Kodzuken/PuddingheadLover

"I'm concentrating." He replied slowly, picking up his quill and going back to writing. You sighed, not fully satisfied with Severus's answer, and went back to reading.

Almost like clockwork, it happened again. Mid-sentence, Severus stopped writing and stared at his assignment. You glanced up with a frown, observing the distant look that filled his eyes.

"You're doing it again, Y/N."

"So are you!" You exclaimed, only to wince a moment later as a few aggressive shushes filled the library. You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a whisper. "Severus, I swear on Merlin's beard, if Sirius is coming after you again-"

Severus rolled his eyes. "This has nothing to do with him. Or Potter, or anyone else."

"Then why are you acting so weird?"

As Severus opened his mouth to protest, you rolled your eyes.

"I've known you for seven years. You're my best friend, I can describe your routine in my sleep. Someone could break that window right over there and it still wouldn't interrupt you from writing. Don't even bother trying to tell me nothing's wrong."

You can be so stubborn sometimes.

Severus frowned, his gaze suddenly snapping up to you.

"Look who's talking." He retorted. "I'm stubborn? You're the one who won't ever let me help you with Potions, and you nearly failed the class last year because of it!"

You gaped at him as you slowly closed your book and pushed it out of the way.

Did you just...?

Severus swore under his breath and threw his quill down onto the table in resignation. He shook his head in defeat.

"Well, secret's out I guess." He shrugged, running a hand through his hair.

"What the bloody hell was that!?" You hissed. Your mind was reeling as you tried to find a logical explanation for what just happened. Severus responded with the tiniest smile.

"My latest project." He answered simply. "I was going to tell you eventually, but I wanted it to be perfect."

"Your latest project..." You shook your head in disbelief. "You mean to tell me that you've just been casually practicing Legilimency this entire time?"

Severus met your gaze, answering your question with nothing but a sheepish grin. You laughed in awe.

"Do it again." You nodded in encouragement. Severus rolled his eyes after a moment's pause.

"You have to think of something other than Legilimency first. At least make it somewhat of a challenge."

"Oh. Right." You looked down for a moment, concentrating on the first thought that popped into your mind. Something that would be hard for Severus to pick up on.

Your mind went to the Amortentia potion you had to make in class last month. One of the few things you had brewed properly. No one was obligated to share what theirs smelled like, and you decided to keep yours secret even though Severus had pestered you relentlessly about it. You never forgot its scent, though: amber and spices, something similar to cloves, and just a hint of something clean and soapy. Almost floral, now that you thought about it-

"Y/N..."

Your eyes met Severus's. His cheeks were tinged pink as he gaped at you without a word. You felt your own cheeks heat up as you looked away.

"I guess you saw that, huh?" You asked softly. Severus leaned forward, and you felt his gaze burning into you. His dark eyes seemed to glow with emotion intense enough to intimidate you. You had to look away. You were glad to be sitting down, the way he was gazing at you made your knees weak.

"It's bergamot." He whispered. You blinked, your eyes finally meeting his in confusion.

"Huh?"

"That floral scent you were wondering about," Severus laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. "It's bergamot. I found the soap in Hogsmeade during our last outing there. I had no idea you noticed it."

You pressed your lips together, looking away. You had thought it would be funny, almost ironic, to reveal what your Amortentia smelled like. Now that it was actually happening, you weren't expecting things to get this real or intense.

Severus frowned in thought for a moment, before turning his gaze back to you.

"Um, could you look at me?" He asked softly. "I want to try something. And try not to blink."

Your heart raced, but you managed to maintain eye contact with him. Your chest tightened as you felt a nudge somewhere in the back of your mind. There was a pause that followed where everything inside you felt empty, and then suddenly you smelled it. Your soap, the scent of your laundry, and the lotion you'd sometimes use. All wrapped up in one.

Severus smiled, though there was still nervousness in his eyes, as you realized what was happening. He was in your mind, sharing his own memory with you. You were experiencing everything he did that day.

"Since you shared your Amortentia with me..." He said softly as the last few scents faded from your mind. There was a gentle pressure, almost like a little bubble being popped, as Severus left your mind. "I figured I might as well do the same."

"You just went into my mind." You gasped in awe. He nodded.

"I've never done that before. I needed your permission, through eye contact, I think. I have to admit, I didn't think it would work as well as it did. But... I guess my secret's out now."

"More than one secret, I would say." You laughed to try and shake off the shock and excitement that filled your heart. It did little to make any of your feelings dissipate.

"I'll be honest," Severus spoke softly, a touch of an anxious quiver perceptible in his voice. "I'm not too sure where to go from here."

"Me neither." You admitted honestly. "We're still friends, right? Like... knowing all this, does it change anything between us?"

Severus shook his head vehemently. "I don't want anything to change. At least, not for the worse. We're still friends. Definitely still friends."

You nodded, and a thought popped into your mind.

...Maybe more?

Severus glanced up at you, inhaling sharply. He blushed almost as soon as the thought crossed your mind, and you knew that he had heard you.

A flash of gold appeared near the Gryffindor goalposts, and without hesitation, Y/N shot forward, her broom slicing through the air. Snape leaned forward instinctively, heart pounding despite himself.

“Come on, Black,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the fabric of his robes as she closed in on the Snitch.

The Gryffindor Seeker, a wiry seventh-year, was just a few feet behind her, pushing his broom to its limit. But Y/N was faster. Snape had seen her fly countless times, had even watched her practice in secret when she thought no one was looking. 

He knew her style. She didn’t lunge blindly for the Snitch. She was patient, calculated. 

And then, just when it seemed like the Gryffindor Seeker might overtake her, she swerved at the last second, forcing him to adjust. That split-second hesitation was all she needed.

With a sharp dive, she stretched out her gloved hand, her fingers closing around the Snitch.

The stadium erupted into noise, but Snape barely heard any of it. His eyes were locked on Y/N as she straightened up, wind whipping through her hair, her triumphant smirk unmistakable even from a distance. She held the Snitch high as the Slytherin stands exploded in cheers.

Across the pitch, Sirius Black groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Bloody hell, Y/N! You’re supposed to be a Gryffindor at heart!” he yelled, though there was a grudging sort of pride in his voice.

Y/N turned her broom sharply toward the Gryffindor stands and, without missing a beat, flipped her older brother off.

Severus let out a rare chuckle, shaking his head. 

That was Y/N Black. She was unapologetic, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly brilliant. 

He found himself smirking as she landed, her teammates swarming her in celebration.

Part of him wanted to go down there, to congratulate her before the rest of Slytherin stole her attention. But instead, he simply watched from his spot in the stands, arms crossed, as she basked in her victory. She didn’t need his words to know he was proud. She would just know.

As Y/N landed, her teammates swarmed her, shouting, clapping her on the back, and ruffling her hair. She barely acknowledged them, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd instead.

Then, without a word, she pushed past them.

“Oi, where’s she going?” one of the Chasers muttered.

“She’s probably off to rub it in her brother’s face,” another laughed.

But they were wrong. 

Y/N wasn’t heading for Sirius. She wasn’t even acknowledging the rest of Slytherin’s celebration.

She was walking straight toward the stands, straight toward him.

Severus Snape sat frozen for a moment, his arms still crossed, before hurriedly schooling his expression back into indifference. His heartbeat, however, betrayed him.

Y/N reached him, standing just in front of where he sat, her broom still clutched in one hand, the Snitch resting in the other. She tilted her head at him, her smirk sharp and teasing.

“You gonna congratulate me, or are you too busy sulking about whatever it is that you sulk about?” she taunted, breathless from the match.

Snape rolled his eyes. “As if I care about Quidditch.”

Y/N scoffed. “Oh, please. I saw you watching me.” 

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You always do.”

Severus’s grip on his robes tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You fly like an idiot. One wrong move, and you could’ve broken your neck.”

“Ah, so you were worried,” she teased, grinning.

“Hardly,” he muttered, but there was no venom behind it.

Y/N studied him for a moment before extending her hand, the one holding the Snitch. His brow furrowed in confusion as she placed it in his palm.

“A souvenir,” she said, shrugging. “For sitting through an entire match just for me.”

Severus stared at the Snitch in his hand, then back at her. His fingers curled around the cool metal, and for once, he didn’t have a sharp remark ready.

Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Come on, Snape. Walk with me before the team kidnaps me for some over-the-top victory party.”

And just like that, she turned, expecting him to follow.

With a sigh, one that was far too fond for his liking, Severus tucked the Snitch into his pocket and stood, trailing after her.

As they walked away from the roaring Slytherin crowd, Severus fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his robes. The Snitch sat in his pocket, its tiny wings twitching now and then, but he ignored it.

Y/N strode forward with that effortless confidence of hers, broom over one shoulder, head held high like she owned the castle. And in some ways, she did. 

She was a Black, a Slytherin, a bloody brilliant Seeker. Everyone either admired her, feared her, or wanted to be her.

And yet, here she was. Choosing to spend her post-victory moment with him.

They reached a quieter corridor, the distant cheers fading behind them. Y/N finally exhaled, tilting her head back against the cool stone wall. “Merlin, I thought that match would never end.”

“You made quick work of it,” Severus muttered, leaning beside her. “Wasn’t even a challenge, was it?”

She smirked, eyes glinting. “Not even close.” Then, nudging him with her elbow, she added, “You enjoyed it, admit it.”

He scoffed. “I tolerated it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but let it slide. Instead, she turned to him fully, studying him with an unreadable expression.

“You know,” she mused, “you’re the only one I actually wanted to talk to after that match.”

Severus swallowed, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because you don’t treat me like I’m some bloody trophy,” she said simply. 

“Everyone else is off celebrating me—but you just… I don’t know.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “You see me. Not just the captain, or the Seeker, or ‘Sirius Black’s little sister.’ Just me.”

Severus felt his throat go dry. He looked away, unsure what to say to that.

Y/N didn’t push him for an answer. Instead, she grinned, leaning closer. “So, since you’re such a dedicated fan now, you coming to my next match?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must.”

She laughed. It was bright, unapologetic, and it was the kind of laugh that made even his cold, guarded heart warm just a little. 

“You must.”

Y/N pushed open the door to an empty classroom, stepping inside like she owned the place. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, the only sound the faint echo of the ongoing celebration down in the dungeons.

Severus followed, closing the door behind them. “Skipping the victory party entirely, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N tossed her broom onto an abandoned desk and hopped up onto another, swinging her legs. 

“Please. If I stay any longer, they’ll shove Firewhisky down my throat and make me listen to Mulciber’s tragic attempts at flirting.” She smirked. “I’d rather be here.”

Severus leaned against the opposite desk, arms crossed. “With me?”

“With you.” Her voice was softer now, less teasing.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked down, pulling the Snitch from his pocket and watching it twitch in his palm.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to it. “Like it?”

Severus huffed. “You forced it on me.”

She tilted her head. “But you haven’t given it back.”

He hesitated, fingers tightening around the Snitch. The truth was, he liked having it. A reminder that, out of everyone in that bloody Quidditch pitch, she had chosen him to share her moment with.

Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with his silence. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Rolling his eyes, Severus flicked his wand at the candles, dimming them slightly. The atmosphere shifted into a quieter and more intimate setting. The usual playful edge between them softened, replaced with something unspoken but heavy in the air.

She watched him carefully, then sighed, leaning back on her hands. 

“You know, for someone who ‘doesn’t care about Quidditch,’ you sure looked invested today.”

Severus exhaled sharply. 

“I wasn’t invested—”

“You were leaning forward in the stands.”

“I was watching.”

“You muttered something under your breath when I went for the Snitch.”

“That doesn’t—”

“You were worried about me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something searching in her gaze.

Severus clenched his jaw. “…You could have broken your neck.”

Y/N’s smirk faltered just slightly. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

She studied him for a long moment, then hopped down from the desk, stepping closer. 

“Sev.” Her voice was softer now, almost careful. “You do care.”

He swallowed hard. It was infuriating, the way she could see right through him.

“…You’re so annoying,” he muttered.

She grinned. “And you love it.”

Severus refused to dignify that with a response, but he didn’t move away when she plucked the Snitch from his hand, rolling it between her fingers before throwing it back at him. Severus put it back in his pocket.

Silence settled between them, warm and heavy.

After a moment, Y/N smirked. “So, since we’re skipping the party, what do you suggest we do?”

Severus glanced at her, at the flickering candlelight dancing in her eyes.

“…Stay here,” he said finally. “Talk. Until they give up looking for you.”

Y/N hummed in approval. “Sounds perfect.”

And so they stayed.

Severus sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed as he fixed Y/N with a sharp look. “Have you even read the new Advanced Potions textbook yet?”

Y/N, who had settled comfortably into the chair beside him, legs draped lazily over one armrest, snorted. 

“No, Severus, I thought I’d just wing it on my N.E.W.T.s.”

He sighed dramatically, pulling the book from his bag and flipping through the pages with an irritated sort of reverence. “Then you haven’t noticed the absurd number of errors in it.”

Y/N quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Errors? In the Slughorn-approved textbook?”

Severus scoffed. “Slughorn wouldn’t notice an error if it exploded in his face. Which, frankly, some of these might.” 

He jabbed at a particular page with his finger. “Here. Draught of Living Death. Ridiculous instructions. If you follow them as written, the potion will be unstable and potentially lethal.”

Y/N leaned forward, peering at the text. “It says to stir counterclockwise seven times.”

“Exactly.” He flipped a few more pages aggressively. “And this one—Babbling Beverage? Why in Merlin’s name would they suggest stewing the rat spleens first? That ruins the consistency completely.”

Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

Severus paused, caught off guard. His fingers, which had been poised to flip to yet another grievous offense, hesitated over the pages.

“…It’s logical,” he said finally, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Precise. Potions do what they’re supposed to if you follow the right process.”

Y/N studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, she reached out and plucked the book from his hands.

“Oi—”

“Relax, Sev,” she drawled, skimming through the pages. “If you hate this version so much, why don’t you just rewrite it yourself?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You already know what’s wrong with it. Fix it. Make notes, change the instructions, do whatever you do with your creepy little personal experiments.” She smirked. 

“Merlin knows you’d probably make a better textbook than this rubbish.”

Severus stared at her, lips parting slightly in surprise. 

“…You might actually be onto something,” he admitted.

Y/N laughed, tossing the book back at him. “A rare moment of brilliance, I know.”

He rolled his eyes but tucked the idea away, running his fingers over the cover thoughtfully.

Maybe she was right.

Y/N smirked as she watched Severus flip furiously through the pages of the textbook, muttering to himself.

“This is completely wrong,” he grumbled, tapping the page with the tip of his wand. “They’re telling students to add crushed asphodel before the infusion of wormwood. That completely alters the reaction time. If anything, it weakens the potion instead of enhancing it.”

Y/N continued to rest her chin in her palm, watching him with amusement. “And what would you do instead, Professor Snape?”

Severus shot her a glare, but his irritation was undercut by the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’d start with finely ground asphodel. Not crushed, because consistency matters. Then, let it steep after the wormwood infusion. That way, the properties mix properly instead of counteracting each other like whatever idiot wrote this thinks they should.”

Y/N whistled. “You really do think this book is a personal insult, don’t you?”

“It is an insult,” he snapped, flipping to another page. 

“This is supposed to be advanced potion-making, not first-year-level incompetence. Look at this. Elixir to Induce Euphoria. The instructions say to stir clockwise the entire time. That’s idiotic. You need to alternate clockwise and counterclockwise to balance the infusion properly, or it’ll be too volatile.”

Y/N couldn’t help but grin. 

There was something fascinating about the way he spoke when he got like this. It was sharp, passionate, as if the entire world should care about potion-making as much as he did.

“I have to say, this is the most passionate I’ve ever seen you about anything that isn’t glaring at my brother.”

Severus sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t have to waste my time dealing with him, I could actually focus on things that matter.”

Y/N chuckled. “So potions matter to you, then?”

He hesitated. “…Obviously.”

She tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. “Then why don’t you make your own notes? Your own version of the textbook? You know more than half the idiots who’ll be using this, anyway.”

Severus was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the cover. Then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a battered old notebook, its pages filled with scribbles, corrections, and improvements in his precise, slanted handwriting.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already started, haven’t you?”

Severus cleared his throat, flipping through the notebook as if he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. “I just thought it would be useful to have the right information written down. For myself.”

Y/N smirked. “And for anyone smart enough to steal your book.”

He scoffed. “As if I’d let anyone get their hands on it.”

She grinned. “You’re a genius, Sev. You know that, right?”

He faltered for just a second, gripping the book a little tighter. “…Hardly.”

But Y/N just shook her head, leaning back. “Well, I think so.”

Severus didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either.

Instead, he went right back to ranting about the next mistake in the textbook. This time, something about a disastrous bezoar dosage and Y/N just listened, secretly enjoying every second of it.

Severus was mid-rant about improper bezoar usage when he noticed Y/N staring at him, a slow grin tugging at her lips. Her head still rested on her palm, her elbow propped lazily on the desk, eyes bright with amusement.

He faltered. “What?”

Y/N’s grin widened. “Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”

His brows furrowed. “I’m not performing.”

“You are,” she teased, tapping her fingers against her cheek. 

“A very passionate, very angry performance about the dangers of incompetent potion-making. Quite riveting, actually.”

Severus rolled his eyes, closing the textbook with a sharp thud. 

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, ranting to me instead of to your cauldron in the dungeons,” she pointed out.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the desk. “Because you actually listen.”

Y/N’s expression softened slightly. “Of course, I do.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Severus shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, not used to being looked at like that. Like he was worth listening to.

“…You’re staring,” he muttered.

“Observing,” she corrected.

He scoffed. “And what, exactly, are you observing?”

She tilted her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. “Just that you get this look when you talk about potions.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A look?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, lips curling. “Like the rest of the world disappears, and it’s just you and whatever ridiculous mistake you’re trying to fix.”

Severus hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. He’d never thought about it before. But the way she said it made his chest feel strangely tight.

Y/N smirked at his silence. “It’s kind of nice, you know. Seeing you actually care about something.”

He huffed, looking away. “You make it sound as if I don’t care about anything.”

“Well,” she mused, “besides potions, glaring at Gryffindors, and being thoroughly unimpressed with everyone else…” 

She tapped her chin. “No, can’t say I’ve seen you care about much else.”

He shot her a flat look. “Hilarious.”

She grinned. “I try.”

Another pause. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the old classroom.

Then, Y/N’s voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “I like when you talk about potions.”

Severus glanced at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone.

Y/N shrugged, still watching him. “It’s nice hearing you talk about something that makes you happy.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Because no one had ever said that to him before.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, looking back down at his notebook. 

“…It’s not happiness,” he muttered. “It’s just—logic.”

Y/N just smiled knowingly. “If you say so, Sev.”

And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.

Severus sat back against the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover of his notebook. 

After a moment, he sighed and said, almost begrudgingly, “You played well today.”

Y/N blinked, then grinned. “Was that a compliment from Severus Snape? Merlin, I must be dreaming.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Go on, say it again. Just so I know I didn’t hallucinate it.”

Severus huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not repeating myself.”

“Pity,” she sighed dramatically. “Would’ve been nice to have it burned into my memory forever.”

He shook his head, but his gaze lingered on her, something softer in his usually sharp eyes. 

“You were impressive,” he admitted after a moment. “Even Slughorn wouldn’t stop talking about how Slytherin finally has a proper Seeker.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Slughorn, huh? What about you? Were you impressed?”

Severus scoffed. “I’m always impressed by competency. And considering the rest of the team is mediocre at best, it’s fortunate you know what you’re doing.”

Y/N laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”

He glanced away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It was… entertaining. Watching you completely humiliate Gryffindor.”

Y/N smirked. “So that’s what you enjoyed.”

“Obviously.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I am the best.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Now you’re pushing it.”

Y/N only grinned, nudging his knee with her foot. “Admit it, Sev. You liked watching me play.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I admit it, will you finally stop pestering me?”

“Maybe,” she teased.

Severus exhaled, looking at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “…You were good.”

Y/N’s grin widened. “Knew it.”

He shook his head again, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Severus pulled his hand from his robe pocket, the small golden Snitch resting in his palm. The tiny wings fluttered weakly against his fingers, as if reluctant to leave his grasp.

“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, holding it out to Y/N.

She looked at it, then at him, and instead of taking it, she just smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Keep it.”

Severus frowned. “What?”

“Keep it,” she repeated, her voice softer this time. “So you’ll always remember me.”

His fingers curled slightly around the Snitch as he processed her words, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “…Why would I need something to remember you by?”

Y/N grinned. “Because, Sev, someday I’ll be famous. Hogwarts’ best Seeker, a legend in the making. And when that happens, you’ll want to say you knew me first.”

He scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. 

Severus looked down at the Snitch in his palm, the tiny wings brushing against his skin. He could have argued. He could have insisted she take it back. But instead, he closed his fingers around it and slipped it back into his pocket, letting the weight of it settle against him.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it.”

Y/N smiled. “Good.”

And for the first time that night, Severus didn’t have a single complaint.

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter, but Severus barely paid it any mind. He sat at the Slytherin table, absently picking at his breakfast, still adjusting to the idea of carrying a Snitch in his pocket. Her Snitch.

And then, like clockwork, Y/N slid into the seat beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Morning, Sev.”

He huffed, not looking up from his plate. “You’re awfully cheerful.”

“I did win a match yesterday,” she reminded him smugly, grabbing a piece of toast. “And, you know, got a very rare compliment from a certain grumpy Potions prodigy.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to regret it.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you sleep well? You and your new prized possession, I mean.”

He stiffened slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “It’s just a Snitch.”

“My Snitch,” she corrected, taking a bite of her toast. “Did you put it somewhere safe?”

Severus exhaled through his nose, reaching into his pocket and subtly showing her the small golden sphere resting in his palm before tucking it away again. “Satisfied?”

Y/N grinned. “Very.”

He shook his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast, but he didn’t push her away when she leaned comfortably against him. 

Narcissa Black sat gracefully across from them, her sharp blue eyes scanning Y/N with mild curiosity as she stirred her tea. 

“You weren’t at the victory party last night.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, one laced with subtle judgment.

Y/N smirked, casually buttering her toast. “Oh, you noticed?”

“Of course, I noticed,” Narcissa replied, arching a perfectly shaped brow. 

“You were the star of the match, and yet, no celebratory gloating? No basking in the glory of your own success?” 

She tilted her head slightly. “Very unlike you, cousin.”

Severus huffed quietly, hiding his amusement behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.

Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Narcissa’s eyes flickered between the two of them before landing back on Y/N. “You did disappear rather quickly after the match…”

Y/N smirked. “What can I say? Had better company.” She nudged Severus with her knee under the table, earning an unimpressed glance from him.

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, her lips curving slightly. 

“I see.” She rested her chin on her hand, watching Y/N with something between amusement and suspicion. 

“So, instead of celebrating with your adoring fans, you spent your evening somewhere, locked away with Severus.”

Y/N gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, forgive me, dear cousin, for prioritizing meaningful conversation over drunken debauchery.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Please, you love the attention.”

“True,” Y/N admitted easily. “But I love annoying Sev more.”

Severus scoffed, not looking up from his plate. “How fortunate for me.”

Narcissa observed the two of them for a moment, then smirked. “Well, I do hope he made it worth your while.”

Y/N’s grin was immediate. “Oh, he did.”

Severus stiffened, glaring at her. “Don’t say it like that.”

Narcissa chuckled, sipping her tea. “Interesting choice of company, Y/N.”

Y/N just leaned back, perfectly unbothered. “Best choice, actually.”

Severus didn’t say anything but under the table, his fingers curled around the Snitch in his pocket.

“Anyways…Sirius came looking for you yesterday. Something about introducing you to his best mate, Potter. I think he fancies you,” Narcissa said, her tone light, but her gaze sharp as she watched Y/N’s reaction.

Y/N snorted, tearing off another bite of toast. 

“James Potter? Fancies me? Please, Cissy, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“I’m serious,” Narcissa pressed, twirling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers. 

“Sirius wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying how he thinks you and Potter would ‘get on brilliantly.’”

Severus, who had been silent up until now, suddenly gripped his fork a little too tightly. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, staring at his plate as if it personally offended him.

Y/N sighed dramatically. 

“And yet, somehow, I doubt James Potter would be terribly interested in me, given the way he practically worships Evans.”

Narcissa waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, well, maybe he’s expanding his options. You are the Black everyone actually likes, after all.”

Severus scoffed, finally breaking his silence. “Potter is an arrogant, brainless git. You’d sooner find a Kneazle getting along with a Manticore than have an intelligent conversation with him.”

Y/N smirked at his tone. “Aw, Sev, that almost sounded jealous.”

His scowl deepened. “I don’t get jealous.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Right. And yet, you look like you’re about to hex your plate into oblivion.”

Severus set his fork down with deliberate care, clearly restraining himself. “I simply find it unbelievable that anyone would subject themselves to Potter’s presence willingly.”

Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her elbow. 

“Don’t worry, Sev. If I ever lose all sense of self-respect and go anywhere near James Potter, you’ll be the first to know.”

His expression didn’t soften, but the tight grip on his robes loosened ever so slightly. 

“See that you don’t,” he muttered.

Narcissa just smiled behind her teacup, watching them both with interest.

“As if Potter has a chance…” Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Did he really think I’d choose him over Severus? He’s literally a bully, just like that Gryffindor of a brother of mine.”

Severus, who had been gripping his goblet a little too tightly, stilled at her words. His dark eyes flickered to her face, searching for any sign that she was joking. But she wasn’t. She had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Narcissa, however, only hummed, looking thoroughly entertained. “Oh? So you are choosing Severus, then?”

Y/N smirked. 

“Obviously.” 

She leaned into Severus slightly, her shoulder pressing against his. “Why would I waste my time with a Potter when I already have the best company?”

Severus swallowed hard, his face carefully blank but his fingers twitched slightly against the table. He knew better than to read into her words, but for the first time that morning, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

Narcissa’s smirk widened. “Interesting,” she mused, tilting her head. 

“You’re lucky, Severus.”

Severus huffed, finally recovering enough to roll his eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “It is.”

And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.

Narcissa took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk never wavering. 

“Well, that settles it, then. I suppose I’ll have to break the tragic news to Potter—he never stood a chance.”

Y/N chuckled. “Oh, please do. And be sure to tell Sirius that I’d rather hex myself than date his insufferable best mate.”

Severus let out a quiet breath, his fingers still curled around his goblet. 

“Speaking of your Gryffindor brother,” Narcissa continued, setting her cup down with a soft clink, “he was in quite the mood when I saw him last night. Apparently, he’s rather upset that you’re still spending all your time with Severus instead of ‘better company.’”

Y/N rolled her eyes, stealing a piece of fruit from Severus’ plate. 

“Right, because his definition of ‘better company’ consists of Potter and Lupin and that other friend of theirs. No, thanks.”

Severus sneered at the mention of them, his grip on his goblet tightening again. “Black should concern himself with his own miserable existence and stay out of yours.”

Y/N smirked, popping the fruit into her mouth. “Agreed.” 

She turned to Severus, nudging him with her knee. “But if he ever tries to drag me to the Gryffindor common room, do me a favor and curse me unconscious, yeah?”

Severus gave her a flat look. “I’d do it regardless.”

Y/N laughed, completely unbothered, while Narcissa shook her head in amusement. “You two are ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Y/N said, resting her head on Severus’ shoulder, “you’re still sitting with us.”

Narcissa merely smirked, watching the way Severus stiffened at the sudden contact, his ears just barely tinged red. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Once Narcissa had finished her tea and had her fun at their expense, she stood gracefully, smoothing out her robes. “Well, I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is.” She shot Y/N a knowing look before glancing at Severus with the same amused expression. “Try not to let her get you into too much trouble, Severus.”

Severus merely scowled, but Y/N grinned. “No promises.”

With a quiet chuckle, Narcissa turned and left the Great Hall, her blonde hair swaying as she went.

The moment she was out of earshot, Severus finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. 

“You didn’t have to say that.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

Severus shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over his pocket where the Snitch still rested. 

“That you’d choose me over Potter,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t believe it.

Y/N rolled her eyes, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “But I would.”

He frowned, clearly skeptical. “It’s not a competition.”

“Well, if it were, you’d win.”

Severus looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to find the punchline in her words. 

But there wasn’t one. 

Y/N was being completely serious.

“…Why?” he asked after a beat.

Y/N tilted her head, her gaze softening just a fraction. 

“Because I actually like spending time with you, Sev.” She nudged his knee under the table, smirking. “And because you’re my favorite.”

Severus swallowed, looking away as a faint redness dusted his pale cheeks. He wasn’t used to being anyone’s favorite.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no venom in his voice.

Y/N grinned. “That’s me.”

And for the first time that morning, Severus let himself relax, the weight of the Snitch in his pocket grounding him as he sat beside the only person who had ever truly chosen him.

After finishing breakfast, Y/N and Severus stood from the Slytherin table, grabbing their books and making their way toward the dungeons for Potions class.

Severus walked beside her, his usual scowl in place, but Y/N could tell he wasn’t actually annoyed. If anything, he seemed more thoughtful than usual, his fingers idly drumming against the spine of his Potions textbook.

Y/N bumped her shoulder against his. “What’s with the brooding? Thinking of new ways to make Potter’s life miserable?”

Severus scoffed. “I don’t need to think of new ways. He’s miserable enough just existing.”

Y/N laughed. “That’s fair.”

They arrived at the dimly lit Potions classroom, where students were already filing in. Slughorn, ever the enthusiastic professor, was scribbling today’s instructions on the blackboard.

Y/N and Severus slid into their usual seats at the back, setting their books down.

“Another partnered assignment today,” Y/N observed, glancing at the board. “Think Slughorn will have the audacity to separate us?”

Severus smirked slightly, his dark eyes flickering toward the front of the room. “He wouldn’t dare.”

And, as if proving his point, when Slughorn finally addressed the class, he didn’t even bother reassigning partners.

“Excellent, excellent! You may stay with your current partners,” Slughorn announced. “Today, we’ll be brewing a Draught of Peace! A rather delicate potion. One mistake and it won’t work at all.”

Severus rolled his eyes as Slughorn droned on about the potion’s properties. Y/N, meanwhile, leaned toward him, grinning. “Bet I’ll finish mine before you.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “You can’t even cut ingredients properly.”

“That’s slander.”

“That’s fact.”

Y/N huffed but still smirked as she flipped open her textbook. 

“Fine, Professor Snape, you do all the chopping, and I’ll handle the brewing.”

Severus sighed as if this was the greatest burden in the world, but he didn’t argue. He never did when it came to her.

And so, as the rest of the class struggled, Y/N and Severus worked seamlessly, the usual banter filling the space between them as they brewed yet another flawless potion—together.

As usual, working with Severus was effortless. While other students fumbled with their ingredients, misread instructions, or hesitated over their cauldrons, Y/N and Severus moved like a well-oiled machine.

Severus meticulously chopped the ingredients, his precise, practiced movements ensuring uniform slices. Y/N, despite her usual teasing, took the brewing process seriously, stirring at the exact pace and adding the ingredients only when Severus nodded in approval.

“Steady,” he murmured as she carefully poured in the powdered moonstone.

Y/N smirked. “You act like I’m about to botch the whole thing.”

“Because you would,” he replied dryly.

Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Rude.”

Severus merely shook his head, a rare, almost amused look flickering across his features. “Just keep stirring.”

They continued working, the soft bubbling of their potion filling the space between them. Around them, students groaned in frustration as some had cauldrons emitting faint purple smoke, while others had turned a worrying shade of green.

Slughorn made his way around the room, peering into cauldrons and offering words of encouragement (or, in some cases, looks of deep disappointment). When he reached their station, he beamed.

“Ah, exquisite work, as always!” he declared, clapping his hands together. “Perfect color, perfect consistency. Well done, well done!”

Severus merely inclined his head, while Y/N grinned. “Naturally.”

Slughorn chuckled. “I daresay, the two of you make quite the brilliant team. Perhaps I should have you brewing for me.”

Y/N nudged Severus. “Hear that, Sev? We’re brilliant.”

Severus scoffed, but his lips twitched slightly. “I am brilliant. You’re just lucky you sit next to me.”

Slughorn let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you remind me of myself in my youth, Severus! Such confidence, such talent! If you ever have any interest in pursuing Potions beyond Hogwarts, I would be more than happy to offer guidance.”

Severus gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”

Slughorn turned to Y/N. “And you, Miss Black. Remarkable work as well! Though I must say, I’m quite surprised you didn’t celebrate your Quidditch victory last night.”

Y/N shrugged, glancing at Severus briefly. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Slughorn raised an eyebrow. 

“Ah, well. More dedicated to your studies, I see! Excellent priorities, my dear.” 

He gave them both a final pleased nod before moving on to the next station.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Y/N turned to Severus. “See? Brilliant team.”

Severus exhaled, shaking his head as he began cleaning up their workspace. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

And for the rest of the class, while their classmates struggled, Y/N and Severus sat back, their potion already perfected—just as always.

Severus sat with his quill resting idly between his fingers, his gaze flickering between his parchment and Y/N as she leaned over to copy his notes.

She didn’t even bother asking anymore. She just slid his notebook closer, turned her own to a blank page, and began copying down his meticulous handwriting with lazy, fluid strokes.

Severus should have been irritated. Should have snapped at her to take her own notes, to pay attention instead of relying on him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched as she absentmindedly chewed the end of her quill, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. A few strands of her dark hair fell forward, brushing against the parchment, and every so often, she tapped her fingers against the desk in an offbeat rhythm.

She had done this a hundred times before. Stealing his notes, ignoring her own half-written ones, leaning just a little too close without realizing it. But for some reason, today, Severus couldn’t look away.

“Sev,” Y/N suddenly said, not looking up, still writing.

He blinked, straightening slightly. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

His grip on his quill tightened. “No, I’m not.”

Y/N smirked, finally glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “You are.”

Severus scoffed, shifting in his seat, his expression settling back into its usual scowl. “You’re copying my notes. I’m simply making sure you don’t ruin them with your atrocious handwriting.”

Y/N gasped in mock offense, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest. 

“Atrocious? Excuse me, I happen to have flawless handwriting.”

Severus snatched his notebook back, flipping it shut. 

“It’s a disgrace.”

Y/N laughed, resting her chin on her palm as she gazed at him, entirely unbothered. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep taking notes for me forever.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched slightly. It was just enough for Y/N to catch.

─ ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ──────────

The Slytherin common room was quiet that night, the usual chatter of students fading as most had either gone to bed or were off doing Merlin-knows-what in the castle. The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit space, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Severus and Y/N sat side by side on the emerald-green sofa closest to the fireplace, books open on their laps.

Well, Severus was reading. Y/N was halfheartedly flipping through her textbook, occasionally tapping her fingers against the spine, clearly bored.

After a few minutes of silence, she let out a dramatic sigh, tilting her head to look at him. 

“Sev.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “What?”

“I’m bored.”

Severus exhaled sharply, still not looking at her. 

“Then go to bed.”

Y/N ignored that completely and shifted to rest her head against his shoulder. 

“Nah. This is fine.”

Severus stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world, but it always caught him off guard.

“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes still on his book.

“I’m existing,” she corrected, smirking against his shoulder.

“Exactly.”

Y/N chuckled, and the sound was warm, familiar. She didn’t move away, though, and after a moment, Severus found himself leaning into it.

They sat like that for a while, the only sounds being the flickering of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.

“I’m stealing your notes again tomorrow.”

Severus sighed, closing his book. “Of course you are.”

And when she smiled, drowsy and content, Severus simply shook his head.

The common room grew quieter as the fire burned lower, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Severus had long since stopped reading, though his book remained open in his lap.

Y/N had gone still beside him, her head slipping from his shoulder. He glanced down just in time to see her shift, curling up slightly as her head now resting against his lap.

Severus tensed.

His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as if moving even an inch would somehow wake her. But Y/N didn’t stir. She simply exhaled softly, her face peaceful, her arms tucked beneath her head as she settled deeper against him.

For a long moment, Severus just stared.

Her hair spilled over his robes, the firelight casting a warm glow on her features. 

She looked… comfortable. Completely at ease.

He should wake her up. Tell her to go to bed.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed hard and carefully set his book aside. His fingers twitched as if debating whether or not to move, to touch her, but he quickly clenched them into fists, keeping them at his sides.

Merlin, she was infuriating.

Did she even realize what she did to him? How she invaded his space so easily, so effortlessly, like she belonged there?

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to lean back against the sofa. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) wake her.

Not when she looked like that. 

So, instead, he sat there, unmoving, his heartbeat entirely too loud in his ears. And as the fire crackled beside him, Severus Snape did something he never allowed himself to do.

He let himself enjoy the moment.

Severus hesitated. His fingers hovered just above Y/N’s hair, as if touching her would shatter the quiet, fragile peace of the moment.

But she was there, asleep on his lap, her breathing slow and even. The firelight cast soft golden hues across her skin, making her seem almost unreal like something delicate and untouchable.

Severus exhaled, then, before he could think better of it, finally let his fingers brush against her hair.

It was soft. Softer than he expected. His movements were tentative at first, barely there, but when she didn’t stir but simply nestled deeper against him, he let himself continue.

He didn’t know why he did it. He had never been one for tenderness, never the type to comfort or soothe. But with Y/N, it felt natural. 

His fingers threaded through her hair again, and his breath caught when she shifted slightly, a faint hum escaping her lips.

Severus stilled, his heart hammering against his ribs. But Y/N only sighed in her sleep, her body relaxing further against him.

His hand lingered for just a moment longer before he withdrew it, resting it tensely on the armrest.

This was dangerous.

She was dangerous.

Because if she kept doing this, kept looking at him like that, touching him like it meant something, falling asleep on him like he was someone safe, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he didn’t want her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─

The wind was crisp as Y/N and Severus made their way down the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, the chatter of students filling the air. 

It had been a few weeks since that night in the common room—since Y/N had unknowingly ruined Severus with her presence, her warmth, the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers.

And now, here they were, walking side by side, the snow crunching beneath their feet as Y/N tugged on his sleeve.

“Come on, Sev,” she said, linking her arm through his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You walk so slowly.”

Severus stiffened at the contact, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second.

She was touching him again.

And not just touching but rather clinging. As if she belonged there. As if she didn’t even have to think about it.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, though. She simply grinned, leaning slightly into his side as they made their way toward Honeydukes.

“I don’t know why you even agreed to come,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. “You hate sweets.”

“I don’t hate them,” Severus muttered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, pretending that the warmth of her arm against his wasn’t distracting him. 

“I just don’t see the point in wasting my money on sugar when I could buy something useful.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? Sweets are useful. They’re essential, actually.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

He should have.

But he didn’t.

Because Y/N was still holding onto him, and Merlin help him, he liked it.

The second they stepped inside Honeydukes, Y/N all but dragged Severus through the shop, pointing at various sweets with an excited grin.

“Oh, you have to try these,” she said, grabbing a handful of Chocolate Frogs. 

“And these—” She tossed a few Sugar Quills into her basket. 

“Oh! And definitely these.”

Severus sighed, crossing his arms as she piled more and more sweets into her basket. 

“You do realize I never asked for any of this.”

Y/N grinned, completely unfazed. “That’s the best part. You don’t have to ask. I just know what you need.”

Severus scoffed. “And what exactly do I need?”

“Sugar.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I—”

Before he could finish, Y/N grabbed a small chocolate and unwrapped it. Then, before he could protest, she held it up to his lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

Severus stared at her, unimpressed. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” She wiggled the chocolate in front of his face. “Come on, Sev. Humor me.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet…

He begrudgingly parted his lips just enough for her to pop the chocolate into his mouth.

Y/N beamed.

“See? Not so bad, right?” she teased, watching him closely.

Severus chewed, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “It’s fine.”

Y/N gasped. “Fine? This is premium chocolate, Severus. Premium.”

Severus just shook his head, swallowing the chocolate. “Idiot.”

Severus sighed, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. But when Y/N lifted the next treat to his lips, he didn’t resist.

By the time they left Honeydukes, Y/N had practically stuffed half a dozen different sweets into Severus’ mouth. Each time grinning triumphantly whenever he reluctantly accepted them.

Now, as they strolled back through Hogsmeade, Y/N happily munching on a Sugar Quill, Severus still tasted the remnants of chocolate and caramel on his tongue.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like you hated it,” Y/N teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “You ate everything I gave you.”

Severus shot her a flat look. 

“You shoved it in my mouth. What was I supposed to do? Spit it out?”

Y/N smirked. “You could’ve said no.”

Severus scoffed. “Like you’d listen.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the cold winter air crisp against their skin.

Then, suddenly, Y/N stopped in front of a small tea shop, peering through the frosted windows. “Oh, let’s go in here for a bit. It’s freezing.”

Severus followed her gaze, immediately recognizing the shop. Madam Puddifoot’s.

His face twisted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because,” Severus muttered, glaring at the couples visible through the window, “this is practically a breeding ground for lovesick imbeciles.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “You would say that.”

Severus crossed his arms. “I refuse to set foot in there.”

Y/N, still grinning, hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. How about The Three Broomsticks instead?”

Severus hesitated, eyeing her warily. “And what’s the catch?”

Y/N linked her arm through his again, smirking. “No catch. Just butterbeer. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop feeding you sweets for the day.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, pretending to be completely unaffected by the way she clung to him so easily.

“…Fine.”

Y/N beamed. “Good choice, Sev.”

And just like that, she pulled him along once more, her arm still wrapped around his.

The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling with students escaping the cold. As soon as they stepped inside, Y/N led Severus toward a small table near the corner, away from the loudest groups.

She let go of his arm (much to his dismay, though he’d never admit it) and slid into her seat. 

“I’ll order for us,” she declared before he could argue, already making her way to the counter.

Severus sighed, rubbing his temples. He should’ve known letting her drag him here would mean losing every battle.

A few minutes later, Y/N returned with two steaming mugs of butterbeer, setting one in front of him.

“There,” she said proudly, sliding into her seat. “A drink and a break from my relentless generosity. You should be thanking me.”

Severus rolled his eyes but accepted the mug anyway. “I didn’t ask for your generosity in the first place.”

Y/N smirked. “Quit your whining, Snape.”

Severus huffed but took a sip of his butterbeer. It was warm, sweet, and undeniably comforting, not that he’d ever say that out loud.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the tavern settling over them. Every now and then, Severus found himself watching her like how her fingers curled around her mug, how she tapped her nails idly against the wood, how her lips pursed slightly as she took a sip.

It was maddening.

She was maddening.

Y/N suddenly looked up, catching him mid-stare.

Severus immediately looked away, clearing his throat.

“What?” he muttered.

Y/N tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You were staring.”

Severus scoffed. “I was not.”

“Liar.” She grinned, leaning forward slightly. “See something you like, Sev?”

Severus choked on his butterbeer.

Y/N burst into laughter, her eyes shining with amusement as he coughed into his sleeve.

Severus opened his mouth but before he could, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Y/N turned in her seat, her smile vanishing as she spotted the person standing beside their table.

Sirius Black.

And behind him—Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew.

Severus clenched his jaw, already bracing himself.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, little sister,” Sirius drawled, his lips curled in amusement. “And with him, no less.”

Potter elbowed him. “Guess she has questionable taste.”

Severus scowled, but before he could snap back, Y/N spoke first.

“If you came all this way just to be annoying, then congratulations, you’ve succeeded,” she said flatly, leaning back in her chair.

Sirius chuckled. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You could be sitting with anyone—and yet, here you are, stuck with old Snivellus.”

Severus’ fists clenched under the table, his face carefully blank.

Y/N, however, just laughed.

“You’re so predictable, Sirius,” she said, shaking her head. 

“You think I care what you lot think?” She gestured between them lazily. 

“If I wanted to sit with idiots, I’d let you all join us. But I’d rather not lose brain cells, thanks.”

Sirius raised his brows, clearly surprised by her sharpness.

Lupin sighed, giving her a wary look. “Y/N, you really don’t—”

“I do,” she interrupted, her tone unwavering. “Now, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something.”

Sirius scoffed, but Potter pulled at his sleeve. “Leave it, mate. Let her sit with her pet snake if she wants.”

Y/N’s eyes flashed dangerously. “At least he’s not an arrogant, self-obsessed git,” she shot back.

Potter’s smug expression faltered.

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t realize you hated us that much.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “I don’t. But I hate this. The way you always think you can tell me what to do. Who to be around.”

“Sirius… I’m not you,” she murmured. “I never was.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned to leave, pausing only once. “Don’t come crying to me when he betrays you.”

With that, he walked away, the others trailing behind him.

A heavy silence hung in the air.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Merlin.”

Severus, who had been deadly quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke.

“…Why did you do that?”

Y/N looked at him, confused. “Do what?”

“Defend me,” he muttered, his voice oddly unreadable. “Against them.”

Y/N frowned. “Severus, I’d defend you against anyone.”

The words were so simple, so obvious to her. But to him…

Severus stared at her, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

And then, slowly he reached for his mug again, taking a long sip of butterbeer to cover the unbearable warmth spreading through his chest.

“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Y/N grinned. “Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”

Severus scoffed, rolling his eyes.

But he didn’t argue.

Severus watched as Y/N slumped back in her chair, exhaling a tired sigh.

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N twirled the handle of her butterbeer mug between her fingers, her gaze distant. 

“I was just thinking…” She hesitated, then let out a humorless chuckle. “I wonder how long I have before my father pushes me to some pureblood boy.”

Severus stiffened.

Her words settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

It wasn’t surprising, really. It was expected for someone like Y/N, from a prestigious family like the Blacks. Arranged marriages, strategic unions, keeping the bloodline pure.

But no lie, the thought of Y/N being forced into a life she didn’t want, with someone she didn’t choose made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He swallowed, his voice carefully neutral. “…Do you have anyone in mind?”

Y/N scoffed. “As if it’ll matter. It’s not like I’ll get a choice.” 

She tapped her nails against the table, sighing again. “I’m sure my father already has someone lined up. Probably some arrogant pureblood twat who thinks he owns the world.”

Severus’ grip on his mug tightened. Of course he does.

“You don’t have to do it,” he said quietly.

Y/N gave him a knowing look. “You know that’s not how it works, Sev.”

He clenched his jaw. Of course it isn’t.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a wry smile, Y/N nudged his foot under the table. 

“Unless you want to marry me, Snape.”

Severus nearly choked on air.

Y/N burst out laughing at his reaction, but there was something in her expression like she was only half joking.

Severus forced himself to breathe. 

“You really need to stop saying things like that.”

“Why?” she teased. “Does it make you nervous?”

Severus huffed. “It’s infuriating.”

Y/N grinned. “Good.”

But as she took another sip of her butterbeer, Severus noticed how her fingers curled slightly tighter around the mug. How her smile, bright and teasing as always, didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And he hated that.

Hated that she felt trapped.

Hated that, no matter what she wanted, the world would still try to dictate her fate.

Without thinking, he muttered, “I’d rather it be me than one of them.”

Y/N stilled.

Slowly, she set her mug down, her eyes meeting his. 

“What did you just say?”

Severus hesitated. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t even realized he’d said it aloud.

But now that he had…He didn’t take it back.

Y/N blinked at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no laughter.

Severus exhaled sharply and looked away. 

“Forget it.”

Y/N, however, did not forget it.

Instead, she just kept staring at him, something unreadable in her gaze.

Something dangerously close to hope.

Severus’ breath caught in his throat.

He turned to look at her, but Y/N was already staring at him with her eyes unwavering.

“No,” she said, voice quiet but firm. 

“Tell me, Severus. Because I swear… if I heard whatever it is that I think I heard, then…” 

She swallowed, her fingers curling against the table. 

“I’d give it all up.”

Severus’ heart stopped.

For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of The Three Broomsticks around them—the chatter of students, the clinking of glasses, the distant sound of rain beginning to drizzle outside.

But right now, none of it mattered.

Not when she was looking at him like that.

Like he was something worth choosing.

Severus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. 

“Y/N… don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” she challenged, leaning closer. 

“Because it’s impossible? Because you think I wouldn’t do it?” Her voice softened, gaze searching his. 

“Because you don’t want me to?”

Severus clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

Of course he wanted her to.

But she was a Black. She had a future already planned—one that had nothing to do with him.

But then, she was here. 

Offering, choosing him, despite it all.

“Y/N… if you say something like that, you can’t take it back.”

Y/N gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to.”

Severus hated how much that affected him.

Because the truth was—if things were different, if the world wasn’t what it was…

He’d choose her, too.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached across the table, his fingers barely brushing against hers.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet, unsteady. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But she only turned her hand over, letting her fingers lace through his.

“Sev,” she murmured, “I do.”

Severus stared at their intertwined fingers, his breath unsteady.

She wasn’t letting go.

Did she understand what she was saying? What she was offering?

Giving up her family’s expectations—for him? Throwing away a life of power, wealth, and status because of a quiet, half-spoken confession he hadn’t even meant to say?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

His grip tightened slightly around her hand, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“You’d really do that?”

Y/N exhaled, something relieved in her expression. 

“I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Severus felt something in his chest ache.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” he murmured.

“I won’t,” she said immediately. “But you have to tell me, Sev… if I gave it all up—my family’s expectations, the stupid arranged marriage—if I walked away from all of it…” 

She hesitated, then asked, softer, “Would you want me?”

Severus inhaled sharply.

The answer was yes. Of course it was yes.

But admitting it and saying it aloud would make it real.

And if he let himself have this, let himself believe that someone like her could choose someone like him…

“I—” His voice faltered, thick with something he couldn’t name. “Y/N, this isn’t fair to you.”

Y/N let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Severus, I’m the one making this choice. And I’d choose you. Every time.”

Severus felt his world tilt.

Every time.

He looked at her then and for the first time in his life, he let himself want.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips lightly against the back of hers.

It was the smallest, softest thing.

But Y/N inhaled sharply, eyes widening because she knew. She knew what it meant.

Severus pulled away just slightly, his lips barely brushing against her skin as he whispered, “Then I’d choose you, too.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

He held her gaze, his fingers still curled gently around hers, his lips still tingling from where they had touched her skin.

Y/N swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”

Severus exhaled shakily. He didn’t need to ask what she meant.

“I’d choose you,” he murmured.

Her grip on his hand tightened, like she was trying to ground herself. And then, without thinking, Y/N surged forward, wrapping her arms around him.

Severus stiffened but only for a second. Because as soon as he processed what was happening, he melted into it.

His arms hesitated before slowly wrapping around her, his hand coming up to rest on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.

She smelled like fresh strawberry milk and ink and something inherently her, something warm and safe and entirely forbidden.

“I meant it, Sev,” she whispered against his shoulder. 

“I don’t care about any of it. I just—” She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes. 

“I want you.”

“Y/N…”

She shook her head. 

“No, don’t try to push me away again. You want me too, I know you do. So tell me, Severus Snape—do you want me enough to fight for this?”

He would burn the entire world if it meant keeping her.

His grip on her waist tightened as he exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll fight for it.”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, eyes searching his. “You mean it?”

Instead of answering, Severus did the one thing he’d never allowed himself to do.

He leaned in, slowly and carefully, giving her a chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

And when their lips finally met, it was soft and tentative, like the two of them were still learning how to have this, how to believe in it.

But then Y/N sighed against his mouth, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer and suddenly, there was nothing hesitant about it.

Severus kissed her like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and didn’t know if he’d ever get it again.

Because maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe the world would take this from him.

But not today. And maybe not ever. 

Today, she was his. Tomorrow, she’ll be his. 

Severus tightened his grip on her waist, searching her face as if trying to make sense of her words.

“You know you’ll get disowned for being with a half-blood,” he muttered.

But Y/N only laughed. A soft, amused sound, like the thought of it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

“At least my mother would have the pleasure of blasting my face off that stupid family tree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been dying to do it for years, anyway.”

Severus frowned. “Y/N—”

“No, Sev.” She reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair away from his face. 

“I mean it. My family doesn’t control me. Not my mother, not my father, not Sirius—no one.” Her voice softened as she cupped his cheek. 

“I choose you.”

Severus inhaled sharply.

He had spent his whole life being a second choice. An afterthought. Someone people tolerated but never chose.

But Y/N… she wasn’t hesitating.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” he whispered, barely trusting his voice.

Y/N smiled. Smirked, actually. “I do.” 

She leaned closer, eyes flickering between his lips and his gaze. 

“Now, are you going to keep questioning my life choices, or are you going to kiss me again?”

Severus let out something between a sigh and a laugh before giving in.

He kissed her.

And this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing.

Because, for once in his life, someone had chosen him.

As if she hadn’t just turned his world upside down, Y/N pulled away, settled comfortably beside him, and asked, 

“So, tell me about that new potion you were working on.”

Severus blinked. “What?”

She smirked. “You were ranting about it last week, remember? Something about stabilizing the Wolfsbane formula? I was listening, you know.”

Severus stared at her, still reeling from everything that had just happened. The kiss, the way she had chosen him so effortlessly. And now, she was acting like it was just another normal afternoon between them.

But that was Y/N Black. She had always been like this. Unshaken. Unbothered. Acting like she hadn’t just kissed him like she meant it.

And Merlin help him, but Severus loved that about her.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N just grinned. 

Severus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Fine. If you must know…” He turned slightly, getting into his usual lecture mode. “The problem with the Wolfsbane Potion is its volatility when stored improperly. The key is stabilizing the aconite concentration without diminishing its effects—”

And just like always, Y/N listened.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in quiet interest, and let him speak.

And for the first time in his life, Severus felt like someone truly wanted to hear what he had to say.

They had been deep in conversation—Severus explaining the intricacies of potion stabilization, his voice passionate, his hands gesturing slightly as he spoke.

And then, out of nowhere, he said—

“And did you know, for the longest time, I have had my eyes on you and you don’t even realize that I’m so in love with you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

She turned to him, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint that he was joking. But Severus was dead serious.

His dark eyes held hers, unwavering, like he had needed to say it. Like it had been clawing at him for years. And for once, he didn’t look like he regretted speaking.

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again, completely caught off guard. 

“You—” She let out a breathless laugh. 

“You just say things like that in the middle of a potions discussion?”

Severus smirked slightly, but his voice was softer when he said, “I suppose I do.”

Y/N shook her head in disbelief, a grin tugging at her lips. “Sev—”

“I mean it.” His fingers twitched where they rested against the table. 

“I have for a long time.”

Y/N’s chest ached.

Slowly, she reached over, threading her fingers through his. 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m so in love with you, too.”

Something in Severus’ expression softened.

He squeezed her hand.

“Good,” he murmured.

Severus furrowed his brows as Y/N suddenly pulled away, tilting her head at him with a knowing smirk.

“Where’s my Snitch, Sev?” she asked.

Severus hesitated for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against the small, familiar golden ball. He had carried it with him every day since she gave it to him, unwilling to part with something so hers.

Wordlessly, he handed it back.

Y/N took it with a quiet hum, running her fingers over the cool metal before pressing it open with ease.

Severus watched as the delicate wings fluttered, revealing a small folded note inside. His stomach tightened—he had never opened it before. He hadn’t even realized there was something inside.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She simply pulled out the note, unfolded it, and turned it around for him to see.

Severus’ breath hitched.

There, in her familiar handwriting, were three simple words:

“I choose you, Severus Snape.”

His heart stopped.

And then it raced.

His lips parted slightly as he stared at her, eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.

But she only smiled, pressing the Snitch back into his palm. 

“Keep it for me, won’t you?” she murmured.

Severus swallowed hard, fingers curling tightly around the Snitch, holding onto it like a lifeline.

He had never been given something so precious before.

And now, he swore he’d never let it go.

“…Always,” he whispered.

You slipped inside carrying a crinkled paper bag, the scent of homemade kimchi jjigae flooding the room before you even spoke. Chan’s gaze snapped up and locked.

This wasn’t your first drop-by. Almost a year into dating, you’d built a quiet ritual: he drilled until his legs gave out, you showed up with hot food and the smile that made exhaustion worth it. But today…

Today felt different.

You wore his gray Sydney hoodie—the one with the faded logo he lived in on long-haul flights. The sleeves swallowed your hands; you clutched the bag with fabric-bundled fists. Your hair was twisted into a messy bun, stray wisps glued to your sweaty forehead. No makeup. No filter. Just you.

Chan’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.

“Brought reinforcements,” you announced, hoisting the bag like a trophy. “Your mom sent a new recipe. Said you’re looking too skinny on lives.”

He laughed, but it came out raspy. You crossed to the soundboard, set the bag down, and started unpacking containers with that calm efficiency he adored. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t “Stray Kids leader being cute with his girlfriend” content. It was just the two of you.

Chan stayed rooted, cataloging every motion. The way you folded back the lid like it was fragile. The way you wiped the rim with your pinky so it wouldn’t drip on the desk. The way you bit your lower lip when you concentrated—like when you were untangling work spreadsheets or hunting for his lost keys.

He knew these details by heart. But today they landed differently.

You turned to dig cutlery from your backpack, humming the chorus of Case 143,gloriously off-key. Chan’s mouth curved without permission. You always botched his parts. Called it “artistic interpretation.” He called it selective deafness. You’d bicker, laughing, until he sang the line in your ear until you nailed it.

Now, watching your back, hoodie slipping off one shoulder as you rummaged, he understood.

It wasn’t cinematic. No slow-motion, no swelling strings. It was the way you moved through his space—the studio where he spent sleepless nights writing lyrics about loneliness and pressure—like you belonged. Like the chaos of his life suddenly made sense with you inside it.

He fell,truly, irrevocably,in love right there, standing among tangled cables and half-empty water bottles, watching you line up containers with the same care you used to coil his earphones on tour. It wasn’t what you did. It was how you made him feel… home.

Chan inhaled, the air thick in his lungs. He remembered your real first meeting—not the official dinner-and-flowers date, but the real one. You were a marketing intern at JYP, tasked with proofreading video subtitles. He met you in a hallway when you dropped an avalanche of papers and swore softly in Portuguese. He knelt to help; you looked up, eyes wide, then laughed and threatened, “Tell the boys I curse in Portuguese and I’ll kill you.”

He never told. But he kept the accent, the laugh, the way you rolled your r’s when nervous. Kept everything.

You started texting. First work stuff. Then music. Then everything. He sent 3 a.m. lyric scraps. You fired back two-minute voice notes ordering him to sleep. He sent photos of the members passed out on the studio floor. You sent pics of your cat stealing your side of the bed.

Then, one rainy September night, he asked you for coffee. Not a date—just coffee. You showed up with crooked glasses, rain-soaked hair, and he knew. He wanted to see you like that every day.

Now, almost a year later, here you were. In his studio. With his mom’s jjigae. In his hoodie.

“Chan?” You turned, two spoons in hand. “You okay? You’re staring like I grew a third head.”

He blinked, heart slamming so loud he swore you could hear it.

“I’m great,” he said, softer than intended. “Just thinking you look gorgeous in stolen hoodies.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks pink.

“It’s comfy. And it smells like you.”

Chan crossed the room in three strides. His hands found your waist on instinct, tugging you close. The hoodie drowned you; he loved it. Loved that you claimed his clothes like they were yours. Loved that you showed up unannounced with home-cooked food because he forgot meals. Loved that you murdered his melodies yet understood their meaning better than anyone.

He dipped his head, nose brushing yours. You smelled like kimchi, like the rain outside, like the birthday perfume he gave you—the one you swore was “too fancy for every day” but wore anyway.

“S/n,” he whispered against your forehead, lips grazing warm skin. “I love you, you know?”

You tilted your face up, startled by the sudden weight in his voice.

“I know,” you answered, fingers toying with the hem of his(now your) hoodie. “You say it all the time.”

“No. Like… really” He dragged in a breath, words heavy. “I looked at you just now and thought: that’s it. It’s her. Forever.”

The studio fell silent. Just the low hum of the AC and his pulse thundering.

You smiled—the small, private one that never made it to fan photos or lives. The one that crinkled the corners of your eyes.

“Christopher Bang,” you teased, full-naming him. “You’re getting corny in your old age.”

He laughed, the sound bouncing off empty walls. But he didn’t let go. He never would again.

You sank to the floor, backs against the mirror, sharing jjigae straight from the container. You scooped, blew gently, fed him. He mirrored you. An old, wordless dance. You never needed much conversation. You never had.

“Your mom added extra chili,” you said, wiping sauce from your lip with the back of your hand. “Said you’re getting too ‘soft’ lately.”

Chan snorted, nearly choking.

“She saw the fancall where I cried?”

“Of course. Called me immediately to ask if you were sick.”

He shook his head, still chuckling. You reached out, thumb brushing a rice grain from his cheek. The touch was so natural, so you, his chest ached again.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You are okay, right? You’re… different today.”

Chan looked—really looked. At your work-tired eyes, at the hair you hadn’t bothered to fix, at the way you held the spoon like an extension of yourself. At everything he knew by heart that somehow still felt brand-new.

“I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “In a way I didn’t know was possible.”

You blinked. Twice.

“Chan…”

“Wait.” He caught your hand, lacing your fingers. “I loved you before. I know that. But today… today it clicked. You’re here, in my studio, with my mom’s food, in my stolen hoodie, murdering my song… and I thought: that’s it. No going back.”

You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.

“You’re scaring me,” you said, but you were smiling.

“Good scared or bad scared?”

“Good.” You squeezed his hand. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”

He laughed. And cried. Just a little. One stubborn tear he couldn’t catch. You wiped it with your thumb, like always.

“Idiot,” you murmured, fond.

“Your idiot.”

You finished eating in comfortable quiet. When the container was empty, you stood, packed everything with your usual tidy grace. Chan watched from the floor, back against the mirror, thinking how his life was a rollercoaster—tours, schedules, deadlines, pressure, fans, antis, sleepless nights—and how you were the only constant. The only thing that never shifted, even when everything else crumbled.

You returned with a water bottle, slid down beside him, and rested your head on his shoulder.

“You know,” you said softly, “I realized something today, too.”

“Yeah?”

“On the subway coming here, a girl recognized me. Asked if I was Bang Chan’s girlfriend. I said yes. She went—” you pitched your voice high—“Wow, you must be so lucky" And I thought: Lucky? I wake up at six to make coffee for this guy because he forgets to eat. I fold his laundry because he leaves it everywhere. I listen to him ramble about mixing until four a.m. and pretend I understand.” You turned to him. “But then I walked in, saw you sweaty and exhausted and still smiling at me… and I thought: No. I’m not lucky. I’m happy.”

Chan’s heart stopped. Then raced. Then stopped again.

“You’re happy with me?” he whispered.

“More than I thought I could be.”

He pulled you into his lap without warning. You squeaked, surprised, but settled, knees bracketing his hips, hands on his shoulders. The hoodie rode up, revealing pajama pants underneath. He laughed.

“You came in pajamas?”

“They were comfy,” you defended, flushing. “And I was lazy.”

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your mouth. Slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t need words. When you parted, you pressed your forehead to his.

“Chan,” you said, serious again. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise that when we fight and we will, you’re stubborn as hell,you’ll remember this moment. This studio. This jjigae. This hoodie. And remember we always come back here.”

He nodded, throat tight.

“Promise.”

You stayed until sunset bled out and the studio went dark, lit only by emergency strips. Until the boys crashed back in, loud and starving, and found you both asleep against the mirror, the gray hoodie draped like a blanket.

Later, when Changbin snapped a photo and posted it on Bubble with the caption leader’s too in love, send help, Chan would look at you laughing with sauce on your lip and think: right there. In that sweaty studio, with the stolen hoodie and his mom’s kimchi jjigae.

That’s where he realized he never wanted to live without this. Without you.

And the craziest part? You had no idea.

But now you did.

And that changed everything.

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰:

The rain fell in a fine mist outside, the kind that fogged the car windows and turned the asphalt into a glossy mirror. Minho leaned back in the driver’s seat, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes, lids half-closed as he waited for the light to change. The dashboard clock read 23:14. He’d just finished an extra recording session for the upcoming comeback, body heavy with fatigue, mind still looping choreography transitions only he seemed to notice. The boys had left hours ago; he’d stayed behind to polish a move no one else caught,except him.

His phone buzzed in the cradle. A text from you.

You: Here. Side gate. Brought an umbrella, but it’s more of a sieve.

Minho’s mouth curved without permission. You’d been dating just over three months—long enough for him to know you hated being late, not long enough for the flutter in his stomach to fade every time your name lit the screen. It was new. Fragile. Good.

He eased forward, wipers dancing to the rhythm of the rain. The JYP parking lot was nearly empty, just a few staff cars and neon reflections in the puddles. There you were, leaning against the gate, plastic bag in one hand, a hole-riddled umbrella in the other, hair plastered to your forehead. You wore his oversized denim jacket—the one he’d lent you on a chilly autumn night and never got back—and gray sweatpants with a rip at the knee you insisted “added character.”

Minho pulled up beside you, rolled down the window, and raised a brow.

“You look like a drowned cat.”

You stuck out your tongue.

“And you look like you slept on the couch again. Get in before I freeze.”

He laughed, killed the engine, and stepped out. The rain had thickened, drumming impatiently on the hood. Minho snatched the useless umbrella from your hand tossed it in the back seat. Instead, he shrugged off his own jacket and draped it over your shoulders, tugging the hood up to shield your hair.

“Come on,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Before security thinks I’m smuggling a fan.”

You slid in, the scent of rain and cheap perfume (the one you wore because “it fits the budget”) flooding the car. Minho circled back, settled behind the wheel, and cranked the heat. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that only existed when two people already felt safe enough not to fill every second with words.

You rummaged in the bag, pulling out a red-lidded plastic container.

“Brought kimbap,” you announced, proud. “Made it this morning. Tuna, carrot, spinach, and that kimchi you like. No cucumber, I promise.”

Minho stared at the container, then at you. Something in his chest shifted.

You’d met by accident. You worked at the basement café in the JYP building,the one only staff and the laziest idols frequented. He went almost daily, always ordering the same: black Americano, no sugar, 7:12 a.m. sharp. You took the order without looking up, but one day you dropped the cup, coffee exploded across the counter, and you swore so softly he almost missed it. Almost.

“Shit,” you muttered, wiping with a rag. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said, eyes on his phone. “Happens.”

But it happened again the next day. And the next. Until one morning you handed over the coffee with a sticky note: “Sorry for the mess. Free tomorrow?” He laughed. Kept the note in his wallet. The next day, he ordered a latte just to see your face.

You started talking. First about coffee. Then music. Then cats,you had three, he had three, and the names were ridiculous enough to become an inside joke. He gave you a ride on a rainy night. You accepted. He drove you home. You invited him up “just to see the cats.” He went. You watched Studio Ghibli until 4 a.m. He crashed on your couch. You stole his jacket. He never asked for it back.

Three months later, here you were.

Minho popped the lid; the scent hit immediately: warm rice, tuna, fermented kimchi. Perfect. He pinched a roll between his fingers, bit down, and closed his eyes.

“How do you do this?” he asked, mouth half-full.

“Do what?”

“This.” He waved the kimbap. “It tastes like a restaurant, but it’s… home. It’s you.”

You shrugged, cheeks pink.

“My grandma taught me. She said good food is 70% technique, 30% love. I just… think of you when I make it.”

Minho stopped chewing.

He’d heard “I love you” before. From fans. From exes. From friends. But never like this. Never with this brutal simplicity. You weren’t even looking at him,you were fiddling with the radio, hunting for a song that wasn’t an ad and that made the words truer. No audience. No filter.

He swallowed. The taste lingered, now mixed with something sweeter.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

You turned.

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

You did. Your eyes were tired,you’d worked all day, studied at night, rolled kimbap at 5 a.m. because you knew he’d be recording late. But they still sparkled. Like he was the best part of your day.

And that was it.

Not a grand moment. No fireworks, no swelling soundtrack. Just you, in the passenger seat, rain-soaked hair, his jacket slipping off your shoulder, offering homemade kimbap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like caring for him was as easy as breathing.

Minho realized, with a clarity that hurt, that he was in love. Not the “I like you” of early dates. Not the “you’re cool” of good morning texts. Real, bone deep love. The kind that made you want to wake up early just to watch someone sleep. The kind that made you memorize the way they laughed when drowsy. The kind that made you want to shield someone from the entire world even knowing they could handle it alone.

He dropped the kimbap back in the container, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and leaned over. You froze, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Minho cupped your face with both hands,gently, like you were glass and kissed you.

It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was clumsy, tasting of tuna and kimchi, noses bumping because you hadn’t practiced enough. But it was perfect. Because it was you.

When you parted, you were red to the tips of your ears.

“Wow,” you whispered. “What was that?”

“I love you,” he said. Simple. Direct. No fluff.

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Like… now?”

“Like now. Like since you spilled coffee on me and didn’t apologize properly. Like since you stole my jacket and never gave it back. Like since you made kimbap without cucumber because I complained once.” He laughed, breathless. “I love you, s/n. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.

“I…” your voice cracked. “I love you too. But you’re scaring me, Minho.”

“Good scared or bad scared?”

“Good.” You smiled, eyes glassy. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”

He laughed. And didn’t cry. But almost.

You stayed in the car another hour. Eating cold kimbap. Listening to the rain. Talking about everything and nothing. You told him your newest cat shredded the couch. He told you Changbin tried ballet and nearly snapped his ankle. You laughed until your stomachs hurt.

When the rain stopped, Minho started the engine.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Home,” you said. “Mine. The cats miss you.”

He nodded. Drove in silence, right hand on the gearshift, left hand holding yours. The route was memorized,he knew every pothole. But tonight it felt different. Like the world had color.

You reached your building. You got out; he followed. Climbed the stairs,the elevator was broken again. On the third floor, you unlocked the door and three furballs came sprinting: Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, meowing like you’d been gone for years.

Minho kicked off his shoes, hung the wet jacket on the hook. You went to the kitchen, clicked on the kettle. He leaned in the doorway and watched.

You stirred mugs, humming the new comeback track—off key, as always. Your hair was still damp, his jacket slipping down your arm. The cats wove between your legs. The kitchen was tiny, cluttered, full of spice jars and fridge photos. It was so… you.

And he realized again, with a force that nearly floored him: he wanted this. Every day. Wanted to wake up to you grumbling because a cat stole the blanket. Wanted to fight over dishes. Wanted to burn rice making kimbap together. Wanted to grow old in this mess, with you.

You turned, two mugs in hand.

“Chamomile,” you said. “For sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

He took the mug but didn’t drink. Just stared.

“What?” you asked, worried.

“Marry me.”

You dropped the mug. Hot tea splashed the floor; the cats scattered.

“MINHO!”

“Not now,” he corrected, laughing. “I’m not insane. But… one day. When we have time. When I don’t have to hide you from fans. When I can give you a real ring. Marry me.”

You stood frozen, tea pooling at your feet, eyes wide.

“You’re serious?”

“More serious than I’ve ever been.”

You inhaled. Exhaled. Then ran and launched yourself at him arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

“Yes,” you whispered in his ear. “A thousand times yes.”

He held you tight, like you might vanish. Like the world might end right there.

You cleaned the tea together. Laughed. Argued because you grabbed the wrong towel. He carried you to the couch. You watched Spirited Away for the thousandth time. Fell asleep tangled, Dori purring between you.

The next morning, Minho woke to sunlight on the window. You were still out, face smushed into the pillow, hair a bird’s nest. He watched you a long time. Then grabbed his phone, snapped a photo. Didn’t post it. Kept it for himself.

Later, when the boys asked why he was grinning like an idiot, he’d blame the comeback. The choreo. The coffee.

But the truth was simpler.

It was you.

With homemade kimbap, a stolen jacket, and a “yes” that changed everything.

And he never asked for the jacket back.

He never wanted to.

𝐒𝐞𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐧:

The Seoul winter arrived early that year, with a wind that knifed through the studio 3Racha’s cracked windows and sent lyric sheets fluttering like startled birds. Changbin sat in the swivel chair, headphones draped around his neck, black hoodie shadowing half his sweaty forehead. The clock on the wall read 03:42 a.m.—Thursday bleeding into Friday; he’d lost track. The cursor blinked on his laptop, waiting for a rap verse that refused to be born. Chan had crashed two hours earlier, muttering, “You’re gonna burn out, Binnie,” and Han had sprinted for the last subway. Left behind: just him, the silence, and the echo of beats that wouldn’t lock in.

The door creaked.

Changbin didn’t look up. Just rasped, “If that’s you again, Jisung, I swear I’m locking this damn door.”

“It’s not Jisung,” your voice answered, low and amused. “It’s the delivery girl for energy drinks and bad decisions.”

He spun the chair so fast he nearly toppled. There you were, leaning against the frame, convenience-store bag in your left hand, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in your right. The gray wool coat (his, lent during a rehearsal night when you showed up “for moral support”) swallowed your shoulders, and the ridiculous pink-striped scarf,your stubborn accessory no matter the outfit,was wrapped up to your nose. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, stray strands glued to your cheek by the cup’s vapor.

Changbin’s heart slammed so hard it hurt.

You’d been friends for two years. Two years, three months, eleven days,he counted because that’s the kind of thing he did in secret. It started when you joined as a temp production assistant, hauling cable boxes and cursing under your breath because “no one warned me idols double as personal organizers.” He laughed. You glared. Then laughed with him. Then it became routine: you bringing coffee when he forgot meals, him driving you home when the subway shut down, trading playlists at 4 a.m. because neither of you could sleep.

Friends. That’s all.

But it wasn’t.

“Brought reinforcements,” you said, lifting the bag. “Red Bull, Pocari, those seaweed chips you inhale like rice, and hot chocolate for me. I’ll share if you beg.”

Changbin swallowed hard. He wanted to say you didn’t have to, but what came out was:

“Are you insane? It’s minus five out there.”

You shrugged, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut with your heel.

“I know. But you sent a voice note at 2:30 a.m. saying you were stuck on the beat and ‘the universe hates you.’ I don’t ignore existential drama.”

He laughed, but it wobbled. You crossed to the desk, set the bag down, and perched on the edge, legs swinging. The studio smelled of stale coffee, sweat, and now hot chocolate and your perfume,that cheap floral you’d worn since college, the one he secretly associated with home.

You unwound the scarf, folded it neatly, and laid it on his backpack. Then you unpacked: Red Bull, Pocari, chips lined up like soldiers. You extended the can.

“Drink. Before you pass out.”

Changbin took it but didn’t open it. He just stared. At the way you bit your lower lip when thinking. At the way you arranged snacks in perfect rows before eating, like a ritual. At the way you looked at him—not as Seo Changbin of Stray Kids, but as Binnie, the guy who scribbled verses about insecurities at 3 a.m. and still laughed at your terrible jokes.

He realized, right then, for the first time, that he was screwed.

It wasn’t a pretty moment. No soundtrack, no slow-motion. Just you, sitting on the studio desk, his coat slipping off your shoulder, offering Red Bull like it was the most natural thing in the world. And him thinking: I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And you’ll never know.

Because you didn’t feel it. Not like that.

Or did you?

Because there were the things you did.

Like showing up at 3 a.m. with seaweed chips because he sounded “sad in the voice note.” Like keeping his hoodie for weeks and returning it smelling of fabric softener and your scent. Like sending 7 a.m. memes captioned woke up thinking of you (and your rap that still sucks) Like laughing at his jokes even when they bombed. Like staying until the end of rehearsals just to say “you killed it” even when he knew he’d flubbed half the choreo.

And there were the things he did.

Like saving every text. Like writing entire verses about a girl who “smells like hot chocolate and trouble.” Like lying to the members that “it’s just friendship” while keeping a photo of you asleep on the studio couch as his hidden lock screen. Like feeling his chest cave in every time you mentioned some guy hitting on you at work.

He cracked the Red Bull. Took a sip. The bitterness burned.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You okay?”

Changbin blinked. Snapped back.

“Yeah. Just… stuck.”

You slid off the desk, pulled up the chair beside him. Too close. Your knee brushed his. He froze.

“Let me hear it,” you said, grabbing the headphones. “Maybe I can help.”

He hesitated. Then hit play.

The beat exploded,heavy, aggressive, a distorted piano sample he’d slaved over for hours. You closed your eyes, nodding to the rhythm. He watched. Watched the way your brow furrowed when something didn’t fit. The way you tapped your foot in perfect time. The way you opened your eyes at the end and said:

“It’s fire. But it’s missing… soul. It’s technically perfect, but it sounds like you’re mad at someone. Who pissed you off?”

He laughed. Bitter.

“No one.”

“Liar.” You nudged his arm. “I know you, Binnie. You only write like this when you’re holding something in. Spill.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It’s… complicated.”

You waited. Didn’t push. Just sat there, looking at him with eyes that saw through every layer of “tough leader” and “confident rapper.” And he almost said it. Almost spilled it’s you, you idiot. You drive me crazy. You make me want to be better and feel like I’ll never be enough.

But he didn’t.

Because you were his friend. Because you laughed at his jokes. Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate. Because if he said it and you didn’t feel the same, he’d lose everything.

So he lied.

“It’s the comeback. Pressure.”

You nodded. Didn’t buy it. But didn’t press.

“Okay. Then let’s fix it.” You stood, leaned over the soundboard, and started twisting knobs like you owned the place (and you kind of did, because he’d taught you on those sleepless nights when you “just wanted to see how it worked”). “Kill the piano. Add a vocal chop here. Drop the kick. It’s too in your face.”

He obeyed. And it worked. The beat breathed. It had soul.

You grinned. Proud.

“See? Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you’re overdoing it.”

He looked at you. At the way you leaned over the desk, his coat slipping, hair falling in your face. At the way you looked at him like he could do anything.

And he realized, for the second time, that he was in love.

But this time it hurt more.

Because you didn’t know.

And you never would.

You stayed in the studio until sunrise. Working. Laughing. Eating cold chips. You fell asleep on the couch, curled in his coat, pink scarf as a blanket. He draped his spare hoodie over you. Watched. For hours.

When you woke, he pretended to be asleep in the chair. You poked his shoulder.

“Hey, lazy. Breakfast.”

He opened his eyes. Smiled. Pretended everything was fine.

You hit the basement cafeteria. You ordered an oat-milk Americano. He got black. You stole his spot in line because “you’re too slow.” He let you. Because it was easier than admitting he wanted you in front of him all day.

On the way back, you stopped at the elevator.

“Hey,” you said, serious. “Thanks for last night. Really. You’re… important to me.”

Changbin’s heart stopped.

“You too,” he managed, voice cracking.

You smiled. Stepped into the elevator. Doors closed.

He stood there. Staring at his reflection in the metal.

And realized, for the third time, that he was in love.

But this time, he decided to bury it.

Because friendship was better than nothing.

Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate.

Because you laughed at his jokes.

Because you were the only person who made the studio feel less empty.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he never said it.

He locked the love in a corner of his chest, next to the verses he’d never show, the photos he’d never post, the voice notes he’d never send.

And moved on.

Because that’s what friends do.

But at night, when he was alone, he’d open his phone notes and type:

“She showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate and a smile brighter than sunrise. And I realized I’ll love her forever. Even if she never knows.”

He’d save it.

Never send it.

Never expect a reply.

Because some things are safer when they stay in the heart.

Even if it aches.

Even if he never says it.

He loves you.

And for now, that’s enough.

𝐇𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧:

The night air was sharp with the bite of early winter, the kind that slipped under collars and made the city lights blur behind a veil of breath. Hyunjin—Hwang Hyunjin to the world, Jinnie to exactly three people—stood on the narrow balcony of his dorm, sketchbook tucked under one arm, charcoal smudging his fingertips like bruises. The clock on his phone read 02:07. He’d been drawing for four hours straight, chasing a shape that refused to settle: a curve of a jaw, the tilt of an eye, the exact fall of hair across a forehead. It wasn’t for an album cover. It wasn’t for a fan sign. It was just… something he couldn’t let go.

The dorm behind him was quiet,rare. Chan was passed out over his laptop, Felix had crashed on the couch with earbuds still in, and the rest had scattered to their rooms after a twelve-hour dance practice. Hyunjin had stayed up because sleep felt like a betrayal of the image burning behind his eyes. He needed to get it down before it vanished.

His phone buzzed against the railing.

You: Still awake? I’m outside. Brought hot chocolate and a scarf you left at my place last week.

Hyunjin’s mouth curved—slow, involuntary. You’d been dating for four months, give or take. Long enough for him to know you hated the cold but refused to wear gloves because “they ruin the aesthetic.” Long enough for him to memorize the way you said his name when you were tired: softer, like you were tasting it. Not long enough for the jolt in his chest to dull every time your name lit the screen.

He typed back with one thumb, charcoal smearing the glass.

Hyunjin: Balcony. Door’s unlocked.

Thirty seconds later, the sliding door whispered open. You stepped out in an oversized cream coat his, actually, the one he’d draped over you during a late night walk and never reclaimed and wool socks pulled over your jeans. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, strands escaping like they were trying to reach the stars. In one hand: a thermos. In the other: a striped scarf that smelled faintly of your vanilla shampoo and his detergent.

“You’ll freeze,” you said, voice hushed so you wouldn’t wake the dorm. “It’s minus three.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. He was staring really staring. The balcony light caught the frost on your lashes, the flush on your cheeks, the way you held the thermos like it was a peace offering. You looked like a painting he hadn’t earned the right to finish.

You noticed the sketchbook.

“Working?” you asked, nodding at the open page.

He flipped it shut before you could see. “Trying.”

You didn’t push. You never did. Instead, you unscrewed the thermos, poured steaming hot chocolate into the lid, and handed it over. “Extra marshmallows. You said you were craving sweet after practice.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours. The warmth seeped through the metal and into his bones. He drank slow, savoring the burn on his tongue, the sugar rush, the fact that you’d walked twenty minutes in the cold because he’d mentioned once, in passing, that he missed dessert.

You leaned against the railing beside him, scarf dangling from your fingers. “Put this on. Your neck’s red.”

Hyunjin obeyed, letting you loop the scarf around him. Your knuckles grazed his throat accidental, then not. You tucked the ends into his hoodie, smoothing the fabric like you were dressing a child. He caught your wrist.

“Stay still,” he murmured.

You froze, eyes wide. “What?”

He didn’t explain. Just studied you: the slope of your nose, the freckle just above your left eyebrow, the way your lips parted when you were nervous. He’d drawn you before secret sketches hidden in the back of his notebook, never shown. But tonight, under the weak balcony bulb and the indifferent city glow, you looked… inevitable.

Hyunjin let go of your wrist, flipped the sketchbook open, and started drawing. Fast. No hesitation. The charcoal scratched across the page, building your silhouette in bold, messy strokes. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him work, breath fogging between you.

Minutes passed five, maybe ten. The hot chocolate cooled in his hand. His fingers cramped. But he couldn’t stop. Every line felt urgent, like if he paused, the moment would shatter.

Finally, he turned the page.

You leaned in. Gasped.

It wasn’t a portrait. It was you but more. The curve of your smile when you were trying not to laugh. The way your eyes crinkled when you were sleepy. The exact angle of your head when you were concentrating. He’d captured the scarf mid-flutter, the steam from the thermos curling like a promise. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw, unfinished, smudged in places. But it was alive.

“Hyunjin…” you whispered.

He closed the book. Set it on the railing. Turned to you fully.

“I get it now,” he said, voice low.

“Get what?”

“Why I can’t sleep. Why I keep drawing the same curve over and over. Why I save your voice notes even when they’re just ‘don’t forget to eat.’” He laughed, shaky. “It’s you. You’re the shape I’ve been chasing.”

You blinked. “I’m… a shape?”

“You’re everything.” He stepped closer, hands finding your waist under the coat. “I thought I was in love with art. With beauty. With the idea of capturing something perfect. But it’s not the idea. It’s you. You’re the reason I can’t stop drawing. You’re the reason I want to wake up at 3 a.m. just to watch you steal the blanket. You’re the reason I—” His voice cracked. “I’m in love with you, s/n. Not the way I thought I would be. Not slow and safe. Like… like I’ve been holding my breath for four months and you just let me exhale.”

You stared. The city hummed below distant cars, a siren, someone’s dog barking. But on the balcony, it was just you and him and the frost and the charcoal dust on his fingers.

You reached up, cupped his face. Your thumbs brushed the smudges under his eyes.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

“Scared you’ll say it’s too fast.”

You smiled small, real, the one that made his chest cave in.

“It is too fast,” you admitted. “But I’ve been in love with you since you drew my coffee cup with a tiny crown on it and pretended it was an accident. Since you let me cry on your shoulder after my exam because you didn’t know what to say but stayed anyway. Since you learned how I take my tea and never forget.” You leaned in, forehead to his. “I love you, Hyunjin. Messy, sleepless, charcoal-stained you.”

He kissed you then. Not soft. Not careful. Like he’d been starving and you were the first real meal in months. Your back hit the railing; the scarf fell to the floor. His hands slid under the coat, finding warmth, finding you. You tasted like hot chocolate and winter air and the promise of tomorrow.

When you broke apart, you were both breathless.

“Inside,” you panted. “Before Chan wakes up and murders us for noise.”

Hyunjin laughed loud, free, the sound echoing off the brick walls. He grabbed the sketchbook, the thermos, your hand. You stumbled through the door, kicking off boots, shedding coats. The dorm was dark, but he knew the way past the kitchen, down the hall, to his room. He locked the door behind you.

You flopped onto his bed, coat half-on, hair a mess. He stood over you, sketchbook still clutched to his chest.

“Pose,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Now?”

“Now. Before I forget.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed propped on one elbow, chin in hand, coat slipping off one shoulder. He sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, opened to a fresh page, and drew. Faster this time. No hesitation. The lines flowed like they’d been waiting years.

You watched him. Really watched. The way his tongue poked out when he concentrated. The way his hair fell into his eyes and he didn’t bother pushing it back. The way his fingers moved like they were dancing.

“Tell me something,” you said softly.

“Hm?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t look up. “Because you see me.”

You frowned. “Everyone sees you. You’re—”

“No.” He met your eyes. “They see Hyunjin. The hair. The face. The stage. You see me. The guy who burns rice. Who cries at animated movies. Who draws at 2 a.m. because he’s scared of forgetting how light hits your cheekbone.” He tapped the page. “You’re not a muse. You’re the reason the muse exists.”

You sat up, crawled across the bed, and kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. Like you were memorizing him too.

Hours later, the sketchbook lay forgotten on the floor. You were asleep against his chest, one leg thrown over his, his coat draped over both of you like a blanket. Hyunjin stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.

He thought about the first time you met. You were a junior art director at a photoshoot—sent to “supervise” because the concept was “ethereal.” He’d been in a bad mood, hair too long, makeup too heavy, exhausted from a 16-hour day. You’d handed him a bottle of water and said, “Your left eyebrow is smudged. Want me to fix it?” He’d snapped, “I’m fine.” You’d shrugged, walked away. Later, he found the water bottle with a tiny doodle on the label: a cartoon version of him with a speech bubble that said “I’m fine.”

He’d laughed. Kept the bottle. Found you at crafty the next day. Apologized. You’d smirked, “Took you long enough.”

Now, four months later, you were here. In his bed. In his life. In his art.

Hyunjin reached for his phone, opened the camera, and took a photo: you asleep, mouth slightly open, his coat swallowing you. He set it as his lock screen. Didn’t care if the members saw.

Morning came too soon. The dorm stirred—Chan’s alarm, Felix’s groan, the smell of instant coffee. You woke up panicked.

“Shit, I have work—”

“Call in sick,” he mumbled, pulling you back.

“I can’t—”

“You can. One day. Stay.”

You hesitated. Then texted your boss some excuse about food poisoning. Curled back into him.

The day blurred: breakfast in bed (burnt toast, shared yogurt), sketching each other on the same page until the lines overlapped, dancing in the living room to a playlist you made, kissing against the fridge when Seungmin walked in and screamed.

By evening, you were on the balcony again. The city sparkled below, alive and indifferent. Hyunjin had a new sketchbook yours, actually, the one you’d left in his bag weeks ago. He flipped to a blank page.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

You did.

He drew quickly: your profile against the skyline, the coat collar turned up, the scarf he’d never returned. When he finished, he tore the page out and folded it into a tiny square.

“Open.”

You took it, unfolded it. Inside was the drawing—and a note in his handwriting:

“You are my favorite unfinished masterpiece. Let’s keep adding lines. —H”

You looked up, eyes shining.

“Hyunjin…”

He kissed you before you could finish. The city kept moving. The dorm kept breathing. But on that balcony, time stopped,just long enough for him to know.

He was in love.

Not with the idea of you.

With the real, messy, hot-chocolate-carrying, scarf-stealing, heartbeat-sharing you.

And he’d spend the rest of his life trying to draw it perfectly.

Even if he never quite could.

© 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎, 𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕.

That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.

That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.

Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.

All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.

Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.

They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.

You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.

Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.

It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.

Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.

Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.

It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.

When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.

You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.

That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.

Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?

The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—

“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.

Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.

It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.

“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.

“Sleeping beauty… All good?”

“All good…”

God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—

“Channie…? Are you good?”

You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.

You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.

The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.

Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.

Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.

So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.

“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.

It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.

“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”

You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.

Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.

“There’s… they found out.”

He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.

You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.

Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.

“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”

He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?

“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”

You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.

“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”

“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”

Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.

“You remember the first time we talked about this?”

How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.

You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.

You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.

Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.

You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.

Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.

So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.

“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”

“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”

“Channie. Listen.”

That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.

“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”

You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.

Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”

“I know, Channie…”

“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”

Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”

“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”

He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?

He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.

“No one has that power over us.”

Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.

“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”

“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.

Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.

It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.

He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.

“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”

A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.

A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.”

Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.

“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”

—

A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.

The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.

No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.

Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.

The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:

You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.

The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.

Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.

More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.

“Chris—”

His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.

Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.

“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.

What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.

The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?

Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.

“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.

I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…

He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.

Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.

Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.

The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.

The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.

And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”

Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.

“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”

You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.

“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.

He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.

You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.

“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.

“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”

“I wish I could.”

“But you can’t, Channie…”

And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.

Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.

But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.

You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.

He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.

Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.

You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.

“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”

The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.

—

Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.

Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.

You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.

Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.

You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.

When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.

Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.

He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.

You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?

“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”

Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”

The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”

Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.

“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”

“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.

“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”

“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”

Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:

🫧 260223

🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.

🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.

🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.

🐺: Diabolical.

🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face

🐺: Respect boundaries please

You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”

“Christopher, are you serious—?”

“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”

Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.

“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.

Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”

“Then it goes bad.”

You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.

“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”

“She sounds badass.”

Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”

His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?

“What would that be, Christopher…?”

“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”

He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.

“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."

The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.

All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.

Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.

"Channie, 'm eating..."

"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."

"That's what she said."

"Minx..."

You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.

Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.

A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.

Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.

This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?

New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.

No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.

Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.

You sighed, stood up, and quietly headed to the stove. A simple plate: rice, chicken, some side dishes. Food he liked and definitely needed.

The hallway light was dim as you padded towards his room. The door was half open, the soft glow of the ring light spilling out. Inside, you moved carefully, staying well out of frame as you slipped the plate onto the desk beside him.

Then you were gone again, retreating like nothing happened.

Chris glanced to the side. His eyes softened instantly, and a small laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice fond. “This is so sweet.”

He stood, picked up the plate, and turned it towards the camera with a shy grin. “My girlfriend brought me food.”

The comments flooded in

CUTEE COUPLE GOALS 🤍 SHOW HER PLS MAPPY HER ALREADY WE WANNA SEE HER!!

Chris laughed, shoulders shaking.

“Should I ask her to come here~?” he teased, eyes flicking toward the doorway. He already knew the answer. He just enjoyed pretending otherwise.

“Babyyyy!”

Then, louder, playful and whiny, “Babyyyy!”

“Babe, can you come here for a sec?”

You froze in the hallway.

The camera was still on.

Yet you moved back to the doorway where you knew you’d be safe, but not centimeter past it.

When you saw his teasing grin, you just shook your head quickly, eyes wide, refusing to even step fully inside.

“Why nottt?” Chris dragged out, pouting dramatically.

You only scrunched your nose at him in response. No way. Not yet. Not even your voice. Not the risk.

“Pleaaase?” he tried again, smiling too sweetly to ignore.

You hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, you stepped just BEHIND the camera. Carefully, you raised your hands and made a small heart with your index and middle fingers right in front of the lens.

The chat lost its mind.

Chris laughed, utterly charmed and steped closer to you and the camera as well. “They think that’s cute,” he said, between the screen and you. “They’re spamming that you should talk.”

Before you could escape again, he gently caught your hand and tugged you closer – careful, always careful not to pull you in frame. “She doesn’t want to show herself yet,” he told the fans, apologetic but calm.

“Sorry,” he mouthed towards the camera, but the apologetic look he gave the camera wasn’t meant for them. He squeezed your hand, reassuring.

That was when you got an idea. You knew that they wouldn't drop until they got what they wanted... So what better way to get STAY's attention off of you than...

In one smooth motion, you slipped your hand away, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and tugged it up just enough for the camera to catch a glimpse of his toned abs… then you bolted for the door.

The reaction was instant.

The chat exploded.

Chris yelped, eyes wide, ears burning as he hurriedly yanked his shirt back down. “Yah—!” He cleared his throat, flustered, trying (and failing) to regain composure. He turned his head, just in time to see you at the doorway, shaking his head with an amused, helpless smile.

“Babe—”

Before he could finish, you flashed him the most innocent smile and a not so apologetic finger heart, then disappeared down the hall, door clicking shut behind you.

“God—” Chris muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

He looked back at the camera, embarrassed but laughing  

“My girlfriend, everyone,” he said fondly. “Brings me food and drives me crazy.”

He paused, smile softening.

“That’s my girlfriend for ya.”

A quiet exhale.

“Yeah... She’s something else.”

: ̗̀➛ CHAN

Chan thought it was cute at first. Adorable, even—how your eyes lit up the second you saw Wolf Chan waddling toward you.

But then you squealed.

Like—full volume. Hands flapping. The kind of squeal he hasn’t heard directed at him in… a while.

And before he could even process it, you were already hugging the mascot—tight.

Like rent was due and Wolf Chan was paying it.

“Chan, look! He’s so soft!” you giggled, squishing the mascot’s cheeks and burying your face in its fluffy chest.

Chan blinked. Slowly.

“…I’m literally right here.”

You didn’t hear him.

You were too busy asking the staff, “Can I take a picture with him? Please please please!”

The staff inside the suit awkwardly nodded, and suddenly you were posing—peace signs, cheek-to-cheek, even doing a heart pose while cooing nonstop.

Chan’s eye twitched.

He walks over, still smiling—but it’s that tight, patient leader smile that hides the growing sulk.

“Y/N,” he says, voice calm. Too calm. “You done… cheating on me?”

You laugh. “It’s just Wolf Chan!”

He leans down slightly, whispering in your ear,

“I am Wolf Chan.”

Cue you freezing mid-squeeze.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he nods, folding his arms and tilting his head. “And I don’t remember getting a hug like that today. Or any kisses. Or cheek squishes.”

Now he’s the one sulking while you panic, trying to hug both of them at once— one arm around the mascot, the other reaching for real Chan.

He gently pries you off the mascot with the most exaggerated pout. “Okay, that’s enough. Wolf Chan has places to be. Important wolf… things.”

Then he pulls you into his own arms, squeezing you tighter than you squeezed the costume. “See? Real Chan hugs are better.”

: ̗̀➛ MINHO

Minho watched the entire thing like it was a crime documentary.

You spotted Leebit and immediately ran—ran—past him without a second glance.

“…Wow,” he muttered, hands in pockets, already judging.

Next thing he knows, you’re standing in front of the mascot, cooing like it’s an actual baby bunny.

“OMG Hi… you’re so cute… look at those little teeth…”

Minho’s eye twitched hard.

Then you hugged Leebit. Not just hugged—squeezed, rocking side to side like you were reuniting with a long-lost child.

Minho inhales sharply through his nose.

“Yah.”

No response.

You’re now asking the staff, “Can I take a picture with him? He looks so soft!”

Minho walks over, taps your shoulder with one finger.

“Am I invisible today?”

You blink up at him innocently. “…No?”

“Then why are you acting like I don’t exist and flirting with a giant rabbit?”

You laugh. “It’s you!”

He deadpans. “Clearly not enough if the costume version gets better treatment.”

Then he grabs your wrist, pulls you to him smoothly, and without warning—wraps his arms around you from behind, locking you in place.

“Take a picture of this instead,” he tells the staff, resting his chin on your shoulder.

Now he’s the one clinging like a possessive cat.

And Leebit is just… standing there, awkwardly waving one paw.

“…You’re jealous of yourself,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

“I’m jealous of your suddenly very low standards,” he replies, tightening his hold.

: ̗̀➛ CHANGBIN

You saw Dwaekki and immediately yelled, “MY BABYYYYYY!”

Changbin nearly choked on his protein drink.

“Your what?”

Too late. You were already hugging Dwaekki, squishing his round plush cheeks like fresh dough and rocking him side to side.

“Look at his little face!! I can’t—he’s so cute I might actually cry!”

Changbin puts a hand on his chest, offended.

“…I make you cry too. Usually from laughing at my raps.”

You ignore him completely, now posing with Dwaekki—feeding him a fake snack, making the staff inside pretend to munch happily.

Changbin watches in pure disbelief.

“…So this is what I’ve been replaced with. A chubby pig-rabbit.”

He marches over, dramatically crossing his arms beside you.

“Y/N, remember when I wrote songs for you? When I rapped with passion? When I let you squish my real cheeks?”

You shove Dwaekki toward him with a grin. “Take a picture with us!”

He freezes.

“…Us?”

“Yes! Family pic!”

He sighs, completely defeated… but still pouts the entire time he poses, flexing one arm while side-eyeing the mascot.

Then he starts scooping you up in a bridal carry while side-eyeing the mascot. “No more. From now on, all cuteness aggression goes to the real Dwaekki — me. Squeeze these cheeks!”

: ̗̀➛ HYUNJIN

Hyunjin expected admiration.

What he did not expect was you abandoning him mid-sentence the moment Jiniret walked in.

You gasped like you saw a celebrity.

“OH MY GOD—”

“Baby, I’m literally—”

Too late. You were already hugging Jiniret, stroking its long fluffy body and gently squishing its ears.

Hyunjin stares. Completely blank.

Then you kiss the mascot’s cheek.

That’s it. Game over.

He walks over slowly, dramatically placing a hand on his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.

“I see,” he says softly, voice full of fake sorrow. “So this is how it ends. Replaced by my own ferret.”

You laugh. “Hyunjin—”

“No, no,” he interrupts, waving a hand. “Stay with your new favorite. I’ll just stand here… heartbroken.”

You’re now taking endless selfies with Jiniret, completely feeding into the chaos while the staff inside poses dramatically.

Hyunjin turns to the staff.

“Please capture my heartbreak as well.”

He ends up standing beside you in every picture—face tilted, eyes full of exaggerated sadness, one hand dramatically placed on your shoulder.

Later, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours with a pout.

“You didn’t even kiss me today.”

“…Do you want one?”

“Obviously.”

: ̗̀➛ JISUNG

The moment you saw Han Quokka, you LOST IT.

“HE’S SO ROUND!!”

Han immediately clutches his chest like he’s been shot.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

But you’re already hugging the mascot, giggling uncontrollably and squishing its big cheeks.

“Look at him! He’s literally perfect—so squishy and happy!”

Han squints hard. “…I’m right here. Also perfect. Also squishy.”

You ignore him and start taking pictures—posing dramatically, even spinning the mascot around in circles.

The staff inside is struggling to keep balance and not fall over.

Han walks over, deeply offended.

“You’ve never spun me like that.”

“Because you’d fall!”

“I would NOT—”

He grabs your hands and tries anyway—spins once and almost trips over his own feet.

“…Okay maybe.”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

He pouts, then suddenly wedges himself between you and the mascot, arms spread wide.

“Take a picture with the real quokka now.”

Now you’re sandwiched between two quokkas.

“…This is getting weird,” you say, still giggling.

“Choose,” he replies, puffing his cheeks.

“…I refuse.”

He gasps dramatically, betrayed to his core.

: ̗̀➛ FELIX

Felix thought this would be wholesome.

He was very, very wrong.

You saw BbokAri and immediately went, “MY CHILD.”

Felix freezes. “…Your child?”

You hug the mascot like a protective mother, shielding it from imaginary danger and fixing its little bow.

“WAHHH. You’re so fluffy and sunshiney…”

Felix blinks slowly.

“…What am I then? Chopped liver?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy taking pictures and making the staff inside do cute little wing flaps.

Felix pouts, cheeks puffed out.

“Love, I am BbokAri.”

You gasp. “…Then why are you not this cuddly 24/7?”

He pauses, thinking.

“…I can be.”

Next thing you know, he’s clinging to you—arms wrapped tight, cheek pressed against yours, refusing to let go.

“Am I cute now?” he whispers in that deep voice.

“…Very.”

“More than the chick?”

You hesitate for half a second.

“…Y/N.”

“…Yes.”

He smiles, satisfied, but still side-eyes the mascot suspiciously.

: ̗̀➛ SEUNGMIN

Seungmin watches quietly.

Too quietly.

You’re baby-talking PuppyM like it’s a real puppy.

“Such a good boy!”

Seungmin raises one brow.

“I’ve never heard that tone before. Ever.”

No response. You’re hugging PuppyM tightly, even grabbing his hand and walking together with the mascot while the staff plays along perfectly.

Seungmin sighs the longest sigh known to man.

“Unbelievable.”

He walks over, gently taps the top of your head.

“Y/N.”

“Wait, I’m bonding—”

“With what exactly?”

“My puppy.”

He smiles. That scary, polite smile.

“I’m your puppy.”

“…You bite sometimes.”

“And yet, here I am. Still loyal.”

You laugh.

He suddenly leans closer, voice low.

“Do you want me to bark too?”

“…Don’t you dare.”

He smirks. “Thought so.”

But later, he still sneaks in and hugs you just a little tighter than usual, mumbling, “Good boy rights belong to me.”

: ̗̀➛ JEONGIN

Jeongin thought it would be funny.

Until you tightly hugged FoxI.Ny and swayed side to side like it was your soulmate.

“YOU’RE SO CUTE I CAN’T BREATHE—”

Jeongin’s smile drops instantly.

“…Am I a joke to you now?”

You’re giggling, taking pictures, even holding the mascot’s hands and swinging them.

The staff inside waves cheerfully.

Jeongin crosses his arms, sulking.

“Can you believe that this is what I have to compete with?”

You walk over, still holding the mascot’s hand.

“Jeongin, look how cute!”

“I see. I see everything.”

He walks up, gently pries your hand away from the costume.

“Okay, give him back.”

“No—”

“Yes.”

He pulls you closer instead, wrapping his arms around you.

“You can’t replace me with a plush fox.”

“…Watch me.”

He gasps, dramatically offended, eyes wide.

“Meanie.”

With your trusty cauldron on the stove and guide book set on the counter, turned to the right page, you started adding every ingredient into the heavy pot. Little by little, the pot slowly filled up. The aroma being spread around the apartment by the steam was indescribable. Pleasant to the nose, neither too strong or soft, just enough. You stirred the cauldron happily, humming joyfully as you see the potion slowly coming together. 

“Good, it’s turned maroon like the book said.” You thought, looking proudly at the new batch of potions you’ll be using for your hair and skincare. “Okay, so let’s see where–” 

“Noona?!” 

Someone was frantically banging on your door and he sounded an awful like Jisung. Whatever the reason, you rushed to answer the door. As soon as a small crack was opened, Chan, Changbin, and Jisung all rushed in. Jisung hurryingly closed the door behind him as he joined the two older wolves. 

“What’s going on here?” 

You’re so confused. The three of them were bent over, hunched over with their hands on their knees. Each of them were breathing heavily as if they ran for days without a break. 

“B-Baby? We need your help…” Chan breathed out, struggling to even stand straight. 

“Okay? With what? At least explain to me what happened so I can better assess what I need to do.” 

“Ummm?” Jisung uttered, looking nervously at both Chan and Changbin. 

“What did the three of you do?” 

“Please don’t kill us…” Changbin said nervously. 

“What. Did. You. Do?” You placed heavy emphasis on every single word with your stare growing sharper. 

“We…” Chan hesitated to even add another word to his sentence. 

“We accidentally crashed into your green house and got caught into succubus lilies! Please forgive us, Noona!” Jisung admitted directly although embarrassed. 

“You what?” 

“Baby please! We’ll rebuild it! Even better than what it was before! But first help us! Please!” 

You took a deep breath in then out, “Fine. You three owe me big time. You’re lucky I already have a potion brewing in my cauldron.” 

“Thank you, Noona! You’re the best!” Jisung cried out, nearly in tears. 

“Right, so let’s see?” You said, turning the pages in your book till you found exactly what you’re looking for. “Hmmm? Seems easy enough.” 

The three werewolves sat on your living room couch the best they could without trying to move around as much. While they sat together, they watched in horror the ingredients you were adding into the pot just so casually. 

“Okay some carolina reapers, ghosts peppers and–” 

“... I think I'd rather die, Hyung?” Jisung nervously whines, having already felt the pain through the smell alone. 

“Damn that smell is strong.” Changbin groans, covering his nose with both of his hands. 

“Done!” You cheered, taking out three bowls to fill them up. “Drink up, boys!” 

“... Do we have to?” Jisung asked as if he really had a choice. 

“Drink Jisung or else you’ll be in pain for the next five weeks.” 

“I’m already in pain from looking at how red that brew looks…” He makes a loud gulp sound. 

“Will we die from drinking this?” Changbin held the bowl in his hands, wanting to do anything else but drink the fresh brew. 

“Only one way to find out. Now drink.” 

“Baby, you know I love you right?” Chan questions nervously. 

“I love you too. Now save everything you have to say later. First, drink.” 

“I just want to say, I love you all so much…” Jisung sniffles. 

“Shut up and drink it already…” Changbin sighed. 

Without wasting any more time, the three werewolves took a brave leap to drink every last drop of the brew from their bowls. As expected, the three of them were going wild. 

“Water! Water! I need water!” Jisung stood up to search for some cold water in your kitchen. 

“I’m going to die?! Why is it so spicy?!” Changbin started waving his hand in front of his open mouth. 

“Jeez, this is by far the worst thing I have ever tasted!” Chan whimpers out. 

“That should be a good reminder not to play around near my greenhouse.” You grinned evilly as you handed them each a cooling brew for their burning mouths. “Better?” 

“Yes!”

han jisung Jisung is so full of love he’s bursting with it. One of his favourite ways to let you know he cares is bringing you snacks or drinks throughout the day. He takes his coffee/tea deliveries very seriously, and always writes out a cute, supportive message on the side of the cup next to your name. He also loves to leave little doodles on the sides, and so you’ll often find yourself enjoying your beverage while trying to decipher a play-by-play comic strip of Jisung’s most recent encounter with a pigeon.

lee felix Felix has always been the type to leave notes. Little cards with your lunch, or a message on the back of an envelope he leaves on the bedside table. For fun you buy a pack of alphabet fridge magnets, and it becomes his new favourite thing to play with whenever he’s at your place. He doesn’t just write a few words with the magnets, though. He writes essays, whole poems dedicated to you, to the point that you’ve had to buy several more packs of magnets just so he has enough letters.

kim seungmin Seungmin is also a food-is-love kind of person. He loves bringing you little snacks throughout the day to make sure you’re eating something. His best idea yet is to buy alphabet soup for cold days and sick days. He finds the right letters and organises them on top to read out little messages for you. It’s really tedious work but this is the sort of quirky thing he puts effort into. The bonus is that the soup has cooled down enough to eat by the time he finishes!

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐔 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲

Bang Chan — Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde

The Split Conscience: charming scientist by daylight, monstrous persona by midnight.

Contact Name: Dr. Bahng & Mr. CB97 🧬

Contact Photo:

Lee Know — Evil Doll

The Grinning Doll: tiny smile, terrible intent — a toy that won’t stay still.

Contact Name: Grinning Doll (DoNotAnger) 😐

Contact Photo:

Changbin — The Reanimated (The Rot King)

Leader of the Shamble: relentless, hungry, and impossible to put down.

Contact Name: Zombinnie 🧟‍♂️🖤

Contact Photo:

Hyunjin — The Midnight Incubus

Dreamstalker: velvet voice, aching touch — your sweetest nightmares.

Contact Name: Prince of Nightmares ❤️‍🔥

Contact Photo:

Han — Han the Hexweaver

Witch of Whispered Runes: spells in his breath, mischief in his palm.

Contact Name: Witchiepoo Hanni ✨

Contact Photo:

Felix — The Fallen Seraph

Bleeding Light: angelic features with a halo of broken vows.

Contact Name: Angelic Menace 🌤️

Contact Photo:

Seungmin — The Pumpkin King

Lantern Lord: bright grin, hollow heart — ruler of harvest shadows.

Contact Name: Pumpkin Prince 🎃 (ActuallyEvil)

Contact Photo:

I.N — The Crimson Count

Night’s Lullaby: soft and pale, with teeth that sing at dusk.

Contact Name: Count Innie 🧛🏻

Contact Photo: