not so loud - dino x reader (@daechwitatamic) | friends to lovers, one bed trope, fluff, smut, slight angst
build this dream together (series) - joshua x reader (@joshujin) | f1 driver joshua x race engineer reader, fluff, angst, smut
rates of change - dino x reader (@wqnwoos) | dino x TA reader, idiots to lovers, fluff, slight angst
the tiger & the moon - hoshi x reader (@memoiresofaneternaldreamer) | circus performer hoshi x artist reader, smut, angst
statistically speaking... - mingyu x reader (@gyuswhore) | TA mingyu x reader, fluff, smut, angst
on call - wonwoo x reader (@kkaetnipjeon) | attending neurosurgeon wonwoo x resident reader, fluff, smut
slacking off - wonwoo x reader (@goldenhourology) | coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut
you've got boba eyes, dude - dino x reader (@wheeboo) | boba shop owner dino x mat racer attendant reader, fluff, slight enemies to lovers
caught in bloom, caught on you - minghao x reader (@wheeboo) | florist minghao x reader, fluff, slight angst, strangers to friends to lovers
double trouble - dk x reader x mingyu (@studioeisa) | fluff!
on the clock - vernon x reader (@sailorsoons) | coworkers to lovers, fake dating, fluff, smut
baby - hoshi x reader (@sailorsoons) | mafiaverse, childhood friends/exes to lovers, angst, smut
untitled - jeonghan x reader (@hoshifighting) | famous poker player jeonghan x famous poker player reader, angst, smut
𓏲ּ𝄢 some seventeen authors i absolutely love with similar fanfics ! :
- @sailorsoons
- @studioeisa
- @haologram
- @joshujin
- @gyuswhore
- @memoiresofaneternaldreamer
part 2...
currently listening to... i don't understand but i luv u - seventeen ♫⋆｡♪ ﾟ.
SUMMARY: You can tolerate a lot. You don’t care when someone messes up your documents or when your situationship ghosts you after two dates or when your manager is drowning your work in red ink. It was annoying, but survivable. If someone steals your lunch, especially the one you woke up early to make for yourself, that's where you draw the line. No one is hot enough to be forgiven for food theft. Not even the annoyingly calm, morally upright, infuriatingly handsome attorney from the legal department. And you’re about to catch him.
add tags❦︎: attorney! wonwoo, reader is in pr team, strangers to lovers, food puns (intended), wonwoo is kinda of an asshole here, minghao side quest, booseoksoon mentioned ft. mingyu, jeonghan you piece of shit, crackfic, dom!wonwoo, implied inexperienced reader, happy ending aye.
a/n: i'd like to think that im creative. also pls don't play with your food guys, inspired by one of the indie VN games i played.
No one is hot enough to be forgiven for stealing food.
And you’re about to catch that rat in action.
There’s nothing more infuriating than someone eating your lunch, especially when you made it that morning. With your own groceries. Your own money and your own time.
Your blood, sweat, and tears.
Oh, you’re about to be devastatingly mad. You want to throw the trash bin across the pantry, curse at the manager, maybe even consider resigning on the spot.
But did you?
Obviously not. Moment of weakness, as we speak.
Two hours earlier.
…
Work-life balance? Don’t know her.
Your life had been mundane as usual, and honestly, you didn’t mind that. You just wished your corporate life would stop trying to actively ruin it. Ever since the new CEO took over the man who stepped in after his father—you weren’t sure what to think of him. What you did know was that the company had been overworking its employees nonstop.
You wouldn’t even complain if they at least upgraded the cafeteria menu.
The new caterer didn’t seem to care about repeating the same dishes over and over to the point that one of your coworkers ended up with a stomachache. Not to mention the coffee drip machine sucked. Like, genuinely sucked. Thousand-dime company, yet they never bothered to upgrade the damn coffee machine.
No one wanted to drink that brown liquid. You’d rather dehydrate than willingly swallow it.
Since then, most people have started going out for lunch. Some just kept working through it, to the point of developing gastritis or borderline malnutrition.
But not you.
You refused to starve yourself.
Your mother always said: never be stingy with money when it comes to food. Money comes and goes.
That’s what she said.
Nothing beats a home-cooked meal. You’d choose that over takeout any day, unless you were really busy.
Just in time, it was finally lunch.
You had been anticipating this. Your lunch. Your heavenly five-star meal that you poured your whole heart into this morning.
Heck, you didn’t even eat breakfast. Just that cheap black coffee from the café downstairs.
Today’s packed treasure? A hamburg steak with a molten cheese filling in the center, paired with soft, fluffy rice.
You didn’t forget the fiber either broccoli and roasted potatoes to balance the meal. You swore nothing beat homemade meat: freshly ground beef, breadcrumbs, and spices that actually made sense together.
You’d like to think you’re very good at pounding meat.
The mental image of that juicy steak, gravy cascading over the top and soaking into white rice, made your stomach growl loudly.
God, you couldn’t wait to devour the whole thing. It was your self-reward after hours of sitting in your office chair to the point your ass might permanently imprint into it.
Sure, you couldn’t eat it fresh off the stove but at least the microwave here was more competent than the company’s infrastructure.
With a small, happy hum, you walked to the pantry fridge.
Around this time, the shelves were usually emptier. Only one or two transparent containers remained, so spotting yours should’ve been easy, the pink lunchbox. Your trusted Tupperware.
Of course your food deserved the best of the best. Duh.
You picked it up.
And immediately, something felt… off.
There was a sauce stain around the lid. And now that you thought about it somehow felt lighter than it had that morning.
You frowned but didn’t overthink it.
Until you opened it.
Your steak was…
Gone.
Like, all gone.
Your thick, juicy steak. Your fluffy rice. Your vegetables drowned lovingly in gravy.
Vanished.
Your stomach growled again as you blinked down at the empty container.
You weren’t just hungry. You were starving.
A small, devastated wail almost slipped out of you.
How could someone steal another person’s lunch? That was straight-up cruel. There was absolutely no excuse to think someone needed it more than you.
If anything, you needed it the most.
Because you deserved it. After all the prep. The early alarm. The effort.
You inhaled slowly, trying to be rational.
It would be wildly unprofessional for someone from the PR team to crash out over stolen food. So fine. You’d handle this professionally.
You pulled out your phone and speed-dialed HR. It was important to keep essential contacts ready. That’s what Seungkwan always said.
The call connected.
“Hello, this is Hyunsuk from Human Resources,” a flat voice answered. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, Hyunsuk. I’d like to report a theft.”
“Okay,” he replied. “What was stolen?”
You didn’t hesitate. “My lunch.”
There was a brief pause.
“Was it during company hours or on company property?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot compensate for your loss.”
You frowned. “I don’t want compensation, Hyunsuk.”
You swore you could hear him sigh. “An employee’s lunch is considered personal property.”
“Yes, but isn’t it concerning that theft is happening on company grounds?”
“We have cases like this happen very often,” he said. “The company is not responsible for them.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“If you have anything else to report, please send an email,” he cut in. “My lunch break is starting.”
The line went dead.
Hyunsuk hung up.
You stared at your phone in disbelief. “…But my hamburg steak…”
Your eye twitched.
He just said it happens often.
Then do something about it?
“Whatever. Nobody even likes Hyunsuk.”
In fact, you weren’t sure he liked anyone at all.
With nothing else you could do, you begrudgingly poured yourself a lukewarm cup of coffee and returned to your desk with empty stomach, extra caffeine, and a growing vendetta.
The next day, you decided to let it go.
Okay, maybe you were being too forgiving. But hey, you were just hangry yesterday. Surely it was a one-time thing.
Still, the way Hyunsuk said these “theft incidents” happened often baffled you. As if they were normalizing it.
Like, what’s even the function of all those security cameras around the office?
If they can draw a hard line on “no inappropriate office activities,” then surely they can give justice to your stolen lunch too.
Crazy.
The last time people went into the pantry, they literally saw used condoms in the bin. Goodness gracious, as if the toilet didn’t exist. You’d rather not walk past and hear… unwanted noises either.
You did consider writing a company-wide email and CC’ing everyone. After all, who the hell knew who ate your lunch?
You refused to take this as egg-ceptance.
…Maybe not yet.
Despite yesterday’s tragedy, you still brought your lunch today.
After all, you made mapo tofu. And you were not backing down.
How did you make it again?
Oh, right.
Sichuan peppercorns.
While you weren’t a huge fan of overly spicy food, the spice of life played an important role in cooking. You could never forget the nose-numbing aroma of roasted Sichuan pepper. The thick red oil from the fermented bean paste. The firm, bouncy cubes of tofu holding heat so intense it transcended taste buds.
The Mapo Tofu.
You paired it with plain white rice but nothing could overpower the fragrance of chili oil and peppercorns.
It reminded you of that business trip, when Minghao introduced you to mala hotpot and a whole new universe of Chinese spices. You even brought souvenirs back, mostly seasonings to experiment with.
Bless him and his encyclopedic knowledge.
But today’s version?
Different.
Just in case, you doubled the heat. Twice the ground peppercorn. Extra chili flakes. A spice level too powerful for the mortal tongue.
Right before sealing the lid, you sprinkled a little more pepper.
If anyone dared to open your lunch, a red powdery explosion would await them.
Maybe you did this on purpose.
If they stole it again, you hoped their ass would explode in the toilet like that scene in White Chicks.
Serves them right.
…
Lunch break came.
You approached the fridge like a soldier returning to war.
You prayed the thief hadn’t struck again.
But the moment you picked up your Tupperware, the weight or lack of it—felt ominous.
You opened it and found it was already gone.
Again.
Empty.
But how? Why?
First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, who the hell devoured that hellishly spicy mapo tofu? Surely their stomach would declare war soon.
And third…
What. The. Fuck.
Who was this food-crazed glutton?
“…Wait,” you muttered to yourself. “If someone ate my super spicy Sichuan mapo tofu, their lips should be bright red right now!”
You didn’t hesitate.
Within the remaining minutes of your break, you scanned the entire floor like a detective on a mission.
Red lips. Red lips. Red lips.
But to no avail.
Your pepper-kissed burglar was nowhere to be found.
Much to your annoyance, there were simply too many employees in this company. Half of them wore bold red lipstick anyway. You couldn’t tell if it was spice-induced inflammation or just cosmetics.
You didn’t care.
You just wanted the rat-stealing-food burglar.
It was almost time to go home but unfortunately, a major project was in peak season. Several departments had to stay for overtime.
Including yours.
No one liked overtime.
Sure, you got paid. But was it worth it?
Maybe you should start your own business one day. Open a brunch café. Lower stress. Maybe finally use your bachelor’s degree properly.
You sighed.
Seokmin had given you a small box of macarons earlier after seeing the fury on your face but you hadn’t eaten them. You refused to fill your stomach with pity sweets. Too busy drowning in despair and caffeine as you typed aggressively at your keyboard.
The loud clacking and flipping of papers earned you a few glances.
You didn’t care.
Your food had been stolen. Twice.
Why should you care about their peace when they didn’t care about yours?
Fair is fair.
Eventually, you brushed it off and went downstairs to the convenience store before returning to the office. Instant noodles and sausages.
How classic.
You weren’t alone though.
There was a guy sitting a few seats away. Still in work clothes. His blazer hung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He was eating two cups of buldak ramen, the spicy kind.
It reminded you of your Sichuan mapo tofu.
You felt like you were mourning a loss.
And for some reason, you caught a faint scent of pepper clinging to his suit.
Maybe you were imagining it.
People had been avoiding you all day anyway, some even spraying air freshener after you walked past.
Still, you kept glancing at him.
Was it common for two people to coincidentally crave spicy food on the same day? Watching him slurp down two buldak ramens made your stomach twist.
Noticing your stare, he paused.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turned to you. “You got some staring problem?”
His voice was deep and calm but the tone carried an edge.
“What?”
“I said,” he continued, face still stoic, cheeks slightly puffed with noodles, “got some staring problem? I know I’m a sight for sore eyes, but didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude?”
You blinked.
“Excuse me?”
Now it was your turn to feel offended.
You almost apologized earlier. Good thing that you didn’t.
This guy is insufferable.
Judging by his face alone, of course he was. The only good thing about him was his face. And unfortunately, the bad thing was also his face. What a waste of something that pretty.
You couldn’t help but hope there was at least one imperfect thing about him. Maybe his personality was rotten. Maybe he snored. Maybe—
Whatever.
You just hoped his dick is ugly. Then again, no dick is ever pretty anyway.
“Rude…” you muttered under your breath before returning to your convenience-store “meal.”
After a while, you finished dinner and headed back into the company building, americano in hand.
And much to your surprise—
The guy was there too.
Walking in the same direction.
For a second, you almost thought he was a creep.
And then came the real disappointment.
He fucking worked here.
You nearly lost it on the spot.
Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? People in this company were either painfully dull, aggressively gray, or casually insufferable. If you were lucky, you’d meet someone with a decent moral compass.
Rare species.
Standing in the same elevator as him didn’t help. You had a talent for meeting the worst people at the worst possible times.
What’s new?
Still, you caught it again.
That scent. It was faint now but familiar.
The lingering peppery aroma. The same one from your stolen mapo tofu.
Okay. Maybe you were slightly unhinged, grieving over lost lunch.
But still.
You sniffed subtly and shifted a little closer.
The man frowned at you like you’d just malfunctioned.
“Hypothetically speaking,” he said flatly, “if you want to fuck me, you could just say so.”
You blinked.
Excuse me?
Oh, you would absolutely fuck him up alright but that was a different story.
He was insufferable. And irritating him suddenly felt therapeutic.
You scoffed and stepped back into your space.
“You have your entire life to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Why not take today off?”
Now it was his turn to look at you properly.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” he replied calmly, “but I’m guessing it’s difficult to pronounce.”
Oh, he was annoying.
“If I wanted to hear from an asshole,” you said sweetly, “I’d fart.”
There was a brief silence.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
He genuinely looked like he was calculating whether you were capable of doing it.
The elevator doors slid open.
You stepped out first.
“See you not later, Mr. Hodenkobold.”
He looked like he was about to fire back but the doors closed before he could.
For once, it felt nice to rage-bait someone else.
Especially after your lunch had been stolen.
So you decided.
For the next two days, you were going to catch the rat-stealing-lunch and end this once and for all.
For a brief, dangerous second, you did consider rat poison. But the thought of going to jail?
Absolutely not.
As tempting as it was, you couldn’t risk it. You had a baby to feed back at your studio apartment.
Your cat.
While you were suffering over your stolen gourmet lunches, your cat—Wonton, the name you lovingly gave her, was happily eating premium-grade cat food.
It was unfair. Really.
So you came up with a plan.
This time, you packed a cute bento-themed lunchbox: omelet nori rolls and rice balls.
Except—
They were made of wax.
Yes. Wax.
You followed a YouTube tutorial. Styrofoam base. Acrylic paint for texture. You even added gloss to make it look freshly glazed. Turns out, you had raw talent for this.
It looked absolutely gouda. An egg-cellent fake lunchbox.
You were certain the food stealer was souper hungry right now.
Okay. You really needed to stop hanging out with Seokmin and his endless food puns.
You even added a faint pepper scent to make it smell convincing. Surely no one was dumb enough to fall for fake food.
…Right?
But if they did? It would be hilarious.
…
When you returned at lunch break and opened the lid, you froze.
“….”
There was one—no, two chunks missing.
A bite taken out of the fake omelet.
You blinked.
What kind of unhinged human gluttony was this?
You couldn’t brie-lieve it.
They actually ate the wax.
The next day, you switched tactics.
You made curry fish head, rich curry paste blooming in oil, coconut milk thickening the broth just the way you liked it. You had to thank Minghao again for that Southeast Asia culinary expedition.
This time?
Untouched.
The container was slightly shifted, the lid smudged but the food remained intact.
You assumed the thief wasn’t a seafood fan.
Or maybe allergic.
That theory lasted exactly twenty-four hours.
The following day, you packed creamy rosé pasta with shrimp and clams. Garnished with basil. Sprinkled with oregano. And, of course, little octopus-shaped cocktail sausages.
For insurance, you taped a note to the lid:
you
do not touch.
i will find you. bon appetit, mf.
You stuck it firmly on top of your Tupperware.
Surely this would intimidate them.
Surely.
...
You returned during lunch break and immediately noticed the note had slipped to the floor.
You picked it up.
Your handwriting stared back at you.
And underneath—
you.
do not touch.
i will find you. bon appetit, mf.
"𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐘"
You stared at it in disbelief at the bold, neat handwriting.
Slowly, you lifted the paper then tore it to shreds with your teeth, pure rage simmering in your veins.
The audacity must be on clearance sale.
When you opened the container, your jaw tightened.
Your pasta? Gone. The noodles devoured and the octopus-shaped sausages? Missing.
The shrimp and clams?
Only to be left behind.
Oh.
So they weren’t allergic.
They were picky.
You clenched your jaw, saliva dampening the dry paper as it scraped against your tongue. “Wow. Tasty, indeed,” you mocked under your breath.
This needs to end now.
You honestly need to lock the fuck in this time, to catch that rat-stealing-food burglar. You just hoped they stepped on dog shit today, that both their pillows smelled horrible, and that they’d have the worst fucking nightmare the moment they woke up.
“Hey,” Seokmin approached you with Soonyoung beside him. “Rice to meet you today.” He greeted cheerily, but the moment he noticed your moody face, he faltered. “Okay… berry sorry for that.”
Both of them leaned against the railings beside you. Soonyoung offered you a lollipop. You needed that so much instead of lighting up tobacco, which you’d quit back in your college days.
“Is it about the lunch stealing again?” he asked. “I carrot believe that person’s kept the stealing streak going this far.”
You gave him a look. It seemed like Seokmin had rubbed off on him with all those food puns.
He raised his hands in surrender. “In my defense, I’m feeling saucy today. It’s alright, we can grab dinner after this—my treat, of course.” Soonyoung tried to reassure you, knowing how furious you get when your food gets stolen.
“Yeah, let’s meat up for dinner!” Seokmin chimed in, making you roll your eyes.
Wait.
That’s it.
You have to meet that fucking rat-stealer face to face.
...
This time, you made your well-crafted most scrumptious, katsu sandwich. Cut in halves, three thick slices stacked neatly inside your Chiikawa-pattern container. Minghao had given it to you after his business trip to Japan, and you gladly accepted it since the cartoon was trending everywhere lately.
You liked the yellow rabbit character. It reminded you of yourself because he’s a big back.
Just like you.
Anyway.
You were not about to let your lunch get taken away this time.
And this time, you were going to protect it like it mattered more than your own life. For the sake of your health insurance, you tried not to pounce on that food burglar.
You were not about to let your money, sweat, and time go to waste again.
Now that you think about it, you probably should’ve shown up ten minutes earlier before catching the culprit.
Standing from your seat, you headed toward the office pantry and peeked inside.
You couldn’t believe your eyes.
Someone was hunching over the fridge, hand hovering over the transparent containers then toward your Chiikawa lunchbox.
“Hm, this is new…” he murmured. “…and tacky.”
Excuse me?
You weren’t about to back down when someone literally mocked your precious lunchbox pattern. So what? You liked when your mom packed your food in a Hello Kitty container with those little fruit picks shaped like cat ears.
You cleared your throat to catch his attention. He jumped slightly, straightening up.
“Isn’t it too early for lunch break?” you asked, slowly approaching him, arms crossed.
He blinked.
It was the same four-eyed dude who inhaled two fire spicy bowl ramens the other day. You almost scoffed.
“You again,” he echoed. “And who are you?”
He still stood there, relaxed like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.
“Me?” you repeated nonchalantly. “I’m not that important. Rather, why don’t we start with you, buddy.”
He looked like he didn’t want to continue this conversation. Probably hoping you’d leave.
Fine.
You indulged him for a moment and gave your name. When he finally replied, you learned his.
Jeon fucking Wonwoo.
You plastered a smile on your face. He turned away, ignoring you. The two of you just stood there for a few tense seconds.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he asked, sounding impatient.
“How’s that coffee?” you shot back, blatantly ignoring his question.
Wonwoo frowned, more like bristled at it, as if offended.
“Why would I drink that slimy brown liquid?” he said. “Don’t tell me… you drink that thing?”
“It’s not that bad,” you shrugged.
(It absolutely sucks.)
He chuckled, clearly mocking you. “You sound like you hate yourself.”
Oh, he’s so cocky.
Three days. Three days you’ve suffered because of this stealing bitch.
“Actually…” you stepped closer. “What did you do these past few days?”
He cocked an eyebrow and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Why? It’s a workweek. What else would I be doing?”
You weren’t buying it. “Do you always come to the pantry this often?”
“…I mean, I have to eat,” he replied like it was obvious. “Of course I come here.”
“Wow, me too!” you exclaimed sarcastically. “I have an idea—why don’t we eat together then?”
That made him falter.
He suddenly looked uneasy at your smile. Like you were plotting something.
“…No, thank you. I prefer eating alone. Now can you leave?”
“Why not?” You stepped closer, almost chest to chest even though he was much taller.
He stiffened but tried to maintain composure, clearing his throat before a grin slowly spread across his face.
“I see. If you wanted me so much, you shouldn’t have thrown yourself at me like that,” he chuckled lowly, eyes dragging down your figure. “All you had to do was ask.”
Your smile dropped instantly and stepped back.
You wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face. That smug look made you want to chop off all his limbs.
“Oh, don’t lose that smile,” he tutted. “I’d rather think that mouth could do better. Maybe you’d be my cup of tea. Either way, it’s cheesed to meet you, Miss ____.”
Hell nah.
You were not backing down either.
Smiling sweetly, you replied, “You know what else my mouth could do, Mr. Jeon?”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Hurt your feelings. I think dildo is a perfectly acceptable insult. I’d call you a dick—but you’re not real enough.”
That caught him off guard.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
For the first time, Jeon Wonwoo didn’t know what to say.
“Cat got your tongue?” you smiled. “Or maybe my words are true—your dick isn’t that real.”
His eyes darkened as he stepped forward.
“Watch it. Say that again and I’ll put that mouth to good use.”
And then—
A sudden loud gasp from behind.
Both of you turned toward the doorway to see Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung frozen in place, hands dramatically covering their mouths.
“You heard that, guys?!” Seungkwan gasped. “What the fudge—she was about to get dicked down!”
Seokmin clutched Soonyoung’s arm. “Look at them pudding up against each other! They’re both nuts!”
“That’s tea-rrific,” Soonyoung added, “but whisk I’m willing to take for a pear like this!”
“GET OUT OF HERE!” you and Wonwoo barked simultaneously.
In the end, you shared your katsu sandwich with him.
Somehow, it turned into a mutual rant session about Hyunsuk. No one likes him anyway. Glad you’re both on the same boat.
He ended up taking you to dine at a downtown French bistro. Claimed it was “compensation.” Not that you were entirely forgiving about it.
You learned he works in the legal department. Recently promoted. Employee of the Month. Overworked to death.
“So, do you not have a life then?” you asked, noticing he’d loosened two buttons of his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He’s handsome.
Annoyingly attractive.
If only he’d shut up.
But again, no attractive person should be forgiven for food stealing. Especially your lunch.
“I did,” he said, sipping his wine. “Until they put me to work.”
You nodded slowly. Then circled back.
“You could’ve just ordered takeaway. Why my lunch?”
He grinned, leaning back. “Why? Your lunch, of course. Yours is the best I’ve tasted so far.”
The audacity.
Rich in audacity. Poor manners.
“So… what would you like to order?” the waiter asked.
“Right. Food.” Wonwoo skimmed the menu.
“What do you recommend?” you asked.
He hummed, closing the menu and looking directly at you. “Anything that tastes good.”
Your throat dried slightly. Maybe you’re imagining things.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Meat.”
Silence.
“…Okay. I’ll just get ratatouille.”
“But that’s all vegetables.”
“Shut up, meathead.”
The waiter coughed. “How cooked would you like your steak, sir?”
Wonwoo was still looking at you.
“Make it medium rare. And make it two,” you smiled. “I’d like a piece of meat too.”
The waiter jolted and left immediately.
“How long have you been stealing?” you circled back.
He sighed. “Look, I didn’t mean to do that—well, that was until I met you.”
“M-me?”
“Your lunch.”
Oh.
“I don’t like takeaways. I used to live with my roommate, Mingyu. He cooked for both of us until I moved into my own apartment,” he said. “And I can’t cook for shit.”
“Can tell,” you replied smoothly. “Your personality is probably as shitty as your cooking.”
He glared.
You smiled.
“Watch that,” he warned. “I’m definitely putting that smart mouth to good use—”
“Shut up. Save it for later. I’m not riding that fake dick.”
“…”
Silence.
You took a sip of wine, scanning the dim lights of the restaurant. Fine dining. Expensive plates. His salary was probably double yours anyway.
“Here’s the deal,” you said. “Stop eating my lunch. That’s it.”
He considered. “Fine. I’ll pay for your groceries. How about that?”
“Nah.”
Wonwoo frowned, fingers lacing together. “Okay, I’m sorry. But I really don’t like the dripping coffee machine. And the cafeteria sucks. And I hate that the caterer keeps slipping her phone number onto my tray.”
“All I ate were ham and cream cheese bagels,” he continued. “Depressing, I know.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Why not? For an attention whore like you, I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“She’s married. With five kids.”
“….”
Okay. Fair enough.
“Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll bite.”
His eyes lit up.
He almost reached across the table, close to your hand then thought better of it and grabbed the napkins instead.
“Can I go to your place after this?” he asked suddenly.
You nearly choked on your wine. “Excuse me? Aren’t we going too fast?”
“To inspect your goods,” he deadpanned. “Your fridge.”
Yeah.
He’s definitely messing with you.
You did let him come back to your studio apartment, after all the groceries were paid for by him, of course. In return, you taught him how to make the katsu sandwich he’d been annoyingly edging about all night.
And yes, it turns out he really doesn’t like seafood. Wonwoo said it upsets his stomach, and once was enough for him to swear it off forever.
You set the groceries aside just as your cat greeted you, weaving around your ankles while you washed your hands, Wonwoo hovering awkwardly behind you.
Your place was cozy. Very you, he thought.
“Who’s this little companion?” he asked, crouching down to pet your white Persian cat. “Got a name?” He glanced up at you, finally noticing the frilly apron you were wearing.
“Wonton,” you said, peeling onions as you passed him another apron, this one reading Kiss the Cook.
He slipped it over his head without complaint. “That’s funny. Do you have a food phase or something?”
Now that you thought about it… yeah.
“Yeah. I got dumpling takeaway that night, and she was inside the box when she was still a kitten. So I named her Wonton.”
The rest of the time, you walked him through each step carefully.
“So,” he said casually, “how often do you pound the meat?”
Silence.
You looked up.
He looked back, utterly oblivious. “The fried chicken sandwich yesterday was delectable.”
“Not much,” you muttered, going back to chopping potatoes. “Other than salty food—do you like sweets?”
He hummed while dipping the meat into egg batter and breadcrumbs. “Not really to be exact. I had it during a business trip in Europe. I don’t remember what it’s called. Something like… quickie?”
Your knife froze mid-chop.
“…Quiche,” you corrected. “It’s called quiche, Wonwoo.”
His face lit up, nodding like he’d just learned a new word.
For a moment, you wondered if he was messing with you but the genuine reaction told you otherwise.
“Are you messing with me?”
He blinked. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
You didn’t push it. It was pointless.
“Why can’t you cook?” you asked instead, lowering the coated meat into hot oil.
“Well, there’s this thing called ‘I just don’t,’” he said. “I once almost ate half-burnt scrambled eggs and decided never again.”
You scoffed. “It costs nothing to be kind with your words, you know.”
“Some days it costs me my fucking sanity, honey,” he shot back, eyes sharp.
Which would’ve been intimidating if he weren’t wearing that Kiss the Cook apron.
Your mom was right. There’s nothing romantic about cooking together. Move the fuck away.
“You know what?” you said. “Let’s split up to cover more ground. I’ll go left, and you go fuck yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he grinned. “Just don’t ogle me when I pound my meat. I’d know myself for the whole course of the meal.”
He’s so hot. If only he shut up.
“Calling yourself a meal when you’ve had an STD?” you said, setting the fried cutlet aside. “Okay, food poisoning.”
He frowned. “I’d have you know I’m very healthy and clean. So you’re safe.”
“No one said I’d fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gladly,” you replied. “But after we finish this, I’ll have my way with you later.”
“…..”
“So,” he said, scanning your apartment. “You live like this while working at a million-dollar company?”
“I live alone,” you shrugged, cutting the sandwich in half and handing it to him. “No reason for a big place. I do need a spacious kitchen, though.”
He nodded, biting into it. “Fair. What about a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“Don’t have time for that.”
“It’s alright,” you added. “At least I get to rest on weekends. What about you? Hobbies?”
He hummed. “I dissociate. I play games. And lately, my bed is the only thing calling me.”
“Oh,” you said. “Then… hookups?”
He leaned closer, smirking. “Are you offering?”
“Hell no,” you said immediately. “I don’t have the energy.”
“For what?”
You gestured at him.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Half of your personality is just symptoms.”
“Your mom.”
“My mom passed away four years ago,” he said simply.
Well. That rhymed.
Silence stretched between you.
You swallowed. “…Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay,” he said, finishing his sandwich. “It’s been a while. I still miss her.”
Another quiet beat.
“So…” you said carefully, “wanna catch up on Bridgerton?”
...
That night, you both sat on the couch with a noticeable gap between you, a cushion clutched to your chest like a shield.
The room was dim, lit only by the TV. Surprisingly, he was fully invested in Bridgerton. What was supposed to be one episode turned into a full marathon.
For some reason, it felt intimate.
Jeon Wonwoo, your coworker. The man who stole your lunch for a week. Also, the cause of your suffering.
Insufferable. Infuriating. Hot as fuck.
It would be a lie to say you’d never found him attractive. Well, except for that foul mouth. Not that you were any better.
The problem with this show was the sex scenes.
You’d completely forgotten how many there were.
Every time one came on, you felt the urge to skip it but Wonwoo didn’t move. He watched with the same unreadable expression, completely composed like poker-faced.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking inside his head.
Another scene started.
Just great.
You were very aware of how you shifted slightly, how your fingers tightened around the cushion, how your knees pressed together. The small breath you exhaled without meaning to.
The couch shifted.
He turned his head toward you.
He definitely noticed and yet, he said nothing. That somehow made it worse.
Because he remembered the way you talked to him.
The insults. The degradation. The way you never backed down.
Fuck.
Maybe that’s what did it.
Maybe Jeon Wonwoo was turned on by the way you spoke to him like you weren’t afraid.
“Do you want to make out and make noises?” he asked suddenly, looking at you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You blinked.
For a moment, your brain short-circuited.
Then you thought: when else are you going to get the chance to make out with a disgustingly attractive man like this?
Exactly.
“Thought you’d never ask,” you muttered, dropping the cushion before swinging a leg over his lap.
“Hell yeah,” he breathed.
His hands found your hips instantly.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was messy. Almost clumsy at first, teeth knocking, breaths uneven but it quickly deepened. His mouth moved slowly against yours, deliberate now. One hand slid up to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there.
You let out a soft sound against his mouth without meaning to.
Your body pressed closer.
He let out a low groan, restrained but it vibrated against your lips. You could feel his hardness pressed against yours, and it’s big.
When his tongue brushed yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was slow and intentional. Like he was testing how much you’d let him have.
You were already giving too much.
Time blurred.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. A thin string of saliva caught in the dim light before breaking.
He looked up at you, and whatever was in his eyes now wasn’t smugness.
It was hunger.
Like he hadn’t had enough.
His head leaned closer until the tip of his nose brushed yours as he murmured, “…I want you,” he breathed. “Please. I need to have you tonight.”
Your heart pounded at the sound of his voice. The way his ragged breath fanned against your lips.
His hand wandered, softly caressing your back before sliding lower to grip your ass, making you jump slightly.
He grinned at your reaction. “Is that a yes?” he chuckled lowly, squeezing more firmly this time, drawing a gasp from you as your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders.
“Cute,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your lips before looking up at you again. “…I need that pretty mouth of yours working now, since you’ve been such a smartass with me the whole time.”
Something about his piercing gaze made the heat pool low in your stomach. God, his commanding voice alone was enough to make you melt like chocolate left out too long under the sun.
You’re not a masochist, of course.
His thumb traced slowly over your lips before pressing gently, parting them as he slid the pad of his thumb just inside. His voice dropped.
“Get on your knees. Now.”
Did you listen? Hell yeah.
“Normally, I wouldn’t get on my knees for a man, but here I am,” you muttered as you moved between his thighs, while he spread his legs slightly, working at his belt and the sleek pants he’d worn earlier to dinner.
“I’m flattered to be the first man,” he chuckled. You could see the damp, slight pre-cum stain against his boxer. Then pulling the underwear down to reveal his shaft.
Giving a few pumps as he strokes his dick, groaning as his head goes over the couch. “Fuck, now go make use of that pretty mouth, baby.”
You breathe out, seeing that shafts make you hesitate a bit. Okay, that was a real dick; you take that back for insulting and calling his stupid dick fake.
Slowly wrapping your delicate hands around his shaft, you glance up to see his head thrown over the couch as you give a kiss on the tip of his cockhead.
His breath hitched as he watched you kneel between his legs, those soft eyes looking up at him with a mix of nervousness and determination. The sight alone made his cock throb harder in your gentle grip.
"Fuck..." he breathed out, his head tilting back against the couch cushion as he felt your lips brush against his sensitive tip.
His fingers instinctively tangled in your long wavy brown hair, not pulling but just... holding on. Grounding himself. The way your hands wrapped around his shaft made him stroke himself slower, more deliberately, letting you set the pace.
"You're so fucking pretty like this," he murmured, his voice rough and low as he watched your every move. "But you know what... I don't want your hands right now."
He gently guided your head down, his cock pressing against your lips as he guided you to take him in. Not all at once, he didn't want to make you gag or feel uncomfortable. Just... enough to feel you.
"Mmm... that's it," he groaned softly, his other hand moving to cup the back of your head possessively. "Use that pretty mouth of yours now. I want to hear from you."
His hips gave a subtle thrust, not demanding but encouraging. His eyes stayed locked on you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the wet sounds filling the room.
"Christ... you're incredible," he breathed, his thumb stroking along your jawline tenderly despite the rough situation.
You stiffen slightly, feeling his whole length around your mouth. Slowly making your jaw work as you bobbed your head, sucking him good.
He stopped you mid-blowjob, pulling you up by your waist with surprising strength. The way you were panting, lips swollen from worshipping his cock, made him nearly lose control entirely.
"Fuck... you look so good like this," he growled, his voice strained as he guided you toward the bed.
Setting you down gently on the mattress, he immediately followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His hands pushed your skirt up slowly, deliberately, savoring how exposed you were for him.
"Shit…" he breathed, his eyes darkening as he stared at your glistening core. "So fucking wet for me already."
Without hesitation, he leaned down and buried his face between your legs, his tongue immediately seeking out your clit. The taste of you made him groan against your sensitive flesh.
"Mmm... fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against you, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles. "Let me eat you properly before I take you."
His fingers gripped your thighs gently but firmly, spreading you wider as he feasted on you with renewed focus, determined to make you come on his tongue first.
You gasped sharply, your palm flying to your mouth, feeling his mouth dive in like a starved man. He knows exactly what you need to push you over the edge. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close.
He laughs against your core, feeling your fingers tangle in his hair. It made him groan with satisfaction. The way your body trembled beneath his mouth, your gasps growing louder.
It was fucking intoxicating.
He continues to lap on your cunt, wanting you to come undone by his tongue. He could feel you’re coming close as he works closer and closer to the edge. His fingers thrust in and out of you, over and over again.
“Fuck— you’re so close already,” he murmured against your soaked folds, his tongue working faster now. “Let go baby, let me taste it.”
You could feel your orgasm coming closer as he kept pumping into you. When you finally came, his fingers still pumping inside you, he felt your walls clench around him rhythmically. The sight of you completely undone, head thrown back as pleasure washed over you— it made him nearly lose control too.
You swore you almost saw stars and later, he was going to make you see the entire fucking galaxy once he was inside you.
“God, you look so beautiful like this,” he breathed, slowly pulling his fingers out of you with a soft, wet sound. “So fucking beautiful when you let go.”
You gave him a weak tap, blinking as you tried to catch your breath. God, you hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Or maybe no one had ever made you feel this good.
It was embarrassing to let him see you like this. Kind of pathetic, honestly, to get so worked up just from being eaten out.
Wonwoo chuckled, settling himself between your thighs as he looked down at you, almost menacingly. “Take your time, sweet pea. I’m not done with you yet.”
Then, surprisingly, he said something reasonable. “Just to make sure—give me a safe word.”
You blinked, finally propping yourself up on your elbows against the mattress as you considered it.
“Strawberry,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Make it shorter. Do you think you can say that before I pound you like dough?”
You huffed. “Cherry, then.”
“Fair enough.” He leaned in to kiss you again but stopped midway. “I don’t have condoms, though…”
And you weren’t on pills. You couldn’t blame him. No one had expected this to happen.
You checked the drawer beside your bed. It had probably been sitting there for two years, back when you never expected there’d be a man in your life again.
When you handed it to him, he bristled, letting out a laugh and flashing a cocky grin. “This isn’t my size, sugarplum. It’s alright—I’ll pull out immediately,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your temple then running his hands along your curves possessively.
He sheathed himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was no hesitation in his movements, yet something raw, almost vulnerable flickered across his expression.
“I’m clean,” he murmured, his voice more serious now. “And I’ve never done this without protection before. So… yeah.” His gaze softened just slightly. “I’m trusting you, too.”
You let out a small whimper, feeling himself positioned at your entrance, his cock pressing against your wet heat. His thumbs framed your face, cradling it gently.
“Tell me you want this,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “Tell me you want me inside you bare.” His hips gave a small thrust, just teasing waiting for your answer.
Almost cussing out at him for purposely made you feel this way, you breathe out almost pleadingly despite your bite. “...you asshole, stop playing—” you sharply inhaled when he thrusted his cock inside you.
He felt you gasp as he pushed inside, his cock stretching you open slowly.
Fucking hell.
The way you clenched around him immediately made him grit his teeth, might as well come inside you at this point.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, his hands moving to grip your hips. “So tight…fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” He didn’t slam in, he took his time, letting you adjust to him. The way your walls squeezed him rhythmically was almost too much, but he forced himself to stay controlled.
And you—you never felt so fucking amazing right now. You think you might ascend to heaven. Eyes rolling over with your grip tightens on the sheets.
“Still with me, sweet pea?” he asked, voice strained as he hilted himself completely inside you.
You nodded slowly at him, murmured softly, “...yeah…you can move faster now.”
His fingers dug into your skin slightly, not quite bruising but definitely holding on tight. Breath hitched when you finally gave him permission, that single nod making his control slip dangerously. The way your walls were already clenching around him was driving him insane.
“Thank fuck,” he breathed out, hips already starting to move. He pulled back slowly, feeling every inch of you squeeze around him then thrust forward with more purpose. The wet sounds of your tangled bodies filled the room.
Your poor cat, Wonton, is already scurrying away somewhere.
He could feel your body trembling beneath him, and it made something possessive ignite in him. He wanted every gasp, every moan and every shudder of pleasure entirely for himself.
His thrusts became faster, more desperate as his breath came in harsh pants against your neck. “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded softly, one hand moving to cup your chin, fracking you to look at him. "Tell me when you’re close.”
His cock throbbed inside you, pre-cum leaking out but he was determined to make this last. To make you feel as good as you made him feel earlier with that perfect, needy mouth.
“You’re killing me,” he admitted breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours. “But I’m not pulling out until I see you completely destroyed…”
...on my cock.” you heard him finished, his voice thick with need.
God, you can’t even talk properly with him. Did he just fucked you this good?
His hips snapped against yours, making you gasp. The change in rhythm was almost punishing— harder, faster and deeper. Each thrust he gave, sent pleasure spiraling through your waves, making your toes curl and your visions blur.
“Fuck…fuck— Wonwoo! You cried out, back arching off the bed slightly as he drove into you relentlessly.
One of his hands moved from your hip to your hair, fisting it rough;y and tilting your head back. His lips crashed against yours in a desperate, messy kiss that tasted like desperation and need.
“Say my name while I fuck you.” He demanded between kisses, his other hand moving to your throat, just barely pressing, not choking but claiming.
“Wonwoo!” you sobbed into the kiss, voice breaking.
It was all too much. His mouth on yours, hands on you and the way he was fucking you like he wanted to imprint himself on your very soul. Your orgasm built faster than you could handle, climbing higher and higher until you were breathless and dizzy.
“I’m—oh god— I’m—” you couldn’t even finish the sentence as pleasure crashed over you in waves, your inner walls clamping down around him.
He felt you come, your body shaking and clenching around his cock, and it was his undoing. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside then immediately pulled out as he promised. His remains spilled on your stomach, giving a few last pumps as he stays there.
“Fuck… fuck…” he breathed against your neck, his body collapsing onto yours as aftershocks rippled through both of you.
You stayed like that for a while, limbs tangled, your body slowly growing heavy with exhaustion.
But goddamn. That was the best sex you’d ever had.
(You’d only had, like, two back in school, but whatever.)
Just when you thought he was finished, he lifted his head and looked down at you before finally shrugging off the dress shirt that had been hanging open. He pulled it over his broad shoulders, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the lean muscle beneath.
God, you silently thanked the heavens for giving you an asshole that looked like him.
Grinning cockily, he hovered over you, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. “Oh, I’m not done yet, honeybun. That was just the appetizer. We still have the full course and dessert.”
Okay, maybe you should’ve bought the condoms and pills when you were grocery shopping with him.
“Now strip bare before I devour you for real.” He smacked your ass and squeezed, making you yelp.
The rest was history.
The next morning. Thank heavens it was Saturday. You would not have survived this if it were Monday and a workweek.
You fumbled beneath the comforter, still half-asleep. Then it hit you.
You’d been dicked down by the most insufferable, food-thieving man alive.
Slowly, you sat up, immediately feeling the soreness between your thighs.
Thanks a lot to that bastard for bottoming you out so good.
And you loved every single second of it.
Noticing the empty space beside you, your gaze drifted across the room—only to find him in nothing but his boxers, crouched beside Wonton, your cat. It looked like he’d already fed her.
Wow.
The sight of him watching your cat eat was almost… innocent.
Was that really the same person who pounded you like a beast last night?
Whatever.
You looked down and realized you were wearing his dress shirt. He probably cleaned you up before you passed out.
Pushing yourself out of bed, you shuffled toward the kitchen. You were starving, might as well whip something up.
He noticed you rummaging through the fridge and followed after you.
“Morning,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your waist as you worked at the counter. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Me,” you joked.
He immediately groped your chest, making you yelp as you slapped his hands away.
He didn’t look sorry at all. “You said it. I’m just taking what I want,” he grinned against your ear, pressing a soft kiss there.
“Let’s get married,” he suddenly said. “I need you for a lifetime.”
You hummed thoughtfully while whisking the pancake batter. “For what? The food or the sex?”
“Both,” he confirmed easily. “I already paid for the groceries. I’m basically your wallet at this point. Marry me and you get both—my dick and my money.”
You had to stifle a laugh.
His arms tightened around you as he added, “Then I can finally fuck you without using those damn condoms and pills.”
That made you turn to look at him, eyebrow raised as he flashed that stupidly annoying grin.
“Was that a threat?”
“A promise,” he corrected. “We’d make a great pear. And I wouldn’t mind putting a few little peanuts in you.”
He nuzzled your nape like an oversized cat.
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re crazy.”
“Yeah,” he said smoothly. “I’m nuts for you, sweetie pie.”
Since that day, you kept seeing Wonwoo during lunch breaks at work.
With a price, of course. The lunch arrangement.
For some reason, you couldn’t help but notice the change in his personality. Well… he’d been a lot nicer lately.
And it scared the shit out of you.
You’d rather have him insufferable as always, wearing that stupid cocky grin.
Okay, maybe not. That was too annoying. You weren’t sure you could restrain your fist from connecting with his majestic face.
“Have you been sitting in all that sugar you bake with? Because you’ve got a sweet butt,” Wonwoo suddenly said.
A loud crash echoed through the kitchen as you dropped the baking tray in your hands, staring at him in horror.
Noticing your mortified expression, he took a step back. “Sorry. Too forward?”
He’d been crashing at your place again, insisting on driving you home as an excuse to spend more time together.
“Have you been laying in sugar, sweetheart?” he tried again. “Because you’re looking pretty sweet. Is that better?” he asked, almost apologetically.
You honestly didn’t know what to say, setting the meatloaf aside.
“I mean…” you started slowly, “…you always smack my ass whenever you get the chance, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it when I’m about to get into the passenger seat.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I think all of you are sweet, really.” Then he added, “I can tell your parents were bakers—they’d have to be to make a cutie pie like you.”
You blinked, finally turning to look at him. “…Well, my mom was a baker. And my brother owns a café, so yeah. Technically.”
“Wait, really?” he asked, momentarily dropping the act. “Why didn’t I know that?”
“You never asked,” you replied simply, waving him off. “By the way, what’s with all these cheesy pick-up lines? Where did you even learn them?”
Completely ignoring your question, he continued, “Are you bread? Because you’re the loaf of my life.”
Your lips twitched. “Okay, now you’re up to something. Did you lose a bet?”
“I think I’ve got cavities, because you’re too sweet.”
You chuckled, leaning against the kitchen counter in your pink frilly apron. “If you’re trying to seduce me into baking cookies, you could’ve just asked.”
“I don’t know about cookies,” he shot back smoothly, “but you and I would bake a great couple.”
Your smile widened as you pushed off the counter and slowly walked toward him. “Oh? Is that what you think?”
He audibly gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watched you approach.
“Did you just come out of the oven?” he continued weakly. “Because you’re hot.”
You let out a soft giggle, stopping in front of him and placing your hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m scared of you or attracted to you.”
His hands naturally found your waist. “Marry me, please. Let me be your husband. I’ll take care of you… and our little peanut. Soon.” He nuzzled into your neck.
Smiling, you couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, Won,” you murmured, “if you want something sweet, there’s plenty of sugar right here.”
You tapped your lips playfully. He didn’t hesitate before pressing his mouth to yours.
A moment later, you both pulled back, laughing and giggling like idiots, foreheads resting against each other.
“By the way,” you asked softly, “where did you even learn those pick-up lines?”
He paused, thinking for a second.
“Jeonghan,” he said simply.
Ah.
Of course.
You never liked him. Same department as Wonwoo…just more obnoxious.
He definitely put him up to this on purpose.
One thing you actually learned from your mother's advice that surprisingly worked was that the fastest way into a man’s heart was through his stomach.
Turns out, he stopped stealing your food. He found something sweeter to keep instead.
FIN.
A/N: once again, thanks a lot for staying until the end, apples!! finally we've come to the end. if you're interested in more of my fics, feel free to check my page and my masterlist, if any of you guys are interested include in my taglist, feel free to sign in the form link.
feedbacks and comments are appreciated!! (for future purposes, so that i will improve my writings more.) pls do support me if you found this entertaining! ˙𐃷˙ here
bias - ( @wooahaes ) fluff, slice of life, vernon idol!au, you make the cats choose their svt bias, IT SO WHOLESOME :((((((((
mr. nice guy - ( @toruro ) smut, next door neighbor!joshua au, I HATE HIM skfffkjs this got me blushing and shit, he cosplays as a gentleman but he´s actually just a flirty nasty mf
confession - ( @nonranghaes ) bf!shua, fluff, slice of life, this is so cute sldfjshldjfkh
You Know What They Say About Men With Big Feet - ( @hansols-yoda-boxers ) smut, big feet, big nose, big muscles and a big dicc YUPPPPPP, seokmin has it ALL
2am conversations - ( @wqnwoos ) bf!jeonghan, slice of life, “what if crabs think that fish can fly?” “angel, it’s two in the morning,” sdkhfksb it´s cute :(((( so domesticc
the long way - ( @trblsvt ) model!jeonghan, staff!reader, UGGHHDSLHFLSKH i love this, he´s so confident and lowkey straight forward
tinted windows - ( @duhnova ) smut, ceo!hannie, panty ripper,, literally, car sex, “sir you have a meeting in twenty minutes.” “fuck that stupid meeting, i have more important things to be doing right now.” IT´S GOOD YALL
poker match - ( @hoshifighting ) smut, sub!hannie, dom!reader, famous poker player!jeonghan, famous poker player!reader. he finally meets his match in every way. I LOVEEEDDD this, it´s such a fresh concept
night time questions - ( @wqnwoos ) bf!jeonghan, fluff, LEAVE ME ALONEEEEEE THIS IS SO CUTEEE :(((( had me giggling and crying at the same time
drunk and in love - ( @97-liners ) fluff, wasted!hoshi, him in his tiger patterned-shirt, asdkjasdh he´d deff be like this, he rants about how wonderfull you are to whoever got ears, so cute
lollipops and candy bars - ( @hansols-yoda-boxers ) smut, sub!hao, reader loves to tease, cute and innocent looking reader, hao needs help lmao, "Well, I finished off my lollipop a while ago, do you have anything else I could suck on?” SKLHDLFJHKLDJ wow
clingy - ( @tomodachiii ) hubby!gyu x pregnant!reader, fluff. so you want me to kms,,THIS IS THE FLUFFIEST PIECE I´VE READ THIS WEEK (っ °Д °;)っ ilysm
sweater paws - ( @duhnova ) smut, virgin!jeonghan. yeah so i fucking love this :D literally one of the best smut pieces out there fr, so so detailed
bad girls make good boys cry - ( @duhnova ) smut. virgin!joshua. pleeeassseeeee this is so gOODD, "first of all, you rode me till i cried" IKTR!!
reaction to their s/o appearing on going seventeen - ( @welcometomyoasis ) fluff, crack. LMAOOO i loved this sm
them accidentally ditching you on your bday - ( @hannieehaee ) angst, idol!ot13 if you know me you know i´m a wHORE for an angsty fic, it just hits a certain spot on my brain idk, and this is IT, i loved both parts
menace - ( @hannieehaee ) fluff, simp!jeonghan, when you´re the only one who can deal with him. mannn why is mingyu always the target lmao
fake dating? - ( @hannieehaee ) crack, fluff, suggestive, bff to lovers. nahhh this was too funny lmao, poor vernon
whipped - ( @gi4hao ) FLUFF, bf!wonu. this is so wHOLESOME and ihateit (not) :((((( plssssss its so cuteee
when you call them by their name - ( @emocheol ) sdkhskdhf this is too good, no them panicking
12:31 am - ( @hoasvuon ) bf!jeonghan, fluff. so...i´m so in love :´)
leave your message after the beep - ( @shuaraes ) angst, ex-bf!minghao, the way this is written,, how tf doesn´t it have at leAST 1000 notes??? its crazy!
what happens when you go on a date, get the guy's number, decide to call him thanking him for the night and it ends up being the wrong number? at least the voice on the other end of the phone was apologetic and seemed nice about it. the cherry on the top was that this new mystery man you met over the phone asked to get you coffee since he felt bad that you were given the wrong number on a supposedly “great” date. he calls it a not-a-date, but what if it turns out being something completely different.
Pairing: Lee Chan x f!Reader
Genre: chan is whipped from the start, wrong number trope, friends to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, mutual pining
Word Count:13.4k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: heavy making out at the end, a little explicit but No Smut!!!!!! Just the kissing that's about it!
A/N: funny enough, this fic started being centered around a completely different seventeen member but as I kept writing I realized it NEEDED to be Chan! I hope you guys love it and once again thank you sm for all the love on my other stories! I'm so glad you all like my work :)
The date went better than you could have ever expected it to. The conversation was light, friendly, and full of laughter. Every awkward pause you’d braced yourself for just… never came. Instead, everything flowed so easily it almost caught you off guard.
And somewhere between the second round of laughs and the way he remembered little details you mentioned in passing, you realized you were genuinely, completely into him.
Walking away from the night, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head—the jokes, the glances, him giving you his phone number and the feeling that something had just clicked. You felt it deep down: the date hadn’t just gone well… it had gone really well.
You plop down on your couch the minute you get home, your roommate Jun baking something very sweet smelling in the kitchen.
“He finally gave you his number!” You hear him cheer from your shared kitchen.
“No more Instagram DM for me!” You yell back, cheerfully.
You pull your phone out of your bag, still smiling to yourself as you unlock it. His number sits there at the top of your recent contacts, and for a second you just stare at it. Then, before you can overthink it, you hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” a voice answers.
You blink.
“Hey! It’s me,” you say, your voice warm, a little excited. “I just wanted to say thank you again for tonight—I had a really great time.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“…I’m sorry,” the voice slowly, confusion thick in his voice. “I think you might have the wrong number.”
Your smile falters, but you shake your head instinctively, even though he can’t see you. “No, I don’t think so. This is the number you gave me—at dinner? Earlier tonight?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” he says, sounding almost apologetic now. “I definitely didn’t go on a date tonight.” He lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Honestly, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so I think I’d remember.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.”
“Yeah… I think you’ve got the wrong number,” he adds gently.
The warmth from earlier drains out of you all at once, replaced by a sinking, hollow feeling. “I—um… I’m so sorry,” you mumble quickly. “That’s my mistake.”
“No worries,” he says kindly. “I’m sorry someone gave you the wrong number after a date.”
“Yeah… me too.” Your voice is small now. “Sorry again.”
You hang up before he can say anything else.
For a moment, you just sit there, phone still in your hand, staring at the screen like it might somehow fix itself if you wait long enough. The laughter, the easy conversation, the way it all felt so real—it crashes into the reality settling in your chest.
Jun peeks out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “So?” he asks, grinning. “How’d the call go?”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight.
“…He gave me the wrong number.”
The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and just like that, the perfect night doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.
Jun’s grin drops almost instantly. “Wait—what?” He steps fully into the living room now, brows knitting together. “Why would he do that? That’s… that’s such a weird move.”
You shrug, but it’s tight, defensive, like you’re trying to hold something in. “I don’t know.”
“No, seriously,” Jun presses, clearly baffled. “Everything you told me sounded great. Who has a good date and then gives a fake number? That’s just—” he shakes his head, frustrated on your behalf “—that’s an asshole move.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. It is, isn't it?”
The sweetness in the air from whatever he’s baking suddenly feels overwhelming. “I’m just gonna… go get ready for bed,” you mumble, already standing.
Jun’s expression softens. “Hey… I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, before slipping down the hall into your room.
The routine feels automatic. Wash your face. Change into something comfortable. Brush your teeth. All the little steps you usually do without thinking now feel strangely heavy, like each one is giving your brain more time to replay the night.
The laughter. The eye contact. The way it all felt so easy to you.
By the time you crawl into bed and turn off the light, your chest still feels tight. You stare up at the ceiling, phone resting beside you, the glow of it faint in the dark.
It doesn’t make sense.
That’s the part that keeps poking at you. It didn’t feel fake. He didn’t seem disinterested. If anything, he seemed just as into it as you were.
So why?
You roll onto your side, grabbing your phone again before you can talk yourself out of it.
The number is still there.
Your thumb hovers for a second… then you open a new message.
You: Hey… this is the girl who called a few hours ago.
You pause, chewing on your lip, then keep typing.
You: Can I ask—what’s your name?
You stare at the message for a long second, your heart doing that annoying, hopeful little flutter despite everything.
Then you hit send.
And just like that, you’re left lying in the quiet, staring at your screen, waiting.
#: Hey… it’s Chan
You blink at your screen, surprised at how quickly he replied.
You: Hey, Chan… I’m really sorry again about earlier. I didn’t mean to call you out of nowhere like that.
There’s a short pause before the typing bubble pops up again.
Chan: It’s okay, really. It was a little confusing, but not in a bad way lol
You let out a small breath, tension easing just a bit.
You: Still… I feel bad. That must’ve been weird.
Chan: I mean, I was definitely wondering when I apparently went out on a great date tonight
He giggles slightly over the phone, it was cute.
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head into your pillow.
You: Yeah… lucky you, apparently you’re very charming
Chan: Hey thanks! I’ll take your word for it :D
There’s a lightness to it now, the awkwardness fading into something almost… easy.
Chan: But seriously, I’m sorry that happened to you. Getting the wrong number like that kinda sucks
You hesitate, then type anyway.
You: Yeah… it does
A few seconds pass.
Chan: Like I said, I haven’t really been on a date in a while, so I don’t totally know what being stood up or anything like that feels like
You stare at that for a second, then respond.
You: It’s not a great feeling, I’ll say that
There’s a pause after that—long enough that you wonder if the conversation is about to fizzle out.
Then your phone suddenly starts ringing.
Chan.
Your heart jumps a little as you sit up and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” his voice comes through, clearer now, a little warmer than before. “I figured texting might be a bit… impersonal, given the circumstances.”
You smile faintly, pulling your blanket around you. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
There’s a small beat, then he continues, a hint of amusement in his tone. “So… I was thinking. I kinda feel bad that your night ended like that.”
“You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“No, I know, I know. I don’t have to,” he says. “But—okay, hear me out—based on the area code in your number, I’m guessing we’re probably not that far from each other.”
You pause. “…Yeah, I think so.”
“So,” he goes on, a little more casually now, “maybe we could hang out sometime? You know… so you can at least get a proper ‘date’ experience.”
You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “A proper date?”
“Well—not a date,” he quickly corrects, a laugh slipping into his voice. “I mean—like, not officially. Just… hanging out. Totally normal. Very casual. Not a date at all.”
You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound breaking through the heaviness that had been sitting in your chest all night.
“Right,” you say, playing along. “Definitely not a date.”
“Exactly,” he says, mock-serious. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
There’s a small, comfortable pause after that, the kind that feels easy instead of awkward.
“Okay,” you say finally, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Chan replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Then it’s settled. Not-a-date it is.”
“That’s a bold ask of you Chan, whom I accidentally just met, over the phone, a few hours ago!” A slight laugh escapes your mouth.
“Well you don’t know me yet, do you?”
You tilt your head against your pillow, smiling despite yourself. “That’s kind of my point.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, like he’s just proven something. “So this is a great opportunity for you to find out.”
“Oh, is it?” you tease. “And what if I decide you’re weird?”
There’s a beat. “Then I’ll be very offended,” he says, completely straight-faced. “But I’ll respect your decision.”
You laugh softly, the sound quieter now, more relaxed. “Good to know.”
“And what if I decide you’re weird?” he adds.
“Too late,” you shoot back. “You already offered to hang out with me. That says more about you than it does about me.”
“So,” he continues, “just to clarify… on this completely-not-a-date, what do you usually like to do?”
You think for a second, tracing invisible patterns on your blanket. “Hmm. I don’t know… coffee’s always safe. Or walking around somewhere. I like low-pressure things.”
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “What if we do both, coffee then a walk? Very casual. Very not a date.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
You pause for a moment.
“I’d like that. What about tomorrow? 3pm?”
You hear a slight little “Mhm” over the phone.
You shift slightly under your covers, realizing the tight, disappointed feeling from earlier has almost completely faded.
“Hey,” he adds, a little softer now, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad you texted.”
Your chest does that small, annoying flutter again.
By the time the clock creeps toward 1:30, you’ve already been up for hours—awake, pacing a little, checking your phone more than you want to admit. The plan is simple. Casual. Not a date.
The front door clicks open, and Jun walks in, dropping his bag by the door. “I’m home—” he starts, before spotting you hovering near the hallway mirror. He pauses. “…Oh, this is happening today.”
You turn, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. “Yeah. 3pm.”
Jun just stares at you for a second. “I’m still trying to process how we got here,” he says slowly. “You went from getting a fake number to… making plans with a completely different guy in, what, a few hours?”
You wince a little, grabbing your hairbrush off the dresser. “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“It is worse,” he says, walking further in. “Who is this guy again?”
“Chan,” you reply, like that explains anything.
Jun blinks. “Right. Chan. The accidental stranger.”
You let out a small laugh, shrugging as you run the brush through your hair. “I don’t know. I was sad, okay? And it just… happened. I figured I’d do something just… on a whim for once. No overthinking, no planning everything out.”
Jun leans against the wall, arms crossed, still clearly trying to make sense of it. “This is very unplanned for you.”
“I know,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “That’s kind of the point.”
He studies you for a moment longer, then sighs, shaking his head with a small smile. “Alright. Fair enough. But if he turns out to be weird, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
“Deal,” you grin.
By 2:15, you’re getting ready.
Nothing over the top—just simple. You pull on a pair of jeans, a baby tee, and throw on a zip-up. Casual. Comfortable. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second, adjusting the sleeves.
Not a date, you remind yourself, yet your stomach flutters anyway.
You grab your phone, keys, and do one last quick check—hair, outfit, everything—before heading out.
Jun peeks out from the living room as you pass. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will,” you promise, slipping your shoes on.
“And if he’s secretly a serial killer—”
“Jun.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I’m leaving,” you laugh, cutting him off as you open the door.
“Good luck!” he calls after you.
You step outside, the air fresh, your nerves buzzing just under the surface.
It’s strange. Less than 24 hours ago, you thought the night had ended in disappointment.
And now you’re on your way to meet someone new—someone unexpected.
Someone you don’t know at all.
You take a small breath, a smile slowly forming as you drive toward the coffee shop where Chan is waiting.
Your fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel as you pull into the coffee shop parking lot a few minutes early. The place looks relaxed—people sitting by the windows, the bike path just off to the side like he mentioned.
Your phone buzzes just as you turn off the engine.
Chan: Hey, I’m already inside. Grabbed a table so we can decide what to get before we head out to walk.
You exhale a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
You: Okay, perfect. I’m walking in now—jeans, white baby tee, gray zip-up
There’s no time to overthink it after that. You grab your bag, step out of the car, and head toward the entrance, the low hum of conversation growing louder as you push the door open.
You glance down at your phone as you step inside, thumbs hovering like you might send another message—I’m here—but before you can, something makes you look up.
Across the room, a guy is doing the exact same thing—phone in hand, just lifting his head.
Your eyes meet.
There’s a brief second where neither of you moves, like your brains are catching up at the same time.
Then he gives you a small, easy smile and a quick wave, like there you are.
And it clicks, that’s him.
You weren’t sure what you were expecting—but it definitely wasn’t… this.
He’s really beautiful. Effortlessly so. The kind that makes you pause for half a second longer than you mean to, your brain scrambling to recalibrate.
Hair long, to his shoulders with layers and perfectly blonde. Super kind features on his face with a few little tattoos on his arms and his hands.
Oh.
You feel it immediately—that tiny jolt of surprise, of sudden awareness—as you take a few steps toward him, hoping it doesn’t show too obviously on your face.
As you get closer, he’s already standing, slipping his phone into his pocket like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm—familiar now, but different in person. More real. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you echo, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stop in front of him.
He glances at you for a second, like he’s taking you in the same way you just did, then lets out a soft, amused breath. “I have to say… I’m kind of excited for this not-a-date.”
You huff out a quiet laugh. “That’s good, because it would be awkward if you weren’t.”
“Yeah, I’d be off to a terrible start,” he agrees easily. Then he gestures lightly toward the counter. “But before we get too far into anything—I’m buying your coffee. So you should tell me what you want.”
You blink. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I want to.”
You shake your head, already reaching for your wallet. “No, seriously, I can just—”
“Nope,” he cuts in, already half-turning toward the register. “Not happening.”
There’s a pause.
You sigh, but there’s a smile behind it. “You’re stubborn.”
“I’ve been told.”
You give in with a small shake of your head. “Fine. I’ll take… an iced latte.”
“Solid choice,” he nods, like he approves, before heading off to the register.
You watch him for a second—how easily he moves, how natural he seems—before catching yourself and looking away, tucking your hands into your sleeves.
A few minutes later, he’s back, holding out a cold cup toward you.
“Here,” he says.
You take it, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
There’s a small beat, then you glance toward the door, lifting the cup slightly. “Want to get walking?”
“Yeah,” he says, already turning with you. “Let’s do it.”
The walk starts easily, the kind of conversation that doesn’t need forcing.
“So,” he says after a few steps, glancing over at you, “are you from around here?”
“Kind of,” you reply, adjusting your grip on your iced latte. “I grew up about an hour away—still in the state. Close enough that everything feels familiar, but not too close.”
He nods, listening.
“After college, I just… didn’t want to move back home,” you continue. “But I also wasn’t ready to go super far. So this felt like a good middle ground—close to the city, but still my own space.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small smile forming. “That makes sense. It’s a good balance.”
“What about you?” you ask. “Are you from here?”
“Not originally,” he says. “But I ended up staying in this area for pretty much the same reason. It’s close enough to everything I need.”
You glance at him. “For work?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I work in the city. I’m a dance instructor—and I actually help run my friend's business.”
You turn your head a little more fully now, interest immediately piqued. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little more casually than you expect. “I teach classes, choreograph, manage a few teams… that kind of thing.”
“That’s actually really cool,” you say, genuinely. “What kind of dance?”
“A mix,” he replies. “Mostly hip-hop, but I branch out depending on what I’m working on.”
You take another sip of your drink, glancing ahead for a second before looking back at him. “Okay, that’s definitely more interesting than anything I do.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I doubt that.”
“No, I’m serious,” you insist lightly. “You help run a whole business. That’s impressive.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hint of appreciation in his expression. “It keeps me busy. The commute’s not bad either, which is why I stay out here.”
You nod, the conversation settling into that same easy rhythm again as the two of you continue down the path, steps naturally falling in sync.
He glances over at you after a moment, a small, curious smile on his face. “So what about you? What do you do?”
You shift your cup between your hands. “I help do PR type stuff for a local company.”
“Oh?” he says, interest there. “What kind of company?”
“Small operations-based business,” you explain. “I do a mix of things—scheduling, coordinating, making sure everything runs smoothly day-to-day. It’s not super glamorous, but…” you shrug a little, smiling, “I like it. It keeps me busy.”
“That sounds important, though,” he says. “You’re basically the reason things don’t fall apart.”
You laugh. “I mean… I like to think so.”
“No, seriously,” he adds. “People underestimate how hard that kind of work is. Keeping everything organized, dealing with people, making sure nothing slips through the cracks—that’s a lot.”
You glance at him, a little surprised by how genuine he sounds. “Okay, wow. You’re giving me more credit than anyone has given me since I started a year ago. I basically got this job right out of college.”
“Hey! Someone has to,” he says simply.
You smile into your drink, taking a small sip. “Fair enough.”
The conversation keeps flowing after that, light and unforced. You drift into talking about random things—favorite coffee orders, how busy workweeks get, the best and worst parts of your jobs, and how neither of you expected to be doing what you’re doing right now. Somehow, everything circles back to laughter more often than not, and the walk doesn’t feel like a walk so much as just… talking while moving forward.
By the time the path curves slightly, the noise of the road fades and a small pond comes into view just off to the side, tucked behind a patch of trees and a worn wooden bench.
Chan slows. “We can sit for a minute if you want.”
“Yeah,” you say, realizing your legs are actually more tired than you expected. “That sounds good.”
You settle onto the bench, angled slightly toward the water. The surface ripples gently, catching bits of sunlight. For a moment, neither of you speaks—just a comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward.
Then you turn toward him again, curiosity returning. “So—”
He immediately lets out a soft breath, almost like he knows a question is coming. “Okay, I feel like that’s going to be something serious.”
You laugh. “It’s not serious.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You smile, leaning back slightly. “What’s your favorite thing to choreograph?”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Oh—uh.” He shifts a little, caught off guard in a way that makes you smile more. “I don’t know why that made me nervous.”
“That made you nervous?” you tease lightly.
“I think you might just make me nervous.” He laughs quietly to himself while looking down at his hands that were playing with his rings.
You feel a blush creep up on your face as well, but decide not to think anything of it.
Not. A Date.
He exhales, then looks out toward the pond for a moment like he’s gathering his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer, deciding to not even answer the question you asked.
“I actually really like spending time with you.”
You pause slightly, the shift in tone catching you off guard.
“It’s been a while since I’ve just… hung out with someone like this,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s suddenly aware of himself. “And I know it’s not a date—” he adds quickly, almost reflexively, then huffs a small laugh at himself “—but I think I’ve just been kind of stuck in my routine lately.”
You listen quietly, letting him continue.
“So yeah,” he says, a little more steady now. “I guess I just wanted to say that. I hope we can keep being friends after this.”
The word friends settles between you both, simple and unassuming.
Not. A. Date.
You both sit there for a second, looking out at the pond like it suddenly became very interesting. A duck drifts across the water. Somewhere behind you, someone laughs on the bike path.
And yet neither of you speaks.
Chan clears his throat lightly, like he’s trying to reset the moment. “You know?”
“Yes! Yeah.. Friends,” you repeat, a little too quickly.
You take a sip of your iced latte just to give your hands something to do. It suddenly feels like you’re hyper-aware of everything—how close he’s sitting, how the sun hits his profile, how relaxed he looks now that he’s not talking.
It’s strange.
Because nothing changed.
And somehow everything feels like it did.
“You’re… really easy to talk to,” he says after a moment, still looking ahead.
You blink at that. “Oh. You too.”
A pause.
Another one that stretches just a second too long.
He nods slowly, like he’s processing his own words now. “Yeah.”
You glance at him again, and he happens to glance at you at the same time.
There’s a beat where neither of you looks away immediately.
“Oh,” you say softly, like you’re breaking your own thought.
“Yeah,” he replies, a little quieter.
And suddenly the air between you feels… different again.
Not uncomfortable. Not bad.
Just aware.
You adjust your zip-up sleeves, looking back out at the water. “We should probably get going soon if we’re still walking.”
“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. Maybe too quickly. He stands first, like that solves something. “We should.”
You follow him up from the bench, smoothing your jeans, grabbing your cup.
For a moment, neither of you moves forward right away.
Then he steps back onto the path, and you fall into place beside him again.
But this time, the space between you feels a little more intentional.
Like both of you are quietly pretending you don’t notice it.
Maybe because the conversation shifts again—back to lighter things, safer things. Ridiculous childhood stories, him teasing you about how seriously you take iced lattes, you firing back that his “not-a-date” terminology is legally suspicious at this point.
By the time the coffee shop comes back into view, the earlier tension has softened into something more manageable. Familiar again. Almost normal.
Almost.
He slows when you reach the parking lot. “This is you?”
You nod, pointing toward your car. “Yeah, right over there.”
“Cool,” he says, falling into step beside you without hesitation.
It feels strangely natural now—him walking you all the way over, like it’s something he’s done before. Like it’s something he’d do again.
You stop beside your car and turn toward him.
“Thanks,” you say simply, then let out a small breath, a little more honest than you planned. “I actually… really needed today.”
His expression softens immediately. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
There’s a short pause, then you step forward and wrap your arms around him in a light hug.
It’s quick, easy—no overthinking. Just warmth and gratitude and something that feels oddly grounding.
“Thank you,” you say again, a little quieter this time.
When you pull back, he looks at you for a second like he wasn’t entirely prepared for that, then lets out a small laugh.
“I was going to say,” he starts, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I would give you my number if you didn’t already have it.”
You blink, then laugh.
“But since you do already have it,” he continues, a bit more playful now, “I guess I’ll have to come up with something else impressive.”
Your laugh turns a little more flustered at that. “That’s—” you shake your head, smiling despite yourself, “that’s a dangerous thing to say.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed. “What? It’s true. If this was an actual date, I would’ve definitely given it to you by now.”
Your brain feels as if it is breaking down at that comment.
If this was a real date?
“Oh my—” you let out a small, embarrassed laugh, covering your face for half a second. “Okay, stop. That’s not fair.”
He’s smiling now too, clearly amused by your reaction. “What? I’m just being honest.”
“Yeah, well,” you mumble, still smiling as you look away for a second, “you’re doing too good a job at it.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves.
Then, before you can think too much about anything, you step forward again and hug him one more time—quick, slightly tighter this time.
“Bye, Chan,” you say softly.
“Bye, y/n” he replies, voice just a little warmer.
You pull away, finally getting into your car before your brain can fully catch up with everything that just happened.
He steps back as you open the door, giving you a small wave.
And as you drive off, you can still feel the smile you can’t quite get rid of.
By the time you get to your apartment door, your phone is already buzzing.
Before you even get the chance to reach for it, the front door swings open.
Jun is standing there.
Arms crossed. Barefoot. Staring at you like he’s been personally holding onto a storyline all afternoon.
“You’re alive,” he says flatly.
You blink. “Hi to you too?”
He steps outside, leaning against the doorframe. “You didn’t text me. At all. I thought you got kidnapped. Or murdered. Or kidnapped then murdered.”
You laugh, grabbing your bag. “I literally went on a walk.”
“People get murdered on walks,” he says, completely serious. Then he squints at you. “So. How was it?”
You pause halfway through the kitchen, and that question is all it takes.
“Oh my god,” you say suddenly, words spilling out before you can stop them. “It was actually really good. Like, really good. We talked the whole time, like there wasn’t any awkward silence at all, and he just—he listens, like actually listens, and he looks at you when you talk like he’s interested and not just waiting for his turn to speak—”
Jun slowly straightens up.
You keep going, barely noticing. “And we walked by this pond and just sat there for a while and it was so easy? Like I didn’t feel like I had to think about what I was saying and it just—”
Jun tilts his head. “Was he cute?”
“Oh—” you say too quickly, then immediately try to recover. “I mean—he’s… nice-looking, I guess.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer!”
He quirks up his eyebrows in an expression that you know means he doesn’t believe you whatsoever.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine.”
Jun raises his eyebrows expectantly.
You hesitate just a second too long.
“…Yes,” you admit finally, quieter now.
Jun nods slowly like he’s just confirmed a scientific hypothesis. “Mm.”
You glare at him. “Don’t ‘mm’ me.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m just saying. That explains a lot.”
You push past him into the living room, still trying to pretend you’re normal about this, but Jun is already following behind you like a shadow with opinions.
“So,” he calls after you, “when are you seeing Cute Mystery Man again?”
You spend the rest of the night on the living room couch with Jun, half-watching a movie you’re not really paying attention to, the other half of your brain replaying the day and wondering—more than once—if you should text Chan first. By the time Jun finally goes to bed, you’re still staring at your phone, this time in your own bed, thumb hovering over his chat. Eventually, you give up, shut the lights off, and decide to sleep it off instead.
Except your screen lights up again.
FaceTime: Chan
You freeze for half a second, checking your hair, before answering. “Uh—hello?”
His face appears on screen, slightly softer lighting, like he’s already in bed or just settled somewhere. “Hey.”
You sit up a little. “Why are you calling me this late?”
He blinks like the question is obvious. “I missed talking to you.”
That alone makes you pause.
Then he continues, casual but direct. “I couldn’t stop thinking about today. I had a really good time.”
You feel your face warm a little. “Yeah… me too.”
There’s a small smile that shows up on his end. “Good. I was hoping I wasn’t just imagining that.”
“No, it was real,” you say, settling back against your pillow. “Definitely real.”
“Okay,” he says simply, like that settles something. “Good.”
A comfortable pause follows, and then the conversation slips right back into place like it never stopped. He asks what you’re doing, you tell him you were literally about to sleep, he laughs and says that’s “a very responsible post-not-a-date schedule,” and you joke telling him he’s the one calling you at midnight.
He starts talking about random things again—music he’s been working with, a class he taught earlier, a funny moment with one of his students. Every so often, his tone shifts just slightly—softer, a little more personal.
“You’re easy to talk to,” he says at one point.
You smile into your pillow. “You said that already.”
“I know,” he replies, then adds quickly, “as a friend.”
You snort. “Right.”
Later, when you mention something funny Jun said earlier, he laughs and goes, “Your roommate sounds kind of intense. In a good way.” Then immediately, like he catches himself, he adds, “Not that I’m jealous. Just observational.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” he insists lightly. “We’re just friends. I’m not competing with your roommate.”
“Competing?” you repeat, amused. “I promise, you are not competing with my sweet sweet best friend, Junhui.”
“You’re the one making it weird.” he says, shrugging a little while laughing.
“I’m not making it weird,” you say, smiling now.
He pauses, then rolls his eyes jokingly. “Whatever.”
Then, after a beat, softer again: “But I’m glad we’re talking.”
“Me too,” you admit.
And even though he keeps slipping in little reminders—just friends, not a date, nothing serious—the way he keeps calling anyway makes it feel like he doesn’t actually want the conversation to end at all.
Eventually his voice softens, like the night is catching up to him too.
“Hey,” Chan says, a little quieter now, “you should probably sleep.”
You glance at the time and realize he’s right. “Yeah… I should.”
He nods slightly on the screen. “I’ll let you go then.”
There’s a small pause, like neither of you fully commits to hanging up immediately.
He gives a small smile. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chan.”
“And hey,” he adds quickly, like it’s almost an afterthought but not really, “text me tomorrow when you wake up so I know you didn’t fall asleep mid-conversation and disappear.”
You laugh softly. “I can manage that.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The call ends.
For a second, your screen just reflects your own face in the dark.
Then you drop your phone onto the bed and immediately roll over with a quiet, giddy laugh that you try—and fail—to contain. You bury your face in your pillow, kicking your feet slightly like that somehow helps regulate whatever is happening in your chest.
Because there is absolutely no denying it.
You are into him.
Like, actually into him.
Which would be fine—normal, even—except for one small, inconvenient detail:
Just friends.
That’s what he said. That’s what you mentally agreed to. That’s what you’re supposed to keep in mind. You stare up at the ceiling, still smiling too much for someone who is supposedly going to sleep.
“Just friends,” you whisper to yourself, like saying it quietly enough will make it easier to believe.
But your phone lights up again on the bed beside you—just a notification this time—and even that makes your heart jump a little too fast.
You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You already know you’re in trouble.
You wake up the next morning still half-wrapped in sleep and the memory of the night before sitting very clearly in your mind. For a second you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, until it clicks—text me when you wake up so I know you didn’t disappear.
You sit up immediately and grab your phone.
You: good morning
The second you hit send, your screen lights up.
Chan: good morning
You freeze for a second, then laugh quietly to yourself.
You: did we just wake up at the same time??
Chan: I think so lol
Chan: that’s a little suspicious
You smile, rubbing your eyes.
You: or just unfortunate timing
Chan: or fate
Chan: but I’ll go with timing so you don’t get scared
You snort softly at that, still sitting up in bed.
Chan: I’ve got to head out soon, but have a good day today
Chan: and I want to hear about it later
You pause for a second, the wording making your heart do a small, familiar jump, before he quickly adds—
Chan: as a friend
You laugh out loud now.
You: of course
You: I’ll report back with my extremely exciting daily activities!
Chan: perfect
Chan: I’ll be waiting for the thrilling update :P
You can practically hear the smile in it.
And even though the just friends reminder is still there, the way he keeps showing up in your phone already makes it feel a lot less simple than that.
Your day turns out to be exactly what you told him it would be—work, a quick iced latte on your lunch break, more work, then coming home to an exhausted Jun who looks like he’s been personally betrayed by capitalism. You help him make something easy to eat, listen to him complain for a bit, and eventually retreat to your room while he dramatically declares he is “never working again” for the third time this week.
You decide to call Chan first this time.
It rings once… twice… then stops.
A text pops up almost immediately.
Chan: teaching rn, can’t pick up. I’ll call you when class is over :)
You stare at it for a second, then smile to yourself and set your phone down.
About an hour later, it lights up again.
FaceTime: Chan
You answer quickly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath like he just moved from one thing to another. “Sorry about that, class ran a little over.”
“That’s okay,” you say, shifting to get comfortable. “How was your day?”
Before he can answer, there’s a loud voice in the background.
“WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”
You blink.
Chan immediately turns his head. “No one.”
“NO ONE?” the voice repeats, closer now. “You don’t have no one. You have me.”
A second later, another guy leans into frame—smiling, clearly amused, way too comfortable on camera.
“Ohhh,” he says, pointing like he’s just solved something. “It’s a pretty girl, isn’t it?”
You let out a surprised laugh.
Chan groans. “Soonyoung—go away.”
“Pretty girl,” Soonyoung repeats, ignoring him completely. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew those.”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung leans closer to the camera. “Hi, pretty girl. I’m Soonyoung. I haven’t seen him talk to a pretty girl since early college, so this is historic.”
You’re laughing now, covering your mouth slightly. “Hi.”
Chan reaches over and gently pushes him out of frame. “Ignore him.”
Soonyoung’s voice still carries from off-screen. “Bye, pretty girl!”
The call finally settles again, and Chan reappears, slightly exasperated but clearly trying not to smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “That’s Soonyoung. He runs the dance business with me… and he’s also my roommate. And unfortunately my best friend.”
“I like him,” you say, still smiling.
“Of course you do,” Chan mutters, shaking his head. “Everyone does. That’s the problem.”
You’re still smiling when you settle back against your pillow. “So… how’s dance stuff going today?”
Chan shifts a little, like he’s walking somewhere between rooms. “Good. Busy, but good.” He glances off-screen briefly. “We finished a routine earlier that I think you’d actually like.”
“Oh yeah?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll send you a video later.”
“You better,” you reply.
He hums in agreement, then adds, a little lighter, “You should come to a class sometime.”
You blink. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs immediately. “Why not?”
“I haven’t done dance since middle school,” you say honestly. “And even then it was… questionable at best. I would not survive your classes.”
“That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re for all levels.”
“You say that now,” you counter. “But I feel like I’d show up and immediately become everyone’s cautionary tale.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says, amused.
“It’s realistic.”
He leans a little closer to the camera. “I can teach you sometime. Just… casually. No pressure.”
You pause at that.
“…Yeah?” you say, slower.
“Yeah,” he confirms simply, like it’s not a big deal at all.
You don’t immediately say no.
Instead, you just smile a little. “Okay. Maybe.”
“Maybe is fine,” he says, like he’s already won something.
Before either of you can continue, there’s movement off-screen again and another voice calls out.
“Chan! Next group is here!”
He turns his head. “Yeah, I’m coming!”
Then back to you, a little apologetic. “I have another class starting.”
“Oh—okay,” you say quickly. “Go, don’t worry.”
He nods. “I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you reply, softer. “Later.”
There’s a small pause where neither of you hangs up right away.
Then he smiles. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
The call ends, and you’re left staring at your screen for a moment longer than necessary, still thinking about how casually he just offered to teach you—like it meant nothing at all. But then again, teaching people was just his job, and you guys were just friends.
Days pass like that—easy, consistent, almost automatic.
You text every morning and every night without thinking about it anymore. Some days it’s just short check-ins, other days it turns into long FaceTime calls where you’re both half-laughing at nothing and talking over each other like you’ve known each other for years. It doesn’t feel new anymore. It just feels… normal.
Chan sends you videos constantly. Clips of choreography he’s working on, snippets of him and Soonyoung messing around in the studio, and occasionally videos of their friend Minghao—who he always refers to as “our studio’s golden child”—dancing like he was somehow born already in rhythm. He tells you how Minghao basically walked into the studio one day after moving to the city, said he wanted to dance, and never really left, becoming an instructor and one of their closest friends in the process.
You start recognizing Chan’s world through your phone screen. The studio, the chaos, the jokes, the way he and his friends all seem to orbit around each other effortlessly. And somehow, you’re included in it now too—just from the outside looking in.
The strange part is that neither of you ever really brings up hanging out again in person.
Not because it feels wrong—just because it doesn’t feel urgent. Life is busy, routines settle in, and the calls fill in all the gaps anyway. It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’re already part of each other’s daily rhythm without needing to physically be in the same space.
It almost feels like a relationship sometimes—the constant communication, the inside jokes, the way you both naturally reach for your phones when something happens during the day.
You’re at home, half-listening to Jun sing along to the songs he was playing while cleaning, while you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone, when it buzzes again—this time with Chan’s name lighting up the screen.
Chan: are you doing anything tonight?
You glance toward Jun, who is now dramatically flopped on the couch like he’s been personally defeated by the existence of cleaning.
You: depends
You: how illegal is what you’re about to ask me
A second passes.
Chan: wow
Chan: i just got out of a night class and i was wondering if you wanted to come over
You sit up slightly.
That’s… unexpected.
You blink at the message, then type slowly.
You: right now?
Chan: yeah
Chan: i just feel like hanging out
There’s something about how casual it is that makes it feel even more sudden. You haven’t seen him in person in over a week—just calls, texts, FaceTimes that somehow became part of your routine without either of you acknowledging it.
Jun watches you from the couch. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to do something questionable,” he says immediately.
You ignore him.
You: why randomly
Chan: no reason
Chan: just tired of talking to you through a screen
That makes you laugh out loud.
You: okay
Almost instantly—
Chan: wait actually??
You: yes chan
Chan: ok good
Chan: i’ll send you my address
Chan: text me when you get here so soonyoung doesn’t see you
You raise an eyebrow.
You: why do i feel like soonyoung is a hazard
Chan: because he is
Chan: if he sees you he will talk to you for an hour minimum
You laugh, shaking your head.
You: and that’s bad because…?
Chan: because then i will lose you for the rest of the night
You pause at that, then type with a grin.
You: possessive for a friend
There’s a beat before he responds.
Chan: i said nothing
Then another message comes through quickly, like he’s redirecting the entire conversation on purpose.
Chan: anyway
Chan: come over
You glance at Jun again, who is now sitting up slightly like he senses drama.
“What?” he asks suspiciously.
You stand up. “I’m going out.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “At night?”
“It’s fine,” you say, grabbing your jacket.
“Is it Chan?” he calls after you immediately.
You pause at the door.
“…Maybe.”
Jun leans back. “Be safe!”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you leave.
Shockingly, Chan’s place isn’t far.
You text him when you arrive like he asked.
You: here
A few seconds later:
Chan: don’t move i’m coming down
You’re still standing in the hallway, phone in hand, when the apartment door swings open before Chan even reaches it.
“OH—”
A man pops into view with way too much energy for this time of night, eyes lighting up the second he sees you.
“So this is you!” Soonyoung exclaims, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. “The pretty girl from the phone!”
Behind him, you hear Chan’s voice immediately: “Soonyoung—”
But Soonyoung is already fully committed.
“Oh my god, you’re real,” he says, stepping closer like he’s inspecting a legend. “He was so annoying about you. Do you know how weird it is hearing someone who claims they have no friends suddenly talk about one person every single day like—”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly from somewhere behind him.
Soonyoung ignores him completely, turning back to you. “Anyway, I just need you to know, he is—like—chronically single. Not even in a sad way, just in a ‘I forget dating is a thing’ way. And I’m not saying you need to fix that or anything, but also—” he gestures vaguely at you, “you’re very pretty, so statistically this is a good development for him.”
“Okay,” Chan cuts in again, sharper now.
Soonyoung barrels on. “And he talks about you like you’re already part of the friend group, which is weird because he barely talks about anything, but suddenly it’s like ‘she said this’ and ‘she did that’ and I’m like, who is she and why is she more interesting than me—”
That’s when Chan steps in.
Literally.
He grabs your wrist—not rough, just decisive—and pulls you gently but firmly past Soonyoung’s ongoing monologue.
“Sorry,” Chan says under his breath as he guides you away, already half-laughing at the situation.
“Chan—” you hear behind you, still talking, “I like her! She seems nice! Don’t mess this up!”
Then the door shuts behind you.
Silence.
Chan’s room is immediately calmer. Familiar. This time you are seeing a lot more of it than what you have seen from through your phone screen. Clean, organized—white walls, soft lighting. A few framed photos on the wall: him with friends at the studio, candid shots mid-laugh, dance moments frozen in motion. His desk is neat but covered in choreography notes, diagrams, and formation sketches that look half artistic, half mathematical.
It feels very him.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hallway.
“Sorry about him,” he says immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. “He has no filter.”
You’re still smiling a little. “I noticed.”
He groans quietly. “He’s usually worse.”
You step further in and he immediately walks over to his bed, dropping down onto it like it’s his default position in life. Then he pats the space next to him.
“Sit,” he says.
You sit carefully on the edge first, then relax a little as he shifts to face you.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, more genuine now. “He gets… excited.”
“I gathered that,” you reply, amused.
“He likes teasing me,” Chan adds. “A lot.”
You glance toward the door. “He also thinks you’ve been emotionally unavailable your entire life.”
Chan makes a face. “That’s not—no. That’s not accurate.”
You laugh, and he does too, a little reluctantly.
Then he leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling for a second before glancing at you again.
You look back at him, curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.
“Have you… ever been in a relationship before?”
Chan blinks like he wasn’t expecting that question to land so gently in the middle of everything. He shifts a little, then exhales through his nose.
“Yeah,” he says. “Once in high school. It didn’t really last long. Like… barely counts.”
You nod slightly, listening.
“And then there was one in freshman year of college,” he continues. “That lasted into sophomore year.”
He pauses, gaze dropping for a second like he’s deciding how much to say.
“Then she cheated on me,” he adds, more matter-of-fact than emotional, but quieter now. “After that… I just kind of stopped trying.”
Your expression softens a little, but you don’t interrupt.
He leans back on his hands again. “And I got busy. Dance, work, the studio. It just… wasn’t something I went out of my way to look for after that.”
There’s a small pause before he lets out a short laugh.
“Soonyoung likes to say I ‘never get any play,’” he says, shaking his head. “Which is—”
He stops mid-sentence.
His eyes widen slightly like he’s just heard what he said from the outside.
“I mean— I don’t— I don’t want—” he starts quickly, sitting up a little. “Not that I don’t want— I just— that’s not—”
You burst out laughing immediately.
“Oh my god,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” he says way too fast.
“You are absolutely panicking.”
“I’m just—clarifying,” he insists, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because that sounded like I—like I’m trying to—”
“Relax,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I know what you meant.”
He pauses, still slightly tense, then slowly looks at you.
“…Okay,” he says cautiously.
You’re still smiling at him. “That was very funny though.”
He lets out a quiet breath, clearly relieved, then drops back onto his bed again like he’s giving up on the situation entirely.
The tension melts out of the moment again, settling back into something easy.
But now there’s something different about the air between you—not heavier, not awkward.
A comfortable silence settles over the room after that, neither of you rushing to fill it.
You both end up absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of his comforter—him tugging at a loose thread, you smoothing out a wrinkle, like your hands need something to do while your brains quietly reset from the last few minutes.
It’s… easy. In a way that almost feels dangerous if you think about it too long.
You glance at him. “Are we actually having ice cream or was that just a motivational speech earlier?”
Chan huffs a small laugh. “We are.”
“Good,” you say, leaning back slightly. “Because I was promised ice cream.”
He nods like that settles an important agreement. “I’ll get it.”
He pushes himself up from the bed. “I think Soonyoung stocked some in the kitchen. I’ll go grab it.”
You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
He’s barely made it two steps toward the door when it swings open again.
“OH, perfect timing!”
Soonyoung.
He leans into the room like he owns the space, eyes immediately landing on you like he never left the conversation in the hallway.
“Hi again, pretty girl,” he says, way too casually.
Chan stops mid-step. “No.”
Soonyoung ignores him entirely. “I just came to check something important.”
You blink. “What’s that?”
He points dramatically at you. “Are you planning on corrupting him or is this just a natural development?”
You can’t help it—you start laughing again, sinking a little into the bed as the two of them start bickering like this is normal background noise in their lives.
Chan finally manages to guide Soonyoung out of the doorway with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Go,” he says firmly.
Soonyoung leans back just enough to look at you again. “Anyway, bye pretty girl. Protect him or don’t, I’m not your boss.”
Then he starts down the hall.
“Her name is y/n!” Chan yells after him, looking back at you with an embarrassed smile.
You smile back at him as he walks out of the door into his hallway.
The ice cream ends up being its own little moment.
You sit on his bed with the container between you, talking like you’re still on the phone even though you’re right there in the same room—passing the tub back and forth, laughing about random things that don’t matter. At one point you mention, very casually, that cookie dough is your favorite flavor, and Chan just nods like it’s normal information to store away, even though he says nothing about it.
You don’t notice him remembering it.
But he does.
He watches you more than he eats, like he’s trying to memorize the way you laugh mid-sentence or how you absentmindedly tap your spoon against the side of the container when you think. Like you might not be here later if he stops paying attention for too long.
By the time you check your phone and realize how late it’s gotten, you already know you should leave.
“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, setting the ice cream down.
Chan’s face immediately shifts. “Why?”
You blink. “Because I have work in the morning.”
“That’s… not a good reason,” he says, leaning forward slightly like he’s trying to physically argue with the concept of time.
You laugh. “It’s a very good reason.”
He sighs dramatically, falling back against his pillows. “You’re abandoning me.”
You look at him as his head hits his pillows, frame laying down across from you. Your brain floods with unfortunately inappropriate things while you decide to answer before your brain goes any farther.
“I’m going home,” you correct him, still smiling.
“This feels like abandonment.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not,” he says immediately, then pauses. “Okay, maybe a little.”
You stand up anyway, stretching slightly. “I’ll come back another time.”
That softens him just a bit. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod.
He hesitates, then stands too, walking you toward the door like it’s suddenly become a much bigger deal than it should be. The energy between you shifts—still light, but quieter now, a little more reluctant to break.
At the doorway, there’s a small pause, your bodies a bit closer than you both seemed to intend.
“Text me when you get home,” he says.
“I will,” you reply.
Neither of you moves right away, that is until he gives you a light hug. This time, a lot longer than the hug after you got coffee. He didn’t seem to want to let go.
You noticed that.
Then, finally, you step out.
And of course, when you make it to the living room—Soonyoung is still there.
Oh! Leaving already?”
“Yes,” you say quickly, already laughing a little at how predictable this is becoming.
He tilts his head. “Before you go, important question.”
You pause. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”
He ignores that completely. “Do you think my roommate is hot?”
You freeze.
“…What?”
You hear Chan’s voice, behind you, immediately seeming panicked. “Soonyoung—”
Soonyoung points at you like this is serious research. “Be honest. Scientific data.”
Your face warms instantly. “I— I have work in the morning, I really need to go—”
“That’s not an answer,” Soonyoung insists, grinning now.
“That can be her answer!” Chan says, already stepping closer like he’s about to physically remove him again.
You take that moment to slip past them both, still flustered and laughing. “Bye!”
“Bye, pretty girl y/n!” Soonyoung calls after you again, still amused.
And as you make your way out the door, you hear Chan’s voice behind you—half embarrassed, half resigned, like he’s already planning how to deal with all of this tomorrow.
When you finally get home, the apartment is quiet in that end-of-night way that makes everything feel slightly softer. You kick off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and take a second to just breathe.
Your phone lights up on the counter.
Unknown number.
You hesitate before opening it.
Unknown: hey this is soonyoung 😭
Unknown: i’m sorry about earlier at the door
Unknown: chan made me take your number so i could apologize properly lol
You stare at the screen for a second, then let out a slow laugh through your nose.
Soonyoung: also for the record i still stand by everything i said
Soonyoung: you are still a pretty girl and he is still weird about you 👍
You cover your face for a moment, laughing harder now as you sink onto the couch.
Soonyoung: anyway goodnight
You’re still smiling when you type back.
You: i think i’m already involved in too many secrets for one night
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Soonyoung: welcome to the family
You laugh again, shaking your head as you set your phone down.
And right as you’re about to get up and get ready for bed, another notification lights up your screen—this time from a very familiar name.
Your phone lights up again before you even stand up.
Chan: you got home?
You sit back down almost automatically, like your body already knows what this is.
You: yeah
You: just got soonyoung’s apology text btw
Chan: so he did text you?
You smile to yourself.
You: yes
You: he said you “made him” take my number
There’s a pause long enough that you can practically imagine Chan staring at his screen in silence.
Chan: that’s not what happened
You: mmhmm
Another pause.
Chan: okay it’s kind of what happened
You laugh out loud now, leaning back into the couch cushions.
You: why are you like this
Chan: i didn’t trust him to behave
You: valid actually
A pause
Then his next message comes in softer.
Chan: are you tired
You glance at the clock. You are. But you don’t really want the conversation to end.
You: a little
Chan: go to sleep
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.
You: bossy
Chan: responsible
You hesitate for a second, thumb hovering.
Then:
You: are you still awake
Chan: unfortunately yes
That makes you smile again.
You: good
A typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears.
Chan: “good”?
You: yeah
You: just checking
There’s a beat before he replies.
Chan: you’re distracting
You snort softly.
You: i’m literally lying on my couch
Chan: still distracting
That makes your stomach do that annoying little flip again while you stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.
You: i’ll sleep soon
Chan: good
A pause.
Chan: text me tomorrow when you wake up
You smile, softer this time.
You: i will
Chan: and I won’t forget cookie dough exists
You: wait… why did you say that
Chan: no reason
You narrow your eyes at your phone like it personally offended you.
You: you’re weird
Chan: you already knew that
You laugh under your breath, setting your phone down but not fully letting go of the feeling in your chest.
A week passes in much the same rhythm—texts that start in the morning and somehow stretch into the night, FaceTime calls that begin as quick check-ins and slowly turn into both of you getting too comfortable to hang up first.
Somewhere along the way, it shifts a little. Chan starts falling asleep on calls, head tilting down mid-sentence until you realize he’s gone quiet, and you follow not long after.
Once, you wake up in the morning still connected, his face turned slightly away from the camera, already awake again like he never left.
It becomes normal in a way neither of you really comment on.
You also end up over at their place again when Soonyoung insists he cooked “a life-changing meal” and refuses to accept no for an answer. That night you properly meet Minghao too—less chaotic in person than Soonyoung, but just as easy to laugh with. The three of them treat it like nothing unusual, like you’ve always been there, and it turns into a long, loud “friend” dinner that somehow ends with you laughing so hard your stomach hurts and Chan quietly sliding you extra food without making a big deal out of it.
Then, a few nights later, your phone buzzes again.
Chan: you still want me to teach you how to dance?
You don’t even hesitate this time.
You: sure
His reply comes almost instantly.
Chan: what kind of dance experience do you have?
You stare at the screen for a second, then laugh a little to yourself.
You: uh
You: contemporary and ballroom… like years ago
You: very “i did it as a kid and never looked back” level
Chan: i can work with that
A second later, he sends an address.
Chan: come tonight if you’re free
You blink at it.
Tonight.
Still, you grab your things not long after, curiosity outweighing hesitation.
When you walk into the studio, it’s already lively—but not in the way you expected.
Soonyoung is halfway out the door, jacket on, talking loudly about something. Chan is beside him, waving like he’s mid-conversation with someone.
“Oh, hey!” Minghao calls when he sees you first. “You made it!”
Soonyoung turns too, grinning. “Pretty girl!”
You pause, confused. “Wait—where are you guys going?”
Soonyoung points vaguely toward the exit. “Life. Chaos. Freedom. You know.”
Minghao laughs. “We thought you were just coming for Chan's torture session, so we’re leaving you to it.”
Before you can ask more, Chan appears from inside the studio, towel over his shoulder, like he’s just finished dancing himself.
Sweat drips slightly from his temple to his neck, his long hair slightly damp on the edges. It would be a crime to say he looked really good like this, but it also wouldn’t be a lie.
Minghao nods. “We’re being kicked out, basically.”
Chan doesn’t even deny it.
He just shrugs slightly.
“I wanted to focus,” he says simply.
Then, looking at you a little more directly, adds, quieter but very clearly amused, “and I wanted you to myself.”
The room goes silent for half a second.
Your brain fully short-circuits.
“…Oh,” you manage.
Soonyoung immediately gasps like he’s been personally betrayed. “OH? YOU HEARD THAT?”
Minghao laughs as he starts pulling him toward the door. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving right now.”
Soonyoung points dramatically as he’s dragged out. “I SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE—”
The door finally shuts behind them.
Silence again.
Chan looks back at you, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“…Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
You exhale a small laugh, still a little flustered. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I thought it would be more efficient this way.”
“Efficient,” you repeat, shaking your head.
He steps a little closer toward the open space of the studio floor.
“Ready?” he asks, like nothing strange just happened.
You glance around once, then back at him.
“…Yeah,” you say, still recovering. “Teach me.”
Practice starts simple. Chan has you doing basic warm-ups first—stretching, posture checks, small steps across the floor while he corrects your stance with light taps to your shoulders and a few quiet “no, higher” or “relax here.”
It’s casual at first, almost relaxed, like he’s just easing you into it. Then it slowly shifts into something more structured as he starts breaking down ballroom form, guiding your steps with careful instructions.
“Just so you know,” he says at one point, stepping back to look at you, “I do not specialize in ballroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds reassuring.”
“But,” he adds immediately, like it solves everything, “I am good at everything. So you’ll be fine.”
You laugh. “That’s not how teaching works.”
“It is in my world,” he replies easily.
That gets another laugh out of you, and it’s easy—too easy—how quickly the tension between instructions and jokes keeps you relaxed even while your focus stays on him.
Then he steps closer again.
“Okay,” he says, a little more focused now. “Let’s fix your frame.”
He gently adjusts your arms first—lifting them slightly, guiding your elbows into position. His hands are steady as he checks your posture, moving slowly so you can follow without thinking too much.
“Like this,” he says quietly.
You nod, trying to match it.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stay there.”
“Don’t drop your arms.”
“I’m trying not to,” you say, laughing a little under your breath.
He steps in closer again.
“Now,” he continues, voice calmer, more deliberate, “this is the position for ballroom hold. You’re the follower.”
You nod.
“And I’m the leader.”
Before you can respond, he moves into place.
His hand settles lightly at your lower back—steady, guiding, warm through the fabric of your clothes. At the same time, your hand naturally comes up to his shoulder. His other hand meets yours, fingers aligning as if it’s something practiced even though it isn’t.
For a second, everything stills. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
How his eyes are on you instead of anywhere else.
Neither of you moves right away.
Chan’s voice drops slightly, softer than before. “Like this.”
You stay in the hold.
He clears his throat softly.
“Your posture is better,” he says, but it sounds distracted.
“Yeah?” you reply, quieter than before.
“Mm.”
Silence settles again.
Then—
A faint tapping sound starts somewhere outside the studio.
Both of you notice it at the same time.
Rain.
It starts soft, scattered against the windows, just enough to catch your attention but not enough to fully interrupt the moment. Chan’s eyes flick briefly toward the glass behind you, then back to you like he forgot to fully finish the thought.
“It’s raining,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” he answers.
But neither of you moves out of position.
Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder without meaning to. His fingers at your back shift a fraction, like he noticed but didn’t correct it.
Chan’s gaze drops for a second—your eyes, then your mouth—and something in the space between you tightens again.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
He notices, because, of course he does.
But he doesn’t step back.
Neither do you.
The distance between you shrinks without either of you actively closing it, just inevitability building slowly in the silence, in the rain, in the way your bodies already know the shape of this position too well.
He leans in slightly.
Just enough that it changes the air.
Just enough that everything stops again.
You don’t move away.
Neither does he.
The rain outside gets a little heavier, filling the room with a soft, steady rhythm against the windows. Inside, everything else feels frozen.
Chan exhales slowly, barely audible.
And then—
He stops just short, a breath away.
His eyes flick up to yours, searching, restrained, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Neither of you says a word. Not about what almost happened, not about what’s already happening in every space between you.
Finally, he eases his hand at your back—just slightly, like he’s forcing himself to reset.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Like it’s a decision to step back from something he almost didn’t.
You nod once.
“…Okay,” you repeat.
The rest of the lesson doesn’t go back to how it started.
There’s no more easy laughter, no teasing back and forth, no casual corrections that come with jokes attached. Instead, everything feels more measured—careful in a way neither of you acknowledges. He still guides you through the steps, still adjusts your posture when needed, still counts under his breath, but the space between you never quite returns to what it was before.
Even when you’re moving across the floor, there’s an awareness sitting underneath every instruction. Like both of you are actively pretending nothing shifted, while simultaneously being unable to forget that it did.
Chan’s voice stays steady, but quieter.
You respond the same way.
It’s not uncomfortable exactly, it is just heavy with everything neither of you are saying.
By the time he finally calls it, the rain outside is still coming down hard—thicker now, tapping steadily against the windows and spilling into the streetlights beyond the glass.
He glances toward it, then back at you, exhaling lightly through his nose.
“Well,” he says, trying for normal, “we’re probably going to have to run to our cars.”
You follow his gaze and let out a small, slightly awkward laugh. “Yeah… I don’t think running is going to do much for either of us at this point.”
He huffs a quiet laugh too, but it doesn’t fully reach either of you the way it usually would.
“No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves right away.
Then he grabs his jacket, and you reach for yours at almost the same time, and even that feels like it carries more weight than it should.
You both end up giving up on the idea of “running.”
By the time you step outside, the rain is too heavy for it to matter anyway—cold, steady, relentless. It hits the pavement in sheets, soaking through the edges of your jackets almost immediately as you walk side by side toward the parking lot at a normal pace, neither of you pretending anymore that urgency will change anything.
It’s quiet between you.
When you reach your cars, you both stop without needing to say it. The distance feels slightly awkward now, like the space is doing something neither of you is acknowledging.
“Drive safe,” Chan says first.
“Yeah,” you reply. “You too.”
There’s no hug. No lingering smile. No teasing goodbye like before. Just a brief exchange that feels completely different from the last time you stood in front of each other like this.
You reach for your door handle.
But you don’t get to open it.
Chan’s voice cuts through the rain, sharper than before.
“Wait.”
You pause, hand still on your car door, and turn back.
He’s standing there getting soaked, long blonde hair damp now, jacket darkened from the rain, looking less calm than he did a few minutes ago.
There’s a tightness in his expression you haven’t seen before—not anger, but something closer to frustration held too long.
“So are we not going to talk about what just happened in there?” he asks.
You don’t need him to clarify, you know exactly what he means.
You don’t answer right away, because honestly, you don’t know what to say.
The rain keeps falling around you, running cold down your sleeves, but you barely feel it. All of your attention is stuck on him—standing a few feet away, completely drenched, looking like he’s trying not to fall apart and not doing a very good job of it.
Chan exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I know I didn’t imagine that,” he says, voice lower now, more certain. “In there. I know you felt it too.”
Your throat tightens slightly, as he takes a step closer.
The space between you shrinks in the rain.
“Tell me,” he says, and there’s something unguarded in his expression now, something honest in a way you haven’t seen before. “Did you notice? Or did I just—” he lets out a short, almost disbelieving laugh, “—make a fool of myself this whole time?”
You shake your head slightly, still trying to catch up.
He continues anyway, like once it’s started, he can’t stop it.
“I was supposed to meet you once,” he says. “That’s all. That’s what it was supposed to be. You were just—someone I met in a coffee shop. A friend. That’s it.”
A pause, then, quieter:
“But from the second you walked in… I didn’t want it to just be that.”
His eyes flick away for a second, then back to you, glassy now—not quite tears, but close enough that it changes the air completely.
“I just—” he shakes his head slightly, rain dripping from his hair, “—I didn’t mean to feel like this. I just wanted to meet someone normal. Someone I could talk to. And then you walked in and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore, I just—”
His voice breaks off for a second.
And when he looks at you again, it’s quieter.
“Did you feel it too?” he asks. “Or was I the only one who made this complicated?”
That lands heavier than anything else.
You finally move.
One step.
Then another.
The rain doesn’t stop. It just keeps falling harder around you both as you close the space between.
“Chan,” you say softly, like you’re grounding him.
He doesn’t move away.
You reach him, close enough now that you can see how much he’s trying to hold himself together.
And then you don’t overthink it.
You just lean in and kiss him.
It’s gentle at first—uncertain, careful, like you’re both still testing whether this is real or not.
When you pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead almost stays close to yours.
Neither of you speaks for a second.
Then he lets out a quiet, shaky laugh.
“…Okay,” he whispers, like that somehow confirms everything.
And then he kisses you, no hesitation left.
It’s like something inside him finally gives up holding itself together—like everything he’s been swallowing for days, weeks, maybe longer, just breaks open at once. His hand comes up to your face instinctively, pulling you closer like he’s been trying not to do exactly that for far too long.
You don’t hold back either.
All the tension from the studio, the almost-moments, the silence, the late-night calls, the way he looked at you like he was always just one second away from saying something he shouldn’t—it all collapses into this.
It’s heated, unsteady in the best way, like neither of you is remembering how to be careful anymore.
The rain soaks through everything, but neither of you steps away.
His other hand finds your waist, firm, grounding, like he needs to make sure you’re actually there and not something he’s imagined through too many sleepless nights and too many calls that ran too late.
When you finally break apart just enough to breathe, it’s not far.
Foreheads almost touching again, breaths uneven, both of you a little breathless like you ran without moving.
Chan’s eyes stay on yours, softer now—but no less intense.
“I—” he starts, then stops like the word isn’t enough.
You can feel it too clearly now. Not confusion. Not uncertainty.
He exhales, almost laughing at himself, but there’s no humor in it—just disbelief.
“I think I’ve been in trouble since the coffee shop,” he admits quietly.
You let out a small breath, your hands still lightly holding onto him like letting go would undo something neither of you wants undone.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think you have.”
That earns a faint, almost relieved smile from him.
And as the rain falls around you both, you realize that maybe this is exactly what was supposed to happen when you were given that wrong number.
—-----------------------------------------------
A day or so later the air is soft, calm. You’re in Chan’s room again, but this time there’s no rain, no rushed confessions, no chaos in the hallway. Just the two of you, his door shut, the world outside paused for a while. At some point conversation had faded into something easier, and now you’re laying close enough that it stops being “close” and starts being inevitable.
He’s hovering over you slightly again, like he keeps forgetting he doesn’t actually need to keep distance anymore.
You pull back from a kiss just enough to breathe, but you don’t really let go of him. A light push lands on his shoulder, more playful than anything, and your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing lightly along his sides like you’re testing how real this all still feels.
Chan inhales sharply, catching your wrist just for a second—then not stopping you.
“You’re very bold today,” he says, voice low, a little amused.
You tilt your head up at him. “Am I?”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning in again like he can’t help himself.
You laugh softly against his mouth. “You’re the one who keeps leaning in.”
“Because you keep doing that thing,” he says, glancing down at your hands under his shirt, “where you act normal and then do that.”
“I am normal,” you say immediately, far too seriously.
He pauses, then gives you a look.
“You’re literally touching me right now.”
“You’re not complaining,” you point out.
“I’m not,” he admits, far too quickly, then clears his throat like he needs to recover his dignity. “I’m just… observing.”
You grin.
“Right… observing.”
He leans down again, kissing you once more—this time lighter, teasing, like he’s trying to interrupt your sentence on purpose. When you pull away again, you don’t go far, still smiling.
“You know,” you say, “for someone who acts like he’s in control, you’re kind of really bad at resisting me.”
Chan exhales a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours for a second.
“I’ve noticed,” he says. “It’s becoming a problem.”
“A problem?” you repeat, amused.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing you again briefly, like he can’t stay away for more than a few seconds. “Very distracting problem.”
He kisses you again, between his words.
When he pulls back this time, he’s smiling a little more now—softer, less guarded.
“I’m not good at pretending I don’t like you,” he admits.
You brush your thumb lightly along his jaw, still close.
“Good,” you say. “Because you’re really bad at it.”
It’s mid-kiss—soft, unhurried, Chan braced above you on the bed, one hand planted near your shoulder, the other still lingering at your waist—when the doorknob clicks.
Neither of you reacts fast enough.
The door swings open.
“So I was right—”
Soonyoung walks in mid-sentence, then freezes.
There’s a beat of absolute silence.
Chan jerks so hard he practically falls off the bed.
“—OH!”
He lands half on the mattress, half off it, scrambling upright immediately like the floor personally offended him. You, on the other hand, are laughing too hard to sit up properly, covered by the blanket, still trying to process the sheer audacity of what just happened.
Soonyoung stares.
Then points.
“I KNEW IT.”
Chan is already sitting up, red in the ears. “What are you doing here?”
“I LIVE HERE,” Soonyoung says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he looks between you both again. “Also—hi—hi—okay, I knew she was into you.”
You’re still laughing, wiping at your face slightly as Chan runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to restart his entire existence.
“That is not what you should be focusing on right now,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung ignores him completely.
“I knew it,” he repeats, turning to you now like this is a shared accomplishment. “You two were so weird about each other for weeks. I literally told Minghao this was going to happen.”
At the mention of Minghao, Chan groans louder. “Please stop talking.”
Soonyoung steps further into the room anyway, completely unbothered. “I also want credit for emotional matchmaking because this—” he gestures broadly between you and Chan, still half on the bed, still very much recovering from falling off it, “—this is insane.”
“I think you broke him,” you say lightly.
“I did not break him,” Soonyoung corrects. “He was already like this. I just witnessed it.”
Chan finally stands, pointing toward the door with the kind of exhausted calm that only comes from knowing he lost control of the situation ten seconds ago.
“Out.”
Soonyoung grins. “I’ll go. But just so you know—” he leans back slightly, still smug, “—I was rooting for this.”
Then he leaves, just as casually as he entered.
The door clicks shut again.
Silence.
Chan stands there for a second, staring at the space Soonyoung just occupied, then slowly turns back toward you.
You’re still smiling.
“…Don’t,” he says immediately.
You laugh softly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he replies.
“I am absolutely thinking it.”
He exhales, then shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming despite himself as he walks back toward the bed.
“You’re never coming over again,” he mutters.
“You say that a lot,” you point out.
He climbs back onto the bed and hovers back over you.
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🏁 Race: Overtake by @sailorsoons
🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
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🏁 Race: all for one by @amourcheol
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Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Off The Record by @soo0hee
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🏁 Race: Revving for Love by @nerdycheol
🏎️ Driver: Yoon Jeonghan x f!reader
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🏁 Race: Birdie by @aeristudios
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x reader
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Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: build this dream together by @joshujin
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x f!reader
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Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: burn for the win by @mylovesstuffs
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
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Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: open channel by @sknyuz
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
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🏁 Race: as seen on screen by @imnotshua
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say.
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🏁 Race: behind the lens by @wheeboo
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
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🏁 Race: playing with fire by @starlightkyeom
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: soonyoung doesn't do relationships. or strings. or repeats all that often, honestly. he's one of the best drivers on the circuit and he doesn't need to. the one exception? you, his biggest rival's on-and-off partner. he's always your first call when your relationship is splashed across the headlines again and he never seems to care.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: heartbreak champion by @straylightdream
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: After being together since you were fifteen, things hit a rough patch as your husband chases his goal of being world champion.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Under Investigation by @diamonddaze01
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Jihoon doesn’t break the rules. He bends them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make your job harder, just enough to see if you’ll flinch. He’s testing the boundaries. And the worst part? You kind of want to see what happens if he crosses them.
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🏁 Race: heartbreaker by @sailorsoons
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car won’t cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is what’s happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Burning Bridges by @bluehoodiewoozi
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: When your fiancé chooses his Formula 1 career over you and makes it everyone’s problem, his teammate Seokmin is not about to just sit back and watch.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: red wine nights by @hannieoftheyear
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: what's the worst time to hook up with your best friend and change your relationship forever? probably the night before he gets on a plane and flies far away to become a world famous star.
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🏁 Race: Rumour by @gyuswhore
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, an acknowledgement he risks his modesty for. So when he approaches you with rose tinted glasses, clad in the team kit of his dreams, he’s ready to build a rapport of a lifetime with his brand new race engineer.
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Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: perfect strangers by @studioeisa
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and... a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his 'partner', mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
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🏁 Race: one track mind by @haologram
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: after years in the spotlight, you've learned one thing: how to get used to new environments, good and bad. despite the time and the friends you've made along the way, things never really change — and that includes the mentality that winning is the only option.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: victory lap by @minisugakoobies
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: minghao's just led his team to another championship - so why can't he enjoy it? he's jaded, having grown disillusioned with his life, and in desperate need of the familiar spark that’s driven him all these years. lucky for him, a chance encounter with the enemy of his rival will set his ignition ablaze with one wild ride.
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🏁 Race: bae-watching by @shinysobi
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: boo seungkwan is over it, really. he's been on the sports circuit for years, but covering any f1 championship gets harder every time. on top of that, he's supposed to get a "fresh angle" on a game that has none-until he's staring down the barrel of history, when she appears right beside the ferrari chief engineer. he's looking at you, but you have stopped looking at him a decade ago.
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🏁 Race: along the rubble or the dust by @heartepub
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: in the high-octane world of formula one, boo seungkwan has clawed his way up with a mix of charm, grit, skill, and pure luck. he knows, more than anyone else, how coincidence can be a turning point. when, in an improbable series of events, his childhood friend starts lurking in the paddock as his new performance engineer, he gets the distinct feeling that this is about to be one of them. even if (or especially because) he’d rather trust you with his life than with his heart.
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🏁 Race: Podium Pleasers by @shadowkoo
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: F1 driver Vernon is no stranger to stunning women whispering wicked things in his ear during race season, but no voice has stopped his heart quite like yours. The ‘missing’ younger sister of one of his oldest friends. The girl who disappeared two years ago without a word. And now, you’re on his lap with your bare breasts pressed against his chest. He’s horrified to learn that you’re working at an exclusive strip club, tangled in a complicated contract where sex appeal is currency, personal relationships are forbidden, and your freedom is nothing but a twisted illusion. He wants you out, but walking away from a fantasy life built on status and money isn’t that simple. So, in a last-ditch effort, he offers you something else. Something real. A fresh start on the circuit as his assistant, where you can rebuild your future, possibly even a future by his side.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: slow and steady by @haoboutyou
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Aston Martin— once a top class, championship winning team, has become riddled with bad press. What better way to cover it up than throwing your driver under the bus? In a not-so elaborate scheme, Vernon and rising star Y/n are entrapped in a dating scandal to cover up the company’s ass, subjecting them to the wrath of public scrutiny instead. Will the awkward dates and busy schedules make way for something more? Or will they let their relationship be dictated by greedy corporations?
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🏁 Race: This Town by @wqnwoos
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: Ten years ago, Lee Chan left your hometown without ever looking back. Now, after a crash that loses him the championship, he’s back and asking for your forgiveness — but you’re not sure if you’re ready to risk your best friend leaving you again.
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🏁 Race: The Boundary Concept by @kkooongie
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Chan didn't know which was worse: the fact that he still liked you since high school (despite shutting down completely whenever you were around) or the fact that you wanted to meet up with him... for a research paper. But hey, he was willing to take any crumbs as long as he got an opportunity to make you realise he was a super cool racer now. That is, assuming he didn't crash under the intense pressure. Or, in which, you never knew writing a paper on the boundary concept would make you question the boundaries between you and Chan.
📸 pairing: grad student bf!minghao x fem!gf!reader
📸 genre: mild mild angst, fluff, suggestive
📸 summary: your boyfriend learns no one knows he's dating you and feels guilty about it.
📸 a/n: AHHHHHH I've made my return with this sh*te story i wrote almost two months ago. I had a dream about this and it could've honestly been more smutty but as I've shared before, I'm starting to stray away from writing super detailed smut so ig you can just use your imagination LOL! I hope u enjoy! my minghao fics tend to not get lots of love but for my minghao luvrs out there, I hope u enjoy! fun fact: minghao was the first member to catch my eye like truly truly when i first got into svt so he is very special to me.
thank u to @/cafekitsune for the dividers!!
Minghao straightens the baseball cap on his head, watching Joshua and Mingyu laugh at their dear friend Soonyoung. This house party started two hours ago, and Soonyoung is deep in the realms of drunkenness. He’s falling prey to Jun’s horrible magic tricks, eyes wide and shiny, mouth agape, clearly confused about how Jun made a card appear behind his ear.
“Hey Hao,” a voice flutters in his ear, interrupting the scene in front of him. Minghao turns around and sees Insong, one of the girls from his friend group. She’s very pretty with long legs and smooth, silky hair that she always wears down. He hasn’t known her for very long, since she and her girlfriends only joined the master’s program he’s in this year.
Lately, the two of them have been conversing more as she seeks his expertise in the classes he took the year before. He finds that she’s been texting him constantly, asking for his opinions on a fabric she’s choosing for her latest projects.
Minghao isn’t a moron and he’s certainly not blind. He knows Insong is into him, but since she hasn’t explicitly made any moves on him, he’s not doing anything about it. He keeps his answers short, refraining from answering her when he’s in bed right next to you.
His girlfriend of three years.
There is no one on planet Earth whom Minghao loves more than you. You’re his shining star, and he’s merely a planet, orbiting around you. His perfect match, his missing piece. The day he met you, he knew you were the one. There was something about the way you held yourself, bold and beautiful, that he knew he needed to be with you.
Turns out the universe agreed. You both had so much in common- your desire to experiment in fashion, adding chains, mixed metals, furs, diamonds to what was once a simple piece. Your confidence entranced him; how you walked to class in unique outfits, with different hair colors, styles, and cuts.
It took just one date for you to feel the same way.
Now he has endless access to you. Your lips, your body, your mind, but most importantly, your heart.
Insong places a hand on his shoulder, shooting Minghao a dimpled smile. Eyes peering down at her, he notes the half-empty glass in her other hand.
“Hao, I don’t know how to say this, so I figured I should just tell you. I’m,” she pauses to look into his eyes. “I’m interested in you. Like, interested interested. You’re so hard to read, but I can’t wait any longer. I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date?” She bats her eyelashes, moving closer so that their chests are an inch apart. One more step and they’d be chest to chest.
Minghao places his hand on top of Insong’s and softly lifts it away. “Insong, I’m very flattered. But, I’m not single.”
Insong’s eyes are as wide as saucers as she opens and closes her mouth, clearly in shock.
“Oh, oh my gosh. Oh, I’m so sorry, Minghao. I just- I thought you were single. I, I just assumed you were single because you never show any girlfriend on Instagram. I should’ve never assumed, I should’ve asked the others,” Insong is blabbering now, and Minghao interrupts her with a soft hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry about this. I promise this won’t change anything about our friendship,” he softly smiles, looking directly into her eyes.
Insong flushes, still clearly embarrassed about her incorrect assumption. “Really?” she asks meekly. “Yeah, you’re fine. Here I’ll grab you another drink.” Minghao reaches behind him to hand her a cold can of beer.
Insong meekly runs away after thanking him for the drink, not without throwing out a few more apologies.
Now alone, Minghao frowns. Did he really never post you on his Instagram? Minghao wasn’t one to share so much of his personal life on there, but if he could share selfies or mirror pics of himself, surely he had to have shared a pic of you. Right?
His Instagram profile boasts one photo, a picture of himself at an art museum in graffiti-covered jeans that you gave him on his 24th birthday. He goes through the archive of his stories and finds it full of pictures of himself that you took, or pictures of his friends, or concerts, or parties. Not one clear, direct photo of you. His heart is pounding in his chest. There is no proof you exist in his life. The three years of love you’ve given him aren’t displayed on the platform that represents who he is to the people from all around his life.
Desperate, Minghao approaches Joshua. “You know I have a girlfriend, right?” Confusion flashes across Joshua’s face.
“What? No, you don’t.” Minghao’s face must be full of horror because Joshua pauses to think back to Minghao’s romantic history.
“Oh, wait. Are you still with Y/N? I never knew if you guys were actually together?”
“We’ve been together for three years now,” Minghao says flatly. Joshua’s eyes widen. He drags Mingyu into the conversation. All Minghao hears is white noise as Mingyu also confesses he had no idea Minghao had been with you all this time.
He’s spiraling.
There was the time you went to one of these stupid parties with him, yet you spent the whole night apart with different friend groups. He never kisses you in public, always hating public displays of affection. He prefers to show you just how much he loves you in private, sensually pressing his lips against yours, making love to you over and over.
There is no doubt that he shows you just how much he loves you. But he doesn’t show the world.
Setting his drink down on the closest table, Minghao quickly waves his friends off, itching to get back home to be with you.
“You’re back early,” you say with a big stretch, clearly surprised that your boyfriend is back from a party before midnight.
“Hey,” he greets you softly, immediately making a beeline towards your curled-up figure on the couch. You’re in a tiny black tank top, making it easier for him to touch every surface of your warm skin. After three years together, there is nothing your boyfriend can hide from you.
“What’s wrong, babe?” you ask, playing with the two silver hoops on his left ear.
“You remember Insong?”
“Yeah, the new grad student, right?”
“Well, she asked me out, but I told her I wasn’t single. And she said she didn’t know because I’ve never posted you on my Instagram,” he says, finally looking into your eyes to gauge your thoughts.
“So you think I’m upset that you don’t post me on your Instagram?” Minghao nods, tightening his hold on your arms.
You break into a beautiful smile.
“My love, I don’t care about that. I love you, and you love me. Who cares?”
“But I do!” Minghao suddenly exclaims. “I care that no one knows I’ve been with you for three years, and there’s no proof. We go on so many dates and we take so many pictures, yet I never post any of them. I don’t share how much I love you. It feels like I’m hiding you or embarrassed by you, which I’m not. I feel like I’ve fucked up,” he says slumping back into the couch.
Minghao grabs your arm and pulls you into his chest.
“I love you, infinitely. I’m sorry I don’t say it louder,” he whispers in your ear. To seal the deal, he holds your chin between his thumb and index finger, staring deep into your eyes, lips ghosting yours. “I love you,” he says, sinking his tongue into your mouth. “I’m sorry.” Lips brush against your jaw, a big, strong hand wraps around the base of your throat.
Arms encircle your waist, a cheek is pressed against your shoulder, a face buried in your neck.
“You’re it for me,” he says softly, voice muffled.
You run your fingers through his long hair. Minghao loves experimenting with different hair colors. You’ve been with him when his hair was bleached blond in the fall, silver in the winter, caramel brown in the spring, red in the summer. Five more hair colors since then, and it’s now in its natural state. You’ve loved Minghao throughout all his hair phases, but you’ll always remember the Minghao you fell in love with three winters ago, when it was pitch black, just like how it is now.
“Babe, you’re it for me too,” you reply back with a big, beautiful smile.
Minghao is looking at you with lidded eyes, and when he shrugs your tank top sleeve down your shoulder, he’s determined to show you just how much he loves you.
*xuminghao_o just posted a story
Eyebrow raised, you click on the story.
It’s the mirror picture you took earlier today. Minghao’s chest was pressed against your back with his arms wrapped around your stomach. A kiss pressed to your cheek and a huge smile on your face. Much like the smile you were sporting right now.
You’ve never been one to care what your boyfriend does or doesn’t post on his Instagram. But this picture on his story is evidence of your relationship. Evidence that he loves you enough to share you with everyone who follows him.
Seventeen's Reaction - You walking out during the fight + making up
Note from author: Do NOT BUrn the witch, I know I have been gone for a little minute, but like hectic, I got a cold and had a major writer's block. HOWEVER, I did have this standing in my drafts for a hot minute. I tried to do a different writing style with this one, so lmk what we think.🫶🏻🫶🏻
Summary: ot'13 fighting with their partner + making up
( this was a prompt that I had seen ages ago, so the main idea is repetitive across all scenarios, but with small changes on how I think they would personally react)
Warnings: harsh vocabulary, jealousy???
1️⃣ S.Coups:
The fight had been brewing for days.
Seungcheol noticed everything, the way your shoulders sat a little lower each evening, the meals you “forgot,” the tired smile you wore like a polite mask. He tried to give you room. He told himself you just needed a few nights to push through the workload.
Tonight, the quiet snapped.
He came out of the bedroom towelling his hair, catching sight of you leaning on the counter, steam curling from a cup of instant ramen.
“Are you seriously eating ramen again?” His voice cut through the small kitchen, not loud but edged.
You didn’t look up. “It’s quick.” You tore the lid back. “I don’t have the energy to cook, Cheol.”
He dragged a hand through damp hair. “That’s the problem. You don’t have the energy for anything because you’re not eating or sleeping.”
You kept your eyes on the packet, sprinkling seasoning like it could shield you. “Can we not do this? It’s just a busy stretch.”
“Busy?” He let out a humourless laugh that sounded like a wince. “You come over and I watch you fade while your emails keep lighting up. I ask if you heard me, and you say ‘yeah’ when you clearly didn’t. You were swaying on your feet last night.”
You flinched. “I was fine.”
“No, you weren’t.” His tone softened, pleading now. “You could’ve asked me to make something. Or told me you needed help.”
“And what?” You finally looked at him. “You’d what…babysit me? Track my meals? You’re not my father, Cheol. Stop acting like one.”
Silence landed heavily. He blinked, the fight draining out of his face all at once, hurt blooming in its place.
“So that’s how you see me?” he asked, quieter. “Controlling?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth sat tangled behind your ribs. You weren’t sure what to call the way he hovered when you were running on fumes, love or pressure or both. Pride lifted your chin. You looked away.
He swallowed, voice rough. “I’m…Look, if worrying makes you feel caged, then fine. I’ll stop. Clearly it’s not worth it.”
The words sliced through the room, cold and exact. He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to.
You set the little silver seasoning packet down like it burned. The air felt tight. His apartment felt too small, too neat, your reflection too stark in the dark window over the sink. You snagged your coat from the chair.
“Where are you going?” he asked, softer, already regretting it.
“Home,” you said without looking at him. “I need air.”
“Y/N…”
You were already at the door. You didn’t slam it. That somehow made it worse.
He stood very still in the kitchen, listening to the hallway swallow your footsteps. The ramen sat cooling, untouched.
He cleaned up the counter because it gave his hands something to do. He typed out three different texts and deleted all of them. He went to bed with the light on.
You walked until your cheeks stung from the wind.
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Days stretched, long and quiet. Neither of you reached out.
You told yourself it was for the best, give him space, clear your head, keep your focus. You made coffee that tasted like nothing and forgot it on your desk. You drafted a message twice, “I’m sorry for what I said” and “Can we talk?”, then stared at the blinking cursor until the screen timed out. You shut your laptop and told yourself to be strong.
He lasted one day before he started checking your socials for signs you were eating, sleeping, anything. He picked up your scarf from the back of his chair and put it back, twice. He opened your shared notes app where you’d listed recipes you wanted to try and scrolled through it like it could count as cooking for you. He went to the gym and left after ten minutes.
Stubbornness was a language you both spoke. So was missing each other.
Snow arrived on the fourth night, thick flakes that made the city softer, quieter. You stayed late to close out a deadline, then walked home through the park because the path felt less crowded than the streets.
The crunch of your boots was the only sound.
“Y/N.”
You stopped so fast that your bag slipped off your shoulder. You’d know that voice anywhere.
He was a few feet away, a dark coat powdered white, beanie pulled low, cheeks pink from the cold. He had that careful way of standing he used around you when he wasn’t sure how close to come.
“You walk too fast when you’re mad,” he said, breath fogging. “I almost lost you.”
Your throat tightened. “Why are you here?”
He took a small step closer, hands in his pockets like he was holding himself steady. “Because I can’t do this. The not-talking. The pretending we’re not… us.”
“Cheol…”
“I was wrong.” The words tumbled out awkward and true. “I shouldn’t have said I’d stop caring. That was me being defensive and stupid. I don’t know how to love you without worrying. That’s just… who I am. I’d rather be annoying than watch you burn out and do nothing.”
You stared at him, the snow catching on his lashes, dissolving into tiny beads. The sincerity in his voice made something in you loosen.
He swallowed, trying again. “I know I pushed. I know it can feel like I’m hovering. And you’re right, I’m not your father. I don’t want to be. I want to be your partner. Which means I have to ask, not dictate.” He exhaled, a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
A laugh rose in your chest and broke into a sniffle. “You practiced that, didn’t you?”
“In the mirror.” His mouth twitched. “Twice.”
You looked down at your boots. “I was rude. I said the one thing that would hurt. I hate being taken care of because it makes me feel weak. I grew up handling things alone and… it’s hard to let that go.” You lifted your eyes to his. “But I don’t want to do this alone. Not with you.”
He nodded like he’d been waiting to hear that exact sentence. “So we try again. Different.”
“Different,” you echoed. Your fingers were numb, you blew on them. “No more drive-by lectures when I’m holding a cup of ramen.”
“Counter-offer.” His tone went gentle. “If I’m worried, I ask, ‘How can I help?’ And if you need to be left alone, you say so. Clear and simple.”
“And I actually tell you things before I crash.” You shrugged. “Like, ‘This week is brutal, please feed me, I’ll do the dishes.’”
His smile bloomed, soft and relieved. “Deal.”
He reached out like he was approaching a skittish cat, fingertips brushing yours first, waiting, letting you decide. You curled your hand into his, relief spreading like heat.
“Hands are freezing,” he murmured, bringing your joined fingers up to his mouth to blow warm air over your knuckles. The intimacy of it stole your breath.
“You’re dramatic,” you said, voice unsteady.
“I’m in love,” he said simply. “It looks similar.”
He kissed you, cold lips, careful pressure, an apology and a promise in one breath. The pride you’d been clinging to dissolved like snowflakes on skin.
When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I missed you so damn much.”
Your laugh broke, wet around the edges. “I missed you too, idiot.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come home with me?”
You hesitated, reflexively, then nodded. “Only if we stop for something that isn’t instant noodles.”
He brightened. “There’s a 24-hour place two blocks over. I will personally carry you there and feed you dumplings.”
“Overkill,” you said, but you didn’t let go of his hand.
You started walking, slowly so the ice wouldn’t trip you. He matched your pace without comment. Your shoulder bumped his, he bumped back gently.
After a minute, he glanced down. “Quick logistics meeting?”
You snorted. “Right now?”
“Just a preview.” He smiled when you rolled your eyes. “How about this, on heavy weeks, you text me your schedule on Sunday. I plan dinners on the days you’re slammed. If you need space, say ‘pause.’ If I start lecturing, you’re allowed to say ‘off-duty.’ No feelings hurt.”
You considered. “And if I say ‘I’m fine,’ you get one follow-up question. One,” you stressed.
“Negotiated. I’ll spend it wisely.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “You never spend anything wisely.”
“Except this,” he said, lifting your joined hands and lacing your fingers tighter.
At the corner, you paused under a streetlight that made the snow glow. He reached up to flick a flake from your lashes, his touch light as breath.
“Hey,” you said, more serious again. “Thank you for coming to find me.”
He shrugged, that little shy tilt of his mouth you loved. “I know the routes you take when you want to think. And I don’t want to be brave about missing you.”
You swallowed. “Me either.”
“Good.” He squeezed your hand. “Then let’s go eat something warm and stupidly salty and talk about everything we didn’t say this week.”
“And then,” you said, “we sleep. A full eight hours. Minimum.”
“Bossy,” he teased.
“Partner,” you corrected.
His grin reached his eyes. “Partner,” he echoed, and the word fit, simple and right.
You didn’t need to be saved. You needed to be met. And he was here.
2️⃣ Jeonghan:
Fights with Jeonghan were rare. Most evenings, your bickering fizzled into laughter and a kiss on the cheek over takeout. But tonight, your fuse was already short. Work had wrung you dry.
You tossed your bag onto the chair and pulled your hair up with a sigh. “I swear, if my boss asks me to ‘circle back’ one more time, I’m going to combust. I’m rewriting decks, fixing everyone’s mistakes, and somehow I’m the one who ‘needs to be more proactive.’”
Jeonghan looked up from the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, a soft grin playing at his mouth. “Babe, breathe. You’re home. Want tea?”
You waved him off, pacing. “He scheduled a 7 a.m. meeting and then showed up thirty minutes late. And when I presented the revised plan, his plan, he said we’d ‘take it under consideration.’”
He leaned back, head tipping against the cushion. “Maybe you’re just being a little dramatic.”
The word froze the room.
You stopped pacing. “Dramatic?”
He blinked, slow, as if he could catch the word and shove it back in his mouth. “I didn’t mean…I just meant sometimes you spiral and…”
“So now I’m overreacting?” Your voice came out tighter than you expected.
“Hey,” he said softly, hands up. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just trying to…”
“To what? Make a joke?” Your laugh cracked, brittle. “Right. Because that’s what you do. You joke. And I’m… what? Entertainment?”
The grin vanished from his lips like you’d blown out a candle. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” you said, heat rising under your skin, “what’s not fair is you brushing me off when I’m telling you I feel invisible.”
His jaw flexed. “I don’t brush you off.”
“You just did.”
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharper. “If that’s really what you think of me, maybe you don’t know me at all.”
It landed like a slam of a door.
Silence ballooned. Your chest felt too small for your ribs. You grabbed your coat from the hook and shoved your arms through, fingers fumbling over the zipper.
“Where are you going?” Jeonghan asked, already standing.
“Out,” you said. “To not be here.”
“Hey, it’s snowing,” he called, following you to the door. “At least take…”
The city was hushed under fresh snow, the kind that swallowed the sound of tires and dimmed the glow of storefronts. You tugged your scarf up over your mouth and walked. Your anger flickered, then flared, then slowly ran out of places to go, leaving you with a dull ache you recognized as hurt.
He didn’t mean it like that, you told yourself. But he said it. And he always jokes.
By the time you circled back toward your building, your fingers were numb and your lashes had caught a dusting of flakes.
Something thumped your shoulder.
You spun, snow falling from your scarf. “Yah!”
Jeonghan stood under the imposing tree near your entrance, hair dotted white, scarf loose around his neck, a lopsided snowball crumbling in his glove. He tried a smile, small, hopeful. “This is how you talk to me now?”
“Don’t,” you said, but your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I know.” He took a step closer, then stopped, gauging your face. “I messed up.”
You folded your arms, half for warmth, half to keep them from reaching for him. “You think?”
“I joke too much,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours and not away. “It’s a reflex. It’s how I deal. But you weren’t asking me to deal. You were asking me to listen.”
A slow breath left you, fogging the air. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious about anything. About me.”
He winced, and his breath hitched in the cold. “I hate that you feel that way. I said ‘dramatic.’ That was… crappy. I’m sorry.”
You stared at him, at the earnest slope of his mouth, at the sting of his honesty. “It’s not just the word,” you said, quieter. “It’s the pattern. I tell you I’m drowning, and you toss me a joke like a floaty. I need you to get in the water.”
He nodded, quick. “Okay. Then I will. Tell me how. Do you want me to listen and say nothing? Do you want me to hold you and be quiet? Do you want advice? You can choose.” His gloved hand lifted, hovered, then fell. “I should’ve asked before. ‘Do you want comfort, solutions, or jokes?’ I should’ve asked.”
A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “You made that a multiple choice?”
“Baby steps.” His mouth curved, tentative. “I’m not going to be perfect at this, but I’m going to be deliberate.”
Snow sifted between you, gentle and relentless. He took another step, and another, until he was close enough that the warmth of him reached you.
“I care,” he said. “I care so much it scares me, and sometimes I make everything lighter because a heavy thing feels like it could break if I look at it too long. But I will look. At you. At what hurts. At what’s unfair at your job. At the way your shoulders tense when you talk about that meeting. I see it. I see you.”
Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to be a problem you have to fix.”
“You’re not a problem.” His voice grew fierce in that soft, Jeonghan way. “You’re my person. I want to be the place you come to fall apart. I’ll put the pieces with you, not laugh while you scatter.”
He reached for your hand. His glove was cold and clumsy, he tugged it off with his teeth and slid his bare fingers between yours. They were freezing, but the intent was warm.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did. Snow clung to his lashes like glitter. His eyes were clear and steady.
“You’re not a joke to me,” he said. “Not now, not ever.”
A small, stubborn part of you held back. “Say it again tomorrow,” you murmured. “And next week. And the next time I’m spiraling.”
“I will.” A hint of mischief sparked, soft, contained. “And I’ll bring tea that time. No snowballs. Or, at least, I’ll ask permission before deploying.”
“Jeonghan,” you warned, but your mouth twitched.
“Sorry,” he whispered, contrite and playful in the same breath. He dipped his head, tugged your scarf down gently, and kissed you. Not his usual teasing brush of lips, not a smile pressed against yours, but something steady and careful. A question and an answer all at once.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, a small shiver running through him. “I missed you,” he whispered. “I know it was only a few hours, but it felt… loud without you.”
“Loud?” you echoed, a smile cracking open.
“In here.” He tapped his chest. “Too much echo.”
Your eyes stung. “You could’ve texted.”
“I did,” he admitted, sheepish. “And then I stood under your tree because I’m dramatic.”
The word, gentle now, loosened something in you. “You’re dramatic.”
“Only about you.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ll make it right. I’ll listen tonight. I want to hear the whole thing, start to end, the 7 a.m. meeting, the late boss, the stolen credit, the ‘take it under consideration’, which, by the way, is a war crime.”
“An office war crime,” you sniffed, laughing.
“Punishable by me buying you dinner,” he said promptly. “And by me asking, before we even go upstairs, what do you need from me right now? Comfort, solutions, or jokes?”
You pretended to consider. “Comfort first. Advice later. Jokes… we’ll see.”
“Order received.” He lifted your joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, breath warm against your chilled skin. “Can I walk you in?”
You nodded.
3️⃣ Joshua:
The first time you and Joshua fought, the room didn’t erupt. It quieted. It was the kind of silence that pressed on the chest, a stillness that made every small sound too loud.
Dinner was almost finished. The lamp over the table hummed softly, casting a warm circle of light. He was telling you about rehearsal, about a new arrangement he was excited to try, and you were half there, thumb dragging across your phone, answering a text you convinced yourself couldn’t wait.
“Do you even want to be here right now?” His voice didn’t rise. It slipped under your guard, soft and direct.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
His eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face. “I’ve been talking for ten minutes and you haven’t looked at me once.” He set his fork down with careful precision, the way he did everything. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying.”
Guilt pricked, quick and hot. Defensiveness sprinted in right after. “Josh, I’m just tired. Can we not do this right now?”
He breathed in through his nose. “That’s the thing, though. ‘Right now’ is the only time I have with you today.”
Your jaw tightened. “Why are you making this a big deal?”
“Because it is a big deal.” His tone stayed even, but the hurt bled through. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just… I need to feel like I matter when we’re in the same room.”
Your chest squeezed. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t show it the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
He looked down at his hands, thumbs rubbing over his knuckles. “Maybe I just need more than what you’re giving.”
The sentence landed like a dropped plate, no crash, just the shock of it. You stared at him, words blurring at the edges. The room went still, even the humming lamp sounded distant.
You pushed your chair back. “Maybe I should go before we say something worse.”
He flinched, so small you almost missed it, but he didn’t stop you. You waited a half second longer than you meant to, hoping he’d reach for you, say anything that would make staying easier. He didn’t. So you left.
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Two days stretched wide and thin.
You woke to the hollow shape of him not being around. The mug he liked sat upside down to dry, a little circle of water underneath it because he always forgot to shake it out. You scrolled past his name in your phone more times than you’d admit, thumb hovering over the call button, typing and deleting a dozen versions of “Can we talk?” and “I’m sorry.”
At work, you caught yourself telling a joke to the air because you’d thought of how he’d laugh at it. A song on the radio made your stomach swoop and then drop. That night you ate toast over the sink and stared at the dark screen of your TV like it owed you an answer. Joshua’s absence was loud in your small apartment, loud in a way the fight hadn’t been.
On the second evening, snow began its careful fall, the kind that coats the city in muffled white and makes everything look gentler than it feels. You were wrapped in a blanket you didn’t need, staring at the door like you could will it to knock.
When it finally did, the sound startled you so much you almost thought you were sleeping.
You opened the door and there he was, coat buttoned to his throat, scarf crooked, nose pink from the cold, snow melted into his hair in damp curls. He held a paper bag like a shield and a peace offering.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hi,” you echoed, breath fogging the doorway.
He glanced at the hallway, then back to you. “I didn’t know how else to say this, so I thought I should just… say it. The only way I know how.”
You stepped aside. “Come in.”
He took off his shoes carefully, of course he did, and set the bag on your counter. “I brought that lentil soup you like. And those sesame crackers you pretend aren’t your favorite.” A tiny smile flickered and died. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been rehearsing this in my head, and it all sounded better there.”
“Try me anyway,” you said, a little hoarse. You sat on the edge of the couch, he stayed standing for a beat, then sat across from you, knees almost touching.
“I’m sorry,” he started, words measured like he was balancing them in his palms. “I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough. That isn’t true. You are. I just… missed you. Even when you were right there.” He swallowed. “It scared me to feel alone next to you.”
The honesty made your eyes sting. You closed the space between you, sliding beside him. Your hand found his cheek, cold from the walk, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sorry too. I was there, but not really. I do that when I’m overwhelmed, go quiet and small inside my head. It’s not about you, but I know it feels like it is.”
He leaned into your hand, lashes lowering. “I don’t want to keep score of who looks up first or who reaches out. I just want to know that if I say ‘I need you right now,’ you’ll hear me.”
“I will,” you said, meaning it. “And if I need twenty minutes to land before I can be present, I’ll say that out loud instead of disappearing into my phone.”
He exhaled, a small sound of relief. “Okay. That helps. I think I test people without meaning to. I waited for you to notice I was upset instead of telling you.”
“And I waited for you to tell me, because I was afraid of making it worse,” you admitted. “Which is ridiculous, because look at us. We already missed each other for two days we didn’t have to lose.”
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I hate those days.”
“Me too.” You nudged his knee with yours.
His eyes warmed. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mixing with yours, and then his lips found you, soft, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer. It tasted like snow and lentil and the quiet promise to try again.
When he pulled back, he stayed close, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed your mouth. “I’ll never doubt us again.”
You searched his face. “We’ll have moments,” you said gently. “But let’s promise to ask instead of assume.”
“Then I’ll never stop asking,” he murmured, smiling into the words.
You tucked yourself against his shoulder, the shape you knew by heart. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed your hairline. “Me neither.”
4️⃣ Jun:
Jun wasn’t the type to push. He was patient, careful with his words, in arguments he often let silence do the talking, even when it meant swallowing what he really felt. Maybe that’s why it hit harder when he finally said something.
It started with another last-minute change. He’d been waiting outside your office, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching for you through the glass. The lobby light caught in his hair. Then your message lit up his phone, ‘Can’t tonight. Too tired’. He glanced up at the same moment you stepped out, the screen’s glow fading against the tired apology you didn’t quite have energy to deliver in person.
By the time you made it home, he was already there, seated on your couch like he’d been trying to become small enough not to be a problem.
“You should’ve told me earlier,” he said, not looking up at first.
You set your bag down and toed off your shoes. “I did text you.”
“That’s not what I mean.” His gaze lifted, steady and too honest. “You’ve canceled three times this week. Do you even want to see me?”
The softness of it made the words land heavier. You flinched. “Of course I do. That’s… come on, Jun. Don’t make it sound like I don’t care.”
“I’m not trying to make it sound like anything.” He exhaled through his nose, a small, shaky breath, as if he’d practiced not letting it show. “It just feels like I’m the only one rearranging things. I wait. I keep waiting. And then you choose work, or your friends, or sleep. I know those are important…I really do. But where do I fit?”
You rubbed your temples. The day had left its fingerprints all over you, and here he was asking for the one thing you had none of, more of you. “That’s not fair. I’m busy. You know what this week’s been like.”
“And I’m not part of that life, right?” he said, too quickly, as if the words had been clawing at the back of his throat. As soon as they came out, regret flickered in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…”
You put up a hand. “No, I get it. You’re upset. I just…” Your voice thinned. “I don’t have anything left tonight. I’m trying to keep it together.”
“Me too,” he said quietly.
There was a long, bare pause, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. You reached for your coat like it might steady you. “Maybe we should talk when we’re not this… raw.”
He moved as if to step toward you, then stopped. “Okay,” he said. No anger. No plea. Just the soft retreat of a person who was tired of asking.
You left before your throat could betray you. He didn’t follow. The door closed without the usual lingering goodbye.
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The silence was what hurt most, its shape, its persistence. Jun, who normally texted good morning without fail, who sent a photo of the sky when it looked like a watercolor because he knew you liked it, said nothing for two days. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard more than once. You typed, ‘I’m sorry’. Deleted it. ‘I miss you’. Deleted it. ‘Can we talk?’ Deleted it. Pride and fear traded places so often you felt motion-sick.
On the second night, as snow stitched itself across the city, the doorbell rang.
When you opened the door, Jun stood on the threshold with snow caught in his hair and on his shoulders, a takeout bag looped around his fingers. He looked exactly like someone who had practiced what to say and forgotten it the moment he saw you.
“Hi,” he said, cautious, as if the word itself might spook you. “I… brought dinner. You always forget to eat properly when you’re stressed.”
Your chest ached with something helpless and fond. “Jun.”
“I didn’t want to text something that sounded wrong,” he rushed on, stepping inside when you moved back. He placed the bag on the tabel, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to tuck them in his pockets or hold onto something. “And I didn’t want to show up and make it worse. I just…can we talk?”
You nodded, then because your hands needed something to do, you opened the containers. The small, familiar things, steam lifting from rice, the clean, citrusy snap of pickled vegetables, bridged the space between you more than anything either of you had said so far.
He watched you, the way he always did, noticing the tiny things. “You’re still biting the inside of your cheek,” he murmured.
“And you’re still terrible at pretending you’re fine,” you said, softer than you meant to.
He huffed out a laugh, nervous and grateful. “I am. I’m really bad at it.”
You leaned on the counter, palms flat against the cool surface. “I’m sorry I keep canceling. Not because you’re mad…because you’re right. I thought being busy explained everything. It doesn’t, not when you’re waiting outside buildings for me to remember you exist.”
He winced. “I don’t want you to feel guilty.”
“I don’t,” you said, honest and a little raw. “I feel… sad. Because I love that you show up for me, and I hate that you don’t know I want to show up for you too.”
He swallowed, the knot in his throat visible. “I never wanted to make you choose between me and your life.”
“You’re not asking me to choose,” you said. “You’re asking me to choose you too. And I didn’t. Not enough.”
Jun’s shoulders dropped, some guarded part of him softening. “I said something I shouldn’t have, about not being part of your life. I was tired. It felt true in the moment. It isn’t. I know it isn’t.”
“It felt true to me, too,” you admitted, and his eyes flickered up, startled. “Not because it is, but because I made it feel that way. I’ve been overwhelmed and I used that as an excuse. You deserve better than my leftovers.”
He let out a shaky breath, relief, grief, both. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just need to know I’m not the only one saving time for us.”
You nodded, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Okay. Then let’s be boring about it for a while. Put us on the calendar like we’re important, because we are.”
He smiled, small and genuine. “Boring sounds perfect.”
“Tuesday nights,” you said, thinking out loud. “No cancellations unless someone is actually on fire.”
“Or contagious,” he offered.
“Or contagious,” you agreed. “And if work explodes, I call. I don’t text a ghostly ‘can’t tonight’ five minutes before.”
“I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “If you need quiet and soup instead of plans, say so. I can do quiet and soup. I am, in fact, a world-class bringer of soup.”
You nudged the takeout bag with a knuckle. “Evidence accepted.”
His eyes went bright in the way they did when he was overwhelmed and trying not to show it. His fingers brushed yours, hesitant. “Can I…?”
You nodded, and he laced your hands together. Warmth bloomed from the simple contact, quiet and certain. He leaned his forehead to yours, breath fanning your cheek, and everything slowed, your thoughts, the mess of the week, the stupid pride. Just the two of you and the hum of the heater and snow softening the traffic outside.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you more,” you said, because it felt good to say it first for once. “I’ll do better. Not perfect. But better.”
“Same,” he whispered. “I’ll say the hard thing before it turns mean in my mouth. I’ll knock on the door before I decide I’m not wanted.”
You huffed a laugh that caught on a tear. “Look at us making rules like actual adults.”
He smiled into the kiss, which was unhurried and warm, the kind that said we have time and we’re choosing it. When you parted, snowmelt glittered on his shoulders, you brushed it away.
“Thank you for dinner,” you said, the words carrying more than they usually did.
“Thank you for letting me in,” he replied, thumb stroking the back of your hand like he was relearning it. “Also, I may have gotten your favorite dessert. I panicked and bought two.”
“You panicked and bought cake?” you teased. “Truly a crisis.”
He pretended to be offended. “If you don’t want any…”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, tugging him toward the couch. “We have a Tuesday to plan.”
“Boring,” he echoed, and his grin was soft and sure.
You ate together, knees touching, the living room smelling like sesame and citrus and new snow. It wasn’t a grand fix. It was better, a choice made out loud, a calendar blocked, a kiss unhurried, a promise given shape. And when his phone buzzed with some distant, forgettable notification, he flipped it facedown without looking.
This time, you noticed, and reached for his hand first.
5️⃣ Hoshi:
With Soonyoung, everything ran hot, his laughter, his ideas, his dancing, even your arguments. He didn’t just walk into rooms, he blew in like weather. Most days you loved it. Most days, you were the calm after his storm.
But that night, you were already sitting on the edge of the couch, coat still on, keys in your palm like you couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. He burst through the door twenty-three minutes late, breathless and shining with sweat, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder.
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” he said, kicking off his shoes with a clatter and trying on a grin that usually worked. “Traffic, practice ran long, then I…”
“You promised today you’d be on time.” Your arms crossed before you could stop them. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.
“I know. I know, I lost track.” He draped his hoodie over a chair, raking a hand through damp hair. “Don’t be mad.”
“You always ‘lose track.’” You stared at the clock, then back at him. “Do you even take me seriously, or do you think I’m just going to forget every time you do this?”
The grin slipped. He blinked, like the room suddenly came into focus. “Of course, I take you seriously. Why would you even say that?”
“Because you keep putting everything else before me.” The words came out sharper than you intended, and once they were loose, there was no calling them back. “Maybe I’m just not a priority.”
A flicker went through his eyes, hurt, quick as a match. He dropped his bag to the floor. “You think I don’t care?” His voice rose, rare for him. “I’m working my ass off every day, early mornings, late nights…and it’s still not enough for you? You think I’m late because it’s fun?”
“No,” you shot back, “I think you’re late because you keep breaking promises.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence stretched. The hum of the fridge suddenly felt loud.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, softer now, but bristling. “Sometimes practice runs over, sometimes the choreo isn’t landing, sometimes I’m just…behind. I’m trying to carry everything.”
“And I’m not asking you to stop carrying it,” you said, throat tight. “I’m just asking to not be the thing you drop.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I said I was sorry.”
“You’ve said it a lot.” You swallowed. “I want different.”
He stared at the floor like the right answer was written there. When he looked up again, something in him had gone still. “Fine,” he said, a hard edge flattening his words. “If that’s how you see me, then maybe I shouldn’t make promises at all.”
The sting was immediate and precise. You felt it under your ribs. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” you said, even though you wanted to say anything else. You wanted to ask him to try again. You wanted to not feel foolish for waiting.
He took a step toward you. “Wait…”
But the hot pressure behind your eyes warned you. You turned before your voice could crack, catching your coat sleeve on the doorknob. His uneven breathing followed you down the hall. You didn’t look back.
The quiet that came after wasn’t peaceful; it was a drip you couldn’t stop hearing.
By noon the next day, the spot on your phone where his name usually lit up stayed blank. You scrolled through inside jokes and voice notes, typing and deleting messages you couldn’t bear to send.
By the second day, you caught yourself glancing at the studio’s account, at a grainy story of him laughing with the guys, and felt both relieved and petty for feeling relieved.
On the third night, you were halfway through convincing yourself to stop waiting up, when someone knocked. Three urgent knocks. Then two more. Then, “Please,” muffled, like he’d leaned his forehead against the door.
You opened it, and he almost stumbled inside. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath fogging the air behind him. He looked like he’d run the whole way.
“I can’t do this,” he said, the words tumbling out before the door had even closed. “I can’t not talk to you.”
Your heart did something you didn’t authorize. “Soonyoung…”
“I mess up.” He planted his hands on his knees, catching breath, then straightened and met your eyes. The panic in his face wasn’t dramatic, it was honest. “I lose track of time. I get swallowed by practice. I say I’ll be somewhere and then I’m two blocks away and there’s a last-minute change and…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “But it’s never because I don’t care. It’s never because you’re not a priority.”
“Then why does it feel like it?” Your voice came out small. “Why am I the one who has to understand while you…forget?”
He flinched. “Because I tell myself you understand, and then I use that as permission to push you to the edge of my day.” He shook his head like he hated the truth even as he said it. “I don’t want to be that guy to you. I don’t want to be someone you can’t count on.”
You leaned against the wall, arms loose at your sides now. “I don’t need perfect. I just need…chosen. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
He took a step closer. “You are chosen. Every day. Even when I’m an idiot about showing it.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” you said, and the certainty surprised you. “But I need you to meet me in the middle. Not with another ‘sorry.’ With a plan.”
“A plan,” he repeated, like the word had weight he could carry. He nodded quickly, eyes bright with relief and nerves. “Okay. I can do that. I will do that. Tell me what you need and I’ll…no, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”
He held up his fingers, counting. “One: I’m setting alarms that don’t just say ‘leave’, they say ‘you’re meeting her, get out now.’ Two: if practice runs late, I'll call you the minute I know. Not a text. A call. Even if it’s five minutes. Three: I block time for you on my calendar like I do for rehearsals, non-negotiable. Four: I keep an extra bag here so I don’t have to run home first and be late because I’m changing clothes. Five: if I’m more than ten minutes off, I owe you ramen and a foot massage. Not negotiable.” A weak smile. “Okay, the last one is maybe more for me.”
Despite yourself, you snorted. “Ramen and a foot massage?”
“I’m trying to make this memorable,” he said, hands lifted in surrender. “I want to show you I heard you. I don’t want ‘sorry’ to be the whole story.”
You searched his face. Exhaustion had carved faint shadows under his eyes, there was still a smear of practice chalk along his jaw. He looked like himself, stripped of the performance, open, a little messy, completely there.
“I need you to be where you say you’ll be,” you said, clearer now. “If you can’t be, tell me before I’m already waiting. And…” your throat tightened, but you pushed through “...I need to stop feeling like an afterthought you’ll get to once everything else is done.”
“You’re not an afterthought,” he said immediately. He stepped close enough that you could feel the shake still running through him. “You’re the thought. The one that gets me through the last half hour of practice and…” he exhaled, a ragged, self-conscious laugh “...and the one I write stupid little notes about in my head so I don’t forget to tell you later.”
You looked down at his hands, still fisted at his sides like he was afraid to touch you without permission. So you closed the distance yourself, catching his jacket and tugging him forward.
“Then don’t,” you said, tears spilling before you could stop them. “Don’t forget. Don’t make me guess.”
He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for days. It wasn’t practiced, it was urgent and clumsy, his palm finding your waist like a lifeline. The kiss tasted like cold air and apology and relief. When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the world felt steady again in that small circle of warmth.
“Just try,” you whispered, your fingers fitting into the spaces between his. “Be there when you say you will. Call if you can’t. That’s all I need.”
He nodded so fast his hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back, smiling, shaky and real. “I will. I promise.” He paused, winced, then amended, “No…scratch that. I’ll prove it. Starting now.”
“How?”
“I’m early for our next date,” he said, pulling his phone out and tapping like a man on a mission. You watched the screen light his face. “Friday, seven. Calendar block. Two alarms. I’m leaving practice at six-thirty with or without them. And…” He held up the phone, the calendar square a neat little box labelled with your name and a ridiculous heart. “I’m asking you to share your calendar with me too, so I can see you there and not just in my head.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was already curving. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m yours,” he shot back, quick and certain, shoulders finally dropping. He tucked his phone away and leaned in, voice softening. “And this time, I’ll keep it.”
6️⃣ Wonwoo:
With Wonwoo, arguments didn’t start with shouting. They started with quiet, thin, careful quiet that made you feel like you were whispering into a room with no walls.
It was late. The TV hummed in the background, the remains of dinner going cold on the table. You’d been talking, really talking, about work, the meeting where your idea got passed around until someone else took credit, the way your boss interrupted you mid-sentence, how small you felt walking out of that room.
You reached for your tea and realized he hadn’t said anything in… a while. His thumbs scrolled absently across his phone, his eyes on the screen, his mouth pulling into that neutral line he wore when he was anywhere but here.
“Are you even hearing me right now?” you asked, voice soft but frayed around the edges.
His head snapped up. “Of course I am.”
“Then what did I just say?”
Wonwoo blinked. The pause stretched, thin and tight. He opened his mouth, closed it. “You were…upset. About work.”
“That’s not an answer.” Your heartbeat climbed. “I needed you to be here with me. Not in your phone.”
He set it face down, as if that could rewind anything. “I was listening. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say yet.”
“Then say that,” you said, fingers knotted in your sweater hem. “Say ‘I don’t know what to say yet.’ Say ‘I need a second.’ Say anything. Because when you go quiet, it feels like I’m talking to a wall.”
His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t always know what you need immediately. Did you ever think of that?”
You exhaled, stung but steady. “I don’t need immediate. I need present.”
The air turned brittle. He leaned back, eyes sliding away, the silence widening between you like a crack in glass.
“Wonwoo,” you tried again, gentler this time, “I’m telling you something that matters to me.”
“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “I just… when it gets heavy, my brain feels like static. If I talk too quickly, I say the wrong thing. So I wait. I try to think. And then it’s already too late.”
“It’s too late when I’m already crying in the bathroom at work and you’re here scrolling,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I don’t want perfect words. I want you not to disappear.”
He flinched at that. Then, like a switch flipped, his expression cooled. “Maybe I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not cut out for… for you.”
The words landed like a drop through ice. You stared at him, feeling something in your chest fold in on itself. “Okay,” you said, voice small in the big, quiet room. “Maybe you’re right.”
You stood, grabbed your bag from the chair. He didn’t move at first. Then he did, reaching out as if to catch a sleeve he couldn’t quite reach.
“Wait…” he started.
But you had already opened the door. “I can’t keep begging you to show up,” you said, and left.
Two days of silence. Two days where the apartment felt like a museum and your phone a paperweight. You didn’t call. He didn’t call. Pride and hurt sat side by side in your chest, both loud, both insisting they were protecting you.
Snow came and made the world a little quieter. You were in socks and an old hoodie when the knock sounded, three hesitant knocks, spaced like he was testing the beat of a song he wasn’t sure he remembered.
You almost didn’t answer. You did.
Wonwoo stood there, hair damp with melting flakes, shoulders hunched against the cold. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets the way they were whenever he was bracing for something.
“Hi,” he said, breath clouding in the air between you.
“Hi.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were rough, as if unused. “For the phone. For the silence. For saying…” He swallowed. “For saying I wasn’t cut out for you. That was a terrible thing to put on you.”
You held the door but not wide. “Then why did you say it?”
He met your eyes, and for once, didn’t look away. “Because I was scared. And when I’m scared, I hide. I thought if I kept quiet long enough, I’d think of the right thing to say. Instead I made you feel alone. I hate that I did that.”
The anger in you shifted, softer at the edges. “I don’t need you to fix everything I say. I need you to stand in it with me.”
“I know.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for two days straight. “I grew up learning that quiet meant safety. Don’t speak unless you’re sure. But that’s not fair to you. You don’t need a perfect sentence, you need me. I’m sorry it took me this long to understand that.”
You stepped aside. “Come in. You’re freezing.”
He toed off his shoes like he always did, careful and neat, then hovered near the doorway, unsure where to put his hands, his eyes, himself. You set water to boil out of habit.
He watched you move. “I’ve been rehearsing this for two nights,” he admitted quietly. “It still sounds clumsy in my head.”
“Good,” you said, surprising yourself with a small smile. “Clumsy means you’re not hiding.”
The kettle clicked. You poured two mugs you weren’t sure either of you would drink.
“About what you said that night,” you started, the old bruise throbbing. “That you’re not cut out for me.”
His eyes glassed, sudden and unhidden. “I didn’t mean it,” he said fiercely, the quiet falling away. “I said it because I felt like I was failing you and I wanted out of the feeling. Not out of us.”
Your throat tightened. “It hurt.”
“I know,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “I’m so sorry.”
You set the mugs down and closed the distance. Up close, the cold was still on his skin. He hesitated, then brushed his knuckles against your hand like he was asking a question.
“Can I…?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His kiss started careful, an apology folded into a promise. You felt the tension leave his shoulders by degrees, felt the way he stayed, present, steady. When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours like he always did when words lingered on his tongue.
“I missed you,” he murmured, breath warm. “More than I can say without messing it up.”
You smiled, watery and real. “Then don’t say it,” you whispered. “Just show me.”
He nodded, a small, relieved sound escaping him. “Okay. I’ll show you. Starting now.”
“Starting now,” you echoed.
He took your hand and, instead of letting go, sat with you on the couch. No TV. No phone. Just the slow, ordinary warmth of two people learning a new language together.
After a minute, he spoke, halting, honest. “Tell me the part about your boss again. The part that made you feel small. I’m listening. And if I mess up, I’ll try again.”
You leaned back, felt your shoulders drop for the first time in days. “Okay,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t tremble. “So, in the meeting…”
And he stayed.
7️⃣ Woozi:
With Jihoon, it was never yelling, it was precision. Words that clipped instead of crashed.
You swung by his studio close to midnight, the hallways quiet, the blue glow under his door giving him away. You eased it open and held up a bag. “I brought food. Your favorite.”
He didn’t look away from the monitors. A track looped in the background, a half-built chorus circling the room like a restless thought. “Just leave it there.”
You set it on the couch, hands lingering on the paper handles. “Did you eat yet?”
“No,” he said, fingers moving, “but I’m not hungry.”
“Jihoon, you haven’t eaten all day.”
His jaw tensed. “Can you not start? I’m busy.”
The words were flat, but they landed like a door shut in your face. You swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I’m worried.”
“Well, don’t.” He finally glanced up, eyes rimmed red, shoulders tight. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”
It came fast. It always did with him, one wrong word, and the air went thin.
You blinked, breath catching. “Babysitting? That’s what you think this is?”
He rubbed his temple like the conversation was another file to drag to the trash. “I didn’t mean…look, I have a deadline. I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” Your voice wavered despite you. “Care about you? Show up for you?”
Silence pressed between you, full of the humming equipment and the too-loud loop on repeat. He looked away first. “I need to work.”
You nodded. It was the smallest motion, but it felt like a cliff giving way. “Fine. If that’s how you see me, I’ll stop.”
You grabbed your coat. He didn’t chase you. The door clicked behind you, and in the hallway you realized you’d been holding your breath. You let it go, and something inside you went with it.
You cried in the elevator where no one could hear you over the tired machinery.
Four days. No late-night texts, no voice notes about a new bridge he hated or loved, no small, stupid memes he usually sent when he didn’t know how to say ‘I miss you’. You typed a dozen messages and deleted all of them. Pride and hurt made a tight braid in your chest.
On the fifth night, the intercom buzzed. You padded to the door in socks, heart kicking despite yourself.
When you opened it, Jihoon stood there with a takeout bag crinkling in his hand. The same order you’d brought. Fresh this time. He looked smaller without the studio around him.
“Hi,” he said, somewhere between sheepish and exhausted. “I, uh… didn’t eat it that night.” He lifted the bag an inch. “I got it again. Thought maybe we could share it now.”
Your eyes fell on him and the way he was bouncing from one leg to the other. “Jihoon.”
“Can I come in?” His voice was careful. So were his eyes.
You stepped back. “Yeah.”
He slipped off his shoes and stood in your kitchen like he it was the first time he has stepped in your apartment. You took the bag and set it on the counter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, before you could open a single container. “For that night. For… everything about that night.”
You stared at the takeout for a beat, then at him. “You hurt me.”
“I know.” He nodded like he’d been practicing that admission. “I was in my head. I am in my head a lot, and when I’m there it feels like everything else is noise, even the things that aren’t. Especially the things that matter. That’s not an excuse.” He squeezed the back of his neck. “It’s just what it is.”
“You said I was babysitting you.”
“I know.” He winced. “That was me being defensive because I didn’t want to admit I needed… anything. Anyone.”
You opened the containers, steam rose, filling the space with warmth you hadn’t felt in days. You handed him chopsticks. He took them but didn’t move.
“I wasn’t trying to manage you,” you said quietly. “I was trying to love you. And when you pushed me away like that, it made me feel like I didn’t belong in your life. Like I was intruding.”
His shoulders sank. “You do belong. You do.” He paused, searching. “It scares me how much.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “If you need space when you’re working, tell me you need space. Don’t make me feel stupid for showing up.”
“I won’t.” He swallowed. “I’m still learning how to say the thing before I say the wrong thing.”
You both moved to the floor, your backs to the couch, containers between you. You ate in small bites, the kind that buy time. The quiet felt less brittle.
He spoke first, chopsticks paused midair. “When I’m deep in a track, it’s like I’m underwater. I forget the surface exists. You walk in and you’re… air.” He looked down, then back up. “And sometimes that hurts, because breathing means I feel everything again. Including the fear I’m going to fail, or disappoint you. So I say something stupid to make the feeling go away.”
You set your food down. “I don’t want you to disappear to make it easier. I want to be part of the work and the mess and the stupid. I can handle the fear if you hand it to me, not at me.”
He exhaled, a shaky laugh at the end of it. “You’re better with words than me.”
“You’re good with them,” you said softly. “You just use them on music first.”
He smiled, brief and true. It flickered into something more fragile. “I missed you. I kept almost texting and then I’d hear that loop and think, ‘fix the chorus first, fix yourself first.’ But I don’t fix myself alone very well.”
You nudged his knee with yours. “That’s allowed.”
He set his food aside completely now, turning to face you. “I don’t deserve how much you care. That night, you were right to leave.”
“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you said. “I do. And I want to be here. But I need you to meet me halfway.”
He nodded, eyes bright. “Okay.”
His fingers threaded with yours like he’d been holding tension there for days, like the act of touching you released it.
“I’ll try to say it before it’s sharp,” he murmured. “I’ll try to say, ‘I’m scared,’ or ‘I need twenty minutes,’ instead of aiming for the place that will make you leave.”
“Good,” you whispered. “And I’ll try not to turn concern into control. I’ll ask what you need before I assume.”
He huffed a small, grateful sound. “What I need right now is you not leaving.”
“I’m not.”
You kissed him first, soft, testing, and he met you there, careful and sure. The gratitude in it was new, so was the way he relaxed as if something important had finally clicked into place. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like an apology and a promise.
When you parted, he stayed close. “Can we… put on a movie and let the food get cold and then reheat it and pretend that was the plan?” His smile tilted. “And tomorrow, will you come to the studio? I’ll set an alarm to eat. I’ll show you the bridge I’m stuck on. You can tell me it’s terrible or perfect, I’ll accept either.”
You laughed, the sound loosening the last knot. “Deal. But I’m bringing a timer. And snacks.”
“Fine.” He squeezed your hand. “And if I say something sharp…”
“You’ll try again,” you finished for him.
He nodded. “I’ll try again.”
He leaned back against the couch and tugged you with him until your head found his shoulder. The movie you put on five minutes later barely made it past the opening credits, the food did get cold, the apartment felt warm anyway.
Near the end of the second act, his voice slipped out, quiet enough that you almost missed it. “Let me stay,” he said, the word careful and certain at once. “Just… let me stay with you.”
You turned your face toward him. “I will.”
And you did.
8️⃣ DK:
Fighting with Seokmin always felt like arguing with the sun. He was warmth and laughter, the kind of person who could turn a grocery run into a bit, who would sing apologies in falsetto when he spilled coffee on your sleeve. But that night, even the brightest parts of him cast a shadow.
It had been a day that chewed you up, missed deadlines, a call with your mom that went sideways, the train breaking down between stations. You were venting, pacing the living room, hands drawing frantic circles in the air, when he tried to do what he always did.
“It sounds like the universe put you on hold,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Press 9 to speak to a manager?”
You stopped dead. “God, Seokmin, can you take anything seriously?”
The room fell quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge and the rain tapping against the window. His smile flattened like a balloon losing air.
“I was just trying to make you feel better,” he said.
“Well, it doesn’t,” you shot back. “It makes me feel like you don’t care.”
His face fell fully at that, the joke dying before it finished forming. “You really think that?”
You folded your arms across your chest to keep your voice from shaking. “Sometimes it feels like you’d rather make a joke than actually listen.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was buying time. “I…” He swallowed. “I laugh when I don’t know what else to do.”
“That’s convenient,” you said, and winced as the words landed. “It’s like you get to skip the hard parts.”
His jaw worked, a tiny, stubborn movement. When he spoke again, his voice had no bounce, no music. “Maybe I laugh because if I stop, everything feels too big. Because I don’t know how to fix it for you and it scares me. Because if I say the wrong thing…” He took a breath that trembled. “...if I say the wrong thing, I’m afraid you’ll realize I’m not enough and you’ll leave.”
That took the wind out of you. “Seok…”
He was already reaching for his jacket. “Maybe I should give you some space.”
Your anger cracked into panic. “You don’t have to…”
“I don’t want to make it worse,” he said, unable to meet your eyes. “I never want to make it worse.”
The door closed gently, almost apologetically. And just like that, the room cooled by ten degrees.
Two days stretched like gum, thin, sticky, impossible not to keep pulling. You woke to silence instead of his off-key morning hum. You stared at your phone like it might teach you a spell. You typed and erased a dozen messages.
‘hey
no, that’s stupid’
‘can we talk?
too soon?’
‘i’m sorry for what i said
send, no, wait’
You wore his oversized hoodie around the apartment, telling yourself it was because it was chilly, not because it still smelled faintly like his citrus body wash. At night, you replayed the fight and noticed all the spaces where fear sat between the words.
On the second evening, the rain finally broke. You slipped your shoes on and walked to the park where you both gravitated whenever life felt too loud. The path glistened, lamplight puddling in the wet. The old bench under the big tree stood like an appointment you were late for.
He was there. Head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands twisting his ring in anxious loops. When your shoes scuffed the gravel, he looked up.
“Seokmin…” you said softly.
His eyes were wide and glassy, like he hadn’t slept much. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, sitting a careful distance away. “I thought if I stayed home, I could pretend we weren’t… this.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. The quiet between you felt heavy but not hostile. Just… fragile.
“I shouldn’t have said you don’t care,” you said, the words warm with breath you’d been holding for forty-eight hours. “You care more than anyone I know. I said it to hurt you because I was hurt.”
He blinked hard and gave a weak chuckle that wasn’t a joke. “I kept replaying it and thinking, ‘this is where I fix it,’ but my brain only knows the one tool.” He tapped his chest. “Clown-in-residence.”
You turned to face him fully. “I don’t want you to stop being you. I love your dumb universe manager joke. I love that you sing to the rice cooker. I just… sometimes I need you to be here with me in the ugliest parts, without reaching for the light switch.”
He nodded quickly, eagerly even, then caught himself and slowed. “Okay. Okay.” He laced his fingers together like he was trying to hold himself in place. “I can listen. I want to. I…sometimes I panic. It’s like, if I don’t make you laugh, I’m failing at loving you.”
“You don’t have to perform to be loved,” you said. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not have the answer.”
He breathed out, a shaky, honest sound. “When I was younger, joking always worked. If someone was mad or sad, I could flip the scene, you know? I didn’t learn what to do when the scene didn’t need flipping.” He looked at you, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. “I’m trying. I want to be what you need.”
“Then… ask me what I need.” You smiled, a small one. “We can make it stupidly simple, like a menu. ‘Do you want me to listen, help, or lighten?’ And I’ll pick.”
His mouth tilted. “A feelings menu?”
“With pictures if you behave,” you said, and he laughed for real this time, soft, relieved.
He scooted closer, the space between you shrinking to a breath. “Can we practice?” he asked, earnest.
“Right now?”
He nodded. “Okay. What do you need… right now?”
You looked down at your hands, damp from the bench, and then back up. “Listen.”
He settled, shoulders lowering. “I’m listening.”
“I was overwhelmed,” you said. “And I wanted to not feel alone in it. When you joked, it felt like you stepped out of the room while I was still in the mess.”
He winced, not theatrically, but like truth stung. “I stepped out because I was scared I’d break something if I stayed.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. I thought space would keep me from messing up, but it just… made the mess colder.”
You shifted closer, your knees touching his. “I’m sorry I went for your softest part. I know how hard you try. I see it. Even when I’m mad, I see it.”
He blinked, and tears gathered. He laughed once, an embarrassed, watery sound. “You’re going to make me cry in public.”
“It’s the park,” you said. “It’s practically designed for crying.”
He huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I’ll do better,” he said, the words careful and deliberate. “Not as a promise I can’t keep, but as a practice. I’ll ask what you need. I’ll sit with you in the dark. And… if I’m scared, I’ll say that, too.”
You took his hand, fingers threading through his like they had always meant to. “And I’ll tell you when I want the joke. Not every room needs light, but some rooms do. We’ll figure out which is which together.”
His lips trembled, then steadied. “Okay.” He squeezed your hand. He stopped, searching. “Can I be honest without trying to fix anything?”
You nodded. “Please.”
“I missed you so much,” he said simply. “It felt like two days of holding my breath.”
You let the truth meet his. “Me too.”
He leaned in, slow enough to let you choose, and when you did, the kiss was soft and warm and a little salty. It felt like standing in the first patch of sun after a storm, not because the weather changed, but because you had.
When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re my everything,” he whispered, like it wasn’t a line but a quiet fact he’d been carrying for months.
The words didn’t set off alarms this time. They didn’t feel like fireworks, either. They settled into you like a weight that fit, heavy in a good way, anchoring. “I believe you,” you said, and meant it all the way through.
He exhaled, a laugh tangled in relief. “So… what do you need now?”
You pretended to think, eyes flicking up to his. “Walk with me,” you said. “Tell me about the song you’ve been humming under your breath for a week. And maybe… buy me a hot chocolate on the way home.”
He stood, tugging you up by your joined hands. “I can do all of that.” He paused. “And if the universe gives us trouble again, I’ll ask for the feelings menu first.”
You bumped his shoulder. “With pictures.”
“With pictures,” he agreed, grinning as you fell into step together.
9️⃣ Mingyu:
Fights with Mingyu didn’t creep in, they hit like summer storms, hot, sudden, and louder than either of you meant them to be. Passion first, sense later. You loved him for the same heart that made the arguments messy. Some nights, though, it felt like you were learning him in the dark and guessing the edges by touch.
It started over something small, which is to say, it started the way most big fights do.
He came in late again, shoes thudding off by the door, keys tossed into the bowl with a clatter. The clock stung, 1:27 a.m. You were curled up on the couch in a hoodie, a cold mug on the table, the TV paused on a frame that had been still for an hour.
“You’re up,” he said, a little surprised, a little guilty.
“You said you’d be back by eleven.”
He winced. “We grabbed food after the game. I didn’t check the time.”
You swallowed, tried to keep your voice even. “Do you ever think about how I feel, waiting for you all the time?”
He blinked like you’d tossed water in his face. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I just lose track of time.”
“That’s the problem, Mingyu. You lose track of me.”
His jaw worked. “So now I’m not allowed to see my friends? You want me glued to you every second?”
“That’s not what I said.” Your breath came sharp. “I’m saying communicate. Tell me if it’s going late. Tell me I’m not an afterthought.”
“God, it’s one night,” he shot back. “Why does it always have to be a fight?”
“Because I keep asking and nothing changes.”
He shifted, defensive heat rising. “So I’m the bad guy for having a life?”
“No,” you said, cheeks burning, “you’re my boyfriend who forgets he has one.”
Something flickered in his eyes, hurt, pride, fear. The mix that always made him reckless.
“Right,” he said, laugh bone-dry. “If I’m such a terrible boyfriend, remind me, why are you even with me?”
The words sucked the air from the room. Your heart stuttered, his face said he already wanted them back, but they were loud and ugly between you.
“Good question,” you whispered.
He stood there, chest heaving, and for a beat neither of you knew how to climb down. You got up slowly, found your coat, found the doorknob before you found your composure.
“Don’t,” he said, reaching out and stopping short of your wrist. “I didn’t mean…”
“You said it,” you managed. “And I heard you.”
You walked out. The hallway was too bright. Your phone buzzed twice. You didn’t look.
The first night without him was bone-quiet. The second was worse. You made dinner, didn’t finish it, washed the pan like a ritual. Your phone lit up with his name and then with nothing, typing… stopped… typing… stopped. You stared until the screen dimmed.
He sent one message, ‘ I’m sorry. I’m a mess. Please call me.’
You didn’t. Not yet. You needed the part of you that loved him to sit down for a second so the part that loved you could speak.
On the second night, the knocking started like rain and turned into thunder. You opened the door because you knew it was him, because the building had never echoed like that before.
Mingyu looked wrecked, hair flattened on one side like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red and swollen. He held his breath when he saw you, like the sight of you might flee.
“You can hate me if you want,” he blurted, voice already cracking, “but don’t leave me.”
Your throat tightened. “Mingyu, what …”
“I said the worst thing I could say.” He swallowed, words tumbling over each other. “I knew it the moment it left my mouth and I tried to swallow it back and it was just…” He shook his head, desperate. “I’m an idiot. I panic, and I go for the sharpest words because I’m scared, and then they cut you, and then I hate myself.”
He stepped forward like you might push him away. You didn’t. His hands found your arms, gentle even in panic.
“You’re not a burden,” he said, eyes wet. “You’re the best part of my day. Every day. I hate that I made you doubt that.”
Tears stung hot and helpless. “I don’t want perfection, Mingyu. I just want you. But you can’t throw out ‘why are you with me’ like it’s nothing. That lives somewhere when it’s said. It doesn’t vanish.”
“I know.” He nodded, too fast, like he could outrun the shame. “I know. I’ve been rehearsing what to say for two nights and none of it is good enough. I’ll…” He paused, breath shaking. “I’ll do better. I will. Just… don’t walk away from me.”
You held his gaze. “Doing better can’t just be a promise at my door.”
“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me how to not mess this up.”
You didn’t want to be his teacher. You wanted a partner. So you took a breath and spoke like one.
“Text me if you’re going to be late. Not at one a.m, at eleven, when you realize it. Not an essay, just a heads-up. I won’t sit staring at the door if I know you aren’t behind it.”
He nodded, fierce. “Done. I can do that. I should’ve already been doing that.”
“And if I bring something up,” you continued, “don’t go straight to defense like it’s an attack. Ask me what I need.”
He let out a breath with a shaky laugh. “What do you need now?”
“I need to hear that ‘why are you with me’ is never coming out of your mouth again.”
“It’s not,” he said, immediate. “I hate that I made you carry that. I’ll never say it again. If I feel that panic, I’ll take a walk. I’ll call Seungcheol and yell into his voicemail. I’ll do push-ups in the street. I don’t care. I won’t throw you away to make a point.”
A laugh snuck out of you, thin and wet. “Please don’t do push-ups in the street.”
“If that’s what it takes,” he said, a weak smile breaking through, “I’ll do burpees.”
You rolled your eyes, the knot in your chest loosening by a finger-width. “And I’ll… tell you when I’m spiraling instead of letting it pile up until I snap. I’ll take a walk too. I won’t disappear without saying where I’m going.”
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He looked at your face like memorizing it. “Can I?”
“Yes,” you said, before he finished. “Come in.”
He stepped over the threshold like it might vanish if he moved too fast. The apartment felt different with him in it again, like sound remembered how to be sound. He hovered, unsure, then cupped your face with both hands, thumbs shaking against your cheeks.
The kiss wasn’t neat. It never was with him. It was clumsy and urgent and honest, the kind that said, ‘Please know what I mean even if I can’t say it right’. He kissed you like an apology and a promise and a thank you all at once.
“I missed you so much it hurt.”
“I missed you,” you whispered, voice rough. “Don’t give me reasons to leave.”
“I won’t,” he said, and it wasn’t a dramatic vow. It was steady, like something you could set a cup on.
He cleared his throat. “Can I say one more thing without sounding dramatic?”
“You, dramatic?” You tilted your head. “Never.”
He grinned, embarrassed. “I’m still learning how to be good at this. At us. I didn’t… grow up seeing people fight well. I’m trying. I want you to see me trying.”
“I do,” you said. “Just don’t make me squint.”
He nodded, earnest as a promise. “Deal.”
There was a pause that felt like the first breath after a sprint.
“Also,” you added, softer, “go see your friends. I don’t want to be your whole world. I just want to know I’m in it.”
“You are,” he said, immediate again. “Front row. Center seat. VIP wristband.”
“Progress,” you said. “Look at us.”
He kissed your forehead. “Look at us.”
You tugged him toward the kitchen. “There’s leftover curry. It’s cold, but so are you, so it matches.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Deserved.”
You put the container in the microwave and leaned on the counter, watching him watch you like he was afraid to blink. The hum of the machine filled the quiet. He stepped closer, slid his hand into yours, laced your fingers together like a habit he wanted to keep.
When the timer beeped, he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.
“Stay,” you said, as easy as breathing.
“Always,” he answered, and for once it wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough.
1️⃣0️⃣ Minghao:
Minghao’s patience could stretch for miles, but when it frayed, it didn’t explode, it went quiet first.
It started small. You asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he shrugged without looking up from his book. You laughed at a video and held your phone up, and he smiled but didn’t lean in. The distance didn’t make a sound, but you felt it, like draft slipping under a door.
“Can we talk?” you asked, standing between him and the lamp.
He slid a ribbon into his book and set it on the coffee table. “We’re talking.”
“Not like this,” you said. “You barely text. You barely call. Sometimes I don’t even know if you want to be with me.”
His jaw worked once, a muscle ticking near his ear. “Just because I don’t message you every hour doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“I’m not asking for every hour,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I just want to feel like I matter to you when we’re not in the same room.”
He leaned back, eyes cautious. “If you can’t tell by now, maybe you don’t understand me at all.”
You blinked. The bluntness stole the air from your lungs. “So what, you’re saying this is my fault?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
He rubbed his temple as if the conversation were a headache he’d been waiting for. “You’re exhausting me right now.”
The words landed clean and cold. “Okay,” you said, breath shaking. “Then maybe I should leave before I ‘exhaust’ you more.”
His gaze flicked to your coat by the door and back to you. He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.
You laughed without humor. “Right. Message received.”
You shrugged into your coat, fingers clumsy at the zipper, and walked out. The hallway felt colder than it should.
〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️
One week passed in a silence that wasn’t clean. You scrolled to his name, screen lighting your face at 2 a.m., then put the phone facedown like that could quiet your heartbeat. Pride held one hand, missing him held the other. They tugged you in opposite directions until your chest ached from the effort of just standing still.
You noticed the small things more in his absence: the way the radiator clicked before it warmed, the plant leaning toward the window because you forgot to turn it, the extra mug that stayed clean. You caught yourself setting aside a funny story from work, rehearsing how you’d tell it to him, and then remembered there was no call scheduled, no usual check-in. The space where he lived in your day went strangely echoey.
On the 7th evening, you took the long way home because walking felt easier than going back to the quiet. Snow had started, the flakes came down soft and disinterested. You wrapped your scarf tighter and climbed the stairs, keys ready, mind blank the way it gets when you’re tired of replaying the same scene.
He was leaning against your apartment door, a dark figure cut out against the pale hallway light. Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. His hands were tucked into his coat, like he’d been standing there long enough to forget he had fingers.
You stopped two steps away. “Minghao.”
He straightened, eyes searching your face with something that looked like relief and apology tangled together. “Hi.”
The word was so simple it made your throat tighten. “Hi.”
He exhaled, a cloud in the cold air. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice low but steady. “Any of it.”
You swallowed. The key bit into your palm. “Then why say it?”
He looked down at his shoes, then back up. Vulnerability edged his features the way winter edges a window. “Because I got scared,” he said. “I get scared. I feel like I bring some many downsides to the table that it feels scary when I am in the wrong…”
You stared at him, at the snow melting into the collar of his coat. “You haven’t made it worse by loving me,” you said. “You make it worse by shutting me out.”
“I know,” he said, shame softening his voice. “I know. I thought you understood the quiet parts of me. I thought you did, and when you said you didn’t feel like you mattered, I panicked. It felt like failing a test I didn’t know how to study for, and then I…” He broke off, swallowed. “I picked the worst words. I picked distance.”
“‘You’re exhausting me’,” you repeated, the phrase still lodged like a splinter.
He winced. “I hate that I said that. You don’t exhaust me. The fear does. The feeling like I’m always a step behind what you deserve.”
The honesty tilted something loose inside you. You took a breath that felt like it reached the bottom of your lungs. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” you said, softer. “I just need to know you’re with me even when I can’t see you. A message in the morning. A call when you have time. Tell me when you need space so I know it’s not me. Let me in.”
He nodded, quick and earnest. “Okay. Tell me how to show up the way you feel it. I wake up, I think of you, and then I think it’s too early to text. I finish rehearsal, I think of you, and then I tell myself you’re probably busy. I’ll stop telling myself your ‘probablys’ for you.”
A laugh caught in your chest, wet around the edges. “I don’t mind early. I mind not at all.”
“Right.” He stepped closer, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. “Also… when I shut down, I’m not leaving. It’s just how I learned to be when things got loud at home, go quiet, wait it out. It’s not about you. But I want to unlearn it for us.”
You nodded. “And I’ll try not to hear silence as goodbye. But you have to meet me halfway.”
“I will.” His eyes held yours. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you. I wanted to. I told myself you needed space, and maybe I used that as an excuse because I didn’t know what to say.”
“You could’ve just said ‘Don’t go.’”
“Don’t go,” he said now, immediate, like a correction.
The words landed warm. You stepped forward so the hallway light pooled around both of you. “I won’t,” you said. “But next time, if we’re fighting, say you’re overwhelmed instead of pushing me away. And if I’m spiraling, I’ll tell you I’m scared instead of accusing you. Deal?”
He blew out a breath that fogged between you. “Thank you,” he said. “For still being here.”
You slid your fingers into his, and he closed his hand around yours, gentle, firm, like choosing. The chill of his skin was real and immediate, underneath it, a steadier heat.
“Come inside,” you murmured.
He nodded. Inside, in the doorway light, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “Even when I push… stay. Or say you’re staying. I need to hear it.”
“I’m staying,” you said. “But you have to meet me halfway.”
“I know.” He touched your cheek, hesitant at first, then sure when you leaned into it. The kiss he gave you was slow, deliberate, a careful spelling-out of an apology he didn’t trust his language to hold. He pulled back just enough to breathe the same air as you.
“I’ll do better,” he murmured. “For us.”
“We’ll do better,” you corrected, and he smiled, small and relieved, the kind that folds at the edges of his eyes.
Later, when your coats were drying by the radiator and the snow stitched the city quieter, he reached for his phone and, without letting go of your hand, set an alarm. “For mornings,” he said. “To say good morning.”
“And for nights,” you said, your mouth curving. “To say good night.”
He nodded. “And for the in-betweens,” he added. “To say I’m still here.”
You squeezed his fingers. “I can work with that.”
1️⃣1️⃣ Seungkwan:
Fights with Seungkwan were BIG. You both told the truth like it was a sport, no hedging, no filters. It was your strength because nothing went unsaid. It was your weakness because sometimes the truth landed like a punch.
It started stupidly, the way most big fights do. He was reenacting a story from practice, throwing his whole body into the details, voice climbing, hands flying. You grinned and nudged, “Okay, Broadway. Save some for opening night.”
He laughed, at first. “I know, I know. I’m extra.”
“Extra, dramatic, theatrical,” you added, piling it on. “All synonyms. Want me to get you a spotlight?”
His smile thinned. “Ha-ha.”
You tried to keep it playful. “I’ll stand in the back with cue cards. ‘Cry here. Gasp here.’”
Something in his eyes shuttered. “Why do you always make fun of me?” he blurted, voice sharper than the edge of the counter. “Do you know how it feels to never be taken seriously?”
You blinked. “What? Babe, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing…”
“You always ‘just tease,’” he shot back, pacing now, running a palm over his face. “Everyone does. And maybe I’m tired of being the clown to you.”
The word lodged hard. “The clown?”
“That’s how it feels.” He exhaled, frustrated, but the momentum of anger kept him moving. “If the shoe fits.”
You went still. “So that’s all you think I see when I look at you? A joke?”
Silence dragged. He stared at the floor. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Sometimes it feels that way.”
Your throat burned. “That’s not fair.”
“And ‘Broadway’? ‘Spotlight’?” he mimicked, a flat little laugh. “Real fair.”
“Seungkwan, I tease because you’re big. Because you fill the room. I love that about you.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like love when you say it like a punchline.”
Something inside you gave up on the fight already. “Fine,” you said, voice going thin. “If that’s what you think, maybe I should go before I make another joke you hate.”
He stared, stubbornness flashing like a shield. “Do what you want.”
You grabbed your bag and left. The door clicked behind you, and the apartment swallowed the echo.
The quiet after was loud in its own way. No lunchtime voice notes. No links to songs he insisted would “change your life for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds.” No selfies from the practice room mirror. You kept reaching for your phone and setting it back down, the habit of him still alive in your hands.
On the third night, just as you were convincing yourself you should apologize first, your phone buzzed.
‘I’m outside.’
You stood there, staring at the message, then you opened the door.
He was on your front step in a hoodie and sweats, eyes puffy, hair doing its own dramatic monologue. In his hands, a bouquet so chaotic it was almost beautiful, daisies, tulips, baby’s breath, something that looked suspiciously like a supermarket fern, all tied together with a ribbon that didn’t match anything.
“I panicked,” he blurted, thrusting it toward you. “I walked in and grabbed…whatever looked like you.”
You pressed your lips together. A laugh snuck out anyway. “Seungkwan.”
“I know.” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it again, earnest and shiny. “I’m your idiot. Can I talk?”
You stepped back to let him in. “Talk.”
He set the bouquet on the counter like it might shatter. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “For the shoe comment. For making you feel… disposable. I didn’t mean it. I was mad and messy and I said the thing I knew would hurt because I was hurting.”
Your chest tightened. “Don’t do that to me.”
“I won’t.” He tugged at his sleeve, nerves fidgeting through his fingers. “I know I’m a lot. On stage, with the guys, I’m always…on. Jokes, laughs, high energy. People expect it, sometimes I expect it from myself. But with you, I wanted to be off and still be…enough. And when you teased, it felt like…” He swallowed. “Like I was still ‘on’ even here.”
You leaned against the counter, the edge solid at your hip. “I forget,” you said quietly. “I forget you’re sensitive about that. I forget you carry the room so often that you get tired of carrying anything else.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “You just called me sensitive.”
“I called you human.”
He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s better.”
You reached for him, fingers skimming his wrist. “I’m sorry. I tease because I adore you. But I don’t want my ‘adoring’ to sound like I’m poking holes in you. I’ll be more careful. I’ll…check the room before I make a joke. And if I miss, you tell me. Don’t throw the shoe at my head.”
He cracked, finally smiling for real. “No shoes. Only…notes.”
“Notes?”
“Like, ‘hey, babe, I’m fragile right now, please handle with two hands.’” He mimed a label with his fingers. “I’ll say that. Out loud. I won’t pretend I’m fine and then explode.”
“Deal.” You squeezed his wrist, then slid your hand to his. “And I won’t make you feel like a caricature. Even if you do look like a chaos florist.”
He glanced at the bouquet and groaned. “Don’t roast my taste at a vulnerable time.”
“Is it a roast if it’s accurate?”
“See? This is exactly…” He stopped, eyes warm. “Okay, that one was kind of funny.”
You stepped closer, until you could see the faint tremor in his lashes. “I didn’t like three days without you.”
“I hated it.” His voice dropped. “I kept drafting texts and deleting them because I didn’t want to be dramatic.” A beat. “Which is hilarious, because…me.”
“You can be dramatic,” you murmured. “Just don’t be mean.”
He nodded, serious. “I’m sorry I was. I want to be someone you lean on. Not someone you laugh at from a distance.”
“I don’t want distance,” you said. “I want you. Loud and quiet. On and off. All of it.”
His eyes glossed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“You already did,” you said, soft. “Hours ago. Your eyes told on you the second I opened the door.”
He laughed, wet and warm. “Come here.”
The kiss was clumsy in the way apologies are, eager, careful, a little desperate. He kept one hand on your cheek like you might evaporate if he let go. When you finally broke for air, your foreheads pressed, breaths tangled.
“You really are dramatic,” you whispered, lips brushing his.
He pouted. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
“I do.” You bumped his nose with yours. “Even when you buy fern.”
“It spoke to me,” he said solemnly. “It said, ‘I am quirky but dependable, like Seungkwan.’”
“It said, ‘please put me back and ask the florist for help,’” you countered, grinning.
He looked at you, all the way at you, no stage lights between. “Do you see me now?”
“I always did,” you said. “But I’ll show it better.”
“Okay.” He threaded your fingers together, exhaling a breath that left his shoulders looser. “Can we…start over? I’ll order takeout, you pick the movie, and if I start doing live commentary, you tap my knee twice.”
“And if I make a joke that bites, you lift the fern in warning.”
He laughed. “The Fern of Boundaries.”
“Perfect.” You squeezed his hand. “Start over.”
As he pulled out his phone to place the order, he glanced up with a shy, sideways smile. “For the record, I don’t mind ‘Broadway.’”
“No?”
“Not if it comes with front-row seats from you.” He leaned in, voice playful again, but gentled. “Just…don’t forget to clap when the curtain falls.”
You kissed his cheek. “I’ll be the one standing first.”
1️⃣2️⃣ Vernon:
That night started small, dishwasher humming, rain sliding down the window, your words trying to find a place to land.
“It keeps happening,” you said, palms open on the counter. “I tell you something that bothers me, and you just…disappear while you’re still standing there.”
Vernon leaned back against the sink like he was bracing for a wave. The light over him was soft, turning his hoodie almost silver. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look anywhere. You watched his shoulders go still in that way you’d come to know, the quiet retreat.
“Say something, Hansol.”
He blinked, mouth pressing flat.
“Hansol.”
Silence pooled between you, heavy and shapeless.
Your chest tightened. “Anything. Do you even care that I’m upset?”
The question cracked the stillness. He lifted his eyes, expression blank, voice carefully even. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
The words hit cold and clean. You swallowed. “I want you to say how you feel. Not the correct answer, not what sounds safe. Something real.”
His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t know how. Maybe I’m not what you need.”
Air left the room. “If you believe that,” you said, throat raw, “then maybe you’re right.”
You grabbed your jacket before the tears could form, the door heavier than it should’ve been. It thudded shut behind you, and the echo followed you down the stairs.
Two nights stretched and snapped and stretched again. You made the bed tight, worked late, scrolled, tried not to look at your phone. You told yourself anger was simpler than hurt. It was a lie you almost managed to believe.
On the third night, your key stuck for a second in the downstairs door. You nudged it free and looked up.
He was there on your stoop, knees drawn up, hoodie you knew by smell, studio air and detergent, rolled at the wrists. Headphones sat around his neck like they always do.
He stood as you approached, then second-guessed it and sat back down, then stood again, awkwardly human in a way that cracked something tender in you.
“I didn’t know if you’d be home,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I didn’t know if I should text, or call, or just…” He gestured to the step. “...be here.”
You held the rail, steadying yourself. “You could’ve started with ‘I’m sorry.’ That would’ve helped.”
He nodded, fast. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I shut down. I’m sorry I made you feel alone in a room I was in. I’m…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I suck at talking when it matters. The words just jam.”
A laugh scraped out of you, small and pained. “I don’t need you to think five steps ahead all of the time. I need…you. Even if it’s messy.”
“I know.” He slid the headphones off and turned them in his hands. “I tried to make a voice memo so I wouldn’t freeze. I recorded like…six versions. They were all bad.” He took a breath. “But I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to say this, I am so sorry Y/n.”
Something loosened in your chest. You stared at him, at the honesty sitting uncomfortably in his posture, and felt your anger shift its shape.
“Then say it when it matters,” you said softly. “Not after you’ve gone quiet and left me guessing.”
“I know,” he repeated, like the words hurt his mouth. He stepped closer, slow enough for you to step back if you needed. You didn’t. “I shut down because I’m scared I’ll say it wrong and break something. So I say nothing and break something anyway.”
“So try something different.” Your fingers tightened on the railing. “Tell me when you need a minute, but don’t disappear. Say, ‘I need ten minutes, but I’m not leaving this with you alone.’ Say, ‘I’m here.’” Your voice wobbled and steadied. “When you go quiet without telling me what’s happening, my brain turns it into, ‘I don’t matter.’”
His face changed at that, like the word “matter” hit him behind the ribs. “You matter,” he said immediately, and then again, firmer. “You matter. I’m…” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want you guessing. I want to be clear.”
“Then be clear,” you said. “Right now. Tell me what last time was.”
He exhaled, a long, careful breath. “Last time was me panicking. You were telling me something, and I felt like I was failing in real time. I started cataloguing ways to fix it instead of listening, and when I couldn’t fix it in my head, I shut down.” He met your eyes, scared and unsure. “I heard you. I just didn’t know how to show you I did.”
It was the most he’d said in one stretch in a while.
You nodded. “Thank you. Next time, tell me ‘I’m hearing you. I don’t have the words yet, but I’m here.’ Even that is something.”
He nodded back. “Okay. I can do that.” He hesitated. “I can also…ask questions? Like, ‘Do you want comfort or solutions?’ I read that somewhere.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. “That would be great. Usually, comfort first. Then we can fix things.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. “Comfort first,” he echoed, almost relieved to have a script. “Okay.”
For a moment you both stood there, held in the fragile warmth of a plan that felt small and monumental at the same time.
“I missed you,” he said suddenly, quiet and honest. “The pillow didn’t smell like you anymore and it made me mad at the pillow, which is stupid.” He looked briefly embarrassed. “I kept thinking of your face when you left. I don’t want to put that look there again.”
Your throat tightened. “I hated leaving.” You gestured at the steps. “I hated coming home and not seeing you. I kept checking the time because every hour without you felt longer than it was.”
He took one more step, close enough that you could see the pale half-moons his nails had left in his palm. “Can I hug you?” he asked, and the question did something kind to your heart.
You nodded. He folded around you, careful at first, then closer, like a held breath finally released. The hoodie was cool against your cheek, his hands were not.
“I will try,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll mess it up sometimes, but I’ll tell you when I’m overwhelmed instead of disappearing. I’ll say I’m here. I’ll say it out loud.”
“Thank you,” you whispered. “I’ll try, too. I’ll tell you when I’m spiralling instead of assuming you can read it.”
He leaned back enough to see you, still holding on. “Deal.” A beat. “Also… I’m sorry, again.”
“I know.” You brushed your thumb over the edge of his mouth, where tension always collected. It softened under your touch. “I hear you.”
He dipped his head, paused, giving you room to refuse, and when you didn’t, he kissed you. Not a movie kiss, not a grand gesture, a real one, breath and heartbeat and the tremble of learning. You felt the apology in it, and the promise. You kissed him back like forgiveness didn’t have to be loud to be true.
1️⃣3️⃣ Chan:
Fights with Chan usually started in the same place, the quiet, hot center of his need to prove himself. Most nights it simmered beneath the surface. That night, it boiled.
You found him in the practice room long after everyone had gone, the speakers humming with a looped beat, the mirror fogged at the corners. He was already on his third run, shirt clinging, breath coming short, jaw locked. You watched one more eight count, then you reached for the remote and thumbed the volume down.
“Chan,” you said, softer than the bass in the walls. “It’s past midnight.”
He bent at the waist, palms on his knees, refusing to look at you. “I know.”
“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.” You crossed the room, careful, like you were approaching a skittish animal. “You have already done enough.”
He blinked at your reflection instead of your face. “Easy for you to say.”
You tried to keep your voice level. “It’s not easy. It’s me saying I’m worried.”
He straightened and met your eyes with that stubborn fire you knew too well. “You don’t get it. I need to catch up with this tonight. If I slow down, I fall behind. If I fall behind, I…” he bit the rest off, frustrated with himself for saying so much.
“You won’t,” you said, gentle but certain. “You won’t fall behind because you sleep. You won’t disappear because you rest.”
He grabbed his water bottle without drinking. “I don’t need a lecture.”
“It’s not a lecture,” you said. “It’s me, loving you. It’s me seeing you swaying on your feet and asking you to take a break like everyone else is doing.”
His pride flinched like you’d used the wrong word. “Stop worrying about me, then.”
You blinked, stung. “Stop…worrying?”
His tone sharpened as he doubled down. “I don’t need you hovering and telling me when to breathe. I’ve heard it from coaches, from the other guys, from everyone. I can handle it.”
You felt the floor tilt, the music still pulsing like a heart you weren’t sure was yours or his. “Hovering.” You tasted the word, bitter. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
A flicker of regret flashed across his face, quick as a camera flash, there and gone under the same pride that always made him stay for one more run, one more set. “Maybe.”
Something in you cooled. Not anger so much as a door swinging shut on its own weight. “Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “If that’s how it feels, then… maybe you should figure things out without me.”
You put the remote down like it was fragile, like the wrong pressure might shatter the room. You turned, walked toward the exit. He didn’t stop you, maybe the worst part. The door gave a clean, decisive slam that echoed down the hallway and back at him.
Behind it, he finally slumped, the beat still looping, an empty victory.
A few days stretched long and thin. You slept badly, going through the motions with that fight replaying on a relentless loop, your voice too soft, his too sharp, the tiny pause where he could have reached for you and didn’t.
You didn’t block him. You didn’t call. You left the space where an apology might land.
On the following night, you came up the stairs to your building, grocery bag bumping your hip. The hallway light flickered once and steadied. He stood there by your door, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor like a kid waiting to be called inside. His eyes were rimmed red, either from rehearsals or from the way regret eats sleep.
He straightened when he saw you. “Y/N,” he started, and his voice cracked on your name.
You set the bag down, keys held tight so they wouldn’t rattle. “Hey.”
“I was wrong,” he said quickly, as if he’d rehearsed the words until they would finally come out in the right order. “I didn’t mean, any of that. You weren’t hovering. You were… you were trying to help. And I…” He made a helpless shape with his hands. “I panicked.”
“About what?” Your voice was tired but not unkind.
He swallowed. “I’m scared.” The admission sat between you like a small, shivering thing. “I’m scared I’ll never be enough. That if I don’t push, I’ll be forgotten. That I’m always half a step behind, and the only way to shrink the distance is to grind until there’s nothing left. When you said I didn’t have to keep going, my brain turned it into ‘stop trying.’ I know that’s not what you meant. I know.” His eyes shone. “I took it out on you because you’re the safest person I have.”
The words poked every bruise you’d been nursing. You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel small, Chan. I was watching the person I love run himself into a wall and… I reached out. That’s all.”
He nodded like the movement itself hurt. “You never make me small.” He took a step forward, then another, hesitant, like you might vanish. “You make me feel like I can breathe. Like there’s a world beyond the next eight count.” His hand found yours, trembled, and stayed. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”
For a second, the hallway didn’t feel so narrow. The hum of the building, the distant elevator, mundane sounds that grounded you. You squeezed his fingers. “Then let me worry sometimes. Not because I think you’re weak. Because I care. That’s what people do when they’re on the same team.”
He nodded again, faster this time. “Okay. Team.” He wet his lips. “Tell me how to be better at… this. At us.”
“Don’t bite when I touch the sore spot,” you said, managing the smallest smile. “Tell me what the fear is without turning it into a weapon. And if you want me to back off, say ‘I need a minute,’ not ‘stop worrying.’ That one felt like a shove.”
He flinched at the memory. “I’m sorry.” He tugged your hand to his chest, like he was trying to anchor both of you. “I’ll say ‘I need a minute.’ I’ll say ‘I’m scared.’ I’ll say the actual thing instead of… the sharp thing.”
“Good,” you said. “And I’ll ask how you want help instead of deciding for you. You tell me if you want me to listen, or to get your bag, or to drag you home. You get a vote.”
He huffed a damp, self-deprecating laugh. “Drag me home sounds nice. Especially before midnight.”
You tipped your head, teasing just enough to let the air back in. “Oh? Is that an admission?”
“It’s a plea,” he said. “And a promise.”
The space between you finally closed. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was young and messy and a little desperate, the kind that tasted like apology and salt and late nights spent learning the hard way. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every untidy feeling into your mouth and hope it rearranged into something like honesty.
When you broke apart, his breath ghosted your lips. “I’m going to learn,” he whispered, like a vow meant for your ears only. “I’m going to be better at the parts that don’t happen in the mirror. Just… don’t leave me behind while I figure it out.”
You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, swollen with the beginnings of a smile. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”
He exhaled, a shaky sound that let some invisible rope unspool. “Can we…” He gestured to your door, sheepish now that the storm had cleared. “Can we go inside? Not to fix everything tonight. Just… to be.”
“Yeah,” you said, picking up your forgotten groceries. “Come on.”
the sight of you making your own tea (but with the technique he taught you) in the mug you bought during your first trip together, wearing his blouse, humming to a song as he packs his bags (one of them being a suitcase he borrowed from you) to leave for a concert once again makes him think.
he realizes that he enjoys that type of intimacy. he enjoys it quite a lot, actually. minghao realizes that he doesn't like when he gets home and doesn't have your perfume lingering in the air, just like he doesn't like it when your favorite show is playing somewhere but you're not there to watch it with him.
"do you want some tea?", he hears you asking, already pulling out his mug (the one that matches yours) from the cabinet. "i think i miscalculated, i made too much."
minghao doesn't answer, but he doesn't stop you either as you pour some tea for him.
"i love you", he says it firmly. he had said that before, way too many times, but this one feels like a statement, like he's burning the words into the universe.
"what?", you laugh.
"i love you. life isn't complete without you."
minghao watches as you turn around, looking back at him with his mug in your hand. his body is physically in your living room, with hats and scarfs and many types of accessories on your couch as he chooses what to take for his trip; but as the you get closer to him the smell of herbal tea in the air takes him to a future he hopes it's not too far away - you and him, a bit older than now, drinking that same tea together while reading a book about babies, in a different, bigger house.
he realizes then how easy it is to share a life with you, and how he wants to do it for the rest of his life.
"okay, mr. romantic", you smile. "you know i love you too."
