THE KITCHEN
LeeSeokmin x costumedesigner!reader
It's late, and Seokmin has an audition in the morning for a new musical. You are a costume designer living across the street- completely unaware.
Genre: slice of life
WC: ~2.1K
Warnings: voyeuristic imagery (nonsexual), introspection, no smut (but maybe eventually in the series), female terms used for the reader, his perspective v reader's perspective
A/N: First time posting. Idk why I am way more nervous about this section than the actual post. lol. If I missed some warning that should be noted, please let me know. I saw Between the Lines off-Broadway when it was running, and I can't help but think DK would be the cutest Oliver. Give it a listen, watch it on Prime. It's adorable. I cry. This will be a series. But I have a million things I am doing, so get ready for the slowest burn ever. Also, I think I did different tenses from each perspective. I am too tired to go re-edit that soooooo..... deal
The city lights of Seoul cast a faint glow throughout the apartment as Seokmin returned from work. By the time he slipped off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, the exhaustion had settled into his bones. He could still hear echoes of laughter from the practice room, fragments of lyrics looping in his head long after the speakers had gone quiet. There was comfort in that chaos-- it was home-- but it didnât leave much space for stillness. How could it with all thirteen of them hyping one another through each difficult dance move and every challenging riff?
For the past week, Seventeen had spent long days filming new content between rehearsals for their upcoming comeback. Each day brought something new. Often, Seokmin didnât even know what theyâd be doing until he arrived at the studio. Still, the Carats loved the photos and videos, and the group genuinely enjoyed making them, even if it meant running on little rest.  Â
Tonight wasnât ideal for a Weverse live. He had an audition the next morning for a new off-Broadway-style musical opening in Seoul. The producer had personally invited him after seeing his performance as Arthur, and though Seokmin didnât need a change of pace, he couldnât deny how good it sounded-- a steady schedule, consistent rehearsal, a stage again. Something tangible. Something that wasnât dictated by shifting content calendars.. Life, while full of fun and laughter, was still work.Â
He ordered food and stepped into the shower. Warm water soaked into his tired muscles, steam clouding the mirror as the sound of running water drowned out the rest of the world. It was rare- this kind of silence. For a moment, he could almost forget the constant hum of managers, cameras, and expectations.
 As he lathered up, he rehearsed the monologue theyâd sent him. The character intrigued him- Oliver, the storybook prince who longs to break free from the pages of his own fairytale.Â
Oliver was trapped in a story written for someone else, repeating the same perfect lines over and over until a girl from the real world- Delilah- reads the book and changes everything. Over the course of the musical, their connection evolves from a parasocial fantasy to something painfully human. But she is real and has to move on. He is trapped in the book, left to perform his story again and again so the next reader can grow, learn, dream- while he remains behind every time. A fragment of his memory clings to every reader who passes his way. It was whimsical, romantic, and a little melancholic- a story about wanting to be more than the version of yourself everyone expects.Â
Seokmin could understand that feeling better than most.Â
He tilted his head back under the spray, letting the heat loosen the tension in his shoulders. The words of the monologue rolled easily off his tongue, bouncing softly against the tile walls. He adjusted the tone each time, hearing where he could breathe more emotion in certain lines, where Oliverâs longing might sound gentler or sharper. When he finally shut the water off, he felt steady. Grounded. Ready.Â
Now it would come to tomorrowâs audition, and whether the producers liked what they saw.Â
The food arrived just as heâd dressed. He set up his camera by the window, adjusted the lighting, and went live. Within seconds, Carats flooded the chat-- the usual mix of hearts, compliments, and affectionate chaos.Â
âDid you eat?â
âYou look tired but handsome!â
âSing for us, Dokyeom!â
He laughed through it all, answering questions, teasing the fans, smiling between bites. There were always a few overzealous comments, but heâd learned how to navigate those-- a gentle acknowledgement without feeding the obsession. Mostly, it was light and genuine, and he enjoyed it. The familiar warmth of their affection always grounded him in a strange, digital sort of way.Â
When the meal was done, he leaned into the camera, flashing that smile that everyone swooned over. âIâll see you soon,â he said softly, winking before ending the live.Â
Afterward, silence settled over the room. The kind that felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just⌠real.Â
He sank into the chair, glancing out the window as the lights of Seol glittered below. Then he caught movement across the street.Â
One floor down, through the wide glass of an apartment window, someone was dancing.Â
You.Â
Loose, clumsy, completely uncaring. The light from your kitchen framed you in warmth as you spun a dishtowel in your hand, singing into a spoon before laughing at yourself. You had no idea anyone could see you. Why would you? You were home, barefoot on the tile, moving to a rhythm only you could hear. Well, you and perhaps your next-door neighbors.Â
He couldnât help it- his lips curved into an easy smile. Elbows on the table, chin in his hand, Seokmin watched the moment unfold like a secret shared with no one. You were so alive in your own little world, so genuine in your joy. Whatever song you were listening to had you moving like no one was watching-- head bobbing, hands in the air. He even recognized a few challenge moves- Ateez, Le Sserafim- though none from Seventeen, which made him huff a quiet laugh.
You fumble the spoon, caught it in midair, then bowed dramatically to an imaginary audience. He chuckled under his breath. It shouldâve felt intrusive to watch, but it didnât. There was something to pure about it- the kind of happiness that didnât perform for anyone. Just a person being happy because they could be.Â
He found himself thinking about how fleeting moments like that were. How easy it was to lose them when the world demanded you be someone else all the time.Â
And maybe, he thought, watching you twirl with your silver spoon microphone, that was what Oliver had been chasing too- that kind of freedom.Â
The kind where no oneâs watching, no oneâs waiting for perfection. Just joy, messy and real, burning bright in the quiet glow of a Seoul evening.Â
Your keys jingle in the lock as you push open the apartment door. A soft buzz vibrates in your pocket. One that doesnât hold the recognizable strength or pattern of a phone call or text- nothing urgent, probably an app notification. You ignore it for now. The lights flick on with a low hum, the kind of background noise your brain filtered out as your foot presses into your heel, slipping off your shoes and into slippers. The day has been long. More like the week has been long- paperwork, swatches, research, meetings that drag into each other until you can barely remember what show you were talking about an hour earlier.Â
Everything has been through endless rounds of approvals. Lighting wants new swatches. Set wants to renegotiate logistics for two quick changes you warned them about months ago. Every department has a question, a concern, an opinion. You just want your cast finalized. Without casting, the rest of the design timeline has stalled, and youâre starting to feel that familiar anxiety at the forefront of your head. Missed deadlines, tightening schedules, hell week fast approaching. Egos heightened and flared from one talking head to another.Â
Only one costume is still stuck in the approval process: Oliverâs. It has gone through more revisions than anything else in the show, but the latest version is solid. Clean and whimsy. It hits all the beats you want to communicate in the story from the moment he first steps on stage. The perfect fairytale prince that would make any girl swoon. Now you wait to see if production agrees.Â
The clock is ticking. Most modern looks are sitting in a cart, ready to be purchased as soon as the cast's measurements are collected. The fairytale characters are being built piece by piece in the shop. Youâve been juggling this show between the other productions youâre designing, but now, finally, youâve carved out space to breathe and dive into âBetween the Linesâ fully. This one feels special. A fresh new story that only briefly gained some attention in the States.Â
As the costume designer, you had already spent months working on the new production of âBetween the Linesâ in meetings after meetings between the other shows you were designing. It had finally come through, the time you could devote most of your focus to this delightful new musical.
Rumor has it that casting has a surprise for everyone.
You let the curiosity drift as you walk into your kitchen. A few dishes from breakfast lay waiting in the sink. Nothing lingered longer than the morning. You pull out your phone at last, thumb sliding across the screen. The earlier notification reads across the screen. Dokyeom is live on Weverse.
You're not the type to sit there spamming the comments in the chat section, but youâll listen in. His voice fills the kitchen while you whip together a quick and simple dinner. It held the pretense and comfort of someone talking to you on the phone.Â
You've followed Seventeen for years. Dokyeom had caught your eye and heart early on. You watched performances online, attended a concert when you could manage, and followed his excursion in Xcalibur. You still catch yourself daydreaming sometimes: what it might be like to design for a production he's in, to see him step into clothing you built, to have a brief, albeit professional moment where world's crossed. Nothing ridiculous or lewd- just the cool surrealism of working with him.
Your apartment is a haven of creation and art. On the wall perpendicular to the window hangs a growing collection of sketches. From across the street, the wall is just out of view. The wall is pinned with inspiration photos, sticky notes scribbled with questions and concerns, and receipts. Itâs a map of the whole show from your perspective, thrown visually in a web that made sense only to you. Notepads with half-completed to-do lists, pens, and fabric swatches litter the table where you eat. As DK talks about filmings and rehearsals, you catch yourself smiling. Work has been relentless. The communication and back and forth is challenging as everyone tries to bring their vision into he picture. But this part- the creation and dreaming still sits on your chest with excitement. A satisfaction that part of you was getting to be shared.Â
His live ends right as you finish eating. You set your phone aside, click on your music, and let shuffle decide your fate. The exhaustion of the day weighs heavily on your shoulders, but the right song lifts you up. Energy surges back in with a step and a smile. You move without thinking. A heel-step here, swaying of your hips, shimmy of your shoulders. The kitchen becomes your solo stage, your sanctuary of safety and comfort as music frees you from stress and deadlines. Everything is a microphone: the spoon, the spatula. The broom an imaginary duet partner as you sing and dance to your favorites. Your attempt to harmonize is off-key. But who cares? This is your private space.Â
In the warm glow of your apartment, you feel content. The job is demanding, but it is the dream. You have your routine, comfort, and security. What more can you ask for? You have a social circle, friends who have your back. For a moment, the stress fades, replaced by serenity and joy.Â
You have no idea youâre being watched. You are too happy to care if you were.
But there, across the street, behind a window you canât see from here, someone you admire pauses. Someone looking in at the exact moment you laugh as the spoon, dripping in soapy bubbles, slips from your fingers.Â
Life feels steady. Predictable. Good.Â
You have no way of knowing that this moment, silly and harmless, has started something you never planned for. Something you couldnât fathom in reality. In dreams, maybe. Absurd, ridiculous dreams.Â
Youâve unknowingly stepped between the lines of your own fairytale.
tags: @prettypinkpassport - keeping my promise
