Miso ´ཀ`

That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.

That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.

Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.

All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.

Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.

They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.

You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.

Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.

It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.

Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.

Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.

It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.

When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.

You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.

That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.

Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?

The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—

“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.

Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.

It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.

“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.

“Sleeping beauty… All good?”

“All good…”

God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—

“Channie…? Are you good?”

You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.

You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.

The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.

Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.

Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.

So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.

“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.

It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.

“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”

You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.

Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.

“There’s… they found out.”

He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.

You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.

Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.

“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”

He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?

“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”

You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.

“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”

“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”

Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.

“You remember the first time we talked about this?”

How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.

You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.

You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.

Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.

You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.

Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.

So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.

“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”

“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”

“Channie. Listen.”

That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.

“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”

You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.

Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”

“I know, Channie…”

“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”

Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”

“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”

He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?

He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.

“No one has that power over us.”

Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.

“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”

“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.

Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.

It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.

He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.

“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”

A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.

A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.”

Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.

“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”

—

A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.

The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.

No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.

Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.

The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:

You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.

The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.

Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.

More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.

“Chris—”

His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.

Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.

“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.

What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.

The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?

Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.

“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.

I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…

He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.

Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.

Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.

The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.

The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.

And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”

Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.

“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”

You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.

“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.

He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.

You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.

“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.

“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”

“I wish I could.”

“But you can’t, Channie…”

And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.

Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.

But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.

You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.

He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.

Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.

You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.

“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”

The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.

—

Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.

Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.

You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.

Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.

You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.

When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.

Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.

He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.

You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?

“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”

Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”

The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”

Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.

“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”

“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.

“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”

“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”

Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:

🫧 260223

🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.

🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.

🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.

🐺: Diabolical.

🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face

🐺: Respect boundaries please

You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”

“Christopher, are you serious—?”

“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”

Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.

“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.

Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”

“Then it goes bad.”

You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.

“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”

“She sounds badass.”

Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”

His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?

“What would that be, Christopher…?”

“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”

He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.

“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."

The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.

All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.

Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.

"Channie, 'm eating..."

"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."

"That's what she said."

"Minx..."

You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.

Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.

A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.

Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.

This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?

New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.

No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.

Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.