PAIRING(S): Fu Orostor x Fem!Cleaner!Reader
SYNPOSIS: You catch a Supporter talking down to Fu for messing up a task and step in before it can get worse. You reassure him in a way he understands and take him aside to help him reset.
A/N: Hi hi! ♡ Thank youuuu for the love on my first one-shot. (kudos, reblogs, replies… I see you and I appreciate you sm). I know I did a Fu one-shot first but I felt like doing another one because I'm in love this dork so much. I guess you can say this is like a part two from the first one? I'm just looking through this and my drafts and sometimes I feel like some of the characters are OOC to me. I'm sorry if they are, I'll try my best not to do so. Btw requests are now open, come talk to me! If you want to request something, PLEASE do. I would love to hear your ideas so don't feel awkward/weird!
The next few days at the Cleaners HQ were a special kind of hell for Fu.
Because nothing had changed.
The halls still echoed with shoes and shouted names. Supporters trained and studied. Combatants still came and went like it was normal. Fu still wore his teal hoodie, kept his head down and tried to be useful.
But you existed in the same building now like a bright, impossible fact he didn’t know how to stand near.
He kept telling himself it was nothing. It was just… a moment. A weird, embarrassing moment where you’d hugged him too hard and kissed him and called him cool like that meant something. A moment he’d washed off his face with micellar water and wipes until there wasn’t a trace left.
Except you didn’t act like it was nothing and looked at him like you’d picked him.
Whenever Fu passed you in a hallway, you’d perk up, eyes lighting, lips curving, that perfume hitting him a second before your voice did. "Fu~! Hi!"
Sometimes you’d smile at him like he was your favourite thing in the room. Sometimes you’d wave. Sometimes you’d tilt your head and give him that soft, pleased look that made his stomach drop.
And every time, Fu’s body would forget how to operate.
He’d freeze for half a beat. Rub his eyes too much. Forget where his hands were supposed to go. His voice would come out small and too polite, like he was addressing a superior.
“H-Hi.”
“Morning.”
“Yes— I mean— hello.”
Then he’d scuttle past you like the floor was on fire, pretending he had somewhere urgent to be.
He wasn’t trying to reject you.
He was trying not to explode.
Inside his head, Hii never let him survive it peacefully.
There she is again. Your “favourite.”
Fu would swallow, cheeks hot, eyes forward.
If she tells you to do something, you’ll obey. That’s what you are.
And the worst part was Hii wasn’t wrong.
Fu didn’t know what you wanted from him now. He didn’t know what the rules were. He didn’t know how to act like a normal person when someone looked at him with open affection instead of disgust.
So he defaulted to what he knew:
Avoid the choice. Avoid the attention. Follow orders. Keep moving.
He took longer routes when he could. He timed his steps badly and ended up running into her anyway. When you called him “cutie.” his whole face would go hot and look around frantically.
Sometimes you would linger, like you expected him to stop. Like you expected him to talk.
Fu never did. Not properly.
He’d nod. He’d mumble. He’d escape.
Then, alone, he’d hate himself for it.
Because part of him, some quiet, stupid part, liked that you noticed him at all.
And that made him more scared, not less.
So by the time the Supporter handed him a simple crate task later that week, Fu was already tight-strung. Already jumpy. Already in that anxious fog where every hallway felt the same and every mistake felt like proof that he didn’t belong.
The order itself hadn’t even been complicated and that was the part that made Fu feel worse.
It was one of those small, everyday Cleaners HQ tasks that some Supporters did when the combatants were out and busy whenever that's moving supplies, restocking, delivering sealed packets to the right rooms, sorting equipment into labelled crates.
The kind of thing that shouldn’t have mattered. Yet it's the kind of thing Fu still managed to mess up.
He’d been standing in the corridor earlier with both hands on the strap of his teal hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him upright, listening to a Supporter rattle off instructions at speed.
“Take this crate to the storage room behind the east stairwell. Not the main one. The back one. Put the disinfectant on the top shelf, the bandage packs in the second drawer, and the spare filters in the labelled bin. Then bring the empty crate back. Don’t leave it there.”
Fu had nodded so hard his neck hurt.
“Yes. Yes, okay. I-I got it.”
And he meant it. He always meant it.
But as soon as he’d started moving, his mind had begun to slip, an anxious fog crawling in. The HQ had too many hallways, too many similar doors. People kept passing him. Someone bumped his shoulder. The labels blurred.
Back room behind the east stairwell.
He repeated it under his breath like a prayer. Then he turned one corner too early.
And by the time he realized he’d placed the disinfectant in the wrong storage room, the Supporter was already there, arms crossed, feet tapping against the ground impatiently and mouth twisted sourly.
“You didn’t even listen.” the Supporter snapped.
Fu felt his stomach drop straight through the floor.
“I did.” Fu said quickly, causing his voice to crack on the last word. “I did, I swear. I just— I thought—”
“You thought?” The Supporter’s laugh was sharp and mean. “You’re not here to think. You’re here to do what you’re told.”
Fu flinched like the words were a jab.
Inside his head, Hii’s voice slid in immediately, dripping contempt.
Here we go. You did it again. You’re useless even when the job is easy. How are you alive?
Fu’s fingers tightened around the crate. He forced himself to breathe.
“I’ll fix it. I’ll move it right now. I-I’m sorry...”
The Supporter stepped closer, towering over him in that casual way people did when they knew you wouldn’t fight back.
“You’re always sorry. Do you ever get tired of being sorry?”
Fu’s throat tightened. He tried to answer, but nothing came out clean. Just air.
He lowered his gaze. That was safer.
The Supporter’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Fu looking down which made him angrier, not calmer.
“You Raiders really are all the same.” he muttered. “Broken little dogs. You need a leash and someone yanking it.”
He wanted to explain. He wanted to say he wasn’t trying to make trouble. That he was trying so hard to do things right here. That he didn’t want to be dead weight.
But explanations always sounded like excuses in his mouth.
And excuses made people meaner.
So he just nodded, small.
“Yes.” he whispered, because agreeing was the fastest way to end it.
Hii made a disgusted sound in his skull.
He tried to move around the Supporter to start fixing the mistake, but the Supporter stepped in front of him, blocking the path like he owned the hallway.
“Not yet,” he said. “You’re gonna stand there and listen to me first.”
His arms started to ache from holding the crate, he wanted to put it down but he didn’t shift it. Shifting would look like impatience. Impatience would make it worse.
The Supporter’s mouth curled.
“You’re lucky you’re even allowed in this HQ.” he went on, voice rising enough that people passing at the far end slowed slightly, curious. “You know what we call guys like you? Liability. A mistake waiting to happen. One wrong move and you get someone killed.”
Fu’s chest tightened like a fist was closing around his lungs.
“I won’t! I won’t. I-I can do it right. Just...just tell me again—”
“Tell you again?” The Supporter scoffed. “So you can mess it up twice?”
His knees started to feel unstable, like his body was preparing to fold in on itself to minimize the damage.
He lowered the crate carefully to the floor, not wanting to drop it. Dropping it would prove his point.
Then, because the moment stretched too long, because he didn’t know what to do with his hands, Fu crouched down too. Half kneeling, half sitting back on his heels, like he was bracing.
Like he’d learned somewhere deep in his bones that being on the floor made you smaller. Less threatening. Easier to ignore.
The Supporter looked down at him with open irritation, as if Fu sitting down was a personal affront.
He tried to rise, but the crate was in the way, his balance off, his legs shaky.
He stumbled and ended up back on the floor. Fu’s face burned so hot it hurt.
Give me control. I’ll break his teeth and we’ll be done with it.
Fu’s hands trembled. He whispered in his head without moving his lips, No! Not here.
The Supporter made an exaggerated sigh, like Fu was exhausting.
“You’re embarrassing. The Cleaners HQ isn’t a charity. We don’t babysit.”
Fu’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He stared at the tile between his knees.
The Supporter’s eyes flicked to a water bottle sitting on a nearby shelf, someone’s forgotten drink, half full.
Something ugly sparked in his expression.
Fu looked up, confused, right in time to see the Supporter tip the bottle.
Cold water splashed down onto Fu’s hair and forehead, trickling over his paint-mask and into his eyes.
The shock made him flinch so hard his shoulders hit the wall behind him. Water dripped off his bangs, down his nose, onto his hoodie.
Fu blinked hard, water clinging to his lashes. His hands flew up to wipe his face, but it only smeared the wetness around, making him look even more pathetic.
He didn’t move to retaliate and he didn’t even speak.
He just sat there, soaked, humiliated, trying to swallow the sting in his throat.
Inside his head, Hii’s voice went eerily calm.
I’m going to kill him. You love being treated like this. Hii hissed. You must. Otherwise you’d stop it.
Fu’s fingers dug into the fabric of his hoodie. His eyes burned, not just from the water. He just wanted to try to stand again to fix this task and disappear.
That was when a sound cut through the corridor.
Heels. And then the familiar voice of someone utterly unimpressed. “Excuse me?”
Fu froze halfway up and the Supporter froze too, large bottle still in hand.
You stood at the mouth of the corridor like she’d stepped out of a completely different world.
It wasn’t like when Fu returned your necklace.
You looked at Fu first, really looked at him.
Water dripped from his hair. Hoodie damp. Paint-mask streaked slightly. Hands shaking. Knees still close to the floor.
Then she looked at the Supporter.
“What do you think you’re doing..??”
The Supporter straightened, clearly not expecting interference. He tried to recover, scoffing like you were the one being unreasonable.
“T-Training him.” he lied. “He messed up a basic task. Again.”
You blinked once, very calmly. Then you stepped forward.
“You dumped water on his head.”
The Supporter’s mouth tightened. “He needs to learn! He’s a trial member. If he can’t handle instructions—”
You immediately interrupted him.
“Trial member.” you repeated. “So you thought you could humiliate him because you’re bored?”
Fu’s throat tightened. He tried to speak. “[F/N], it’s fine—”
You didn’t even glance back at him yet. Your attention stayed locked on the Supporter like he was something stuck at the bottom of your shoe.
The Supporter puffed up, embarrassed now that someone with presence had seen him.
“You don’t get to tell me how to do my job.” he snapped.
“Oh, I absolutely do. Because your job is to support. Not… whatever this is.”
You flicked your eyes down to the bottle in his hand. “Put that down.”
The Supporter hesitated long enough that it became a choice.
“Are you gonna put it down or..?” You pressed like you weren't leaving no room for negotiation.
The Supporter set the bottle on the shelf, jaw clenched.
“You think because he’s quiet, he’s easy. You think because he says ‘sorry’ that you’re allowed to treat him like a floor mat??”
The Supporter’s face reddened. “He’s from the Raiders! He should be grateful he’s even here!”
"For being humiliated by a nameless Supporter who thinks he’s better than everyone because he can shout the loudest?”
The Supporter opened his mouth, probably to defend himself again but you moved first. The front of your shoe snapped forward, not to stomp his foot, but to kick the back of his shin hard enough to jolt him forward and stumble. “Get lost.”
The Supporter stared at you, breathing hard, caught between anger and sudden shame.
He looked down the hallway, noticing that people had slowed again. Watching. Not laughing this time.
Their expressions weren’t amused.
“Go.” you repeated, and it sounded like an order that could ruin his entire week if he didn’t obey it.
The Supporter swallowed. His bravado cracked.
He turned and walked away, fast, shoulders tense, head slightly lowered.
You followed behind him immediately. Not rushing, stalking, causing Fu’s eyes to widen.
“[F/N]—” he called out, voice hoarse.
Because you weren't done.
You walked right behind the Supporter, shoes clicking which caused the Supporter to stiffen but didn’t turn. At some point the Supporter finally turned, face flushed.
“Then learn to manage your temper like an adult.” You shut him up bluntly.
The Supporter blinked, thrown off.
You pointed back down the corridor, toward where Fu still stood wet and awkwardly stunned.
“He made a mistake. So you correct it. You explain. You don’t make him afraid to ask questions.” Your eyes narrowed.
“Because guess what happens when you bully someone into silence?”
The Supporter didn’t answer so you leaned in slightly.
“They stop asking. They stop clarifying. And then your precious ‘liability’ becomes a real one, because they’re too scared to speak.”
The Supporter’s face changed, something like realization and shame mixing together.
He looked away and you straightened, voice returning normally. “Apologize.”
The Supporter’s eyes widened. “What?”
You just stared at him dead silent at his hesitation.
“You want me to bring this to someone higher up?” you asked pleasantly. “Because I will. And then you can explain why you thought hazing a trial member was more important than doing your job.”
The Supporter swallowed hard. His shoulders sagged.
“Not ‘fine.’ Apologize properly.”
The Supporter’s vain popped. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he was tired of going back and forward with you.
So he turned back down the hall and walked, slower now, back toward Fu. You definitely followed like a shadow of consequence.
Fu stood there awkwardly, water still dripping down his salmon pink ends, hands half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
He looked like he couldn’t believe someone had stepped in.
Inside his head, Hii was practically satisfied.
The Supporter stopped a few feet away from Fu. Not close enough to loom anymore.
“I… shouldn’t have done that.” he uttered reluctantly. “I’m sorry.”
Fu blinked. His mouth opened, but nothing came out again. Apologies always felt like traps.
You stood behind the Supporter, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Try again.”
The Supporter’s face tightened. Then he exhaled.
“…Fu.” he supposed, more directly. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. I won’t do it again.”
Fu’s throat bobbed. He stared at the floor, then forced himself to look up.
Your expression hasn't softened yet. You stared at the Supporter like you were committing his face to memory.
“You’re going to leave him alone, if he messes up again, you correct the task. You don’t touch him or raise your voice like you’re trying to prove something.”
The Supporter’s cheeks flushed again. He nodded quickly. “Yes.”
You stepped forward then, fast, and kicked the back of his shin again, lighter this time, pure punctuation.
“Get lost.” You unremitted, almost cheerfully now.
The Supporter flinched and hurried away, looking like he wanted to disappear into the walls.
You watched him go until he was out of sight. Then, only then, did you turn back to Fu. He looked at you dumbfounded as you had a bright glimmer in your eyes.
But the fire cooled into something softer, protective.
“Fu.” You voiced warmly now.
Fu looked at you, still stunned, hair dripping, hoodie damp.
“I—” he tried. His voice shook. “You didn’t have to—”
You walked right up to him.
You took one look at the water dripping down his face and clicked your tongue.
“You’re soaked.” you chimed, like that was the real tragedy here.
Fu blinked again, lost. “It’s okay.”
You reached into the fold of your outfit, somewhere you absolutely shouldn’t have been able to store anything and pulled out a clean cloth or handkerchief like magic.
You pressed it into Fu’s hands.
“Dry your face.” you ordered, gentler than before but still unmistakably yourself.
Fu obeyed instantly. “Yes.”
He dabbed at his cheeks and forehead, hands shaking slightly.
You watched him for a second, jaw tightening as if the sight still made you angry all over again.
Then you spoke quietly so only he could hear. “You don’t deserve that."
Fu’s throat tightened hard. He tried to answer, but emotion clogged up the words.
“I mess up.” he sighed instead, like that explained everything.
“So what? Everybody messes up. The difference is you don’t get to be degraded to like that because someone’s having a bad day.”
His eyes were wide and bright, like he was trying not to fall apart.
Finally, someone with a spine.
Fu swallowed and nodded, small.
Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you lifted your hand and flicked a drop of water off his bangs like it offended you personally. “There. Better.”
Your smile returned, bright, proud, the kind that made you look even more unreal in the dim corridor.
“Of course.” You shrugged, as if it was obvious. Then you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “And next time someone speaks to you like that, you come find me. Understand?”
“…Yes.” Fu agreed immediately.
You nodded, satisfied. “Good.”
Your eyes once again went from his wet hair to the crate to his trembling hands.
“Okay.” You held your hands together. “Task first.”
“I-I can do it!" he started quickly, panic sneaking in. “I can fix it. Just tell me—”
You lifted one hand, palm out. Not a scold. A pause. “I’m telling you."
Fu’s shoulders rose, then dropped a fraction.
You crouched by the crate, your outfit folding elegantly even in the dusty corridor like the fabric refused to look messy. You didn’t touch the supplies yet, you looked at the labels first, reading them properly like you were mapping the task into something clean and doable.
“Alright.” you tap the top of the crate. “You were told: back storage room behind the east stairwell. Not main. So we’re going there.”
“And once we’re there.” You continued, voice steady and clear. “Disinfectant on top shelf. The bandage packs a second drawer. Filters in the labelled bin.”
Fu repeated it under his breath immediately like a charm. “Disinfectant top shelf. The bandage packs a second drawer. Filters in labeled bin.”
“Good. Now pick up the crate, careful, not rushed, and walk with me.”
Fu heed instantly, lifting the crate like it might explode if he moved wrong.
They started down the hall.
You walked beside him, not in front. Beside. Matching his pace. Your presence was… stabilizing.
When they reached the junction, Fu slowed, uncertain, eyes darting to the identical doors.
You didn’t sigh. You didn't get irritated.
Fu turned without question. “Yes.”
They reached the correct storage room, smaller, tucked behind the stairwell. You opened the door and stepped aside so Fu could enter first with the crate.
Fu did, careful, controlled. No dropping. No clattering.
You looked over his damp hoodie again, the way water still glistened in his hair, darkening it into heavier strands that clung to his forehead. His cheeks were still pink, not from exertion, from adrenaline and leftover shame.
But you kept him focused on the task. You weren't going to let him spiral.
“Okay.” you said, clapping once. “We’re going to do this together, and then you’re going to walk out of here knowing you can do it. Understood?”
You pointed at the disinfectant. “Top shelf.”
Fu lifted it, hesitated, then placed it neatly where she indicated.
“Second drawer.” Fu murmured, opening the drawer carefully and sliding them in.
“Labelled bin.” His voice is still small but steadier now, putting them exactly where they belonged.
You leaned against the shelf, watching him like you were quietly proud. “There. Done.”
Fu stared at the supplies like he couldn’t believe they were actually correct.
Fu’s fingers tightened around the crate edge. “I’m sorry I messed up.”
“You misinterpreted.” you corrected. “And you fixed it. That’s what matters.”
Fu blinked rapidly. The simple reframe hit him harder than the yelling had.
Stop looking like you’re going to cry. You’re alive. Task completed. End of story.
Fu swallowed, trying to obey even that.
You reached out and plucked the empty crate from his hands like it weighed nothing.
“Now. Return the empty crate. That was part of the order.”
You carried it herself anyway, because you didn’t just talk, you did.
They returned the crate together, and you made sure the Supporter who’d been cruel earlier wasn’t around to witness anything else.
Once the crate was returned, you turned and looked at him properly.
Now that the task was done, the quiet hit.
Fu stood there still damp, hair dripping faintly down his neck, hoodie darkened at the shoulders. He tried to hold himself like he was fine, but his eyes were too wide, his mouth too tense.
Fu stiffened out of habit. “What—”
You tilted your head. “Do you want to stay wet and cold?”
Say yes before she changes her mind.
You smiled like that was the correct answer. You reached into your quarters, nearby enough that you could slip in and out quickly, and came back with a towel, fresh and fluffy.
You stepped in front of him.
Fu tensed again when you lifted it.
You paused, reading him like you always did, like you actually noticed.
“I’m going to dry your hair. Is that okay?”
Fu’s throat bobbed. Nobody asked him that. It made his stomach twist in a strange way.
Your hands moved carefully, wrapping the towel around his head and patting rather than rubbing harshly. Your touch was surprisingly gentle, like you was handling something fragile and refusing to treat it like a joke.
Fu’s breath stuttered. His eyes dropped to the floor.
You dabbed his ends, then the sides, then the back. You tilted his head slightly with a light touch to get the towel under the damp strands.
“All this stress and you’re still polite." you murmured, half to yourself.
“I-I don’t know what else to be.”
“You can be taken care of too, you know.”
Don’t start getting ideas.
Fu didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
You kept drying him, focused, sweet, the way you was when you decided someone mattered.
Fu stood there letting it happen, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. He didn’t know where to look.
And unfortunately, his eyes betrayed him.
Your lips were right there, and Fu’s brain didn’t have the maturity or experience to ignore it. His attention stayed there by accident and body heated up in panic.
He stared at the wall like it was the only safe thing in the world and his face went flaming red.
You, blissfully oblivious, were still patting his hair dry like you were doing laundry. “Hold still.”
You pulled the towel away and examined him like a professional. Then you put a finger to your lips, thinking. “Hm... You still look wet.”
“No you’re not. Your hair is still damp. And if you walk around like that, you’ll get cold. And then you’ll be miserable. And then you’ll mess up again because you’ll be uncomfortable.”
Fu gawked. Your logic was too airtight to argue with.
Before he could respond, you was already moving, back into your quarters, rummaging.
Fu stood there awkwardly in the hallway like he’d been assigned a role as “quiet furniture.”
Fu whispered back, barely moving his lips. “…She’s helping.”
You returned with a blow dryer and a brush like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Fu’s eyes widened. “What is that—”
“A blow dryer. Duh.” You chuckled, like he’d asked what the sky was. “Sit.”
Fu sat immediately on the chair you dragged out, posture straight and obedient like he was in trouble, but his eyes were soft now, confused and overwhelmed by kindness.
You plugged the dryer in, then paused again, brush in hand.
You looked at his hair critically.
“…Actually.” you said slowly. “no.”
You lowered the brush. “You shouldn’t brush your hair dry. That’s not good.”
Fu stared at you like you were speaking another language.
Your mouth pursed. “Wait here.”
You disappeared again, returning this time with a small stack of hair products. shampoo, rinse-out conditioner, leave-in conditioner, like you’d prepared for this exact crisis.
Fu’s eyes widened. “[F/N], I—”
Fu looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t know how to refuse someone taking care of him.
You pointed toward your bathroom. “Come on. We’re washing it properly. Then we’ll dry it properly.”
Fu stood slowly, like he was afraid moving too fast would break the moment.
He followed you into your quarters, into the bathroom space that smelled of soap, warmth and expensive products.
You turned on the sink and tested the water temperature with your wrist.
Fu hovered near the doorway, unsure where to put himself, clutching Hii against his chest like a shield.
You glanced at Hii, then at Fu. “You can set him on the counter. Just don’t let him fall.”
If you get water on me, I’ll kill you.
Fu swallowed. “He doesn’t like water.”
Fu immediately realized how that sounded and went stiff, cheeks heating.
You just smiled, amused but not mocking. “Okay. Keep him safe.”
Fu nodded quickly. “Yes.”
You leaned closer and guided Fu gently by the shoulder toward the sink.
Fu listened. He went back and his hair hanging down in the sink, water still trapped in the strands.
You wet his hair carefully, using your hands to scoop water and distribute it evenly. You didn’t splash and you didn’t rush. You worked like you were used to doing things right.
He wasn’t used to anyone touching him with care. It made him feel exposed.
You pumped shampoo into your palm and worked it through his hair. Your fingers moved with practiced ease, massaging his scalp gently. The foam built quickly.
Fu’s shoulders dropped involuntarily. Just a little.
Which made him panic again.
You noticed the tension and replied in a kind tone. “Chill out. I’ve got you.”
You rinsed carefully, guiding water through until it ran clear.
Then you applied rinse-out conditioner, smoothing it through the lengths. Your hands were warm. You waited the right amount of time, humming softly to yourself while Fu stayed bent backward, trying not to think about how intimate this felt.
Finally you rinsed again, thoroughly.
You patted his hair with a towel tenderly.
“Now. Leave-in conditioner.”
“Of course I do.” You worked the leave-in through his hair, carefully detangling with your fingers before ever bringing the brand new and unused brush near.
Fu stiffened slightly at the tug, but you started from the ends and worked upward patiently, minimizing pain. Each stroke was slow, considerate.
He didn’t understand why you were being this kind.
He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.
When you finished brushing, you picked up the blow dryer again.
You tested the heat setting and nodded. “Not too hot.”
Then you started drying his hair, lifting sections gently with the brush, guiding air through until the dampness faded and his hair settled back into its usual shape, messy and natural, belonging to him again.
The longer you worked, the more Fu’s shoulders relaxed, as if his body was slowly accepting this moment.
You turned the dryer off and set it aside.
You leaned in, inspecting his hair with a satisfied nod. “There. Back to normal.”
Fu lifted his head and looked in the mirror.
No water dripping. No humiliation clinging to him. No visible evidence of being treated like a joke.
“…Yes." Then, after a pause, he added quietly. “Thank you.”
Your smile turned warm and proud, like you’d accomplished something important. “Anytime.”
Fu hesitated, then looked down at Hii in his arms as if checking whether this was allowed.
Inside his head, Hii muttered, mean but quieter:
Fu blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in his eyes.
He forced himself to breathe.
You stepped closer, still smoothly, still attentive and reached up to pat his hair once. Soft. Affectionate. Like he was yours to fuss over.
And then your gaze locked to his face.
Instead of answering, you pulled lipstick from your little pouch like it was nothing. You twisted it up with a quiet click.
Fu’s eyes widened. “[F/N]—”
His whole body obeyed before his brain could argue. “…Yes.”
You stepped in close, close enough that Fu could smell that clean-laundry perfume again, then dabbed a tiny mark on his cheek.
Fu’s heart jumped so hard it startled him. His ears went red.
You leaned back to admire it, satisfied. “There. Perfect.”
“So you remember.” you tap the mark once with your fingertip.
His grip tightened around Hii like he needed something solid.
Your eyes dropped to the doll in his arms, and your lips turned playful again, like you couldn’t resist.
Before he could overthink it, you leaned in and pressed a quick, neat kiss to Hii’s blocky head, soft enough to leave the faintest whisper of lipstick, like a matching stamp. "Mwah."
Fu made a tiny, strangled sound.
“Now." you announced briskly. “You’re going to walk out of here with your head up. And change out of this wet hoodie into a dry one. Understand?”
And Fu, still shy, still trembling fingers, but clean and steadied, held Hii close and let your order carry him like a railing.
He managed to make it to the doorway before it hit him properly.
The warmth. The care. The tiny lipstick mark is like a secret he’d been chosen to keep.
Fu stepped out into the corridor and the door clicked softly behind him.
And then, completely against his will, his mouth twitched.
Until he was walking away with the dumbest, most helpless smile on his face, like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.
His cheeks were still pink. His ears felt hot. His heart was doing that embarrassing, too-fast thing again.
He lowered his head, pretending he was just looking at the floor, but the grin stayed, soft and stupid and happy.
“…Okay.” he says, barely audible.
And he kept walking, blushing, clutching Hii close, carrying that tiny mark and your order like something precious all the way down the hall.
