cherriez

The next time you see him, it’s approaching midnight. He’s seated on the couch, phone in hand. You walk around the kitchen, opening various cabinets in search of a snack.

“You’re still up?” you ask.

“Yeah. I’m creating a list of content we can make. I’ll share it with—” he stops when he finally looks up.

Your pajama set consists of a grey cropped tank and matching ribbed shorts with slits at either thigh.

It was a deliberate choice. Chan admitting he’s not immune to you means he’s susceptible to temptation. And that made this predicament exciting for you.

But in your defense this set is really comfortable. You have six other pairs because you like them so much. And you had a feeling Chan might, too.

His gaze lingers for another moment before snapping to your face, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.

“You picked an interesting outfit to wear immediately after asking me if we’re going to be celibate throughout this.”

“Should I sleep in a straightjacket instead, roomie?”

“Do whatever makes you comfortable, y/n,” he smiles a little too sweetly.

“I will.” You grab a bag of veggie chips and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “No junk food made it on your grocery list?”

He looks pointedly at the bag in your hand.

“Veggie chips don’t really count as junk.”

He lifts his phone, waving it in his hand, “I’ll make a shared list for that too, then.”

“You’re too organized for your own good.” You roll your eyes, turning on the TV to set up your various streaming services.

The next few days are a learning curve as you navigate living together and acclimate to each other’s routines. It takes Chan exactly four days to realize you’re impossible to talk to before coffee. You quickly pick up on his neurotic neatness—like the mug handles all pointing in the exact same direction. One afternoon, out of pure curiosity, you turn a single mug backward before leaving. By the time you come home, it has mysteriously found its way back. Chan never mentions it. Neither do you.

He doesn’t comment on your pajamas again, either. But when the shared grocery list updates a few days later, one new item has been added: straightjacket.

London Fashion Week is the last big public appearance you and Chan have before the industry quiets down for a few months. The thought provided you with a glimmer of relief, but it didn’t last long. Preparing for your wedding is the next area of focus Lucia has been texting about.

It still feels far enough away that you don’t need to start hyperventilating about it just yet, but the more you stood and posed for pictures with Chan, the harder it was to shake.

“Engaged, huh?” Seungmin asks, the moment he is within earshot—not letting a second go by before bringing it up.

Your eyes flick toward Chan, currently doing a round of solo interviews with Korean based magazines. You’d much rather be off to the side instead of standing there nodding as if you have a clue what’s being said.

“Yep,” you say, showing the ring on your finger.

Seungmin studies you, not the ring.

“And you two have been seeing each other behind everyone’s back for a year?”

You knew the boys would have more questions. Seungmin in particular since you’re closest with him. He’s heard the way you talk about men and dating enough to know the math isn’t mathing.

“Have you seen Felix or Hyunjin?” you ask.

His eyes narrow.

“Felix is somewhere around here with Zendaya, probably,” he replies. “Hyunjin is in tomorrow. When’s the wedding?”

You don’t attempt to deflect again.

“In three months.”

“You pregnant or something?”

Your eyes fly around the room, making sure no one is close enough to hear.

His jaw goes slack, eyes widening.

“No—no!” You whisper harshly, bringing him back from that thought. “I’m not—” your eyes dart around again, “that. Look, it’s been a lot since the announcement. I could just use a normal night with my best friend right now.”

He studies you a moment longer before relenting.

“Okay. You hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” you say.

“Yeah, eating for two I bet.”

You slap his arm, mad that you walked right into that one. But it truly is the most normal, Seungmin-like thing he could have done in the moment, and you find yourself grinning.

He laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m done. We’ll grab dinner after.”

The remainder of the evening passes without a hitch. You slip back beside Chan, your hand naturally finding his whenever another photographer calls your names. By the time the last show wraps, your cheeks ache from smiling.

You exit the venue with Chan, Seungmin and Felix. The latter of which is trying to convince everyone to go to a Mediterranean restaurant.

“We’re in London, Felix.” You scrunch up your face. “That calls for a pub with fish and chips and draft beers.”

“There’s a pub near my hotel,” Seungmin suggests.

“I’d prefer something light tonight,” Chan adds his two cents.

Had this conversation been happening a month ago, there wouldn’t be a second thought to splitting up for the night with the possibility of meeting up later.

But now you’re engaged.

You had yet to discuss this aspect of the agreement. Surely you’re still permitted to hang out with your friends, whether they’re male or female, right?

“We can just go with them,” Seungmin says. “If you two are inseparable now.”

“No,” you say too quickly, glaring at him. “Seungmin and I will go to the pub. You guys go enjoy your Caprese salads or whatever.”

“Okay,” Chan responds easily. “I’ll see you back at the room, yeah?”

You nod.

Chan hesitates for a second before adding. “Don’t stay out too late.”

His tone leaves you unsure if that was meant to be a cute comment for the sake of being in public and needing to keep up pretenses or if he’s insinuating you have a curfew.

You plaster on a smile, “Don’t wait up.”

You take Seungmin by the arm and steer him toward the waiting taxis before anyone can change their minds.

You have your first round of drinks with dinner. That eventually turns into a second round while you insist you can beat Seungmin at darts (you don’t). By closing time, continuing the conversation at Seungmin’s suite with more beer is more enticing than saying goodnight.

You kick your shoes off the moment you step inside and immediately make yourself comfortable on the couch.

For the first time in a week your phone stays forgotten on the table. You’re not thinking about engagement notifications and you’re not pretending.

It’s just you and Seungmin.

“So . . . ” he says eventually.

You groan.

“No.”

“You knew I wasn’t going to let this go.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

You stare into your drink. “I can’t tell you.”

His expression softens.

“Can’t?”

You nod.

“Not won’t?”

You shake your head.

He leans back in his seat, letting the silence sit.

Then he raises his glass.

“To whatever disaster you’ve gotten yourself into, then.”

You clink yours against his.

“Cheers.”

The swig of beer takes the uncomfortable moment away with it and you know Seungmin won’t ask about it again. And you love him for that.

You glance at your phone for the first time—it’s 2:17am.

“Shit,” you mutter.

He checks his too, yawning. “Want me to call you a cab?”

You consider the offer, looking toward the window.

You still aren’t ready to go back. This is the first night you’ve felt like yourself in two weeks.  

“Or you can stay here,” he suggests as he stands.

“You sure?”

He’s already walking into the bedroom.

“Yeah. Besides,” he speaks loudly so you can still hear him, “I don’t trust you to not get lost.”

“You have so little faith in me.”

“I have exactly the right amount, y/n.”

You laugh.

He returns and tosses you a blanket.

“You get the couch. Goodnight.”

“The couch? You’re the reason they say chivalry is dead, Kim Seungmin,” you call to his retreating back.

He laughs heartily. You can still hear it even after he’s closed the door to his room.

You pull the blanket over yourself, sinking farther into the couch. After setting an alarm for the morning, you toss your phone onto the coffee table.

Sleep comes almost immediately.

Your alarm wakes you at 9:00am.

You sit up on the couch and take a moment to orient yourself. You need to make it back to your hotel, shower and get ready in two hours and right now you feel like doing zero of those things.

You stand with a sigh and hurry to gather your belongings. Halfway to the door, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror, and your PR training kicks in.

You’re still wearing last night’s outfit.

You can’t leave a hotel where you aren’t staying with your fiancé looking exactly as you did the night before. Add messy hair to the mix and it’s the kind of photo that weird guy from TMZ gets off to. You can imagine the headline now—UNFAITHFUL FENDI: Y/N’S CHEATING WALK OF SHAME.

Couldn’t be further from the truth, but they’d have a field day with it.

You turn around and knock on Seungmin’s door.

“I hope you have clothes on,” you say, turning the handle. “I’m coming in.”

He lifts his head slightly, body covered with the comforter, one eye cracked open.

“I need to borrow some of your clothes.”

He lazily waves you on.

You rummage through his suitcase and change in the bathroom. When you reemerge he lifts his head from the pillow again.  

He huffs a laugh at your appearance.

“Where you off to already, Adam Sandler?”

You glance down at the outfit you pulled together. Baggy sweats, a zip-up hoodie that’s two sizes too large, combined with a hat and sunglasses.

Fuck.

This is Adam Sandler chic.

And you need to borrow a pair of his slides, too.

“We’re attending two of the shows today, so we have to get there early,” you tell him. “I’ll return it all before I leave. Go back to sleep.”

You walk with your head down and don’t risk lifting it until the taxi takes off.

It’s 10:00am when you make it back to the room. Knowing your routine, that’s ample time to be 80% ready, you’ll just have to do your makeup in the car. You’ve become shockingly good at applying it in a moving vehicle since entering this industry.

You don’t see Chan as you pass the living room and enter your private room. You take a shower, allowing yourself a few more minutes than you really have. After, with your robe on, you dart back out to the living room to make a cup of coffee.  

You nearly stumble, seeing Chan on the couch.

He’s already primed for the red carpet. You can’t see much of his outfit, but it’s all black. It’s not much of a surprise that yours is, too, since they love having you match.

“I need coffee and twenty minutes.”

You grab a mug, ruffling the towel beneath it in a rush, and place it under the spout. You rifle through the bowl of flavors, knocking some over the edge before settling on caramel. At the last second, you swap out the mug for a to-go cup then finally start the machine.

You head back towards your room, but Chan stops you just as you reach your door.

“Why didn’t you come back last night?” he asks.

You glance over your shoulder, “I was tired.”

A beat passes.

“You could have text.”

The suggestion doesn’t land well.

It sounds so simple. So reasonable.

Yet somehow it feels much bigger than that.

“I didn’t know I was required to check in with you.”

You enter your room and close the door behind you.

You make quick work of your hair with dry shampoo and change into your outfit for the day. You grab your large black Fendi bag and toss your smaller makeup bag inside of it before exiting the room.

Chan is standing in front of the counter, pouring your preferred creamer flavor into the to-go cup. He’s also put everything back in its place. He pops a lid on it before turning around and offering it to you.

You get to fully appreciate his outfit for the first time—a long, knee-length overcoat paired with wide-legged black slacks. The icing on the cake is the sheer, black, floral button-up shirt, providing yet another teasing glimpse at his torso.

Perhaps he should be wearing straightjackets to these events. That’d make it easier to keep your thoughts in check.

You take the cup and mumble a thanks.

You’d been ready to tell him that cleaning up after you all the time isn’t necessary, but him prepping your coffee with his pecs on display has momentarily thrown you off.

Once in the car, you take a long sip of coffee before setting it down and pulling out your makeup bag. You pass the mirror to Chan.

“Can you hold this?”

He takes it without question and holds it in front of you.

You apply a light layer of foundation, then concealer before blending blush across your cheeks, grateful to have something else to focus on besides the silence hanging between you.

Next is eyeshadow, eyeliner, then mascara.

Still, neither of you say anything.

Only when you’re nearly done with your other eye does he finally speak.

“Did anyone see you going into his hotel or coming out of it?”

“I don’t think so,” you answer.

He lowers the mirror. Your gaze lifts to his face.

“y/n, we have to be mindful of how things like this look.”

“I know that, Chan. That’s why I changed before leaving.”

You grab his hand with the mirror and raise it again.

“Leaving in his clothes isn’t really a good look either.”

“It seemed the lesser of two evils at the time,” you retort. “What else could I have done?”

“Came back at a decent hour.”

You freeze, mascara brush hovering in front of your lashes.

“Nights staying out late or crashing with a friend after drinking aren’t unusual for me,” you tell him. “I don’t think that has to change because of this. I’d like to still have some autonomy.”

“I’m not trying to set a curfew for you. I’m just asking for you to consider how all of your actions impact us now.”

You don’t particularly like his emphasis on the word us.

You finish applying the mascara before taking the mirror from him and toss it in your bag.

“You could have both come back to our hotel and drank until you passed out and this wouldn’t have been an issue,” he continues.

“Wouldn’t it?”

He shakes his head.

“You would’ve been fine with me bringing Seungmin back to our suite?”

“Yes.”

“At midnight?”

“Yes.”

“And if we stayed up talking until sunrise?”

“Yes. The only problem is that you were nowhere to be found and we have somewhere to be for our jobs.”

Us. We. Our.

You sigh.

“So what’s the rule then?”

“Rule?”

“Do I have to clear my plans with you? Share my location?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sure sounded like it,” you snip as the car rolls to a stop. “Look—you don’t need to keep tabs on me. I had an alarm set so that I could make it back in time. I’m an adult.”

The car door opens and Chan steps out first. He holds his hand out for you and gently guides you from the vehicle.

“We’re not just responsible for ourselves anymore, though,” he says quietly, holding your gaze. “That’s all I’m asking you to remember.”

You press your lips together and say nothing in response.

The conversation has to end there—cameras are already on you.

By the time you’re standing shoulder to shoulder on the red carpet, neither of you has said another word. It isn’t until you join Felix and Hyunjin that you both speak. It’s another rinse and repeat conversation about how well you two hid your relationship. You let Chan take the lead and answer Hyunjin’s questions, though. He seems to accept it as truth almost as easily as Felix did.

The four of you sit together, watching as Seungmin walks the runway in a tailored, charcoal look, giving away nothing of the late night and drinks you shared.

After the show ends, the topic shifts as usual to plans for the evening.

“We’re thinking drinks later,” Felix says.

“You two coming?” Hyunjin asks.

“We’ll head back to the hotel first,” Chan answers before you can. “We might meet up with you later.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look your way.

It takes nearly everything in you not to retract his statement. But how would it look if you seemed to be fleeing your fiancés company two days in a row?

Back at the hotel, you enter the room first and take your shoes off. Chan closes the door behind you and quietly lines both of your shoes neatly beside his own.

You clench your jaw.

He’s always anticipating your needs. Always taking care of things before you can.

Including this.

“I can be responsible for my own shoes, Chan,” you huff. “Or do you think I’m incapable of that too?”

He furrows his brow, taking off his overcoat and hanging it in the hall closet before entering the living room.

“I don’t think you’re incapable of anything, y/n,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. There’s an earnestness to his tone that implores you to let your guard down, but you ignore it. “Except, maybe, communication.”

Your eyes narrow.

“If we have a work engagement, would a text kill you?” he asks.

“It might,” you mumble. “If I leave a coffee mug on the counter for five minutes, is it going to kill you?”

“No. But it bothers me. I don’t see it as cleaning up after you. I’m just doing it, and I don’t mind.”

You purse your lips, eyes locked on his.

“So no matter what I do, you’ll clean it up?”

You take off your jacket and toss it on the couch next to him.

His eyes flick to it, but he doesn’t answer.

“And why did we tell them we had to come back to the hotel first?”

You take off your bracelets and leave them on the coffee table.

“Really?” he asks, brow quirked.

You remove your earrings and place them next to the coffee maker before walking back to stand in front of him.

“You want to hear me say I’ll text you before I’m allowed out again? Is that it?”

You bring your hands together behind your neck, feeling for the clasp of your necklace.

He suddenly reaches out for your waist and pulls you closer.

You gasp at the unexpected movement, heart beating rapidly as you look down at him.

“Either you enjoy testing my patience,” he muses, “or you genuinely take everything I say as an attack.”

While both of those things may be true, you don’t enjoy him reading you so accurately.

You slide one knee up onto the couch, then the other so you’re straddling him, causing your dress to ride up your thighs.  

“Which would you prefer?” you ask softly.

He takes a moment too long to answer.

You remove your hands from your neck and let the necklace fall into his lap with a soft thud. His eyes drop to it. You hook a finger under his chin and lift his head back up.

A flicker of irritation flashes across his eyes. But instead of answering, he cups the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his.

A sigh escapes you as your lips meet. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your body against him. His hand snakes into your hair as your hips begin to rock against his.

You want to stay in this moment, but even as a relief to the tension spreads through you, you can’t help but wonder how long it will last this time before he pulls away. Because, unfortunately for you, he’d probably be content to just kiss you to death if you don’t push further.

You slip a hand between you, cupping his cock as you gently tug his bottom lip with your teeth. You squeeze his, feeling him harden in your palm.

He groans, pressing his lips back to yours and claiming your tongue.

You keep your hand between you, rubbing him through his slacks. It’s also serving as a solid surface to press your clit against.

You moan, reaching for his other hand to bring it to your chest, wanting him to touch you, to feel you. You place his hand over your tit, guiding him to knead it.

And you immediately regret it.

He pulls away, leaning his head against the couch, but he doesn’t remove his hand.

“Tell me it would be deeper than just casual sex, y/n.”

You smack your lips before you can stop yourself.

“Why does it need to be?” you murmur, undoing the first button of his shirt as you continue rocking your hips against him.

“Casual sex is literally just using someone for their body,” he says. “To satisfy yourself.”

“Mutual satisfaction is often the goal, actually . . . ” you undo the next button.

“So you just wanna use me?”

“Respectfully.”

He grabs your hands and removes them from his shirt.

“Use me, then.”

He lifts you at your hips, adjusting you so you’re straddling his right thigh.

“What?”

He uses his hands on your hips to move them forward and backwards, getting the message across quite clearly.

“Use me.”

You bite your lower lip as his hands fall from your waist, stopping the movement.

This is not how you thought you’d reach a compromise on this.

But a sudden numbness spreads across your body at the loss of stimulation against your clit. You rock your hips tentatively to bring it back.

It feels good. And the way he’s looking at you—as if imagining what more he could be doing to you . . . if only you’d concede to a stupid fucking date—takes you to another level.

His hand moves toward your thighs, and your heart nearly skips a beat, getting your hopes up. Instead of touching you, he pushes your dress up higher.

“Move your underwear,” he says.

You lift up slightly and pull them aside before sitting back down on his thigh. You grind against him again. The direct friction of his slacks against your clit sends a jolt through your body, making your breath hitch.

You grind harder, your fingers digging into the thin lace of his shirt as you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands remain rooted on the couch and you want to plead for him to touch you, but you don’t want to make him come to his senses again. You moan, moving your hips faster, emboldened by this act that somehow feels filthy and liberating simultaneously.

Chan’s voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, rough and restrained.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet, y/n.”

You can’t deny it. The sound of your arousal is obscene, a wet slicking noise every time you rock against him. His thigh is solid beneath you, the muscles flexing as you ride him, and you can feel the heat of him even through the fabric.

“Chan,” you whimper, lifting your head to look at him.

“You like that?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, eyes locked on his for a moment before he cups the back of your neck and brings your mouth to his again.

You all but melt into him. Your hands caress him frantically, wanting to touch any and every part of him while he lets you do this.

You hadn’t realized how bad you needed this until now.

How will he expect you to contain yourself after this sample?

A sharp gasp tears from your throat at the thought of actually fucking him, while you grind your pussy on his leg. You can see it so clearly. You can almost feel it. His cock sinking into you, his hands and mouth on every inch of your body.

“Yes,” he hisses against your lips. “Fuck my leg until you cum.”

You reach down to pull your underwear even more out of the way, grinding your clit against him with reckless abandon as your orgasm reaches its tipping point.

“Unggh, Chan,” you pant, breaking the kiss. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna—oh fuck.”

You arch your back, expletives flying from your mouth, hips circling with fervor as you cum on his Fendi slacks.

It’s a good thing they give you these outfits to keep.

Even as your body shakes, he still doesn’t touch you. You latch your lips back onto his as your orgasm subsides, moaning softly into his mouth with each jerk of your hips.

When they finally stop moving on their own, he gently tangles his hand in your hair and lifts your head, forcing you to look at him.

“Feel better?” he tilts his head.

You nod sheepishly.

“Good,” he kisses you once, twice, three times. “Now you won’t get mad at me if I pick up all the shit you dropped?”

You snort, trying to hold in your laugh as you look down at the necklace that’s fallen to his side.

“I can pick it up myself,” you mumble.

“I don’t mind.” He says softly.

He kisses you once more, deeper this time, and once again you can’t stop the sigh that passes through your lips.

You have no way of knowing it yet, but this is the man that’s going to teach you that you can unapologetically be yourself—emotional wounds, brattiness and all—and he’s not going to run from it.

The biggest obstacle will be allowing yourself to accept it . . . and opening up to him.

a/n: phew. took a minute to get here, thank you for sticking with me! i hope their dynamics (y/n not wanting to lose herself in a relationship, and chan wanting very much to be everything his partner needs) are clearer now and this first smut scene feels earned. i've not written brat taming extensively but am excited to dive deeper into it.

taglist: @crazyfangirl2020 / @elizalabs3 / @bunbunbl0gs / @unemployedcarat / @geni-627 / @magpir8629 / @firelordtsuki / @tsunderelino / @divineslautr / @anastarsia-00 / @divineslautr / @kaylovesskz / @compersian / @rayraymylove / @mirrorballbb / @lixiestaylovesstraykids / @wolfiesroom / @letstrippp / @victoriaaf / @skyearby

truly, you didn't mean to bring him. but that itch of feeling alone had crawled underneath your skin, and so you texted, and so he came running. his lips graze the underside of your jaw for a moment, just a chaste kiss before his head settles back on your shoulder.

"hey." his arm curls around your bicep, and then slowly slides down until his hand is in yours. "i missed you, y'know."

you told him once you'd been a lonely kid, a lonely teenager, and now a lonely adult who has friends but adulthood keeps you all busy in different ways. chris always promised that if you needed him, he would come running to keep you company before those dark thoughts can seep back in.

and he has. and one day, he won't have to run anymore. his lease will be up in a few months, and then he'll be moving in with you, and all you'll have to do is turn over if you want to see his sleeping face.

You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.

Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”

“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.

“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”

“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”

“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”

“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”

He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”

“But yours smell better.”

That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”

It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.

But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.

Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.

You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.

“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.

You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”

“Pushed ‘em.”

“You didn’t have to—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You shut up.

Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”

<><><>

The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.

“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.

“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”

“That happened once.”

“Mmhmm.”

He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.

Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.

So you filled in the spaces.

You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.

Because you were his peace.

You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.

He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.

He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.

You reached for the phone and stared at the name.

Eli.

You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.

Your stomach turned.

You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.

Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”

His jaw tensed.

He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.

You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.

“You gonna block him again?”

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.

You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”

Silence.

Then, “Persistent.”

You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”

“He used to be.”

That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”

His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.

“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”

But there was something in his eyes.

You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.

And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.

“Don’t answer him again.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.

But Chan wasn’t done.

“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”

He cut himself off.

You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.

And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.

It was to calm him down.

Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.

Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”

“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”

That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.

Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.

Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”

You gave him a look. “Duh.”

He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”

Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.

“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”

“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.

You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.

You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”

He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”

You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”

Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.

“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.

You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”

Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”

Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”

“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”

You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.

“Chan.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”

He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”

You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.

There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”

Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:

“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”

“I will,” you promised.

Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.

Not when you had Chan.

<><><>

That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.

He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.

You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.

But it felt different tonight.

You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.

You didn’t mean to kiss him.

Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.

But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?

Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.

Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.

You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.

You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You froze. “What?”

His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”

“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.

But still… you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let you go.

<><><>

You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.

“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.

Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”

“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”

“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”

There were others.

Gucci. Prada. Cartier.

And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.

“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”

He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.

“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”

You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”

<><><>

You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.

He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.

You’d worn it.

Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.

You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.

He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.

“Outside. Now.”

You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”

“I said now.”

Oh. He was pissed.

You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”

He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”

You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.

“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.

“No. But you act like it.”

That shut him up.

He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.

So naturally, you kept going.

You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”

His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.

“You’re really pushing it tonight.”

“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”

His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”

“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”

You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.

“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”

Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.

But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.

“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”

And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.

You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.

“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”

“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.

“You owe me.”

He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”

You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”

“No.”

You dragged him anyway.

He let you.

Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.

The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.

Chan froze.

Dead silent.

You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.

You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.

“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.

He wasn’t dancing. Not really.

He was just… enduring.

And you were loving every second of it.

Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.

“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”

“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.

You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.

“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.

He cursed under his breath.

His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.

You had him.

He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.

Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step away.

Didn’t tell you to quit.

He just held on tighter… and let you work.

When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.

One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.

You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.

Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.

Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.

“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”

You didn’t.

You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.

He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.

And maybe it was.

You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.

“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.

He growled.

Actually growled.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.

“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.

One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.

You smirked.

Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:

“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.

You just kept moving.

The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.

“Enough.”

You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.

You giggled.

He didn’t.

Not even close.

“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“Home.”

One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.

Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.

“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.

“I’m furious.”

That made you giggle harder.

He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.

You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.

“You’re not really mad.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”

He finally looked at you—and that look?

Could’ve melted diamonds.

“You think this is funny?”

The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”

Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.

“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”

You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”

His eyes burned into yours.

“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”

That wiped the smile right off your lips.

You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.

Chan turned away, facing forward again.

“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”

Silence.

“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”

And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.

<><><>

Your head was pounding.

Throbbing, actually.

Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.

…This wasn’t your bed.

Wait. Yes, it was.

But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?

Oh no.

You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.

You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.

“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.

Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”

He just stared.

“Chan?”

He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.

“You don’t remember?”

You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”

“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”

Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”

“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Just answer the question.”

Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”

“But did you like it?”

Silence. His stare burned holes into you.

You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”

Chan tilted his head, voice low.

“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”

You nodded way too fast. “I do.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.

“It felt like temptation.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”

You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.

Then you whispered, “…Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“…Still kinda flattered though.”

Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.

“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”

“Chan, don’t be like that—”

“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.

You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.

Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.

<><><>

You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.

Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.

The door had been left cracked open.

And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.

He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.

His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.

He was supposed to head to his studio.

But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.

Something possessed him.

Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.

A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.

You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.

Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”

You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.

Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.

You didn’t… mind?

You weren’t mad?

That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.

You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.

“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.

Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.

Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.

No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.

You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”

“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”

You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Guess I should wear them more often then.”

Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.

Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.

“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”

“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”

You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”

He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.

“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”

Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”

“I panicked.”

You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.

“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.

Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”

“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”

You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”

“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”

Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Have I?”

Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.

You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”

That was when he lost it a little.

One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.

You just smiled.

“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”

And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.

<><><>

That night, you were wide awake.

The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.

It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.

You should’ve let it go.

But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.

You: You up?

The read receipt appeared too fast.

Chan: Always. What’s wrong?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:

You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.

Chan: Which part?

You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.

You fed him a little more.

You: You touching me like that in your room.

Another instant reply.

Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.

You: I didn’t mind.

A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.

Chan: I could tell.

You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.

You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?

Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?

You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.

Chan: You looked really good like that.

You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.

You: Like how?

Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.

You: I was folding your laundry.

Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.

You: You liked that?

The dots blinked.

Stopped.

Started again.

Chan: Too much.

You took a shaky breath.

This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.

Your fingers moved again.

You: If I came to your room right now…

No reply.

Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.

Then finally:

Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.

You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.

Your fingers trembled when you typed again.

You: Untouched where?

You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.

Chan: Everywhere.

You: Be specific.

Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?

That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.

You: Yeah. I do.

Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.

You: Keep going.

Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.

Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.

You: I knew they drove you crazy.

Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.

You: You like when I act like a brat.

Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.

Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.

Instead—

You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?

Another pause.

You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.

Then:

Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.

You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.

You: Would you let me touch you too?

Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.

You: Please, Channie.

That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.

Then:

Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.

You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.

Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.

You: Yeah? Like what?

Chan: Like make you mine.

Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.

You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?

This time, there was no pause.

Chan: Fuck yes, you are.

Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.

Something dangerous.

You: I remembered the party.

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

Chan: What about it?

You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.

Chan: You were asking for it.

You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?

Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.

You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.

You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.

Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.

A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.

Then—

Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.

Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.

You weren’t done yet.

You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.

Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.

Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.

You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

Chan: Say that again.

You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?

Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…

You: I do.

Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.

Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.

Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.

Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.

You were about to text again when—

Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Then—your bedroom door creaked open.

And there he was.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.

He shut the door with his foot. Click.

“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”

Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.

Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.

“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”

“I meant every word.”

He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.

“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.

He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched. “Against me.”

“Where else?”

You swallowed. “Inside me.”

That was it. That was fucking it.

In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.

“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.

“You’re about to.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.

But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.

You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”

He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.

“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.

He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”

“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.

“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.

That did it.

His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”

You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”

His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.

You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.

“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.

You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”

He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.

His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.

You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.

“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.

He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.

His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.

“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.

But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.

“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.

“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always had.

His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.

“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.

“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.

You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.

It felt right.

The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.

He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.

Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.

You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”

<><><>

The next morning was different.

Not awkward or weird. Just… new.

You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.

He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”

You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.

He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.

He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.

But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

Because you were completely his. And that was enough.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩

So he tries being rational about it. He tells himself he’s just attached to you because you’re comforting, because you’re familiar, because you’ve been there too long to lose now. But then he catches himself waiting for your replies during busy days, rereading messages when he’s stressed, thinking about how badly he wants your attention specifically, and suddenly the situation feels impossible to ignore.

The actual confession would be messy in a very Chan way. Not dramatic, not smooth, just honest in a way that sounds almost accidental. He’d start talking about something completely unrelated before admitting he thinks he relies on you too much. Then that would turn into him admitting he wants to tell you everything first, good or bad. Then eventually he’d just stop trying to soften it and admit he likes you in a way that stopped feeling friendly a long time ago. The scary part about Chan is that when he’s sincere, he’s really sincere. No joking, no teasing, no leader persona. Just this exhausted honesty that makes it obvious he’s been carrying the feelings alone for a while.

୨୧ — Lee Know

Minho would hate the fact that he likes you. Not because there’s something wrong with you, but because he values control over himself more than anything, and suddenly he’s reacting emotionally to stupid things that shouldn’t matter. You reply late and he’s irritated for the rest of the evening. You cancel plans and he acts indifferent while internally feeling genuinely disappointed. Someone flirts with you in front of him and suddenly he’s quieter than usual, sharper around the edges. The worst part is that he’d realize how obvious he’s becoming before you do. Minho is very aware of himself, which means every soft look, every unnecessary favor, every moment where he gives in too easily around you would make him feel exposed.

Unlike Chan, Minho wouldn’t slowly open up emotionally. He’d get more sarcastic instead. More teasing. More annoying on purpose because it’s easier to provoke reactions from you than admit he actually cares what you think of him. But eventually even he gets tired of himself. Tired of acting irritated every time someone assumes you’re dating because secretly he wishes they were right. So one day he’d just say it very plainly. No buildup. No awkward speech. He’d admit that being around you stopped feeling casual for him a while ago, and now every time you treat him like “just a friend,” it annoys him more than it should. And then he’d look away immediately after saying it because despite how composed he acts, vulnerability still embarrasses him badly.

୨୧ — Seo Changbin

Changbin wouldn’t realize he’s in love with you through emotional introspection. He’d realize because everyone around him is sick of hearing your name. He talks about you constantly without noticing it. Every conversation somehow circles back to you. Someone mentions food? You’d like this place. Someone sends him a song? It reminds him of you. Someone asks about his day? Somehow you’re involved in the story. The members would catch on embarrassingly fast, but Changbin would genuinely think he’s acting normal until someone points out that he smiles differently whenever you text him.

What makes Changbin different is that he wouldn’t become quieter around you after catching feelings — he’d become worse. Louder, clingier, more attention-seeking. He’d want your reactions all the time because your approval starts affecting him too much. Compliments from you would stay in his head for days. If you laugh at one of his jokes, he suddenly becomes the funniest person alive. And when he finally confesses, it wouldn’t come from careful planning. It would happen because he accidentally says something too honest and can’t take it back afterward. He’d probably admit that you’ve become the first person he wants to share things with, and then realize halfway through talking how serious he sounds. The difference with Changbin is that once the truth is out, he wouldn’t really hold back anymore. There’s no cool distance with him. If he loves someone, it’s obvious, overwhelming, and impossible to miss.

୨୧ — Hwang Hyunjin

Hyunjin would fall in love with the details of you before he even notices you as a whole. The expressions you make when you’re annoyed. The way your voice changes when you’re tired. The specific things that make you laugh. He’s observant in a very dangerous way, especially with people he cares about, so once he starts paying attention to you too much, the feelings become unavoidable. But unlike Changbin, Hyunjin wouldn’t express it openly at first. He’d internalize everything. Romanticize everything. Conversations with you would replay in his head later while he’s alone, and suddenly he’s wondering why one specific look from you ruined his entire mood for the day.

The problem with Hyunjin is that he feels things deeply but hates looking emotionally exposed. So instead of confessing quickly, he’d spend months trapped in his own head trying to decide whether the friendship is worth risking. He’d analyze every interaction, every touch, every possibility that maybe you feel the same way too. And when he finally confesses, it wouldn’t sound casual at all because Hyunjin isn’t capable of being emotionally casual with people he truly loves. He’d say it carefully, almost quietly, like he’s admitting something he’s been hiding from himself too. Not in an exaggerated poetic way — just painfully sincere. Like someone finally admitting they’re tired of pretending their feelings are smaller than they really are.

୨୧ — Han Jisung

Jisung would become unbearably obvious after realizing he likes you, but he’d also somehow stay in denial at the same time. One day he’s treating you normally, and the next he’s suddenly hyperaware of everything you do. Your attention starts affecting him in embarrassing ways. If you praise him, he’s energetic for the rest of the day. If you seem distracted around him, he overthinks it for hours. He’d start acting weirdly nervous too, which would confuse you because Jisung is usually comfortable around you. Suddenly he’s talking too fast, interrupting himself, getting flustered when you compliment him back.

What separates Jisung from the others is that his feelings would make him genuinely restless. He wouldn’t know how to sit with them quietly. He’d try distracting himself, joking through it, pretending nothing changed, but eventually the pressure gets to him. And his confession wouldn’t be smooth at all because once Jisung gets emotional, he starts rambling uncontrollably. He’d probably confess by accident during a conversation that had nothing to do with romance, then immediately keep talking because silence makes him panic. Half the confession would just be him exposing himself unintentionally — admitting how long he’s liked you, how obvious everyone else apparently thought he was being, how annoying it is that you affect his mood so much. And honestly, the sincerity would hit harder because of how unplanned it sounds.

୨୧ — Lee Felix

Felix would treat you gently long before he realizes he’s in love with you. That’s why the shift would take him so long to notice. He already cares deeply about people naturally, so at first he wouldn’t understand why you specifically feel different. But eventually he’d notice that his entire day revolves around whether you seem okay or not. Your mood affects him immediately. If you’re stressed, he’s worried. If you seem distant, he starts wondering if he did something wrong. He’d become emotionally attached in a very quiet, steady way that sneaks up on him completely.

Unlike the others, Felix wouldn’t fight the feelings once he recognizes them. He’d be scared of confessing, yes, but not ashamed of loving you. There’s something very emotionally straightforward about him when it comes to caring for people. So when he eventually tells you, it would sound incredibly genuine because he wouldn’t try making himself seem cooler or less vulnerable than he actually is. He’d admit that loving you stopped feeling avoidable a while ago. That being around you became the safest part of his life without him noticing when it happened. And the thing about Felix is that when he speaks sincerely, people believe him immediately because nothing about him feels performative.

୨୧ — Kim Seungmin

Seungmin would notice the change slowly, and honestly, he’d resent it at first. Not because he dislikes you, but because he’s the type to keep his emotions under control, and suddenly you’re ruining that without even trying. He’d catch himself checking his phone too often waiting for your messages, replaying conversations in his head while pretending he’s above things like that. The annoying part is that he’d still act completely normal outwardly. Same teasing, same dry comments, same unimpressed expression whenever you say something ridiculous. If anything, he’d tease you more after developing feelings because it gives him something to hide behind.

But Seungmin’s problem is that he’s too attentive for his own good. Once he cares about someone romantically, he notices everything. He’d remember offhand comments you made months ago. He’d pick up on your moods before you say anything. He’d quietly start adjusting himself around you in ways you wouldn’t notice immediately, like staying awake longer because he knows that’s when you usually want to talk, or saving certain stories because he specifically wants to tell you later. And the confession itself would be surprisingly calm. No panic, no dramatic emotional breakdown. Just Seungmin finally getting tired of pretending his feelings aren’t obvious. He’d probably admit it during an ordinary conversation, almost casually, except his voice would sound more careful than usual. He’d tell you that somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling easy to be around because now every interaction means too much to him. And afterward he’d immediately try acting like he didn’t just completely change the friendship, even though you’d be able to tell he’s nervous from how quiet he suddenly gets.

୨୧ — Yang Jeongin

Jeongin would handle having feelings for you terribly, mostly because he wouldn’t know what to do with himself afterward. He’s expressive by nature, so hiding emotions has never really been his strength. The moment he realizes he likes you, everyone around him would probably figure it out too because suddenly he’s reacting to everything you do. If you give him attention, he’s in a good mood for hours. If you seem closer to someone else, he gets visibly irritated even while insisting he’s fine. And because he’s younger emotionally than some of the others, the jealousy would genuinely catch him off guard. He’d hate realizing how much your attention matters to him.