genre: platonic!au, fluff, crack, best friend Ni-ki & Jungwon
warning(s): food/eating, light swearing
pairing: none
wc: 0.9k
“Love can last a lifetime if you want it to.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Seriously, who writes that mumbo-jumbo anyway?”
“Honestly who cares,” you crinkled up the small paper between your index and thumb, flicking it toward the younger boy sitting on your couch. You watched as he flinched once it'd made contact with his jawline, afterward rolling his eyes at you. Not caring enough to even attempt to make sense of the tiresome momento inscribed inside your fortune cookie.
Stuffing the semi-stale cookie past your lips, you shrugged off the topic. “Oh wait,” you half mumbled with your mouth still busy at work with the thin, crumbly treat, “‘Ave you guys ‘eard that song?” Most of your sentence was borderline unintelligible.
“Hasn’t anyone taught you table manners, yuck.” Ni-ki shot you an incredulous look as if you’d just offended him personally by not finishing your snack before speaking.
“Manners, schmanners, y'know you could choke? Seriously, ___, you need to be more careful.”
Of course, Jungwon, as always.
“Well pardon me, your highnesses,” rolling your eyes at the imbeciles you were unfortunate enough to call your friends, “Anyway, like I was saying —before I was so rudely interrupted—”
“Have we heard that song?” Ni-ki mocked, his voice rising several octaves in jest, “I don’t even need to hear you say the name, it’s been everywhere I swear.”
Jungwon, who seemingly forgot about his sudden outburst of concern mere moments ago, piped up. “What song?”
Sticking your chopsticks back into your carton of Chinese food —Pork Lo Mein to be specific— you shot him an exasperated look, “No way, you’ve really not heard it?”
“Maybe I have, if one of you idiots would just tell me the damn title I’d let you know”
Ni-ki snickered, setting his carton of fried rice down to nod his head toward Jungwon, “It makes sense he wouldn’t know, being ancient and all.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, slightly tilting your head down in a failed attempt to hide your amusement. Admittedly, a fair portion of your friendship with the two had been you and Ni-ki borderline-bullying Jungwon for being almost three years older than the both of you.
Grabbing your phone out of your pocket, you swallowed the food that was in your mouth, opened up your playlist, and scrolled through to find the previously mentioned song.
“Oh! Here, look Won,” you showed him your phone, the small letters playing in the bottom left of your screen, “As It Was, ugh, it’s such a good song.”
“Oh, yeah I know it. All that hype for Harry Styles? Really?”
“You did not just say that to me.” Ni-ki shot Jungwon a glance that let him know he was truly skating on thin ice here.
“Listen, he’s good, I’ve just heard better y’know,” Jungwon noted somewhat matter-of-factly, collecting another bite of food with his utensils. He nodded toward Ni-ki, “I like his other single, uh, what’s it called?” Shaking his head, he stuffed the spoonful of now semi-cold Chinese food into his mouth, “Watermelon High, maybe?”
“It’s Watermelon Sugar, I’m actually disappointed. Of course, you would only know that song.”
Over the years you had grown used to their quirks, though Jungwon not liking Harry Styles might’ve been a deal-breaker in your two-year-long friendship.
“I’m gonna tempt the fates here, Won, our whole friendship is riding on my fortune.”
Ni-ki held out his unwrapped golden fortune cookie, it was slightly crumpled at the corners, to the point you could see the stark contrast of the thinly tucked paper.
The hard exterior of his cookie sounded with a stale crack, you could still faintly taste the vanilla and sesame oil on your tongue from your own.
“Honestly you think they’d make them fresh or something for how often we go to that place,” you sarcastically chided, “I don’t quite feel valued as a customer.”
“Oh cut the theatrics, both of you."
Ni-ki scoffed, "Hyung, I really don't think you wanna get mouthy while I'm literally unwrapping your fortune."
If you said Jungwon was perfectly calm at Ni-ki's brazen nature, you would be lying. He was about two seconds from imploding, and you swore you could see steam coming out of his ears.
"Go on, read it out." You had a tendency to always back Ni-ki up when it came to picking sides between the two, and if you were honest, you found this really amusing.
Clearing his throat, —solely for theatrics— Ni-ki held the palm of his hand in his other,
"He, who knows not of Harold Styles, is not to be trusted."
Flicking his now crumpled slip of paper at you like you'd done to him moments ago.
"Yah, don't make me come over there Ri-ki," Jungwon pointed his spoon at Ni-ki in an almost threatening way —it would've held a lot more merit if you didn't already know Jungwon was considerably shorter than Ni-ki.
Chomping on another bite of your food, you made a mental note to tease Jungwon for that later, but right now he had enough on his plate with Ni-ki.
"___, look he's threatening me!" Ni-ki feigned a fearful tone, if he was trying to hide his smile, he was doing a poor job at it.
You scoffed, a slight grin adorning your features at their antics, unfolding the small paper that had fallen in your lap, you silently read the fortune— his actual fortune.
"Good friends are worth the hardships you'll face to find them."
Looking up at Jungwon and Ni-ki, who were now bickering back and forth, your grin was in full effect.
synopsis! — you ask your loving boyfriend to pick an outfit out for you while you’re shopping!
g! — fluff, lots of sarcasm, gn! reader, established-relationship, more fluff.
wc! — 1.6 k
an! — based on THIS ask! thank you for requesting, sorry for any mistakes, I wrote this at 3 a.m., enjoy!
↬ CHAN
he treats the whole thing like it matters more than it probably should. the store is quiet, late afternoon light slanting through the windows, and he walks beside you with his hands clasped loosely like he’s trying not to rush. when you tell him he gets to choose, he blinks, then smiles brightly at you, “really?” he gravitates toward textures first. his fingers brush fabrics, testing softness, stretching cuffs, rubbing material between his thumb and forefinger. he picks things that feel lived-in already—oversized knits, muted colors, clothes that look like they’d hold warmth long after you leave the room. he keeps holding items up to your body without fully committing, stepping back, tilting his head. you notice how often his eyes flick back to your face, like he’s checking for permission even when you gave it to him already.
in the fitting room, you hear him pacing. when you step out, he stills completely. it’s quiet in that way where the moment seems to settle. his shoulders relax, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding finally leaving him. “yeah,” he says softly, “that looks right.” he comes closer, adjusting the sleeve just a little, fingers warm and careful. the outfit isn’t flashy. it’s comforting. like something meant to be worn during long nights and slow mornings. you catch him smiling without meaning to.
↬ MINHO
he doesn’t react much when you tell him he gets to choose. just a glance, sharp and assessing, like he’s already thinking ahead. “okay,” he says simply, hands slipping into his pockets as he walks. he moves through the store with purpose, barely stopping. when he does, he picks up an item, weighs it in his hands, then either tucks it into his arm or puts it back without explanation. he doesn’t ask your opinion. you asked for his.
what he chooses is practical but flattering. it’s simple. jeans and a thin, loose shirt that feels like gentle kisses at your skin. when you step out wearing it, his eyes flick over you slowly. there’s a pause. then a faint smirk. “yeah,” he says, “figured.” he doesn’t gush. he doesn’t elaborate. but he steps closer, tugging lightly at the fabric, approving. later, when you wear it again, he notices immediately. doesn’t say anything. just reaches out, fingers brushing your side as he passes. that small, knowing smile says enough.
↬ CHANGBIN
he’s confident about it. when you hand him the choice, he doesn’t hesitate. he scans racks with purpose, pulling something bold but balanced. something that frames you rather than overwhelms you, reaching for dark professional looking attire. when you step out, his reaction is immediate. his posture shifts, eyes darkening with appreciation. “yeah,” he says. “that’s it.”
he circles you slowly, nodding, adjusting your collar with gentle hands. “you wear it like it was made for you.” you can’t help but giggle at your hype man, “i do, huh?” and he eats it up, smirking at you and grabbing your hands in his, “of course you do! there’s no question, the designer must have had you in mind when he made this.” his seriousness draws sharp laughter from you, smiling back. you tousle your hair a bit, posing for him. immediately he backs up, holding his hands out to form a picture frame with you in the middle. it’s a private photoshoot with his favorite person, and you’re in for the ego trip of a lifetime. shopping with him feels secure. decisive. later, he tells you he picked it because it matches your strength. every time you wear it, he looks proud.
↬ HYUNJIN
he takes the responsibility seriously the moment you tell him. his expression shifts, focus sharpening as he scans the store. he moves slowly, deliberately, fingers trailing along fabrics as if he’s reading them. he doesn’t reach for many things—only the ones that catch his attention for a reason he can’t quite explain.
he studies silhouettes, how clothes might fall when you move. colors that would soften against your skin instead of overpowering it. when he holds something up, he steps back, head tilted, imagining it on you before committing. he barely speaks, but you feel how intentional he’s acting, like an artist immersed in his painting. what he chooses is understated but striking. clean lines, soft structure. something elegant without being stiff. when you step out wearing it, he freezes for a moment, breath catching. “you’re beautiful,” he says softly, almost like it slipped out before he could polish it. he steps closer, brushing your wrist lightly. “this suits you too well.” the outfit feels deliberate. like it highlights you instead of wearing you.
↬ JISUNG
he makes it chaos immediately. the second you tell him he’s choosing, he gasps dramatically and announces he’s taking this responsibility “very seriously.” the store becomes his personal playground. he darts between racks, throwing commentary over his shoulder, holding up ridiculous things just to see your reaction. but beneath the jokes, he’s paying attention. he watches how you gravitate toward certain fabrics, how you wrinkle your nose at others. when he finally settles on an outfit, it’s unexpectedly good. relaxed, a little oversized, something that looks like it could be stolen from his closet but tailored to you. when you come out wearing it, he goes quiet. the grin softens into something warmer. “oh,” he says. “okay. wow.” he steps closer, hands hovering, then lightly tugs at the hem. “you’re not allowed to look this good in something i picked.”
he spins you once, laughing, then pulls you into his chest. shopping finishes quickly after that because he’s already decided. later, he keeps teasing you about how you owe him for his “excellent taste,” but every time he looks at you in it, his eyes linger just a second longer than before.
↬ FELIX
he’s nervous from the start, bouncing on his heels, laughing too much. “okay, but you can’t judge me,” he says, already judging himself. the store is bright, music humming overhead, and he looks overwhelmed by choice. he keeps pulling things off racks, then immediately putting them back. “no, that’s too much.” “wait… maybe?” he asks your opinion but then backtracks, flustered, hair falling into his eyes. eventually, he starts choosing with instinct instead of logic. bright colors, something that catches the light when you move. something he thinks will make you smile.
when you step out of the fitting room, his entire face lights up like he forgot how to breathe. he laughs, hands flying to his mouth. “oh. oh no.” you raise a brow, worried, but before you can say anything he continues, “that’s… you look unreal.” he turns away for a second, pacing, rubbing the back of his neck. he keeps peeking back at you like the sight might disappear if he stares too long. when he finally comes closer, he gestures vaguely. “i thought it would look nice but i didn’t think i’d be looking at heaven.” the outfit feels warm, comfortable, a little playful. it suits you in a way that feels natural, like it belongs to your movements. he beams the entire checkout line, cheeks pink, still laughing under his breath.
↬ SEUNGMIN
he doesn’t rush. he listens. when you tell him he gets to choose, he nods like he’s filing the information away. the store is calm, almost empty, and he walks slowly beside you, thoughtful. he chooses something practical. comfortable. something that looks like it would last. when you step out wearing it, something vulnerable flashes across his face before he hides it behind a small smile. “that looks… really good,” he says, quieter than usual.
he reaches out, fingers brushing the sleeve, grounding himself. the outfit is something he would wear. seeing you in clothing so similar to his jumpstarts his heart because it feels like you’re growing closer. he coughs a little to hide the blush creeping over him, “okay, let’s take that sweater off now. it’s white, don’t ruin it yet.” you roll your eyes, waving away his comment and noticing how soft the cuff truly is. he pays quickly, almost protective. he insists on carrying the bag. outside, the air is cooler, and he tucks you closer without thinking. later, when you wear it again, he notices immediately. he smiles every time. like it reassures him.
↬ JEONGIN
he acts like it’s a joke the moment you tell him he gets to choose. eyes widening, hand to his chest. “me? fashion authority?” he laughs, already backing toward the racks like he might trip over his own feet. the store smells faintly like clean fabric and air conditioning, the kind of place meant for slow wandering. he keeps pulling things out just to comment on them. “too cool.” “this feels like something a cartoon villain would wear.” “okay, wait, this one’s actually soft.” his fingers linger on that one longer. the teasing never fully stops, but you notice he starts checking sizes more carefully, smoothing it out before holding it up to you.
what he ends up choosing is simple. cozy. an oversized hoodie layered with relaxed pants, something meant for comfort more than attention. “i just want you to feel good,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. when you step out of the fitting room, his smile comes instantly, greeting you with the familiar crinkle of his eyes. “yeah,” he says, nodding. “that’s you.” he steps closer, tugging lightly at the sleeve. he pulls you into a hug right there, laughter muffled against your shoulder. later, when you wear it again, he notices immediately. “hey,” he says softly, pointing. “my pick.” there’s pride in his voice, but you’re just glad he didn’t stick you in something cartoon villan-y.
synopsis! — working as a veterinarian meant you had seen all sorts of pet owners, but when minho steps into your office, you can tell he’s going to be a handful. surely, the way you talk is more than patient and professional behavior?
g! — strangers-to-lovers, sarcasm & banter, fluff, veterinarian-reader! au x cat-dad-minho, gn! reader, mention of pet “illness”.
wc! — 1.8k
an! — i recently found these pictures of lino & i’m obsessed. i knew i loved his blonde hair but oh my goodness…
you notice him before you notice the cat. it’s always like that, the way owners carry their worry into the room before they ever set the carrier down. minho holds the handle too carefully, like the weight inside matters more than anything else, like if he grips it wrong he might somehow make things worse. you smile gently anyway, because you’ve learned that calm is contagious in exam rooms and right now he needs it just as much as the small, striped fluff tucked behind plastic bars.
“hi,” you say, soft, measured, the voice you use when you’re trying to make the room breathe a little easier, “what brings you in today?”
he exhales like he’s been holding it since the parking lot. “she’s not eating,” he says, brows pulled together, jaw tight. “she slept all yesterday morning. and she’s just… off.” his hand moves without thinking, fingers slipping through the door to rest against familiar fur. the cat presses into him immediately, trusting, unbothered, as if this is just another strange room instead of a place meant to confirm or deny fear.
you nod, already moving, already slipping into the rhythm of care. you ask questions while unlatching the carrier, your hands steady as you coax the cat out and onto the table. he’s watching anxiously the whole time. you can tell he loves her the way dads love their kids. fiercely, quietly, with the unshakable belief that it’s his job to notice when something is wrong.
you run gentle fingers along the cat’s spine, feeling for tension, for anything out of place. your hands are warm, practiced, sure. you listen to her heart, then her lungs, your stethoscope cool against fur. minho watches every movement, eyes tracking your hands like they might suddenly do something miraculous or devastating. you explain everything as you go, because you know that silence leaves room for panic.
“her vitals look good,” you tell him, smiling when the cat leans into your palm, purring despite herself. “she’s alert, responsive. that’s a good sign.”
his shoulders drop just a fraction. “so… it’s not serious?”
“we’re not there yet,” you say gently. you press her abdomen, careful, slow, watching her face for discomfort. she barely flinches. “she’s not showing signs of pain. just a little sensitive, maybe. stomachs can get upset for lots of reasons.”
he nods, but he still looks unconvinced, like worry has dug in and refuses to leave without proof. “i switched her food,” he admits. “the brand i usually get was out, so i thought… same protein, same texture. should’ve been fine.”
you glance up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time since he came in. there’s something earnest there, something vulnerable. “cats don’t always agree,” you say softly. “even when everything looks the same to us.”
you finish the exam, jot notes, offer reassurance. you suggest probiotics, a bland diet for a day or two, maybe fluids if she seems lethargic later. nothing invasive. nothing frightening. when you finally step back, the room feels lighter, like everyone can breathe again.
“so she’s okay?” he asks, quieter now.
you smile. “she’s okay. just dramatic. takes after her owner, maybe.”
that earns you a startled laugh, brief but real. “hey,” he says, mock-offended, but there’s relief in it now. gratitude. “i was worried.”
“that means you’re doing it right,” you reply. you pass him the carrier, but your fingers brush his, just barely. the contact lingers longer than necessary, and you both notice.
as he gathers his things, he hesitates. “thank you,” he says, sincere, eyes warm. “for explaining everything. for… not making me feel stupid.”
you shake your head. “you weren’t stupid. you were attentive. she’s lucky to have you.”
the way he looks at you then, soft, almost shy, feels like this won’t be the last time he brings worry into your exam room, or leaves it there with you.
you tell yourself you only recognize the sound of his footsteps because the clinic is quiet that afternoon. it’s a lull between appointments, the kind of stretch where the fluorescent lights hum a little louder and the smell of disinfectant settles into something almost comforting. you’re halfway through updating a chart when you hear the familiar pause outside the door, the soft shift of weight, the careful way someone opens it like they’re not entirely sure they’re welcome yet.
you look up anyway, already knowing.
minho steps in with the same carrier, held the same way, both hands wrapped around the handle like it’s precious cargo and not a mildly annoyed cat who would rather be anywhere else. he looks less frantic this time, but no less attentive. the worry hasn’t disappeared; it’s just learned how to sit quietly, how to wait its turn. when his eyes meet yours, there’s something like relief there.
“hi,” he says, softer than last time, like he doesn’t want to disturb you.
you smile before you realize. “hi,” you echo, “what’s going on?”
he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “she’s… picky again. i just wanted to make sure.” there’s a hint of embarrassment in it now, like he’s aware this might be unnecessary but still can’t quite bring himself to ignore it.
you stand, washing your hands as you move closer, the ritual grounding you. “that’s okay,” you tell him. “that’s what we’re here for.”
as you unlatch the carrier and lift the cat out, she greets you like an old acquaintance, stretching into your hands, purring immediately. the familiarity surprises you. not just hers, but yours too. you hadn’t realized how easily your body remembers certain weights, certain rhythms. you set her gently on the table, letting her sniff you before you begin.
“same symptoms?” you ask, already running your hands along her sides.
“mostly,” he says. “eating less. acting offended. you know.” he watches closely, but there’s a different energy now. less panic, more trust. his shoulders aren’t up around his ears anymore. his hands rest on the edge of the table instead of hovering helplessly in midair.
you nod, listening to her heart, then her lungs, explaining as you go. you always do that, but with him it feels less like a professional courtesy and more like conversation. “she sounds great,” you say. “no fever. no tenderness.” you feel her stomach slowly, carefully, watching her face. she blinks at you, unbothered.
minho huffs a quiet laugh. “she’s dramatic.”
“they all are,” you reply, smiling at his hypocrisy, “some just have better acting skills.”
as you work, he asks questions — not rapid-fire like last time, but thoughtful. how sensitive are cats to diet changes, really? how do you tell the difference between discomfort and preference? you answer honestly, sometimes pausing to think, sometimes shrugging when the truth is simply that animals don’t always give us neat explanations.
“you’re really good at this,” he says at one point, almost absentmindedly. like the thought just slipped out.
you glance up, caught off guard. “at… explaining things?”
“at caring,” he says, meeting your eyes without flinching. “you’re not so… clinical, you know?”
something in your chest tightens, warm and sudden. “thank you,” you say quietly, “that means a lot.”
you finish the exam and step back, hands resting on the table for a moment. “she’s healthy,” you tell him again, gently. “i really think this is a preference issue. maybe try mixing the old food with the new one. or switching brands entirely.”
he nods, thoughtful. “i’ll do that.”
there’s a pause after that, the kind that doesn’t rush to fill itself. the cat hops back into her carrier on her own, clearly done with the whole ordeal. minho closes the door, slower than necessary, like he’s not quite ready to leave yet.
“i hope it’s okay that i came back,” he says. “i didn’t want to seem, like, i don’t know... overbearing.”
you shake your head immediately. “i’m glad you did, really.” you hesitate, then add, “i wish more people paid attention to their pets the way you do.”
his mouth curves into a small smile at that, something shy and pleased. “i just want her to be okay.”
“she is,” you reassure him, “she’s lucky to have you.”
he looks at you for a beat longer than needed, like he’s weighing something. then, “you must see this all the time,” he says, “people panicking over nothing.”
“yes,” you admit. “but i don’t think this is nothing. worry comes from love. i don’t mind it.”
that seems to settle something in him. his shoulders ease, his grip on the carrier loosens. when he steps closer to the counter to pay, the space between you narrows, close enough that you’re aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism. when you hand him the receipt, your fingers brush again, warmer this time, unmistakable.
neither of you pulls away right away.
“if it’s okay,” he says carefully, “would it be… too much to ask if i could call? if she gets weird again?”
you smile, soft. “that’s fine,” you say, “i’m here.”
he nods, then hesitates. “wait, i mean— not the clinic. i know how busy it gets. i just…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.
you study him for a second, the way he looks uncertain again, not about his cat but about you. something in you decides before your brain catches up. “you can have my number,” you say. “for follow-ups, questions, peace of mind.”
his eyes widen just slightly. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
you grab a scrap of paper, scribbling your number quickly before you can overthink it. when you hand it to him, he takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he grips it too hard. then, after a second, he pulls out his phone. “can i…?”
“of course.”
you recite it again while he types, your voice steady even though your heart isn’t. his phone buzzes a moment later — a new contact, unnamed, but suddenly present. he looks at the screen, then back at you.
“so,” he says, a little braver now. “if you ever want to… i don’t know. see her in her natural habitat.” he clears his throat. “i mean, she’s got opinions. i think she’d like you.”
you laugh softly, “a house call?”
“purely professional,” he says, eyes flicking to yours. “unless you don’t want it to be.”
you tilt your head, considering. “i could stop by,” you say, “just to check on her. make sure everything’s settled.”
his smile this time is slow, warm. “she’d love that.”
“and you?” you ask, gently.
he meets your gaze, steady now. “yeah,” he says. “i think i would too.”
you walk him to the door, the clinic suddenly too bright. as he steps out, he turns back once more. “thank you,” he says, “for everything.”
you smile. “anytime.” as the door closes behind him, your phone is still warm in your pocket. you wait to watch him leave then save his contact in your phone, knowing you’ll be hearing from minho a lot.
warnings —explicit depictions of gore, major character death, strong mentions of blood, descriptions of zombified(?) people & environment.
wc! — 2.2k
an! ( @kflixnet ) i was definitely on the brink of tears writing this, i took a lot of inspiration from "all of us are dead", heed the warnings!
→ requested by anon.
You wanted to speak, to say anything, it didn't matter what you said, you just had to say it. Anything. No matter how hard you pleaded, not a single word made its way past your blood-stained lips.
Everything around you was loud, loud enough to burst your eardrums, but at this moment you swore it was the most blood-chilling silence you had ever heard.
Nothing made sense, and the little bit of normality you had with you, was gone now. Or, in any case, it was leaving.
Normality, in this instance, was laying in your lap as you stroked his blond bloodied hair. Normality was looking up at you, his typically soft brown eyes were bloodshot and fearful. Normality was Bang Chan.
Chan, it hurt to think of him. Especially like this, looking at him now compared to how you were used to seeing him.
Just until a few days ago, he had no clue you existed. You were a junior and he was a sophomore. Worlds apart, despite being in the same building.
When you first met him, you ran into him headfirst in the hallway, both running in opposite directions. Thinking back now, you noticed how different you had become in such a short amount of time.
Back then, you had been able to blend in, you weren't in any extracurriculars, you weren't top of your class, if anything, people knew you because of your loud friends. Your friends, you recalled them with pain, you watched them turn, one by one. First was Felix, then Seungmin and Minho, and finally Jeongin. You'd also remembered Jisung, Changbin, and of course, Hyunjin, even if you didn't know them before this whole thing started, losing them still took a toll on you.
Each of them were picked off like bugs, your originally large group dwindled until all that remained were you and Chan. You still remember the look on each of their faces, you thought you wouldn't experience a worse death than your brother's, Jeongin's, just yesterday. You watched as your former classmates, now mutilated and screaming, bit into him. To everyone else, it happened in a flash, but to you, everything was in slow motion. His scream still rang fresh in your head, your group had been cornered and you had just lost Jisung and Changbin not even 20 minutes previous when you tried to make your way up to your school roof in an attempt to find a safe place within sight of any rescuers. The small smile on your brother's face didn't match his sad eyes or the tear that was now rolling down his cheek. He used his last humane moments to hold back your former classmates as Hyunjin and Chan pulled you away from him.
Back then you had been yelling and crying to not leave him, the only thing that quieted you was when you heard Jeongin choke out a "sorry," before his head lolled to the side and you lost him to the same madness that seemed to overtake everyone around you.
Now, however, you were quiet as a mouse, staring at the man in front of you as blood pooled on your uniform. The blood wasn't yours, but you wished it was, you wished for anything but this outcome.
You pulled yourself out of your thoughts to look at him, to look at Chan, your last shred of dying hope. Just moments ago you had all the hope in the world, running up the last flight of stairs to the roof.
The two of you had spent the night in a storage closet, hiding from the horrors that had become of your school. You'd just lost Hyunjin, though not the way you would've ever hoped to;
Having run past a horde of mauled and blood-splattered students, the three of you managed to get into the small storage room, faint smiles and exhausted pants of relief were heard. You were so close to escaping, to having your lives back, or at least being able to keep the pieces that were left. Looking around, you and Chan looked at each other, you saw his tired smile, you had both gone through so much in the past 48 hours that making it into the small cramped room felt like an accomplishment. Your eyes darted to Hyunjin, who instead of looking relieved, looked beyond mortified. He held his hand to his cheek, he slowly looked up at you. Tears that pricked at his eyes threatened to fall, at first, you assumed he was grieving over your lost friends, that was until he removed his hand from his face and you saw what he was so scared about. He gingerly felt the top of the wound, the flesh was bumpy and a bright red, it wasn't a deep gash, but it was very clearly a bite. Drops of blood glittered along his cheekbones, and the surrounding skin was bruised.
He didn't look like the Hyunjin you remembered, the Hyunjin you had grown to know in the past days was determined to live, even when he lost his closest friends. You weren't exactly friends with him before this, but Felix was, in truth, Felix was friends with everyone. You remembered how fondly the freckled boy had spoken of Hyunjin, he'd mentioned his beauty as well, which you were skeptical about until you met him. Now, Felix was gone and Hyunjin's normally fair skin was marred, his beautiful demeanor expressed nothing but fear.
You called for Chan, who was still catching his breath. Everything happened in a heartbeat after that, you remembered seeing Hyunjin's panic as he stared at you, his tears finally freeing themselves. He took a step back, knocking over a broom that was propped up against the wall. Painfully remembering his words then, "I'll be fine won't I?" His voice was barely above a whisper and you could tell he already knew.
Chan grabbed a bottle of window cleaner from off a shelf behind him, holding it out like a weapon to Hyunjin, who was just centimeters away from the bottle due to the cramped atmosphere of the closet. Hyunjin gave Chan a shaky look, his hand just barely covering his face, fingertips timidly touching his cheekbone as he slowly processed what was happening.
Watching Hyunjin wipe his tears and ask you guys again if he would be fine was one of the most painful things you had endured since Jeongin's death. What had gone wrong? You were just safe, your hope had been evident in your exhausted pants and small smiles, but now that had come shattering down once more. Hyunjin stammered as Chan kept a firm grip on the small liquid-filled bottle.
Well aware that Chan was struggling with what he was doing, he couldn't make the same mistake that your group had made before.
The first day the attacks started, Seungmin had gotten bitten, it was a small bite, and it had barely pricked the skin so you decided if you kept a watch on him, everything would be fine. You thought he could withstand it, but you were wrong. Minho was watching Seungmin, he'd volunteered to keep an eye on him. Seungmin lasted two hours, it was the longest you'd seen someone stay coherent so you'd all assumed he'd gotten lucky. You were asleep when it happened, Minho and Chan were the only two awake, but you remembered the scream that woke you, the sound of tearing flesh. And the sobs that followed Minho's body hitting the cold classroom floor before convulsing in a pool of his blood. From what you recalled, Chan was the one to push Seungmin out the door, throwing Minho out soon after. Everyone looked at him, a mix of regret and pain in his eyes. You couldn't imagine how he felt, and now here he was in that same situation with you and Hyunjin.
Chan didn't take his eyes off Hyunjin, who stood rooted in place, lips quivering and tears streaming down his face.
You stepped forward just for Chan to turn toward you in a warning, you both knew Hyunjin didn't have long, but you didn't want to spend your last moments terrified of him. You had grown close to Hyunjin through all of your struggles, you ignored Chan's warning and encased Hyunjin in a hug. "I'm so sorry Jinnie."
Chan lowered the bottle he was holding and timidly joined the two of you, a sob sounding in his throat. The hug had the opposite effect you had hoped for, you felt anxious, the realization that no matter what you did, these were going to be your last moments with Hyunjin.
Recalling the way his head grew heavy and his body went limp in your arms, you and Chan already knew what you had to do.
With sad eyes, you watched as Chan picked up Hyunjin from behind, restricting his arms, you noticed the veins around Hyunjin's wound were now bulging, and his skin had turned a ghastly shade of white. You held the door open for Hyunjin and Chan, luckily the corridor was quiet now. Chan took Hyunjin to the door directly across from the storage room, carefully propping open the door to put him down gently when Hyunjin's eyes shot open, bloodshot and red he snarled in Chan's grasp, flailing around. He was making too much noise, if Chan waited any longer he would end up like Hyunjin. So instead, he flung Hyunjin across the hall and ran toward the closet where you stood, waiting expectantly by the frame.
The second Chan had sprinted inside, you slammed the door shut. More of your infected classmates had made their way outside your door, luckily there were no windows for them to see you, or worse, for you to see them.
You and Chan spent the night in that dark cramped closet, you weren't sure what about him or your situation made you open up to him, but you found yourself saying things you thought you would take to your grave, maybe it was the fact that you couldn't tell for sure if either of you would see tomorrow, but both you and Chan poured your souls out to each other.
You remembered the intense hope you had felt that morning, you had lost Hyunjin, but you were closer than you had ever been with Chan.
Not to mention you had a chance, you were so close to the school roof, it was right past the next hallway and up the last flight of stairs to the rooftop door.
What happened to that chance?
Oh, that's right, your supposed plan had failed, your hope dying beside you.
You fought tooth and nail to get to the roof, and now there you sat, your companion laying in your lap, with lidded, red-rimmed eyes staring back at you.
Tears were falling down your cheeks as you brushed your hands through his hair once more. If the two of you had been like this under any other circumstance, it would've been a tender moment, but right now, your whole world was crashing down.
You had made it to the roof with Chan, but at what cost?
"Don't leave me here," you whimpered, you hated feeling vulnerable, but right now as your last morsel of faith slowly turned into what you feared most, you couldn't help it, "don't leave me alone". You were finally able to choke through a whisper.
Chan didn't take his eyes off you, he reached his bloodied hand up to your face, his movements were slightly rigid and you could tell it took most of his remaining energy. Despite that, he still leaned his hand against your face, softly moving the hair that was covering your eyes, his fingers twitching as he did, you felt a slight flick against your forehead but you didn't mind. Right now, you were just trying to savor your last moments with him.
Chan's veins grew darker, especially around the torn flesh on his bicep, his school uniform was blood-stained and he looked as if he were in immense pain. He rasped, "leave," it was one of the last things he said to you. You understood what he meant, and you understood why he said it. This was probably your last chance to save yourself, just open the door back down to the school and haul him inside, it was simple in nature.
He gurgled out something else, you weren't able to hear him before his rasping turned to long breaths. You closed your eyes, you chose to remember Chan for the person you had talked to in that storage room, for the person who had protected and fought for you, the person who had tried his hardest to remain strong throughout the chaos.
You grabbed his hand in yours, eyes closed shut as you listened to his bones crack and felt him shift around in your hold, his knuckles twisted in your grasp. Hearing his gasps and cut off words, you tried to remember his voice, his slight accent, how he spoke with a smile when he remembered something, the way his voice sounded when he whispered. Your mind flashed to Jeongin, and Felix, to your friends, maybe you would see them again. Maybe you could laugh with them again, even if it wasn't in this lifetime.
Your hope hadn't died yet, it was too late to turn and leave, you knew that, but as you recalled all of your friends together that very first night, sitting next to Chan in that storage closet, a new hope sparked in your chest, that maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't be alone.
Eyes still shut, you spoke out to Chan one last time;
…any chance of a non-binary s/o with Felix? Just thinking about his recent talk of gender… and his hilarious reaction to being called manly. I figured it’d be a good match? Thank you. PS: I loved the ‘wearing their shirt’ piece. So cute!
hey! thank you for requesting, i actually hadn’t seen his talk about gender and fashion until you sent this ask & it was very interesting. i didn’t realize how deeply personal fashion was to felix. it was super insightful
when you talk about how you’re feeling, your body, your name, your problems, he doesn’t interrupt or joke or rush to fix it. he sits close, knees brushing yours, nodding, asking quiet follow-up questions. later, you realize he’s remembered everything. the way he corrects someone gently but firmly without looking at you for approval. the way he checks in afterward like, “was that okay? do you want me to handle it next time?”
bf! felix — who loves your wardrobe like it’s an extension of you
he’s always tugging at a sleeve, admiring a silhouette, asking where you got something. “that cut is so you,” he says, eyes bright. he doesn’t care if it’s a dress, a suit jacket, oversized knits, sharp boots. he just loves how confident you look when you feel like yourself. sometimes he buys you clothes “just because,” holding them up with a hopeful grin. sometimes you steal his.
bf! felix — who never genders his affection
pet names aren’t loaded. they’re soft and playful and chosen with care. sweetheart. sunshine. love. pretty. darling. sometimes something ridiculous that makes you laugh. he never calls you something that feels wrong, never jokes at your expense. affection is warm hands, lingering touches, forehead kisses like punctuation.
bf! felix — who spoils you in quiet, thoughtful ways
your favorite snack appears in the cabinet after a bad week. he warms your hoodie in the dryer before handing it to you. when you’re overwhelmed, he wordlessly takes things off your plate: emails answered, errands run, dinner handled. not because he thinks you can’t, but because he wants to. acts of service are hid love language.
bf! felix — who checks in on you constantly
“hey,” he’ll say, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “how are you feeling today?” not about anything in particular. just… you. some days you shrug. some days you talk. either way, he nods, squeezes your hand, stays.
bf! felix — who mirrors your joy
when you’re excited about something. an outfit, a new haircut, a name you’re trying out, he matches your energy immediately. hypes you up like it’s his job. takes pictures you actually like. tells you how good you look without making it about gender at all. just you, radiant.
bf! felix — who is soft in his masculinity
he cries at movies. he laughs easily. he doesn’t mind being gentle, being pretty, being kind. he holds doors not because he thinks he has to, but because he wants to. he’s a gentleman in the way that matters. attentive, respectful, warm. his strength is in how safe you feel with him.
bf! felix — who creates happy, ordinary moments
shared showers where he washes your hair without comment. late-night grocery runs where you debate snacks. sitting on the floor trying on outfits while he offers earnest feedback. mornings where he wakes up smiling, like the day has already been kind to him just because you’re there.
bf! felix — who reminds you that you are loved exactly as you are
not in speeches. not in grand declarations. in the way he looks at you when you’re half-dressed and rambling. in the way he reaches for you instinctively. in the way he smiles, bright, open, sincere, every time he catches your eye, like loving you is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
do you take requests for fem!readers? if so a slow morning with minho or changbin would be so cute
nah. jk! yes, absolutely! this was so cute. i absolutely adored this request & it gave me an excuse to shout from the rooftops about how i think changbin would be such a gentle boyfriend… argh. hope you enjoy, anon
you wake before him but you don’t move. the room is gray with morning and the rain is still tapping softly at the window, steady and patient like it never left. sometime in the night the storm must have eased. now it sounds thin and distant, like a memory playing itself out.
changbin’s arm is heavy across your waist. his hand rests just below your ribs, fingers curled loose in the fabric of your shirt like he fell asleep holding on and never let go.
you shift a little and he makes a quiet sound into the pillow, “don’t,” he murmurs.
“i didn’t do anything.”
his arm tightens anyway. you feel his face press into the back of your shoulder, warm breath through the cotton.
“you were leaving.”
“i was not.”
“you were thinking about it.”
you smile into the pillow. “i need coffee.”
he groans, dragging his feet against the sheets like he’s bracing himself against gravity.
“no you don’t.”
“i do.”
“stay five minutes?”
“you always say that.”
“because it works.”
his voice is rough with sleep. you feel him shift behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck. he inhales slow like he’s making sure you’re still there.
rain taps softly against the glass.
you lace your fingers through his where it rests against your stomach. his hand is warm and a little dry, thumb rubbing absently over your knuckles like he’s not fully awake.
“storm kept waking me up,” you say, “and you kept stealing the blanket.”
“lies.”
you laugh quietly and he presses closer like the sound pulled him in. “you’re warm,” he says into your shoulder.
you glance toward the edge of the bed where the floor looks cold and distant. the idea of standing up feels impossible, changbin nudges his forehead into the back of your neck. “still raining?”
“yeah.”
“good.”
“why good.”
“means you can’t leave.”
“i can leave.”
he squeezes your hand, “won’t.”
you try to roll onto your back and he lets you after a second, blinking slow when the light hits his face. his hair is flattened on one side and sticking up on the other.
he looks at you for a long quiet moment.
“hi,” he says.
“hi.”
his eyes are soft and unfocused, mouth still heavy with sleep. he drags his hand up your arm and tucks it behind your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads bump lightly.
“five minutes,” he says again.
you close your eyes.
“okay.”
the rain keeps falling, gentle and steady.
his thumb moves back and forth along your sleeve. slow and absent and constant. after a while he says quietly, “you smell like my soap.”
“you smell like my pillow.”
“good trade.”
you hum in agreement.
his breathing evens out again but his hand keeps moving like he refuses to fully let go of being awake with you.
you know eventually you’ll get up. the coffee machine will gurgle and the rain will probably keep going and the day will start whether you want it to or not.
but for now his arm is still around you and the room is still gray and the rain is still soft and changbin’s forehead rests against yours.
synopsis! — a cute bundle-of-questions runs into you, followed by her cute bundle-of-nerves dad. a short conversation turns into something more. he’s so busy taking care of his baby, who’s taking care of him?
wc! — 2.4k
g! — fluff, dad! chan x reader, overworked-girl!dad-chan, gn! reader, littlest bit of angst, TW: implications of postpartum-depression & separation.
an! — based on THIS ask! i didn’t know i needed to write something about dad-chris until now. i gave the baby a name just for convenience! argh now i need to read other parent-skz fics…
chris is a busy dad. constantly trying to entertain his daughter between submitting proposals for work and researching for his next project. it’s hard. today, he was meant to have a day off. a real day off of work; no midday meeting or work call to hop on. of course, that wasn’t what actually happened. all it took was one frantic call for chris to leave and go to pick up a copy of a book for his department head. apparently no one else could, so here he was, on his day off. he couldn’t get a sitter last second, so he coaxed his daughter out of the house with him with a promise of going to the park… only to drive to the library.
you’re standing in the middle of a bookstore crouched slightly, skimming the bottom shelf of new releases, when something small and sudden collides with you. arms wrap around your legs, a full body hug that startles a sound out of you before you can stop it. you look down, heart jumping. you find yourself looking at the crown of a little girl’s head. her hair smells faintly like strawberries, and she presses her cheek into your knee like this is the most natural thing in the world.
for a moment you freeze. then you laugh, soft and surprised, and say, “oh. hi there.” she looks up at you with wide eyes and a grin that is missing one of its front teeth. “you’re warm,” she announces, matter of fact. she does not let go. people around you glance over and smile. you feel your ears heat, “thank you,” you say, because it feels like the correct response.
she finally releases you and steps back, hands clasped behind her back, rocking on her heels. “excuse me, i was curious,” she says. “do you read books about work?”
you blink. “sometimes, but mostly i read books about people who are bad at talking to each other.”
she considers this very seriously. “that’s allll my daddy does. he plays with me but then he says he has to do grown up stuff. do you have grown up stuff, too?”
you smile, a little crooked. “unfortunately yes.”
she sighs deeply, like this confirms something she has suspected for a while. “that’s what he says too. he says sorry a lot. he doesn’t need to say sorry, i just get bored.” she kicks the carpet, then looks up at you again. “do you have a dad?”
you pause. “i do.”
“is he tired?”
“sometimes.”
she nods, satisfied, like this is the rule rather than the exception. “my dad is nice,” she adds quickly, protective. “he just needs more naps. i tell him that but he laughs.”
“you sound very wise,” you tell her, then you ask, “what’s your name?”
“i am very wise, thank you,” she boasts, “i’m almost seven. and my dad says i shouldn’t give my information to strangers.”
you are about to ask her where her dad is, because the weight of responsibility is starting to press in, when you hear a voice calling, tight with worry, from the other side of the aisle. “jae? cub?” footsteps approach fast, uneven, like someone who has been turning corners too quickly. the little girl turns toward the sound and beams.
“that’s him,” she says. “he’s loud.”
a man rounds the corner, eyes wide, hair sticking up at odd angles like he has been running his hands through it too many times. there are faint dark circles under his eyes. his jacket is half zipped, one sleeve pushed up. relief crashes over his face when he sees her, so visible it almost hurts to witness. he crosses the distance in two long steps and scoops her up, holding her close for a beat longer than necessary.
“hey,” he murmurs into her hair. “you can’t do that. you scared me.” then, to you, already breathless, “i’m so sorry. i turned around for two seconds and she was gone. did she bother you? did she say something strange?”
“she hugged me,” you say, because it feels important to start there. “and she told me you’re tired.”
his eyes flick to his daughter, who grins unapologetically. he exhales, something between a laugh and a surrender. “yeah,” he says. “that tracks.” he adjusts her on his hip and looks back at you properly. “i’m chris. thank you for staying with her.”
“i didn’t really have a choice,” you say lightly.
his mouth curves despite himself. “she does that.”
the girl presses her forehead against his cheek. “i was not lost,” she says. “i was talking.”
“i know,” he says, softer now. “but you still can’t do that. you stay where i can see you, okay?”
“okay,” she says, already half distracted by a display near the register.
he sets her down and she drifts a few steps away, humming to herself. chris rubs his face with one hand and lets it drop, looking faintly embarrassed. “i promise she’s usually better behaved.”
“well, i promise i didn’t mind,” you reply, then you notice one of the books tucked under his arm. it is the same one you have in your hand, dog eared at the corner.
you lift yours slightly. “good taste.”
his eyes follow the motion and he blinks, then laughs quietly. “oh, wow. yeah, i’ve been meaning to start it for about a month.”
“same,” you admit. “i keep rereading the first chapter like it’s going to change.”
“maybe that’s the trick,” he says. “if you avoid it long enough, it becomes a different book.”
you gesture vaguely to the shelves. “is this your usual haunt?”
“not really,” he says. “i said we’d go to the park, but i had an errand to run by end of day. this was the compromise.”
his little girl runs up, holding a glittery bookmark. “dad, can i get this?”
he looks at it, then at her hopeful face, then at you like he is apologizing preemptively. “yeah,” he says, “you can get it.”
she cheers quietly and skips toward the counter. he watches her go, shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
“cub,” he calls gently. “stay where i can see you.”
“i am,” she calls back.
he turns to you again. “thank you, again. for not panicking.”
“i did panic,” you say. “just on the inside.”
“i do that constantly.”
there is a small pause, then he gestures to the book in your hand. “do you know if it’s actually good?”
“i’ve heard it ruins people,” you say, “in a meaningful way.”
he considers this, “i could use that.”
you surprise yourself by saying, “hey, there’s a coffee shop across the street, if you want. i mean, if you and your daughter want a treat.”
his eyebrows lift, just a little. he looks over at his daughter, then back at you. something cautious softens in his expression, replaced by something like hope that he is trying not to lean into.
“she would like that,” he says. “i was hoping to stop by after this anyway.”
you nod, feeling the warmth spread through your chest, unhurried and bright. “then maybe we don’t put the book down just yet.”
he smiles, small and real. “maybe we don’t.”
you follow them out of the bookstore with the book still tucked under your arm, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you like punctuation you don’t quite need. the air outside is warmer, thicker, the city humming back into focus after the hush of pages and carpet. jae skips ahead, spinning once on the sidewalk before chris gently reaches out and catches the back of her jacket, steering her away from the curb with an ease that speaks of long practice. he glances at you as if to apologize, but you just smile, because it feels right. and because it tells you more about him than he probably realizes.
the cafe is just across the street, all glass windows and chalkboard signs, the inside glowing with amber light. the smell of coffee hits you as soon as you open the door, rich and grounding, layered with sugar and warm milk. it is louder than the bookstore but not in a way that overwhelms. jae immediately gravitates toward a low table near the window, pressing her palms to the glass and peering out like she is watching a show meant just for her.
chris orders for the three of you without much discussion, as if he already knows what you might like, or maybe he is just confident enough to guess. you don’t mind either way. when the drinks come, jae’s eyes light up at the sight of whipped cream and sprinkles, and she settles into her chair with a seriousness that borders on reverence. chris reaches into his bag then, a worn canvas thing slung easily over his shoulder, and pulls out a small stack of paper and a box of crayons held together with a rubber band.
“these are special, remember?” he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “they only come out when there are no books around.”
she gasps like this is a sacred rule. “because books have feelings,” she says solemnly.
“exactly,” he agrees.
she sets to work immediately, tongue poking out in concentration as she colors, red bleeding into blue, lines crisscrossing with the confidence of someone who has never been told to stay inside them. chris wraps his hands around his cup and exhales, a long breath he might have been holding all day.
“thank you,” he says, not looking at you, like the words might be fragile.
“for coffee?”
“for stopping and keeping us company” he corrects.
you shrug. “i was already stopped.”
he smiles at that, small and genuine, and then his gaze flicks to his daughter, making sure she is still happily occupied. she is, humming softly, drawing little circles around the edge of the paper.
you sip your drink and let the warmth settle into you. there is a moment of quiet where it feels like something heavier might surface, and you don’t rush it. when you speak, it is gentle, careful. “can i ask something?”
he nods. “yeah.”
“jae mentioned you a lot,” you say. “but she didn’t mention her mom.”
he stills, just a fraction. then he nods again, slower this time. “yeah,” he says. “that makes sense.” he takes another sip, sets the cup down. “i’m her mom.”
you don’t blink. you don’t ask him to explain in a way that might sound like disbelief. something in your chest loosens instead, recognition clicking into place, “okay,” you say simply.
he looks at you then, searching your face, like he is bracing for something. when he doesn’t find it, his shoulders ease. “most people don’t know what to do with that sentence,” he admits.
“i’ve seen it before.”
his mouth curves, grateful. he leans back in his chair, gaze drifting again to jae. “her mom and i,” he begins, then pauses, choosing his words with care. “we were already falling apart when we found out we were going to be parents. we thought maybe it would pull us back together. people always say that, y’know, but it didn’t.” he breathes out, slow. “it was too much for her. leaving was the best thing she could have done for herself.”
you listen without interrupting, without trying to smooth the edges of something that clearly does not want to be smoothed. “i was angry for a long time,” he continues. “sometimes i still am. my baby is my everything. she’s this bright, impossible little thing. and i can’t understand how anyone could walk away.” his fingers tighten briefly around the cup. “but i also know i didn’t feel what she felt after the delivery. i try to leave room in my heart for that. i wish her well. i really do.”
you smile at him, sad and soft. “that must have been really hard.”
he nods. “it was. it is.” then he lifts his shoulders, almost sheepish. “sorry, that was a lot of information all at once. didn’t know i was hanging on to so much.”
you look at him then, really look. at the way his posture carries both strength and fatigue, at the way his eyes flick to his daughter every few seconds without him even realizing it. you see him differently, sharper and clearer, like someone adjusted the focus. “you’re doing a good job,” you say, quietly.
his laugh is short, surprised. “i hope so.”
the conversation lightens after that, like he has set something down and can breathe easier. he starts speaking a little louder, more open, and you trade small facts back and forth, the way people do when they are circling something new. where you grew up. what you do now. how he never planned on being this kind of adult but somehow ended up here anyway.
“are you married?” he asks, casual, like he is asking about the weather.
you shake your head.
his eyebrows lift. “really?”
“really,” you say. “i’ve only been on blind dates, but i prefer to meet people naturally. when it feels right, otherwise it just feels like acting.”
he smiles, a little crooked. “maybe that means i have a shot.”
you tilt your head. “maybe.”
the color creeps up his neck, and you notice then how beautiful he is, how the tiredness doesn’t dull him. his arms are lean, his jawline clean and sure, his nose handsome, his lips are full and always smiling. it is almost unfair. you don’t say any of this to him of course, but the thought lingers, warm and electric.
before either of you can lean into it too much, jae looks up from her drawing, eyes bright. “what’s a date?” she asks.
you and chris glance at each other, then laugh, soft and uncertain. he clears his throat. “a date is,” he starts, then stops. “it’s when two people spend time together because they like each other.”
“like like?” jae asks.
“kind of,” you say. “it can be lots of kinds of liking.”
she frowns, considering this. “is it like playdates?”
you smile. “it can be.”
she nods, satisfied, and goes back to her drawing.
when it is time to leave, the light outside has shifted, the afternoon tipping toward evening. you stand near the door, reluctant. jae wraps her arms around your leg again, fierce and sudden. “when will i see you again?” she asks.
you crouch, meet her eyes. “as soon as you want.”
you stand, take chris’s phone gently from his hand, meeting his gaze with a sly smile as you punch in your number. he does not stop you. he just watches, clearly enjoying your boldness.
an! — sorry for going awol, here is a crumb to prove i’m still alive! also look how beautiful binnie is in that pic
the diner is nearly empty, washed in the kind of golden evening light that makes everything feel softer around the edges. outside, the city hums in that distant, muffled way it always does after dinner, cars passing like waves against the curb. inside, there is only the low murmur of conversation from the booth behind you, the clink of silverware, and changbin staring at his milkshake.
you notice because, well, you always notice.
“you’re glaring at it,” you say, nudging his sneaker with yours beneath the table, “what did the milkshake do to you?”
changbin blinks, then looks up at you. his fingers tighten around the glass. the whipped cream has started to melt, slowly sinking into the chocolate below, “nothing.”
you narrow your eyes, “that was suspiciously fast.”
he huffs out a laugh, ducking his head, but he doesn’t touch the straw. that, more than anything, is what tips you off. seo changbin has never once in his life shown restraint around dessert. you’ve seen him demolish an entire slice of cake in under two minutes while maintaining eye contact with you the entire time.
you lean forward over the table, elbows propped against the cool laminate, “bin.”
he grimaces.
“bin?”
“okay,” he says, pointing at you with his straw, “i need you to promise not to laugh.”
you smile immediately, “absolutely not.”
his eyes close for a second, like he’s gathering courage. when he opens them again, they’re warm and nervous all at once, that familiar softness that has always made your chest ache a little.
“i have to tell you something.”
you straighten, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “are you secretly batman?”
“worse.”
you gasp, “you’ve been skipping songs on my playlists?”
“i would never.”
his hand reaches across the table until his fingers find yours, threading together automatically. his thumb rubs over your knuckle, back and forth, back and forth, a tiny nervous habit.
“i don’t like chocolate ice cream.”
you stare at him. he stares back. then you blink once. twice.
“what?”
changbin winces like he’s bracing for impact, “i know.”
“you…” you point accusingly at the milkshake between you. “you ordered that.”
“i did.”
“you order chocolate every single time.”
“i am aware.”
you can’t help it. a laugh escapes you, bright and startled. changbin groans, dropping his forehead onto your joined hands.
“i knew it.”
“wait, wait.” you squeeze his fingers until he looks back up, “if you hate chocolate ice cream, why have you been ordering it for three years?”
his ears turn pink, and suddenly he looks very interested in the napkin dispenser, “because of you.”
that stops your laughter in its tracks.
“on our first date,” he says, words coming out in a rush, “you said chocolate was your favorite, and i panicked.”
“you panicked?”
“you were really pretty.”
“i was?”
“you still are. that’s not the point.”
you grin, “continue.”
he rolls his eyes fondly. “you were talking about how chocolate milkshakes are superior to every other flavor, and you looked so serious about it. like this was a deeply held moral conviction. and i thought, wow, i should agree immediately.”
“for romance?”
“for survival.”
you laugh again, and he squeezes your hand.
“so i told you chocolate was my favorite too. and then on our second date, you got all excited and said we should split one together because, and i quote, ‘soulmates have matching orders.’”
your jaw drops, “i said that?”
“with your whole chest.”
“i’m so funny for that.”
“it was terrifying.”
you can barely breathe from laughing now, but changbin is smiling too, though there’s still something nervous tucked into the corners of it.
“i figured i could just tell you later,” he admits. “except then you got this huge smile every time we shared one. and then it became our thing, y’know? and then suddenly it had been six months, and i couldn’t exactly sit you down over dinner and say, by the way, every milkshake we’ve ever had together has been built on lies.”
“that’s fair.”
“and then it was a year.”
“mhm.”
“and then two.”
“oh no.”
“and then i realized if i waited any longer, i’d probably have to take this secret to my grave.”
you laugh so hard you nearly knock over your water glass. changbin reaches out instinctively, steadying it before it can tip.
“so all this time,” you say, wiping at the corner of your eye, “you’ve been suffering through chocolate milkshakes for me?”
“suffering is a strong word.”
“heroically enduring?”
“exactly.”
you look down at the milkshake, then back at him. his expression is half embarrassed, half hopeful, like some tiny part of him still worries this matters.
it doesn’t. not even a little. “bin,” you say softly.
“yeah?”
you reach across the table and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the soft curve of it. his expression melts instantly, all mock outrage fading into something tender.
“you know i don’t care, right?”
his eyes flicker over your face, searching. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you smile. “i’d still date you even if your favorite ice cream was something horrifying. like mint chocolate chip.”
he gasps. “that’s slander.”
“see, now i’m concerned again.”
his laugh is quiet this time, fond and warm. he leans into your hand, turning just enough to kiss your palm. “i was kind of worried,” he admits. “which is ridiculous.”
“a little.”
“thanks.”
“anytime.”
you slide out of the booth before he can ask what you’re doing. he watches, confused, as you walk around to his side and squeeze in next to him, your thigh pressed against his.
“what are you doing?”
“making room for honesty.”
“that’s disgustingly cute.”
“i learned from the best.”
you steal his straw and take a sip of the milkshake. he makes a face before pushing it toward you completely. “all yours.”
“thank you for your sacrifice.”
he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close until your head rests against him. his lips brush your temple.
“next time,” you say, “we’re getting vanilla for you.”
you tilt your head up, and he kisses you, soft and sweet and familiar, tasting faintly of whipped cream and the last remnants of a three-year lie. when you pull back, he’s smiling.
outside, the city keeps moving. inside, the milkshake melts between you, and changbin finally, finally orders what he actually wants.
it only took three years. honestly, that’s pretty good timing.
synopsis — the delivery boy assigned to your flower shop intrigues you. your days begin to circle around him. you don’t notice when you start brushing the dirt from your apron before he comes in. you only notice that he always looks at you like you’re something alive, too.
g! — gn! reader, strangers to ?, fluff
wc! — 1.4 k
an! — i hope i captured that “patience as a love language” idea. if you enjoy, leave a comment & reblog please~ 🤍
you own a small flower shop tucked between a bakery and a forgotten bookshop. it is the kind of place people find by accident, guided by scent rather than sight. on quiet mornings, the air hums with sugar from next door, the faint perfume of baked bread curling through the doorway, mingling with the sweetness of peonies and the soft tang of lemon water you use to wipe the counter. the windows fog when the weather changes. the shop feels alive. the walls breathe in color — lavender, rose, moss, honey. every corner overflows with life. the days move slowly, deliberately. the same people pass by every morning, carrying coffee cups, paper bags from the bakery next door, the faint smell of sugar in the air. your shop is a kind of secret between them all, a quiet place filled with things that wilt beautifully.
and then there’s him. seungmin.
he arrives every few days, never quite on time. always the same van, a little too loud for the narrow street. you hear it before you see him — the brakes, the quick thud of his boots on the pavement, the soft knock on the glass door before he pushes it open.
“morning,” he says, quiet but certain.
you look up, and there he is. his cheeks flushed from wind, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the sharp smell of rain clinging to his clothes. he carries boxes wrapped in brown paper and twine, marked with faint stains from water and soil. every movement of his hands is deliberate. you think, even if he dropped a box, the flowers would somehow land unharmed.
he sets the boxes down. waits. sometimes he says something small — about the traffic, or the storm, or how the tulips came in early this season. other times, nothing. he lingers, eyes roaming the space as if he’s trying to memorize it.
and you, standing behind the counter, wonder if he sees you too.
you don’t notice when you begin waiting for him.
the days become built around the quiet rhythm of his arrival. the bell above the door sings, and something in your chest stirs. he steps inside, and the scent of the outside world follows him — wet air, iron, wind.
he begins to forget things. gloves on the counter. a pen by the register. small tokens, accidental or maybe not. you find them later and hold them for a moment too long before setting them aside.
the friendship starts in silence. you slide a glass of water toward him when his hands look raw from cold. he takes it with a nod, fingers brushing yours, barely there. sometimes he helps you move the heavier crates. once, he fixes the latch on the back door without you asking. another time, he carries an extra box inside even though it isn’t his job.
you begin brushing the dirt from your apron before he arrives. you sweep more often. you hum without meaning to. you start noticing the exact sound of his footsteps on the old wooden floor.
when he leaves, the shop feels smaller.
spring folds itself into early summer. light lingers longer in the evenings, stretching soft and golden across your counter. seungmin still comes. sometimes late, sometimes early. always careful. sometimes, he brings the wrong boxes just so he can stay long enough to apologize.
one afternoon, he leans against the doorway, holding a sandwich from the bakery. “you should eat,” he says. “it’s bad to forget.”
“who says i forget?” you answer, half smiling.
he tilts his head. “your face does. you like someone who skips lunch.”
you laugh, and the sound surprises both of you.
he smiles in return, still holding the sandwich out to you.
love builds itself quietly. it never announces its arrival. it hides in gestures, in glances that last a second too long.
you begin noticing how his hair falls into his eyes when he carries the heavier boxes, how his fingers are always nicked from work, how he looks at the flowers before he looks at you.
he starts noticing things too.
“you hum when you cut stems,” he tells you once.
you pause. “do i?”
“yeah,” he says softly. “same song every time.”
you think about it, but you can’t recall which song it might be. you wonder if he’s imagining it — or if he’s been listening close enough to know you better than you know yourself.
on one of your busier days, a customer comes in — someone who always speaks too loudly, who laughs too easily, who leans on the counter and makes you smile out of politeness more than anything else. seungmin is there, placing the last of the tulip boxes by the wall. you can feel him watching, though you pretend not to.
the customer touches your hand when paying. you laugh, embarrassed, and thank them quickly. when you turn back, seungmin is gone.
he doesn’t come for two days.
you don’t realize how much space his absence takes up until it’s quiet enough to hear the clock tick.
when he returns, his voice is softer. “sorry about last time,” he says, though he doesn’t explain why.
“there’s nothing to be sorry for,” you answer.
still, he looks at you as if there is.
he picks up one of the new bouquets you’ve arranged and studies the soft blue hydrangeas mixed between strands of ivy. “you changed the window display,” he says.
“yeah. needed something new.”
“it’s beautiful.”
his gaze doesn’t move to the window.
you start to learn each other through quiet things. the way his shoulders loosen when you smile. the way your voice softens when you say his name. you don’t say much, but somehow, the silence feels full.
love, you think, is not something you have to declare. it is the hand that steadies the crate without being asked. it is the voice that remembers to say take a break. it is the small space between you that never feels empty.
on a rainy evening, long after closing, you hear a knock on the door.
seungmin stands there, hair damp, a single flower in his hand. the streetlights spill over him, painting him in amber and shadow.
“you’re still here,” he says.
“couldn’t sleep,” you reply.
he steps inside carefully, as if the air is something fragile. he sets the flower on the counter. it’s small, pale and trembling.
“i couldn’t find where it belonged,” he says quietly, “maybe here.”
you take it from him. it feels warm, as though it’s been waiting to be held. you place it in a vase near the register.
“it belongs,” you say.
his eyes meet yours. for a moment, the world narrows to the sound of rain against the glass and the faint heartbeat in your chest.
you think of how he always stands a little too close, how his voice softens when he says your name, how every visit feels like a small confession left unfinished.
he looks at you like you are the softest thing he’s ever seen.
“you make everything look like it was meant to be,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“maybe it was,” you answer.
the air between you hums with something alive. neither of you move.
the next morning, you tuck a small bouquet into the back of his van —baby’s breath, freesia, one pale tulip, tied with a strip of silk ribbon. the note you leave reads: thank you for always coming back.
you don’t expect him to mention it.
but the next time he comes, he stands in the doorway for a long moment before speaking.
“you know i’ll keep coming back,” he says quietly.
“i know.”
he smiles then, a real, unguarded smile, and something in your chest loosens.
he stays longer that day, helping you arrange new shipments. sunlight falls across his hands as he works beside you. his sleeve brushes yours now and then, and neither of you move away.
the silence is soft, not awkward. the two of you don’t need words.
outside, the bakery hums with life, the scent of bread filling the street. inside, the shop glows with the colors of morning — honey light on petals, the gentle shine of water droplets on leaves.
when he leaves, he pauses at the door.
“see you soon,” he says.
you nod. “see you soon.”
the bell chimes as he steps into the sunlight. the scent of tulips stays behind, warm and green and impossibly sweet.
you stand there for a moment, surrounded by the hum of flowers and the whisper of his absence, what you and seungmin have doesn’t need to be named.
it grows quietly, the way things do when they are tended to with care..
