ode to woozi

Thinking about the next day already twisted your stomach into a knot. It would be the last day you’d see each other before Jihoon was thrown into the madness of a comeback. He barely had the time to take a minute for himself, let alone make time for you and you’d be counting the days until you could see him again.

You lifted your head off the pillow, your hands serving as your sight while your eyes tried to adjust to the pitch black room. Jihoon’s bedside was still warm, but no Jihoon. It was almost three am so where could he be? Was he out?

With a sigh, you laid back down. You told yourself that he was just using the bathroom and would be back soon enough. You turned around, wrapped the blanket around yourself and closed your eyes. Not that you had any chance of going back to sleep soon. 

You looked on the clock again and ten minutes had passed. Still no sign of Jihoon. It couldn’t be that he had an emergency this late. SEVENTEEN could push his buttons and pull him out of his house for the weirdest shit, but they wouldn’t call him this late unless it was life threatening. Your heart raced in your chest as you got out of bed, taking small steps out of the bedroom and into the open space of the apartment. 

The lights beneath the counter were turned on so you walked to the kitchen. Jihoon didn’t leave a note. He was still home. You breathed in relief and mentally facepalmed yourself for not coming to that conclusion earlier. 

It was probably the dread of not seeing him for a while after tomorrow that sent you down a rabbit hole of bad thoughts. 

When you neared, you saw a pair of headphones sticking out over the chair. The plan of knocking went out of the window so you had one option left. 

Jihoon clutched his chest when you tapped his shoulder, sliding the headphones around his neck. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I thought the same,” you replied and brushed his hair with your fingers. “I also thought you were asleep.”

“That was my intention.” He looked up at you from underneath a pair of glasses. His face was free from make up and glowed in the dim light coming from the studio. His eyes, although small from the lack of sleep, beamed at you lovingly. 

Jihoon was heavensent when it was three am. 

You pressed a kiss to his lips and retreated your hand from his black locks. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“I’m offended that you dare to ask,” he replied and pulled a chair from the corner of the room, making you chuckle. 

“Very sorry to have hurt your feelings, sir.”

“Apology accepted, for now.” He patted the seat and moved to the side to make space for you. 

You did so and crossed your legs, rubbing your eyes.

“What kept you up, baby?” 

When you glanced to the side, Jihoon’s focus was back on his work. You hummed. “Tomorrow is our last day for a long while and I guess I dread it still,” you murmured, eyes lowering. The thought was looming over you again, wrapping its invisible hands around your neck to choke you. “I thought that after three years of being with you I would get used to it, but I hate having to leave knowing I won’t see you for a long time.”

Jihoon peeled away from his computer and turned to you. His hands laced together with yours as if they were made to hold them. “I can’t change anything about my schedule, but I can tell you that we’ll make our last twenty-four hours worth it, hm?” He lifted your hands up to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. “We’ll have a blast.”

You smiled, the pressure on your chest relieving. “Okay.”

He returned your smile with one of his own, warm and comforting. He repeated your words back to you softly before pressing another kiss to your hands. 

The thought still lingered, plotting its next strike. You felt it happening in the back of your mind, even though you tried to ignore it as much as you could. Jihoon’s words were like bringing a knife to a gunfight, but you knew he was right. The time you spent worrying on how tomorrow was your last day was better off enjoying what you had left with him. 

It was your Achilles heel and had always been, but Jihoon had his way with words to you as much as he did in the songs he produced. They wrapped you in a blanket of comfort when you needed it, sparred against you when you were stubborn, cheered on you from the sidelines. It was like he cherrypicked them in a way that made them strike all the right places every time. 

Jihoon hovered over you to press a kiss to your lips and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here now. It was kind of boring," he said, almost like he was upset about it. 

A snort escaped your lips. “I can imagine why hanging out in your studio in the middle of the night is ‘kind of boring’, since we’re asleep around this time usually.”

“Listen, this demo is what keeps me up at night and I’m not God’s strongest soldier so I give in.”

“Those are a lot of words for admitting you’re a workaholic.” 

Jihoon shot you a pointed look, to which you smiled. “I’m not a workaholic,” he defended himself. 

“Said every workaholic ever,” you responded, pointing at the doorway. “Shall I ring up your members?”

“They’ll agree so that’s basically an echo chamber of lies.” He huffed and lifted his chin into the air. “I changed my mind. I don’t like your company after all.”

You put on a pout that could not even convince the most gullible person on Earth you were actually mocking him. “Poor you. I feel so bad for having to put up with me.”

“Imagine how I feel.” A more dramatic sigh couldn’t have come from your boyfriend. “My only peace and quiet when you’re here and you can’t sleep either. Now I have to hang out with you during work. A horrible punishment.”

Through your pretence, you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “That was actually kind of cute.”

Jihoon’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but the corners of his mouth curved up. “It’s true, isn’t it? I never get to hang out with you during work and now I can.” He turned his head to you. “Maybe I should work on my music at night more often.”

“I’ll just not sleep anymore,” you joked. “When’s our next date?”

Jihoon laughed before he turned back to his work. 

Bantering is what you were good at. In the beginning of your relationship, both your friends and his members wondered if you secretly hated each other. Not that you never gave compliments, or expressed a sense of pride, but teasing each other was your secret love language, something that only the two of you could understand. 

You held it close to your heart, especially when he wasn’t around. It became a staple of your thought process. When you were on your own and you did something stupid, you thought about how Jihoon would’ve reacted if he saw you and it lightened your mood. 

Hanging out in his studio so late, both ruled by exhaustion and Jihoon on the verge of crashing out over a chorus, you were glad you could still joke around. Like how his words were a comfort, it didn’t solve your sleepless night but it made you more at ease. 

It made you forget why you couldn’t sleep in the first place.

You twirled around in your chair with two lines of the chorus as your background music. Five times in a row, a minute of silence, Jihoon tweaking even a slight note, the entire chorus in full and the process repeated itself again. 

“Doesn’t it haunt you in your dreams?” You asked. 

“Why do you think I can’t sleep?”, was Jihoon’s response, to which you chuckled. From the corner of your eye, you saw his lips curve upwards. 

You relaxed your head against the headrest and looked at him. His small, buff frame was propped up in the chair, sleepy eyes darting over the screen. His hands were moving from the keyboard in front of him to the guitar in his lap and back. There was an indescribable euphoria that washed over you whenever you were in the studio with him, even though your body was screaming at you to go back to bed. 

“Oh, don’t be like that now.” You nudged him playfully. “You love your job.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Jihoon pushed himself away from the desk and slid off his chair. He went to stand behind you, gently rubbing your shoulders. “I love you more, though.”

You looked back at him. “Do you, now?”

He shrugged. “Eh.”

With a chuckle, you leaned into his touch. 

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, why not?” 

Jihoon pressed a kiss to your hair before he pulled his hands back and left the studio. You weren’t living by any rules whenever you stayed over at his place, so getting coffee at an ungodly hour was fairly normal. He was living the other way around so how he was able to show up to schedule, you hadn’t figured out yet.

It pulled you out of your daily grind so you were more than happy to go along with his plans, to have any time with him at all. It became something you got used to, but that didn’t make it easier. You signed up for it when you fell in love with him and you tried to make the most of it. 

Pushing your thoughts aside, you decided it was not the time to overthink the limited time you had with Jihoon. Time was precious, you told yourself. Especially with a job like his. You snapped out of your thoughts when the sound of the coffee machine stopped, perking up when Jihoon stood by your side. He held the toadstool patterned cup out to you and you took it with a silent thanks. He pecked your lips and you beamed at him, giving him another kiss before he plopped back down. 

The same cycle repeated itself and you were almost certain you memorised it front to back and reversed. That was how you knew every single note to Maestro. You doubted this comeback would be different. 

You swung your legs over his lap and slouched in your seat, Jihoon patting your legs before he went to work. One of his hands stayed there gently brushing your thigh. Your eyelids were getting heavy and a yawn slipped off your lips. 

You shot up when your legs swung to the ground. Barely taken a sip of your coffee, the cup was taken out of your hand and put aside. 

Jihoon smiled and waved his hand. “Come, love. We’re going to bed.”

You nodded and pushed yourself out of the chair. You shuffled after him with a yawn and rubbed your eyes. You slid into bed, your eyes closing as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

“We have the entire day to ourselves tomorrow,” Jihoon whispered and pressed a kiss to your forehead. He got into bed as well and wrapped you up in his arms. “Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

You mumbled it back before you drifted off to sleep, a smile plastered on your face. When you were in Jihoon’s arms, cuddled up together, the next day could wait as long as it wanted to. 

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth sat tangled behind your ribs. You weren’t sure what to call the way he hovered when you were running on fumes, love or pressure or both. Pride lifted your chin. You looked away.

He swallowed, voice rough. “I’m…Look, if worrying makes you feel caged, then fine. I’ll stop. Clearly it’s not worth it.”

The words sliced through the room, cold and exact. He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to.

You set the little silver seasoning packet down like it burned. The air felt tight. His apartment felt too small, too neat, your reflection too stark in the dark window over the sink. You snagged your coat from the chair.

“Where are you going?” he asked, softer, already regretting it.

“Home,” you said without looking at him. “I need air.”

“Y/N…”

You were already at the door. You didn’t slam it. That somehow made it worse.

He stood very still in the kitchen, listening to the hallway swallow your footsteps. The ramen sat cooling, untouched.

He cleaned up the counter because it gave his hands something to do. He typed out three different texts and deleted all of them. He went to bed with the light on.

You walked until your cheeks stung from the wind. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Days stretched, long and quiet. Neither of you reached out.

You told yourself it was for the best, give him space, clear your head, keep your focus. You made coffee that tasted like nothing and forgot it on your desk. You drafted a message twice, “I’m sorry for what I said” and “Can we talk?”, then stared at the blinking cursor until the screen timed out. You shut your laptop and told yourself to be strong.

He lasted one day before he started checking your socials for signs you were eating, sleeping, anything. He picked up your scarf from the back of his chair and put it back, twice. He opened your shared notes app where you’d listed recipes you wanted to try and scrolled through it like it could count as cooking for you. He went to the gym and left after ten minutes.

Stubbornness was a language you both spoke. So was missing each other.

Snow arrived on the fourth night, thick flakes that made the city softer, quieter. You stayed late to close out a deadline, then walked home through the park because the path felt less crowded than the streets.

The crunch of your boots was the only sound. “Y/N.”

You stopped so fast that your bag slipped off your shoulder. You’d know that voice anywhere.

He was a few feet away, a dark coat powdered white, beanie pulled low, cheeks pink from the cold. He had that careful way of standing he used around you when he wasn’t sure how close to come.

“You walk too fast when you’re mad,” he said, breath fogging. “I almost lost you.”

Your throat tightened. “Why are you here?”

He took a small step closer, hands in his pockets like he was holding himself steady. “Because I can’t do this. The not-talking. The pretending we’re not… us.”

“Cheol…”

“I was wrong.” The words tumbled out awkward and true. “I shouldn’t have said I’d stop caring. That was me being defensive and stupid. I don’t know how to love you without worrying. That’s just… who I am. I’d rather be annoying than watch you burn out and do nothing.”

You stared at him, the snow catching on his lashes, dissolving into tiny beads. The sincerity in his voice made something in you loosen.

He swallowed, trying again. “I know I pushed. I know it can feel like I’m hovering. And you’re right, I’m not your father. I don’t want to be. I want to be your partner. Which means I have to ask, not dictate.” He exhaled, a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

A laugh rose in your chest and broke into a sniffle. “You practiced that, didn’t you?”

“In the mirror.” His mouth twitched. “Twice.”

You looked down at your boots. “I was rude. I said the one thing that would hurt. I hate being taken care of because it makes me feel weak. I grew up handling things alone and… it’s hard to let that go.” You lifted your eyes to his. “But I don’t want to do this alone. Not with you.”

He nodded like he’d been waiting to hear that exact sentence. “So we try again. Different.”

“Different,” you echoed. Your fingers were numb, you blew on them. “No more drive-by lectures when I’m holding a cup of ramen.”

“Counter-offer.” His tone went gentle. “If I’m worried, I ask, ‘How can I help?’ And if you need to be left alone, you say so. Clear and simple.”

“And I actually tell you things before I crash.” You shrugged. “Like, ‘This week is brutal, please feed me, I’ll do the dishes.’”

His smile bloomed, soft and relieved. “Deal.”

He reached out like he was approaching a skittish cat, fingertips brushing yours first, waiting, letting you decide. You curled your hand into his, relief spreading like heat.

“Hands are freezing,” he murmured, bringing your joined fingers up to his mouth to blow warm air over your knuckles. The intimacy of it stole your breath.

“You’re dramatic,” you said, voice unsteady.

“I’m in love,” he said simply. “It looks similar.”

He kissed you, cold lips, careful pressure, an apology and a promise in one breath. The pride you’d been clinging to dissolved like snowflakes on skin.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I missed you so damn much.”

Your laugh broke, wet around the edges. “I missed you too, idiot.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come home with me?”

You hesitated, reflexively, then nodded. “Only if we stop for something that isn’t instant noodles.”

He brightened. “There’s a 24-hour place two blocks over. I will personally carry you there and feed you dumplings.”

“Overkill,” you said, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

You started walking, slowly so the ice wouldn’t trip you. He matched your pace without comment. Your shoulder bumped his, he bumped back gently.

After a minute, he glanced down. “Quick logistics meeting?”

You snorted. “Right now?”

“Just a preview.” He smiled when you rolled your eyes. “How about this, on heavy weeks, you text me your schedule on Sunday. I plan dinners on the days you’re slammed. If you need space, say ‘pause.’ If I start lecturing, you’re allowed to say ‘off-duty.’ No feelings hurt.”

You considered. “And if I say ‘I’m fine,’ you get one follow-up question. One,” you stressed.

“Negotiated. I’ll spend it wisely.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You never spend anything wisely.”

“Except this,” he said, lifting your joined hands and lacing your fingers tighter.

At the corner, you paused under a streetlight that made the snow glow. He reached up to flick a flake from your lashes, his touch light as breath.

“Hey,” you said, more serious again. “Thank you for coming to find me.”

He shrugged, that little shy tilt of his mouth you loved. “I know the routes you take when you want to think. And I don’t want to be brave about missing you.”

You swallowed. “Me either.”

“Good.” He squeezed your hand. “Then let’s go eat something warm and stupidly salty and talk about everything we didn’t say this week.”

“And then,” you said, “we sleep. A full eight hours. Minimum.”

“Bossy,” he teased.

“Partner,” you corrected.

His grin reached his eyes. “Partner,” he echoed, and the word fit, simple and right.

You didn’t need to be saved. You needed to be met. And he was here. 2️⃣ Jeonghan: Fights with Jeonghan were rare. Most evenings, your bickering fizzled into laughter and a kiss on the cheek over takeout. But tonight, your fuse was already short. Work had wrung you dry.

You tossed your bag onto the chair and pulled your hair up with a sigh. “I swear, if my boss asks me to ‘circle back’ one more time, I’m going to combust. I’m rewriting decks, fixing everyone’s mistakes, and somehow I’m the one who ‘needs to be more proactive.’”

Jeonghan looked up from the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, a soft grin playing at his mouth. “Babe, breathe. You’re home. Want tea?”

You waved him off, pacing. “He scheduled a 7 a.m. meeting and then showed up thirty minutes late. And when I presented the revised plan, his plan, he said we’d ‘take it under consideration.’”

He leaned back, head tipping against the cushion. “Maybe you’re just being a little dramatic.”

The word froze the room.

You stopped pacing. “Dramatic?”

He blinked, slow, as if he could catch the word and shove it back in his mouth. “I didn’t mean…I just meant sometimes you spiral and…”

“So now I’m overreacting?” Your voice came out tighter than you expected.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands up. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just trying to…”

“To what? Make a joke?” Your laugh cracked, brittle. “Right. Because that’s what you do. You joke. And I’m… what? Entertainment?”

The grin vanished from his lips like you’d blown out a candle. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, heat rising under your skin, “what’s not fair is you brushing me off when I’m telling you I feel invisible.”

His jaw flexed. “I don’t brush you off.”

“You just did.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharper. “If that’s really what you think of me, maybe you don’t know me at all.”

It landed like a slam of a door.

Silence ballooned. Your chest felt too small for your ribs. You grabbed your coat from the hook and shoved your arms through, fingers fumbling over the zipper.

“Where are you going?” Jeonghan asked, already standing.

“Out,” you said. “To not be here.”

“Hey, it’s snowing,” he called, following you to the door. “At least take…”

But the door had already clicked behind you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The city was hushed under fresh snow, the kind that swallowed the sound of tires and dimmed the glow of storefronts. You tugged your scarf up over your mouth and walked. Your anger flickered, then flared, then slowly ran out of places to go, leaving you with a dull ache you recognized as hurt.

He didn’t mean it like that, you told yourself. But he said it. And he always jokes.

By the time you circled back toward your building, your fingers were numb and your lashes had caught a dusting of flakes.

Something thumped your shoulder.

You spun, snow falling from your scarf. “Yah!”

Jeonghan stood under the imposing tree near your entrance, hair dotted white, scarf loose around his neck, a lopsided snowball crumbling in his glove. He tried a smile, small, hopeful. “This is how you talk to me now?”

“Don’t,” you said, but your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I know.” He took a step closer, then stopped, gauging your face. “I messed up.”

You folded your arms, half for warmth, half to keep them from reaching for him. “You think?”

“I joke too much,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours and not away. “It’s a reflex. It’s how I deal. But you weren’t asking me to deal. You were asking me to listen.”

A slow breath left you, fogging the air. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious about anything. About me.”

He winced, and his breath hitched in the cold. “I hate that you feel that way. I said ‘dramatic.’ That was… crappy. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, at the earnest slope of his mouth, at the sting of his honesty. “It’s not just the word,” you said, quieter. “It’s the pattern. I tell you I’m drowning, and you toss me a joke like a floaty. I need you to get in the water.”

He nodded, quick. “Okay. Then I will. Tell me how. Do you want me to listen and say nothing? Do you want me to hold you and be quiet? Do you want advice? You can choose.” His gloved hand lifted, hovered, then fell. “I should’ve asked before. ‘Do you want comfort, solutions, or jokes?’ I should’ve asked.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “You made that a multiple choice?”

“Baby steps.” His mouth curved, tentative. “I’m not going to be perfect at this, but I’m going to be deliberate.”

Snow sifted between you, gentle and relentless. He took another step, and another, until he was close enough that the warmth of him reached you.

“I care,” he said. “I care so much it scares me, and sometimes I make everything lighter because a heavy thing feels like it could break if I look at it too long. But I will look. At you. At what hurts. At what’s unfair at your job. At the way your shoulders tense when you talk about that meeting. I see it. I see you.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to be a problem you have to fix.”

“You’re not a problem.” His voice grew fierce in that soft, Jeonghan way. “You’re my person. I want to be the place you come to fall apart. I’ll put the pieces with you, not laugh while you scatter.”

He reached for your hand. His glove was cold and clumsy, he tugged it off with his teeth and slid his bare fingers between yours. They were freezing, but the intent was warm.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Snow clung to his lashes like glitter. His eyes were clear and steady.

“You’re not a joke to me,” he said. “Not now, not ever.”

A small, stubborn part of you held back. “Say it again tomorrow,” you murmured. “And next week. And the next time I’m spiraling.”

“I will.” A hint of mischief sparked, soft, contained. “And I’ll bring tea that time. No snowballs. Or, at least, I’ll ask permission before deploying.”

“Jeonghan,” you warned, but your mouth twitched.

“Sorry,” he whispered, contrite and playful in the same breath. He dipped his head, tugged your scarf down gently, and kissed you. Not his usual teasing brush of lips, not a smile pressed against yours, but something steady and careful. A question and an answer all at once.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, a small shiver running through him. “I missed you,” he whispered. “I know it was only a few hours, but it felt… loud without you.”

“Loud?” you echoed, a smile cracking open.

“In here.” He tapped his chest. “Too much echo.”

Your eyes stung. “You could’ve texted.”

“I did,” he admitted, sheepish. “And then I stood under your tree because I’m dramatic.”

The word, gentle now, loosened something in you. “You’re dramatic.”

“Only about you.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ll make it right. I’ll listen tonight. I want to hear the whole thing, start to end, the 7 a.m. meeting, the late boss, the stolen credit, the ‘take it under consideration’, which, by the way, is a war crime.”

“An office war crime,” you sniffed, laughing.

“Punishable by me buying you dinner,” he said promptly. “And by me asking, before we even go upstairs, what do you need from me right now? Comfort, solutions, or jokes?”

You pretended to consider. “Comfort first. Advice later. Jokes… we’ll see.”

“Order received.” He lifted your joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, breath warm against your chilled skin. “Can I walk you in?”

You nodded. 3️⃣ Joshua: The first time you and Joshua fought, the room didn’t erupt. It quieted. It was the kind of silence that pressed on the chest, a stillness that made every small sound too loud.

Dinner was almost finished. The lamp over the table hummed softly, casting a warm circle of light. He was telling you about rehearsal, about a new arrangement he was excited to try, and you were half there, thumb dragging across your phone, answering a text you convinced yourself couldn’t wait.

“Do you even want to be here right now?” His voice didn’t rise. It slipped under your guard, soft and direct.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

His eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face. “I’ve been talking for ten minutes and you haven’t looked at me once.” He set his fork down with careful precision, the way he did everything. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying.”

Guilt pricked, quick and hot. Defensiveness sprinted in right after. “Josh, I’m just tired. Can we not do this right now?”

He breathed in through his nose. “That’s the thing, though. ‘Right now’ is the only time I have with you today.”

Your jaw tightened. “Why are you making this a big deal?”

“Because it is a big deal.” His tone stayed even, but the hurt bled through. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just… I need to feel like I matter when we’re in the same room.”

Your chest squeezed. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t show it the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

He looked down at his hands, thumbs rubbing over his knuckles. “Maybe I just need more than what you’re giving.”

The sentence landed like a dropped plate, no crash, just the shock of it. You stared at him, words blurring at the edges. The room went still, even the humming lamp sounded distant.

You pushed your chair back. “Maybe I should go before we say something worse.”

He flinched, so small you almost missed it, but he didn’t stop you. You waited a half second longer than you meant to, hoping he’d reach for you, say anything that would make staying easier. He didn’t. So you left. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Two days stretched wide and thin.

You woke to the hollow shape of him not being around. The mug he liked sat upside down to dry, a little circle of water underneath it because he always forgot to shake it out. You scrolled past his name in your phone more times than you’d admit, thumb hovering over the call button, typing and deleting a dozen versions of “Can we talk?” and “I’m sorry.”

At work, you caught yourself telling a joke to the air because you’d thought of how he’d laugh at it. A song on the radio made your stomach swoop and then drop. That night you ate toast over the sink and stared at the dark screen of your TV like it owed you an answer. Joshua’s absence was loud in your small apartment, loud in a way the fight hadn’t been.

On the second evening, snow began its careful fall, the kind that coats the city in muffled white and makes everything look gentler than it feels. You were wrapped in a blanket you didn’t need, staring at the door like you could will it to knock.

When it finally did, the sound startled you so much you almost thought you were sleeping.

You opened the door and there he was, coat buttoned to his throat, scarf crooked, nose pink from the cold, snow melted into his hair in damp curls. He held a paper bag like a shield and a peace offering.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you echoed, breath fogging the doorway.

He glanced at the hallway, then back to you. “I didn’t know how else to say this, so I thought I should just… say it. The only way I know how.”

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

He took off his shoes carefully, of course he did, and set the bag on your counter. “I brought that lentil soup you like. And those sesame crackers you pretend aren’t your favorite.” A tiny smile flickered and died. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been rehearsing this in my head, and it all sounded better there.”

“Try me anyway,” you said, a little hoarse. You sat on the edge of the couch, he stayed standing for a beat, then sat across from you, knees almost touching.

“I’m sorry,” he started, words measured like he was balancing them in his palms. “I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough. That isn’t true. You are. I just… missed you. Even when you were right there.” He swallowed. “It scared me to feel alone next to you.”

The honesty made your eyes sting. You closed the space between you, sliding beside him. Your hand found his cheek, cold from the walk, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sorry too. I was there, but not really. I do that when I’m overwhelmed, go quiet and small inside my head. It’s not about you, but I know it feels like it is.”

He leaned into your hand, lashes lowering. “I don’t want to keep score of who looks up first or who reaches out. I just want to know that if I say ‘I need you right now,’ you’ll hear me.”

“I will,” you said, meaning it. “And if I need twenty minutes to land before I can be present, I’ll say that out loud instead of disappearing into my phone.”

He exhaled, a small sound of relief. “Okay. That helps. I think I test people without meaning to. I waited for you to notice I was upset instead of telling you.”

“And I waited for you to tell me, because I was afraid of making it worse,” you admitted. “Which is ridiculous, because look at us. We already missed each other for two days we didn’t have to lose.”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I hate those days.”

“Me too.” You nudged his knee with yours. 

His eyes warmed. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mixing with yours, and then his lips found you, soft, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer. It tasted like snow and lentil and the quiet promise to try again.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed your mouth. “I’ll never doubt us again.”

You searched his face. “We’ll have moments,” you said gently. “But let’s promise to ask instead of assume.”

“Then I’ll never stop asking,” he murmured, smiling into the words.

You tucked yourself against his shoulder, the shape you knew by heart. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed your hairline. “Me neither.” 4️⃣ Jun: Jun wasn’t the type to push. He was patient, careful with his words, in arguments he often let silence do the talking, even when it meant swallowing what he really felt. Maybe that’s why it hit harder when he finally said something.

It started with another last-minute change. He’d been waiting outside your office, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching for you through the glass. The lobby light caught in his hair. Then your message lit up his phone, ‘Can’t tonight. Too tired’. He glanced up at the same moment you stepped out, the screen’s glow fading against the tired apology you didn’t quite have energy to deliver in person.

By the time you made it home, he was already there, seated on your couch like he’d been trying to become small enough not to be a problem.

“You should’ve told me earlier,” he said, not looking up at first.

You set your bag down and toed off your shoes. “I did text you.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His gaze lifted, steady and too honest. “You’ve canceled three times this week. Do you even want to see me?”

The softness of it made the words land heavier. You flinched. “Of course I do. That’s… come on, Jun. Don’t make it sound like I don’t care.”

“I’m not trying to make it sound like anything.” He exhaled through his nose, a small, shaky breath, as if he’d practiced not letting it show. “It just feels like I’m the only one rearranging things. I wait. I keep waiting. And then you choose work, or your friends, or sleep. I know those are important…I really do. But where do I fit?”

You rubbed your temples. The day had left its fingerprints all over you, and here he was asking for the one thing you had none of, more of you. “That’s not fair. I’m busy. You know what this week’s been like.”

“And I’m not part of that life, right?” he said, too quickly, as if the words had been clawing at the back of his throat. As soon as they came out, regret flickered in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…”

You put up a hand. “No, I get it. You’re upset. I just…” Your voice thinned. “I don’t have anything left tonight. I’m trying to keep it together.”

“Me too,” he said quietly.

There was a long, bare pause, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. You reached for your coat like it might steady you. “Maybe we should talk when we’re not this… raw.”

He moved as if to step toward you, then stopped. “Okay,” he said. No anger. No plea. Just the soft retreat of a person who was tired of asking.

You left before your throat could betray you. He didn’t follow. The door closed without the usual lingering goodbye. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The silence was what hurt most, its shape, its persistence. Jun, who normally texted good morning without fail, who sent a photo of the sky when it looked like a watercolor because he knew you liked it, said nothing for two days. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard more than once. You typed, ‘I’m sorry’. Deleted it. ‘I miss you’. Deleted it. ‘Can we talk?’ Deleted it. Pride and fear traded places so often you felt motion-sick.

On the second night, as snow stitched itself across the city, the doorbell rang.

When you opened the door, Jun stood on the threshold with snow caught in his hair and on his shoulders, a takeout bag looped around his fingers. He looked exactly like someone who had practiced what to say and forgotten it the moment he saw you.

“Hi,” he said, cautious, as if the word itself might spook you. “I… brought dinner. You always forget to eat properly when you’re stressed.”

Your chest ached with something helpless and fond. “Jun.”

“I didn’t want to text something that sounded wrong,” he rushed on, stepping inside when you moved back. He placed the bag on the tabel, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to tuck them in his pockets or hold onto something. “And I didn’t want to show up and make it worse. I just…can we talk?”

You nodded, then because your hands needed something to do, you opened the containers. The small, familiar things, steam lifting from rice, the clean, citrusy snap of pickled vegetables, bridged the space between you more than anything either of you had said so far.

He watched you, the way he always did, noticing the tiny things. “You’re still biting the inside of your cheek,” he murmured.

“And you’re still terrible at pretending you’re fine,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He huffed out a laugh, nervous and grateful. “I am. I’m really bad at it.”

You leaned on the counter, palms flat against the cool surface. “I’m sorry I keep canceling. Not because you’re mad…because you’re right. I thought being busy explained everything. It doesn’t, not when you’re waiting outside buildings for me to remember you exist.”

He winced. “I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

“I don’t,” you said, honest and a little raw. “I feel… sad. Because I love that you show up for me, and I hate that you don’t know I want to show up for you too.”

He swallowed, the knot in his throat visible. “I never wanted to make you choose between me and your life.”

“You’re not asking me to choose,” you said. “You’re asking me to choose you too. And I didn’t. Not enough.”

Jun’s shoulders dropped, some guarded part of him softening. “I said something I shouldn’t have, about not being part of your life. I was tired. It felt true in the moment. It isn’t. I know it isn’t.”

“It felt true to me, too,” you admitted, and his eyes flickered up, startled. “Not because it is, but because I made it feel that way. I’ve been overwhelmed and I used that as an excuse. You deserve better than my leftovers.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief, grief, both. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just need to know I’m not the only one saving time for us.”

You nodded, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Okay. Then let’s be boring about it for a while. Put us on the calendar like we’re important, because we are.”

He smiled, small and genuine. “Boring sounds perfect.”

“Tuesday nights,” you said, thinking out loud. “No cancellations unless someone is actually on fire.”

“Or contagious,” he offered.

“Or contagious,” you agreed. “And if work explodes, I call. I don’t text a ghostly ‘can’t tonight’ five minutes before.”

“I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “If you need quiet and soup instead of plans, say so. I can do quiet and soup. I am, in fact, a world-class bringer of soup.”

You nudged the takeout bag with a knuckle. “Evidence accepted.”

His eyes went bright in the way they did when he was overwhelmed and trying not to show it. His fingers brushed yours, hesitant. “Can I…?”

You nodded, and he laced your hands together. Warmth bloomed from the simple contact, quiet and certain. He leaned his forehead to yours, breath fanning your cheek, and everything slowed, your thoughts, the mess of the week, the stupid pride. Just the two of you and the hum of the heater and snow softening the traffic outside.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you more,” you said, because it felt good to say it first for once. “I’ll do better. Not perfect. But better.”

“Same,” he whispered. “I’ll say the hard thing before it turns mean in my mouth. I’ll knock on the door before I decide I’m not wanted.”

You huffed a laugh that caught on a tear. “Look at us making rules like actual adults.”

He smiled into the kiss, which was unhurried and warm, the kind that said we have time and we’re choosing it. When you parted, snowmelt glittered on his shoulders, you brushed it away.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said, the words carrying more than they usually did.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he replied, thumb stroking the back of your hand like he was relearning it. “Also, I may have gotten your favorite dessert. I panicked and bought two.”

“You panicked and bought cake?” you teased. “Truly a crisis.”

He pretended to be offended. “If you don’t want any…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, tugging him toward the couch. “We have a Tuesday to plan.”

“Boring,” he echoed, and his grin was soft and sure.

You ate together, knees touching, the living room smelling like sesame and citrus and new snow. It wasn’t a grand fix. It was better, a choice made out loud, a calendar blocked, a kiss unhurried, a promise given shape. And when his phone buzzed with some distant, forgettable notification, he flipped it facedown without looking.

This time, you noticed, and reached for his hand first. 5️⃣ Hoshi: With Soonyoung, everything ran hot, his laughter, his ideas, his dancing, even your arguments. He didn’t just walk into rooms, he blew in like weather. Most days you loved it. Most days, you were the calm after his storm.

But that night, you were already sitting on the edge of the couch, coat still on, keys in your palm like you couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. He burst through the door twenty-three minutes late, breathless and shining with sweat, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” he said, kicking off his shoes with a clatter and trying on a grin that usually worked. “Traffic, practice ran long, then I…”

“You promised today you’d be on time.” Your arms crossed before you could stop them. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

“I know. I know, I lost track.” He draped his hoodie over a chair, raking a hand through damp hair. “Don’t be mad.”

“You always ‘lose track.’” You stared at the clock, then back at him. “Do you even take me seriously, or do you think I’m just going to forget every time you do this?”

The grin slipped. He blinked, like the room suddenly came into focus. “Of course, I take you seriously. Why would you even say that?”

“Because you keep putting everything else before me.” The words came out sharper than you intended, and once they were loose, there was no calling them back. “Maybe I’m just not a priority.”

A flicker went through his eyes, hurt, quick as a match. He dropped his bag to the floor. “You think I don’t care?” His voice rose, rare for him. “I’m working my ass off every day, early mornings, late nights…and it’s still not enough for you? You think I’m late because it’s fun?”

“No,” you shot back, “I think you’re late because you keep breaking promises.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence stretched. The hum of the fridge suddenly felt loud.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, softer now, but bristling. “Sometimes practice runs over, sometimes the choreo isn’t landing, sometimes I’m just…behind. I’m trying to carry everything.”

“And I’m not asking you to stop carrying it,” you said, throat tight. “I’m just asking to not be the thing you drop.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I said I was sorry.”

“You’ve said it a lot.” You swallowed. “I want different.”

He stared at the floor like the right answer was written there. When he looked up again, something in him had gone still. “Fine,” he said, a hard edge flattening his words. “If that’s how you see me, then maybe I shouldn’t make promises at all.”

The sting was immediate and precise. You felt it under your ribs. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” you said, even though you wanted to say anything else. You wanted to ask him to try again. You wanted to not feel foolish for waiting.

He took a step toward you. “Wait…”

But the hot pressure behind your eyes warned you. You turned before your voice could crack, catching your coat sleeve on the doorknob. His uneven breathing followed you down the hall. You didn’t look back.

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The quiet that came after wasn’t peaceful; it was a drip you couldn’t stop hearing.

By noon the next day, the spot on your phone where his name usually lit up stayed blank. You scrolled through inside jokes and voice notes, typing and deleting messages you couldn’t bear to send.

By the second day, you caught yourself glancing at the studio’s account, at a grainy story of him laughing with the guys, and felt both relieved and petty for feeling relieved.

On the third night, you were halfway through convincing yourself to stop waiting up, when someone knocked. Three urgent knocks. Then two more. Then, “Please,” muffled, like he’d leaned his forehead against the door.

You opened it, and he almost stumbled inside. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath fogging the air behind him. He looked like he’d run the whole way.

“I can’t do this,” he said, the words tumbling out before the door had even closed. “I can’t not talk to you.”

Your heart did something you didn’t authorize. “Soonyoung…”

“I mess up.” He planted his hands on his knees, catching breath, then straightened and met your eyes. The panic in his face wasn’t dramatic, it was honest. “I lose track of time. I get swallowed by practice. I say I’ll be somewhere and then I’m two blocks away and there’s a last-minute change and…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “But it’s never because I don’t care. It’s never because you’re not a priority.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” Your voice came out small. “Why am I the one who has to understand while you…forget?”

He flinched. “Because I tell myself you understand, and then I use that as permission to push you to the edge of my day.” He shook his head like he hated the truth even as he said it. “I don’t want to be that guy to you. I don’t want to be someone you can’t count on.”

You leaned against the wall, arms loose at your sides now. “I don’t need perfect. I just need…chosen. Even when it’s inconvenient.”

He took a step closer. “You are chosen. Every day. Even when I’m an idiot about showing it.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, and the certainty surprised you. “But I need you to meet me in the middle. Not with another ‘sorry.’ With a plan.”

“A plan,” he repeated, like the word had weight he could carry. He nodded quickly, eyes bright with relief and nerves. “Okay. I can do that. I will do that. Tell me what you need and I’ll…no, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”

He held up his fingers, counting. “One: I’m setting alarms that don’t just say ‘leave’, they say ‘you’re meeting her, get out now.’ Two: if practice runs late, I'll call you the minute I know. Not a text. A call. Even if it’s five minutes. Three: I block time for you on my calendar like I do for rehearsals, non-negotiable. Four: I keep an extra bag here so I don’t have to run home first and be late because I’m changing clothes. Five: if I’m more than ten minutes off, I owe you ramen and a foot massage. Not negotiable.” A weak smile. “Okay, the last one is maybe more for me.”

Despite yourself, you snorted. “Ramen and a foot massage?”

“I’m trying to make this memorable,” he said, hands lifted in surrender. “I want to show you I heard you. I don’t want ‘sorry’ to be the whole story.”

You searched his face. Exhaustion had carved faint shadows under his eyes, there was still a smear of practice chalk along his jaw. He looked like himself, stripped of the performance, open, a little messy, completely there.

“I need you to be where you say you’ll be,” you said, clearer now. “If you can’t be, tell me before I’m already waiting. And…” your throat tightened, but you pushed through “...I need to stop feeling like an afterthought you’ll get to once everything else is done.”

“You’re not an afterthought,” he said immediately. He stepped close enough that you could feel the shake still running through him. “You’re the thought. The one that gets me through the last half hour of practice and…” he exhaled, a ragged, self-conscious laugh “...and the one I write stupid little notes about in my head so I don’t forget to tell you later.”

You looked down at his hands, still fisted at his sides like he was afraid to touch you without permission. So you closed the distance yourself, catching his jacket and tugging him forward.

“Then don’t,” you said, tears spilling before you could stop them. “Don’t forget. Don’t make me guess.”

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for days. It wasn’t practiced, it was urgent and clumsy, his palm finding your waist like a lifeline. The kiss tasted like cold air and apology and relief. When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the world felt steady again in that small circle of warmth.

“Just try,” you whispered, your fingers fitting into the spaces between his. “Be there when you say you will. Call if you can’t. That’s all I need.”

He nodded so fast his hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back, smiling, shaky and real. “I will. I promise.” He paused, winced, then amended, “No…scratch that. I’ll prove it. Starting now.”

“How?”

“I’m early for our next date,” he said, pulling his phone out and tapping like a man on a mission. You watched the screen light his face. “Friday, seven. Calendar block. Two alarms. I’m leaving practice at six-thirty with or without them. And…” He held up the phone, the calendar square a neat little box labelled with your name and a ridiculous heart. “I’m asking you to share your calendar with me too, so I can see you there and not just in my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was already curving. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” he shot back, quick and certain, shoulders finally dropping. He tucked his phone away and leaned in, voice softening. “And this time, I’ll keep it.” 6️⃣ Wonwoo: With Wonwoo, arguments didn’t start with shouting. They started with quiet, thin, careful quiet that made you feel like you were whispering into a room with no walls.

It was late. The TV hummed in the background, the remains of dinner going cold on the table. You’d been talking, really talking, about work,  the meeting where your idea got passed around until someone else took credit, the way your boss interrupted you mid-sentence, how small you felt walking out of that room.

You reached for your tea and realized he hadn’t said anything in… a while. His thumbs scrolled absently across his phone, his eyes on the screen, his mouth pulling into that neutral line he wore when he was anywhere but here.

“Are you even hearing me right now?” you asked, voice soft but frayed around the edges.

His head snapped up. “Of course I am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Wonwoo blinked. The pause stretched, thin and tight. He opened his mouth, closed it. “You were…upset. About work.”

“That’s not an answer.” Your heartbeat climbed. “I needed you to be here with me. Not in your phone.”

He set it face down, as if that could rewind anything. “I was listening. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say yet.”

“Then say that,” you said, fingers knotted in your sweater hem. “Say ‘I don’t know what to say yet.’ Say ‘I need a second.’ Say anything. Because when you go quiet, it feels like I’m talking to a wall.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t always know what you need immediately. Did you ever think of that?”

You exhaled, stung but steady. “I don’t need immediate. I need present.”

The air turned brittle. He leaned back, eyes sliding away, the silence widening between you like a crack in glass.

“Wonwoo,” you tried again, gentler this time, “I’m telling you something that matters to me.”

“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “I just… when it gets heavy, my brain feels like static. If I talk too quickly, I say the wrong thing. So I wait. I try to think. And then it’s already too late.”

“It’s too late when I’m already crying in the bathroom at work and you’re here scrolling,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I don’t want perfect words. I want you not to disappear.”

He flinched at that. Then, like a switch flipped, his expression cooled. “Maybe I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not cut out for… for you.”

The words landed like a drop through ice. You stared at him, feeling something in your chest fold in on itself. “Okay,” you said, voice small in the big, quiet room. “Maybe you’re right.”

You stood, grabbed your bag from the chair. He didn’t move at first. Then he did, reaching out as if to catch a sleeve he couldn’t quite reach.

“Wait…” he started.

But you had already opened the door. “I can’t keep begging you to show up,” you said, and left.

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Two days of silence. Two days where the apartment felt like a museum and your phone a paperweight. You didn’t call. He didn’t call. Pride and hurt sat side by side in your chest, both loud, both insisting they were protecting you.

Snow came and made the world a little quieter. You were in socks and an old hoodie when the knock sounded, three hesitant knocks, spaced like he was testing the beat of a song he wasn’t sure he remembered.

You almost didn’t answer. You did.

Wonwoo stood there, hair damp with melting flakes, shoulders hunched against the cold. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets the way they were whenever he was bracing for something.

“Hi,” he said, breath clouding in the air between you.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were rough, as if unused. “For the phone. For the silence. For saying…” He swallowed. “For saying I wasn’t cut out for you. That was a terrible thing to put on you.”

You held the door but not wide. “Then why did you say it?”

He met your eyes, and for once, didn’t look away. “Because I was scared. And when I’m scared, I hide. I thought if I kept quiet long enough, I’d think of the right thing to say. Instead I made you feel alone. I hate that I did that.”

The anger in you shifted, softer at the edges. “I don’t need you to fix everything I say. I need you to stand in it with me.”

“I know.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for two days straight. “I grew up learning that quiet meant safety. Don’t speak unless you’re sure. But that’s not fair to you. You don’t need a perfect sentence, you need me. I’m sorry it took me this long to understand that.”

You stepped aside. “Come in. You’re freezing.”

He toed off his shoes like he always did, careful and neat, then hovered near the doorway, unsure where to put his hands, his eyes, himself. You set water to boil out of habit.

He watched you move. “I’ve been rehearsing this for two nights,” he admitted quietly. “It still sounds clumsy in my head.”

“Good,” you said, surprising yourself with a small smile. “Clumsy means you’re not hiding.”

The kettle clicked. You poured two mugs you weren’t sure either of you would drink.

“About what you said that night,” you started, the old bruise throbbing. “That you’re not cut out for me.”

His eyes glassed, sudden and unhidden. “I didn’t mean it,” he said fiercely, the quiet falling away. “I said it because I felt like I was failing you and I wanted out of the feeling. Not out of us.”

Your throat tightened. “It hurt.”

“I know,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “I’m so sorry.”

You set the mugs down and closed the distance. Up close, the cold was still on his skin. He hesitated, then brushed his knuckles against your hand like he was asking a question.

“Can I…?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His kiss started careful, an apology folded into a promise. You felt the tension leave his shoulders by degrees, felt the way he stayed, present, steady. When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours like he always did when words lingered on his tongue.

“I missed you,” he murmured, breath warm. “More than I can say without messing it up.”

You smiled, watery and real. “Then don’t say it,” you whispered. “Just show me.”

He nodded, a small, relieved sound escaping him. “Okay. I’ll show you. Starting now.”

“Starting now,” you echoed.

He took your hand and, instead of letting go, sat with you on the couch. No TV. No phone. Just the slow, ordinary warmth of two people learning a new language together.

After a minute, he spoke, halting, honest. “Tell me the part about your boss again. The part that made you feel small. I’m listening. And if I mess up, I’ll try again.”

You leaned back, felt your shoulders drop for the first time in days. “Okay,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t tremble. “So, in the meeting…”

And he stayed. 7️⃣ Woozi: With Jihoon, it was never yelling, it was precision. Words that clipped instead of crashed.

You swung by his studio close to midnight, the hallways quiet, the blue glow under his door giving him away. You eased it open and held up a bag. “I brought food. Your favorite.”

He didn’t look away from the monitors. A track looped in the background, a half-built chorus circling the room like a restless thought. “Just leave it there.”

You set it on the couch, hands lingering on the paper handles. “Did you eat yet?”

“No,” he said, fingers moving, “but I’m not hungry.”

“Jihoon, you haven’t eaten all day.”

His jaw tensed. “Can you not start? I’m busy.”

The words were flat, but they landed like a door shut in your face. You swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I’m worried.”

“Well, don’t.” He finally glanced up, eyes rimmed red, shoulders tight. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

It came fast. It always did with him, one wrong word, and the air went thin.

You blinked, breath catching. “Babysitting? That’s what you think this is?”

He rubbed his temple like the conversation was another file to drag to the trash. “I didn’t mean…look, I have a deadline. I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?” Your voice wavered despite you. “Care about you? Show up for you?”

Silence pressed between you, full of the humming equipment and the too-loud loop on repeat. He looked away first. “I need to work.”

You nodded. It was the smallest motion, but it felt like a cliff giving way. “Fine. If that’s how you see me, I’ll stop.”

You grabbed your coat. He didn’t chase you. The door clicked behind you, and in the hallway you realized you’d been holding your breath. You let it go, and something inside you went with it.

You cried in the elevator where no one could hear you over the tired machinery.

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Four days. No late-night texts, no voice notes about a new bridge he hated or loved, no small, stupid memes he usually sent when he didn’t know how to say ‘I miss you’. You typed a dozen messages and deleted all of them. Pride and hurt made a tight braid in your chest.

On the fifth night, the intercom buzzed. You padded to the door in socks, heart kicking despite yourself.

When you opened it, Jihoon stood there with a takeout bag crinkling in his hand. The same order you’d brought. Fresh this time. He looked smaller without the studio around him.

“Hi,” he said, somewhere between sheepish and exhausted. “I, uh… didn’t eat it that night.” He lifted the bag an inch. “I got it again. Thought maybe we could share it now.”

Your eyes fell on him and the way he was bouncing from one leg to the other. “Jihoon.”

“Can I come in?” His voice was careful. So were his eyes.

You stepped back. “Yeah.”

He slipped off his shoes and stood in your kitchen like he it was the first time he has stepped in your apartment. You took the bag and set it on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before you could open a single container. “For that night. For… everything about that night.”

You stared at the takeout for a beat, then at him. “You hurt me.”

“I know.” He nodded like he’d been practicing that admission. “I was in my head. I am in my head a lot, and when I’m there it feels like everything else is noise, even the things that aren’t. Especially the things that matter. That’s not an excuse.” He squeezed the back of his neck. “It’s just what it is.”

“You said I was babysitting you.”

“I know.” He winced. “That was me being defensive because I didn’t want to admit I needed… anything. Anyone.”

You opened the containers, steam rose, filling the space with warmth you hadn’t felt in days. You handed him chopsticks. He took them but didn’t move.

“I wasn’t trying to manage you,” you said quietly. “I was trying to love you. And when you pushed me away like that, it made me feel like I didn’t belong in your life. Like I was intruding.”

His shoulders sank. “You do belong. You do.” He paused, searching. “It scares me how much.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “If you need space when you’re working, tell me you need space. Don’t make me feel stupid for showing up.”

“I won’t.” He swallowed. “I’m still learning how to say the thing before I say the wrong thing.”

You both moved to the floor, your backs to the couch, containers between you. You ate in small bites, the kind that buy time. The quiet felt less brittle.

He spoke first, chopsticks paused midair. “When I’m deep in a track, it’s like I’m underwater. I forget the surface exists. You walk in and you’re… air.” He looked down, then back up. “And sometimes that hurts, because breathing means I feel everything again. Including the fear I’m going to fail, or disappoint you. So I say something stupid to make the feeling go away.”

You set your food down. “I don’t want you to disappear to make it easier. I want to be part of the work and the mess and the stupid. I can handle the fear if you hand it to me, not at me.”

He exhaled, a shaky laugh at the end of it. “You’re better with words than me.”

“You’re good with them,” you said softly. “You just use them on music first.”

He smiled, brief and true. It flickered into something more fragile. “I missed you. I kept almost texting and then I’d hear that loop and think, ‘fix the chorus first, fix yourself first.’ But I don’t fix myself alone very well.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “That’s allowed.”

He set his food aside completely now, turning to face you. “I don’t deserve how much you care. That night, you were right to leave.”

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you said. “I do. And I want to be here. But I need you to meet me halfway.”

He nodded, eyes bright. “Okay.” 

His fingers threaded with yours like he’d been holding tension there for days, like the act of touching you released it.

“I’ll try to say it before it’s sharp,” he murmured. “I’ll try to say, ‘I’m scared,’ or ‘I need twenty minutes,’ instead of aiming for the place that will make you leave.”

“Good,” you whispered. “And I’ll try not to turn concern into control. I’ll ask what you need before I assume.”

He huffed a small, grateful sound. “What I need right now is you not leaving.”

“I’m not.”

You kissed him first, soft, testing, and he met you there, careful and sure. The gratitude in it was new, so was the way he relaxed as if something important had finally clicked into place. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like an apology and a promise.

When you parted, he stayed close. “Can we… put on a movie and let the food get cold and then reheat it and pretend that was the plan?” His smile tilted. “And tomorrow, will you come to the studio? I’ll set an alarm to eat. I’ll show you the bridge I’m stuck on. You can tell me it’s terrible or perfect, I’ll accept either.”

You laughed, the sound loosening the last knot. “Deal. But I’m bringing a timer. And snacks.”

“Fine.” He squeezed your hand. “And if I say something sharp…”

“You’ll try again,” you finished for him.

He nodded. “I’ll try again.”

He leaned back against the couch and tugged you with him until your head found his shoulder. The movie you put on five minutes later barely made it past the opening credits, the food did get cold, the apartment felt warm anyway.

Near the end of the second act, his voice slipped out, quiet enough that you almost missed it. “Let me stay,” he said, the word careful and certain at once. “Just… let me stay with you.”

You turned your face toward him. “I will.”

And you did. 8️⃣ DK: Fighting with Seokmin always felt like arguing with the sun. He was warmth and laughter, the kind of person who could turn a grocery run into a bit, who would sing apologies in falsetto when he spilled coffee on your sleeve. But that night, even the brightest parts of him cast a shadow.

It had been a day that chewed you up, missed deadlines, a call with your mom that went sideways, the train breaking down between stations. You were venting, pacing the living room, hands drawing frantic circles in the air, when he tried to do what he always did.

“It sounds like the universe put you on hold,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Press 9 to speak to a manager?”

You stopped dead. “God, Seokmin, can you take anything seriously?”

The room fell quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge and the rain tapping against the window. His smile flattened like a balloon losing air.

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” he said.

“Well, it doesn’t,” you shot back. “It makes me feel like you don’t care.”

His face fell fully at that, the joke dying before it finished forming. “You really think that?”

You folded your arms across your chest to keep your voice from shaking. “Sometimes it feels like you’d rather make a joke than actually listen.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was buying time. “I…” He swallowed. “I laugh when I don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s convenient,” you said, and winced as the words landed. “It’s like you get to skip the hard parts.”

His jaw worked, a tiny, stubborn movement. When he spoke again, his voice had no bounce, no music. “Maybe I laugh because if I stop, everything feels too big. Because I don’t know how to fix it for you and it scares me. Because if I say the wrong thing…” He took a breath that trembled. “...if I say the wrong thing, I’m afraid you’ll realize I’m not enough and you’ll leave.”

That took the wind out of you. “Seok…”

He was already reaching for his jacket. “Maybe I should give you some space.”

Your anger cracked into panic. “You don’t have to…”

“I don’t want to make it worse,” he said, unable to meet your eyes. “I never want to make it worse.”

The door closed gently, almost apologetically. And just like that, the room cooled by ten degrees.

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Two days stretched like gum, thin, sticky, impossible not to keep pulling. You woke to silence instead of his off-key morning hum. You stared at your phone like it might teach you a spell. You typed and erased a dozen messages.

‘hey

no, that’s stupid’

‘can we talk?

too soon?’

‘i’m sorry for what i said

send, no, wait’

You wore his oversized hoodie around the apartment, telling yourself it was because it was chilly, not because it still smelled faintly like his citrus body wash. At night, you replayed the fight and noticed all the spaces where fear sat between the words.

On the second evening, the rain finally broke. You slipped your shoes on and walked to the park where you both gravitated whenever life felt too loud. The path glistened, lamplight puddling in the wet. The old bench under the big tree stood like an appointment you were late for.

He was there. Head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands twisting his ring in anxious loops. When your shoes scuffed the gravel, he looked up.

“Seokmin…” you said softly.

His eyes were wide and glassy, like he hadn’t slept much. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, sitting a careful distance away. “I thought if I stayed home, I could pretend we weren’t… this.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. The quiet between you felt heavy but not hostile. Just… fragile.

“I shouldn’t have said you don’t care,” you said, the words warm with breath you’d been holding for forty-eight hours. “You care more than anyone I know. I said it to hurt you because I was hurt.”

He blinked hard and gave a weak chuckle that wasn’t a joke. “I kept replaying it and thinking, ‘this is where I fix it,’ but my brain only knows the one tool.” He tapped his chest. “Clown-in-residence.”

You turned to face him fully. “I don’t want you to stop being you. I love your dumb universe manager joke. I love that you sing to the rice cooker. I just… sometimes I need you to be here with me in the ugliest parts, without reaching for the light switch.”

He nodded quickly, eagerly even, then caught himself and slowed. “Okay. Okay.” He laced his fingers together like he was trying to hold himself in place. “I can listen. I want to. I…sometimes I panic. It’s like, if I don’t make you laugh, I’m failing at loving you.”

“You don’t have to perform to be loved,” you said. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not have the answer.”

He breathed out, a shaky, honest sound. “When I was younger, joking always worked. If someone was mad or sad, I could flip the scene, you know? I didn’t learn what to do when the scene didn’t need flipping.” He looked at you, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. “I’m trying. I want to be what you need.”

“Then… ask me what I need.” You smiled, a small one. “We can make it stupidly simple, like a menu. ‘Do you want me to listen, help, or lighten?’ And I’ll pick.”

His mouth tilted. “A feelings menu?”

“With pictures if you behave,” you said, and he laughed for real this time, soft, relieved.

He scooted closer, the space between you shrinking to a breath. “Can we practice?” he asked, earnest.

“Right now?”

He nodded. “Okay. What do you need… right now?”

You looked down at your hands, damp from the bench, and then back up. “Listen.”

He settled, shoulders lowering. “I’m listening.”

“I was overwhelmed,” you said. “And I wanted to not feel alone in it. When you joked, it felt like you stepped out of the room while I was still in the mess.”

He winced, not theatrically, but like truth stung. “I stepped out because I was scared I’d break something if I stayed.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. I thought space would keep me from messing up, but it just… made the mess colder.”

You shifted closer, your knees touching his. “I’m sorry I went for your softest part. I know how hard you try. I see it. Even when I’m mad, I see it.”

He blinked, and tears gathered. He laughed once, an embarrassed, watery sound. “You’re going to make me cry in public.”

“It’s the park,” you said. “It’s practically designed for crying.”

He huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I’ll do better,” he said, the words careful and deliberate. “Not as a promise I can’t keep, but as a practice. I’ll ask what you need. I’ll sit with you in the dark. And… if I’m scared, I’ll say that, too.”

You took his hand, fingers threading through his like they had always meant to. “And I’ll tell you when I want the joke. Not every room needs light, but some rooms do. We’ll figure out which is which together.”

His lips trembled, then steadied. “Okay.” He squeezed your hand. He stopped, searching. “Can I be honest without trying to fix anything?”

You nodded. “Please.”

“I missed you so much,” he said simply. “It felt like two days of holding my breath.”

You let the truth meet his. “Me too.”

He leaned in, slow enough to let you choose, and when you did, the kiss was soft and warm and a little salty. It felt like standing in the first patch of sun after a storm, not because the weather changed, but because you had.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re my everything,” he whispered, like it wasn’t a line but a quiet fact he’d been carrying for months.

The words didn’t set off alarms this time. They didn’t feel like fireworks, either. They settled into you like a weight that fit, heavy in a good way, anchoring. “I believe you,” you said, and meant it all the way through.

He exhaled, a laugh tangled in relief. “So… what do you need now?”

You pretended to think, eyes flicking up to his. “Walk with me,” you said. “Tell me about the song you’ve been humming under your breath for a week. And maybe… buy me a hot chocolate on the way home.”

He stood, tugging you up by your joined hands. “I can do all of that.” He paused. “And if the universe gives us trouble again, I’ll ask for the feelings menu first.”

You bumped his shoulder. “With pictures.”

“With pictures,” he agreed, grinning as you fell into step together.

9️⃣ Mingyu: Fights with Mingyu didn’t creep in, they hit like summer storms, hot, sudden, and louder than either of you meant them to be. Passion first, sense later. You loved him for the same heart that made the arguments messy. Some nights, though, it felt like you were learning him in the dark and guessing the edges by touch.

It started over something small, which is to say, it started the way most big fights do.

He came in late again, shoes thudding off by the door, keys tossed into the bowl with a clatter. The clock stung, 1:27 a.m. You were curled up on the couch in a hoodie, a cold mug on the table, the TV paused on a frame that had been still for an hour.

“You’re up,” he said, a little surprised, a little guilty.

“You said you’d be back by eleven.”

He winced. “We grabbed food after the game. I didn’t check the time.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice even. “Do you ever think about how I feel, waiting for you all the time?”

He blinked like you’d tossed water in his face. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I just lose track of time.”

“That’s the problem, Mingyu. You lose track of me.”

His jaw worked. “So now I’m not allowed to see my friends? You want me glued to you every second?”

“That’s not what I said.” Your breath came sharp. “I’m saying communicate. Tell me if it’s going late. Tell me I’m not an afterthought.”

“God, it’s one night,” he shot back. “Why does it always have to be a fight?”

“Because I keep asking and nothing changes.”

He shifted, defensive heat rising. “So I’m the bad guy for having a life?”

“No,” you said, cheeks burning, “you’re my boyfriend who forgets he has one.”

Something flickered in his eyes, hurt, pride, fear. The mix that always made him reckless.

“Right,” he said, laugh bone-dry. “If I’m such a terrible boyfriend, remind me, why are you even with me?”

The words sucked the air from the room. Your heart stuttered, his face said he already wanted them back, but they were loud and ugly between you.

“Good question,” you whispered.

He stood there, chest heaving, and for a beat neither of you knew how to climb down. You got up slowly, found your coat, found the doorknob before you found your composure.

“Don’t,” he said, reaching out and stopping short of your wrist. “I didn’t mean…”

“You said it,” you managed. “And I heard you.”

You walked out. The hallway was too bright. Your phone buzzed twice. You didn’t look.

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The first night without him was bone-quiet. The second was worse. You made dinner, didn’t finish it, washed the pan like a ritual. Your phone lit up with his name and then with nothing, typing… stopped… typing… stopped. You stared until the screen dimmed.

He sent one message, ‘ I’m sorry. I’m a mess. Please call me.’

You didn’t. Not yet. You needed the part of you that loved him to sit down for a second so the part that loved you could speak.

On the second night, the knocking started like rain and turned into thunder. You opened the door because you knew it was him, because the building had never echoed like that before.

Mingyu looked wrecked, hair flattened on one side like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red and swollen. He held his breath when he saw you, like the sight of you might flee.

“You can hate me if you want,” he blurted, voice already cracking, “but don’t leave me.”

Your throat tightened. “Mingyu, what …”

“I said the worst thing I could say.” He swallowed, words tumbling over each other. “I knew it the moment it left my mouth and I tried to swallow it back and it was just…” He shook his head, desperate. “I’m an idiot. I panic, and I go for the sharpest words because I’m scared, and then they cut you, and then I hate myself.”

He stepped forward like you might push him away. You didn’t. His hands found your arms, gentle even in panic.

“You’re not a burden,” he said, eyes wet. “You’re the best part of my day. Every day. I hate that I made you doubt that.”

Tears stung hot and helpless. “I don’t want perfection, Mingyu. I just want you. But you can’t throw out ‘why are you with me’ like it’s nothing. That lives somewhere when it’s said. It doesn’t vanish.”

“I know.” He nodded, too fast, like he could outrun the shame. “I know. I’ve been rehearsing what to say for two nights and none of it is good enough. I’ll…” He paused, breath shaking. “I’ll do better. I will. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

You held his gaze. “Doing better can’t just be a promise at my door.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me how to not mess this up.”

You didn’t want to be his teacher. You wanted a partner. So you took a breath and spoke like one.

“Text me if you’re going to be late. Not at one a.m, at eleven, when you realize it. Not an essay, just a heads-up. I won’t sit staring at the door if I know you aren’t behind it.”

He nodded, fierce. “Done. I can do that. I should’ve already been doing that.”

“And if I bring something up,” you continued, “don’t go straight to defense like it’s an attack. Ask me what I need.”

He let out a breath with a shaky laugh. “What do you need now?”

“I need to hear that ‘why are you with me’ is never coming out of your mouth again.”

“It’s not,” he said, immediate. “I hate that I made you carry that. I’ll never say it again. If I feel that panic, I’ll take a walk. I’ll call Seungcheol and yell into his voicemail. I’ll do push-ups in the street. I don’t care. I won’t throw you away to make a point.”

A laugh snuck out of you, thin and wet. “Please don’t do push-ups in the street.”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said, a weak smile breaking through, “I’ll do burpees.”

You rolled your eyes, the knot in your chest loosening by a finger-width. “And I’ll… tell you when I’m spiraling instead of letting it pile up until I snap. I’ll take a walk too. I won’t disappear without saying where I’m going.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He looked at your face like memorizing it. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you said, before he finished. “Come in.”

He stepped over the threshold like it might vanish if he moved too fast. The apartment felt different with him in it again, like sound remembered how to be sound. He hovered, unsure, then cupped your face with both hands, thumbs shaking against your cheeks.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It never was with him. It was clumsy and urgent and honest, the kind that said, ‘Please know what I mean even if I can’t say it right’. He kissed you like an apology and a promise and a thank you all at once.

“I missed you so much it hurt.”

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice rough. “Don’t give me reasons to leave.”

“I won’t,” he said, and it wasn’t a dramatic vow. It was steady, like something you could set a cup on.

He cleared his throat. “Can I say one more thing without sounding dramatic?”

“You, dramatic?” You tilted your head. “Never.”

He grinned, embarrassed. “I’m still learning how to be good at this. At us. I didn’t… grow up seeing people fight well. I’m trying. I want you to see me trying.”

“I do,” you said. “Just don’t make me squint.”

He nodded, earnest as a promise. “Deal.”

There was a pause that felt like the first breath after a sprint.

“Also,” you added, softer, “go see your friends. I don’t want to be your whole world. I just want to know I’m in it.”

“You are,” he said, immediate again. “Front row. Center seat. VIP wristband.”

“Progress,” you said. “Look at us.”

He kissed your forehead. “Look at us.”

You tugged him toward the kitchen. “There’s leftover curry. It’s cold, but so are you, so it matches.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Deserved.”

You put the container in the microwave and leaned on the counter, watching him watch you like he was afraid to blink. The hum of the machine filled the quiet. He stepped closer, slid his hand into yours, laced your fingers together like a habit he wanted to keep.

When the timer beeped, he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.

“Stay,” you said, as easy as breathing.

“Always,” he answered, and for once it wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough. 1️⃣0️⃣ Minghao: Minghao’s patience could stretch for miles, but when it frayed, it didn’t explode, it went quiet first.

It started small. You asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he shrugged without looking up from his book. You laughed at a video and held your phone up, and he smiled but didn’t lean in. The distance didn’t make a sound, but you felt it, like draft slipping under a door.

“Can we talk?” you asked, standing between him and the lamp.

He slid a ribbon into his book and set it on the coffee table. “We’re talking.”

“Not like this,” you said. “You barely text. You barely call. Sometimes I don’t even know if you want to be with me.”

His jaw worked once, a muscle ticking near his ear. “Just because I don’t message you every hour doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I’m not asking for every hour,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I just want to feel like I matter to you when we’re not in the same room.”

He leaned back, eyes cautious. “If you can’t tell by now, maybe you don’t understand me at all.”

You blinked. The bluntness stole the air from your lungs. “So what, you’re saying this is my fault?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

He rubbed his temple as if the conversation were a headache he’d been waiting for. “You’re exhausting me right now.”

The words landed clean and cold. “Okay,” you said, breath shaking. “Then maybe I should leave before I ‘exhaust’ you more.”

His gaze flicked to your coat by the door and back to you. He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.

You laughed without humor. “Right. Message received.”

You shrugged into your coat, fingers clumsy at the zipper, and walked out. The hallway felt colder than it should. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

One week passed in a silence that wasn’t clean. You scrolled to his name, screen lighting your face at 2 a.m., then put the phone facedown like that could quiet your heartbeat. Pride held one hand, missing him held the other. They tugged you in opposite directions until your chest ached from the effort of just standing still.

You noticed the small things more in his absence: the way the radiator clicked before it warmed, the plant leaning toward the window because you forgot to turn it, the extra mug that stayed clean. You caught yourself setting aside a funny story from work, rehearsing how you’d tell it to him, and then remembered there was no call scheduled, no usual check-in. The space where he lived in your day went strangely echoey.

On the 7th evening, you took the long way home because walking felt easier than going back to the quiet. Snow had started, the flakes came down soft and disinterested. You wrapped your scarf tighter and climbed the stairs, keys ready, mind blank the way it gets when you’re tired of replaying the same scene.

He was leaning against your apartment door, a dark figure cut out against the pale hallway light. Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. His hands were tucked into his coat, like he’d been standing there long enough to forget he had fingers.

You stopped two steps away. “Minghao.”

He straightened, eyes searching your face with something that looked like relief and apology tangled together. “Hi.”

The word was so simple it made your throat tighten. “Hi.”

He exhaled, a cloud in the cold air. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice low but steady. “Any of it.”

You swallowed. The key bit into your palm. “Then why say it?”

He looked down at his shoes, then back up. Vulnerability edged his features the way winter edges a window. “Because I got scared,” he said. “I get scared. I feel like I bring some many downsides to the table that it feels scary when I am in the wrong…”

You stared at him, at the snow melting into the collar of his coat. “You haven’t made it worse by loving me,” you said. “You make it worse by shutting me out.”

“I know,” he said, shame softening his voice. “I know. I thought you understood the quiet parts of me. I thought you did, and when you said you didn’t feel like you mattered, I panicked. It felt like failing a test I didn’t know how to study for, and then I…” He broke off, swallowed. “I picked the worst words. I picked distance.”

“‘You’re exhausting me’,” you repeated, the phrase still lodged like a splinter.

He winced. “I hate that I said that. You don’t exhaust me. The fear does. The feeling like I’m always a step behind what you deserve.”

The honesty tilted something loose inside you. You took a breath that felt like it reached the bottom of your lungs. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” you said, softer. “I just need to know you’re with me even when I can’t see you. A message in the morning. A call when you have time. Tell me when you need space so I know it’s not me. Let me in.”

He nodded, quick and earnest. “Okay. Tell me how to show up the way you feel it. I wake up, I think of you, and then I think it’s too early to text. I finish rehearsal, I think of you, and then I tell myself you’re probably busy. I’ll stop telling myself your ‘probablys’ for you.”

A laugh caught in your chest, wet around the edges. “I don’t mind early. I mind not at all.”

“Right.” He stepped closer, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. “Also… when I shut down, I’m not leaving. It’s just how I learned to be when things got loud at home, go quiet, wait it out. It’s not about you. But I want to unlearn it for us.”

You nodded. “And I’ll try not to hear silence as goodbye. But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I will.” His eyes held yours. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you. I wanted to. I told myself you needed space, and maybe I used that as an excuse because I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve just said ‘Don’t go.’”

“Don’t go,” he said now, immediate, like a correction.

The words landed warm. You stepped forward so the hallway light pooled around both of you. “I won’t,” you said. “But next time, if we’re fighting, say you’re overwhelmed instead of pushing me away. And if I’m spiraling, I’ll tell you I’m scared instead of accusing you. Deal?”

He blew out a breath that fogged between you. “Thank you,” he said. “For still being here.”

You slid your fingers into his, and he closed his hand around yours, gentle, firm, like choosing. The chill of his skin was real and immediate, underneath it, a steadier heat.

“Come inside,” you murmured.

He nodded. Inside, in the doorway light, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “Even when I push… stay. Or say you’re staying. I need to hear it.”

“I’m staying,” you said. “But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I know.” He touched your cheek, hesitant at first, then sure when you leaned into it. The kiss he gave you was slow, deliberate, a careful spelling-out of an apology he didn’t trust his language to hold. He pulled back just enough to breathe the same air as you.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured. “For us.”

“We’ll do better,” you corrected, and he smiled, small and relieved, the kind that folds at the edges of his eyes.

Later, when your coats were drying by the radiator and the snow stitched the city quieter, he reached for his phone and, without letting go of your hand, set an alarm. “For mornings,” he said. “To say good morning.”

“And for nights,” you said, your mouth curving. “To say good night.”

He nodded. “And for the in-betweens,” he added. “To say I’m still here.”

You squeezed his fingers. “I can work with that.” 1️⃣1️⃣ Seungkwan: Fights with Seungkwan were BIG. You both told the truth like it was a sport, no hedging, no filters. It was your strength because nothing went unsaid. It was your weakness because sometimes the truth landed like a punch.

It started stupidly, the way most big fights do. He was reenacting a story from practice, throwing his whole body into the details, voice climbing, hands flying. You grinned and nudged, “Okay, Broadway. Save some for opening night.”

He laughed, at first. “I know, I know. I’m extra.”

“Extra, dramatic, theatrical,” you added, piling it on. “All synonyms. Want me to get you a spotlight?”

His smile thinned. “Ha-ha.”

You tried to keep it playful. “I’ll stand in the back with cue cards. ‘Cry here. Gasp here.’”

Something in his eyes shuttered. “Why do you always make fun of me?” he blurted, voice sharper than the edge of the counter. “Do you know how it feels to never be taken seriously?”

You blinked. “What? Babe, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing…”

“You always ‘just tease,’” he shot back, pacing now, running a palm over his face. “Everyone does. And maybe I’m tired of being the clown to you.”

The word lodged hard. “The clown?”

“That’s how it feels.” He exhaled, frustrated, but the momentum of anger kept him moving. “If the shoe fits.”

You went still. “So that’s all you think I see when I look at you? A joke?”

Silence dragged. He stared at the floor. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

Your throat burned. “That’s not fair.”

“And ‘Broadway’? ‘Spotlight’?” he mimicked, a flat little laugh. “Real fair.”

“Seungkwan, I tease because you’re big. Because you fill the room. I love that about you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like love when you say it like a punchline.”

Something inside you gave up on the fight already. “Fine,” you said, voice going thin. “If that’s what you think, maybe I should go before I make another joke you hate.”

He stared, stubbornness flashing like a shield. “Do what you want.”

You grabbed your bag and left. The door clicked behind you, and the apartment swallowed the echo.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The quiet after was loud in its own way. No lunchtime voice notes. No links to songs he insisted would “change your life for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds.” No selfies from the practice room mirror. You kept reaching for your phone and setting it back down, the habit of him still alive in your hands.

On the third night, just as you were convincing yourself you should apologize first, your phone buzzed.

‘I’m outside.’

You stood there, staring at the message, then you opened the door.

He was on your front step in a hoodie and sweats, eyes puffy, hair doing its own dramatic monologue. In his hands, a bouquet so chaotic it was almost beautiful, daisies, tulips, baby’s breath, something that looked suspiciously like a supermarket fern, all tied together with a ribbon that didn’t match anything.

“I panicked,” he blurted, thrusting it toward you. “I walked in and grabbed…whatever looked like you.”

You pressed your lips together. A laugh snuck out anyway. “Seungkwan.”

“I know.” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it again, earnest and shiny. “I’m your idiot. Can I talk?”

You stepped back to let him in. “Talk.”

He set the bouquet on the counter like it might shatter. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “For the shoe comment. For making you feel… disposable. I didn’t mean it. I was mad and messy and I said the thing I knew would hurt because I was hurting.”

Your chest tightened. “Don’t do that to me.”

“I won’t.” He tugged at his sleeve, nerves fidgeting through his fingers. “I know I’m a lot. On stage, with the guys, I’m always…on. Jokes, laughs, high energy. People expect it, sometimes I expect it from myself. But with you, I wanted to be off and still be…enough. And when you teased, it felt like…” He swallowed. “Like I was still ‘on’ even here.”

You leaned against the counter, the edge solid at your hip. “I forget,” you said quietly. “I forget you’re sensitive about that. I forget you carry the room so often that you get tired of carrying anything else.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “You just called me sensitive.”

“I called you human.”

He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s better.”

You reached for him, fingers skimming his wrist. “I’m sorry. I tease because I adore you. But I don’t want my ‘adoring’ to sound like I’m poking holes in you. I’ll be more careful. I’ll…check the room before I make a joke. And if I miss, you tell me. Don’t throw the shoe at my head.”

He cracked, finally smiling for real. “No shoes. Only…notes.”

“Notes?”

“Like, ‘hey, babe, I’m fragile right now, please handle with two hands.’” He mimed a label with his fingers. “I’ll say that. Out loud. I won’t pretend I’m fine and then explode.”

“Deal.” You squeezed his wrist, then slid your hand to his. “And I won’t make you feel like a caricature. Even if you do look like a chaos florist.”

He glanced at the bouquet and groaned. “Don’t roast my taste at a vulnerable time.”

“Is it a roast if it’s accurate?”

“See? This is exactly…” He stopped, eyes warm. “Okay, that one was kind of funny.”

You stepped closer, until you could see the faint tremor in his lashes. “I didn’t like three days without you.”

“I hated it.” His voice dropped. “I kept drafting texts and deleting them because I didn’t want to be dramatic.” A beat. “Which is hilarious, because…me.”

“You can be dramatic,” you murmured. “Just don’t be mean.”

He nodded, serious. “I’m sorry I was. I want to be someone you lean on. Not someone you laugh at from a distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you said. “I want you. Loud and quiet. On and off. All of it.”

His eyes glossed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“You already did,” you said, soft. “Hours ago. Your eyes told on you the second I opened the door.”

He laughed, wet and warm. “Come here.”

The kiss was clumsy in the way apologies are, eager, careful, a little desperate. He kept one hand on your cheek like you might evaporate if he let go. When you finally broke for air, your foreheads pressed, breaths tangled.

“You really are dramatic,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

He pouted. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

“I do.” You bumped his nose with yours. “Even when you buy fern.”

“It spoke to me,” he said solemnly. “It said, ‘I am quirky but dependable, like Seungkwan.’”

“It said, ‘please put me back and ask the florist for help,’” you countered, grinning.

He looked at you, all the way at you, no stage lights between. “Do you see me now?”

“I always did,” you said. “But I’ll show it better.”

“Okay.” He threaded your fingers together, exhaling a breath that left his shoulders looser. “Can we…start over? I’ll order takeout, you pick the movie, and if I start doing live commentary, you tap my knee twice.”

“And if I make a joke that bites, you lift the fern in warning.”

He laughed. “The Fern of Boundaries.”

“Perfect.” You squeezed his hand. “Start over.”

As he pulled out his phone to place the order, he glanced up with a shy, sideways smile. “For the record, I don’t mind ‘Broadway.’”

“No?”

“Not if it comes with front-row seats from you.” He leaned in, voice playful again, but gentled. “Just…don’t forget to clap when the curtain falls.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll be the one standing first.” 1️⃣2️⃣ Vernon: That night started small, dishwasher humming, rain sliding down the window, your words trying to find a place to land.

“It keeps happening,” you said, palms open on the counter. “I tell you something that bothers me, and you just…disappear while you’re still standing there.”

Vernon leaned back against the sink like he was bracing for a wave. The light over him was soft, turning his hoodie almost silver. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look anywhere. You watched his shoulders go still in that way you’d come to know, the quiet retreat.

“Say something, Hansol.”

He blinked, mouth pressing flat.

“Hansol.”

Silence pooled between you, heavy and shapeless.

Your chest tightened. “Anything. Do you even care that I’m upset?”

The question cracked the stillness. He lifted his eyes, expression blank, voice carefully even. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The words hit cold and clean. You swallowed. “I want you to say how you feel. Not the correct answer, not what sounds safe. Something real.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t know how. Maybe I’m not what you need.”

Air left the room. “If you believe that,” you said, throat raw, “then maybe you’re right.”

You grabbed your jacket before the tears could form, the door heavier than it should’ve been. It thudded shut behind you, and the echo followed you down the stairs.

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Two nights stretched and snapped and stretched again. You made the bed tight, worked late, scrolled, tried not to look at your phone. You told yourself anger was simpler than hurt. It was a lie you almost managed to believe.

On the third night, your key stuck for a second in the downstairs door. You nudged it free and looked up.

He was there on your stoop, knees drawn up, hoodie you knew by smell, studio air and detergent, rolled at the wrists. Headphones sat around his neck like they always do. 

He stood as you approached, then second-guessed it and sat back down, then stood again, awkwardly human in a way that cracked something tender in you.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I didn’t know if I should text, or call, or just…” He gestured to the step. “...be here.”

You held the rail, steadying yourself. “You could’ve started with ‘I’m sorry.’ That would’ve helped.”

He nodded, fast. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I shut down. I’m sorry I made you feel alone in a room I was in. I’m…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I suck at talking when it matters. The words just jam.”

A laugh scraped out of you, small and pained. “I don’t need you to think five steps ahead all of the time. I need…you. Even if it’s messy.”

“I know.” He slid the headphones off and turned them in his hands. “I tried to make a voice memo so I wouldn’t freeze. I recorded like…six versions. They were all bad.” He took a breath. “But I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to say this, I am so sorry Y/n.”

Something loosened in your chest. You stared at him, at the honesty sitting uncomfortably in his posture, and felt your anger shift its shape.

“Then say it when it matters,” you said softly. “Not after you’ve gone quiet and left me guessing.”

“I know,” he repeated, like the words hurt his mouth. He stepped closer, slow enough for you to step back if you needed. You didn’t. “I shut down because I’m scared I’ll say it wrong and break something. So I say nothing and break something anyway.”

“So try something different.” Your fingers tightened on the railing. “Tell me when you need a minute, but don’t disappear. Say, ‘I need ten minutes, but I’m not leaving this with you alone.’ Say, ‘I’m here.’” Your voice wobbled and steadied. “When you go quiet without telling me what’s happening, my brain turns it into, ‘I don’t matter.’”

His face changed at that, like the word “matter” hit him behind the ribs. “You matter,” he said immediately, and then again, firmer. “You matter. I’m…” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want you guessing. I want to be clear.”

“Then be clear,” you said. “Right now. Tell me what last time was.”

He exhaled, a long, careful breath. “Last time was me panicking. You were telling me something, and I felt like I was failing in real time. I started cataloguing ways to fix it instead of listening, and when I couldn’t fix it in my head, I shut down.” He met your eyes, scared and unsure. “I heard you. I just didn’t know how to show you I did.”

It was the most he’d said in one stretch in a while.

You nodded. “Thank you. Next time, tell me ‘I’m hearing you. I don’t have the words yet, but I’m here.’ Even that is something.”

He nodded back. “Okay. I can do that.” He hesitated. “I can also…ask questions? Like, ‘Do you want comfort or solutions?’ I read that somewhere.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “That would be great. Usually, comfort first. Then we can fix things.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. “Comfort first,” he echoed, almost relieved to have a script. “Okay.”

For a moment you both stood there, held in the fragile warmth of a plan that felt small and monumental at the same time.

“I missed you,” he said suddenly, quiet and honest. “The pillow didn’t smell like you anymore and it made me mad at the pillow, which is stupid.” He looked briefly embarrassed. “I kept thinking of your face when you left. I don’t want to put that look there again.”

Your throat tightened. “I hated leaving.” You gestured at the steps. “I hated coming home and not seeing you. I kept checking the time because every hour without you felt longer than it was.”

He took one more step, close enough that you could see the pale half-moons his nails had left in his palm. “Can I hug you?” he asked, and the question did something kind to your heart.

You nodded. He folded around you, careful at first, then closer, like a held breath finally released. The hoodie was cool against your cheek, his hands were not.

“I will try,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll mess it up sometimes, but I’ll tell you when I’m overwhelmed instead of disappearing. I’ll say I’m here. I’ll say it out loud.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I’ll try, too. I’ll tell you when I’m spiralling instead of assuming you can read it.”

He leaned back enough to see you, still holding on. “Deal.” A beat. “Also… I’m sorry, again.”

“I know.” You brushed your thumb over the edge of his mouth, where tension always collected. It softened under your touch. “I hear you.”

He dipped his head, paused, giving you room to refuse, and when you didn’t, he kissed you. Not a movie kiss, not a grand gesture, a real one, breath and heartbeat and the tremble of learning. You felt the apology in it, and the promise. You kissed him back like forgiveness didn’t have to be loud to be true.

1️⃣3️⃣ Chan: Fights with Chan usually started in the same place, the quiet, hot center of his need to prove himself. Most nights it simmered beneath the surface. That night, it boiled.

You found him in the practice room long after everyone had gone, the speakers humming with a looped beat, the mirror fogged at the corners. He was already on his third run, shirt clinging, breath coming short, jaw locked. You watched one more eight count, then you reached for the remote and thumbed the volume down.

“Chan,” you said, softer than the bass in the walls. “It’s past midnight.”

He bent at the waist, palms on his knees, refusing to look at you. “I know.”

“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.” You crossed the room, careful, like you were approaching a skittish animal. “You have already done enough.”

He blinked at your reflection instead of your face. “Easy for you to say.”

You tried to keep your voice level. “It’s not easy. It’s me saying I’m worried.”

He straightened and met your eyes with that stubborn fire you knew too well. “You don’t get it. I need to catch up with this tonight. If I slow down, I fall behind. If I fall behind, I…” he bit the rest off, frustrated with himself for saying so much.

“You won’t,” you said, gentle but certain. “You won’t fall behind because you sleep. You won’t disappear because you rest.”

He grabbed his water bottle without drinking. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture,” you said. “It’s me, loving you. It’s me seeing you swaying on your feet and asking you to take a break like everyone else is doing.”

His pride flinched like you’d used the wrong word. “Stop worrying about me, then.”

You blinked, stung. “Stop…worrying?”

His tone sharpened as he doubled down. “I don’t need you hovering and telling me when to breathe. I’ve heard it from coaches, from the other guys, from everyone. I can handle it.”

You felt the floor tilt, the music still pulsing like a heart you weren’t sure was yours or his. “Hovering.” You tasted the word, bitter. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

A flicker of regret flashed across his face, quick as a camera flash, there and gone under the same pride that always made him stay for one more run, one more set. “Maybe.”

Something in you cooled. Not anger so much as a door swinging shut on its own weight. “Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “If that’s how it feels, then… maybe you should figure things out without me.”

You put the remote down like it was fragile, like the wrong pressure might shatter the room. You turned, walked toward the exit. He didn’t stop you, maybe the worst part. The door gave a clean, decisive slam that echoed down the hallway and back at him.

Behind it, he finally slumped, the beat still looping, an empty victory.

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A few days stretched long and thin. You slept badly, going through the motions with that fight replaying on a relentless loop, your voice too soft, his too sharp, the tiny pause where he could have reached for you and didn’t.

You didn’t block him. You didn’t call. You left the space where an apology might land.

On the following night, you came up the stairs to your building, grocery bag bumping your hip. The hallway light flickered once and steadied. He stood there by your door, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor like a kid waiting to be called inside. His eyes were rimmed red, either from rehearsals or from the way regret eats sleep.

He straightened when he saw you. “Y/N,” he started, and his voice cracked on your name.

You set the bag down, keys held tight so they wouldn’t rattle. “Hey.”

“I was wrong,” he said quickly, as if he’d rehearsed the words until they would finally come out in the right order. “I didn’t mean, any of that. You weren’t hovering. You were… you were trying to help. And I…” He made a helpless shape with his hands. “I panicked.”

“About what?” Your voice was tired but not unkind.

He swallowed. “I’m scared.” The admission sat between you like a small, shivering thing. “I’m scared I’ll never be enough. That if I don’t push, I’ll be forgotten. That I’m always half a step behind, and the only way to shrink the distance is to grind until there’s nothing left. When you said I didn’t have to keep going, my brain turned it into ‘stop trying.’ I know that’s not what you meant. I know.” His eyes shone. “I took it out on you because you’re the safest person I have.”

The words poked every bruise you’d been nursing. You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel small, Chan. I was watching the person I love run himself into a wall and… I reached out. That’s all.”

He nodded like the movement itself hurt. “You never make me small.” He took a step forward, then another, hesitant, like you might vanish. “You make me feel like I can breathe. Like there’s a world beyond the next eight count.” His hand found yours, trembled, and stayed. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

For a second, the hallway didn’t feel so narrow. The hum of the building, the distant elevator, mundane sounds that grounded you. You squeezed his fingers. “Then let me worry sometimes. Not because I think you’re weak. Because I care. That’s what people do when they’re on the same team.”

He nodded again, faster this time. “Okay. Team.” He wet his lips. “Tell me how to be better at… this. At us.”

“Don’t bite when I touch the sore spot,” you said, managing the smallest smile. “Tell me what the fear is without turning it into a weapon. And if you want me to back off, say ‘I need a minute,’ not ‘stop worrying.’ That one felt like a shove.”

He flinched at the memory. “I’m sorry.” He tugged your hand to his chest, like he was trying to anchor both of you. “I’ll say ‘I need a minute.’ I’ll say ‘I’m scared.’ I’ll say the actual thing instead of… the sharp thing.”

“Good,” you said. “And I’ll ask how you want help instead of deciding for you. You tell me if you want me to listen, or to get your bag, or to drag you home. You get a vote.”

He huffed a damp, self-deprecating laugh. “Drag me home sounds nice. Especially before midnight.”

You tipped your head, teasing just enough to let the air back in. “Oh? Is that an admission?”

“It’s a plea,” he said. “And a promise.” 

The space between you finally closed. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was young and messy and a little desperate, the kind that tasted like apology and salt and late nights spent learning the hard way. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every untidy feeling into your mouth and hope it rearranged into something like honesty.

When you broke apart, his breath ghosted your lips. “I’m going to learn,” he whispered, like a vow meant for your ears only. “I’m going to be better at the parts that don’t happen in the mirror. Just… don’t leave me behind while I figure it out.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, swollen with the beginnings of a smile. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”

He exhaled, a shaky sound that let some invisible rope unspool. “Can we…” He gestured to your door, sheepish now that the storm had cleared. “Can we go inside? Not to fix everything tonight. Just… to be.”

Today was one of those mornings where he would show up back at your shared place in the early portion of the morning where the sun was still hiding over the horizon. Luckily for him, you had woken up a bit earlier than usual and made him some breakfast, something you decided to do for him the moment you realized that he was going to come back home late.

Now, the thing is…you’re not the best cook per se, so just in case you messed up the porridge or any of the side dishes you had a back up plan, probably the best backup plan — order Woozi some delivery food from his favorite breakfast spot. You had texted woozi’s manager asking when he was planning on picking him up for the schedules. 

This wasn’t like a day to day thing where they get picked up unless they have a really busy schedule and didn’t get proper sleep. His manager had noticed that Woozi had been at the company until 4 am and decided that it would probably be best if he picked him up so Woozi could sleep for a bit more in the car. 

Manager-Nim: [I’m going to pick him up around 10 in the morning, it was supposed to be earlier but with the amount of adjustments he has to make to this album I thought it would be best for him to sleep in] 

You read the message from his manager and shoot him a quick ‘thank you so much for the heads up’ message. You glanced up to the clock - 7 AM. It’s almost time, let me order the food just in case and wake him up. And you did, in that order exactly.

You excused yourself from your cubicle to the breakroom, which was surprisingly empty, to call him. The call rang and went unanswered. You called once more and on the 5th ring he picked up.

“Good morning, my love! It’s currently 7:20-something in the morning and you have to get up and get ready for today!” you say through the phone the moment he pickles up with a groan

“Good morning, baby.” he says, sighs for a second, and stays silent afterward. He’s falling asleep again.

“Jihoonie, darling, get up. I know you’re probably comfortable in bed and getting some well deserved sleep but you need to eat something. I made some porridge but just in case it’s not edible I ordered you some breakfast from your go to breakfast place.” you say and hear him laugh at the second half of what you're telling him and then you hear rustling probably from the duvet as he sits up.

“Thank you baby for the porridge and the delivery. I’ll let you know if the porridge is edible,” he says with a giggle “did you talk with my manager again?”

“Of course I did, I wanted to make sure that you got up on time and at least had time to eat something, before you’re so busy and don’t have time.” 

And here’s the thing you’re not seeing while saying this - you have Woozi grinning like if he were back in middle school and his crush had just confessed to him. 

“First off, thank you so much for everything you do for me even though you’re at work. Second off, I love you to the moon and back. And lastly, I'm going to go get ready and eat breakfast so, I’ll talk to you later.” He says and y’all promptly say your good byes and hang up. You go back to work and Woozi gets up to take his shower and get dressed to take on the stressful work that’s been holding him back from coming home to you earlier like he would like.

As the day went on you both would briefly text each other little updates on how your days were going.

Jihoonie: [1 picture]

Jihoonie: [it’s edible and not bad, save the recipe you used cause this is honestly one of the best porridges I've had in a while]

You: [1 picture]

You: [have been in meetings almost all day ㅠㅠ but luckily i’m almost off the clock. Should I stop by the studio with dinner so that we can at least eat dinner together?]

He didn’t answer immediately because he also just wrapped up a meeting himself. 

Jihoonie: [that sounds like an amazing idea and you’ll be able to hear the finished album now that I'm just working on the last few tweeks and should be done by later tonight.]

You replied with a heart to the message and went back to work and time went by quickly, and it was probably due to how caught up in your work you were that when you looked up at the clock it read 5 PM.

You wrapped up the last thing you were working on and started to pack your things to head out to pick up some food for you and Woozi to eat dinner, you settled for western cuisine—italian specifically. You’ve been craving pasta for a hot minute and he hasn’t had some since…well, a while also. 

As you went up to his studio you bumped into his manager and made some brief small talk and you let him know that regardless of if Woozi was done or not he was being dragged back home early so that he could rest up and his manager agreed while laughing at your statement.

You walk up to the door of the studio and knock twice before you hear a ‘come in’ leave his lips. 

“Dinner delivery for our Jihoonie~” you say singsongy while walking in and placing the bags on the table next to the couch. Jihoon hears you and turns around and gets up to hug you and greet you.

“I’m so happy you came,” Woozi starts saying as he envelopes you in a hug “I missed having your presence around me for more than split seconds.” he says and you giggle as a response cause it’s true, even though it wasn’t split seconds, it for sure felt like it. 

“Let’s eat and then you should show me what you have finished and maybe as your muse I can inspire you further.” you say with a smile on your face as he grins at you. 

“Sounds like a good plan,” he says and leaves a brief kiss on your lips as he goes to set up the table so you guys can eat “Do you want something to drink? I finally restocked the mini-fridge and the coffee machine” he says as he points to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room next to the couch.

“Water is fine, cause I’ve been feeling dehydrated lately.” you say as you make your way to the fridge and grab your water, “what about you?”

“I’m going to finish drinking my iced americano” he says while grabbing it from a small desk he has for his food and drinks next to his main mixing desk just as a precaution so nothing gets spilled on the mixer board. You nod and sit on the couch and open your plate.

As you eat, you guys talk about how work has been, how the album is coming along, the new cafe that opened near your apartment, and how the members have been. As you guys wrap up your dinner, you move towards his desk to hear how the album sounds. 

Woozi let you hear it when it was in the initial stages of production but since then you hadn’t gotten the chance to listen properly through all the songs and appreciate the time and effort, the melodies, the effects, the panning, appreciate all of it and the way it all fits like puzzle pieces. 

“Ready to listen to the album, my beloved muse?” Woozi says as he holds your hand in one hand and the other is draped over the mouse opening up the Ableton files for each song.

“Always ready,” you say as you look at him like he hung the stars and that was a look he reciprocated to you and you cue him to start playing the music, “music, cue” and the melodies start to adorn the space of the room as you start memorizing each little detail of each song.

the man put down the beer bottle and his phone on the couch, turning to face you.

‘if you can’t find someone normal yourself then let me help. i’ll set you up on a blind date and you won’t have to be so miserable anymore.’

‘absolutely not.’ you immediately shook your head. ‘this would never work out.’

‘you never know unless you try.’ he mumbled, back leaning against the couch. ‘besides, maybe you’d actually see what a normal date looks like, for once.’

you thought about it for a few seconds. much to your annoyance, soonyoung was right in that, too, and the idea of going on one more date wasn’t exactly the worst. whether it was going to end up being a disaster or not, you’ve been on enough dates to be prepared for almost every possible scenario. you’ve seen it all at this point - what’s one more bad date to talk about over a glass of wine once you’re older?

‘he better be normal, or i’m confiscating your tiger plushie collection.’

the only thing soonyoung told you was the name - lee jihoon. you recognized almost instantly: one of soonyoung’s long time friends, one of his closest friends as well. and yet somehow you’ve never met him before. hell, you didn’t even know what he looked like.

you arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early; soonyoung made a reservation for your date at a hotpot place near his apartment, a new spot that just opened a few months ago that you haven’t yet tried out. it wasn’t packed - there were a lot of people, but not enough for it to be crowded and uncomfortable.

nerves hit you as soon as you sat down at the table.

this wasn’t unusual either - you’d arrive early, stress out for the remaining few minutes, overthink what could possibly happen all until the date actually shows up. you looked around anxiously, eyes coming back to the entrance to the restaurant every now and then, scanning every face that passed through the door as you fiddled with your fingers under the table.

you looked down at your phone to kill some time (and hopefully ease your nerves at least a bit). the exact moment the clock hit 5pm you heard someone come in, quick footsteps getting louder as they approached your direction.

the man stopped in front of your table, eyes locking with yours for a few seconds without a word.

‘are you, uh- my date? soonyoung’s friend?’ you mumbled awkwardly, breaking the silence between the two of you. the man nodded, pulling back the chair to sit down. he extended a hand in your direction.

‘i’m jihoon, but i assume soonyoung told you as much.’ he said as he shook your hand. ‘sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘oh, you don’t have to apologize.’ you smiled politely, trying your best to appear chill. ‘i’m the one who came in early after all. anyways, um- have you ever been to this place?’

jihoon shook his head.

‘don’t really have the time to eat out to be honest. i usually just order takeout.’

‘busy with work?’

‘mhm.’

‘and what is it that you do?’

jihoon’s voice was calm and precise and so was his manner of speaking - short, factual sentences, no unnecessary words or oversharing details. one could say he was a complete opposite of your friend. but that wasn’t what surprised you about him the most.

what came as a surprise was his answer.

‘i’m a music producer.’ you made a little ‘wow’ sound, seemingly impressed with his answer. ‘it’s nothing special.’

‘i didn’t take you as the type.’ you said and jihoon raised an eyebrow. ‘i mean that you look so… serious. it’s surprising that someone as stoic as you is friends with soonyoung of all people.’

‘i’ve learned to tolerate him.’ he mumbled, eyes darting away from you and towards the waiter, gesturing for him to come to your table so that the two of you can order. ‘enough about me, though. shall we order something?’

you smiled, nodding politely.

the rest of the date went surprisingly pleasant - you had a nice conversation (or rather you talked non stop and he just listened, nodding or saying ‘mhm’ every once in a while), the food was good and jihoon, in true gentleman fashion, insisted on paying for the food and your cab home. but there was one thing that wouldn’t stop bothering you.

‘it was a disaster. can you believe he didn’t smile even once? and he spoke for like, maybe three minutes total.’

‘maybe it’s because you blabber too much.’ you heard jun say from the other side of the kitchen counter, the man not even sparing a second to look up at you from his phone. you rolled your eyes at his remark, trying to focus back on the cooking. ‘you should just ask soonyoung about it. i’m sure he told him something.’

‘yeah, mr. ‘i’m so mysterious i barely talk’ definitely told the biggest yapper on this planet about how his date went.’ you sighed, hand reaching towards the spices cabinet. ‘i think i would know by now. i’m surprised he even gave me his number.’

‘did you text him after?’ your friend asked, now standing up to head over to the fridge and get something to drink.

‘of course i did! i texted him when i arrived home to thank him for the good time spent and you know what he did? he sent me a thumbs up emoji. a thumbs up emoji, for christ sake!’

jun couldn’t help but chuckle at your dramatic reaction, sitting down once more as he opened the can of soda.

‘maybe he’s just a dry texter.‘

you sighed.

‘i don’t know. nonetheless, i don’t really expect to hear from him.’ you mumbled.

‘another bad date to cross off your list?’ jun asked, eyes already glued to the food you prepared for the two of you.

‘probably, yeah. it’s a shame, though. he’s cute. and a gentleman, too. he’s probably the first guy who didn’t even think of splitting the bill on the first date and paid before i had any say in the matter. i’m also almost a hundred percent sure he had a black card, but he put it back into his wallet before i could take a good look.’

your friend looked invested all of a sudden, even straightening his posture as a sign that he’s listening.

‘you said he works as a producer, right? and his name is-‘

‘lee jihoon.’

jun put down his utensils before he even managed to dig into the food, his eyes widening all of a sudden as if he’s just connected the dots.

‘girl, you literally went on a date with the legendary producer WOOZI. that is an honor in itself.’

your brain seemed to short circuit for a quick second after hearing your friend’s words.

everyone around you always obsessed over WOOZI - the legendary producer who built his own legacy from scratch, his determination and work ethic admired by many around the world. his work has been praised and recognised globally and he’s worked with some of the biggest stars in the world, producing number one hits that would top the charts for weeks on end. despite all that, the man wasn’t known as a public persona - his social media displayed only the songs he’s worked on and his private life was exactly that: private. no one really knew what WOOZI was like outside of his music. people who weren’t from his hometown wouldn’t be able to recognise him on the street or in a restaurant. but jun did. because he grew up in that very same town.

it was his favorite anecdote during a late night conversation or while randomly spitting facts about himself, only that now it held a lot more meaning. now you could put a face behind that nickname. a very handsome face, too.

‘wait, you’re telling me that dude is WOOZI?’

jun nodded quietly, a satisfied smile on his face.

‘i literally lived next door to him when i was younger. we weren’t exactly friends, though. i think he was a bit too shy to go and play outside most of the time.’

‘i think you were just too weird for him.’ you laughed, earning a smack on the head from your friend.

‘anyways, my point is,’ jun continued, seemingly ignoring your comment. ‘he’s obviously a busy guy. maybe wait a little to see what happens instead of immediately crossing him off of your list and denouncing him just another bad date.’

a week and a half has passed and you were laying comfortably on your couch, the sounds of some new reality show you’ve been watching filling up the room.

you took jun’s words to heart, still holding some hope that jihoon would text or call you, chalking up every day of it not happening to him being busy. but after so many days it was pretty difficult to hold onto that hope.

your phone started buzzing all of a sudden, the sudden sound making you jump. you looked over to the phone screen, immediately sighing as you saw the contact name.

kwon soonyoung.

if there’s one thing you’ve learned about him throughout the years of your friendship, it was that whenever soonyoung called you at a late hour like this it was one of two things:

1. he was drunk out of his mind and his friends called you from his phone to ask if you’d pick him up.

2. he wasn’t drunk out of his mind yet so he’d invite you to come and drink with him and his friends only to declare that he’s done for the day right as you arrive, leaving you in an awkward position as he did countless times before (his alcohol tolerance is so weak it should be studied).

you picked up the call and didn’t hear any coherent words on the other side of the phone, but you did hear soonyoung crying and wailing about something you couldn’t quite understand. that was until someone else took the phone.

‘i’m sorry for him, he’s drunk beyond comprehension.’ you recognized the voice instantly, even though you only heard it once before. ‘could i trouble you with picking him up from here?’

so it was option number one.

‘can’t you do it yourself since you’re already with him?’ you furrowed your brows, surprised at the question. ‘you don’t sound drunk to me.’

‘i’m working.’ jihoon’s voice was stern on the other side of the phone and you could still hear the faint sounds of soonyoung in the background.

‘then what is soonyoung doing there?’

‘he likes to terrorize me.’

you looked at the clock on the wall and then sighed, loud enough for the man to hear it.

‘drop me the address and i’ll pick him up.’

the drive was fairly quick - surprisingly enough, jihoon’s studio wasn’t that far from your apartment and, conveniently, even closer to soonyoung’s. that information did brighten up your mood a little; it meant that you won’t have to waste too much of your time on your drunk friend and that you’d be able to swiftly come back to watching the new episode of your show.

you looked at the message jihoon sent containing the instructions of how to get to his studio, the thumbs up he sent more than a week ago sitting right above it. once you finally found the door (with the slight help of hoshi’s extremely loud voice) you knocked on it lightly, being met with jihoon’s figure right in front of you barely seconds after.

he looked… tired.

‘hi.’

‘hi.’ jihoon mumbled, hand running through his short hair. ‘i’m sorry you had to drive here at this hour.’

‘it’s no problem.’ you said, a small smile making its way onto your lips. ‘why are you here so late anyways? it’s way past working hours.’

‘i have deadlines to meet.’ he explained shortly, opening the door wider to let you in. ‘i’m used to it by now.’

you nodded, eyes roaming around the room - the equipment, a large couch in the corner (currently occupied by hoshi), a bunch of figurines from different animes. it was all kept pretty minimalistic, exactly what you expected of jihoon.

you didn’t have much time to contemplate the interior, though, as you were soon met with the weight of drunk soonyoung’s body on yours, the man almost making you stumble.

‘yah, my favorite friend!’ he cried out, capturing you in a tight hug. ‘jihoon won’t let me record a song about tigers here. he’s a bad guy!’

you looked over to jihoon. he just shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips.

‘yeah, he’s such a bad guy.’ you said. ‘but the bad guy has work to do and you need to go home before you fall asleep, because i won’t be carrying you to your apartment.’

‘but i wanna record my song!’ soonyoung said, voice sulky. for a second you almost felt bad for him.

‘i’ll let you do it once i’m done with this project, alright?’ jihoon asked, a last effort for his friend to agree to leave him alone for now. soonyoung’s face lit up immediately, nodding excitedly as you dragged him out of the studio, shooting the man a quick goodbye before he closed the door.

on your way back, after you’ve already managed to get soonyoung tucked away in his bed and were ready to get inside your car your phone buzzed again. yet this time it was jihoon who the notification was from.

‘thank you for helping today. i’ll owe you.’

you smiled unconsciously, typing back an answer.

‘invite me out somewhere after your done with your project and we’ll be even.’

you weren’t even mad when he sent you another thumbs up emoji as a response.

soonyoung rolled his eyes as he heard you sigh for the fifth time in the span of the last few minutes, another outfit discarded and thrown onto the bed as you stood in front of your closet.

‘remind me, what was wrong with that first dress again?’ he mumbled as you rummaged through the hangers full of clothes.

‘the neck line. too slutty.’

‘wear something red. it’s jihoon’s favorite color.’ he mumbled quietly, going on his phone. you stopped in your movements, head almost cartoonishly turning towards your friend. next thing he knew, you threw a shoe at him. he let out a little ‘ow’, laughing right after.

‘and you decide to tell me that after i’ve tried on twelve different outfits and almost had a mental breakdown?’

‘it was funny seeing you so frustrated.’

another shoe flew in soonyoung’s direction, this time missing the boy and landing behind the bed.

you decided to abstain from any verbal comments towards your friend and his visible lack of help, turning your focus towards the closet yet again.

you had too many clothes for your own good - not so many that you would call yourself a hoarder, but your collection was definitely quite impressive, with garments for almost every occasion and event. still, it seemed to not be enough as you were tasked with picking an outfit for a dinner with jihoon.

he texted you back two weeks after you helped him with getting hoshi out of his studio - even apologised for just how long it took. the invitation wasn’t anything overtly special. no mention of it being a date: just a ‘thank you’ dinner at a ramen place he really likes, with a note to wear something pretty and elegant but still casual.

what the hell does that even mean?

after some time had passed you managed to decide on an off-shoulder dark red long sleeve paired with a flowy, black maxi skirt you bought at a 50% off sale once last year and wore two times since. you sighed, looking at yourself in the mirror one last time, soonyoung giving you a thumbs up in the background.

you arrived at the restaurant five minutes early and, to your surprise, jihoon was already there, standing in front of the entrance with headphones on, eyes looking down at his phone. you smiled unconsciously at the view. he seemed to notice your presence quite quickly - gaze locking with yours, hand already reaching to hide the phone in his pocket.

you greeted him. jihoon stayed silent for a solid ten seconds.

‘hello, earth to jihoon!’ you said, brows furrowed in confusion.

‘ah, sorry.’ he mumbled, seemingly zoning back in, ears a little red. ‘hi. you look… pretty.’

you could see a small smile on his face and that, along with the comment, almost caught you off-guard. you prayed that the dim lights inside the restaurant wouldn’t let him see the faint crimson color creeping up your cheeks.

you managed to mumble a quiet ‘thank you’ before the two of you sat down at your table, silence taking over for a good few minutes.

‘so, how did your project go?’ you asked to get a conversation going, jihoon looking up from the menu and at you.

‘good.’ he said shortly, with no further explanations. ‘tiring.’ he added after a few beats of silence.

‘you should rest for a bit.’ you stated and as jihoon focused on your face, he couldn’t help but notice the slight worry that appeared at his second comment. ‘even a legendary producer such as WOOZI deserves some time off.’

jihoon blinked once. twice.

that’s when you realised.

‘you know i’m-‘

‘ah, it came out the wrong way, it’s not like i’m stalking you or anything i promise!’ you said, words almost blurring into one another due to the speed with which they came out of your mouth. ‘i have this friend, jun, and i obviously told him about our date because that man is as nosy as they get, and then he started a story about how he used to live next door to you when you were children or something. sorry.’

jihoon laughed.

it wasn’t a loud laugh, one that would make your stomach hurt, no. it was more of a small giggle, quiet and sudden, as if he found this situation utmost amusing.

‘don’t be.’ he said, still smiling gently. ‘you would’ve probably found out anyways. if not from jun, then from soonyoung.’

‘i shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he knows.’ you mumbled, still slightly embarrassed.

‘he’s my closest friend. he’s known about it for years.’ jihoon stated shortly as the food arrived. ‘and i don’t mind you knowing about it either.’

jihoon’s smile faded quickly as he heard his phone buzzing, the contact name on his phone making him frown. he excused himself for a second, that second turning into five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. when he came back to the table your plate was already almost empty, while his food was way past being warm - as of someone put his bowl inside the freezer for the entirety of the time he was talking on his phone.

he sat down, running a hand through his hair as he sighed quietly.

‘did something happen?’ your voice was filled with concern as you looked at him.

‘they still want some changes on the project i just finished. i should probably go back to the studio today.’

‘oh.’

jihoon was visibly annoyed with the information he received on the phone as he looked around, unsure of what to do next.

‘we can reschedule this.’ your voice got him out of his thoughts, eyes looking up at you. ‘we’ll meet for this date- dinner another day and you’ll be done with this work thing faster.’

‘i don’t want to make you wait.’ he mumbled.

‘i don’t mind.’

the truth was different - you did mind, you mumbled as you cursed yourself out in your head on your way home. truth be told, you wanted him to stay there, to finish the food and chat, maybe even invite him over for a movie (normally that offer would also include a drink or two, but you’ve learned that jihoon didn’t drink often). the other side of you, the one who spoke that day, knew that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the evening with the thoughts of another deadline clouding his head. guess you’ll just have to be patient.

you did notice a slight shift in his behavior, though. he reached out from time to time via messages (you still celebrate that as a small win - going from a thumbs up to normal texts with jihoon is a huge achievement), asking about your day or trying to reschedule your meeting, with little success. he even sent you a snippet of a song he’s been working on once, much to your surprise, asking for your input on it and claiming he has no one to ask about it and he needs someone else’s opinion. the texts weren’t by all means an everyday thing - more so like a ‘let me pop up out of the blue at the most random hour of the day with a wyd text’ type of thing, but they still brought a dumb smile to your face whenever you saw a notification from him pop up on your phone.

that being said, there was one issue.

the rescheduling of the dinner which has been cut short by his work has turned into a hellish experience. you could count the amount of times you were set on a particular date only to hear a day before that he won’t be able to get there and that you’ll need to reschedule again (with tons of apologies, of course) on the fingers of both your hands.

it started to be frustrating after a while - you knew he didn’t mean for it to seem like he didn’t want to meet up with you, but with each rescheduling you felt more and more as if that was the case, and not his work getting in the way. the most you got when it came to meeting him in real life was bumping into him at the grocery store in the middle of the night, both of you surprised as you searched through the snack aisle to find something to ease that random need for food at 2am. but that was it.

until you got a message from soonyoung about his birthday party.

soonyoung was always big on spending that day with all of the people he cherished the most - he loved having them around for his special day. there were always some no-shows, much to his dismay, but he’s gotten used to it considering how busy adult life can get sometimes.

when the notification first popped up you could only see the beginning of the text and you started to wonder whether jihoon would be there or not. definitely not, you thought, considering his lifestyle. but then you opened the chat as you arrived home and saw the rest of the messages soonyoung had sent - an overly excited explanation on how jihoon will actually show up this time, filled with too many exclamation marks and capital letters.

you didn’t admit it to yourself, but this year you were counting down the days to your best friend’s birthday for a different reason.

your mind kept running around the thought of ‘when is jihoon going to arrive’ from the moment you stepped foot in soonyoung’s apartment, immediately met with your already tipsy best friend and a few other familiar faces.

two months have passed, and you’ve actually managed to meet up with jihoon in that period of time, this time without his job interrupting him. soonyoung was surprised upon hearing that you’ve managed to drag the man to watch a rom com with you at the cinema, claiming that if it’s not anime, jihoon never agrees to watch anything with him, a sulky face following right after as he accused you of getting special treatment.

the other time it was per his request, a dinner in a quiet restaurant out of town that he heard about from one of his work friends, vernon, who claimed it was a ‘hidden gem’. you had to give it to the guy, he was right - the food was delicious and the cozy atmosphere made it easier for a conversation to flow naturally, allowing both you and jihoon to ease up a bit.

jihoon was still pretty reserved, but you caught the small differences in behavior, the slight changes in how he acted around you: how he would talk more comfortably and smile more, how the tips of his ears turned red whenever you complimented his music, how his hand grazed yours ever so slightly a couple of times as you two walked back to the car, how you could feel his gaze on you when you were looking in the other direction. you didn’t mention it to soonyoung - knowing him he would never let jihoon live it down - and instead kept those observations to yourself.

you were chatting with wonwoo, one of soonyoungs friends who you’ve played mariokart with (and promised yourself to never do it again because he won every single goddamn time), when you heard soongyoung's unmistakable voice over the music playing from the speakers as he squealed with excitement. your eyes moved towards the door and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight in front of you.

jihoon stood awkwardly, one leg inside the apartment while the other was still out in the hallway, trapped by soonyoung’s arms in a hug that looked a little too tight for his liking. he caught your gaze and smiled weakly, shaking his head with disappointment as he saw you laughing at the state he was in.

after finally being freed from soonyoung’s embrace, jihoon went on to greet the other people he knew, eventually landing on you and wonwoo. the taller man furrowed a brow as he watched jihoon give you a quick hug, hands loosely around your waist.

when the man left, dragged away by soonyoung, you gave wonwoo a look, as if asking him to elaborate on why he looked at the two of you that way.

‘jihoon isn’t the type for physical contact.’ he said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘i’ve only seen him hug soonyoung and mind you, he wasn't the one initiating it.’

you nodded, silently taking in wonwoo’s words as your eyes traveled through the room and landed on jihoon once again, now standing by the kitchen counter as soonyoung searched through the fridge to find the coke zero he always kept for his best friend. now that you thought about it, what wonwoo said made perfect sense - jihoon wasn’t one to initiate any form of physical contact, but it didn’t bother you much. even a short hug like the one he gave you today seemed out of the blue for him.

you decided to cast these thoughts aside for now, focusing rather on the party itself and not so much on the man whose eyes you’ve caught staring at you too many times to count that evening.

you’ve enjoyed the party a lot - it was entertaining to see soonyoung starting to cry at the mere sight of his birthday cake being tiger shaped, shedding another few tears as he noticed most of the gifts had a tiger theme going for them as well. the food was good, the atmosphere was nice, the people made for nice company for the evening, filling the room with constant laughter. safe to say the evening was a success, although it ended a bit earlier than some might’ve expected, with soonyoung falling dead asleep soon after he opened and thanked everyone for the gifts. you were one of the last people to leave: seeing the mess in your best friend’s apartment, you couldn’t help but clean it up at least a little bit before eventually leaving to go back to your place.

jihoon caught up to you on your way to the elevator, offering you a small smile as he walked next to you in silence.

‘i’m glad soonyoung’s party was a success.’ you spoke up first as the two of you stood in the elevator, waiting for it to get down. ‘you know he’d be sulking about it for the next month if it wasn’t to his liking.’

jihoon chuckled at your remark, nodding.

‘yeah. we wouldn’t hear the end of it.’ he mumbled, stepping out of the elevator. ‘want me to, uh, walk you home?’

you stood quietly for a second, a small smile on your face.

‘yeah. i’d like that.’

the walk was quiet for the most part - only the sounds of occasional cars driving by breaking the perfect silence as you and jihoon walked side by side, hands dangerously close to each other in a way that you felt the heat radiating off of his skin.

there was a fleeting thought in your mind telling you to grab his hand, wondering what it would feel like against your own, whether his skin was soft or not, whether his palm was bigger than yours. it took everything in your power to keep yourself from taking your hand in his as you walked next to him.

little did you know, jihoon’s mind was hung on the exact same thought.

he kept brushing his hand against yours almost on purpose - to see if you’d shy away or take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers together. much to his dismay, you did neither; which meant that if he wanted it to happen, he’d have to initiate it.

he cursed himself out in his head for being so anxious over something as simple as hand holding. sure he’s done that before - he wasn’t exactly unpopular amongst his friends in high school - but adult life hasn’t gave him much time for going on dates or anything of this sort. for jihoon, this felt like experiencing these feelings for the first time all over again.

his fingers lightly grazed yours once more and this time jihoon’s hand moved to hold yours with a light grip, eyes falling to your face for just a second to spot any reaction. he smiled just for a split second when he saw the rosy shade on your cheeks.

you kept your composure outside but there was no denying that the moment jihoon’s hand met yours you could feel that funny, tingly feeling inside you, one which seemed to be missing from all the other dates you’ve been on before.

it was a bummer that your apartment wasn’t that far from soonyoung’s, you thought. you would’ve killed for the walk to be a little bit longer, just so you could hold jihoon’s hand for a few more seconds, maybe minutes.

‘guess i’ll go now’ jihoon’s voice brought you out of your thoughts as the two of you stood in front of the building, the man’s hand still holding yours. ‘have a good night’s sleep.’

he offered you a small smile as you felt his hand loosen its grip on yours. you held it tighter in response, jihoon blinking in confusion.

‘wait.’

you tugged at the front of jihoon’s shirt with your free hand pulling him closer to you and next thing he knew your lips were on his, captured in a sweet but delicate kiss.

his body tensed up almost immediately, surprised by the sudden action. you seemed to feel it too, as you pulled away from the boy, an unsure look on your face.

‘uh, sorry for that, i didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-‘

‘it’s okay.’ was all jihoon managed to mumble, senses still overwhelmed from the kiss you just gave him, the touch still lingering on his lips. ‘goodnight, y/n.’

jihoon turned around and walked away as quickly as he could, afraid that if he turned around again you might’ve seen just how red his face was, how flustered the kiss made him. he knew it wasn't the best thing to do - he knew he’d regret it the moment he took the first step - but he kept walking.

you stood there confused, mind replaying the scene and trying to catch onto whether you did something wrong, whether jihoon just needed the time to process his feelings or whether you made too bold of a step. eventually you just sighed, eyes still watching jihoon as he disappeared around the corner, and went inside the building.

it took you a long time filled with tossing, turning and overthinking to finally fall asleep that night.

maybe it was embarrassment, maybe it was how he left you hanging that night, but you haven’t reached out to jihoon for a few days and you’ve soon realised that he wasn’t going to reach out either - or at least that was the conclusion you came to after day three of no messages.

you came back to the mundane routine - work, coming back home, falling asleep on the couch while watching some reality show that sounds and looks exactly like the one you’ve just finished. you tried to occupy your thoughts with everything but jihoon and yet your finger lingered over your phone screen every time you saw his name in your contacts, almost tempting you to message him.

the tv screen lit up the room as you looked through the pictures you took on your digital camera during soonyoung’s birthday, edited and ready to be sent to the birthday boy. your laptop laid on the coffee table in front of you as you opened the mail app, ready to drop the pictures and sent them to your friend, but a certain notification caught your attention.

your brows furrowed with confusion as you noticed one unread message from jihoon.

dear y/n,

i am too much of a coward to express this in real life, or at least do that in a proper manner without my words melting together into one incoherent mess, hence here i am. i hope this message doesn’t seem too out of the blue for you, but it has been incredibly hard for me to keep these thoughts and feelings to myself - and what better person to share them with than the one who these feelings concern?

my lifestyle, the job that i have, it does not exactly allow me to indulge in romance too much - i simply have no time for it. soonyoung always said that i should open up more but it was easier said than done. and yet, somehow, with you it was easy. almost too easy, i thought - so easy it scared me to think of it. i did my best to keep you at a distance all this time, to shield myself from accidentally growing to like you, putting boundaries when it was already all too late. i’d only be hurting myself and you if i were to try and keep denying what has been flourishing in my heart.

i’m sorry i walked away without almost any words that night - i was surprised, but that does not justify me leaving you without an answer. truth is, my mind hasn’t stopped thinking about you ever since we first met and even more so ever since you first kissed me - i’m afraid i will only spiral in those thoughts until they make me a madman. only the image of you could calm me enough to have a good night’s sleep while also being the sole reason i couldn’t possibly focus on my work no matter how much i tried to after i woke up. you haunt my every thought no matter day or night and you have been for days, weeks now. i feel like a fool in love writing this - something i never expected to happen to me. and yet here i am. i know i haven’t shown it much - lord knows i’m the last person to be good with my actions - but let this letter be an evidence of my love if i’ve yet to learn how to properly showcase it to you.

if you’re willing to have me despite all this: my demeanour, my busy nights, all my flaws then you’re more than welcome to visit me at my studio. you know i’m always there anyways.

love,

lee jihoon.

you never expected jihoon to be so vulnerable in front of you. and yet here it was - a confession you never expected to hear, words you never thought you’d read coming from the man who occupied all your thoughts for the past months.

and that’s when you noticed.

that message has been sitting in your inbox for a week now. seven whole days.

he wrote that message after soonyoung’s birthday - twenty four hours later, to be exact.

you don’t remember ever running as fast towards your car as you did that day.

your body moved before your mind could even comprehend what was happening - you weren’t even sure if you closed the door to your apartment, if you turned the tv off. you were too focused on getting to jihoon’s studio as fast as you possibly could.

jihoon was startled as he heard the sharp banging on the door to his studio, the sound clearly heard even with headphones on. upon opening the door, he didn’t even have time to say anyth8g, let alone open his mouth to speak, before you interrupted him.

‘i got your message.’ your words almost melted together with how fast you were speaking and if it wasn’t for jihoon’s great hearing he wouldn’t have understood it. ‘i’m sorry i read it so late, i’m sorry it took me so long to find but- scratch that, who writes a love confession and sends it on damn mail? i would’ve read it sooner if i had gotten it through a fucking pigeon or something. but we can talk bout your flirting techniques later - it’s not the important thing right now.’

‘and what is that?’ jihoon took a small step back, allowing you inside. ‘the important thing.’

‘i love you.’ your words echoed through the room. jihoon blinked once, like he wasn't expecting you to actually say it out loud. ‘i don’t care how much of your time this job takes up, i really don’t care if you think this won’t work out. i’m willing to try.’

you swore you’ve never seen jihoon smile this hard.

‘if i kiss you now, will you kiss me back this time?’ you said, taking a small, unsure step towards the man.

jihoon didn’t answer with words. instead he closed the door behind you, the closing the gap between the two of you in one, swift motion. his lips clashed with yours and this time it was him initiating the kiss, hands finding their way to your waist while yours laid comfortably against his chest.

‘this feels nice.’ he mumbled, breaking the kiss. you rested your forehead against his, smiling at the man.

‘well, you would’ve had that earlier if you sent that through messages like a normal person.’ your remark made jihoon chuckle, his usually pale cheeks a light shade of pink. ‘how did you even get my mail?’

‘you gave it to me so that i can send you the folder i use to blackmail soonyoung.’

‘ah, right.’

both of you laughed in unison as you leaned in to kiss jihoon again.

‘does that mean we’re dating now?’ you asked, faces milimeters from each other.

one of jihoon’s hands let go of your waist to gently cup your cheek.

‘i don’t know. you might have to kiss me once more to find out.’

You don’t like to brag, but your boyfriend is hot as fuck. It’s not just when he’s all made up and under stage lights, either. It’s in the soft moments, too; when he comes home from the gym, barefaced and sweaty, when he’s working on a song and he’s laser-focused on getting everything just right, when he’s waking up in the morning, eyes sleepy, mouth stretched in a yawn, hair all over the place. You can’t believe your luck sometimes, because not only is he hot as hell, he is one of the sweetest, most protective, devoted men you’ve ever met. Sure, he works a lot, but he also uses every off hour he has to spend time with you. 

Today is no exception; he’s made it home from a run, dressed in a tight black t-shirt and joggers and your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Ugh, if he only knew what he did to you on a regular basis. Honest to god, you were thigh-clenchingly, nipple-hardeningly wet for him multiple times a day. You couldn’t always do anything about it, either, so it was like a constant edging session until he was finally free and you could have your way with each other. What a terrible problem you have; horny for your boyfriend nearly all the time. A wistful smile makes its way to your lips as he toes off his shoes by the door. 

It’s time to be a little naughty, you think. When you make it over to him, he turns and pulls you into his arms. “Good morning,” he presses a kiss to your cheek. Your fingers run over his chest through his tight black tee, over his pecs, down over his toned tummy, and when you reach it, you slip your fingers just under the waistband of his joggers. You pull on one of the strings that cinch them tight when need be, just to tease, with your other hand. 

“I wanna play, Jihoonie,” you tell him sweetly. He pecks you on the other cheek, then on the nose, which makes you giggle. “Oh, and what do you want to play with?” He asks, cheeky smile plastered across his face and rolling his eyes, because he already knows what you’re going to say. 

“You,” your reply is just as saccharine, and though he knew your answer already, his eyes darken at your request. You pull at the hem of his shirt then, run a hand underneath to feel his abs and draw your fingernails down them lightly; he shivers under your careful touch, pupils already widening. 

“Alright, princess,” he acquiesces easily, dropping his arms and grabbing your hand to pull you into the bedroom. His voice is dripping with want already. He leads you into the room; a simple room, beautiful big windows with the curtains pulled back to see the view of the city outside and a big bed in the middle adorned with black silk sheets. The walls are dotted with black accents as well, pictures in monotones. There’s a desk situated close to the windows with a laptop and bare bones bits of studio equipment set up so he can work from home when he needs to. 

He turns away from you to pick up a few things on the floor to make it a little more tidy. When he looks back at you, you’re bare from head to toe, clothes strewn messily on the floor next to you, hair messy, breathing a little heavily. 

He lets out a laugh, low and sexy. “Someone’s impatient,” he tsks, but he’s got that cocky smile on his face, the one that drives you insane because he knows the effect he has on you. He strips his shirt over his head and your mouth starts to water because you have new toys to play with tonight. They gleam in the setting sun when he turns toward the window to toss his shirt into the clothes basket and you’re pretty sure you’re already wet  at just the thought of getting your mouth on them, flicking them with your tongue, sucking them sweetly until your pretty, perfect boyfriend is begging for you. 

You crook your finger at him and motion for him to come to you. He pulls at his joggers, sliding them down his hips slowly as he makes his way over to you, baring a bit of skin here and there until finally he exposes his cock; he’s already half hard for you and your tongue peaks out to moisten your lips before you bite your bottom lip, already more than ready for him. 

You press at his naked chest, maneuvering him onto the bed. He scoots up to the middle, props himself up on the headboard, legs spread a little, and repeats your little come here motion from earlier. You drop to your hands and knees on the bottom of the bed and crawl up it slowly, like a cat stalking your prey. You pause at his ankles and press a kiss to his left one, move to his knees and kiss his right one. You climb higher and kiss his sternum, mouth wanting to veer to the left or the right but holding yourself back for now. You lift your head finally, settling your ass against his hips and press a kiss to his lips. He smiles into it. 

He sighs into your mouth as you lick inside to play with his tongue. You coax him out to play and then retreat, making him come and find you, beginning your teasing. His tongue follows yours and you suck on it sweetly, making him groan into the kiss. You begin trailing kisses up his jaw until you reach his ear and nip at the lobe. 

“There are rules tonight,” you say softly into his ear, “that you must follow or you will be punished.” You pull back and physically see him gulp, but he nods his head ever so slightly, showing you that he understands.  

“First rule,” your face is very close to his as you speak, looking directly into his eyes, pupils blown wide, “I get to play with my new toys as much as I want,” you punctuate your sentence by flicking the metal bar through his left nipple. His quick intake of breath and grunt of pleasure are exactly what you wanted. 

“Second rule, I want to sit on your cock, but no movement. No thrusting, no grinding, nothing,” you finish up by wrapping your hand around him and giving him a few gentle pumps. He whines and gives you the puppy dog eyes at this, but you shake your head a vehement no. He frowns, but inclines his head once again. 

“Third rule, no touching.” He screws up his face at this one. 

“Fourth rule, and this one is the most important, Jihoonie, so pay attention. You only flip me over and fuck me when I say you can, understand?” The frown returns; frown 2: the frownening. His eyebrows draw together and he looks sad for a second, but he takes a deep breath and nods yet again. 

“Now, be a good boy for me, okay?” You pat his cheek, then take his hands and put them on the headboard above his head. You give him a little smooch on the lips and then reach for the bedside drawer to search for the lube you know he keeps there. Your fingers clasp around the smooth bottle finally and mentally cheer.

His cock is standing at attention now, so you pump a dollop of lube out onto the head and sit the bottle down next to your leg. He hisses because it must be cold, but you quickly begin smoothing it down over his shaft, making sure he’s nice and slick for you. Another little dollop on to your fingers and you reach down and press some inside your pussy, dragging your fingers up and circling your clit once. You like it wet, what can you say? 

With the lube tossed back in the drawer, you scoot up to line yourself up with him. Rather than slip him inside of you just yet, you press your pussy on his cock and roll your hips, dragging him through you fully. You do it again and he moans above you. You watch as the head of his cock drags through your folds, catching on your clit as you roll your hips forward for the third time. It feels good; too good, as a matter of fact, you could do this until you both come and call it a night, but you have plans for him. 

You reach for him again and guide him inside you. Both of you moan this time and it takes you gritting your teeth and pinching your leg not to start up a rhythm right away and ride him into oblivion. Especially when he opens his mouth: “Ohh, baby. You feel so good around my cock.”

It sends a shiver up your spine, but you stay still against him. You move your eyes down to his pecs and the veritable feast that lays before you. Jihoon had changed his nipple jewelry to barbells and you were very excited to play with them. Since he got them, his nipples have been seriously sensitive and while you’ve been able to play with them before, it wasn’t for very long periods at a time. And you hadn’t been able to get your mouth on them at all while they were still healing, which was a travesty. 

Tonight, you were about to change both of those things. You start by placing kisses, light and soft, around his left pec. Then, you switched to the right side and did the same. You place a little kitten lick to his right nipple and he inhales quick, mumbles out an “Oh, fuck.” You wrap your lips around his nip and begin to suckle at it a little; your tongue knocks into the barbell and his hips twitch up. You pull back immediately. 

“Jihoon…” You say, warning him. He shrugs his shoulders a little but encourages you to keep going. Your mouth goes to the left this time, running your tongue over his nipple, hand on the other one, rubbing circles and flicking the barbell from time to time. He is a constant stream of sounds; little whines and moans, ohh’s and mmm’s. 

From time to time, you feel him twitch inside of you, but you know it’s involuntary so you don’t get on to him. You love the feel of him just being inside of you, feeling full and stretching you out. It feels so good that you're even tempted to roll your hips once or twice. As you continue your playtime, you clench down on him, flexing your muscles right as a timely suck is placed to his left nipple. The sound that comes out of him is practically a yell and it makes you smile. You loved when he was vocal in bed. Honestly, he always is but never to this degree. You were driving him crazy tonight and it felt great. 

There was something about being the one in control that really got you off, and him too, if his reactions were anything to go by. Jihoon was not a man who liked relinquishing control often, but when he did, it always ended good for both of you. Like the time you tied him up and rode him until you both came, panting. Or the time you sat on his face and he ate you out without touching, unless he needed to tap to breathe. 

Your mouth was attached to his right nipple, tongue playing with the barbell stuck through it; he was gritting his teeth while moaning, voice tight and high, and you felt him twitch once, twice, and then warmth floods your pussy. You pull back quick and find that his head is thrown back, eyes squeezed closed, bottom lip between his teeth. He lets out a loud, drawn out “Fuuuuuck”, breathing in through his nose and then out through his mouth, his hips twitch up once again, and then you feel his body go a little slack underneath you. He’s breathing hard. 

“Did you just…?” You start incredulously

He raises a hand to stop you mid sentence, “You know I did.”

He opens his eyes, looks at you, and winces, expecting that you’re going to be mad for him being bad, but instead you press a long, tongue-tangling kiss to his mouth. 

“You’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” You ask, hands gliding across his fuzzy, buzzed head. He nuzzles into your touch, keeping his hands on the headboard like you’d asked him. God, he was so good for you. “You can touch now,” you say, giving him permission, knowing he’s itching to get his hands on you. 

His fingers dig into your hips, immediately flipping you onto your back and pressing you up the bed. He buries his face in your pussy; licking, sucking and dipping his tongue inside you. It only serves to drive your desire higher knowing he can taste himself as he eats you out. He sucks at you harshly, sliding his fingers into you easily, driving them in quickly. He quirks his fingers just right to hit your sweet spot as he tongues your clit, hauling you to the edge of your orgasm quickly and then everything slows down all of a sudden. His fingers leave you, bereft of anything inside you and it makes you ache with emptiness. 

You look down at him and he’s staring back at you, eyes bright as he licks you slowly, a hot stripe up your center, honey-drip slow. He slides his tongue over your clit again and again, swirling his tongue as slow as he possibly can. He stares in your eyes as he does it, doing a little teasing of his own now. It feels so good, you luxuriate in the feeling, until finally, finally you fall over the edge and pleasure spreads through your body, making you gasp and moan Jihoon’s name. Your eyes squeeze closed as your legs shake from the sheer intensity of your orgasm, it seems to last and last, but eventually your breaths begin to even out.

Jihoon is kissing your neck when you gently float back down to the real world. He’s repositioning you on the bed, pulling you down from where you were bunched up against the headboard, legs spread wide for him.  “Can you turn over for me, baby?” He asks softly. You lift yourself on shaky arms but manage to flip onto your side. He pushes one leg up and slides his cock back into you slowly. Both of you groan at the feeling; you sigh when his hips press to your ass and he bottoms out, finally feeling full again. He fills you up so well, his cock is perfect like it was made to fit in you. He wraps an arm around you, resting his hand on your tummy as he starts at a slow pace, rolling his hips deftly. Your free hand makes its way to his head to hold on to something as he thrusts into you, fingers sliding over his fuzzy buzz cut. 

His hand slides its way up to your breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and pointer finger. It sends sparks straight to your core. He keeps up the massage for a few minutes before he brings his hand up to your mouth, pressing two fingers to your lips, his mouth next to your ear as he whispers, “Suck.” 

You obediently open your mouth and begin drawing your tongue over his fingers, sucking on them, coating them with saliva. Fingers in your mouth, he picks up the pace on his thrusts, moaning prettily. His hips work into you, the slide slick and he’s hitting a spot inside you that drives you insane with pleasure. He presses down on your tongue with his fingers, pressing them in and in, making you choke a little and it’s so good. 

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, uses his hands carefully to pull you on top of him. You’re facing away from him, in reverse cowgirl. Your limbs are still a little weak and clumsy like a baby deer, but once you get your legs under you, you begin bouncing on his cock, leaning back a little. He brings his spit covered fingers to your clit and begins rubbing slick little circles as you ride him. 

“Fuck!” You exclaim as pleasure starts to radiate outward from where his fingers rub and his cock splits you open. Out of your mouth is a near constant stream of moans, whimpers, and expletives

He changes positions again, this time getting you under him, and you’d be lying if you said missionary wasn’t one of your favorite positions simply because it put him on full display and you loved seeing his face as he thrusts into you. His hips pick up the pace again, taking turns between rolling smoothly and jack-hammering into you before he slows down again. The veins in his arms are bulging as he holds himself above you and it’s so fucking hot. You suddenly and quite desperately want one of his hands wrapped around your neck as he fucks you. 

You tap his hand and indicate toward your neck and his eyes light up in understanding. He carefully wraps one of his big hands around your neck, fingers spread, applying no pressure, just resting it there. He presses down a little as his hips speed up and you feel your air supply narrowing a bit. He flexes his fingers a bit and puts a little more pressure on, making you gasp for air in the best way. 

“Baby, you look so good spread out for me, my fingers around your neck, letting me fuck your perfect little pussy.” His words, growled and low, fucking send you completely out of your mind. The sound of his voice, the timbre, absolutely wrecks you. Your orgasm explodes through you, radiating out from your center to the tips of your fingers and toes. You vaguely hear yourself screaming somewhere on Earth, but you don’t care right now because you’re floating out in the universe. You’re somewhere where stars explode and meteors collide, it’s dark and smells sweet, and you never want to leave. 

When you come back to yourself, you have no idea how long you were out of it, but Jihoon is cleaning you up; gently wiping you down with a soft, damp cloth, there’s a glass of water next to you on the nightstand, and he’s pulled the sheets up from underneath you to cover you up as he gets you settled.

“You okay, baby?” Jihoon asks as your eyes flutter open. You nod, not yet having found your voice again, smiling sleepily. “Look at you, all starry-eyed and fucked out,” he says, chuckling. He tosses the damp cloth across the room and slides into bed with you. He reaches over and grabs the glass of water, helps you raise your head, and tips the glass back so you can take a few little sips. He sits the water back down once you’re done with it and pushes a strand of hair behind your ear. He presses a sweet little kiss to your lips. “I love you, baby.”

He wraps you in his arms and you snuggle close. “Love you too, Jihoonie.”

a/n: Tell me you don't think of all the times we thought Woozi had his nipples pierced and a little part of your brain doesn't just WISH. I'LL WAIT. And then, you know, I couldn't stop writing naturally. So you shall all receive 3.2k of filth again. Sorry not sorry. I get carried away sometimes, I know.