Wrong Number, Right Person || Changbin x GN!Reader
A “mistaken” number from Lee Chan was supposed to lead you to Mingyu, but instead it lands you in Seo Changbin’s messages. He fell first. You fall harder. What starts as confusion turns into a crush years in the making finally being returned.
REQUEST from my 200 follower celebration
Chan insists it was an accident.
You do not believe him.
You were expecting Kim Mingyu’s number.
Instead, the contact labeled “Mingyu :)” replies almost immediately.
You: hey, chan said you’d send me that producer rec?
Mingyu :) : producer rec? i think you’ve got the wrong guy
You frown at your phone.
You: wait. is this not mingyu?
Not Mingyu: unless mingyu shrank about 10 cm
Not Mingyu: seo changbin here
You sit up straight.
Seo Changbin. From Stray Kids.
You’ve crossed paths dozens of times. Music shows. Award ceremonies. End of year festivals. Always polite bows. Always brief smiles.
You: oh my god. Dino gave me this number. i asked for mingyu’s
Changbin: yeah i figured
Changbin: he texted me earlier actually
You blink.
You: he what
Changbin: said he might “accidentally improve my love life” today
Changbin: i didn’t know what he meant until now
Your mouth falls open.
You: he did not
Changbin: he absolutely did
You immediately open your other chat.
You: lee chan.
Dinosaur: :)
You: you sent me the wrong number on purpose
Dinosaur: i sent you a better one
You groan and toss your phone onto the couch before picking it back up.
You: i’m so sorry. that’s actually insane behavior
Changbin: it’s fine
Changbin: i’m honored to be the upgraded option
You laugh despite yourself.
You: bold
Changbin: i’ve been told
There’s a pause.
You could end it there. Apologize again. Ask for Mingyu’s actual contact.
Instead:
You: well since you’re here. do you actually know any producers good with live band elements?
Changbin: depends. what kind of sound
You: softer. warmer. less performance heavy.
Another pause. Then:
Changbin: i could help
Changbin: if you want
You smile slowly at your screen.
You: modest of you
Changbin: don’t expose me like that
Changbin: yes i produce. a lot.
The conversation shifts easily after that.
You talk about chord progressions you’re tired of hearing. About layering vocals at 3 a.m. when everything feels more honest. About how exhausting it is to promote and create at the same time.
He’s thoughtful. Funnier than you expected. Blunt in a way that feels grounding.
At some point, you forget you were ever asking for Mingyu.
Across town, Changbin is staring at his phone like it might disappear.
He has liked you for years.
Not loudly. Not recklessly.
Just quietly.
The first time was at an award show rehearsal. You were sitting on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, arguing passionately about arrangement changes with your producer. No cameras. No performance face. Just you.
He noticed.
He always notices.
He never planned to do anything about it.
And now you’re texting him first.
Even if it was engineered by that little dinosaur of yours.
Two days later:
You: have you seen that new cafe near the sm building
Changbin: the industrial one with the cube croissants
You: YES
You: i want to go but i refuse to look like i’m scouting for a dating show alone
He stares at the message for a full ten seconds before replying.
Changbin: we could go together
Changbin: strictly for research
Your stomach flips.
You: obviously. professional croissant analysis only.
When you see him outside the cafe, hoodie and cap pulled low, you almost miss him.
He looks up.
Recognizes you instantly.
His eyes crinkle before the rest of his face does.
“Hey,” he says once you’re seated inside.
Up close, he feels different than he does on stage.
Softer around the edges. Warmer. His presence is steady instead of explosive.
“Sorry again about the number thing,” you say.
He shakes his head. “Best mistake that’s happened to me in a while.”
Your pulse stutters.
You talk easily. Like you’ve done this before.
He congratulates you on your last comeback and mentions a harmony switch in the second chorus of your b side.
“You noticed that?” you ask, surprised.
He shrugs, almost shy. “You stacked it differently the second time.”
You stare at him.
“You really listen,” you say.
He looks away first. “Of course I do.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten.
You watch him as he talks. The way his hands move when he explains production choices. The way he automatically grabs both trays without asking. The way he brushes powdered sugar off your sleeve before freezing like he overstepped.
“You’re cuter than people think,” you say without thinking.
He chokes on his coffee. “Cuter?”
“Yeah. You act tough. It’s fake.”
His ears turn red.
You feel it then.
The shift.
You fall harder.
Not in one dramatic moment. But in a series of small ones.
After that, you start texting him on purpose.
Good morning messages. Late night check ins when you know he’s still at the studio. Voice notes about random melody ideas.
You linger near his group’s waiting room at music shows just a little longer than necessary.
He pretends not to notice.
He notices everything.
One evening, after another shared schedule near the SM building, you text:
You: free
Changbin: for you maybe
You grin at your phone.
You: confident
Changbin: only sometimes
You meet again at the same cafe.
This time, it feels intentional.
You rest your chin in your hand as he talks about a track he scrapped because it did not feel honest enough.
“Can I ask you something,” you interrupt softly.
He nods.
“Have you ever liked someone in the industry.”
He goes still.
“Why.”
“Just curious.”
He hesitates.
“There was someone,” he admits quietly.
Your heart dips before you can stop it. “Oh.”
“For a long time.”
You force your expression neutral. “What happened.”
He looks directly at you.
“I didn’t think they would ever see me that way.”
Your breath catches.
“You don’t know that,” you say carefully.
He gives a small smile. “I do.”
You sit back, studying him.
Then you make a decision.
You slide your hand across the table. Close enough that your fingers almost touch his.
“What if,” you say softly, “they were just slow.”
He blinks.
“What if they meet you properly,” you continue, “and then they can’t stop thinking about you.”
Silence.
His gaze drops to your hand. Then back to your face.
“You’re very confident,” he says, voice lower now.
“Only when I want something.”
“And what do you want.”
You do not look away.
“You.”
The word hangs between you.
His composure cracks. A slow, disbelieving smile spreads across his face.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “You don’t even know me that well.”
“I know enough,” you say. “I know you listen closely. I know you care about details no one else hears. I know you get shy when complimented. I know you’ve been kind to me from the start.”
You lean forward slightly.
“And I know I’d like to keep seeing you. On purpose this time.”
He exhales like he has been holding it for years.
“I liked you first,” he admits.
Your eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
“For years.”
You stare at him. “Years.”
He nods, embarrassed but smiling.
A laugh bubbles out of you, half shocked, half delighted.
“Well,” you say lightly, finally letting your fingers lace with his, “I fell harder.”
His hand tightens around yours instinctively, like it belongs there.
“So what now,” he asks.
You shrug. “We keep getting coffee. We write together. We see what happens.”
He nods slowly.
“Okay,” he says.
No dramatic announcement. No promises carved in stone.
Just two idols sitting in a quiet cafe near a familiar building.
Hands intertwined.
Smiling like they both just won something they did not expect.
Day #7 - Prompt: Free Space | Word Count: 1500 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Alcohol | POV: Steve | Tags: AU, Wrong Number, Right Person Trope, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Meet-Cute
Steve dials the number messily scrawled on the scrap of paper. He’s nervous. He’s always nervous when he has to stick his neck out and make a move on a girl these days.
Yeah, he did the first bit of legwork and got her number out at the bar last night. But he's fumbled the ball and failed enough times, Robin's loving, but accurate, "you suck" burned in his brain, that he's always leery to try again. He should be used to it by now, but it’s still uncomfortable and awkward, every goddamn time. If his friends weren't all fretting about his emotional well-being from being so terminally alone, he wouldn’t put forth half the effort anymore.
He has Robin. He has his cat. He's happy.
It rings three times before he hears it connect, “Hello?”
It’s a man’s voice, and he hesitates for just a moment, “I’m looking for, uh, Lyla?”
“Sorry, man. Wrong number.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have misdialed,” Steve says, a different kind of embarrassment. But this is one he can handle easier, for sure. So he pushed the wrong button somewhere along the way. His eyesight isn't the best thing he's got going for him.
“No worries, man,” the other guy laughs, seemingly carefree about being bothered.
They each disconnect and then Steve reads, and re-reads, the number before dialing again. More carefully this time.
It rings only once before it’s connected.
“Still me, dude,” the familiar voice relays, still light and friendly.
“Wow. I’m so sorry. Clearly, I was given a fake number. That's embarrassing,” Steve laughs, because this is more embarrassing than misdialing. He's uncomfortable and mortified to admit that this girl just didn't want him to call her. Even if he's only admitting it to a stranger.
She should have just told him no. He hates that she didn't, for her sake, too.
“Shitty move,” the other guy answers.
“Yeah, well. I'm sorry I bothered you. Again. I promise to cross-check any future numbers against yours before dialing, just in case.”
The guy laughs, "Well, now. Don't go to any trouble for my sake. Honestly,” and he doesn't sound put-out at all, “don’t worry about it. She clearly didn’t have the balls to just, be, like, honest. That sucks.”
Steve laughs, maybe if she'd had balls this wouldn't have happened at all. Most men feel more comfortable just saying no, he thinks, which is sad but true. He swings both ways, and maybe he should take this as a sign to lean the other way for a while. See if that works out any better for him.
It probably won't, but he could try.
“There goes my big weekend plans,” Steve teases, uncertain why he does it, even as the words tumble out of his mouth. He needs to hang up the phone and let this guy get back to his own life.
“Dude. That's a problem I can solve. I’m gigging tonight. You have to come. Let me entertain you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Whatever. I want to. Just show up. It’ll be a great story, will it not?”
It would be a great story. One he could even tell Robin to convince her he’s living a little, “I don’t even know your name. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”
“Yep, that’s me. Vicious killer,” the guy laughs, “I’m Eddie, man. And I’m a fucking ball to be around. You’ll want to take me up on this awesome offer. We’ll all be down at Hellfire Club around eight. Show up. If you think we’re murderous, you don’t have to follow us to any secondary, secluded locations.”
Hellfire Club is literally two blocks from Steve’s apartment. He's been past it countless times, but never inside. It's always dark. Like it's not even open, making him unsure about what kind of bar it is, it's so nondescript from the outside. Not to mention the name is a little intimidating. He'd half-convinced himself it's a BDSM club.
But, now that he's been invited, he could just walk down and see what’s the what, “How will I know which guy you are?”
Eddie laughs, “You’ll know. Trust me.”
Steve has a hard time trusting anyone new these days, but Eddie seems friendly enough.
Steve realizes he must have been quiet for too long, because Eddie starts talking again.
“I’ll have on a badass battle vest. Look for that. You'll see me. It's impossible not to. I promise.”
“Okay,” Steve agrees, even if he’s not sure what a battle vest even is.
“Now, are you going to tell me your name, or will that just be a surprise?” Eddie asks.
Steve laughs, “Steve. I’m Steve.”
“Well, I’ll see you later, Steve.”
Steve stands in front of his closet for far too long, trying to find something to wear that doesn’t look too nerdy. He assumes Eddie's cool. He sounded cool, and Steve may have been cool in high school, but these days he just keeps his head down and goes through life, content to be fairly unnoticed. He finally settles on a black t-shirt. Basic, classic. Timeless.
Boring.
But that's a risk he's willing to take.
He walks down the street slowly and arrives around eight-thirty. The windows are still all blacked out, tinted to the point he can't see anything inside. There's just the neon sign with the Hellfire Club over the door.
When he pulls open the door, he's in a hallway that's painted all black, with a bouncer at the end, stationed at a door. Steve kind of wants to turn around, flee, but he doesn't. He's already here. He might as well at least see. Robin will kill him if he chickens out.
He gives his ID to the bouncer, and is directed down a staircase. He really hopes this isn't a sex club.
It's not.
And as soon as he crosses the threshold into the bar, yes, he knows Eddie instantly. He’s gotta be the one on the bar, pouring shots directly into various mouths. Steve knows he could turn around right now and this adventure could end. But watching Eddie laughing and prancing up and down the bar with flourish, clearly having fun, makes Steve want to go up and meet this guy.
Steve takes an open seat at the end of the bar, kind of out of the way, and just watches Eddie work the crowd.
The bar is blaring It's Raining Men and Eddie is playing up the song, big time. He's not a stripper, at least Steve doesn't think he is, but he's working the crowd for tips, absolutely. He keeps handing them down to a curly-headed guy, who keeps stuffing them into an overflowing jar.
Steve's pretty sure this is a gay club, or at least queer friendly. Maybe he has found a place for himself, something that's been right here under his nose, all this time.
When Eddie finally jumps down off the bar, Steve watches him work the rest of the room.
The other guy comes over and takes Steve's order, and he doesn't quite have the same flourish, but he's efficient and confident with a bottle and jigger.
"Name for the tab?" he asks, shaking the drink Steve had picked from the list.
"Steve," Steve says, and the guy looks up and meets his eyes.
Surely not. This doesn't feel like this is Eddie. He is wearing a vest, a red plaid one, but the other guy also has a denim vest on, full of patches.
"Eddie?" Steve questions, needing to make sure.
"Gareth," the guy says, "that's Eddie," he clarifies, pointing at the one Steve had correctly clocked as Eddie to begin with. "You're his wrong number guy, right?"
Steve nods. He supposes that's what he is, "Yeah. That's me. Loser in love."
Gareth laughs, and it makes Steve smile.
"That's our specialty here, you'll feel right at home," Gareth teases.
"That makes two of us," Steve admits, and Gareth smiles as he finishes shaking Steve's drink, putting it down in front of him.
"On the house. First-timers to Hellfire drink free," Gareth says, and then he's walking away.
Steve's eyes follow Gareth across the bar, watching as he taps Eddie on the shoulder, leaning close to his ear, pointing right at Steve.
Eddie looks, meets his eyes, and Steve raises his hand, giving him a small, little wiggle of his fingers.
A huge smile spreads across Eddie's face as he bounds in Steve's direction.
Eddie's quickly right in his personal space, squeezing both of Steve's shoulders, greeting him with a smile, "Welcome to Hellfire."
Steve smiles, liking the feeling of Eddie's hands bleeding through his t-shirt, warming him.
Eddie lets go, and Steve misses the feeling already, but Eddie stays. Sliding onto the stool next to Steve, "I'm glad you came."
And Steve's completely honest as he answers, "Me too."
If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddie-week and follow along with the fun!
Notes: If you're too young to remember it, reach out and touch someone was the slogan/jingle for Bell System telephone company back in the day. So, that's where the title comes from, as a play on the wrong number phone call trope.
I started writing a Wolfstar texting (wrong number trope) fic last night when I couldn’t sleep and now I’m 5 chapters in. Not sure if I want to put it up on ao3 cause my writing is crap. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head though. Do people still like texting fics? It’s sort of a hybrid with some regular prose and then text convos.
No Spell Can Cure Shyness (except maybe love)
by maia_archives (ao3)
Authers Description: Yoongi really doesn’t expect the witchboy who sent him an accidental text to be the prettiest boy he's ever seen in all his life. Or the nicest. Or the kindest. Or just the best in every possible way. Painfully shy and (un)smooth as he is, Yoongi decides the best way to approach this Jimin person is in the form of a cat. A cat who can't talk. Great plan, Yoongi.
Note: This is barely a text fic, I almost didn’t want to include it, but it’s just so cute!!
Group: BTS
Main ship: Yoonmin
Other ships: Taekook, Namjin
Chapters: 1 (Complete)
