The Library

But now, sitting stiffly on the plush leather seat of the tour bus, knees locked together and jaw tight with frustration, you weren’t sure why you bothered.

You had claimed the wide back row—meant to seat four or five—but you sat all the way in the corner, facing the window, hoping to be left alone.

Chan’s voice had barely left your ears since the fight earlier—sharp words you both didn’t mean, silence that hurt more than shouting. He’d said he needed space.

So, you decided to give it to him.

Now that the schedule was over, the members and staff had scattered across the bus, most of them slouched in the two-seaters lining either side of the aisle. Some had earbuds in, some quietly scrolled their phones, but no one said a word about the tension radiating from the very back.

Chan climbed in last.

For a second, you thought—hoped—he’d take one of the many empty two-seaters. Maybe even sit with Minho or Changbin, who were already half-asleep a few rows ahead.

But no. He walked straight to the back and slid into the long seat. Not just the seat—but right next to you. Right up against you.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

In response, he just leaned back with a soft exhale, gaze forward.

Annoyed, you got up and moved to a two-seater near the middle of the bus. You didn’t look at him.

Seconds later, the seat dipped beside you again.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. The quiet, stubborn presence. That familiar scent. The way your thigh brushed against his because the seat was narrow and neither of you budged.

You huffed, loud enough for only him to hear, but said nothing. You didn’t want to draw attention. Not to the fight. Not to how your heart still sped up when he was near—even now.

His thigh pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours. There wasn’t enough room not to touch unless you climbed out the window. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

You refused to look at him, eyes glued to the streetlights racing by outside. Still, you felt him— his quiet sigh, his fidgeting fingers. The way he turned his body toward you, even if he didn’t say a word.

"You’re really not gonna say anything?" he finally whispered, voice low enough that no one in front could hear.

You shrugged.

"You were the one who said you needed space," you murmured bitterly, still not looking.

He was silent for a long second, then said, "Yeah. I was wrong."

"You can’t just say stuff like that and expect it to go away, Chan."

"I know," he said. "That’s why I’m here. In your space. Because I don’t want it. I want you."

“You told me to fly out. You wanted me here. And then you barely looked at me all day.”

Chan’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You think that makes it better?” Your voice cracked. “I cleared my schedule, booked time off, flew across countries just to watch you pull away from me every second. I know what dating an idol means, Chan, but this—this felt different.”

He looked like he’d been punched. “I know. I messed up.”

He reached for your hand, tentative. You let him, but didn’t squeeze back yet.

“I thought if I focused on the tour stuff first, I could make time for you later. But I just pushed you away, I’m sorry, baby.”

You turned to the window again, biting your lip.

“I was just excited to see you,” you whispered. “And you made me feel like an afterthought.”

Chan exhaled shakily. “You’re not. You’re the only part of this I don’t want to mess up.”

His voice was rough, edged with guilt.

“For the rest of today, I’m yours,” he said, gently pulling your intertwined hands to his chest. “No staff. No members. Just us. And I swear, I won’t let you feel like this again. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated. But you looked at him and there it was again: that open, vulnerable gaze only you ever got. He was looking at you— eyes glassy, sincere, scared.

So you nodded.

He leaned in, his voice even quieter.

"You can keep being mad at me. I’ll sit here the whole ride, touching your knee like a loser, until you’re ready to forgive me. I just… I don’t want this silence anymore."

Your anger crumbled a little at the edges. He was ridiculous. Dramatic. Stubborn. And yours.

You huffed, barely hiding the smile tugging at your lips. "You’re squishing me."

"Good," he said, bumping your shoulder gently. "I missed you."

You let your head drop onto his shoulder, just for a second. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”

He smirked. “Trust me. I know.”

Lee Know (frenemies)

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. A break from the city, from work, from stress.

A weekend camping trip with all your friends consisting of a bonfire, setting up tents, good food, and no cell service— sure, it sounded cute on paper. Until you found out Lee Minho was coming too.

Minho. The eye-roll king. Your arch nemesis in every group chat and game night. The one who always had something smug to say, who knew exactly how to push your buttons and enjoyed doing it.

So, here you were, standing in the middle of a forest clearing with an uneven patch of dirt under your shoes, mosquitoes humming in your ears, and Minho—a.k.a. your personal plague—stretching beside you like he owned the woods.

You didn’t even want to make eye contact.

“Alright!” Chan clapped his hands. “Everyone gets paired up in tents—but, to make things fun, we’re drawing sticks.”

Groans went up immediately, mostly from you and Jeongin.

“What is this? Summer camp?” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Felix grinned, holding out the small bundle of color-coded sticks. “Pick your destiny!”

One by one, your friends picked sticks, with excitement and curiosity filling the air.

You pulled yours last. It was red.

And then your heart sank.

“Red too,” Minho called casually, holding his up and locking eyes with you.

You blinked. “No. Nope. Pick again.”

He smirked. “Aw, are you scared of sharing a tent with me?”

“More like scared for my sanity.”

You whipped around to Han. “Please, just switch with me. I’ll give you my hoodie—the one you love. Or that extra brownie from earlier!”

Jisung burst out laughing, already dragging his guitar to a fancy-looking tent. “Can’t switch! I got the one with the LED light strip and padded floor. I’m not giving THAT up for your romantic tension!”

“There is no tension,” you barked. “Only rage!”

Minho was already walking toward your sad, lopsided tent, humming like he was enjoying every second of your meltdown. You shot pleading eyes at Chan, at Hyunjin, at anyone—but they were all pretending to be busy adjusting gear or unrolling mats.

Betrayal. Pure betrayal.

Sighing dramatically, you picked up your bag and trudged after Minho, muttering curses under your breath. Grumbling and defeated, you stomped into the tent, tossing your bag to the far corner. The inside was cozier than you expected, but that didn’t mean you were happy about it. 

“Okay but seriously,” you said, peering into the tent, “why is there only one camping mattress?”

Minho, behind you, tsked. “You lost. I shouldn’t have to suffer.”

“You think I didn’t suffer the moment I saw your face and ‘red stick’ in the same moment?”

He didn’t answer, just ducked inside and threw his sleeping bag onto the narrow mattress—if you could even call it that. It was barely wider than your body, lumpy, and definitely not meant for two.

“Oh, hell no,” you snapped, following him in. “That’s not just yours.”

Minho raised an eyebrow as he flopped down and smirked. “You wanna sleep on the floor then?”

“No. You sleep on the floor.”

“I got here first.”

You both stared at each other for a moment. The unspoken war was real. 

“Fine. I’m not giving it up,” you stubbornly said and climbed in.

There was maybe—maybe—three inches of space between your bodies. Arms touching. Legs bumping. Shoulders pressed awkwardly side-by-side.

This was not ideal.

“Stop moving,” you hissed as he adjusted.

“You’re poking me with your elbow!”

“You’re hogging the blanket!”

“Your knee is in my spine!”

A moment passed.

Silence.

Then, somehow—inevitably—you both stilled. The night was quiet outside the tent, filled only with the distant crackling fire and soft murmurs from the others. Inside, the air was warm. Heavy.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Every little breath.

His eyes met yours. And you didn’t look away.

The bickering faded. The closeness became unbearable in a different way. His face was inches from yours, eyes flickering from your mouth to your gaze and back again.

Your heart pounded. Loud. Messy. Dangerous.

“Don’t snore,” you broke the silence.

“I don’t snore,” Minho piped up, rolling his eyes. “But I do talk in my sleep. Usually insults.”

“You’re really annoying,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he replied quietly.

But he didn’t move away. And neither did you. His hand brushed yours under the blanket. Barely touching. But enough to make your breath hitch.

You both leaned in—slow, tentative, until your noses almost touched—

“Yah! Who stole the marshmallows?!”

Han’s voice rang outside the tent and you both jerked away like you’d been electrocuted.

Minho cleared his throat, turning stiffly onto his side. “Sleep. Now.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing, facing the opposite direction.

But long after the outside voices faded, you stayed awake, replaying that moment—one breath away from disaster.

*************************************

The sun had barely risen over the quiet campsite, dew still clinging to the grass and birds chirping in the distance. Most tents were still zipped up, the fire pit long gone cold.

Han yawned dramatically as he and Hyunjin wandered toward your tent, both of them tasked with rounding people up for breakfast duty. "Let’s just yell and run," Han muttered. "Classic wake-up strategy."

Hyunjin shushed him. “No, I want to see their faces. Especially those two.”

Han smirked. “Ohhh right. Mortal enemies sharing a tent. Bet they killed each other in their sleep.”

They unzipped the tent slowly, careful not to wake any potential dragons.

But what they did see stopped them in their tracks.

Inside, the two of you were a complete mess of limbs—your arm flopped across Minho’s chest, his hand loosely resting on your waist, legs tangled beneath the thin blanket. One of his knees was even wedged between your thighs, and your face was tucked into the crook of his neck.

Utterly relaxed. Peaceful. Intimate.

Hyunjin let out a quiet gasp. “Oh my God.”

Han clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Dude. What… the hell?”

Hyunjin grinned. “So the tension finally melted.”

Han whispered, “Yeah. Into a puddle of cuddles and potential kisses? Do you think they kissed?”

Hyunjin smirked, “It might’ve happened.”

They slipped away without waking either of you—though Han did snap a silent photo on his phone, “just for documentation.”

However, the quiet rustling outside was just enough to stir you.

You blinked, stretching a little—only to freeze the second you realized something was very wrong.

Your cheek wasn’t against your pillow.

It was on someone's chest.

Warm. Steady. Rising and falling slowly beneath you.

You shifted just a little—and then you noticed it. Minho’s arm around your waist. One of your legs slung over his. His hand resting lightly on your back.

You nearly stopped breathing.

And just then, he stirred too—brow furrowing, eyes fluttering open. He blinked once. Twice. Then looked down.

Right at you.

There was a beat of silent realization. Eyes locking. Tension crackling in the small, stuffy tent.

Your breath caught. His hand twitched on your back.

“…You—”

“This isn’t—” you both started at once.

You scrambled back in a panic, elbowing the tent wall as you untangled your legs and rolled toward the exit. “I—I didn’t mean to—!”

“You’re the one who shoved me over in your sleep!” he whisper-hissed, equally flustered, hair a mess and voice rough from sleep.

You yanked the zipper open and practically ran out, heart pounding, cheeks burning.

The morning air slapped your face as you stumbled into the open, hoping no one saw. (Too late.)

From the campfire pit, Han and Hyunjin exchanged a look—and then burst into laughter.

Inside the tent, Minho sat up, running a hand through his hair and muttering to himself.

“…So dramatic.”

But even as he said it, a faint, undeniable smile pulled at his lips.

Because your warmth still lingered on his skin.

And that moment—however brief—was now burned into him.

*************************************

Back at the communal camp kitchen, Han was making scrambled eggs while Hyunjin cut fruit, both humming softly. Minho emerged from the trees a while later, hair a bit messy, lips pressed in a line as he poured water into the kettle like nothing happened.

“You sleep okay?” Han asked innocently.

Minho side-eyed him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Han shrugged. “You know. Considering the person you used to say you’d rather fight a bear than share a tent with.”

Minho didn’t look up. “Shut up. There’s nothing between us.”

But then he hesitated. Almost like something tugged at him.

And when he glanced over his shoulder, there you were—laughing at something Felix said, your cheeks squished adorably in the cool air, your hair a mess from sleep. You tossed your head back as you laughed, eyes sparkling while Minho was watching. And he smiled softly. Almost in a daze, like it bloomed out of his chest before he even knew it was there.

Han caught it, catching the way Minho lingered just a second too long before turning back around.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled too—watching his best friend quietly fall.

-

PART 2

Seo Changbin (friends to lovers)

Changbin’s apartment smelled like buttered popcorn and clean laundry.

It was your favorite place to be lately—low lights, cozy blanket, a ridiculous action movie playing on the screen, and him beside you, warm and familiar. Your legs were tangled casually over his, a bowl of popcorn between you, laughter spilling out as some over-the-top fight scene played.

"This is the dumbest movie you’ve made me watch," you grinned, tossing a popcorn kernel at him.

Changbin caught it in his mouth effortlessly and winked. "Admit it. You love it."

"I love mocking it," you teased, nudging his thigh with your foot.

He caught your ankle before you could pull back, grinning wickedly. “You sure you want to start something?”

You wiggled your toes defiantly. “What, you’re gonna fight me?”

“I could win.”

“You wish, Seo Changbin.”

That’s all it took.

Suddenly, the popcorn bowl was tossed aside, and you were squealing, squirming, as Changbin tackled you onto the couch in a flurry of limbs and laughter.

It wasn’t serious—just a mess of soft slaps, blocked pokes, mock grunts. You wrestled, pushing at his shoulders, but he was strong and quick, playful growls leaving his throat as he countered every move with ease.

“Okay, okay, I take it back!” you laughed breathlessly, trying to twist away.

He caught your wrists.

One smooth motion, and you were pinned flat against the couch cushions, Changbin hovering above you—knees on either side of your hips, hands holding yours gently but firmly down beside your head.

The laughter stopped. Well everything… stopped.

His chest was rising and falling, breath just a little uneven. Your wrists burned under his fingers, not from pressure but from presence. The movie still played in the background, but it was a muffled hum now—nothing compared to the thunder of your heart.

He was close. Too close.

His face hovered just above yours, eyes flickering over every part of your expression—your parted lips, your wide eyes, the heat that was now unmistakably there in both of your gazes.

Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard. “Are you gonna let me up?”

He didn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

You couldn’t answer.

Because maybe you didn’t want him to.

Your silence stretched. His grip loosened ever so slightly, just enough that your hands could move if you wanted—but you didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Your fingers curled around his wrists instead, and his breath caught audibly.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. “You bring it out in me.”

For a second—just a second—he dipped his head, your noses brushing, lips almost meeting. Almost.

But he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like he didn’t want to cross a line unless you asked him to.

“Binnie…” you breathed, and that was all it took.

His forehead touched yours. Not a kiss, not yet—but his weight above you, his warmth, the want in his eyes was enough to melt you.

“You’re more than just a friend to me,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to hide it for so long, but when you look at me like that—”

You surged up just enough to press your lips to his.

Soft. Careful. But charged like fire.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting forever.

Changbin’s lips lingered on yours like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You watched him in that small, quiet moment—his lashes brushing his cheeks, his hands still cradling your wrists. He looked… vulnerable. Not like the loud, confident Changbin who barked laughs and flexed his arms to annoy you. This was different.

He finally opened his eyes and met your gaze—softer now. Nervous, even.

“So…” he said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Now what?”

Your heart flipped.

You smiled shyly and tugged your hands free, only to lace your fingers with his. “Now,” you whispered, “you help me up, because you’re crushing me.”

A breathless laugh escaped him, and he immediately rolled off to the side, reaching down to help you sit up. “Sorry,” he said, a little flushed. “Didn’t mean to KO you on the first date.”

You both paused.

You tilted your head. “So this is a date now?”

He looked a little caught, but the smile never left his face. “I mean… if you want it to be.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “Only if it ends with another kiss.”

Changbin turned bright red, chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re gonna make fun of me forever for this, aren’t you?”

You leaned in, close enough that your noses touched again, your voice barely a breath. “Probably.”

He kissed you again—quick, sweet, like he couldn’t help himself.

Then he got up, held out his hand, and pulled you to your feet. Still holding on. Still close.

“So,” he said again, this time with a grin, “sleepover rules still apply. I’m making ramen. You’re picking the next movie. And maybe later, we kiss again.”

You smirked, tugging him toward the kitchen. “We’ll see if you earn it.”

“Hey!” he whined playfully. “I pinned you! That’s gotta count for something!”

“It counts as me letting you win, obviously.”

“Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, you were back to bickering—but now, between the sarcasm and the teasing, were shy glances, soft smiles, and the kind of tension that didn’t need words anymore.

You’d always been close. Now, you were closer than ever.

Hwang Hyunjin (crushing on seonbae)

It was your second week as a trainee for a new girl group under JYP Entertainment, and you had already learned that the training schedule was intense. You were still trying to find your rhythm in a world filled with highly talented idols, and it felt like everything was moving too fast. You spent most of your time in the practice rooms, working on vocal exercises, choreography, and dance routines.

One day, after a particularly long session, you found yourself taking a quick break to catch your breath. You'd never thought you'd meet Hyunjin from Stray Kids during your training, but here you were, sitting in the corner of the studio, trying to recover from a grueling dance practice. He was in the middle of a solo routine, and you couldn’t help but watch, captivated by his flawless movements. The way he danced was mesmerizing, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you. You did harbour a huge secret crush on him. 

When his practice ended, he caught you staring, a playful smirk appearing on his face. “Like what you see?” he asked with a teasing tone.

Caught off guard, you blushed, quickly looking away. “Oh! Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologize,” he interrupted, walking over to where you were sitting. “I saw you struggling with your choreography earlier. Need some help?”

You blinked, surprised by his offer. You had only been a trainee for a short time, and the idea of dancing with someone like Hyunjin made you nervous. But his smile was disarming, and you could tell he genuinely wanted to help.

"Actually, yes," you admitted, standing up. "I can't quite get the moves down for our routine. Maybe you could show me some tips?"

Hyunjin grinned, taking his place in front of you. "No problem. I'll teach you the basics, and we'll see if we can make it a little more fun."

He started by showing you the footwork, his body moving effortlessly to the beat. You mimicked his movements, but the steps felt awkward under your feet. Hyunjin noticed immediately and gave a little chuckle.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. “Relax. You’re supposed to feel the music, not stress about the steps.”

His hands lingered just a second too long, and you felt a heat rush to your cheeks. You took a deep breath, nodding. “I’ll try again.”

You continued practicing, and as the movements started to feel more natural, Hyunjin encouraged you with small comments here and there. The choreography was getting better, but you were still a little offbeat.

"Okay, how about this," Hyunjin suggested. "Let’s do the next part together. I'll guide you."

Before you could say anything, he stood close behind you, his hand lightly resting on your waist to help guide your movements. His proximity caught you off guard, and your heart skipped a beat. The way his body was pressed against yours, his warmth radiating onto you, was almost overwhelming. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned in to correct your posture.

“Here, just like this,” he said, adjusting your hips with his hands. The touch was gentle, but the closeness made it impossible to ignore the sudden tension in the air. You could feel your body growing tense, unsure of how to act with him so near.

His grip shifted slightly, and you found yourself in an almost perfect mirror of his stance. "See?" Hyunjin smiled, his voice low. "Much better."

The way his eyes locked onto yours made your breath catch in your throat. The dance had become less about learning the moves and more about the unspoken connection forming between you two in the space. His hands were still guiding you, his touch firm but soft, and every movement seemed to bring you closer together.

You both continued practicing, but it wasn’t long before the movements became more fluid, and you realized that it wasn’t just the choreography that was making you feel this way. Hyunjin’s presence, his proximity, was stirring something in you. Every time he adjusted your form, his hand would brush against your skin, sending a shiver through your body. Your heart beat faster, and the air between you felt heavier, charged with an unspoken tension.

At one point, you made a small mistake and spun the wrong way, causing your bodies to collide. For a brief second, you both froze, trapped in a moment of unintended intimacy. Hyunjin’s chest was pressed against your back, his arms still holding you in place as you both tried to steady yourselves. His breath hitched slightly, and you could feel his heartbeat racing against your skin.

You locked eyes, and for a second, everything else faded. The studio, the other trainees, the music—it was just the two of you, caught in this unexpectedly close moment. The space between you was nonexistent. The gentle brush of his fingers on your arm sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Well,” Hyunjin said, his voice now husky, as he reluctantly stepped back, breaking the tension. “I guess we got a little… carried away.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself. “I—I didn’t expect that,” you murmured.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, me neither. But hey, at least the moves are starting to look good, right?"

You nodded, though your thoughts were still a little scattered from the closeness you’d just shared. You both stood there for a moment, the silence between you filled with the lingering tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge.

“Well, if you ever need more help," Hyunjin said, his voice returning to its usual playful tone, "I’m just a call away.”

You gave a small, nervous smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he left the practice room, you stayed behind for a few moments longer, your heart still racing from the unexpected intimacy of the dance. There was a mix of excitement and confusion swirling inside you. What was that? Was it just the dance, or was there something more there?

You didn’t have time to answer your own questions because, as a trainee, there was always another routine to learn, another move to perfect. But as you left the studio later that day, your mind kept returning to the way Hyunjin had touched you, the way he’d held you close, and how in that one moment, you couldn’t tell if it was just dance… or something more.

Han Jisung (secretly dating)

It was game night, a regular gathering with the boys at their dorm, where laughter and playful competition filled the air. You'd been looking forward to this night, to unwind and enjoy their company, especially Han Jisung's. You were secretly dating him, keeping it low-key for the time being, but lately, it felt like a secret you wanted to shout from the rooftops. There was just one problem—you didn’t know how to tell the others without making things awkward.

Tonight, everyone was hyped up and playing a board game, the atmosphere light and buzzing with friendly rivalry. The stakes had gotten higher as the rounds went on, and the trash talk was flying. You and Felix had become a bit of an invincible duo—strategizing, making each other laugh, and working seamlessly together. 

But as Hyunjin leaned back in his chair with a smirk and exclaimed, “Oh my god, Felix and Y/N, you guys are totally an unbeatable duo!” the comment seemed to hit differently. Jisung, who had been quiet for a while, stiffened beside you, his eyes momentarily narrowing as he watched you laugh along with Felix.

You noticed the subtle change in his demeanor. A quiet jealousy simmered beneath his usual playful and easy-going attitude. You felt your stomach tighten with an instinctive pull toward him. Felix, oblivious to the shift, was still bantering with Hyunjin.

But Jisung was different. He was unusually quiet, and the energy in the room had shifted in a way that only you could sense. You could feel his gaze lingering on you for a little too long, and it made your heart race—nervous, excited. The tension between you two was palpable, something you both tried to keep under wraps.

As the game continued, you couldn't help but glance over at Jisung. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His playful vibe had shifted into something more guarded. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet for so long, and it made you feel uneasy, like you had inadvertently caused the shift in the air.

Felix was deep in conversation with Hyunjin, while the others were absorbed in the game, but you couldn’t focus anymore. You excused yourself from the table, slipping into the hallway in an attempt to get some space. You figured you could give Jisung a moment to cool down or maybe even talk about whatever had been bothering him.

But before you could walk further, Jisung was there. You didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly his hand was on your wrist, and he was gently tugging you toward the hallway leading to his room. “Hey, where are you going?” you asked, trying to keep the casual tone.

He didn’t respond right away, his grip firm but gentle. There was a certain intensity to his gaze now—his eyes darkened slightly, and his usual teasing smile was replaced with something more serious. “I need to talk to you,” he muttered, his voice low.

You didn’t say anything. You knew this wasn’t just about the game anymore.

When you reached his room, Jisung quickly closed the door behind you, his hand resting on the handle for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. The two of you stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, the air thick with unspoken words.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like the way you two were... getting so close. Felix and you, laughing together like that.” His eyes were intense, full of something you hadn’t seen before—something raw. “It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but… it makes me feel something I don’t know how to handle.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You stepped closer to him, instinctively. “Hannie…” you began, but he interrupted you.

“I want to tell them, baby. I want to tell everyone we’re together,” he said, his hand gripping yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently, though his voice was firm. “I’m tired of pretending like we’re just friends.” He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel his heart racing in his chest, matching yours.

The proximity was overwhelming, intoxicating, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you—the noise of the game, the others in the house. It was just him, and the desire in his eyes. You couldn’t lie to yourself any longer; you felt the same way. You had been trying to ignore it, keeping your relationship under wraps for the sake of the group, but in that moment, it all felt like too much to keep inside.

You swallowed, struggling to find the right words. “I want to tell them too, baby. I really do. But…” you hesitated. “Do you think they’ll understand?”

Jisung’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped your cheek with his free hand. “It’s not about them understanding,” he said, his voice tender now, the tension easing from his shoulders. “It’s about us. I want to be open with everyone, especially with you. You mean so much to me.”

The words hung in the air, a promise wrapped in vulnerability. You were quiet for a beat, the intensity of the moment consuming you. Slowly, you nodded. “Okay. Let’s tell them. Together.”

He smiled, the usual playful glint returning to his eyes, but there was still an undercurrent of sincerity. Without another word, he closed the gap between you two and kissed you, soft and slow, as if savoring the moment that had been a long time coming. The kiss deepened, both of you letting go of the tension and unspoken feelings you’d been holding onto.

When you pulled away, your foreheads touched, breaths mingling. He whispered, “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

You smiled, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Me too,” you said softly.

From that moment on, there was no more hiding. You were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

Lee Felix (colleagues to lovers)

The music video shoot had gone longer than expected, and most of the staff had either stepped out for a break or were busy resetting lights outside. The trailer where touch-ups usually happened—the one usually buzzing with stylists, cords, and brushes—was now completely empty.

You were the only one there, you were sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when Felix popped in, flashing that signature grin and muttering, “Hyung said I need my hair re-gelled. Sorry,” like he was inconveniencing you, even though it was literally your job.

“Sit,” you said, trying to sound normal. Professional.

But nothing about Felix ever let you stay fully calm. Not the way he tugged off his jacket with one hand and tossed it lazily on the couch. Not the way his damp dark hair curled against his forehead, making him look more boyish, more human, than the stage idol version everyone else saw.

You stood behind him, gently combing through his roots. The gel hadn’t fully set, and you needed to rework it from the front.

"Can you tilt your head back?" you asked.

He did, but the angle was awkward. He sat too low in the chair, so you had to lean forward, your hips brushing the armrest. When you reached to push his fringe back, your chest nearly grazed his shoulder.

He stilled. You froze.

Then, in one ungraceful second, your foot slipped against the leg of the chair. Your balance tipped forward—too fast to catch. A small gasp escaped you as your knees bumped the edge, and suddenly you were no longer standing.

You landed on him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders to steady yourself, but it was too late—your body was already pressed against his, knees planted on either side of his lap, your faces just inches apart.

His breath ghosted across your cheek. Warm. Shaky.

Neither of you moved.

“Sorry—” you whispered, trying to push yourself back up.

But his hands had found your waist. Not tight, not holding, just there. Warm, grounding. And when your eyes met, something shifted.

“No—” he breathed, voice quieter than you’d ever heard. “Don’t move.”

Your breath caught.

“Felix—”

“I didn’t mind… I mean, it’s okay. I just…” His stammered.

You blinked at him, heart hammering, heat blooming across your chest and neck. You’d danced around this for weeks—maybe months.

The lingering stares, the way his smile always stretched wider when you were near. But this…

His hands were still on your waist. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the low hum of a distant monitor and your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

Then, slowly, his fingers reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch barely grazing your skin. The motion was so gentle, so intimate, that it made your breath hitch. And the moment his hand dropped, his eyes widened—like he hadn’t realized what he was doing until it was already done.

“I—I didn’t mean to—sorry, that was—” he breathed, voice shaky.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His cologne wrapped around you like a net, grounding and dizzying all at once.

“I just—” he went on, swallowing, “God, I’m sorry.”

You stared down at him.

His face was already flushed pink, his eyes still locked on yours like he wasn’t sure if he should let go or pull you closer.

“I didn’t mind,” you said quietly.

He blinked.

“What?”

Your voice came out softer this time, more vulnerable. “I didn’t mind. That you touched my hair.”

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded.

He exhaled through a breathless laugh, like disbelief. “Because I’ve been trying not to do anything like that since you started.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he said instantly. No hesitation. Just the truth.

“And I didn’t want to make things weird. But God, you’re always so close, and you’re so gentle, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started dreaming about the way you touch my hair—”

You kissed him.

Quick. Certain. Nothing intense, just a quiet yes to everything he’d just admitted.

His hands tightened on your hips, grounding himself. “Okay,” he whispered against your lips, dazed. “Yeah. That just happened.”

You laughed softly and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “It did.”

“I still need to finish your look,” you teased.

He grinned, pulling you even closer. “I think you just did.”

The silence was comforting this time. Not awkward but intimate.

Kim Seungmin (sunshine x grumpy)

When Chan invited you for a quiet weekend at his countryside farmhouse, you didn’t hesitate. It had been months since you last saw your best friend—too many midnight voice notes, too many “I miss you’s” with a sad emoji tacked on at the end. So you packed a bag and drove up that Friday evening, not even bothering to ask who else would be there. 

Chan had welcomed you in with the warmest hug and whispered, “Seungmin’s here. Try not to combust.”

You elbowed him, cheeks warm. “I don’t like him.”

“Sure,” he smirked.

Of course Seungmin was here. Still just as grumpy, still refusing to smile at your stupid jokes, still never calling you by your name—just “you” or “Chan’s friend.”

And yet, somehow, you still looked for him in every room.

By Saturday night, you were full of barbecue, three glasses into a fruity drink, and cozy in an oversized hoodie. Laughter buzzed through the warm-lit living room. Chan had pulled out board games and card decks, and Hyunjin tossed on a playlist. You and Seungmin had exchanged exactly four words since arriving: “Morning,” “Move” and “No, thanks”

After too many rounds of Mario Kart, Chan flopped onto the massive couch and clapped his hands. “Okay, new game. Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

“Are we in high-school?” you and Seungmin said in perfect sync from opposite ends of the couch.

Everyone laughed, but Chan just wiggled his eyebrows. “Come on, you’re all cowards. It’ll be fun.”

Chan started spinning a bottle, and before you could sneak away, your name was called—followed by Seungmin’s.

The room howled.

You whipped around to Chan, whispering furiously, “You rigged that!”

“Did not,” he said with a very smug expression. “Enjoy.”

The closet—tucked in the corner of the master bedroom—was dim, a little too warm, and far too tight for two people. The door shut behind you with a soft click.

“I hate them,” Seungmin muttered, already looking up at the ceiling like it might offer a hatch out.

You nervously glanced around in the little space. You took a breath. “Wow. Cozy.”

“Not really,” he said flatly.

You smiled anyway. “I forgot how much fun you are at parties.”

His lips twitched. The smallest, smallest smirk.

Minutes passed. Maybe only one. Maybe ten. You didn’t know. The quiet between you felt heavier than the night sky outside.

Then—he spoke.

“You flew all this way just to see Chan?” he asked.

Your brows rose. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” he said immediately, then hesitated. “Just… wondering.”

You took a step closer, trying to read him. “Why do you always look at me like I annoy you, but then keep showing up in every room I’m in?”

His jaw flexed. “You don’t annoy me.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He pushed off the wall now, standing straighter, closer. “You’re… too much sometimes.”

You blinked. “Too much?”

“Too much sunshine. Too much sweetness. It gets under my skin.”

You smirked. “Good.”

He gave you a flat look. “This is ridiculous.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.”

You grinned. “You are. It’s kind of cute.”

He glanced away, jaw tightening, but the pink in his cheeks betrayed him.

You leaned in just a little. “What’s wrong, Seungmin? Closet too small? Or is it just me that’s making you all flustered?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You wound me,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Yeah, well… maybe tone it down a little.”

You tilted your head. “But I thought I was ‘too much sweetness’ and ‘gets under your skin’—don’t tell me I’m growing on you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m stuck in a closet with my longtime crush.”

Seungmin froze.

Your eyes widened. Crap. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“…What?” he said after a beat, voice lower.

You scrambled. “I mean—not crush crush. I mean like, maybe. Possibly. Okay, definitely. For a long time. Like years-long. But you were always so—”

He took a step forward. You stopped babbling.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you for a moment, then leaned in slightly, voice dry. “Chan told me you’d be here.”

“…Okay?”

“I’ve been trying to act normal since yesterday.”

“That was you acting normal?”

He smirked, just a little. “I don’t flirt like you do.”

“I don’t flirt—”

“Really?” he stepped closer, close enough that your breath caught. “Then what would you call this?”

You were backed against the shelf, heart in your throat, eyes flicking between his and his mouth. He braced one arm beside your head, gaze sharp.

“…Trouble,” you whispered.

He smirked again—wider this time. “Yeah. You’re trouble.”

And then, just before the timer outside buzzed, he kissed you.

Slow, deliberate, and nothing like the annoyed boy who always pretended you were too much.

When he pulled back, lips barely grazing yours, he whispered, “Next time, we skip the game.”

And when the door finally swung open to the cheering crowd, neither of you said a word—but the heat in your face said everything.

Yang Jeongin (brother's best friend)

You hadn’t seen Jeongin properly in almost a year—well you really haven’t seen him much since he’d debuted and got busy with his idol life. But when your brother casually mentioned, “Jeongin’s having a little dinner thing at his place. Just a few of us. You should come—it’s been forever.”  something fluttered in your chest that you tried very hard to ignore.

You’d crushed on him since you were probably twelve, back when he was just your brother’s slightly awkward best friend who always let you have the last slice of pizza. And now? Now he was I.N—idol, heartthrob, and the same boy who still texted your brother dumb memes at 2am.

You didn’t expect much when you arrived—just polite greetings, awkward small talk, maybe a few inside jokes that would go over your head. But when Jeongin opened the door…

Your heart did that stupid thing again.

He looked tired but beautiful, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the kind of soft glow that came from being around people he trusted. He looked mature now—fame-polished, confident, sharper around the edges—but you still saw glimpses of the boy who used to chase your brother through your backyard, who used to steal popsicles from your freezer and grin like he won the lottery.

“Hey,” he smiled, eyes flickering over your face for a second too long. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“My brother dragged me,” you said lightly.

Jeongin tilted his head, still holding the door open. “Good. I’m glad you’re here.”

The dinner was casual, cozy. Laughter echoed through the apartment, plates clinked, and stories flowed like old times. But something about the way Jeongin kept glancing at you when your brother wasn’t looking—when he refilled your drink before anyone else’s, when your knees accidentally touched under the table and he didn’t move away—it felt like you weren’t imagining it anymore.

It wasn’t until later—when everyone was a little too full and a little too tipsy and began playing loud music—that you slipped away to find some quiet. 

The bathroom was unlocked, thankfully, and you slipped in, locking the door behind you. Only to turn around and freeze.

“Oh?” you exhaled.

Jeongin stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, he was startled to see you too.

You nodded, suddenly too aware of the small space, the way the air felt heavier between you two. You both stood there in silence, not quite looking at each other. You should leave, your mind said. Step out, apologise, pretend this didn’t feel like something.

But for some reason… you stayed.

His gaze flicked to you, then away. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed a break from all the noise,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d find you here too.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re still in sync.” Then he shifted. “I didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your hands felt clammy. “Yeah, well. My brother can be pretty persuasive.”

Jeongin smiled, then glanced down, almost bashful. For a second, he looked like the boy you remembered—the one who got flustered when you caught him singing in your garage.

You stepped back, “I’ll find somewhere else—”

You were about to step toward the door when he suddenly reached out and caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned, startled by the contact. His hand was warm around your wrist, gentle but firm enough to make you pause.

His voice was quiet. Earnest. “How long are we gonna pretend we’re not dying to be with each other?”

Your stomach flipped.

You looked away, jaw tight. “My brother would never agree.”

He chuckled—soft, humorless. “Your brother doesn’t get to decide who I want.”

“Innie,” you warned.

He locked the door behind him.

“Innie?” he echoed, teasing. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”

You froze. “Jeongin—”

“I know. Your brother would kill me.” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “But it’s driving me insane, pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

He stepped in. Close. Too close.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he said, finally looking at you. “But the way you look at me sometimes... it doesn’t feel one-sided.”

“It’s not,” you whispered.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice rough.

He pinned you to the counter so easily you couldn’t think straight.

He stepped even more closer before saying quietly. “If I kissed you right now, would you push me away?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the space between you, barely a breath apart. And whispered, “I should.”

“But you won’t,” he said, voice hoarse.

“No,” you breathed, “I won’t.”

And then he kissed you—soft, hesitant at first, like he knew the line he was crossing. But when your fingers curled into his hoodie and he pulled you closer, you both forgot everything but the feeling of finally, finally not pretending.

----------------

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Forced Proximity Trope Taglist:

But it’s even harder to pretend that you’re not thinking about last night — about how close he was, how you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, how the silence between you crackled with something unsaid. You almost kissed. You wanted to. And now, you can’t stop replaying that moment, wondering what would’ve happened if you had leaned in just a little more.

Chan appears beside you, balancing three mismatched mugs of hot chocolate. He hands one to you, one to Felix, and keeps one for himself. 

“Still cold from the night?” he asks with a gentle grin.

You nod, blowing into the cup. “I barely slept.”

Felix shoots a glance between you and Minho before smirking and mumbling under his breath, “Yeah, I bet.”

You choked, “Felix—”   

He just hummed innocently, sipping his own drink like he hadn’t just implied everything without saying a single word.

Chan chuckles, then adds with a smirk, “Honestly, I’m just surprised you and Min didn’t kill each other in that tent.”

You groan immediately, turning on your heel. “I’m leaving.”

Felix nearly chokes on his drink from laughing, and Chan just grins wider.

After breakfast, the group set off on the hiking trail, voices echoing through the trees as they climbed higher. You followed along, mostly because everyone else did, and also because the view was supposed to be worth it.

You lag behind the others for a moment to retie your boots and cringe looking how they’re muddy, soaked, and being a pain. You sigh, struggling to tighten the knot with your cold fingers.

“Seriously?” came Minho’s voice behind you.

You look up. “What?”

He kneels in front of you. “You suck at knots.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat. His fingers brush yours as he takes over, tightening the laces with ease. “There. You won’t trip and die now. You’re welcome.”

You’re stunned into silence. When he stands, he looks down at you and swallows. The tension simmers again. It’s like something’s waiting to happen like last night but it doesn’t. He walks ahead, leaving you staring at his back.

You start walking again, picking your way carefully along the muddy trail. The others are already ahead, their laughter echoing faintly through the trees as they climb higher. You take in nature and try to enjoy the hiking, there was just  something about the quiet here that makes you want to pause.

The view was stunning and you get distracted so you pull out your phone and start snapping a few photos. 

By the time you look up, the rest of the group has moved on, just silhouettes between trees now. Except one.

Minho stands a few feet away, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His weight is on one foot, jaw tense, like he’s been standing there for a while.

You blink. “Why are you standing there like I’m holding you hostage?”

He shrugs, not moving. “Because if I go, you’ll probably trip on a stick and roll down the mountain.”

You raise a brow. “So now you’re my bodyguard?”

“I’m not,” he replies flatly. “This is just… preventative measures.”

You narrow your eyes, catching the way his gaze briefly drops to your bootlaces, then flicks back up.

“You know you could just say you were waiting for me.”

He shrugs, eyes dropping briefly to the trail before meeting yours again. “You get distracted easily.”

“You could’ve just gone ahead.”

“I did,” he says. “Then I realized you weren’t following.”

You swallow the flutter in your chest, forcing a smirk. “Wow. Concerned about me? That’s new.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says smoothly, stepping closer. “Just didn’t want to hear Chan complain if we had to call mountain rescue.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice is softer now. “Still. Thanks.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at you, gaze flickering like he's trying to figure something out. Like the words are right there, but he doesn't trust them yet.

Then finally, he says, “You done?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Let’s go.”

He falls into step beside you.

You walk quietly for a while, the air cool, your arms brushing now and then as the path narrows. Neither of you says anything, but it’s there again—that same electricity humming low beneath the quiet. That unspoken thing neither of you is quite brave enough to touch.

After a few winding turns and steep inclines, you catch sight of the rest of the group waiting at a scenic lookout point, chatting and catching their breath. 

Chan waves when he sees you. “Hey! Thought the mountain claimed you two.”

Felix wiggles his eyebrows. “Or maybe you just chose to take your time.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past them to enjoy the view — mountains layered in mist, treetops stretching out endlessly below. The hike was so worth it. Definitely worth it.

The rest of the hike passes in an easy rhythm. There’s laughter, water breaks, Changbin pretending to be a forest tour guide, and Han nearly slipping on a mossy rock to no one’s surprise. The sun climbs higher, warming your back, and by the time you all start descending, your legs ache but your heart feels light.

Back at the campsite, the group slowly disperses — some heading toward the tents to rest, others poking at the dwindling campfire or prepping snacks.

You unlace your muddy boots with a satisfied sigh and plop down on the cooler, wiping sweat from your face.

Minho passes by, brushing dirt from his sleeves. He doesn’t say anything, just tosses you a cold bottle of soda like it’s no big deal — like he didn’t stay behind just for you, like he hadn’t been watching your every step on that trail even if you never asked him to.

You catch it easily, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Thanks, bodyguard.”

He scoffs without looking back. “Don’t get used to it.”

*************************************

By lunchtime, the campsite felt alive with warmth and laughter. Plates are passed around with a variety of meal options— egg sandwiches, fried rice, grilled chicken, leftover grilled veggies— to choose from. Everyone settled into the shade of a few trees. It’s the kind of meal that feels earned after a long hike, soft sunlight filters through the leaves and easy conversation floats through the air like a gentle breeze.

As the afternoon rolls in, Seungmin pulls out a small guitar he brought “just in case,” and Jeongin joins him, humming quietly before breaking into soft vocals. The songs are mellow, half-serious, half-joking, and the mood is perfect.

You’re sitting a little apart from the main circle, legs stretched out, still sipping from your water bottle and letting the music settle in your bones, when you sense someone approaching.

You glance up to see it was Minho.

He hesitates, hands in his pockets, eyes shifting to the sky and then back down to you. For a second, your heart jumps — maybe this is it. Maybe he’s going to bring it up. Finally.

You sit up straighter. “Hey,” you say softly, offering a cautious smile. Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he comes towards you.

He stands there for a second like he’s unsure whether to stay or walk away, hands tucked in his pockets. Then, slowly, he lowers himself to sit beside you, not too close but closer than necessary. His fingers fidget restlessly in his lap, tapping against each other. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares ahead, jaw tight, brows slightly drawn.

You shift, heart picking up again. You open your mouth just as he does.

“So—”

“Well—”

You both stop, glancing at each other at the same time.

Minho lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, and runs a hand through his hair, cheeks faintly pink. “You go first,” he mumbles, eyes fixed somewhere near your knee.

Your lips part. You’re not even sure what you were going to say, but the moment is here. The weight of last night, the almost kiss, the hike, the way he waited for you—all of it lingers between you like fog that refuses to lift.

Just as you inhale to speak you get interrupted. Of course.

“Minho hyung!” Han’s voice cuts through the music. “Come here, quick! You gotta see this weird bird or rock or—whatever it is!”

Minho flinches like he’d forgotten there were other people around.

You let out a quiet, frustrated groan as Han bounds over and tugs Minho up by the wrist before he can even protest.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath.

“I’ll be back,” Minho says over his shoulder, giving you a look that almost seems apologetic—but it’s too late. He’s already being dragged off, and the moment slips through your fingers like water.

Another missed opportunity. With a sigh, you push yourself to your feet. If you stayed here any longer, you were going to go crazy waiting for a moment that kept slipping away.

So, you decide to explore the nature.

The air is warm with a soft breeze as you walk, weaving between trees, letting your footsteps carry you aimlessly until you stumble onto a quieter part of the woods. There, tucked between the greenery, is a little pond that captured the colors of the sky like a mirror.

You smile, taking out your phone and clicking on the camera icon. The sun hangs low, casting gold across the water’s surface. A few dragonflies skim along the edge. You take photo after photo, slowing down for the first time all day.

Your body feels heavy from the long hike and the hearty lunch, and before you know it, you sink down beside a tree, leaning your back against the bark. The quiet wraps around you like a blanket. Your eyes flutter shut.

Just for a second, you tell yourself. Before you know it, you’re dozing, the sounds of nature lulling you into a light, restless sleep.

Hours slip by.

Suddenly, you wake with a start, the sky now painted with deep oranges and purples. The sun is low, sinking fast behind the distant hills. Panic bubbles up in your chest. How long were you asleep? How far did you wander? The shadows stretch long and the woods around you feel suddenly unfamiliar and enormous.

You scramble to your feet, heart hammering, when a burst of frantic footsteps breaks the quiet.

Minho comes running into view, cheeks flushed, chest heaving with heavy breaths. His eyes are wild with worry as he spots you. Relief flashes across his face before it quickly turns into frustration.

“You idiot!” he yells, voice cracking with desperation. “How can you be alone here in this place, huh? Do you even care about your own safety?!”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?!”

“Do you have any idea how stressed I was?!”

You blink, still groggy. “What—?”

“No one knew where you were!” he snaps. “You disappeared. You weren’t on the trails, you weren’t by the tents—I ran around like a madman for almost two hours looking for you!”

“Minho—”

“You don’t get it,” he cuts in, voice cracking slightly. “You’re so—so stupid sometimes! You don’t think. You just wander off and fall asleep like you don’t matter, like someone wouldn’t go insane trying to find you!”

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

He stands there, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard. His words hang between you like thunder. You can feel the panic that still clings to him, woven into every breath.

You swallow hard, voice quieter now. “Why do you even care?”

He laughs bitterly, throwing his arms out. “Because I do! Because I like you, okay? Because last night I couldn’t sleep thinking about how close we were and then you vanish in the morning like it meant nothing and—” He exhales sharply, cutting himself off before his voice cracks again.

You step closer. “Minho…”

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning his face slightly away like he doesn’t want you to see how much he’s unraveling. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You look at him worriedly, he looks like he’s close to having a panic attack so you decide to calm him down.

“Okay,” you whisper, reaching out gently. “Let’s sit down. Just—sit with me.”

He stares at you, caught between disbelief and something else, chest still rising and falling.

You pull him down by the wrist anyway, settling beside the pond once again. He doesn’t resist.

For a long moment, you both just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, the sky glowing above you and the water still rippling softly below.

Then, quietly, you ask, “You meant it?”

He nods once, eyes locked with yours, all traces of frustration gone. “I meant all of it. Last night when we almost kissed, I—”

He pauses, swallowing hard.

You wait, heart suddenly pounding.

“I wasn’t just caught in the moment,” he says, voice quieter now, almost shy. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I just… didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time we fought, it wasn’t because I hated you. It’s because you made me feel so much, and I didn’t know how to deal with it,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Being around you drives me crazy in the best way.”

Your chest tightens in the softest way. You shift a little closer, knees brushing his as your hands reach for his.

“I didn’t think you were serious,” you whisper. “You always teased me. I thought… maybe you were just messing around.”

He leans in just slightly, his forehead brushing yours.

“I’d never joke about this,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “Then say it.”

“What?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

He stares at you, gaze intense, then exhales — like this is the biggest risk he’s ever taken.

“I like you,” he says, steady now. “A lot. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”

And before you can even respond, you cup his face gently and kiss him.

It’s soft at first as you’re asking his permission, then he answers, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss, like he’s been waiting to do this forever.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, smiling like lovesick idiots.

You speak first, voice barely above a whisper.

“I like you a lot too. Last night… it kept repeating in my head the whole day. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

He blinks, stunned quiet.

“When you looked at me this morning,” you smile, eyes flicking to his, “I felt this urge to just kiss you right then and there.” You pause. “But I freaked out and left because… I was scared. I didn’t know if it meant the same to you.”

His expression softens immediately. One of his hands comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

“It meant everything to me,” he says, quietly but firmly. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with me.”

And just like that the tension melts. All the almosts, all the distance, everything you both tiptoed around finally feels safe enough to hold.

You lean into his touch, and he kisses you again slower this time, like he’s savoring this moment. And when you finally break apart, breathless, your foreheads press together as he closes his eyes and chuckles. 

“We’re dating,” he says with a dorky grin.

You laugh, forehead resting against his.

“Yeah,” you whisper, still dizzy from him. “We’re really dating.

*************************************

You and Minho finally walk back to the camp, the confession and kiss still echoing in your minds. His fingers were laced with yours, and he kept swinging your hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As you near the tents, laughter erupts.

“FINALLY!” Han yells, throwing his hands up dramatically from his seat by the fire.

Hyunjin claps like he just witnessed a marriage proposal. “Took you long enough. I was planning to fake a bear attack just to lock you two in the same tent again.”

Felix beams. “You guys are so cute, though.”

Seungmin deadpans, “Gross, but expected.”

Changbin squints suspiciously. “Wait. You kissed, didn’t you. YOU TOTALLY DID.”

You both freeze.

Minho opens his mouth then closes it. You glance at him. Then both of you burst out laughing. Neither of you answer the curious crowd but the blush creeping up both your necks is louder than words.

“OH MY GOD THEY DID!” Jeongin shouts from across the fire pit.

You hide your face in Minho’s shoulder, giggling.

He grins, one arm looping casually around your waist. “Yeah, yeah. Now go make marshmallows, losers.”

That night, after dinner and some more chaos, everyone retreats to their tents, you and Minho head toward yours. You’re giggling quietly again, nudging each other like you’re still in that warm afterglow of a new relationship.

Just as you’re about to unzip the tent, he gently grabs your wrist, stopping you.

You glance at him. “What?”

He looks at you, a glint in his eye, smile turning more smug. “Just so you know… I’m not holding back tonight.”

Your heart skips. “Oh really?” you tease, lifting a brow. “You think I’m scared?”

He steps closer, voice low and playful. “I know you are.”

You lean in, matching his energy. “Then you clearly don’t know me well enough.”

“Oh, but I know well enough. And I plan to kiss you the whole night,” he smirks, like it’s a threat.

You smirk, not missing a beat. “And I’ll hold you the whole night. Like a koala.”

He scoffs, “You? A koala? You kick in your sleep.”

You gasp. “I do not! You’re just mad I almost kneed you once last night!”

“Almost? You caught my stomach. I thought I was dying.”

You shove him lightly inside the tent, laughing. “Get inside, drama queen.”

He stumbles in with a scoff, but there’s a smile playing at his lips as you both crawl onto the small bed. It feels cozier tonight—maybe because the space between you is finally gone.

You settle in beside him, your leg brushing his. He glances over, eyes already soft. “Comfortable?”

You nod. “Very. You?”

“I mean…” He shifts closer until your faces are just inches apart. “I’m about to be.”

You roll your eyes at the cheesiness, but your heart does a full somersault when he leans in and kisses you again in a gentle and unhurried way, like he wants to memorize the feel of your lips.

When you pull back, his eyes are still closed and he hums thoughtfully.

He opens his eyes, his voice low and almost shy. “You taste like marshmallows.”

You laugh, of course he’d say that, that was such a Lee Minho thing to say.

“What even?”

He shrugs. “Sweet. A little sticky. Kinda addictive.”

You throw a pillow at him, laughing. “You're so annoying.”

He grins, catching it. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“…Unfortunately.”

He pulls you into his arms tightly and whispers, “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”

You sigh against his chest, melting. You could get used to this.

------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

Lee Know Seo Changbin

Hwang Hyunjin

Han Jisung

Lee Felix Kim Seungmin

Yang Jeongin

--------------------

Permanent Taglist:

Felix 🐥: hey girl… sorry to bother you, but hyung’s not doing well. Felix 🐥: he hasn’t been sleeping, barely eating, just pushing himself too much. Felix 🐥: could you maybe go to his apartment tonight? he needs you.

The moment you read it, you grabbed your car keys and left.

The drive to the grocery store was quiet, the city lights streaking past your windows as you thought about him. You pictured his tired eyes, his hunched shoulders, and you decided right then what you’d do. You'll cook him one of his favorite comfort meals —steak, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Something that's warm, filling, grounding. Something that said home.

You made a swift run through the aisles, grabbing everything you needed, and within minutes you were back in your car, heading to his apartment.

When you stepped inside, the sight that greeted you confirmed everything Felix had said. His place didn’t look lived in, no, it looked abandoned. A shirt was sprawled across the arm of the couch, papers and notebooks scattered across the coffee table, an empty water bottle tipped onto the floor. The lights were dim, curtains half-drawn, and there was no trace of the cozy and neatly organized atmosphere Chan usually created when he was home.

You sighed softly, your chest aching, and set the grocery bags down on the counter. “Oh, Channie…” you whispered to the empty room. “You’ve really been running yourself into the ground, haven’t you?”

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work because when he walked through that door, you wanted him to feel warmth, comfort, and love waiting for him.

You entered his kitchen and started chopping the vegetables. The smell of garlic and herbs soon filled the apartment, if felt comforting against the silence. You mashed the potatoes until they were creamy and smooth, tossed the veggies with olive oil, salt, and pepper before sliding them into the oven, and seared the steak to perfection just the way he liked it.

By the time everything was ready, the counters were cleared, the table set neatly with his plates, and a candle flickered in the center just to make it feel a little warmer. You carried the serving dishes over, the steam rising as you placed them down, and adjusted the napkins one last time.

That’s when you heard the faint jingle of keys at the door.

Your heart gave a small, nervous flutter. The steak was still warm, the apartment smelled like home again, and the table was set. Everything looked perfect.

The lock clicked, the door opened, and Chan stepped inside.

He froze in the doorway, his cap still low on his head, shoulders slumped, until his eyes lifted and found you standing there in his dining room, apron tied around your waist, the glow of the candle softening the tired edges of his face.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked on your name. 

“Hi, baby,” you said softly, opening your arms. “Surprise.”

Chan didn’t answer with words. He dropped his bag and crossed the space in two steps, wrapping himself around you so tightly you almost stumbled. His face pressed into your neck, and you felt his chest heave against you.

“Hey, careful,” you murmured, smoothing a hand over his back. “You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“Mhm, no,” he whispered, voice thick, “not yet. Let’s stay like this. Please.”

Your heart ached. His hug was desperate, almost trembling, and when you shifted to look at him, you saw his eyes glossy, lashes damp.

“You… you cooked,” he said, voice breaking. “You came all the way here. I don’t… I don’t deserve this.”

“Of course you do,” you soothed, cupping his cheek. “You deserve someone to take care of you, Channie.”

He blinked hard, and a tear slipped free. He ducked his head quickly, embarrassed, but you caught it with your thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. “We haven’t seen each other in an entire week. I kept telling myself I’d make time, but I just… I couldn’t. And now you’re here, and I…” He trailed off, hugging you even tighter. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair. “But I understand. I just want you to eat, rest, and let me hold you tonight, okay?”

He nodded, swallowing hard before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

Dinner that night was quiet, he ate like someone who hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and ever so often he would reach for your hand, like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were really there. Afterward, he refused to let you leave his side, tugging you down into the blanket nest on the couch. You put on one of those early 2000s romcoms you both always end up rewatching together.

As the movie played, you shifted closer under the blanket. “When’s Innie coming home?” you asked softly.

Chan’s lips curved into a tired smile. “He’s staying over at Lixie’s place. Wanted to game tonight.”

You smirked teasingly. “Oooh, so we’ve got the place to ourselves?”

He let out a low chuckle, tugging you closer. “All ours.”

When you tried to fetch the massage oil in the coffee table, he tugged at your wrist, eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

“I’m literally grabbing this from the table,” you teased gently.

“Still,” he mumbled, tugging you back until you laughed and sat down beside him again. “Just… don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” you promised, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

You pressed soft kisses across his cheeks and temple, and he let out a contented sigh, the tension in his body slowly melting away. You poured a small amount of massage oil into your hands, rubbing them together before pressing your palms firmly into his shoulders. His muscles were tight, knotted with stress, but they gave way little by little under your touch. His breath hitched before a deep groan slipped out, his head lolling forward under your touch.

“Oh, love,” he rasped, “you’re a miracle.”

“You’re all knotted up,” you teased gently, kneading carefully. “I swear, you’re going to turn into a statue if you don’t rest properly.”

He chuckled weakly but melted under your touch. Soon, he slumped sideways, his head pillowed on your lap. His eyes fluttered shut, breathing evened out as some movie played in the background.

“Feeling better?” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“The best I’ve felt in weeks,” he murmured, already half-asleep. “Don’t let go yet.”

“I won’t.” You kissed his forehead. “Sleep, love. I’ve got you.”

Later, when the credits rolled, you realized he hadn’t moved an inch. You carefully tugged a blanket higher over his body, thinking you’d let him sleep there, but the shift stirred him awake. His bleary eyes blinked up at you.

“You’re still here,” he mumbled, voice slurred with sleep.

“Of course I am,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “Where else would I be?”

He smiled faintly, eyes closing again, his hand searching for yours. “I love you. So so much. Even when I don’t say it enough.”

Your throat tightened, and you leaned down to press a kiss against his temple. “I know. And I love you too.”

When you finally managed to coax him into bed, he curled around you immediately, burying his face into your chest like he couldn’t get close enough. His breathing slowed, deeper now, steady, as if just your presence had quieted everything inside him.

You brushed your lips against his hair, whispering into the quiet, “Goodnight, my love… I love you,” and soon the weight of sleep pulled at your own eyes as well.

--------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

chan

bang chan does not sleep. everyone knows that. 

he goes to bed into the next day—3am, 4am, sometimes not at all—and wakes up looking like he’s been in an toxic relationship with his pillow. it’s a thing. a legend, even. the morning game among the members is always:

“what time do you think chan slept last night?” “earlier or later than 3am?”

so when he walks into morning dance practice looking… rested?

eyes clear. hoodie on straight. skin dewy. shoulders not hunched like a man carrying three unfinished tracks.

suspicion brews.

no one’s said it yet, but the members are all thinking the same thing

seungmin narrows his eyes like he’s solving a mystery. then, slowly, he raises a finger and points directly at chan.

“what time,” he begins, voice ominous, “did you sleep last night?”

it’s the sacred question. normally used to roast him. normally answered with some sleep-deprived groan and a “i don’t know, man.” but this time, it comes out… almost reverent. because the idea of bang chan getting a full night’s sleep is no longer a joke—it’s truth.

chan blinks. like he didn’t expect anyone to ask.

“uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “y/n was tired. we kinda crashed around midnight.”

midnight.

midnight.

you could hear a pin drop on the dance floor.

jeongin just stares. mouth slightly open. brain buffering.

“you slept... at midnight?” he echoes.

chan shrugs, trying to play it off but he can’t hide the way his lips twitch like he’s just a little too proud. “yeah, she knocked out so i didn’t want to wake her.”

“s-so you just… fell asleep? did she drug you or something?”

chan just laughs. “nah, i just like being next to her. it’s easy to fall asleep.”

jeongin looks like he’s witnessing a crime scene. or maybe a miracle. it’s hard to tell.

“he’s broken,” he whispers, still staring. “she’s broken him.”

seungmin doesn’t even blink. he crosses his arms and says, deadpan, “no. she’s fixed him.”

and that day, for the first time in forever, chan doesn’t yawn once.

minho - “don’t touch my ass.”

minho is many things. dancer. cat dad. human embodiment of strange.

but above all. he’s a butt hunter.

he will grope, slap, poke, and outright ambush the butts of any member foolish enough to turn their back on him. it's not even weird anymore, it's tradition. a stray kids rite of passage.

so when several days go by with no butt activity? suspicion brews.

jisung is the first to notice. obviously. he passes minho in the hallway and flinches out of habit, or trauma, but nothing. not even a threatening twitch.

it’s unsettling. so unsettling, in fact, that jisung decides to take matters into his own hands.

literally.

the next day, backstage at inkigayo, jisung makes his move.

minho’s facing the mirror, fixing his hair. perfect. jisung creeps up behind him like he’s in a nature documentary.

and then…pat. a clean, respectful grab. 

he waits. silence.

minho blinks at his reflection, then turns around slowly. calmly.

then: “don’t touch my ass.”

jisung chokes. “what?”

minho just stares at him. blank. serious. 

“don’t touch my ass,” he repeats, tone calm like he’s scolding a cat for scratching the couch again.

“are you mad at me? jisung sputters. 

that finally gets minho’s full attention. he sighs, and looks up at jisung like he’s explaining something very simple to a very dumb squirrel.

“no. i’m not mad at you,” he says, voice calm. “it’s not about you.”

jisung blinks, confused and still braced for impact. “then what is it?”

minho shrugs, like it’s obvious. “it’s y/n.”

there’s a pause as jisung tries to keep up.

minho sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “like… i wouldn’t love it if other people were grabbing my partner’s ass all the time, even as a joke, you know? and yeah, it’s always been just us messing around, but still. she’s my girlfriend. i wanna be consistent.”

jisung stares. “so… you’re retiring from ass play.”

minho gives him a flat look. “don’t call it that.”

jisung holds up both hands, backing off. “okay, okay. sorry. just—wow. that’s actually kind of sweet. and disturbingly mature.”

“you had a good run. but i’m taken now. full package. including the rear.”

jisung almost falls to his knees.

“she’s corrupted you.”

changbin - “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin is reliable.

rain or shine, comeback or break, he goes to the gym.

if he skips a day, he complains that he can “feel himself shrinking.” if his members skip leg day, he offers to carry them and their guilt.

so when he’s not at the gym by 10am, it’s weird. when he’s not at the gym by noon? alarming. and when he’s not at the gym at all?

something is deeply wrong.

minho’s the first to text:

you alive or did you get hit by car 

no reply.

by 2pm, some have migrated to the dorms to check on him in person. they knock. no answer. chan tries the handle—unlocked.

and there he is.

changbin. on the couch. blanket over his legs. one arm around you, the other lazily flipping through netflix. a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on his lap.

he looks up. blinks.

“oh, hey,” he mumbles, clearly still half-asleep. “didn’t hear you.”

silence.

you offer a small wave from behind the couch. “hi.”

minho squints. 

“where were you?” chan asks, tone sharp like an accusation.

changbin blinks. “sorry?”

“the gym,” minho says, gesturing wildly. 

changbin furrows his brows. “i don’t remember telling you i was going.”

“you never have to tell us,” chan cuts in, clearly distressed. “you always go. we stopped asking you ages ago.”

“you’re the one who made a whole speech about how ‘discipline is showing up even when you don’t feel like it.’” minho scoffs.

you shift under the blanket slightly, sitting up a bit straighter, and speaking up for the first time since the interrogation began.

“i called him over,” you say simply, voice soft but teasing. “sorry none of you have girls asking to spend time with you.”

minho scoffs. 

changbin chuckles beside you, hand up for a high-five. you slap it, grab another handful of popcorn, and lean back with a smile.

chan shakes his head, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “can’t even be mad. you look happy.”

“you’ve changed,” minho says solemnly, but really, he’s proud. “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin grins. “you’re just jealous.”

they probably are.

hyunjin - “she likes me when i'm low-effort.”

hyunjin doesn’t just get ready. he curates.

every outfit is a look. every look has a theme. earrings. scarves. a gentle waft of expensive perfume that smells like whispered poetry.

so when he walks out of his room wearing—

sweatpants. a plain white t-shirt. no versace. no rings. no 12-step skincare glow. just lip balm.

his roommate, changbin, nearly drops his protein shake.

“hold still.” he steps in front of the door, arms spread like he’s blocking a crime scene. “are you really going out like that?”

hyunjin blinks. looks down at himself like he forgot what he put on. then shrugs. “yeah. date.”

“with who, your bed?”

silence.

“you’re going out with your girlfriend, hyunjin.” he says slowly, 

hyunjin tilts his head. “she likes me just fine this way.”

changbin gestures wildly. “you’re wearing sweatpants.”

hyunjin shrugs again, utterly unbothered. “they're clean.”

“and the plain white tee?”

“she said i look cute when i’m low-effort.”

changbin groans like he’s being personally attacked. “do you know how hard i tried to look good the last time i saw a girl? i changed outfits four times and still ended up sweating through my shirt.”

hyunjin just smirks, grabbing his phone off the counter before opening the door. “maybe you should’ve tried less.” he adds casually, before stepping out. “bye.”

and all changbin can do is stand there, shaking his head, whispering.

“she’s changed him.” 

han - his ego took a sick day

jisung milks compliments. he lives off the validation.

in interviews, when asked who's the funniest? “obviously me.”

best-looking? “me, but hyunjin’s close.”

most talented? “it’s me. i wrote this question.”

you’re at the jyp cafeteria, trays clinking, the hum of trainees and staff in the background as you sit shoulder to shoulder with jisung at a corner table, while hyunjin and felix are across from you.

jisung’s rambling about something—probably a dream, possibly a conspiracy—chopsticks waving as he talks through a mouthful of rice. that’s when you notice it.

a tiny scrap of seaweed. clinging to the edge of his lip.

you lean in just a bit, tapping the side of your own mouth. “right there.”

he pauses, tongue darting out instinctively to swipe the spot along with a flick of his eyes up at you like, did i get it?

and somehow… it’s stupidly attractive.

and it hits you.

“you’re so handsome,” you murmur.

hyunjin and felix immediately stop eating.

the air stills.

felix sets down his spoon with a slow motion.

hyunjin glances at felix. then at you. then at jisung. they both brace for it.

this is the moment where his ego explodes.

he’s about to say something cocky. something ridiculous like "thank you for the unnecessary comment—everyone already knows that."

but none of that happens.

instead?

jisung freezes.

his chopsticks stop mid-air. his lips part slightly, like the words never formed.

felix and hyunjin exchange a slow, stunned glance across the table, like they’re witnessing something rare and possibly mythical.

jisung clears his throat. forces a tiny smile. not his usual smug grin—something smaller. bashful.

you tilt your head, soft and sincere as you repeat. “you’re really handsome.”

he ducks his head slightly, mumbling, “stop,” but there’s no bite in it.

you grin.

that’s when hyunjin leans forward dramatically, hand cupping his mouth. “i didn’t know you were capable of being humble.”

jisung groans, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth just to avoid talking. “shut up.”

hyunjin smirks. “you’re blushing.”

“i am not.”

felix points. “then why are your ears the color of gochujang?”

jisung throws him a look, cheeks puffed full of rice like a chipmunk. he chews dramatically, swallows, and finally mutters—

“god forbid i get a little flustered when my girlfriend compliments me.”

hyunjin groans dramatically, flopping back in his chair. “she softened him. he’s fully simmered.”

felix sighs into his hands. “remember when he used to call himself ‘sex on legs’ and say we were lucky to know him?”

jisung shovels another spoonful of rice into his mouth. “still true,” he mumbles.

he then looks at you—blushing, with a small smile.

felix - "i’m keeping her on her toes.”

felix is a certified cuddle bug.

he initiates first, always. doesn’t matter the time, the place, or the number of witnesses. if you're standing still for more than five seconds? he’s already wrapped around you like a weighted blanket if it had freckles.

he hugs everyone. back hugs. side hugs. full-body collapse hugs. the man radiates affection like it’s photosynthesis—he needs it to live, and he makes sure everyone else gets a dose too.

but ever since he started dating you…you started playing this little game. felix has decided to become your greatest enemy.

you step into the recording studio with a bright smile, holding iced americanos.

only felix, chan, and jisung today. chan looks up from the mixing board, immediately grinning. “oh, legend. thank you.”

jisung’s in the booth, mid-bar, rapping like his life depends on it.

you walk over to felix, who’s perched on the couch, headphones around his neck, scribbling notes in a lyric sheet. you set the tray of drinks down on the little table beside him, lean down, and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

then, naturally, you slide your arms around him in a casual hug.

he doesn’t move.

no returning squeeze. no snuggle into your shoulder. no dramatic gasp and full koala-mode cling. just him—smiling, smug.

smiling, but not hugging back.

you pull back just enough to pout. “felix. not this again.”

chan glances up from his monitor, brows raised. “what are you doing?”

felix turns to him. “she always expects the hugs. i’m trying to keep her on her toes.”

you groan. “we live for the hugs, felix. there are rules.”

“i know.” he winks. “that’s why i break them.”

chan leans back in his chair, eyes wide like he’s seeing felix for the first time. “you’ve… developed self-control.”

you sigh dramatically, still half in his lap. “unfortunately.”

felix scoffs, poking your side. “don’t act like you’re some poor victim. you dodge me all the time!”

you narrow your eyes. “okay, fine. if you wanna play that game… how about neither of us do anything?”

felix leans back like he’s genuinely considering it. “alright. okay. deal.”

a beat passes. one whole second.

then—

he immediately lunges forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. “too late.”

you squeal as he hugs you tight and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, smug and unrepentant.

“felix!” you gasp, laughing. “you lasted one second!”

he grins into your shoulder. “you looked too cute being all serious.”

chan shakes his head from across the room, muttering, “so much for self-control.”

felix shrugs, arms still locked around you. “self-control’s overrated.”

you could only change him so much.

seungmin - no one knows where the savage went

seungmin has the softest little voice. polite. gentle. that kind of light, effortless tone that sounds like it should be used to offer you tea or read bedtime stories. 

but then he opens his mouth and says something like,

“you look like someone who peaked in high school,” with the same tone you'd use to say, have a nice day.

and that’s the seungmin everyone knows—sharp-tongued, savage, and weirdly charming about it. naturally, everyone assumes he’d be the same with a partner. 

you’re sitting with felix and changbin in the practice room when seungmin walks in, sipping his iced tea. he plops down next to you and greets the group with his usual drawl.

as you start unwrapping a protein bar, he eyes it casually and goes, “is that your second one today?”

you nod with a muffled “mhm,” mid-bite.

across from you, changbin freezes—brows raised, lips already curling like he’s bracing for the roast. he’s heard this setup before. he knows seungmin’s usual follow-up. normally, it’s a deadpan jab about how someone eats like a vacuum, or a not-so-subtle fat joke about needing a second lunch just to function. he’s ready.

but instead?

seungmin leans his head slightly toward you, eyes soft. “you like those ones, right? i’ll grab you a couple more next time i’m at the store.”

you blink at him, surprised—but smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “really?”

he nods, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. then reaches over, gives your knee a light pat.

changbin looks offended. “okay, how come you never say stuff like that to me? i’m the one who put her on those protein bars.”

seungmin doesn’t even look up.

“because when you eat, it sounds like a construction site.”

felix loses it, nearly spilling his drink as he doubles over laughing.

changbin gapes, pointing at seungmin. “i chew normally!”

seungmin finally looks up, deadpan. “you breathe heavy before opening a snack.”

you’re gaping at seungmin, caught between shock and laughter. “seungmin.”

he finally cracks—a tiny, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turns toward you. he opens his mouth just slightly, so, huffing a laugh, you lift the protein bar and hold it up to his mouth.

seungmin bites down on the protein bar, eyes locked on yours—soft, a little smug, but mostly just… fond. like the insult he threw five seconds ago didn’t exist. like you’re the only thing in the room.

felix watches the entire thing unfold from the corner of the couch, straw halfway to his mouth, forgotten.

“somehow,” he mutters to changbin, stunned. “she’s tamed him.”

jeongin - "she's normal"

jeongin is the maknae 💜. and he loves being the maknae.

gets away with things. never has to go first. everyone looks out for him.

but the second one of his members tries to baby him? it’s war.

if hyunjin tries to feed him a spoonful—he glares like he’s been betrayed. if anyone calls him “innie baby”? he files for emotional damages.

he secretly loves the attention, obviously. but he’ll never admit it. not to their faces. not in this lifetime.

so when he walks off stage after the main performance, sweat-damp and glowing, and heads backstage for a breather before the encore, it’s a complete shock when jeongin lets you be touchy. lets you baby him. cause they’ve all tried and failed.

“you did so well, baby,” you say, all soft and proud, hands reaching up to fix the little flyaways at his temple.

even just the pet name “baby” hits the room like a mic drop.

hyunjin physically recoils. 

jeongin just looks at you—shy smile pulling at the corner of his lips—and quietly asks, “you think so?”

you nod immediately. “i know so. you looked amazing out there.”

he blushes, eyes dropping, but he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he leans in a little—like your presence is the calm after the storm.

you cup his cheeks briefly, thumbs brushing just under his eyes. “i’m so proud of you, innie.”

another pet name. another shockwave.

this time, hyunjin can’t help himself. he dramatically stumbles backward like he’s been shot. so of course hyunjin takes it as a challenge.

on his way past, he reaches out and ruffles jeongin’s hair exactly the way he knows jeongin hates—fingers scratchy, deliberately messing it up.

“great job, baby,” hyunjin mocks in a high-pitched voice, grinning.

jeongin flinches immediately.

you laugh, covering your mouth as you watch the chaos unfold.

but hyunjin’s already on a mission.

he swoops in again—arms outstretched for a dramatic hug, lips puckered exaggeratedly as he leans in with a loud, “come here, my innie baby—”

jeongin panics, pushing at his chest with both hands. “get off me!”

hyunjin stumbles back, hand on his heart like he’s been betrayed. “come on! what is this? what does she have that i don’t?”

jeongin doesn’t even hesitate.

“she’s normal,” he deadpans, fixing his hair.

hyunjin staggers like the words physically struck him, hand still pressed to his chest in mock pain.

but jeongin’s already turned back to you—his expression softening, that tiny amused smile curling at his lips. you smile back just as sweetly, eyes crinkling, and he swears his heart does a little somersault.

hyunjin stares, genuinely stunned now, voice low and almost reverent.

“i’m… envious,” he mutters. “you’ve surely done something to him.”

Suddenly, a dramatic gasp came from beside you, “No, no no!”

You finally lowered the script just enough to glance at him, “Park Seonghwa.”

He turned to look at you, “Hm?”

“You’re louder than the drama,” you let out a sigh. “Stop watching and help me practice the dialogues,” you handed him the script you were holding.

He cleared his throat dramatically before flipping through the pages, “So what’s my role?”

“The male lead,” you shifted your position so you could face him better.

His eyebrows lifted, “I knew I had the main character energy.”

You rolled your eyes, giggling, “Just shut up and read your lines.”

For the first few minutes, everything went surprisingly well, he read the male lead’s lines naturally while you replied with yours. Then he reached the next page. His voice suddenly stopped, and the room fell silent.

You looked up, only to find him staring at the script with a pout. He was reading the kissing scene.

“Why does it say… he gently cups her face… before kissing her?” his eyes moved between the page and you. 

“...Oh, um, yeah...” you scratched the back of your neck.

“You have a kissing scene?” he glanced at you. “With another actor?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to have a kissing scene by myself,” you chuckled at his sudden jealous behaviour.

Seonghwa let out a seated sigh, “Cancel it, reject the role.” He said before snapping the script shut. 

You stared at him, “I can’t! The shooting starts in a few days.”

“Tell them you caught a cold or something.” 

You covered your face, laughing into your hands, “I’ve already signed the contract.”

“Then I’ll buy all of their ads and cancel the kissing scene,” he huffed, raising his eyebrows.

You shook your head, “You’re unbelievable.” You reached over to grab the script again, but before you could, he held it above his head. “Really? I need to practice these scenes!”

“I’m confiscating it,” he said, looking down at you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest, “You know I can still reach it.”

He smirked, tilting his head, “You can try.”

You leaned forward, trying to grab the script. Seonghwa grinned as you tried to climb over him to reach the script. Suddenly, he leaned down and stole a quick kiss from you while smiling.

“There,” he murmured with a satisfied smile.

“What was that for?” You scrunched your eyebrows.

“You said you need to practice, right? Count it as a practice.” He leaned back with a grin.

You looked up at him, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said before leaning down and pressing a more passionate kiss to your lips. It was meant to be brief, but the second you kissed him back, he craved more. One kiss turned into another, until you’d both completely forgotten about the script.

When you pulled away, slightly breathless, you shoved his shoulder playfully, “You’re such a distraction.” 

He sneered, “I know.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to push him away, but your fingernail accidentally grazed the back of his hand. He immediately pulled away with a dramatic wince, “Ow…”

Your smile disappeared, “Oh my god, are you okay?” You took his hand instinctively, carefully inspecting the tiny scratch on his hand with your brows knitting together in concern.

The moment your eyes met his, Seonghwa smiled. Before you could realize what he was doing, he leaned in and kissed you again, making absolutely no effort to hide that smug smile that lingered afterward.

You blinked at him, playfully smacking his chest, “You totally faked that.”

He pretended to be in pain, “Ouch, I was in pain.”

“You used my sympathy.”

“I used the opportunity,” he defended.

You stared at him for a second before laughing, letting your forehead fall against his shoulder, “I hate you.”

He only wrapped an arm around your waist again, pulling you back into his side, “So you’re still rejecting the script, right?” he suddenly asked.

You groaned, “No, Seonghwa!”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who loves slow mornings with you. He wakes up before you just to admire your face for a few minutes before you wake up. When he has the time, he’d make breakfast for the two of you then come back to the bedroom to wake you up, even though he’d climb back to bed because of your puppy eyes asking him to stay for “5 more minutes.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who refuses to let you carry anything even if it’s lightweight.

You had just finished grocery shopping and insisted on carrying a few bags yourself. However, the second Yunho see you carrying those bags, he carefully takes the bags from both of your hands.

“I’ve got it, it’s okay,” you said.

He scoffed while carrying the bags, “what kind of a husband am I to let my wife carry heavy things?”

You laughed under your breath, “Jeong Yunho, they’re not even that heavy.”

“Honey, just let me take care of it, okay?” he leaned down kissing your forehead.

You smiled quietly and raised your hands in surrender, “alright then, don’t whine at me if your hands start to hurt.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who can’t live without physical affection. Whenever you’re walking on the streets together, he’d casually place his hand on your lower back gently rubbing it. He intertwines your fingers while watching TV. He even pulls you onto his lap while he’s reading, one hand holding his back and the other caressing you by the waist.

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who still gets ridiculously excited over calling you his wife.

The two of you had stopped by a small cafe on your day off, when you approached the counter, a staff member smiled politely, “is this order together?”

Yunho nodded without hesitation, “Yeah.” He said while glancing at you with the softest smile, “It’s for my wife.”

“Your wife?” you repeated once you were seated.

He looked at you in confusion, “Yeah?”

You giggled, “you sounded really happy saying that.”

“I am,” he sipped his coffee silently.

You laughed in disbelief, “You’ve been calling me your wife for two years.” You looked at his eyes, smiling sheepishly, “somehow it still feels brand new everytime.”

“Well, I just like saying it,” he admitted.

You giggled before continuing sipping your coffee, “you’re cute.”

“So are you,” he reached his fingers across the table to intertwine your fingers with his. “..My wife.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, gently nudging his feet under the table, “you’re never gonna get tired of that, are you?”

He smiled proudly, “Never in a million years.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who always drives with one hand resting on your thigh. It wasn’t intentional, it’s just second nature. He just naturally reaches for you whenever you're sitting in the passenger seat beside him, absentmindedly circling your thigh with his thumb while you talk about your day to him.

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who still gets distracted by how pretty you are. You’ll be ranting about your day or gossiping about your friends over dinner when he suddenly smiles to himself. “What?” you’ll ask, think that he’s not listening to you when in fact he’s admiring you. “Nothing,” he’ll grin. “I just really like looking at you.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who loves slow dancing with you in the living room for no reason at all.

You’re folding laundry on the floor, in front of the couch, while Yunho half-listens to the music playing faintly in the background.

Then, he suddenly stands up.

You look up at him, “where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he says casually before holding out his hand to you.

You blink, “what?”

“Dance with me,” he smiled.

You shrugged, “I don’t know how to dance.”

He laughed softly, "That's the point, just follow the rhythm.”

You sighed but still took his hand. The moment you stand, he pulls you closer by the waist while the other gently holds yours. No rush, just swaying to the rhythm slowly as if the world only revolves around the two of you.

“You always do this,” you murmured quietly.

“Do what?” he tilted his head.

“Steal me when I'm busy.”

He smiles, “your existence is better here.”

You roll your eyes but you don’t move away. After a few sways, his grip around you tightens just a little.

“Stay a bit longer,” he says softly.

You look up at him, “you always say that.”

“And you always stay,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

The two of you just keep swaying slowly in the middle of the living room, while Yunho holds you like time doesn’t matter at all.

you hadn't shouted back. you never did. you’d just stood there, the plastic bag of food crinkling in your hand, your eyes glassy. you’d apologized—god, why did you apologize?—and turned around.

ten minutes later, the rain had started. twenty minutes later, his phone had buzzed with a call from an unknown number. thirty minutes later, the world had ended.

chan stood up abruptly, his legs feeling like lead. he walked into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the counter where your keys usually sat. they weren't there. they were in an evidence bag at a police station, probably scratched or bent from the impact.

he reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so violently that he had to set it back down. he looked at the clock. 3:00 am. this was usually the time you’d text him to see if he was heading back, or if he needed a ride. he pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts.

1 unread message.

he hadn't opened it. he couldn't. it was sent at 11:42 pm, exactly three minutes before the timestamp on the police report. his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. he finally tapped the notification.

i'm sorry for bothering you, channie. i left the food on the table. please eat it when you get a chance. i love you so much. drive safe if you come home later.

chan let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was more like he’d been punched in the gut and all the air had been forced out of him at once. he sank to the floor, his back sliding against the cold refrigerator.

"i'm sorry," he whispered into the empty kitchen. "i'm so sorry."

the members had tried to come over. changbin had stayed for four hours yesterday, just sitting on the sofa in silence because chan wouldn't speak. minho had brought over a bag of groceries, wordlessly stocking the fridge before leaving with a heavy hand on chan’s shoulder. they wanted to help him carry the weight, but they didn't understand that he deserved to be crushed by it.

if he hadn't been so cruel, you would have stayed. you would have sat on the studio couch and fallen asleep under a blanket while he worked. you wouldn't have been on that bridge. you wouldn't have been in the path of a driver who couldn't see through the torrential rain.

every decision he’d made that night had led to you being gone.

he stood up and walked toward the hallway, his feet dragging. he opened the door to your shared bedroom, the scent of your perfume still clinging to the pillows. it was a soft, floral scent that usually made him feel like he could finally breathe. now, it felt like it was choking him.

he saw your favorite oversized hoodie draped over the back of a chair. he picked it up, burying his face in the soft fabric. he expected to feel a sense of closeness, but all he felt was the stinging reality of your absence. the hoodie was cold.

he went to his desk in the corner of the room, the one he rarely used because he was always at the studio. sitting there was a small stack of mail he’d ignored for days. on top was a postcard you’d bought a week ago, something you were planning to send to your parents.

chan is working so hard, you’d written in your neat, looping script. i'm so proud of him. i hope we can all grab dinner when he’s less busy.

"less busy," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping him.

he was free now. the comeback was delayed. the schedule was cleared. he had all the time in the world, and none of it mattered. he realized then that he’d spent so much time protecting his time with you, guarding his work, and being the leader that he’d forgotten how to just be your person.

and now, he’d never get the chance to learn again.

the sun started to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the floor. it was a new day, which felt like an insult. how was the sun still rising? how was the world still turning when you weren't in it?

he walked back to the kitchen and saw the container of food you’d left. he hadn't touched it. he opened the lid, the smell of braised short ribs—his favorite—wafting up. you must have spent hours on it.

he took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything. it felt like ash in his mouth. he forced himself to swallow, tears finally spilling over and dripping into the container. he ate the whole thing, shivering in the quiet apartment, every bite a penance, every swallow a reminder of what he’d thrown away for the sake of a song that he now hated with every fiber of his being.

he looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. he looked like a ghost. his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. he looked exactly how he felt: hollowed out.

he reached for a notepad and a pen. his hands were still shaking, but he pressed the tip to the paper. he didn't know who he was writing to—maybe to you, maybe to the void, maybe to the version of himself that had been so arrogant as to think he had forever.

i’ll never forgive myself, he wrote. the ink bled into the paper where a tear hit it. i spent so much time trying to be everything for everyone else that i broke the only thing that actually mattered. you were my home, and i locked the door on you.

he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie. he stayed there on the floor long after the sun had fully risen, a leader with no one to lead, a producer with no music left in him, just a man sitting in the wreckage of a life he’d accidentally destroyed with one tired, sharp word.

LEE KNOW

it was the silence that felt like a physical blow. lee minho was a man who understood the nuances of noise—the rhythmic thud of a heavy bass line in a practice room, the demanding meows of three cats, the sharp, teasing banter that had been the foundation of your relationship for years. but this silence was different.

it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs until his chest ached with the effort of breathing.

he was sitting on the floor of his living room, exactly where he had been three days ago when the two of you had had the fight. the remnants of it were still there, mocking him. a knocked-over stack of dance magazines, a half-empty bottle of water, and the heavy, invisible wall he’d built in the heat of the moment.

he’d been exhausted—beyond the point of rational thought. the choreo for the new title track wasn't clicking, his legs were aching, and when you’d shown up at the dorm with a gentle reminder that he’d missed your anniversary dinner, he’d turned into someone he didn't recognize.

"i'm trying to actually build a career here," he’d snapped, his voice a cold, jagged blade. "i don't have time to worry about a calendar every five minutes. if you’re so lonely, go find someone who doesn't have anything better to do than eat overpriced pasta."

he remembered the way you’d recoiled, as if he’d physically struck you. he remembered the way your lip had trembled for a fraction of a second before you’d pulled your mask of composure back on, like you were trying to make the hurt smaller.

you hadn't yelled. you hadn't even said anything. you’d just set your keys on the counter, looked at him with a hollow kind of disappointment, and walked out into the rain.

"go then!" he’d yelled after you, driven by a toxic mix of pride and fatigue. "don't come back until you realize the world doesn't revolve around your dinner plans!"

and you hadn't.

minho stared at his phone, the screen cracked from when he’d thrown it against the wall after the police officer had left his apartment. he’d been staring at the last text he’d sent you, sent only ten minutes after you’d left, when his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.

i’m an idiot. i’m sorry. come back and i’ll make you the stupid pasta myself.

it was marked as delivered. it would never be read.

a soft weight pressed against his side. soonie bumped his head against minho’s arm, letting out a small, questioning meow. the cat knew. animals always knew when the person who smelled like home was missing. minho reached out, his fingers trembling as he stroked soonie’s ears, but the comfort he usually found in his cats was gone. he felt like a fraud.

how could he take care of them when he’d failed so spectacularly at taking care of you?

he stood up, his joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. he saw your favorite mug sitting in the sink, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. he couldn't bring himself to wash it. if he washed it, the last physical evidence of your morning together would be rinsed away, down the drain and into the dark.

he leaned against the counter, his eyes burning. minho didn't cry easily. he was the one who kept his emotions tucked away in neat, categorized boxes. but the box labeled you had burst open, and the contents were suffocating him.

he found himself walking toward the hallway closet. he pulled out your heavy winter coat, the one you’d forgotten because you’d been in such a rush to leave his anger behind. he buried his face in the faux-fur collar, inhaling deeply.

it still smelled like your shampoo—something bright and vanilla—and for a split second, his brain tricked him into thinking you were just in the other room.

"i didn't mean it," he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. "i didn't mean any of it."

he thought about the "what ifs" until his head throbbed. what if he’d just taken a nap before you arrived? what if he’d just said happy anniversary instead of complaining about the choreo? what if he’d run after you the moment the door clicked shut?

the police told him the driver hadn't seen you through the sheets of rain. they told him it was instantaneous, that you didn't suffer. they meant it to be a kindness, but to minho, it was a horror.

he had been the last thing you’d seen—not a sunset, not a smiling face, but his sneering expression and the sound of his cruel voice.

he wandered back into the living room and saw your keys still sitting on the counter. he picked them up, the metal cold against his palm. dangling from the ring was a small, worn-out keychain he’d given you as a joke a year ago. it was a cat with a grumpy face that you’d insisted looked exactly like him when he woke up.

he gripped the keys so hard the edges bit into his skin. he deserved the pain. he deserved the silence. he deserved the way the apartment felt like a tomb.

minho sat back down on the floor, the darkness of the evening beginning to swallow the room. he didn't turn on the lights. he didn't deserve the light. he just sat there with soonie, doongie, and dori hovering nearby, a man who had spent his whole life learning how to move his body with perfect precision, only to realize he’d stepped on the only thing that had ever truly anchored him.

he closed his eyes, and in the quiet, he could almost hear your laugh—the way it used to cut through his moods like a flashlight in a dark basement. it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever known, and he was the one who had silenced it.

"i'll find you," he whispered into the empty air, a promise that felt more like a plea. "next time, i'll find you and i won't let go. i'll never let go."

but for now, there was only the rain against the window and the crushing, eternal weight of the things he had left unsaid.

CHANGBIN

the gym was empty, the fluorescent lights humming with a clinical, biting edge that made the space feel more like a cage than a sanctuary. changbin was staring at a heavy barbell, the iron plates stacked high, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.

his hands were shaking. it wasn't the kind of tremor that came from a heavy set of reps; it was the kind that came when your world had collapsed and you were trying to hold up the ceiling with nothing but your bare skin.

it had started with something so stupid. a misunderstanding about a schedule, a missed call, and a week of built-up pressure that he’d decided to unload on the one person who didn't deserve it.

"you're always just there," he’d groaned, his voice dripping with a frustration he didn't actually feel toward you. "don't you have anything else to do? i'm trying to focus on my life, on the group, and i feel like i have to constantly check in with you like i’m reporting to a boss. it’s exhausting."

the silence that followed had been sharp. he’d watched you slowly set down the bag of laundry you’d brought over—his laundry, that you’d picked up because you knew he was too busy to do it.

you hadn't looked angry. you had just looked tired. a deep, bone-weary kind of tired that he’d been too blind to see.

"i'm sorry i'm such a burden, binnie," you’d said softly. "i'll let you get back to your focus."

you’d walked out of the dorm, and he’d let you. he’d actually sat back down on the sofa and felt a twisted sense of "victory" for finally getting some space. he’d waited an hour, then two, his pride slowly dissolving into a hollow ache.

he’d finally picked up his phone to text you a half-hearted apology, but the screen was already flooded with news alerts.

major accident on the highway. flash floods. multiple casualties.

now, changbin sat on a weight bench, his head in his hands. the smell of iron and sweat—usually the things that made him feel powerful—now made him feel nauseous. he looked at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. he looked strong. he looked like the powerhouse everyone expected him to be.

but inside, he felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.

he’d spent his whole life building himself up, making himself sturdy so he could be a shield for the people he loved. but what was the point of a shield if you used it to crush the person you were supposed to protect?

he reached into his gym bag and pulled out a small, crumpled receipt he’d found in his pocket earlier. it was for a pair of high-end running shoes you’d bought him two weeks ago because you noticed he was complaining about his arches. you’d spent your own savings on them, joking that you were "investing in his gains."

he’d never even thanked you properly.

"i'm so small," he whispered, his voice cracking in the vastness of the gym. "i'm so pathetic."

he finally stood up, but instead of lifting, he walked over to the corner where he kept his personal locker. inside sat a small, handwritten note you’d tucked into his gym bag months ago: don't overdo it today. your muscles need rest, and i need you in one piece. love you!

he pressed the paper to his lips, his shoulders finally heaving. the tears came then—not the quiet, dignified kind, but a violent, racking sob that tore through his chest. he collapsed back onto the bench, the note clutched in his fist like a lifeline.

he thought about the way you used to wait for him at the door, the way you’d always have a protein shake ready, the way you’d listen to his rough demos and tell him his verses were the heart of the song.

you were the only person who saw seo changbin—not the rapper, not the idol, not the bodybuilder, but the man who was often scared he wasn't enough.

and he had told you that was exhausting. he had told you that you were exhausting.

the guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any plate in the room. it was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. he realized with a terrifying clarity that he would never be able to out-work this pain. he couldn't sweat it out. he couldn't lift it away.

it was a part of him now, a permanent shadow in his peripheral vision.

he stayed in the gym until the sun started to bleed through the high windows, turning the iron plates into silhouettes. he didn't want to go home. home was where your shoes were still by the door. home was where the laundry you’d dropped off was still sitting on the floor, a monument to his own cruelty.

he finally gathered his things, his movements slow and robotic. as he walked toward the exit, his eyes caught the "maximum capacity" sign on the wall.

"i'm at capacity," he muttered, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him.

he walked out into the cool morning air, the city beginning to wake up around him. people were starting their days, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the fact that the world was missing its brightest light. changbin pulled his hoodie over his head, hiding his face, and began the long walk back to an apartment that was no longer a home.

he didn't know how to move forward. he didn't know how to be himself anymore. how to exist without you.

but as he walked, he kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edges of your note. it was the only thing he had left that wasn't heavy.

HYUNJIN

the studio apartment was bathed in a cruel, mocking gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. it was the kind of light hyunjin usually lived for—the perfect golden hour that he would spend hours trying to replicate with tubes of ochre and zinc white.

but now, the light just felt like an intruder. it crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the half-finished sketch still sitting on the easel in the corner.

hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold brick wall. his long hair was a tangled mess, falling over his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to push it back. his hands, usually so expressive and nimble, were stained dark with charcoal and dried ink, looking bruised in the twilight.

he couldn't stop looking at the door.

it was the last place he’d seen you. he could still hear the sharp, echoing thud of it closing—a sound that had felt like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't ready to finish.

they had been working on a new performance, and hyunjin had pushed himself past the breaking point. his muscles were screaming, his mind was a frayed wire, and when you had shown up at the practice room with a gentle suggestion that he was overworking himself, he had lashed out.

it wasn't even about you. it was about the fear of not being perfect, the crushing weight of expectation. but you were the one standing there, and you were the one who caught the edge of his tongue.

"you don't get it," he’d hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "you just sit there and watch. you don't understand the pressure. you’re just annoying me right now. if you’re so worried about my health, go worry about it somewhere else. i don't need you hovering over me like i’m some child."

he remembered the way you’d gone still. the way your eyes, usually so full of warmth and soft encouragement, had shuttered. you hadn't even argued. you’d just nodded once, picked up your bag, and left.

"i'm sorry," you’d whispered. "i won't distract you anymore."

two hours later, the manager had walked into the studio, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held his phone.

now, hyunjin reached out and touched the canvas in front of him. it was a portrait of you he’d started weeks ago. he’d wanted to surprise you for your anniversary. he’d captured the way the light hit the bridge of your nose, the specific curve of your smile that only came out when you were laughing at one of his jokes.

but it was unfinished. your eyes were still just empty outlines, waiting for the depth and color he’d promised to add.

he’d never add it. he couldn't. every time he picked up a brush, he felt like he was suffocating.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the words sounding thin and pathetic in the empty room. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean it. i was just tired. please, just come back and tell me i’m an idiot."

he stood up unsteadily and walked to the small table by the window. your coffee mug was still there, half-full of cold, stagnant liquid. beside it sat a small scrap of paper where you’d doodled a little ferret while waiting for him to finish a painting session.

he picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the shaky lines. you weren't an artist, but you always tried for him. you’d draw little things to make him smile, to remind him that life existed outside of the lines and the shades.

he collapsed into the chair, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. the grief wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, constant ache, like a bone that had set wrong.

it was the realization that he had spent his whole life trying to create beauty, trying to capture the essence of the world on a flat surface, while the most beautiful thing he’d ever known had been right beside him, and he’d thrown it away because he was tired.

he looked at his paints. the reds looked too much like the sirens he’d seen in his nightmares. the blues were too cold, like the rain that had been falling that night.

hyunjin grabbed a tube of black paint and a palette knife. in a sudden, violent burst of movement, he smeared the dark pigment over the unfinished portrait. he covered your smile, your hair, the bridge of your nose. he couldn't bear to look at the ghost of what he’d destroyed.

when the canvas was nothing but a void of wet, glistening black, he dropped the knife. it hit the hardwood with a hollow metallic sound.

he sank back onto the floor, the shadows of the room finally swallowing him whole. he’d always been a man of colors, of light, of vibrant expression. but as he sat there in the dark, hyunjin realized he had finally painted his masterpiece. it was a perfect representation of his heart: empty, dark, and utterly silent.

he closed his eyes, praying for a dream where the door would open again, and you’d tell him that the light was perfect for a sketch. but the only thing that met him was the silence, and the knowledge that he was finally alone with his art.

HAN

the noise in the studio was usually a comfort to han jisung—a messy, chaotic layer of synth pads, vocal chops, and the frantic clicking of a mouse. but tonight, the silence was screaming. it was a high-pitched, ringing void that seemed to radiate from the empty swivel chair in the corner of the room.

jisung sat at his desk, his hands hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't remember a single chord. his brain felt like it had been short-circuited. every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same frame: the harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway reflecting in your eyes as you looked at him with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated hurt.

it had been such a small thing. he’d been struggling with a bridge for seven hours, the melody slipping through his fingers like sand. when you’d pushed the door open, balancing a tray of iced coffee and your own laptop, he hadn't seen his best friend. he hadn't seen the love of his life, his everything.

he’d seen another distraction.

"can you just—for once—not be in here?" he’d snapped, the words coming out louder and sharper than he’d intended. "i have actual work to do. i can't be your emotional support animal twenty-four-seven. just go. find someone else to cling to for a night."

you hadn't snapped back. you were used to his moods, his high-strung anxiety, his "genius" tantrums. but this had been different. he’d targeted the one thing you were always self-conscious about: your fear of being a burden.

you’d stood there for a long beat, the ice in the coffee cups rattling against the plastic. "okay, hanji," you’d whispered, blinking tears back, your voice so small it barely carried over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'll go."

you’d turned on your heel and disappeared. and jisung, fueled by a toxic surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to finish the track, had turned back to his monitors. he’d worked for another three hours, convinced himself the song was a masterpiece, and finally reached for his phone to send you a meme as a peace offering.

the notifications were already there.

the police report mentioned the rain-slicked pavement and a driver who hadn't seen the pedestrian in the crosswalk. it mentioned the time: 11:14 p.m.

jisung had sent his stupid meme at 11:16 p.m.

now, he grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles turning white. he felt like he was drowning in the air of his own studio. he stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the corner chair. on the floor beside it was a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. he picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.

it was a doodle. a little quokka with oversized headphones, holding a heart. you’d probably drawn it while waiting for him to finish his previous session, waiting to show it to him when he finally took a break.

"i'm so sorry," he choked out, the sound echoing off the soundproof foam on the walls. "i'm so sorry, angel. i didn't mean it. i love you. i love you clinging to me. i need you to cling to me."

he sank to his knees, burying his face in the seat of the chair where you always sat. it still smelled like your laundry detergent—something soft and clean. he grabbed the fabric, bunching it in his fists, and finally, the dam broke. jisung was a loud person—he laughed loud, he talked loud, he rapped with a piercing intensity—but his grief was a quiet, jagged thing.

it was a series of broken gasps and muffled sobs that felt like they were tearing his lungs apart.

he thought about all the lyrics he’d written about love, about loss, about the "one that got away." they all felt like a joke now. they were just words, shallow and meaningless compared to the crushing reality of your absence.

he realized he’d spent so much time trying to capture the perfect emotion on a track that he’d failed to protect the real emotion standing right in front of him.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. he scrolled through your messages, his thumb trembling over the screen. your last text to him was from that afternoon: don't forget to eat, sunshine. i'm bringing coffee later. see you soon!

"sunshine," he whispered, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping him. "you called me sunshine."

he looked at his monitors—the glowing bars of the song that had cost him everything. he reached out and hit the delete key. then he hit confirm.

he watched as the project file, the work of ten hours, the work he’d prioritized over your life, vanished into nothing. it didn't make him feel better. it didn't bring you back. but it was the only thing he had left to sacrifice.

the sun began to creep through the small window of the studio, a pale, grey light that didn't feel like morning. it felt like the end of the world. jisung stayed on the floor, curled into a ball next to your empty chair, the little quokka drawing pressed against his heart.

he was a songwriter, a storyteller, a man who always had a witty comeback or a clever rhyme. but as the world woke up without you, han jisung found he had finally run out of things to say. the only thing left was the silence, and the ghost of a girl who had once called him her sunshine.

FELIX

the apartment still smelled like the apology brownies he’d pulled out of the oven only an hour before the phone rang. it was a sweet, heavy scent—the kind of smell that usually made felix feel like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. now, it made him want to claw his own throat out.

he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. the bright blue mixing bowl was sitting in the sink, half-filled with soapy water. everything was so incredibly normal, so horrifyingly domestic, that it felt like a sick joke.

it had been his fault. he knew it with a certainty that felt like lead in his veins.

they had been fighting over something so small it didn't even have a name. he’d been coming home later and later, his body aching from the physical toll of a world tour, his mind frayed by the constant need to be "on." when you’d gently suggested he take a break—just one night to be lee felix instead of stray kids' felix—he’d snapped.

"you think it's that easy?" he’d rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, jagged register he only used when he was truly hurt. "you think i can just turn it off? you have no idea what i do for this. you’re just sitting here in this perfect little bubble i built for us, judging me. if you hate how much i work so much, then why are you even here?"

the look on your face had haunted him for the forty-five minutes you’d been gone. it wasn't anger; it was the look of someone who had just realized the person they loved most in the world thought they were a burden.

you hadn't even grabbed a proper coat, just your keys and your shoes, walking out into the freezing slush of a seoul february.

"i'll leave you to your work then," you’d said. as much as you tried to hide it, your tears had slipped down your cheeks. that was the worst part. like you had been trying to hide yourself from him.

the phone call from the hospital had been short. precise. the kind of words that didn't leave room for hope. a patch of black ice, a driver who couldn't stop in time, and a girl who had no business being out in a storm without a coat.

felix felt the first wave hit him then. it wasn't grief—not yet. it was a physical rejection from his own body. he stumbled toward the small bathroom off the hallway, his knees hitting the tile with a bone-jarring thud. he barely made it to the toilet before he was retching, his stomach turning itself inside out.

he puked until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the lingering, nauseating taste of the chocolate he’d sampled earlier. he stayed there on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering so hard his teeth clattered. his blonde hair, which he’d spent so much time styling for your date night at home, was damp with sweat and stuck to his temples.

"please," he gasped into the empty, tiled room. "please, not her. anyone but her. take me. it was me. i said it. please."

he crawled back into the hallway, his movements slow and agonizing. he reached the coat rack and saw your spare scarf hanging there—the soft, pink one with the loose threads at the end. he pulled it down, wrapping it around his hand, pressing it to his face.

it still smelled like the perfume he’d bought you for christmas.

he thought about your hands. he thought about how they were always warm, even when his were like ice. he thought about how you used to trace the freckles on his cheeks like they were stars in a constellation only you could see.

and he thought about how those hands were now cold, sitting in a room with white sheets and bright lights, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

the sunshine of the group.

that’s what everyone called him. he was the one who brought the light, the one who gave the hugs, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. but as he sat on the floor of his dark hallway, felix realized the sun had finally gone out. he had extinguished it himself.

he looked toward the kitchen, where the brownies were still sitting on the cooling rack. they looked perfect. they looked like a "sorry" that would never be heard.

he let out a sound—a high, broken keen that didn't sound like a human voice at all. it was the sound of a boy who had finally realized that all the brownies and heart-shaped notes and grand gestures in the world couldn't fix a broken soul.

he’d wanted to give you the world, but instead, he’d given you the street on a rainy night.

he curled into a ball on the floor, the scarf clutched so tight his fingers went numb. he didn't want to get up. he didn't want to go to the hospital to identify a body that used to be his home. he just wanted to stay here in the dark, in the smell of chocolate and the cold, until the world forgot he ever existed.

"i'm sorry, angel," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "i'm so, so sorry."

the clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, heartless sound that reminded him he was still alive, and you weren't. and for lee felix, that was the greatest punishment of all.

SEUNGMIN

the air in seungmin’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed coffee mugs and the faint, lingering smell of your favorite citrus perfume. he was sitting at his small dining table, the one where you’d spent countless nights helping him memorize lyrics or just arguing over which convenience store had the best spicy ramen.

in front of him was a notebook, open to a blank page. his pen was held loosely in his hand, the tip resting on the paper until a small, dark blot of ink began to spread, staining the wood beneath. seungmin was known for his precision—for the way he hit every note with surgical accuracy and the way his life was organized into neat, predictable rows.

but precision didn't help when the world stopped making sense.

he’d been the one to start the fight. it was a stupid, prideful thing about timing and careers. he’d been stressed, his voice feeling strained after a long recording session, and when you’d suggested he take a day off to rest, he’d turned that sharp, observational wit of his into a weapon.

"you’re so focused on the now, but i’m trying to build something that lasts," he’d said, his voice quiet but biting. "you don't get it because you don't have to be perfect for anyone. i do. so just stop acting like you know what's best for me. it’s annoying."

he remembered the way you’d blinked, the hurt flashing behind your eyes before you’d masked it with that careful, yet kind, expression you only used when he was being particularly difficult.

"i'm sorry for being annoying, seungmin," you'd said, eyes wet. you hadn't slammed the door. you’d closed it softly, with the same gentleness you’d always shown him.

that was four days ago.

the call had come from the hospital later that night. a driver had run a red light. a pedestrian in the crosswalk. no time to react.

seungmin finally dropped the pen. it clattered against the table, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. he stood up, his movements stiff, and walked into the kitchen. on the counter sat a small box of herbal tea you’d bought for him because you were worried about his throat.

he hadn't even opened it yet.

he reached out, his fingers tracing the plastic wrap. he’d spent his whole life being the anchor, the one who stayed grounded while everyone else drifted. but without you, there was no ground left to stand on.

he walked toward the window, looking down at the street below. the city was still moving, people were still laughing, and the cars were still rushing through the intersection where everything had ended. it felt like a betrayal.

how could the world be so loud when you were so quiet?

"you didn't deserve that. you're too kind to me. too good," he whispered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "too good for me."

he went to his closet and pulled out a hoodie—one you used to steal all the time because it was too big for you. he buried his face in the fabric, desperate for a hint of you, but the scent was fading, replaced by the sterile smell of his own life.

he thought about all the times he’d teased you for your "poor life choices," all the times he’d played the role of the cynical boyfriend while secretly counting down the seconds until he could see you again. he’d been so busy being the person who knew everything that he’d forgotten to be the person who said anything.

he couldn't remember the last time that he told you he loved you. it hadn't been on the last day he'd seen your face. but what about before that?

he tried to retrace the weeks, digging through the mundane conversations about groceries or the weather, looking for the words. it felt like they had just slipped into the background, something assumed rather than said.

maybe he’d muttered it while you were half-asleep, or maybe he’d just thought it so loudly he convinced himself he’d actually spoken it aloud. now, the silence of the room just made the lack of it feel heavy, like a debt he’d forgotten to pay until it was too late to settle up.

what if you'd died doubting that he had? that he did love you?

seungmin sank to the floor, his back against the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. he wasn't a messy person, but his grief was a disaster. it was a jagged, unpolished thing that didn't fit into a four-four time signature.

he closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of your laugh, but all he could hear was the click of the door closing and the sound of his own cold voice telling you to go.

"i'm an idiot, pup," he choked out, the nickname feeling like a physical weight in his throat. "i'm just an idiot."

he stayed there until the room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. he was waiting for the buzzing of his phone, for a message asking for an sos, for a rescue flare that would never come.

the most observant man in the room had missed the only thing that mattered, and now, seungmin was finally left with a silence he couldn't fix.

I.N.

the cold on the rooftop was the only thing that felt honest anymore. it was a sharp, biting wind that cut through the layers of jeongin’s coat, stinging his cheeks and numbing the tips of his fingers. he stood near the edge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch a single, clean breath of air.

but the oxygen felt thin, like it was being filtered through a thick layer of ash.

it had been two weeks since the news. two weeks since you walked out of his apartment, teary-eyed and hurt, because of him. because of his cruelty.

and jeongin felt as though he had been submerged underwater the entire time. the world was a blur of muffled voices, bright stage lights that felt like needles in his eyes, and a relentless, crushing pressure in his lungs.

he didn't think he would ever breathe properly again. the simple act of inhaling felt like a betrayal. how could he fill his lungs when yours had stopped?

he leaned his weight against the cold metal railing, his head dropping into his hands. his body felt heavy, a shell of the person he used to be. every muscle ached with the fatigue of trying to pretend he wasn't hollow.

tucked between his shaking fingers was a small, faded slip of paper—a ticket stub from the very first date the two of you had gone on. it was a movie he hadn't even liked, a poorly paced thriller that you’d spent the entire time whispering critiques about into his ear.

he had kept it in the secret compartment of his wallet, a lucky charm he’d pull out whenever the pressure of being an idol felt like it was too much to carry. it was his anchor. it was proof that he was loved by someone who didn't care about his stage name.

for a split second, the wind whistled through the vents of the building, and jeongin’s heart stopped. it sounded like a hum—the specific, soft melody you used to absentmindedly whistle when you were focused on a task.

"angel?" he breathed, his head snapping up from his hands.

his eyes darted frantically across the rooftop, his pulse racing with a sudden, agonizing burst of hope. for one beautiful, terrifying moment, he expected to see you leaning against the doorway, your hair windswept and a teasing smile on your face, telling him he was being dramatic.

but the roof was empty. the hope died as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind a coldness that was even deeper than before.

he looked down, his gaze drifting toward the street below. across the road, a girl was walking, her laughter carried upward by the wind. she was glowing under the streetlamps, her hand firmly interlaced with a boy’s as they swung their arms between them.

they were young—his age—and happy, and entirely oblivious to the fact that a world had ended just a few stories above them.

in the distraction of the moment, jeongin’s grip on the ticket stub loosened. a stray, aggressive gust of wind caught the corner of the paper, snatching it from his numbed fingertips.

the ticket stub fluttered out of his hand, caught by a stray gust of wind, and he watched as it danced over the edge of the railing, disappearing into the dark abyss of the city below.

"no," he gasped, his body lunging forward, his hands grasping at the empty air where the paper had been a second before. "no, please. wait!"

he gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into his palms, his eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of white. but the street was a sea of moving lights and shadows, and the ticket—the last tangible piece of that first night—was gone.

it wasn't just the ticket. it was the realization that he couldn't hold onto any of it. not the smell of your hair, not the sound of your voice, not the way you looked when you were laughing at his terrible jokes.

it was all leaking away, dissolving into memory, and he was powerless to stop it. soon, he feared, even the memories would start to fray at the edges, and he would be left with nothing but the shape of a person he used to love.

the first sob broke out of him like a physical wound. it was a jagged, raw sound that tore through the quiet of the night. he collapsed onto his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold concrete of the roof. sobs racked his thin frame, violent and unforgiving, shaking him until his vision blurred with tears.

he felt so small. he was supposed to be the one who stayed strong, the one who kept the peace, the one who smiled through the exhaustion. but the smile was gone, replaced by a grief that was too big for his body to contain.

jeongin looked through the gaps in the railing at the drop below. it would be so easy. a single step, a moment of weightlessness, and then the quiet. the noise in his head would finally stop. the constant, agonizing ache in his chest would vanish.

he could follow the path of the ticket to the ground, and maybe, in whatever came next, he would find you waiting there with that same ticket in your hand.

he stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. he placed one hand on the top of the railing, looking down at the pavement. the thought of the impact didn't scare him; what scared him was the thought of waking up tomorrow and having to do this all over again.

but as he looked out over the city, he stopped. his hand gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white.

"i don't get to go," he whispered, his voice thick with salt and despair.

he didn't deserve the easy way out. he didn't deserve to escape the pain he felt. if he left now, who would remember the way you looked in the morning? who would remember the specific way you’d tuck your chin when you were embarrassed? if he died, those memories died with him, and he couldn't let you disappear completely.

he had to live with it. he had to carry the weight of your absence until it became a part of his bones, a permanent shadow in his soul. that was his duty to you. to bear the pain, to feel every second of the silence, and to keep your name alive in a world that had already moved on.

jeongin slid back down against the wall, his face hidden in his knees as the wind continued to howl around him. he stayed there long after his tears had dried, long after his skin had turned blue from the cold. he was alone on the roof, a boy who had lost his anchor and his heart, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to hide the darkness.

he just sat there, breathing in the cold air, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that would never be bright again.

🏷️ ( stray kids / general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae

His eyes traced over your silhouette, the way the golden light kissed your skin, how your hair caught the evening breeze. He had always loved the sea; it was his first love, his childhood. But seeing you here, blending so naturally into a place that meant everything to him, made something settle deep inside him.

A conversation from earlier replayed in his mind.

"She’s good for you, Christopher," his mother had said, her voice warm yet certain. "You bring each other home in ways I don’t think you even realize yet."

He had chuckled then, brushing off the way her words settled deep in his chest, but she hadn’t stopped there.

"Some moments in life… they just tell you when something is right. When it’s time." She had smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with something unspoken.

At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. But now, standing here, watching you passionately take a picture of something that had been part of his soul since childhood, he understood.

Because right now, his heart was telling him something loud and clear – when the time came, when he asked you to be with him forever, he wanted it to be a moment like this, right here. Just the two of you, the sea, the sunset, and a love so certain it didn’t need grand gestures to prove itself.

He exhaled softly, shaking his head at the way his heart started to beat a little faster.

You turned then, catching him staring, and grinned. “What’s with you?” you teased, tilting your head.

Chris let out a chuckle, stepping closer. “Can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?”

But before you could answer, a mischievous glint sparked in your eyes. You raised your camera again, aiming it straight at his face. “Hold still,” you said playfully, zooming in dramatically and taking a few shots.

He groaned, but he couldn't surpress the grin on his lips. “Oh no, not the close-ups,” he muttered before lunging forward, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle hug to stop you.

You laughed, your camera lowering as you melted into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. He held you close, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head as he pressed a soft kiss against your hair.

After a beat of silence, you murmured, "Okay, but seriously… what’s up?"

Chris smiled, tightening his hold on you for just a second. "Nothing," he mumbled, though his heart screamed otherwise.

Because if he opened his mouth now, he might just end up telling you exactly what he was thinking – that he loved you more than words, that you fit so seamlessly into his world, and that one day, he was going to ask you to stay in it forever, right here.

Well he could do that now, technically. He definitely wanted to... But not today.

Someday he will, definetly.

Before the moment could get too sentimental, a mischievous grin tugged at his lips. Without warning, he bent down and effortlessly threw you over his shoulder.

"Chris!" you squealed, laughing as you lightly smacked his back. "What are you doing?! I wasn't done!"

He chuckled, spinning you around slightly before carrying you farther away from shoreline. "You were taking too long. My parents were gonna file a missing report if I didn’t do something!"

"Put me down, you’re ridiculous!" You laughed, kicking your feet playfully as he held you securely.

He grinned, his heart full as he listened to your laughter mix with the sound of the waves. Yeah. Someday, he was going to make you his forever.

He looked beautiful in the soft, ugly parking-lot lighting. Which was unfair.

Cap low over his forehead. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair messy from wind and seawater. His smile was there, touched with the kind of tired happiness that comes after a day well spent. 

He’d only had one drink hours ago and switched to water after, but the day had been long – sun, swimming, driving, making sure everyone was where they needed to be, checking maps, checking reservations, checking on members, checking on you every ten minutes like you might evaporate.

You stepped closer. “Baby.”

His head lifted immediately. “Hm?”

“Let me drive.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wanna drive?”

“You're tired. And I'm sober too.”

“It’s okay. I can do it.” 

“I know that you can,” you said softly. “But you don’t need to. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just tried to unlock the car with the house key.”

Chan let out a soft laugh, head dropping for a second, and you saw it then: the real exhaustion under the playful refusal. The kind he always ignored.

You reached for his wrist.

His fingers turned instinctively, fingers sliding through yours like they belonged there.

Your voice dropped so only he could hear.

“Chris.”

That did it. It always did.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You reached up, face leaning in towards his, and smoothed a thumb under one of his eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone all day. Please let me take care of you for twenty minutes.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Small. Barely there.

That look he only got when you slipped past the leader everyone knew and spoke to the man underneath it all. 

He glanced down at your joined hands, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Then he sighed through a smile and leaned his forehead against yours. 

From the backseat, Felix made a scandalized little sound. “They’re being cute again.” 

“They can do that any other time,” Han whined. “I wanna fall into bed.” 

Chan huffed a laugh through his nose and pulled back.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You know the route?”

You nodded and held out your hand.

After a second, he dropped the keys into your palm. 

“Okay.”

You smiled and tipped your head towards the passenger side. “Go on then.”

Chan blinked at you once, clearly too tired to argue, then shuffled around the front of the car without protest. 

As he turned, you gave him a light, friendly smack on the butt. 

He stopped mid-step and turned back, scandalized. “Hey.” 

“Passenger princes don’t talk back, baby,” you said sweetly, opening the driver’s door. 

Chan shook his head under his breath, smiling now despite himself, and slid into the passenger seat. 

You settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat back from where Chan had it too far for your comfort. His cologne lingered in the fabric, mixed with salt air and the faint scent of sunscreen. 

From the backseat, Han gasped dramatically. “She’s driving?” 

“Oh, you’ll survive,” you said, fixing the rearview mirror until Han's face appeared in it. “If not, you’re also welcome to walk back.” 

He slumped lower in his seat, arms folding across his chest in exaggerated sulkiness. “ ‘was just saying, your driving is kind of scary.” 

“You don’t even have a license,” you said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, Jisung.” 

“That’s why my opinion is pure,” Han said, reaching for the seatbelt with a pout. “Unbiased. Untainted by experience.” 

Felix laughed so hard he immediately yawned afterward, eyes watering. 

Chan’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

–––––

Five minutes later, Han was dead aleep.

The road curved dark and quiet along the coast, the sea only visible in flashes between trees.

Chan sat in the passenger seat with the chair leaned farther back than he ever let himself do. 

But he kept looking at you.

Every time you glanced over, his eyes were already there.

He had one arm folded across his middle, the other tucked between you on the center console where his fingers occasionally squeezed yours. Not out of nervousness, but out of habit.

The boys in the back had gone from loud to silent with shocking speed. 

Han was asleep first, cheek smushed against Felix’s shoulder, mouth slightly open. 

Felix lasted another three songs before his head tipped sideways onto Han’s hair. 

You glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly laughed.

“Look.”

Chan turned his head. 

His smile came slow and helpless.

“They always act tough,” he said quietly, “then become babies after one drink.”

You smiled as well. “You gonna carry them inside later?”

“The hell I will.”

You hummed innocently. “But they’re your babies.”

“They’re adults,” he said at once. “Heavy adults. They just happen to complain a lot and expect to be pampered.” 

“You raised them that way.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He gave a soft scoff but didn’t argue harder than that. 

Sleep was already pulling at him now, loosening every sharp edge. Without the need to steer, navigate, count heads, answer questions, make decisions, remind people to hydrate, remember where everyone left their bags—

There was nothing left for him to hold up.

No leader face.

No responsibility voice.

Just your boyfriend, warm, happy and slowly falling asleep in the passenger seat. 

His thumb traced over your knuckles once. Twice.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I’m appreciating.” 

“You should rest those eyes, not look at me.”

“Can’t help it. You look really pretty when you drive.” 

You laughed under your breath. “That’s the sleep talking, babe.” 

“No.” His eyes were half closed, voice low and certain. “Been thinking it for ten minutes.” 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Like looking at you.”

You stopped at a red light. The intersection was empty, traffic signal glowing red over the quiet road.

You looked over at him again. 

He was already looking at you.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

His fingers brushed your cheek first, palm settling there gently like he wanted to hold your face for a second before anything else. His thumb swept once across your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. 

Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

Soft.

Unhurried.

Sleepy in the sweetest way. 

You froze for half a heartbeat before kissing him back, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other moving to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, lips slow and gentle on yours.

As he pulled away, your stomach flipped so hard it made you forget where you were. 

When you opened your eyes, it took you a second to remember the car, the road, the sleeping passengers.

You turned your head.

Han was still dead asleep against Felix, entirely unaware of the world. 

Felix hadn’t moved at all, breathing deep, arms wrapped around his folded jacket like a stuffed animal. 

You let out a slow breath and looked back at Chan. 

Who looked impossibly soft like this.

Hoodie half-zipped. Curls messy beneath his cap. Lips parted slightly with sleepiness.

And his eyes – so full of love – it made something in your chest ache.

“Tired?” you asked softly. 

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Your chest ached in that familiar way.

Even now.

Even here.

Even with his members unconscious in the back and the day finally over, he was still holding the invisible strings of everyone else’s comfort.

You reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I’ve got them,” you said. Then softer, “I’ve got you too.”

He went very still.

Then exhaled like he’d been waiting all day to.

When the light changed, you gave him one last smile before turning back to the road and easing the car forward. 

“You’re cute,” he mumbled after a minute. 

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

“You happy?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

He leaned his head against the window, still watching you.

“My girlfriend’s driving me home~”

You snorted. “That’s all it takes?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Christopher.”

“She smells nice too.”

“You’re half-asleep.” 

“I’m in love.”

The words came so simply, so sleep-heavy and sincere, that your chest tightened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed your hand back once, then his grip loosened as sleep began pulling him under, yet still holding onto your hand like he didn’t know how not to.