𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ Hyung Line x gn! reader ˒˓ new relationship ˒˓ insecure reader ˒˓ 𝓰enre/ angst, hurt-some comfort (not for all), implied cheating? In a heated argument, they tell you that you are just a rebound, but that’s a lie, right?
[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — I’ve had this sitting mostly finished for a hot minute, so I figured I’d finish it to tide y’all over til OFAF, this was requested by @chainbinnie and I’m so sorry that it’s been sitting in my drafts for so long! Let me know what u think! <3
Part 2
Maknae Line
Chan:
You wake up to your phone buzzing against the nightstand. You don’t even open your eyes but you feel a smile spread across your face.
It’s always him.
You roll onto your side, hair falling in your face as you squint at the screen. The brightness stinging your tired eyes, but it’s worth it.
Channie 🐺: Morning, baby.
A second later, a selfie loads. He’s standing in the bathroom mirror, chest bare as a few stray water droplets roll down the dips and contours of his muscles, his sweatpants hanging lose at his hips with his hair still damp and curling at the ends like he didn’t bother to dry it properly.
His dimples are half-hidden behind his phone, like he’s trying to hide his face but shamelessly show off the rest of him. There’s a tiny smudge of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.
You half-laugh, half-choke as your eyes take in every inch of him, thumbs already flying.
You: GOOD MORNING 😭💞
You: you must be trying to kill me 😮💨
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Channie 🐺: It’s just a picture.😉 Don’t die on me today, yeah?
You press your phone to your chest for a second, trying to slow your heart rate, warmth spreading through you like sunlight under your ribs.
It’s only been a few months since you started dating, Not long enough to feel this safe. Not long enough for this to feel so real.
And yet…
It was like you’d known each other for years the way you fell into the comfort of each other’s presence, feeling like you just fit in a way you couldn’t explain.
The rest of your day passes in a blur of moments, your mind and heart looking forward to tonight.
Dating a celebrity comes with its drawbacks backs, the main one being the busy schedule. So when you find time to be together you take every opportunity.
Today must still be a busy day at the company cause even though you send your usual mid-day check in text to make sure he ate something, and then later a voice note reminding him to take breaks.
He wasn’t reading them til hours after and the photo of your coffee was left on delivered for longer than normal.
You tried not to let it bother you, knowing he’s busy and when he gets in the zone he’s all in on what he’s focused on so you figure you’ll let it be and you’ll see him later.
It’s easy to let yourself be absorbed by your work letting the time fly by at a comfortable pace til you’re clocking out and making your way home.
You sit with your headphones in as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, thinking of what to order for dinner tonight and excited to see your boyfriend.
when the article pops up, you don’t even register it at first. It’s just another headline, meant to suck you in for clicks, a blurry picture and another attempt at stirring something out of nothing.
STRAY KIDS’ BANG CHAN SPOTTED WITH RUMORED EX?! — FANS FULL OF QUESTIONS!
You frown at the screen for just a moment, letting your thumb hover over the image.
The photo is grainy, zoomed in too far. The man in the picture looks similar to Chan but in low quality way so it’s hard to say for sure.
There’s a girl beside him, her face turned away. The angle makes it look like they’re walking together, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
You scoff.
You know how this works. You know how people take something and run with it.
Still, you find yourself clicking on the link.
By the time you’ve read the whole thing, there’s a knot sitting in your stomach that wasn’t there before.
You knew he had been dumped by his ex a couple months before the two of you met, he had been open about his dating history since the very beginning, wanting you to know exactly what came with dating someone in his world.
You knew that they had been together for quite a while and that their breakup was hard on him, but you also knew that he would never have asked you out if he wasn’t ready for another relationship…. Right?
After all the place where the photo was taken is a restaurant you had showed him a few weeks ago and he loved it, you planned several dates while you were there, and he has even gone there for lunch a few times since.
So you don’t text him about it. Not right now, it’s probably just a misunderstanding.
You tell yourself you’ll bring it up later, casually, like it doesn’t matter.
Cause it doesn’t….
Does it?
When you show up at the dorm that evening, Chan looks exhausted. Hoodie swapped for a worn t-shirt, hair shoved under a beanie, dark circles smudged under his eyes.
He smiles when he sees you, soft and familiar, arms opening automatically. You let him hug you, but your mind is back on the article.
“Long day?” You ask.
He hums into my hair. “Always.”
Youpull back, studying his face. He looks the same. Feels the same. Warm hands, steady presence, that quiet steadiness that always pulls you in.
So why does the picture keep flashing behind your eyes?
You sit on the edge of the couch while he grabs you both a water from the kitchen. The dorm is quiet for the first time since you’ve been together. Without the sound Changbin’s shouting or Felix laughing.
the living room feels like its own small, closed-off world.
You clear your throat when he comes back giving you a questioning look as he set a bottle down in front of you.
You figure now was probably the best time to bring it up.
“I saw something today.” Your voice is a little scratchy from nerves.
Chan pauses, his own bottle halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah?” he smirks a little, waiting for you to continue.
“An article.” You try to sound casual, but he can see that something is wrong.
“What about?” His shoulders tense just slightly as he lowers the water.
“This.” You pull out your phone and show him the picture.
“Seriously? That?” He leans back, squints. Then he sighs, long and tired.
“What do you mean, ‘that’?”
He sits beside you, elbows on his knees. “It was a fan. She recognized me outside a café and asked for a picture. That’s literally it.”
“It doesn’t look like that,” you add weakly.
“Because cameras and people lie,” he says, a little sharper than before.
“You know that,” he looks at you pointedly.
You shift. “Then why haven’t you responded to my texts all day?”
“I didn’t think I had to.” his words land wrong.
“Why not?” you press. “You always respond to my texts”
Chan turns to you, brows knitting together. “I didn’t think getting a picture of your coffee cup was something I needed to respond to, not when I have more important things to do.”
“I’m not saying that,” you add quickly, but his words stung a little.
“I’m just saying it would’ve been nice to hear from you instead of reading about your day from some headline.”
His jaw tightens. “So you believe them over me?”
“That’s not what I said,” you defend.
“But that’s what it sounds like.” He stands looking down at you with slight hurt.
“Sorry if seeing my boyfriend with his ex makes me a little nervous!” Your hands are shaking a little bit so you clench them into fists in your lap.
“I told you it was a fan, not my ex!” His face contorts in a way I’ve never seen.
Our voices are loud. You don’t remember either of you deciding to raise them. You realize you’re also standing glaring up at him.
“I trust you,” you tell him. “I just—this stuff makes me feel weird.”
You hesitate, and He notices.
“Weird how?” he asks, more firmly.
Your chest feels tight. “Like I don’t really know where I stand.”
Chan exhales through his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You shrug, but it’s defensive. “It means you have a past. A really public one. And I don’t know where I fit into that.”
“You fit because I chose you,” he says. “I’m with you. Isn’t that enough?”
The way he says it, like he’s tired of this conversation, and frustrated that you even brought it up, like he’s sick repeating himself.
It hits a nerve you didn’t know was raw.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m just… filling space,” you say.
Chan looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you.
“That’s not fair.” his voice is strained as you stare at each other.
The room feels smaller.
You don’t know who says it first. You don’t know when it stoped being a conversation and turned into a fight.
“I just don’t get why you’re so calm about this,” you snap. “Like it doesn’t matter.”
“Because it doesn’t,” he fires back.
“Then why am I the only one who feels like this is a problem?” you quip back.
“Because you’re making it one.” his words hit and sink like a pit in your stomach.
The words are out before you can catch them.
“Maybe it’s a problem because I feel like you’re not over her-" his shout cuts you off.
“YEAH? SO MAYBE I’M NOT!”
The air goes still.
Chan’s mouth parts. His eyes widen, just a little.
“Wait—” he starts.
You feel something in you tilt. Slide. Start to fall.
He opens his mouth like he can take back the words, but you’re already spiraling, already feeling that sinking pain in your chest.
He takes a step towards you but you move back.
“I didn’t—I don’t—I just-“ he struggles to find the words his eyes pleading with me.
The words don’t even sound real at first. They float in the air between you, ugly and heavy and wrong.
Your chest caves in.
Chan’s face changes instantly. His eyes widen, panic crashing in like a wave. “No—no, I didn’t mean—”
But you’re not hearing him anymore.
There’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, like something just snapped inside your head.
You nod once, like your body needs to confirm it heard him right.
“Okay,” you say softly.
You grab your bag from the couch. Your hands are shaking so hard you almost drop it.
“Wait,” Chan says, stepping forward.
“Please, that’s not what I meant. I was angry, I didn’t—”
You don’t look at him.
You walk toward the door, every step feeling like it weighs a ton.
He follows you, faster now.
“Stop. Just stop for a second,” he pleaded, his voice breaking.
You reach for the handle.
His fingers close around your wrist.
You flinch like you’ve been burned, ripping your hand away, turning on him, eyes stinging, vision blurred.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words come out sharp, venomous, dripping hurt.
Chan freezes.
You see it then—really see it. The fear in his eyes. The way his chest is rising too fast. The way his hands are half-raised, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
But it doesn’t matter.
You open the door and slam it behind you.
Lee Know:
Lee Know is kind enough to you, and that’s almost the problem.
warm enough. Nice enough. Not the kind of kind that wraps around you and pulls you close. His kindness is measured, controlled, like everything else about him.
It’s a hand on your back when you step off a curb. It’s a quiet “text me when you get home” that sounds more like a habit than a real want. It’s him holding doors open and remembering how you take your coffee.
It’s never him letting you in.
Still, the morning starts the same way it always does.
Your phone buzzes, soft against your pillow.
Lino 🐱: You up?
You smile, blinking at the screen.
You: Barely. Good morning, Minho.🩷
You get out of bed and start your morning routine, you are slipping on your shoes before your phone buzzes again.
Lino 🐱: Practice all day. Don’t be annoying while I’m gone. <3
You snort.
You: I can’t make any promises.
You send a heart. He reacts to it with a thumbs-up.
And you tell yourself that it’s normal, you chat with friends in the hallways, laughing and making plans for the weekend. Enjoying the natural warmth and closeness that comes from good friends.
You stumble across the article in between classes.
You scroll past it at first, not even fully reading the title, but when your eyes pick up his name, you swipe back. You stare at the headline like it might change if you give it long enough.
STRAY KIDS’ LEE KNOW SEEN WITH EX-GIRLFRIEND — STAYS IN UPROAR!
The picture is worse than you expect.
They’re close. Too close. Her hand is mid-gesture, like she’s laughing at something he said. His face is turned toward her, expression soft in a way you don’t see very often, and he’s holding the door open for her to exit whatever restaurant they were just at.
You swallow.
You know you shouldn’t but You open the article anyway. It doesn’t say much. Speculation mostly. A reminder of how public his last relationship was. How messy the breakup had been.
Your phone buzzed and you read the text notification bubble.
Lino 🐱: don’t forget to eat. 🥪
Followed by a picture of an aesthetically pleasing sandwich, its wrapper matching the logo in the picture from the article.
You feel a lump form in your throat and any appetite you had is long gone.
You don’t text him back.
The dorm that evening feels colder than usual.
Lee Know is in the kitchen when you arrive, cutting fruit with careful precision. The motion is neat. Controlled. Like everything he does.
“Hey,” he says when he sees you.
“Hey.” You stand there for a second, not sure where to put yourself.
He slides a bowl toward you. “You didn’t eat today, did you?”
You blink. “How did you—”
“You always get like this when you haven’t eaten much,” he gives a half-hearted smile before going back to the fruit.
You almost laugh. Almost.
You sit at the counter, pushing the fruit around with your chopsticks.
He watches you for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitate. Then you pull out your phone and show him the article.
His eyes flick over it. Once. Twice.
He exhales through his nose.
“Seriously?”
“That’s what I said too,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
Lee Know’s mouth twitches. “Funny.”
“That’s it?” you ask before adding.
“That’s all you have to say?” you know he can see the hurt on your face, but he just rolls his eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” his tone is flat.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“It’s a picture.” He sets the knife down, turns to face you fully.
“With your ex.” you press.
“With someone I used to date,” he corrects.
“There’s a difference.” he states.
“Is there?” you ask.
He stiffens. Just a little.
“Yes.”
You look at him, really look at him. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, weight on one foot, expression calm. Closed. The same way he looks when fans ask too personal questions.
The same way he looks every time you try to get too close.
“Then why does it feel like there’s still something there?” you ask quietly.
“There isn’t.” His jaw tightens.
“But you don’t look at me like that,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The words hang in the air between you.
“Like what?” Lee Know’s eyes narrow.
“Like you love me,” you say.
That gets a reaction.
It’s small, but it’s there. A flicker of something in his eyes.
“You think I don’t?” he asks.
“I don’t think you let yourself,” you say.
He looks away, and that’s enough of an answer. Your chest feels heavy.
“Why are you even with me, Minho?” You hate how needy the words make you sound.
He frowns.
“What kind of question is that?” his tone is annoyed and not at all reassuring.
You shrug not knowing what to say, but he just stares at you waiting for a response.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m… convenient,” you admit.
“That’s ridiculous.” He scoffs softly.
“Is it?” you push.
“You keep me right here.” You hold your hand out in front of you.
“Close enough to touch. Not close enough to let me in.”
His shoulders tense.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“Then what is fair?” you ask.
when he doesnt respond to continue.
“Because it feels like I’m standing in front of a wall you won’t even admit is there.”
He turns away, staring at the sink. The silence stretches.
You hate it. You hate how familiar it feels.
“You’re not over her,” you say quietly.
Lee Know turns back to you slowly.
“That’s not your place,” he says.
The words are calm and even as they cut away any hope you had.
Your heart stutters.
“It is if I’m the one standing here now.” You let the hurt show through your words.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration slipping through the cracks.
“Then explain it to me,” you say. “Explain why you keep me at arm’s length. Why you don’t let me in. Why you still look at her like—”
“Like what?” he snaps.
You flinch.
“Like you’re still in love with her,” you finish.
His lips press into a thin line.
You feel yourself slipping. Falling into the same spiral you swore you wouldn’t. But you’ve spent too many late nights wondering this to not say anything.
“I’m just a rebound, right?” you say voice soft.
“Someone to pass the time until you figure yourself out,” you say, hoping he denies it.
Lee Know laughs once. It’s sharp and empty.
“And what if you are?”
The words hit like ice water. Your breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and for a moment, you can’t move.
Lee Know’s face changes almost immediately. His eyes widen, just slightly. His mouth opens like he wants to pull the words back.
“No,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.” his voice is serious, but his eyes show the panic he's feeling.
But you’re already stepping away from the counter, away from him.
Your hands feel numb as you grab your jacket.
“Wait,” he says, reaching for you.
You turn and give him a pained smile.
“Maybe you should figure that out before you hurt someone else.”
You don’t raise your voice; you don’t have to. The hurt in your eyes is louder than your words.
Lee Know freezes.
You walk to the door, open it, and step into the hallway.
Behind you, he says your name.
But you don’t turn around.
Changbin:
Your phone buzzes right before your alarm goes off.
You groan, rolling over, hitting the snooze button and wishing you could fall back asleep, but you’re already half-awake.
Picking up your phone you see a notification that makes you smile.
Binnie 💪: MORNINGGGG
A selfie follows the text, with him in the gym mirror, cheeks puffed out, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions, his tank top tight on his frame.
He’s making a peace sign and a ridiculous face that still manages to make your chest warm.
You smile, typing back without thinking.
You: Good morning, Bin. Have a good day today. Don’t forget to eat. I’ll see you tonight 😘
he responds a few minuets later.
Binnie 💪: I will! 🫡
You grin like an idiot before begrudgingly make your way to the shower to get ready.
The day feels light after that. Normal and easy, you start on your work and everything is going great.
Until it isn’t.
The article shows up in your feed just as you sit down to have lunch.
You don’t even register it at first. You recognize the format immediately. bold headline, blurry picture, speculation dressed up to get clicks.
STRAY KIDS’ CHANGBIN SECRET MEET UP WITH EX?? —
Your stomach drops anyway, and despite your better judgment you click on the link.
The picture is grainy, taken from across the street. But Changbin’s car is unmistakable even with the tinted windows you can still make out the two figures.
The wide shoulders are undeniably his as he’s half-turned toward someone just blocking them from view. A girl’s arm is visible, hand resting briefly on his shoulder.
You scroll on, heart thudding in your chest.
Words like reconciliation and unfinished business jump out at you as fans speculate.
You close the tab.
You tell yourself you’ll ask him about it later, that you’ll handle this calmly, like the mature individual you are.
But by the time you’re standing outside the dorm that evening, your blood is heated and your mind is racing from the hours you’ve had to over think.
Changbin answers the door with a grin.
“There you are!” he says, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.
“I thought you were going to ditch me,” he teases,
You laugh weakly, hugging him back.
“Now why would I do that?” The joke falls flat but he doesn’t seem to notice as He leads you inside, talking a mile a minute about practice, and about a new verse he’s been working on.
You nod along, smiling and laughing when you’re supposed to.
But your mind is somewhere else.
When there’s finally a break in his rambling, you clear your throat.
“Binnie.”
He looks at you immediately. “Yeah?”
“I saw something today.” Your voice is hesitant, and he notices.
“What kind of something?” His smile falters but doesn’t disappear.
You pull out your phone and show him the article.
The reaction is instant.
Changbin stiffens. His shoulders tense. His eyes flick away from the screen like it burned him.
“Oh—come on,” he says, a little too fast.
“That’s not—” but you cut him off.
“Then why are you acting like this?” you ask.
“Like what?” He blinks.
“Like you just got caught,” you accuse.
His eyes narrow, and his smile vanishes.
“I didn’t get ‘caught.’” he uses air quotes as if that negates what you just said.
“Why are you panicking?” you prod.
“I’m not!” he snaps.
“You are!” You counter.
“It’s just annoying. These articles are always annoying.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now.
“Then why can’t you look at me?” Your voice is low, and your eyes show the sadness you're trying to keep inside.
He stops moving, shooting you a dark look.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, voice rising.
“It has to do with everything!” you match his tone.
“Because you look guilty!” you don't understand why he's reacting like this.
“I’m not guilty of anything!” he yells.
The word echoes in the room making You flinch.
He seems to realize how loud he got, because his eyes widen slightly.
“I didn’t mean to—” you cut him off as something in you snaps too.
“Then explain it,” you say, voice pleading.
“Explain why-" he cuts you off.
“Because I’m tired of this!” he shouts. “I’m tired of people assuming things about me.”
“I’m not ‘people,’” you shout back.
“I’m your partner!” Your words ring out through the empty dorm.
He freezes for a second at that.
Then he laughs, breathless and sharp, but he doesn’t say anything just shakes his head.
Your heart stutters.
“What is that supposed to mean?” You hate how pathetic the question sounds.
“It means you’re acting like this is some huge betrayal when it’s not,” he scolds, as if you are the problem for bringing it up.
“Then why does it feel like one?” you fire back.
“Why do you look like you’ve been hiding something since the second I showed you that article?” you try to calm down but your heart is racing.
Changbin opens his mouth, but he's at a loss.
You see it then.
The hesitation, and the guilt, it makes your chest tighten.
“Right,” you say, voice shaking.
“Because I’m just here to hold the place for the person you really want,” you spit the words out like they burn.
“That’s not—” he starts.
“Isn’t it?” you interrupt.
Changbin’s breathing is heavy now. His fists clench at his sides, you can see the emotions running through him as he stands there.
You open your mouth to tell him to just tell the truth, but when he sees you open your mouth, something in him snaps, and he shouts.
“YES OK?!”
“I got with you because I thought it would make her jealous,” he yells.
The word slams into you.
He doesn’t stop there.
“And it worked.”
The room goes silent.
The only sound is your own heartbeat in your ears.
Your mouth opens, but no words come out, tears sting your eyes as you find it hard to breathe.
Changbin’s face drains of color almost immediately. His eyes widen like he can’t believe what just left his mouth.
“No,” he says, stepping forward. “Wait- that’s not—“
You step back.
Your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip the hem of your hoodie to keep yourself from falling apart.
“So that’s it,” you whisper.
“No!” he says, panic flooding his voice.
“That’s not all you are. That’s not what I meant,” he tries to take back the words that are echoing in your brain.
“But it’s what you said,” you reply.
You grab your bag from the chair.
“Wait,” he says, rushing toward you.
“Please, I was angry. I didn’t think—” He reaches for you, but you yank your arm away.
“Don’t.” Your voice is quiet.
Changbin stops dead, his hand lingering in the air as if fighting with himself.
You walk to the door, every step heavy.
“Don’t go,” he says, voice breaking.
“I messed up. I know I did. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he's pleading as tears fill his eyes.
You turn the handle.
“You don’t get to be sorry after that,” you whisper as you leave.
The door closes with a soft click.
The hallway feels endless, and despite the numbness your legs carry you without you really telling them where to go.
Your phone buzzes.
You pull it out only to shut it off.
Hyunjin:
Hwang❣️: Good morning, angel.
His text brings a smile to your face as you move from one work meeting to another, his morning texts come a little later than yours but Sometimes there’s a selfie to make up for it.
soft lighting, hair falling into his eyes, lips curved into that small, private smile he says is only for you. Sometimes it’s of a painting or drawing he stayed up late working.
His words are always gentle and sweet.
You reply the same way you always do.
You: Good morning, pretty boy. Have a good day today. I’ll see you later ❣️
He reacts with the same heart emoji.
It feels like something sacred.
You love the way that Hyunjin loves like an artist. He notices the way sunlight hits your face, the way you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way you tuck your hands into the sleeves of his hoodie when your hands get cold.
He tells you you’re beautiful in ways that feel like he’s painting you with his words instead of just looking at you.
But sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, he stares past you, like his mind is somewhere else, or maybe someone else.
You tell yourself it’s nothing.
The post is on a fan account, one you follow cause you love the way they keep track of the boys better than you can sometimes, so you smile and tap the notification that says ‘new post’.
OMG?!? 😱 Hyunjin’s been meeting up with his ex again?😱
There’s a photo attached. Blurry. Taken from far away.
Two figures sitting on a bench in a small park. One of them is unmistakably him, his long limbs, familiar posture, head tilted slightly as he listens. The other is a girl with her hair pulled back, head resting on his shoulder while his arm is wrapped around her.
They look… comfortable.
You swallow and even though you know you shouldn’t you spiral into the post.
It leads you to a thread of similar posts all of them dating from the time you started dating, to even before you got together.
Him and this girl, there were pictures of drawings he’d done pointing out how they resemble his ex and the pictures, so many pictures.
Some clear as day, others were a little more of a reach, but the ones that were undeniable made your heart feel like someone had it in a death grip.
You don’t confront him right away.
You waited, trying to think of what to say to him.
That night, the walk to the dorm felt heavier than usual, like you were moving towards something inescapable.
Hyunjin is in the living room, sketchbook open on his knees, pencil moving slowly across the page.
He looks up when you walk in and smiles.
“You’re late.” His voice is teasing, but you don’t smile.
“Sorry,” you say.
“Got caught up.”
He sets the sketchbook aside and stands, stepping toward you. His hands hover at your waist, he smiles at you before his arms wrap around you pulling you against him.
You let him touch you, but your chest feels heavy, and the embrace feels forced.
You sit together on the couch. He leans into you, head resting against your shoulder.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then you speak.
“Are you still seeing her?” Your voice is soft, but the question hits him hard.
His body goes still.
“Who?” he asks softly.
“You know who,” you say.
“Where did you hear that?” He pulls back, eyes searching your face.
“So you are,” you whisper.
Hyunjin exhales slowly.
“It’s not like that—” he starts but you interrupt.
“Then what is it like?”
He looks down at his hands.
“We talk.”
“What is there to talk about?” you ask, tone flat.
He hesitates, and that’s enough of an answer.
“How long?” Your chest tightens.
“Since before I met you,” he admits.
The words feel like a knife sliding between your ribs.
“Why?” you ask.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are bright and vulnerable.
“Because I never stopped caring about her,” he says.
Silence stretches between you.
“I care about you too,” he adds quickly.
Your laugh comes out hollow.
“That’s not comforting, Hyunjin.” Your tone is unamused.
He leans forward, hands reaching for yours.
“I don’t think love is always something that only fits one person at a time.” he tries to meet your eyes, trying to get you to understand.
You pull your hands back from him, your eyes flashing with something close to disgust making him flinch.
“What does that mean?” you ask.
“It means,” he says slowly, carefully, “that I can love you. And still love her.”
Your throat closes as your mind races.
“So what am I, then?” you whisper.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
You feel something in you break.
“I’m your second choice, aren’t I?” you say, voice breaking at the end.
“Someone to keep you company while you hold space for her.” You want him to deny it, but you both know it's true.
His eyes fill with tears instantly.
“No,” he says. “That’s not—”
“But it is,” you say.
“You’re with me now, but the second you can be with her, you’ll leave.” Your hurt bleeds through your words.
“I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.” He drags a hand down his face, voice cracking.
“How could it not?” you ask, voice rising from a whisper.
He shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I love you.”
“And you love her,” you spit.
“Yes,” he whispers.
The word hangs in the air.
You stand slowly.
“So you’re asking me to share you?” The words are bitter on your tongue.
“I’m asking you to understand me,” he pleads, tears running down his face.
You shake your head feeling your own tears hot and heavy, grabbing your bag from the floor you move towards the door.
“Isn’t having me enough?” he cries, voice breaking.
You pause at the door.
“That’s the problem,” you say softly. “If you still love someone else… do I even really have you in the first place?”
He steps toward you, hands outstretched.
“Please. Don’t go. I can figure this out. I just—” his voice is choked as tears stream down his face.
You step back.
“No, I deserve more than second place.”
His hands fall to his side as he shakes with a sob.
You open the door with shaking hands and behind you, he collapses to his knees.
( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ grief is just love with no place to go. you were the light in their everyday lives, the one who saw them clearly and loved them through the noise, only to be lost in the sharp silence of a single mistake. now, they're left to navigate a world that feels too quiet, holding onto the fading echoes of your voice while learning to live with a love that can no longer reach you.
angst 8O68 major character death guilt accidental death isolation depression suicidal ideation ( jeongin's ) vomiting ( felix's ) panic attacks self-loathing fighting emotional & verbal hurt
oops my finger slipped. also i deadass teared up for some of these now i have a migraine. please don't dox me
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
CHAN
it was his fault. it didn't matter how many times people told him otherwise, because he knew the truth.
the words he’d spat at you were still vibrating in the air of the apartment, ghost echoes that refused to fade even though the person they were aimed at was gone.
chan sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging between his knees, his fingers digging into his scalp until it stung. the silence in the room was physical. it was heavy, pressing against his eardrums like deep water.
he could still see the way your expression had shifted—that split second where your face went from concern to absolute devastation. he’d been awake for forty-eight hours, fueled by nothing but cold brew and the crushing pressure of a comeback deadline.
when you’d walked into the studio with a container of home-cooked food and a gentle plea for him to just come home for an hour, he’d snapped.
"can't you see i'm busy?" he’d barked, his voice raw and ugly. "i don't need a babysitter. i need you to leave me alone so i can actually do my job."
you hadn't shouted back. you never did. you’d just stood there, the plastic bag of food crinkling in your hand, your eyes glassy. you’d apologized—god, why did you apologize?—and turned around.
ten minutes later, the rain had started. twenty minutes later, his phone had buzzed with a call from an unknown number. thirty minutes later, the world had ended.
chan stood up abruptly, his legs feeling like lead. he walked into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the counter where your keys usually sat. they weren't there. they were in an evidence bag at a police station, probably scratched or bent from the impact.
he reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so violently that he had to set it back down. he looked at the clock. 3:00 am. this was usually the time you’d text him to see if he was heading back, or if he needed a ride. he pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts.
1 unread message.
he hadn't opened it. he couldn't. it was sent at 11:42 pm, exactly three minutes before the timestamp on the police report. his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. he finally tapped the notification.
i'm sorry for bothering you, channie. i left the food on the table. please eat it when you get a chance. i love you so much. drive safe if you come home later.
chan let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was more like he’d been punched in the gut and all the air had been forced out of him at once. he sank to the floor, his back sliding against the cold refrigerator.
"i'm sorry," he whispered into the empty kitchen. "i'm so sorry."
the members had tried to come over. changbin had stayed for four hours yesterday, just sitting on the sofa in silence because chan wouldn't speak. minho had brought over a bag of groceries, wordlessly stocking the fridge before leaving with a heavy hand on chan’s shoulder. they wanted to help him carry the weight, but they didn't understand that he deserved to be crushed by it.
if he hadn't been so cruel, you would have stayed. you would have sat on the studio couch and fallen asleep under a blanket while he worked. you wouldn't have been on that bridge. you wouldn't have been in the path of a driver who couldn't see through the torrential rain.
every decision he’d made that night had led to you being gone.
he stood up and walked toward the hallway, his feet dragging. he opened the door to your shared bedroom, the scent of your perfume still clinging to the pillows. it was a soft, floral scent that usually made him feel like he could finally breathe. now, it felt like it was choking him.
he saw your favorite oversized hoodie draped over the back of a chair. he picked it up, burying his face in the soft fabric. he expected to feel a sense of closeness, but all he felt was the stinging reality of your absence. the hoodie was cold.
he went to his desk in the corner of the room, the one he rarely used because he was always at the studio. sitting there was a small stack of mail he’d ignored for days. on top was a postcard you’d bought a week ago, something you were planning to send to your parents.
chan is working so hard, you’d written in your neat, looping script. i'm so proud of him. i hope we can all grab dinner when he’s less busy.
"less busy," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping him.
he was free now. the comeback was delayed. the schedule was cleared. he had all the time in the world, and none of it mattered. he realized then that he’d spent so much time protecting his time with you, guarding his work, and being the leader that he’d forgotten how to just be your person.
and now, he’d never get the chance to learn again.
the sun started to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the floor. it was a new day, which felt like an insult. how was the sun still rising? how was the world still turning when you weren't in it?
he walked back to the kitchen and saw the container of food you’d left. he hadn't touched it. he opened the lid, the smell of braised short ribs—his favorite—wafting up. you must have spent hours on it.
he took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything. it felt like ash in his mouth. he forced himself to swallow, tears finally spilling over and dripping into the container. he ate the whole thing, shivering in the quiet apartment, every bite a penance, every swallow a reminder of what he’d thrown away for the sake of a song that he now hated with every fiber of his being.
he looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. he looked like a ghost. his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. he looked exactly how he felt: hollowed out.
he reached for a notepad and a pen. his hands were still shaking, but he pressed the tip to the paper. he didn't know who he was writing to—maybe to you, maybe to the void, maybe to the version of himself that had been so arrogant as to think he had forever.
i’ll never forgive myself, he wrote. the ink bled into the paper where a tear hit it. i spent so much time trying to be everything for everyone else that i broke the only thing that actually mattered. you were my home, and i locked the door on you.
he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie. he stayed there on the floor long after the sun had fully risen, a leader with no one to lead, a producer with no music left in him, just a man sitting in the wreckage of a life he’d accidentally destroyed with one tired, sharp word.
LEE KNOW
it was the silence that felt like a physical blow. lee minho was a man who understood the nuances of noise—the rhythmic thud of a heavy bass line in a practice room, the demanding meows of three cats, the sharp, teasing banter that had been the foundation of your relationship for years. but this silence was different.
it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs until his chest ached with the effort of breathing.
he was sitting on the floor of his living room, exactly where he had been three days ago when the two of you had had the fight. the remnants of it were still there, mocking him. a knocked-over stack of dance magazines, a half-empty bottle of water, and the heavy, invisible wall he’d built in the heat of the moment.
he’d been exhausted—beyond the point of rational thought. the choreo for the new title track wasn't clicking, his legs were aching, and when you’d shown up at the dorm with a gentle reminder that he’d missed your anniversary dinner, he’d turned into someone he didn't recognize.
"i'm trying to actually build a career here," he’d snapped, his voice a cold, jagged blade. "i don't have time to worry about a calendar every five minutes. if you’re so lonely, go find someone who doesn't have anything better to do than eat overpriced pasta."
he remembered the way you’d recoiled, as if he’d physically struck you. he remembered the way your lip had trembled for a fraction of a second before you’d pulled your mask of composure back on, like you were trying to make the hurt smaller.
you hadn't yelled. you hadn't even said anything. you’d just set your keys on the counter, looked at him with a hollow kind of disappointment, and walked out into the rain.
"go then!" he’d yelled after you, driven by a toxic mix of pride and fatigue. "don't come back until you realize the world doesn't revolve around your dinner plans!"
and you hadn't.
minho stared at his phone, the screen cracked from when he’d thrown it against the wall after the police officer had left his apartment. he’d been staring at the last text he’d sent you, sent only ten minutes after you’d left, when his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.
i’m an idiot. i’m sorry. come back and i’ll make you the stupid pasta myself.
it was marked as delivered. it would never be read.
a soft weight pressed against his side. soonie bumped his head against minho’s arm, letting out a small, questioning meow. the cat knew. animals always knew when the person who smelled like home was missing. minho reached out, his fingers trembling as he stroked soonie’s ears, but the comfort he usually found in his cats was gone. he felt like a fraud.
how could he take care of them when he’d failed so spectacularly at taking care of you?
he stood up, his joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. he saw your favorite mug sitting in the sink, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. he couldn't bring himself to wash it. if he washed it, the last physical evidence of your morning together would be rinsed away, down the drain and into the dark.
he leaned against the counter, his eyes burning. minho didn't cry easily. he was the one who kept his emotions tucked away in neat, categorized boxes. but the box labeled you had burst open, and the contents were suffocating him.
he found himself walking toward the hallway closet. he pulled out your heavy winter coat, the one you’d forgotten because you’d been in such a rush to leave his anger behind. he buried his face in the faux-fur collar, inhaling deeply.
it still smelled like your shampoo—something bright and vanilla—and for a split second, his brain tricked him into thinking you were just in the other room.
"i didn't mean it," he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. "i didn't mean any of it."
he thought about the "what ifs" until his head throbbed. what if he’d just taken a nap before you arrived? what if he’d just said happy anniversary instead of complaining about the choreo? what if he’d run after you the moment the door clicked shut?
the police told him the driver hadn't seen you through the sheets of rain. they told him it was instantaneous, that you didn't suffer. they meant it to be a kindness, but to minho, it was a horror.
he had been the last thing you’d seen—not a sunset, not a smiling face, but his sneering expression and the sound of his cruel voice.
he wandered back into the living room and saw your keys still sitting on the counter. he picked them up, the metal cold against his palm. dangling from the ring was a small, worn-out keychain he’d given you as a joke a year ago. it was a cat with a grumpy face that you’d insisted looked exactly like him when he woke up.
he gripped the keys so hard the edges bit into his skin. he deserved the pain. he deserved the silence. he deserved the way the apartment felt like a tomb.
minho sat back down on the floor, the darkness of the evening beginning to swallow the room. he didn't turn on the lights. he didn't deserve the light. he just sat there with soonie, doongie, and dori hovering nearby, a man who had spent his whole life learning how to move his body with perfect precision, only to realize he’d stepped on the only thing that had ever truly anchored him.
he closed his eyes, and in the quiet, he could almost hear your laugh—the way it used to cut through his moods like a flashlight in a dark basement. it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever known, and he was the one who had silenced it.
"i'll find you," he whispered into the empty air, a promise that felt more like a plea. "next time, i'll find you and i won't let go. i'll never let go."
but for now, there was only the rain against the window and the crushing, eternal weight of the things he had left unsaid.
CHANGBIN
the gym was empty, the fluorescent lights humming with a clinical, biting edge that made the space feel more like a cage than a sanctuary. changbin was staring at a heavy barbell, the iron plates stacked high, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.
his hands were shaking. it wasn't the kind of tremor that came from a heavy set of reps; it was the kind that came when your world had collapsed and you were trying to hold up the ceiling with nothing but your bare skin.
it had started with something so stupid. a misunderstanding about a schedule, a missed call, and a week of built-up pressure that he’d decided to unload on the one person who didn't deserve it.
"you're always just there," he’d groaned, his voice dripping with a frustration he didn't actually feel toward you. "don't you have anything else to do? i'm trying to focus on my life, on the group, and i feel like i have to constantly check in with you like i’m reporting to a boss. it’s exhausting."
the silence that followed had been sharp. he’d watched you slowly set down the bag of laundry you’d brought over—his laundry, that you’d picked up because you knew he was too busy to do it.
you hadn't looked angry. you had just looked tired. a deep, bone-weary kind of tired that he’d been too blind to see.
"i'm sorry i'm such a burden, binnie," you’d said softly. "i'll let you get back to your focus."
you’d walked out of the dorm, and he’d let you. he’d actually sat back down on the sofa and felt a twisted sense of "victory" for finally getting some space. he’d waited an hour, then two, his pride slowly dissolving into a hollow ache.
he’d finally picked up his phone to text you a half-hearted apology, but the screen was already flooded with news alerts.
major accident on the highway. flash floods. multiple casualties.
now, changbin sat on a weight bench, his head in his hands. the smell of iron and sweat—usually the things that made him feel powerful—now made him feel nauseous. he looked at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. he looked strong. he looked like the powerhouse everyone expected him to be.
but inside, he felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.
he’d spent his whole life building himself up, making himself sturdy so he could be a shield for the people he loved. but what was the point of a shield if you used it to crush the person you were supposed to protect?
he reached into his gym bag and pulled out a small, crumpled receipt he’d found in his pocket earlier. it was for a pair of high-end running shoes you’d bought him two weeks ago because you noticed he was complaining about his arches. you’d spent your own savings on them, joking that you were "investing in his gains."
he’d never even thanked you properly.
"i'm so small," he whispered, his voice cracking in the vastness of the gym. "i'm so pathetic."
he finally stood up, but instead of lifting, he walked over to the corner where he kept his personal locker. inside sat a small, handwritten note you’d tucked into his gym bag months ago: don't overdo it today. your muscles need rest, and i need you in one piece. love you!
he pressed the paper to his lips, his shoulders finally heaving. the tears came then—not the quiet, dignified kind, but a violent, racking sob that tore through his chest. he collapsed back onto the bench, the note clutched in his fist like a lifeline.
he thought about the way you used to wait for him at the door, the way you’d always have a protein shake ready, the way you’d listen to his rough demos and tell him his verses were the heart of the song.
you were the only person who saw seo changbin—not the rapper, not the idol, not the bodybuilder, but the man who was often scared he wasn't enough.
and he had told you that was exhausting. he had told you that you were exhausting.
the guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any plate in the room. it was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. he realized with a terrifying clarity that he would never be able to out-work this pain. he couldn't sweat it out. he couldn't lift it away.
it was a part of him now, a permanent shadow in his peripheral vision.
he stayed in the gym until the sun started to bleed through the high windows, turning the iron plates into silhouettes. he didn't want to go home. home was where your shoes were still by the door. home was where the laundry you’d dropped off was still sitting on the floor, a monument to his own cruelty.
he finally gathered his things, his movements slow and robotic. as he walked toward the exit, his eyes caught the "maximum capacity" sign on the wall.
"i'm at capacity," he muttered, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him.
he walked out into the cool morning air, the city beginning to wake up around him. people were starting their days, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the fact that the world was missing its brightest light. changbin pulled his hoodie over his head, hiding his face, and began the long walk back to an apartment that was no longer a home.
he didn't know how to move forward. he didn't know how to be himself anymore. how to exist without you.
but as he walked, he kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edges of your note. it was the only thing he had left that wasn't heavy.
HYUNJIN
the studio apartment was bathed in a cruel, mocking gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. it was the kind of light hyunjin usually lived for—the perfect golden hour that he would spend hours trying to replicate with tubes of ochre and zinc white.
but now, the light just felt like an intruder. it crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the half-finished sketch still sitting on the easel in the corner.
hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold brick wall. his long hair was a tangled mess, falling over his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to push it back. his hands, usually so expressive and nimble, were stained dark with charcoal and dried ink, looking bruised in the twilight.
he couldn't stop looking at the door.
it was the last place he’d seen you. he could still hear the sharp, echoing thud of it closing—a sound that had felt like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't ready to finish.
they had been working on a new performance, and hyunjin had pushed himself past the breaking point. his muscles were screaming, his mind was a frayed wire, and when you had shown up at the practice room with a gentle suggestion that he was overworking himself, he had lashed out.
it wasn't even about you. it was about the fear of not being perfect, the crushing weight of expectation. but you were the one standing there, and you were the one who caught the edge of his tongue.
"you don't get it," he’d hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "you just sit there and watch. you don't understand the pressure. you’re just annoying me right now. if you’re so worried about my health, go worry about it somewhere else. i don't need you hovering over me like i’m some child."
he remembered the way you’d gone still. the way your eyes, usually so full of warmth and soft encouragement, had shuttered. you hadn't even argued. you’d just nodded once, picked up your bag, and left.
"i'm sorry," you’d whispered. "i won't distract you anymore."
two hours later, the manager had walked into the studio, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held his phone.
now, hyunjin reached out and touched the canvas in front of him. it was a portrait of you he’d started weeks ago. he’d wanted to surprise you for your anniversary. he’d captured the way the light hit the bridge of your nose, the specific curve of your smile that only came out when you were laughing at one of his jokes.
but it was unfinished. your eyes were still just empty outlines, waiting for the depth and color he’d promised to add.
he’d never add it. he couldn't. every time he picked up a brush, he felt like he was suffocating.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, the words sounding thin and pathetic in the empty room. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean it. i was just tired. please, just come back and tell me i’m an idiot."
he stood up unsteadily and walked to the small table by the window. your coffee mug was still there, half-full of cold, stagnant liquid. beside it sat a small scrap of paper where you’d doodled a little ferret while waiting for him to finish a painting session.
he picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the shaky lines. you weren't an artist, but you always tried for him. you’d draw little things to make him smile, to remind him that life existed outside of the lines and the shades.
he collapsed into the chair, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. the grief wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, constant ache, like a bone that had set wrong.
it was the realization that he had spent his whole life trying to create beauty, trying to capture the essence of the world on a flat surface, while the most beautiful thing he’d ever known had been right beside him, and he’d thrown it away because he was tired.
he looked at his paints. the reds looked too much like the sirens he’d seen in his nightmares. the blues were too cold, like the rain that had been falling that night.
hyunjin grabbed a tube of black paint and a palette knife. in a sudden, violent burst of movement, he smeared the dark pigment over the unfinished portrait. he covered your smile, your hair, the bridge of your nose. he couldn't bear to look at the ghost of what he’d destroyed.
when the canvas was nothing but a void of wet, glistening black, he dropped the knife. it hit the hardwood with a hollow metallic sound.
he sank back onto the floor, the shadows of the room finally swallowing him whole. he’d always been a man of colors, of light, of vibrant expression. but as he sat there in the dark, hyunjin realized he had finally painted his masterpiece. it was a perfect representation of his heart: empty, dark, and utterly silent.
he closed his eyes, praying for a dream where the door would open again, and you’d tell him that the light was perfect for a sketch. but the only thing that met him was the silence, and the knowledge that he was finally alone with his art.
HAN
the noise in the studio was usually a comfort to han jisung—a messy, chaotic layer of synth pads, vocal chops, and the frantic clicking of a mouse. but tonight, the silence was screaming. it was a high-pitched, ringing void that seemed to radiate from the empty swivel chair in the corner of the room.
jisung sat at his desk, his hands hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't remember a single chord. his brain felt like it had been short-circuited. every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same frame: the harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway reflecting in your eyes as you looked at him with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated hurt.
it had been such a small thing. he’d been struggling with a bridge for seven hours, the melody slipping through his fingers like sand. when you’d pushed the door open, balancing a tray of iced coffee and your own laptop, he hadn't seen his best friend. he hadn't seen the love of his life, his everything.
he’d seen another distraction.
"can you just—for once—not be in here?" he’d snapped, the words coming out louder and sharper than he’d intended. "i have actual work to do. i can't be your emotional support animal twenty-four-seven. just go. find someone else to cling to for a night."
you hadn't snapped back. you were used to his moods, his high-strung anxiety, his "genius" tantrums. but this had been different. he’d targeted the one thing you were always self-conscious about: your fear of being a burden.
you’d stood there for a long beat, the ice in the coffee cups rattling against the plastic. "okay, hanji," you’d whispered, blinking tears back, your voice so small it barely carried over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'll go."
you’d turned on your heel and disappeared. and jisung, fueled by a toxic surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to finish the track, had turned back to his monitors. he’d worked for another three hours, convinced himself the song was a masterpiece, and finally reached for his phone to send you a meme as a peace offering.
the notifications were already there.
the police report mentioned the rain-slicked pavement and a driver who hadn't seen the pedestrian in the crosswalk. it mentioned the time: 11:14 p.m.
jisung had sent his stupid meme at 11:16 p.m.
now, he grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles turning white. he felt like he was drowning in the air of his own studio. he stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the corner chair. on the floor beside it was a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. he picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.
it was a doodle. a little quokka with oversized headphones, holding a heart. you’d probably drawn it while waiting for him to finish his previous session, waiting to show it to him when he finally took a break.
"i'm so sorry," he choked out, the sound echoing off the soundproof foam on the walls. "i'm so sorry, angel. i didn't mean it. i love you. i love you clinging to me. i need you to cling to me."
he sank to his knees, burying his face in the seat of the chair where you always sat. it still smelled like your laundry detergent—something soft and clean. he grabbed the fabric, bunching it in his fists, and finally, the dam broke. jisung was a loud person—he laughed loud, he talked loud, he rapped with a piercing intensity—but his grief was a quiet, jagged thing.
it was a series of broken gasps and muffled sobs that felt like they were tearing his lungs apart.
he thought about all the lyrics he’d written about love, about loss, about the "one that got away." they all felt like a joke now. they were just words, shallow and meaningless compared to the crushing reality of your absence.
he realized he’d spent so much time trying to capture the perfect emotion on a track that he’d failed to protect the real emotion standing right in front of him.
he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. he scrolled through your messages, his thumb trembling over the screen. your last text to him was from that afternoon: don't forget to eat, sunshine. i'm bringing coffee later. see you soon!
"sunshine," he whispered, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping him. "you called me sunshine."
he looked at his monitors—the glowing bars of the song that had cost him everything. he reached out and hit the delete key. then he hit confirm.
he watched as the project file, the work of ten hours, the work he’d prioritized over your life, vanished into nothing. it didn't make him feel better. it didn't bring you back. but it was the only thing he had left to sacrifice.
the sun began to creep through the small window of the studio, a pale, grey light that didn't feel like morning. it felt like the end of the world. jisung stayed on the floor, curled into a ball next to your empty chair, the little quokka drawing pressed against his heart.
he was a songwriter, a storyteller, a man who always had a witty comeback or a clever rhyme. but as the world woke up without you, han jisung found he had finally run out of things to say. the only thing left was the silence, and the ghost of a girl who had once called him her sunshine.
FELIX
the apartment still smelled like the apology brownies he’d pulled out of the oven only an hour before the phone rang. it was a sweet, heavy scent—the kind of smell that usually made felix feel like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. now, it made him want to claw his own throat out.
he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. the bright blue mixing bowl was sitting in the sink, half-filled with soapy water. everything was so incredibly normal, so horrifyingly domestic, that it felt like a sick joke.
it had been his fault. he knew it with a certainty that felt like lead in his veins.
they had been fighting over something so small it didn't even have a name. he’d been coming home later and later, his body aching from the physical toll of a world tour, his mind frayed by the constant need to be "on." when you’d gently suggested he take a break—just one night to be lee felix instead of stray kids' felix—he’d snapped.
"you think it's that easy?" he’d rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, jagged register he only used when he was truly hurt. "you think i can just turn it off? you have no idea what i do for this. you’re just sitting here in this perfect little bubble i built for us, judging me. if you hate how much i work so much, then why are you even here?"
the look on your face had haunted him for the forty-five minutes you’d been gone. it wasn't anger; it was the look of someone who had just realized the person they loved most in the world thought they were a burden.
you hadn't even grabbed a proper coat, just your keys and your shoes, walking out into the freezing slush of a seoul february.
"i'll leave you to your work then," you’d said. as much as you tried to hide it, your tears had slipped down your cheeks. that was the worst part. like you had been trying to hide yourself from him.
the phone call from the hospital had been short. precise. the kind of words that didn't leave room for hope. a patch of black ice, a driver who couldn't stop in time, and a girl who had no business being out in a storm without a coat.
felix felt the first wave hit him then. it wasn't grief—not yet. it was a physical rejection from his own body. he stumbled toward the small bathroom off the hallway, his knees hitting the tile with a bone-jarring thud. he barely made it to the toilet before he was retching, his stomach turning itself inside out.
he puked until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the lingering, nauseating taste of the chocolate he’d sampled earlier. he stayed there on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering so hard his teeth clattered. his blonde hair, which he’d spent so much time styling for your date night at home, was damp with sweat and stuck to his temples.
"please," he gasped into the empty, tiled room. "please, not her. anyone but her. take me. it was me. i said it. please."
he crawled back into the hallway, his movements slow and agonizing. he reached the coat rack and saw your spare scarf hanging there—the soft, pink one with the loose threads at the end. he pulled it down, wrapping it around his hand, pressing it to his face.
it still smelled like the perfume he’d bought you for christmas.
he thought about your hands. he thought about how they were always warm, even when his were like ice. he thought about how you used to trace the freckles on his cheeks like they were stars in a constellation only you could see.
and he thought about how those hands were now cold, sitting in a room with white sheets and bright lights, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
the sunshine of the group.
that’s what everyone called him. he was the one who brought the light, the one who gave the hugs, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. but as he sat on the floor of his dark hallway, felix realized the sun had finally gone out. he had extinguished it himself.
he looked toward the kitchen, where the brownies were still sitting on the cooling rack. they looked perfect. they looked like a "sorry" that would never be heard.
he let out a sound—a high, broken keen that didn't sound like a human voice at all. it was the sound of a boy who had finally realized that all the brownies and heart-shaped notes and grand gestures in the world couldn't fix a broken soul.
he’d wanted to give you the world, but instead, he’d given you the street on a rainy night.
he curled into a ball on the floor, the scarf clutched so tight his fingers went numb. he didn't want to get up. he didn't want to go to the hospital to identify a body that used to be his home. he just wanted to stay here in the dark, in the smell of chocolate and the cold, until the world forgot he ever existed.
"i'm sorry, angel," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "i'm so, so sorry."
the clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, heartless sound that reminded him he was still alive, and you weren't. and for lee felix, that was the greatest punishment of all.
SEUNGMIN
the air in seungmin’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed coffee mugs and the faint, lingering smell of your favorite citrus perfume. he was sitting at his small dining table, the one where you’d spent countless nights helping him memorize lyrics or just arguing over which convenience store had the best spicy ramen.
in front of him was a notebook, open to a blank page. his pen was held loosely in his hand, the tip resting on the paper until a small, dark blot of ink began to spread, staining the wood beneath. seungmin was known for his precision—for the way he hit every note with surgical accuracy and the way his life was organized into neat, predictable rows.
but precision didn't help when the world stopped making sense.
he’d been the one to start the fight. it was a stupid, prideful thing about timing and careers. he’d been stressed, his voice feeling strained after a long recording session, and when you’d suggested he take a day off to rest, he’d turned that sharp, observational wit of his into a weapon.
"you’re so focused on the now, but i’m trying to build something that lasts," he’d said, his voice quiet but biting. "you don't get it because you don't have to be perfect for anyone. i do. so just stop acting like you know what's best for me. it’s annoying."
he remembered the way you’d blinked, the hurt flashing behind your eyes before you’d masked it with that careful, yet kind, expression you only used when he was being particularly difficult.
"i'm sorry for being annoying, seungmin," you'd said, eyes wet. you hadn't slammed the door. you’d closed it softly, with the same gentleness you’d always shown him.
that was four days ago.
the call had come from the hospital later that night. a driver had run a red light. a pedestrian in the crosswalk. no time to react.
seungmin finally dropped the pen. it clattered against the table, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. he stood up, his movements stiff, and walked into the kitchen. on the counter sat a small box of herbal tea you’d bought for him because you were worried about his throat.
he hadn't even opened it yet.
he reached out, his fingers tracing the plastic wrap. he’d spent his whole life being the anchor, the one who stayed grounded while everyone else drifted. but without you, there was no ground left to stand on.
he walked toward the window, looking down at the street below. the city was still moving, people were still laughing, and the cars were still rushing through the intersection where everything had ended. it felt like a betrayal.
how could the world be so loud when you were so quiet?
"you didn't deserve that. you're too kind to me. too good," he whispered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "too good for me."
he went to his closet and pulled out a hoodie—one you used to steal all the time because it was too big for you. he buried his face in the fabric, desperate for a hint of you, but the scent was fading, replaced by the sterile smell of his own life.
he thought about all the times he’d teased you for your "poor life choices," all the times he’d played the role of the cynical boyfriend while secretly counting down the seconds until he could see you again. he’d been so busy being the person who knew everything that he’d forgotten to be the person who said anything.
he couldn't remember the last time that he told you he loved you. it hadn't been on the last day he'd seen your face. but what about before that?
he tried to retrace the weeks, digging through the mundane conversations about groceries or the weather, looking for the words. it felt like they had just slipped into the background, something assumed rather than said.
maybe he’d muttered it while you were half-asleep, or maybe he’d just thought it so loudly he convinced himself he’d actually spoken it aloud. now, the silence of the room just made the lack of it feel heavy, like a debt he’d forgotten to pay until it was too late to settle up.
what if you'd died doubting that he had? that he did love you?
seungmin sank to the floor, his back against the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. he wasn't a messy person, but his grief was a disaster. it was a jagged, unpolished thing that didn't fit into a four-four time signature.
he closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of your laugh, but all he could hear was the click of the door closing and the sound of his own cold voice telling you to go.
"i'm an idiot, pup," he choked out, the nickname feeling like a physical weight in his throat. "i'm just an idiot."
he stayed there until the room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. he was waiting for the buzzing of his phone, for a message asking for an sos, for a rescue flare that would never come.
the most observant man in the room had missed the only thing that mattered, and now, seungmin was finally left with a silence he couldn't fix.
I.N.
the cold on the rooftop was the only thing that felt honest anymore. it was a sharp, biting wind that cut through the layers of jeongin’s coat, stinging his cheeks and numbing the tips of his fingers. he stood near the edge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch a single, clean breath of air.
but the oxygen felt thin, like it was being filtered through a thick layer of ash.
it had been two weeks since the news. two weeks since you walked out of his apartment, teary-eyed and hurt, because of him. because of his cruelty.
and jeongin felt as though he had been submerged underwater the entire time. the world was a blur of muffled voices, bright stage lights that felt like needles in his eyes, and a relentless, crushing pressure in his lungs.
he didn't think he would ever breathe properly again. the simple act of inhaling felt like a betrayal. how could he fill his lungs when yours had stopped?
he leaned his weight against the cold metal railing, his head dropping into his hands. his body felt heavy, a shell of the person he used to be. every muscle ached with the fatigue of trying to pretend he wasn't hollow.
tucked between his shaking fingers was a small, faded slip of paper—a ticket stub from the very first date the two of you had gone on. it was a movie he hadn't even liked, a poorly paced thriller that you’d spent the entire time whispering critiques about into his ear.
he had kept it in the secret compartment of his wallet, a lucky charm he’d pull out whenever the pressure of being an idol felt like it was too much to carry. it was his anchor. it was proof that he was loved by someone who didn't care about his stage name.
for a split second, the wind whistled through the vents of the building, and jeongin’s heart stopped. it sounded like a hum—the specific, soft melody you used to absentmindedly whistle when you were focused on a task.
"angel?" he breathed, his head snapping up from his hands.
his eyes darted frantically across the rooftop, his pulse racing with a sudden, agonizing burst of hope. for one beautiful, terrifying moment, he expected to see you leaning against the doorway, your hair windswept and a teasing smile on your face, telling him he was being dramatic.
but the roof was empty. the hope died as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind a coldness that was even deeper than before.
he looked down, his gaze drifting toward the street below. across the road, a girl was walking, her laughter carried upward by the wind. she was glowing under the streetlamps, her hand firmly interlaced with a boy’s as they swung their arms between them.
they were young—his age—and happy, and entirely oblivious to the fact that a world had ended just a few stories above them.
in the distraction of the moment, jeongin’s grip on the ticket stub loosened. a stray, aggressive gust of wind caught the corner of the paper, snatching it from his numbed fingertips.
the ticket stub fluttered out of his hand, caught by a stray gust of wind, and he watched as it danced over the edge of the railing, disappearing into the dark abyss of the city below.
"no," he gasped, his body lunging forward, his hands grasping at the empty air where the paper had been a second before. "no, please. wait!"
he gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into his palms, his eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of white. but the street was a sea of moving lights and shadows, and the ticket—the last tangible piece of that first night—was gone.
it wasn't just the ticket. it was the realization that he couldn't hold onto any of it. not the smell of your hair, not the sound of your voice, not the way you looked when you were laughing at his terrible jokes.
it was all leaking away, dissolving into memory, and he was powerless to stop it. soon, he feared, even the memories would start to fray at the edges, and he would be left with nothing but the shape of a person he used to love.
the first sob broke out of him like a physical wound. it was a jagged, raw sound that tore through the quiet of the night. he collapsed onto his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold concrete of the roof. sobs racked his thin frame, violent and unforgiving, shaking him until his vision blurred with tears.
he felt so small. he was supposed to be the one who stayed strong, the one who kept the peace, the one who smiled through the exhaustion. but the smile was gone, replaced by a grief that was too big for his body to contain.
jeongin looked through the gaps in the railing at the drop below. it would be so easy. a single step, a moment of weightlessness, and then the quiet. the noise in his head would finally stop. the constant, agonizing ache in his chest would vanish.
he could follow the path of the ticket to the ground, and maybe, in whatever came next, he would find you waiting there with that same ticket in your hand.
he stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. he placed one hand on the top of the railing, looking down at the pavement. the thought of the impact didn't scare him; what scared him was the thought of waking up tomorrow and having to do this all over again.
but as he looked out over the city, he stopped. his hand gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white.
"i don't get to go," he whispered, his voice thick with salt and despair.
he didn't deserve the easy way out. he didn't deserve to escape the pain he felt. if he left now, who would remember the way you looked in the morning? who would remember the specific way you’d tuck your chin when you were embarrassed? if he died, those memories died with him, and he couldn't let you disappear completely.
he had to live with it. he had to carry the weight of your absence until it became a part of his bones, a permanent shadow in his soul. that was his duty to you. to bear the pain, to feel every second of the silence, and to keep your name alive in a world that had already moved on.
jeongin slid back down against the wall, his face hidden in his knees as the wind continued to howl around him. he stayed there long after his tears had dried, long after his skin had turned blue from the cold. he was alone on the roof, a boy who had lost his anchor and his heart, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to hide the darkness.
he just sat there, breathing in the cold air, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that would never be bright again.
they call you clingy on tour : hyung line ( part two )
➪ pairing : hyung line skz x reader
➪ summary : a continuation to part one. your boyfriend realizes how badly he messed up, now he has to beg you to hear him out, you however are very spiteful.
➪ other notes : i made all of the endings like this on purpose, no part 3 will be made :) maknae line version should be out soon but it’s i still don’t have a specific date yet.
you were only in the street fighting industry for the internship hours.
paramedic training had its ups and downs, sure, but the best perk by far was the freedom to pick where you logged your hours. the last thing you wanted was to spend your days shadowing clinical rounds in some sterile hospital, or twiddling your thumbs in the back of an ambulance bay.
so here you are now, crouching on a folding stool at the edge of a chain-link cage, knuckles wrapped in tape and chalk dust still on your palms—not because you’re fighting, but because it looks more official that way. the air reeks of sweat, spit from thrown punches, and something metallic you try not to identify until it crosses over into your medic corner. adrenaline thrums like a constant heartbeat through the dimly lit warehouse, where the overhead bulbs buzz in protest and gaggles of fans shift in the stifling late-night heat.
your eyes scan the fighters as they dart in and out of your corner, logging vitals, noting ragged breaths, checking small cuts before they turn serious. each grunt, each slip, each jab demanded attention— and you gave it, professional instinct kicking in, even if your stomach twists at some of the violence.
he was there, of course. he always is.
he’s leaning against the far corner tonight, just beyond your reach but impossible to ignore. lee know. a fighter, an enigma, and somehow entirely predictable in his unpredictability. the first time you noticed him, he’d barely spared a glance at the corner; a flick of his gaze, a quirk of the brow. that was all you got. and yet somehow the moment had carved itself into memory.
he’s utterly recognizable wherever he goes in the warehouse, with that dark hair like a raven river sweeping across his forehead, sometimes fluffy, sometimes matted with sweat; and those broad shoulders always pulling deliciously at whatever tank he’s thrown on, arms lined with muscles that serve to power punches like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
he never spoke much whenever he deigned to let you patch him up after some of his rougher fights. just stared up at you with those piercing eyes that could make even the worst sinners blush like a saint. he was as stoic as he was skilled, but you tried not to let it deter you.
you filled the silences with your own chatter; if he minded, he never let on. but he always kissed his knuckles before throwing a punch after letting you bandage him up.
tonight, like always, his eyes find yours in the crowd. he doesn’t wave. he doesn’t smile. his presence is just… there, looming taut, dangerous, a little too magnetic. and when one of the fighters in the match preceding his takes a heavy blow in the ring, your pulse spikes— not for the fight, not yet— but for the quiet certainty that he’ll be there, watching, assessing, seeing the way you work against the damage he inflicts.
your coworker is dragging the sore loser of the last fight toward the small med station, murmuring reassurances you only half-register. your eyes stay locked on the ring. the fight is over, but a new one is about to begin— and the moment lee know steps in, the world shrinks.
he moves like water held in check: precise, controlled, but with the underlying promise of force ready to spill. you catch him stretching first– the slow rotation of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, wrapped fingers splayed like he’s mapping the air itself. calves shift, heels rise, then land solid against the canvas, measuring distance with muscles you didn’t know could move that cleanly, that tautly.
he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, a rhythm that’s both a warm-up and a warning. every shift of weight, every flick of his head, is deliberate. his eyes sweep the cage with surgical attention, noting angles, distances, posture, every detail that could become a weakness— or an opportunity. you swear you can see calculations running behind his gaze, lightning-quick, merciless. ready to win.
the air seems to bend around him. there’s heat, yes, but it’s not from exertion yet— it’s the aura he carries: taut and charged, a predator in pause. he traces imaginary punches midair, elbows slicing diagonals, wrists flicking out to test the arc. each movement is fluid, effortless, but it carries threat; the kind that makes your stomach tighten and your pulse spike even if nothing has touched you.
your notebook— meant to log vitals— is forgotten on the bench. your hands itch to touch, to reach out and feel how controlled every muscle is, how he could crush or protect with the same motion. the way his back flexes, the lines of his shoulders, the subtle twist of his torso as he shifts from one stance to another— he’s poetry, danger wrapped in sinew and solid intention.
he stops for a moment, eyes narrowing, scanning the cage. your chest aches for the briefest acknowledgment, some sign that he knows you’re watching. the corner of his mouth quirks up; not quite a smile, but almost.
it’s enough. you smile despite yourself.
then he loosens his fists, lets them fly in slow, deliberate shadow punches as he warms himself up. the sound of air slicing past— almost a hiss— draws your full attention. every punch has purpose, and you can see the lines connecting shoulder, elbow, wrist, knuckles, snapping back into guard. it’s motion honed to a razor’s edge, and your chest tightens with each strike.
and then he pauses at the center of the ring. stance perfect, posture relaxed but primed, gaze sweeping the space, measuring, calculating. the aura shifts— it’s less warm-up now and more for intimidation. he breathes, slow, steady, but every inhale seems to draw the air tight around you. you feel it. the temperature rises. the buzz of anticipation makes your fingers curl around your pen.
your coworker nudges you back to reality with a quiet, “you should be taking notes,” but the words barely register. all you can see is him: fluid, precise, unshakable.
and in that moment, you’re caught completely. enthralled, heart hammering, notebook abandoned, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue.
he’s a fighter, yes.
but he’s also a storm, a controlled one; and you’re already teetering dangerously close to being pulled in.
—
the fight has been dragging on for the better part of an hour now.
the crowd’s roars are a distant hum in your ears, but the impact of each hit thuds through the cage, vibrating up your spine. lee know moves like water cutting stone— smooth, fast, lethal— but his opponent refuses to crumble. every jab, every hook, every measured strike is met with stubborn, ragged resistance.
you know you’re not supposed to be partial to any of the fighters; your job is to patch them up no matter what. but you can’t help it.
you clutch the edge of your bench, knuckles white as you watch him duck under a wild swing, pivot, and land a sharp hook to the ribs that makes his opponent grunt and stumble— just slightly, never enough to finish. sweat glistens along lee know’s jaw, the muscles in his neck flexing with every rotation, every strike controlled, purposeful, like he’s a hurricane contained in sinew.
then it happens.
a flash of movement you almost miss: the opponent counters with a sharp uppercut that snaps lee know’s head back, then rakes his nails across his jaw in a split-second scrape. you gasp, heart in your throat, as crimson beads bloom along the pale skin of his handsome face. the referee jumps in instantly, shouting for a time out.
lee know drops to the bench next to you like a wolf finally acknowledging the muzzle, shoulders sagging but still radiating danger. you jump to your feet, grabbing madly for your kit; he lets you cradle his head in your hands without protest, and suddenly all the chaos of the fight is replaced by this small, charged pocket of closeness.
“you’re a mess,” you murmur, reaching for the damp cloth; but there’s a tension in your voice, a flutter in your chest that betrays your calm exterior. your fingers trace the lines of his jaw, dabbing at the cut on his nose, pressing gently to stop the blood from dripping onto his shirt.
he smirks faintly, eyes glittering with mischief and sweat, even in pain. “only for you,” he rasps, and it’s just enough to make your heart pound ever harder in your chest.
you bite back a laugh, returning to the task. you wipe at his temple, cradle his cheek with care, adjusting the antibiotic cream before you lay little white bandages over the scrape. your hands linger a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against tense skin, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head.
“you always this careful?” he asks softly, voice hoarse, teasing in the barest of ways.
“someone has to keep you in one piece,” you reply, tone clipped but your heart racing. the words are professional enough, but your pulse betrays your growing awareness of just how close he is.
he tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly. “maybe i like it when you fuss,” he admits quietly, almost shy if you didn’t know any better; but there’s heat in his chest and throat that you can feel through your palms.
the time-out bell is ticking down, the distant hum of the crowd returning. you give him one last dab at the wound, press the cloth to the scrape along his jaw, and lift your gaze. he watches you with an intensity that makes the air between you electric, his near-smirk returning as he grips the bench. you rewrap his knuckles with lightning speed– just to be sure.
“am i all patched up, y/n?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, teasing, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
you smile back against your better judgement and nod. “go get ‘em, tiger,” you say softly, and he raises his freshly wrapped knuckles to his mouth, kissing them once with a smirk before the bell rings and the fight resumes.
—
the gym is almost empty now, the crowd thinned to the last few diehards who shuffle toward the exit, shouting their goodbyes or slapping each other on the back. the overhead bulbs hum low, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked canvas. your coworker has already packed up, leaving you alone with him, the quiet settling like a second skin.
lee know is still sitting on the bench, shoulders tight from the fight, knuckles still wrapped in your white tape, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his forearms. you crouch in front of him again, kit open at your side, fingers brushing against the newest shallow cut along his cheek as you dab at it with antiseptic. his jaw is tight, lips pressed together; but he leans into your hands, just enough to tell you that your touch doesn’t feel like an intrusion.
“you should ice this one,” you murmur, careful, tracing the curve of his jaw where a faint bruise promises to bloom later. it’s only yellow for now, but it’ll brighten into an ugly purple soon enough if he’s not careful.
“i’ll live,” he answers lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to where he’s slowly unraveling the wraps around his fists.
“you always brush your injuries off,” you press, tone soft but insistent, wanting to hear more than the clipped surface. you smooth out the tiny white bandage across his nose, whispering a soft sorry when he winces ever so slightly.
“habit,” he murmurs with a shrug, letting the word hang. it’s neutral enough; but the tilt of his head, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, says otherwise.
your fingers linger, brushing gently over the edge of his cheek where the blood has dried in a faint line. his eyes are half-lidded, chin tipped just so that your touch reaches the curve of his jaw. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away; he just lets you patch him up, stoic, silent, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. like he’s letting you anchor yourself to him.
“does it hurt?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer– he always says no. your hand hovers over the still-healing cut on his temple from a previous fight, your thumb brushing the edge of his skin as if testing for a reaction. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t pull back, either.
“not like it did last week,” he murmurs, voice clipped, but there’s something in the tone— barely perceptible— that tells you he’s amused by all your fussing. a flicker in his eyes betrays it.
you dab lightly at the last little scrape, antiseptic cooling against his warm skin, tracing the line of the cut with care. your pulse hammers a little harder in your chest with each brush of your fingertips. he shifts subtly, just a fraction, trusting you to take care of him. you always do.
“you’re quiet,” you murmur, brushing the damp cloth across his temple again. “usually you’d be muttering complaints or some cryptic advice.”
“not tonight,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the floor. the words are short, yes, but there’s weight to them. he doesn’t want to speak, but he also doesn’t move away. he allows this— he allows your hands on him; allows your focus, your presence.
you tilt your head, studying him. there’s a faint sheen of sweat along the curve of his jaw, along his neck, and the muscles beneath flex gently under your fingertips when he adjusts his posture. your eyes trace him with care, memorizing the lines, the tension, the way his body moves even when he’s still. you press the damp cloth to his forehead once more.
“you let me do this too easily,” you say; your voice is almost a whisper, your fingers still lingering over the scrape along his cheekbone.
he meets your eyes, and you swear you forget how to breathe. “yeah, well. someone’s gotta keep me from falling apart.” he leans his head into your hand for a fraction more than necessary, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his skin. it’s steady, strong, almost mocking your own racing pulse.
“how do you do it?” you ask suddenly, voice low. “how do you keep so… precise? so controlled in there?”
“practice,” he answers, clipped, eyes finally meeting yours, “years of it.” his gaze is sharp, calculating, but something softer flickers in it— respect, acknowledgment, maybe even a trace of humor.
“come on. there’s more to it than just practice,” you press, leaning in just slightly, your hand brushing over his shoulder as you adjust a bandage you’ve fussed over too many times already.
and then the words crystallize before you have time to think about them: “teach me.”
he freezes. for a fraction of a second, his expression remains unreadable, lips pressed tight. then his eyes flick down to your hands, brushing against his skin, brushing against him in ways that maybe aren’t just for clinical care. he swallows, subtle, and finally exhales. “maybe someday.”
you catch his eye with a spreading grin, “someday? c’mon, you’ve got to give me a starting point,” you pester, refusing to let him hide behind his usual stoicism. “just a little. just enough for me to understand. i’ll be careful, i promise.”
he glances away, jaw tight, fingers flexing. the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “mm…you’re relentless, you know?” he murmurs, voice low, almost indulgent, almost a warning.
“if you’re trying to flatter me into dropping it, that was a miserable failure,” you say teasingly, eyes locking with his. the heat between you thickens, silent and charged. your hands hover near his temple again, touching nothing yet holding everything. your fingers squeeze the cloth still in your grasp like it’s a tether to reality.
he finally leans back slightly, that smirk firming into something more real. “fine,” he concedes eventually— but the weight in his tone is enough to make your chest lift. “i’ll teach you. step by step. but not now; i apparently have some injuries i need to ice tonight.”
you smile despite yourself, pulse still fast, savoring the victory hidden in the concession. “deal,” you say firmly. the promise of learning how to hold your own hangs heavy in the quiet gym, louder than any fight you’ve watched tonight.
he watches you a beat longer, expression still revealing too little, but the faintest warmth in his eyes betrays some small part of him that’s already anticipating the lesson. your fingers twitch, itching to trace the lines of his face again, but you no longer have any real reason to do so. nothing professional, anyways.
so you step back, careful; letting him remain ever the enigma, the storm, the controlled force that yields to you in small and stolen moments.
and as the last of the sparse crowd files out, the gym hums low, filled only with the two of you, the quiet aftermath of chaos, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.
—
the practice room is half-dark by the time lee know wanders in, the overhead light buzzing like it’s on its last leg. the stale air smells like chalk dust and old sweat, concrete floor stained where gloves and knuckles have bled out. you’re perched on a low bench, knees bouncing.
you catch his eye as he approaches, smiling faintly; he doesn’t grant you one back, but you do catch his lips twitching once before he drops onto the stool in front of you without a word.
he’s holding a roll of hand wraps.
“give me your hand.” his voice is flat, the kind that doesn’t bother making room for argument; you have half a mind to ask why. but you find the words die out on the tip of your tongue.
you hold a hand out for him, palm stiff, like you’re not entirely sure what you signed up for. he catches it, and his hand dwarfs yours— skin rough, knuckles scarred, but grip steady. the cloth stretches as he threads it around your wrist the way you’ve done for him so many times; tight, but not too tight. his fingers brush the inside of your palm when he anchors it between each of your fingers, and you swear your heart hits the ceiling.
he doesn’t look at you, only at the slow rhythm of wrap after wrap, like you’re another fight he’s breaking down into steps. “you’ll break your thumb if you tuck it wrong,” he mutters. when you shift into making a fist with the hand he’s wrapped, he huffs through his nose— annoyed— and repositions your grip himself.
his touch is clinical. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does.
he removes your thumb from inside the fist and nudges it to the side, then presses over your closed fingers once to check your strength. he sighs, but doesn’t move you any further; you must’ve done something right. he moves on to wrapping your other wrist.
by the time he finishes the second hand, he’s close enough that his knee knocks yours when he straightens. he nods sharply toward the bag hanging in the corner. “stance.”
you copy what you’ve seen him do a hundred times from your side of the ring— feet planted, fists up. it earns you nothing but his signature exhale. “too wide. weight’s off.” he says shortly. he taps your heel with the toe of his shoe until you shift. then he presses your shoulder, making you bend just slightly. “lower.”
you roll your eyes. “are you always this bossy?”
his gaze flicks up, unreadable. “depends, princess. you always this sloppy?”
you should fire back. you should. but his chest brushes your back when he steps in to adjust your form, and your brain blanks out completely at the touch. his hand closes over yours, angling your wrist until the punch feels like it could actually land.
he doesn’t move away once he’s done fixing your stance; just stays there, breathing steady, the air between you far too heavy to ignore. finally, he steps back, allowing you to drive a jab into the bag.
the sound is satisfying—sharp, solid. you think it’s a decent enough punch.
but before you can pull back for another, his hand flashes out and catches your fist mid-air, sparks humming to life in your veins. the cloth’s tight against your skin, your pulse hammering into his palm through it.
he studies you for a beat too long. “not bad.” the praise comes low, almost reluctant. and then he lets go like he’s been burned, stepping away before you can ask what the hell that look in his eyes was.
“you need more weight behind it though,” he says, “throw your body into it.” he jerks his chin toward the bag again. “punch.” so you do. or— you try.
your fist thuds against the bag, more of a sloppy swing than a clean strike. the bag barely shivers, and you hear that sigh you could recognize anywhere from behind you once more. “again.”
his voice is clipped, but not wholly unkind. just focused– like you should be.
you throw another. you’re still off.
he exhales yet again, the sound closer to a growl this time, and steps in. one scarred hand circles your wrist, the other steadying the back of your elbow. he guides you through the motion slow, almost painfully slow, showing you the correct form.
“straight line, no curve. your shoulder leads.” he pushes until your arm extends exactly the way he wants it, knuckles brushing the bag. “you don’t throw with your arm. you throw with everything.”
you crane your head back to blink at him, confused. “everything?”
he doesn’t bother explaining; instead, his palm finds your hipbone, nudging it until your stance shifts, then taps your core with two fingers. you think your eyebrows can’t possibly fly any higher up your forehead. “here. start here.”
the touch is fleeting but it leaves heat under your skin nonetheless, like he’s markimg you through the fabric. you feel like if you were to peel the material away, you’d see his handprints branded over every place he’s touched you tonight.
“try again.”
this time you hit the bag with the full twist of your body. the sound is louder, cleaner. you look back for his reaction; his mouth barely twitches— approval, maybe— but he doesn’t linger on it.
he circles around, pacing. “give me some combinations. one-two, right-left.” you follow his example after he punches the bag in demonstration, jabbing twice after him. the second throw slips, and your fist collides weakly with the bag.
he catches your hand before you can reset. “stop aiming for power, y/n. aim for precision. power comes later.”
you want to snap at him— you’re trying, damn it— but he’s already moving, standing directly behind you now, one arm guiding yours through the motions again like a puppeteer. your back presses flush with his chest every time you extend, driving you slowly mad. the bag sways gently with the echo of your punches.
the room has gone too quiet, still except for the drag of wraps with every punch, the smack of fabric on canvas, the rasp of both your breaths. finally, he steps back, eyes narrowed. “spar it.”
your jaw threatens to drop. “you mean… spar with you?”
he shakes his head, gaze unreadable. “with the bag.” then, after a beat, “i’ll push.” he braces the bag with his forearms, those muscles lining his arms pulled taut, waiting.
you hit it again— jab, once, twice. each strike drives the bag into him, but he doesn’t budge. just stares at you over the top of it, sweat beading along his temple, absorbing your every move like it’s nothing. his mouth is a firm line, just as unyielding as the rest of him.
“harder.”
you grit your teeth and throw another set, putting your whole body into it. your knuckles sting under the wraps, your lungs burn, your muscles protest loudly; but the feeling is liberating, addictive. you keep going under his neverending gaze. his voice cuts in low, steady: “better. go again.”
by the time your arms ache to the point of screaming, he finally lets the bag swing free. it collides back into your chest harder than expected, knocking you back a step with an ungraceful ‘oomph’.
he lets out a chuckle; it might be one of the first you’ve ever heard from him. you think he should laugh more. “maybe i should teach you dodging next,” he mutters.
you roll your eyes, taking the chalk he’s offered from his outstretched hand. “shut up, minho.”
–
you find yourself back in the gym the following week, lee know at your side as he shows you how to block incoming punches.
the lights overhead flicker faintly, buzzing like they’re the only other ones awake this late. sweat and chalk hang heavy in the air, and the bag sways idly from its chain as if it’s already bracing for impact. you’re jittery with anticipation, fists balled, ready to swing like last time.
but before you can even so much as cock your arm back, his palm flattens firmly against your wrist, halting you mid-motion.
“guard first,” he says evenly, eyes cutting to yours in a way that makes the order sharper than the words themselves. “you’ll get wrecked if you can’t protect your face. fists up.”
you frown, but obey, raising your hands. they hover somewhere near your cheeks— close enough, you think.
apparently not.
he huffs through his nose, stepping closer until his shadow nearly swallows you. his fingers slide over your knuckles, nudging them higher into a more protective position. the rough drag of his hard-fought calluses over the back of your hand sends sparks down your spine.
“too low,” he mutters. “like this.”
he curves your elbow inward with a guiding press, his touch patient but unyielding. your chest tightens. he’s not even really looking at you, more focused on your stance than he is on the deep blush rising to your cheeks, but every adjustment has you fighting to keep your pulse steady.
you drop your guard instinctively just to catch your breath. big mistake.
his hand darts out, quick as a strike, flicking you lightly on the forehead. “dead,” he says simply, smirk curling at his lips.
your jaw drops. “you didn’t even—”
“exactly.” he interrupts smoothly. his gaze finally flickers up, that same half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “block, or take a hit. there’s no in-between in a fight.”
you groan but reset anyways, throwing your hands up again. he doesn’t look impressed.
when he raises his own hand, curling it into a loose fist, you realize belatedly that he intends to test you. “ready?”
you nod, determined this time— only to flinch when his knuckles ghost slowly toward your cheek, the barest shell of a punch meant only to simulate reality. your hands fly up too long after they should’ve.
he catches your wrists midair, holding them in place. “you’re distracted,” he murmurs observantly. “can’t afford to be distracted in a real fight, though. if you ever get in one.”
your pulse is erratic against his grip– you are distracted, far too caught up in how his hair is falling into his eyes and not worried enough about your less-than-perfect guard form. he doesn’t squeeze your hands, doesn’t fully restrain; but somehow the steadiness of his grip feels stronger than anything.
“again,” he orders, releasing you.
this time you plant yourself, knees bent, fists tighter. when his hand comes forward, you meet it with your forearm. the block isn’t clean, but it’s contact.
a quiet hum escapes him, low in his throat— approval, maybe. he takes your elbow then, shifting the angle. “closer. you don’t want space for anything to slip through.”
his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in to demonstrate, his own arm lifted in a perfect guard. the proximity alone makes your head spin.
“copy it,” he tells you, voice steady, but you can feel the heat radiating off him where he lingers.
you mimic his posture, and he adjusts slowly, one fingertip tapping the dip of your ribcage to tell you to tighten up; then a palm steadying your wrist, his other hand ghosting over your jawline just to tilt your face into the right alignment.
you’re melting. completely. utterly.
he notices— of course he notices— but his expression doesn’t betray more than the faintest twitch of amusement, of awareness, before he drops his hand back to his side.
“better,” he says simply. then, after a beat, “again.”
you block the next slow jab cleaner. the one after that is even sharper. he doesn’t praise, not outright; but his eyes linger a little longer on your stance, and when his hand comes to reset your elbow once more, it feels less like correction and more like… confirmation.
“you’ll get there,” he murmurs, almost too low to catch.
your chest is tight, your fists trembling— not from the exertion, but from the way every brush of his hand leaves an aftershock. a trail of fire zips down your skin, radiating, spreading from each point of contact.
lee know doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t have to. the twinkle in his dark eyes says it all.
when the bag sways in the corner, begging for more strikes, you glance at it eagerly; but his voice cuts through. “not yet. you should work on your guard until it’s second nature.”
you pout petulantly, “but punching is the fun part.”
his lips twitch again, fleeting amusement warming the otherwise cool set of his features. “punches are only fun if you’re still standing to throw one.”
and then his fist comes toward you again in slow motion, testing, relentless— forcing you to block, to feel the weight of his presence in every correction, until your muscles ache and your chest heaves.
by the time your arms feel like lead and your guard’s trembling more than holding, he finally steps back, head tilting as he studies you. his gaze flickers from your fists to your flushed face, then back again. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s an appreciative glint behind those dark eyes you’ve become so fond of.
“…good enough,” he says at last, almost begrudging. “you’ve earned a swing.”
you don’t bother hiding your grin as he jerks his chin toward the bag. the thing sways gently, chain creaking overhead like it’s mocking you.
you draw back your fist, exhilaration rushing your veins— only to feel his palm flatten lightly between your shoulder blades. you jolt.
“not like that.” his voice rumbles close to your ear, his breath grazing the side of your face. “reset.”
your knees nearly buckle, but you obey, planting yourself again.
his hand doesn’t leave. it slides down, pressing at your spine, coaxing you to square your shoulders. the heat of him is everywhere— his chest just behind you, his knee brushing the back of yours when he nudges your stance narrower.
“weight here.” his palm finds your hip, guiding until your balance shifts. “drive through it.”
your throat goes dry. you’re barely listening to the words— only the cadence of them as they brush past your ear from behind, steady and close. the hand on your hip is purely instructional; but it’s not. right now, it’s so much more. it leaves you dizzy and exhilarated, fighting for your next breath as much as you’ve been fighting to keep a perfect form.
he doesn’t wait for you to ask. his hand covers yours over the wraps, guiding your arm back into position. “again. with me this time.”
you punch forward, his hand slowly directing your line and then releasing as you put power behind it. the bag shudders weakly.
“better,” he mutters. but he doesn’t move away. instead, his other hand lands lightly on your stomach, fingertips just grazing your abdomen as he presses. “tighter here. everything comes from here– all your strength and power.”
you swallow hard, pulse hammering. your whole body feels strung taut between his steady hands, splayed almost possessively over your skin– shoulder, stomach, everywhere.
the next strike lands sharper, cleaner. the sound echoes with a satisfying thwack across the empty gym.
his approval doesn’t come in words, not at first; only in the way his grip lingers a fraction longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing it instantly.
finally, he circles around with an arm that trails your waist too gently, sliding himself in front of you. his own fists rise, demonstrating a quick one-two against the bag. the muscles in his arms shift, smooth and powerful, and you swear you forget how to breathe.
he lowers his fists and cocks his head at you. “copy.”
you mimic his form, your punch colliding with the bag. this time, when it rebounds, it drives into his forearms where he braces it, his body catching the weight of your throw; off-kilter, but not wholly bad. a solid enough punch that he nods, just once.
your knuckles throb. your chest heaves. you can’t look away from the faint smirk curling at his lips, from the way his eyes pin you steady to the spot.
“see?” he says, low and even. “power’s nothing without control.”
you’re not sure if he’s talking about boxing anymore.
you drop to a bench, arms shaking, chest heaving. your fists still wrapped, sweat stinging your eyes from exertion and— honestly— how close he’s been.
he steps up to you, quiet. no words yet, just presence. his fingers brush your forearms, and you freeze, looking up into those captivating eyes.
“hand.” his voice is clipped as always, but there’s a softness beneath it you catch only because you know him.
you hold out both your fists. he cups your wrist in one hand with a touch so soft you could cry and gently starts to pry the tape free, rolling it down your wrists with care, each tug deliberate but tender. his thumbs brush lightly over the back of your hands as he inspects your knuckles, eyes scanning smudges of chalk and faint bruises from your swings. it’s an odd thing to be the one receiving care instead of giving it, especially from him; but you’re far from complaining.
“you’re raw in a few spots,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. he presses a fingertip to a tiny scrape at the base of your knuckle, testing the sting. “not bad. pretty clean for a beginner.”
you tilt your head back, letting him work, marveling at the way his hands are confident and careful all at once— like he’s simultaneously checking and protecting.
“don’t laugh,” he warns softly as he tightens the last wrap around your wrist, “but i’m actually a little impressed. you’re a fast learner.”
you grin, chest pounding with how loudly your heart has taken to calling his name. “a high compliment, coming from you.”
he smirks faintly, but the tension in his shoulders softens just a fraction. “i’ll teach you more next time. but for now…” he trails off, brushing a hand over the back of yours one last time before letting go, lingering long enough that the warmth presses into your skin.
you glance down at your hands, pulse still high, and back up at him. “thank you.”
he meets your gaze, eyes flicking to your flushed cheeks. “you don’t have to thank me, y/n.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, smiling despite the ache in your arms, the fire in your chest, and the pull of him so close, so careful. “if you say so.”
he steps back finally, giving you a little space— but not too much, not entirely. you can feel the residue of his presence, the weight of him in the quiet gym, the soft insistence that he’ll be there, guiding, teaching, protective… his eyes say that he’s nowhere near immune to all your small, stolen moments.
and as you stretch your sore fingers, rubbing at the knuckles he just checked with such tender care, you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face.
he’s addictive.
and you’re already hooked.
—
the bell rings sharply, echoing through the packed warehouse, and the sound is electric. lee know moves like a hurricane trapped in the ring— controlled and fluid, every step sure, every pivot deliberate. he circles, eyes scanning his opponent, reading angles and posture and intent. his opponent shifts, tries to bait him into throwing an early punch; but lee know is untouchable, a predator already three moves ahead.
your eyes are glued to him, heart hammering, chest tight. every flex of his back, every tight rotation of his shoulders, it all screams power and precision. the world shrinks to the canvas beneath his feet and the rhythm of his body moving like liquid steel.
then the dam breaks.
in a flash— too fast to fully process— his opponent lands an unfair elbow to the face, a strike meant to sneak past defenses. lee know’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose. the sound hits your ears like a physical blow. your stomach drops.
“no!” you shout instinctively, leaping to your feet, kit forgotten, muscles coiled to charge in– only to realize you can’t. you’re frozen in the medical corner, eyes locked on him.
lee know hits the mat— just for a heartbeat— and everything around you stops. silence presses against your ears, thick and suffocating. the referee starts a countdown.
then he’s rising slowly after the second count, flicking the blood from his nose with a tilt of his head; he’s deadly calm, controlled, unshaken. every movement is deliberate, measured; nothing betrays the sting of the strike. your chest swells with relief and something else, something like fierce admiration.
he resets exactly the way he’s been teaching you to do in practice: stance perfect, hands guarding, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. his opponent hesitates, suddenly aware of the storm standing before him. lee know’s eyes sweep, calculating, laser-focused, pupils sharp, measuring the tiniest shift, the slightest weakness.
the first punch is clean, precise, a snapping jab that makes the opponent flinch. lee know doesn’t overcommit, doesn’t rush— each strike is surgical. the crowd barely registers the rhythm, but you can feel it in your bones: this is more than just punching. it’s choreography, deadly and beautiful.
he pivots, fluid, whipping a combination of hooks that land exactly where he wants— rib, shoulder, side of the head— enough to unbalance without overextending. his footwork is hypnotic, a dance of power and grace.
the opponent swings wildly, anger breaking his form, desperation cutting into technique. lee know reads it instantly, sidestepping, slipping punches that would floor anyone else. the thick blood trickle down his face glistens under the harsh gym lights, sweat and red mingling, but he moves as if nothing weighs on him but the fight itself.
he sets up— his stance lowering, weight shifting, muscles coiled. the precision is art. jab, uppercut, hook; every motion exact, every strike timed with the calculation of a master. the opponent wobbles, staggered, realization dawning.
and then— he unleashes the final move.
a combination that’s all him: three hits, pivot, snap. every strike lands clean, deliberate, the last punch folding the opponent onto the mat, finality in the thud. silence fills the gym, only broken by the countdown climbing until it hits ten, a bell ringing to declare a knockout. lee know stands, chest heaving lightly, eyes scanning the ring, the canvas, the aftermath.
the crowd roars. the bell rings again to signal the end of the match, and lee know graces the audience with a smile– small, but real. deadly sharp. a little proud.
your own breath comes in bursts, heart thundering. you can’t stop staring, frozen by the violence, the beauty, the precision, him. he wipes at his blood again, calm and composed; your hands ache to reach out, to cradle that jaw, to steady that proud, stubborn head.
finally, he steps toward the ropes, glancing at you. a flicker of acknowledgment. a twitch of a smirk until that smile softens; and just for a fraction of a heartbeat, the storm that is lee know becomes something more tender in your chest. kingly and untouchable, yes, but tethered to you in ways that leave your pulse electric.
the fight is over. victory is his. and you know, you know, you’ve just witnessed something rare: controlled chaos, lethal grace. a man who fights not just with skill, but with the full weight of his presence.
he steps out of the ring, sweat still dripping down the sharp lines of his face, blood from his nose streaking in slowly-drying lines that aren’t nearly enough to mask his intensity. every motion is controlled, deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his posture.
your kit is open in your hands before he even reaches the bench, your fingers itching to touch him after watching that display of raw, calculated power.
“that was insane,” you murmur, voice a mix of half-scolding, half-admiring. “i’ve never seen anyone move like that. like.. a storm on the mat.”
he doesn’t respond right away, just lets the words hang, eyes flicking up to meet yours. a glint of something soft, almost shy, flickers there— a brief flicker of flattery, humility, before his stoic mask reasserts itself. “storm’s not the word i’d use,” he says lowly, voice clipped, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “just… precise.”
you step closer, crouching beside him as he lowers onto the bench. your fingers hover over his jaw first, brushing away a bead of blood from a lesser scratch along his chin. he tilts his head slightly into your touch the way he always does; never quite enough to admit vulnerability, but always enough to let you in. the contact sends molten heat straight to your chest.
“you haven’t had a bleed this bad in a while,” you murmur, dabbing at the thick gush of blood from his nose with an antiseptic towelette. your touch is gentle, almost reverent against his skin, warm beneath your palms, muscles taut even as they finally start to release some tension. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away, and you feel that quiet trust settling between you like a dust cloud.
“don’t make it sound like i’m delicate,” he murmurs back, just above a whisper, but the edge is gone. there’s no sharpness— just acknowledgment, and maybe even relief that he can lean on you, even a fraction.
“i’m not saying that,” you reply softly, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat-slicked muscles that move under your fingers when he shifts slightly. “i’m just saying…you’re something else.”
he lets out a short breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh, and leans just slightly closer, enough to let you cradle the back of his neck while your other hand smooths out the wraps over his knuckles. each adjustment is slow, careful; you linger just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the sharp planes of his hand, memorizing him.
“you always fuss like this?” he asks, tone teasing just enough to make your heart stutter.
“someone has to make sure you survive your own fights,” you murmur, brushing the last streak of blood off the bridge of his nose. your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing the scar from last week, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
he tilts his head into your touch again, eyes closing for the briefest second, and your chest hammers. you swallow, heart racing, and finally reach for the final act of care: undoing the knuckle wraps. your fingers work slowly, teasing the tape away, revealing the scarred, steady hands beneath. he flexes his fingers gently, letting you examine each knuckle as if you were checking him under a microscope.
then, almost on impulse, you bring his hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his rough knuckles. your eyes lift shyly to his, cheeks warm. “speeds up the healing process,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the weight of the moment. “or at least that’s what i’ve heard.”
he freezes, chest rising slightly faster than normal, pupils dark, molten, unreadable— before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “should’ve had you kiss it to make it all better ages ago,” he says quietly, a little teasing and a lot more appreciative. you feel your ears flush bright red.
your pulse threatens to burst out of your chest, but you can’t help smiling, lingering just a moment longer, fingers still brushing his. he doesn’t pull away— doesn’t move a muscle, letting you claim this small, stolen tenderness.
finally, you set the hand down, both of you catching breaths. for a heartbeat, the gym feels like it’s shrunk to just the two of you: quiet aftermath of chaos, the hum of distant lights, and the weight of unspoken promises. lee know’s stoic front is cracking, just a fraction, revealing the man beneath— the one who lets you in, who yields, who lets himself be cared for.
and you? you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
—
the gym smells of sweat and anticipation tonight. you bounce on the balls of your feet, fists up, heart hammering— not just from exertion, but from the thrill of being here with him. lee know stretches casually in front of you, chest rising and falling steady, the muscles in his arms flexing with every small movement. he looks effortless, untouchable… and yet, somehow, he’s about to let you punch him.
“ready?” he asks, voice teasing just enough that your stomach flips. he shifts into his stance, weight balanced perfectly, feet planted like a predator. his hands hover— guarded, precise, like he’s daring you to even try.
“ready,” you say back, forcing your best glare, though your knees are bouncing and your pulse is racing. he chuckles faintly at your weak attempt to intimidate.
he lunges first, slow, exaggerated; it’s barely an attack, more like a suggestion of one. he meant it when he said he’d go easy on you. you throw a jab and it’s sloppy, more of a flail than a punch, and his eyes flick to yours, one eyebrow raised. “hmm,” he mutters, almost a laugh laced in the tone. “you’re trying for power too soon. focus on the footwork, y/n. balance comes first.”
you huff, frustrated, circling him, trying to anticipate, trying to land something. he moves like water, slipping and shifting just enough to make you swing too early or miscalculate. each near-hit sends your chest pounding, not just from effort— there’s something else in the way his eyes never leave yours, the way his body glides next to you, the brush of his shoulder when he shifts slightly too close.
“hey—hey! stop teasing me!” you snap, panting, swinging a left jab that he catches mid-air with just the tip of his fingers. your pulse rockets when his hand brushes yours, guiding, correcting, but there’s a treacherous weight in the touch.
“teasing?” he says softly, just a murmur; but the smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. “i’m just teaching.”
you glare, but there’s no real bite behind it— just embarrassment and attraction and frustration, all tangled in a tight knot rising to your throat. his cheek threatens to dimple with the hint of a real smile; and the smirk, the calm, the impossibly-still control, makes your chest ache.
he steps in, adjusting your elbow with one hand, nudging your shoulder with the other. his chest brushes yours, and your brain shorts out. “control,” he murmurs. “fists first, follow through second.”
you throw again, trying to put more into it, and this time he lets your fist hit him— the impact is soft, but it’s not nothing. the fleeting contact sends a shock straight up your arm. he barely reacts, but the faint twitch of his lips betrays him anyway.
“not bad,” he says, clipped, almost reluctant, and you glare at him but can’t deny the thrill.
you pivot, lunge, try for a sloppy roundhouse; he steps into you before you have the chance to execute, chest pressed tighter against yours, guiding your motion with firm, steady hands. his fingers brush over your ribs and forearm as he corrects your form, and you swear you’re melting under the sheer proximity.
“direct your body weight, y/n,” he instructs, his voice private, intimate even when he’s masking it as instruction. “power comes from stance. not just arms.”
you groan before reluctantly throwing another series, and he moves behind you, arms brushing yours as he guides each motion. you can feel the heat radiating off him. every pulse of his muscles under his skin, every adjustment, every gentle nudge feels like he’s imprinting himself on you.
“stop swinging blindly,” he mutters, leaning close enough that his shoulder grazes yours, his chest brushing your back. you inhale, and the air feels charged, humming with electricity. “precision first.”
“ugh, you’re so impossible!” you gasp, sweat running down your temple, hair sticking to your forehead, and he just chuckles softly behind you, the sound low, dark, intimate.
“i’m your teacher,” he says, voice clipped but amused, hand pressing flat and sure against your back to adjust your stance. “so pay attention.”
you throw a jab— too slow, too high— and he catches it, fingers brushing yours, and your heart skips a beat. his eyes flick to yours, molten and teasing; you trip over whatever words you’d been about to fire back.
he doesn’t let you go.
instead, he tugs– just a fraction, just enough to send you off balance; and suddenly your stumble tips you forward into him. his shoulders meet yours, solid heat pressing through the fabric between you; your hands falter in their guard, falling to land on that broad chest. every muscle dances under your fingertips, pulled taut, waiting.
your breath stutters, your own chest rising sharp against his. he doesn’t move back— doesn’t let you go. one wrapped hand rises to cup over yours, anchoring you to him; his weight holds you caged, steady, immovable as his fingers brush over your knuckles in secret rhythm.
his eyes flick down— too fast. too telling. the smallest shift, the barest tilt of his head, it all gives him away despite the stone set of his face. his heated gaze lands on your lips and stays there; and you’re suddenly sure he’s going to close the distance. heat coils low in your stomach, every nerve begging for the brush of his mouth.
lee know is about to kiss you. and you’re going to shamelessly let him.
he leans in closer, so close that the heat of him presses through the thin fabric, every inch deliberate. the sharp inhale he steals just before your lips nearly brush sets your blood roaring; your pulse hammers like it wants to break your ribs. his exhale feels like velvet when his breath canvasses across your lips.
his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, his own dark and deliberate, assessing, tasting the possibility. the space between you is electric, strung tight with want, your knees threatening to give under the weight of proximity. your chest is caught in a perfect trap between his restraint and your certainty.
your eyes begin to flutter closed, waiting, wanting.
and then— he doesn’t close the final millimeter.
he holds himself there instead, suspended, his mouth hovering just shy of yours. he’s so close; you can taste his breath, but not the kiss you’re aching for. your pulse hammers against your ribs in heady anticipation.
then, with precision so measured it’s almost cruel, he eases back half an inch. not enough to free you, just enough to smother the promise. his gaze lingers on your mouth for one last beat before it sharpens, cutting clean.
“keep your guard up,” he says evenly, as if nothing just happened; as if your knees aren’t about to give out. he releases your wrist and nudges at your stance like it’s any other spar.
you swallow hard, still reeling, every nerve screaming from the almost that just slipped through your fingers. he doesn’t look rattled at all, damn him— only that faint glimmer in his eyes betrays him, the one that says he wanted it, too.
“my guard is just fine,” you mumble hotly, trying to regain composure. you start swinging again. he dodges just enough to make you adjust– just enough to keep your focus on him, just enough to make you want to get closer, hit harder, be near him.
he steps back finally, letting you land a clean hit on the outside of his right arm. he yields to it, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable; but the faintest hint of approval is evident in the way he tilts his head.
“better,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost private, and your chest swells. you swing again, adrenaline and tension coiling together, heart hammering in time with every contact of your fists falling against him in sparring.
he moves in when you go for a new shot, adjusting, correcting, guiding— his body brushing against yours, hands resting lightly on your elbows, shoulders, even just a ghost of a touch across your back— and you can’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. your brain knows he’s teaching, that he’s careful, that he’s professional; but every second, every brush of skin, every whispered instruction sends molten sparks through your chest.
finally, he steps back completely, allowing you to spar him more freely, your fists clean, your soft hits sharp, your body twisting properly. he watches your stance, the way your muscles flex, the sweat dripping down your neck. he doesn’t move in closer— doesn’t have to— but you can feel the intensity in his gaze.
“next time,” he mutters, voice low, clipped, but something softer flickers in his eyes, “we’ll spar properly.”
you grin, exhausted, exhilarated, and a little weak in the knees. “i’m holding you to that,” you tease. he smirks faintly, silent, controlled— but those searing eyes betray that he’s already anticipating it.
the gym hums low around you, your bodies still warm from more than just the exertion. the air feels thick, electric. almost like it’s charged with all the touches, the corrections, the proximity, the teasing, the heat— teaching, sparring, melting, all of it rolled into one chaotic, perfect storm.
—
the bell clangs for the third and final round of the night, sharp and unforgiving– the crowd’s roar swells with it, a tide that thrums through the ring and up your spine.
you’re pressed against the barrier, knuckles gripping the metal, heart in your throat. lee know circles his opponent like a king patrolling his domain: muscles coiled, eyes sharp, every movement calculated, fluid, lethal. sweat gleams along his forearms, along his jaw, catching the overhead lights like a blade. small scratches litter his cheeks, proof of the grueling first two rounds.
they trade blows like it’s a language only fighters can speak. the first few hits reverberate like drums beating in your chest. his opponent is skilled— fast, hungry for the win— but lee know is faster, smoother, reading each motion like it’s an open book. every counter, every pivot, every jab is poetry in motion; but there’s fire in it, raw energy that makes your chest ache with anticipation.
then— a hard, sudden jab lands square on lee know’s cheek. the crowd gasps in unison. your hand flies to your mouth. a thin line of red drips from the corner of his lip, and your stomach plummets. most people would stagger, maybe falter. maybe even fall to the mat.
not him.
his head snaps back, eyes flashing with the tiniest flicker of surprise— and then calm, razor-sharp control sets in. he shakes it off as if it were nothing, resets his stance like a predator, and the air in the ring seems to shift, dense with intent.
he pivots. he ducks a counter. his strikes come now— calculated, brutal, precise, every movement a testament to his years of mastery. the blows land on his opponent with the weight of a hurricane contained in muscle and sinew, each punch a statement: he’s still standing. he’s in control. he’s unstoppable.
the opponent stumbles. the audience leans forward, breathless, watching the reversal, the artistry in the violence. lee know doesn’t let up— he whirls, he pivots, he strikes. his face is a mask of focus and feral energy, lips pressed tight even as blood blooms red at the edges of them; his brows are furrowed with the force of his focus, every line of his body screaming discipline and raw power.
then— a crushing hook, a sharp uppercut, and the opponent collapses, breath wheezing, chest heaving.
lee know steps back with his fists raised, his own chest heaving too, sweat and blood streaking across his skin like war paint. he looks like some kind of god standing alone in the ring, opponent bowed before him in defeat.
the referee calls the match: it’s over. victory, earned. brutal. raw. hard-fought.
and you— heart hammering, knees weak, fingers trembling on the barrier over in your medical corner— feel every pulse of him in the aftermath. every strike, every dodge, every calculated blow is burned into your memory.
he lowers his hands finally, his face slick with sweat, lips parting just slightly, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. his eyes sweep the crowd, but when they land on you… the intensity doesn’t break. it sharpens, sure and quiet and magnetic, and you know: he sees you.
only after the crowd roars fade and the adrenaline lingers does he step toward the edge of the ring, every movement measured, and your chest aches– because even bruised, beaten, bloodied, he carries himself like a king who’s just proven his reign. a king coming home to you.
the fight’s left him wrecked; the roar of the crowd is still echoing through the cement walls when lee know stumbles into the corner, sweat running down his temple, blood dripping from a split at his lip. his chest heaves like the air itself is burning him alive.
you’re already there with gauze in hand, jaw set tight, muttering under your breath as you start fussing over ever little cut and scratch before he can even sit down. “you could’ve dodged that one blow, you know. he almost had you on the ropes in the second round.”
he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even flinch when you press the gauze to his cheek, murmuring a soft warning for the sting of the antiseptic. he just stares down, eyes locked on you, that sharpness softening only for you even in the noise and heat of the crowd at every angle.
“you’re impossible,” you snap, voice shaking as the hand with the gauze trembles against his cheek. you cup his face if only to still your fingers, holding him upright. “one day you’re not going to walk out of that ring and—”
his hand shoots up, catching you mid-motion. his rough, bandaged fingers circle your wrist.
his voice is hoarse, ground down to gravel, but the words cut clean like a right hook to the heart:
“you’re a knockout.”
your brain blanks. air sticks hard in your throat, wedged deep by the shock of his composure breaking.
and then he pulls you in before you can find an answer.
the kiss is brutal and tender all at once— bloody and slick and desperate, his mouth crushing itself to yours like he’s been starving for it through every round he’s ever fought in this dingy warehouse. copper floods your tongue where his split lip works against you, but it doesn’t matter. not when his hand is steady at the back of your neck, holding you close to him like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
his other hand snakes to your waist, pressing you impossibly close, letting you feel the tense pulse of muscle beneath skin. every ragged breath he steals vibrates against your lips, mixing with your own contented sigh, echoing in your chest like a drumbeat you can’t escape.
the crowd’s chants melt into nothing along with the sounds of the bell that signals the next match starting and the referee’s sharp whistle. nothing matters but this. the world has shrunk to this small, electric pocket where time has slowed, where only the press of his body and the desperate rhythm of your mouths exist.
your free hand clutches the damp wrap at his wrist like a lifeline, anchoring him back. the gauze you’d been pressing to his cut falls useless to the floor. your fingertips trace the tension along his forearm, memorizing every line, every hardened muscle, every twitch of effort as he folds himself into you, yielding fully, finally.
he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss; it’s a slow, consuming kind of ache that spreads somewhere deep beneath your ribs. a groan— low, muffled, unintentionally yours— slips past his lips, and it rattles through your chest, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of want and exhaustion and adrenaline.
the heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating; it coils hot in your bloodstream, threads along your spine, sets your pulse hammering in tandem with his. his tongue teases, claims, works you until you’re pliant in his arms, and you answer back with the same fierce urgency– desperate for every inch, every taste, every second.
his grip at the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly, a silent plea for proximity, and your hands— one planted on his chest, the other drifting up to cradle his jaw with tender fingers— draw him impossibly closer. sweat and blood mix at your lips, his heartbeat thrumming under your palm like a war drum.
a shudder runs through you both as his arms encircle you fully, silent but volcanic, and he doesn’t pull back— can’t, won’t— letting the moment stretch until it feels like the air itself is charged, trembling with the collision of want and the rawest kind of vulnerability.
finally, somewhere deep in the marrow of both your bones, the kiss loosens just enough to leave you gasping, noses brushing, breaths mingling, lips swollen and raw.
when he finally pulls himself back, he stays close. forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with sweat and heat and everything you’ve been refusing to say.
a beat of silence. then, rough, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile— “told you.”
you shove him softly before he catches you and drags you back in for another slow, tender kiss.
and this time, you can taste how freely he smiles.
Trigger Warnings: angst, car accident, incorrect medical terminology, incorrect time line (I think), mean Felix, mean Lee Know, thoughts of leaving the group, hospitalization, major injury
Summary: You and Felix had moved to Korea together to pursue the dream of becoming an idol. After debuting together feelings came to light and you became each other's person. After a stressful few months with a world tour and comeback preparation Felix and Minho end up saying somethings that they don't mean. In a rush you leave the company building, getting into an accident, will this cause you to leave the company and group? Will your romantic relationship with Felix make it through this? Will your sibling like relationship with Lee Know ever be the same?
Photos are not mine, credit goes to the photographer
A/n: I hurt myself with this one. The way I wrote the boys is fictional and not how I see them (Felix and Lee Know).
Bang Chan | Lee Know | Seo Changbin | Hwang Hyunjin | Han Jisung | Kim Seungmin | Yang Jeongin
Being the youngest member of Stray Kids came with both its benefits and its cons. Sometimes the members treated me like I was still a child but most of the time they treated me like I was an adult. I am 23, so I was 15 when we debuted and so Chan took on the role of parenting me even when he didn’t need to. He did that with all the members, in his mind we are all his children and he feels that protective instinct for all of us. So when any of us have a conflict he tries his best to stay neutral, but when it comes to his only “little girl” it becomes difficult. Not only being the youngest member but also being the youngest member of Aussie Racha makes his unintentional biasing harder to hide. When he was picking the members of Stray Kids he knew that Felix and I came from the same hometown and had been childhood friends, while he had been hesitant to have a female in an only male group he could tell that the friendship between Felix and I would probably be more helpful than not. Felix and I had been best friends since we were toddlers, our mothers had gone to school together and had in turn been best friends and had raised him and I together. When we initially moved to Korea we both didn’t know Korean and were learning it together. Our relationship had also initially been purely platonic but over time feelings grew and after the three year dating ban we began to explore those feelings and after 4 years of being in a group together we had made things official. And now 3 years later things couldn’t have been going better between him and I.
Present:
With the second half of the DominAte tour coming up things between the members and I have been strained, we were all tired and the traveling doesn’t help but we never let that affect us in the past. For the most part if we all take a break and regroup we are fine but things between Felix and I have been more strained than normal. Usually we hold a good work/personal life balance but recently we’ve been seeing each other more at work than we have at home. And with living together you would think that being able to see each other at home wouldn’t be an issue but it’s almost like when we are home he’s avoiding me. Whenever I try to ask the others if they’ve noticed him acting differently, they always say they haven’t noticed anything. I try to not let it get to me but when it’s your comfort person, it’s hard to. I’ve always been able to rely on Felix for comfort when my anxiety is high or when life is getting stressful but recently I haven’t been able to catch a moment alone with him.
At the Studio:
It was a day for VocalRacha to record our lines for the upcoming album, and DanceRacha was in the dance studio practicing. With everyone here and me already having recorded my lines I thought that it would be a good chance to go and watch Felix and the other two boys work on the choreo. It seemed like everyone today had a short fuse, but I didn’t think that me watching would set people off.
“Y/nnie, aren’t you supposed to be in the recording studio with Channie Hyung?" Hyunjin asked, sounding almost annoyed that I had entered the studio.
“I finished my lines, Seungmin still needs to record and Felix is still working with you two so I figured I’d come watch.”
“Y/nnie, we weren’t expecting an audience, and the choreo isn’t quite ready.” Minho tried to say nicely but it came out harsher than he meant.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think me being in here would be an issue, but I’ll head back to the recording studio. Will you tell Liix that I’m waiting for him, for whenever you guys finish?”
“We’ll let him know but you might want to head home. It’ll probably be a few more hours before we are done.” Hyunjin responded, knowing that Minho’s response wouldn’t be as nice.
“Oh, ok. Thank you anyways.” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.
After leaving the dance studio, I headed back to the recording studio to wait for Seungmin. I was hoping that he didn’t have much longer and that he could help me with the surprise that I wanted to do for Felix, I know that it wasn’t anywhere near his birthday but I wanted to do something nice for him, maybe get his spirits up.
“Y/nnie, I thought that you were going to watch the boys dance?” I.N asked when he noticed that I was back already.
“I was but they asked that I come back here. I guess they weren’t ready for someone to watch the new choreo yet.”
“You’re always welcome here yeobo.” Channie responded when he was finished with the current line.
“Thank you Channie-Oppa.” Right now it felt like the only people who weren’t annoyed with me were the people in this room.
While watching Seungmin record his lines and Chan help direct him when needed, I could feel myself getting tired. I knew that we would still be here for a while since Seungmin still had a bit to record and none of the boys liked it when I went home alone. Worrying about my safety, not only as a female but also the youngest member of the group. The studio was cold and I dumbly had left my jacket at home. I had remembered that this morning Felix had brought one with him, and with them dancing he wouldn’t be wearing it so he shouldn’t mind that I’d want to steal it for a little while.
Quietly I slipped out of the studio and made my way back upstairs, when I got close to the dance studio I could hear the current title track playing, meaning that they’d be in a serious headspace and not want any distractions. As quietly as I could I tried to sneak into the studio, but as soon as the door opened I heard the music stop and I could feel three pairs of eyes on me. Sheepishly I turned towards the three boys, waving softly while I continued to walk over to where I saw Felix’s hoodie.
“What are you doing back y/n?” Minho’s voice carried through the studio.
“I just came to grab Lix’s hoodie and then I’ll be out of your hair.” I say sheepishly, feeling like I got caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing.
“Well hurry up please, we are trying to finish this choreo and these interruptions aren’t helping.” Minho said.
“I’m sorry, really. I wasn’t trying to be an interruption.” I say as I grab the hoodie, looking at Felix to see if he’s ok with me taking it. But he doesn’t look at me.
I leave the studio before any of them can say anything else, still not even sure if Felix was ok with me taking his hoodie but I wasn’t about to turn around and ask him and cause further trouble. When I slipped back into the recording studio, I.N looked up from his phone ready to ask where I had gone when he spotted Felix’s hoodie.
“Innie, have you noticed anything off with Felix-Oppa recently?” I ask, hoping to find answers to his odd behavior.
“He hasn’t been acting any different with me. Still his bubbly sunshine self. Why, is he acting differently with you?”
“Yeah, when I went up to borrow his hoodie, he wouldn’t even look at me and when I was up there earlier he was nowhere to be found. It almost feels like he’s trying to avoid me.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, maybe he’s just stressed with all the comeback preparations that we are still needing to do. Or maybe it’s his back.”
“Thank you for your help Innie. I do really appreciate it.”
Two Hours Later:
With Seungmin finally done with his recordings we were able to head home, from the sounds of it DanceRacha was nowhere near done with going over their choreo. Before we left, I had Seungmin run Felix’s hoodie back up. After the reaction I got when I went to grab it, I didn’t want to cause any more issues than I already had. Once Seungmin was back, we made our way down to the company car that would take us home. It seemed like he was in a good mood, from the sounds of things recording went well and he finished sooner than they thought.
“Minnie, will you help me surprise Felix?”
“Of course.” He seemed genuinely excited to help surprise Felix.
“I want to upgrade his gaming setup, but I don’t want to accidentally mess things up.”
“I can help with that, do you already have stuff in mind or were you also wanting help with that?”
“I have stuff in mind. I just need help getting it home, and then setting it up. I don’t want to mess up his current stuff.”
“That’s understandable, I can help with that.”
After agreeing to help me, he tells the driver to head to the store first rather than home, not wanting to waste time by stopping by the dorms to grab his car. I really appreciate the fact that he wanted to help me with surprising Felix. I hope that this surprise would make him less stressed or at least less distant. I miss having the sunshine Felix around, even though it seems like I’m the only one that isn’t getting him.
After we got everything and went home. He had me sit aside while he moved everything and set it up, he knew more on how to set it up than I would have. He made sure that everything was saved the same way that it had been on his old set up and would work the way that it was supposed to. I helped him move the boxes down to the trash and then cleaned up the area, making sure that it was nice and neat for when Felix got home, making sure it was ready for him to play.
When Felix got home, he seemed to be in a worse mood than he was earlier at the studio, it almost seemed like things might not have gone well after I had left. I began to wonder if Minho had been too hard on him again, causing his back to flair up again. When he got home, he didn’t even say hello to me, but still saying hello to Seungmin, and then immediately went to the bathroom to shower. Seungmin looked at me in surprise, having never seen Felix outright ignore me, I tried to not let it get to me but after what happened today and what has been happening I couldn’t help but worry about what that might mean for him and I. It wasn’t until after he got out of the shower that I was made aware of how bad things truly were.
“Y/n. Did you touch my gaming setup?” Felix yelled from his bedroom, with slight anxiety I looked at Seungmin. He looked back at me, almost as if to say that he’d have my back with whatever happened.
“Yes, I did. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“How many times have I told you not to touch my stuff?” He yells back angrily, not realizing that I was in the room.
“I’m sorry Felix. I didn’t mean to upset you, I truly just wanted to do something nice for you. I’ve seen how stressed you’ve been. I thought that if I surprised you, you’d like it. That maybe we could set up your old set up and we could game together.”
“Y/n, you know that gaming is my me time and I want it to stay that way.”
“Right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Can you just leave, go to your room or something? Stop being so goddamn clingy all the time? I would have thought that you’d have gotten the hint after I stopped spending so much time with you but apparently you can’t get it through your thick head that I need space. I don’t want to spend 24/7 with you. Sometimes I wish that you had been fully eliminated, then I would have something that’s fully mine, not something that I share with you.”
“You don’t really mean that do you? I thought you liked that we debuted in the same group?”
“No y/n, I truly mean it. I’ve always had to share things with you. Not one thing has been mine alone and then we debuted in the same group and then not even my dream was my own, I had to share that with you. And then the dating, you can get so tiring sometimes. Always wanting something from me.”
“What are you saying Felix?” I ask, willing myself to not cry.
“I wish we weren’t in the same group and I wish that we weren’t dating. But if we break up then it affects the whole group, so now I have to suffer because I had to be stupid.” His words cut me, as if they were a knife, they landed right where he meant them to.
“Right. I’m sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”
I don’t wait for a response from him, instead rushing out of the apartment, ignoring the fact that Seungmin was calling after me. Against what any of the members would have wanted me to do I walk to the company building, hoping that I could find comfort in one of the older members. I was hoping that Channie was still there, but with the fact that Seungmin had finished and I.N didn’t have many lines left to record, I wasn’t sure if he’d still be there. When I entered the building and got up to the recording studio I noticed all the lights were off which meant that he had left. With hopes that maybe Minho or Hyunjin would still be here, I know they were annoyed earlier but maybe if I explained what happened they’d be understanding and offer some comfort.
When I got up to the studio only Minho was still there, going over the final counts of the choreo. With a soft knock to announce myself, I left myself in. I tried to dry my tears but they kept coming and I finally just gave up, getting tired of rubbing my cheeks raw. When Minho saw that it was me entering his face fell slightly, I tried to not let that get to me. I was about to ask if I could talk to him but he had beaten me to it. The comfort that I was hoping for was not coming from Minho.
“Why are you back?” He asked sharply.
“Could I maybe talk to you?” I say shyly, flinching back a little.
“Couldn’t you bother Felix or Seungmin?” He asks.
“It’s kind of about Felix.”
“Oh did you finally annoy him enough like you have the rest of us?” He says even more harshly.
“What?”
“Why do you think he’s been so distant y/n? It’s because you’ve been annoying him.”
“I-I thought that he said that because he was tired and overworking himself.”
“He was telling you the harsh truth. And honestly thank god he did.”
“D-do you agree with him?”
“Truthfully, yes. Yes I do, I get that you are the youngest and we always say Maknae on Top but you abuse that term so much.”
“I don’t mean to. H-how do I abuse it?” I ask, feeling even more shy now.
“Always wanting your way, always wanting attention, taking things without permission, and if you don’t get your way you throw a fit. You are always in the way and my god y/n it gets tiring after a while. Not everyone wants to hang out with you.”
“O-oh. I’m sorry, truthfully.”
“And to be honest I wish Chan had listened to me when I told him that having a girl in an all male group wouldn’t go well and I wish that Felix would have listened when I told him that dating within the same group wouldn’t go well.”
“S-so you also wish that I hadn’t come back from the eliminations? Or that Felix and I had started dating?”
“Truthfully, I do wish you hadn’t come back from the eliminations and I do wish that you and Felix had never started dating because now if you two ever break up it’ll cause issues in the group.”
“I see.”
“I get what Chan was trying to do but it wasn’t meant to happen with our group.” he said, his eyes holding a type of coldness I didn’t know he could have towards someone in his group.
“I see, I’m sorry for causing issues.”
I don’t wait for his response. Instead I quickly got up, rushing out of the studio before he could see the tears. If he thinks the same things as Felix, now I wonder who else in the group has the same thoughts. Maybe everyone has the same thoughts as them. As I make my way out of the company building, I don’t pay much attention to the surroundings around me, to focussed on the thoughts running through my head. The longer I think about what both of them have said the harder the tears fall and the harder it becomes to breathe. Before I realize it, I’m crossing the street, not looking for any passing cars. It's too late by the time I hear the blaring horn, it’s only momentarily that I feel the pain of impact before everything goes cold and dark.
Back at the apartment:
Seungmin’s POV:
I ran after y/n as she ran out of the apartment, but she was too far into her head to hear me calling after her. I figured that she was going to the company, so after sending a quick text to Chan to let him know, I ran back up to ask Felix what the fuck that was. Not once have I ever heard him talk to her like that and part of me can’t believe that he even spoke to her like that.
“Felix, what the fuck was that?” I asked as soon as I entered the apartment.
“I don’t know. It’s like the moment I saw her standing in my room I just saw red and lost my filter. Except that filter was to thoughts that held no truth.” Felix said, pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair.
“You know that there is probably no coming back from what you said to her, right?”
“God, no. I can’t lose her Seungmin. She’s been my rock since we were kids.”
“If she’s been your rock then why the fuck would you say that to her, even if you were stressed.”
“I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t have said those words unless they held some truth Felix. Even if you didn’t mean to say it, they held some truth.”
“Deep down yes, but no part of me wishes that they were true, no part of me wanted to actually tell her that. I love her, I want to spend my life with her.”
“Well, I hate to say it Felix but you might have just ruined that for yourself.”
“Please, please help me fix this. I can’t lose her.”
“Felix, I can’t help you fix this. This has to be something that you fix on your own, if you truly want to fix this then you need to figure out where she is and fix it on your own.”
“I want to fix this, but I don’t know where to start.”
“You're panicking, as you rightfully should but you need to talk it through out loud. Talk it through with me, in her shoes.”
“Right, right. When she’s upset she goes to Channie Hyung. But Channie would be at the dorms by now, but she wouldn’t know that so she would have gone to the company looking for him.”
“What would happen when she finds out that he’s not there.”
“She’d look for another member in hopes of finding comfort, but the only member still there is Minho.” Felix said with a look of pure panic on his face.
“Felix, why do you look panicked? Could she not find comfort in Minho?” I asked confused.
“Because, Minho was already on a short fuse today and when she came in earlier he was annoyed by it. He’s been more annoyed with her recently and without someone there to keep him in check he might say something. The comfort that she’d be seeking, she wouldn’t get from him.”
“Felix, you need to find her before Minho makes things worse. Or try and fix things if he already has.”
“I’m heading to the company.”
“I’ll let Chan know.”
Felix’s POV:
Deciding not to take the time to call a manager to have them drive me, I ran to the company. By the time I reached the company I was out of breath but that didn’t matter to me, the only thing mattered was that I needed to find Minho or y/n, hopefully both. I needed to fix things with y/n, I couldn’t lose her due to my own stupidity and a moment of weakness where I said something that I didn’t truly mean. When I got up to the dance studio only Minho was there and by the looks of it y/n had already been there.
“Minho, where is y/n?”
“She just left? Why? It sounded like you had said what you were feeling.” He said, sounding annoyed.
“I said something that I didn’t mean, in a moment of anger.”
“So telling her that you wish she wasn’t part of the group and that you weren’t dating was said out of anger and not out of truth?”
“Deep down it was partly true but the thought of her not being in my life makes me feel like I cannot breath. I don’t want to lose her Minho, I can’t lose her because I was stupid and said something stupid.”
“I don’t know where she is Felix, and honestly I don’t care. I know you might not have meant it but I think Chan was wrong when he thought that it was a good idea to have a girl in an all male group.”
“What?” I say, stepping back in shock.
“She has caused more drama than there would have been if it was an all male group. Don’t get me wrong Felix, she is an amazing person and an amazing artist but I think that she would have been better suited in a girl group.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do Felix.”
“So if tomorrow it came out that she was no longer part of this group, you’d be happy about it?” I asked him, before he answered there was a moment of hesitation.
“Yes.”
“You hesitated. Minho, y/n has always been there for all of us. Yes, she’s younger than us but if she weren’t part of this group you’d hate it. I know you would, you see her like a little sister.”
“Maybe you are right but that doesn’t change what I said.”
“Then we need to find her and apologize and beg for her forgiveness and hope that she does forgive us.”
“What we need to do is sleep and look in the morning. Knowing how responsible she is, she went to a manager's house.”
“Are you sure, sure that we shouldn’t at least look a little?”
“No, we need to sleep and then look tomorrow.”
“Fine. But at first light we look for her.”
“We will.”
Your POV:
The first thing I feel when I wake up is blinding pain, it feels like every bone in my body has been broken. When I try to open my eyes it’s like they are made of lead, taking more strength than I have to open them. Breathing feels like I’m breathing through water, like I can’t catch my breath. When I finally get my eyes open, all I see is white blinding light, and I can’t breathe. I feel something down my throat, I try to reach up for it but nurses are rushing towards me, preventing me from pulling at the breathing tube. The nurses calmed me down, finally continuing down from three before pulling it out. I gag and choke on it before I begin to breathe on my own again. When I look around, I notice that the only person in the room with me is my manager. I don’t remember anything that happened but I could tell that I was in the hospital and whatever did happen was serious.
“I’m glad to see that you are finally awake. Do you know where you are?” The doctor asks.
“I think I’m in the hospital.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really, I just remember a bright light and then pain, and then waking up here.” I say with a hint of confusion in my voice.
“You were hit by a car, the impact threw you high into the air before you landed around 10 meters away. It’s a miracle that you survived, you have multiple broken ribs, your leg and ankle on your right leg were shattered on impact and your left wrist and arm were also broken. Thankfully you didn’t hit your head, somehow. You were in a medically induced coma for just over two weeks.”
“I’ve been out for two weeks? Do my members know?” I turn to look at my manager.
“At this moment no, they believe that you are on personal leave.” my manager responded.
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I wanted to tell them but the company wanted me to wait until you wake up.”
“Please, I want to see them.” forgetting what Minho and Felix had said to me.
“I will go to the company and let them know.”
At the Company:
Felix’s POV:
It had been two weeks since y/n had been to practise, all her manager had said was that she was on personal leave and that she would be for the foreseeable future. We were running through warm ups when her manager came into the dance studio, they looked pale and almost like they were about to throw up.
“Boy’s I need you to all sit down for me.” her manager said, speaking over the music.
“Is everything ok?” Channie asked, sitting down.
“Not entirely.”
“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Changbin said, sitting down next to Chan.
“I have some news about y/n. It’s not easy news to hear.”
“Is she ok?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“She’s in recovery, but there's been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Han asks, suddenly more alert.
“She was in a car accident, two weeks ago.”
“Why are we just now hearing about this? Why weren’t we told two weeks ago?” Chan asks, starting to get mad.
“Before you get mad, I am the middle man, the company wouldn’t let me tell you without risking my job. She’s awake now and alert, she’s talking and remembers everything. She’s asked for all of you.” Both Minho and I looked at each other in surprise at that.
“Please Channie, let us go see her. I want to see to myself that she’s ok.” Seungmin asks.
“Of course we will go see her.”
Your POV:
As I wait for the boys to show up I begin to remember what had caused me to be in such distress, I remember what Minho and Felix had said to me. I can feel the panic begin to rise at the thought of seeing Felix and Minho. I thought that I wanted to see everyone but after what they had said I don’t want to see them. Before I see the rest of the boys, I want to make one of their wishes come true, it’s the least that I can do for them. When I noticed that my manager had returned I waved her over, having made up my mind.
“M/n, I need you to do a favor for me.”
“Anything, especially after what you’ve been through.”
“I want to break my contract.”
“What do you mean you want to break your contract? You want to leave the group?”
“Yes, I thought that everyone was in agreement with me being in the group but I now know that this was not true. I don’t want to make things harder for the group by staying.”
“You know that this won’t be an easy thing to do.”
“I’m aware. But it’s what I want.”
“If you are certain then I’ll have the company draw up the paperwork.”
Before I can respond, Chan is bursting into the room, having overheard the conversation between me and my manager. I can see the panic on his face at the thought that I might be leaving the group, especially after having already had one member leave. I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting them like that but I also can’t stand the thought of being in the group when two of the members don’t want me in the group because if two of them don’t want me in the group, then how many of the others don’t want me in the group? I can’t stand the not knowing anymore, any trust that I had has now been broken.
“Y/nnie, you can’t leave the group.” Channie all but begs.
“Wait, she wants to leave the group? Y/nnie, you can’t leave?” Han cries out as he rushes into the room.
“Y/n, you're our Maknea, we can’t lose you. I don’t want to be the Maknae.” I.N cries out holding onto Han for once.
“Y/n, please don’t let my harsh words be the reason for you wanting to leave the group.” Minho says shyly, standing near the back of the group.
“Wait, what do you mean by your words?” Changbin turns towards Minho, looking angry.
“Wait, please. Do not blame him, this is my choice.” I call out trying to get their attention.
“Y/n, I am so sorry. I meant nothing of what I said to you, I don’t want you to leave and I don’t want things to end between us.” Felix begs as he grabs onto my hands.
“Felix, our relationship was over the moment you said you wished that I wasn’t in the group and that we weren’t dating.”
“Please, I didn’t mean it.”
“How can I trust that you didn’t mean it? Any trust that I had in you has been ruined Felix.”
“Ok, hold on. Everyone, let's just take a moment.” Chan tries to get the attention of everyone.
“HEY. SHUT IT AND SIT DOWN!” Seungmin yells, getting the attention of everyone. Everyone sits down, looking like they were scolded by a parent.
“Thank you Seungmin. Now y/n what do you mean that you want to leave the group?” Chan finally turns back towards me.
“If it is more beneficial to the rest of the group then I will leave, I cannot stand the thought of staying when I know that more than one member wants me gone.” I say, looking down at my hands.
“What do you mean that there is more than one member who wants you to leave the group?” Chan asks, trying to clarify.
“Please, do not be mad at them. But Felix and Minho have made me aware of the fact that my place in the group does not make as much sense as I thought.”
“That’s crazy talk y/nnie.” Han calls out to me.
“Y/n, what I said, it was said in a moment of anger. It was said to hurt, but in no way was it true. I don’t want you to leave.” Minho tries.
“It’s ok Minho, I get it. Being in a group with all guys and then only one girl isn’t the most appealing idea.”
“Y/n. I was wrong, not having you in the group is like not having water in a swimming pool, it just doesn’t make sense. You belong in this group just as much as the rest of us, if not more.” Minho tries again.
“I-I don’t know what to say.” I say, beginning to cry.
“You belong with us, you belong in this group.” All of the boys say together.
“Y/n, even if our relationship isn’t saveable, please do not leave the group. I can’t imagine not being able to see you everyday. Before you were my girlfriend you were my best friend. I can’t lose my best friend too.”
“I-I don’t know. How can I really trust that you all want me to stay?” I say, tears already falling down my face.
“We’ll take a lie detection test, or something but please don’t leave. I don’t want to lose my only little sister.” Minho says, crying for the first time since the survival show.
“I-I’ll stay but I don’t think t-things will ever b-be the same.” I say, in between sobs.
“We will work to earn back your trust, just please stay.” Minho adds.
“Can you all give Felix and I a moment?” I ask shakily.
“Sure, we’ll be outside if you need us.” Chan says as he ushers the rest of the boys out of the room. After everyone left, I looked at Felix, who was already looking at me.
“Please, y/nnie you have to know that I didn’t mean it.”
“Felix, I can’t trust that you didn’t mean it. The look on your face was so cold, it was like there was no feeling left.”
“I’m so sorry y/n, I never meant to make you feel like this. Please let me prove to you that I didn’t mean it.”
“I want to believe you Felix, but I can’t.”
“Is there anything that I can do to prove to you that I didn’t mean it?”
“I don’t think so Felix. I think that this is the end for us.”
“Please don’t mean that, I can’t lose you.”
“Felix, we might be able to go back to being friends but I don’t think I can ever trust you again.”
“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”
“No Felix, I don’t think there is.”
“If I can’t have you in my life as my girlfriend, then I will accept it. I don’t want to lose you, if I can only have you as a friend then I will accept that. But I will always love you.”
Over the next few months, with the limited things I am able to do I watch the boys practice and go over lines when I have the energy. I miss being able to dance but I know that if I push my body before it is ready it’ll lead to more harm than good. Over the last few months both Minho and Felix have gone to great lengths to prove that they regret what they had said and that they did not mean it. While Minho goes about it in a more quiet way, bringing me food and drinks without asking, helping move heavier items for me and always keeping an extra jacket around, Felix has gone about it in a more personal and romantic way even when he doesn’t mean to. He shows it in the form of random brownies, offering to carry me when he notices that I am tired, letting me use him as a pillow like I did when we were younger and together, constant check-ins, and with the help of Han, random songs that he’s written and sang.
Over time, as I heal and the less that I need to rely on Felix and Minho, they double down on their efforts and make sure that even if I don’t need their help I know that they are there for me if I need it. Without even meaning to, Felix and I grow close to each other like we had been before the accident. I try not to let myself but as he proves himself everyday I begin to fall for him all over again. Part of me is scared to let him back in and part of me misses what we had, and that same part wonders what could have happened had I forgiven him back at the hospital. Would he have tried so hard to show how sorry he is, or would he have gone back to how distant he was before the accident. I was so far into my head that I didn’t notice that Felix was calling my name.
“Y/n, are you ok? You look flush, are you feeling ok?” Felix rushes over, asking worriedly.
“I’m ok, I guess I just got so far into my head.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m always here to listen.”
“I think we probably should talk.”
“The last time you said something like that, we broke up. Should I be worried?” He tried to joke but I could see the heartbreak in his eyes and hear it in his voice still.
“I don’t think so, but it is serious.”
“Ok, why don’t we go to that café we used to go to?”
“I’d like that.”
At the Café:
Once Felix ordered me a hot chocolate and him a tea, we sat down at a corner table that was somewhat out of sight. He looked nervous but was trying to hide it, and I didn’t want to make it worse for him by delaying the conversation.
“What did you want to talk about?” Felix asked after a few minutes.
“I wanted to talk about us.”
“What about us?”
“I know I said that there was no way for you to prove that you were sorry, and truthfully at the time there wasn’t. But over time as we’ve spent time together and you’ve been my friend again I can’t help but fall for you all over again. I didn’t mean to but I seem to have fallen all over again.”
“What are you trying to say?” He asks, trying to not sound hopeful.
“I want to try again, but slowly.”
“Do you really mean it?”
“I do, but I want to start over. And I want to go slow.”
“We will go at whatever pace you want, I don’t want to mess this up again. These last months have felt like torture.”
Epilogue:
Four Months Later:
Over the next four months the new relationship between Felix and I was not necessarily strained but it was harder than it had been before. The hesitancy was still there on my part but Felix was always understanding and never pushed when he saw that I was uncomfortable. When he saw that I was in my head about something he would sit down with me and talk to me about what is going through my head, never judging me and never making me feel bad when I get insecure again. It was a rare day that Felix and I had off together, spending it together, with my leg still messed up. It was nice to not have to go anywhere.
“Aegi I know I say it often now but I wanted to say it again, thank you for giving me another chance.” Felix says as he pulls me into him on the couch.
“I also want to thank you for being so patient and understanding with me.”
“Of course, I’d do anything for you. I was an idiot once, but I will never do that again.”
“I know, I know you won't." I say, leaning into him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. You can ask me anything.”
“Why do you never fully kiss me, we haven’t kissed since we broke up.” Felix asks me, almost too shy to look at me.
“I don’t know, I guess part of me has been too shy to do it myself.”
“If I were to kiss you, would it in any way make you uncomfortable?” Felix asks, turning to look at me fully.
“No, it wouldn’t make me uncomfortable. If I am to be honest, I miss kissing you, I miss fully cuddling with you.”
“Then, may I kiss you? And any time you want to cuddle or kiss or hug, all you need to do is ask and I will gladly do so.” Felix asks, leaning in closer.
“Yes, Lix, you may kiss me.” When I use his nickname I can see the happiness and shock on his face.
Slowly he leans in, stopping just a hairs length away from my lips to give me the chance to pull away if I wanted, when he sees that I do not want to pull away he closes the distance. The kiss is slow and soft, it feels like the beginning of something new and fresh, something that both Felix and I need. Neither he nor I deepen the kiss, but we also don’t pull away, not wanting to end the new intimacy quite yet. But soon we both need air and have to pull away, but Felix doesn’t pull away far, he rests his forehead against mine still looking deep into my eyes.
“Aegi, I think that you should talk to Minho. I know he still feels awful about what happened, and I know that he misses his little sister.”
“I’ll talk to him, if I’ve forgiven you, then he deserves the same. At least to be heard.”
“I think that he’d appreciate that.”
“I’ll see him tomorrow. For today I just want to spend the rest of the day with you, I miss being held by you.”
“I miss holding you. I miss everything that we had, but I am glad that we are starting anew. Our relationship now will be stronger than before.”
For the rest of the day Felix and I laid on the couch, not doing much other than enjoying each other's company. After a while we both fell asleep, with him somehow maneuvering himself underneath me, with my head on his chest. When Seungmin came home from his schedule he found Felix and I asleep on the couch, he didn’t say anything but he did sneak a photo that he later sent to the group chat.
The next day:
I had promised Felix that I would meet with Minho today, while I had promised that, I was still nervous. The relationship that we had before my accident had disappeared and hadn’t been fixed. Yes he had been trying and it had made a difference but we hadn’t sat down and truly talked, and yes part of that was because I hadn’t worked up the guts to actually talk to him. I could tell from the few interactions that we had that he was sorry, but part of me was still scared to talk to him again. But I knew that if I gave Felix the chance to apologize and earn my forgiveness, then I should give Minho the same chance. Felix and Seungmin dropped me off at the company building so that I could meet with Minho, both knowing that even if I could drive I wouldn’t be able to due to the nerves. After making my way up to the dance studio, I found Minho practicing alone.
“Hi Minho-Oppa. I believe Lix told you that I wanted to talk?” I said quietly when I opened the door.
“He did, and I’m glad that you wanted to talk.” He says, pausing the music.
“Can we sit down?” I ask as I make my way over to the couch.
“Of course yeobo, whatever you need to feel comfortable.” he says, trying out the nickname that he’s heard Channie call me.
“I know that you’ve been trying Minho, and I appreciate it. I want to talk about what you said that night.”
“Of course, I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”
“Why did you say it?”
“I was upset and annoyed, not at you. But with the choreo and with everything and I took it out on the easiest target. I regret it so much because I hurt the one person who had always been there for me.”
“Was it really not because of me? You looked so cold and sounded so cold when you said it.”
“Oh y/nnie, I’m so sorry. It was never because of you and I am so so sorry that I made you think that. I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I never meant it, that I never meant it about you not belonging in this group and that you and Felix shouldn’t be together.”
“Do you really think that Felix and I shouldn’t be together?”
“God no, if anyone should be together it is you and Felix. You two are perfect for each other. In the months that you two weren’t together, Felix wasn’t himself, he was sad and depressed. He needs you just like you need him.”
“I miss having you in my life.”
“I miss having my little sister. Even as an only child, you were the closest thing I have to a younger sister and the fact that I almost threw that away because of stress is absolutely crazy to me. I miss when you’d call me MinMin or Minnie.”
“I thought that you hated when I’d call you that. You always used to complain?”
“I complained out of love, but the moment you stopped calling me those nicknames I thought I had lost you for good.”
“So if I started calling you those again, you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all, I might complain in front of the boys but I don’t actually mean those complaints.” He says, pulling me into him gently to give me a hug.
“Then can I see the new choreo Minnie?” I ask, with a tease in my voice.
“Of course.”
For the rest of the afternoon he walks me through the new choreo and helps me with the bits that I am able to do with my limitations. Later on Felix and Hyunjin join to go over the choreo with Minho. For a moment my anxiety spikes, my brain goes back to the night of the accident but before I can get too far into my head Felix comes over, kissing my head, easily pulling me out of my head.
“ Aegi, I want you here. No matter the time of day you are always welcome to watch us practice and if for some reason we stupidly say you aren’t, you are more than welcome to drag us by our ears to Channie Hyung so that he can chew our asses out for being idiots.” Felix says, kissing my head while pulling his hoodie over my head.
“You know me too well, you know that?”
“My goal is to know everything about you, you are it for me. I love you.” Felix kisses me quickly before heading back to Minho and Hyunjin.
“Felix, stop flirting with your girlfriend, we gotta go over the choreo before Chan chews our heads off for not having it finished.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”
I watch them practice with a smile on my face. It’s not long before the rest of the boys join and it feels like my whole world is perfect again, or almost perfect. It will still be a while before I am able to join in the dancing again but even then they still include me with a wheelie chair, never letting me forget that I am their baby, their Maknea. I look at all of them in the mirror, a smile so big on my face that it almost hurts but I’m right where I want to be. I have my Felix and I have my group, and they will always have my back.
Bang Chan | Lee Know | Seo Changbin | Hwang Hyunjin | Han Jisung | Kim Seungmin | Yang Jeongin
