╰┈☆ & she wrote ☆┈╯

the air smells faintly like fabric softener and coffee from hours ago, now cold in the cup beside his keyboard. you’re curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of chan’s crewnecks that swallows your hands. the cotton is worn soft from too many washes, oversized and comforting, and it still holds the ghost of his cologne—cedar, musk, the kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room.

he’s quiet.

not in the brooding way, not in the overthinking-every-note kind of way either. just… quiet. his fingers tap lightly against the desk as he listens to the loop again and again. his chair is tilted back just enough to see you in his periphery, and you know, because he’s been stealing glances between each pass.

you pretend not to notice.

instead, you let your fingers trace invisible patterns into your thigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you watch him from under your lashes. the way his black hoodie bunches at the elbows. the curve of his jaw when he’s focused. his mouth, slightly parted. the tip of his tongue resting in the corner, a habit. the faintest scruff on his chin from a day he forgot to shave. or didn’t care to.

you sigh, almost smiling. “you’re squinting again.”

chan’s head tilts. “huh?”

you point lazily at him. “your eyes. when you concentrate. you look like a suspicious grandpa decoding secret messages in morse code.”

a laugh bubbles out of him—short, breathy, surprised. “wow. thanks.”

“you’re welcome,” you say, smug, leaning into the armrest. “you should really consider reading glasses.”

he narrows his eyes at you on purpose now, making a dramatic point. “i will literally end this song right now.”

“you won’t.”

“no, but i’ll pretend i did and pout about it for forty-five minutes.”

“pouting’s a great look on you,” you hum.

you expect him to roll his eyes. maybe throw a crumpled napkin at you. but instead, he just leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest—and looks at you.

fully.

the studio is quiet except for the looped track. and chan’s gaze? it softens. like the way light filters through curtains. gentle, warm, and far too much.

“what?” you whisper, feeling your face heat.

he shrugs, lips twitching into a small, sleepy smile. “nothing. you’re just really pretty when you’re bullying me.”

you squint back at him. “you’re not even trying to win this argument.”

“that’s ‘cause i like losing to you.”

your heart stumbles. you mask it by pretending to cough into your sleeve. he sees right through it. smirks wider. turns back to the screen like he didn’t just ruin your entire nervous system.

“asshole,” you mumble.

“mmhm.”

he slides his headphones on again, adjusts a few sliders, then clicks the spacebar. the track starts over. he listens. edits. rewinds. rests his chin on his palm.

you let yourself stare a little longer this time.

there’s something about watching chan work that feels like worship. he’s quiet with it—not boastful, not performative. just intensely focused, endlessly curious. you can see him thinking—layers of intention behind every adjustment, like he’s shaping sound into something that can hold meaning.

you never feel more drawn to him than in moments like this.

“c’mere,” he says suddenly, pulling one side of his headphones off.

you blink. “why?”

“just for a second.”

you raise an eyebrow. “this is how you trap me.”

“yup.” he doesn’t even deny it.

still, you rise, stretching your arms over your head with a small yawn, then pad over to his chair. he grabs your wrist lightly and tugs you down, guiding you gently into his lap like he’s done this a hundred times before. like your body fits there. like it’s second nature.

his arms wrap around your waist automatically.

you settle back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, your legs slotted between his. the sound from the speakers is low now—background music to the quiet closeness you’ve both fallen into.

“this part’s new,” he murmurs near your ear, hitting play again. “i wrote it thinking of you.”

you freeze just a little. then slowly glance up at him.

he’s looking at the screen like he didn’t just casually say that.

“…chan.”

“mhm?”

“you wrote the chorus with me in mind?”

“pre-chorus, actually,” he says, lips twitching. “the chorus is about ramen. but the pre-chorus? that one’s you.”

you lightly smack his chest, laughing. “you suck.”

“do not.”

“you literally labeled the file ‘yn_ver2_emotionsfix.wav,’” you accuse, voice barely hiding your grin.

chan gives a dramatic sigh. “it was either that or ‘track_56_final_final_real_final_edit.wav.’ i went with art.”

you shake your head, settling into him again. he smells like warmth—like cotton, and hours of focus, and something softer beneath it all. his hands splay against your hips. secure. careful.

you close your eyes.

“you tired?” he asks quietly.

you nod against him. “but i don’t want to sleep yet.”

“why?”

“‘cause you’re not done loving me tonight.”

that catches him off guard. you feel it in the pause of his breath.

then—arms tighter around you. his chin tucks into your shoulder, and his voice is low. honest.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be done, y/n.”

the song loops again. a soft echo in the dark.

and neither of you move.

“something like home.” (12:59 am. still just the two of you.)

your feet are bare.

there’s a stray thread at the hem of your sleeve, and chan’s fingers have been absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and forefinger for minutes now. the song plays in soft loops, fading into the walls like wallpaper music. you’ve stopped noticing it. or maybe it’s become a part of this moment.

you’re still in his lap, curled into his chest like the world forgot to pull you apart. he doesn’t seem to mind. his chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands are warm on your sides. his thumb strokes lazy, back-and-forth shapes over the fabric—like a lullaby with no melody.

you yawn. then mumble something.

“what?” he whispers.

“i said… i think i’m starting to melt.”

he chuckles, the sound low against your back. “melt?”

“mhm.” you nudge your nose into his hoodie. “i’m too comfortable. i might dissolve. evaporate. just… become one with the hoodie.”

chan hums, tilting his head to press a small kiss into your hair. “then i’ll carry you in my pocket.”

you pause, smiling into his chest. “you’re such a sap.”

“you love it.”

you twist just enough to look at him. “you say that like you’re not the clingy one.”

“i’m not clingy,” he says, indignant. “i just… like you close.”

you raise an eyebrow.

he holds up a finger, serious. “okay, hear me out. i didn’t ask you to stay over because i’m clingy. i asked because—”

“you missed me,” you cut in, sing-song.

he scoffs. “no—well, yes—but—listen. i knew you’d be annoying about it. that’s the real reason.”

“wow. you invited me over just to be bullied?”

“you’re better than caffeine.”

you blink.

he grins, smug. “and cuter.”

your chest does that thing again—that quiet, involuntary ache. like your ribs are expanding too fast for your heart to keep up.

you try to hide your face in his hoodie. “stop it.”

“no,” he says softly. “not when you look at me like that.”

you glance up. “like what?”

“like i’m the whole night sky.”

there’s a beat. long enough for your throat to close around it. you laugh, a soft, shaky breath. “that was corny.”

he kisses your temple. “did it work?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the way your fingers curl into his sleeve is loud enough.

you eventually slip off his lap, legs stiff, your body slow with sleepiness. but you don’t go far. just settle beside him again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

chan shifts, pulls the blanket from the couch, and drapes it over your legs without a word. then he leans forward and clicks a few keys. the track pauses.

“what happened?” you ask, voice small.

he shrugs, adjusting the volume. “nothing. just wanted to sit here.”

you smile. “is the genius producer taking a break?”

“genius producer,” he echoes, a grin playing at his lips. “i like how that sounds.”

“it’s true,” you say, poking his cheek. “you’re brilliant. even when you forget to eat dinner.”

“someone’s trying to soften me up,” he teases.

you lean closer, your voice a playful whisper. “is it working?”

he turns his face toward you—slow, like the moment stretches around the movement. his eyes flicker between yours, soft and unreadable.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “too well.”

you don’t kiss him yet. but the space between your faces is small enough to feel the promise of it.

“can i tell you something weird?” he asks a little while later.

you nod, half-drowsy, eyes fluttering shut.

“i think…” he hesitates, then laughs under his breath. “god, this sounds stupid.”

you look up at him. “nothing you say to me is stupid.”

he’s quiet for a beat. then-

“i think my heart memorized you before my brain did.”

it’s barely a whisper.

but it slices through the quiet, delicate and sure. your breath catches.

“i don’t even mean that in a romantic movie kind of way,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “just… every time i see you, even if i’m tired, even if the day sucked, something in me just—relaxes. like it knows. like you’re what it was waiting for.”

you don’t respond with words.

you just reach out—touch his face gently, like he’s something precious. your thumb runs along his cheekbone. then down to his lips.

chan closes his eyes under the touch.

“you always say these things like you don’t realize what they do to me,” you murmur.

he opens them again. they’re deeper now. fuller with something unspoken. “what do they do?”

“you make it really hard to breathe.”

“then hold on to me,” he whispers.

so you do.

“in the quiet, i love you” (1:17 am. again, just the two of you.)

it’s late. but that kind of late where the world feels paused. no ringing phones. no outside noise. just the low hum of equipment, a single dim lamp in the corner, and chan’s hand resting over yours like he’s scared the moment will slip away if he lets go.

your head is against his shoulder again. his hoodie sleeve is bunched between your fingers, and you’ve long since stopped trying to pretend you’re not holding on like he’s your anchor.

“wanna know something?” you say softly, tracing small shapes into his palm.

“always.”

“i used to think love would feel loud.”

he doesn’t speak. just waits.

you smile at the ceiling. “like fireworks. or movie kisses in the rain. or fighting, dramatic, over-the-top things. but this—” your hand squeezes his. “this feels like… the space between notes in a song. quiet. but there. and if it were gone, you’d hear the difference.”

chan swallows, his voice a hush. “you’re gonna make me cry in my own studio.”

you giggle, turning toward him, noses almost brushing. “no tears allowed. you’re the genius producer.”

he fake-sobs dramatically. “the genius producer is in shambles.”

you cover his mouth with your hand, laughing now. “stop. you’re gonna ruin the mood.”

he grins under your palm. then kisses it. soft. warm. so soft it makes your throat catch.

“wanna hear a line i wrote today?” he asks, voice lower now, fingers lacing between yours.

you nod.

he glances at the monitor like he’s nervous, then looks back at you. “it’s not for the track, just… a thing i wrote.”

he clears his throat.

“if i could fold myself into your pockets i’d live there quietly, beside your pulse where your heartbeat becomes my soundtrack and time forgets how to hurt.”

your eyes sting.

“chris…”

“it’s dumb,” he says quickly, eyes darting away. “just a line. you don’t have to—”

you cut him off with a kiss. it’s soft. barely there. just the press of lips against lips, the kind of kiss that says, i understand you even when you think you don’t make sense.

when you pull back, you’re both blinking too much.

“was that okay?” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he speaks. “i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.”

the next hour passes in fragments.

you try on his headphones and gasp when you hear how clear the track sounds. he records you saying random phrases to sample your voice—half of them silly, the other half secretly tender.

“say something sexy,” he grins, mic already on.

you squint at him. “like what?”

“i don’t know. just say whatever comes to your mind.”

you lean in close to the mic, lips parted. “christopher, i swear to god, if you don’t drink water within the next ten minutes i’m turning off your computer.”

he throws his head back, laughing so hard it shakes his shoulders.

“you menace,” he wheezes.

“you asked for it.”

“not the hydration threats—oh my god.”

you’re both giggling too much to care what time it is. he turns the mic off, pulls you back to him, and presses his forehead to yours like it’s instinct.

“hey,” he whispers.

“yeah?”

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt like this before.”

you meet his eyes.

“i think…” he pauses. “i think i trust you with parts of me i didn’t even know i had.”

you nod, tears threatening again.

“you can keep them,” you whisper back.

later, he reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it with one hand, still holding you with the other.

“what are you doing?” you murmur, sleepy now, blinking slowly.

“i want a picture.”

“no,” you groan. “my face is puffy. i’m tired.”

“you’re beautiful,” he says immediately, no hesitation.

you glare. “you can’t say things like that so easily.”

“but they’re true.”

“still.”

he snaps one anyway—your face buried in his hoodie, his hand covering half your cheek, both of you in soft shadows. when he looks at it, he smiles like he’s looking at the beginning of something.

“can i post it someday?” he asks gently. “not now. but when it’s not just ours anymore.”

you nod.

but neither of you say when that might be. because for now, the secrecy is sacred. the studio is a sanctuary. and this—this hush, this touch, this late-night wonder—belongs to you both.

right?

“we talk about everything, and nothing, and it all matters.”(01:58 am. the world is asleep, but you’re still here.)

you’re half on the couch, half on chris. the blanket has migrated around both your shoulders now, pooled at your waists like it’s tucking you in on behalf of the moon.

the studio lights are dim. the glow from the monitors is faint and flickering. the music is paused. you aren’t.

chan’s fingers are threaded through yours again, resting on your stomach, your hands fitting like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive. his head is tilted back. yours is on his chest, listening.

every so often, his heartbeat skips. you never point it out.

“do you think,” he says suddenly, voice hushed like he’s afraid to wake the air, “that people always end up where they’re meant to be?”

you pause. “you mean, like fate?”

he nods, slowly. “yeah. or something like it.”

you think for a second.

“i don’t know. i think maybe we end up in the neighborhood of where we’re meant to be,” you say softly. “but the exact house? the one with the red door, or the one with the leaky ceiling? i think we choose those.”

he hums. “i like that.”

“why’d you ask?”

he’s quiet for a moment. “i just keep thinking.. if i hadn’t chosen this path—music, the hours, the pressure—i don’t know if we’d be here. but sometimes i wonder… if it’s too much. if i’ll burn out.”

you lift your head slightly to look at him.

his gaze is on the ceiling. like he’s asking the stars above the insulation to answer for him.

“i think about it too,” you admit.

his eyes flick down to you. “you do?”

you nod. “not just about you. about me. about everything. what i want. what i’m allowed to want.”

the way you say allowed makes him tense just slightly, but you don’t dwell.

you rest your cheek back on his chest. his hand finds your shoulder, slow and soothing. “tell me,” he says gently.

you take a breath.

“i used to think i had to be perfect,” you say, voice low. “or at least harmless. make everything easy for everyone. be sweet. be smart. never ask for too much. never make things complicated.”

chan’s hold on you tightens almost imperceptibly.

you keep going.

“but i’m learning that love… real love… lets you take up space. even the messy parts. even the loud parts. i’m still trying to believe i’m allowed to ask for things. to say ‘i want this.’ even when it’s scary.”

he’s silent, but you can feel the emotion rising in him. his fingers brush your hair back from your temple with a kind of reverence.

“i’m glad you said that,” he whispers. “because i want you to ask. always. for anything.”

you nod, eyes stinging again.

after a pause, you murmur, “what about you?”

he exhales. “i think… i used to believe i had to earn love. like, i had to constantly do something to deserve it. be productive. be valuable. make music. fix things. be strong.”

you shift slightly to see his face. his eyes are unfocused, turned somewhere inward.

“but lately…” he goes on, “with you, i’m starting to believe that maybe i don’t have to prove anything. that maybe i can just be. and that’s enough.”

you press your lips to his jaw, a soft silent thank you for letting you see that part of him.

you stay like that for a while.

just breathing.

just existing.

“i want to grow old with you,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“like—not in a cliché way. not just the cute stuff. i mean i want to still know you when we’re tired and wrinkly and grumpy and our backs hurt when we laugh too hard.”

you smile against his hoodie.

“i want that too.”

he looks down at you. “you do?”

you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze. “i want to see what kind of old man you become. i bet you’ll still wear these black hoodies and cry when the guys bully you for actually being old.”

he groans. “don’t expose me.”

you giggle, tucking back into his chest. “you’re adorable.”

you both fall into a comfortable silence again. the kind where the silence isn’t empty—it’s full. of safety. of things you don’t have to say.

and then…

“hey,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“if we ever get a dog, can we name it something stupid like toast?”

he snorts, nearly choking. “why toast?”

“i don’t know, it’s cute. imagine yelling ‘toast! come back here!’ in the park. it even matches with berry. like.. berry toast.”

he’s laughing now, full and quiet and real. “okay. so berry can bond with a new sibling then. over names. well.. toast it is. but only if i get to name the next one pancake.”

“deal.”

eventually, you both go quiet again.

there’s a weight to the room now—but not heavy. just… full. like the whole place is holding its breath around you, content to let you exist in each other.

you listen to his breathing. he listens to yours.

you both listen to the invisible thing being written between your hearts— soft and slow and definitely.. real.

“the song you weren’t supposed to hear.”(it’s still the middle of the night. and his heart is ready.)

the night has settled into the kind of stillness that only exists between 2 and 3 am—where the world outside is paused, like it’s holding its breath just for you.

you’re both now completely on the studio couch, your legs lazily tangled over his, the blanket from earlier now messily draped across your laps. the air smells faintly like jasmine from his candle stash and whatever conditioner he uses that clings to the collar of his hoodie. you’ve been tracing little nothing shapes on his arm, neither of you talking for a while—not because there’s nothing to say, but because being this close is already saying enough.

chan’s fingers have been fidgeting. not nervously, just… thinking. tapping little beats into the fabric of the couch like he’s composing something in his head he doesn’t want to forget.

you’re the first to break the silence.

“your brain’s loud again,” you murmur, smiling without opening your eyes.

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “always is, when you’re around.”

you lift your head, eyebrow raised. “is that a compliment or are you blaming me for your overworked neurons?”

chan grins. “little bit of both.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and nudge his shoulder. he watches you for a moment—eyes soft, dimple barely showing—and then he shifts. gently untangles himself from you and gets up, barefoot steps soundless on the floor.

you sit up slowly, watching as he walks over to the computer, clicking something open with a hesitance that’s uncharacteristic of him.

he hesitates a second longer, one hand on the mouse, the other in his curly hair.

“can i show you something?” he asks, voice low, unusually careful.

you straighten. “of course.”

he doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “i wasn’t gonna. i wasn’t ever going to, honestly. but i feel like… if i don’t now, i’ll never get the courage again.”

your heart stirs—soft, curious.

he opens a folder.

one you’ve never seen.

the name of it is just a single word: "maybe."

he clicks on a file. the project loads slowly. your eyes flick over the screen. it’s dated from almost two years ago.

the first out of a gazillion track's name? “she’ll never know (demo)”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses play.

the room fills with the sound of chan’s voice. not the polished, practiced version. not the stage-ready delivery. this is raw.

the acoustic guitar is gentle, almost sleepy. like the song was written late one night, maybe one just like this, with him hunched over his desk and the words falling out of him before he could stop them.

and then— the first line.

"she walks in like the sky turned soft just for her—""doesn’t notice the way she makes silence feel warm."

your breath catches. your boyfriend doesn’t turn around. he’s sitting at his chair now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it held answers to his shower thoughts.

the song continues—delicate, bare-boned. there’s a melody that rises like a question and falls like an answer. his voice cracks a little in the second verse. not from poor singing. from too much truth.

"she calls my name like it was made for her mouth—and i swear, i’d give her every version of me she asks for."

you bring your hand to your chest without realizing it.

your throat is dry. your eyes aren’t.

and then— the bridge.

it’s not perfect. the production cuts slightly. but the lyrics?

"if she knew i wrote her into every song i couldn’t finish,would she stay long enough to hear the chorus?"

you don’t breathe.

he lets the track end without speaking. the silence that follows is thick and tender.

and finally, finally, he turns to look at you.

you’re still holding your hand to your chest. you can’t find words.

“i wrote that before,” he says, quietly, “before i knew if you’d ever… look at me like that. before i thought i’d get to call you mine. i wasn’t gonna play it. felt like—it was too much.”

you shake your head, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “no, chris. it’s not too much. it’s—god. it’s beautiful, channie.”

you cross the room slowly and kneel beside his chair, hands reaching for his. “you loved me then, didn’t you?”

he nods. “i think i always did.”

the air feels like it might break from the softness.

you press your forehead to his. close your eyes. he does the same. his hands slide around your back, pulling you into him like he needs to feel you breathing.

“can i ask you something?” you whisper.

“anything.”

“when you wrote it… did you ever think i’d hear it?”

his voice is almost inaudible. “no. but i wanted you to feel it. even if you never knew.”

you kiss him. not rushed. not fiery. just… full. full of every quiet word you’ve ever shared, every moment your bodies spoke before your mouths did. full of everything that’s always been there.

when you pull back, you whispered.

“thank you for writing me into your world.”

he smiles, presses his lips to your hair.

“you are my world.”

“you and me, in a song.” (almost 3am. but none of you seem to care.. because it's just you two.)

your knees are folded up on the studio couch now, hoodie sleeves past your hands, hair a little messy from where he’d had his fingers in it. chan’s laptop is dimming from inactivity. that song—the one he never meant to play for anyone—is still echoing in your chest.

there’s something quiet between you two now, but it’s not tension. it’s the kind of silence that follows honesty. like the air has finally settled after a truth landed and made its home here.

he’s lying on the floor now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other outstretched, hand palm-up like he’s waiting for you to hold it. you do. of course you do.

“you’re still thinking too much,” you say, squeezing his fingers gently.

he gives a tired smile, turning his head toward you. “i know, baby. i can’t help it. my brain doesn’t have an off switch, y'know.”

you glance down at him, at the boy you love who writes heartbreak into bridges and hides confessions in chord progressions.

“wanna distract it?” you ask softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “you got something in mind?”

“let’s write something,” you say, voice picking up in excitement. “together. something stupid and sweet. corny. cheesy. but something that sounds like us.”

he sits up, instantly intrigued. his eyes are sleepy but alive now, warm like melted chocolate in low light. “you sure you’re not tired?”

“i’m very tired,” you say, already reaching for a notebook, “but i’m also in love, and this feels like something we’ll remember.”

he exhales a quiet laugh. “okay,” he murmurs. “let’s make it ours.”

the guitar is perched on his knee now, and you’re tucked beside him, the notebook resting across both your legs. you can barely see the lines under the yellowish desk lamp glow, but that somehow makes it feel even more intimate.

“okay,” he says, strumming a slow, dreamy chord. “tone check. what are we going for?”

“something soft,” you say. “not too polished. something that sounds like—like a sleepy love letter or something?”

he nods, repeating the chord progression, slower this time. “mmm.. like this?”

you hum in approval. “wait, yeah. genius! that feels like us. okay, first line.”

he laughs at the page. “you go.”

you pause, chewing your lip. then, with a grin..

“you looked like a dream at 3 a.m., with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

your boyfriend's pen freezes.

he blinks.

then he gives you the kind of look that belongs in poems—stunned, a little helpless, a lot in love.

“that’s not fair,” he mutters, writing it down. “you’re gonna make me fall harder than i already have.”

you smirk. “your turn, loverboy.”

he strums a chord and speaks more than sings.

“you whispered forever in the way you laughed, and i started believing it might be real.”

your heart flutters.

you grab the pen and underline that line twice. “you’re disgusting,” you whisper with a grin.

“i learned from the best,” he grins back.

you spend the next hour like that—passing the pen, trading verses, scribbling out and rewriting lines until your fingers are smudged with graphite and the paper is creased from how many times you’ve folded it to your chest in giddy disbelief.

at some point, chan turns the mic on. just to catch what you’re doing. just in case.

he doesn’t warn you when he starts singing.

you’re halfway through doodling stars and hearts in the corner of the page when his voice fills the air again, soft and sleepy and devastatingly sweet.

he sings the first verse.

your verse.

you look up at him, startled.

his eyes are on you, and he doesn’t look away when he reaches your line:

“…with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

you smile, caught.

when he finishes the chorus—messy and still incomplete—you exhale slowly. “you made it sound beautiful.”

chan shrugs, pretending to be casual. “t'was already beautiful. i just put a melody on it.”

you reach for his hand again. he lets you take it, always lets you take it.

“is this the first song you’ve written with someone you’re in love with?” you ask quietly.

he pauses.

then smiles, shy and soft. “yeah. and i hope it’s the only one.”

you press your forehead to his shoulder.

“i think we just made a cheesy memory,” you whisper.

he turns slightly to kiss the top of your head. “then let’s keep making them. cheesy and all.”

the clock reads 4:12 a.m. now. the first version of the song is saved in a folder called “us.” it’s not finished. it might never be. but it doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to be yours.

you curl into the corner of the couch again, eyes fluttering shut- not to sleep, but maybe to rest them. chan hums the chorus under his breath beside you, fingers mindlessly playing the chords like he’s serenading the night itself.

before you drift off, you mumble one last thing:

“you’re my favorite song, chris.”

and he whispers back. he always does.

“you’re my reason for every one of them.”

“the part i never said out loud.”(a still hour. 4:41 a.m. the quiet isn’t peaceful anymore—it’s holding its breath.)

he doesn’t notice it at first. the way you’ve gone quiet. maybe you were asleep.

but it was not like before. not sleepily. not wrapped in awe from a new lyric or his voice in your ear. this silence is different. it’s sitting heavy on your chest. and he only realizes when he reaches out to run his thumb gently over your knuckles and you flinch—barely, but enough for him to notice.

he turns to you slowly.

“hey,” he says softly. “hun, you okay?”

you blink at him. you were looking at the studio wall—at the sound panels, the gold record in the frame, the corner where your folded lyric sheet sits untouched. you weren’t really seeing any of it.

“yeah,” you say. but your voice betrays you. too thin. too quiet.

he sets down the guitar and shifts closer. his brows furrow, but not in frustration. it’s concern. that same warm, earnest gaze he’s always given you.

“you can tell me anything,” he says. “you know that, right?”

you nod. and then you nod again. because it’s true. you know it’s true. you believe him with your whole heart.

that’s exactly why it’s so hard.

“i didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whisper, “but i… i think i’ve been avoiding saying something.”

he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t press. just waits. lets the silence expand around you until you’re ready.

you take a breath. and then another.

“it’s my family,” you say finally. “they don’t… they don’t like that i’m with you.”

chan’s head tips slightly, like he didn’t hear right. “what?”

you wince.

“they think it’s unstable. unrealistic. that… that i shouldn’t be dating someone in the industry. that i’m just a phase to you. or that it’ll always be long-distance and lonely and that i’ll be the one waiting while you live a life i can’t be part of.”

you can’t look at him.

“they think loving you is… irresponsible,” you say, voice cracking.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the soft buzz of equipment around you. the hum of the silent studio. the absence of sound.

and then—his voice. low. steady.

“do you think that?” he asks, gentle but serious.

your eyes snap to him.

“no,” you say immediately, like it physically hurts to even have him wonder that. “no, god, never. i love you. i love you more than i even know how to explain. i just—”

you break off, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“i hate that i feel like i’m betraying them just by choosing my own heart.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t get defensive. he doesn’t ask for promises or ask you to pick sides. he just reaches out and cups your face in his hand, thumb resting softly against your cheekbone.

“you’re not betraying anyone by being honest about what you want,” he says. “and if that’s not me, i’ll understand.”

you finally cry.

not hard. not dramatic. but silent tears spill, and you don’t even try to stop them.

“but it is you,” you whisper. “it’s always been you. that’s the whole problem.”

chan pulls you into him then, holds you so close it feels like maybe you can hide there for a while. maybe forever.

his chin rests on top of your head as your hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. you can feel his heart against your cheek.

“then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “whatever it takes. i don’t care what the world says. you’re my home.”

your breath stutters.

“i don’t want to lose you,” you say.

“you won’t,” he replies, like it’s fact. “even if the world ends. even if i’m across the globe and you’re under a hundred rules, i will still be yours.”

you don’t realize how hard you’re clinging until his arms tighten in response.

“i’m so scared, channie,” you whisper.

“i know, baby. i know.”

and then, quieter.

“but i’m not scared. not if i’ve got you.”

somewhere between the crying and the quiet, you fall asleep against him.

your dreams are a blur of chords and warmth, of light through a studio window that doesn’t exist. you dream of melodies that sound like safety.

and even though the world outside might never fully understand it—might never fully approve—you wake up knowing.. this.

your heart knows where it belongs.

and it’s right here, in the quiet thrum of a boy who wrote your name into every note before he ever said it out loud.

“no matter the ending, it’s you.”(the sky is beginning to lighten, barely. that liminal hour between night and morning. somewhere between dream and day, where truth feels soft enough to hold.)

you wake up first.

chan’s head is tilted toward you on the couch, cheek pillowed in the mess of your hair. he’s asleep — properly this time, breath slow, mouth just barely parted, hoodie slightly askew around his collarbone where you clung to him in your sleep.

the studio is still quiet. the monitors are off now, the soft blue light from the mixing board the only thing illuminating the room. your bodies are half-covered by the denim blanket he keeps for emergencies, the air conditioner humming gently in the background.

and your heart — somehow — is steady.

not because the fear is gone. not because the world has changed overnight. but because you’re still here.

and so is he.

you lift your hand and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. his lashes flutter. then, without opening his eyes, he whispers, still half-asleep:

“are you leaving me?”

you smile, sad and sweet, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear.

“never,” you say softly. “even if i have to pretend in front of everyone else. even if i have to keep you a secret just a little longer. i’m not leaving you.”

his brows twitch — a quiet expression of protest even in sleep.

“you shouldn’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “you deserve to be loved out loud.”

you press your forehead against his.

“i am loved out loud,” you reply. “by you.”

that makes him stir. he opens his eyes now, sleepy and glassy and gold in the low light.

“you’re sure?” he says.

you nod, then softly: “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

he sits up slightly, blinking, hair a ruffled halo.

“you don’t have to protect me from your world, y/n,” he says, voice gravelly. “i’m strong. i’ll stand there with you. whatever people say. whatever your family thinks. i’ll wait however long you need. i’ll earn every inch of your life.”

your throat tightens.

“i don’t want you to wait,” you say. “i want you in it. not waiting at the edges. just… just give me time to show them. that it’s you. that it was always you.”

he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your temple.

then, he says the same thing he whispered into your hair the first night you ever stayed this long in the studio, months ago, when he was shy to admit how badly he wanted you to stay:

“i’ve got all the time in the world.”

you let out a breath. a small one. a real one. and for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases.

you end up sitting side by side on the studio floor with mugs of tea he brewed on the tiny electric kettle under his desk. you drink in silence for a few moments, legs pressed together, heads leaning against the wall.

then you speak, softly, barely louder than the hum of the outside wind through the sealed windows.

“do you think this lasts?”

he doesn’t ask what “this” means.

he just looks at you. and smiles.

“i don’t think love ends,” he says. “not the real kind.”

you swallow, slow.

“even if it changes?”

“it might change,” he nods. “it might grow, or shrink, or stretch itself around the seasons of our lives. but it doesn’t disappear. and mine for you… isn’t going anywhere.”

you close your eyes.

“i want forever,” you say, and you mean it. not in the dramatic, fairy tale way. not as a fantasy. but as a promise. as something simple and raw and real.

and he reaches out and takes your hand like it’s instinct. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you have it,” he says.

outside, the world begins to stir. trains groan in the distance. the city starts to wake.

but in here, in the little universe you’ve made with him under dim lights and scattered lyrics and the leftover scent of jasmine tea, everything is still. everything is soft.

and maybe the world still won’t understand.

maybe your family will take time.

maybe you’ll both carry the weight of being two people in love who don’t fit the boxes you were given.

but you’ll carry it together.

and that’s all you need.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 — fill out this form to be added !!

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