¡Ayer fue el cumpleaños de Seo Changbin! Y, como es costumbre, hice un pequeño dibujo para celebrarlo. Stray Kids dió misiones para STAY de cosas que debíamos hacer durante los cumpleaños de SKZ. La de Changbin era comer tu comida favorita y hacer ejercicio, ¡Así que en esto está Dwaekki! Aunque quizá no debería hacer ambos al mismo tiempo...
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Yesterday was Seo Changbin's birthday! And, like it's usual, I did a lil drawing to celebrate it. Stray Kids gave STAY missions of things we should do on the SKZ birthdays. Changbin's was to eat your favorite food and do exercise, so Dwaekki is on it! Tho maybe doing both at the same time isn't a good idea...
Genre: Romance|Street Racing|Fake Dating.
Summary: When a stubborn street racer refuses to take part in a high-stakes shot she needs for her film project, Y/N offers him a deal he can’t refuse—one that blurs the line between challenge and desire.
Word Count: 4k
A/N: Happy birthday uri buffboy~ 🥳 YOU'RE HALF 52 THIS YEAR MUHAHAHA (STAY loves you changbin 🥹)
Thank you @kathaelipwse for giving me this idea~
The clock in the corner of the classroom wasn’t a clock so much as it was a silent tormentor, ticking in clean, deliberate increments as though it enjoyed watching students crumble under the weight of academic deadlines. The winter light outside the windows was thin and brittle, throwing pale stripes across the floor, across the stacks of books, across the tense curve of your back.
Graduation loomed like a judge with a sharpened gavel. The professor had called it a graduation project—a harmless phrase for something that felt like a guillotine hovering over your neck. You’d already tried—what, six? seven?—ideas, and each one had collapsed like a cheap umbrella in a storm.
“Photography’s supposed to be creative, Y/N,” Yuri, your best friend and dorm-mate, had sighed last week when you threw another crumpled idea sheet across your desk. “Not… whatever that was.”
“It was creative,” you’d grumbled, chin pressed into your palm. “It just… also happened to be stupid. And already done. And maybe slightly illegal if you squint at it.”
Today was no different. You sat at your desk in the cramped classroom, surrounded by students chattering about their brilliant, original projects. Someone was building a short film about urban loneliness. Another was designing an art book using pressed winter flowers. You? You had a graveyard of bad ideas.
By the time the professor dismissed you, the frustration sat heavy in your chest, thick and bitter as black coffee. You packed your bag with the delicate care of someone trying not to break their last thread of patience and trudged back to the dorm.
Winter holidays came like a reluctant sigh, carrying with it the scent of pine trees, home-cooked food, and the faintest trace of freedom. You left the dorm with Yuri waving dramatically at the bus stop, promising to text updates that you would both probably forget to send.
Your parents’ house greeted you like a warm blanket. Your mother was in the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans clinking like background music, and the smell of spices curled into the air. Your father was somewhere upstairs, probably wrestling with the heater again.
And your brother—unsurprisingly—was planted firmly in the living room, a shrine of snack wrappers scattered across the couch cushions, eyes glued to the TV.
The sound hit you first: the low, throaty roar of engines, the rapid commentary of a sports announcer, the blur of colors whipping across the screen. Motorcycle racing.
“Seriously?” you said by way of greeting, dumping your bag by the stairs.
He barely glanced at you. “Seriously what?”
“You’re still into this?” You stepped closer, watching the riders lean into dangerous curves with the precision of surgeons. Something about the speed, the symmetry, the mechanical beauty… it made something click in your mind.
The camera in your brain snapped into focus. That—that speed, that motion, that sleek danger—that could be your project.
“I love it,” you said suddenly.
Your brother’s head snapped toward you. “You love what? My show?”
“The bikes. The racing. It’s—” You stopped yourself, trying not to sound too eager. “Never mind.”
“Uh-huh.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious in that sibling way that meant he knew you were plotting something.
You ignored him. “Hi, Mom! Dad!” you called, darting into the kitchen long enough to hug your mother and grab a cookie before heading upstairs.
Your laptop was open before you even took your coat off. Fingers flying over the keys, you searched for local riders, profiles, crews. You found a few on social media—guys with flashy videos, girls with perfectly curated highlight reels. You fired off polite messages explaining you were a university student working on a grad project and needed a skilled rider for some shots.
Satisfied, you shut the laptop and returned downstairs. Dinner was already being set on the table, and you slid into your chair, eager to enjoy the comfort of home.
That is—until the bickering began.
Your brother eyed the shirt you’d just pulled from your bag. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a gift,” you said sweetly, holding it up. It was a ridiculous shirt—bright colors, some silly slogan that made you snort in the store.
He recoiled. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The argument ping-ponged back and forth, escalating in volume until your mother threatened to take away dessert. Eventually, your brother groaned, yanked the shirt from your hand, and muttered something about only wearing it once.
“Victory,” you whispered, smug.
The next morning, your phone lit up with notifications. A few of the riders had agreed to help, and since you’d be home for the holidays, you set up a location—a wide, open stretch of road near your neighborhood that was perfect for shots.
By noon, you were out there with your camera, tripod, and high hopes.
By two o’clock, those hopes had been run over.
The riders were… fine. Nice enough, willing enough. But their speed wasn’t right. Their form was awkward on camera. Some of them were too cautious; others were sloppy. You thanked each one kindly, hiding your growing frustration.
By the time you started packing up, the winter air had seeped through your gloves and into your bones. Your breath curled in pale clouds, and your fingers ached from gripping the camera.
That’s when you heard it—the clean, sharp hum of an engine cutting through the quiet.
You turned.
A lone rider came into view, moving like water poured over glass—smooth, fast, precise. No unnecessary flourishes, no hesitation. Just perfect lines, perfect speed.
Your breath caught.
When he finally slowed, the bike gliding to a stop a few meters away, he swung one leg over and pulled off his helmet. The helmet lifted, and with it, the anonymity.
Black hair, slightly tousled from the helmet. Sharp features softened by the faintest curve of curiosity in his eyes. He was—
Well. Perfect.
You hesitated for a heartbeat, then crossed the distance. “Hi—sorry, I know this is weird, but I’m working on a grad project for my uni, and I’ve been trying to find a rider for some photography shots, and your biking just now was—honestly, it was perfect. Would you maybe…”
He stared. Not rudely—just the kind of look that made you feel like he was assessing every word you said, weighing them on some invisible scale.
Then: “No.”
The single syllable dropped like a stone between you.
“Oh.” You blinked. “I mean—uh—wait, no? Like… no, you don’t want to, or no, you can’t?”
“No,” he repeated, already reaching for his helmet.
Panic flickered in your chest. “Please? Look, I’ll—” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ll do anything you ask. As long as it doesn’t involve killing.”
That made him pause. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Anything?”
You nodded, cautious.
He set the helmet down. “There’s a biker’s night coming up. Like a party. I need someone to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for the night.”
You blinked. “…Why?”
“Because it’ll get someone off my back,” he said simply, tone so flat you couldn’t tell if he was joking. “You in?”
Your mind raced. It was ridiculous. Suspicious. Definitely out of your comfort zone.
And yet—your project.
“…Fine,” you said. “But you’d better ride exactly like you just did.”
He held out his phone. “Number.”
You swapped contacts, his name saved in your phone before you’d even asked for it. Changbin, he said. Just Changbin.
“Tomorrow evening,” he added. “Same place.”
That night, you texted him a quick hi, just to break the silence.
Y/N: So… if I’m pretending to be your girlfriend, I should probably know something about you.
Changbin: Like what?
Y/N: Like basic facts?? So I don’t embarrass you in front of your biker friends??
Changbin: Don’t embarrass me. That’s the only fact you need.
Y/N: Wow. Inspirational.
A long pause.
Changbin: I like Americano. And I love dark.
Y/N: …That’s it?
Changbin: You said basic.
You fell asleep wondering what exactly you’d signed up for.
The next evening, the place looked exactly as it had before—wide road, winter air, the soft crunch of frost under your boots.
He was already there.
The motorcycle gleamed under the dull gold of the streetlights, and he was wiping it down with deliberate care. All black—black shirt clinging just enough to hint at the muscle underneath, a thin silver chain at his throat, leather jacket slung over broad shoulders.
For a moment, you forgot to breathe.
“Finally,” you said, forcing a rush of mock impatience into your tone. “Let’s get started before my fingers freeze off.”
He just glanced up, one eyebrow slightly raised, before setting the rag aside. “Where do you want me?”
And just like that—you were back in control. Or at least, you told yourself you were.
The camera’s memory card was full of motion and chrome, streaks of black and silver frozen mid-turn. You would have kept going—there was a rhythm to it now, the sharp click of the shutter syncing with the purr of the engine—but the light was bleeding out of the sky. Winter evenings didn’t linger; they folded fast into night, leaving only the harsh orange of streetlamps.
“Think we’ll have to call it,” you said reluctantly, lowering the camera.
Changbin glanced toward the horizon. The air between you was still faintly warm from the rush of speed, from the quiet concentration you both had fallen into. “Next week. Same time.”
You frowned. “Next week? Why not tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a race,” he said, already moving to pack away the rag and gloves he’d set aside earlier. “Need to practice.”
It was fair enough. Still—you’d been in the zone, and the idea of losing that momentum made something in you twitch.
The whole time you’d been shooting, you hadn’t noticed the way he watched you. The quick flick of his gaze every time you bit your lip, eyes narrowing in focus as you adjusted angles. The way you barked an order—“a bit left, closer to the light”—only to soften the second he turned that look on you, the one that landed somewhere between amusement and challenge. It was subtle, but not lost on him.
You were slinging your camera bag over your shoulder when his voice cut through the quiet. “Go out with me tomorrow.”
You froze mid-step. “Didn’t you just say you had to practice?”
“There’s a new restaurant opening. I want to check it out.” He straightened, helmet hooked loosely in one hand. “And if you’re going to play my girlfriend in front of a bunch of people, you should probably know me better.”
Your brain scrambled for an excuse—it should have been easy to say you were busy—but instead, your mouth betrayed you. “…Fine.”
The next evening, you stood outside the address he’d sent, the winter air teasing strands of hair from your scarf. You’d taken his advice and gone casual: black shirt, jeans, boots. Simple. Safe.
Changbin was already there when you arrived, the white of his shirt stark against the dusk, his black leather jacket the same one from yesterday. Somehow, he looked even more annoyingly good without the bike as a prop.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with that particular energy of an opening night—clinking cutlery, the soft chaos of servers navigating narrow aisles, the low hum of conversation.
He didn’t waste time with small talk about the menu. “So,” he said once you’d ordered, leaning back slightly in his chair, “why photography?”
You blinked. “That’s your opener?”
He smirked. “I’m curious. You could’ve picked anything. Why point a lens at people instead of, I don’t know, building robots or something?”
You toyed with the edge of your napkin. “Because a photograph doesn’t just show something—it makes you feel it. If I take a picture of you right now, in this light, with that ridiculous smirk—you’ll still look at it years later and remember exactly how you felt. It’s… freezing a heartbeat in time.”
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than was comfortable, but he didn’t push. “Alright. Your turn.”
You grinned. “Why racing?”
This time, his answer came without hesitation. “Because when you’re on the bike, nothing else exists. Not bills. Not noise. Not people. Just speed and control.” A faint shrug. “Plus, I was a nightmare kid with too much energy. My uncle taught me to ride so I’d stop wrecking the house.”
The conversation unfurled from there. You found out he hated sweet coffee, preferred winter over summer, and thought most people drove like they had a death wish. He learned you once camped in your dorm’s hallway to avoid a roommate’s disastrous cooking experiment, and that you secretly liked rainy days because they made the city softer.
By the time the plates were cleared and the noise in the restaurant thinned, the night had deepened into a cold, star-pinned sky.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said as you stepped outside.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ll walk you home,” he repeated, in the same tone he used when you tried to boss him around on the shoot.
You gave up.
The streets were quiet, save for the occasional car sliding past. Your breath curled white in the cold, and the silence between you was… not uncomfortable. It was the kind that carried its own conversation.
He glanced sideways at one point, catching you looking up at the sky. “What are you thinking about?”
“That I should’ve worn thicker socks.”
A short laugh escaped him. “Practical.”
By the time you reached your house, the porch light was spilling over the front steps, warm against the winter dark.
“Thanks,” you said, hands stuffed into your pockets.
He just nodded. “See you.”
You stepped inside to find your brother in the hallway, arms crossed, gaze flicking from you to the door you’d just closed.
“Who was that?”
You kicked off your shoes. “A date.”
His eyebrows shot up. “A what?”
“Date,” you repeated, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Relax.”
That didn’t stop the questions—who was he, where did you meet him, did he have a job, was he dangerous. You fielded them with practiced nonchalance until, finally, his voice dropped into something quieter.
“I trust you,” he said. “But if he messes with you, I’ll kill him.”
You turned, caught between surprise and amusement. “Wow. Careful, you’re starting to sound caring.”
He scoffed, immediately shoving his knuckles into your scalp, grinding hard until you yelped. “Go to bed.”
“Sadist,” you muttered, retreating to your room.
Lying in bed, you told yourself you were just running over the details for the upcoming biker’s night—how to act, what to say, the logistics of keeping the “fake girlfriend” story straight.
But somewhere between planning and overthinking, you realized you were smiling.
Being with Changbin didn’t feel fake at all.
And that—that was the problem.
The night of the party arrived with the quiet drama of an approaching storm. The kind that didn’t rattle windows or stir leaves, but pressed into your chest with a pulse you couldn’t ignore.
Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror: a navy-blue mini dress that clung in all the right places, the fabric soft but unyielding, almost like it had been made to mold itself to you. You smoothed the hem, not because it needed it, but because you needed something to do with your hands. Changbin had said it would be a “huge” party. You had no idea if that meant champagne-pouring socialites or sweaty, beer-slick racing fanatics—but you suspected it was the latter.
A low purr of an engine pulled your gaze to the window. Not the familiar growl of his motorcycle. This was… smoother. When you stepped outside, the sight of him leaning against a black car—sleek, understated, devastating—was enough to steal your air for a second.
He smiled, the kind that barely curved his lips but still managed to hit like a sucker punch. “You look—” His eyes traced the lines of your dress, pausing briefly at your bare shoulders. “—pretty,” he finished, voice dipping low as if the word wasn’t enough for what he was actually thinking.
You swallowed, offering a small smile. “Thanks. You clean up nice too.”
“I always clean up nice,” he teased, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “But you… you make me look underdressed.”
His driving was smooth, almost lazy, like he had all the time in the world. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually on the console. His knuckles brushed your knee once when shifting gears, and you swore you felt the phantom warmth long after.
When you arrived, the bass of the music greeted you before the door even opened. The venue—a private club booked exclusively for racers—was pulsing with light and sound, a mix of neon and cigarette haze. Changbin exited the car first, rounding to your side to open the door. He extended his hand, palm warm and solid in yours, fingers curling in a silent promise: I’ve got you.
Inside, the crowd shifted when he walked through, eyes following him with a mixture of respect and familiarity. He was comfortable here—more than comfortable, he was someone. Yet every time your fingers twitched with nerves, his grip tightened slightly, anchoring you.
He wove through the crowd toward a table where laughter exploded like fireworks. A group of boys sat sprawled out, drinks in hand, radiating chaotic energy.
“Boys,” Changbin announced, “this is Y/N.”
The one with bleached hair and a grin too big for his face leaned forward. “So this is the girlfriend. I thought she was a myth.”
“She’s real, Felix,” Changbin said dryly, tugging you closer.
Another—taller, sharp-eyed, with an expression like he was born to cause trouble—smirked. “Looks like you finally divorced the bike, huh?”
You blinked, thrown off. “Divorced the bike?”
The table erupted into laughter, but no one answered.
“That’s Hyunjin,” Changbin murmured, almost apologetic. “Don’t mind him.”
The rest introduced themselves between jokes and interruptions—Bang Chan, Seungmin, Han, I.N, Minho—and within ten minutes, you realized this was less a “crew” and more a feral wolf pack with licenses to operate machinery at dangerous speeds.
Han leaned toward you mid-story. “You know, we had a bet going that Changbin would die alone with his bike.”
Felix added helpfully, “And the bike would get the bigger funeral.”
Hyunjin grinned. “Guess we lost.”
You tried to keep up with the chaos, smiling and laughing when appropriate, though the “unmarrying the bike” comment itched at the back of your mind.
The party blurred into a haze of music, laughter, and a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected. Changbin never strayed far—always somewhere in your periphery, always a hand at your back if someone jostled you in the crowd.
Hours later, you were back in the car, the world outside sliding past in streaks of light. The question slipped out before you could stop it. “So… what was that ‘unmarrying the bike’ thing about?”
Changbin’s laugh was low, unbothered. “Just a joke my friends made. They think I’m married to my bike. Said I couldn’t get a girlfriend if I tried. So…” He glanced at you briefly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re helping me prove a point.”
You forced a chuckle. “Right. A point.”
“Don’t think too hard about it,” he added casually. “We’ll part ways after a while, so don’t worry. For now—” he tapped the wheel with a playful grin—“girlfriend.”
You smiled back, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
The word lodged itself in your chest like shrapnel.
When you finally crawled into bed that night, the laughter from the party was gone, replaced with a hollow ache. You’d known this was temporary from the start. But somewhere between his hand in yours and the way he looked at you before the party… you’d let yourself forget.
And now you remembered. Too clearly.
It was stupid. Falling for a fake boyfriend? Pathetic. But here you were, lying in the dark, wishing temporary didn’t feel so much like the real thing.
The next week came faster than she wanted.
It was supposed to be the day they wrapped up the photoshoot — the last set of shots before they’d likely go their separate ways. The thought made her stomach twist. She wanted to keep seeing him, to hear his laugh, to feel that strange comfort his presence gave her… but she also knew that the longer she stayed, the more it hurt.
Ever since the party, she’d been quieter in their texts. She still replied to him, but her messages were short, stripped of the brightness she used to send without thinking. She barely slept the past few nights — his face, his voice, the memory of his hand holding hers kept circling in her head until she lost count of the hours.
Changbin noticed.
Every text from her lately felt… cold. Detached. And it didn’t make sense — she wasn’t like that before. His mind kept turning over possibilities: Did he say something wrong? Did the boys embarrass her at the party? Was she uncomfortable around him now? The more he thought about it, the heavier the feeling in his chest became.
When they met for the shoot, he saw it instantly — the way she avoided his eyes, the lack of her usual playful remarks. She moved like someone who was just trying to get things done so she could leave. Every time he tried to strike up a casual conversation, she slipped away with an excuse.
The shoot finally wrapped up. She bent to pack her camera, and he could see in her body language that she was ready to bolt. That was when he caught her wrist.
“Y/N,” he said firmly.
She froze. “Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied too quickly, the word sharp like she was trying to cut the conversation short.
He searched her face, his grip gentle but unmoving. “I know something’s wrong with you. You’re not… you. But if you’re not ready to tell me now, fine.” His voice softened, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Just promise me you’ll be at the race. It’s important to me… and I want you there.”
For a moment, she just stared at him, as if debating whether she could keep her walls up. In the end, she only gave a small nod, and he let her go. Without another word, she walked away, but she could feel his gaze on her back until she disappeared around the corner.
That night, lying in bed, she thought about him again — the way he had looked at her earlier, the quiet steadiness in his voice. He made her feel safe, protected. He was perfect in all the ways she never expected someone to be. She wasn’t supposed to fall for him, but she had, and now it hurt more than she could stand.
The day of the race came.
Changbin sat in the private prep area, his racing gear on, helmet by his side. Normally, this was his favorite moment — the thrill before the storm — but today, his mind was scattered. He couldn’t focus. His knee bounced under the bench, hands flexing restlessly.
“You good?” Chan asked from across the room, giving him a look.
“Yeah,” Changbin muttered, not convincing even himself.
The call came for the racers to line up. He walked out onto the dirt track, the crowd’s noise roaring around him. He strapped on his helmet, took a breath, and scanned the sidelines almost unconsciously.
But she wasn’t there.
The starting signal blared, and the engines screamed to life. Changbin shot forward, mud spraying in arcs behind his tires. He took the early turns with practiced skill, but there was a hollow space in his chest that wouldn’t go away. His rival pushed ahead, taking the lead, and Changbin didn’t even push back at first. Everything felt… muted.
Then he heard it — his name.
It wasn’t just a shout; it was her voice, clear and familiar even through the noise of the crowd and the thundering bikes.
He glanced toward the crew area, and there she was — standing beside Chan, eyes locked on him. In that instant, everything sharpened.
His grip tightened on the handlebars. The engine roared beneath him as he leaned forward, cutting through the track with renewed force. He tore past one racer, then another, each turn fueled by the sight of her. The gap between him and his rival closed until he was right on his tail. One last corner — Changbin took it hard, overtaking him in a spray of mud, and crossed the finish line first.
The crowd erupted.
He ripped off his helmet, chest heaving, and didn’t even wait for the announcer. He ran straight to the crew area, eyes only on her. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight hug, holding her like he never wanted to let go.
She stiffened at first, surprised, but her arms eventually wrapped around him.
“You came,” he breathed against her hair.
She didn’t answer, but he could tell she was holding something back.
He pulled back slightly, catching her hand. “Come with me.”
He didn’t give her a chance to refuse, leading her through the maze of people until they were in a quieter part of the venue, away from the crowd and the noise.
For a moment, neither spoke. He just looked at her — really looked — like he was memorizing every detail.
“I love you.”
The words were steady, but his eyes were full of raw honesty.
She blinked. “…You what?”
“I love you, Y/N.” His voice didn’t waver. “Since the day I saw you. I didn’t realize it at first, but these past weeks… you’ve been in my head constantly. I thought I could keep things casual, but I can’t. Not with you.”
She swallowed hard, trying to laugh it off. “You don’t have to pretend. No one’s watching right now.”
“I’m not pretending,” he said instantly. “I don’t care if no one’s watching. I’m telling you the truth.”
Her heart squeezed. “Then why did you say we’d part ways after a while? That it’s just for show?”
“I was an idiot,” he admitted without hesitation. “I thought it would be easier to act like it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t want to scare you off. But when you started pulling away… I realized I didn’t want to lose you.”
For a long moment, she just stared at him. Then she scoffed lightly, shaking her head — before suddenly closing the distance and kissing him.
It wasn’t tentative — it was full, desperate, and full of weeks of unspoken feeling. His hand immediately went to her waist, pulling her flush against him, while her fingers curled into his jacket.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.
She let out a small laugh. “God, I’m so stupid. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But I convinced myself you weren’t interested, so I just… gave up.”
“You really thought I wouldn’t be interested?” he asked with a disbelieving smile.
She bit her lip. “…I thought it was unrequited.”
“Well, now you know.” His grin softened as he leaned in, kissing her again, slower this time.
When they broke apart, he murmured, “We don’t have to pretend anymore. This is real. You’re mine.”
And for the first time since this whole thing started, she let herself believe it.
