seungmin x f!reader (feat bangchan)
Synopsis: You used to orbit around Chan, all late nights and unspoken feelings, until his rejection forced you to move on. Now you’re in a soft, quietly solid relationship with Seungmin—and Chan can only regret the choice that made room for someone who actually chose you back.
a/n: ahh this is so bittersweet but comforting at the same time
You always find him in the same place.
Headphones on, shoulders hunched, fingers tapping restlessly against the desk as a project file glows on the screen. The clock on the wall insists it’s nearly 2 a.m., but Bang Chan still looks like he’s only halfway through his to-do list.
You pause at the doorway of the studio, paper cup of coffee warm between your hands.
He jumps slightly, spinning in his chair. The harsh blue light of the monitors softens when he recognises you.
“Oh— hey. You scared me.” He pulls one earcup down, a small tired smile tugging at his lips. “What are you doing here? Didn’t your shift end ages ago?”
You step in, closing the door with your foot. “Didn’t your shift end ages ago?”
He laughs quietly, that soft breathy sound you’ve heard a thousand times. You cross the room and set the coffee beside his keyboard.
“Thought you might need this.”
His eyes flick to the cup, then to your face.
“You’re an actual angel, you know that?” He wraps his hands around it, inhaling the steam like it’s oxygen. “Thank you.”
“It’s just convenience store coffee.”
“Yeah, but it’s coffee.” He takes a sip, eyes closing. “And you thought about me.”
He says it so casually, like it doesn’t send your heart straight through the floor.
You swallow, fingers twisting together. You’ve rehearsed what you’re about to say a hundred times— in the shower, on the bus, staring at your bedroom ceiling when you should be asleep. It never sounded right in your head, but your chest feels too tight to keep carrying it around.
“Mm?” He’s already turned back to the screen, cursor dancing through waveforms, but his attention shifts when he hears your tone. He swivels properly to face you, brows knitting. “Everything okay?”
You exhale slowly. “Can we… talk for a second? Like, not about work.”
His posture straightens. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the headphones fully off and sets them on the desk. “What’s up?”
You thought you’d be more nervous, but once the first word leaves your mouth, the rest follow like they’ve been waiting at the edge of a cliff.
His eyes widen just a fraction. For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the computer and the faint thump of music leaking from some neighbouring room.
You push on before you can lose your nerve.
“I know you’re busy— more than busy, actually, like some sort of functioning insomniac— and I know this probably isn’t a good time. But I…” You swallow. “I’ve liked you for a while. And I didn’t want to keep tiptoeing around it like it’s not there.”
You watch the realisation land slowly across his features, like dawn creeping over a horizon.
“Y/N…” His voice is soft, almost careful.
“I’m not asking for anything huge,” you add quickly, cheeks burning. “You don’t have to… give me an answer now, or at all, really. I just— I needed you to know. Because pretending I don’t feel this way is making it really hard to even be in the same room as you.”
You laugh, a short, embarrassed sound. The room feels much smaller now.
Chan stares down at his coffee for a long moment. When he looks back up, there’s something heavy in his eyes.
“I… thank you,” he says, and you know from the way his voice dips that it’s genuine. “Really. For telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.”
He winces at the word, like it hurts him too. “But.”
“I care about you a lot,” he starts, fingers tightening around the paper cup. “Like, a lot. You’re… one of the people I rely on the most. You know that, right?”
You nod, though it doesn’t feel like enough.
“And that’s why I…” He takes a breath. “I don’t think I can give you what you deserve right now.”
“You’re always here,” he continues. “Helping with schedules, picking up things we forget, bringing coffee at stupid o’clock—” he tries to smile, but it falters “—and I already feel guilty about how much of your time I take. If we… if we tried to date on top of that, I don’t know how I’d not let you down.”
“I’m always in the studio. I’m always thinking about the next comeback, the members, the fans… and it’s not because you’re not important. You are.” His voice cracks slightly on the word. “But I’m scared I’d make you wait. For answers, for time, for promises I can’t keep. And you don’t deserve that.”
Silence stretches between you like a tightrope.
You’d prepared yourself for rejection. You hadn’t prepared for it to sound like this— soft, apologetic, filled with too much care and not enough room.
“So you’re saying no,” you say quietly, just to make it real.
He flinches, but nods. “Yeah.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I’m… I’m saying no.”
Your chest aches, but it’s a clean pain, sharp and bright. You nod once, slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, leaning forward slightly, eyes frantic. “Y/N, I’m really, really sorry. It’s not that I don’t—”
“Don’t.” You smile, and it’s steadier than you feel. “Please don’t make it harder.”
He shuts his mouth, guilt flickering across his face.
You pull in a breath and straighten your shoulders. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
“You’re not… you’re not angry?”
“Honestly? Maybe a little.” You huff out a humourless laugh. “But it’s not your fault you’re married to your job.”
He groans quietly, burying his face in one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”
“It’s true, though,” you say, softer. “And I knew that. It’s not like you suddenly turned into someone else. You’re just… you.”
He drops his hand and looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something fragile.
“I’m still really glad I told you,” you add. “Even if this is your answer.”
You step back before he can say your name again in that tone that makes everything sting.
“You should get back to work,” you say. “Deadline and all that.”
“That’s literally the opposite of everything you’ve ever said to me,” you tease weakly.
He smiles, but it’s tight, pained. “I hate this.”
“Me too,” you admit. “But I’ll be okay.”
The problem is, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
You leave the studio before you change your mind, before you stay and let the ache drag on. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and you only let your smile drop once you’re safely in the empty corridor.
For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scuffed floor, listening to the faint muffled beat of music through the walls.
Then you square your shoulders, wipe at your eyes, and walk away.
Comebacks blur into each other. New songs, new concepts, new tours. The boys grow more confident, more famous, more exhausted in that strange, glittering way success demands. And you’re still there— behind cameras, in rehearsal rooms, at the side of the stage with a clipboard and an emergency stash of plasters and cough drops.
You and Chan never talk about that night again.
You don’t avoid him, not exactly. The first few months are awkward; you triple-check your words, make sure your smiles are the right distance. He hesitates the first few times he asks you for help, like he’s waiting for you to say no. But slowly, bit by bit, it settles into something gentler. A quieter kind of friendship. Not as easy as before, but not broken either.
The feelings fade the way old bruises do— colour draining slowly, leaving faint shadows only you notice.
You still catch yourself looking at him sometimes when he’s laughing at something one of the members said, or when he falls asleep on the sofa between schedules, mouth slightly open, hoodie pulled over his head. The affection is still there, but it’s less of a storm now and more of a tired tide, lapping at your ribs and then retreating.
Life fills up the empty spaces.
And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, you start to notice Seungmin.
It starts with your ankle.
You’ve been on your feet all day— early dance practise, then a long shoot, then a last-minute change to the schedule that has you sprinting down the corridor with a stack of revised cue sheets. By the time the boys are running the choreography again for the fifth time, your legs are buzzing and your trainers feel about two sizes too small.
When the music cuts, you lean back against the wall, stretching one foot, rotating your ankle until it pops.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
You blink and turn to see Seungmin watching you, water bottle dangling from his hand. Sweat darkens his fringe, cheeks flushed from exertion, but his eyes are sharp.
“The one where you pretend your ankle doesn’t hurt.”
You shift your weight and immediately wince as pain flares.
He raises a brow. “Right.”
“It’s fine,” you insist. “I’ve just been walking a lot.”
“Exactly my point.” He takes a step closer, tilting his head slightly. “Sit down.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Sit,” he repeats, like he’s talking to a stubborn puppy. “Before you actually injure yourself and we have to drag you to A&E in the middle of promotions.”
“Call it preventative care.”
You roll your eyes, but your ankle throbs in protest when you shift again, so you slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. He nods, satisfied, and crouches in front of you.
“I’ll be fine after I rest a bit,” you say. “You should be stretching or something. I heard your choreographer threatening bodily harm if any of you pull a muscle.”
He huffs. “I already stretched.” He gestures at your foot. “May I?”
You stare at him. “What are you, the physio now?”
“Only for people who are bad at looking after themselves.” His tone is dry, but his gaze is steady, waiting.
“Shouldn’t you be starting with Chan, then?” you mutter.
A small, wry smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ve been trying.”
You hesitate, then extend your leg a little. He takes your ankle gently, fingertips surprisingly careful and warm even through your sock. He presses lightly into the joint, testing the movement.
“Only my pride,” you say.
His lips twitch. “So yes, then.”
He loosens your laces and adjusts your trainer, retying it more securely. When he lets go, the pressure feels different, more supported.
“Yeah,” you admit, a little thrown. “Actually.”
“Good.” He stands and offers you his hand. “Come on.”
You take it without thinking. His grip is firm as he helps you up.
“Try not to sprint around for the rest of the day,” he adds. “You’re the one who lectures us about ‘long-term health’ every week.”
You squint at him. “Do you… actually listen when I say those things?”
“Apparently more than you do.” He steps back, eyes flicking briefly to your ankle. “If it still hurts tomorrow, tell someone. Don’t be an idiot.”
“You’re very bossy for someone younger than me,” you grumble.
He shrugs. “Someone has to compensate for your terrible life choices.”
You’re still rolling your eyes when the music kicks in again and he jogs back to his spot, slipping effortlessly into formation. But later, when you’re at home and finally take your shoes off, you realise your ankle does hurt less than it had that morning.
You tell yourself it’s just the way he tied your laces.
You don’t think about the way he’d watched you for a full song before saying anything.
After that, you start noticing him more.
How he always seems to be the first one to grab an extra mic if someone’s cuts out. How he quietly adjusts Hyunjin’s in-ear without making a fuss. How he’s quick with dry comments in interviews, but even quicker to back off if he thinks his joking is actually bothering someone.
“Do you ever stop working?” he asks you one evening, dropping onto the chair opposite your desk in the staff room.
You glance up from the schedule spreadsheet. “Do you?”
He’s got a coffee in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. He puts the bag on your desk.
“What’s that?” you ask warily.
You narrow your eyes. “Why?”
“Because the last time I walked past, you were chewing on the end of a pen,” he says, deadpan. “Which I’m fairly sure has zero nutritional value.”
You stare at him. “…Have you always been this sassy or did I just not notice?”
“You were busy limping around and pretending not to be in love with Chan,” he says, casually.
The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. “Wow,” you manage. “Subtle.”
His expression softens. “You’re better now, though.”
It’s not really a question. You look down at the bag and peek inside. There’s a neatly wrapped kimbap and a small packet of your favourite crisps.
“I’m getting there,” you say quietly.
You tear open the crisps. “You know, for someone who calls me an idiot at least twice a week, you’re surprisingly considerate.”
“I never said you weren’t one of my favourite idiots,” he replies, sipping his coffee.
Your heart does a small, inconvenient flip.
You tell it to calm down. It doesn’t listen.
You and Seungmin fall into an odd sort of orbit after that.
He starts appearing at your desk more often, asking oddly specific questions about the schedule that you suspect he already knows the answer to.
“So, what time is rehearsal tomorrow?” he asks one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder.
“You literally have it in the group chat,” you reply.
“Yeah, but your version is more accurate.”
“Yours is in pink highlighter,” he points out. “That makes it feel less aggressive.”
Sometimes he joins you on late-night convenience store runs when practices run long.
“Why do you always get that one?” you ask as he grabs the same brand of yoghurt drink for the third time that week.
“Because I’m loyal,” he says, then glances pointedly at the instant ramen in your basket. “Unlike some people I could mention.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You said last week that was your ‘absolute favourite flavour in the world’,” he mimics your voice. “And now you’ve thrown it over for spicy seafood.”
“It’s called personal growth,” you sniff.
He nudges your shoulder with his. “Mm, sure.”
“You’ve been staring at that screen for twenty minutes,” he says one night in the empty dressing room. “Either you’re very enamoured with that spreadsheet or you’re thinking too much.”
“Is this how you flirt?” you ask, dry.
You choke on your own saliva. He laughs, low and pleased, and tosses you a bottle of water.
And then, without you really realising when it happened, he becomes the first person you text when something good or bad happens. The one who sends you photos of funny signs he sees on the way to schedules. The one who asks you, “Have you eaten?” with a raised brow that says he’ll be annoyed with you if the answer is no.
You don’t notice the exact moment your heart switches allegiance. All you know is that one day, Chan walks into the practice room, smiles at you, and your pulse stays calm.
Later that same day, Seungmin sits next to you on the floor, knees touching as he scrolls through dog photos to show you, and you feel your cheeks heat.
You stare at your traitorous hands, resting a little too close to his, and think, Oh.
Ironically, it’s Chan who notices first.
You and Seungmin are backstage at a music show, pressed into a narrow corridor while technicians wheel equipment past. The boys are due to go on in ten minutes. Felix is stretching his shoulders; Changbin is muttering lyrics under his breath; Jisung is bouncing on his toes, burning off nervous energy.
You’re scanning the running order, making sure you haven’t missed any last-minute changes, when Seungmin leans in.
You frown. “What about it?”
He reaches up and gently smooths a strand of hair back, tucking it behind your ear. “There. It was annoying me.”
Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Oh. Thanks.”
His hand lingers a moment too long, fingertips brushing your temple. When he pulls away, there’s a small, satisfied smile on his lips.
Chan is a few metres away, watching the exchange. He’s mid-conversation with the stage manager, but his gaze flickers briefly between you and Seungmin, eyes narrowing just a fraction in thought.
He catches your eye and quickly looks away, plastering a smile back onto his face as he nods along to whatever the staff is saying.
Heat creeps up your neck. You suddenly feel very aware of the small distance between you and Seungmin, of the way his arm presses lightly against yours.
“You’re fidgeting,” Seungmin murmurs.
“You are.” He bumps your shoulder. “Relax. You look like you’re about to be the one going onstage.”
“That’s because you are about to go onstage.”
He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re worried.”
“Of course I am,” you mutter. “You’re all running on four hours’ sleep and caffeine.”
“Five,” he corrects. “I had a nap.”
He smiles, softer now. “We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”
You open your mouth, then close it again. Instead, you just nod.
He glances at your hand, fingers twitching, and then— slowly, like giving you time to pull away— he takes it.
His palm is warm and dry, fingers slotting between yours with an ease that makes your chest hurt.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Yeah?”
You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.
“Good.” He squeezes your hand once, then lets go as the stage manager calls them to standby.
As he walks away, you feel Chan’s gaze brush your profile again. When you glance over, his expression is unreadable.
You and Seungmin don’t define anything for a while. It’s a series of almosts— his fingers skimming yours in busy hallways, his hand hovering at your lower back as he guides you through crowds, his teasing texts that sometimes stray a little too close to something else.
you left your charger in the practice room again
are you calling me unreliable?
You stare at that last message for longer than you should.
The official shift happens on a rainy Tuesday evening.
Schedules had run long, and by the time you leave the building, the sky has opened properly, sheets of rain drenching the pavement. You stand under the awning, clutching your umbrella, watching cars hiss by in the wet.
“You’re not seriously going to walk home in that.”
You don’t even have to turn to know who it is. “Seungmin, I live fifteen minutes away. I’ll survive.”
He steps up beside you, opening his own umbrella. “Which direction?”
“Spying on my address now?” you tease.
“I’m deciding whether to file a noise complaint,” he replies smoothly. “Which way?”
You roll your eyes and point. He hums. “That’s on my way.”
“It isn’t,” you say immediately. “You live in the opposite direction.”
“Yeah,” he says, entirely unbothered. “But I also live with a group of grown men who absolutely know how to feed themselves. You, however, will probably go home and eat instant noodles.”
You gasp. “How dare you.”
“You literally did that last night.”
You deflate. “Okay, fair.”
“Come on,” he says, stepping out into the rain. “Walk with me.”
You fall into step beside him, umbrellas overlapping slightly. The city glows under streetlights, puddles reflecting neon signs and traffic lights. For a while, you just walk, listening to the soft patter of rain on plastic.
“I like nights like this,” you say quietly.
“Yeah. Everything feels… slower.”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You need slower.”
You snort. “Says the idol whose job is literally running around stages worldwide.”
“Exactly. I’m uniquely qualified to diagnose the condition.”
“And what condition is that?”
“Overworked idiot who thinks rest is optional.”
You bump his shoulder. “Stop calling me an idiot.”
“No,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “What are you thinking about right now?”
“You looked like you were somewhere else,” he says. “Where were you?”
You hesitate. Normally, you’d laugh it off, deflect with a stupid joke. But the rain, the quiet street, the way he’s really looking at you— it all makes you braver than usual.
“I was thinking about… timing,” you admit. “How unfair it can be.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Because of Chan?”
You stare down at the wet pavement. “Not exactly. Not anymore. Just… thinking how a few years ago, if someone had told me I’d be walking home in the rain with Kim Seungmin, I’d have laughed in their face.”
“Oh?” he says lightly. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” you say quickly. “That’s not— I mean…” You exhale, breath fogging the air. “I used to be so stuck on one idea of what my life should look like. One person. One… version of happiness. And when it didn’t work out, I just assumed that was it. That I’d missed my chance and everything else was just… consolation prize.”
“And now?” he asks quietly.
“Now I know I was being dramatic,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Because I didn’t know there were other ways to feel—” You stop yourself before you say this safe, this seen.
Seungmin slows, then comes to a stop under a streetlight. Rain drums steadily around you. You look up at him, confused.
He looks at you for a long moment, the usual mischief in his eyes replaced by something softer, more open.
“Do you like me?” he asks.
The question lands between you with surprising gentleness. No teasing, no theatrics. Just simple, direct words, spoken like he already knows the answer.
Your heart thumps unhelpfully.
“That’s a very arrogant question,” you say, trying to deflect.
He tilts his head slightly. “Is it wrong?”
You chew on your bottom lip. “You’re very… sure of yourself.”
“I’m very sure of you,” he corrects. “Which is weird, because you clearly have no idea.”
“If you don’t,” he adds quickly, “if I’ve misread everything, tell me. I’ll shut up. We can go back to me bullying you about your snack choices and pretending I don’t care whether you rest or not.”
Something in your chest squeezes.
You think of the coffees, the snacks, the way he steals your pen just to give it back with a stupid flourish. The way he stands a little closer than necessary. The way he noticed your ankle when no one else did. The way he’s quietly shifted his route home just to match yours.
You think of Chan’s studio, the way your confession fell awkward and hopeful into the dim light. The way your heart had shattered and slowly, slowly put itself back together.
You think of how you feel now, standing under a flickering street lamp with Seungmin, rain pounding a steady rhythm around you.
His brow furrows. “You do… what?”
“Like you.” You exhale, a shaky laugh leaving your chest. “A lot, actually. Which is very annoying, because you’re very smug about it.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, bright even in the dull light. “I knew it.”
“You like that too,” he says, and then his expression sobers. “Can I…?”
He doesn’t finish the question, but you understand. You nod, heartbeat roaring in your ears.
He steps closer, shifting his umbrella slightly so he can see your face properly. Raindrops catch on his lashes, his fringe damp. He lifts his free hand, fingers brushing your cheek, then your jaw, giving you one last chance to pull away.
He leans in and kisses you, soft and unhurried, like you have all the time in the world.
It’s not fireworks and orchestras and the world spinning off its axis. It’s something quieter— a warmth that blooms low in your chest and unfurls slowly, wrapping around all the old aches and whispering, See? It can be like this too.
When he pulls back, there’s a faint flush on his cheeks, but his eyes are steady.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice slightly rough. “This isn’t a consolation prize.”
“I know,” you say, and you do. “You couldn’t be a consolation prize if you tried.”
“Good.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, smirking. “Because I don’t come second to anyone.”
You laugh, the sound carried away by the rain.
People find out gradually.
Hyunjin shrieks when he catches you and Seungmin holding hands in the practice room. Jisung won’t stop making exaggerated kissy faces for an entire week. Felix beams so brightly you’re genuinely worried he might combust. Minho just gives Seungmin a long, assessing look and says, “Don’t be weird about it,” which is his way of approving.
You’re more careful in public, but around the team and core staff, you don’t hide it. It feels too big to tuck away into shadows.
You don’t know exactly when he pieces it together, but one evening, you walk into the studio to drop off revised schedules and find him mid-conversation with Seungmin. They fall abruptly silent when they see you.
“…Am I interrupting?” you ask cautiously.
“No,” Chan says quickly. “We were just— uh—”
“Talking about you,” Seungmin supplies smoothly.
Chan shoots him a helpless look. You blink. “Oh. Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” Seungmin says.
“Definitely not,” Chan says at the same time.
You snort. “That’s reassuring.”
Seungmin steps towards you, brushing your hand briefly with his. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay? Don’t let him bully you into doing another all-nighter.”
“I mean it,” Seungmin says, ignoring him. He looks at you, gaze briefly soft. “Ten minutes.”
He leaves, closing the door gently behind him. The studio feels oddly quiet in his absence. You turn to Chan, suddenly very aware that you’re alone.
You hold out the folder. “Updated schedules for next week.”
“Thanks,” he says, taking it. His fingers brush yours briefly. “How are you?”
You blink at the question. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You can, but you usually lead with ‘Sorry, can you do me a favour?’”
He huffs a small laugh. “I am trying to improve.”
You smile, but there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before. You hover for a moment, unsure whether to leave.
He stares at his hands. “When did you… start dating Seungmin?”
Your pulse stutters. “Um. A while ago.”
You chew your lip. “Is that… okay?”
He looks up sharply. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. It’s just… you’re the leader. Maybe there’s some unwritten ‘no dating staff’ rule I missed.”
He snorts. “If there is, they’ve never told me about it.” He sobers, fingers tightening around the folder. “I just… I wanted to make sure you’re happy. That’s all.”
You study him. There’s something careful about his expression, like he’s holding himself still.
“I am,” you say quietly. “I’m really happy.”
A flicker of something crosses his face— pain, regret, something small and bitter— but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a soft smile.
“Good,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “He’s… good. Seungmin.”
“He is,” you agree, warmth curling in your chest at the thought.
Chan looks at the monitors, then back at you. “Can we… talk? Properly. Not right now, maybe. Just— at some point.”
Your stomach twists. You’ve known this moment might come, but you’d hoped, selfishly, that you could just glide past it forever.
“Okay,” you say. “Just tell me when.”
It happens two days later.
You’re half expecting him to text you late at night, ask you to drop by the studio after everyone’s left. Instead, he catches you after practise, when the others have already shuffled out, laughing and shoving as they head to the showers.
“Y/N,” he says, leaning in the doorway. “Got a minute?”
Seungmin looks up from where he’s fiddling with his phone. His eyes flick between you and Chan, and his jaw tenses almost imperceptibly.
“You good?” he asks you quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll meet you in the lobby?”
He studies your face for a heartbeat, then nods. “Text me if you need rescuing.”
You roll your eyes. “He’s not going to murder me, Seungmin.”
“Well, he did reject you once,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Chan to hear. Chan chokes on his own saliva.
“Go,” you urge, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “You smell like sweat.”
You watch him leave, then turn to Chan. “So. What’s up?”
He jerks his head towards the studio. “Come here for a sec?”
The familiarity of the room hits you as soon as you step inside. Same scuffed rug, same mismatched cushions, same faint smell of coffee and dust and creativity. You remember standing in almost this exact spot two years ago, heart in your throat.
Chan closes the door gently behind you, then walks over to his usual chair, but doesn’t sit. He rests his hands on the back instead, fingers drumming restlessly.
“I’ve been… thinking,” he says finally.
“That sounds dangerous,” you reply, because humour is easier than the knot in your stomach.
He huffs a weak laugh. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches. You watch him, waiting.
“I owe you an apology,” he says at last.
“No, listen— please.” He takes a breath, eyes fixed on his hands. “When you confessed to me… I handled it badly.”
“You were honest,” you say. “That’s not bad.”
“I was honest about the symptoms,” he says. “Not the cause.”
You frown. “I don’t follow.”
He lifts his gaze to yours. “I told you I couldn’t give you what you deserved because of work, because of my responsibilities, because I was too busy. And that was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.”
“What was the whole truth, then?” you ask, voice low.
He swallows. “I was scared.”
Your chest aches. “Scared of what?”
“Of letting you down,” he says. “Of getting it wrong. Of being selfish enough to say yes when I knew I’d be exhausted all the time, distracted all the time, asking you to understand things you shouldn’t have to.” He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I thought that by saying no, I was protecting you. That you’d… move on faster without having to deal with me half-loving you between deadlines.”
The word hangs in the air like a dropped glass.
“Half?” you say, heart hammering.
His lips twist. “I… liked you. Maybe more than liked. I just… refused to look at it too closely. Because if I did, I knew I’d give in. And the group was still finding its feet, and I felt like I couldn’t afford to be… anything but focused.”
You stare at him, a dozen memories rearranging themselves in your head. The extra coffees. The late-night conversations. The way he’d always seemed to know when you were having a bad day, even when you didn’t say anything.
“Why are you telling me this now?” you ask, not unkindly.
“Because for a long time, I thought I’d done the right thing,” he says, voice quiet. “I told myself you’d get over it, that you deserved someone who could actually show up. And then I watched you and Seungmin.”
“He looks at you like you hang the moon,” Chan says, a faint, bittersweet smile on his lips. “He notices things I used to notice before I forced myself to stop. He walks you home. He makes sure you eat. He teases you until you laugh on days when I’m too buried in my own head to see anything past my laptop screen.” He takes a shaky breath. “And I realised that the thing I thought I was doing for you… I was mostly doing for me.”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“I told myself I was being noble,” he says, rolling his eyes at himself. “But it was easier to say no and bury it than to admit I wanted you and still might not be enough. I was cowarding out, basically. And in the process, I hurt you. And then I just… let that hurt sit. I never cleared it properly.” He looks at you, eyes earnest. “You deserved better than that. You deserve better than me pretending it never happened.”
Emotion burns behind your eyes. You look down at your hands.
“I did wait,” you say quietly. “For a while.”
“Not… forever,” you add quickly. “But I waited. I thought maybe once things calmed down, once you’d settled a bit, you’d come back and say you’d changed your mind.” You laugh, small and self-deprecating. “Then I realised your job is never really going to calm down. And neither is mine. So I had to stop waiting or I’d just… stay stuck.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice thick. “I never wanted you to feel like you were waiting for something that was never going to happen.”
“But it did happen,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Just not with you.”
A faint, sad smile flickers over his face. “Yeah. I see that.”
You take a breath. “You’re right, though. About Seungmin. He… shows up. Even when he’s tired, even when he’s busy. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m an extra task on a checklist.” You shrug. “It’s not big grand gestures. It’s… him turning up with my favourite snack after a long day. Or texting me just to ask if I got home safe. Or noticing when I’m quiet.”
“Sounds familiar,” Chan says, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “A little.”
He looks at the floor, jaw working. “I’m really happy for you,” he says, and this time you can hear the honesty through the ache. “I mean that. Even if it… hurts, sometimes, when I think about what I could’ve done differently.”
“You were doing your best,” you say. “We both were. We were just… different people then.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You got wiser. I just got more sleep-deprived.”
“Hey, you’ve grown too,” you protest. “You apologise faster now.”
“That’s growth?” he asks.
He smiles properly, the tension easing a little.
“For what it’s worth,” you add, “I don’t regret telling you. Or… liking you. It hurt, but it also… made room for the person I ended up with.” You shrug. “We wouldn’t be here without that.”
He nods, eyes shining faintly. “I’m glad you didn’t wait forever.”
“So am I,” you say, meaning it.
He hesitates, then steps closer, holding out his hand. “Friends?”
You look at it, then up at him.
“Friends,” you say, taking it.
His grip is warm and steady, and for the first time, the old ache in your chest feels like something finally, properly laid to rest.
You find Seungmin leaning against the lobby wall, scrolling on his phone. He looks up as you approach, eyes immediately scanning your face for signs of distress.
“A little,” he admits. “I was looking forward to a dramatic rescue.”
You snort. “You’d get distracted by a dog on the way and forget what you were doing.”
He gasps. “Untrue. I can multitask. I would absolutely rescue you and pet the dog.”
“Your priorities are very concerning.”
“My priorities are excellent,” he says, straightening and taking your bag from your shoulder without asking. “You just happen to be one of them.”
Warmth flutters in your chest. You bump his arm lightly. “We talked,” you say.
“I figured,” he replies. “You look like someone who just let go of a very heavy backpack.”
“That’s… weirdly accurate.”
He glances at you. “You okay?”
You consider the question. Think of the studio, of Chan’s apology, of the way the ghost of your old crush finally loosened its grip.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m okay.”
He nods once, accepting your answer. “Good.” Then, with mock seriousness: “If he made you cry, I’m pushing his chair over in the next meeting.”
You laugh. “He didn’t. I promise.”
“Shame,” he muses. “Would’ve been fun to watch.”
“You like that,” he says, the words so familiar now they feel like a private joke.
You do. You really, really do.
Months later, at a team dinner, someone makes a comment that finally puts everything into sharp, almost comical relief.
You’re squeezed into a long table at a restaurant, empty plates and side dishes scattered everywhere. The boys are loud and loose, laughing over some story Jisung’s telling. You’re perched between Seungmin and Felix, half listening, half texting a colleague about tomorrow’s call time.
Seungmin drops a piece of meat into your bowl without looking, still engaged in an argument with Changbin about some game.
“I was going to,” you mutter, but you take a bite anyway.
Across the table, one of the stylists watches the exchange, eyes flicking between you and Seungmin, then over to Chan, who’s quietly topping up everyone’s water glasses.
“You know,” she says, grinning, “I always thought you and Chan would end up together.”
The table goes briefly, awkwardly quiet. Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth.
“But seeing you with Seungmin now…” She gestures vaguely between you two. “You suit each other so well. It just makes sense.”
Time seems to slow for a second.
You risk a glance at Chan. He’s frozen, jug in hand, expression carefully blank. Then he clears his throat, smile returning a fraction too bright.
“Yeah,” he says, voice light. “They do.”
Heat rushes to your face. You open your mouth to deflect, but Seungmin beats you to it. He simply reaches over and casually adjusts the collar of your shirt, fingers deft, like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Obviously,” he says. “She’d be miserable with anyone else.”
He gives you an innocent look. “What? You’d be late, unhydrated, and your ankle would definitely be in pieces by now.”
“Wow,” you say. “Romantic.”
He leans in, voice dropping just low enough for only you to hear. “You know what I mean.”
You do. Your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop smiling.
Across the table, Chan watches for a moment, then looks down at his plate. When he looks up again, he catches your eye and gives you a small, genuine smile. There’s a hint of sadness lingering at the edges, but it no longer feels like an open wound— more like an old scar you both acknowledge.
You smile back, and that feels like its own kind of ending.
Later that night, you and Seungmin walk home together. The city is quieter, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. He hooks his pinky through yours, swinging your hands between you.
“A bit,” you admit. “You?”
“I’ve been tired since 2018,” he says. “It’s my personality now.”
He glances at you, then gently tugs you closer, slipping his arm around your shoulders. You melt into the warmth instinctively, head resting against his shoulder.
“If you’re tired,” he continues, “lean on me. I’ll carry the heavy stuff. You just have to walk next to me.”
The words are simple, almost off-hand, but they land somewhere deep, somewhere that remembers late nights in studios and unanswered wishes and the feeling of always coming second to something you couldn’t compete with.
You look up at him, your chest full.
“Okay,” you say. “But only if you let me carry yours too.”
He smiles, a small, secret thing. “Deal.”
You walk the rest of the way like that— in step, shoulders touching, the future not some grand, glittering promise, but a series of ordinary nights like this one. Quiet, honest, shared.
In a studio several floors above, Chan sits alone in front of his computer, headphones on, a half-finished melody looping gently. Through the window, he can just make out the street below, two small figures walking side by side.
He watches you both for a moment, something bittersweet tugging at his ribs. Then he smiles to himself, presses play, and gets back to work.
He’d made his choice years ago.
And for the first time, all the timelines sit comfortably together in your chest— the girl who once stood under harsh studio lights with her heart in her hands, the woman now leaning under the soft glow of a streetlamp against someone who always, unfailingly, shows up.
Good for you. Bittersweet for him.
You tighten your arm around Seungmin’s waist, and he squeezes your shoulder in reply, as if to say, I’m here.
You smile into the night, and keep walking.
