would love you to want me. hc
pairing: heochan x reader (gender non-specified)
genre: neighbor!au, strangers to lovers, slight angst & fluff (mentions of drinking)
reading time: 18min 22sec
The first time Heochan stumbles into your apartment is, to an extent, unceremonious. He doesn’t think about the nonchalance of it all when he trips over his own feet, catches the toes of his sneakers on the foot mat in your bathroom—even when he’s on his knees in front of your toilet ten minutes later, heaving with fists clenched and knuckles turning white, all he can think about is how fucking attractive he thinks you are.
To you, it’s self-explanatory when you pour him a glass of water half an hour later—he’s out of breath, shaking, but finally stable enough to prop himself against your kitchen counters.
“I’m sorry, I-I probably really smell bad,” he slurs a little and drops his stare to the floor. You shake your head no and force a smile, even though there’s a stench of cheap whiskey clinging to the collar of his shirt and you really, really should’ve been fast asleep ages ago. “Don’t worry about it,” you reply while dabbing his cheeks and forehead with a cold, damp cloth, and you attempt to ignore the way his unbuttoned linen shirt drops past his shoulders and reveals a bit of his collar bone.
“I don’t want to smell bad in your kitchen,” Chan continues, voice cracking a bit and throat struggling to get the words out right—you wonder whether maybe he’d been to karaoke—and the absurdity of it all coaxes a chuckle past your lips. “Alright, then you can go and smell bad in your own now.”
Chan only nods, and you’re more than thankful when he tugs his shirt back into place and decides to button it—it’s crooked, of course, but it forces you to focus your gaze elsewhere and you snap back into reality when he laces his fingers with your own and shuffles towards your front door. “Walk me?” he urges, and you hate yourself that you can’t ignore the pleading in his eyes even though you know full well he only lives five doors down your own.
You don’t acknowledge the way he squeezes your hand a little when you come to a halt near his front door—Chan’s eyes squint at the 613 written atop of it—and the air almost seems a little bit colder when his palm slips from your grasp and you watch as he blindly attempts to jam his keys into the lock.
“Good night, Chan,” you whisper when he leans against the door, catching his hands on the chipping red paint as he shoves it open. He turns around, eyes not quite focusing on your face, but you can see the tiny, dumb grin that’s tucked away beneath the corners of his lips when he gives a sloppy wink.
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