Donutbaby

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You came back.”

The words were simple, but they carried years.

You hugged him without thinking. He hugged you back immediately, arms wrapping around you like no time had passed at all. He smelled the same — clean laundry and faint cologne and something that felt like home.

When you pulled away, both of you were smiling, but there was a carefulness in the air. Like you were both afraid to acknowledge how much had changed.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was nervous. “You're majoring here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Music production. You?”

“Same.” His smile widened, but there was something quieter underneath it. “Looks like we’re stuck together again.”

The rest of orientation passed in a blur of small talk and shared memories. You fell back into old rhythms so easily it was almost scary — finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at the same inside jokes, instinctively walking at the same pace.

But every so often, you caught him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

Like he was memorizing you.

That evening, your mutual friends dragged both of you to a welcome party. Chan stayed close the entire time — not obviously, but always within reach. When someone bumped into you, his hand found the small of your back to steady you. When you mentioned being thirsty, he was already handing you a drink before you could finish the sentence.

It felt exactly like old times.

And somehow that made it hurt more.

Because you had missed years of his life.

Years you could never get back.

When the party wound down, Chan walked you back to your dorm. The campus paths were quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching under your shoes.

At your door, he lingered.

“It was really good seeing you again,” he said softly. “I missed this. Missed you.”

You smiled, but your chest felt tight. “I missed you too, Chan.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something heavy and unspoken in his eyes. Then he gave you that familiar dimpled smile and ruffled your hair gently — the same way he used to when you were kids.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Text me tomorrow?”

You nodded.

He waited until you were safely inside before walking away.

You closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.

Nothing had changed.

And that was the problem.

Because the boy you had loved since you were seven years old was still carrying something heavy behind that bright smile.

You just didn’t know what it was yet.

-----

The first few weeks after the reunion felt like slipping back into a favorite sweater you thought you’d outgrown — warm, familiar, and a little too tight in places you didn’t remember.

You and Chan fell into old rhythms so effortlessly it was almost frightening.

Mornings started with coffee runs.

Chan would text you at 7:45 a.m. sharp — never earlier, never later — with a simple “outside?” You’d come down to find him leaning against the wall near your dorm building, two cups in hand, wearing an oversized hoodie and that same soft, dimpled smile that used to make your childhood heart race.

“Extra shot, oat milk, light ice,” he’d say, handing you your cup like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Still your order, right?”

It was.

He remembered everything.

The two of you would walk to your first class together, shoulders brushing, trading stories about professors and dorm life like no time had passed. Chan listened like he always had — head tilted, eyes focused, laughing at the right moments. But every so often you’d catch him watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

When you mentioned struggling with a new assignment, he showed up at the library that evening with notes he’d already organized.

“You don’t have to help me every time,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.

Chan just smiled and slid into the seat beside you. “I want to. Besides, I missed studying with you.”

The words were light, but they carried weight.

Late-night walks became routine.

One evening after a long group project, you texted him at 11 p.m. complaining that your brain wouldn’t shut off. Twenty minutes later he was at your door in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy from sleep.

“Walk with me?” he asked softly.

You did.

The campus was quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching beneath your shoes. Chan walked slightly slower to match your pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally bumping your shoulder when he wanted your attention. You talked about everything and nothing — old neighborhood stories, new dreams, the way time had changed you both without changing the way you understood each other.

At one point, you teased him about a silly childhood memory.

Chan laughed — that bright, genuine laugh you had missed so much — but then added quietly, “Yeah… I was always the loud one trying to keep up with you.”

There was something in his tone. A small, self-deprecating edge you almost missed.

You glanced at him. “You were never trying to keep up. You were the best part of everything.”

He looked away, smiling, but his shoulders tensed just slightly.

You didn’t push.

Convenience store dinners became sacred.

One rainy night, after you both finished late assignments, Chan showed up at your door with plastic bags full of your favorite late-night snacks.

“Emergency rations,” he declared with a grin. “We’re not studying anymore tonight.”

You ended up sitting on the floor of your dorm eating ramyeon and sharing earphones, playing old playlists you used to listen to together. Chan leaned against your bed, legs stretched out, humming along softly. Every so often he’d steal food from your container, then pretend to be innocent when you glared at him.

It felt exactly like when you were thirteen.

And it hurt.

Years of his laughter, his quiet support, his steady presence, all missed.

One night, as you were both half-asleep on the floor surrounded by empty containers, Chan spoke into the quiet.

“I thought about you a lot after you moved,” he admitted, voice low. “Wondered if you were okay. If you made new friends. If you still liked the same songs.”

You turned your head to look at him. His profile was soft in the dim light, but there was something heavy in his expression.

“I thought about you too,” you whispered. “All the time.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good,” he said softly. “I was scared you’d forget me.”

The words lingered.

You wanted to tell him you could never forget him.

But something in the way he said it made you hold back — like there was more pain behind the sentence than he was letting on.

The cracks were small, but they were there and you noticed them.

Chan would dismiss compliments instantly.

When you told him he looked good with his new hair color, he laughed and said, “It’s just hair. Doesn’t matter.”

When a professor praised his latest project in front of the class, he shrugged it off with, “I got lucky.”

When you told him you were proud of how hard he worked, he looked away and muttered, “I could do better.”

You didn’t understand yet.

But the foundation was forming.

The boy who used to be your entire world was carrying something heavy.

And you were starting to see the weight he tried so hard to hide behind that bright, familiar smile.

Then, the podcast found you by accident.

It was a ordinary Thursday night, the kind where exhaustion sat heavy in your bones and sleep refused to come. You were lying in bed, scrolling through Spotify’s “Discover Weekly” with half-lidded eyes, when a recommendation appeared near the bottom of the list.

People I Used To Know

Private audio archive • 34 episodes • Anonymous

The thumbnail was simple — a faded polaroid of an empty playground at dusk. No face. No name. Just a soft, melancholic image that felt strangely familiar.

You tapped a random episode without thinking.

“Episode 12: The Girl Who Promised She’d Write Back.”

A low, warm voice filled your headphones — gentle, slightly raspy, the kind of voice that made you lean in closer.

Your heart stopped.

You knew that voice.

You would know it anywhere.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders as Chan’s voice continued, soft and honest in the dark.

“I don’t think she meant to leave,” he said quietly. There was no anger in it. Only a gentle, aching nostalgia. “We were kids. Life got bigger. Different schools, different time zones, different friends… I get it. But for a long time, I kept checking my phone anyway. Waiting for a message that never came.”

A small, self-deprecating laugh.

“I told myself it was fine. That friendships fade. That it wasn’t her fault. But sometimes… I still wonder what I did wrong. If I wasn’t interesting enough. If I was too much. If the version of me she knew wasn’t enough to make her stay.”

You pressed pause, breath shaky.

The date on the episode was from three years ago.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You listened to every episode.

Some were short — two or three minutes of Chan talking about old friends, teachers, neighbors who had drifted away. Others were longer, more vulnerable.

He never named anyone.

But you knew.

You knew which stories were about you.

The one about the girl who used to share her headphones with him on the bus. The one about the person who made him feel seen when he felt invisible. The one about the friend who promised they’d always find their way back to each other.

In one episode, recorded late at night, his voice cracked.

“I keep thinking… maybe if I had been better, she wouldn’t have left. Maybe if I had been more fun, or less needy, or less… me, she would have stayed in touch. I know that’s not fair. But it’s what I believed for a long time.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you listened.

You had moved away for your father’s job. You had tried to keep in touch at first. But life had pulled you in different directions — new school, new friends, new pressures. Texts became less frequent. Calls stopped. You had assumed he was fine. That he had moved on like you thought you had.

You never knew he had been carrying this.

By 4 a.m., you had listened to every episode twice.

The final one, uploaded only a month ago, destroyed you.

Title: “Hope”

Chan’s voice was quieter than usual, tired but warm.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. That people left because they eventually saw the real me and decided I wasn’t worth staying for. But lately… someone came back. Someone who’s making me believe that maybe not every ending is forever.”

A long pause.

“I’m scared to hope. But I’m hoping anyway.”

The episode ended.

You sat in the dark, phone still glowing in your hands, tears streaming silently down your face.

The boy who used to be your entire world had spent years believing he wasn’t enough.

And you had no idea.

The next morning, you met Chan at your usual coffee spot.

He was already there, two cups in hand, smiling that familiar dimpled smile when he saw you. But you saw it now — the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes searched your face like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Hey,” he said softly, handing you your drink. “You look tired. Did you sleep okay?”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his.

“Not really,” you admitted. “I found something last night.”

Chan tilted his head, curious but relaxed. “Yeah? What was it?”

You looked at him for a long moment, heart aching with everything you now knew.

“Nothing important,” you lied gently, forcing a small smile. “Just an old playlist.”

He accepted the answer easily, like he always did when someone didn’t want to burden him.

You walked to class together like always.

But inside, something had shifted.

You weren’t just rediscovering your best friend.

You were discovering the boy who had been quietly breaking for years.

And you didn’t know how to fix something he had never asked you to see.

-----

You didn’t tell him you knew.

Not yet.

Instead, you carried the weight of his words like a secret you weren’t sure you had the right to hold. Every episode played on repeat in your mind — late at night when the dorm was quiet, during lectures when your attention wandered, in the shower where the water couldn’t wash away the ache in your chest.

The grief wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Personal. A deep, aching sorrow for the boy who had smiled through years of believing he wasn’t enough.

The next time you saw Chan, it was a ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

He was waiting outside your lecture hall like always, two coffees in hand, wearing that soft gray hoodie you secretly loved on him. When he spotted you, his whole face lit up with that familiar dimpled smile.

“Hey,” he said, handing you your usual order. “Extra shot, just how you like it. How was class?”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his, and forced a bright smile.

“It was fine,” you lied. “Thanks for this.”

He fell into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking — the same way he used to when you were kids walking home from school. You talked about small things: a funny story from your professor, the new café that opened near campus, how cold the weather was getting.

But you noticed everything now.

The way he brushed off a compliment from a passing classmate with a casual laugh and “It’s nothing.” The way he changed the subject when you tried to ask how he was doing. The way his smile stayed in place even when his eyes looked tired.

Every small moment felt like a new wound.

Because you now knew what those smiles were hiding.

That night, you couldn’t sleep again.

You lay in bed listening to another episode — one from two years ago.

Chan’s voice was softer then, younger, but the pain was the same.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m only good at beginnings,” he said quietly. “I’m really good at making people like me at first. But eventually… they see the real me. The version that gets quiet when things get hard. The version that overthinks everything. And then they leave. Not because they’re mean. Just because I’m not enough to make them stay.”

A long pause.

“I don’t blame them. I get it.”

You pressed pause, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

You grieved for the thirteen-year-old boy who had stayed up all night waiting for your texts after you moved. You grieved for the sixteen-year-old who had convinced himself your fading messages meant he wasn’t worth remembering. You grieved for the young man who had turned every goodbye into proof that he was temporary.

And most of all, you grieved for the fact that you had been part of that proof — without ever knowing it.

The next day, you started noticing more.

During a group study session, someone praised Chan’s latest track. He laughed it off immediately.

“It’s not that good,” he said with an easy smile. “I got lucky with the beat.”

You reached under the table and gently squeezed his knee. He glanced at you, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand covered yours for a brief second — a silent thank you.

Later, when the group teased him about being “too perfect,” Chan deflected again.

“Trust me, I’m far from it.”

You waited until everyone left, then turned to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly. “Downplay yourself like that.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

“It’s just easier,” he said finally, voice quiet. “If people don’t expect too much, they can’t be disappointed.”

The words broke something inside you.

You wanted to tell him about the podcast. You wanted to tell him you knew. You wanted to hold him and promise that you saw him — all of him — and you weren’t going anywhere.

But you weren’t ready and neither was he.

Instead, you started loving him more intentionally.

You repeated compliments, casually but sincerely. You showed up at his dorm with his favourite snacks when he mentioned a long day. You walked him home instead of the other way around sometimes. You stayed.

And Chan noticed.

He started looking at you longer. Touching you more — small brushes of his hand against yours, fingers lingering when he passed you something. His smiles became softer when they were directed at you.

But the fear was still there.

One night, after walking you back, he hesitated at your door.

“You know you can tell me if it’s too much, right?” he asked quietly. “If I’m around too often. If I’m… too much.”

You stepped forward and hugged him tightly.

“You’re not too much,” you whispered against his chest. “You never were.”

He held you for a long time, arms wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go.

But you both knew the real conversation was coming.

The one where you would have to tell him you knew about the recordings and the one where he would have to let you see the parts he had spent years trying to hide.

-----

You continued to show him your love.

And Chan, slowly but surely, started letting you in.

One particularly cold night in late November, you found him in the music building practice room long after everyone else had gone home. The lights were dim, only the soft glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, headphones around his neck, staring at nothing.

He looked exhausted.

You didn’t knock. You simply walked in, closed the door behind you, and sat down beside him on the cold floor.

Chan didn’t say anything at first. He just shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against yours, seeking warmth without asking for it.

“Bad day?” you asked gently.

He let out a small, tired laugh. “Just one of those days where I feel like I’m not doing enough. For anyone.”

You turned to face him, heart aching at the familiar self-doubt in his voice. You reached out and gently took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“You’re enough, Chan,” you said softly. “You’ve always been enough.”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like he was waiting for the catch. When he didn’t find one, something in him cracked open.

He kissed you — slow, hesitant, full of years of unspoken longing. You kissed him back just as tenderly, cupping his face, thumbs brushing away the tension in his jaw. The kiss deepened gradually, turning emotional and needy. Chan’s hands slid under your sweater, tracing your skin like he was memorizing you.

“Can I…?” he whispered against your lips, voice trembling. “I need to feel close to you tonight. Please.”

You nodded, pulling him closer.

He laid you down gently on the practice room floor, spreading his hoodie beneath you like a blanket. Clothes came off slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every inch of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were arching and whispering his name.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, rolling thrusts, breathing your name like a prayer.

“You feel like home,” he gasped, voice breaking. “You’ve always felt like home.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, nails gently dragging down his back. The intimacy was overwhelming — skin against skin, breath mingling, hearts beating in sync. Chan made love to you like he was afraid to rush a single second of having you.

When you came, clenching around him with a soft cry, he followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a quiet, broken moan. He stayed inside you afterward, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face pressed into your neck as quiet tears slipped down his cheeks.

You held him through it, stroking his hair, whispering that you were here, that you saw him, that you weren’t going anywhere.

He cleaned you gently with his hoodie, brought you water from his bag, then pulled you into his chest and held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“I don’t know how to do this without feeling like I have to earn it,” he whispered into the dark.

You kissed his collarbone, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin.

“You don’t have to earn me,” you murmured. “You already have me.”

Chan held you tighter, legs tangling with yours, breathing you in like he was still afraid you might disappear.

For the first time in years, Bang Chan let himself be loved without trying to be perfect first.

And you stayed.

The closeness that followed was both healing and terrifying.

You and Chan existed in a delicate new rhythm — late-night study sessions that turned into quiet cuddles, shared meals where his hand would find yours under the table, mornings where he’d show up with coffee and a shy smile that made your heart ache with how much you had missed this version of him.

But the more you saw him, the more you noticed the cracks he tried so hard to hide.

Minjae’s return complicated everything.

Your other childhood best friend had always been loud, confident, and competitive — especially when it came to you. When he heard through mutual friends that you and Chan had reconnected so deeply, he treated it like a challenge rather than a reunion.

He started showing up more intentionally.

One afternoon in the campus café, Minjae slid into the seat across from you while you were waiting for Chan.

“Long time no see, stranger,” he said with that familiar cocky grin. “Heard you and Chan are basically attached at the hip again. Didn’t know you two were still that close.”

You smiled politely. “We’re figuring things out. It’s nice having him back in my life.”

Minjae leaned forward, eyes sparkling with that competitive edge you remembered from childhood games. “You know I’m always here too, right? We have history too. Real history. If Chan gets too busy with his producing stuff, I can take you out. Like old times.”

Before you could respond, Chan appeared at the table, two drinks in hand. His expression remained calm, but you saw the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffened.

He set your drink down gently in front of you, then sat beside you — close enough that his thigh pressed against yours under the table.

“Hey,” Chan said softly to you, completely ignoring Minjae at first. His hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining possessively. “Missed you.”

Minjae’s smile sharpened. “Chan. Good to see you, man. We were just talking about how close you two have gotten again. Almost like no time passed, huh?”

Chan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles — steady, but you felt the tension in his grip.

“Yeah,” Chan replied quietly, voice even. “Some things don’t change.”

The air grew thick.

Minjae leaned back, crossing his arms. “Funny how that works. I was her emergency contact plan back in the day. Guess I got replaced pretty easily.”

Chan’s fingers tightened around yours. Not painfully — protectively.

“She chose who she wanted,” Chan said, still calm, but there was steel underneath. “And she’s happy with that choice.”

You squeezed his hand back, trying to ground him.

Minjae eventually left with a forced laugh and a “Catch you later,” but the damage was done. Chan was quiet the rest of the afternoon, thumb still tracing patterns on your hand but his mind clearly elsewhere.

That night, when he walked you home, he lingered at your door longer than usual.

“You know you can tell me if this isn't what you want, right?” he asked suddenly, voice low. “If Minjae is… easier. If I’m getting in the way of your old friendships.”

You turned to him, heart breaking at the quiet fear in his eyes.

“Chan,” you said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not in the way. You’re exactly where I want you.”

He searched your face for a long moment, then pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair.

“I just keep waiting for the day you realize you don’t need me anymore,” he whispered. “Like everyone else eventually does.”

You held him tighter, feeling the weight of every recording you had listened to — every quiet confession of self-doubt he had never voiced out loud to you.

“I’m not everyone else,” you murmured against his chest. “I’m staying this time. I promise.”

He kissed you then — desperate and emotional, hands framing your face like he was afraid you might slip away. The kiss quickly turned heated. You pulled him inside your dorm, clothes shedding in a trail toward your bed.

Chan made love to you with quiet intensity that night — deep, slow thrusts, eyes locked on yours, whispering “stay with me” and “I need you” between every moan. He switched halfway through, letting you take control, his hands gripping your hips as you rode him, both of you chasing comfort and connection in the most intimate way possible.

When you both came undone, he held you through the aftershocks, staying buried inside you, arms wrapped around you like a lifeline.

The tension with Minjae wasn’t over.

But for now, Chan let himself believe you would choose him.

Even if part of him still waited for the day you wouldn’t.

-----

The confrontation didn’t come from a single dramatic fight.

It came from the slow accumulation of small moments — Minjae’s competitive comments, Chan’s quiet deflections, and the growing weight of everything you now knew from the recordings.

It finally broke on a rainy Thursday night.

You had been studying together in Chan’s dorm when Minjae texted you about a group project deadline. Chan saw the notification light up your phone. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first.

Then, when you casually mentioned meeting Minjae the next day to finish the work, Chan’s mask slipped.

“You don’t have to go,” he said quietly, staring at his laptop screen. “I can help you with it instead.”

You turned to him, heart sinking at the tension in his shoulders.

“Chan… Minjae and I have been working on this together for weeks. It’s just a project.”

He let out a small, bitter laugh — the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Right. Just a project. Like everything else.”

The words hung heavy.

You set your notes down. “What is this really about?”

Chan was silent for a long moment. Then he closed his laptop, ran a hand through his hair, and finally looked at you. His eyes were tired. Defeated. Full of years of pain he had never let anyone see.

“I hate myself,” he said suddenly, voice raw and quiet. “Not just sometimes. All the time. I look in the mirror and I see someone who’s never enough. Someone who tries too hard and still disappoints everyone eventually.”

Your breath caught.

He continued before you could speak, the words pouring out like they had been waiting for years.

“When you moved away in high school… it broke something in me. I told myself it was fine. That life happens. That friendships fade. But deep down, I believed it was my fault. That if I had been more fun, more interesting, less… me, you would have stayed in touch. You were the one person who made me feel like I wasn’t just the loud kid trying to be liked. And then you left. And it felt like proof.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glistening.

“After that, it just kept happening. Friends drifted. Teammates left the group. Relationships ended. Every time someone walked away, I didn’t get angry. I just thought, ‘That’s fair.’ Because who would want to stay with someone like me long-term? Someone who overthinks everything. Someone who smiles so people don’t see how exhausted he is. Someone who believes he has to earn every single person in his life.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away.

"And the podcast?" You finally asked.

He laughed, not a happy laugh though, more like a half-hearted, pain-filled one. “I figured you knew," he paused then sighed. "I recorded those episodes because I needed somewhere to put it all. Somewhere no one would hear how much I hated myself. How much I still hate myself. And when you came back… I was so happy. But part of me kept waiting for you to realize the same thing everyone else does. That I’m not worth staying for.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him, gently cupping his face with both hands. Your own tears fell freely now.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You are worth staying for. You always have been. I didn’t leave because of you. I left because life pulled me away. And I’m so sorry I made you feel like it was your fault. I’m so sorry you carried that alone for years.”

He let out a shaky sob and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. You held him tightly as he cried — deep, cathartic tears that felt like years of pain finally being released.

“I love you,” you whispered against his hair. “Not the version you think people want. The real you. The one who overthinks. The one who smiles when he’s tired. The one who carried all of this alone because he thought he had to. I love all of him.”

Chan held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

When the tears finally slowed, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red but clearer than they had been in years.

“I don’t know how to stop believing I’m temporary,” he whispered. “But I want to try. With you.”

You kissed him then — slow, deep, and full of promise.

That night, the intimacy was different.

It wasn’t just desire. It was healing.

Clothes were shed slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every part of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were trembling and moaning his name. He took his time, like he was trying to memorize you, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, emotional thrusts, whispering “I love you” and “thank you for staying” between every gasp.

You switched halfway through, pushing him onto his back and sinking down onto him. Chan’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands gripping your hips as you rode him slow and deep, eyes never leaving his.

“I love you,” you told him, grinding down deliberately. “All of you. The parts you hate. The parts you hide. The parts you think no one could love. I love them the most.”

That undid him.

Chan sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms tightly around you as he thrust up into you, burying his face in your neck. The new angle made both of you moan loudly. He moved with you, desperate and emotional, tears slipping down his cheeks as pleasure and years of pain mixed together.

“I don’t deserve you,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “But I’m trying so hard to believe I do.”

You came together — clinging, trembling, crying each other’s names. Chan spilled deep inside you with a choked sob, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

And for the first time in years, Bang Chan fell asleep believing someone might stay — not because he earned it, but because he was loved exactly as he was.

-----

The morning after Chan’s breakdown felt like the first real breath either of you had taken in years.

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains of his dorm room. You woke up tangled in his arms, his face buried in your neck, one leg thrown over yours like he was still afraid you might slip away in the night. When you stirred, Chan tightened his hold for a second before relaxing, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your collarbone.

“Good morning,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying and everything that had passed between you.

You turned in his arms and kissed him properly — slow, deep, and full of quiet promise. Chan melted into it immediately, hands sliding up your back, holding you like you were the most precious thing he had ever been allowed to keep.

When you finally pulled back, he looked at you with soft, wondering eyes.

“I want to do this right,” he said quietly. “I want to be your boyfriend. Not just someone you’re figuring things out with. I want to call you mine and mean it. I want to wake up next to you and know I don’t have to earn it.”

Your heart swelled.

You brushed your thumb across his cheek, tracing the faint traces of dried tears.

“I want that too,” you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend, Chan. I want to stay.”

His breath hitched. Then he was kissing you again — deeper this time, full of relief and joy and years of waiting.

From that moment on, you were official.

Dating Chan was everything you had missed and more.

He was proudly, unapologetically yours.

He held your hand in public without hesitation, pulling you close when people walked by. He kissed your temple when you passed each other between classes. He reintroduced you to his friends as “my girlfriend” with the brightest, most genuine smile you had ever seen on him.

The small gestures continued, but now they felt like love instead of atonement.

He still brought you coffee exactly how you liked it. He still remembered your favorite snacks and left them in your bag when you weren’t looking. But now he also stole kisses in the library stacks, walked you to every class even when it made him late for his own, and sent you good morning voice notes that made your heart flutter.

One weekend, he took you to the beach — the same one you used to talk about going to together as kids. You spent the day building terrible sandcastles, running from the waves, and taking blurry photos on his phone. That night, wrapped in a blanket on the sand, he kissed you under the stars and whispered, “I used to dream about this. About getting to love you out loud.”

You cried.

He held you through it.

The final podcast episode came a month later.

You were sitting beside him on his bed when he uploaded it. The title was simple:

“Epilogue: The Ones Who Came Back”

He held your hand and let you listen together, earphones shared like you used to do as kids.

Chan’s voice filled the quiet room — softer than usual, but full of quiet strength.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. I turned every faded friendship into proof that I was temporary. That I was only lovable when I was useful. When I was smiling. When I was easy.”

A long pause.

“Then someone came back. Someone who knew me when I was awkward and loud and trying too hard. Someone who saw the parts I tried hardest to hide… and stayed anyway. Not because I earned it. Not because I was perfect. Just because she chose me. Exactly as I am.”

His voice cracked slightly, but he continued.

“So this is my last episode. Not because I’m fixed. But because I’m trying. Because I’m learning that love isn’t something you have to earn by disappearing when things get hard. And because I finally believe that some people do come home.”

The episode ended with a small, hopeful laugh.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. Turns out sometimes people come back. And sometimes… they stay.”

You turned to him, tears streaming down your face.

Chan was already looking at you, eyes shining with emotion.

He gently wiped your tears with his thumbs.

“I don’t need the list anymore,” he whispered. “I just need you.”

You kissed him — slow, deep, and full of everything you had both survived to reach this moment.

Months later, you were sitting on the same beach where he had first told you he loved you out loud.

Chan was leaning against you, head on your shoulder, watching the waves. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles — a habit he had developed since you started dating, like he still needed the constant reminder that you were real.

You glanced over at him.

He looked peaceful. Not perfect. Not fixed. But peaceful.

He caught you staring and smiled — that bright, dimpled smile you had fallen in love with as a child and never stopped loving.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head.

You leaned in and kissed him softly.

“Nothing,” you whispered against his lips. “Just thinking about how lucky I am that you came back to me too.”

Chan’s eyes softened. He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I never really left,” he said quietly. “I was just waiting for you to find me again.”

You stayed like that until the sun set — two childhood best friends who had lost each other, found each other, and finally chosen to stay.

The list was gone.

But the love?

Flashes of light burst around you the second the tinted SUV door opened.

You stepped out beside your manager, the sound of screaming fans and rapid camera shutters instantly filling your ears. The barricades were packed with people calling your name, waving signs, and holding up phones.

Just six to eight months ago, your life looked completely different.

You were a somewhat struggling Ph.D. student in Boston, juggling seminars, coursework, and a part-time receptionist job in the same academic building where you spent countless hours studying—all to make up for the expenses your monthly stipend couldn’t quite cover.

Your days were a blur of lectures, research, and answering emails at the front desk.

Then everything changed.

When Peacock and NBC announced they were casting everyday civilians for a new season of one of your favorite reality competition shows, The Traitors, you applied almost immediately. (A/N: To all my Traitors fans, this is actually happening, so stay tuned!)

You knew the game. You understood the strategy, the deception, the psychology.

So you auditioned without hesitation, leaning hard on your knowledge of the show and your confidence in your ability to outplay the competition.

You figured it was a long shot. Something fun to try. You never expected to actually get chosen. 

But you did. And somehow…you won.

Week after week, audiences watched as you expertly navigated the manipulation and mind games of the competition while still staying grounded, authentic, and unapologetically yourself.

People admired that. They admired you.

Almost overnight, you became a fan favorite.

And once the finale aired, your life skyrocketed. Brand deals started pouring in. Magazine features followed. Red carpets. Interviews. Partnerships.

Suddenly, you weren’t just a Ph.D. student anymore, you were a public figure.

Leaning into your newfound platform, you started posting more online, especially on YouTube and TikTok, where your personality shined even brighter.

You loved sharing little pieces of your life, whether it was casual vlogs, your academic journey, your hobbies, random thoughts, or camera chats about whatever crossed your mind.

Though, honestly, your ability to talk naturally to a camera probably came from all those years of pretending you were filming GRWMs and morning routines when you were bored. (A/N: me too, girl)

And somehow…that whirlwind journey led you here.From a struggling grad student, to The Traitors winner, to influencer, to Fendi Brand Ambassador.

You waved and blew kisses as you approached the red carpet entrance, slipping easily into the routine you’d done countless times before.

Then the photographers started shouting.

“BANG CHAN!” “BANG CHAN, THIS WAY!” “LOOK HERE!”

Your attention snapped toward the commotion.

And there he was. Bang Chan, leader of Stray Kids. 

You froze.

Your manager gently bumped your shoulder. “Earth to you.”

You blinked, quickly tearing your gaze away and continuing forward.

“Sorry,” you said flatly.

Your manager laughed quietly. “Oh, don’t worry. I saw exactly who you were staring at.”

You sighed in defeat. “Yeah… I figured.”

She’d known about your K-pop obsession since the day she met you.

More specifically, she knew about your love for Stray Kids.

And she definitely knew that their leader was your bias (and parasocial celebrity crush).

Which was exactly why, when you received the news that you were becoming a Fendi ambassador, she celebrated in the most ridiculous way possible.

Cake. Flowers. Red wine.

And a tiny Wolf Chan SKZOO keyring you’d been trying to get your hands on for months.

When she gave it to you, you’d just stared at her.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “You know he’s a brand ambassador too!”

Before you knew it, it was your turn to walk the carpet.

“Y/N, Y/N, GIVE US A SMILE!”

“A LITTLE TO YOUR RIGHT, Y/N!”

“LOOK THIS WAY!”

Camera flashes fired nonstop as you paused, turned, and posed the way you’d practiced a hundred times before. After a few chaotic minutes, your manager gently guided you off the carpet while an usher approached to escort you inside.

As you stepped into the venue, the noise from outside faded into a low hum of conversation and music. Your body moved almost automatically as you took in the atmosphere—the lights, the elegant décor, the sea of celebrities already filling the room.

You still couldn’t quite believe you were here.

“Your seats are just over there,” the usher said, gesturing ahead.

“Thank you!” you and your manager replied at the same time.

You both laughed softly as you continued toward your table.

Suddenly, your manager stopped so abruptly that you bumped lightly into her back.

“Hey—what happened?” you asked.

She slowly turned around, her expression oddly serious.

“Uhhh… promise me you won’t freak out?”

Your brows furrowed. “Why would I—what’s wrong?”

Instead of answering, she stepped dramatically to the side.

You sighed at her theatrics and looked forward, spotting the small place card with your name on it.

But then your gaze shifted to the chair beside it. And the person sitting there.

Your entire body froze.

Bang Chan.

Your eyes widened immediately.

Out of all the celebrities you could’ve been seated next to… it had to be him.

You slowly turned back toward your manager, your expression somewhere between disbelief and panic. The second she saw your face, she rushed over.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” she whispered quickly, smoothing down your outfit to calm you. “You’ve interacted with celebrities before.”

You leaned closer to her and whisper-shouted, “This is the first celebrity I’ve interacted with that I’ve been obsessing over for the past five years!”

She winced. “Well… yeah…”

You sighed deeply & dramatically, like your body was trying to physically expel the panic before it consumed you.

For a few seconds, you just stood there, staring at the floor and mentally hyping yourself up.

Come on, Y/N. You’ve met celebrities before. What’s the difference now?

…

Okay, you know exactly what the difference is.

But still—be cool. Act normal. Pretend he’s just some average guy you’re meeting.

Your brain immediately scoffed.

Be serious. That is not some average guy. That is Bang Chan.

For the love of all things holy, he’s even more handsome in person.

Get. It. Together.

You inhaled slowly, straightened your posture, and turned back toward your manager with a determined nod. She looked at you carefully… then nodded back like a coach sending her bench warmer onto the field.

Without another word, she took the lead. Frankly, she didn’t trust you to start this conversation on your own. There were simply too many risks.

Stuttering. Forgetting how to speak. Saying something deeply embarrassing. Passing out. …Possibly all four.

By the time you reached your seats, your pulse was so loud in your ears you were convinced other people could hear it.

Your manager smoothly removed your place card from the table. The movement immediately caught his attention.

Bang Chan glanced up, then stood politely from his seat, ready to greet whoever would be sitting beside him.

Since you were still half-hidden behind your manager like an anxious child on the first day of school, he hadn’t actually seen you yet. Your manager smiled first.

“Hi! I’m Y/M/N,” she introduced warmly. Then, before you could protest, she gently tugged you out from behind her. “And this is Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

There was a brief moment where Chan’s eyes landed on you fully for the first time. And you nearly forgot every language you’d ever learned.

“Hi…” you managed softly, your voice significantly quieter than intended. “I’m Y/N.”

So far, so good…

Chan’s smile widened—warm, polite, and somehow even more charming up close. He extended his hand toward you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said. “I’m Bang Chan, but most people just call me Chan. Or Chris. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Your brain short-circuited slightly at whatever you’re comfortable with.

“Uhhh… okay!”

…Nailed it, Y/N. Absolutely nailed it.

Internally, you wanted to evaporate. Still, you shook his hand, somehow managing not to combust on contact, before quickly sitting down.

Your manager, clearly satisfied that you were still alive, gave you one final knowing look before heading to find her seat a few rows behind you.

And then, it was just you. And him. Sitting side by side. No pressure.

After a moment, Chan turned slightly toward you, his expression easygoing.

“So,” he started conversationally, “is this your first time at one of these?”

You blinked.

“Red carpets? No,” you answered, your nerves making your honesty come out faster than expected. “My first time being a brand ambassador for one of the most globally recognized luxury brands in the world?”

You gave him a nervous smile. “Absolutely.”

To your relief, he laughed.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Don’t worry—it gets easier with practice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Says the leader of one of the biggest K-pop groups in the world right now.”

He let out a surprised laugh, glancing at you. “Oh? So you know Stray Kids?”

You immediately regretted how quickly you answered.

“Yeah—I mean, yes. I’ve been a Stay since… 2020? Maybe 2021? Honestly, I don’t remember the exact date. A friend showed me ‘God’s Menu,’ and then…”

You paused, realizing exactly how this sounded. “…I kind of spiraled.”

Chan laughed again, this time louder.

“‘I kind of spiraled,’” he repeated, clearly amused. “That might be one of my favorite ways anyone’s described becoming a fan.”

Your face warmed. “Glad I could be memorable.”

“No, seriously,” he said, still smiling. “It’s actually really nice meeting a Stay somewhere like this. Usually people just ask who I am.”

You stared at him. “…Seriously?”

He shrugged dramatically. “Keeps me humble.”

That got a genuine laugh out of you, one that finally loosened some of the tension in your shoulders.

“I guess I kind of get that,” you admitted. “Considering I’m still adjusting to… all of this.”

Chan’s expression softened with genuine curiosity. “If you don’t mind me asking… what exactly brought you into all of this?”

“Oh, right.” You straightened slightly. “I won a reality competition show in the U.S. a few months ago. And then everything kind of…exploded from there.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? Which show?”

“The Traitors.”

His face lit with recognition. “Oh! My parents watch the Australian version!” (Side Note: I know the Australian version ended in like 2023, but let’s pretend it's still a thing😭😭)

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I actually don’t fully know how it works, though.”

You smiled, suddenly feeling more at ease.

“Okay, imagine Big Brother…”

He nodded.

“…But then add murder mystery, manipulation, strategic lying, betrayal, and just a small yet concerning amount of paranoia.”

Chan blinked. “…That sounds incredibly stressful.”

“It was,” you admitted. “But also weirdly fun.”

He looked at you for a moment, a grin slowly pulling at his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone a little more playful now.  “I can tell.”

You gave him a small smile before quickly glancing down at your lap, suddenly finding the intricate details of your outfit very interesting.

Chan, clearly picking up on your lingering shyness, tilted his head slightly.

“Now that I know you’re a Stay…” he began, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes.

“…Who’s your bias?”

Your head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

Chan immediately burst into laughter at your expression.

“Oh my God,” he chuckled. “That reaction alone tells me everything.”

“Oh… um…”

You briefly considered lying. Maybe saying Hyunjin. Or Changbin. Or literally anyone else in the group.

But unfortunately, your ability to function had completely abandoned you.

“…You,” you finally whispered, barely audible as you avoided eye contact like your life depended on it.

Chan leaned in slightly, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“Hm?” he teased. “It’s kind of loud in here, I didn’t quite catch that.”

You narrowed your eyes, fully aware of what he was doing.

“It’s you,” you repeated, this time with slightly more volume but significantly more embarrassment.

His smile somehow widened.

“Really?” he said, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m honored.”

You deadpanned. “I’m so glad my public humiliation is bringing you joy.”

“Well,” he said with an amused shrug, “if I’m your bias, then you should already know I enjoy teasing Stays.” 

Unfortunately, he had a point. (A/N: #OnlyChans, ifykyk)

You sighed dramatically. You were in for an eventful night.

As the two of you waited for the show to begin, the conversation flowed surprisingly easily.

You told him about your time on the show. How a simple, impulsive audition from your living room turned into becoming tv and social media royalty. 

In return, he told you about the upcoming U.S. dates for the DominATE tour, his excitement obvious.

“You know I’m going to one of the shows, right?” you said casually.

Chan blinked. “You are?”

“Yep. Boston.” (Side Note: I know there was not a Boston show, but for the sake of the story, let’s say there was😭😭)

“Oh, really?” he asked, sounding genuinely excited. “Where are you sitting? I’ll have to look out for you.”

You laughed. “Oh, you absolutely will not see me. My friend and I lost the ticketing war, so we’re in Section 3.”

Chan gasped dramatically. “No floor seats?”

“Listen,” you said, holding up a finger defensively, “I wanted the authentic Stay experience.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The authentic Stay experience?”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Waking up at 5 a.m., logging into the ticket site on four different devices, fighting for my life, and crying out to God.”

Chan laughed so hard he had to look away for a second.

“That sounds incredibly stressful.”

“It was,” you said proudly. “Builds character.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“You know… you could’ve just asked for VIP tickets, Ms. Traitor.”

You scoffed. “Absolutely not. I earned my struggle.”

“Right,” he said, clearly entertained. “Very noble of you.”

Before you could reply, the venue lights suddenly dimmed. The room erupted into anticipation.

Chan glanced over at you with a grin. “Well…”

He leaned back into his seat.

“I guess we’ll continue this after the show, Ms. Traitor.”

And for some completely unreasonable reason…the way he said that made your heart skip.

The show was breathtaking.

No, breathtaking somehow still didn’t feel like a strong enough word.

Every piece that graced the runway was stunning. Elegant. Dramatic.

Honestly, the entire night felt surreal.

As you watched model after model walk beneath the lights, one thought kept circling through your mind: This is my life now.

It was both thrilling… and mildly terrifying.

You stayed focused on the show—or at least, you tried to.

Because while your attention was mostly on the runway and the dangerously beautiful pieces you were already mentally adding to your wishlist, you couldn’t help but notice something else.

Or rather…someone else.

Every so often, you felt it. A glance. A lingering stare.

And each time, your brain immediately came to the same conclusion.

No. Absolutely not. You’re imagining things.

So, naturally, you tested your theory. The next time you felt it, you casually turned your head ever so slightly.

Bang Chan immediately looked back toward the runway. Interesting.

The first time? Coincidence.

The second time? Maybe it was still a coincidence.

But by the third? Oh, this man was definitely sneaky.

Determined to prove to yourself that you weren’t delusional, you tried again later. This time, though, you caught him.

His eyes met yours for half a second before you offered a small, amused smile.

And to your complete internal collapse, he smiled back. Warm. Easy. Almost like getting caught wasn’t embarrassing for him at all.

Yep. This is definitely my life now.

By the time the final look disappeared backstage and the lights brightened, signaling the end of the show, applause filled the venue. Guests slowly began standing, mingling, and exchanging farewells as the once-captivated audience shifted back into social mode.

Beside you, Chan stood as well, stretching slightly after sitting for so long. You did the same.

And then, against your better judgment, you spoke first.

“So,” you started, glancing over at him, “how’d you like the show?”

Chan turned toward you, looking almost suspiciously casual. “It was incredible,” he said easily.

You nodded. “Right? The styling alone—”

“Though,” he interrupted, his tone suddenly more playful, “something else caught my attention a few times too.”

Your brain stopped functioning. Fully. Completely. No thoughts. Head empty. Just buzzing tv static. You stared at him, internally buffering so hard it should’ve been audible.

Did he…Was he…No. Surely not.

Before your spiraling could physically consume you, Chan laughed softly, clearly noticing your struggle.

“Are you going to the after-party?”

And just like that, your brain rebooted. 

“Oh—yeah,” you said quickly. “Of course.”

“Good,” he replied, adjusting his jacket. “Do you mind if I walk with you? My manager said it’s upstairs somewhere, and I’d rather not accidentally end up in the wrong room.”

You blinked. He wanted to walk with… you? Your immediate instinct was to look toward your manager.

Of course, she was already watching and listening. 

And, because she clearly enjoyed seeing you suffer, she gave you an aggressively enthusiastic thumbs up… followed by a wink. You sighed internally. 

You looked back at Chan, attempting to appear significantly calmer than you felt. “I… guess that would be okay.”

You meant for it to sound casual. It came out slightly suspicious.

Chan raised an amused eyebrow. “‘I guess?’”

You immediately groaned. “No, wait—that’s not— I just meant—”

His laugh cut you off before you could embarrass yourself further.

“Relax,” he said warmly. “I don’t bite.”

He paused, then added with that same teasing glint you were quickly learning was dangerous, “Usually.”

Your eyes widened. He laughed again.

“Kidding.”

…You were in so much trouble.

Then, offering you an unexpectedly gentlemanly gesture, he motioned toward the exit. “Come on, Ms. Traitor,” he said.

And somehow, hearing him call you that again made your heart do something deeply inconvenient.

“Let’s go have some fun.”

By the time you and Chan made your way upstairs to the after-party, it somehow felt like stepping into an entirely different world.

If downstairs was elegance, upstairs was indulgence.

Soft golden lighting bathed the room, reflecting off crystal glasses and polished marble accents. Fashion insiders, celebrities, designers, and brand executives drifted through the space in couture and custom tailoring, all while soft jazz music hummed through hidden speakers.

The entire atmosphere practically screamed luxury.

You barely had time to fully process it before an usher approached and guided the two of you toward a smaller, more secluded seating area tucked slightly away from the main crowd. Which, frankly, you were deeply grateful for.

A little distance meant a little less pressure…in theory.

You and Chan sat down just as servers floated by carrying trays of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres that looked far too expensive to pronounce.

Before you could even reach for a drink, Chan casually grabbed two glasses of champagne and handed one to you.

“Thank you,” you said, accepting it carefully.

He lifted his glass slightly, his smile playful. “To The Traitors, Stray Kids, and Fendi.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Honestly? That might be the most chaotic toast I’ve ever heard.”

He grinned. “Is that a bad thing?”

You lifted your glass. “Not at all.”

With a smile, you clinked your glass against his.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

You both took a sip.

And just as you set your glass down—

“I don’t think I properly told you this earlier…”

Oh no. You turned toward him.

Chan’s gaze was warm, sincere… and just teasing enough to make you nervous.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

…

Your brain truly needed to stop doing this weird shutdown thing.

For a second, all you could do was stare. “Oh—”

Excellent start, Y/N.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice softer now. “You look amazing too. As always.”

Chan smirked. “‘As always,’ huh?”

Your soul nearly left your body.

“Oh my God—I didn’t mean—I mean, I did, but not like—”

He immediately laughed.

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Thank you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You really love making me panic, don’t you?”

“Maybe a little.”

You took another sip of champagne, mostly to give yourself something to do besides combust, and for a moment, the two of you simply sat there, soaking in the glamorous chaos around you.

Surprisingly, it felt comfortable.

Then Chan spoke again.

“So,” he said, leaning back slightly, “I know what you do now…”

His eyes flickered toward you curiously.

“But what were you doing before The Traitors?”

“Oh,” you said, straightening a little. “Well… I’m actually still a Ph.D. student.” (A/N: I like to make my Y/Ns educated, mmkay??💅🏾)

Chan blinked. “…You’re what?”

You laughed. “Yeah. I’m in my second year.”

“No, hold on,” he said, clearly stunned. “A Ph.D.?”

You nodded, suddenly amused by his reaction. “In (insert field/major here).”

“Wow.”

The way he said it, genuinely impressed and not performative, made heat rise to your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling shyly. “Before all of… this, I was balancing school and working reception in my academic building.”

You shrugged. “So… not exactly glamorous.”

“Are you kidding?” Chan said immediately. “That’s incredibly impressive.”

You blinked. “It is?”

“Absolutely,” he said, like it was obvious. “You won The Traitors, became a brand ambassador, and you’re getting a Ph.D.?” He shook his head dramatically.

“Should I call you Ms. Traitor, or Ms. Brains?”

You laughed—really laughed. “It honestly doesn’t matter.”

Chan smiled. “Good.”

His tone turned teasing again. “Because I plan on using both.”

Yeah. You were absolutely in trouble.

As the night continued, conversation between you became surprisingly effortless.

Favorite foods. Favorite colors. Music. Hobbies. Childhood memories. Embarrassing stories.

Somehow, despite the surrealness of your circumstances, talking to Chan felt… easy. Natural. Which was probably why his next question caught you so off guard.

“So…” he said, his voice more casual now.

You looked over.

“Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Oh. Dating?

Honestly, between academia, survival, and your recent accidental rise to fame, dating had never exactly been a priority.

Or maybe, if you were being painfully honest, you’d buried yourself in school because it was easier than confronting how invisible you’d often felt and academic accomplishments were the only way you felt seen. (A/N: story of my life •𐃷• )

You glanced down at your glass.

“Honestly… no.”

Chan stayed quiet, listening.

“I haven’t dated in a long time,” you admitted. “Actually…”

You laughed awkwardly. “Kind of ever.”

He said nothing, so you kept going (possibly because champagne had betrayed you).

“Back in school, people didn’t really look my way like that. And the people I did like never liked me back.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to play it off.

“So by college, I kind of just threw myself into academics.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Easier to focus on grades than loneliness, I guess.”

And then, silence.

Your stomach dropped. Oh no. Why did I say that?

You immediately winced. “Sorry—that was probably way too much—”

“No.” His response was immediate.

You looked up. Chan was already staring at you, his expression unreadable for half a second.

“I’m just trying to figure out how that’s even possible.”

You blinked. “…What?”

He frowned slightly, like the concept genuinely offended him.

“How has no one looked your way?”

Your breath caught.

“Y/N,” he said, more firmly this time, “you’re gorgeous.”

Oh.

“They seriously missed out.”

You stared at him, completely caught off guard, your heart suddenly beating much louder than seemed necessary.

“Oh…”

Brilliant. Elite response.

“Um, thank you…”

Then, because apparently your self-preservation was nonexistent—

“But, why do you ask?”

You reached for your champagne, hoping the sip would somehow stabilize you. It did not.

Because Chan, somehow even calmer than before, simply asked—

“Because I was wondering if you’d want to go on a date with me.”

Your glass froze halfway to your lips.

Slowly—very, very slowly—you lowered your glass.

“A date?” You paused.

“With… me?”

Chan smiled. Soft. Determined.

“Yes,” he said. “With you, Y/N.”

“Oh—okay! Yes. Sure!”

You immediately cringed at yourself.

“I mean—” you laughed nervously, your words tripping over each other, “I’d really like that. A lot.”

Thankfully, Chan only smiled wider. “I’m glad.”

And somehow, instead of making you feel embarrassed, it actually calmed you down. At least a little.

Before your brain could fully process the fact that Bang Chan had just asked you on an actual date, your phone buzzed loudly in your hand. You glanced down.

“Oh—” You couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s my manager.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Apparently,” you said between laughs, “we have to leave in five minutes.”

You glanced back at the message. “Something about needing more pictures…” Your eyes skimmed lower.

“…And ‘real food before I pass out trying to survive off fancy hors d’oeuvres alone.’”

Chan laughed immediately. “Honestly? Valid.”

“Very.”

You shook your head, already knowing she was being dramatic, but also correct.

Reluctantly, the reality that your night was ending far too soon began to settle in. Still, not all hope was lost.

You and Chan quickly exchanged numbers, and you tried very hard to act normal about the fact that his contact information now existed in your phone.

You were not normal about it. Not even slightly.

As the two of you stood, smoothing out your outfits, Chan glanced at you.

“So…are you free tomorrow morning?”

Your heart did an extremely inconvenient little flip.

“Yeah,” you answered, perhaps a little too quickly.

His smile turned softer. “Good.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“I’d like to take you out to breakfast.”

Your brain, already fragile, nearly collapsed again. “Breakfast?”

He laughed lightly. “Yeah. Breakfast.”

“No! I mean—” You winced. “Breakfast is good. Great, actually. I love breakfast.”

…Please stop talking.

Thankfully, Chan looked thoroughly entertained rather than alarmed.

“Good,” he said, his smile impossible to ignore. “I’ll text you tonight with the details.”

You nodded, trying to appear composed.

“Great.”

There was a brief pause. Not awkward. Just a pause. Like neither of you were entirely sure how to end this without it meaning something.

And maybe that was why the hug felt so natural. Warm. Comfortable.

You smiled against it, still slightly in disbelief that this was real life.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Chan.”

And before your brain could stop you, you leaned up slightly and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. It was innocent. Sweet. A harmless little goodbye.

…Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Because the second you turned to walk away, a gentle hand caught your wrist.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even process what was happening, Chan carefully pulled you back. And suddenly, you were right there. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to forget how breathing worked.

One hand settled softly at your waist. The other gently cupped your cheek.

Your heart was no longer beating normally.

“Chan, what are you—”

And then, he kissed you. Soft. Slow. Sweet enough to make time feel suspended.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It was gentle. Intentional. The kind of kiss that somehow said more than words ever could.

And for one completely surreal moment, nothing else existed. Not the party. Not the noise. Not the cameras. 

Just him.

When you finally pulled apart, your brain was so thoroughly gone that the first thing out of your mouth was—

“…That was my first kiss.”

…

Silence.

Chan blinked.

“Wait.” You immediately covered your face.

“Oh my God, did I really just say that out loud?”

He laughed, but not in a mocking way. More like he genuinely couldn’t believe how adorable you were.

When he gently lowered your hands from your face, his expression had softened into something almost disarmingly tender.

“Really?”

You nodded, suddenly too shy to form proper words.

And to your surprise, he smiled. Not smug. Not teasing. Just…flattered.

“Well,” he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, “I’m honored.”

Then, with one last smile, the kind that absolutely should’ve come with a warning label, he stepped back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Traitor.”

And just like that, you were left standing there, staring after him like your entire life hadn’t just changed in the span of one evening.

Your manager was going to lose her mind.