#stoner chan

[estellan0vella]

Shift Happens: B.C Bang Chan x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 19K

CWs: Substance use (weed smoking is a consistent theme), stress, overwork, customer-service frustration, public meltdowns, shouting matches and retail trauma

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The living room of the Alpha Phi frat house looks like a crime scene. Chan, Jisung, and Changbin have practically merged with the couch. Chan’s hoodie has a big yellow S across the chest, and his sweatpants look like they’ve lived a full life.

“Okay, okay, listen, this shit’s fucking wild,” Jisung says. “So, you know that Omega Psi Rager last weekend?”

Chan grins lazily. “You mean the one where you spent half the night singing on top of a table while dressed as Flynn Rider?”

“Whatever,” Jisung says. “So I end up with this Omega Psi girl dressed as Belle. And I’m Flynn fucking Rider. I look good, she looks good.”

Changbin hums. “You’ve got a type.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jisung says, but he’s grinning. “Anyway, we go back to her dorm, right? I’m thinking, cool, good night, maybe a snack after. But then she tells me to grab a condom from a box under her bed. I reach under, and holy shit. There’s more fucking toys than in Christian Grey’s red room.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m high, Chan. You know I can’t lie when I’m high. Physically incapable.”

Changbin is wheezing with laughter. “What kind of toys are we talking?”

“I don’t even know half of what I saw,” Jisung says dramatically. “There were harnesses, whips, this weird fucking vibrator wand thing that looked like it belonged in Hogwarts”

Chan’s doubled over now. “What, she’s like, ‘Expelliarmus me, Daddy?’”

“Almost!” Jisung yells, slapping the couch. “No, listen,  I’m a committed giver of orgasms. I grab the thing, and I swear it looked like a wand. So I said, ‘I’m gonna avada kedavra this pussy after I Slytherin.’”

Chan collapses sideways into the cushions, laughing so hard his stomach hurts, and Changbin’s wheezing, tears forming in his eyes as Jisung throws his hands up. “It slipped out! I was drunk and stoned! I can’t believe I even got hard, drunk Jisung’s usually as limp as fucking noodles!”

Chan can barely breathe. “You’re a fucking menace.”

Changbin wipes at his eyes. “You actually said that? Out loud?”

“Yes! And it was the best sex of my life! Ten out of ten, would cast spells again.”

When they finally calm down, Chan exhales and stares at the ceiling. “Okay, I need to confess something. I did something really, really dumb.”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “You don’t do dumb things. You’re, like, the responsible one.”

Changbin nods. “Yeah, you’re Simon. You scold and sigh when we set things on fire.”

Jisung tugs at the red hoodie with a big yellow A on the front. “I’m Alvin, chaotic and sexy. Bin’s Theodore because he cries at Pixar movies.”

Changbin grins. “I’m proud of my softness.”

Chan rubs his face. “You two are fucking idiots.”

“Yeah, but we’re your idiots,” Jisung beams. “Now spill. What dumb thing did you do?”

Changbin suddenly points at Chan. “It’s Y/N related. I can feel it in my tit.”

Jisung immediately gropes Changbin’s left pec. “The tit never lies.”

Chan groans, throwing a chip at them. “You two are the reason I have stress wrinkles. But yeah, it’s Y/N related.”

“Holy shit,” Jisung says, sitting up. “What did you do?”

Chan hesitates, scratching his nose. “I may have applied to work at the thrift store she works at.”

Changbin blinks. “Well, if you didn’t get it, it’s not all bad. We get stupid money from the alumni fund anyway, hyung, you don’t need a job.”

Chan hesitates again. “Yeah, uh, that’s not the problem. I got the job.”

Jisung bursts into laughter. “You’re gonna work retail? You’re actually insane!”

Changbin’s laughing too now. “You? In customer service? You’re gonna punch someone in the face by the second day. You have the impulse control of a toddler when someone’s rude.”

“I can do it,” Chan says defensively.

Jisung leans forward. “Tell yourself that after you’ve spent twenty minutes folding jeans and some asshole picks them up, looks at them for half a second, and tosses them right back down.”

“Manageable,” Chan says.

“Or,” Jisung continues mercilessly, “you spend an hour sizing a whole rack, and then you turn around and bam, everything’s wrong again.”

“I’m gonna get fired so fucking fast.”

Everyone at Miroh College knows Chan’s got a temper that explodes when people deserve it. His fuse is about two inches long and burns out instantly, but he never goes off without reason. 

Changbin chuckles. “If you do snap, make sure it’s defending Y/N’s honour. Then it’s romantic.”

Jisung nods solemnly. “Yeah, I bet she lets bitchy ahjummas rant until she cries in the stockroom. That’s what I did at Zara when I was sixteen.”

Changbin stares at him. “You worked at Zara?”

Jisung looks haunted. “Six months. Quit because once we caught a couple fucking in the fitting rooms, and guess who had to clean it up with the bodily fluids kit? Me.”

"It’s fine. I can do this.”

Changbin smirks. “Tell yourself that when someone yells at you because a shirt’s missing a button.”

Chan groans again. “This is the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Jisung snorts. “You wanted to get to know the girl that you drool over at every party, and this was your plan?”

Chan shoots him a look. “Better than you riding your pillow thinking it’s Minho every night.”

Jisung gasps. “Sometimes I think about women! I’m bisexual, thank you very much.”

Changbin chokes on laughter. “Ji, you literally live with Minho, and instead of talking to him, you bounce on your mega dildo collection or fuck pocket pussies. Chan’s plan’s dumb, sure, but at least it’s got potential.”

“God forbid a queer man have hobbies!”

Changbin laughs harder. “I’m not shaming your sex toy treasure chest, I’m shaming your Minho cowardice, you bitchy bottom.”

“I’m a switch! I'm versatile!”

Chan and Changbin share a look before looking at Jisung with matching raised eyebrows.

“I top women and bottom with men!” 

“Whoop! There it is!”

“Fuck you both,” Jisung mutters, yanking his hood over his head.

“No, apparently we’d fuck you.” Changbin grins, and Jisung groans.

Chan stares up at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself into, working at the same thrift shop as you, pretending it’s casual, when he’s been half in love with your smile since the first time he saw you laugh at Hyunjin’s dumb jokes at an Alpha Phi party. He knows it’s stupid. He knows he’s doomed. But right now, high as hell with his best friends beside him and crumbs all over his sweatpants, he can’t bring himself to care.

Changbin hums thoughtfully. “So, retail Chan. When do you start?”

Chan groans into his sleeve. “Tomorrow.”

The morning in Seongsudong feels alive in the way Seoul always does as Chan parks his Kia Stonic in the small lot behind Sigane Jib, his new place of employment. He kills the engine, stares through the windshield for a second, before climbing out. His outfit is loud, even for him, a tight cycling-style jersey in red, black, and white geometric patterns that shows a sliver of stomach when he moves, paired with black cargo pants, a chunky metallic belt clinking softly with every step. The silver necklaces layered around his neck catch the light as he pulls the store door open.

The bell chimes as he steps inside, and the wave of cool, air-conditioned air hits him instantly. What catches his attention immediately is you sitting behind the counter, a Tinkerbell lanyard swinging from your neck as you type something into the till.

Your hair is half pulled back with a silver claw clip. The denim cropped halter top and the baggy distressed jeans you're wearing look like something straight off a runway, paired with platform Converse. Your eyes are lined with white eyeliner, and there is white shimmer catching the inner corners, and when you glance up and see him, you light up.

“Oh, hi Chan!” you say, before you tilt your head back and shout up the stairs, “Manager-nim! He’s here!”

There’s a muffled grumble from above, then slow footsteps thudding down the stairs. Daejung appears, a middle-aged, heavyset man with a stained polo shirt and an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. Chan immediately has to fight the urge to groan. The man had been miserable during the interview, practically oozing disdain for existing. He’d smelled like body odour then, and unfortunately, he hasn’t changed. Chan’s sure the man’s musk is thick enough to knock a bird out of the sky.

Daejung squints at him. “Oh. You showed up.”

Chan smiles thinly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Y/N, train him. I’ll handle the counter.”

He waddles toward the till, collapsing into the chair behind it like gravity personally hates him. Chan's eyes sting. He’s positive Daejung's stench is going to kill him before the end of his shift.

You bounce on your heels a little, cheerful as ever. “Come on, your stuff’s in the staff room upstairs.”

He follows you up the narrow staircase, the faint scent of your shampoo trailing behind you, something floral, like peonies and vanilla, as you lead him into the staff room. “So, obviously, we don’t know each other super well yet, but I like my personalised lanyard. So I sorted one for you”

He blinks. “You got me a lanyard?”

“Technically, I asked Hyunjin and Jeongin what to get you, and Jeongin said he asked Jisung, and this is what I ended up with.”

You hand it to him, and Chan bursts out laughing as soon as he sees it. It’s an Alvin and the Chipmunks lanyard, specifically with Simon printed all over it. “Of course it’s Simon,” he mutters through his laughter. 

“I take it that means something?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Inside joke. You’ve made Jisung’s day without even knowing it.”

You grin. “Then it’s perfect.”

Chan drapes the lanyard around his neck, still chuckling as you motion for him to follow you downstairs again.

“Okay, so it’s pretty simple here,” you explain, walking toward the racks of clothing on the shop floor. “We just size order everything, keep the shop looking neat. I’ll till-train you tomorrow. Today, we’ll just focus on the shop floor. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Chan says easily. “Sounds good.”

“Great!” You stop beside a rail and pull out a piece of fabric with a little flourish, holding it up. “Okay, this one? Chanel, 1967 Winter Collection.”

Chan tilts his head. “You know from just looking at it?”

"Of course. Each designer’s got their own kind of fingerprint.” You set it back gently and tug another dress forward. “And this one, Vivienne Westwood. First collection.”

Chan hums. “Right, right”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You do know who Vivienne Westwood is, right?”

“A woman called Vivienne?”

You gasp, like you’ve been personally offended. “The audacity! You wound me, Chan.”

He grins. “Aren’t you supposed to be training me, not scolding me?”

“Apparently, you need more training than I thought.”

“Rude,” he shoots back, but he’s laughing as you move toward a display table.

“Okay, jeans,” you announce, picking up a pair. “These go on shelves, so they need to be folded properly. Book fold. Do you know what that means?”

“Enlighten me.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Lay them flat like this,” you demonstrate, smoothing the denim over the table. “Fold one leg over the other so the back pockets are visible. Then fold it up toward the waistband in halves or thirds, depending on length.”

Chan copies your movements, careful and precise, his brows furrowed.

“Now,” you continue, “fold them again at the knee area so they make a neat rectangle. The key is to keep it flat. We stack them vertically so customers can see the edge labels, makes it easier to find sizes without ruining the whole pile.”

“Easy enough,” He grins. “So, what’s next?”

“Sizing,” you explain. “Same items go smallest to largest, smallest at the front. Same brand together, unbranded stuff just goes by style. Band tees with band tees, jeans with jeans, that kind of thing.”

“Common sense?” he asks, amused.

“Basically.”

He nods, folding a few more pairs of jeans before stacking them neatly. “Got it.”

“That’s pretty much it for the floor. You’re catching on faster than I expected.”

Chan’s about to respond when a bark echoes from across the store. “Y/N!”

You turn your head slowly, expression neutral. “Yes, Manager-nim?”

“Back on till!” Daejung calls, voice sharp.

“Got it,” you say brightly, already heading that way, and Chan frowns as he watches you go, confused and a little annoyed. You don’t seem bothered by the tone, just humming along with the music as you slide behind the counter. 

Chan watches as he resumes his task, but his jaw tightens when he catches Daejung scrolling through his phone while you handle three customers at once. The man’s doing absolutely nothing, and the way he barked at you rubs Chan the wrong way. He tries to focus on sizing vintage Ralph Lauren t-shirts, but then he sees some guy about his age, reaching for the neatly folded jeans he’d just finished stacking.

The guy yanks a pair out, looks at them, then shoves them back into the pile sideways, completely wrecking the stack. Chan inhales sharply through his nose, and he turns away before he can give himself a reason to be fired on his first day.

While he works, he keeps glancing toward the counter. You handle a constant stream of customers, your voice soft but confident. Some people are sweet, smiling as they chat. Others? Not so much.

When a woman asks to see the manager, Chan glances at Daejung, who barely looks up from his phone. He moves slower than a dying snail, taking a solid minute before dragging himself up and waddling toward the counter. By the time he gets there, the woman’s already irritated, and she takes it out on you.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” she snaps, arms crossed.

You bow slightly. “I’m so sorry for the wait, ma’am. Manager-nim’s here now.”

Daejung clears his throat. “What’s the issue?”

“She overcharged me,” the woman says, jabbing a finger toward you.

You blink, polite as ever. “I scanned everything correctly, but I can check again.”

“I don’t care, just fix it,” the woman says.

Chan can’t believe how calmly you handle it. Daejung hovers for thirty seconds, mutters something about “staff mistakes,” and then promptly disappears back into the office upstairs, leaving you to deal with it alone.

You process the refund, bow again, and thank her for visiting. The moment she leaves, you just exhale and glance toward Chan. You catch him watching, and you smile like nothing’s wrong.

He shakes his head slightly, returning to his folding. He’s never seen anyone take that much shit and still smile through it. It makes him both impressed and furious.

When the crowd finally dies down, you walk over. “You surviving so far?”

“Barely,” he admits. “How the fuck do you do that every day without punching someone?”

You laugh softly. “Retail zen. You just have to let it roll off. Don’t take it personally.”

“Yeah, but they’re assholes to you. You don’t deserve that.”

You tilt your head, a teasing smile curving your lips. “That’s sweet, but I promise it’s fine. Besides, it’s kind of fun watching people melt down over a pair of jeans. It’s like free theatre.”

“You’re either a saint or a sociopath.”

“Maybe both,” 

When Chan gets back from his shift at Sigane Jib, he’s barely gotten one foot in the hallway when two heads pop out from the living room doorway like a pair of baked meerkats.

“Jesus Christ,” Chan mutters.

Jisung and Changbin stand there in their boxers, staring at him in silence, and Chan raises an eyebrow.

“Why the fuck are you two naked?”

“Not naked,” Jisung says slowly, like he’s trying to count the syllables as he speaks. “Underwear.”

Changbin nods. “Technically clothed.”

“Technically deranged,” Chan mutters, shaking his head as he toes off his sneakers. “Can you not stare at me like that? You look like stoned meerkats waiting for food.”

Neither of them moves. They just blink at him in unison, so Chan rolls his eyes, walks over, and plants both palms against their foreheads, pushing them gently but firmly back into the living room. “Back in your habitat.”

They stumble backwards onto the couch, giggling as he enters. The living room is so smoky it feels like stepping into a sauna filled with lazy clouds. 

“Fucking hell,” Chan mutters. “You guys hotboxed the entire goddamn living room.”

Changbin grins proudly. “We’re conserving warmth and weed. It’s energy efficiency.”

Jisung nods solemnly, picking up the bong from the table. “Green energy.” He takes a deep rip, cheeks hollowing, eyes closing as he exhales a thick stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Then, grinning lazily, he looks up at Chan. “Sooooo?”

Chan raises an eyebrow, dropping onto the couch between them and grabbing the bong from Jisung. “Sooooo what?”

“How was your first shift?” Changbin asks, leaning forward with an expectant grin.

Chan exhales, smoke curling from his mouth as he speaks. “The manager smells. I thought I was gonna pass out.”

Jisung grimaces. “Eww. Like, what level of stink we talking?”

“He smells like a gym towel that saw things it can’t talk about. I could taste it.”

Changbin snorts. “That’s so fucking nasty.”

Chan leans back and grabs a box of mandu from the pile of takeout littering the surface. “Yeah, and that bastard sits behind the till all day pretending to work while Y/N does everything.”

Jisung perks up. “Oho, now we’re talking. How was working with Y/N?”

Chan chews a piece of mandu, speaking around the food. “Good. She’s really fucking good at what she does. But-” He swallows, frowning slightly. “She lets that manager talk to her like shit, and it pisses me off.”

Changbin passes him the bong again. “She doesn’t stand up to him?”

“Nope,” Chan says, lighting it again. “Guy barked at her to get back on till mid-sentence. She just smiled and went.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “That’s depressing.”

Chan shrugs. “Yeah, but she handled it like a pro. Keeps smiling, doesn’t take it personally. I don’t know how she does it.” 

Jisung leans forward, grinning. “I bet she looked hot though. She always looks hot.”

Chan snorts softly, eyes flicking up. “Yeah, she did,” he admits. “She had this denim-on-denim thing going on. She was wearing this denim crop top halter thing? It was tight around here.” He gestures vaguely at his chest and shoulders. “And the jeans were, like, all ripped up but somehow hot. She had her hair half up with one of those claw clips-” He trails off, realising he’s rambling, and quickly stuffs another dumpling in his mouth. “Anyway, yeah. She looked good.”

Jisung clutches his chest. “I think I just squirted a little at that mental picture.”

Changbin bursts out laughing. “You’re so fucking gross.”

“I’m serious!” Jisung insists, his face twisting in exaggerated pleasure. “Denim-on-denim? Glossy lips? Ohhh fuck.”

Chan snorts. “You’re actually broken.”

“Broken but satisfied,” Jisung moans theatrically. “Ahh! She folded jeans! She sized things!”

Changbin wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Stop, I’m dying.”

With no warning, Jisung pulls his legs up to his chest, moaning dramatically. “Ohhh fuck, the tsunami’s coming! Grab the fucking lifejackets, hyungs!”

Chan’s laughter turns into full-blown hysterics. He doubles over, tears forming in his eyes. “You’re so fucking stupid, oh my god!”

Changbin’s gasping for air beside him, laughing so hard he can’t speak, his face red as he clutches his stomach. 

“Call the coast guard! We’re flooding, we’re flooding!”

None of them notices the sound of footsteps until it’s too late. Minho walks in, holding a bottle of water, and freezes in the doorway. What he sees is Jisung on his back, moaning like he’s in a porn shoot, while Chan and Changbin are crying with laughter. Minho blinks rapidly, looking exactly like a cat that’s just seen a cucumber for the first time, wide-eyed, confused, a little betrayed by reality.

Chan catches sight of him and immediately starts laughing even harder. Changbin turns, sees Minho, and folds in half from how hard he laughs, but Jisung, oblivious, throws his head back dramatically. “Oh, I’m gushing! Someone get a mop!”

Chan falls sideways into the couch cushions. “Holy shit, I can’t- Ji, stop, please!”

Minho's lips twitch like he’s fighting back a laugh as Changbin tries to speak through his laughter. “Ji-Ji-” But he can’t finish because he’s too busy howling.

Every time Chan looks up and sees Minho still standing there with that expression, he starts laughing again. Jisung drops his legs and wipes fake sweat from his forehead, giggling to himself. “I think that was my best performance yet"

“Yeah,” Changbin manages, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re an artist, Ji. The next wave of modern theatre.”

Jisung grins, eyes half-closed. “I’m still dribbling.”

Chan wheezes, clutching his stomach. “You’re disgusting.”

Changbin wipes his eyes, still laughing. “We need ponchos and life jackets, bro. Full flood prevention gear.”

Minho quietly backs out of the room, taking his water with him. Chan and Changbin catch a glimpse of him retreating, and both lose it all over again. 

By the time the laughter finally dies down, the room looks like a crime scene of stupidity. “I can’t breathe,” Chan says. “My abs fucking hurt.”

Changbin nods. “Worth it though. That was comedy gold.”

Jisung grins. “We should do a play. I could be the main character. Moaning My Way to Fame.”

Chan snorts. “You’d traumatise an audience.”

Changbin leans forward, grinning. “I’d pay good money to see that trainwreck.”

“You’re both jealous of my talent.”

“Talent for what? Making everyone within ten meters laugh till they die?”

“Yes,” Jisung says confidently. “That’s my legacy.”

Changbin flicks his forehead lightly. “Your legacy is gonna be getting banned from half the internet for public indecency.”

Jisung just giggles, hugging a cushion to his chest. “Worth it.”

Morning sunlight spills across the Alpha Phi kitchen, and Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, clutching a mug like it's a lifeline. Chan sips his iced Americano, trying to hold back his grin. “So, Ji. Funny thing about last night-”

Changbin grins wickedly. “You know that performance you gave us? The moaning, the tsunami, the flood warnings?”

“Yeah, that was funny as fuck, right?”

Chan smirks. “Oh, it was funny, alright. Especially the part where Minho walked in.”

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. Then the information hits him like a truck. “He WHAT?”

Changbin collapses against the counter, cackling. “Oh, he saw everything. Minho stood there looking like a cat that saw a cucumber.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung whispers, face going pale, then red, then pale again. “No, no, no. You’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying.”

Chan just shakes his head, laughing. “He saw the whole show.”

“I’m moving out. I can’t do this. I can’t face him. I’m gonna die under your bed, Chan.”

“Already prepared. I put the blanket pile there for you. Felix is already setting up snacks.”

“Felix knows?!” Jisung yelps.

From the hallway, Felix’s voice floats in. “I know everything, Ji. Come here, I brought your emotional support cookies.”

Five minutes later, Jisung has officially retreated under Chan’s bed into his den of embarrassment. Felix is lying beside him, stroking his hair, whispering soothing nonsense while Jisung keeps muttering, “He’ll never look at me the same again.”

By the time he reaches Sigane Jib in Seongsudong, the city’s already buzzing. 

Inside the shop, the familiar blend of upbeat Korean indie and retro Western pop hums through the air. The scent of fabric cleaner, coffee, and faint vanilla fills the space. Chan heads up to the staffroom, his boots thudding on the wooden steps. He’s dressed in a black and white checkered pullover sweater with a distressed patch near the chest, layered over a white long-sleeve shirt. The black oversized shorts have silver chains dangling off the waistband, clinking softly when he moves. His combat boots thump against the floor, and his hair is tied back into a messy ponytail. 

Downstairs, you’re already perched behind the till, sipping an energy drink like your life depends on it. You yawn, your perfectly contoured face still glowing under the overhead lights. Today’s outfit is a strapless black crop top and matching mini skirt, both patterned in a diamond grid of rhinestones that catch the light every time you move. Underneath, a crisp white blouse with big, voluminous sleeves makes the whole thing somehow classy and dramatic at the same time.

“You okay?” 

You yawn again. “Alarm issue last night.”

He frowns. “What happened?”

You sigh, spinning your chair slightly to face him. “So, technically, I’m a keyholder. That means if the store alarm goes off at night, the alarm company calls me. They’re supposed to call the manager, but Manager-nim never answers his phone. So now, the alarm company just calls me directly.”

“Wait, you’re telling me if someone breaks in, you’re the one who goes?”

“Yep,” you say cheerfully. “Anytime between closing and opening. I have to come out, check that the store’s not broken into, unlock it, call the company, get a code, and reset the alarm.”

Chan’s jaw drops. “Jesus Christ. So if he ever offers me keys, I say no, right?”

You chuckle softly. “Pretty much. I live closest, so it’s easier for me to go, but yeah. Not glamorous.”

He shakes his head as he pulls up another wheeled chair beside yours and drops into it. “Alright, what’s the plan for today, boss?”

“Till training. You’re gonna learn how to handle the register.”

Chan glances at the computer. “This thing looks ancient.”

You hum in agreement. “It’s old as hell. But it works. Since we don’t carry multiples of the same item, there are no barcodes. You just type the name, and it’ll pop up in the system.”

“Ah, rare-stock shit,” Chan says, nodding. “Makes sense for a luxury thrift shop.”

You grin. “Exactly. Now, refunds are simple. You scan the receipt, and it pulls up the transaction. You type in why they’re returning the item. If it’s faulty, put it in the faulty box over there and mark it with a sticker where the issue is.”

Chan nods, glancing toward the box you point to. “What if it’s in bad condition? Like it smells?”

“Then you refuse the return,” you say. “We can’t wash the clothes because people might have allergies to certain detergents, so we just say no. If it’s because of a smell, it’s awkward, but you just say you have the right to refuse and let them shout. I nod a lot and wait for them to run out of energy.”

Chan snorts. “Yeah, no. Not happening. No one shouts in my face for their own mistake. And I’m not standing there while they yell at you either.”

You glance at him sideways. “You sound very sure of that.”

He grins, bright and mischievous. “Oh, I’m dead serious.”

“Alright, angry customer wrangler,” you say, hiding another yawn behind your hand. “Anyway, once you type the reason, you hit enter. If it was a card payment, they tap to refund. If it was cash, you take the cash from the register.”

“Simple enough,"

You nod, sipping your energy drink again. “Sale items are exchange only. It says so on the receipt, but people never read it.”

“Isn’t that their fault?” Chan asks.

“Sure,” you reply with a shrug. “But the right thing to do is tell them before they purchase. No receipt, no return. And we don’t accept bank statements as proof because they could’ve bought something else that cost the same.”

“You’ve got this down to a science.”

You laugh softly. “Been doing it long enough. Oh, and anything damaged can be discounted. Unless you think the customer caused it themselves.”

Chan frowns. “That’s common?”

“More than you’d think,” you say. “People are sneaky. Once had a woman smear foundation on a white shirt and tried to get a discount for it.”

“What about theft?”

You sigh. “Manager-nim doesn’t chase thieves. Halmeoni, his eomma, the owner, told me I’m not allowed to either. Technically, he’s supposed to handle it, but he never does.”

Chan crosses his arms. “Yeah, no halmeoni would want you tackling thieves.”

“Exactly. And now we have you!”

He snorts. “Oh, I’m the thief catcher now?”

You nod firmly. “Yes. Officially promoted.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he starts typing in mock sales into the computer. You sit back, sipping your drink and watching him. 

When the first rush of customers trickles in, Chan handles them like a pro. The older ahjummas fawn over him, giggling like schoolgirls when he smiles at them. One even pinches his arm, telling him he looks like an idol, while another scolds him for his hair colour before forgiving him after he compliments her purse.

“Your grandson must love you,” he says sweetly, and she beams, handing over her card with a blush.

You try not to laugh, sipping your second energy drink as you watch the charm show unfold. He’s got the charisma of a golden retriever in a human body. Every single older customer melts.

A few guys come in and hover near you, trying to flirt, asking questions that have nothing to do with the clothes. One of them leans a little too close, voice dripping with fake confidence. “You’ve got really pretty eyes, you know that?”

Before you can respond, Chan straightens up beside you as he folds his arms. The guy blinks, stares at him, then mumbles something inaudible and scurries off. You giggle softly, shaking your head. “I might keep you around.”

Chan grins. “Glad to be useful.”

Chan gets his first real test in the form of a return refusal. A young woman marches up to the counter, tossing a bag onto it. “I want to return these.”

Chan takes the items out of the bag and nearly recoils. The clothes smell like a mix of cigarettes and cheap perfume. He glances at you, but you just tilt your head, silently telling him to handle it, so he looks back at the woman. “I can’t give you a refund for these items.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me? Why not? I’m a regular here.”

Chan looks unimpressed. “Are you?”

“Yes!” she snaps. “I come here all the time.”

“Right,” he says flatly. “Well, the clothes stink, and so do you, so that’s why I won’t take them back.”

You slap a hand over your mouth and spin your chair around, shoulders shaking with laughter, while the woman gasps, outraged by Chan's audacity. “What did you just say to me?!”

“You heard me,” Chan folds his arms, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I want to speak to your manager,” she snaps.

Chan points at you without hesitation. “There. She’s my manager.”

There is no universe in which Chan is calling Daejung down from his office. You turn your chair around and point to the sign on the counter that clearly states All items must be returned in their original condition.

“You people are unbelievable!”

Chan smiles, wiggling his fingers in a lazy wave. “Bye bye.”

She storms out, slamming the door so hard the bell clangs violently, and you turn to him with wide eyes. “That was so mean!”

He shrugs innocently. “You weren’t gonna say it.”

“I would’ve said, ‘They weren’t in the original condition I sold them in.’”

“And then she would’ve yelled at you,” Chan points out. “So I’ll be the asshole who tells stinky people they reek, and you can be the nice one.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Deal. But you can’t tell people I’m your manager.”

“Can and will,” he says, smirking. “I’m not calling in that walking pile of laziness upstairs.”

You roll your eyes, still smiling as you settle back into your chair. Chan starts absentmindedly rolling his chair back and forth, bumping lightly into your side every so often. Then he notices a list on the counter. “What’s this?”

“My closing checklist,” you say, glancing over. “I have to cash up the till, sweep, mop, and lock up. Joys of being a keyholder.”

He frowns. “Do you at least get paid extra for that?”

“Nope,” you say cheerfully.

“Fucking hell. You’re too nice.”

“And you’re too loud. Perfect balance.”

The bell above the door of Sigane Jib rings as Chan walks in for his fifteenth shift, the familiar chime drowned out almost instantly by raised voices. You’re standing behind the till, shoulders tight, voice calm but strained as a man stands on the other side of the counter, shouting at you.

The man’s face is red, his hand slapping the counter for emphasis every few seconds as his voice booms through the store. “Are you actually stupid or just pretending? This receipt is wrong! How do you even make this kind of mistake? Are you blind?”

You take a small step back, but your posture stays polite, shoulders drawn in. “Sir, I can check the system-”

“Oh, please don’t give me that fake sweet tone,” the man interrupts, laughing bitterly. “I swear, you pretty girls think you can smile and get away with being useless. You’re lucky your face distracts people long enough for them to forget you can’t count.”

One of the regular ahjummas, who always buys scarves and adores you, gasps. “Aigoo! Don’t talk to her like that! She’s a good girl!”

Another wags her finger. “You should be ashamed! Calling her stupid when she works harder than anyone in this shop. Apologise!”

Chan’s blood boils. The regulars who frequent the store have learned quickly, no one, absolutely no one, disrespects you when he’s around. He’s built that reputation. The first few weeks after he started, he’d made sure every customer knew he had no problem calling them out or kicking them out if they even raised their voice at you. Now, the regulars have even started putting clothes back in perfect size order and folded neatly just to avoid Chan’s glare. 

But this man? Clearly not a regular. Clearly new. Clearly about to have the worst shopping experience of his life.

Chan’s voice cuts through the noise. “She didn’t do your transaction, dickhead. Does she look like a middle-aged man who part-time as an anti-deodorant lobbyist?”

The man turns sharply, caught off guard. Chan’s standing a few feet away, near the display of vintage Adidas jackets, his outfit striking under the fluorescent lights. The sleeveless fuzzy black top hugs his chest, the white crescent-shaped circle across it bright against the dark fabric. The shimmering mesh long sleeves underneath catch the light when he moves, subtle silver glinting at his waist. His wide-leg leather pants shine with each step, the thick platform boots thudding on the floor. 

The man gapes. “Excuse me?”

Chan gestures lazily toward the computer screen where the transaction history glows. “The person who made your mistake was Daejung. You can tell because the receipt literally says, ‘You were served by Daejung.’”

The ahjummas cackle from the side racks, whispering to each other like schoolgirls. “He’s doing it again! Our handsome guard dog!”

Chan walks closer, his expression cool. “So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna shout up those stairs until the fat bastard comes down and fixes his own mistake. Once your refund’s done, you’re out. And don’t bother coming back. We don’t need customers who think it’s okay to yell at my coworker.”

You can’t help the smile creeping across your lips as you look at Chan. The man looks flustered now, glancing between you and Chan, unsure what to say.

“Go on,” Chan adds, motioning toward the stairs. “Manager’s office is right up there. Start shouting. He’s hard of hearing and lazy as fuck.”

The man sputters, glaring, but eventually stomps off toward the stairs, bellowing Daejung’s name like a wounded bull. Ignoring the background noise, Chan drops his bag behind the till and pulls out his Simon lanyard, clipping it around his neck. “You good?” 

You nod, exhaling slowly. “You get them sometimes. Having muscles with a mullet helps.”

Chan pulls two energy drinks out of his backpack, holding out your favourite flavour. “For my fellow victim of idiocy from her personal bouncer.”

Your smile widens as you crack it open. “You’re a saint.”

“So, what’s on today’s list once it quiets down?”

You hum thoughtfully. “We need to tidy the floor, replenish and then resize the shoes if we get time, and check the fitting rooms for dumped clothes.”

Chan nods, leaning against the counter as his eyes flick toward you. The way the light hits your face when you look down at the till makes him momentarily forget the chaos. He still thinks getting a job just to be near a girl was one of his dumber ideas, but watching you right now, calm under pressure, laughing with the ahjummas, being so effortlessly you, it’s the best dumb decision he’s ever made.

Daejung eventually stomps down the stairs with the angry customer trailing behind him. His gaze lands on Chan, and they lock eyes for a split second. Chan lifts his hand casually, pretending to reach into his pocket before pulling out his middle finger with mock surprise, gasping dramatically like he didn’t expect it to be there.

You quickly lift a fashion magazine from beside the till, pretending to read it to hide your laughter.

“Come on, sir,” Daejung grits out. “We’ll sort this out privately.”

“Yeah, sort out your own fuck-ups,” Chan mutters under his breath.

You’re giggling behind the magazine now, shoulders shaking. “You’re gonna give him a heart attack,” 

“Good,” Chan says cheerfully. “He deserves it.”

Ever since his fourth shift, Chan and Daejung have had a relationship best described as hostile coexistence. The first time they clashed, it had been a full-blown shouting match that could probably be heard down the street. It started because Daejung had, once again, dumped all his responsibilities on you. You were stuck at the front counter, juggling three crises at once. The alarm tripped every few minutes, the cash delivery was missing 10,000 won notes, and customers were complaining. You’d been trying to reset the alarm with your key fob, the store’s old landline wedged between your shoulder and ear as you spoke to the cash company, apologising profusely to impatient customers while fighting back tears.

Chan had told every rude customer to fuck off before storming into the office to drag Daejung out by the collar. When Daejung had yelled at Chan for “ruining customer relations,” Chan’s response was explosive. He told him, word for word, that if he ever saw Daejung make you cry by being useless again, he’d shove a vintage Versace heel so far up his ass he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his miserable life.

That had been the start of their never-ending feud. Since then, they’ve screamed at each other anywhere and everywhere. Chan doesn’t care, and the only reason he hasn’t been fired is that the ahjummas adore him. And Daejung knows if he fires Chan, the ahjummas would riot. They’d probably boycott the store and start a gossip campaign that would tank sales faster than a stock crash.

The other reason Daejung can’t touch him? Theft has practically vanished since Chan started working there. With his broad frame and expressionless glare, once Chan grabs them, the thieves crumble immediately, muttering apologies while handing over whatever they tried to take. The ahjummas absolutely love it. They call it “the thief-catching show” and sometimes clap.

As Daejung and the customer disappear into the office, Chan leans back in his chair. “I think he’s losing more hair every time he sees me.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Terribly charming,” he corrects.

You lower the magazine just enough to meet his eyes. “More like terribly smug.”

He chuckles, spinning slightly in his chair. “Admit it, though, I make this place more exciting.”

You hum thoughtfully. “You do make the shifts less boring.”

“That’s all I need,” he says with a satisfied grin.

The two of you watch as the angry customer storms out of the office, clutching his refund, muttering curses under his breath. Daejung follows behind, glaring at Chan again, but Chan just grins, wide and taunting, lifting his middle finger slightly in a lazy salute. “Great work, manager-nim,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Another satisfied customer, huh?”

Daejung mutters something unintelligible and stomps back upstairs. As soon as he’s gone, you burst out laughing, dropping your head onto your folded arms on the counter. “You’re going to get us both killed one day.”

Chan laughs with you, that deep, warm sound filling the space. “If he hasn’t fired me by now, he’s never going to.”

You glance up, still giggling. “The ahjummas would kill him if he did.”

“Exactly. I’m untouchable.”

You shake your head, but your cheeks flush a little. “You really don’t know how to stop, do you?”

“Nope,” he says simply. “And you’d miss it if I did.”

When Chan pushes open the front door of the Alpha Phi house that evening, he holds the door open with one hand, motioning for you to step inside first. 

“Are you sure it’s okay I’m here?” 

He scoffs lightly. “You’ve been here before, for parties, remember?”

You shrug, stepping out of your sneakers and neatly placing them on the shoe rack. “That’s different, though. This is, like, your private time now. This is when it’s actually your home.”

Chan grins, toeing off his boots. “I invited you, didn’t I?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “True.”

"Besides, after that asshole yelling at you, you deserve some relaxation."

Before either of you can say anything else, there’s a strange rustling sound from the living room, followed by two pairs of blinking eyes appearing in the doorway. 

You jump a little, but Chan doesn’t even look surprised. “They do that. Don’t worry.”

You giggle, and Jisung straightens up slowly, squinting. “Y/N! You look like a goddess in all that white. With the pearls and everything, fuck, you’re glowing.”

You laugh, the sound soft and genuine, and Jisung toddles over with his arms open. He hugs you tightly, and you hug him back because Jisung has no concept of personal space with his friends or friend-adjacents. “Ooh, you smell nice,” he says, nuzzling his nose into your hair and inhaling dramatically.

Chan rolls his eyes. “Ji, stop fucking sniffing her, you creep.”

Jisung ignores him entirely, sniffing again. “Mmm, like vanilla and heaven. Chan, you work around this smell every day? Lucky bastard.”

You giggle, gently patting Jisung’s back. “You’re insane.”

He pulls away with a grin and gestures grandly toward the living room. “Come to the living room, the land of weed and wonder!”

Changbin’s deep voice calls out from inside the room, “Enter if you dare! The smoke gods await you!”

You look up at Chan, trying desperately not to laugh, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth. He’s doing the same thing, lips pressed together, shoulders shaking.

Changbin’s voice echoes again, low and ominous. “Join us.”

The second you step in, you’re hit with the smell of weed so strong it could make a priest faint. The curtains are drawn, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like tangled stars. Jisung’s sprawled on one end of the couch, Changbin’s in the beanbag chair like a lounging king, and a bong sits proudly in the middle like a sacred relic.

“We’re about to hotbox this bitch,” Jisung announces proudly.

Chan glances at you. “You good with that?”

You grin, plopping down on the couch between them. “Yeah. I need it after that shift.”

“Atta girl,” Changbin says, flicking the lighter.

Chan closes the door behind him, sealing the room like a smoky bunker. You sit back, legs crossed, your low-rise cargos loose enough to slouch comfortably. Jisung immediately leans against you again, resting his head on your shoulder. “You smell even better in a closed space,” he mutters.

“Ji,” Chan warns.

“She doesn’t mind!” Jisung protests.

You laugh. “I really don’t.”

He grins triumphantly and hands you the bong. You take it, rip it with expert ease, exhaling a slow, even cloud that makes Jisung gasp. “Holy shit, she’s a pro!”

Chan snorts. “Of course she is. You think she survives working under Daejung sober?”

“Good point,” Changbin says, exhaling. “ Chan’s been telling us about that fat, sweaty manager for weeks.”

Jisung nods eagerly. “He has! He’s, like, obsessed with complaining about him.”

You hum, passing the bong to Chan. “Well, to be fair, the man is disgusting. It’s a good thing he stays out of the way most of the time.”

Chan takes a rip, exhales, and mutters, “He’s useless and he stinks.”

You giggle, reaching for the energy drink he’d brought earlier and taking a sip. “The only thing I’ve ever seen him do right is sizing.”

Changbin bursts out laughing. “If he fucked that up, I’d be concerned enough to demand he be IQ tested.”

Jisung snickers. “Okay, Y/N, your turn. Worst retail horror story. Go.”

You lean into Jisung, thinking, eyes sparkling. “Hmm, okay. One time, I complimented a customer’s shirt, it was this vintage seventies bell-sleeve western top, like something out of Mamma Mia, you know?”

“Donna Sheridan,” Jisung says knowingly, nodding.

“Exactly,” you say. “So I tell her it’s a great shirt, and she launches into this full story about her latest hookup. Apparently, the guy wouldn’t go down on her after she blew him, and she gave me way too much detail about how bad the sex was. Then she shows me a dick pic on her phone because she thought she hadn’t described it well enough.”

Jisung, Chan, and Changbin completely lose it. Jisung practically rolls off the couch, clutching his stomach. Chan doubles over, laughing so hard he almost chokes. Changbin’s wheezing in the beanbag, slapping the side like it’s a drum.

You’re giggling so hard tears prick your eyes. “I just said, ‘Oh, I see,’ and handed her the receipt.”

“Oh my god,” Chan gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. “You’ve seen a stranger’s dick at work?”

You nod, grinning. “Yes, and it wasn’t even a good one!”

They all collapse again, laughing until they’re coughing. When the noise dies down, Jisung sits up, wiping at his face. “Okay, my turn. I worked at Zara in Incheon when I was sixteen.”

You blink. “Big chain store? No, I could never.”

“I know, I’m so brave,” Jisung says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “Anyway, there was this couple in the fitting rooms-”

You glance at Chan, and he nods, lips twitching. 

“So,” Jisung continues proudly, “sixteen-year-old virgin bisexual Han Peter Jisung had to use a bodily fluids kit to clean up sex juices from the floor.”

You howl with laughter, almost choking on air. Chan’s already cackling because he’s heard this story before, but it is still funny, especially when he’s high. Changbin’s face is red from laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m serious!” Jisung insists through his laughter. “I’m a hero!”

Changbin passes the bong back to Chan. “Alright, Chan, you’ve been in retail a month now. You’ve gotta have a story too.”

Chan grimaces but passes the bong to you first. You giggle because you already know which one he’s going to tell. You take a hit, exhale a perfect ring, and hand it back to him.

Jisung gasps dramatically. “Oh my god, tell us right now.” He cuddles you in excitement, bouncing slightly, and you let him, curling your feet up on the couch. Chan smirks, letting you tuck your feet under his thigh to keep them warm.

“So,” Chan starts, “it’s similar to your story, Ji. One of the ahjummas comes up to me and says, ‘Chan-ah, there are funny noises in one of the fitting rooms.’ And I’m thinking, great, someone’s fucking.”

Jisung immediately bursts out laughing, clutching your arm. “No fucking way.”

“I walk over,” Chan continues, grinning. “No hesitation, just whoosh, curtain open. I’m not cleaning up cum, not happening. I am not paid enough for that shit.”

“And?” Changbin urges, eyes wide.

“It’s just some guy jerking off. Alone. Pants around his ankles, going at it like his life depended on it.”

You’re already laughing before he finishes, unable to stop. “I could see Chan’s face from the till. He went through all five stages of grief in about two seconds.”

“And then she-” Chan gestures at you “-starts laughing so hard she falls off her chair, bangs her head on the counter, and all the ahjummas come running to fuss over her.”

You wipe tears from your eyes, laughing. “I had a bruise on my forehead for three days! I remember hearing you shout, ‘Put it the fuck away, man! It’s nothing to be proud of!’”

“Because it wasn’t!” Chan yells, laughing helplessly. “You were no help! Sprawled out behind the till like you’d been sniped!”

“I hit my head!” you protest, and everyone howls again.

Jisung gasps for air. “What would you have done if he’d splooged on the mirror?”

Chan shudders. “Gotten Daejung to clean it. I’m not doing it, Y/N’s not doing it. We don’t get paid enough to wipe jizz off a mirror.”

You giggle, leaning into Jisung. “Daejung hates you so much.”

“Feelings mutual,” Chan says cheerfully, grabbing another handful of snacks from the table.

The laughter settles into a comfortable rhythm. Jisung and Changbin start telling random, half-coherent stories about old party disasters, while you and Chan exchange occasional glances that make him feel like his chest is too small for his heart. You’re relaxed here in a way he’s never seen at work, no polite smiles, no tense shoulders, just laughter and warmth and little sparks of joy that flicker every time you giggle.

Your phone buzzes on the table, the screen lighting up with Alarm Company. You stare at it for a second, then groan. “Nope. I’m too stoned to deal with that.”

Chan waves a hand dismissively. “Ignore it. That’s Daejung’s responsibility, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Jisung lifts his head, eyes glassy. “So fuck the fat, sweaty bastard! Not like, fuck him, fuck him, but like, you know, fuck him.”

You laugh so hard you almost spill your drink. “Yeah, I get it.”

When Chan unlocks the back door of Sigane Jib that morning, he’s already yawning. The air outside still has that early-Seoul bite to it, a faint chill that hasn’t yet burned off even though the sun’s climbing above the skyline. He rubs at his jaw, stretching his shoulders under his sleeveless denim vest. He expects quiet inside, the usual playlist you put on when you open the store. Definitely not raised voices.

But the second he steps into the upstairs hallway, he hears yelling from the staffroom. The kind of yelling that cuts sharp and ugly through the early calm. Chan stops dead, blinking. It’s too early for this shit, and his brain can’t process it properly until he recognises the voice, it’s Daejung. 

Which makes no fucking sense because Daejung never does opens. He avoids them like cardio. It’s always you and Chan, laughing and sometimes dancing while you restock shoes, sometimes sitting on the counter, eating pastries from the bakery down the street.

The staffroom door is half open, and he pushes it the rest of the way, his jaw tightening as he sees Daejung towering over you.

You’re sitting on the stool by the counter, and your expression is the picture of calm. Your long-sleeved mini dress glows with warm orange tones, the intricate floral patterns making you look like you’ve stepped out of a seventies painting. The neckline dips low, the sheer sleeves fluttering as you rest your arms on the counter, and your white platform boots gleam under the harsh fluorescent light.

“You didn’t answer the alarm call last night! You’re a keyholder, for fuck’s sake! That’s your job!”

You just nod, voice even and soft. “I know, manager-nim. I apologise.”

Chan’s irritation boils immediately into full-blown rage. “Why are you yelling at her? You’re the manager. Maybe try managing your store for once instead of yelling at the person actually doing the fucking work?”

Both of you turn as Chan strides into the room, tossing his backpack onto the bench with a thud. He yanks his lanyard from it, slinging it around his neck like a badge of war as Daejung’s eyes narrow at him, cheeks puffing up like he’s about to pop. “Don’t talk to me like that, Christopher. Are you telling me how to run my store?”

Chan checks that his bangs are sitting just right across his brows in the mirror on the wall. “Someone’s gotta tell you, because you don’t run this store. Y/N runs it. You’re the fucking ugly decoration.”

You lower your gaze to the counter, pretending to tidy a stack of paperwork, but the corner of your mouth is fighting to stay neutral.

Chan turns back to Daejung, deadpan. “What do you think, stinky? Bangs acceptable?”

Daejung’s eye twitches, and his hands curl into fists, and Chan tilts his head curiously. “That twitch doesn’t look good. You should probably see a doctor.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?” Daejung bellows, jabbing a finger toward Chan’s chest.

“I’m the guy doing your job,” Chan fires back, stepping closer. “While you sit on your ass upstairs pretending to be busy.”

“I am the manager-”

“Of what?!”

“Of this store, you disrespectful little shit!”

“Yeah? Then fucking act like it!” 

You stand quickly, muttering, “I’ll just… go open the store,” before slipping out. 

Downstairs, you flip the sign to Open, your voice calm and bright as you greet the first customers filtering in. It doesn’t take long before the yelling upstairs becomes faint background noise. The regulars don’t even blink anymore, they know the drill. But the newer customers look around nervously, whispering to each other.

“Lazy prick!” 

“Disrespectful punk!” 

“You wouldn’t know respect if it slapped you, you sweaty fuck! Y/N’s better at your job than you’ll ever be!”

“I don’t need some kid telling me how to manage my store!”

“Then maybe manage your body odour first, you stinky piece of-”

You start counting coins at the till, pretending to ignore it. The ahjummas are already huddled near the bottom of the stairs, eyes bright, whispering in excitement.

Then the front door opens, and Jisung, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin walk in. They stop just inside the doorway, blinking up at the ceiling where the shouting continues.

Jisung whistles low. “Ahh, just as expected. I knew he wouldn’t last long with useless retail authority, especially with a side of bad hygiene.” He immediately pulls out his phone, flips the camera toward the ceiling, and hits record. 

You stifle a laugh, sliding open the safe with your key. You start adding change to the register, counting softly under your breath.

Jeongin leans over the counter. “Anything good for me, Y/N?”

You grin and pull out a small paper bag labelled faulty. “I stashed a Chanel ’73 for you. Figured you might want to refurb it or something.”

Jeongin beams. “God bless you,” he says, leaning over to kiss your cheek with a loud smack.

Hyunjin gasps dramatically. “And for my stunning self?”

You reach down again, pulling up another bag labelled faulty. Hyunjin opens it, eyes going wide when he sees a Vivienne Westwood single orb black scarf. 

“Oh my god,” he gasps. “She’s gorgeous.”

Jisung peers over his shoulder. “But they’re both faulty.”

Hyunjin flicks him on the forehead. “No, you stupid bisexual. She marks them as faulty so her chemical warfare B.O. weapon of a manager doesn’t notice, and we get the goods.”

You laugh, ringing up the transactions with your staff discount applied. Both Hyunjin and Jeongin tap their cards, thanking you profusely.

The ahjummas cluster closer to the stairs. You grin and pull a box of Pepero from the stash under the till and toss it over. They open it immediately and start snacking, eyes fixed on the stairwell like a live show.

“This is my business!”

“Your eomma’s business, you mean. You’re just the asshole pretending to run it!”

The ahjummas burst into giggles, nodding to each other. One of them murmurs, “He’s right, that one’s always upstairs eating.”

Changbin leans on the counter, smirking. “I knew Chan would get a fan club.”

Jeongin snorts. “Old ladies love muscles. They’d be biting you if you worked here.”

Hyunjin sighs dreamily. “I love that for him. They’ll defend him to the death.”

You keep counting coins, laughter quietly bubbling up when you hear Chan’s next words echo down. “Just do your fucking job, you lazy fuck!”

“Oh my god, this is gold,” Jisung whispers, still pointing his phone at the ceiling. “We’re uploading this to the group chat. I’m making it a soundboard.”

The yelling upstairs continues, though now Daejung’s voice is higher, wheezing slightly. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

“I can, and I fucking will! You stink! Everyone says it! We’ve had customer complaints about your smell, you disgusting bastard!”

You snort so hard you almost drop a handful of coins. The ahjummas all nod emphatically, one of them whispering, “It’s true, I said it to him once. He smelled like spoiled kimchi.”

Jeongin’s doubled over laughing, while Hyunjin’s wiping tears from his eyes. Changbin’s wheezing.

“I will not be disrespected by a twenty-two-year-old boy!”

“Fuck off, then!”

The entire store erupts, and the ahjummas shriek in delight. “He said it! Wah, he said it!”

Then Chan’s voice roars again, “No stomping though! Don’t want you putting a foot through the fucking floor!”

The laughter downstairs reaches a fever pitch as Jisung gasps for air. “How has he not been fired?”

You giggle, pointing discreetly at the ahjummas. “His fan club.”

Hyunjin nods gravely. “They’re powerful.”

The door at the top of the stairs slams open. The laughter downstairs dies down just enough for you all to look up. Chan appears, descending the stairs like a champion after battle, adjusting his vest, face calm and satisfied. His expression softens instantly when he spots you at the till, though. You’re trying so hard to look professional, face mostly hidden behind the computer screen, but he can see the tremor in your shoulders as you fight back laughter.

He beams at you. “Morning, sunshine.”

You give him a double thumbs-up without lifting your head, voice trembling with suppressed giggles. “All good up there?”

“Handled,” Chan says cheerfully.

Chan barely notices his laughing audience, too focused on you. You peek around the till screen, your face lit up with laughter, eyes sparkling. You try to speak but dissolve into giggles, hiding your mouth behind your hand.

He grins wider. “What? I was polite.”

“Polite?” you say through your laughter. “You called him a lazy fuck!”

“Honesty isn’t rude,” Chan replies easily, propping his elbow on the counter. "You’d think he’d appreciate it.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “You’re going to get fired one day.”

Chan leans closer, dropping his voice just enough for you to hear. “He can’t fire me. The ahjummas would riot.”

Behind him, Jisung wheezes, “Bro, that was art. The ‘don’t stomp’ line? You killed him.”

Chan waves them off without looking. He’s too busy watching the way your hair catches the light when you laugh, the soft shimmer of orange gems near your eyes, the way you hide your face behind your hands when you’re trying not to burst out laughing again.

You glance up, catching his gaze, and for a split second there’s a shared look, something quiet and warm amid all the chaos. Then you cough lightly, turning back to the till. “You’re cleaning the fitting rooms as punishment.”

Chan laughs. “Deal.”

When Chan walks up to the thrift shop that morning, it’s unusually quiet for a weekday. The neon sign that usually flickers to life around eight-thirty is off, and taped across the front door in your looping handwriting is a note that reads: Closed all day. 

He spots you crouched near the door, fumbling with the keys, the strap of your cropped denim jacket sliding off your shoulder. The black cropped top beneath your jacket stops just under your chest, showing off a sliver of skin above your high-waisted cargo pants, the belt chain swinging gently as you shift. 

“Closed all day?” Chan asks, holding the energy drink out toward you.

You glance up, take it with a grateful smile, and pop the tab immediately. “Yeah. Stock take day. Lucky us.”

“Oh, joy,” Chan mutters, his accent curling around the words as he shoves his free hand in his pocket. 

You laugh, twisting the key in the door until it clicks. “It’s not that bad,” you say as you step inside, flicking on the lights. “At least we get peace and quiet. Just us and about four thousand items of clothing.”

Chan blinks as the lights hum to life. “Four thousand?”

You shrug, tossing your handbag and a huge shopping bag onto the counter. “Give or take.”

He groans dramatically. “And what exactly are we doing?”

You crack open your energy drink again and take a sip. “You know how we’re both on ten-hour shifts today?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well,” you say, leaning against the counter, “we have to count and log everything we have. Every single item. Then input it all into the system before we leave.”

Chan stares at you. “Everything?”

You nod, biting back a grin.

“The two of us?”

Another nod.

“Including the stockroom?”

You nod again, slower this time, enjoying the way his expression morphs from disbelief to full-on existential crisis.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Holy shitballs of fucking fire.”

You laugh so hard you almost spill your drink. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You’re joking,” he says. “Tell me you’re joking.”

You tilt your head. “It took me fifteen hours last time.”

His jaw drops. “You did it alone?”

“Yup.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You deserve a fucking medal.”

“I’ll settle for a pay rise,” you say dryly, locking the door behind him before heading to the sound system. “Music or silence?”

“Music,” he says immediately.

“Good answer,” you reply, pressing play on a playlist filled with upbeat songs that echo faintly through the store.

From under the counter, you pull out a massive binder, thick enough to be used as a murder weapon, and drop it with a loud thud on the counter.  “Jesus, that looks like it weighs as much as Daejung,” he says, horrified.

You snort, laughing. “Okay,” you say, flipping it open. “This is all the inventory from last quarter. It’s sectioned and then subdivided by brand. When you find something, check here for the name or code and write it down.”

He stares at the pages covered in tiny writing and numbers. “Right. Sounds simple enough. Totally fine. No reason to cry.”

You grin, sliding a notebook across the counter toward him. “It’s easier to input it all at the end of the shift. If you do it as you go, you’ll lose track.”

“Got it,” he says, setting his bag down. “So what do we start with?”

“Stockroom boxes,” you say. “We can sit while we do those. Less crying.”

He nods and heads into the stockroom, rolling up his sleeves. It doesn’t take long before he’s carrying out the first stack of boxes, balancing them easily on his forearms. The definition in his arms catches the light, his veins standing out as he sets the boxes down in front of you. His black vest shifts with each move, straps glinting against the soft metallic accents. The layered necklaces around his neck jingle faintly as he straightens up.

You drag the two wheely chairs from behind the counter and set them up beside the boxes, then open your shopping bag and start pulling out snacks and drinks, and Chan grins immediately.

“You’re a saint.”

“Preparedness,” you say proudly. “Retail survival 101.”

You hand him another notebook and slide the binder toward him, flipping yours open as you sit cross-legged on your chair.

For a while, the store fills with the rustle of plastic and paper, the clink of hangers as you both sort through boxes. You note down brands, years, and conditions with quick, neat handwriting. Chan’s handwriting, meanwhile, looks like he’s trying to exorcise the paper.

After an hour, he glances up. “So, what do you actually study in college again?”

You scribble down Versace 2003 shirt before answering. “Hair and makeup artistry major,” you say, moving on to the next box. “Double minor, global beauty trends and beauty industry management.”

He raises a brow, jotting down LV 1992 dress in his notebook. “So you’re basically training to make the world hotter?”

“Something like that. But it’s more than just looks, you know?”

He hums, nodding, waiting for you to explain.

“Did you ever watch Cinderella as a kid?” you ask.

He laughs. “Everyone’s seen it, I think.”

“My eomma brought home a DVD from America when I was little,” you say, smiling at the memory. “I was obsessed. I thought the fairy godmother was magic, not because of the dress, but because of how she made Cinderella feel. Like she could look in the mirror and actually see herself, but the version of herself that she wanted to be. I think that’s what I want to do for people. Not change them, just... help them see what’s already there.”

Chan pauses mid-scribble, watching you as you talk. “So, like, a real-life fairy godmother?”

You grin. “Exactly. You want a haircut, a new colour, makeup, lashes, nails, anything. I want to open a salon where you can come in feeling meh and leave feeling like you own the world. Does that sound stupid?”

He taps his pen against the paper. “No.”

You glance at him. “That’s it? No big speech?”

He looks up, grinning. “You want me to shout about it? Like, ‘Wow, that’s the most inspiring shit I’ve ever heard in my life!’”

You throw a scrunchie at him, laughing. “You are unbelievable. You have all the creative insults in the world when you’re yelling at Daejung, but now you give me one-word answers.”

He shrugs innocently. “What can I say? You’re intimidating.”

You blow a raspberry and give him a thumbs down. “Boring.”

“Ouch,” he says, hand on his chest, feigning injury.

You giggle as you jot down Eminem The Monster 2014 Tour T-shirt.

Chan glances at you, his expression softening before he speaks again. “There’s a party Saturday night. You coming?”

You hum without looking up. “Maybe.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The right person hasn’t asked,” you say lightly, still focused on your notebook.

He blinks, then a grin spreads slowly across his face. “Y/N.”

“Chan.”

“Do you wanna go to the party with me?”

You pretend to think for a second, then smile. “Now that you’ve asked, yes. I’d like that.”

He grins, triumphant. “Oh, there’s a theme, by the way.”

“Of course there is,” you say, laughing. “What is it?”

“Tim Burton movie characters,” he says. “It was my birthday on the 8th and Minho’s on the 25th. We both turned 22, so we figured we’d throw a big Halloween blowout.”

You pout. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want you spending your hard-earned money on me.”

“I could’ve at least gotten you a card,” you say, shaking your head. “Even if it was a 5,000 won card with Spider-Man on the front that says ‘Happy Fifth Birthday.’”

“That would’ve been perfect.”

The hours tick by in a haze of laughter, teasing, and the quiet rhythm of you both calling out items to confirm them. 

By hour seven, your notes are filled with scribbles, and your hands ache. You stretch, groaning, and Chan tosses a bag of chips toward you without looking up.

By hour nine, both of you are slumped in your chairs, surrounded by open boxes and empty cans. The once neatly stacked binders now look like a battlefield. You press Enter on the final spreadsheet cell, the satisfying click echoing through the silence.

Chan raises both arms like a victorious gladiator. “We’re done!”

You groan and drop your head onto the counter. “I never want to see another label again.”

Chan slides dramatically out of his chair onto the floor, lying flat on his back. “We survived.”

Before either of you can move, there’s a knock at the door. You groan again, tossing your keys to Chan. “Go.”

He catches your keys and drags himself to the door, peeking through the glass. Outside, Jisung and Changbin are grinning like idiots.

“Lock up,” Jisung says. “You’re bringing Y/N back to the frat. We’re getting stoned!”

Chan grins. “Hear that?”

You give him a weak thumbs-up from where your face is still pressed to the desk. “Yay.”

Changbin laughs. “That sounded convincing.”

“Ten hours of stock taking. She’s a shell of her former self.”

“Well, bring the shell anyway,” Jisung says. “We’ve got edibles.”

You sit up, stretching your neck, then grab your jacket. “Okay, fine, I’m in.”

Chan helps you pack up, double-checking the system’s saved before shutting down the computer. You both grab your bags, and you set the alarm, pressing your fob until it beeps.

“Door’s locked?” Chan asks.

You tug on the handle twice, nodding. “Locked.”

When you turn around, Jisung’s already crouched, patting his back. “Come on, Y/N.”

You laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

You shrug and hop onto his back. He steadies you easily, grabbing your thighs, and he takes off down the street in short, exaggerated sprints, spinning as you squeal, half laughing, half terrified. “JISUNG!”

Changbin doubles over laughing. “He’s gonna eat shit!”

Chan shakes his head. “You’re fucking insane, Ji!”

“Exercise!” Jisung shouts, still spinning. “This is how I stay hot!”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “You’re gonna drop me, idiot!”

“Never!” Jisung declares, staggering to a stop. “I’m strong like a bull!”

Chan finally catches up, slightly out of breath, his grin wide. “Alright, down you get before he throws his back out.”

Jisung pouts. “You wound me.”

You slide off, still giggling, your hand brushing Chan’s arm as you steady yourself. He glances down at you and can’t help but think about your dream, your fairy godmother story, and how you somehow manage to make the dullest parts of life feel a little magical.

The Alpha Phi house is chaos. You emerge from Jisung’s room, brushing stray glitter off your hands, the faint smell of setting spray clinging to your skin. You’ve been in there for nearly two hours, painting him from head to toe. He’s going as the male version of the Corpse Bride, and the sight of him in his tattered white suit is honestly kind of breathtaking, if you ignore the fact that Hyunjin had to paint Jisung’s ass because you refused to go anywhere near it. 

As you’re stepping out of the room, Jisung shouts after you, voice echoing down the hall, “You’re amazing! If Chan does anything to upset you tonight, you can sit on my face! Or Minho’s! I give you full permission to sit on my boyfriend’s face!”

You burst into laughter, pressing your hand over your mouth as Minho leans against his doorframe, dressed in his tailored Victor Everglot suit, and his eyes drag down your body in deliberate slow motion. “Oh, absolutely, you could sit on my face. You can be our third. We’d treat you better than Chan.”

From down the hall, there’s the sound of Felix, Jeongin, Changbin, and Hyunjin all howling behind closed doors as you duck into Chan’s room, where you find him standing by his desk, adjusting his gloves, the faint red glow from the hallway lights catching on the glossy vinyl of his jacket. When he looks up and sees you, his whole face splits into a grin that could melt glaciers.

He looks unreal, his outfit is a flawless male twist on Lydia Deetz’s red wedding dress. The tailcoat is blood-red vinyl, detailed with black lapels lined in silver studs. Underneath, a fitted red vest hugs his torso, zipped tight over a black dress shirt and tie. His black trousers tuck into combat boots. He's even sprayed his hair black, and you silently thank yourself for convincing him that the spray wouldn’t stain his silver and red underneath.

Meanwhile, you look like a gender-bent fever dream of Beetlejuice. The black-and-white striped blazer fits perfectly, layered over a crisp white shirt and the black tie you borrowed from Chan. The waist-cinching corset you wear over the blazer accentuates your figure, its silver buttons catching the light with every move. Matching striped trousers hug your legs down to where your stilettos click softly against the floor. Your hair, sprayed a vivid chartreuse-green, falls freely around your shoulders in soft waves, and your makeup is hauntingly perfect, pale white base, deep purple and magenta around your eyes, greyish-brown lips that shimmer slightly when you smile.

Chan looks you over once more and whistles under his breath. “You look so fucking good, it’s criminal.”

“Stop staring,” you tease, walking toward him.

“I’m appreciating art,” he says, still grinning as he leans back slightly in his chair.

You pick up your makeup bag from the desk and twist open an eyeliner pen. “Sit still.”

You stand between his knees as he looks up at you, the faintest smirk still lingering. You tilt his chin up with two fingers, concentrating on blending out the smoky shadow around his eyes. The intimacy of it makes the air between you hum, he’s close enough that you can smell the faint mix of his cologne and the metallic tang of the hairspray.

“You could just sit in my lap,” 

You roll your eyes, though you’re smiling. “You’d like that too much.”

“Exactly,” 

“Hold still,” you warn, gently pressing the brush against his eyelid again. “If you blink and I stab you, that’s on you.”

“I trust you,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

“You shouldn’t,” you reply, but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

After a moment, he breaks the silence again, voice teasing. “You look hot in that. You should wear it to work.”

You snort, still focused on your blending. “Why the fuck would I wear this to work?”

“Extra motivation,” he says casually.

“For what?”

“To perfect the jeans book fold,” he says, and the smirk in his tone is so stupid you burst out laughing, pulling your hand away before you ruin his eyeliner.

“Jesus, Chan,” you say, shaking your head, laughing too hard to keep steady. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

"You love it,"

You sigh, amused, then refocus, lining his lower lid in careful strokes. Once you’re done, you pull back, examining him critically. “Okay,” you murmur, picking up the liquid liner next. “Don’t move. I’ll do your wings.”

“I always knew you’d say that to me one day,” he says, lips twitching.

“Do you want me to fuck up your eyeliner?”

“No, ma’am,” he says instantly.

“That’s what I thought.”

You lean in close, your hand braced lightly under his chin. He watches your face instead of the brush, his eyes soft and admiring. You can feel his breath against your wrist, but you focus, tracing the line into a sharp flick. When you finally step back, satisfied, he blinks up at you.

“How do I look?” he asks.

Before you can answer, a voice bellows from the hallway. “OLD!”

“Fuck off, Seungmin!” Chan shouts back, laughing.

You arch an eyebrow. “Seungmin's the law student, right?”

“The law student,” Chan confirms with mock solemnity.

“That explains it.”

You hear Jisung’s loud voice, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bassline kicking in. “Music’s on!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the house.

Then Felix yells, “Dibs on bartender!” and you can hear him bounding down the stairs. He’s dressed as Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter, his hair sprayed a chaotic orange, hat wobbling precariously as he moves. Jeongin follows immediately, yelling, “No, me!” dressed as Sweeney Todd in a white shirt streaked with fake blood, holding a prop razor like he’s genuinely about to commit crimes.

Hyunjin saunters after him, dressed as a male version of Mrs Lovett, complete with a corset and lace sleeves, humming dramatically as he goes. Seungmin trails them, silver scissors taped to his gloves, every bit the brooding Edward Scissorhands, while Changbin appears behind him in a purple velvet jacket and top hat, looking like a smug, muscular Willy Wonka who definitely sells illegal candy.

“You ready for the madness?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Hmm. One thing’s missing.”

“Oh?” he asks, tilting his head.

You lean down and press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a dark, glossy grey-brown lip print. He grins immediately, eyes flashing with mischief. “That’ll do it,” he says, his voice lower now.

“Now we’re ready.”

He stands, grabbing your hand without hesitation, fingers interlocking with yours as he leads you toward the stairs.

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!” Felix shouts the moment you reach the top step, voice gleeful and echoing through the house.

You step into view and strike a dramatic pose, one leg lifted, arms thrown up. The entire room erupts into whoops and laughter. Chan chuckles behind you, squeezing your hand. The house is now crowded, students from all over campus are filtering in, arms full of bottles and cans, some already halfway drunk, all in elaborate costumes. 

Jisung gasps theatrically. “Y/N! I know I’ve already seen you, but fuck! I’m gonna squirt!”

You turn to look at Chan, who doesn’t even blink. “Don’t ask,” he says dryly.

Minho appears beside Jisung, already halfway through a beer, and holds his hand out toward you. “Come on, Beetlejuice.”

You laugh, taking his hand and hopping down the last few steps, your heels clicking against the wood. When you turn around, Chan’s jogging down after you, eyes never leaving your face. He reaches you and takes your hand again, weaving through the growing crowd. “You ready?” he asks, voice barely audible over the music.

You grin up at him. “Show me how Bang Chan parties with his dates.”

He grins back, leaning in close enough for you to feel the vibration of his words, “I don't just party with anyone. You’re the first.”

Chan presses one hand to your lower back as he starts to guide you through the crowd, his other hand wrapped securely around your wrist. You stumble slightly when someone in a huge inflatable dinosaur costume bumps into your shoulder, and Chan steadies you instantly, his palm firm against the small of your back. “You good?” he asks, leaning close enough that his lips brush your ear.

You grin and nod. “Perfect. This is chaos, but like… in the best way.”

“Good,” he says, flashing a grin that makes his Deetz look somehow hotter. “Because it’s only gonna get worse.”

When you finally reach the kitchen, you burst out laughing at the sight before you. The entire counter is covered, bottles of whiskey, gin, vodka, and an alarming number of soju bottles are lined up like soldiers beside rows of mixers and cups. Jeongin and Hyunjin are behind the makeshift bar, both looking far too smug as they mix drinks like seasoned professionals. 

The moment Hyunjin spots you and Chan together, he waves his hands dramatically, shooing away the small crowd of people waiting for their drinks. “VIPs!” he announces loudly. “Go away, losers! The bar’s closed for commoners!”

The people waiting groan, but the sound dies instantly when Jeongin turns, eyes narrowing. The crowd backs off toward the hallway, leaving the counter clear. Hyunjin flips his hair, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“Hyunjin,” you say, laughing, “you’re going to get murdered tonight.”

“I’m too pretty to die,” he says easily, then looks at you with a theatrical sigh. “Y/N, I know I’ve seen your costume already, but my gay little heart can’t handle your fabulousness. You are serving cunt, couture, and corpse, all in one look.”

You laugh, placing your hands dramatically on your hips. “High praise coming from Seoul’s reigning drama queen.”

“Facts,” he says with a grin, grabbing a massive cup. “You deserve the biggest drink I can make.”

As he starts mixing ingredients, Jeongin looks over his shoulder and grins at Chan. “Honestly, I don’t know how she puts up with you, snappy hyung.”

Chan glares, crossing his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeongin twirls a bar spoon lazily, smirking. “That right there,” he says, circling a finger dramatically in front of Chan’s face. “Short fuse hyung.”

Chan doesn’t even dignify that with a response, he just flips Jeongin off, and Jeongin gasps so loudly that a few people turn their heads. “Did you just flip me off? Your beloved, innocent maknae?”

“Innocent my ass,” Chan mutters.

Jeongin places a hand on his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m hurt. You know what, for that I’m gonna spit in your drink.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “I dare you.”

You hide your mouth with your hand, leaning slightly toward Jeongin. “Do it,” you whisper, grinning.

Chan’s head whips toward you. “You-”

You give him the most innocent smile you can muster. “What?”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously before he looks back at Jeongin. “Yang Jeongin,” he says in the calm, even tone of someone who absolutely means business, “if I find out you spat in my drink, I will drag you into the back garden and drown you in the pool.”

Jeongin gasps again, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Jeongin hands over a cup filled with bright red liquid, smirking. “Here you go, hyung.”

Chan stares at it suspiciously, and you snicker as Hyunjin hands you a cup filled with something the exact green shade of your Beetlejuice hair, shimmering faintly with edible glitter. You raise it toward Hyunjin. “If I die, it’s on you.”

He winks. “You’ll die fabulous.”

“Perfect,” you say, taking a sip. It’s surprisingly good, tart, fizzy, a little sweet, and dangerously strong.

Chan clinks his cup lightly against yours. “Cheers, Beetlejuice.”

“Cheers, Lydia,” you reply, and the two of you knock them back, the drinks going down far too easily.

You and Chan weave your way toward the dining room, which has been transformed into a dance floor. The tables and chairs are shoved against the walls, and purple lights flicker overhead as music pulses through the speakers. 

You down the rest of your drink in one go and set the empty cup on a window ledge, already feeling the warmth of the alcohol spreading through you. Chan laughs and does the same, his gloved hand brushing against yours before he grabs it again and pulls you closer, his hand settling on your waist. 

You look at him, your laughter fading into a smile as the next song fades into something smoother, the steady beat of Cuff It fills the room, the kind of track that feels like summer and bad decisions.

“Dance with me,” Chan says softly.

You nod, sliding one hand onto his shoulder. His other hand finds yours, fingers curling around it, warm even through the glove. He’s surprisingly good at this, you realise, smooth, confident, his movements easy and unforced. You fall into movement with him naturally, your bodies close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating through his clothes.

“I know this isn’t a very good date,” he says, leaning in so you can hear him over the music.

You shake your head, smiling. “No, it’s great. I love it. It’s a change. No yelling customers. No fat, sweaty bastard ruining my day.”

Chan throws his head back and laughs. “I’ve never been more attracted to you"

You giggle, unable to stop yourself, and he spins you out before he reels you back in, your chest brushing against his as he catches you effortlessly.

You’re both still laughing when the crowd around you cheers at something, and then, suddenly, there’s a flash of blue in your peripheral vision. Jisung appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with dramatic urgency, his face painted and glittering under the strobe lights.

“Once you two are done being cute,” he says, panting slightly from dancing, “come to the living room!”

The living room has transformed into a smoky haze of laughter, neon light, and too many limbs crammed onto couches, beanbags, and the floor. Chan leads you straight to the armchair, pulling you down with him. You settle in, your legs draped lazily over the arm of the chair while your side presses to his chest. Your back fits snugly against the opposite arm, and Chan’s arm wraps around your stomach, his gloved fingers splaying across the fabric of your blazer.

Someone passes the bong, the glass glinting green in the light, and Chan takes it, pulling a long drag before passing it to you. You inhale, exhale, cough once, and then laugh when Chan pats your side with mock sympathy.

“Lightweight,” he teases.

“Bite me,” you shoot back.

Chan curls a strand of your bright green hair around his finger. “Wah, inhyeong, you look so fucking sexy perched in my lap like this.”

You turn your head, grinning. “Inhyeong? You’re really calling me doll now?”

“I think it suits you,” he murmurs, eyes glittering. “Pretty as a doll.”

You lightly slap his chest, rolling your eyes, but the smile that spreads over your face betrays how much you like it. “You’re so full of shit,” you say, but your voice is fond.

“I’m full of charm,” he corrects, leaning his head against yours for a moment. “You ever been to Sydney?”

You shake your head. “Never left Asia.”

“Ah,” he says, eyes softening as he exhales another thin stream of smoke. “It’s beautiful, you know. I grew up near the beach, Sydney’s got some of the best in the world. The water’s clear as glass in summer, and the sand’s so white it nearly blinds you. I used to go swimming all the time when I was a kid. Me, Hannah, and Lucas, my little sister and brother, we’d spend hours there. Hannah used to build sandcastles like she was applying for an architecture degree. Lucas would just destroy them five seconds later.”

You take a drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips as you tilt your head back. The music fades in and out of focus. “Okay, serious question. Is it true that koalas have chlamydia?”

Chan bursts out laughing so hard he chokes on his drink. “What the fuck-”

You shrug, deadpan. “You’re Australian, I’m curious. The internet says all your koalas are diseased.”

“They’re not all diseased!” he says between laughs.

You raise an eyebrow. “So, some of them are?”

He laughs harder. “Yeah, some of them are, but why are you asking?”

“Because I saw a video once of this guy holding a koala and it pissed on him, and the comments were all like ‘RIP that man’s immune system,’ and I’ve never recovered.”

Chan’s laughing so hard now that his eyes are watering. “Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“I’m curious!” you protest, trying not to laugh yourself. “Can humans catch koala chlamydia? Like, is that a thing?”

He wipes his eyes, still chuckling. “What? No human can catch koala chlamydia. Jesus Christ.”

“So you’re telling me the guy’s fine?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” Chan says, still laughing. “He probably just needed a long shower and therapy.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Good to know. What about kangaroos? Are they really, like, violent fuckers? I saw a video of one punching a dog once.”

Chan grins. “Oh, they’re absolute bastards. You try to feed them, and they kick you in the chest.”

You gasp, hand over your mouth. “Australia sounds terrifying. Everything there either stings, punches, or pisses on you.”

“Pretty much,” Chan agrees, still grinning.

You blink at him, your head lolling against his shoulder. “Have you ever been pissed on? Or have you pissed on someone?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You know! The thing you’re supposed to do if someone gets stung by a jellyfish. You pee on them. Have you ever done that?”

Chan’s laughter explodes again, echoing through the living room. “I’ve never been pissed on or been the piss hero,”

The two of you dissolve into laughter, the smoke curling around your faces, forming a soft haze that turns the rest of the room into a blur. The others are talking and laughing in their own clusters, but it feels like you and Chan are in your own little pocket of the world.

Then, out of nowhere, Jisung claps his hands and announces, “Okay, okay, I have to ask an important question for investigative journalistic data.”

Chan groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never a good start.”

“Brace for impact!” Changbin shouts from the couch, throwing his arms up like a flight attendant.

Everyone laughs and immediately goes along with it. You curl into a ball in Chan’s lap like a little hedgehog, giggling as he wraps an arm tighter around you, bracing his other arm against the side of the chair.

“Alright,” Jisung says, dramatically clearing his throat. “If you were to get given a facial, would you rather accidentally get cum in your eye or up your nose?”

“Eye,” you say immediately.

Changbin blinks. “That was a fast answer.”

“Look-” you start, but Minho’s already cackling, nearly falling off the beanbag. Chan’s shoulders shake under you as he tries not to laugh out loud.

Jisung leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, “Y/N, do you have a story to tell?”

You groan. “No, listen-”

From the floor, Felix raises his hand. “I’d also say eye. Up your nose burns your nose, eyes, and throat. It’s all connected. Triple burn.”

You point at him triumphantly. “Thank you!” He lifts his hand, and you high-five him. “I love you, Felix,” you say dramatically.

“I love you too,” Felix replies, smiling.

Jisung wipes tears from his eyes, still giggling. “Okay, okay, fine, but we’re doing truth or dare now.”

Everyone cheers in agreement. Seungmin is sent to fetch Hyunjin and Jeongin, who reappear carrying bottles of booze like conquering heroes. The door is locked, and for good measure, a chair is wedged under the handle.

Jisung rummages through a drawer and pulls out a small box. “Behold,” he says dramatically, holding it up. “Adult truth or dare.”

Hyunjin claps his hands. “Perfect.” He and Jeongin immediately grab the bong to catch up, taking massive hits until both of them are coughing and laughing like maniacs.

Jisung sets the cards down, and Hyunjin places an empty bottle in the centre of the group, spinning it and everyone leans forward to see who it lands on, and it's Minho who ends up being the first victim. The bottle stops in front of him, and he grins. “Dare.”

Felix grabs a card and reads it out loud. “Make eye contact with the person to your right and moan for twenty seconds.”

Seungmin immediately looks like he wants to die. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Minho turns slowly, dramatically, until he’s facing Seungmin, locking eyes with him. Then, without hesitation, he starts moaning loudly. Everyone bursts out laughing, but poor Seungmin looks horrified, frozen like a statue. Minho throws his head back, moaning louder, and then, for dramatic effect, pinches his own nipple.

“Fuck, my life,” Seungmin mutters, covering his face.

Felix checks his phone timer. “And twenty!”

The room erupts in applause and howling laughter. Minho straightens his shirt like nothing happened, takes a long drag from the bong, and spins the bottle. It lands on Hyunjin. “Truth,” Hyunjin says immediately, looking unbothered.

Minho pulls a card, grinning. “Have you ever used sex toys?”

Hyunjin shrugs. “I have a butt plug in right now.”

Jeongin raises a hand casually. “It sparkles. Big pink gem on the end.”

You choke on your drink as everyone screams with laughter. Changbin’s fallen backwards off the couch, Jisung’s wheezing, and Seungmin looks like he’s trying to mentally uninstall himself from existence.

The bottle spins again. It lands on Chan. “Dare,” Chan says easily, grinning.

Hyunjin picks up a card and reads it aloud. “Make out with a person of your choice for one minute straight.”

Chan's eyes land on you, and you blink, heart skipping a beat, and then shift so you’re straddling Chan’s lap. He looks up at you, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk before he reaches up, cupping your face in both hands. “Ready?” he asks softly.

You nod, and then his lips crash into yours.

The noise in the room fades instantly. Your hands find his face, fingers sliding along his jaw as his other hand trails down your back, gripping your waist. He tastes like smoke and sweetness and something faintly minty. The longer it goes, the less you hear anything around you. His hand slides along your thigh, fingers pressing lightly, possessive but teasing. When he tangles his other hand in your hair, tugging slightly, you let out a quiet gasp that only he hears.

The minute feels endless, then suddenly it’s gone. When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathing heavier, his forehead resting against yours. The room erupts in cheers and teasing laughter.

You laugh and slide back into your sideways perch in his lap. Chan’s grinning like the smug shit he is, his arm wrapping around you again.

“Someone spin for me,” he says, voice still slightly rough.

Jisung obliges, flicking the bottle until it lands on himself. “Truth.”

Jeongin grabs the card. “What is the most sexually daring thing you’ve ever done?”

“Minho and I had sex in the pool yesterday. It was daring. Because one, neither of us can swim. And two, there was still cum in the pool when Hyunjin went swimming earlier.”

“WHAT?!”

Jisung spins the bottle, and it lands on Felix. “Dare,” Felix says immediately, grinning.

Jisung reads the card. “Do a striptease for the room.”

The wolf whistles start instantly when Felix stands, winking as Minho puts on Pony. Felix starts slow, rolling his hips, tugging at his suspenders, and popping open the buttons on his shirt one by one. The glitter catches the light, and when he shimmies his shoulders, everyone howls.

When he finishes, the room bursts into applause. He bows deeply and downs half a drink before spinning the bottle.

It lands on Seungmin. “Truth,” Seungmin says, looking resigned.

Felix reads the card. “What’s something you ask your partners to do that you’ve never told anyone before?”

Seungmin sighs. “I always ask them to keep their socks on.”

“Why?” Jisung asks, grinning.

“I hate feet,” Seungmin says flatly. “Like, genuinely. I can’t focus if someone’s bare feet are out. It ruins the mood.”

Minho snorts. “So you’re out here fucking in socks like it's not gay if there's socks on?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Seungmin says, but he’s laughing too hard to sound angry.

The bottle spins again. It lands on Changbin. “Dare,” Changbin says confidently.

Seungmin grins. “Do the Magic Mike routine.”

“What?!”

“Card says so,” Seungmin lies smoothly.

Changbin groans but stands, cracking his neck. When the music starts again, he starts moving with surprising rhythm, rolling his hips and unbuttoning his shirt. Everyone’s screaming with laughter, especially when he drops to his knees and does a full body roll.

“Why are you good at that?!” Jeongin cries between laughs.

“I have layers,” Changbin says as he spins the bottle, and it lands on Jeongin.

“Dare,” Jeongin says bravely.

Changbin grins. “Do a bondage demonstration.”

Everyone’s eyes go wide, but Jeongin just smirks. “Hyunjin, get over here.”

Hyunjin immediately stands, as Jeongin grabs a scarf and starts talking in a calm, teacherly tone as he ties Hyunjin’s wrists together with practised ease. “Bondage is all about communication and safety. You need to make sure your knots aren’t cutting off circulation-”

Everyone’s watching, wide-eyed, half stoned and half fascinated. You lean toward Chan and whisper, “He looks so innocent, and yet he can tie someone up like a sacrificial virgin in a horror movie.”

Chan grins, voice low. “He tied that last knot wrong.”

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at him. “And you know that how?”

He just grins wider, eyes glinting under the haze. “Trade secret, inhyeong.”

The bottle spins again, and everyone leans forward to see who it’ll stop on this time. It finally slows, wobbling once before stopping right in front of you. The room erupts with gleeful chaos.

“Y/N!” Jisung shouts, clapping his hands. “Yes, let’s corrupt the innocent Beetlejuice!”

You laugh as Minho grabs a card. He glances down, grins, and reads in his best mock-serious tone, “Have you ever worn a costume during sex? If so, what?”

You throw your head back, groaning as you reach out for the bong that’s currently balanced between Felix and Jeongin. Chan laughs, squeezing your hip gently as you take a massive rip, holding it for a second before exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifts lazily toward the ceiling. When you finally look up, eight pairs of eyes are on you, and Chan’s stare burns the most. He’s grinning, that stupidly cocky tilt to his mouth, but his eyes are curious, almost expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, setting the bong down. “Yes, I have.”

“Give details,” Minho demands, wagging a finger.

You sigh, pretending to think it over, but your grin gives you away. “One of them was Lady Dimitrescu. You know, the vampire from Resident Evil?”

“Holy shit,” Jisung breathes, clutching his chest.

“I’m about to start barking or drooling,” Seungmin mutters, rubbing his face. “I’m not sure which.”

“Show us,” Felix says, already half reaching for your phone.

You smirk, unlocking your screen and flipping open your photo gallery. The laughter around you quiets as the bright light illuminates your face. Chan, sitting behind you with his arm around your waist, gets the best view when the picture opens and his entire expression changes.

There you are in the photo: hair platinum blonde, cascading past your shoulders, wearing a floor-length black gown with a tightly fitted corset that shapes your waist. The hooded veil drapes over your face, shadowing your features just enough to make your darkly painted eyes and blood-red lips stand out. Black gloves cover your hands, the long, sleek fabric glinting faintly. 

“They don’t need to see that,” Chan says quickly, voice lower now.

“Oh, come on!” Hyunjin whines.

“Show the class!” Jisung begs.

“Absolutely not,” Chan says as he reaches for your phone, hitting the power button and locking it.

“That’s emotional terrorism,” Jisung declares, clutching his chest.

You laugh, nudging him with your foot. “You’ll live.”

“I won’t,” he says dramatically, grabbing your ankle and pressing a loud, exaggerated kiss to it. 

Chan’s hand tightens lightly around your waist as he laughs, shaking his head. “You lot are unbelievable.”

“You love it,” Jisung fires back, grinning.

The game continues in waves of laughter and smoke. The truths grow filthier, the dares riskier. Jisung ends up naked for two rounds. Everyone times how long it takes Minho to get hard while Jisung massages up his thighs. The results come in at eighteen seconds flat, which Jisung declares “a personal record.” 

You can barely breathe from laughing so hard, leaning back against Chan’s chest as tears sting your eyes. Chan’s arms tighten around your waist as he buries his face in your hair, laughing too. “This is insane,” he says between chuckles.

“This is perfect,” you counter, wiping your eyes.

Jisung grabs the bottle again, still half-naked, and spins it dramatically. You take another sip of your drink, your head spinning pleasantly, and glance up at Chan again. He looks at you, eyes crinkling with a grin, and for a second, despite all the chaos, everything around you blurs into quiet.

His thumb strokes idly against your skin, his voice low enough that only you hear. “You having fun, inhyeong?”

You grin at him. “Best first date ever.”

He chuckles softly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your hair. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m already planning the second one.”

It’s December, Seoul is freezing, and retail is hell. Not the cute, quirky kind of hell where people buy sweaters and hum carols under their breath, but the kind of hell where old women fight over 70,000 won scarves and grown men throw tantrums over mismatched sock sets. Sigane Jib looks like a warzone disguised as a thrift store, fairy lights blinking pitifully from above the counter as if even they’re exhausted from the chaos.

You’ve been running since you clocked in, your tinkerbell lanyard jingling like mockery every time you move too fast. The outfit you thought was cute this morning now feels like battle armour. 

Chan’s at the till, his sleeveless black vest showing off his arms, a studded belt hanging low around his tan cargo pants. His hair’s messy from the cold wind every time someone opens the front door, and his deep voice keeps cutting through the noise with calm efficiency. 

The store alarm blares again, and you’re ready to throw yourself into traffic. “Fucking hell! This piece of shit system!”

“Language, inhyeong,” Chan calls from behind the till, voice teasing even though his tone’s tight as the old computer wheezes like it’s begging for death.

"It’s the fifth fucking time today!”

The customers don’t even flinch anymore. The regulars know Sigane Jib’s alarm is possessed. The new ones just glance around, half expecting someone to run out with stolen goods. But no, it’s just you, the sound of your sanity crumbling, and the echo of the alarm screaming through the store.

Chan glances over, smirking faintly. “Want me to hit it?”

You don’t even look up from the control box. “No, because last time you hit it, the fucking thing didn’t stop for forty minutes!”

He laughs quietly, turning back to the register. The system beeps, agonizingly slow, as he types in each item name by hand. “Sigane Jib, where technology goes to die.”

You type in the override code with one hand while holding the landline phone between your ear and shoulder. “Yeah, Mr Choi, it’s me again. It’s the same issue. Yes, the keypad’s flashing red. No, my fob didn’t work again. Yes, I already tried unplugging it, well, yes, I know that’s not how it works, but I was desperate. It’s been like this for days. Please help me”

Across the shop floor, Minho and Jisung are on the verge of collapse. Neither technically works here, but desperate times call for desperate measures. When you called him this morning, your voice barely holding steady, he didn’t even hesitate.

“Ji, I can’t- please, it’s just me and Chan, and Daejung’s being fucking useless, and it’s the holiday rush, and people are stealing left and right-”

“Y/N, breathe,” Jisung had said. “I’m on my way. I’ll drag Minho too. We’ll be there in ten.”

“You’re an angel, Ji- wait, Minho too?”

“You think I’m coming without my boyfriend? Hell no. I’m not dying in a retail apocalypse without his thighs to stare at.”

Now, three hours later, Jisung is in the zone, Mickey Mouse lanyard bouncing against his chest as he powers through the fitting room dumps. He’s done this before, and he’s determined not to let you cry again today.

Minho, meanwhile, has decided that catching shoplifters is his new hobby. He’s terrifyingly good at it. Every time a customer even looks suspiciously at a coat they haven’t paid for, Minho’s suddenly behind them, arms crossed, eyes sharp. 

When one woman tries to stuff a scarf into her handbag, he silently takes it back, then grabs a broom and ushers her out like a piece of dust. 

“Next time you want free shit,” Minho says dryly, sweeping behind her, “try your own closet.”

The store is chaos, but it’s controlled chaos, somehow. Jisung’s folding, Minho’s guarding, Chan’s manning the till, and you’re trying not to cry into the landline.

“Okay, Mr Choi, I’ve entered the code again. Still red. Still-oh wait, it’s green! You’re a genius! Thank you. You’re the best.” You hang up and press your fob one last time.

Silence. Sweet, merciful silence. 

You exhale, resting your forehead against the wall. “Finally.”

But peace never lasts long in retail. A tap on your shoulder makes you turn, smile already strained. “Yes, ma’am?”

The woman in front of you looks offended by your existence. “I’ve been queuing for ten minutes. I only want this one pair of jeans. Can I jump the line?”

You blink, your polite retail smile threatening to slip. “Sorry, ma’am, that’s not how queues work. You’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

“But she has eight items!” the customer protests, pointing dramatically toward a college student at the counter.

You’ve had enough, so you straighten up, hands on your hips. “She’s been here half an hour longer than you. Queue up or fuck off.”

The store goes silent, but from behind the counter, Chan whoops, clapping his hands. “That’s my girl!”

Jisung and Minho cheer from the floor. “Finally!” Jisung yells. “Welcome to the dark side!”

“Proud of you, inhyeong,” Chan says loudly, not even pretending to whisper.

The customer gasps and storms off, muttering something about “customer service.” You take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Y/N,” Chan calls, voice gentle now. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you reply.

The peace lasts five minutes before Daejung emerges from his cave of an office, his face twisted in irritation and trailing behind him, of course, is the same customer you just told off.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Do not even start with me.”

Daejung freezes mid-step.

You cross your arms, glaring up at him. “One word, and I’ll call your eomma.”

Chan’s laughter from the till is quiet but dangerous. You watch Daejung’s soul visibly leave his body. He knows you mean it. His eomma, Geumja, the owner, adores you, and she terrifies him.

The customer looks between you and Daejung like she’s watching a hostage negotiation. You point toward the door. “If you don’t like the service, you can leave. Merry fucking Christmas.”

The woman huffs, clutching her jeans, and storms out. The door slams shut, making the bell jingle violently.

You turn back to the store, raising your voice. “Right! We have two actual employees, two friends we called in as emergency backup because we’ve got a fat, lazy, useless pig of a manager who won’t hire more staff! So, if you don’t like the wait times, you can leave! Happy holidays!”

“Y/N!” Daejung barks, red-faced.

You cross your arms again, utterly unimpressed. “What?”

His eyes flick to Chan, who raises an eyebrow, silent but menacing. Everyone knows that look, one wrong word directed towards you, and Chan will hop the counter without any hesitation.

Daejung swallows hard, spins on his heel, and scurries back to his office like a rat. The customers, suddenly very quiet, are all standing perfectly in line, no complaints, no sighing.

You exhale, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Chan watches you with a fond grin as you walk back behind the counter. “I think you just traumatised him.”

“I’m fine with that,” you say, crouching to unlock the cash safe. You pull out several coin bags, the paper labels crinkling, and start refilling the drawer for him while he handles the card transactions.

“Card only for now,” Chan announces to the queue, his tone polite but sharp enough that no one argues. When one man opens his mouth to complain, Chan looks up with a blank expression, and the man immediately steps back in line.

You count the coins quietly, sliding them into the drawer, then scribble a note of how much you’ve taken from the safe before tucking it inside. “Okay,” you say, closing it carefully. “We’re good.”

Chan glances down at you as you crouch to lock the safe. His voice softens. “Sit for a bit, inhyeong. Get your second wind. Ji and Minho have got the floor for now.”

You don’t even hesitate. You sit cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, grabbing an energy drink from Chan’s backpack. The can hisses when you open it, the fizz loud in the quiet corner. You lean against his leg, the exhaustion finally catching up.

Chan’s still typing, calling out prices, his voice low and smooth. Every so often, his hand drifts down to brush against your hair, fingertips skimming over the crown of your head in quiet reassurance.

“Hey,” he says softly, in between customers. “We’ll do something nice tonight, yeah? When this nightmare’s over.”

You hum, sipping your drink. “Like what?”

He smiles faintly. “Maybe we’ll grab hot chocolate. Walk along the Han River. It’s cold as shit, but the lights are nice this time of year.”

“That sounds nice,” 

He glances down at you, eyes soft, voice quiet enough for only you to hear. “Okay, we’ll do that later, then. Just gotta survive this shift first.”

You nod, letting your eyes close for a moment, the buzz of the fluorescent lights fading under the sound of his voice and the rhythmic tap of his fingers on the keyboard. The store is still chaos, but in that small space behind the counter, for just a few minutes, you find calm again.

And Chan, your loud, teasing, endlessly patient Chan, keeps the world spinning for both of you.

By the time you and Chan finish cleaning up, Sigane Jib looks semi-functional again, which in December retail language basically means not on fire. The metal shutters hum closed as the two of you stand under the yellow streetlight glow outside the shop, your breaths forming puffs of fog in the icy Seoul air.

Chan checks the weather app on his phone and whistles. “Minus five tonight, inhyeong,” he mutters. “You’re in fucking shorts.”

You shrug, rubbing your arms through your thin sleeves. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got good circulation.”

“Yeah, until your legs turn blue,” he deadpans, unlocking the door again. “Come on, we’re not doing this.”

You groan dramatically but follow him back inside. Chan drifts straight to the accessories section, eyes scanning over scarves and gloves with a sort of seriousness that makes you want to laugh.

“Which one makes me look less like a delinquent?” he asks, holding up two black scarves.

You snort. “Neither, you were born a delinquent.”

He grins. “Flattering. So this one, then.” He picks the black Armani scarf, sliding it around his neck before tugging on a pair of matching gloves.

You walk toward the coat rack and trail your fingers along the hangers until you stop at a vintage Versace wool coat. It’s perfect, double-breasted, black with a faux fur collar, the kind of thing that swishes when you walk like you own every building you step into. You slip it on, the thick material hugging your frame, and grab a pair of vintage Armani gloves and a matching scarf.

Chan glances over, eyes widening slightly. “Damn, inhyeong. You look expensive as fuck.”

“Good, because I’m tired of looking like I work for minimum wage.”

He chuckles and gestures toward the counter. “Alright, come on, let’s ring up before Daejung comes back to haunt us.”

The till beeps weakly as you wake it up from sleep mode. Chan drops his scarf and gloves onto the counter, and you type the item names one by one. 

“Black Armani scarf… men’s… one size,” you mutter, tapping at the keys. “Armani gloves, one size”

Chan leans against the counter, grinning. “You make retail sound sexy.”

You roll your eyes, pressing a few more buttons. “Staff discount, forty percent.”

He holds out his card, and you grin, taking it and swiping it through the machine with a flick. “You’re all paid up, Mr Bang.”

He mock-bows before gesturing for you to swap. “My turn. Gimme your coat.”

You hand him the items, watching as he types with exaggerated care. “Versace… black… long coat,” he mumbles under his breath. “Armani scarf, black, one size. Armani gloves.”

You reach for your card, but before you can, he snatches the card machine and holds it high above his head. “Nope. I’m paying.”

“Chan!” you protest, reaching for it. “That’s way too much, I can pay for my own-”

He steps back, smirking. “Too slow, inhyeong.”

You try again, but he tilts the machine away like a playground bully and swipes his card. The receipt prints before you can even argue, the strip fluttering down as proof of his victory.

“Unbelievable,” 

He grins, handing you the bag with your coat folded neatly inside. “You can get the next one.”

“The next one? What, the next spontaneous winter wardrobe upgrade?”

He winks. “No, the next time I let you pay for anything. Which’ll be never.”

You groan, but your smile betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in close. “But I’m your insufferable.”

You smack his chest lightly, laughing despite yourself as you set the alarm and lock up again, the key turning with a satisfying click. The city is quiet, the streets dusted with frost, and the air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts from a cart down the block.

You both start walking toward your usual late-shift café, the one tucked at the corner of the next street where the lights never seem to go out. The ahjumma who runs the place spots you through the window before you’ve even reached the door.

“Ah, Y/N-ah! Chan-ah!” she calls out as you step inside. “Late again, my hardworking babies!”

She already has two takeaway cups ready, steam curling from the lids, and a small box of sweet treats beside them. The smell of hot chocolate and red bean pastries fills the air.

You smile, setting down a small shopping bag on the counter. “For you. A little thank you.”

She blinks in surprise and peeks inside. “Gucci loafers?!”

Chan grins. “Consider it an early Christmas present. For all the free drinks and snacks you sneak us.”

The ahjumma gasps, clutching the bag to her chest. “Aigoo, you two are too good to me! I can’t accept this, these are too expensive!”

“Non-returnable, you can only exchange them,” you say quickly. “And you’re stuck with us anyway. Might as well look fabulous doing it.”

She laughs, waving her hands in mock protest, then immediately turns around and starts packing more sweets into another bag. “You take, you take! For the pretty girl and her strong boyfriend!”

Chan grins, slipping an arm around your shoulders. “You hear that, inhyeong? Strong boyfriend.”

You snort. “Yeah, she’s just being polite.”

The ahjumma smacks your arm lightly. “No, he’s handsome! You two are perfect!”

“See?” Chan says proudly as you roll your eyes.

She hands you the bag stuffed with extra treats, and you both bow gratefully before stepping back out into the cold night air. The wind bites immediately, so Chan adjusts your scarf gently, his fingers brushing your skin.

“Better,” he murmurs. “Now you look warm enough to survive ten minutes.”

“Ten whole minutes, wow,” you tease, blowing on your hot chocolate before taking a sip. “Her hot chocolate could solve world peace.”

“Honestly, yeah,” Chan says, taking a sip of his own. “I’d go to war for her, no questions asked.”

You both laugh as you start walking toward the Han River. Chan’s arm slips easily around your shoulders, the bag of pastries swinging from his fingers. You lean into him, both of you sipping from your cups, your laughter breaking through the stillness.

“Today was fucking insane,” you say, exhaling into the cold. “I swear if one more customer complains about the queue, I’m throwing them into a bin.”

Chan laughs, the sound echoing softly through the night. “You telling that lady to fuck off? Best moment of my week.”

You groan, hiding your face in your scarf. “Don’t remind me. I can’t believe I said that.”

He nudges you gently. “Hey, she deserved it.”

“Still, I hate being rude,” you mumble. “Even if they’re assholes. I just- ugh.”

Chan squeezes your shoulder. “Inhyeong, you’ve been holding that place together on fumes. Anyone else would’ve quit by now. You were a damn superhero today.”

“A superhero in thigh-highs?”

He smirks. “Every hero needs a signature look.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder into him as you cross toward the river. The Han stretches out ahead, dark and gleaming, with the faint reflections of city lights dancing on the surface. The bridge glows faintly in the distance, cars like tiny fireflies moving across it.

You walk side by side along the riverside path, the silence comfortable now. Chan keeps his arm wrapped firmly around you, occasionally squeezing your shoulder or brushing his fingers against your sleeve to make sure you’re warm.

Then something cold lands on the tip of your nose. You blink, looking up. Tiny white flakes drift down from the dark sky, swirling lazily in the streetlights.

“Chan,” you whisper, grinning. “It’s snowing.”

He looks up too, his breath catching slightly as the flakes land in his hair, melting against the heat of his skin. “Well, shit,” he says softly. “Would you look at that.”

You tilt your head back, eyes half-closed, the snowflakes melting against your cheeks. Chan watches you for a long moment before he sets the empty cup down on the railing and turns toward you. His gloved hand slides along your jaw as he tilts your face up toward his.

You barely have time to smile before his lips are on yours. The kiss is slow, warm against the cold air, the kind that makes time stop. The snow falls heavier now, flakes settling in your hair and on his shoulders. His hand stays at your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. You can taste the faint sweetness of hot chocolate on his lips, the warmth spreading through you until you forget the chill completely.

When you finally pull back, the world feels quieter somehow, like the snow has muffled everything except your breathing. You’re both smiling, foreheads touching, your breaths clouding together in the cold.

Chan laughs softly, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Told you this was a good idea.”

You grin. “You’re unbearably smug, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he says, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead. “But you love it.”

You laugh, wrapping your scarf tighter as he slips his arm back around your shoulders. Together you start walking again, the snow crunching under your boots, the city stretching ahead of you like a glittering sea of lights.

“Next year,” Chan says, glancing at you with that boyish grin, “we’re quitting retail.”

You snort, tucking your hand into his coat pocket. “Sure. After we win the lottery.”

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as the snow continues to fall. The river hums quietly beside you, the lights reflecting off the surface like shattered stars, and for once, the world feels still.

Just you, him, the snow, and the quiet kind of happiness that makes the chaos worth it.

21/11 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post as a sequel to this fic, and it will be titled: Unholy Softness

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Proofread by the fantastic @hwangjoanna, who also has some of her own works out, which are fantasti,c so please go and show them the love they deserve <3

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