she-her. 19 (2026). first time writer ! LIE iâve been writing since i was 14 but i never published anything till now. so iâll take tips !! multi !
MASTERLIST
REQUESTS: currently closed but you can write them itâll just take me longer to respond !!
- thank you for any requests you send my way ! always open to making new mutuals and friends, so donât hesitate to reach out. my inbox/messages are a safe spaceâfeel free to drop any rants, thoughts, or just come talk.
side talk requests are always welcome ! <3
all pictures used in my fics and masterlists are taken from pintrest iâm in no way impersonating or stealing from anyoneđ
so glad to see your back! we missed you! dont ever be sorry for taking a break. We love youâ€ïž
thank you so much đ„či was really nervous about coming back, so this means more than you know. stop youâre gonna make me cry đđ i missed you all so much and iâm so grateful for all the love đ«¶đ
Hey there could you write a Jervis fanfiction where he meets a woman who wants to work for him. And she takes on the role as the white rabbit and she falls for him and after his sisters death she comforts him? You can decide if its an oc or an x reader story.
Thank you in advance ^^
Have a great day and I love your writing <3
hello hello!! thank you so much for your kind words â i really appreciate them 𫶠and iâm so sorry this took me so long to write. i had a bit of trouble figuring out how to approach it, so it was more challenging than i expected. it may not be my best work, but i truly hope you still enjoy it!
âž»
đ âThrough the Looking Glass of Griefâ
Jervis Tetch x Female OC (The White Rabbit)
tags: Slow Burn, Obsession, Grief/Comfort, Emotional Dependence, Dark Romance, Devotion
setting: Gotham is a city of chaos, but inside Jervis Tetchâs world, everything must follow rulesâhis rules. When a mysterious woman appears, asking not for escape but for purpose, she becomes something unexpected: his assistant, his White Rabbit⊠and eventually, something far more dangerous to his fragile heart.
âž»
She didnât stumble into his life.
She chose it.
Most people ran from Jervis Tetchâfearful of his erratic mind, his obsession with control, the way reality bent under his influence. But you didnât run. You stood in his workshop, surrounded by ticking clocks and half-finished contraptions, and asked a simple question:
âMay I work for you?â
He laughed at firstâsharp, disbelieving, a little unhinged.
âWork for me? Oh, my dear, people donât work for me. They fall, they follow, they lose themselves.â
But you didnât flinch.
âThen Iâll follow,â you said quietly. âNot because Iâm lost. Because I choose to.â
That⊠intrigued him.
And so, he named you.
âThe White Rabbit,â he decided, eyes gleaming. âAlways punctual, always loyal, always just a step ahead of madness.â
âž»
You learned his rhythms.
The way he muttered to himself while adjusting circuitry. The way his temper flared when things didnât go exactly right. The way he softenedâjust slightlyâwhen you handed him tea at the exact moment he needed it.
You didnât challenge him.
You grounded him.
And somewhere between late nights and whispered nonsense about Wonderland, he began to rely on you.
More than he should.
âž»
Then came the night everything shattered.
His sisterâhis last tether to something real, something humanâwas gone.
The news didnât make him scream.
It broke him silently.
You found him in the workshop, sitting on the floor, surrounded by broken glass and unmoving clocks. For once, nothing ticked. Nothing moved. Time itself seemed to have stopped for him.
âShe was supposed to stay,â he murmured, voice hollow. âShe was supposed to stay in the story.â
You didnât speak at first.
You just walked over and sat beside him.
No fear. No hesitation.
When his hands began to tremble, you took them gently in yours.
âThen weâll write a new story,â you whispered.
His eyes snapped to yoursâwild, searching, desperate.
âYou donât understand,â he said. âEveryone leaves. Everyone breaks the rules.â
âI wonât,â you replied.
And for the first time, he looked⊠uncertain.
âWhy?â he asked, almost childlike.
You squeezed his hands, softer this time.
âBecause I donât belong anywhere else.â
âž»
That was the moment it changed.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But something in him latched onto youânot as a subject, not as a pawn, but as something fragile and irreplaceable.
You became his constant.
His White Rabbit.
The one who stayed when everything else slipped through his fingers.
âž»
Days turned into nights, and nights into something heavier.
He grew possessiveânot cruelly, not violently, but desperately. Like if he let you out of his sight, the world would take you too.
don't ever apologise for taking a break or not posting, your mental status means more than writing! I truly hope you feel better soon and that you're okay and safe, please take your time returning, making sure that you're actually ready to write anything againđ€ș (happy one-year anniversary đ đ 𫶠) love anon
stop youâre gonna make me cry âčïžâčïž thank you so much, genuinely. iâve been a little all over the place lately, but messages like this mean more than i can put into words. iâll be back when iâm ready 𫶠and thank you for the anniversary wishes toođđđđđđ anon ily !!
hi everyone, iâm so sorry for going mia 𫶠iâve fallen back into some bad habits lately and my mental health has been taking a bit of a toll on me. iâm trying my best, though, and i promise iâll post something soon đ
i also somehow managed to miss my one-year anniversary on this account đ i had planned to celebrate by posting three long requested fics, but i got too busy and never had the chance to properly proofread them. iâm really sorry about that đ
thank you all for being so patient with me. i appreciate your support more than i can put into words, and i hope youâre all having a good day, evening, or night đđđđđ
Years after splitting paths, Bang Chan didn't expect a simple text to bring an old friend â and old feelings â back into his life.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
After countless late nights together, the song was finally complete. Now, as you sat at your desk, gazing at the finished track on your laptop, a smile tugged at your lips â reflecting on the journey that had brought you here.Â
Here, where your relationship with Chris had deepened to the point where you could proudly call yourself his girlfriend. If his bandmates had their way, though, you were already more than that; they jokingly referred to you as their "mother" behind your back. You knew it was only a matter of time before they let it slip in your presence. The more you got to know them, the clearer it became â they would seize any opportunity to tease your dear boyfriend. After all, that was just their way of showing love.
Your phone buzzed, breaking your thoughts. His name flashed across the screen, and without hesitation, you answered.
âHey,â you greeted, already knowing why he was calling.
âHey baby,â Chrisâ voice came through, warm and familiar. âDid you finish it?â
âJust exported the final mix,â you confirmed, leaning back in your chair. âIâll send it over now.â
There was a beat of silence before he asked, âAre you sure?â
You frowned slightly. âOf course. I mean, you put in just as much work as I did. If you want to use it for the group, go ahead. I donât even need credit if itâll keep things from getting messy.â You tried to keep your tone light, teasing. âAs long as you know that I also gave birth to this song.â
Chris chuckled, but there was something thoughtful in the sound. âI know,â he murmured. âBut⊠I wasnât planning on releasing it.â
You blinked, caught off guard. âWhat? But why? I thought you guys did some special songs for one of your concerts? Itâs a great song after all, Chris. And you worked so hard on it, we both didââ
âI know,â he interrupted gently. âBut some things donât need to be seen by the whole world.â
Something in the way he said it made your heart stutter.
You swallowed, warmth spreading through your chest. âSo you want to keep it just for us?â
âYeah.â His voice was soft, sincere. âIt can be just ours.â
A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment before Chris hesitated. You could hear the way he inhaled, slow and measured, as if he were preparing himself for something.
âSpeaking of the concertsâŠâ he sighed, the weight of his thoughts heavy in his voice. âI donât want you feeling like you have to⊠but how would you feel about coming to one of ours? You donât have to, itâs totally okay if you donât. I just donât want to not ask you in case you wantedââ
You cut him off before he could spiral further. âChris, I donât want to think about what could have been. I just want to support you and enjoy it.â
He was quiet for a moment before he exhaled, a mix of relief and something more complicated. âI just⊠I donât want to show you what you could have had, even though it was never something you could have.â
You understood what he meant â understood the way his heart worked, always worrying, always caring too much. And yet, you had already made peace with the past.
-----
The concert was electrifying. You had seen Chris perform before, but never like this. He commanded the stage effortlessly, pouring raw energy into every lyric. It was mesmerizing. The bass thrummed through your chest, and every time his gaze flickered to your spot in the crowd, a secret smile tugged at your lips.
As you made your way towards the exit, your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Meet me backstage? đ
You rolled your eyes fondly and typed back a quick On my way.
Security let you through without question â Chris had clearly made arrangements. Weaving past the crew packing up equipment, you found a quiet spot near the wall, pulling out your phone while you waited. The adrenaline from the concert still hummed in your veins, but you were content, scrolling idly through your notifications.
A sudden presence slid up beside you, too close, too fast.
âHeeey.â
A firm nudge against your shoulder sent you jolting forward with a startled yelp, your phone nearly slipping from your grasp. Heart racing, you turned sharply â only to find Chris grinning like a mischievous kid.
âYouââ You smacked his arm, half-gasping, half-laughing. âI hate you.â
âLiar.âÂ
His eyes twinkled as he nudged you again, softer this time. He was practically vibrating with post-concert energy, the rush of the performance still coursing through him. His skin glowed with sweat, his hair a tousled mess, but he had never looked happier.
From a few meters away, a familiar voice cut through your flustered silence.
Chris only grinned wider, shameless. âWorked, didnât it?â
You groaned, while he laughed, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. The warmth of his hold, the lingering thrill of the night, and the teasing lilt in his voice made it impossible to stay mad.
He leaned in, his voice quieter now â just for you. âIâm glad you came.â
You sighed, relenting, and let yourself melt into his embrace. âYeah,â you murmured. âMe too.â
Before you could say more, Chrisâs gaze flicked toward the stage area, his expression shifting.
âOhâJYPâs here.â
You frowned. âWhat?â
He leaned in, lowering his voice. âYeah, I just found out. They called me to film something with him real quick.â
Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened slightly before you quickly schooled your expression.
Chris noticed. âWanna say hi?â
You scoffed, shaking your head. âHeâs never gonna remember me.â
Before he could argue, movement in your periphery caught your attention. A group â including said person himself, some members, a manager, and a few staff â was on their way to pass by where you were standing, presumably for better lighting.
Your stomach twisted slightly. The last time you saw that person, you were told that you didn't make it, that you weren't enough.
At first, he barely glanced at you. But then, as you greeted him casually, his gaze snapped back, his expression shifting. Recognition flickered across his face before his eyes widened.
âWait⊠Do I know you?â
Chris looked between you, intrigued.
You smiled politely. âIâm Y/N. We used to train together," you said gesturing towards Chris.
He exhaled, still looking stunned.
After a few moments of catching up, he turned to Chris and the others. âWe were just about to go eat. You should come.â Then, his gaze flicked to you. âYou too.â
You hesitated. âOh, I wouldnât want to intrudeââ
Chris nudged you. âCome on.â
You sighed, already knowing youâd lost. âFine.â
His grin widened.
-----
The dinner was lively, filled with conversations that bounced between lighthearted jokes and deep discussions about the industry. You mostly listened, enjoying the energy of it all â until a music executive you showed your songs to when you were a trainee turned to you, his expression thoughtful.
"Are you still writing?"
You blinked, caught off guard. Across the table, Chris looked at you curiously.
You hesitated before answering. "A little. Just for myself."
He nodded, as if considering something. Then, casually, he said, "Weâre always looking for new songwriters. If you have anything, send it in. No pressure, of course."
For a moment, the conversation around you blurred.
Chris' gaze flickered toward you, but he didnât say anything. He knew â better than anyone â what this offer meant. What it stirred in you.
Your fingers curled around your glass. Once, an opportunity like this wouldâve been everything to you. Once, you might have said yes without hesitation.
But nowâŠ
You liked your life. You liked music being yours â something you could love without the weight of deadlines, industry expectations, and the pressure to create for others. Your world was full of music already, but on your terms.
And you didnât want to step back into an industry that had once drained the joy out of something you loved.
You exhaled, slowly. Then, with a small smile, you shook your head.
"I appreciate it," you said honestly. "But Iâm happy where I am."
He studied you for a moment before nodding in understanding. "Thatâs good to hear."
Chris nudged your knee under the table, a quiet gesture, but when you met his eyes, there was nothing but pride there.
And just like that, the night moved on. No big moment, no regret.
5sos x skz listeners!! if you listen to endless ways by calum hood he kinda sounds like han jisung! he also has another song in that album (i forgot the titleđ«Łđ«Ł) where he kinda sounds like hynjin!!!
Summary: The ache of loving someone who feels just out of emotional reach
Written to: Donât forget you love me - Calum Hood
Warnings: angst!!
(I havenât proof read any of this! Sorry for any mistakes/repetition I changed the plot like 12 times!)
Calum hadn't planned to be home this early. He was going to stay with the crew abroad for a bit longer. It was a break in tour for the festive season. But Calum just wanted home.
Home meant quiet, and warmth, and his bed.
Home also meant you.
The front door clicked shut behind him as he stepped inside, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath for weeks. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, landing exactly where it fell from his shoulder; he didn't care enough to move it yet. The first thing that greeted him was the smell, sweet cinnamon and something faintly woody. You'd been burning those holiday candles again. He remembered you telling him about them over a blurry FaceTime a few nights ago, the screen freezing every other second as you held the phone up to a half-decorated Christmas tree with a proud grin.
For five years you'd decorated the tree together on December 1st without fail. This year, he'd been across the ocean, you didn't want to miss the scheduled date, but you didn't decorate the whole tree.
He appreciated the effort more than his face had expressed.
Still, you'd waited for him to finish it, you could still half together, even if it wasnât on the 1st.
"I don't want you to miss the whole thing," you'd said. He'd tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt then, the same one he felt now.
The living room was dark except for the gentle glow of the string lights around the fireplace, twinkling faintly like they were welcoming him back. Their soft amber hue guided him toward the kitchen, casting long, warm shadows across the walls.
Everything felt familiar, his guitar still leaned against the cabinet where he'd left it, your slippers abandoned by the couch, a blanket half-folded like you'd meant to finish and never did.
He moved quietly, suddenly afraid of disturbing the stillness of the house. He didn't know if you were awake. He didn't know if he'd even have any words ready if you were.
Upstairs, the muffled thump of his bag hitting the floor had stirred you from a light, restless sleep. At first, panic shot through you, sharp, quick, automatic. The kind that always came when the house made noises it shouldn't. You slid out of bed quickly, the cold air meeting your bare legs.
Calum's worn out t shirt hung off your frame, the hem brushing your thighs.
You paused at the top of the stairs, breath held, listening.
A low hum drifting up from the kitchen. A melody she knew by heart. Familiar. His.
Relief washed over her in a warm, dizzying wave.
You padded quietly down the stairs, each soft step bringing you closer to the melodic sound in the kitchen.
Calum stood at the kitchen counter, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers wrapped around a mug he wasn't drinking from. Steam curled up between his hands, fading almost as quickly as his expression.
Y/N lingered in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe watching him for a moment, taking all of him in. He looked exhausted, not just the kind that tour schedules caused, but a deeper tiredness that lived behind the eyes.
As always, your chest tightened with a familiar ache you never said out loud. The worry that you might be part of the reason he looked so worn down. That maybe the distance wasn't just from travel or time zones, but from something growing quietly between you both.
He stared into his mug like he could find peace at the bottom of it, unaware that you'd come down.
Unaware that he looked like a man who had finally reached the place he'd been craving, only to realize he didn't quite know how to settle into it.
You watched him for a moment longer, breath caught behind your ribs, before you finally let a soft sound escape, just enough that he would know you were there.
He spun on his heel so fast it made the hem of his hoodie sway. His eyes swept over you, your messy hair, Calum's oversized shirt hanging off your frame, the way your eyes were slightly puffy from a short sleep. His gaze moved slowly, almost disbelieving, lingering like he wasn't sure you were really standing there.
You spoke first, because he looked stunned, like the sight of you knocked the air out of him.
"You're back," you murmured, giving him a soft, sleepy smile.
He didn't answer, not with words. Instead he closed the distance in three quiet steps, placing the mug on the counter and pulled you into him, arms locking firmly around your waist. His grip was desperate, grounding, like he hadn't touched anything familiar in months. He buried his face in your hair, kissing the top of your head, then your cheek, then the warm skin at the curve of your neck. Each kiss lingered a little too long, as if making sure you didn't disappear.
When he finally eased back, stepping just slightly away, his breath trembled faintly.
"Sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying not to disturb your peace."
"You haven't disturbed my peace, Cal," you say quietly. "You're home. I'm happy you're home."
But Calum's eyes dipped, shadowed by something heavier.
"Feels like I've been disturbing your peace just by existing lately."
Your breath caught, sharp and guilty, as if he'd reached inside and tugged at the exact fear you'd been avoiding. "That's not true," you whisper.
He lifted his gaze, dark eyes warm but closed-off at the edges, like he was trying to protect both of you at once.
"I know," he murmured. "I'm not trying to start anything."
He'd created space between you without even realizing it, and you stepped right back into it, refusing to let the distance settle.
"Then what are you trying to do?"
Calum let out a quiet, pained laugh, one without any real humour.
"I don't know. I just,"
He stopped himself, the sentence hovering unfinished. He hesitated, he always hesitated now.
"It feels like we keep brushing against the same bruise."
The words landed between you with a weight that made the room feel smaller.
You traced a slow line along the edge of the counter, grounding yourself. "I'm scared to admit it's there."
Calum looked down, his jaw flexing, breath uneven.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You're not losing me."
But your voice betrayed you, cracking just slightly, revealing the quiet fear you barely let yourself name.
Calum heard it. He always heard the things you tried to hide.
He stepped toward you again, close enough that you felt his warmth, but still not touching, like he didn't trust himself to.
"Then tell me," he said softly, almost pleading. "Tell me we're okay."
Your chest tightened painfully. You wanted to say yes more than anything. You wanted to give him that comfort, that certainty. But the words got stuck in your throat, snagged on the truth.
"We could be," you whispered.
The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was full of everything neither of you had dared to say.
*
The next morning, sunlight barely crept through the curtains when you woke to the weight of an arm draped firmly around your waist. You blinked, disoriented for a moment before the warmth behind you registered, the familiar, comforting heaviness of Calumâs body curled around yours.
You hadnât heard him come to bed last night. Youâd left him downstairs after the two of you had danced around your problems, circling them carefully like they were something fragile, something that might shatter if touched too directly. You hadnât expected him to still be here.
But he was.
His chest was pressed against your back, his breathing slow and even, soft snores brushing the shell of your ear. His legs tangled with yours, feet cold against your calves. His arm held you with a kind of instinctive protectiveness, the kind he didnât even know he had before you.
You exhaled, letting yourself savor the feeling.
It was easier to sleep next to him.
It always had been.
His presence made your mind quieter, like something inside you finally unclenched.
Still, you slipped out of his hold carefully, inching him back just enough so you could slide away without waking him. Even then, he made a sleepy sound of protest, fingers flexing as if searching for you in his half-dreaming state.
You brushed your hand along his arm for a moment, soothing him.
Then you dragged yourself out of the room, down the stairs, into the cool air that nipped at your skin and raised goosebumps along your arms.
As you passed the hallway, you noticed something unusual.
Calumâs studio door, normally closed, often locked, was cracked open.
He never left it open.
Not accidentally.
Not even when he was rushing.
Curiosity tugged at you, subtle but strong.
You paused, fingers grazing the doorframe, listening for any sign he was awake. When there was none, you slipped inside.
The room smelled like him, warm cologne. Soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the floor, the desk, the scattered sheets of music.
It felt intimate in a way that made your chest tighten.
This was his sacred space. His sanctuary.
His mind laid out in notebooks and chord charts and scribbled ideas.
You wanted to feel closer to him, closer than you had in weeks.
You wanted to bridge the distance. And that wanting pulled you deeper into the room.
On his desk, his songwriting diary lay closed, a pen wedged between pages like heâd stopped mid-thought. You hesitated only a second before you gently opened it to where the pen rested.
Ink sprawled in hurried loops and jagged lines.
You skimmed the words, your eyes catching on one bold phrase scrawled across the top in darker, sharper handwriting:
âDonât forget you love me.â
The breath left your chest.
Below it were rough pieces of lyrics, fragments of thoughts, unfinished ideas about holding on, drifting apart, wanting to ask for reassurance but being afraid of the answer. They were raw, unfiltered. The kind of honesty he rarely spoke out loud.
Your heart pulled painfully in your chest.
Heâd written this alone, somewhere between airports and hotel rooms.
Heâd written this about you.
About the two of you.
About the fear sitting between you like a third presence.
Before you could read more, you heard the thudding of footsteps upstairs, quick, uneven, like Calum had woken and realized you werenât beside him.
âY/N?â
His voice was rough, sleep-soft, echoing down the stairs.
You snapped the notebook shut, placing it exactly how youâd found it just as he called your name again, closer this time.
âIn here!â you called back, trying to keep your voice steady.
A moment later he appeared in the doorway, hair a messy halo, shirt rumpled, eyes still warm with sleep. The second he saw you in his studio, his brows lifted in surprise.
âWhat are you doing in here?â he asked, not harsh, just genuinely caught off guard.
âThe door was open,â you said, glancing around the room. âAnd itâs peaceful in here. Very⊠you.â
A hum dipped from his chest, half amusement, half suspicion. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely.
âMmm,â he murmured, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âSo you were snooping.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât stop your own smile. âNot snooping. Not exactly. Just, looking.â
His gaze softened at that.
Not at the words, but at the truth beneath them.
You were looking for pieces of him. For understanding. For closeness. For anything that made the two of you feel less like you were drifting.
And he knew it.
Calumâs eyes flicked from the journal to your face, his gaze landing on you with a kind of naked honesty he couldnât pull back fast enough. Something shifted, subtle but unmistakable. The soft part of him, the raw part, the part he usually kept tucked behind music and humour and avoidance, it surfaced.
âYou read it?â he asked, but his voice wasnât accusing.
It was small. Quiet. Almost afraid.
Guilt washed through you immediately. Your shoulders dipped, your breath catching as you nodded once. âI⊠yeah. Iâm sorry.â
He frowned, but not with anger. More like confusion. Concern.
âYou donât need to apologise,â he said gently, stepping further into the room. His bare feet made almost no sound on the hardwood floor. âItâs okay. Really.â
But your mind replayed the inked words in looping echoes.
Donât forget you love me.
People didnât write that unless they were afraid of the answer. Unless they felt something slipping through their fingers.
âSoâŠâ you began, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your pulse hammered under your skin. âWhatâs it about?â
The question landed between you like a heavy stone sinking through water, slow, inevitable, rippling everything in its path.
Calum froze.
Not dramatically, not noticeably to anyone else. But you knew him too well.
His fingers stiffened. His shoulders held too tight. His breaths shortened, just slightly, like his lungs didnât want to commit fully to the air.
He looked like someone caught mid-thought, mid-fear.
âYou know, just about,â His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you, as if the shape of your relationship could be summed up by the air. âUs. Well, you. And us. You know.â
But you shook your head. You werenât letting him sidestep this. Not today.
Not after the lyric fragments, the late-night anxiety, the way heâd clutched you in his sleep.
âNo, Cal,â you said, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately, until you were close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body. âI donât know. You have to tell me.â
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting briefly to the journal, then back to you. His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for you but didnât trust themselves not to shake.
Calum could spill his heart onto paper. He could carve entire worlds out of chords and melodies. He could confess things to a microphone heâd never dare say to someoneâs face.
But real words, spoken out loud, unfiltered, those were harder.
You softened your voice, the edges dropping to a whisper.
âIf you can write it down, if you can sing it, why canât you say it to me?â
His breath hitched. A small, involuntary sound. Youâd pressed directly into the bruise.
He looked up at you, really looked at you.
In that gaze, you saw everything he tried so hard to hide; The longing. The fear. The exhaustion. The love he wasnât convinced he deserved.
And the terror that you were slipping through the spaces he didnât know how to close.
His chest rose in a shaky inhale. His lips parted like he wanted to speak and couldnât.
His shoulders lifted like he was preparing for impact, your reaction, your rejection, your honesty.
The distance between you wasnât invisible anymore. It had shape and weight and breath. It stood there like a third person in the room, cornered, unable to be ignored.
Calum looked like he had finally run out of places to hide from it. From you. From himself.
When he finally spoke, the words came broken, halting.
âItâs⊠I just,â He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated at himself. âI donât know how to say things without making them sound worse. Or too much. Or like Iâm the problem again.â
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them slowly, meeting yours head-on.
âAnd I donât want you to forget you love me,â he whispered, voice cracking right through the middle. âI donât want to give you a reason to.â
His jaw flexed. He hesitated. Calum had probably rehearsed a dozen times in his head and shouldâve swallowed it down once more.
âI think youâre, youâre only staying because youâre used to this,â he said quietly, eyes avoiding yours. âBecause itâs comfortable.â
Your heart slammed against your ribs âWhat?â
He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself, frustrated at everything. âIâm just saying, maybe youâre here because youâre used to this. Used to me. Used to how our life works.â
You stared at him, breath frozen in your lungs.
The room went still.
Your breath stopped mid-inhale, a cold shock spreading through your chest.
You stared at him like heâd just spoken in a language you didnât understand.
âComfort?â you repeated, disbelief turning sharp at the edges. âYou think I stay because itâs comfortable?â
Calumâs jaw tightened. âI just meant, maybe youâre here because itâs what you know. Weâve been together so long, and I donât know if youâre here because you want this or because itâs easier than starting over.â
A laugh left you, dry, stunned, almost pained.
âYou think this is easy?â you said, voice rising. âCalum, I put up with so much. I deal with rumors about you every time youâre not home. I sleep alone while youâre in a different timezone for weeks. I deal with the fact that half the world has an opinion about me just because I love you.â
âI donât stay because itâs comfortable,â you said firmly. âI stay because itâs you. Because I want you. Not your fame, not the life, not the routine, you.â
Your eyes burned, but you kept going. âAnd trust me, nothing about this is comfortable?â
âI didnât mean,â
âNo, Calum, you did,â you cut in, voice rising. âYou said it because you believe it.â
Calumâs shoulders curled inward, like the words hit him somewhere tender.
He exhaled, a low, defeated sound. âI just meant maybe youâre here because itâs easier than leaving.â
A harsh, humorless laugh left you.
âEasier? Being with you is worth it, but itâs sure as hell not easy. I stay because I love you.â
Calumâs expression crumpled, but the tension in his jaw didnât ease.
âThen why does it feel like everything I do pushes you away?â he fired back.
Your eyes widened. âBecause you are pushing me away! You barely talk to me anymore. When you come home, itâs like youâre somewhere else entirely.â
âAnd the worst part, Itâs working. Itâs breaking us. I feel it every day.â
Calum finally looked up, eyes wide with panic. âI donât want to break us.â
âThen why are you doing everything that makes it feel like you are?â Your voice cracked. âWe fought to get here. We worked so hard for this. Why would you throw that away?â
âIâm not!â he snapped back, louder than he meant to. His own frustration flared, but fear lived underneath it. âIâm not throwing anything away.â
âBut you are,â you whispered. âAnd the worst part is, you donât even see it.â
Calum shook his head, desperate. âIâm not throwing anything away.â
âAre you sure?â you demanded, voice trembling. âBecause every time weâre together, you act like Iâm wasting your time.â
He looked stunned, wounded, even.
âY/n. I am never wasting my time with you.â
âThen stop making me feel like you want better than this,â you cried, fingers curling into fists. âBecause you say everythingâs fine, but you look at me like youâre waiting for something else. Something more.â
Calum stepped backward, hands on his hips, exhaling like the confession hit him dead center.
âI donât want better than this,â he said, chest heaving. âI want better within us. I want us without, all of this.â
âThen stop avoiding me!â you shouted.
He froze.
âStop avoiding talking about how you feel. About what you want. About what scares you. Just stop.â
Calum let out a sharp, bitter laugh. âYou canât put all the blame on me. Iâm not the only one avoiding shit.â
Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
He pressed on.
âYou shut down whenever youâre hurt. You disappear into yourself. You wait for me to read your mind and then get mad when I get it wrong.â
âThatâs not fair,â you whispered.
âItâs true,â he shot back. âWeâre both messed up. We both avoid instead of talking. We both let the silence do the damage.â
You looked at him, really looked, and felt your heart split down the center.
âI want you to need me, Calum,â you said, voice breaking as the truth spilled out. âBut I donât feel needed anymore.â
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Calumâs mouth parted, but nothing came out.
His hands shook at his sides. His eyes were wet.
But the words you needed never came, that was worse than him yelling. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
âSay something,â you whispered. âPlease.â
He didnât. He just stood there, chest rising and falling too quickly, eyes full of things he wouldnât say. The hurt settled into certainty.
The argument didnât solve anything. It just showed the depth of everything neither of you could outrun.
Your throat tightened.
âRight,â you said finally, voice small and exhausted. âOkay.â
You turned toward the hallway, wiping at your cheeks.
âThatâs fine,â you whispered, more to yourself than to him. âIf you wonât talk to me, then Iâm going to leave.â
You walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, the argument still buzzing under your skin like electricity. Your vision blurred as you entered the bedroom, but you refused to stop.
You moved through the bedroom with shaky hands, grabbing the nearest tote bag and shoving clothes inside without looking. Every movement felt unreal, like you were watching yourself from above, packing the life you built with him into a bag that was far too small.
You didnât want to pack. God, you hated that you were packing. But something inside you felt like it would break if you stayed in this silence with him any longer.
Your throat tightened as you tried to breathe through it.
Five years together.
Five years of carving yourselves into each other. Five years of trying, of learning, of surviving every distance but this one.
You shoved in the first few clothes you could grab, sweatshirts, jeans, underwear, nothing folded, nothing organized. Calum stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched, arms hanging uselessly by his sides. He wasnât angry. He wasnât cold. Just vacant. Bewildered. Defeated.
âWhere are you going?â His voice cracked on the words. They were soft, careful, like he was afraid of pushing you further away.
Your hands halted over the zipper.
âIâll stay with a friend,â you said. It came out steadier than you felt.
Calum nodded once. Slow. Mechanical.
Like he was accepting a sentence he thought he deserved.
And your heart cracked in a way that felt physical by the way he didnât move to stop you.
You swiped at your cheeks impatiently. You hated crying. You hated that he was seeing you like this. You hated it more that he wasnât stopping you.
When you brushed past him to get to the hallway, you felt him flinch, so subtle you almost missed it. His breath hitched, a quiet, broken sound he tried to swallow.
âIâll be back tomorrow to get more things, Iâll probably stay at hers a while.â
You didnât mean that. Not the second sentence. You said it because you wanted it to shake him, wake him, something.
But he didnât react, not the way you hoped. No sudden protest. No reaching for you.
Just heartbreak settling into his features, settling so deeply it looked carved there.
The house felt freezing as you walked through it, every step echoing like you were walking out of something sacred. The decorations youâd put up. The lights youâd chosen together. The cinnamon scent still drifting from the kitchen.
You reached the entryway, fingers fumbling with your coat.
From behind you, you heard his footsteps, slow, reluctant, like each one cost him something. When you turned, he was standing a few feet away, barefoot on the hardwood, face pale, jaw trembling.
Tears streamed down his cheeks in total silence.
They werenât dramatic. They werenât loud.
They were the quiet kind, the kind a person canât hold back even when theyâre trying to keep everything inside. He just looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to the ground, and the rope was fraying in his hands.
Your chest tightened painfully. This wasnât how you imagined the end of your night. This wasnât how you imagined him. This wasnât how youâd planned to spend the holidays together. You thought you could fix this, together.
Something in your chest cracked. You swallowed around it.
âCalâŠâ you whispered.
Calum straightened slightly, breath catching.
Like he thought, maybe, this was the moment youâd change your mind.
You tightened your grip on the bag, though your hands were shaking violently.
âThis isnât what I want,â you said, your voice barely holding. âI need you to know that. I never wanted to walk away from you.â
He made a strangled sound, half inhale, half sob, but still didnât speak.
Your lip quivered as you stepped closer.
âI wanted you to talk to me. I wanted you to meet me halfway. I wanted you to need me the way I need you.â
You met his eyes. And it broke you.
âI wish youâd ask me to stay,â you whispered. Your chin trembled. âBut I know you wonât.â
Something inside him shattered, you saw it, aflicker of pain so raw it almost made you stop breathing.
But he still didnât speak.
And that silence was the loudest thing youâd ever heard.
no i still do! i just havenât posted any jeremiah (or any gotham related person) fics in a while. iâve been active with other fandoms, but every time i try to write gotham lately i end up scrapping it because it doesnât feel right when i reread it đ iâm not giving up on it though! and iâll try posting my less cringy scraps!
setting: Arkham Asylum was never supposed to be anything more than a quick visitâget in, get answers, get out. But when the Joker refuses to cooperate and starts digging into old wounds, the situation spirals. One punch turns into something far more dangerous, and suddenly itâs not about the case anymoreâitâs about rage, love, and the line you swore youâd never cross.
âž»
Arkham Asylum always feels colder than Gotham.
Not physically cold â the air is regulated, sterile, almost clinical â but something in the walls presses inward. Like the building remembers every scream ever swallowed inside it.
You hate coming here.
The gates close behind you with a metallic groan that echoes down the corridor, sealing you and Jason inside. Guards walk ahead, indifferent, used to masked vigilantes requesting private interviews with monsters.
Jason walks beside you, helmet tucked under his arm, shoulders tight beneath his jacket. He hasnât said much since agreeing to this plan.
Neither have you.
Because neither of you wanted this.
But the case demanded it.
A bombing pattern. Chemical signatures. A joke hidden in the chaos only one person in Gotham would recognize.
And unfortunately â the only person who could decode it sat waiting behind reinforced glass.
One final door unlocks.
The guard hesitates before opening it.
âHeâs restrained,â the man says carefully. âBut keep it short.â
Jason nods once.
The door slides open.
And there he is.
The Joker sits chained to a steel table, wrists locked in heavy restraints bolted to the surface. Ankles secured. Straightjacket replaced by reinforced cuffs â special accommodations for special criminals.
He looks relaxed.
Comfortable.
Like heâs been expecting guests.
Green eyes brighten the moment they land on Jason.
âWell, well,â Joker hums. âLook who crawled out of the grave again.â
You feel Jason go still beside you.
Not fear.
Not weakness.
Just control tightening like armor.
You step forward first.
You refuse to let Joker set the tone.
âWeâre not here for your commentary,â you say sharply. âThereâs been a series of bombings in Burnside. Chemical compounds match your old formulas.â
Joker tilts his head, intrigued.
âOh? Copycats already? I am influential.â
Jason sets his helmet on the table with a dull thud.
âWe need the pattern,â he says flatly. âYou designed the sequence years ago. Someoneâs replicating it.â
Joker ignores him.
His gaze slides back to you instead.
ââŠYouâre new.â
âIâm not.â
âOh, but you are to me. And thatâs what matters.â
You keep your expression neutral.
Professional.
Focused.
âWeâre running out of time. People are going to die.â
Joker leans forward as far as his chains allow, metal clinking softly.
âPeople always die.â
Silence stretches.
Jasonâs patience thins visibly.
âWhere would the next target be?â
Joker smiles wider.
âYou came all this way just to ask nicely?â
His eyes flick to Jason again.
âYou know, I missed you, Bird Boy. Death really suited you.â
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially toward you.
âI beat him with a crowbar, you know. Took hours. He kept trying to stand back up. Very rude of him.â
Your vision flashes white.
You donât remember deciding to move.
Your fist connects with his face hard enough to snap his head sideways.
The crack echoes off concrete walls.
Guards shift outside the glass, but Jason lifts a hand without looking away.
He allows it.
Joker spits blood â and laughs.
Wild. Delighted.
âOh, I like youââ
You grab him.
Your hand fists into his collar, dragging him forward despite the chains restraining him. Metal rattles violently as the chair screeches across the floor.
âYou donât get to talk about him,â you hiss.
Your other hand finds his throat.
Pressure builds beneath your palm.
Not a threat.
A promise.
For one terrifying second, you mean it.
You could end it.
Right here.
No jokes anymore. No victims. No graves.
Jason moves instantly.
His hand wraps around your wrist â firm, grounding, unmistakably Jason.
âHey.â
Low.
Steady.
Not angry.
You donât release Joker.
Your breathing turns sharp, uneven.
Jason steps closer, voice quieter.
âHeâs restrained.â
The words hit deeper than any command.
Because he knows you.
You never strike someone who cannot fight back.
That rule matters to you more than vengeance ever could.
Your grip trembles.
Then loosens.
Joker collapses back into the chair, wheezing laughter spilling out between breaths.
You step away fast, chest heaving, disgust flooding in â at him, at Arkham, at yourself.
At how close you came.
Joker grins through blood.
âOh, you two are adorable. Trauma really brings couples together.â
Jason grabs his helmet.
âWeâre done.â
Joker calls after you both as the door shuts.
âYou still scream, Jason! I remember!â
His laughter follows you down the hallway.
It echoes long after the door seals behind you.
âž»
Later â The Apartment
Gotham rain taps against the windows when you get home.
You donât take off your jacket.
You pace instead.
Back and forth across the living room, adrenaline still clawing beneath your skin.
Jason watches from the doorway, silent as always when heâs thinking.
Finallyâ
âWhat was that about?â
His tone isnât accusatory.
Just⊠careful.
You stop moving.
âHe pisses me off.â
Jason raises an eyebrow.
âThat wasnât just pissed off.â
You laugh bitterly.
âNo? What gave it away?â
He doesnât smile.
âYou almost killed him.â
You turn sharply.
âAnd?â
Jason studies you â not judging, not angry. Just searching.
âYou donât do that,â he says quietly. âNot when someoneâs restrained.â
The words land harder than expected.
Because heâs right.
You look away.
âI hate him.â
Your voice cracks despite your effort to stay composed.
âI hate everything about him. I think the world would genuinely be better if he were dead.â
Jason nods slightly.
âI donât disagree.â
You stare at him.
âThen why did you stop me?â
He steps closer.
âBecause it wasnât justice.â
Silence thickens.
Your chest tightens.
âHe killed you,â you whisper. âHe tortured you. He took you away from everyone who loved you.â
Your voice rises, emotion finally breaking through.
âAnd youâre still defending him!â
Jasonâs expression shifts immediately.
âIâm not defending him.â
The words are firm now.
Controlled.
âI remember everything he did to me,â he continues quietly. âEvery second.â
You falter.
His voice softens.
âBut you werenât trying to stop Joker back there.â
He meets your eyes.
âYou were trying to protect me.â
Your breath catches.
âAnd I donât want you carrying that kind of rage for me.â
The anger drains, leaving exhaustion behind.
Jason reaches for your hand.
Warm.
Steady.
âYou have lines,â he says. âYou donât cross them. Thatâs one of the reasons I trust you.â
A small, sad smile touches his mouth.
âI already lost myself once to him.â
His thumb brushes your knuckles.
âIâm not losing you too.â
Your eyes sting.
The fight leaves your body all at once, and you step into him, pressing your forehead against his chest.
Jason wraps his arms around you immediately.
Solid.
Alive.
Real.
Outside, rain continues to fall over Gotham â washing nothing clean, but softening the noise.
âHe doesnât get to take more from us,â Jason murmurs into your hair.
setting: The city is quiet past midnight, your shared apartment dim except for the faint glow slipping from under Chanâs studio door. Hours ago, you fell asleep wrapped in himâwarm, safe, and completely unaware that sleep would abandon him the moment it found you.
âž»
You donât remember when your eyes openedâonly that something felt⊠off.
The bed was still warm, sheets tangled around your legs, but the space beside you was empty.
âChanâŠ?â Your voice comes out soft, barely there, like it might break if you try harder.
No answer.
You sit up slowly, blinking against the dark, your body still heavy with sleep. For a second, you consider just waitingâheâll come back, he always doesâbut the quiet stretches too long, too unfamiliar.
So you slip out of bed.
The floor is cold under your feet, and you donât bother fixing your appearanceâjust a loose tank top and panties, hair messy, eyes half-lidded. You donât even think about it. You just⊠miss him.
The faint light from his office pulls you down the hallway.
You push the door open gently.
Chanâs there, exactly where you expectedâcurled slightly forward in his chair, headphones pushed halfway off, one hand resting against his temple as the other hovers over the keyboard. The screen casts a pale glow over his face, highlighting the exhaustion he tries to hide.
He doesnât notice you at first.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him for a moment, the soft clack of keys filling the room.
ââŠChan.â
That does it.
He turns instantly, like your voice is something heâs wired to respond to, and the moment his eyes land on you, something in his expression shiftsâsoftens, melts, completely undone.
You donât even realize how you look.
But he does.
And to him, itâs everything.
âHey⊠baby,â he murmurs, pulling off his headphones, voice low and warm despite the fatigue. âWhyâre you up?â
You rub your eyes, stepping closer, your voice small and sleepy. âWoke up⊠you werenât there.â
He exhales softly, guilt flickering across his face. âCouldnât sleep again. Didnât wanna wake you.â
You stop in front of him, swaying just slightly, and he instinctively reaches outâhands settling on your hips to steady you.
âCome back to bed,â you mumble, barely coherent, resting your forehead against his shoulder. âPlease.â
Thereâs a pause.
Not because heâs unsure.
Because heâs completely, utterly gone for you in that moment.
Youâhalf-asleep, careless, soft in every possible wayâasking for him like heâs the only thing that makes sense.
âYeah,â he breathes, almost like he forgot how to speak for a second. âYeah, okay. Iâm coming.â
He doesnât even save his work.
Just slips his hand into yours, guiding you gently back down the hallway.
You donât let go.
Not even when you crawl back under the covers, tugging him with you, wrapping yourself around him like itâs instinct.
He settles behind you, arms circling your waist, pulling you closeâcloser than before.
You sigh, already drifting again.
And for the first time that nightâŠ
Chan feels like he might actually sleep.
Because youâre here.
Because you asked for him.
And because nothingânot the music, not the silence, not even his restless mindâmatters more than this.
setting: Mondays blur into Tuesdays in the studioâWhere Days off are totally ignored by chan and you just so happen to always accompany him during those nights. old tracks, and a routine that feels a little too much like something domestic. Youâve known him since trainee days, before everything got complicated. Before feelings had names. Before either of you learned how to ignore them.
âž»
Thereâs a certain kind of quiet that only exists after midnight.
Not silenceânever silenceâbut the low hum of equipment, the soft click of keys, the occasional exhale thatâs more felt than heard. It settles between you and him like something familiar, something lived-in.
Monday nights have always belonged here. To this room. To him. To you.
It started as convenienceâshared schedules, the same rare day offâbut somewhere along the way it turned into something neither of you ever questioned. Or maybe you did. Just never out loud.
Tonight is no different. Or at least, it isnât supposed to be.
Heâs scrolling through old files, half-focused, mumbling to himself about chord progressions and naming conventions that stopped making sense years ago. Youâre leaning back in your chair, watching him with the kind of ease that only comes from knowing someone too long, too well.
Then he pauses.
Thereâs a file open on his screen, something older than the rest. You can tell by the way his posture shiftsâsubtle, but noticeable. Like heâs just stumbled into a version of himself he doesnât quite recognize anymore.
âI donât remember this,â he mutters, almost to himself.
Thatâs enough to catch your attention.
You lean forward slightly, curiosity sparking. âWhat is it?â
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then shrugs it off, like itâs nothing. âSomething from trainee days, I think.â
Thatâs all it takes.
Your reaction is immediateâbright, curious, a little too excited. âNo way. Play it.â
Thereâs no real reason for him to refuse. So he doesnât.
The track starts.
At first, itâs rough. Unpolished. The kind of thing that never leaves the hard drive. But then the melody settles, and something shifts. Itâs not just a song anymoreâitâs⊠something else.
Something specific.
The lyrics come in quietly, almost hesitant. Younger, maybe. Less controlled. But thereâs an honesty to it that hits differently.
And you feel it.
Not all at once. Not like a realization.
More like recognition.
A line here. A phrase there. Little pieces that feel⊠familiar. Too familiar.
You donât react right away. You let it play out, your expression carefully neutral, even as your thoughts start connecting dots youâre not sure you want to connect.
Because you remember those days too.
The long nights. The shared exhaustion. The way you used to sit next to him just like this, before everything got busier, bigger, more complicated.
Before you started pretending this wasnât something.
The song ends.
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
You break it first. Light, teasingâlike always.
âWow,â you say, leaning back again, like it didnât just hit somewhere it shouldnât have. âWhoâs this about?â
He doesnât answer immediately.
And thatâs all you need to know.
You smile, softer this time, but still playful. Still safe. âI donât remember you ever mentioning her.â
Thereâs a flicker in his expression. Something quick. Something gone before you can fully catch it.
âI donât remember either,â he says.
Itâs a deflection. You both know it.
You hum, tilting your head slightly, studying him just a little more than necessary. âMustâve been important, though. You donât write like that for just anyone.â
That lands.
You can tell by the way his shoulders tense, just slightly. By the way he looks away, back to the screen, like it suddenly matters a lot more than it did a minute ago.
He says nothing.
And for a secondâjust a secondâyou almost push.
Almost ask.
Almost say something real.
But you donât.
Because thisâthis space between youâis fragile in a way neither of you ever acknowledges. Built on years of almosts and not-quites. And breaking it would mean changing something neither of you are ready to lose.
So you let it go.
The night moves on.
Like it always does.
âž»
Hours pass without either of you noticing.
Youâre on your phone at some point, half-listening to the sounds of him working. The rhythm of it is familiarâcomforting, even. The way he gets when heâs focused. The quiet intensity. The occasional frustrated sigh.
Itâs easy to relax here.
Too easy.
Your eyes get heavier without you realizing it, your thoughts drifting in and out, until the line between resting and sleeping blurs completely.
You donât notice when your phone slips from your hand.
You donât notice when your head tilts just slightly to the side.
But he does.
He always does.
âž»
Itâs late. Later than either of you planned.
He glances over at you eventually, expecting to say somethingâsome passing comment, maybeâbut the words stop before they form.
Youâre asleep.
Not fully, maybe. Not deeply. But enough.
Thereâs something about it that makes him pause.
The way you look like thisâunguarded, still. Close enough to touch, but not his to.
He shouldnât stare.
He knows that.
But he does anyway.
Just for a second longer than he should.
âž»
When he finally wakes you, itâs gentle.
Careful.
Like heâs afraid of breaking something.
You blink up at him, disoriented at first, then slowly grounding yourself back into the moment. The room. The time. Him.
âWhat time is it?â you mumble.
âLate,â he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âReally late.â
You sit up, stretching slightly, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness. âI should go.â
He hesitates.
There it is again. That pause.
âThatâs⊠a 30-minute drive,â he says, quieter this time. âMineâs ten.â
You look at him.
He looks back.
Thereâs something unspoken there. Something that lingers just beneath the surface, like it always does.
âHow about you⊠come over?â he adds, almost casually. Almost. âIâll take the couch.â
It shouldnât feel like anything.
Itâs practical. Logical. Safe.
But it does.
Because thisâthis is how it always happens.
One step closer. Never enough to cross the line. Always enough to feel it.
You nod.
âOkay.â
âž»
His apartment is quiet in a different way.
Softer. Warmer.
Too personal.
You settle into his bed, surrounded by traces of him you try not to think about too much. The scent. The familiarity. The way it feels⊠right, in a way that doesnât make sense.
Heâs just down the hall.
Close.
Too close.
And yetâ
Not close enough.
âž»
He doesnât sleep right away.
He never does.
Lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in pieces he canât seem to put down.
The song.
Your voice.
That question.
Whoâs this about?
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
You didnât get it.
Or maybe you did.
Heâs not sure which is worse.
âž»
In the other room, youâre not asleep either.
Not really.
Because the song is still there. Looping. Lingering.
And for the first time, you let yourself think it.
Really think it.
What if it was you?
The idea sits heavy in your chest.
Too heavy.
Because if itâs true, then everything changes.
And if itâs notâ
Then why does it feel like it is?
âž»
Morning will come.
It always does.
And with it, the same routine. The same distance. The same careful balance youâve both perfected over time.
đș âjust testing (not really)â inspired by this tiktok
Bang Chan x reader
Fluff | Established Relationship | Soft Teasing | Touch-Starved Energy | Melt-Into-the-Kiss | Playful Intimacy.
setting: Itâs one of those rare, quiet eveningsâno schedules, no studio, no pressure. Just you, him, and a half-lazy idea you saw somewhere that you absolutely shouldnât be thinking about this much.
âž»
It starts as something small.
Harmless, even.
Just a passing thought while youâre curled up on the couch, half-watching something youâre not really paying attention to. Your phone is warm in your hand, screen dimming after a video you definitely watched more than once.
A stupid trend.
Thatâs all it is.
And yetâ
You glance over at him.
Heâs not paying attention to you. Of course he isnât. Heâs stretched out comfortably, one arm behind his head, the other loosely holding his phone, scrolling without much focus. Completely relaxed. Completely unaware.
And suddenly, the idea doesnât feel so harmless anymore.
It feels⊠tempting.
You sit up a little straighter.
âHey.â
He hums in response, not looking up yet.
âCan you come here for a second?â
That gets his attention.
Thereâs no hesitation when he puts his phone aside, pushing himself up and walking over like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Like of course heâd drop everything just because you asked.
That alone almost makes you lose your nerve.
Almost.
He stops in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes.
âWhat?â he asks, soft, curious.
You try to keep your expression neutral. Casual. Like this isnât a setup.
âStand still for a second. And put your arms out⊠Pleaseâ
A pause.
A small, amused smile tugs at his lips, but he doesnât question it. Doesnât tease. Doesnât push.
He justâ
Does it.
Arms slightly out, like you asked. Open. Unprotected. Completely trusting.
It hits you, briefly, how easy that was.
How easy you are for him.
And something in your chest tightens.
Just a little.
You donât give yourself time to think about it.
Because if you do, youâll stop.
So you step forward.
Close the distance.
And kiss him.
âž»
Thereâs a split second where nothing happens.
Where he stays exactly as he isâstill, unmoving, caught off guard just enough that your heart almost drops.
And thenâ
He melts.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
Itâs immediate.
Like instinct.
His arms come around you in one smooth motion, pulling you in like heâs been waiting for it without even knowing he was. The kiss deepens before you can even register the shift, his hand sliding up your back, anchoring you closer.
Closer than you planned.
Closer than you meant.
And suddenly this isnât a test anymore.
Because he doesnât hesitate.
Doesnât hold back.
Doesnât leave even an inch of space between you once he realizes whatâs happening.
He justâ
Gives in.
Completely.
âž»
You werenât prepared for that.
Not really.
The kiss lingers, warm and unhurried, but thereâs something underneath itâsomething that feels a little too real for something that started as a joke.
Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.
His grip tightens just slightly in response.
And for a moment, everything else fades.
No overthinking. No teasing. No pretending.
Just this.
âž»
When you finally pull back, itâs not by much.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to look at him.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, eyes still half-lidded, like he hasnât fully come back yet. Like heâs still somewhere in between where you started and where you ended up.
Thereâs a softness there.
Unfiltered. Unhidden.
âWhat was that for?â he murmurs.
You almost tell him.
Almost say it was just a trend. Just curiosity. Just something dumb you saw online.
But the words feel⊠wrong.
Because thatâs not what it felt like.
Not to you.
Not to him.
So instead, you shrug slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips.
âNothing.â
He doesnât believe you.
You can tell.
But he doesnât push.
He just studies you for a second longer, something warm and knowing in his expression, before his hand slides gently to the back of your neck.
And thenâ
He kisses you again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
Like heâs answering a question you didnât ask out loud.
or: you hate chan, and when you get paired up with him for an âauthentic workplace relationshipsâ campaign, you almost quit at the spot. girl, it's like HR's got it out for you. but when you hear that participants get free food and a bonus, you reluctantly agree, not that you really have a choice. what you didnt put in account, though, was that you're gonna have to be all lovey dovey with your nemesis on camera. so chan strikes up a deal, fake dating till the campaign is over. whats the worse that could happen?
wc: 9k
warnings: (onesided) enemies to lovers, fake dating, workplace romance, he fell first you fell harder, coworkers skztwice, fluff, banter, drunken confessions (he CARRIES you home) Felix is a little shit (in a funny way), probably a shit ton of mistakes, no smut but suggestive
The microwave beeped for the third time. You ignored it, scrolling through your phone with one hand while absently rubbing the tension headache forming at your temple. Across the break room, Chanâs laugh cut throughâagitating, grating, and completely unnecessary for whatever conversation he was having with Felix near the coffee machine. You didnât look up. You didnât need to. You already knew exactly what face he was making, that stupid, earnest crinkle around his eyes.
âYou gonna eat that?â A voice interrupted your thoughts, and you blinked up at jihyo, who was pointing at the forgotten microwave with a raised eyebrow. âBecause if youâre just gonna let it rot in there, Iâm stealing it.â
âKnock yourself out,â you muttered, unlocking your phone again just as another notification popped up, a company wide email with the subject line
NEW COLLABORATION INITIATIVE: REAL CONNECTIONS, REAL GROWTH.
You barely skimmed it before deleting it. Corporate buzzwords always gave you hives.
âOh, this is good,â jihyo said through a mouthful of your abandoned lunch, leaning over your shoulder to peek at your screen. âTheyâre pairing people up for that âauthentic workplace relationshipsâ campaign. You know, the one theyâve been hyping up all month?
You snorted, swiping the email back into the void of your deleted folder. "Yeah, because nothing says 'authentic' like HR-mandated relationships."
jihyo swallowed another bite of your stolen meal, "They're offering free dinner at Michelin-starred places for every 'collaboration milestone.' Plus a bonus."
She paused, grinning when your fingers froze mid-scroll. "Thought that might get your attention."
Across the room, Chan's laugh rang out againâthis time followed by Felix's exaggerated groan and a playful shove. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Of course Chan would be the type to make team building exercises look effortless. The guy probably volunteered at puppy shelters on weekends.
Your phone buzzedâanother email, this one marked
URGENT: CAMPAIGN PARTICIPANTS. You hesitated for exactly three seconds before opening it.
and you wish you didnt, because subject line alone made your stomach drop. it was the pairing announcement.
with your name next to chans.
The screen blurred for a second as you stared at your name next to Chanâs in bolded, corporate-blue font. Your thumb hovered over the delete button, but jihyoâs sharp inhale told you sheâd already seen it. âOh my god,â she whispered, half-delighted, half-horrified. âTheyâre either geniuses or suicidal. no in between.â
You shoved your phone into your pocket like it had burned you. âIâm emailing HR.â
Felix sidled up, grinning like heâd personally orchestrated this. âItâs perfect. You two bicker like an old married couple. People eat that up.â He lowered his voice conspiratorially. âi bet Jisungâs already started a betting pool on how long it takes before one of you snaps.â
âWith what excuse?â jihyo dead panned ââDear HR, I canât work with Bang Chan because his laugh makes me want to throw myself into trafficâ? Real professional.â
~
you started typing out an email to HR the second break time was over, trying to negotiate about their awful pairing choices.
The HR departmentâs reply came faster than expectedâthree lines of corporate speak that boiled down to 'tough luck, deal with it'.
You crumpled the printout in your fist and lobbed it into the trash with a little too much force, earning a low whistle from Jisung, who was lurking near the copier like a nosy ghost. âDamn. Paper never did anything to you.â
You ignored him, spinning your chair toward jihyo instead. âThereâs no way this is legal.â
She didnât even glance up from her phone. âItâs literally in your contract. Page forty-two, subsection C: Employees may be required to participate in company initiatives to foster a positive workplace culture.â
âThatâs vague.â
jihyo shrugged, âVague enough to hold up in court, apparently.â She glanced up, mischief glinting in her eyes. âBesides, think of the free food. That steakhouse you likeâwhat was it, La Fleur?âis first on the list.â
You opened your mouth to argue just as a shadow fell across your desk. âSo.â chan's voice was deliberately light, the way people talked to skittish animals. âGuess weâre partners.â
âTemporary coworkers,â you corrected, leaning back. âNot partners. Partners implies we actually like each other, and I dont like you."
Felix and jihyo exchanged glances and went back to work, abandoning you like traitors.
You swiveled your chair to face Chan, forcing your expression into something neutral. He was leaning against your desk, arms crossed, looking unfairly sangfroid compared to your current state.
Chan didnât flinch, ignoring your remark before he went on "HRâs got us doing that âday in the lifeâ video next week," he said, like this was a normal conversation and not corporate-sponsored torture. "They want âcandid moments.â" He air-quoted.
"staged candids," you muttered, scrolling through your inbox just to avoid looking at him. "So whatâs the play? Fake smiles over shared spreadsheets? Forced laughter at each otherâs jokes?"
"Or, we could just... not fake it."
Chan shrugged, "We already argue like weâre married. Might as well lean into it." His grin was all teeth.
You blinked. "What?"
"Unless youâre scared."
"Of you?" You scoffed, but your knee bounced under the desk, betraying you. The worst part? It wasnât entirely a lie. There was something terrifying about how easily he saw through you.
Across the room, Jisung mouthed 'oh shit' behind Chanâs back, miming an explosion with his hands. You flipped him off under the desk just as Chan leaned in, close enough that you caught the hint of his cologneâYou hated it. You hated how your breath caught.
"So weâre agreed," he said, voice dropping so only you can hear "No faking. JustâŠus."
you felt heat crawl up your neck, too hyper aware of how close he was. and just as you opened your mouth to answer â probably curse the living hell out of him, he cut you off,
"kidding," he said before he pushed off your desk, "you're so easy to tease, y'know"
You exhaled through your nose, gripping the edge of your chair to keep from lungingâwhether at him or away, you werenât sure. "youâ,"
but Chan was already halfway across the office, tossing a careless wave over his shoulder.
The worst part was the way your stomach flipped when he turned the corner, disappearing into the sea of cubicles like he hadnât just upended your entire understanding of the rules. You stared at the empty space heâd left behind, your fingers still curled tight around the armrests of your chair.
jihyo rolled in her chair over next to you, propping her chin on her palm. "Youâre screwed," she declared, gleeful. "Heâs got you rattled, and the cameras havenât even started rolling yet."
âIâm not rattled,â you muttered, more to yourself than jihyo.
âSuuure,â she said, dragging the word out âAnd Iâm the Queen of England.â she poked at your red ear as a way of calling your BS, grinning when you swatted her hand away. âFace it. Youâre already thinking about how to one-up him.â
You werenât. Or at least, you hadnât beenâuntil she said it. Now the idea clung to your thoughts like static, itching under your skin. Across the office, someoneâs phone buzzed with a notificationâprobably another email about the stupid campaignâand you stiffened instinctively.
jihyoâs grin widened. âSee? Rattled.â
~
the weekend rolled around way faster than you'd like, your two days of peace disturbed by constant emails and texts in the groupchat serving as a constant reminder of the impending doom waiting for you on Monday, the "day in the life" shoot.
which was today. you'd cursed whoever's idea this hell was when you saw a camera crew on the way to the office.
Your phone buzzedâChanâs name flashing on the screen with a text that read.
Meet me in Conference Room B. Bring your acting skills.
You stared at the message before slamming your phone face-down on the desk hard enough to make jihyo jump.
"Problem?" she asked, though the twitch of her lips said she already knew.
"Just Chan being Chan," you muttered, shoving your chair back with more force than necessary. The legs screeched against the floor, drawing glances from nearby coworkers.
you walked toward the conference room like you were headed to an execution. Which, given the circumstances, wasnât far off.
Conference Room B was all glass walls and harsh lighting, the kind of space that made every hesitation painfully visible. Chan was already inside, lounging in one of the ergonomic chairs like he owned it, scrolling through his phone with one hand. The second you stepped inside, his head snapped up, that infuriatingly knowing smirk already in place.
The glass door clicked shut behind you. Chan didnât move, just tilted his head as you dragged the chair opposite him, "Acting skills," you said flatly. "What, like you have any?"
Chanâs smirk didnât waver. He slid his phone onto the table, the screen lighting up with a shared calendar notificationâDay in the Life Shoot: 10 AM. "Better than yours," he said, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the polished surface. "You flinch every time someone says your name too loud."
You clenched your jaw. That was a lie. You only flinched when he said it.
"Whatâs the plan, partner?" you grit, "Swap secrets like middle schoolers? Hold hands for the cameras?"
Chanâs fingers stilled against the tabletop. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the HVAC system and the distant chatter of Jisung laughing near the water cooler.
Then Chan exhaled and reached into his back pocket. "Actually," he said, sliding a folded sheet of paper toward you, "I was thinking we could start with this."
The paper was crisp under your fingertips, the creases sharp enough to suggest it had been folded and refolded several times. You hesitated, glancing up at Chanâs face, his expression unreadable, before unfolding it. The contents were handwritten, the ink slightly smudged in places, as if heâd written it in a hurry.
Rules for Fake Dating (Corporate Edition), it read at the top, in Chanâs neat, looping script.
Your eyebrows shot up. "You made a list?"
Chan shrugged, "Thought it might help. Keep things professional."
You stared at the list, reading through the rules
Rule one: No physical contact unless absolutely necessary for the campaign.
Rule two: Keep personal insults to a minimum in public.
Chan cleared his throat, his fingers twitching like he wanted to snatch the paper back. "Itâs justâboundaries. So we donâtâ"
Rule three: Do not, under any circumstances, stay alone together after work hours.
"Kill each other?" you supplied, arching a brow.
His lips quirked. "Or worse." which made your eyebrow quirk up, what could possibly be worse than killing each other?
The paper trembled slightly in your grip. Or maybe that was your hands. You couldnât tell anymore, not with Chan watching you like a hawk, his dark eyes tracking every microexpression that flitted across your face.
"âRule four,â" you read aloud, voice deliberately flat, "âNo discussing this arrangement with coworkers unless directly related to campaign tasks.â" You glanced up, tapping the paper with your index finger. "Felix already knows, doesnât he?"
Chanâs exhale was almost a laugh. "Felix knows everything. Itâs a curse." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "But yeah, heâs the exception. Mostly because heâd sniff it out anyway."
You scanned the rest of the listâmundane, corporate-approved bullet points about maintaining âappropriate workplace conductâ and âmutual respectââbut it was the last rule that made your pulse stutter.
Rule seven: Remember itâs not real.
you stared at the list for a second too long before setting it down, ofcourse it wasnt real. that much you didnt need a reminder for .
Chanâs gaze flickered to your clenched fingers, then back to your face, his expression unreadable. "Problem with the terms?" he asked, voice too light.
"Rule seven is redundant," you said, forcing your voice steady. "I donât need a reminder that this is fake."
Chanâs fingers twitched toward the paper, "Redundant," he echoed, voice low. The word curled between you like smoke, thick enough to choke on. "Right."
Outside the glass walls of the conference room, Jisung paused mid-stride, his eyes darting between the two of you with the glee of a spectator at a tennis match. Chan didnât even glance his wayâjust held your stare.
The list sat between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. You wondered, absurdly, if he could hear your heartbeat from across the table. It certainly felt loud enough.
"okay," you said, sighing. wether you liked it or not, this had to happen. "This isnât dating. Itâs damage control."
"Tell that to HRâs spreadsheet." He nudged the list closer, his fingertip brushing yours for half a second, warm, calloused, gone before you could jerk away. "But fine. Damage control. Soâ" He flipped the paper over, revealing a hastily scribbled schedule. "Weâve got the âday in the lifeâ shoot in thirty minutes, a âcouples workshopâ Wednesdayâ"
You choked. "Workshop?"
"Yeah. Something about 'conflict resolution techniques' and 'emotional vulnerability exercises.'" His voice dripped with mock enthusiasm, his fingers curling into air quotes "Jeongin swears he saw HR ordering scented candles for it."
You pressed your palms flat against the table, the cool surface doing nothing to dull the heat crawling up your neck. "Tell me you're joking."
"Wish I was." Chan shrugged, flipping the paper back over and scribbling something in the marginâhis handwriting a messy contrast to the neat rules above it. "But look on the bright side. At least we won't be the only ones suffering. minho got paired with mina."
You blinked. "The intern who set the printer on fire last week?" (I'm NOT SHIPPING âŒïžâŒïž I PICKED A RANDOM PAIR)
Chanâs grin was all sharp edges. âThe very same.â He twirled the pen between his fingers like a baton, the movement distractingly fluid. âSo really, our âworkshopâ will be a walk in the park compared to whatever dumpster fire those two cook up.â He paused, glancing down at his notes before adding, âLiteral or otherwise.â
You brought your hands to your face, suddenly exhausted. âThis is hell.â The words came out muffled against your palms, but Chan heard them anyway, letting out a quiet chuckle.
âCould be worse.â he shrugged âThey couldâve made us do trust falls.â
You dropped your hands to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the way your traitorous lips twitched. âIâd let you fall.â
"Careful," Chan murmured, his voice low enough that the glass walls wouldnât carry it. "Wouldnât want HR thinking weâre actually trying to kill each other." His thumb smoothed over the crumpled edge of the rules list, his gaze flicking up to yours with something close to amusement. "Though Iâd like to see you try."
You opened your mouthâto snap back, to deny, to somethingâbut the door hissed open before you could, revealing Felixâs grinning face half-obscured by an obnoxiously large bucket of popcorn. "Room for one more?" he asked, already sliding into the chair beside you without waiting for an answer. His eyes darted between the two of you, lingering on the crumpled paper between Chanâs fingers. "Oh, Are we negotiating terms? Drawing up a blood pact?"
Felix smoothed the paper against the table, his grin widening as he scanned the contents. ââNo staying alone together after hoursâ? buddy, thatâs not a rule, thatâs a challenge.â
Chanâs knee bumped Felix's under the tableâhard enough to rattle the pens in their holder. making Felix let out an "ow!"
âItâs a precaution,â he said, voice measured âBoundaries keep things professional.â
Felixâs eyes flicked to you, bright with mischief. âAnd howâs that working out for you two?
The door swung open again before any of you could retort, revealing jihyo with a stack of papers clutched to her chest and an expression that suggested sheâd just won the lottery.
âGuess what just landed on my desk,â she sing-songed, dropping the stack with a dramatic flourish that sent several sheets sliding across the table. âThe âcouples workshopâ itinerary, with a scavenger hunt.â
Chan groaned, rubbing his temples like he could physically will the headache away. âA scavenger hunt?â
jihyo nodded, tapping a highlighted section with a manicured nail. âWith tasks. Like âtake a selfie at the place you first met.ââ She paused, lips twitching. âWhich, in your case, was the HR complaint meetingâ
Felix wheezed, âThis is the best day of my life.â
The itinerary slid across the table like a declaration of war. You caught it before it could tumble off the edge, your fingers tightening around the paper hard enough to crease the edges.
Couples Workshop: Scavenger Hunt
the header read in bold, cheerful font that clashed violently with the sinking feeling in your gut.
Chanâs sharp inhale was audible even over Felixâs wheezing laughter. âThis isââ
âTorture?â you supplied, flipping the page to reveal a color-coded map of the office marked with checkpoints. Someoneâprobably jihyoâhad circled the supply closet with a red pen and scribbled RIP beside it.
âI was going to say âcorporate mandated humiliation,â but sure.â Chan plucked the itinerary from your grip, his thumb brushing your hand for just a second, his gaze flicked to yours, unreadable, before he focused on the paper again. âAt least theyâre feeding us. Lunch is catered by that place you like.â and you didnt like the little feeling you had when he actually remembered that little detail.
but that little feeling left as quickly as it appeared after you read the words 'dessert sharing' after eating at said restaurant.
felix was, obviously, enjoying this. letting out a low whistle when you'd read the words out loud. "Tell me youâre gonna go full lady and the tramp with a spaghetti noodle. Orâwait, noâwhat if they force you to do a pepero challengeâ"
The conference room door swung open for the third time, revealing Jeongin clutching a clipboard âHR wants you two in the lobby in ten,â he announced, âTheyâre setting up for the âday in the lifeâ shoot.â
you want this to be over with already.
~
The lights in the lobby flickered like a bad omen as you approached, Chan half a step behind you with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. A small film crew was setting up near the reception desk, their equipment wires snaking across the floor.
You side-stepped a cable just as the director, a woman with a sharp bob and sharper smile, whirled toward you both, clapping her hands. "Ah, our stars! Letâs get you miked up before weâ" Her gaze dropped to the six inches of space between you and Chan, her smile tightening. "Youâre going to stand closer than that."
Chan exhaled through his nose, his shoulder brushing yours as he stepped into your space. The contact burned through your blazer "Happy?" he muttered, low enough that only you could hear. making your lips quirk up involuntarily.
The director beamed, oblivious. "Perfect! Now, weâll film you âarrivingâ togetherâjust act natural!"
Felix, lurking near craft services, mouthed ânatural?â with exaggerated disbelief. You rolled your eyes as two sound tech workers clipped a mic to your and chans collars, their fingers brushing your throat.
The director's clap echoed through the lobby like a starting pistol. "Action!"
You froze. Chanâs fingers brushed the small of your back, fleeting, but enough to send a jolt up your spine. "Breathe," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as the camera rolled. "You look like youâre about to bolt."
you forced your shoulders to relax, your feet to stay planted. The lobby suddenly felt cavernous, the cameraâs lens like a sniper scope trained on your every twitch. Chanâs hand settled more firmly against your back.
The director gestured wildly. "Now, walk toward the elevators like you do every morning! Chat, laughâpretend weâre not here!"
Chan's thumb stroked a slow circle against your side, "So," he said, voice pitched low and intimate for the mic, "how'd you sleep?"
The elevator doors reflected your glare back at you, twisted and warped like the situation itself. Chanâs thumb still traced lazy circles against your hip, his smirk a silent gotcha in the polished metal.
"Like a baby," you lied through your teeth, tilting your head just enough for the mic to catch the saccharine sweetness in your voice. "dreamt about stapling your mouth shut."
Chanâs laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating through where his chest barely brushed your shoulder. The director clapped excitedly. "Yes! Perfect chemistry! Keep going!"
Felix mimed gagging behind her back, jihyo mimed clutching an imaginary Oscar to her chest. You dug your nails into your palms to keep from flipping them off. Chanâs fingers flexed against your hip, a silent 'behave', before sliding up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was absurdly tender, his fingertips lingering just a second too long near your jawline. "Youâre cute when youâre homicidal," he murmured, loud enough for the mic to pick up.
The crew sighed collectively. Someone even whispered, "they're so cute"
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, a mockery of escape, but Chanâs grip tightened on your waist, steering you inside before you could bolt. The cameras followed, lenses swallowing the way his fingers splayed possessively over your hip as the doors sealed you both in.
"Smile," Chan murmured against your temple, his lips barely grazing your skin as the director gestured frantically through the glass. "You look like you're planning my murder."
"Maybe I am," you whispered back, but your traitorous mouth curved upward anyway.
The directorâs muffled voice crackled through Chanâs earpiece, "Now kiss!"
The directorâs words crackled in your earpiece like static, sharp enough to make your breath hitch. Chan went utterly still beside you, his fingers freezing against your waist. For a second, neither of you moved, then Chan exhaled and turned his head toward you, his gaze dropping to your mouth with terrifying focus.
"Donât," you hissed under your breath, your pulse roared in your ears.
Chanâs thumb brushed the underside of your ribcage, feather-light. "Rules say no physical contact unless necessary for the campaign," he murmured, lips barely moving. His breath warmed your cheek, "This seems necessary."
The elevator dinged just as Chan leaned in.
You braced for impact, for the press of his mouth, but at the last second, he angled his head and brushed his lips against your jaw instead, a whisper of contact that burned hotter than any kiss. The crew outside the doors erupted into applause, but all you heard was Chanâs quiet, triumphant huff against your skin, pulling back just enough to catch your glare.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the crew clustered around, their cameras trained on you. Chanâs hand slipped from your waistâfinallyâbut not before his fingers trailed down your side in a slow, deliberate drag that left your skin buzzing.
âCut!â The director clapped her hands, grinning like sheâd just witnessed the birth of cinema itself. âThat was perfectâthe tension, the almost kissââ
you stepped out of the elevator with enough force to make a camera assistant scramble backward. Your hair slightly mussed where Chanâs fingers had carded through it for the cameras, cheeks flushed with something you refused to name.
Chan emerged behind you, hands in his pockets, looking infuriatingly unruffled. âWe aim to please,â he said, flashing the crew a smile.
The directorâs grin widened as she rewinded the footage, the screen freezing on the exact moment Chanâs lips hovered near your jawline, âThis,â she declared, tapping the frame, âis chemistry. Weâll use this for the thumbnail.â
~
âNext scene!â The director clapped, herding the crew toward the break room where HR had set up a sickeningly domestic tableauâtwo mugs steaming with coffee, a croissant artfully arranged on a plate. âWeâll film you two âenjoying a morning coffee breakââ maybe some light flirtingââ
âWe donât flirt,â you interjected, too fast.
The director arched a brow, "You just spent ten minutes arguing with more intensity than most couples argue about wedding vows." She circled the break room table, adjusting the croissant crumb placement with absurd precision. "Trust me. You flirt."
Chan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the fabric of his shirt straining over his forearms. "We bicker," he corrected, but the corner of his mouth twitched when your glare cut to him. "There's a difference."
"Oh really?" Felix piped up from behind a monitor, "Then why'd your pulse spike to 120 when she called you an 'overgrown labrador' earlier?"
The blood drained from your face. Chan's fingers tightened around his biceps, knuckles whitening. The sound techâwho Felix had clearly bribedâhad the decency to look guilty, fiddling with her equipment as the room fell into silence.
Chan's fingers flexed against his biceps once, then dropped to his sides as he pushed off the counter with deliberate nonchalance. "Technical error," he said smoothly, "Your equipment's faulty."
The director clapped her hands, oblivious. "Moving on! Scene twoâcoffee break. Chan, stand behind her chair. Lean in when she talks, like you can't help being close."
Chan's complied, his shadow falling over you as he stepped into position. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you before his hands even touched the chair. The director gestured wildly. "Now, feed her a bite! Playful, teasingâmake it look natural!"
The croissant hovered between Chan's fingers. You stared at it, then up at him, then you snatched the croissant from his grip, tearing off a chunk with your teeth. The crew erupted into muffled laughter as powdered sugar dusted your chin.
âNatural!â the director crowed, âNow, lean in like youâre sharing a secret.â
Chan exhaled through his nose, but his shoulders relaxed as he bent toward you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. âYouâve got sugar,â he whispered for the mic, âGod, aren't you clumsy,â with a warmth that made it sound like endearment.
Chanâs breath ghosted over your earâwarm, uneven, betraying the steadiness of his voice. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glaring at the powdered residue like it had personally offended you.
nayeon, being oblivious to the entire fake dating scheme, leaned to whisper to jihyo as they watched the scene from a distance "yikes, true love really does conquer all. Even those two."
~
The director's clap echoed through the break room "And cut! Thatâs a wrap for Scene Two!" She beamed at the playback monitor looped in glorious high definition. "The tension is palpable. HRâs going to weep."
"Great," you muttered, brushing stray crumbs from your sleeves with more force than necessary. "Can we not do that again?"
Felix materialized at your elbow with a wet wipe, his grin manic. "Oh my god. You blushed when he leaned in." He dabbed at your chin with exaggerated care.
You snatched the wipe from him, swatting his hand away "Shut up."
The crew buzzed around you, packing up equipment. The director clapped her hands, summoning everyoneâs attention, "Lunch break! Then the workshop prep in Conference Room Câdonât be late!"
The break room emptied faster than a sinking ship. You made a beeline for the exit, but Chanâs fingers closed around your wrist before you could escape, "You okay?"
You were not okay. "Peachy," you lied, stepping back, "Just fantasizing about feeding you to the office shredder." that part wasn't a lie, maybe.
Chan smirked, tucking his hands into his pockets like he hadnât just short-wired your nervous system. "Noted." His gaze flicked over your shoulder, where Felix and jihyo were openly eavesdropping "Though HR might frown on murder during team-building exercises."
The directorâs assistant materialized with two laminated itineraries, her smile brittle. "Youâll be picking tasksâromantic, funny, or adventurous!" She winked "have fun!"
after the break, you made it over to Conference Room C, Someone, probably Jisung, had taped a heart shaped "teamwork makes the dream work" poster to the wall. You slumped into a chair, arms crossed, while Chan hovered near the whiteboard.
The director bustled in with a bowl full of folded slips, still as enthusiastic as before. "Alright, lovebirds! Draw your first challenge!"
Chan reached in first, his fingers brushing a slip at random, then unfolded it "Recreate your first argument," he read aloud. His lips twitched. "Weâll need a bigger room."
You snatched the next slip without looking. "Share a dessert." The paper trembled in your grip. "This is harassment."
Felix peered over chans shoulder as he groaned âWhatâs next? cuddles during quarterly reports?â
âDonât give them ideas.â felixs grin was all teeth. âThough I would pay to see you two spooning during budget reviews.â
âWe could always quit,â you offered, half-serious.
Chan's snort was sharp enough to puncture the tension. "Quit? And let HR win?" His thumb caught the edge of the crumpled directive, the 'encouraged physical affection' glared up at you both "No way."
~
it was Wednesday night, you'd just wrapped up the filming for this god forsaken campaign.
The office was mercifully empty by the time the filming wrappedâmost of the crew had dispersed with the promise of overtime pay. you slumped against the break room counter, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyelids until colors bloomed behind them. Fourteen hours of forced proximity had left your nerves frayed raw.
The break room door creaked open. Chanâs shadow stretched long across the linoleum as he leaned against the fridge beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. Neither of you moved away.
âHR wants us for debrief,â he said finally, voice rough like heâd been silent too long.
The break room fridge hummed like a tired old man between you both, the silence stretching taut enough to snap. Chanâs elbow bumped yours as he reached for the water dispenser, the casual contact sending a jolt up your arm. You watched his throat work as he drank, the line of his jaw tight even in repose. He lowered the cup, catching your stare. âWhat?â
âNothing.â you mutter, âJust wondering how much theyâre paying you to pretend not to hate me.â
Chanâs laugh was a short, oh how he wished he hated you.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, the fabric of his shirt straining over his biceps. âNot enough.â
Chanâs gaze dropped to your mouth. You swallowed. His Adamâs apple bobbed in response, a mirror of your nervous system short-circuiting.
You leaned in. Or maybe he did. Physics became irrelevant when his breath hit your chin, His hand hovered near your waist, not touching but there, a question written in the space between his fingertips and your hip. Your pulse roared in your ears loud enough to drown out the rational part of your brain screaming 'this is a terrible idea'.
His nose brushed yours. A shudder ran down your spine.
Then the door burst open.
Felixâs gasp was theatrically loud. âOh my god, are you making out in here?â
Chanâs hand snapped back like heâd been burned, his heel catching the edge of the counter as he stumbled half a step, and you abruptly turned around, putting as much space between you as possible.
well, thats awkward.
~
the next day, Thursday, came by. and the office returned to it's usual state. well...sorta.
Wednesdayâs couples workshop should have been a disaster, except somehow, it wasnât.
Youâd walked in already rehearsing sarcastic remarks in your head as HR herded everyone into the conference room with its obnoxious heart-shaped balloons. Chan had been leaning against the snack table, idly spinning a plastic fork between his fingers like a weapon, and youâd braced for impact. But then something⊠shifted.
The first activityârecreating your infamous first argumentâbackfired. Youâd been prepared to snipe about the broken printer incident again, but Chan had leaned in close, mic off, and whispered, "Remember when you called me a âwalking HR violationâ? I framed the email." Youâd choked mid-rant, caught between fake outrage and amusement, and the resulting sound was something between a cough and a laugh.
and the crew ate it up, sighing about "passionate reconciliation,"
Then the "sharing dessert" exercise . One fork. One slice of chocolate torte. and you had to feed each other. "To practice compromise," the facilitator beamed. Chanâs smirk faltered when you stabbed the fork into the cake with unnecessary force.
"Youâre paying my dry-cleaning bill if you get chocolate on this shirt," he muttered, leaning in. of course it was some expensive dress shirt, you wondered why he was still working here if he had that much money to spend on branded clothes.
the room erupted in sighs when you begrudgingly fed him a bite, his lips brushing the tines in a way that shouldnât have made your pulse jump.
The photo booth was worse. Or better. You werenât sure. Squished into the tiny booth together, Chanâs knee pressed against yours as the countdown flashed. "If you bite me againâ" he started, referencing the cake disaster. You interrupted with "Make me," just as the camera flashed, capturing his startled grin and your defiant smirk.
The second flash caught him mid-eye-roll, his arm slung over your shoulder like it belonged there.
The thirdâwell. The third was just you turning to face him, you find him already looking at you, and you'd just realised how cramped the booth was. The resulting photo was⊠soft.
jihyo even tacked it to the office corkboard with a heart drawn in Sharpie. "Look at how in love you look," she sighed. and you didnt take it down.
The thing about arguing with Chan was that it required energy, and by Thursday afternoon, you had none left.
and well, considering the almost kiss you had yesterday night in the break room, he didnt provoke you either.
Someone bumped your elbow in the gloomâHyunjin, juggling three takeout containers and a tripod. "Wrap party Friday night, felix's treat" he stage-whispered, kicking a stray cable out of his path. "Bring your fake boyfriend. Or donât. The betting poolâs got odds on both."
~
soju bottles multiplied, clustering in the center of the grill table, crowding out the side dishes, glinting under the neon beer signs. Felix's wrap party had devolved into a hazy blur of flushed cheeks and slurred karaoke
Chan sat diagonally across from you, the steam from the grill curled around his forearms where he'd rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, the heat painting his skin gold. You caught yourself staring at the way his fingers flexed around his glass.
"Yah," jihyo slurred, sloshing soju into your empty glass with alarming precision. "Stop eye-fucking your fake boyfriend and drink."
Chan's head snapped up at that, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden intensity that made the room tilt. You grabbed the shot and threw it back just to avoid holding eye contact, the burn down your throat nothing compared to the heat crawling up your neck.
and then you gulped down another.
and another.
âOkay, thatâs enough,â Chan muttered, plucking the glass from your grip with a sigh. "You're gonna regret this tomorrow."
You leaned forward, the table edge digging into your ribs. "I regret everything," you slurred, waving a hand that somehow ended up pressed against his forearm. His skin was scorching under your palm, the muscle tensing as your fingers curled instinctively around his wrist. "Including this stupid campaign. And your stupid face. Andâ" Your traitorous thumb brushed his pulse point. "that."
Chanâs breath hitched. The grill smoke curled between you like a tangible barrier, the scent of sizzling beef and soju drowning out everything.
around you, the chaos had reached critical massâjihyo was slurring the lyrics to 'tears' by so chan whee directly into nayeonâs ear, and Felix himself had commandeered the grill tongs like a conductorâs baton, declaring himself âThe Maestro of Meatâ between drunken giggles.
You slumped against the sticky table, your sixth (seventh?) shot glass wobbling between your fingers
His palm pressed against your forehead when you swayed, steadying you with a touch that burned âokay, time to get you homeâ
âYouâre not my boss,â you grumbled, but your legs disagreed when you tried to stand, buckling like a newborn giraffeâs. Chanâs arm shot out, catching you before you could faceplant into the kimchi platter. His grip was firm, his biceps flexing under your fingers as he hauled you upright, your back flush against his chest.
âYeah,â he murmured, âbut someoneâs gotta make sure you donât wake up in a ditch.â
~
The night air hit you like a slap, sharp and bracing after the haze of smoke and soju. Chanâs arm stayed locked around your waist as he guided you down the sidewalk, his steps measured to match your stumbling ones. The city hummed around youâcars honking, distant laughter, the rhythmic click of your heels against concrete.
âYouâre staring,â he said without looking at you. The streetlights cast gold across his cheekbones, catching the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
âAm not.â You tripped over a crack in the pavement. Chanâs grip tightened, his other hand coming up to brace your shoulder. âOkay, maybe a little. Your nose is stupid.â
Chan snorted. âMy nose?â
âYeah. Itâs allââ You waved a hand vaguely near his face, your fingers grazing the bridge of his nose. Chan went very still. âPerfect. Like some Greek statue bullshit. Itâs annoying.â
The streetlamp flickered overhead, casting long shadows across Chanâs face as his expression shifted from amused to something unreadable.
âAnd youâreââ You poked his chest, your finger sinking into the soft fabric of his shirt. âsoft. But also hard. Like a⊠a muscular pillow.â
Chan made a strangled noise. âThatâs the soju talking.â
âNo, itâs me talking.â
The words hung between you, suspended in the hazy glow of the streetlamp. Chanâs grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. You could feel the heat of his palm through the thin material, branding you in a way that had nothing to do with the soju burning through your veins.
âYouâre drunk,â he said, like he was trying to convince himself.
You swayed forward, your forehead bumping against his collarbone. The scent of his cologne filled your lungs, and you inhaled deeply, like you could memorize it. âNot that drunk,â you mumbled into his shirt.
Chan exhaled sharply, his breath ruffling your hair. His free hand came up, hovering near your cheek for a heartbeat before he seemed to think better of it, letting it drop back to his side. âYeah,â he muttered, âyou are.â
The sidewalk tilted beneath your feet as you pulled back to glare at him. The streetlight haloed his face, casting his eyelashes in long shadows across his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted, pink from the little soju he drank and the cold night air. You stared at them, then back at his face.
âYou know whatâs stupid?â you slurred, poking his chest again. âYou. Youâre stupid.â
Chanâs mouth twitched. âYeah?â
âYeah. Becauseââ You gestured vaguely between you, your hand flopping like a fish. âThis whole thing. The campaign. The rules. Theââ Your voice cracked. âThe way you looK at me sometimes.â
Chan went very still.
âHow do I look at you?â he asked, his voice rough.
Like you were the last person on earth. Like he wanted to devour you whole. Like he hated how much he didnât hate you.
The words hung between youâtoo honest, too raw, too much of everything you werenât supposed to feel. His lips parted like he might say something, but you acted first.
You kissed him.
Not a staged, HR-mandated kiss. This was realâall teeth and soju and the sharp gasp Chan let out when your hands fisted in his shirt. His body went rigid for a heartbeat, before he groaned low in his throat and kissed you back like heâd been waiting for it.
His hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, hauling you flush against him until you could feel the heat of him through every layer of fabric. The city noise faded into static, the only sound the wet slide of his mouth on yours.
Someone honked a car horn down the street. Chan jerked back like heâd been burned, his chest heaving. A string of saliva connected your mouths for a second before snapping.
âShit,â he muttered, his grip on your waist tightening like he couldnât decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. His thumb brushed the dip of your hipbone through your shirt, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. âThat wasâwe shouldnâtââ
âShut up,â you breathed, and kissed him again.
This time, he met you halfway. His hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he angled your head to deepen the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open with a patience that contradicted the urgency of his grip. You melted into him, your body arching instinctively toward his heat. he crowded you back against the brick wall of the nearest building. His knee slotted between your thighs, the pressure making you gasp into his mouth.
Chan broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, his fingers tightening in your hair before he forced himself to step back. His chest rose and fell like he'd just run a marathon, his lips slick and swollen from yours.
"You're drunk," he said hoarsely, out of breath.
"So?" you mumbled, swaying forward. The sidewalk tilted alarmingly beneath your feet.
"So," Chan caught you by the shoulders, his grip firm enough to steady you but loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted. "We're not doing this when you can barely stand."
Chan exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip shifting from your shoulders to your wrists as he carefully pried your fingers loose from his shirt. "Come on," he muttered, turning his back to you in one fluid motion. He crouched slightly, knees bending as he reached behind himself to hook his arms under your thighs. "Up."
You blinked at the expanse of his shoulders, "Whatâ"
"Unless you plan to crawl home," Chan said over his shoulder, his voice rough with something that wasn't quite irritation. His fingers flexed impatiently against your legs. "Your heels are killing me just looking at them."
You glanced down at your shoesâstrappy death traps that had been digging into your ankles since hour three of Felix's rabid karaoke sessionâthen back at Chan's waiting posture. With a grumble, you let yourself slump forward, your chest pressing against his back as he hoisted you up with ease.
Chan made a low noise in his throat when your chin hooked over his shoulder, your breath skating across his neck. "Hold on properly," he muttered, shifting his grip beneath your knees. "And stop wiggling."
~
your apartment door groaned on its hinges as Chan shouldered it open, one hand gripping your waist to keep you upright. The elevator ride had been a silent battle of willsâhim staring resolutely at the floor numbers, you leaning heavier into his side with every floor just to feel the muscles in his arm tense.
"You got it from here?" Chan asked, voice roughened by exhaustion
You swayed dangerously toward the hallway wall, the floor tilting like a carnival ride. "Mm. Perfectly capable," you lied, peeling yourself off the wallpaper only to stumble into the coat rack. Chan stepped in and caught your elbow with a sigh, his grip firm enough to steady you but gentle enough that it didn't hurt.
"water" he said, more to himself than to you, already moving toward the kitchen before you could protest. You watched his silhouette blur against the fridge light, the sharp lines of his shoulders softening into the darkness.
Chan reappeared with a glass, droplets condensing down its sides. "Drink."
You reached for it clumsily, fingers brushing his, water tasted like nothing and everything, so real compared to the hazy warmth spreading through your limbs.
Chan hovered, retrieving the cup after you'd gulped the water down "You good?"
"Mm. Perfect."
The bedroom tilted when you kicked off your shoes, the motion sending you stumbling backwardâstraight into Chanâs chest. His hands shot out to steady you, fingers splayed across your ribs like he was afraid youâd shatter. âEasy,â
You twisted in his grip, catching his wrist before he could pull away."Stay," you mumbled, your thumb brushing the delicate skin of his inner wrist. The word came out softer than you intended, less a demand, more a plea.
Chan stilled. His breath hitched audibly in the dark. For a heartbeat, neither of you movedâjust the shared warmth of his skin under your fingers, the ragged synchrony of your breathing, the way his pupils swallowed the dim light when he finally looked down at you.
Chanâs pulse stuttered under your fingertips, his wrist warm and solid in your grasp. "You're drunk," he murmured, but his voice lacked its usual conviction.
You tightened your grip just enough to feel his veins jump. "And you're still here."
Chan exhaled sharply through his nose, âYouâre gonna regret this in the morning,â he muttered, but his fingers curled tighter around yours, calloused skin catching on your knuckles.
âplease?â you said again, quieter this time, your fingers sliding down his wrist to tangle with his.
You shook your head, the motion too heavy, too slow. âWonât.â
Chanâs throat worked as he swallowed, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. âFine,â he breathed, like the word was dragged out of him. âBut weâre sleeping. Thatâs it.â
You nodded, your fingers still tangled with his, and let him guide you toward the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge, his shoulders rigid with tension. You collapsed beside him, the pillows muffling your groan as the room spun lazily around you.
Chan exhaled his fingers twitching where they rested on his knees. âYou shouldââ
âStop thinking so much,â you interrupted, reaching out blindly to pat his thigh. His muscles tensed under your palm, âJust⊠lie down.â
For a long moment, he didnât move. Then, he lowered himself onto his back beside you, his arms stiff at his sides. The space between you yawned like a chasm, the sheets cool against your skin where they separated you.
You turned onto your side, the room tilting dangerously before stabilizing. âYouâre terrible at this,â you mumbled.
His head turned toward you, âAt what?â
âRelaxing.â You reached out, your fingers brushing his forearm. âYouâre like a statue.â
Chan sighed out a laugh, but his arm softened under your touch, the tension bleeding out muscle by muscle. âMaybe because someone dragged me into their bed while drunk.â
The last thing you remembered was the rhythmic rise and fall of Chanâs chest beside you, the slow drag of his breath evening out as sleep pulled him under. Youâd meant to stay awakeâto memorize his peaceful expression, the way his lips parted just slightly in unconsciousnessâbut the alcohol and the warmth radiating off his body lulled you into a hazy half-sleep. Your fingers, still loosely tangled with his, twitched as dreams began to blur the edges of your consciousness.
Somewhere in the night, the space between you vanished.
You woke to heatâsolid and unyielding against your back, an arm slung heavy over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. Chanâs chest pressed flush against your spine, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.
The first gray light of dawn filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, across the arm draped over youâhis arm.
Your breath caught.
Chan stirred behind you, a low, sleep-rough noise vibrating through his chest and into yours. His fingers twitched against your abdomen, flexing once, before stilling again. His knee had slotted between yours at some point.
You should move. You would move. Any second now.
Chanâs nose nuzzled into your hair, his exhale gusting warm across your scalp. His arm tightened, pulling you back flush against him. The hard line of his body molded to yours like theyâd been designed to fit togetherâhis thighs bracketing yours, his hips cradling the curve of your ass.
âMm.â Chanâs voice was gravel-rough with sleep, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. âStop thinking so loud.â
You froze. âYouâre awake?â
His thumb stroked lazily across your stomach. âNow I am.â
The sheets rustled as you twisted to face himâor tried to, until his arm clamped like a steel band around your waist. Chan made a disapproving noise, his knee slotting tighter between yours. âDonât,â he muttered into your neck. âSâcold, let's stay like this for a little longer"
~
Monday came back around, and to the shock of one-week-ago-you, this stupid campaign actually ended up making you an chan go official, and you didnt hate that.
you walked into the office hand in hand, ready for chaos to ensue, but all you heard upon stepping into the office were..collevtive groans? and jihyos victorious squeal.
"Pay up, losers," jihyo sang, pulling a spreadsheet from her pocket and slapping it onto the nearest desk with a triumphant thwack.
oh. thats why.
Column after column detailed bet amounts, dates, and increasingly absurd scenariosâJeongin groaned into his hands as she pointed at the bolded line at the bottom
OFFICIAL COUPLE STATUS BY Q3.
no one was that surprised upon your announcement. half of the office already thought you were dating before the whole campaign thing.
but even though you were actually dating now, that didnt stop your pointless bickering.
The conference room door slammed shut behind youâmostly because Chan had kicked it for dramatic effect, his fingers still tangled in the belt loop of your jeans as he dragged you inside. "You're impossible," he growled, but the corner of his mouth twitched when you dug your heels into the carpet.
"And you're infuriating," you shot back, twisting out of his grip only for him to catch your wrist and tug you flush against him, his free hand comming up to cradle your jaw.
You swallowed hard. "infuriating"
"Say that again," he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
Chan's laugh was low and rough as he crowded you against the conference table, the edge digging into your thighs. "Funny," he murmured "because I remember you screaming something very different last night."
The door burst open before you could retaliate. Felix's gasp was theatrically loud as he clutched his chest. "Children, please! Some of us are trying to work hereâ"
"Too late," you said sweetly, twisting in Chan's grip to flip her offâonly for him to catch your wrist and press a kiss to your pulse point.
jihyo peeked over Felix's shoulder with a shit-eating grin. "Oh my god, they're disgusting." She fake-gagged. "I take back every shipping comment I ever made."
"âsays the man who bet on us hooking up by August," Chan shot back, finally releasing you to snatch Felix's phone. He scrolled through the camera roll with exaggerated disgust. "Jesus, you even got footage of me carrying her drunk ass home."
Felix made retching noises. "Now they're all over each other? After months of pretending to hateâ"
You lunged for the device. "Delete that right nowâ"
Chan held the phone above his head, while scrolling with his other hand. "Oh? What's this? 'Chan's hot when he's angry' group chat? With heart emojis?"
"You said you deleted that!" you hissed at Felix , jumping for the phone. Chan caught you around the waist with one arm, still scrolling like this wasn't social suicide.
"Wait waitâ'if he growls at me one more time I'm jumping him in the supply closet'âbold choice, considering the supply closet has no lockâ"
The thing no one tells you about falling for your fake boyfriend is how the little things become landmines. Like how Chanâs thumb swipes absentmindedly over your thighs during meetings now, or how he steals bites of your lunch without asking but always replaces them with his own favorites, like some unspoken trade agreement.
You knee him in the thigh. Chan wheezed but didn't let go, his grip tightening as he spun you away. "Unhand me, you walking HR violationâ"
Or how, when Felix leans too close to you during brainstorming sessions, Chanâs pen starts tapping arrhythmically against the desk like a morse code warning.
setting: A quiet night in, half-watching TV on the couch. Youâre tucked into Chanâs side, the kind of comfortable that makes you forget the world existsâuntil you remember a stupid TikTok prank that suddenly feels like a really good idea.
The TV is on, but neither of you are really watching it. Some random show playing in the background, volume low, just enough to fill the silence. Youâre half curled into Chanâs side, one leg thrown over his, your cheek resting against his shoulder while he scrolls through his phone.
Every now and then, his fingers absentmindedly trace along your arm. Not even thinking about it. Just⊠there.
Domestic. Easy. Yours.
Youâre scrolling too, barely paying attentionâuntil something from earlier pops back into your head.
That stupid TikTok.
You press your lips together, trying not to smile.
âŠOkay. Maybe just a little.
You shift slightly, sitting up just enough to look at your phone properly, your shoulder brushing his arm. Chan doesnât question itâjust adjusts automatically, hand settling warm against your waist to keep you from slipping off him.
You inhale.
âWaitââ
He hums, still looking at his phone. âMm?â
You let a beat pass. Thenâ
ââŠoh my God.â
That gets him.
Not fully. But enough that his scrolling slows.
âWhat?â he asks, distracted, like heâs expecting something minor.
You stare at your phone, brows pulling together like youâre trying to make sense of something.
âNo, thatâsâno way.â
Now he looks.
âHey,â he nudges your side lightly. âWhat happened?â
You hesitate, like youâre debating whether to say it, then tilt your phone slightly toward yourself again.
âI think I just saw Minho on Tinder.â
Thereâs a pause.
A real one this time.
Chan straightens a little beside you. âWhat?â
You nod, still staring at your screen like youâre double-checking. âYeahâlike⊠full profile. Pictures, bio⊠everything.â
He leans in closer without thinking, shoulder pressing against yours. âShow me.â
You instinctively angle the phone away, like youâre still scrolling.
âWait, Iâm trying to find it againâhold on.â
Chanâs attention is fully on you now. Phone forgotten in his other hand.
âFor real? Thatâs weird,â he mutters. âDid he get hacked or something?â
You shrug, committing. âI donât know, but it looked exactly like him.â
Another beat.
And thenâ
You feel it.
Not see it. Feel it.
The way he stills.
The way his arm, which had been resting around you, tightens just slightly before pulling back.
ââŠWait.â
Uh oh.
You keep your eyes on your phone. âWhat?â
Chanâs not looking at the screen anymore.
Heâs looking at you.
ââŠWhy are you on Tinder?â
Thereâs no accusation in it. Not yet.
Just confusion. Slow, creeping confusion.
You blink, like you didnât expect the question. âHm?â
âYou said you saw him,â he continues, quieter now. âOn Tinder.â
ââŠYeah?â
âSo youâre on Tinder.â
You let out a small breath, like itâs nothing. âOhâno, I just downloaded it. Like, to look.â
He doesnât answer right away.
And thatâs what makes it worse.
When you finally glance at him, his expression isnât angry.
Itâs⊠thinking.
Processing.
âDownloaded it,â he repeats.
âFor fun,â you add quickly.
Chan leans back into the couch, running a hand through his hair. Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just⊠trying to line things up.
âYouâre on a dating app,â he says slowly, âfor fun.â
You can feel the moment tipping.
The exact second it stops being funny.
âChanââ
âIâm just asking,â he cuts in, still calm, still too calm. âBecause I thought we wereââ he gestures vaguely between you, ââgood.â
Your chest tightens for half a second.
And yeah, okayâ
Thatâs enough.
You break.
A laugh slips out before you can stop it.
He pauses.
ââŠWhat?â
âIâm sorryââ you cover your face, already smiling. âItâs a prank, okay? Itâs from TikTokââ
Silence.
Chan just stares at you.
Then he exhales, head dropping back against the couch with a quiet groan.
âOh my God.â
âI didnât actually download Tinder!â you insist, nudging his arm. âI swear.â
He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you again, somewhere between annoyed and relieved.
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âYou were so serious,â you laugh.
âBecause you said you saw my friend on a dating app?? What did you expect?â
You grin, leaning back into him like nothing happened. âSo you were jealous.â
âI was not jealous.â
âConcerned?â you tease.
âYeah. Concerned,â he shoots back, narrowing his eyes at you.
Thereâs a pause.
Thenâ
He reaches for his phone.
You immediately sit up. âWaitâwhat are you doing?â
