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Synopsis: When your sister tries to steal Seungmin, he makes one thing painfully clear: he only has eyes for you.
A/n: omgg this took so long to edit ive been putting this off for ages but i finally did it! I also couldn’t help but sprinkle in some poly skz x reader lmaooa
Wc: 20.1k
The first warning came when your sister texted you three times that morning to ask exactly when you and Seungmin would be arriving. The second came when she opened the front door wearing a dress you distinctly remembered her describing as far too nice for family things.
You looked at her. She looked at you.
Neither of you said anything for a moment. Then Seungmin appeared behind you, one hand holding a neatly wrapped cake box and the other resting comfortably against the small of your back. “Hi,” he said brightly. Your sister’s entire expression changed.
“Seungmin.” She smiled as though she had been expecting him personally. “Finally.” You glanced over your shoulder at him. He glanced down at you. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Finally? You bit the inside of your cheek. Your sister stepped aside to let you both in, although she somehow managed to position herself so Seungmin had to pass close to her. He murmured a polite thank you and guided you ahead of him with a gentle hand at your waist. You had been dating long enough that the gesture barely registered anymore. Seungmin was always touching you in small, absent-minded ways—his fingers brushing yours as you walked, his palm settling on your knee beneath tables, his hand finding the back of your coat when you crossed a road.
It was rarely dramatic. It was simply constant. Your sister noticed. Her gaze dropped to his hand before moving back to his face.
“You look different in person,” she told him. Seungmin paused while removing his shoes. “Do I?” “Better.”
You turned away before either of them could see your smile. Seungmin placed his shoes neatly beside yours, then leaned closer to whisper, “Am I supposed to say she does too?” “No.” “Good.”
You elbowed him lightly. He caught your arm and squeezed it against his side, looking pleased with himself. Your sister was still watching. “You brought something?” she asked, nodding towards the box in his hand.
“Cake,” Seungmin said. “Your mum said she liked the one from that bakery near our flat.” “That was thoughtful.” “She sent him a photograph of it with the address circled,” you said. Seungmin looked offended.
“She provided helpful guidance.” “She threatened to disown me if we arrived without it.” “Still thoughtful.” “You didn’t even pay for it.”
“I carried it.” “You made me carry it on the train.” “For part of the journey.” “You said your arm hurt.”
“It did.” “Because you spent the entire morning playing games.” Seungmin smiled at your sister. “She has no sympathy for my suffering.” “None,” you confirmed.
Your sister laughed a little too enthusiastically. Not because the conversation had been particularly funny, but because Seungmin was smiling while he said it. You noticed. You also noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear before asking, “Do you want me to take that for you?”
She reached for the cake. Seungmin shifted it away automatically. “No, it’s all right. I’ve been entrusted with it.” “He’ll cry if anything happens to it,” you said.
“I’ll tell your mum it was your fault.” “You see what I live with?” Seungmin bumped his shoulder against yours. “You love it.” You opened your mouth to disagree.
He looked down at you expectantly, the beginnings of a grin already pulling at his lips. You hated how well he knew you. “Whatever,” you said. “There it is.”
He bent and pressed a quick kiss to your temple before following the sound of your mother calling from the kitchen. Your sister remained by the door with you. She watched him leave. Then she looked at you.
“You never said he was that handsome.” You blinked. “You’ve seen photographs.” “Photographs are different.” “I suppose.”
“He’s taller than I thought.” You stared at her. She stared back, seemingly unaware that there was anything strange about the intensity of her assessment. “Do you need his measurements?” you asked. “I can check the label in his coat.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was only saying.” “Right.” “You don’t have to be weird about it.”
“I’m not being weird.” “You’re doing that face.” “What face?” “The face you do when you think you’re funny.”
“I am funny.” “Seungmin clearly thinks so.” There was something strange beneath the words. Something slightly too pointed. Before you could decide whether you had imagined it, she smiled and linked her arm through yours.
“Come on. Mum’s been panicking over lunch for an hour.” She pulled you towards the kitchen as though nothing had happened. You let her. At that point, it was easier.
౨ৎ
Your mum adored Seungmin. That was hardly news. She adored him because he arrived on time, complimented her cooking, remembered details from conversations they had months ago and always insisted on helping clear the table. Your dad liked him because Seungmin could discuss football with convincing enthusiasm and had once spent nearly forty minutes helping him fix a temperamental television.
Even your relatives who had only met Seungmin briefly tended to approve of him. He was polite without seeming rehearsed, funny without demanding attention and attentive in a way that made people feel remembered. Your sister had apparently taken all of these qualities as an invitation. At first, you didn’t think much of it.
She asked him about work. Normal. She asked about the other members. Also normal. She asked whether he enjoyed travelling, what food he liked and whether he preferred going out or staying at home. A little interview-like, perhaps, but not particularly suspicious.
Then she moved from the chair opposite him to the empty one beside him when your mother asked her to fetch another plate. You looked at the abandoned chair. Then at her. She smiled innocently and crossed one leg over the other.
Seungmin glanced towards you. You were sitting on his other side, close enough that your knees touched beneath the table. He nudged your foot. You nudged him back.
His mouth twitched. Your sister leaned towards him. “So,” she said, “what did you think when you first met her?” You nearly inhaled your drink.
Seungmin turned towards you slowly. “Oh, no,” you said. His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes.”
“Don’t.” “I thought she was very strange.” Your mother laughed from the other end of the table. You stared at him. “That isn’t what you said before.”
“You told me not to embarrass you in front of your family.” “And this is you behaving?” “This is me being generous.” Your sister laughed, resting her hand against Seungmin’s arm.
It was light. Brief enough that she could claim it meant nothing. Still, you saw it. Seungmin looked down at her fingers. Your sister removed them a moment later, smiling as though the contact had been accidental.
“What did you actually think?” she asked. Seungmin looked back at you. The teasing softened around the edges. “I thought she was pretty.”
The answer was simple enough to make warmth spread through your chest. Then his smile returned. “Until she spoke.” You kicked his shin beneath the table.
He flinched dramatically. “See?” he told your family. “Violence.” “You deserved that.” “I complimented you.”
“You immediately ruined it.” “I said you were pretty.” “You said I was strange.” “You are strange.”
Your sister tilted her head. “I suppose you must usually date girls who are quite different from her.” The sentence slipped into the conversation so smoothly that it took you a second to understand it. Seungmin frowned slightly. “Different how?”
Your sister shrugged. “You know. More… elegant.” Your father suddenly became very interested in cutting his food. Your mother looked up.
You glanced down at yourself. You were wearing a jumper and trousers. Nothing particularly inelegant, unless your sister was counting the tiny mark on your sleeve from where Seungmin had flicked sauce at you in the kitchen. Seungmin followed your gaze. Then he looked at your sister.
“No,” he said. “I like this one.” You pressed your lips together. “This one?” you repeated. He patted your knee beneath the table.
“My favourite.” “I’m so flattered.” “You should be.” Your sister laughed, but there was something strained about it.
“I only meant that you seem very put together.” “I’m not,” Seungmin said cheerfully. “She found me looking for my phone this morning while I was talking to someone on it.” He looked towards your mother. “You raised a very critical daughter.” Your mum smiled. “She gets it from me.”
“Good to know.” The conversation moved on, but your sister did not return to her original chair. Every few minutes, she found another reason to address Seungmin directly. Did he like the food?
Had he visited the restaurant she mentioned? Did he think her hair looked better dark or light? That one made you turn. She lifted a section of her hair between her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking of changing it,” she explained. “What do you think?” Seungmin blinked. “I don’t know.” “You must have a preference.”
“For your hair?” She laughed as though he had made a joke. “Generally.” He looked at you. You had stopped pretending not to listen.
A hint of mischief appeared in his expression. “I like hers.” You narrowed your eyes. “You said I’d look good bald.” “You would.”
“That doesn’t count.” “It shows versatility.” Your sister’s hand fell from her hair. “You’re lucky,” she told you.
The words sounded pleasant. The way she looked at Seungmin did not. You raised an eyebrow. “I know.” “I mean, you’ve never really cared about things like that.”
“Things like what?” “Your appearance.” Silence settled over the table. It wasn’t complete silence. Your father’s fork scraped faintly against his plate, and the clock in the hallway continued ticking.
But the conversation stopped. Your sister smiled as though she had offered you a compliment. “You’ve always been confident enough not to bother,” she added. You knew this routine.
It had existed long before Seungmin. Your sister would say something cruel with a pleasant expression, and if you reacted, she would insist you had misunderstood. That she admired your confidence. That she wished she could leave the house without making an effort. That you were lucky not to care what people thought. Normally, you could ignore it. Today, the comment felt particularly childish.
You opened your mouth, but Seungmin spoke first. “She spent forty minutes choosing that jumper.” You turned towards him in disbelief. Your sister laughed.
Seungmin continued, “Then she asked me which trousers looked better and ignored my answer.” You nudged his side with your elbow. He caught your hand before you could pull it away and linked your fingers beneath the table. The gesture was concealed from everyone else.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. You understood what he was doing. He hadn’t ignored your sister’s comment. He had simply refused to let it settle over you.
“She looks lovely,” your mother said firmly. “She does,” Seungmin agreed. Your sister’s smile tightened. “I never said she didn’t.”
“No one said you did,” you replied. Her gaze met yours. For a moment, something sharp passed between you. Then Seungmin squeezed your hand and leaned close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours.
“You have something on your face,” he whispered. You immediately touched your cheek. “Where?” “The other side.” You touched the other cheek.
“No, lower.” “Seungmin.” “A little lower.” You glared at him. “There’s nothing there, is there?”
He smiled. “You’re so easy.” You tried to pull your hand from his. He tightened his grip.
“Don’t be sulky.” “I hate you.” Your sister watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. You barely noticed.
౨ৎ
After lunch, your mother attempted to stop Seungmin from helping with the dishes. Seungmin ignored her. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, collected the empty plates and followed you into the kitchen. Your sister followed him.
Naturally. “You don’t have to do that,” she told him, taking a plate from his hands. “It’s fine.” “You’re a guest.”
“So is she.” Seungmin nodded towards you. You were leaning against the counter eating a piece of cake. Your sister looked at you.
“She’s family.” “She isn’t helping.” “I’m supervising,” you said. “You’re eating the dessert we haven’t served yet.”
“I’m checking it for poison.” Seungmin set the plates beside the sink. “And?” You took another bite.
“Still collecting evidence.” He reached towards your plate. You moved it out of reach. “Get your own.”
“I bought it.” “I paid for it.” “With our money.” “We don’t have shared finances.”
Your sister laughed again. “You two are funny.” You glanced at her. The compliment sounded genuine enough, but her eyes remained fixed on Seungmin.
He turned on the tap. Your sister stepped beside him. “I’ll wash,” she offered. “I can do it.”
“You dry, then.” You watched her pick up a sponge. Your mother called your name from the living room, asking whether you could help her find something. You pushed yourself away from the counter.
“Don’t eat my cake,” you warned Seungmin. “I would never.” “You absolutely would.” He placed one hand over his heart.
“Your lack of trust is upsetting.” You pointed the fork at him. “I’ll know.” “Go away.” You reluctantly carried the plate with you.
As you left the kitchen, you glanced back. Your sister had moved slightly closer to Seungmin. He was focused on rinsing a plate. You nearly stayed.
Then you caught yourself. It was your sister. Seungmin was your boyfriend. Nothing was going to happen because the two of them spent ninety seconds alone beside a sink.
You found your mother’s glasses on top of her head, endured several minutes of her insisting she had already checked there and returned to the kitchen. Your sister was speaking. “…must get tiring.” Seungmin passed her another plate. “What does?”
“Dating someone so different from you.” You stopped just outside the doorway. Seungmin didn’t appear to notice you. He frowned. “You’ve said that a few times.”
“I don’t mean it badly.” “What do you mean?” Your sister dried the plate slowly. “You’re very disciplined. Ambitious. You take care of yourself.”
He waited. “And she isn’t?” “She’s just more relaxed.” Seungmin looked down at the soapy water.
You knew that expression. He was choosing his words. Your sister mistook his silence for agreement. “I’ve always been more like you,” she continued. “Even when we were younger. People used to say I was the more responsible one.”
“Did they?” “And the more confident one.” Seungmin made a small sound that could have meant anything. Your sister smiled.
“It’s funny, really. Most people usually notice me first.” He glanced at her. “Okay.” You pressed your lips together.
She appeared thrown by the response. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant.” “Then don’t.” The answer was delivered so lightly that for a second, you wondered whether you had heard him correctly.
Your sister laughed uncertainly. “I’m only being honest.” Seungmin rinsed another plate. “About people noticing you?”
“Yes.” “Congratulations.” You had to cover your mouth. Your sister’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You must have noticed that we’re quite different.” “I’ve noticed.” “I’m probably more like your usual type.” Seungmin finally turned off the tap.
He looked at her properly. “What’s my usual type?” Your sister leaned one hip against the counter. “Confident. Sophisticated.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” “I’m guessing.” “You’ve guessed wrong.” She smiled as though he were teasing her.
“Have I?” “Yes.” Something about his tone should have ended the conversation. It didn’t.
Your sister lowered her voice. “She’s always been the sweeter one, I suppose. Men tend to like that.” Seungmin stared at her. Then his gaze moved past her shoulder and found you standing in the doorway.
His expression changed immediately. The irritation disappeared behind a slow, knowing smile. “How long have you been there?” he asked. Your sister turned sharply.
You lifted your plate. “Long enough to know you’ve been having a very interesting discussion about your type.” Seungmin dried his hands. “Apparently, I have one.”
“Do you?” “I’m learning a lot today.” Your sister straightened. “We were only talking.” “I heard.”
“There’s no need to make it strange.” You stepped into the kitchen and placed your half-finished cake on the counter. “I didn’t.” “No, but you’re doing that thing where you act territorial.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows rose. You laughed. “Territorial?” “You don’t need to hover every time another woman speaks to your boyfriend.” “I was helping Mum.”
“And then you came straight back.” “Because this is where my cake is.” Seungmin immediately reached for your plate. You slapped his hand away.
“See?” He looked wounded. “You care more about that cake than you care about me.” “The cake has never stolen my crisps.”
“It would if it could.” Your sister sighed. “You’re both impossible.” “Thank you,” Seungmin said.
You picked up your fork again. Your sister gave you a long look before placing the tea towel on the counter. “I’m going to see if Mum needs anything.” “She doesn’t,” you said. “Her glasses were on her head.”
Your sister ignored you and left. You waited until her footsteps had faded down the hall. Then you turned towards Seungmin. He was already looking at you.
A smile pulled at your mouth. “Your usual type?” He groaned and leaned back against the sink. “Please don’t.”
“So much like her.” Seungmin reached for you. You dodged around the kitchen island, laughing when he followed. “I’m only being honest,” you said, mimicking your sister’s voice.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.” “Apparently she’s the woman of your dreams.” “My dreams have better conversational skills.” You gasped. “That was mean.”
“It was accurate.” He moved to one side of the island. You moved in the opposite direction. “I thought you liked confident women.”
“I like you.” “That wasn’t the question.” “It’s my answer.” “You’re only saying that because I caught you.”
“Caught me doing dishes?” “Seductively.” “I was wearing rubber gloves.” “Exactly. Very provocative.”
Seungmin stopped. You stopped too, watching him suspiciously from across the island. His expression softened. “Did that bother you?”
The question was quiet enough to dissolve some of your amusement. You considered it. “Not really.” “Not really?”
“I don’t think you’re secretly going to run away with my sister.” “That’s reassuring.” “I’d give you at least a week before you begged me to take you back.” “A week?”
“Maybe four days.” Seungmin looked offended. “I wouldn’t make it through the first evening.” You smiled. He continued to watch you.
“But?” he prompted. You looked down at your cake. “She does that sometimes.” “Does what?”
“Compares us.” You scraped your fork lightly through the icing. “She always has. She thinks she’s being subtle.” “She isn’t.” “I know.” “She also thinks I’m an idiot.”
You laughed. “Why?” “Because I’ve said I like you at least twelve times today, and she’s decided that means I’m interested in her.” “Maybe you’re sending mixed signals.” “I asked her to move because she was standing on my foot.”
“Very flirtatious.” “She apologised and touched my arm.” “Scandalous.” “She’s touched my arm six times.”
“You counted?” “I started counting when she asked whether I thought she looked better with dark hair.” You laughed again, and Seungmin smiled. Then he walked around the island.
This time, you let him reach you. His hands settled on your waist, drawing you between his knees as he leaned back against the counter. “For the record,” he said, “I don’t think you’re lucky.” “No?”
“No. I think I’m incredibly brave.” You flicked his shoulder. He caught your wrist and kissed your palm. “And lucky,” he added.
“That was nearly sweet.” “Don’t tell anyone.” You rolled your eyes, but your arms slipped around his shoulders. He tilted his head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” “Your sister’s being strange.” “She thinks she can steal you.”
“Can she?” You pretended to consider it. Seungmin pinched your side. You squealed and tried to twist away, but he trapped you against him.
“Answer carefully,” he warned. “I don’t know. She is very sophisticated.” Another pinch. “And confident!”
He attacked your other side. You dissolved into helpless laughter, nearly dropping your fork as you attempted to escape. “Seungmin!” “Wrong answer.”
“She’s your type!” “Take it back.” “Never!” He caught both your wrists in one hand and used the other to tickle your waist.
You kicked uselessly at his legs. “You’re horrible!” “Take it back.” “Fine!” you gasped. “She isn’t your type.”
“And?” “And you don’t want her.” “And?” You stared at him, breathless.
His hair had fallen over his forehead during the struggle, and his smile was bright and boyish and entirely too pleased. “And you’re obsessed with me.” “There we go.” He released your wrists.
You immediately smacked his chest. Seungmin laughed and caught you against him again, pressing a noisy kiss to your cheek before you could complain. “You’re very annoying,” you told him. “You were laughing.”
“Against my will.” He kissed your other cheek. “Still counts.” Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
You both separated just before your mother entered the kitchen. She looked at Seungmin’s messy hair, your flushed face and the abandoned washing-up. Neither of you spoke. Your mother sighed.
“The dishes, Seungmin.” “I was doing them.” “He attacked me,” you said. “You provoked me.”
Your mother pointed at the sink. “Both of you.” “Yes, Mum,” you said. “Yes, Mum,” Seungmin echoed.
You turned to glare at him. He smiled innocently. Your mother left the room shaking her head. Seungmin bumped his hip against yours as he turned the tap back on.
“Pass me the sponge.” “You pass me the sponge.” “It’s closer to you.” “You’re closer to the sink.”
He looked towards the doorway, then lowered his voice. “Do you think your sister would do it for me?” You stared at him. He managed to hold a serious expression for approximately two seconds.
Then you shoved the sponge directly into his chest.
౨ৎ
When you finally prepared to leave, your mother packed enough food for several days into a bag and made Seungmin promise to visit again soon. Your sister stood in the hallway while you put on your coat. “You’re leaving already?” she asked. “We’ve been here for five hours,” you said.
“It doesn’t feel that long.” Seungmin bent to tie his shoelace. Your sister’s gaze lingered on him. “You should come over more often.”
“We will,” you replied. “I meant Seungmin.” He looked up. Your sister smiled. “You don’t need to wait for her. You’re practically part of the family now.”
There it was. Not quite enough to confront. More than enough to notice. Seungmin straightened.
“I think she’d be upset if I visited without her.” “I wouldn’t,” you said. “I’d enjoy the peace.” He placed one hand on top of your head and pushed down lightly. Your sister laughed.
“You’re very patient with her.” Seungmin looked at you. “No,” he said. “She’s patient with me.” For once, there was no joke attached.
His hand slid from the top of your head to the back of your neck, thumb brushing softly beneath your hair. Your sister’s smile faded for half a second. Then it returned. “Well,” she said, opening the door, “it was lovely seeing you.”
“You too,” Seungmin replied politely. She hugged you first. It was brief. Then she turned towards Seungmin.
You expected her to offer a wave. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him. Seungmin froze. His hands hovered uncertainly beside her shoulders.
Your eyes widened. Over your sister’s head, his gaze found yours. His expression was so openly alarmed that a laugh burst out of you. Your sister released him.
“What’s funny?” “Nothing.” Seungmin stepped immediately towards you. You were still laughing as he took the bag of food from your hand and placed his other arm securely around your shoulders.
Your sister glanced between you. “Text me when you’re home.” “I will.” She looked at Seungmin. “You have my number, don’t you?”
“No,” he said. “Oh.” She paused. “I thought you did.” “Why would he?” you asked. “In case of an emergency.”
Seungmin nodded. “I’ll call emergency services.” You choked on another laugh. Your sister’s mouth tightened. “I only meant if something happened with you.”
“He has Mum’s number.” “And her Dad’s,” Seungmin added. “And Chan’s,” you said. “And Minho’s.”
“He doesn’t need your number.” Your sister folded her arms. “You make everything sound strange.” “You asked my boyfriend whether he had your number.”
“For emergencies.” “Right.” Seungmin gently steered you through the doorway before either of you could continue. “Thank you for lunch,” he called politely.
Your mother called goodbye from somewhere inside the house. Your sister remained at the door while the two of you walked down the path. You could feel her watching. Seungmin’s arm stayed around you until you reached the pavement.
Then he leaned close. “Don’t look now.” You immediately looked back. Your sister was still standing in the doorway.
She lifted her hand when she saw you turn. You waved. Seungmin sighed. “I specifically said not to.”
“I don’t take instructions well.” “I know.” The door finally closed. You walked several more steps in silence.
Then Seungmin said, “Your sister wants me.” You stopped. He stopped beside you. The solemn expression on his face lasted less than a second before you both started laughing.
“Your confidence is disgusting,” you told him.
౨ৎ
Your sister arrived at your flat on Saturday afternoon wearing heeled boots, a fitted coat and enough perfume to announce her presence before you had even opened the door. You looked at her. Then at the small handbag hanging from her shoulder. Then back at her.
“You said you were coming to borrow my straighteners.” “I am.” “Are you planning to straighten your hair here?” “No.”
“Then why do you look like you’re going somewhere?” She frowned. “I’m meeting someone later.” “You didn’t mention that.” “I didn’t realise I needed to submit an itinerary.”
“You don’t.” “Then why are you interrogating me?” “I asked one question.” “You asked three.”
You stepped aside to let her enter. She walked past you, removing her coat as she went. The outfit beneath it was somehow even more carefully chosen. You watched her smooth the fabric over her waist before checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.
Interesting. Very interesting. “You could have texted,” you said, closing the door. “I would’ve brought the straighteners to Mum’s tomorrow.” “I was nearby.”
She wasn’t. Your sister lived nearly forty minutes in the opposite direction. You decided not to point that out. From the living room, Seungmin called, “Who is it?”
Your sister’s posture changed almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders pulled back. Her expression softened. You stared at her.
She ignored you. “Your favourite person,” you called. There was a pause. Then Seungmin replied, “Felix?”
You gasped. Your sister laughed. You marched into the living room, already preparing several punishments. Seungmin was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table.
A pale blue fabric headband held his hair away from his face, and there was a thin layer of clay mask drying across his cheeks because you had told him his skin looked tired. He had complained for eleven minutes. Then he had asked whether there was enough left for his forehead. Your left hand rested carefully on top of an old magazine while Seungmin held your right between both of his.
Three of your fingernails were painted. One was half-painted. The fifth had somehow acquired a streak of polish across your skin. Seungmin looked up as you entered.
The smile on his face widened. “There’s my second-favourite person.” You stopped in front of him. “Second?”
“Felix bakes for me.” “I cook for you.” “You once burned instant noodles.” “The packet was confusing.”
“You forgot the water.” “It didn’t say when to add it.” You placed one foot against his thigh and pushed lightly. Seungmin caught your ankle.
“No kicking near the nail polish.” “You deserve worse.” “You asked me to do this.” “And you’re doing a terrible job.”
He looked down at your nails. “They’re beautiful.” “There’s polish on my knuckle.” Your sister appeared behind you.
Seungmin glanced towards her. His expression flickered with surprise before settling into a pleasant smile. “Oh. Hi.” “Hi.”
Your sister looked him over. Her gaze paused at the headband. Then the face mask. Then your hand resting in his.
Her smile faltered, only slightly. “I didn’t know you were here.” You turned your head towards her. She knew.
You had mentioned it the previous evening when she asked what you were doing this weekend. Seungmin did not appear to remember that. “I live here sometimes,” he said. “You don’t,” you replied.
Your sister moved further into the room. “You look comfortable,” she said. Seungmin touched the edge of the headband. “This was forced on me.”
“You asked whether the bow should go in the middle,” you said. Your sister laughed, lowering herself onto the sofa behind him. “It suits you.” Seungmin looked up at her.
“The face mask?” “The headband.” He touched it again. “Thanks.”
Her smile brightened. You watched her tuck one leg elegantly over the other. Seungmin returned his attention to your hand. “Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving.” “You’re moving now.” “Because you told me not to.” He tightened his fingers around yours.
“If you smudge this one, I’m starting again.” “You’ve already smudged it.” “That was intentional.” “Was the polish on my skin intentional too?”
“Yes.” “What was the artistic vision?” “Annoying you.” You tried to pull your hand away.
Seungmin held on. “Stay still.” “You’re enjoying the authority.” “I rarely have any in this relationship.”
“Because you can’t be trusted.” Your sister leaned forwards. “You let him paint your nails?” You looked at her.
“He volunteered.” “I was coerced,” Seungmin said. “You said you could do it better than me.” “I can.”
You lifted your hand. He immediately lowered it again before the wet polish could run. “That remains to be seen.” Your sister tilted her head.
“I’d never ask my boyfriend to do something like that.” You glanced at Seungmin. He glanced at you. There it was again.
That tiny shared pause when both of you noticed something and decided, without speaking, whether it was worth reacting to. You smiled. “Good thing he isn’t your boyfriend, then.” Your sister’s expression tightened.
Only for a second. Then she laughed. “I only mean I’d feel bad making him do something so feminine.” Seungmin inspected your thumbnail.
“You think painting nails is feminine?” “Usually.” “Then I’m doing a very poor job of it.” You snorted.
He blew gently across your nail. Your sister watched his lips purse. “It’s sweet,” she said. “I just wouldn’t have expected it from you.” “What did you expect?” Seungmin asked.
“I don’t know.” She did know. You could tell by the way she leaned towards him. “Something more masculine, I suppose.”
Seungmin looked down at himself. He was wearing grey jogging bottoms, an old sweatshirt and your fluffy skincare headband. “I’m devastated.” “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.” She smiled as though he were deliberately teasing her. “You seem like someone who’d usually want a very feminine girlfriend.” Seungmin’s brush paused.
You looked at your sister. She was looking at him. Not you. He lifted his eyes slowly.
“I do.” Your sister’s smile widened. Then Seungmin returned his attention to your hand. “That’s why I’m dating her.”
You pressed your lips together. Your sister glanced at you. You smiled pleasantly. Seungmin dipped the brush into the polish.
“She isn’t exactly what most people would call feminine,” your sister said. You raised your eyebrows. Seungmin’s hand stopped again. Your sister gestured towards you.
You were wearing one of Seungmin’s old shirts, a pair of shorts and fluffy socks. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot that had begun collapsing an hour ago. There was a faint smudge of clay mask beside your jaw where you had attempted to kiss Seungmin before it dried. You looked extremely comfortable. That had apparently become a flaw.
“I’m not?” you asked. “I didn’t mean it badly.” “Of course not.” “You’ve never cared about being girly.”
“I’m getting my nails painted.” “By your boyfriend.” “Yes.” “So?”
“So that feels relevant.” Your sister rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re not someone who gets dressed up around the house or worries about always looking attractive.” You looked down at yourself.
Then at Seungmin. His gaze had settled on your face. You recognised the slight narrowing of his eyes. Not anger.
Not yet. Attention. Your sister continued, “I just think it’s brave.” “Brave?” you repeated.
“To be that comfortable so early in a relationship.” You and Seungmin had been together for nearly two years. Apparently that remained early enough to maintain a constant state of glamour. “How does she normally dress at home?” Seungmin asked.
Your sister seemed pleased to have his attention again. “Like this.” “Right.” “She’s always been a little careless.”
“With clothes?” “With everything.” You laughed quietly. Your sister looked at you.
“What?” “Nothing.” Seungmin placed the nail brush carefully inside the bottle. Then he lifted your hand and examined his work.
“Perfect.” “It’s uneven.” “So are your fingers.” “My fingers aren’t uneven.”
“One’s shorter.” “They’re supposed to be different lengths.” “Convenient excuse.” He brought your hand towards his mouth.
You frowned. “What are you doing?” “Checking whether it’s dry.” “With your lips?”
“Yes.” “That makes no sense.” Seungmin pressed a delicate kiss to the side of your index finger, avoiding the wet nail. Then he kissed your knuckle.
Then your wrist. A smile pulled at your mouth despite yourself. “Dry,” he announced. “You didn’t touch the polish.”
“I’m an expert.” “You’re an idiot.” He kissed your wrist again. Your sister shifted on the sofa.
“You two are very…” She paused. “Affectionate.” “That sounded judgemental,” you said. “It wasn’t.” “It sounded a little judgemental,” Seungmin agreed.
“I only mean you don’t seem like the clingy type.” She was speaking to him again. Seungmin leaned back against your legs. “I’m not.”
You looked down at him. He looked up at you. “You’re currently using me as a chair.” “You’re comfortable.”
Seungmin smiled lazily, reaching behind himself until his hand found your knee. You threaded your fingers through his hair, careful not to disturb the headband. He immediately tilted his head into your touch. Your sister watched him do it.
Something in her expression hardened. “You always liked being fussed over,” she said to you. You looked at her. “What?”
“When we were younger. You always needed everyone’s attention.” The comment was casual. Almost playful. You knew better.
“I don’t remember that.” “You used to follow Mum around constantly.” “I was six.” “You cried whenever she left the room.”
“I was still six.” “You’ve never liked being alone.” Seungmin’s thumb stroked once over your knee. You shrugged.
“Good thing I don’t have to be.” Your sister’s eyes flicked towards his hand. “That’s what I mean. You need a lot from people.” There was a quietness beneath the words.
An implication she wanted Seungmin to catch. You were needy. Difficult. Exhausting.
The kind of girlfriend who demanded face masks and painted nails and constant affection. Your sister, naturally, would never require so much effort. Seungmin looked up at you. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” “Need a lot from me?” You pretended to consider it. “Well, you could make more tea.”
“I made the last one.” “You drank half of it.” “It became ours when you let me taste it.” “That’s not how sharing works.”
Your sister exhaled through her nose. “You make everything into a joke.” “You make everything very serious,” you replied. “I’m trying to have a conversation.”
“With my boyfriend?” “With both of you.” “You’ve mostly been looking at him.” The room went still.
Your sister blinked. Seungmin’s eyebrows lifted. You hadn’t intended to say it quite so plainly. You weren’t upset.
Not yet. You were mostly curious to see what she would do when someone acknowledged the obvious. She recovered quickly. “I’m looking at whoever’s speaking.”
“He hasn’t been speaking.” “He literally just was.” You smiled. “All right.”
Your sister folded her arms. “You’re being strange again.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You implied something.”
“What did I imply?” “You know exactly what.” Seungmin’s hand slid around the back of your knee. His fingertips squeezed gently.
You looked down at him. He gave you a small, private smile. There was no concern in it. He knew you weren’t jealous.
Mostly, he appeared entertained. “You came for straighteners,” you reminded your sister. “I know.” “They’re in the bedroom.”
“Can you get them?” “You know where they are.” She hesitated. Her gaze moved towards the hallway, then back to Seungmin.
“I haven’t been in your bedroom since you moved things around.” “You’ll survive.” “I don’t want to go through your things.” “You’ve never had an issue before.”
Her mouth tightened. You smiled sweetly. “I’ll show you.” You gently extracted your hand from Seungmin’s grasp, holding your fingers carefully apart.
He immediately caught your wrist. “Where are you going?” “To get the straighteners.” “You’ll ruin your nails.”
“I’m walking, not digging a tunnel.” “You’re very clumsy.” “You painted them five minutes ago. They’re dry.” Seungmin tightened his grip.
“Wait.” “What?” He reached for the bottle of top coat on the table. “You need this.”
“You didn’t mention top coat before.” “I forgot.” “You just don’t want me to leave.” “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re holding my wrist.” “To protect my work.” “Say you’ll miss me.” “You’ll be gone for thirty seconds.”
“Then it shouldn’t be difficult.” Seungmin narrowed his eyes. Your sister watched the exchange. You waited.
He looked away first. “I’ll miss you,” he muttered. You grinned. “What was that?”
“You heard me.” “I don’t think I did.” “I’m not repeating it.” “Then I suppose I’ll have to stay.”
Seungmin looked back at you suspiciously. You lowered yourself onto the floor in front of him. His expression brightened. Then you reached for the top coat.
He held it out of reach. “You said you were staying.” “To do my own nails.” “No.”
“Give it to me.” “You’ll ruin them.” “They’re already ruined.” Seungmin gasped.
You grabbed for the bottle. He leaned away. You lunged across him, careful to keep your painted hand lifted. Seungmin caught you around the waist with his free arm.
“Behave.” “Give it.” “No.” “Seungmin.”
You tried to reach behind him. He shifted again, pulling you further into his lap. Your sister cleared her throat. You both looked towards her.
She was still sitting on the sofa. Watching. You had briefly forgotten she was there. “Sorry,” you said, although you weren’t particularly sorry.
Seungmin rested his chin on your shoulder. He still had one arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Your sister’s gaze dropped to it. “Could you get the straighteners?” she asked.
“You know where they are,” you repeated. “I already told you I don’t.” Seungmin lifted his head. “I can get them.”
Your sister’s face brightened. You turned towards him. He was already beginning to stand, carefully guiding you off his lap. Your sister rose too.
Seungmin paused. He looked at her. Then at you. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
There was no reason for both of them to go. Your sister apparently believed your bedroom contained an unusually complicated straightener-storage system that required Seungmin’s personal guidance. “I know where they are,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You can stay here.” Her smile faltered. “I don’t mind.” “I do.”
The answer was so immediate that you made a small choking sound. Your sister’s patience finally snapped. “Can someone please get them?” You and Seungmin both looked at her.
She smiled tightly. “The straighteners.” “Right,” you said. Seungmin pointed at you.
“Don’t touch anything.” “It’s my flat.” “My nail polish.” He disappeared down the hallway.
Your sister waited until he was out of earshot. Then she looked at you. “You don’t have to perform every time I’m here.” You stared at her.
“Perform?” “The constant touching. The little jokes.” “You think that’s for you?” “I think you’re trying very hard to prove something.”
You looked towards the hallway. Seungmin was rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, apparently having forgotten that you kept the straighteners inside your wardrobe. You turned back to her. “I’m sitting in my own living room wearing his shirt while he paints my nails.”
“Exactly.” “What am I proving?” “That you’re comfortable with him.” “I am comfortable with him.”
“You don’t need to make it so obvious.” A laugh escaped you. Your sister’s expression darkened. “What?”
“I genuinely don’t understand what you’re accusing me of.” “You’re acting territorial.” “I haven’t stopped you speaking to him.” “You don’t have to. You just keep interrupting.”
“This is my flat.” “So?” “He’s my boyfriend.” “I know that.”
“Do you?” Her eyes narrowed. You smiled. Still amused.
Mostly. But something sharper had begun pressing beneath your ribs. Your sister had always competed with you. Clothes. Friends. Attention. Compliments.
Anything you possessed became evidence that she deserved something better. You had simply never expected her to become this obvious. “You’re imagining things,” she said. “Am I?”
“Yes.” “Then why did you come dressed like that to borrow straighteners?” Her face changed. Only for an instant.
Then she scoffed. “I told you I’m going out.” “Where?” “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” “You clearly do.” “You’ve travelled forty minutes to borrow something you could buy for twenty pounds.” “I was nearby.”
“No, you weren’t.” She folded her arms. “Seungmin doesn’t seem to mind me being here.” There it was.
You looked at her. She looked pleased with herself. “Why would he mind?” “He’s been friendly.”
“He’s usually friendly.” “Not with everyone.” You nearly smiled. Your sister had known Seungmin for one afternoon.
Apparently she had already developed an extensive understanding of his social habits. “He complimented me last time,” she continued. “When?” “He said my dress was nice.”
“Mum told him to.” “That doesn’t mean he didn’t think it.” “No, I’m sure he has very strong feelings about the dress.” “You don’t have to be jealous.”
You stared at her. Then you laughed. You couldn’t help it. The idea was so completely detached from reality that amusement overwhelmed everything else.
Your sister’s face hardened. “I’m serious.” “So am I.” “Then why are you laughing?”
“Because you think Seungmin complimenting your dress means I should be worried.” “I didn’t say you should be worried.” “You said I was jealous.” “You’re acting like it.”
“Trust me.” You leaned back against the sofa. “I’m not.” Your sister opened her mouth. Seungmin returned before she could answer. He was holding the straighteners in one hand
He handed the straighteners to your sister. She accepted them. “Thank you.” “No problem.”
Her fingers lingered against his for a moment. Seungmin looked down at their hands. Then politely extracted his own. “I should probably go,” your sister said.
You looked at the clock. She had been there for less than twenty minutes. “Your plans?” you asked. “Yes.”
She picked up her coat. Seungmin returned to the floor beside you, already reaching for your hand. Your sister watched him pull you down beside him. Your sister opened the front door.
“I’ll text you,” she said to you. “Okay.” She looked towards Seungmin. “It was nice seeing you.”
“You too.” “You look good, by the way.” Seungmin glanced down at his sweatshirt. “Thanks.”
“The headband especially.” His hand rose to the blue bow. “Right.” She laughed softly.
Then she left. You waited until the door closed. Silence settled over the flat. Seungmin stared at it.
You stared at him. He turned slowly. “What?” You broke first.
Laughter burst out of you so suddenly that you nearly knocked over the nail polish. Seungmin caught the bottle. “Careful!” “The headband especially,” you repeated.
“Stop.” “You look good, by the way.” “I said stop.” You twisted in his arms until you were facing him.
Seungmin was kneeling over you, one hand planted beside your shoulder and the other wrapped securely around your waist. You looked up at him. “I like your headband.” “Thank you. I already have a beautiful girlfriend.”
You nodded. “Very natural.” “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re obsessed with me.”
“There it is.” “There what is?” “You’ve been waiting to say that all afternoon.” “I haven’t.”
“You have.” “No.” “Yes.” You tried to push him away with your forearm.
Seungmin remained exactly where he was. “Admit it,” he said. “Admit what?” “That you’re jealous.”
“I’m not.” “Just a little?” “No.” “Not even when she touched my hand?”
“I thought about breaking her fingers.” Seungmin’s eyes widened. You hooked one leg around his hips and attempted to roll him onto his back. He anticipated it, shifting his weight before you could gain any leverage.
“You’re cheating,” you complained. “How?” “You’re stronger.” “That isn’t cheating.”
“It is when I’m losing.” He laughed. You used the distraction to push at his shoulder again. Seungmin caught both your wrists.
Your breath hitched, more from surprise than anything else. He pinned them lightly above your head, careful not to let your nails touch the carpet. His hair had begun slipping free from the headband. The clay mask had cracked faintly near the corners of his smile.
He looked completely ridiculous. And unfairly lovely. “Still think I enjoyed it?” he asked. You pretended to consider your answer.
His eyes narrowed. “Choose carefully.” You bit back a smile. “She is very feminine.”
Seungmin lowered his face closer to yours. “Wrong direction.” “And confident.” His grip tightened slightly around your wrists.
You laughed. “And sophisticated.” “Do you want to keep your newly painted nails?” “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.” “You worked so hard on them.” “I can start again.” “You wouldn’t.”
“I have nowhere to be.” You squirmed beneath him. He shifted, trapping you more securely without putting his weight on you. “You’re impossible,” you said.
“You started this.” “She’s your type.” Seungmin stared at you. Then he released one of your wrists.
You immediately tried to escape. His free hand found your side. You squealed. “No!”
“Take it back.” “You can’t keep doing this!” “I can until you learn.” His fingers dug gently into your waist.
You dissolved into laughter, twisting helplessly beneath him. “The mask!” you gasped. “You’ll crack the mask!” “I don’t care.” “You were worried about it two minutes ago!”
“You’ve pushed me too far.” You kicked at the rug. Seungmin caught your leg beneath his knee. “You’re evil!”
“And?” “Controlling!” “And?” “Obsessed with me!”
His fingers stopped. “There we go.” You glared up at him, breathless. “That isn’t fair.”
“It’s completely fair.” “I was supposed to say you don’t want her.” “I know I don’t want her.” “You’re supposed to reassure me.”
“Are you worried?” “No.” “Then why do you need reassurance?” “Because I enjoy compliments.”
Seungmin smiled. The teasing faded gently from his expression. He released your other wrist and settled his hand beside your head instead. “You’re very pretty.”
“That was basic.” “You’re especially pretty when you’re wearing my clothes.” “Better.” “You’re funny.”
“I know.” “And irritating.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “It’s one of my favourite things about you.”
You looked up at him. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek. “You’re my favourite person to come home to,” he continued. “My favourite person to annoy. My favourite person to do absolutely nothing with.” Your smile softened.
Seungmin’s did too. “And,” he added, “I’m so obsessed with you that I let you put this stupid thing on my head.” You touched the bow. “You love the headband.”
“I tolerate it.” “You’re avoiding the important part.” “What important part?” “The part where you admit I’m obsessed with you.”
You laughed. “You just admitted it yourself.” “I want to hear you say it.” “You’re obsessed with me.”
“And?” You stared at him. He waited expectantly. “And you don’t want my sister.”
“Obviously.” “And?” A slow grin spread across his face. You realised what he wanted.
“No.” “Say it.” “I’m not saying it.” “You know you want to.”
“I don’t.” Seungmin’s fingers hovered threateningly near your waist. You recoiled. “Don’t.”
“Then say it.” “You’re abusing your power.” “I’m waiting.” You glared at him.
He looked delighted. “And I’m obsessed with you too,” you muttered. “What was that?” “You heard me.”
“The face mask is restricting my hearing.” “That isn’t how masks work.” “Speak clearly.” You tried not to smile.
“I’m obsessed with you too.” “There we go.” He bent and kissed you. It began soft.
A pleased little press of his lips against yours. Then you reached for the back of his neck and accidentally brushed one wet nail against his cheek. Seungmin pulled away. You froze.
A bright streak of polish now cut through the dried clay mask. For one second, neither of you moved. Then you burst out laughing. Seungmin stared at you.
“You ruined it.” “I’m sorry!” “You did that on purpose.” “I didn’t!”
“You attacked me.” “You were on top of me!” “Because you accused me of wanting your sister.” Seungmin touched his cheek.
His fingers came away with polish on them. His mouth dropped open. You laughed even harder. “You look beautiful.”
“You’re sleeping on the sofa.” “It’s my flat.” “Then I’m sleeping in your bed alone.” “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”
“I’d sleep perfectly.” You grinned. Seungmin tried to maintain his glare. He failed.
A laugh escaped him. Then another. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter on the living-room floor. You wrapped your arms around him.
“Your mask really is ruined.” “I know.” “And the polish is definitely smudged.” “I know.”
౨ৎ
Your sister invited herself shopping with you three days later. Technically, she asked whether you had bought your mum’s birthday present yet. When you told her that you and Seungmin were going into town on Sunday to find something, she replied that she had been planning to go that day too. You had stared at the message for several seconds. Seungmin, lying beside you with his head on your stomach, had tilted his phone away from his face and asked, “Why are you making that expression?”
“My sister wants to come shopping with us.” He had gone silent. You lowered your phone to look at him. “That was a very long pause.” “I was trying to think of something polite.”
“And?” “I couldn’t.” You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair. “We are shopping for her mum too.” “Unfortunately.”
“She’s my mum.” “That’s why I said unfortunately. I like your mum.” “You’re horrible.” Seungmin had turned his head and pressed a kiss to your stomach through your shirt. “Tell her she can come.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” “I’m thrilled. Maybe she can tell me more about what kind of woman I usually prefer.” You had flicked his forehead. He had bitten your finger.
The matter was settled.
౨ৎ
Your sister arrived twenty minutes late. You and Seungmin had already been standing outside the shopping centre long enough for him to complain about the cold four times, steal one of your gloves and attempt to warm his other hand by shoving it beneath the back of your jumper. You had slapped him away. He had waited thirty seconds before trying again.
“Your hand is freezing,” you complained, twisting out of his reach. “That’s why I need your body heat.” “You have pockets.” “They’re not as warm as you.”
“They don’t want you touching them either.” Seungmin smiled and caught the belt loop of your jeans when you tried to step away. “Come back.” “No.” “You’re abandoning me.”
“I’m moving half a metre.” “That’s still too far.” You rolled your eyes, but you let him pull you backwards until your shoulder rested against his chest. He wrapped both arms around your waist and tucked his chin over your shoulder, immediately pleased with himself. “You’re very clingy today,” you said.
“It’s cold.” “You were clingy yesterday too.” “I was tired.” “You fell asleep on top of me. I couldn’t breathe.”
“And yet you let me stay.” His laugh warmed the side of your neck. Your sister found you like that. She slowed as she approached, taking in Seungmin’s arms around your middle and the way your hands rested over his. Then she smiled.
“Sorry,” she said, although she did not sound particularly sorry. “The train was delayed.” “You said you were driving,” you replied. She paused. Seungmin’s face disappeared briefly against your shoulder. You felt the silent shake of his laughter.
“I changed my mind,” your sister said. “Clearly.” She looked at Seungmin. “Have you been waiting long?” “Long enough for her to attack me.”
“I moved your freezing hand away,” you said. Seungmin tightened his arms around your waist. “Exactly.” Your sister laughed, her gaze lingering on him a little too long. “You poor thing.” Your sister looked at you with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve always been like that.”
“Like what?” “Rough.” Seungmin’s eyebrows rose. You looked down at your outfit as though you might find evidence of roughness on your coat. “I pushed his hand away.”
“I’m only joking.” “Right.” “She’s very frightening,” Seungmin said solemnly. “I live in constant fear.” Then he kissed your cheek and released you, taking your hand instead. “Can we go inside before I lose feeling in my fingers?”
“You stole my glove.” “It wasn’t enough.” Your sister walked beside him as you entered the shopping centre. You ended up on his other side.
It was not immediately strange. The pavement narrowed near the doors, people moved around you, and your sister had always been skilled at placing herself exactly where she wanted to be without appearing deliberate. But once you were inside, she remained there. She asked Seungmin what he thought you should buy. She asked whether he enjoyed shopping. She asked which shops he liked, whether he cared about clothes and whether he usually chose his own outfits. He answered politely.
Mostly. When she asked whether he had a favourite designer, he said, “Whoever makes comfortable trousers.” When she asked what colours he liked on women, he said, “Normal ones.” Your sister frowned. “I was asking a normal question.”
“I know,” you said. “His answer was stupid.” Seungmin swung your joined hands between you. Your sister glanced down. “I think you’d suit darker colours,” she told him.
“I wear dark colours.” “I know. They make you look more mature.” You looked across him. “What does he look like now?” She ignored you. “You have a very classic face.”
Seungmin turned towards you. “Do I?” “No.” He looked offended. “You didn’t even think about it.” “I look at your face every day.”
“And you’ve never thought it was classic?” “I’ve thought it was annoying.” “That isn’t a facial structure.” “It should be.”
Your sister sighed softly. “You never take compliments seriously.” “She rarely gives them,” Seungmin said. “I complimented you this morning.” “You said my hair looked less strange than usual.”
“That was generous.” “You also said I looked tired.” “You did.” “You make me feel very cherished.”
You stopped in the middle of the walkway and placed both hands around his face. “You are beautiful.” Seungmin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re mocking me.” “Never.” “You’re smiling.”
“Because you’re beautiful.” He stared at you for another second before his mouth betrayed him. A reluctant smile appeared. “There,” you said, squeezing his cheeks. “Pretty.”
Seungmin caught both your wrists and pulled your hands away. “Don’t touch my face in public.” “You love it.” Your sister had gone quiet. You released Seungmin’s face and started walking again. He slipped his hand into yours as though the interruption had never happened.
The first shop was useless. The second was worse. Your mum had said she wanted something for the house, which sounded simple until you were faced with fifteen aisles of objects she might already own. Your sister suggested a decorative vase.
You reminded her that your mum had six. Seungmin picked up a tiny ceramic dog wearing a crown. You told him to put it down. “She’d love him,” he said.
“She’d ask why we bought her rubbish.” “He’s cute.” “He’s ugly.” “He can hear you.”
Your sister smiled at Seungmin. “I think he’s cute.” You looked at her. She was not looking at the ceramic dog. Seungmin, apparently unaware or pretending to be, placed the ornament carefully in your hands. “Hold him.”
“No.” “He likes you.” “You like him.” “He reminds me of you.”
You stared at the dog. The dog stared back with badly painted eyes. “You’re sleeping alone tonight.” Seungmin smiled. “You say that every week.”
“One day I’ll mean it.” “No, you won’t.” Your sister picked up a sleek glass vase and held it towards Seungmin. “What about this?” He glanced at it. “It’s nice.”
“She already has something similar,” you said. Your sister’s smile tightened. “Not exactly like this.” “It’s almost identical.” “It’s more modern.”
“Mum doesn’t care about modern.” “She might.” Your sister looked at Seungmin. “What do you think?” He looked between you both.
Then at the vase. Then at the ceramic dog still in your hands. “I think we should buy the dog.” You laughed.
Your sister did not. “You’re both impossible,” she said, returning the vase to the shelf. “That keeps coming up,” Seungmin replied. You carried the dog for another two aisles before secretly placing it on a display of cushions.
Seungmin noticed immediately. “Where is he?” “Who?” “The dog.”
“I don’t know.” “You abandoned him.” “He wasn’t ours.” “He could have been.”
“Not everything you like has to come home with us.” “You came home with me.” Your sister laughed. You turned towards Seungmin slowly. “Was that meant to be sweet?”
“Yes.” “It sounded like you found me beside a road.” “I rescued you.” “From what?”
“Yourself.” You shoved him lightly towards a stack of towels. He caught your elbow and pulled you with him, making you stumble against his chest. His free arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall. You tried not to smile.
You failed. Your sister walked ahead.
౨ৎ
After nearly an hour, you found a set of handmade serving bowls that your mum would genuinely like. Your sister thought they were plain. Seungmin thought one of them looked like a hat. You thought both of them needed to stop talking.
You were waiting at the till when your sister announced that she wanted coffee. “There’s a place downstairs,” she said. “I’ll go.” “I’ll come,” you replied. “I need the toilet anyway.” Her expression flickered.
Only slightly. Then she smiled. “You can stay with the bags. Seungmin and I can get them.” Seungmin looked up from the receipt in his hand. You looked at her.
She looked at him. There was a small silence. Then Seungmin said, “She knows my order.” Your sister recovered quickly. “You can tell me.”
“I’ll forget something.” “It’s coffee.” “He’s very demanding,” you said. Seungmin nodded.
Your sister laughed, although her eyes stayed on him. “I think I can manage.” You could have refused. Part of you wanted to, not because you thought anything would happen, but because your sister’s intentions had become so transparent that allowing her to proceed felt almost embarrassing. Then curiosity won.
You handed the shopping bag to Seungmin. “Fine. Get me something sweet.” “What?” “Surprise me.” “That always ends badly.”
“Only because you make poor choices.” Seungmin stared at you. You smiled. He sighed. “Fine.”
Your sister looked pleased. Far too pleased. You kissed Seungmin’s cheek before stepping away. “Don’t let her buy me anything with coconut.”
౨ৎ
Seungmin watched you disappear into the crowd. He knew exactly what you were doing. You had kissed him in front of your sister on purpose. Not because you were worried.
Because you were a menace. A message appeared on his phone before he and your sister had reached the escalator. Don’t fall in love while I’m gone x He smiled despite himself.
Your sister noticed. “What?” “Nothing.” “Was that her?”
“Yes.” “What did she say?” Seungmin put his phone away. “Nothing important.” Your sister stepped onto the escalator beside him.
For several seconds, she was silent. Then she said, “She checks on you a lot.” Seungmin looked at her. “Does she?” “She’s always texting you.”
“We text each other.” “I know. I just mean she likes knowing where you are.” He considered the comment. “She sent me a joke.”
“What joke?” “One you wouldn’t find funny.” Your sister’s mouth tightened. “You don’t know that.” “I know her sense of humour.”
“And mine?” “Not really.” The escalator carried them down another floor. Your sister rested one hand on the rail. “You and her are very different.”
Seungmin looked ahead. “You’ve mentioned that.” “I don’t mean it as an insult.” “You keep saying that too.” She laughed softly. “You remember.”
“I have a good memory.” “You do seem observant.” “Sometimes.” “That’s why I’m surprised.”
He turned his head. “By what?” She looked briefly uncertain, as if she had expected him to understand without making her say it aloud. “Nothing.”
Seungmin faced forwards again. The coffee shop was busy. A line curled away from the counter, giving your sister more time than she probably needed. She moved closer to him as they joined it. “I’ve always wondered how she ended up with someone like you.”
Seungmin’s expression did not change. “Someone like me?” “Successful. Disciplined. Mature.” “You think she isn’t those things?”
“I didn’t say that.” “You implied it.” Your sister sighed. “You’re very defensive of her.” “She’s my girlfriend.”
“I know.” “Then why are you surprised?” “I’m not surprised. I just think you misunderstand me.” Seungmin shoved one hand into his coat pocket. “Then explain.”
Your sister glanced towards the counter. The line had barely moved. “She’s always been the sweet one,” she said. “The one people feel protective over. I’ve always been more independent.” “Okay.” “She needs more reassurance.”
“Does she?” “You’ve seen how she is.” “I have.” “And that doesn’t get tiring?”
Seungmin looked at her properly. His tone stayed light, but his eyes sharpened. “No.” Your sister held his gaze. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” “I’m not.”
“She can be a lot.” “So can I.” “You’re different.” “You don’t know me.”
The words landed more firmly than anything he had said before. Your sister blinked. Seungmin looked back towards the counter. The line moved forward.
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Then she tried again. “She doesn’t tell people this, but she used to get overlooked a lot when we were younger.” Seungmin’s jaw tightened.
“Overlooked by who?” “People.” Your sister exhaled, clearly frustrated by his refusal to fill in the gaps for her. “Boys usually noticed me first.”
Seungmin waited. She smiled faintly. “She never minded. At least, she pretended not to.” He looked at her. “And?”
“And nothing. I’m only saying it’s probably nice for her to be the one someone chose for once.” Seungmin stared at her for a long moment. Your sister interpreted the silence as an opening. “You’re kind,” she continued. “You probably don’t even realise how much that means to her.”
“I noticed her.” The sentence was quiet. Immediate. Your sister’s smile faltered.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” “You said people didn’t.” “I said they usually noticed me first.” “I didn’t.”
Something sharp passed across her face. Then she laughed. “You hadn’t met me.” Seungmin looked at her.
The confidence in her smile returned. It was not difficult to understand what she meant. If he had seen her first, things might have been different. If he knew her better, he might recognise what he had missed.
If you had not reached him before she did, perhaps he would have made the correct choice. Seungmin almost laughed. Instead, he said, “I’ve met you now.” Your sister’s smile remained fixed.
The line moved again. She stepped closer. “I think we have more in common than you realise.” “Do we?”
“We’re both ambitious.” “So is she.” “We care about how we present ourselves.” “She does too.”
“She doesn’t care what anyone thinks.” “That’s one of the things I like about her.” Your sister’s eyes narrowed. “You turn everything into a compliment about her.” “Yes.”
The answer was so simple that it left nowhere for the conversation to go. Your sister looked away. Seungmin’s phone buzzed again. He checked it.
Is she seducing you yet? A second message appeared. Blink twice if you need rescue Then:
Actually don’t. I can’t see you He laughed under his breath. Your sister glanced towards the phone. “She’s checking again?”
“She’s entertaining herself.” “She doesn’t trust me.” Seungmin looked up. “Should she?” Your sister went still.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. For the first time, she seemed uncertain whether he was joking. Then he smiled. Not warmly.
Not cruelly either. Just enough to make the question impossible to challenge. Your sister looked towards the menu. “What did she want?”
“Something sweet.” “That isn’t very specific.” “She likes trying new things.” “I know.”
“Do you?” Your sister frowned. “She’s my sister.” Seungmin slipped his phone into his pocket. “Then choose.” She looked at the display board.
After a moment, she suggested a coconut latte. Seungmin stared at her. “What?” “She hates coconut.”
Your sister hesitated. “Does she?” “She told you five minutes ago.” “I forgot.” “I didn’t.”
He ordered your favourite instead.
౨ৎ
You returned to find them sitting at a small table near the window. Your sister was speaking. Seungmin was looking at his phone. That alone told you almost everything you needed to know.
He was never rude enough to ignore someone without a reason. When he spotted you, his entire expression changed. His shoulders relaxed. His mouth curved into a smile. He put his phone down and lifted one hand towards you. “There you are.”
You slid into the seat beside him. Seungmin immediately hooked his fingers through the belt loop at the back of your jeans and tugged you closer. “I was gone for fifteen minutes.” “It was difficult.”
“You seemed fine.” Your sister looked between you. You picked up the drink in front of your seat and inspected it. “What did you get me?” “Try it.”
“What is it?” “I’m not telling you.” “Why?” “You said to surprise you.”
“I don’t trust you.” Seungmin pushed the cup closer. “Drink.” You took a cautious sip. It was sweet, creamy and familiar.
Your favourite. You looked at him. He smiled smugly. “You didn’t choose something new.”
“I chose something you’d like.” “That isn’t a surprise.” “You were surprised.” “I was surprised you made a good decision.”
Seungmin leaned towards you. “Say thank you.” “No.” “Say it.” “You’re very demanding.”
“I carried the bowls.” “They’re in one bag.” “A heavy bag.” “They’re ceramic, not concrete.”
Your sister interrupted. “He remembered your order.” You looked at her. There was something brittle in her voice. Seungmin rested his chin briefly on your shoulder and stole a sip of your drink.
You pushed his face away. “Of course he did,” you said. “He orders it more than I do.” “For you,” he corrected. “You steal half.”
“It tastes better when it’s yours.” “That’s because you’re a thief.” He smiled against your cheek. Your sister looked away.
You could practically feel the conversation you had interrupted sitting between them. You waited until Seungmin sat back. Then you asked, “Did you have a nice chat?” Your sister reached for her coffee.
Seungmin looked at you. His eyes were bright with the effort of not laughing. “Very informative.” “Oh?”
“I learned that I’m successful, disciplined and mature.” You nodded solemnly. “One out of three isn’t bad.” Seungmin kicked your foot beneath the table. You kicked him back.
Your sister sighed. “I was complimenting him.” “I know.” “She thinks I’m mature,” Seungmin said. “She doesn’t live with you.”
“I don’t live with you.” Under the table, Seungmin’s knee pressed against yours. You tapped it once with your own. He tapped back.
Your sister watched the movement. “I was only saying that you’re lucky,” she said. You looked at her. “Again?” “You are.”
“I know.” “She thinks you’re lucky someone finally noticed you,” Seungmin added. The words were delivered with deceptive casualness. Your sister’s head snapped towards him.
Your hand stilled around the cup. Seungmin lifted his drink. You looked at your sister. She looked suddenly furious.
“I didn’t say it like that.” “How did you say it?” “I said people usually noticed me first when we were younger.” You raised your eyebrows.
Your sister leaned back. “It was relevant to the conversation.” “What conversation?” “We were talking about relationships.” “You were talking about mine?”
“She asked whether dating you was tiring,” Seungmin said. You stared at him. He took a calm sip. Your sister’s face reddened. “That isn’t what I asked.”
“It was very close.” “You’re twisting my words.” “I remember them quite clearly.” You looked between them.
The ridiculousness of it arrived before the hurt could. Your sister had finally managed to get Seungmin alone, and she had apparently used the opportunity to explain why being with you must be exhausting. A laugh slipped out. Your sister’s mouth tightened. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you had fifteen minutes.” “What?” “You finally got him alone and that was your strategy?” Seungmin choked on his drink.
Your sister stared at you. You turned towards him. “Are you all right?” He held up one hand and coughed into the other. “You’re horrible,” he managed.
“You were thinking it too.” “I was trying to be polite.” Your sister placed her cup on the table more firmly than necessary. “Nothing happened.” You looked at her. “I know.”
“Then stop acting like you caught me doing something.” “I didn’t catch you. He told me.” Your sister stood. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor.
“I’m going to look at another shop.” You glanced at the untouched coffee. “We just sat down.” “I remembered something I need.” She grabbed her handbag.
Seungmin watched her. Your sister looked at him, waiting for something. An offer to come with her, perhaps. An apology.
A private look that confirmed all the things she had decided existed between them. Seungmin lifted his hand. For one hopeful second, she smiled. Then he pointed towards her cup. “Are you taking that?”
Her smile disappeared. “No.” “Can I have it?” You elbowed him.
“What?” he asked. “She isn’t drinking it.” Your sister walked away without answering. You watched her disappear into the crowd. Then you turned slowly towards Seungmin.
He was already reaching for her abandoned coffee. You slapped his hand. “No.” “She said she didn’t want it.”
“You don’t know what’s in it.” “Coffee.” “She might have poisoned it.” “Why would she poison her own drink?”
“She sensed rejection.” Seungmin laughed. You folded your arms. “What did she actually say?” He gave up on the coffee and leaned back in his chair.
“Exactly what I told you.” “She asked whether I was tiring?” “She implied that you need constant reassurance, said you’re a lot and suggested I probably chose you because I’m kind.” Your amusement faded a little.
Seungmin noticed immediately. His foot slid beside yours under the table. “She also told me men usually noticed her first,” he added. You looked at the crowd beyond the window. “She loves saying that.”
“I asked which men.” That made you smile. Seungmin’s knee pressed more firmly against yours. “She couldn’t name them.”
“You interrogated her?” “I asked good questions.” “You never ask good questions.” “That’s unfair.”
You looked back at him. He was watching you closely. Not pushing. Just waiting.
“What else?” you asked. Seungmin hesitated. “She implied I might have chosen differently if I’d met her first.” A strange little ache settled beneath your ribs. Not because you believed it.
The idea of Seungmin choosing your sister felt almost comical. But because she believed your entire relationship could be reduced to timing. That you had simply arrived first and seized something that should have belonged to her. You looked down at your cup. “And what did you say?”
“That I’ve met her now.” Your mouth twitched. “That’s all?” “I thought it was enough.”
“It is.” “She didn’t like it.” “I’m devastated for her.” “I also told her I noticed you.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup. Seungmin’s expression softened. “What?” “Nothing.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I noticed you.” You fought a smile. You covered his mouth with your hand. Seungmin kissed your palm.
You pulled it away immediately. “That’s disgusting.” “You liked that too.” “You’re so pleased with yourself.”
“I handled a difficult social situation and bought you the correct drink.” “You want a medal?” “A kiss would be appropriate.” “You’re asking for payment?”
“I did hard labour.” “You stood in a coffee queue.” “With your sister.” You considered that.
Seungmin lifted his eyebrows. You leaned over and kissed his cheek. He turned his head at the last second, catching the corner of your mouth instead. You pulled back.
“That was cheating.” “You’re slow.” “You tricked me.” “You still kissed me.”
“Barely.” “You can try again.” “I’m not rewarding bad behaviour.” Seungmin rested one elbow on the table. “Then I’ll have to live with the memory.”
“You’re dramatic.” “I suffered for fifteen minutes.” “You were texting me.” “That was my lifeline.”
You laughed and nudged his foot beneath the table. Seungmin caught your ankle between his. “You know she’s going to tell herself you only rejected her because you knew I was coming back.” Seungmin’s expression became thoughtful. “Do you want me to say it more directly?”
You looked towards the direction your sister had disappeared. Part of you wanted him to. Part of you knew she would turn even that into evidence of something else. “She hasn’t actually admitted she wants you,” you said.
“She invited herself on our date.” “We’re buying Mum bowls.” “A highly romantic date.” Seungmin reached for your hand across the table.
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. “If she says something properly,” he said, “I’ll answer properly.” “You have answered.” “I mean without being polite.”
“That sounds frightening.” Seungmin squeezed your hand. “Tell her that when she tries again.” You looked at him. “When?”
He smiled. “You think she’s stopping?” You glanced once more towards the crowd. “No.”
“Neither do I.” There was a pause. Then Seungmin brightened. “Can we go back for the dog?” “No.”
“He could be part of your mum’s present.” “She would hate him.” “She’d learn to love him.” “You only knew him for ten minutes.”
“That was enough.” Seungmin smiled and lifted your hand to his mouth. This time, he kissed your knuckles slowly. You let him.
Your sister returned ten minutes later carrying nothing. Neither of you mentioned it. Seungmin did, however, remain close to you for the rest of the afternoon. His hand at your waist when people passed too close. His fingers laced through yours on the escalator. His chin briefly resting on your shoulder while you examined candles. His mouth near your ear when he whispered that one of them smelled like “an expensive wardrobe”.
Your sister tried to walk beside him. Seungmin kept drifting back towards you. She asked his opinion. He asked yours.
She suggested shops. He followed wherever you went. By the time you left the shopping centre, your sister had stopped speaking unless someone addressed her directly. The three of you stood near the station while she checked the time.
“My train’s in five minutes,” she said. Your sister adjusted her handbag and looked at Seungmin. “It was nice spending time with you.” “You too.” “We should do it again.”
You looked at him. He looked at you. Your sister noticed. “Without making it into a whole family thing,” she added.
You raised your eyebrows. Seungmin slipped his arm around your shoulders. “I think she comes with me.” Your sister laughed. “You’re allowed separate friends.” “I have friends.”
“She means her,” you said. “I know.” Your sister’s cheeks coloured. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” Seungmin asked. She looked at him. He waited. His expression was pleasant.
Curious. Entirely unwilling to rescue her. Your sister’s train arrived with a rush of noise behind her. She glanced towards the platform.
“I have to go.” “You should hurry,” you said. She hugged you briefly. When she turned towards Seungmin, he lifted the shopping bag between them.
Your sister stopped. He smiled politely. “Bye.” For a moment, she looked as though she might push around the bag and hug him anyway.
Then she stepped back. “Bye.” You watched her hurry towards the train. As soon as she was out of earshot, Seungmin lowered the bag.
“You used Mum’s bowls as a shield,” you said. “I panicked.” “You’re very brave.” “She hugged me last time.”
“Terrifying.” “I didn’t know what else to do.” “You could have hugged her.” Seungmin looked horrified. “Why would I do that?”
“She’s confident and sophisticated.” “Stop.” “More your type.” He pointed at you. “We discussed this.”
“She only needs an opportunity.” “You’re becoming annoying.” “Becoming?” “More annoying.”
You smiled. Seungmin stared at you for a second. Then he hooked one arm around your waist and lifted you just enough that your shoes left the ground. You yelped.
“Put me down!” “Take it back.” “We’re in public!” “I don’t care.”
You grabbed his shoulders, laughing as he carried you several steps away from the platform. Seungmin lowered you carefully to the ground. His smile softened. Seungmin took your hand again, swinging it once between you before pulling you towards the station exit.
“Come on,” he said. “We have to go back.” “For what?” “The dog.” “We are not buying the dog.”
“He’s waiting for us.” “He’s ceramic.” “He’ll think we abandoned him.” “You said I was the abandoned animal.”
“I can rescue both of you.” “You already complain that I take up too much space.” “He’s small.” “I hate you.”
Seungmin kissed the side of your head. He smiled and kept walking. You followed, because the station exit was in the same direction as the shop. Not because you had agreed to buy the dog.
Definitely not. When your mum opened her birthday present a week later, she found a beautiful set of handmade serving bowls. And, tucked between them, a tiny ceramic dog wearing a crown. She stared at it.
You stared at Seungmin. Seungmin looked unbearably pleased.
౨ৎ
By the time you finished getting ready, Seungmin had changed his shirt twice, complained about both options and somehow blamed you for the fact that neither looked right. “You said the black one was nice,” he reminded you from the bedroom doorway. “It was nice.” “And then you told me to wear the blue one.”
“Because the blue one is nicer.” “So the black one was ugly.” “That isn’t what I said.” “It’s what you implied.”
You turned away from the mirror and looked at him. He stood with both shirts hanging from one hand, his hair still slightly damp from the shower and an expression of genuine betrayal on his face. “You’re having a crisis over two nearly identical shirts.” “They aren’t nearly identical.” “One is black and one is very dark blue.”
“Exactly.” You stared at him. Seungmin stared back. Then his gaze drifted slowly down your body.
The offence disappeared from his expression. You had chosen an outfit that made you feel good. You suspected you would regret that decision later, but Seungmin’s reaction made it worth it. He looked at you for long enough that you lifted an eyebrow. “What?” “Nothing.”
You tried not to smile. “Have you not seen me before?” “Not in that.” “You watched me put it on.” “I was distracted.”
“By what?” “The shirt crisis.” You laughed and turned back towards the mirror. Seungmin abandoned both shirts on the bed and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “You look pretty,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Only pretty?” His eyes narrowed at your reflection. “Don’t become demanding.” “You stared at me for thirty seconds. I expected something better.” “You look very pretty.”
“That’s the same thing with an extra word.” “You look so pretty that I’m reconsidering letting you leave the flat.” You smiled. “Better.” “I knew you were fishing.”
“I enjoy compliments.” “I know.” Seungmin kissed the side of your neck, then another spot slightly lower. You tilted your head instinctively before remembering you had spent far too long getting ready. “Don’t ruin my makeup.”
“I’m nowhere near your makeup.” “You’ll work your way up.” “That sounds like encouragement.” You caught his wrists and pulled his arms away. Seungmin resisted just enough to make it difficult, then released you with an exaggerated sigh.
“You don’t love me anymore.” “I’m trying to get us to the party.” “Chan said eight.” “It’s quarter past.”
“Exactly. We’re early.” You looked at him through the mirror. “For what?” “A party.” “That started fifteen minutes ago.”
“Social events have a grace period.” “You invented that because you’re never ready on time.” “I was ready.” “You aren’t wearing a shirt.”
Seungmin looked down at his bare chest, then at the two shirts abandoned on the bed. Your phone buzzed on the dressing table. You picked it up. Your sister had messaged.
Are you there yet? A second message followed before you could reply. Is Seungmin going straight from yours? You turned the screen towards him.
Seungmin read both messages. His face remained blank for one beat, then he placed his chin back on your shoulder. “She misses me.” “She saw you last week.” “A long separation.”
“She didn’t ask whether I was going straight from mine.” “She knows you’ll be there.” “She also knows you’ll be there.” “That must be why she asked to come.”
You laughed and nudged him backwards with your hip. “Put the blue shirt on.” “The black one makes my shoulders look better.” “Then wear the black one.” “You said the blue was nicer.”
“Seungmin.” He smiled and kissed your cheek before finally retrieving the blue shirt. You replied to your sister while he dressed. We’re leaving soon. Bring the drinks you promised Chan.
Her response came almost immediately. What’s Seungmin wearing? You looked up. He was buttoning the blue shirt.
You considered sending her a photograph of the black one lying empty on the bed. Instead, you typed: Clothes x Seungmin glanced over. “What did you say?”
“Nothing important.” “You’re smiling.” “I’m entertaining myself.” “Is she seducing me remotely now?”
“Apparently she needs to prepare.” “For what?” “To be more your type.” Seungmin finished the final button and walked towards you. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“It’s funny.” “Until she touches my arm fifteen times.” “Maybe she thinks that’s where your romantic feelings are stored.” “That would explain why I keep trying to get away.”
You laughed, and Seungmin’s smile softened. He reached out to fix the chain of your necklace where it had twisted, his fingers careful against the back of your neck. “Tell me if it stops being funny,” he said. The words were quiet enough to change the air between you. You turned.
Seungmin let his hands settle at your waist. “I will.” “Promise?” “You already made me promise.”
“I’m making you do it again.” “Very controlling.” “Very caring.” “Debatable.”
He squeezed your waist. “Promise.” You rested both hands against his chest. “I promise.” Satisfied, Seungmin kissed your forehead. Then he leant back and examined his shirt in the mirror. “Do my shoulders look strange?”
You pushed him towards the door.
౨ৎ
The party remained civilised for approximately forty minutes. Then Changbin brought out the shot glasses. Chan saw them from across the room and immediately shook his head. “Take it easy” “You bought the alcohol,” Changbin reminded him.
Jisung appeared beside the kitchen counter as though summoned by the word drinking. “Shots are normal.” “You said that last time and threw up in my shoes.” “That was unrelated.” “It was directly related.”
Felix slid into the space beside Jisung and began examining the bottles. You followed closely behind him, your own drink already mostly gone. Seungmin caught your wrist before you could reach for anything. “You’re not doing shots.” You looked at his hand around your wrist, then at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve already had three drinks.” “So have you.” “I can still walk in a straight line.” “I can walk in a straight line.”
Seungmin released you and pointed towards the hallway. You stared at him. He lifted his eyebrows. “You want me to demonstrate?”
“Yes.” You placed your empty glass on the counter and turned towards the hallway with as much dignity as you could manage. Felix and Jisung watched in complete silence. You took three perfectly respectable steps.
Then your hip struck the edge of the sofa. You stopped. Seungmin smiled. “The sofa moved.”
“It’s been there all night.” “It knew I was trying to prove something.” Jisung nodded seriously. “Furniture can sense weakness.” Minho, sitting nearby with his ankle resting over one knee, looked at him. “That explains why you keep walking into doors.”
Jisung placed a hand over his chest. “Why are you attacking me?” “Because you make it easy.” Jisung abandoned the counter and dropped onto the sofa beside him. Within seconds, his legs were stretched across Minho’s lap. Minho glanced down but made no effort to move them.
You pointed towards them. “He can’t walk straight either.” “He’s sitting,” Seungmin said. “He was walking badly earlier.” Changbin began pouring.
Hyunjin took the bottle from Changbin before he could overfill the glasses. “At least make them even. You’re pouring like you’ve never seen liquid before.” “I’m being generous.” “You’re trying to kill Jisung.” Jisung lifted his head from Minho’s shoulder. “Yes please.”
Minho pressed one hand against his forehead and pushed him back down. “You accept nothing.” You managed to claim a glass before Seungmin could stop you. Felix took one. Jisung reached for another, but Minho lifted it out of reach.
Jisung stared at him. “Give it.” “No.” “You aren’t my father.” “Thank fuck for that.”
“You can’t control me.” Minho looked at the legs still resting across his lap. “Stand up, then.” Jisung considered it. “No.”
“Thought so.” Felix passed Jisung his own glass beneath the edge of the table. Minho saw. He allowed it.
You caught his eye. Minho shrugged and took another drink. “Traitor,” Seungmin told him. “I’m off duty.”
“You were never on duty,” Chan said. “Exactly.” Changbin raised his glass. “To Chan finally letting us have fun.” “This is my party.”
“Then act like it.” Chan swore at him, but lifted his drink anyway. Everyone crowded closer. Your friend remained beside your sister near the end of the counter, amused but still slightly removed from the intimacy of the group. You caught her eye and held up your glass.
She lifted hers back. Your sister barely noticed. She was watching Seungmin. He stood behind you with one hand resting against your hip, his thumb moving absently beneath the hem of your top.
You leaned back into him. “To being hot,” Hyunjin said. Jeongin nodded. “Finally, something relevant.” Chan looked around the group. “Can we toast to something normal?”
“No,” everyone replied. The shot burned on the way down. Felix coughed. You squeezed your eyes shut and grabbed the first solid thing you found.
It was Changbin’s arm. “Fuck.” Changbin laughed. “You agreed to it.” “That tasted like paint stripper.”
“You’ve never tasted paint stripper.” “Maybe I have.” Seungmin pulled you backwards against his chest. “And this is why you weren’t doing shots.” You turned in his arms. “I did one.”
“You nearly died.” “I recovered.” “You’re still holding Changbin.You could have held me.” You looked down to find your hand still wrapped around Changbin’s bicep and slowly released him. “Come back when you’ve got biceps, bud.”
Seungmin stared at you for a beat before catching you around the waist and pulling you firmly against his chest. “You seemed perfectly happy with mine earlier.” You placed a hand against his arm as though inspecting it. “They’re all right.” His grip tightened. “All right?” You smiled. “Maybe a little better than that.”
౨ৎ
Someone suggested a drinking game. Nobody later remembered who. You all ended up sitting in a loose circle around the living room with bottles, half-empty glasses and bowls of food scattered between you. Your friend sat beside your sister on the sofa. You were on the floor between Felix and Seungmin, with your back against Seungmin’s legs. His hand rested loosely at the base of your throat, occasionally brushing your hair aside.
Jisung had begun the game beside Minho. By the third round, he was mostly sitting on him. “Never have I ever,” Jeongin began, smiling in a way that immediately made Chan suspicious, “lied to get out of plans with someone in this room.” Nearly everyone drank.
Chan stared at the group. “Are you serious?” “You make too many plans,” Seungmin said. “I ask whether you want dinner.” “That’s still a plan.”
You lifted your glass. Seungmin looked down at you. “When did you lie to me?” You took a long sip. His fingers tightened gently at the back of your neck.
“When?” You smiled into your drink. “Next question.” “No. We’re staying here.” Felix laughed. “She said she was ill once because she wanted to watch a film with us.”
Seungmin stared at you. “You exposed me,” you told Felix. “I forgot it was a secret.” “You chose them over me?” Seungmin asked.
“You were working.” “You still lied.” “You would’ve sulked.” “I am sulking now.”
You twisted around to look at him. “Do you need a kiss?” Seungmin considered the offer. “Yes.” You kissed him quickly.
He kept one hand against your jaw and prevented you from moving away. “That was inadequate.” Everyone groaned. You laughed against his mouth before kissing him again, slower this time.
When you finally pulled away, Changbin threw a crisp at Seungmin’s head. “Some of us are single.” “You don’t have to watch,” Seungmin said. “You’re in the middle of the room.”
“Look somewhere else.” Hyunjin placed one hand against Changbin’s cheek and turned his face away. “There. Problem solved.” Changbin bit his palm. Hyunjin screamed.
The game continued. “Never have I ever had a crush on someone in this room,” Felix said. Silence fell. Then Jeongin drank.
Hyunjin drank. Changbin drank. Jisung lifted his glass, looked around and drank twice. Minho looked at him. “Twice?”
Jisung rested his chin on Minho’s shoulder. “I contain multitudes.” Minho took Jisung’s glass and drank from it. The room erupted. Jisung stared at him, eyes widening. “Was that your answer?”
“It was your drink.” “You have your own.” “I wanted yours.” “That is not an answer.”
Minho smiled into the rim of the glass. You turned towards Felix. He was already looking at you. Both of you burst out laughing.
“Don’t,” Minho warned. You covered your mouth with both hands. Seungmin’s chest shook behind you. Your sister remained completely still.
You could feel her watching. Felix nudged your knee. “You didn’t drink.” “I’m dating someone in the room.” “That doesn’t mean you never had a crush.”
Seungmin’s fingers slid beneath your chin and turned your face towards him. “You had better drink.” You stared at him. “Why?” “Because you had a crush on me.”
“That was never confirmed.” “You asked Chan for my number.” The group laughed. Your sister’s glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
Seungmin’s eyes flicked towards her, then back to you. Your smile softened despite the alcohol. Felix made an emotional noise. Minho pointed at him. “Don’t fucking start.”
Felix’s eyes had already begun shining. “I’m fine.” “You’re about to cry.” “I just think they’re cute.”
Seungmin felt you sniff. “No.” “I’m not doing anything.” “You’re crying.”
“Felix started it.” Felix wiped beneath one eye. “I’m happy.” “That makes it worse,” Seungmin said. You twisted and threw your arms around him.
He caught you automatically. “I love you.” Seungmin sighed, but his arms tightened around your waist. “I love you too.”
౨ৎ
The music became louder after that. So did everyone. Chan lost control of the playlist when you, Felix and Jisung began shouting over every song until he played something you liked. By then, the coffee table had disappeared beneath bottles, crushed cans and bowls of snacks nobody remembered opening. Somebody had spilt something sticky beside the sofa. Changbin had taken his shirt off for reasons nobody understood, and Hyunjin kept threatening to throw it out of the nearest window. You, Felix and Jisung dragged one another into the middle of the room.
At first, you actually danced. Felix knew what he was doing even while drunk. Jisung knew what he was doing until something distracted him, which happened every ten seconds. You possessed confidence far beyond your ability and therefore believed you looked incredible. Changbin encouraged that delusion by cheering whenever you moved. Hyunjin attempted to correct your posture once.
You told him to fuck off. He looked deeply wounded. “I’m trying to save you.” “I don’t need saving.” “You’re dancing like your limbs have separate plans.”
“They’re expressing themselves.” Felix laughed and caught your waist before you could stumble into the coffee table. Jisung pressed against your back, shouting the lyrics directly beside your ear while the three of you moved with very little coordination and enormous enthusiasm. From the sofa, Seungmin watched you. His blue shirt had come unbuttoned slightly at the throat, his hair had fallen across his forehead and his cheeks were warm from the alcohol. One hand rested around his glass while his eyes remained fixed on you.
Your sister sat only a few feet away. She attempted to speak to him twice. He answered politely, but barely looked in her direction. When you caught his gaze, you smiled and crooked one finger towards him.
Seungmin shook his head. You did it again. He lifted his drink as though that explained why he could not move. You pouted.
That worked. Seungmin put the glass down and crossed the room. Felix released your waist with a grin. Jisung remained attached to you until Minho appeared behind him, hooked an arm around his middle and pulled him backwards. Jisung laughed and twisted in his hold. “Jealous?”
Minho murmured something into his ear. Whatever it was made Jisung’s face turn bright red. Felix screamed. You screamed because Felix did.
Seungmin caught your face between both hands. “Why are you shouting?” You pointed vaguely towards Minho and Jisung. “Something happened.” “Nothing happened,” Minho said without looking at you. Jisung buried his face against his shoulder.
You grinned. “Something definitely happened.” Minho gave you a warning look. You immediately turned back to Seungmin and began adjusting his collar as though that had always been your intention. “Coward,” Seungmin murmured.
“You’re supposed to protect me.” “From the consequences of your own behaviour?” “You’re my boyfriend.” “That isn’t what that means.”
His hands slid to your waist as the song changed. You pulled him closer, and although he continued pretending not to dance, his body fell easily into the rhythm of yours. “There,” you said. “You’re dancing.” “I’m standing near you.” “You’re moving.”
“You keep dragging me around.” “You love it.” Seungmin lowered his mouth beside your ear. “I love you.” The softness of it caught beneath your ribs.
You turned and kissed him. He kissed you back without hesitation, one hand spreading across the small of your back while the party surged around you. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted at them to shut the fuck up. You suspected one of them had been Changbin. When you pulled away, Seungmin followed far enough to steal another brief kiss.
“You’re clingy,” you murmured. “You called me over.” “And you came.” “You pouted.”
“That’s all it takes?” “Unfortunately.” You smiled and kissed the edge of his jaw. His eyes closed.
“Again.” “You’re demanding.” You kissed his jaw again, and Seungmin’s grip tightened around your waist. Across the room, your sister emptied the rest of her glass.
You barely noticed. Seungmin’s attention had already wandered from dancing to pressing lazy kisses against whatever part of you happened to be closest—your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. When his lips brushed beneath your ear, you laughed and pushed lightly at his chest. “You’ve completely stopped dancing.” “I never started.”
“You came over.” “You summoned me.” “I moved one finger.” “Very controlling.”
His hand settled lower against your back, holding you close when somebody squeezed past. You reached up and fixed his collar again. “You look messy.” “You made me messy.” “That sounds suggestive.”
“It was meant to.” His smile turned slow and pleased. Before he could say anything worse, Felix collided gently with your side and caught your hand. “I need her.” Seungmin kept one arm around you. “You’ve had her for three songs.”
“The next one’s important.” “They’ve all been important,” you said. Seungmin looked at Felix. “You sound like her.” “That’s why she loves me.”
Felix pulled. Seungmin held on. You found yourself stretched between them. “Don’t make me choose.” Felix smiled. “You’ll choose me.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows lifted. “Choose carefully.” You pretended to consider it before twisting out of Seungmin’s arm, kissing him quickly and letting Felix drag you away. “Coward,” Seungmin called after you. “You still got a kiss!”
“Barely.” You laughed as Felix pulled you back into the crowd. The next hour dissolved into heat, noise and flashes of movement. Hyunjin danced as though someone might be filming him. Changbin attempted to copy him with enough force to make the floor shake.
Nearby, Minho took the glass out of Jisung’s hand and drank from it himself. Jisung watched him. “You said I couldn’t have that.” “You can’t.” “But you can?”
“Yes.” “That’s hot.” Minho looked away, but not before you saw him smile. Someone produced two microphones.
The karaoke began badly and deteriorated almost immediately. You, Felix and Jisung chose a song all three of you knew, which would have helped if any of you had agreed on when to start. Jisung came in too early. You missed half the first line. Felix attempted to hold the performance together and ended up laughing so hard that he could no longer sing. Changbin provided backing vocals without a microphone. Hyunjin acted out the lyrics from the sofa.
Chan kept trying to lower the volume and being shouted at whenever the music became even slightly quieter. By the second song, you had abandoned any pretence of performing well. You and Felix shared one microphone while Jisung used the other for increasingly dramatic ad-libs that had nothing to do with the actual song. Halfway through the chorus, you passed close enough to the sofa for Seungmin to hook his fingers around your wrist. He pulled.
You landed sideways across his lap, and the microphone struck his shoulder. “Shit. Sorry.” Seungmin took it from you before you could hit him again. “Ouch.” “I’m performing.”
“You’re screaming into expensive equipment.” He placed the microphone safely on the table. Felix shouted your name. You tried to stand, but Seungmin held your waist.
“I have responsibilities,” you told him. “You have absolutely no responsibilities.” “Felix needs me.” Felix and Jisung had abandoned the song and were arguing with Chan about whether the lyrics on the screen were wrong.
Seungmin looked towards them. “They seem busy.” “Then I need to help.” “You need to stay here for thirty seconds.” “Why?”
“I missed you.” Your expression softened before you could stop it. Seungmin smiled, knowing he had won. “You’re manipulative.”
You settled more comfortably across his thighs, one arm circling his shoulders. Seungmin rested his face against your chest and closed his eyes while your fingers moved through his hair. Across from you, your sister’s gaze remained fixed on his hand resting against your thigh. Your friend was speaking to her. Your sister nodded without listening.
By one in the morning, the party had split between the living room, the kitchen and the balcony. The music remained loud enough to vibrate through the floor. People drifted between conversations with drinks they had not poured and jackets that did not belong to them. Someone had opened a window, but the room was still hot with too many bodies and the sharp mixture of alcohol, perfume and whatever Changbin had sprayed after insisting he smelled fine. Your friend remained mostly with your sister. She laughed whenever the group became loud enough to include everyone, but she never tried to force herself into the easy physical closeness surrounding the boys.
You checked on her whenever you remembered. Each time, she assured you she was fine. Your sister always said the same. The fourth time you approached, your friend caught your wrist. “You are incredibly drunk.”
You looked down at yourself. “I’m standing.” “Barely.” Your friend laughed. Your sister did not. “She’s been throwing herself around for hours. She always gets like this when she drinks.”
There was something dismissive beneath the words. You recognised it even through the alcohol. Your friend did too. “She looks like she’s having fun,” she replied.
“I’m having an incredible time,” you announced. “I can tell.” Your sister glanced across the room towards Seungmin. “He must be exhausted.” You followed her gaze.
Seungmin was beside Chan, listening to Changbin explain something with far too much hand movement. He caught you looking almost immediately and lifted one eyebrow in silent question. You smiled. He smiled back. “Does he look exhausted?” you asked.
“He’s spent the whole night following you around.” “He likes me.” “I’m aware.” Before the conversation could sharpen, Felix appeared behind you and looped an arm around your shoulders. “There you are.”
“I’ve been here.” “You disappeared.” “I was checking on them.” Felix glanced towards your friend and sister. “Everything good?”
Your friend nodded. “We’re fine.” Your sister smiled at him. “We were talking.” “Great. I’m stealing her.” “You always steal her,” your sister said.
Felix laughed as though she had made a joke. “Everyone does.” He pulled you towards the kitchen. You looked back once. Your friend gave you a small, reassuring smile.
Your sister was already watching Seungmin again. In the kitchen, Jisung was sitting on the counter while Minho stood between his knees, holding a glass out of reach. “That’s mine,” Jisung complained. “It was yours.”
“I’m not finished.” “You said the room was spinning.” “It stopped.” “When?”
“When I closed one eye.” Felix immediately took Jisung’s side. “Give it back.” Minho looked at him. “You’re a terrible influence.” “You’re drinking too,” you pointed out.
“I can handle it.” “So can I.” Minho gave up and handed the drink to you instead. Jisung gasped. “That’s mine.”
“You’re too drunk.” “So are you.” “I’m handling it better.” Felix took the glass from you and drank before either of you could protest.
Minho laughed. It was becoming obvious that he was far drunker than he appeared. His movements were still controlled and his words remained clear, but his eyes had softened and he was smiling much too often. You stepped into the space beside him and wrapped both arms around his waist. Minho looked down. “What’s this?”
“I’m appreciating you.” “You’re crushing my shirt.” You rested your cheek against his chest. “You smell nice.” “None of you are getting another drink.”
“You ruined it,” you complained. “He ruins everything,” Jisung agreed. Minho caught Jisung’s chin and tilted his face upwards. “You can barely keep both eyes open.” “I only need one.”
“For what?” “To look at you.” Minho stared at him. You buried your face against Minho’s shoulder to hide your laughter.
Jisung looked unbearably pleased with himself. Minho’s ears turned pink. “You’re a fucking menace.” “You love me.” Seungmin entered the kitchen before anyone could comment.
He looked at Minho’s arm around you and Jisung hanging over his shoulders Then he looked at Minho. “You’ve collected them.” “I didn’t.” Seungmin approached and slid both hands onto your hips. “You keep disappearing.”
“You were talking.” “I can talk while holding you.” “That sounds inconvenient.” “I’m talented.”
Minho nodded towards you. “Take her before she asks for another shot.” You turned in Seungmin’s arms. “He’s trying to get rid of me.” “You’re attached to his shirt.” “I like him.”
“You like everyone tonight.” “I like everyone every night.” Seungmin’s expression softened. The next drinking game began in the kitchen because nobody could be bothered to move.
It was meant to be truth or drink. Within minutes, it became an excuse to ask invasive questions and shout whenever somebody refused to answer. Changbin joined first, followed by Hyunjin and Jeongin. Chan arrived last, realised what was happening and attempted to leave. You caught his wrist. “No.”
“I’m hosting.” “You’re hiding.” “I need to check the living room.” Jeongin looked towards the doorway. “It’s still there.”
Chan appealed silently to Minho for help. Minho poured him a drink. “Traitor.” “You chose to host.”
Everyone crowded around the counter and floor. You ended up sitting between Minho’s legs with your back against his chest because the chairs had disappeared beneath coats and bags. Seungmin sat in front of you, one hand wrapped loosely around your ankle. Jisung remained tucked against Minho’s side, his head on his shoulder and one leg draped over yours. Changbin pointed at you first. “Truth or drink?” “Truth.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done because you were jealous?” Seungmin looked interested. You looked at Changbin. “I’m not jealous.” The entire room laughed.
“That wasn’t the question,” Hyunjin said. You raised your glass. “Then I’m drinking.” Seungmin’s hand tightened around your ankle. “Answer.” “You don’t get to interfere.”
Everyone shouted. “Coward,” Changbin said. “That’s the point of the game.” “The point is to expose yourself.”
“That sounds like a different game,” Jeongin said. You chucked at that The questions became worse from there. Felix refused to reveal who had received a flirtatious message he sent to the wrong person.
Changbin demanded to know whether anybody had ever hooked up somewhere they could have been caught. Half the room drank. Chan stared at everyone with a raised eyebrow. “In my home?” “Not necessarily,” Jeongin said.
“That did not reassure me.” Jisung claimed he had never done anything humiliating because he was horny. The entire group drank on his behalf. “Fuck all of you.”
Minho leant close enough to murmur something beside his ear. Jisung’s face turned red again. You twisted around. “What did he say?” “Nothing.”
Minho looked unbearably pleased. Your sister stood at the edge of the kitchen beside your friend. She watched Seungmin’s hand move slowly over your ankle. Then she watched Minho’s arm settle across your middle when you leant back against him. Perhaps she expected Seungmin to object.
Instead, he reached forward, caught your chin and tilted your face towards his. “My turn,” he said. You kissed him. The kiss was brief, but intimate enough to inspire several dramatic complaints.
When you pulled away, Seungmin’s thumb brushed once beneath your lip. Your sister looked away. The game ended when Chan realised the music in the living room was loud enough to make the glasses vibrate. Everyone returned to dancing.
By then, nobody pretended it was organised. You, Felix and Jisung shouted lyrics you barely knew with your arms around one another. Sometimes you danced. Sometimes you merely jumped during the chorus and trusted somebody to catch you. Changbin joined whenever the song was good. Hyunjin joined whenever he considered the song worthy.
Jeongin joined only to make everyone else look worse. At one point, Minho caught your hand as you passed and spun you beneath his arm. You nearly completed the movement gracefully. Then you lost your balance.
Minho caught you against his chest. Jisung caught you from the other side. The three of you laughed, tangled together. Seungmin appeared behind you and closed both hands around your waist. “You’re stealing my girlfriend,” he told Minho.
Minho shrugged. “She came willingly.” “He spun me.” “You asked,” Minho reminded you. Seungmin looked down at you. “You ask everyone for things.”
“And they give them to me.” “That’s because you’re spoilt.” “By you.” “Mostly.”
He kissed your forehead. You leant into him, suddenly overwhelmed by the warmth of the room and how much you loved everyone in it. Across the room, your friend smiled at the sight. Your sister finished another drink.
By the time you needed the bathroom, you were far beyond pleasantly drunk. You were still awake, still talking and technically capable of walking, but the room tilted whenever you turned too quickly. Seungmin noticed you heading towards the hallway and followed. You looked over your shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“With you.” “I can piss alone.” “I’m making sure you reach the bathroom.” “That’s insulting.”
Seungmin caught your waist before you walked into the wall. “Exactly.” You allowed him to guide you down the hallway, although you complained the entire way. At the bathroom door, you planted both hands against his chest. “You can’t come in.” “I wasn’t planning to.”
“You looked like you were.” “I was opening the door.” Seungmin smiled and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be here.” “Why?”
“Because you’ll forget where the living room is.” “It’s one hallway.” “And yet.” You narrowed your eyes and disappeared into the bathroom.
When you came back out, your sister was standing in front of him. One hand rested against the wall beside his shoulder. Seungmin was leaning away. “You could come upstairs with me,” she said.
He blinked at her. “Why?” You stopped in the doorway. Even through the alcohol, laughter rose immediately in your chest. Your sister looked at him as though he were deliberately being stupid. “You know why.”
“I genuinely don’t.” She moved closer, forcing Seungmin’s back against the wall. “We could have sex.” For one long second, Seungmin simply stared at her.
Then his gaze found yours over her shoulder. You covered your mouth. The expression on his face made it impossible not to laugh. His eyes widened slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching as though he could not decide whether to be horrified or offended. Your sister followed his gaze and found you standing there.
Her face hardened. “Oh, please. Don’t act like it’s ridiculous.” That made you laugh harder. “I’m sorry. His face.” “You’re not helping,” Seungmin said.
“You asked why.” “It was a reasonable question.” “She invited you upstairs.” “She could’ve needed something.”
“At one in the morning?” “I didn’t know what she meant.” “You did,” your sister snapped. Seungmin looked back at her. “Apparently not.”
She folded her arms. “You haven’t even considered it.” “No.” “Why?” He stared at her.
Then he gave one short, humourless laugh. “Because I don’t want to.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” “You’ve never given me a chance.”
“I’m not required to.” Your laughter faded. Your sister stepped closer and reached for his chest. Seungmin caught her wrist before she could touch him.
“Stop.” The word was calm. Firm. He moved her hand away and released it.
Humiliation sharpened your sister’s expression as she turned towards you. “You think this is funny because you assume he’d never choose me.” “I don’t assume it.” “You should stop speaking for him.” “I’m standing right here,” Seungmin said.
She ignored him. “You’ve always done this. You get something and act smug because you know somebody else deserves it more.” The alcohol inside you turned suddenly heavy. You steadied yourself against the bathroom door. “Somebody else?” “You know what I mean.”
“No. Say it properly.” Her eyes travelled over you. Your clothes had shifted from dancing. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a mess and your balance remained questionable. You had never felt happier.
“Look at you,” she said. “You’re completely wasted. He’s spent all night following you around while you throw yourself over every man in the room.” Seungmin’s expression hardened. You laughed softly. “Is that what this is about?” “I’m saying he could do better.”
“With you?” “Yes.” The certainty would have been impressive if it were not so pathetic. Your smile disappeared.
Your sister noticed and pushed harder. “I’m prettier. I know how to behave. I don’t need eight men constantly touching me and telling me how special I am.” “Nobody is taking care of me.” “You can barely stand.”
“I’m drunk at a party.” “You’ve been climbing into their laps and letting them put their hands all over you. It’s embarrassing.” Seungmin stepped away from the wall and moved to your side. His hand settled securely at the back of your waist.
Your sister watched it. “She hasn’t embarrassed me once,” he said. “She’s been all over Minho. Felix practically had his hands under her clothes earlier.” “So?”
Your sister blinked. Seungmin’s thumb moved slowly against your side. “She loves them,” he said. “They love her. I know exactly where I stand.” “You should have more self-respect.”
His eyebrows rose. “You asked me to cheat on her beside a bathroom.” “You’ve spent the whole night trying to fuck my boyfriend,” you said, “and somehow I’m the slut?” Your sister glared at you. Seungmin continued before she could answer. “Don’t talk to either of us about self-respect.”
“You only say that because she’s standing here.” “I rejected you when she wasn’t.” “You knew she’d find out.” “I knew because I was going to tell her.”
“Why?” “Because she’s my girlfriend.” Your sister shook her head. “You don’t have to keep settling because she got to you first.” Seungmin went still.
There it was. The belief beneath every comparison and every attempt. You had simply reached him first. Had she met him earlier, dressed better, tried harder or pushed for long enough, he would eventually recognise that he had chosen the wrong sister.
Seungmin’s arm tightened around you. “I noticed her,” he said. Your sister scoffed. “You hadn’t met me.” “I’ve met you now.”
The hallway became very quiet. Music still thudded beyond it. Someone laughed in the living room. Your friend called your sister’s name once, distant and uncertain. Seungmin looked directly at her. “And I still choose her.”
Your sister’s face changed. For a moment, she appeared almost sober. Then the anger returned. “She isn’t better than me.”
“This isn’t about who’s better.” “It always is.” “No,” you said quietly. “It’s always been that way to you.” She looked at you.
You could feel Seungmin watching your face. At first, it had been funny. Her unnecessary outfits. Her fake excuses. The way she interpreted Seungmin’s basic manners as secret attraction. Even now, the idea that he might accept remained ridiculous.
But the joke had always required you to ignore the part where your sister could not want something without explaining why you deserved it less. “You can want him,” you said. “I don’t care. It’s humiliating for you, but it doesn’t threaten me.” Her mouth twisted. “What pisses me off is that you can’t admit you want him without telling him I’m ugly, exhausting, childish or not good enough. You don’t flirt with him. You campaign against me.”
“I’ve never called you ugly.” “You keep telling everyone you’re prettier.” “I am.” Seungmin made a disbelieving sound.
You glanced at him. “What?” “Nothing. I’m trying very hard to remain polite.” Your sister folded her arms. “See? You’ve turned him against me.”
“I didn’t have to. You did that by ignoring him every time he said no.” The words landed. Your sister looked at Seungmin. His expression did not soften.
“I thought you were being loyal,” she said. “I was being clear.” “You were trying not to hurt her.” “I was trying not to humiliate you.”
Her cheeks flushed. Seungmin’s voice lowered. “You’ve made that impossible.” Your friend appeared at the far end of the hallway. She looked between the three of you, taking in your sister’s expression and Seungmin’s arm around your waist. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” your sister said immediately. You laughed tiredly. “She asked Seungmin to have sex with her.” Your friend’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” your sister snapped.
“How should I say it?” “She’s drunk,” your friend said carefully. “So am I.” “I know.”
Your friend approached and touched your sister’s arm. “Come and sit down.” Your sister pulled away. “Everyone’s acting like I’ve done something terrible.” “You propositioned my boyfriend after he repeatedly told you he wasn’t interested.” “You don’t own him.”
“No,” you said. “I don’t.” That stopped her. You rested more heavily against Seungmin’s side but kept your eyes on her. “He’s a person. He said no. That should have mattered even if I didn’t exist.”
Your friend looked at your sister. “She’s right.” Betrayal flashed across your sister’s face. “You’re supposed to be here with me.” “I’m here because she invited me.” The answer was gentle but firm.
Your sister looked between you. Then she laughed bitterly. “Fine. Everyone thinks I’m pathetic.” Nobody answered. That seemed to hurt more than any denial would have.
Your friend held out her hand. “Come on.” After a moment, your sister accepted it. She allowed herself to be led back towards the living room without looking at either of you again. You remained in the hallway.
Seungmin rubbed one hand slowly over your back. You watched them disappear. Then you looked at him. “You really asked why.” His mouth dropped open.
The laughter returned before you could stop it. Seungmin stared at you. “You’re impossible.” “Your face was so confused.” “She was vague.”
“She had you against a wall.” “She said upstairs.” “At one in the morning.” “That could mean anything.”
“Name one other thing.” Seungmin opened his mouth. Nothing came out. You waited.
His expression grew increasingly offended. “Exactly.” He caught your waist in both hands and pulled you closer. “You’re very annoying.” “You love me.”
“I’m reconsidering.” “No, you aren’t.” “No,” he admitted. Your smile softened.
The alcohol made it difficult to hold on to one emotion for long. Amusement blurred into exhaustion, which blurred into the ache your sister’s words had left behind. Seungmin noticed. He always did. “Hey.”
You looked at him. His expression had gentled, eyes warm despite the alcohol. “Are you okay?” “I’m extremely drunk.” “I know.”
“She’s a bitch.” “She is.” “I can’t believe she said I throw myself over everyone.” “You do,” Seungmin said, completely unbothered. “Luckily, everyone seems very happy to catch you.”
“With all of you.” “I know.” His hand settled more firmly at your waist. “I’ve never complained.” “And you don’t care?” Seungmin looked genuinely confused. “Why would I?”
You shrugged. “Because she said—” “I don’t care what she said.” The answer came quickly enough to interrupt you. Seungmin lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“I know you,” he said. “I know them. I know what all of this is.” His free hand gestured towards the living room, where Felix was shouting the chorus to another song while Minho told somebody to turn the music down without making any effort to do it himself. “You’re my girlfriend,” Seungmin continued. “That doesn’t mean you stop belonging with them too.” Something warm tightened in your chest.
“That was disgustingly sweet.” You kissed him. His hand slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the kiss deepened. Nothing frantic. Nothing performed for anybody else. Just familiar affection in a dim hallway while the party continued metres away.
When you pulled back, Seungmin followed for one more kiss. Then another. “You’re doing too many,” you murmured. “I’ve lost count.”
“You always say that.” You laughed and rested your forehead against his. “There she is,” he murmured. Footsteps sounded behind you.
Felix appeared first, followed by Jisung and Minho. Felix’s expression changed when he saw your face. “Are you okay?” You nodded. Jisung looked unusually serious. “Your friend said something happened.”
“My sister asked Seungmin to sleep with her.” Jisung stared at Seungmin. Then at you. Then back at Seungmin.
“Why?” You burst out laughing. Seungmin pointed at him. “See? Reasonable question.” “That isn’t what I meant,” Jisung said quickly. “Why would she think you’d say yes?”
“That sounded better after clarification.” Minho stepped closer and touched the side of your face. “Are you actually all right?” You leant into his palm. “Mostly.” “Mostly isn’t yes.”
“She was being a bitch.” “I gathered.” From the living room, Changbin shouted, “If you lot are done fondling each other, we’re doing another round.” Chan shouted back that nobody was doing another fucking shot.
Jeongin appeared in the hallway holding four. The party carried on around you.
CONTENT: Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Backstage AU (Alternate Universe), Idol Life..
SUMMARY: An ocean of thousands of people, a world tour, and a distance that weighs far too heavy. Amidst the roar of the stadium and the glare of the spotlights, he lives with the constant fear that time will eventually cool everything down. But sometimes, to prove you don't plan on going anywhere, all it takes is crossing the world in secret and standing in the very front row.
You wake up with that heavy, sticky feeling of having slept way too little. The room is still dark, the blinds drawn almost all the way down, with only a thin sliver of light cutting through the edge and tracing a line across the floor.
You don't know what time it is, but you do know exactly what you're going to do first.
You reach out, fumbling around the nightstand until your hand finds your phone. The screen lights up, and the glare forces you to squint. You blink a couple of times, waiting for your eyes to adjust, and then you see it.
His name, right at the top of the screen.
A long notification.
Several messages.
It’s not unusual for him to text you while you’re asleep. What’s unusual is the sheer amount.
You swipe and open the chat. The scroll bar is tiny; he’s written a lot. You can already picture him: lying on the hotel bed, his hair still damp from the shower after the concert, the room in semi-darkness and the distant hum of the AC filling the silence. Exhaustion deep in his bones, but his mind way too awake to fall asleep.
You start reading.
We just got back to the hotel.
The concert was incredible, but I can't stop thinking about how I wish you were here.
You feel a soft ache in your chest. Biting your lip, you lean your back against the headboard as you keep scrolling.
I miss you so much.
I feel like it's been way too long since we've talked properly… it’s always quick texts, or voice notes when one of us is half-asleep…
You swallow hard. It’s true. Between your schedule and his, the calls have started to shrink: ten minutes before he leaves for rehearsal, a thirty-second voice note while you’re on your way to work, a "text you later" that sometimes arrives hours later, when one of you has already fallen asleep.
I know it’s because of the time difference and our jobs, but I can’t help feeling like I’m letting you down a little.
Your hand grips the phone a little tighter. You can perfectly picture his expression as he writes that: his brow slightly furrowed, staring blankly at some spot on the ceiling, carrying a guilt that doesn't belong to him, but that he shoulders anyway as if it were his own.
I’ll be there soon. Wait for me, please, okay?
You feel your stomach drop. He always tells you that. "Wait for me." And you do. You wait for him in calls, in messages, in silences. And you would do it a thousand times over. But reading it like this, in black and white, leaves you with a bitter sense of helplessness.
Sometimes I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out… that one day you’ll wake up and think it’s easier to be with someone who isn't always far away, busy, exhausted..
You close your eyes for a second.
It’s not the first time he’s talked about this fear. He’s confessed it more than once, in a low voice, almost ashamed, as if worrying about you were a flaw. But he had never written it so clearly. You had never read it this way, with so much weight in every word.
You take a slow breath, refocusing your gaze on the screen.
If you ever feel like you're getting tired of this, promise me you'll tell me. Maybe I can do something. I don't want you to suffer in silence just to avoid worrying me.
I don't want things to grow cold between us. I don't want the distance to make you feel lonely.
Your own eyes begin to sting. Not because you’re tired, but because of the way he blames himself for things beyond his control: the schedules, the flights, the cities changing every week, the stages packed with people cheering while, inside, he wonders if you’re still there, on the other side of the screen, with the same strength as before.
You move your thumb again.
Sorry, I got emotional again… you know me.
I love you. Way more than I know how to explain in texts.
Everything stops there.
The room is still silent, but inside your chest, something has started to shift. A strange warmth, a mix of tenderness, anger at the distance, and a determination you didn't have the night before.
You stay motionless for a moment, the screen illuminating your face, skimming back over the lines you’ve already read. Every phrase of his hits differently now. "I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out." "I don't want things to grow cold between us." "Wait for me, please."
You don’t want him to keep asking you to wait for him from the other side of the world, with you unable to do anything more than reply "I'm here."
You don’t want him going to sleep in unfamiliar hotels thinking that, at some point, you might get tired of this.
You take a deep breath and, before you can stop yourself, your fingers are already moving. You exit the chat. You open the browser. You type in the name of the country he’s in right now, the name of the city of the last concert on the tour. Your pulse quickens a little when you see the list of dates, the posters, the image of him and the guys promoting the tour.
His next concert. His next city.
Your next vacation days, still unused.
You feel the idea plant itself in your mind with a firmness that borders on madness.
You could go.
You could ask for those days off.
You could buy the ticket.
You could be in that city, in that stadium, among that crowd.
It could be you he sees when he looks up toward the front row.
You swallow hard, feeling your heart begin to beat faster—this time not from sadness, but from a mix of vertigo and excitement that forces you to sit up properly, straightening your back, as if your own body needed to brace itself for what you are about to do.
You go back to his chat before you have time to second-guess yourself.
You reply to his messages, of course. You couldn't do anything else.
You read it one more time, that "I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out," before letting your thumbs drop onto the keyboard.
You take a second to organize what you want to say to him. You don't want to sound rushed, or spill everything that's stirring inside you without a filter. You want him to feel a little lighter when he reads it.
You start typing.
Good morning, love. I just woke up. I've already read all your messages.
You delete the period, then put it back. You let out a sigh, and keep going.
First of all: you are not letting me down in anything. Absolutely anything.
Pause. You reread it.
I know exactly what your pace is like, what your job is like, and it has never been a problem for me. Quite the opposite.
You feel something inside you click into place as you write it. It’s not just for him; it’s a reminder for yourself, too.
I’ve always known there would be crazy schedules, new cities every week, and endless rehearsals, and I still chose to be with you. I’m not getting tired of it. I promise.
Yes, sometimes it’s hard. I miss you, a lot. I wish I could have you here every day, see you come home exhausted from the studio and make you a coffee, or fall asleep with you on the couch. But I wouldn’t change a single thing about what you’re experiencing right now.
A small smile escapes your lips as you picture him, his cap pulled down to his eyebrows, walking through the front door.
I am so proud of you, honey. Of everything you do, how hard you work, what you’ve achieved. I’m always going to be the first one to support you, even if that means that sometimes we have to settle for late-night voice notes.
You pause for a second, feeling the lump in your throat tighten just a little more.
And no, our relationship isn't growing cold. The distance hasn't changed how I feel about you. If anything, it’s only made me want to hug you tighter when I finally have you in front of me.
If something ever weighs too heavily on me, I’ll tell you. I promise. I’m not going to leave in silence or pretend everything is okay if it isn't. But right now, the only things I’m feeling are that I miss you, and that I love you, so much.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you review what you’ve written and add, almost without thinking:
So stop thinking that I’m going to get tired of you, okay? There is no one else I’d rather be with, even if you are thousands of miles away.
I love you. Get some rest if you can. When you wake up, send me a voice note, I want to hear your voice.
You reread everything one more time. You don't mention how much the distance hurts, because he already knows; you don't mention the emptiness in the bed, or the nights when you also find it hard to sleep. You've made it clear to him: yes, it’s hard. No, you’re not getting tired.
You hit send.
The messages shoot out, one after another. His last active status is still locked in the early hours of the morning. You know he must be fast asleep by now, exhausted after the concert, after writing all of that to you. You don’t expect an immediate reply.
You close the chat, but you keep the phone in your hands. The browser tab is still open in the background, with the tour dates shining like a persistent reminder.
This time, words aren't enough for you.
You scroll until you find the city he’s in right now. You recognize the name of the country, the photo of the stadium, the tour poster.
The concert is in just a few days.
Your vacation days are still untouched on the calendar.
Your pulse quickens as you open another app—the flights one. You type in the departure city, the destination city. The numbers start appearing on the screen: times, layovers, prices.
It’s a reasonable madness, you tell yourself. It’s not impossible. You’d have to adjust a couple of things, request the days off right now, organize everything very quickly. But it can be done.
You imagine his face when he sees you in the front row.
You imagine the exact moment his eyes scan the audience, pause, and recognize you.
The thought pulls a smile from you that you didn't know you needed.
Before you keep looking at flights, you know you need someone on his side of the world. Someone you can trust. Someone who can help you make sure all of this doesn't turn into a logistical disaster.
You know exactly who to text.
You look for his name among your pinned chats and open the conversation.
“Felix 🐣”.
Your fingers fly across the keyboard.
Lixie, are you awake?
The double checkmark appears almost immediately. “Online.” It doesn’t surprise you; his schedule is just as chaotic as Chan’s. The ellipsis indicates he is typing.
Yesss, I can't sleep haha. Is everything okay?
You take a deep breath. This is the delicate part.
Everything's okay, I promise. I just need to ask you for a very, very big favor. And don't say ANYTHING to Chan.
He takes a little longer to reply this time.
Okay now you're actually scaring me 😭 are you really okay?
You can't help but laugh a little.
Really, I'm okay. It's about him, but in a good way. I want to surprise him.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Omg
WHAT KIND OF SURPRISE
You stare at the screen for a second, hesitating. Once you put it in writing, it will be real.
I want to go see him at the next concert.
To your country, to the city of the concert.
I don't want anyone to find out, just you and the manager, in case you need help.
You know you’re heading straight into chaos: curious members, a tour in progress, impossible schedules. But if anyone can get as excited about the idea as you, it’s Felix.
He takes a moment to reply. You wonder if he’s jumped out of bed, if he’s gone to knock on someone’s door, if he’s just processing what you’ve just told him.
Finally, the message appears.
NO. WAY.
WAIT
You, here. At the concert. For real for real?
You smile, biting your lip.
For real for real. I have accumulated vacation days, I can request those days off.
But I need your help to organize it. And make sure nobody lets it slip, you know how you guys are 😅
The ellipsis appears again.
HAHAHA ok, you're right, better if everyone doesn't find out.
If I tell Hyunjin, he'll let it slip during a live by accident.
Or Seungmin will accidentally spill it in front of Chan.
You laugh quietly to yourself. You can picture it perfectly.
So… will you help me?
Not even a second passes without a reply.
Of course I will 😤
I'm going to text the manager right now.
I'm going to tell him that we NEED you to come.
You rush to slow him down a bit.
Wait hahaha tell him I want to talk to him first, I want to explain the plan to him.
Ok ok ok, chill
Send me the exact dates you can come and I'll get you the ticket. VIP, obviously.
Chan won't find out a thing, I swear.
You feel the adrenaline rush. This is no longer just an idea in your head. Now there is someone else involved, someone on the other side of the world, moving along with you.
You open the flight app again, take quick screenshots of the schedules that work best for you, and send them to him.
These are the options I have.
I can arrive the day before the concert or the same day in the morning.
The day before
That way you can restttt and you don't pass out on me in the middle of the concert 😂
I'm going to show this to the manager.
You feel a sweet, strange weight settling in your chest: complicity.
And the ticket… don't buy anything yet.
Let us handle that. We'll get you a VIP pass so you can come backstage afterwards.
Your heart leaps.
Backstage.
After the concert.
The hug you’ve been practicing in your head for months.
You stare at the screen for a moment, the open chats, the tabs with flights and dates. All the exhaustion you woke up with seems to have transformed into a nervous energy that you don’t quite know where to put.
You type one last time.
Thank you, Lix. Really.
The reply comes quickly.
Don't thank me yet.
Thank me when I see Chan's face when he sees you in the front row 😉
You cover your mouth with your hand, as if you could hold back your smile that way.
You look at the chat with Chan one more time. His last messages are still there, heavy with fear and love in equal measure.
"I’ll be there soon. Please wait for me, okay?"
You look down at the flight screenshots.
At the concert dates.
At the chat with Felix, where the word “VIP” shines like a beacon.
For the first time in a long while, you’re not just going to wait for him from a distance.
This time, you are going to him.
The rest of the day passes strangely, with the feeling of living two lives at the same time.
In one, you go about your normal routine: you eat breakfast, reply to emails, check your to-do list at work.
In the other, every free second you get, you reopen the chat with Felix, review the flight screenshots, and mentally repeat the concert dates.
By mid-afternoon, the message you’ve been waiting for finally arrives.
From: "Felix 🐣".
I talked to the manager 😳
He says that if you want, he can do a video call with you in a little bit.
Does an hour from now work for you?
Your heart races.
This is becoming too real to back out now.
Yes, I’m free at that time.
Tell him to let me know how: WhatsApp, Zoom, whatever works best for him.
Felix doesn't take long to reply.
He's adding you.
Don't freak out if you see a weird number hahaha
Almost instantly, a notification pops up: a new contact has messaged you.
Hello, I’m the boys’ manager. I’m 'Minho hyung' in Felix’s phone, I guess 😂 Does a video call in 10-15 minutes work for you?
You take a deep breath before replying.
Yes, that works perfectly for me. Thank you for taking the time.
You get up from your chair, tidy up the living room a bit almost out of habit, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You know it’s not a job interview or anything like that, but you still want to look somewhat presentable. It’s not every day you get to talk to the person who manages Chan’s life down to the exact minute.
Your phone vibrates.
Incoming call: Video call.
You settle in and accept.
It takes a few seconds for the image to stabilize: a bright room, bookshelves, a desk. He appears on screen with a polite, slightly tired smile, wearing glasses and with headphones hanging around his neck.
"Hello," he says. "Can you hear me alright?"
"Yes, perfectly," you reply, noticing your voice is a little higher than usual due to nerves. "Nice to meet you… and sorry for the trouble."
He shakes his head, still smiling.
"No trouble at all. Felix told me about your idea. It sounded… very Chan," he adds, a playful glint in his eyes. "Tell me in your own words so we can get it all straight."
You swallow hard, nodding.
"I want to go see him at the concert," you begin. "I know you’re in the middle of the tour and the schedules are crazy, but I have a few days off that I can use. I was planning to travel to the city you're in and…" you pause, searching for the clearest way to put it, "and be in the front row, without him knowing anything. Felix told me you might be able to help me with the ticket and backstage access, if possible."
The manager nods slowly as you speak, as if piecing it all together.
"And Chan knows absolutely nothing?" he asks.
"Nothing," you confirm. "Only Felix, and now you. I’d prefer it if no one else found out, just in case it slips out by accident."
His smile widens a bit, as if he knows exactly what you’re talking about.
"Good call. They’re good boys, but when they get excited..." he laughs. "The fewer people who know, the better."
You relax a little, seeing him so calm, almost like an accomplice.
"Logistically speaking," he continues, "there’s no problem with you coming. In fact, I think it’s a very good idea… for him," he emphasizes. "He could use a little bit of 'home' in the middle of the tour."
The word pricks you softly, right where your chest is most sensitive.
"Thank you," you murmur.
"The only thing we have to watch out for is not interfering with work," he explains. "On the day of the concert, Chan will be busy from quite early on: rehearsal, soundcheck, warm-up, and so on. But if you come the day before, Felix can pick you up from your hotel and take you to the venue so you can look around a bit without any stress. On the day of the concert, we’ll give you a VIP pass and your front-row ticket. After the show, we’ll bring you backstage as soon as we finish up with production."
You nod, trying to process all the information.
"I can take care of the flight and the hotel," you clarify. "I just need you to… help me get in and make sure he doesn't find out ahead of time."
"Consider it done," he replies seriously, but with warmth. "I’ll send you the details I need through here: your full name for the pass, passport if necessary, and I’ll let you know which stadium gate you need to go to on the day of the concert. Someone from the staff who already knows who you are will be waiting for you there."
You feel a shiver of vertigo run down your spine. This is real. There is a plan. There is an itinerary.
"One more thing," the manager adds. "If for any reason there are schedule changes, delays, or anything at all with your flight, message me directly. It’s better not to use the boys as middlemen, just in case one of them is with Chan at that moment."
"Alright," you reply. "I understand."
There is a brief silence. He looks at you with a mix of professionalism and something softer, something that isn't just about work.
"It’s very obvious when he misses you," he says suddenly, without too much solemnity. "He doesn't say it out loud, but you can tell."
Your throat tightens a bit.
"I miss him a lot too," you admit.
"Then let's make this concert count for several," he states. "I’ll handle my part, you handle yours. And Felix… well, Felix will handle trying not to laugh too much in Chan’s face before the show."
You can’t help but laugh too.
"Thank you, truly," you repeat. "For helping me with this."
He nods.
"Thank you for coming. It’ll do him good. You’ll see. I’ll text you in a little bit with all the details."
The call ends, and the screen goes back to the main menu. You sit still for a moment, phone in hand, staring at your own faint reflection in the dark glass.
You are going.
You are going to be there.
It’s no longer just a pretty idea before going to sleep.
The following days pass at a strange pace: slow in the daily routine, fast in the preparations.
You request your days off at work with a simple excuse: you need to disconnect for a few days. You’ve given it your all over the last few months, so no one objects. Your boss nods and wishes you a good rest. There's no need to go into details.
You buy the flight. The confirmation arrives in your email: date, time, seat. You read and reread the information until you’ve practically memorized it.
You book a hotel not too far from the stadium—discreet, no luxuries, but good enough.
You make lists: things to pack, documents, clothes. And on a separate, mental list, the things you want to say to him when he’s finally standing in front of you.
He keeps texting you every day, completely clueless.
He sends you blurry photos of dressing rooms, short videos of the places they visit, and late-night voice notes with his tired voice telling you anecdotes from the tour. You reply just like you always do: you listen, you laugh, you encourage him, you ask how he’s feeling. You guard the secret with care.
There are moments when you're on the verge of letting something slip. A "it won't be long now" that almost turns into "it won't be long until you see me." A "wish I were there" that you almost type as "wish I were there… just like I will be."
You hold yourself back.
You want him to find out on his own.
The night before the trip, you find it hard to sleep. The suitcase is zipped up next to the door, your passport is ready on the table, and your phone is charging beside the bed. You toss and turn between the sheets, mentally reviewing everything: flight schedule, arrival time, the manager’s instructions, the meeting point with the staff.
The airport.
The check-in line.
People with suitcases, families, couples, business suits.
You move forward with your electronic ticket in hand, more aware than ever of the weight of your backpack and the constant fluttering in your stomach.
You go through security, taking your belt off and putting it back on, taking your laptop out and packing it away. It’s routine, almost automatic, but every single step brings you closer to him.
While you’re waiting at the boarding gate, a text from him arrives.
Good morning ❤️
We’re leaving for the venue in a little bit, long day ahead today.
You check the time. It’s already noon over there. He’s heading to the stadium. You’re heading to his country.
Good morning, love
I have a long day ahead today too, but I’ll try to listen to your voice notes whenever I can. Don't push yourself too hard.
You aren’t lying. It will be a long day. You’re just omitting a few details.
I promise to send you a picture of the dressing room 🙈
You smile to yourself, sitting in the row of plastic seats at the terminal.
You look up when your flight is announced over the loudspeaker. You stand up, take a deep breath, and join the line.
As you step onto the plane, something inside you settles. You can’t back out anymore. It’s no longer a matter of deciding whether to do it or not. All that’s left is to follow the plan.
You take your seat by the window. As the plane taxis down the runway, you look at the gray sky, the wings vibrating slightly. You think of him, maybe at that exact moment getting into a van on his way to the venue, hood up, headphones on.
You close your eyes just as the plane takes off. You imagine the two of you moving across different maps, slowly drawing closer to a common point.
Hours later, when you finally land, the announcement in another language and the jolt of the landing gear shake you out of a light doze.
The air in the airport is different: it smells of heavy air conditioning, vending machine coffee, and people speaking in a language you only half-recognize. Everything feels a little surreal.
You pick up your suitcase, follow the signs, and walk out into the public area. Your phone vibrates with an avalanche of notifications: network changes, spam messages, emails. Among all of them, you see one that matters.
From the manager.
Did you arrive safely?
If everything is going according to plan, today you just need to go to the hotel and rest.
Tomorrow at 15:00, someone from the staff will pick you up at the side entrance of the stadium (location attached). Felix will be with them.
You reply quickly.
Yes, I just landed. Thank you for everything. I’ll be there tomorrow.
He sends you a thumbs-up and a message: "Don’t text any of the boys anything weird today 😅 Chan is paying closer attention to his phone than you think."
That coaxes a nervous laugh out of you. You put your phone away, look up, and walk out of the airport. A blast of hot air hits you right in the face. It smells like a new city, like asphalt, like life.
You catch a taxi to the hotel. The city flashes past the window: signs, pedestrians, traffic lights you don’t recognize. Everything is unfamiliar, and yet, it feels like the exact place you are supposed to be.
The hotel is modest, functional. Check-in, key, elevator. You set your suitcase aside and lie on the bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, letting the exhaustion of the trip wash over you.
Your phone vibrates again.
A voice note from Chan.
You open it. His voice fills the room.
Hey… I know you must be busy, but I wanted to leave you this before today's chaos starts. I miss you so much. Last night I dreamed you were at the concert, and when I woke up, I almost laughed because of how real it felt. I wish… well, you know. I wish it could happen someday.
You bite your lip hard, feeling the tears well up without permission.
"Someday."
Tomorrow.
You hold your breath, letting the voice note play to the end.
Anyway, just that. I love you. I’m going to give it my all today, as always, but just a little bit more for you.
You cover your eyes with your forearm. The irony of his dream, of his "someday," squeezes your chest in a new way—both sweet and painful at the same time.
You reply with a short voice note, keeping your voice steady.
"I listened to your message…" you say. "I miss you so much too. Give it your all today, as always. I'm with you, you know that. I love you."
You cut it off before your emotion becomes too obvious.
You turn off the screen, roll over on the bed, and let the exhaustion of the trip, the excitement, and the nerves blend together until you drift off to sleep without even realizing it.
Tomorrow will be the day.
Tomorrow, he will look out at the crowd and see you.
And all the words you’ve shared through a screen will fall short compared to what it's going to feel like then.
The day of the concert dawns differently.
You can't really explain it, but even the silence of the hotel sounds strange. You are woken up by a mix of light filtering through the curtains and that persistent fluttering in your stomach. For a few seconds, you don’t remember where you are. You stare at the unfamiliar ceiling, the neutral walls, and then, all at once, it all hits you:
New country.
Concert.
Chan.
You sit up slowly. Your phone rests on the nightstand. You pick it up carefully, as if the simple gesture could arouse suspicion from thousands of miles away.
You have a text from him.
Good morning ❤️
Today is the big day. I'm a little nervous, but excited.
You swallow hard and type.
Good morning, love.
You’re going to do amazing, as always. I’m with you, you know that.
Your thumb hesitates for a second before adding:
I’m going to be keeping a very close eye on you today.
You send the message. It’s not a lie. Just a different kind of half-truth.
You get up, take a shower, and choose your clothes with more care than you’d care to admit. Nothing over-the-top, nothing too flashy… but you want to feel good when he sees you. When he sees you.
In front of the mirror, you study yourself for a second. It's you, the same as always, but for the first time in a long time, you aren't just going to be "her" on the other side of the phone. You are going to be part of the crowd. Part of his landscape tonight.
Time passes slowly until the scheduled hour.
At 14:45, your phone vibrates.
From the manager.
The staff car will be at the hotel door in 10 minutes. White van, small tour logo on one side. Don't worry, they’ll recognize you.
You sling your small backpack over your shoulder and check for the fifth time that you have the ticket on your phone, your passport in its case, and your phone fully charged. You go down in the elevator with your heart beating a rhythm against your ribs.
The van is right there, exactly as described. A staff member rolls down the window and calls you by your name. You nod, introduce yourself, and he opens the side door for you.
"Nice to meet you," he says kindly. "Felix is already at the stadium. He’s really looking forward to seeing you."
That sentence coaxes a nervous smile out of you.
The ride to the venue feels surreal. Through the window, the city stretches out in buildings, billboards, and crosswalks. And suddenly, as you turn a corner, you see it.
The stadium.
Bigger than you had imagined, with the tour banners hanging from the facades, the logo, and giant photos of the boys staring down at you from the walls. Several rows of metal barricades are already starting to organize the crowd, even though it’s still hours before doors open.
Your chest tightens.
You’re entering through a different way.
The van drives around the stadium to a less conspicuous side entrance, guarded by security. The staff member shows his pass and says something in his language. The barrier lifts.
When you step out, the air smells of cables, metal, and a distant scent of generator exhaust. There are trucks packed with gear, flight cases, and people moving around with walkie-talkies and clipboards in hand.
Before you can feel completely out of place, you hear someone call your name.
"Noona!"
You turn around just in time to see Felix running toward you, wearing a cap, his mask pulled down to his chin, and a smile so wide it practically takes up his entire face.
You don’t even have time to say anything before he hugs you tightly, lifting you a little off the ground.
"I can’t believe you’re actually here, seriously," he laughs, letting you go but holding you by the shoulders to get a good look at you. "You are really here."
You laugh too, your nerves easing up a bit just from his presence.
"I can’t believe it either," you confess. "This place is huge…"
Felix looks around, proud.
"Yeah, it’s impressive, isn’t it?" he says. "Come on, I’ll show you around a bit, but without letting anyone 'dangerous' see you."
"'Dangerous'?" you ask, amused.
"You know," he lowers his voice, giving you a knowing look. "Anyone who might run into Chan and leak that you’re here. Better keep the surprise factor at a maximum."
He guides you through corridors packed with sound equipment, stacked lights, and people working. At times, it feels like being inside an organized anthill.
You pass near the stage access. From there, you can see part of the still-empty stands and a few technicians testing spotlights. The distant rumble of a drum kit echoing away signals that soundcheck is going to start soon.
"Chan is inside, backstage," Felix says, pointing toward a hallway that turns to the right. "We’re not going that way, don't worry. The manager has him tied up with interviews and stuff."
He gestures for you to follow him in the opposite direction.
"I'm going to show you where you’re going to be," he adds. "So you can get an idea."
You walk out through a tunnel that leads directly to one of the front areas of the stadium. It’s not the entrance the crowd will use later; you are slightly elevated, looking straight at the stage.
The empty venue is breathtaking. The stands curve around like a gigantic amphitheater, the unlit ceiling lights look like sleeping stars, and the stage… the stage is a black monster, still dormant, with screens, runways, and cables waiting to wake up.
"Wow…" you whisper without realizing it.
Felix smiles beside you.
"Tonight, all of this is going to be packed," he says. "And you are going to be…" He leans in, pointing right in front of the stage, where the barricade separating the crowd from the security pit stands out. "Right there. Front row. Right in the center."
Your heart leaps so hard it almost makes you dizzy.
"That close?" you ask, your voice a little higher than usual.
"That close," he confirms. "Chan is going to lose his mind."
You laugh, imagining it.
Suddenly, a few chords ring out from the speakers. A recognizable guitar rift, a familiar beat. They’re starting to test things out.
Felix turns to you, his eyes shining.
"Do you want to watch a little bit of the soundcheck from up here? You can’t really be seen from the stage, it’s still pretty dark out there. It’s safe."
You hesitate for a second, but curiosity and longing win you over.
"Yes," you nod, almost in a whisper.
You both lean against the railing. From that angle, you watch them start walking onto the stage, one after another, in their rehearsal clothes—comfortable, with no perfect makeup or spotlights on them. Technicians adjust microphones, and someone gestures from the soundboard.
And then, you see him.
Chan.
Cap, oversized hoodie, water bottle in hand. He walks toward the center of the stage, looks around, and claps a couple of times as if testing the echo, saying something to the technician that you can’t quite catch from up there.
Your breath catches for a second.
He is right there.
Just a few yards away.
And you… you are seeing him live for the first time in months.
He laughs at something someone says in the wings, puts in his in-ear monitor, and adjusts his microphone. When he starts singing a few test lines, his voice filling the empty stadium pierces through you in a way no phone call ever could.
Felix looks at you out of the corner of his eye, in silence, as if respecting the moment. You feel the emotion welling up in your eyes, but you blink quickly, fighting it back.
“I’m not going to cry now,” you tell yourself. “I’ll save that for later.”
After a while, the manager discreetly appears from behind and motions to Felix. He nods.
"We have to go now," he whispers to you. "I don’t want to risk Chan looking up toward here."
It’s hard to tear your eyes away from him, but you obey. You turn your back on the stage with your heart racing wildly. As you head back inside the stadium, you can still hear his voice in the background, laughing between songs.
They take you back to the backstage area, but to a more secluded hallway with a few small rooms. One of them is empty; the staff tells you that you can wait there until it’s time to open the doors for the public. Felix stays with you a little longer.
"Are you okay?" he asks, sitting on the plastic chair across from you.
You nod, still processing everything.
"It’s… a lot," you admit. "I’ve spent months only seeing him through a screen, and now he’s right there, on the other side of a wall."
Felix smiles understandingly.
"And he still has no idea," he says. "It’s going to be so intense when he sees you."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Remember: when the doors open, you go in just like any other fan," he explains. "The staff members we spoke with will guide you to your spot, but Chan won’t suspect a thing because we don’t go near the front row right as the concert starts."
"Okay," you reply, memorizing every detail.
"You’ll have your regular ticket and your pass. You show the ticket to get onto the floor, and we’ll use the pass after the show ends to bring you backstage. Don’t show it to anyone beforehand unless they are staff, okay?"
"Understood."
He looks at you for a second in silence, then laughs softly.
"Of all the crazy plans I’ve heard, this is one of my favorites," he comments. "Seriously."
That relaxes you a bit.
After a while, he has to leave. The schedule is tight, rehearsals continue, and the pre-concert routines begin.
You are left alone in that small room, with a table, two chairs, and your own nerves. You check the clock. There are still hours before it starts, but time seems to have compressed into a sort of electric wait.
At a certain hour, one of the staff members knocks on the door.
"It’s time," he says kindly. "We’re going to open the doors in a few minutes. Come on, I’ll walk you out."
He hands you an envelope with your printed ticket and, inside, a laminated pass with your name on it. You tuck it away carefully, as if it were a treasure.
You head back to the internal tunnels, but this time you take a different exit, closer to the regular entrances. Through a few gaps, you see the lines and hear the growing murmur of excited crowds, laughter, and screams. The atmosphere has changed completely: the stadium that was dead before is now beginning to burst with life.
The staff member points out where to go in. When you cross the checkpoint with your ticket, you blend in, for the first time, with the rest of the crowd.
It’s strange. You are there, surrounded by fans with signs, lightsticks, and tour t-shirts. Some are talking excitedly in different languages, others are staring at the stage with shining eyes. You feel like one of them, and at the same time… you don’t.
The same staff member who came with you discreetly guides you toward the center section. You walk along the side of the floor, through groups of people who are already running to find a spot.
"Through here," he tells you, opening a small gap in the inner barricade. "This is your spot. Stay here and don’t worry about anything else."
You take your place right behind the security barricade, in the exact center of the stage. So close that you could almost count the screws on the edge of the platform.
"Thank you," you tell him, your voice a bit shaky.
He nods and walks away, blending back in with the staff.
Little by side, the floor fills up around you. You feel the warmth of the crowd starting to press against your skin, and the murmur rising until it becomes a constant noise of pent-up excitement. Lights, screens playing pre-show videos, background music.
You pull out your phone. You have a text from Chan.
Just finished soundcheck 🥵
The stadium is huge… I'm a little scared haha.
Will you be awake by the time we start? I just want to think that you're with me somehow.
You are. Much more than he imagines.
Of course I’ll be with you.
Always.
You put your phone away. You don’t want to risk your screen giving anything away at any point. Besides, from now on, your eyes are going to be fixed on one single spot.
The lights dim a bit. The cheering swells like a tidal wave. The screens light up, projecting the tour logo and an introductory video. You feel the goosebumps rising on your arms.
And then, all at once, the lights go out almost completely.
Darkness.
Screams.
The roar of the crowd filling every single corner.
The first chords ring out. The screens explode with light. Shadows appear on stage, rising up on lifts, taking their positions.
Your heart is beating so hard you think the security guard in front of you might hear it.
When the main spotlights flash on all at once, they are there.
All of them.
You’ve seen them hundreds of times in concerts, fancams, official recordings. But nothing has prepared you to see them like this—so close, so real, moving, jumping, smiling, filling the stage with a brutal energy.
Among all of them, your eyes search for one.
Chan.
You find him almost instantly. Your body knows where to look before your head does. He is in his position, right in the center, the jacket of his first outfit glittering under the spotlights, microphone in hand, his gaze sweeping over the ocean of people screaming his name.
They start the first song. They dance, they sing, the crowd around you moving in unison. You try to keep up, but your awareness is split between the madness of the show and the simple existence of him just a few yards away.
During the first few songs, he doesn’t see you.
He has too much on his plate: millimeter-perfect choreography, lyrics, interacting with cameras, formation changes. Still, at times, when he gets close to the front of the stage, your heart races, convinced that this will be the moment.
It isn’t.
Not yet.
During a short breather between songs, he catches his breath, smiles at the crowd, and speaks in the local language with some effort, saying phrases he’s probably been rehearsing for days. The crowd screams, laughs, and replies to him. Then he switches to a language you understand better, thanking everyone, saying how happy he is to be there.
"Seriously…" you hear him say, "you have no idea how much it means to us to see you here. Every city, every stadium… reminds us why we do this."
His words hit you differently, because you also know exactly what you are doing here.
The concert moves forward. The adrenaline never drops. You sing along to the choruses, let yourself go during the most powerful moments, and jump when everyone else jumps. At times, you almost forget the plan and are just another fan, completely lost in the show.
Until that song comes on.
The one you know matters so much to him. The one he has hummed with you over the phone more than once, his voice soft, late into the night. The one where the tempo slows down, the lights soften, and the atmosphere is dyed with something deeper and more intimate.
The boys take different positions. The stage darkens except for a few warm spotlights. Chan walks toward the edge of the center runway, heading right in your direction, a mic stand in front of him.
Your throat goes dry.
He begins to sing. His voice, more stripped-back now, floats over the low murmur of the crowd singing along. He closes his eyes at times, gripping the mic stand with one hand, as if he needed to hold onto something.
And then, during one of those breaths between verses, he opens his eyes and looks straight ahead.
He looks your way.
He doesn't see you yet, you tell yourself. He's just taking in the crowd. There are hundreds of faces, banners, and lights. His gaze moves from side to side, capturing the moment.
He keeps singing.
He takes another step forward, right at the part of the song where his voice cracks just a tiny bit, even though he's rehearsed it a thousand times.
And there, mid-step, his eyes stumble upon you.
It’s just a second.
A second where his brow furrows ever so slightly, as if his brain had recognized something that the rest of him hasn't caught up with yet. His eyes lock in. His body remains on autopilot with the song, but his face changes.
The spotlight doesn't move, but it feels like the world does.
You see, with absolute clarity, the exact moment he understands what he is looking at.
His eyes widen a bit.
His mouth parts slightly, taking in a breath that the mic catches as a faint, almost inaudible gasp.
For a fraction of a second, the note he was singing trembles.
Instinctively, you raise your hand. You don't make any grand gesture—you just give him a small, restrained wave, with a smile that feels like it’s going to break your face.
He blinks once. Twice.
A smile spreads across his face—slow, incredibly genuine, and completely different from any of the ones he’s been giving the crowd all this time. It’s softer, more open, almost incredulous.
He doesn't stop singing. He can't. He's a professional; he's in the middle of a show. But his eyes are no longer drifting aimlessly through the crowd. They are anchored to you.
You feel it physically, like a direct electric current.
When the verse ends and the spotlight shifts to another member for their part, Chan steps slightly away from the microphone, bringing a hand to his chest, laughing in disbelief at the floor.
From where you stand, you see him say something quickly into his in-ear monitor, as if he needed confirmation that he isn't hallucinating. He licks his lips, looks out at the crowd… and looks right back at you, just for a second, as if to make sure you haven't disappeared.
You haven't.
You're still there.
So is he.
And, for the first time in many months, you have each other right there. In the flesh. In the middle of a packed concert, with thousands of eyes watching, but with a silent current that belongs only to the two of you, pulsing between the stage and the front row.
There, in that locked gaze, you know that the entire journey, all the flight hours, all the nerves, have been completely worth it.
For a brief moment, the stadium ceases to exist.
There is only his eyes and yours, connected by an invisible line cutting through spotlights, smoke, and noise.
But he is who he is. And he's right where he's supposed to be.
As soon as the song transitions to another member, you see Chan blink rapidly, take a deep breath, and pull himself back together, almost as if he were splashing cold water over his face.
He looks back out at the rest of the crowd, opens his arms, and encourages everyone to sing along to the chorus. The professional leader takes the reins again.
From the outside, to anyone who isn't you, it was just another moment in the show.
To you, it wasn't.
From that point on, you notice everything shifts.
Now that he knows you are there, every time he approaches the center of the stage, you feel his attention like a silent spotlight aimed in your direction… but with extreme caution.
He can’t look at you too much.
He can’t just stop right in front of you for no reason.
He can’t give you anything he wouldn't give to any other person in that front row.
So, he plays right on the edge.
He moves from one side of the stage to the other, handing out smiles, waves, and winks. When he passes through your section, he raises his hand toward the crowd around you, as if cheering on that whole area in general. But you see—because you know him—the millimeter of difference: the way his eyes brush against yours a second longer than everyone else's, the way his smile subtly softens when he is standing right across from you.
During one of the high-energy songs, he crouches at the edge of the stage to hype up the crowd, pointing to different spots on the floor. At one point, he gestures vaguely toward the center, toward your group, with that "I see you, thanks for coming" expression. The people around you scream and respond. You do too.
Only you notice that, right before standing back up, his eyes catch yours again and soften—quick, fleeting. A blink, nothing more.
Halfway through the concert, during the member introductions and their crowd interactions, Chan does his part just like always: jokes, thank-yous, words in the local language. At one point, he places his hand over his heart and says something like:
"Honestly, I was feeling a bit tired these past few days… but seeing you all here today has given me so much strength."
The stadium roars.
You do too.
He smiles. And even though he directs it at everyone, you know that, deep down, he is sending it to you too.
There are small, almost imperceptible gestures that only you can decipher: the way he bites the corner of his lip right before coming back over to your side of the stage; the way, during a choreography, as he turns to face the front, his eyes search for that exact spot on the barricade where you are standing.
But he never stays too long.
He never does anything that could arouse clear suspicion.
It’s a constant balance between "I’ve seen you" and "I can't look at you too much."
During a slower song, he walks relatively close, and the crowd in your section raises their hands to form small hearts. You do the same, just to blend in. His eyes scan all those hands, laughing, returning a few hearts to different spots.
When his gaze passes over you, for a fleeting instant, he lowers his chin slightly, as if the heart you’re making with your hands held a different kind of weight for him. He doesn't return the gesture directly—it would be too obvious—but he brings his hand to his chest for a second just as he passes by, as if keeping the beat… or as if he needed to hold something in.
No one else seems to notice.
You do.
And so, song after song, you keep weaving that second layer of the concert: the show everyone else sees, and the invisible thread that only the two of you are following.
Time flies, and yet, it feels heavy. When they announce the final song, the entire stadium erupts. The boys line up, waving, giving their thanks a thousand times over.
Chan speaks at the end, as always, with that mix of a professional leader and a guy who gets emotional easily. He talks about the tour, about how grateful he is, about how hard it’s been, and how much strength it gave him to see people filling every single venue.
And at one point, he adds, looking straight ahead without locking eyes on any specific spot:
"There are things… that you sometimes miss so much when you’re far from home. People, moments…" He laughs, downplaying it. "But today, I feel a little bit closer to everything I love."
The crowd screams, completely unaware of what he actually means.
You feel those words pierce right through you.
The final song ends. There is confetti, jumping, goodbyes. They walk across the stage, waving to every section, bowing, blowing kisses. When Chan passes through the center, near you, he raises both arms in the air, spinning around to take in the whole crowd.
During that turn, as he passes right in front of you, his lips move in a "thank you" that seems general… but his eyes, once again, lock onto yours for a second longer.
And then he’s gone, running with the others toward the backstage area, behind the curtain of lights.
The concert is over.
The crowd around you keeps screaming, talking, taking photos of the empty stage, and recording the final seconds. You stand still, hands resting on the barricade, feeling the echo of the music still vibrating in your chest.
He didn't come any closer. He didn't do anything that could jeopardize either of you. But he saw you. You know it. And he knows you’re here.
Now comes the second part.
The part where there will be no spotlights, no cameras, no thousands of eyes.
Just him and you.
You force yourself to take a deep breath, clear your throat, and move. The crowd is beginning to disperse. A staff member approaches from the inner side of the barricade, searching for you with his eyes. Upon recognizing you, he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
"This way," he murmurs, making a discreet gesture for you to follow.
You exit through the side, blending in just enough with the crowd as you slip through a small, discreet doorway. No one pays much attention; everyone is too busy checking videos, talking, trying to prolong the moment.
The moment you cross the threshold, the noise muffles. You leave the roar of the stadium behind and step into a concrete hallway with white fluorescent lights, stacked cases, and staff members bustling back and forth.
The same staff member guides you without saying much, just ensuring you keep up. Your heart, however, knows nothing of discretion: it’s beating so hard it’s difficult to swallow.
You reach a door where other staff members stand with headsets and clipboards. One of them looks at you, checks your pass, and nods, cracking the door open just a bit.
"Wait here a second," the one who accompanied you says. "I’m going to let the manager know."
You nod, even though your legs feel like jelly.
The door closes in front of you. You are left in a small hallway, alone, listening to the muffled sounds from the other side: voices, footsteps, something metallic clanging against the floor.
A few seconds pass, or maybe minutes—you can no longer measure time—until the door opens again.
The manager appears, a bit flushed, carrying that post-concert mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. He smiles upon seeing you.
"You made it here safely," he says, almost as if it were a given.
You nod, gripping the strap of your backpack tighter than necessary.
"Yes… It was incredible," you manage to say.
He looks at you, reading something on your face, and his smile softens.
"He’s in the dressing room, changing," he explains. "He already knows there is 'someone' special waiting for him, but we didn’t tell him who. Just told him not to run."
That coaxes a nervous laugh out of you.
"Ready?" he asks.
You aren’t. But you nod.
"Yes."
The manager steps back, opens the door all the way, and holds it, clearing the path for you.
"It’s the third door on the left," he indicates. "I’ll hang around here. Take your time."
Your throat goes dry.
You take the first step.
The hallway smells of deodorant, damp fabric, cologne, and something sweet you can’t quite identify. There are doors with makeshift signs, muffled laughter trailing from behind some of them. You pass a couple of staff members carrying clothes, boxes, and towels. None of them pay you much attention; they seem to know exactly who you are and what you’re doing there.
You reach the third door. The sign bears the boys' names, not just his. You knock with your knuckles, once, softly.
Silence.
You knock again.
You hear a slight noise inside, a movement. Then, a voice.
"Yes?"
It’s him.
Without a microphone, without an echo, without anything.
Your chest tightens.
"It's me…" you say, noticing your voice break just a little on the last syllable.
There is a second of absolute silence.
Then, quick footsteps toward the door, the sound of the handle turning.
The door swings open.
The first thing you see is his face. Messy hair, his skin still slightly flushed from the exertion, his neck damp as if he’d taken a quick shower, wearing a clean change of t-shirt. His eyes are wide open.
For half a second, it feels like time goes blank.
He looks at you as if he can’t quite believe it. As if he were still on stage, dreaming that dream he told you about in the audio. His lips move, but nothing comes out.
And then, all at once, he reacts.
"Is it really you…?" he whispers, his voice almost gone.
You don’t even get to answer.
In two strides he is all over you, his hands finding your shoulders, your waist, as if he physically needed to confirm you aren't an illusion before holding you. And he does.
He wraps his entire body around you. It’s not a pretty embrace for a photo; it’s clumsy, desperate, tight. He presses you against him as if the space between you were something he had to eliminate completely, right here, right now.
He buries his face in your neck. Your nose is nestled into his shoulder, smelling of soap, recent sweat, and just him.
You feel him take a deep breath, as if wanting to fill his lungs with you. You feel a slight tremor in his hands, in his chest.
"You're here…" he murmurs against your skin, his voice broken. "You're really here."
You let it all go. Your arms, your knees, your throat—everything goes weak. You return the hug with the same intensity, digging your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, clinging to him as if you also needed to prove he is real.
"I’m here," you answer in a whisper. "Chan, I’m here."
You don’t know how long you stay like that. It could be seconds or minutes. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go, and neither do you.
At some point, he pulls his face back just enough to look at you. His hands remain on your waist, his eyes scanning your face as if he were looking at something he’s been remembering by heart for months, yet still feared he might have forgotten a single detail.
"When…? How…?" he asks, between a nervous laugh and a suppressed sob. "How long have you been here?"
Your eyes well up with tears seeing him like this, so completely defenseless.
"I just got here yesterday," you reply. "I spoke with Felix… and the manager. We organized everything so it would be a surprise."
He shakes his head, almost in disbelief, a shaky smile curving his lips.
"Felix…" he murmurs, as if promising to lovingly get his revenge later. "I can’t believe it."
His hands move up to your face, framing it gently, as if you were something fragile. With his thumbs, he wipes away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.
"I saw you in the crowd…" he confesses, his voice low, still raspy from the concert. "I thought I was hallucinating. I kept saying, 'it can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be.' And then you were still there and… I almost forgot the lyrics."
You laugh through your tears.
"You did so well," you say. "I tried not to draw attention to myself."
He laughs too, his laugh cracking.
"Do you know what it was like to sing knowing you were out there?" He shakes his head, clenching his jaw for a second. "I had so many things to tell you, such a strong urge to climb down from the stage and…"
He cuts himself off, as if the emotion were rising too fast.
You take a breath.
"I know," you whisper. "That’s why I wanted to come."
He looks at you intently, as if every word you speak is something he is going to keep forever.
"I read your messages, Chan," you continue. "The ones from that night. About how you were scared I’d get tired… that this would cool things down between us."
He lowers his gaze a bit, embarrassed, as if he’d just been caught in a moment of weakness.
"I’m sorry…" he begins.
You touch his chin with your fingers, forcing him to look at you again.
"Don’t be sorry," you say firmly. "You had every right to feel that way. And I had every right to show you that I’m not going anywhere."
He swallows hard, his eyes glistening.
"So that’s why you’re here…" he murmurs. "You made this whole trip, all alone, for…"
"For us," you correct him gently. "For you. I didn’t want you to keep believing for a single second that I was getting tired. I wanted you to see it."
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if your words hurt because of how good they felt.
When he opens them, there is a look of determination in his eyes. He leans in and rests his forehead against yours, very close, breathing your same air.
"I love you so much…" he whispers, almost without a voice. "You don’t know how much I’ve thought about you on this tour. How many times I wanted to do just this—hold you like this—and couldn't."
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"Well, do it now," you reply. "We have time."
He laughs softly, a wet sound that is almost a sob.
"Don’t let go of me yet," he asks, childish and sincere.
"I wasn’t planning to," you say.
He stays there for a second simply absorbing you: the touch, the scent, the warmth. Then, all at once, he remembers the real world outside.
"I have to…" He looks to the side, as if he could see through the walls. "I have to wrap some things up with the manager, the usual post-concert stuff. But after that… after that, I don’t plan on leaving your side."
You see him struggle for a moment between duty and desire. Between the leader and the boy who just wants to stay wrapped up in here with you.
"Go," you encourage him gently. "I’ll be here. Or outside, wherever you say. I’m not going anywhere."
He nods, swallowing hard.
"I’m going to ask you one thing," he says with a half-smile. "Don’t disappear, okay? Don’t make me go through another concert thinking I dreamed you up."
You laugh and nod.
"I promise I won't."
He leans in and, this time, he kisses you.
It’s a kiss that tastes like everything you’ve put on hold: calls cut short by sleep, text messages that fell short, and "I miss yous" that couldn’t fit into words. It’s gentle at first, careful, as if he were afraid of breaking you, and then a bit firmer, more urgent, as if he wanted to reclaim months of distance in just a matter of seconds.
You hold onto his t-shirt, the back of his neck, the entirety of him, and for those moments the whole world shrinks down to this small dressing room, this closed door, and two people who finally have each other face-to-face.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours again, his breathing heavy.
"Okay…" he says, almost to himself. "Okay. I’m going to go with the manager, do everything I need to do, and then I’m coming back for you. Don’t move too far away."
"I’ll be wherever you tell me," you reply.
He gives you one last look—long and deep—one of those looks that seem to want to memorize you. Then he forces himself to take a step back, lets out his breath, and puts the professional mask back on… though he can't quite erase that shaky smile from his lips.
Before leaving, he turns around one more time.
"Thank you for coming," he says with a simplicity that almost breaks you. "You have no idea what this means to me."
"I think I do know," you reply. "Because it means the exact same thing to me."
He nods, as if surrendering to that shared truth, and walks out the door.
You stay in the dressing room, alone for a moment, surrounded by hanging clothes, water bottles, towels, and the leftover chaos of the concert. You sit on a couch, bury your face in your hands, and finally let everything wash over you: the trip, the concert, his gaze in the front row, his embrace, his voice so close, his "I love you" without any interference.
Outside, the backstage noise continues: footsteps, orders, muffled laughter. Inside, you can only think of one thing:
You crossed half the world to show him you weren't getting tired.
And, seeing his reaction, you know you couldn't have made a better choice.
As soon as he finishes with everything out there, time will start again.
But this time, together, in the same place.
You don’t know how much time passes before he comes back.
You stay in the dressing room, sitting on the edge of the couch, your skin still imprinted with the concert and with him. Every now and then, you hear footsteps in the hallway, familiar voices filtering through the door, tired laughter. The world goes on, but you are in a sort of bubble.
Your phone vibrates.
It’s a text from him.
The manager has kidnapped me for five minutes 😭
But don’t move, okay? I’m heading your way the second he lets me go.
You smile to yourself.
I’m in your dressing room. I’m not going anywhere.
It doesn’t take long before you hear those rushed footsteps in the hallway again. The door opens with much less caution this time. Chan walks in, his hair a bit drier, a clean t-shirt on, and a light jacket draped over his shoulders. The adrenaline from the concert is still lingering in his eyes, but now it's mixed with something else.
"I'm sorry," he says, nearly breathless. "I've been signing papers as if I were leaving the country."
He walks up to you and kisses your forehead, as if needing to make up for every single minute he hasn't been by your side.
"Do you know what I’ve been thinking?" he adds, looking at you from up close.
"What?" you ask, not pulling away.
"That I’m not letting you sleep in a different hotel," he says simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "Call the front desk and cancel yours. You’re coming with us."
Your eyes widen slightly.
"And… how are you going to explain a girl walking down to the same hotel with you?" you ask, half-joking, half-serious.
He has already thought it through.
"The manager already knows," he replies. "They’re going to give you a cap, a tour t-shirt, and a mask. Tonight, you’re part of the staff. No one is going to ask questions."
Your heart skips a beat.
"Are you sure?" you insist. "I don’t want to get anyone into trouble."
"I’m sure," he states without hesitation. "No one is going to suspect one extra person walking down with the whole crew. And I prefer that a thousand times over knowing you’re alone in another hotel when I could have you with me."
You don’t need much convincing.
You call your hotel, canceling the reservation with a quick excuse. After a little while, the manager appears at the door holding a bag.
"Here you go," he says, handing it to you. "If anyone asks, you’re part of the international support crew."
He gives Chan a knowing nudge on the arm.
"Don’t oversleep tomorrow, we’ve got another long day ahead," he teases before leaving.
Chan helps you slip the t-shirt over yours and adjust the cap. When you put on the mask, you look at yourself in the dressing room mirror and barely recognize yourself: you could easily be any of the staff members you’ve seen running back and forth for hours.
"It looks good on you," he says proudly. "You’re officially hired."
"I don’t plan on working for free," you reply, crossing your arms theatrically.
He laughs, steps up behind you, and wraps his arms around your waist.
"Your salary will be paid in hugs," he whispers against your ear. "And kisses. Lots of them."
You don’t complain about the deal.
Leaving the stadium with them is a surreal experience.
You are right in the middle of the group: members, staff, a few security guards. Everyone is exhausted, laughing, and talking about the show. You keep your cap low, your mask securely on, and your eyes down.
Felix winks at you from a few paces ahead. One of the guys makes a comment about "the new staff member" without looking too closely at you. The manager smooths it over with a simple excuse that no one questions. They are all far too drained to notice.
You get into the vans. You end up in Chan’s, but in a seat a bit further back. He doesn’t turn around much; he doesn’t look at you more than necessary. He knows how to play this game. Every now and then, however, you catch the reflection of his smile in the window, and you know that, at some point, it’s because of you.
When you arrive at the hotel, the entrance is heavily controlled. A few fans are waiting in the distance, trying to snap blurry photos of silhouettes in hoodies and caps. The hotel staff rushes the process along. You enter almost in a single file line, with the crew leading the way.
No one pays any mind to one more person in a tour t-shirt and a mask.
You split up to go up in the elevators. You end up in one with several members and the manager. No one says anything out of the ordinary. Every so often, you catch Chan’s gaze reflected in the metal of the door, but he doesn’t allow himself anything more.
In the hallway outside the rooms, the group disperses. Everyone heads to their own space; some say goodbye with a tired "good job today," while others don’t even speak, just dragging their feet.
You stay to the side for a moment, not moving, waiting for the signal.
The manager walks right past you, completely casual, and mutters under his breath:
"His is 608."
You nod.
You wait for the hallway to clear, until the only sound left is the muffled noise behind the closed doors. When everything settles down, you walk down the hall and knock softly on room 608.
Not even a second passes before the door swings open.
He is standing there, his hair still damp, wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants. More him than ever. Not the leader, not the idol. Just Chan.
He closes the door behind you before even saying hello. The moment the lock clicks shut, he turns around and looks at you as if he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.
"Now we're good," he says, letting out a breath. "Now you’re finally with me."
You take off the mask, the cap, and the tour t-shirt, leaving them on a chair. The room is huge—a large bed, a table, a small couch, open suitcases, a couple of water bottles, vitamins, and papers with schedules printed on them.
Chan opens his arms without another word. You walk into them almost by instinct. This time, the embrace is different: less desperate urgency, more of a calm weight loaded with everything you still want to say to each other.
At the same time, you both feel the exhaustion hit you… and yet, somehow, it lifts.
He buries his face in your hair.
"You have no idea how good this feels," he murmurs. "It’s like…" He searches for the right word. "Like I can finally breathe properly."
You pull back just enough to look at him.
"Do you really feel less stressed?" you ask.
He nods without hesitation.
"So much less," he replies. "Before the show, I was a total mess inside. I missed you, I was questioning a thousand things… From the second I saw you in the front row, everything fell back into place. And now, here…" He lets out an incredulous laugh. "I can’t believe how lucky I am."
You both sit on the bed, side by side, facing each other. He takes off his concert wristband and sets it on the nightstand, like a symbol that "stage mode" has been left outside.
"Tell me everything," he says, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. "How you put this all together, from the very beginning. I want every single detail."
So, you tell him.
From that morning reading his texts to the sudden idea of looking up flights. You tell him about your conversation with Felix, the manager, the screenshots, the airport, and the audio he sent you about the dream where you were at his concert.
He listens with absolute attention, barely interrupting, wearing that specific expression he gets when something truly matters to him.
"I didn’t know you were staying until the end of the tour," he says when you explain your vacation time.
You smile.
"You didn’t think I’d show up in the front row either," you reply.
"Fair point," he admits, laughing.
You sit up a bit, leaning back against the headboard.
"I had vacation days saved up," you explain. "A ton of them. I can stay for the two weeks left on the tour. And fly back to Korea with you."
You watch his eyes widen, like someone receiving a gift they didn’t even dare to ask for.
"You’re staying until the end?" he asks slowly, as if needing to make sure he heard correctly. "Flying back with me on the same flight?"
"That’s the plan," you nod. "I already cleared everything with work. While you’re finishing the tour, I can just live normal life during the day, do my own thing, and at night..." You shrug. "At night, I’ll be your undercover number one fan."
He buries his face in his hands for a second, as if it’s all too much to take in.
"You have no idea how much you just put my mind at ease," he murmurs, uncovering his eyes afterward. "I thought I’d only have you for today. Or, if I was lucky, tomorrow morning…"
"Well, you’re going to have me for a lot longer," you say.
He leans in and kisses you—gentle, filled with gratitude. There’s something new in this kiss: the silent promise of days, not just hours.
When you pull apart, his expression turns a bit more serious, though it doesn’t lose any of its warmth.
"I want to talk again about what I wrote to you," he says. "About my fears."
You nod. You knew this was bound to come up.
"My life… you already know how it is," he begins. "Absurd schedules, cameras, rules. I’ve seen colleagues try it with someone and end up breaking up because one of them just couldn’t take it. Or because someone caught them, news articles came out, and everything turned into a living hell. The company, the fans, the rumors… They have to deny things that are actually true just to protect everyone's jobs."
He sighs, toy with the edge of the sheet between his fingers.
"And sometimes I think…" he continues, "what if you wake up one day and say, 'I don’t want this for myself'? What if it’s just too unfair to you? What if we get caught? What if they hurt you? I don’t want to put you through that."
He isn’t telling you anything new. You’ve talked about this before. From the very beginning.
"I know," you respond. "And I’ll tell you again today: I knew all of that before I started dating you. I knew how everything works—in Korea, in the industry, at your agency. And still…" You look at him, steadfast. "I chose to be with you."
He clenches his jaw, as if fighting back his emotions.
"We’ve been together for a long time now, Chan," you remind him. "We’ve been through tours, comebacks, hiatuses, crises, good nights, and bad ones. If something were going to make me doubt that I wanted this, it would have happened by now. And yet, here I am. I crossed half the world just to hear you sing, to hug you in a dressing room, to watch you sleep without a screen in between us."
A smile slips through—sad and happy all at once.
"I don’t want you living with that fear every day," you add. "I’m not saying there aren’t risks; I’m not stupid. But I want you to trust us. Trust yourself, trust me, and trust what we have. Not what happened to other people."
He closes his eyes for a second, letting your words sink deep into his chest.
"I want us to go the distance," he whispers, opening them again. "Not just be together 'while it lasts,' but… for real. All the way to the end."
You laugh softly, trying to lighten the weight of the conversation a bit.
"Well, you better get used to it," you reply. "Because I plan on putting up with all your tours, all your schedules, all your dark circles…"
He laughs too, his gaze softening even more.
"All of them?" he asks.
"All of them," you confirm. "I’m going to endure this and a thousand other things for you: tours, masks, hotels, hiding spots…" You look at him with a playful glint in your eyes. "Until one day I finally end up becoming Mrs. Bang."
You say it in a teasing tone, but without breaking eye contact. He freezes, as if every word had landed with far more weight than you expected. You see his pupils dilate slightly, a different kind of spark igniting his gaze.
"Mrs. Bang, huh…?" he repeats, almost in a whisper, as if testing the sound of it.
You swallow hard. You didn’t mean to get so serious, but the way he looks at you completely disarms you.
"It was just a figure of speech," you try to downplay it, laughing. "Well… a figure of speech that isn’t too crazy, I guess."
Chan leans in a bit closer to you, more attentive than ever.
"Seriously…" he says slowly, "would you really be my wife?" He doesn't say it mockingly, or with a laugh. He says it like someone asking a question that has been spinning around in his head for a very long time.
Your heart races.
"I…" You clear your throat. "If we stay together for many years, if everything keeps going well… I guess at some point we’d get married, wouldn't we?" You shrug, but your eyes never wander from his.
He doesn't hesitate for a single second.
"For me, it’s an 'of course,'" he replies. "If I could, I’d ask you right now. Right here. Just like this."
"And if you did?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "What do you think I’d say?"
It doesn't even take him half a second.
"Yes," he says. "Always yes. That’s what I believe."
You hold his gaze.
"Well, you’re right," you admit. "Now, and whenever it happens. In whatever way it has to be, when the time comes… with you, it would always be a yes."
He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours.
"I want us to get there," he confesses softly. "I don’t know when, or how exactly, or what I’ll have to negotiate with the universe to make it happen without destroying anything. But I want it. And what scares me most… is that you’ll get tired before we can."
You squeeze his hand.
"And what I want most is for you to stop living your life waiting for me to get tired," you respond. "Because I’m not going to. I’ll get tired of many things in this life, but never of you."
He chuckles—that specific laugh of his that comes more through his nose when he gets emotional. His eyes glisten. He looks at you as if you had just set the world a little straighter for him.
"I’m going to endure this and a thousand other things for you," you add, your tone lighter now, trying to ease the mood. "Tours, schedules, masks, hotels, hiding under caps… until one day, in the end, I finally end up becoming Mrs. Bang."
This time you say it with a smile, without hiding behind it.
He stays perfectly still, as if every word were a gentle strike to his chest. His eyes fill with tears, though he fights to keep a single one from falling.
"You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that," he finally says. "Not just the 'Mrs. Bang' part. All of it."
He leans down and kisses your knuckles, one by one, as if he were sealing a pact.
"So…" he adds with a calmer, subtle smile, "let’s make sure this tour isn't something that breaks us, but something we remember as 'the one where you showed up in the front row and put my mind at ease.'"
"Deal," you reply.
You both stretch out on the bed, side by side, turned toward each other, face-to-face. You talk. A lot. About things big and small.
He tells you backstage anecdotes from the tour that couldn’t fit into voice notes: a technical glitch that almost left them without an intro, a terrible meal in a city they’ve all sworn never to visit again, and a moment on the plane when he thought about texting you a single word—"come"—without any explanation.
You tell him about your job, about the people who know nothing and just suspect you’ve been "very busy" lately, and about those sleepless nights when you’d stare at the ceiling mapping out his schedule in your head.
The more you talk, the easier he breathes. You can tell. His shoulders lose their tension, his voice softens, and his laughter comes without that shadow of exhaustion you had noticed in his recent messages.
At some point, the conversation fades into comfortable silences. You look at him and notice his eyes starting to drift shut, his body finally demanding rest.
"Sleep," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "Tomorrow I have to watch another concert from the front row. I need you in top shape."
He chuckles, half-asleep.
"I’m going to be better than ever," he promises. "Now I have my motivation… in the crowd and at the hotel."
He curls up closer, resting his forehead against your collarbone, one of his arms wrapping around your waist.
"Thank you for not getting tired," he murmurs, already slipping into dreams.
You kiss the crown of his head.
"Thank you for letting me stay," you respond.
Slowly, his breathing becomes deep and steady. The leader, the producer, the guy with a thousand responsibilities melts away against your chest until only the simplest part remains: Chan, sleeping, finally, without the distance in between.
You close your eyes too.
You know that tomorrow the spotlights will return, along with the noise and the role he has to play every single day. You know the risks, the secrets, and the precautions will still be there. You don’t live in a fantasy.
But you also know this:
You crossed half the world to prove to him that you won't get tired.
And he, with every look, every word, and every plan for the future, proves to you that he won't give up.
Meanwhile, in the quiet darkness of an anonymous hotel room, with his warm breath brushing against your skin, you think that maybe, someday, when everything falls into place, a door will open not to a dressing room on tour, but to a home shared together.
Maybe, someday, someone will call you "Mrs. Bang" and it won’t be a joke.
thinking about idol!jeongin falling in love at first sight meeting fan!reader. . .
first time he saw you wasn't when it was your turn to sit in front of him. the airtime before the fan sign had started, everyone was already seated, the staff just double checking if everything was good to go.
jeongin's eyes wandered through the crowd in front of the him, not looking for anyone in particular, merely just looking at their groups' fans to have something to do.
he was simply just browsing through the blur of faces, a few signs here and there, until he saw you.
jeongin didn't know what was different. only that he could feel some kind of aura around you that the other fans couldn't see or sense near you, a luminous ambience that only he could see.
you weren't looking at him. you seemed busy in your own world, trying to breath in properly 'cause you were nervous. he smiled when you turned and saw him staring back at you.
your face loaded for a second, before smiling back, waving calmly. he waved back. your grin was a little bit wider when he did it.
the fan sign continued, none of the fans here—not even his hyungs—that their maknae had a secret agenda now when he saw you, which was to get connected with you.
no matter how risky it was.
when you were finally sat on the table, he was itching to meet you.
he had been reviewing all the ways he could possibly flirt. that wouldn't be too obvious, right? it would just be him doing his duty as an idol to entertain their fans with fanservice.
except when it came to you, the fanservice was teetering a little bit to crossing over to real flirting.
"h-hi, jeongin." you bowed before sitting down.
"hi, there." his gaze followed your every move, smirking. "what's your name?"
you told him your name as you hand out your album to sign, jeongin making sure to graze your fingers a little, the sight of you visually short-circuiting when it happened forever ingrained in his memory for when he wants to smile.
"you have a really pretty face," he signed your album with practiced ease, opening the photobook to sign his photo in there as well, "pretty name too. you're lucky."
"i- hah. . .!" you chuckled awkwardly, flattered as you blinked and thanked him.
"what made you like our group, hm?" he asked, leaning in elbows on the table as he splayed his hands out for you. you stared at them a little confused, before you answer his question.
"i really liked your guys' music. it's pretty alternative to modern pop, so— oh."
feeling a sense of boldness run through him (and slight impatience that you didn't get the hint), he took both your hands in his. jeongin hummed, like this was normal.
jeongin had a sneaking suspicion that his hyung, seungmin, next to him was quite taken aback at his sudden love for skin ship, but he didn't pay him no mind.
not for the remainder of the fan sign, at least.
you held eye contact with him, but only for short periods of time. his smile and sharp gaze making it almost impossible for you to focus when it just made your brain all mushy.
he hummed at your unfinished reply, before asking another question. "you must have a bias then, right?"
"ah, yeah i do!" you say happily, unaware that you were waving your intertwined hands from the positive question.
"is it me?" his fingers squeezed yours a little, anticipating a 'yes'.
"ah, no. . ." you say sheepishly, jeongin letting out a dramatic sigh.
"it's actually bangchan, haha," you say, "sorry, innie-ah."
"too bad. . ." he pouted.
"it's 'cause i have a thing for older guys, yknow?" you try joking, but then he answers you with something you didn't know how to reply to.
"so you wouldn't date a younger guy?"
jeongin's thumbs started to caress the sides of your hands, the action turning your head all fuzzy. if you were calm enough (which you weren't until the end of the fan sign), you would have noticed his sly smirk, obviously flirting with you now.
"i— ha. . . i didn't say that," you smile, tilting your head down as he tries to catch you sight.
"do you not do long distance relationships too?"
"uhm," you tilt your head up, meeting his gaze for a little while, more confused than shy, "n-not really, why?"
'you look really pretty flustered like this, y'know?', is jeongin really wants to say, but with seungmin (who you were talking to before him) starting to look really suspicious, he settles for:
"that's good, then we'd be perfect together."
the timer goes off, and with jeongin being the last member on the end of the table, you're forced to bow your goodbye and walk off, with jeongin's eyes following you until he's forced to interact with the fan in front of him, his smugness from the interaction still lingering.
you, who just exited the venue, had let out a sigh of relief? exhilaration? you aren't sure, but you know damn well your hearts beating really fast.
the hours pass after that, and once you make it home, you wind down and get ready for bed, the signed album and photobook still splayed out on your duvet.
you smile at the event, remembering all of the happenings with the other members, before recalling the last one. your fingers trace jeongin's signature.
looking at the photobook, you open it up and flip through it, looking at the messages that the members left you, you grin at each one, some telling you to eat while the others saying they'd love to see you again.
then, you see jeongins message for you, and your grin drops.
' you don't mind younger guys if it was me, right? call me soon, okay? ~ XXXX - XXX - XXX
— y.j ❤︎ '
it was messily written, giving you the impression that he did it quickly, so that no one could see in the photobook that fast. you scoffed in disbelief.
your heart jumped a few beats faster. there it was again. that feeling in your stomach. the odd pull.
you caress your thumb on the ink of the page, lost in thought.
the big question is; will you message, or will you ghost?
ugh skz not having mnl in their tour destinations is making my heart break 💔🥀anyways have some delusional jeongin imagine because i dont see enough about him being written ;D
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✮ Summary: You try your absolute hardest to survive an economics project with your obnoxiously hot and cocky partner, only to realize that he has completely calculated his way into your heart.
✮ Genre: Enemies to lovers
✮ Tags: college!au, cocky!yoongi, fluff, yoongi is such a flirt
✮ wc: 6k
Rule #1: Don’t sit next to someone you’ve insulted in public.
You broke that rule entirely on purpose. Mostly because the only open seat in Economics 101 happened to be right next to the guy you had called “a walking overconfidence issue” two days ago at the campus café.
He looked up the second you pulled out the chair, his gaze drifting over you with a slow, deliberate sort of curiosity. To your absolute horror, a heavy flutter of butterflies erupted in your stomach at the sight of him. Those sharp, feline eyes had already captivated you way more than you cared to admit.
“It’s you,” he said.
You forced a sweet, innocent smile. “It’s me.”
Before he could say anything else, you hurriedly dropped your bag and started pulling out your laptop and pens, desperately trying to look busy. You were silently praying he wouldn't bring up the café incident. This was going to be your seat for the rest of the semester, unless some jerk decided to claim it, which would violate the unspoken rule of college lecture halls.
“You know,” his deep voice rang beside you, almost making you jump up in your seat, “for someone who claims to hate overconfidence, you sure just can’t seem to get away from me. You’re gonna boost my already big ego.”
Damn it. You knew right at that moment that your past words were going to bite you in the ass.
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m clearly not here by choice,” you retorted, keeping your eyes glued to your screen as it booted up. To be fair, the lecture hall really was packed to the brim. If there had been a single other option, you wouldn't be sitting within arm's reach of him.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. They were a soft, prominent pink, and without even realizing it, your eyes dropped to them for a split second before you snapped your gaze back up to meet his. You prayed to every god in the universe that he hadn’t caught you looking.
“Fair enough. Let’s just hope you can concentrate on the lecture without thinking too hard about my overconfidence.” He then shifted his attention back to the professor, not giving you another look.
He turned his attention back to the front of the room, leaving you staring at his profile. Great. Now you were stuck next to the most obnoxious guy on campus. Your mind wandered back to two days ago, trying to remember what possessed you to open your mouth in the first place.
Wait, what was his name again? Boongi? Woongi?
Ah, wait, it was Yoongi.
Rule #2: Don’t get into arguments at a cafe.
It had started two days earlier in the campus cafe.
You were just waiting for your regular iced coffee when you overheard him pressuring the barista about “optimal espresso extraction timing.” It sounded like total gibberish. Jesus, you had thought, do people really have nothing better to stress about?
Before you could help yourself, the words came spilling out, “It’s not that serious.” Quickly, you bit down on your bottom lip, mentally cursing yourself for getting involved. He immediately turned around, his blond hair spilling across his forehead.
“It’s literally my thesis topic.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, crossing your arms over your chest. “So your thesis is about… coffee?”
He scoffed like you said something utterly dumb, and not like you had a genuine question. “My thesis is sensory perception and economic behaviour.”
You nodded slowly, “So… coffee.”
He nodded as well, and a small beat of silence passed before he asked, “You’re in econ?”
“Unfortunately.” You genuinely despised the subject. It was the kind of class that dragged on for centuries and felt devastatingly dry. You would have taken literally anything else, but you had completely missed your registration window, leaving econ 101 as your only option to fill the requirement.
“I’m not sensing a lot of enthusiasm.”
You rolled your eyes at that, irritation crawling up your skin. He seemed like the type of person who would like that class. “Please, spare me the details about how great economics is.”
Before he could say anything, the barista cleared his throat. “Yoongi, seriously. You’re holding up the line for the fifth time this week. I’m not helping you with your stupid thesis.” Your eyes darted to the barista, then down to his name tag. Jimin, it read.
Clearly, they must be friends if they’re on a first-name basis. You make a quick mental note of the blond in front of you, realizing Jimin called him by his first name, Yoongi.
Yoongi rolls his eyes before stepping aside to let you order. “You’re useless, Park.”
You quickly placed your order, paying the barista before moving over to the pick-up counter, right next to where Yoongi was waiting. The silence between you felt heavy, and the lack of caffeine was making you reckless.
“Maybe, he would help you if you weren’t a walking overconfidence issue,” you muttered under your breath. The second it left your lips, you wanted to swallow the words back down. Has your brain completely short-circuited?
But his reaction wasn't what you expected. There was no argument, no sharp retort. He just paused, looked down at you, and a slow, effortless smirk spread across his face. “I’ll have you know, a lot of people really like my overconfidence.”
Your face heated up, eyes slightly widening, but before you could say anything, he walked off, adjusting his backpack as he did.
You seriously needed to stop attending this cafe.
By the second week of term, that specific seat in the back row had officially become yours. But unfortunately, it had become his, too. You were in the lecture hall, seated side by side like a punishment. The professor droned on about supply curves, and you took notes meticulously. Beside you, Yoongi was doodling graphs that were annoyingly correct.
You slowly turned your head over, staring into his dark eyes. “Do you ever exist quietly?”
“No,” he said, without missing a beat. “That would be inefficient.”
You stared at him for a long moment, wondering how you got stuck beside him. Then, you wrote in your notebook: insufferable
He leaned in closer, musky cologne filling up your nose. He reached over, took the pen from your hand, and casually crossed out your word, writing his own beneath it: not insufferable. Just right.
You quickly yanked back your pen, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “Get your hands back to your stupid graphs.” In reality, you wouldn’t mind if he leaned over more. The smell of his cologne had infiltrated you, causing a permanent mark in your brain.
He smirked, his pink muscle coming out to wet his lips. “Anything for you.”
His words made your heart flutter, heat spiking through your body. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking that he was… hot.
Stupid economics.
Rule #3: Don’t get paired up with him for a project.
The lecture hall was already half asleep. The projector was humming, pens tapping, and someone was aggressively trying to stay awake by pretending to underline everything… (that would be you).
Professor Lee clapped his hands once. “Alright, before I lose all of you to the void, I’m assigning project partners.”
That got attention. Not necessarily good attention, just awake attention. You straightened up in your seat, trying to make yourself seem more productive than you have been. Group projects were the worst. They meant control issues, negotiation, and compromise. All the things you tolerated in theory and hated in practice.
“I’m pairing you based on different strengths,” Professor Lee said, looking at his list. “You’ll work together on a case study about online work platforms and how people make economic decisions.”
You already felt tired. But then, you heard it.
“Min Yoongi.”
“Paired with–”
You could already feel it. Your name rolling off of your professor’s tongue.
“Y/N.”
You sank back into your hard plastic chair, the frame pressing uncomfortably into your shoulder blades. The universe truly had a sick sense of humor. Beside you, Yoongi turned his head to look at you, and you didn't even have to look back to know exactly what kind of smug expression was on his face.
“You will submit a joint proposal by next week. No exceptions.” Professor Lee finished, before sitting back down at his desk.
Finally, you turned to glance at Yoongi, only to realize he was still looking at you.
“What?” You muttered, packing your things in your backpack. The feeling of his eyes on you made your skin rise with goosebumps.
“I’m just excited to start this project with you, partner.” He remarked, tapping his fingers against the wooden desk.
“Whatever. Just give me your number so we can talk about the project details. I’m not chasing you across campus to get this done.”
For once, he does what he’s asked of. Grabbing his phone, he opens it up for you, allowing you to put in your number.
“And please,” you added, fixing him with a firm look. “Do not text me unless it is strictly about the project.”
Yoongi took the phone, his thumb dragging across the screen as he saved the contact. “Don’t worry your pretty head off, sweetheart. I wouldn't dream of it.”
Rule #4: Don’t answer messages from anyone, especially him.
He didn’t even last forty two hours before sending you the dumbest text ever.
Did you know that the earliest physical evidence of music dates back 40,000 ~ 43,000 years ago?
For a moment, you stare at your phone like it’s a rock. You didn’t even get the chance to put in a name for his contact; that’s how quickly he texted you. How do you even reply to that text? Before you overthink it any longer, your thumbs type up a message and hit send.
You: Wrong number. I don’t talk to history nerds.
Shutting off your phone, you keep it in your hands. It stays dark for exactly eight seconds before lighting up again. Without realizing, you unlock your phone immediately, reading the message.
Him: That’s interesting, considering you're my partner for this project and I have to hear you argue with me every day.
You should stop reading and stop engaging. Honestly, you should be doing the dishes that are piling up in your sink. But your thumb keeps moving anyway.
You: I don’t argue. I just like to correct mistakes.
Three dots appear immediately.
Him: So you’re correcting the mistake of me having your number?
You stare at that, then sit up slightly. This is not what this was supposed to be. You gave him clear rules that texting was only to be for the project. Not… whatever this is turning into.
Your phone buzzes again.
Him: Also, I’m not a history nerd.
You: You literally sent me a fact about ancient music.
Him: That’s behavioural economics. I was testing your reaction speed.
This man is insane. Or worse, he’s confident about being insane. Slowly, you conjure up a message.
You: You tested my reaction speed.. by texting me about prehistoric music?
Him: Yes. And you passed with flying colours.
You feel something dangerously close to annoyance flare in your chest, and something even worse underneath it. You want to lock your phone and throw it at the nearest piece of furniture.
Him: We should meet for the project.
Thank god, he changed the subject. You didn’t know how much longer you could talk about ancient music and continue with this small talk.
You: Fine by me. Where?
Him: My place. Tomorrow at noon.
You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. My place? Absolutely not.
You: No. Absolutely not. We are meeting at the library or campus cafe. I am not going to your apartment.
Him: Why? Afraid you won’t be able to handle my overconfidence in a private setting?
You: No, I’m afraid I'll end up throwing a textbook at your head. The library. 12:00 pm.
Him: Fine, but you’re buying the coffee.
You didn’t reply to that last text, firmly locking your phone and tossing it onto your bed. Your heart was doing that stupid fluttering thing again, and you hated it. You really, really hated it.
Rule #5: Don’t let him choose what you drink.
The campus library was packed the next day, full of stressed-out students cramming for midterms. You managed to snag a table in the back corner, spreading your laptop and notebooks out to claim the space. When you checked the time, it was 12:05, and he was late. It made your eyes roll.
“You didn’t get the coffee.”
You jumped slightly, looking up to see Yoongi sliding into the chair across from you. He was wearing a black oversized hoodie, his blond hair slightly messy, and he looked annoyingly good. In his hands, he held two paper cups.
“You’re late,” you pointed out, ignoring the way his scent immediately filled the small space between you. “And I didn’t say anything about buying coffee.”
“Well, good thing I had a feeling you weren’t going to, so I did it myself,” he said, setting one of the cups in front of your laptop. “Consider it a peace offering for my overconfidence.”
You looked down at the cup suspiciously. “What is it?”
“An iced Americano.” He took a sip of his own drink, his feline eyes watching you over the rim. “Drink it. It’ll make you hate economics less.”
“I doubt that,” you muttered, but you picked up the cup anyway and took a sip. It was, unfortunately, the best coffee you had ever tasted in your life. It wasn't overly bitter, and it had a smooth aftertaste. You tried desperately to keep your face completely blank, but Yoongi was already smirking.
“See?” he murmured, leaning forward on his elbows, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. “I know exactly what you like.”
Your throat went dry. “You don’t know anything about me, Min Yoongi.”
“I know you look at my mouth when you’re annoyed,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. “And I know you’re trying really hard right now not to smile.”
Your face flushed a furious shade of crimson. You quickly grabbed your syllabus, holding it up like a shield between your faces. “Let’s just start the project.”
Yoongi chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right through your chest. “Whatever you say, partner.” He pulled the syllabus down with one finger, forcing you to look at him again. “First step of the project: data collection. We need to interview students about their gig-economy habits.”
“Right,” you said, clearing your throat and trying to channel your inner academic. “We can make a survey. Send it to the campus group chats.”
“Too passive,” Yoongi countered, leaning back and crossing his arms. “People lie on surveys. They click random answers just to get rid of the notification. We need in-person behaviour. Observation.”
You sighed, tapping your pen against the table. “So what do you suggest, genius?”
“We interview them at the cafe. While they’re buying their coffee.” He smiled, that sharp, cat-like grin that made your stomach do another flip. “I can get Jimin to let us set up at the counter table. High traffic, prime economic decision-making context.”
You stared at him, highly suspicious. “Is this just an excuse for you to spend more time hanging out with your barista friend and argue about espresso?”
“It’s called maximizing resource utility,” he said smoothly. “And if it means I get to watch you get frustrated with strangers instead of just me for a couple of hours, that’s a benefit.”
“You are infuriating,” you muttered, but you wrote In-person interviews - campus cafe in your notebook anyway.
He watched your hand move, his eyes tracking the ink. “We’ll start tomorrow afternoon. Don’t wear anything too distracting, Y/N. I need to focus on the data.”
You paused, your pen hovering over the paper. You looked up, caught his eye, and felt your face heating up all over again. “Distracting?”
“Mhm. I need to make sure all of our participants won’t be distracted by a pretty girl.” He mumbled, acting as if those words hadn’t just come out of his mouth.
“Shut up, that won’t happen.” You muttered, cheeks warm and pink. He really must be out of his mind to say something like that. And what is up with his pet names? It’s like he knows when your heart is beating out of your chest.
“Whatever you say,” he murmured, his gaze dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes. Before you could even process the absolute audacity of that comment, he stood up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He hadn't even opened his laptop once.
“See you tomorrow, partner,” he said, tapping his knuckles twice on the table right next to your hand. “Bring your notebook. And try not to dream about supply curves.”
You watched him walk away, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, completely oblivious to the absolute chaos he was leaving behind in your chest.
Rule #6: Don’t let him see your playlist.
The next day, the campus cafe was sweltering. It was raining outside, meaning half the university had crammed inside to escape the downpour, creating a loud, humid wall of noise. You had arrived early, snagging the small counter table near the pickup station just like Yoongi had suggested. Jimin had given you a sympathetic wave from behind the espresso machine, looking like a man who knew exactly what kind of headache you were dealing with.
When Yoongi finally slid onto the stool next to you, he didn't even say hello. Instead, he reached over, plucked one of the wires of your headphones right out of your ear, and stuck it into his own.
“Hey!” you protested, reaching to snatch it back, but he blocked your hand with his forearm. He listened for three seconds, his eyebrows raising as the upbeat pop song blasted into his ear. A massive, teasing smirk spread across his face.
“What is this?” he asked, looking at you like he had just discovered your deepest, darkest secret.
“It’s music,” you snapped, your face burning. “Give it back.”
“It’s an anomaly,” he corrected, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours. “You claim to hate overconfidence, and yet your brain is currently being fried by 140 beats per minute of pure, unadulterated pop garbage.”
“It helps me focus!”
“It helps you ignore reality,” he said, though he didn't take the earbud out. Instead, he pulled his phone out and tapped the screen. “Here. Let’s optimize your acoustic environment.”
A second later, your phone buzzed.
Him: [Link: Chihiro’s Waltz]
You blinked at the title, entirely caught off guard. You expected a generic lo-fi playlist or even something instrumental, not a piano piece from a Ghibli film.
“Spirited Away?” You asked, your voice softening despite yourself. “You listen to Ghibli soundtracks?”
Yoongi didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a rare, genuine smile. “It’s structurally perfect. Joe Hisaishi understands melodic efficiency better than most modern composers. Besides, it grounds things when everything else gets too loud.”
You pulled your hand back so fast you nearly knocked over your notebook. Yoongi didn’t even blink; he just picked up his pen and started organizing the interview sheets as if he hadn’t just completely short-circuited your entire nervous system.
“Alright,” you said, your voice a little higher than usual. You cleared your throat forcefully. “Data collection..”
For the next two hours, the project actually kept you distracted. Yoongi, as much as you hated to admit it, was terrifyingly good at interviewing people. While you handled the writing, he leaned against the counter, using that low, effortless voice of his to charm answers out of stressed-out freshmen and tired seniors. By 4:00 PM, the rush had cleared out, leaving the cafe quiet except for the hum of the espresso machine and the soft rain tapping against the windows.
Jimin walked over, sliding two fresh glasses of iced water onto the table. “You two look like you’re plotting a bank robbery. How’s the data, Yoongi?”
“Promising,” Yoongi said, not looking up from the charts he was tallying. “Turns out 84% of students will sacrifice financial stability for a premium caffeine fix.”
Jimin laughed, wiping his hands on his apron. “And how’s your partner holding up? You look like you're about to pass out from a Yoongi overdose.”
“I’m fine,” you blurted out quickly, your face heating up. “Just… trying to understand his handwriting. It looks like a doctor wrote it while riding a rollercoaster.”
Yoongi finally looked up, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. “Hey, my handwriting is not that bad.” He looked at Jimin. “She thinks I’m insufferable.”
“You are insufferable,” Jimin agreed instantly with a bright smile. “Good luck, Y/N. You’re going to need it.” He gave you a supportive nod before heading back behind the counter.
You let out a breath, leaning your chin on your hand as you stared at the messy pages. “Okay, we have enough data for the joint proposal. I can write up the introduction tonight, and you can handle the data analysis section since you’re the math freak.”
“Deal,” Yoongi said. He closed his notebook with a soft thud and looked at you. Truly looked at you. The playful, teasing smirk was gone, replaced by something much softer, his feline eyes scanning your face in the dim cafe lighting. “You worked hard today.”
The sudden compliment caught you completely off guard. “Oh. Thanks. You too.” He kept his gaze locked on yours, leaning an inch closer.
“See? We make a good team. Even if you did insult me in public.”
“I didn't insult you,” you mumbled, suddenly finding the condensation on your water glass very interesting. “I just stated an observation.”
“Mhm.” Yoongi stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He reached out, his fingers gently catching a stray strand of hair that had fallen across your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. His fingertips brushed against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Go home and get some rest, Y/N. Don’t stay up all night thinking about me.”
Before you could even formulate a comeback, he turned and walked out into the rain, pulling his black hoodie up over his blond hair. You sat there for a solid three minutes, staring at the empty seat next to you, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Rule #7: Don’t open up the shared Google Docs at 2:00 AM.
It was exactly 2:14 AM, and instead of sleeping, you were staring at your laptop screen in the dark of your bedroom. The document title, Econ 101 Case Study Proposal, glowed brightly. You had finished your section an hour ago, but you noticed a little pink icon active at the top of the screen.
Anonymous Cat is typing. You always wondered why he chose that as his display name.
You watched the cursor move across the screen as Yoongi formatted the data tables. He was moving things around with chaotic speed. Suddenly, the typing stopped. A comment bubble popped up on the side of your paragraph.
Yoongi: Your explanation of the consumer surplus is beautifully written. Too bad your grammar in paragraph three is a tragedy.
You narrowed your eyes at the screen. You highlighted his comment and typed back.
You: Go to sleep, Yoongi. Why are you even checking my sections right now?
A few seconds passed. The pink cursor blinked furiously. Then, instead of replying to the comment, he started typing directly into the document, right at the very bottom of the page where the bibliography was supposed to go.
Yoongi: Why aren't you sleeping?
You stared at the text appearing in real-time. You clicked below his line and typed back.
You: I asked you first.
Yoongi: Couldn’t sleep. Brain is stuck on a loop.
You: Econ data?
Yoongi: No.
You waited, your breath catching in your throat as the little cursor hovered.
Yoongi: Something else. Something with a bad attitude who listens to 140 bpm pop garbage.
Your heart did a violent flip. You stared at the words on the screen, your fingers trembling slightly over the keyboard.
You: You’re breaking the rules, Min Yoongi. This document is strictly for the project.
Yoongi: I don’t care about the rules, Y/N. I thought we established that on day one.
Yoongi: Besides, you're the one who introduced the rules. I never agreed to them.
You stared at the blinking cursor, your mind racing. You wanted to type a snappy retort, something about efficiency or his massive ego, but your hands froze over the keys. Before you could decide on a response, the pink text began to disappear, deleted backspace by backspace, replaced by a fresh line.
Yoongi: Get some sleep, Y/N. We have to present this proposal to Lee tomorrow, and I need my partner to be fully functional.
Y/N: Fine. Goodnight, Yoongi.
Yoongi: Goodnight.
You shut your laptop with a little more force than necessary, plunging your bedroom back into darkness. You pulled the blanket over your head, but the rhythmic, soothing piano notes of Chihiro’s Waltz were still playing on a loop inside your head, refusing to let you sleep.
Rule #8: Don’t celebrate a good grade with him.
The presentation went smoothly. In fact, it went better than smoothly. Professor Lee had actually smiled, an event so rare it should have been studied by the geology department, and handed your printed proposal back with a bright red A circled at the top.
“Excellent resource utility and field analysis,” Lee had muttered before moving on to the next group. As you walked out of the lecture hall, the adrenaline of surviving the presentation finally began to fade, leaving you floating on a cloud of relief.
“An A,” you breathed, staring down at the paper in your hands as you walked down the bustling hallway. “We actually got an A in Economics.”
“Are you really that surprised?” Yoongi asked, walking in step right beside you, his hands slung casually in his pockets. “I told you my data analysis was flawless.”
“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, the victory making you forget your usual defences. “It was a team effort.”
“It was,” he agreed quietly.
You stopped at the end of the hallway, turning to face him. “Well, since we officially passed the hardest part of the semester, I guess I owe you one. You want to hit the cafe? I’ll actually buy the coffee this time. No strings attached.”
Yoongi looked down at you, his dark eyes glinting with an emotion you couldn't quite read. A slow, lazy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “The cafe is too crowded. And I don’t want a coffee transaction.”
Your eyebrows furrowed. “Then what do you want?”
He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as students rushed past in the corridor. He tilted his head, his voice dropping to that familiar, low murmur that made your stomach completely bottom out.
“Celebrate with me tonight. Real food. My place.” He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “And this time, you can’t use the project as an excuse.”
You froze, the paper suddenly feeling heavy in your hands. “Your place,” you repeated, your voice a little fainter than you intended. “For real food.”
“Unless you’re attached to the dining hall food,” Yoongi said, his tone returning to that casual, effortless drawl. He stepped back just enough to give you space, though his eyes never left yours. “I actually know how to cook. I have also heard that my cooking isn't mediocre, if that's what you're scared of."
“Of course, you know how to cook,” you muttered, trying desperately to ignore the frantic pounding in your chest. You looked down at your shoes, then back up at his blond hair falling slightly over his forehead. “Fine. But if you try to lecture me about the economic impact of grocery shopping while we eat, I’m leaving.”
Yoongi let out a low, genuine laugh that sent a pleasant shiver straight down your spine. “Deal. I’ll text you my address. Seven o'clock. Don’t be late, sweetheart.”
With a final, lingering look, he turned and melted into the crowd of students heading toward the campus exit. You stood there for a long moment, wondering how a public insult in a coffee shop had somehow spiralled into a dinner date at his apartment.
Rule #9: Don’t look too closely at his apartment.
Min Yoongi’s apartment was exactly like him: annoyingly organized, understated, and smelling faintly of coffee beans and cedar wood.
When you walked in at exactly 7:02 PM, you found him in the kitchen, the sleeves of his black button-down shirt rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sharp veins of his forearms and hands. A vinyl record player in the corner of the living room was spinning softly, filling the apartment with the familiar, calming notes of Chihiro’s Waltz.
You paused in the doorway, your bag clutched tightly in front of you. “You’re actually playing it.”
Yoongi looked up from the stove, a small, knowing smirk gracing his lips. “I told you, it grounds things. Sit down, Y/N. It’s almost ready.”
You sat at the small wooden dining table, your eyes wandering over to the shelves placed near you. There were stacks of books on behavioural economics, a high-end espresso machine that looked like it belonged in a science lab, and a small, framed photo of him and his family.
“Spicy braised chicken with rice,” Yoongi announced, breaking your trance as he set two perfectly plated dishes onto the table. He sat down opposite you, pouring water into two glasses.
You took a bite of the chicken, and your eyes widened despite yourself. It was incredibly good. “Okay, fine. You win. This is amazing.”
“I know,” he said smoothly, picking up his own utensils. But there was no arrogance in his voice this time, just a quiet, content satisfaction.
For the next hour, the conversation flowed with a strange, easy rhythm. For the first time since you met him, you weren't arguing. You talked about how much you both hated Professor Lee’s grading, your favourite childhood movies, and how you had accidentally missed the timetable sign-up because you slept through five alarms.
“So you’re just naturally chaotic,” Yoongi mused, leaning back in his chair and swirling the water in his glass.
“I am not chaotic,” you defended, your face warming up. “I just operate on my own schedule.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, his feline eyes tracking the way your lips moved. “It’s a miracle you even made it to econ.”
“Well, if I hadn't, you wouldn't have anyone to correct your overconfidence,” you shot back, a comfortable boldness settling into your chest.
Yoongi’s gaze intensified, the playful banter suddenly melting into a thick, heavy silence. The background record had transitioned to a slow, ambient jazz track. He reached across the small table, his large, warm hand settling over yours. His thumb softly brushed against the back of your knuckles, sending an electric jolt straight up your arm.
“I think we’re past the overconfidence defence, Y/N,” he said softly, his deep voice carrying a sudden weight that made it hard to breathe. “You don’t hate me. You haven’t hated me since the day at the cafe.”
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. You wanted to pull your hand away, to find a rule to protect yourself, but your fingers remained locked beneath his. “Yoongi…”
“I sent you that dumb fact about music just to see if you’d answer,” he confessed, leaning forward, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes. “I don’t do things inefficiently, Y/N. Except when it comes to you. You make my head spin."
Your breath hitched. You looked at his pink lips and realized you were completely, utterly defenceless.
“You’re breaking all the rules,” you whispered, your voice trembling.
A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, his thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. “I already told you, Y/N, I don't care about rules. Especially when it comes to you."
Before you could even formulate a rebuttal, he stood up from his chair, his hand never breaking contact with yours. He moved around the small wooden table, his steps deliberate and unhurried, until he was standing directly over you. The scent of cedar wood and faint espresso enveloped you entirely, making your head spin.
He reached down, his fingers gently cupping your jawline. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, tracing the exact spot you always bit when you were nervous or annoyed with him. The contrast of his cool rings against your heated skin made a quiet gasp escape your throat.
“Still think I have an overconfidence issue?” he whispered, his face inches from yours.
“Of course,” you replied, though your voice lacked any real bite. In fact, it sounded entirely like a surrender.
Yoongi let out a low, breathy chuckle against your lips. “Good.”
And then, he closed the remaining distance.
The kiss wasn't fast, and it wasn't chaotic. It was slow and intoxicatingly warm, his lips moving against yours with a gentle intensity that made your hands fly up to grip the fabric of his black button-down shirt. He pulled you slightly closer, his other hand wrapping securely around your waist. When he finally pulled away, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his feline eyes dark and completely focused on you. A beautiful smirk slowly returned to his face.
“Joint proposal completed,” he murmured against your skin.
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face into his shoulder to hide how red your cheeks were. “You are seriously the worst, Yoongi.”
“I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your GPA,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you, pulling you securely into his chest as the rain outside continued to beat a steady rhythm against the apartment windows.
Rule #10: Forget all the previous rules.
Two weeks later, the lecture hall for Economics 101 was just as cold, loud, and dreadfully boring as it had been on day one. Professor Lee was currently drawing a massive, confusing graph on the whiteboard, his voice droning on about deadweight loss.
Yoongi leaned back in his chair, a black beanie tugged low over his blond hair, his fingers lazily spinning a pen between his knuckles. Underneath the wooden desk, hidden from the rest of the lecture hall, his large hand was firmly intertwined with yours, his thumb mindlessly stroking the back of your wrist.
Your laptop was open, a blank word document on the screen. Suddenly, a notification popped up in the corner.
Min Yoongi shared a document with you: Econ 101 Pretty_Girl
You kept your face completely blank, desperately trying not to smile. The page opened to a single, typed line.
Yoongi: You’re wearing that perfume I like again. It’s really bad for my concentration.
A small smile tugged at your lips. You kept your left hand securely in his grip beneath the table while your right hand flew across the keyboard to reply.
You: Focus on the lecture, idiot. Lee is looking right at us.
You watched the screen. A second later, his cursor moved, deleting your text and replacing it with something else.
Yoongi: Let him look. I already know everything on the board. And I already know what I’m doing at noon.
You looked over at him from the corner of your eye. Yoongi didn't turn his head, but the slow, luscious smirk that spread across his face told you exactly what he was thinking. He squeezed your hand under the desk, a warm, reassuring pressure that made the butterflies in your stomach erupt all over again.
Stupid economics.
A/N: This fic genuinely took me forever because of all the economics research i had to do. Blond Yoongi will never leave my mind, so ofc i had to write about him!
Also, I hope someone caught the Chihiro's Waltz reference. Yoongi mentioned that he listened to that song in a Suga FM clip!
Yoongi doesn't realise he's in love because loving you is a second nature to him
The first time Min Yoongi met you, he decided three things within the span of thirty seconds.
One: you talked too much.
Two: you smiled like sunlight spilling across hardwood floors.
Three: you were absolutely not going to fit into his life.
Unfortunately for him, you did anyway.
It started small.
That was the dangerous thing about loving someone when you were Min Yoongi. It never arrived loudly. There were no dramatic realizations, no cinematic moments with orchestral music swelling in the background. Love slipped into his life quietly, disguised as routine. As habit. As instinct.
And by the time he could’ve named it, it was already part of him.
“Why are you in my studio?”
Yoongi didn’t even look up from his laptop as he spoke. His voice came out flat, mildly annoyed, entirely unsurprised.
Behind him, the door shut.
“Wow,” you said. “No hello? No wow, you look beautiful today? No thank you for bringing food?”
“I didn’t ask you to bring food.”
“You literally texted me and said, and I quote, ‘I forgot to eat.’”
“That’s not asking.”
“You’re impossible.”
You set two takeout bags down beside him anyway.
Yoongi finally glanced up.
And paused.
You were wearing one of those oversized sweaters again. Cream colored. Sleeves too long. Hair slightly messy from the rain outside. Your cheeks pink from the cold.
Pretty.
Dangerously pretty.
He looked away immediately.
“You got rained on,” he muttered.
“Observant.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“You sound like my grandmother.”
“Tch.”
But he was already reaching behind him for the spare towel he kept in the studio for late nights.
Without a word, he tossed it toward you.
You caught it with a grin.
“There he is,” you teased softly. “Soft Yoongi.”
“There’s no soft Yoongi.”
“You gave me your towel.”
“You’re dripping on my floor.”
“Mhm.”
You smiled while drying your hair.
Yoongi ignored the strange warmth settling in his chest at the sight.
Because this—this was normal.
You’d been in his life for nearly three years now. Friends through circumstance first, then through inevitability. Introduced by Hoseok at some gathering Yoongi barely remembered. You’d laughed at one of his dry comments instead of getting intimidated by him, and somehow that had been the beginning.
After that, you just… stayed.
You showed up at the studio with coffee.
You bullied him into eating actual meals.
You sat quietly on the couch during his producing sessions, reading books or scrolling on your phone while he worked through dawn.
You learned his silences instead of fearing them.
And Yoongi—
Yoongi let you.
That alone should have told him something.
But loving you felt too natural to notice.
Like breathing.
“You know,” Namjoon said carefully one evening, “normal friends don’t memorize each other’s coffee orders from six different cafés.”
Yoongi blinked slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“You know her order everywhere.”
“She likes consistency.”
“You bought her a winter coat because she said she was cold one time.”
“She refused to buy one herself.”
“You flew across the world and came back with skincare because she mentioned wanting to try it.”
“She couldn’t get it here.”
Namjoon stared at him.
Yoongi stared back.
Finally Namjoon sighed.
“You are genuinely unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re in love with her.”
Yoongi scoffed immediately.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yoongi.”
“She’s my friend.”
“You look at her like she invented happiness.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
Yoongi rolled his eyes and stood from the couch.
“Don’t start.”
Namjoon watched him walk toward the kitchen.
“Okay,” he said lightly. “Then if she started dating someone tomorrow, you’d be completely fine?”
Yoongi stopped moving.
Just for a second.
A tiny second.
But Namjoon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Yoongi recovered quickly, opening the fridge with unnecessary force.
“She can date whoever she wants.”
“Mhm.”
“She deserves someone good.”
“Mhm.”
“She deserves someone who makes her happy.”
Namjoon almost looked sympathetic.
“And that someone isn’t you?”
Yoongi frowned like the answer was obvious.
“No.”
Because in Yoongi’s mind, love wasn’t soft.
Love was consuming.
Demanding.
Temporary.
People left. People changed. People hurt each other even when they didn’t mean to.
But you—
You laughed when he got grumpy.
You fell asleep on his couch while waiting for him to finish work.
You trusted him with every vulnerable piece of yourself without hesitation.
And Yoongi protected that trust with brutal devotion.
Why would he ruin it by wanting more?
So no.
He wasn’t in love with you.
He just cared about you more than himself.
That was different.
…Wasn’t it?
You were halfway asleep on his couch when Yoongi draped a blanket over you.
Your eyes fluttered open immediately.
“There you are,” you mumbled sleepily.
His chest tightened.
Dangerous.
Always dangerous.
“You should go home,” he said quietly.
“You’ve been working for fourteen hours.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every time.”
You pushed yourself upright, blanket slipping down your shoulder.
Yoongi’s eyes caught on the bare skin there before he could stop himself.
Pretty.
Pretty pretty pretty.
God.
“You didn’t eat much,” you murmured.
“I ate.”
“Half a sandwich.”
“It counts.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then your expression softened in that way that always undid him completely.
“You work too hard.”
Yoongi looked away first.
Because that look—
That unbearably tender look—
It always made him feel exposed somehow.
“I like working.”
“You also like pretending you’re not human.”
“Tch.”
You smiled faintly before patting the spot beside you on the couch.
“Come sit for a minute.”
“I’m busy.”
“Five minutes.”
“You’re bossy.”
“And yet here you are.”
He should’ve gone back to work.
Instead, he sat.
The moment he did, you leaned sideways until your head rested against his shoulder naturally, like you belonged there.
Like you’d done it a thousand times.
Yoongi went very still.
Your hair smelled like your shampoo.
Your body was warm against his.
And something deep in his chest settled immediately.
Home.
The thought appeared so suddenly it startled him.
Home.
You sighed softly.
“Comfortable?”
“…Mhm.”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re cold all the time.”
“You say that like it’s my fault.”
“It probably is.”
You laughed quietly.
Yoongi closed his eyes for just a moment.
This was dangerous too.
Not because it hurt.
But because it didn’t.
Being close to you felt frighteningly easy.
Like he’d spent his whole life unconsciously making room for you before you’d even arrived.
The first crack in his denial came because of another man.
Which was embarrassing, honestly.
Yoongi was not a jealous person by nature.
Possessive occasionally, maybe.
Protective absolutely.
But jealous?
No.
Until he walked into a restaurant one evening and saw you smiling across the table at someone he didn’t know.
The man was handsome.
Young.
Well-dressed.
Leaning toward you with obvious interest.
Yoongi stopped walking.
Something ugly twisted low in his stomach.
Hot.
Sharp.
Wrong.
You looked up then, immediately brightening.
“Yoongi!”
Your entire face lit up.
And somehow that only made it worse.
You waved him over enthusiastically.
“Come here!”
Yoongi approached slowly.
Too slowly.
The stranger stood politely, offering his hand.
“Hey, I’m Minjae.”
Yoongi shook it once.
Brief.
Cold.
“This is Yoongi,” you told the man cheerfully. “My favorite person.”
Favorite person.
The ugly feeling eased instantly.
Then returned twice as hard when Minjae smiled at you.
“I can see why,” he said.
Yoongi sat down beside you before he could think about it.
Close enough that your knees brushed.
Territorial.
The realization should’ve alarmed him.
Instead it just felt necessary.
You, oblivious as always, happily explained.
“Minjae and I met through a friend!”
“Mhm,” Yoongi replied flatly.
“We’ve been talking for a few weeks.”
Something unpleasant crawled beneath his skin.
“A few weeks.”
“Yeah!”
Minjae glanced between the two of you.
There was a strange look on his face suddenly.
Careful.
Observant.
“You didn’t tell me your boyfriend was famous,” he said lightly.
You choked on your drink.
Yoongi froze.
“My what?”
“Boyfriend,” Minjae repeated.
“We’re not dating,” you said immediately.
Too quickly.
Why did that bother him?
Minjae looked unconvinced.
Then amused.
“Oh.”
Yoongi spent the rest of dinner in a mood foul enough that even you noticed.
On the walk home, you finally nudged his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You hated him.”
“I didn’t hate him.”
“You glared at him like he insulted your bloodline.”
“He talked too much.”
You gasped dramatically.
“The irony.”
“Tch.”
You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his again.
Yoongi glanced down at you.
Streetlights painted your face gold.
Your nose was pink from the cold.
You looked happy.
Happy.
And suddenly the idea of someone else making you happy felt unbearable.
The realization hit him so hard he physically stopped walking.
You turned immediately.
“Yoongi?”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He was in love with you.
Not a little.
Not maybe.
Hopelessly.
Devastatingly.
Completely.
And apparently everyone else on earth had known before him.
“Wow,” Jungkook said after Yoongi finally confessed during drinks one night. “That took you an insanely long time.”
Yoongi glared.
Jimin looked deeply entertained.
“You literally carry snacks for her in your bag.”
“Because she forgets to eat.”
“You stopped smoking as much because she worried.”
Yoongi frowned.
“She looked sad.”
Taehyung barked out a laugh.
“You bought an entire couch because she said your old one hurt her back.”
“It did hurt her back.”
Hoseok looked like he was trying not to scream.
“Yoongi,” he said carefully. “You are the most in love person I’ve ever met.”
The worst part?
Yoongi genuinely hadn’t realized.
Because every instinct he had regarding you happened automatically.
Holding umbrellas over your head.
Walking on the outside of sidewalks.
Saving the last bite of food for you.
Calling to make sure you got home safe.
Listening when you were upset.
Remembering every tiny detail about you like his brain had decided you were essential information.
Loving you had become muscle memory.
Something built directly into him.
How was he supposed to notice something that felt as natural as breathing?
“Are you gonna tell her?” Namjoon asked.
Yoongi immediately looked horrified.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because if he said it out loud, things would change.
And the thought terrified him.
What if you pulled away?
What if you became careful around him?
What if he lost this?
Lost you?
No.
Absolutely not.
He’d rather love you silently forever than risk you disappearing from his life entirely.
Unfortunately, being aware of his feelings now made him catastrophically worse at hiding them.
You noticed first.
Because of course you did.
“Why are you acting weird?” you asked one evening.
“I’m not.”
“You just handed me your credit card because I said I wanted ice cream.”
“You were already going to the store.”
“You looked offended when the cashier flirted with me.”
“He was annoying.”
“You called me beautiful.”
Yoongi nearly walked directly into a wall.
You stared at him suspiciously.
His ears burned.
“…Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
“You never call me beautiful.”
Because if he started, he’d never stop.
Because beautiful wasn’t enough anymore.
You were devastating.
Extraordinary.
Beloved.
But he couldn’t say those things.
So instead he muttered, “You are beautiful.”
Your expression softened instantly.
And Yoongi’s stupid heart nearly beat itself to death.
“You’re sweet,” you said quietly.
Sweet.
If only you knew.
The breaking point came seven months later.
You were crying.
And Yoongi hated when you cried.
Hated it in a visceral, violent way.
You sat curled into the corner of his couch while rain hammered against the windows outside.
“He said I’m hard to love.”
Yoongi’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
The man you’d dated briefly after Minjae.
The idiot.
“He’s wrong,” Yoongi said immediately.
You laughed bitterly.
“Yoongi.”
“He’s wrong.”
“You don’t have to—”
“He’s wrong.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
And something inside Yoongi cracked wide open at the sight of your pain.
“You are the easiest person in the world to love.”
Silence.
The room went still.
You stared at him.
Yoongi stared back.
His pulse thundered.
Because there it was.
The truth.
Raw and exposed between you.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Easy?”
Yoongi swallowed hard.
“When you’re tired, I know exactly how you take your tea because I’ve memorized it.” His voice was rough now. Honest in a way it had never been before. “When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. I hear songs and wonder if you’d like them. I see things you’d laugh at and save them for you automatically.”
Your eyes started watering again.
But differently this time.
“I don’t know when it happened,” Yoongi admitted quietly. “I think maybe it was always happening.”
His chest hurt.
God, it hurt.
“Loving you became so normal to me I didn’t even notice I was doing it.”
You looked shattered by the confession.
Yoongi forced himself to continue anyway.
“I’m in love with you,” he said softly. “I’ve probably been in love with you for a long time.”
The room stayed silent.
Then you whispered the words that nearly killed him.
“You idiot.”
Yoongi blinked.
“What?”
You surged forward suddenly, grabbing his face with both hands.
“You absolute idiot,” you repeated tearfully. “I’ve been waiting for you forever.”
And then you kissed him.
Yoongi made a broken sound against your mouth immediately.
Relief.
Shock.
Love.
Years and years of restrained affection collapsing at once.
His hands found your waist instinctively, pulling you closer like he physically couldn’t bear distance anymore.
You kissed him like you already knew him intimately.
Like this was inevitable.
Like home.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.
Yoongi rested his forehead against yours.
“You love me?” he asked quietly.
You looked at him with something unbearably tender.
“Yoongi,” you whispered, “you’ve loved me for years.”
He laughed softly then.
A little disbelieving.
A little overwhelmed.
Because maybe you were right.
Maybe every cup of coffee.
Every late-night phone call.
Every careful act of devotion.
Every instinct to protect you, comfort you, keep you close—
Maybe that had always been love.
He just hadn’t known there was a name for it.
You brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye.
“So?” you murmured. “What happens now?”
Yoongi looked at you.
Really looked at you.
At the woman who had quietly become the center of his life without him even realizing.
Then he kissed you once more.
Slow.
Certain.
Adoring.
And for the first time in years, Min Yoongi answered without hesitation.
“Now,” he said softly against your lips, “I love you properly.”
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
≔ ⋆⟢ pairing : (puppy boyfriend) kim seungmin x (girlfriend) female reader
◟ genre : hybrid au, fluff
◟ word count : 174
⬩➤ 「 warning 」 ᝰ. not proofread
“Hmmm?” Seungmin grumbled from where he sat, resting his head on his arm as he continued to observe you.
You stay quiet, although very aware that he had been staring. Your hand continues to scroll aimlessly on your phone boredly until you hear him sigh again for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. You set your phone onto your lap to give him your full attention.
“Something wrong, Minnie?”
“Yes, something is very wrong.”
“And what’s that?”
“Have you forgotten you have a boyfriend?”
“Uh no?”
“Then why haven’t you been cuddling me today like you usually do?”
“Awww is someone frustrated?”
“You know how I feel.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like it.”
“I do, I just didn’t want to admit it.”
“Aren’t you the cutest puppy? Alright, come here, I’ll give you my full attention, happy?”
“Very!”
He came running over, nearly tackling you as he rests his head onto your chest, listening to your heartbeat as your fingers massage his scalp wonderfully.
thinking about idol!jeongin interested in idol!reader who's his junior. . .
this was supposed to be a normal interaction between coworkers.
just a senior idol—god, it feels weird calling himself that, but it is factual—meeting his company's newly debuted junior from a girl group.
he'd heard a few whispers and muffled talks from the handful of cycling makeup artists and stylists that she was definitely talented, a shining diamond finally escaping the clutches of being a trainee.
but with you, nervous and starry-eyed, bowing deeply as he shook your hand and reciprocated, he couldn't help but think about how pretty you were.
you were merely supposed to be shooting a few tiktok's with him, promoting his group's new comeback while simultaneously promoting your debut album.
just a few silly dances and videos of you both lip-syncing song lyrics.
but o-ho-ho, it was not just a few silly dances.
there was more. in between the videos, if anyone was observant enough, they'd notice jeongin looking at her in the first few seconds of the video before the dance had started. they'd notice how he didn't mind getting touched by her, when she hesitantly patted his shoulder at the end of the tiktok dance, his hand covering yours enthusiastically.
and every time you messed up, or when he did, he'd laugh it off, make a silly joke to lighten the mood, smiling as he tried to observe how lively you were when you smiled.
he wanted to see more of it.
by the end of it all, you thanked him again once more, your faux confidence shown in the videos dropping, revealing your more reserved self, a little more self aware of everything, of him.
he noticed it. you didn't have the strength to hold eye contact with him for more than a few seconds, looking down immediately at anything else but his gaze.
"i- uhm, thank you, jeongin-sunbaenim." you bow once more, "it was great meeting you."
"it was a great experience meeting you as well," your name feels like honey on his tongue as he says it. you try and suppress the smile that comes from it.
he notices.
jeongin liked it. seeing you nervous. squirming.
he wanted to see more of it.
"can i get your number?" he asked, his reason for asking was to check up on you, flashing his fox-like grin, faux sincerity.
and you, who didn't know any better—and was still an extremely closeted fangirl—had practically smiled ear to ear, handing him your number with wide-eyed joy.
the events after that were smooth. with your days becoming a little bit sweeter when jeongin had randomly decided to pop up in your notifications, giving you positive messages, even as far as sending a picture of himself smiling with cheery text.
not wanting to leave your senior—and your crush—high and dry from a simple heart react at his message, you send back a photo.
unbeknownst to you, every time you reply, he can't help but smirk.
whenever he sent a vague message, one that would teeter the line of merely being a concerned senior idol to something more dangerous, how would you react?
he could imagine the sharp intake of your breath, suddenly flustered as you blink away the sudden inappropriate thoughts and reply back after he saw you typing for 3 minutes, merely saying 'thank you, sunbae!'.
it wasn't enough for him.
he needed you. to see you. to touch you. to watch you get nervous.
and somehow? all of those things happened. not suddenly—they were subtle, all through the span of both your promotion events. things you couldn't ever calculate as having ulterior motive.
a sudden handshake he gives at an awards show that you don't notice lingers for a moment longer than the ones he gives your members.
his foxlike gaze purposefully looking at your group members first before looking at you, then staring wistfully at you, yourself blissfully unaware.
walking past each other as he suddenly whispers something teasing in your ear, low and hushed. okay, well—that last one made you a little suspicious, more so flustered than anything. your red ears were enough proof.
at fashion events where both your groups had been personally invited to attend, he'd somehow find a way to detach himself from his group, finding you as he sidled up next to you.
he would always talk slow and relaxed, like he had all the time in the world when he conversed with you. in return, you replied in stark contrast, your answers shy and rushed.
maybe it was because of his gaze was the reason you couldn't help but be shy. he'd always, always look down at you with those eyes.
you didn't even notice how close he had shuffled next to you until you felt the fabric of his suit brush against your bare shoulder, the sudden contact making you involuntarily shiver.
"you okay?" he'd ask, his face and tone unreadable as he gave you a small cheshire-like smirk. you couldn't say anything that wouldn't seem silly, so you simply nodded and tiny smile, trying your best to compose yourself.
it felt weird. maybe you were overthinking things.
the texts of his having an odd undertone you couldn't quite place your finger on, his sudden aversion to touching—this one really threw you in for a loop, being a retired fan and all—dissipating whenever he socialized with you, and only you.
but that was just him being comfortable with you? right? right?
social media made your suspicions worse.
user1: don't mean to sound parasocial but is jeongin getting real touchy with y/n? i ain't never seen him act like this be4 🥀
user2: i.n is literally known for not liking skinship and physical touch unless its his members (occasionally), but all of a sudden, he's getting all close and personal with y/n at the FENDI fashion event?
↪ user3: he wants that cookie BADDD
user4: he defo is interested in y/n, it's my first time seeing him interact w a female idol this actively AND enthusiastically😭
user5: cannot deny the jeongy/n shippers bc wdym jeongin whispers something to her when their groups passed by each other and y/n was all blushy???
you decided taking a break from social media—and socializing with your seniors—in general was the healthiest option. just a small one-week break. a detox, if you will.
you didn't tell anyone but your fans on weverse.
unfortunately, that left jeongin unceremoniously in the dark—messages and photos left on delivered.
you suppose that's why the events that happened had led up to what was happening now.
the adrenaline of performing was still in your veins as you and your members walked off stage, cheering each other on as you nod and greet the next performers as you guys finally get back to your groups' room.
wanting some time alone with yourself to calm down, you excuse yourself to your group's leader, lying about needing to go to the bathroom.
strolling through the long hallways, you found yourself alone as you try to find a quiet place to rest your mind.
but you suppose life decided there was better—or worse, depending on how you think of it—things for you to experience.
because as you were innocently walking, your arm gets grabbed, pulling you into an unfamiliar room.
assessing the location and random merch they had laying strewn about the room; you quickly piece together that it was Stray Kids' designated room.
looking at the culprit who had pulled you by your arm, you look up wide-eyed.
"oh- jeongin sunbae. . .?"
"did i do something wrong?"
you blinked in confusion.
what is happening?
jeongin's hands hesitantly drag its way to your forearm, "if i did, please tell me."
"i- what? sunbae, what are you talking about? you did nothing wrong." your heart catches in your throat when his hands slide up your arm, slow and steady.
"you ghosted me."
"oh! that? no, sunbae. . . i was on a social media break."
"is that so?" you hum out a 'yes' to his question. "mmm, good."
before you could process it, your head was laying on his chest, his arms caging you in as he rested his head on your shoulder.
"thank god. . ." he muffled into your hair, your body tensing as you suddenly felt him slightly nuzzle in the expanse of your neck.
"jeongin sunbae?"
"i thought you were mad at me."
"mad? at you? i could never be mad at you, sunbae." you blurt out.
pulling away from the comfort of your neck, you look up to face jeongin's gaze.
he still hasn't let go of you, his arms still encasing you close to him.
"really?" he repeated, before you see his eyes dot down below your eyes, then back at you. "never?"
you were unsure of what to say, so nonverbally, you nod.
"don't say i didn't ask you first, y/n."
his hand traveled up to your cheek, before cradling it as he leaned in. he didn't go fully into you, nudging your nose. sensing no negative reaction—and seeing you instinctively lean in slightly as well—he then went in for the kill.
you tasted sweet. tangy. like your makeup artist had applied a flavored lip product on you. it didn't matter though; you'd have to ask them to reapply it again after he was done with you.
jeongin went slow, unhurried as he gauged your reaction, before deepening the kiss as he turned your head. you gasped at the sudden change, the boy using it to slip his tongue into your mouth a little.
both of your hands had started wandering. no heavy petting or groping, just hands fisting clothes tightly and hair grabbing.
your hand stayed tangled on the nape of his hair as he kissed your jaw, making a broken line of wet kisses all the way to your collarbone, before giving it a sudden suck.
"you really are fascinating to me." he mumbled out as he pulled away, looking at the beautiful mess he had created of you.
"jeongin sunbae-"
"just jeongin, please." he merely asked, before tucking a stray hair away from your face.
you nodded, your grin wide and joyous. he grinned back, the intimate moment now turned neutral and wholesome.
all of a sudden, your phone rang.
picking it up, nodding a little as apology to jeongin, he merely smiles back at you.
"y/n-ah, where the HELL are you?" your manager yells through the call, your panic instincts kicking in as you forgot you were only supposed to be gone for a moment.
motioning that you needed to go, the dark-haired boy let you go, only waving goodbye at you, before motioning for you to call.
closing the door and walking through the hallway as you mutter apologies and excuses to your manager, you turn sharply through a corridor and nearly bump into someone.
it was hyunjin. quickly recognizing him, you apologize quickly, the long-haired man merely waving you off as he observed your current frazzled state.
messy hair, scrunched up clothes, no more gloss on your lips.
he chalked it up to you being rushed after performance, so giving you one last goodbye, he walks back to his groups' designated room.
then he sees jeongin. in exactly the same state you were in. except he had lip gloss all over the expanse of his lips, a little smeared.
"oh, hyung. you're here?" the maknae nonchalantly called out, scrolling on his phone.
hyunjin smirked, before sitting next to him on the couch, "yeah, the others are still getting their food. you were alone this whole time?"
"yeah." was jeongin's only answer, his hyung observing every bit of microexpression.
"m'kay. whatever you say." hyunjin smiled.
either way if it was a mere coincidence or something he caught, he was definitely going to tell the others.
ack i miss writing for jeongin so bad. . . gotta get back into the groove ykyk
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✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x plus-size!female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Worst thing just happened to you, actually. You accidentally play a sexy audiobook out loud in the office. Thankfully, everyone assumes you just put someone on speaker. But things get complicated when you discover that the voice everyone heard might belong to the aloof IT guy at work… who happens to live a double life as Agust D, your favorite erotica narrator.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: fluff, smut, humor, non-idol, office romance (shocker!)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 18+ MDNI, voice kink, eventual smut...
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: 18+ only. MDNI. Yoongi in a white t-shirt (yep, that's a warning), JK is an idiot, Jay also has a secret life??, smut, kissing, fingering, yoongi loves titties, yoongi cums in his pants <3
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 6.4k 🔥
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: @tea4sykes
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Happy Festa, ARMY! <3 And happy 3k followers to this blog! Let this be my offering to the k-pop gods for blessing me a seat to BTS in Bulacan Day 3. ✨
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
Steve is still talking.
“Going forward,” Steve continues, voice rising with conviction, “I expect precision. If we can’t get the basics right, we might as well be monkeys.”
You nod once, like this is a completely reasonable use of everyone’s time, like you are deeply invested in his new policies to facilitate proper restroom decorum.
You are not.
You shift in your seat, already dissociating when you feel the heat of someone’s gaze. Fixed on you like glue.
You glance sideways and mhmm, Yoongi. Sunk into his chair like he couldn’t care less about anything happening in front because his eyes are locked on you.
Why is he… manspreading like he pays everyone’s salaries here?
You look away quickly, heat creeping up your neck, and turn your phone over from your lap.
You: is there something on my face?
YG.M: you didnt answer my text
You: cry about it 😛
YG.M: careful
You: pay attention to steve
YG.M: boring
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. When you look at him across from you, there’s a shit-eating grin now sitting pretty on his face. You text him back.
You: why u lookin smug tho?
YG.M: you really wanna know
You: i wouldn’t have asked
YG.M: i love knowing you get off on my voice
Fuck?! You drop your phone.
“Shit,” you breathe out.
A couple of your colleagues turn their heads, wincing when they realize you dropped your expensive Galaxy smartphone.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s okay,” you mumble quickly. Before you can bend to retrieve it, JK has already done it for you.
“Who you textin’?” JK whispers when everyone else has their attention back on the presentation.
“Nobody.”
“Nah. Don’t play.” He snickers, then, without another word, flips his notebook open and with the pen previously hanging from his ear, starts doodling on the corner.
You try to ignore him, you really do, because you have a feeling that whatever he is drawing is gonna be–
Oh what the fuck.
It’s a word you don’t quite read clearly but beside it, a shockingly detailed looking penis! Hairy balls and all!
You blink at him. Once. Twice. OMFG.
JK ducks his head between his knees, shaking as he tries to quiet his giggles.
You are horrified, but you stay still to not direct more attention to the two of you. This boy is sososososo stupid. How he scored a corporate job, you actually have no idea. Maybe he included a link to his thirst-trappy Tiktok in his resume.
“What is wrong with you,” you mouth when JK finally resurfaces, still red in the face.
He tilts his notebook to show you his “diagram” in full glory. There’s the word August and it’s beside a… yup, that.
JK grins, “Get it? Agust dick?”
You choke. Actually choke. You grab your tumbler, sipping aggressively before coughing into your fist. JK has the audacity to pat your back like a concerned colleague.
Steve pauses mid-sentence for half a second, zooming in on you before continuing. “…as I was saying…”
You sink lower into your seat. You hate it here. You especially hate JK. And Yoongi, too.
Your phone buzzes again. Fuck.
YG.M: u ok?
You inhale sharply, placing your phone screen down on your lap because you can’t handle this. These two are tag-teaming you in the worst way possible right now and you will not survive it.
Yoongi won’t leave you alone though. You can feel his cat-like eyes clawing into your line of vision.
You: quit it 😭
YG.M: you still thinking bout it?
You: shut up
YG.M: make me
Your entire body locks up.
Beside you, JK quietly adds more hair to his cartoon dick.
You physically cannot stay a second longer, so you slip out before Steve can say “toilet” again. Which is where you end up hiding for most of the townhall until someone eventually knocks.
“Y/N, you in there?”
Yoongi.
Of fucking course.
“Yeah…” you respond.
“You good?”
You crack the door open, check the hallway, and when the coast is clear, you grab his necktie and pull him in.
A wry smile tugs at his lips as he allows himself to be dragged inside, watching the door shut and lock with a soft whirr. “You okay? You were choking pretty hard back there.”
“Blame your cartoon dick,” you mumble lowly.
“What?”
You ignore the crease between his brows. “I”m fine. Why are you here?”
“I was concerned.”
You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “We just got an earful about restroom etiquette. I don’t think this is it.”
Yoongi’s shoulders bob as he chuckles silently. “You’re the one who pulled me in and now made this whole thing very sus.”
“Fuck.” He’s right. You hope no one spots you when you eventually get out. But you don’t let him get away with that. You need to maintain that this is his fault, not yours.
You huff indignantly, folding your arms on your chest. “Well you’re the one who’s been looking at me like…”
“Like what…?” he prompts, tone a little soft.
“Like you wanna eat me.”
“Well…” the corner of his mouth lifts. “Maybe I do?”
You shake your head at him, failing to hide the giddy smile that is threatening to spread on your face. Ah fuck it. This is so undeniable. You want him. He wants you. You’re in a locked room. Why are you still holding back?
Heels clicking against tile, you close the very small gap between your bodies but why are his palms on your shoulders, holding you in place?
Yoongi leans in so your faces are inches apart, eyes level. “Need to ask you something first.”
Your eyes fixate on his mouth as he speaks. Lips soft and plump and pink. You’ve stared at them for a while now and you’ve always wondered how they’d feel against your own.
You surprise yourself with the command in your tone. “Ask it. Then, kiss me.”
A warm, amused exhale grazes your cheek. “Want me to kiss you, hmm? In this shitty toilet?” He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, cupping your jaw gently. “Or do you want it when I can take my time with you?”
There’s almost nothing between you now. Just a sliver of space that feels criminal. One move and it’s gone. You want it—god, you do—but not like this. Not rushed. And not here beside the fucking bidet.
“The second,” you mumble, grey matter still mush.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, before slowly pulling away.
He doesn’t really stray that far and without thinking, your hands move to his chest, straightening the tie you’d bent out of shape when you pulled him in.
You smooth the fabric down, fingertips brushing over the firm planes beneath. The tiniest smile forms on his lips but it’s enough to make you swoon.
“Give me a second. I’ll text Jay, so we can get outta here...” He fishes out his phone from his pocket, eyes soft and almost fond. Yours probably look the same.
After a few minutes, there’s a knock and a voice. “It’s me.”
You emerge and the cool A/C air hits your skin, dousing the earlier heat from inside.
“You kids had fun?” Jay quips when you emerge, patting Yoongi on the shoulder.
Yoongi completely ignores him, pace quickening towards the lifts, then he’s gone like the wind.
You also take that as your cue to briskwalk the other way, while Jay’s giggles echo across the now empty corridor.
You find yourself on the phone with Yoongi quite often. This is the fourth time this week. You haven’t really done anything crazy, not like the last time. But you have talked a lot.
Although you’ve heard his voice many times before from your app and his corporate tone in the office, this normal version is even more soothing. Especially when every word is meant for you, even if the things he says are mundane.
“Fuuuuck,” Yoongi groans. “Tang just shat on the rug!”
You giggle as you hear Yoongi’s faraway voice cussing in the background, while a cat purrs an argument back at him.
A different voice takes over. “Hey, seatmate.”
Mhm. “What do you want, Jay?”
Ever since the toilet incident, Jay has become friendlier with you. Less judging, more teasing.
“Yoongi just rawdogged Tang’s fecal matter by the way,” Jay narrates with a shudder.
“I didn't need to know that.” You say, adjusting your ear buds on one ear as you close the fridge door with your hip.
“Well what do you want to know then?”
“Nothing…?”
“Hmm. I don’t believe you.”
“What?”
Jay giggles. “You’ve been talking to Yoongi every night this week and it’s almost the weekend...”
“Okay??”
“So aren’t you coming over instead?”
Your entire face heats instantly so you take a sip of water. “Are you wingmanning him right now?”
“He’s not always as smooth as you think,” Jay snorts.
“Oh, FUCK—” A loud crash echoes somewhere in their apartment. You can hear Yoongi’s loud shriek.
“What the hell is going on there?”
Jay is howling in laughter. “Tang–zoomies–poop everywhere…”
In the background, Yoongi yells: “WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE?”
You can’t help but laugh along with Jay, the mirth in his voice making you feel warm, too. Honestly, this might be the most affection you’ve ever felt for two men and a cat.
It’s obvious though that the cat-astrophe needs to be dealt with pronto. “I should probably go. Good luck with that,” you manage between giggles. “Tell Yoongi I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Jay says, still giggling. “Night, seatmate.”
Then, farther away: “Tell her I said bye!”
“Switching to speaker,” Jay says.
“Bye Yoongi,” you say and end the call with the dumbest grin on your face. You peel off your collagen sheet mask that’s practically dry on your face now, and call it a night.
You expect Jay and Yoongi’s apartment to be nice. But not whatever this is.
“You live here?” you ask as Yoongi shuts the door, the automatic lock beeping after him.
He shrugs once, serious. “No, I actually sleep in the server room at work. Just here to fix Jay’s wi-fi.”
“Ha-ha.” You deadpan, but any snark dies the second you really step in. Because this is money money. Like porn industry money. Does Yoongi make bank in Echo? Now you’re a little curious.
The flat is massive. Every piece of furniture looks carefully curated from the cream-coloured sectional to dark wood accents and sleek appliances that are probably linked to an app.
Mikro Tech absolutely cannot be paying enough for them to live like Tony Stark.
“What the hell,” you mumble under your breath as you point to an entire shelf of rare bearbricks decorating one entire wall. There’s a Louis Vuitton KAWS and a bedazzled one that also looks dope as hell.
Yoongi shrugs like none of this is remotely shocking. “Jay is a bearbricks collector.”
“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you reply, still in shock.
“You want one?” He says as you continue to admire the lot. He even has a Barbie limited edition.
“He’d notice if one disappeared,” Yoongi says thoughtfully. “But not immediately.”
You shake your head. “That’s a staggering amount of money on one corner of your house, Yoongi.”
“Jay has a lot of side quests.” Yoongi explains vaguely.
“Alright,” you nod, thinking you don’t really want to press him for details about this eccentric friend. “Where is he anyway?”
“Not here.” His eyes immediately land on you and the grin that spreads across his face is immediate and deeply annoying. “It’s just you and me.”
You nod dumbly, heartbeat going haywire with what he just said.
Yoongi walks toward the kitchen. “You eat yet?” he asks over his shoulder. Truth is you were too nervous when you made plans with him for after-hours drinks. You also wanted to ensure you fit comfortably in this cute little dress you picked out, so you skipped dinner.
“Sort of?”
“Mm. That means no.”
“Oh,” you remember something when you see the jar of kibbles on a marble counter. “Where’s the infamous Tang?”
“Jay has him.” Yoongi says quickly. “Like I said, it’s just us.”
Us.
Two letters that got your brain spinning out as he leads you to the kitchen. He takes off the gray sweater he has on, leaving the white undershirt that clings to his chest and arms in the most delectable way possible. It’s over for you.
A few minutes later, you’re watching Yoongi make dinner. Based on what he’s laid out, he is about to serve you kimchi fried rice. Simple dish but a crowd favorite. There’s another tupperware with a dark brown marinade, unmistakably bulgogi waiting to be transferred to the cast iron pan he’s placed over the fire.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s a good cook. He’s moving around the kitchen with confidence and familiarity and as a home cook yourself, you’re very impressed.
“Didn’t know you knew how to cook,” you remark.
He gives you a look. “I’m great at it, actually.”
“Hm. I’ll be the judge of that.”
He huffs out a laugh over the sizzle of the pan.
Eventually, Yoongi pushes a bowl of rice towards you, garnishes it with seaweed and sesame seeds. Then he tops it with a fried egg, edges crisp and golden, straight from the pan.
The bulgogi follows soon after, glossy with marinade and still crackling from the heat. It’s stupidly good. Savory, sweet, smoky. Fried with just the right amount of char.
“Okay,” you say after the second bite, pressing a napkin on your lips. “You pass.”
Yoongi blows at his knuckles and wipes it off his shirt, entirely pleased with himself.
“Here.” You hold out your spoon to him, bit of yolked rice and beef, the perfect bite. He accepts it with a smile.
And god, this is so fuckin’ nice. Being with him in his home. Laughing and bantering over an aromatic meal. The domesticity is not suffocating at all. Just sweet and comfortable. You could get used to this.
After you finish eating, Yoongi gives you a little house tour, and every room somehow looks like it belongs in an architectural digest. These two are loaded, no doubt.
The balcony alone is ridiculous, all glass railings and a sprawling view of the city Seoul glittering below. They have a small lounge setup there, wicker chairs and a glass table with an ash tray in between. A barbeque grill is off to the side and you highly suspect Yoongi is good at that, too.
Inside, the entertainment setup is equally obscene. A massive television takes up nearly an entire wall, surrounded by towering speakers and neatly stacked gaming consoles from every era.
“You guys are such nerds,” you say with barely controlled lust.
“Jay bought most of that,” Yoongi explains. “Our friends like to hang out here once in a while.”
“I thought you didn’t have friends.”
“I don’t like people. But people like me.” He shrugs with a bracket-like grin. “I’m cute.”
You shake your head, hella endeared even if you don’t want to let it show lest it gets to his head.
“Is this them?” You spot a small framed picture of Yoongi and Jay, with two tall, also good-looking guys flanking them.
“Yeah, that’s Jin and Joon.”
You hum, still studying the pic. College dorm party for sure with the way they are holding solo cups as red as Jay’s face.
“Gonna give me their number or what?”
The wry laugh that huffs out of him... Oh you may be in trouble for that little quip.
“Mm. Which one?”
“Both. I’m greedy.”
Another “Mm.”
The hole you’re digging is getting deeper.
“Whatever you want.” He says cryptically and you follow him to another room.
His. It’s surprisingly simple. Clean. A single hoodie tossed over a chair. A diffuser humming softly near the window.
The bed is enormous. He’s mentioned that he takes sleep very seriously and it shows. Dark sheets beneath a thick comforter, oversized pillows stacked neatly against the headboard like the kind of bed where you already know you’d bounce a little if he threw you onto it before god knows what.
Then your eyes drift upward. One of the bedposts has a scarf loosely tied around it.
Hmm.
You clear your throat, suddenly very interested in literally anything else in the room. Because that’s not purely decorative and you damn well know it.
Behind you, a quiet puff of amusement escapes Yoongi before he lightly taps the doorframe.
“C’mon,” he says. “I wanna show you something else.”
He leads you down a short hallway toward another room, sliding a ‘Recording in Progress’ sign into place before pushing the door open with a small nod.
“Is this where the magic happens?” you ask, realizing this is probably his studio.
He gestures to you to enter first. “We’ll see…”
Oh the recording setup is insane.
He’s got this massive monitor against one wall while microphones, mixers, and headphones sit arranged with meticulous care across the desk. Acoustic panels line the walls and soft ambient lighting makes the whole room feel quite intimate.
He can’t just be doing audio book recordings with all this because, wow, this is state-of-the-art music equipment.
“So this is where Agust D lives?” you muse, taking everything in.
Yoongi pushes off against the doorway. “Unfortunately.”
The door clicks behind him.
There are printed scripts scattered nearby, pages full of highlighted notes and scribbled annotations in Yoongi’s handwriting. He has annotations on where he needs to speak faster, or slower, or lower. He also has comments on how certain passages should feel.
“You really take this seriously.”
You feel his palms against your shoulders, pressing his thumb along your traps and there’s an immediate rush of satisfaction there as he kneads it lightly.
“I like doing things right,” he says. And if he meant something else by that. Well.
He motions you toward the couch tucked into the corner of the room. “Sit.”
You obey immediately, smoothing your dress as you take a seat.
Yoongi settles into his computer chair and swivels toward the monitor, pulling on his headphones on his neck before glancing back at you. “I’ve got new material to record tonight.”
Your eyes light up instantly. “Seriously?”
A small smile tugs at his mouth at your excitement. “Yeah… Thought you’d want to see the behind the scenes?”
“Okay,” you answer meekly. “Sure.”
Yoongi clears his throat once, eyes flicking toward the script, and you shift with anticipation. You curl deeper into the couch, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, because getting a private recording session with Agust D was not in your bingo card.
But you thank your lucky stars that you’re right here right now.
Fifteen minutes later, well… it’s not been great. But honestly, you had this coming.
There’s a dampness between your thighs that’s gotten increasingly unbearable with every passage he reads, every subtle shift in his tone, every low rasp that settles straight into your pussy instead of your ears.
And the worst part?
Of course he knows what this shit does to you.
You can tell by the way his eyes keep drifting toward you over the edge of the script, watching every little reaction you fail to hide.
“The way she looked at him,” Yoongi reads smoothly, fingers lazily tapping against the desk, “like she already knew she’d let him ruin her…”
Your thighs press together instinctively. His gaze drops down and a slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Fuck.
He keeps going.
“He slid his hand higher beneath her skirt,” he says, voice dropping lower now, softer, “touching her soft, luscious thighs, squeezing them, seeing if she would tremble for him again.”
You’re trembling, too. And the asshole notices. You can barely see the mischief in his lips behind the pop filter, but his feline eyes betray him.
“Yoongi,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah?” he asks innocently.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
“Hm.” He adjusts slightly in his chair. “Doing what?”
You can’t even answer because he starts reading again before you get the chance, and now you're 10,000% sure this is punishment for the stupid joke you made about his two friends.
“She tried to stay quiet,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours now instead of the script entirely, “but every sound he pulled from her only got more and more desperate until she couldn't take it anymore...”
Beads of sweat are dappling your neck and you swipe it with the back of your palm.
You shift deeper into the couch, pulse (and something down south) beating wildly as Yoongi watches you with incredible stoicism, like he’s studying exactly how far he can push you before you snap.
And honestly? You’re getting criminally close.
Although your throat is so dry, you lick your lips, waiting with bated breath to hear the next line, when Yoongi pauses, swinging the mic to the side.
“Ah. This line is always tricky,” Yoongi says casually, reaching for a pen to scribble notes onto the script. “But it’s important.”
Your voice comes out weaker than intended. “What is it?”
He lifts his eyes towards you with unmistakable intention.
“Do you think I should say this slower… Like with short breaths in between?” His voice drops immediately into performance mode. “‘Come… for… me…’” Each word is drawn out carefully, breath catching softly between syllables.
Mayday!!!
Your stomach flips violently.
Then, without missing a beat, his tone changes entirely.
“Maybe it should be more commanding? Like…” His eyes stay locked on yours, words dripping from his lips like syrup. “‘Come for me.’”
Holy fuck!
You physically feel heat crawl up your neck and choke you like vines. Because both versions work horrifically well. Diabolical how clinical he’s pretending to be about it, like he’s asking for genuine artistic feedback and not saying the exact kind of shit that could ruin your ability to form coherent thoughts for the rest of the night.
You’re staring at him, mouth agape. Maybe this is what he wants in the first place.
Yoongi notices immediately and a tiny smile threatens at the corner of his mouth as he taps a pen lightly against his chin. “Well?”
“I think,” you say carefully, voice embarrassingly thin. “You should stop looking at me when you say things like that.”
He hums, completely unhelpful. “You don’t like it?”
“Yoongi.” You chastise, even though you wish he’d do the things he’s read to you instead of mocking you from two feet away.
“Okay,” he raises both hands up in surrender. “I’ll switch it up.”
You sigh, nostrils flaring as he rifles through the pages of the script like he’s looking for something in particular.
It’s definitely a more subdued scene he decided to read while you take your time to catch your breath, sipping on the water bottle that he handed you earlier.
The sequence is about a couple on a romantic date. Their conversation is cute, the banter reminiscent of a romantic comedy. Soon, you were getting into the plot. You giggle softly at the well written banter. As the couple gets deeper into their night, it becomes apparent that the male character finally wants to make his confession.
Yoongi’s eyes lift from the script and it goes straight to you again.
“The truth is,” he reads quietly, voice gentle, “I knew I was done for when talking to you started becoming the best part of my day. And well, I’m hoping it’s become yours, too.”
You gulp.
Why is he looking at you like that?
Maybe you’re projecting. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. But suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s reading dialogue anymore. It feels like he’s saying it to you. And if you’re really being honest with yourself? Talking to him has become the best part of your day, too.
So before you can think better of it, you go.
You push yourself off the couch and cross the room in quick strides until you’re standing right in front of him, heart on your sleeve.
Yoongi’s mouth parts in a cute O-shape and he barely has time to pull the headphones down around his neck before your hands cup his face and your lips press firmly against his.
For one charged second, he goes still.
Then he kisses you back. Hard. Jaw flexing under your nervous hands as he opens his mouth and his tongue immediately finds its way inside, curling against yours.
You taste him, finally, still sweet from the spoonful of honey he had before recording, and the thought you’re savoring the flavor from him makes you spiral.
One hand slides around the back of your neck while the other settles against your waist, pulling you closer until your thighs bump against the arms of his chair.
“Yoongi, stop…” you straighten. “The chair might give.”
“It won’t,” he says instantly, distracted, already kissing you again before the sentence fully lands. But the chair creaks ominously beneath the shift of your weight and you pull back with wide eyes.
“Couch,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he exhales quickly. “Okay. Fuck.”
The curse slips out under his breath before he’s surging to his feet and your lips collide again, desperate and uncoordinated, because apparently now that you know how it feels, neither of you can wait longer than three seconds without devouring each other.
Yoongi drops onto the cushions, silently urging you over to him. This time, you’re not thinking twice. You straddle his lap, skirt fanning across his pants to hide the utter filth between your legs.
Slowly you settle down, your core resting against his center, and you think there’s no use being shy now. Not when the moist heat from your panties is sure to seep into his gray sweats. Not when the second your weight presses against him, Yoongi’s head falls back against the couch with a shaky exhale, Adam's apple prominent as he swallows.
So that catches your attention immediately.
Because suddenly he doesn’t look smooth anymore. He looks affected. By you.
Yoongi’s hands spread over your thighs underneath your skirt, glides up towards the curve of your hips before traveling towards your ass, lingering there, squeezing, coaxing you to roll forward.
“Jesus…” he breathes, eyes falling shut briefly. “You feel so good.”
“Mm.” You moan with a push of your hips.
Fingers pass through your strands before he pulls you back in and your mouths crash against each other. You don’t care that you bump noses, or that your teeth knock accidentally.
Making out with Yoongi turns pathetically messy fast. Yoongi chases you every time your mouth puckers and parts from his by even an inch. Soft pulls at your bottom lip one second, then sharp, almost bruising pressure the next that the constant switch makes your thoughts come apart.
His hands roam restlessly along your skin, thumbs stroking slowly over the softness at your waist, fingertips digging gently into your hips.
After a while, his slick mouth slows down deceptively, before the scrape of his teeth against your plush draws a whine out of you. He passes his tongue over it to soothe the sting, perfectly soft and warm and sinful.
“Been thinking ‘bout this,” he smiles against your lips before moving to kiss the underside of your jaw. “Been thinking about how I’m gonna ruin you.”
Fuck. Yoongi’s good. Too good at this. The way he kisses is making you feel dizzy and the way he touches is making you wild that you don’t realize that you’ve been grinding hard against him until you hear him grunt when the hard tip of his cock pokes your clothed cunt.
Sweat is accumulating on your back, temperature rising between both of you. You briefly wonder why your clothes are still on, but if you’ll be honest, the alternative scares you.
Yoongi’s hands slip beneath your cardigan, easing it off your shoulders carefully before tossing it on the arm rest of the couch. The cool air against your heated skin feels nice at first, until awareness crashes in right after it.
Your arms.
Instinctively, you want to fold into yourself a little, suddenly hyperaware of how big they are uncovered like this. You’ve spent years hiding them beneath sleeves and oversized layers without even thinking about it anymore.
But Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice any of that. Or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t give a shit.
Because the moment more skin is revealed, his attention shifts there immediately, mouth pressing slow kisses along your shoulder like he’s been wanting to do it for a while now. He noses the tender skin under your ear. His hands move carefully over you, unhurried, fingertips grazing your sides with something dangerously close to reverence.
How do people even do this again?!
You can barely remember the last time someone touched you like this. Barely remember how to kiss properly, let alone whatever comes after.
“Y/N.”
You blink.
Yoongi’s looking at you now instead of kissing you, brows drawn slightly together like he noticed the exact second you disappeared into your own head.
“What is it?” he asks quietly.
“I—umm…”
His thumb strokes once against your waist. “Am I doing something wrong? Cos you’re here,” his hand slides lightly up your arm, “but you’re not with me right now.”
The concern in his voice makes shame curl low in your stomach.
“No, no…” You bite your lip hard enough to stop it trembling. “I just…I haven’t done this in a while. I think I forgot how to be good at it.”
Yoongi’s expression softens instantly.
“Baby,” he says gently, like the answer is obvious. “You don’t gotta be anything for me except yourself.”
And somehow, that wrecks you more than all the filthy lines he’s said all night long.
You let out a slow breath and slowly, almost shyly, you’re slipping the straps of your dress down, one shoulder and then the other. Your hands immediately move on top of the bodice cupping your breast to catch it before it falls.
Yoongi wets his lips, eyes transfixed on your chest and a sharp hiss is drawn when you finally push the fabric down to reveal yourself to him.
“Holy shit…” Yoongi catches his breath, takes exactly one second before asking: “Can I feel them?”
Oh he already looks wrecked. He really is just a man, isn’t he? Heavenly in that white tee, but looking like he’d go through hell just to have you.
Teeth catching your bottom lip, you nod.
Yoongi’s hands are deliciously big and warm as they cup the underside of your breasts, giving it an enthusiastic squeeze and you feel his dick twitch when he does so.
“You like them?”
He nods greedily. “Fuckin’ love your tits. They feel amazing.”
You gasp when he swipes his thumbs across your nipples, watching your mouth part with every stroke.
“You’re sensitive, huh?”
“Yeah…”
It’s becoming genuinely difficult to remember how thinking works. Especially when he dips his head low and sucks your nipple gently, slowly into the heat of his mouth. He looks up and oh lord, you can genuinely come right now. The intensity of his gaze, the pressure against your chest, his teasing nibbles before he wraps his lips around the puffy skin and tugs your nipple with his teeth.
“Oh my god…” you whimper, eyes falling shut as your head tips back and your back arches to push your chest even more towards him.
You slide your nails along the back of Yoongi’s head, keeping him there, scratching his scalp as he continues to lavish your tits.
“Mmm that feels so, sooo good…”
You close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of his wet tongue slipping and sliding across your chest. You're indulging in the sounds too, the faint schlup schlup schlup from his repeated suckling, and a soft pop when he releases your reddened nub.
“I can do this all day,” Yoongi says when you finally open your eyes to his smirking mouth. “This okay?” He asks, and you realize he’s referring to the fingers that have migrated underneath your skirt, rubbing your inner thigh.
“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.
He hooks your damp panties out of the way and bony digits slide against your warm heat. He groans appreciatively, lower lip going white with how hard he’s biting it.
It feels real good, and you can’t help but moan when his knuckle bumps against that one spot that holds all your sanity right now.
“You’re already so messy for me.”
“I am,” you admit, suddenly so honest. “I’ve been wet since you started recording.”
“Yeah?” he grins, nodding like that was the plan all along. The little shit.
“Is that your brand of foreplay?”
“I haven’t really brought anyone here before. You’re the first.” He says, all the while swiping your folds lazily and leaning to kiss the soft spot where your shoulder meets your neck.
Something very pleasant unfurls in your chest.
“Yoongi, please…”
“Please what?”
“Can you make me come now?”
He smiles, all pink gums and a nose scrunch, oddly looking shy and boyish like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your cunt.
“You want it?”
“Want it so bad.”
“I need to hear you though. I don’t want you all shy and shit…”
You do feel shy, but the moment he wiggles his thumb directly on your clit, you scream, bracing yourself on his biceps for support.
“Oh god.”
“Poor, needy, pretty baby,” he says, planting a quick kiss on your lips. “I got you. Lemme just…”
Fuck.
He plunges two, maybe three fingers inside your slick hole. You don’t know anymore. You don’t know a fucking thing, because all sane thoughts have left your brain. Maybe permanently.
“Shit!”
“Ease me in, baby. Don’t rush,” he says.
You whimper a little, swivelling your hips in tiny circles, while Yoongi slowly massages your walls, letting you get used to the intrusion.
All you’re concerned about is riding his skillful fingers, bucking your hips. It doesn’t take long for you to really start grinding against him with more weight, encouraged by each filthy praise spilling out his lips.
“Beautiful,” he says, breath dissolving into the damp skin on your chest. “There we go.”
“Oh my godddd, Yoongi.”
“Your pussy always gets like this or is it just for me?”
“Just for you. You made me so fucking wet.”
You press your forehead against his temple, your lips trembling against his ear. “Can’t wait to have your cock inside me.” You flick your tongue on his lobe, trailing along the cartilage and that makes him buck up once so suddenly, your ass bouncing against his flexed thigh.
Tears are pricking the edge of your lashes, overwhelmed by all the sensations you haven’t felt in a long, long time. You fuck his fingers quicker now, each pass of his calloused fingertips against your gummy walls brings you closer and closer to your demise. And when he curls it just right to hit that spongy inner crevice, you take two seconds before pleasure explodes from inside of you so forcefully, it coats his palms and your thighs and his pants and oh god, you’re still going…
White noise rings inside your ear drum and the static buzzing through your veins feels almost like your body isn’t your own as you melt against him.
“One more,” Yoongi rasps against your throat, biting your neck and suddenly you’re feral again. Your hips find a life of their own, canting forward, chasing the primal sensations he’s coaxing out of you so effortlessly.
He flicks your nipple with the blunt tip of his thumb, pleasure so crazy you don’t think you’ve ever been this greedy for someone. You whine like a bitch in heat as you continuously rock against him. God you’re so close you can almost taste it.
And you do taste it, him, when he leans in to kiss you, twirling his tongue against yours, timed with each swirl of his thumb against your swollen clit.
Your thighs quiver as you feel it coming fast and hard. And finally your second orgasm crashes like a tidal wave, your mouth hanging open as you pour yourself into him.
What.
The.
Hell.
“That’s a good girl,” he says, pressing a gentle peck on your cheek, and his free arm circles your body as you dissolve into him in the aftermath.
“Fuck, that was good,” you giggle into the words, unable to hide your delight.
“Damn right it was.” You finally notice how breathless he’s become.
“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m probably too heavy.” Warily, you move to the other side of the couch, while Yoongi stays there, legs still spread out as if you didn’t crush him for however long that was.
“Love having you on top of me,” he says, all starry-eyed, licking his fingers as he tilts his head to observe you as you pull the straps of your dress back over your shoulders.
Your eyes fall to his light-colored sweats and holy shit you made a fuckin’ mess. “Oh my god, I—“
Even before embarrassment can fully settle, Yoongi replies simply and reassuringly. “It’s not all you.”
Wait. Is he saying what you think he’s… No, hold up, because did you just make him...? IN HIS PANTS?
You gawk at him and he winks, still looking positively dazed.
Why is he so fucking hot?
But it's another thought that bubbles up from your throat. “You’re a freak, Yoongi Min.”
“I am.” He smiles, all watery and satisfied as he reaches for your hand and laces it with his. “We should do this again.”
“I wasn’t aware it had ended.”
The gummy grin that breaks across his face is immediate.
“Bedroom?” you suggest.
“Bedroom.”
He glances toward the recording desk, then his expression changes. "Ah shit."
You follow his glance. "What?"
Yoongi laughs wryly and looks at you for a second before he comes clean, eyes sparkling. "I forgot to stop recording."
Son of a—
chapter five
A/N: Bitches wassup? Heh. I always appreciate your notes and reblogs, so please leave some love if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human xo
genre: fluff; angst; established relationship, idol au; workaholic reader gets pampered by workaholic yoongi
warnings: cursing, banter, slight angst, and a shit ton of fluff ?
word count: 2.2k
author's note i am loving this producer reader au and i will be keeping at it until i throw up from being sick of it :) i hate writing dialogue just for the record, ugh (in any situation, not just fic related stuff) but i'm doing my best! lowkey burnt out and don't have any ideas at the moment so, send away!
summary: wherein yoongi doesn’t want to see you overexert yourself in work, so he takes care of you (or min yoongi's love language)
it was way past midnight.
you were in your studio, spending the fourth night in a row there. the low hum of the air conditioning and the looping track playing from your earphones as your only company.
you were ardently standing there, having a staring contest with the microphone. a side of your huge headphones covering one ear while the other one pulled just slightly above it, not fully concealing the other just in case somebody called out.
[2:24 am] myg: you up?
the text interrupts the quietude of your studio that had been marinating for quite some time now followed by a few notifications after.
[2:24 am] myg: i sent you something. let me know when you get it and let me know
[2:25 am] myg: what you think about it
you sigh. you weren't particularly aware of the time until he texted. only then had you realized how late it was; accounting for the dead building that crept past your studio. but the nature of your job had you getting used to adapting a temporary nocturnal lifestyle that involved sleeping at 9:00 am in the morning and staying up until 4:00 am the next day. you knew it wasn't healthy; you weren't doing the right thing. but honestly, who's ever done the right thing especially when they were so immersed in their work?
[2:32 am] myg: ok i'll drop by
[2:32 am] myg: just need to wrap up
you gather your things and exit the recording booth, stumbling on a few things scattered on the floor. you take a look around your studio and discover how filthy your living situation had become for the past few weeks. filthy was probably an overstatement; you liked to keep things clean, get unnecessary things out of the way. but this was quite grimy compared to what you were used to. should probably clean up before he arrives, you thought.
but you were tired. still not quite in the right mood to do all the tidying—picking up the plastic bottles, rearranging some of the wires that were left tangled on the floor as well as the pieces of clothing left on the couch. he was probably busy, and probably wouldn’t come around for another few hours was, your rough guess.
and so you let it be. grabbing your laptop and sit on the couch, pushing away some of the clutter, deciding to do the rest of your work there instead. but that turned out to be a bad idea because just a few minutes in, your eyes started to get heavy and you started to lean on the couch more often. a week's worth of sleep was chasing you and decided that now was the time to pay your debt.
you should have also know better that whatever yoongi says, yoongi does; because you hear somebody input the password to your door and it opens a few seconds later to reveal a yoongi.
"hey," he peeks into the door, voice quiet. you could hear the slight strain it had. he was probably working as much as you were before he came.
"hey." your eyes follow him as he switches his outside shoes for inside ones, not anticipating a visitor, at least not for a couple more hours. yet you still forced a flat, evidently tired, smile out of your face.
you tear a piece of your earphones out of your ear, legs crossed, laptop open, and hair a mess, as if it had been ruffled around or pulled, before in desperation of extracting an idea from your brain.
he carefully settles in. the familiar natural scent he had mixing with his perfume creeps into the room. a bag in one hand, the other on the door frame, guiding him as he goes inside.
"you ate yet?"
"i think," you answer without looking at him and you scoot over to the side, gathering the scarves, jacket, and other clothes to make room for him to sit down.
"i'm asking if you ate." he chuckles, amused at your attempt to dodge the question, twist it in a way that makes sense but also doesn't.
he sits next to you, clothed arm brushing against your shoulders. the bag he was holding with his left hand settles down onto the table, right next to her notebook and a pile of paper, discarded lyrics you couldn't quite let go of just yet.
"heard from hobi that you might still be in here."
"hmm," a mindless reply. you were tired.
he gradually leans forward, looking at what you had on your screen for a few seconds before quickly batting his eyes to look at you instead. you could feel his breathing: slow, deliberate, exhausted. you pursed your lips, trying to think of something, anything else other than the presence next to you.
how you wished something as simple as a look from him wouldn't throw you off so much, but it does, and he knows it.
you give up, sighing. you lean back, resting your head against the wall. he takes this chance and gently removes your hand from the mouse, taking it into his, cautiously moving the track back to the beginning. he takes just a quick glance at you to which you nod at for consent, and plays it.
the sound fills the small space, clearly unfinished—evidently spent. it sounded like what you had envisioned, but just not in a way that satisfied you, still missing something.
"not bad. good enough for you to take a break." he comments hoping to sway you, peering at your reaction.
you grimace.
you turn to him and see that he had a look on his face. it was quick, but it was there. one that you knew all too well. just confirming something that you had been trying to put off for so long now: you were burnt out, and you desperately needed a break.
"god, this is fucking with me, really." you murmur, taking your hands to your face, pushing some stray hair away and taking a large inhale, exhausted.
this was one thing that you had in common. both similarly enamoured in creating, making sure every second in a piece had its purpose. something that was worth talking about. sewing beats and melodies into precise proportions that felt comfortable and snug but ones that also suffocated and strangled when it needed to.
however, you also periodically became too absorbed that in return you just shut everything off—especially him. not knowing when to return; only ever stopping when he has nothing left to give, pushing past the limit. you had always been so conscious about it, pointing it out whenever you see the him spiral.
but sometimes it's just too much.
and he doesn't always have the right words to say that he was descending again. dubious on how he should tell you that it was getting bad again. so bad that whenever he sinks, he unknowingly brings you with him.
it happens frequently than he would have wanted and starts with a few nights spent overtime in the studio that turn into weeks, bad days that come one after the other.
it occasionally brings out the worst in him. But no matter how difficult he can get, how critical—especially to himself, you just kept on understanding; bringing your light, sharing it for the both of you. never asking nor wanting anything in return.
and it had become yoongi's silent oath to not let you wander the same path. not wanting to see you in situations he has experienced before. loving you in quiet, covert ways—the way he knows how.
"you should eat." he suggests, yawning as he stretches his arms.
"what's this?" you pry open the bag and immediately got blown away by the savory smell you've always had during nights like these but was too tired to make it yourself: mandu-guk.
you sigh dramatically, exaggeratedly, and turn to face yoongi who was radiating nervous energy; he knew what was coming.
all of a sudden, you take his face and cup it in your hands, looking at him like how you would encourage a child who took their first steps. you tell him how grateful you are in a melodramatic way and immediately pepper his face with kisses, leaving him squirming underneath. 'yah, yah, stop!' he scolds with the biggest smile on his face.
he absolutely loathes receiving physical affection—or any kind of affection, really. and would prefer to show it through small gestures, the complete opposite of how you were. and so, it became your mission that whenever you do, you would crank it up ten times more to sway him, purposefully annoying him, despite finding it quite cringe as well.
but seeing the big smile on this man tells you he's right exactly where he wants to be. he smiles, proudly. deep inside this is what he came here for.
you eventually settle after wrestling him down with your hugs and appreciation as he questions his life choices beside you, while you enthusiastically open up your food.
you pick up utensils he's included inside the bag and take a bite, and then a few more.
"good?"
you just nod and give him a thumbs up, savoring the well-curated taste in your mouth.
it's your pout and the puppy eyes that come with it that does him. you try to trigger any kind of reaction in him just for fun. jutting down your lower lip and bat your eyelashes the best you can, as you await his reaction: scrunching his face in horror. you complete it with the most ridiculous aegyo voice as well.
"aww, thank you ba-"
"don't" he interjects, but his whole face was completely red. his horror quickly drowned by his laughs, covering his eyes with calloused hands—proof of his hard work. and you try your best to gulp down a giggle but ridiculously fail.
you thought of how lucky he was to have a girl that could make him cackle his heart out ;)
you eagerly consume the meal he made just for you while he watches, like a mother who says 'i'm full just watching you eat' when you invite him to eat with you—that line, he actually says.
in the meantime, he silently starts to clear out the table bombarded with paper scraps and plastic bottles that should have been discarded a long time ago. his arms reach out past you and cautiously clears them out, making sure to not disrupt you.
when you tried to dismiss him, saying he doesn't need to and that you will be the one that'll do it later, his brows furrow and insists.
"you're overworking yourself. take a break, hmm?" he says, and asks you which things are still of use to not mistakenly throw them away.
you eventually join him after finishing the majority of your meal, clearing out the clutter and finally tending to your precious cables left tangled on the floor now that you had the motivation and energy to do so.
moments later, you two were back on the couch, peacefully enjoying each other's company. your studio was already looking good. not spotless clean, but better than what it was a few minutes ago.
crossing your arms, resting a leg on top of yoongi's, and leaning your head on top of his shoulders, the temporary tranquility gave you a chance to rest your eyes.
he planted a kiss on your forehead, resting his head atop yours. slowly, you could feel the built-up stress and exhaustion evaporate as you finally had the chance to bask in comfort and surround yourself in a familiar scent.
it was a challenge to try and not fall asleep under such conditions. you were so close to just ignoring the work demanding your attention and drifting off to sleep, but your mind remained locked into the laptop just right in front of you, remembering the deadline pdogg had suggested when tracks should be submitted.
he somehow sensed this and started tracing shapes on your arm to comfort you.
"can't sleep."
"i know. should i turn the lights off?"
you groan.
"no, that's- i have so much to work on, still." you reply, gently freeing yourself from his embrace, although you didn't want to, and directed your attention back to chords and melodies.
yoongi sighs. he learned a long time ago that it's no use trying to convince you to try and rest because you would always decline. stubbornness and persistence being some of the things you also had common.
he does what be can do instead and asks what it was that he could get for you, to which you answered coffee. that was the only thing keeping you from passing out asleep and crashing on your couch. the majority of your bloodstream was probably pure caffeine at this point.
he happily obliges. sitting there, observing, and giving suggestions whenever you asked for it.
you take a look at him every now and then to see him battling his own demons as well: the urge to doze off. you chuckle to yourself, seeing his determination to stay up and be with you, despite your protests.
later on, as other people—normal, sane people anyway—start to get ready for work, you were still wrapping up to go back home, finally. you let out one last sigh in defeat, and crash on top of yoongi, quietly squeezing in, not even wanting to go back home just yet.
and as the building slowly comes back alive, you gradually drift off to slumber.
BANG CHAN x READER
GENRE: Boyfriend!Chan, Established Relationship, Romance, Fluff
WARNINGS: none!, somewhat proofread
WC: 1.5k
A/N: Happy birthday to me! An itty bitty Chan scenario in celebration for me-day woohoo! (this was supposed to be a preluding vignette in the sunlight and daydreams universe but I figured that would be super evil of me so let’s pretend it’s not lmao)
𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!
── MASTERLIST
────────────────────────
The ocean sings. Waves crashing loud against the rocks, the late afternoon brings forth a beautiful pinkening sky and cool, hair-fluttering breeze.
A little chilly, but you don’t mind. Not when Chan’s grip is warm, fingers cupping yours as your entwined hands swing between the both of you.
Your feet sink in the sand, wet and cold against your bare feet the closer you get to the shore, leaving behind footprints and clinging to your skin.
You really don’t mind, Chan hums a soothing tune as you walk, distracting you from the fact that you’ve left all your belongings back there where you had spent the afternoon lounging under the sun and building sandcastles.
Though the walk is nice. Comforting, and soothing. The sun sinks lower by the minute, the kind that has both of you pause, facing the horizon to take in the glimmering sea that reflects the light like a painting. The kind of sight that has your breath hitch, has you stop, eyes shining as you take in the pink and purple sky, the bright orange sun ready to bid its farewell.
Chan seems to agree, your boyfriend squeezing your hand almost faintly before he mutters the words you would have missed between the sunset, the waves and the winds.
You don’t though, not when Chan looks as if you mean the word, the same shine in his eyes as they meet yours.
“—It would be perfect to propose here.”
You think you would’ve laughed startled at such a random exclamation, would have agreed with such an romantic observation. Yet before you can even giggle at the idea, even agree with him with a hum and a nod, you only turn to find a sight that has you freezing.
Eyes widening and lips parting with shock because he doesn’t even wait for his words to settle, doesn’t tear his gaze away, already dropping down with a widening grin.
Chan kneels. Right there, right before your suddenly frozen form.
He’s on one knee, pants planted over the wet sand, the seafoam left after retreating waves seeping through the material, yet even the dirt and water isn’t enough to keep him from doing what he decided to do.
Everything continues as it was. The sun still on its descent, the waves still crashing against the rocks, rising over sand, the winds still ruffle through his hair, tousling the strands.
Yet nothing remains the same for you, not when his gaze meets yours so warm, so fond. Locked onto you with a lingering softness that shows in the way he fishes out the small box from the depths of his pocket.
Where had he hidden it all day? You’re clueless. Yet he holds it before you, opening with ease, the slight tremble in his hands going unnoticed amidst the sudden emotions that surge through you. Chan holds it out before you. Offering you something you’ve only dreamt of, you can’t help but gasp, eyes flickering to what’s inside.
It’s a glimmering thing, dainty and elegant, the ring glints beautifully against the sunset. And he cradles it in his palms, inhaling deeply as he lets you react. Your hands fly to your mouth, pressing against your lips, as you once again gasp louder. The ocean waves are cold over your feet, wind biting at your skin, yet you feel as if you are burning up.
“I—” Chan begins, clearing his throat, a twinge of nervousness crossing his gaze but the wide smile remains.
“I love you.” He states, softly, loudly, those words coming out as easily as breathing.
His eyes dart over your shocked-still expression, at the misty haze in your own gaze as you finally grasp what is happening.
“‘Is this love?’” He whispered.
A repeat of a question you’ve asked. It’s a familiar question, one that has you break into a breathy and wet scoff-like giggle as you realize exactly what he is referring to, hands falling to your sides, shoulders relaxing as you let him continue.
Let him propose.
“The night after our first date, after I spent the entire after of it distracted by thoughts of you, you sent me that question.” His cheeks dimpled with the way he grinned, watching you exhale with a breathless laugh.
“—Granted, it was a message you accidentally texted to me instead of your friend—immediately followed with ten other messages of you freaking out over it, before threatening me to forget how you just embarrassed yourself.” He recalls with a chuckle, with a fondness and a grin that has you mimic the glee, though the tears now freely slide down your cheeks.
“But how could I have ever forgotten such a question when that same night I decided that I had an answer for it. That seeing your adorable sputtering and your refusal to meet my eyes the next day made me realize that it was love. That you were it for me.” There’s a waver in his voice, a shine in his own eyes as he takes in the beautiful sight that is you.
But he barrels on, as if he has so much to say but not enough time—at least not currently. Not when he has a ring to put on your finger. The recollection of your most precious moments could wait a little.
“I knew I wanted to marry you then. I knew I wanted a full life with you.” He swallows his nervousness, his emotions that threaten to crack in his voice.
You almost whimper shakily, happily, your expression soft and warm and oh-so-touched as his voice drops just a tad bit softer, just a tinge warmer.
“I want more late night adventures, more spontaneous trips, the slow strolls hand-in-hand. I want the growing birthdays to come, the wrinkles and white hair, all the way to the end. Till death do us apart—right after that first date. I want it all with you.”
You swipe the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that pool at your jaw, shuddery breath escaping your lips with a soft sob. Chan kneels patiently, as he continues to make your heart flip, your stomach swoop, your eyes prick with more happy tears.
“I’m sure you know by now how painfully obsessed I am with you.” He too chuckles wetly, his voice slightly shaky, yet dripping with something akin to adoration as he looks up at you, absolutely besotted.
“You already know how deeply I love you, but I’ll say it again. I love you. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my remaining life. Will you—” He stutters just the slightest as he swallows, taking in a nervous breath, his eyes locked onto yours.
“Will you please marry me?”
The waves crash loud, your feet sink into the wet sand, the sunlight is moments away from disappearing, yet you only look at Chan, on his knees, his own teary eyes and that beautiful smile of his that you’re so fond of.
Your boyfriend awaits the answer he should know you would give him almost nervously. And even with the shock and the heart-touching words spoken, you can’t help but laugh almost helplessly. The tears continue to cloud your vision yet even with blurred sight you know exactly where to find your most special person, lunging forward you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, falling onto your own knees.
Chan wobbles just the slightest at the impact but he holds you firmly, pressed right against him.
“Yes. Yesyesyes.” Your voice is half-choked, half a whisper as you tug him closer into your embrace.
Chan’s own voice cracks as he laughs against you, arm wrapping tight around you as he inhales your scent.
“Thank you. I love you so so much.” He pulls away, just enough to gaze into your eyes, lashes wet from his tears, yet his smile remains.
“Give me your hand.” He whispers.
You don’t wait another second, your hand trembling between the both of your kneeling bodies as Chan looks down to pluck the ring out, box forgotten over the sand.
It slips on easily, cool against your skin, yet even that doesn’t last long, not when his hands cup your fingers in his, engulfing you in his warmth.
“You won’t regret it, I swear—”
As much as you want to hear more of his heartfelt promises, you can’t help but want to disappear in his embrace, melt into his arms. Squeeze into his chest, and make yourself home. You lean in to capture his lips, kissing him and swallowing his promises. And he easily allows you to do so.
Melt into his embrace, disappear in his arms.
Kissing you in that slow, careful kind of way. The one where his fingers sit just right below your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re the most delicate thing he has. And you can’t help the sigh that leaves you, the way you pull him close and allow the thought to settle.
So this is love.
He squeezes you a tinge bit tighter, kisses you just a tad bit harder, his mouth hot against yours.
And how sweet it was.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
e n d .
To Bang Chan it seemed like you were always around, your presence calming, reasuring. They accepted you into their social media team and you were in charge of coming up with new ideas and bringing them to life. At the start both of you were very profesional, but soon there were little cracks forming in the distant politeness.
He was always so carefull with setting boundaries, being carefull whom to trust, but you seem to always catch him off guard. Like when you asked him for his phonenumber one day. He went quiet, flustered as he reached for your phone, fingers brushing for a seccond. "If i'm going to work for you i need to know how to get in touch with you." He almost facepalmed himself, ofcouse this was work related.
He learned your little habbits involuntairily. Like how you needed 2 coffees in the morning before you could function properly or how you loved listening to true crime podcasts whenever you had a free moment, even how you would finish every meal with something sweet. He even bought your favourite snacks ones, offering it to you after all of you had lunch together. "O you like these as well? They are my favorite." You chimed.
He almost thought he would faint when you asked him and Han to do a tiktok dance, before pausing the recording. You walked directly up to him and ruffled his hair with your tender fingers. Straightening the glasses on his nose. "Trust me the fans love your soft curls, it makes you look more boyfriendish." Or the time he posted another video on bubble and you playfully swatted his chest. "Geez Chris, trying to kill all the ladies today? Gonna get everyone feral if you keep this up." His cheecks redening emediatly as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Chan had been in love with you long before he dared to admit it to himself, but the first time he realy noticed was when you took two weeks of. You were going on a girlstrip with your best friends and he couldn't help but check your instagram every other hour. Thumb hovering over the little heart, contemplating wether to like your posts or don't, before deciding he shouldn't. The other members noticed long before he did, Lee know was the first to talk about it though. "You know, for what it's worth, i think you should go for it. Allow yourself some happiness." Chris tried to act confused, but his friend wouldn't have it. "She has been texting you non stop about work while she is on vacation. She hasn't texted any of us in a week." And he couldn't help but smile at that.
One night he was in bed, thinking about how effortlesly you fit into his live. How your face was the first one he looked for when they arrived at airports, when you didn't travel with them. How over time he started to make sure you were close, safe when you had to face huge crowds. And somehow he found himself hating the fact that he couldn't be the one waiting at the airport when you got back from your trip, you deserved someone that made you feel that loved and more than anything in the world he wanted to be that person for you.
He checked your instagram stories again. A picture of the boarding screen at the airport, saying that your flight got delayed by 2 hours. A picture of you at the closed underground gate, captionted"great, i'll gues i'll have to spend the night at the airport." Chan acted before thinking, grabbing his keys and backpack. There's no way he'll let you sleep in the airport. When he got there he followed the arrival signs and spotted your colourfull suitcase plastered with stickers before he saw you curled up on a plastic bench. Jacket propped under your head as a makeshift pillow and your favorite sweater used as a blanket.
His fingers slowly stroke your cheeck as he kneeled beside you. Quickly lifting his cap and lowering his facemask, because he startled you half to death waking you up looking like that. "Chris, what are you doing here?" "I saw your instagram stories and couldn't let you spend the night here. You should've called me." He helps you up carefully, every muscle hurting from the position you were in. "Thanks. You didn't have to though." He shakes his head violently before squeezing your hand, that for some reason he is still holding. "I wanted to, to be here...for you."
His eyes avoid yours as he looks a little shy, then he grabs your suitcase and trails it behind him. Still holding on to your hand and you don't pull away. Don't utter a word, because this feels so right and for a brief moment you allow yourself to believe that maybe someday, this could be your new reality. With Chris by your side.
‐----------------
Just a cute little thing i've been thinking about all day.🥰
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hi! could you do some texts with ot8 (if ot8 is too much then just chan is fine!!) where reader has a brother, but her brother truly despises her (reader has no idea why?) but absolutely loves the member. and constantly wants to hang out with him. reader tries to keep it a secret on how much their sibling doesn’t like them but then at some point the brother says something and slips up to member so they confront reader about it!
texts with bf!Chan - your brother likes Chan but hates you
pairing: Bang Chan x reader
genre: established relationship, fake texts
warnings: your brother hates you !! like a lot. no interactions with him, so it's not described or even explained why, but you have no relationship with him outside of family gatherings. mentions/half-jokes about murder from Chan about your brother.
notes: each banner separates different conversations :) i wanted to do each member but had trouble making them not feel repetitive so I just did Chan.. hope you like it!! thanks for requesting :))
discoholicmusic
izzy806
romaincrisis
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