Tita

Y/N nodded. “Just missed you. Wanted a hug.” 

“Yeah? C'mere then … “ 

She let herself be pulled into his grip once more, tucking her head beneath Chris's chin as he rubbed her back with his delicate hands. He pressed tender kisses to her temple and down the side of her face as her breathing slowed, and for a moment, they just stood there in the middle of his studio, with only the dull hum of Chris's electronics accompanying them.

“Where's your tea?” Chris asked her then, frowning in confusion.

“Oh,” Y/N pulled back and rubbed at her face, smiling sheepishly. “Drank it. It went cold and I was talking to Lix and i just … gulped it down.”

At that, Chris chuckled. “You bumped into Lix? Thought he had a shoot.” 

“He does,” Y/N nodded. “He said he needed to get something. He's gone now though.”

“That kid,” Chris shook his head with a soft sigh. “He's gonna work himself to exhaustion.” 

“Look who's talking.” 

Chris tutted. “He's working way harder than me right now.” 

“At least he gets sleep. You, on the other hand?”

Groaning, Chris distracted her by pulling her into another hug. “I was gonna come find you, you know. Since you've already finished your tea … fancy getting some food?”

Y/N rested her chin against his chest as she looked up to his face. “You mean like … go out?”

“Mhm. Or we can order - whatever you want.”

“A walk could be nice.” 

Chris grinned. His lips brushed her forehead. “Whatcha fancy eating?” 

Y/N paused. She blinked up at him as a sudden image popped into her head, filling her stomach with loud rumbles.

“Pho,” she said softly. 

His entire face lighting up, Chris squeezed Y/N's cheeks. “Pho? Really? You're not just saying that because it's my favourite?”

Y/N giggled. “That's a bonus. I just … really feel like eating it right now.” 

She craved its soothing comfort. It was like a massive hug in a bowl, and in that moment, it was all Y/N wanted.

“Okay,” Chris kissed her nose. “Pho it is.”

“Without leafy bits,” Y/N said.

“Mhm. Without leafy bits,” Chris nodded with a tender smile, already knowing her preferences.

“And no onions.”

“No onions.” 

“Or ginger.”

“Oh, of course not. No evil ginger.”

“Just meat and noodles.”

Chuckling, Chris planted a kiss to her lips before slipping his hand into hers. “Come on, weirdo. Let's go get you your noodles.” 

                                       ☆

Y/N quietly stirred around her large bowl with her soup spoon. She watched as the noodles spun around the broth, creating soft ripples in the clear surface, tiny bubbles forming and bursting with the movement.

Chewing on a tender piece of meat, Chris silently glanced at Y/N sitting opposite him. The awkward set to her shoulders was hard to miss, as was the subtle crease between her eyebrows - she hadn't spoken since they had sat down a little over five minutes ago, and Chris couldn't help but continue to stare. 

“Are you okay?” He broke the quietude finally, nudging the toe of his shoe against hers under the table. He adopted a crooked smile. “Rogue mint leaf find its way into your bowl?”

Y/N smiled. “No. It's perfectly clear.”

“Perfectly bland, you mean,” Chris teased. 

“Yeah. Tastes better without it.” 

“Mmm … nope.” 

“Yep.”

“I disagree.”

“Well, you're wrong.” 

Chuckling, Chris shook his head and scooped up some of the still steaming broth into his spoon. “I probably just have inferior taste. Yours is obviously way better.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you letting me win?”

He shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Maybe. Is it making you feel better?” 

Smiling softly as she looked down into her bowl, Y/N grew quiet again. The inside of her skull was causing a ruckus, one that she didn't quite know how to silence. It wasn't like she was hiding anything from Chris … there wasn't anything to hide anyway. She always told him everything - not because she felt like she had to, but because he paid so much attention to her that she always felt as if the stupidest of words to escape her mouth were dear to him. Chris had a way of making her feel heard, something she hadn't been used to before meeting him - but still, this time, she couldn't quite find the words. 

“Got a text today,” Y/N said quietly after another long while. “From an old friend.” 

Chris blinked. “Is that what's been bothering you?”

She shrugged. 

“Which friend?” 

Biting her lip, Y/N stared at her face reflected in her broth. “Alex.” 

“Alex?” Chris cocked his head to the side in question. “I thought you hadn't spoken in a few years?” 

“We haven't. He just appeared out of nowhere.”

“What did he say?” 

“He wanted to meet up for coffee,” Y/N exhaled, prodding at her noodles. “And he told me he used to like me when we were back at school.”

“Oh,” Chris chuckled. “Okay.”

Y/N blinked. “Okay? That's it?”

“Yeah?” 

“You're not bothered by that?” 

Surprised, Chris leaned back in his seat. “Why would I be bothered by that? Honestly, baby girl … I'm not surprised. You're the kind of woman anyone would be lucky to have - of course people liked you. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole school liked you.” 

Flushing beet red, Y/N looked away. “That's not true. I wasn't really likeable at school.” 

“Well, Alex liked you,” Chris pointed out. “Probably still does.” 

Y/N's stomach lurched. She knew he did. That was the problem.

“Did you ever like him?” Chris asked casually. 

“No,” Y/N shook her head. “He wasn't my type.”

“I wasn't your type.”

“You were my type deep down without me knowing it,” Y/N said. “The complete opposite of what I thought my type was when I wasn't in the best headspace. Alex is neither of those things. He's … kind, but bland.” 

“Bland?” Chris scoffed, mirth filling his features. “What do you mean?” 

“Just … he wasn't someone that felt intriguing, you know? Like everything about him is open on the surface - like he's a completely open book. He was a good friend but the idea of being with him romantically used to make me want to throw up. I used to call him a vanilla pod … because he was just so … vanilla.”

Chris spluttered on his soup. “As opposed to kinky?”

“He tried to tell me once he could easily throw me around because he was so tall compared to me. I said he was so vanilla that he'd chicken out before he even touched me and it just … stuck.” 

Laughing around his chopsticks, Chris shook his head. “I don't know this guy but I feel sorry for him.” 

“I think he hates you,” Y/N blurted out. 

Chris paused. “Why?”

“Because,” Y/N flushed, suddenly embarrassed as memories flooded through her system. “I … “ 

“Gosh, Y/N, what did you do?” Chris laughed as he took a sip of water. 

“I didn't do anything. Not really … I mean, I guess when we were at school and we'd text, sometimes he'd get a bit … “

“Pushy?”

“Yeah. Like he was trying to drop hints about liking me. And it made me uncomfy so I'd … send photos of you to him.” 

Chris's eyes twinkled with amusement over the rim of his glass. “You sent photos of me to him?”

“Yeah … “

“When you were in school?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn't even know me properly back then. We hadn't even ever spoken.”

Y/N flushed beet red at the humorous look on Chris's face. “No, but … I knew I still liked you more than anyone else.”

His laughter soft, Chris shook his head and set his glass down on the table again. “Poor bloke. No wonder he hates me … had to see my ugly mug every time he wanted to have a heart to heart.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said,” Y/N huffed. “He might not hate you … more like … slightly dislike you?” 

“Pretty close to hate.”

“No,” Y/N shook her head. “And also … fuck off. You are not ugly. And they weren't heart to hearts. I don't think heart to hearts involve being told all the things the other person would hypothetically do to you.” 

At that, Chris's smile faltered a little. He cleared his throat and scooped up another large mouthful of food, and when he spoke again, his voice was still just as cheerful as before. 

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, noticing the crease still present between her brows.

Y/N shrugged. “I don't know. I feel weird.” 

“Weird how?” 

She shrugged again. She stirred her broth some more. “Just … it's weird. The whole thing is weird. He fucking disappeared on me without saying anything, for years, making me think I did something wrong … and then suddenly he comes back telling me he liked me? And then he brings up marriage?”

Chris froze. “Marriage? You didn't say anything about marriage.”

“It wasn't like that,” Y/N batted her hand around, shaking off Chris's sudden apprehension. “He just … first he asked me if there was anything new with me. Then he asked me if I was looking to marry anyone any time soon … but the way he asked it was just so … weird. And sudden. And just … it was really weird.”

Chris prodded at his food. “What did you say?”

“I said I liked someone a lot,” Y/N said slowly. “And that I'd want to marry him one day.”

Chris looked up at her, confusion plastered all over his face.

“You, you idiot,” Y/N groaned, and Chris's face broke into a smile.

“Me? Really?” Chris beamed. 

“You're a lunatic.” 

“What did he say then?”

“Well … I didn't tell him it was you. I just said it was someone … and he got really weird about it. He closed up. At first he told me he wanted to marry and then as soon as I told him I liked someone he suddenly said he wasn't sure about marriage anymore.” 

Chris blinked at Y/N, his expression unreadable. “Well fuck. The boy's mad for you.”

“Knock it off;” Y/N tutted, making him chuckle. “I feel bad. I kinda always felt bad talking with him in the past.”

“Why?”

Y/N slumped a little in her seat. “Because. He's my oldest friend and the only school friend I still have. Had. I dunno. I've known him since I was a kid … we weren't close for a good five years but then I fell out with all of my friends and he was the only one who ever stuck up for me. He was just suddenly there, texting me everyday, sending me memes, replying to everything I posted online … it was one of the worst periods of my whole life but because of him I … I guess I didn't feel alone.” 

There was a small, genuine smile on Chris's lips, though his insides churned behind his hard wall of muscle. Under the table, he pressed a hand over his stomach, attempting to halt the roller coaster disrupting the pho he had just eaten. 

“I'm really glad you had him back then,” Chris said quietly, looking directly into Y/N's eyes. “Genuinely. I don't like the idea of you being alone.” 

At that, the perplexity in Y/N's face melted slightly. “Even if it's another guy?” 

Chris nodded slowly. “Yeah. Even if I'm seething with jealousy right now … I'm glad.” 

For some reason, Y/N's face broke into a wide smile. It made Chris huff with laughter, and he shook his head at her. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Y/N shrugged. “I kinda like when you get all jealous and possessive.”

Chris rolled his eyes, though his lips stayed curved up at one side. “You're a freak, you know that?”

“Says you,” Y/N giggled. “You're the opposite of vanilla.”

“Maybe that's why I like vanilla so much,” Chris said, slurping up more broth. “To offset my kinkiness.”

“Okay, well now you're just being cringey.”

“You like my cringe!”

“Luckily for you, yeah.” 

Chuckling, Chris beamed. He fished for the last strip of beef from his broth before extending his arm over the table and placing it into Y/N's bowl.

“Did he tell you why he disappeared for so long?” Chris asked then. 

Y/N wrinkled his nose. “Apparently he was in a really bad mental state. Deleted all his socials and tried to find himself, or something.”

“That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

Chris shrugged. “I think so. I mean … what other reason could he have? You said yourself he literally disappeared.” 

“Yeah … “ 

Tilting his head at her, Chris sandwiched her foot under the table with the both of his, making her smile. “C'mon. What's making you so upset?”

“I'm not upset, I just … “ 

“You just what, baby?” 

Setting her utensils down again for good, Y/N leaned back in her chair and curled her fingers under the soft cuffs of her hoodie. “I don't know. I don't know what I'm feeling. I … it just feels all wrong. I can't get him out of my head.”

“Lovely.”

“Not like that,” Y/N protested before she saw the teasing smile on Chris's face. She sighed, sagging in the chair. “My head is just spiralling. I don't know why. It just … the stuff he said. It really shook me up for some reason.” 

“I get it,” Chris said quietly.

“You do?”

“Of course. I mean … if a friend of mine ghosted me and then came back and told me they were in love with me and then hinted at marriage, I'd be pretty unnerved too.”

“I don't want to marry him.”

Chris smiled. “I'm glad.” 

“You are?”

“Duh.” 

Giggling, Y/N wedged her other foot up against his too, seeking comfort in the contact. “You don't mind? Me telling you all of this?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Because … it's a guy. One who likes me. I think. And … well … it's weird, isn't it?” 

Chris's gaze softened. He reached across the small table and closed a warm, sturdy hand over hers. “Baby … I don't mind because I trust you. If you say it's nothing, then I believe you. Besides … not that it's something that I ever want to think about, but if you were actually hiding something, you wouldn't have told me. But you always tell me everything. And even still … I trust you completely.” 

Her eyes watered. She moved her hand under his until her palm was facing upwards, lacing her fingers through his. “How did I get so lucky with you?”

“Nah,” Chris's eyes twinkled as he squeezed her hand. “I'm the lucky one. Got the girl all the lads are pining over.” 

“Shut up,” Y/N laughed, playfully swatting at his arm. “One guy.” 

“I don't know … I wouldn't be surprised if more lovesick fools ended up popping out of nowhere.”

After the brief conversation Y/N had had with Chris over their lunch, the following days felt much lighter, like her worries had been put into perspective. It wasn't even as though anything groundbreaking had been said; but somehow, just the act of spilling her mind to Chris always seemed to help. He had a knack of managing to organise her thoughts like pieces of a jigsaw, fitting them back together neatly until they made up the complete, bigger picture. 

She still wasn't quite sure how he did that. She had seen him trying to solve his own problems - it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, only the haystack was an entire field of hay, and the needle wasn't even there to begin with. But with her … Y/N often wondered if perhaps they had each other's brains. He knew hers like the back of his own hand.

Seated in Chris's studio with two of their friends flanked on either side of her while the leader worked on his computer, Y/N re-read the same messages on her phone screen for the dozenth time. 

Alex: Oh and

Alex: I'm not a noodle anymore 

Y/N: Ha. Yeah right 

Y/N: I don't believe you 

Alex: I'm not! 

Alex: I go on runs 

Alex: Got a bit of muscle now :)

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, perplexed.

She didn't know why he was even telling her that.

Y/N: I feel like cardio doesn't give you that much muscle though. You're probably definitely still a noodle

Alex: Pfft

Alex: I'm literally not 

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: See? 

Alex: Not a noodle

“Fuck's sake … “ Y/N muttered under her breath. She blinked at the photos of the tall man posing nonchalantly in front of a mirror, chestnut brown hair coiling around his head in a messy crop. To give him credit, his lanky frame had filled out since the last time she had seen him - though not enough to diminish his string bean quality. It was still there, and she groaned.

From her left side, Changbin's eyes were narrowed as he squinted at his friend's phone screen. Her brows were furrowed, her thumbs hovering over her screen for so long that Changbin couldn't help it. 

He plucked the phone from her hand, eliciting a mild yelp from the woman.

“Bin!” Y/N huffed, reaching across Changbin who had conveniently leaned to the side, holding her phone out reach. “Give it back, you asshole.” 

“I've called you seven times,” Changbin retorted, lips twitching with amusement. “Why do you look so stressed?” 

“She's talking to another man,” Jisung joked in a musical tone of voice. Y/N tutted at him just as Changbin gave her phone back, locking it and slumping in her seat.

“Wait, really?” Jisung asked with round eyes when Y/N didn't deny it. She glared at him before sliding further down the sofa, the hood of Chris's hoodie that she was wearing slipping over her head and covering her eyes. 

“Who?” Changbin asked curiously.

“Old friend,” Y/N grumbled, not bothering to elaborate. “Was figuring out what to reply to him.”

“For ten whole minutes?” Han snickered.

Y/N grabbed a cushion from behind her and smacked it across his head. “Quit stalking me.”

“What's he saying?” Jisung probed, sidling closer to her on the sofa until she was nearly squished like a pancake between both men. “Does he like you?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “You're freaky, you know that?” 

“So he does,” Jisung offered her a cheerful grin. He cocked his head towards the oblivious man sitting in front of the three of them, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears as he worked. “Does Mr Alpha know?”

“I told you to stop calling him that,” Y/N chuckled, batting his inquisitive face away from her own. “Yeah he knows.”

“Is that why he's had a chip on his shoulder the past few days?” Changbin thought out loud.

Y/N frowned. “What? He hasn't, has he?” 

“Maybe not with you, but at work he's been extra … “ Changbin trailed off and waved his hands around in the air as he tried to think of the softest word.

“Short tempered?” Jisung suggested.

“No.”

“Focused?”

“Kinda … “

“Melancholy?”

“No,” Changbin rolled his eyes. “Actually … yes. I guess so.” 

“He's probably just tired,” Y/N said, chewing on her lip. “He was fine when I told him about it.” 

At that, both Changbin and Jisung stared at her. “And you believe that?” They said in unison.

Staring at the back of Chris's curly head, Y/N felt her chest tighten. He was only a few feet away, yet for some reason just laying her eyes on him made her suddenly miss him with a pang. She loved his two sidekicks sitting beside her, but a part of her wished they weren't there so she could crawl into Chris's lap and cling to him while he worked. 

That way, she wouldn't have to think about the weight of the messages on her phone screen, either. 

“What's this guy saying?” Changbin gently nudged her with his shoulder.

Shrugging, Y/N let out a slow sigh. “Nothing crazy. He wants to meet me because we haven't seen each other in ages. I don't wanna meet him because I know he likes me and it'd be awkward. But at the same time … he's a good friend, you know? I keep telling him I don't wanna meet but he won't stop asking.” 

“And … ?” Jisung raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue.

“And,” Y/N huffed. “He just … he keeps trying to compete. I guess.”

“Compete? How?” 

“You're both infuriating,” Y/N grumbled.

Faces blooming with mischievous grins, Changbin and Jisung leaned closer to her, signalling that they wouldn't back down until she finished telling them what was on her mind.

“He keeps trying to compete with Chris,” Y/N whispered. Her gaze flitted towards the man in front, hoping he was still blissfully oblivious to the gossip unfolding behind. “He's never been a gym guy or anything but now he keeps telling me he's been working out. By running. I always used to call him a noodle and now he's saying he's not a noodle anymore and that he could prove it to me if we meet. Up. And I was like running isn't gonna make him bulk up or anything so he fucking sent photos.”

“Is he bulked up?” Changbin's lips twitched.

“No!” Y/N hissed, turning her phone around so they could both see. 

Eyes locking on each other, Changbin and Jisung snickered with laughter. It soon turned into a high pitched cackle from Changbin, and the sound was so loud that it caused Chris to jump in his seat, his hand pushing his headphones down to his neck as he swung around in surprise.

“What are you three doing?” Chris asked, clocking the dishevelled state of the sofa. “What's so funny?” 

“Your girl's funny,” Jisung said from behind a cushion that he hugged towards himself in an attempt to muffle his guffaws. “Really funny.” 

“That she is,” Chris raised an eyebrow as he looked towards Changbin. “Bin?”

“Yeah?”

“What's so funny?” 

Y/N scowled at Changbin, willing him not to say anything.

“She's just telling us … about … an old friend,” Changbin said awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “It's nothing.”

“Old friend?” Chris raised an eyebrow, this time in Y/N's direction.

“Alex,” she said.

“Ah,” Chris nodded and turned back to his computer screen. “How's the lad doing? Still heartbroken?”

Jisung's eyes resembled golf balls as he stared at the back of Chris's head. “You know him?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Chris said. 

“Wow. For a second I thought she was chea - “

“- Before you say anything dumb, pack it in. That's my girl you're talking about.”

“What the hell, Ji?” Y/N glared at her friend. “You really think I'd do that?”

“No!” Jisung placated hastily. “No, no, never … it's just … well I've never seen you with a guy friend. Ever.” 

“Uh, hello? What about you?” 

“We're different! You're Chris's, and you're like a sister to us. But aside from us I don't think I've ever heard you mention another guy before.” 

From her other side, Changbin clicked his tongue. “He's right. This is a first.” 

Sighing, Y/N sunk back into her seat. “Because he's my only guy friend. That I still have. I never had many guy friends at school, and the ones I did have ended up fizzling out within the year of finishing school … Alex is the only one I've known for this long. The only one who stayed with me through everything. He was like a brother to me too until he just … “ 

She sighed again, and Jisung pushed closer to her, face inches away from hers like an inquisitive child. “Just what?” 

“Brought feelings into it,” she mumbled. “I really wish he hadn't.” 

Cocking his head to the side, Jisung studied Y/N's disgruntled face. She could tell he was waiting for her to tell them more - so she briefly ran through the information she had told Chris days before, and then Felix later that evening, and she threw in a few extra details about their friendship from the past.

“Well shit,” Jisung wrinkled his nose. “So … you have to choose between him and Chris?”

“No, you idiot,” Y/N tutted loudly, swatting at his knee. “There's nothing to choose. Chris is my person.”

“Then why are you so stressed?” Jisung pushed. “You like Chris, you don't like Alex. End of story.”

“It's not about that! It's the fact that he's my friend. Only it doesn't feel the same anymore … it feels heavier since he confessed. And now it's like he keeps trying to impress me even though I said I don't like him like that. It's fucking my head up.”

Sympathy painted onto his face, Changbin gently patted his friend's shoulder with a warm hand. “There, there. Deep breath.”

Y/N glared at him. But she did as he said, and a large sigh escaped her as she slumped back into her seat, head falling back against Changbin's arm. 

“I know this isn't the time but you've given me inspiration for about seven songs,” Jisung claimed, offering her one of his wide, heart melting grins. “So thanks for that. Your problems are really inspiring.” 

Y/N turned her narrowed gaze onto him before her face broke into a crumpled smile. “You're something else, Ji.” 

                                      ☆ 

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend.

Head reeling, Y/N forced her gaze away from her phone screen. Chris was finishing up on some late night work, his face a frosty blue as the light from his laptop pierced the shadows coating his bedroom in a dusty haze. She was sitting up in his bed, her mind drifting far away into a space she knew she shouldn't be wandering into. 

It had been months since she had last thought about Alex. Her initial perplexity and mixed feelings surrounding him had died down as swiftly as they had swarmed in on her, and the man she had known for a huge chunk of her life had slowly stopped his attempts of making friendly conversation she had been so used to from him. 

Y/N hadn't thought about it further until she had made the mistake of opening up her social media moments prior. She hadn't expected to see a photo of him smiling at another woman as if she had hung the stars in the sky, but much less than that had she been expecting the sudden rise of complicated emotions that plunged their way through her ribcage. 

She had closed the app and focused on something else instead, telling herself that she was being ridiculous. She was happy that he had finally found someone who could reciprocate his feelings - he certainly hadn't found that in her. Of course she was happy for him.

But … 

Inhaling shakily, Y/N rubbed her hand firmly across her chest, trying her hardest to put him out of her mind.

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfr - 

“Baby?” Chris's voice cut through her fixating like a warm caress against her cheek. “Hey … are you crying?” 

The mattress dipped beside her and he was there suddenly, lifting her face into his hands and locking his eyes onto hers, confusion pooling in his pupils.

“I'm not,” Y/N said, bewildered.

“Yes, you are,” Chris frowned. His thumb brushed under the soft skin beneath her eyes, and it came away wet. “See?”

“I … am?” Blinking in surprise, Y/N's breath stuttered and she tried for a smile. But somehow, she couldn't manage to connect her face to her brain, and instead her features crumpled as she burst into full blown, silent sobs that shook her entire body. 

“Oh baby … “ she was instantly pulled into the security of Chris's arms, his legs stretching out on the bed as he tucked her up on his lap, folding her body into his like she belonged there. His arms were warm and safe as they locked around her waist like a vice, one of his hands sinking into her hair. “What's wrong? Why are you crying, hmm?” 

“I … I don't know … “ Y/N spluttered, burying her face into his broad chest as her vision blurred from a surge of thick tears “It hurts.”

“What hurts?” Chris hummed. “Who hurt you, baby?” 

“No one. I hurt me.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, Chris patted her back in rhythmic taps. “What do you mean?”

“Alex,” Y/N gulped. And then, breath shattering all over again, she shook her head against him. “Nothing.” 

Heart dropping at the sound of his name, Chris chewed on his lower lip. But his touch remained gentle as he continued to soothe the crying girl in his arms, the skin beneath his thin t-shirt damp from where her tears had seeped into the fabric. 

“Did he hurt you?” Chris asked quietly.

Y/N shook her head, her fingers curling into Chris's sides. “No.” 

“Talk to me, baby. I can't help you if you won't talk to me.”

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid if it's making you upset, baby.”

A tiny squeak escaping her at the end of a particularly heavy sob, Y/N pulled her face away and rubbed her wet eyes with the back of her hand.

“You're gonna hate me,” Y/N whispered.

His heart was thudding hard in his chest now, but Chris shook his head. “I'm not going to hate you.” 

“You are.” 

“I'm not. I can't hate you. No matter what,” Chris said quietly, reaching out to gently tuck a damp piece of hair behind her ear. “Talk to me, pretty girl. Tell me what's going on.” 

Sniffling hard, Y/N dropped her gaze down to where she was fiddling with her fingers in his lap. “I don't even have a right to feel upset. I … I've never liked him more than a friend. Ever. Ever ever ever.”

Chris nodded, carefully waiting for her to continue. He pulled a hand away from her waist and closed it over her fingers, stopping her from picking at the skin around her fingers. 

“I haven't thought about him in months,” Y/N whispered. “He stopped reaching out first like before, and I … I didn't think much of it really. Talking to him made me feel guilty anyway. But … I … he just posted a picture. I … he has a girlfriend.” 

She shook her head, as her eyes blurred all over again. “I feel stupid for feeling upset over it. And really selfish. Because the whole time I knew he liked me, I wanted him to like someone else so we could go back to normal. When he stopped texting, I thought he might have been busy or something … but the whole time he was with this new girl. And I … I don't know. He didn't even tell me. He just disappeared like everyone else always does.” 

Face softening in sympathy as realisation kicked in from her jumbled words, Chris gently swept away the fresh tears wetting her skin.

“Oh baby … c'mere,” Chris held her close, his hand cupping the back of her head as she started to cry all over again, her body trembling against his own. “It's okay. I get what you're trying to say. You don't have to explain it anymore.”

Clinging to the man like a lifeline, Y/N stopped herself from holding back and let out all the tears she hadn't even realised she had been holding back. She tucked her face into the crook of Chris's arm, clutching at his forearm as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, gently rocking her in an attempt to calm her down a little. 

“I feel so selfish,” Y/N whispered, voice muffled against his warm skin. “And stupid.” 

“You're not selfish, or stupid,” Chris said calmly as he pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head. “You just wanted your friend back. There's nothing wrong with that.” 

“She looks like me,” Y/N said then. “His girlfriend. She really looks like me.”

“Yeah?” Chris hummed. “In what way?”

“Her hair. Her eyes. Her face shape. Maybe it's just his generic type … but it feels weird.” 

Sighing in sympathy, Chris peppered another flurry of soft kisses to her head and her face. He didn't realise it, but the steady rhythm of his breathing against Y/N's cheek was already doing wonders to act as a buffer against the carnage erupting inside of her. 

For a while, they stayed like that, Y/N's full body sobs gently melting into tired sniffles, her eyes drooping as a sudden rush of fatigue settled into her skin. She didn't know if she had been there for five minutes or five hours; Chris had stayed there the entire time, his work forgotten, his loving hands rubbing away her pain and his gentle voice murmuring tender things that her heart held onto for safe keeping. 

“Y'know, any other guy would be jealous of his girl crying over another fella in his lap,” Chris broke the silence after a while in a dry tone, though his face held a warm grin as he looked down at her.

Spluttering through her tears, Y/N offered him a watery smile.

“But I know you,” Chris whispered then, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I know how deeply you feel things. And I know how much he meant you.” 

“You're not mad?” Y/N asked in a small voice.

Chris smiled. He cupped her cheek and his plush lips brushed against the very tip of her nose. “No, Y/N. I'm not mad.”

“I don't deserve you,” she clenched her eyes shut and burrowed her face back into the fragrant curve of his neck. “I really, really don't.”

“Baby, you haven't done anything wrong,” Chris comforted her, tucking her in closer. “You know that, right? He was your friend. It doesn't matter how it happened, friendship breakups are always painful. Losing a friend hurts, baby. You don't have to feel guilty for being hurt.” 

Swallowing thickly, Y/N rubbed her damp cheek against his t-shirt, her heart squeezing in her chest; she was torn between the confusing grief that she had finally allowed herself to feel for her oldest friend, and the overwhelming love and gratitude she felt for the man holding her.

“I just … I feel like he replaced me. Like I did something wrong … it's like he tossed me out like I never meant anything to him.” 

There it was. The money line that had Chris's heart splitting clean down the middle and shattering on the bottom of his ribs.

It was never about him - Alex - as a person.

It was the act of being let go.

Of being hurt in the same way she had been hurt her entire life by the one person she had thought she would know forever.  

Chris pulled her closer and squeezed her tight, tucking her up with all the hope that he could quell the evident pain wracking its way through her. 

“Look at me,” Chris cupped Y/N's face in his hands, his thumbs softly kissing away the puddle of tears beneath her eyes. “I want you to listen to me carefully, yeah? This is not your fault, baby. Him pulling away from you isn't a reflection of your worth - he didn't just trade you for someone else. When a guy gets his heart broken like that - like, really broken - it can be really hard for him to keep going as he did before. Especially with someone as beautiful and incredible as you … it would hurt anyone knowing that you aren't theirs. Some people just can't keep being friends with the person they had feelings for. It's not on you, baby … I promise it's not because you're worth any less, or because you were easily replaceable. In fact, it's pretty much the opposite.”

He kissed her forehead, Y/N's eyes round as she looked up at him and slowly digested his words. “It's okay to feel like this. You have to remember that. He was a good friend to you, and losing a good friend will always be painful, no matter what the circumstances are like. You're not weak for this, yeah? You're so, so strong, my love … “

“I hate this so much,” Y/N whispered, eyes glistening all over again. Her face crumpled as another wave of sobbing broke through her, tears spilling down her flushed cheeks as she dropped her forehead against the hollow of Chris's throat. “I'm always losing friends. No matter how hard I try … I always get left behind.”

“You're not getting left behind baby,” Chris reassured in a gentle tone, though he felt winded suddenly from her words. It hurt to breathe, and he winced. “If anything, you're the one who outgrew him. You moved on in all the other ways … moved countries, made new friends, made something out of yourself - you're not the same girl you were at school. You're a grown woman, with people who love you. I love you. The kids love you. Fuck, my parents adore you like you're one of their own … baby you're not alone. I know that that's where this is all coming from … him drifting away from you after such a big chunk of your life feels like another chapter closing, doesn’t it?”

Breath hitching, she nodded. 

“Sometimes you have to fully let go of the past so you can experience better things,” Chris whispered. “I mean … think about it. If he hadn't randomly messaged you all those months ago, you wouldn't have been thinking about him, would you? In your head, you already left him in the past with everyone else.”

She nodded again, and with Chris's wise words, it was almost as though a jigsaw piece inside of her clicked into place. 

“He came back and it hurt more because it didn't feel right. He doesn't belong in this part of your life, baby. You said it yourself … you felt guilty talking with him. Like something was wrong. It's because that part of your life had already come to a close and he came back and opened it. I think maybe there was a small page missing and he came back to put that page back into place. You have the full chapter now, and of course it's gonna make you emotional, but you can fully move on now and you'll feel better.” 

He squeezed her tighter, his lips finding hers as he closed the small distance between them. “You're allowed to feel hurt. But you'll feel better … probably quicker than you realise.” 

Eyes tearing up again, but this time for a completely different reason, Y/N sat up in his lap and threw her arms around his neck.

“I already feel better,” she whispered, inhaling his musky scent deep into her lungs. 

“You do?”

“Mhm. It was what you said about it being hard to be friends with someone you still like. It suddenly made everything make sense.”

Smiling at that, Chris kissed her temple. “If I was in a position where I loved you, and you didn't love me, I'd probably throw myself off a bridge. So I get it.”

“You can't say things like that!” Y/N squeaked, slapping his chest. She snuggled her face into her neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. “That's never gonna happen. Don't say that again.” 

Chuckling, Chris tilted her face up with his index finger and closed his lips over hers.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Y/N nodded. “Just missed you. Wanted a hug.” 

“Yeah? C'mere then … “ 

She let herself be pulled into his grip once more, tucking her head beneath Chris's chin as he rubbed her back with his delicate hands. He pressed tender kisses to her temple and down the side of her face as her breathing slowed, and for a moment, they just stood there in the middle of his studio, with only the dull hum of Chris's electronics accompanying them.

“Where's your tea?” Chris asked her then, frowning in confusion.

“Oh,” Y/N pulled back and rubbed at her face, smiling sheepishly. “Drank it. It went cold and I was talking to Lix and i just … gulped it down.”

At that, Chris chuckled. “You bumped into Lix? Thought he had a shoot.” 

“He does,” Y/N nodded. “He said he needed to get something. He's gone now though.”

“That kid,” Chris shook his head with a soft sigh. “He's gonna work himself to exhaustion.” 

“Look who's talking.” 

Chris tutted. “He's working way harder than me right now.” 

“At least he gets sleep. You, on the other hand?”

Groaning, Chris distracted her by pulling her into another hug. “I was gonna come find you, you know. Since you've already finished your tea … fancy getting some food?”

Y/N rested her chin against his chest as she looked up to his face. “You mean like … go out?”

“Mhm. Or we can order - whatever you want.”

“A walk could be nice.” 

Chris grinned. His lips brushed her forehead. “Whatcha fancy eating?” 

Y/N paused. She blinked up at him as a sudden image popped into her head, filling her stomach with loud rumbles.

“Pho,” she said softly. 

His entire face lighting up, Chris squeezed Y/N's cheeks. “Pho? Really? You're not just saying that because it's my favourite?”

Y/N giggled. “That's a bonus. I just … really feel like eating it right now.” 

She craved its soothing comfort. It was like a massive hug in a bowl, and in that moment, it was all Y/N wanted.

“Okay,” Chris kissed her nose. “Pho it is.”

“Without leafy bits,” Y/N said.

“Mhm. Without leafy bits,” Chris nodded with a tender smile, already knowing her preferences.

“And no onions.”

“No onions.” 

“Or ginger.”

“Oh, of course not. No evil ginger.”

“Just meat and noodles.”

Chuckling, Chris planted a kiss to her lips before slipping his hand into hers. “Come on, weirdo. Let's go get you your noodles.” 

                                       ☆

Y/N quietly stirred around her large bowl with her soup spoon. She watched as the noodles spun around the broth, creating soft ripples in the clear surface, tiny bubbles forming and bursting with the movement.

Chewing on a tender piece of meat, Chris silently glanced at Y/N sitting opposite him. The awkward set to her shoulders was hard to miss, as was the subtle crease between her eyebrows - she hadn't spoken since they had sat down a little over five minutes ago, and Chris couldn't help but continue to stare. 

“Are you okay?” He broke the quietude finally, nudging the toe of his shoe against hers under the table. He adopted a crooked smile. “Rogue mint leaf find its way into your bowl?”

Y/N smiled. “No. It's perfectly clear.”

“Perfectly bland, you mean,” Chris teased. 

“Yeah. Tastes better without it.” 

“Mmm … nope.” 

“Yep.”

“I disagree.”

“Well, you're wrong.” 

Chuckling, Chris shook his head and scooped up some of the still steaming broth into his spoon. “I probably just have inferior taste. Yours is obviously way better.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you letting me win?”

He shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Maybe. Is it making you feel better?” 

Smiling softly as she looked down into her bowl, Y/N grew quiet again. The inside of her skull was causing a ruckus, one that she didn't quite know how to silence. It wasn't like she was hiding anything from Chris … there wasn't anything to hide anyway. She always told him everything - not because she felt like she had to, but because he paid so much attention to her that she always felt as if the stupidest of words to escape her mouth were dear to him. Chris had a way of making her feel heard, something she hadn't been used to before meeting him - but still, this time, she couldn't quite find the words. 

“Got a text today,” Y/N said quietly after another long while. “From an old friend.” 

Chris blinked. “Is that what's been bothering you?”

She shrugged. 

“Which friend?” 

Biting her lip, Y/N stared at her face reflected in her broth. “Alex.” 

“Alex?” Chris cocked his head to the side in question. “I thought you hadn't spoken in a few years?” 

“We haven't. He just appeared out of nowhere.”

“What did he say?” 

“He wanted to meet up for coffee,” Y/N exhaled, prodding at her noodles. “And he told me he used to like me when we were back at school.”

“Oh,” Chris chuckled. “Okay.”

Y/N blinked. “Okay? That's it?”

“Yeah?” 

“You're not bothered by that?” 

Surprised, Chris leaned back in his seat. “Why would I be bothered by that? Honestly, baby girl … I'm not surprised. You're the kind of woman anyone would be lucky to have - of course people liked you. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole school liked you.” 

Flushing beet red, Y/N looked away. “That's not true. I wasn't really likeable at school.” 

“Well, Alex liked you,” Chris pointed out. “Probably still does.” 

Y/N's stomach lurched. She knew he did. That was the problem.

“Did you ever like him?” Chris asked casually. 

“No,” Y/N shook her head. “He wasn't my type.”

“I wasn't your type.”

“You were my type deep down without me knowing it,” Y/N said. “The complete opposite of what I thought my type was when I wasn't in the best headspace. Alex is neither of those things. He's … kind, but bland.” 

“Bland?” Chris scoffed, mirth filling his features. “What do you mean?” 

“Just … he wasn't someone that felt intriguing, you know? Like everything about him is open on the surface - like he's a completely open book. He was a good friend but the idea of being with him romantically used to make me want to throw up. I used to call him a vanilla pod … because he was just so … vanilla.”

Chris spluttered on his soup. “As opposed to kinky?”

“He tried to tell me once he could easily throw me around because he was so tall compared to me. I said he was so vanilla that he'd chicken out before he even touched me and it just … stuck.” 

Laughing around his chopsticks, Chris shook his head. “I don't know this guy but I feel sorry for him.” 

“I think he hates you,” Y/N blurted out. 

Chris paused. “Why?”

“Because,” Y/N flushed, suddenly embarrassed as memories flooded through her system. “I … “ 

“Gosh, Y/N, what did you do?” Chris laughed as he took a sip of water. 

“I didn't do anything. Not really … I mean, I guess when we were at school and we'd text, sometimes he'd get a bit … “

“Pushy?”

“Yeah. Like he was trying to drop hints about liking me. And it made me uncomfy so I'd … send photos of you to him.” 

Chris's eyes twinkled with amusement over the rim of his glass. “You sent photos of me to him?”

“Yeah … “

“When you were in school?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn't even know me properly back then. We hadn't even ever spoken.”

Y/N flushed beet red at the humorous look on Chris's face. “No, but … I knew I still liked you more than anyone else.”

His laughter soft, Chris shook his head and set his glass down on the table again. “Poor bloke. No wonder he hates me … had to see my ugly mug every time he wanted to have a heart to heart.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said,” Y/N huffed. “He might not hate you … more like … slightly dislike you?” 

“Pretty close to hate.”

“No,” Y/N shook her head. “And also … fuck off. You are not ugly. And they weren't heart to hearts. I don't think heart to hearts involve being told all the things the other person would hypothetically do to you.” 

At that, Chris's smile faltered a little. He cleared his throat and scooped up another large mouthful of food, and when he spoke again, his voice was still just as cheerful as before. 

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, noticing the crease still present between her brows.

Y/N shrugged. “I don't know. I feel weird.” 

“Weird how?” 

She shrugged again. She stirred her broth some more. “Just … it's weird. The whole thing is weird. He fucking disappeared on me without saying anything, for years, making me think I did something wrong … and then suddenly he comes back telling me he liked me? And then he brings up marriage?”

Chris froze. “Marriage? You didn't say anything about marriage.”

“It wasn't like that,” Y/N batted her hand around, shaking off Chris's sudden apprehension. “He just … first he asked me if there was anything new with me. Then he asked me if I was looking to marry anyone any time soon … but the way he asked it was just so … weird. And sudden. And just … it was really weird.”

Chris prodded at his food. “What did you say?”

“I said I liked someone a lot,” Y/N said slowly. “And that I'd want to marry him one day.”

Chris looked up at her, confusion plastered all over his face.

“You, you idiot,” Y/N groaned, and Chris's face broke into a smile.

“Me? Really?” Chris beamed. 

“You're a lunatic.” 

“What did he say then?”

“Well … I didn't tell him it was you. I just said it was someone … and he got really weird about it. He closed up. At first he told me he wanted to marry and then as soon as I told him I liked someone he suddenly said he wasn't sure about marriage anymore.” 

Chris blinked at Y/N, his expression unreadable. “Well fuck. The boy's mad for you.”

“Knock it off;” Y/N tutted, making him chuckle. “I feel bad. I kinda always felt bad talking with him in the past.”

“Why?”

Y/N slumped a little in her seat. “Because. He's my oldest friend and the only school friend I still have. Had. I dunno. I've known him since I was a kid … we weren't close for a good five years but then I fell out with all of my friends and he was the only one who ever stuck up for me. He was just suddenly there, texting me everyday, sending me memes, replying to everything I posted online … it was one of the worst periods of my whole life but because of him I … I guess I didn't feel alone.” 

There was a small, genuine smile on Chris's lips, though his insides churned behind his hard wall of muscle. Under the table, he pressed a hand over his stomach, attempting to halt the roller coaster disrupting the pho he had just eaten. 

“I'm really glad you had him back then,” Chris said quietly, looking directly into Y/N's eyes. “Genuinely. I don't like the idea of you being alone.” 

At that, the perplexity in Y/N's face melted slightly. “Even if it's another guy?” 

Chris nodded slowly. “Yeah. Even if I'm seething with jealousy right now … I'm glad.” 

For some reason, Y/N's face broke into a wide smile. It made Chris huff with laughter, and he shook his head at her. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Y/N shrugged. “I kinda like when you get all jealous and possessive.”

Chris rolled his eyes, though his lips stayed curved up at one side. “You're a freak, you know that?”

“Says you,” Y/N giggled. “You're the opposite of vanilla.”

“Maybe that's why I like vanilla so much,” Chris said, slurping up more broth. “To offset my kinkiness.”

“Okay, well now you're just being cringey.”

“You like my cringe!”

“Luckily for you, yeah.” 

Chuckling, Chris beamed. He fished for the last strip of beef from his broth before extending his arm over the table and placing it into Y/N's bowl.

“Did he tell you why he disappeared for so long?” Chris asked then. 

Y/N wrinkled his nose. “Apparently he was in a really bad mental state. Deleted all his socials and tried to find himself, or something.”

“That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

Chris shrugged. “I think so. I mean … what other reason could he have? You said yourself he literally disappeared.” 

“Yeah … “ 

Tilting his head at her, Chris sandwiched her foot under the table with the both of his, making her smile. “C'mon. What's making you so upset?”

“I'm not upset, I just … “ 

“You just what, baby?” 

Setting her utensils down again for good, Y/N leaned back in her chair and curled her fingers under the soft cuffs of her hoodie. “I don't know. I don't know what I'm feeling. I … it just feels all wrong. I can't get him out of my head.”

“Lovely.”

“Not like that,” Y/N protested before she saw the teasing smile on Chris's face. She sighed, sagging in the chair. “My head is just spiralling. I don't know why. It just … the stuff he said. It really shook me up for some reason.” 

“I get it,” Chris said quietly.

“You do?”

“Of course. I mean … if a friend of mine ghosted me and then came back and told me they were in love with me and then hinted at marriage, I'd be pretty unnerved too.”

“I don't want to marry him.”

Chris smiled. “I'm glad.” 

“You are?”

“Duh.” 

Giggling, Y/N wedged her other foot up against his too, seeking comfort in the contact. “You don't mind? Me telling you all of this?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Because … it's a guy. One who likes me. I think. And … well … it's weird, isn't it?” 

Chris's gaze softened. He reached across the small table and closed a warm, sturdy hand over hers. “Baby … I don't mind because I trust you. If you say it's nothing, then I believe you. Besides … not that it's something that I ever want to think about, but if you were actually hiding something, you wouldn't have told me. But you always tell me everything. And even still … I trust you completely.” 

Her eyes watered. She moved her hand under his until her palm was facing upwards, lacing her fingers through his. “How did I get so lucky with you?”

“Nah,” Chris's eyes twinkled as he squeezed her hand. “I'm the lucky one. Got the girl all the lads are pining over.” 

“Shut up,” Y/N laughed, playfully swatting at his arm. “One guy.” 

“I don't know … I wouldn't be surprised if more lovesick fools ended up popping out of nowhere.”

After the brief conversation Y/N had had with Chris over their lunch, the following days felt much lighter, like her worries had been put into perspective. It wasn't even as though anything groundbreaking had been said; but somehow, just the act of spilling her mind to Chris always seemed to help. He had a knack of managing to organise her thoughts like pieces of a jigsaw, fitting them back together neatly until they made up the complete, bigger picture. 

She still wasn't quite sure how he did that. She had seen him trying to solve his own problems - it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, only the haystack was an entire field of hay, and the needle wasn't even there to begin with. But with her … Y/N often wondered if perhaps they had each other's brains. He knew hers like the back of his own hand.

Seated in Chris's studio with two of their friends flanked on either side of her while the leader worked on his computer, Y/N re-read the same messages on her phone screen for the dozenth time. 

Alex: Oh and

Alex: I'm not a noodle anymore 

Y/N: Ha. Yeah right 

Y/N: I don't believe you 

Alex: I'm not! 

Alex: I go on runs 

Alex: Got a bit of muscle now :)

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, perplexed.

She didn't know why he was even telling her that.

Y/N: I feel like cardio doesn't give you that much muscle though. You're probably definitely still a noodle

Alex: Pfft

Alex: I'm literally not 

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: (attachment)

Alex: See? 

Alex: Not a noodle

“Fuck's sake … “ Y/N muttered under her breath. She blinked at the photos of the tall man posing nonchalantly in front of a mirror, chestnut brown hair coiling around his head in a messy crop. To give him credit, his lanky frame had filled out since the last time she had seen him - though not enough to diminish his string bean quality. It was still there, and she groaned.

From her left side, Changbin's eyes were narrowed as he squinted at his friend's phone screen. Her brows were furrowed, her thumbs hovering over her screen for so long that Changbin couldn't help it. 

He plucked the phone from her hand, eliciting a mild yelp from the woman.

“Bin!” Y/N huffed, reaching across Changbin who had conveniently leaned to the side, holding her phone out reach. “Give it back, you asshole.” 

“I've called you seven times,” Changbin retorted, lips twitching with amusement. “Why do you look so stressed?” 

“She's talking to another man,” Jisung joked in a musical tone of voice. Y/N tutted at him just as Changbin gave her phone back, locking it and slumping in her seat.

“Wait, really?” Jisung asked with round eyes when Y/N didn't deny it. She glared at him before sliding further down the sofa, the hood of Chris's hoodie that she was wearing slipping over her head and covering her eyes. 

“Who?” Changbin asked curiously.

“Old friend,” Y/N grumbled, not bothering to elaborate. “Was figuring out what to reply to him.”

“For ten whole minutes?” Han snickered.

Y/N grabbed a cushion from behind her and smacked it across his head. “Quit stalking me.”

“What's he saying?” Jisung probed, sidling closer to her on the sofa until she was nearly squished like a pancake between both men. “Does he like you?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “You're freaky, you know that?” 

“So he does,” Jisung offered her a cheerful grin. He cocked his head towards the oblivious man sitting in front of the three of them, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears as he worked. “Does Mr Alpha know?”

“I told you to stop calling him that,” Y/N chuckled, batting his inquisitive face away from her own. “Yeah he knows.”

“Is that why he's had a chip on his shoulder the past few days?” Changbin thought out loud.

Y/N frowned. “What? He hasn't, has he?” 

“Maybe not with you, but at work he's been extra … “ Changbin trailed off and waved his hands around in the air as he tried to think of the softest word.

“Short tempered?” Jisung suggested.

“No.”

“Focused?”

“Kinda … “

“Melancholy?”

“No,” Changbin rolled his eyes. “Actually … yes. I guess so.” 

“He's probably just tired,” Y/N said, chewing on her lip. “He was fine when I told him about it.” 

At that, both Changbin and Jisung stared at her. “And you believe that?” They said in unison.

Staring at the back of Chris's curly head, Y/N felt her chest tighten. He was only a few feet away, yet for some reason just laying her eyes on him made her suddenly miss him with a pang. She loved his two sidekicks sitting beside her, but a part of her wished they weren't there so she could crawl into Chris's lap and cling to him while he worked. 

That way, she wouldn't have to think about the weight of the messages on her phone screen, either. 

“What's this guy saying?” Changbin gently nudged her with his shoulder.

Shrugging, Y/N let out a slow sigh. “Nothing crazy. He wants to meet me because we haven't seen each other in ages. I don't wanna meet him because I know he likes me and it'd be awkward. But at the same time … he's a good friend, you know? I keep telling him I don't wanna meet but he won't stop asking.” 

“And … ?” Jisung raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue.

“And,” Y/N huffed. “He just … he keeps trying to compete. I guess.”

“Compete? How?” 

“You're both infuriating,” Y/N grumbled.

Faces blooming with mischievous grins, Changbin and Jisung leaned closer to her, signalling that they wouldn't back down until she finished telling them what was on her mind.

“He keeps trying to compete with Chris,” Y/N whispered. Her gaze flitted towards the man in front, hoping he was still blissfully oblivious to the gossip unfolding behind. “He's never been a gym guy or anything but now he keeps telling me he's been working out. By running. I always used to call him a noodle and now he's saying he's not a noodle anymore and that he could prove it to me if we meet. Up. And I was like running isn't gonna make him bulk up or anything so he fucking sent photos.”

“Is he bulked up?” Changbin's lips twitched.

“No!” Y/N hissed, turning her phone around so they could both see. 

Eyes locking on each other, Changbin and Jisung snickered with laughter. It soon turned into a high pitched cackle from Changbin, and the sound was so loud that it caused Chris to jump in his seat, his hand pushing his headphones down to his neck as he swung around in surprise.

“What are you three doing?” Chris asked, clocking the dishevelled state of the sofa. “What's so funny?” 

“Your girl's funny,” Jisung said from behind a cushion that he hugged towards himself in an attempt to muffle his guffaws. “Really funny.” 

“That she is,” Chris raised an eyebrow as he looked towards Changbin. “Bin?”

“Yeah?”

“What's so funny?” 

Y/N scowled at Changbin, willing him not to say anything.

“She's just telling us … about … an old friend,” Changbin said awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “It's nothing.”

“Old friend?” Chris raised an eyebrow, this time in Y/N's direction.

“Alex,” she said.

“Ah,” Chris nodded and turned back to his computer screen. “How's the lad doing? Still heartbroken?”

Jisung's eyes resembled golf balls as he stared at the back of Chris's head. “You know him?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Chris said. 

“Wow. For a second I thought she was chea - “

“- Before you say anything dumb, pack it in. That's my girl you're talking about.”

“What the hell, Ji?” Y/N glared at her friend. “You really think I'd do that?”

“No!” Jisung placated hastily. “No, no, never … it's just … well I've never seen you with a guy friend. Ever.” 

“Uh, hello? What about you?” 

“We're different! You're Chris's, and you're like a sister to us. But aside from us I don't think I've ever heard you mention another guy before.” 

From her other side, Changbin clicked his tongue. “He's right. This is a first.” 

Sighing, Y/N sunk back into her seat. “Because he's my only guy friend. That I still have. I never had many guy friends at school, and the ones I did have ended up fizzling out within the year of finishing school … Alex is the only one I've known for this long. The only one who stayed with me through everything. He was like a brother to me too until he just … “ 

She sighed again, and Jisung pushed closer to her, face inches away from hers like an inquisitive child. “Just what?” 

“Brought feelings into it,” she mumbled. “I really wish he hadn't.” 

Cocking his head to the side, Jisung studied Y/N's disgruntled face. She could tell he was waiting for her to tell them more - so she briefly ran through the information she had told Chris days before, and then Felix later that evening, and she threw in a few extra details about their friendship from the past.

“Well shit,” Jisung wrinkled his nose. “So … you have to choose between him and Chris?”

“No, you idiot,” Y/N tutted loudly, swatting at his knee. “There's nothing to choose. Chris is my person.”

“Then why are you so stressed?” Jisung pushed. “You like Chris, you don't like Alex. End of story.”

“It's not about that! It's the fact that he's my friend. Only it doesn't feel the same anymore … it feels heavier since he confessed. And now it's like he keeps trying to impress me even though I said I don't like him like that. It's fucking my head up.”

Sympathy painted onto his face, Changbin gently patted his friend's shoulder with a warm hand. “There, there. Deep breath.”

Y/N glared at him. But she did as he said, and a large sigh escaped her as she slumped back into her seat, head falling back against Changbin's arm. 

“I know this isn't the time but you've given me inspiration for about seven songs,” Jisung claimed, offering her one of his wide, heart melting grins. “So thanks for that. Your problems are really inspiring.” 

Y/N turned her narrowed gaze onto him before her face broke into a crumpled smile. “You're something else, Ji.” 

                                      ☆ 

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend.

Head reeling, Y/N forced her gaze away from her phone screen. Chris was finishing up on some late night work, his face a frosty blue as the light from his laptop pierced the shadows coating his bedroom in a dusty haze. She was sitting up in his bed, her mind drifting far away into a space she knew she shouldn't be wandering into. 

It had been months since she had last thought about Alex. Her initial perplexity and mixed feelings surrounding him had died down as swiftly as they had swarmed in on her, and the man she had known for a huge chunk of her life had slowly stopped his attempts of making friendly conversation she had been so used to from him. 

Y/N hadn't thought about it further until she had made the mistake of opening up her social media moments prior. She hadn't expected to see a photo of him smiling at another woman as if she had hung the stars in the sky, but much less than that had she been expecting the sudden rise of complicated emotions that plunged their way through her ribcage. 

She had closed the app and focused on something else instead, telling herself that she was being ridiculous. She was happy that he had finally found someone who could reciprocate his feelings - he certainly hadn't found that in her. Of course she was happy for him.

But … 

Inhaling shakily, Y/N rubbed her hand firmly across her chest, trying her hardest to put him out of her mind.

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfr - 

“Baby?” Chris's voice cut through her fixating like a warm caress against her cheek. “Hey … are you crying?” 

The mattress dipped beside her and he was there suddenly, lifting her face into his hands and locking his eyes onto hers, confusion pooling in his pupils.

“I'm not,” Y/N said, bewildered.

“Yes, you are,” Chris frowned. His thumb brushed under the soft skin beneath her eyes, and it came away wet. “See?”

“I … am?” Blinking in surprise, Y/N's breath stuttered and she tried for a smile. But somehow, she couldn't manage to connect her face to her brain, and instead her features crumpled as she burst into full blown, silent sobs that shook her entire body. 

“Oh baby … “ she was instantly pulled into the security of Chris's arms, his legs stretching out on the bed as he tucked her up on his lap, folding her body into his like she belonged there. His arms were warm and safe as they locked around her waist like a vice, one of his hands sinking into her hair. “What's wrong? Why are you crying, hmm?” 

“I … I don't know … “ Y/N spluttered, burying her face into his broad chest as her vision blurred from a surge of thick tears “It hurts.”

“What hurts?” Chris hummed. “Who hurt you, baby?” 

“No one. I hurt me.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, Chris patted her back in rhythmic taps. “What do you mean?”

“Alex,” Y/N gulped. And then, breath shattering all over again, she shook her head against him. “Nothing.” 

Heart dropping at the sound of his name, Chris chewed on his lower lip. But his touch remained gentle as he continued to soothe the crying girl in his arms, the skin beneath his thin t-shirt damp from where her tears had seeped into the fabric. 

“Did he hurt you?” Chris asked quietly.

Y/N shook her head, her fingers curling into Chris's sides. “No.” 

“Talk to me, baby. I can't help you if you won't talk to me.”

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid if it's making you upset, baby.”

A tiny squeak escaping her at the end of a particularly heavy sob, Y/N pulled her face away and rubbed her wet eyes with the back of her hand.

“You're gonna hate me,” Y/N whispered.

His heart was thudding hard in his chest now, but Chris shook his head. “I'm not going to hate you.” 

“You are.” 

“I'm not. I can't hate you. No matter what,” Chris said quietly, reaching out to gently tuck a damp piece of hair behind her ear. “Talk to me, pretty girl. Tell me what's going on.” 

Sniffling hard, Y/N dropped her gaze down to where she was fiddling with her fingers in his lap. “I don't even have a right to feel upset. I … I've never liked him more than a friend. Ever. Ever ever ever.”

Chris nodded, carefully waiting for her to continue. He pulled a hand away from her waist and closed it over her fingers, stopping her from picking at the skin around her fingers. 

“I haven't thought about him in months,” Y/N whispered. “He stopped reaching out first like before, and I … I didn't think much of it really. Talking to him made me feel guilty anyway. But … I … he just posted a picture. I … he has a girlfriend.” 

She shook her head, as her eyes blurred all over again. “I feel stupid for feeling upset over it. And really selfish. Because the whole time I knew he liked me, I wanted him to like someone else so we could go back to normal. When he stopped texting, I thought he might have been busy or something … but the whole time he was with this new girl. And I … I don't know. He didn't even tell me. He just disappeared like everyone else always does.” 

Face softening in sympathy as realisation kicked in from her jumbled words, Chris gently swept away the fresh tears wetting her skin.

“Oh baby … c'mere,” Chris held her close, his hand cupping the back of her head as she started to cry all over again, her body trembling against his own. “It's okay. I get what you're trying to say. You don't have to explain it anymore.”

Clinging to the man like a lifeline, Y/N stopped herself from holding back and let out all the tears she hadn't even realised she had been holding back. She tucked her face into the crook of Chris's arm, clutching at his forearm as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, gently rocking her in an attempt to calm her down a little. 

“I feel so selfish,” Y/N whispered, voice muffled against his warm skin. “And stupid.” 

“You're not selfish, or stupid,” Chris said calmly as he pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head. “You just wanted your friend back. There's nothing wrong with that.” 

“She looks like me,” Y/N said then. “His girlfriend. She really looks like me.”

“Yeah?” Chris hummed. “In what way?”

“Her hair. Her eyes. Her face shape. Maybe it's just his generic type … but it feels weird.” 

Sighing in sympathy, Chris peppered another flurry of soft kisses to her head and her face. He didn't realise it, but the steady rhythm of his breathing against Y/N's cheek was already doing wonders to act as a buffer against the carnage erupting inside of her. 

For a while, they stayed like that, Y/N's full body sobs gently melting into tired sniffles, her eyes drooping as a sudden rush of fatigue settled into her skin. She didn't know if she had been there for five minutes or five hours; Chris had stayed there the entire time, his work forgotten, his loving hands rubbing away her pain and his gentle voice murmuring tender things that her heart held onto for safe keeping. 

“Y'know, any other guy would be jealous of his girl crying over another fella in his lap,” Chris broke the silence after a while in a dry tone, though his face held a warm grin as he looked down at her.

Spluttering through her tears, Y/N offered him a watery smile.

“But I know you,” Chris whispered then, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I know how deeply you feel things. And I know how much he meant you.” 

“You're not mad?” Y/N asked in a small voice.

Chris smiled. He cupped her cheek and his plush lips brushed against the very tip of her nose. “No, Y/N. I'm not mad.”

“I don't deserve you,” she clenched her eyes shut and burrowed her face back into the fragrant curve of his neck. “I really, really don't.”

“Baby, you haven't done anything wrong,” Chris comforted her, tucking her in closer. “You know that, right? He was your friend. It doesn't matter how it happened, friendship breakups are always painful. Losing a friend hurts, baby. You don't have to feel guilty for being hurt.” 

Swallowing thickly, Y/N rubbed her damp cheek against his t-shirt, her heart squeezing in her chest; she was torn between the confusing grief that she had finally allowed herself to feel for her oldest friend, and the overwhelming love and gratitude she felt for the man holding her.

“I just … I feel like he replaced me. Like I did something wrong … it's like he tossed me out like I never meant anything to him.” 

There it was. The money line that had Chris's heart splitting clean down the middle and shattering on the bottom of his ribs.

It was never about him - Alex - as a person.

It was the act of being let go.

Of being hurt in the same way she had been hurt her entire life by the one person she had thought she would know forever.  

Chris pulled her closer and squeezed her tight, tucking her up with all the hope that he could quell the evident pain wracking its way through her. 

“Look at me,” Chris cupped Y/N's face in his hands, his thumbs softly kissing away the puddle of tears beneath her eyes. “I want you to listen to me carefully, yeah? This is not your fault, baby. Him pulling away from you isn't a reflection of your worth - he didn't just trade you for someone else. When a guy gets his heart broken like that - like, really broken - it can be really hard for him to keep going as he did before. Especially with someone as beautiful and incredible as you … it would hurt anyone knowing that you aren't theirs. Some people just can't keep being friends with the person they had feelings for. It's not on you, baby … I promise it's not because you're worth any less, or because you were easily replaceable. In fact, it's pretty much the opposite.”

He kissed her forehead, Y/N's eyes round as she looked up at him and slowly digested his words. “It's okay to feel like this. You have to remember that. He was a good friend to you, and losing a good friend will always be painful, no matter what the circumstances are like. You're not weak for this, yeah? You're so, so strong, my love … “

“I hate this so much,” Y/N whispered, eyes glistening all over again. Her face crumpled as another wave of sobbing broke through her, tears spilling down her flushed cheeks as she dropped her forehead against the hollow of Chris's throat. “I'm always losing friends. No matter how hard I try … I always get left behind.”

“You're not getting left behind baby,” Chris reassured in a gentle tone, though he felt winded suddenly from her words. It hurt to breathe, and he winced. “If anything, you're the one who outgrew him. You moved on in all the other ways … moved countries, made new friends, made something out of yourself - you're not the same girl you were at school. You're a grown woman, with people who love you. I love you. The kids love you. Fuck, my parents adore you like you're one of their own … baby you're not alone. I know that that's where this is all coming from … him drifting away from you after such a big chunk of your life feels like another chapter closing, doesn’t it?”

Breath hitching, she nodded. 

“Sometimes you have to fully let go of the past so you can experience better things,” Chris whispered. “I mean … think about it. If he hadn't randomly messaged you all those months ago, you wouldn't have been thinking about him, would you? In your head, you already left him in the past with everyone else.”

She nodded again, and with Chris's wise words, it was almost as though a jigsaw piece inside of her clicked into place. 

“He came back and it hurt more because it didn't feel right. He doesn't belong in this part of your life, baby. You said it yourself … you felt guilty talking with him. Like something was wrong. It's because that part of your life had already come to a close and he came back and opened it. I think maybe there was a small page missing and he came back to put that page back into place. You have the full chapter now, and of course it's gonna make you emotional, but you can fully move on now and you'll feel better.” 

He squeezed her tighter, his lips finding hers as he closed the small distance between them. “You're allowed to feel hurt. But you'll feel better … probably quicker than you realise.” 

Eyes tearing up again, but this time for a completely different reason, Y/N sat up in his lap and threw her arms around his neck.

“I already feel better,” she whispered, inhaling his musky scent deep into her lungs. 

“You do?”

“Mhm. It was what you said about it being hard to be friends with someone you still like. It suddenly made everything make sense.”

Smiling at that, Chris kissed her temple. “If I was in a position where I loved you, and you didn't love me, I'd probably throw myself off a bridge. So I get it.”

“You can't say things like that!” Y/N squeaked, slapping his chest. She snuggled her face into her neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. “That's never gonna happen. Don't say that again.” 

Chuckling, Chris tilted her face up with his index finger and closed his lips over hers.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

But what scared him the most was the way your hands shot toward your head. Hit hard once, twice…

He closed the distance immediately, horrified at the sight. “Hey, hey, hey.” He stopped you before you could do it again. He wrapped himself around you from behind. Tight. A bear hug that kept your arms pinned safely against your sides.

Your ribs expanded with force as a louder sob escaped you.

“Shh… it’s okay, I’ve got you.” He said. “I’ve got you.”

The second his arms circled you, every ounce of strength left your body. Your knees buckled, you sobbed harder. He barely managed to lower the both of you before you hit the floor. He embraced you with force. As though if he could hold you together hard enough, nothing else would break.

“It’s okay, baby, I’m here,” he whispered into your hair. So soft, but so, so worried. “I’m here, sweetheart. I'm here, baby girl.” His voice stayed gentle, but his heart raced with worry.

You wouldn’t stop crying. Your chest felt impossibly heavy, tight with a pressure you thought had been long gone. But you were back here again. Over and over; like every time you got better, you were happy, you got pulled back to this whole.

He was terrified. He had no idea what to do. So he just stayed. Kept talking, even when you couldn’t hear him.

It took almost an hour for you to calm down. Even then, when you finally relaxed in his embrace, he didn’t let go. His cheek rested against the side of your head, nearly squished against your ear, gently rocking the two of you.

Silence settled over the room again. You felt hollow.

You couldn’t remember what had started it. You didn’t feel better. You didn’t feel much of anything. Of course, you were aware of his arms around you, of his heartbeat against your back, but everything felt hazy.

You sniffled for a while, in his arms. As he begged you to calm down. Breathe.

A few minutes passed and his fingers brushed a few strands of hair away from your face. As if checking you were okay.

Your cheeks felt tight with dried tears. Your nose was still stuffy, your hair tangled and sticking to your skin. You felt wrung out. Messy.

“Baby… my love…” he called softly. As though waiting to see if you’d come back to him.

You were. Just not mentally. You felt fuzzy and detached. Your hand finally lifted, weakly nudging at his forearm. His grip loosened just enough to give you room to move. He still didn’t let go entirely.

“Talk to me,” he coaxed. “You wanna lie down? Want me to get you water? What do you wanna do?”

“Nothing.” You spoke a little hoarse. “I don’t want anything.”

Everything felt oddly quiet. Just you and him, mostly him, shuffling to get you to bed. He just tucked you in at first, tried getting you comfortable with how drained you looked.

"You scared me, baby." He said once he tucked you in.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

He knew he shouldn't press too much, that you weren't in a good state right now. But it felt important.

"I know you don't want to talk, but that wasn't nothing." He said softly. "I'm scared for you, my love."

You sighed, shuddered. "I didn't want you to see me." You admitted.

His lips pressed to the top of your head. "I'm glad I saw," he said quietly. Honest. "Because now I know... and now I can help."

"Yes, but if you didn't see me... maybe I could have stayed the same." you replied. "Now I have to fix it and get better."

That broke his heart. But he understood why you thought that way. Sometimes healing trauma felt harder than staying in the same loop.

m a s t e r l i s t ⋆ i n b o x

The first thing Seungmin noticed was not the closed bedroom door. That, on its own, would have meant nothing.

Sixteen-year-old boys were not exactly known for lingering in family spaces like they were desperate for one more round of charades in the living room. Eunwoo had earned his privacy the same way he’d earned longer curfews and the right to choose his own clothes without his mother quietly replacing shirts she thought looked ridiculous. It came with age. With growing bones and a deepening voice and the odd, awkward in-between stage where he was somehow still Seungmin’s son and also increasingly a person Seungmin had to learn all over again.

So no, it wasn’t the closed door. It was everything around it.

It was the way Eunwoo used to leave it cracked open.

Not wide or dramatically welcoming, but enough that the warm light from his room would spill into the hallway in a thin yellow stripe while music played low from his speakers or the sound of him laughing at something on his phone floated out with enough volume for the rest of them to hear and roll their eyes at. Enough that Areum would wander past and pause just long enough to ask some annoying little sister question about whether her math worksheet looked right or whether he’d seen her pink hair tie, and Eunwoo, after acting like she was the biggest inconvenience in the world, would answer anyway.

Lately, the door shut all the way. Not slammed or locked. Eunwoo wasn’t that kind of kid, not usually. But there was something in the final click of it that made the upstairs hallway feel longer than it was.

Seungmin noticed other things too, because that was what he did. He noticed when the carton of milk was nearly empty before anyone else said they needed groceries. He noticed when you were pretending your shoulder wasn’t bothering you again because you stirred soup with your left hand and reached for cabinets more slowly with your right. He noticed when Areum was about to cry before she cried, when rain was coming before the weather app confirmed it, when one of the kitchen chairs had started wobbling because Eunwoo leaned back in it every night despite being told not to.

He also noticed his son was disappearing a little at a time.

Not the kind that got a parent’s heart thudding immediately into panic. Nothing that obvious. Nothing he could point to and say, there, that’s the problem. It was smaller than that. More irritating.

Eunwoo stopped coming downstairs before school unless he absolutely had to. He started grabbing toast and taking it upstairs instead of sitting at the table. He answered questions with one-word replies that weren’t rude enough to call rude, just clipped enough to end a conversation before it had a chance to become one. His headphones seemed permanently attached to him. Some evenings he came home, kicked off his shoes by the door, muttered a vague greeting, and vanished upstairs before Areum could even launch herself at him with whatever story from her day she’d been storing up.

At first, Seungmin let it go because he remembered being sixteen.

Adults sometimes lied to themselves about their ‘golden years’. About how carefree and amazing their youth had been. Not Seungmin. He remembered it accurately. He remembered how being a teenager felt like living with your skin turned inside out, every annoyance sharper than it needed to be, every question from your parents carrying the faint accusation that you were being watched, measured, corrected.

He remembered wanting to be alone and not understanding why everyone seemed so offended by that desire. He remembered being convinced that no one in the house understood him, even though he’d never once explained himself clearly enough to give them a fair chance.

Sixteen was a strange age. Old enough to want freedom. Young enough to still need someone to tell you when you were being stupid.

So when you stand at the kitchen counter one evening, rinsing strawberries while Eunwoo’s footsteps cross the upstairs hall not ten minutes after dinner, Seungmin only glances toward the ceiling and says, “Let him be.”

You look over your shoulder. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You had that face.”

You turned fully then, affronted in the specific way you always were when he was irritatingly accurate. “What face?”

He leans one hip against the counter, taking a strawberry from the container before you could stop him. “The one where you’re pretending you’re not bothered but you’re already planning a speech.”

You slap his wrist lightly when he reaches for a second one. “I don’t plan speeches.”

Seungmin bites into the strawberry, entirely unrepentant. “You absolutely do. They even have sections.”

Your eyes narrow. “And what would the sections be, exactly?”

He swallows, then lifts one hand, counting off. “Gentle concern. Practical advice. Emotional appeal. Closing statement.”

A laugh escapes you before you can hold it back, quick and reluctant, exactly the kind he liked earning from you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, reaching for another strawberry with his other hand this time, “you remain legally tied to me.”

You smack that hand too, but you’re smiling now, and for a second the kitchen felt like itself again. Bright overhead lights. Sink running. Areum in the living room, a cartoon playing a little too loudly. The soft domestic clutter of a Thursday night.

Then you glance toward the stairs. The smile fades first. It’s small enough that most people wouldn’t have caught it. But your loving, observant husband does.

“He’s fine,” he says.

You dry your hands on a dish towel. “I know.” That answer, more than anything, tells him you’re worried.

Because when you actually think someone is fine, you tend to say much more than that.

Still, he keeps the line steady. “He’s sixteen.”

“And moody,” you say.

“And dramatic.”

You give him a look.

He lifts a shoulder. “You married me. You clearly have a type.”

That gets him another almost-laugh, but only almost. Your eyes go back to the stairs, to the absence sitting above the ceiling.

“He barely sat with us tonight.”

“He had two servings of rice and enough chicken to bankrupt us eventually. I think his body was physically present.”

“Seungmin.”

He knows when to stop pushing. He sets the strawberry tops aside, takes the knife from where you’d left it, and starts slicing the fruit into smaller pieces because if he was standing in the kitchen, he might as well be useful.

“He’ll come around,” he says after a moment. “Give it a week.”

You go quiet. When you go quiet like that, it was never because you had nothing to say. It was because you were sorting through too much to decide what deserved to be spoken out loud.

Finally you say, “Areum notices.”.

He keeps slicing, but more slowly.

In the living room, your daughter is sprawled on the rug with colored pencils and construction paper, humming to herself with the wholehearted concentration only children seem capable of. She still moves through the house like it belongs to her, completely unembarrassed by her own presence. She asks every question as soon as it occurs to her. Sings songs with the wrong lyrics and great confidence. Leaves socks in baffling places. Calls for her brother the second she needs someone to admire a drawing of a cat that looks, at best, like a haunted loaf of bread.

If Eunwoo’s withdrawal had only affected Eunwoo, maybe Seungmin would have waited longer.

But houses have ecosystems. One person shifting changes the weather for everyone.

He looks past you into the living room. Areum has a purple marker cap between her teeth while she reaches for the green one. Her hair is escaping the ponytail you’d tied that morning. And there’s a smudge of what looked like glue near her elbow.

“Did she say something?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just…” You fold the dish towel once, then again. “She asks where he is more often now. If he wants to watch something with her. If he’s mad at her.”

At that, Seungmin finally stops slicing.

“Did you tell me that already?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

You gave him a flat look that translates easily to ‘because you’re currently lecturing me about giving him space, Kim Seungmin.’

Fair enough.

He sets the knife down and exhales through his nose. “She shouldn’t be worrying about if he’s mad at her.”

“I know.”

The kitchen falls quiet for a moment with that familiar marital heaviness that comes from standing side by side in a shared concern neither of you want to make larger than it needed to be.

Then, because life rarely respects timing, Areum’s voice floats in from the living room.

“Mom!”

“Yes?”

“Can hamsters eat glue?”

Seungmin closes his eyes.

You’re already moving. “Why are you asking that?”

“Because Bori maybe licked some.”

Seungmin opens his eyes again just in time to see you hurry out of the kitchen. “What do you mean maybe?”

Areum, who only ever sounds guilty after the fact, answers with a thin little, “Maybe maybe.”

He stands there with the half-sliced strawberries and listens to the next thirty seconds unfold.

“No, don’t pick him up like that.”

“I’m not hurting him.”

“You’re holding him upside down.”

“He’s daring.”

“Bori does not like to be daring.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. For a moment, despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

That was another thing about family life. One child could be drifting out of reach upstairs while another nearly poisons a hamster with arts and crafts in the next room, and somehow both things live under the same roof at the same time. You don’t get to focus on one emotional catastrophe too long. There was always another smaller, stranger one trotting into view.

He carries the bowl of strawberries into the living room and finds Areum cross-legged on the rug, looking deeply offended on behalf of a hamster that was currently trying to burrow into the couch cushion.

“You,” Seungmin says, setting the bowl down on the coffee table, “are banned from all adhesives until further notice.”

“That’s not fair," Areum says immediately. “It wasn’t even a lot.”

You shoot her a look. “That does not help your case.”

“He only sniffed it.”

“A minute ago, you said licked.”

“Okay, well.” Areum pushes her hair behind one ear. “Maybe kinda licked it.”

Seungmin stares at her. You stare at her. And Areum stares back with the confidence of a child who had never once thought before speaking and had somehow survived that habit for a full decade.

Then Seungmin laughs despite himself, and you have to turn away because you’re laughing too. The sound of it warms the room. Briefly. Naturally. The way laughter in family homes often did, filling the corners and brightening up the space.

And right in the middle of it, Seungmin looks up toward the stairs. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because some small part of him expects Eunwoo to come out at the noise. Roll his eyes. Say something dry from the landing. Ask why the hamster is involved in a criminal investigation. For one second, he can see it so clearly that the absence of it feels sharper.

But the upstairs hallway remains still and the door stays closed.

That night, when Areum is in bed and the dishes are drying in the rack and the house had finally settled into its softer nighttime sounds, Seungmin finds himself pausing outside Eunwoo’s room.

He hadn’t meant to stop there. He’d only gone downstairs to grab his charger from the outlet and check whether Areum had kicked off her blanket again. But when he passed Eunwoo’s door, something in him stalled.

Light glows under it, thin and steady.

He can hear the faint rhythm of music through the wood, too muffled to identify, just enough to know Eunwoo is still awake.

Seungmin stands there with one hand in his pocket and the other hanging uselessly at his side, feeling faintly ridiculous.

He could knock. He could walk in. He could do what fathers have done for generations and ask some version of ‘how’s school’ or ‘everything okay’ or ‘why are you acting like a stranger in your own house’.

Instead he stays where he is, listening to the music, staring at the line of light.

He tells himself there’s nothing urgent yet. No smoking, no skipping school, no calls from teachers, no signs of real trouble. Just distance. Just moodiness. Just adolescence doing what adolescence does best, which was taking a perfectly normal child and replacing him, temporarily, with someone who acts like basic kindness was a burdensome request.

Still, Seungmin knew the tone. He knew atmosphere. He knew when something in a house had shifted. And lately, Eunwoo’s silence didn’t feel like privacy. It felt pointed. Not always. Not enough to corner him over. Just enough to leave a mark when it brushed against the rest of them.

A missed dinner here. A shrug there. A tight response when you asked whether he’d finished his homework. A visible annoyance when Areum knocked once, asking if he wanted to see the bracelet she’d made. Nothing huge. Nothing worth a lecture on its own. But Seungmin knew better than to ignore patterns simply because each individual piece looked harmless.

He stands outside the door another few seconds then he moves on.

In the bedroom, you’re sitting up against the headboard with your glasses low on your nose, scrolling through something on your tablet. You look up when he comes in.

“You checked on Areum?”

“She’s sideways across the bed like always.”

“That’s her natural state.”

He hums, plugging in his charger. When he climbs into bed beside you, you glance at him again, more closely this time. “What?”

He settles against the pillows. “Nothing.”

You let that sit for all of two seconds. “You were outside his room.”

Seungmin turns his head. You don’t even look smug.

“How do you know that?”

“I’m married to you.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He clicks his tongue, but there isn’t much fight in it. “I was passing by.”

“Mm.”

He looks at you fully now. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve just caught me doing something embarrassing.”

You try, badly, to hide your smile. “Because you look embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m thinking, dear.”

“You’re sulking while thinking.”

He exhales, long and quiet, then reaches over to tug your tablet gently down to your lap. Your expression softens a little. The room is dim except for the bedside lamp on your side, warm light catching on the edge of your glasses, on the familiar lines of your face he has spent years learning by heart.

“He’s different,” Seungmin says.

There it is. Small. Plain. But once spoken, impossible to take back into silence.

You look down for a moment, thumb resting against the edge of the tablet. “I know.”

“He barely talks.”

“He talks.”

“Not to us.”

At that, your mouth tightens. Not in disagreement. In recognition.

Seungmin looks toward the bedroom door, even though there was nothing to see beyond it but the dark hallway and another room at the end where his son sits behind a shut door under the same roof and yet increasingly out of reach.

“I don’t mind giving him space,” he says. “I’m not expecting him to sit downstairs every night and tell us about his day in full detail like he’s doing a presentation.”

“God forbid.”

He shoots you a glance. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious. If Eunwoo ever willingly starts giving us a detailed recap of his day, I’ll call a doctor.”

Despite himself, Seungmin smiles.

That was the humor in your marriage. Never loud enough to break the emotion completely. Just enough to keep it from swallowing the whole room.

But the smile doesn’t last long. “He was short with you this morning,” he says.

You shrug a little too quickly. “He was tired.”

“And with Areum yesterday.”

“He apologized.”

“Only after you told him to.”

Your silence this time is answer enough.

Seungmin rests his head back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. “That’s the part I don’t like.”

“What part?”

“Him being moody with me, I can live with. I was worse at his age.” A beat. “Probably.”

You turn to look at him. “Probably?”

“I’m trying to be generous to my younger self. He deserves that much after surviving my father.”

That gets a quiet snort from you.

Seungmin’s voice lowers. “But taking it out on you? On Areum? No.”

The room holds that sentence for a moment. He can feel your eyes on him, the way you always look at him when he has crossed from observation into decision.

“You’re going to talk to him,” you say.

Not a question.

“Yes.”

“When?”

He thinks about the line of light under the door. About the way Eunwoo had brushed past Areum that afternoon without even glancing at the drawing she’d shoved up at him. About your face in the kitchen when you’d said, Areum notices.

“Not yet,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I thought once you started making that face, the speech was coming.”

He frowns. “What face?”

“The one where you pretend you’re calm but are actually three minutes away from sitting somebody down for a Serious Conversation.”

“I do not have a face for that.”

You give him a look so unconvinced it nearly offends him. Then, more gently, you ask, “Why not yet?”

Seungmin is quiet for a moment before answering. Because that’s the hard part, the part nobody talked about when their kids were little and clinging and easy to read. Back then, parenting often felt physical. Pick them up. Feed them. Bandage the knee. Hold the feverish body through the night. Love was direct, visible, welcomed.

This is different. This is loving someone enough not to push too soon.

“I want to know if this is a phase,” he say finally. “Or if something’s actually wrong.”

You lean your head back against the wall behind the bed. “And how long do we wait before those become the same thing?”

Seungmin looks at his hands. Long fingers loosely folded over the blanket. Hands that had once cradled Eunwoo’s whole body with room to spare. Hands that still remember the weight of him asleep against his shoulder, warm and heavy and trusting. It was strange, sometimes, how the body refuses to forget what the heart is still trying to keep up with.

“He still comes home on time,” Seungmin says. “His grades are fine. He eats. He sleeps. He’s not doing anything reckless that we know about.”

“That we know about,” you repeat.

He glances at you.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say. “I just…” Your voice softens. “I don’t want us to wait so long trying to respect his space that we wake up one day and realize he stopped wanting us in it at all.”

That one hits deeper than he expects. Because some part of him had already been quietly afraid of the same thing.

He reaches over and takes your hand, thumb brushing once across your knuckles. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Seungmin says. “But I know him.”

You look at him then, tired and worried and trying very hard not to let either thing take over completely.

Seungmin squeezes your hand once, then lets it rest in his.

“I’m not going to ignore it,” he says. “I’m just not going to corner him the second he starts acting like a teenager either.”

“And if he keeps acting like an ass?”

“He gets that from your side.”

You stare at him. Then you shove his shoulder hard enough to make him laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m being truthful. It’s important in marriage.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, turning your hand over to press his lips to your knuckles, “still beloved.”

You roll your eyes, but your shoulders loosen a little. That was enough for tonight.

Later, after the lamp is switched off and you have drifted closer in sleep, one hand tucked unconsciously against his side, Seungmin lays awake longer than he means to.

He thinks about the version of fatherhood he’d once understood so well. The practical one. The immediate one. The one where every problem arrived crying and could be soothed, fed, reasoned with, or carried.

No one told him how helpless it sometimes felt when your child grew old enough to shut you out completely. No one warned him that distance could enter a home so quietly.

By the time Seungmin finally falls asleep, his mind had settled not on fear, exactly, but on vigilance.

He would wait. He would watch. He would give Eunwoo room to breathe. But not so much room that the boy forgot there was a family on the other side of the door, still standing there, still loving him, still refusing to disappear just because he had started to.

And downstairs, by morning, Areum would ask for cereal in the wrong bowl and complain about her hair tie being lost again, and you would drink your coffee too fast, and Eunwoo would come down looking half-awake and blank, and the house would do what houses did best.

It would keep going. Even with one room more closed than before.

A week later, at 12:07 in the morning, the house had gone from tense to sick with worry.

It happened so gradually that Seungmin almost resented it, the way a normal evening had managed to slide into something sharp and frightening without ever announcing the exact moment it became one.

At nine-thirty, it had still been manageable.

Eunwoo was late, yes, but not by much. Late enough for you to glance at the clock from the kitchen and ask, “Did he say where he was going after practice?” and for Seungmin, who had been drying dishes while Areum sat at the table doing a worksheet, to answer, “He said he might stop somewhere with friends.”

At ten, the first call went to voicemail.

At ten-fifteen, his location stopped loading.

At ten-twenty, you called again. Then texted. Then called one of Eunwoo’s friends, who said he thought Eunwoo had left an hour earlier.

By ten-forty, Seungmin had his keys in his hand.

By eleven, both of you had crossed that quiet, invisible threshold from trying not to overreact into the kind of fear that makes your body feel wrong from the inside out.

It was not dramatic fear. Not at first. It was worse than that. It was disciplined. Tight. Functional.

You sat at the kitchen counter with Eunwoo’s phone number pulled up again, calling and redialing like repetition might somehow force the connection through sheer parental desperation.

Seungmin stood by the island with his own phone in hand, going through every name he could think of, every parent number saved over the years, every coach, every classmate, every kid who had ever stepped into your house and eaten your snacks and called you ma’am a little too politely.

Nothing. Nobody had him. Nobody knew where he was.

When Areum came downstairs rubbing one eye and clutching the stuffed rabbit she had slept with for years past the point anyone expected her to, you both turned too fast. Too guilty. Too caught.

She looked between the two of you immediately, and Seungmin hated how quickly his little girl could tell when the air in a room had changed.

“Why are you guys awake?” she asked, voice small with sleep. “Where’s Eunwoo?”

You pushed your chair back before Seungmin could answer and crossed to her in three quick steps. “Honey, you should be in bed.”

“Where’s Eunwoo?”

“He’s just late.”

That answer did not satisfy her for a second. “Is he in trouble?”

“No,” Seungmin said, more firmly than he felt. “Go back to bed, Are.”

She looked at him. Then at you.

It was a terrible moment, one of those tiny domestic ones no one wrote songs about, where a child studies your face and learns too much from what you fail to hide.

You crouched down in front of her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “He probably forgot to charge his phone. That’s all. Go lay back down, okay? If he comes home, I’ll tell you in the morning.”

Areum had hesitated, then nodded, because ten-year-olds still wanted to believe their parents could smooth fear back into something manageable if they spoke gently enough.

Seungmin watched the two of you disappear toward the stairs. He heard your soft voice all the way up, low and soothing, carrying the same tone you’d used for nightmares and fevers and scraped knees. When you came back down a minute later, your face had changed.

Your mouth was too tight. Your eyes were bright in a way that told him you were refusing, with force, to fall apart before there was permission.

“Nothing?” you asked.

He shook his head once.

That was when you called the first hospital.

Seungmin never forgot the sound of your voice during those calls. Too calm.. Your diction got better when you were terrified. Every word cleaner. Every question more precise. You sounded like someone trying to earn good news through politeness. As if enough composure might make your son walk through that front door sooner.

“Hi, sorry to bother you this late. I’m calling to ask whether you’ve had any admissions tonight involving a teenage boy, sixteen, around 173 cm in height…”

Then the next hospital. Then another. Then the local police station, where the officer on the line was patient and tired and told you, kindly, that unless there was reason to suspect immediate danger, there wasn’t much to be done yet.

Seungmin took the phone from you after that one, because your fingers had started trembling so badly that the screen kept slipping.

He made the next call. Then the next.

At some point, the house stopped feeling like home and became a place where time was happening incorrectly.

The kitchen lights were too bright. The clock over the stove too late. The silence between calls too long.

Around one in the morning, Seungmin drove the route home from school and then farther than that, tracing the roads Eunwoo might have taken with his windows down and his jaw so tight it started to ache. He checked the convenience store by the intersection where kids liked to gather. The empty parking lot by the soccer field. The gas station three blocks over. Two bus stops. The park with the broken fountain.

Nothing.

When he got home, you were sitting at the table with your phone in both hands, staring at the black screen like you were willing it to light up.

You looked up when he came in. The look on your face stopped him cold.

There were a thousand things a husband learned to read over the course of a life together. The little signs. The almost-invisible changes. He knew your annoyance from your fatigue, your embarrassment from your anger, your sadness from the kind of silence that meant you needed him beside you and not speaking.

This was fear. Pure and stripped down. The kind that made you look suddenly younger and older at the same time.

He set his keys down softly. “Nothing,” he said.

You nodded once, too quickly, and looked back at the phone before your face gave too much away.

He crossed the kitchen and crouched in front of you, one hand on your knee. “We’re not there yet,” he said quietly.

Your eyes dropped to his. “Not where?”

He hated that he had said it wrong. Hated the way your voice came out thin around the edges. He corrected immediately. “Not anywhere bad. We don’t know anything bad.”

“But we don’t know anything good either.”

He stood and went to fill a glass of water because if he stayed still too long, he was going to put his fist through the cabinet door just to feel something break in proportion to what was happening inside him.

You didn’t drink the water when he set it down in front of you. Just wrapped your fingers around the glass like maybe the cold would hold you together.

By two-thirty, there was nothing left to do except wait.

Waiting was an ugly, humiliating thing. It stripped you down to the parts of yourself you least wanted examined. It made the imagination feral. Every distant siren became unbearable. Every passing headlight a false alarm. Every minute another worry.

You had lasted longer than he thought you would. So had he. But at some point, your body reached its limit before your mind did. That was the only reason he convinced you to go upstairs.

“You need to sleep,” he said.

“No.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“You don’t have to sleep. Lie down.”

“I can’t.”

He put both hands on your shoulders then, not hard, just enough that you had to look at him. “If he walks in and sees you like this, he’ll react in a way you don’t want him to.”

That was the wrong argument and the right one.

You swallowed hard and looked away. “How am I supposed to lie down?”

“You do it because you have to. I’ll stay here.”

Your eyes went back to his. “You’ll wake me up?”

“Yes.”

“Right away?”

“Yes.”

You took a breath that sounded like it hurt and nodded.

He walked you upstairs, waited until you sat on the edge of the bed, then crouched to take your face in both hands. You were trying so hard not to cry that the effort was visible in your throat.

“He’s coming home,” Seungmin said.

You shut your eyes.

He kissed your forehead once, then your temple. “Lie down.”

You did, though not because you believed rest was possible. He pulled the blanket over you and stood there a moment longer, watching the way your fingers curled into the sheet, tense even in stillness.

When he left the room, he kept the door cracked open. Then he went downstairs and waited. He sat on the couch at first. Then stood. Then sat again.

He checked his phone. Checked the time. Checked Eunwoo’s location one more time even though it was still a useless spinning wheel. His body had gone past tired into something flatter and meaner. His thoughts no longer came in sentences. Just flashes.

Where are you?

Pick up the phone.

Walk through the door.

Let me see you standing upright so I can be angry.

The anger had arrived around one-thirty and only grown sharper since.

It sat beneath the fear like a blade under cloth. Not because Eunwoo was out late. Not even because his phone had died, if that was all it was. Teenagers were careless. They forgot chargers. They misjudged time. They assumed their parents would magically know the difference between normal lateness and the kind that rotted a house from the inside.

No, Seungmin was angry because he had spent weeks telling himself to be patient. To give space. To respect the slammed-shut privacy of sixteen. And now he had watched that distance widen into a night like this, where he and you had called hospitals with your hearts in your throats while your son was simply…somewhere.

At 3:12 a.m., the front doorknob turns.

The sound is so small Seungmin almost thought he imagined it. But then the lock clicks softly.

The door eases open inch by inch, cautious in the guilty way of someone trying not to wake a sleeping house. Eunwoo steps inside with his shoes in one hand and his backpack slung off one shoulder, hair flattened in the back from sweat or sleep or wind, Seungmin can’t tell which. He closes the door quietly behind him and starts to turn toward the stairs.

“Interesting strategy.”

Eunwoo goes rigid.

Seungmin is already standing by the time his son spins around.

In the half-light, Eunwoo’s face drains so fast it makes him look younger. For one disorienting second, Seungmin sees every age in him at once. The boy who used to cry when he lost sight of his mother in grocery stores. The kid who had hidden behind Seungmin’s leg on the first day of kindergarten. The teenager now frozen in the foyer at three in the morning with guilt all over his face and no idea what kind of storm he had just walked into.

“Dad, I…”

Seungmin crosses the room in four strides. “Where the hell were you?”

The question comes out lower than a shout but far more dangerous.

Eunwoo’s shoulders draw up instinctively. “My phone died.”

Seungmin stares at him. Not because that explanation is impossible, but because it is so insultingly incomplete.

“Your phone died,” he repeats.

“I didn’t know it was that late.”

“You didn’t know it was three in the morning?”

“I was at Minji’s house.”

“Who is that?”

“My friend.”

“You couldn’t borrow a charger?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“You didn’t think it was a big deal?.”

“Dad, I said my phone died.”

The irritation in Eunwoo’s voice, tired and defensive and edged with something that sounded almost like he thought this was inconvenient for him, makes something hot and ugly surge up Seungmin’s spine.

Behind him, upstairs, the house remains quiet. You’re still asleep. For now.

He keeps his voice down by force. “Do you have any idea what kind of night your mother has had?”

Eunwoo looks away first, which is answer enough.

Seungmin laughs once, a humorless exhale. “No. Of course you don’t. Because while we were calling every person we could think of, calling hospitals, calling the police station, trying not to lose our minds, you were apparently forgetting that other people exist.”

Eunwoo’s head snaps back. “I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

That did it. Seungmin steps closer, not enough to frighten him, but enough that Eunwoo has to either hold eye contact or make it obvious he can’t.

“You didn’t ask?” Seungmin says softly. “You vanish for hours, stop answering your phone, your location stops working, and you think this is about whether you asked us to worry?”

Eunwoo grips his shoes tighter. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

Seungmin’s jaw clenches so hard it hurt. “That is not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Eunwoo shoots back, voice rising before he remembers the sleeping house and tries to yank it down again. “I’m not out doing anything bad. I’m not getting arrested. I’m not failing school. I don’t even do half the stuff other kids do, so what is the problem?”

The words hit the walls and stay there.

Seungmin looks at his son, really looks at him, and understands with perfect clarity how easy it would be to handle this wrong. How easy it would be to answer on the surface. Curfew. Phone. Rules. Consequences. All the obvious things.

But that isn't actually why he’d been waiting in the dark.

“The problem,” Seungmin says, very carefully, “is not just tonight.”

Eunwoo frowns, still keyed up, still vibrating with defensive energy. “What does that mean?”

“It means this didn’t start with a dead phone.”

For the first time since walking in, uncertainty moves across Eunwoo’s face, quick and unguarded. Then it hardens again.

“Whatever.”

“No,” Seungmin says. “Not whatever.”

He takes a breath, trying to keep his own voice from turning sharp enough to cut.

“You’ve been short with everyone in this house for weeks.”

Eunwoo scoffs and looks away. “That’s not true.”

“You raised your voice at your mother.”

“That happened once.”

“You snapped at your sister twice in one day because she asked you to look at a bracelet.”

“She was being annoying.”

“She’s ten.”

The silence after that is brief, but loaded.

Eunwoo shifts his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I said sorry.”

“After being told to.”

“Why are you doing this right now?”

Seungmin stares at him. That question, somehow, more than anything else, drives home just how far apart they were standing from each other even with less than two feet of foyer tile between them.

Because Eunwoo thinks this is a lecture. And Seungmin, exhausted to the marrow, feels something in his chest go raw with frustration.

“I’m doing this right now,” he says, voice shaking at the edges despite his best efforts, “because your mother has spent hours wondering if you were dead in a ditch somewhere, because I have been sitting in this room waiting to hear the front door open so I could know you were breathing, and because your sister thinks she did something wrong.”

Eunwoo blinks.

Seungmin sees it land. Not fully. But enough to crack through.

He presses on before the moment could close. “She wonders what she did to make you hate her.”

Eunwoo’s face changes all at once. No defensiveness this time. Just shock. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“She thinks I hate her?”

“What is she supposed to think?” Seungmin asks, and now there was no stopping the hurt in his voice because it had finally burned past anger. “You brush past her. You shut yourself away. You act like every question she asks is ruining your life. She’s a child, Eunwoo. She doesn’t know what to do with your silence except blame herself for it.”

Eunwoo’s mouth parts. Then closes. For one second, he looked stricken. Then he does what he has apparently been doing with every unbearable feeling lately. He reaches for anger. “Well, maybe everyone should stop acting like I’m some huge problem all the time.”

Seungmin feels the argument tip. Not toward shouting exactly, but toward something more dangerous, where neither of them is hearing the actual thing under their words anymore. “No one is doing that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, we are not.”

“You’re literally waiting up in the dark to ambush me.”

“To make sure you came home.”

“To control me.”

Seungmin laughs again, stunned. “Control you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you think this is?”

“What else would it be?”

For half a second, Seungmin just stares at him. Then all the fear and sleeplessness and accumulated weeks of tension drag honesty out of him with more force than tact. “You’re disappearing.”

The foyer goes still. Eunwoo’s expression falters. Seungmin’s own voice sounds strange to him now. Rough. Too full. “You’re in this house less and less even when you’re physically standing in it. You barely look at us. You barely speak. Every time your mother asks you something, you answer like she’s bothering you. Every time Areum tries to be near you, you act like she’s in the way. I let it go because I know you’re sixteen and I know not every mood needs to become a family meeting. But this?” He swallows hard. “This is not just moodiness anymore.”

Eunwoo’s chest rises and falls once. Quickly.

Seungmin takes a step closer, gentler this time, even if his words aren’t. “I don’t care that you’re a good student,” he says. “I don’t care that you’re not out getting drunk or doing something reckless. That is not the standard. The standard is that you do not get to treat this family like we are disposable just because you’re having a hard time.”

Something breaks across Eunwoo’s face then. Not in a neat way. Not the soft, cinematic crack of a character finally understanding the lesson. It’s messier than that. Meaner to witness. His jaw tightens. His eyes brighten in furious, unwilling glassiness. He looks suddenly trapped inside his own skin. “I said I’m not doing anything bad,” he bites out.

“And I’m telling you that’s not enough.”

“Why?”

“Because being physically safe is not the same thing as being okay.”

The words hang between them.

Eunwoo stares at his father. Then his whole face twists, not with attitude this time, not with defiance, but with the strain of someone who has been holding something shut for too long and was losing the strength to keep it there.

“I don’t know!” he bursts out, loud enough that Seungmin’s heart kicks against his ribs.

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, up on the stairs. You, barefoot and pale in your sleep shirt, one hand gripping the banister, eyes wide and wet and awake in the most frightened way.

Seungmin barely had time to register you before Eunwoo keeps going, words rushing now with the force of a dam giving out. “I don’t know why I’m like this lately, okay?” His voice cracks hard on the last word. “I don’t know why everything makes me mad. I don’t know why I say things and then hate myself after, or why I can’t make myself stop before I do it. I don’t know why my brain feels so…” He drags in a breath like he can’t get enough air. “I feel trapped in it sometimes.”

Seungmin does not move. He cannot.

Eunwoo’s hands are shaking now, shoes dropping to the floor with a muffled thud he doesn't even seem to notice.

“I’ll be sitting there and I know I should just answer normally, I know Areum isn’t doing anything wrong, I know Mom’s just asking me a question, and still I feel…” He presses the heels of his hands briefly to his eyes, furious with himself for crying and failing at stopping it. “I feel like I can’t breathe in this house some days. And then I feel horrible for thinking that because I love you guys and nothing is even wrong and I know I’m being an asshole, I know that, I know.” His voice splinters. “I just can’t control my own feelings sometimes.”

The foyer, the hallway, the entire sleeping house seems to draw tight around the confession.

Eunwoo looks wrecked now. Not rebellious. Not careless. Just young. Terrified. Humiliated by the act of saying out loud what he clearly had not known how to carry alone.

And then, softer, smaller, like it had cost him everything to get this far: “I’m scared.”.

Seungmin moves before he can think better of it. He closes the space between them in one stride and pulls Eunwoo into him. Not a careful side hug. Not the restrained, masculine clap on the shoulder fathers sometimes use when they’re too frightened by love to show the real thing.

He takes his son in both arms and holds him.

At first Eunwoo goes stiff in shock, the old teenage instinct to resist comfort firing automatically even now. Then Seungmin feels the fight leave him in one shuddering collapse.

He folds. Just folds right there in the front hallway, face turning into his father’s shoulder, body shaking hard with the kind of crying that had been waiting longer than tonight.

Seungmin holds the back of his head with one hand, the other locked across his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he says immediately, though his own voice is breaking now. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Eunwoo makes a sound Seungmin would remember for the rest of his life, something between a sob and a gasp, the noise of a person who had been terrified he would say something honest and be punished for it.

Seungmin tightens his arms. “You hear me?” he says, pressing his cheek against his son’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Eunwoo chokes out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to make Mom cry.”

“I know.”

“I don’t hate Areum.”

“I know.” Seungmin’s own eyes burn so badly he has to shut them. “I know that too.”

Eunwoo clutches at the back of his father’s shirt now, no longer pretending he was too old for this, too proud for this, too anything for this.

Seungmin rocks him once without meaning to, some old instinct from years ago surfacing whole and intact. His child upset in his arms. The body remembering what to do before the mind can catch up.

“You are not a problem,” he murmurs.

Eunwoo shakes harder.

“You are not bad.”

Another ragged breath.

“And whatever this is, whatever’s going on in your head right now, you do not sit in it alone. Do you understand me?”

Eunwoo nods against his shoulder, barely.

Seungmin draws back only enough to cup the side of his face, forcing him gently to look up. His son’s face is blotched and wet and achingly open in a way Seungmin has not seen in years. Not because the softness has vanished, but because adolescence had buried it under too many new things all at once.

Seungmin wipes under one of his eyes with his thumb. “I love you,” he says, and there is no keeping the tears out of his own voice now. “I love you so much it makes me stupid. So if you scare me like this again, I’ll still love you. If you’re angry, I’ll still love you. If you don’t understand your own head right now, I’ll still love you. Nothing you say in this house is going to make me stop being your father. Nothing.”

Eunwoo’s mouth trembles.

Seungmin presses his forehead briefly to his son’s. “You tell me when you’re scared. You let me in. Even if it comes out ugly. Even if you don’t have the right words yet. You do not disappear.”

That last part nearly undoes him again, but Eunwoo nods, crying openly now. “Okay,” he whispers.

Behind them, the stairs creak. Seungmin turns his head.

You are halfway down now, tears running unchecked down your face, one hand still braced on the banister as though you needed it to stay upright. He had seen you cry a hundred times over the years. From laughter. From rage. In labor, with sweat pasted to your hairline and your whole body split wide with effort and love. Quietly at movies. Quietly after funerals. Quietly after Areum’s first day of school because apparently you were emotionally unstable and he had married you anyway.

This is different. This is relief so immense it looks painful.

You come down the rest of the steps quickly, wiping at your cheeks with the heel of your hand and failing completely to stop the fresh ones.

Eunwoo sees you and immediately looks stricken all over again. “Mom…”

You don’t let him get farther than that. You go straight to him, your hand finding the back of his head, your other arm wrapping around both of them because the space was small and family life was rarely elegant and none of you seemed to care.

“Oh, baby,” you cry, voice breaking clean in half. “My baby.”

That name. That old, terrible, tender thing. It finishes him.

Eunwoo turns toward you and lets you hold his face and kiss his forehead and cry over him while he stands there wrecked and embarrassed and loved within an inch of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice hoarse.

You shake your head immediately, as if apology was the least urgent part of this. “We were so scared,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“You should have told us.”

“I know.”

You press your lips together, trying not to crumble further, and lay your palm against his cheek. “You don’t ever scare us like that again.”

“I won’t.”

Seungmin lets one hand stay firm between Eunwoo’s shoulder blades. Grounding, present, and always there.

For a while, no one moves much. The house that had spent hours strung tight with panic now holds a different kind of quiet. Not solved. Not fixed. But honest at last.

Eventually Eunwoo scrubs a hand over his face and looks exhausted enough that Seungmin’s anger, what little remains of it, finally dissolves completely.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks.

Eunwoo blinks, thrown. “What?”

Seungmin sniffs once and steps back just enough to look at him properly. “It’s a simple question. Try answering it.”

You let out a watery laugh before you can help it.

Eunwoo, to his credit, looks almost offended. “I had fries.”

“What time?”

“Around six?”

Seungmin stares at him.

“That barely counts as food,” you say, swiping at your face.

“It had cheese on it,” Eunwoo mutters weakly.

“Outstanding,” Seungmin says. “A nutritional triumph.”

A tiny, incredulous sound escapes Eunwoo then. Not quite a laugh, but enough.

Seungmin takes a breath and straightens. His body feels as though someone had poured sand into every joint, but there was work to do now. Better work than waiting. Better work than imagining.

“You’re not going straight to bed,” he says.

Eunwoo wipes under his nose. “I’m not?”

“No. You’re going to sit at the kitchen table and eat something with actual substance while your mother continues staring at you like she’s making sure you’re not a ghost.”

“I’m literally right here,” you say, though your hand is still on Eunwoo’s arm as if confirming exactly that.

“And then,” Seungmin continues, looking directly at his son, “tomorrow we’re going to talk properly. Not like this. Not after no sleep and three hours of me imagining prison time for whichever friend’s house didn’t own a charger.”

Eunwoo looks down. “It was my fault.”

“Yes,” Seungmin says. “It was.”

You look at him. He looks back. “What? I’m hugging him and feeding him. I can still be accurate.”

A startled, broken laugh comes out of you this time. Eunwoo actually smiles, small and miserable but real.

Seungmin touches the back of his neck once. “Come on.”

The three of you move toward the kitchen slowly, almost awkwardly, as if re-entering ordinary space after what had just happened.

At the base of the stairs, Seungmin glances up automatically.

Areum’s bedroom door remains closed.

Good. Let her sleep one more hour without carrying any of this. He would deal with morning when morning came. With explanations. With the right words for a ten-year-old who loved too openly and worried too fast. With whatever conversation had to happen next about counselors or doctors or the maddening, frightening labyrinth of adolescence and mental weather no one could see from the outside.

But not yet. For now, he had his son walking beside him again. For now, you were alive at his shoulder, still crying a little, still reaching out every few seconds to touch Eunwoo’s sleeve or back like you needed the reassurance of contact.

For now, the kitchen light was on, and there was rice in the fridge, and eggs on the counter, and a family pulling itself back together in the middle of the night with swollen eyes and no sleep and love still warm enough to serve.

And for the first time in a while, the house no longer felt like it was holding its breath.

A few weeks later, the house felt almost unfamiliar in its quiet.

Not empty, exactly. Not cold. Just missing the particular kind of chaos that had become so woven into the walls that its absence left odd little pockets of stillness everywhere. No Areum singing to herself from a room away while she got distracted halfway through cleaning. No Eunwoo’s heavier footsteps overhead or the muffled pulse of music behind his door. No sudden arguments over bathroom time, missing chargers, cereal choices, or whose turn it was to feed the hamster.

Now there was only you and Seungmin.

It had been Eunwoo’s idea, which was somehow the part that kept catching Seungmin off guard.

Not the practical side of it. Your parents had invited the kids over plenty of times before, especially in summer, when your mother got sentimental and started talking about core memories. But Eunwoo, who once would’ve scoffed at any suggestion that sounded vaguely wholesome, had been the one to mention it first.

He had shrugged in that careful teenage way, like he didn’t want the sentiment caught too clearly in his voice, and said Areum had been asking to spend more time there anyway. Summer break had started. Your dad wanted help fixing up something in the backyard. Your mom had said yes before anyone even finished asking.

Seungmin had watched him from across the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in hand, and noticed the way Eunwoo avoided looking too directly at either parent while making the suggestion. Casual on the surface. Deliberate underneath.

An offering. Not an outright apology exactly. Something gentler than that. More thoughtful. A quiet, awkward attempt to give back a little ease. It had done something strange and warm to Seungmin’s chest.

So now here you were, two nights into a week alone, sitting together on the couch with the living room lit only by the movie playing in front of you and the small lamp on the side table casting a golden circle over the armrest.

The movie was your choice. This, according to Seungmin, was already strike one.

“It’s critically acclaimed,” you had informed him earlier while scrolling through the streaming menu.

“It’s three hours long,” he had replied from the kitchen, where he was putting popcorn into a bowl.

“That means it’s important.”

“That means it’s self-indulgent.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to eat a whole lemon to know I won’t enjoy the experience.”

You had turned on the couch to glare at him just as he walked in with the popcorn, and something about the combination of your offended expression and the ridiculous care with which he was balancing snacks had made him laugh.

Now, an hour and twelve minutes into the film, he was proving himself annoyingly right by only pretending to watch it.

And Kim Seungmin, chronic observer and lifelong menace, had chosen to remain awake just enough to keep making little comments every so often in a voice pitched low and dry.

“This man is definitely going to betray somebody.”

You kept your eyes on the screen. “Can you stop.”

“He’s doing too much to be trustworthy.”

“You cannot assign morality based off a few scenes.”

“I can and I just did.”

Five minutes later:

“She should leave him.”

“They haven’t even met yet.”

“She should still leave him. Preemptively.”

You reach into the bowl and take a handful of popcorn with more irritation than necessary. “Do you want to watch something else?”

“No,” he said easily.

“Then stop talking.”

“I’m enhancing your experience.”

“You are deeply misunderstanding what that word means.”

He only smiled. You didn’t have to look to know it was there. You could hear it in his voice.

That had been the thing about being alone together again. It was not that you and Seungmin had lost yourselves in parenting. Neither of you were dramatic enough to romanticize life that way. You still found each other. In kitchens, in doorways, in those tired, familiar exchanges over laundry and bills and bad takeout and school emails. In bed, half-asleep. In glances across crowded rooms. In the thousand ordinary ways long love stayed alive.

Still, being the only two people in the house had shifted something. Not back, exactly. It wasn’t a return to who you’d been before kids, because that would’ve been impossible and, if Seungmin were being honest, not even desirable. You had built too much since then. Become too much. But there was a certain oldness to this quiet. Something that reminded him of early marriage. Of evenings stretching without interruption. Of sitting close because you wanted to, not because there was only one available corner of the couch that hadn’t been claimed by a child, a blanket, a tablet, or a pile of unfolded clothes.

You were tucked against his side now, one leg folded beneath you, your head resting just lightly enough against his shoulder that he could feel every small shift when you reacted to something on-screen. He had one arm draped along the back of the couch behind you and the other resting near the popcorn bowl in his lap. Your socked foot was pressing into his thigh in a way that would’ve become uncomfortable if he’d loved anyone else less.

On-screen, the movie now enters a long, hushed sequence meant to be emotionally devastating.

Seungmin gives it a fair try for nearly four minutes.

Then he leans just slightly and murmurs, “Did he fart, or is he just standing like that?”

You make a sound of immediate outrage and turn to stare at him. “Why are you like this?”

He looks down at you with complete calm. “I’m helping you maintain perspective.”

“You’re impossible to watch movies with.”

“And yet,” he says, because some habits in a marriage became permanent by law, “you continue to choose me.”

You narrow your eyes.

He can see the exact second your annoyance gives way to reluctant amusement. It always happens there first, in the corners of your mouth. Your face tries very hard to remain unimpressed, but your mouth has never been loyal enough to pull it off.

“Do you even know what’s going on?” you ask.

“Of course.”

You wait..

Seungmin gestured vaguely at the television. “He’s there. She has large eyes. Everyone’s dressed like Bridgerton.”

That gets you. A laugh slips out, sudden and bright, and Seungmin feels something in himself loosen just hearing it. You tip your head forward for a second like you’re trying to hide it, then look back at him with your smile still there. “There’s actually something wrong with you.”

“Yes,” he says. “But you’ve had plenty of time to leave.”

“Too late now. We have children.”

“That doesn’t stop some people.”

You swat his chest lightly, still smiling.

Seungmin catches your wrist before you can pull it away, the movement easy and unforced, just his fingers closing around you with familiar certainty.

For a moment neither of you say anything.

The movie keeps going. Some soft, orchestral swell in the background. Actors staring meaningfully at each other in rain or grief or maybe both. The lamp beside the couch casts warm light over the curve of your cheek, the line of your mouth, the small laugh still lingering there.

Seungmin looks at you properly, lets his eyes linger.

You feel it. Your expression shifts just slightly. Not surprised, but more aware.

“What?” you ask, quieter now.

He still has your wrist in his hand. His thumb moves once across the inside of it before he answers. “Just looking.”

“At what?”

He could say something clever. Something lightly irritating, which is often his preferred language when things in him turn too warm too fast. Could tell you you had popcorn salt on your lip. Could deflect with humor and make you laugh again.

Instead he says, “You.”

You blink once, and then your smile softens around the edges.

Seungmin lets go of your wrist only to lift his hand to your face, brushing his thumb lightly along the corner of your mouth. “You do,” he says.

“What?”

“Have popcorn salt on your lip.”

You stare at him in total disbelief.

He smiles, slow and unrepentant, while something that is half a laugh and half an offended noise leaves you all at once.

“I knew it,” you say. “I knew you were being annoying on purpose.”

“I’m never annoying by accident.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“You say that like it’s new information.”

But you’re leaning in a little now. Whether you mean to or not, he can’t tell. Maybe both.

You reach over and take the remote off the couch cushion beside you without looking away from him. Seungmin watches your hand, then your face.

“Are you pausing it?” he asks.

“You’ve already ruined it.”

“Mmm, debateable.”

You click the movie off anyway. The room dims further at once, the television screen going black and reflective, leaving only the lamp on.

For a second, neither of you move.

Then Seungmin says, “That’s a little dramatic.”

You turn more fully toward him, one knee shifting across the couch, your hair falling forward slightly over one shoulder. “You started it.”

“With commentary?”

“With that face.”

He frowns. “What face?”

You gave him a long look. “You know exactly what face.”

He does not, in fact, know exactly what face, but he had been married to you long enough to understand when pretending ignorance was more entertaining than useful.

“I think you’re projecting.”

“Mm. No.”

“Then explain it.”

Your gaze flicks down to his mouth and back up so quickly another person might’ve missed it. Seungmin does not.

He leans back into the couch a little, arm still stretched behind you, and watches color rise slowly into your cheeks.

“Explain it,” he repeats, quieter now.

You narrow your eyes at the tone.

“There,” you said softly. “That.”

Seungmin looks at you for a second, then smiles in a way that is unhelpful. “Still not following.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet.”

“Yes, yes,” you mutter. “Still here. Unfortunately.”

He tilts his head. “Only unfortunately?”

You roll your eyes, but your hand comes up to rest against his chest over his T-shirt, fingers spreading there in a way that says more than your voice is willing to. Seungmin glances down at it, then back at you.

He lifts his hand from the back of the couch to the nape of your neck. “Come here,” he murmurs.

That’s all it takes.

You lean in and kiss him. Not tentative either. You press your mouth against his, soft and familiar and immediately enough to make his eyes close.

Seungmin kisses you back with a quiet sound in his throat, hand sliding more securely against the back of your neck as he angles toward you. Your fingers curling slightly into his shirt. He can taste the faint salt from the popcorn still lingering on your mouth and almost laughs at the absurdity of how much he likes that, how perfectly domestic it is, even now.

You draw back only far enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his once before your lips find his again.

Seungmin’s other hand comes to your waist, settling there with that old, instinctive certainty, thumb pressing lightly into the soft fabric of your shirt. You shift closer, knee sliding between his, and the couch gives the faintest creak under the adjustment.

He kisses you deeper then, and feels the way your breath catches. Your hand slides up from his chest to his shoulder, then higher into his hair. Seungmin exhales into your mouth at the feel of your fingers there, and you make that small, pleased sound he know too well, the one that always tells him you notice exactly what you do to him.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His hand stays at your neck. Your fingers remain tangled lightly in his hair.And for a second, all Seungmin can do is look back.

You’re flushed. A little breathless. Your lips parted, eyes heavy and bright in the low light.

He kisses you again before either of you can say something that would break the spell. “You know,” Seungmin murmurs, his lips moving and brushing your ear as his hand slips under your shirt, “the house is empty for a whole week.”

His palm is warm against your stomach, fingers tracing a slow, possessive circle. You arch into him, already feeling that familiar heat pooling low in your belly. 

“I do know,” you whisper back, turning your head to catch his mouth again. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands are on his chest, feeling his firm chest beneath his soft t-shirt, then drifting down to the waistband of his sweats.

He kisses you harder, then flips you and presses you firmly into the couch. One of his legs slides between yours, the pressure against your inner thigh delicious. His breathing has changed, gone a little rougher. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his eyes are dark with a playful, familiar spark.

“A whole week,” he repeats, his voice low and intimate. “We could practice…for a third.”

You laugh, a soft puff of air against his cheek. You roll your eyes, though your heart gives a little skip. “Practice? Seungmin, we have a sixteen-year-old and a ten-year-old. Our ‘practice’ is perfected. It’s called ‘sleeping through the night.’”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks at you, his gaze steady and full of that teasing light. His hand moves from your stomach, up under your shirt until his thumb finds the underside of your breast, brushing just beneath the curve. Your breath catches—not a hitch, but a full, suspended moment where your lungs just stop.

“I’m serious,” he says, though his tone is still light. “Think about it. No schedules. No early morning alarms. Just…us. We could start over. Fresh.”

You shake your head, grinning. “You’re insane. We’re in our late thirties. We’re not ‘starting over.’ We’re enjoying the peace.”

His thumb circles your breast now, a slow, deliberate tease that makes your nipple tighten instantly against the fabric of your bra. He leans in, his mouth finding your neck, kissing just below your ear. “Then let’s enjoy it,” he murmurs. “Let’s enjoy it like we’re starting over.”

The suggestion hangs there, silly and sweet and suddenly, inexplicably, hot. It’s the absurdity of it, the playful fantasy. You feel a blush creep up your neck, a warmth that isn’t just from his touch. You play along, the role falling into place effortlessly.

“Okay,” you say, shifting so you can look at him fully. You put a hand on his cheek, your tone shifting to something softer, more conspiratorial. “Okay, pretend. Let’s pretend we’re trying. Right now.”

His eyes flare—not widen, but ignite. A smile spreads across his face, genuine and hungry. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t wait. His hands move with a new purpose, pushing your shirt up. You help him, pulling it over your head and letting it fall to the floor. Your bra is a simple cotton one, and he looks at it for a second, his gaze appreciative and focused. Then his fingers hook under the straps, pulling them down your shoulders. The cups fall away, and your breasts are exposed to the cool room air and his warm stare.

He doesn’t just look; he studies. His hands come up, not to grab, but to cradle. His palms are warm and slightly rough, and they hold the weight of your breasts with a reverence that makes your stomach clench.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, and it’s not a line. It’s a statement, thick with feeling. His thumbs pass over your nipples, which are already hard, peaked and sensitive. The touch sends a sharp, pleasant shock straight down to your core. You sigh, letting your head fall back against the couch.

He leans down and his mouth replaces his thumb on your right breast. His lips close around the nipple, warm and soft, and he draws it into his mouth with a gentle, persistent pull. The sensation is immediate and deep—a tugging pleasure that radiates outward, making your back arch. His tongue flicks against the tight bud, circling it, then flattening against the underside. You can feel the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth in a controlled, teasing graze.

Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the short, thick strands. You hold him there, urging him silently to keep going. He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attentive, mouthing treatment. His free hand continues to knead the first breast, his fingers squeezing and massaging the soft flesh, making it bounce slightly with his rhythm. You watch, your vision hazy, as your own body responds to him. Your breasts are full, the skin flushed a deeper pink where he’s been. They move with his hands, a soft, yielding bounce that feels profoundly erotic.

He lifts his head after a long moment, his lips wet, his eyes locked on yours. “I love these,” he says, his voice rough. “I love how they feel. How they look when they’re full.”

The roleplay solidifies in your mind. You’re not just having sex; you’re trying. The fantasy wraps around you, making every touch feel more significant, more charged.

“They’d look even fuller,” you murmur, playing into it, “if you did your job.”

He grins, a predatory, happy grin. “My job,” he repeats. “My job is to fill you up. To make sure it sticks.”

He stands up suddenly, pulling you with him. The shift from couch to standing is dizzying. He doesn’t lead you to the bedroom; he simply turns you around, your back to his front, and bends you forward over the arm of the couch. Your hands grip the fabric, your breasts pressing against the cushioned ridge. The position exposes your back, your ass, to him completely.

His hands are on your hips, holding you steady. He yanks your leggings and panties down in one hurried, efficient motion. The fabric slides over your skin, cool air hitting your exposed rear and the wet heat between your legs. You feel utterly open, vulnerable, and desperately ready.

He doesn’t enter you immediately. He steps back, and you hear the rustle of his sweats coming off. You twist your head, looking back over your shoulder. He’s naked now, and you see him—all of him. His erection is thick and fully hard, the shaft a dark, flushed muscle curving slightly upward. The head is a broader, deeper crimson, smooth and wet already at the tip. Veins track along the length, prominent and pulsing. His balls hang below, heavy and full, the skin tight at the base. He looks at you, his gaze burning, and then he looks at himself, his hand coming down to grip his cock at the root. He gives it a slow, proud stroke, from base to tip, making the head glisten.

“For you,” he says, and his voice is thick with intent.

He comes back to you, his body pressing against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not yet aiming for entrance. The hot, hard length slides against your inner lips, coated now in the moisture that’s been gathering there. The feeling is exquisite—the smooth, firm pressure rubbing against your most sensitive outer parts. You moan, pushing back against him, wanting more.

“Tell me,” he whispers into your ear, his body blanketing you. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you and come inside you.”

You’re breathing hard, your chest compressed against the couch arm. “I want it,” you gasp. “I want you to fuck me…to… to finish inside.”

He makes a sound, a low groan of approval. His hands tighten on your hips. Then he shifts, the head of his cock finding its target. It presses against your opening, which is already swollen and plump from anticipation. The outer lips are puffy, stretched slightly apart by his pressure. He doesn’t push in yet; he just holds it there, letting you feel the blunt, warm promise of his penetration.

Then he pushes—slow, controlled. The head breaches you, a firm, spreading pressure that makes your eyes roll back. Your inner walls are drenched, soaked with your own arousal, and they part for him easily but with a delicious, gripping resistance. You feel every millimeter of his advance. His cock is thick, and it stretches you as it sinks deeper, a filling, claiming sensation that makes your toes curl. He goes in until his full length is buried, his hips flush against your ass. You’re stretched around him, your internal muscles clamping down on the intrusion instinctively, then relaxing to accommodate him.

He holds there, deep inside you, both of you breathing raggedly. His body is hot against your back. You can feel the subtle pulse of his cock within you, the hard reality of him planted in your core.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel incredible. So deep. So ready for me.”

He pulls back, then pushes in again. This time, the motion is smoother, a full, slick glide. Your body accepts him completely. The feeling of being fucked in this position is intense—your breasts are mashed against the couch, your ass is high and open, and every inward stroke of his hips sends a jolt of pleasure straight up your spine. His balls slap against your clit with each thrust, a soft, impactful tap that adds another layer of sensation.

His pace builds. He starts a rhythm, steady and deep. Each thrust is a full-length drive, his cock plunging in until the head nudges something deep and tender inside you—your cervix. The contact isn’t painful; it’s a profound, internal pressure that makes your whole abdomen clench. You gasp, your mouth open against the couch fabric.

He changes angles slightly, and the next thrust brushes a different spot—a rougher, textured patch on your front wall. Your G-spot. The sensation is immediate and electric; a burst of pleasure radiates outward, making your thighs shake. You cry out, a short, sharp sound.

He hears it and focuses there. His thrusts become more targeted, the head of his cock dragging over that specific area with each inward stroke. The friction is exquisite, a rubbing, building heat that makes your own fluids gush around him. You can feel the wetness, a hot slickness that coats his shaft and drips down your inner thighs. The smell of it, of sex, fills the space between you—musky, intimate, and profoundly arousing.

His hands move from your hips to your ass. He grips your cheeks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Your ass is thick, and with each of his thrusts, it bounces and claps against his body. The impact sends ripples through the flesh, a visual and tactile proof of his force. He watches, his breath coming in harsh pants.

“Look at that,” he grunts. “Look at how you take me. Your body, fuck, so perfect for this, baby.”

His words feed the fantasy. You’re not just fucking; you’re being bred. The thought, ridiculous and taboo, sends a new wave of heat through you. Your internal muscles tighten around him, a rhythmic, clutching pulse that mimics the act of trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside.

He feels it and groans, his thrusts growing harder. “You’re gripping me,” he says, his voice strained. “You want my cum, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you moan, the word barely coherent. “Yes, Min. Fill me up.”

His pumping intensifies. He’s not just moving in and out now; he’s driving into you with a focused, powerful energy. Your nipples are painfully sensitive, scraping against the fabric of the couch, adding a sharp, subsidiary pain to the overwhelming pleasure.

You’re close. The orgasm builds not as a wave, but as a pressure—a ballooning, urgent tension in your core that threatens to rupture. Your breathing is ragged, your mouth open and gasping. Your eyes are half-closed, seeing nothing but the blur of the room and the feeling of his body dominating yours.

He senses your edge. One of his hands leaves your ass and slides around your hip, down to your front. His fingers find your clit, which is swollen and protruding, hard as a little pebble. He doesn’t rub it; he presses it, a firm, direct pressure that sends you over the brink.

The orgasm breaks and your inner muscles convulse around his cock, a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that grip and release him. Your fluids flood around him, a hot gush that you can feel escaping along his shaft, dripping down your thighs. The pleasure radiates outward, burning through your belly, down your legs, up into your chest. Your back arches impossibly, your head thrown back. A sound tears from your throat, a long, ragged moan that doesn’t seem to end. “Oh my—yessssss!”

He keeps fucking you through it. His thrusts become erratic, wild, but he doesn’t stop. He’s chasing his own finish, spurred by your climax. His cock is still buried deep, pistoning into your sensitized, contracting channel. The overstimulation is intense—each thrust sends new shocks through your oversensitive nerves, a painful pleasure that makes you gasp and whimper.

He’s breathing in harsh, broken gasps. His body is trembling against yours. His hand on your clit stays, pressing, amplifying everything.

“I’m gonna—” he grunts, the words fragmented. “I’m gonna come deep in your pussy. I’m gonna fill you up.”

His last few thrusts are hard, almost brutal. He drives into you, his hips slamming against your ass with a force that makes your whole body shudder. Then he stops, buried to the root. He holds there, his body rigid. “Fuck! Mmm, baby…that’s right, take my cum.”

Inside you, you feel him pulse. It’s a distinct, throbbing sensation deep within your stretched passage. Then the heat spreads. His release isn’t a single shot; it’s a hot, rushing flood that fills you. You feel the liquid warmth jetting into your deepest space, pooling inside you, a tangible, claiming deposit. It’s copious, abundant. The sensation of being filled, of his seed spreading inside your cavity, is profoundly physical and psychological. Your own spasming muscles seem to clutch at it, trying to pull it deeper, to keep it.

He groans, a long, shuddering sound of release. His body slumps against you, his weight pressing you fully into the couch. His cock stays inside, still hard, still dripping. You feel the overflow begin, a trickle of mixed fluids—his and yours—starting to seep out around the base of his shaft, down your thighs.

He stays like that for a long minute, both of you breathing in ragged, exhausted sync. The room is quiet except for your panting. The television is still on, some muted program casting soft light over your tangled bodies.

Slowly, he pulls out. The sensation is slow and slick, his cock sliding free, leaving you open and empty. A rush of warmth follows it, the deposited fluid beginning to escape more freely. You feel it, a hot trickle against your skin.

He turns you around, his hands gentle now. Your legs are weak, and you stumble into him. He holds you, his arms wrapping around you. Your face presses into his chest. You’re both sweaty, sticky, smelling of sex and completion.

He looks down at you, his eyes soft and satisfied. He kisses your forehead.

“Practice,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse but smiling.

You laugh, a weak, breathy sound. “That was thorough practice.”

He nods, his hands stroking your back. “We’ve got a whole week,” he says. “We can practice a lot.”

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