(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || When years of tension finally snap at a high-fashion gala, Y/N and Minho find themselves hiding in a dark closet, where the line between pretending and surrendering disappears completely.
The room was a pressure cooker of champagne bubbles and forced smiles. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of designer fabrics and glittering jewelry, transforming the hotel's grand ballroom into a gilded cage. Y/N felt like a fraud wrapped in silk, the elegant fabric of her deep emerald gown clinging to her skin like a second, sweatier layer. Every clinking glass was a tiny hammer against her skull, every peal of laughter a knife in her ears. She was playing the part of "K-pop idol at a high-fashion gala," smiling until her cheeks ached, making small talk with people whose names she'd forget by morning.
But the real source of the suffocating heat was standing ten feet away, radiating an energy that was making it hard to breathe.
Minho.
He was in a black suit that should have been illegal. It was tailored within an inch of its life, sharp and severe, hugging the lines of his body in a way that was both elegant and brutally distracting. The charcoal fabric was a perfect second skin, commanding his shoulders, cinching at his waist, the cut of the trousers a quiet testament to his dancer's physique. His hair was swept back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. He looked untouchable. He looked like a sin she desperately wanted to commit.
He was laughing at something their manager said, a polite, practiced curve of his lips, but his eyes weren't in it. His eyes were scanning, restless, and then they locked onto hers.
It was a physical impact. A jolt that shot down her spine and settled low in her stomach. The air crackled, thickening instantly. For a beat, the entire room, the executives, the idols, the shimmering lights, faded into a dull, irrelevant hum. It was just him and the magnetic pull between them, a force so potent it felt like it should bend light.
He didn't smile. He just held her gaze, his expression unreadable but heavy with a thousand unspoken things. It felt like a challenge. A dare. The noise of the party seemed to compress, becoming a dull roar in her ears. The smile he offered wasn't the polite, professional one he'd been flashing all night. It was a slow, private curve of his lips, a flicker of heat in his eyes that was meant only for her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the stem of her champagne flute, but the damage was done. A low hum of awareness now vibrated under her skin.
"Y/N-ah, you're glowing," a senior producer said, appearing at her side. She wrenched her eyes away from Minho, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass.
"Thank you, sunsaengnim. It's a wonderful event."
"We're so proud of all of you. The whole group is here tonight, making such a good impression." The man's words were just noise, a drone she had to endure while she felt Minho's stare like a physical touch on the side of her face.
Then came the mandatory group photos. "Stray Kids, let's get a few together!" a photographer called out. This was it. The moment the space between them would have to shrink from ten feet to zero.
They all shuffled into formation. By some cruel twist of fate, she ended up standing directly in front of Minho. She could feel the warmth of him before he even touched her. Then, his hand settled on the small of her back.
It was supposed to be a casual, supportive gesture. But his fingers spread wide, his palm pressing firmly against the silk. It wasn't a pat; it was a claim. For the camera, it looked perfectly acceptable. But then the first flash went off. And his hand didn't move. Hidden from view, his thumb pressed gently, finding the base of her spine, and began to move in a slow, deliberate circle. A tiny, maddening stroke that was hidden from every lens but burned through her dress, through her skin, right into her bones.
Her breath hitched. She had to consciously stop herself from leaning back into it, from arching into his touch like a cat in heat. Her smile froze in place for the second, third, fourth photo. The camera flashes went off, blinding and temporary, but the pressure of his hand was permanent. The contact lasted mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity of shared electricity.
The photographer waved them away, and the moment was gone. Minho's hand dropped. He didn't look at her as they dispersed. Y/N was left standing there, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin.
The rest of the evening became a masterclass in exquisite torture.
An important CEO from their label's fashion partner cornered them, his smile slick and eyes calculating. Y/N was forced into small talk, her brain foggy, the ghost of Minho's thumb still tracing lazy circles on her lower back.
"Minho-ssi, Y/N-ssi, you two have such a striking chemistry on stage," the man said, his eyes darting between them. "The fans love it."
Y/N felt a flush creep up her neck. She opened her mouth to offer a generic, polite response, but Minho beat her to it.
"We're just comfortable with each other," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. But as he spoke, he looked directly at Y/N. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. The words were for the CEO, but the look, the dark, heavy-lidded, possessive look, was all for her. It was a lie. They weren't comfortable. They were a live wire, constantly sparking, always on the verge of an overload.
Later, during a round of polite chatter with a French designer, Y/N fumbled a word, her brain short-circuiting. From beside her, she heard a soft, familiar huff of amusement. She glanced at Minho, who was looking down, swirling his drink, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. He knew. He was laughing at her. And that shared, private joke, that tiny glimpse of their real dynamic in this sea of fakery, was more intimate than any touch.
The CEO finally moved on, and they were left standing in a pocket of suffocating silence. The space between them felt too small and too vast all at once. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes, and Minho's arm brushed against hers as he reached for one. The touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a jolt through her so intense she almost dropped her own glass.
He didn't pull away. He let his arm rest against hers for a second too long, the fabric of his suit jacket a rough texture against her bare skin. He leaned in, his lips near her ear, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than a scream in the noisy room.
"You look like you're about to shatter," he murmured. His breath was warm, smelling of mint and something uniquely him. "Are you okay?"
The irony was so thick she could have choked on it. He was the reason she was about to shatter. She turned her head slightly, her mouth inches from his. "I'm fine," she lied, her voice trembling. "Just a little overwhelmed."
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw and predatory in their depths. "Me too," he admitted, and the confession hung between them, heavier than any chandelier in the room.
They had to navigate the crowd to reach their table. He was slightly ahead of her, then paused to let a waiter pass. She came up behind him, and as he stepped forward again, the movement was slightly off. His entire back pressed against her front, solid and warm, for the span of a heartbeat. He froze for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment of the contact, before moving away.
"Excuse me," he murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper meant for her alone, the words practically breathed against her hair.
She couldn't speak. She could only nod, her throat tight. The simple, courteous phrase was loaded with a tension so thick it was a wonder the air around them didn't crack.
She made her way to the table on shaky legs, taking her seat between Changbin and Felix. She could hear Minho's voice as he chatted with Jeongin further down the table, smooth and easy. He sounded so normal. So unbothered.
Across the white linen and gleaming silverware, she caught his eye. He was mid-sentence, a lazy smile on his lips, but when his gaze met hers, the smile didn't waver. It was his eyes that changed. The light in them deepened, focused, became something dark and intent. It was a look that stripped away the couture gown, the diamonds in her ears, the entire glamorous facade. It was a look that said he remembered exactly how the curve of her spine felt under his thumb. It was a look that promised more.
He was still standing too close in her memory. Still looking at her like he wanted to devour her whole. The tension wasn't just obvious anymore; it was a palpable, living thing, coiled in the space between their bodies, waiting to strike. And it was only a matter of time before it demanded to be set free.
Y/N had finally extracted herself from the group, needing air and space from the suffocating weight of Minho's attention. She'd found a quiet corner near the bar, nursing a glass of water she had no intention of drinking, when a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Y/N-noona?"
She turned. San from Ateez stood a few feet away, looking devastating in a deep burgundy velvet jacket that somehow made his sharp features even more striking. His smile was warm, genuine, and utterly disarming.
"San-ah!" The relief at seeing a friendly, uncomplicated face was immediate. "You're here too?"
"Unfortunately." He groaned dramatically, closing the distance between them. "These things are torture. I've been smiling so much my face is going to freeze like this." He demonstrated an exaggerated, frozen grin, and she laughed, a real laugh, the first one all night.
They fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about the variety show they'd filmed together, complaining about the food, making fun of the overly serious expressions on some of the executives' faces. It was normal. It was comfortable. It was exactly what she needed.
She should have known better.
San was a natural flirt, everyone knew that, and his attention was flattering in its simplicity. He leaned in closer as they talked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. His hand landed on her forearm to emphasize a point. Then again, a few minutes later, to guide her out of a waiter's path. Then again, just because.
Each touch was innocent. Each one went unnoticed by her.
Each one was noticed by someone else.
Across the room, Minho watched.
He'd been watching all night, of course. Watching the way the emerald silk of her dress caught the light. Watching the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was nervous. Watching the way her smile faltered every time their eyes met, like she was remembering something she shouldn't.
But now he was watching something else.
He was watching another man touch her. Another man make her laugh. Another man lean in close enough to breathe the same air she was breathing.
His hand tightened around his champagne flute until his knuckles went white.
"Minho? You okay?" Felix appeared at his side, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Fine." The word came out clipped, sharper than intended. Minho forced his jaw to unclench, forced his expression to smooth into something neutral. "Just tired."
Felix followed his gaze across the room. Understanding dawned on his face. "Ah. San's just friendly, you know. He's like that with everyone."
"I know."
But knowing it didn't stop the primal, possessive thing in his chest from snarling. Didn't stop the image of San's hand on her skin from burning into his brain like a brand. Didn't stop the sudden, overwhelming need to cross the room, insert himself between them, and remind every single person in this godforsaken ballroom exactly who Y/N belonged to.
He didn't move. He couldn't. If he moved, he wouldn't be able to stop.
Then San leaned in again, his lips brushing close to Y/N's ear to say something, and her laugh rang out, bright, genuine, unguarded, and something inside Minho snapped.
He set his glass down. He didn't remember doing it. One moment it was in his hand, the next it was on a passing tray, and he was moving.
The crowd parted around him. Or maybe he just didn't see them anymore. All he could see was her. All he could see was the space beside her that should have been his.
"San-ssi."
His voice was smooth. Pleasant. Perfectly controlled. But when San looked up, something in his expression flickered, a split second of recognition, like a smaller animal sensing a predator.
"Minho-ssi!" San's smile didn't waver, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "I was just keeping your Y/N company."
Your Y/N.
The words hit Minho like a shot of whiskey, warm, burning, and utterly intoxicating. He wanted to hear them again. He wanted to hear him say them.
His hand found the back of Y/N's chair. His fingers brushed her shoulder. A casual touch. A claiming one.
"She's hard to miss tonight," Minho said, his eyes dropping to Y/N's face. For a moment, just a moment, he let her see it. All of it. The hunger. The heat. The desperate, clawing need that had been building all night. "Unfortunately, I need to steal her. Manager's looking for us."
It was a lie. They both knew it. San's eyes flickered between them, and that knowing smile returned.
"Of course. Wouldn't want to keep you from important business." He squeezed Y/N's hand, one last touch, one last tiny defiance, and murmured, "See you around, noona."
Minho's hand was on her elbow before San had even finished speaking. His grip was firm, possessive, pulling her gently but inexorably away from the bar, away from the crowd, away from the man who'd dared to touch what was his.
"Minho-" she started.
"Don't." His voice was low, rough, barely controlled. He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed ahead, scanning for an exit, for privacy, for somewhere, anywhere, away from all these people. "Just keep walking."
She did.
He led her through the crowd with single-minded focus, his grip never loosening. Past the bar. Past the photographers lurking near the entrance. Past clusters of important people who didn't matter, whose names he'd already forgotten. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the fingertips pressed against her skin.
He found a corridor. Empty, lined with abstract art, leading away from the noise. He pulled her into it.
At the far end, there was a door. A service door, plain and unmarked. He didn't know where it led. He didn't care. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and pulled her in after him.
The door clicked shut.
Darkness. Silence. The muffled thump of music from somewhere far away.
They stood inches apart, breathing hard, the heat of their bodies mingling in the small space. He could smell her perfume, something soft and floral that had been driving him crazy all night. He could hear her heartbeat, fast and unsteady, matching his own.
His hand was still on her elbow. But now it was sliding up, over her forearm, over her wrist, until his fingers laced with hers. He lifted their joined hands and pressed them against the door beside her head, caging her in.
"San," he said, and the name came out like a curse. His voice was wrecked, stripped of all pretense. "He touched you. He was flirting with you. Right in front of me."
"He's just friendly-"
"I don't care." His forehead dropped to rest against hers. His breath was ragged, uneven, his control hanging by a thread. "I don't care if he's the nicest person on the planet. I don't care if he was just being polite. I saw his hand on you and I wanted to-" He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.
Y/N's free hand came up to cup his face. Her palm was cool against his heated skin. "You wanted to what?"
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. Then her wrist, where her pulse fluttered wildly. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and burning in the sliver of light from under the door.
"I wanted to drag you somewhere private and remind you exactly who you belong to."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and electric.
Y/N's breath stuttered. "Minho-"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was barely a whisper, rough with restraint, with desperation, with three years of wanting her in every way that mattered. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk out that door and never mention it again. I'll go back to pretending. I'll go back to watching you from across every room and dying inside. Just tell me to stop."
She didn't speak. She didn't move.
But her eyes, her beautiful, endless eyes, dropped to his lips.
That was all the answer he needed.
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a collision. The moment his lips met hers, three years of restraint shattered into a million pieces. His mouth was hot, demanding, claiming hers with a desperate urgency that stole the air from her lungs. His free hand came up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as if he feared she might disappear.
Y/N met him with equal ferocity. Her hands, which had been cupping his face, slid up into his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp. She kissed him back with everything she had, pouring all the frustration, all the longing, all the secret glances and stolen touches into this one moment. There was no finesse, no technique, only raw, unfiltered need.
His tongue swept against her lower lip, a silent, insistent question. She opened for him instantly, a soft gasp swallowed by his mouth. The first slide of his tongue against hers was electric. It was slow, deliberate, a deep, thorough exploration that made her knees weak. He tasted like champagne and mint and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Minho. He tasted like home.
Their tongues met, then danced, then dueled. It wasn't a fight for dominance but a frantic, desperate joining, a silent conversation they'd been waiting three years to have. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and she followed his lead, meeting his intensity with her own. Every stroke, every swirl was a confession, a promise, a plea. The world outside that small, dark room ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his mouth, the taste of him, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she moaned softly into the kiss.
The hand that had been pinning hers to the door released her, only to travel down her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip before settling on the small of her back. He pressed her closer, eliminating any remaining space between them. The silk of her dress was a flimsy barrier against the hard lines of his suit, and she could feel every ridge and plane of his body against hers. The pressure was delicious, a tantalizing preview of what she'd been craving all night.
The need for air became a burning necessity, but breaking apart felt impossible. It was Y/N who finally pulled back, gasping, her forehead resting against his. They were both breathing hard, their chests heaving in the darkness.
"Minho," she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.
He didn't answer with words. He answered with action. His hands moved from her hair and her back to grip her waist, lifting her slightly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, and he took two steps forward, pinning her against the door again. The new angle was devastating, allowing him to kiss her even deeper, more thoroughly. His tongue stroked hers in a rhythm that was both slow and desperate, a contradiction that mirrored the storm raging inside her.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric. She wanted to feel his skin. She wanted to feel all of him. The thought was so overwhelming, so potent, that it sent a jolt straight through her.
He must have felt it too, because a low groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her lips. He broke the kiss, but only to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His tongue traced the frantic pulse beating there, his teeth scraping gently against her sensitive skin. She tilted her head back, giving him better access, a silent invitation for more.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up her ribcage, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, tracing the curve of her spine. Each touch was a brand, each caress a promise of more to come. The tension coiled tighter and tighter inside her, a spring wound to its breaking point.
He captured her lips again, and this time, the kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, impossibly more intimate. His tongue moved against hers with a languid, deliberate rhythm that made her entire body ache with want. It was a kiss that said, "I've got you. I'm not letting go."
And then, gravity intervened.
Whether it was his shifting weight or her trembling legs, the balance shifted. He stumbled back a step, trying to steady them, but his foot caught on something unseen in the darkness. They went down in a tangle of limbs and silk and wool, landing on the floor with a soft thud that was barely audible over the sound of their ragged breathing.
He landed on his back, and she landed on top of him, her body draped over his. For a moment, they just lay there, stunned into stillness. The impact had knocked the wind out of them, but it had done nothing to dampen the fire between them.
If anything, it had poured gasoline on it.
She was straddling him now, her dress bunched around her thighs, her hands braced on his chest. She could feel the frantic, steady beat of his heart under her palms. In the dim light filtering under the door, she could see his face, his lips swollen from their kisses, his eyes dark and burning with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the universe.
He looked up at her, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his fingers gripping her through the silk. "Well," he said, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through her entire body. "That's one way to end up on the floor."
A breathless laugh escaped her. "Are you okay?"
"Never better," he replied, and then he was pulling her down, his mouth finding hers again.
This kiss was different from the others. It was slower, deeper, impossibly more intimate. There was no desperation now, only a profound, soul-deep certainty. His tongue slid against hers in a languid, deliberate rhythm that made her entire body ache with want. It was a kiss that said, "I've got you. I'm not letting go." It was a kiss that tasted like forever.
Her hands roamed over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his suit jacket before moving to the buttons of his shirt. She needed to feel his skin, needed the reassurance that this was real, that he was real. His hands mirrored her movements, sliding up her thighs, over her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her dress.
The world outside that small, dark room had ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body against hers, the taste of his mouth, the sound of their mingled breaths in the darkness. It was a perfect, beautiful, chaotic mess, and she wouldn't have traded it for anything.
The slow, deep kiss was a lie. It was a beautiful, fragile illusion of control, and it shattered the second she shifted her weight on top of him. The friction, even through the layers of her dress and his trousers, was a spark to a gasoline-soaked rag. A choked sound tore from Minho's throat, half-groan, half-sob, and his hands, which had been resting on her hips, convulsed. His fingers dug into her flesh, not bruising, but desperate, like a man drowning clutching at a lifeline.
His hips bucked up, a single, sharp, involuntary thrust that sent a bolt of pure electricity straight through her core. It was clumsy. It was raw. It was the most honest thing he had done all night.
"Fuck," he gasped against her mouth, the word muffled, broken. "Y/N, I-"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. She understood.
Her body answered for him. Her own hips rolled down, a slow, deliberate grind that met his frantic energy with a searing wave of her own. The pressure was exquisite, a delicious agony that had her seeing stars behind her closed eyelids. It was a question and an answer, a desperate, non-verbal plea for more.
That was it. The last thread of his restraint snapped.
He was no longer kissing her. He was devouring her, his mouth slanting over hers with a renewed, frantic hunger as his body took over. His hips began to move, a stuttering, desperate rhythm that was completely uncoordinated and utterly perfect. He wasn't grinding; he was rutting. There was no other word for it. It was a primal, shameless search for friction, for pressure, for any kind of relief from the unbearable ache that had been building for hours, for years.
Each thrust was a confession. I wanted you when you laughed at my stupid joke. I wanted you when you fell asleep on my shoulder in the van. I wanted you tonight when you looked at me in that fucking dress. His movements were jerky, almost violent in their intensity, his breath coming in ragged, panted gasps against her lips.
And she met him thrust for thrust.
Her own body was moving with a mind of its own, a desperate, grinding rhythm that matched his. She was chasing the same high, seeking the same release. The silk of her dress was a torment, a flimsy barrier that amplified the sensation without ever being enough. She could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, and the knowledge that she was the cause, that he was this hard and this desperate for her, was the most intoxicating thing she had ever known.
His hands abandoned her hips, sliding up her back to tangle in her hair again, holding her to him as if he could absorb her into his very skin. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving to her neck, his teeth scraping against her pulse point before his tongue soothed the sting. He was marking her, a primal, instinctual act of possession that made her whine low in her throat.
"Minho," she panted, his name a broken, breathless mantra. "Please, please, please."
She didn't know what she was begging for. More pressure? More speed? For him to rip off their clothes and finally bury himself inside her? It didn't matter. He understood.
His rhythm grew more frantic, his thrusts harder, faster. The sound of their bodies moving together was obscene in the quiet darkness, the slick slide of silk on wool, the soft, desperate grunts from his throat, the breathy moans she couldn't hold back. It was a symphony of desperation, and they were both playing their parts perfectly.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and the new pressure against her clit sent a jolt so intense through her that her entire body seized. A sharp cry escaped her lips, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, at the fabric of his suit jacket, trying to find purchase in a world that had dissolved into pure sensation.
"Right there?" he gasped, his voice ragged, triumphant. "Fuck, right there?"
He did it again, a deliberate, hard grind of his hips that had her seeing white. That was it. That was the spot. The coil of tension in her stomach tightened to an impossible degree, winding so tight it was painful. Every muscle in her body went rigid, her back arching, her head thrown back.
"Minho, I'm-"
"Come on," he growled, his voice a low, guttural command that was her undoing. "Come for me, baby. Now."
The words, combined with one final, brutal thrust, sent her flying over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that stole her breath and her sanity. She cried out, a sharp, unrestrained sound of pure ecstasy as her body convulsed, waves of release washing over her again and again.
He followed her instantly. With a hoarse, broken shout of her name, he buried his face in her neck, his body going rigid as his own orgasm tore through him. She felt the hot, wet pulse of his release through his trousers, a final, intimate proof of his desperate need for her.
For a long moment, they just lay there, a tangled, panting heap on the floor of the dark, silent room. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, muffled thump of a bassline from a world they had completely forgotten.
Slowly, shakily, reality began to seep back in. The hard floor beneath her. The cool air on her sweat-slicked skin. The weight of him, solid and real and still trembling slightly.
Minho lifted his head, his movements slow, heavy. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and soft in the gloom, his face still flushed with release. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch infinitely tender after the frantic desperation of moments before.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw. "Are you okay?"
She could only nod, her throat too tight to form words. She reached up, her hand trembling as she cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking the sharp line of his jaw. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, a look of profound relief and utter exhaustion washing over his features.
They were a mess. Her dress was wrinkled and probably ruined. His suit was disheveled. They were hiding in a dark closet, their bodies humming with the aftershocks of a desperate, dry-humped orgasm.
And it was perfect.
He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath her, a warm, solid anchor in the darkness. But as the waves of her orgasm subsided, a new, more terrifying wave of need crashed over her. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. The release had been a temporary reprieve, a small sip of water when she was dying of thirst. She wanted to drown.
"Minho," she whispered, her voice still shaky. She shifted her hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his still-hard cock.
A sharp hiss escaped him. His hands, which had been stroking her back soothingly, went rigid, his fingers digging into her silk-clad flesh. "Y/N… don't."
But she couldn't stop. It was like a switch had been flipped inside her, bypassing every rational thought and leaving only pure, animal instinct. She did it again, rolling her hips in a tight circle, feeling the thick, hard length of him press against her through the layers of their clothes. The friction was a torment, a promise of what she truly wanted.
"Fuck, stop," he groaned, but his voice was losing its edge, turning strained, breathless. "I just… I can't again. Not yet."
She didn't listen. She leaned down, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of his throat, and she bit him gently, a sharp, possessive nip. Her hips moved with a newfound urgency, a desperate, seeking rhythm that was entirely for her own pleasure now. She was chasing something, the ghost of a feeling that was already slipping away.
"Y/N, you're killing me," he gasped, his hands coming up to grip her waist, trying to still her movements. But his hold was weak, his thumbs stroking her ribs instead of pushing her away. "It's too much."
"Then make it stop," she panted against his skin, her words a challenge, a desperate plea. She ground down harder, and his whole body jerked, a choked moan tearing from his lips. His hips bucked up involuntarily, meeting her frantic rhythm. "Or don't. God, Minho, don't you dare stop."
That was all it took. His control, already frayed to within an inch of its life, finally disintegrated. With a guttural, desperate sound that was half-surrender, half-raw need, he rolled them.
Suddenly, she was on her back on the hard floor, and he was over her, his body blanketing hers. He bracketed her head with his arms, his forearms pressing into the floor on either side of her shoulders. The new position was even more intoxicating. She could feel the full weight of him, the solid, desperate heat of his body pinning her down.
"Is this what you want?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her entire body. His eyes were wild, burning with a frantic, feral light in the gloom. "You want me to lose my fucking mind?"
"Yes," she breathed, her hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down. "Yes, that's exactly what I want."
He kissed her then, and it was nothing like the kisses before. It was a punishing, bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation. His hips began to move again, a slow, deliberate grind that was meant to torture, to tease. But it was torturing them both. Every thrust was a reminder of the barriers between them, of the clothes that were in the way.
"Fuck this," he snarled against her mouth. He pushed himself up, his movements clumsy, frantic. "I can't… I need…"
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely work the buckle. Y/N watched him, her own hands moving to the hem of her dress, bunching the fabric in her fists and pulling it up her thighs. The air was cool on her overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire burning between them.
He finally got his belt open, then the button and zipper of his trousers. He shoved them down just enough, freeing himself. In the dim light, she caught a glimpse of him, hard, thick, flushed a dark, angry color, the tip already wet with pre-cum. The sight sent a fresh jolt of pure lust through her.
He didn't wait. He didn't ask. He fell back over her, his hand fumbling between them, his fingers finding the soaked lace of her panties. He didn't bother trying to pull them down. With a frustrated groan, he hooked his fingers in the fabric and ripped.
The sound of tearing lace was loud in the quiet room, a final, violent act of surrender.
And then he was there, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, ragged.
She met his gaze, her own eyes wide and desperate. "Minho."
"Tell me," he breathed, his forehead resting against hers. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this," she whispered, the words a sacred vow. "I want you."
That was it. The end.
He pushed into her in one long, slow, relentless stroke. He filled her completely, stretching her in a way that was almost painful but was so overwhelmingly right it brought tears to her eyes. He was inside her. Finally. After all this time, all the wanting, all the pretending, he was here.
He gave her a moment to adjust, his body taut with restraint, his breath coming in harsh pants. But she didn't need a moment. She needed him to move.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Move," she demanded, her voice a raw, desperate whisper. "Minho, move."
And he did.
He started to move, and it was frantic, desperate, and utterly perfect. There was no rhythm, no grace, only a primal, driving need to get as close as humanly possible. His first few thrusts were deep and hard, each one a possession, a claim. He was fucking her on the floor of a dark closet, and it was the most profound, meaningful moment of her life. The slick heat of her around him was a revelation, a homecoming he hadn't known he was searching for. Every pull of her body was a siren's call, begging him deeper.
"Fuck, Y/N," he panted against her mouth, his voice ragged. "You feel… God, you feel perfect."
"So do you," she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, and she wanted it gone. She wanted his skin against hers. "Don't stop. Please, don't ever stop."
He kissed her again, a messy, desperate clash of tongues and teeth as his hips pistoned into her. The sounds were obscene, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths mingling in the darkness, the desperate, broken words they couldn't stop themselves from saying. He was relentless, driving into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs, each withdrawal a devastating loss, each return a blissful, overwhelming homecoming.
"Mine," he growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through her entire chest. He punctuated the word with a particularly deep thrust that made her cry out. "You're mine."
"Yours," she agreed, her head falling back, her throat exposed to his hungry mouth. "All yours." He took the invitation, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire down her neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin above her collarbone. It was a brand, a public declaration of this private moment.
The tension was building again, coiling tight and hot in her stomach. But this time it was different. This time it wasn't a frantic, desperate rush. It was a slow, steady climb, a wave building in the deep ocean, gathering strength and power before it crashed. He could feel it too. He slowed his pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more torturous. He was drawing it out, making her feel every inch of him, every agonizingly perfect second.
"Minho," she whimpered, her body starting to tremble uncontrollably. "I'm close."
"Me too," he groaned, his rhythm becoming erratic once more, his thrusts harder, more desperate. "Come with me, baby. Let go. I've got you."
His words were her undoing. With a sharp cry, she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her breathless and boneless. It wasn't just a release; it was a supernova, a blinding explosion of pleasure that started in her core and radiated out to every nerve ending. Her inner walls clenched around him, a spasm of pure, unadulterated pleasure that milked him for all he was worth.
He followed her over the edge with a hoarse shout of her name, his body going rigid as he buried himself deep inside her, his own release pulsing through him in hot, powerful waves. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
For a long moment, they just lay there, a sweaty, panting, tangled mess of limbs and ruined clothes. The silence that followed was heavy, profound, filled with the sound of their hearts beating in tandem. But the fire between them hadn't been extinguished. It had merely banked, waiting for the slightest breath to roar back to life.
Minho stirred first, lifting his head just enough to look at her. In the dim light, his eyes were soft, but the hunger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. "We're not done," he murmured, his voice a low, husky promise.
Before she could respond, he was moving. He pulled out of her slowly, the loss an immediate, hollow ache. He stood up, his movements surprisingly fluid for a man who had just been thoroughly undone. He shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then his tie. Then his shirt, each button a small victory in the war against their clothing.
He knelt back down beside her, his bare chest gleaming with sweat in the low light. He was beautiful. All sharp lines and lean muscle, a dancer's body built for power and grace. He reached for the hem of her dress, his fingers hooking under the fabric.
"Lift up," he commanded softly.
She obeyed, raising her hips off the floor. He peeled the silk dress up her body and over her head, tossing it aside. Now they were both naked, exposed in the darkness. The air was cool on her heated skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze roamed over her body, hot and possessive, like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle.
"Come here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He lay back on the floor, pulling her with him. He positioned her so she was straddling his face, her knees bracketing his head. "I want to taste you."
"Minho, I-" she started, but her words dissolved into a gasp as his tongue flicked out, tasting her. He was slow at first, exploratory, his tongue tracing her folds, learning her. But his restraint was a fragile thing, and it didn't last long. He became more demanding, his mouth devouring her, his tongue delving deep, his lips closing around her clit and sucking.
Her hands flew to the wall in front of her, bracing herself as he ate her out with a single-minded intensity that was utterly overwhelming. He was worshipping her with his mouth, his hands gripping her ass, holding her in place as he took his pleasure from giving her hers. The coil of tension began to build again, faster this time, a frantic, desperate spiral towards oblivion.
"Minho, God, right there," she panted, her hips rocking against his face. He hummed against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot, that magical spot that made her see stars.
The dual stimulation was too much. With a cry that was half his name, half a sob, she came again, her body convulsing, her juices flooding his mouth. He drank her down, his tongue lapping at her until the tremors subsided.
He gently eased her back down his body, her limbs feeling like jelly. She collapsed against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. His cock was hard again, pressing insistently against her stomach.
"Again," he whispered, his voice a raw, ragged plea. "I need to be inside you again."
She didn't have the strength to move, to straddle him. But he understood. He rolled them again, so he was on top, his body blanketing hers. He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wide, opening her completely to him. He entered her in one smooth stroke, and this time, it was different. It was slower, deeper, more intimate.
He moved inside her with a languid, deliberate rhythm, his eyes locked on hers. There was no desperation now, only a profound, soul-deep connection. He was making love to her, and the thought was so overwhelming, so perfect, that tears welled in her eyes again.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thrusts slow and deep. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," she breathed, her hands stroking his sweat-slicked back. "I love you, Minho."
He kissed her then, a slow, tender kiss that was a stark contrast to the frantic, desperate ones from before. It was a kiss that sealed their fate, a promise of a future that was finally within their reach. The tension built slowly, a gentle, cresting wave of pleasure that was more emotional than physical.
When they came this time, it was together, a quiet, shared release that was less of an explosion and more of a surrender. It was an acknowledgment of everything they were, everything they had been, and everything they would become.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting, familiar presence. He didn't pull out, just nuzzled his face into her neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
They were a mess. They were on the floor of a dark closet. They had a gala to get back to, a world of pretending waiting for them just outside that door.
But none of it mattered. In that moment, they had everything they had ever wanted.
The silence in the small, dark room was no longer heavy with desperation, but thick with a new, profound reality. It was the sound of a world remade. Minho’s weight on her was no longer a frantic pressure, but a grounding, comforting anchor. She could feel his heartbeat, a slow, steady drum against her own, gradually calming from its frantic race.
He didn't move for a long time, just breathed against her neck, his face buried in her hair. Then, with a soft, reluctant groan, he shifted, carefully withdrawing from her. The loss was immediate and surprisingly sharp, a hollow ache where moments ago there had been a perfect, consuming fullness.
He rolled to the side, his arm still draped heavily across her waist, refusing to break the contact completely. The cool air hit her skin, and she shivered, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way she hadn't moments before.
"Are you cold?" he whispered, his voice a low, husky rumble that was still rough from their exertions.
"A little," she admitted, her own voice barely audible.
He sat up, his movements slow and fluid in the dim light. He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. He found his discarded shirt and leaned over her, gently draping the soft, expensive cotton over her naked body. It smelled like him, like cologne and sweat and sex. She pulled it around herself, a small, private smile touching her lips.
He stood up, and she watched him, her heart swelling with a tenderness so fierce it almost hurt. He was a silhouette against the sliver of light under the door, all lean muscle and long limbs. He found his trousers, stepping into them but leaving them unfastened. He picked up her dress, holding the ruined silk in his hands for a moment before setting it aside.
He came back to her, sinking to the floor and leaning against the wall. He didn't say anything, just opened his arms. She went to him without hesitation, curling into his side, her head resting on his chest. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, his hand stroking her hair in a slow, rhythmic motion.
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, a quiet island of peace in the middle of a chaotic world. Outside, the party was still raging, a distant, irrelevant hum. In here, there was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies, and the unspoken truth that now lay between them, solid and real.
"We have to go back out there," she said finally, her voice muffled against his skin. The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "But not yet."
He tilted her chin up, his fingers gentle, and looked at her. In the faint light, she could see the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely showed anyone. "Hey," he murmured. "Look at me."
She did, her heart clenching at the raw emotion she saw in his gaze.
"This wasn't just… this wasn't a mistake, or a moment of weakness," he said, his voice serious, firm. "This was inevitable. This is the only thing that's felt real in years."
Tears pricked at her eyes again, and she blinked them back. "I know," she whispered. "For me too."
He leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of reverence. It was slow and soft, a gentle sealing of a promise. It was a kiss that said, Now what?
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and daunting. They were idols. Their lives were not their own. This thing between them, this beautiful, terrifying new reality, was a landmine.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, the fear finally creeping in.
He sighed, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I don't know," he admitted, his honesty a balm to her frayed nerves. "But we're going to figure it out. Together. I'm not letting you go, Y/N. Not now. Not ever."
The conviction in his voice was enough to quiet the storm of doubt in her mind. She believed him.
"Okay," she whispered. "Together."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, just holding each other. Then, with another reluctant sigh, Minho started to move.
"Okay," he said, his voice all business. "Let's get you dressed. Or… as dressed as you can be." He picked up her dress, holding up the torn section. "I'll pay for a new one. A dozen new ones."
She laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign and wonderful. "You owe me at least a dozen."
He helped her up, his hands gentle on her waist. She slipped into the ruined dress, the torn lace at her hip a secret, intimate mark of what they'd done. He fastened his own trousers, then pulled on his shirt, leaving it untucked and unbuttoned at the collar. He looked deliciously disheveled. They both did.
He picked up his jacket and tie, shoving them into his pockets. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it, but it was hopeless. They both looked like they'd just been thoroughly ravaged in a dark closet. Which, she supposed, they had.
"Ready?" he asked, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing with hers.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Ready."
He squeezed her hand. "Stay close to me. If anyone asks, we were feeling unwell and needed some fresh air. We got lost looking for a restroom."
It was a flimsy excuse, but it was the best they had.
He leaned in and gave her one last, quick kiss. "Whatever happens," he murmured, his eyes locking with hers, "we face it together."
She nodded, her heart swelling. "Together."
He opened the door a crack, peering out. The corridor was empty. He pulled her out after him, his hand never leaving hers. They walked back towards the ballroom, their steps slow, deliberate. With every step, the noise grew louder, the lights brighter, the world more demanding. The bubble was about to burst.
Just before they stepped back into the fray, he stopped her, pulling her into a small alcove. He looked down at her, his expression serious.
"Y/N," he said, his voice low and intense. "No matter what happens out there… no matter who we have to pretend to be… just remember this. Remember us. This is real."
She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. "This is real," she repeated, sealing the promise.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and led her back into the gilded cage. The party was still in full swing, the champagne still flowing, the smiles still forced. But as they stepped back into the light, their hands no longer linked but brushing against each other deliberately every so often, hidden from view, Y/N knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
🇨🇵 Ça fait un moment que je cherchais d'où venait cette photo de Changbin 🤔 j'ai fini par découvrir que c'est un extrait de la performance de Stray kids au concert SBS SUPER on:tact du 27 septembre 2020 diffusé en streaming sur VLive 😢 la vidéo est perdue mais j'ai pensé que ça serait intéressant de le partager 🫶
🇬🇧 It’s been a long time I wanted to know where/when this photo of Changbin was taken 🤔 I discovered recently it's from the Stray kids perform for SBS SUPER on:tact concert the 27th September 2020, streamed on Vlive 😢 the video is forever lost but I thought it would be interesting to share 🫶
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which you have feelings for seo changbin, and you’re absolutely, positively, a hundred percent certain that he could never, ever like you back.
or… your best friend, kim seungmin, insists that he reciprocates your feelings, yet you refuse to listen.
seo changbin x fem!reader · category : angst & fluff · contents : feat. seungmin & jeongin (cameo). she fell first, he fell harder. eventual romance. friends to lovers. body insecurities. self-loathe. reader always talk negatively of herself. pining. hurt/comfort. kissing. strong language. reader’s discretion is advised. · word count : 14.5k
💬 … lynsbng speaking ⸝⸝ another anon request! just a gentle reminder that you are beautiful just the way you are. every body is different, every body is beautiful! 💕
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the taglist? < click me! >
(for accounts that are tagged in a different color, i somehow can’t tag your account.)
THE FIRST TIME YOU MET SEO CHANGBIN, you were pretty sure you had made a bad impression.
or so you thought, at least.
the jyp entertainment building loomed over the busy seoul street like any corporate giant, yet the cafe on its ground floor, your current workplace, was a world away from the polished, high-pressure energy of the floors above. it was your sanctuary, your little pocket of warmth in the city, you had worked part-time for the past year, ever since your cv required a little more padding and your bank account required a little more cushion. what started as a necessity had become a comfort, where the scent of freshly ground coffee beans had become synonymous with a life that existed outside of your own spiraling thoughts.
you loved it here. the way the afternoon sun slanted through the large windows, casting golden light across the wooden floors. the way regular customers, especially idols, smiled and greeted you when they saw you behind the counter. the way the chaos of the entertainment world swirled just upstairs while you remained in your quiet, cozy bubble. it was cozy, it was inviting.
you were wiping down the counter, humming along to a mellow piano piece, when the little bell above the door chimed. you looked up, a practiced smile already forming on your lips, ready to greet the customer.
“welcome–”
and then, your brain just… short-circuited.
not in a panicked, static-noised kind of way. more like the way the world goes silent right before a first snowfall. everything else in the coffee shop, the hiss of the espresso machine, the dull roar of small talk, all of them just… faded.
he was average height, sure, yet the way he stood made him feel like the only solid thing in a tilting room. his shoulders were broad, not in an intimidating way, but in a way that they seemed to carry the weight of the world in the most attractive way possible. the simple black hoodie looked impossibly soft, his jeans worn perfectly, and a black mask that covered the lower half of his face.
but it was his eyes that got you. god, his eyes.
they were sharp, almost too sharp for a place this ordinary, scanning the menu board like he was solving a puzzle. there was a warmth behind the intensity, though, a quiet fire that made you wonder what it would be like to be the sole focus of that gaze. and then, as if he felt the weight of your staring, his eyes dropped from the menu.
and they landed on you.
thump.
your heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped entirely, forgot its rhythm, and then started again in a completely new tempo meant only for him. you almost forgot how to breathe, almost forgot your own name.
you had seen those eyes a thousand times on your phone screen. in music videos. in variety shows. in the photos your best friend, kim seungmin, occasionally sent you from their dorm, captioned with things like ‘this idiot fell asleep on the couch again’ or ‘this greedy motherfucker ate the entire chicken and left me with nothing.’
seo changbin was literally standing three meters away from you, and you were already a sweating mess.
“hi,” he greeted, his voice slightly muffled by the mask yet still undeniably warm, a rich baritone that seemed to resonate somewhere deep within your chest, “can i get an iced americano, please? and a tuna salad sandwich.”
“of course,” you managed, mentally proud that your voice only wobbled slightly. you tapped his order into the tablet with his fingers that definitely weren’t trembling. “that’ll be 10,300 won.”
the card reader beeped. he tapped it once, twice, then slipped it back into his wallet with hands that looked like they had been drawn by someone who understood art–okay, y/n, keep your shit together.
you told him you would call his order number and he nodded. just a dip of his chin. just a small thing. it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop.
then he moved.
you watched him thread through the cafe, watched him choose the table by the window like it had been waiting for him his whole life, watched him comfortably settle into the chair. the light loved him immediately–of course it did, everything would, now.
you watched for exactly three seconds. long enough to memorize the way his shoulders relaxed against the chair. long enough to burn the image behind your eyelids. long enough to admire.
then you forced yourself to look away.
number one-four-three. your hands found his cup, and you began to make his order as if the axis of your world hadn’t just permanently tilted towards a window seat.
concentrate, you told yourself firmly. it’s just coffee. you’ve made thousands of coffees. this one is no different. he’s just a customer.
except, it was different, and you knew it, and your stupid hands knew it too.
you made his iced americano with painstaking care, measuring the espresso shot twice, making sure the water ratio was exact. you placed the sandwich on a small plate with the kind of reverence usually reserved for offering sacrifices to ancient gods. you took a deep breath, steading yourself before calling out his number.
“order number one-four-three?”
he looked up from his phone, and even through the mask, you could see the slight crinkle around his eyes that suggested a smile. he rose from his seat and walked towards the counter, and with every step, your heart pounded harder against your ribs.
just hand him the order. that’s it. hand him the order and walk away.
you set the tray on the counter, “one iced americano and one tuna salad sandwich, enjoy!’
he reached for it, his fingers brushing against the edge of the tray, and you quickly pulled your hands back as if burned.
“thank you,” the words unfurled slowly, warm honey dripping into the space between you, and you wanted to bottle them, keep them, play them back on every cold morning for the rest of your life. his voice didn’t just reach your ears, it settled into your bone, made a home there, started building furniture.
you nodded and smiled. you felt it split your face open–too wide, too bright, the kind of helpless expression that belongs to people who have just realized they’re in a huge, huge trouble.
then you turned away because staying would have been impossible.
the espresso machine waited for you, cold and patient, and you ran a cold over its surface like you could smooth away the shakiness in your hands–news flash, you couldn’t. you didn’t. your pulse was a metronome counting time to a song only your heart could hear.
out of the corner of your eye, you watched him. you watched him carry his tray back to the window table, watched him settle in, watched him pull down his mask to take that first sip.
and then you watched him pause.
his eyebrows drew together slightly. he looked at the cup. took another sip. look at the cup again.
your stomach dropped.
no. shit. nonono.
you glanced at the order screen on your tablet. one-four-three: iced americano, tuna salad sandwich. you swore you had made it correctly. you had been so careful. you–
he was looking at you now. not angrily, not even with frustration. just… confused, slightly puzzled.
you walked over before you could stop yourself, your feet moving on autopilot. you could feel a hard lump stuck between the depths of your throat, “is everything okay?”
his eyes remained fixated on you, and even confused, even puzzled, his eyes were so incredibly kind.
“sorry,” he began, his voice without the mask was even deeper, even warmer, even more unfairly attractive, “i think there might be a mistake. this tastes like… vanilla syrup?”
you stared at him. stared at the cup. stared back at him.
and then your gaze snagged on something over your shoulder; a flash of wood, a drink sitting lonely on the counter behind you. the vanilla latte, made for the woman at the table across, who was now craning her neck, scanning the cafe, looking around like she had been forgotten.
…shit.
“oh my god,” you breathed, your face instantly flooding with heat, “i am so sorry. i mixed up the orders—i gave you the wrong drink. i don’t know how–i was so sure… i’m so sorry, i’ll make you a new one right away.”
you reached for the cup, already mentally kicking yourself, preparing for the sigh, the eye roll, the cold dismissal that someone like him… someone important, someone famous, someone who had places to be and people to see, would surely give to someone like you, someone who couldn;t even get a simple coffee order.
however, instead, he laughed.
it was soft, barely more than an exhale, yet it was genuine. his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way you had only ever seen in videos, and it was even more beautiful in person.
“it’s okay,” he breathed, “honestly, it’s a nice surprise. i was expecting bitter, and yet i got something sweet instead.”
he took another sip, and his eyes–those eyes, sparkled with amusement. “not bad. but i was really looking forward to that bitter kick.”
you stared at him, momentarily speechless. he wasn’t annoyed. he wasn’t rude. he was just… kind. patient. human.
“i’ll get you a new one,” you repeated, your voice steadier now, touched by his unexpected grace, “right away, i promise!”
“thank you… y/n.”
he said your name.
he said your name.
his eyes had dropped to your chest; to the small rectangle pinned to your apron, the one you had worn a thousand times without thinking, the one that now felt like the most important in the entire universe. he had read it. he had looked at it. he had formed the letter in his mind and then let them fall from his lips like they belonged there.
y/n. the same name you had been called your entire life.
and yet, hearing it from him was like hearing it for the first time. as if no one had ever said correctly before. as if every other person who had spoken your name had been practicing for this moment, and he was the first one to get it right.
something fluttered in your chest.
scratch that. something ignited. something small, warm, and terrifying, like the first spark of a fire you wouldn’t be able to control. it fluttered, yes, but it also burned. it settled into the space between your ribs and started growing roots.
you looked at him.
he was still watching you. still patient. still kind. still impossibly, devastatingly there, with your name still hanging in the air between you like a gift you hadn’t earned.
“r–right away!”
you rushed back to the counter, and made a perfect iced americano, ensuring that it wouldn’t contain any syrup or other condiments. you then grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the display case, before bringing everything back to him, setting it down with trembling hands.
“again, i’m so sorry for the mix-up,” an apologetic smile hovered your lips, “the cookie is on me, a peace offering.”
his gaze remained on the cookie, before diverted back to you. for a moment, he just stared, and you could feel your cheeks burn under his gaze. then slowly, he smiled–a real smile, full, and warm.
“my, you really didn’t have to,” a soft chuckle escaped his lips, the cookie now within his grasp, “we make mistakes all the time. thank you, i love chocolate chip cookies.”
you let out a shaky laugh, “i’m glad. i mean–i’m glad you like them. i mean–”
you idiot. stop talking. you’re so embarrassing.
“i mean… i’m just glad you’re not.. mad.”
his smiles widened, his eyes crinkling into those beautiful crescents. “that will be unnecessary. thanks for fixing my drink.”
you nodded, managed to say something that might have been ‘enjoy your coffee,” and practically fled back to the counter. from there, you had him under your scrutiny as he ate his sandwich, sipped his coffee, and scrolled through his phone. he also ate the cookie, taking large bites and looking genuinely pleased with it.
when he finally got up to leave, he paused at the counter on his way out, “have a good day, y/n,” giving a small wave.
“you too. please come again–”
and then he was gone, the little bell chiming softly behind him, leaving you in a daze with a heart that refused to stop racing.
that was the moment. the exact moment your heart began to stutter for seo changbin.
YOU DIDN’T TELL SEUNGMIN ABOUT IT. it felt too silly, too insignificant. it was just a three-minute interaction, for fuck sakes. yet you couldn’t stop thinking about it. the kindness in his eyes. the soft laugh. the way he had looked at you like you were an actual person, not just an average part-time worker who had messed up.
a week later, seungmin invited you over for game night at his apartment. it was a regular occurrence; you had been friends with him since high school, and his groupmates had become familiar faces over the years. through him, you had grown close with jeongin, which you often played mario kart with (who definitely cheated during the games), and you had deep conversations with the two of them at two in the morning about life in general. you were comfortable there, a part of the furniture in their chaotic, lovely world.
you arrived on a friday evening, two large tteokbokki takeouts in each hand. seungmin opened the door, his round glasses on, looking like the epitome of a cute, studious nerd.
except, he was the complete opposite–that menace, you hate him. (affectionately, of course.)
“hey! what took you so long?” he demanded, already reaching for the bags, “i’ve been waiting forever. jeongin’s been complaining about the controller for twenty minutes straight. my ears are bleeding.”
you rolled your eyes, pushing past him into the apartment, “you’re living in seoul, idiot–traffic exists. also,what happened to ‘hi, hello?” nice to see you, seungmin. i’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“yeah, yeah, whatever. now give me my tteokbokki.”
you held the bags above your head, grinning at his glare. “say please.”
“please,” he said flatly, without an ounce of sincerity.
“woooow. so heartfelt. i’m moved.”
“y/n.”
“seungmin.”
he lunged for the bags, and you dodged, cackling as you ran into the living room where jeongin was sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, looking betrayed by the game on screen.
“noona,” jeongin perked immediately, his face splitting into a wide grin, “you actually brought food! i take back every bad thing i have ever said about you.”
“you what?” a scoff followed your inquiry as you dropped onto the couch next to him, the bags clutched to your chest.
“in my defense, only when you beat me at mario kart. which is never, by the way, because i’m simply amazing.”
“you cheat,” you and seungmin sang in unison.
jeongin gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense, “this is slander! defamation! i’m hurt!”
“you’re annoying,” seungmin corrected, finally wrestling the tteokbokki from your grip and settling on your other side, “now shut up and eat so we can play.”
the night progressed as it always did, with jeongin somehow winning at every round of mario kart, seungmin complaining about unfairness, and you comfortably existing in the middle of the chaos, laughing until your stomach hurt.
it was around ten when you heard the front door open and close.
jeongin perked up, “is that–”
“hey! how can you guys order tteokbokki without me!”
the voice came roaring from the hallway–loud, indignant, and absolutely unmistakable. it was deeper than you had heard back in the cafe, rougher around the edges, laced with playful outrage.
you froze, your hand hovering over the controller.
changbin burst into the living room like a man on mission, his eyes scanning for the source of the spicy and savory scent that had clearly been tormenting him sinc he walked through the door. he was in a loose gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp, as if he had just got back from the gym. his expression was one of exaggerated betrayal.
“i can smell it from the elevator! you guys are so inconsiderate, i’ve been starving all evening and you–”
he stopped dead on the tracks.
his eyes had found you.
you watched the realization dawn on his face–the shift from playful indignation to startled recognition. his mouth, which had been agape mid-complaint, slowly closed. his ears, you noticed with a strange sense of detachment, were turning slightly pink.
for a suspended second, no one moved. the mario kart soundtrack played cheerfully in the background, completely oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.
jeongin, bless his chaotic heart, was the first to break the silence, “hyung, you’re so loud! also, there’s still some left. noona brought two large portions.”
“...noona,” changbin repeated, his voice now significantly softer than the roar that had preceded it, he was still looking at you, and you watched as he seemed to piece everything together; you, on the couch, holding a controller, seemingly a close friend to his younger members, very much not behind a coffee counter.
you raised your hand in a small, awkward wave. “hi…i… also brought the tteokbokki. sorry. for existing–i mean, with the food. that you can smell.”
kill me now, literally.
however, instead of looking annoyed or embarrassed, changbin’s face broke into that same genuine smile from the cafe–the one that crinkled his eyes and made your heart do dangerous things.
“miss best barista strikes again,” he observed, warmth curling through his voice like steam off fresh coffee. no trace of annoyance, “first coffee, now tteokbokki. you’re going to spoil me.”
“you two know each other–”
you shot a glare at seungmin. a playful smirk hovered his lips by that exchange, his eyes dancing with mischief behind those round glasses. he knew exactly what he was doing.
“we’ve met,” changbin said easily, finally tearing his gaze away from you to look at seungmin, “at the cafe downstairs. how about you? you’ve never formally introduced me to your friend.”
the accusation in his voice was mild, yet there was something underneath it–curiosity, maybe, interest. seungmin, the traitor, just shrugged.
“didn’t think you’d be interested,” he uttered casually, and you wanted to strangle him.
changbin’s eyebrows rose, “why wouldn’t i be interested in meeting my favorite dongsaeng’s oldest friends?”
favorite dongsaeng. the term of endearment made something warm flutter in your chest, even though it wasn’t directed at you.
seungmin gestured vaguely between you and changbin, “well, now you’ve met. y/n, this is changbin hyung, you know him. changbin hyung, this is y/n, a close friend from high school.”
you managed a small wave. again. “hi. officially.”
changbin’s smile widened, his teeth peeking through his plump lips, “hi, officially.”
jeongin, who had been watching this exchange with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel, finally interrupted, “so, are we gonna play mario kart or? the tteokbokki’s getting cold and my winning streak is getting lonely.”
seungmin threw a pillow at him, “you don’t have a winning streak. you cheat.”
“i don’t cheat! i’m just talented!”
changbin laughed, and the sound wrapped around your heart and squeezed gently, as if it was testing whether you were real. he moved towards the couch, settling onto the floor across from you with the kind of casual grace that made everything look effortless, “i haven’t played in awhile, you have to go easy on me.”
“i don’t go easy on anyone,” jeongin declared, “victory shall be mine–”
“this brat–”
you couldn’t help but laugh, and when you looked up, changbin was watching you again with that soft expression. this time, he didn’t look away when you caught him. he just smiled; a smaller yet more intimate smile, and something warm bloomed within your chest. something that felt like the first real thing you had felt in years.
the night progressed in the familiar chaos of races and trash talk. you learned that changbin was surprisingly quiet bad at video games, or just mario kart, despite his confident claims, that he had a habit of biting his lip when concentrating, and that his laugh was even more fun and beautiful up close.
you also learned that he was kind. when seungmin got frustrated with a difficult course, changbin was the one who calmed him down. when jeongin made a self-deprecating joke, changbin was quick to reassure him. and when you accidentally knocked over your drirnk, he was the first one to grab paper towels.
and without you knowing, seungmin was already documenting the entire scene. that asshole.
“don’t worry about it,” he said, kneeling beside you to wipe up the mess, “accidents happen.”
he was so close you could smell him. you could feel your cheeks burning, could feel the heat crawling up your neck, staining your ears, betraying every calm thought you had ever had.
“...thanks,” you managed, the smile on your lips trembling.
he looked up at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. his eyes were dark and warm, and you could see yourself reflected in them.
“anytime,” he exhaled softly.
seungmin’s voice shattered the moment, “is it just me or is it getting hotter here? get a room, you two!”
you jerked back, face burning.
changbin shot him a dirty look, despite his ears turning pink, “dude, shut up!”
both seungmin and jeongin looked at each other, mirroring each other’s grin.
by the time midnight rolled around, jeongin was yawning, and seungmin was checking his phone with a grimace.
“i should go,” a soft yawn accompanied your words, starting to gather your things, “thanks for having me. this was really fun.”
seungmin stood up, “i’ll walk you–”
“i’ll do it,” changbin offered immediately, “it’s late, i need air anyway.”
seungmin looked at him, then at you, that knowing smirk playing on his lips, “suuure, hyung.”
you grabbed your bag, avoiding seungmin’s gaze. as you headed for the door, you heard jeongin’s loud whisper: “noona’s down bad, isn’t she?”
the door closed behind you before you could hear changbin’s response, and you were figuratively, metaphorically, dying inside.
you wanted to melt into the floor of the hallway and never resurface.
the walk to the lobby was short, barely five minutes, yet if felt charged with a new, electric energy.
“it was really nice talking to you tonight, y/n,” changbin was first to break the silence as you reached the shelter. the night air was cool, and he stood with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, looking down at you.
“you too,” you replied, and you meant it with every fiber of your being, “i had a lot of fun.”
his signature smile returned, “maybe we can do it again sometime? not a game night, necessarily. just… talk more in general. about music, or movies, or anything.”
your heart soared. this man will be the end of me.
“i’d like that,” you whispered, your voice full of a hope you were terrified to feel.
“great… that’s great! i’ll reach out to you, of course,” a sigh of relief slipped past his lips, “i’ll see you then, y/n.”
your taxi rumbled into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness. you climbed in, turning back to wave. he was still standing there, under the streetlight, a figure who had somehow, in the span of a single evening, managed to capture a piece of your heart you hadn’t even known was available.
as the taxi pulled away, you pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the wild, erratic beat beneath your palm.
oh, you were so screwed.
THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A MONTAGE OF STOLENT MOMENTS AND GROWING FEELINGS. it started with messages. he would send you little snippets of songs he was working on, asking for your honest opinion, and you would send back voice memos of your thoughts; voice cracking slightly, too shy to call.
and then the messages changed.
they became life updates. mundane thing such as what he ate for lunch, a funny thing seungmin said, a picture of the sky from his studio window. however, tucked between the ordinary were photographs of him: messy hair after gym sessions, sleepy eyes over morning coffee, that same smile he had always given you every time you meet.
and of course, you couldn’t help but to admire him even more. an idol was literally sending you messages for free, and that also happened to be the man you had grown feelings for.
he would reply with long advice when you were struggling, or compliments that landed soft and warm within your chest. and you would find yourself smiling at your phone like an idiot; on the subway, on your breaks, in bed at three in the morning.
and then came the casual meet-ups–the coffee ‘dates’, although neither of you would necessarily call that a date. you would meet at a small cafe in hongdae, and you would talk for three hours without realizing it. about music, movies, your families, your dreams. he would tell you about his producing process, and you would tell him about your studies, and somehow, impossibly, the conversation had never once felt awkward.
after that, it became a pattern. coffee dates turned into walks by han river. walks turned into late-night calls that stretched into the early morning. late-night calls turned into him showing up at your cafe during your shifts, just to say hi and make you laugh.
and with every shared moment, every lingering glance, every comfortable silence, you fell deeper and deeper in love with him.
it was quite a kind of falling. the kind that happens without a drama, without any announcement, without any of the fanfare you had always imagined love would bring. just the slow, steady gravity of wanting someone. just the soft, relentless pull of his existence against yours.
you fell like the rain into the ocean, like dusk into night, like you had never been anywhere else, never wanted anything else, never knew what it meant to be whole until he walked into your coffee shop and looked at you like you were worth looking at.
and yet.
you knew, a hundred percent certain, that he would never feel the same way.
you were just… ordinary.
just a barista who made him the wrong coffee. just a stranger who happened to be there. just someone who laughed too loud, smiled too wide, and loved too easily. just ordinary.
and that fact hurt a lot.
yet the feelings remained growing until they were a physical presence in your chest, a constant, aching thrum of affection and longing. you couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. you had to tell someone.
so, on a rainy thursday afternoon, you found yourself sprawled on seungmin’s couch, staring at the ceiling while he sat on the other couch, typing on his laptop.
“...i think i’m in love with him, seungmin,” you mumbled into the silence.
the words fell out of you like something heavy you had been carrying too long. like a confession you had whispered to yourself so many times it had worn grooves in your brain, and now it was finally loose in the world, vulnerable, real, and terrifying.
having feelings for someone had always been terrifying.
you waited for the shock, the questions. for the careful unpacking of a secret you had protected with everything you had.
seungmin didn’t even look up from his screen, “with seo changbin? yeah, i know.”
the world stopped.
you sat up so fast the room tilted. your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape, like it knew it had been caught, having nowhere left to hide.
“how do you know?” the words came out too high, too fast, too desperate, “am i that obvious?”
seungmin finally turned, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sigh that carried the weight of someone who had been watching this ongoing disaster unfold for weeks and was frankly exhausted by it.
“y/n,” his voice was patient. too patient. the kind of patient that meant he was about to say something devastatingly obvious, “you’ve been going on these ‘dates’ with him. you talk about him all the damn time. you always have this dreamy, faraway look in your eyes whenever he’s around. you get so flustered easily. it’s not exactly a state secret.”
you deflated.
all the air left your body in one long, defeated exhale, and you flopped back onto the pillows like a puppet with cur strings. the ceiling stared down at you, blank and indifferent, and you stared back at it, wishing it would swallow you whole.
you could never fight with kim seungmin on this. he saw too much. remembered too much. cared too much to let you pretend.
“well, fuck,” the word came out flat, resigned, “i’m screwed, huh?”
“not exactly,” seungmin was quiet for a moment, before continuing, “so, what are you going to do about it?”
the question landed in your chest like a stone.
you laughed; a hollow, humorless sound, “what am i going to do about it? nothing. absolutely nothing.”
the silence that followed was different, heavier, you could feel his gaze on you, could feel him turning something over behind those glasses, could feel the exact moment he decided this conversion wasn’t over,
you heard the soft click of his laptop closing, the creak of his chair as he turned to fully to face you.
and you knew, with the kind of dread that sits in your stomach like lead, he wasn’t going to let you off that easily.
a frown grazed over his features, “why not? he clearly likes you. he mostly spends all his free times with you. not to mention how he always light up whenever you walk into the room–”
“no.”
the word came out sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the gentle concern in seungmin’s voice. you felt it leave your mouth like a dagger, felt the way it landed in the space between you, felt the way it made him stop mid-thought,
“he doesn't,” your voice was brittle now, cracking at the edges. you couldn’t hear this. “he's just being friendly. he’s a kind person, seungmin. he’s like that with everyone.”
he’s like that with everyone.
the words hung in the air between you, fragile and false, and you hated how they sounded out loud. hated how they tasted like excuses. hated how even as you said them, a small, traitorous part of you was remembering the way he looked at you, the way he smiled at you, the way he treated you right.
but that didn’t mean anything, didn’t it?
it couldn’t mean anything.
“no, he’s not,” seungmin insisted, his voice firm. “he’s polite to everyone. but with you? it’s a whole different world. he’s softer, more open. i’ve known him for years… i can tell.”
you shook your head. the familiar wave of self-consciousness washed over you, cold and heavy, dragging you under. it whispered in your ear, that agitating voice, the one that knew you better than anyone: you’re not special. why would he even have feelings for you? have you seen yourself? stop humiliating yourself further.
you sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like they were the only thing keeping you together. like if you held tight enough, you could protect the small, fragile thing inside you from hoping. from believing. from getting hurt.
“seungmin, look at me,” you muttered, your voice laced with an old, familiar pain, “really, look at me.”
he did, his expression patient yet puzzled.
“i’m not…” the words stuck in your throat, stumbled over years of careful swallowing, of biting back, of learning to smile through the quiet devastation of never feeling like enough.
you struggled to find them; the ones that had been whispered by cruel voices in your head as long as you could remember. the ones that had been reinforced by a thousand tiny cuts from a world obsessed with a narrow definition of beauty. magazine covers, movie screens, the way people’s eyes slid past you in rooms full of people who looked like they were born for the covers.
“i’m not the kind of woman someone like him falls for. he’s seo changbin. he’s talented, successful, and painfully gorgeous. he could have anyone. any of those perfect, thin, out-of-this-world beautiful women. why would he ever look twice at someone like me?”
seungmin’s frown deepened, “what do you mean, ‘someone like you’?”
“you know what i mean,” your voice trembled–just slightly, just enough to betray the years of careful composure you had built around this particular wound. you gestured vaguely at your body. at the curves you had spent years learning to hide. at the softness that had been pointed out to you as a flaw. your hand moved through the air, encompassing everything you had been taught to hate about yourself.
“i’m not… i’m not physically attractive. not in the way that matters. i’m not thin. i’m not pretty. i’m just… me. and me isn’t enough for a man like him. he wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever love a woman with this body.”
the words hung in the air between you; they were ugly, raw, and bleeding, like wounds you had picked open in front of someone who actually cared.
you couldn’t look at him. couldn’t bear to see the confirmation in his eyes, the quiet agreement that you had finally said out loud what everyone must have been thinking all along.
yet as the silence stretched too long, you risked a glance.
seungmin’s expression had shifted. the gentle confusion was gone, replaced by a dawning, horrified understanding that made your stomach drop. he got up from his seat and sat next to you. the mattress dipped under his weight, pulling you slightly towards him, and you hated how even that small act made you want to cry.
“y/n…” he called, his voice gentle, the way he used to talk you down from panic attacks back in high school, “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard you say.”
“it’s not ridiculous, it’s true–”
“it’s not,” he insisted, “do you think changbin hyung is that shallow? that he only sees the surface? the guy who spends hours talking to you, hangs out with you during his free times, visits your every shift, buys you gifts, that guy–you think he only cares about what you look like?”
“he cares about me as a friend,” you mumbled into your knees, “that’s different.”
“it’s not different!” the words burst out seungmin with a force that made you flinch. you knew it wasn’t anger, never anger, but it was definitely something close to desperation. like he was watching you drown and couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t take the rope he kept throwing.
“ attraction isn’t just about one thing. it’s about everything! it’s about how you laugh, how you listen, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. it’s about who you truly are. not what you look like. not the number on a scale. not whether you fit into some impossible standards that wasn’t even healthy in the first place,” his voice softened, just slightly, just enough to crack something even open in your chest.
his eyes were boring into yours, “and changbin hyung is head-over-heals for who you are. i’m telling you, he likes you back. he’s crazy about you.”
you wanted to believe him. desperately. but the voice of insecurity was too loud. it kept taunting you for far too long.
“you’re a good friend, seungmin,” you whispered, learning your head on his shoulder, “but you’re wrong. he could never like me. not like that. and i would rather have him as a friend than not have him in my life at all. so i’m just going to… i’m going to be okay with that.i have to be.”
a long, frustrated sigh escaped seungmin. he wanted to argue, you could tell. however, he also knew you well enough to know that when you had built a wall like this, pushing against it would only make it stronger.
“okay,” he exhaled softly, wrapping an arm around you for comfort, “okay, fine. but for the record. i think you’re beautiful. and i think you’re wrong about him. one day, you’ll see.”
you closed your eyes, letting your best friend’s warmth comfort you.
yet, the cold knot of insecurity remained, coiling tightly within your chest.
THE UNIVERSE, YOU DECIDED, HAD A SICK SENSE OF HUMOR. not even a week after your conversation with seungmin, it decided to test your fragile resolve in the cruelest way possible.
you were at the company building on a tuesday afternoon, having just dropped a jacket that changbin had lent you during one of your walks by the han river. it had been cold that night, and he had wrapped it around your shoulders without a second thought, insisting he was fine even as you watched him shiver.
you remembered laughing. it had bubbled up out of you, helpless and warm, watching that gorgeous man freeze for your sake.
“you’re a terrible liar, changbin,’ you teased, and he just smiled; shrugging like it was nothing. as if you were worth freezing for.
you remembered the way laughter had faded into something softer when he looked at you. the way the city lights had reflected in his eyes. they way you had wanted, so badly, to reach out and pull him close, share the warmth of his own jacket.
you hadn’t, of course. you just walked a little closer, let your shoulders brush, pretended that was enough.
the jacket was safely delivered to the security guard now, with a small note tucked into the pocket: ‘thanks for keeping me warm. – y/n’
simple. innocent. friendly.
you were heading towards the exit, your head down, scrolling through your phone to check bus times–just another ordinary tuesday, just another mundane task, just another moment in a life that had been carefully, painfully returned to normal.
the elevator doors slid open.
and there was changbin.
the world stopped. your thumb froze over the screen. your heart forgot its rhythm and stumbled into something chaotic and desperate.
he was walking out with a woman.
she was beautiful–of course, she was. tall and slender, with the kind of effortless elegance that made you feel like a shadow just by standing near her. her hair caught the light like it was paid to. her smile resembled helen of troy’s, the kind of smile that could make a thousand men forget themselves and burn cities to the ground.
and all you could do was stand there, ordinary and invisible, watching her exist in the same space as him like she had every right to.
like she was born for it.
she was probably a producer. or a friend. or a girlfriend.
it didn’t matter which. the evidence was right there in front of you. your worst fear made flesh.
she was laughing at something he had just said, her head tilted back slightly, her hand resting lightly on his arm as if it belonged there.
changbin was smiling. not his polite, professional smile, yet a real one–warm and genuine, his head tilted towards her, listening intently to whatever she was saying. his free hand was gesturing as he spoke, animated in that way he got when he was comfortable with someone.
they looked perfect together.
your heart didn’t just drop. it didn’t skip a beat. it shattered into a million tiny pieces, each one a sharp, cold shard of confirmation that lodged itself deep in your chest.
see? the shards whispered, smug and cruel. seungmin was wrong. this is who he eventually chooses. she’s someone you’ll never be.
you could feel them settling between your ribs. could feel the weight of them pressing against your lungs, making it hard to breathe. could feel the sharp edges cutting into everything soft you had left.
this is what you were afraid of.
this is why you never told him.
this is why you never left yourself hope.
because hope was dangerous. hope was a knife you handed to the universe and prayed it wouldn’t use. and now, you were bleeding out in the middle of the lobby, watching the person you loved walk away with someone who was in all aspects, especially physically wise, better than you, and all you could do was walk away.
you fled the building.
you didn’t run, that would have drawn attention. yet you walked faster than you had ever walked in your life, bursting through the glass doors and into the chilly afternoon air. you made it half a block before you had to stop, pressing yourself against the side of a building, your hand over your heart as if you could physically hold the pieces together.
you didn’t cry. you were too numb for tears. you just felt a hollow, aching emptiness where the warmth of your feelings for changbin used to be.
of course, you thought, the voices in your head now sounding almost reasonable. of course he has someone. did you really think someone like him would be single? did you really think he was spending time with you because he wanted more than friendship. he’s seo changbin, for fuck sakes.
you thought about all those walks you did with him. all those late-night conversations about your lives. all those times he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room. all those messages, the shared playlists, the way he remembered your coffee order even when you weren’t at work. the jacket. the way he had wrapped it around your shoulders so carefully, so tenderly.
just friendly. that’s all it ever was. you just read into it because you wanted it to be more. because you’re desperately, lonely, and pathetic.
the walk home was a blur. you don’t remember the bus ride, don’t remember getting into your apartment, don’t remember collapsing onto your bed. you just remember staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the image of the them burned into the back of your eyelids.
that was the beginning of the end.
you began to set barriers, just as you had told seungmin you would. it was the only way to protect yourself, the only way to survive this. you couldn’t keep going the way you had been, couldn’t keep letting yourself fall deeper and deeper when there was no safety net at the bottom.
you started with small things.
and speaking of the devil, changbin texted you that night.
binnie : hey, thanks for dropping off the jacket
binnie : you didn’t have to wash it you know
binnie : it smells like your detergent now and i’m not complaining lmao
binnie : also i saw your note, you’re so cute ~
binnie : you know you can always keep it, right?
you waited an hour to reply. then two. then you sent a simple: glad u got it back! talk soon!
no emojis. no playful banter. no opening for conversation.
binnie : you free this weekend? there’s this cafe in hongdae i wanted to check out. thought you might like it!
binnie : heard the food’s great
ah, i have a crazy week ahead. maybe another time!
binnie : oh okay
binnie : no problem, just let me know when you’re free!
okay! 👍
the thumbs up emoji felt like a betrayal of everything you failed. but it was safer than a heart, safer than the smiley faces you used to send, safer than the ‘i’d love to’ that was screaming inside your chest.
he tried again a few days later.
binnie : i found this indie band today, they remind me of that playlist you made me
binnie : can i send you their stuff
sure
he sent three songs. you immediately added them to your playlist, listening to them on repeat for hours. it was the only way to hold onto a piece of him without reaching for all of him, the only way to love him quietly, safely, from a distance where he couldn’t see you aching.
and when morning came, you replied with three words that buried everything.
nice! added them!
nothing more.
after two days, he started showing up at the cafe again.
the first time, your heart lurched with that familiar, painful mixture of joy and despair. he walked in, ordered his usual iced americano, and flashed you his smile when he saw you behind the counter.
“y/n, hey.”
you served him with a tight, professional smile, “hi, changbin. the usual?”
something flickered within his eyes–confusion, maybe, at the formality. at the distance you had carefully crafted between your words. at the wall you had built brick by brick since the last time you saw him.
yet, he nodded, “yeah, thanks.”
you made his drink in silence, your hands trembling as you worked–measuring, pressing, pouring, each of your movements felt mechanical. the espresso machine hissed. the milk steamed. your heart cracked a little more with every second that passed without either of you speaking.
when you handed it to him, you didn’t linger. you didn’t ask how he was, didn’t mention how your day has been, didn’t do any of the things you used to do. you just simply, handed him the cup.
your eyes didn’t meet his. your fingers didn’t brush against his. your usual bright smile was nowhere to be found. you were terrifyingly indifferent, and it shook his poor heart.
“have a good day,” you mumbled, already turning to the next customer.
“y/n–” he started, yet you were already gone, busying yourself with the espresso machine, your entire physique hidden from him.
when you finally risked a glance, he was standing there for a moment longer, holding his coffee, staring at you with an expression that you unfortunately couldn’t read. then he turned and left.
the second time, you hid in the back room until one of your coworkers took his order.
the third time, he didn’t come at all.
his messages became more frequent, more confused.
binnie : hey, is everything okay?
binnie : you seem differently lately
all good! just busy.
for a moment, just a moment, the little bubble appeared. read. the words stared back at you, utterly devoid of the panic rising in your throat.
and for a second, you thought you were already losing your mind. he had to know that you were lying, and jokes on you, you weren’t fully mentally prepared.
then, a message appeared.
binnie : are we still on for our walk this weekend? the weather’s supposed to be nice
a trembling exhale escaped your lips, carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say as you read his message. your thumb trembled, not from cold, not from nerves, but from the sheer effort of holding yourself together when all you wanted was to fall apart.
your thumb moved before your brain could stop it.
typing…
sorry i can’t
family stuff
there. it was a lie. you had nothing planned for the weekend. it was a lie wrapped in something almost believable. almost innocent. almost enough to explain why you were pushing him away without actually explaining anything at all.
binnie : oh okay
binnie : just let me know if you need to talk about anything
binnie : i’m always here
damn you, seo changbin
thanks
one word. after months of paragraphs, of shared thoughts, inside jokes, and late-night rambles, you could only manage by giving him one word.
the typing indicator appeared immediately. disappeared. appeared again. you watched it as if you could see him pacing outside of your door, afraid to knock on.
then his message came through.
binnie : y/n… did i do something?
the ellipsis hung there like a held breath. like he was scared to ask yet more scared not to.
binnie : if i upset you somehow, i’m really sorry
binnie : just tell me and i’ll make up for it
you stared at that message for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. you wanted to tell him everything. you wanted to scream that he hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was a ‘you’ problem, that you were just scared and didn’t know how to be around him without falling apart.
but you didn’t. fear wouldn’t let you.
what are u talking about lmao
u didn’t do anything wrong. dw about it
binnie : if you say so
binnie : but i do worry. about you. you know that right?
i know. thanks.
another brick in the wall, final.
TWO WEEKS PASSED LIKE THIS. fourteen days. three hundred and thirty-six hours. thousands of minutes stretched thin with short replies, avoided encounters, and a growing, aching silence that filled every space you used to share.
two weeks of you dying a little more inside every day–slowly, quietly, the way flowers die when you forget to water them. two weeks of him growing more and more confused, more hurt, more desperate with every unanswered question. every casual deflection,l every door you closed in his face.
you told yourself it was for the best.
you told yourself a lot of things.
and then you saw him. you were crossing the street, head down, invested in your phone, when something made you look up.
he was there. across the street, standing outside with jeongin, both of them laughing about something. his head was thrown back slightly, his smile wide and real, his whole body loose with the kind of happiness that used to make your chest ache in the best way.
for a moment, you forgot to breathe.
he looked happy. he looked like he was moving on. he looked like your absence didn’t affect him at all, as if you were just a footnote in a story he had already finished reading.
good, you told yourself, the word sharp and cold in your chest. that’s good. he has his life. he doesn’t need you.
you believed it. almost.
and then he looked up.
across the crowd, across the distance, across the cars, the people, and the weeks of silence, his eyes finally found yours. like they knew where to look. like they had been searching for you without permission. like some part of him had been waiting for this moment even when he didn’t know it.
god, the look on his face.
his smile faltered first. flickered. died. then his eyes went soft, achingly familiar, with something that looked like… longing. like confusion. like hurt. like he was seeing a ghost he had been trying to forget and realizing he had never stopped hoping she was real.
it almost broke you.
right there, in the middle of the street, with people pushing past on you both sides and the light about to change–the look alone almost broke you.
you couldn’t do it. couldn’t watching him cross the street. couldn’t hear his voice. couldn’t let him close enough to shatter what was left of you.
so you turned. you walked away.
behind you, you didn’t hear his footsteps. didn’t know if he had started towards you. didn’t let yourself look behind to find out.
you just walked.
and somewhere behind you, changbin stood frozen, watching you disappear into the crowd, wondering what he had done to lose you and why you wouldn’t talk to him.
the breaking point came on a thursday evening.
you were walking from work, your head down against a chilly autumn wind, your work bag heavy with the weight of your uniform and the extra pastries your manager had insisted on taking home. the days had blurred into a gray mess and self-recrimination, and you were so exhausted. so incredibly, bone-deep exhausted.
the cafe had been busy that evening; a constant stream of customers ordering seasonal drinks and desserts, their happy chatter grating against your frayed nerves. you had smiled, nodded, and made drinks on autopilot, your mind somewhere else entirely. somewhere with dark eyes, a warm laugh, and a hand that used to find yours.
you had checked your phone approximately forty-seven times during your shift. each time, hoping for a message from him. each time, telling yourself you didn’t deserve one.
he stopped texting three days ago.
and the silence was torturing you mentally.
you did this. you had pushed him away, built your walls, retreated behind a mask of politeness and distance. and now he was gone, just like you had known he would be. just like you had prepared for.
this is better, you told yourself for the thousandth time. this is what you wanted. to protect yourself. to protect the friendship.
however, it didn’t feel better. it felt like someone had dug into your chest and hollowed you out, leaving nothing but echoes and ache.
the street was quiet this time of night, most of the officer workers already home, the usual bustle reduced to the occasional taxi and the distant hum of traffic, a soft lullaby for a city that never quiet slept.
you welcomed the solitude.
it meant you didn’t have to pretend. didn’t have to smile when someone asked if you were okay. didn’t have to perform the exhausting charade of being fine when every step you took felt like walking through water.
the night air was cool against your skin. the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. your footsteps echoed in the silence, steady, rhythmic, the only sound besides your own breathing.
you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the car until it was right beside you.
the familiar purr of the engine made your heart stop.
you recognized that sound.
you would know it anywhere—in a crowded parking lot, in the middle of a song, in your sleep. it was the sound of late-night convenience store runs, of drives to scenic overlooks where you'd sit for hours just talking, of that one time he had driven you home at 3 am because you had fallen asleep on his couch during a movie marathon and he hadn't had the heart to wake you.
it was the sound of him.
you didn’t look up.
you couldn’t. if you looked up, if you saw him, if you let yourself acknowledge that he was here–right here, within arm's reach, you would break. you would shatter into a thousand pieces right here on the sidewalk, and you would never be able to put yourself back together.
so you kept walking.
your pace quickened. your eyes stayed fixed on the sidewalk ahead, on the cracks in the pavement, on anything that wasn’t the dark car gliding alongside you.
the car matched your speed.
of course it did.
the window rolled down. the sound was soft, just a mechanical hum, yet it might as well have been a gunshot in the silence. it echoed in your chest, in your ears, in the space you had been trying so hard to keep empty.
you felt him there. felt his presence like a gravitational pull, like the tide being drawn towards the moon, like every atom in your body screaming at you to turn around.
you didn’t look, and you heard the car kept moving.
the window stayed down.
and you kept walking, heart pounding, breath caught, waiting for the sound of his voice to finally destroy you.
“y/n.”
his voice. that warm baritone that used to make your heart soar, now making it clench with a painful mixture of longing and dread. you could hear the exhaustion of it, the confusion, the hurt.
you kept walking, the upcoming words came out smaller than you intended–fragile, thin, barely held together, “i’m fine. it’s a short walk–”
“y/n,” his voice was firmer now, yet still gentle. always gentle with you. even now, even after weeks of distance, he was still gentle, “it’s late at night. please, get in.”
you shook your head–a small movement, quick and dismissive. you couldn’t trust your voice, couldn’t trust that if you opened your mouth, something other than words would come out. a sob, maybe. a confession. a broken, desperate ‘i have feelings for you and it sickens me’ that you would never be able to take back.
the car stopped.
you heard it. the soft deceleration, the click of the gear shift, the sudden absence of movement beside you. then, his door opened.
heavy footsteps chased behind you, steady, determined. closing the distance you had been trying so hard to maintain.
and then his hand found your arm, his fingers wrapped around your elbow; not gripping, not trapping, just there. just enough to stop you. just enough to turn you around.
you didn’t resist.
his touch, his warm… it undid you so easily. it unraveled weeks of careful construction in a single second. it remind you of everything you had been trying to forget.
you turned reluctantly, and there he was.
changbin. standing in the middle of the quiet street, the streetlight casting shadows across his attractive face, his gorgeous eyes searching yours, looking for answers to his unanswered questions.
he looked tired as well. there were shadows under his eyes, deep purple crescents that spoke of sleepless nights and restless thoughts. a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before, a tightness around his mouth that made him look wearier, like someone carrying a weight they didn't know how to put down. he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping either, and that hurt more than anything.
you had convinced yourself that you were the only one suffering. that your absence alone was a final gift, a mercy, a kindness that allowed him to move on without the burden of your feelings, you had told–reminded yourself he was fine, happy, moving forward into a future that didn’t have to include you.
however, standing here now, looking at the exhaustion etched into every line of his face realized how wrong you had been.
“please,” he begged once again, softer this time. “just… talk to me. five minutes. that’s all i’m asking.”
you looked at him, really looked at him, and your heart fissured, cracks spreading like spiderwebs. the walls you had been so carefully building crumbled in an instant, leaving you raw and exposed, and so, so tired of running.
you nodded.
he led you back to the car, his hand was still on your arm–gentle, guiding, like he was afraid you might disappear again if he let go. he opened the passenger door for you, a small gesture something he had done a hundred times before, and you slid into the warm interior.
the scent hit you immediately. laundry detergent. something faintly woody. that familiar, impossible combination that was so uniquely him. it wrapped around you like a memory, like a hug you hadn’t known you needed, like everything you had been trying to forget suddenly flooding back all at once.
it made your heart ache further.
that deep, hollow longing you had been suppressing for weeks; it rose up like a tide, threatening to drown you right there in the passenger seat of his car. you gripped your hands together in your lap, knuckles white, and tried to breathe through it.
he pulled over to the side of the road, into a small parking lot near a closed convenience store. the engine idled softly, the heater hummed, and the world outside the windows felt very far away.
then, he turned to face you.
his dark eyes were intense–searching, desperate, hungry for answers you had been starving him of for weeks. they moved across your face as if he was trying to read a brook written in a language he didn't understand.
“what’s going on?” he began. his tone was cautious, as if he was approaching something wounded, “did i do something wrong?”
the question was a knife to your heart. it slide between your ribs with surgical precision, finding the softest parts of you, the places where all your fears lived, he thought it was his fault. he had been carrying this for weeks, thinking he was the reason for the ordeal.
and you had let him.
“...no,” your voice barely above a whisper. you looked down at your hands, at the white-knuckled grip you had on yourself, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
the silence stretched between you, heavy with everything you weren’t saying out loud. you could feel his gaze on you, his confusion, his desperate need to understand. you could feel him waiting, always so patient for you to give him something, anything, to hold onto.
however, the truth was too big. too messy. too terrifying.
“then why?” the hurt in his voice was raw, undisguised, stripped of all the careful composure he had been holding onto. it was the kind of hurt that couldn’t be hidden, couldn’t be smoothed over.
“why are you avoiding me? why do you barely talk to me anymore?” each question landed like a blow, as if he was listing wounds he didn’t know how to treat. “whenever i see you at the cafe, you can’t get away from me fast enough. you used to–”
a pause, his jaw tightening; that muscle jumping beneath his skin, the one you watched flex a hundred times when he was concentrating, when he was frustrated, whe he was trying not to feel too much.
however, he was feeling it now. all of it.
“i thought we were close. i thought–”
he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made your chest cave in. frustration. confusion. the kind of helplessness that came from wanting to fix something and now knowing how.
“did i misread everything?” his voice came quieter now, more fragile. as if he was bracing for the answer, “were we not… were not friends the way i thought we were?”
friends.
the word hit you like a slap–a reminder. like everything you had been afraid of, crystallized into seven letters.
he thought this was about friendship. he thought you were pushing him away because you didn’t care enough, didn’t value him enough, didn’t want him in your life the way he wanted you.
he had no idea.
he had no idea that you cared too much. that you wanted him too much. that every moment near him felt like standing too close to a fire; beautiful, warm, and absolutely capable of melting you.
“no!” the denial tore out of you before you could stop it–sharp, desperate, and raw in its own way. you finally glanced up at him, finally let yourself see him, finally stopped hiding behind your own walls.
and the look on his face–god.
it was hope, desperation, and fear all tangled together, mirroring your current emotional chaos; the same storm you had been drowning in for weeks, now reflected back at you in his eyes.
“you didn’t… you didn’t misread anything. you’re my… you’re one of the best friends i’ve ever had, changbin–”
“but?”
you took a shaky breath. this was it. the moment you had been dreading. you had to say something, and the words were stuck in your throat like shards of glass.
“but i can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, “i can’t keep pretending.”
changin’s brows furrowed, “pretending what?”
you looked down at your hands, twisting together in your lap like they could anchor you to something solid. the tears were already coming, hot and traitorous, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them.
"pretending that i don't—" your voice cracked. "pretending that you're just my friend. pretending that every time you text me, my heart doesn't race. pretending that when you smile at me, i don't forget how to breathe. pretending that i haven't been falling in love with you since the moment we first hung out.”
you looked down at your hands, twisting together in your lap like they could anchor you to something solid. the tears were already coming, hot and traitorous, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them,
you couldn’t look at him. you couldn’t bear to see the pity, the awkwardness, the careful let-down that was surely coming. so you just kept talking, the confession spilling out of you like water through a broken dam.
“i know i shouldn’t feel this way. i know i’m not–” you, yet again, gestured vaguely at yourself–at your body, at everything you had seen as insufficient, “i’m not what someone like you want. i know that. i’ve always known that. but i couldn’t help it. i tried so hard to just be your friend, to just be happy with what we had, but every time i was with you, i wanted more. i wanted things i have no right to want.”
a sob escaped you, and you turned your attention towards the window, trying to hold it in.
“and then i saw you with that woman at the company. she was so pretty, so perfect, and i realized–” a sad laugh broke through your lips, “i realized that that was it. that was my wake-up call. you have a life, changbin. a real life with real people who belong in your world. you are loved. and i’m just.. just some girl who works at a cafe. i don’t belong there.”
you finally looked up at him once more, your eyes swimming with tears, your heart laid bare and bleeding between you.
“so i tried to give you space. to make it hurt less when you eventually–” you swallowed hard, “when you eventually found someone who was actually good enough for you. i thought if i did it first, if i created the distance, maybe it wouldn’t destroy me when you left.”
another tear fell.
“but it didn’t work. nothing worked–regardless, i still love you. i still think about you constantly.”
silence.
heavy, terrifying silence.
you waited for him to speak, to let you down gently, to explain that he was sorry but he only saw you as a friend. you waited for the kindness you knew he possessed to deliver the rejection in the softest way possible.
yet, he didn’t speak.
he just stared at you, his eyes wide, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and something you couldn’t name. something softer. something that looked almost like wonder.
“i’m sorry,” you breathed, the words falling like stones–heavy, clumsy, irreversible, “i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have–i know this makes things weird. i know you probably don’t–”
you couldn’t finish.
you reached for the door handle, desperate to scurry away, “i’ll just–i’ll go. we can pretend this never happened. i’ll understand if you don’t want to–”
his hand caught your wrist, warm fingers circling the place where your pulse was trying to beat its way out of your body.
“y/n. stop.”
his voice was rough, strained, nothing like the gentle tone you had expected, you turned to look at him.
his chest was rising and falling too fast. his jaw was working around words he hadn’t said yet. his eyes were burning with something that looked almost like… relief.
“that woman,” he murmured slowly, carefully, “the one you saw me with at the company.”
you nodded miserably, mentally preparing yourself for the impact.
he let out a shaky breath, as if he was trying to suppress his… laugh?
“that was my cousin.”
cousin.
“she’s a stylist,” another breath, steadier this time, “she’s married.”
one second. two. your brain turning the words over, examining them from every angle, trying to find the catch, the lie, the evidence you were missing.
then the blood drained from your body.
“she’s–”
“my cousin,” he nodded, and something flickered in his eyes–something that looked almost like a smile, almost like disbelief, almost like he couldn’t believe this was the reason, “my cousin, y/n–who, by the way, has been asking about you for weeks because i may have mentioned you plenty of times.”
you stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, “but–”
“i was telling her about this girl i’ve been spending time with. this amazing, beautiful, incredible girl who makes me laugh, listens to my music, and definitely the best cook. this girl who i’ve been falling in love with for months.”
all of the sudden, the world tilted. the car felt too small, the air too thin, your body too fragile to contain everything that was suddenly blooming inside you. your heart literally stopped.
“i wanted to introduce you, i wanted you to meet her, to meet my family, to–” he stopped. swallowed, before starting again, “but you were gone before i could get to you. and then everything changed.”
his thumb traced a slow arc against your wrist–the same wrist he was still holding, still grounding, still keeping you here when every instinct was screaming at you to run or cry… or even both.
“you started pulling away, and i didn’t know why. i kept thinking–” his voice cracked, just slightly, “i kept thinking i had done something. said something. pushed too hard or moved too fast. i really thought i had lost you.”
“...changbin–”
“no, let me finish,” he inhaled another shaky breath, his thumb still tracing those gentle circles on your wrist–an anchor, the only thing keeping you from splintering apart completely, “i replayed every conversation in my head, every moment we spent together. every laugh, every look, every stupid joke you made that i still think about when i can’t sleep.”
a broken laugh, soft and self-deprecating.
"i kept asking myself where i went wrong. what i could have done differently. because losing you—" his voice fractured, the words splintering on the way out. "losing you felt like losing something i never even got to have. something i wanted so badly it hurt. something i didn't even know i was allowed to want until it was gone.”
you shook your head, fresh tears spilling over, carving warm paths down your cheeks.
“you didn’t do anything wrong,” your voice came out fragile, trembling on the edge of breaking. it was the most honest thing you had said in weeks, stripped bare of all the restraints you had put on yourself, “nothing. it was never you.”
“then talk to me,” his eyes searched for yours, desperate, “please, whatever it is, just tell me. i need answers.”
you looked at him. at the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand was still wrapped around yours like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.
the truth sat on your tongue, heavy and bitter.
“because you deserve better.”
your answer fell into the silence like heavy stones into deep water, irreversible, sending ripples through everything.
his brows furrowed, “what?”
“you deserve better,” you repeated, voice cracking, “you deserve someone beautiful. someone thin. someone who looks like she belongs next to someone like you.”
you gestured at yourself, your body, at everything you had been taught to hate, “not this. not me.”
“y/n–”
“i’m not pretty, changbin,” the tears came faster now, “i’m not any of the things that you should want. and i thought–”
a sob caught in your throat, “i thought if i let myself love you, it would only hurt more when you finally figured it out. when you finally saw me the way everyone else does.”
“everyone else?”
“everyone else. you don’t understand,” you pulled your hand away, now wrapping your arms around yourself like you could hold the pieces together, “i’ve spent my whole life being looked at and looked through. being told i’m too much in some ways and not enough in others. i’ve made peace with it, or i thought i had.”
you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, sucking in another deep breath, “but then… you came along. and you looked at me. really looked at me. like i mattered. like i was worth seeing–and i didn’t know how to handle that, didn’t know how to be someone worthy of that look.”
silence.
he didn’t speak for a long moment. didn’t. just sat there, his eyes never leaving yours.
then, slowly, he reached out.
his hand found yours again, gently prying it away from where you were clutching your own arm. he held it in both of his, warm and steady.
“can i tell you something?” he asked gently.
you nodded.
“when i first met you,” he began, shifting closer to you–close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell that familiar scent that had haunted your dreams for weeks, “i thought you were cute. adorable, even. the way you smile like you couldn’t help it. like happiness just spilled out of you whether you wanted it or not.”
a tiny, sad smile tugged at his lips, “and so incredibly sincere. you wore your heart on your sleeve in a way i had never seen before. no pretense. just… you.”
he paused, his gaze mapping your features as if he was trying to memorize every detail.
“and i remember thinking, ‘i hope she keeps looking at me. i hope she keeps smiling like that. i hope i get to be the reason for it someday.’”
his hand came up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that made your breath catch.
“i fell for you ever since game night. when you laughed at one of jeongin’s stupid jokes and your whole face lit up. when you talked about movies like it was something you felt in your bones. when you paid attention to the subtlest changes about me. i fell for you because of who you are.”
a tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his hand.
“not who you think you should be. not who the world tried to tell you to be. not some edited, polished version of yourself. you, the real you.”
he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. you could feel his breath warm against your lips.
“and you,” he continued, “you are the most beautiful person i’ve ever met. not just on the outside–although god knows i could spend an entire day just looking at you–but inside is where it counts. your heart. your kindness. the way you care about people, about me.”
his words settled in your chest like warmth, like light… it was something you had wanted to hear.
a sob escaped you–yet it was different, it bubbled up from somewhere deep and joyful, somewhere that had been locked away for so long you had forgotten it existed. it was a sob of relief. of disbelief. of hope.
"you're so silly." the words came out wet and wobbly, tangled up with laughter and tears and everything in between. a smile broke through despite everything—despite the crying, despite the weeks of pain, despite the walls you'd built so carefully. it split your face open, too wide and too bright, the way it always did when you couldn't help yourself. "how can you say things like that?”
he smiled back—that small, intimate smile, the one he saved just for you.
"because they're true." he shrugged, simple and honest and utterly devastating. "and because someone needs to say them. someone needs to tell you, every single day, until you finally believe it.”
his thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light, “and i volunteer. full-time. no days off.”
a laugh bubbled out of you—wet and surprised and absolutely genuine. it felt strange in your throat, after weeks of nothing but silence and sorrow. it felt like coming home.
“god, i love you,” you breathed, the confession coming easier than ever, “i love you so much.”
a soft giggle bubbled up from his chest, warm and infectious, “say it again.”
“i love you.
“again.”
“i love you, seo changbin,” his name on your tongue felt like a prayer, something sacred, “i love the way you make me laugh. even when i’m sad, even when i’m scared, even when i’m trying so hard to push you away–you still find a way to make me smile.”
a watery laugh escaped you, genuine.
“i love the way you listen. really listen when i talk. like what i’m saying matters–like i matter. you don’t just hear my words, you understood everything underneath them. the things i’m too scared to say, the feelings i can’t put into words. you hear me.”
his breath caught. you felt it in the way his chest stilled, in the way his hand tightened ever so slightly against your cheek. you could've swore you could see his eyes glistening.
“i love the way you look at me. like i’m the only person in the world–”
“you are,” he cut in, his voice rough, almost breaking, “the only person in my world. have been for a while now.”
“changbin…’ another tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught that one too.
“it’s true,” his voice was fierce now, desperate in needing you to believe his words more than he had ever needed anything. “don’t you dare try to deny it. not for a second.”
a soft laugh escaped you. you shook your head, a reflexive motion, years of self-doubt wired so deep into your bones that even now, even with him saying his truths, your first instinct was to push back. to deflect.
“chang–”
he didn’t let you finish.
his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and wanted to savor every second of this. his fingers threaded gently into your hair at the nape, tangling in the soft strands there, and the touch sent a shiver cascading down your spine like the first notes of a melody you'd been waiting your whole life to hear.
and then he kissed you.
it wasn’t a frantic desperate kiss. it was something far more devastating.
his lips met yours with a tenderness that felt like a question and an answer all at once. it was soft, warm, a whisper of pressure that seemed to ask ‘is this okay?’ even as it promised ‘i’ve been wanting this forever.’ he hovered at the edge of you, giving you time, giving you space, giving you every chance to pull away if you needed to.
as if you had ever wanted to pull away from this.
he kissed you as if he was memorizing you. there was no rush in the way his lips moved against yours. he was a dedicated scholar, and it seemed as though the curve of your lips was a sacred text he intended to learn by heart. every angle, every soft sigh, every tiny movement you made… he absorbed it, catalogued it, stored it away in the deepest parts of his memory.
he traced the seam of your mouth with his own, a slow exploration that was more intoxicating than any rush. his upper lip brushed against your lower, then the reverse, a gentle push and pull that made your head spin and your knees weaken despite being seated.
one of your hands rose to rest against his chest, seemingly on its own initiative. your palm pressed flat against the solid warmth of his, fingers spaying slightly over the fabric of his shirt.
you could feel the frantic, staccato beat of his heart beneath your palm, and it shattered the last of your resistance.
whatever walls you had been clinging to, whatever voices in the back of your mind still whispered that this couldn’t be real, they all crumbled into dust, carried away by the truth of his heartbeat against your palm.
you kissed him back with everything you had.
your hand fisted gently in his shirt, pulling him slightly closer. your lips parted against his, inviting him, welcoming home. a soft sigh escaped you, and he swallowed it like a man dying of thirst, like you were the only thing that could sustain him.
his hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, just keeping you close. his other hand splayed over your waist, drawing you against him until there was no space left between you, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.
when the kiss finally ended, it wasn’t because either of you wanted it to. it was simply that you both needed to breathe, needed to come up for air and remind yourselves that the world still existed outside of this moment.
he pulled back slowly, his lips lingering against yours even as he moved away, like they couldn’t bear to break contact completely. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven, mingling with yours in the tiny space between.
you opened your eyes and just looked at him, at the man who had just rearranged your entire universe with a single kiss. your hand was still on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. the shiver he had sent down your spine had settled into deep, resonant warmth in the very core of you.
“that…” you exhaled, a toothy smile touched your lips–unguarded and real, “what a way to shut me up, seo changbin.”
a laugh rumbled in his chest beneath your palm–low, warm, and a little bit breathless.
“been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured softly, his voice intimate in a way that made your stomach flip. his thumb traced a slow, absent-minded pattern on your waist, like he couldn’t stop touching you, like he was still reassuring himself you were really here.
your face flushed hot, the heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks like it had every right to be there. you ducked your head slightly, a flustered smile tugging at your lips. you gave him a light, playful shove on his chest.
“shut up,” you mumbled, yet there was no heat in it. only embarrassment and the giddy, overwhelming rush of being wanted by him.
changbin stumbled back, a hand flying to his chest right where you had hit him, his eyes going wide with theatrical offense.
“ow,” he breathed, genuinely, like you had actually wounded him, “right in the heart. direct hit. you’re a dangerous woman, y/n y/l/n!”
you laughed, rolling your eyes even as your smile grew. your tears had dried up by now, replaced by the warm, bubbling joy that seemed to fill every corner of your chest whenever you were around him. the weight that had settled there earlier, the years of self-doubt and insecurity, felt lighter now. it was as if he had somehow shouldered some of it without you even noticing.
“dangerous,” you repeated, shaking your head at him, “it was just a little tap.”
“a little tap, huh?” he clutched his chest with both hands now, staggering another distance for good measure, “i think you cracked a rib. i might need medical attention!”
“hah, funny,” you crossed your arms, attempting to look unimpressed, yet the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you completely, “okay, drama queen. should i call an ambulance?”
he nodded solemnly, still clutching his chest, “yes. but only if the paramedic looks like you. and performs CPR exactly like you do.”
your face went red again–so quickly, so fiercely, that you could feel the heat radiating from your own skin. you opened your mouth to respond, to fire back with something witty, yet nothing came out. just a sputter. a flustered, embarrassed sputter.
changbin’s expression shifted instantly, the playful theatrics melting into something softer, more tender.
“god, y/n, you're so cute,” before you could react, his fingers were pinching your cheek–gently, of course. he squished your cheek slightly, his grin widening as your lips pursed into an involuntary pout.
“stop,” you mumbled through your squished cheek, yet it came out sounding more like sthob and that only made him laugh harder.
“can’t do, princess,” another squish, “you’re stuck with me.”
princess. oh, he’s gonna’ be the death of me.
the thought barely had time to form before changbin’s eyes lit up with that familiar mischievous spark. his head tilted, studying your face with exaggerated curiosity, “cat got your tongue?”
your heart, yet again, did a full somersault in your chest. your face flushed even deeper, if that was possible. you tried to look away, to break free from his knowing gaze, yet his hands on your cheeks held you gently in place.
“n–no,” the stutter gave you away completely.
his grin widened.
“no?” he repeated, his voice was honey and mischief all at once. he finally released your cheeks, only to let his fingers trail slowly down to your chin, tilting your face up towards his, “then, can i kiss you again?”
you should be used to this by now. the way he looked at you. the way his touch made your skin tingle. the way his voice dropped just slightly when he was about to do something that would ruin you in the best way.
but you weren’t used to it. you didn’t think you had ever get used to it.
“…yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible even in the quiet of the car.
when his lips finally met yours, it was like the first time all over again.
soft. warm. perfect.
he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he would rather be, like you were the only thing that mattered. his hand stayed on your chin, while the other found its way back to your cheek, gently cradling your face.
you melted into him.
your hands found his shirt again, fisting in the soft fabric, holding on as the kiss deepened. you could feel his smile against your lips, and you couldn’t help but to reciprocate it.
when he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath.
“i love you, y/n,” he whispered against your lips.
you couldn’t help but to press your lips against him once more, a gentle peck.
“i love you too.”
he captured your lips once again, before his kisses left a burning trail on your forehead, cheek, and jaw. returning to your lips once more.
“be my girlfriend?” he whispered against your lips, his bottom lip brushing against your upper as he spoke.
your heart stopped.
then started again, faster than before.
“yes,” an immediate response. the word tumbled out of you before you could think, before the doubts could creep in. for once, your heart spoke before your fears could silence it.
“yeah?”
“yeah,” you were smiling now, happiness radiating from every part of you, “yes, changbin. a thousand times yes.”
he smiled once more, before leaning in once again.
your eyes fluttered close.
not because you were scared. not because you were hiding. not because you were trying to block out the world.
because for the first time, you didn’t need to see to believe.
you could feel him–his warmth, his love, his unwavering certainty. the gentle pressure of his lips against yours. the way his hand cradled your cheek preciously. the steady beat of his heart against your chest, syncing with your own.
autryglobal:
Autry is pleased to announce the appointment of South Korean singer, songwriter, and producer Changbin, of the K-pop group @.realstraykids, as the brand’s first ever Global Brand Ambassador.
@.jutdwae
#Autry
[ 𝓐𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭'𝘴 𝓛𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝓛𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 ] This is the Valentine's Day special. A little late. P.S.: I cried while writing this.
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BANG CHAN : 방찬 — Denial
Chan still sets two alarms every morning.
One for him.
One for you.
The second one rings at 7:14 a.m.—the exact time you used to groan, roll over, and mumble “five more minutes, Channie” into his neck.
He reaches across the empty side of the bed without thinking, fingers searching for hair that isn’t there, skin that’s gone cold.
The alarm keeps going.
He doesn’t turn it off.
He just lies there listening until it dies on its own, then whispers “sorry, baby” to the ceiling like you might hear it from wherever you are.
He still cooks breakfast for two.
Scrambled eggs the way you liked them—extra pepper, no chives because they “taste like grass.”
He plates yours first, sets it on your spot at the table, even pours the orange juice into your favorite glass with the tiny chip on the rim.
Sometimes he talks to the empty chair.
Tells you about the new track he’s working on, how the bridge still doesn’t feel right, how he wishes you were here to hum the melody until it clicks.
When the food gets cold he eats yours too—slowly, like if he finishes every bite you’ll magically appear to scold him for double portions.
He still keeps your side of the closet untouched.
Your hoodies hang in the same order you left them.
The black one you stole from him is still folded at the bottom of the pile—he can’t bring himself to hang it up because it still smells like your shampoo.
Every night he pulls it out, presses his face into the collar, inhales until his lungs burn, then folds it again with shaking hands.
“I’ll wash it tomorrow,” he tells the dark room.
Tomorrow never comes.
He still checks his phone for your goodnight text.
The last one sits unread at the top of the thread:
“don’t stay up too late genius ♡ sleep well i love you”
He reads it every night before he forces himself to close his eyes.
Sometimes he types replies he’ll never send.
“I’m trying.”
“I miss you.”
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
He deletes them all.
If he sends them, it becomes real.
And it can’t be real.
You’re just late.
You’ll walk through the door any second now, laughing, saying you got stuck in traffic or fell asleep on the subway again.
He leaves the hallway light on.
Just in case.
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LEE MINHO : 이민호 — Anger
Minho punched the mirror the day after the funeral.
Seven years of ballet-perfect control shattered in one swing—glass everywhere, knuckles split to the bone, blood dripping onto the tiles in perfect crimson circles.
He didn’t feel it.
He only felt the rage boiling under his skin, the kind that tastes like metal and makes your vision tunnel.
He’s angry at the driver who ran the light.
He’s angry at the doctors who couldn’t do more.
He’s angry at the sky for being blue the day they buried you.
He’s angry at the cats for still purring like nothing happened.
He’s angry at himself for not being there, for not holding your hand in that last second, for every time he told you “five more minutes” when you asked him to come to bed.
He’s angry at you.
Not loud, screaming anger.
Quiet, vicious, bone-deep anger.
How dare you leave first.
How dare you make him stay behind in a world that keeps turning without you.
How dare you smile in every photo on his phone when he can’t see that smile in real life anymore.
He stopped dancing.
The studio he used to live in is locked.
The pointe shoes you bought him as a joke still sit in their box—untouched, pristine, mocking him every time he walks past the shelf.
He can’t move like he used to.
Every stretch reminds him of mornings when you’d sit on the floor and watch him warm up, chin in your hands, telling him he looked like a painting.
Now the mirror is covered with a sheet.
He can’t look at himself.
He doesn’t recognize the eyes staring back.
He stopped eating properly.
Not on purpose—just… food tastes like cardboard.
Soonie sits on the counter and stares at him while he pushes rice around the plate.
He snaps at the cat once—“What are you looking at?”—then immediately feels sick with guilt and buries his face in Soonie’s fur until the shaking stops.
He still talks to you.
Not out loud.
In his head.
Sharp, biting monologues he would never say if you were here.
“You promised you’d stay longer.”
“You said we had time.”
“You left me with the cats and your stupid plants and no instructions.”
He waits for you to answer back the way you always did—quick, teasing, calling him dramatic.
The silence is deafening.
He hates you for it.
He loves you more than he can breathe around.
The anger keeps him alive.
When it fades, he’s terrified of what will be left.
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SEO CHANGBIN : 서창빈 — Bargaining
Changbin makes deals with things that can’t answer.
He talks to the sky every night at 11:11 p.m.—the time your last message came through: “don’t wait up, I’ll be home soon ♡”
He stands on the balcony regardless of weather, arms crossed tight, whispering the same thing every time:
“I’ll never complain about your cold feet again.
I’ll never steal the blankets.
I’ll never skip leg day if it means you come back.
Just let her walk through the door.
Please.”
He starts going to the gym at 3 a.m.
Tells himself if he lifts heavier, if he pushes until his muscles scream louder than his thoughts, the universe might take pity.
He benches 180 kg like it’s nothing now.
He doesn’t feel stronger.
He just feels empty.
He keeps your gym playlist on repeat.
The one you made for him—loud, angry girl music mixed with his favorite rap tracks.
Every time “WAP” comes on he laughs until he cries because you used to scream the lyrics while spotting him, making the whole gym stare.
He still spots himself in the mirror.
Pretends you’re behind him counting reps.
“One more, Bin. You got this. I believe in you.”
He finishes the set.
Looks in the mirror.
You’re not there.
He drops the bar too hard.
The clang echoes like a gunshot.
He leaves offerings.
Your favorite iced latte on the kitchen counter every morning.
A fresh pack of the gum you chewed obsessively.
The hoodie you always stole from him—folded on your side of the bed.
He talks to the empty room while he does it.
“If you come back I’ll never tease you about your sweet tooth again.
I’ll buy you all the pastries.
I’ll never skip a date night.
I’ll never let you walk home alone.
Just come back.
Please.”
He starts wearing your ring on a chain around his neck.
The one you gave him when you got matching promise rings.
He clutches it when the grief hits hardest—like a lifeline.
He bargains with it.
“If I keep this close, if I never take it off, if I stay exactly the way I was when you loved me—will you come back?”
The metal stays cold against his skin.
No answer.
He still doesn’t take it off.
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HWANG HYUNJIN : 황현진 — Depression
Hyunjin stops painting.
The studio he spent years perfecting is silent now.
Canvases lean against the walls—half-finished portraits of you, sketches of your hands, your laugh lines, your eyes when you’re sleepy.
He hasn’t touched a brush in four months.
The paints have dried in their tubes.
The room smells like dust and turpentine and grief.
He sleeps in your clothes.
Not just hoodies—everything.
Your old t-shirts.
Your favorite pajama shorts (he has to tie them tight so they don’t fall off).
Your scarf that still smells faintly of your perfume.
He wraps himself in you every night and pretends the warmth is yours instead of just cotton and memory.
He doesn’t cry anymore.
The tears dried up somewhere around month two.
Now he just sits.
On the floor of the studio.
Back against the wall.
Staring at the last painting you ever saw him finish—a portrait of you laughing in sunlight.
He hasn’t covered it.
He can’t.
But he can’t look away either.
He talks to you in his head constantly.
Quiet conversations no one else hears.
“Did you see the moon tonight? It’s the same color you always said looked like spun sugar.”
“I made coffee the way you like it. Too sweet. I hated it. But I drank it anyway.”
“I miss your voice. Even when you were yelling at me for leaving paint on the couch.”
He stopped going out.
His friends come by.
They sit with him in silence when he can’t speak.
They leave food he doesn’t eat.
They hug him when he lets them.
He always ends up crying after they leave.
Quiet.
Exhausted.
The kind of crying that feels like bleeding out slowly.
He still wears the necklace you gave him.
A thin silver chain with a tiny star charm.
You said it was because he was your brightest one.
He holds it between his fingers when the dark gets too heavy.
Whispers to it like you can hear.
“I’m trying to be okay.
I’m trying so hard.
But it hurts to breathe without you.”
He doesn’t know how to live in a world where you don’t exist.
He doesn’t want to learn.
So he sits.
In the half-dark.
Surrounded by unfinished paintings.
Wearing your clothes.
Holding your star.
Waiting for a sign that never comes.
Hoping tomorrow will hurt a little less.
Knowing it probably won’t.
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HAN JISUNG : 한지성 — Acceptance
Jisung still writes songs about you.
Not the dramatic, heart-shredding ones he wrote right after.
Those stay locked in a folder labeled “do not open.”
These are quieter.
Gentler.
Melodies that feel like holding your hand in a crowded room.
Lyrics that don’t beg you to come back—they just remember you were here.
He released one last month.
No big announcement.
No music video.
Just a simple acoustic track on SoundCloud titled “Starlight.”
He didn’t tag it.
Didn’t promote it.
But people found it anyway.
Comments flooded in:
“Who’s this about?”
“This made me cry in the shower.”
“I lost someone too.”
He reads every single one.
Doesn’t reply.
Just sits with them.
Lets them exist beside his own grief.
He keeps your favorite mug on the shelf above the sink.
Blue with a tiny chip on the handle.
He drinks from it every morning—black coffee, no sugar, the way you used to tease him about.
He tells the mug good morning.
Tells it about the new melody stuck in his head.
Tells it he’s trying to be kinder to himself.
He visits your grave on the 14th of every month.
The day you left.
He brings one sunflower—your favorite.
Sits on the grass.
Talks.
Not like he’s expecting an answer anymore.
Just like he’s updating you.
“I finally fixed that bridge in the song you hated.”
“I ate vegetables today. You’d be proud.”
“I laughed yesterday. It felt weird. But good.”
He’s learning to live beside the grief instead of under it.
Some days are still heavy.
Some days he wakes up reaching for you.
But most days now he wakes up, looks at the empty side of the bed, and whispers:
“Good morning, baby. I’m still here.”
He keeps your photo in his wallet.
The one of you mid-laugh at the beach, hair wild, eyes crinkled.
He looks at it when he needs reminding that joy existed.
Still exists.
Even if it’s quieter now.
He’s not okay.
Not fully.
Maybe not ever.
But he’s breathing.
He’s writing.
He’s living.
And every note he plays
Every sunrise he watches
Every breath he takes
is proof that love doesn’t end when someone leaves.
It just changes shape.
And he’s learning—slowly, painfully, gently—
how to carry yours forward.
Without you.
But never without you.
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LEE FELIX : 필릭스 — Bargaining
Felix still lights a candle every night at 7:07 p.m.
The time your last photo together was taken—both of you laughing in a convenience store parking lot, faces lit by neon and streetlights.
He bought the same brand of candle you always chose—lavender, the cheap kind from the corner mart that smokes too much.
He lights it with the same lighter you used to steal from him, the one with the tiny star sticker you put on it.
He sits on the floor in front of it, knees to chest, and starts bargaining the way people bargain with gods they don’t believe in anymore.
“If I never complain about your cold hands again, will you come back?”
“If I learn to make your favorite latte exactly right—no foam, extra vanilla—will you walk through the door?”
“If I stop humming when I’m nervous, if I stop biting my nails, if I become quieter, smaller, better—will you forgive me for not holding you tighter that last night?”
He makes lists.
Actual lists on scraps of paper he keeps in a shoebox under the bed.
“I’ll donate half my clothes.”
“I’ll volunteer at the animal shelter every weekend.”
“I’ll never raise my voice again, even when I’m frustrated.”
“I’ll be kinder to everyone, even the people who don’t deserve it.”
He crosses things off when he does them.
The list gets longer.
Nothing gets crossed off enough times to bring you back.
Some nights he bargains with objects.
He holds your favorite mug—the one with the chipped handle—and whispers:
“If this mug never breaks, if it stays perfect forever, will you come home?”
He sleeps with it beside his pillow.
It hasn’t broken yet.
You still haven’t come home.
He talks to the flame.
Tells it about the new freckle he found on his wrist that looks like yours.
Tells it he’s sorry for every time he was too tired to dance with you in the kitchen.
Tells it he’d give up music if it meant one more morning waking up to your sleepy “five more minutes, Lix.”
The candle burns down every night.
He blows it out at 7:07 a.m. the next morning.
Starts again at 7:07 p.m.
He knows it’s irrational.
He knows the flame doesn’t hear him.
He knows bargains don’t bring people back.
But stopping would mean accepting.
And he’s not ready.
So he lights the candle.
Every single night.
And waits for the universe to change its mind.
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KIM SEUNGMIN : 김승민 — Depression
Seungmin’s voice has changed.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for most people to notice.
But you would have.
You always noticed the tiny things—how his tone lifted half a note when he was teasing, how it dropped when he was tired, how it cracked just slightly when he said your name after being apart for too long.
Now it’s flat.
Careful.
Like he’s measuring every word to make sure it doesn’t hurt coming out.
He speaks less in group settings.
When he does, it’s polite.
Measured.
Safe.
He stopped singing for fun.
The shower concerts you used to record secretly are gone.
The late-night covers he’d post on his private account—stopped.
He still sings for work.
But it’s mechanical.
Perfect pitch.
No soul.
He keeps your toothbrush in the holder.
Next to his.
Doesn’t touch it.
Doesn’t throw it away.
Just lets it sit there—bristles still slightly bent from the last time you used it.
Sometimes he stares at it for minutes at a time.
Doesn’t cry.
Just stares.
He stopped wearing colors.
Everything is black, gray, navy.
Not dramatic mourning clothes—just absence of light.
You used to tease him about his “emo phase” when he wore black too much.
He hasn’t worn white since the funeral.
He reads the books you left unfinished.
Marks the pages you dog-eared.
Finishes them slowly.
When he reaches the last page he closes the book, places it back on the shelf exactly where you left it, and starts the next one.
He doesn’t skip ahead.
Doesn’t read faster.
He reads like he’s walking through a museum of your mind—careful, reverent, terrified to miss a single detail.
He still sets the coffee maker for two cups every morning.
Drinks yours when his is gone.
Tastes like nothing.
He drinks it anyway.
He doesn’t talk about you in past tense.
Not yet.
When someone asks how you’re doing, he says “she’s resting.”
They nod awkwardly.
He doesn’t correct them.
At night he lies on his side of the bed—your side still empty—and stares at the ceiling.
He doesn’t cry.
The tears dried up months ago.
Now he just exists in the quiet.
Breathing shallow.
Waiting for the ache to become familiar enough that it stops feeling like dying.
It never quite does.
But he keeps breathing anyway.
Because stopping would mean the end of every place you ever touched.
And he’s not ready for that.
Not yet.
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YANG JEONGIN : 양정인 — Acceptance
Jeongin doesn’t visit the grave every week anymore.
He used to—rain, shine, schedules be damned.
He’d sit on the grass until his legs went numb, telling you about the new song he was working on, the dumb thing Seungmin said, how he still can’t fold fitted sheets the way you taught him.
Now he goes once a month.
On the 17th.
Your favorite number.
He brings one thing each time.
A single sunflower when it’s sunny.
A tiny umbrella when it rains.
A warm latte when it’s cold.
He places it carefully against the headstone, sits for a while, then leaves.
No long monologues.
No tears.
Just quiet company.
He started wearing your ring again.
Not on his finger—the chain around his neck.
He tucks it under his shirt when he’s on stage.
Pulls it out when he’s alone.
Holds it like a worry stone when his hands shake during recordings.
He sings again.
Not just for work.
For himself.
Late at night in the studio after everyone leaves.
Songs you loved.
Songs you hated.
Songs you never heard.
He records them anyway.
Saves them in a private folder labeled “for her.”
He might release them one day.
He might not.
Either way—they exist.
And that’s enough.
He laughs more now.
Not forced.
Not hollow.
Real, surprised laughter when Changbin trips over his own feet or Felix burns toast again.
It still catches him off guard sometimes—how joy can sneak in beside grief without apology.
He lets it stay.
He keeps your favorite photo on his lock screen.
The one of you mid-laugh at the beach, hair wild, eyes crinkled.
He doesn’t change it.
Doesn’t hide it.
When people ask who it is, he says “someone I loved.”
Present tense.
Always present tense.
He still sleeps on his side of the bed.
Leaves your side open.
Sometimes he reaches across in the middle of the night—habit, muscle memory.
His hand meets empty sheets.
He doesn’t flinch anymore.
Just exhales.
Pulls the pillow you used to hug close to his chest.
Breathes in the faint trace of your shampoo that’s almost gone.
He’s learning that grief isn’t a tunnel with light at the end.
It’s a room.
Some days the walls close in.
Some days the ceiling feels higher.
Some days he opens a window and lets the sun in.
He’s learning to live in the room.
Not to leave it.
Not to pretend it’s not there.
Just to live in it.
With you.
In every song.
In every laugh.
In every quiet morning he still sets two coffee mugs out.
Because acceptance isn’t forgetting.
It’s remembering.
And choosing to keep breathing anyway.
For you.
With you.
Always you.
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Happy belated Valentine's Day !
end note:
If you made it this far… thank you. Truly.
Writing (and maybe reading) these stages wasn’t easy. Valentine’s Day can feel like a spotlight on everything that hurts — the love that stayed, the love that left, the love that never quite arrived. Some days it’s roses and confessions; other days it’s quiet rooms and old messages you can’t delete. I wanted to honor all of it here. Not just the pretty parts, but the messy, aching, grieving ones too.
Grief doesn’t always mean someone died. Sometimes it’s grieving who you used to be with them, or who you thought you’d become together. Sometimes it’s grieving the version of love you were promised but never got. And that’s okay. It’s allowed to hurt this much, even on a day the world tells you to be happy and in love.
If any of these words felt too close, too raw, too familiar — I’m holding space for you. You’re not dramatic. You’re not “too much.” You’re just human, feeling something real in a world that rushes past feelings like they’re inconvenient. Take your time with the ache. Let it sit. Let it breathe. It doesn’t have to be fixed today, or this week, or even this year.
And if you’re in a softer place right now — if your heart is full, or healing, or just quietly okay — I’m so glad. You deserve that gentleness too.
Thank you for letting me put these pieces of hurt and hope into words. Thank you for reading, for feeling, for staying even when it stung. If this special helped you feel a little less alone in your own stages… that’s more than enough for me.
Wishing you love in all its forms — the kind that stays, the kind that teaches, the kind that eventually lets you go. And most of all, wishing you peace, even on days when peace feels far away.
With all my heart (the bruised and beating parts included),
areudirty
prguitarman
2087
ellievsbear
gummygunk
gamechangershow
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
titsay
