You’d always been on the larger side, ever since you were a child. Whilst boys were crushing on your friends, you fell easily into the role of the funny one, the one there to break the ice. As you grew up, you got used to watching from the sidelines as girls got the guys they liked, and you didn’t.

It wasn’t that nobody ever liked you. At least, that’s what your friends insisted.

“You just don’t notice it.”

“You’re intimidating.”

“People assume you’re already taken.”

The excuses changed depending on who was saying them, but none of them ever felt true. The truth was much simpler. You weren’t the girl people noticed first. So eventually, you stopped expecting them to notice at all… Which was why meeting Han felt so ridiculous.

People like Han weren’t supposed to exist in your life. He was famous, and not to mention beautiful - the kind of beautiful that made people stop walking when he appeared on a screen. Even before he debuted, before the awards and world tours and screaming fans, he’d been attractive. The cameras only amplified it. You, meanwhile, worked a normal job, lived in a normal flat, and spent most evenings convincing yourself that takeaways counted as cooking. Your worlds should never have crossed. Yet somehow, they did.

It started when your company partnered with his agency for a promotional campaign. You’d been assigned to help coordinate schedules. It was nothing glamorous - mostly emails, spreadsheets, and trying not to scream whenever deadlines changed at the last second.

The first time you met him in person, you’d expected arrogance, or at least indifference. Instead, he walked into the conference room, immediately bowed to everyone present, and introduced himself as though nobody knew who he was.

“Hi, I’m Han.”

As if he wasn’t one of the most recognisable idols in the world.

The room practically melted around him, colleagues flocking to meet his every whim (not that he had any, he was too humble for that). You remained determinedly professional… For approximately seven minutes. Then he ruined that professionalism you were striving for by making a joke. A joke that your brain found funny enough to snort out loud at. Before you could die of embarrassment, Han was grinning and chuckling at your reaction.

Before long, he was sitting beside you instead of across the room. The whole thing felt suspicious, especially when he was even more kind than he had first appeared.

Months passed as the campaign continued. You had expected to work quietly in the background, taking notes and turning them into ideas for him to pitch to his management. Han, however, seemed to have other ideas. It started with him constantly finding reasons to talk to you, about both work and you. He’d stop by your desk, drinks in hand for both of you, like he was the employee. You were mortified the first time he did it, telling him that it should have been the other way around, but he’d simply smiled and carried on each day like he hadn’t heard you the first time.

The time at your desk coincided with evening text messages about work-related questions that absolutely could have been emails. The conversations developed into an easy friendship when he’d ask how your day was or remember details from previous conversations.

The first time he brought you a snack without asking what you liked, you nearly accused him of witchcraft.

“You remembered my favourite snack?”

He looked genuinely confused and slightly offended. “Of course I remembered.”

He said it like it was obvious, as though remembering things about you wasn’t unusual.

You spent weeks convincing yourself he was just friendly - months, actually - because the alternative was absurd. The alternative was believing that someone like Han, who was handsome, talented, and adored by millions, might actually enjoy your company. So, whenever your colleagues raised their eyebrows, you ignored them. Whenever he sought you out in a crowded room, you dismissed it. Whenever your stomach fluttered, you told yourself it meant nothing.

Then came the night everything fell apart. Or rather, everything changed.

The team had gone out after a successful event. Most people were drinking, and music played softly in the background. You’d shaken your head and smiled softly to yourself as you realised it was Han’s music playing, before slipping outside for air, enjoying the peace and quiet.

A few minutes later, the door opened behind you, and Han stepped onto the balcony. You immediately sighed and turned back to the view, avoiding his gaze.

“There are like thirty people inside.”

“And?”

“Yet somehow you found me.”

He smiled. “I was looking for you.”

Your heart betrayed you with a violent thud, and you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth his simple words brought to you. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath you, and you found yourself wanting to know-

“Why?”

The question came out before you could stop it, and you regretted asking when Han went quiet, face solemn when you glanced at him quickly from the corner of your eye.

“Do you really not know?”

You laughed - a short, humourless sound. “No.”

He stared at you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked frustrated.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe someone could like you?”

The words hit harder than they should have, and you tensed at his directness. Years of being overlooked surfaced instantly, and you crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to put a barrier between yourself and the awkwardness you felt as you replied.

“Because that’s not how my life works.”

Han’s expression softened immediately, and you hated how close his pity looked to kindness.

“You think I haven’t noticed you making yourself smaller in every room you walk into?” he asked quietly.

Your throat tightened enough that you couldn’t answer. For years, without realising it, you’d learnt to make yourself small, to blend into the background rather than risk standing out and attracting attention.

Han took a step closer, and your breath hitched as he started talking, taking another step towards you with every compliment he gave you.

“You make everyone laugh.”

“You’re kind.”

“You’re smart.”

Your eyes burned, and you felt the need to interrupt him, not knowing how to process what he was saying.

“Han—”

“And you’re beautiful.”

The words stole every thought from your head, and you actually laughed at the impossibility of the situation; at the fact that this man had come into your life months ago and was now calling you beautiful when no one else ever had before.

Han didn’t laugh with you; he simply looked at you. His gaze was steady, his eyes certain. His expression showed that he couldn’t understand why you were questioning it, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world to you.

The silence stretched between you before Han closed the final distance between you, reaching to slide his fingers between your own gently before asking:

“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you to notice I’m flirting with you?”

Your jaw dropped at his words, and Han groaned dramatically and covered his face.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

Despite yourself, another laugh escaped - a real one this time - and when Han peeked through his fingers and saw you smiling, his own grin returned instantly. He leaned against the railing, tilting his head at you as he spoke again.

"So."

"So."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Now that we've established what I think about you..."

Your heart began hammering. "Right."

His eyes met yours, and suddenly this felt very real. You could no longer tell yourself that he was just being nice, no longer write off his seeking you out.

"I like you," he said quietly.

The words settled over you, no room for misunderstanding, and it felt even scarier than all the flirting you’d missed.

You looked down at where your fingers were still laced together. "I don't really know what to say."

"That's okay."

"No, it's not."

You laughed nervously. "I should probably have a normal response."

Han's expression softened. "There's no normal response."

You took a breath, then another, trying to shift the heavy sensation in your chest. It was something you'd been carrying for weeks – months, maybe – without ever properly acknowledging it.

"I think..." you started.

The words immediately disappeared, doubt catching your tongue and forcing the words back. Han waited patiently, though, face calm and eyes understanding.

You tried again. "I think part of the reason I didn't realise you were flirting..."

Your fingers twisted together as you forced the second part of your sentence out, your face heating at your own honesty.

"...was because I couldn't imagine why you'd flirt with me."

His face fell slightly, but you hurried on. "I know you must hate it when I say things like that."

"I do."

"I know." You smiled weakly, barely holding eye contact. "But it's true."

The confession tasted awful. It was embarrassing, leaving a new feeling of vulnerability, but you had to be honest. Han remained quiet, listening to what you had to say.

"Every compliment just got filed under 'Han is nice.'"

A small laugh escaped him. "That explains a lot."

"Right?"

"A concerning amount, actually."

You laughed, but your smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "Because if I admitted you might mean it..." Your voice softened. "I'd have to admit that I wanted you to."

Han froze, expression shocked. The words hung in the air, and your heart immediately tried to evacuate your body.

"Oh, God." You covered your face, releasing his hand as you did so. "I wasn't planning on saying that."

Han's eyes widened. "You weren't?"

"No."

"You just accidentally confessed?"

"Apparently."

A grin began spreading across his face, and you groaned.

"Please don't look so happy."

"I can't help it."

"Han."

"You like me."

Your entire face burned. "You already knew that."

"I suspected." He pushed himself away from the railing. "But hearing it is different."

You peeked through your fingers and smiled at the look of pure delight on Han’s face.

"You really had no idea?" he asked.

You lowered your hands. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

Han shook his head. "Incredible."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

The two of you laughed, and as it faded, you realised that he was suddenly standing closer. Not close enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you could see the warmth in his eyes and the way he looked at you. Like he genuinely couldn't believe this was happening either.

"You know," he said softly, "I've liked you for a while."

Your stomach flipped. "How long?"

Han winced. "Long enough that your colleagues threatened intervention."

You burst out laughing, but you felt your face flush bright red at how oblivious you must have really been.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Oh, my God."

"They were tired of seeing me all the time."

You shook your head and giggled. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city lights still glowed around you, and music still drifted faintly through the doors, but it felt different now than a few minutes ago. Like maybe the lights were that little bit brighter, the music that little bit sweeter.

You swallowed before reaching out and taking his hand once again. His eyes immediately dropped to where your fingers intertwined, and you were over the moon to see a smile tug at his lips.

"Hi," you said softly.

Han laughed. "Hi."

"I like you, too."

His smile grew. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His fingers squeezed yours, and for a second, he looked so ridiculously happy that you couldn't stop smiling back.

The second you walked back into the party together, every coherent thought vanished from your head. Han was still smiling - not his usual bright, mischievous smile – but a softer one. The kind that kept appearing every time he looked at you (which was constantly).  The noise of the party washed over you as people greeted you both.

Someone called Han’s name from across the room, and he answered without taking his eyes off you. You tried not to notice, but you failed. Completely.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, and his expression immediately softened.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look overwhelmed.”

“Maybe because you confessed your feelings to me ten minutes ago.”

His ears turned pink; the sight made something warm bloom in your chest.

“Fair.”

Before you could react, his hand settled gently against the small of your back. The touch wasn’t possessive or demanding. It was almost hesitant, as if he were checking whether you would pull away. You didn’t, and Han visibly relaxed.

“Come on.”

You followed him farther into the room and quickly discovered that, now that he’d admitted his feelings, he apparently had no intention of pretending otherwise. At all. When people spoke to you, Han drifted closer. When the crowd became busy, his hand found your waist. When somebody squeezed between you, he immediately moved back beside you again. You weren’t even sure he realised he was doing it. It seemed instinctive, natural even. As though being near you was simply where he wanted to be.

The longer the evening went on, the bolder he became.

At one point, you were standing beside the drinks table listening to a story from one of your colleagues. Han appeared beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. You tried (and failed) not to react as his hand brushed yours. Once. Twice. A third time. Until eventually his fingers hooked loosely around yours.

Your entire train of thought derailed as you stared at your joined hands, Han following your gaze.

“Oh.”

He sounded completely unashamed. “Sorry.”

He made absolutely no effort to let go.

You looked up. “Han.”

“What?”

“You aren’t sorry.”

A grin spread across his face. “No.”

You laughed despite yourself.

The colleague speaking to you rolled their eyes dramatically. “Are we interrupting something?”

Both of you froze, and Han looked delighted. You, on the other hand, wanted the floor to swallow you whole. The colleague laughed and wandered away before either of you could answer. The moment they disappeared, Han leaned closer.

“I think they know.”

“You think?”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. God. You were never going to survive this.

As the evening continued, more people joined conversations and drifted away. Han never strayed far. Not once. If he were talking to somebody else, he somehow remained beside you. If someone pulled him into another conversation, his hand would find your arm before he moved away. There was always a brief touch, always a silent reassurance that he’d be right back.

And every single time, he came back.

You were standing with a small group near the balcony doors when somebody asked Han a question. His answer was automatic, distracted, because he was looking at you. Again.

You finally shook your head. “What?”

His smile appeared instantly. “I like looking at you.”

The conversation around you stopped dead. Your eyes widened at the same time that Han realised what he’d said, tips of his ears turning red.

The group immediately erupted into laughter. “You are down catastrophically.”

Han groaned. “I’m aware.”

“You said that out loud.”

“I’m aware.”

You covered your face, but he gently pulled your hands away, murmuring, “Don’t hide.”

“I’m hiding.”

“No.”

“Han.”

His grin softened, and for a brief moment, with everyone else fading into the background, he squeezed your hand. Just once. A quiet little gesture that somehow felt more intimate than all the flirting. The party continued around you, yet somehow, the two of you seemed caught inside your own little bubble. One where every smile lasted too long, every glance lingered, and every accidental touch became deliberate.

Hours passed far more quickly than they should have. Eventually, you checked the time and realised how late it was.

“I should probably head home.”

Han looked disappointed immediately. The expression appeared so quickly that you almost laughed. “Already?”

“It’s late.”

“You’ve become incredibly responsible.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Certainly not me.”

You rolled your eyes, but he smiled. Then, without thinking, his hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The tiny movement made your pulse stumble.

“Can I walk you home?”

The question came out quieter than everything else he’d said all evening. For the first time since his confession, he actually seemed nervous.

You looked at him, at the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours, at the hopeful expression he was trying and failing to hide. Suddenly, the answer felt easy.

“Okay.”

His entire face lit up, and the smile that followed was so bright it was impossible not to smile back.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Han.”

He laughed before he squeezed your hand once more and reached for your coat.

"Wait here for a minute?"

You nodded.

The work party was beginning to wind down. People were collecting coats, finishing drinks, and exchanging goodbyes.

Han smiled. "I'll just say goodbye to your colleagues before they think I've kidnapped you."

You laughed. "Very considerate."

"I know." He leaned down slightly. "Don't disappear."

The warmth that had become so familiar over the last few weeks spread through your chest.

"I won't."

Satisfied, Han headed across the room, immediately getting intercepted by three different people. You smiled to yourself and wandered towards the front door, eyes on his face as he laughed at what one of your colleagues had said.

It still felt surreal - the fact that Han liked you, that he held your hand without hesitation, that he looked at you the way he did.

You were so distracted by your thoughts that you almost didn't notice someone approaching. A woman stopped beside you. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked like every inch of her was perfectly styled, an expensive-looking dress adorning her perfect figure. She was the kind of woman who seemed effortlessly put together.

She smiled, and at first glance, she seemed friendly.

"You must be Y/N."

"Oh." You smiled politely. "Yeah."

"I'm Ara."

You didn't recognise the name. "Oh, nice to meet you."

Her smile remained in place, though something about it felt slightly forced. "I've known Han for years."

"Oh." You brightened immediately. "Really?"

"Since before all this."

You nodded. "That's nice."

Ara glanced across the room to where Han was talking, then back at you. "So, how did this happen?"

Something about her tone made your stomach tighten.

"What?"

"You and Han."

She gestured vaguely between you.

You laughed awkwardly. "I don't know."

"No, seriously." Her smile sharpened. "I genuinely don't understand."

The warmth in your chest began cooling. "Oh."

Ara folded her arms. "I mean, Han's always had options."

You stared at her. The comment landed heavily, and you instantly started doubting yourself yet again. Maybe she didn't mean it badly? Maybe—

"He usually dates models."

Never mind.

Your stomach dropped, and you looked away, from both her and Han. "Oh."

Ara gave a small shrug. "Not that looks are everything."

The classic phrase people said right before making looks everything. You suddenly felt very aware of yourself - of your dress and the body contained in it, and of every insecurity you'd managed to ignore tonight.

"I just think everyone's surprised."

She said it casually, like she was discussing the weather. As if she wasn't twisting something sharp directly into your ribs.

Your throat felt tight. "Right."

"Like genuinely shocked." Ara laughed lightly, continuing. "I mean, when he first mentioned you, I thought he was joking."

The words hit harder than you wanted them to, because they sounded suspiciously similar to things you'd told yourself. Things you'd believed. Things you were still trying to unlearn.

She tilted her head. "Don't you think it's strange?"

You frowned. "What?"

"That someone like Han would suddenly be interested in someone like—"

She stopped, looking you up and down, her perfectly manicured eyebrow arching in thinly veiled disgust. The unfinished sentence somehow hurt more than if she'd said it.

For a second, you couldn't speak. Your chest felt hollow. This was exactly what you'd always feared everyone was thinking. Exactly what the cruel voice in your head whispered whenever Han looked at you. The only difference was that now someone had actually said it aloud.

Ara sighed dramatically. "I'm just looking out for him."

Your jaw tightened. "Looking out for him?"

"Of course." She smiled again. "I'm his friend."

Friend.

The word felt ridiculous. Friends didn't speak about people like this.

"You know," she continued, "I just think he's getting caught up in attention."

Your eyes snapped back to hers. "Attention?"

"Well." She shrugged. "People like being needed."

The implication hit immediately - that Han pitied you, that he was rescuing you, that whatever existed between you couldn't possibly be real. Your stomach twisted painfully, and for a moment, you couldn't think of a response. You couldn't figure out what to say, because part of you hated how much it hurt, how easily her words found every insecurity you'd ever had.

By the time she walked away, your stomach felt sick. You hated how much her words hurt, hated that a stranger had managed to find every insecurity you’d spent years burying.

Han appeared across the room, smiling as he looked for you. For one awful second, relief had surged through you. Until he reached her, and she smiled up at him. Until he pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek. It was a normal greeting between close friends, a completely innocent interaction. But through the lens she’d handed you? It looked devastating.

She fit beside him, looked right beside him. They looked like celebrities did in magazines and couples did in advertisements. Ara looked like a girl who always got chosen. And suddenly you were fifteen again, standing against the wall at a school dance, watching somebody prettier get everything you’d secretly wanted.

The ache in your chest became unbearable, and you made the quick decision to leave. You slipped out before Han could reach the door, before he could find you. Before you could embarrass yourself any further.

The cool night air hit your face immediately. You walked faster, then faster still. As though distance could somehow stop the hurt. Your phone buzzed once in your pocket, but you ignored it. You ignored it the next four times they buzzed, too.

By the time you reached your flat, your eyes were burning. You kicked off your shoes and immediately headed for your bedroom. Your phone was buzzing nonstop now, and you finally gave up, pulling it out of your pocket with a frustrated groan.

Han: Where did you go?

Han: I can’t find you.

Han: Are you okay?

Han: Did something happen?

Han: Please answer.

You stared at the screen, reading the messages again and again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, then locked the phone instead, because what were you supposed to say?

Your friend pointed out everything I’ve spent my entire life believing about myself, and now I think you’re going to realise she was right?

The thought was pathetic, humiliating even. So instead, you curled up beneath your duvet, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Your phone rang again and again, the screen lighting up over and over until eventually it stopped. Silence settled over the room, only broken by your uneven breathing. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry or to think. Willing yourself not to imagine Han laughing with her right now, no doubt looking at her the way someone should.

Your phone buzzed one final time, and you froze at the voicemail notification.

Han.

You knew it would be him, just like you knew you shouldn’t listen. The sensible thing would be to delete it, to ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Instead, ten minutes later, you found yourself staring at the notification like it had personally offended you. Then another five minutes passed, followed by another. Eventually, you decided that you couldn’t avoid it any longer and, with a shaky breath, you pressed play.

For a second, there was only background noise – music, voices, the sounds of the party. Then Han sighed, and your chest tightened instantly.

“Hey.”

His voice sounded breathless, like he’d been moving around looking for you.

“I don’t really know if you’re listening to this, but I’m hoping you are.”

There was more muffled noise followed by a door opening somewhere in the background. The music became quieter, and you realised that Han had clearly stepped outside.

“You disappeared.” His voice softened as he continued, “And that’s not like you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’ve checked every room in this building.”

A small laugh escaped him, but it sounded tired.

“I even checked the bathrooms.”

His tone changed to a more serious one. “I know something happened. Maybe I’m wrong, but you looked different before you left.”

There was a pause, and it was long enough that you could hear him exhale.

“If somebody said something to you…” His voice faltered. “…I need you to tell me.”

Your throat tightened painfully because somehow, he knew. Not what, but that something had happened.

The recording crackled slightly as he shifted the phone, and his voice came through the phone again, quieter this time.

“I know you don’t see yourself the way other people do.”

Tears immediately blurred your vision. You hated how quickly they came, and you hated how accurately he’d hit the wound.

“But I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because every time you laugh, I want to be the reason. Every time something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. And when I walk into a room…”

His voice softened even further.

“…you’re the person I look for.”

You couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, too warm. The voicemail continued regardless.

“No matter how many people there are. No matter how famous they’re supposed to be.”

He paused again at the end of the phone before letting out a soft sigh.

“I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

The words landed directly in the centre of your chest. There was no hesitation or embarrassment, just certainty in his voice, as though they were the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.

The recording went quiet for a moment, and when Han spoke again, his voice sounded smaller somehow. More vulnerable.

“I don’t know why you left. I just know that you looked upset… And I hate the idea of you sitting alone somewhere thinking you have to deal with that by yourself.”

Your vision blurred completely at his words, and you were struggling to hold back your sobs as you finished the message.

“If you want space, I’ll give you space. But please don’t think you have to disappear.”

The final words came softly, almost hesitantly.

“As much as you don’t seem to believe it… I really, really like you.”

There was a brief silence from the other end of the line before he huffed out a small, nervous laugh.

“God, that sounded awful.”

Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. The recording ended a second later, and your room fell silent once again. You stared at your phone through tear-filled eyes. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how loudly that cruel voice echoed in your head, you couldn’t stop replaying one thought.

Han had spent the entire evening surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the industry. And yet when he’d realised you were gone…

You were the person he’d looked for.

The following morning, your thumb hovered over Han’s contact. You should call him; you knew that. You should tell him what happened, what she’d said. Give him a chance to explain.

Instead, you scrolled past his name, past the missed calls and the messages. And stopped on another contact.

Sarah.

You hadn’t spoken properly in months - years, maybe – not beyond birthday messages and the occasional comment on social media. But she’d been there for all of it: school, college, the endless years of being overlooked. If anyone would understand why you were spiralling, it would be her.

So, you called her.

The line rang twice before she answered.

“Hey, stranger.”

Her cheerful voice almost made you cry.

“Hi.”

Immediately she paused. “Oh.”

You heard concern enter her voice.

“What’s happened?”

The words poured out before you could stop them, and you found yourself telling her everything. You told her about meeting Han and working together. About the flirting that you’d mistaken for kindness until the confession. Your voice had cracked as you told her about the party and Ara, about the comments that had left you cut up inside.

Sarah listened quietly throughout, only making the occasional noise to show she was still there. By the end, your throat hurt, and you sat anxiously as silence stretched between you before she finally spoke up again.

“Can I be honest?”

Something in her tone made your stomach drop, and you sat up straighter in preparation.

“Sure.”

A sigh crackled down the line before she started talking. “I think that girl was harsh.”

You nodded immediately. “Exactly.”

“But…”

The word hit like ice water. Your grip tightened on the phone as you waited for her to carry on.

“Sarah?”

She hesitated long enough that you already knew you weren’t going to like what came next.

“I kind of understand what she meant.”

The room suddenly felt very still.

“What?”

“I’m not saying she’s right,” Sarah said quickly. “I’m just saying…”

She trailed off, then tried again.

“Han’s a celebrity.”

You stared at the wall, feeling the pain creep back into your chest, into your heart. “And?”

“And look at the women around him.”

Your chest tightened because you knew where this was going. You hated that you knew.

“Sarah—”

“They’re gorgeous.”

There it was. The familiar ache, the familiar humiliation. The same thing you’d heard your entire life. They were different words, but the message was always the same.

Sarah laughed awkwardly before continuing. “You’ve always been insecure about this stuff.”

The comment stung because she sounded so certain, like she’d always known. Like everyone had.

“I mean…” She hesitated but decided to continue. “You remember school.”

Your stomach dropped because, of course, you remembered school. You remembered everything. Every dance. Every crush. Every time a boy wanted one of your friends. Never you.

“You were always the funny one.”

Funny. Always funny, but never pretty. Never desirable.

Sarah continued speaking, oblivious to the emotional turmoil she was causing for you. “People loved you because you were easy to be around.”

The words landed wrong, terribly wrong. People loved you because—

Because what?

Because you made them look better? Because you were safe? Because nobody had to compete with you?

A memory surfaced suddenly from when you were sixteen. You were sitting at lunch, listening while your friends complained about boys asking them out. You’d laughed along, making jokes, playing your role as the harmless one. The funny one. The one nobody worried about.

Sarah sighed, bringing you back to the present.

“I’m just worried you’re getting your hopes up.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

There was another pause as Sarah debated what to say.

“What if he likes the attention?”

The words hit like a slap. “What?”

“You know how kind people can accidentally lead someone on.”

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest. “He told me he likes me.”

“He might think he does.”

You closed your eyes, a horrible feeling growing in your chest now. It wasn’t sadness but recognition, because suddenly you weren’t hearing Ara anymore in your head. You were hearing Sarah. And the more she talked, the more something felt wrong.

“Look,” Sarah continued gently, “you’ve never been the type guys go for.”

The room went silent, and your mind ground to a halt. She’d said it so casually, so naturally, as though it were an established fact. As though she wasn’t saying something devastating. As though she’d always believed it.

You thought back over years of friendship, or what you’d assumed was friendship. You thought about all the jokes she’d made. The compliments that never quite felt like compliments. The way she’d introduce you with a “This is my friend. She’s hilarious.”

Never beautiful, or gorgeous.

Never anything else but funny.

The realisation settled slowly, painfully. You’d always thought that Sarah understood your insecurities, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d helped build them.

Your eyes burned, but on the other end of the line, Sarah kept talking. “You can’t be too proud about these things.”

The phrase caught your attention immediately.

“You’ve got to be realistic.”

Realistic.

Another word you’d heard your entire life. Realistic meant knowing your place, meant expecting less. Realistic meant understanding that some girls got chosen and others didn’t.

You stared at the dark screen of your television at your reflection, and for the first time, another thought crept in. A horrible one. One that hurt more than Ara’s cruelty.

Do they keep me around because I’m safe? Because standing next to me makes them feel prettier? Because I’m useful?

You remembered every time you’d laughed at yourself first. Every joke you’d made at your own expense. Every moment you’d made yourself smaller so everyone else could shine.

Sarah was still speaking when you realised you hadn’t heard a word she’d said for nearly thirty seconds.

“…are you there?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.

“We’re just worried about you.”

We - not I -as though there had always been a group discussion you weren’t part of.As though everyone had reached the same conclusion about you years ago.

You swallowed hard, then looked down at your phone. At the unanswered messages waiting from Han. The voicemail you’d listened to three times already. The man who had spent months choosing your company, looking for you, remembering things about you, caring about you. As you sat there, a question popped into your mind about Sarah.

If someone genuinely cared about you, would they be speaking to you like this? Or had you spent years mistaking familiarity for friendship?

The answer sat heavily in your chest, because for the first time, Sarah sounded an awful lot like the girl at the party.

And neither of them sounded anything like Han.

The first day after the party, you told yourself you just needed time - time to think, and to calm down. To get your head straight before you spoke to Han again.

When the receptionist called to tell you he was downstairs asking for you, you took a shaky breath and said you were in a meeting. It was a blatant lie; you sat at your desk staring blankly at an unopened spreadsheet while your colleague went down instead.

You hated yourself for it.

But not enough to stop.

The second day, he came back. The third day, too. By the fourth, people in the office had started teasing you about it. They weren’t malicious in their teasing; they just walked around with knowing smiles, jokingly asking questions about why a world-famous idol kept appearing at the reception, looking disappointed.

You laughed it off, tried to change the subject. You avoided looking out the window whenever he arrived. But every evening your phone still lit up.

Han: Hope your day wasn’t too awful.

Han: You looked after yourself today?

Han: I miss talking to you.

Han: Did I do something wrong?

That one sat unread for nearly an hour before you finally opened it.

Did I do something wrong?

The answer was no, because Han really hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the problem. If he’d hurt you, this would have been easier, or if he’d lied or mocked you or revealed himself to be cruel, you could have walked away angry. Instead, he’d been kind, but every cruel thing anyone had said about you had started sounding louder than his kindness.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Mentally. The constant battle in your head was becoming unbearable - one side replaying Han’s voicemail, the other replaying what Ara had said, the way Sarah had agreed. You were assaulted with every school memory you’d spent years trying to forget.

“Be realistic.”

“Look at the women around him.”

“You’ve never been the type guys go for.”

At some point, the fear stopped being about whether Han liked you and turned into something much uglier. It became about what would happen when he stopped liking you, because he surely would. Sooner or later, once the excitement wore off, he’d realise. Once he looked around and saw all the women who fit naturally into his world - the women who didn’t have to worry about angles in photographs, the women who looked effortless.

The women who belonged.

You found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror one morning, staring at every part of yourself. All you could see was your every flaw, every softness, every insecurity. The comments echoed again and again in your skull, poisoning your mind and your eyes and twisting your own body into a source of disgust so profound that you felt sick to your stomach.

By lunchtime, you’d convinced yourself there was only one solution.

Change.

Immediately.

Drastically.

At first, you were just skipping meals. It was nothing major in your mind, just breakfast becoming coffee and lunch becoming “I’m not hungry.” Dinner became something small, easy to control from the safety of your own flat.

The first day of your new routine felt awful; the second was worse. By the third, hunger had become something you almost welcomed. It was a strange sort of punishment. Proof you were trying, fixing yourself. Every ache in your stomach became evidence that you were finally doing something. You were finally becoming better, more worthy of Han’s attention and a place in his world. The scale became the first thing you checked every morning, the number determining your mood for the entire day. If it dropped, relief flooded through you, and if it didn’t, panic followed.

Soon, your entire life began revolving around it. It was an ongoing mess of calories, numbers, and portion control. Excuses became second nature. You stopped meeting friends after work, stopped accepting invitations, and stopped doing things you enjoyed. Everything became secondary to becoming someone who belonged beside Han. It’s all that mattered to you. In your mind, you needed to be the kind of person that nobody would question or laugh at. Someone nobody would pull aside at parties and warn away.

A few weeks after the party, you were sitting alone at your kitchen table when your phone buzzed again.

Han.

You almost ignored it until your eyes landed on the preview on your screen.

Han: I’m worried about you.

Your chest tightened painfully, so you locked the phone, setting it face down as you tried to focus on anything but the man waiting at the other end for a reply.

A few seconds later, more messages arrived. Guilt mixed with panic, and you froze when you read his words.

Han: If you need space, I’ll respect it.

Han: But please stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

Your throat burned with emotion because he wasn’t supposed to notice. Nobody had ever noticed. Sure, people noticed when you were funny or when you were useful, and they definitely noticed when you were making everyone else’s lives easier.

They just didn’t notice when you were quietly falling apart.

Yet somehow Han had.

And that made ignoring him infinitely harder.

You pushed away from the table and headed for the bathroom. The scale sat waiting in the corner, calling out to you. You stepped onto it immediately, heart pounding, and watched the numbers settle slightly lower than they had been the day before. It was a tiny amount – barely anything – yet relief flooded through you so intensely that it was almost embarrassing.

There.

See? It was working!

You just had to keep going. Keep trying. Keep fixing yourself. Then maybe one day you’d be the kind of person who deserved someone like Han.

The thought felt comforting for all of three seconds before another memory surfaced of Han’s voice from the voicemail.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. At the tired eyes and the dark circles sat underneath them. The tension in your shoulders made you look small, a perfect manifestation of the way you’d spent the last week shrinking your entire life down to a number on a scale.

For the first time, a quiet, uncomfortable question appeared.

If Han walked through the door right now and saw what you were doing to yourself, would he think you were becoming someone worthy of him? Or would he be heartbroken that you believed you had to?

The wine had been a mistake; you’d known that when you’d poured the second glass and became certain by the third. But for the first time in days, your thoughts had felt quieter. Not gone, just blurred around the edges.

The scale hadn’t given you the result you’d wanted that morning. You’d spent the entire day carrying that disappointment around with you, letting it grow larger and larger until it consumed everything else. By the evening, your flat was silent except for the television playing something you weren’t really watching.

The Sharpie had appeared almost absentmindedly. One moment, it was sitting in a drawer. The next, it was in your hand.

You stood in front of the mirror wearing only a robe, slightly open at the front. You were staring at yourself as you had weeks ago, eyes critical and expression judgmental. The same way you had every day for the last week.

Only this time, you’d started drawing.

It was just a few marks at first – lines, shapes, outlines. An impossible version of yourself sketched directly onto your skin. You drew a body that took up less space that nobody would question. A body that belonged beside Han. The alcohol made it easier to pretend, to stand there and imagine everything outside those lines simply disappearing.

As though life could be that simple.

As though years of insecurity could be solved with a marker pen.

You were so focused on your reflection that the knock at the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your heart stopped when it was followed by another, this time louder. You dropped the Sharpie immediately, and panic surged through you because nobody visited unannounced. Nobody.

You fumbled the robe closed and tied it so quickly your fingers slipped twice. There was another knock, and you called out this time.

“Coming!”

Your voice sounded strange, even to your own ears. It was too high, too breathless. You hurried to the door, mentally running through the possibilities of who it could be. Maybe it was your neighbour, or a delivery? Anyone but-

“Han?”

You’d opened the door and froze. Han stood on the other side, and for a second, neither of you spoke. His hair was slightly windswept, jacket hanging open. He looked as though he’d come straight from somewhere else, straight to you.

Your stomach dropped as you realised that this was the first time you’d seen him in weeks, and you weren’t ready for it. It hadn’t been long enough, you hadn’t dieted enough yet. Hadn’t lost enough weight to belong at his side.

“What are you doing here?”

The words came out sharper than intended, a consequence of your inner panic.

Relief flashed across his face despite your tone, like he’d genuinely been worried you wouldn’t answer.

“Hi to you too.”

You tightened your grip on the door. “Han.”

“I got your address from your colleague.”

Of course he had. You made a mental note to murder that colleague later.

“What are you doing here?” you repeated.

His smile faded slightly, realising you weren’t happy to see him, even now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You immediately looked away. “No, I haven’t.”

The lie was pathetic, and you both knew it.

Han sighed. “You have.”

An awkward silence settled between the two of you; you didn’t know what to say, how to get out of this without admitting the truth. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too bright. You felt too exposed. Every second he stood there increased your awareness of what was hidden beneath the robe - the marker pen lying abandoned in the bathroom, the lines still covering your skin.

Your pulse hammered. “I’ve just been busy,” you tried.

Han stared at you, then snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh almost escaped you. His expression softened, concern replacing frustration.

“You disappeared.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“You stopped answering my messages.”

“I know.”

“You won’t see me.”

“I know.”

The quiet honesty seemed to catch him off guard. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Han took a careful step closer.

“Talk to me.”

The gentleness nearly broke you. You looked down at the floor, hiding the glassiness in your eyes.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because if you started talking, everything would come out: Ara, Sarah, the dieting, the spiralling. The fact that every time you looked at him, all you could think was that eventually he’ll realise they’re right.

Your eyes burned, and you shook your head. “Please just go home.”

Han’s face fell, and the sight hurt more than you expected. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, and panic sealed your throat shut as it stopped at your neck. You already knew what he’d see but prayed that it was something – anything - else.

A dark line of marker was visible above the collar of your robe, just enough to be noticeable.

Han frowned. “What is that?”

Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed as you lied again before they moved lower to where another black line disappeared beneath the robe near your ankle.

The colour drained from your face. “No.”

Han’s voice was careful now – confused, concerned when he asked, “What happened?”

You instinctively pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the lines from view, even though it was too late. “It’s nothing.”

The concern on his face deepened. It was the kind of concern that comes from realising something is very wrong. Not physically, but emotionally… Mentally. The silence stretched, and for the first time since arriving, Han looked genuinely frightened.

Not of you; for you.

“Can I come in?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Because suddenly all your excuses felt exhausted, all your energy gone. Standing there under his worried gaze, you realised something.

For weeks, you’d been trying desperately to become someone worthy of Han. Meanwhile, Han had spent those same weeks trying desperately to reach the person he already cared about.

The person standing in front of him now.

Not some future version, or some smaller version.

Just you.

The realisation hurt enough to make the tears in your eyes finally spill over, and Han’s expression immediately crumpled.

“Oh.”

His voice softened.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The endearment shattered what little composure remained. You looked away, embarrassed by the tears, but Han didn’t move, and he didn’t judge or look disgusted. He simply stood there, waiting, like whatever was hidden beneath the robe wasn’t what mattered. Like the thing he cared about was the fact that you’d been hurting alone.

The moment you stepped aside, Han entered the flat without hesitation. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, neither of you spoke as you stared at the floor, and he watched you carefully. The silence felt fragile, like just one wrong word could shatter it entirely. You stood awkwardly in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Terrified of saying anything at all.

Han looked at you for a long moment, then quietly said, “Come here.”

And somehow that was your undoing – not because of the words, but because of the gentleness. The patience. The fact that he wasn’t angry. You crossed the distance before you could stop yourself, and the second his arms wrapped around you, a sob tore from your throat.

Han held you immediately, firmly. You felt safe in his arms as one hand slid to the back of your head, the other settling around your shoulders. You buried your face against him, and for the first time in over a week, you stopped trying to hold yourself together. Everything hurt - your chest, throat, head – from the exhaustion of carrying so much shame around every second of every day. Han just held you through it, asking no questions and making no demands, just providing a steady warmth that you could sink into.

Until that horrible voice slithered back in.

He can feel you.

You froze.

He can feel how big you are.

Your stomach dropped.

He can feel every fat bit of you.

Immediately, panic flooded through you, and you pulled away so suddenly that Han nearly stumbled.

His hands fell away instantly, confusion crossing his face. “Hey—”

You took another step back, then another. “No.”

Your breathing became uneven. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

You shook your head violently. Han looked completely lost now, concern replacing confusion.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been avoiding me for over a week.”

You looked away. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s obviously not true.”

You started pacing. The energy felt trapped beneath your skin, like if you stood still for even a second, you’d explode. Han watched carefully, waiting for you to speak. The patience only made it worse, because eventually there was nowhere left to run. Nowhere left to hide.

“It was that party.”

The words came out suddenly, surprising even yourself.

Han straightened, though, latching onto your sudden outburst. “What about it?”

You laughed miserably because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. “Your friend.”

Immediately, understanding flashed across his face. You could see that he didn’t understand fully, but enough to help. Enough to get to the bottom of what had been affecting you for weeks.

“Who?”

Ara’s name left your mouth, and Han’s expression darkened instantly.

“What did she say?”

The question was a catalyst to your pain, and everything came spilling out. You told him about the comments she’d made, the implications. You mentioned the warnings that she’d given and explained the way she’d looked at you and how she’d made you feel. You sobbed as you recounted the way you’d watched him hug her afterwards and suddenly felt fifteen years old again, watching prettier girls get everything while you faded into the background.

By the time you finished, your eyes were burning, and Han looked furious. You laughed shakily and dragged a hand through your hair.

“You know the worst part?”

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I believed her.”

The confession hung in the room, raw and ugly. You swallowed hard, knowing that you needed to continue. You wanted him to finally understand after hiding for so long.

“Then I called Sarah.”

Han frowned, confused. “Is that your friend? The one from school?”

You nodded, feeling sick as you admitted, “She agreed.”

The silence that followed was deafening, because saying it aloud somehow made it real. Han stared at you, mouth hanging open, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Meanwhile, the words you’d spent all week swallowing came rushing out.

“I’ve spent my whole life being the funny friend. The one everyone likes but nobody wants.”

You winced as your voice cracked when tears blurred your vision again, but you had to finish now that you had started.

“And maybe they’re right.”

Han immediately shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe they are.”

“No.”

You laughed bitterly. “Han, look at your life.”

His expression hardened. “I’m looking at you.”

The tears spilt over once again, quieter this time, more resigned. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

The desperation in his voice caught you off guard. You were expecting frustration, maybe anger, but instead, he seemed to genuinely want to know. So, you told him everything, the words tumbling out between sobs.

“I’ve… drawn out in Sharpie - where I’d take the scissors. If that’s what it took for me to look in the mirror.”

Han’s face drained of colour, and your chest hurt at the horror on his face.

“I’ve done every diet to make me look thinner.”

A tear rolled down your cheek as you asked the question that had plagued your mind your whole life.

“So why do I still feel so goddamn inferior?”

The room went completely silent. For a moment, Han didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at you. You could see that he was heartbroken by your words, by your pain. It looked like hearing your words caused him his own physical pain. Then, his gaze slowly dropped. To your robe. To the marker visible at your collar, your wrists, and your ankles.

Realisation dawned on his face, and you let out a shaky laugh.

“There.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric.

“That’s what’s under here.”

Han closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his jaw jumping. When he looked at you again, his eyes were shining with grief.

“You’ve been carrying this by yourself?”

The question broke something inside you, because even after all of that, he wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. He hadn’t confirmed that the girls had been right. He was just sad that you’d been hurting.

You nodded, a tiny movement, but Han still saw it. His shoulders fell, as though the answer hurt him, before he slowly crossed the room. He was giving you enough of a chance to stop him, you realised. But this time, you didn’t want to.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the moisture in his eyes, hear his uneven breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I wish you could see what I see.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks because after weeks of starving yourself and hiding while you tried to become someone else, Han wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was looking at you like your pain was the thing breaking his heart.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood in the middle of your living room, tears drying on your cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Han was close enough to touch, to see every flicker of doubt crossing your face.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered.

His expression softened. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to.”

You swallowed. The shame was still there, sitting heavy and familiar in your chest, but for the first time all week, there was something else alongside it.

Trust.

Slowly, Han reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours, warm and steady, as he gently pulled you towards the mirror hanging in your hallway.

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror, tugging on your hand with a gentle “Come here.”

You hadn’t looked in this mirror for weeks, preferring to restrict your view of yourself with the mirror in the bathroom. That one already gave you enough to critique, without bringing your whole body into view.

Immediately, your stomach twisted. “No.”

Han squeezed your hand gently, eyes imploring you to trust him. “Please.”

You took a deep, steadying breath before you stepped in line with the mirror, eyes slowly raising to land on you both in the reflection. You could see your red eyes. Your tear-stained face. His worried expression.

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

His voice was so quiet it almost hurt. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, Han loosened the belt of your robe. His eyes never left your face, checking. Waiting to see if you were okay with this.

When you didn’t pull away, the fabric slipped from your shoulders, leaving you in a simple vest and underwear. You immediately wanted to hide, to cross your arms and curl in on yourself until you disappeared. Han gently caught your wrists before you could, gently stopping you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Your eyes filled again. “Han—”

“Please.”

The look on his face stole the rest of your words. He wasn’t looking at you with revulsion, or with judgment, but with an almost desperate need for you to see yourself differently. For you to appreciate yourself as he did.

Slowly, he turned you towards the mirror, and you tried looking at the floor. He noticed immediately, gently bumping your shoulder.

“Look.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I hate what I see.”

The words came out broken, raw from their honesty. Han’s jaw tightened, and he stepped behind you. You couldn’t help but tense as one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other lifting to your shoulder. His touch was gentle, reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing into his grip more.

“You see flaws,” he said softly as you stared stubbornly at the floor. “Because they’re there.”

The hand resting on your shoulder squeezed softly.

“I see somebody who always takes care of everyone else.”

A tear slipped down your cheek at his words, and his fingers traced lightly along your arm as he carried on softly.

“I see somebody who makes people feel safe.”

You shook your head, but his grip tightened slightly around your hand. He wasn’t letting you retreat or disappear. His gaze met yours through the reflection.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you did. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you.

“I love your smile. The real one that you try to hide when you’re embarrassed.”

Your throat tightened, a shaky laugh escaping you. His own lips twitched in response to the noise.

“There it is.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, immediately looking down again. Han sighed, before gently tilting your chin upwards.

“Stay with me.”

The plea in his voice was unmistakable.

Stay with me. Believe me. Please.

His hand settled against your side, warm through your skin, and instead of criticism, instead of the catalogue of faults you’d expected, he spoke with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

“I love how soft you are.”

You immediately tried looking away, and Han caught your eye again.

“No.”

The word was gentle but firm.

“You don’t get to run away from that one.”

Fresh tears filled your eyes because he wasn’t saying it despite your body. He was saying it because of it.

As though softness wasn’t something shameful.

As though it was something worth loving.

His forehead creased. “You spend so much time being cruel to yourself. Would you ever speak to somebody else the way you speak to yourself?”

You didn’t answer because you knew the answer.

Never.

His hand squeezed yours. “You are kind.”

Another squeeze.

“Funny.”

Another.

“Beautiful.”

Your eyes closed immediately, and Han made a quiet sound of frustration. Not at you, but at the wall of disbelief you’d built around yourself. When you opened your eyes again, he was already looking at you. His eyes hadn’t left you since you’d stepped in front of the mirror, watching you with nothing but patience – like he would have stood here all night if he had to.

“You keep waiting for me to change my mind.”

The words landed directly in your chest. You’d been waiting for it since the moment he confessed. Waiting for reality to catch up, for him to realise he’d made a mistake.

Han’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to.”

Your breath caught, but he carried on regardless. “I’m not looking at you and wishing you were somebody else.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek, and he wiped it away gently. “I’m not standing here imagining a different version of you.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I’m standing here looking at you.”

The room felt impossibly quiet as you stared at your reflection, at the woman you’d spent years criticising.

Years shrinking.

Years apologising for.

And for the first time, you weren’t seeing her entirely through your own eyes. You were seeing her through Han’s - through the eyes of someone who had searched an entire party looking for her. Who had shown up at her workplace every day. Who had tracked down her address because he was worried. Who looked at her now as though she was worth every bit of that effort.

Han brushed away another tear before he moved to rest his forehead on your own.  “You don’t have to become somebody else.”

His eyes searched yours, begging you to believe him.

“You never did.”

That night, after all the tears and confessions and raw honesty, the distance between you and Han felt smaller than it ever had before. You were still standing in front of the mirror, still emotionally exhausted and feeling vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. But this time, you had Han next to you, brushing a final tear from your cheek. Neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say right then, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm and safe in a way that you only felt with him.

His eyes drifted briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Slowly, he lifted one hand to cradle your face. The touch was impossibly gentle, as though you were something precious or breakable. His other arm wrapped around you, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t desperate or urgent. It was soft; the kind of kiss that felt like a question and an answer all at once. You melted into it almost immediately. All the months of uncertainty, the weeks of pain and days of spiralling seemed to quiet down for those few moments. Han kissed you like someone who wanted you to understand something, like he was trying to communicate every reassuring thing he’d said that evening without using words.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and a small smile touched his lips.

“There you are.”

Your eyes immediately filled again, and Han laughed softly.

“No more crying,” he said.

“I’m trying.”

“You are terrible at it.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you, and his smile widened.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him when he looked at you like you were beautiful.

After that night, things didn’t magically become perfect. Years of insecurity don’t disappear overnight, but they become easier to carry when you aren’t carrying them alone anymore.

Han remained stubbornly, consistently present. The following week, you were there when he confronted Ara. You’d tried to avoid the conversation, but Han hadn’t allowed it.

“You’re coming.”

“Han—”

“You’re coming.”

And so, you had.

The woman looked uncomfortable the second she realised why she was there. Han wasn’t cruel - that wasn’t who he was - but he was firm. Disappointed. Protective in a way that made your chest ache. By the end of the conversation, there was no confusion about where he stood.

He chose you.

Openly.

Without hesitation, embarrassment or apology.

Talking to Sarah was harder - far harder - because, unlike Ara, Sarah had been part of your life for years. You’d spent so long believing she was your friend that accepting the truth felt almost like grief.

Han sat beside you before the call, supportive in his silence with his hand resting over your own. He was a quiet source of strength in a painfully illuminating conversation. For the first time, you noticed things you had overlooked for years. The dismissiveness, the backhanded compliments, and the subtle ways she’d always encouraged you to expect less from yourself.

By the end of the call, your hands were shaking. You stared at the blank screen afterwards feeling strangely hollow.

Han immediately pulled you against him. “You okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head before laughing. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

His arms tightened around you, and for the first time, ending the friendship felt less like losing something and more like putting down something heavy you’d been carrying for years.

The first time Han told you he loved you was six months later.

You were sitting together on his sofa, neither of you doing anything particularly interesting. A film was playing in the background, and your head was resting on his shoulder.

It happened so casually you almost missed it.

He kissed your forehead, smiled, and just… said it.

“I love you.”

As natural as breathing, as saying good morning.

You froze instantly, and Han immediately noticed. Panic surged through you, your brain racing.

Too fast.

Too much.

What if he means it now but not later?

What if I don’t deserve it?

What if—

“Hey.”

Han’s voice interrupted the spiral immediately. You looked up, and he was smiling softly. He wasn’t offended by the hesitation, or upset, or frustrated. He was just patient like always.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he explained.

Your throat tightened. “What if—”

“Don’t.”

His hand found yours.

“What if I scare you away?”

His expression melted completely. “You won’t.”

“What if—”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made your eyes sting. Han kissed your forehead again, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. You laughed in spite of yourself, and Han grinned at you fondly.

“There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, and Han smiled.

“I love you,” he murmured.

The words felt less frightening the second time. Less like pressure and more like a promise.

And eventually, when you said it back, his smile was so bright it looked painful.

As your relationship deepened, intimacy became another place where Han’s patience showed itself.

When you were physically intimate together for the first time, he seemed far more focused on making sure you felt safe, wanted, and comfortable than anything else. Every hesitation was met with reassurance, every moment of insecurity was met with kindness. The same man who had stood beside you in front of the mirror was still there, still looking at you with the same affection, still treating your body as something worthy of care and admiration.

Afterwards, wrapped together beneath blankets, you found yourself tracing patterns across his arm, feeling content in the silence that enveloped the room. Han pressed a kiss into your hair, then another, and another, until you laughed and shoved his shoulder.

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Han.”

“No.”

You groaned, and he grinned before pulling you closer, as though even after everything, he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have you there. And for once, lying safely in his arms, you found yourself thinking something that would have seemed impossible a year earlier.

Maybe you weren’t the only lucky one.

Maybe you were worth someone feeling lucky enough to have you.

a/n: so I think this is the angstiest, yet realest, fic I've written yet? what do we think? lmk in the comments bcos I love hearing all your thoughts xo

“Han, stop!” you squealed as he dug his fingers into your sides under the duvet.

“Never!” he proclaimed, rolling on top of you to get a better angle. “Not until you say it!”

“Okay, okay! You’re way better at producing than Changbin!”

You gasped for breath as his fingers stopped, a smile plastered to your face as you gazed up at him, his messy hair framing his face. You still had to pinch yourself sometimes to believe that this was real. That the past few months had really happened.

He raised an eyebrow at you, smirking, and you flushed as he trailed off, knowing what he wanted.

“You’re way better at producing than Changbin… baby.”

Your flush deepened even further as his smirk softened and he leaned down to place a tender kiss on your lips, mumbling a soft “thought so”.

You huffed out a breath as he let his body weight drop on you, wrapping his arms around your waist as your own came up to wrap around his shoulders, one sneaking up to play with the hair at the base of his neck. You loved starting your days like this, in the quiet of your room with Han’s warmth warming you through, because you knew you wouldn’t be able to get this close to him again until you could be sure that no one would see.

Even though you’d been dating for a few months, neither of you had brought up the possibility of becoming official publicly. You knew that Han had a tour coming up with the rest of Stray Kids, and he knew that you were busy focusing on building your own career as a solo artist. He’d carried on helping you produce your songs, and both of you had written a song about your previous relationship with Wooyoung called Toxic Til The End. You both agreed that it was a song that didn’t necessarily need to be shared; it was just a form of therapy for you to get your feelings out in a song.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by Han shuffling around, burying his nose into your neck. You smiled softly and soothed your fingers up and down his spine, feeling him shiver slightly from your light touch. You knew you had to get up soon – management had called a last-minute meeting – but you wanted to soak up as much of the morning as you could.

You allowed yourself five more minutes before you tapped him lightly on the back, mumbling, “Jisung, I have to get ready now. I need to meet with management in an hour.”

You felt as much as heard the groan against your neck. “No,” he whined. “’m comfy here.”

You chuckled and kissed the side of his face. “I know, but I can’t miss this meeting. I can’t annoy management this early in my career.”

Han sighed and pushed up onto his elbows, showing you his pout. “Logic isn’t fair this early in the morning.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the only way I’ll leave this bed.”

You flushed again as he smiled at you suggestively, leaning in to leave a lingering kiss on your mouth. You pulled away as he tried to deepen it and giggled as you heard him groan, again. You pushed back the covers, stretching, before you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Han was still lying in your bed, but you could feel his eyes on you.

You nearly trip over your own feet walking to the bathroom, still hazy from the peace and warmth of Jisung’s body tangled with yours moments before. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rustle of sheets behind you as Han shifts in the bed.

You push your way into the bathroom, yawning as you flick the light on, but your eyes widen when you catch sight of your neck.

“Oh my God.”

Dark marks bloom across your neck and collarbone, impossible to miss against your skin. One particularly obvious love bite sits right beneath your jaw, and you clap a hand over it in horror.

“No, no, no—”

You spin around and rush back into the bedroom, one hand still pressed to your neck while you dig frantically through discarded clothes for a hoodie, a scarf, anything. From the bed, Han watches you with sleepy amusement, propped up on one elbow, hair messy and lips still swollen from his inability to stop kissing you.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still rough from lack of sleep.

“You attacked me,” you accuse, horrified. “I can’t go outside looking like this!”

He blinks at you slowly before snorting out a laugh. “Attacked you?”

“Yes, attacked me! People are going to ask questions!”

You finally find a jumper and clutch it to your chest like salvation. Han’s smile softens as he watches your panic spiral.

“And what,” he says carefully, “would be so bad about people asking questions?”

You freeze, and the room suddenly feels very still. Han sits up properly now, the blanket slipping down his waist to reveal his tattoos as he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking far more nervous than amused.

“I mean…” He glances away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. “We’ve been hiding for so long.” His voice is quieter now. “I’m tired of pretending you’re not mine.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. “Ji…”

“I want people to know,” he admits. “Not in some huge dramatic way. But… officially.” He smiles shyly. “If you want that too.”

The panic draining through your system is replaced by something warm and dizzying. You stare at him for a moment, trying to process the fact that the thing you’d secretly wanted for months is sitting right in front of you.

“You mean it?” you whisper.

“Of course I mean it.”

He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I hate having to act normal around you in public,” he murmurs. “I hate not being able to hold your hand when I want to. And honestly? I kinda like everyone knowing I’m the one who did that to your neck.”

You let out a startled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But you like me.”

Unfortunately, he says it with that smug little grin that makes your stomach flip every time.

Your expression softens. “I do,” you admit quietly, head cocked to the side as you take everything in.

Han’s face changes instantly at that — all fondness and relief and affection so overwhelming you can barely stand looking at him.

“So…” he says carefully, squeezing your hand, “should we tell management?”

You bite your lip, unable to stop smiling now.

“I have my meeting this morning,” you say. “I can mention it then.”

His eyes light up so brightly that it steals the breath from your lungs. “Seriously?”

You nod once, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you back onto the bed with a laugh, wrapping both arms around you tightly as he buries his face back into your neck — thankfully, the unmarked side.

“You have no idea how happy you just made me,” he mumbles against your skin.

You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair. For the first time ever, hiding doesn’t feel necessary anymore.

The excitement you carried from your conversation with Han dies the second you walk out of the meeting room.

The words still echo in your head so loudly you can barely hear anything else.

“To be desirable, you have to be available.”

You walk down the hallway numbly, fingers curled tightly around your phone. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, and the building suddenly feels cold and unfamiliar, despite the fact that you’ve spent years here.

Your contract clearly states that there will be no relationships for the next 3 years.

Three years.

You knew the clause existed when you signed. Everyone did. But back then, relationships felt hypothetical — something distant and avoidable. Not this. Not Han. Not someone who had somehow slipped into every quiet space in your life until loving him felt as natural as breathing.

You’d tried to argue. You’d pointed out that fans weren’t stupid, that idols dated all the time, that your private life shouldn’t matter more than your music, but management hadn’t budged. They’d surprised you with a tour announcement that was apparently too important to jeopardise. The company was investing too much into your debut, and they were sending you as a support act for Stray Kids’ world tour. They wanted attention on the music, on the performances, on the image they were selling.

Not on a relationship.

You stop outside the studio door and take a steadying breath before pushing it open. Music spills out instantly, along with laughter, and Han looks up immediately. The second he sees you, his entire face lights up.

“There you are!” Han practically bounces out of his chair, abandoning the headphones around his neck. “Did they tell you?”

You try to smile.

“About the tour?”

“Yes!” He grabs your hands immediately, excitement radiating off him. “We’re together for the whole thing. A whole year.” His eyes shine. “Can you believe that?”

Despite everything, your chest aches fondly at how happy he looks.

“A whole year,” you echo softly.

Han notices it then — the strain in your voice, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His expression falters, releasing your hands in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist. “What happened?”

The room quiets around you. The others pick up on the mood quickly enough to awkwardly busy themselves elsewhere, giving you space without saying a word.

You swallow hard, staring over his shoulder. “They said no.”

Han stills. “What?”

“They don’t want us going public.” Your voice comes out smaller than you intended, wobbly. “They said it’ll distract from the tour. From the music.” You laugh bitterly under your breath. “And apparently I need to seem ‘available.’”

The excitement drains from his face so fast it hurts to watch. “They can’t seriously—”

“They reminded me about the contract.”

Han goes silent at that, and his jaw tightens. For a moment, he looks genuinely angry, the kind of anger he rarely lets himself show. His fingers squeeze yours instinctively before he looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Three years,” he mutters.

You nod once.

The reality of it settles heavily between you. More sneaking around, careful touches when nobody’s looking. Pretending. Again.

Your throat tightens as you force yourself to say the words you know he needs to hear. “It’s okay.”

Han immediately looks back at you. “It’s not okay.”

“But it can be.” You step closer, further into his embrace, and you feel his arms tighten around you reflexively. “We still get the tour. We still get each other.”

His expression crumples slightly at that.

“I wanted to hold your hand in public,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to stop pretending.”

The honesty in his voice nearly breaks you. You reach up and smooth his hair back gently, tucking it behind his ear. It was getting long now… I need to hide the scissors, you thought distractedly.

“We will one day.”

Han leans into your touch instinctively, eyes closing for half a second.

“When?” he asks softly.

You don’t have an answer, so instead, you wrap your own arms around him tightly, trying to pour all of your frustration and care into the hug. You feel him doing the same, and the studio around you fades away completely.

“A year together,” you murmur against his shoulder, trying desperately to sound hopeful. “That’s still good, right?”

Han lets out a quiet laugh that sounds dangerously close to sad.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. It’s good.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly again, determination slowly replacing the disappointment in his eyes. “We’ll make it work.”

You nod immediately. “We will.”

Because even if the world isn’t allowed to know yet, the truth remains the same.

He’s yours, and you’re his.

And you would wait however long you needed to.

Getting ready for the event should have been fun and, honestly, part of it is.

This is your first major industry event as a solo artist. Your stylists fuss around you excitedly, management keeps reminding you how important networking is, and every few minutes, someone says something about how proud they are of how far you’ve come. But every time you look at the empty space beside you, your chest aches a little.

Because you should be arriving with Han.

Instead, you’re travelling separately, pretending there’s nothing between you except professional respect for the producer who has been working with you for months. Your phone buzzes just as your car pulls up outside the venue.

Ji 🐿️: where are you?

You: just got here, coming in now

Ji 🐿️: i’ll find you

Ji 🐿️: don’t look too pretty before i get there jagi

You can’t help smiling at the screen.

Then the car door opens, and reality crashes back in.

The event hall is enormous. Lights flash constantly from every direction as reporters crowd the entrance, shouting names over one another. Idols stand clustered beneath company banners while managers hover nearby like anxious shadows. Everywhere you look, there’s movement, designer clothes, cameras, and recognisable faces. It’s overwhelming, and you’ve never felt more out of place.

You bow politely through introductions you barely process before escaping deeper into the hall with a drink in hand, hoping to gather yourself and maybe spot Han. You linger near the edge of the room, trying not to look as lost as you feel while your eyes scan the crowd. No Han. No Stray Kids, either. You exhale slowly and take a sip of your drink as your eyes continue to wander, then you make eye contact with someone across the room and freeze, dread pooling in your stomach.

Oh no.

Wooyoung.

You haven’t seen him since the breakup. Months of carefully avoiding interviews, schedules, mutual industry events — and now here he is, walking directly toward you with that familiar confident smile that used to charm you once upon a time.

Now it just irritates you.

“Well,” Wooyoung says smoothly as he stops beside you, “there’s the superstar.”

You force a polite smile, conscious of the people around you. “Hi.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks.”

The conversation should end there, but instead, he lingers - too close. Too familiar.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, voice softening slightly. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

You almost laugh at the understatement. “I’ve been busy.”

“I noticed.” His eyes flick over you knowingly. “Solo career suits you.”

Something about the way he says it makes you uncomfortable immediately. You shift slightly away from him and glance around the room again, looking for a way out of the conversation. You finally find Han across the hall, and your heart drops as you notice that his eyes are already locked onto you. Or, more specifically, onto Wooyoung standing far too close to you.

Even from this distance, you can see the fury written across his face.

Beside him, Lee Know has a hand wrapped firmly around his arm, clearly muttering something meant to stop him from storming across the room. Your heart lurches, and you subtly widen your eyes at Han, trying desperately to communicate: Don’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of cameras.

Han’s jaw tightens visibly. You turn your back slightly toward him, hoping Wooyoung won’t notice the exchange. Unfortunately for you, he’d decided that now is the time to finally pay attention to everything again.

“You’re nervous,” Wooyoung says quietly.

“I’m not.”

“Mhm.”

You frown harder. “What do you want?”

His expression shifts then — less charming, more smug.

“I heard rumours,” he says casually. “About you and Han.”

Your blood runs cold. “They’re rumours.”

Wooyoung hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

“Funny,” he says, stepping closer again. “You never looked at me the way you look at him.”

Before you can answer, another voice cuts in sharply.

“Maybe because she actually likes me.”

Your stomach flips, and your eyes dart sideways. Han. He’s standing beside you now, expression controlled but visibly strained underneath it. Up close, you can tell he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper.

Wooyoung straightens immediately, then smirks. “Well, if it isn’t the problem.”

Han laughs once without humour. “Pretty sure you’re the one bothering her.”

You step between them slightly before this becomes a headline. “Can we not do this here?”

Wooyoung ignores you completely.

“You know,” he says to Han, “she used to talk about me constantly.”

Han’s expression darkens.

“And now she doesn’t,” he replies flatly.

Wooyoung scoffs softly. “You really think this is permanent? Idols break up all the time.”

Your patience snaps.

“Wooyoung.” Both men look at you, and you carry on regardless, struggling to keep your composure. “I am never getting back together with you,” you say firmly. “Ever.”

The arrogance on Wooyoung’s face falters slightly, but you continue before he can interrupt.

“I’m happy now. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.” Your voice softens instinctively as you glance toward Han. “And I love being with him.”

You smile softly at your boyfriend, and Han looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky. The anger melts from his face completely, replaced by something so unbearably soft your chest aches. You’re snapped from your moment by an unknown voice.

“Can we get a picture?”

All three of you turn to see a reporter hurrying over excitedly.

“Just one photo! The fans would love it.”

Absolutely not. You open your mouth to refuse, but somehow you end up shuffled between Wooyoung and Han before you can escape. Cameras flash instantly. You try not to look horrified. Han remains perfectly composed beside you, though you can feel tension radiating off him. Wooyoung, annoyingly, smiles like this is entertaining.

The picture is taken quickly, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” the reporter chirps before disappearing again.

Wooyoung steps away first, but before leaving, he glances at you one last time.

“I don’t give up easily,” he says lightly, before walking off into the crowd.

You stare after him in disbelief, and Han immediately turns toward you.

“Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice instantly softens your irritation.

“I’m fine,” you assure him quietly. “Are you?”

He exhales slowly. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

You laugh despite yourself. Han smiles faintly before glancing around the room cautiously. Cameras still flash everywhere.

“I should probably go before someone notices I’ve been standing here too long.”

Your heart sinks a little, but you nod. Before leaving, his fingers brush subtly against yours — hidden by the folds of your outfit where nobody can see. A secret touch, a reassurance, just for the two of you.

Then he’s gone.

But for the rest of the evening, you notice little things. Chan appears nearby whenever reporters crowd you too aggressively. Changbin casually intercepts people trying to pull you into uncomfortable conversations. Minho is watching the room like a security guard.

And Han is always somewhere in your line of sight, hovering close enough to protect you, even if nobody else notices why.

And honestly? You love him a little more for it.

You’re getting really sick and tired of last-minute meetings, especially when the meeting feels less like damage control and more like punishment.

You sit silently at the long conference table while management talks at you rather than to you, every word tightening the knot in your stomach further.

“You were too obvious.”

“Han almost caused a scene.”

“You need to be more careful.”

You grip your hands together beneath the table hard enough for your nails to hurt. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

One of the executives sighs impatiently. “The issue isn’t whether you did something wrong. The issue is perception.”

Perception. Image. Marketability. Words that, at one point, felt incredibly important to you now leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“The media response to the event has been overwhelming,” another manager continues. “Too many people are speculating about you and Han.”

You almost laugh. “Well, maybe if you let us just confirm the relationship—”

“No.”

The answer comes immediately, their tone firm, final. Your jaw clenches as you try to resist the urge to argue with them.

“We need attention redirected,” they continue. “And conveniently, the event already created another angle.”

Your stomach drops before they even say his name. “No.”

“You haven’t heard the plan yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

But they continue anyway. “Wooyoung is willing to cooperate.”

Cooperate.

Like this is business. Like you’re his business.

“You’ll be seen together casually over the next few weeks,” management explains. “Coffee shops. Restaurants. Shared exits after schedules. Nothing confirmed, nothing denied.”

You stare at them in horror as you realise what they’re implying.

“You… want me to fake-date my ex-boyfriend?”

“No,” one corrects smoothly. “We want people talking about possibilities besides Han.”

You push your chair back slightly in disbelief, wanting to create space between their words and yourself. “This is insane.”

“It’s strategic.”

“It’s cruel.”

The room goes quiet for a moment before the head executive says, “It’s necessary.”

You hate how powerless you feel.

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “Han already hates this.”

“Then he’ll need to learn professionalism.”

The anger that flashes through you is immediate and sharp.

“He is professional.”

“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.”

You want to scream. Instead, you sit there in silence because you already know how this ends. You already know that the decision is made, and you have no choice but to accept for the sake of your contract and your career. For your future.

They all feel like they are balanced carefully above your head, like something fragile enough to shatter at the slightest mistake.

And for Han and your future together… you’d survive anything. Even this.

Later that night, your apartment feels unbearably quiet. Half-packed suitcases sit open across your bedroom floor while clothes spill from drawers and skincare products clutter every available surface.

The tour starts tomorrow, and normally, you’d be excited. Instead, dread curls heavily in your stomach. Behind you, Han lies across your bed, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone, one leg dangling off the edge.

“You’re overpacking,” he says lightly without looking up.

“I am not.”

“You packed three hoodies yesterday.”

“They’re different hoodies.”

Han snorts softly, and the sound makes your chest ache because for a few minutes, everything feels normal. Safe. And you’re about to ruin it.

You stop folding your clothes, take a deep breath and call to him, “Jisung.”

He glances up immediately. Something in your face makes him sit up slightly, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “What’s wrong?”

You suddenly can’t look at him. Management’s words replay in your head over and over until you feel sick.

“They want me to do damage control.”

Han frowns. “What does that mean?”

Your throat tightens. “They think people are talking too much about us after the event.”

His expression hardens instantly. “So?”

You force yourself to continue. “They want me to be seen with someone else.”

He stares at you as he tries to figure out what you mean. You can see the moment the penny drops and understanding dawns slowly across his face.

“No.”

You nod once miserably, shoulders hunching in on yourself.

“No,” he repeats, sharper now.

“They think it’ll distract people.”

“With who?”

You hesitate too long, and Han knows immediately who you’ve been set up with. You can see the anger on his face as he stares at you.

“You’re joking.”

“I tried to argue—”

“Wooyoung?” He actually laughs, but there’s nothing amused about it. “They want you photographed with your ex-boyfriend?”

“It won’t be official—”

“That’s even worse.”

You watch hurt replace anger in real time, and you find yourself struggling to make eye contact. You hated hurting him, couldn’t stand the guilt that was beginning to take over.

You panic as Jisung stands abruptly from the bed.

“So what? I’m just supposed to watch headlines about you and another guy for months?”

“It’s fake.”

“I know it’s fake!” he snaps.

The room falls silent instantly afterwards, and Han closes his eyes briefly, visibly trying to calm himself down. You’ve rarely seen him this upset. Even when you hurt him months ago, he hadn’t looked this angry.

“I can’t do this tonight,” he mutters finally.

Your chest tightens painfully as he grabs his hoodie from the chair. You try to stop him.

“Ji—”

“I just need air.”

He heads for the front door before you can stop him, and fear surges through you immediately. You rush after him barefoot, catching his wrist just as he reaches for the handle.

“Please don’t leave angry.”

He stills, and you can see the conflict written all over his face.

“I hate this too,” you whisper desperately. “I hate every part of it.”

He finally turns toward you, and he looks so hurt. Your eyes are already burning, but the pain on his face brings very real tears to your eyes.

“You think I want this?” Your voice cracks slightly. “You think I want to stand beside him pretending everything’s fine when all I want is to be with you?”

Han’s expression softens instantly at that, and you grip his hand tighter, begging him with your eyes to change his mind, to stay.

“I’m trying,” you say quietly. “I’m trying to protect everything.”

His shoulders sag slightly, and he looks down at your joined hands. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, but then Han steps closer again, and you feel a rush of hope.

“I know,” he murmurs.

You exhale shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for something they’re forcing you into.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“Yeah.” He gives a small, humourless laugh. “I am.”

Honesty always sounds gentler coming from him; it was something you’d always loved about him. He lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye carefully.

“I’ll learn to deal with it,” he says quietly. “I have to, right?”

The words break your heart a little, but you have no choice but to nod weakly. He smiles softly, but it’s full of sadness. He leans down and kisses you softly, and your breath stutters. The kiss isn’t desperate or heated. It’s sad.

His forehead rests against yours afterwards. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers, forcing himself to step away before either of you can change your minds.

The door closes softly behind him, and suddenly the apartment feels enormous. It’s too quiet, too empty without Jisung’s laughter filling the space. You slide slowly down against the wall until you’re sitting on the floor beside your front door, staring at the door he just walked through.

The tour hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already terrified of what all this might do to the two of you.

The dorm is quiet when Han gets back.

Most of the lights are off except for the kitchen, where Minho sits eating ice cream straight from the tub while scrolling through his phone like it’s two in the afternoon instead of nearly midnight.

He glances up as Han walks in, then pauses when he sees the look on his face.

“You look terrible.”

Han drops onto the chair opposite him with a groan, dragging both hands down his face. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Normally, the bluntness would earn a laugh. Tonight, Han just sits there staring blankly at the table.

Minho watches him quietly for a moment before setting the ice cream down. “What happened?”

Han exhales sharply through his nose. “They want her to do photo ops with Wooyoung.”

Minho’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Ah.”

“Ah?” Han repeats incredulously. “That’s your reaction?”

“I’m trying not to overreact before you finish explaining.”

Han slumps further into the chair before he tells him everything - the management meeting, the fake rumours, the “damage control.” How upset you looked while explaining it.

And, eventually, the thing that was actually eating him alive underneath all the anger.

“What if this changes things?” Han asks quietly.

Minho stays silent as he looks at him. Han stares down at the table, jaw tight, avoiding his probing gaze as he continues.

“What if people start shipping them again? What if management pushes it further? What if she gets tired of hiding and decides this is too difficult?”

The words spill out faster now, all the insecurities he’d tried so hard to swallow clawing their way free.

“I know she says she loves being with me, but this industry ruins things. You know it does.”

Minho studies him carefully for a long moment before he sighs softly and leans back in his chair. “Han-ah.”

Han looks up tiredly as Minho continues. “You know what this industry is like.”

“I know.”

“You knew before you dated her.”

Han’s expression twists slightly. “I know that, too.”

Minho nods once. “So trust her.”

Simple.

Direct.

Han laughs weakly. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Minho says plainly. “It’s awful.” He takes another bite of ice cream. “But she’s no doubt miserable about it, too.”

Han goes quiet, and Minho waits a second before continuing, but more gently this time.

“Everyone can see how much she likes you.”

Han’s eyes flicker slightly at that, hallway light catching the sheen in his eyes.

“She looks at you like you hung the moon,” Minho says casually. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing sometimes.”

That finally earns the smallest snort of laughter from Han, and Minho points his spoon at him immediately, latching on to his better mood.

“I’m serious. She barely looked at Wooyoung last night unless she absolutely had to. But you?” He shakes his head. “You walk into a room, and suddenly she forgets how to act normally.”

Warmth stirs painfully in Han’s chest because underneath all his doubt, he knows it’s true. You do look at him differently… Like loving him is instinctive.

Minho softens slightly, seeing the tension ease from his face. “She told you there’s nothing to worry about, didn’t she?”

Han nods slowly.

“Then believe her.”

Silence settles between them for a moment.

Han leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling, rubbing his face. “I hate that she has to go through this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I can’t fix it.”

Minho hums quietly. “That part never really changes.”

Han closes his eyes briefly, thinking about what was coming. Tomorrow the tour starts. It would be months of hiding, of rumours, of pretending. But underneath it all is still you. You were still the girl who chased him to the door because she couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving upset. You were still the girl who said she was happy with him without hesitation.

You were still his.

Minho nudges the tub of ice cream toward him, holding his spoon out. “You’ll survive.”

Han looks at him flatly. “Your comforting skills are incredible, hyung.”

“I know.”

Despite himself, Han smiles faintly.

On the other side of town, you barely sleep. Every time your eyes close, your mind replays the look on Han’s face when he left your apartment. He was hurt but trying not to show it, trying to be understanding anyway.

By four in the morning, you give up on sleep entirely.

Your phone sits beside you on the bed the entire night, painfully silent. You don’t message him. Part of you wants to desperately — wants reassurance, wants him to tell you everything’s okay, wants to hear him call you baby in that sleepy voice that always melts the tension right out of you. But fear wins. Because what if he doesn’t answer? Or worse…  What if he does, and it’s different?

By the time you’re in the car heading toward the airport, your stomach is twisted into knots so tight you feel nauseous. Tour is supposed to be exciting. Instead, all you can think is he’s going to break up with me. You hate yourself a little for thinking it, but anxiety doesn’t care about logic.

The airport is already chaotic when you arrive. Staff rush around organising luggage while security attempts to control the crowds gathered outside. Reporters swarm the main entrance, waiting for Stray Kids to arrive.

Your manager quickly ushers you toward the quieter back entrance.

“The boys are handling press out front,” they explain. “You’ll board separately.”

You nod numbly. Honestly, you’re relieved. You’re not sure you could survive pretending everything’s normal in front of Han right now.

You turn the corner and stop dead in your tracks. Wooyoung is leaning casually against the wall, waiting for you. Your heart sinks as soon as you make eye contact.

“Morning,” he says easily, a grin on his face.

Right. The photo ops. Just what you need.

Your manager brightens immediately at the sight of him. You, on the other hand, want to disappear. Instead, you force a tight smile and stand beside Wooyoung while cameras magically appear from seemingly nowhere. Questions get thrown at both of you while flashes explode in your face. You barely hear any of it. You just smile politely, nod occasionally. Pretend. Wooyoung plays the role naturally, leaning slightly closer once or twice for the cameras. You feel worse than you did in the car.

By the time you finally reach security, your chest feels tight with anxiety. It just gets worse when you look up and see Jisung. He’s standing further ahead with the rest of the members, cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, watching.

Your breath catches, and for one horrible second, you think he looks angry again. But when your eyes meet, he smiles. It’s small but soft. Reassuring.

He turns away as if nothing happened, but relief hits you so suddenly that your knees nearly give out.

He doesn’t hate you. He’s still here.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to steady your breathing as you follow the staff through the private boarding area. Exhaustion finally crashes over you all at once now that the panic is easing. You just want your seat, your headphones, and to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

You’re halfway down the corridor toward the plane when suddenly a hand grabs your wrist. You gasp in alarm as you’re quickly tugged sideways into the disabled bathroom nearby. The door clicks shut, and you spin around in panic before immediately sagging in relief.

“Jisung—”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you tightly into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Your entire body melts against him in relief. “You scared me,” you whisper shakily. You both know you’re not just talking about now.

“I know.” His arms tighten around you. “I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

The endearment nearly makes you cry from sheer relief. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly and immediately frowns.

“You look exhausted.”

You laugh weakly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Guilt flashes across his face instantly. “Because of me?”

You don’t answer fast enough, and he closes his eyes briefly, as if the confirmation physically pains him.

“I never wanted to be the reason you lost sleep,” he says quietly.

Your chest aches. “You weren’t,” you lie softly.

Jisung gives you a look that says he knows better.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The airport noise outside feels distant compared to the tiny space you’re crammed into together.

He exhales slowly. “I was angry,” he admits. “Not at you. I swear.” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “I just hated seeing you dragged into all this because of me.”

“It’s not because of you.”

“It feels like it.”

You shake your head immediately. “I understand why you were upset.”

Han looks uncertain, and you smile sadly.

“If the situation were reversed and they wanted you photographed with an ex-girlfriend?” You huff softly. “I’d lose my mind.”

That finally pulls a small laugh from him. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

His forehead drops gently against yours.

“I trust you,” he murmurs. “I just… need time to stop wanting to fight everyone.”

You laugh quietly despite yourself. “I noticed.”

Han groans softly. “Minho told me I was being dramatic.”

“He was right.”

“Wow. Betrayed by my own girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. The word settles warmly between you.

Your eyes soften immediately.

“I missed you,” you whisper suddenly, feeling embarrassed that it hadn’t even been 24 hours since you last saw him. You didn’t know how to explain that you missed the possible future without Jisung that your brain had fooled you into believing wouldn’t have been in your life.

Han’s expression melts completely. The exhaustion leaves his face all at once, replaced by something unbearably tender.

“I missed you, too.”

Then he kisses you.

Quick at first.

Gentle.

Like reassurance more than anything else.

But when your fingers clutch the front of his hoodie desperately, he kisses you again properly, warm and lingering and full of everything neither of you can say publicly.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless.

“We should go before people notice,” you whisper reluctantly.

Han sighs dramatically.

“You’re always ruining my plans.”

“You dragged me into an airport bathroom.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?”

You laugh for real this time.

God, you missed him.

Han brushes one last thumb beneath your eye gently before opening the door carefully.

“Come on,” he murmurs softly. “Let’s go start our tour.”

Tour becomes the strangest contradiction of your life.

You’ve never been happier… And you’ve never been more exhausted by pretending.

Still, the moment you step onto the stage for your first performance as a soloist, everything else disappears. The crowd is deafening. Lights blind you the second the music starts, adrenaline surging so hard through your veins you almost forget to breathe. Thousands of people sing your lyrics back at you, your name echoing through the arena in a way that makes your chest ache with emotion.  For those few minutes, you aren’t somebody’s girlfriend. You aren’t a scandal risk or a contract. You’re just you. And when you finish the final song to roaring applause, you nearly cry backstage from the overwhelming relief and joy of it all.

The first person you look for is Jisung. He catches you before you even properly make it behind the curtain, grabbing your face with both hands.

“You were incredible.”

His eyes are shining so brightly that you almost melt on the spot.

“I messed up the second verse.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I did!”

“Nobody noticed because they were too busy falling in love with you.”

You snort out a laugh, cheeks burning, and he beams at you like he personally put the stars in the sky.

Later that night, after schedules finally finish and staff disappear to their own rooms, you unlock your hotel door expecting nothing more than a shower and sleep. Instead, your room is covered with candles. There’s soft music playing from a portable speaker set up in the corner, and rose petals are scattered across the white duvet.

You freeze in the doorway, confused, until you see him. Jisung stands near the table, looking suddenly nervous despite all the effort clearly put into this.

“Surprise?”

Your mouth falls open. “Ji…”

The look on your face makes him smile instantly.

A full dinner is laid out across the small hotel table — room service desserts, expensive wine neither of you particularly likes but thought looked romantic, and a tiny handwritten note propped beside your plate.

You stare at it all in disbelief and ask, “You did all this?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly take you out publicly,” he says sheepishly. “So I improvised.”

Your chest hurts from how much you love him. You cross the room quickly and throw your arms around his neck without another thought. Han laughs softly as he catches you, holding you close.

“Was it too much?” he asks into your hair.

“No,” you whisper immediately. “It’s perfect.”

And honestly? It is, because even hidden away in a hotel room halfway through tour preparations, he still finds ways to love you loudly.

The next few weeks settle into something dangerously domestic.

You wake up tangled together almost every morning, warm hotel sheets twisted around your legs while sunlight creeps through the curtains. Han always tries to leave before the others wake up… He’s terrible at it.

One morning, you’re still half asleep when you watch him stumble around the room trying to find his hoodie with his hair sticking up in every direction.

“You look ridiculous,” you mumble into the pillow.

“I look stealthy.”

“You walked into the wardrobe five seconds ago.”

Han glares at you weakly before leaning down to kiss your forehead anyway. “Go back to sleep.”

You giggle quietly as he sneaks out into the hallway, looking thoroughly dishevelled and deeply suspicious. Somehow, nobody catches him. Or maybe the others just choose not to say anything. Unfortunately, though, outside those hotel rooms, reality still waits.

The “sightings” with Wooyoung continue exactly as management planned.

The park is first.

You wear your hair down specifically to hide the wireless earphones tucked carefully beneath it, one AirPod playing music quietly so you don’t actually have to talk to him. Paparazzi conveniently “spot” the two of you walking side by side beneath the trees near the hotel.

From the pictures, it probably looks peaceful. Romantic, even. In reality, you spend most of it staring ahead, pretending not to notice the cameras, while Wooyoung occasionally attempts conversation, which you barely respond to.

The second sighting at the coffee shop is worse.

By then, articles are already circulating online. Could there be something between them? Fans are constantly speculating after recent appearances. You want to scream every time you see them.

The café itself is tiny and crowded with photographers waiting outside the windows. You sit across from Wooyoung with a smile plastered painfully onto your face while barely saying more than three words the entire time.

“You really hate this, huh?” Wooyoung asks eventually, stirring his drink lazily.

You don’t even bother denying it.

“I told you already,” you say quietly. “I’m happily with someone.”

His expression dims slightly, though not enough. “Still him?”

You look up immediately. “Yes,” you answer firmly. “Still him.”

And despite everything — the cameras outside, the rumours online, the constant pressure weighing on your shoulders — your heart feels lighter saying it because every night still ends the same way.

Back in secret hotel rooms, in Han’s arms, with sleepy kisses in the dark and whispered words that nobody else gets to hear.

And for now, that’s enough.

The sighting that ruins it all is the one you least expected.

You were a month into tour, and exhaustion started creeping into everything.

The performances were the easy part. You loved being on stage. You loved the crowds, the adrenaline, and the feeling of slowly becoming more confident every single night. Supporting Stray Kids has become strangely natural too — backstage chaos, rehearsals, shared meals at ridiculous hours of the night.

It’s the pretending that’s exhausting. All the hiding, the constant calculations, the carefully timed entrances and exits from hotel rooms. The way your hand instinctively reaches for Han’s, only for you to stop yourself at the last second if someone’s nearby. And most of all… Wooyoung.

The fake sightings just keep happening. Management becomes relentless once the initial rumours start gaining traction online. Every few days, there’s another “accidental” encounter planned at a restaurant or on a walk. Sometimes it’s a shared ride or a conveniently photographed conversation outside venues.

You cancel as many as you can. You genuinely do. You use rehearsals as excuses. Vocal strain. Fittings. Meetings. Jet lag. Anything you can think of. But sometimes management refuses to budge, and apparently tonight is one of those nights.

“I’m just saying,” Jisung says from where he’s pacing your hotel room, frustration bleeding into every word, “it feels like you could push back harder.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “I have been pushing back harder.”

“Then why does it keep happening?”

“Because they don’t care what I want!”

The room falls silent for half a second, and he stops pacing. You instantly regret snapping, but the exhaustion sitting heavy in your chest makes it hard to soften yourself quickly enough.

“I know,” he says, quieter now. “I know they don’t.”

But he still looks upset. Still tense. Hurt.

Part of you understands. Every time another article comes out pairing your name with Wooyoung’s, you feel sick too. But another part of you is just tired - so unbelievably tired.

“I’m doing everything I can,” you say finally, rubbing at your face. “I’m trying to keep management happy enough not to ruin my career, I’m trying to survive my first tour, and I’m trying to keep our relationship together while nobody’s allowed to know it exists.”

His expression shifts immediately, and guilt flickers across his face.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“No, but that’s what it sounds like.” Your voice cracks slightly despite yourself. “Like I’m failing some test because I can’t magically make them stop.”

“You’re not failing.”

“Then stop acting like I’m choosing this!”

Jisung goes quiet, and the hurt on his face makes your anger falter instantly, but before either of you can fix it, there’s a knock on the door.  Both of you freeze, and your stomach sinks immediately. The staff member assigned to ensure you make it on time is right on time. Another knock follows when you don’t answer, and a voice carries through the door.

“We need to leave in five minutes,” a staff member calls through the door.

The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. It’s back to reality, and back to pretending. Jisung looks devastated by it.

“Seriously?” he mutters bitterly.

You close your eyes briefly, feeling the faint pain of a headache building from your stress.

“I have to go.”

“I know, but—” He steps toward you immediately. “Can we not leave it like this?”

The frustration in his voice hurts more now because you know it isn’t anger anymore. It’s worry. You grab your bag silently, avoiding his eyes because if you look at him for too long, you might cry.

There’s another impatient knock, and you feel your patience fraying as the staff member speaks up again.

“Miss? The car’s waiting.”

Han runs a hand through his hair roughly. “Just tell them to wait two minutes.”

“They won’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do!” The words come out sharper than intended, patience finally wrung out. You inhale shakily before softening slightly. “I can’t keep giving them reasons to watch me more closely.”

Han falls silent, and you finally force yourself to look at him properly. His eyes are full of concern now instead of frustration.

“Baby…”

The worry in his voice nearly undoes you.

“I’ll see you later,” you whisper quietly.

Jisung still looks unsettled. Like he hates the idea of you walking out that door while things feel unresolved between you.

“I don’t want you leaving upset,” he admits softly.

Your chest aches painfully. “I’m not upset at you.”

That’s the truth. You’re upset at the situation and at management. At the constant pressure squeezing tighter and tighter around both of you.

He steps closer like he wants to kiss you goodbye properly, but another sharp knock interrupts again. “We really need to go now.”

You both flinch apart instinctively.

The moment’s gone.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the door reluctantly. Jisung catches your wrist just before you open it.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says quietly.

Your eyes burn unexpectedly before you open the door. Staff immediately begin ushering you down the hallway before either of you can say anything else. You glance back once, and Han’s still standing in the middle of your hotel room, watching you leave, looking like there are a hundred things he still wants to say.

And somehow that image stays with you all the way to the car, waiting to take you to another fake date with someone you stopped loving a long time ago.

By the time you arrive at the restaurant, your head is pounding, and you barely remember the drive there. All you can think about is Jisung standing in the middle of your hotel room, looking worried, while you walk away from him.

You hate leaving things unresolved, especially with him.

The restaurant is loud and packed with people, with warm, low-hanging golden lights, overcrowded tables, and conversations blurring into an overwhelming din. It’s easily the busiest place management has arranged for you and Wooyoung to be seen together so far, but it doesn’t surprise you. More people means more cameras, which means more opportunities for rumours.

You spot Wooyoung already seated near the windows — strategically visible, naturally. He smiles when he sees you approaching, but it fades slightly once you sit down.

“You look miserable.”

You give a dry scoff in response instead of answering.

Wooyoung studies you for a second. “You’re quieter than usual tonight.”

You stare blankly at the menu despite already knowing you won’t be hungry enough to eat much. “Maybe because I don’t want to be here.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

You look up sharply, and Wooyoung leans back in his chair slightly. “You used to talk a lot, you know.”

You roll your eyes immediately. “And?”

“I’m serious.”

“Wooyoung, please.”

He goes quiet for a moment before sighing softly. “You look stressed lately.”

Something in you finally snaps. You’re not sure why exactly. Maybe because you’re exhausted, or because you already miss Jisung. Maybe because you’re tired of everyone expecting things from you constantly.

You put the menu down harder than intended.

“Because I am stressed,” you say sharply. “I’m exhausted all the time, I barely sleep, management controls every second of my life, my relationship has to stay hidden while they parade me around with my ex-boyfriend, and if I breathe wrong, there’ll probably be an article about it tomorrow.”

Wooyoung blinks in surprise, but you aren’t finished yet.

“And I’m trying so hard to keep everything together while everyone around me acts like I’m some kind of product instead of a person.”

The words spill out faster now.

“I’m tired of cameras. I’m tired of fake smiling. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with any of this.”

A camera flashes outside the window suddenly, and Wooyoung reacts instantly, reaching across the table to grab your hand.

“There,” he murmurs quietly. “That’s why.”

Your stomach twists unpleasantly, but you immediately force a smile toward the window before smoothly pulling your hand back from his. The second the cameras lower, your expression drops flat again.

Wooyoung watches you carefully before he surprises you.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink at him. “For what?”

“For… everything, I guess.” He looks strangely sincere for once. “I wasn’t good to you when we were together.”

You stare at him for a second before rolling your eyes again. “Okay.”

His mouth opens slightly. “That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that you forgive me?”

You almost laugh. “Wooyoung, I genuinely do not care anymore.”

And surprisingly, it’s true. Whatever heartbreak once existed there feels distant now. Faded. Unimportant compared to what you have with Jisung.

You just feel tired.

“I just want to finish this dinner,” you say quietly.

After that, the conversation dies almost completely. You eat mechanically while Wooyoung occasionally attempts small talk, which you barely engage with. Outside the windows, photographers continue lurking like vultures.

By the end of the meal, exhaustion weighs so heavily on you that you feel hollow. You just want Jisung. You want his arms around you, and you want to crawl into bed beside him and apologise properly and pretend none of this exists for a few hours. The thought alone keeps you moving as the dinner finally ends.

Outside the restaurant, cameras immediately begin flashing again.

You force yourself through one final polite goodbye. “Goodnight, Wooyoung.”

You turn to leave, but his hand suddenly catches your arm. Before you can react properly, Wooyoung pulls you toward him and kisses the corner of your mouth.

Flashes explode around you instantly, and your entire body freezes in shock. But not for long. You shove him away hard enough that he stumbles slightly.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Wooyoung looks entirely too calm.

“Relax,” he says lightly, glancing toward the cameras. “I’m sticking to the plan.”

Your stomach turns violently. “That was not the plan.”

He shrugs. “People will eat it up.”

You stare at him in complete disbelief. For one horrible second, all you can think about is Jisung seeing the pictures. Seeing that.

Your chest tightens painfully.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you snap quietly.

Something flickers across Wooyoung’s face then — annoyance, maybe guilt — but you don’t stay long enough to figure it out. You turn immediately and walk away as fast as you can, ignoring the shouting reporters behind you.

Your skin feels wrong.

Your mouth feels wrong.

And all you want is to get back to Han before the internet does.

The entire drive back to the hotel feels like drowning in anxiety.

Your phone won’t stop vibrating from constant notifications, messages, articles, and tags. The second that photo hit the internet, it spread everywhere. Fans caught it from different angles. Paparazzi posted blurry close-ups within minutes. Headlines were already appearing before you’d even left the restaurant district.

IDOLS CONFIRM ROMANCE RUMOURS AFTER SHARING INTIMATE MOMENT.

You feel sick every time you glimpse the image under the headline. It looks real. The different camera angles create an illusion of attachment, of love. Your nausea increases as you scan the article and see your own worst nightmare brought to life – people believe there’s something very real between you and Wooyoung.

By the time the car pulls up outside the hotel, panic has fully settled into your chest.

Han.

You need to explain to Han before he spirals, before he believes it.

You practically run through the lobby and into the elevator, heart hammering painfully the entire way up. Your hands shake so badly, fumbling for your room card, that you nearly drop it twice.

The door swings open, and your stomach drops when you notice that your room is empty. Han said he’d wait for you and promised that he’d be here.

“Jisung?”

Nothing. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. Your panic surges harder as you realise you might not have got here in time, and you’re already rushing back into the hallway before the door fully closes behind you.

You pound on Han’s hotel door desperately, dying to find him.

“Jisung?”

There’s no answer, and you knock again harder.

“Han, please—”

You place your ear to the door when you hear muffled voices, but you realise that it’s not coming from his room, but the room next door. Lee Know’s room.

You hurry over immediately and knock hard enough that your knuckles hurt. The voices inside stop, and you call through the door.

“Minho,” you call shakily. “Please— can I talk to Han?”

There’s a long pause, and you’re about to knock again when the door opens slightly. Minho stands there looking tired and hesitant. Your heart sinks further.

“Please,” you whisper immediately. “I need to explain.”

Minho glances back over his shoulder, deciding on how to answer, when another figure appears behind him.

Han.

Your breath catches painfully at the lack of emotion on his face. You expected anger and sadness, but his eyes looked empty, his expression defeated.

“Jisung—”

“I always worried you’d go back to him.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “What? No—”

“It’s not even just tonight.” His voice is quiet, exhausted. “I tried not to think about it every time management sent you out together.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “Han, it wasn’t my choice—”

“I know.”

But he says it in a way that sounds like it doesn’t matter anymore.

You stare at him desperately, begging him to believe you. “It’s not what it looked like.”

Han gives a tiny, sad smile that nearly breaks you in half.

“That’s the problem,” he says softly. “It looked exactly like what I was scared of.”

Your eyes fill instantly. “No, listen to me— he kissed me, I pushed him away immediately—”

“But he still kissed you.”

The hurt in his voice cracks straight through your chest. He looks exhausted – not physically, but completely emotionally exhausted.

“I kept trying to ignore it,” he admits quietly. “The photos. The articles. How natural you looked together.”

“Natural?” you repeat incredulously. “Han, I barely spoke to him!”

“But nobody else knows that.”

You step closer desperately. “It was staged.”

“I know it was staged,” he says again.

Somehow, hearing that hurts worse, because he does know. He knows you… And he’s still giving up.

Han’s eyes finally meet yours fully, and your stomach twists violently at the emptiness there.

“I just think…” He swallows hard. “Maybe this was always going to be too difficult.”

“No.” The answer leaves you instantly. You know you must look terrified, and you can't help but plead with him. “No, don’t say that.”

Han’s expression crumples slightly at the panic in your voice, but he keeps going anyway.

“We can’t even argue properly without being dragged apart for publicity schedules.” His laugh is hollow and quiet. “We hide constantly. We barely get to be real together outside hotel rooms.”

“We can fix it.”

“I don’t think we can.”

Tears spill down your face immediately. “Jisung, please.”

He looks at you for one long, awful second, and you can see it. You can see how much he loves you. You think it must be that which makes this unbearable.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, voice cracking slightly, “for the last few months.”

Your heart stops.

“No.”

“But I think it’s better if we stop now before this hurts worse.”

You actually stare at him in disbelief. You feel like your brain physically cannot process the words. You can’t believe that this morning you were waking up, wrapped in his arms, and hours later he was breaking up with you.

Han takes one slow step backwards, then another.

“Jisung, please —”

He turns away and walks back into Minho’s room. You immediately try to follow, panicked beyond reason now, but Minho steps into the doorway and blocks your path gently but firmly.

“Minho, move.”

“You need to give him space.”

“No, I need to talk to him!”

Your voice breaks completely.

Inside the room, you can hear movement, but Jisung doesn’t come back, doesn’t say another word. The silence is devastating.

“Please,” you beg Minho desperately. “Please let me in. I love him, Minho! I promise.”

Minho’s face softens slightly as you gasp for breath, the pain in your chest unbearable.

“I know.”

“Then tell him!”

“He’s hurt.”

“So am I!”

“I know,” Minho says quietly. “But right now he needs space to think.”

You shake your head immediately, tears falling harder now. “There’s nothing to think about. He’s what I want.”

The conviction in your voice makes Minho’s expression flicker sadly. But he still doesn’t move aside.

“You both need time,” he says gently. “You’re exhausted. Emotional. Everything’s been building for weeks.”

You wipe angrily at your tears. “I don’t want time. I want to fix this.”

Minho sighs softly.

“I’m tired,” he admits. “And right now my priority is looking after him.”

The words hurt more than they should because suddenly you’re outside the room. Alone.

Minho’s hand tightens slightly on the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow for soundcheck.”

You stare at him helplessly as the door closes quietly in front of you.

That night, you don’t sleep. Not even for a minute.

You lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, as the world outside slowly shifts from darkness to pale morning light. Every time you close your eyes, you see Han walking away from you again.

Thank you for the last few months.

The words replay so relentlessly in your head, you think you might actually lose your mind.

At some point, your phone buzzes repeatedly on the bedside table. First, it’s your tour staff, then it’s management. Eventually, you even get one message from Chan asking if you’re okay after missing breakfast. You don’t answer anyone, you just silence your phone and roll over to stare at the wall.

By the time soundcheck rolls around, you still haven’t moved from the bed. You physically can’t make yourself. The idea of seeing Han and pretending to function normally feels impossible. So, you stay there curled beneath the duvet in yesterday’s clothes while the hotel room remains dark around you.

Eventually, management starts panicking – there are more calls. More knocks. Messages begging for you to answer because you have the concert later. You finally drag yourself up barely an hour before it starts because you know you can’t miss the performance entirely.

Your reflection in the mirror startles you. You look awful. Your eyes are swollen from spending all day and night crying, and your skin is pale. You look like somebody hollowed you out from the inside.

The arena backstage feels painfully familiar when you arrive. Usually, you love the energy before a show — the rush of staff running around, the sound checks, the excited nerves humming through everyone. Tonight it just feels cold.

You see Stray Kids almost immediately, and your chest caves in.

Han is standing with the others while a stylist fixes his in-ear monitors. For one horrible second, instinct makes your body lean towards him automatically. Towards your comfort and your home. Then you remember that you can’t do that anymore.

Han looks up, and your eyes meet briefly. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he looks away first. The motion is small, but it devastates you anyway. There was no smile, no secret glance, no mouthed good luck like always. Nothing.

You have never felt lonelier in your life.

The rest of the members notice you, too, but the atmosphere is now painfully awkward. Changbin gives you a hesitant nod, and Felix looks openly concerned. Minho’s expression softens slightly when he sees how exhausted you look, but he doesn’t approach either. None of them know what to do, and you can't blame them because, honestly, neither do you.

You decide to keep your distance, burying your face in your phone and avoiding everyone, because you know this is hard for them, too. They’re his family before they’re your friends.

Your performance that night is… fine. Technically. You hit the notes, and you remember the choreography. The crowd still cheers and sings along to your songs, but you feel disconnected from your own body the entire time, like you’re watching somebody else perform through thick glass.

And afterwards, backstage is worse. Because Han always found you afterwards, even if only briefly. You’d gotten used to hearing his voice in your ear the second you stepped offstage.

You were amazing.

I’m so proud of you.

Tonight there’s nothing. Han walks past you once while talking quietly with Chan and doesn’t even glance your way. You almost stop breathing.

That’s when it truly sinks in.

This is really happening. You’ve really broken up.

The next two weeks become survival rather than living.

You stop laughing, you stop eating properly. Sleep becomes something distant and unreliable. Some nights you cry silently into hotel pillows until sunrise. Other nights, you just lie awake, numb and empty, while tour buses and aeroplanes blur together endlessly.

You and Han become strangers in public spaces. He’s professional and polite when needed. Distant like none of those nights tangled together in hotel sheets ever happened.

The members try in their own ways. Felix starts lingering nearby more often, and Chan checks in quietly a few times. Minho watches you with increasing concern every time you show up looking thinner and more exhausted than before.

But nobody mentions Han.

And Han never approaches you.

By the time the final Korea show approaches, you’re barely holding yourself together. Standing on stage feels harder every night. Breathing feels harder every night. Being near Han and not being able to talk to him, to touch him, feels like torture.

You make a decision, realising you can’t possibly carry on this way and still keep your sanity. So, you request a meeting with management the day of the final concert.

“I can’t continue the international leg of the tour.”

The room goes silent immediately. “What?”

You keep your expression blank because if you let yourself feel anything right now, you’ll fall apart.

“I’m exhausted,” you say quietly. “I’m not coping well physically.”

“That’s not an option.”

“I’m telling you now because I physically cannot do this for months more.”

They argue immediately. They mention contracts, schedules, money, and commitments. You sit through all of it feeling strangely detached. Eventually, you lower your gaze and say the one thing you know they’ll take seriously.

“If I collapse publicly, that’ll be worse for everyone, won’t it?”

Management exchange tense looks, the tension palpable.

You continue softly. “I need to rest. I need to go home.”

In truth, you need to escape from the tour and the heartbreak. From seeing Han every day while pretending you aren’t falling apart.

Eventually, begrudgingly, they agree to frame it as illness and exhaustion after the Korea leg finishes. They label it a temporary hiatus. A recovery period.

You nod numbly through the rest of the meeting, then leave before anyone can change their minds. You don’t tell the boys, and you don’t plan to, partly because you don’t think they’d care anymore. And partly because if Han asked you to stay without the relationship, you know you would.

You just might not survive it.

Later that day, backstage is loud. Staff rush past, carrying headsets and equipment, while stage managers shout out timings amid the arena's chaos. Usually, the noise helps settle your nerves before performances. Tonight, it barely registers.

Your final performance.

The thought feels strangely hollow, much unlike the heavy suitcases loaded into the taxi waiting to take you to the airport. You’d decided it would be best to have a clean break. There was no point hanging around for anything anymore.

You sit silently in the makeup chair with your mic resting loosely in your hands, staring blankly at nothing while stylists do last-minute touch-ups around you. You don’t even know if Han is avoiding looking at you anymore or if you’ve simply stopped trying to catch his eye.

“Hey.”

You blink slowly and look up. Chan stands nearby, expression careful.

“You okay?”

The question almost makes you laugh, but you just nod weakly instead. Chan doesn’t buy it for a second, and he glances around before pulling up a chair beside you quietly.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Your stomach twists immediately. Chan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, eyeing the floor.

“The photos,” he says carefully. “With Wooyoung.”

There it is. You lower your eyes to your microphone, thumb soothing the cool metal.

“I’m confused,” Chan admits softly. “Because I remember how badly he treated you.”

Your throat tightens painfully. Chan had seen some of it firsthand when you and Wooyoung dated. Not all of it, but enough to understand what a horrible place you were in with him.

You swallow hard. “It wasn’t real.”

Chan goes very still. You still don’t look at him as you continue quietly, voice numb from repeating this truth over and over in your own head.

“Management wanted publicity away from Han. They arranged the sightings.” Your fingers tighten around the mic. “The kiss wasn’t planned. He just did it.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear his tone darken. “And Han knows that?”

“I tried telling him.”

The words come out hollow.

You turn slightly, and you can see Chan watching you carefully from the corner of your eye. Really watching. You know that he can see the exhaustion and the weight loss. The emptiness sitting behind your eyes.

Realisation slowly dawns across his face.

“Oh,” he says softly.

You laugh once weakly. “Yeah.”

A staff member suddenly calls your name from across backstage. “Five minutes!”

You slowly stand, smoothing your outfit. Chan rises too, but before he can speak again, you finally look at him and give him a small, tired smile.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He frowns slightly. “For what?”

“For letting me join the Korean leg of the tour.” Your voice softens further. “You’ve all been really kind to me.”

Confusion flashes across Chan’s face immediately. “What do you mean Korean leg?”

You just smile again. It’s small, sad. “Thank you for everything, Chris.”

You walk away before he can stop you, and behind you, Chan stands frozen in place.

The crowd screams the second you step onto the stage. Thousands of lights shimmer across the arena like stars while music pounds through the speakers loud enough to shake the floor beneath your feet. Normally the sound energises you, but tonight you feel strangely detached from your own body.

You move through the choreography automatically, smiling when you’re supposed to smile, singing when you’re supposed to sing. A performance built from muscle memory. Then midway through the set—

You see him.

Wooyoung.

Near the barricade.

Watching you.

And suddenly, all the hurt and exhaustion curdling inside you twists sharply into anger. You’re not angry at Han or yourself. You’re angry at him - at the person who kissed you without permission, knowing exactly what it would do.

Your heartbeat pounds loudly in your ears as you make a split-second decision. Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn sharply toward the live band stationed near the side of the stage.

“Toxic Till The End,” you say suddenly into your mic. The band members blink in surprise, but you need to do this. You need to tell him, to tell the world.

“Now.”

Your manager looks horrified from the side stage, but you ignore them completely. The crowd erupts excitedly as the musicians scramble to adjust. You step toward the front of the stage slowly, breathing hard.

“This song…” Your voice echoes through the arena. “Wasn’t originally meant to be performed yet.”

The crowd quiets slightly, listening. You don’t know if it’s the look on your face or the anger in your voice, but you carry on regardless, glancing once toward Wooyoung. You feel a thrill when his expression shifts uncertainly.

“It’s about a recent relationship,” you continue softly. “A toxic one.”

The arena falls completely silent now, and you can practically feel management panicking backstage. You don’t care anymore.

“I wrote it with somebody who means the world to me,” you admit quietly. “And despite everything… I’m thankful for every second I got to spend with them.”

Your chest aches violently from the truth behind your words, and you close your eyes briefly, composing yourself before continuing.

“Tonight feels like the right time to finally share it.”

The music starts, and the first notes ring out low and haunting through the arena.

When you begin singing, every lyric is aimed directly at Wooyoung. Every word is about manipulation and heartbreak and exhaustion sharpened by months of buried anger. You hold eye contact with him relentlessly, and you watch the confidence slowly leave his face.

Good.

For the first time in weeks, you feel honest on stage again. Real.

The emotion cracks through your voice painfully during the second chorus, and you’re confused when the crowd starts screaming.  You glance sideways and freeze, mic falling from your lips. Han is walking onto the stage, mic in hand. He approaches slowly, eyes locked entirely on you as he sings the words you’ve lost.

The arena absolutely loses its mind.

You forget where you are, forget everything except him. For the first time in weeks, Han is looking at you, and you don’t know what to do. He reaches you just before your next line and gently lifts your microphone back toward your mouth with one hand. The gesture is so soft it nearly breaks you.

“Sing,” he murmurs quietly.

Your eyes immediately fill with tears, but you do. The tears finally fall when Han starts singing with you, standing close, focused just on you. It’s not officially part of the performance, not rehearsed. He’s just there beside you, voice blending perfectly with yours while the crowd screams around you. You stare at him in complete shock the entire time. Han doesn’t look away once, not during the bridge or the final chorus. Not even when your voice shakes.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, the rest of the world disappears completely. You don’t notice Wooyoung storming out of the arena, and you don’t notice the managers panicking backstage. You barely even hear the crowd anymore.

Because Han is looking at you like he’s finally seeing you again. Not the version of you from that picture, not the version of you that broke his heart.

For the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.

When the final note fades into deafening screams, you barely hear any of it. Your chest is heaving from the emotion of the performance, tears still clinging to your lashes as you stare at Han in complete disbelief.

He’s here.

He came onto the stage for you.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moves. The crowd is losing their minds around you, thousands of phones raised into the air, capturing every second, but suddenly, none of it matters. Because Han is looking at you the same way he used to in hotel rooms at three in the morning.

Like you’re his everything.

And the second you realise that, the words come pouring out before you can stop them.

“I tried to tell you,” you say breathlessly.

Han blinks slightly, startled by the sudden rush of words.

“The sightings weren’t real, I swear to God they weren’t real,” you continue desperately. “I hated every single one and I tried so hard to stop them but management kept pushing and I thought if I just got through tour it would calm down and—”

“Hey—”

“And the kiss wasn’t planned,” you say quickly over him, tears slipping free now. “I pushed him away immediately, Ji, I would never- could never- do that to you.”

The arena has gone strangely quiet. Fans are desperately trying to hear you, and staff are panicking. You don’t care anymore.

“I love you,” you whisper brokenly. “I have always loved you.”

Han’s expression crumples slightly. “I know.”

You stare at him helplessly.

“I couldn’t stand you looking at me like that anymore,” you admit shakily. “Like I broke something between us.”

Han takes a small step closer instinctively, but his expression changes suddenly.

“Wait.”

You sniff weakly. “What?”

His eyebrows pull together. “What did Chan mean when he said this was your last show?”

Your stomach drops instantly.

Oh.

Chan told him.

You look away immediately, and Han’s voice softens. “What do you mean by the last show?”

Your eyes burn harder. “I can’t do it anymore.”

The honesty spills out painfully now that it’s started.

“I can’t stand being around you every day and pretending like I’m okay.” Your voice shakes violently. “I can’t keep hiding and watching everything fall apart and acting like I’m fine with it.”

Han looks horrified. “You were leaving?”

You nod weakly. “After tonight. My bags are already in the taxi.”

“Without telling me?”

“I thought you hated me.”

The words hit him like a slap, and his face twists instantly. “I never hated you.”

“But you left me.”

“I was hurt!” he says desperately. “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice cracks completely. “You never did.”

You stare at each other as you’re encompassed by a raw, painful silence. The crowd barely exists anymore. You wipe at your tears roughly and force yourself to keep going before you lose the courage.

“I’ll leave you alone after this,” you whisper shakily. “I know that’s probably what you want now, and I shouldn’t have even done this—”

Han kisses you – hard, suddenly - one hand grabbing your waist while the other cups your face as he pulls you into him like he physically cannot get close enough fast enough.

The arena explodes. Screaming erupts so loudly you feel the stage vibrate beneath your feet, but you can’t even process it.

Because Han is kissing you in front of everyone. In front of cameras, managers, and fans.

The entire world.

And he kisses you like he’s been dying to do it for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, and your eyes are impossibly wide.

“Jisung!” you whisper in panic. “What are you doing?”

Immediately, your head snaps toward the backstage area, where managers look seconds away from cardiac arrest. “You’re going to get in so much trouble.”

Han just looks at you for a second before smiling. It’s soft and fond and completely unbothered.

“Baby,” he says gently, brushing his thumb beneath your tear-stained cheek, “I’m Han Jisung.”

You blink at him in confusion, and he grins slightly wider.

“What are they gonna do?” His eyes flick briefly toward the horrified staff backstage before returning to you. “Fire me?”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, half hysterical and half disbelieving. Han immediately melts at the sound, leaning down to rest his forehead against your own.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

Your chest aches so violently with love for him that you think it might kill you.

The crowd is still screaming around you as Han continues to rest his forehead against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, right there in the middle of the stage.

There’s no more hiding. No more pretending.

Just him.

There would be consequences after tonight — furious managers, broken contracts, headlines, backlash, endless meetings, perhaps even penalties neither of you could fully predict yet. By morning, the entire industry would know. The secret you had both protected so desperately was gone now, laid bare beneath arena lights and thousands of screaming voices.

But as Han held you in his arms in your hotel room later that night, thumb brushing reassuringly across your knuckles while the world erupted online, none of it felt frightening anymore.

For months, you had lived in fear of losing your career, opportunities, and reputation. Yet lying beside him now, finally loved out loud, you realised there was something far worse than consequences: living without him. And as Han looked at you with that same soft, unwavering love that had found you on building rooftops and airport bathrooms and across crowded arenas, you knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next, you would survive it together.

As long as you had him, you felt like you could face anything.

a/n: ARE WE HAPPY? WHAT DO WE THINK? AS GOOD AS PART ONE OR PURE SHIT? lmk in the comments xo

I appreciate any and all interactions with my work xo

Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @skrach84 @felixstarz @starrynightviper @mrsleeknowsaurus @2minracha

The front door slams so hard the frame rattles.

Cold night air hits your tear-streaked face as you stumble down the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself like you can physically hold your heart together. Behind you, Wooyoung’s voice is still going — loud, careless, chasing after you through the open doorway.

“Baby, come on—”

You wipe furiously at your cheeks and keep walking.

“You’re unbelievable,” you choke out without turning around. “You flirt with anything that breathes, and somehow I’m the crazy one for being upset?” A bitter laugh leaves you. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Your heels click sharply against the pavement. You hear him move closer, slower now, confident. Not worried. Never worried.

Because he already knows how this ends.

“Hey,” he calls, voice dropping into that smooth tone that always weakens your resolve. “Look at me.”

You refuse. A car passes at the end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly across both of you. You can practically feel his smirk before he even speaks again.

“We always get back together, baby.”

The words stop you cold. Not because they’re romantic, but because he means them. Because every breakup has become a rehearsal. Every apology memorised. Every kiss after a fight is expected. He says it like a fact, like gravity, like something inevitable. And the worst part?

A tiny, humiliating part of you wonders if he’s right.

You finally turn around. Your eyes are red, your mascara ruined, your chest aching. He’s standing there in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too calm for someone who just shattered you again.

“You really think that’s okay?” you whisper.

His expression flickers for half a second — almost guilt, almost affection. “I think,” he says carefully, “you love me too much to stay gone.”

Silence stretches between you.

And God, you hate that he might know you better than you know yourself.

You’d met your boyfriend when everything in your life still felt uncertain.

Back then, you were just another trainee buried among dozens of others in practice rooms that smelled like sweat and dust and ambition. Your days blurred together — dance evaluations, vocal lessons, monthly rankings, surviving on too little sleep and too much caffeine. You were exhausted all the time, constantly aware that one mistake could cost you your future.

And then suddenly, he noticed you.

He was already successful by then. An idol people recognised instantly. The kind that had fans screaming outside music shows and brand deals plastered across buildings in Seoul. You remembered seeing him in person for the first time backstage at a year-end show and nearly forgetting how to breathe.

He was impossibly handsome. Confident. Charming. Warm in a way that made you feel singled out in every room. When he started talking to you regularly, you genuinely thought it was a misunderstanding. You were nobody yet, so why would someone like him want you? But he did.

At least, it felt like he did.

He’d sometimes wait for you after practice just to walk you to the company entrance. He’d text you constantly despite his schedule, sending selfies from waiting rooms and voice messages late at night telling you he missed you already. He praised your singing as if he genuinely believed you were incredible, before you believed it yourself.

When you debuted as part of a group and the relationship became official behind closed doors, you thought you were living inside a dream.

The first few months were genuinely happy. He did all the things you’d ever wanted and more - he kissed your forehead when you were tired, he held your hand under restaurant tables, he told you he was proud of you after every performance, no matter how small it was. Sometimes he’d show up unexpectedly outside your company building just to take you for food because you’d mentioned being stressed.

You loved him completely. And maybe that’s why it took you so long to notice when things started changing.

It happened slowly. At first, it was small things. Replies would take longer, and plans would suddenly get cancelled. There was a lot less affection, both in and out of the bedroom. He stopped asking about your day. Stopped listening when you spoke. Conversations became distracted, half-hearted. He was always on his phone but never answered you.

You kept making excuses for him.

He’s tired. He’s stressed. His schedule is hard right now.

Whenever you tried bringing it up, he’d sigh like you were asking for too much.

“You know how busy I am.”

“You’re overthinking again.”

“You’re being sensitive.”

So, you tried harder instead, putting in more effort because you thought you could fill the new void in your relationship. You became easier, quieter, and less demanding. You learned not to ask for reassurance too often because he acted irritated when you did.

Then, about a year into the relationship, you found out about the first girl.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no screaming confrontation, no movie scene. Just a photo someone posted online accidentally. He was in the background of a club with his arm around a woman who definitely wasn’t you. Then came the messages. Then rumours. Then the awful, nauseating confirmation when you confronted him and he went silent rather than deny it. You remembered sitting on the floor of your apartment, staring at him while your entire body shook.

And the worst part?

He cried. Not immediately, only after realising you might actually leave. He held your hands. Told you it meant nothing. Told you he was drunk and stupid and terrified of losing you. He said he loved you more than anyone. Said the pressure got to him. Said he’d change. And because you loved him — because you remembered the man from the beginning — you believed him. Or maybe you just wanted to.

After that, the relationship became a cycle you could never quite escape.

Things would improve briefly after every betrayal. He’d become affectionate again for a few weeks. He’d be gentle, attentive. The version of him you fell in love with would reappear just long enough to keep your hope alive.

Then slowly he’d disappear again.

More distance. More coldness. More fights. Sometimes there were other women. Sometimes there were only rumours you drove yourself insane trying to verify. Either way, you always ended up crying in front of him while he looked exhausted rather than sorry. And somehow, every time, he convinced you to stay. Sometimes it was through apologies, sometimes through guilt. Sometimes, simply by reminding you how deeply you still loved the version of him he used to be.

By now, two years in, you barely recognised yourself anymore.

You’d become anxious all the time. You were constantly hyperaware of his moods and careful with your words. You were ashamed of how desperate you were for the scraps of affection that used to come freely. You spent more time mourning the beginning of your relationship than actually enjoying the present version of it.

But leaving felt impossible. Because every so often, he’d smile at you the old way or pull you into his chest after a fight or whisper that he loved you, and your heart would desperately convince itself that maybe this time things would finally go back to how they were in the beginning.

Even though deep down, you were starting to realise they probably never would.

The morning after your latest fight, you wake slowly, disoriented at first.

The room smells like his cologne and clean laundry, sunlight cutting through the gap in the curtains in pale gold stripes. Your head throbs. Your throat burns from crying. One glance at the clock on his bedside table makes panic shoot through you.

“Shit.”

You push yourself upright too fast and immediately regret it. Your body feels heavy, emotionally bruised. Beside you, he’s still asleep on his stomach, bare back rising and falling steadily like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t say exactly the right things to get you back into his arms. Again. You stare at him for a moment, eyes tracing his tattoo - I’m never alone and I will never be - before ripping your gaze away.

The memories come back in ugly flashes — fighting in the kitchen, storming out, his hand catching your wrist halfway down the block, the soft apologies murmured against your hair, the way he kissed you like he couldn’t stand losing you. And then the inevitable.

Now you just feel hollow. You failed at walking away for good yet again.

You throw on the first clothes you can find in your overnight bag: oversized hoodie, loose sweats, sneakers. Your hair gets twisted into a messy bun that’s barely holding together. Concealer does absolutely nothing for your swollen eyes. Perfect.

By the time you arrive at the studio, you already want to crawl into a hole. The receptionist gives you a polite smile before directing you upstairs, and the closer you get to the studio room, the more nervous you become. Not just because this is your debut solo album, but because you’re about to meet with 3Racha for the very first time, looking like you got hit by a truck emotionally and physically.

You knock softly before pushing the door open. Inside, Bang Chan looks up first from behind the mixing desk. His expression immediately shifts.

“Oh,” he says gently. “You okay?”

You instinctively straighten up. “Yep.”

There’s a beat where you all look at each other, and you can see the two older men trying to decide whether they should say something or not. Changbin makes the decision for them.

“Nope,” says Changbin from the couch, eyeing you with alarming accuracy. “You look like you fought a bear.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you, but it’s rough and tired.

“Feels like it.”

The tension eases after that. Chan welcomes you in and gets you tea without asking what happened. Changbin makes terrible jokes as he sets his notebook beside yours. Neither of them pry, which somehow makes you feel even more grateful.

You settle into the studio slowly, headphones around your neck, lyric sheets spread over your lap. The session starts casually — melodies, concepts, talking through the emotional direction of the album. You’re halfway through explaining an idea when the studio door bursts open.

“Sorry! Sorry, traffic was hell—”

You look up and feel your heart flutter in your chest.

Han walks in with his backpack hanging off one shoulder, slightly out of breath, hair messy beneath a cap. Somehow, he looks exactly like every charming behind-the-scenes clip you’ve ever secretly replayed and also nothing like them at all. In person, he’s warmer… realer.

His eyes land on you immediately. “Oh— hi.” His whole face brightens. “You’re finally here.”

Finally here. Like he’d actually been looking forward to meeting you.

You try not to stare. “Hi,” you manage.

Chan snorts quietly from across the room, noticing the sudden weird energy between the two artists in front of him. He sneaks a glance at Changbin to see that he’s smirking, too.

Han drops into the seat beside you like you’ve known each other for years instead of minutes. He apologises for being late on three separate occasions, offers you snacks from his bag, and immediately asks about your musical influences with genuine interest rather than industry politeness.

As the session progresses, you decide that the scariest thing is how he listens to everything you say. Completely. When you speak about the album, he watches you like your thoughts matter. When you mention wanting your songs to sound “messy in an honest way,” his eyes light up like he understands exactly what you mean.

By lunchtime, the session is flowing effortlessly.

By mid-afternoon, you’re laughing - actually laughing- and the night before starts to feel like a distant memory.

Han keeps throwing out melody ideas while absentmindedly tapping rhythms against the desk with his rings. Every now and then, he says something so unexpectedly insightful that it catches you off guard. Other times, he’s ridiculous and dramatic, and Changbin threatens to mute his microphone permanently.

And every time he grins at you after making you laugh, your stomach betrays you. You hate it, because this — this easy warmth blooming in your chest — feels dangerously close to something you haven’t felt in a long time. You feel seen, but you also feel like a hypocrite. Had you not just argued with Wooyoung the night before about how he flirted with others? And now here you were, with butterflies in your stomach from another man.

Near the end of the session, you’re both leaning over the same lyric sheet, shoulders almost touching as you discuss the final verse.

“What if,” Han says softly, scribbling something out, “instead of just saying ‘some things just ain’t meant to be’… you make it more personal?” You glance at him, but he keeps writing as he talks. “Like…” He pauses, then reads quietly, “‘some things just ain’t meant to be, kinda like you and me.’”

The room goes silent for a second. You don’t know what to say, because it’s too accurate. Your chest tightens, and you clench your hands together to stop them from shaking. Slowly, Han looks up, and there’s this strange flicker in his expression — like he knows that line came from somewhere real for you. Something vulnerable passes between you both before Chan claps his hands loudly from the mixing desk.

“Okaaay,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “You’re either writing the best heartbreak song of the year or about to destroy this girl emotionally.”

Changbin wheezes, laughing, and you feel heat rush to your face while Han drops his head, grinning sheepishly. But later, when the session finally ends, and everyone starts packing up, Han walks beside you to the lift.

“You did really well today,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Even looking like this?”

He looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“A sleep paralysis demon.”

He laughs warmly and shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “You looked sad.”

The lift doors open and you realise two things at once:

Your boyfriend has never looked at you that carefully, and,

Working with Han is going to become a very serious problem.

The studio always seemed to smell faintly of burnt coffee and overheated equipment, and you had slowly begun to associate it with exhaustion.

For the last week, nearly every waking hour had been spent tucked into one of the cramped rooms with 3Racha, chasing melodies despite your sleepless nights, scribbling half-finished lyrics across notebooks and phone notes. Chan kept everyone moving with relentless energy, Changbin bounced between intensity and chaos, and Han—

Han was noticing things.

“Hey.”

You blinked hard, pulled back from whatever fog you’d disappeared into. Han was sitting cross-legged in the swivel chair beside you, one headphone hanging around his neck. His voice was soft enough not to startle.

“You disappeared on me again.”

“Sorry.” You rubbed at your eyes quickly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. He never did. Your boyfriend would’ve rolled his eyes by now. He would’ve told you to stop being dramatic and asked why you were acting weird again. Han only nudged a bottle of water toward you, looking concerned.

“You haven’t touched this in like two hours.”

You laughed weakly through your nose. “Are you keeping track?”

“A little,” he admitted, smiling.

The smile hit you harder than it should’ve.

Across the studio, Chan stretched and announced he was starving, dragging Changbin out with him to pick up lunch before anyone passed out. The second the door slammed shut behind them, silence settled over the room. It wasn’t awkward silence; it was just a peaceful silence shared between friends.

Han spun slowly in his chair, glancing at you. “You okay?”

The automatic answer rose immediately. Yeah, I’m fine. But with the look in Han’s eyes, it caught somewhere in your throat. You stared down at your notebook instead, and the lyrics blurred as tears came to your eyes. You were so tired of everything – tired of the arguments you had with your boyfriend, the back-and-forth, the constant second-guessing of whether he was where he said he was.

Han’s expression changed almost instantly, a look of alarm coming to his face.  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said carefully, “but… you look really exhausted lately.”

Your fingers tightened around your pen. “It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “Things at home.”

He stayed quiet, waiting, giving you space instead of demanding answers. You felt your mind race as you tried to decide where to begin. You laughed suddenly, bitter and small, realising you didn’t even have the energy for that. “Do you ever get so tired that you stop feeling like a person?”

Han frowned slightly. “Yeah.”

“I think I’m getting there, or… might already be there.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “He’s been… disappearing, lately.” Your voice stayed fixed on the notebook because looking at Han felt impossible now. “He’s late replying, if he even replies at all. He goes out and stays out until the next morning. He doesn’t even seem to see me anymore unless I’m trying to leave.”

Han didn’t interrupt once.

“He says I make him act like that.” Your throat tightened. “And maybe I do. I don’t know anymore.”

“You don’t,” Han said immediately. The firmness startled you enough to finally look up. You could see his jaw tighten. “You don’t make someone treat you badly,” he said, shaking his head.

Your chest ached, and you looked away again before he could see it on your face. “It’s stupid,” you muttered. “I keep thinking if I just tried harder, spent less time here, maybe—”

“No.” Softer this time. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

Something inside you cracked quietly at the words, because he sounded so certain, so unlike the voice you heard at home.

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, laughing once in a way that sounded dangerously close to crying. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s not.”

“I swear,” you said shakily, “if crying was fun, I’d be having the time of my life.”

Han’s face fell - not dramatically, not performatively - just genuine hurt on your behalf. And somehow that hurt more than anything because your boyfriend barely reacted anymore when you cried.

Han leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How long has it been like this?”

You swallowed.

“A while.”

“And you’ve been dealing with it alone?”

You shrugged because the alternative was admitting how lonely you’d become.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air conditioner hummed softly overhead, and somewhere outside the studio, someone laughed in the hallway.

Han looked down at his hands before speaking again. “You know,” he said quietly, “every time you come in here looking so tired, I keep hoping someone’s taking care of you when you leave.”

Your breath caught, but he carried on.

“But hearing this…” He shook his head faintly. “I don’t think they are.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undid you completely. You stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed by how careful he always was with you. The way he noticed your moods before you even spoke. The way he guided you back during recording when your thoughts drifted too far away. The quiet encouragement after every take.

Good job. That sounded beautiful. You should believe in yourself more.

Tiny things that felt enormous after months of being made to feel small.

Han must’ve noticed the panic rising in your expression because his voice softened again. “You deserve to feel safe with someone.”

Your eyes burned instantly, and you looked away, trying to hide your swollen eyes and puffy cheeks.

He hesitated before adding, quieter still, “You know that, right?”

You wanted to say yes. Instead, more tears slipped free before you could stop them. Han reacted immediately, sliding the tissue box across the desk without making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t awkward about it, and there was no frustration on his face as you struggled to stop crying. He was patient, sitting close to you as he waited for you to get it out of your system. And when you finally covered your face in humiliation, laughing through tears, he said gently:

“Hey.”

You looked up.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay here.”

You tried to trick yourself into believing that your feelings for Han were still innocent after that.

The day you opened up to Han in the studio, he’d lingered awkwardly after Chan and Changbin returned with food, like he was trying to decide whether he was overstepping. Then, while the two men were distracted unpacking bags and arguing over stolen fries, he’d quietly held his phone out toward you.

“Can I give you my number?”

You’d blinked at him.

“Just in case,” he added quickly. “You sounded like you needed someone.”

Your chest had tightened painfully at how sincere he looked. So, you gave him your phone and watched as he saved his number under “Hannie”. And somehow, after that, he slipped quietly into your life in all the spaces your boyfriend had slowly abandoned.

At first, it was a simple text after studio sessions.

You did really well today :) That bridge you wrote is still stuck in my head. Don’t overthink the high note. You sounded good.

Then it became:

Did you eat yet? Go drink water before you answer this. You’re still awake, aren’t you?

You’d find yourself smiling at your phone in dark rooms after the rare, always miserable evenings with Wooyoung. Sometimes, after arguments that left your chest aching and your confidence shattered, there’d be a message waiting for you from Han like he somehow sensed when things were bad.

Get home safe. Proud of you today. Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?

Nobody had taken care of you gently in a long time, and Han was gentle with you constantly.

The dangerous part was how natural it became.

Your days slowly began to revolve around the studio. You’d arrive in the afternoons to work with 3Racha and somehow always end up beside Han without meaning to. On the couch during playback sessions. Shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the computer monitor. Knees bumping beneath tables cluttered with notebooks and empty coffee cups.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. But then you started noticing how he always made room for you specifically. If Changbin sat beside you first, Han would drag another chair over anyway. If there wasn’t enough space on the couch, he’d squeeze in close instead of sitting elsewhere. Every tiny movement brought him brushing against you — his shoulder against yours, his arm nudging yours while reaching for a pen, his thigh pressed warm against yours under the desk.

And he never moved away quickly… But neither did you.

One night, Chan had stepped out to take a call while Changbin disappeared to the vending machines downstairs. You and Han stayed hunched over lyric sheets together in the dim studio lighting, exhaustion softening everything around the edges. You were staring blankly at your notebook again when Han nudged your knee lightly with his own.

“You disappeared.”

You huffed quietly. “You say that a lot.”

“Because you do it a lot.”

His voice carried that familiar warmth now. He sounded comfortable. Fond, your brain supplied, but you pushed that traitorous voice away.

You looked sideways at him. “Maybe I just like it better in my head.”

Han studied you carefully for a second. Then, softer: “I think people have made you feel lonely for too long.”

Your breath caught. He said things like that sometimes, quiet observations that landed directly in your chest. Before you could answer, he reached over and gently tapped your notebook.

“Read me that line again.”

You stumbled through the lyrics self-consciously while he listened intently, chin resting against his hand. The whole time, his thigh stayed pressed against yours beneath the table, solid and warm and grounding.

When you finished, Han smiled immediately. “That’s beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. “You say that about everything I write.”

“Because everything you write sounds honest.”

The way he looked at you after saying it made your stomach twist. His gaze wasn’t lustful; it wasn’t even romantic. It was just… intense. He paid attention to every small thing you said. It should’ve all felt harmless, but lately, nothing about Han felt harmless anymore.

Especially not when you got home at night and found yourself waiting for his messages more eagerly than your boyfriend’s.

Especially not when your phone lit up at 1am with Did you make it home? and somehow that simple question made you feel more cared for than you had in months. Or when you replied: Yeah. You should sleep though. And Han answered almost instantly: After you do.

The line between friendship and something far more dangerous had begun to blur so gradually that you barely noticed it happening. Until one evening in the studio, when everyone burst into laughter at something Changbin said, and you instinctively turned toward Han at the exact same moment he turned toward you.

Your faces ended up inches apart - close enough to feel his breath, and close enough that the laughter around you faded into background noise entirely. Neither of you moved immediately. And for one long, aching second as his eyes dropped to your mouth, you thought he might kiss you.

The almost-kiss haunted you for days.

You replayed it constantly against your will — the warmth of Han’s breath, the way his eyes had dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up again, the awful moment where neither of you had moved away. You’d wanted him to kiss you, and that was the problem.

You had gone home that night sick with guilt, because no matter how awful your relationship had become, no matter how many times your boyfriend had hurt you, cheated on you, made you cry until your chest physically hurt—

You were still with him.

And somewhere along the way, your feelings for Han had stopped being innocent.

Wooyoung noticed the shift immediately. Maybe because you’d been distant, maybe because you’d started smiling at your phone without realising. Or maybe because people in the industry eventually noticed everything.

The confrontation happened three nights later.

“You and Han seem close lately.”

You’d looked up sharply from where you sat on his couch, your stomach instantly dropping. His expression looked casual, almost too casual.

“What?”

“I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”

Your pulse pounded hard enough to hurt. “It’s work.”

“Mhm.”

That sound. That dismissive little hum. You hated how quickly it made you defensive.

“We’re writing together,” you said carefully.

“You seem to write together a lot.”

The implication made heat crawl up your neck. Nothing had happened… but it almost had, and somehow that made you feel even guiltier. He leaned back against the sofa, studying you.

“You know,” he said lightly, “it’s funny.” You stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue. “You spent months crying over me talking to other girls, but now suddenly you’re attached to another guy all the time?”

The words hit like a slap, and you were shaking your head before he could finish. “I’m not attached—”

“Then why’s everyone talking about it?”

Your throat tightened instantly; you didn’t know how to answer that.

He sighed dramatically, rubbing a hand over his face like you were exhausting him. “I just didn’t think you were that kind of person.”

And somehow, despite everything he’d done to you, shame flooded your body immediately. You could feel your eyes getting wet as you replied, “I’m not.”

“Then maybe stop acting like it.”

You barely slept that night, and by the next studio session, panic had settled deep inside your chest. Panic about losing him despite everything he’d done, about your life potentially crumbling around you because of your own poor choices.

So, you did the only thing you could do. You started pulling away.

You stopped automatically sitting beside Han. When you needed feedback on lyrics, you went to Chan instead. When Changbin offered to help with production adjustments, you latched onto it gratefully just to avoid being alone with Han. You could tell that the older members were confused by the change in attitude, but they didn’t say anything, simply choosing to share confused looks when they thought you weren’t looking.

Out of it all, it was your texts that hurt the most, because he kept texting like nothing had changed at first, despite your new distance at the studio.

Did you eat? You looked tired today :( You left your hoodie here again lol

You started taking hours to answer, sometimes not replying at all. You could practically feel his confusion through the screen at the sudden frostiness, and your heart broke at the thought of doing this until he stopped texting one day. But you had to, because Wooyoung was right. You’d been a hypocrite.

Inside the studio, the atmosphere changed quickly as soon as Han realised these new changes were seemingly permanent.

You caught him watching you constantly now, brows furrowed whenever you drifted toward Chan instead of him. Every time you slipped out of conversations early. Every time you quietly moved your chair further away. And still, he kept trying. He’d save the seat beside him automatically before realising you weren’t going to take it. He’d turn to make a joke to you first before remembering you’d barely spoken to him all day.

The hurt in his eyes every single time made you feel sick.

Then one evening, after Chan and Changbin finally left for the night, Han stopped you before you could escape, too.

“Can we talk?”

Your heart dropped instantly, and your hands froze where they had been packing your things away. The studio suddenly felt too small. Han stood near the desk, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.

“What’s going on?”

You forced yourself to stay calm. “Nothing’s going on.”

“That’s not true.”

His voice wasn’t angry, just confused. Hurt. “You’ve barely looked at me all week.”

“I’ve just been busy.”

“For me specifically?”

You looked away immediately, and Han exhaled shakily, shifting on his feet.

“Did I do something?”

The genuine confusion in his voice almost broke you.

“No.”

“Then why are you acting like you can’t stand being around me anymore?”

Your chest physically ached because you didn’t want distance from Han at all. You wanted too much closeness. And that terrified you.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself. “I think maybe I’ve been too comfortable here.”

Han frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I’m taking up too much of your time,” you said quickly. “I just want to finish the songs and stop being such a burden.”

Han's eyes went wide, and he stared at you like you’d said something unbelievable. “A burden?”

“You already have your own schedules and work and—”

“Hey.” His voice softened immediately. “You’re not a burden to us.”

You swallowed hard.

“To me,” he corrected quietly.

The sincerity in his face made it almost impossible to continue lying, and you could feel your hands starting to shake as he stepped closer to you slowly.

“I like being around you.”

Your pulse stumbled as he stopped in front of you, close enough that a sudden intake of breath would have your chests touching.

“I love being around you,” he murmured.

The room went painfully silent. It wasn’t a confession, not explicitly. But it was enough for your panic to surge violently, your boyfriend’s words echoing viciously in your head.

I didn’t think you were that kind of person.

You took a step backwards, and Han froze instantly. You decided then that you wouldn’t stop yearning for him, that you wouldn’t stop being a hypocrite, unless you made him stop.

You made your face go cold. “I think we’ve been unprofessional.”

The words visibly hit him, and your heart shattered in your chest as he stepped back. You forced yourself to continue anyway.

“This whole thing got too personal, and it made me uncomfortable.”

Han stared at you like he genuinely didn’t recognise the person standing in front of him anymore.

“You’re uncomfortable around me?”

You hated how quietly he asked it, but you nodded anyway, believing this was for the best.

The silence afterwards felt unbearable, and you struggled to keep your face impassive and your breathing steady. Han looked down briefly, jaw tightening hard enough that you could see the muscle flicker. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded smaller somehow.

“Okay.”

Your chest cracked open, but you stayed still because if you moved, you thought you might start crying.

Han gave one short nod like he was trying desperately to compose himself. “Got it.”

He walked past you toward the studio door, and you expected him to leave straightaway, but he paused in the doorway.

His back was still to you as he mumbled, “I wish you’d just told me the truth.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him softly. You stood there frozen in the middle of the empty studio, surrounded by unfinished songs and dim lights and the lingering warmth of someone you’d just hurt terribly. And for the first time in a long time, the loneliness felt entirely self-inflicted.

You almost didn’t go back to the studio the next day. You sat in your car outside the building for nearly twenty minutes with your hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles hurt. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn around and leave before you had to face the consequences of what you’d done.

Because for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest wasn’t because of your boyfriend. It was because of you.

You’d barely slept after hurting Han. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the look on his face when you said you felt uncomfortable. You heard the way his voice had gone quiet afterwards when he’d wished for the truth.  You wondered if he hated you now? Part of you thought he should, but a bigger part selfishly hoped that he didn’t.

When you finally forced yourself upstairs and pushed open the studio door, Chan and Changbin were already there, and neither of them greeted you the way they normally did. There was no loud teasing from Changbin and no bright smile from Chan. Just silence. It was impossible to ignore the atmosphere, and you knew instantly that Han had told them what had happened.

Your stomach dropped.

Chan glanced up from the computer briefly before looking back down again. Changbin leaned against the couch with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. You’d never realised before how protective they were of Han until now. They weren’t just friends, they were family to each other. And you had hurt one of their own.

“Morning,” you said weakly.

Changbin muttered a greeting back, and Chan only nodded.

The entire session felt unbearable. You tried focusing on lyrics spread across the desk, but your eyes kept drifting toward the studio door every few minutes without meaning to. Every creak in the hallway made your heart jump before sinking again. You hated yourself for it, because you were the one who pushed him away. Still, some awful part of you kept hoping he’d walk in anyway. Maybe because if he came, it would mean he didn’t completely hate you yet.

Another hour passed, then another and Han never appeared. Eventually, Chan sighed quietly from across the desk.

“He’s not coming anymore.”

The words landed heavily in the room, and you looked up too fast for someone who claimed to be uninterested. “What?”

Chan finally met your eyes fully for the first time all day. “Han,” he said gently. “He’s not coming to these sessions anymore.”

Your throat tightened instantly, but you forced yourself to look confused. “Oh.”

Changbin made an incredulous sound under his breath. “Oh?” he repeated. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Changbin,” Chan warned softly.

“No, seriously.” Changbin pushed himself upright, frustration written all over his face. “What happened?”

You stared down at the notebook in front of you. “Nothing happened.”

Both men looked unconvinced from the start, and Chan carefully leaned back in his chair.

“We’re not stupid.”

Heat crept up your neck as Changbin rolled his chair over to sit beside Chan, both sets of eyes fixed on you.

“We could see what was going on between you two,” Changbin added bluntly. “Everyone could.”

Your heart stuttered painfully as you tried to disagree. “There was nothing going on.”

“Then why’d you tell him he made you uncomfortable?”

The shame hit instantly, and you swallowed hard, hit again by the image of Han looking so hurt. “Because I was being unprofessional.”

Changbin actually laughed once at that, completely disbelieving. “Come on.”

You stayed silent, not wanting to discuss it with them because you knew you were close to breaking, to spilling everything.

Chan’s voice softened. “He really liked you.”

The words hurt far more than they should have, and you shifted in your seat as you felt your heart start to race.

“He would come home talking about you constantly,” Chan continued carefully. “He hasn’t done that in a long time.”

You blinked rapidly at the table.

“And then suddenly he comes back looking miserable because apparently you don’t even want him near you anymore.” Changbin shook his head. “None of it makes sense.”

Your chest tightened painfully enough that breathing became difficult, because it didn’t make sense. Not even to you.

Chan watched you for a long moment before speaking again. “Did he do something?”

Your head snapped up immediately. “No.”

The answer came too fast, too honest, and both men noticed.

Changbin frowned slightly. “Then what is it?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. How could you possibly explain this without sounding awful? Without admitting that somewhere along the line, you’d started caring about Han too much while still trapped inside another relationship?

Chan’s expression shifted subtly as he studied you. Then, quietly, he asked the question you had been waiting for, hoping for.

“Did your boyfriend say something?”

Your composure cracked immediately. Your eyes burned, and suddenly you were exhausted. Too exhausted to keep pretending anymore.

You looked down at your hands in your lap and whispered, “He heard about Han and me spending time together.”

Neither interrupted, but you saw them lean forward from the corner of your eye to hear you better.

“He made me feel like…” You swallowed hard. “Like I was becoming the kind of person he is.”

Chan’s face softened instantly, and you laughed shakily, wiping angrily at your eyes before tears could fall.

“Which is stupid, because nothing even happened.”

“But you wanted it to,” Changbin said quietly.

The honesty of it made your chest ache, and you nodded once, ashamed.

“I started comparing them,” you admitted. “And I hated myself for it.”

The room stayed silent as they waited for you to continue. Both men could finally see the truth behind the mask you’d worn when you walked in.

You stared at the floor as the words finally spilt out after being trapped inside you for weeks.

“Han notices when I’m tired. He listens when I talk. He makes me feel…” Your voice broke softly. “Important.” You laughed bitterly. “My boyfriend barely even looks at me anymore unless he’s guilty.”

Chan looked devastated for you, and somehow that made it easier to continue.

“When my boyfriend found out how close we’d become, he made me feel disgusting for it,” you whispered. “So, I thought maybe if I pushed Han away hard enough, things would go back to normal.”

Changbin sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face.

“But instead… I just hurt him,” you finished quietly.

Nobody spoke for a moment before Chan asked the question you’d spent the past year of your relationship avoiding.

“Why are you still with him?”

Your chest tightened instantly, and you stared blankly ahead. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not true,” Chan said gently.

Your eyes filled despite yourself. “Because I feel like I can’t leave.”

The admission sounded pathetic out loud. But it was true.

“He’s been my entire life for two years.” Your voice shook. “And every time I try imagining leaving, it feels impossible.”

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself.

“Like I’m trapped.”

Chan’s gaze softened immediately. “In what way?”

You exhaled shakily. “Like I’m stuck inside a cage,” you whispered. “And every time I think I’ve found the door, something pulls me back in again.”

Silence settled heavily afterwards. Then unexpectedly, Chan smiled. It wasn’t mocking ot dismissive, just gentle.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “Han was trying to be your key.”

Your breath caught instantly.

Changbin nodded quietly beside him. “And maybe he still wants to be.”

The ache in your chest became unbearable then. Because for the first time, you realised the thing terrifying you most wasn’t losing your boyfriend.

It was the possibility that you’d already lost Han instead.

The studio fell quiet after Chan’s words.

Maybe Han was trying to be your key.

The thought lodged itself painfully somewhere deep in your chest, impossible to ignore. Your hands trembled slightly in your lap as you stared blankly at the lyric sheets scattered across the desk. Everything suddenly felt too sharp, too loud, too real.

Then your phone buzzed, the sound making all three of you glance downward instinctively. Your stomach twisted the second you saw Wooyoung’s name across the screen.

A message preview lit up your lockscreen:

baby, they’re just rumours. i promise. the pictures are edited.

You stared at the words, and something inside you finally snapped - not painfully but quietly. Cleanly. Because suddenly you were just… tired. Tired of lies, of crying. Tired of waiting for him to become the person he used to pretend to be, of feeling guilty for wanting kindness.

You thought you’d feel devastated seeing that text. Instead, you felt nothing at all. Just clarity.

Chan noticed the shift in your expression immediately. “You okay?”

Slowly, you looked up. And for the first time in months, your answer was honest.

“No,” you said calmly. “But I think I’m about to be.”

Changbin blinked. Before either of them could ask what you meant, you were already standing abruptly, grabbing your bag so quickly your chair nearly tipped backwards.

“I need to go.”

Chan frowned slightly. “Go where?”

You looked down at your phone one last time, then locked the screen.

“To finally leave him.”

The silence afterwards lasted half a second before Changbin broke into a stunned grin. “About damn time.”

Even Chan looked relieved. You laughed shakily despite yourself, already halfway to the door. And as you left, Chan called after you softly:

“Don’t lose your nerve.”

You wouldn’t. Not this time. You finally had your key.

The drive home felt surreal. Your heartbeat pounded hard enough to make your hands shake, but beneath the nerves, there was something else blooming quietly for the first time in years.

Freedom.

You stormed through your apartment gathering every single thing that belonged to Wooyoung with frantic energy — hoodies, chargers, shoes, random toiletries abandoned in your bathroom. You carelessly shoved everything into bags, not even bothering to fold anything properly.

At some point, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Messy hair. Dark circles. Determined eyes. You barely recognised yourself.

Good.

Then you hauled the bags into your car and drove straight to his apartment before you could lose momentum.

The whole way there, your mind kept trying to panic. What if he cries again? What if he convinces you to stay? What if you regret this? But underneath every fearful thought was another one now.

What if freedom feels better than this?

By the time you reached his apartment, your pulse was racing violently. You barely knocked before shoving the door open with your spare key. And immediately stopped.

Your boyfriend stood frozen near the kitchen, and he wasn’t alone. A woman sat on the couch behind him, wearing one of his hoodies and not much else. For a second, nobody moved. You saw the moment the girl’s eyes widened in horror, and Wooyoung went pale. And then, unexpectedly—

You laughed. Actually laughed. Not hysterically, not heartbreakingly. Just completely, utterly done.

Your boyfriend stared at you in confusion. “Baby—”

“Oh my god,” you laughed again, dropping the bags of his things onto the floor with a heavy thud. “This is perfect.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

The line was so cliché it almost made you laugh harder. The girl looked mortified already, scrambling to grab her things. You barely even acknowledged her. Because for the first time, you realised none of this was about her, or the others before her. It was about him, and you were finally exhausted enough to stop carrying the weight of his choices.

“She’s nobody,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “I swear.”

You walked past him calmly toward the bedroom. “I literally do not care anymore.”

He followed after you immediately, panic rising in his voice as you started gathering your belongings from drawers and shelves with brisk efficiency. “Can you just listen to me?”

“Nope.”

“You’re seriously overreacting right now.”

That made you pause. Slowly, you turned toward him, and suddenly you saw everything clearly.

The manipulation. The excuses. The endless cycle.

All of it looked pathetic now.

“I spent two years begging you to love me properly,” you said quietly. “And you made me feel crazy for wanting basic respect.”

His expression faltered.

You grabbed the last of your things. “You know what’s funny?” you continued. “I thought leaving you would destroy me.”

“Baby—”

“But honestly?” You shrugged lightly. “I feel great.”

His face twisted desperately then, realising too late that this time was different. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder.

And just before walking past him, you smiled sweetly. “You’re dumped.”

Then you left. Just like that. No tears. No begging. No looking back.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside his building, breathing hard like you’d just escaped something burning. Your hands shook violently now that it was over, but underneath the adrenaline, your chest felt strangely light. Like the cage door had finally swung open.

And suddenly, there was only one thought left in your mind.

Han.

You had to find Han.

You drove to the studio first, of course. It’s where this all began, and you were hoping it was where it would continue. Your heart pounded the entire way there, hands trembling against the steering wheel as every possible outcome fought through your head at once.

Maybe he wouldn’t want to see you.

Maybe you’d hurt him too badly.

Maybe you were too late.

The building was quieter than usual when you rushed inside, taking the stairs two at a time because waiting for the elevator felt unbearable. Your lungs burned by the time you reached the familiar hallway.

The studio's lights were off. It was empty.

Your stomach dropped, and you stood there staring through the small glass window in the door, chest heaving, disappointment crashing over you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

Where was he?

Your phone buzzed, and you nearly dropped it as you pulled it from your pocket. It was a message from Chan, knowing just what you needed at the perfect time.

Roof.

You didn’t even stop to answer. You’d thank him later, in person.

The rooftop door slammed open loudly as you burst through it into the cool night air.

And there he was.

Han sat alone near the edge of the rooftop with headphones around his neck and a notebook balanced on one knee. The city lights painted everything around him gold and silver in the dark. For a second, he didn’t notice you, and then he looked up. And froze.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

Han stood slowly, confusion written all over his face. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes burned immediately, and without thinking, you blurted out, “I broke up with him.”

Shock flickered across his expression. “What?”

“I left him.” Your voice shook. “I finally left him.”

Han stared at you silently, like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

You laughed shakily, wiping quickly at your eyes. “And then I realised the only person I wanted to tell was you.”

Something in Han’s face softened painfully, but he still looked guarded. Careful. He’d never looked like that before, and your heart broke knowing that you'd done that to him.

“You hurt me,” he admitted quietly.

The honesty hit straight through your chest. “I know.” You stepped closer slowly. “I know I did.”

Han looked away briefly, jaw tightening. “When you said you were uncomfortable around me…” He exhaled shakily. “Do you know how much that messed with my head?”

Guilt crashed through you instantly. “I lied.”

“I figured.”

Your throat tightened. “I was scared,” you whispered. “Not of you. Never of you.”

Han finally looked back at you then. You could see the hurt still lingering there beneath everything else.

“My boyfriend made me feel guilty for caring about you,” you admitted softly. “And instead of facing what I felt, I pushed you away because I thought it would fix things.” A humourless laugh escaped you. “It didn’t.”

The wind moved softly around both of you, carrying the distant sounds of the city below. Han stayed quiet for a long moment before asking, “Do you know what the worst part was?”

You shook your head slightly.

“I believed you.”

Your chest cracked open all over again.

“He spent so long making you feel small,” Han continued quietly, “that when you suddenly started avoiding me, I thought maybe I’d imagined everything between us.”

“You didn’t.” The answer came instantly, certain.

Han’s eyes searched yours carefully, and for the first time, you didn’t look away.

“I tried so hard not to fall for you,” you admitted.

His breath caught softly.

“But every time you checked if I’d eaten, every time you stayed beside me in the studio, every time you looked at me like I mattered…” Your voice broke slightly. “I did anyway.”

The silence afterwards felt enormous.

Then Han laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. “You seriously waited until after destroying me emotionally to say all this?”

A startled laugh escaped you through your tears. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

But he was smiling now - small. Fond. Relieved. Your heart stumbled painfully at the sight of it. Han stepped toward you slowly until barely any space remained between you, close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from him in the cold night air.

“You know,” he murmured softly, “I was trying really hard not to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught. “Who says you have to try?”

Something shifted in his expression then. You could see the relief, the affection, the want.

Warm hands cupped your face gently like you were something precious, something worth being careful with. The kiss itself was soft at first — almost hesitant — like he was still giving you the chance to pull away. You didn’t. Instead, you grabbed fistfuls of his hoodie and kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for months. All the loneliness, the wanting, the relief. Han made a quiet sound against your mouth before pulling you closer, arms wrapping tightly around your waist like he never wanted to let go again.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours and laughed softly.

“There you are.”

Three simple words, and somehow they undid you more than anything else. Your eyes filled immediately, and Han smiled gently, brushing his thumb beneath one of them before the tear could fall.

“No more cages,” he whispered.

For the first time in a very long time, you believed him.

a/n: I want me some Hannie in my life. Part Two will be this week, and I'm gonna throw some real shit at the fan 😈 if you want tagging lmk in the comments!

I appreciate any and all interactions with my work xo

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