Ji Chang-wook x fem!reader
This was meant to be a short drabble
Thinking about Ji Chang-wook dating a foreigner, who is in korea on a study abroad program, and she doesn't speak korean that well (only the basics). They meet when she asks him for directions because she's lost and he's enamoured immediately.
You meet him on a random side street in Seoul, clutching your phone with 3% battery, mispronouncing the name of a café so badly he has to bite back a smile. He’s wearing a cap and mask, casual hoodie, trying to blend in. You have no idea who he is.
You ask for directions in careful, textbook Korean. It’s slow. It’s awkward. It’s adorable. He answers gently, switching between simple Korean and hesitant English. You nod very seriously, then immediately look confused again.
Then he sighs softly, like he’s already lost the battle. “I’ll just show you.” He knows he shouldn’t have offered to walk you.
He really does.
But the relief that floods your face does something violent to his composure.
He walks half a step slower than usual so you don’t have to rush. He keeps his voice gentle. He switches between English and simplified Korean, carefully choosing words he knows you’ll understand.
You talk the entire walk. About your study abroad program. About how you accidentally ordered intestines instead of noodles last week. About how you thought K-dramas exaggerated everything.
He nearly laughs at that one.
You never once do a double take. No widened eyes. No whispering. No “Wait… aren’t you—?”
He finds it weirdly… peaceful.
When someone across the street stares a little too long, you lean closer to him and whisper, “Is there something on my face?”
He has to physically look away to hide his smile.
You ask what he does for work.
“I’m… an actor,” he says cautiously.
“Oh!” you reply brightly. “Like theatre?”
He pauses. “Something like that.”
You nod, impressed in a very normal way.
You don’t Google him. You don’t connect dots. You just take it at face value and change the subject to how hard Korean grammar is.
He walks you all the way to the café door.
You beam at him like he’s just saved your life.
His heart actually skips.
The second time you run into him near your campus, he tells himself it’s coincidence.
The third time at the café you mentioned? Timing.
The fourth time outside the bookstore you posted about?
…He absolutely does not have a throwaway Instagram account. Absolutely not.
It should feel suspicious.
Instead, it feels warm.
You think he just has good timing.
He thinks he has a problem. Tries to convince himself that he only likes the calm that comes with your presence.
He likes that you complain about how dramatic Korean shows are… to his face… not knowing you’re teasing Ji Chang-wook himself.
He thinks your accent is the cutest thing in the world. You say “괜찮아요” slightly wrong? He melts. You mix up formal and informal speech? He gently corrects you with the softest smile.
He memorizes your coffee order.
The first time you see his face fully (way back before the bookstore), you just blink and say,
“Oh. You’re really handsome.”
Not: You're that actor.
He feels heat crawl up his neck and hopes you don’t notice.
You call him “Wookie” five minutes later.
He pretends to hate it.
He absolutely does not.
And for the first time in a long time, he feels invisible in the best possible way.
Weeks in, someone finally recognizes him while you’re together. They whisper his name. Ask for a photo. Bow deeply.
You watch the entire interaction like you’ve stumbled into a documentary.
After they leave, you look at him slowly.
“…Are you famous-famous?”
He laughs. Actually laughs. The kind that crinkles his eyes.
“A little.”
You go home and finally look him up.
You stare at posters. Interviews. Drama clips flashing across your screen.
The next day you see him, at a cafe you've come to love, you just squint and say,
“So you fight bad guys and brood professionally?”
He expects awkwardness. Distance. Awe. Something. He dreads it actually.
Instead, you steal one of his fries and mispronounce his name on purpose.
That’s when it settles in his chest: you like him. Not the career. Not the headlines. Not the status. Him.
The man who walked you to a cafe because you looked lost.
He asks you out a few weeks after that.
You’re sitting outside a convenience store by the Han River, sharing ramen. You’re animatedly telling him about a presentation you have coming up.
He’s not listening. Not really. His mind is running through words he wants to say but has no idea how to.
He’s played romantic leads. He’s delivered scripted confessions under perfect lighting.
None of that helps him now.
He clears his throat. Once. Twice.
You pause mid-sentence.
“Can I… ask you something?” he says in English, because suddenly Korean feels too dangerous. Too much.
You nod, curious.
He tries to look confident. He absolutely is not. His fingers are flexing against the ramen cup like he’s about to fight someone.
“Would you… like to go on a date with me?”
There’s a beat where he’s convinced he’s mispronounced something. Convinced you misunderstood. Convinced he should’ve rehearsed more. He contemplates standing up and running for his life.
“Like… a real date?” you ask carefully.
His heart drops and soars at the same time. “Yes. A real date.”
When you smile, slow and bright and certain, and say, “I’d really like that,” he has to physically look down so you don’t see how relieved he is.
When he reaches for your hand later, he does it carefully. Like you’re something fragile. Like he’s afraid of moving too fast.
You squeeze back without hesitation.
Dates are lowkey at first. Late-night walks. Convenience store ramen. Sitting by the river with your shoulders pressed together.
He finds it incredibly endearing that you try so hard with Korean. You carry a tiny notebook for vocabulary. He’ll randomly text you a word of the day. Sometimes he sends voice notes so you can practice pronunciation.
When you get overwhelmed in social situations because you can’t follow fast Korean conversations, he immediately switches to English or quietly translates in your ear. His hand always finds yours under the table.
He loves teaching you small cultural things — how to bow properly, how to order at restaurants, when to use honorifics. And he’s ridiculously proud when you do it right.
He’s protective in a subtle way. Walking on the side closest to the street. Guiding you through crowded subway stations. Waits for your “I’m home” text before he sleeps.
When your study abroad program is close to ending, the conversations get heavier. He’s quieter. Holds you longer. Starts casually mentioning how “__(home country)__ is nice this time of year, right?” or wherever you’re from.
Long-distance isn’t even a question in his mind. He’s already planning flights. Already learning more of your language. Already saving screenshots of apartments in both countries “just in case.”
Because from the moment you looked relieved on that sidewalk in Seoul —
he knew he was in trouble.
The night before your departure, you sit by the river again.
The same convenience store. The same view.
You’re trying to be brave. Trying not to cry.
“I didn’t expect this,” you admit softly. “Any of it.”
He looks at you like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“I did,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You did?”
“The moment you stopped me on the street,” he says, voice low, steady, certain, his hand coming up to rest on your cheek. “I knew I was in trouble.”
A year later, he knows your coffee order in two languages.
He knows the exact way your voice lifts when you’re excited. The crease between your brows when you’re concentrating on Korean grammar. The way you always hesitate before using honorifics, just in case.
He also knows flight durations by heart now.
He knows the time difference between your home country and Korea without checking.
You FaceTime while he’s on set. You fall asleep with your laptop open.
Long distance was never a debate. It was just effort. And he has never been afraid of effort.
He asks you to marry him that year.
The proposal isn’t dramatic.
No cameras. No staged lighting. No script.
He refuses to let it feel like a scene from one of his dramas.
You’re sitting by the Han River. Same convenience store. Same skyline that watched him fall first.
You’re rambling about apartment listings, talking about job options. Visa possibilities.
He's, once again, not listening, lost in thought.
He’s watching the way the city lights reflect in your eyes. Thinking about how many times he’s almost lost you to airports and boarding calls.
He reaches into his pocket.
You don’t notice at first.
You’re mid-sentence when he interrupts softly.
“Hey.”
You blink at him.
“You stopped me on a street one night because you were lost,” he says quietly. “But I think I was the one who got lost first.”
You laugh nervously. “That’s cheesy.”
“I know.”
He finally kneels.
And suddenly you can’t breathe.
He takes your hand.
“I don’t want airports to be the thing that defines us anymore. I don’t want ‘temporary.’ I want mornings. I want language lessons at the kitchen table. I want you correcting my pronunciation this time.”
Your eyes are already glassy.
“I want you,” he finishes simply. “In my life. As my wife.”
He opens the box. Your eyes don't leave his.
“Marry me?”
You laugh and cry at the same time.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes. Obviously yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a year.
His hands are shaking when they touch come to rest on your face.
You laugh through tears. “You’re shaking.”
He stands, pulls you into him, and kisses you right there, in front of the convinence store.
