"Half Past Midnight "
Woozi × Reader | Soft angst to comfort | Established relationship
a/n: kinda rushed this, I'll post a "woozi's pov" soon! i didn't know what else to write about hehe. Hope you like it <3
The first time he told you he was scared of love, it wasn’t poetic.
There were no candlelit confessions, no dramatic sighs or confessions whispered into the darkness. It was just him, sitting on the edge of his studio couch, eyes tired, fingers tapping against his knee, and voice soft with exhaustion.
"I don’t want to ruin the one thing I know I’m good at," he said, looking down. "And sometimes, being in love… it feels like I might have to choose."
You were curled up beside him, your legs tucked beneath you, the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his closet pooling around your arms. You didn’t speak right away. You just looked at him. Not with sadness, or pity, but with understanding.
You knew how much his music meant to him. How it wasn’t just a job, or a dream, but a part of him. It was in the curve of his fingers when they danced across the keyboard. In the way his face softened when he talked about melodies and progressions. In how his eyes lit up when a track finally came together.
He loved music the way the ocean loved the moon—constant, quiet, deep.
So you never asked him to choose.
Not once.
You became a quiet fixture in his life the same way a favorite melody settles into the heart—subtle, warm, permanent.
You didn’t wait for invitations to show up at his studio anymore. You knew the code. You knew when not to disturb him and when to slip in with takeout or coffee and leave it by the desk. Sometimes, you'd fall asleep on the couch while he worked, lulled by the soft echo of bass through the walls. Other times, he'd pause to glance back at you and just… smile.
He didn’t say much, but you always heard him loud and clear.
He'd come home late most nights. Half past midnight, or later. You never complained. Your body adjusted, naturally syncing to the rhythm of his life.
He always found you.
Sometimes asleep on the couch, your phone still open to a playlist you’d made for him. Sometimes curled up in bed, a book resting on your chest. Sometimes awake, waiting for him with a sleepy smile and a bowl of warm soup.
“You’re still up?” he’d ask, voice rough from the night.
“Always,” you’d mumble, arms reaching out instinctively.
He’d melt into your embrace like he’d been holding his breath all day.
It wasn’t always easy.
There were days when you missed him. Days when you felt clingy, or when your fingers hovered over your phone, wondering if it was okay to text again. There were moments of doubt—not in him, but in yourself. Wondering if you were being too much, asking too little, hoping too quietly.
But never, not once, did you think he didn’t love you.
Because Woozi didn’t show love with grand gestures or flowery words. He showed it when he let you into the quietest parts of his world. When he played you unfinished demos and watched your face as you listened. When he started keeping your favorite snacks in the studio fridge. When he kissed your forehead before leaving and whispered, “I'll try not to be too late tonight.”
He loved you the way he loved music—deliberately, deeply, and without distraction.
One night, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making tea, your hair tied up messily, an old hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You leaned back into him without a word.
“I was thinking about what I said. That time in the studio,” he said, voice low against your neck.
You turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.
“I was scared,” he admitted. “I thought love would be a distraction. That it’d take me away from everything I’ve worked for. But it didn’t.”
He paused, then added, “You didn’t.”
Your eyes softened.
“I never wanted you to choose,” you whispered. “I just wanted to be beside you while you chased what you loved.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You are what I love.”
Your breath caught, heart swelling with a warmth that settled into your bones.
He turned you around then, gently, holding your face in both hands. His thumb brushed under your eye, tender.
“I love you” he said. “I love you so much, darling.”
There would still be late nights, and busy seasons, and moments when the world pulled him in different directions.
But no matter how far the music took him, he always came back to you.
And you—soft, patient, unwavering—you were always there. Waiting. Loving him not despite his passion, but because of it. Loving all of him. Even the parts he once feared no one could love properly.
In the silence between his verses, in the breath between your kisses, in the space where love meets purpose—you both found something rare.
Not a love that asks you to choose, but one that lets you have everything.