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HBD
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
Trying to force himself to just be your best friend as you requested, Matt cracks under a wave of intense jealousy.
Part 8
The phone buzzes at 7:14 AM.
You’re still barely awake from a dreamless sleep, the kind that comes after days of emotional exhaustion finally catch up with your body. The vibration rattles against the nightstand, sharp and insistent, and your hand fumbles blindly across the wood surface until your fingers close around cold phone.
One new message.
Your thumb swipes across the screen before your brain fully registers what you're doing. The brightness sears your eyes. You blink. Refocus.
Matt: OK.
Two letters. No punctuation beyond the period. No follow-up. No explanation.
The phone slips from your fingers and lands face-down on the mattress. Your heart, which had lurched into your throat at the sight of his name, now sinks somewhere deep into your stomach. OK. Just OK. The letter you poured yourself into, the desperate plea to salvage your friendship, the raw admission of your cowardice, all of it met with two letters and a period.
Your fingers are already typing before you can stop yourself.
You: OK?
The response comes immediately. So fast you know he must have been staring at his phone, waiting.
Matt: The letter from Nick, i read it. OK.
No capitalization on the I. No warmth. No indication of what's going on behind those dark eyes. Just a confirmation of receipt. A digital nod. Message delivered. Contents noted. Have a nice life.
You stare at the screen until the words blur. Then you lock the phone and roll over, pulling the blankets up to your chin. The ceiling is the same ceiling you've stared at for the past week. The same cracks in the plaster. The same dust motes floating in the morning light. Everything is exactly the same, except now you have two letters and a period to add to your collection of things Matt has given you that you don't know how to interpret.
You don't reply.
The conversation dies right there, buried under the weight of mutual confusion, two people who have spent years talking around the thing that matters most, now reduced to single syllables and lowercase letters.
The next three days pass in a haze of forced nothing.
You don't leave the house. You don't answer texts beyond the bare minimum required to keep people from showing up at your door. The group chat buzzes constantly. Chris, doing what Chris does best, filling the silence with nonsense.
Chris: yo did anyone else see that pigeon outside the studio today
Chris: it was HUGE
Chris: like genuinely concerningly large
Chris: nick said it was normal sized but nick is a liar
Chris: anyway we're filming tomorrow if anyone cares
Chris: which you should because the concept is actually sick
Nick sends a thumbs-up emoji. Matt sends nothing.
You send nothing.
The chat goes quiet for a few hours, then Chris starts again.
Chris: update: the pigeon is back
Chris: i think it's watching me
Nick: It's a pigeon, Chris.
Chris: a MENACING pigeon
You read every message. You don't respond. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard more than once, but what would you even say? Hey guys, just so you know, your brother and I had sex and then he found years of obsessive love letters I wrote to him and now we're not speaking and I'm pretty sure our friendship is irreparably damaged. Anyway, what time is filming?
The phone stays locked. The silence stays heavy.
Your birthday arrives on a Saturday.
You wake up to the smell of something baking downstairs. Your mother, already in full event mode, has been planning this for weeks. "It's not every day my baby turns another year older," she'd said, ignoring your protests that you didn't want a party, that you didn't want a fuss, that you just wanted to survive the week without completely falling apart.
The house transforms by noon. Folding chairs appear from the garage. A tablecloth you've never seen before gets draped over the dining table. Your mom enlists two of your cousins to hang a banner that reads Happy Birthday! in gold script, and someone produces a truly alarming number of balloons.
You move through the preparations like a ghost. You smile when people talk to you. You accept hugs from aunts who comment on how thin you look, how tired, are you sleeping okay? You lie and say you're fine. Just busy. Just stressed. Just anything other than what you actually are, which is a woman whose entire emotional existence has been reduced to two letters and a period.
The doorbell rings at 2 PM.
Chris bursts through the door before you can even reach the handle. "BIRTHDAY GIRL!" His voice echoes through the entryway. In his hands is a massive foil balloon, it's a giant green pickle wearing a striped party hat. The text on the body of the pickle reads, in bold letters: Another Birthday? NO BIG DILL!
A laugh tears out of you. Genuine. Surprising. The first real laugh in days.
"Chris," you manage, "where did you even find this?"
"The internet is a beautiful place." He grins, shoving the balloon weight into your hands. "Also, you're welcome. I spent actual money on this."
Nick slips past his brother, shaking his head with the long-suffering patience of someone who has spent his entire life dealing with Chris's antics. He's holding a neatly wrapped present, rainbow paper with a silver bow. "Ignore him. Happy birthday." He pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other keeps the gift carefully balanced.
His voice drops to a whisper against your ear. "Are you okay?"
The question, so simple, so direct, almost undoes you. You swallow hard. Nod against his shoulder. "I'm okay," you whisper back. And for a moment, pressed into Nick's steady, grounding presence, you almost believe it.
Then you look up.
Matt is standing in the doorway.
He's wearing dark jeans and a simple white box crop tshirt. His hair is the same. His face is the same. Everything about him is exactly the same, except for the careful, deliberate distance in his eyes. The way he's holding himself back. The way he's watching you watch him.
And then, like someone flipped a switch, he smiles.
It's his classic smile. The easy one. The best-friend smile. "Hey," he says, stepping forward. "Happy birthday." He hands you a wrapped present with a card tucked under the ribbon, and his fingers don't brush yours. He pulls back before they can.
The card features Sandy Cheeks winking inside her scuba dome on the front, arched beneath the words howdy partner happy birthday. Inside, his handwriting, familiar, the same handwriting you've read on set lists and grocery notes and the back of receipts for years fills the page.
Homegirl,
Happiest Birthday. All the best! Thanks for always being there.
— BBF Matty
P.S. I'm sorry.
Your eyes catch on the postscript. The rest of the message is so casual, so flippant, so perfectly constructed to sound like nothing has changed. But those three words at the bottom, tucked under his signature like an afterthought, undo the entire performance. I'm sorry. Not sorry for the card being late or sorry I forgot to wrap it better. Just I'm sorry. Vast and vague and devastating. Also you couldn't help but notice the subliminal messaging, Sandy, Spongebob's iconic girl best friend.
You look up. Matt is watching you read, his expression carefully neutral. But his jaw is tight. The muscle at the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Thank you," you hear yourself say. "This is really sweet."
"Of course." His voice is steady. Performed. "You know I've got you."
You know I've got you. The words land somewhere deep in your chest and ache. He's being normal. He's being exactly what you asked for in the letter, the best friend, the safe one, the one who doesn't talk about what happened or what he read or what he said when he pinned you against the door and called you his. He's giving you what you asked for.
So why does it feel like a knife between your ribs?
The party swells around you.
Your mom has outdone herself. The dining table groans under the weight of food. Sandwiches cut into triangles, a cheese board, a vegetable platter, something involving puff pastry that your aunt brought and everyone is politely not eating. Your cousins have taken over the living room. High school friends you haven't seen in months circulate with paper plates and cups of punch.
You move through it all on autopilot. Smile. Hug. Thank you. Yes, another year older. No, I don't feel different. Yes, the pickle balloon is ridiculous, Chris picked it out.
Matt stays in your orbit but never enters it. Every time you glance across the room, he's there, talking to someone, laughing at something, sipping his drink. But his eyes keep finding you. Brief glances. Quick cuts. Like he's checking to make sure you're still there. Still real. Still his, even if he's pretending you're not.
The doorbell rings again past 4 PM.
August is standing on your porch with a bouquet of flowers. Simple. White daisies and yellow roses, wrapped in brown paper. His smile is warm and easy and completely unaware of the emotional minefield he's walking into.
"Happy birthday," he says, handing you the flowers. "Sorry I'm late."
You hug him. It's natural. It's what friends do. But over his shoulder, across the crowded living room, you see Matt's expression flicker. The mask slips for half a second. Something dark and sharp flashes in his eyes.
Dinner is a loud, chaotic affair.
Every seat at the table is filled. Your mom has dragged in the extra chairs from the garage, the mismatched ones with the wobbly legs that no one ever uses. You're wedged between one of your cousins and Nick. Across the table, Matt sits next to Chris. August at the far end.
You're halfway through your second plate of food when August stands up.
He taps his fork against his glass. The clinking sound cuts through the chatter. Conversations trail off. Heads turn. Your cousin elbows you and grins.
"Alright, alright," August says, his voice carrying that easy confidence he always has. "I'm not big on speeches, but I couldn't let today pass without saying something."
Your stomach tightens. You glance at Matt. He's perfectly still, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"I've known this one for a long time," August continues, gesturing toward you with his glass. "And I've watched her be the most selfless, most loyal, most quietly incredible person in every room she walks into. She's the kind of friend who shows up. Every time. No questions asked. No thanks needed."
Your cousins are swooning. One of your high school friends makes a teasing "aww" sound.
"She deserves the world," August says, his eyes finding yours. "And I'm so lucky to have her in my life. Happy birthday. To the best."
Glasses raise around the table. Voices chorus, "To the best!" Someone claps. Your mom dabs at her eyes with a napkin.
You force a smile. Force a thank you. Force yourself not to look at Matt.
But you feel him. You feel the exact moment he pushes his chair back from the table, the scrape of wood against wood. You feel the silence that follows as he stands, as he walks out of the room, as the door swings shut behind him.
The empty chair gapes at you. Accusing. Awful.
Nick catches your eye from across the table. His expression is carefully blank, but something flickers there. Something that looks a lot like confirmation. Like he's been waiting for this particular shoe to drop all afternoon.
You stare at Matt's half-eaten plate. At the fork resting on the edge of the porcelain. At the napkin crumpled beside it.
The green-eyed monster has finally reared its head.
You excuse yourself five minutes later.
"Just need to grab more napkins," you say, to no one in particular. To everyone. To the void where Matt used to be sitting. No one stops you. Your mom is already deep in conversation with your aunt about some neighborhood drama. Your cousins are arguing about something on their phones. The party has swallowed the moment whole, moved on without noticing the absence of one person.
The kitchen door swings shut behind you.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant laughter from the dining room, muffled now by the wall. The bright overhead light reflecting off the countertops. And Matt.
He's standing by the sink, his back to you, his hands braced against the edge of the counter. His shoulders are tight. His head is bowed. He doesn't turn around when you enter.
"Hey." The word comes out smaller than you intended.
"Hey." His voice is rough. Worn at the edges.
The silence stretches. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the dining room, Chris laughs loudly at something. The sound feels like it's coming from another planet.
Matt turns around.
His face is unreadable. That careful blankness he's worn all afternoon, all week, all the long days since he walked out of your bedroom and left the spare key on your nightstand. But his eyes are different. His eyes are burning.
"This is what you wanted, right?" He asks it quietly. Not accusing. Just tired. Just hollow. "To just forget about everything. For you to have your best friend back."
You stare at him. Your brain snags on the words. What you wanted. He's talking about the letter. The letter Nick delivered. The letter where you begged him to pretend the box had never been found, the sex had never happened, the confession had never left his lips. You asked him to forget. You asked him to shove everything back into a box and lock it away.
And he's been trying. All afternoon, with the easy smile and the casual card and the deliberate distance, he's been trying to give you exactly what you asked for.
Tears prick at your eyes. Hot. Immediate. You can't let him see. You can't let him watch you break again. You turn around, facing the counter, pressing both palms flat against the cold surface. The chill grounds you. The smoothness of the granite. The faint smell of dish soap.
"Maybe this will be better for both of us." Your voice trembles. You can't stop it. "I don't know, Matt. Maybe better for the friendship—"
The words die in your throat.
Heat. Sudden, solid heat pressing against your back. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest. His face buries into the side of your neck, his breath warm and ragged against your skin.
"I tried."
His voice cracks on the word. Shatters. The pieces of it scatter across the kitchen tiles.
"I tried, but I can't anymore. I can't fake it."
Your hands are still pressed flat against the counter. Your knuckles have gone white. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go.
"You have no idea how selfish you were." His lips move against your neck, barely a whisper. "Keeping all those letters to yourself. All those years. All those things you never said."
"I'm sorry." The apology chokes out of you, wet and broken.
"Don't be." His grip tightens. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry for not looking at you. For not seeing what was right in front of me."
A shaky breath shudders through his chest. You feel it against your spine, the rise and fall of it, the way his body is trembling almost imperceptibly.
"Finding that box, those letters" he continues, his voice low and rough, "completely flipped my world. I didn't—I had no idea. All this time, I thought I was the only one struggling. The only one with these messy, confused feelings that I didn't know what to do with. And then I found those letters and realized you were doing the exact same thing. In the dark. By yourself. For years."
His face presses deeper into your neck. You feel the scratch of his beard. The wetness that might be tears or might be your own or might be both.
"You were right there," he whispers. "The whole time. Right in front of me. And I was too stupid to see it."
He turns you around.
His hands slide up from your waist, over your ribs, until they cup your face. His thumbs brush the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping them away even as new ones fall. His eyes are dark and wet and unbearably open.
Then he kisses you.
It's different from the rainstorm. Different from the frantic, desperate collision in your bedroom. This kiss is slower. Deeper. A confession pressed into your lips, your tears mixing together, salt and heat and the faint taste of the punch he drank at dinner.
He pulls back, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His thumbs are still stroking your cheekbones.
"Seeing you with him," he breathes, "I can't take it."
You blink through the tears. "Who? See me with who?"
The kitchen door swings open.
August steps inside. His expression shifts instantly, the easy smile evaporating as he takes in the scene. You, crying. Matt's hands on your face. The tension in the air thick enough to choke on.
"Is everything okay in here?" August steps forward, his posture straightening, his shoulders squaring.
Matt drops his hands from your face. The warmth disappears. The cold rushes back in.
He turns around.
Walks right up to August.
Almost chest to chest. Eye to eye. The height difference is negligible. The tension is not.
"Yeah, dude." Matt's voice drips with defensive venom. "Everything's okay."
The air crackles. Neither of them moves. Neither of them blinks. You're frozen against the counter, your back still pressed to the cold granite, your hands still shaking.
The door swings open again.
Chelsea walks in. "What's up?" She glances between the two men. Her brow furrows. Then, as if deciding the testosterone standoff isn't worth her attention, she walks right past both of them.
"Happy birthday, babe. I'm sorry got caught up with work." She wraps you in a hug, her sundress rustling, her perfume light and floral and completely at odds with the chaos of the moment. She pulls back, studying your face. "You okay?"
You nod. Numb. Automatic.
Chelsea turns around. Walks right up to August. Throws her arms around his neck. Rises onto her toes.
And kisses him, a peck on the lips.
Soft. Brief. The kind of casual peck that comes from years of intimacy. "Babe," she says, her hand resting on his chest, "is everything okay?"
August's posture softens immediately. His hand comes up to cover hers. "Yeah," he says, his eyes still on Matt. "Everything's fine."
The kitchen goes silent.
Matt stands frozen. His eyes are wide. His mouth has fallen slightly open. He's staring at Chelsea's hand on August's chest. At August's hand covering hers. At the easy, obvious intimacy between them that he has somehow, impossibly, completely misread.
You watch the realization crash over him in waves. The furrow of his brow. The slight shake of his head. The way his eyes cut to you, confusion and disbelief and something that looks terrifyingly like hope all tangled together.
"Wait." His voice is barely a whisper. "You two are—she's your—"
"Girlfriend," August says. Flat. Direct. "Chelsea. My girlfriend." He pauses, and understanding dawns across his face. Understanding of exactly what Matt has been assuming this whole time. "Did you think—"
He doesn't finish the question. He doesn't need to.
Matt's face crumples.
All the jealousy. All the rage. All the sleepless nights and the desperate confrontations and the who the fuck is he and the are you sleeping with him and the way he's been tearing himself apart watching you with August. All of it, built on a foundation of absolutely nothing.
"Chelsea," you manage, your voice still shaky, "this is Matt. Matt, this is Chelsea. August's girlfriend."
Chelsea extends her hand. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
Matt doesn't take it. He's still staring at August. Still processing. His jaw works, like he's trying to form words and failing.
Then he looks at you.
And the expression on his face is so raw, so utterly exposed, that it steals the breath from your lungs. He looks like a man who has just been handed a pardon at the gallows. Like someone who spent weeks drowning only to realize the water was three feet deep.
The kitchen door swings open again. Nick pokes his head in, his eyes scanning the scene—Matt frozen, August and Chelsea united, you pressed against the counter with tear-streaked cheeks—and sighs.
"Of course," he mutters. "I leave you people alone for five minutes."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Our Discovery
Bang Chan X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Fluff
An unexpected visitor threatens to shatter your fragile secret, forcing you to confront the suffocating cost of the life you are hiding together.
Part 3
The penthouse hums with a lazy afternoon quiet. Sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the pale oak floors, casting long golden rectangles across the furniture. A faint trace of Chan's cologne still lingers in the air, the scent he'd worn when he kissed you goodbye this morning, his lips brushing your forehead, his hand lingering on your belly.
"Track list meeting," he'd murmured, still half-asleep. "Won't be long. Stay in bed. Rest."
You'd watched him dress in the dim, the muscles of his back shifting as he pulled on his shirt, the way he'd paused at the door to look back at you, his expression soft and aching. Then he was gone.
Now the apartment belongs to you and the silence.
You pad barefoot into the kitchen, the cool marble floor a relief against your warm skin. The tank top you're wearing is one of his, an old black one that used to hang loose on him. On you it's started to strain at the seams. The fabric stretches taut over the curve of your belly, the five-month swell round and prominent, impossible to miss. No shirt can hide it anymore. Not that you've been trying.
You reach for a glass from the cabinet, fill it from the filter, bring it to your lips. The water is cold and clean, and you stand there for a moment, one hand resting on the counter, the other cradling your stomach, feeling the quiet flutter of movement deep inside.
A kick. Soft. Testing.
You smile.
The apartment is safe. The apartment is yours. The world outside though, the cameras, the schedules, the contracts, the impossible weight of secrecy, feels distant, like sound through water.
Then the front door beeps.
Your hand freezes on the glass.
Three sharp tones. The keypad code being entered correctly. You check the clock on the microwave, one-forty in the afternoon. Too early for Chris. Too late for any scheduled deliveries. Hannah's flight back to Sydney left thirty-six hours ago.
Your heart kicks against your ribs.
The door swings open.
She steps inside, already scanning the room with the methodical precision of someone who owns every space she enters. Her suit is light gray today, sharply tailored, her hair pulled into that tight, severe ponytail that seems to pull her features even sharper. A tablet is tucked under her arm, her heels clicking against the marble floor with deliberate, unhurried authority.
The Senior Manager.
Your glass clinks against the counter as you set it down too fast. Water sloshes over the rim, pooling on the granite, but you don't move to wipe it up. You can't move.
Her eyes find you.
The kitchen is bright, flooded with afternoon light. There's nowhere to hide. No jacket to grab, no hoodie to pull over your head. The tank top clings to every curve, every swell, every impossible line of the body you've been keeping secret for months.
Her gaze drops to your belly.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. One second. Two. Three. She doesn't gasp. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't do any of the things a normal person would do when confronted with the impossible sight of their top artist's secret girlfriend standing in his kitchen, five months pregnant, wearing nothing but a thin piece of black cotton that does nothing to conceal the truth.
Instead, she closes the door behind her. The click is soft, final.
She sets her tablet on the console table by the entrance. The sound of it settling against the wood is loud in the stillness.
Then she walks toward you.
Her heels mark a slow, steady rhythm against the floor. She doesn't stop at the kitchen island, doesn't put any furniture between you. She walks all the way to the counter opposite you, places her hands flat on the granite, and looks at you with an expression that makes your blood run cold.
Not anger. Not shock. Something worse.
Understanding.
"So," she says, her voice low and even, "this is what it is."
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
She tilts her head, studying you the way a jeweler studies a flawed stone. "I knew there was something. He's been different these past months. Distracted. Unfocused. Late to rehearsals, zoning out during meetings, staring at his phone with that dopey look I haven't seen since he was a trainee with his first girlfriend."
Her eyes drop to your belly again. Hold there.
"I thought you were just a fling. Something he'd get out of his system. Idols do that sometimes you know. They find a person, play house for a while, then reality catches up and they come back to work." She pauses. "But this isn't a fling, is it."
It's not a question. You answer anyway.
"No."
"How far along?"
Your throat is sandpaper. "Five months."
"Five months." She repeats the words like she's testing their weight. "Five months. That means you got pregnant right around the time of the award show. Right around the time I found you two in the editing suite."
Your stomach drops. She knows. She's always known more than she let on.
"I warned you," she says, her voice dropping lower. "I told you to be careful. I told you what was at stake. I told you that if this got out, it wouldn't just be his career on the line—it would be the whole group. Every schedule, every contract, every endorsement. Years of work. Decades, even. All of it at risk because you couldn't keep your legs—"
"Don't." The word comes out before you can stop it, sharp and trembling. Your hand presses flat against your belly, protective. "Don't you dare."
Her eyes narrow. For a moment, something flickers in them—surprise, maybe, at your defiance. Then it's gone, replaced by that cold, calculating stillness.
She walks around the island. Slowly. Deliberately. She stops three feet from you, close enough that you can smell her perfume—something floral and expensive, utterly at odds with the menace radiating from her posture.
"I'm not going to allow any of this ruin him," she says quietly. "Not yet. Not today."
Your breath catches.
"But I need you to understand something." She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I know about this now. I know about you. Every doctor's appointment you make, I'll know. Every time you leave this apartment, I'll know. Every whisper that reaches my ears about a pregnant woman spotted near the JYP building, I'll connect the dots. I will be watching. Both of you. Closely."
She straightens, adjusts the cuff of her blouse.
"If this secret gets out, it will be the end. Not just for him. For me, too. I've spent years and years building my reputation in this industry. Years managing scandals, protecting artists, keeping the machine running. If it comes out that one of my biggest stars has been hiding a pregnant girlfriend for half a year, that failure lands on my shoulders. My career goes down with his."
She holds your gaze.
"So I have just as much invested in keeping this quiet as you do. Which means I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure no one finds out. But that also means you need to do your part. No more mistakes. No more slip-ups. No more midnight ramen runs that get photographed. No more careless whispers to friends or family. You lock this down tight. You make sure the only people who know are the ones who absolutely have to."
Her eyes bore into yours.
"Can you do that?"
You nod. It's the only thing you can do.
"Good." She takes a step back. "Then I'll be on my way. I have a meeting with the creative directors in an hour, and I need to figure out how to explain Chan's sudden interest in family-friendly scheduling without raising suspicion."
She turns toward the door.
The front door flies open.
Chan stands in the doorway, chest heaving, phone clutched in his hand, his face pale as bone. His eyes are wild, scanning the room with desperate urgency until they land on you. On your belly. On the Senior Manager standing three feet away.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Chan is moving, crossing the space in four long strides, his body sliding between you and the manager with a speed that makes you flinch. His arm extends behind him, palm open, reaching for you. You take his hand. His fingers close around yours like a lifeline.
"She doesn't know anything," he says, his voice ragged, desperate. "She's just a friend. She was helping me with—with a project. She's not—the baby isn't—"
"Chris." The manager's voice cuts through his stammering like a blade. "Stop."
He falls silent.
She looks at him with an expression that's almost pitying. "I know everything. She told me. Five months. Pregnant with your child. And you've been hiding it from me, from the company, from everyone."
Chan's grip on your hand tightens painfully. His jaw is set, his whole body rigid with tension, a caged animal ready to fight.
"Before you say anything," he starts, "before you do anything—"
"I'm not going to do anything." The manager's voice is calm. Terrifyingly calm. "Not yet. I've already given her the same warning I'm about to give you."
She steps closer, close enough that she's nearly touching Chan's shoulder. He doesn't move. Doesn't back down.
"Keep this quiet," she says softly. "Keep her quiet. Keep yourself quiet. No more risks. No more mistakes. If this gets out before we have a plan, I won't be able to protect you. And trust me—no one else will either."
She holds his gaze for a long moment. Then she steps back, smooths down her jacket, and walks toward the door.
At the threshold, she pauses. Turns.
"Congratulations," she says, her voice carrying a strange, bitter edge. "Both of you. I hope you know what you're doing."
The door clicks shut behind her.
The apartment is silent.
Chan’s hand is still gripping yours, his knuckles white. His breathing is harsh, uneven, his whole body trembling with adrenaline that has nowhere to go. You stand there, in the kitchen, in the light, your belly pressing against his side, the ghost of her perfume still hanging in the air. Neither of you moves.
Then, the suffocating quiet finally snaps.
Chan’s shoulders cave inward as he spins around, pulling you desperately into his arms. He buries his face deep into your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, his large hands trembling against your back.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out, his voice cracked and thick with a raw, agonizing guilt. "I'm so sorry. I stood right there and I... I didn't say anything to her. I wanted to scream it in her face, but I just froze. I let her look at you like that."
He pulls back just enough to frame your face, his dark eyes glassy with unshed, frustrated tears. "I’ve spent my whole life playing their game, and in front of her, I felt like a trainee again. I'm sorry for trying to deny you, for keeping us in the dark, for not shielding you the way I should have. You and our girl deserve so much better."
You place your hands over his, feeling the frantic pulse in his wrists, and gently lean your forehead against his.
"Hey, look at me," you whisper, your voice steady and warm. "I understand, Chris. I do. You aren't a coward. You're protecting us the only way you know how, and I know what’s at stake. You don't ever have to apologize to me for trying to keep us safe."
His Natural Scent
Choi Seungcheol X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Smut
An unexpected turn of events during a private delivery to Seungcheol's home brings you into a vulnerable and highly intimate situation that completely blurs your professional boundaries.
Part 1
The compounding room felt wrong.
Four days had passed since Seungcheol whispered against your ear and left your pulse hammering in the executive boardroom. Four days of telling yourself the encounter was nothing, a momentary lapse, a professional anomaly you'd dissected and catalogued and filed away. Four days of throwing yourself into the skeleton formula on your workstation monitor, tweaking the heart notes obsessively, chasing something warm that breathed.
The Hedione trial failed. Again.
You stared at the blurry lines on the test printout and finally admitted the truth: the formula was fine. You were just distracted. The memory of his scent, leather and warm skin, kept hitting you out of nowhere. You thought about it while working in the lab, and while lying awake in bed at 2 a.m.
"The top notes fade too fast when the skin gets warm." That’s what you had told him. Except you hadn't said it across a desk. You'd said it right against his neck, with his hand pressed into your back.
Your fingers tightened on the printout.
The intercom on your wall crackled. "Director? Conference call in five. The SEVENTEEN project timeline briefing." boss's assistant, clipped and efficient. "I've forwarded the Zoom link."
You smoothed your blouse. Checked your collar. Every button fastened, as it always was. You'd checked obsessively for days.
The video call window populated one by one. Your boss appeared first, her office backdrop immaculate, a piece of abstract art angled precisely behind her head. Then two brand executives you recognized vaguely from the Christmas party, Marketing and Strategic Partnerships, both wearing the kind of expensive neutrality that meant they'd already decided everything before the call began. An agency representative whose name you missed. A stylist who seemed to be dialing in from a car.
You positioned yourself in front of your office's neutral wall, laptop angled to show only your face and the collar of your blouse. Professional. Untouchable.
"Let's wait for Seungcheol-ssi," one staff said. "He's joining in a bit."
Your cursor hovered over your notes. A spreadsheet of timeline projections. A list of formulation milestones. You'd prepared for this call the way you prepared for everything: exhaustively, systematically, leaving nothing to chance.
Seungcheol's window blinked to life.
Your brain registered the image in fragments. First, the motion—a steady, rhythmic pace, his shoulders rising and falling. Then the setting: gym equipment, a wall of mirrors, the metallic glint of weight racks. Then him.
He wore a tank top. White. Soaked through.
The fabric clung to his chest and shoulders like a second skin, dark with sweat, translucent in patches where it adhered to the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, and his skin glistened under the gym's fluorescent lights. He gripped the treadmill's handles loosely, his breathing controlled despite the obvious exertion, and as you watched. Frozen, cursor motionless, he reached for a small towel and dragged it across his jaw.
"Sorry." His voice came through slightly breathless, the microphone catching the ambient hum of the machine. "Packed schedule. Didn't want to miss the call."
The brand executives exchanged pleasantries about dedication and commitment, but before diving into the data, your boss cleared her throat.
"Before we look at the numbers, a quick reminder," she said, her eyes scanning the room. "Everything we discuss today stays inside this room. This project is strictly confidential, and absolutely nothing leaves this table."
With that, she launched into her agenda. Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, on the way the sweat traced a line down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath the sagging collar of that tank top, and somewhere in the back of your mind a clinical voice noted that his epidermal temperature must be significantly elevated right now, the volatile compounds in his body chemistry would be off-gassing at an accelerated rate, his natural scent profile would be—
"Miss Director will walk us through the initial skin-chemistry findings."
You blinked.
The Marketing executive was looking at you expectantly. Your boss's expression had gone sharp, the way it did when she suspected someone wasn't paying attention. On screen, Seungcheol's treadmill slowed to a walking pace, his head tilting toward his laptop camera, and even through the mediocre resolution you could see the corner of his mouth twitch.
"Director?" she prompted. "The findings from your analysis."
Right. Yes. The analysis.
You cleared your throat, fingers finding your notes with the muscle memory of a thousand presentations.
"The subject, Mr. Choi, has a natural skin chemistry that works perfectly with warm, earthy base scents. The initial mix of musk and ambergris blended seamlessly with his skin oils in less than two minutes. This proves his skin is a great match for richer, heavier fragrances, which usually have a hard time sticking to people with cooler or drier skin types."
You didn't pause for breath. The words came faster now, the intellectual autopilot engaging, your voice steady and clinical.
"His skin runs a little warmer than average, about a degree or so. That heat makes the light, fresh top notes vanish quickly, but it actually pulls out the deeper, middle scents. It creates a sort of 'chimney effect'—the perfume spreads really well and carries far, but you have to balance the citrusy and fresh notes carefully so they don't just burn off instantly. I suggest we lean into those leather and warm-skin scents, while using synthetic musks to help the whole fragrance stick around longer and fade out smoothly."
The stylist made a note. The agency rep nodded with the slightly glazed expression of someone who wasn't following but trusted the science. Boss looked satisfied.
On screen, Seungcheol grabbed the front of his tank top and tugged it away from his chest, fanning himself. The movement was casual, unconscious—the gesture of a man too hot to care about decorum. You saw a flash of his stomach, the hard line of muscle above his waistband, and your next sentence died in your throat.
"Additionally," you continued, forcing the word out, "the subject expressed a distinct aversion to aquatic notes and a preference for scents that dry down into something intimate rather than projecting aggressively. He specifically used the phrase 'something that stays on a person's skin long after I've left the room.'" You paused. The cursor blinked on your screen. "I've documented these parameters for the formulation phase."
One executive leaned toward her camera. "Excellent. That aligns perfectly with the campaign direction. We're positioning this as SEVENTEEN's first solo scent collaboration, highly confidential, completely bespoke. The exclusivity will be the selling point."
Your boss nodded. "Which brings us to timelines. Director, you'll prepare an initial set of five distinct base scent concoctions. We've locked the follow-up testing session for Friday."
Friday. Four days from now. You calculated the hours in your head: ninety-six, minus sleep and existing obligations. Tight but feasible. You'd need to source fresh absolutes, probably expedite an order from the supplier, but the foundations were already mapped from the skin-chemistry data.
"That's manageable," you said. "I'll have the samples ready by Thursday evening for quality control."
Seungcheol unmuted.
The subtle click of his microphone activating cut through the call. His treadmill had stopped entirely now, and he'd stepped closer to his camera, his face filling the screen. Still glistening. Still breathing slightly hard.
"I can't wait for Friday." His voice was low, rough from exertion, and the smile he flashed at the camera was distinctly, unmistakably cheeky. "It's been too long."
The comment was directed at everyone. It was a generic statement of professional enthusiasm, the kind of thing any celebrity might say to placate a boardroom of executives.
His eyes found the camera. Found you, through the glass and the pixels and the miles between his gym and your office.
The flush hit your cheeks before you could stop it.
"We're all looking forward to it," the boss said smoothly, oblivious. "Let's reconvene after the testing session. Director, keep us updated on the formulation progress."
The call dissolved into closing pleasantries. You mumbled something appropriate, waited for the windows to blink out one by one, and then sat staring at your blank screen for a full minute. Your face in the dark reflection was pink. Your collar was still buttoned.
ou built all five bases while you were almost completely blacked out.
The compounding room became your entire world for seventy-two hours. You arrived before the cleaning staff and left after the security guards changed shifts. Meals were protein bars eaten over a sink. Sleep was a negotiation you kept losing.
Thursday evening, you capped the last small bottle and lined up all five on your desk. The bright overhead lights caught the glass, making each one look like a different shade of gold. You didn't give them fancy names. You just labeled them CSC-1 through CSC-5. Nothing romantic. Just data.
Your back ached. Your eyes burned. You felt hollowed out and strangely satisfied, the way you always did after a completed project.
Friday would be fine. A professional testing session in the executive office. You'd present the samples, record his reactions, gather data, and leave. No locked doors this time. No whispered provocations. Just science.
iday arrived gray and humid, the kind of summer day that made the air feel thick enough to drink. You packed the five vials into a padded carrying case, double-checked your notes, and spent the afternoon reviewing the formulation data until your eyes crossed. You are ready to take it upstairs to the meeting room.
At 4:47 PM, your phone rang.
"Director." Your boss's voice had that tight quality again, the one that preceded bad news. "There's been a change of plans. Seungcheol can't make the office appointment."
"Oh."
"Something urgent. His manager didn't specify."
You felt the release before you could stop it, the loosening of muscles you hadn't realized were tensed, the exhale that had been waiting in your chest since the Zoom call. "Should we reschedule for next week?"
"No. He needs the samples tonight. The campaign timeline is too tight." Papers shuffled on her end. "You'll deliver them directly to his private residence."
The relief curdled. "Can't we use a courier? The company has a confidential delivery service for exactly this situation."
"Absolutely not. These are unreleased, proprietary formulations tied to a contract worth more than our annual salary. You cannot risk the samples falling into the wrong hands." Her tone left no room for negotiation. "A private driver is waiting downstairs. The address is already programmed in the GPS."
"Will he even be there?"
"His manager says he's "caught up" with something, probably still at a shoot. The apartment should be empty." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had softened a fraction. "Just drop off the samples and leave. We'll have them video record his reactions and comments to the scents. You'll be back home by dinner."
An empty apartment. A quick drop-off. No confrontation, no tension, no dark eyes watching you from across a mahogany table.
"Fine," you said. "I'll do it now."
Thluxury condominium complex rose from the streets of a quiet neighborhood like a monument to discretion. No signage. No street-level branding. Just a sleek glass tower behind a guarded gate, the kind of building designed to be invisible to anyone who didn't already know it was there.
The driver pulled into the lobby drop-off. You turned to him and told him he could head out and leave for the night. Your apartment wasn't very far, so you'd just grab a taxi home later.
After he drove off, you walked inside and checked in with the ground-floor receptionist. She was expecting you. Your name was already on the list, your ID was scanned, and a digital keycard was pressed into your palm with practiced, impersonal efficiency.
"Twenty-sixth floor. Room 2615."
The elevator ascended in silence, the mirrored walls reflecting a woman whose charcoal-grey blouse was buttoned to the throat, whose glasses sat perfectly straight, whose expression betrayed nothing. You held the sample box against your chest like a shield.
The twenty-sixth floor hallway was carpeted in dove grey, the walls hung with abstract art that matched the building's architecture perfectly. Room 2615 sat at the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door with a discreet brass number.
You knocked three times.
Silence.
As expected. You swiped the keycard, heard the lock click open, and stepped inside.
The apartment was dim. Not dark, a single lamp burned somewhere deeper in the living room, casting long amber shadows across the entryway. The air smelled clean, slightly herbal, with an undertone of something that reminded you of the Le Labo candle sitting on the console table ahead: sandalwood and cedar and a trace of smoke.
The hallway was narrow, elegant, dominated by a long console table that served as a shoe cabinet. Dried flowers in a ceramic vase. A gold metal dish holding a set of keys. The candle, half-burned, its wick blackened. Everything arranged with the precision of someone who employed a very good cleaner.
You set the sample box on an empty spot beside the candle. Five glass vials, padded in foam, labeled in your precise handwriting. There. Delivered. Done.
You turned toward the door.
A cough echoed from inside.
Rough. Heavy. The kind of cough that scraped its way up from somewhere deep in the chest and left damage behind. You froze, one hand extended toward the door handle, every instinct screaming at you to leave.
Another cough. Wet this time. Followed by a weak, shuddering inhale.
"Mr. Choi?" Your voice came out softer than intended, swallowed by the darkness of the hallway.
No response.
"Mr. Choi?" Louder now, a thread of concern weaving through the professional tone.
The only answer was a third cough, rasping and exhausted, and then a faint rustle of fabric that sounded like someone shifting under a heavy weight.
You stepped out of the hallway.
The living room opened before you, vast and minimalist, floor-to-ceiling windows facing a river's distant glitter. A massive sectional sofa dominated the space, and on it, buried beneath a thick cream blanket, visibly shivering despite the summer humidity, was Choi Seungcheol.
He looked nothing like the man who'd locked the boardroom door.
His face was pale beneath a sheen of sweat, dark hair plastered to his forehead, his lips dry. The blanket was pulled up to his chin, but you could see the tremor running through his shoulders, the way his fingers clutched the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, rimmed with red.
"Mr. Choi." You crossed the room without conscious decision, your heels sinking into the plush carpet. "You're sick. Should I call your manager? Do you need—"
"No." The word came out hoarse, barely audible. He shook his head weakly against the cushion. "Don't call anyone. Please. They'll worry, and the schedule—" Another cough swallowed the rest of the sentence.
"Emergency services, then. You need medical attention."
"No." Stronger this time, almost desperate. His bloodshot eyes found yours, and even through the fever haze, there was something fierce in them. "Please. Just... don't."
You hovered at the edge of the sofa, torn between protocol and something deeper, something that had nothing to do with corporate procedure. He looked so diminished. So human. The formidable idol reduced to a shivering, sweating mess on his own couch.
Your hand moved before your brain approved the decision.
His forehead burned against your palm. The heat radiated through your fingers, shockingly high, the kind of temperature that should absolutely warrant medical intervention. His skin was dry and hot and papery, and beneath your touch, he let out a small, involuntary sigh—the sound of someone so desperate for coolness that even a stranger's hand felt like relief.
"You're burning up," you said. "I need to get your temperature down."
Standing at the threshold of his private bathroom moments later, you registered the collection before you registered anything else. His cologne stash sat on a sleek black shelf above the sink, bottles arranged with the care of a museum exhibit. Dozens of them. Niche houses and designer classics. Tom Ford. Byredo. Le Labo. Diptyque. A few you didn't recognize, probably limited editions or overseas exclusives.
Your hand was reaching for your phone before you could talk yourself out of it. One quick photo. Just for research. Just to understand his true preferences, the scents he actually wore when no one was watching. This would help the formulation. This was data.
The phone camera clicked.
You grabbed a small face towel from the rack and turned to find a basin. No basin. A quick survey of the bathroom revealed nothing usable—just a sleek vessel sink, too shallow to fill properly. You returned to the living room, veered into the kitchenette, and pulled a large ceramic bowl from an otherwise empty cabinet.
The water ran cold from the tap. You soaked the towel, wrung it out, carried the bowl back to the couch.
Seungcheol's eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow and rapid. You sat on the edge of the cushion, the same way you'd sat at the mahogany table, inches from him. You pressed the damp cloth to his forehead. He flinched at the cold, then relaxed, his jaw unclenching by slow degrees.
You wiped the sweat from his temples. His cheekbones. The hollow of his throat where his fever was most intense. The cloth came away warm, and you dipped it back into the cold water, wrung it again, laid it across his brow.
"Do you have a medical kit? Thermometer? Anything?"
He shook his head weakly.
Of course he didn't. A man who worked himself into illness and begged you not to call his manager wouldn't have bothered with basic medical supplies. You stood, brushing off your trousers.
"I'm going down to the pharmacy. You need fever reducers and a proper thermometer. I'll be back in twenty minutes."
Before you could take a single step, his hand snapped around your wrist.
The grip was startling, hot and strong and desperate, entirely at odds with the shivering weakness of his body. His eyes stayed closed, but his fingers locked around your bones with the force of a man who'd decided something.
"Don't leave." The words came out raw, scraped clean of the playful charm, stripped down to something honest. "Please."
You stood frozen, his hand burning against your skin. Your pulse hammered beneath his grip, the same wrist he'd touched in the boardroom, the same spot his thumb had traced while he murmured about your cold hands.
"Mr. Choi—"
"Please."
The second time, it broke something in you. Something professional. Something walled-off. You sat back down on the edge of the sofa, and the moment you did, Seungcheol shifted. He pulls your forearm against his chest, tucking it under his chin like a child clutching a stuffed animal, his body curling around your arm as though you were the only anchor in a storm.
His other hand found your pulse point. Fingers gentle now, resting there, feeling the beat. Grounding himself.
His heartbeat thrummed against your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Slow. Steady. The rhythm of a body fighting to heal itself.
You sat trapped on the edge of the leather cushion, your arm locked against the furnace of his chest, and watched the lights of the river glitter through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Almo an hour passed.
The city darkened beyond the glass, the city skyline resolving into a scatter of neon and orange. Seungcheol's grip on your arm never fully released, but gradually, little by little, the tension bled out of his fingers. His breathing deepened. The shivering stopped. The fever held, but the worst of the chills seemed to pass.
When his hand finally went slack, you slipped free with the slow, careful precision of a bomb technician.
The kitchenette was barely stocked. You opened cabinet after cabinet, finding nothing but a few packs of instant ramen, some tea bags, and a jar of honey crystallized at the bottom. No vegetables. No rice. No evidence that anyone actually lived here.
The ramen would have to do. You filled a pot with water and set it to boil, adding the seasoning packet, the dried vegetables, a generous pinch of red pepper flakes from a jar you found wedged behind the honey. Spicy, hot, hydrating—exactly what a depleted, sweating body needed to break a fever.
The broth steamed in the ceramic bowl as you carried it to the living room. You set it on the coffee table and knelt beside the couch, touching his shoulder with the lightest pressure.
"Mr. Choi. Wake up. You need to eat something."
His eyelids fluttered. Opened. Those dark eyes found you through a haze of exhaustion, and for a moment he looked confused, as though he'd forgotten you were here, as though waking to find you kneeling beside him in the dim light was a dream he hadn't expected to have.
"Director," he rasped.
"Sit up a little. Just a little." You slid your hand behind his shoulders, helping him shift against the armrest. He was heavy, his body dense with muscle even in illness, and the heat of him radiated through the blanket. "I made ramen. It's not fancy, but the spice will help."
You lifted the spoon, blew on the broth until the steam thinned, and held it to his lips.
He swallowed. Winced at the heat. Swallowed again.
The color seeped back into his face by millimeters, not the flush of fever, but something closer to life. His cracked lips pursed, accepting another spoonful, and another, and his eyes never left your face.
"Thank you," he whispered when the bowl was half-empty. His voice was gravelly, scraped raw by coughing, but the gratitude in it was unmistakable. "Thank you, Director."
You sethe empty bowl on the coffee table, the ceramic clinking softly in the quiet room.
"Come on," you whispered, looking down at him. "You’ll be much more comfortable in a proper bed than cramped up on this sofa."
He grumbled something unintelligible but didn't protest as you reached down.
The bedroom was dark. You'd navigated the hallway by touch, one arm wrapped around Seungcheol's waist, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders, his weight threatening to drag you both down with every step. He stumbled. You caught him. The master bedroom door swung open, revealing a king-sized bed with tangled grey sheets.
"You'll rest better here," you said. "The couch is too short for someone your height."
Three more steps. The edge of the mattress pressed against your thighs.
His knees gave out.
You felt him crumple before you saw it, the sudden dead weight. The way his body surrendered to gravity and exhaustion. His hand caught your blouse on the way down, fingers twisting in the charcoal-grey silk, and you didn't have time to brace yourself.
You landed squarely against his chest.
The mattress swallowed you both. His arms came around you automatically, one forearm wrapping around your shoulders, the other resting on your lower back, and in the darkness of his bedroom you were suddenly, completely enveloped. His chest rose and fell beneath you. His heartbeat, still slow and steady, pulsed against your sternum.
And his scent.
Without the laboratory filters, without the buffer of glass vials and scent strips, his natural smell hit you with the force of a physical blow. Deep and heavy. A raw, masculine musk that had nothing to do with cologne. Underneath it, a fading trace of citrus that must have been whatever he'd worn before the fever set in, now altered, intensified by his radiating body heat. It was warm. It was alive. It was the smell of a man stripped down to his most essential chemistry.
Your breath caught. A tiny hitch, the same stutter you'd made against his throat in the boardroom.
He noticed. Even through the fever, even through the exhaustion, his arms tightened fractionally around you.
"Thank you," he said again, and his voice was different now. Not the idol. Not the flirt. Something real. His bloodshot eyes found yours in the darkness, inches away, and his gaze dropped to your lips for half a heartbeat before rising again. "Again."
The distance between your faces was dangerously small. His breath ghosted across your cheek. Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were certain he could feel it through both your chests.
"I—" You scrambled backward, breaking his grip, your heels catching on the carpet as you stumbled to your feet. Your cheeks were on fire. "I'm going to get medicine. Actual medicine. From a pharmacy. I'll be right back."
You fled.
The pharmacy was a ten-minute walk through the quiet streets. Cool night air hit your burning face, and you walked faster than necessary, the rhythm of your heels on pavement matching the frantic pace of your thoughts.
A digital thermometer. Extra-strength fever reducers. A pack of cooling patches. Heavy-duty cold medicine. You paid with shaking hands and carried the plastic bag back through the condominium's silent lobby, up the elevator, to Room 2615.
The apartment was still when you swiped back in. Silent except for the distant hum of the AC. You crept into the bedroom and found Seungcheol buried under his duvet, the shivering finally stopped, his breathing deep and even.
His face in sleep was different. Softer. Younger. The sharp lines of his jaw and the commanding presence were still there, but muted, relaxed. He looked like a man who'd finally surrendered to his own limits.
You placed the pharmacy bag on his bedside table. Arranged the thermometer, the water glass, the medicine where he'd see them when he woke.
For a long moment, you stood in the shadows, looking down at him.
Then you slipped out of the apartment, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you. The scent of his skin clung to your blouse all the way home.
The elevator descending toward the lobby was mirrored, and in the reflection you saw yourself: glasses slightly askew, cheeks still flushed, collar still buttoned to the throat. But your hand rose to touch it anyway. Just to check.
On the taxi ride home, you called his agency. You let them know how he is sick and alone in his unit.
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SOS
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
After Matt discovers your hidden love letters and panics, you send him a final note through Nick, begging to forget everything and save the friendship.
Part 7 Part 9
The first thing you register is the cold.
Not the temperature of the room—the lamp is still glowing, the air still heavy with the scent of vanilla and sex and him—but the cold of the space beside you. The mattress where his body had been. The sheets that had tangled around both of you hours ago, damp with sweat and tears and other things, now stretched flat and empty where he once lay.
You shift.
The rustle of fabric against skin. Your body protests, muscles sore in places you'd forgotten could ache. The lamp on your nightstand is still on, its amber glow carving the room into soft shadows and darker corners. The curtains are still half-drawn. The window is still a black mirror reflecting the bed, the rumpled blankets, the shape of you propped on one elbow.
And the shape of Matt on the floor.
He's exactly where he was when you first opened your eyes. Back against the closet door. Knees pulled up. The box. The one you've kept hidden under the old blanket for years. It sits open beside him, its worn cardboard corners catching the lamplight. Letters are scattered around his bare feet. The pages curl at the edges, some yellowed with age, some still crisp and new. His name stares up from every envelope.
He doesn't look at you.
He doesn't move.
The silence in the room is suffocating. Heavy enough to press against your eardrums. The only sound is your own breathing, shallow and uneven, and the far-off hum of the AC. And then—
Matt's voice.
Rough. Hollow. A sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, scraped raw by hours of reading and years of revelation.
"The way she looked at you tonight made me want to scream."
You freeze.
He's reading. His eyes move across the page of the letter in his hands, crumpled notebook paper, the ink slightly smeared where your hand dragged through it years ago, and his voice carries the words into the dark like a confession.
"You didn't even notice me across the room. You were too busy watching her. And I was too busy watching you watch her, memorizing the way your smile crinkled your eyes, the way your thumb rubbed the edge of your glass, the way you leaned into her space like gravity had shifted and she was the new center of your universe."
The letter. You know which one it is. The night of Chris's birthday party, two years ago, when Matt spent the whole evening with a girl with jet black hair and a laugh like wind chimes. You'd worn a blue dress, the only nice thing you owned at the time, and he'd said "You look nice" without ever really looking. You went home and wrote seven pages. Seven. Front and back. The ink had bled through to the other side.
Matt reads the last line aloud, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
"I keep telling myself that someday you'll see the girl in front of you. But I've been saying that for years, and I'm starting to think I'm invisible."
The letter drops.
His fingers release the page like it's burned him. It flutters to the floor, landing among the others, and his hands come up to cover his face. His shoulders hitch. The amber light catches the tear tracks glittering on his cheeks, the wetness in his beard, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's trying to chew through something too big for his mouth.
He doesn't look angry.
That's the worst part. Anger you could handle. You could deflect anger, match it, throw it back at him like a weapon. But this, the devastation carved into every line of his face, the guilt that seems to be physically crushing him into the floorboards, this you don't know what to do with.
"I was just looking for a blanket."
His voice is barely a whisper. His hands drop from his face, and his eyes finally lift to meet yours. The contact is a physical blow. Your stomach knots.
"You were shivering." He says it like an apology. Like an explanation. Like a defense he's already given up on. "In your sleep. You were shivering, and I didn't want to wake you, so I got up to find another blanket. In the closet. The top shelf. I wasn't—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "I wasn't snooping. I wasn't trying to find anything. My hand just caught on the corner of the box when I reached for the shelf and it all came down and I saw my name and I—"
He stops. Breathes. His hands are trembling again.
"I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air. Small. Inadequate. A pebble thrown into an ocean.
You can't speak. Your throat is locked. Your tongue is a dead weight in your mouth. You're frozen in the bed, the sheets pulled up to your chest, your bare shoulders exposed to the cool air, and all you can do is stare at him—at the wreckage of him—and try to remember how to form words.
He doesn't wait for your response.
His hands move. Slow at first, then faster. He gathers the scattered letters, stacking them with a care that seems almost reverent. The one he dropped—the one with seven pages and smeared ink—gets folded along its original creases. Another, the angry scrawl from the night he left your room after the flu, gets tucked into its own creased folds. One by one, he places them back into the box.
You watch.
You can't do anything else.
"This." His voice comes out strangled. "All of this. All these years. You were—" He can't finish. His hands pause over the box, trembling. "You helped me. Every time. Every girl. You proofread my messages. You told me what to say. You smiled and hyped me up while I was—" A sound tears from his throat. Not quite a sob. Something sharper. "While I was destroying you."
Your lips part. Nothing comes out.
"I don't—" He shakes his head. His hands resume their work, placing the last of the letters into the box, closing the lid with careful, deliberate pressure. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if I can."
He stands.
The movement is shaky, unsteady, his legs clearly stiff from being sat on the floor. He's still wearing only his boxers, his chest bare, the skin you'd clawed hours ago now marked with faint red lines. The lamplight catches the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his waist, the vulnerability he never shows anyone.
He crosses to the nightstand.
The heavy metal spare key. The one your mom gave the triplets years ago. It's been sitting there since he let himself in, a silent accusation. He picks it up. The metal clinks against the wood.
And then he sets it down. Deliberately. Carefully. Right beside the lamp, so you'll see it the moment you wake.
So you'll know.
"I'm sorry," he says again, his voice scraping through the quiet room as he bends down to scoop his shirt from the floor. He jerks it over his head, the movement tight and stiff. "For everything. For tonight. For what we—for what I—"
Another swallow. Another crack. He reaches for his pants, shoving his legs into it with a rough, defensive finality.
"You were vulnerable. You were upset," he continues, his voice steadier now. Emptier. He doesn’t look at you as he picks up his jacket, his fingers trembling against the sleeves. "And I just—I came in here and I—"
He can't say it. Can't put words to what happened hours ago—the confrontation, the confession, the frantic sex that followed. He hooks the heavy metal spare key from the nightstand and sets it down flat with a soft, definitive click, relinquishing his access to your space.
"I shouldn't have," he whispers, grabbing his sneakers and backing toward the door. "Not after reading those. Not after knowing. I should've just left."
He stops. His hand drops from the key. He doesn't look at you.
"Take the key. It's yours. I don't deserve it."
And then he leaves.
The door doesn't slam. It clicks shut, soft and final, and then there's just the sound of his footsteps in the hallway. The front door opening. Closing. The distant rumble of an engine turning over.
Then silence.
Pure, absolute silence.
You don't sleep.
You don't move. For hours, you don't move. You lie in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, your body a foreign thing that someone else inhabited hours ago. The letters. The box. The key on the nightstand, gleaming in the lamplight like a dare.
He knows. He knows everything. Every thought, every fantasy, every pathetic, desperate admission you've ever scribbled onto paper. The anger, the want, the jealousy, the hope. The letter from the night after the rainstorm, the one that ended with I'm done, the tear that smeared the ink. The letter from the night of the villa, I hope my face is the only thing you see in the dark. All of it.
He knows.
And he left.
The sun rises pale and gray through the half-drawn curtains. You watch the light change, watch the shadows shift across the floor, watch the empty space beside you remain stubbornly, impossibly empty. Your phone lies on the nightstand, face-down. You don't check it. You can't.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, it's nearly noon.
The box is still there. On the floor by the closet. Closed now, the lid pressed down, everything neatly tucked away. Matt did that. Even in his devastation, he was careful with your secrets. He put them back exactly where they belonged.
Your body moves on autopilot. Shower. Clothes—an old hoodie, the softest one you own, the one that smells like nothing but laundry detergent and loneliness. You don't brush your hair. You don't look in the mirror. You shuffle to the kitchen, pour a glass of water you don't drink, and stand at the counter staring at nothing.
Your phone stays face-down.
The first text comes at 1:07 PM.
Chelsea: You alive? Gus said you were radio silent. Brunch was epic tho. Call me when you're conscious.
You stare at the screen. The words blur. You type back something brief, something meaningless—I'm fine, just tired, talk later—and then you turn the phone over again.
The second text comes at 2:43 PM.
August: Hey. Just checking in. Chelsea's worried. I'm worried. You good?
You don't answer.
The third text comes at 3:15 PM. It's not from Chelsea or August.
Chris: yo you alive?? matt's been a nightmare all morning. locked himself in his room. won't talk to anyone. we were supposed to film today. did something happen at the party??
The phone slips from your fingers. Lands on the couch cushion. You stare at the screen until it goes dark.
He's locked himself in his room. Refusing to talk. Being a nightmare.
The words circle your brain like vultures. He's not ignoring you out of anger. He's not pretending nothing happened. He's hiding. Just like you. Just like you've both always hidden, from each other, from yourselves, from whatever this thing is that's been burning between you for years.
You think about calling him. You think about texting. Your thumb hovers over his name—Matt—and you can see the last messages from before all of this, before the rainstorm and the villa and the letters, when you were still his safe, comfortable friend who gave him advice about other girls.
You can't do it.
The day stretches on. Gray afternoon light bleeds into gray evening light. Your mom comes home from her weekly grocery run, calls out a greeting, and you respond with something automatic. She doesn't notice the cracks. She never does.
You eat dinner. Or you sit at the table while food is in front of you. Same thing.
The phone stays silent. No texts from Matt. No calls. Nothing.
You go to bed. The sheets are cold. The pillow still smells faintly of him.
You don't sleep.
Monday morning. Sunlight. The ceiling. Dust motes floating in the golden beam cutting through the curtains. Your body feels like it's been hollowed out and filled with lead. Every movement takes deliberate effort. Every thought is a weight you have to drag behind you.
The key is still on the nightstand.
Your phone is still empty of him.
Another text from Chris. Seriously what is going ON. Matt's like a zombie. Nick won't tell me anything. Are you guys fighting???
You type back: I don't know.
It's the most honest thing you've said in days.
Tuesday passes in the same gray haze. You don't leave the house. You don't answer calls. Chelsea leaves a voicemail—"Okay, seriously, you're scaring me. Call me back or I'm sending August over there with snacks and questions"—and you text her some excuse about a migraine. August sends a string of emojis that you assume are meant to be supportive.
Nothing from Matt.
Nothing from Nick, either, which is almost worse. Nick always knows. Nick notices everything. The fact that he's been silent means he's either respecting your privacy or completely in the dark about what happened, and you're not sure which option is more terrifying.
Wednesday morning.
You wake up and something has shifted. The numbness has curdled into something sharper. Not anger, not yet, but a desperate, clawing need to fix this. To bridge the gap before it becomes a canyon. To salvage whatever scraps of your friendship might still be intact.
You reach for your phone. For a long moment, you stare at his name. Matt.
Your thumb presses the call button before you can stop yourself. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
You hang up.
The terror that floods your system is immediate and paralyzing. He's avoiding you. He saw your name on the screen and let it ring. He doesn't want to talk to you. He's done. He's completely done. You've lost him. You've lost everything.
Your fingers are shaking as you scroll through your contacts. You need to talk to someone. You need to tell someone. You can't carry this alone anymore, can't keep it locked in your chest like another unsent letter, another secret burning a hole through your ribs.
Nick.
He picks up on the first ring.
"Hey." His voice is cautious. Curious. Not surprised, exactly, but guarded. "Everything okay?"
"No." The word cracks down the middle. "No, Nick. Everything is not okay. I need—can you—are you busy? Can you come over? Please? I need to—I have to tell someone—"
"Whoa. Hey. Slow down." The caution in his voice shifts to something firmer. Something protective. "I'm not busy. I'll be there in ten minutes. Just breathe."
He hangs up before you can thank him.
Nine minutes later—you count—the doorbell rings.
Nick is standing on your porch in his usual effortless uniform: dark jeans, a crisp t-shirt, his hair perfectly tousled like he just rolled out of bed looking like a magazine spread. But his eyes are serious. Focused. The way they get when something actually matters.
"Hey," he says again. Softer this time.
"Hey." You step aside to let him in.
The room is a mess. Blankets draped over the floor. Empty water glasses on the bedside table. The remnants of three days of barely functioning. Nick doesn't comment on it. He just sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, and waits.
You sit opposite him. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
"He found the letters."
The words fall out of you. Simple. Direct. No preamble.
Nick's eyebrows lift. "Letters?"
"The box." Your voice is steadier than you expected. "The box on my closet. The one with—" A breath. "With years of letters. To him. Unsent. Every thought, every feeling, every pathetic fantasy I've ever had about him. All of it. He found it."
Nick doesn't say anything. His expression doesn't change. But his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—are working overtime.
"When?" he asks.
"After the party. After I came home with August. He was here." You swallow. "He'd let himself in with the spare key. He saw me with August and he—he lost it. We fought. We yelled. He said—" You can't repeat it. You're mine. It feels too raw, too private, too precious. "And then we—"
"Okay." Nick holds up a hand. "I don't need the details of that part."
"Nothing happened." The lie is automatic. "I mean—nothing that—we just—" You stop. Take a breath. "He found the box while I was asleep. He read them. All of them maybe, I'm not really sure. And then he left. He hasn't spoken to me since. He won't answer my calls. Chris says he's locked himself in his room and won't talk to anyone."
The silence stretches.
Nick leans back against the headboard of your bed. His gaze drifts toward the window, toward the gray morning light filtering through the curtains. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
"God, that explains why he's been so incredibly cranky the past few days. He's been locked in his room since the party. Refusing to talk. Refusing to eat. Chris tried to drag him out for a video shoot and he just—" Nick shakes his head. "Nothing. Wouldn't even open the door."
"He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you." Nick's response is immediate. Certain. "He's terrified. There's a difference."
"Terrified of what?"
"Of losing you. Of what he did. Of what you wrote in those letters, probably." Nick's eyes find yours again. "How long?"
You blink. "How long what?"
"How long have you been in love with him?"
The question lands somewhere in your chest. It's the first time anyone has said it out loud. The first time the word love has been spoken in relation to you and Matt by anyone other than yourself, scribbled frantically onto paper in the dark.
"Years," you whisper. "Since the beginning. I liked him since I can remember. I don't even know when it started. It just—was. It's always been there."
Nick nods. Slow. Thoughtful. "And you never told him."
"Every time I tried, he'd show me someone new. Some girl he was into. Some dream girl he was too scared to DM. And I'd look at them—polished, confident, everything I'm not—and I'd think, what's the point? He doesn't see me like that. I'm just—" Your voice catches. "I'm just the safe one. The comfortable one. The best friend who helps him write messages to other girls."
"Until the villa."
"Until the villa."
Nick is quiet for a moment. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and fixes you with a look that's softer than his usual sharp assessment.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not ever. Not even close."
Your throat tightens. "Then why did he leave?"
"Because he's an idiot. Because he feels guilty. Because he just found out that the person he cares about most in the world has been silently breaking her own heart for years because of him." Nick's voice is gentle but firm. "That's a lot to process."
"Or maybe he's just done. Maybe he realized this isn't worth it. The drama. The letters. Whatever this is." You gesture vaguely between yourself and the empty air where Matt should be. "Maybe he decided the friendship isn't worth saving."
Nick doesn't answer right away. He looks at you. Studies you. Then he says, quietly, "Do you want to save it?"
"Yes." The word is immediate. Raw. "More than anything. That's all I want. I don't care if he never—if we never—I just want my best friend back. I can't do this. I can't live in this silence. It's killing me."
"Then tell him that."
"I tried. He won't answer."
"Then try differently."
The words hang in the air. Try differently. You think about the box. The years of letters. The secrets you've been keeping. Every confession you've ever made has been on paper. Every truth you've ever told him has been with ink instead of your voice.
Maybe that's the problem.
You stand up.
"Where are you going?" Nick asks.
"I need to write something."
The desk in your room is exactly as you left it. The notebook. The pen. The vanilla candle burned down to nothing. You sit. You pull out a fresh sheet of paper. For a long moment, you just stare at the blank white space.
This isn't like the other letters. The other letters were secrets. Confessions meant for no one but yourself. This one—this one has to be different. This one has to bridge the gap.
The pen touches paper.
Matt,
I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry for being a coward.
The words come slowly at first, then faster. The pen scratches across the page, and you don't stop to think, don't stop to edit, don't stop to second-guess.
I should have spoken the words aloud years ago instead of hiding behind ink and paper, leaving you to piece together a puzzle you didn't even know you were playing. I locked those letters away because I knew the truth: I am so very far away from your type. I watched the girls you chose, the girls you fell for, and I knew I could never compete with that. So I stayed in the dark, choosing to be your safe, comfortable backup rather than risking losing you entirely.
But please, if you can find it in yourself, just forget about the letters. Pretend you never found the box. Pretend you never read a single line. And please... let's just forget about everything else that happened in my room. The things we did, the lines we crossed—the things best friends should never have done. Let's push it all away.
I don't want to destroy what we have. More than anything, I just want to save our friendship. Please don't let my cowardice cost me my best friend.
You don't sign it. You don't need to. He'll know.
The pen clatters to the desk. Your hands are shaking. But this time, the shaking isn't from fear. It's from something else. Something that feels almost like hope.
You fold the paper. Once. Twice. Your fingers are steady now. Deliberate.
When you turn back toward the bed, Nick is still leaning against the headboard. He looks up as you step closer, his eyes dropping immediately to the folded paper in your hand.
"This one you're sending," he says. Not a question.
"This one I'm sending." You hold it out to him. "Can you—will you give it to him? Please? I can't—he won't—"
Nick takes the letter. His fingers brush yours. "Of course."
"Don't read it."
"I wouldn't." He tucks it carefully into his jacket pocket. "I'll make sure he gets it. Today."
"Thank you."
He stands. Crosses to where you're standing. For a moment, he just looks at you, those sharp eyes softening into something gentler than you've ever seen from him. Then he pulls you into a hug. Quick. Firm. Brotherly.
"Whatever happens," he murmurs, "you're family. You know that, right? No matter what."
The tears you've been holding back for three days finally spill over. You bury your face in his shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough to let yourself break. Then you pull back, wipe your eyes, and nod.
"Go," you say. "Before I lose my nerve."
Nick squeezes your shoulder once. Then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him, the letter tucked safely against his chest.
You stand in the living room. In the silence. In the gray morning light.
Wonho x Changkyun
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
After a rare and long-awaited reunion at a luxury spa, Wonho and Changkyun cross the boundaries of their past friendship and separate lives to finally confess their years of unspoken desire for one another.
The phone buzzed against the couch cushion, three quick vibrations in succession. Changkyun’s name lit up the screen.
Wonho was already reaching for it before the fourth message landed, towel draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from the shower. He’d been half-watching some variety show he couldn’t follow, restless in a way he couldn’t name, and the sound of an incoming text felt like an answer to a question he hadn’t asked.
hyung you awake
of course you’re awake you never sleep
come keep me company i’m dying in this studio
Another buzz.
my shoulders are actually going to freeze
Wonho’s thumbs moved before he finished reading.
you’re still there? it’s almost midnight changkyun-ah
The response came instantly.
deadline. producer wants revisions by tomorrow and i’ve been hunched over this desk for nine hours straight. i can’t feel my neck
i miss you
The last message landed differently. Wonho stared at it, chest tightening in a way that wasn’t entirely explainable.
Ever since his departure from the group, those casual, everyday collisions had completely vanished. There were no more shared schedules, no more synchronized chaos at practice, and no more passing each other in the halls between recording sessions and meetings. They were operating in entirely different orbits now. Actually being together—just the two of them, without the barrier of their new, separate realities—had become a ghost of a memory. It had been months. Maybe longer.
He was already opening the search app.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, an impulse he didn’t bother examining too closely, he wanted to give Changkyun something special. Not just a meal. Not just a quick drink at some crowded bar where they’d spend half the time ducking phones. Something that would actually make him relax. Something luxurious. Somewhere quiet.
The spa’s website loaded with the kind of minimalist elegance that screamed expensive. Marble floors in the photos. Candlelit hallways. Private suites with names like “Eternal Devotion” and “Celestial Bond.” The testimonials were all breathless five-star reviews from accounts with too few followers to be fake. Wonho scrolled past the treatment descriptions without reading them carefully, Swedish massage, hot stone therapy, aromatherapy, something about couples’ alignment, and clicked the booking button before he could overthink the price.
He sent Changkyun the confirmation screenshot.
don’t argue with me. tomorrow. 7pm. you’re getting fixed
Changkyun’s reply was a single emoji: the one with the slightly smiling face and the single tear. Wonho laughed, tossed his phone onto the bed, and lay back feeling inexplicably lighter.
The next day crawled.
Changkyun arrived at the spa entrance seven minutes late, which for him was practically early. Wonho spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car service, that particular way he moved, unhurried and deliberate, shoulders slightly rolled forward from exhaustion. He was wearing all black, simple clothes that still managed to look intentional on his frame, and his hair was pushed back from his face in a way that suggested he’d run his hands through it too many times.
The exhaustion was visible even from twenty paces. The dark circles. The slight pallor beneath his skin. But the moment Changkyun’s eyes found Wonho waiting by the entrance, everything shifted.
The smile that broke across his face was small but genuine—the rare one, not the camera-ready version. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Hyung.” His voice, that impossibly deep register, carried across the quiet evening air. “You actually showed up.”
“I booked it.” Wonho opened his arms. “Of course I showed up.”
The hug lasted longer than hugs between colleagues typically did. Changkyun’s body was tense beneath Wonho’s palms, muscles knotted along his upper back in a way Wonho could feel even through the fabric of his jacket. He smelled like studio air—recirculated and slightly stale—with something underneath that was just him. Warm. Familiar.
“You need this,” Wonho murmured against his hair.
“I need sleep and a spine transplant.” Changkyun pulled back, looking up at him. “But I’ll settle for whatever you’ve got planned.”
The reception area was all soft lighting and the faint scent of eucalyptus. A woman behind the desk looked up as they approached, her expression shifting from professional courtesy to something more carefully neutral—the look of someone who had been trained to recognize celebrities and pretend she hadn’t.
“Welcome to Azure Wellness. Reservation name?”
“Lee,” Wonho said. “Lee Hoseok. I booked the… relaxation package. The premium one.”
Her fingers moved across the keyboard. Her expression flickered, just barely—a micro-expression of recognition, quickly smoothed over—before she looked up with a smile that had become noticeably warmer.
“Ah, Mr. Lee.” Her voice softened into something almost conspiratorial. “We have the ‘Eternal Devotion’ VIP suite ready for you and your partner.”
The word landed in Wonho’s chest like a stone dropped into still water.
Partner.
His face went hot. The kind of heat that started at his collar and climbed upward with merciless efficiency, turning his ears crimson before he could even form a response.
“Oh.” The syllable came out strangled. “We’re not— I mean, we’re friends. Colleagues. He’s my…” He gestured vaguely, helplessly. “We work together.”
The receptionist nodded with the kind of gentle, knowing indulgence that suggested she had heard this exact protest many times before. Her smile didn’t waver. “Of course, sir. The suite has been prepared to your specifications. If you’ll follow me.”
She was already rising, gathering two thick robes and a set of locker keys.
Wonho stood frozen, his mouth still half-open around an explanation that was clearly not going to be heard.
And then he felt it—Changkyun’s arm sliding through his, smooth and deliberate, slotting into place like he’d done it a thousand times.
“Don’t listen to him.” Changkyun’s voice was pure silk, lazy and wicked, his head tilting just slightly toward Wonho’s shoulder. “He’s just shy. We’re very excited about the suite, though, aren’t we, honey?”
The word dripped off his tongue like warm syrup.
Wonho’s brain short-circuited.
He turned to stare at Changkyun, who met his gaze with an expression of perfect, angelic innocence that did absolutely nothing to hide the mischief dancing in his dark eyes. The little shit was enjoying this. He was going to play along, and he was going to make Wonho suffer, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Right,” Wonho managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Very… excited.”
The receptionist led them down a hallway that seemed designed to make every footstep feel like entering another world. The lighting dimmed gradually as they walked, shifting from warm gold to something softer, more intimate. The air grew thicker, weighted with moisture and the faint perfume of fresh flowers.
Rose petals.
Wonho noticed them first scattered along the baseboards, a trail of deep crimson against pale marble. Then more of them, arranged in deliberate patterns across the floor. By the time the staff pushed open the heavy door to their suite, the scent of roses had become unmistakable.
The room was stunning in a way that made Wonho’s protest die in his throat.
It was enormous. Vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams. Candles everywhere—real ones, not the LED imitations, their flames flickering softly in glass hurricanes placed on every surface. Rose petals covered the floor in swirling patterns, gathered in drifts around the two massage tables positioned side by side, scattered across the plush seating area, floating delicately in a shallow basin of water near what looked like a private steam room.
Soft acoustic music played from hidden speakers. Something instrumental. Something with guitar.
A bottle of champagne sat chilling in a silver bucket beside two crystal flutes.
“Your package includes ninety minutes of therapeutic massage, followed by sixty minutes of private access to our marble hydrotherapy tub,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward the far end of the suite where steam rose in lazy curls from a tub large enough to fit four people comfortably. “The champagne is complimentary. Your masseuses will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes. Please make yourselves comfortable. The lockers are through that door, robes and towels are provided.”
She bowed, still wearing that small, knowing smile, and retreated backward through the door before Wonho could marshal another attempt at explanation.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Changkyun was the first to break it, but not with words. A low, rich sound of amusement rumbled up from his chest, half laugh, half something darker. Wonho felt it travel down his spine like a physical touch.
“Eternal Devotion.” Changkyun’s deep voice savored each syllable. He reached down and plucked a rose petal from where it had landed on the edge of the champagne bucket. “That’s quite a package name, hyung. Very subtle.”
“I didn’t read the description.” Wonho’s voice came out strained. He was still standing near the door, rooted to the spot, watching Changkyun move through the candlelit room with the unhurried confidence of someone who had decided to inhabit this situation fully. “I just clicked the most expensive option. I wanted... you’ve been working so hard. I wanted you to have something nice.”
Changkyun turned. The candlelight caught the angles of his face, the elegant slope of his cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes beneath the lazy curve of his smile.
“Something nice.” He repeated the words as if tasting them. “You booked us a couples’ suite. Rose petals. Champagne for two. ‘Eternal Devotion.’” He took a step closer. “That’s a lot more than nice, honey.”
There it was again. The pet name, delivered with that velvet-voiced precision that made Wonho’s stomach flip.
But this time, Changkyun wasn’t performing for a receptionist. There was no one here to convince.
“You’re going to keep doing that, aren’t you,” Wonho said.
“Well.” Changkyun lifted the champagne bottle from its bucket, examining the label with a casualness that felt entirely deliberate. “If you paid for the VIP couples’ package, I figure I should get my money’s worth.” His eyes flicked up, catching Wonho’s gaze and holding it. “Don’t you agree? Darling?”
Wonho’s heart was beating too fast. He was aware of it in a clinical, distant way. The accelerated rhythm, the slight shortness of breath, the warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the room temperature. He should laugh this off. He should make a joke, deflect, restore the familiar boundaries of their friendship.
Instead, he crossed to the champagne bucket and took the bottle from Changkyun’s hands.
“Anything for you.” His fingers worked the foil, twisted the wire cage free. The cork released with a soft, restrained pop, not the dramatic explosion of celebration, but something quieter. More intimate. He poured two glasses and handed one to Changkyun, letting their fingers brush in the exchange. “Drink up, sweetheart.”
Changkyun’s breath caught. Just barely. Just for an instant.
Then he smiled, a genuine one, small and private then raised his glass. “Cheers.”
They drank.
The champagne was excellent, crisp and cold, and it settled into Wonho’s bloodstream with a warmth that loosened something in his chest. They moved through the suite together, exploring its corners, commenting on its excesses, throwing increasingly absurd pet names back and forth like a game of romantic tennis.
“After you, baby.” Changkyun gestured grandly toward the massage tables.
“Don’t mind if I do, angel.” Wonho swept past him with exaggerated flair.
“That robe really brings out your eyes, sweetie.”
“You look beautiful in candlelight, my love.”
They were laughing. The awkwardness had dissolved into something giddy, almost euphoric, the champagne and the absurdity of the situation combining into a lightness Wonho hadn’t felt in months.
But underneath the laughter, other things were happening.
Changkyun’s hand lingered on Wonho’s forearm during a joke about the heart-shaped soaps. Wonho’s gaze drifted to Changkyun’s mouth in the middle of a laugh and stayed there a beat too long. The space between their bodies, when they stood side by side examining the hydrotherapy tub, had shrunk from careful distance to something closer. Intentional.
The boundary between playing and meaning was dissolving like sugar in warm water.
A soft knock at the door interrupted them.
“Your masseuses,” a staff’s voice called from outside.
Two women entered. Professional, efficient, dressed in simple white uniforms. They introduced themselves and they moved through the space with quiet competence, adjusting the massage tables, warming oils, explaining the flow of the treatment in low, soothing voices.
“If you’ll disrobe to your comfort level,” one said, gesturing toward the privacy screen, “we’ll begin with back and shoulder work. Towels are provided.”
The lockers were in a small foyer just off the main suite. Wonho walked toward them with a strange, suspended feeling, like he was watching himself from outside his body, curious about what he might do next.
He undressed mechanically. Shoes. Socks. Pants. Shirt. Boxer briefs.
The towel was plush and oversized. He wrapped it around his waist, tucking the corner securely, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Flushed. Wide-eyed. Looking like someone standing on the edge of something he hadn’t named yet.
He stepped back into the main room.
And stopped breathing.
Changkyun was already there, standing beside his massage table, and he had apparently reached the same conclusion about the boxer briefs.
The towel sat low on his hips. The candlelight traced the lean architecture of his torso, the subtle definition of his chest, the graceful line of his collarbone, the pale expanse of skin that seemed almost luminous in the dim room. He was smaller than Wonho. More delicate. But there was strength in the way he held himself, quiet and contained, like a blade folded into silk.
Their eyes met.
“You’ve been working out,” Wonho heard himself say. The words felt clumsy, inadequate, but they were the only ones that came. “You’re way more… I mean, you’re more muscular now. Than you used to be.”
Changkyun’s lips curved. “You’ve been looking?”
The question hung in the air, weighted with something Wonho couldn’t deflect.
“Hard not to,” he said. Quietly.
The masseuses were waiting. The moment stretched and then broke, and they both moved toward their tables, lying face-down on the padded surfaces, settling their faces into the circular cradles.
The masseuse’s hands found Wonho’s shoulders first. The oil was warm, lavender-scented, and her touch was expert—finding the knots immediately, working into them with steady pressure.
He tried to relax. Tried to let his mind go blank. Tried not to listen for sounds from the table beside him.
It was impossible.
Changkyun’s first groan came three minutes into the massage. Low. Deep. Resonant in a way that vibrated through Wonho’s chest like the bass note of a song played too loud. It wasn’t performative—Changkyun wasn’t doing this for effect. He was genuinely exhausted, genuinely tight, and his body was responding to relief with sounds he couldn’t control.
“Your trapezius is very tight, sir,” the masseuse murmured. “I’m going to use deeper pressure here.”
Another sound. This one closer to a moan, dragged up from somewhere deep in Changkyun’s throat, and Wonho’s fingers curled against the edge of the table.
Stop listening, he told himself. Stop—
“Your partner seems to be enjoying the treatment,” the one massaging Wonho softly said, her thumbs working along his spine. “He must have needed this very much.”
Wonho didn’t correct her. Couldn’t. His voice had apparently abandoned him.
“He’s been working too hard,” he managed finally, the words muffled by the face cradle.
“You’re very attentive.” There was warmth in her voice. Approval. “You keep turning your head to check on him.”
Wonho hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He forced his gaze straight down, staring at the pattern of rose petals scattered across the floor, but the sounds continued—Changkyun’s breath, Changkyun’s groans, the soft slick sounds of oil against skin—and his awareness of the younger man’s body, just a foot away, had become a physical thing. A gravity. A pull.
The massage lasted ninety minutes.
To Wonho, it felt simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all. His muscles had been worked into submission. His body felt loose and warm, pliant in a way it hadn’t for months. But his mind was a riot of static, every nerve ending tuned to the presence beside him.
The masseuses finished in near-silence. Cool towels pressed to their backs. Gentle instructions to hydrate and rest. The soft click of equipment being packed away.
And then they were bowing, retreating, the door closing behind them. The lock engaging with a sound that echoed through the suite like a gunshot.
Silence.
Changkyun lifted his head from the face cradle. His hair was mussed, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. The towel still clung to his hips, but the massage had shifted it, exposing more of the sharp jut of his hip bone, the inward curve of his waist.
“They said we have an hour,” he said. His voice, always deep, had become something almost subterranean. “Private time. The tub.”
The hydrotherapy tub steamed gently at the far end of the suite. Marble, enormous, the water’s surface scattered with more rose petals, their crimson darkening to near-black where the water soaked through.
“Yeah.” Wonho pushed himself upright, clutching his towel. “I guess we should…”
They both knew. The towels had to come off. Their underwear was in the lockers. There was no way to do this clothed.
Changkyun rose first. Held Wonho’s gaze. And let the towel fall.
The candlelight loved his body. Traced every line of it with gold and shadow—the lean planes of his chest, the subtle definition of his stomach, the smooth, unbroken line of skin that disappeared below. He was beautiful in a way that made Wonho’s throat close.
“Your turn,” Changkyun murmured.
Wonho’s towel dropped.
He was aware, distantly, of the contrast between them. His own body was broader, thicker, built from years of relentless training. Changkyun was watching him with an expression that made the word hungry feel inadequate—eyes dark, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling with breaths that had become noticeably shallower.
Neither of them spoke.
They walked to the tub together, footsteps silent on the marble, and descended into water that was almost too hot. Almost. The heat sank into Wonho’s muscles, into the places the massage hadn’t reached, and he felt something in him unclench for the first time all evening.
Changkyun settled across from him, steam curling around his shoulders, rose petals drifting in the currents between them. His skin was already flushing pink from the heat.
“This is nice,” he said. The words were casual. His tone was anything but.
“Yeah.”
More silence. The water bubbled softly. The candles flickered. The music had stopped—someone had turned it off—and the only sound was the gentle churn of the jets and their own breathing.
Changkyun reached up, his fingers digging into the side of his own neck as he tilted his head, trying to roll out a stubborn knot.
Wonho watched the movement, his eyes tracking the tight line of Changkyun's shoulder. Without a word, he closed the distance between them, moving through the warm water until he was standing right behind him.
“The staff didn’t do it right?,” Wonho asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended, his hands already settling onto Changkyun's tense shoulders
Changkyun didn’t answer. He just watched as Wonho shifted through the water, closing the distance between them until they were inches apart. Until Wonho could see the individual water droplets clinging to Changkyun’s eyelashes, the slight tremor in his lower lip.
“Turn around,” Wonho said.
Changkyun turned.
His back was pale and beautiful, his shoulders still carrying tension that Wonho could see in the way he held them. Wonho’s hands found the familiar landscape of muscle and bone—the places where Changkyun’s body stored its stress, the knots that hadn’t fully released.
He worked them slowly. Deliberately. His thumbs pressing circles into tight flesh.
Changkyun’s head dropped forward. A sound escaped him—not the theatrical groans of the massage table, but something smaller. More vulnerable.
“That’s good,” he breathed. “Hyung, that’s—”
“I know.” Wonho’s voice was barely above a whisper. His hands kept moving, sliding from shoulders to neck to the base of Changkyun’s skull, and then—
Changkyun leaned back.
His spine made contact with Wonho’s chest. His head settled into the curve of Wonho’s shoulder. The full length of his body pressed back against Wonho’s in the water, skin against skin, and Wonho’s hands stilled where they had come to rest on Changkyun’s upper arms.
They stayed like that. Breathing together. The steam rose around them. The water held them suspended.
It was Changkyun who spoke.
“What if I didn’t want you to stop?”
The words were barely audible. Wonho felt them more than heard them—the vibration of Changkyun’s voice traveling through his chest.
“Stop what?”
“Calling me those things.” Changkyun’s head turned slightly, his cheek brushing Wonho’s collarbone. “When we leave here.” A pause. “Hyung. What if I didn’t want you to stop?”
Wonho’s hands tightened on Changkyun’s arms.
The jokes. The pet names. The game they’d been playing all evening—it had never been a game. Not really. Underneath every laugh had been this, waiting, patient as a held breath.
He turned Changkyun.
Not gently. There was something desperate in the movement, something that had been building since the first rose petal and the first champagne sip and the first time Changkyun had called him honey with that voice. He turned him, water sloshing against the marble edges, and pulled him close.
Face to face. Chest to chest. The heat of the water was nothing compared to the heat of Changkyun’s skin under his hands, the sharp intake of breath as Wonho’s fingers found the small of his back.
“Changkyun-ah.” The name came out broken.
“Hoseokie hyung.” Changkyun’s deep voice wrapped around his given name like a caress. His hands came up, slow, deliberate, settling on Wonho’s chest—not pushing away, not pulling closer, just there, palms flat against the muscle. “Are we still playing around?”
Their faces were inches apart. Wonho could feel Changkyun’s breath on his lips.
“Does it feel like I’m playing?” he asked.
Changkyun’s eyes—heavy-lidded, dark, utterly unreadable—searched his face for something. Whatever he found made his expression shift. The teasing edge fell away. The mask of cool composure cracked, just slightly, revealing something raw underneath.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
The first kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was years of something unspoken crashing into the present. Changkyun’s mouth opening under his, the hot slick slide of tongue, the way Changkyun’s fingers dug into the meat of his chest like he was anchoring himself. Wonho’s hands moved of their own accord—up Changkyun’s spine, into his wet hair, gripping tight enough to tilt his head back, to deepen the angle.
The sound Changkyun made was swallowed between them.
Wonho lifted him.
The water made it easy—buoyancy and adrenaline and the sheer desperate need to get closer, closer, closer. He lifted Changkyun onto the marble ledge of the tub, the cooler air hitting his wet skin and making him shiver, and then he was stepping between Changkyun’s thighs, his massive frame eclipsing the younger man entirely.
“Look at you,” Wonho breathed. The words weren’t planned. They came from somewhere deeper than thought. “Look at you, baby.”
The pet name that had been a joke an hour ago landed like a physical touch. Changkyun’s head fell back, his throat exposed, and Wonho’s mouth found his pulse point without conscious decision. Tasting salt and steam and the faint sweetness of massage oil still clinging to skin.
“Hyung.” Changkyun’s voice was ragged. His hands were on Wonho’s shoulders, gripping, pulling. “Hoseok hyung, I’ve thought about this—”
“How long?”
“Years.” The confession came out like it was torn from him. “Since the first time you hugged me. Since the first time you looked at me like I mattered.”
I’ve looked at you like that every time, Wonho wanted to say. Every single time.
But Changkyun’s hands were sliding down his chest now, slow and deliberate, mapping the landscape of muscle with a reverence that made Wonho’s breath stutter. His thumbs found Wonho’s nipples and pressed—just lightly, just testing—and the sound that escaped Wonho’s throat was embarrassing in its sincerity.
Changkyun’s eyes flicked up. “Oh,” he murmured, and his voice had shifted. The vulnerability was still there, but something else was surfacing too—something sharper. More focused. “You like that.”
It wasn’t a question.
His thumbs circled, slow and wet, and Wonho’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, his body betraying him. Changkyun’s lips curved. A cat’s smile. Knowing.
“Hyung’s sensitive here,” he observed, and then he was leaning forward, his mouth replacing his thumbs, and Wonho’s brain short-circuited.
Hot. Wet. The scrape of teeth just barely restrained. Changkyun’s tongue worked one nipple while his fingers continued their assault on the other, and Wonho’s hands found the marble edge of the tub, gripping hard enough to hurt. The sensation was electric—too much and not enough, pleasure sharp enough to border on pain. His thighs were trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
“Kyun, I’m— if you keep—”
Changkyun pulled back just long enough to look up at him. His lips were wet. His eyes were dark and certain. “You’ll what?”
The challenge hung between them.
And something in the room shifted.
Changkyun rose from the ledge. The water barely reached his hips as he stood, and Wonho was suddenly, acutely aware of the difference in their positions—him still seated in the water, Changkyun standing above him, looking down with an expression that had become utterly unreadable.
“Get up,” Changkyun said. Quietly. “Sit here.”
He gestured to the marble ledge.
Wonho moved without thinking. Obeyed without question. The ledge was cool against his thighs, the air cooler still, and he was completely, achingly exposed.
Changkyun knelt in the water.
The steam curled around his shoulders like a cloak. The rose petals drifted around his waist. He looked up at Wonho through those dark lashes, his deep voice dropping another register.
“You’ve been taking care of me all night,” he said. “Let me return the favor.”
His hands settled on Wonho’s thighs.
“Let me take care of you, hyung.”
And then his mouth—
“Changkyun.” The name ripped out of Wonho’s chest, involuntary, desperate. His head fell back, striking the marble wall behind him, but he didn’t feel the impact. Couldn’t feel anything but the wet heat surrounding him, the slow deliberate pressure, Changkyun’s tongue doing things that made rational thought impossible.
The echoes. God, the echoes. Every sound Wonho made bounced off marble and water and came back amplified—his own ragged breathing, the helpless moans he couldn’t suppress, the slick rhythm of Changkyun’s mouth working him with devastating precision. Changkyun’s deep voice hummed approval, and the vibration traveled through Wonho’s entire body.
His hands found Changkyun’s hair. Fisted there. Held on.
“Kyun, if you don’t slow down, I’m going to—”
Changkyun pulled back. Looked up. His lips were swollen, glistening, and his smile was the most dangerous thing Wonho had ever seen.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m not done with you.”
He rose from the water like something out of a fever dream—sleek and pale and utterly in control—and turned around.
Bent forward. Braced his hands on the marble ledge.
Looked over his shoulder at Wonho with eyes that held galaxies.
“Your turn,” Changkyun said. “Honey.”
The word that had been a joke.
The word that had been a confession.
Wonho rose. The water rushed around him, forgotten. His hands found Changkyun’s hips—the sharp jut of bone, the smooth expanse of wet skin—and he pressed forward, slow, so painfully slow, watching Changkyun’s expression fracture into something raw and open and wanting.
“Yes,” Changkyun breathed. “Hoseokie hyung, yes. Like that. Please.”
The room filled with sound.
Wonho’s deep, ragged rhythm. Changkyun’s voice, that impossible velvet register, breaking open on every thrust. The slap of wet skin. The churn of disturbed water. The echoes that caught every gasp, every moan, every whispered praise that fell from Wonho’s lips like prayer.
“So good, baby. You feel so good. Taking me so well— Changkyun— Kyunnie—”
“Don’t stop.” Changkyun’s voice was wrecked. Desperate. His fingers scrabbled against the marble for purchase, his back arching, pushing back into Wonho’s thrusts. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m so close—”
Wonho’s hand slid around Changkyun’s hip, found him, gripped. The sound Changkyun made was almost a sob.
“Come for me,” Wonho growled against his ear. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
The pet name pushed him over. Changkyun’s body clenched around him, his release spilling hot over Wonho’s fingers, and the sight of him—the sound of him—the feel of him shattering—
Wonho followed.
He buried his face in Changkyun’s shoulder and let go.
They collapsed together, trembling, into the still-steaming water. Changkyun turned in his arms, pressing his face into Wonho’s chest, and they stayed like that—wrapped around each other in the marble tub, surrounded by scattered rose petals and the dying flicker of candles and the echoes of everything they’d finally stopped pretending not to want.
The hour was almost up.
Wonho stroked Changkyun’s wet hair. “We should… probably get dressed. Before they come back.”
“Mm.” Changkyun didn’t move. “In a minute.”
“They’re going to know.”
“They already knew.” Changkyun tilted his head up, meeting Wonho’s eyes. The cool composure was back, but softer now—warmed from the inside. “They knew before we did.”
A knock at the door.
The receptionists voice, polite and professional, carried through the heavy wood. “Mr. Lee? Your hour is complete. Shall I have the car brought around, or will you be extending your stay?”
Wonho’s smile was slow. Private. Just for him.
“Well?” he murmured. “What do you think, honey?”
Changkyun stared down at his own hands, his voice dropping into that gritty, low-register rasp that only came out when he was too tired to filter his thoughts.
"I hope we can see each other often, hyung." Changkyun murmured, the words slipping out heavy and deliberate in the quiet room. He tilted his head back, his cat-like eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of Wonho’s chest. "Bond more. Like we used to."
Wonho didn’t break eye contact. A slow, incredibly soft smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the gentle expression completely contradicting the imposing, broad-shouldered silhouette he cast in the dim light. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against the cool air of the spa.
"Well," Wonho rumbled softly, his voice a smooth, teasing whisper that vibrated right through Changkyun’s chest. "You got my number."
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Our Little One
Bang Chan X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Fluff
While Chan is stuck at a grueling, late-night studio session, his sister Hannah safeguards your secret five-month ultrasound appointment, paving the way for a night of intense passion and a breathless candlelit revelation that changes everything.
Part 2 Part 4
The phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, an angry little vibration that doesn't stop. Three messages in rapid succession. Then four. Then seven.
Hannah glances up from her coffee, her dark eyes tracking you as you reach for the device. "Let me guess. My brother."
You swipe open the thread.
Fucking board meeting ran over
Now they want us to re-record the whole bridge
Han's voice is shot. Hyunjin keeps zoning out. We're not getting out of here before midnight
Another buzz.
I should be there. For the scan. I should be THERE.
Your thumbs move before you think. We'll be fine. Hannah's got me. Focus on getting through the session. I'll save every single picture for you.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I hate this. I hate that I can't be in two places at once.
You're exactly where you need to be. Making music. Providing for us. Go. Work. I love you.
A pause. Then: I love you too. Both of you. Tell the little one Daddy says hi.
You press the phone to your chest for a moment, feeling the heat of it through your shirt. Hannah sets down her mug with a soft clink.
"Okay," she announces, pushing herself off the stool. "Let's get you dressed."
The outfit she assembles is a masterclass in camouflage. An oversized black hoodie that could fit three of you. Baggy cargo pants with more pockets than necessary. A cap pulled low. A mask, should you need it. You stare at yourself in the hallway mirror and barely recognize the figure staring back.
"You look like a blanket with legs," Hannah says approvingly. "Perfect."
She grabs Chan's car keys from the hook by the door, her ponytail swinging with authority. Before you can protest, she's already on her phone, FaceTiming her brother.
He picks up on the first ring. The background behind him is dark, studio-lit, the faint sound of a bass track thumping through the speakers. His face is drawn, exhaustion carved into the lines around his mouth. But his eyes sharpen when he sees you.
"You're in the hoodie," he says. Not a question.
"I'm in the hoodie."
"Good. That's good." His jaw tightens. "Hannah."
"Chris." She meets his gaze through the screen, steady and unwavering. "I'll keep her safe. I'll take the back roads. I'll park in the underground garage. I'll walk her to the door and I won't leave her side for a single second. You have my word."
His throat bobs. "I know. I trust you. I just—"
"You just wish you could be the one doing it. I know. But you can't. So let me be your hands today. Let me take care of them ."
Them. The word lands somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and sudden, making your breath hitch. It hits you with a wave of vertigo. The profound, irrevocable realization that you aren't just you anymore. From now on, in every room you enter, in every shadow you hide in, you will always have someone else with you. Chan’s eyes flick to your face, and seeing the quiet shock of that realization dawning on you, something in his expression cracks wide open—a raw, vulnerable tenderness he usually keeps locked behind doors and drawn curtains.
"Go," you tell him softly. "We'll be here when you get back."
"I'm holding you to that." And then the call ends, and Hannah is ushering you out the door, and the world outside feels sharper than it did yesterday. More present. More precarious.
The clinic sits on the edge of the wealthy district, tucked between a private dermatology practice and a members-only wellness spa. No signage. No street-facing entrance. Just a discreet side door and an underground parking structure that requires a keycard and a biometric scan.
Hannah navigates it like she's done it a hundred times. She probably has, you realize. The Bang siblings have been navigating private medical care since Chan's trainee days—that strange, liminal space where you're famous enough to need discretion but not famous enough to afford it easily.
The waiting room is silent. Plush gray chairs arranged in careful, distanced clusters. Abstract art on the walls that probably costs more than your first apartment. A water feature bubbling softly in the corner. The air smells like lavender and something clinical underneath.
You're the only ones here.
Hannah guides you to a chair near the window, her hand never leaving the small of your back. The five-month swell of your belly presses against the oversized hoodie, a constant, grounding weight. You've grown so accustomed to it now—the heaviness, the subtle shifts of movement that feel like bubbles popping deep inside you.
"Water?" Hannah asks.
"I'm okay."
"You're drinking water." She's already at the dispenser, filling a paper cup. "Chan would kill me if I let you get dehydrated."
You take the cup with a small smile. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Being a sister. Being an aunt. Taking care of people."
Hannah settles into the chair beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. "Had a lot of practice. Chris was never good at taking care of himself. Someone had to do it." She pauses. "Now there's you. And soon there'll be—"
She doesn't finish. The private elevator dings.
Your head turns, instinctive, automatic. The doors slide open with a whisper.
Two figures step out.
The man is tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the doorway like a controlled explosion. He's wearing a plain black cap pulled low, a mask covering the lower half of his face, but the eyes above it are unmistakable. Anyone who's watched a music show in the past five years would recognize those eyes, the fierce, commanding gaze of an idol who's built his reputation on being untouchable, unattainable, a beast rapper on stage and a mystery off it.
His hand is wrapped tightly around the fingers of the woman beside him.
She's smaller, more delicate in frame, but her posture carries the unmistakable confidence of someone who's spent years commanding stages of her own. Her face is hidden behind a mask and sunglasses, but the sweep of her hair, the particular way she moves—it clicks into place with a jolt of recognition that steals your breath.
They're from rival companies. From very different groups. The kind of people the tabloids never speculate about together because the idea is too absurd, too unlikely, too impossible to even be a fantasy.
And yet here they are.
The woman unbuttons her coat as she steps into the waiting room. The fabric falls open.
Her belly is round and full beneath a fitted maternity dress. Seven months, maybe eight. And on her finger, catching the soft clinic light, a wedding band glints.
Your hand flies to your own stomach. An instinct. A mirror.
The male idol's eyes sweep the room, cataloging threats, exits, witnesses. They land on you. On Hannah. On the way your hand cradles your belly beneath the oversized hoodie.
His gaze holds yours for three heartbeats.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he nods.
It's a small gesture. Barely perceptible. But the meaning is unmistakable, a quiet, respectful acknowledgment that cuts through the sterile clinic air like a blade. I see you. You see me. We are the same. We are risking everything for the same reason. And your secret is as safe as mine.
The woman meets your eyes next. Her hand drifts to her stomach, mirroring your own posture, and she offers the faintest ghost of a smile beneath her mask. Solidarity. Sisterhood. A thousand words exchanged in a single glance.
Hannah's grip on your arm tightens. When you glance at her, her eyes are wide, but she doesn't speak. Doesn't have to. The three of you—you, Hannah, the couple—exist in a suspended moment of mutual recognition, a silent pact forged in the shared terror and joy of loving someone the world believes it owns.
Then the couple is ushered into a private room by a nurse in crisp scrubs, and the door clicks shut behind them, and the waiting room is quiet again.
"Was that—" Hannah starts.
"Yeah."
"And she's—"
"Yeah."
"And they're—"
"Married, apparently."
Hannah sinks back into her chair, exhaling slowly. "Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"That's... that's huge. If anyone found out—"
"They won't. Not from us." You press your palm flat against your belly, feeling the answering flutter deep inside. "We're all in the same boat. Sinking one of us sinks all of us."
Hannah is quiet for a moment. Then she reaches over and takes your hand, her fingers warm and steady. "You're braver than I think you know. All of you. This whole secret world you're living in. I can't imagine."
"It's not bravery when there's no other choice." You squeeze her hand. "It's just love."
The nurse calls your alias. A name that's not yours, clipped and professional. Hannah rises with you, her arm linked through yours as you follow the woman in scrubs down a quiet hallway and into a dim room.
The examination table is padded, adjustable. The ultrasound machine hums faintly in the corner, its screen dark. The technician is a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes who explains every step before she takes it, who asks permission before she touches your belly, who treats your body with a gentle reverence that makes your throat tight.
The gel is cool on your skin. Not cold, just cool enough to make you shiver. Hannah's hand finds yours and grips it tightly.
Then the screen lights up.
The sound comes first—a rhythmic, thumping whoosh that fills the room like a heartbeat amplified. Because that's exactly what it is. A heartbeat. Small and fierce and impossibly fast, galloping through the darkness of your womb like a promise.
"Oh," Hannah breathes. "Oh, listen to that."
You can't speak. Your eyes are fixed on the screen, on the shifting grayscale image that the technician is tracing with her sensor. The curve of a skull. The delicate arch of a spine. The tiny, perfect spread of fingers that seem to wave at you from the other side of your own skin.
"There's the spine," the technician murmurs, her cursor tracing the image. "Beautiful development. And here—" she pauses, adjusting the angle, "—are the feet. Ten toes. All present and accounted for."
Hannah is crying. You can hear it in the hitching of her breath, feel it in the trembling of her fingers against yours. Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and she makes no move to wipe them away.
"The gender," you manage, your voice scraped raw. "Can you—can you tell?"
The technician smiles. Adjusts the sensor. Points.
And there it is. Clear and unmistakable.
A secret. A revelation. A truth that burns itself into your memory with the intensity of a flashbulb, searing and permanent.
Hannah gasps. A breathless, shattered sound. "Is that—does that mean—"
You're crying too now, silent tears tracking down your temples and into your hair. The technician prints the sonogram photos—four of them, crisp and clear—and slides them into an envelope with careful, practiced hands. You take it like it's made of glass.
"Congratulations," the technician says softly. "Baby's perfect."
The penthouse is dark and entirely still when he finally returns, the deep, quiet emptiness a stark contrast to the chaotic energy from earlier. Hannah had already left a few hours prior, slipping out to catch her late-night flight back to Australia after leaving a row of neatly packed containers of home-cooked food in the fridge and pressing a fierce, tearful goodbye kiss to your forehead. Her absence leaves the apartment feeling vast and heavily silent, a waiting sanctuary. She promised she will be back as soon as she can.
You're curled on the couch, the envelope on the coffee table in front of you, when the front door code beeps. Heavy footsteps. The thump of a bag hitting the floor. A long, ragged exhale that seems to deflate him completely.
You don't move. You let him come to you.
Chan rounds the couch and stops. He's still in his studio clothes—dark jeans, a wrinkled t-shirt, his hair a disaster of product and exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes are deep enough to bruise. But his gaze finds the envelope on the coffee table, and something in his expression shifts.
"The scan," he says. Not a question.
"The scan."
"Everything's okay? The baby—"
"The baby is perfect. Healthy. Strong heartbeat. Ten fingers. Ten toes." You rise from the couch, crossing to him, your hands finding his chest. His heart is hammering beneath your palm. "The doctor checked everything today, Chris."
His hands come up to cup your face, rough and warm, his thumb brushing your cheek as he searches your eyes. "And? Did you... did you find out?"
You smile up at him, a small, knowing curve of your lips. "I did. The technician showed me everything on the screen. But I haven't told a soul— well Hannah knows. But I wanted to save the real moment for just the two of us.
His eyes glisten in the dim light of the entryway. "You kept it to yourself all afternoon?"
"Of course I did, you idiot. This is yours. This is ours. I wanted us to be completely alone when you found out."
He kisses you. Hard and desperate, tasting faintly of coffee, exhaustion, and the particular brand of mint gum he chews during long studio sessions. You melt into him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, your belly pressing against his stomach.
"I love you," he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding down to rest heavily on your waist. "I love you so much it scares me."
"Come on." You pull back gently, taking his hand and leading him toward the master suite. "The studio can wait, and you need to unwind. Let me take care of you first."
The bathroom is lit by candles. Dozens of them, clustered on the counter and the edge of the tub and the windowsill, their flames flickering soft and gold against the steam. The bath is deep and hot, fragrant with something herbal and calming, bubbles floating like tiny clouds on the surface of the water.
Chan stops in the doorway. Stares.
"You did this?"
"You've been running yourself into the ground." You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. "Let me take care of you. Just for tonight."
He lets you undress him. The shirt first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles that have grown leaner from stress and overwork. Then the jeans, unbuttoned and pushed down his hips, his boxers following. He's half-hard already—exhaustion and arousal tangled together in the way only a body running on fumes can manage.
You guide him into the tub. He sinks into the water with a groan that's almost obscene, his head falling back against the edge, his eyes slipping closed.
"God. God. This is—"
"Shh." You strip off your own clothes, the hoodie and pants falling away, and then you're stepping into the water, sliding between his spread legs, settling back against his chest.
His hands find your belly immediately. They always do. He splays his fingers wide over the swell, tracing slow circles that make the baby flutter in response.
You hum at his touch. Then his hands slide up from your belly to cup your breasts. They're fuller now, heavier, the changes of pregnancy reshaping you into someone new. His thumbs find your nipples, circling slowly, and the sensation sparks straight to your core.
"Chris," you breathe.
"They're bigger again." His voice is rough, wondering. "How are they always bigger?"
"They're getting ready. For the little one."
He groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "I love your body. I love what it's doing. I love you. I love the little one. I love—"
You kiss him to stop the words. Or to encourage more. You're not sure anymore.
His hands slide down your sides, over the flare of your hips, gripping the new fullness there with a possessive growl that vibrates against your chest. Then lower still, his fingers finding the slick heat between your thighs.
"Already wet," he murmurs, and there's no smugness in it. Just wonder. "You're already so wet."
"I'm always wet around you. It's a problem."
"It's a miracle." His thumb finds your clit, circling lazily, and your hips buck against his hand.
The warm, soapy water reduces all friction, making every slide of his slick skin against yours incredibly, agonizingly intense. Chan’s large hands slide slowly down from your waist to your hips, his broad fingers gripping the new, soft fullness there with a heavy, possessive growl that vibrates directly against your chest.
"Chris," you gasp, your fingers digging ruthlessly into the damp, rigid muscles of his forearms to anchor yourself.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, his hands slide down to your thighs, his grip firm and steady under the water. With a gentle, effortless lift, he helps you adjust from where you were leaning back against him, guiding your body until you are straddling him completely, sitting flush against his lap. You shift into him, the friction of your wet thighs against his sides sending a shock of heat through the cooling water.
He holds you there for a breathless second, letting you settle, his dark eyes burning with an intense, protective hunger as he maps the changing curves of your body. Then, he lifts you just high enough by your thighs to align your bodies in the deep tub. Your breath hitches completely as the blunt, rigid heat of the head of his cock presses firmly against your slick opening.
With an agonizingly slow, deliberate care, he lowers you back down, burying himself to the absolute root in one deep, perfect push that makes your head fall back weakly against his shoulder.
As your body stretches around his thick, unyielding fullness, a loud, ragged moan tears from your throat. Chan is already moving. His mouth instantly catches yours, his tongue sweeping inside to drink down the sound, keeping your shared pleasure entirely locked within the safe, quiet confines of his lips.
Submerged in the tub, he establishes a slow, rolling upward grind of his hips. Because of the water’s natural buoyancy, each heavy thrust feels deeper and more encompassing, sending electric shocks straight to your core. The contrast of the cooling bathroom air on your wet shoulders and the intense, friction-free heat where your bodies are joined drives you rapidly toward the edge.
Chan notices the frantic, broken hitch in your breathing against his mouth. Shifting his grip, he keeps one hand locked on your hip while his other hand slides down between your bodies, disappearing underwater. His thumb finds you, rubbing in perfect, agonizing tandem with his deep, unhurried thrusts.
The double stimulation is too much to bear. Your internal muscles tighten convulsively around him as a violent, blinding climax ripples through you.
"Ch-Chris! Ughhh!", you moan as you cum.
Chan groans deeply into your mouth, his own restraint completely breaking against your sudden tightness. His pace quickens into a few desperate, heavy surges, pulling him over the edge right along with you.
He shudders violently beneath you, his fingers burying deep into your hips as he spills himself inside you. He holds you fiercely, letting the sheer emotional and physical exhaustion of the grueling weeks melt away into the quiet, cooling water.
The frantic splashing of the water gradually settles into a quiet, rhythmic ripple as your breathing slows in tandem with his. You remain straddling his lap, the cooling water lapping gently against your chests. His arms stay locked securely around your lower back, his large, warm hands resting flat against your hips to keep you anchored securely against his chest.
Chan leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your wet shoulder.
"God, I love you guys so much. I seriously can't wait to meet the little one." His voice is low, thick, and raspy with a sudden swell of emotion.
You smile softly in the dim, candlelit dark of the bathroom. Shifting your weight slightly on his thighs, you lift your hands out of the tub, letting warm droplets of water cascade down his bare chest as you bring your palms up to cradle his face. Your skin is slick against his as you gently guide his head up, tilting him forward until your foreheads are pressed firmly together, his dark eyes looking directly into yours from only inches away.
With your thumbs tenderly tracing the sharp, familiar lines of his jawbone, you let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes crinkling.
"You mean you can't wait to meet her?"
Chan freezes completely. Underneath you, his entire body locks up, every muscle going rigid. His dark eyes go incredibly wide, and his breath catches sharply in his throat as the word echoes in the absolute silence of the room.
"Her?" he whispers, his voice cracking violently under the sudden weight of it. "A girl? We're... we're having a girl?"
You nod, hot tears finally welling over your lashes and rolling down your cheeks as you watch the raw, overwhelming shock on his face instantly melt into pure, unadulterated awe.
A brilliant, tearful dimpled smile breaks across his face—the most radiant look you've ever seen on him. He lets out a breathless, choked laugh and immediately breaks the forehead contact to bury his face deep into the crook of your neck. His broad shoulders tremble against you as the reality of becoming a girl-dad completely washes over him, binding you three together in the quiet safety of the dark.
gracieabrams
amandla
