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He sighs heavily as you wrap your arms around him, feeling a mixture of vulnerability and relief. It's a rare moment for Chan, being usually the one who provides comfort and support. But here, in your embrace, he allows himself to feel the weight of exhaustion and the vulnerability that comes with being known. Both by you, and by the world. "Figures..."

“How are you?” You whisper, pressing yourself more against his back.

Chan's shoulders sag slightly as he takes a deep, shaky breath. It's as if your simple question has given him permission to let down his guard, to admit the truth he's been holding onto. "I'm... not sure." He replies, his voice tinged with a mixture of vulnerability and strength. "I just feel so... exposed. And now everything's raw and messy and... I don't know."

You sigh, remembering all the answers. The way Chan sees himself. “You’re a good man, Channie.”

Chan's breath hitches in his throat as he hears your soft words, spoken like they're the absolute truth. He nods subtly, as if to acknowledge your reassurance, but there's still a hint of tension in his shoulders. He's still grappling with the raw emotions bubbling inside. "I want to believe that..." he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes... sometimes it feels like I'm not enough, y'know?"

You hug him tighter, heart aching at his words. “You’re being too hard on yourself, my love.” You whisper, your head almost resting between his shoulder blades. “It hurts me...”

The tightness in his chest slowly eases as your arms envelop him even tighter, your head resting against his back. Chan's breath shudders as he swallows hard, your words hitting right at the core of his insecurities. He knows deep down that you’re right, and your admission that it hurts you only reinforces that.

He turns his head slightly, not quite enough to look at you, but just a fraction to show that he heard and felt your words. “I’m sorry, baby.” He whispers hoarsely.

“Don’t be.” You sniffle. “Just please know the world doesn’t see you the way you do yourself.”

Chan's heart aches at the sound of your sniffle, wishing you wouldn't cry because of him. But he also understands the weight of your words. The contrast between how he sees himself and how the world perceives him. It's a difference he struggles with daily, even though he might not admit it.

He gently pulls away from your embrace, turning around to face you. His eyes are red-rimmed, evidence of his struggle with his own emotions. He reaches out to wipe a stray tear on your cheek.

"I know. I just... sometimes it's hard to believe.”

You nod, hugging him to your chest; tight, almost suffocating. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

Chan lets out a deep exhale, the tension in his body gradually relaxing as he lays on your chest, as if you're is the only thing anchoring him. He savours this moment, the warmth of your body against his, the feeling of safety that only you can provide.

The question you ask echoes in his mind, making him reflect on what truly would make him feel better. He gently pulls away from your hug, just far enough so he can look into your eyes. His gaze is tender yet vulnerable, a stark contrast to his usual cheerful persona. "Just... just stay with me, yeah?”

You lean, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Of course, angel.” Gosh, how many more of those pretty names do you have for him?

Chan's heart clenches at your tender kiss and sweet pet name. The word 'angel' slips so easily from your lips, but it has a profound effect on him. It's a reminder of the unconditional love and acceptance you offer him. Even on his hardest days, when he doubts himself the most. "I don't deserve you, you know that, right?” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“Yes, you do. You do.” You immediately refute. “We’ve talked about this. You deserve all of me, baby.”

Chan's lip trembles slightly at the conviction in your voice. It's a reminder of the many times you've had this conversation before, each time reassuring him that he does, in fact, deserve your love and affection. Despite knowing this logically, it's hard for him to truly believe it deep down.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin. You hug him around the shoulders. “I love you, Channie.” You speak. “The world loves you.”

Chan clings to you tighter, burying his face against your chest. He listens to your soothing words, the steady beat of your heart against his ear. The combination of your love and acceptance is almost too much for him to bear, his emotions threatening to overflow at any moment.

For a few moments, he doesn't say anything. He just holds you close, taking comfort in the way your body molds against his. Finally, he mumbles into your chest, "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Your heart aches as you pet his head. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve me.” You whisper on the verge of tears.

Chan takes a deep, shaky breath. Part of him wants to argue, to list all the reasons he feels like he's failing. But the look in your eyes, the conviction in your voice, it makes him swallow the protest on his tongue. He knows you're right, even if it's hard to accept.

He rests against your chest again, closing his eyes as he listens to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. You continue playing with his hair. “I think your answers today were all wrong.” You mutter, remembering how harshly Chan described himself in the video.

Chan stiffens slightly as you mention his answers. He knows exactly what you're talking about. His words had been blunt, honest, but perhaps too harsh in his self-assessment. "You think so?" he asks quietly. There's a hint of vulnerability in his tone, as if he's not entirely convinced that his answers were wrong.

“Of course I do.” You swallow thickly. “I don’t think you’re lost or complicated. Nor that you need to work harder, nor that you're an idiot who only cares for the members.” You list off some of his answers. “You have an amazing career. And your sensitivity makes you more keen to details. And I think it’s okay that you treasure the members so much. But I know you're so much more than that.” You refute each and every one of his answers.

As you list off his answers one by one and offer a counter argument for each, a mixture of emotions flits across Chan's face. Initially, there's defensiveness, as if he wants to argue and defend himself. But as you continue, his defenses crumble, and he's left with the stark reality of your words.

His breathing becomes a bit more ragged as he listens to you, your rebuttals making a slow but inevitable impact on him. He knows you're right, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. “I’m sorry, baby. But you’re wrong.” You insist. “You got it all wrong.”

Chan swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. He knows deep down that you're right, that his answers were a reflection of his own insecurities and self-doubt, not the truth about who he is.

His grip on you tightens slightly as he struggles with his emotions. A part of him wants to accept your words, but another part clings to his self-perceived flaws as a sort of twisted comfort. "I'm just... I'm scared." He whispers finally. "Scared of not being enough. For you. For the kids. For our fans." He murmurs quietly, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "I'm scared of letting everyone down."

Silence falls between you for a few moments as you struggle to find the right words to comfort him. Chan's fear and insecurities are real, and they feed off each other, creating a vicious cycle that's hard to break.

He holds you tightly, his grip nearly desperate, as if he's hanging onto you for dear life. He's quiet, but the tremble of his body betrays his vulnerability and the storm of emotions raging inside him.

You swallow hard, trying to find a good approach. “I’m sure there’s things you could do better….” you speak after a while. “But there’s a fine line between wanting to grow and questioning your worth.” You huff, trying your best not to cry. “And you’re so, so worthy to me.”

Chan's breath hitches as you speak. There's a hint of truth in your words. Room for improvement is always there, and that's fine, but he's often stuck in the latter. Overthinking and undermining himself, questioning his worth and fearing his own flaws.

Your reassurance cuts through the self-doubt, and he pulls you closer to him, pressing his face against your chest once more. He's quiet for a moment before mumbling in a shaky voice. "Can you—could you tell me that again?"

“You’re worthy, my love.” You whisper. “Of me, of the kids, of your fans. Of all the love we give you. You deserve pretty things, but you have to allow them for yourself.”

Chan's grip on you tightens as you whisper your words of reassurance. His breathing becomes a bit more ragged as he struggles to hold back his emotions. Your words... they sink in, even though he knows it will take some time for him to truly believe them.

He nods subtly against your chest, the simple gesture a silent acknowledgement of your words. He knows you're right but accepting it is hard. He whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "I-I'll try, baby. I'll try."

“I’m not falling in love,” he says.

You stare at Minho, half-smirking, half-annoyed. He’s sprawled out on your bed, flipping through one of your old comic books, pretending he’s way cooler than he actually is. His hair is a mess—he’s too lazy to even run a hand through it properly. You roll your eyes.

“Sure, Minho. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you say, tossing a pillow at his face. He barely dodges it, laughing. It’s that laugh that makes your heart skip a beat, but you refuse to admit it.

“Why would I be falling for you?” he teases, grinning. “You’re like... my best friend. And you’re a pain in the ass.”

You snort. “Right back at you, loser.”

He sits up, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “Let’s be real. If anyone’s falling, it’s definitely not me. I’m the epitome of self-control.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, right. You cried watching Toy Story 3.”

“Hey, that was emotional!” he protests, eyes wide in mock offense. “Andy grew up, okay? It’s relatable.”

“Sure, sure,” you say, shaking your head. You grab your phone and plop down beside him, scrolling through your messages. He leans over, way too close, trying to peek at your screen.

“Who’s texting you?” he asks, curious.

You nudge him away. “Nosy much? It’s just my mom.”

“Tell her I say hi,” he says, leaning back on his elbows.

You do, and your mom’s quick reply makes you giggle. “Tell Minho he’s still grounded for breaking my favorite vase last year.”

“Mom says you’re still grounded,” you say, showing him the message. He laughs again, this time falling back onto the bed, clutching his stomach.

“Man, your mom’s got a long memory.”

“Yup,” you agree. “So, Mr. Epitome of Self-Control, what’s the plan for today?”

He sits up, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint you know all too well. “Let’s go to the arcade. I bet I can beat your high score on Dance Dance Revolution.”

“You wish!” you exclaim, jumping up. “You couldn’t beat me if your life depended on it.”

As you both head out, the playful banter continues. At the arcade, it’s as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s just you, Minho, and the flashing lights of the game machines. You watch as he concentrates intensely on the dance mat, his tongue sticking out slightly. You can’t help but think he looks kinda cute like that. Not that you’d ever tell him.

“Ha! Beat that!” he shouts, pointing at his score. It’s higher than yours by a mere point. You roll your eyes.

“Beginner’s luck,” you mutter, stepping up to the mat. He watches you, that goofy grin still plastered on his face. You nail the moves, one by one, beating his score by a landslide.

“Told ya,” you say, smugly.

He pouts, crossing his arms. “Okay, okay. You win this time. But next time, you’re going down.”

As you both leave the arcade, he drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It’s a casual gesture, something he’s done a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. Warmer. More... significant.

“Hey, you hungry?” he asks, steering you towards the diner down the street. It’s your usual spot, a place that holds countless memories. As you slide into your favorite booth, Minho immediately starts teasing the waitress, who’s known you both since you were kids.

“Two milkshakes, please. Extra whipped cream for her because she’s extra,” he says, winking at you.

You stick your tongue out at him. “And fries. Don’t forget the fries.”

When the food arrives, you both dig in, talking about everything and nothing. It’s easy, comfortable. But there’s an undercurrent of something more. Something unspoken.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, looking at you with those deep, thoughtful eyes.

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. “Sometimes. Why?”

He shrugs, looking away. “I dunno. Just wondering what it’ll be like. If we’ll still be... like this.”

“Like what?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He fiddles with his straw, avoiding your gaze. “You know. Best friends. Hanging out all the time.”

“Of course,” you say, nudging his foot under the table. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

He finally looks at you, a soft smile on his lips. “Yeah. You’re right.”

You both finish your food, and as you walk home, the silence between you is comfortable. His hand brushes against yours a few times, and each time, your heart skips a beat.

Back at your house, you sit on the porch, watching the stars. Minho leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking up at the sky.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says quietly.

You glance at him, surprised. “For what?”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “Just... for being you.”

Your heart flutters, and you find yourself smiling. “Anytime, Minho. Anytime.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, it’s as if the world stands still. Then he breaks the gaze, looking embarrassed.

“Okay, seriously, I’m not falling in love,” he insists again, more to himself than to you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Keep telling yourself that, idiot.”

But as you both sit there, the night wrapping around you like a warm blanket, you know the truth. And maybe, just maybe, he does too.

He threw the curtains aside and cracked the windows open earlier, letting into the room a shower of late-afternoon sun. It now dyes his skin a dewy caramel, lightens his eyes to pools of molten amber. For some time, you are unable to respond, enraptured by all the wonder that he holds. 

Eventually, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, dip down, rid of the distance between you with a soft seal of your mouth his. He doesn’t move until he’s overcome his surprise, but then he brings one hand to your waist, slipping beneath the sheer fabric of your top to press your hips down onto his, and wraps the other around the base of your neck, the pad of his thumb settling over your jugular like a gossamer wing.

You sigh in pleasure and part your lips; he pursues this opening with a fervor, pliant tongue keeping your mouth ajar, head tilting to one side to better savor you, your teeth knocking and limbs entwining in this passionate fray.

By the time you come up for air, the world around you has changed. You’re underneath him now, his hands positioned on either side of your head. His eyes are no longer amber but obsidian, his mouth ravaged and raw in the aftermath of colliding time and time again with yours. The sun has largely vanished beneath the skyline.

You collect yourself just enough to procure an answer to his question.

“Every time I look at you feels like the first,” you whisper.

Minho doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe in spite of how you’d just kissed the air straight from his lungs, doesn’t believe his ears. For that is the exact way he feels about you, always has been and always will, though you have always been the one to first verbalize the feelings that he doesn’t have the words for.

For some time, he is unable to respond, enraptured by all the wonder that you hold.

Eventually, he combs a hand through his hair, dips down, rids of the distance between you with a hard crash of his mouth upon yours, and there the two of you will remain until it’s no longer light from the sun that sets your room aglow, but that of the moon and a hundred thousand stars.