then go get me

the studio door clicks shut behind Minho at 11:47 p.m.

the first thing he’s met with is the october cold. it bites through his hoodie like it’s been waiting for him. his calves ache with that deep, familiar burn—the kind that means he's pushed through the same eight-count at least forty times, running it again and again until the muscle memory of it is carved it into his bones.

sweat dries sticky under his collar, and his phone, clutched in one hand, blinks its final breath: 3% battery, a lock screen crowded with birthday messages from stay that he hasn’t bothered to scroll through.

birthdays have never been a big deal for him. they’re just another day on the calendar, another reason for people to expect something from him he doesn’t know how to give.

he wants a shower. he wants his bed. he wants his cats, and he wants you.

that’s all minho needs to be a happy man, birthdays be damned.

the walk to the apartment is short, but tonight it feels a bit stretched. his legs drag with each step. his breath fogs the air like small puffs of smoke. by the time he reaches the door, his fingers are numb around his keys.

he enters as quietly as he possibly can, easing the handle down with enough care to be laughable before slipping inside.

the first thing he’s met with is the light—low and amber, like someone had left a lamp on out of kindness. the television is paused on some streaming menu, its glow painting the room in soft blues.

the smell is the next thing that hits him. vanilla. sugar. something warm and sweet that doesn’t belong to the apartment’s usual mix of takeout and laundry detergent.

minho's eyes adjusted, and that's when he sees you.

you’re curled on the couch, knees tucked up, one arm dangling off the edge. and draped over you are his cats.

minho feels his stomach drop into some unknown place below the ground. the hole it leaves in his stomach is promptly filled with something warm. if he were to toss a dart at a random emotion, he’d place a hefty bet that the one he’d come up with was love.

stretching across your stomach in all of his glory lays soonie. doongie’s laid claim to the spot on your hip. and dori? he’s curled snug against your side, one paw resting on your wrist like a gentle anchor—right where minho’s arm usually drapes over you while asleep.

minho’s throat suddenly feels tight. out of all the things he’d expected to come home to, this sight was not one of them.

but fuck, he wouldn’t pass it up for the world.

minho just kinda… stands there for a moment, bag still slung over one shoulder, shoes half-kicked off. he feels something unclench in his chest. it was like the aches in his limbs have faded away, quick to be replaced by the same warmth that was currently swirling in his stomach and traveling in wisps towards his heart.

one of the cats—soonie, the little traitor—peeks up at him and blinks slow, as if to say, you’re late. we’ve been keeping her warm.

he drops his bag by the door and pads over on socked feet, careful not to disturb the scene laid out before him. the blanket you had wrapped yourself in before has slipped from your shoulders, bunching around your waist. minho doesn’t even have to think before he’s reaching down to pull it back up again. his fingers move on autopilot—tucking corners, smoothing fabric, fixing the cushion you've been using as a pillow.

it’s when he’s stood back to look at you that he pauses.

a strand of your hair had fallen across your cheek, a few strands caught over the plush of your lips. without thinking once again, he brushes them back into place, tucking them behind your ear with a touch that’s feather light. his fingers hover there for a second longer than necessary, unable to pull away.

he nearly regrets his selfishness when you shift below him. nearly.

you stir slowly, lashes fluttering. your eyes open halfway, unfocused and sleepy. when you finally realize what’s happening, you can’t fight the smile your lips pull into. “you’re home.” a simple statement, one you speak as if it’s high praise.

his throat tightens. simply, he says, "didn't want to wake you."

"mm, too late." you mumble. you move to sit up, the action causing a meow of protest from one of the three felines curled beside you. your smile is small and lopsided, and his exhaustion folds into something softer.

minho hums at the sight of you. "you look comfortable."

"your cats staged a cuddle coup," you respond with a laugh, voice still thick with sleep. doongie chirps indignantly at minho, as if offended he’d caused you—his human cat bed—to move. minho scratches under the cat's chin in apology.

"what time is it?" you ask.

"late."

you sit up a little more, careful not to dislodge doongie any further. he grumbles but stays put.

"happy birthday, baby." you reach for minho, sliding a hand along his jaw so you could guide him towards you for a kiss, slow and sweet.

he shakes his head once he pulls away, a small deflection. "it's just another day."

your hand slides down his arm until it finds his. you weave your fingers together so you can bring the back of his hand to your mouth, lips pressing light against the ridge of his knuckles. he freezes. you grin. "not to me, it isn’t. you know that, min."

and despite everything—the ache in his legs, the weight of the day, the messages he hasn’t yet answered—he smiles. a real one. the kind that makes his eyes crinkle and his shoulders drop.

suddenly, remembering why you were even trying to stay up in the first place: "i made you something,"

you push yourself fully upright now. the cats protest with soft cries and accusing meows but rearrange themselves with the grace of creatures who know they’ll reclaim their territory soon. "don't laugh if it's lopsided."

"you should be sleeping," he says, but there was no conviction in it.

"and you should be celebrated." you protest as you stand, tugging him gently by the sleeve. "five minutes in the kitchen. then bed. deal?"

he follows you without another word. he always does.

the kitchen is small, but you found ways to make it glow—to make it yours. fairy lights strung along the top shelf, casting soft gold across the counters. and there, sitting in a covered stand on the counter, is minho’s surprise.

you lift the glass dome with both hands, careful and reverent. minho feels his breath catch.

it’s beautiful, minho thinks. imperfect, yes—the frosting swirls a little uneven, and one side leans slightly to the left—but it was yours. it was his. strawberries fan out across top, glossy and red. tiny piped paw prints dot the edge of the frosting, and near the center, a single candle stands waiting.

"you made this," he breaths, and it isn’t a question.

"i tried," you say, suddenly shy. "the cats supervised. dori knocked the whisk off the counter twice."

he laughs—quiet, softer than the night—and shakes his head. "it's perfect."

you light the candle. the flame reflects in his eyes, warm and golden in the otherwise dark room, and for a moment, the kitchen holds its breath.

he closes his eyes. makes a wish.

it’s something about home. something about you. something about the cat tail brushing his ankle and the frosting still on your palm and the way the exhaustion finally, finally feels like it has somewhere to rest.

he blows out the candle. you clap softly. he grins.

"first bite's yours," you say, taking a fork to the edge of the cake and lifting it to his mouth. he takes it, eyes widening as the taste hits—sweet, tender, exactly right.

he’s quiet for a moment. something in his gaze wavers next he speaks. "you measured this with your heart," he whispers like a secret.

"that's the only way i know how." is what you whisper back.

he feeds you the second bite, thumb swiping a smudge of frosting from your bottom lip.

his body finally registers the atmosphere around him: safe.

"today was long," he admits, voice low. "felt like i just couldn’t get myself right. but this—" He gestures vaguely to the cake, the lights, you. "this makes it all worth it."

you step closer, pressing your forehead lightly to his shoulder. "i waited up. practically fell asleep mid-icing."

his lips press against your temple. "thank you." you feel the words against your skin.

the cats wind around your ankles then, as if to say, we helped too.

dori knocks a candle box off the counter in what minho can only assume is solidarity.

minho narrates their "review" of the cake with mock seriousness. it goes something like: "soonie gives it four paws. doongie says the frosting could use more tuna. dori abstains but supports the aesthetic."

you laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen like warmth itself.

he stole one more forkful of cake for the road, and together you tidied just enough—covering the cake, washing your utensils , turning off the lights. he nudges you toward the hallway with a hand at your back.

"can you carry me?" you tease.

he tries, gets about two steps in, and drops you back to your feet. "my legs are dead," he admits with a laugh. the two of you settle for leaning into one another. it’s clumsy, a comfortable tangle of limbs and laughter.

the cats follow you to bed, claiming their spots with the entitlement of royalty. you curl into minho’s side, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

"thank you for waiting for me," he mumbles into your hair.

"i’ll never stop," you whisper back.

You went along with it, mostly because you couldn’t say no to that spark in his eyes when he was excited. Minho didn’t get excited often, not like that. So when he talked about s’mores and hiking and “real fire, not the lame electric fireplace,” you were already packing your bag.

The first day had been long. From the drive out into the woods to the chaotic team effort of setting up tents, gathering firewood, and figuring out how the portable stove even worked—by the time the sun began to dip below the trees, painting the sky in soft amber, everyone was bone-tired. 

The air was crisp, and the scent of pine and woodsmoke was starting to settle around the campsite. You had your hands tucked into the front pocket of your hoodie, cozy, content, and layered like a normal person.

Lee Minho, however, was doing that thing again.

The I'm-not-cold-stop-looking-at-me thing.

You watched him shuffle around the edge of the firepit, arms stiff at his sides, shoulders slightly hunched, lips pressed together tightly — which for anyone else might be subtle, but for Minho? It screamed “I am definitely freezing but will die before I admit it.”

You walked over, holding out your jacket. “Here. Put this on.”

He blinked at it like it was a personal insult. “No. I’m fine.”

“Minho,” you said flatly.

“I don’t get cold easily.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m vibing.”

You stepped closer, holding it up more insistently. “Take it or I’m zipping you into it myself.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” You stared him down. “Do you really want to test how stubbornly annoying I’m willing to get in front of everyone?”

He hesitated. A gust of wind blew past, and he visibly flinched.

You pounced.

Before he could react, you were behind him, slipping the jacket over his arms and tugging it around him like a very loving trap. He struggled for half a second, but then you tugged the zipper up with dramatic flair and stepped back, triumphant.

“There,” you said. “You’re welcome.”

He stared down at himself, sulking, now fully engulfed in your slightly oversized puffer jacket.

“This is humiliating,” he muttered.

“You look cute,” you countered.

“I look like a swallowed couch.”

“An adorable couch.”

He grumbled under his breath but didn’t take it off.

*****************

A few hours later after dinner, the fire was glowing warmly and everyone was huddled around it. You guys were deep into marshmallow roasting and random chaos. Hyunjin had nearly caught his jacket on fire twice, Jisung was trying to toast a gummy worm, and Felix was quietly humming a soft melody that barely reached over the crackle of flames. 

Changbin had tried to kick off a ghost story session, but the attempt flopped when Hyunjin kept screaming at his own shadow. So, naturally, the conversation shifted back to lighthearted jokes and laughter.

You were tucked against Minho’s side on a long log bench, nursing your tea, when Seungmin suddenly pointed across the fire.

“Wait,” Seungmin leaned forward, squinting. “Is that your jacket, Y/N?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

Jisung choked on his marshmallow. “Hold up. Lee Know hyung is wearing his girlfriend’s clothes?!”

Minho didn’t even look fazed. Just took a long sip from his mug and said, “God forbid my girlfriend loves me and doesn’t want me to freeze to death.”

The guys lost it.

Chan clutched his chest like it physically hurt. “Oh my god, that was dramatic as hell.”

“He gets cranky when he’s cold,” you chuckled. 

“You used to be scary,” Changbin said, shaking his head. “Now you’re just soft.”

“I can be both,” Minho deadpanned.

Jeongin snorted. “Hyung, you’re literally wearing your girlfriend’s coat. You’re not intimidating anymore.”

“He never was,” Felix giggled.

“Can you all shut up,” Minho muttered, but it wasn’t with any real bite. He was too busy slowly leaning into your side.

The others laughed it off and eventually, the teasing died down. Someone brought up the hike planned for tomorrow, and the conversation shifted to trail snacks and who was most likely to get lost in the woods — everyone agreed it was Jisung, even Jisung.

Minho leaned a little closer to you, resting his cheek on your shoulder. “They’re just jealous,” he murmured. “No one’s making them their human heater.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “That’s because you look ridiculously cute in my clothes.”

He smirked, a little smug. “You think I look cute all the time.”

“…Also true.”

His hand found your other hand under the blanket, fingers brushing lightly against your palm, and his forehead rested against yours for a second before he tilted in, brushing his mouth gently against yours.

“I love you,” he said before gently kissing you.

“I love you too, my frostbite boy,” you murmured against his mouth, smiling through the kiss.

*****************

Much later, when the fire had burned low and most of the guys had disappeared into their tents , you stayed behind, curled up on the two-seater camping sofa beside the firewood, wrapped in your blanket and watching the stars blink overhead.

Minho returned from wherever he’d gone — most likely throwing a pinecone at Seungmin — and without a word, plopped down beside you and pulled the blanket from your lap over both of you.

“Didn’t think you’d come back out,” you said softly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, “You weren’t there and I was cold. Which is your fault.”

You turned to look at him. His cheeks were still pink from the cold, his lips soft and parted, eyes blinking sleepily.

“My fault?”

He shifted closer until his head rested against your shoulder. “Also, your jacket smells really good.”

You giggled. “You’ve mentioned.”

“I like it. Makes me feel like you’re hugging me, even when you’re not.”

You felt your heart clench, warm and fluttery. You rested your head against his, fingers brushing his thigh under the blanket.

“You know,” you murmured, “next time you drag everyone out into the cold, maybe wear a jacket before you almost freeze to death.”

“I’ll just borrow yours again,” he mumbled.

“Or, crazy idea, you pack better.”

He let out a soft whine and nuzzled in closer. “Mm. Nope. Already decided I’m stealing all your warmth. Forever.”

You snorted. “You’re a menace.”

He just smirked, but didn't move. If anything, he melted deeper into your side.

There was a beat of quiet. The stars stretched above, the fire crackled low, and the only sounds were the wind and Minho’s ridiculously loud breathing against your neck like he was trying to turn you into a space heater.

“You know…” he said slowly, voice dropping into that dangerously casual tone that never meant anything good for your sanity, “I have some… other ideas to keep me warm.”

You turned to look at him, suspicious. 

He grinned. “Very good burning calories ideas.”

You blushed so hard it felt like your cheeks were catching fire. “Lee Minho!”

“I’m just saying,” he said, brushing his nose against your jaw, “it's a fun and effective idea.”

You smacked his arm again, which only made him laugh harder. “I’m kidding. I mean, mostly.”

“You’re insufferable,” you groaned, hiding your face against his neck.

He burst into laughter — loud and unbothered and entirely too pleased with himself. “What!” he said between cackles. “It’s true!”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it tugged at your lips anyway. When he curled into your side again — wrapped up in your jacket, your blanket, and your arms — the scent of smoke and pine surrounding you, you felt completely, undeniably at home.

-----------

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A brilliant, sexy plan.

Slip into absolutely nothing but your birthday suit, wrap yourself up in your new, designer trench coat, and saunter into Bang Chan’s apartment like a birthday gift, wrapped with a bow on top. It was a nice surprise, you figured, after weeks of him being on tour and/or glued to his studio chair. He needed a break, and your plan was completely foolproof.

Except for the fact that there were seven fools you completely forgot to consider in the plan.

You were halfway through the front door to Chan’s apartment, barely able to wipe the grin off of your face, excitement coursing through your veins. Then, you heard the unmistakable sound of chaos echoing from just inside.

Laughter, footsteps, someone yelling “Who ate my cookie?!” in what sounded like Lee Know’s voice.

Your smile never dropped so quickly.

You had no idea the rest of the members would be over tonight; after all, Chan made no mention about having company.

Before you can even spin on your heel and bail on your plan, Seungmin turns the corner into the living room, noticing you immediately.

“Hey, y/n!” he says enthusiastically. “We didn’t know you were coming over tonight!”

You let out a nervous giggle, watching as the rest of the Stray Kids members noticed you as well, eyes all lighting up as they saw you.

“Well, to be fair,” you stumbled out, “I didn’t know I was coming over either. Spontaneous plans, you know? I didn’t know you guys were going to be here either.”

“Yeah, we stayed for dinner!” Felix explained. “We’ve been in here playing games for the last few minutes. Chan abandoned us to go to his room about an hour ago."

“Knowing him, he probably got sidetracked and is producing some off-hand tracks,” Changbin commented, laughing.

“Yeah, you know him!” you said through an anxious smile. “Let me go check on him for you guys!”

“Wait, y/n!” Jeongin called out.

Great. Just when you thought you had made the perfect escape. 

You turned around slowly, tilting your head at Jeongin, urging him to continue.

“Your coat,” he began. “It looks pretty warm. Do you want me to take it for you?”

“No!” you blurted loudly. Way too loudly.

Seven pairs of eyes blinked at you in confusion.

You clutched the coat tighter around yourself with both hands, feeling a faint flush spread across your cheeks.

“I, uh,” you stuttered. “I’m still a little cold! You know, uh, air-conditioning! Circulation, all that shit. Makes me chilly, you know?”

Han nodded solemnly.

“Airflow is a bitch.”

Suddenly, Hyunjin let out a gasp.

“Speaking of that coat,” he began, making you tense up. “That exact design was on the fall runway last year. Is it a real one?”

“Uh…As far as I know!” you responded shyly; in your head, you tried to make up any excuse you could to leave the room.

You did not get a chance, however.

“I’ve always wanted one of these!” Hyunin beamed. “Can I try it on, if you don’t mind? Just for a second?”

“No, no, no!” you replied quickly. “Hyunjin, don’t get me wrong, I love you, but um…it’s a super sentimental coat. Family heirloom, y’know?” 

You shuffled backwards a few steps, keeping the grip on your coat firm like a vice.

“I thought you bought that in Paris with Chan?” Felix pointed out, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. You shot him a look that screamed ‘please shut up,’ and he blinked back innocently. 

“You’re acting really weird,” Minho observed, furrowing his eyebrows. “Do you feel okay? Your face is really red.”

“I’m great!” You let out a laugh, way too high-pitched for your persona. “I’m just…excited to see you guys! I mean, you just got back, so I’m so excited…yeah!!!”

“I won’t hurt it, y/n,” Hyunjin told you before coming towards you swiftly. 

Instinctively, you squealed, scrambling up behind the nearest wall like your life depended on it.

Your life may not have, but your dignity sure as hell would.

Seungmin starts cracking up.

“What are you hiding under there? A party dress?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Before you could, to your fortune, salvation arrived.

“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated down the hallway, a bit sleepy and a little gruff. “Are you…oh.”

He turns the corner and takes in the scene: you, pressed against the wall like a trapped animal, Hyunjin standing in front of you, mid-reach for your coat, and the other boys in various stages of concern, confusion, and hilarity.

His gaze fixated for just a moment on the coat, specifically how you were holding it to your body as if it were a lifeline. He then saw how the hem had fallen off slightly, revealing a bare shoulder of yours.

Then it clicked.

His mouth parted, eyes widening slightly before he covered it up by clearing his throat.

“Baby,” Chan called for you. “You remember what we talked about earlier? I need your help with that. Guys, could you give us a second?”

“Oh no,” Han muttered under his breath. “She is hiding something under there.”

“No,” Changbin suddenly said as you and Chan began heading to his bedroom. “I don’t think she is…and I think that’s the problem.”

You both ignored the chorus of laughter that erupted from Changbin’s comment. The minute you made it to his room, you let out a breathless giggle, leaning against the door.

“Holy hell!” you wheezed. “I thought I was going to die. Or flash the members. Or both!”

Chan is trying not to laugh—and failing miserably.

“I didn’t know they were still here!” Chan defended himself. “They said they were going to leave after we were done with dinner!”

You cackled, causing Chan to finally lose it.

After minutes of hullabaloo, you pouted.

“I had a whole plan for tonight,” you whispered, stepping closer to Chan.

“I can see that.” Chan grinned, letting his eyes trace the length of your coat—how it curved around your body perfectly, how it was now hanging loosely on your body as you loosened your grip.

You felt your breath catch in your throat as Chan reached out, his fingers brushing over your waist. Before you could think, he was helping you take it off, reveling in the sight before him.

“Surprise,” you bashfully stated.

“Woah,” Chan breathed out, his eyes practically sparkling. “Consider me surprised, and very distracted.”

You squeak as he brings you closer to him, holding you against his body tightly.

“What about the guys?”

“What about them?” he asks as he delves down to kiss your neck lightly.

“They’re in the very next room. What if they hear us?”

He leans up, opting to kiss the corner of your mouth now.

“Then they hear us. But you can be quiet, can’t you?”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about,” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him. Chan smirked in response.

“Guess we’ll have to see.”

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“Damn, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your ankle bone. “You’re gonna be the reason I lose my mind tonight.”

He buys you dresses in silk and velvet, personally approves every outfit sent by your stylist, and only wants you in heels that make you stand taller— closer to his lips when he pulls you in for a kiss.

At parties, you’re not just a date. You’re the moment. Every man in the room glances your way, but none of them matter— not when his hand stays on the small of your back, his arm slung over the booth with a dangerous smirk. “Eyes off,” he warns anyone too bold, “she’s mine.”

After too many glasses of Dom Pérignon, your heels dangle from your fingers and you’re barefoot in the back of a Rolls-Royce. He cradles your feet in his lap like they’re precious, rubbing gentle circles into your arches.

Later, in the bathroom of his penthouse, he removes your jewelry piece by piece. Each kiss that follows tastes like champagne and sin.

“Every man in that room wanted you,” he rasps against your collarbone. “But they’ll never touch you. You’re my queen. My only one.”

리노/LEE KNOW — “ he’s got a diamond mind. cold and hard, and brilliant ”

Minho is as sharp as the rings he wears— cold platinum, perfectly polished. To the world, he’s a calculated tycoon in black-on-black suits, the man who never cracks, never falters. But with you?

He melts.

You’re the only one who sees the cracks in the diamond. The softness buried deep beneath the cold precision. And he spoils you— subtly, intentionally, and always on his terms.

He doesn’t send you roses. He sends your favorite rare orchids, personally grown in his rooftop garden. Doesn’t give you a black card— he hands you a new Amex encased in velvet with a lazy, “Here. Don’t hold back.”

You’re perched on the marble countertop one morning, oversized button-down barely hanging on, as Minho fastens the dainty clasp of a new necklace around your throat— rose gold, with a sapphire he hand-picked to match your eyes.

And then comes that signature move: neck kisses.

“You wear my shirt better than I do,” he hums, mouth grazing your skin. “But next time… leave something on underneath. Or we’re not getting out of this house.”

Despite the stoic front he wears in public, Minho makes time for soft things. Coffee dates with just the two of you in private rooftops. Moonlit car rides where his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your thigh as he drives with one hand on the wheel.

But jealousy, oh, it turns him into something else.

One night, at a high-profile fashion event, a designer flirts a bit too comfortably with you. Compliments your neckline. Suggests a private shoot.

Minho’s jaw ticks.

He’s subtle— always— but you feel the way his grip on your waist tightens, the faint curl of his lip when he leans in and presses a possessive kiss just under your ear, hands splayed over your exposed back.

“Do you want him to lose his contract?” He murmurs against your skin, low and sweet like honey over broken glass.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Relax, Min. You’re the only one I want.”

“I know.” He pulls you even closer, “but I hate when other people forget.”

And that’s the thing: to Minho, you’re not just his girl— you’re his weakness in a world where he allows none. He’ll slice through empires for you. And if someone touches what’s his?

He makes sure they regret it.

창빈/CHANGBIN — “ he’s like a song she can’t get out of her head ”

Changbin doesn’t date you. He composes you— in verses, in rhythms, in the way he memorizes your laugh and turns it into art.

You’re everywhere in his life. His phone wallpaper, the reason he wears color now, the girl who turned his penthouse into a second home instead of a museum of expensive furniture. And he doesn’t just want to impress you— he wants to drown you in the knowledge that you are it for him.

He flies you out to a private beach house on a whim— “You looked tired. I wanted you to breathe somewhere pretty.”

You’re barefoot, wine-drunk, and giggling under fairy lights when he plays you a new track on his portable speakers. It’s all soft bass and yearning piano.

You recognize the lyrics.

It’s you.

Your voice.

Your phrases.

Your name, laced with adoration and something so achingly desperate it makes your chest burn.

He pulls you to him, lets the wine and music blur the night. “You’re stuck in my head,” he breathes, lips ghosting yours. “I can’t write a damn thing without you bleeding into it.”

Changbin isn’t flashy, but he’s relentless. You mention liking a certain perfume? It’s already sitting on your nightstand in every size. You love vintage vinyls? He’ll bid half a million at an auction to get you the rarest edition.

He treats your smile like it’s the hook of his best chorus— repeating it, obsessing over it, addicted to the feeling it brings.

And when he kisses you? It’s never just a kiss. It’s a confession. A climax. A plea to never let him go.

현진/HYUNJIN — “ for she is his poet, and he is her poetry ”

Hyunjin lives like he’s stepped out of a sonnet— and loving you is the most extravagant poem he’s ever written.

You’re his muse, obsession, and masterpiece all at once. And he shows it in the grandest ways: silk sheets painted with roses, handwritten letters sealed in wax, moonlit portraits of you sprawled across his studio in nothing but his shirt and an entire chandelier’s worth of candlelight.

When he sends you flowers, they’re never basic bouquets.

They arrive in curated color palettes.

Blush, cream, and wine-red for love.

Lavender for the days you feel low.

Once, he sent 100 white roses— each with a note tucked into the petals:

‘For every time I thought of you today.’

His kisses are soft— reverent.

He doesn’t kiss like a man in a rush. He kisses like he’s studying art with his mouth. Like he wants to taste every emotion that made your heart beat that day.

And when you read to him— bare legs over his lap, glasses slipping down your nose— he looks at you like the heroine of a tragic romance film.

“Read slower,” he spoke softly, voice thick. “I wanna remember the sound of your voice for the rest of my life.”

On nights when the world gets too loud, he takes you to his gallery—one he privately owns, hidden in the hills. There, in a room filled only with paintings of you, he pours you wine and tells you about the constellations in your eyes.

Sometimes the moment turns heated— almost desperate. Passion rising like a crescendo as you press him against the canvas, smudging paint between fevered touches.

“You’re art,” he whispers into your skin. “Every inch of you.”

한/HAN — “ my entire sky craves your only star ”

Jisung’s love is loud, messy, and utterly devoted. He acts like you invented the concept of romance— like you crash-landed into his world and rewired the stars just by smiling at him.

He’s the type to fly you across the globe because “the moon looks better in Florence, babe. Come see it with me.” The type to sneak up behind you mid-morning and tuck his face into the crevice of your neck like you’re home, like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t touch you every 10 minutes.

You are, quite literally, the only girl in his world— and he makes sure you know it.

His penthouse is littered with photos of you: polaroids from date nights, selfies you didn’t know he took, your face mid-laugh framed in gold on his nightstand. When his producer teases him about being “whipped,” he just grins and shrugs.

“She’s my star. My oxygen. You want me to breathe without her?”

He keeps you close in every way possible. His lyrics? About you. His passwords? Your name. His favorite hoodie? Now smells like your perfume.

But Han’s love language? Affection. All. The. Damn. Time.

Kisses when you wake up, featherlight and lingering, paired with sleep-drenched words like:

“Still dreaming about you.”

Kisses at parties, where he grabs your face in both hands and kisses you like you’re the only reason the lights are still on.

And kisses when he’s drunk— messy, dramatic, whiny kisses where he keeps telling you how hot and smart and amazing you are, face buried in your chest.

He’s never been good at subtlety.

He buys you matching jewelry— because, “If I get hit by a bus, I want paramedics to know you’re my soulmate.”

He keeps your favorite snacks in every car he owns.

And once, during a red carpet interview, he straight up walked off mid-question to bring you your forgotten lipstick because, “she can’t go without her lucky shade, are you insane??”

필릭스/FELIX — “ he smiled, and his face was like the sun ”

Felix is your personal sun— bright, constant, and utterly devoted to orbiting you.

He doesn’t just love you. He cherishes you. In his world of tailored suits, gold cufflinks, and first-class flights, you are the one thing that keeps him grounded. While his wealth might buy him anything, you are the one thing he never stops feeling lucky to have.

And he never lets you forget it.

Showering you with endless compliments (and gifts) was standard for him, he just couldn’t help himself— not a single minute went by where he didn’t think you were the most angelic little being to have ever graced this earth.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed while you’re getting ready for a gala, his eyes following every move intently, like a painter observing his subject. With his chin resting in his palm, gaze warm and unblinking, he proceeds to utter, “You’re so beautiful,” for the fifty-fifth time that night. “I doubt I’ll ever move on from it.”

He holds your shoes as you slip into your dress. Carries your clutch. Stands behind you at the mirror, fixing the necklace he bought you—a delicate chain with a charm shaped like the sun. “So everyone knows who you belong to,” he says with a wink, even though his eyes go warm with something much deeper.

And when you’re tired? He runs you a bath filled with rose petals, lights candles everywhere, and sits beside the tub just to massage your feet and tell you stories about his childhood in Australia.

His kisses are soft and lazy— like summer afternoons under silk sheets. The kind that makes your skin grow hot even after he pulls away. He holds your face in both hands like you’re made of crystal, brushing his lips over yours like he’s asking permission each time, even after years of being yours.

Felix doesn’t get jealous. He gets possessive in the gentlest way.

You catch a waiter lingering too long with your wine at a rooftop event, and he slips beside you like clockwork, arm wrapped firmly around your waist, lips brushing your temple.

“You doing okay, baby?” He whispers, voice light, but his eyes never leave the waiter’s.

Afterward, he doesn’t bring it up— just holds you a little tighter and tucks your hair behind your ear like a silent reminder: mine.

승민/SEUNGMIN — “ passionate and glowing, burningly real ”

Seungmin’s love doesn’t scream. It simmers. Beneath the rolled eyes and sarcastic quips is a man who burns for you— constantly, intensely, and without apology.

To the outside world, he’s calm, dry-humored, a little aloof— the heir to a clean-cut dynasty with a jawline that’s made headlines. But with you?

He’s yours. Only yours.

He shows up at your apartment with your favorite takeout and a scowl because “the chef was taking too long, so I made them re-do it with less salt. You’re welcome.”

But it’s the little things— the deliberate things— that give him away.

Like how he memorizes your coffee order down to the temperature. How he always opens your car door, even while pretending to grumble about it. How he lets you steal his hoodies and pretends not to notice, but secretly buys more just so you never run out.

At night, when his walls fall, his passion flares like firelight.

You’re wrapped in sheets, faces inches apart, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone. His voice lowers, serious and breathy.

“I don’t care about anything else. Not the company, not the press. Just you. Just this.”

And then he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will disappear. Slow. Intense. Real.

He’s not touchy in public— but his eyes never leave you. If someone flirts with you at a fundraiser? He won’t make a scene. He’ll wait—cool and quiet— and when you’re alone in the car afterward, he’ll say, “Didn’t know I had to mark my territory so obviously.”

You’ll tease him.

“Were you jealous, Kim Seungmin?”

He just smirks, pulling you into his lap.

“I don’t share.”

And that’s the truth of it: he treats you like his world, because in a life that feels built on glass, you’re the only thing that feels solid.

아이엔/JEONGIN — “ you’re a love that i’d cross oceans for ”

To everyone else, Jeongin is the golden boy. Rich. Well-mannered. The face of his family’s empire with a smile that could charm billionaires. But to you?

He’s soft. Boyish. Yours in the most tender, achingly steadfast way possible— as if loving you is the only thing he’s ever known how to do.

It’s all or nothing when it comes to Jeongin. He doesn’t know how to be half-hearted. He brings you breakfast in bed— every Sunday, even if he’s jet-lagged. Keeps extra hoodies in his car just in case you get cold. Carries your lipstick in his pocket like it’s sacred.

He spoils you with the quietest kind of luxury. Not just designer bags or black cards, but experiences no one else could give you— like a private boat ride at golden hour where he kisses your shoulders under the sun and whispers,

“I’d sail across the world if it meant I got to come home to you.”

He kisses like he means it— sweet, slow, and then suddenly desperate, like he’s just remembered you’re real and he’s terrified he might lose you.

His favorite thing is watching you sleep in his shirts, sprawled across his massive bed while the morning light catches on your skin. He’ll sit at the edge, brushing hair from your face, cheeks flushed.

“You look too good,” he whispers. “It’s unfair how much I love you.”

But sweet Jeongin has a possessive streak— one he hides under soft eyes and polite smiles.

At a friend’s yacht party, someone calls you “gorgeous” a little too casually. Jeongin doesn’t say anything at first— just wraps an arm around you, kisses the top of your head. However, you can sense the tightness in his hold and the smile that stops short of his eyes.

He draws you in later on the balcony.

“I don’t like people talking to you like that.”

You laugh gently, “He was just being nice.”

He leans in, lips brushing your throat, voice low.

“Don’t care. You’re mine.”

And then he kisses you like he’s trying to erase any memory of someone else touching your air.

He’s soft, but he’s also the kind of man who’d fight the ocean for you— and win.

Your body folds in on itself as you retch, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other pressed to your mouth. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. You’re trembling again, just like yesterday. Just like every morning this week.

And you know exactly why.

But you haven’t told him.

Not yet.

The door clicks gently, and before you can even call out, he's there.

“Baby?” Chris’s voice is thick with sleep, curls still mussed, but his worry is immediate. 

He steps into the bathroom, barefoot and blinking against the light. You don’t turn around, can’t—your cheek is pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes shut tight, trying to keep the tears at bay.

You hear him crouch beside you. Feel the warmth of his palm, tentative but steady, on your back.

“Hey, hey…” he whispers, thumb rubbing soft, slow circles between your shoulder blades. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You hate how kind he is. How easily he forgives the way you’ve been pulling away lately—your silence, the distance you keep curling between your bodies each night. You hate it because he still looks at you like you haven’t broken his heart in quiet, accidental pieces.

Like you haven’t been lying by omission.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, already standing. But you reach back blindly, fingers clutching at his wrist.

His movement stills the second you touch him.

Your fingers curl weakly around his wrist, barely more than a brush, but he stays rooted like you’ve anchored him. He sinks back down beside you without hesitation, knees to the cold tile, one hand steadying you while the other moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t go.”

Your fingers slip from his wrist to his forearm, anchoring there. Not tight, not pleading. Just... needing something solid. He shifts closer, gently tucking you against him, and you let him—half-curled over the toilet, cheek pressed now to the curve of his shoulder instead of cold porcelain.

It’s shameful how good it feels.

How much you missed him.

How much he still makes space for you, without question.

You breathe him in. Warm skin, sleep-soft cotton, the scent of dreams not yet dissolved. His hand returns to your back, tracing the same slow circles, patient and gentle. He doesn't rush you. Doesn’t push. Just stays.

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it back down.

“You’ve been sick a lot lately,” he says quietly. “And I—I didn’t want to push, but… I was starting to worry.”

You close your eyes.

Tighter.

Like you can hold the truth inside your chest if you just try hard enough.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you manage, voice paper-thin.

Chris lets out a small, broken exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh. His thumb is still tracing that same small circle on your back, over and over like a ritual.

“Too late, baby,” he says. “You know me. I worry when you don’t text back for ten minutes.”

You breathe out a tremble of a laugh. It barely escapes you.

He pulls you in a little more, his shoulder now against your cheek, his arm curling around your waist, like he could take this ache from you if you just let him.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get off this floor, yeah?”

You don’t protest. You let him help you up, let him walk you slowly back to bed. He moves around you like instinct — pulling the blankets over your legs, smoothing your hair back, propping a pillow behind your back like he knows how this all goes. Like you’ve always been this breakable.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the kettle click on. The cupboard door. The soft clink of ceramic. It’s the kind of intimacy you never thought would undo you.

When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug. He sets the tea down, crawls in beside you, and tugs you gently against his chest. You go without hesitation this time. Your cheek finds his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady.

“Try to sip,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to the mug. “Ginger and honey. Helps settle the stomach.”

You take a shaky breath. Sip once. Then again.

He strokes your arm, still not asking what’s wrong. Still just being.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, the words too fragile to carry.

Chris doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just presses his lips to your forehead, eyes closed.

“You’ve got me anyway.”

You hold the tea with both hands, and before you can stop yourself, before you can weigh the moment, it falls out—

“I’m pregnant.”

A beat.

Then two.

His breath catches just slightly. You feel it in the way his chest stills beneath your cheek.

“Yeah?” he says, quiet.

He doesn’t sound shocked.

Not really.

You feel his hand pause where it rests on your arm. Not jerked away, not pulled back—just still. Still like he’s been waiting for this. Still like he already knew.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His face is soft in the low light. No widening of the eyes, no sharp intake of breath, no panic. Just a quiet kind of calm. Like he’s been holding this truth behind his teeth for days.

You blink. “You’re… not surprised.”

Chris gives you a small, lopsided smile, and there’s something tired in it. Something knowing.

“I kind of figured.”

You freeze.

Chris shifts slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple. 

Your fingers tighten around the mug. “You… what?”

“I’ve known for a little while,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just fact. “Not for sure, but… yeah. I knew.”

You pull back slowly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes meet yours, gentle and tired and a little sad around the edges.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Chris exhales through his nose, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. And if you never were—” he swallows, voice thickening, “—I figured I’d wait anyway.”

You stare at him. Your chest aches. He’s holding you like you haven’t broken his heart a hundred times over by keeping this to yourself.

“You should’ve been mad,” you whisper. “I pulled away. I lied. I let you think something was wrong with us.”

He shakes his head, thumb still moving, like he’s trying to wipe the guilt from your skin. “You didn’t lie,” he says softly. “You were scared. That’s not the same thing.”

“But—”

“Baby.”

The word silences you.

He shifts closer, rests his forehead to yours. The kind of closeness that feels like home, like breath shared between ribs.

“You’re pregnant,” he says quietly, like he’s still wrapping his heart around the truth. “That’s huge. That’s life-changing. You didn’t owe me a perfect response to that.”

Your eyes fill again. The tears this time are different—no longer the kind that come from fear, but from the ache of being known, and loved anyway.

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” you breathe.

Chris huffs a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Disappointed?” He leans back, just enough to look at you fully. “Sweetheart, I’ve been walking around for the last two weeks trying not to hope too hard. Every time you flinched at the smell of eggs, I thought I was going to lose it.”

You blink.

He smiles, slow and tender. “I started carrying extra granola bars in my bag like some kind of dad training simulation.”

A laugh breaks from you, wet and surprised and a little wild. He kisses the sound off your cheek.

You want to believe him. God, you do.

But it still claws at you — the weight of it. The impossibility. The quiet voice that’s been whispering the same thing over and over since the first test turned positive.

Your laughter fades as quickly as it came, and you drop your gaze, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.

“But your career…”

The words are quiet. Almost too quiet. Like you’re afraid of waking something up by saying them aloud.

Chris stills.

You press on, slowly. “You have enough on your plate already. The tours. The schedules. The pressure. I didn’t want to be the reason everything got harder. I didn’t want you to feel… trapped.”

His face folds in on itself, soft and stunned, like your words physically knock the wind from him.

“Trapped?” he echoes. “Is that what you thought I’d feel?”

You swallow hard, shrugging helplessly. “You’ve worked your whole life for this. And I know what it looks like from the outside — you, me, suddenly pregnant in the middle of everything. Headlines. Rumors. People blaming me for pulling focus. I just… I didn’t want to be a detour.”

Chris is quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that stretches with tension, but the kind that holds something. Thoughtfulness. Heartbreak. The ache of someone hearing what wasn’t said aloud.

Then, softly:

“You think I care about headlines?”

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“You think I’d let any of that matter more than you?” His voice breaks—just enough to make your eyes sting again. “I don’t care what the outside looks like. I care about you. About the way you’ve been hurting and hiding it. About how you’ve been carrying all of this alone.”

He sits up a little straighter beside you, pulling your hands into his lap, like he needs to anchor both of you to the moment. His thumbs rub over your knuckles, steady and warm.

“I didn’t spend all this time building something just to let it become a cage,” he says. “I built it so I could choose what matters.”

Your lip trembles. You want to crawl into his words and never leave.

“I want this baby,” he says simply. “And I want you. And if that makes everything harder, then so be it. I’ve never been afraid of hard things. Just losing you.”

You press a shaky hand to your mouth, trying to bite back the sob threatening to rise.

Chris leans in, gently tugging your hands away to cup your cheeks.

“I love what I do,” he whispers. “But I love you more.”

And then, softer still—

“Let them talk. Let the whole world think what they want. I’ll hold your hand through every bit of it. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if that’s what you need.”

You break.

You fall forward into him and he catches you instantly, wrapping you up in the kind of hold that feels less like comfort and more like coming home. He rocks you slowly, like you’re something precious, and murmurs nothing but love into your hair until the shaking stops.

Neither of you speak for a while. Not in words. Just the rhythm of breath shared, the way his thumb never stops moving across your spine, the quiet tremble of your body as it starts to finally release the weight it's been holding for too long.

Eventually, you shift just enough to look up at him, eyes red and swollen.

“You’re really not scared?” you whisper.

Chris smiles. It’s tired, but steady. Steady in the way he’s always been.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he says with a soft laugh. “But I’m not scared of us.”

His words settle into the quiet like a promise, like a hand pressed to a wound. Not to hide it—but to hold it. To keep it warm. To let it heal.

“I’m scared of screwing it up,” he admits. “Of not knowing what I’m doing. Of forgetting diapers at three in the morning and dropping the car seat manual in a puddle.”

You huff out a shaky laugh.

“But I’m not scared of loving you through this. Of being here. I want to mess it up with you. I want the sleepless nights and the ugly furniture and the weird little onesies your mom’s definitely going to send.”

You let your eyes close for a moment, breathing in the space between you. The safety of it. The calm after the unraveling.

Chris shifts behind you, easing both of you down beneath the covers again. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, palm splaying gently over your stomach—hesitant at first, then firmer, like he’s grounding himself to what’s real.

To what’s already begun.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you murmur, voice muffled against the pillow.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”

His thumb draws soft, mindless circles against your skin. You can feel his breath on your shoulder, warm and even.

“We’re gonna be so bad at swaddling,” you whisper after a moment.

Chris snorts into your hair. “Horrible. Absolute disaster.”

“They’ll probably pee on us within the first ten minutes.”

He laughs again, and it rumbles through you like something holy.

“You mean they won’t wait twenty?” he teases. “Already disappointed in our future child’s manners.”

You smile. Not because the fear is gone. Not because it’s easy now. But because he’s still here. Still him. And somehow, even in the dark—especially in the dark—he’s made space for all of it.

You roll slightly, enough to face him, and he meets your gaze instantly. His eyes are red at the corners too, but soft. So soft.

You reach for his hand again. 

He gives it without hesitation.

______________________________________________________________

The sheets are still warm.

They’re tangled around your legs, half-forgotten, pulled low from where Chris tugged them back earlier in careful haste—like he couldn’t wait another second to feel you again. To love you the way he’d been aching to for weeks.

But it had been gentle. So slow. So careful it almost hurt.

He’d kissed you like he was scared you’d break beneath him. Like every part of you needed to be cherished differently now—worshipped not just because he loved you, but because you were carrying something he already did.

Now, the room is quiet again.

Not the sharp quiet from earlier—the kind lined with secrets and held breath. This silence is sweeter. Fuller. The kind that lingers in the air after closeness, after truth, after love has been made and remade and made again.

You lie curled in the sheets, his hoodie pooled beneath your head like a pillow, your body still humming from the weight of him—on you, in you, with you.

Chris is beside you. Propped on one elbow, hair a mess, eyes soft in the gold light pouring through the window.

He hasn’t stopped touching you.

His fingertips skim the slope of your stomach—slow, aimless strokes over skin still too tender. He traces the curve like it’s already changed. Like he can already see the future stretching beneath your navel.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, for the third—maybe fourth—time.

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you at all?”

You open your eyes again, shifting to face him more. He looks almost pained asking it—like he’s still afraid he was too much, even though every touch had been measured, every motion guided by whispered I love yous and soft gasps.

You reach up, fingers brushing through his hair—so soft, still sleep-mussed, still clinging to last night’s weight. His eyes flutter at the contact.

“You didn’t hurt me, Chris,” you say gently, your thumb sweeping across his temple. “You couldn’t have. You were…” You pause, cheeks warming. “You were so good to me.”

He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, nose nudging your palm, lips brushing the edge of your wrist. “I just didn’t want to rush anything,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to take from you.”

“You gave to me,” you correct quietly. “More than you know.”

His gaze finds yours again. And it’s so open—so filled with something fragile and gleaming that it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be careful with someone the way I want to be with you,” he murmurs, hand still slow on your stomach. “Like every piece of you deserves a softer kind of love.”

Your throat tightens, eyes stinging with the tears you thought you’d already run out of. You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him—soft and close and wordless. A promise.

When you pull back, Chris smiles, all crooked and boyish, like it still surprises him he gets to kiss you whenever he wants.

“Do you think…” he starts, then hesitates, biting down on his lower lip in that familiar way he does when he’s about to say something that scares him. “Do you think they can hear me yet?”

You blink. “Hear you?”

He shrugs, flushing a little. “I don’t know. Maybe not hear, but like—feel me.”

You smile, hand still resting over his where it sprawls protectively across your belly.

“I think,” you say, voice soft with wonder, “if they feel anything at all, it’s love.”

Chris lets out a slow breath, almost like a laugh, almost like a prayer. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s all I want them to feel.”

And then he lowers himself again—carefully, reverently—so his face is level with your stomach, his curls brushing your skin. You feel his breath before his lips, warm and tender, and then—

“Hi,” he whispers. “It’s me again.”

You bite back a watery smile, brushing his hair back from his face. He doesn't look up. He’s focused, eyes closed, words blooming straight from his heart.

“You’re still tiny,” he says. “Probably the size of… I don’t know. A peanut? A lentil?”

You laugh softly. “A blueberry, I think.”

Chris grins against your skin. “Okay. Hi, blueberry.”

The tears return, but this time they don’t sting. They soothe. You let them fall.

Chris presses another kiss, slower this time. “Your mom is amazing. She’s strong, and patient, and really stubborn when she wants to be—don’t get any ideas—but she’s also the kindest person I’ve ever met. And she loves you already. So much.”

You can’t breathe. Or maybe you just don’t want to—don’t want to disturb the moment, the hush in the room, the way it feels like the world has paused just to let him say this.

“And I love you, too,” he adds, softer now. “Even if you’re already making her throw up every morning.”

You snort.

Chris finally looks up at you, face glowing with something boyish and stunned. Like he’s still adjusting to the weight of the word dad and how it might belong to him now.

“Do you think it’s okay to be happy yet?” he whispers. “Or is it too early?”

You blink, startled by the softness of the question. It’s not a doubt in you. It’s a doubt in himself—the way he was used to waiting for the world to collapse anytime something good entered the picture.

You tilt his face fully toward you, one hand on his cheek, the other still resting over his on your belly.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “We’re allowed to be happy.”

Chris leans into your palm, lashes kissing your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Even if it’s early. Even if it’s messy. We’re allowed.”

A long breath leaves his chest. When he exhales, it sounds like something unknots inside him.

“Okay,” he says. And then again, firmer: “Okay.”

He kisses your belly once more—then your ribs, then your shoulder, and finally your lips, slow and sure and lingering like he’s learning the shape of this new beginning through you.

Your breath catches.

Because there’s something different in this kiss—less cautious than before, less tentative. Still tender, still full of awe, but threaded now with a kind of ache. A hunger not for your body, but for closeness. For reassurance. For the promise of you and him and this tiny, impossible future you’re building together.

You kiss him back. Let your hands curl into the soft cotton at his shoulders, let your mouth part beneath his. He deepens it without a word, like your response is all the permission he’s ever needed.

Chris exhales against your lips, the sound low, almost relieved. His hand slides from your belly to your waist, guiding you gently onto your back, careful not to press too hard, like he’s still remembering how much softer the world has become.

You pull him with you, fingers in his hair now, breath mingling as he settles between your legs, his weight familiar, comforting. Not heavy—never heavy. He’s holding himself up even now, even in this, like you’re precious. Like he can’t risk the smallest part of you going untouched, unnoticed, unloved.

His kiss grows slower. Deeper. Tongue brushing yours, mouth warm and open and wanting, but not hurried. Nothing about him is hurried. He maps you like he’s memorizing—not rediscovering your body, but learning what it means now, with the quiet miracle curled inside you.

His palm returns to your belly halfway through the kiss.

It lingers there.

Anchoring.

You feel his hips roll, subtle and restrained, like he can’t help it—but even that is tempered by reverence. He groans softly against your lips and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead to yours.

“I want you again,” he murmurs, breath catching. “So bad.”

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “We just had sex, Chris.”

“I know,” he groans, dragging his lips down to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—soft little kisses like he’s trying to keep himself distracted. “It’s not my fault. You’re literally glowing. Like… it’s actually not fair.”

You laugh, tilting your head to give him more space. “I think that’s just the sweat from me throwing up three times this morning.”

“Nope,” he says, grinning against your collarbone. “Sorry. Pregnancy glow. Hormones. Boobs. All of it. My brain’s broken. I’m ruined.”

You snort. “Are you seriously saying I got hotter now that I’m pregnant?”

Chris lifts his head to look at you, eyebrows raised, completely unapologetic. “Yes. Have you seen yourself? You’re radiant. Divine. A walking goddess with a baby growing inside her—my baby, by the way. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You blink at him, stunned and absolutely flustered. “Chris—”

He groans dramatically and drops his head to your chest. “You don’t get it. I’m suffering.”

You wheeze a laugh, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely serious now. “Every time you move I want to pounce. But I can’t. Because I am a gentleman. A respectful, self-restrained—” he kisses the top of your belly, “—incredibly patient father-to-be.”

You grin. “Uh-huh.”

His hand slides up your thigh, just high enough to make your breath hitch. “But if you even so much as breathe wrong, I’m folding.”

“Chris—”

“I mean it. One little sound. A sigh. A whimper. I’m gone.”

Your laughter breaks loose then, full and warm and aching at the edges. He kisses you hard, almost like he’s trying to prove his point—like he's sealing the moment in his mouth before it gets the better of him.

His hands are definitely not innocent anymore.

“Okay—okay,” he says, breathless, forehead against yours again. “I have to get up. I have to. You need food. I need distance.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, not letting him go. “You sure?”

He groans into your shoulder. “I’m going. I'm going. But I’m leaving in emotional pain.”

You release him with a teasing little kiss. “Breakfast, dad.”

Chris smirks as he finally sits up, eyes sweeping over you one last time before he swings his legs off the bed. “Fine. But you better be decent when I come back or I’m canceling breakfast and blaming the baby.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

And with that, he trudges toward the kitchen in his boxers, muttering something about toast and torture under his breath.

you know him to the extent that you know how he sticks to challenges.

there is no way he would ever let y'all lose against jisung. just so he could rub it in his friend's face about being the winner.

he does the normal things he does. washing up, sitting with his head on your lap after a long day, eating pudding with you.

lots and lots of pudding.

dozens of them stacked in the lower shelf of the fridge.

its the 26th of november and you have to admit its getting harder and harder. for you atleast.

"min, whatcha doing in the fridge?"

you walk into the kitchen, finding him crouched down. he had been there for longer than five minutes.

"mmhmm" is all you make out with what he's saying.

"huh?" walking over to him in confusion.

"m' eating pudding" he tries to say more clearly. and you peek over the fridge door to see three empty glasses of pudding.

"didn't you just eat pudding like two hours ago?"

and he blinks at you extremely slowly.

still seated on the floor with a glass of pudding in his hand. keeping his eyes locked on yours as he feeds himself another spoonful.

in defiance. like a cat doing something its not supposed to do but would do it anyway to prove that its not listening to you.

"you're an addict. i swear, you're addicted to pudding!"

you laugh. patting his head even though you know the risks of doing that.

"a man needs his pudding to keep going"

minho mumbles while going as far as to tipping his head back to lick the inside of the container clean. it does something to you and you mentally slap yourself.

if he was so good at keeping himself sane, you were sure you could do it too.

"theres caramel on your nose pfft"

the thick sugary substance painting the tip of his nose. theres some more on his chin and...

"minho, you have it on your cheek too!"

it was getting funnier. and he glared at you, clearing his throat.

"i was hungry." he mutters, packing up the other puddings. you notice his eyebrows furrowing in discomfort when he stands up.

typical old man behaviour.

"give me a hug" you whisper, wanting to actually hug him.

maybe being close to him would make your unforgiving sex deprived mind shut off for a while.

"no" closing the fridge and placing his hands on his hips.

"minhooo give me a hug, please?"

standing on your tip toes to peck the tip of his nose. he turns his head away, trying to control his expressions.

you take the chance to catch him off guard, jumping onto him to tackle him into hugging you. he playfully matches your energy until he freezes in your hold.

"ah-"

a small moan escaping his lips. his eyes widening while he bites down onto his bottom lip. stopping any other noise from leaving him.

your mouth dropping open in shock when you feel his hard-on pressing against your thigh.

"did you get a boner-"

"no."

he whispers, masking his surprised expression with faux annoyance. you squint at him with a glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

"were you eating pudding to distract yourself?"

"...no."

placing his hands on your shoulders to lightly push you away. creating some distance between your bodies.

"im not that deprived, trust me" minho mumbles quietly. your lips pursed together.

"what if i say its getting harder for me..." you mutter, moving closer to him. he doesn't stop you.

"really, baby? can't live without my dick for a month?"

you stay silent. looking away from him sadly. you're not embarassed anymore.

because now you know how he copes when he gets horny. pudding!

"...can't live without you either" and you smile. happy that he admits it.

he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. squeezing his eyes closed.

"god, i can't stop imagining you crying my name when i push into you. its haunting me. for fuck's sake"

minho grumbles, groaning when you hug him again. his arms wrapping around you.

"and i can't stop thinking of you pushing my head down into the bed while you fuck me from behind"

you pull your phone out of your pocket hastily when it buzzes nonstop.

"its jisung..."

"what'd he say?"

"he...LOST!"

you shriek. practically jumping onto minho. trusting him entirely. he picks you up with no struggle.

"does that mean..."

"yes. im fucking you. right now."

"but november isn't over!"

"jisung lost. our opponent lost. that means this stupid no nut shit doesn't apply to us anymore" he grumbles. you catch onto him tight when he practically darts to your shared bedroom.

"admit it...you missed it, didn't you"

a huge smile on his face. a glimmer of pure happiness in his eyes. like how he'd look at his favourite pudding.

"have you ever seen me this excited before-"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Goodnight! Happy Holidays!” You wave, closing and locking the door behind the sweet couple who had come in last minute to pick out a cat for their daughter.  You can’t help but smile at the thought of the beautiful kitty who will get to wake up with a new family to love and accept her. 

Turning, you smile at the few cats left in the living room/play area the owner had set up for them.  The three left were napping, one on  the couch and the two others curled up together on a cat tree.  Humming happily, you turn to finish the few closing duties you have left.  You’d closed down the cafe area after the couple had gone in to play with the cats and now you just had to make sure the till was put in the safe.  You planned on spending some time with the last few cats before you made your way home for the evening.

It was Christmas Eve and as you turn to look out the window once more, you frown at the heavy snow coming down.  “Figures, going to be hell going home,” you breathe out as you lock the safe, then the office door.  You stretch and yawn, taking off your apron to hang as you make your way into the kitty area. 

 “Peanut, are you comfy?” you ask the lone orange tabby curled up on the sofa.  Minho, the owner of the cafe, had furnished this area nicely for the comfort of the cats and the people who came to play with and possibly adopt them.  If you took away the cafe portion, this could be the cozy living room in the home of any family.  

Peanut peeks an eye out at you from under his tail to let out a soft trill as you sit beside him, running a hand over his velvety fur.  “Merry Christmas to you, too.  I wish I could take you home with me but I’m afraid I can’t have pets at my tiny apartment.” He purrs softly, leaning into your hand as you scritch his ear.  He gets up and stretches then immediately climbs into your lap, curling up and making you beam proudly.  You’ve always gotten along well with most of the cats here, and it always brought you joy to have them accept you.  

Letting yourself relax, you close your eyes as you pet your comfy companion.  The soft overhead christmas music lulls you into a half sleep and you don’t even realize you’ve drifted off until something draws you back to consciousness.  Blinking yourself awake, you freeze as you suddenly hear a rattling noise from the other room, as if someone is trying at the doorknob.  Peanut perks his ears up and lets out a soft growl at the disturbance, but you soothe him quietly as you lift him from your lap, placing him down so you can go to see what the noise is.  

You’d accepted the shift for Christmas Eve without hesitation because everyone else had plans.  You had only a studio apartment and the prospect of take out at home, so you’d volunteered so no one else had to work.  Minho had entrusted you with the closing duties, and now here you were, faced with a possible break in.  

Your heart pounding in your chest, you creep into the hallway leading to the back employee area, as well as the door to the back of the building.  It feels as if your chest is going to explode from fear and anxiety as you watch the door creak open with wide eyes.  Your thoughts on the cats you are there to protect, you reach out and grab the nearby broom handle, holding it out as you yell, “Stop, or you’ll regret it!” 

The figure opening the door stops, their arms laden with something but you don’t process much else than a harsh sigh, then the lights are being flicked on.  “Really, what are you going to do with that? Sweep me to death?” The male voice greets you and it takes you a brief moment before you realize the voice and face belong to your boss, the owner of this cafe.   

Lee Minho.

Letting out a relieved sigh, you fall against the wall and clutch your chest.  “I wasn’t aware that you’d be here this late, did something go wrong with closing?” Minho asks, then his eyes widen.  “Are the cats alright?” His severe frown as he shoots a look behind you has you immediately responding.  “No, no everything is fine, I just checked on them a moment ago and was going to head home.”  you tell him, rubbing your eyes.

His eyes meet yours again and his eyebrows furrow.  “At one in the morning?” he asks and you just blink at him.  “Excuse me?”  shaking your head, “No…I didn’t-”  you turn around to dash back into the cat room, grabbing your phone.  “Shit.” you say and you hear a soft laugh behind you.  “Lose track of time?” He asks, coming in behind you and setting down the bags he had been holding.  Peanut immediately runs to him, purring around his legs as the other two sleepy cats peek out to see what’s going on.  

“I closed a little after 9pm, and everything was done.  I sat down to pet Peanut and I guess I just….” you shrug, frowning.  “I’m sorry, I promise I did everything for closing before I nodded off.  Don’t worry, I will mark my time slip as off at 9pm.”  you tell him, embarrassed, cheeks heating from having fallen asleep in your workplace.  

“Nonsense, you were keeping the cats company on Christmas Eve.  Peanut needed company, right buddy?” he asks, kneeling down to scratch his ears.  You smile softly, noticing how much your boss seemed to go from the gruff, teasing, sarcastic man to this warm, caring soul when faced with feline company.  Relaxing a bit, you remember your last part of the evening. 

“Sylvie was adopted at the last minute, the couple said that they will let us know if their daughter changes her name when she gets her.  Sylvie really loved them, they were here for a while with her before they took her home. They were very pleased.” you smile, watching Minho look up at you, his eyes widening in excitement as you speak.  You have to stop your heart from thumping as he beams happily at the news.  He was far too handsome for your health.  

You definitely didn’t have a crush on your boss, definitely not.  

“I’m so glad, she deserves a little girl to play with.  How old is the daughter?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.  “Twelve. They said that’s all she wants for a gift is a kitty to love.  So I’m hoping it’s a good fit.”  He smiles and nods, looking back down at Peanut, who is now sniffing at the bags he’d brought.  “You’re stuck with me, pal.  You, Luke and Leia. Christmas with Uncle Lino.” he coos at him, looking over at the pair napping.  You can’t help but smile at the names of the two, one of Minho’s friends having named them when he stopped by.

Blinking at yourself just lingering and ogling your boss, you shake yourself out of it. “I’ll get out of your way.” you say, glancing at your phone again, finally noticing the missed messages.  Frowning, you open a text from your neighbor.  “It’s pretty nasty out-” you hear before your mind is processing the text sent hours ago.  “Well, damn.” you mutter at your phone.

‘Hey-just fyi, power is out in the building. You might want to find somewhere else to stay if you have one!’  it reads and you just deflate from the news.

 Of all things, especially on Christmas Eve when everyone was out of town or busy, you think.

“What’s wrong?” you hear from beside you, Minho’s voice concerned.  Rubbing a hand over your face, you look out the window at the heavy snowfall.  “I guess my building’s power is out.” Looking over at him, you can only smile and shrug, then lean down to pet Peanut as he winds around both of your legs.  “Going to be a terrible Christmas Eve alone with no electricity, huh bud?” you whisper to him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Help me put this stuff away and then you can come upstairs and sleep on the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest he just turns his back and starts unloading the bags.  “If you don’t feel comfortable, you can sleep down here with Peanut.  Either way, there’s no point in going back to a place with no power.  Unless you have someone who you can go to?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder.  Shaking your head, you glance one last time out the large window at the cold, white sheet obscuring any view and just sigh.  

“If it’s really alright, I’ll take you up on it.  I’ll stay.” 

After helping put away the cat food and litter he’d brought in, you smile as he takes another bag of toys and opens each, letting Peanut sniff at them.  Luke and Leia are finally stirring, peeking out to see what’s going on.  You can’t help but smile as they just yawn and curl back around each other.  Lucky kitties, you think.  Am I jealous of the cats? You ask yourself, suppressing a small laugh. 

Minho stands, noticing your look and he clears his throat.  “Come on, I bet you haven't even eaten anything since before your shift started.” He says harshly, but when you look over at him, he’s smiling softly.  “I-” you start, then wince, shaking your head.  “Are you spying on me?” you ask him with a laugh and he just stares at you for a moment, then nods once.  “Of course I am.” 

You can’t help but chuckle at his deadpan expression as he turns to go to the door leading upstairs.  “I hadn’t thought to ask but…what’s upstairs?” Without looking back, he starts up the stairs leaving you to follow behind.  “I live up here, leave the door cracked, please.  The cats like to come upstairs if they get bored down here.” he says and you smile as he leads you into a big open space apartment.  

“Oh wow….I had no idea you actually lived here.” You say, looking around.  He smiles as he turns on some lights and takes off his shoes, and you do the same. You make sure to leave the upstairs door cracked as well, noticing his approving nod.  “Mmm…I bought it years ago, when I first moved here.  The downstairs was being leased out to a bakery.  Once they left when their lease was up…” he just shrugs, shooting you a look over his shoulder as he makes his way into the living area.  

“Wow, what made you want to turn it into a cat cafe?” You ask him as he gestures for you to sit.  “Make yourself at home.  Do you want something to drink?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.  “Sure, whatever you have is fine.” He hums as he goes into the fridge, pulling out some water bottles.  “I’ll make some tea.” He says, turning on the electric kettle, then he comes to sit next to you, handing you the water.  “Thank you.” you say and he smiles, leaning back to look around.

“It’s not a very … interesting story.” he finally answers, his lip twitching.  “You’re likely to think I’m weird.”  he says, eyes darting over to you.  Twisting off the cap to drink, you recap it as you set it down and try not to grin.  “And if I already do?” You say, surprising yourself at your boldness.  Before you can regret your remark, he throws his head back, letting out a laugh and it makes you smile as he looks back at you with a smile to echo your own.  “Well, then I have nothing to worry about.” He quips and you blush, looking away.  

He really was far too attractive and here you were with him, alone, on Christmas Eve.  Ignoring the pleasant warmth in your stomach, as well as the fluttering, you turn your attention back to his words as he answers.

“When I moved here, I really missed my cats back home.” he is saying, smiling as Peanut slips through the opening of the door.  “I have three at my parents house.” he says, watching the big orange cat wander off to explore.  “Aww, I bet that was really tough.” you respond, frowning, remembering your own cats you left behind to move here.  He just nods, continuing.  “Well, one day I found two kittens outside in a box, and I couldn’t leave them.  So I brought them home.  Then another followed me home a few weeks later after I fed it.  The next thing I know, I had seven cats and a space downstairs to lease out.” 

“Wow! Seven cats?” you exclaim, blinking in disbelief at him.  “And counting.” He laughs, shaking his head.  “I couldn’t leave them out in the streets.  I was trying to figure out how to keep gathering all these stray cats and figure out how to rehome them, all while trying to work.” You just look around, taking in the apartment.  While it was spacious for more than one person, you couldn’t imagine having seven plus cats roaming around without the downstairs.

“So you just thought, ‘Oh I'll open a cat cafe’?” you can’t help but smile at him.  He shrugs, tilting his head as he hums softly.  “Pretty much.  I had some help from friends and family, thankfully.” His gaze feels suddenly intimate for some reason as you relax into the conversation, his deep brown eyes warm and soft.  Finding yourself leaning towards him more as you listen, you both are startled when the kettle starts to beep and he clears his throat, standing to go to the kitchen.

“Actually….” he stops halfway there, looking out at the fat snowflakes falling down, then turning to look at you.  “Would you like some hot chocolate?” he asks and you smile at him, nodding happily.  “That sounds amazing actually.”  You lean your head on your hand, watching over the back of the couch as he busies himself in the kitchen, inhaling blissfully as the scent of chocolate slowly permeates the open space.  

Your earlier embarrassment has faded into almost happiness at falling asleep with Peanut, grateful that you’re not in a cold, lonely apartment tonight.  The scent of the cocoa mixed with the euphoria of having an actual conversation with Minho has you in an odd headspace.  In the months you’ve worked for him, you can’t remember having many conversations with him.  He was always on the go, in and out of the shop, most of his time being spent with the cats. 

That’s what started this silly crush, you think. 

Watching him talk to the cats, cooing at them, playing with them when he had any free time.  Admiring the way all of the felines would flock to him, noticing him immediately when he came in bearing food and treats, as well as a variety of toys and new furniture for their temporary living space.  

The way he checked in on all of the cats that got adopted, treating them like each one was his child.  How he cared for them, expression lighting up when he comes through the door to see the beautiful furry creatures; playing, fed and happy.  He truly was dedicated to their well being and watching it over the months you’ve spent working for him, it had definitely interested you in finding out who he truly was.  

You can’t lie to yourself as you listen to him hum a soft tune, smiling as he turns to mix the drink in a saucepan. It was pointless to deny that that simple crush on a handsome man was turning into a little bit more. 

Not that you’d expect anything from it, of course.  He was your boss, you were his employee. That’s not even accounting for his own personal feelings.  You didn’t have any illusions about anything happening, but you just couldn’t deny it any longer.  You’d just keep it to yourself, enjoying that sense of being young and silly, pining over the unobtainable.  Sometimes that’s all you need, just something to look forward to, for yourself. 

“Are you alright?” you hear him say, snapping you out of your thoughts as he walks over, carrying two steaming mugs.  “It’s hot, be careful.” he says, an almost worried look on his face as he hands you one of the drinks.  You can’t help but smile and blush at his concern, feeling suddenly like you’re getting an inside view of what the cats must feel like under his care.  

He raises an eyebrow at you as he blows on his own drink, sipping at it carefully.  “I’m fine, just ….” you look down at the cocoa, the smell making you feel more nostalgic for the holidays than you’ve felt for a long time.  “Just?” he asks, frowning as he blinks at you with those beautiful eyes.  Letting out a sigh, you take a tentative sip, your eyes widening at the flavor.  “Wow…this is…amazing!” you say, taking another sip of the warm, rich beverage.  His eyes light up at your words and he smiles proudly.  “It’s homemade, not the powder, it’s quite different from the packets you get.” He tells you and you nod, savoring each sip.  “Well, it’s delicious.  I don’t think I’ve had cocoa in ages, let alone something this good….ever.” His eyes crinkle at the sides as he looks down and you swear you can see him blush a bit.  You might have to compliment him more if he was going to react like this, you think.  

“It’s fairly easy, I just happened to have the ingredients.  I thought for Christmas Eve it was a bit more festive.” he says, and you nod as you watch him talk.  “Speaking of….” he says, brow furrowing suddenly, “Why did you decide to work tonight?” He asks, settling back as he turns to you, his gaze curious.  

You hum as you raise a shoulder to shrug, “I don’t have family in the area, and we don’t really celebrate together much, as everyone gets really busy this time of year. All the friends I have here all had plans, and honestly, it’s really just another day to me most of the time.  I figured I’d give everyone else the night to spend with people since they all seem more interested in that.”  His hum and pursed lips as he nods has you suddenly realizing he’s alone as well.  

“What about you? You mentioned your parents and cats at home, why are you here?”  you ask and he smiles, rocking his head back and forth as he thinks.  “This year, I decided to send my parents on a vacation since they’ve worked so long and hard all their lives.  I gave them the gift early and they are currently on a beach somewhere nice and warm.  As they should be.” he says, smiling softly. 

 Your heart thumps at his expression, your throat closing at how very caring he was for the people he loved.  Suddenly, you feel overwhelmed with some feeling you can’t define, almost as if the idea of being loved that much made you feel happy and extremely lonely all at once. You almost laugh as tears spring to your eyes and he blanches, looking shocked.  

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks as you wipe at a stray tear and you let out a soft chuckle at your foolish emotions.  “Oh yes, sorry.  Just thinking of how proud they must be of you, to have raised such a caring, lovely son.” Your words take him off guard and he looks down into his drink, blinking rapidly.  “I don’t know if I’d say all that…” he says, his cheeks flushing red.  You bite your lip, having to look away from how adorable he looks being shy.  

“Really, I don’t know many people who think like you do.  How you are with the cats as well as your family…” you shake your head.  “Most people tend to think of the holidays as a time for getting things, I’ve found.”  He hums softly, the silence between you slightly tense but far from awkward as you both enjoy your drinks.  “I’ve been meaning to ask…” he says, clearing his throat as he sets down his mug on the coffee table.  “Hm?” you say, curious.  “I thought you’d be spending the holiday with someone special.  I figured you’d have someone waiting for you at home.” He says, studying you.  “Someone special?” you ask, then realize what he’s asking. 

“Ah…no, I don’t have anyone.  I broke up with my last boyfriend shortly after starting work here.” you gesture around you. “Ah yes, that’s why I thought….” he trails off, looking away. “I noticed a man coming in when you started so I just figured.” He shrugs and you sigh, frowning as you set your mug next to his.  “No, we broke up…he…it’s a stupid story.” you laugh without any amusement, waving it off.  “Oh?” he says, leaning forward a bit.  “If you don’t want to-” You shake your head, making a sour face.  “Long story short, I found out I wasn’t his only girlfriend.  So, I broke it off.”  

The look on his face has you bursting into laughter.  The sheer disgust is so adorably cute, his lip curling as he lets out a ridiculous noise of revulsion that you just can’t help but snort as you giggle loudly.  It only seems to encourage him as he repeats the noise, adding, “Is he stupid?”  You just nod as you wipe your eyes, this time the tears are from your laughter and you can feel your stomach hurting from it.  “Yes, that was my thought, honestly.” you tell him, his sudden smile bringing butterflies to dance in the pit of your stomach. 

“He must be, I wouldn’t-” he stops, shaking his head.  “Any man like that isn’t worth your time.  Better off without him!” he says, throwing his hand up into the air.  You laugh again and this time he joins you, the shared moment has you relaxing back into the cushions as you turn to settle more comfortably on the couch, facing him fully. 

“Yeah, definitely.” you sigh, “Still lonely around this time of year though.” His smile slips and you decide to not ruin the mood.  “What about you? I didn’t even know you lived up here, I thought you’d have some big house with a wife somewhere.” you say and he winces, looking away.  “No, it’s been a while since I’ve dated.  Between the cats and running the cafe, I’ve kept myself from being too lonely.  I have everything I need right here.” he says, eyeing you.  “Besides, being alone doesn’t always mean being lonely,” he says, giving you a look. 

“That’s entirely true.  I do enjoy my time to myself, plus it’s easy to just crush on someone to keep myself from thinking too much about a relationship.  Sometimes it’s better to live in my own head and create my own narrative than to deal with another person.” you say with a smirk and he raises his eyebrows in response.  “A crush?” he asks and you freeze, realizing you’ve likely said too much.  “Sure, why not? Everyone has crushes throughout their lives.” you say nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder.  

“Who’s this crush?” He asks teasingly, but you swear his eyes darken a bit, almost dangerously.  Swallowing, your cheeks heat up as you look away.  “Nobody it would ever work with, so it’s not really important.”  you respond and sneak a peek at him.  He’s studying you intently, not smiling and the room is suddenly oddly tense.  “Don’t tell me it’s some idol-” he starts but you wave your hand, laughing softly.  “No, nothing like that. I mean, of course I have those as well but that’s not what I meant.”  

“What about you? Or is raising kitten children your only passion?” You tease and he raises an eyebrow, smirking.  “Hm…” he hums, “Strangely enough, my answer is much like yours.  Nothing that would ever work.” It’s your turn to be curious, leaning forward towards him.  “Why wouldn’t it?” you ask him, wondering what would stop this man from pursuing anyone lucky enough to catch his interest.  His lip twitches and he suddenly leans forward with a sly grin.  “It’s one of those taboo things.” he says cryptically, his wicked grin drawing your attention.  “Taboo?” you say, scooching forward and widening your eyes dramatically.  “Well now that sounds interesting.  What’s so forbidden about this person?” you ask softly, trying not to grin.  You’d never seen or heard of him being involved, that’s why you assumed he must be married, or voluntarily single.   

“Well, aren’t you the gossip.” he shoots back and you laugh.  “I mean, yes.  Just wondering what would keep a man like you from doing anything he wanted.”   His eyes widen as his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up and he clears his throat.  “A man like me?” he asks, and you can feel the tension again building at the softness of his voice, the nearness of him.  You take a moment to collect your thoughts, not wanting to sound ridiculous.  

“You’re successful from what I know, of course I don’t know everything about you. Just from the outside looking in.  You’re handsome, caring, you have your own place, run a business. You’re funny, you make amazing hot chocolate-” You stop at his look, at how his adam's apple dips as he swallows thickly.  “Do you plan on pursuing your interest…your…crush?” He asks you in a whisper and your cheeks flush, heating up at the very idea.  What he’s asking...how easy it would be to just lean a bit more forward….

“No…I can’t.” you shake your head, looking down.  “Why not?” he asks softly, and your whole body feels like it’s vibrating from his nearness.  “It would be unprofessional and I doubt he’d even look at me like that.” you say without thinking.  His eyebrows raise then draw together at the comment, confusion on his face for a moment as you feel embarrassment wash over you. 

“But the only guy-” he says, shock registering on his face.  “He’s married!” he gasps and you blink at him as you realize he’s thinking of your other male coworker.  “No! Oh my god, do you think I’m that horrible?” you ask, stunned.  “Of course it’s not him it’s y-” your words catch in your throat as you stop yourself too late, his goading making you thoughtless.  “Forget about it, it’s nothing, really.” you say, turning to stand, to go somewhere-anywhere but here.  

Before you can though, he’s grabbing your arm, tugging you back down, his eyes large, dark and serious as he pulls you towards him.  “Me?” he asks, and there is no way you can read the look on his face.  Your stomach bottoms out as you realize just how badly you just fucked up.  Here you were, in your boss’s apartment, with nowhere to go and a snow storm outside.  

You were going to lose your job, you just knew it.  You know how inappropriate it is to-

“Is it me?” he asks, this time a bit more forcefully, his words snapped out.  Slumping back, you close your eyes and sigh out softly, unwilling to look at him.  “I know it’s not right, you're my boss.  it’s unprofessional and I-” 

“You’re fired.” he says harshly.

Despite knowing it was coming, your eyes snap open to protest just in time for him to close the distance between you; any words that were about to leave your lips dissipates as he slips a hand behind your neck, pulling your mouth into his. Your body stiffens for the briefest of seconds before you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, combing your fingers into his hair as his tongue slips along the seam of your lips.  You shiver at the growl that escapes from deep in his throat when your tongues meet, his arm sliding around your back to yank you closer to him.  

Giving in completely to the moment, you shift with him as he guides you into his lap. Pure instinct takes over as you move together, his fingers prying at your clothing, yours threading through his hair.  As your thighs settle on either side of his and you press down into his lap, he moans into your mouth.  You gasp between kisses as his hand settles on your lower back, pressing you down against his stiff length through your clothing.  

“I want you.” He purrs out as his mouth parts from yours, looking up at you with those rich, lustrous eyes.  You can barely catch your breath as you take in his gorgeous swollen lips, parted as he gazes up at you with desire.  “You can have me,” you declare, your body almost humming for him and without another thought, his hands are traveling up your back, his hips lifting as you grind against him.  “Take me, Minho~” you utter, tugging at his hair.  “Fucking christ-” he hisses, burying his face into your neck.  

As his lips brush the skin of your neck, you tilt your head for him, rocking your hips against his hardness.  You should be ashamed at how your panties are already soaked from his touch but you can’t feel anything but need, pure carnal lust for him right now. 

 Consequences be damned, the way you needed him was the only thing on your mind.  

“Take this off.” You manage to say as you shudder under his mouth.  It takes him a moment to register that you’re tugging on his shirt and his tongue darts out to lick your neck where he was kissing before he leans back and helps you remove the garment, his hands immediately yanking your shirt over your head as well.  

Tossing it to the side, he takes a moment to lean back and admire you, his dark gaze hungry as he runs his hands up your sides.  “Fucking gorgeous, just like I always imagined you would be.” Your breath catches at his words, at the look in his eyes for you.  He leans forward to press his face between the valley of your breasts and you let out a long moan.  “Smell so fucking good, too.”

 Everything he’s doing is causing you to clench like crazy, small mewling noises escaping from your throat as his hands work at the clasp of your bra.  “Minho-” you shiver as you feel him free you from it, sliding the straps down your arms.  “God, keep saying my name.” He groans, his cock twitching against you as he pulls your bra down to reveal your bare tits.  

“So beautiful,” he whispers as his lips close around your nipple.  Your fingers dig into his scalp, your other hand gripping his shoulder as he sucks harshly at the sensitive bud.  “Please…” you whimper as his hands slip up to cup the flesh of your breasts, kneading them as he lets your nipple go with a popping sound, immediately moving to the other to do the same.  Your breathing is ragged as you reach between you to tug at the button of his pants.  

“Not here.” he rasps out, then he’s sliding you off his lap, standing you both up.  Before you can protest, his hands are around your waist, his mouth back on yours, his tongue urgently seeking your own.  You return your hands to the front of his jeans, unbuttoning, then unzipping as he backs you up towards the hallway.  

“Door-” he says between kisses as you are pushed against it.  He reaches behind you to twist the knob and then he’s walking you into the room, the back of your knees hitting the bed.  He stops as you slide your hand into his now open pants, slipping your palm along him through his boxers.  He lets out a low groan as you touch him, his hands cupping your ass before he’s shoving your pants down as well.  

“Tell me you want this-” he gasps out as his hands run over your bare skin, his lips tracing your collarbone.  “I do, more than anything-” you respond, tugging off his remaining clothing as well.  “I need to make sure, I don’t want to make you feel pressured-” he says as he pulls you close, brushing his lips against yours.  “I swear, Minho, there’s nothing I want more than this.” You tell him as he pauses to study your eyes, the concern ebbing away as he watches you, his fingers skimming your lower back.  

“I’ve been dying to hear you say that to me.” he whispers, and the urgency seems to fade as he leans in to kiss you deeply.  For a moment you both stand there lips connected, your arms around his neck, his hands roaming your back.  Then his hands cup your bare ass, yanking you firmly against his stiff cock as he moans your name.  You pull him down with you onto the bed, your mouth never leaving his as he settles between your legs, the underside of his cock pressing along your wet core.  

He growls softly as he moves his hips against you, and you arch your back as the length of him parts your folds.  Breath hitching as the ridge of his head brushes against your clit, you look up into his half lidded eyes as his lips part.  “Tell me again.” he whispers, his hand dropping down to clutch behind your thigh and raise it around his hip.  “Tell me you want me.” he hums as he watches your eyes roll back from the ache of clenching around nothing.  

You reach up to comb your fingers through his hair, digging your nails into his shoulder as he rolls his hips again.  “I need you so much-Minho-please I want you so fucking much-” you manage to gasp out.  His eyes darken as he reaches down between you, pulling back to cup you, his fingers sliding through your drenched lips to part them.  “For me?” he asks, his voice low as he dips down to brush his lips to yours.  He swallows your moan with a kiss as he pushes his finger into you, tasting your panting as you tighten around it.  “All for you-” you cry as his tongue plunges into your mouth.  

He deepens the kiss as he pulls his finger from you, suppressing any protests.  Any dismay at the loss is replaced with pleasure as he guides the tip against your slit, slipping along your folds, teasing at your clit.  There are no thoughts in your mind, only overwhelming need as he rubs his head along you, finally, finally giving in to your wordless pleas as he presses it against your tight hole.  As he thrusts forward suddenly, he breaks the kiss with a cry of his own, your walls giving as he stretches you.  

“Minho….. Minho-,” his name echoes through the room to mix with his moans as he draws back to snap his hips forward again.  “So fucking….tight!” he bites out, his breathing heavy as he drops his head into your neck, his hot breath tickling your skin.  As he starts to plunge in and out of you, your legs wrap around his waist as you tilt your hips for him.  

Your nails run down his back as he fucks you, making his motions stutter as he moans loudly for you.  “So good, oh fuck-Minho!” your cries have him propping himself up to look down at your face.  “Yeah?” he asks, his nose wrinkling as he puts more force behind his thrusts.  “Yeah? Like that?” he asks and you have to clutch his hair as your body jerks, your tits shaking the harder he moves.  “Yes! YES! I - LOVE IT-” you scream, words devolving into loud, animalistic moans.   

“Your-cunt- is so-fucking-divine-” he gasps out, each word punctuated by his cock delving deep and hard into you.  You can feel the familiar tight burning sensation building deep within you as your legs shake, as he slips a hand under your back, as he lunges forward to wrap his lips around your nipple to suck and nip at it.  The friction of his pelvis rubbing against your clit, and his mouth on you has your entire being vibrating and you start wailing his name over and over as you begin to clench.  

“OH FUCK-” his voice grates out as he releases your nipple, his breath hitching as your climax hits you like a boulder, blindly intense as you arch beneath him.  “Fuck fuck fuck I can’t-” he cries out as his hips falter, his pace becoming erratic.  “COME!” you scream out desperately, clinging to him as you shudder and his mouth crashes into yours as he lets go, bursting in a hot flood deep within you.  Your kiss is frenzied, crying wordlessly into each other as you come together.  His thrusts slow, lazily emptying himself into you finally as he gasps with every clench of your pussy around him.  

As you finally come down, he collapses onto you, nuzzling his face into your now sweaty neck, his chest pressing firmly against yours.  You can feel the fast beat of his heart as he places small kisses along your damp skin, along your collarbone and you slowly comb your fingers through the strands of his hair.  “Fuck.” he whispers, kissing his way up to your lips, his own fingers smoothing back your hair.  “Fuck.” you echo and he smiles softly, drawing back to study your eyes.  You can only smile dreamily at him, completely exhausted from the entire experience.  

He slowly rolls you both on your sides, facing one another as he pets your hair, placing kisses to your lips.  “I…” he starts, gasping as you clench around him again and he laughs softly.  Then his face registers a sudden shock as you adjust and he slips out of you.  Your thighs are damp from your combined releases and he blinks rapidly, worry on his features.  “Oh fucking hell-I didn’t even think about-” he cups your face but you shake your head, silencing him.  “I’m on the pill.  Sorry, I ….wasn’t even thinking about that.” he relaxes slightly, pressing his forehead to yours as he closes his eyes.  

“Don’t be sorry, this wasn’t exactly what I expected to happen.” he murmurs, his gaze studying your face.  “Unexpected but not unwanted.” you reassure him, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear.  You can’t help but blush as he smiles at you softly, pulling you closer to him to hold onto you.  “I’m glad I wasn’t the only one…” he whispers against your mouth as he kisses you again.  

He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him to settle your head on his chest, playing with your hair as you wrap around him.  The silence settles around you as you savor the moment with him, both of you just touching and kissing each other, exploring one another deep into the night.  

Finally as exhaustion begins to overwhelm you, you look up at him with sleepy eyes and he smiles down at you.  “Tomorrow…we can talk about everything.” You nod against him and then suddenly you remember, snapping your head up.  

“You fired me!”

His laughter makes you frown, and he just kisses your nose.  “Just for now, kitten.  Don’t worry.”  

The cat cafe is humming with excitement, and it’s just another day that you get to watch families take home the much deserving animals to become their family.  Peanut keeps you company, of course.  He was now a permanent fixture at the cafe as Minho had decided to keep him.  As the day winds down and you lock the door, you feel the familiar arms of your boss wrap around you from behind, placing a kiss on your neck.  

“Lee Minho! How dare you do that with an employee!” You berate him, unable to stop yourself from laughing as he spins you around.  “Ah yes, I forgot.  I’m horrible.” he purrs out, touching his forehead to yours.  

“You’re fired.  Now kiss me.”

Changbin and Jisung were usually less involved with this specific part of the work – this part being the painstaking adjustment of the mix, the addition of details, last-minute changes to the music. They didn’t have the patience for it, so they usually took the time to scroll through TikTok or doze while you and Chan sat there for hours, clicking, replaying, looping, adjusting the EQ.

Chan loved this kind of work. Loved that he could let himself sink into your proverbial professional hands, let you guide him from song to song, not letting him get hung up on something for too long, always solid and calm and confident. It was soothing. Here, he didn’t have to be anything, be anyone. He just had to do what he did best. It felt better than being shoved into clothes and smouldering at the camera ever could. Not that the minded that part of the job, but this was the part he loved.

“I agree, that little syncopation sounds really good with Jisung’s vocals,” Changbin agrees, running his hand through his black curls and giving you an exaggerated thumbs up.

You give him a smile before turning to Jisung.

“Jisung?”

Jisung looks up from his phone blearily and blinks at you.

“Sorry, can you play it again?”

Chan huffs out a laugh and restarts the verse, letting it play until the end, where it leads into the pre-chorus. Jisung purses his lips and finally nods with an approving smile.

Chan can basically taste the satisfaction rolling off you. Your energy was always like that; like a current running through the studio, one that he gladly let sweep him up, letting it carry him along and through so many long days and nights.

He doesn’t realise you turned back to him until he hears your voice. When he turns his head, you’re looking at him expectantly.

“So we keep it?” you ask, and Chan watches your eyes race over his face to try to gauge his reaction.

“We all just agreed,” he chuckles out awkwardly and he can feel his ears starting to burn. Great. You’re still grinning when you roll your eyes at him and shrug.

“Yeah, but you only said you liked it, plus, you have the final say,” you say calmly and Chan blinks at the screen dumbly, his cheeks flaring up more, before he finally turns to you.

“I’m pretty sure JYP doesn’t pay you to listen to us,” he quips and raises a playful eyebrow at you. He hopes you can’t hear that he kind of means it.

You glare back at him, but your lips are still curled into a smile.

“JYP pays me to make your music great – and to do that I will listen to whoever I think is really good at what they do,” you say and give him a wink that makes his ears burn more.

“So … keep?” you ask again and this time Chan just nods and you mumble a quiet nice, scooting your chair closer to him. When you take the mouse from him, your fingertips trail over the back of his hand and it sends goosebumps racing down his arm.

When you get up to leave an hour later, much earlier than usual, you rest a hand on Chan’s shoulder as you chat with Changbin. He tells himself that it’s normal, that you’re friends, that he shouldn’t be overthinking about how comfortable you must be with him to do this so absentmindedly. He also has to tell himself to keep breathing normally.

“Why are you leaving already?” Jisung asks with a yawn, “we all know Channie-hyung gets nothing done when you’re not here.”

Chan half turns and gives Jisung a glare, but Jisung just grins at him.

You chuckle and shift your weight, your hand falling from Chan’s shoulder. He feels the absence of it way too keenly.

“I gotta be back here tomorrow at 10 with Gunil and the boys,” you shrug and hoist your bag further up your shoulder.

“From Xdinary Heroes?” Changbin asks and you nod, “I didn’t know you started working with them.”

Right. Sometimes Chan forgets you’re not just here when they are. You work with other groups.

“Started at their last comeback. They’re the exact opposite of you, funnily enough,” you chuckle, “they always wanna come in first thing in the morning.”

Do you work with them the same way? The other boys are too young, but do you joke with Gunil the same way you joke with Chan? Do you rest your hand on his shoulder before you leave? Chan furrows his brows and keeps clicking around ProTools aimlessly.

There’s a lull in the conversation.

“Well, I’ll be going,” you announce before your hand comes back to Chan’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly, “don’t work too late. Same time tomorrow?”

Chan doesn’t trust himself to look at you, so he just nods, and waits until Jisung hums out an affirmative. Your hand disappears, the door opens and shuts, and your footsteps echo down the hallway. He finally lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Chan, you’re an idiot,” Changbin sighs and Chan whips around.

“What did I do now?!” he asks, trying to give his voice a joking edge but failing miserably.

“She’s so into you and you don’t even see it,” Changbin states grandly, like it’s the most glaringly obvious thing in the world. Jisung huffs out a giggle next to him, but nods.

Chan shakes his head jerkily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She treats me the same way she treats you guys,” he denies, though his heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest.

Jisung properly laughs at that.

“Channie-hyung, she touched your shoulder twice. For, like, literally no reason. Also, she keeps staring at you when you’re not looking. Just watches you click around. It’s really cute.”

Chan can feel a single tendril of hope lick up his spine. Changbin seems to see it in his eyes.

“You’re clearly into her as well,” he states, and Chan makes a non-committal sound that half sounds like a negation. Changbin’s brows furrow. “You go stupid every time she smiles at you. You comment on her outfit, you bring her coffee, sometimes you drive her home. You always agree when she makes a suggestion.”

Anger flares in Chan’s gut.

“She makes good suggestions! She’s a really good fucking producer!” he can tell he’s almost yelling and he clears his throat. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“She is,” Changbin says with a little smile, “She’s a really good producer, she’s super hot, and she’s into you.”

The words make Chan nearly sick with promise, but there’s a whisper in the back of his head that keeps him from believing Changbin fully. Surely, it wouldn’t be him. The mental image of you flirting with Gunil makes him flinch.

“It wouldn’t work anyways,” he mumbles, turning back to the computer, “plus, maybe she’s the same way with Gunil. He’s definitely the hotter choice.”

“I’m pretty sure Gunil’s gay,” Jisung muses. Chan just glares at the screen.

“Well, if it’s not Gunil, then it’s one of the other 20 idols she works with. Or literally anyone else.”

He hears how pathetic he sounds and he’s glad he can avoid Changbin’s prying eyes. But, predictably, Changbin doesn’t leave him alone. He gets up and plops down into the chair you only recently abandoned and leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Chan, you need to stop talking about yourself like that,” he says intently, and Chan almost feels bad. Changbin’s right, he should stop talking about himself like that. But it still wouldn’t change the fact that that’s what he thinks about himself. What a lot of people think about him, for that matter.

He doesn’t respond, just saves the project for the 12th time in the last five minutes. He can’t forget to fix that snare, like you said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Changbin throw a look towards Jisung, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. They’ve been here before. Changbin lets it go and gets up.

“Let’s go home, get an early night for once,” he suggests and Chan looks up at him, “you know Jisung’s right, you get nothing done when Y/N’s not here.”

Chan waves him off.

“I’ll stick around for a while, I wanna figure out the bridge on the last track.”

They leave, begrudgingly. Chan sticks around until 3 in the morning, until his eyes are burning and he’s halfway convinced himself that Jisung’s wrong and you’re hooking up with Gunil. The bridge sounds worse now, so he reverts the project back to where it was when Changbin and Jisung left and goes home.

It’s no surprise that he sleeps like shit. He wakes up and drags himself through dance practice, Minho giving him worried glares every now and again. He nearly falls asleep in the shower after.

When he opens the door to the studio at 7.30pm and is welcomed by the smell of leather and technology, the whirring of the computers and the eery soundlessness of the padding – it’s like coming home.

He drops his bag on the floor and lets himself fall into his chair with a sigh. He leans back all the way, his muscles slowly relaxing, legs stretching out in front of him deliciously. Maybe he can rest his eyes, just for five minutes, until Changbin and Jisung get here …

He must’ve nodded off pretty quickly because he’s awoken by a gentle pressure on his arm and a soft voice saying his name and he hums, still half in his dream, before he flutters his eyes open.

You’re leaning over him with the gentlest look in your eyes and a soft smile on your lips, and for a second, he thinks he’s still dreaming, but then he realises where he is and that he fell asleep in the chair and that you just found him.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes and you lean back, pulling your hand back in the process. God, he hates when you pull your hand back. But you’re still smiling at him, which makes him feel a little better.

“Long day?” you ask, and Chan sits up slowly, blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes. You fall into your chair and pull out your iPad. He turns to you and nods.

“Didn’t sleep much last night,” he mumbles, his shoulder cracking loudly when he stretches his arms behind his back. He thinks he sees your eyes flutter down to where his t-shirt rides up, but he tells himself to stop projecting.

“Did you stay late again?” you scold gently, and he shrugs apologetically.

“Tried to fix the bridge,” he explains, and you nod.

“God, that bridge,” you mumble, “how did it go?”

Chan just shakes his head.

“Nothing worked, it’s still the same,” he admits and averts his eyes. He half expects you to be disappointed in him, which he doesn’t want to see. Or maybe you’ll make a joke about what Jisung said last night, that he wouldn’t get anything done without you. But you just shrug.

“There are those days,” you say and pat his arm gently. Right, he thinks, you wouldn’t make him feel bad about things. You never do. He can’t think about it too long, so he changes the subject.

“How did it go with Gunil today?” he asks and he hopes he sounds neutral, despite the hours and hours last night that he had imagined you flirting with the guy.

You look at him briefly and then you shrug.

“It went well,” you reply, “they’re really professional and Gunil always has great input. Also, I get to record actual instruments, so that’s always fun. I don’t get to do that often.”

Chan just nods, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, and turns back to the screen. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His brain chants. Say something.

“That’s … nice,” he offers and grimaces immediately. That was the most awkward thing he could’ve said. You watch him carefully and it feels like your gaze is burning holes into his soul.

He’s saved by his phone buzzing, Changbin’s name lighting up the screen. Right, Changbin and Jisung. They’re meant to be here by now.

8.15pm Changbin hey man, jisung and I can’t make it to the studio tonight send Y/N our love you should make the most of tonight

Chan blinks at his phone stupidly. He has all their calendars. He saw them earlier. There is no reason why they wouldn’t be able to …

Ah. They’re setting him up. Great. Fantastic. Annoyance flares up deep in his gut. He’s not in the mood for his meddling members.

He does his best to shake off his frustration before he looks up at you and oh dammit, fuck, you’re so pretty. It doesn’t happen often that he gets you all to himself for a whole evening. It’s making his heartbeat flutter in his chest.

“Jisung and Changbin can’t make it tonight,” he announces and you turn around, surprise written all over your features.

“Really?! I thought I saw them in the cafeteria earlier.”

Chan curses Changbin out in his head.

“Yeah, something just came up, very spontaneous,” Chan explains and you shrug.

“Oh well, this more our work anyways, isn’t it,” you say, smiling at him in a way that Chan can’t quite read. You turn to the screen and double-click on the song with the cursed bridge.

Our work, it reverberates through Chan’s head.

For the next two hours, Chan doesn’t focus on work. He can’t. He’s too busy wondering if he’s going insane or if you’re sitting closer to him than usual. But he so clearly feels your thigh resting against his knee, feels your jeans rub against his sweats with every one of your movements.

You’re finally finished with one of the tracks and you lean back, lifting your hands up in celebration with a yawn. Chan can’t keep his eyes away from your thighs, how they’re squished together on the seat of your chair, running up into your waist, the barest sliver of skin visible …

“You don’t have many parts in this one,” you state and his eyes snap up to your face, but you’re not looking at him, instead pursing your lips at the project that’s still open on the screen. “Like, you only have half a chorus and some ad-libs.”

Chan shrugs. Of course, of all the people, you would notice.

“Oh, you know,” he starts, burying his fists in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He should really start dressing nicer for the studio, he looks like a slob next to you in your nice tight jeans and sweet, soft sweaters. Fuck, he wants to run his hands underneath those sweaters every damn time. Stop, Chan. Stop being weird.

“Why?” you ask, finally looking at him, cocking your head to the side. The look in your eyes reminds him a lot of Changbin’s and he bristles.

“Well, you know, Jisung sounds much better on the bridge. Minho had less parts last comeback and gets the centre” he tries to reason, but you keep looking at him, “plus, nobody wants to see that.”

Your eyebrows pull together.

“See what?”

“Me,” he says quietly, “Stay wants to see the boys, wants to see Hyunjin dance and hear Seungmin sing and Jisung rap.”

You’re staring at him now and he feels like an idiot. Fuck, why did he say that?

“You think they don’t want to see you?” you ask calmly, slowly and he nods and shrugs. You scoff and shake your head.

“You’re an idiot, Channie,” you say, your pretty face pulled into a scowl as you turn back to the screen. Ouch.

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?!” he snaps, his face darkening. “I’m doing my fucking best, okay?!”

He has never gotten angry at you, ever. But now his heart is thumping in his chest and he’s glaring at you. You look surprised for a second before the expression on your face sours.

“Exactly! You’re doing your best and you’re doing a great fucking job, but you keep saying you don’t.”

Your words confuse him. You look angry, but also something else he doesn’t understand. Clearly, you didn’t want silence because you get up, and shove your iPad into your bag.

“You’re an idiot because you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. You’re an idiot because I like working with you the most because you’re so good at what you do and you’re so fucking kind and always pay attention to the people around you. You’re an idiot because you say people don’t want to see you when you’re literally sex on legs. And it’s not that you lack confidence, no, because you wouldn’t be here without it – you’re an idiot because everyone keeps trying to be nice to you and you pretend like you don’t deserve it. Well, guess what, you do.”

And without another word, you stomp out of the room. The door slams behind you and Chan can feel his heartbeat in his ears. What?!

“She said what?!” Changbin squeaks out the next morning, in the hallway of their dorm, waiting for Hyunjin and Jisung.

Chan nods, running his hand through his hair nervously.

“Chan,” he just says, and Chan can see the disappointment in his face.

“Bin, if you call me an idiot, I swear to God I will punch you.”

Changbin scoffs.

“I won’t, but you know what you have to do now, right?”

Chan groans.

“No, I don’t know, actually. What am I even meant to say?”

Changbin sighs.

“She basically told you she likes you,” he says carefully and shushes Chan when Chan is about to interrupt him.

“Who told Chan she liked him?!” Hyunjin exclaims from behind Chan, and he lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

Changbin repeats everything Chan just told him, and Hyunjin excitedly grabs Chan’s arm.

“Dude, that is so romantic! It’s like a movie!” He gushes, staring at Chan with stars in his eyes, “she totally likes you.”

Chan wants to fucking cry because he wants to believe it so badly.

“Fine, let’s assume she does, which is still crazy to me,” he finally says and Changbin nods, “how on earth do I talk to her now? She’s angry with me!”

“Oh, Channie, she’s not angry,” Changbin says with a smile, “what you’ll do is you’ll go to the company and find out what her schedule is like today and then you will go get her a coffee and you will pick her up from her last session and …”

“And then you kiss her and tell her something really deep like ‘I want to deserve you’ and then you go home with her and make sweet love to her until the sun …”

“Hyunjin!” Chan all but shrieks, but Changbin giggles.

“Not the worst plan, to be honest,” he teases, and Chan presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurts.

Jisung finally walks into the hallway with his hood over his head, blinking at them.

“What did I miss?”

Changbin laughs and turns to open the door.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

Despite it all, Chan does listen to them. When they’re done with the music show recording and everyone goes home, he ignores Changbin’s eyebrow wiggle, gets into his own car and drives to the company – with a brief detour to his favourite café down the road.

As he walks up to the reception with your coffee in hand, he has a brief moment of panic and his steps falter. What if you’re not there any more. What if you already left. You’re meant to record vocals with them tomorrow afternoon. He can’t face you in front of everyone.

The receptionist looks up at him when he stops in front of her.

“Hi, I was just wondering, is Y/N still here?”

His voice sounds odd to him. The receptionist taps away at her keyboard.

“She is, she’s booked with Itzy for another hour. Studio 5.”

Chan nods, hoping that she can’t hear the nerves in his voice.

“Does she have anything else on her calendar today?”

The receptionist looks down and then shakes her head.

“No, that’s her last thing today. She’s back tomorrow at 3pm with you.”

Chan nods again, giving her a quiet thank you before he turns and makes his way to the elevator.

In. Out. In. Out. He can do this. If Hyunjin and Changbin both say you’re not mad at him, you’re probably not, right?

He walks up to Studio 5 and mercifully, the ‘recording’ sign above the door is off. Before he can chicken out, he raises his hand and knocks rapidly. There’s silence, then a distant, “come in”.

When he opens the door, he’s faced with 6 women staring at him; you at your desk, Yeji leaning against the desk next to you, the rest of her members scattered around the room. His face immediately flushes red-hot.

“Y/N,” he says quietly and you rapidly blink your eyes before you get up and walk over to where he’s rooted to the spot in the doorframe.

You stop in front of him, far too close to not be distracting.

“Chan?”

He takes a deep breath.

“I … uhh, I brought you coffee,” he says, awkwardly extending it to you. He can feel the eyes of the other girls burning holes into the side of his head. You take the coffee from him wordlessly. He tries to ignore the audience, tries to focus on your eyes. Oh, your damn eyes, so pretty and intelligent.

“And I thought, uhh, maybe, if you don’t mind, after you’re done, we could talk?”

You’re looking up at him, your face unreadable. You’re wearing new earrings today, he notices. They look pretty.

You watch his eyes rest on your ears and huff out a laugh when his gaze meets yours again. You shake your head, but you smile.

“Sure, I’d like that, but we still have at least an hour left.”

“I’ll wait,” Chan says, too fast and much too eager. “I’ll wait for you. In our studio, I’ll just get some work done.”

He won’t, he thinks. There’s no way.

You nod, your smile even softer now. So soft. Fuck.

“Okay,” you say and he smiles, too, unable to help it.

“Okay … I’ll uhh leave you to it, sorry, I’ll go, I’ll see you later,” he mutters out, bowing awkwardly at the rest of the girl group and closes the door behind him. Once he’s outside, he can hear silence and then loud squeals and chatter.

He doesn’t get any work done in the next hour, haphazardly clicking through his open projects until the door cracks open slightly.

He slams his laptop shut when you poke your head into the room, and you chuckle. He just smiles at you, so giddy with your smile, your presence, this feeling that something is about to change. He doesn’t say anything, just waits, lets you set the pace. He can be patient, he’d do anything for you.

“Wanna drive me home?” you ask and he nods, already shoving his laptop into his bag.

You’re quiet as you walk down the hallway, you’re quiet in the elevator, though you do lean against the wall right next to him, so close he can smell your perfume. He leads you into the garage and to his car and you punch your address into his phone. As if he hadn’t memorised the way there the third time he drove you home, almost 10 months ago.

You still haven’t said a single word when he pulls up in front of your house. Did he miss something? Were you waiting for him to talk? Your hand finds the door handle and you crack it open, though you look back at him and raise your eyebrows.

“I figured it would be nicer if we didn’t have this conversation in the car,” you say slowly and he blinks at you.

“Do you want me to–“

You laugh, a clear, shimmering sound.

“Yes, Chan, please come inside with me.”

He nods, his cheeks already on fire again, as he kills the engine and scrambles out of the car.

When you unlock your door, he realises he has driven you home countless times, but he has never actually seen your apartment. You push the door open and hold it for him, before toeing your shoes off. He does the same and follows you into the living room.

His first thought is that it’s cozy, so cozy he feels like an intruder, like a stranger that just walked into your head. The sofa looks worn and comfortable, full of throw pillows, a thick blanket bunched up next to your laptop. There are candles on the low table in front of it, most of them half burned down. He wonders if that’s where you sit when you work from home. Cozied up in the blanket, your laptop on your lap, the candles burning.

Behind the sofa there’s a large wooden dining table, half of it taken up by miscellaneous papers and magazines. All around the room there’s … music. Two electric guitars on one wall, a bass leaning against the side of a low storage cabinet that is bursting open, cables hanging onto the floor. There are records on the walls, records under your TV, your record player next to it.

“Do you want anything to drink?” you ask from the half open kitchen, and he looks over. You’re leaning over the half open fridge. “I have water, Diet Coke, beer, wine, or I can make you some coffee?”

“Geez, you have everything,” he hums out, brutally reminded of the yawning emptiness and ungodly mess of his dorms. Compared to that, this place seems calm, clean … mature.

Your laugh echoes back to him.

“Hardly. For example, I actually have no idea how long this wine has been open for.”

That makes him laugh as well, some of the tension melting from his bones.

“I’m good for now,” he says and you shrug, getting a bottle of water from the fridge and walking past him until you’re sat on the sofa, folding your legs underneath yourself.

He follows you, but suddenly gets distracted by a pile of bright pink books on the storage cabinet next to your table. No way.

“Are those …?” he asks, a disbelieving chuckle tumbling from his lips. You giggle and get up, rounding the sofa until you’re standing next to him.

“Your albums, yeah, the ones I worked on,” you explain with a smile. Now there’s a blush on your cheeks. “A couple of versions for good measure.”

Chan just chuckles again, shaking his head.

“I hope you at least got them for free from the company,” he mumbles and you just chuckle. He stares at the pile. They’re all there.

“And you’re displaying them in your living room?” he adds, voice full of wonder.

“Hey,” you argue sheepishly, “I’m proud of my work, of our work. And look, …”

You reach around him and pluck one of the albums from the pile. You’ve never been this close to him; your arm is pressed up against his chest, your hair within a few inches of his face. He’s staring at your hair, so close he’d just have to …

Then you hold up a small, shiny piece of cardboard, victory written all over your features.

“I even pulled you!”

It’s a photocard. Of him. Him, with smudged eyeliner, his bangs in his face, holding up a peace sign. You look up at him with the prettiest smile he’s ever seen.

His brain crashes and burns and his hand finds the back of your head and then he’s kissing you; pressing his lips to yours softly, but insistently, a deep sigh fighting its way out of his chest because God he’s wanted this for so, so long.

You make the cutest surprised noise in the back of your throat, but then you melt into his embrace, kissing him back eagerly, your hand wrapping around his wrist where he’s holding on to you, as if to keep him from letting go. When he pulls back, you make a sad little sound in the back of your throat and he swears you could ask him to do anything right then and there and he would do it.

He rests his forehead against yours softly. His breathing is laboured, eyes heavy.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “probably should’ve asked before I did that.”

You chuckle, but still roll your eyes at him.

“I thought I made it clear enough that I like you.”

Chan swears his heart stutters to a halt for a second.

“You … like me,” he breathes out and you pull back in disbelief.

“Yes, of course, I … how was that not obvious?”

Chan shrugs helplessly, his cheeks starting to burn.

“I mean, Changbin told me you did, and Hyunjin also said it sounded like it.”

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms across your chest.

“So, how many of your members did you ask about this?”

He flushes, but you grin at him. He takes a tentative step closer, his hands finding your wrists and gently uncrossing your arms. His eyes are caught by the image of his fingertips on your skin, the feel of it underneath his.

“Only Changbin and Jisung, and then Changbin involved Hyunjin,” he says, slowly moving your hands to come to rest on his hips. You let him, your palms coming to rest over his hoodie. When he looks up again, your eyes are glued to his lips.

“What else did they say then?”

Chan smiles, leaning forward only enough to rub his nose against yours. He can hear your breath hitch in your throat. His heart is thundering in his chest.

“Hyunjin said I should kiss you and say something profound like ‘I want to deserve you’,” he whispers and he feels you breathe out a laugh against his lips. He wonders if your heart is beating as fast as his.

“Channie,” you breathe out and it makes a shiver run down his spine, “you already deserve me.”

“Fuck,” he rasps out, his hands surging up to cup your face. But he doesn’t kiss you yet. “You’re the best part of my day, do you know that? You’re so … so damn pretty and so fucking hot and so good at what you do and so capable and … fuck, I like you, too, I hope you know that.”

You breathe out another laugh, but something in your face looks like you might cry.

“I was hoping so, yeah,” you mumble, and he shakes his head. He leans forward and ghosts his lips over yours.

“You know what else Hyunjin said?” he murmurs and it’s taking everything in him not to lean in yet. You hum in question.

“That I should make love to you until the sun rises,” he whispers, against your lips, and you whimper. His knees nearly buckle at the sound.

“God, please,” you mumble before you fist your hands into his sweatshirt and pull your body into his, pressing your lips against his hungrily. You let your tongue run over his bottom lip and he opens his mouth readily. When your tongue swipes over his, blistering electricity shocks down his spine. He kisses you harder, his tongue dipping into your mouth like he’s trying to map out every inch of it, one hand coming to your waist to pull you closer.

He would be embarrassed at the fact that he’s already filling out in his pants, if it wasn’t for the pretty little gasps you keep breathing into his mouth. God, you like him. You like him, too.

His head is swimming with the taste of you on his tongue, his body pressing closer and closer until you hit the edge of the wooden dining table. His foot hits one of the chairs and it nearly topples over, but you catch it before it can fall over. He hesitates only for a second, but it’s enough for you to notice.

“Don’t you dare apologise for that,” you mumble against his lips before you kiss him again, pulling him flush against your body. And you don’t have to tell him twice this time. He wraps one arm around your waist and lifts you onto the table, your legs falling open until he can stand between them. He leans his hands on the table on either side of you, caging you tightly against his body.

“Better?” he growls and you nod deliriously, letting your hands travel under his sweater and over his bare back, before you dig your nails into his skin. A deep groan rips from his throat at the sensation, his hips bucking forward into nothingness. Your hands are shoving his sweater up, desperately running your palms over his skin.

You’re staring at him with fire in your eyes, mumbling a quiet, “off,” and he complies instantly. And he’s used to people staring at him, of course he is, but nobody has ever looked at him the way you do. Like you had no expectations, but like he exceeded every single one of them anyways. Your eyes are roaming every piece of exposed skin, your fingertips coming to trace over his abs.

“How are you real,” you breathe and suddenly, he blushes. He’s standing in front of you half naked, rock hard in his jeans, and his face flushes crimson like he’s a school boy. You smirk at him and pull him closer.

You press a feather-light kiss on his jaw and his eyes flutter shut, his hands falling to the thighs he’d been staring at for the better part of 5 months. They feel so much better under his hands than he could’ve ever imagined, so plush and thick, he wants to feel them wrapped around his fucking head for hours. You keep kissing down his neck torturously slowly, sucking a deep mark into the skin right above his collarbone, and he thinks like he’ll go insane.

He threads his fingers into the hair on the back of your neck and tugs you backwards, your head following the motion readily, a little gasp falling from your lips. He kisses you again, with everything he has. But you pull back with a desperate little moan that makes his cock twitch in his sweats.

“Take me to my bedroom,” you breathe out and he smiles at you, scooping you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist effortlessly. You press messy little kisses all over his cheeks and temples, giggling slightly as he makes his way down the hallway and through the half-open door of your bedroom.

But before he can throw you onto the bed, you untangle your legs and jump from his arms, pulling him down into your lips again and turning him around, pressing your hands into his chest and walking him to the edge of your bed, forcing him to sit down. You bend down to press a few more kisses to his lips before you sink to your knees.

Oh fuck.

You stare up at him, eyes wide, lips slick and slightly parted, and the view itself makes him lightheaded. He barely thought he deserved you earlier today and now you were on your knees in front of him, looking at him like you were ready to give him whatever he asked for. You rake your nails up his thighs and he shudders out a breath when your fingers reach his waistband.

“You … you don’t have to,” he stutters out, though his cock visibly twitches in his pants. Traitor.

You stare at him steadily as you push your fingertips underneath his waistband. He leans back, supporting himself with his arms behind him, his fingers fisted into the sheets.

“I need you to stop doing that,” you say, your face serious. He gulps, but you continue before he can ask you what you mean, “stop telling me what you do and don’t deserve. I’m on my knees in front of you because I think you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life and I want you to absolutely ruin me.”

He blinks at you, unable to form a coherent sentence, as you slowly pull at his waistband. So instead, he just lifts his hips to let you pull down his sweats and boxers. When his cock finally springs free, he hisses, watching you as your eyes dip down.

“Fuck, you’re big, Channie,” you breathe and lick your lips. Chan thinks he won’t survive you. “And so beautiful. Such a beautiful cock on a beautiful man.”

With those words, you press a hot kiss to the inside of his thigh, dragging your lips across his skin. You accidentally bump is cock with your soft cheek and he whines. Whether from the touch or from your works, he doesn’t know at this point. You chuckle.

But you seem to have mercy on him because you don’t tease, dragging your lips up his shaft sweetly. Chan’s pretty sure it’s the softest thing he’s ever felt, but then your tongue peeks out of your mouth and licks at him and he has to correct himself because holy shit.

Your hands are on his thighs, massaging his skin when your lips loosely wrap around the tip of his cock. Your tongue swipes over his slit, humming at the taste of his precum, and then you sink him into your mouth, bobbing your head slowly, intentionally, swirling your tongue around his base. When you look up at him, it’s like the breath has been punched out of him. Your lips are stretched around him, a trail of saliva running down your chin, your make-up smudged around your eyes. It’s better than any of the wet dreams he’s had about you, and he’s had many.

“Fuuuuck”, he breathes out and you hum around his cock.

You shuffle a little closer and then the hand that was holding him comes down to his balls, running lithe fingers over the velvety skin as you sink him further into your mouth until he hits your throat and you gag around him slightly.

The pleasure is overwhelming, every slide of your mouth so fucking perfect on his sensitive cock, and when your throat constricts around him, his hips jump before he can control himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, breathing a ragged whimper as he tries to get his breathing under control.

Suddenly, you pull away from him. He flinches at the sudden loss of contact, your spit rapidly cooling on his cock.

“Channie,” you purr out, and his eyes immediately flicker to yours, like he never had a choice, “I want you to fuck my throat.”

Chan blinks at you. Surely, you didn’t just say that.

“Huh?”

You roll your eyes.

“I want you to fuck my throat. I want you to wrap your hand into my hair and tug me down onto your cock. And I want you to cum in my mouth.”

There’s a solid beat where he tries to figure out if you’re serious, but your words are echoing through his head. Stop telling me what you do and don’t deserve. And you’re staring up at him with so much desire, he wants to eat you whole.

So, carefully, he nods, mumbling something about pinching his thigh if it gets too much, before he gingerly unclenches his hand from the sheets and brings it to your face. He takes his time, lets his fingertips caress down your cheekbones, over the soft skin of your cheeks until they’re cupping your jaw. Delicately, he guides you forward, back to his cock, and you smile prettily before you wrap your lips around his head, tonguing at him in a way that that forces a moan from him. The sheer pleasure of it melts some of his hesitation, and he lets his fingers trail into your hair, running through it gently before he sinks his fingers into it and gets a good grip.

He starts slow, bobbing you up and down shallowly, the wet heat of your mouth already better than anything he’s ever felt. Then he pulls you down further, his grip on your head tightening, and the way you choke out a moan at the feeling is all the confirmation he needs. So he lets go a little bit, making you take him deeper and deeper with every subsequent slide of your mouth, and your throat opens around him readily. Then, all at once, he’s so deep that your nose bumps into his pubic hair and he’s pretty sure he’s seeing God because he has never in his life felt anything like it. He watches you, your pretty eyes fluttered shut, your nails digging into his thighs as he drags you up and down, and the image alone makes him hurtle toward his release. He can feel himself throbbing in your mouth.

“Oh, baby, baby,” he pants out, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure, “I’m gonna … I have to … oh God if you don’t want me to cum in your mouth stop me now.”

But you just hum lapping your tongue along the underside of his cock and that does it, his vision whites out as pleasure explodes in his abdomen, shuddering through his body until he can feel it in his toes. He’s cradling your head, his hips canting up ever so slightly with every wave of cum he shoots down your throat and he feels like it’s never-ending.

When he’s spent, he collapses backwards, falling against the sheets, breathless. He distantly registers you, gently unthreading his fingers from your hair and getting up before the bed dips and you crawl over him.

You look like an angel, looking down at him with a satisfied smile, even if your lips are red raw and your make-up is runny. A debauched angel. His debauched angel.

He smiles back at you before he pulls you into his lips, tasting himself when he swipes his tongue across yours. When his hands find your waist, he mewls out.

“How are you still dressed,” he complains, one hand coming to hide his face, “I can’t believe you did all of that while you’re still dressed.”

You giggle into his lips endearingly, but he flips you over until he’s hovering over you, caging you against the mattress with his elbows on either side of your head.

“Let me undress you, beautiful,” he whispers and presses a soft kiss to your lips and you just nod, eyes wide and wet.

And he does, lets his big hands finally push underneath the softness of your sweater until he can feel the unbelievably softer skin of your stomach, feeling every inch of your plush waist, squeezing and caressing to his heart’s content before he rucks the sweater up and over your head. He makes quick work of your bra, sliding it off you with a heady groan, his lips immediately pressing kisses from your collarbone to your tits, mouthing at the supple skin. When his lips wrap around your nipple, your back arches off the bed so sinfully, his cock twitches again already.

He hums as he continues to lap at your nipple, switching from one to the other, using his free hand to roll them between his thumb and pointer finger.

“P-please,” you breathe out and it makes his head spin, the airy quality of your voice like he’s never heard it before. He wants to draw every single sound out of you and he wants to catalogue them all. So he trails his kisses down your sternum, down the expanse of your belly, nuzzling his nose into the skin underneath your belly button with a hum as he works open the button of your jeans.

He gets up enough to pull your jeans and panties off you in one fluid motion, hooking his hands underneath your knees to pull you to the edge of the bed. Now he sinks to his knees and it feels almost reverent. He doesn’t care about the way his knees dig into the plush carpet because his eyes are glued to where your core is on display for him, beautiful and glistening. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, then the other, nuzzling the skin of your thighs with a deep sigh. Finally. But he can smell your arousal now and it’s so sweet and addicting that the kisses he places on the inside of your thighs more resemble a wet drag of his lips than anything else.

With the first lick to your folds and the first sweet moan he drags from your lips, his hand shoots down to squeeze his cock because he’s already hard again and_fuck_ you sound good and you taste even better, so sweet and tart and heady.

He leans into gathering the wetness from your entrance, swirling his tongue up to your clit and rubbing at it until your knuckles turn white on the sheets and only then does he let himself dip down and into your entrance, his tongue rubbing over the sensitive skin. You whimper and reach your hand out for him. When he sees you hesitate, he reaches out, interlacing his fingers with yours slowly and deliberately, as he laps at you. You blink down at him and you look so sweet and wrecked and so vulnerable, it’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. It’s so unlike your professional demeanour at work, yet it’s so much more like you. It suits you. He dips his tongue into your hole, sweet wetness exploding on his tastebuds as you mewl.

“Channie,” you breathe out and he fists his cock loosely.

“What, baby?” he mumbles against your folds and moves back to rub your clit with his tongue. Your hips jump off the sheets and he brings your interlaced fingers to rest on your belly, pressing you down.

“P-please, touch me,” you whimper out, and Chan presses his tongue harder against you for a second, revelling in the way your body responds to him immediately.

“I’m touching you, baby,” he hums. When he looks up, you’re pouting and he can’t believe how fucking cute you look.

“I wan’ … wanna be full,” you whine out, and Chan’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He lets go of his cock and slowly traces one of his fingers through your folds.

“Want me to stuff you with my fingers, baby?” he asks and chuckles when you shake your head frantically.

“Wan’ your cock,” you mumble and open your eyes, the big watery depths of them making Chan questions everything he’s ever known. He haphazardly wipes his mouth on the sheets before he moves up your body, lifting you up the sheets with an arm around your waist until your pretty head is cushioned on the pillows. You look so ethereal like this, he wants to worship you and ruin you. Yes, both. He grips you by the chin, letting his eyes roam over your features, taking one more second to revel in the fact that he has you under him. Then he kisses you deep and dirty, hard grip on your chin as he forces you to take it. He can’t resist it, and he slides one finger into your wet warm entrance, entranced by the way you flutter around him, your hands flying to his shoulders as you curse out.

“Fuck, I want your cock,” you curse out, head tipping back when Chan adds another finger.

“You think you’re ready for that, baby?” he questions, head dipping down to nip at the skin of your neck as he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

You nod frantically.

“‘M so ready. Please, Channie, I want you to stretch me open really slowly, so all I can feel is you,” you breathe out and Chan is glad his face is buried in your neck because he’s pretty sure his eyes just rolled into the back of his head “I want it to slide in real slow until I’m full.”

Chan pulls his fingers from you so abruptly it makes you sigh disappointedly. He grasps himself and spreads your slick along his shaft as he strokes his cock, dragging the head of it through your folds. Next time he will make you wait, draw more of these filthy words out of your mouth, make you cum on his tongue and on his fingers until the only thing you can say is his name; but today he’s not strong enough to resist you any longer, not when you’re begging like this.

He pulls his head back and looks into your eyes.

“You have a filthy mouth,” he mumbles, watches your eyes crinkle with a smile.

“Do you love it?” you ask coquettishly and he grins as he presses the head of his cock into your entrance.

“I love it, baby,” he mumbles as he pushes in slowly, almost breathless with how your walls are sucking him in almost by themselves, enveloping his aching cock in velvety heat. “I love your filthy fucking mouth_oh my gooooood_.”

Whatever he means to say is lost when you cross your legs behind his back and slowly pull him into you, your heat enveloping him slowly but all at once and it’s so tight and so hot. If you hadn’t already given him an earth-shattering orgasm earlier, he’s pretty sure he would be fighting tooth and nail not to cum right now.

He sits up a little bit and rocks into you gently and you whimper, quietly, brokenly, and he’s consumed by how much he wants you. He laces his fingers with yours again and pins your hand up and over your head, his other hand coming to your hip to hold you in place.

Everything around him melts away, any thoughts of his members or his work or the traffic outside the window, it all vanishes when he locks eyes with you, his own shimmering desire mirrored in yours, and rolls his hips.

“So good,” you breathe out and he dips his head down to kiss you, deep and lingering, as he grinds into you.

Much like everything else with you, this feels easy. He pulls out and pushes back in slowly, builds momentum gradually, wanting to taste every inch of you until the pleasure is prickling under his skin and he thinks he might go insane if he doesn’t get more friction, just how he likes it – and you’re underneath him, smiling as you moan, your eyes screwed shut as you rock your hips to meet his.

It’s like there’s something tying you to him, aligning you on a level that he can’t comprehend just yet. And when he picks up his pace, rutting into you harder, you take that, too, the nails of your free hand raking down his abs as his hand tightens on your hips, holding you down against the mattress with ease. He adds a little experimental tilt of his hips at the end of his stroke and oh, you clench around him with a heady moan, another wave of wetness coating his cock and making the slide even wetter.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, slightly breathless with the motions of his hips, the words falling from his lips before he can keep them in.

You chuckle, the sound of it interrupted with a heady little moan. “Says you,” you tease him and he just … laughs, throws his head back and laughs, happiness spreading through his entire body. How are you making him laugh, and this is still the hottest sex he’s ever had.

He lets go of your hip and lets himself fall forward, his body folding over you, his sweaty chest pressed to yours. He feels the drag of your nipples against his chest as he fucks into you harder, and the pleasure makes his toes curl.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he pants out and presses a kiss to your parted lips, “ever since you walked into the studio on the first day, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your hands are digging into his shoulders and he picks up his pace even more, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He inhales, the familiar smell of your perfume mixing with the entirely new smell of your body and creating something so intoxicating he never wants to lift his head again. He runs his tongue over your neck and it’s like a drug, his hand falling from yours over your head and cupping the side of your neck tightly, pulling you impossibly closer against him, as he pistons his cock into you faster, his balls tightening with how close he’s getting to his release.

He sucks on the skin of your neck, letting his teeth graze over your pulse and he can feel your walls flutter around him, tightening more with every single one of his thrusts. He knows you’re close and he winds his hand down to touch your clit, but you stop him, bringing his hand back to your throat, but to the front this time. He pulls back to look at you, and the image of his fingers wrapped around your throat burns itself into his head.

“I wanna cum like this,” you mumble and he groans in disbelief.

“How are you real?” he echoes your earlier sentiment and you huff out half a laugh that’s interrupted by your eyes rolling into the back of your head when Chan angles his hips up slightly and tightens his fingers around the side of your throat.

“God, fuck, look at you,” he pants out, nearly delirious with how you’re clenching and gushing around him so hard now. He can taste your orgasm and his is nipping on his heels close behind. Your hand comes to his wrist and then your back arches, a long moan of his name tearing from your chest as you cum around him. Your hips rock back into him wantonly as you cum and your cunt squeezes his cock tightly as you fuck yourself onto him, and that’s what makes all his careful self-control turn to dust. You rip an orgasm so visceral from his body that he doubles over, shoving himself as deep into you as he can when he cums, his thighs trembling helplessly as he fills you up.

He’s still breathless when he pulls back, cupping your face in his hands and pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“I’m so fucking in love with you. Let me take you out to lunch tomorrow before we record,” he says, and it’s like he has never felt surer of anything in his life, all his usual hesitation crumpled up somewhere on the floor of your bedroom, discarded with his sweatpants.

You smile up at him, wider than he’s ever seen it before.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, too. Please take me out to lunch tomorrow,” you repeat, and Chan lets all the happiness bubble up until his cheeks are dimpled, and his eyes are crinkling with a smile.

He doesn’t go home that night, only checks his phone and sees Changbin telling the group chat that he’s probably boning his new girlfriend. He sends a text to tell them he’s alright and will meet them at the studio tomorrow.

You order dinner, make love again and fall asleep with your legs tangled under the sheets, kissing, talking about everything under the sun. Chan feels like his whole life has led up to this day, when he realizes that everything with you is easy. It feels like home.

And when you walk into the studio after your lunch date the next day, all of his members fall silent and stare at you expectantly. Chan catches your eyes and there’s a silent, amused agreement. He just walks over to his seat and pulls out his laptop and asks them if they’re ready to start.

But Changbin gasps out loud and cheers when Chan’s hand finds your thigh under the table half an hour later. Chan blushes and his eyes snap up to yours immediately, finding you grinning at him with so much fondness in your eyes, he wants to pull you into his lap and kiss you for all the world to see. Instead, he squeezes your leg, giddiness in his chest at the fact that he can do this now. This is the beginning of something new.

skzms' masterlist // ko-fi

taglist: @puppyminnnie @like-a-diamondinthesky @lyramundana @laylasbunbunny @minsflannelwrap148 @caitlyn98s @straystays2345 @3rachasninja @maximumkillshot @sungprotector @stayconnecteed @mellhwang @chlodavids @kookiesbunny @noellllslut @warren-thedarkangel @kidrauhlschik @anyhow-everything @krishastumblernow @cutiespaghetti @hobi-szn @usagi---mochi @stolasisyourparent @steadysuitenthusiast @queen-in-the-shadows @ayoitschannie @starsandrqindrops @redstayrosie @vitrealisbunny @seukijeuxq @bakedlilgoonie @bookworm731

He threw the curtains aside and cracked the windows open earlier, letting into the room a shower of late-afternoon sun. It now dyes his skin a dewy caramel, lightens his eyes to pools of molten amber. For some time, you are unable to respond, enraptured by all the wonder that he holds. 

Eventually, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, dip down, rid of the distance between you with a soft seal of your mouth his. He doesn’t move until he’s overcome his surprise, but then he brings one hand to your waist, slipping beneath the sheer fabric of your top to press your hips down onto his, and wraps the other around the base of your neck, the pad of his thumb settling over your jugular like a gossamer wing.

You sigh in pleasure and part your lips; he pursues this opening with a fervor, pliant tongue keeping your mouth ajar, head tilting to one side to better savor you, your teeth knocking and limbs entwining in this passionate fray.

By the time you come up for air, the world around you has changed. You’re underneath him now, his hands positioned on either side of your head. His eyes are no longer amber but obsidian, his mouth ravaged and raw in the aftermath of colliding time and time again with yours. The sun has largely vanished beneath the skyline.

You collect yourself just enough to procure an answer to his question.

“Every time I look at you feels like the first,” you whisper.

Minho doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe in spite of how you’d just kissed the air straight from his lungs, doesn’t believe his ears. For that is the exact way he feels about you, always has been and always will, though you have always been the one to first verbalize the feelings that he doesn’t have the words for.

For some time, he is unable to respond, enraptured by all the wonder that you hold.

Eventually, he combs a hand through his hair, dips down, rids of the distance between you with a hard crash of his mouth upon yours, and there the two of you will remain until it’s no longer light from the sun that sets your room aglow, but that of the moon and a hundred thousand stars.