Just as Y/N's head hit the pillow at last, her eyes drooping as though magnets were pulling them down, a cry broke out in the distance. The woman's heart lurched in both sympathy and exhaustion; her own eyes watered with the sheer fatigue that plagued every bone in her body as she made to get up again. But Changbin's hand was gentle on her shoulder, stopping her from moving.
“I'll go,” Changbin murmured, sitting up in their bed. He leaned over and tenderly kissed Y/N's brow, and the woman smiled up at him gratefully, her fingers reaching out to brush his cheek.
“Are you sure?” She hummed, eyes falling closed again. “I don't mind going.”
Changbin nodded. “Go to sleep, my baby. I might stay there with her.”
Letting out a sleepy sound, Y/N nodded and allowed herself to give in to the well-needed sleep she had been craving all day. With another brush of a kiss to Y/N's shoulder, Changbin slipped out of bed and sank his feet into the fuzzy slippers next to it. He shuffled out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with minimal sound so as not to disturb his wife, and he stepped out into the hall.
Despite the immense heat radiating from his skin and seeping through his black t-shirt, Changbin suddenly shivered as the sudden temperature change sent goosebumps scattering down the length of his limbs. He rubbed his arms as he padded across the hall, pushing open the door to see his four year old daughter just on the other side of it, her blanket clutched in her fist.
Her relentless sobbing paused as she looked up when the door opened, her wide, watery eyes fixing onto her father's face. But then realisation washed over her and the little girl burst into tears again, her blanket falling to the floor in a velvety heap as she threw her arms around the older man's leg.
“Dada … “ Mihwa sobbed, her voice muffled from the way her face was smushed into Changbin's knee.
Changbin's face softened and his hand landed softly on the top of her head, her ruffled hair silky to the touch as he left the slowest of pets behind. “My Mihwa … my Daisy. What's wrong, my little flower?”
Mihwa clutched harder at the worn material of his sweatpants and spoke in a tiny voice. “Wanna … wann' sleep with dada.”
“You want to sleep with daddy?” Changbin smiled, his hand going to caress her pink cheeks. “Is your bed uncomfy?”
She nodded rapidly, pulling her face away from her father's leg and looking up at him with even rounder eyes than before. “Wan' cuddles. ‘Cause … ‘cause daddy is the comfiest ever ever ever.”
Chuckling at that, Changbin leaned down and hooked his arms under Mihwa's and deftly pulled her up into his secure hold. She instantly buried her small nose into the crook of his neck, her entire frame tucked in against the broad stature of her father. His hand cupped the back of her head as he walked into her room and sat down on her bed, Mihwa still curled up in his arms. He leaned back against the headboard and the girl flopped over his chest, the muscular curves of it cushioning her face in a way that made her sigh under her breath.
“Soft … “ Mihwa slurred sleepily, moving to tuck her face between his bicep and the side of his chest. “Dada?”
“Hmm?” Changbin peered down at her as he continued to pat her back in slow strokes.
“Like muscles,” Mihwa said. “Squishy.”
Changbin's body shook with laughter. It was silent laughter for a moment, but he couldn't help it; a snort escaped him, followed by a hushed fit of giggles that filled the quiet space around them. It made his daughter laugh too, the sound very much like Changbin's which made him laugh even more.
“You should be sleeping, not making me laugh,” Changbin grinned, kissing her forehead. “You're such a silly flower.”
Mihwa giggled, her cheek smushed up like a pancake against his chest. She looked completely content now, curled up on top of her father's reclined body; her tears from earlier had dried in wobbly tracks at the corners of her eyes, and Changbin gently traced his fingertip over her little cheeks.
“Dada?”
“Hmm?”
“Did mummy marry you for your muscles?”
Another snort erupted out of Changbin, followed by a full blown high pitched cackle that shook Mihwa's frame. He pinched the bridge of his nose in mild disbelief, though his lips were turned up in a permanent smile as he tightened his arms around his daughter just a bit more.
“Maybe,” Changbin whispered, rubbing Mihwa's back. “We'll have to ask her in the morning.”
“‘Kay … ” Mihwa said slowly. She turned her head then, and her rosebud shaped mouth left a hovering kiss on the considerable bulge of her father's bicep as he held her close. It made Changbin chuckle under his breath again, the man still not quite believing what he was seeing.
“Sweet dreams, my flower,” Changbin murmured against the top of her head. “Dada loves you.”
His words were like magic to the little girl; a mere moment later, her breathing slowed, and her fingers that had been curled into her father's top unfurled and twitched slightly as sleep washed over her. Her head was tucked beneath Changbin's chin, her legs draped on either side of him, and Changbin's head started to loll with fatigue of his own. He leaned back a little more, his hand reaching out for one of the blankets piled up on Mihwa's bed.
With another light kiss to the top of her head, Changbin carefully positioned the blanket over Mihwa's back, making sure she was warm before adjusting the rest of it over his legs. He barely registered what was happening before his eyes drooped too, and before he could open them again, Changbin fell fast asleep.
synopsis: he’s always been there for you. always. but maybe you were too late in realizing he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fear of rejection, heavy emotional themes, slow burn romance
wc: 7341
part of nini’s 3k special event (requests closed)
You don’t remember what exactly made you notice him that day. Maybe it was the way he sat hunched over on the far end of the playground bench, his lunchbox unopened on his lap, or maybe it was the quiet weight that hung around him like a fog.
It was the middle of spring, the sky as blue as the ribbons tying your pigtails, and the air carried that mixture of sun-warmed grass and chalk dust from the blacktop. Everyone else was loud, laughing, chasing each other across the yard in a game of tag. But he was still. A small island of silence in the chaos.
You’d heard the whispers before you saw him.
“His accent’s weird.” “He’s new.” “Why’s he so quiet?”
Children can be cruel without realizing it, their words sharp without knowing how much they cut. And while everyone else ran away from the new boy, you had wandered toward him.
You smoothed down your flowy pink dress, it always flared when you walked too quickly and padded over with your lunch bag swinging from your wrist. He didn’t look up at first. His fingers gripped the handle of the lunchbox so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. You remember wondering if he was scared of opening it, as if it might bite him.
“Hi,” you said simply.
His head lifted. Dark eyes, wide and careful, met yours. He looked like a rabbit caught under a flashlight beam frozen, unsure if it was safer to run or stay.
“You’re the new kid, right?” you asked, tilting your head. “What’s your name?”
“…Changbin,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost missed it.
“Changbin,” you repeated, tasting the syllables. “I like it.” You plopped down beside him before he could protest, your skirt brushing against his leg. “I’m Y/n.”
He blinked, confused. Most kids introduced themselves while standing several feet away, wary, ready to bolt. But you were close. Too close. Close enough for him to smell the faint sweetness of the juice box you carried.
You unzipped your lunch bag and pulled out your sandwich. “What did you bring?” you asked, peering at the unopened box in his lap.
His grip tightened. “…It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s food.” You leaned sideways, attempting to peek. “C’mon, I want to see.”
He hesitated, then slowly opened the lid. Inside were small portions of neatly packed rice, side dishes arranged with care, clearly the work of someone who loved him enough to make sure he ate well. It wasn’t the sandwiches and chips the other kids had, and you realized, with a sting of guilt, why he’d been reluctant to show it.
“Wow,” you said honestly, eyes wide. “That looks way better than mine.”
His head snapped toward you. “…What?”
“Mine’s just boring bread,” you complained, holding up your sandwich. “Yours looks like a feast.”
And for the first time since you’d approached him, his lips twitched. Not a smile, not fully, but a crack in the wall he’d built around himself.
You grinned, triumphant, and nudged his arm with yours. “Want to trade a little?”
“…Trade?”
“Yeah. Half of mine for half of yours. That way I can try it and you can try mine.”
He stared at you as if you’d just offered him something unimaginable. Slowly, cautiously, he handed you a piece of rolled egg, and you gave him half of your sandwich. He took a bite, chewed, and then made a face.
“Too dry,” he muttered.
“Hey!” you protested, though laughter bubbled in your chest. “You’re supposed to say it’s good!”
“It’s not,” he said bluntly, but his cheeks turned pink as he avoided your gaze.
You laughed anyway. And that was how it began.
From that day forward, you and Changbin were inseparable. At first, you thought you were just being kind, including the new kid so he wouldn’t be lonely. But it didn’t take long before kindness turned into habit, and habit turned into something stronger.
You sought him out in the mornings, saving him a seat beside you. You walked with him after class, your steps falling into rhythm without thinking. At recess, while others played in their own groups, you dragged him along, insisting that tag or hide-and-seek was more fun with him there.
The other kids noticed. They whispered again, but the tone was different this time.
“They’re always together.” “Are they best friends?” “Do you think they’re…?”
You didn’t care. He was yours, your best friend, your safe place. And he looked at you like you were the only one who had ever chosen him.
Years passed, but the memory of that first lunch on the bench never faded. Sometimes, you’d tease him about it.
“Remember when you wouldn’t open your lunchbox?” you’d laugh.
He’d roll his eyes, trying to play it off, but you could always see the way the corner of his mouth curved upward.
He remembered too.
And somewhere deep inside him, beneath the easy banter and the laughter you shared, something else took root. Something softer, heavier, harder to ignore as time went on.
Changbin loved you. He had from the very beginning.
But you didn’t know that yet.
Not then.
-
Somehow, through all the awkward years and sudden changes, you and Changbin never drifted.
People came and went, friends you sat with in class one year would vanish the next, replaced by strangers who felt temporary, like passing shadows. But he was constant. Like gravity, always pulling you back no matter how far you wandered.
By now, the whispers had changed.
“They’re basically dating, right?” “They’re always together.” “Look at the way he carries her bag.”
You learned to laugh them off. “No, we’re just friends,” you’d say quickly, almost defensively.
It wasn’t untrue. At least, not then. He was your best friend, the one you trusted more than anyone else. You never thought twice before linking arms with him, or stealing food off his tray, or lying on his shoulder during long study sessions. It felt natural. Familiar. Safe.
But for Changbin, safety was never the whole story.
He knew the shape of your laugh, the rhythm of your sighs, the tilt of your head when you were trying not to smile. He noticed the way you fidgeted when you were nervous, the way you’d tap your pen against the side of your notebook when you were thinking. He knew you like he knew himself.
And somewhere along the way, knowing became loving.
It wasn’t sudden for him. It wasn’t one moment of realization but a thousand little ones. The way your hair caught the sunlight when you leaned across the desk. The way your voice softened when you asked if he’d eaten. The way your eyes searched for him in a crowd like you couldn’t breathe until you found him.
He didn’t tell you. How could he? To say it out loud would risk shattering everything, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, not even a piece of you. So he held it quietly, guarding it like a secret treasure, letting it seep into the way he treated you.
He carried your heavy books without being asked. He waited after practice so you wouldn’t have to walk home alone. He memorized your favorite snacks and bought them when he knew you were having a bad day.
To everyone else, it looked like devotion. To you, it was just Changbin being Changbin.
And to him, it was love disguised as friendship.
There were girls, of course. Girls who noticed the way his shoulders had broadened, the way his laugh had grown deeper, the way his sharp jawline contrasted with the softness of his smile. They started approaching him between classes, slipping him folded notes, lingering by his locker.
You always ended up being the messenger.
“Hey, can you give me his number?” they’d ask you shyly.
You never thought twice about it. “Sure,” you’d reply, scribbling it down for them. Why wouldn’t you? He was your best friend, and you wanted him to be happy.
Changbin never said a word about it. He just tucked his hands in his pockets, waited until the girl gathered the courage to talk to him again, and then gently, always gently told her no.
Because he didn’t want their numbers. He wanted yours.
But you never noticed. Or maybe you never let yourself notice.
High school was full of moments like that, things you didn’t see, things you brushed off.
Like the time at the school festival when you tripped over a loose cable and he caught you before you hit the ground, his arm strong around your waist. For one heartbeat, your faces were inches apart, close enough to feel his breath against your cheek.
You laughed nervously, shoving him away. “You’re such a lifesaver.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Or the night you both stayed up cramming for finals, your head dropping onto his shoulder as exhaustion pulled you under. He froze, heart hammering in his chest, every instinct screaming at him to stay perfectly still. You slept peacefully, your hand curling unconsciously against his arm.
He stared at you for hours, memorizing every line of your face, every flicker of expression in your dreams. And when morning came, he pretended nothing happened.
You never noticed the way he looked at you differently when you weren’t watching.
And he never let you.
Still, even without labels, you and Changbin were inseparable. People stopped asking if you were dating; they just assumed. And every time you denied it, every time you laughed and said, “No, no, it’s not like that,” a small part of him cracked.
But he never let it show.
Because if you didn’t see him that way, he’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all.
So he smiled, swallowed his feelings, and walked beside you anyway.
Always beside you.
But feelings don’t stay buried forever.
And neither of you knew that college would change everything.
College felt bigger, wider, overwhelming in a way high school never did. Suddenly, there were endless halls, crowded lecture theaters, faces you didn’t know and professors who didn’t care if you kept up or fell behind.
But through it all, there was Changbin.
He found you in the mornings, walking you to class with coffee in hand because he already knew you wouldn’t eat breakfast. He waited outside lecture halls so you wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. He memorized your schedule before you even had, texting reminders about room numbers or assignment deadlines like he was your second brain.
Everyone noticed.
“They’re definitely dating.” “Did you see him hold her bag while she tied her shoe?” “He walks her everywhere.”
The whispers never really stopped, they just got louder in college. And this time, instead of brushing them off with a laugh, you felt your throat tighten every time you heard it.
Because what if they were right?
No. You shook the thought away, too quickly, too defensively. He was your best friend. That was all.
So when someone asked directly, you snapped out the same answer you always had: “No, we’re not dating.”
You didn’t notice the way his expression faltered the first time he overheard you say it. You didn’t see how his jaw clenched, how his hands curled into fists in his pockets, how the words sank into him like stones tied to his chest.
All you saw were the girls who started approaching you afterward.
“Hey, could you give me Changbin’s number?” “Since you’re so close with him, could you pass this along?”
You gave it without thinking. Why wouldn’t you?
He was handsome now, not just in the way you noticed objectively, but in the way other girls whispered about when they thought you couldn’t hear. Of course they wanted his number. Of course they noticed him.
You never asked what he thought of it.
And Changbin never told you that every time you handed out his number, it felt like watching pieces of himself slip further from you.
He turned them all down. Always. Gently but firmly, no hesitation.
Because he didn’t want their attention. He wanted yours. But you never realized.
The strange thing was, the more time you spent in college, the more you started noticing him, not the boy you’d grown up with, but the man he was becoming.
It crept up on you slowly.
The slope of his shoulders under his hoodie when he leaned back in his chair. The way his laugh was deeper now, rich and warm, drawing stares from people around the room. The little veins that popped along his forearms when he carried too many textbooks for you.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. He was still Changbin. Still the boy you’d sat with on that bench years ago. Still the one who shared his lunch when no one else would sit with him.
But your body betrayed you.
The first time your fingers brushed by accident, your heart gave a traitorous jolt. The first time he leaned in too close to show you something on your laptop, your breath caught in your throat.
You ignored it. Buried it. Laughed it off.
But then came the night that changed everything.
You’d gone out with a group of classmates, more out of obligation than desire. It was some casual mixer thing, music too loud, shoes that pinched your feet, a haze of perfume and chatter that made your head spin.
Changbin was there, of course. He always was. He kept close, hovering protectively when strangers tried to strike up conversation with you, keeping his hand near the small of your back when the crowd got too thick.
It should’ve annoyed you. Instead, it made something burn hot and confusing in your chest.
But you didn’t fully understand it until your heels betrayed you.
They looked cute when you put them on, but three hours in, every step felt like walking on broken glass. You tried to play it off, smile through the ache, but Changbin noticed immediately.
“You’re limping,” he said flatly, stopping you in your tracks.
“No, I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” His tone left no room for argument.
Before you could protest, he guided you to an empty bench outside the venue. You sat down, trying to wave him off, but he crouched in front of you, frowning at your swollen feet like it was his personal responsibility.
Then, without a word, he jogged off.
Minutes later, he returned with a pair of plain, comfortable slip-on shoes he’d bought from a nearby store. He knelt again, gently helping you out of your heels, slipping the new shoes onto your feet with a care that made your chest ache.
“I’ll carry these,” he said, picking up your discarded heels without hesitation.
You stared at him. At the sweat shining faintly on his temple from rushing. At the way his strong hands held your delicate shoes like they were nothing. At the quiet steadiness in his eyes, the unspoken worry written in every line of his face.
Something shifted inside you.
Your heart raced, pounding against your ribs in a way it never had before. Not with anyone else. Not even once.
It terrified you.
So you smiled weakly, thanked him, and the very next day, you started to pull away.
-
You didn’t mean to hurt him. You told yourself it was just space. Just a little time to breathe, to figure out why being near him suddenly made it hard to think straight.
But he noticed.
Of course he did. He always noticed.
The missed texts. The excuses about being too busy. The way you suddenly locked your door when before he could come and go freely.
He stood outside your dorm once, staring at the code panel, thumb hovering over the spare key in his pocket. He used to know your rhythms so well, your laugh echoing down the hall as you opened the door before he even knocked.
Now there was silence.
And Changbin wondered.. Was it something he’d done? Had you figured it out? Did you finally see the feelings he’d tried so hard to hide?
And worse, did you not want him anymore, not even as a friend?
It started small. A late reply here. An excuse there. A laugh that didn’t sound quite like you when he asked if you wanted to grab dinner.
Changbin tried not to notice. He told himself you were busy, college was different now, schedules heavier, circles widening. You had more friends, more places to be, more things to do. He told himself it wasn’t about him.
But it was.
Because he still knew you. Better than anyone else. He knew the difference between your I’m tired and your I don’t want to talk right now. He knew when you were genuinely busy, and when you were simply avoiding him.
And lately, every excuse, every flimsy smile, every locked door screamed avoidance.
At first, he thought back on everything he’d said, everything he’d done. Had he pushed too far? Had he let too much slip? He replayed moments over and over, dissecting them in the dark of his room until sleep wouldn’t come.
The shoes. The heels he carried in his hands while you walked beside him in comfort. The way your eyes had looked at him different, for once, sharp with something he couldn’t name.
Had you noticed? Had you seen too much?
And if you had… did that mean you wanted less of him now?
The thought gutted him.
-
You, on the other hand, told yourself you were doing the right thing. Space. That’s what you needed. A little distance to steady yourself, to quiet the pounding of your heart every time he came too close.
It wasn’t supposed to hurt him. You hadn’t meant for it to.
But you were scared.
Scared because for years, he had been safe. Familiar. A constant you never had to question. He was the boy who sat on the bench with you when no one else would, the boy who carried your books, the boy who stayed up all night to help you study. He was your anchor, your person, your home.
And now, suddenly, your heart was racing in ways you didn’t understand when he touched you, when he smiled at you, when he looked at you too long.
It felt dangerous, like standing on the edge of a cliff you weren’t ready to jump from.
So you stepped back.
You leaned on your other friends instead, your girlfriends who never minded Changbin, but who didn’t miss him either. They welcomed you when you showed up alone. They didn’t question why he wasn’t there. They filled the empty spaces with chatter and laughter, and for a while, it felt easier.
You laughed with them, smiled through the nights out, took pictures, held drinks in your hands. On the surface, everything looked fine.
But in the quiet moments, when you looked down at your phone and saw no new messages, when the crowd grew too loud, when the laughter around you didn’t quite reach your chest, your thoughts drifted back to him. Always to him.
To his frown when he noticed you weren’t eating. To his laugh, low and warm, that made the air vibrate. To the way he’d held your heels in one hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You thought of him, even when you were trying not to.
Especially then.
And Changbin noticed.
Every time you posted a picture out with them, smiling without him in the frame. Every time he saw you across campus, surrounded by people who weren’t him. Every time he sat in his room, staring at the spare key you’d given him, wondering if he even had the right to use it anymore.
The weight of it crushed him slowly, like the ground beneath his feet was sinking inch by inch. He wanted to ask, but the fear of your answer was worse than silence.
Still, he couldn’t take it much longer.
That night, when you came back from yet another outing with your friends, laughter still clinging to your lips, the last thing you expected was to see him waiting.
Changbin stood leaning against your doorframe, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head tilted down. The dim hallway light cast shadows across his face, and for a moment, you thought he might’ve been waiting there for hours.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
“Changbin…” you breathed, guilt prickling sharp in your chest.
He lifted his head slowly, and the sight made your throat close. His eyes were glassy, rimmed with exhaustion, and there was something raw in them you’d never seen before.
“Hey,” he said softly, but his voice cracked halfway through the word.
You froze, clutching your bag tighter. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you.” His tone was steady at first, but his hands trembled where they fisted inside his pockets. “I… I can’t keep pretending like this is normal.”
Your breath hitched. “Pretending what?”
“That everything’s fine when it’s not,” he burst out, his voice breaking louder this time. “You’re pulling away from me, and I don’t know why. Did I do something? Did I—did I mess up?”
The pain in his voice tore through you. His eyes shone, tears welling despite the way he blinked hard, trying to keep them at bay.
And when the first tear finally slipped down his cheek, your world shattered.
Because Changbin didn’t cry. Not like this. Not openly, not where you could see.
Your chest ached so fiercely it felt like it might break open.
“Bin…” you whispered, taking a step closer, but he flinched back like he couldn’t bear your pity.
“Just tell me the truth,” he begged, voice hoarse. “If you don’t want me around anymore, I’ll go. I’ll disappear if that’s what you need. Just—please—don’t leave me wondering.”
You couldn’t breathe. Every word was a knife, cutting through the excuses you’d built. He thought he’d done something wrong. He thought you didn’t want him anymore.
And it was all your fault.
Because he hadn’t done anything, nothing but care for you, nothing but love you the only way he knew how.
The problem wasn’t him. It was you.
You were terrified. Terrified of your own feelings, of seeing him not as the boy you grew up with but as the man who made your heart race, the man who could destroy you with one touch, one word, one kiss.
And now your fear had hurt him more than anything else could.
Your hands shook as you reached for him, your voice breaking. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, you didn’t. I just…”
How could you explain it? How could you tell him you’d run from him because you felt too much? That the idea of losing him, of ruining what you had, had paralyzed you until you chose distance over risk?
How could you say the truth when it might unravel everything between you?
Tears burned your eyes as you choked on the words. “I’m sorry, Bin. I’m so, so sorry.”
And he just stared at you, heart in his throat, waiting for an answer that would either save him or break him completely.
He shook his head, cutting you off before you could say anything else. “Don’t. You don’t have to explain. I get it now.”
Your stomach dropped. “Get what?”
“That you don’t want me around anymore.” His voice was low, steady, but every word carried the weight of something breaking inside him. “You’ve been avoiding me, ignoring me, pushing me away. I should’ve taken the hint earlier, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“No,” you said quickly, panic rising. “That’s not—”
“I won’t bother you anymore.”
The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. He was serious. He meant it. The boy who had always been at your side, the one person you thought would never leave, was telling you he would go.
Your hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his wrist before he could turn away. “Don’t. Don’t go.”
His gaze snapped to yours, eyes blazing with hurt. “Why not? So you can keep pretending like nothing’s wrong? So you can keep giving me scraps of attention while you laugh with everyone else?”
“Changbin—”
“You didn’t think I’d notice?” His voice rose, anger laced with anguish. “Or did you think I wouldn’t care?”
The words cut deep.
“You used to tell me everything,” he pressed, his frustration unraveling with every syllable. “Every little thing. I knew more about your day than you probably did yourself. And now? I ask, and you barely give me a sentence. You shut me out like I’m nothing to you.”
You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“You don’t look at me the same anymore,” he continued, his chest heaving as years of restraint cracked wide open. “You avoid me in class. You smile at everyone but me. You think I can’t tell, but I can. I notice every damn thing, because that’s what I do. I notice you.”
The words hung heavy in the air, suffocating.
You closed your eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. You hadn’t meant for it to get this bad. You hadn’t meant to hurt him this way. But you’d been so caught up in your fear, in the pounding of your heart every time he got too close, that you’d forgotten,
He wasn’t just your best friend. He was the person who loved you the most. And you’d broken him by trying to protect yourself.
“I…” The word stuck in your throat. You forced yourself to look at him, at the tears still clinging stubbornly to his lashes, at the anger barely holding together the pieces of his hurt.
Your voice came out louder than you intended, raw and desperate.
“I like you, okay?!”
The words tore out of you, filling the narrow hallway with a finality you couldn’t take back.
Changbin froze.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your hands trembling as you held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. “I like you,” you repeated, softer this time, your voice breaking. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. Because I didn’t know how to handle it. Because it scared me. You scare me.”
His breath hitched, the storm in his eyes faltering into stunned silence.
And for the first time, the truth lay bare between you, messy, jagged, terrifying.
No more excuses. No more distance.
Just the raw, undeniable truth neither of you could ignore anymore.
The words hung in the air, heavier than stone. I like you.
You almost couldn’t believe you’d said it. You hadn’t planned to. You hadn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that loud, raw, desperate. But once the words left your mouth, there was no taking them back.
Except he didn’t respond.
Changbin just… froze. His eyes wide, his lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.
And the silence stretched.
A second. Two. Five.
Your heart pounded louder with each passing moment, your ears burning hot, your stomach twisting. The longer he said nothing, the more the panic clawed at you.
Maybe you’d ruined everything. Maybe you’d misread the way he cared for you. Maybe he’d never think of you as more than the girl with pigtails and a pink dress who sat beside him when no one else would.
“Forget it,” you blurted, shaking your head, your voice cracking with humiliation. “I didn’t mean it. Just… forget I said anything.”
You turned quickly, fumbling with your keys, desperate to escape into the safety of your apartment before your face burst completely into flames. If you could just get the door open, if you could just hide from his eyes—
“Don’t.”
His voice was firm, breaking through your panic.
Your hand stilled against the lock, your knuckles white as you gripped the key.
“Don’t take it back,” Changbin said, softer this time, but no less intense.
You swallowed hard, staring at the door as if it could swallow you whole. “…Why not?”
“Because—” He let out a shaky laugh, one that sounded closer to a sob. “Do you really not know? Do you honestly not know how I feel about you?”
Your chest tightened. Slowly, you turned to look at him, and the sight nearly undid you.
His eyes were wet, glistening under the dim hallway light, but they burned with something more than pain. Something fierce, desperate, unshakable.
“Binnie…” you whispered, your voice trembling.
He stepped closer, and you forgot how to breathe.
“Since the moment you walked up to me on that bench,” he said, his words raw, unguarded, “since the moment you sat down beside me when everyone else turned away—since then… I’ve liked you.” His voice cracked, but he pushed through. “No. I’ve been in love with you.”
Your breath caught, your world tilting off its axis.
He took another step, close enough now that you could see every line of exhaustion on his face, every flicker of emotion he’d been holding back for years.
“I’ve loved you since we were kids,” he admitted, his voice breaking into a whisper. “Since you smiled at me with your sandwich in one hand and told me my food looked better. Since you dragged me along to every game, every class, every stupid thing you thought was fun.” His lips trembled, but his eyes never wavered from yours. “I’ve never stopped. Not once.”
Heat flooded your face, a blush spreading across your cheeks until you thought you might combust. Your hands shook, still frozen on the key, but your heart… your heart felt like it was about to explode.
All this time. All those years. While you were busy convincing yourself he was just your best friend, he’d been carrying this love, quietly, patiently, without ever asking for anything in return.
And you’d been so blind.
“Bin…” Your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes. You wanted to say more, to tell him you were sorry, to tell him you didn’t mean to hurt him, to tell him that the feelings he carried weren’t one-sided anymore. But your throat closed, overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
Changbin watched you, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling with the release of years of silence.
And though the air between you buzzed with a thousand unspoken things, you knew one truth now clear, undeniable, impossible to ignore.
He loved you. He always had.
And you could no longer pretend you didn’t love him back.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
His words still clung to the air, heavy and sharp enough to cut through your every defense: Since we were kids… I’ve loved you.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, like one wrong step would send you tumbling.
And then he laughed low, bitter, shaky.
“You don’t have to say it back, you know,” Changbin murmured, gaze dropping to the floor. His voice was raw, ragged around the edges, as if every word scraped his throat. “If you just said you liked me because you felt guilty—because you wanted to stop me from leaving—don’t. Don’t lie to me like that.”
Your chest tightened, panic flaring. “That’s not—”
“Do you know what it’s like?” he interrupted, his voice rising with the force of everything he’d bottled up. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Do you know what it’s like to spend years, years loving someone and telling yourself it’s enough just to stand next to them? To watch them laugh at everyone else, to watch them hand out your number like it means nothing, to hear them shut down rumors like the idea of being with you is disgusting?”
Tears blurred your vision. “I—”
“And then suddenly,” he continued, his voice breaking, “they pull away. No explanation, no reason, just—gone. And you think it’s you. You think you’ve finally ruined it. That the one person you can’t live without doesn’t want you anymore.”
You closed your eyes, the weight of his pain pressing against you until you thought you’d collapse under it. He was trembling, every word spilling like blood from a wound he’d been holding shut for far too long.
“I can’t take it if you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” he whispered, his voice raw, fragile. “I can’t.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Your heart pounded, your throat dry. You’d hurt him, more deeply than you’d ever meant to. And now, if you didn’t say it right, if you didn’t show him the truth, you might lose him for good.
So you inhaled sharply, forcing the words out before your fear could swallow them whole.
“I like you, Bin.” Your voice trembled, but it was loud, clear. “Not because I feel sorry for you. Not because I want to stop you from leaving. I like you because I do. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like this.”
He froze, staring at you like he didn’t dare believe it.
You swallowed hard, tears spilling down your cheeks. “You scare me. That’s why I pulled away. Because the way you make me feel—it’s not safe. It’s not comfortable. It’s like standing on the edge of something so big I don’t know if I’ll survive it if I fall.” You pressed a trembling hand to your chest. “But I already fell. That’s the truth. I already did.”
Silence.
For a second, you thought you’d ruined it again, that he’d turn away, call you a liar.
But then Changbin’s lips parted, his eyes widening, glassy with unshed tears. He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was hearing.
“You…” His voice cracked. “You mean it?”
Your laugh came out broken, wet with tears. “Of course I mean it. Do you think I’d stand here crying in the hallway if I didn’t?”
Something inside him shattered then, not from pain, but from the unbearable relief that came with finally hearing what he’d longed for all these years. His shoulders sagged, his fists unclenched, and a sob slipped past his lips before he could stop it.
You stepped forward, reaching for him instinctively, and this time he didn’t flinch away. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire body shaking with the force of everything he’d kept inside.
Your arms wrapped around him tightly, your own tears soaking into his hoodie. “I’m sorry,” you whispered over and over, the words tumbling out helplessly. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You did,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “But I still… I still…” His breath hitched. “I can’t stop loving you.”
Your heart clenched, breaking and healing all at once. You tightened your grip, burying your face in his hair. “Good,” you whispered fiercely, “because I can’t stop either.”
And for the first time in days maybe weeks, you felt the distance between you crumble.
But beneath the relief, the tenderness, the truth laid bare, a question lingered in his silence.
Could he really believe it? Could years of one-sided love and heartbreak really be undone by words?
Or would you have to prove it to him, again and again, until he finally let himself believe you weren’t going anywhere?
The world outside your apartment blurred into silence. The hallway, the neighbors, the late-night hum of campus life, it all faded until there was only Changbin in your arms.
You could feel him trembling against you, his breath uneven, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum against your chest. Years of restraint, of silence, of swallowing everything he felt had all cracked open tonight, and now he clung to you as though you were the only thing holding him together.
And maybe you were.
“Bin,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to see his face. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his mouth trembling in a way that made your chest ache. You lifted your hands, cradling his cheeks gently, forcing him to look at you.
“I meant it.”
He blinked, his brows pulling together. “You—”
“I meant every word I said,” you cut in softly, firmly, before he could spiral again. “I like you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been terrified, but I’m not running anymore.” You brushed away the tears that streaked his face with your thumbs. “So don’t you dare think this is pity, or guilt, or anything less than real.”
Changbin’s breath caught, his lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the strength. His eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading for proof.
So you gave it to him.
Slowly, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.
It wasn’t perfect, not at first. He froze, shocked, his breath stuttering against you. And then, as though the realization hit him all at once, he melted into it. His hands rose to your waist, gripping you like you might disappear, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
The kiss was soft but trembling, full of years of silence finally breaking. And when you pulled back, breathless, you kept your forehead pressed to his.
“See?” you whispered, smiling through the tears. “I meant it.”
Changbin laughed then broken, wet, shaky. But it was a laugh, the kind you hadn’t heard from him in weeks. The kind you thought you might never hear again.
“I can’t believe this is real,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over your hip absentmindedly, like he was memorizing the shape of you. “All this time… I thought I was alone.”
“You were never alone,” you said fiercely, your own tears spilling again. “You’ve always had me. I was just too stupid to realize what I had right in front of me.”
He shook his head, smiling faintly despite the tears still clinging to his lashes. “You’re not stupid. Just… late.”
You laughed, the sound broken but light. “Late, then. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
-
The next few days felt surreal.
Everything looked the same campus buildings, the walkways you always took together, your favorite café, but nothing was the same.
His hand lingered in yours now. His shoulder brushed yours and stayed there. His smile when he looked at you was different, softer, unhidden.
And yet, there was hesitation too. You saw it in the way he sometimes second-guessed reaching for you, in the way his words faltered as though afraid of saying too much. Years of being “just friends” had carved deep habits, and the fear that this might vanish lingered heavy in both of you.
So you made it your mission to prove it, over and over.
You texted him good morning, every morning, with little hearts he used to tease you for sending to your girl friends. You rambled again about your day, letting the words spill out until he laughed at how little had changed. You leaned on him in public, unashamed now, daring anyone to whisper about the two of you because for once, they’d be right.
And at night, when you were both exhausted from classes, you sat curled up together on your couch, your head resting on his chest while he scrolled absently on his phone with one hand and stroked your hair with the other.
It was new. It was fragile. It was terrifying.
But it was also everything you hadn’t known you were missing.
-
One evening, as you sat like that, the TV droning in the background, Changbin spoke up suddenly, his voice low.
“Promise me something.”
You tilted your head to look up at him. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t take it back,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you while he asked. “Not tomorrow, not a month from now, not when things get hard. Just… don’t take it back.”
Your chest ached, the fear in his voice cutting deeper than any confession. You sat up slightly, cupping his face until he finally looked at you.
“I promise,” you said without hesitation. “I’m not taking it back. Not ever.”
He searched your eyes for a long moment, and then he nodded, exhaling shakily as though he’d been holding his breath for years.
And when he kissed you again, slow and tender, you knew this wasn’t the end of the story.
It was the beginning.
The strangest part of dating Changbin wasn’t how different things felt.
It was how much they didn’t.
You still walked to class together, side by side, your conversation tumbling over itself in the same chaotic rhythm as always. You still ended up sprawled on each other’s furniture after long study sessions, complaining about professors or laughing at inside jokes no one else would understand. You still stole bites of his food and still smacked his shoulder when he teased you too much.
The difference was in the spaces between.
The little pauses where his hand found yours, warm and steady. The moments when your laughter faded and he leaned down to kiss you, quick and soft, like he’d been waiting years to be allowed to. The way you didn’t deny it anymore when people asked, their voices filled with smug satisfaction, “So, you two are finally dating?” “Yes,” you’d say simply, smiling as Changbin’s thumb brushed across your knuckles.
It wasn’t fireworks, not all the time. It wasn’t a dizzying rush or a whirlwind of change.
It was sweeter than that.
It was waking up to a text from him that wasn’t just are you up? but good morning, baby. It was watching him grin when you used his hoodie as a pillow during study breaks. It was the quiet certainty that when you looked up, he’d be there, smiling back at you.
The first time you went out officially, a date, not just “hanging out” you almost laughed at how normal it felt. Dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant. And yet, every second shimmered with a new layer of meaning, a glow that hadn’t been there before.
Halfway through the film, your head leaned onto his shoulder automatically, the way it always did. Only this time, instead of keeping still and quiet like before, his hand slid confidently into yours. You felt him trace lazy patterns across your palm with his thumb, and you couldn’t stop smiling.
On the walk back, you noticed how his steps slowed just enough for you to match them. How he carried your bag without being asked. How he glanced at you every few seconds, as though he still couldn’t believe you were there, with him, like this.
“Why are you staring?” you teased, nudging his side.
He flushed, looking away. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“…Maybe I am.”
Your laugh spilled out, warm and easy. “What are you thinking about?”
Changbin hesitated, his lips twitching into a smile he couldn’t quite contain. Then he met your gaze, steady and unflinching.
“If I had a penny for every time I thought of you,” he said, his voice soft but certain, “I’d be a billionaire.”
You stopped in your tracks, blinking at him as heat rushed to your face. “Binnie—”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though the tips of his ears were pink. “What? It’s true.”
You shook your head, laughing as you grabbed his hand again, tugging him along. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling wide now, his dimples deepening as he swung your hand between yours. “Unbelievably in love with you.”
And the words weren’t whispered, weren’t hidden, they were out in the open, shameless and certain.
Because this was your new normal.
The same as before. And yet, completely different.
//
masterlist.
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Summary: restless, vulnerable thoughts about the future of your relationship surface late at night after lunch with your mother.
Warnings: the mother is a tw*t not very nice, angst but it has a cute ending guys.
Word count: 3.1k.
a/n: this one is a bit out of my comfort zone with it being heavy on flashbacks and not knowing how to write it so that it flowed. for the first time I felt like I might have hit a wall but I powered on and tried lmao
The clock in your kitchen ticked steadily in the background, seemingly taunting you to make a decision in time.
Do you stay? Or do you need to leave in hopes of finding something better?
Changbin was sleeping in your shared bedroom, clueless to the inner turmoil spreading through your body. It had been one of your relationship’s quieter, calmer evenings as you had been too exhausted from lunch with your mother to do much of anything when you got home. You’d kicked your shoes off, kissed Changbin softly on the cheek, and retreated to your home office, hoping to have some time to dig out the verbal bullets your sharp-tongued mother had fired into your heart over the two long, long hours you’d been guilted into spending with her.
The restaurant smelled of rosemary and burnt butter—expensive comfort straining to be warm. Sunlight spilt through tall windows onto white tablecloths, catching the sharp silverware and sharper edge of your mother’s expression.
She’d arrived ten minutes late. There was no rush, no apology. It was deliberate. A power move.
Her heels had clicked across the marble floor like a warning shot, and when she’d finally slid into the seat opposite, she’d looked you over with the same cool disappointment she reserved for wilted flowers and wrong answers.
“You cut your hair.”
No hello, then.
You closed your menu, giving up the pretence of choosing what to eat. “Hi, Mum.”
“Hm.”
The waiter had appeared with water, and your mother ordered a glass of wine before anyone asked if the table was ready. Then came the inevitable silence — not peaceful, but surgical. The kind that waited for weakness.
It came quickly.
“So,” your mother said, lifting the wineglass carefully, “how’s the ‘producer’?”
The word 'producer' landed like an insult rather than a profession.
“He’s good.”
“I’m sure he is.” A sip. “Still living in that tiny flat?”
“It’s an apartment.”
“In a neighbourhood where ambulances need escorts.”
You stared down at the tablecloth, fingers clenched in your lap, sweat prickling your skin. You were desperate for calm. The need to keep peace warred with the ache to prove your mother wrong, tightening your resolve just enough to protect yourself.
Your mother smiled faintly, sensing your weakness. “You know,” she continued, “when you were younger, I truly believed you’d marry someone extraordinary.”
“I am with someone extraordinary.”
“Oh?” Your mother tilted her head at you, feigning confusion. “Didn’t you call me a few weeks ago, crying about how he’d forgotten your anniversary meal?”
You’d frozen in place, brain scrambling for a response, but you failed to find one. Instead, you settled on a petulant, “I didn’t cry.”
“But you were upset.”
“He was working.”
“He’s always working.”
Her words poisoned the space between you.
“He had a deadline.”
“And what will the excuse be next year?” your mother asked lightly. “Another artist having a meltdown at midnight? Another emergency session? Men in those industries never stop chasing the next exciting thing.”
“That’s not fair.”
Your mother gave a small shrug. “You’re nearly thirty. I’m simply wondering when stability becomes important to you.”
Your lunch went untouched.
You picked at your food while your mother continued calmly, relentlessly. “You two argue constantly.”
“We don’t constantly argue.”
“You fight enough that I know about it.” Your mother lifted her wine glass. “That usually means it’s worse than you admit.”
Your stomach knotted, an ache blooming quietly because you felt the truth in her words—even as you fought to deny it.
There had been arguments lately. There’d been late nights and missed calls. Promises to spend time together are interrupted by meetings and studio sessions, and exhausted apologies. Small disappointments piling quietly into larger ones, leaving you caught between your desire for connection and understanding, and Changbin’s work demands.
Your mother saw the hesitation immediately. “There it is,” she said softly. “That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you realise I’m right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
You looked down at the tablecloth, suddenly unable to hold eye contact.
Your mother leaned back, victorious enough to become gentle. “You know who I ran into recently?” she asked. “Daniel.”
The name hit like cold water, and you could feel your top lip curl up in disgust.
Daniel. Predictable, polished Daniel. The son of one of your mother’s friends. Corporate lawyer. Expensive watch. Family money. The kind of man who said all the correct things at all the correct times.
“He asked about you.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He always liked you.” Your mother smiled faintly. She’d never smiled about Changbin. “Honestly, I never understood why you chose… chaos instead.”
Your jaw tightened. “He’s not chaos.”
“He’s unstable. There’s a difference.”
“He loves me.”
Your mother’s expression turned almost pitying. “Oh, sweetheart. Men like him love passionately. Until something newer distracts them.” She took another sip of wine. “Men like Daniel build lives. Men like your boyfriend collect experiences.”
“That’s incredibly judgmental, even for you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It’s observant.”
You felt too warm. The restaurant noise around you blurred—forks clinking, low conversations, milk steaming behind the counter.
Your mother kept talking, unaware of the feelings brewing within her daughter. “Daniel already owns a home.”
“I don’t care.”
“He wants children.”
“So does my boyfriend.”
“Does he?” A perfectly timed pause. “Has he actually said that recently?”
You looked away. You’d hesitated again. Given her another tiny crack to slide into effortlessly.
“You see?” she murmured. “You’re exhausted. I can hear it in your voice every time you talk about him.”
“That’s not because of him.”
“Then why do you look miserable?”
No answer came. The past months flashed by in ugly fragments: waiting awake at 2 a.m., cancelled plans, arguments ending in silence.
Feeling guilty for wanting more attention from someone already stretched thin.
Your mother softened her tone further, sensing weakness. “You shouldn’t have to beg someone to prioritise you.”
You swallowed hard. “He does prioritise me.”
“After work? Clients? Or after everyone else?”
Each question landed carefully, deliberately. You couldn’t breathe. No doubt the effects of your mother’s poison seeping deep into your heart, paralysing you from the inside out.
Worst of all, beneath her cruelty was familiarity—every insecurity you tried not to voice aloud.
Your mother reached across the table and touched your wrist. “You deserve someone dependable.”
The gesture should have comforted; instead, you felt cornered.
“I have to go,” you said abruptly.
Your mother blinked. “We haven’t had dessert.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re upset because you know I’m telling the truth.”
“No,” you said too quickly, standing so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor. Heads turned nearby. “I’m upset because you always do this.”
“Do what?”
“You take every fear I have and make it sound inevitable.”
Your mother’s face hardened instantly. “I’m trying to help you.”
“No. You’re trying to make me doubt him.”
“And maybe you should.”
You grabbed your coat with shaking hands, rushing out of the restaurant before your mother could utter anything else.
Outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. It amazed you that the world was still turning when it felt like your own was crashing down around you.
Your phone buzzed almost immediately.
Still at lunch?
Another message followed.
Miss you.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Suddenly, all the confidence you’d walked in with fractured into pieces sharp enough to hurt. Your mother’s voice kept replaying in your head, twisting around every unresolved argument and every lonely night.
"Men like him collect experiences."
"You look miserable."
"Has he actually said that recently?"
By the time you’d started walking, your eyes were burning. Not because you fully believed your mother.
But because some small part of you was terrified you might.
You glanced at the clock: three in the morning. Your mother’s words still echoed.
Did you really fight that much with Changbin that your mother viewed it as ammunition to ruin your relationship with him in favour of one of her own choosing?
You couldn’t help but think of your anniversary a few weeks ago. It couldn't have been that bad, could it?
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Plates sat untouched on the table, soft candlelight flickering across the empty chairs. Changbin’s phone buzzed relentlessly on the counter.
Your fingers drummed on the table, stomach twisting. “You forgot,” you said, flatly.
Changbin looked up, his eyes widening for just a moment before guilt settled in. “I… I didn’t mean to. Work ran over. I—”
“Work ran over,” you repeated, voice tight. “Our anniversary. You promised dinner. You promised me.”
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry,” he said quickly, leaning against the counter. “You know how crazy today was. The studio session went late, then I had to send notes to the team, and—”
“And I’m supposed to be happy about that?” you cut in sharply, standing now. “I waited. I dressed up. I made reservations.”
“I didn’t forget you!” Changbin said, his hands raised defensively. “You know I would never do that on purpose!”
“I don’t know anymore!” Your voice cracked, the tension you’d been holding in snapping. “It feels like your job comes first. Always!”
“That’s not fair!” He stepped closer, but you moved back instinctively. “I’m doing this for us, too, you know. For our future. Every hour I spend at work is for us!”
“I can’t live in the future!” you yelled. “I need you now! I need you to show me that I matter before everything else.”
The apartment felt suffocating. The space stretched painfully. Changbin softened, but frustration clung to him, walling you apart.
“I do care,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “I love you. I just… I’m trying to provide, to make things better for us. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
You sank into a chair, the fight draining from you. “I know you’re busy. I know you work hard. But sometimes I just want… to be seen. Not just in words, not just in promises, but in a night like tonight.”
Changbin knelt beside your chair, hand on yours. “I screwed up. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
You looked at him, heart heavy with love and frustration. “I don’t just want a promise, Changbin. I want you.”
He squeezed your hand, eyes sincere. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”
The kettle whistling on the stove brought you out of your thoughts, and you rushed to move it before the noise woke Changbin. Yes, you'd argued with him and you had been upset, but you two had resolved the matter and you hadn't gone to bed angry.
Changbin had promised to make more of an effort, and he had been trying. However, you couldn’t help but cringe as you thought of how that had backfired at your colleague’s party just last week.
The bar was dim, pulsing with low lights and the steady thump of music. People laughed in small groups, drinks glinting in their hands, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and energy. Changbin’s hand brushed yours lightly as you both stepped inside, a small gesture of solidarity against the chaos.
“I’ll try to keep my work calls down,” he murmured, voice tired but earnest. “I just… can’t ignore this one.”
You nodded, already knowing he was stretched thin, overworked and exhausted, but he was trying anyway. The effort mattered. You smiled faintly, leaning into him, the faint warmth of hope amid months of stress.
But then he excused himself, phone pressed to his ear, and disappeared into a corner near the bar.
Almost immediately, your colleague, Simon from the office, sidled up beside you with a grin. “Hey, fancy seeing you here alone,” he said, voice low and insinuating.
You stiffened. “I’m not alone. My boyfriend is—”
Simon was waving your words away before you could even finish; the easy charm of someone used to ignoring boundaries. “Relax, I just wanted to talk. You look amazing tonight.”
You laughed nervously, stepping back. “Thanks, but really, I’m with someone.”
He leaned closer, too close, hand brushing your arm in a way that lingered. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but he’s not here right now. Come on… just one drink with me?”
Your stomach revolted at the thought. “Simon, please—”
The sharpest moment came when you felt a heat at the corner of her eye. Changbin had hung up. He had seen it all. His jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened around his phone, the stress, exhaustion, and barely contained fury mixing into something raw and frightening.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low but icy. He stepped up behind you, eyes dark.
“I… he’s just being… inappropriate,” you said, words tumbling over themselves.
“Inappropriate?” Changbin’s tone sharpened. “You told him no?”
“Yes!” you said quickly, frustrated at his glare, the tension already coiling tight.
Without another word, he grabbed your hand, yanking you gently but firmly toward the exit. Simon called after you, but you didn’t stop.
Outside, the night air was sharp and cold, the neon signs of the street painting everything in harsh colours. The taxi ride back was silent except for the occasional sigh, your fingers fidgeting nervously against the seatbelt.
By the time you got back to the flat, your nerves had turned to anger, and the tension had exploded.
“You didn’t need to grab me like that,” you said, voice tight. “I could’ve handled him!”
“You could’ve?” Changbin’s voice rose, tired, strained, and angry. “He was touching you, crossing the line, and you just… what? Smile politely? Pretend nothing happened?”
“I wasn’t smiling! I—”
“You don’t get it!” he interrupted with a snap, running a hand through his hair, exhausted. “I work twelve hours a day trying to keep my life together, trying to be here for you, and I see this?” His jaw tightened. “This is exactly what I’m fighting to avoid!”
You flinched at the harshness. “I don’t need to be protected. I’m not helpless!”
“And I don’t need to watch someone try it on with you!” His voice cracked slightly, fatigue and anger bleeding through. “I can’t stand feeling like you’re being taken for granted!”
You were both breathing heavily, words sharp and jagged, filling the small flat with heat and tension. Neither wanted to back down, neither wanted to apologise first, and yet you both were exhausted, both aching from months of stress and miscommunication.
Finally, Changbin sank onto the sofa, head in his hands. “I’m sorry… I’m just so tired. I hate that you had to deal with that. I hate that I got so angry. I—”
You sat beside him cautiously, voice quieter, trembling. “I hate it too. I hate that it even happened. And I hate that we’re always… like this after something like this.”
You’d sat there in silence, the storm of the night fading but leaving its bruises, both aware that trust, patience, and understanding would take longer to rebuild than any single apology.
You were startled out of your thoughts as arms wrapped around your waist from behind and a warm body pressed up against your back.
“Come back to bed, sweetheart.”
You smiled at the deep, rough voice that mumbled the words into your neck. You leaned further back into the embrace, resting your head on his shoulder.
“I can’t, Bin,” you murmured, stifling a yawn. “I can’t sleep.”
Changbin rested his chin on your shoulder. “Your mum again?”
He was very much aware of the tumultuous relationship you shared with your mother, and he knew something must have been said at lunch earlier. There was no other reason for you to lock yourself away in your office and now have trouble sleeping.
“Mm,” you agreed. “My mum.. She just… She said some really horrible things at lunch, and I don’t believe them. Or, I don’t want to? But she always gets into my head.”
Changbin’s hold on you tightened, and you focused on the warmth of him seeping into you, grounding you. “Hey,” he mumbled. “Don’t let her words get to you. You know how ridiculous she is sometimes.”
“I know… I just…” Your voice broke slightly. “She makes me doubt everything.”
“I’m right here,” he said softly. “I see you. I love you. And nothing she says can change that.”
You leaned back into him, letting the tension in your shoulders melt. “I wish I could believe that sometimes.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Then I’ll just have to remind you. Constantly.”
You'd stayed like that for a while longer before he managed to coax you back to the bedroom. The night outside was black and still, the city lights blurred into soft colours through the curtains. Changbin curled around you, pulling you close under the covers. The apartment smelled faintly of the dinner you’d barely eaten, of him, of quiet safety.
“Do you ever think,” you said after a while, voice small, “that maybe we’re all just… like, tiny sparks in an infinite void, and nothing we do really matters?”
Changbin chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Are we doing existential midnight philosophy now?”
“Maybe,” you said, snuggling closer. “Or maybe I just need a distraction.”
“Okay,” he said, linking your fingers together over where they were resting on your stomach. “Here’s one: if the universe is infinite, and everything is connected… does that mean every pizza we’ve ever eaten exists somewhere in another reality?”
You laughed, soft and shaky, and the sound made his chest ache with affection. “Oh my god, yes. Somewhere, another me is eating leftover pizza alone at 2am.”
“Exactly! And maybe in that universe, I’m not totally exhausted, and I’m holding you instead of sleeping in a weird, twisted spaghetti nightmare of my own.”
You giggled into the pillow. “Stop… you’re making me laugh too hard.”
“I’m just trying to distract you from your mum,” he said, voice tender. “And if we start questioning the meaning of life along the way, that’s a bonus.”
You drifted into a stream of ridiculous, half-serious hypotheticals: Could cats secretly be controlling the economy? Would the Earth move if we all decided to jump at the same time? Did washing machines have secret built-in black holes that sucked up socks, always leaving just the one behind?
Eventually, your laughter slowed, the questions grew softer, and your eyes fluttered shut. Changbin tightened his arm around you, kissing your hair one last time.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”
Your last thought, half awake and fully content, was that maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were supposed to be. You were safe, loved, and warm in the arms of the only person who ever made your doubts feel small.
After all, when it's 3 am, and you’re losing yourself and your mind again, he’s the one who gives you love that is bulletproof. The world can roll its eyes, but there's no use; you just want it to be him.
a/n: I am so sorry if this is shit compared to my usual stuff omg pls forgive me the next ones will be better? 😢 lmk what you think in the comments but pls be nice mwah xo
Okay hear me out. After watching the KARMA trailer, I can’t stop thinking about Changbin as an underground boxer. He’s all tough and quiet, throwing punches like he’s trying to outrun something heavy. Maybe he’s doing it for the money, to protect someone, or just because it’s the only thing that makes him feel in control.I was thinking it’d be interesting if someone(reader) outside the ring slowly starts to get through to him,maybe a medic who patches him up after fights, or someone who stumbles into his world and doesn’t back down. They have this push-and-pull dynamic, emotionally conflicted because neither of them is really ready for a relationship, even though the tension is there.Also, I thought it could also be fun to throw in a boxing “rival” who’s into her too and tries to steal her away, just to make things messier.(This is a little extensive but I couldn’t bring myself to actually think about the plot so I hope your amazing brain makes use of this.)
-🎀
Pairing: Boxer! Changbin x Medic!femReader
Word Count: 4399
Summary: By day you’re a doctor, but by night you stitch together the broken bodies of underground fighters in Seoul. That’s where you meet Seo Changbin, a boxer whose fists and silence have made him a legend. Yet under your care he begins to soften, to share pieces of the boy who once dreamed of music. As you patch his wounds and stand against his demons, you two grow closer than either of you thought possible.
Warnings/Tags: Physical violence (boxing/underground fights, beatings), blood and medical procedures (stitches, wounds), forced labor / exploitation / threats / intimidation by a trainer, emotional trauma and references to death (an off-screen friend’s fatal injury), slow af burn (wait for chapter 2😂😭), boxer!changbin, medic!reader, comfort, angst
A/N: Loved working on this. There will be a second chapter next week🖤 I hope you guys enjoy it. Thank you for your request 🎀-anon🖤
Seoul’s nights had their own kind of heartbeat. Somewhere between the flicker of neon signs and the narrow alleyways too dark for law to crawl into, it throbbed. A muffled rhythm of fists meeting flesh, the roar of voices demanding blood and victory, the bills exchanging hands faster than morals could keep up. The underground boxing rings were never advertised, but everyone who needed to know knew. Smoke hung thick in the air, beer spilled sticky onto concrete floors, and the crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder around the crude square made of ropes. Here, rules bent until they broke. No gloves, no rounds, no mercy. Just fists, sweat, and survival. And yet, despite the chaos, one constant had begun to emerge. You.
A doctor by day, threading needles through torn skin under sterile lights, patching up children with fevers or men with bad backs. But once the sun fell, you became someone else. Not quite legal, not quite criminal, a quiet fixture in the boxing world. Fighters found their way to you after matches, bloodied and bruised, limping into the cramped backroom you had claimed as your own. Word had spread quickly: the woman who didn’t ask questions, who stitched wounds cleaner than anyone else, who never judged. You were fast becoming indispensable.
Which was exactly why you were there tonight, leaning against a scarred wooden table cluttered with gauze, disinfectant, and sutures, waiting for the inevitable knock on your door. The crowd outside roared louder, signaling the next fight. You peeked through the small crack of the backroom door, catching sight of him for the first time.
Seo Changbin. Even among the sea of fighters, he stood out. Broad-shouldered, compact, built like a wall that moved with terrifying speed. His reputation preceded him — one of the best in the underground circuit, a man who took down opponents twice his size, fists like hammers, eyes like steel. People bet heavy on him, knowing he rarely disappointed.
The bell clanged, sharp and ugly, and the fight began. You watched, unable to look away. His movements weren’t wild, but precise. Every punch had weight, every step purpose. He absorbed blows to deliver harder ones back, his body swaying with the rhythm of the fight. But even the best bled eventually. A hook slipped past his guard, catching him hard along the cheekbone, splitting skin. Blood welled, fast and hot, painting his face as the crowd howled for more.
It ended not long after. His opponent collapsed in a heap, lungs wheezing, unable to rise. The ringmaster lifted Changbin’s arm in victory, but you could see it: the way he touched his side, subtle but telling, the crimson streak down his jaw.
Minutes later, your door creaked open. He stood there, slightly hunched, the ferocity of the ring replaced with a hesitant silence. Up close, he was different. Not the beast the crowd had screamed for, but a young man. His lashes were long, his jaw sharp even under the swelling bruise, and his lips pressed tight as though he wasn’t used to asking for help.
“Sit,” you said softly, gesturing to the chair. He obeyed without a word, his shoulders tense as though he’d rather be anywhere else. You cleaned the cut on his cheek first, dabbing gently as he flinched. He didn’t speak, didn’t complain, just watched you work with dark eyes that seemed far too serious for someone his age.
“You’re lucky it’s not deeper,” you murmured, threading the needle. “Could’ve used stitches, but you’ll get by without them. Keep it clean.”
Silence. Then, a faint hum of acknowledgment.
Your gaze drifted to his torso, where the fabric of his shirt clung damp with sweat and dark stains of blood. “Lift your shirt,” you instructed.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with a reluctant motion, he obeyed. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His body was as powerful as his reputation suggested, muscle carved into muscle, but what struck you more were the bruises blooming across his ribs, already turning a sickly purple. “Does it hurt to breathe?” you asked, pressing lightly. He winced, the first sound he’d made — a low hiss between clenched teeth. “Thought so. Might be a cracked rib. Nothing I can fix here, but I can wrap it to help you move until you decide to see a real doctor.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. “You’re real enough.” His voice was deeper than you expected, but quiet, like he didn’t use it often.
You focused on wrapping his torso, careful with every tug and tie. You were too aware of him — the heat of his skin under your hands, the way he kept still, respectful, almost shy despite his world of violence. When you finally tied the bandage off, you glanced up. He was watching you, eyes unreadable. “All done,” you said gently, forcing a smile to your lips. “You’ll live.”
For the first time, his expression softened. His gaze flickered down, and he whispered, “Thank you.” It was so quiet you almost missed it.
You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes this time, and waved him toward the door. “Go on. They’ll want their champion back.”
He stood slowly, giving you one last glance before stepping into the shadows of the hall. The crowd’s roar swallowed him up again, but the echo of his quiet gratitude stayed behind, humming warm in your chest.
-
It wasn’t the last time you saw him. In the weeks that followed, Changbin came back to your little backroom more than once. Sometimes with blood on his knuckles, sometimes with bruises swelling dark against his ribs, sometimes barely scratched at all. But each time he came, he sat in the same chair, shoulders stiff and words few, letting you patch him up like it was routine.
If anything, the silence between you became its own kind of language. You learned the way his jaw clenched when disinfectant stung, the slight twitch of his fingers when your hands lingered too long over a bruise, the way he dipped his head just enough to murmur a quiet “thanks” before leaving.
It was after his third fight since your first meeting that the silence cracked. You were swabbing a cut above his eyebrow, concentration narrowed to the thin line of blood, when he asked, his voice low: “How’d you end up here?”
You blinked, caught off guard. Usually he said nothing beyond the bare minimum. Meeting his dark eyes, you hesitated — but there was something in them, a quiet pull, that made you answer. “About a year ago,” you began, setting the cotton aside, “I lost a good friend to one of these fights. He collapsed in the ring. They called it exhaustion, but it wasn’t. He bled out internally, and no one here knew how to stop it. No medic, no help. Just people screaming for the next fight while he…” Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to finish. “I swore that wouldn’t happen again. Not if I could do anything about it.”
His breath hitched, barely audible. For a second, he wasn’t the stoic fighter in front of you but just a man remembering something he wished he could forget. His jaw flexed, his gaze dropping to the floor. You knew then that he remembered. That he had seen it too. “What makes you stay in such a horrible place?” he asked, voice rougher than before.
You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s my question for you. Isn’t this a horrible environment to you as well?”
Pain flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there — quick and raw, before he managed to push it down again. He gave a small, bitter huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “It is. It only destroys people.”
You set the needle down and frowned, searching his face. “Then why are you here?”
For the first time since you’d met him, his body stiffened in a different way. His lips parted, but he shook his head firmly, like slamming a door shut. “I shouldn’t talk about that.”
Your brows furrowed. “Are you…kept here against your will?” The question hung heavy in the air. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just stared at the floor, silent for what felt like forever. The tension twisted in your chest, but you didn’t push. You simply waited.
Finally, his eyes lifted to yours, something unreadable swimming in the dark of them. His voice was quiet, careful. “What are you doing in two days?”
You blinked. “I’m off work. Why?”
He hesitated again, then reached for the scrap of paper you always used for notes on medicine and care. Pulling a pen from your table, he scribbled down an address, his handwriting quick and slanted. When he handed it back, his fingers brushed yours, deliberate or not you couldn’t tell. “Come by. After my training.”
You looked at the paper, then at him. “What for?”
He didn’t answer. Just pushed himself up from the chair, still moving a little stiffly from the blows he’d taken. His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he finally muttered, “You’ll see.” And then he was gone, leaving only the faint smell of sweat and antiseptic in the room, and the scrap of paper burning warm in your hand.
-
The gym was tucked into a side street, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. You hesitated at the door, the low hum of a speed bag thudding rhythmically against leather guiding you in. Inside, Changbin was in the ring. He moved differently here; not for an audience, not for the roar of gamblers, but for himself. Focused, every punch measured against the silence. Sweat ran down his temple, his muscles taut beneath his shirt as he ducked and swung, breathing rough but steady. You leaned against the wall, watching.
He noticed you the moment he paused to unwrap his hands. A flicker of something passed through his expression — surprise, then something softer, almost relieved. With a brief nod, he disappeared into the locker room, leaving you alone with the smell of chalk and leather. When he came back, hair damp from a quick shower, he lingered by the doorway before walking toward you. His eyes met yours, hesitant but earnest, and then he smiled shyly. “Hey,” he murmured. “Do you…want to grab dinner? There’s a place nearby.”
Your brows lifted. “Oh? So this was a date all along?”
Color rushed up the curve of his ears, creeping to his cheeks. He looked away, muttering, “You wanted answers. That’s what you’ll get.”
You couldn’t help but grin, nodding as you fell into step beside him. Dinner ended up being simple street food — tteokbokki and skewers, hot enough to burn your tongue, eaten straight out of their paper wrappings as you walked toward the Han River.
By the time you found a bench overlooking the dark sweep of water, the city lights glinting off its surface, he’d grown quieter again. He sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, food container balanced loosely in one hand. “You can ask now,” he said at last, his voice low, almost lost to the breeze.
You turned toward him. “How did you end up in all this?”
For a long while, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he began. “Back when I was a teenager, I had this huge fight with my family. I was stupid, angry…I thought running away would fix things.” His jaw tightened. “I wandered the streets for days. No money, no place to sleep. And then I met him. My trainer.” He paused, staring at the river. “He gave me food, a roof, clothes. Said all I had to do in return was fight for him. Become his champion.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Didn’t realize back then what that really meant.”
Your chest ached as he went on, each word heavier than the last. “I can’t get out now. Every fight, nearly all the money I make goes straight back to him to cover ‘expenses.’ The apartment, the training, the meals. I can’t leave the house without depending on him for something, which only means more debt I have to fight off. It’s a cycle. And he knows it. That’s why he keeps me close.” His voice broke softer at the edges. He stared down at the ground, food forgotten in his hands. “I gave up hope a long time ago. This is just what my life is.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “But why don’t you go to the police? They’d see this for what it is.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “And tell them what? That I’ve been boxing illegally for years? That I let myself get tied up in this?” He rubbed his face with one hand, weary. “Doesn’t work that way.”
“You didn’t really have a choice,” you said firmly. “You were a kid. You were forced into this.”
At that, he finally looked at you, his dark eyes catching the shimmer of city lights. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he sighed. “I’m not a kid anymore, am I?” His voice was quiet, resigned. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still here.”
The river rolled on in silence, the night air heavy around you. And though you didn’t know how yet, you felt the weight of his words settle in your chest — a promise to yourself that if he had given up hope, you wouldn’t.
-
The days after your night by the river weighed differently. You carried his words with you, the way his voice had sounded when he said he’d given up hope. It haunted you more than you expected.
And yet, he kept coming back. Another fight, another round of bruises. By now, you’d grown used to seeing his shadow darken your backroom doorway, shoulders hunched, expression guarded. Tonight, though, he was worse off than usual. His lip split, his ribs badly bruised, one eye nearly swollen shut. You clicked your tongue softly, motioning him into the chair. “You let him hit you too many times.”
His voice came out dry. “Guess I’m not invincible.”
“You never were,” you countered, tugging on gloves. “You’re human. And that means you’re allowed to break sometimes.”
For a while, there was only the sound of cotton against skin, antiseptic stinging wounds, his occasional hiss of pain. But when you wrapped his ribs, your hands brushing too close to his bare skin, he spoke again, quiet, like he hadn’t meant to. “You asked me why I don’t leave.” His eyes stayed fixed on the wall, jaw tight. “It’s not just the money. It’s him. My trainer. He took me in when no one else would. Sometimes I hate him. But I also,” His throat bobbed. “I don’t know who I am without this.”
You froze for half a second, tape half-wrapped around his torso, before finishing the bandage. “You’re Seo Changbin,” you said firmly. “Not just a fighter. Not just a champion in some ring. You could be anything, if you weren’t shackled to him.”
He gave a humorless laugh, low and sharp. “Anything? Like what? I’ve spent half my life throwing punches. That’s all I know.”
“You know more than you think,” you said, tilting your head at him. “You think you’re trapped, but I see someone who hasn’t even tried to imagine something else. You say you gave up hope, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”
His eyes finally met yours, and for a heartbeat, the hardness cracked. He looked young. Tired. Vulnerable in a way he’d never let the crowd, or even his trainer, see. “You make it sound so simple,” he muttered.
“Simple doesn’t mean easy,” you replied softly. “But nothing changes unless you believe it can.” He looked away again, lips pressing together, and you let the silence stretch, knowing he needed it. When you finally stepped back, gloves stripped off, you gave him a small smile. “All done. Try not to let anyone punch you in the face next time.”
A huff of air left him, not quite a laugh, but close. He stood, moving carefully, his hand brushing the bandage at his ribs. “Thank you,” he said again, the same quiet gratitude you’d first heard from him weeks ago. But this time, there was something heavier underneath it. Something like a plea. And as you watched him disappear back into the shadows of the underground, you knew you couldn’t just let him give up on himself.
-
It wasn’t after a fight this time. You were closing up your clinic for the night, slipping your coat on, when a sharp knock rattled the back door. You opened it expecting one of the usual fighters, but instead, Changbin stood there, swaying on his feet. His face was pale, lips pressed thin, and when he stepped inside the light you saw blood soaking through his shirt, fresh and ugly. “Changbin—”
“Not a fight,” he cut in quickly, almost defensive. His voice was rough, strained. “Not the ring.”
That almost made it worse. You pulled him toward the chair, fumbling for gloves and gauze, heart pounding. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away, only winced as you pressed into his side, revealing a jagged cut across his ribs. It was messy, not from a fist but something sharper. “Ran into some guys I shouldn’t have,” he muttered finally, eyes fixed on the floor. “They knew who I was. Knew I couldn’t hit back unless I wanted trouble. So I took it.”
Your jaw tightened. “They attacked you because of the ring?” His silence was answer enough. You stitched him up quickly, your hands steady even though your chest burned with frustration. He didn’t flinch much, just sat there like he was used to enduring worse. When you finally finished, you sighed, stepping back. “This can’t keep happening, Changbin. If your trainer’s putting you at risk outside the ring now—”
His eyes lifted, dark and heavy. “You don’t get it. He owns me. If I don’t fight, I don’t eat. If I push back, I don’t have a roof over my head. And if I lose, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
The words hit harder than any bruise. But before you could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. The backroom door slammed open, and his trainer filled the frame — broad, grinning, reeking of liquor and smoke. “There you are,” the man barked. His eyes flicked from you to Changbin. “Didn’t tell me you had your little doctor on retainer.” Changbin stiffened, every muscle in his body taut. The trainer stepped closer, voice booming. “He’s good enough to fight again. Wrap him up, get him in the ring tomorrow. Big bets lined up. Don’t let me down, boy.”
Your stomach twisted. “He’s not ready,” you said before you could stop yourself. “If he goes in with ribs like this, he’ll collapse.”
The trainer’s gaze snapped to you, sharp and mocking. “Didn’t ask for your opinion, sweetheart. He fights when I say he fights. That’s the deal.” He clapped a heavy hand onto Changbin’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him wince. “Be ready tomorrow night. Or you’ll regret it.” And then he was gone, leaving the room colder than before.
Changbin sat there, silent, staring at the floor as if it might swallow him whole. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. You knelt in front of him, voice steady but low. “You can’t keep letting him do this to you.”
His eyes lifted, and for a second, you saw it — not just pain, but a spark of something else. Anger, desperation, but also fear. “I don’t know how to stop him,” he whispered.
-
You barely slept that night. The trainer’s words replayed over and over, mixing with the image of Changbin sitting there bloodied and silent, too beaten down to even argue. By the time the sun rose, you’d made up your mind: if he wouldn’t fight for himself, then you’d fight for him.
Between your shifts at the hospital, you dug through everything you could find. Laws about illegal rings. Cases of forced labor. Stories of fighters who’d managed to escape. Every thread was thin, tangled in bureaucracy, but the more you read, the clearer it became — what his trainer was doing wasn’t just cruel. It was criminal.
Still, theory and practice were two very different things. And you knew Changbin. He wouldn’t just walk into a police station. Not while the weight of his past and the fear of consequences kept him chained. So when he showed up after another grueling night, bruised, but alive, you decided to try something different. You stitched him in silence at first, his face turned away, jaw locked tight. When you finished, you didn’t step back. Instead, you leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him. “You don’t have to keep living like this,” you said quietly.
His eyes flicked to yours, wary. “You think I haven’t tried to imagine something else?”
“Have you?” you pressed. “Really? Because every time I ask, you shut down. You don’t tell me what you want. You just accept what he gives you. A roof over your head, food, and chains.”
His fists clenched in his lap. “What choice do I have?”
“You could leave.” The words came out firm, sharper than you expected. “Walk away. You were forced into this as a kid, Changbin. That doesn’t mean you have to die here.”
He laughed short and bitter, almost broken. “Walk away? And go where? With what money? What skills? What if he finds me?”
You softened your voice, leaning closer. “Then we figure it out. Together. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s possible. And you deserve more than this.”
For the first time, his mask cracked. His eyes shone, not just with pain, but with a longing he seemed terrified to admit. He looked down, swallowing hard, voice low. “I used to think I’d be somebody when I was younger. Before all this. Music, maybe. Writing. I didn’t care as long as it was mine.” He shook his head, bitterness returning. “But that was another life. He’s taken too much for me to go back.”
“Then don’t go back,” you whispered. “Go forward. Start new. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s hard.”
The silence stretched, heavy between you. Finally, he exhaled, a sound halfway between defeat and release. “You make it sound like freedom’s just sitting out there, waiting for me.”
“Maybe it is,” you said, holding his gaze. “But you won’t know until you try.”
He stared at you for a long time, his expression shifting. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he admitted: “I don’t think I can do it alone.”
Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. “Good thing you’re not.”
-
It was late, the air heavy with the damp chill of approaching winter. Changbin sat quietly on the chair in your backroom, ribs wrapped, knuckles raw from another fight. You’d grown used to the silence between you two, the way he spoke only when it mattered. This time, you broke it. “How much do you owe him?” you asked softly, wiping your hands on a towel.
His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing like you’d just cracked open a door he kept locked tight. After a pause, he muttered the number. It was higher than you expected, enough to crush someone twice over. You only nodded, keeping your expression gentle. “Alright.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” You gave him a faint smile. “I just wanted to know.”
But after that, he grew quieter around you. Hesitant. It was as if telling you the number had pressed too close to the heart of his cage, and he retreated back into himself. A distance grew, and though he still came after fights, he barely met your eyes. You didn’t push.
Not until a month later. When he showed up again, slumped in the doorway after another brutal match, you guided him inside as usual. But instead of reaching for your medical bag, you pulled an envelope from the drawer and pressed it into his hand.
He blinked down at it, confused, then slid a thumb beneath the flap. The sight of the bills inside made his jaw fall slack. “…What is this?”
“It’s yours,” you said simply. “No strings attached.”
He stared at you like you’d just handed him the moon. “I can’t take this.”
“You can,” you insisted, voice steady. “This is my good deed. For not being able to save my friend, I’ll save you instead.”
His throat worked, words caught there. Then his gaze flicked past you and froze. His trainer was outside, waiting in the hallway, eyes narrowing as he spotted the envelope in Changbin’s hands. Before you could react, Changbin was on his feet, striding out the door. He shoved the envelope at the older man, voice firm though it shook faintly. “Take it. I’m done. I quit.”
For a heartbeat, silence. The trainer looked down at the money, then back up at you, realization dawning like fire. His face twisted, fury boiling over as he rushed toward you, spitting venom. “You think you can buy him out from under me? You think you can take my champion? You’ll regret this!”
You stumbled back, heart hammering, but before he could reach you, Changbin stepped in front, arm braced out like a shield. His glare was cold, his body blocking the man’s path. “She’s not your problem,” he growled. “I said I’m done.”
The trainer’s curses echoed down the hall, but Changbin didn’t move until the man stormed off, swearing under his breath. Only then did he turn to you, shoulders tight, eyes wide with something raw.
That night, you took him home. Your apartment was small, cluttered with books and blankets, but as he stood awkwardly in your doorway, you saw the way his frame sagged, exhaustion finally winning. He wasn’t a fighter here. He was just Changbin — tired, hurt, and free for the first time in years. “Stay as long as you need,” you said quietly, ushering him in.
For the first time since you’d met him, he smiled without hesitation. “Thank you,” he whispered.
And when you closed the door behind him, you knew this was only the beginning...
PART TWO
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):
summary: sunday morning at seo household, changbin is whipped for his girls
pairing: seo changbin x reader
genre: fluff, domestic, married couple
word count: 624 words
a/n: this writing was inspired by this request ♡ changbin is so husband *sighs dreamily*
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more binnie cuddles: read here
morning cuddles series:
Chan Lee Know Hyunjin Jisung Felix Seungmin I.N
Masterlist
~°~
It’s one of those slow, perfect Sundays—the kind where there’s no rush to be anywhere, no alarms, just the peaceful comfort of being home.
You wake up to soft babbling sounds, the sweetest melody to your ears. Blinking the sleep away, you turn over to see your baby girl sitting up between you and Changbin, her tiny hands patting her daddy’s cheek repeatedly in an attempt to wake him.
“Dada,” she says in her sleepy little voice, pressing her chubby fingers into his face. “Dada, up.”
You chuckle, gently brushing a hand through her soft hair. “I don’t think Daddy’s ready to wake up yet, sweetheart.”
Changbin, however, cracks one eye open, groaning dramatically. “Dada is very tired,” he mumbles, reaching out to blindly pull both you and your daughter into his arms. “Dada needs five more minutes…”
Your daughter, however, has other plans. She wiggles her way onto his chest, squealing as she bounces a little. “Noooo, up!”
Changbin finally gives in, opening both eyes and smiling lazily. “Aish, how can I say no to my little princess?” He scoops her up and peppers kisses all over her chubby cheeks, making her giggle uncontrollably.
You watch them with pure adoration, propping yourself up on one elbow. “She’s got you wrapped around her tiny little finger, you know that?”
Changbin grins at you, reaching out to pull you closer. “Of course. Just like her mama does.” He presses a soft kiss to your lips before leaning his forehead against yours.
The three of you stay tangled in each other’s warmth, your daughter now snuggled between you, sucking on her tiny fingers as she slowly drifts back to sleep. Changbin gently rubs her back, his voice a quiet whisper. “She’s perfect.”
Changbin’s hand moves from your daughter to yours, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek before intertwining with yours. His grip is firm but gentle, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand.
“You know…” he begins quietly, his voice thick with emotion, “I don’t think I say it enough, but… thank you.”
You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. “For what?”
His fingers tighten around yours just a little as he looks at you with nothing but pure adoration. “For being the mother of my child. For giving me our little girl. For… everything.”
Your heart swells at his words, warmth spreading through your chest like a soft embrace. You squeeze his hand back, your own eyes growing a little misty. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Binnie.”
“I do,” he insists gently, bringing your intertwined hands up to his lips to press a lingering kiss against your knuckles. “You’re amazing. She’s lucky to have you as her mom. And I’m lucky to have you as my wife.”
Tears threaten to prick at your eyes, but before you can say anything, your daughter's small fingers reach for your joined hands, clumsily placing her own on top as if she wants to be included.
Changbin chuckles softly. “See? She agrees.”
You laugh, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips before placing another on your daughter’s forehead. “I love you both so much,” you whisper, voice full of emotion.
Changbin tugs you in closer, wrapping an arm around you both as he buries his face into your hair. “And we love you,” he murmurs. “So, so much.”
You smile, resting your head against his shoulder. “We’re pretty lucky, huh?”
He hums in agreement, wrapping his arms around both of you protectively. “More than lucky. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
The three of you stay like that—tangled together, hands intertwined, hearts beating as one. And in that moment, you know: This is happiness. This is home.
we'll never have sex — changbin x reader ; established relationship & hurt/comfort (1.2k words)
there is nothing more beautiful than the promise of love even if you cannot guarantee or give that certain level of intimacy just yet
for my girls with a complicated relationship w sex & yes this is based off of leith ross’ song
Facetimes with Changbin always last longer than they should.
Had it been anyone else, the call would’ve dropped more than an hour ago. You’d have been found guilty for finding any excuse to warrant you some silence–the slightest tinge of awkwardness, the moment conversation runs out, faking plans.
Never with Changbin.
The static of phone calls stretch on, neither of you having moved much. You can’t remember how long it’d been since either of you said something, but you’ve never minded. The quiet that came with your boyfriend had always felt comfortable. Almost safe.
In your periphery, just at the top most right of your screen, you can see him sprawled across his bed, signature hoodie to match the boyfriend look, and fingers lazily scrolling through his phone.
“Still awake, baby?” His voice breaks the silence, teasing almost, but still gentle.
“Mhm.” You hum, shifting in your position a little. “But ‘m a little sleepy.”
“You should go to bed.”
“No.” Changbin chuckles at your refusal, deep and raspy through the phone. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, distinguishably fond even with the poor quality of the video.
For a second, you allow yourself to just watch the boy–his glazed eyes, the softness in his features accentuated by the low light of his room, the warmth of his smile.
Almost safe. Almost reassuring.
You wonder if it’s all a facade, wonder when he’d finally break, wonder when he’d leave you because you refuse to let him do anything beyond a kiss. Maybe no amount of love, even from the right person like Changbin, will ever be enough to change that.
You try to scold yourself. Self-destructing thoughts are too familiar, they reverberate in your head like you’d been thinking about it for a while, like they’d been practiced and practiced until permanently tattooed.
The tears come without warning, mid-scolding. Big and heavy and warm. They pool at the edges of your version, and it makes you feel pathetic that you hurry to press the sleeve of your hoodie against your face.
Changbin notices immediately.
“Hey.” his voice sharpens, the playful edge he’d been sporting earlier gone in a split second. “(Name)? Baby, hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”
You shake your head, and oh god, he’s going to leave you. He’s going to leave you because you’re such a crybaby, and anyone with a normal fucking mind wouldn’t do this to him. Anyone under normal—kinder—circumstances wouldn’t think like this.
“Baby.” He tries again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”
Your throat tightens around something akin to a lump. You try to swallow it down.
“Why’re you crying? What’s wrong?”
There’s a long pause before you finally speak.
“What if I… what if…” You start, voice barely above a whisper. You don’t know how to continue, words disjointed and dismembered. “If I said you could never touch me, would you still want to be with me?”
Changbin pauses for a fraction of a second, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion. But you go on, inundating him with the fears that have spent your entire life trying to catch up with you.
“I can’t give you what you want. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Would you still stay with me even if I told you that I never want to have sex?”
The boy’s expression softens immediately. He can hear his own heart break at how fragile you sound, at how shattering it is to look at your tear-streaked face through a screen, at the things that could’ve transpired for you to think that he’d ever leave you because of that, just because of something so menial to him in a relationship.
“Of course I’ll stay.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “That doesn’t change anything.”
His words are meant to be comforting, the small but sure smile on his lips should’ve been enough to return your peace, but instead, the tears well up again. Heavier this time.
“Wait. Wait, wait—hold on.” His face suddenly disappears off the screen as he fumbles with his phone. He sounds rushed. “I’m… I can’t just look at you cry and not do anything about it.”
Then the call ends.
It isn’t until fifteen minutes later when a sudden knock on your door shakes you from your self-pity do you see him again. And he’s standing there, slightly out of breath, the same hoodie you’d seen earlier half-zipped with his hair tousled from the cold wind outside.
“Binnie.” Your voice cracks. “What are you doing here?”
Changbin doesn’t say anything at first, just allows himself to look at you—eyes tracing over the tear stains on your cheeks, and the way you’re hugging yourself with the sleeves of one of his jackets.
Then, without a word, he slips a hand beneath your jaw, tilting your face to look you in the eyes. His palms on your skin feel warm, calloused but gentle as he cradles you in his hands. “I think…” He pauses.
A heartbeat passes.
“I think you look lovely.” He murmurs, tone low and gentle, abating the tempestuous anxieties swelling in the pit of your stomach. “And I love you. Not because of what you think I’m expecting from you, but because I love you. The entirety of you.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck as an ugly sob escapes your throat. The tears spill over again, faster, and you feel so ridiculous for crying even more in front of him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I— I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He pulls back, leaning in to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. His voice is firm, but not unkind. Never unkind. And his eyes held no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in the way he’s looking at you right now. “Did I say anything to make you feel this way?”
Changbin tries to hide how he feels about his question, like he could never imagine being the reason why you’re sobbing like this.
“No, oh my god. Binnie, no. It’s not you.”
“Okay, it’s not me.” His voice is still kind, relieved. “I’m never expecting anything from you, okay?”
And just as gentle as he’s holding you, he kisses you. Nothing desperate, nothing hurried even. Just slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the moment for exactly what it is. He isn’t kissing you to take you to bed, not to ask for anything more, not even to change your mind.
Changbin kisses you just to kiss you.
Just to hopefully show you that he means everything he said to you.
“I’ll take care of you.” His fingers thread through your hair. “I love you.”
Quietly, tiredly, you start to show a small smile. “Thank you.”
Loving you is so easy for Changbin. Like second nature. Like falling in love with your laughter, and the little parts of you that make up your sum. And you’re aware that it’s going to take time to heal yourself—that it won’t be so easy all the time, that there will be days like these again, but you also know enough that he is genuine and that he loves you with no expectations even if it’s hard to believe sometimes.
Seo Changbin loves you with every bit of conscience he was born with. He loves you simply.
You stay like this for a while. Safe. Reassuring. Until you feel the sickness less and less.
