at his side, leaned forward over the table, highlighter cap in your mouth as you scribbled a note on a storyboard draft.
She paused at the door.
You glanced up first. “You must be Jeongin’s girlfriend.”
There was no icy professional front, no judgment. Just a soft, genuine smile as you stood to greet her. “I’m glad you’re here. He said you were nervous, but there’s no need. We’re not scary.”
“You’re not scary?!” Chan said, voice teasing as he reached for his coffee again, as he looked at his maknae's beloved girlfriend with mischief in his eyes. “She terrifies me. Have you ever seen her throw a Pantone book?”
You kicked him lightly under the table. No hard feelings. Just playful banter between two people who are close. Super close. Have been for a long time,
The meeting flowed naturally after that. Her designs—moody, tactile, layered with handwritten lyrics—seemed to land well. You traced your finger along one of the printed covers and murmured, “This… This feels like the right kind of intimacy.”
Chan didn’t even look at the mock-up. He was already looking at you when he said, “Told you she was perfect.”
The rest of the review blurred. Jeongin's girlfriend took notes, absorbed feedback, but mostly she watched the two of you: the way Chan leaned toward you unconsciously, the way you nudged his coffee back toward him without thinking, the way his eyes softened when you laughed at something only the two of you seemed to understand.
By the time the meeting ended, she was no longer intimidated. Just intrigued.
She met up with Jeongin, Hyunjin, and flower girl at a nearby café that evening, unable to keep the thought to herself.
“She’s in love with him,” she blurted out, pulling off her coat.
“Who?” Jeongin asked, blinking.
“Your creative director. She’s in love with Bang Chan.”
Hyunjin actually dropped his spoon. His girlfriend nearly snorted her drink. Jeongin choked on his pastry.
“No, no,” Jeongin said once he caught his breath. “They’re like siblings.”
“Worse,” Hyunjin added. “They’re like… mom and dad. Not in a weird way. Just—you know. The leadership pair. It’s strictly family.”
“She literally forces him to eat lunch,” Jeongin added. “That’s not romance. That’s parenting.”
“But they’re so close,” she argued. “They’re always touching. And the way he looks at her—”
“They’ve been like that since we were trainees,” Hyunjin said, tone final.
“They’re just affectionate,” flower girl added. “It’s normal. They’ve been best friends for so long, they don’t even notice it anymore.”
She frowned. “So you’re telling me they’re not in love.”
The three of them answered at once:
“Nope.” “Not a chance.” “Absolutely not.”
Still, as she took a sip of her coffee, something about their certainty didn’t sit right.
Because sometimes love doesn’t show up with fireworks and declarations.
Sometimes it slips into the everyday—into quiet meals, gentle nudges, and the way someone instinctively reaches for your coffee before you even realize you've forgotten it.
The building was quiet.
Too quiet, really. Most of the staff had left hours ago, and even the clamor from the rehearsal studios had gone still. The only light in the control room came from the soft glow of monitors and the pale overhead bulbs that buzzed like they were tired, too.
Chan sat slumped on the couch, head tilted back, eyes fluttering open every few minutes like his body hadn’t gotten permission to rest just yet. His hoodie was bunched up under his chin, exposing the curve of his throat. His laptop blinked idly beside him, abandoned. For once.
You returned with two warm bottles of banana milk, holding one out without a word.
He took it with a sleepy smile, not even asking where you’d found it at this hour. Of course you had a stash somewhere.
“I’m going to tell HR that you’re my emotional support manager,” he said, twisting the cap off.
“I’d be unemployed in five seconds,” you replied, taking a sip of your own.
Silence settled in again. But not the heavy kind. This one was soft, comfortable. The kind that only existed between two people who’d done this a thousand times—sat in the quiet, side by side, not needing to say anything.
You nudged his knee with your own. “You need to go home.”
“I am home,” he muttered.
“Chan.”
He peeked over at you with a small grin. “I know, I know. You’re right. I just… need five more minutes.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
“Yeah, well, I like hanging out with you.”
It was such a simple sentence. No weight to it, no emphasis. But it made your heart skip anyway.
You looked away first, pretending to inspect the label on your drink. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re this tired. You’re emotionally unstable.”
“You say that like I’m not emotionally unstable when I’m fully rested.”
You rolled your eyes, but he was still watching you.
There was something about his gaze tonight. Not intense. Just… real. Like the usual noise had quieted enough for him to really see you. Like he didn’t have to be Bang Chan the leader or producer or hyung for a second.
Just Chris.
And Chris looked at you like your presence alone had made his day survivable.
You softened. “Do you want me to call you a car?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I won't get to spend time with you.”
You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you expected.
He laughed, a little embarrassed now. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—can you stay for a little longer? Just until I fall asleep. You’re better than melatonin.”
“Great. I’ve been downgraded from creative director to sleep aid.”
Chan reached out lazily and caught your sleeve, tugging you closer so that you’d sit beside him again. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar.
“I’m serious,” he said softly, “You keep me sane.”
You turned to face him, but he was already closing his eyes again, leaning his head onto your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was. And maybe this—this quiet, sleepy, warm version of him—was the truest one of all. Sometimes too honest. Too raw. But never overwhelming. Always inviting. That's the charm of Bang Chan. That's why STAYs all over the world fall in love with him, without knowing him personally. He's a walking green flag. A boy with the kindest of souls, warmest of smiles, and prettiest of words. He always knows what to say to calm one down, to cheer someone up, or to make them believe they are worth it. That's why it seems so unfair to see him spiral, drive himself crazy over the public's perception of him.
It was almost 2:37 a.m. when your phone lit up.
You groaned, face buried in your pillow, blindly reaching for it with one hand and squinting at the caller ID: Han Jisung. You debated ignoring it—surely he butt-dialed. But then came the second call, immediately after. Then a third. You sat up, heart skipping into emergency mode, and picked up.
“Is everything okay?”
“Noona,” he whispered like someone was holding him hostage, “he’s doing it again.”
“…Doing what again?”
“The thing.”
“What thing, Jisung?”
“The thing where he writes songs he wants to strip to on stage!”
You blinked. “What?”
“I’m serious. He’s got the lights off, there’s a red LED bulb on for ambiance, and he’s been looping the same R&B drum beat for an hour. It sounds like a perfume commercial. I’m scared.”
You sighed and pushed your hair back. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not! Changbin and I left the studio for ten minutes to get snacks, and when we came back, he’d taken off his hoodie and was humming into the mic with his eyes closed. He’s gone.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You want me to come there?”
“Yes, please, I'm begging you. Bring holy water. And maybe something he can emotionally latch onto so he doesn’t write a demo called ‘Velvet Hands’ or something.”
You groaned but swung your legs over the bed anyway. “If this is a prank, I swear to God—”
“I wish it was. But this man looked me dead in the eye and asked, ‘What if this comeback had a pole?’”
You were out the door in under ten minutes.
By the time you arrived, the dorm lights were off except for the glow under the crack of the studio door. You could hear the bass from the hallway.
You knocked.
“Come in,” Chan called, voice smooth as silk.
You opened the door—and immediately paused.
There he was. Hoodie abandoned on the back of his chair, in just a white tank top and joggers, legs crossed as he bobbed his head to a slow beat with a rose-tinted LED light casting a glow over his desk. The scent of instant coffee and something vaguely sandalwood hung in the air.
He turned and lit up. “What are you doing here, sleepyhead?”
You squinted at him. “The better question is, what in the Fifty Shades of Chris is going on in here?”
He laughed, easy and unapologetic, like he knew he was caught. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh? Because it looks like you’re scoring a mood lighting commercial for a lingerie brand.”
“Okay, a little what it looks like.”
“Jesus, Chan.”
You stepped into the room as Jisung and Changbin poked their heads in from the lounge couch, thumbs up in silent thanks.
Chan leaned back in his chair, stretching with a yawn. “I had an idea. You know how our last title track was super high energy? What if this one’s more sensual? Slower? Grown?”
“You already tried that with ‘Drive,’ remember? Half the fandom had to sit down.”
He smiled again, a little too proud. “Exactly.”
You sat down across from him and gave him the look—your patented Don’t-Make-Me-Take-Your-USBs-Again glare.
“Chris.”
“Yes?”
“Did you eat today?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then pointed weakly at a granola bar wrapper.
You raised a brow.
“…Okay, no.”
You sighed and got up. “I’m making you food. Then you’re going to shower. Then you’re going to sleep. And then you’re going to tell me why your Google doc is titled ‘Songs to Commit Crimes To.’”
He grinned sheepishly. “It was a working title.”
“You need supervision.”
“And that’s why I called you,” Jisung chimed from the hall, triumphant. “Good night, lovebirds!”
“We’re not—!” you started, but he’d already disappeared.
Chan laughed again, soft and fond, as you rummaged through their kitchen for ramyeon and eggs.
“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he said, leaning in the doorway.
“Apparently, I did.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving you. “You always do.”
The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hiss of water boiling and the occasional clink of a spoon against a pot. You moved around the space with ease, focused on a late dinner or early breakfast, who knew at this point, while Chan lingered near the counter, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
He didn’t say much, just watched you. You could tell his mind was racing, but the usual confident leader was nowhere to be found—replaced by something quieter, more uncertain. After a long pause, Chan finally cleared his throat, voice low. “Thanks for… always being here. For all this.” He gestured vaguely at the steaming food and the calm around you.
You looked up, meeting his eyes, and he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed. The vulnerability was so subtle it almost went unnoticed.
“It’s nothing,” you said softly. “You don’t have to thank me.”
He gave a small, tired laugh. “I do sometimes wonder… if I deserve it.” His words barely a whisper, as if afraid to speak them louder.
You stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You deserve kindness. You deserve care.”
Chan swallowed hard, eyes flickering between you and the floor. “Sometimes I’m scared if I let myself feel that… I’ll lose it all. That maybe… you’d see the real me, and…”
His voice faltered. You didn’t interrupt. You let the silence speak, letting him find the courage on his own time.
He finally looked up, the faintest trace of a smile breaking through the exhaustion. “But… having you here like this—it means more than I can say.”
You smiled back, squeezing his arm gently. No confessions. No grand declarations. Just two people finding safety in the quiet moments between the noise.
The apartment buzzed with warmth and chatter, fairy lights casting soft glows over scattered wine glasses and snack bowls. The girlfriends had taken over the living room, sinking into cushions and stretching out comfortably as stories flew back and forth like old friends reuniting.
Seungmin’s lover, the stage manager, was rolling her eyes fondly at yet another ridiculous Seungmin anecdote, while Han’s girlfriend laughed, shaking her head at Jisung’s latest tattoo drama. Flower girl was quietly giggling, sharing one of Hyunjin’s latest artistic disasters, and Jeongin’s girlfriend — the graphic designer — sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook forgotten in her lap as she listened intently.
Then, inevitably, the conversation turned towards you. Something you were dreading the whole night, not even understanding how you ended up in this situation in the first place. Jisung's girlfriend worked closely with you, hence why she politely asked you to join. However, being the only single person in the middle of such an ensemble was a nightmare turned reality.
“So, what about you?” Seugmin’s girlfriend asked, eyes flicking toward you with a teasing smile. “Anyone special in your life these days?”
You took a slow sip of your wine, feeling all their curious eyes settle on you like a spotlight.
“Honestly? I don’t really have time for dating,” you said with a shrug, trying to keep it light. “Work is nonstop. And when I do get a moment, I’d rather not waste it on awkward small talk or meaningless dates.”
Jeongin’s girlfriend raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Sounds like you’re dodging something,” she teased. “Or someone.”
You smiled faintly, voice dropping just a bit, like sharing a secret meant only for them.
“I believe… everyone is given one true love,” you said softly. “And maybe I’ve already found mine.”
A beat of silence.
“But I’m pretty sure it’ll never be reciprocated.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, the usual buzz fading as your words hung gently in the air. No one pressed you, but the understanding was unmistakable — a shared tenderness beneath the playful surface.
Jeongin’s girlfriend nudged Flower girl, whispering something that made them both giggle, breaking the spell.
“Okay, enough of the heavy stuff,” Seungmin's girlfriend declared, pouring another glass of wine. “Let’s hear more embarrassing stories about our boys.”
Laughter bubbled back up, filling the room again, but the little moment stayed with you — a quiet truth shared with those who cared.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you sent a quick message, the warmth of the wine making your words a little looser than usual.
You Hey… you awake?
Chris♥️ Always. What’s up?
You Just… had a little wine. Might be feeling a bit buzzed. But don’t worry, I’m fine.
Chris♥️ Buzzed, huh? That sounds like trouble.
You I’m a responsible adult, I swear.
Chris♥️ Sure, and I’m a unicorn. Come on, you don’t have to pretend. You sound exactly like you after a glass or three.
You Okay, maybe three. But I’m good. Promise.
Chris♥️ Good or not, do you want me to come get you? Or at least stay on the phone until you’re safe?
You I’m okay, really. Just… buzzed enough to text you random stuff.
Chris♥️ That’s what worries me.
You shifted on the couch, laughter still ringing from your friends around you, but your eyes were fixed on the screen. The noise of the girls’ chatter softened at the edges as your mind floated to the familiar warmth in Chris’s messages. You hated feeling vulnerable, hated the idea of needing someone—but his steady presence was a quiet comfort, a lifeline you didn’t realize you needed so much.
The night stretched on, and soon enough, a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. There he was—Chris, quietly standing with that familiar worried smile, ready to make sure you got home safely. In the chaos of deadlines, meetings, and your self-imposed armor, he was the calm you could always count on. Maybe one day, you’d be brave enough to tell him exactly that.
You were too buzzed to notice, but Chris saw how all the girls shared a knowing look upon his arrival. He greeted everyone tenderly, considering the girls were his brothers' significant others, he tried to keep as close to them as possible, without ever intruding. However, he couldn't really decipher the suggestive eyebrow raises or cheeky winks sent towards him over your shoulder as you hugged everyone goodbye.
The ride home was quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows as you nestled into the passenger seat, your head heavy with tiredness—and maybe the wine, too. Your eyes fluttered shut before long, surrendering to the pull of sleep.
Chris glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, his heart squeezing softly at the sight. You looked so peaceful—soft features relaxed, breathing steady and calm. The world slowed down around him in that moment, and all the noise and stress of his endless schedule faded away.
He thought about how often you were the opposite—busy, always moving, juggling a million things at once. But right now, in this small, quiet space, you were just… you. Unguarded. Vulnerable. And breathtaking.
There was something about the way you trusted him so fully, letting go enough to fall asleep beside him. It made him feel honored, like you were letting him hold a piece of your world no one else saw. That fragile quiet filled him with a warmth he couldn’t explain, a tenderness that made his chest ache in the best way.
He reached over carefully, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment on your cheek. If only you knew how deeply fond he was of you—how every small gesture, every laugh, every late-night conversation stitched you closer into the fabric of his heart.
Tonight, he promised himself, he’d just be here. Quiet. Present. Grateful for this moment.
Because loving you—however quietly—was the most real thing he’d ever known.
The dressing room buzzed with restless energy, but the mood was far from lighthearted. Beneath the surface, tension rippled through the group—subtle shifts, hesitant movements, and uneasy glances that betrayed discomfort.
Chan stood by the door, trying to keep the peace, his voice calm but strained. “Please, let’s remove the tape on Jisung’s tattoos. He’s clearly uncomfortable.”
The stylist gave a polite nod but didn’t make any real move to fix it.
Across the room, Changbin tugged at a rough, scratchy shirt, biting back a grimace. “I’m allergic to this fabric,” he muttered, voice low but edged with frustration.
Then, almost like salt in a wound, a staff member handed Minho a compression shirt, smirking as they said, “Here, this one should fit better—you’ve gained too much weight lately.”
Chan’s eyes flickered with disbelief and something sharper—hurt, maybe. The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.
He continued to try, his tone measured but growing firmer, “Everyone deserves to be comfortable. Please listen to the members.”
But his words seemed to vanish into the background noise as the staff ignored his requests, their dismissive attitudes making the room heavier.
And then the door swung open.
You stepped in, all business and steel-clad determination, the kind of presence that instantly demanded attention. The chatter died down to a hush. Chan watched you, admiration blooming quietly but fiercely inside him. You scanned the room with a steady gaze—sharp, unyielding, utterly confident.
“What’s going on here?” Your voice was cool but resolute, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Chan’s chest tightened as relief and respect washed over him. Watching you take charge reminded him why he trusted you so completely.
In that moment, he thought about you—your unbreakable character, the way you carried yourself with quiet, unwavering confidence. You never compromised your principles, never faltered when it came to protecting those you cared about. Your vision for the group’s comfort and well-being wasn’t just a job—it was a passion, a fierce dedication that inspired everyone around you.
He admired how you stood up without hesitation, how your belief in respect and kindness was absolute. You moved through the room with purpose, addressing the stylists directly, your voice steady and firm.
“I don’t care how you’ve done things before,” you said, eyes locked on theirs. “Making the members uncomfortable isn’t acceptable. Jisung’s tattoos aren’t a problem to ‘fix.’ Changbin’s allergy isn’t a fashion statement. And Minho deserves respect—no one talks to him like that.”
The stylists exchanged uneasy looks, suddenly aware that their usual arrogance wasn’t welcome here. You held their attention with the kind of authority that came from years of knowing exactly who you were—and what you would stand for.
“Adjust everything immediately, or I’ll find someone who will. This stops now.”
“Thank you,” Chan said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His tired eyes met yours, filled with a rare vulnerability. “I tried to tell them to change whatever needed to be changed, but no one listened. Sometimes I'm just too polite to get my point across.”
You softened, the sharp edge of your professional armor slipping just for a moment. The weight of the day faded away as you took a small step closer. Gently, you reached up and ran your hand through his hair—the familiar curls now tamed, smoothed down by the stylists.
“I was actually imagining you leaving your hair naturally curly for this comeback,” you murmured, your fingers lingering in the strands. “But I guess the staff straightened it anyway.”
Chan’s lips curved into a sheepish smile. “That was my call,” he admitted quietly. “I thought people liked the straightened look better.”
You shook your head, a small laugh escaping. “No way. Everyone thinks you’re way hotter with your curls. Fans go crazy for it.”
His eyes twinkled with something like relief, maybe even gratitude. For a brief moment, the chaos around you both dissolved—there was just the two of you, quiet and intertwined. In the middle of the dressing room frenzy, it felt like the only place that truly mattered was the connection shared between the two of you.
The studio feels unusually quiet this afternoon. The usual buzz has softened to a gentle hum, like the calm before a storm. The others are busy with their last preparations for the Japan trip, but you sit still, fingers hovering over your laptop, words caught somewhere between your mind and the screen.
Chan looks your way, hopeful but cautious. “You’re coming with us, right?”
His question is simple, but it carries more weight than you can say. Your heart twists painfully at the thought.
You want to go with them. You want to be there, beside him. But your feelings for him are getting tangled, overwhelming — and you’re scared what might happen if you don’t keep some distance. You need to protect yourself.
You shake your head gently. “I think I’m going to stay in Seoul this time.”
Chan’s eyes widen for a moment — surprise, confusion, maybe even a flicker of hurt, quickly masked. “Oh. Okay.”
He wonders why you’re staying behind.
Does she not want to be with me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t want to lose her — she’s the one person I can always count on. But maybe I’m too much, or maybe I’m not enough.
You avoid his gaze, your heart pounding. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just… need some space.”
Chan tries to decipher what those words really mean.
Space? Does she mean distance? Or something else? Does she even feel the way I do?
The room suddenly feels colder, heavier.
Chan swallows and forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. If that’s what you need.”
I want to reach out, to tell her everything — how I feel, how scared I am of losing her — but I’m too afraid. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin this?
You watch him quietly, your carefully held walls starting to crumble.
He deserves to know. He deserves to hear that you care, that the space you need isn’t because you want to leave him behind, but because you need time to sort through feelings that overwhelm you.
But the words stay locked inside.
As Chan zips his bag, the silence between you grows heavier — fragile and full of unspoken things neither of you dares to voice.
You both sit there, two hearts aching quietly, afraid to cross the line into the unknown. You stand up, gathering your things slowly, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air. Chan watches you, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but holds back. Before you walk away, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“Hey… if you change your mind, just text me. I'll pay for your flight and all,”
You turn, catching the sincerity in his eyes — a soft, vulnerable light that you don’t often get to see. Your chest tightens. Without thinking, your hand brushes lightly against his arm. It’s a small touch, almost hesitant, but it sends warmth rushing through you both. Chan’s breath catches. For a heartbeat, the distance between you feels smaller, less certain. You give him a shaky smile. Finally, he pulls you into a warm embrace, one that feels like home. He's renowned for his hugs; his muscular arms feel safe and calming as they encircle you, and as you're surrounded by his sweet vanilla scent, it becomes harder and harder to keep your distance.
“Thank you, Chris.”
He nods, fighting the urge to hold you there a little longer.
As you leave the studio, your heart aches — filled with hope and fear tangled together, knowing that maybe, just maybe, this fragile moment is the start of something neither of you dared to say out loud.
The day had been relentless for Chris—hours packed with rehearsals, last-minute adjustments, and the stress of their TV showcase looming large. Every little detail needed to be perfect, and the weight of it pressed down on him heavier than he expected. It's always difficult for him to manage all this chaos without having you there. By the time he finally got back to his hotel room, his mind was still racing, the exhaustion in his body nowhere near enough to quiet his thoughts.
He stared at the ceiling, the buzzing of his phone beside him offering a small comfort. Without really thinking, he swiped it awake and dialed the one person he knew would calm the storm in his chest.
You answered on the second ring, your voice sleepy but warm. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Chris said, voice a little rough. “Long day… couldn’t sleep.”
You yawned softly. “Same here. What’s on your mind?”
He let out a tired chuckle. “Everything and nothing. The showcase prep is driving me crazy. The kids are great, but the pressure… you know.”
You listened quietly, the calm steadiness of your voice smoothing the edges of his tension. “You always manage to hold it together, Chris.”
“Only because I have you to remind me to breathe,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart skip.
For a while, the two of you just talked — quiet, easy conversation about silly things and shared memories, letting the comfort of each other’s presence work its magic. The city’s distant noises faded away, replaced by the soft intimacy of the call.
“I’m really glad you picked up,” Chris whispered.
“Me too,” you answered, your eyes closing as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you.
“Hey, promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight?”
“I promise,” you said.
A long pause. Then, his voice, softer now. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”
“Goodnight, Chris.”
The phone slipped from your hand as sleep finally took you, the quiet sound of Chris’s even breathing the last thing you heard before drifting off.
As soon as he got back, you were over at his place. He didn't even get to unpack, which for a meticulously clean and organized person like him was equal to hell, but he wanted you there as soon as it was possible. He dialed your number from the airport shuttle, begging to see you. And you can't say no to Chan. It's impossible. And he knows.
The apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal, Chris moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. You admired the way he handled the pans and spices — precise, confident, and calm. Unlike his usual self-consciousness in public, here he was in his element, effortlessly creating something delicious. You slipped in to help, chopping vegetables or stirring sauces, your laughter blending with the soft music he’d put on.
When Jeongin and his girlfriend arrived, the atmosphere shifted to playful and lighthearted. Jeongin’s grin was impossible to miss.
“Double date vibes tonight, huh?” he teased, elbowing his girlfriend with a sly smile.
You and Chris exchanged quick, shy glances. Both of you turned a shade of pink, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and awkwardness as Jeongin’s joke hit right where it counted. You laughed nervously, trying to play it cool, but the teasing was relentless — and honestly, it just made the evening feel more special.
After they left, the night settled into quiet comfort. You and Chris retreated to his room — his sanctuary, a place full of soft lighting, scattered notebooks, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of coffee from his late-night sessions.
You settled into the familiar nest of blankets and pillows on his bed, limbs entwined like you always did. The world outside faded away. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with that gentle, grounding pressure that made your heart beat a little slower.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, lulling you to sleep. He slowly leaned in, sure that you were already floating in dreamland, pressing a little kiss to your forehead. His voice was low, hesitant but filled with something you’d longed to hear.
“I missed you so much,” he whispered, so soft that you barely heard it.
Your breath caught — a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t say anything, you knew he didn't mean for you to hear his quiet confession, so you stayed put. Nuzzled into his chest. The silence wrapped around you both like a tender promise.
And as you drifted off to sleep, still tangled in each other’s arms, you felt a warmth settle deep inside — the quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in feeling this way after all.
You lie there, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady next to you, and the quiet weight of his words resting softly on your skin. It’s everything you didn’t dare say out loud, and suddenly everything feels both fragile and certain at once.
You want to tell him that you’ve been afraid — afraid of losing this, afraid of hoping too much, afraid of how much you care. But right now, words feel unnecessary. You just want to stay here, wrapped up in the warmth of him, and believe that maybe, this could be the start of something real.
You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but for the first time in a long time, you feel brave enough to let the possibility in. Maybe love doesn’t have to be scary. Maybe it can be this quiet, steady, and soft. Maybe it’s already here.
You Hey, did you actually eat today or are you surviving on caffeine and sheer willpower again?
Chan♥️ Haha, I had a sandwich. Barely counts, I know. But don’t worry, I’m not turning into a walking skeleton yet.
You Barely counts? Chris, you’re supposed to be the leader, not a starving artist. I swear, if I see you at the studio looking like you’ve forgotten how to human, I’m dragging you out for food myself.
Chan♥️ Deal. Speaking of dragging, when can we schedule that meeting to go over the tour details? I need your magic on this.
You How about Thursday afternoon? I’ll bring snacks as a bribe.
Chan♥️ Thursday it is. You bring snacks, I’ll bring the caffeine. Perfect.
You Also, have you noticed Changbin’s been acting weird lately? Like, seriously weird?
Chan♥️ Haha, you mean the way he stares at the new personal chef like she hung the stars? I caught him trying to “accidentally” get into the kitchen more than once.
You Right?! I’m pretty sure he’s got a crush. This is going to be interesting…
Chan♥️ Oh man, imagine the chaos. Should we start placing bets on how long before he actually talks to her?
You You’re on. But if he messes it up, I’m blaming you for not coaching him properly.
Chan♥️ Fair enough. Guess I better start my mentorship duties early.
You knew he hadn’t eaten properly all day. You saw the way his eyes were a little tired, how his movements had the usual restless energy but lacked the usual spark. So, you did what you always did—showed up at the studio, determined to drag him away from his work.
When you slipped into the control room, Chris was hunched over the mixer, headphones around his neck, completely absorbed. You cleared your throat softly, and he looked up, surprised but relieved in equal measure.
“Hey,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “Come on. You’re not finishing that without food. I’m taking you out.”
He hesitated for a moment, that familiar crease between his brows, but then he gave a small, grateful smile. “You’re relentless.”
You took his hand—a quick, familiar squeeze—and led him out before he could say no. The city lights blurred past the windows as you drove to a quiet little restaurant you both liked. The kind of place where the lighting was soft, and the music was just low enough to hear your own thoughts.
Chris was different here, relaxed. He pulled out your chair with a gentleman’s ease, ordered your favorite dishes without asking, and laughed softly at your jokes—those little things that made his presence feel like home.
You watched him across the table, the way his eyes caught the candlelight, the easy warmth in his smile. It stirred something deep inside you. A flutter of hope mixed with the fear that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just friendship anymore.
You wanted to reach out, to tell him all the thoughts swirling in your mind—the late nights you spent wondering if he felt the same, the quiet moments you replayed where maybe he was sending signs you missed. But you stayed silent, because saying it aloud felt too fragile, too risky.
Chris caught your gaze, and there was something in his eyes—a flicker of the same hesitation, the same unspoken yearning.
The conversation drifted softly, filled with comfortable silences and light teasing. Neither of you rushed to cross the invisible line, but the space between you was charged with all the things you weren’t saying.
When you finally left the restaurant, the night air cool against your skin, Chris slipped his hand into yours without hesitation. It was a small, simple gesture, but it said everything neither of you dared to speak.
And as you walked side by side, your heart thrumming with a nervous hope, you realized—this was real. And it was terrifying.
But somehow, you didn’t want to look away.
Chris stepped back into the studio, the familiar hum of equipment greeting him like an old friend. He barely had time to drop his bag before Han and Changbin were all over him like a storm.
“So? How was the dinner? Did you finally say it? Spill the tea, hyung!” Jisung practically bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes shining with excitement. “You’ve been dragging this out forever, man! She’s perfect for you, you know that, right?”
Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to dodge the barrage. “I didn’t say anything, okay? It was just dinner.”
“Just dinner?!” Han threw his hands up dramatically. “Hyung, that’s like the first step to confessing! You’ve got to put the moves on her, make her see that you’re the one!”
Changbin, who’d been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped in with his trademark calm tone. “Han-ah, maybe ease up a bit. Channie hyung, listen—if you’re scared or unsure, that’s normal. But you don’t have to rush it. Just be honest. Start small. Show her you care, and when the time feels right, tell her.”
Chris looked between the two, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the pressure. Jisung was a hurricane of energy and encouragement, sure—but Changbin’s steady voice made more sense.
“I know. It’s just… hard,” Chris admitted quietly. “I don’t want to mess this up. She means too much to me.”
Han clapped him on the shoulder so hard Chris nearly stumbled. “Then stop overthinking and just go for it! We’ve got your back, hyung.”
Changbin nodded firmly. “We do. And no matter what happens, you’ve got us.”
Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. With friends like these—some chaotic, some calm—maybe he wasn’t so alone in this after all.
The rest of the group was glued to the karaoke machine, belting out pop hits with that mix of enthusiasm and off-key charm only close friends could appreciate. The room was alive with laughter and music, but you had slipped away to a quieter corner with Hyunjin, Flower Girl, Jeongin, and his girlfriend.
The soft clink of glasses punctuated the hum of conversation as the girls leaned in, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“So,” Flower Girl teased, swirling her drink, “You called someone your ‘one true love’ on girl’s night. We need details. Who is he? What’s going on?”
Jeongin’s girlfriend grinned, adding, “Yeah, spill it! Any advances? Is he making moves or what?”
Hyunjin was already dramatizing the moment, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Come on, this is a moment worthy of a drama. Does he know he’s won your heart? Has he confessed yet, or are you torturing him like the dramatic lead you are?”
You laughed softly, feeling a little warm from the wine and the company. “Maybe things have been… different lately,” you said, eyes darting around just enough to keep them guessing.
The girls exchanged knowing looks, ready to pry more, but before they could launch into another round of questions, Chan appeared.
His eyes were a little glassy, and a goofy grin spread across his face as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close with affectionate familiarity. “Hey, no leaving me alone, okay?” His voice was low, slightly slurred but full of warmth.
You leaned into his embrace, the buzz in your head settling into a calm comfort. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.
Hyunjin gasped theatrically, clutching Flower Girl’s arm. “Well, there’s your answer, ladies! The clingy best friend has arrived!”
Jeongin rolled his eyes but grinned. “It’s about time.”
You glanced up at Chan, who was looking at you with a softness that made your heart flutter and your worries melt away, at least for the moment. Chan tightened his hold on you, but the teasing from the girls was relentless.
“Hey, Chris,” Flower Girl said with a sly smile, “You do know noona’s been calling someone her ‘one true love’ at girl’s night, right?”
Jeongin chuckled, nudging Chan’s side. “Yeah, we’re all trying to figure out who this mystery guy is. It’s like a secret mission for us.”
Chan’s smile faltered for the barest moment. His buzzed brain knew better than to get upset. He didn’t have the right to be jealous — not when you hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given him a sign. Still, a flicker of something like possessiveness tightened in his chest.
“Yeah, well,” Chan said, voice a little rougher than usual but carefully calm, “I’m not worried. Whoever he is, he better be worth it.”
You caught the shadow in his eyes and squeezed his hand softly. “No one else compares.”
The girls exchanged amused glances, clearly loving the low-key tension.
Hyunjin smirked. “Aw, poor Channie hyung. So sweet, but so defeated.”
Jeongin laughed. “Don’t worry, hyung. You’re not losing noona just yet.”
Chan just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, though inside he was quietly fighting down a storm of hope and fear — the same storm you were feeling.
The night air was cool and soft as Chan wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You walked side by side down the quiet streets, the buzz of the party fading behind you like a distant memory.
He was quieter now, the confident teasing replaced by a gentle protectiveness that made your heart flutter. You could feel his warmth, steady and reassuring, as you both navigated the dimly lit sidewalks.
At your doorstep, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he was looking for permission without words. You leaned into him, still a little tipsy, your breath catching as he pulled you closer.
Without any grand confession, just a simple, heartfelt murmur, he whispered, “I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”
That was all it took.
Before either of you could overthink it, his lips found yours—soft, a little shaky, but full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. You melted into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, the world shrinking until it was just the two of you in the quiet night.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Goodnight,” he whispered, voice thick with feeling.
And just like that, everything changed—though neither of you quite knew it yet.
The studio was quiet, the usual hum of equipment softened by the early morning calm. You arrived early, clutching your tablet filled with notes and schedules, ready to dive into the day’s agenda. Chan was already there, leaning against the desk with his usual relaxed smile, but there was something different in his eyes today — a flicker of something unsettled.
“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady. “Can we talk about last night?”
You glanced up, offering a polite smile but immediately returning to your notes. “I’d love to, Chris, but we have the new tour timelines to finalize, and the creative direction for the lighting effects still needs your input.”
He stepped closer, hopeful. “I mean—us. What happened.”
You nodded, voice clipped but careful, “Right now, I’m focused on ensuring the choreography cues sync perfectly with the stage design. I think if we prioritize that, the rest will fall into place.”
Chan’s expression faltered, his smile tightening. “You’re dodging me.”
“Not at all.” You tapped on your tablet, scrolling. “I’m just being responsible. The boys need us to be sharp. We’ll get to personal stuff later, okay?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor. When none came, he took a step back.
“Fine,” he said quietly, hurt clear in his voice. “Guess I’ll figure it out on my own.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence heavier than any words. You sat there, heart pounding, guilt settling in even as you tried to bury it under the weight of your work.
You watch him walk away, your chest tight. You tell yourself it’s just about work—staying professional is the only way to keep things from spiraling out of control. But deep down, the ache is undeniable. You’ve been protecting yourself, building walls because these feelings scare you more than you want to admit. Could you handle the possibility of losing him as more than a friend?
Chan’s footsteps fade down the hall, but in his mind, the moment replays over and over.
She won’t talk to me. She’s shutting me out. The frustration twists in his gut, but underneath it all, there’s a small flame of hope. Maybe you're scared too. Maybe you just don’t know how to say what you feel.
He thinks about how carefully you always carry your heart, how you put on that strong, unbreakable front like a shield. But to him, that isn’t weakness—it’s a kind of bravery. And it makes him want to protect you even more.
I can’t give up on her—not now.
Back at your desk, you force your focus back to the glowing screen, but your mind is tangled in “what ifs.” What if you’d been softer? What if you’d let yourself be vulnerable? But the fear of crossing that line, of exposing yourself to pain, keeps you locked in your professional shell.
You take a deep breath. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll try again.
Your inbox dings just as you wrap up your work. You open the email from Chris, expecting the usual files for the comeback lighting setup. But then you see it—a whole folder attached, titled with your name.
Curious, you click it open. Inside are dozens of raw, unpolished demos—all love songs. Written by Chris himself. Songs he’d never meant anyone to hear yet, especially not you.
Across town, Chris’s phone buzzes urgently. It’s Jisung's girlfriend, the PR manager of Stray Kids.
“Hey, Chris, quick question,” she says, trying to keep her voice professional but with a hint of amusement. “Did you mean to send some files just now? Because there’s a folder attached with—uh—noona's name on it. I was included on the email thread, so I saw it.”
Chris freezes, confusion twisting into panic. “Wait, what? I didn’t send anything like that. Which folder?”
She chuckles. “The one titled with your Creative Director’s name. That one.”
Chris’s breath hitches. His mind races. “No, no, that can’t be right. That was not supposed to go out. I—I don’t even remember attaching that.”
Chan hears Jisung's voice on the other side of the call, in full teasing mode.
“Dude! You seriously sent your secret love song folder? The one you never share with anyone?! Man, you’re so busted!”
Chris runs a hand through his hair, heart pounding in his chest.
“Yeah… I’m officially doomed.”
Chris was already halfway across the city when his phone buzzed with your message: “I’m at the studio. We need to talk.” Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning out of control. He couldn’t let you listen to those songs. Not like this. Not now.
When he burst into the studio, he found you there—sitting quietly in his chair, headphones on, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating your face. One by one, the songs played, each one carrying the weight of his most hidden feelings.
His voice stumbled out, frantic and breathless. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. The kiss—me sending those songs—it was all a mistake.”
You slowly took off the headphones, your eyes shining with unshed tears, voice trembling but steady. “Was it really a mistake? Do you mean any of those things you wrote in those songs?”
Chris hesitated, heart breaking at the sight of your fragile expression, the quiet sadness that clung to you like a second skin. But instead of softening, his frustration boiled over.
“No, you’re not the one who should be sad,” he snapped, voice rising. “You still have your one true love out there, you said so yourself. You're the one who didn't want to talk about our kiss in the first place, probably because of him. You’re the one who gets to be happy with someone else after this, while I lose my best friend and the love of my life at the same time.”
His words hit like a slap. Your breath caught. Your voice cracked with fury and heartbreak as tears spilled down your cheeks. “That’s you, you absolute idiot! It’s always been you, Christopher! Ever since you snuck me food during our trainee days, I’ve been in love with you. You're the one I was talking about that night, you're my one true love.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your confession hanging between you. Chris’s eyes softened, searching yours, finally understanding just how long and how deeply this had been brewing inside you both.
Chris's breath hitched, eyes wide with disbelief and an overwhelming rush of happiness. The weight of years—of silence, of hiding—seemed to lift all at once. His heart pounded louder than ever before, as if finally free to beat without restraint.
Without thinking twice, he closed the small gap between you in one swift step. His hands reached up to cup your face gently but urgently, trembling just a little. And then, without hesitation, he pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was fierce and full of everything he’d been too scared to say—the longing, the fear, the hope, and the unshakable love that had quietly grown between you all along.
You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair, grounding him. Time blurred. The noise of the world faded away until there was only this—only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart matching yours.
Chris pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining with relief and something raw—vulnerability mixed with hope.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Since those trainee days when I’d sneak you food because I didn’t want you to go hungry. Since every time I stayed up late, not just because of work, but because I was thinking about you. I was scared—scared you didn’t feel the same, scared I’d lose the best thing I’ve ever had if I said anything. But I can’t hide it anymore. You are the one I want. You’ve always been the one.”
He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as if memorizing your face. “You’re my person. My home. I’m done being afraid.”
His gaze never wavered as he waited, hoping you could see just how true it all was.
Love with Chris never needed an occasion.
It weaved itself into the hours between rehearsals and meetings, slipped through quiet spaces where no one was looking. It lingered in how he reached for your hand when the cameras weren’t on, how he always had a snack stashed away just in case you hadn’t eaten. It lived in stolen glances during choreography, in warm coffees passed to you before your fingers got too cold, in songs he never meant to share but somehow always found their way to you.
The music swells through the studio, crisp and thunderous beneath the harsh hum of overhead lights. It echoes with every stomp of sneakers against the polished floor, every timed breath of eight bodies moving in sync. You stand just off to the side, tablet balanced against your chest, tracking cues and transitions with practiced precision.
But there’s a warm weight pulling at the edges of your focus—something gentle, persistent, and wearing a black sleeveless tee.
Chris.
You try not to watch him. You do. But there’s something about the way his brow knits together when he’s concentrating, the way his mouth tugs into a half-smile every time he catches your eye. The way his gaze keeps sliding back to you, like he can’t help it.
You’re wearing his hoodie. That’s probably part of it.
It’s a simple thing—grey, worn-in, oversized. You’d thrown it on without thinking when the studio air turned too cold this morning, sleeves hanging long past your fingers. It smells like clean laundry and faint cologne and something undeniably Chris. And maybe that’s what’s messing with his head.
Because you notice it, too—the split-second beat he misses in the choreography, the tiny stutter in his footwork.
“Chris!” Changbin’s voice cuts through the music, sharp but amused. “You planning to look at the floor or your girlfriend the whole time?”
Chris startles, eyes widening like he forgot where he was. The rest of the boys chuckle. Seungmin shakes his head, muttering something about “heart eyes,” and Hyunjin just smirks knowingly.
Chan stumbles through the rest of the sequence, then jogs over to you when the track cuts out. He’s flushed and slightly breathless, his hair sticking to his forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” he pants, eyes flicking to the hoodie and then back to your face. “You’re—uh—distracting.”
You blink, playing innocent. “Me?”
He groans quietly, tugging on one of your sleeves. “You’re wearing my hoodie. It’s not fair. I can’t think straight.”
You grin, amused and fond all at once. “Then maybe don’t give me things if you don’t want me wearing them.”
“I want you wearing them!” he blurts, then immediately winces at himself. “I just… not during rehearsals. My brain short-circuits.”
You raise a brow. “You’re blaming your dancing mistakes on me?”
He shrugs sheepishly, eyes crinkling. “Maybe. But only because I keep looking at you and thinking she’s in my clothes. Like, mine. It does something to me.”
You don’t say anything—you just hold his gaze a second longer than necessary. His cheeks flush again.
Then, before he runs back, he leans in with a quick, stolen whisper: “You can keep it, by the way.” Your heart stumbles the tiniest bit, just like his feet had.
The green room feels quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles after a long day but before the next begins. You slip in first, the sound of your coffee lid popping open the only interruption. There’s a warm hum of laughter somewhere down the hallway—Jeongin and Han, probably still arguing about something ridiculous—but in here, it’s calm.
You curl up on the far couch, tucking your legs beneath you, fingers wrapped around the paper cup.
You barely get a sip in before you feel it—the slight dip of the cushion behind you, the warm presence you’ve come to know instinctively. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just settles in, letting his knee brush yours, letting his arm stretch out behind you on the couch like he has every right to it.
Then his voice, soft and scratchy from overuse: “Hey.”
You glance at him sideways. “Hey.”
He tilts his head, eyes drifting to your cup. “Is that your first one today?”
You sigh. “Second.”
He hums thoughtfully, unconvinced. “Did you eat anything?”
You give him a pointed look. “Chris.”
“I’m just asking,” he says, lips curving. “I worry.”
“You’re not my mom.”
“No,” he agrees, inching closer. “I’m your boyfriend. That gives me, like, triple the authority.”
You roll your eyes, but the affection in your chest blooms anyway, soft and steady. Especially when he leans his head gently onto your shoulder, nestling into the crook of your neck like he’s found his home there.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs. “Soft. Sleepy. In my hoodie.”
“You really like this hoodie, huh?”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “I love it on you. You have no idea. It’s unfair.”
From the hallway, Jeongin’s voice rings out, sharp with mock jealousy. “Hyung! Share! She’s gonna forget the rest of us exist!”
Chan doesn’t even flinch. He wraps his arms around your waist and replies casually, “That’s the plan.”
You laugh, warmth unfurling through your ribs, and let yourself fall back against his chest.
It’s one of those rare moments where the day slows down enough for it to feel almost like a secret. The studio lights are dimmed, the hum of activity dulled to a background hush, and Chris stands by the console with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
You walk in expecting a conversation about deadlines.
You get a boy holding out his tablet like it contains treasure.
“I wrote something,” he says, barely able to hide the eagerness in his voice. “I wanted you to hear it first.”
You narrow your eyes in amusement. “Another love song?”
His smile falters—just a little. “Yeah. I guess I can’t stop.”
You take the tablet from him, earbuds already offered. “I feel like I’ve become your muse or something.”
He watches you closely as you press play. The melody is soft, gentle, like a heartbeat in lullaby form. And the lyrics—full of quiet longing and the kind of devotion that feels built over years.
When the song ends, you take the earbuds out slowly.
Chris is still watching you.
“I don’t even know when it started,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But now it’s like… every chord, every verse… they all sound like you.”
Before you can reply, the door creaks open and Hyunjin walks in dramatically, tossing his hair like he’s entering a stage. Jeongin follows, mid-laugh.
“What are we listening to?” Hyunjin asks, already grinning. “Another ballad? Another ‘I love you more than air’ moment?”
Chris glares. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” Jeongin smirks. “We’re just saying, maybe spare us the next eight-song EP titled ‘My Girlfriend’s Smile, Vol. 1’.”
You snort, unable to help it. Chris groans.
But then—he turns to you, all jokes aside, and says quietly, “If I’m gonna flood the studio with songs, they might as well be about the best thing that ever happened to me.”
The boys both groan.
You, on the other hand, are already replaying the melody in your head, heart swelling with every beat.
Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.
It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.
Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.
That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.
You learned the language of his silences, the softness behind his steady hands. And he learned to trust the steady rhythm of your presence—the kind of comfort that doesn’t need words to be felt.
No grand declarations, no fireworks—just the steady warmth of two souls intertwined, quietly daring to be seen, quietly daring to belong.
And in that quiet, you found a love so true it's unnecessary to shout from rooftops.
