ale’s way

When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.

What you didn’t expect was Minho.

The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.

A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.

Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.

In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.

And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.

Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.

-

The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.

He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.

You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.

You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?

All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.

Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.

But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.

-

Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.

The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”

There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.

“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”

She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.

“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”

The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.

Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.

You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.

Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.

So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”

The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”

When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.

-

The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.

“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.

You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”

Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”

Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.

The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.

You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”

You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.

“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.

You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.

He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.

It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.

-

Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.

But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.

You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.

Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.

You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.

You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.

The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.

“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.

The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.

“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.

You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”

The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”

The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.

Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.

You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”

His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”

The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”

But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.

He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”

His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.

Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.

But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”

You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.

Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”

You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.

You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.

“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.

“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.

“Yeah, okay, I like you.”

The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.

“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”

Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”

He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”

Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.

You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.

“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”

The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.

Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.

The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.

“We could’ve had this all along.”

Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.

The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.

“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.

He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”

Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”

A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”

Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.

He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.

The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.

“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”

You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.

The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.

“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”

You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”

The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.

Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.

Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.

“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.

Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.

“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”

He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.

Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.

“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”

His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”

Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.

“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.

“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”

Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”

His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.

“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”

You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”

His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”

His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”

He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.

“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”

His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.

He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”

You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”

The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.

Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.

He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.

“Please…”

“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”

You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.

“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”

You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”

By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.

Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”

For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.

“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”

You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.

“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”

Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.

“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”

You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.

“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”

Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”

Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”

Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.

Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.

“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”

Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.

The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”

Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.

You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.

“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”

Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.

“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”

You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.

Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”

The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.

The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.

He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.

Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.

“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”

The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.

When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.

“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”

-

The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.

You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.

Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.

He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.

He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”

His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.

-

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

“Not today…” you mumbled into the pillow, groaning as you curled your knees up closer to your chest.

It wasn’t unusual. This happened every month, almost like clockwork. But no matter how prepared you tried to be, no matter how many times you went through the routine, it never got easier. The cramps were already building, wrapping around your abdomen like an iron band and tightening bit by bit.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand out of habit, squinting against the light of the screen. A couple of notifications blinked up at you, nothing urgent, just social media, a reminder from your calendar, but you didn’t even bother unlocking it. You weren’t in the mood to scroll, to read, or to interact. Your phone slipped back down to the nightstand with a soft clatter, forgotten almost instantly as another wave of cramps had you squeezing your eyes shut.

All you wanted was relief. Relief, and maybe comfort.

Dragging yourself out of bed felt impossible, but you did it anyway, moving on autopilot. Clean up first. That always came first. You shuffled to the bathroom, slow and clumsy, going through the motions that had become too familiar. Fresh products, washing your hands, splashing cool water on your face. The reflection staring back at you in the mirror looked pale and a little miserable, hair messy from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

You sighed, too tired to even think about fixing yourself up. The best you could do was change into something soft, an oversized shirt that hung loosely on your body, a pair of shorts that wouldn’t dig into your waist. You shuffled back into your room, each step weighted down, and practically collapsed onto your bed again.

The blanket was a cocoon, cool at first and then slowly warming with your body heat. You curled into yourself, clutching at your stomach instinctively, even though you knew it didn’t help much. It was just… something. Something to hold onto while your body decided to wage war on you.

Your phone buzzed again, faint on the nightstand, but you didn’t move. You didn’t even check who it was. It could wait. Everything could wait.

Meanwhile, somewhere else across the city, Chan was looking down at his own phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He had just finished up a long meeting, the kind that left him drained but buzzing with too many ideas at once. Normally, he’d text you right away, just to check in, to share something funny or complain about how endless the discussions felt.

So that’s what he did.

Chan: Finally done with this meeting, feels like I aged 10 years.
Chan: What are you up to?

He stared at the screen, waiting for the little “typing…” bubble to pop up. Usually, it didn’t take long. You were quick to respond, even if it was just a short emoji or a “busy rn.” But the seconds stretched into minutes, and the screen stayed blank.

Chan chewed on his bottom lip, shrugging it off at first. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were still asleep, though he knew you rarely slept this late. He tossed his phone onto the desk and went back to scribbling in his notebook, letting the beat in his head spill onto paper.

But after an hour, when he checked again, there was still nothing from you.

His fingers tapped out another message almost without thinking.

Chan: Hey, you okay?

Still no reply.

That tiny seed of worry started planting itself in his chest. He tried to brush it off again, telling himself not to overthink, but Chan wasn’t exactly great at not overthinking. Especially when it came to you.

By the time his call went unanswered, the seed had already sprouted, growing heavier with each passing hour.

Back in your bed, you shifted under the blanket, curling deeper into it as another cramp rolled through. You groaned softly, too exhausted to even reach for the phone that lit up again on the nightstand. You barely registered the vibration against the wood before your eyes fluttered shut.

You weren’t ignoring anyone. You weren’t upset. You just couldn’t deal with anything beyond the war your body was waging against you.

The world could wait.

And that included Chan’s worried little texts, though you didn’t know it yet.

The day moved on, but Chan’s mind didn’t.

Normally, he thrived on busyness. His schedule was packed with practice, meetings, producing, and endless checklists of things to get done. It was the kind of chaos he had gotten used to, even relied on. But when his phone stayed silent despite the three, four, five times he checked it, everything else seemed harder to focus on. His pencil stilled over the notepad where he was scribbling chord ideas. His ears tuned out halfway through one of the members joking with him.

He kept thinking about you.

You never ignored him. That was the thing. Even on your busiest days, you’d slip in a quick reply, something lighthearted just to let him know you saw him. A little emoji, a “later” text, even a single “♡.” Something. Anything.

But now? Nothing. Not one reply since morning.

By the time he called you and it rang all the way through to voicemail, that tight knot in his chest was pulling harder.

“She’s upset with me,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Hyung, what?” Jisung asked, glancing up from across the room.

“Nothing,” Chan waved it off, forcing a smile. He wasn’t about to dump his spiraling thoughts onto the others. This was his problem to figure out.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking. Did he forget something? Yesterday… he tried to replay everything in his mind. He’d been tired, sure, but had he snapped at you? Had he been distracted and missed something important you told him?

He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The problem was, his brain wasn’t good at letting go once it latched onto a worry. It gnawed at him, over and over, convincing him of the worst possible explanation until he almost believed it.

By the time late afternoon rolled around, he couldn’t take it anymore. His phone screen mocked him, still blank of any message from you. He didn’t even think twice before shoving his notebook into his bag and telling the members he’d head home early.

He wasn’t going home, though.

The drive over to your place was both quick and painfully long. Quick, because Chan’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter, pushing the speed just enough to shave off time. Long, because the silence in the car gave his thoughts too much room to echo.

What if you didn’t want to see him? What if showing up uninvited only made things worse?

Still, he couldn’t turn back. He needed to know. Needed to see you, to understand what had happened, to make sure you were okay.

By the time he parked outside your place, the nervous energy in his chest had built up so much he could barely breathe evenly. He sat there for a moment, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, before finally exhaling hard and muttering to himself.

“Alright, just… just talk to her. Find out what’s wrong. You can fix this.”

He grabbed his bag and headed up, his footsteps slower than usual. He had his own key, you’d given it to him months ago but right now, the idea of unlocking your door without permission made his chest twist.

He rang the bell once. Waited. Rang again.

No answer.

Biting his lip, Chan reached for the key anyway. “Don’t freak out,” he whispered to himself as he carefully unlocked the door. “It’s fine. Just ask her. It’s fine.”

The apartment was quiet when he slipped inside. Not the kind of quiet that felt empty, but the kind that was lived-in, peaceful, interrupted only by the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. He set his bag down by the door, hesitating for a long moment before making his way further in.

“Y/N?” he called softly.

No response.

His heart beat faster, every step toward your bedroom door heavier. He knocked gently, then pushed it open just enough to peek inside.

And there you were.

Curled up in bed, blanket cocooned around you, face half-buried in the pillow. Your hair was a little messy, your expression tired even in sleep or what looked like sleep. You didn’t move at the sound of the door, didn’t flinch when he stepped inside.

Chan’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it hurt more to think you were ignoring him on purpose, or if something else was wrong entirely.

He hovered at the side of the bed for a moment, crouching slightly as he whispered, “Hey…”

Your eyelids fluttered, but you didn’t speak.

“Are you…” he hesitated, swallowing hard before finishing, “Are you upset with me?”

And that was when you blinked at him, slow and a little dazed, before pouting softly.

“No…” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “Not upset. Just… got my period. Hurts too much.”

For Chan, the relief was instant and overwhelming. His shoulders sagged as a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding rushed out of him.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thought—baby, I thought you were mad at me. I’ve been losing my mind all day.”

He let out a small, shaky laugh, rubbing at his face again before dragging his fingers through his hair.

“Baby…” he sighed, the corners of his mouth tugging up into the gentlest smile. “You scared me half to death. I thought I did something wrong. I thought you were mad at me.”

Your lips curled into the faintest pout, and you shook your head against the pillow. “No. Just… hurting. A lot.”

Chan’s gaze softened even further. He reached out instinctively, brushing a few strands of hair back from your forehead, his fingers warm and careful. “You should’ve told me,” he murmured, his voice so tender it made your chest ache for a whole different reason.

“I didn’t even look at my phone today,” you admitted, wincing as another cramp twisted through you. “Couldn’t deal with anything.”

That made him sigh again, though not in frustration, in sympathy. “My poor baby,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against your temple. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

For a moment, he just stood there beside the bed, his hand lingering on your hair. But then, without hesitation, he toed off his slippers and carefully slipped under the blanket beside you. The mattress dipped with his weight, and warmth spread instantly across your body as his arm wrapped gently around your waist.

He pulled you close, careful but firm enough to make you feel anchored. His lips pressed a fleeting kiss against your temple. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You melted against him, your forehead pressing into his chest. “Mhm,” you hummed, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Chan smiled against your hair, the tension that had followed him all day finally easing. “Tell me what I can do for you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look down at your face. “Do you need more products? Something to eat? I can heat up your pad for you… or I can grab you water, or tea. Just say the word.”

You blinked up at him, your lashes heavy with exhaustion, and gave a weak little nod at each suggestion. Yes. Yes. Yes.

That made him chuckle, low and warm, before he pecked your temple again. “Alright, so basically, all of it,” he teased.

You whined softly when he shifted like he was about to get up, your hand immediately fisting into his shirt. “Don’t go yet,” you mumbled, your lips brushing the fabric.

His heart squeezed at that. He froze, then settled right back down against the pillows, tightening his hold around you. “Okay,” he whispered. “Not going anywhere.”

The relief in your body was almost visible. You tucked yourself even closer into his chest, curling into him as if he were your own personal safe space, which, in a way, he was. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, his arm rubbing soothing circles against your side, never pressing too hard against your cramping stomach.

For a while, silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable, filled with the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. That rhythm, steady and grounding, made your own body relax little by little.

And then Chan started talking.

He told you about his day, how endless the meeting felt, how he kept thinking about you the whole time and wondering what you were up to. He slipped in jokes, silly imitations of the others, exaggerations that were meant to make you laugh.

And you did.

Not a loud laugh, not the kind that shook your whole body. But a soft, breathy giggle that made his chest vibrate with happiness. Every time the sound left your lips, his eyes lit up like you’d just given him the best gift in the world.

You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him, your cheek still pressed against his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though the fond smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a grin, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But if it makes you smile, I’ll happily be ridiculous.”

Your heart swelled at that, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the blanket. Even through the cramps and the exhaustion, even through the ache that made your whole body curl inward, you felt loved. So deeply loved it almost overwhelmed you.

And the thing about Chan was, he never made you doubt it.

-

It didn’t surprise you when, after a little while, Chan stirred beneath you. His hand was still drawing slow, absent circles against your side, but there was a restless energy in him, that familiar leader instinct that wouldn’t let him sit still when someone he loved was hurting.

You felt the shift in his chest as he leaned down, whispering against your hair. “Baby, I know you don’t want me to move, but… I should get your heating pad. It’ll help.”

You made a small noise of protest, burrowing closer into him like a stubborn child. “Later…”

Chan chuckled, the sound low and fond, and kissed the crown of your head. “You said yes to everything, remember? If I don’t do it now, you’ll just get worse. Two minutes, tops. I promise.”

You pouted, but your fingers finally loosened their grip on his shirt. “Fine,” you sighed, your voice small.

That was all the permission he needed. He slipped carefully out from under you, tucking the blanket snug around your body before he stood. “Stay right here. Don’t move,” he teased, pointing playfully as if you were capable of going anywhere in your current state.

You watched him move around your room with ease, his presence filling the space in a way that made it feel warmer, safer. He ducked into your closet to grab the heating pad, plugging it in with practiced efficiency, like he’d done this countless times before. Which, to be fair, he had.

While it warmed up, he padded into the kitchen. You could hear faint clattering, the fridge opening, a cupboard door closing, the hum of the microwave. Even from bed, you pictured the way his brows furrowed in concentration, how he’d open every drawer just to make sure he had all the options.

When he returned, his arms were full.

The heating pad, wrapped in its soft cover. A glass of water balanced carefully in his hand. A mug of tea that smelled faintly of chamomile. A small plate with crackers and a couple of chocolate squares because Chan always remembered that sometimes you needed sugar more than anything.

You blinked at the sight, your lips twitching upward. “You brought the whole kitchen,” you teased softly.

Chan set everything down on your nightstand, grinning sheepishly. “Better too much than not enough,” he said, settling beside you again. He pressed the warm heating pad gently against your stomach, watching your reaction closely. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

The sigh that left your lips was almost instantaneous. The ache didn’t disappear, but the warmth dulled it, eased it just enough for your muscles to relax. Your shoulders dropped back into the pillows, your eyes fluttering shut.

“There we go,” Chan whispered, satisfied, before slipping the glass of water into your hand. “Small sips first. You didn’t drink much today, did you?”

You shook your head faintly, sipping obediently while his hand hovered near the glass like he was ready to catch it if you dropped it.

Once you finished, he traded it for the mug of tea. “This’ll help too. Just a little at a time.”

You sipped that as well, the warmth coating your throat, easing you further into comfort. By the time he set it back down and tucked the blanket more securely around you, your body felt lighter, as if his care had lifted some of the weight along with the pain.

“Snack later,” he said gently, brushing his fingers through your hair. “For now, just rest.”

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re spoiling me.”

Chan laughed softly, leaning down to press a kiss against your temple. “Always,” he murmured, his voice so certain, so matter-of-fact, that your chest ached with love.

When he finally settled back beside you, his arm slid under your shoulders, tugging you close again. This time, though, the heating pad was tucked securely against your stomach, the tea and snacks waiting nearby, and his presence felt even more grounding.

“You okay now?” he asked quietly, watching your face.

You nodded, nuzzling into him. “Better. Thanks to you.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was soft, almost boyish, like your words alone could light him up. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s all I want.”

With the heating pad warming your stomach and Chan’s body heat pressed against your side, you finally felt yourself breathing easier. The sharpness of the cramps was still there, but dulled enough that you could focus on something besides the ache. Something like the way his thumb rubbed absent circles into your arm, or the way his breathing rumbled softly in his chest beneath your cheek.

Chan noticed the way your body relaxed and smiled down at you. “See? I told you it’d help,” he said gently, his voice the kind of quiet you only used in bedrooms, in moments that felt too soft for the outside world.

You hummed, too comfortable to put the gratitude into words. Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, brushing your nose against his shirt.

Chan’s chest swelled with affection at the tiny gesture. To fill the silence, he started talking again, his tone light and animated. “So, Jisung fell asleep in the middle of the meeting today,” he said, shifting his voice into an exaggerated impression. “Head tilted back, mouth wide open, the whole deal. I thought he was gonna choke on his own snores.”

You snorted, muffling a giggle into his chest.

“And Hyunjin kept trying to poke him awake without anyone noticing,” Chan continued, “but he missed every time because he was laughing too hard. It was like watching two clowns on stage. I almost lost it in front of the managers.”

Your lips curved into a sleepy smile. “I wish I’d seen it.”

Chan chuckled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll reenact it for you later if you want. Though it won’t be nearly as funny without Jisung’s actual snore.”

You laughed again, the sound light and breathy, and his chest warmed at the sound. He would’ve told a hundred more stories, exaggerated every detail, made an absolute fool of himself, just to hear it again.

The conversation flowed in gentle waves, sometimes you asked questions, sometimes you only hummed in response, and sometimes you just lay quietly, letting his voice wash over you. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, Chan liked that you didn’t feel the need to fill every silence. He liked that he could talk and you’d simply listen, eyes drooping, your body softening against him like you trusted him to hold you together when you couldn’t.

At one point, you shifted just slightly, peeking up at him through heavy lashes. His eyes met yours instantly, warm and intent, like he’d been waiting for you to look at him.

“What?” you whispered, your voice small but curious.

Chan smiled, the corners of his lips curving in that way that always made your chest flutter. “Nothing. Just… you look cute.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I probably look like a mess.”

“Not to me,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Never to me.”

The words sank into you, making your heart squeeze. You tucked yourself closer into his chest, hiding your face as if that could conceal how much his love affected you.

He only laughed quietly, kissing the top of your head. “You’re special to me, you know that?”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded against him. “I know. You make sure I know.”

“Good,” Chan murmured, satisfied. His hand returned to stroking gently up and down your arm, soothing in its repetition.

Minutes stretched into something softer than time, a space where you weren’t quite awake but not quite asleep either. You drifted in and out, lulled by the steady rhythm of his voice as he told you more little stories: the way Seungmin complained about the studio chairs, how Felix tried to bribe everyone with cookies, how Changbin nearly walked into a glass door because he was too busy texting.

Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you only sighed, but always you stayed tucked safely under his arm, wrapped in his warmth. And every time you stirred, every time your face tightened in discomfort from another cramp, Chan was right there, rubbing your arm, murmuring soft reassurances, pressing the lightest kisses into your hair until you relaxed again.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic. It wasn’t even about fixing the pain.

It was about him being there.

And that, more than anything, made you feel cherished.

//

masterlist.

a/n. Don’t mind me just saw a cute edit of chan & couldn’t help myself

–

In a world where everyone has a soulmate and the markings vary based on each pair, you were stuck with one of the most annoying markings: the unknown.

Some people had their soulmate’s first words to them, some had a countdown. Red string, lost items, colorblindness, shared pain. You had none of the above. You didn’t even have a mental marking, like feeling their emotions or tasting what they ate. No, you had absolutely nothing.

You knew, logically, that many people were the same. It didn’t mean you didn’t have a soulmate, it just meant that your marking was likely something physical. You’d know it when you touched them or when you saw them.

It was frustrating. Sometimes you thought you’d never find your soulmate, since there was nothing actually leading you to them. It was just luck—or, you supposed, fate—if you would meet them.

It turned out that you were wrong. So, so wrong.

When you felt a sudden wave of dizziness and opened your eyes to see that you were definitely not on the couch of your apartment anymore, you thought you were hallucinating. You were exhausted, had been up all night studying; you must’ve passed out on the couch and were having a lucid dream.

You slowly looked around, noting your new surroundings. You were in a living room you’d never seen before, standing behind a large brown couch that faced a flat screen TV. There were a few paintings on the walls, blankets scattered around, and various knick-knacks and trinkets littering the TV stand and tables. It was homey.

You didn’t know why you were dreaming of a room you’d never been in. As you walked around, touching blankets and observing pictures, you thought that this seemed a little too real. You were in grad school for law, not neuro or psych or whatever studied the human brain, but even you knew that lucid dreams weren’t normally this… lucid.

You also felt off. You didn’t know how to describe it. Your body felt different. Taller, maybe. Stronger. As you walked, you felt like you were controlling a body that didn’t belong to you, feeling weirdly uncomfortable in your skin.

(You would soon find out that your description was extremely accurate.)

“Chan?”

You startled, stumbling as you whipped your body around to face the speaker. You hadn’t realized that anyone else was in the room with you or had entered, too caught up in your dream-not-dream.

You now faced a brown-haired man you had no recollection of, but for some reason felt the slightest bit familiar to you. Like you’d seen him before. You briefly remembered something you’d read online—your brain couldn’t come up with new faces—so this must be some random stranger you’d seen on the street or something, here to play a starring role in your incredibly realistic dream.

“Hi?” You asked after a very long pause.

The man—who for some reason reminded you of a squirrel—just stared at you, eyes wide and expressive. He seemed concerned, confused, looking at you like you’d gone crazy. He’d probably seen you earlier, looking at blankets and pictures way too intensely to be normal. Yeah, that made sense.

“Are you– are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“You seem really out of it, Chan. Are you, like, tired or something?”

There was that name again. Why was he calling you that?

“Who’s Chan?”

The man’s face, already concerned, seemed to grow even more worried at that.

“Are you joking? Is this a prank? You’re scaring me, hyung.”

You were starting to get scared, too. Was this actually a dream? It felt way too real. You slowly brought your hand to your arm and pinched yourself as hard as you could. Nothing happened, except for the shock of pain that quickly ran through your arm.

“Wait. This is real? I’m not dreaming?” Your expression mirrored the stranger’s. He stayed silent, apparently too confused or in shock to talk. “What is going on?” You asked again, voice growing louder.

Your conversation drew attention, and soon two more men you didn’t recognize but felt the same familiarity of entered the room.

“Is everything okay?” Asked the one with huge muscles. “We heard you yelling.”

“I think Chan’s gone crazy,” replied the squirrel guy. “That, or he’s playing a really weird prank on me.”

“Who are you? Where am I?” You asked, ignoring their words. You were scared now, very much so, because you were not dreaming which meant somehow you had left your room and ended up in this house being called ‘Chan’ instead of your name.

“You’re at home. In our living room. What the hell is wrong with you, Chan?” Asked the third man, who had the most insane face card you’d ever seen.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice quiet and shaky. “I- I need to use the bathroom.” You quickly rushed past the confused men, down the hallway and through a door, somehow getting to the bathroom on the first try. How did you know this room was the bathroom? It was like your body knew, even though your mind didn’t.

You turned to the mirror, hoping to regain your bearings, but instead let out a yelp of surprise at what greeted you. Looking back at you in the mirror wasn’t you, but a man.

Well, not just a man. The most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. Pink lips, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, all combining to form a man who, if you saw on the street, would make you stop walking for a minute just to reconnect with reality, because men should not be allowed to look this good.

But that was besides the point. You were in someone else’s body. In someone else’s house. Talking to their roommates. How the fuck did this happen? What was going on?

A quiet knock sounded on the door, and you opened it after hesitating for a second. All three men were standing, worried, in the doorway.

“I’m not Chan,” you blurted, needing to express the situation to someone, no matter how insane you might sound. When they looked at you with blank faces, you continued. “This isn’t my body. I don’t know what’s happening. I was in my room, in my house, and then I looked up and I was here and I’m so confused and I don’t know what’s going on and–” Your rambling was cut off by hands resting on your shoulders, pulling you out of your panic.

It was the buff man, now looking you in the eyes, trying to calm you down. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I think I know what’s happening.”

“You do?” You asked at the same time as the squirrel man and face card man.

“Body switching. It’s a soulmate mark, though it’s really rare. You don’t have some other mark, do you?”

“No.”

“Chan doesn’t either,” face card man chimed in, putting the pieces together. “Oh, that’s crazy! Body, switching, holy shit.”

Well. It seemed your soulmark wasn’t a mystery anymore. And it definitely wasn’t boring, or based on luck—this was all fate.

The boys led you back to the living room, sitting down on the couch. They introduced themselves, and you found out that the squirrel man was Jisung, the face card man was Hyunjin, and the buff man was Changbin. You didn’t know why those names sounded so familiar.

You and the boys talked for a while, growing more comfortable with each other as time went on. Your soulmate’s roommates were really nice, and hilarious. Also, gorgeous. You didn’t understand how all four of these men could be so beautiful. It was unusual.

Not long after, you felt another wave of dizziness wash over you, and you were back on your couch.

–

When Chan suddenly found himself in a stranger's room, alone, he didn’t know what to think. He pulled his phone from his pocket, hoping to check his location or call a friend or do anything to help him get his bearings, but immediately realized that what he held was not his phone.

A quick check in the phone camera revealed a pretty girl he’d never seen before, but then the information registered and he blanched because why was the camera showing him a random girl and not his own face?

After a bit of thinking and a lot of stressing, he finally came to the conclusion that this was his soulmark. It calmed him down, having an answer, but his mind was still reeling. Body switching was an incredibly rare mark, and it was so sparsely documented that he had little idea what it actually entailed. All he knew was that the two of you would keep switching bodies at random until he met you in person.

He didn’t want to invade your privacy, but Chan was also bored and extremely curious, so after a short internal debate, he began looking around your house. It was small, one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. Not very big, but enough for one person to live comfortably.

It was warmly decorated, with soft rugs, plants on every shelf, ceramic bowls holding random items and various posters brightening the walls. It was very homey. He liked it.

A bit more observation revealed that you were a student—a fact which almost sent Chan into a spiral before he realized, with a wild amount of relief, that you were a grad student—textbooks and notebook paper littered all over your desk and kitchen counter, all heavily annotated.

It was too bad you lived alone. He wished he could talk to someone, a roommate or friend or sibling. He wanted to learn more about you. He sat back down on the couch. Before he could consider doing anything more, the same dizzy feeling came over him and he was back in his own house.

Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jisung were all on the couch with him, looking at him expectantly.

“Are you… back?” asked Jisung.

“Yeah, I’m back.”

His friends broke into exclamations immediately.

“Oh my god-!”

“Can you believe-!”

“-seemed really sweet-!”

“-your soulmate!”

Chan laughed at his friend’s shock. “Yeah,” was all he said. He was happy.

–

“Did you get his number?”

You looked at your friend blankly. It had been a day since your body switching experience, and you were finally able to tell your friend about it. You didn’t feel like it was something to share through text, so you’d forced her out to get coffee with you this morning before class.

She’d freaked out, asked a million questions that you tried your best to answer, and froze. Then, she’d asked this. You stopped. Thought for a second. Then another second.

“Shit.”

“Are you kidding me, [Y/N]? You didn’t get his number? This is your soulmate, for god’s sake, you need his number!” She took a furious sip of her iced latte.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it. I was so caught up in the moment, at first, and then I was too busy talking with his roommates.”

Yuna looked at you, thinking. “So, just how gorgeous were they?”

You let out a small laugh. You’d only briefly mentioned that part during your retelling, but it seemed she’d come back around to the topic.

“Insanely. Like, they could all be male models. And my soulmate, god, he was just perfect. I can’t believe it.”

“Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. If your man really is that gorgeous.”

You didn’t miss the subtle jab at your appearance, but you didn’t take offense. Yuna was right, you really could stand to look a little better. You could be skinnier, put on makeup more often, wear cuter outfits. Your appearance has always been a pretty big insecurity of yours, and this new soulmate thing definitely wasn’t going to help.

You hadn’t told Yuna Chan’s name, some part of you feeling like it was better to keep it secret. You couldn’t ignore the nagging inside you that you recognized it, somehow, so when you got home you looked him up on your computer.

You only had his first name, so it didn’t give you much, but the real shock came when you looked up his and his roommate’s names all at once.

Stray Kids.

Your soulmate was the leader of Stray Kids. The incredibly famous, incredibly talented K-pop group. You didn’t really listen to their music, but you’d heard of them before and seen pictures, which was why all the boys looked so familiar to you.

You spent a lot of time after that researching, finding pictures and reading articles, unable to stop yourself.

Yeah, this was definitely not good for your self-esteem.

–

The second time you switched, it was right before class started. You were sitting near the back of the lecture hall, pulling out your notebook and pens—this teacher didn’t like students using their computers in class—when you felt that same dizziness.

You were in a big, open room, mirrors taking up an entire wall and smooth floors underneath you. It was entirely void of furniture, the only items being various bags and water bottles stuffed against the wall and a single table with a computer and speaker on it.

Also, there were seven boys standing around, staring at you.

You recognized Jisung, Hyunjin, and Changbin from last time, and the rest of them from the looking online you’d done. You still weren’t sure of their names, though.

“Hey,” you said, drawing out the word. “I’m back.”

Jisung’s face lit up into a smile. “[Y/N]?”

“Yeah.”

The four boys you hadn’t met were in shock, all speaking over each other.

“Wait, [Y/N]??”

“Chan’s soulmate?”

“You switched again?”

“Oh my god!”

You let out an awkward laugh. You weren’t used to having so much attention on you. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s nice to meet you all.”

The rest of the boys introduced themselves to you—Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin, Minho.

After you’d gotten over the initial shock of switching again and meeting new people, you realized where you were. The lack of furniture, mirrors, and speaker? This was a dance studio.

You turned to the three roommates with a bone to pick. “Hey, you guys didn’t tell me you were idols! I would’ve appreciated the information, y’know.”

“Sorry, it slipped my mind!” said Jisung.

“Yeah, I didn’t even think to mention it,” added Hyunjin.

Changbin just shrugged.

You huffed, not actually upset.

“I hate to say this, but we do kind of have to practice our dance while we’re here. We don’t have much time in the studio today,” Minho said.

“[Y/N], you should watch,” Felix exclaimed.

“Well, she’s in Chan’s body. Do you think she knows the choreo?”

“Oh, that would be cool!”

“I kind of doubt it.”

You just listened as the group argued over whether or not you would know the dance if they put the music on. It was cute. They seemed like a really nice group of friends. You wished your friends were like this. You didn’t have many, but even the friends you did have weren’t as lively or as fun.

“Well, let’s just see, shall we?” You joined the conversation, feeling bad that you were stopping them from practicing.

After a series of agreements, everyone got into their positions. Minho showed you where to stand, then moved to start the music.

As soon as it started playing, you felt something take over your body. Muscle memory, but on another level. You immediately started moving, not at all knowing what you were doing or how you were doing it but somehow managing to stay in time with the members and hit the right moves.

It was an amazing feeling. You weren’t a particularly active person, spending much of your time studying or going to class, so dancing like this felt… freeing.

You messed up a few times but fixed yourself and kept going until the song ended. When you finally stopped dancing, the muscle memory no longer overtaking you, you looked around and saw everyone looking at you. They seemed to do that a lot. You didn’t like it.

“What?”

“That was amazing!”

“You knew the whole dance!”

You flushed, embarrassed at the praise. “Well, I did mess up a few times.”

“In the exact spots that Chan always messes up,” Seungmin added quietly, more to himself than the group.

“Wait, really?”

“Body switching is so cool.”

You laughed at the boys’ antics. This was fun.

–

Chan was in a class. In school. God, he did not miss this. The professor had been talking for almost an hour about the most boring and incomprehensible thing he’d ever heard. He wanted badly to zone out, or to just leave, but he knew he couldn’t. For your sake, he couldn’t.

When the class finally ended, Chan almost jumped for joy, packing up your bag, very ready to leave. As he exited the lecture hall, he heard a girl yelling your name. He turned, seeing two girls walking up to him.

“[Y/N], hey! How have you been?” One girl asked.

“Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever since we hung out!” The other added.

“Oh, I–” Chan paused. He wanted to talk to your friends, that was true, but he wasn’t sure how close you were to these girls. He didn’t know if you’d told them about the soulmark, or if you even wanted them to know. He figured he wouldn’t risk it. “I’m good. Yeah it’s – it’s been a while. We should make plans soon.” If he couldn’t tell them they’d switched, then he’d just talk to them as you. Easy enough, right?

“Are you free right now? Let’s go to lunch!”

At the question, Chan somehow immediately knew that yes, he was free, and that he didn’t have another class until the next morning. He didn’t know how he knew that. He agreed to lunch, walking with the girls to the dining hall. He felt something else, this time a sense of dread. Weird. He ignored it.

Listening to the girls talk to each other as they walked, he learned that their names were Jiyeon and Nari. They talked mostly to each other, only sometimes asking him questions to let him join in the conversation. Kind of odd, considering they had asked him to lunch.

The three of them bought lunch at the dining hall and found a seat by the windows. Jiyeon and Nari immediately began gossipping about various other people and events that Chan pretended to understand. He couldn’t help but notice how mean they were, though. He really hoped that the girls they were talking about weren’t their friends, because Jiyeon and Nari ripped into them with no remorse, criticizing outfits and new haircuts and talking about situations that they weren’t even a part of.

Chan hoped that you weren’t like this. He didn’t want his soulmate to be as mean as her friends were—if these even were your friends. From how little they included him in the conversation, he was starting to think that maybe you weren’t very close with them. It was an odd dynamic.

When they did say something to Chan, it was usually a poorly-hidden jab or passive aggressive comment that he was beginning to realize wasn’t in good spirit. They made fun of a bad outfit they’d seen, then described it as being similar to a specific piece of clothing you owned. They talked about a difficult class they were taking, then said, “even you wouldn’t be able to get an A.” On the surface it seemed harmless, but the way they said it made Chan feel like they were making fun of you.

Chan was starting to think of these girls as bullies more than friends. He understood now why he felt that sense of dread when he agreed to hang out. That must’ve been a gut feeling from you, who knew how these girls really were.

As much as he hated the way they treated you, it did bring him some relief to know that you weren’t like them. Which he pretty much knew already, from the raving reviews he’d received from his roommates after the first switch.

When he finished his lunch and watched as the girls shared a look with each other about it, he knew it was time to leave.

“Wow, the dining hall food must have been really good today,” Jiyeon said. It would have seemed like an innocent comment if Nari hadn’t snorted quietly in response, clearly at your expense.

Chan put the fakest smile he could on his face. “I actually have to go now. I just remembered I have plans. See you guys later,” he excused himself, quickly throwing out his trash and leaving the premises. He wished he could have defended you more or been a little more direct, but he knew it wasn’t fair of him to do anything in your body that might come back to bite you later. So, he left peacefully. For now.

Chan didn’t like your friends.

–

When you returned to your body, you were in a good mood. You’d had a lot of fun hanging out with the boys. You thought about what Chan might have done in your life today, and immediately your smile dropped. Your class. Shit.

It was an important one—well, they were all important to you, but that was beside the point—so not being actually present in class today to remember anything wasn’t good. This teacher was awful, never posting any notes or reviews online, explaining that it was your fault if you missed class or didn’t pay attention. You could ask someone else for notes, but the only friends you had in that class were Jiyeon and Nari, and there was no way in hell you were asking them for anything. You were not going to open that can of worms.

In the middle of your internal panic, you felt a sudden urge to check your notebook. You didn’t know why, but you listened to it, pulling it from your bag and flipping to the most recent page.

What greeted you was notes, meticulously written, documenting the entire class you’d missed. Well, you hadn’t actually missed it. Chan was there. Chan was there, and he’d taken notes so that you wouldn’t fall behind. Tears welled up in your eyes that you quickly blinked away.

He was so nice. He was gorgeous, and kind, and thoughtful. You didn’t deserve him. Why would the universe pair you with someone so perfect? He was too good for you.

Once you’d gotten over your slight internal breakdown, you noticed something in the top corner of your notes. It was a message from Chan. All it said was ‘text me :)’ with his number written underneath. You broke into a smile. You’d forgotten, yet again, to leave your number for him, but thankfully he hadn’t forgotten.

You added it into your phone, but paused, finger hovering over the keyboard. What were you supposed to say to him? ‘Hi, I’m your soulmate’? Maybe. Simple was probably better. You tried not to overthink it. He was the one who told you to text him, after all.

You typed out a simple ‘hi,’ hitting send before you could regret it. Then, you added, ‘this is [Y/N]!’ Good enough.

You set your phone down, but felt a buzz and immediately picked it back up. Chan sure was a fast texter.

When you looked at the notification, you saw that it wasn’t Chan replying, no, it was someone much worse. It was Jiyeon.

‘Hey girl, you seemed a little off at lunch today. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I hope you feel better! We should definitely do it again soon!’

You stared blankly at your phone. You had lunch today. With Jiyeon. Chan had lunch with Jiyeon. Yeah, that wasn’t good.

The text seemed nice. If anyone else was looking at it, they would think it was sweet, a friend checking in on you. But you knew better. When Jiyeon called you ‘off,’ that meant that you hadn’t done a good enough job at hiding your reactions to her insults. When you were too quiet, your face showed a hint of the hurt you felt, or, god forbid, you actually said something back to her and defended yourself. That was you being ‘off.’

You didn’t know what they’d said to Chan, or how he’d reacted, and honestly you didn’t want to know. You’d rather just forget it happened. You hoped Chan forgot it, too.

So, when he replied to your text a few minutes later with a ‘hey!!’ you didn’t say anything about it.

–

It had been a few weeks since you and Chan had last switched bodies. You’d been texting ever since he left his number, and he had to say, he really enjoyed it.

After the initial period of awkwardness, you’d warmed up to each other, and now texted each other every day. You would text just to talk about random things that happened throughout the day. Chan talked a lot about the kids’ antics, which you enjoyed since you’d met them all. You only really talked about your classes and what you were doing, which was usually just studying or reading.

It made Chan a little sad, that you didn’t seem to do much else. He knew that law school was serious, but that shouldn’t mean that you never got to do anything fun. He hoped that you were doing more fun things than you let on, but you never let a conversation get very far. You seemed like an open book, but the more Chan thought about it, he realized that he actually didn’t know very much about you.

He hoped that you were just shy and still getting to know him; maybe you’d tell him more later. After all, though it had seemed like you’d known each other for a while, you’d only had that first switching experience a little under a month ago.

He would learn more about you soon, anyway. It was hard not to when he was in your body, in your life.

–

You weren’t doing very well. Finals were approaching, and you stayed up late every night to study. You were exhausted, not getting anywhere near enough sleep, and were often so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to eat.

You were also lonely. You didn’t have very many friends, and the ones you did have were just as busy as you. You lived alone, so you didn’t have many interactions throughout the day. The only person you had was Chan. His texts were the only things keeping you going, encouraging you and giving you someone to talk to.

It didn’t help that after finals, you had to visit home for a week. You hated being home. Your eomeoni never got off your back about anything, always finding something to criticize. If you didn’t do well on finals, it would be about your grades. About not being able to make it as a lawyer. Plus, she never let a single visit go by without mentioning that you had gained weight and needed to ‘take care of yourself,’ even if you’d actually lost weight since you’d last seen her. It didn’t matter that you were a full adult in grad school. She was always the same.

So, with all that in mind, you studied even harder, forgot to eat even more, and isolated yourself in your apartment. You wanted to give your eomeoni as little as she could to insult, even though you knew she’d manage to find something anyway.

Still, you made sure to keep your texts to Chan upbeat and happy. He didn’t need to know about this. It was your problem, not his. He probably already didn’t like having you as his soulmate, and this would just solidify that in his mind.

–

Chan was worried about you. You were texting him less often, and although nothing in them implied something was wrong, he just felt… off. Something felt wrong within him, and he thought it had to be traced back to the soulmate bond. Something was wrong with you. He just wished he knew how to fix it.

He was lounging on a couch backstage, waiting for his turn for hair and makeup before an interview, when he felt that familiar dizziness that had eluded him for weeks.

All he could think about before his vision blacked out was that this was not good timing.

He regained his sight to find himself in an entirely unfamiliar location. He was in a bedroom, sitting at a desk with various makeup products in front of him. He assumed you’d been doing your makeup when you’d switched—funny coincidence.

Still, he had no idea where he was. He’d been in every room of your apartment, and this was not it. He noticed some of your items strewn about the room. Were you at a parent’s house, maybe? A friend’s?

As he stood up to get a better look around, a sudden wave of exhaustion and dizziness washed over him, though not the comforting dizziness that accompanied a body switch. No, a terrifying one that had him gripping the desk to stay upright. Why was he so tired, and why did he feel so awful? Were you sick?

A few seconds later, your phone began ringing, violently vibrating against the wooden desk. He picked it up, noticing that it was his number that was calling. Ah, so it was you. He smiled.

“Hey.”

“Chan,” your—his—shaky voice greeted him, quickly dropping his smile.

“[Y/N]? What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Chan, you need to listen to me. Please, this is important,” your stressed tone had him stressed, too, though he still couldn’t help but think how weird it was to hear his own voice over the phone. You two had never called before, only texted, so this was new.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Chan, you’re at my parents’ house right now. I’m home for a week over break.” So he’d guessed right. You continued, “my parents don’t know about the body switching. I didn’t tell them anything. So you can’t say anything, okay? Please, I need you to pretend you’re me.”

Chan froze. It had been a month, and you still hadn’t told your parents? “Why haven’t you told them?” He asked. “Is something else wrong? [Y/N], please, talk to me.”

After a moment’s hesitation and quiet, shaky breath, you responded. “Chan, my eomeoni and my abeoji aren’t– they aren’t nice people. They’re not nice to me, so they won’t be nice to you today. I don’t talk to them very often, so I haven't had a chance yet. I was– I was going to tell them this week.” Your voice grew quieter. “But I don’t want that to fall on you. So you need to pretend, please.”

Chan’s heart ached for you. “Of course, I can pretend.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And, please try not to let them get to you. They’re talking about me, not you. And don’t try to defend me, either. It just makes things worse. Okay?”

Chan was getting nervous. What could they possibly be like to preempt this kind of conversation? “Okay. Oh, by the way, you have your work cut out for you today, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have an interview today. In, like, an hour. I don’t know where you’re calling me from, but you need to go get your hair and makeup done,” Chan explained. When he received no response, he kept going. “And I’m the leader, so they’re going to expect me to talk the most—you to talk the most.”

“What??” You blanched.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the term of endearment slipped from his mouth easily. “The boys will help you. Tell them what’s going on, and they’ll cover for you if you need it. It’ll be okay.” He tried his best to sound reassuring, not wanting to add any more stress onto what he knew you were already feeling.

“Oh – okay. Um, I should go, then. Bye,” you said.

“Bye,” Chan replied, hanging up the call.

He tried not to show it on the call, but your words set him on edge. He had no idea what he was about to encounter when he went downstairs. He needed to prepare himself.

He looked in the mirror, making sure he looked okay. You had been in the middle of doing makeup, so he didn’t want to go downstairs with only half his face done or something. When he was sure that the makeup looked fine and he was dressed in a normal outfit, he left the room. Your phone told him it was ten in the morning.

He entered the kitchen, noticing who he assumed was your mother sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. She looked up at his arrival.

“Oh, look who’s finally up. Really, [Y/N], you need to wake up earlier. You won’t get anything done when you sleep in half the day.”

Wow. What a lovely first thing to hear in the morning.

“Uh– sorry, eomeoni,” Chan replied, using the same word you’d used to refer to your mother earlier.

She barely acknowledged the apology, turning back to her newspaper. After a long minute of silence, she started talking again, not looking up from the paper. “Your abeoji and I are going out with friends today for lunch. You’ll have to fend for yourself. We’re having dinner together tonight, though, so be sure you’re home for that.”

“Yes, eomeoni.”

It seemed that that was the end of the conversation. Chan opened the fridge, looking for something to eat. He was starving. There wasn’t much in there, so he settled for cereal and some fruit.

He felt wildly uncomfortable. This was your parents’ home, and he had no idea how to act. What did you normally do when you were here? Where did you sit, what did you talk about, did you even talk at all? He didn’t want to give himself away, but also had no clue what to do. He should’ve asked, but he knew he couldn’t now. You were busy in an interview.

A bit later, your parents left for their lunch plans. Chan let out a sigh of relief, glad that he didn’t have to be under scrutiny anymore. Not that your parents had even glanced his way or said a word to him since breakfast.

He wasn’t used to this. His parents were kind, he loved his siblings, and their home was always a lively one. It was nothing like this.

He decided to go for a walk. He didn’t know where he was, so he figured a little tour of the neighborhood could be a fun way to pass the time.

He quickly learned that you’d grown up in a small, adorable town. The center wasn’t a far walk from your house, so he’d found it soon into his walk. He went in and out of stores, browsing and talking to the workers and townspeople. They all seemed to know you. Almost everyone he walked by waved or said hi, and some even stopped to chat and ask about law school. He tried his best to come up with vague but satisfying answers.

He got lunch in town, finally returning home hours later. He really liked it here. It was quaint, and very homey. Though he couldn’t ignore how an uncomfortable feeling settled over him as soon as he walked back through the threshold of your house.

He was surprised that he was still in your body. The switches had never lasted longer than a few hours, but it seemed that today was different. Your parents hadn’t returned yet, so he went back to your room and opened the computer that was sitting on your desk. He’d been meaning to do some more research on his soulmark, but hadn’t had a chance. Now was as good a time as any.

Though information was scarce due to the rarity of the soulmark, he still found a few good articles and webpages. Soulmates with this mark would switch bodies at random, starting on a random date and not stopping until they met in person. The longer they went without meeting, the more often the switches would occur and the longer they’d last.

Chan thought about this. Things had been okay so far, but with his job, switches were bound to happen at inopportune times if they became a more common occurrence. Today was just the start of that, with you being forced to do an interview for him. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if you switched during an exam. He would definitely fail it, and he would never forgive himself. He hoped it didn’t come to that.

He needed to meet you, and soon. He knew you went to a university in Seoul, so you really couldn’t be very far from each other. He just needed to find a time to meet you. He hoped you would be okay with that—you seemed like the type to want to take things slow.

Some time later, Chan heard your eomeoni calling you down for dinner. Time had flown by, it seemed. He’d hoped that you would’ve switched back by now, because he really wasn’t prepared for a whole dinner with your parents. He didn’t know what to say. He took a second to hope that everything would go well, and then walked downstairs.

Your parents were already sitting at the table, so Chan sat in the only available seat left, across from them. Dinner started silently, no one saying a thing as they served dinner onto their plates. Finally, your eomeoni spoke.

“So, [Y/N]. How did you do on finals?”

The information came to Chan’s brain immediately, words coming out of his mouth before he could even think them. “Good, eomeoni. I passed them all. I emailed you all my scores, remember?” Chan was surprised by his own words, but tried not to show it. This must be muscle memory, or something. He liked it. It would definitely help him get through dinner.

“Yes, I did see them,” she replied, tone dismissive. Chan wondered why she would ask if she already knew what they were. “You passed, but that’s it. Really, [Y/N], an eighty-five on Administrative Law? A ninety on Civil Procedure? You can do better.”

Chan had to stop himself from showing the absolute shock he felt on his face. Those scores were amazing, if you asked him. You were in law school in one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the lowest scores you received on finals were an eighty-five and a ninety? To him, that made you a genius. He didn’t understand why your eomeoni thought they were so bad.

He tried to take your advice to not defend you, but he couldn’t just let it go. “Those are good scores, eomeoni. Much better than most other people in my classes.”

“I don’t care about the other people in your classes, I care about you. And I know you can do better,” she rebutted immediately. Chan had no idea what to say to that. “Work harder next time.”

After a long moment of inner struggle, Chan replied, “yes, eomeoni.” The words came to him so easily, like he’d said them a million times before in a million conversations just like this. That was probably exactly right, he realized, for you.

The conversation continued after that, your mother reminding him very much of your friends, Jiyeon and Nari—she insulted so many people that Chan assumed were her friends or neighbors, speaking scathing comments about things that didn’t seem very serious to Chan. She soon turned her insults onto you, talking about how a friend’s daughter “really needs to lose some weight, and speaking of that, you seem like you’ve changed since last break too, [Y/N].”

She mentioned it casually, but it was clear by the emphasis she put on ‘changed’ and the tone of her voice that she had been looking for a way to bring the topic up.

“Really, honey, what do I tell you every time? That just because you need to spend so much time studying, that doesn’t give you an excuse to stop eating healthy.”

Chan wasn’t sure what to say. He’d heard many conversations like this before, most of them back as a trainee when he’d overheard managers talking to the female trainees. They were harsh conversations, but it was always direct, to the point, and not as passively cruel as your eomeoni was currently being. Also, you weren’t even an idol! Chan disagreed with the dieting culture as a whole for idols, but your mother didn’t even have that excuse. You were just a regular girl, who, by the way, was absolutely just fine the way you were. Chan didn’t think you needed to change anything about yourself.

Still, Chan didn’t know quite what to say to that, and felt something in his head urging him not to reply. Before he could decide what to do, your eomeoni changed the topic. “But really, honey, if you want to be unhealthy and are fine with the way you look, that’s your choice. Anyway, did you see Mrs. Choi’s daughter in town today? She really needs to fix–” Chan stopped listening, your mother’s words becoming a blur in his head as he fumed in anger. His fists were clenched under the table so hard it almost hurt, and he was sure that if anyone looked at him, his feelings would be made perfectly clear by his expression.

He was going to say something. He was. You didn’t deserve to be spoken about like this. He didn’t care that you said not to defend you, not anymore. He opened his mouth to speak—

—and felt a sudden, familiar wave of dizziness. No. Not right now, not now. He tried to fight it, but Chan was powerless to the will of the universe. He opened his eyes and was back in his own body.

–

You had prayed to not switch bodies with Chan while visiting your parents. You begged, pleaded with the universe, not ready for Chan to see that part of your life. You were not listened to.

When you switched, you almost fell into a full-blown panic attack, painfully aware of what Chan was going to encounter in your life today. You couldn’t, though. Not here. Actually, where were you?

Distracting yourself from your inner panic, you looked around. You were in some sort of dressing room, sitting on a couch with Felix and Jeongin, who were both busy on their phones. Lining the walls were small desks covered in makeup products and mirrors with bright lights hanging on the walls in front of them. The room was bustling, staff members running around, yelling things, calling times that had no meaning to you.

You didn’t care. Wherever you were, whatever was happening, it could wait. You needed to call Chan.

You grabbed your phone, jumping up from the couch and slipping out the door, finding a bathroom to hide yourself in. On your way out, you missed Felix and Jeongin’s surprised glances and confused “where are you going”s.

You sunk down on the bathroom floor and unlocked Chan’s phone, extremely grateful for facial recognition. He picked up immediately.

Voice shaky and holding back tears, you were sure you sounded awful, but you didn’t care as you quickly explained the situation. You were thankful for Chan’s hesitant agreement, hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind when he actually met your parents.

You stalled at his mention of the interview. “What??” you said into the phone, already falling back into the panic you’d barely managed to wrench yourself out of. Chan’s assurance that the boys would help you calmed you down a bit, but you ended the call quickly after, not wanting to stress him out too much with your worries.

An interview. That’s why everyone was getting their makeup done and staff was running around like someone was chasing them. You needed to get back.

You returned, relief dawning on Felix and Jeongin’s faces as soon as they saw you.

“Chan! Oh, thank god you’re back. Where did you go? Are you okay?” Felix asked.

“It’s your turn for makeup,” Jeongin said, gesturing to a waiting makeup artist, antsy with impatience.

You felt disconnected from your body, unsure what to do. “Oh, okay,” you said, coming out much calmer than you felt, body on autopilot as you sat down in the empty chair.

As the artist began applying product to your face, you saw realization dawn on Jeongin’s face. “Wait, Chan, did you–”

“Yes,” you cut him off, voice quiet and laced with anxiety.

Felix gasped. “Oh, shit, you swi–”

Minho cut Felix off this time with a harsh glare, apparently having overheard the conversation. “Not here, Felix,” he said, eyes flitting to the various staff members within earshot.

“Right, sorry,” Felix replied. Before he could say anything else, he was ushered away to another chair to get his own makeup done. Minho, seemingly all made-up with nowhere else to be, stayed by your side as you got your own make up done. When your artist left for a minute to find an eyeliner she’d let someone else borrow, Minho immediately began talking to you in a low tone.

“This is an interview about our new album. Have you listened to it?” You nodded, and he continued, “okay, good. Then if someone asks about a song or something, just answer as truthfully as possible. If any of that dance muscle memory works with talking, too, use that. If you look like you need help, we’ll jump in. I’ll tell everyone else. Okay?”

You stared at him for a second, still taking in the barrage of information he’d just relayed to you. Your brain, overwhelmed from everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, was a bit slow on the uptake.

“Okay,” you replied eventually. The make-up artist came back, then, effectively ending your conversation. Minho gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before walking off to inform the others.

The next half hour passed in a blur. You were ushered from room to room, finishing your makeup, changing into your interview outfit, getting your hair done. Before you knew it, you were sitting in a comfy chair with the seven other boys, cameras pointed towards you and lights shining bright in your eyes.

A brief countdown sounded, and the interview began.

As soon as the cameras turned on, you felt something take over your body. An unknown force pushed you out of the driver’s seat and you were left to observe, your body acting on its own, just like in dance practice. You answered questions with words you didn’t even think of before you spoke them, yet as you talked you knew it to be true.

You didn’t want to push the limits of whatever this was that was helping you, so you stayed relatively quiet, letting the other members do most of the talking. Still, when a question was directed toward you, you somehow knew exactly what to say, playing the perfect ‘Bang Chan’ role.

The interview finished, and with the sound of the cameras being turned off, you felt yourself come back to your body. Internally, you mused how Chan must have his idol persona drilled into him for it to be able to overtake you so fully when the cameras were on.

The minute you and the other boys were left alone to get changed back, you were tackled into a hug by multiple members.

“[Y/N], that was amazing!”

“You’re a natural!”

“I would’ve never been able to tell it wasn’t Chan!”

You blushed at the praise, unused to so much attention. “Thanks, guys,” you said softly.

The eight of you got unready and then were taken back to the company for the rest of the day’s schedule, which consisted solely of dance and voice practices—no more public appearances for you today, thank god.

When you finally got a minute to yourself on the car ride back to the dorms, you remembered Chan, and where you’d left him today. Your stomach sank. You’d been so busy that you forgot all about it, but now, you were terrified. You hoped your parents hadn’t done anything crazy or said anything particularly mean to him, though you knew that was highly unlikely.

He hadn’t texted you, but that was probably just because he knew you’d be busy. Now that you thought about it, you’d been switched for quite a long time today—much longer than usual. The universe seemed like it was out to get you, switching you today of all days and having it last for the entire day.

The boys noticed you lost in your thoughts and tried to ask what was wrong, but you just gave a vague answer and changed the subject. There was no reason to involve them in your own issues. It wasn’t fair to them.

Seeing that you weren’t going to give them a real answer, they instead decided to just be very rowdy and energetic, all coming back to Chan’s shared dorm at the end of the day. You played video games and had dinner, and you had to admit, it was fun. Chan was lucky to have such good friends.

Still, when the dizziness took over your vision, you almost felt thankful. You didn’t think you could handle all the happiness anymore. You didn’t deserve it. Chan deserved to be having fun with his friends right now, not stuck in your miserable childhood home with your parents.

Your vision cleared, and you found yourself at your parents’ kitchen table, untouched food in front of you. Your mom was in the middle of one of her usual rants, talking about the latest neighborhood gossip—which girl had found a bad influence of a boyfriend, which old high school acquaintance was currently doing better than you in life, the usual. You weren’t even a little bit surprised that your parents hadn’t noticed the switch. You never talked much at dinner anyways.

–

Chan’s concern for you grew by the day.

It had been a week since the last switch. You were back in your apartment now, and Chan felt a surprising amount of relief at knowing you weren’t at your parents’ place anymore. He’d texted you the day after the switch, but you’d brushed him off. You said it was fine, your eomeoni was always like that, it wasn’t that serious, and so on. Chan didn’t believe you.

Chan was worried about a lot of things. He was worried about your friends, your parents, your over-studying, your eating habits, your sleep schedule (if that exhaustion he felt when he first entered your body was anything to go off). He was worried. But he didn’t want to ask you about it, he didn’t want to seem like an overbearing boyfriend. You weren’t even technically dating, since you hadn’t had that conversation yet, hadn’t even met in person, but Chan wondered if being soulmates allowed him to breach those topics.

Still, even being soulmates, Chan never found a time he felt comfortable bringing any of it up. It didn’t help that you primarily talked through text, with calls being few and far between, and text didn’t seem like the right method of communication for this conversation. So he waited.

Chan did the next best thing: he talked to his friends about it. He hated to share your personal issues with them, but they were basically your friends too, he reasoned, and it was important. He was trying to help you.

“Wow, they sound awful,” Jisung said after Chan told them all about his experience with your parents.

“God, no wonder she ran off so fast to call you. She looked really scared,” Felix added, remembering your panicked eyes as you’d jumped off the couch that day.

“I don’t know what to do. Her parents are awful, and so are her friends. Or, at least, the ones I’ve met. I don’t know if she has anyone to lean on, and she won’t talk to me,” Chan explained, defeated. “I don’t know how to help her.”

“You need to see her. In person. Maybe you’d get through to her then,” Hyunjin suggested.

“I really want to, but you know how busy we are right now. I’d need to plan a whole outing, which wouldn’t be able to happen for weeks, and I don’t even know what I’d tell the company,” Chan replied.

“Ah, right. They don’t know,” Changbin said. Chan had decided not to tell anyone but the boys about the soulmark, worrying about what the company might do. Force you two to see each other so the switching would stop and then ban you from seeing each other again? That seemed most likely. JYPE wasn’t exactly the biggest supporter of idol relationships, even if it was soulmates.

The conversation had continued with more suggestions, but it was fruitless. There was nothing Chan could do for you right now. He felt better that the boys knew, though. Maybe next time you switched, they could talk to you for him.

–

You were spiraling. After the week of the cruel and unusual punishment that is your parents’ house, you were finally back at your apartment. You were supposed to be better now that you were back—that’s what you told yourself every day of last week until it was time to come home—but you were failing even at that.

Being back home meant being back at school, so you were immediately back on your grind, staying late at the library to study, or in your kitchen with the lights on late into the night.

You were eating less, too. Much less. You hated to say it, but your eomeoni had gotten to you. The combination of her comments all throughout the week, your friends’ regular digs, and your stress at having Chan as your soulmate broke you. It wasn’t even very difficult, either. You were always in class or studying, so you’d often forget to eat or not notice your hunger anyway.

You were eating less than you ever had before, skipping most meals but always making sure to have just enough in your system to get you through the day. The last thing you wanted was to collapse in front of someone—it was mortifying even to think about.

What spurred you on even more was the encouragement you were receiving. Jiyeon and Nari had stopped you after class again this week, wanting to walk with you and chat, and they both complimented you, saying “girl, you look good!” It was a genuine comment, which threw you for a loop, because you’d never heard an actual compliment from them the entire time you’d known them. Yuna, your closest friend, had also noticed, telling you quite directly that you looked “so skinny, oh my god.”

You were glad. For the compliments, for one, but also for the fact that they didn’t seem to notice the heavy eye bags you tried so hard to cover or the effort it took for you to walk long distances. You were just so tired lately. It was okay, though. Nothing you couldn’t handle.

Chan texted you a lot, which only increased the guilt you felt for putting this on him. You tried your best to brush it off, change the topic, tell him you were doing fine, but he just wouldn’t let it go. You could tell that he was trying to seem unbothered, but the did you eat yet texts every day and the good night, get some rest texts every night gave him away, especially because you knew Chan wasn’t going to bed when he texted you good night. His workaholic tendencies and insomnia kept him up just as late as you, if not later, you were sure.

Chan was so sweet, so caring, and it was getting harder to ignore the voice in your head that told you you didn’t deserve him. It got louder every day, every time he texted you a reminder to eat and you lied that you’d eaten already, every time he asked how your day was and you told him it was great. You were a burden, an exhausted, ugly burden with too many problems and you couldn’t bear the thought of Chan taking them on for you. It wasn’t his job—his job was to be an idol, and he already had plenty on his plate that came with that. You just needed him to stop worrying about you. You could take care of yourself.

–

Last time you and Chan had switched, Chan complained about the timing. Well, the universe must have heard him and decided to one-up itself, because this had to be the worst timing in the world.

He and the rest of the Stray Kids were backstage at an awards show, waiting to perform. They watched in the wings as another group performed. After that, there would be an award and a speech, and then they would go on to perform.

As he stood, half watching and half listening to his members’ whispered conversations with each other, he felt the all too familiar and in this moment, incredibly awful feeling of dizziness that accompanied a body switch.

As soon as he opened his eyes to his new surroundings—the kitchen table of your apartment—a huge wave of exhaustion and hunger and a different, worse kind of dizziness crashed over him, and he was sure he would’ve collapsed to the ground if he weren’t already sitting down.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hands gripping the table, desperate for something to ground himself while he recovered from and adjusted to the drastic change in feeling. He felt something like this last time you’d switched, but it wasn’t anywhere close to this level. When he’d finally recovered enough for thoughts to get through his head again, he swore. Loud and harsh and unlike him, but he couldn’t help it. He’d messed up.

He tried to get through to you, to talk to you, but you kept brushing him off, saying you were fine. And after a while, he started to believe it. At least a little. He could’ve done more, damn it, he should’ve done more. All he’d done for the past two weeks was ask if you were eating and imply for you to go to bed. And for the past two weeks, you’d clearly been lying to him, sending responses only to placate him, to make him believe that you were okay.

But you weren’t okay. And Chan couldn’t help but think that it was all his fault for not noticing.

He needed to do something. He was in your body, right? So what could he do to help? He got his answer from the loud rumble that sounded through your stomach.

Chan slowly stood up, careful not to fall back down onto the chair, and made his way over to your fridge. He internally wondered how you’d gotten anywhere recently, considering how tiring it was just for him to stand up and walk to the fridge.

The fridge was worryingly empty, only holding some fruit and few, scarce leftovers that he assumed were from meals you didn’t finish. He pulled everything out, heating up some old pasta and washing and cutting the fruit into a bowl. If you wouldn’t eat, then he would have to do it for you.

He ate the pasta quickly, the fruit following soon after. His stomach felt better for a second, glad to finally have some real food in it. Then, it flipped. A sudden but strong wave of nausea shot through him, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time before he was puking out everything he’d just eaten. Fuck.

Of course, he was so fucking stupid. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial in who knows how long, so of course your body wouldn’t react well to a sudden influx of food. He wanted to hit himself for being so dumb.

Once he’d finished emptying his stomach and cleaned himself up, the only thing he had enough energy left to do was stumble to the couch and collapse on it. He didn’t know how long he laid there for until a rush of energy woke his body.

He jerked up, suddenly finding himself standing, back at the awards show (dressing room? he registered sluggishly), surrounded by his friends. He must have been so out of it in your body that he didn’t even feel the dizziness. That wasn’t good.

The complete change in feeling jarred him, again, even though it was a change for the better. His legs wobbled and he pitched forward, managing to catch himself on Changbin’s shoulder. His friend, concerned, quickly moved to help support his weight, letting Chan lean on him until he was able to regain his balance.

“Chan? Are you back? What’s wrong?” Changbin asked.

Chan righted himself, taking a step back to look at everyone. They were all sweaty, out of breath, but glowing—aside from their current worry for him. Chan took stock of his own feelings, finding himself to be a bit tired (though compared to what he’d just felt in your body, he actually felt so energetic he could run a marathon) and adrenaline coursed through him, like it always did after a performance. His eyes widened, remembering.

“Did we perform? Did she perform? How did it go?” He asked instead, in a panic now that he had enough energy to feel anything other than exhaustion.

“Wha- Chan, forget about the performance! What happened to you?”

It was apparently clear that Chan was in a state, but he had no care of how he looked right now. All he cared about was you.

“I’m fine, but [Y/N]’s not. She’s not okay, guys. It’s so much worse than I thought, fuck, it’s bad,” he rambled, unable to stop thinking about how awful he felt for the short time he was in your body, how awful you must have felt for weeks without anyone knowing. “I need to find her, I need to help her. Please, we need to go–”

Seungmin gripped his shoulders. “Chan, calm down. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Take a breath.”

“No, you don’t understand!”

Another hand came to rest on his back, rubbing slow circles. His friends talked to him, but the words didn’t make it through to his head. His breaths came out fast and shallow, and he slightly registered someone trying to get him to follow their breathing. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, and what he’d just felt.

Eventually, he came back to himself. Everyone looked extremely worried. For him, his brain supplied, because he’d just had a panic attack.

“I’m okay,” he said, ever the leader, because he absolutely was not okay, but he didn’t want his members worrying for him any more. He heard a chorus of relieved sighs, his friends glad he was finally back and lucid. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Chan,” said Jeongin.

“Yeah, we’re here for you.” Felix.

“Can we do anything to help?” asked Minho. “Tell us what to do and we’ll do it.”

–

You were sitting at your kitchen table trying to study, books and papers spread out in front you, to no avail. You just couldn’t seem to focus, and you knew why. You were tired, dizzy, hungry, and your body protested so much that you couldn’t get anything done. Usually you were okay, you could push through no problem, but today was worse.

You’d had a test this morning, an important one, so last night you’d stayed up studying. You only got an hour of sleep, maybe two, and it was coming back to bite you today. Thankfully, you’d made it through the test and actually thought you did pretty good, but the exhaustion hit you as soon as you stepped out of the classroom. It was probably the relief that did it, the sudden release of tension that allowed all the other feelings you’d pushed away to come back full force.

You pushed the books away from you, giving up. Maybe you should just call it a day and take a nap or something. You could give yourself that, right?

As you decided on what to do, a different kind of dizziness came over you, and your sluggish brain only remembered what that meant just as your vision changed.

You were in a big, dark room, surrounded by people trying to be as quiet as possible. Following the only source of light you could find, you turned to see curtains, and beyond them, a stage.

You weren’t thinking about the connotations of that realization, though, because as soon as the body switch had been completed, a sudden and violent rush of energy crashed into you, feeling more like a bad thing than good with the force of it.

You stumbled but quickly caught yourself, standing still to feel the new energy coursing through your body. It felt amazing. You’d been feeling so bad for the past few weeks that you forgot how it felt to be fully energized, and god, did you miss it. It felt so good that you almost considered stopping your recent habits, but you quickly brushed that thought off. It was working. What you were doing was working, if the compliments you’d received recently had anything to say about it, so you could handle a little tiredness. It was worth it.

You were drawn out of your thoughts as a whispered conversation near you grew louder. You looked back to the stage, finally realizing what that actually meant for you, and paled. You looked down at yourself and found you were wearing very fancy and high-quality clothes. Your hair felt hard, like it had been sprayed in place, and you could feel the makeup on your face.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your head whipped to look at the people closest to you, which happened to be the ones having the whispered conversation. Seungmin and Jeongin. They saw you looking, and mistook your expression for you being mad at them for being loud. “Sorry, Chan,” Jeongin said, quieting down.

You shook your head. “I’m not Chan,” you whispered, voice barely audible. The boys must have heard you, though, because their eyes immediately widened, surprise and worry clear in their gaze.

“Oh, fuck,” Seungmin said, full volume. That drew the attention of the rest of the members, who came over to see what was going on. “It’s [Y/N],” Seungmin explained quietly once everyone had gathered.

A series of gasps sounded from the group.

“What do I do? What are you even performing?” You asked.

“It’s okay. You have that weird muscle memory thing, right? Won’t you know the dance?” Jisung said, hopeful.

“Oh, yeah! Like in dance practice,” Felix said.

“And the interview,” Hyunjin added.

“Um, yeah, I guess so. I just– I’m not super confident in it.”

The boys tried their best to reassure you, but it was clear they were worried as well.

“Well, there’s nothing else we can do. You have to go on, so just do your best,” Minho told you, ever the voice of reason.

“Yeah. You’re right,” you agreed, taking a deep breath. You could do this. You could do this.

In the background, you heard the voice of someone announcing Stray Kids’ performance. The lights dimmed. You walked on stage with the boys, finding your place, whole body shaking. Fuck, this was scary.

Last time, in dance practice, you’d known the moves but messed up where Chan usually messed up—at least, that’s what the boys said. You only hoped that Chan knew this dance well enough for you to not mess up at all right now.

The lights came up, the music started, and your body moved. You didn’t know what you were doing, but you were moving, dancing, singing, an ‘oh thank god’ ringing in your head as you hit every count. You let yourself get carried away in the dance, ignoring the huge audience that, if you paid full attention to, would probably scare you out of your muscle memory.

When the song finally ended, feeling like it had lasted for years, you quickly excited the stage with the rest of the group, out of breath but glowing. You felt incredible. It probably felt even better than it otherwise might have, given that you felt like exactly the opposite of this constantly in your own body. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t worth it. What you were doing to yourself. You didn’t know.

You followed the group to an empty dressing room, being told that you could change and get ready again before heading back out to sit in the audience. Instead of changing, the boys immediately turned to you, cheering and patting your back at a job well done.

You smiled at their praise, but it faded in your ears, replaced by overwhelming dizziness, and then nothing.

It was quiet. Silent. No one was talking anymore. You lifted your head up, seeing your kitchen table, and winced as your exhaustion slammed back into you. Well, great. You were back now. Yay.

Really though, you were happy to be back, if at least it meant that Chan wasn’t suffering anymore. You didn’t deserve to feel happy and energetic if it meant that he felt like this. You chose to do this to yourself, so you would be the one to deal with it. Not Chan.

You stood up slowly, carefully, and walked to your bedroom. You had done enough today. You’d allow yourself a break, an early bedtime. It was Friday, too, so no classes tomorrow. You collapsed on your covers, falling asleep before you could even crawl under the blankets.

When you woke up, it was to three missed calls and ten messages, all from Chan. Whoops. You scrolled through them, reading them with eyes still bleary from sleep.

Are you okay?

Please call me back

[Y/N], I’m worried about you

Please just answer the phone

Are you sleeping?

Just text me if you’re reading these

I’m here for you

You can tell me if something is wrong

[Y/N]

Please answer

Oh, shit. You checked the time. It was eleven in the morning. Shit, you never slept this late. Thank god it was the weekend.

Chan had called you three times last night and sent half the texts. Then he’d texted the last few at eight in the morning. Fuck, he’d been worried about you all night? You hated that you slept through it all.

You quickly typed out a response, not trusting yourself to be able to keep up the act if you talked to him directly.

I’m fine

I’m sorry, I was asleep. I just saw all of these

I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m okay though

Chan’s response came immediately, like he’d been staring at his phone, waiting for a reply. Honestly, he probably was.

Are you sure?

When we switched yesterday, it just seemed like

Well, I don’t know. You just didn’t seem okay

You almost started crying at how nice he was being. He didn’t need to care this much about you. No one else did. You needed him to stop caring.

I swear I’m fine

You don’t need to worry about me, I can take care of myself

Chan took longer to reply this time. His speech bubble popped up and disappeared multiple times before he finally replied with a simple, okay.

You sighed and set down your phone, feeling relieved but also strangely guilty. You got what you wanted—Chan to stop worrying, stop asking if you were okay, at least for now. But you really didn’t like lying to him. Hopefully if he stopped asking, you’d stop needing to lie.

You crawled out of bed, feeling much better than yesterday after all the sleep you’d gotten. You still felt the ever-present rumble in your stomach, but that wasn’t anything new.

Yesterday was one of your worst days, which was mainly just because of the stress and lack of sleep due to the test you had. You usually were much more functional. You felt bad that Chan had experienced that particular day in your life—it wasn’t a good example to go off of.

You walked to the bathroom, beginning your morning routine. You washed your face, did your skincare, and ate a granola bar for breakfast. You got dressed in comfy clothes, not having the need nor the energy to look cute today. Then, you set off to the library. You needed to find a specific book to help with an essay you were working on.

You brought your laptop to the library with you, thinking that the quiet and calming ambience of the building would help you get some essay writing done after you’d located the book. You were right, and you ended up staying in the library for much longer than you’d planned.

By the time you returned home, bag heavy with your laptop and books—okay, so maybe you’d gotten carried away while looking for that one book—your stomach was growling much louder now, upset at being ignored for so long. You paid no attention to it.

You set your bag down and promptly dropped yourself down on the couch, not quite tired enough to call it a ‘collapse’ but still pretty close. You sunk into the comfort of the fluffy pillows, but your relaxation time was soon ended with a knock at your door.

Your eyebrows furrowed. Who would be knocking on your door right now? Your friends weren’t really the type for spontaneous hang-outs, at least not without texting first. You stood up on shaky legs and padded over to the door, opening it.

You were greeted with a very familiar face.

“Chan?” you asked, eyes raking over his gorgeous frame. Everything you’d seen online and in the mirror when you were him—perfect skin, dreamy eyes, and literally everything else about him because he was perfect, despite the mask and hood he currently wore—was now directly in front of you, and my god was he even more incredible to see in person.

Once you’d finished admiring Chan’s beauty, you started to wonder why he was actually here. He seemed incredibly nervous, his eyes were wide and concerned, and he was here standing in your doorway oh my god what was Chan doing at your apartment? He’d said okay, you thought that meant he’d drop the subject, not find where you live and meet you on a random Saturday!

Chan said nothing, instead stepping forward and engulfing you in the most comforting hug you’d ever felt. You froze for a second, surprised, but quickly melted into it, wrapping your arms around him. He held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You felt the unmistakable feeling of your soulmate bond running through you, especially strong now that you were physically meeting and touching each other. Now that you had met, you two would never switch bodies again.

As you stood in your doorway, wrapping in Chan’s embrace, you allowed yourself a moment of happiness. You felt good in his arms. Safe.

He finally let you go, seemingly less nervous than before. You let him into your apartment, not wanting anyone to walk by and recognize him, or even just wonder why you were hugging a random man outside your door.

When you’d closed the door behind him and stood to face him directly, mask and hood off, he finally spoke.

“[Y/N].” Your name sounded like a prayer on his lips. You stood still, waiting to see what he was going to say. Was something wrong? Did he come find you just to stop switching bodies, because it was such a hassle? Was he going to break up with you, if there was even anything to break? The suspense was killing you. Then, he smiled. “You’re even more gorgeous in person.”

Oh. You were not expecting that.

You let out a startled laugh, a self-deprecating smile forming on your face. “What?” You asked, looking down at the sweatpants and ratty crewneck you’d thrown on this morning. You didn’t have any makeup on, your hair was down but definitely frizzy and tangled, and you were wearing your glasses instead of your regular contacts because, like you’d thought this morning, there was no need to look cute today. You were an insane contrast to the effortlessly beautiful man that stood across from you, so much so that his compliment was literally laughable. You couldn’t keep the disbelief from your voice when you spoke.

Chan’s smile dropped at that, eyebrows furrowing as he stepped closer to you, raising a hand to cup your face. He tilted your head up, making you look at him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “You are.” The look in his eyes as he said it was hard to argue with.

“Oh – Okay,” you stuttered. “You’re also, um. Well. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever seen in my life, I think,” you rambled out, your nerves making you spew out every thought in your head, no matter how embarrassing or badly worded. Chan just chuckled, murmuring out a ‘thanks,’ but you could tell by the slight flush of his cheeks that he felt similar to you.

“What are you—I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you, because I absolutely am, but—what are you doing here?” You asked.

“I needed to see you,” he replied. “I just – I was worried. About you.” The way he said it made you think there was more to the explanation that he wasn’t saying.

“Chan, that’s so sweet, but I told you. I’m fine, there’s no need to worry,” you told him. “Besides, aren’t you, like, a famous idol? Isn’t there some event or practice you need to be in right now?” You didn’t mean to sound like you were trying to push him out, but you didn’t like him being so worried over you. It was embarrassing, really, that he was so worried about something that was so not serious.

“No,” Chan replied, a tad aggressively. He looked hurt, or like he was hurting for you. “No, [Y/N], I’m supposed to be here right now. I got them to let me come because I’m worried about you. Rightfully. Because you’re not fine,” he said, gaining steam as he talked. You were too shocked at how serious he seemed to be on the matter to interrupt. “[Y/N], what I felt when we switched yesterday—that’s not fine. That’s not normal! I – I’d never felt so bad before, and you – you feel like that all the time? That’s not fine, you’re not fine.”

You stood, frozen, as Chan argued. He was worried, stressed. About you. You felt your heart constrict, some unknown feeling flooding through you. No one had ever cared this much. No one had ever even sent a text to check in when you were sick, much less track you down to find you and help you even after being told you were fine and could handle yourself.

Chan cared about you. The realization hit you like a train. He didn’t think you were ugly, he didn’t loathe the fact that he had a soulmate or that you were his soulmate. He didn’t think you were a burden, he didn’t come find you just so you would stop switching bodies. You’d never even met before, only texted for like a month, and he still cared about you so much that he dropped everything after finding out something was wrong to find and help you.

Tears welled in your eyes, and you didn’t have the energy to try to stop them or blink them away. You didn’t have the energy to do anything. You were so tired, so hungry. You’d been doing such a good job at ignoring all the pain and exhaustion you felt for weeks, but now the floodgates were open and everything was rushing out. All it took was a few sentences from Chan, and everything was coming out.

Chan had been waiting for a response from you, it seemed, because he’d just been staring and looking deep into your expression the entire time you’d stood still, thoughts running rampant in your head. Because of his focus, he noticed the second that tears began rolling down your face. He lurched forward, hands coming up to cup your face and thumbs moving under your glasses to wipe away the tears.

As soon as you felt his skin against yours, you went limp. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. You fell into him, and he caught you, hands shooting down to hold your waist, steadying you. When it was clear that you would not be regaining your balance any time soon, Chan carefully picked you up and carried you to the couch.

“It’s okay, baby,” he reassured softly. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you, you can let it out. It’s okay.” He rubbed circles on your back with one hand, the other brushing your hair from your face as you cried into his shoulder. You were curled into his side on the couch, leaning fully against him with your head buried in between his neck and shoulder.

He held you until your cries stopped and your breath evened out, not saying anything until you lifted your head to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. You didn’t know what to say. You looked at his shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “I’m sorry,” you let out, voice hoarse from crying. You weren’t sure if the sorry was for the shirt or for forcing him to comfort you as you sobbed.

“No, baby, don’t apologize,” Chan replied, and you didn’t know when or why he started calling you ‘baby’ but you’d definitely be lying if you said you didn’t like it. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah."

“Good,” he smiled, arm still slung around your back, his hand now rubbing soothingly up and down your arm. You weren’t sure if he even knew he was doing it.

“So you–” you hesitated, unsure. You took a deep breath. “You don’t have anywhere else to be? You can – you can stay?” You weren’t used to being so open, so vulnerable with anyone. But with Chan, you felt like you could be.

Chan hummed in agreement. “Nowhere to be,” he said, “I’m staying right here.”

“Yeesh, I’m feeling that breakfast burrito comin’ up,” Han Jisung comments from beside you, flashlight shining on the corpse ahead, expression contorted into disgust.

“Good thing I didn’t eat when I got the call,” You mutter, the half mortified boy cringing as more members of the unit step forward, capturing photos before the scene is uprooted. 

After all, Igor Hill—with a tunnel built inside just below the road—was a daily passageway for school kids, meaning each second spent here was a ticking time bomb, scrambling to collect as much evidence as possible before traversing destroys what’s currently untouched. 

Left waiting, you allow other members of the scene documentation team to take charge after the coroner left before stepping in to investigate yourself, your job being collecting samples for Trace.

“And to think Bahng’s out for his kid’s ballet recital, talk about a one-eighty.”

It’s hard not to chuckle when Han brings up KCSI’s Supervisor, nodding in agreement. The world of crime isn’t to be underestimated; like some sort of double life behind a wall of periwinkle fantasy.

Evil will always exist, an explanation as to how the Korean Crime Scene Investigation team came to be in the first place. 

“..Let’s just hope seeing a tutu will help burn those images from your eyes.”

Mere moments later does Jeongin pipe up, currently on his half a year mark interning and proving himself more than viable on both field and lab work.

Han, on the other hand, is still getting adjusted to the stench of a decomp, taking plentiful breaks a ways from the scene whilst the shutter of cameras lights the otherwise darkened tunnel.

“You’re on evidence today too, Miss Y/N?”

And polite as ever. The team’s sweetheart, in summary. 

Your nod suffices, offering a meager smile before beckoning him by your side as Hyunjin and Seungmin step away, checking in with a lingering Minho—team leader and occasional asshole—with cleared sketches and physical evidence captured to be logged before your section steps in. 

Truth be told, you had thought the man was out for you that first year on your job; always critiquing your work, triple-checking the basics he only double-checked for others. A higher standard only applying to you, and downright vicious.

In easier terms: a stark pain in the ass.

Worst part? He’s team leader, meaning there’s no way you can not run into him.

Getting warrants, finding leads. It all ties back to Lee Minho.

As for right now, hundreds of photos have been taken, all to be sent back to the lab and carefully handled by forensics for prints.

“How’s the field treating you?” Your voice cuts in, gloved hand venturing through the victim’s pockets in search of identification. An action simultaneously silencing the maelstrom of thoughts rushing through your head and calming the itch to flip that self-righteous jerk—whose eyes are currently boring into your back where he leans against the car—off.

In front of you, Jeongin’s heavy sigh expresses the words he can’t say. Glancing up while bagging lingering hairs for Trace, the quirk of his brow asks a silent: ‘Any luck?’. Responding with a miniature shake of your head, you opt for squatting to begin upon seemingly endless cargo pants pockets. 

Aha.

“‘Guess our killer didn’t care too much for identification of the body.” A click of your tongue, haphazardly wetting your lips whilst lifting the retrieved wallet up to your flashlight.

Jeongin assists in snapping a photo.

“Yoon Bo-gum. Asian male, born January 17th, 2001. South Korean citizen, 182 centimeters in height.”

Jeongin whistles, sucking in a sharp breath. Sympathy paints his features while you extend the ID, the man slow to take it in hand.

“Just turned twenty-four.. damn.”

True enough, the anguish is shared. Because no matter the day, hour, minute, cruelty will exist in the most ugly of forms. Live exhibitions of foul intent taken to the next level.

“Tape on the wrists, mouth. Eyes lift uncovered.”

Speaking helps not only for your recollection, but to ward off the nausea building in the back of your throat.

No matter how many cases you work, it never feels as if you’re prepared enough to witness a homicide.

“Says the killer was a masochist,” Jeongin piques, tongue poking at his cheek in contemplation. “Either the killer knew he was gonna whack the guy, or was psycho enough he wanted the victim-“

A glance back to the ID.

“—wanted Bo-gum to see it.” 

A heavy exhale through your nose staunches mortification from dizzying your head.

“Only bodily fluids found were urine, likely due to state of panic. As for cause of death, we’ll get a preliminary C.O.D from Seungmin in autopsy. But right now-“

Busying your hands with unbuttoning the victim’s jacket, all words get caught in your throat as the last button falls undone.

Suicide ruled out for certain.

“Jeongin.”

Perhaps the way you say the words, perhaps the dread in your tone—so different from the calmness you usually operate with, prompted the swift lift of his head.

One, five, ten. Nineteen, thirty-eight. Fifty, one hundred-

“I count one-hundred and forty-three stab wounds.”

The next breath is shaky—nerves on overload.

“This wasn’t just homicide. It was manic.”

“Hey, Jisung,” you laughed, hugging him back. “Congrats on the new album, by the way. You guys worked so hard, I’m proud of you guys.”

His face lit up as he grinned widely. “Thanks. That means a lot. Also,” he gestured over his shoulder, “I won’t be home tonight. Gonna crash over at Chan hyung’s place, we’ll be going over some lyrics.”

You nodded, as you entered the apartment. “Got it. Have fun.”

He leaned closer with a mock-serious expression. “But please… keep some of your pasta leftovers for me. Don’t let Minho hyung eat it all.”

You snorted. “Obviously. I wouldn’t dare let him finish it before you get some.”

Han grinned in satisfaction, giving you a little salute before heading out. “You’re the best. Bye, see you later.”

And with that, the door closed behind him, leaving you alone — or so you thought, until three familiar shadows came rushing toward your feet, meowing loudly in greeting.

“Soonie! Doongie! Dori!” you gasped, nearly dropping the groceries as they circled your legs, meowing loudly. You crouched down immediately, showering them with affection. “I missed my babies so much!”

Soonie rolled onto his back demanding belly rubs, Doongie pawed at your sleeve until you gave him chin scratches, and Dori climbed halfway up your leg just to be held. It took you a whole ten minutes to greet them properly before you remembered you needed to cook dinner.

You carried the groceries to the kitchen, humming softly as you started unpacking ingredients. Your plan was simple: take care of Minho tonight, cook for him, and spend the rest of the weekend curled up together with no distractions.

The moment you heard the door click again, your heart jumped. “Jagiya!”

He barely had time to put his shoes away before you were in his arms. He wrapped you up tightly, burying his face into your neck as if he’d been starved of your presence.

“Missed you so much,” he murmured, cupping your face with both hands. His eyes were soft, almost desperate, as he leaned in to kiss you. Once, twice — then again, slower this time, like he was memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, kissing him back with just as much longing.

But just as things started to heat up, a loud meow broke through the air.

Soonie had leapt onto the counter, tail flicking indignantly, while Doongie and Dori wound around Minho’s legs. Minho groaned against your lips.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered, glaring at his cats. “Can’t I kiss my girlfriend without an audience?”

You laughed, petting Soonie’s head. “They missed me too, Min.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, pulling you back into his chest possessively, “you’re mine, not theirs.”

*********

Dinner was no better.

You tried feeding Minho a bite of food, but Dori leapt onto the table and stole the spotlight. You leaned over to wipe sauce off Minho’s lips, but Soonie pushed his face between you, demanding to be pet. Every moment you tried to be romantic, one of the cats swooped in like a fluffy third wheel.

By the time you both settled on the couch with a blanket, Minho’s patience had worn thin.

You cuddled into his side happily, only for Doongie to jump directly into your lap, purring like an engine. Then Soonie climbed onto the back of the couch and draped himself around your shoulders, while Dori tried to worm under the blanket with you.

Minho looked at the scene, deadpan. “Seriously? Can’t I have five minutes alone with my girlfriend?”

You giggled, scratching Doongie’s head. “They’re just cozy.”

“They’re cockblocking me,” Minho muttered darkly, earning another burst of laughter from you.

Finally, he’d had enough. With surprising speed, he scooped Soonie off your shoulders, plopped Doongie onto the opposite couch cushion, and slid Dori to the other end of the blanket.

“There,” he said firmly, wrapping both arms around you and tugging you against his chest. “Mine.”

You blinked at him in amusement. “Minho—”

“No.” His lips brushed your ear, his voice low and possessive. “I waited an entire week for you. I cooked for you last time, you’re cooking for me tonight. You’re my girlfriend, not theirs.”

Your cheeks warmed at his seriousness, though his glare at the cats made you bite back laughter. “Are you really jealous of your own babies?”

He kissed you, slow and deliberate, cutting off your teasing. “Mm. Call it what you want. But this weekend, you’re mine so no interruptions.”

Of course, the moment he deepened the kiss, a loud meow rang out, and Dori wedged himself between you again.

Minho groaned dramatically. “I swear they’re doing this on purpose.”

You laughed so hard you had to push against Minho’s chest. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

His eyes narrowed. “I raised them, and this is how they repay me? Traitors.”

Eventually though, the chaos settled. One by one, the cats stretched out and curled up in warm little piles, their purrs softening into silence. Soonie was sprawled in his cat bed, Doongie had tucked himself into a corner, and even Dori had finally given up and dozed off.

Minho leaned back, letting out a sigh of relief, and turned to look at you. His expression softened instantly, eyes filled with that fondness that made your heart flip.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I could spend a hundred more nights like this and still feel like it’s never enough. I just… I really missed you.”

Your cheeks warmed as he leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Minho…”

Gently, so as not to disturb the peace, he scooped up each cat and placed them carefully in their beds, whispering, “Good night, little troublemakers.”

Then he returned to the couch, immediately tugging you into his arms. “Finally,” he sighed contentedly, hugging you close.

The two of you stayed like that for hours, chatting softly about everything and nothing — work, memories, silly jokes that only the two of you found funny. Time melted away until your eyelids grew heavy and you found yourself dozing against his chest.

Minho smiled down at you, his hand stroking your hair gently. “Sleep well, love.”

Carefully, he slipped his arms beneath you, carrying you bridal-style to his bedroom. He tucked you beneath the blankets, sliding in beside you a moment later, wrapping you in the warmth of his embrace.

This time, there were no interruptions — just Minho, you, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into dreams.

*********

The next morning, you woke slowly to the faint smell of coffee and the softest weight on your chest. Cracking your eyes open, you were immediately greeted by Soonie’s big round eyes staring right at you.

“Good morning to you too, handsome,” you mumbled, scratching his ears.

Before you could move, Dori trotted across the bed and plopped down beside your head, batting at your hair. Doongie was curled neatly against your hip.

You sighed with a fond smile. “You guys… I can’t even get up.”

Just then, the door opened. Minho stepped in, holding a tray containing coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. His hair was messy from sleep, but his eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of you surrounded by cats.

“…Unbelievable,” he muttered.

You laughed. “Good morning to you too, Min.”

He set the tray on the nightstand and then he crossed his arms, glaring at his three cats. “You really had to hog her the second she woke up?”

Soonie blinked at him, unimpressed.

Minho huffed and started gently scooping them off one by one. “Off. Out. You had her all last night, I get her now.”

“Minho!” you laughed, watching as he deposited Doongie at the foot of the bed and nudged Dori onto the floor. Soonie gave a dramatic meow of protest before being moved.

“There,” Minho said with finality, sliding back into bed and pulling you into his arms before you could protest. “Mine.”

You snorted. “Are you really competing with your cats for my love?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, tucking his face into your neck. “They got your attention all night. I only got, what, 40%? Not acceptable.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re ridiculous.”

But his voice softened, sincere now. “I just… missed you too much. A week without you felt like forever.”

That melted you instantly. You cupped his face, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks, and kissed him slowly. “I missed you too, Min.”

The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your waist only to be interrupted by a sharp thump.

Dori had jumped right back onto the bed and pushed Minho’s face.

Minho froze, then groaned so dramatically you nearly choked on your laughter. “I’m locking them out. I swear to God, just for today.”

“Baby—” you tried, but he was serious. 

He scooped Dori up and carried him to the door, muttering, “She’s my girlfriend. Mine. You three can deal with it for one morning.”

You fell back against the pillows, laughing so hard your stomach hurt, until Minho came back and climbed over you, pinning you to the mattress.

“No more interruptions,” he said firmly, kissing you again.

And this time, for once, the cats stayed quiet.

-------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

He reads the casting sheet the same moment you do, and for a glorious second, you think he might refuse.

Instead, he just lets out a soft, flat, “Wow.”

You glance at him. “Did you do something to deserve this?”

He smiles without looking at you. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

The first few rehearsals are about as productive as trying to teach your grandparents about the internet.

You don’t agree on anything. He thinks the piece needs “attitude,” but you want elegance. He wants sharp staccato energy, and you want flow and control. He calls your choreography “safe,” and you call his “a cry for attention.” The only thing you can agree on is that neither of you wants to lose to the other.

Minho tosses a towel over his shoulder and glares at your sketchbook. “We’re not doing another eight-count of walking around each other. That’s not dancing.”

You cross your arms. “I’m building tension.”

“You’re building boredom.”

You snap your notebook shut. “Fine. Then you choreograph the middle section.”

He raises a brow. “Didn’t know you were so easy to defeat.”

You throw your hair into a ponytail, murder in your eyes. “Didn’t know you needed constant attention to function like a normal human being.”

He shrugs. “You do know that. I’ve been like this the whole time.” Oddly enough, that argument results in one of your better rehearsals.

You both storm off, come back the next day with fresh ideas, and begrudgingly admit to liking each other’s changes. The dance starts to take shape. It’s moody, layered, physical. Lots of push-and-pull. Tension. Close contact. All very intense.

Unfortunately, that means a lot of time spent in close proximity. Minho leans over your shoulder when reviewing choreography, and you shove him away with your elbow. He insists on holding eye contact during a lift, which makes it impossible for you to focus, and you roll your eyes everytime he smirks, and he just smirks harder. It’s both exhausting and addictive.

The first time he shows up to rehearsal early, you nearly drop your bag in surprise. He’s already stretching with his earbuds in, focused.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t know you knew how to be on time.”

He pulls one earbud out. “Didn’t know you needed the studio all to yourself to rehearse properly.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

“You didn’t have to.” He pats the floor beside him. “Come on. We’ve got thirty minutes before the piano kids kick us out.”

You almost don’t sit down, but you do end up doing it anyways. And for the first time, there’s no sniping. No sarcasm. Just stretches. Music. Breathing. In, and out. Rhythmic. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell he noticed you’re not rolling your eyes as much anymore.You notice he’s not trying so hard to provoke you, either.

Week three is different. The jokes soften. He still pokes fun at your serious face, but it’s quieter now, almost fond. You laugh when he screws up his counts—actually laugh, not in a petty way. He catches your wrist during a tricky lift and steadies you with a look that makes your pulse stutter. There’s a moment during a run-through—you're chest to chest, his hand at the nape of your neck, your breath catching in your throat—and for a second, neither of you moves. The music fades, the room emptying into silence. He doesn’t step back. You don’t either. Then someone walks in late, and you both spin away like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. You felt it, and still do as you pretend to practice a part by yourself.

The day before the performance, rehearsal ends late.

Everyone else has cleared out. The lights are dimmed. You’re both still in the studio, legs dangling off the edge of the mirror platform, sharing a half-empty bottle of water. He’s quiet, which is odd. You glance over. “You’re not making fun of me. Should I be worried?”

He shrugs. “Just… thinking.”

You raise a brow. “About?”

He meets your gaze. “What happens after tomorrow.”

You hesitate. “With the dance?”

“With… this.”

You swallow. “You mean the arguing? Or the dance?”

He just looks at you, and you feel it again—that shift, that delicious pull.

You look away first. “We should run the lifts again tomorrow. Just once. For timing.”

He nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

Neither of you moves to get up.

You don’t see him before you go on stage. He’s somewhere backstage, probably fixing his hair or rehearsing in the wings. Your stomach is a knot of nerves—not just for the performance, but because you know things have changed, and you don’t know what to do about it.

Then he’s there, suddenly at your side, eyes flicking up to yours.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod.

He studies you for a second too long, like he wants to say something else. Instead he just gestures toward the curtain, and speaks through a smirk. “Let’s give them something to remember.”

The performance is the cleanest it’s ever been.

Every beat, every spin, every lift—flawless. It’s like muscle memory now.

But what makes it electric isn’t just the technique. It’s the way your eyes catch on his in the middle of the routine, the way he spins you in and doesn’t let go for a second too long, the way you feel it—not just the choreography, but the charge. The unspoken thing neither of you has dared to name.

The final pose comes—his arm around your waist, your hand against his shoulder, the breath of space between your faces. The audience erupts. But you’re only aware of him.

Backstage is chaos.

Everyone’s congratulating each other, music’s still playing, costumes are everywhere. But Minho finds you in the middle of it all.

“You were good,” he says simply.

“So were you.”

There’s a long pause.

Then you both laugh at the same time, full of relief... nerves.... and something you can't name.

“I guess we’re done being enemies,” you say.

He tilts his head. “Were we ever?”

You nudge his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirks. “I won’t. Not yet.”

Then, after a beat, his eyes glint with something quieter, less showy.

“Wanna get dinner?” he asks. “Just us. Call it a… post-war treaty celebration.”

Dinner is casual—no big production. Just the little diner near the studio. You're both still in performance clothes, slightly sweaty, slightly euphoric. But the energy has changed.

Minho sits across from you in the booth, one arm draped along the back of the seat, watching you like he’s memorizing something.

“You always eat your fries in pairs?” he asks. You glance up mid-bite. “You always ask weird questions to avoid saying what you really want to say?”

He grins, slow. “Maybe.”

“What do you want to say?”

He leans in just a little. “That you’re trouble.”

You blink. “That’s what you want to say?”

“I said what I wanted. Not what I should.” You dip a fry in ketchup. “And what should you say?” “That I want to see what you look like when you’re not trying so hard to win.”

You pause. Chew slower. Your face feels warm.

“I’m still winning,” you murmur.

“Oh, I know,” he says, licking salt off his thumb. “That’s half the problem.”

It’s late, and you should probably say goodnight after dinner—but you don’t. Not when Minho leans back in the booth with that too-casual smirk and says, “You wanna come over?”

He plays it off like it’s nothing. Like it’s a casual offer.

But there’s something in his eyes that says he’s hoping you'll say yes.

You do.

Because suddenly, you’re not sure if the butterflies in your stomach are from adrenaline… or from him.

He didn’t think you’d actually say yes. Not that he didn’t want you to, but he figured you’d still be playing hard to get. That you’d toss him one more sarcastic jab, roll your eyes, and make him work for it.

But when you nod and say, “Yeah. Okay,” all soft and a little smug, he swears his heart skips.

Minho’s apartment is neat. Not sterile-clean, just… intentional. Like he prepared for this.

Like he wanted this.

You kick your shoes off and he tosses you a hoodie. You roll your eyes and pull it over your head anyway.

It smells like him—soap and something crisp, something warm.

You’re not going to tell him how good it feels to wear it. You have a reputation to protect, afterall.

You in his hoodie should not be as devastating as it is.

But something about seeing you in his space, his clothes, on his couch—it hits different. It sinks under his skin and stays there.

He tells himself to chill. To just watch the movie. But you keep laughing at the dumbest scenes, and it keeps making him look at your mouth. And your mouth keeps making him think of kissing you again.

So when you shift to lean closer, and your leg brushes his—

He gives in.

It’s not really a surprise when it happens. You’ve been circling each other all night. Sparks tripping every time you got too close.

It’s easy. Natural.

His hand finds yours first—fingertips grazing lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t.

You look up at him. His lips hover near yours like he’s waiting for a sign. You kiss him before he can even say anything.

Her lips are soft. Warmer than he expected. Sweeter than any of the daydreams he tried to shove away.

She kisses like she argues—confident, focused, just a little smug.

He’s ruined, and he knows it.

Somewhere between the second kiss and the third, you find yourself in his lap, hoodie pushed halfway up your thighs, fingers tangled in his hair.

He kisses you like he’s making up for lost time, but it’s not desperate—it’s deliberate, like he’s trying to learn you, piece by piece.

He pauses only once, lips barely brushing yours. “You okay?”

You nod. Pull him back in.

You feels like fire and satin under his hands. Her breathy laugh against his neck sends sparks right through his chest.

Everything she does makes him want more—but it’s not just about touching her. It’s about knowing her, how she melts when he drags his knuckles up her sides, how she hums into the kiss like it’s the only thing grounding her, how she tastes like confidence and cinnamon.

He could get used to this.

He wants to get used to this.

Later—curled into the couch cushions, Minho’s hoodie back on, your body warm and buzzing—you feel more relaxed than you have in weeks.

He doesn’t say much. Just runs his fingers up and down your spine in slow, lazy strokes.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s full, like you’ve both been waiting to exhale.

You’re in his hoodie. In his space. Tangled up with him like it’s where you belong.

He watches you from the corner of his eye. Messy hair. Bare legs. The ghost of a smile still playing at your lips.

He doesn’t want to ruin it by saying something dumb.

So he just lets his fingers trace your spine, memorizing the curve of it. The way your breath hitches when he hits a ticklish spot.

He’s never really believed in timing, but something about this—about you—feels like it finally landed right.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“So… does this mean I’m in your good graces now?”

You give a sleepy smile against his chest. “Temporarily.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Figures.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “But it’s a start.”

Your eyes are tired, your voice soft, and you're looking at him like he did win something after all.

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek and tucks it behind your ear.

“Then I guess I better keep earning it.”

And he means it.

Every word.

hope you enjoyed <33

todays playlist....

down bad by taylor swift, livin on a prayer by jon bovi, put your records on by corinne bailey rae, potions by dua lipa, this is me trying by taylor swift, rush by troye sivan, pinkpanthress, and hyunjin, megaverse by stray kids, don't do that by leellamarz, supernatural by newjeans, how bad can i be from the lorax 😭, spicy by aespa, 3D by jungkook and jack harlow, better days by mae muller and polo g, this is why we can't have nice things by taylor swift, sharks by imagine dragons, end of an era by dua lipa

*bold is explicit*

taglist: @rockstarkkami @sirloncelot-of-bananas @jisunggy @me-on-a-archive @hyunjiiza @hyuneskkami @highway-143 @hvseunq143 @chimmyn0chu @sadeeeeee @qwonyoung23 @jesuisstay@stilldontknowhoiam @katsukis1wife @beal-o @finding-nikaa (im pretty sure i missed somebody so hopefully they see this)

perm taglist is open! please comment/send an ask/dm if you would like to be added <3