You're Doing Great, Okay? Blooming In The Rain.

You found him sitting on the floor, his back pressed to the wall, hoodie drawn tightly over his head. His knees were pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around them. His chest heaved in rapid, shallow bursts. His lips were parted, like he was struggling for air.

“Chan?” You crouched down immediately, the sound of your voice making him flinch.

His eyes were wild—red-rimmed, unfocused. His whole body was shaking, fingers clenched in his sleeves, shoulders heaving with each too-fast breath.

“Baby, hey. Hey. Look at me,” you whispered, reaching for him.

He shook his head violently, curling in tighter, like he was trying to disappear.

“I… I can’t… I can’t—” His voice cracked, barely a whisper through the shallow gasps. “I can’t breathe—”

You crawled closer on your knees and placed both hands gently on his shoulders.

“You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re right here with me,” you murmured. “Just breathe, okay? Just breathe with me.”

But he wasn’t hearing you. His hands flew up to his hair, gripping it tight, nails digging into his scalp like he was trying to claw something out.

“I’m gonna let them down,” he choked out suddenly, a sob cracking through his chest.

Your stomach dropped.

“I can’t— I can’t do it anymore,” he gasped. “I’m so tired, and I keep pretending, but it’s— it’s too much—”

His voice broke again, completely unraveling.

“I’m scared,” he cried, barely audible now. “I’m so fucking scared I’m gonna fail them—the kids—”

You shifted instantly, wrapping your arms around him even as he trembled like a leaf in a hurricane. He fell into you like his bones had turned to dust, sobbing violently into your chest.

“I have to be strong,” he sobbed. “I have to lead. I have to protect them. I have to be the one they lean on.”

Each word came out sharp and jagged between wheezing gasps.

“They need me to be okay, but I’m not— I’m not okay. I’m not strong enough. I’m not good enough—”

You hugged him tighter, gently rocking the two of you side to side.

“Stop. You are enough,” you whispered fiercely. “You’re so enough.”

He shook his head over and over, his tears soaking through your shirt.

“I feel like I’m constantly running and I can’t stop,” he gasped. “And if I do, everything’s gonna fall apart.”

His whole body tensed suddenly, and he let out a ragged, guttural sob—his hands pressed flat against his face now, smothering the sound, like he didn’t think he deserved to cry out loud.

You gently pried his hands away, guiding them to your chest so he could feel your heartbeat.

“You’re not holding the world alone,” you whispered. “You never had to. Let yourself fall—I’ll catch you.”

He clung to you like he didn’t believe it, but some part of him wanted to.

“I don’t sleep anymore,” he confessed through trembling lips. “I stay up checking every schedule, every detail. If something goes wrong, it’s my fault.”

“No, baby, it’s not,” you said firmly, brushing his damp curls from his forehead.

“I second-guess everything I say to them,” he continued, spiraling faster again. “What if I’m not guiding them right? What if they’re not okay and I didn’t notice? What if I’m ruining this for them—”

His breathing hitched into sharp, erratic gasps again. You felt him stiffen, panic rushing back in like a wave.

“Okay, look at me,” you said quickly, cupping his face. “Right here. Eyes on me, baby.”

His gaze flickered to yours, wild and wet.

“Let’s breathe together, alright? In—two, three, four,” you inhaled slowly, “now out—two, three, four.”

He tried. God, he tried, but it was like his lungs had forgotten how.

You didn’t let go. You kept counting, kept anchoring him, even when he buried his face in your chest and let out a cry so broken it tore through you like glass.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered again. “I’m so sorry I’m like this—”

“Stop,” you whispered, lips pressed to the top of his head. “You don’t owe me perfect. You don’t owe anyone perfect.”

“But I’m supposed to be the strong one,” he sobbed. “The leader. I can’t fall apart.”

“You can,” you whispered. “Right here. With me, you can.”

He sobbed harder. His arms wrapped around your waist in a desperate grip as if he thought you might vanish.

“I don’t want to break,” he whispered. “But I already am.”

You just held him.

And held him.

And held him, while the minutes passed and the storm inside him slowly, slowly began to lose its grip.

His breathing gradually slowed, though tears still streamed down his cheeks. His body slumped heavier against you, like his exhaustion had finally won.

And when his sobs faded into trembling silence, you whispered:

“You don’t have to carry all this alone. I’ll carry some of it with you. As much as you need.”

He finally looked up at you, eyes swollen and shimmering.

“You still love me like this?” he asked, voice shaking.

You cupped his face in both hands and kissed his forehead.

“Especially like this.”

Tysm for reading! I’m so sorry 😭😭😭

Check out my master list if you want more (non heart breaking shit)

Or maybe… everything hit you. Your head, first. Then your stomach, turning uneasily. Then your knees, buckling just slightly as you tried to stand. The music got louder. The lights started smearing. Your arms felt wrong, like you were floating out of your body. You gripped the edge of the bar.

“I don’t feel so good,” you mumbled.

The guy leaned in. “Let’s get you some air.”

You didn’t want air. You wanted your bed. But your words wouldn’t form, and your feet wouldn’t move where you wanted them to. He wrapped an arm around your waist and started steering you toward the door.

“Just need some air, sweetheart,” he said, voice too close to your ear.

You didn’t know why your heart was pounding. Something was wrong. You knew something was wrong. You just couldn’t fight it.

You stumbled.

And then a voice—calm, firm, but quiet—cut through the noise.

“Hey, is she with you?”

The guy tensed.

You couldn’t see well. Vision was going fuzzy now, but the voice that spoke next had an edge to it. Gentle steel.

“She’s with me,” the man lied.

There was a pause. A long one.

Then the voice again. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

You didn’t see what happened next. But you felt the arm around your waist release. You heard something hit a table. Heard voices—angry, confused. Someone shouting. Someone else apologizing.

Then a warm hand on your back.

“Hey. I got you. You’re safe, okay?”

You wanted to cry. Instead, you just leaned toward the warmth.

“Your voice is hot,” you slurred. “You… wow. You look like Bang Chan. That’s wild. You’re a guy though, so you probably don’t know Stray Kids.”

The hand paused for a second.

Then: a soft laugh. Low. Deep. Him.

“Yeah? Is that a compliment?”

You nodded enthusiastically. Or tried to. It felt more like a full-body lurch.

“He’s like, sooooooo hot,” you mumbled. “Like, unreasonably. It should be illegal. You—wow. You really look like him.”

“Noted,” he said, voice amused.

He picked you up—actually picked you up—and you didn’t even care. You didn’t feel scared. Just dizzy. Warm. Safe. His chest was solid against your cheek.

“Thank you for not being a creep,” you whispered. “Like that other guy. He was icky. You’re not icky.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m not.”

⸻

You woke up to the smell of something warm and clean. Detergent. Maybe fabric softener. Sunlight slipped through the curtains. Somewhere nearby, you heard the low hum of someone humming—off-tune and low enough it was barely audible.

Your head pounded.

You groaned and sat up, barely registering the foreign room until your elbow smacked a pillow that definitely wasn’t yours.

You weren’t in your apartment.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You whipped the blanket back, checking you were still dressed—thank god, yes—but your shoes were gone, and your earrings were sitting neatly on the nightstand. There was a glass of water. A box of crackers. And—

A post-it note?

You grabbed it with shaky fingers.

“Hey— You were feeling sick last night, so I brought you somewhere safe. Everything’s fine. Nothing happened. No pressure. Just rest. Knock on the door across the hall when you’re up — or whenever you’re ready. -C :)”

C?

You blinked. Looked around the room. The decor was… basic. Not messy, but clearly lived-in. Posters on the walls. A keyboard in the corner. A pair of oversized sneakers half-tucked under the desk.

You stood up slowly and tiptoed to the door, opening it just a crack. A short hallway led to a slightly open living area. Music played from a phone speaker—muffled, faint. There were voices now too. Two of them.

You followed the sound.

“I’m just saying,” one voice grumbled. “You could’ve woken me up. I wanted to meet her!”

“You’ll scare her,” the other said with a chuckle. “Let her get her bearings first.”

That voice again.

The voice.

Deep. Smooth. Calm. With just a hint of something Aussie curling at the edges.

Your heart started racing again.

Then someone stepped into the hallway—shirtless, towel slung around his neck, fresh from the shower.

I.N

Fucking Yang Jeongin.

You froze.

He froze.

He blinked. “Oh! You’re awake!”

Your jaw dropped. You were suddenly very aware that you were wearing an oversized black hoodie with sleeves that went past your hands, clearly not yours, and had what looked like a SKZOO patch on the hem.

No. No fucking way.

Your voice came out in a whisper. “W-where… where am I?”

Before he could answer, the door behind him opened.

And there he was.

Bang Chan.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt, his curls still damp, a mug of coffee in his hand.

He stopped.

And you stared.

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “It was you.”

His smile was small. Careful. Warm. “Hi.”

⸻

You stood there frozen, heart thundering, body suddenly very aware of every piece of borrowed clothing on your frame—especially the oversized hoodie that, upon closer inspection, absolutely had “CB97” embroidered discreetly into the sleeve cuff.

Your eyes met his. Brown, warm, and devastatingly familiar.

Bang Chan.

Leader of Stray Kids.

Savior of your entire goddamn existence last night.

He looked like every daydream you’d ever tried to talk yourself out of.

You wanted to melt into the floor.

Instead, you stood there blinking, bare-faced, hair a mess, still wearing your mascara smudges from the night before.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time. Like you were a scared animal he didn’t want to spook.

Too late, sir.

Jeongin took a long sip of his smoothie. “So you do know Stray Kids.”

You spun to him, hands flying up like please. “I—okay. Yes. But,”

“Wait,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You—last night—you didn’t tell me who you were.”

Chan gave a tiny shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t really seem like the time.”

Your stomach flipped. You remembered some of what you’d said. Not much. But definitely—

“You look like Bang Chan.”

Oh god.

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“I said that. Out loud. I said that out loud. I thought I was hallucinating.”

He laughed, and it was somehow even worse—because it was kind. Sweet. The sound of a man who didn’t think you were crazy, just… human.

“You also said I wasn’t icky,” he offered.

You peeked through your fingers. “I stand by that.”

Jeongin laughed so hard he choked on his drink.

Chan cleared his throat and gestured gently toward the kitchen island. “Do you want to sit? Eat something? There’s soup if you want, or we’ve got toast, cereal, rice…”

You nodded weakly, not trusting yourself to speak.

⸻

Ten minutes later, you sat across from Chan at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea you hadn’t asked for but somehow was exactly how you liked it.

He sat across from you, elbows resting on the wood, sleeves pushed up, forearms ridiculously unfair to your blood pressure. He watched you gently, giving you time.

“You were drugged,” he said finally, voice low. “He tried to take you out of the bar. You didn’t look okay, and he didn’t want anyone talking to you. That’s… usually a bad sign.”

You swallowed hard, nausea curling low in your stomach—not from the tea, but the memory.

“I don’t remember much,” you admitted.

“That’s probably a good thing.”

You nodded.

“I just—I wanted to make sure you were safe. Didn’t want to leave you alone or take you to a hospital if you weren’t lucid enough to consent. And I didn’t know how to explain to a stranger, ‘Hey I’m Bang Chan and I’m trying not to get arrested for kidnapping a STAY’.”

That made you snort into your tea.

“I was waiting for you to wake up to make sure you were okay,” he added. “But then Jeongin woke up first. And then… this.”

He gestured between you both with a sheepish smile.

You were too aware of the warmth in your chest. Of the man across from you who had literally carried you out of danger. Stayed up with you. Gave you water. Tucked you into bed.

Not “Bang Chan the idol.” Just… Chan. Human. Protector.

You set your mug down carefully.

“Thank you,” you said. “I… I can’t say that enough. I don’t even know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, really. Like—how do I explain this to normal people? ‘Oh yeah, I blacked out at a bar and woke up in my bias’s dorm, wearing his hoodie while his maknae watched me spiral’—”

Jeongin howled from the hallway.

Chan looked down at his tea to hide his laugh.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “I’m leaving. I’m going home. I’m going to bury myself and never come out.”

Chan’s voice was warm. “You can stay as long as you want.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re safe here. No pressure. No cameras. No press. Just people who care.”

The ache behind your eyes surprised you. You blinked fast, but it was too late—your throat already thickened.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, smile going soft.

“You already did,” he said. “You called me hot.”

You dropped your head onto the table with a groan.

⸻

You didn’t mean to see him again.

You meant to go home, cry in the shower, and process your emotions like a normal person with a normal amount of sanity and not an obsessive K-pop brain.

But Chan texted you that night. Just once.

Chan: You okay?

It was a simple message. No emojis. Just him checking in.

You stared at it for a full thirty minutes before replying.

You: Yeah. Still embarrassed. But okay.

Chan: Don’t be embarrassed. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

And then:

Chan: Jeongin said you like hot pot.

You paused.

Did you say that?

Was that in your ramble?

You didn’t even want to know.

You: …I do.

Chan: We’re making some tomorrow night. No pressure. Just friends.

Just friends.

You reread that part five times. Let it sink into your bones like cold water.

Right.

This was going to be a problem.

⸻

It was just dinner.

That’s what you told yourself the entire walk to the dorm.

Just dinner. With a guy who saved your life. Who happened to be your bias. Who also happened to look way too good in sweatpants and a sleeveless hoodie, even when he was just standing in the doorway waving you in with a casual, “Hey.”

Your knees buckled a little. Not visibly, but emotionally? You were wrecked.

“Come in,” he said, voice warm. “Shoes off, we’re a no-shoes household—except Hyunjin, he’s a menace.”

You giggled. Then froze.

Don’t giggle.

Be cool.

Be a person, not a stay-at-home simp with a secret photo album full of this man’s selfies.

You stepped in, and immediately—

“Whoaaaa, you’re real?” A voice from the living room.

You turned to see Han Jisung peeking out from behind the couch.

“Chan-hyung said we weren’t allowed to swarm you,” Han said, half-whispering like it was a secret. “But I swarmed anyway. Hi. I’m Han. You’re like… the one he wouldn’t shut up about yesterday.”

“I—he what—?”

“Jisung,” Chan said warningly.

“What? I’m being welcoming!”

Another head popped up.

“I’m also welcoming,” Felix said brightly. “Hi! I’m the sunshine.”

“You’re all terrifying,” you said without thinking.

They all beamed.

“Oh, you’ll fit right in,” Seungmin muttered from the kitchen.

⸻

Hot pot at the Stray Kids dorm was loud. Chaotic. And yet, somehow, the most homey meal you’d had in ages.

You sat squished between Hyunjin and Felix, the latter of whom kept spooning extra enoki mushrooms into your bowl and winking dramatically whenever Chan got up to get you something.

Every time you tried to help, Chan just waved you off. Refilled your drink. Reached over your shoulder to stir the pot. Gently warned, “Careful, that one’s spicy,” when he saw your hand moving toward a peppery broth.

You hated how you noticed it all.

How your body leaned a little toward him whenever he walked past.

How he tugged his hoodie sleeves up and you immediately locked in on his arms like you had no self-control.

You were so screwed.

“Don’t worry,” Jeongin murmured next to you. “You’re being subtle.”

You nearly dropped your chopsticks.

“W-what?”

He just grinned. “You’re fine. Totally normal. Not at all obvious that you’re in love with—”

You smacked him with your napkin.

⸻

Later, the boys peeled off one by one—Hyunjin leaving to take selfies in better lighting, Han dragging Jeongin away to record “something stupid,” Seungmin retreating with a book and a sarcastic “try not to combust.”

That left you and Chan alone on the floor, leaning back against the couch, a little too full and a little too quiet.

He glanced over. “You good?”

You nodded. “Better than good. That was… actually really nice. Thank you.”

He shrugged, bashful. “Just dinner.”

No. Not just dinner.

You didn’t say it, but he must’ve sensed it anyway. He looked down at his fingers, twisting a hair tie around one wrist.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t either,” you admitted.

“Why?”

You hesitated. Then: “Because I didn’t want to be that fan.”

He tilted his head.

“The one who… gets weird. Who crosses lines. Who mistakes kindness for something else.”

His eyes softened.

“You’re not that,” he said firmly.

You looked down. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t brag or post or… freak out. You just let me help you. And then you were embarrassed for it.”

“Because I still can’t believe it,” you whispered.

Chan was quiet for a moment. You weren’t sure if you’d gone too far. But then he sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Sometimes I forget I’m him.”

You turned to him.

“Him?”

“The Bang Chan you see. The one in videos. On stage. I forget that people look at me like that. I don’t… I’m not used to being seen the way STAYs see me. Not when I’m home. Not when I’m just being me.”

That hit you right in the chest.

You could only whisper, “I see both.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

A long pause.

Then he smiled.

And for a second, it felt like the room shrunk down to just the two of you.

⸻

You started texting.

Every day.

Stupid things at first—memes, food pics, song links. Then gradually longer messages. Thoughts. Check-ins. Random midnight bursts of “you ever think about how weird elevators are?” followed by philosophical spirals and voice notes filled with sleepy laughs.

He never failed to reply.

Sometimes instantly. Sometimes hours later with apologies and 3-minute voice messages to make up for it.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

You didn’t talk about how safe you felt when he carried you. Or how your heart leapt when he smiled. Or how his voice was starting to feel like a place you could rest in.

You didn’t talk about how he’d started remembering all your favorite things—how he sent you a playlist with your comfort songs. How he asked about your anxiety, your work, your art. How he saw you.

You didn’t talk about how it was getting harder not to fall. And you didn’t know that he was feeling the same thing.

Because neither of you were ready.

Not yet.

But soon.

⸻

Chan texted you around 7:00 p.m.

Chan: Working late at the studio. Want to come hang out?

The words sit in your chest like a lit match.

You pace your room for ten minutes before replying something chill like:

You: Sure. Want me to bring snacks?

He replies immediately.

Chan: You offering to feed me? Is this love?

You throw your phone across the bed.

⸻

You show up with three bags of snacks and an energy drink in hand, feeling way too self-conscious in your oversized hoodie and biker shorts. The hallway outside the studio smells like stale coffee and fried food. There’s a soft bassline pulsing from the room ahead.

You knock once.

Chan opens the door.

And, of course, he looks like that. Curls loose under a black beanie, plain white tank clinging to his chest, a chain around his neck that shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. There’s ink smudged on his hand and a pencil behind his ear.

“Hey,” he says, smiling like you make sense.

You try not to melt on the spot. “I brought snacks. And caffeine. So you don’t die.”

He opens the door wider. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

You blink. “Your favorite what?”

Chan just winks and grabs the snacks.

You forget how to breathe.

⸻

His studio is a comfortable mess. Blankets in the corner. A few hoodies on the back of his chair. Notebooks stacked like Jenga towers. Water bottles. Two empty mugs. His laptop screen is full of waveforms and color-coded layers.

He settles into his chair, one leg folded up under him like a gremlin, and spins halfway toward you.

“Okay, full disclosure—some of this might be boring.”

You sit on the little couch behind him. “That’s fine. I like boring. Boring is underrated.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Good. ‘Cause I’m very boring.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“Okay, fair.”

He clicks around for a minute, looping a beat. Humming softly. Scribbling lyrics.

You watch him work.

And it’s terrifyingly attractive.

The way his jaw clenches when he concentrates. The way he taps his pen against his lip while he’s thinking. The way he mutters little things under his breath like “nah, too heavy” or “no, don’t force it” and then rewrites whole verses without blinking.

“You look at music like it’s alive,” you say suddenly.

He pauses.

Then—“That’s because it is.”

He doesn’t explain further. And you don’t ask.

⸻

About thirty minutes later, he leans back with a groan.

“I’m stuck.”

You glance up. “What part?”

“The chorus. I have the melody. I just—” He sighs. “I don’t know how honest I want to be with the lyrics.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He spins toward you slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair.

“I mean… it’s personal. It’s about someone I shouldn’t feel things for.”

You freeze.

“Oh?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Someone I shouldn’t want. But I do.”

Your mouth is suddenly dry. “And why shouldn’t you?”

Chan shrugs. Looks down. “Because it’s not part of the plan.”

There’s a silence. Thick. Charged.

He glances at you. “You ever feel something for someone that you’re not supposed to?”

You meet his eyes.

Always, you want to say.

Instead, you whisper: “Every day.”

The air shifts.

He holds your gaze a second longer.

Then clicks play.

The track that fills the room is raw. Bare bones. Just a soft piano progression, a quiet beat pulsing behind it, and Chan’s voice—unpolished but haunting.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just watches the screen, face unreadable.

When the chorus ends, he hits stop.

The silence afterward is louder than the music.

“Chan,” you say softly.

He finally turns to you.

And his face is unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was probably too much.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath. Still trying to feel your hands.

“Was it about…?” you start to ask.

But he interrupts gently.

“Don’t. Don’t ask me that unless you’re ready to hear it.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your heart is pounding.

But you nod.

And he says nothing.

Because neither of you are ready.

Not yet.

⸻

It was past 1:30 a.m. by the time Chan shut down the studio.

You didn’t even realize how tired you were until you stood up and your knees wobbled. He caught your elbow instinctively, grounding you with one warm palm and that quiet, amused voice.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… gravity.”

He smiled. “That’s the realest thing I’ve heard all day.”

⸻

You both stepped out into the night air. It was cold. Sharp. The kind of air that made your lungs ache a little, that made your arms instinctively cross over your chest.

Chan noticed. Of course he did.

Without saying anything, he peeled off his hoodie and held it out to you.

You blinked. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m good,” he said. “You’re smaller.”

You slipped it on.

It smelled like him.

You were so unbelievably screwed.

⸻

“Come crash at the dorm,” he said as you walked. “It’s too late to head home.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

He gave you a look like it wasn’t even a question. “Couch is all yours.”

So now… you were sitting on said couch. Wrapped in one of Chan’s blankets. Watching him move around the kitchen like he’d done it a thousand times before, pulling out mugs and boiling water like it was the middle of the afternoon.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You want tea or hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” you said before you could talk yourself out of it.

He grinned. “Knew it.”

Of course he did.

⸻

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet the dorm was at night. I.N was asleep. Everything was still. Just you and him and the soft hum of the kettle heating on the stove.

He handed you a mug without a word.

Your fingers brushed.

You swore you stopped breathing.

He didn’t move away.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

He nodded.

“If I hadn’t… if none of that stuff at the bar happened—would we have ever met?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “Probably not.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But…” he continued. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have wanted to.”

You looked up at him.

Chan’s gaze was steady. Kind. A little sad.

“I don’t meet people easily,” he said. “Not outside of work. Not without walls.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He leaned his hip against the counter, mug cradled in both hands.

“But with you, it was different. I didn’t feel like I had to be anyone else.”

Your throat tightened.

“You didn’t even know who I was,” he added, chuckling softly. “You just thought I looked like me.”

You laughed. “You do look like you.”

“You called me hot.”

“Oh my god—”

He grinned wide.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down.”

“Not a chance.”

You were laughing. God, he made it so easy to forget how fragile everything was. How close you were to feeling too much.

Then your laughter softened. And the space between you did too.

The silence returned.

But it wasn’t heavy. It was full.

There was something hanging there—unspoken but so loud.

His eyes dipped to your mouth for the briefest second.

You didn’t imagine it.

You felt it.

And just when you thought maybe—just maybe—he’d move closer, he took a small step back.

“Bedtime,” he said gently.

Right.

Of course.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for the drink.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

You padded back to the couch, his hoodie still warm on your body.

You curled up under his blanket.

And you heard his door close quietly down the hall.

⸻

The studio was dark when you got there.

You didn’t mean to show up unannounced. You’d texted. Twice. No response. But you figured he was just deep in the zone like usual.

What you didn’t expect was to crack the door open and see him passed out on the couch, hoodie half-off, legs dangling over the side like a giant golden retriever after a long day of running his own emotional support group.

Your breath caught.

He was beautiful like this. Quiet. Soft. Face slack with exhaustion, hair pushed back by a headband, chest rising and falling gently.

On the coffee table beside him: his lyric notebook.

You knew it instantly. The battered brown cover. The red elastic band. The one he always tossed into drawers the second someone got too close.

You hesitated.

But the notebook was cracked open, a page half-exposed. Just a few words visible, scrawled in that fast, messy print of his.

You didn’t mean to look.

You really didn’t.

But your eyes drifted before your brain could stop them.

Your breath caught.

You blinked.

Read it again.

And again.

Your fingertips grazed the edge of the paper before you quickly pulled your hand back like it burned.

Because it did.

Your stomach twisted.

You backed away. Slowly. Carefully. Every cell in your body screamed DON’T READ MORE, but your heart was already aching.

You stood there, frozen.

Until his voice broke the silence.

“…You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You turned.

He hadn’t moved. Eyes still closed. One arm draped over his stomach. But his voice—low, rough from sleep—cut through the room like glass.

“I didn’t mean to—” you started.

“I know,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”

You stepped closer. “Chan…”

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking himself awake.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quickly. “I get it. You write things. Doesn’t mean they’re—”

“They’re all about you.”

The words landed like thunder.

You stared.

His eyes met yours. Tired. Honest. Wide open.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

“I wrote that one last week,” he said. “After you left. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how you sat on my kitchen floor in my hoodie drinking cocoa like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“Chan…” you breathed, but there were no words after it.

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” he said softly. “Or feel anything. I just…”

He paused.

“I don’t want to lie anymore. Not to myself. And definitely not to you.”

You blinked fast, swallowing the lump in your throat.

And then the door slammed open.

“OKAY, WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

You jumped.

Han stomped in, flailing his arms dramatically like he was breaking up a crime scene. “Did you confess? Are you crying? Did you confess? Why are there tears? What the hell is going on, I left for two hours—”

Chan groaned. “Han, please.”

“Don’t ‘Han’ me, I’ve had enough. Do you know how many weeks I’ve had to listen to you mope? How many poetic sighs I’ve endured?! Hyunjin is losing his mind.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Too bad! You brought her here again. You let her into your emotional songwriter den. That’s basically a marriage proposal. So what now, huh?”

You blinked.

Chan looked like he wanted to die.

Jeongin appeared in the doorway, sipping juice like it was movie night. “Is this the part where they finally kiss or what?”

“GUYS—” Chan groaned.

You stood there, wide-eyed, still overwhelmed, still processing.

And then—

You laughed.

Because the chaos was so them.

Because the moment was so you and him.

Because after everything—the fear, the tension, the words left unsaid—you were still standing here. Still breathing.

Still looking at him like maybe… you were ready.

You stepped closer to him.

Everyone immediately shut up.

Chan looked up at you.

And in the quiet, you said the one thing that wasn’t scary anymore.

“I feel it too.”

His eyes softened.

And he whispered, “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The room was dead silent.

Han clutched Jeongin’s arm. “Don’t. Move. They’re so close.”

But you didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

You sat next to him instead.

Let your shoulder press into his. Let his hand brush yours.

And you both smiled like something had finally shifted.

Because it had.

⸻

It started with a compliment.

Just a simple, harmless comment.

Or it should’ve been.

You were in one of the smaller JYPE practice rooms, sipping iced tea and scrolling your phone while Chan wrapped up a quick mentoring session with some of the newer trainees. You hadn’t meant to tag along—but when he looked at you that morning, all soft eyes and hopeful “You don’t have to stay, but I’d like it if you did,” there was really no way you were going home.

So here you were. Hoodie. Sneakers. Minding your business.

Until he walked over.

One of the trainees—maybe 18? 19? Tall, pretty, confident in that eager way new idols always are.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at your phone screen. “That a music app?”

You nodded, surprised. “Oh—yeah. Just a playlist.”

“Cool.” He smiled, a little too charming. “Did you make it? You’ve got good taste.”

“…Thanks,” you said slowly.

He took a sip of his drink. “I’ve seen you here before. Are you… a producer? Or maybe… an idol’s girlfriend?”

The way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was fishing. Curiosity mixed with just enough flirtation to make your skin prick.

You smiled politely. “Just a friend.”

“Of Chan-hyung?” he asked, raising a brow. “Or someone else?”

Across the room, Chan’s head snapped up.

He was supposed to be finishing feedback with another trainee. But his eyes were locked on you now.

And they did not move.

You didn’t notice at first.

You were busy blinking at the trainee, trying to figure out how to politely tell him to calm his whole ass down.

He smiled again, stepping closer, just barely in your space now. “Well, if you’re not dating anyone here, maybe I could show you my practice room sometime. Or maybe we could grab a coffee?”

You opened your mouth—but before a single word came out, the air changed.

“Is something wrong?”

The voice came from behind you.

Low. Firm.

Chan.

The trainee straightened immediately. “Oh—no, hyung, I was just talking to—”

“She’s busy,” Chan said. Not sharp, not rude. But definite. “We’ve got work to do.”

You blinked, turning slightly. “I—”

“Right,” the trainee said quickly, backing off with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, hyung. Sorry, noona.”

And then he vanished.

You turned to Chan slowly, brows lifted. “She’s busy?”

He looked calm. Too calm. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Not looking at you.

You bit back a smile. “Chan.”

“…What?” he said, tone a little too casual.

“Are you… jealous?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He didn’t answer. Just fiddled with his fingers, eyes pointedly on the floor.

You stepped closer. “He was just being polite.”

“He was flirting.”

You grinned. “And?”

Chan finally looked up. His voice was quieter now. Raw.

“I don’t like watching people flirt with you.”

You stilled.

He stepped forward—just a little—and now there were barely a few inches between you.

“I know we haven’t defined this,” he said slowly, “but I need you to know… it’s not just friendship to me. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

You swallowed hard.

Your heart was pounding.

“Then tell me what it is.”

He exhaled. Like he’d been holding the words for months.

“It’s everything.”

He looked right at you.

“It’s—me thinking about you all the time. Wanting to make you laugh. Needing to keep you safe. Writing songs I’ll never show anyone else because they’re just about you.” His voice dropped.

“It’s me feeling like my chest might cave in every time I almost tell you how I feel and stop myself.”

Your breath hitched.

And still—he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t cross that line.

Because he was waiting for you.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he said quietly. “Not because I own you. Because I’m scared someone else will get it right before I do.”

You didn’t hesitate this time.

Your hand reached up, brushing gently against his chest. Right over his heart.

His eyes closed. Just for a second. Like the touch alone grounded him.

“I don’t want anyone else either,” you whispered.

His eyes opened again.

And this time, he smiled.

Small. Tender. Like you’d handed him the rest of the oxygen he’d been living without.

But even now—he didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Come with me,” he said softly.

“Where?”

He leaned in.

“To finally finish a song I started the day I met you.”

⸻

You didn’t expect to end up at the dorms again that night.

You really didn’t.

But after the studio—after watching Chan pour out his heart in a song so raw it made your chest ache—you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. He didn’t ask you to stay. He just glanced over, eyes shining under the glow of his monitor, and said:

“You look tired.”

You had whispered, “So do you.”

And then he nodded once, offered his hand without a word, and led you back to the dorm.

It was late when you arrived. Past midnight. The air was soft and still, and the I.N was clearly already asleep.

Or… pretending to be.

You kicked your shoes off quietly in the entryway, glancing around.

“Where am I sleeping this time?” you whispered.

Chan looked at you.

Held your eyes.

And didn’t say a word.

You blinked. “Chan—?”

“I was gonna give you the couch,” he said, voice low. “But I don’t want you there.”

You stepped closer. “Why not?”

“Because I want to fall asleep next to you.”

The silence between you was heavy. Electric. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a second—so fast you almost didn’t catch it.

And that’s when you knew.

He wasn’t going to wait anymore.

He led you to his room. Quiet. Gentle.

You stepped in after him, heart beating like a drumline.

The lights were off. Just the faint glow of his monitor and the soft city light pouring through the blinds.

You stood there by his door, frozen. You could feel him behind you. The warmth of his presence. The tension bleeding into the air like smoke.

He was so close you could hear him breathe.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

You nodded.

“Are you scared?”

You turned slowly to face him. “Of what?”

“Of… this,” he said, gesturing between you. “Of what we’re turning into.”

You looked up at him.

Took a breath.

And told the truth.

“Not if it’s you.”

He broke.

Just a little. Just enough.

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and you felt the world shrink to nothing but his body, his breath, his gaze. His hand reached up, tentative, brushing a stray hair from your face, then lingering along your cheekbone like you might disappear if he blinked.

And then, finally—

Finally—

His lips met yours.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like he was still asking permission.

You leaned in.

Gave it.

And then he kissed you again—this time deeper, fuller. One hand cupping your jaw, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him like he’d waited forever for this and wasn’t risking it for a second longer.

You melted.

The world dissolved.

Your hands found his hoodie, curling into the fabric like it was the only thing holding you upright.

And Chan—sweet Chan—kissed you like he was breathing for the first time.

He tasted like mint and warmth and every late-night longing you’d buried for months.

He kissed you like a confession. Like a promise.

Like he meant it.

When he finally pulled back—forehead pressed against yours, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon—he whispered:

“I’ve wanted to do that every damn day since I met you.”

You smiled, dazed. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckled softly, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Can I do it again?”

You nodded.

“Good,” he said, voice husky. “Because I’m not done.”

⸻

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

All you remembered was the feeling of his lips—soft and slow and full of something unspoken. The way his hands stayed respectful even when his breath grew ragged. How he pulled back when your body leaned in too close, whispering something like “not yet” against your skin, and then gathered you into his arms instead.

You remembered the sound of his voice.

You remembered warmth.

Now—morning light sliced through the blinds in faint golden strips across the room. You stirred slowly, groggily, your limbs heavy and tangled in unfamiliar sheets.

Then you felt it.

A warm arm around your waist. A chest behind your back. The even rise and fall of someone breathing next to you.

You froze.

No way.

Your eyes snapped open.

You were in Chan’s bed.

In. His. Bed.

Last night came flooding back in fragments: the studio… the look in his eyes… the first kiss… the second one… falling asleep in his arms while his thumb traced slow circles into your hip.

Your heart thundered in your chest.

Was this real?

Was any of it?

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him—and immediately felt his grip tighten.

“Mm-mm,” he mumbled against your hair, voice rough and thick with sleep. “Too early.”

You went still again.

“Chan?” you whispered.

“Mhm.”

“…Are you awake?”

A long pause. A faint chuckle.

“You asked me a question, baby. What do you think?”

Baby.

The word fried something behind your eyes.

You turned slowly in his arms to face him.

And there he was.

Messy curls, smushed against the pillow. Sleep-swollen lips. Half-lidded eyes that drank you in like sunlight.

He looked unfairly good in the morning.

You whispered, “So that really happened.”

His brow furrowed, just a little. “You thought it didn’t?”

You glanced down, cheeks warm. “Kind of felt like a dream.”

He shifted, propping himself on one elbow, head tilted. “Do you regret it?”

Your eyes flew up to meet his. “No. God, no. I just… didn’t think—” You swallowed. “I didn’t think you liked me like that.”

He gave you a look. One that said, Seriously? “I’ve been a mess about you since the second night we met.”

You blinked. “The night you saved me?”

He nodded slowly.

“That was months ago.”

“Yup.”

Your heart did a weird little flip.

You reached for the edge of the comforter, pulling it higher over your chest, suddenly shy.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He studied you for a beat. Then, soft: “Because you’re a fan.”

That stung a little. “So?”

“So… I didn’t want to ruin anything for you. Your image of me. The boundary. The—”

You cut him off. “Chan.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“I don’t care about the boundary.”

Silence.

Then—

“You don’t?”

You shook your head, smiling softly. “I care about you. Not the idol version of you. You. The one who makes me ramen when I cry. The one who helped me feel safe again. The one who didn’t take advantage when he could have—who took care of me that night instead of getting into bed.”

His face crumpled for a second—like you’d touched something tender—and then he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“I’m so screwed,” he muttered.

You giggled. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop falling for you.”

Your breath caught.

And then—

A knock on the door.

And a very, very familiar voice.

“Hyung? You awake? I wanna grab my laptop real quick—”

Chan’s eyes went wide.

You both sat up way too fast.

“Shit,” he hissed, raking a hand through his hair.

“I.N??” you squeaked, diving under the blanket instinctively even though you were fully clothed.

The door opened.

Jeongin stepped in.

Stopped.

Stared.

And then gave the most dramatic, knowing, “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” you’d ever heard in your life.

Your soul left your body.

“YOU GUYS FINALLY KISSED, DIDN’T YOU?” he exclaimed.

Chan sighed, flopping back into the pillows. “Can you please just get your laptop and go?”

“I knew it!” Jeongin pointed between the two of you like some kind of gossiping gremlin. “I knew this stupid tension wouldn’t last forever—!”

“Jeongin,” you whined, dragging the blanket over your head.

“I’m telling Hyunjin.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m absolutely telling Hyunjin.”

And just like that—he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall, voice already echoing gleefully.

Chan groaned. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

You peeked out from the covers. “At least we got the kiss.”

He turned his head toward you, smiling softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “We got the kiss.”

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my master list!

Your stomach dropped.

No, not that Felix.

You turned your head slowly to the back of the room, and sure enough, there he was—sprawled across his chair like it personally offended him. Long legs stretched out. Hoodie hood halfway up. Head tilted, chewing gum lazily. When he noticed your stare, he shot you a wink.

You turned away quickly, jaw clenched. You’d seen Felix around campus. Loud, cocky, always surrounded by people who laughed just a little too hard at his jokes. You knew his type. He’d never show up, you’d do all the work, and you’d both get a B-minus if you were lucky.

“Felix,” Professor Langford said as the class ended, “come grab the packet. Y/N, you too.”

He moved before you did, slipping past students with a casual grace that irritated you for no good reason. Up close, you realized two things: he was taller than you expected, and his voice—when he finally spoke—was unfairly, absurdly deep.

“Hey. You’re Y/N, yeah?” he asked, and the rumble of his Australian accent did something to your spine you refused to acknowledge.

“…Yeah. That’s me.”

“Cool,” he said with a slow smile, eyes flicking over your face like he was figuring you out. “Guess we’re stuck with each other.”

You took the packet from Langford and handed him his half. “Guess we are.”

He smirked again. “You think I’m gonna slack off, don’t you?”

You blinked.

“I saw your face. Like you just watched your GPA set itself on fire.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Well. If the shoe fits.”

Instead of getting annoyed, Felix laughed—rich and low and slightly unhinged. “Damn. Alright. Challenge accepted then.”

You raised a brow. “Challenge?”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he said, tucking the assignment into his hoodie pocket like it wasn’t 40% of your grade. “You’re gonna eat your words.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’ll see.”

As he turned to leave, he gave you one last grin over his shoulder. “Better get used to me, sweetheart.”

Your brain stalled at the pet name. He was already halfway down the hall when you remembered how to roll your eyes.

This was going to be a long semester.

—————

You were five minutes early to the library. He was ten minutes late.

You stared at your laptop screen, aggressively typing the outline of the assignment just to burn off frustration. The project wasn’t due for three weeks, but you liked getting ahead—and you didn’t like being made to wait, especially not for someone who wore hoodies like armor and walked like he owned the floor beneath him.

Then the scent of fresh coffee and the scrape of a chair pulled your attention up. Felix.

He was wearing a black fitted tee this time, and your traitorous brain noted the way it clung to his chest and arms—too toned for someone you’d never seen do anything remotely athletic. His bleach blond hair was slightly messy, like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times on the way here.

And in his hands: two coffees.

He slid one toward you without a word, then pulled out his own laptop.

“…Thanks,” you muttered, caught off guard.

“Saw you drinking one in class last week. Thought you might need it.”

You blinked. Okay. Not what you expected.

“You sure it’s not drugged? So you can get out of doing work?”

He snorted. “Damn, you really don’t trust me.”

“Should I?”

He looked up from his screen and met your gaze, voice a low murmur. “Not yet.”

The air between you shifted.

You looked away first.

⸻

For the next hour, you worked—quietly, efficiently. And Felix? He didn’t slack. In fact, he came prepared. He knew the assignment. He had notes. And when you debated ideas, he actually listened. Challenged you on some. Agreed with others.

It was… disorienting.

“You know,” you finally said, after he reworded an entire paragraph to flow better than your original version, “you’re not what I expected.”

His lips quirked as he leaned back, stretching slightly, arms raised behind his head. It did unfortunate things to his body and your focus.

“And what’d you expect?” he asked. “Some dropout with a vape in his sleeve?”

“Something like that.”

He let the silence settle for a beat, then leaned forward again, elbows on the table.

“I used to be like that,” he said, surprising you with the sudden shift in tone. “Didn’t care about school, failed half my classes. Then my mum got sick. Everything kinda snapped into focus after that.”

You stared at him, unsure how to respond.

“She okay now?”

“Yeah. Better. But… it changed things, y’know?”

You nodded. You didn’t know. Not really. But you understood enough.

The mood lingered for a moment—heavier than before—but not uncomfortable.

You took a sip of the coffee he brought and looked at him again, really looked. His lashes were thick, his lips full. His jawline could slice granite. And that voice—even quiet, it wrapped around every syllable like velvet.

You needed to get out of your own head.

“We still have to pick a topic,” you said quickly, deflecting. “Something strong enough for the full report.”

Felix smirked, easily falling back into rhythm. “I was thinking something unconventional.”

“Like?”

“Something to do with perception. Assumptions. How people misread others based on appearance.”

You gave him a slow look. “Subtle.”

He grinned. “What can I say? I like to prove people wrong.”

And just like that, the mood lightened—but the tension didn’t disappear. If anything, it hummed beneath the surface, quiet but undeniable.

When you finally packed up, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in soft amber. Felix stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, then hesitated. “And… thanks. For showing up. And the coffee.”

He tilted his head slightly, that deep voice softer now. “Told you I’m not a flake.”

You started to turn, but he called out once more.

“Hey.”

You looked back.

“That’s a cute face you make when you’re annoyed, by the way.”

You flipped him off.

He just laughed.

——————

You weren’t sure how it happened, but somewhere between the second and third coffee-fueled work session, Felix became someone you almost looked forward to seeing.

Almost.

He was still cocky. Still annoyingly hot. Still said things that made your stomach flip and then laughed like he knew exactly what he was doing. But he also showed up early, had a surprisingly analytical mind, and—despite the effortless charm—never crossed a line.

Not until today.

Today, the library was full, and he texted you mid-lecture:

FELIX: Lib’s packed. Wanna just come to mine? Promise not to bite… unless ur into that. 😈

You rolled your eyes.

YOU:Do you even have furniture, or just a mattress on the floor and a PS5?

FELIX:Got both. Multifunctional king behavior 😌

YOU:Fine. I’m bringing my laptop. Don’t distract me.

FELIX:No promises.

⸻

His apartment was cleaner than you expected—minimalist, neutral tones, a few plants thriving in the sunlight by the window. A candle burned softly on the coffee table, something woodsy and warm.

Felix watched you take it all in as he grabbed drinks from the fridge.

“What?” he said when he caught you scanning the shelves. “Surprised I read?”

You snorted. “You own three Murakami novels and a copy of The Art of War. I don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned.”

He grinned and tossed you a bottle of water. “Little bit of both.”

You sat on the couch, booting up your laptop as he joined you, your knees brushing. The moment was small, casual—but the contact lingered, neither of you moving away.

He smelled like cedar and something faintly spiced. His thigh was warm beside yours. And when he leaned in to scroll through a shared doc on your screen, his breath ghosted over your neck.

You tensed.

Lol

He noticed.

“Too close?” he asked, voice low, teasing—but not mocking.

“…No,” you said, not quite convincingly.

The rest of the session went by in pieces—half study, half casual banter, a few too many inside jokes and glances held for a beat too long. Somewhere in the middle, you found yourself laughing at something ridiculous he said, your head falling back against the cushion. His eyes lingered on your throat.

And then he said something that caught you off guard.

“You ever think… if we weren’t paired for this assignment, we’d have never talked?”

You glanced at him. “Probably not.”

“Shame.”

That word hung in the air, heavier than it should’ve been.

You shifted slightly. “Why’s that?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. “I think you would’ve liked me anyway.”

Your mouth went dry. “You sure about that?”

This time, he looked right at you, eyes darker than usual, his voice dipping to that place that curled around your spine and lingered.

“Getting there.”

The moment stretched—tense, electric—and for one brief second, you thought he might kiss you.

He didn’t.

Instead, his phone buzzed on the table and shattered the spell. He looked away with a muttered curse, checking the screen.

You swallowed hard and returned to your screen, pretending like your hands weren’t slightly trembling.

⸻

An hour later, when you stood to leave, he walked you to the door.

“Next time, my place again?” he asked casually, like the air hadn’t just been crackling for the last two hours.

“…Sure.”

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You’re fun to work with, Y/N. And kinda hot when you’re bossy.”

You stared at him, flatly. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm.” That smirk again. “But you’re still showing up.”

And then, before you could fire off a retort, he reached out—fingers brushing a strand of hair off your cheek, thumb grazing your jaw just long enough to make your heart trip over itself.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“See you soon.”

You left before you could embarrass yourself.

But that night, when you climbed into bed, your brain wouldn’t shut up. About his voice. His touch. The way your name sounded in that deep, accent-laced tone.

You were in trouble.

And deep down, you didn’t hate it.

——————

You didn’t plan on spending the night.

It started like every other project session—Felix texting you a winking “ur late 😘” when you arrived three minutes past five, the smell of something spicy drifting from his kitchen, and that cocky grin he wore like cologne.

But by the time the rain started, sheets of it lashing against the windows, thunder shaking the walls like angry applause, you were curled up under a throw blanket on his couch, laptop long forgotten.

“I think I’m trapped here,” you muttered, watching the storm swallow the world outside.

Felix appeared with two mugs—hot chocolate, you realized with surprise—and set one beside you.

He shrugged. “Could be worse. I’m pretty good company.”

You took the mug, fingers brushing. His hands were warm.

“I don’t make a habit of sleeping over at guys’ apartments because of the weather.”

He dropped onto the couch beside you with a lazy, lopsided smirk. “Noted. I’ll try not to seduce you with my devastating charm.”

You snorted. “Please. I’m immune.”

He glanced at you sideways, eyes glinting. “You sure about that?”

Your chest tightened—but you refused to flinch. “Mostly.”

That made him grin.

⸻

The power flickered once. Then again. Then the whole apartment went black.

“Shit,” he muttered.

You froze. “You didn’t pay the bill or is the storm just that bad?”

“Storm. I’m not that irresponsible.”

You felt rather than saw him stand. His voice moved through the dark.

“I’ve got candles. You good?”

“Yeah. Just… pitch blackness. Totally my thing.”

Light flared a few seconds later. He set a candle on the table. His face was cast in gold, shadows dancing across his cheekbones and jaw. He looked unfair in candlelight—messy hair, sleepy eyes, the kind of beauty that shouldn’t feel this close.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of your heartbeat.

He tossed you another blanket from the basket in the corner. “Guest bed’s basically storage, but the couch pulls out.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. “I’ll crash here.”

He hesitated, then sat beside you again, a bit closer this time. The silence settled, but not uncomfortably. The storm still raged, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rumbling deep and steady. You realized, with some surprise, that you weren’t afraid—but being here, near him, felt… dangerous in a different way.

After a while, you glanced over. “So. Truth or dare?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

You shrugged. “Power’s out. We’re trapped. May as well revert to middle school.”

He laughed, deep and genuine. “Alright. I’ll bite. Truth.”

You thought for a moment. “Why do you flirt with me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back against the cushions, staring into the flickering candlelight.

“Because it’s easier than saying I like being around you.”

Your breath caught.

He turned to look at you, voice soft. “And because watching you squirm when I call you sweetheart is the highlight of my week.”

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s the most honest one I’ve given in a long time.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

The silence stretched again—charged now, warm and uncertain. And then, quietly:

“Your turn.”

“Truth.”

He gave you that lazy smirk again. “Do I actually make you squirm?”

You shot him a glare, but you couldn’t lie. Not with the storm, the dark, the way his voice settled in your bones.

“…Yes.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing worth watching in the room. “Good.”

The air buzzed.

You looked away first.

⸻

Later, when the couch was pulled out and he handed you a spare t-shirt—black, oversized, soft from too many washes—you changed in the bathroom and stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary.

You weren’t sure what was happening between you two. But it was something.

When you stepped back out, Felix was already in sweats and lying on his side of the couch, head propped on his arm, watching you quietly.

“I don’t snore,” he said softly. “But I do talk in my sleep. Fair warning.”

You slipped under the blanket beside him, close enough that you felt the heat of him radiate against your back.

“Do you talk sweet things? Or embarrassing ones?”

“Guess you’ll find out.”

The thunder rolled, and you felt the soft press of his breath just behind your ear.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“You smell really fucking good, y’know.”

You didn’t sleep for a while.

Not because of the storm.

Because of him.

——————

You woke to warmth.

Not just from the heavy blankets tangled around your legs or the dim morning light filtering through the windows—but from the steady pressure of a hand curled loosely against your waist. And the body behind you.

Felix.

His chest rose and fell slowly against your back, breath warm on the nape of your neck, one arm draped around you like it had been there forever. His legs tangled lightly with yours beneath the covers, his fingers splayed across your hip with a kind of unconscious tenderness that made your skin ache.

Your brain stirred with one coherent thought:

Don’t move. Just… don’t move.

You weren’t sure if he was awake. You weren’t sure if you were ready to know.

But then his hand shifted, just slightly. A slow slide of his thumb over the waistband of your sleep shorts. Not intentional—probably—but your breath caught anyway.

And so did his.

“Shit,” he whispered groggily. “Sorry. I—”

He started to pull back, but you reached behind you instinctively, fingers catching his wrist.

“Don’t,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The room went silent.

Then slowly, carefully, he relaxed again. His voice—rough and low—brushed your ear like velvet.

“Okay.”

You didn’t speak after that.

Just laid there. Still and tangled, your heart racing like it didn’t understand how something so soft could feel so devastating.

⸻

When you finally sat up, the silence had shifted again—comfortable, but no longer simple.

Felix stretched beside you, shirt riding up slightly to expose a flash of clear abs. He didn’t seem in any rush to break the moment. Just ran a hand through his sleep-messed hair and blinked at you, half-lidded.

“I usually don’t wake up next to anyone,” he said, voice raspy with sleep.

You swung your legs over the edge of the pullout and hugged the spare blanket around your shoulders. “Same.”

A beat.

“You looked peaceful,” he added. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

You didn’t look at him when you replied. “You didn’t.”

⸻

He made breakfast. Badly.

The toast was uneven, the eggs slightly rubbery, but he handed you a plate with a self-deprecating smile and no apologies.

“I’m not tryna impress you,” he said. “Just trying not to poison you.”

You took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“…Could go either way.”

He laughed, full-bodied and warm, and the way he looked at you in that moment made something catch in your throat.

You ate in silence for a while, knees brushing under the table.

Then, quietly:

“I liked waking up next to you.”

You looked up sharply, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“I know it’s probably… complicated,” he said, “but I just wanted you to know.”

You didn’t respond—not with words. But something in your expression must have softened, because his smile changed. Turned quieter. More sincere.

And then he reached across the table—slow, deliberate—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His thumb lingered on your cheek.

You didn’t breathe.

Your heart screamed kiss me—and for one moment, you thought he might.

But he didn’t.

He just gave you a look so intense it left you raw.

Then he leaned back, letting the moment pass like it hadn’t just unmake the room.

⸻

Later, when you packed up to leave, he walked you to the door again—barefoot, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

He nodded too. “We’ll take it slow.”

You turned to leave.

Then, like it took effort to say it:

“You looked really good in my shirt.”

You didn’t look back.

But you smiled all the way home.

—————

The next time you saw Felix, it was back on campus.

The air between you was different now—charged, alive, like a wire stretched too tight. You hadn’t talked much since the sleepover, just a few texts. Quick updates. Jokes. Carefully casual.

But now, standing in the library lobby waiting for him, you were suddenly too aware of every breath you took. Every memory of the way he’d held you that night.

And then he arrived—late, again—but with that same crooked grin and a hoodie shoved up to his elbows.

“Hey, trouble,” he said, voice low and warm. “Miss me?”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. “Hardly.”

⸻

The work session started out normal enough.

Focused. Quiet. Productive.

But the chair you chose wasn’t meant for sharing, and when Felix pulled it closer to your side, your knees bumped under the table. He didn’t move.

He leaned in to check something on your screen, shoulder brushing yours, and stayed there a second too long. His voice was soft against your cheek.

“You smell like vanilla today.”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

⸻

That would’ve been enough—until he showed up.

Matt, your friend from another class. Easygoing. Smart. Flirty in a way that had always been harmless—until today.

You didn’t see it at first, but Felix did.

Matt spotted you in the library and wandered over, dropping into the seat on your other side like he belonged there. His voice was friendly. His smile wide. And when he leaned toward you to ask about a paper, his hand brushed your arm casually.

Felix’s jaw twitched.

You didn’t notice until Matt asked, grinning, “Hey, wanna grab coffee later this week? Could use a partner for that research mock-up.”

Before you could answer, Felix cut in.

“She’s already got a partner.”

You blinked. Looked at him.

Matt raised a brow. “Didn’t know you two were official.”

Felix smiled—tight and not at all amused. “You didn’t have to.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Matt stood after a second, tossing you a grin.

“Catch you later, Y/N.”

You barely managed a nod before he walked off.

You turned to Felix, arms crossed. “Seriously?”

He didn’t meet your gaze. “What?”

“That was weird, Felix. He’s just a classmate.”

“He was hitting on you.”

“So what?”

He looked at you then—eyes dark, jaw tight. “So I didn’t like it.”

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of it all—the jealousy, the closeness, the way everything felt like it was one step from collapsing—hung thick in the air.

Then he stood.

“We’re not gonna get anything done here,” he said. “C’mon. My place.”

⸻

You didn’t say much on the walk over. The silence wasn’t cold—but it wasn’t easy either.

At his apartment, he dropped his bag on the floor, turned to face you, and finally broke.

“I know I acted like a dick.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why do it?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I hate the way other guys look at you. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt next to me the other night. Because you drive me insane.”

You stared at him, heart racing.

“And I don’t know what this is,” he added, voice lower now, “but I want more of it. Of you.”

You didn’t think.

You just crossed the space and grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie.

His lips crashed into yours like a wave breaking—hot and desperate and messy. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there was nothing between you but heat and breath and the sharp, perfect ache of release after too much restraint.

He groaned softly into your mouth, like he’d been holding that in for weeks.

When you finally pulled back, dizzy and breathless, his forehead rested against yours.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You swallowed hard. “Then show me.”

His eyes darkened. His hands slid lower.

But then he stopped.

Pulled back just an inch, brows furrowed.

“I don’t want this to be rushed. Or messy. I want it right.”

You blinked, breath shaking. “You think I’m not ready?”

“I think if I take you to my bed right now, I won’t be able to stop. And I don’t want our first time to be because we got jealous and lost control.”

You didn’t expect that.

But it made your chest swell in a different way. Deeper. More dangerous.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Careful.

“Soon,” he murmured.

And you believed him.

——————

It started with silence.

Not the kind that stretched awkwardly between people, but the kind that settled warm between two hearts that had already spoken in every way but words. You and Felix had fallen quiet sometime after dinner—after shared laughter over cheap takeout and casual touches that kept lingering longer than they should.

You were sitting beside him on the couch, knees brushing. A movie played half-forgotten in the background, but neither of you were watching it. Your body hummed, aware of every inch of space he didn’t close.

Until finally, he did.

His hand slid over yours, fingers lacing, the back of his knuckles brushing your thigh as he turned slightly to face you. He didn’t speak—just looked at you with that familiar intensity, like he could feel your breath before it left your mouth.

You shifted, your leg drawing up onto the couch, your bodies naturally turning inward. And when he cupped your jaw, thumb brushing softly beneath your bottom lip, your breath caught.

Then he kissed you.

Not rushed, not rough—but slow. Deep. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime to taste you. His lips were soft and sure, parting yours gently, his hand holding you like you were fragile but his.

You whimpered against his mouth when his tongue slid against yours—exploring, coaxing, teasing. He pulled back just enough to whisper:

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Your answer was already a breathless, “Don’t.”

⸻

He lifted you into his lap like you weighed nothing, your thighs straddling his hips. You felt him hard beneath you, heat growing between you both, but he didn’t rush. His hands rested low on your waist, thumbs sliding beneath your shirt, up the curve of your ribs.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent.

You nodded, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Words, sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping deeper. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please. Yes.”

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each press slower than the last. When he peeled your shirt off, he didn’t look with greed. He looked like he was learning you. Worshiping.

His lips found your chest, kissing over your bra before slipping his hands behind your back and unclasping it in one clean motion. When it fell away, he paused. Took you in.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Then his mouth found your nipple—warm, wet, tongue swirling—and you gasped, arching into him. His hands held you steady as he teased one breast, then the other, before laying you back on the couch with care.

He pulled off his own shirt, and your breath caught.

The lean muscle. The abs. The perfect skin. He watched you watching him and smirked softly—but it wasn’t cocky. It was shy. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted you to see him.

He leaned over you again, kissing your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs.

Then, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts, he paused.

“Can I?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He slid them off slowly, dragging your underwear with them, eyes never leaving your face. When you were bare beneath him, his breath shook.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said.

Then he knelt between your thighs, kissed the inside of your knee, then lower—closer—until his breath hovered over the place you were aching.

He looked up at you once more. “Let me taste you.”

You whimpered, hips twitching. “Please.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Slow. Deep.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your center before circling your clit with devastating patience. You cried out, hand gripping the couch cushion as your hips lifted, but he held you down with one strong arm.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against your core. “Just like that.”

He devoured you, softly at first, then with firmer strokes—flicking, sucking, dragging his tongue until your thighs trembled and your breaths turned ragged.

When his fingers slipped inside you, slow and steady, curling just right, you nearly came apart.

“Felix—fuck—I’m—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pushing you higher. “Come for me.”

You shattered around him.

He didn’t stop until you were panting, body boneless beneath him. Then he kissed his way up your body, gently, lips brushing your stomach, your ribs, your throat.

When he reached your lips again, you kissed him deeper than before—hungry, grateful, breathless.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

His eyes darkened, a low growl slipping from his chest.

He stood just long enough to shed his pants and boxers, revealing the thick, hard length of him—and your mouth went dry.

“Condom?” you asked.

He pulled one from his wallet, tearing it open quickly and rolling it on with shaking hands.

Then he was back on top of you, guiding himself to your entrance.

“This might feel—”

But you were already pulling him down.

“Please.”

He pushed in slowly—inch by inch—groaning deep as your heat swallowed him.

“Fuck, you feel so good…”

You clutched at his back, moaning at the stretch, the weight, the perfect way he filled you.

He didn’t move at first. Just held you. Let you adjust. Kissed your forehead, your lips, your jaw.

“Tell me when.”

You dug your nails into his shoulder. “Now. Move.”

And he did.

Slow, deep thrusts that left your mouth open and your mind blank. He rocked into you with smooth control, hips meeting yours again and again, his breath hitching every time your bodies connected.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice trembling. “So fuckin’ tight, baby…”

You wrapped your legs around him, meeting each thrust, lost in the rhythm of him—his body, his voice, the way he said your name like it was a prayer.

When your second orgasm crept up, he felt it—his hand slipping between you to rub your clit in time with his strokes.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me again. Wanna feel you clench around me.”

And you did.

You cried out, your body seizing around him as he fucked you through it—groaning as he buried himself one last time, pulsing inside the condom as he spilled.

He stayed there for a long moment, breath against your neck, body heavy on yours.

Then, slowly, he pulled out, tied off the condom, and disappeared for a moment—returning with a warm towel, wiping you down gently.

You watched him in silence, heart pounding.

When he was done, he climbed back onto the couch beside you, pulling you against his chest.

You lay there in the quiet, tangled and breathless.

Then he kissed the top of your head and whispered:

“Next time, I’m taking you to bed. All night. Every inch.”

You shivered.

And smiled.

——————

You woke before him.

The light was soft, pale gold filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the apartment. The storm was gone. The world outside was quiet.

And Felix was beside you—bare-chested, one arm draped lazily over your waist, his lips parted slightly in sleep. His hair was a mess, and his chest rose and fell with a slow rhythm that somehow made your heart ache.

Last night hadn’t felt like a mistake. It hadn’t felt like a fling or a one-off or a blur of lust.

It felt like something real.

And that terrified you.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him—but his arm tightened instantly.

“Where’re you going?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, that deep Australian rasp hitting you like gravity.

“I wasn’t,” you whispered. “Just… thinking.”

His eyes opened slowly, lashes heavy. He blinked up at you, then smiled softly.

“You always think this loud in the morning?”

You rolled your eyes, but he only leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Gentle. Lazy. Intimate in a way that made you melt.

“I’m not regretting anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he murmured against your skin.

You didn’t answer right away.

He pulled back, looking at you more seriously now. “You are?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m not. I just…”

A breath.

“I don’t know what this means. Or what happens next.”

Felix didn’t look away. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your cheek.

“We don’t have to figure it all out right now,” he said softly. “But I know what I want.”

You looked at him, heart pounding. “What?”

“You,” he said simply. “Not just for a night. Not just for this project. I want you, Y/N.”

You exhaled shakily. “Felix…”

“I’ve liked you since the second you rolled your eyes at me in class. I just didn’t think I had a shot in hell.”

You laughed softly, burying your face in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he said, curling his arms tighter around you. “And I know I’m a lot sometimes. But if you let me… I’ll be good to you.”

You looked up at him, searching his face for a lie.

But there wasn’t one.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Then let’s try.”

His smile turned boyish and bright, like you’d just handed him the world.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he said, already sitting up.

You raised a brow. “You sure? Last time was a crime against eggs.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but now you’re my girlfriend. I gotta impress you.”

Your chest warmed at that word—girlfriend—and you reached out, grabbing his wrist to pull him back down.

“Or,” you murmured, lips brushing his, “we could stay here for a bit longer.”

He kissed you like he was starving.