𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:The moment they realized they had fallen in love with you.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬:8k
𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞
Maknae ver.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬:fluff, angst leve, romance, slice of life
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌-𝑻𝒗 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍
A/n:Hii guys, I’m so sorry for disappearing these past few days. My life’s been a total mess lately, and I went through some not so great stuff, so I didn’t really have time (or even the energy) to post here on Tumblr 😭 but the year’s almost over, so I’m trying to cheer up 😃 I hope no one got upset with me (even though I don’t really have any fans here lol) but still, I’m really sorry <3.
masterlist skz /main masterlist
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒏:
The late afternoon sun slid through the tall windows of the JYP practice studio, striping the worn wooden floor in molten gold. Bang Chan fiddled with the mic stand, sweat still dripping down the back of his neck after three straight hours of choreography. The boys had already scattered—Changbin grumbling about starving, Felix promising to buy tteokbokki for everyone—leaving only Chan and the hush that always settled when he needed to breathe.
He tugged off his cap, ran a hand through damp hair, and rolled his neck until it cracked. His body ached in that good way, the ache of giving everything. The new comeback choreo was almost locked; only the chorus details needed polishing. He crouched for his water bottle, took a long pull, and let the cold slide down his scorched throat. The studio smelled like effort: sweat, heated wood, the ghost of Hyunjin’s over-sprayed cologne.
Chan walked to the mirror, palms on the warm-up barre, and studied himself. Dark circles, black tee plastered to his chest, watch reading 17:47. Another day. Another night. Another song that had to be perfect before it could be merely good. He half-smiled at his reflection, the tired curve that only showed up when no one was watching. “Getting old, Chan,” he muttered. “Twenty eight and still chasing perfect.”
The door creaked.
He turned, expecting one of the kids to barrel back for a forgotten phone or hoodie. It wasn’t any of them.
It was you.
You slipped inside carrying a crinkled paper bag, the scent of homemade kimchi jjigae flooding the room before you even spoke. Chan’s gaze snapped up and locked.
This wasn’t your first drop-by. Almost a year into dating, you’d built a quiet ritual: he drilled until his legs gave out, you showed up with hot food and the smile that made exhaustion worth it. But today…
Today felt different.
You wore his gray Sydney hoodie—the one with the faded logo he lived in on long-haul flights. The sleeves swallowed your hands; you clutched the bag with fabric-bundled fists. Your hair was twisted into a messy bun, stray wisps glued to your sweaty forehead. No makeup. No filter. Just you.
Chan’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.
“Brought reinforcements,” you announced, hoisting the bag like a trophy. “Your mom sent a new recipe. Said you’re looking too skinny on lives.”
He laughed, but it came out raspy. You crossed to the soundboard, set the bag down, and started unpacking containers with that calm efficiency he adored. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t “Stray Kids leader being cute with his girlfriend” content. It was just the two of you.
Chan stayed rooted, cataloging every motion. The way you folded back the lid like it was fragile. The way you wiped the rim with your pinky so it wouldn’t drip on the desk. The way you bit your lower lip when you concentrated—like when you were untangling work spreadsheets or hunting for his lost keys.
He knew these details by heart. But today they landed differently.
You turned to dig cutlery from your backpack, humming the chorus of Case 143,gloriously off-key. Chan’s mouth curved without permission. You always botched his parts. Called it “artistic interpretation.” He called it selective deafness. You’d bicker, laughing, until he sang the line in your ear until you nailed it.
Now, watching your back, hoodie slipping off one shoulder as you rummaged, he understood.
It wasn’t cinematic. No slow-motion, no swelling strings. It was the way you moved through his space—the studio where he spent sleepless nights writing lyrics about loneliness and pressure—like you belonged. Like the chaos of his life suddenly made sense with you inside it.
He fell,truly, irrevocably,in love right there, standing among tangled cables and half-empty water bottles, watching you line up containers with the same care you used to coil his earphones on tour. It wasn’t what you did. It was how you made him feel… home.
Chan inhaled, the air thick in his lungs. He remembered your real first meeting—not the official dinner-and-flowers date, but the real one. You were a marketing intern at JYP, tasked with proofreading video subtitles. He met you in a hallway when you dropped an avalanche of papers and swore softly in Portuguese. He knelt to help; you looked up, eyes wide, then laughed and threatened, “Tell the boys I curse in Portuguese and I’ll kill you.”
He never told. But he kept the accent, the laugh, the way you rolled your r’s when nervous. Kept everything.
You started texting. First work stuff. Then music. Then everything. He sent 3 a.m. lyric scraps. You fired back two-minute voice notes ordering him to sleep. He sent photos of the members passed out on the studio floor. You sent pics of your cat stealing your side of the bed.
Then, one rainy September night, he asked you for coffee. Not a date—just coffee. You showed up with crooked glasses, rain-soaked hair, and he knew. He wanted to see you like that every day.
Now, almost a year later, here you were. In his studio. With his mom’s jjigae. In his hoodie.
“Chan?” You turned, two spoons in hand. “You okay? You’re staring like I grew a third head.”
He blinked, heart slamming so loud he swore you could hear it.
“I’m great,” he said, softer than intended. “Just thinking you look gorgeous in stolen hoodies.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks pink.
“It’s comfy. And it smells like you.”
Chan crossed the room in three strides. His hands found your waist on instinct, tugging you close. The hoodie drowned you; he loved it. Loved that you claimed his clothes like they were yours. Loved that you showed up unannounced with home-cooked food because he forgot meals. Loved that you murdered his melodies yet understood their meaning better than anyone.
He dipped his head, nose brushing yours. You smelled like kimchi, like the rain outside, like the birthday perfume he gave you—the one you swore was “too fancy for every day” but wore anyway.
“S/n,” he whispered against your forehead, lips grazing warm skin. “I love you, you know?”
You tilted your face up, startled by the sudden weight in his voice.
“I know,” you answered, fingers toying with the hem of his(now your) hoodie. “You say it all the time.”
“No. Like… really” He dragged in a breath, words heavy. “I looked at you just now and thought: that’s it. It’s her. Forever.”
The studio fell silent. Just the low hum of the AC and his pulse thundering.
You smiled—the small, private one that never made it to fan photos or lives. The one that crinkled the corners of your eyes.
“Christopher Bang,” you teased, full-naming him. “You’re getting corny in your old age.”
He laughed, the sound bouncing off empty walls. But he didn’t let go. He never would again.
You sank to the floor, backs against the mirror, sharing jjigae straight from the container. You scooped, blew gently, fed him. He mirrored you. An old, wordless dance. You never needed much conversation. You never had.
“Your mom added extra chili,” you said, wiping sauce from your lip with the back of your hand. “Said you’re getting too ‘soft’ lately.”
Chan snorted, nearly choking.
“She saw the fancall where I cried?”
“Of course. Called me immediately to ask if you were sick.”
He shook his head, still chuckling. You reached out, thumb brushing a rice grain from his cheek. The touch was so natural, so you, his chest ached again.
“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You are okay, right? You’re… different today.”
Chan looked—really looked. At your work-tired eyes, at the hair you hadn’t bothered to fix, at the way you held the spoon like an extension of yourself. At everything he knew by heart that somehow still felt brand-new.
“I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “In a way I didn’t know was possible.”
You blinked. Twice.
“Chan…”
“Wait.” He caught your hand, lacing your fingers. “I loved you before. I know that. But today… today it clicked. You’re here, in my studio, with my mom’s food, in my stolen hoodie, murdering my song… and I thought: that’s it. No going back.”
You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.
“You’re scaring me,” you said, but you were smiling.
“Good scared or bad scared?”
“Good.” You squeezed his hand. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”
He laughed. And cried. Just a little. One stubborn tear he couldn’t catch. You wiped it with your thumb, like always.
“Idiot,” you murmured, fond.
“Your idiot.”
You finished eating in comfortable quiet. When the container was empty, you stood, packed everything with your usual tidy grace. Chan watched from the floor, back against the mirror, thinking how his life was a rollercoaster—tours, schedules, deadlines, pressure, fans, antis, sleepless nights—and how you were the only constant. The only thing that never shifted, even when everything else crumbled.
You returned with a water bottle, slid down beside him, and rested your head on his shoulder.
“You know,” you said softly, “I realized something today, too.”
“Yeah?”
“On the subway coming here, a girl recognized me. Asked if I was Bang Chan’s girlfriend. I said yes. She went—” you pitched your voice high—“Wow, you must be so lucky" And I thought: Lucky? I wake up at six to make coffee for this guy because he forgets to eat. I fold his laundry because he leaves it everywhere. I listen to him ramble about mixing until four a.m. and pretend I understand.” You turned to him. “But then I walked in, saw you sweaty and exhausted and still smiling at me… and I thought: No. I’m not lucky. I’m happy.”
Chan’s heart stopped. Then raced. Then stopped again.
“You’re happy with me?” he whispered.
“More than I thought I could be.”
He pulled you into his lap without warning. You squeaked, surprised, but settled, knees bracketing his hips, hands on his shoulders. The hoodie rode up, revealing pajama pants underneath. He laughed.
“You came in pajamas?”
“They were comfy,” you defended, flushing. “And I was lazy.”
He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your mouth. Slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t need words. When you parted, you pressed your forehead to his.
“Chan,” you said, serious again. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Promise that when we fight and we will, you’re stubborn as hell,you’ll remember this moment. This studio. This jjigae. This hoodie. And remember we always come back here.”
He nodded, throat tight.
“Promise.”
You stayed until sunset bled out and the studio went dark, lit only by emergency strips. Until the boys crashed back in, loud and starving, and found you both asleep against the mirror, the gray hoodie draped like a blanket.
Later, when Changbin snapped a photo and posted it on Bubble with the caption leader’s too in love, send help, Chan would look at you laughing with sauce on your lip and think: right there. In that sweaty studio, with the stolen hoodie and his mom’s kimchi jjigae.
That’s where he realized he never wanted to live without this. Without you.
And the craziest part? You had no idea.
But now you did.
And that changed everything.
𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰:
The rain fell in a fine mist outside, the kind that fogged the car windows and turned the asphalt into a glossy mirror. Minho leaned back in the driver’s seat, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes, lids half-closed as he waited for the light to change. The dashboard clock read 23:14. He’d just finished an extra recording session for the upcoming comeback, body heavy with fatigue, mind still looping choreography transitions only he seemed to notice. The boys had left hours ago; he’d stayed behind to polish a move no one else caught,except him.
His phone buzzed in the cradle. A text from you.
You: Here. Side gate. Brought an umbrella, but it’s more of a sieve.
Minho’s mouth curved without permission. You’d been dating just over three months—long enough for him to know you hated being late, not long enough for the flutter in his stomach to fade every time your name lit the screen. It was new. Fragile. Good.
He eased forward, wipers dancing to the rhythm of the rain. The JYP parking lot was nearly empty, just a few staff cars and neon reflections in the puddles. There you were, leaning against the gate, plastic bag in one hand, a hole-riddled umbrella in the other, hair plastered to your forehead. You wore his oversized denim jacket—the one he’d lent you on a chilly autumn night and never got back—and gray sweatpants with a rip at the knee you insisted “added character.”
Minho pulled up beside you, rolled down the window, and raised a brow.
“You look like a drowned cat.”
You stuck out your tongue.
“And you look like you slept on the couch again. Get in before I freeze.”
He laughed, killed the engine, and stepped out. The rain had thickened, drumming impatiently on the hood. Minho snatched the useless umbrella from your hand tossed it in the back seat. Instead, he shrugged off his own jacket and draped it over your shoulders, tugging the hood up to shield your hair.
“Come on,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Before security thinks I’m smuggling a fan.”
You slid in, the scent of rain and cheap perfume (the one you wore because “it fits the budget”) flooding the car. Minho circled back, settled behind the wheel, and cranked the heat. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that only existed when two people already felt safe enough not to fill every second with words.
You rummaged in the bag, pulling out a red-lidded plastic container.
“Brought kimbap,” you announced, proud. “Made it this morning. Tuna, carrot, spinach, and that kimchi you like. No cucumber, I promise.”
Minho stared at the container, then at you. Something in his chest shifted.
You’d met by accident. You worked at the basement café in the JYP building,the one only staff and the laziest idols frequented. He went almost daily, always ordering the same: black Americano, no sugar, 7:12 a.m. sharp. You took the order without looking up, but one day you dropped the cup, coffee exploded across the counter, and you swore so softly he almost missed it. Almost.
“Shit,” you muttered, wiping with a rag. “Sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” he said, eyes on his phone. “Happens.”
But it happened again the next day. And the next. Until one morning you handed over the coffee with a sticky note: “Sorry for the mess. Free tomorrow?” He laughed. Kept the note in his wallet. The next day, he ordered a latte just to see your face.
You started talking. First about coffee. Then music. Then cats,you had three, he had three, and the names were ridiculous enough to become an inside joke. He gave you a ride on a rainy night. You accepted. He drove you home. You invited him up “just to see the cats.” He went. You watched Studio Ghibli until 4 a.m. He crashed on your couch. You stole his jacket. He never asked for it back.
Three months later, here you were.
Minho popped the lid; the scent hit immediately: warm rice, tuna, fermented kimchi. Perfect. He pinched a roll between his fingers, bit down, and closed his eyes.
“How do you do this?” he asked, mouth half-full.
“Do what?”
“This.” He waved the kimbap. “It tastes like a restaurant, but it’s… home. It’s you.”
You shrugged, cheeks pink.
“My grandma taught me. She said good food is 70% technique, 30% love. I just… think of you when I make it.”
Minho stopped chewing.
He’d heard “I love you” before. From fans. From exes. From friends. But never like this. Never with this brutal simplicity. You weren’t even looking at him,you were fiddling with the radio, hunting for a song that wasn’t an ad and that made the words truer. No audience. No filter.
He swallowed. The taste lingered, now mixed with something sweeter.
“Hey,” he said, soft.
You turned.
“Hm?”
“Look at me.”
You did. Your eyes were tired,you’d worked all day, studied at night, rolled kimbap at 5 a.m. because you knew he’d be recording late. But they still sparkled. Like he was the best part of your day.
And that was it.
Not a grand moment. No fireworks, no swelling soundtrack. Just you, in the passenger seat, rain-soaked hair, his jacket slipping off your shoulder, offering homemade kimbap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like caring for him was as easy as breathing.
Minho realized, with a clarity that hurt, that he was in love. Not the “I like you” of early dates. Not the “you’re cool” of good morning texts. Real, bone deep love. The kind that made you want to wake up early just to watch someone sleep. The kind that made you memorize the way they laughed when drowsy. The kind that made you want to shield someone from the entire world even knowing they could handle it alone.
He dropped the kimbap back in the container, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and leaned over. You froze, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Minho cupped your face with both hands,gently, like you were glass and kissed you.
It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was clumsy, tasting of tuna and kimchi, noses bumping because you hadn’t practiced enough. But it was perfect. Because it was you.
When you parted, you were red to the tips of your ears.
“Wow,” you whispered. “What was that?”
“I love you,” he said. Simple. Direct. No fluff.
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Like… now?”
“Like now. Like since you spilled coffee on me and didn’t apologize properly. Like since you stole my jacket and never gave it back. Like since you made kimbap without cucumber because I complained once.” He laughed, breathless. “I love you, s/n. And I don’t know what to do with it.”
You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.
“I…” your voice cracked. “I love you too. But you’re scaring me, Minho.”
“Good scared or bad scared?”
“Good.” You smiled, eyes glassy. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”
He laughed. And didn’t cry. But almost.
You stayed in the car another hour. Eating cold kimbap. Listening to the rain. Talking about everything and nothing. You told him your newest cat shredded the couch. He told you Changbin tried ballet and nearly snapped his ankle. You laughed until your stomachs hurt.
When the rain stopped, Minho started the engine.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Home,” you said. “Mine. The cats miss you.”
He nodded. Drove in silence, right hand on the gearshift, left hand holding yours. The route was memorized,he knew every pothole. But tonight it felt different. Like the world had color.
You reached your building. You got out; he followed. Climbed the stairs,the elevator was broken again. On the third floor, you unlocked the door and three furballs came sprinting: Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, meowing like you’d been gone for years.
Minho kicked off his shoes, hung the wet jacket on the hook. You went to the kitchen, clicked on the kettle. He leaned in the doorway and watched.
You stirred mugs, humming the new comeback track—off key, as always. Your hair was still damp, his jacket slipping down your arm. The cats wove between your legs. The kitchen was tiny, cluttered, full of spice jars and fridge photos. It was so… you.
And he realized again, with a force that nearly floored him: he wanted this. Every day. Wanted to wake up to you grumbling because a cat stole the blanket. Wanted to fight over dishes. Wanted to burn rice making kimbap together. Wanted to grow old in this mess, with you.
You turned, two mugs in hand.
“Chamomile,” you said. “For sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
He took the mug but didn’t drink. Just stared.
“What?” you asked, worried.
“Marry me.”
You dropped the mug. Hot tea splashed the floor; the cats scattered.
“MINHO!”
“Not now,” he corrected, laughing. “I’m not insane. But… one day. When we have time. When I don’t have to hide you from fans. When I can give you a real ring. Marry me.”
You stood frozen, tea pooling at your feet, eyes wide.
“You’re serious?”
“More serious than I’ve ever been.”
You inhaled. Exhaled. Then ran and launched yourself at him arms around his neck, legs around his waist.
“Yes,” you whispered in his ear. “A thousand times yes.”
He held you tight, like you might vanish. Like the world might end right there.
You cleaned the tea together. Laughed. Argued because you grabbed the wrong towel. He carried you to the couch. You watched Spirited Away for the thousandth time. Fell asleep tangled, Dori purring between you.
The next morning, Minho woke to sunlight on the window. You were still out, face smushed into the pillow, hair a bird’s nest. He watched you a long time. Then grabbed his phone, snapped a photo. Didn’t post it. Kept it for himself.
Later, when the boys asked why he was grinning like an idiot, he’d blame the comeback. The choreo. The coffee.
But the truth was simpler.
It was you.
With homemade kimbap, a stolen jacket, and a “yes” that changed everything.
And he never asked for the jacket back.
He never wanted to.
𝐒𝐞𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐧:
The Seoul winter arrived early that year, with a wind that knifed through the studio 3Racha’s cracked windows and sent lyric sheets fluttering like startled birds. Changbin sat in the swivel chair, headphones draped around his neck, black hoodie shadowing half his sweaty forehead. The clock on the wall read 03:42 a.m.—Thursday bleeding into Friday; he’d lost track. The cursor blinked on his laptop, waiting for a rap verse that refused to be born. Chan had crashed two hours earlier, muttering, “You’re gonna burn out, Binnie,” and Han had sprinted for the last subway. Left behind: just him, the silence, and the echo of beats that wouldn’t lock in.
The door creaked.
Changbin didn’t look up. Just rasped, “If that’s you again, Jisung, I swear I’m locking this damn door.”
“It’s not Jisung,” your voice answered, low and amused. “It’s the delivery girl for energy drinks and bad decisions.”
He spun the chair so fast he nearly toppled. There you were, leaning against the frame, convenience-store bag in your left hand, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in your right. The gray wool coat (his, lent during a rehearsal night when you showed up “for moral support”) swallowed your shoulders, and the ridiculous pink-striped scarf,your stubborn accessory no matter the outfit,was wrapped up to your nose. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, stray strands glued to your cheek by the cup’s vapor.
Changbin’s heart slammed so hard it hurt.
You’d been friends for two years. Two years, three months, eleven days,he counted because that’s the kind of thing he did in secret. It started when you joined as a temp production assistant, hauling cable boxes and cursing under your breath because “no one warned me idols double as personal organizers.” He laughed. You glared. Then laughed with him. Then it became routine: you bringing coffee when he forgot meals, him driving you home when the subway shut down, trading playlists at 4 a.m. because neither of you could sleep.
Friends. That’s all.
But it wasn’t.
“Brought reinforcements,” you said, lifting the bag. “Red Bull, Pocari, those seaweed chips you inhale like rice, and hot chocolate for me. I’ll share if you beg.”
Changbin swallowed hard. He wanted to say you didn’t have to, but what came out was:
“Are you insane? It’s minus five out there.”
You shrugged, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut with your heel.
“I know. But you sent a voice note at 2:30 a.m. saying you were stuck on the beat and ‘the universe hates you.’ I don’t ignore existential drama.”
He laughed, but it wobbled. You crossed to the desk, set the bag down, and perched on the edge, legs swinging. The studio smelled of stale coffee, sweat, and now hot chocolate and your perfume,that cheap floral you’d worn since college, the one he secretly associated with home.
You unwound the scarf, folded it neatly, and laid it on his backpack. Then you unpacked: Red Bull, Pocari, chips lined up like soldiers. You extended the can.
“Drink. Before you pass out.”
Changbin took it but didn’t open it. He just stared. At the way you bit your lower lip when thinking. At the way you arranged snacks in perfect rows before eating, like a ritual. At the way you looked at him—not as Seo Changbin of Stray Kids, but as Binnie, the guy who scribbled verses about insecurities at 3 a.m. and still laughed at your terrible jokes.
He realized, right then, for the first time, that he was screwed.
It wasn’t a pretty moment. No soundtrack, no slow-motion. Just you, sitting on the studio desk, his coat slipping off your shoulder, offering Red Bull like it was the most natural thing in the world. And him thinking: I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And you’ll never know.
Because you didn’t feel it. Not like that.
Or did you?
Because there were the things you did.
Like showing up at 3 a.m. with seaweed chips because he sounded “sad in the voice note.” Like keeping his hoodie for weeks and returning it smelling of fabric softener and your scent. Like sending 7 a.m. memes captioned woke up thinking of you (and your rap that still sucks) Like laughing at his jokes even when they bombed. Like staying until the end of rehearsals just to say “you killed it” even when he knew he’d flubbed half the choreo.
And there were the things he did.
Like saving every text. Like writing entire verses about a girl who “smells like hot chocolate and trouble.” Like lying to the members that “it’s just friendship” while keeping a photo of you asleep on the studio couch as his hidden lock screen. Like feeling his chest cave in every time you mentioned some guy hitting on you at work.
He cracked the Red Bull. Took a sip. The bitterness burned.
“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You okay?”
Changbin blinked. Snapped back.
“Yeah. Just… stuck.”
You slid off the desk, pulled up the chair beside him. Too close. Your knee brushed his. He froze.
“Let me hear it,” you said, grabbing the headphones. “Maybe I can help.”
He hesitated. Then hit play.
The beat exploded,heavy, aggressive, a distorted piano sample he’d slaved over for hours. You closed your eyes, nodding to the rhythm. He watched. Watched the way your brow furrowed when something didn’t fit. The way you tapped your foot in perfect time. The way you opened your eyes at the end and said:
“It’s fire. But it’s missing… soul. It’s technically perfect, but it sounds like you’re mad at someone. Who pissed you off?”
He laughed. Bitter.
“No one.”
“Liar.” You nudged his arm. “I know you, Binnie. You only write like this when you’re holding something in. Spill.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“It’s… complicated.”
You waited. Didn’t push. Just sat there, looking at him with eyes that saw through every layer of “tough leader” and “confident rapper.” And he almost said it. Almost spilled it’s you, you idiot. You drive me crazy. You make me want to be better and feel like I’ll never be enough.
But he didn’t.
Because you were his friend. Because you laughed at his jokes. Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate. Because if he said it and you didn’t feel the same, he’d lose everything.
So he lied.
“It’s the comeback. Pressure.”
You nodded. Didn’t buy it. But didn’t press.
“Okay. Then let’s fix it.” You stood, leaned over the soundboard, and started twisting knobs like you owned the place (and you kind of did, because he’d taught you on those sleepless nights when you “just wanted to see how it worked”). “Kill the piano. Add a vocal chop here. Drop the kick. It’s too in your face.”
He obeyed. And it worked. The beat breathed. It had soul.
You grinned. Proud.
“See? Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you’re overdoing it.”
He looked at you. At the way you leaned over the desk, his coat slipping, hair falling in your face. At the way you looked at him like he could do anything.
And he realized, for the second time, that he was in love.
But this time it hurt more.
Because you didn’t know.
And you never would.
You stayed in the studio until sunrise. Working. Laughing. Eating cold chips. You fell asleep on the couch, curled in his coat, pink scarf as a blanket. He draped his spare hoodie over you. Watched. For hours.
When you woke, he pretended to be asleep in the chair. You poked his shoulder.
“Hey, lazy. Breakfast.”
He opened his eyes. Smiled. Pretended everything was fine.
You hit the basement cafeteria. You ordered an oat-milk Americano. He got black. You stole his spot in line because “you’re too slow.” He let you. Because it was easier than admitting he wanted you in front of him all day.
On the way back, you stopped at the elevator.
“Hey,” you said, serious. “Thanks for last night. Really. You’re… important to me.”
Changbin’s heart stopped.
“You too,” he managed, voice cracking.
You smiled. Stepped into the elevator. Doors closed.
He stood there. Staring at his reflection in the metal.
And realized, for the third time, that he was in love.
But this time, he decided to bury it.
Because friendship was better than nothing.
Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate.
Because you laughed at his jokes.
Because you were the only person who made the studio feel less empty.
Even if it hurt.
Even if he never said it.
He locked the love in a corner of his chest, next to the verses he’d never show, the photos he’d never post, the voice notes he’d never send.
And moved on.
Because that’s what friends do.
But at night, when he was alone, he’d open his phone notes and type:
“She showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate and a smile brighter than sunrise. And I realized I’ll love her forever. Even if she never knows.”
He’d save it.
Never send it.
Never expect a reply.
Because some things are safer when they stay in the heart.
Even if it aches.
Even if he never says it.
He loves you.
And for now, that’s enough.
𝐇𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧:
The night air was sharp with the bite of early winter, the kind that slipped under collars and made the city lights blur behind a veil of breath. Hyunjin—Hwang Hyunjin to the world, Jinnie to exactly three people—stood on the narrow balcony of his dorm, sketchbook tucked under one arm, charcoal smudging his fingertips like bruises. The clock on his phone read 02:07. He’d been drawing for four hours straight, chasing a shape that refused to settle: a curve of a jaw, the tilt of an eye, the exact fall of hair across a forehead. It wasn’t for an album cover. It wasn’t for a fan sign. It was just… something he couldn’t let go.
The dorm behind him was quiet,rare. Chan was passed out over his laptop, Felix had crashed on the couch with earbuds still in, and the rest had scattered to their rooms after a twelve-hour dance practice. Hyunjin had stayed up because sleep felt like a betrayal of the image burning behind his eyes. He needed to get it down before it vanished.
His phone buzzed against the railing.
You: Still awake? I’m outside. Brought hot chocolate and a scarf you left at my place last week.
Hyunjin’s mouth curved—slow, involuntary. You’d been dating for four months, give or take. Long enough for him to know you hated the cold but refused to wear gloves because “they ruin the aesthetic.” Long enough for him to memorize the way you said his name when you were tired: softer, like you were tasting it. Not long enough for the jolt in his chest to dull every time your name lit the screen.
He typed back with one thumb, charcoal smearing the glass.
Hyunjin: Balcony. Door’s unlocked.
Thirty seconds later, the sliding door whispered open. You stepped out in an oversized cream coat his, actually, the one he’d draped over you during a late night walk and never reclaimed and wool socks pulled over your jeans. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, strands escaping like they were trying to reach the stars. In one hand: a thermos. In the other: a striped scarf that smelled faintly of your vanilla shampoo and his detergent.
“You’ll freeze,” you said, voice hushed so you wouldn’t wake the dorm. “It’s minus three.”
Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. He was staring really staring. The balcony light caught the frost on your lashes, the flush on your cheeks, the way you held the thermos like it was a peace offering. You looked like a painting he hadn’t earned the right to finish.
You noticed the sketchbook.
“Working?” you asked, nodding at the open page.
He flipped it shut before you could see. “Trying.”
You didn’t push. You never did. Instead, you unscrewed the thermos, poured steaming hot chocolate into the lid, and handed it over. “Extra marshmallows. You said you were craving sweet after practice.”
He took it, fingers brushing yours. The warmth seeped through the metal and into his bones. He drank slow, savoring the burn on his tongue, the sugar rush, the fact that you’d walked twenty minutes in the cold because he’d mentioned once, in passing, that he missed dessert.
You leaned against the railing beside him, scarf dangling from your fingers. “Put this on. Your neck’s red.”
Hyunjin obeyed, letting you loop the scarf around him. Your knuckles grazed his throat accidental, then not. You tucked the ends into his hoodie, smoothing the fabric like you were dressing a child. He caught your wrist.
“Stay still,” he murmured.
You froze, eyes wide. “What?”
He didn’t explain. Just studied you: the slope of your nose, the freckle just above your left eyebrow, the way your lips parted when you were nervous. He’d drawn you before secret sketches hidden in the back of his notebook, never shown. But tonight, under the weak balcony bulb and the indifferent city glow, you looked… inevitable.
Hyunjin let go of your wrist, flipped the sketchbook open, and started drawing. Fast. No hesitation. The charcoal scratched across the page, building your silhouette in bold, messy strokes. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him work, breath fogging between you.
Minutes passed five, maybe ten. The hot chocolate cooled in his hand. His fingers cramped. But he couldn’t stop. Every line felt urgent, like if he paused, the moment would shatter.
Finally, he turned the page.
You leaned in. Gasped.
It wasn’t a portrait. It was you but more. The curve of your smile when you were trying not to laugh. The way your eyes crinkled when you were sleepy. The exact angle of your head when you were concentrating. He’d captured the scarf mid-flutter, the steam from the thermos curling like a promise. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw, unfinished, smudged in places. But it was alive.
“Hyunjin…” you whispered.
He closed the book. Set it on the railing. Turned to you fully.
“I get it now,” he said, voice low.
“Get what?”
“Why I can’t sleep. Why I keep drawing the same curve over and over. Why I save your voice notes even when they’re just ‘don’t forget to eat.’” He laughed, shaky. “It’s you. You’re the shape I’ve been chasing.”
You blinked. “I’m… a shape?”
“You’re everything.” He stepped closer, hands finding your waist under the coat. “I thought I was in love with art. With beauty. With the idea of capturing something perfect. But it’s not the idea. It’s you. You’re the reason I can’t stop drawing. You’re the reason I want to wake up at 3 a.m. just to watch you steal the blanket. You’re the reason I—” His voice cracked. “I’m in love with you, s/n. Not the way I thought I would be. Not slow and safe. Like… like I’ve been holding my breath for four months and you just let me exhale.”
You stared. The city hummed below distant cars, a siren, someone’s dog barking. But on the balcony, it was just you and him and the frost and the charcoal dust on his fingers.
You reached up, cupped his face. Your thumbs brushed the smudges under his eyes.
“You’re shaking,” you said.
“Scared you’ll say it’s too fast.”
You smiled small, real, the one that made his chest cave in.
“It is too fast,” you admitted. “But I’ve been in love with you since you drew my coffee cup with a tiny crown on it and pretended it was an accident. Since you let me cry on your shoulder after my exam because you didn’t know what to say but stayed anyway. Since you learned how I take my tea and never forget.” You leaned in, forehead to his. “I love you, Hyunjin. Messy, sleepless, charcoal-stained you.”
He kissed you then. Not soft. Not careful. Like he’d been starving and you were the first real meal in months. Your back hit the railing; the scarf fell to the floor. His hands slid under the coat, finding warmth, finding you. You tasted like hot chocolate and winter air and the promise of tomorrow.
When you broke apart, you were both breathless.
“Inside,” you panted. “Before Chan wakes up and murders us for noise.”
Hyunjin laughed loud, free, the sound echoing off the brick walls. He grabbed the sketchbook, the thermos, your hand. You stumbled through the door, kicking off boots, shedding coats. The dorm was dark, but he knew the way past the kitchen, down the hall, to his room. He locked the door behind you.
You flopped onto his bed, coat half-on, hair a mess. He stood over you, sketchbook still clutched to his chest.
“Pose,” he said.
You raised a brow. “Now?”
“Now. Before I forget.”
You rolled your eyes but obeyed propped on one elbow, chin in hand, coat slipping off one shoulder. He sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, opened to a fresh page, and drew. Faster this time. No hesitation. The lines flowed like they’d been waiting years.
You watched him. Really watched. The way his tongue poked out when he concentrated. The way his hair fell into his eyes and he didn’t bother pushing it back. The way his fingers moved like they were dancing.
“Tell me something,” you said softly.
“Hm?”
“Why me?”
He didn’t look up. “Because you see me.”
You frowned. “Everyone sees you. You’re—”
“No.” He met your eyes. “They see Hyunjin. The hair. The face. The stage. You see me. The guy who burns rice. Who cries at animated movies. Who draws at 2 a.m. because he’s scared of forgetting how light hits your cheekbone.” He tapped the page. “You’re not a muse. You’re the reason the muse exists.”
You sat up, crawled across the bed, and kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. Like you were memorizing him too.
Hours later, the sketchbook lay forgotten on the floor. You were asleep against his chest, one leg thrown over his, his coat draped over both of you like a blanket. Hyunjin stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.
He thought about the first time you met. You were a junior art director at a photoshoot—sent to “supervise” because the concept was “ethereal.” He’d been in a bad mood, hair too long, makeup too heavy, exhausted from a 16-hour day. You’d handed him a bottle of water and said, “Your left eyebrow is smudged. Want me to fix it?” He’d snapped, “I’m fine.” You’d shrugged, walked away. Later, he found the water bottle with a tiny doodle on the label: a cartoon version of him with a speech bubble that said “I’m fine.”
He’d laughed. Kept the bottle. Found you at crafty the next day. Apologized. You’d smirked, “Took you long enough.”
Now, four months later, you were here. In his bed. In his life. In his art.
Hyunjin reached for his phone, opened the camera, and took a photo: you asleep, mouth slightly open, his coat swallowing you. He set it as his lock screen. Didn’t care if the members saw.
Morning came too soon. The dorm stirred—Chan’s alarm, Felix’s groan, the smell of instant coffee. You woke up panicked.
“Shit, I have work—”
“Call in sick,” he mumbled, pulling you back.
“I can’t—”
“You can. One day. Stay.”
You hesitated. Then texted your boss some excuse about food poisoning. Curled back into him.
The day blurred: breakfast in bed (burnt toast, shared yogurt), sketching each other on the same page until the lines overlapped, dancing in the living room to a playlist you made, kissing against the fridge when Seungmin walked in and screamed.
By evening, you were on the balcony again. The city sparkled below, alive and indifferent. Hyunjin had a new sketchbook yours, actually, the one you’d left in his bag weeks ago. He flipped to a blank page.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
You did.
He drew quickly: your profile against the skyline, the coat collar turned up, the scarf he’d never returned. When he finished, he tore the page out and folded it into a tiny square.
“Open.”
You took it, unfolded it. Inside was the drawing—and a note in his handwriting:
“You are my favorite unfinished masterpiece. Let’s keep adding lines. —H”
You looked up, eyes shining.
“Hyunjin…”
He kissed you before you could finish. The city kept moving. The dorm kept breathing. But on that balcony, time stopped,just long enough for him to know.
He was in love.
Not with the idea of you.
With the real, messy, hot-chocolate-carrying, scarf-stealing, heartbeat-sharing you.
And he’d spend the rest of his life trying to draw it perfectly.
Even if he never quite could.
© 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎, 𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕.
Sorry the text looks all squished together like this, I used the browser so I could make the title colorful and it ended up messing up the fic’s formatting 😭 but I hope it didn’t, like, annoy you guys. If you could leave a comment, send me ideas, or give it a like, I’d really appreciate it 💕
Tag: @disneylover123-blog2
