Mel's Tiny Brain

“Not today…” you mumbled into the pillow, groaning as you curled your knees up closer to your chest.

It wasn’t unusual. This happened every month, almost like clockwork. But no matter how prepared you tried to be, no matter how many times you went through the routine, it never got easier. The cramps were already building, wrapping around your abdomen like an iron band and tightening bit by bit.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand out of habit, squinting against the light of the screen. A couple of notifications blinked up at you, nothing urgent, just social media, a reminder from your calendar, but you didn’t even bother unlocking it. You weren’t in the mood to scroll, to read, or to interact. Your phone slipped back down to the nightstand with a soft clatter, forgotten almost instantly as another wave of cramps had you squeezing your eyes shut.

All you wanted was relief. Relief, and maybe comfort.

Dragging yourself out of bed felt impossible, but you did it anyway, moving on autopilot. Clean up first. That always came first. You shuffled to the bathroom, slow and clumsy, going through the motions that had become too familiar. Fresh products, washing your hands, splashing cool water on your face. The reflection staring back at you in the mirror looked pale and a little miserable, hair messy from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

You sighed, too tired to even think about fixing yourself up. The best you could do was change into something soft, an oversized shirt that hung loosely on your body, a pair of shorts that wouldn’t dig into your waist. You shuffled back into your room, each step weighted down, and practically collapsed onto your bed again.

The blanket was a cocoon, cool at first and then slowly warming with your body heat. You curled into yourself, clutching at your stomach instinctively, even though you knew it didn’t help much. It was just… something. Something to hold onto while your body decided to wage war on you.

Your phone buzzed again, faint on the nightstand, but you didn’t move. You didn’t even check who it was. It could wait. Everything could wait.

Meanwhile, somewhere else across the city, Chan was looking down at his own phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He had just finished up a long meeting, the kind that left him drained but buzzing with too many ideas at once. Normally, he’d text you right away, just to check in, to share something funny or complain about how endless the discussions felt.

So that’s what he did.

Chan: Finally done with this meeting, feels like I aged 10 years.
Chan: What are you up to?

He stared at the screen, waiting for the little “typing…” bubble to pop up. Usually, it didn’t take long. You were quick to respond, even if it was just a short emoji or a “busy rn.” But the seconds stretched into minutes, and the screen stayed blank.

Chan chewed on his bottom lip, shrugging it off at first. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were still asleep, though he knew you rarely slept this late. He tossed his phone onto the desk and went back to scribbling in his notebook, letting the beat in his head spill onto paper.

But after an hour, when he checked again, there was still nothing from you.

His fingers tapped out another message almost without thinking.

Chan: Hey, you okay?

Still no reply.

That tiny seed of worry started planting itself in his chest. He tried to brush it off again, telling himself not to overthink, but Chan wasn’t exactly great at not overthinking. Especially when it came to you.

By the time his call went unanswered, the seed had already sprouted, growing heavier with each passing hour.

Back in your bed, you shifted under the blanket, curling deeper into it as another cramp rolled through. You groaned softly, too exhausted to even reach for the phone that lit up again on the nightstand. You barely registered the vibration against the wood before your eyes fluttered shut.

You weren’t ignoring anyone. You weren’t upset. You just couldn’t deal with anything beyond the war your body was waging against you.

The world could wait.

And that included Chan’s worried little texts, though you didn’t know it yet.

The day moved on, but Chan’s mind didn’t.

Normally, he thrived on busyness. His schedule was packed with practice, meetings, producing, and endless checklists of things to get done. It was the kind of chaos he had gotten used to, even relied on. But when his phone stayed silent despite the three, four, five times he checked it, everything else seemed harder to focus on. His pencil stilled over the notepad where he was scribbling chord ideas. His ears tuned out halfway through one of the members joking with him.

He kept thinking about you.

You never ignored him. That was the thing. Even on your busiest days, you’d slip in a quick reply, something lighthearted just to let him know you saw him. A little emoji, a “later” text, even a single “♡.” Something. Anything.

But now? Nothing. Not one reply since morning.

By the time he called you and it rang all the way through to voicemail, that tight knot in his chest was pulling harder.

“She’s upset with me,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Hyung, what?” Jisung asked, glancing up from across the room.

“Nothing,” Chan waved it off, forcing a smile. He wasn’t about to dump his spiraling thoughts onto the others. This was his problem to figure out.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking. Did he forget something? Yesterday… he tried to replay everything in his mind. He’d been tired, sure, but had he snapped at you? Had he been distracted and missed something important you told him?

He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The problem was, his brain wasn’t good at letting go once it latched onto a worry. It gnawed at him, over and over, convincing him of the worst possible explanation until he almost believed it.

By the time late afternoon rolled around, he couldn’t take it anymore. His phone screen mocked him, still blank of any message from you. He didn’t even think twice before shoving his notebook into his bag and telling the members he’d head home early.

He wasn’t going home, though.

The drive over to your place was both quick and painfully long. Quick, because Chan’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter, pushing the speed just enough to shave off time. Long, because the silence in the car gave his thoughts too much room to echo.

What if you didn’t want to see him? What if showing up uninvited only made things worse?

Still, he couldn’t turn back. He needed to know. Needed to see you, to understand what had happened, to make sure you were okay.

By the time he parked outside your place, the nervous energy in his chest had built up so much he could barely breathe evenly. He sat there for a moment, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, before finally exhaling hard and muttering to himself.

“Alright, just… just talk to her. Find out what’s wrong. You can fix this.”

He grabbed his bag and headed up, his footsteps slower than usual. He had his own key, you’d given it to him months ago but right now, the idea of unlocking your door without permission made his chest twist.

He rang the bell once. Waited. Rang again.

No answer.

Biting his lip, Chan reached for the key anyway. “Don’t freak out,” he whispered to himself as he carefully unlocked the door. “It’s fine. Just ask her. It’s fine.”

The apartment was quiet when he slipped inside. Not the kind of quiet that felt empty, but the kind that was lived-in, peaceful, interrupted only by the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. He set his bag down by the door, hesitating for a long moment before making his way further in.

“Y/N?” he called softly.

No response.

His heart beat faster, every step toward your bedroom door heavier. He knocked gently, then pushed it open just enough to peek inside.

And there you were.

Curled up in bed, blanket cocooned around you, face half-buried in the pillow. Your hair was a little messy, your expression tired even in sleep or what looked like sleep. You didn’t move at the sound of the door, didn’t flinch when he stepped inside.

Chan’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it hurt more to think you were ignoring him on purpose, or if something else was wrong entirely.

He hovered at the side of the bed for a moment, crouching slightly as he whispered, “Hey…”

Your eyelids fluttered, but you didn’t speak.

“Are you…” he hesitated, swallowing hard before finishing, “Are you upset with me?”

And that was when you blinked at him, slow and a little dazed, before pouting softly.

“No…” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “Not upset. Just… got my period. Hurts too much.”

For Chan, the relief was instant and overwhelming. His shoulders sagged as a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding rushed out of him.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thought—baby, I thought you were mad at me. I’ve been losing my mind all day.”

He let out a small, shaky laugh, rubbing at his face again before dragging his fingers through his hair.

“Baby…” he sighed, the corners of his mouth tugging up into the gentlest smile. “You scared me half to death. I thought I did something wrong. I thought you were mad at me.”

Your lips curled into the faintest pout, and you shook your head against the pillow. “No. Just… hurting. A lot.”

Chan’s gaze softened even further. He reached out instinctively, brushing a few strands of hair back from your forehead, his fingers warm and careful. “You should’ve told me,” he murmured, his voice so tender it made your chest ache for a whole different reason.

“I didn’t even look at my phone today,” you admitted, wincing as another cramp twisted through you. “Couldn’t deal with anything.”

That made him sigh again, though not in frustration, in sympathy. “My poor baby,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against your temple. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

For a moment, he just stood there beside the bed, his hand lingering on your hair. But then, without hesitation, he toed off his slippers and carefully slipped under the blanket beside you. The mattress dipped with his weight, and warmth spread instantly across your body as his arm wrapped gently around your waist.

He pulled you close, careful but firm enough to make you feel anchored. His lips pressed a fleeting kiss against your temple. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You melted against him, your forehead pressing into his chest. “Mhm,” you hummed, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Chan smiled against your hair, the tension that had followed him all day finally easing. “Tell me what I can do for you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look down at your face. “Do you need more products? Something to eat? I can heat up your pad for you… or I can grab you water, or tea. Just say the word.”

You blinked up at him, your lashes heavy with exhaustion, and gave a weak little nod at each suggestion. Yes. Yes. Yes.

That made him chuckle, low and warm, before he pecked your temple again. “Alright, so basically, all of it,” he teased.

You whined softly when he shifted like he was about to get up, your hand immediately fisting into his shirt. “Don’t go yet,” you mumbled, your lips brushing the fabric.

His heart squeezed at that. He froze, then settled right back down against the pillows, tightening his hold around you. “Okay,” he whispered. “Not going anywhere.”

The relief in your body was almost visible. You tucked yourself even closer into his chest, curling into him as if he were your own personal safe space, which, in a way, he was. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, his arm rubbing soothing circles against your side, never pressing too hard against your cramping stomach.

For a while, silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable, filled with the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. That rhythm, steady and grounding, made your own body relax little by little.

And then Chan started talking.

He told you about his day, how endless the meeting felt, how he kept thinking about you the whole time and wondering what you were up to. He slipped in jokes, silly imitations of the others, exaggerations that were meant to make you laugh.

And you did.

Not a loud laugh, not the kind that shook your whole body. But a soft, breathy giggle that made his chest vibrate with happiness. Every time the sound left your lips, his eyes lit up like you’d just given him the best gift in the world.

You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him, your cheek still pressed against his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though the fond smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a grin, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But if it makes you smile, I’ll happily be ridiculous.”

Your heart swelled at that, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the blanket. Even through the cramps and the exhaustion, even through the ache that made your whole body curl inward, you felt loved. So deeply loved it almost overwhelmed you.

And the thing about Chan was, he never made you doubt it.

-

It didn’t surprise you when, after a little while, Chan stirred beneath you. His hand was still drawing slow, absent circles against your side, but there was a restless energy in him, that familiar leader instinct that wouldn’t let him sit still when someone he loved was hurting.

You felt the shift in his chest as he leaned down, whispering against your hair. “Baby, I know you don’t want me to move, but… I should get your heating pad. It’ll help.”

You made a small noise of protest, burrowing closer into him like a stubborn child. “Later…”

Chan chuckled, the sound low and fond, and kissed the crown of your head. “You said yes to everything, remember? If I don’t do it now, you’ll just get worse. Two minutes, tops. I promise.”

You pouted, but your fingers finally loosened their grip on his shirt. “Fine,” you sighed, your voice small.

That was all the permission he needed. He slipped carefully out from under you, tucking the blanket snug around your body before he stood. “Stay right here. Don’t move,” he teased, pointing playfully as if you were capable of going anywhere in your current state.

You watched him move around your room with ease, his presence filling the space in a way that made it feel warmer, safer. He ducked into your closet to grab the heating pad, plugging it in with practiced efficiency, like he’d done this countless times before. Which, to be fair, he had.

While it warmed up, he padded into the kitchen. You could hear faint clattering, the fridge opening, a cupboard door closing, the hum of the microwave. Even from bed, you pictured the way his brows furrowed in concentration, how he’d open every drawer just to make sure he had all the options.

When he returned, his arms were full.

The heating pad, wrapped in its soft cover. A glass of water balanced carefully in his hand. A mug of tea that smelled faintly of chamomile. A small plate with crackers and a couple of chocolate squares because Chan always remembered that sometimes you needed sugar more than anything.

You blinked at the sight, your lips twitching upward. “You brought the whole kitchen,” you teased softly.

Chan set everything down on your nightstand, grinning sheepishly. “Better too much than not enough,” he said, settling beside you again. He pressed the warm heating pad gently against your stomach, watching your reaction closely. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

The sigh that left your lips was almost instantaneous. The ache didn’t disappear, but the warmth dulled it, eased it just enough for your muscles to relax. Your shoulders dropped back into the pillows, your eyes fluttering shut.

“There we go,” Chan whispered, satisfied, before slipping the glass of water into your hand. “Small sips first. You didn’t drink much today, did you?”

You shook your head faintly, sipping obediently while his hand hovered near the glass like he was ready to catch it if you dropped it.

Once you finished, he traded it for the mug of tea. “This’ll help too. Just a little at a time.”

You sipped that as well, the warmth coating your throat, easing you further into comfort. By the time he set it back down and tucked the blanket more securely around you, your body felt lighter, as if his care had lifted some of the weight along with the pain.

“Snack later,” he said gently, brushing his fingers through your hair. “For now, just rest.”

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re spoiling me.”

Chan laughed softly, leaning down to press a kiss against your temple. “Always,” he murmured, his voice so certain, so matter-of-fact, that your chest ached with love.

When he finally settled back beside you, his arm slid under your shoulders, tugging you close again. This time, though, the heating pad was tucked securely against your stomach, the tea and snacks waiting nearby, and his presence felt even more grounding.

“You okay now?” he asked quietly, watching your face.

You nodded, nuzzling into him. “Better. Thanks to you.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was soft, almost boyish, like your words alone could light him up. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s all I want.”

With the heating pad warming your stomach and Chan’s body heat pressed against your side, you finally felt yourself breathing easier. The sharpness of the cramps was still there, but dulled enough that you could focus on something besides the ache. Something like the way his thumb rubbed absent circles into your arm, or the way his breathing rumbled softly in his chest beneath your cheek.

Chan noticed the way your body relaxed and smiled down at you. “See? I told you it’d help,” he said gently, his voice the kind of quiet you only used in bedrooms, in moments that felt too soft for the outside world.

You hummed, too comfortable to put the gratitude into words. Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, brushing your nose against his shirt.

Chan’s chest swelled with affection at the tiny gesture. To fill the silence, he started talking again, his tone light and animated. “So, Jisung fell asleep in the middle of the meeting today,” he said, shifting his voice into an exaggerated impression. “Head tilted back, mouth wide open, the whole deal. I thought he was gonna choke on his own snores.”

You snorted, muffling a giggle into his chest.

“And Hyunjin kept trying to poke him awake without anyone noticing,” Chan continued, “but he missed every time because he was laughing too hard. It was like watching two clowns on stage. I almost lost it in front of the managers.”

Your lips curved into a sleepy smile. “I wish I’d seen it.”

Chan chuckled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll reenact it for you later if you want. Though it won’t be nearly as funny without Jisung’s actual snore.”

You laughed again, the sound light and breathy, and his chest warmed at the sound. He would’ve told a hundred more stories, exaggerated every detail, made an absolute fool of himself, just to hear it again.

The conversation flowed in gentle waves, sometimes you asked questions, sometimes you only hummed in response, and sometimes you just lay quietly, letting his voice wash over you. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, Chan liked that you didn’t feel the need to fill every silence. He liked that he could talk and you’d simply listen, eyes drooping, your body softening against him like you trusted him to hold you together when you couldn’t.

At one point, you shifted just slightly, peeking up at him through heavy lashes. His eyes met yours instantly, warm and intent, like he’d been waiting for you to look at him.

“What?” you whispered, your voice small but curious.

Chan smiled, the corners of his lips curving in that way that always made your chest flutter. “Nothing. Just… you look cute.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I probably look like a mess.”

“Not to me,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Never to me.”

The words sank into you, making your heart squeeze. You tucked yourself closer into his chest, hiding your face as if that could conceal how much his love affected you.

He only laughed quietly, kissing the top of your head. “You’re special to me, you know that?”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded against him. “I know. You make sure I know.”

“Good,” Chan murmured, satisfied. His hand returned to stroking gently up and down your arm, soothing in its repetition.

Minutes stretched into something softer than time, a space where you weren’t quite awake but not quite asleep either. You drifted in and out, lulled by the steady rhythm of his voice as he told you more little stories: the way Seungmin complained about the studio chairs, how Felix tried to bribe everyone with cookies, how Changbin nearly walked into a glass door because he was too busy texting.

Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you only sighed, but always you stayed tucked safely under his arm, wrapped in his warmth. And every time you stirred, every time your face tightened in discomfort from another cramp, Chan was right there, rubbing your arm, murmuring soft reassurances, pressing the lightest kisses into your hair until you relaxed again.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic. It wasn’t even about fixing the pain.

It was about him being there.

And that, more than anything, made you feel cherished.

//

masterlist.

a/n. Don’t mind me just saw a cute edit of chan & couldn’t help myself