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(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || After weeks of exhaustion and buried pain finally erupt into a cruel confrontation that shatters the trust between them, Chan must reckon with the weight of his words and fight to mend what he broke, finding redemption in the moment Y/N needs him most.
The vibration of the alarm was less a sound and more a physical assault, a deep thrum against the wooden nightstand that drilled straight into Chan's skull. He'd been staring at the ceiling for the last forty-five minutes anyway. Sleep had been a series of fragmented, restless images, a missed cue, his mother's disappointed face, the cold glare of the practice room mirrors.
He silenced the alarm before it could fully ring out. 4:47 AM. A full thirteen minutes before it was even set to go off.
His phone was already in his hand, a habit he despised but couldn't break. Three new messages.
Dad (11:03 PM): Your mother is asking when you'll call. She said it's been three weeks.
Dad (6:15 AM - Today): I know you're busy. But she's worried. It's not just about you anymore. Your sister had a bad night. She asked for you.
Dad (6:17 AM): Just call when you can, son.
Chan stared at the messages until the words blurred. His younger sister. The one who was supposed to be the "healthy" one, the one who wasn't chasing a ridiculous dream in Seoul. The one whose quiet battles with anxiety had escalated into something that kept his parents awake at night. And he was here, thousands of kilometers away, worrying about a high note he couldn't quite hit consistently.
He typed back a quick, hollow response. I'll call tonight. Tell her I love her.
He didn't add that he hadn't slept more than three hours in four days. He didn't mention that his voice was fraying at the edges. They didn't need to know. They already had enough to carry.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air of the dorm hitting his bare skin. The dorm was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that only exists in the pre-dawn hours before eight other people wake up and fill it with noise and life. Right now, it just felt empty.
He pulled on a worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, moving on autopilot. In the kitchen, he downed a protein shake he didn't taste, the chalky liquid sitting heavy in his stomach. His reflection in the dark microwave glass was a ghost, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, expression flat. He looked like a leader. He felt like a fraud.
The company building was already buzzing by the time he arrived at 5:30 AM. The security guard gave him a tired nod. Staff members, looking as haggard as he felt, hurried through the corridors with clipboards and headpieces. The energy was a live wire, frenetic, desperate, and stretched thin.
This was day three of comeback week. Three music shows down. Four more to go. Two variety show appearances squeezed in. A fan-sign event. And nestled in between, the endless, grueling hours of practice to keep the new choreography from turning to mush in their exhausted bodies.
He went straight to the practice room, needing the familiar space. He'd just started his own warm-up, body moving through the opening sequence on muscle memory alone, when the door opened.
Changbin walked in, a paper cup of coffee in each hand. He took one look at Chan and his face fell into a familiar, worried line.
"You look like death," Changbin said, setting one of the cups down by Chan's bag. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Plenty," Chan lied, not breaking his stretch. His hamstrings screamed in protest.
Changbin just hummed, unconvinced. He was the only one who could get away with this, the only one Chan didn't have the energy to deflect. "Your mom call again?"
Chan's jaw tightened. He held the stretch for a second longer, then straightened up. "My sister," he said, the two words feeling like an admission of failure.
Changbin's expression softened. He didn't offer platitudes, which Chan was grateful for. He just nodded slowly. "You'll get through to her."
"Yeah." Chan picked up the coffee, letting the warmth seep into his palms. He didn't have the heart to tell Changbin that the distance between him and his family felt like a chasm he no longer knew how to cross. "Let's just get through today."
The others trickled in over the next hour, each looking as exhausted as the last. Felix came in with his ever-present smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Hyunjin was uncharacteristically quiet, nursing what looked like a sore throat. Jeongin nearly walked into a wall.
And then there was Y/N.
She slipped in last, as she often did, trying to be unobtrusive. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her practice clothes a little rumpled. She gave a small, apologetic wave to the room, her eyes briefly meeting Chan's before darting away.
He felt a flicker of something, not annoyance, not yet. Just a twitch of awareness. She'd been quieter than usual lately. More hesitant. He made a mental note to check in with her later, but the mental note was immediately buried under the avalanche of everything else.
The choreographer, a woman with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a drill sergeant, clapped her hands. "Alright. From the top. Full run. No stopping."
The music blared, a wall of sound and bass that Chan had once found exhilarating. Now it felt like another weight pressing down on him.
They moved through the first verse. It was sloppy. Feet were half a beat behind, angles weren't sharp. Chan could feel the choreographer's critical gaze like a brand on his skin. He pushed harder, using his own body to try to set the pace, his voice cutting through the music with sharp corrections.
"Formation three, move faster."
"Seungmin, angle."
"Y/N-"
He stopped. The music kept playing for a second before the assistant scrambled to cut it.
Y/N was in the wrong spot. Not by much. A meter, maybe. But in the intricate clockwork of their choreography, a meter might as well have been a mile. She was standing where Hyunjin was supposed to be in four counts, which meant the entire formation was now off.
The choreographer sighed, a long, weary sound. "Let's take it from the chorus again. Y/N, you're drifting. Watch your spacing."
"Sorry," Y/N breathed, her cheeks flushing. She ducked her head, quickly moving to her correct position.
Chan saw it. The way her shoulders curved inward. The way she was already apologizing for a mistake that, on any other day, would have been a minor, forgettable blip. He opened his mouth to say something, it's fine, we all drift, let's just focus, but the choreographer was already counting them back in, and the words died in his throat.
The morning bled into a haze of repetition. They ran the song four more times. Each time, something was off. Minho's timing wavered. Han's voice cracked on a high note during a section they'd done a hundred times before. Chan himself messed up a transition, his exhausted body refusing to cooperate with his brain.
By the time they broke for a thirty-minute rest before the first music show rehearsal, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken frustration. The members scattered, some to the couches, some to grab food, some to sit in silence with their headphones on.
Chan pulled out his phone. No new messages. He stared at his dad's texts from that morning again, his thumb hovering over the call button. He could do it now. Just a five-minute call. Just to hear his sister's voice.
Not now, a voice in his head said. You don't have time to fall apart right now. Focus. Get through the show. Then you can call.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
Across the room, he saw Y/N sitting by herself, her knees drawn up to her chest, scrolling through her phone with a distant expression. She hadn't messed up again since that first time, but she'd been moving carefully, deliberately, as if afraid of making another mistake.
He should go over there. Say something encouraging. Remind her that everyone was off today, that it wasn't just her.
But his legs felt like lead. His head was pounding. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, ugly part of him thought: I can't hold her hand right now. I can barely hold myself together.
The live band was louder than they'd expected, throwing off their timing. The stage monitors were feeding back. Their in-ear monitors were cutting in and out, leaving them to rely on hand signals and instinct.
Chan was running damage control on all fronts, talking to the audio director, calming down a frazzled stylist whose outfit for Seungmin had been damaged, trying to keep the members focused. His voice was hoarse from shouting over the chaos, his head throbbing in time with the bass that seemed to vibrate through the very foundation of the building.
And through it all, Y/N was struggling.
It wasn't one big mistake. It was a dozen small ones. A missed hand gesture here. A half-beat delay on a pivot there. At one point, during a section where she had to weave between Felix and Hyunjin, she misjudged the distance and bumped into Hyunjin's shoulder, nearly sending him off balance.
Each time, Chan felt a spike of irritation. Each time, he suppressed it. He was the leader. He was supposed to be patient. He was supposed to guide.
But the irritation was a splinter under his skin, and with every small error, it burrowed deeper.
During a break, he caught Y/N standing at the edge of the stage, her hands pressed together in front of her, her eyes fixed on the floor. She was murmuring something to herself, the counts, probably. Trying to drill them into her exhausted brain.
He walked over, his footsteps heavy on the stage floor. "You okay?"
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were a little too bright. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… I'll get it. I promise."
"We need you to," he said. He didn't mean for it to come out so blunt. But he was tired, and his brain was fried, and the words came out stripped of any softness. "We're on in twenty minutes."
She flinched. It was subtle, but he saw it. "I know. I'm sorry."
He opened his mouth to say something else, it's not about being sorry, it's about executing, but a staff member called his name, waving a clipboard, and he was pulled away before he could.
The live performance went… fine. It wasn't their best. It wasn't their worst. Chan watched the playback afterwards, picking apart every flaw, every moment where their exhaustion bled through. He'd have to talk to the group about it later. Go over the footage. Fix the mistakes.
But first, there was an interview. Then a fan-sign event. Then another round of practice to prepare for tomorrow's show, because they couldn't afford to have another day like today.
The hours blurred. He smiled for cameras. He answered the same questions with the same practiced ease. He signed album after album, each fan's face a blur of excitement and adoration that he couldn't quite connect with.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Then buzzed again. He didn't check it.
By the time they were back at the company building for final practice, it was nearly 10 PM. The dorm felt like a distant, unreachable place. The practice room, with its harsh fluorescent lights and wall of mirrors, felt like the only reality.
"One more full run," Chan said, his voice flat. "Then we can call it."
The groans were soft, but they were there. He ignored them.
They took their positions. The music started.
And Y/N messed up again.
It was the same section from the morning. The formation shift where she had to move from the back to the front. She was supposed to land next to Chan for the final chorus. Instead, she overshot, ending up a step too far to his left, breaking the symmetry of the ending pose.
Chan's jaw clenched. He forced his face neutral, held the pose until the music faded.
"Again," he said, not looking at her. "From the last chorus."
They reset. The music started.
She did it again.
This time, she was a half-step behind, arriving after the beat had already passed, leaving an awkward gap between her and Chan that was painfully visible in the mirrors.
Chan didn't say anything at first. The music cut off with a screech of vinyl from the speaker, a sound that made everyone jump. He just stood there, chest heaving, staring at her reflection in the mirror. His hands were shaking, from exhaustion, from the caffeine flooding his system, from something he couldn't name. The silence stretched, and with each second, Y/N seemed to shrink a little more.
He turned to face her.
"You." His voice came out low, rougher than he intended. "Come here."
She hesitated, her gaze darting to the other members. No one moved. No one met her eyes. She walked toward him, her footsteps uncertain, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan waited until she was close enough to see the tear tracks still drying on her face from earlier. Close enough to see the way her hands were trembling.
"What was that?" he asked.
She blinked. "What was-"
"The transition." He gestured toward the spot she'd missed. His voice was flat, but there was something underneath it, a vibration, like a wire pulled too tight. "The one we've run a hundred times. The one you've been missing for three days. What was that?"
"I just-" She swallowed. "I miscalculated the spacing. I'll fix it."
"You'll fix it." He repeated the words slowly, like he was tasting them. "You'll fix it. That's what you said yesterday. And the day before."
"I know. I'm sorry, I-"
"You're sorry." He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. It was a short, harsh sound that cut through the room. "You're sorry. That's great. That's really great, Y/N."
He was pacing now, short, jerky movements, his hands gripping the back of his neck. His head was pounding. His chest was tight. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, the other members, the staff, the mirrors reflecting his own face back at him, pale and wild.
"When you mess up," he said, and his voice was rising now, each word sharper than the last, "when you miss your mark, do you know what happens? I have to fix it. I have to stop practice, pull everyone back, explain the same formation again. I have to answer to the choreographer. I have to answer to the company. I have to smile at the cameras and pretend everything is fine while you're off in your own world, doing God knows what-"
"That's not fair." Her voice cracked. "I'm not off in my own world, I'm trying-"
"You're trying?" He spun around, and she flinched, actually flinched, her shoulders hunching, her feet shifting back a step. He saw it. He didn't stop. "You think I care if you're trying? You think the fans care? You think the company cares? You think my sister-" He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard it hurt.
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, digging in. His head was pounding. His throat was raw. He hadn't slept. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't done anything right in days, maybe weeks, and here she was, looking at him with those wide, wet eyes, waiting for him to fix it like he always fixed everything, like he was supposed to have the answers.
He dropped his hand.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was quiet now, which was somehow worse. He stepped closer, and she stepped back, her shoulders hitting the mirror. He didn't stop until he was right in front of her, close enough to see the tears spilling down her cheeks. "I think you've already checked out. I think you're going through the motions, waiting for something, I don't know what. Permission to quit, maybe."
"No." She shook her head, her voice breaking. "That's not, I would never-"
"Then show me." His voice cracked on the words. "Show me something. Anything. Because right now, I am standing in a practice room at ten o'clock at night, running the same transition for the fifth time, and I am tired."
He was breathing hard, his hands shaking at his sides. She was crying silently now, her face wet, her body pressed against the glass like she was trying to disappear into it. He could see her reflection in the mirror behind her, small, cornered, breaking.
He should stop. Some part of him knew he should stop.
But the words kept coming, rising up from somewhere dark and exhausted, and he didn't have the strength to push them back down.
"You want to know what I think?" His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges. "I think you're not good enough to be this much trouble."
Her head snapped up, her eyes widening.
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and she pressed harder against the mirror. "Every single day, I have to stop and fix your mistakes. Every single practice, I have to explain the same choreography to you like you're a trainee. Do you know what that looks like? Do you know what everyone thinks when they see me running after you, covering for you, cleaning up your mess?"
He was yelling now. He could feel it in his throat, raw and tearing.
"They think you're weak. They think you're dragging us down. And you know what?" He laughed, and it was ugly, wild, nothing like himself. "They're right. You are dragging us down. You're the weak link, Y/N. The only reason you're still here, the only reason, is because I keep covering for you. Because I keep lying to the company, lying to the choreographer, lying to myself that you're going to figure it out someday."
Behind him, someone moved. He heard it, a sharp intake of breath, the shuffle of feet. Felix, maybe. Or Changbin.
He didn't care.
"Do you have any idea what it's like?" His voice broke on the words. "To stand here every night and watch you drift? To know that I could have picked anyone, anyone, and they would work harder than you? That they would show up? That they wouldn't make me look like a fool for believing in them?"
She was shaking her head, her hands pressed flat against the mirror, tears streaming down her face. "That's not, I'm trying, I swear I'm trying-"
"Trying isn't good enough!" He shouted it, and the sound of his own voice seemed to shake the room. "Trying isn't good enough when we have a comeback in three days! Trying isn't good enough when the company is watching! Trying isn't good enough when I have eight other people depending on me to hold this together, and you can't even hit a mark you've hit a thousand times before!"
He was in her face now, close enough to see the tears catching on her lashes, to see her lips trembling. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Maybe you should just quit."
The words came out quieter than he expected. Almost calm.
She went still. Completely, terrifyingly still. Her hands stopped shaking. Her tears kept falling, but her face was blank now, hollow, like something inside her had simply turned off.
"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, each word deliberate. "If you can't do this, if you're going to keep making the same mistakes, keep dragging us down, keep making me explain to everyone why you're worth the trouble, then maybe you should just quit. Walk away. Find something you're actually good at."
He heard it then. A sharp, audible breath from behind him. Not a gasp, something angrier. Changbin's voice, low and urgent: "Chan."
He didn't turn around. He was watching Y/N's face, watching the last light drain out of her eyes.
"I didn't fight for you," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word, "so you could make me regret it every single day."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The words hung in the air between them. He watched them land, watched her face crumple, watched something behind her eyes go dark.
She didn't say anything. She just stood there, pinned against the mirror, her hands pressed flat against the glass on either side of her like she needed it to hold herself up. Her tears were falling faster now, but she wasn't making a sound.
Chan opened his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say, something to take it back, something to make it worse, something that would close the distance between what he was feeling and what was coming out of his mouth.
She moved first.
She pushed off the mirror, her body sliding past his, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was brief, accidental, but he felt it like a burn. She walked to her bag, her steps unsteady, her hands shaking so badly she dropped her water bottle once, twice, before she managed to pick it up.
No one moved to help her. No one said a word.
She was almost at the door when his voice, stripped of all its earlier heat, came out of him without permission.
"Y/N."
She stopped. Her hand was on the handle, her back to him. He could see her shoulders shaking.
He didn't know what he wanted to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't go. The words were there, somewhere, buried under the exhaustion and the guilt and the growing, sickening realization of what he'd just done.
But she didn't wait. She pulled the door open and walked through, and the soft click of it closing was the loudest sound Chan had ever heard.
He stood there in the center of the room, surrounded by mirrors, watching himself fall apart in triplicate.
Behind him, someone exhaled shakily. He didn't turn around.
He just stared at the door, at the space where she'd been, and waited for the feeling to come back into his hands.
Chan stood in the center of the practice room, surrounded by mirrors that reflected back every angle of his failure. His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. And all he could think about was the look on Y/N's face, the devastation, the shame, the complete and total collapse of someone he was supposed to protect.
He'd spent years building a family. And in one moment of weakness, one frayed thread finally snapping, he'd taken a blade to its most vulnerable member.
He'd used his love for her, his belief in her, as a weapon.
The dorm was quiet when Chan finally dragged himself through the door three hours later. He'd stayed in the studio, staring at a blank screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard but unable to produce a single note. His phone sat face-down on the desk. He hadn't called his sister. He hadn't called anyone.
He walked past the kitchen, past the living room, his feet carrying him toward his room on autopilot. But something made him stop outside the door to the room Y/N shared with no one, the single room she'd been given as the only female member, a small mercy in a living situation that was otherwise a constant negotiation of boundaries and awareness.
The light was off. The door was closed.
He stood there for a long moment, his hand raised to knock. He could picture her inside, curled up in bed, maybe, or sitting against the headboard with her knees drawn up, the way she did when she was trying to make herself small. He could picture the tear tracks on her face, the way her hands would be shaking.
He owed her an apology. A real one. He owed her to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness for the words that had come out of his mouth, words that he couldn't take back, words that had been sitting in the back of his throat for days, weeks, waiting for the wrong moment to escape.
But his hand wouldn't move. His voice wouldn't come.
Coward, he thought. You're a coward.
He lowered his hand. He walked to his own room. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his head in his hands, and he didn't sleep.
He just sat there, replaying the moment over and over, the look on her face, the way she'd crumbled under the weight of his words.
And somewhere down the hall, in a room where the light stayed off all night, Y/N lay awake too, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she was supposed to face tomorrow when she wasn't sure she deserved to be there at all.
The morning came whether Chan was ready for it or not.
He hadn't slept. He'd spent the night staring at the ceiling, the same ceiling he'd stared at before the alarm had gone off what felt like a lifetime ago. His phone sat on his chest, the screen dark. He'd typed out a message to Y/N seven times. Deleted it seven times.
I'm sorry. Too small.
I didn't mean it. A lie.
Please come back. Selfish.
He'd thrown the phone across the room instead. It had hit the wall with a satisfying crack, the screen spider-webbing into a constellation of fractures. He hadn't picked it up.
Now, at 6:15 AM, he stood in the kitchen of the dorm, a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands. The others were moving around him, showers running, doors opening and closing, the low murmur of exhausted voices trying to find the energy for another day. He heard it all from a distance, like he was underwater.
Changbin appeared at his elbow, freshly showered, his hair still damp. He didn't say anything at first. He just leaned against the counter next to Chan, their shoulders almost touching, and waited.
"I fucked up," Chan said finally. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by hours of silence.
"Yeah," Changbin said quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. Just acknowledgment. "You did."
"I don't know how to fix it."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. "You start by talking to her."
Chan let out a hollow laugh. "And say what? 'Sorry I told you that you don't deserve to be here? Sorry I made you flinch? Sorry I, '" His voice cracked. He couldn't finish.
"You say exactly that," Changbin said, turning to face him. His expression was serious, his eyes steady. "You say all of it. And then you let her decide if she can forgive you."
Chan shook his head. "She shouldn't. I don't deserve-"
"That's not your call to make." Changbin's voice was firm now. "You don't get to decide what she deserves. You just get to show up and do the work. The same way she's been doing every single day while you've been too in your own head to see it."
The words hit Chan like a slap. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of a door opening down the hall made him stop.
They both turned.
Y/N emerged from her room, and Chan's heart stopped.
She was dressed for practice, the same worn leggings, the same loose t-shirt, her hair pulled back in the same messy ponytail. But everything else was different. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow, dark circles so deep they looked like bruises. She moved like someone carrying something heavy, her shoulders curved inward, her steps slow and deliberate.
She didn't see them at first. She was looking at her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently. Counting, maybe. Or rehearsing. Chan couldn't tell.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met across the kitchen, and Chan felt something crack open in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to say her name, to say something, anything, but before he could, she flinched.
It was small, barely a movement. A slight recoil, a tightening of her shoulders, her gaze dropping instantly to the floor. But Chan saw it. He saw it like a blade to the ribs.
She didn't say anything. She didn't acknowledge him at all. She just turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps quick now, almost frantic, like she was trying to escape.
"Y/N-" he started, his voice rough.
She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, her back to him, her entire body rigid.
"Please," she said, and her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it. "Please don't."
She didn't wait for him to respond. She pulled the door open and was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that echoed the one from the night before.
Chan stood frozen, the coffee cup cold in his hands, his throat so tight he couldn't breathe.
Changbin let out a long, slow exhale. "Give her space," he said quietly. "For now. But Chan?" He waited until Chan looked at him. "You can't let this go. You can't let her disappear into herself. You saw her. She's already halfway there."
Chan had seen her. He'd seen the hollow look in her eyes, the way she'd flinched at the sight of him, the way she'd practically fled from the room. He'd done that. He'd put that look on her face, that fear in her eyes.
He set the coffee cup down. His hands were shaking again.
Chan arrived early, as he always did, but Y/N was already there. She was in the corner, her back to the door, going through the transition in slow motion. Her arms moved through the choreography with mechanical precision, her lips counting the beats silently, her feet marking the steps with careful, deliberate movements.
She didn't turn around when he walked in. She didn't acknowledge him at all. Her shoulders tensed, he saw it, the subtle tightening of her frame, but she didn't stop moving.
Chan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She was thinner than he remembered. When had that happened? When had she stopped eating properly? When had the circles under her eyes gotten so deep?
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to take her hands, to make her look at him, to tell her that he was wrong, that she was the most deserving person he'd ever met, that he'd been a monster,
But Changbin's voice echoed in his head. Give her space.
So he didn't move. He walked to his usual spot, set his bag down, and started his stretches. He didn't look at her. He didn't trust himself to.
The others trickled in over the next twenty minutes. The atmosphere was different, subdued, fragile, everyone moving carefully, speaking in hushed voices. Felix glanced between Chan and Y/N's corner, his expression tight with worry. Hyunjin kept opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again. Minho's jaw was set, his eyes hard, his usual humor nowhere to be seen.
No one mentioned last night. No one had to.
The choreographer arrived at 7:30, her clipboard in hand, her expression businesslike. She didn't comment on the silence, didn't ask why Y/N was already in position while everyone else was still stretching. She just clapped her hands and said, "From the top. Let's go."
Chan took his position. He was acutely aware of Y/N three meters to his left, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her body angled slightly away from him. The gap between them was small, just a few feet of polished floor, but it felt like an ocean.
The music started.
They moved through the first verse. It was better than yesterday, cleaner, sharper. The exhaustion was still there, but there was something else now. Something desperate. Chan could feel it in the way the others moved, like they were trying to compensate for something, to fill a space that had suddenly become too big.
The first chorus came. The formation shift. Y/N moved from the back to the front, and Chan felt his breath catch.
She hit her mark. Perfectly. Not a centimeter off, not a beat late. She landed next to him exactly where she was supposed to be, her arm brushing his for a split second before she pulled away like she'd been burned.
Chan almost stumbled. He caught himself, finished the move, but his mind was reeling. She'd pulled away from him. She'd flinched away from his touch.
The music continued. They finished the run, and the choreographer nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Better," she said. "Y/N, your spacing was much cleaner. Keep that energy."
Y/N nodded. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't look at Chan.
"From the second verse," the choreographer said. "We need to tighten the bridge. Let's go."
They reset. The music started again. And again, Y/N was perfect. Her movements were precise, her timing impeccable, her form flawless. She didn't make a single mistake. She didn't miss a single mark.
Chan watched her from the corner of his eye, and his chest ached. She was moving like a machine, no emotion, no joy, no spark. She was technically perfect, but the life had drained out of her. The thing that made her Y/N, the warmth, the energy, the quiet determination that had made him fight for her in the first place, was gone.
He'd killed it.
They ran the song three more times. Each time, Y/N was flawless. Each time, she pulled away from him the moment their choreography brought them close. Each time, Chan felt something inside him crack a little more.
During the water break, she retreated to her corner again, pulling out her phone, her earbuds in, her body language screaming do not approach. The other members glanced at her, then at Chan, then away. No one knew what to say. No one knew how to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
Chan stood on the other side of the room, his water bottle forgotten in his hand, watching her. She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving mechanically, her expression blank. She looked exhausted. She looked broken. She looked like someone who was running on empty and had been for a very, very long time.
He thought about what Changbin had said. You can't let her disappear into herself.
He took a step toward her.
She looked up immediately, like she had a radar for his movement, and he watched her face shut down. The blankness became something harder, something more defensive. Her shoulders curved inward, making herself smaller. Her hand tightened around her phone.
Chan stopped. He was ten feet away from her, but it felt like a hundred.
"Y/N," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"
She didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, her eyes wide and wary, and for a moment he saw something flicker there, fear, yes, but something else too. Something that looked like exhaustion. Like she was so tired of being afraid, of being careful, of waiting for the next blow.
"I need to practice," she said finally. Her voice was flat. Empty.
"Please." He didn't mean for it to come out as desperate as it did. "Just, give me five minutes."
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she pulled her earbuds out, slowly, deliberately, and tucked them into her pocket. She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She just stood there, waiting, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together.
Chan took a breath. He could feel the other members watching, could feel their eyes on him, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the girl in front of him, the girl he'd hurt, the girl who was looking at him like he might hurt her again at any moment.
"What I said last night," he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "What I said was, it was cruel. It was wrong. I was-" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I was taking things out on you that had nothing to do with you. Things I should have dealt with. Things I should never have made you carry."
Y/N didn't move. Didn't speak. Her face was carefully, terrifyingly blank.
"I never should have said you don't deserve your spot," Chan continued, his voice rough. "That's not true. That's never been true. You-" He had to stop again, his throat tight. "You're one of the hardest working people I've ever met. You're talented. You're dedicated. You're-" You're everything I said you weren't. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
Silence.
Chan watched her, waiting, hoping for something, a nod, a word, anything that would tell him she'd heard him, that maybe, someday, she could forgive him.
But Y/N just stood there. Her arms were wrapped tighter around herself now, her knuckles white. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere between them, not meeting his gaze.
"You don't have to forgive me," Chan said quietly. "I know I don't deserve that. But I need you to know, I meant what I said when I fought for you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You belong here. You've always belonged here. And I'm-" His voice broke. "I'm sorry I made you doubt that."
Y/N was quiet for a long time. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Chan felt like he was drowning in it.
Finally, she spoke.
"Okay," she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible. But there was something in it, not forgiveness, not yet, but something. A crack in the wall she'd built around herself. "Okay."
She looked up at him then, and Chan's heart clenched. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, but she wasn't crying. Not yet. She looked tired. So, so tired.
"I need to practice," she said again, and this time it wasn't a deflection. It was just… the truth.
Chan nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
He stepped back, giving her space, and she let out a breath, small, shaky, but there. She didn't smile. She didn't reach out. But she didn't flinch when he moved, and that, Chan realized, was more than he deserved.
She walked back to her position, her steps still careful, still measured, but there was something different in the set of her shoulders. Something that wasn't quite so broken.
Chan watched her go, and for the first time since last night, he let himself breathe.
It wasn't fixed. It wasn't even close to fixed. But it was a start. And right now, a start was all he could ask for.
The choreographer clapped her hands again. "From the bridge. Let's go."
Chan took his position. Y/N was three meters to his left, her eyes forward, her body angled toward the mirror. She wasn't pulling away from him anymore. She wasn't leaning in either. She was just… there. Present. Surviving.
It was enough.
The music started, and they moved together, nine bodies in sync, and for the first time in days, Chan felt like maybe, just maybe, they might be okay.
Y/N showed up to practice. She hit her marks. She performed with technical precision that made the choreographer nod in approval. But she was quiet. Too quiet. She didn't laugh at Felix's jokes during breaks. She didn't join Hyunjin and Seungmin when they bickered over snacks. She didn't sit with Chan during meals, didn't meet his eyes across the practice room, didn't give him any opportunity to bridge the distance that still yawned between them.
She was surviving. But she wasn't living.
Chan watched her shrink. It was subtle at first, a missed meal here, a sleepless night there. But he saw it. He saw the way her clothes fit looser, the way her smiles came slower, the way she drifted to the edges of rooms like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. He saw the way she flinched when someone raised their voice, the way her hands shook during quiet moments when she thought no one was looking.
He tried. God, he tried. He brought her coffee in the mornings, setting it next to her bag before she arrived so she wouldn't have to take it from his hands. He made sure there were snacks she liked in the practice room, the ones she used to eat before everything fell apart. He stopped correcting her during rehearsals, letting the choreographer handle it, terrified that his voice, even gentle, even kind, would send her back into herself.
But she kept slipping away, and Chan didn't know how to pull her back.
Changbin caught him in the hallway three days before the first concert of the tour. Chan was leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed to the cool plaster, his eyes closed.
"She's still not okay," Changbin said. It wasn't a question.
Chan shook his head. "She's hollow. I hollowed her out."
"You didn't-"
"I did." Chan opened his eyes, and Changbin took a step back at the look on his face. "I told her she didn't deserve to be here. I told her I regretted fighting for her. I made her flinch, Changbin. She's terrified of me, and I don't know how to fix it because every time I get close, she pulls away, and I can't blame her because I'm the one who hurt her."
Changbin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've been trying to fix this the way you fix everything. You're trying to control it. You're trying to find the right words, the right actions, the right sequence of events that will make everything okay again." He paused. "But this isn't a choreography, Chan. You can't perfect your way out of this."
Chan stared at him.
"Stop trying to fix her," Changbin said, his voice gentle but firm. "Stop trying to manage her. Just… be there. Be present. Let her come to you when she's ready. And if she's not ready-" He shrugged. "Then you wait. However long it takes."
Twenty thousand fans packed into the arena, their light sticks a sea of shimmering color that stretched from the stage to the highest rafters. The energy was electric, a living thing that crackled in the air and made the hairs on Chan's arms stand up.
He stood in the wings, watching the chaos of last-minute preparations. Stylists flitted between members, fixing hair, adjusting micro packs. Stagehands ran final checks on the risers and pyrotechnics. The roar of the crowd was a constant hum, a wave of sound that built and built and built.
And in the corner, Y/N stood alone.
She was dressed for the opening number, a fitted black top that had once fit her perfectly, now hanging slightly loose on her frame. Her hair was styled, her makeup done, but none of it could hide the shadows under her eyes or the way she was gripping her own arms like she was holding herself together.
Chan wanted to go to her. Every instinct screamed at him to cross the room, to take her hands, to tell her that she was going to be incredible, that twenty thousand people were here to see her, that she deserved every second of this.
But Changbin's words echoed in his head. Stop trying to fix her. Just be there.
So he stayed where he was. He caught her eye across the chaos, and for a moment, just a moment, he let her see everything he couldn't say. The apology. The regret. The love he'd never stopped feeling, even when he'd been too broken to show it properly.
She looked away first. But her grip on her arms loosened, just slightly.
The stage manager's voice crackled over the headset. "Thirty seconds."
The members gathered in the darkness behind the stage, forming their opening formation. Chan took his place, his heart pounding. Y/N was three people away from him, her face illuminated by the dim backstage lights, her eyes fixed on the floor.
He closed his eyes. Please, he thought, to no one and everyone. Please let her feel this. Please let her know she's not alone.
The countdown began. Three, two, one.
The lights exploded. The music crashed. And they were moving.
The first three songs were a blur of adrenaline and muscle memory. Chan's body moved on autopilot, hitting every mark, every beat, while his mind raced ahead, cataloging the members, checking their energy, watching for any sign of fatigue or struggle.
Y/N was performing. Not the hollow, mechanical perfection she'd been showing in practice, something else. Something raw. She was throwing herself into the choreography with a desperation that made Chan's chest ache, like she was trying to prove something. Like she was trying to earn something she already deserved.
The crowd was going insane. Twenty thousand voices singing along, screaming their names, waving light sticks in perfect unison. Chan fed on the energy, let it fill the hollow spaces inside him, let it push him through the exhaustion that had become his constant companion.
But he kept coming back to Y/N.
He watched her during the first ment, standing at the edge of the formation while the others spoke to the crowd. She was smiling, a real smile, or close to it, waving at the fans in her section, her eyes bright. The fans were screaming for her, their signs held high, their voices raw with love.
Chan saw one sign near the front row: Y/N, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD. Another: WE SEE YOU, Y/N. WE LOVE YOU. A third, held by a girl with tears streaming down her face: Y/N, YOU ARE ENOUGH.
Chan's throat tightened. He looked at Y/N, wondering if she'd seen them, and saw her gaze catch on the signs. Saw her smile falter. Saw her hand drop to her side, her fingers curling into her palm.
She'd seen them.
The mnet ended. The next song started. Chan moved through the choreography, but his focus was split, his attention always drifting back to Y/N, watching for the moment when the weight of the fans' love would either lift her up or break her open.
It happened during the ballad.
They were spread across the stage, each member in their own spotlight, the arena hushed as the opening piano chords filled the air. Chan was stage left, his voice low and steady, his eyes scanning the crowd. Felix was center stage, his deep voice wrapping around the melody like a warm blanket. Seungmin's vocals soared, clear and pure.
And Y/N was stage right, her voice soft, her eyes closed, her face turned up toward the lights like she was searching for something in the darkness.
Chan watched her sing, and for a moment, she looked like herself again. The old Y/N, the one who laughed too loudly and danced too hard and loved her members with everything she had. The one he'd fallen in love with, though he'd never been brave enough to say it.
Then she opened her eyes.
Her gaze landed on the front row, where a sea of signs had been raised during her verse. Not generic signs. Signs with her name on them. Signs with words that made Chan's heart stop. Signs that made it obvious her pain was known to everyone.
Y/N, WE BELIEVE IN YOU.
Y/N, YOU BELONG HERE.
Y/N, YOUR VOICE SAVED ME.
Y/N, DON'T GIVE UP. PLEASE.
He saw the exact moment it hit her.
Her voice cracked on the next note. It was small, barely audible over the backing track, but Chan heard it. He saw her hand fly to her mouth, saw her eyes fill with tears, saw her shoulders start to shake.
She was crying. On stage. In front of twenty thousand people.
The fans saw it too. The screams that rose from the crowd weren't the usual excited shrieks, they were something else. Something softer. A wave of support that rolled through the arena, fans chanting her name, holding their signs higher, reaching toward her like they could physically hold her up.
Chan moved before he could think.
He crossed the stage in a dozen long strides, his spotlight abandoned, his solo forgotten. He was aware, dimly, of the other members adjusting around him, covering for him, letting him go. He was aware of the crowd's roar intensifying as he approached her.
But all he could see was Y/N.
She was crumbling. Right there on stage, in front of everyone, her carefully constructed walls coming down all at once. Her hands were pressed to her face, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs, her microphone hanging useless at her side.
Chan reached her. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as he dared, his face buried in her hair, his heart shattering into a million pieces.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice raw, his lips against her ear. "I've got you. I'm here."
She collapsed.
Her hands fisted in his jacket, her body shaking with the force of her tears, her face pressed into his chest like she was trying to disappear into him. She was saying something, he could feel the vibrations against his skin, but he couldn't hear her over the crowd, over the music that was still playing, over the pounding of his own heart.
He pulled back just enough to tilt her face up, to see her eyes, red-rimmed and streaming, looking up at him with an anguish that made his knees weak.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, her fingers tightening in his jacket. "I thought-" she choked out. "I thought you didn't want me here. I thought you regretted-"
"No." The word came out fierce, desperate. "No. Never. Never, never, never." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears that kept falling, kept falling, like a dam that had finally broken. "I was wrong. I was so wrong. You deserve this. You deserve everything. You're the strongest person I've ever met, and I was too stupid and too scared and too tired to see what I was doing to you."
"You were tired," she whispered, like she was trying to make excuses for him. Like she was still trying to protect him, even now, even after everything.
"That's not an excuse." His voice broke again. "That's not an excuse for what I said. For how I made you feel. For making you think-" He couldn't finish. The words lodged in his throat, sharp and jagged.
She pulled back slightly, looking at him through her tears. "I thought I'd lost you," she said quietly. "I thought I'd lost all of you."
Chan shook his head, pulling her back into his arms, holding her so tightly he was afraid he might hurt her, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't let go. "You didn't. You never could. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going anywhere."
She was crying again, but it was different this time. Softer. Less like breaking and more like healing. Her arms came up around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder, her body pressed against his like she was trying to climb inside his skin and stay there.
The crowd was still screaming. The music had faded to a soft instrumental, the other members having quietly guided the band into an extended improvisation, giving them time. Chan was vaguely aware of Felix's hand on his back for a moment, a brief squeeze of support, before he stepped away.
Chan didn't care. The only thing that existed in the universe was the girl in his arms.
"I love you," he said into her hair, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was quiet, meant only for her. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me almost destroying us to say it. But I need you to know. I need you to know that I've never regretted fighting for you. Not for one second. The only thing I regret is not fighting harder for you when you needed me to."
She pulled back again, her eyes wide, her tears still falling. "Chan-"
"I know," he said quickly, his heart pounding. "I know this isn't, I know you might not, I just needed you to know. I needed you to hear it."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke through the tears. It was small, fragile, the first real smile he'd seen from her in weeks, and it was the most beautiful thing Chan had ever seen.
"I thought I'd imagined it. That you'd never felt anything at all."
Chan let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, pulling her close again, pressing his forehead to hers. "I've felt everything," he said. "I've been feeling it since the day you walked into that practice room and tried to pretend you weren't terrified. I was just too scared to admit it."
She laughed, a real laugh, watery and broken but real, and Chan felt something in his chest unlock. Something that had been tight and twisted for weeks, for months, maybe for years.
Around them, the crowd had settled into a steady chant. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Twenty thousand voices, calling her name, lifting her up.
Chan pulled back, keeping one arm around her waist, and turned her toward the crowd. "Look," he said softly. "Look at them. They love you. They see you. They know what I've always known."
Y/N looked out at the sea of light sticks, the signs still held high, the faces of twenty thousand people who had come to see her, who believed in her, who were chanting her name like a prayer.
She started crying again, but this time, she was smiling. And Chan held her through it, his arms around her, his heart wide open, finally, finally where he was supposed to be.
The other members closed in around them, Felix with his arm around Y/N's shoulders, Hyunjin squeezing her hand, Jeongin pressing a kiss to her hair, Minho pretending he wasn't wiping his own eyes. They surrounded her, protected her, held her up.
And Chan stood at her side, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through hers, holding on like he'd never let go.
The music swelled again, the next song starting, and Y/N took a deep breath. She looked at Chan, and he saw something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in weeks.
Hope.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
She nodded. Squeezed his hand. Smiled.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
They stepped forward together, into the lights, into the music, into the love of twenty thousand voices calling her name.
And Chan knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would spend the rest of his life making sure she never doubted her place in this world again.
She deserved everything. And he would spend forever making sure she got it.
WARNINGS: Lee Know is kinda rude at first (my baby would never but it's for the plot), y/n is immediately down bad but who can blame her. Dates and times do not matter pls ignore them.
SUMMARY: Lee Minho has a small group of people that he likes. He doesn't need anyone else. Then enter you, Han’s new project partner. He didn’t see you often at first, only occasionally when you would drop off drinks to Han. Then he's seeing you everywhere and he hates it. At least that what he tries to tell himself.
Note: Y'all are finally learning some facts about Minho and why he's been acting off! I'm curious to know how y'all are feeling about the upcoming conversation with y/n and Min. As always please ignore any mistakes... they add charm (hopefully)
TAGLIST: CLOSED
SCREENSHOTS: 7
wc: 2.4 K
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This was going to be harder than he originally thought. Sitting back in his chair determination still there but assessing his new roadblock. His first step is listing out what he knows about her to try and predict where she'd be. He came up with a resounding three things.
Works at Maxident (in afternoon, at least Monday and Wednesday, sometime between 10 and 4)
Had at least one class with Jisung
Friends with K and is sometimes with him in the dance building.
He scratches out the third fact knowing that he should not approach her if K is anywhere nearby. He knows two things about her.
Two measly things.
He was constantly rejecting her offers of friendship. He almost ruined one of his most important friendships for what? Why was he such an ass? Well he knew the reason but he wasn’t in the mood to sort through that tonight. He had more important issues.
Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand he hears the door squeak open. Jisung comes in two drinks in hand. “So what trouble are you going to get us into now?” He walks further into the room, handing Minho one drink while keeping the other as he moves to sit on the bed. He can feel Ji’s eyes moving across his figure.
“I don’t know Ji. I want to find her and apologize but I don’t even know where to start. She used to be everywhere, how does a person completely vanish?”
“What’s that?”
Suddenly feeling embarrassed by the bare list he tries to hide it. “It’s nothing I thought it would help but turns out it really didn't." Because Jisung is a better friend he doesn't pry but he does give him a look conveying he knows that's not the whole truth.
“So what is your plan here? As far as I’m aware you have bare minimum three, fairly big and crazy, obstacles.” Minho nods pensively, he knew K would be a potential problem but hadn't considered her other friends.
Suddenly everything he's been hiding hits him at once. Minho isn't one to succumb to his emotions. Opting to shove them away for future Min to deal with. This time though future Min never came. He never decided to be a functioning adult and work through his shit. So now here he was. Fighting off, unsuccessfully if Jisung’s sudden fear was anything to go by, tears in his bedroom trying to fix a situation he should have never caused. “I don’t know Ji. I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know how to fix this. Any of this.”
“Hey it’s ok Min! It’s really just a big misunderstanding and I’m sure when she’s ready everything will work itself out!”
“There’s…. Jisung I have something I haven’t told you. The reason I’ve been so stressed about this semester especially the end of semester showcase is because if I don’t win and sign with the dance company I have to go home after graduation.”
“Ok well going home isn’t too bad right. I mean you can take a rest and sort out your options. There isn’t only one dance company in the world.” He doesn’t understand and it makes Minho let out a strained laugh.
“No, I’d be going home and putting dance in the past. I’d be lucky to keep it as a hobby. If I don’t win I’m going home to work at the family business.”
Jisung’s face pales. “Oh” it’s almost funny how much better Minho felt after seeing that. Like his own fears have now been validated. “That would explain why you’ve been so intense lately. Especially about your dancing.”
“I just can’t afford to have any distractions. And this..” He points to the notebook at his desk “..is a distraction”
Jisung takes him in, “I can’t help you but I am rooting for you and will answer what questions I can about her without breaking her trust.”
It’s more than he would get otherwise so Minho takes the small victory. “Thanks.” Jisung stands and squeezes his shoulder before exiting his room leaving Minho alone to assess his options.
Over the weekend he spent too much time trying to think of something but the more he struggled for an idea the further away any got. So now here he was, sitting at the Maxident cafe for what could be considered too long. He has yet to see her and honestly he’s not even sure if she's working today. He did see Maki, he immediately recognized him from game night. If he hadn't the look of pure disgust that formed every time their eyes met would have clued him in.
Honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if she was warned that he was here. If today ends up being a bust then he’ll try again tomorrow. It’s the day she usually meets Jisung so she should have a shift in the afternoon. Maybe he can talk to her then.
Or maybe not because here he is in the middle of the afternoon and instead of seeing y/n behind the counter like he expected it’s a blond guy. He's sure it's another one of her friends, he looks familiar like he exists in a memory but wasn’t the focus. As time speeds by it was time for him to leave and meet Jisung he grew defeated. Maybe she was sick. She could have called off for some other reason completely unrelated to Minho. They had barely spoken and here he was thinking he was the reason she wasn’t at work. How bold. Surely she wouldn't move her entire schedule around just to not see him. Yet as he left he couldn't help notice the way the blond boy relaxed a bit more. Surely he could have imagined it but he didn’t think he had.
Y/n and Jisung are class partners, which means they share the same class. Which means he knows where she will be at what time because it’s the same place Jisung is. He’s pacing the hall waiting for class to end. He doesn’t quite have his opener figured out yet. Should he start with the apology, do they partake in small talk. Even just the thought sends a chill down his spine. No small talk! They should probably go somewhere more private so she can be upset with him freely.
Minho is so caught in his head he didn’t register the other person in the hall until it was too late. If he had he would have known he was in trouble. It was the same blond boy from the cafe yesterday. Before he knew it the class was being let out and Minho had to watch as his opportunity vanished. The blond boy immediately grabbed y/n and lead her in the opposite direction from him. He barely caught a glimpse of her face. A mix of guilt and disappointment swirled in him causing a feeling he was growing more uncomfortable by with every day that passed.
Minho tried waiting for her to get out of class another time but once again a friend dragged her away. This time he was determined to be more aware of his surroundings. When he saw Maki walk up he tried to approach. Even got a couple words out before Maki walked away.
Jisung walks out of the classroom seconds after y/n disappears behind the corner he gives Minho a look of pity. Min debates asking for help again. Maybe he could capitalize on the moment, on his weakened state but Jisung had already told him no. He didn’t need another person ignoring him.
There was one more connection that he could try. It may end with him getting a black eye but he won’t know until he tries.
Minho almost would prefer a black eye. It was at least a punishment he had prepared for. Instead he felt like a joke. Here he was being laughed at, K was actually laughing in his face. Well more accurately his waist because he was doubled over holding his gut. Minho had asked to talk to her and this was his answer.
“You have to be out of your mind to be talking to me right now.” K spit out with enough venom is made his body chill. Minho thinks he preferred the laughter to that.
“I just want to talk to her apologize, let her yell at me, anything really.”
“Trust me if she wanted to talk to you or even see you she would.”
“But-“
“Look Minho the only reason I didn’t ignore you entirely is because she deserves to be able to relax. This whole cat and mouse game is causing more harm than good. Just leave her alone ok?”
He didn’t give Minho a chance to respond before walking away. Surprisingly that went better than anticipated. Although maybe he should stop. If he was just adding to her stress was it worth it. He can handle his guilty conscious. He went this long without knowing her he can get through this. He has to focus on what matters to him. The showcase and proving to himself that he can make his dream happen. So he puts a close to this mission and returns to studio to work on his piece.
Minho spends all night debating if he should see her at the library. He doesn’t know if she would be alone or not. The real fear is that it’s better for her if he just leaves her alone. If he just walks away like game night didn’t happen and she is just some face in a crowd of people. But he can’t do that. The thought of that makes his skin crawl.
No he can’t let all this go to waste. If this past week at the studio has been any indication he won’t be getting a productive rehearsal until his mind clears. And right now it is clogged and bogged down with thoughts of her. He still sees her face, contorting in an unnatural way, trying to hide the hurt, trying to seem brave in front of a threat. And he was the threat.
It was this thought that pushed him over the edge. Tomorrow he was going to see her and talk to her. The decision brought a wave of nerves and anxiety to him. He sits up from his bed and goes back to his desk. His notebook untouched from the last unhelpful brainstorming session. Flipping it to a new page he starts working on what he should say to her.
At one point he thinks Jisung opens the door, but he’s sure the sight of him hunched over scribbling on a note like a madman sent a clear message and we went away quickly. Hours pass and Minho makes little progress. His trash can is overflowing with crumbled balls of paper. Nothing sounds right, nothing can really convey his feelings without sounding like an excuse and she deserves more than an excuse.
Before he knows it his head is resting on the desk and what he swears is just going to be a minute of resting his eyes turns into several hours of some of the worst and most uncomfortable sleep he’s gotten in a while. He wakes up to Jisung yelling out that’s he’s heading out. It takes him a moment to get his bearings. He’s still at his desk, a sore back and stiff neck evidence that he slept. Notebook lacking an apology and acting more as a physical extension of himself. Messy and torn. His phone buzzes to the side and when he looks at it he panics. It’s already noon which means he’s already missed a class. Perfect, that should definitely be a good sign for how today was going to go.
Minho takes the fastest shower and then sprints to the studio. He has a session at one and he really needs a breakthrough. He was once again stuck on a part and no matter how many times he constructed different moves or tried to focus on a different feeling nothing was right.
For an hour Minho tries to get anything to flow. When he closes his eyes and tries to envision the moves he gets halfway there. It's like he can see what he should do. But then it all crashes and he sees you instead. Arms clutching your side and tears gleaming in your eyes.
He cuts his session short and makes his way to the library. He finds a chair that is out of the way but he can see the entrance. He isn't even sure if he'll try and talk to you so he doesn't want to startle you into leaving when you booked the space. There is another twenty minutes until 3 so for now he sits and he waits.
He wishes he was calm about it but every time he hears the door open his head turns to the door and his breath stills. When he sees it's not her his shoulders sink and his body relaxes. This cycle continues until finally it is her.
You looks peaceful and he isn't sure he can ruin that. Maybe K is right, you shouldn't be bothered by his guilty conscious. But then he thinks about his incredibly unproductive dance session and the consequences if he doesn't get his act together.
The answer is made for him when he looks back up and you are walking right towards him. The sight takes his breath away, you look determined and a little angry and something ignites that's been sleeping for a long time.
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the studio?" He doesn't registed what your second questions gives away. Too shocked that you came up on your own.
"I uh." He doesn't want to lie but saying that he was here waiting for her sounded creepy. "I wanted to talk to you and heard you might be here. Which I know am hearing sounds insane so I should probably go."
"If I let you say whatever it is you want to say will you leave me alone?" Your words stop his movements.
"Sorry?"
"You've basically been stalking me all week. If I let you say whatever it is you feel you have to say will you stop? I'm just tired of this entire situation."
"Yeah, if that's what you want I'll leave you alone."
"Ok well follow me I guess" You turn to make your way to your study room not sparing another glance his way. He quickly grabs his things and follows the path she set. This was going be interesting.
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in which eunho wants to win a bet, and yejun gets jealous.
what to expect: yejun x gender neutral reader, college au, reader is a barista, sfw soft dom!yejun, small makeout sesh, eunho is a menace, one ass slap, profanity. 3.3k words.
author's note: this is my very first time writing anything for plave, so i'm sorry if the vibes are off hahaha :] hope u like it anyway!!
Despite how busy the cafe can get, when you see that group of 5 men barrel through the door, your bad mood disintegrates.
You met the group of roommates in Media Studies 101. They were intimidating at first, all inside jokes and loud laughs. But when the only seat left was next to Yejun, and he could tell you were scared to ask, so he waved you over and patted the seat next to him, the rest was history.
The coffee shop’s door chime rings above them, Eunho leading the charge. You can hear him talking about treating himself to a larger-sized latte from across the cafe.
“Hi guys!” You abandon the forced corporate greeting. You tried it once, and they all laughed in your face. The memory causes a smile to tug at your cheeks. “The usual?”
“Yeah, but—” Eunho starts, but you’ve already grabbed a large hot cup and started scribbling on it.
“Yeah, yeah—you want a large. Don’t worry, the upgrade is on me.”
“You don’t have to—” Eunho starts as he hands over his card. You take it with a smile and swipe it before you hand it back.
“Too late. Enjoy.” You wave him off so Bamby can step up and place his order. Before he can, your eyes find Yejun’s. He’s standing at the back of the line, mostly obscured by Hamin. But when your eyes meet his, you can’t help the soft smile that overtakes your features. It doesn’t last for long, though, because you can tell by the furrow of his brow that he’s upset.
“Hellooooo, can you stop staring at Yejun and take my order, please?” Bamby waves his hand in front of your face, a smile on his own and a soft lilt to his voice. You feel your face go hot, and you reach behind you to grab an iced cup.
“Americano?” After he nods, you scribble on the cup.
“Oh, I’m getting Noah and Hamin’s, too. Noah wants the frozen one today.” Bamby scratches the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed.
You raise a brow at him and smile as you scribble on the respective cups and charge Bamby’s card.
“He lost a bet,” Hamin shoves his way to the front of the line with a smile and tosses a bill into the tip jar.
“You don’t have to—” You start, but Hamin and Bamby leave the line, and Noah follows, dropping a bill into the tip jar.
“Part of the bet. You’re complaining?” Noah winks, and you roll your eyes as you watch him walk away.
The sound of a clearing throat makes your heart flutter in your chest. When you turn to face Yejun, it nearly stops behind your ribs.
He’s just so… yknow? He’s got his hair pushed back, blue eyes barely obscured by those thick black-rimmed glasses that just look so good on him. And he’s wearing sweats? Like that isn’t the hottest—
“You okay?” He asks, worry furrowing his brows. “You seem… lost in your thoughts.”
You feel your cheeks heat up at his attention, and you duck your head to look at the counter. Desperate for something to do, you dust imaginary crumbs onto the floor.
“I’m good! Promise. Just a little tired. You want your usual?” You take a reassuring deep breath before you force yourself to look at him.
He’s watching you so softly, but intently. Like he wants to know you’re telling the truth—worse, like he knows he can figure it out.
“Okay. Just making sure. And yes, please.” You grab a hot cup and walk over to the hot coffee machine, filling it up most of the way before filling it to the top with almond milk.
When you go to hand it over, you find him trying to hand you a tied-up plastic bag, his exact change on the counter, and the tip jar looking suspiciously fuller.
“I brought you lunch? You said you were tired of cafe food—”
“Yejun! You didn’t—” You stop yourself, pushing the cash on the counter back over to him. “Keep that, then. If you’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious.” Yejun laughs lightly and pushes the cash back to you. “And I can pay for my coffee, too.”
“You’re not paying, you—hey, boss, can I take my break?” You turn around to yell into the kitchen behind you. The echoing, annoyed “yes” that ricochets through the kitchen makes you grin and turn back to Yejun. “Can I join you guys, then?”
Yejun barely has time to nod in affirmation before you’re climbing over the counter, ignoring the usual exit to make Yejun fret over you. His hands shoot outward, waiting for you to need him to catch you.
You don’t need it, of course, as your feet clomp safely on the ground. You smile up at him knowingly before you walk over to the rest of the group. There’s no need to look back and make sure he’s following; you can feel his electric presence hovering behind you, making all your hair stand on end.
The group is sitting at one of the giant booths in the corner. Hamin, Bamby, and Noah are on one side, and Eunho is against the wall on the other side. He smiles and pats the seat next to him as you approach.
“We were hoping you were able to take your break,” he says as you slide in next to him, nudging his shoulder with yours.
“Well, I wasn’t going to, but—” Yejun slides the unboxed, perfectly plated sandwich over to you, and you look up at him to give him a smile as a thank you.
Or… that’s the plan, anyway. And then you get lost in his eyes and can’t look away.
You blink several times in a desperate attempt to pull your attention from him, but it feels like an outside force has put blinders on you. The only thing that really knocks you out of your stupor is the fact that you realize how rude you’ve been.
“Thank you,” it comes out as a whisper, and you quickly clear your throat, hoping to cover your mistake. “You didn’t have to bring this.”
“Oh, he didn’t just bring it,” Bamby grins, taking a sip of his Americano while he stares Yejun down. You can see Yejun subtly shake his head out of the corner of your eye. “What? You don’t want me to tell them you made it?”
You turn and watch as Yejun’s ears turn pink. You smile and lean your head on his shoulder, looking up at him and waiting for him to look back.
“Thank you, Yejunie. That was very kind of you.”
Now his cheeks go pink as he looks down at you, something akin to an embarrassed half-smile on his face.
“Don’t mention it. Excuse me,” his words are soft, and even though you can tell he’s retreating—from what, you don’t know—he never makes you feel like it’s your fault.
“He’s down bad,” Hamin giggles despite most of his attention being on his phone.
“Stop it,” you insist, reaching for the beautiful sandwich in front of you. You’re genuinely shocked at how good it looks—you figured he picked it up from a restaurant.
You take a bite and almost melt at how good it is. Through a mouthful, you say, “You’re lying; he didn’t make this.”
“Oh, he did. I watched him.” It’s Eunho this time, nudging your shoulder and laughing when you pretend it hurts. “We keep telling you he likes you back—”
“You guys love to start shit. Why would I trust anything you say?”
“Because we’re your friends.” Bamby whines.
“And we loooove you,” Eunho says right as Yejun sits down with a huff. “Are you coming over tonight?”
“I didn’t know I was invited…? Oh, Yejunie,” you say as you notice he returned to his seat. “This is so good, I can’t believe you made it!”
“You’re always invited.” Yejun’s cheeks go pink, and he pointedly ignores the second thing you said.
You take a bite of the sandwich, genuinely unable to stop your eyes from rolling back into your head. You let out a groan and softly hit the table. “Well, now that I know you can make food like this, you’re never getting rid of me.”
“So come by after work, it’s Junie’s dinner night, anyway.” Eunho smiles and wags his eyebrows, and you laugh before returning your attention once more to Yejun.
“I could help, if you want? I can be your sous chef.” You offer, hoping you're not coming off as too desperate. He watches you for a moment, so intently that you can feel your cheeks heat up as you take a bite of the sandwich.
“You’ve been working all day, I don’t want to make you—” he starts, but you—
“You’re not making me do anything! I want to—”
Your boss’ voice calling your name stops you in your tracks. You turn around to see him waving you over, and you send him a thumbs up before shoving a way-too-large bite of sandwich into your mouth.
You hum what you think sounds like “see you guys later,” and wave at the crew. They laugh and wave back, and Yejun gets the hint and slides out of the booth to give you the space to exit.
You get out of the booth and look up at him, puffed cheeks full as you give a small bow in thanks for the sandwich.
You turn around too quickly to see the way it lights Yejun up bright red.
-
You have a hard time balancing the box in your hand and keeping your bag on your shoulder, but you’re able to knock a few times on the guys’ apartment door when you rest it on your knee. You don’t wait long for it to rip open, revealing Noah, hair messily tied up, and rubber gloves on his hands.
“Hey! Come on in. Yejun’s in the kitchen.” He shuts the door behind you, and you give him a look until he finally returns his attention to you and laughs.
“I’m not just here for—”
“Sure. Bye. Go to the kitchen.”
You roll your eyes at his retreating form and follow the delicious smell into the kitchen, horribly ignoring Noah’s infectious laughter behind you. When you open the door, you’re greeted with the sight of Yejun’s ass as he bends to put a pan in the oven.
You shake your head to clear your thoughts, then plop the box onto the dining table. Yejun jumps at the sound.
“I didn’t realize you were here already,” he says, hand over his heart as he wills it to calm down. You can’t help but grin.
“Sorry to startle you, but I came with gifts!” The first thing you pull out is two matching aprons with cute, messily hand-drawn cakes and pies on them. “So this one is a bit self-indulgent, but!” You grab the box and tilt it toward him as he approaches.
“You got me a Dutch oven? But—”
“No buts! Isn’t it pretty? It reminded me of you.”
You can’t help but stare at the bright smile on his face as he pulls the heavy, ocean-blue Dutch oven out of the box.
“You shouldn’t have—”
“Hush! I wanted to. Now, tell me what I can do to help.”
Preparing dinner is the most fun you’ve had in a long time. Yejun puts on his apron without being asked and helps you tie yours also without being asked. It’s not like Yejun needs any help with the prep; he picked an easy enough recipe—but it’s clear that at every step, he’s finding something for you to do that feels consequential. Measuring spices, portioning dough—and all the while he stays close by, hovering in case you need help with anything. It isn’t overbearing and instead feels comforting.
You find that a lot with Yejun, you think, as you watch him set the table. He’s being so particular with who gets what utensil, and who sits where—he cares so deeply for everyone, and it’s hard not to let it warm your heart.
“Still tired?” He approaches and places his hands on your shoulders, rubbing up and down your upper arms in an attempt to comfort you. The warmth he leaves behind fuels the heat in your cheeks. Here he is trying to be nice, and you’re being—
“Yeah. Sorry.” You smile up at him, trying not to let the disappointment show when he steps away from you.
“No need to apologize. Do you mind—”
A pink mop of hair butts into the kitchen with a loud, “Hyung! Is dinner ready?”
Yejun laughs out a sigh. “Yeah, c’mon. Get everybody in here.”
Your spots around the table mimic your earlier seating, and you’re once again stuck between Eunho and Yejun. You could never mind, though.
“This looks great, hyung,” Hamin bows his head, and Yejun waves him off. Choruses of “thank you, hyung” and “thank you, Yejunie” ring out, and Yejun’s cheeks go pink.
“Yeah, yeah—everybody eat, okay?”
And, really, he didn’t have to tell any of them twice. The sharp clank of utensils replaces the soft hum of voices as everyone happily dives into Yejun’s newest dish.
The guys are quick to sing their praises through mouthfuls of hot food, while you take the approach of actually letting a bite cool so you can enjoy it—
—and oh, do you enjoy it.
You genuinely cannot help the unholy sound that escapes you at just how good this food is. The room erupts into laughter, and your own bubbles out of you as you finish the bite.
“Damn, if you sound like that just from a bite of good food—” Eunho’s nasty, completely joking pickup line is cut off by the loud scrape of Yejun’s chair as he stands up and walks away, disappearing into the living room.
“Is he okay?” You ask, and Bamby snorts.
“I told you it’d work.” Noah grins before taking another bite.
“Yeah, fine, but I didn’t think it’d work that well.” Bamby nudges him in the ribs, and Noah jokingly groans.
“What are you two talking about?” You ask finally. Four pairs of eyes focus on you at record speed.
“You must’ve noticed me laying it on a bit thick recently.” It’s Eunho who speaks up beside you, and you turn to face the man with a Cheshire cat grin on his face.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t so out of the norm that it was weird.”
“Well…” Eunho starts, but seems to have no intention of finishing.
“They bet they could make Yejun crack. Bamby bet they couldn’t.” Hamin’s attention is solely on his plate of food, evident in the disinterest dripping off every word.
“You guys…” You sigh before you get up from your chair and exit the kitchen.
You look around the living room with no luck and decide to peek down the hall. Yejun’s room is the main bedroom at the very end, and the door is completely shut. You knock as softly as you can on his door, but receive no response.
“Yejun? Can I come in, please?”
You wait for a long moment—so long that you think he might not be in there—and then the door opens. His glasses are pushed up onto his head, shoulders hunched over, but he steps aside and motions for you to come in.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry if I—”
“No.” He stops you, blue eyes staring into your soul, his voice firm and assertive. The intensity sends a shiver down your spine. “You didn’t do anything wrong; there’s no need for you to apologize. I’m sorry I stormed off, I—”
You wait, hoping he offers to finish his sentence. After a way too long pause, “you what, Yejun?”
His gaze quickly drops to his shoes. “I let my emotions get the better of me. I’m sorry.”
You step forward, nearly toe to toe with him. You look up, waiting for him to meet your eyes. “Why do I have a feeling you’re holding something back?”
He finally lifts his head at that, looking into your eyes and searching—for permission, for confirmation, for something.
“Do you not want me to hold back?”
And wasn’t that the easiest no of your life?
There’s a breath of a moment after you answer him where you think he’s trying to figure out if you meant what he thinks you meant—
—and, boy, are you tired of waiting.
So you take a risk, stand on your tiptoes, and plant your lips on his. You can feel him freeze for about one second before he decidedly melts. His hands reach for your hips and latch on tight for a moment, and then you’re pulled up against his chest. You yelp and loop your arms around his neck while he chuckles against your lips.
He tries to pull away, and you chase him, unwilling to let him go just yet. Yejun gives in happily, fingers tightening on your hips in a way that sends a chill down your spine. Yejun’s hand drags from your waist and up your ribs before it disappears. You’re so lost in his lips that you nearly flinch when his hand lands gently on your cheek. He uses it to pull away so softly it’s as though it came from an outside force.
You’re desperately trying to catch your breath, but his thumb oh so softly stroking your cheek is making that quite difficult.
“Hey,” it’s just barely above a whisper, but it gets you to open your eyes, anyway. And you’re glad you did, because the smile on his face makes your heart stop.
“Is this real?” Your question makes him laugh, and he leans forward to press his forehead against yours.
“I think so. Feels pretty real to me.” He takes a deep breath before closing his eyes. “This is what you want, right? Us?” Your arms tighten around his neck, and you slip your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
“So much.” And thankfully, he doesn’t make you work for it—just kisses you like this is everything, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. For you.
It’s so consuming that you hear the camera shutter go off behind you and decide to ignore it.
“Ha! Take that, Bamby. You’re 0 for 2 now.” It’s Eunho, and you can only assume he’s the one taking pictures like he’s the paparazzi.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Leave the lovebirds alone, will you?” Whatever Bamby does elicits a yelp out of Eunho, and suddenly their heavy footsteps are retreating down the hall.
Yejun finally pulls away, but the look on his face tells you he really didn’t want to.
“They’re never going to let us live this down, are they?” His voice is solemn, but the grin on his face gives him away. You can’t help the laugh that spills out of you.
“Not a chance.”
Yejun huffs out a laugh before giving your hip a soft, reassuring squeeze. “Alright, come on. You need to eat.”
You pout at him before moving your arms to his waist and pulling him into a hug. “I just wanna stay right here.”
“Baby,” his hands find your face, scrunching your cheeks ever so slightly and making you look into his eyes. “Food first, then cuddles. Okay?”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod at him. His smile grows, and he grabs you by the shoulders and turns you around.
Yejun gives you a small nudge forward, but you stay in place, your mischievous grin thankfully hidden. Then, after a moment—
—his palm lands on your ass cheek with a solid smack.
“Yejun!” You turn to face him, mouth open in shock. The cocky smirk on his face really makes you want to forget about dinner altogether.
“You’d better start moving before I—”
You yelp before he can finish his sentence, and take off running toward the kitchen. He laughs as he watches you go.
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