it’s a late night out with the boys, and all haechan wants is to take take you home…
✦ genre/tw est.relationship! disgusting levels of fluff!! haechan being the sweetest bf in the world! kisses, petnames, and talks of marriage!! reader has hair long enough to run your fingers through! unedited!!
✦ w/c 1301
✦ a/n i haven’t written for haechannie in maybe a year, but i missed him sm and im sooo excited for the comeback so here this is!! i hope you love it and it brings you the kind of quiet comfort that haechan brings in this fic <3 please remember to reblog and tell me how you feel!! xoxo
masterlist | requests now open!!
“I think he really loves you,” Mark says, his voice terribly honest, yours viciously hopeful in your response:
“You think?”
“Yeah, I mean… I’ve never seen him so quiet before.” Mark knows this could be seen as a bad thing, that Donghyuck’s usually vivacious personality being tuned to zero could be perceived as negative—like he wasn’t acting like himself—but he means that he seems more himself than ever before. The way your boyfriend looks at you, gentle and adoring, the way his energy hums with content rather than the erratic confidence it usually has… He’s fully inhabiting himself, instead of that familiar persona their job coats him in. “It’s like, he couldn’t get to sleep and now he’s finally resting.”
When you were little you thought love was shown in loud moments, when there’s nothing left to try but true loves kiss. You thought it would be like a fast paced pop song or a race car going off the tracks, but it’s not really…
“He makes me feel like that too,” you say shyly, looking across the room at where Donghyuck is laughing with Johnny. Sometimes, you feel so anxious you can’t eat or sleep, and can barely get the words out to ask for help… Yet, one look from your love and the world quiets.
You used to think love wakes things up, but really it lulls everything else to sleep. It’s just you and him, all alone in bed, serene and peaceful like a lullaby.
Your love is not found in those golden hour moments of heat and want, it’s in the blue, when the world is quiet and all you can hear is your breath.
Mark looks at you and smiles, a large goofy one that he usually only gives to Chenle or Jisung. His hand comes up to ruffle your hair and he tells you, earnest even in its humor, “I better be the best man at your wedding.”
It brings a swarm of evil insects to your tummy to think about marrying Hyuck, it would be too amazing—everything you’ve ever wanted. The nerves crawl up your spine and implant themselves in your chest cavity, the thought too brilliant to let yourself think of it calmly. Hyuck would look so beautiful, standing before you and your family and promising to love you forever… you could envision the way he would look, as pretty as a sunrise.
You turn to look at him again, watching as he moves closer to you, eyes sweeping over your figure. Every step closer to you is another deep breath, in and out… in and out…
“Whose wedding?” Hyuck asks, emerging beside you as easy as a breeze.
He’s so handsome today, bronze skin shining under the lamps, his heart shaped lips folding themselves into a large smile. Having him next to you eases the butterflies, that familiar quiet finding a home deep in your chest. If Mark notices the change in you, he doesn’t show it, he just quietly watches you both—a secret smile playing on his mouth.
“Yours obviously,” he says.
“Aish, Mark Lee, don’t get too excited.” Haechan’s eyes glint with mischief, his mouth curving into a sinister crescent moon. “You’re gonna have to wait a while, I won’t be a child bride.”
Your heart surges, it kills you to hear that surefire confidence—the way he’s talking about your future like something that isn’t in question, like it's going to happen no matter what.
Their conversation goes on for a while, going back and forth between jokes and the most disgusting displays of love two boys could show. You find yourself zoning out, falling into a deep calm of thoughts—all about him. Hyuck’s just so wonderful, so pretty in the lowlight of the bar. You can feel his hands softly flow through your hair, nipping the skin behind your ear with his fingers.
He loves you like this, soft and pliant in his hands, a flower he can put between the pages of a book and preserve forever. He wants to take you home, wrap you up in his blankets and clothes, and consume all of the soft kisses and sighs he can conjure out of you. It’s been eating at him all day, from the second you got out of your jammies and into your tight moonlit dress. He wishes he didn’t have to share you with anyone, wishes he could open his chest and move you in between his ribs.
It’s not that he doesn’t want anyone to see you together, he doesn’t want to keep you a secret—rather he wants to keep you safe; a fire is dangerous when there's too much oxygen.
“You okay, honey?” he whispers to you, drawing you in closer against his side.
You realize you’re alone, Mark back with all the boys—you can see him, giggling with Jaemin over something Renjun said. Hyuck is still smiling, but its softer now, the smile he only gives you.
“I’m okay, baby, just tired.”
“We can go home whenever you want,” He tells you, his eyes soft with affection. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs swiping the slopes of your cheek bones. If you were paying enough attention you’d notice the soft touches were in time with the song playing through the bar speakers… if you were paying more attention you’d see the boys looking over at you with barely concealed fondness, but as it is, you’re only looking at him.
“Okay, baby,” you say, voice soft and flushed with romance. “Take me home.”
Your words make him flush and smile wider than a full moon, how he loves knowing that home is together—he wishes he could snap his fingers and get you there faster, do without having to call a car and walk up the steps to your door. He would do anything to have you alone and warm under the covers, make any choice if it brings that moment closer.
He adores you any and every way that you come, yet the version of you now, makeup smudged and warm from one too many moscow mules, is a close favorite. You’re so special to him, a starfall that crash landed into his life, a parade of colors behind his eyes.
“I love you, honey bee.” He says, voice so quiet you can barely hear him, “You’ll let me tuck you in won’t you?” His smile is coming closer, hiding kisses in your hair and drawing secret hearts on the skin above your belt.
“I’ll let you tuck me in, Hyuckie,” You tell him, grinning as his kisses move closer to your lips—awkwardly swiping against your nose and cheeks before landing a toothful kiss onto your grin. “Just remember my goodnight kiss…”
He smiles infinitely bigger, if that's even possible, kissing you through his quiet giggles and replies,
“And your lullaby too, huh?”
You love him you love him you love him…
Quietly and loudly and everything in between, you love everything about him—in dreams and memories, in the daylight and once the stars come out… you love him so much.
You can’t wait to be in bed next to him, sharing smiles and breath, mirror images intertwined into and around each other.
“Don’t forget my bedtime story, baby.” You say, giggling as he nips your nose.
“I would never baby, I'm already writing it now,”
You can vaguely hear the boys heckling you, making kissy sounds and gagging, but the only thing that seems important is the way he’s looking at you. He loves you, you know he does, but you’ve never been so sure of it until now.
“I love you,” you tell him, and you know by the look in his eyes and the way his lips lift as they meet yours that he feels the same.
warnings: smut!, pillow-humping, masturbation (f), thigh riding, descriptions of sex, dirty talk, dirty mind, hyuck’s smirk, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, pretty girl, use of the word slut, very very y/n coded
an: who else feeling absolutely crzy about hyuck lately? 👉👈
—
you’ve been a dirty girl — a perverted, naughty, horny girl.
but it’s not your fault!
blame it on hormones or ovulation or maybe the fact that your boyfriend has a career that takes him away on nights when you need him most. which is why you had to resort to this — humping your pillow at 2:00 a.m., frustratingly trying to get yourself off, imagining your boyfriend was here instead.
the clock on your nightstand glows that mocking red number as you straddle the thick body pillow wedged between your thighs, the dim lamp from across the room casting shadows over the rumpled sheets.
you’re stripped down to nothing, skin flushed and slick with a light sheen of sweat, breasts heaving with every desperate grind. the ache between your legs is unbearable.
fuck, you need him.
need his hands pinning you down, his cock stretching you wide, pounding into you until you scream.
you pressed your hips down harder, the soft fabric of the pillow rubbing against your swollen clit in a way that’s almost, but not quite, enough. a low whine escapes your lips as you rock forward, pussy parting around the seams, soaking the cotton with your arousal.
it’s pathetic, really.
how you’re reduced to this — rutting against an inanimate object like some animal in heat. but god, the friction sends sparks up your spine, making your nipples tighten into hard peaks.
you imagine haechan’s mouth on them, sucking roughly, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“fuck, haechan,” you murmur into the empty room, your voice breathy and broken.
in your mind, he’s here — sprawled on the bed beneath you, his dark eyes locked on yours with that smug grin he wears when he knows exactly how wrecked you are. you picture his hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements as you ride him. your thighs clench around the pillow, mimicking the way you’d squeeze your hips and you grind faster, harder chasing that edge.
the pressure builds, hot and insistent, but it teases you, slipping away every time you think you’re close.
one hand snakes down to spread your folds, fingers circling your clit in tight, desperate loops while you thrust against the makeshift lover. your other hand pinches a nipple, twisting it until the pain mixes with pleasure, drawing a gasp from your throat.
you’ve tried every single action in his book of your body. and still…still…your orgasm doesn’t come.
it’s frustrating.
fantasies flood your brain — haechan flipping you onto all fours, slamming into you from behind, his balls slapping against your skin with every brutal thrust.
you’d beg for it, wouldn’t you?
“harder, hyuck, fuck me like you own me.” and he would. grunting your name, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he fills you up, cum spilling deep inside until it drips down your thighs.
the clock tick to 2:09 now, the urge to release getting more frustrating with every minute that passes.
you hump the pillow harder and harder, the wet sounds of your pussy sliding against it filling the silence. your clit throbs under your fingertips, swollen and sensitive as you dip two fingers inside yourself, curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl — it barely does the job. it’s not his cock, thick and veined, pulsing as it claims you, but it’s something. you pump your fingers in rhythm with your hips, imagining his tongue lapping at your entrance instead, devouring you like he’s starved.
sweat beads on your forehead, trickling down your temple as you desperately chase release. your breaths come in short pants, hips snapping erratically now, whining as you start to lose your patience.
in your head, haechan’s whispering filthy things, “that’s it, ride my dick, you needy slut,” his voice low and sultry in your ear.
the fantasy pushes you closer, your walls fluttering around your fingers, arousal coating your hand and the pillow beneath. but still, frustration claws at you — it’s not enough. not without his weight on top of you, his scent surrounding you, his cum marking you as his.
you were so lost in your self-pleasure, hips grinding down relentlessly on the soaked pillow, that you didn’t even realize the bedroom door creaking open.
it was supposed to be a surprise — haechan had caught an earlier flight than his schedule allowed, slipping through the front door quietly in the dead of night, excited to see you. but now, as he pushes open the door to your shared bedroom, all he can see is your naked back arched in the dim light, your ass cheeks flexing and bouncing with each desperate rut against the poor, abused, pillow. your moans fill the air, soft, whiny, needy, and his cock twitches instantly in his shorts, hardening as he takes in the sight.
he pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame, immediately turned on by the raw desperation of it all. he can’t help but cock his head to the side, watching you for a bit longer, eyes darkening with lust, a smirk curling his lips as he drinks in every roll of your hips, every whimper that escapes your mouth.
finally, he speaks, voice low and teasing, “having fun there, sweetheart?”
you freeze at the sound of his voice, heart slamming in your chest as you whip your head around, eyes wide with shock.
there he is — your boyfriend. standing in the doorway, looking every bit like all the wet dreams you’ve had for the past month.
“hyuck! what are you doing here?” you gasp, scrambling off the pillow in a frantic scramble, your thighs sticking together from the mess you’ve made. heat floods you cheeks, burning hot with embarrassment as you snatch at the sheets in an attempt to cover yourself, but it tangles around your legs instead.
he chuckles softly, that devilishly, signature smirk widening as he kicks the door shut behind him and saunters into the room, “please, don’t stop on my account,” he says, his gaze raking over your flushed, naked body without a shred of shame, lingering on your peaked nipples.
“i–uh–i—,” you’re a stammering mess now, words tumbling out incoherently as you try to look anywhere but at him — the wall, the ceiling, the damn clock that’s now at 2:18, mortification twisting in your gut even as fresh heat pools between your legs merely because of his presence.
haechan finds your flustered state utterly cute, and he can’t help but chuckle again, the sound warm, affectionate, teasing, as he closes the distance between you in a few easy strides. his fingers find your chin gently, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet his eyes, dark, amused and already hungry.
“it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip, “i get it…it’s frustrating being away from each other, isn’t it?”
you nod your head slowly, eyes wide and glassy, still reeling from the surprise and the way his touch sends sparks straight to your core. your belly immediately tightening at his closeness, his familiar scent making your mouth water.
“tell me, my pretty girl,” he continues, voice dropping to that husky timbre that always makes you weak, “how can i help?”
“want my cock?” he adds after a beat, his smirk widening as his free hand trailed down to palm himself through his shorts, the outline of his thickening length visible even in the low light.
you clear your throat, swallowing hard, the words sticking in your throat before you finally whisper, “no…,” barely audible, shy but laced with need, “-not yet.”
he looks at you with an amused glint in his eye, eyebrow arching as he releases your chin but doesn’t step back, “then what does my baby want?”
your cheeks flame hotter but the ache between your legs wins outs over the embarrassment, “y-your thighs,” you confess, the words rushing out in a breathy plea and it turns him on even more, his cock jumping visibly in his loose shorts, a low groan escaping his throat at the filthy admission.
without another word, haechan takes a seat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. he pats his lap invitingly, then reaches for you, hands gripping your waist to help you over him, his shorts riding up as he spreads his legs slightly, exposing the delicious, meaty expanse of his thigh — thick and firm, the skin smooth and warm under your trembling fingers.
“go ahead, baby,” he says, voice rough with arousal as he settles you onto his leg, your slick pussy pressing directly against the hard muscle of his thigh. his hands slide up to your hips, holding you steady but not guiding — letting you take control, “show me everything you imagine when i’m not here.”
you bite your lip, hesitation melting away as the heat of his body seeps into yours. slowly, you start to move, rolling your hips forward so your swollen clit drags along the ridge of his thigh. the friction is immediate and intoxicating – firmer than the pillow, warmer, alive with the subtle flex of his muscle beneath you.
a moan slips out unbidden, your hands bracing on his shoulders for leverage as you grind down harder, your arousal smearing across his skin, each slide smoother, wetter, hotter.
haechan watches you intently, his breath hitching as he feels the heat of your pussy against him, “fuck, yeah, just like that pretty — ride my thigh just like that,” he mutters, one hand squeezing your ass to encourage you, “tell me everything baby, what exactly were you thinking about while you were abusing that pillow, hmm?”
there’s a wicked smirk on his lips and you know he’ll hold this moment over your head forever but you couldn’t care less. not when his other hand trails up your side, thumb flicking over your nipple, pinching it lightly to draw out a gasp from you, exactly how you imagined.
you rock faster now, the pressure building anew, your folds parting around the thick width of his leg as you chase the heat. the words spill out between pants, embarrassment mixing with the raw need pulsing through you, “i-i was imagining you here, hyuck….your hands gripping my hips, pulling me down onto your cock…fucking me so deep i could feel every inch stretching my pussy.”
your clit throbs against him, every grin sending jolts of pleasure up your spine, juices coating his thigh in a glistening trail. you lean forward, forehead pressing against his for a moment, voice breaking, “god, i missed you...every night without you, i ache for this—your skin on mine, fucking me the way only you can.”
your confessions leave him breathless and before you can continue — he pulls you closer, crashing his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. his tongue dives in, tasting your moans as it tangles with yours, wet and demanding.
you kiss him back fiercely, hips still rolling steadily, head spinning. his free hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there. the kiss only breaks when you both need air, strings of saliva connecting your lips briefly.
he shifts his leg slightly to give you more friction, the muscle tensing under your pussy, pressing right up against your entrance
“keep talking, baby. did you picture me flipping you over? fucking you from behind?” his fingers dig into your ass, spreading you wider so your pussy lips splay open against his skin, the cool air teasing your exposed hole as you slide back and forth.
“yes,” you whimper, but he silences you with his mouth again, kissing you deeply as your hips snap in a desperate rhythm. the wet slap of your soaked folds against his thigh echoes in the room, muffled slightly by the sounds of your shared breaths.
“i—i saw you bending me over the bed, your cock pounding my ass, balls slapping my clit... filling me with your cum until it leaked out,” you admit, voice cracking with emotion, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, “—missed you so much, hyuck—your scent, your voice whispering dirty things in my ear, your body pinning me down.”
haechan's cock strains harder against the fabric, a dark spot forming from his own precum, but he doesn't touch it — focused entirely on pleasing you, on drawing out every filthy detail.
he captures your mouth in a brief, bruising kiss, tongues battling as his hand slides up to tangle in your hair, then pulls back, “missed me that bad?,” he asks teasingly, smirking, but under it all is a hint of adoration he only had reserved for you.
“say it again — tell me how much you need your boyfriend's thigh to get off because i wasn't here to fuck you raw.”
you nod frantically, grinding down with everything you have, the friction building that sweet, unbearable pressure. your breaths come in ragged gasps, body trembling as you hump faster, clit pulsing wildly, sweat slicking your skin where it presses against his chest, nipples dragging over his shirt with each roll of your hips.
“missed you, hyuck... need your thighs wrapped around me, your cock buried deep—fuck, i touched myself every night thinking of you.”
he leans in for a quick, teasing peck before murmuring against your lips, “that's my girl,” his voice rough as he flexes his thigh again.
he chuckles darkly, “so desperate, rutting that pillow like a slut in heat. imagine my tongue instead — lapping up all that wetness while you beg for more,” his hand sliding between your legs from behind, fingers teasing your entrance without penetrating, just circling the rim, collecting your slick to smear it higher up his thigh.
he steals another kiss, deep and possessive, swallowing your whimpers as his thumb presses lightly on your perineum, adding pressure that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, “soak me—make a mess on my thigh like the needy girl you are.”
his words spur you on, hips snapping in a rhythm that's frantic and desperate, the wet sounds of your pussy sliding against him filling the room alongside your shared pants. he leans in, lips brushing your ear, “you look so fucking hot like this—getting off on my thigh because you couldn't wait.”
the coil in your belly tightens unbearably, nails digging into his shoulders as you hump his thigh harder, faster. his hands roam — gripping your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers.
“come for me, sweetheart,” he urges, voice gravelly, “show me how bad you needed this.”
“fuck—hyuck—i’m—” you manage to cry out, the words dissolving into a moan as the orgasm crashes over you. hard. your pussy convulses, walls fluttering desperately around nothing as waves of pleasure rip through your body.
you grind down hard one last time, juices squirting out in hot spurts, soaking his thigh completely—dripping down his leg and pooling on the sheets beneath. your thighs quake around him, nails raking his shoulders as you shudder through the release. haechan's strong hands hold you in place, murmuring encouragement into a final, tender kiss that grounds you.
as the tremors fade, you collapse against his chest, panting, pussy still twitching against the slick, cum-drenched skin of his thigh. he strokes your back gently, but the hunger in his eyes hasn't dimmed. his fingers trace lazy circles along your spine while the other hand gripped your hip possessively.
he tilts your chin up with a knuckle, capturing your gaze, his lips curving into that wicked smirk you love, “you did so good for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, before leaning in to brush a soft kiss against your forehead, then your temple, trailing down to your jaw. the tenderness contrasts with the hard bulge pressing insistently against your side, his cock throbbing through his shorts, begging for attention.
you shift slightly, feeling the sticky warmth between your legs, body already humming with aftershocks and fresh anticipation. he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pulls you into a deeper kiss — slow and sweet.
when he breaks away, his breath fans hot over your ear, “i missed you too…so much,” he whispers, his voice softening with genuine warmth, eyes locking onto yours with that rare vulnerability, “every second away from you sucked ass.”
you giggle at his choice of words, nuzzling closer, “i’m glad you're home now…i love it when you’re here, with me.”
the moment hangs, sweet and intimate, his arms wrapping tighter around you, pulling you flush against his body as if he never wants to let go.
but after a while, the air thickens with desire again, and he grins, that playful edge returning, “now... let me take care of you and give you what you actually want…gonna flip you over, spread those legs wide, and fuck you until you're screaming my name — filling that tight pussy with my cum, just like you dreamed about,” he whispered, quickly flipping you onto your back, body hovering over yours, that devilish smirk back on his lips.
love, laundry, and lunches synopsis: while you're stuck at the office fulfilling your duties as a social media manager from 9 AM to 5 PM, your beloved husband, donghyuck, often finds himself torn between hiding from your three kids to make a surprise visit to see you or ensuring they are sleeping safe and sound and the house isn't caught on fire by the time you come home.
it should be pretty simple and straightforward. and it is. but for your family? it's anything but.
contents: househusband!haechan, coporate worker!reader, marriedlife!au, parents!au, fluff, suggestive, petnames for reader & their kids, established relationship, hyuck being a stressed girl and boys dad 😭😭😭😭, 7dream + 127 mentioned as uncles!
a/n: i've always wanted to do a drabble/mini series like this soooo... i started it 😅 this'll come in handy every time i lose brain power for school work and would rather write fluffy cute stories on a google doc. IMPORTANT: this series isn't meant to follow an upload schedule, as it's simply whenever inspiration hits me!
comment if you wish to tag along on the cute adventures of these parents as they navigate their personal dreams and strive to be the best parents they can be!
taglist is open and all chapters are in no order and can be read as standalones. happy reading <3
THE BEFORE!
episode one: NEVER trust dating apps
after many failed attempts to find a suitable lover, donghyuck realizes that he's stuck and, though he doesn't want to admit it, lonely. so, he's left with his last desperate option: find love the only way this modern society can. through a dating app, of course!
THE DURING!
episode one:
episode two:
episode three:
episode five: ...and marry me?
the time in donghyuck's life when he discovers even the messy, chaotic moments in life can be considered a grand marriage proposal when you're as awesome as him. or in short: the day he finally goes down on one knee.
& THE AFTER!
episode one: laundry loony
with you still at work, donghyuck brings his kids along to the laundromat after not being able to find a sitter and discovers that it would've been a lot easier if he left them at home.
episode two: "love, dada <3" notes on lunches
donghyuck may not be an early bird or the most passionate cook in the world, but the daily notes he writes on his kids' lunches make it all worth it.
episode three: "love, your amazing awesome hilarious husband who can't wait till you come home <3" notes on lunches
donghyuck's still not an early bird or passionate about cooking, but his little morning moments consisting of you, warm coffee, waking up the kids, and a kiss on his lips before you walk out the door make it all worth it.
episode four: date night gone... right?
with the majority of the (trustworthy) bros being booked and busy on date night, you and donghyuck are left with one last option, which you both may or may not regret. leave chenle and jisung alone to babysit your three kids.
episode five: like father, like son
after getting a surprise call from your oldest son's school, donghyuck realizes one thing: like father, like son.
episode six: mr. & mrs. lee
donghyuck adores you, and he never shys away from doing so, which explains why you happen to forget that there are many women who adore him, specifically at an office party for your job.
episode seven: third time's a charm!
after planning so many birthday parties, you'd assume you and donghyuck to be experts at acknowledging that your kids are growing up. wrong. because what do you mean your daughter's already one year old and tears are pouring before the cake is even sliced?
ꫂ᭪ things i find extremely attractive as NCT members
warnings objectifying, p in v, kissing lots of kissing, voyeurism, veiny hands idk bits of fluff
a/n i saw these slideshows on tiktok and imagined specific nct members for it heheh ...there might be a part 2 god i'm going to hell
haechan spots you hunched over the laptop, hair tied up, tank top clinging to your skin. he drops his own work and slides behind you, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you whine, reaching for the laptop. "deadline's in an hour," you protest, but he buries his face in your neck instead.
his lips press warm and slow against the side of your neck, dragging upward in a trail of open-mouthed kisses. each press lingers, sucking gently on the tender skin just below your ear, pulling soft sounds from your throat. he moves lower, tongue flicking out to taste before sealing his mouth over the spot, suckling with steady pressure that leaves heat blooming across your skin. another kiss lands higher, teeth grazing lightly as he draws the flesh between his lips again, moaning softly into you.
his hands slide under your tank top, roaming over your ribs and stomach while he keeps his mouth locked on your neck, alternating between long sucks and quick, wet kisses that make your head tip back.
doyoung steps through the door after his long military leave, eyes dark with need as they lock onto you. he crosses the room and pulls you flush against him, mouth already seeking your neck. his lips part over your skin, sucking slow and deliberate, leaving faint red marks that bloom under each press. soft, low moans vibrate from his throat as he nibbles along the curve, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes the spot.
his breath comes heavier against your neck, warm and shaky. each suck draws another quiet groan from him, the sound thick with relief and hunger. he tilts his head, dragging his mouth higher, then lower again, alternating between gentle bites and wet, lingering pulls that make his lashes flutter shut.
he captures your lips next, nibbling at the lower one before sliding his tongue inside for a slow, deep kiss. one hand cradles your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, while the other slips under your top to glide over your bare back, fingers spreading wide to feel every inch. a muffled moan escapes him into the kiss as he lifts you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter.
his knee nudges between your thighs, parting them wider. the firm pressure presses right against your covered core, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. your underwear grows slick, the damp fabric clinging as his knee keeps its steady rhythm. you whine, hips twitching, torn between wanting the barrier gone and never wanting that grinding pressure to stop. doyoung watches your face closely, pupils blown, lips parted around another soft moan while his knee continues its torturous circles, soaking the thin cotton even more.
you catch jeno leaning back on the couch, legs spread wide in that easy manspread that always draws your eyes lower. his forearms rest on his thighs, veins thick and raised along the backs of his hands, running up the length of his arms like they’re carved there. each flex of his fingers makes the lines shift, and you can’t stop staring at how they stand out under his skin. your gaze lingers on the way his veins pulse faintly with every small movement, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.
he shifts slightly, shirt riding up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his v-line. the same prominent veins trail down from his hips, disappearing beneath his waistband, and the sight pulls a quiet breath from you. you wonder how far they go, how they might look wrapping around something thicker, harder. the thought of his cock being just as veiny makes your thighs press together.
jeno notices your stare, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he stays relaxed in that wide-legged position, letting you take it all in.
one afternoon, you and johnny were strolling through the park, hand in hand. after walking for what felt like forever, you quietly mumbled, "i'm tired…" your voice was so soft that johnny didn't hear it. when you suddenly stopped walking, he turned around and leaned down to your eye level. "huh? what's wrong, love?" he asked gently. you huffed, "i'm tired~." he smiled apologetically, tilting his head. "why didn't you say so sooner?" you rolled your eyes with a grin. "maybe because you couldn't hear me, you godzilla." johnny placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "godzilla? that's harsh." the two of you ended up laughing before he led you over to a nearby bench, happily sitting beside you while your fingers stayed intertwined.
chenle kept his cock buried deep, thrusting in hard and fast, his hips snapping forward with each brutal stroke that forced your walls to stretch around him. his eyes stayed locked on yours, brows drawn tight in concentration as he groaned low in his throat. sweat slid down his forehead and dripped onto your skin while he pounded into you without mercy.
"oh yeah? you like that?" he growled, a cocky smirk spreading across his face as your loud moans filled the room. your reactions only made him thrust harder, his ego swelling with every desperate sound you made.
then the phone rang. chenle glanced sideways without slowing his pace, one hand reaching out to grab the device while his cock stayed buried inside you. he tapped accept, voice steady as he spoke into the receiver. "喂？咋啦?" (what? what's wrong) the caller answered, and chenle replied curtly, "我正忙着呢，别烦我。" (i'm busy, don't bother me.) he ended the call with a sharp tap and tossed the phone aside.
the foreign words rolled off his tongue so casually while he stayed deep inside you, and the mystery of what he said sent a fresh rush of wetness between your legs. heat pooled hotter in your stomach, your body clenching tighter around him as the interruption somehow made everything feel even more intense.
what starts as raised voices quickly turns into both of you trying to explain yourselves at the same time, until the room falls into a heavy silence. tears are already streaming down both of your faces. jisung lowers his head, sniffling quietly before whispering, "i'm sorry…" his voice is shaky as he gently cups your face and rests his forehead against yours.
without hesitation, you cradle his cheeks, carefully wiping away both the fresh tears and the ones that had already dried. "i won't do it again…" he chokes out. "please… let's not fight ever again." his breathing becomes uneven as another wave of tears spills over.
he breaks down completely, his quiet sobs filling the room. you immediately pull him into your arms, slowly rubbing comforting circles across his back. burying his face into your neck, he clings to you tightly, his tears dampening your shoulder as you softly reassure him that the two of you will work through things together, your gaze lingers on the way how desperate he was, the submission he has for you, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.
xiaojun is unbelievably patient, especially when it comes to you. after classes, he'd sit with you in the library, helping you through math one question at a time. no matter how clearly he explained it, you still found yourself staring at the page in confusion. with every problem, another sigh escaped your lips. a lump slowly formed in your throat, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying.
xiaojun noticed immediately. he quietly turned toward you and said, "show me where you got lost." his voice was calm but firm. "and if none of it makes sense, we'll start over." your eyes widened as you hurriedly waved your hands. "n-no... i understand." he wasn't convinced. leaning in slightly, he held your gaze. "really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, patiently waiting for the truth. you tried to maintain eye contact, but you couldn't. your shoulders slumped as tears gathered in your eyes. "...i'm sorry," you whispered. "i'm just... really stupid. i'm trying so hard, but it's so complicated." your voice cracked near the end.
xiaojun stayed silent instead of looking back at the notebook, his eyes remained on you. his gaze moved slowly across your face, lingering on every little expression as if he were trying to understand what you were feeling without you having to say another word. he noticed the way you nervously bit your lip, the slight tremble in your lashes as you fought back your tears, and how your eyebrows pinched together whenever you thought you had disappointed him.
even the tiny quiver in your breathing didn't escape him. his eyes softened with every passing second, not with pity, but with quiet concern. the corners of his lips curved into the faintest smile, warm enough to reassure you without a single word. he wasn't staring because he was judging you. he was simply taking you in, hoping that if he looked at you long enough, you'd realize he wasn't frustrated with you at all. in that moment, the math problems scattered across the table faded into the background. the only thing holding his attention was you.
jungwoo was someone you always ran into on your walk home. every day, you'd take the same shortcut; a narrow, damp alley where the streetlights flickered and the walls were stained. hardly anyone used it.
yet, without fail, jungwoo would be there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers, quietly watching the world pass by. the two of you never really talked much, just exchanged a small wave whenever your paths crossed. but one evening, you walked through the alley with your shoulders slumped, letting out one sigh after another.
jungwoo noticed immediately. he lifted a hand in greeting. "hey." you returned a lazy wave. he took one last drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cool evening air. "mood's off today, mhm?" he asked, his voice low and calm. you simply nodded. as the silence settled between you, your eyes drifted to him.
he lifted the cigarette between two fingers and brought it to his lips with practiced ease. the ember at the tip glowed a dull orange as he took a slow drag before lowering his hand again. for a brief moment, he held the smoke, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, the muscles along his neck shifting beneath his skin. then he exhaled through parted lips.
the gray smoke drifting lazily into the cool evening air before dissolving into the darkness. his shoulders stayed relaxed, one foot resting against the wall as he absentmindedly tapped the ash onto the cracked pavement, his eyes never quite leaving you.
synopsis — you've loved lee donghyuck since the day he enchanted you with his melancholy. from childhood days to fleeting teenage years, you followed him faithfully—drawn to his warmth, his brilliance, the way he seemed to glow wherever he went. to you, he was everything. to him, you were barely there.he never looked your way, never cared enough to notice the pieces of yourself you gave so freely. he never understood why you stayed so close, why you shadowed his every step with unwavering affection. and yet, you couldn’t stop—because you loved him just that much. but years of being invisible to the golden boy take their toll, leaving you fractured and questioning whether you ever mattered at all. and when you finally slip away, donghyuck is left behind—forced to confront the haunting truth of a love he never acknowledged until it was already gone.
author's note: hi lovelies~ behold the final chapter of never be. this chapter was truly heartbreaking for me to write🥲 that being said, we have finally come to the end of the never be series! originally i tried to expand the story to chapter four but realised it would've been better to just leave it as it already is but there could be a possibility of an epilogue depending on the demand for it :") thank you guys so much for the love and support!!! especially taking the time to read my silly little stories🥺🩵 now this little lowly author will be off focusing on sbu's finale!!!!!!!!!! see you guys there🩵
⋆˚꩜｡ m.list | previous chapter | epilogue
appreciating good music never felt so difficult until it came to wendy. you really tried to enjoy the music, but you simply couldn't. you don't realise that jeno's eyes were on you throughout the entire time the same way your watery eyes were fixed on the edge of your dress.
applause erupted, loud and alive all around you. but it felt far away, muffled, as though you were underwater.
donghyuck was clapping, too. you watched his hands move, the faint smile on his lips, the way his eyes stayed on the stage even after she had taken her bow. and for a moment, you just sat there — perfectly still — tulips wilting quietly between his knees, your heart heavy in your chest.
when the crowd began to rise, you did too, slow and detached, your fingers finding the edge of your dress as if grounding yourself in something tangible.
people around you were talking, laughing, voices overlapping in a blur of congratulations and admiration. it should have been a beautiful evening. and maybe it was, for everyone else. but definitely not for you.
you waited for donghyuck to spare you a glance, counting down the minutes when he gave you the attention you've been searching for. his expression soft, almost proud. “she’s amazing, right?” he said, his voice still full of the glow that hadn’t once been meant for you.
you looked at him for a long moment, searching for a trace of guilt, of awareness — something that said he’d noticed how small you’d felt sitting beside him. but there was nothing. just that same bright-eyed warmth he always carried when music was involved and perhaps the undeniable look of something more than admiration that got your heart tearing into pieces.
"yeah," you said quietly. "she is."
he smiled, reaching for your hand, fingers brushing over yours in an absent gesture. "come on," he says as he lightly pulled you along with him, "let’s go say hi to her,"
“actually, hyuck,” you stopped him, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’m not feeling too good. maybe i’ll wait for you at the entrance?” you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. god knows if he’d even notice — the tears you were holding back, the quiet tremor in your voice, the way disappointment had already consumed you fully on what was supposed to be your special day.
donghyuck’s brows furrowed, a faint crease forming between them. “it’s just a hi though,” he said, tone edged with impatience. and then, just like that, he dropped your hand, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to do. “it’ll be quick.”
you shook your head, stepping back, clutching your arms to yourself. “no, i’m really not feeling well, hyuck.” you bit your lips in an attempt to calm yourself down. donghyuck exhaled sharply, looking away. the sound alone felt like a door closing between you. and in that brief moment — the distance in his gaze, the frustration that flickered across his face — you realised just how far his thoughts were from you.
“fine, y/n,” he muttered, voice clipped. “i’ll meet you by the entrance.”
and then he turned, walking away — towards her, towards a world that didn’t include you — leaving you standing there in the quiet ache of what love shouldn’t have felt like yet you still want him to be the one.
you kept your head low as you made your way toward the entrance, your gaze fixed on the marble floor glinting beneath your shoes. your fingers pressed over your heart — as if holding it in place could stop it from splintering. each breath came slow, trembling, the kind you took when you were trying not to fall apart in front of strangers. strangers who, by some cruel twist, all shared the same admiration for the girl who so clearly held donghyuck’s heart.
“y/n!” xiaojun’s voice cut through the noise, warm and familiar, but you could only muster a weak wave before quickening your pace. you just needed to be out. out of the lights, out of the laughter, out of the world that felt like it was caving in.
the grand doors closed behind you, the muffled sounds of music and chatter fading into the cold night air. you sank down against the nearest wall, your knees folding under you as a shaky breath escaped your lips.
this is horrible.
everything is horrible.
the thoughts echoed like a broken recorder in your head until another voice reached you, softer this time, “hey, love.” jeno crouched in front of you, his hand landing gently on your shoulder. you looked up, eyes glassy, lips trembling under the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “jeno…” your voice cracked, small and helpless.
he didn’t say anything at first, just pulled you in — his arms wrapping around you like a shelter you didn’t realize you needed. you buried your face into his shoulder, tears spilling freely as he rubbed small, calming circles on your back.
“he’s a dick,” he muttered into your hair. a broken laugh slipped out of you, half-sob, half-giggle, your tears soaking through his shirt. “no,” you mumbled against him, pulling back just enough to look at him. “i’m stupid. for expecting something special.”
jeno shook his head, his hands still at your waist, unwilling to let you drift too far. “no,” he said quietly, eyes fierce in their softness. “he’s the one who’s stupid.”
he reached up, cupping your face in his palms, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to your skin. “let me take you out, y/n.”
you blinked, dumbfounded. “what?”
“we can still save your birthday,” he said, a small hopeful grin forming despite the tension in his voice. “come on. let me take you out.” you hesitated, your heart still sore, looking back at the door in hopes that donghyuck would come out any second but he didn't.
“okay,” you whispered, nodding.
jeno smiled, relief flickering across his face as he draped his jacket over your shoulders. his hand found yours, fingers threading together easily, and before you could even process the heartache that lingered, he was already pulling you along — away from the building, away from the noise, away from everything that hurt.
away from lee donghyuck.
jeno led you through the city like he knew exactly where to take your broken heart to breathe again. the streets were slick autumn leaves, the lamps painting the pavement in soft gold. his warm hands never left yours.
he stopped in front of a small place tucked between two tall buildings — its windows glowing amber, faint laughter spilling out from inside. a sign above the door read “mēness,” in looping cursive.
“trust me?” he asked, glancing at you with a boyish grin.
you gave him a skeptical look jokingly before nodding. "of course."
the moment you stepped in, the world shifted. the hum of conversations, the smoky melody of a saxophone, the low clink of glasses — it all wrapped around you like some sort of impending excitement. the air smelled of honeyed whiskey and old wood, and for a second, it felt like stepping into another lifetime.
jeno guided you towards the bar, exchanging familiar smiles and waves. “this is my spot,” he said proudly. “i used to come here after late-night practices. they’ve got the best music and better whiskey in my opinion.”
on stage, the jazz band was setting the room alight — a sultry blend of brass and rhythm that curled through the air like invisible smoke. every note was alive, humming with energy that made your pulse quicken, the kind of sound that tugged at your feet, coaxing your shoulders to sway with the beat. it wasn’t just music — it was motion, heat, and heartbeat all at once. and you couldn't believe that lee jeno was a man of jazz. what a surprise!
“jeno!” the trumpet player — a wiry man with a voice like gravel — lit up when he saw him. “look who the cat dragged in! thought you went off to the world of rock music and forgot all about us kid.”
jeno laughed, bumping fists with him. “c’mon, mr son. you know i could never forget the blue notes.”
“oh, you flatter us.” the bassist, a woman named hana, smirked, leaning her stringbass against the wall. her gaze flicked toward you curiously. “and who’s this gorgeous lady?”
jeno turned, hand still at the small of your back. “this gorgeous lady,” he said with a grin, “is y/n.”
hana's brows lifted, teasing glint in her eyes. “your girlfriend?”
jeno chuckled, glancing down at you before looking back at them. “not just my girlfriend,” he said, a spark of pride in his tone, “but an absolute banger of a drummer.”
you blinked, almost choking at how jeno just called you his girlfriend, heat rising to your cheeks. “jeno!”
the band erupted in laughter, and mr. park shook his head, clearly amused. “a drummer, huh? well, we could use some fresh blood tonight.”
you gawked at him. “jeno, i’ve never played jazz before!” he grinned, that godforsaken mischievous easy grin that always made it hard to say no. “then tonight’s the night you let your instincts take over. don’t think. just… feel it.”
before you could protest further, he tugged you towards the stage. the room erupted into applause when the crowd realised what was happening. the regulars cheering jeno’s name like an old friend returning home. and you wondered just how many side hustles does jeno have to be constantly doing everything and anything?
jeno slid onto the worn piano bench, fingers hovering over the keys, and shot you a reassuring look. “feel the music my love,” you swallowed hard, nodding, drumsticks trembling slightly in your hands as you took your seat behind the kit.
then — he started. a simple melody at first, gentle and lazy, spilling from his fingertips like honey. it was playful, almost flirtatious, winding through the smoky air in golden loops. you watched him, the way his shoulders swayed, the way he let the music breathe — and soon, your own rhythm began to rise to meet his.
the sticks tapped softly at first, hesitant, then stronger, bolder. your heart followed the beat. hana joined in with the stringbass, her notes deep and warm, mr. son's trumpet sang out in response and jisung's saxophone serenading the crowd.
the crowd began to clap along, soft at first, then louder, until the whole room was alive with it.
jeno looked up at you mid-phrase, his smile wide and wild, eyes sparkling like he hadn’t seen joy in ages. you couldn’t help but laugh — the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep, something finally loosening in your chest.
he shifted the rhythm suddenly, throwing in a run of bright, tumbling chords, and you caught it perfectly — instinct, just like he said.
“see?” he called out between notes. “told you you’d be fine!”
you tossed your hair back, matching his grin. “shut up and play, lee jeno!”
the bar roared with laughter and applause. the blue notes picked up the tempo, the trumpet soaring, the bass thrumming steady beneath your drums. it wasn’t just music anymore — it was a conversation.
when the song finally ended, the sound of clapping and whistles filled the room. you and jeno were both breathless, faces flushed, your hearts racing like you’d run through a storm and come out laughing on the other side.
jeno stood and reached for you, pulling you up beside him. his arm slipped easily around your waist as he leaned close, his voice low in your ear. “you were incredible.”
you turned to look at him, your face still warm, and for a moment it felt like the whole room blurred around the two of you — the lights, the noise, everything melting into gold and laughter. “so were you,” you whispered.
and maybe it was the music still humming in your veins, or the way he was looking at you like you were the best thing that had happened all night — but for the first time that day, it felt like your birthday again.
after your impromptu set, mēness's only seemed to glow brighter.
the lights felt softer, the laughter warmer, the night stretching wide and endless before you.
the blue notes stayed on stage, cycling through an easy set of familiar jazz standards, their music weaving through the haze of conversation and clinking glasses. the crowd had mellowed into a pleasant buzz — some couples dancing lazily by the stage, others tucked away in quiet corners, bathed in golden light.
jeno guided you back to the bar, his hand finding the small of your back like it belonged there. “two old fashioneds,” he told the bartender, flashing that boyish grin that could melt anyone’s bad mood.
you laughed as you perched on the stool beside him. “since when do you drink old fashioneds?”
“since i started pretending i have refined taste,” he quipped, sliding a coaster toward you. “cheers, birthday girl.”
you clinked your glasses together, the sound small but sweet against the hum of saxophones. the first sip burned — then warmed you, the same way jeno’s laughter always did.
“you know,” you said, turning toward him, “if i’d known you could play jazz like that, i would’ve hired you for my mother's sixtieth birthday celebration party.”
jeno smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “you couldn’t afford me.”
“oh please.”
the banter came easy, laughter spilling between sips, your knees brushing every so often. the air between you hummed like a low note in a song that hadn’t quite ended.
when the next tune started — something slow, crooning, achingly romantic — hana looked down from the stage and called out, “hey, birthday girl! this one’s for you!” the crowd cheered, and you groaned, burying your face in your hands. jeno chuckles at your cuteness, sliding off his stool and holding out his hand. “come on.”
“jeno—”
“no excuses,” he said softly, his eyes dancing. “let’s give them a show.” you hesitated only a second before taking his hand. he led you towards the small open space before the stage, the dim lights catching on his grin, the faint smell of whiskey and citrus between you.
the saxophone crooned something slow and heavy, and jeno pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other holding your fingers like they were something fragile.
"you know," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear, "your got an absolutely gorgeous smile,"
you tilted your head, your smile small but real. “really?”
"yeah." he chuckled lowly, "you should smile like this more often."
and there, in that tiny jazz bar — surrounded by strangers, music, and the faint scent of vanilla and smoke — you swayed with him. his forehead brushed yours, your breaths mingling in time with the music.
but even in the haze of laughter and escapism, with the warmth of the room wrapping around you, your mind drifted back to lee donghyuck. to the way his touch felt, warm and fiery like home pressed against your skin. to the way his fingers would absentmindedly trace the curve of your ear, a habit that never failed to make you melt. you could almost feel it now, phantom and tender. and god, you wanted him — the comfort of his presence, the quiet gravity of being his, even if he never said the words out loud.
later, after another drink (and another, and another), the two of you ended up back on stage again. it wasn’t planned — nothing that night was — but when hana called for you both to jam again, you didn’t even think before grabbing the sticks.
jeno laughed as he sat back at the keys. “think you can keep up miss l/n?”
you smirked, twirling one of the sticks. “try me.”
the band erupted into something fast and bright — a blur of brass, bass, and laughter. jeno’s fingers flew, you matched every beat, and the two of you played like the world had fallen away.
by the time the last note faded, your chest hurt from laughing, your cheeks flushed from the drinks and the rush and the way jeno kept looking at you like you were something he never wanted to stop hearing.
outside, the city was still awake when you finally stumbled out together — his jacket still around your shoulders, your fingers brushing with every step.
“so,” jeno said softly, tilting his head toward you, his voice almost shy now. “birthday saved?”
you looked up at him, the glow from the streetlight catching in his hair, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.
“more than saved,” you said. “it was… perfect.”
jeno’s smile widened — small, soft, and maybe a little sad, like he was afraid to let the moment go.
the two of you decided to take a slow stroll along the han river, the night breeze soft against your skin. jeno walked barefoot on the cool pavement, your heels dangling from one hand while the other steadied you — his fingers curled gently around yours as you tried to keep your balance in his slightly oversized loafers. you looked so effortlessly endearing, cheeks flushed from laughter, hair dancing with the wind, that jeno felt his heart stumble in his chest — the kind of ache that was both sweet and terrifying all at once. he prayed that you couldn't hear his booming heartbeat with how close you were standing next to him in this silent night.
you both lay side by side on the wide patch of grass, shoulders nearly touching, eyes fixed on the sky that refused to go completely dark. jeno was the first to break the silence. “you know...” he trailed, voice low, “i don’t get it.”
you turned your head slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting. “don’t get what?”
he hesitated, searching for the right words. “why you keep loving him.”
you blinked, your breath catching. he wasn’t asking to be cruel — you could tell by the softness in his tone. he was asking because he cared.
jeno sighed, propping an arm behind his head. “he doesn’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated, y/n. half the time he forgets you, the other half he takes you for granted. and yet, you look at him like…” his voice faded, then returned quieter, “like he’s the only damn person in the room.”
you exhaled slowly, watching the faint ripples of the river as you gathered your thoughts. “because he is,” you whispered.
jeno turned to look at you.
you smiled, though it trembled at the edges. “i know he seems like he doesn't give a care about the world. he's always the loudest person in every room, but the loneliest one too. people think they know him because he’s unapologetically confident, charming and talented. but they don’t see what i see.”
you paused, tracing patterns in the air with your fingers. “they don’t see the way his hands shake after performing, or how quiet he gets when the lights go down. they don’t know he hums under his breath when he can’t sleep. or that he really hates thunderstorms because it's so loud and fucks with his "energy", but will always pretend he doesn’t.”
jeno stayed silent, eyes never leaving you.
“when it’s just the two of us,” you continued softly, “he’s different. softer. sometimes he leans his head on my shoulder and talks about things he’s never said to anyone else — his fears, his insecurities, his dreams. and in those moments, i feel like i’m the only one who really knows him.”
“i know he doesn’t see me the way i see him,” you said quietly. “and maybe that’s the stupidest thing about it.” you laughed under your breath, but there was no real humour in it. you turned to meet his gaze, your eyes glassy in the dim light. “he’s like a song i can’t get out of my head. i know every word, every beat — even the ones that hurt. and no matter how many times it plays, i still can’t bring myself to skip it.”
you went on, your voice softening. “when he’s kind, he’s really kind. when he smiles at me, it feels like i’ve just won a billion dollars. so maybe that’s why i can’t let him go. because even if he doesn’t love me the same way, he lets me see parts of him no one else does. and that… that feels like something sacred.”
jeno’s expression shifted — a mixture of pain and understanding. you went on, your voice barely above a whisper.
“he makes me feel seen too. like i’m more than just another face in the crowd. when he looks at me, even for a second, i feel like he actually sees me — not the perfect version, not this me who seems to have everything figured out, but me.”
jeno’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, something tender flickering behind his eyes. he wanted to tell you that you deserved someone who saw you that way all the time — not just in fleeting moments. but he didn’t. not tonight.
instead, he reached out and brushed his pinky against yours. it wasn’t a confession, or a promise. just quiet understanding.
you both lay there until the sky began to shift — dark blue softening into the faint blush of dawn.
and for that one moment, beneath the soft hum of the city, it didn’t matter that your heart belonged to someone who might never return it.
you had the river, the stars, and the gentle weight of jeno’s hand beside yours — a small mercy for a love too big to hold.
the sky was already light by the time you got home — a soft shade of gold spilling through the cracks of the apartment blinds. your steps were quiet, careful, the kind of quiet that came after a night that didn’t quite belong to you.
you were still replaying jeno’s laughter in your head, the sound of the river, the feel of cool grass beneath your fingers. it had been a night of breathing again — one where you could forget, for just a little while, the weight of loving lee donghyuck.
but the moment you turned the doorknob, the illusion shattered.
“where the hell have you been?”
donghyuck’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold. he was sitting on the couch, still in the same clothes he’d worn to wendy’s concert, his hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. his phone sat on the coffee table, screen lit up with missed calls. your missed calls.
you froze in the doorway, blinking at him. “i—”
“i’ve been calling you all night.” he stood now, anger radiating off him in waves. “you disappear, you don’t answer your phone, you don’t text— what was i supposed to think, y/n?”
you swallowed hard, setting your bag down by the door. “hyuck, calm down—”
“don’t tell me to calm down,” he snapped. “i waited for you outside the hall. i turned around and you were gone. do you know how worried i was?”
his voice cracked at the end, the edge of worry buried under frustration, and somehow that made it worse.
"i'm sorry hyuck i didn't mean to worry you, my phone battery went flat." you reached for him only for him to take a step back away from you. you winced at the distance he had kept between the two of you. "hyuck please, i'm sorry i wasn't feeling good and jeno sa—"
his brows shot up, disbelief twisting into fury. “jeno? you were with jeno? all night?”
your lips parted, guilty eyes reaching his.
he laughed under his breath — bitter, outraged. “unbelievable.”
you dropped your heels by the door, shoulders tense. “i didn’t plan it, hyuck. i was upset, and he was trying to cheer me up—”
“cheer you up from what?” he cut in, voice rising. “what mess could possibly justify you going missing and shutting me out?”
you stared at him, the words clawing at your throat. “your mess, hyuck.”
his expression faltered. “what are you talking about?”
"why did you take me to see her?" you whispered, the tremor in your voice breaking through. “we could’ve gone anywhere. hell, i would’ve been happy with ramen at home — just us. but instead, you had to take me to her.”
“she’s talented,” he shot back quickly. “i thought you’d enjoy it too—”
“enjoy it?” your voice cracked, rising higher. “you thought i’d enjoy sitting in a room watching you look at the girl you once loved like she hung the damn moon? on my birthday, hyuck? you didn’t even remember that we were supposed to see arctic monkeys—”
he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “their music isn’t even that good, y/n! wendy’s performance was— it was meaningful. her music’s real.”
“no,” you snapped, stepping closer until your chest brushed his. “it’s only real for you. not for me.”
his jaw clenched. “you’re being unfair.”
“am i? is it not unfair to drag me along just so you can stare at her like i do not exist at all? i mean wha—” you exhaled, voice cracking under the weight of it all. "what even are we at this point?" you finally asked the question.
“you can be honest,” you whispered, your voice breaking into something small, something raw. “i just… i just want to know where i stand.,”
the air between you was thick — with anger, hurt, confusion — everything that had been festering in the shadows of what the two of you refused to name.
donghyuck’s eyes darkened, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “what are we?” he echoed, almost like he didn’t understand the question.
you swallowed, your voice trembling but steady. “yeah, hyuck. what are we? because you can’t—” you broke off, trying to breathe through the ache pressing against your ribs. “you can’t kiss me, hold me, make me believe i’m yours one day, and then take me to see the girl you once loved the next. that doesn't even make any sense!”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. the morning light was pouring into the room now, pale gold painting over the sharp lines of his face, softening nothing.
“you’re—” donghyuck’s breath stuttered, his fists curling at his sides.
you watched him struggle, his chest rising and falling too fast, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor like the answer might be written in the grain of the wood. every second of silence dragged like a knife.
and then he said it.
“you’re my… you’re my best friend.” the words left his mouth like a verdict, and for a moment, everything inside you went still. you felt it then — that sinking, weightless drop, as if your heart had fallen straight through the floorboards and landed somewhere six feet under. you shouldn’t have been surprised. part of you knew this was coming. part of you had always known. but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
“okay,” you whispered, nodding slowly. your voice didn’t even sound like yours. “that’s fine too.” you forced a small, trembling smile, the kind that felt like it might split you open from the inside. “really. that’s fine.”
“y/n, come on—” he started, taking a step forward.
“no, really,” you cut him off with a shaky bitter laugh, “i needed to hear that from you.”
you ran a hand through your hair, desperate to keep yourself together — as if tidying up could somehow fix the mess that had just been made of your heart. and then you excused yourself. you brushed past him, catching the faint scent of his cologne, that familiar warmth that used to feel like home. he reached out as if to stop you, but his hand hovered mid-air before falling back to his side.
you walked straight into your room and locked the door behind you. you slid down the door, your knees giving out as the first sob tore through your chest — quiet at first, then louder, rawer, until your breathing came in broken gasps.
how could something that was never yours to begin with hurt this much?
your gaze blurred through the tears until it landed on your bed — on the small, elegant box resting there, wrapped in silver paper. you crawled toward it on trembling hands. inside, nestled in satin, was a delicate necklace — a silver grand piano pendant that gleamed faintly in the morning light.
the gift he’d given you before all of this.
you clutched the box to your chest, pressing it against your heart as if it could hold you together — and finally let the sobs come, unrestrained and aching.
donghyuck awoke to the soft thud of the front door closing. he didn’t need to look at the clock to know what time it was — you always left before sunrise.
for the past seven months, that had been your routine. you’d slip out quietly while the rest of the world still slept, and come home long after dark, sometimes not at all. on nights when he stayed up waiting, he’d catch the faintest rustle from the bushes outside the apartment — the sound of you sneaking through your window rather than facing him at the front door.
it was ridiculous, really. tragic, even.
donghyuck hated it — the distance, the silence, the deliberate avoidance. he couldn’t understand why you went so far to draw that line between you. was being your best friend really that unbearable?
was he?
he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he pushed himself out of bed. his body ached with the kind of exhaustion that came from more than just lack of sleep.
on his way to the washroom, a glint of silver caught his eye — the familiar box sitting untouched on his study desk.
the necklace.
the one he’d given you for your birthday.
donghyuck stared at it for a long moment, chest tightening. the box was exactly left the way it was before — pristine, undisturbed. the silver of the pendant inside still shone like it hadn’t seen the light of day.
you had never worn it.
his jaw clenched, something bitter bubbling beneath his ribs. he didn’t even know if it was anger, guilt, or the humiliation of realising that even his gifts weren’t wanted anymore. with a frustrated growl, he swept the box off the desk. it hit the wall with a dull thud before landing somewhere on the carpet, forgotten.
that was it.
he couldn’t do this anymore — couldn’t keep existing under the same roof, pretending not to notice how far away you had already drifted.
grabbing his keys, he stormed out the door.
he knew exactly where to find you.
your band’s studio sat in a narrow alley, always lit even at ungodly hours. he could already hear faint basslines from the outside, the muffled hum of laughter filtering through the glass.
he stepped closer and peered through the small window — and there you were.
you and jeno.
sitting close, heads tilted toward the same screen, the morning light spilling over your faces. you were smiling — soft and tired, but genuine — the kind of smile you hadn’t given him in months. jeno was saying something, a grin tugging at his lips as he passed you one of those little sandwiches he always made.
donghyuck’s stomach twisted. his tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. he turned on his heel and marched straight to the door, rapping his knuckles against it — once, twice, then harder.
you flinched at the sound. jeno looked up first, brows furrowing.
you stood, smoothing your clothes before opening the door — and there he was, standing under the harsh fluorescent light, his expression unreadable.
“hyuck—”
before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist, his grip tight, pulling you out into the hallway.
“hyuck, stop—”
he didn’t stop until you were far enough from the studio that jeno couldn’t hear. only then did you yank your hand back, rubbing the faint red mark blooming across your skin.
“what are you doing?” you snapped, your voice low but shaking.
donghyuck’s eyes burned into yours. “no,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “the real question is, what the hell are you doing?”
you blinked, taken aback. “what—”
“why are you avoiding me like I’m the damn plague?” he cut in, stepping closer, his tone sharp enough to cut through air. his words landed heavy, the frustration he’d been holding back for months finally spilling through the cracks.
you stood frozen for a moment, stunned by how raw he sounded. because for seven whole months, he hadn’t said a word.
“i’m not avoiding you,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.
donghyuck scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “oh really?” he said, tilting his head, sarcasm dripping like venom. “then what do you call climbing through your window every night instead of using the damn front door like a normal person?”
his words echoed between the walls, and for a heartbeat, neither of you breathed. because he wasn’t wrong — but that didn’t make any of this easier to face.
"i just needed some space, hyuck," you said softly, exhaling as you ran a hand through your hair, the words tasting like defeat.
donghyuck blinked, his expression twisting — disbelief first, then something close to anger. “space?” he repeated, voice low, incredulous. “you decided you needed space— after years of clinging to me like i was the only person you had?”
his tone wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same — a sharp reminder of how much your love burned for lee donghyuck. “what the fuck does that even mean? space? what’s wrong with us?” he demanded, stepping forward, eyes searching yours like he was trying to find an answer that would make sense.
you shook your head, heart pounding. “hyuck, please don’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling with exhaustion. “what we had…to me, it was obviously more than just best friends.” the words caught in your throat, bitter and heavy. “and that’s exactly why i thought we needed time apart — to draw some boundaries.”
donghyuck let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “wow,” he said, shaking his head. “thanks for letting me in on that decision, y/n.”
the bitterness in his tone burned through you, but you refused to back down this time. you couldn’t.
“why do you even care if i’m avoiding you, donghyuck?” you snapped, meeting his glare with one of your own. “you should be happy. now you’re free to pursue whoever you want without me getting in your way.” your voice broke on the last word, but you stood your ground — even as he stared at you, chest heaving, his silence saying everything he didn’t have the courage to.
donghyuck’s jaw flexed, his breath coming out ragged. he took a step closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his anger — or maybe it was hurt, you couldn’t tell anymore.
“is that what you think this is about?” he said, voice shaking despite how hard he was trying to sound steady. “you think i care because i want to pursue someone else?”
you stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ground. you couldn’t look at him — not when he sounded that wounded.
“god, you really don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “you disappear on me. you shut me out. and every night, i sit there wondering what the hell i did to be treated this way. do you hate me now?”
“i don’t hate you,” you said quickly, looking up. your voice cracked under the weight of it. “you’re the last person i could ever hate, hyuck.”
“then why does it feel like you do?” he said quietly.
“because being around you hurts,” you whispered. “i love you, hyuck.” the words slipped out like a confession you’d been holding in for far too long — soft, trembling, fragile. your voice barely carried above the air between you, but it was enough. it was enough to make donghyuck’s breath catch, his eyes widening like you’d just handed him something far too heavy to hold.
“i love you,” you said again, quieter this time, almost afraid to hear yourself say it. “and i thought—” your throat tightened, “—i thought maybe you could love me back. i thought that maybe, after everything, you already did.”
you let out a bitter laugh, blinking hard to keep your tears at bay. “but that’s on me for believing that you could ever see me as anything more.”
donghyuck shook his head, taking a step back as if your words burned. “i—” he stammered, the syllable breaking off like a snapped string. “y/n, it’s not—”
“not what?” you pressed, your voice trembling, desperate. “not what i think? not love? because it feels like it, hyuck. every time you hold me, every time you look at me like I’m something you can’t quite let go of. it feels like love. but maybe that’s just what you’re best at — making people believe in things that aren’t real.”
he flinched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “don’t say that,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “you know i care about you.”
“care about me?” you laughed, a sharp sound breaking through the ache. “i don’t need you to care about me, donghyuck. i needed you to love me. i needed you to choose me — not out of habit, not out of guilt, but because you actually wanted to.”
the silence between you felt deafening, the kind that pressed heavy against your chest. you took a shaky breath, blinking through the blur of tears.
“i was okay with being your second choice,” you admitted quietly, your voice breaking on the words. “i would’ve stayed. i would’ve taken whatever scraps of you you could give me, hyuck, because i loved you that much. i just needed to hear that you loved me too.”
his lips parted, but nothing came out. his eyes — wide, shining, full of everything he never said — met yours.
“but you don’t,” you finished for him, your voice barely a whisper.
and that was when something in him cracked — the way his shoulders slumped, the way his face fell, like the truth finally weighed too much to fight.
“y/n…” he breathed, stepping toward you. but you stepped back before he could reach you.
“don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “please don’t make this harder.”
your hands trembled as you wiped the tears from your cheeks, forcing a faint, broken smile. “i just needed you to know,” you whispered. “so i can finally stop pretending that you ever would.”
donghyuck had truly let you go the day you confessed. from that moment on, the two of you moved around each other like ghosts — silent, detached, strangers sharing the same air. the apartment that once buzzed with laughter and late-night conversations had turned cold, filled only with the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of doors quietly closing.
sometimes, he’d bring girls over. their laughter, their soft moans, their playful squeals against the paper-thin walls — all deliberate, all meant for you to hear. each sound was a knife disguised as noise, his way of convincing himself that he could forget you. that he wanted to forget you.
you pretended not to care. but every time the headboard hit the wall, something inside you cracked a little more.
donghyuck drowned himself in music, as if the right melody could erase you from his mind. albums dropped, stages lit up, the world screamed his name. while he was being cheered on under blinding lights, you buried yourself in coursework, your band slowly rising from underground gigs to small, packed venues.
jeno offered to share an apartment with you once, and you almost said yes. almost. but you gave the same tired excuse: “just one more year left with hyuck.”
as if you still owed him that last year.
as if part of you still needed to orbit around his world, even if you’d already been burned.
you still made his coffee every morning — two sugars, just how he liked it. he never touched it.
you still brought sunflowers to his shows, often handing it through mark on your behalf.
you still cooked dinner, leaving it neatly in the fridge, only for it to go cold, untouched, and eventually thrown away.
you did it all because you wanted him to know — you were still there. even if he pretended you weren’t.
so when the offer to study in Italy came, your first thought, stupidly, heartbreakingly — was of him. maybe this was finally the universe’s way of saying, go.
“come on, y/n,” xiaojun said, popping a chip into his mouth during your band’s late-night meeting. “you’ve been talking about europe for years. you can’t just turn this down.”
you sighed, fiddling with the straw of your drink. “yeah, but what about the band? we’ve finally built some momentum. I don’t wanna mess that up.”
ten waved his hand. “please. we’ve got enough unreleased tracks to keep our name alive for at least three years. go study. we’ll be fine.”
“plus, i'm sure you and jeno are gonna bring the big labels to us while you're there,” jaehyun added with a grin.
jeno nudged your shoulder lightly, his voice soft but certain. “you’ve dreamed of this, y/n. don’t let him—” he paused, then corrected himself. “—don’t let anything hold you back.”
you smiled, small and uncertain. you already knew you’d made up your mind.
that night, you found donghyuck on the couch, legs sprawled out, the TV light flickering over his face. he looked up when you entered, just briefly, before returning his gaze to his phone.
“hey,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “hey,” he replied, tone flat, fingers tapping against the screen like you weren’t even there.
you swallowed hard. “um, I just wanted to tell you… I got an offer to study overseas.” you rubbed the back of your neck, gaze fixed on him. “it’s a pretty big opportunity.”
“nice,” he said simply, not looking up.
you bit the inside of your cheek. you shouldn’t have expected more, but part of you still did. part of you still hoped he’d at least ask where you were going.
“anyways,” you continued, forcing your voice steady, “i’ll be moving out by the end of the month.”
his thumb froze mid-scroll. you caught the slightest hitch in his breath — but he said nothing. didn’t even look at you. you nodded to yourself, knowing that it was your cue to leave him alone. “that’s all. goodnight, donghyuck.”
and then you turned away, missing the way his eyes flickered up just as you said his name — not hyuck, not hyuckie, not the name that used to fall so easily from your lips.
just donghyuck.
and for the first time in months, it actually sounded like goodbye. and donghyuck was afraid.
present day
“i’m leaving.” your voice rose just enough to wrestle with the melody spilling from the grand piano—those familiar keys, that sound you’d memorised like a second heartbeat.
you tightened your grip on the bag in your hand when donghyuck doesn't stop. he didn’t even turn. his eyes stayed shut, lost in the groove beneath his fingertips, as if twenty years of shared childhood and youth had never existed between you.
“i said i’m leaving.” you said louder this time.
turn around.
tell me to stay.
tell me i’m wrong to walk away.
please—just look at me.
but he didn’t. he couldn’t.
because if donghyuck turned around, if he let himself see the tremble in your lips, the tears balancing at the edge of your lashes, he’d break.
he’d admit it.
he’d admit that he’d loved you all along — from the day you told him he reminded you of sunflowers.
he’d admit that every melody he wrote had your name hidden in it.
that every late night he had imagined a future with you in it — making music, chasing the same dreams, maybe even raising a kid who’d hum off-key lullabies.
but donghyuck had never been good at timing.
and now, he was too late.
so he kept playing, fingers pressing down harder on the keys — the only way he knew how to keep from falling apart. the music cracked slightly, the note trembling where his hand did.
he didn’t see the way your shoulders slumped, the way your chest caved under the weight of goodbye.
you stared at him for a long moment — memorising him one last time, the curve of his back, the way his hair caught the golden light spilling through the blinds, the quiet intensity in his stillness.
then you exhaled.
“goodbye, donghyuck,” you whispered, voice barely holding together. “i love you.”
the words hung in the air, delicate and doomed, swallowed by the final chord he struck on the piano.
he didn’t look up.
so you turned, pushing your luggage down the hall toward jeno’s waiting car. the sound of the piano followed you — hauntingly beautiful, hollow, and breaking all at once — until you shut the door behind you.
and just like that, the music stopped.
for a long while, donghyuck just sat there, still, his fingers still suspended above the keys, as if the music might bring you back if he just pressed the right notes. but there was no music left to play. not when the silence felt this final.
he lowered his hands slowly, staring at the ivory beneath his fingertips. your fingerprints were still faintly there — smudged from all the nights a few years ago you’d leaned against the piano, laughing at his stubborn perfectionism. he used to hate when you touched his instruments. now, he wished you would. one more time.
donghyuck leaned back, breathing in shallowly. the scent of you still lingered — vanilla and something faintly citrus, the way it always clung to his sweaters after you borrowed them. he could almost hear your voice echoing through the apartment, soft and teasing. He could almost believe you’d walk out of your room any second now, hair messy, coffee in hand, scolding him for composing before breakfast.
but you wouldn’t.
not anymore.
his gaze shifted to the empty coffee mug on the table — the one you’d kept filling even when he stopped drinking it. the surface had gathered dust, like everything else he’d refused to face.
for the first time, he let himself whisper it into the empty room.
PAIRING: bestfriend!Haechan!, friend!fem!reader (slightly) enemies to lovers!
GENRE: fluff, comedy (I always try), smut
WORD COUNT: 14.9 k
SUMMARY:
One is a brilliant tactician with a velvet voice and a fuckboy reputation; the other is a fierce survivor with a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit. Best friends since a disastrous high school locker incident, Haechan and Y/N have perfected the art of mutual irritation. Between "bunny panty" blackmail and constant banter, they claim to be nothing more than each other’s favorite headache—but the magnetic pull of their chaotic orbit is becoming dangerously hard to ignore.
SONG RECO: INSOMNIA - Haechan
NOTE: lemme be honessst… this has been sitting on my notes for 5 years and and and I only modified some things because basically, I didn’t know that the members would all grow up like this (help). I added things here and there to make it better. But here!!! I’m half asleep rn I’m so sleepy.. I’m so tired. I worked my ass to finish this huhu
I hope you all like it!
I haven’t proof read anything. Because I’’ so sleddpy
The party at Jaemin’s house was exactly what you’d expect from a frat-adjacent bash hosted by a guy whose parents clearly had old money and zero oversight on their resumes. The bass was vibrating the expensive crown molding, and the air smelled like a mix of high-end cologne and cheap citrus-flavored regret.
Haechan was already three nursing majors deep into a conversation about the structural integrity of the human ribcage—or something equally ridiculous that he was using to make them laugh. He looked effortless, leaning against the back of the big sofa, his tan skin glowing under the dim LED strips. He was in his element: the social chameleon, the guy who could talk his way into a vault and make the guards thank him for the intrusion.
Then, Y/N walked in.
She wasn’t trying. That was the most annoying part for everyone involved. She was wearing something that should have been casual, but on her, it looked like a provocation. She moved with that fierce, don't-mess-with-me intensity that had been forged in the fires of her past, yet she was laughing at something Jisung had said, her whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Holy—" Chenle stopped mid-sip of a drink that probably cost more than a textbook. "Is it just me, or did Y/N actually decide to become a lethal weapon tonight? She looks incredible."
"She looks like she’s going to break someone’s heart and then send them the medical bill," Renjun remarked, though even he looked slightly impressed. He nudged Haechan hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Hey genius. Your best friend is currently turning the entire living room into a group of neck-sprain victims. You seeing this?"
Haechan didn’t even look up from the girl he was currently "charming" with a story about a fake cat he supposedly owned. "I see a girl who probably spent forty minutes trying to find her keys before leaving the house," he said, his voice flat and bored. "She’s just Y/N. If she’s a lethal weapon, she’s a butter knife. Blunt and mostly used for toast."
"You’re a terrible liar," Mark muttered, adjusting his Student President persona to a concerned friend. "The guy by the speakers has been staring at her for ten minutes straight. You don't care?"
"Why would I care?" Haechan asked, finally turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Y/N across the room. He caught her eye for a split second—a spark of mutual, long-standing irritation passed between them—and he immediately looked away, yawning. "I have my own demographic to attend to."
Enter Na Jaemin.
If the room was a solar system, Jaemin was the sun that everyone—planets, moons, and space debris alike—wanted to crash into. He was undeniably the prettiest man on campus, a jock with the face of a Renaissance painting and the personality of a very friendly, very confused golden retriever. He had that classic dual-personality energy—on one hand, he was the most dedicated worker you’d ever meet, a guy who had literally rebuilt his own physical strength through sheer, stubborn willpower after a back injury that would have sidelined anyone else. On the other hand, sometimes he’s total weirdo… which is probably why Y/N dated him.
Jaemin navigated the crowd, moving with a grace that was only slightly undercut by the fact that he stopped to stop for a second and smack Jeno’s shoulder as he passed. He was a creature of comfort and skinship, a philanthropic soul who would give you the shirt off his back but might also try to wear your hat while he did it.
"Y/N!" Jaemin’s voice boomed over the music. He navigated to her like a heat-seeking missile and immediately draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side. "You look like you need a drink that doesn't taste like battery acid. I made a special batch of peach tea in the kitchen. No booze, just vibes."
He leaned down, his nose grazing her temple for a second—the infamous Jaemin scent-check—and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made people forget he had cheated on her two years ago. They were "friends" now, a dynamic that Y/N handled with her typical I-survived-worse resilience.
Moving to the "VIP” table (which was just a couch Chenle had claimed), the commentary began.
"Oh, look at that," Renjun said, his voice loud enough to carry over the bass. "Jaemin’s doing the arm drape. Classic. I bet they’re back together by midnight."
"They look good together," Chenle added, glancing sideways at Haechan, who was currently staring intensely at his phone. "Very aesthetic. Very power couple. I might bet five hundred that they leave together."
"I’d take that bet," Mark piped up, playing along. "The chemistry is undeniable. It’s like they never broke up."
Haechan finally snapped. He stood up, abandoning the nursing majors without a second thought, and marched over to where Y/N and Jaemin were "flirting"—which mostly consisted of Jaemin showing her a high-res photo of a stray cat he’d photographed that morning.
"You’re standing in the way of the airflow, Jaemin," Haechan said, sliding between them with the tactical precision of a riot cop. "And Y/N doesn't like peach tea. It gives her... thoughts."
Y/N arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "It does not give me 'thoughts,' Haechan. And since when are you the beverage police? Go back to your fan club."
"I'm protecting the public," Haechan retorted, his low voice vibrating with a sarcasm that didn't quite hide his annoyance. "If you drink that, you'll start laughing at his jokes, and once you start laughing, he’ll try to cook for you. We all remember the Great Risotto Incident of Sophomore Year. I’m saving your life."
"He’s being sweet, Haechan," Y/N said, deliberately stepping closer to Jaemin. "Unlike some people who act like they’re being paid to be a nuisance."
Jaemin, completely oblivious to the tension, just beamed at both of them. He reached out and patted Haechan’s cheek, then did the same to Y/N. "You guys are so loud. It’s cute. Like two squirrels fighting over a nut." He then leaned in and whispered something into Y/N’s ear that made her let out a genuine, unapologetic laugh.
"Come on," Jaemin said, grabbing Y/N’s hand. "I want to show you that new lens I got. It’s upstairs away from the noise. I’ve been practicing my lighting."
"Oh, for the love of—" Haechan started, but Y/N was already being led away.
As they ascended the stairs toward the bedrooms, Y/N looked back over her shoulder. She didn't blow a kiss; she didn't wink. She just gave Haechan a look that said, 'Try and stop me.'
Haechan stood at the base of the stairs, his jaw tight. He looked like he wanted to follow them, then like he wanted to set the house on fire, then finally settling on a look of profound indifference that fooled absolutely no one at the table behind him.
"So," Chenle called out, his voice dripping with malice. "About that five hundred dollars..."
"Shut up, Chenle," Haechan snapped, his eyes still glued to the spot on the landing where Y/N had vanished. "I'm just worried she'll break his camera. She's clumsy. It's a liability issue."
Downstairs, Haechan was putting on a clinic in Performative Indifference. He had successfully convinced a group of nursing majors that his name was "Donghyuck, the world’s only professional professional," but his eyes were darting toward the staircase every time a floorboard creaked.
"So," one of the girls said, leaning in, "do you usually spend the whole party checking the structural integrity of the second floor, or am I just that boring?"
Haechan didn’t miss a beat. He gave her that crooked, heart-thief smile that usually worked like a charm. "I'm just waiting for the exact moment the bass drops so I can manifest a pizza. It’s a specialized skill."
"He’s actually just waiting for his ego to come back down the stairs," Renjun shouted from the sofa, where he was currently holding Chenle’s hair back while the younger boy tried to invest in a houseplant by pouring expensive cider into its pot.
"Renjun, shut up and go back to being the group’s resident gargoyle," Haechan retorted, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his soda. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He was a creature of logic and calculation—the kind of person who needed to be two steps ahead of everyone else, and you couldn't do that if your brain was swimming in Jaemin’s Special Peach Tea. He was a strategist by nature, someone whose mind was a labyrinth of wit and observation, yet here he was, being outmaneuvered by a guy who had literally just spent five minutes sniffing a sofa cushion because it smelled like memories.
An hour passed. Two. The nursing majors eventually realized they were competing with a ghost and migrated toward the dance floor.
"Text from the boss," Renjun announced, holding up his phone. "Y/N says she’s staying late. Tells us to head to her apartment and let ourselves in. The code is still the same."
"Still late?" Mark asked, looking genuinely concerned. "It’s 2 AM. Jaemin’s parents are literally in Switzerland. Do we think—"
"We think they’re catching up on 'cinematography,'" Chenle cackled, finally letting go of the plant. "Five hundred dollars, Haechan. Just admit she’s finally fallen for the pretty-boy jock again. He has a back injury to protect, he needs someone to carry his tripod!"
Haechan stood up so fast his chair screeched. "I’m going. Not because I care, but because Y/N’s apartment has better snacks and I refuse to pay for an Uber alone."
The scene at Y/N’s apartment three hours later was a masterpiece of college-life tragedy. Chenle was sprawled across the rug, clutching a throw pillow like it was a long-lost lover. Jisung, being the tallest, was draped over the armchair like a discarded coat, snoring in a way that sounded like a broken radiator. Mark and Renjun had managed to make it to the guest bed, leaving the living room a graveyard of exhausted bodies.
Haechan was the only one awake. He sat on the kitchen counter, illuminated by the hum of the refrigerator, staring at the front door. He felt like he was losing his mind. His brain—that sharp, tactical instrument—was currently running 4,000 simulations of what was happening at Jaemin’s, and 3,999 of them ended with him throwing a toaster into a lake.
Then, the jiggle of keys.
The door swung open, and Y/N stumbled in. She wasn't just party tired. She was "I-can-smell-the-tequila-from-here" drunk. She was swaying, her hair a wild halo of messiness, her heels dangling from one hand.
Haechan stood up, his face set in a scold that had been simmering for hours. "Oh, look who decided to grace us with—"
"Haechan-ie!" she chirped, her voice three octaves higher than usual. She lunged forward, not so much walking as falling in his direction.
He caught her, the scent of expensive perfume and cheap agave hitting him like a physical blow. He felt her heat—that fierce, radiant energy she always carried, now turned up to a fever pitch by the alcohol.
"You’re a mess," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down so he didn't wake the sleeping giants in the living room. "Where’s Jaemin? Did he drop you off like a sack of potatoes or did you walk?"
"He’s... he’s sleeping," she mumbled, her head lolling onto Haechan’s chest. "I took a taxi. I’m a responsible... adult. A sexy, responsible adult."
"You’re a liability," Haechan grumbled, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he steered her toward her bedroom. He was annoyed, yes, but beneath that was the fierce protectiveness that had defined their friendship since the locker incident. He hated seeing her like this—vulnerable, blurred at the edges.
He pushed her bedroom door open with his foot and maneuvered her onto the bed. She groaned, rolling onto her back.
"I'm gonna puke," she announced to the ceiling.
"Don't you dare. This rug cost more than my car," Haechan said, quickly grabbing a basin from the bathroom. He returned to find her trying to peel off her top, her movements clumsy and frustrated.
"It’s stuck," she whined, looking at him with big, watery eyes. "Haechan, help. It’s tight. I can’t breathe."
Haechan froze. The tactical part of his brain—the part that knew exactly how to talk to girls—suddenly short-circuited. He was tan, he was hot, he was the guy girls whispered about, but right now, his heart was drumming against his ribs like a frantic bird.
"Fine," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second to center himself. "I'm helping. Just... stay still."
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the zipper of her dress. He tried to look at the wall, at the posters, at the ceiling—anywhere but the smooth, golden skin of her back. He managed to slide the fabric down her arms, his breath hitching as his knuckles grazed her shoulder blades. He was trying to be the "best friend," the "protector," the "sober one," but the proximity was lethal.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice lower and raspier than usual.
She turned, her face inches from his. Her eyes were glazed but intense. "You’re so pretty, Haechan," she whispered, reaching up to poke his nose. "Why are you so pretty and so..mean?"
"It’s a brand," he said, trying to pull a clean t-shirt over her head.
Suddenly, she reached back, unhooking her bra through the loose fabric of her dress before he could stop her. She tossed it toward the chair with a wild girl flourish and then, before Haechan could even process the movement, she grabbed both of his hands.
With a strength fueled by intoxication, she pulled his palms directly onto her bare chest.
Haechan’s brain didn't just short-circuit; it exploded.
The contact was electric. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath his palms, the soft, warm curve of her, and the sudden, overwhelming realization that she wasn't just "the girl who called out his bullshit." She was everything.
"See?" she murmured, her eyelids drooping. "Loyal. My heart... is loyal."
Haechan sat there for a full minute, his hands still hovering in the air where she had pulled them. He let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since high school.
Haechan was paralyzed. A very real, very undeniable physical reaction was making itself known in his jeans—a betrayal of his own body. He was flustered, his face heating up to a shade of red that would have put Renjun’s temper to shame. He wanted to pull away; he wanted to never move again.
But then, her hands relaxed. Her head fell back against the pillow, her breathing evening out into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of sleep. She was out.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he whispered to the quiet room.
He didn't take advantage. He didn't linger. With a shaking hand, he finished pulling the oversized t-shirt over her, tucked her under the duvet, and placed the basin on the floor next to her. He stood up, adjusted his clothes with a wince of discomfort, and walked out of the room, closing the door softly.
He didn't go back to the kitchen. He didn't wake the guys. He collapsed onto the tiny, uncomfortable loveseat in the corner of the living room, staring at the ceiling. His body was wired, his mind was a chaotic mess of "What if" and "How dare she," but he stayed there.
Because as much as he was a notorious fuckboy, a tactical genius, and a witty Gemini, he was, above all, hers. Even if he wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.
———-
The sun was Y/N’s personal enemy. It filtered through the blinds like a laser beam specifically calibrated to melt her brain.
She groaned, her hand wandering over the duvet to find her phone, but she stopped mid-reach. Something was off. Specifically, her clothes. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that definitely wasn’t the dress she’d worn to Jaemin’s. And—she poked her chest—she was definitely missing a structural layer of support.. She doesn’t have her bra.
Then, it hit her. Not the whole memory, but a jagged, high-definition shard of it.
Haechan’s hands. Warm. Large. Her own voice mumbling something about a “loyal heart” while she practically forced him into a physical examination of her anatomy.
Y/N sat up so fast her vision blacked out for a second. “Oh my god,” she whispered into the empty room. “I didn’t. I couldn't have.”
But she did. She remembered the look on his face—that rare, wide-eyed flicker of genuine shock that stripped away the fuckboy armor he wore so well. She remembered his tan skin looking almost flushed under her bedroom light.
She crawled out of bed, moving with the grace of a newborn giraffe, and cracked the door open.
The living room was a scene of devastation. Chenle was currently using a pizza box as a pillow. Mark was asleep sitting up, his head tilted back at an angle that looked medically impossible for a student president. Renjun was awake, staring at a wall with a cup of coffee, looking like he was contemplating the heat death of the universe.
And there was Haechan.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked infuriatingly good for someone who had slept on a two-person loveseat. His tan skin was glowing in the morning light, and he was already dressed in a fresh hoodie, looking sharp, while everyone else looked like they’d been through a blender.
Y/N took a deep breath, channeled her inner fierce protector,and stepped out.
“If anyone speaks louder than a whisper, I’m suing for emotional damages,” she announced, her voice scratchy but still carrying that signature bite.
The sound of her voice made Haechan’s thumb freeze on his screen. He didn't look up immediately. He took a slow, deliberate sip of whatever was in his mug before finally meeting her eyes.
“Look who’s alive,” he said. His voice was lower than usual—that gravelly, morning register that usually made people lean in. “I was about to check if we needed to call a priest or a hazardous waste team.”
Y/N marched into the kitchen, ignoring the way her heart was currently trying to tap-dance its way out of her ribs. She grabbed a glass and filled it with water, standing just a little too close to him. Her intuition was screaming. He was acting normal—too normal. For a guy who usually didn't let her live down the "bunny panties" incident, he was being suspiciously quiet about her midnight antics.
“Where’s Jaemin?” she asked, mostly to see if he’d twitch.
Haechan’s jaw tightened, a micro-movement only she would notice. “Probably still in his darkroom, developing photos of his own ego. He sent a text. Said thanks for the ‘help’ last night.”
He finally looked her up and down, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on the oversized shirt—which, she now realized, was his shirt that she’d swiped from his gym bag months ago.
“Nice outfit,” he remarked, his voice dropping to a velvety smirk. “It looks better on you than it does on me. Though, to be fair, you were a little... aggressive about the wardrobe change last night.”
Y/N’s face went from pale to nuclear red. “I was drunk. I don’t remember anything.”
“Really?” Haechan leaned in, the scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—filling her senses. He was using that dual-natured charm, the one where he looked like he was about to tell a joke but his eyes were saying something much more intense. “Nothing at all? Not even the part where you insisted on a… physical demonstration of your loyalty?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, her voice an octave too high.
From the floor, Chenle suddenly bolted upright. “Did someone say loyalty? Is that a new crypto-currency?”
“Go back to sleep, Chenle,” Renjun snapped without moving his head. “Haechan’s just being a menace. Like every other day that ends in 'y'.”
Haechan didn't pull away. He stayed in Y/N’s personal space, his eyes searching hers with a terrifyingly sharp intelligence. He was calculating her reaction, watching the way her pulse jumped in her neck. He knew she remembered. And she knew he knew.
“You’re a terrible liar, Y/N,” he whispered, so low the others couldn't hear. “But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. Mostly because I’m still trying to figure out if I should charge you for the therapy I’m going to need.”
“You loved it,” she hissed, her unapologetic wit finally kicking back in. “Admit it. It was the highlight of your year.”
Haechan let out a short, dry laugh, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he reached out and flicked a stray hair away from her forehead. His fingers lingered for just a second too long on her skin—a touch that was far too deliberate for just best friends.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said, sliding past her to wake up the rest of the group. “Now, move. I’m hungry, and since you tried to assault me with your ‘loyalty’ last night, you’re paying for the hangover breakfast.”
As he walked away, swatting Jisung’s dangling leg to wake him up, Y/N watched him. She saw the way he walked—confident, attractive, and entirely too aware of the power he had. She knew he was hiding something behind that witty banter, something that had kept him awake on that sofa while she slept.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but as always, they masked it with chaos.
“Haechan!” Mark groaned from the chair. “Why are you so loud?”
“Because the world needs to know I’m a survivor!” Haechan shouted, throwing a cushion at Mark’s face. “Y/N tried to kill me with her bare hands last night! It was traumatic!”
Y/N rolled her eyes, grabbing a pillow to join the fray. “I should have finished the job!”
They were back to the love-hate, the banter, and the "just friends" routine. But as Y/N caught Haechan’s eye across the messy living room, she saw a flicker of that flustered boy from the bedroom—and she knew, for the first time in years, the tactical genius had finally lost his edge.
———
The group migrated to The Grease Pit, a diner whose primary purpose was serving high-sodium solutions to people who had made questionable life choices the night before.
Renjun sat at the head of the table like a judge presiding over a particularly messy divorce. Mark was nursing a black coffee as if it were holy water, while Chenle was busy trying to convince a unimpressed waitress that they needed a private booth for "confidential business negotiations." Jisung was just trying to keep his head upright, his long limbs tucked awkwardly under the small table.
“So,” Renjun began, tapping his spoon against the ceramic mug with a rhythmic, threatening clack. “Let’s review the timeline. Y/N leaves with Jaemin to ‘look at lenses.’ Haechan spends the next two hours looking like he’s about to fight the concept of photography itself. Then, Y/N shows up at the apartment at 3 AM wearing Haechan’s shirt, and Haechan looks like he’s seen a ghost—or a very tan angel.”
Haechan, who was currently dissecting a pancake with the surgical precision of a man who didn't want his hands to shake, didn't look up. He was leaning into that classic "AB" temperament—cool, rational, and completely unpredictable. To anyone else, he looked bored. To Y/N, who could smell his tactical deflection from across the table, he looked like he was vibrating on a frequency of pure stress.
“It’s a vintage shirt, Renjun. I was being a good friend and providing a textile-based service to someone who smelled like a tequila distillery,” Haechan said, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless register that usually shut people up.
“You hate sharing clothes,” Jisung mumbled, squinting through the sunlight. “Last week you almost bit Chenle’s hand off because he touched your hoodie.”
“Chenle’s hands are covered in expensive lotions and ego; they leave stains,” Haechan shot back.
“And what about the ‘lenses’?” Chenle leaned in, his eyes bright with mischief. “Y/N, did you actually see any cameras, or was Jaemin just practicing his ‘caring nature’ on you? I hear he’s very... affectionate when he’s reflecting on his photography.”
Y/N slammed her water glass onto the table, her intuition flaring. She saw the trap. If she defended Jaemin too much, Haechan would get that weird, sharp edge to his wit. If she didn't, the guys would never let it go.
“Jaemin showed me his portfolio from his volunteer trip,” Y/N said, her voice loud and unapologetically steady. “He’s dedicated to his craft. He spent forty minutes explaining the lighting on a stray cat in a back alley. It was actually very sweet. And yes, he did the nose-smell thing. It’s part of his charm.”
“He smelled you?” Haechan’s fork scraped loudly against his plate. He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “For forty minutes?”
“I’m very fragrant, Haechan. Deal with it,” she retorted.
“And then?” Mark asked, trying to be the diplomatic student president but failing to hide his grin. “How did we get from Jaemin’s cat photos to you stumbling into the apartment and... well, whatever happened in your room?”
The table went silent. Even the sound of the diner’s griddle seemed to quiet down.
Y/N felt the ghost of Haechan’s hands on her skin from the night before. The memory was a hazy, terrifying blur of heat and vulnerability. She looked at Haechan, expecting him to throw her under the bus with a witty comment about her "loyalty demonstration."
Instead, Haechan did something unexpected. He leaned back, draped an arm over the back of his chair, and gave the group a slow, devastatingly attractive smirk. It was his "fuckboy" shield—the mask of the guy who didn't care about anything.
“What happened,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave, “is that Y/N realized she can’t handle her liquor, and I realized I’m a saint. I had to peel her off the ceiling. She tried to tell me I was pretty—which, obviously, I am—and then she fell asleep mid-sentence. It was tragic. I basically did community service.”
He was lying. He was lying through his teeth to protect her from the embarrassment of the bra incident. He was being tactical, using his reputation as a flirt to make the whole thing sound like just another "Haechan handles a girl" story.
“You’re a saint?” Renjun scoffed. “You’re a menace who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”
“Believe what you want,” Haechan shrugged, though Y/N noticed his foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the leg of the table. He looked at her then—a brief, intense look that bypassed the banter and hit her right in the gut. It was a look that said, 'You owe me,' but also, 'Are you okay?'
“Anyway,” Y/N cut in, her fierce protectiveness rising to the surface to shield them both. “The only thing you guys should be worried about is the fact that Chenle is currently trying to pay for this breakfast with a rewards card for a jewelry store he doesn't own.”
“It’s a platinum card!” Chenle protested, successfully diverting the attention of the group as they began to bicker over the bill.
The tension broke, replaced by the usual chaotic noise of their friendship. But as the breakfast continued, Y/N felt a strange weight in the air. She watched Haechan—the guy who knew exactly how to woo girls, the guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections—and realized he hadn't made a single joke about her underwear all morning.
He was being quiet. Reflective.
When they finally left the diner, Haechan lingered by the door, waiting for Y/N to catch up. The rest of the guys were already heading toward Mark’s car, arguing about whose turn it was to pick the playlist.
“Hey,” Haechan said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Hey,” she replied, bracing herself for a witty insult.
“The shirt,” he said, not looking at her. “You can keep it. It’s a good look for a ‘loyal’ person.”
He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and walked toward the car, his hands shoved in his pockets, his tan skin catching the light. He looked like the same old Haechan—the witty, intelligent, slightly annoying best friend.
But Y/N stood on the sidewalk, the morning air cool against her skin, and realized that for the first time in years, her bullshit detector was silent. Because there was no bullshit in what just happened. There was just a very loud, very terrifying silence that felt a lot like something they weren't supposed to be obvious about.
——-
Three days had passed, and the air between Haechan and Y/N was vibrating like a high-tension wire in a thunderstorm.
They were in Y/N’s kitchen. Technically, Haechan was "helping" her fix a leaky faucet, mostly because he’d claimed he was a mechanical prodigy and she’d called him a useless pretty face. Now, he was sprawled on his back under the sink, his tan legs sticking out, while Y/N sat on the counter above him, eating chips and narrating his failures.
"You know, for a tactical mastermind, you've spent ten minutes swearing at a washer the size of a Cheerio," Y/N said, crunching loudly.
"The washer is a sociological metaphor for your personality, Y/N," Haechan’s voice echoed from the cabinet, muffled but still carrying that bourbon-smooth resonance. "Small, stubborn, and currently making my life a living hell."
"I'm not the one who told the nursing majors I was a 'professional professional,'" she shot back, grinning. "How’s that going, by the way? Did the one with the blonde highlights ever text you back?"
There was a loud clank of metal on metal. Haechan slid out from under the sink, his hair a mess, a smudge of grease across his cheekbone. He looked infuriatingly attractive. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at her with that dual-natured gaze—one part playful, one part terrifyingly sharp.
"She did," he said, his voice dropping into that low, flirtatious register he usually reserved for targets. "But I told her I was busy performing emergency surgery on a kitchen sink. She found it heroic. I found it a tragedy that I’m spending my Friday night with a girl who smells like sour cream and onion."
Y/N rolled her eyes and hopped off the counter, landing inches away from him. Her intuition—that sharp, bullshit-detecting radar—tripped. He was using the banter as a shield. He was leaning into the "fuckboy" persona because the alternative was acknowledging the fact that he was currently wearing the same shirt she’d slept in three nights ago.
"You're a liar, Lee Haechan," she said, leaning over him to grab a paper towel. "You're not busy. You’re just bored because your usual tricks aren't working."
She reached out and wiped the grease off his cheek.
The movement was too domestic. Too quiet. Haechan froze. His breath hitched—a tiny, microscopic sound that made Y/N’s heart do a violent somersault. He looked at her, and for a second, the witty, tactical genius was gone. In his place was the guy with the rare blood type—the one who was a rational alien one minute and a deeply eccentric, sensitive soul the next.
"You're still wearing my shirt under that," he noted, his voice barely a whisper.
"It's comfortable," she countered, her fierce protective wall crumbling just a little. "And it’s technically mine now. Squatter's rights."
"Is that right?" Haechan stood up slowly. He was taller than her, and in the small space of the kitchen, he felt massive. He stepped into her personal space, his chest almost brushing hers. "You take my clothes, you take my Friday night, and you assault me with 'loyalty' speeches while you're drunk. You're a very expensive friend, Y/N."
"Then stop hanging out with me," she challenged, her voice trembling just enough to be dangerous. "Go find a nice nursing major who won't make you fix her sink."
Haechan’s eyes darkened. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist, before he took a detour and grabbed the bag of chips next to her.
"I would," he said, the witty mask sliding back into place like a visor. "But who would protect the world from your fashion choices if I wasn't around? Those bunny panties aren't going to mock themselves."
"I will actually kill you," she breathed, but she didn't move away.
"You'll try," he smirked, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. The heat radiating off him was making her head spin. "But we both know you'd miss me too much. I'm the only one who knows exactly how you like your coffee and which of your fierce looks is actually just you being hangry."
He pulled back, giving her a wink that was so obnoxious it almost hurt. He was acting cute—that specific, calculated aegyo that usually annoyed their friends to death. But standing this close, watching the way his eyes crinkled, Y/N realized that when he didn't try to be cute, he was actually devastating.
"Get out of my kitchen," she said, pushing his chest.
"I'm going, I'm going," he laughed, grabbing his tools. He walked toward the door, but stopped, looking back at her. "By the way, Y/N?"
"What?"
"The sink is still leaking. I didn't actually fix it. I just wanted to see if you'd keep feeding me chips if I stayed under there long enough."
"HAECHAN!"
She threw the crumpled paper towel at him, and he ducked out of the door, his laughter echoing down the hallway.
Y/N stood in the silent kitchen, the sound of the dripping faucet the only thing breaking the quiet. The unspoken things were no longer just loud; they were screaming.
And from the hallway, she heard him shout back, "I'll be back at eight for the 'loyalty' sequel! Don't wear the shirt—I want it back!"
———-
The bar was called The Velvet Underground..
A dim, wood-paneled hole-in-the-wall that smelled of expensive scotch and secrets. It was a far cry from Jaemin’s neon-soaked frat house. Here, the lighting was amber and low, casting long, flickering shadows over the leather booths.
"I'm bored," Chenle announced, swirling a drink that probably cost more than the table it sat on. "And when I'm bored, I become a menace to society. Let's play Truth or Dare. But college rules. No what's your favorite color bullshit."
Renjun leaned back, crossing his arms. "The last time we played this, Mark ended up trying to lead a protest in a chicken suit. I'm in."
Haechan sat opposite Y/N, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. He looked devastating in the low light—the shadows accentuated the sharp line of his jaw and the honey-tan of his skin. He had that dual-natured air about him tonight; one second he was laughing at Jisung’s height, the next he was staring into the middle distance with a cold focus that made him look completely untouchable.
"Hyung.. Truth or Dare?" Chenle smirked, eyeing Haechan,his eyes gleaming with the predatory instinct of a bored billionaire.
Haechan didn't blink. "Dare. Obviously. I have no truths worth telling you people."
"Fine," Chenle’s grin widened. "I dare you and Y/N to go into that supply closet behind the bar for seven minutes. No phones. No lights. Just... mutual irritation."
The table went quiet. Mark shifted uncomfortably, his instincts screaming bad idea, while Renjun just raised an eyebrow, clearly checking his watch.
Y/N felt the air leave her lungs. Her intuition—that sharp, internal radar—was screaming that this was a trap. But she was Y/N. She didn't back down. She didn't show fear. She survived childhood trauma and habitual heartbreak; she could survive seven minutes in a closet with a guy who knew exactly how to ruin her.
"Fine," Y/N said, standing up and sliding her chair back with a loud thud. "But if he tries to do that cute voice, I’m coming out early and I’m bringing a lawsuit."
Haechan stood up, his movements fluid and predatory. "Don't flatter yourself, little miss bunny. I need the break from your shouting anyway."
——-
The closet was tiny. It smelled of floor wax, cedar, and Haechan’s woody, citrusy cologne. When the door clicked shut, the darkness was absolute.
Y/N backed up until her spine hit a shelf of industrial-sized detergent bottles. She could hear Haechan’s breathing—steady, rhythmic, and entirely too close.
"Five square feet," Haechan’s voice cut through the dark. It was lower than usual, vibrating in the small space like a cello string. "Technically speaking, this is a nightmare. I can't even move my arms without hitting you."
"Then don't move," Y/N snapped, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure he could hear it. "Just stand there and be a 'professional professional' for six more minutes."
"You're shaking," he noted.
"I'm cold."
"Liar."
She felt him move. The air shifted, and then he was there—a solid, warm presence looming over her. He didn't touch her, but the proximity was electric. He was using that unpredictable, eccentric energy of his; one second he was the annoying best friend, and the next, he was the guy who had held her heart in his hands three nights ago.
"You remember the bedroom, don't you?" he whispered. His voice was a weapon—sexy, low, and terrifyingly intimate. "You remember what you did with my hands."
"I was drunk, Haechan. It didn't mean anything."
"Your heart was beating exactly like it is right now," he countered. He reached out, his fingers finding her jaw in the dark. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly steady. "Is that a lie, too? Is your heart a deflection?"
"Shut up," she breathed, her fierce exterior finally cracking.
"Make me."
It wasn't a slow build-up. It was a collision.
Haechan crashed his lips against hers with a hunger that had been simmering for years under the guise of "best friends." It wasn't cheesy; it was desperate. It was the sound of two people finally stopping the bullshit.
He tasted like whiskey and heat. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between them. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if she could merge with him.
He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity down her spine. His tongue swept against hers, dominant and sure, claiming her in a way that made her knees go weak. He was a notorious fuckboy, a master of fleeting connections, but this felt like an anchor. It was fierce, intense, and unapologetically wild.
Haechan’s hands slid down to her hips, lifting her slightly until she was pinned between the shelves and his body. He was hard—undeniably, painfully hard—and he didn't try to hide it. He pressed into her, his kisses moving to the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
"Seven minutes isn't enough," he hissed against her skin, his breath hot. "I’m going to lose my mind."
Y/N pulled his face back to hers, her eyes searching his in the sliver of light coming from under the door. "Then lose it," she whispered. "I've been waiting for you to stop being a goddamn bitch."
The next five minutes were a blur of friction and muffled gasps. They made out with a ferocity that felt like a long-overdue storm. It was messy, it was hot, and it was the most honest they had ever been with each other.
Click.
The door swung open.
Renjun stood there, looking at his watch. "Time’s up. If you're dead, I’m not carrying the bodies."
Haechan and Y/N stepped out.
To the casual observer, they looked normal. But to their friends, who were currently staring at them like they were under a microscope, something had shifted.
Y/N’s lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair a little too voluminous. Haechan was adjusting his hoodie, his face a mask of bored indifference, but his ears were a bright, tell-tale crimson.
"So?" Chenle leaned forward, grinning. "Did you kill each other?"
"Almost," Y/N said, sliding back into her seat and immediately grabbing a handful of nuts like her life depended on it. "He tried to explain the plot of a documentary about ants. I nearly choked him."
"It’s an award-winning documentary!" Haechan shouted, his voice regaining its usual annoying pitch. He sat down, not looking at her, but his foot immediately found hers under the table, hooking around her ankle. "She has no appreciation for the natural world. It’s a tragedy."
"You two are exhausting," Mark sighed, looking relieved.
The game continued. The banter returned. To the world, they were still the love-hate best friends who would never, ever work out. But as Y/N felt the heat of Haechan’s leg against hers, she knew the silent things were no longer silent. They were a roar.
And Haechan? He just took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with a new, dangerous secret.
————
The goodbyes were a chorus of lingering jokes and the sound of car doors slamming. Chenle had been poured into a car, still insisting he could buy the bar if they didn't stop playing peasant music,and Renjun had given Haechan a look that suggested he knew exactly how much of a saint Haechan wasn't.
Finally, the street was quiet, save for the hum of the city and the idling of Haechan’s car.
"Get in," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always felt like it was vibrating directly against Y/N’s skin. "Before you decide to walk home and get into a fight with a trash can."
"I'm a survivor, Lee. The trash can wouldn't stand a chance," Y/N shot back, but she slid into the leather passenger seat.
The interior of the car felt like a different world. The dashboard lights cast a soft, clinical glow over Haechan’s tan skin, highlighting the concentrated, tactical focus in his eyes. He didn't pull away immediately. He sat there, hands on the wheel, his knuckles white. The rational, calculating side of his temperament was clearly warring with the chaotic, eccentric energy that usually dictated his more notorious impulses.
He drove in silence for three blocks before he swerved into a dark, secluded side street near her apartment complex, killing the engine with a suddenness that made the air in the car feel twice as thick.
"The sink is still leaking," he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to fill the space.
"I know," she replied, her heart hammering.
"And you're still wearing my shirt."
"I told you. Squatter's rights."
Haechan turned in his seat, his eyes searching hers with that uncanny, dual-natured intensity. One second he looked like the boy who used to tease her about her bunny panties; the next, he looked like a man who was done pretending. He reached out, his index finger caressing her lower lip, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a possessive, heavy heat.
"I’m tired of being tactical, Y/N," he murmured.
He didn't wait for her to call his bullshit. He pulled her toward him, and this time, the kiss wasn't just desperate—it was a declaration. It was deep, raw, and tasted of the whiskey they’d shared and the years they’d spent acting like they didn't want to tear each other’s clothes off.
Y/N climbed over the center console, her movements fierce and unapologetic, landing in his lap. The car was cramped, the leather groaning under them, but neither of them cared. She was magnetic, a force of nature fueled by the darkness she’d survived, and Haechan was the only one who knew how to handle that kind of intensity without breaking.
His hands were everywhere—mapping the curves of her body through the oversized hoodie, his touch large and warm against her skin. He was a master of the game, a man who knew his way around every girl on campus, but with Y/N, his usual fuckboy polish was gone, replaced by a frantic, genuine need.
"H—Haechan," she gasped, her head falling back as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat.
"I’ve got you," he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin.
He slid his hand beneath the hem of the hoodie, his fingers grazing the skin of her thigh, moving upward with a practiced, predatory grace. He wasn't being the cute best friend now; he was being the rational alien who knew exactly which buttons to press to make her lose her mind.
Until his hand went south.
When he found her clit, she was already slick, her body betraying the cool exterior she tried so hard to maintain. Haechan let out a low, triumphant sound—a mix of a growl and a laugh—as he slipped his fingers inside her.
Y/N arched against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her breath hitching in a series of sharp, vocal gasps. He was slow at first, rhythmic and deliberate, his thumb working in a way that made her vision blur at the edges. He was watching her, his eyes dark and focused, observing every shiver and every muffled moan like a scientist studying a beautiful, chaotic reaction.
"Tell me," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear as he increased the pace. "Tell me who's being tactical now."
"Shut... up," she managed, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just... don't stop."
He didn't. He used his fingers with a lethal precision, his touch firm and knowing, driving her toward a ledge she’d been hovering over for years. Every thrust of his hand was a reminder of their love-hate history—the fights, the loyalty, the shared secrets, and the undeniable magnetism that had finally snapped.
“Fuck baby.. you’re so tight”, Haechan sighs, watching her as he continues to fuck her with his fingers.
Y/N’s world narrowed down to the sensation of him—his heat, his scent, and the overwhelming friction of his fingers inside her. She felt the climax building like a tidal wave, fierce and unstoppable, until she finally broke. She cried out his name, her body shuddering in his arms as the waves of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her breathless and clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the universe.
Haechan held her, his heart racing against her chest, his own breathing ragged. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her, his hand slowly coming to a rest as she softened against him.
The car was silent again, save for the distant sound of a siren and their synchronized, heavy breathing. The "unspoken" things weren't just loud now; they were the only thing left.
Haechan pulled back just enough to look at her. He reached up and wiped a stray tear from her cheek—not a sad one, but the kind that comes from a release of years of tension. He looked flustered, his usual mask completely shattered, but he still managed a small, crooked smirk.
"So," he whispered, his voice still thick with desire. "Does this mean I don't have to fix the sink tomorrow?"
Y/N let out a wet, genuine laugh, her whole body shaking. She hit his chest weakly. "You're still a dick, Lee Haechan."
"Yeah," he said, pulling her back into a soft, surprisingly tender kiss. "But I'm your dick. And don't you forget it."
He didn't make it obvious. He didn't say the word "love." But as he started the car to finally drive her the last few yards to her door, his hand remained firmly on her knee, and for once, neither of them was looking for a way out.
———
The morning sun hit Y/N’s apartment with a level of disrespect that only 9:00 AM on a Saturday could manage.
Y/N was in the kitchen, aggressively attacking a bag of coffee beans, when the front door code chirped. In walked the four horsemen of her impending migraine: Mark (carrying a box of donuts like a peace offering), Renjun (looking like he was ready to fight the sun), Chenle (complaining about the thread count of the spare pillows), and Jisung (tripping over his own feet).
“Why are you all here?” Y/N asked, her voice a scratchy, loud boom. “Do you not have homes? Do you not have families who miss you?”
“We’re here to witness the aftermath,” Chenle said, hopping onto her kitchen island like it was his personal stage. “Renjun and I have a bet going on whether you and Haechan finally killed each other in that car ride home, or if you just sat in a heavy, pathetic silence.”
“It was silence,” a voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous rang out from the hallway.
Haechan appeared, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. He looked incredibly, unfairly put together. His tan skin was glowing, his hair was perfectly messy, and he was wearing a fresh shirt—though Y/N noticed it was the same brand he’d been wearing the night before. His "AB" nature was on full display: cool, detached, and playing the role of the rational observer while his eyes flickered with a hidden, electric intensity.
“She spent the whole ride complaining about the humidity,” Haechan lied, sliding into the seat next to Chenle. He reached out and snagged a donut, his fingers nimble and steady. “I almost dropped her off at a 24-hour car wash just to see if the cold water would reset her personality.”
Y/N didn't even look at him. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she’d see the guy who had been breathing her name into her neck eight hours ago. Instead, she channeled her survivorenergy.
“I was complaining about your driving, Haechan. You take corners like you’re trying to escape a crime scene,” she snapped, finally turning around with a pot of coffee.
“I’m not so sure about that.. You guys didn’t fuck or anything right? Haha”, Chenle joked, giving both of them knowing looks.
“I wouldn’t touch her even with a ten foot pole. And by the way, I take corners with precision,” Haechan denied, then suddenly shifted gears. He put on a high-pitched, pouty voice, blinking his long lashes at her. “But Y/N-nie is so mean to meeee! Why does my best friend hate me so much? I just want a tiny sip of coff-eeeee!”
“Oh my god, stop,” Renjun groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Haechan, you are literally twenty-one years old. You are not cute. You look like a golden retriever with a head injury.”
“He’s doing it again,” Jisung whispered, terrified. “The aegyo. It’s a biohazard.”
Haechan didn’t stop. He leaned toward Y/N, his lower lip jutting out in that calculated, "cute" way that usually made her want to throw a shoe at him. He’s literally making a diversion so that he could steer away his friends from grilling them about fucking.
“Pleeaaaase? Just one sip? For your favorite person in the whole wide woooorrrllld?”
Y/N felt a spike of heat that had nothing to do with the coffee. She knew what he was doing. This was his cover. He was acting like the annoying, "acting-cute-to-piss-you-off" best friend so the guys wouldn't notice the way he was actually eyeing her collarbone.
“If you don't shut your mouth, I will fill it with literal grounds,” Y/N said, pushing a mug toward him with enough force to make the liquid splash. “And stop doing that face. You look like a dehydrated raisin.”
“Ouch,” Haechan said, dropping the act instantly. He took a sip of the coffee, his sexy, low voice returning. “Your kindness is a deliberate act of defiance, isn't it? Just like we discussed.”
Mark looked between them, his intuition tingling. “You guys are being… weirder than usual. Did something happen in that closet? Besides the ant documentary?”
Haechan didn’t even flinch. He was a master of distraction. He reached out and casually ruffled Y/N’s hair—a move that was classic 'best friend' but felt like a brand on her skin.
“Nothing happened, Mark. We just realized we both hate the same things. For example, your sweater vest,” Haechan said, pointing at Mark’s chest.
“Hey! This is a classic!” Mark protested.
“It’s a cry for help,” Chenle added, and just like that, the conversation veered into a chaotic debate about Mark’s fashion choices.
Under the table, out of sight of the boys, Haechan’s foot found Y/N’s. He didn't just hook her ankle this time. He slid his foot up her calf, a slow, deliberate caress that made her breath hitch.
Y/N glared at him, but he was busy laughing at something Renjun said, looking for all the world like he didn't have a care in the universe. But as he laughed, his thumb—resting on the handle of his mug—was trembling just a fraction.
And as she kicked him under the table, hard enough to make him hiss "Ouch!" while maintaining his smirk, she realized the bullshit was finally gone. They weren't just best friends anymore; they were two people standing on the edge of a cliff, pretending they weren't about to fall.
“So,” Chenle said, looking at the two of them. “Who’s coming to the beach house next weekend? Jaemin said he’s bringing his new underwater camera.”
Haechan’s eyes snapped to Y/N’s. The "love-hate" look was back, but there was a new, dangerous layer underneath it.
“I’m in,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve been meaning to see if Y/N can actually swim, or if she just floats like a piece of drift-wood.”
“I’ll drown you,” she promised, her heart racing.
“I’d like to see you try,” he winked.
——-
The beach house was a sprawling, glass-fronted masterpiece perched on a cliffside that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Naturally, it was Jaemin’s.
The group was currently scattered across the private cove. Jaemin, true to his eccentric nature, was waist-deep in the surf wearing a full wetsuit and a pair of high-end goggles, trying to take emotive underwater photos of a very confused crab. Renjun was sitting under a massive umbrella, looking like a Victorian widow mourning the concept of fun, while Chenle was trying to teach Jisung how to "properly" sabre a bottle of champagne with a credit card.
“He’s going to drown that crab,” Y/N muttered, squinting at Jaemin’s neon snorkel. She was lounging in a black bikini, looking radiant and fiercely attractive—a fact she remained blissfully unaware of as she focused on her annoyance.
“He’s documenting the crustacean experience, Y/N. Show some respect for the arts,” Haechan’s voice rumbled beside her.
He was stretched out on the lounge chair next to hers, his tan skin glistening with salt and sun. He looked effortless, the notorious fuckboy persona dialed down into a relaxed, predator-at-rest vibe. But Y/N could see the way his eyes tracked the movement of the waves—and the way they occasionally snagged on the curve of her hip.
“You’re just glad he’s busy so you don't have to explain why you’re still wearing my sunglasses,” she shot back, reaching over to snatch them off his face.
Haechan caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was firm, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of her pulse point. The playful banter died in her throat. The "unspoken" things from the closet and the car weren't just loud anymore; they were a physical weight between them.
“I’m going up to the house to get a real drink,” she said, her voice a bit too sharp. “This sun is making me hallucinate that you’re actually tolerable.”
“I’ll come,” Haechan said, standing up with a fluid grace that made Mark, who was passing by with a tray of fruit, pause.
“You guys okay?” Mark asked, looking between them. “You look like you’re about to fight. Again.”
“Always, Mark,” Haechan smirked, but his eyes never left Y/N. “It’s the only way she knows how to communicate. It’s charming, really.”
——
The house was empty. The rest of the guys were staying by the water, and the silence of the high-ceilinged living room felt like a vacuum.
Y/N didn't even make it to the kitchen. She was halfway across the hallway when a hand clamped around her waist and hauled her backward. She was spun around and slammed against the cool, white wall, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.
Haechan didn't look like the "cute" best friend anymore. He looked like the mastermind who had finally cornered his target. His eyes were dark, a storm of dual-natured intensity that made her knees turn to water.
“No more jokes,” he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin. “No more 'bunny panty' bullshit. No more pretending I’m not losing my goddamn mind over you.”
He didn't wait for her to answer. He claimed her mouth with a ferocity that was almost violent, his hands gripping her thighs and hiking her up until she had to wrap her legs around his waist to stay upright. He moved her like she weighed nothing, manhandling her through the nearest door—a guest bedroom—and kicking it shut behind them.
He didn't put her on the bed gently. He threw her onto the mattress and followed her down, his body a heavy, tan-skinned weight that pinned her effortlessly.
“Haechan,” she breathed, her fierce soul meeting his intensity head-on. She wasn't scared; she was electrified. She wanted the roughness. She wanted the truth of him.
He was relentless. He stripped her with a frantic, rough energy, his hands possessing every inch of her as if he were finally claiming territory he’d been eyeing for years. When he entered her, it wasn't a slow, romantic glide; it was a hard, deep thrust that made her back arch and a jagged cry escape her lips.
“You’re mine,” he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. “Tell me you know it.”
“I... know,” she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, drawing blood as he increased the pace.
He was rough, his movements powerful and unapologetic. He used his strength to move her, flipping her over, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other mapped the curve of her spine. He was a notorious fuckboy for a reason—he knew exactly how to drive a woman to the edge—but with Y/N, it felt like he was trying to drive himself there, too.
The heat in the room was suffocating. Every time she tried to speak, he silenced her with a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt. He was teasing her, pausing just when she was about to break, his eyes searching hers with a cruel, beautiful intelligence.
As they reached the peak, Haechan’s grip on her wrists tightened. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto her skin, his breathing a series of ragged, guttural hitches.
“I could,” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl against her temple. “I could stay right here. I could finish inside you and make sure you never think about Jaemin or anyone else ever again. Should I, Y/N? Should I leave my mark?”
Y/N’s head thrashed against the pillow, her body a live wire of pleasure. “Haechan... please...”
He leaned in, the tension in his body screaming as he hovered on the absolute edge. He let out a low, frustrated sound, his self-control winning by a fraction of a millimeter. At the last possible second, he pulled out, his release hitting her skin in a hot, frantic rush as he collapsed against her, his heart hammering like a drum.
They lay there for a long time, the only sound the distant crash of the waves and their synchronized, desperate breathing.
Haechan finally pulled back, looking down at her. His hair was a mess, his tan skin flushed, and for the first time in their entire history, he looked completely vulnerable. He reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re a nightmare, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice returning to that soft, bourbon-smooth register.
“And you’re a disaster,” she whispered back, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion.
He laughed—a real, unapologetic laugh—and kissed her forehead. He didn't say he loved her. She didn't say it back. But as he pulled the duvet over both of them, his arm draped possessively over her waist, the silence between them was finally, blissfully, honent.
——
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and gold, by the time Haechan and Y/N descended the wooden stairs back to the cove.
The air was cooling, but Y/N felt like she was still radiating heat. She had done her best to scrub the just manhandled glow off her skin, but her lips were a tell-tale swollen pink, and her legs felt like they were made of overcooked noodles. Beside her, Haechan was the picture of AB-blood-type serenity. He’d swapped his shirt for a fresh linen one, and his brain was back online, his face a mask of cool, bored indifference.
The boys were gathered around a bonfire that Chenle had probably paid a local professional to start, given how perfectly it was burning.
"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the mortal realm," Renjun said, not even looking up from the stick he was using to poke at a marshmallow. "We were about to send a search party, but then we figured you'd just gotten stuck in a loop of insulting each other's ancestors."
"The ice machine was acting up," Haechan said, his voice as smooth as the scotch in Jaemin's hand. He sat down on a driftwood log, leaning back with a casual confidence that didn't betray the fact that he’d spent the last two hours being anything but cool. "It took a while to convince it to cooperate. I had to use my charm on the kitchen appliances since Y/N's personality was scaring them."
"Two hours?" Jaemin asked, tilting his head. He was still in his wetsuit, his hair damp and messy, looking like a literal sea god. He leaned over and did his trademark move—a quick, quirky sniff of Haechan’s shoulder. He paused, his nose wrinkling. "You smell like... expensive hotel soap and a very specific brand of sea-salt spray. Which is weird, because we're at a beach, but you smell like fresh sea-salt spray."
Haechan didn't flinch, but Y/N saw the muscle in his jaw jump. "It's called hygiene, Jaemin. You should try it sometime instead of smelling like a wet otter."
"And you," Chenle pointed a glowing marshmallow at Y/N. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Your hair is doing a thing. A very... bird's nest thing."
"I took a nap," Y/N snapped, her fierce intuition kicking in to cover her tracks. She sat down as far from Haechan as possible, which was her first mistake. "The sun gave me a headache. Unlike some people, I don't have an ego to keep me upright 24/7."
"A nap?" Mark asked, looking between the two of them. His brain was clearly running the numbers. "In the same house? While Haechan was 'fixing the ice machine'?"
"He's a loud worker, Mark. It's hard to sleep when someone is narrating their own 'mechanical genius' to a refrigerator," she shot back, grabbing a drink from the cooler.
The silence that followed was heavy with suspicion. The boys weren't stupid. They had watched this love-hate tennis match for years, and the atmospheric pressure around the two of them right now was high enough to cause a weather event.
"Anyway," Jaemin said, breaking the tension by pulling out his camera. "I got the shot. The crab looked very pensive. I think it’s a Gemini. Very dual-natured. Very 'I'm going to pinch you but I also want a snack.'"
Haechan let out a dry laugh. "Sounds like someone I know."
"If you're talking about me, I'll pinch your throat," Y/N muttered, but she couldn't hide the small, private spark in her eyes when she finally caught Haechan’s gaze across the fire.
He didn't wink. He didn't make it obvious. He just held her stare for a second—a look that was dark, possessive, and entirely too knowing—before turning back to tease Jisung about his fear of seagulls.
The night went on, filled with the usual chaos—Chenle trying to buy a boat on his phone (that was questionable.. but oh well), Renjun threatening to throw the marshmallows into the ocean, and Mark trying to organize a "bonding" campfire song.
As the fire died down to embers, the group started heading back up to the house. Haechan lingered, waiting for Y/N to finish packing up her towel.
"Hey," he whispered, his sexy voice barely audible over the waves.
"What?" she asked, not looking up.
"Your 'nap' was very loud," he teased, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "I think the ice machine was impressed."
"Shut up, Haechan," she hissed, her heart doing that familiar, frantic dance.
"Make me," he challenged, the witty, rough man from the bedroom flickering in hiseyes for a split second before the "best friend mask settled back into place.
They walked back up the beach, three paces apart, insulting each other the whole way. To the boys watching from the balcony, they looked exactly the same as they did in high school. But as Haechan reached out to "accidentally" brush his hand against hers in the dark, they both knew the game had changed forever.
The final night at the beach house was supposed to be a "civilized" goodbye dinner, but given that Chenle had discovered a vintage wine cellar and Jisung had managed to accidentally set a decorative driftwood centerpiece on fire, "civilized" was a distant dream.
By 1 AM, the house was a graveyard of empty bottles and exhausted bodies. Mark and Jaemin were passed out on the deck chairs, and Chenle was somewhere in the kitchen trying to explain the stock market to a very sleepy Jisung.
Haechan and Y/N had vanished ten minutes ago.
They were in the laundry room—a choice by Haechan, who argued that "no one ever looks for anything productive like clean towels at 1 AM." He had Y/N hoisted up on the humming dryer, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, the vibration of the machine adding a low-frequency hum to the friction of their bodies.
It was rough, urgent, and fueled by the frustration of having to play "just friends" all evening. Haechan’s hands were clamped onto her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive strength that left no room for doubt. He was manhandling her with a focused, dark intensity, his kisses biting and deep.
"You... were... flirting with the bartender... earlier," Haechan rasped between heavy, jagged thrusts, his voice a low growl of possessive irritation.
"He was... nice," Y/N gasped, her head hitting the wall behind her with every rhythmic movement. "Unlike... you."
"I'll show you nice," he hissed, his grip tightening as he drove into her, the rough edge of his temperament taking over. He was teasing her, his thumb pressing into her hip bone, his eyes locked onto hers with a look that said he was seconds away from breaking his own rules.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
"Haechan? Y/N?"
It was Renjun. And he sounded dangerously close.
Both of them froze. Haechan stayed buried deep inside her, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against hers as they both strained to hear through the thin door. The dryer chose that exact moment to let out a loud, high-pitched beep signaling the end of a cycle.
"I know you're in there," Renjun’s voice came from right outside the door. He sounded annoyed and suspiciously sober. "I can hear the dryer. And I know neither of you has ever done a load of laundry in your entire lives. It’s statistically impossible."
Haechan’s eyes widened, a rare flash of genuine panic crossing his face. He looked at the door, then back at Y/N, who was trying—and failing—to stifle a hysterical laugh.
"We're... looking for my favorite socks!" Haechan shouted, his voice jumping an octave into his "cute but annoying" register. "Y/N lost them! She’s a thief, Renjun! A sock thief!"
"Open the door, Haechan," Renjun said, his hand rattling the knob. "I need a towel. My drink spilled because Chenle thinks he’s a bartender."
"No!" Y/N yelled, her voice vibrating against Haechan's chest. "I’m... I’m naked! I’m changing! Haechan is just... being a pervert and won't leave!"
"I'm helping!" Haechan added, desperately trying to pull his shorts back up while Y/N scrambled to adjust her top, her face flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson.
"I’m counting to three," Renjun said, his voice dropping into that "I-will-actually-murder-you" tone he used when he was truly done with their antics. "One... two..."
Haechan scrambled to the door, leaning his back against it just as Renjun pushed. He put on his most bored, fuckboy expression, though he was breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
"Relax, gargoyle," Haechan said, cracking the door just a few inches and sticking his head out. He looked disheveled, his tan skin damp with sweat. "Y/N is having a fashion crisis. If you go in there, she’ll probably claw your eyes out. She’s very protective of her... laundry."
Renjun squinted at him, his sharp intuition scanning Haechan’s face. He looked past him at Y/N, who was now standing by the dryer, frantically folding a single damp towel with the intensity of a woman possessed.
"Why are you both sweating?" Renjun asked, his eyes narrowing. "The laundry room isn't that hot."
"It's the dryer, Renjun! Thermodynamics!" Haechan chirped, ruffling Renjun’s hair to distract him—a move that usually resulted in a fistfight.
"Don't touch me," Renjun snapped, swatting his hand away. He grabbed a towel from a basket near the door, giving them both one last, long, deeply suspicious look. "You two are the weirdest people I have ever met. If I find out you were doing something stupid like trying to see if you could fit in the washing machine, I'm leaving you both at a gas station on the way home."
Renjun turned and walked away, grumbling about Gemini energy and idiot best friends.
As soon as his footsteps faded, Haechan leaned his head against the door and let out a long, shaky breath. He turned to Y/N, who was still holding the damp towel, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"That," Haechan whispered, his sexy voice returning as he stepped back toward her, "was way too close."
"You said you were a tactical genius," she teased, dropping the towel and reaching for the hem of his shirt.
"I am," he smirked, pulling her back into him, his hands finding her waist with that familiar, rough possessiveness. "Tactically speaking... he’s gone. And we still have five minutes before the dryer starts cooling down."
He didn't wait for her to reply. He lifted her back onto the machine, the unspoken things finally silenced by the only language they both truly understood.
The drive back from the beach house was a masterclass in atmospheric pressure. Mark, Renjun, Chenle, and Jisung were in the lead car, likely debating whether the beach house needed a professional exorcism after their stay. This left Haechan and Y/N alone in his car, the interior smelling like expensive leather, salt air, and the lingering, heavy scent of each other.
The silence wasn't the usual comfortable quiet of best friends. It was thick, humming with the frequency of everything that had happened in closets, bedrooms, and laundry rooms.
Haechan drove with one hand on the wheel, his tan fingers tapping a restless rhythm. He looked cool—the strategist back in his element—but his eyes were constantly flicking to the passenger seat. Y/N was staring out the window, her fierce profile silhouetted against the passing streetlights. She was wearing his oversized hoodie again, the sleeves swallowed her hands, making her look softer than her bullshit-detector personality usually allowed.
"You're being quiet," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, bourbon-smooth register that bypassed her brain and went straight to her pulse. "It’s unsettling. I feel like I should be checking for a pulse or a hidden weapon."
"I’m just thinking about how much I’m going to enjnoy not seeing your face for at least twelve hours," she shot back, but the bite wasn't there. It sounded like a reflex, a tired script they both knew by heart.
Haechan let out a dry, short laugh. He slowed the car as they entered the city, the neon signs of downtown reflecting off the windshield. "Twelve hours? You’ll be texting me by 2 AM because you can’t find your remote or you saw a spider that looked personally offended by your presence."
"In your dreams, Lee."
"My dreams are currently occupied by other things, Y/N. Things that involve laundry rooms and tactical errors in judgment."
Y/N finally turned to look at him. Her intuition—that uncanny ability to see through his masks—saw it then. The fuckboysmirk was gone. The acting cute sefense mechanism was offline. For a guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections, he looked... grounded. Heavy. Like he’d finally found something he couldn't just charm his way out of.
He pulled the car to a stop in front of her apartment building. Usually, this was where he’d make a joke about her bunny collection and speed off. But the engine stayed off. The silence in the car became deafening.
"We can't keep doing the bit, can we?" Y/N asked, her voice small but unapologetic.
Haechan leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at the ceiling of the car. He looked like the rational, AB-natured alien trying to calculate an equation that didn't have a solution. Then, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and for the first time, completely transparent.
"The bit is exhausted," he murmured. He reached out, his hand sliding across the center console to cup the back of her neck. His thumb traced the line of her jaw with a possessive, rough tenderness. "I'm a notorious disaster, Y/N. I’m an ass, I’m arrogant, and I’m probably going to annoy you for the rest of your life."
"Probably?" she whispered, leaning into his touch.
"Definitely." He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. "But if you think I’m letting you go back to just best friends after this weekend... then you’re not as smart as I thought you were."
He didn't say the word "love." Heechan wasn’t like that. He is not going to give away the whole game just yet. But as he kissed her—a slow, deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a promise—the mask didn't just slip. It shattered.
"Go inside," he whispered against her lips, his voice raspy and full of an intensity that made her knees weak even while sitting down. "Before I decide the car is the next place we should check the thermodynamics of."
Y/N let out a genuine, radiant laugh. She climbed out of the car, pulling the hoodie tighter around her. She didn't look back until she reached the glass doors of the lobby.
Haechan was still there, watching her, his hand resting on the window ledge. He gave her a sharp, two-finger salute—the same one he’d used since high school—but the look in his eyes was entirely new.
She disappeared inside, her heart a fierce, loyal roar in her chest. And as Haechan drove away, he didn't turn on the radio. He just sat in the quiet, a witty, tan-skinned mastermind who had finally realized that the best move he ever made was losing the game entirely.
————
The big reveal didn't happen at a fancy dinner or a dramatic meeting. It happened because Haechan, despite being a genius(as he thought he was), forgot that Chenle had installed a smart-lock system on the Neo-Brew private backroom where the group gathered.
The boys were already there, surrounded by bubble tea and calculus homework. When Haechan and Y/N walked in, they weren't just walking close; they were tangled. Haechan had his arm draped heavily over Y/N’s shoulders, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair, while Y/N was absentmindedly leaning her head against his bicep.
The silence that hit them was louder than a gunshot.
Renjun stopped mid-sip, his eyes bugging out. Mark dropped his highlighter. Chenle slowly pulled out his phone, likely to check the exchange rate of "I Told You So" coins.
"So," Renjun said, his voice dangerously level. "The laundry was that productive, huh?"
Haechan didn't even flinch. He just pulled Y/N closer, his fuckboy mask officially retired and replaced by a smug, possessive grin. "Actually, the laundry was a disaster. But the partnership agreement has been finalized."
"Are you... together?" Jisung asked, looking like he was watching a glitch in the Matrix. "Like, holding hands, gross stuff, together?"
"Grosser than that, probably," Y/N added, her unapologetic wit cutting through the tension. She felt the heat in her cheeks but stood her ground. "And if any of you say 'I told you so,' I will personally ensure your social lives end today."
"I told you so!" Chenle shrieked, slamming a fist on the table. "Mark, pay up! Five hundred! I knew the laundry room was a den of sin!"
"We’re happy for you," Mark said, ever the diplomat, though he was handing Chenle a crumpled bill. "But please, for the love of the student body, keep the 'partnership agreement' out of the library."
And just like that, the air in the room changed. The static of years of "maybe" and "should we" finally cleared, leaving behind something vibrant and new. The tension that had once been a source of friction shifted into a steady, glowing warmth. It was a reset—a complete overhaul of their history that didn't just fix the cracks but filled them with gold. Their friendship hadn't ended; it had simply bloomed into something prettier, fiercer, and far more dangerous for everyone else's peace of mind.________________________________________
-End-
BONUS!
Haechan decided their first "official" date needed to be a masterpiece. He planned a night at a high-end, experiential rooftop restaurant that required a six-month waiting list. He wanted to show her he could be more than just the guy who teased her—he could be the guy who treated her.
It started failing the moment they arrived.
"I’m sorry, sir," the maitre d’ said, looking at Haechan’s perfectly tailored, tan-skin-accentuating suit. "We have a strict 'no-denim' policy."
Haechan looked down at his designer jeans that cost more than a fridge. "These are literal works of art. They’re a fashion statement."
"They’re pants with pockets, sir. Please leave."
Result: They ended up at a local carnival that looked like it hadn't passed a safety inspection since 1994.
"It’s... nostalgic?" Haechan tried, looking at a carousel horse that was missing an ear.
"It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen," Y/N laughed, grabbing his hand. "Come on, pretty boy. Let’s go on the Ferris wheel."
The Ferris wheel was fine until they reached the very top. Then, with a mechanical groan that sounded like a dying whale, it stopped. The lights flickered and died, leaving them suspended in the dark, swaying in the wind.
"Tactically speaking," Haechan muttered, clutching the safety bar, "this is not how I envisioned the evening ending."
"Are you... scared of heights?" Y/N asked, leaning in, her intuition picking up on the slight tremor in his hand.
"I am not scared. I am critically aware of the distance between us and the pavement," he snapped, his sexy voice jumping an octave.
"You're cute when you're terrified," she teased, sliding closer to him.
"I'm not cute! I'm—"
He was cut off by a sudden thump as the car swayed violently. Haechan didn't think; he lunged for Y/N, wrapping his arms around her like a shield. He was manhandling her again, but this time it was out of pure, frantic protectiveness.
"If we die here," Haechan whispered into her hair, his heart racing against her chest, "I just want you to know that the laundry room was my favorite part of the decade."
"We're not going to die, you idiot," she said, though she held him back just as tight.
Ten minutes later, the ride lurched back to life. When they finally touched the ground, they were both windblown, covered in sticky residue from a nearby cotton candy machine that had "exploded" during their wait, and Haechan had a giant grease stain on his suit.
They walked back to the car, sharing a single, lukewarm hot dog.
"Worst date ever?" Haechan asked, leaning against the driver's side door, looking disheveled and entirely too handsome.
"Absolute disaster," Y/N agreed, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink sugar off his nose.
He caught her hand, kissing her palm. The best friend mask was gone, the "fuckboy" was retired, and all that was left was the witty, tan-skinned boy who had finally found the only person in the world who could handle his bullshit.
"Same time next week?" he smirked.
"Only if we go somewhere with a functioning exit," she laughed, pulling him in for a kiss that tasted like cheap sugar and a future that was finally, perfectly obvious.
genre fluff, slice of life, found family, humor, sexual innuendos, diva hyuck ofc, reader is like nara smith making iPhone 17 from scratch, reader is actually a farm boss i lovee her sm women power :P, i’ll update this section as i go
notes i am genuinely terrified of being back on tumblr but i missed this sm yippieeee me and haechan smaus are ride or die
a/n: going back to my roots with this one (my first ever fic on here took place in a jazz bar too LOL) ALSO stream TASTE. 11/10 ALBUM. HAECHAN NEVER DISAPPOINTS.
pairing: lee donghyuck x reader ft. wingman!bartender!jaehyun (bc i miss him)
wc: 1.1k
cw: mention of alcohol consumption, mostly fluff, meet cute!!!
“just an espresso martini, please.” you requested, the bartender giving you a quick nod as he gets to work on your drink. you’ve had a long week and decided a night out was what you needed—perhaps a distraction too. you look over your shoulder, scouting the bar for anyone who could fill that spot tonight. unfortunately for you, tonight was karaoke night, specifically with the theme of classic love songs. the classy jazz bar was mostly filled with couples, gushing at each other and professing their love for one another through sappy lyrics.
you almost rolled your eyes, smiling in relief when you turn back to see your drink placed in front of you. the bartender was stealthy, not even making a sound when he returned with your drink. you take the first sip, the frothy concoction sliding down your throat as your finger tips drum along on the bartop to the current instrumental—hannah william’s “late nights and heartbreak”. looks like some rebels were straying from the lovestruck theme tonight. it was one of your favorite songs, but luckily for you, the singer seemed too be one too many drinks in and had mastered imperfect pitch.
burning. you felt it on the back of the head, turning around to catch a handsome young man’s eyes now boring into yours. caught off guard, you quickly turn away. he wasn’t there when you first looked around. maybe he was in the restroom or— gone. you look back once more to see him no longer sitting at his table, the candlestick atop it now releasing small fumes of smoke from being recently put out. why is everyone so sneaky here? you wondered. you look up to see the bartender now chatting with the man, eyes still focused on you despite him being deep in conversation.
you furrow your brows slightly, feeling slightly turned off from the interaction. were they talking about you? picking up your glass, you busy yourself with finishing it. being too nosey, you look up once more to see the man had disappeared yet again, the bartender standing there alone, only now pocketing some bills. you sigh, the inner turmoil you felt from the earlier exchange messing with you. you weren’t usually like this, often basking in any attention, but tonight you were tired and not in the mood for any mind games. beckoning the bartender over, you start to take our your card when he shakes his head. “it’s paid for, miss.” he smiles, dimples on display, likely amused by the look of confusion on your face. “by who?”
the bartender points over towards the stage behind you, and you turn to be met with him. the man that’s practically had your attention the moment you felt the weight of his stare. as if on cue, the soft, familiar cords of chet baker’s “time after time” begin filling the air. he stands there at the mic stand, holding its stem with one hand, the other in the pocket of his dark slacks. aside from his looks blowing you away, his voice really took the cake. breathy, melodious and oh, so captivating. you wish you had his voice captured on records of him covering your favorite songs to listen to at home on repeat.
the bartender let’s out a small laugh, seeing the astonishment on your face. “his name’s donghyuck. he’s a local, frequents the bar. good guy. great voice…and single. never seen him in here with anyone.” he smirks, walking away after giving you the rundown as if it was nothing. what a great wingman. you held donghyuck’s gaze as he practically serenades you from the stage. everyone’s watching him but his only focus is, was you.
after his performance he casually strides up to the bar, taking a seat one stool down from you, downing a glass of what you presumed to be whiskey in one swift motion that the bartender had strategically left for him—as if a routine. donghyuck’s gaze met yours once again.
“you keep looking at me.” he says, voice raspy, almost taunting. vindictive. “i’m sorry?,” you question, utterly surprised. “pretty sure it’s the other way around.” you protest, sounding more accusing than you intended. he only smirks, still holding onto his empty glass. “just messing with you,” he smiles, less playful and more genuine. “what’s your name?”
he nods when you tell him, holding up two fingers to the bartender, signalling for another round of drinks as he gets up to switch to the stool beside you. “you probably can already tell, given how much i’ve been caught lacking, but you really are such a sight for sore eyes.” he compliments, leaving you smiling into your second martini of the night, laughing his attempt at humour off. the two of you continue your conversation, the endless banter reeling you in with the mix of alcohol in your system, not to mention his attractiveness on top of all that.
“you’re a really talented singer. you should seriously consider going professional, donghyuck.” you insist, hand resting on his forearm as if to show how serious you are. “can i be honest with you for a second? it might get a bit cheesy, just warning you.” he questions, breaking eye contact as you nod enthusiastically. “i’ve always wanted to get into music, but if i did, i wanted to make sure i’d be the one writing my own songs. like, everything would come directly from myself and my lived experiences, but i just,” he pauses. “i’ve never really had that inspiration, until tonight.” he finally looks back up at you, appearing more vulnerable.
“i’m not even trying to weird you out or love bomb you, i swear, but seeing you—your face, your demeanour, it just sparked life into me. did you see how fast i got up onto that stage?” he asks, as you nod, feeling flattered and slightly bashful, as if you were the one confessing something so significant to a near stranger. your active listening urged him to continue. “you know, jaehyun doesn’t even let me go up on stage on busy nights like this,” he points over his shoulder to the familiar dimpled bartender. “he says no one ever wants to sing after me because i set the standard too high! i had to practically beg him to let me on.” he boasts earnestly, the two of you laughing over the shared sentiment.
“so, what, i’m like your muse now?” you tease, genuine curiosity laced in your voice. “i guess so,” he smiles, extending a hand. “you got stage freight?” he asks almost out of the blue. “i usually do, but i think i got enough liquid courage in my system tonight. are you about to ask me to sing a duet with you?” you grin, letting his larger hand take yours as he stands, gently pulling you up. “you read my mind.”
a/n: whoooops posting this a week later than i intended. i've had so many readings to do that the mere idea of staring at my device to write even more hurt my head (i have eye strain as i'm typing this). will try my best to write when i can during the semester. i forgot how nice of a break from reality it can be :) thank u for ur patience and thank u for helping me reach a follower goal i didn't really think i could reach so quickly ♡ stay healthy and stream taste!!! so proud of haechan.
