TERI

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not ten seconds after you watched your boyfriend’s call go to voicemail, you received the dreaded text.

Minho 💞

i’m outside

if u don’t come to the door in the next 30 sec i’m using my key

You’d known it was coming. You were in the third straight day of a depressive episode, and it was only a matter of time before Minho refused to let you drop off the face of the earth any longer. It never felt good ducking his texts and calls, but when you got in that state, you just… couldn’t talk to him. Maybe it took too much energy. Maybe it was the shame of him seeing you like this. Probably, it was a mix of both. Whichever way, it always ended with him at your door.

The logical side of your brain knew his presence would help, but the depressed hermit side just wanted him to let you suffer in peace. You groaned as you heard your apartment door swing open and pulled the covers over your head. His soft footsteps entered the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat behind you.

“Jagi?” he asked gently. You made a vaguely anguished catlike noise in response. Slowly, he pulled the blankets off your head. You grumbled and curled up in a tighter ball, squinting your eyes at the unwelcome light.

His fingers began to card through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. You couldn’t help but relax into it, stretching your limbs out. Even the grumpy hermit in your brain begrudgingly accepted his presence, and you felt your irrational irritation at him begin to melt away.

After half a minute sitting in silence, Minho tapped you on the head. “Nyangie? Can you turn around so I can see your face, please? You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to.” Slowly, you turned over, focusing your gaze in a dead stare on a piece of cat hair on his shirt.

“When was the last time you ate something?” You shrugged.

“What about drank water?” Shrug again.

“Saw the sun?” Another shrug.

He squeezed your shoulder, standing up. “Let’s fix that first.” He walked over to the window and opened your blinds, cracking the window a bit too. The birdcalls, city ambiance, and breeze began to filter in with the sun. He grabbed your water bottle (empty) and left the room with a succinct “Back in a sec.”

You stared out the window at the blue sky, heart sinking as fast as it had risen. It was a beautiful day, and what were you doing? Laying in bed, scrolling through videos without really seeing them. Pathetic. Tears began to well up in your eyes. You squeezed them shut, blocking out the world.

You had barely began the spiral of self-hatred when the mattress creaked and you felt a hand tuck your hair behind your ear. You opened your eyes to see Minho, bearing a full water bottle and a concerned expression.

“Hey,” he said softly, quickly setting your water bottle down and cupping your face with a hand. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. Would you be doing this if your brain could to make another choice?”

You sniffled. “No.”

“Exactly. So, let’s not beat yourself up for something you clearly didn’t have much of a say in and instead focus on helping yourself now. Okay?” You nodded.

“Good. Sit up.” When you hesitated too long, he grabbed your arms and unceremoniously pulled you into a seated position like you were a rag doll. You flopped into his chest and he gently pushed you back to sit against the headboard, handing you your water bottle.

“Drink,” he said firmly. “Did you take your meds this morning?” You shook your head, so he grabbed them from your nightstand. “Well, take them now.”

He watched as you popped the pills in your mouth and took a few gulps of water. When you’d finished, he took your head in his hands, planting a firm but gentle kiss on your forehead. “Thank you, jagi,” he murmured. “Are you hungry?”

You nodded, his question drawing attention to the gnawing sensation in your stomach.

“I figured. Do you want to choose what to eat?”

You shook your head. You’d be stuck in decision paralysis forever if you tried to choose.

“I’ll make you something quick so you can get some food in your stomach. Instant ramyeon sound good? I’ll crack an egg in it.”

You nodded.

“Okay. Let me grab you some company while you wait.”

You cocked your head, confused, as he left the room. To your surprise, he came back with an orange cat with a white nose in his arms.

“You brought Soonie???” you exclaimed, your first words of the afternoon. He grinned at finally hearing your voice and deposited Soonie on your lap.

“Yup. If I’ve learned anything from over a year of dating you, it’s that many a depressive episode can be banished with food and cats.”

Hours later, cuddled on the couch with a stomach full of ramyeon and your boyfriend and his cat by your side, you had to concede he was right.

jagi (자기) - korean equivalent of babe/baby

Your breath hitched when the chapter came to an end, and still didn’t stop your eyes from sliding over the following words. There it was, completely over. After pages and pages of building up, all the tension in your throat broke into the nothingless, and its absence ached into the void that your chest had become. You still read what the author had written in the acknowledgements, just in case the thin line that now utterly connected you to the book could once again spark the same emotion with which you had devoured it.

It was over, and you could never read it for the first time now. You felt empty, and grateful, but also some sort of angriness bubbled inside you. You had loved every word, you had even paused it for a couple of days because you dreaded the moment you had to close the book, once finished. It had happened in the past, with other books, but nothing ever prepared you to experience it again.

Even the beautiful cover seemed to mock your scowl there where you had left it, over the unfolded clothes you had avoided to put aside, guarding every word and every character and every setting, like it found funny how distressed you felt. You stared back, trying to keep that clenching heart inside your ribcage, to hold and keep the importance of that book, the feelings that had bloomed while reading it, but they were escaping, like an irreparable leakage in a dam with too much water.

You had to take the book back to the library. You had to, the woman behind the counter had said so after you had taken it home, and you weren’t going to risk your library card for that novel. Seohyun had recommended it to you, she had been right when doing so because you absolutely loved it, but you objectively knew it wasn’t worth it… Unless you extended the due date.

You stared harder, like the book could give you an answer.

And then your phone lit up with an old photo that sneaked into your thoughts, and with that stupid sound your best friend had arranged to make sound every time he called you. You had to reset your brain into reality. No more epic romances, no more faes or queens or wars to fight—just a sad summer, all alone in the city, and a debt you didn’t want to increase.

So you picked up.

“Hey,” you mumbled, phone on speaker, as you rested your head back on the pillow. It wasn't the first time that a simple phone call had turned into more than an hour long conversation, and at the moment you couldn't phantom the mere thought of getting out of bed. It had been like that most of the summer.

“Hey, baby girl,” you heard him say, voice ragged and a whole lot of noise in the background. “Still up for this afternoon?”

Ah, the afternoon plans. Right.

It was not like you had forgotten, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe the closer truth to it was that you had chosen to ignore it, in favor of a long, long night of reading, and a very late wake up well past midday. That, and the ineludible fact that you didn't want to actually leave your house.

It was summer in the same way a dog escapes from the arms of a stranger only to melt into those of its owner after too long apart. Warm, comforting, but with a hint of treacherous desperation that lacerated your bones.

It was summer, but even though the days were long, they always passed faster than one could process. It was summer, but autumn arrived afterwards and you would see the leaves fall with regret, watching your heart bleed over days wasted under a sun that both burned and soothed at the same time.

You were always a victim of determination that melted away in the heat. A thousand plans you had made when you longed for a holiday that never came, when exams suffocated you under the weight of expectations you weren't sure you could meet, which turned into a thousand plans that you never found the time to carry out in the end.

It had been easier when you were younger. When days blended into one another and you had so much energy that you couldn't sleep until you had worn it all out, after spending entire afternoons running around everywhere. When everything was as simple as going along with whatever your parents decided, watching cartoons, taking naps, going to parks and eating ice cream.

It had been easier, and now everything required an effort that you were unable to muster.

So even though you had agreed to meet your best friend every afternoon he was free, even though you knew that going to the beach was something you both loved, and even though it was clear that Chan knew you well enough not to pressure you if you really weren't in the mood, you didn't want to go.

“You there?” he said again, the phone speaker vibrating with his words on your sheets, and you frowned, sulking and covering your face with the pillow.

You made a soft whimpering sound, enough for him to know that you had heard him.

“Oh, so the thing is you actually don't want to come with me,” he hummed, and you tried to suppress the smile that threatened to curve your lips. He really knew you.

“It's not you, it's me,” you managed to sneak out of your pout, and shrieked—really shrieked—when Chan dramatically gasped on the other side of the line.

“You did not just dump me over a phone call.”

You rolled your eyes but put the pillow aside, laughter still on your lips, and your eyes didn't look at the book once. It was your phone that held your attention, and the boy who was trying to make you smile, on the other side.

“I think I did, though,” you reached out for the device and picked it up, curling up on the colourful sheets of your bed and bringing Chan's voice closer to you.

“Well, that's fucked up even for you,” he protested, but you could feel his dimples in the way he talked, “which means I need to have some sort of compensation. Beach time, no declining. I'm going to pick you up in five minutes.”

“Wait, what?” your features wrinkled in uneasiness at his words, but he didn’t even let you finish, “No, I haven't—”

“Doon't caree…” he singsonged into your ear, and you scowled again. “Last time I saw you was two days ago, and just because I went to fix your AC for you. You need to go out, touch some grass, and the company of your bestest friend.”

“No, I don't,” you stubbornly, childishly mumbled.

“Four minutes awaay…”

“It's not even funny, I don't want to go out,” you tried, curling even further into your sheets, ignoring the heat that the fabric showered over you. “There are children at the beach, and so many people and noises, and sand gets stuck everywhere!”

“Three!”

“I do not own swimwear,” and his roar of laughter interrupted your solemnity.

“You could use underwear for all I care, but I know for a fact you do have some,” he insisted, “because I saw you with that blue stuff you wore to Felix’s party before he went to Sydney.”

“I might chain myself to the bed.”

“You absolutely won't do so,” the faint sound of the flashing lights of his car echoed in your room, and you recognised the music that played in the background when he drove past the hairdresser's in your neighbourhood. “I will take you, bed and all, to the beach if I have to. Besides…”

“Oh, let me guess,” you finally pulled back the sheets and sighed dramatically towards the ceiling. “You're only two minutes away now.”

“Ding-ding-ding!” he giggled, 

“I hate you,” you huffed, but you were smiling.

“I love you too!”

You hung up before he had to. You sighed again, just because you could, but got up before all the air had left your lungs.

The book remained over the mattress, and that void was still in your chest, but now your lips bore the kind of smile only Chan could get out of you. Maybe, and just maybe, he was right. A little bit of sun shouldn't hurt anybody. And beach time was your favourite time, either way, just because he always managed to take you with him when he went.

Chan felt at ease within the waves, with salt air washing over him, and you felt happier when that wide smile made his dimples appear, clear and happiness-driven.

So you crouched in front of your wardrobe, and searched for the blue swimsuit he had loved so much almost a month ago. You took it, and changed into it, but didn’t bother to pack anything else, not even a change of clothes. Chan always kept an extra bag in the trunk of his car, especially in summer, for the random road trips to the beach. He already had anything you could need.

As you took your phone to check his location, a double honking echoed in your room, and you slightly cursed. Okay, yeah, he hadn't been lying about the timing, then. He was waiting for you downstairs, and your whole building had found out too, because he had this imperious necessity to embarrass you—or to act in front of Mrs Yang, from apartment 2C, like he was your boyfriend just because he loved you two as a couple.

But it was merely a pantomime, you knew, as her memory wasn't as good as it used to be, and Chan reminded her of her deceased son, who she thought was still alive, somedays. You had met her son's couple, the only person she had left and the one that took care of her daily, and you supposed you did have some features in common, so you didn’t mind Mrs Yang thinking you were together.

It was endearing, most of the time.

Still, you wished she wasn't on the landing of her floor when you finally went down the stairs, only some baggy, short clothes on, your phone and some sunglasses.

You watched Chan lean over the rolled down passenger window, arms crossed, as soon as you opened the door and took a step into the street. His own sunglasses sliding down his nose, messy curly hair spilling from under his cap and grinning like he’d just won something.

And maybe he had, because you were there—dressed and ready, miraculously out of bed. You mirrored his smile into your own lips, but still rolled your eyes once you had approached him, smoothly and playfully punching him in his chest. 

“You’re alive,” he said, merely a whisper under his breath, and opened the cars’ door for you, his low voice full of teasingly giddy energy.

“Barely,” you responded as your own tagline, jumping inside like an exhalation. He had AC in the car, and you basked in the freshness of it, eyes closed and relaxed shoulders hitting the seat.

The leather under your naked legs was heated with sunlight, heavy over your thighs now, and even the seatbelt felt like burning into your flesh when you put it on. You didn’t open your eyes, even with your own sunglasses secured on your nose, to watch Chan walk over to the driver’s door, but you did notice when he opened it, and his warm presence hopped on—warm and different from the smouldering summer heat.

“But you’re here,” he continued, starting up the car. “That has to count for something.”

The leather under your head protested when you turned to face him, body still limp over the seat, and you frowned at his shyish, half-lidded smile, “Does it, really?”

And then—

“Oh, no,” with wide eyes and a fakingly alarmed gesture on his face, he looked like he couldn't help but tease you, even though there was a sliver of truth under his mockingly façade.

“Oh, no, what?”

With a hand over the wheel, and the other one changing the music he had been just listening to, he hurriedly added, “You have that ‘I just finished a book’ face.”

“I just finished a book,” you confirmed, certainly on edge now, and the fingers wrapped around your phone slightly tightened, your mind going back to the finished story that you had left over your bed.

“Did this one finish you too?”

He didn't need to add the treacherous “again?” at the end of the question, the slight pause in his voice gave it away. He wasn’t mad, or tired of your antics, he just wanted to know—you had to remind yourself, because he had told you multiple times already.

“I guess so,” you mumbled, and turned your eyes to the front. The buildings were moving past as he drove the car out of your neighbourhood and into the highway, and the silence got stolen by a beat.

Your mind, half way back to the book, had to recoil into the present, into Chan's car, with that musky scent of his. Before you could even process what song had started to play, that known base started to blast through the speakers. That made you stop any new thought, a sheepish smile slowly creeping into your mouth.

You slowly threw your hand over the volume control, side-eyeing him as you did so, and turned it up, voice barely a whisper when you carefully started to sing along. You rested slightly your head on the window's trembling glass, words sounding clearer and stronger, and almost didn't catch Chan's slender fingers pressing the button that opened the sunroof.

The air swirled around you, like an old friend greeting you after a long time, and you couldn't help but laugh. Mr. Blue Sky, as clear and bright as the one opening up before you, made laughter spill from your mouth with astonishing ease, making Chan's eyes sparkle. You placed your phone in the compartment between the seats and raised your hands, as if wanting to stretch just enough to touch the sun. And you sang, of course. Both of you sang to Electric Light Orchestra. Like the old times.

And so you went on, with Chan's bright gaze averting between the road ahead and your little world, his high pitched screams and your careless giggles amidst the lyrics, until the last second of the melody faded into the heated air in front of you and you both paused—all ragged breaths and flushed cheeks.

Then you turned towards him once again.

“Hey,” you whispered, struggling to keep your throat from closing. “What was that for?”

He met your eyes with his own, hands still on the wheel and smile still on his mouth, and spilled an answer like a confession, “You didn't want to actually break down, not now, not yet.”

Your fingers curled up over the hard fabric of your shorts, warmer from the sunlight. It could have been the sun too, or maybe something else entirely, that then crept to your neck. Heat, but with a cozy edge to it—the giddiness of being known, the uneasy twinge of reading too much into it.

It made something ache behind your ribs.

A familiar ache, not entirely painful, but enough to make you remember. Remember the last few weeks of summer, of his permanent company and the way his lips always curved a little bit more just for you. The way he had loosen up during that time, like his body recognised you as someone not to hide from—a presence in front of whom he could let that thick wall of adulthood and responsibilities and leadership crumble down to show that kid he had been once.

It made you remember the last few weeks of August, the same city you had known through your friends, but this time empty, without them. Without any of them, except Chan. Because it was always him. The whole group had gone on vacation, with their families or awaited trips to other countries, and only him and you were stupid enough to stay, under the burning sun, in the steel jungle of half jobs and too much pressure, among reminders of September, that was yet to come, and a long pause that didn’t seem to end.

And not only the last few weeks, but also before. Before things started feeling complicated between you two—before you realized they already were. Because they were now, and it killed you that you had the necessity to avoid talking about it with him, like you had done since you were kids.

You remembered, the nostalgia washing over you, long afternoons in the yard, when you were seven and summer felt like it would last forever. When you actually enjoyed it, and didn’t have to lie to your parents with stolen photos of travels you hadn’t gone to, and didn’t have to survive on the cheapest sales to make it until the next month because you hadn’t been able to find a job for the summer and you had to pay your tuition.

Not only summers, but him. Chan, who had built you a blanket fort that didn’t collapse, when your father hadn’t time to do so. Who had carried you in his arms when you were twelve, that time you skinned your knee when trying his skate board, even though you both knew you were going to end up that way. Chan, who had bought your favourite popsicles when you were upset, who had kept your secrets and your promises, who had made you think that nothing—nothing—could ever come between the two of you.

And he was still here. Driving with his wrist draped over the top of the wheel, humming along to the following song on the playlist he had made for you, to that song he’d never listened to on his own but had played a hundred times because it was yours.

So you looked over at him, quietly.

His profile was soft and welcoming, a thin sheen of sweat on his temple from the heat, hair fluffed from the breeze. He looked calm. Unbothered. But there was a way his thumb tapped against his leg now—just a little too fast—that told you he was thinking. That maybe he was remembering too.

“Chan,” you said softly, and he glanced at you, eyes undeniably tender.

“Yeah?”

You opened your mouth, and closed it again. You didn’t know what you were going to say. Or maybe you did, but your chest hadn’t caught up with your mouth yet. You felt your heartbeat thrumming in your throat, and anxiously tug at your shorts. For a moment, you had noticed how sickly you had felt just thinking about pronouncing those words you weren’t ready to say.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said without looking over.

“What thing?” but you didn’t want him to actually answer. He knew you too well.

“The thing where you suddenly go quiet,” he explained, “but your mind is speaking too quickly. When you overthink, which happens all the time. You look at me like you want to get inside my head, or for me to answer all your questions.”

You hummed softly, and the car beneath you seemed to answer, humming as well. You supposed you did look at him that way, though not as usually as he had said.

Yes, you had known Chan since the both of you had been born—your mothers were best friends and they had moved to the same neighbourhood. He was a calming and comforting presence, always by your side, and that feeling had been there since you had gained any type of consciousness, but lately…

Lately you had been avoiding having to ask yourself if that feeling had not morphed into something else.

So instead, you just said, “Thank you. For today, for what you’ve been doing all summer.”

He smiled. “You always thank me for things that I want to do. I do it because I want to, remember? I’ve told you that way too many times. I do it because—because I love you.”

“I know,” you said. But you didn’t. You had been reading book after book all summer, drowning in stories that weren’t yours because you had felt you weren't prepared to know, not really, not yet.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☀️๋࣭⭑

The sand burned a little under your bare feet, and the backpack was sliding down your shoulder with sweat, but Chan was already ahead, his figure cutting through the sharp skyline behind him, walking backwards towards the shore of the beach like some smug, shirtless golden retriever.

You had stayed in that calm, inoffensive silence all the way here, until he saw the sea and he let out that euphoric scream that made you follow with one of your own. You didn’t remember the song that was on when he turned off the car, but it didn’t matter because you had your own harmony beating inside your ribcage. Loud and wild while you followed your best friend, flip flops in your hand, looking for the best spot to put your towels.

“You’re too slow!” he called, his hair a mess of saltpeter and sunlight, his grin lazy and open in that way that made it very hard to breathe.

You didn’t bother to answer, no with words—your tongue found its way out of your mouth and you stuck it in a childish gesture that made him crackle. There weren’t a lot of people around, even if it was one of the closest beaches to the oceanless city where you lived, but you were thankful for that. It was true that you weren’t fond of crowded spaces, even if you loved the tropicality of that beach even more.

You dropped your bag in the middle of the sand, dropped your flip flops then, and crouched to take out the towel you had left in Chan’s car too much time ago to truly remember. But you saw him drop his backpack too, a wicked smirk cursing his mouth, and then how he bolted toward the waves.

In a heartbeat, in a half-taken breath, you took off your T-shirt and followed.

The ocean was cold. Not shocking, but the kind of cold that stung in a good way—a wake-up call straight to your ribs. The salted water clung to your skin, to your hair, and right when you thought he was going to fall headfirst into the sea, Chan turned—waist-deep, but ready for war.

“Oh no—no, no—don’t you dare—!”

It was too late, and you shrieked, but you also kind of didn’t really care.

He splashed you right in the face, and it hit like a bucket of ice into you that made you immediately retaliate. With your hair already wet, dripping over your shoulders, water sliding down your arms, with water everywhere, you attacked right back. It became a game, one with no rules and no clear winner, salt in your eyes and in your mouth and attached to your soul, until your ribs hurt from laughing and you were both soaked and breathless and grinning like fools.

At some point, between an attempted truce and another sneak-attack splash, he caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not sudden. Just enough to stop you, to make you stop, but to stop himself too.

And he didn’t say a thing, but the pause caught you both by surprise. Instead of pushing him into the sea, you stood, a breath half way out, a breath half way in, like waiting for something that wasn’t coming. Instead of putting you on his shoulder and jumping into the water with you, he basked in the softness of your skin, and his Adam’s apple bobbed almost imperceptibly.

There was that look in his eyes. Something unspoken and familiar and new, all at once. His fingers still wrapped gently around your wrist like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, and the moment stretched like seafoam, like a timeless watch ticking over you. And you let it, allowed the crazy feeling drawing goosebumps all over your skin.

You swallowed, your lips parted slightly. He didn’t lean in, didn’t budge, but wetted his lips.

He opened his mouth, a thought of a sentence in the tip of his tongue, “You—You are—”

But you narrowed your eyes the moment he caught himself, when he tilted his head, with those puppy eyes of his.

“Oh, no.”

He splashed you again before sprinting back toward shore, laughter echoing behind him.

“You’re a menace!” you shouted, cheeks, neck flushed, trying to breathe your way back to normal.

“You love me!” he shouted back, and the words hit your chest like a heartbeat—too loud, too light.

He said it the way you always said it. The way you had said it since you were fourteen and those teenage years made you hide the meaning behind tons of tones and contexts that changed and remained the same. Joking, not joking. With some truth to it, but also an alibi of a lie to excuse yourselves.

But you did. You loved him. You had done for a long time, with the type of love Greeks reserved for epic romances. Not a brother, not a friend, but something worse.

The thought sunk in like warm sunlight on skin, slow and certain. You did love him. You loved his quirks and his stupid word plays, and the way he always pronounced words incorrectly when you were about to cry. You loved his mouth, when it curved upwards and when it didn’t, when it spilled songs and secrets and knew exactly what to say to make you feel just right. You loved his rights and his wrongs and the way he lightened up any room, but also the way he darkened them when he felt like hiding in the shadows just for a while.

You had been loving him for a long, quiet time without noticing how much it had grown inside you. And he was there, waiting for you—soaking wet, infuriatingly smug, waiting for you on the shoreline like he’d wait forever if you asked him to. And you caught up to him eventually, towels wrapped around your shoulders like cloaks, the salt drying on your skin and your heart still stuttering a little. You didn’t say a word when you both flopped down on the sand, exhausted, and neither did he, until he turned his head towards you.

“You having fun?”

His chest rose and fell too quickly, but you nodded. It had been a rush, “Yeah. You?”

“I always do with you,” he whispered it, simply, but not entirely casual.

He looked at you a beat too long.

You looked back.

“Wanna go get ice cream?” you asked, feeling your heart in your throat.

You watched him nod, with a bittersweet edge in your tongue as you spoke, a bittersweet, relentless, crackling fire in the pit of your stomach. You were avoiding. Avoiding this, avoiding the burning in your heart, the looking in his eyes and the conversation that bubbled between you when the tension arose too tight.

As he got up, and rose to his feet, you avoided him, avoided the hands he offered your way to help you up, and avoided whatever half way confession he seemed to be ready to throw your way.

You looked at him, your pulse racing and your mind going even quicker, and followed him to the ice cream shack near the parking lot. It hadn’t been too long since you had arrived, maybe an hour, but you always stayed enough to relax, enough for a bath and the tranquility of the road trip, and came back. Chan usually had to get up early in the morning to work, and you didn’t have a car to go back later by yourself anyways.

You occupied your thoughts with easy, recurrent topics, those you went over and over when you didn’t want to face more adult, complicated ones, and focused on the smell of sea salt and waffle cones. You could hear the seagulls somewhere over your left, and see the sand Chan had gotten into his calves.

You tugged your towel tighter around your shoulders.

“Are you getting the usual?” he asked, stepping up beside you and squinting at the board in front of you.

“Huh?” you let out, confusingly blinking his way.

“The ice cream, the flavour,” he reminded you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “You’re looking at me that way again.”

“Shut up,” you protested, flushing. This time, you knew what he was talking about.

“What are you getting?” asked the man behind the counter, and your flush turned crimson, like a strawberry smudged all over your cheeks.

“Vanilla,” Chan answered for you, and he winked at you. “Vanilla and cookie dough.”

He started small talk with the man, who he already knew, who you should remember because you had met him twice that summer, and you turned towards the beach. Your towel slipped a little, but you didn’t fix it. It was suffocating, the dampness in your skin and in your swimsuit, the sand and Chan and the certainty that everything would go back to what it was once you got back to the city.

Your friends had left, but they would inevitably come back. Felix tomorrow, and you two were supposed to pick him up at the airport. Jeongin two days later, his older brother would drop him off at Chan’s, just in time to properly plan Jisung’s birthday party, along with Felix’s. They would all come and spoil the peace you had found with Chan, thay certainty you had lost between the mess of growing up, and you knew that the certainty of what you felt for him would become another weight in your chest that would rotten, unable to let it out. It was already killing you.

Chan passed you your cone, his in his hand, and motioned to walk together towards one of the benches along the seafront promenade, even if he knew you weren’t really paying attention. You took a bite off the ice cream, heart thrumming inside your chest, and basked a little bit in the silence.

Then, Chan bumped into your shoulder, trying to get you to focus on him—like your head wasn't already full of him and his dimples and the way he made you feel.

“You’ve got…” he mumbled, and motioned vaguely toward your chin.

“What?” you anxiously stopped, your free fingers roaming around your face. “Do I have ice cream on me?”

“No, no,” he said, sheepish smile curving his lips, narrowing his eyes as he leaned closer. “Right there. On your—yeah, there.”

“Get it off then,” you said, tilting your face up like it was no big deal, like it wasn't eating you alive the whole scene, like his closeness was something you had grew accustomed to. And maybe you should have, or you had but had forgotten either way.

He hesitated, barely a tremble of his hand when he took it near your face. Then, slowly, brushed the pad of his thumb just beneath your lip.

He held it there a second longer than necessary, and your breath caught.

Then he widened his smile, “You’re good.”

Okay, fantastic. You were good, and he was good, and you were both good in that beach, in the last day before the beginning of the end. Fantastic. Fantastic and awesome and wonderful and—

“I like days like this,” he said, and you felt the way melted ice cream slided down your hand.

You shuddered. “Stop.”

“What?”

You hadn't even made it to the benches, you weren't sat, you were in public—but you were going crazy, too.

“Stop,” you repeated, and your knuckles went white when you tightened the towel around your shoulders. “Please.”

“I don't—” he started, but then he just stared at you, puzzled. “What did I do?”

“You—Everything!” you shuddered again, the ice cream melted but cold and a tear of vanilla already reaching your elbow. “This summer was a mistake, right?”

“This summer?” Chan stared at you, utterly confused, and you could have laughed if you weren't so caught up in the swirl of emotions in your chest. He was now the one looking at you that way. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“These weeks felt like when we were kids,” you said, biting your lower lip between your lips, brows furrowed. “But it didn’t. It was different. It was, right? For you too? Because I feel trapped in this Schrodinger's flirting you've kept up and I don't know what I’m supposed to feel anymore!” you watched his gaze soften at your words, panicked eyes holding so much love, “I don't know if you mean it or if you don't anymore.”

“Hey, hey, breathe for me,” he told you, free hand attempting to caress your arm. You took a step back, and his hand fell into nothingless.

“I don't remember what I am supposed to feel around you, Chan,” you repeated, sharpening your eyes when meeting his, or trying, because there was a devastated edge to it. “I've been trying to remember, but all that's left is this gigantic ache that creeps up my throat when you act that way because I don't know if you mean it, and it scares me that you actually don't because—”

And you wanted to explain him, to finally release the amount of words you've been building up in your mind each time you've longingly looked at him, but he was not a breath away but in your mouth because he was kissing you.

He was kissing you, he had robbed the air inside your lungs with the tender pressure of his lips over yours and his hands in your face and you wonder how was he holding his cone because he was going to stain your hair and your cheek and your ear but every thought melted into your brain when he leaned into you.

Your cone in the pavement, and the chocolate of his tongue coated the vanilla in your mouth, and you leaned towards him as well, eyes closed. He was kissing you, and you found out that he flirted with you on purpose, and you sighed into his lips when he nibbled at yours, pouty under his hands.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, raspy and breathy and yours, your forehead resting in his. “I do, I'm sorry that I made you feel this way but I mean it, I love you, I really love you, I do—”

The waves roared behind you, a tear of vanilla staining the blue of your swimwear, and you kissed him again, just because you could, because he had told you everything you needed to know, because he had been yours since the beginning, and everything had been the same from the start—or maybe changed so gradually your hadn’t realised, but it had been reciprocated in secrecy.

“I love you,” you said, biting back a grin. “I like days like this too.”

“That's funny,” he held on to you, and you let him, as he closed his eyes and smiled into the curve of your neck, “I think this might be my favourite day ever.”

And you let him have the last word because he was kissing your skin, and it felt feverish and real and secure, and for the first time, you didn't have anything to say—your mind was blank, your chest was full, and you had long forgotten that book over your sheets. You had finished that story, but a new chapter of your own had just begun.

You never thought you'd end up like this. On your right, you can see the guy who's been nothing short of a sweetheart to you, someone who has made you laugh even on the gloomiest days, someone who showed just how strong love is, how it feels like to be swept off your feet and showered in affection.

But on your left, you see the man who may not love as loud, but just as strong, if not more. The quiet things he's done, the way he always makes sure there's a dinner ready for you when you come home, keeping a pair of your favorite pajamas on your bed, fresh out of the dryer, when you're feeling sick, someone who peels your oranges for you and lets you drag him along anywhere, someone who knows your deepest scars and still cherishes you, no matter how ugly. Someone just right for the chaotic person that is yourself.

What the hell were you going to do?

✶

“Your coffee, your majesty,” you heard a voice behind you say in a silly voice as he placed a steaming mug in front of you. You looked up with a smile, a light chuckle leaving your mouth as you met Jisung's eyes. “Extra piping hot, as any insane person prefers.” He leaned against the side of your cubicle as he sipped on his own dose of caffeine. He was dressed as usual—a white dress shirt tucked into dark trousers and a tie that supposedly spoke to him that morning when he was getting ready. Today, it was a classic red tie. His hair was parted down the middle and looked messy, but neat. You never understood how he managed to do that.

“Why thank you,” you said as you picked up the cup to have a sip. “Mm, perfect.”

“Of course it's perfect. I'm a coffee master. I think I single-handedly saved yesterday's disastrous meeting with those finance bros because of my amazing latte skills.”

“And he's humble too,” you quipped with a laugh. He rolled his eyes, finishing the last of his drink before leaning his forearms on the top of the cubicle, peeking onto your computer screen.

“What are you working on?”

“Miss Park wants these spreadsheets by this evening. All I've been seeing in my dreams for the past few days are numbers and an excel document.”

“Not me?” Jisung asked with a mischievous smirk.

You wished you could hit him. Or kiss him. Or maybe both. It wasn't an understatement to say you'd been crushing on Han Jisung ever since he transferred to your branch last summer. Hard. He was sweet and charming and extremely attractive. And he didn't do anything to make you think he was anything but. Although you had no idea if your feelings were reciprocated, because Jisung was the type to smile at anyone he came across. There wasn't a single person in the office who thought bad of him.

Ever since the coincidental meetings in the break room turned into quick chats, and then the occasional lunch together to… whatever it was now, your feelings only increased.

You once thought your monotonous office job would someday eat you up, but Han Jisung made it a bit more bearable, with his insanely dumb jokes and the way he flipped between being this suave flirt to a shy teenager.

Honestly, you could've—no, you would have made a move to banish these anxious thoughts of whether he liked you or not, if not for your roommate.

Lee Minho.

“You're home?” Speak of the devil. Minho had the instincts of a cat, you weren't sure if he picked it up from his trio of felines or if they picked it up from him. As always, you found him at the small, circular dining table with his laptop, most likely scrolling through an online shopping website for some obnoxious toy for said cats when they very obviously preferred your favorite going out shoes.

You mumbled out a hey as you trudged over to the chair opposite to him and sat down, a long sigh coming from you as the ache in your soles dulled. “The bus was overcrowded?”

You hummed in agreement, reaching over to take a few chips he was munching on, only to have your hand swatted away. “First off, no.” You rolled your eyes. “You didn't even wash your hands after touching god knows what on public transport.”

“It's just one chip, Min, I won't die—”

“I might. Go shower.”

“Geez, fine, grandpa.” If looks could kill, you would've died a very long time ago at the hands of Minho two years ago.

Steam clings to your skin like a second layer, mist curling around your ankles as you stand motionless, water beating gently against the nape of your neck. The tiny bathroom hums with warmth, fogging the mirror, softening every harsh edge. You close your eyes, tilt your head back. The hum of the water is the only sound you hear, steady and hypnotic, like rain against a distant rooftop.

For a moment, time slips.

You think of his laugh—Jisung’s—bright and sharp and always a little unhinged, the way he throws his head back and grins like you’ve just told him the best joke in the world, even when it’s just some tired complaint about your inbox. His voice echoes behind your eyes.

“Not me?”

You’d been thinking about spreadsheets. He was thinking about you.

You step out of the shower and wrap yourself in a towel, soft from too many washes. The mirror is still fogged, and in its blurred reflection, you barely look like yourself—cheeks flushed, lips bitten pink from chewing in thought.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the warm glow from the lamp near the dining table. It casts shadows against the wood floor, painting the apartment in sleepy gold and honeyed hush. You pad out quietly, the cotton of your towel brushing against your thighs with every step.

Minho isn't where you left him. Instead, he's cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, one of the cats curled beside him like a loyal soldier. Soonie, this time. His tail flicks lazily, eyes half-closed as he lounges against Minho’s thigh like he was sculpted there.

He glances up.

It’s not a long look. But it’s not short, either.

Just long enough to take in the damp strands clinging to your collarbone. The delicate gleam of your shoulder where the towel slips, only slightly, like it forgot its job. The rawness in your eyes that always lingers after too much heat.

“You’ll get a cold,” he says simply.

You shrug. “It’s August.”

Minho doesn’t respond. He never rises to teasing. That’s Jisung’s game. Minho plays on a different field entirely—quiet gazes, stillness heavy with meaning. You walk toward the couch, drop onto the cushions behind him, still wrapped in your towel. The heat of his body radiates into the space between you like the floor has warmed from him.

You feel his shoulder at your hip.

You don’t move.

“You ate?” he asks, still scrolling through something on his laptop.

“No,” you murmur. “Too tired.”

There’s a pause. Just one breath longer than expected.

Then, without another word, he rises. Soonie lets out a grumpy chirp as he slides off his lap, stretching out like liquid shadow. You watch him head to the kitchen—sleeves rolled to the elbow, neck sloped in quiet purpose, the line of his back straight even when he moves casually.

Minho never asks what you want. He just knows.

You lean your head back against the couch and close your eyes. The sound of the rice cooker lid clicking, the whisper of a knife against the cutting board, the low hiss of sesame oil hitting a pan—it’s all oddly soothing. Domestic. A rhythm you didn’t know you needed.

When he returns, it’s with a small plate and a bowl of steaming rice. He sets it on the coffee table wordlessly, sliding a pair of chopsticks beside it.

Soft egg over warm rice. Tofu browned just right at the edges. A curl of kimchi for bite.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t say thank you.

He knows.

He sits again on the floor, only a few inches away from your knees. You eat in silence, savoring each bite more than you mean to. Not because you’re starving. But because the food tastes like presence—like attention. Like he noticed the way your shoulders drooped when you entered. Like he timed the egg to your heartbeat.

When you finish, you glance at him. He’s watching the cats now. Doongie has taken over his lap. Dori is pawing at the hem of his pants like he’s just remembered something urgent.

“You’re a cat whisperer,” you say.

He hums. “Maybe.”

You tug the towel tighter around your chest. Not because you’re cold. But because something inside you flickers, and you don’t know what to do with the heat. Not this kind. Not him.

[Jisung 11:02PM] : You alive?

[You 11:05PM] : Barely

But my roommate made food so I'm good

For now

[Jisung 11:07PM] : A saint, truly

I just shed a tear

Hey yk, I could cook for you too 😌

[You 11:10PM] : After witnessing that ramen fiasco?

No thank you

[Jisung 11:11PM] : Ouch

That was once ☹️

I’m gonna watch anime and eat cookies alone. Sad times. Unless someone wants to join. 😏

You chew your lip. Your fingers hover. You think about the way his knee brushed yours last week under the break room table. The way his fingers lingered on your wrist when he passed you a pen.

You want to say yes.

You also don’t want to leave this apartment.

Not when Minho is still in the living room, lights low, hoodie sleeves half-rolled as he types something with one hand and absentmindedly scratches behind Dori's ears with the other. Not when your room smells faintly of sesame oil and warmth. Not when there’s silence outside your door—but the kind that’s full, not empty.

✶

You find him the next morning hovering near your desk, grinning proudly, two takeaway cups in hand.

“Your coffee, your majesty,” he says in the same silly voice from yesterday, bowing slightly as he sets it on your table like a peace offering.

You reach for it suspiciously. “Let me guess. Extra piping hot, like a complete maniac?”

He gasps. “You get me.”

You sip. Perfect temperature. Just enough sweetness. His grin grows when he sees the flicker of surprise on your face.

“I asked the barista to make it the way you like it, not me. I’m not a monster,” he says, sipping his own.

You glance down at the cup sleeve. Your name is written in messy block letters. Not your real name—but a stupid anime nickname he gave you when you admitted, half-asleep during a group project, that you’d watched Fruits Basket as a teen.

You want to roll your eyes. Instead, you press the cup to your lips to hide the smile.

“Why are you here so early?” you ask. “You’re never in before 9:15.”

“I was hoping I could annoy you for a few extra minutes before the workday crushed our souls.”

“How thoughtful.”

You try to sound bored, but your heart is doing something absolutely unprofessional inside your chest. Especially when he leans his elbows on your desk and lowers his voice just enough that it feels like a secret.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he says, so low only you can hear it.

You freeze.

Then you glance up, wide-eyed.

He’s smirking—but his ears are pink. “Not like that. Well—maybe. But also we were fighting zombies with frying pans. You kept yelling about expired kimchi.”

Your laugh is too loud. A few people glance your way, and you duck your head, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Fully. But you laughed.”

The tension hangs between you, playful and charged. His fingers are close to yours on the desk now. You could move yours slightly to touch his. You could.

You don’t.

But your knees brush when he shifts to stand straight again.

That evening, after the building has emptied out and the sky outside the windows fades from coral to a deep violet, he appears again—leaning against the doorframe of the break room as you rinse out your mug.

“You hungry?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Jisung is holding his jacket over one shoulder, sleeves rolled, collar a little undone. His hair is messier now, like he’s run his hands through it a few times in frustration, and the dark circles beneath his eyes look oddly appealing under the fluorescent lights.

“Depends,” you say. “Are you offering me instant ramen?”

“Rude. I was thinking fried dumplings. Street cart. My treat.”

You dry your mug slowly. “This isn’t a date, is it?”

He feigns offense. “Excuse me. I would never ask you on a date without at least three anime references and a tragic backstory first.”

You chuckle. “Then I guess it’s safe.”

The street is still warm from the afternoon, city lights glittering against the pavement. The dumpling stand he takes you to is tucked between a stationery store and a closed clinic, its orange awning fluttering in the night breeze. He orders for both of you—like he’s done it a hundred times—and hands you a paper tray piled with crispy, golden mandu and a bottle of cold soda.

You sit together on the curb like two overgrown teenagers.

He eats messily, grease on his fingers, talking with his mouth full. You’ve never found it endearing in another person—but with him, it just is. Real. Unapologetic. Jisung doesn’t shrink himself.

“You’ve got sesame oil on your lip,” you point out.

He turns dramatically toward you. “You gonna wipe it off?”

You roll your eyes and offer him a napkin. He takes it, but still looks at you like you’re a prize he hasn’t quite figured out how to win. Like the chase is half the fun.

“I wasn’t kidding about the dream,” he says after a moment.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You were weirdly good with the frying pan. It was hot.”

You snort. “You have issues.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not flattered.”

You sip from your soda, avoiding his gaze. But your pulse jumps anyway.

And when he leans in, just a little, just enough to smell the hint of his cologne under the food grease and city air—you don’t pull away.

You hold your breath.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You meet his eyes. They’re dark in this light, half-shadowed, too much and too close.

“I like hanging out with you. Like, really like it.”

The words are simple. No frills. Honest.

You swallow. “I like it too,” you admit.

His smile is softer now. “Cool. Cool. We should do it more often.”

“Without the dumpling oil.”

“No promises.”

You laugh again, quieter this time.

And as the breeze lifts your hair slightly, his fingers twitch—like he wants to reach out and tuck a strand behind your ear.

He doesn’t. But it’s close.

Close enough that when you part ways at the station later, the goodbye is slower than it needs to be.

Lingering.

And when you slip your hand into your coat pocket on the train ride home, you find a napkin with his handwriting on it.

“Next time, maybe coffee? — J :)”

✶

The apartment is dark when you return.

Not silent—Minho’s playlist hums low from the speaker on the windowsill, some jazzy instrumental piece with a sleepy saxophone and a heartbeat bass. The hallway smells faintly of something grilled, maybe tofu or salmon, and the warmth still lingers in the air even though the stovetop light is off.

You kick off your shoes slowly. Everything in here feels dimmer after Jisung’s city-glow smile and the bright chaos of dumpling wrappers on your lap.

You glance into the kitchen.

A covered bowl sits on the counter with a yellow sticky note on top.

“You didn’t eat. Again. Warm it up if you’re not dead. —M”

You smile. It’s barely there, but it creeps into your chest and lingers.

When you enter the living room, he’s curled up on the end of the couch in that grey hoodie he always wears after 10 p.m., one knee bent, laptop resting on the other. Dalgona is lying across his chest like a scarf, her tail flicking every time he scrolls. He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he heard you.

He always does.

“You went out,” he says without inflection, still watching the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Late.”

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you. “Got dumplings. It wasn’t planned.”

“Hm.” His finger taps the trackpad. “You smell like the chili oil they use near Seonji Alley.”

“Very specific.”

“I like their seasoning.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you cross the room and sit on the floor near the arm of the couch, your back pressed lightly against it. You hear the clack of his keys stop.

“He’s funny. Makes you laugh even when you’re exhausted.” You blink. Minho doesn’t bring people up unless they matter. The fact that he’s said he at all makes something tighten in your chest.

“He does,” you say.

A beat passes.

You feel the couch shift as he finally looks at you, gaze falling onto the crown of your head like a touch you can’t quite feel.

“But he doesn’t know you hate chili oil,” he says. Your heart stutters. You tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. They’re unreadable—brown, clear, steady—but not cold. Never cold. “You should warm up your food,” he murmurs. “Before it gets too late.”

You don’t move.

You sit there a little longer, grounded in the stillness, in the hum of the speaker, in the soft rise and fall of Minho’s breathing. Doongie stretches, paws twitching against his collarbone, completely at peace.

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

But as you stand to go, you glance back once.

He’s already watching you. He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

✶

The morning sun filters through the office blinds like slices of gold, striping your desk and making your keyboard too warm to touch comfortably. You’re already halfway through your to-do list when you hear him.

“Let me guess,” Jisung says behind you, voice low and playful. “You started working early just to avoid me.”

You don’t turn around right away.

Instead, you sip your coffee slowly, pretending not to notice the way your pulse jumps just from the sound of his voice. You feel him before you see him—the warmth of his body leaning slightly into your personal space, just close enough to be a problem.

“I started early because I’m an overachiever,” you say, finally glancing up at him.

Jisung is, as usual, aggravatingly good-looking in the way that feels a little unfair this early in the day. His tie is crooked. His shirt is half-untucked, like he barely made it in on time, and his lanyard hangs lopsided around his neck. He looks like someone who overslept and still managed to make chaos look like charm.

“You’re not denying the ‘avoiding me’ part.”

“Should I?”

He smirks and leans closer, both hands bracing the sides of your cubicle wall now, effectively caging you in. “Only if you were avoiding me. Were you?”

Your stomach flips. His breath smells like cinnamon gum and sweet coffee. You want to lean forward. You want to lean back. You do neither.

“You’re awfully confident this morning.”

“Not confident,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Just hopeful.”

Your heart skips a beat.

He lets the moment linger too long. Then, with a wink, he pushes himself away from your desk and saunters toward the copy machine, the picture of innocence.

You exhale slowly, blinking at your screen without processing a single number.

It only gets worse.

Or better.

Depends who you ask.

Later that afternoon, the office is quiet—too quiet, that post-lunch slump where everyone is pretending to be productive but secretly waiting for 5 p.m. You head toward the printer room to grab the documents Miss Park requested, yawning slightly as you rub the back of your neck.

The lights in the room are dim, motion-sensor powered, flickering slightly as you step in.

And of course, he’s there.

Alone.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask flatly, pulling open the printer tray.

“Clearly,” Jisung replies. “I also tapped your phone and trained your microwave to report your coordinates.”

You suppress a grin.

“Your file’s printing behind mine,” he adds, taking a step to the side. But not far enough. He’s close again. Always too close.

You shift to reach for your papers, and your fingers brush his as he does the same.

You freeze.

So does he.

Your hands are still touching, just barely, skin grazing skin.

You look up. His face is right there.

The space between you is maybe four inches wide. Five, if you weren’t leaning slightly into him like an idiot.

Neither of you move.

The silence stretches, like the world around you has dulled its volume, just for this.

“I was thinking about you last night,” he says, voice barely audible.

Your throat goes dry. You don’t ask what he means. You know. But he says it anyway.

“Not even in a weird way,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips. “Okay, maybe a little weird.”

You don’t laugh this time.

You tilt your chin up—barely. Not a full challenge. But not nothing.

And that’s when he moves.

One hand grazes your waist, not grabbing, not possessive. Just resting there, fingers curved gently above your hip, like he wants to see if you’ll let him.

You do.

His other hand lifts, hesitates near your jaw, then tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like he had to. Like the impulse was unbearable.

You don’t breathe.

Then his mouth is next to your ear.

“You make me lose my train of thought,” he whispers.

You exhale—finally, shakily.

His lips never quite touch your skin. But they don’t have to. Your body is already thrumming from proximity alone.

And just as quickly as it started, he pulls away. Gently. Casually. Like he hadn’t just stolen all the oxygen out of the room.

“Miss Park’s papers,” he says with a smirk, handing them to you. “Don’t forget.”

You take them with shaking fingers.

At 5:06 p.m., your phone vibrates.

[Jisung 5:06PM] : Dumplings round 2?

I promise not to be annoying.

…Okay I can’t promise that. But I’ll pay again.

You stare at the message.

Your lips are still tingling.

But so is the memory of Minho’s hand brushing against yours last night as he passed you a bowl, the simple weight of that quiet moment pressing harder than Jisung’s breath ever could.

You don't reply immediately.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Jisung 5:07PM] : Unless you’re busy. Are you?

You type, erase. Type again.

[You 5:09PM] : I could eat.

[Jisung 5:10PM] : You could eat… sounds like a yes to me 😏

[You 5:10PM] : Don’t make that face at me.

Also I meant tomorrow. My roommate might might've already made dinner

[Jisung 5:12PM] : Too late. Making it in real time.

And tomorrow, gotcha. Don't bail on me

✶

Minho's at the stove when you get home, back turned, sleeves pushed to the elbow again. There’s a pot on the front burner and a cat circling his feet like a shadow. Doongie. Of course. You linger in the doorway. He knows you’re there. “Bus late?” he asks.

“No. I walked.”

“You do that when you’re unsettled.”

Your brows lift. “Do I?”

“Yeah.”

He ladles soup into a bowl, sets it on the counter with two spoons, and finally looks at you. His eyes flick briefly to your face—then lower, to the edge of your collarbone, to your bag still hanging from one shoulder. Then back up. Quick. Too quick.

You sit and he does too.

The soup is miso—light, steaming, dotted with tofu cubes and soft scallions and thin slices of zucchini. He doesn’t ask if you want it. Minho never asks when he knows.

For a while, that’s all it is. The sound of metal against ceramic. The faint shuffle of a cat tail across the floor. You can feel him watching you from time to time—not with suspicion. With… attention. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle you’re not ready to show him yet.

“Long day,” you murmur, eyes on the broth.

Minho hums. “Yeah.”

You hesitate. You think of Jisung’s hand on your waist. His breath at your ear.

Then you think of this—of soup made without asking, of a bowl already on the table, of the way Minho peeled an orange for you once and placed each segment on a napkin like he was trying to rebuild your heart piece by piece.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Just… tired.”

He watches you for a second longer. Then, quietly adds, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

Your hand tightens around the spoon. He says it sometimes. When you get quiet. When you shut down. It’s his way of telling you that I see it, even if you won’t say it.

You glance at him. He’s already back to his bowl, spoon clinking gently against the rim. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. You finish your meal together. And when you stand, your fingers graze his on the table.

It’s accidental.

But neither of you moves away.

✶

You meet Jisung near the train station.

He’s already waiting when you arrive, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other waving slightly when he spots you. His tie is off. The top buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks like he sprinted halfway here and didn’t care what it did to his hair. Or maybe he did care and styled it like chaos on purpose. Either way, it’s working.

He grins. “Was worried you’d ghost.”

“I thought about it.”

“Ouch.”

“But I’m here,” you add.

He pretends to wipe a tear. “You wound me.”

You don’t say anything. Just walk alongside him as he guides you toward the street food alley he’s been raving about for days.

It’s a warm evening, thick with the smell of sugar and oil and soy sauce. Neon signs flicker overhead. The chatter of other late-night snackers floats around you. The stand he leads you to is narrow but bright, its stainless-steel counter gleaming under the string lights above it.

The woman behind the counter seems to know him. “Back again?” she says, already grabbing a ladle.

“You know me. Can’t cook, won’t cook.”

She laughs, glancing at you. “New friend?”

Jisung hesitates. You raise an eyebrow. “Depends on how these dumplings taste.”

He laughs, hand brushing lightly against your elbow as he leads you to a plastic table under one of the hanging bulbs. It sways a little in the breeze, casting uneven shadows across his face.

When you sit, your knees touch.

Neither of you moves away.

“So,” he says, tearing open the chopstick wrapper, “was I right, or was I right? This place is magic.”

You pop a dumpling in your mouth and groan. “Okay. Fine. You were right.”

He beams. “I’m writing this down. Hold on. Historic moment.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re so pretty when you smile,” he says, completely casually.

You freeze.

He just takes another bite, like he didn’t just lob that grenade into your lap and walk away whistling.

“You flirt like it’s a reflex,” you murmur.

“Maybe it is.”

You look at him. Really look. He’s playing it cool—knee bouncing, mouth chewing, eyes half-lidded like he’s just here for the food—but there’s a tension under the surface. The same kind you felt in the printer room. The same kind you’ve been feeling for months.

“But you’re not flirting with anyone else,” you say.

He swallows. Harder than necessary. “No,” he says finally. “I’m not.”

Your pulse kicks.

He leans back, chair creaking slightly under him. “You wanna know something weird?”

You nod.

“This is the first time in… I don’t know, a while. That I’ve actually liked someone. Not just liked-looking or liked-talking or liked-the-idea-of. But liked. Period.”

The words hang between you, suspended like humidity. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks at you.

And for once, you don’t look away.

You feel like a camera lens narrowing its focus—everything else blurring except the boy next to you and the way his fingers tighten slightly around his drink, like he’s nervous.

Jisung. Nervous.

You reach for your soda. It gives you something to do. But your hand brushes his on the table. It lingers.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say quietly.

“What did you expect?”

“A flirt,” you admit. “A disaster. A distraction.”

He snorts. “I mean, I am a disaster.”

“But you’re also kind. And real.”

He smiles, but this one’s slower. Softer. It reaches his eyes.

“I want to know what makes you cry,” he says. “I want to know what pisses you off. What kind of movies make you fall asleep. What you’re like when no one’s watching.” He pauses. “I want to see you when you’re not trying so hard to look like you don’t care.”

Your throat tightens. You can feel the answer burning somewhere in your chest, but you swallow it, let the fizz of soda dissolve it down. You don’t say any of the things you’re thinking.

Instead, you ask, “Is this still dumplings, or are we in ‘date’ territory now?”

His laugh is quiet. But he reaches across the table. And this time, he does hold your hand. Just lightly. Fingertips curled around yours, palm warm and steady. “Let’s call it something better,” he says.

Cold air brushes over your arms as you step out of the alley together, the kind of breeze that slips under fabric and settles right against your spine. The streetlights buzz overhead. Traffic is light, mostly taxis and the occasional motorcycle weaving through a yellow light.

Jisung’s hand is still in yours.

It isn’t tight. It doesn’t cling. It just stays there—gentle and sure, like he’s not about to let go unless you ask him to. You don’t.

“Should I walk you home?” he asks.

“You live twenty minutes the other way.”

He shrugs, swinging your linked hands slightly. “I’ve got legs.”

“Legs that hate cardio.”

“I’ll suffer for the greater good.”

You glance at him. He’s looking up at the street signs like he’s pretending this is a casual stroll and not the most important walk of his week.

The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s something else. It grows fuller the longer it lasts, like it’s absorbing the city noise and filtering out everything but the way your arms brush now and then. The steady click of your shoes. The subtle heat still radiating from his palm into yours.

You walk slower than you need to.

“Can I ask something?” he says eventually, voice a little softer. You nod. “Are you… scared of this? Of me?”

You stop walking. He does too, a few steps ahead. He turns, blinking at you under the flicker of a streetlamp.

“I mean,” he adds quickly, “you don’t have to answer. It’s just—sometimes I feel like you’re there, and then not. Like you’re checking for an exit.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, the warmth from his hand gone now, replaced by a little thread of guilt. Not shame. Just the ache of knowing he’s not wrong.

You take a deep breath.

“I’m not scared of you,” you say, finally. “I’m scared of how easy it is. To like you.”

He doesn’t smile, not right away. He steps closer, careful not to crowd you, until you can smell the faint sweetness of his laundry detergent and that citrus note in his cologne again. “Easy’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Not always.”

“I know,” you say, quieter. “But I’ve always been better at hard things.”

Jisung is quiet for a long moment.

Then he reaches up—slowly, so slowly—and brushes his fingers just barely under your jaw. His hand is warm. His thumb ghosts over the edge of your cheek, and you feel your heartbeat pulse all the way up into your throat.

“I’m not going to rush you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter shut for half a second. When you open them again, he’s still there.

Still close.

Still waiting.

You could say not yet. You could turn, walk away, find comfort in the quiet tea and soup Minho makes without words.

But you don't want comfort tonight.

You want this.

You lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s soft at first—your lips brushing his, barely touching, more breath than movement. But then he responds, and it deepens. Not wild. Not fast. But aching. His fingers curl lightly at your waist. Your hand finds his shoulder, grounding yourself against something solid, something real.

When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his. Neither of you speaks for a moment. You feel the world settle.

“I really like you,” he whispers, like a confession into the space between your mouths.

You nod. “I know.”

His breath shudders. A laugh, maybe, or something close to relief. You take a step back—just one—feeling his hand slide from your waist down to your fingers, lacing them again.

✶

You wake up to a single text.

[Jisung 7:17AM] : Good morning sunshine

I dreamed you beat me at Mario Kart. I’m not over it.

But I miss you anyway.

Your thumb lingers over the screen. You smile, slow and careful, the way you hold something fragile between your hands. Then you reply.

[You 7:39AM] : You’re dramatic. I haven’t even played you yet.

[Jisung 7:42AM] : I felt it in my dream. Ruthless. Cold. Sexy.

[Jisung 7:45AM] : Blue shell energy. Irresistible.

Your heart does something you’re not ready to talk about.

You roll onto your side and stare at the wall. The kiss from last night is still on your mouth. The way he looked at you, like you were a question he’d been dying to answer.

When you walk into the kitchen, you expect it to be empty. Minho’s always up early, but he usually keeps to the couch or the balcony, laptop open, one of the cats sprawled across his legs like a purring slab of judgment.

Today, though, he’s at the stove. He doesn’t turn around when you enter. The smell of ginger hits you first. Then that comforting hint of toasted rice.

On the table, a single mug. Yours. The chipped one with the stupid bear and the faded pink handle. The one you’ve had since college. He never uses it.

But today, it’s sitting there. Filled. Waiting.

He finally speaks. “Your alarm didn’t go off.”

You blink. “It didn’t?”

“You usually wake up before seven. It’s 7:50.”

You glance at the wall clock. He’s right. “I didn’t sleep well,” you lie.

Minho ladles something from the pot into a small ceramic bowl and sets it next to the mug. The spoon’s already out. Of course it is.

You sit, cradling the tea between your hands. It’s exactly how you like it—barely sweet, more ginger than most people can tolerate. Still too hot to drink. The bowl next to it is filled with soft rice porridge, finely chopped spring onions curling at the edges. You take a bite. “You didn’t have to,” you say.

He shrugs, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I wanted to.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. No words come.

Minho moves around the kitchen like he always does—unhurried, effortless. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to the elbows. His hair still damp at the ends. You try not to look at how the light makes a shadow under his jaw. Or how he’s avoiding your eyes.

There’s a quiet between you. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

“Are you okay?” The question is gentle.

You look up. He’s not looking directly at you, but at the counter, as if the answer’s hiding in the grain of the wood.

“I’m fine.”

Another nod. But his hand tightens slightly on the edge of the table. You know he feels it. The shift in you. You’re not saying anything, and he’s not asking. But it’s there.

In the way he doesn’t look at you.

In the way he made tea anyway.

In the way he still remembered your spoon, and put it out like he always does.

You finish half the bowl. Minho cleans up around you. Silent, efficient, too smooth. You reach for your phone to check the time. A new message from Jisung sits unread on the lock screen. Minho sees. Or maybe he doesn’t. But something in the air gets heavier.

“Thanks for breakfast,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

You move past him. You feel him still. And then, just as your fingers brush the doorframe, his voice comes again. “Wear your coat. It’s colder than it looks.”

You pause. “Okay.” You don’t look back, but your chest aches with everything he didn’t say.

✶

You arrive at work late.

Your hair’s barely dry. You’ve got coffee you didn’t taste and makeup you smudged once and gave up on fixing. You feel light. Nervous. Like your body knows something before your brain does. You’re halfway to your cubicle when you hear it.

A low whistle. Not loud. But unmistakable.

“Didn’t know angels worked in admin.” You don’t have to look to know it’s him. Jisung’s leaning against the break room counter, paper cup in hand, tie dangling from his fingers like he couldn’t be bothered to put it on. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his eyes—

God.

His eyes are devouring you.

You try to walk past him without pausing. Fail.

“You’re late,” he says.

“You're early.”

“I had a dream I got fired for spending too much time flirting with you,” he says. “Woke up in a panic. Came in to overcompensate.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think flirting with me would get you fired?”

“Depends.” He sips his coffee. “Is it flirting if I keep thinking about last night every five minutes?”

Your breath catches. He watches you, carefully now. Less cocky. More… curious. Testing the ground with every word. “Are you thinking about it?” he asks, quieter this time. You don’t answer.

Instead, you walk past him, deliberately slow. He follows—of course he does—until you’re both in the tiny space between your cubicle wall and the filing cabinet, just narrow enough for one, but somehow you both fit.

Barely.

“You kissed me,” he says, voice hushed.

“You let me.”

“I’d let you again,” he whispers. “Right now.”

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. The hallway is quiet. No footsteps. The hum of the fluorescent light above is the only witness. His fingers reach out. Not to touch. Just to hover—near your hip, like he’s not quite sure if it’s allowed yet.

He leans in, breath warm beside your ear. “Say something,” he says. “Before I do.”

You set your cup down on your desk, fingers brushing his without meaning to. Your voice is barely steady. “You shouldn’t be this close.”

“I know,” he breathes.

You turn your head. Just slightly. He’s right there. His lips are parted. His lashes look criminal this close.

“I’ll move,” he says, not moving. “If you tell me to.”

You don’t. Instead, your hand slides between you, fingers catching in his tie—the one he hasn’t put on yet. You hold it, just lightly, just enough to feel the texture between your fingertips.

His breath hitches.

You glance down. Slowly knot the tie. He watches, completely still, lips slightly parted like he can’t believe you're touching him. The knot is crooked. You tug it tight.

He exhales hard.

“That’s cruel,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to be good.”

You step back. “Try harder.”

Then you sit at your desk like nothing happened. He stands there a beat too long, adjusting his tie with shaking hands.

“You know I’m going to think about that for the rest of the day, right?”

“Good,” you murmur, eyes already on your monitor. “Maybe you’ll finally get some work done.”

He groans like he’s in pain. “Unfair,” he mutters.

✶

You get home later than usual.

The bus was delayed, the rain unexpected, and your thoughts—too full of Jisung’s fingers ghosting the curve of your waist and the tie you tugged into place like a promise you didn’t make. You’re soaked through when you reach the door, hair clinging to your cheeks, your tote heavy with water and regret.

Minho opens it before you can reach for your keys. You blink at him. He says nothing. Just takes your bag, peels your jacket from your shoulders like it’s instinct. You shiver—not from the cold.

The hall light is dim, soft yellow spilling into the room behind him. You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you toe off your shoes and mutter, “Thanks.”

He nods.

You’re still standing in the entryway when he returns, holding a towel and a change of clothes—your favorite soft tee and the sweats you stole from him three months ago. You take them.

Still no eye contact.

Still no words.

You change. You towel your hair. You avoid the mirror because you’re scared you’ll see everything too clearly.

When you step into the living room, he’s there on the couch, knees drawn up, laptop closed. The cats are asleep—one at his feet, the other two on the blanket you always use.

He doesn’t look up. “Is it him?”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it. Just lets the silence stretch out between you until it snaps.

You sit on the opposite end of the couch. Neither of you turns. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“You’re not… mad?”

Minho breathes slowly through his nose. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m not mad that it’s not me.”

That silences you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of the couch.

“But I’m mad that I know,” he continues. “That I can feel you pulling away, and you won’t even look at me.”

You turn, finally. He’s staring straight ahead. Hands clenched in his lap. “I haven’t pulled away,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to yours. They’re glassy. Not teary. But holding something deep and tired and sad. “Then why do you only lean into me when you’re hurting?”

You can’t answer.

Because he’s right.

You lean on Minho like a bedframe. Like a spine. You don’t question him because he’s always there. But you never let yourself fall all the way in.

And now—Jisung.

Bright, golden Jisung, with his breathless smiles and heated glances and the kiss still burning on your lips.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you say.

“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me all week.”

You wince.

He stands. Not fast. Not loud. Just… final. The cat at his feet stirs and rolls over.

“I’ll make tea.”

Your phone buzzes.

You already know who it is.

[Jisung 6:54 PM] : You okay? You left in a rush.

…Not that I don’t respect a dramatic exit. Just wanna make sure you’re warm and not in jail.

You stare at the screen. You should answer. You want to.

But your hands are heavy. Your heart heavier.

[Jisung 6:56PM] : I can bring soup? Or something more degenerate, like fries and beer?

You type. Erase. Type again.

Nothing feels right.

Then, another ping.

[Jisung 6:59PM] : Or I can just sit and listen. I’m good at that too. Just say the word.

You don’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, you set your phone down and walk quietly toward the kitchen.

Minho is pouring hot water into two mugs. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t ask anything. Just pushes one toward you and says, “Drink it before it goes cold.”

You do. It burns your tongue a little. But maybe that’s the point.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch in Minho’s oversized hoodie, legs tucked under the blanket that still smells like fabric softener and his flowery detergent. The room is dim except for the soft glow of the hallway light. You can hear the sink running in the kitchen.

One of the cats—Dori—leaps gently onto the cushion beside you. He presses against your thigh before climbing fully into your lap, circling once before settling down. His purring is immediate and loud, like he's trying to fill the space you can’t.

You stroke his fur absently as you hear soft footsteps coming out of the kitchen.

You expect him to go to his room. You almost hope he does.

But instead, he sits down beside you. Not touching. Just… close. The cushions dip beneath his weight. The air between you feels different now. Less oxygen. More truth.

You don’t look at him until he speaks.

“You know,” Minho says slowly, “when I first moved in, I thought you hated silence.”

You glance at him.

He’s watching Dori, one hand resting lightly on his knee, fingers twitching. “You filled it with noise,” he continues. “Podcasts. Music. Tapping your pen against every surface like you were trying to drum out a thought you couldn’t reach.”

You open your mouth.

But he shakes his head. “I didn’t mind. I just… noticed.” A long pause. “You don’t do that anymore,” he adds. “Not around me.”

You stare at him. “Is that a good thing?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts a little closer. Not enough to touch. But enough for your shoulders to almost brush. The heat of him is right there. Unmoving. Waiting.

Dori stretches in your lap. His paw lands on your wrist. You don’t move it.

“I’ve always tried to give you space,” Minho says. “Let you come to me when you needed something. Even when I wanted to be the one to ask.” You swallow. “But lately…” His voice drops lower. “You feel further. Even when you’re two feet away.”

You tighten your fingers in the blanket. “I’m sorry,” you say.

“I don’t want sorry.”

“Then what do you want?”

That silences him. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. “I want to stop being the place you come back to when you’re done chasing someone else.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches. Your chest burns.

He’s still not looking at you. Not fully.

But his hands have curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles pale. His mouth presses into a line like he regrets saying it—but doesn’t take it back. You don’t know what to say.

And Minho’s not done. “I don’t ask for things,” he says. “You know that. I’ve never asked you to choose anything. Not even me.”

Your heart drops.

“But it hurts,” he admits, finally looking at you, “when you pretend I’m not in the room. When you laugh with someone else, then come home and sit in silence like you don’t know how to talk to me anymore.”

The air between you shudders.

Your voice is tiny. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says, and it breaks something in your chest.

He knows and he’s still here.

Dori shifts in your lap. You stroke him again, hands trembling. “I don’t know how to choose,” you whisper.

Minho’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have to.”

You look up. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“No—” You turn toward him fully now. “Minho, I see you. I always have. I just… I didn’t know how much.”

That lands heavy between you.

He blinks. His voice, when he speaks again, is ragged. “Then why did you let it get this far?”

You shake your head, words choking at the edge of your throat. “I thought…” You falter. “I thought you were safe. That you’d always be here. And he—Jisung—he’s…”

“New,” Minho says softly. “Exciting.” Your silence is its own answer. “I’m not asking you to stop,” he says. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“You are,” you whisper. “You’re just not saying it.”

His breath stutters. And then, slowly—so slowly—he reaches out. His fingers graze the hem of the hoodie sleeve you’re wearing. The one that belongs to him.

“You smell like me,” he murmurs.

Your heart collapses in on itself. You lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. It’s not a kiss, but it feels like one.

His hand cups your wrist gently, grounding you. His eyes are unreadable. His mouth is barely parted. And your whole body is suddenly aching with how badly you want to fall forward, close the space, let this become the thing it’s always been waiting to be.

But you don’t, because you’re still split down the middle.

Minho doesn’t push. He just lets his hand fall, lets Dori shift into his lap as you pull yours away. You sit in silence.

But now it’s different. Now it’s full of everything you can’t pretend not to feel anymore.

You don’t reply to Jisung’s messages that night.

You think about it—thumb hovering, screen bright in the darkness—but every time you type a reply, it feels wrong. Too soon. Too close. Too confusing.

So you leave it.

✶

The next day, you’re the first one at the office.

You bury yourself in spreadsheets and coffee and the hum of fluorescent lights. Pretend that the air doesn’t feel different now. That you don’t feel different.

But around 10:40 AM, you feel him.

Jisung.

He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t whistle like he usually does. Just slips behind you like a shadow and drops a protein bar on your desk.

He waits until everyone else has cleared out.

Not at lunch. Not during the afternoon coffee run. Not even after the third time he walks past your desk and finds your eyes avoiding his.

He waits until 5:37 p.m., when the lights have dimmed slightly and half the office is shut down.

You’re still at your desk, scrolling aimlessly through a spreadsheet you stopped reading fifteen minutes ago. The only thing you really register is your own pulse.

He appears silently, like he always does, leaning just slightly over the partition. But his voice is different. “Hey.”

You glance up. Jisung’s face is unreadable. No grin. No casual lean. No lazy flirt. Just that tightly coiled tension you’ve been avoiding all week.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Hey,” you say softly.

“I waited.”

“I know.”

“I texted.”

“I know,” you repeat.

He walks around to your side of the cubicle. Close. Not quite blocking your exit, but standing in that precise spot where you’d have to brush past him to leave. “I think I’ve been patient,” he says, voice low. “But I’m not sure if you’re lost, or if you’re trying to lose me.”

Your heart jumps. “I’m not—”

“You say that,” he cuts in, “but every time I try to touch more than your hand, you pull back. Every time I try to see you, you hide behind a joke. Or worse—behind nothing at all.”

You’re standing now, sitting feels too vulnerable. He watches you rise but doesn’t step back.

“I like you,” he says. “I want you. I think about kissing you again every time you say my name.”

Your breath hitches.

“But there’s something else,” he says. “Someone else.”

Your stomach drops. He doesn’t say Minho’s name. Of course he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know that Minho kissed the side of your head this morning after you spilled your tea, or that you wore his hoodie three nights this week to bed because you couldn’t sleep without the smell.

All Jisung knows is that he doesn’t have all of you. And it’s eating him alive.

You take a step back. He follows.

“I’m not mad,” he says, “I’m just—don’t look at me like you want me unless you mean it.”

His voice cracks on the last word. You flinch. And then the air between you snaps.

You don’t remember who moves first.

Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him.

All you know is that suddenly, he’s kissing you.

And it’s nothing like last time.

This kiss is desperate. Angry. Not at you—but at the gap between you. At everything unsaid, at everything held back, at everything he’s scared to name.

His hands are hot at your waist, pulling you into him, and your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself there. You part your lips and he groans—low and deep like he’s been waiting days for permission. You taste cinnamon and frustration and the faintest hint of your name tangled into his breath.

You break apart for air but not space. His forehead presses to yours. He’s panting. “I don’t want to be a second choice,” he whispers.

“You’re not,” you whisper back.

He leans in again, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Then tell me there’s not someone else who gets to hold you like this.”

You can’t. You don’t lie.

Instead, you slide your hands into his hair and pull him down again, letting your lips answer where words won’t. He doesn’t fight it. He kisses you harder, deeper, like he wants to forget there could ever be someone else. His hands move—up your back, down to your hips, holding you close in a way that would be deeply inappropriate if anyone else were still in the office.

You gasp when his lips trail down to your neck. “Tell me you want me,” he breathes against your skin.

“I want you.”

“Only me?”

You hesitate. His hands stop. Your silence is louder than anything you’ve said.

He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning yours like he’s trying to read a book written in a language he almost understands.

“I don’t know how to be halfway,” he says, quieter now. “If you want me, really want me, I’ll give you everything. But I can’t keep wondering if I’m just filling the hours you don’t spend with him.”

That hurts more than it should. You press your forehead to his.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” you whisper. “But I don’t want to lose you while I do.”

His mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and surrender. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “But don’t make me invisible.”

You kiss him again—gentler this time. And when you pull away, your lips are swollen, your heart racing, and Jisung’s hand lingers at the side of your face like he’s still memorizing the shape of it.

“Sunday,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Not a secret. Not a maybe. Just… me and you.”

You nod.

He presses one last kiss to your temple, then backs away, smiling faintly.

“You should check your hair before anyone else sees you,” he teases as he heads for the door. Leaving you breathless. And more tangled than ever.

✶

You try to be quiet when you get home.

You tiptoe past the shoe rack, your heels in your hand, the scarf still holding the smell of Jisung’s cologne clutched tightly around your neck. There’s a breeze from the slightly cracked window—August air, thick with something that feels like change.

You don't expect Minho to still be up. But there he is. In the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, hair damp from a shower, his cats curled like sleepy question marks around his ankles. He’s sipping something from a ceramic mug—the one you painted for him last winter when you were bored and stupidly brave with a paintbrush.

He looks at you, but says nothing. Just holds your gaze. It pins you more firmly than any words could. “Late night,” he says, voice quiet.

You nod. “Lots of work.”

He glances down, nods too, like he's already cataloged everything you didn’t say: your hair mussed up, your shirt wrinkled, the softness in your eyes, the way you're standing like you're still trying to shake off someone else's hands.

You clear your throat. “I’m going to change.” He doesn’t stop you.

But as you walk down the hall, you feel it—the weight of his attention pressed between your shoulder blades like the heat from a stove that hasn’t quite been turned off.

When you come out in your sleep shorts and Minho’s oversized hoodie (you didn’t mean to reach for it, but you did), he’s still there. This time on the couch, two cats nestled beside him. He looks up from his phone, then sets it down.

You hesitate before sitting down to join him. Not too close. Not far either.

Just… orbiting.

Like moons.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak, only the cats purr. And then Minho says, softly, like he’s speaking into the dark, not to you, “He makes you glow.”

You freeze, turning your head slowly.

He isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, jaw tilted just slightly up, like the stars he can’t see are easier to face than the ones sitting next to him. “You came home with him on your skin,” he adds. “Like light. Like you’d been standing in a sunbeam all evening.”

You swallow. “I didn’t mean to make it obvious.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “It’s not about being obvious. It’s about being… seen.”

You turn toward him. “Do you want me to hide it?”

His eyes flick to yours. “No.”

Just that.

No bitterness. No edge.

Just clarity.

You shift your legs, drawing them up beneath the blanket. “You’ve never asked me for anything,” you murmur.

He nods. “Still not going to.”

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

He breathes out a soft laugh. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Call things what they are, only after they’ve gotten messy.”

You look down at your hands. Your nails. The small nick on your finger from a careless knife slip earlier this week. “Messy’s kind of my brand,” you whisper.

Silence again.

“Does he know about me?” Minho asks suddenly.

Your breath stills and you shake your head. “Not by name.”

Minho’s eyes drift shut for a second. Then open. You keep talking, afraid of the silence again. “He knows I’m not just his. But not… who else. He doesn’t even know where I go when I’m not with him.”

“And I,” Minho says, turning his head slightly, “don’t know what you look like when you’re with him.”

You meet his gaze. And your heart does something strange. Not painful. Just… large. Expanding.

“I’ve been trying to keep you apart,” you admit. “Like I’m two versions of myself. One with you, one with him. But it’s not working.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re both looking at me too closely.”

He blinks. “Maybe we’re not orbiting you. Maybe you’re orbiting us.”

You laugh softly. “That’s terrifying.”

He smiles. Barely. But it’s real. The smallest, brightest crack in his usually unreadable expression.

Later that night, in bed, you stare at the ceiling. You can still feel Jisung’s kiss. Still feel Minho’s eyes on you.

It’s not a triangle anymore. Not really.

It’s a system. Three bodies, all moving. All burning. All trying not to collide too hard—but unable to stay still.

And at the center? You.

Not choosing. But not evading either.

Just... feeling.

More than you’ve ever allowed yourself to.You see it happening before either of them do.

✶

It’s Saturday. The bookstore. You only came for a refill on your favorite tea, but the café’s line wraps near the mystery section, and you haven’t moved in seven minutes because Minho's been holding onto a particular purple covered book for a while. You might buy it for him when he shrugs it off, saying that the synopsis sounded interesting, but he wouldn't have time.

But then—your skin prickles.

Because coming in through the front, laughing into his phone, is Jisung.

Flannel. Rolled sleeves. Two books in one hand, his caramel latte in the other. He’s radiant.

And he walks within ten feet of Minho.

For one terrifying second, you think the universe is about to collapse.

But they pass each other like clouds. Like strangers on different orbits. No collision. No explosion. Just… wind brushing wind.

Minho slips to the corner of the store. Jisung heads for the checkout. Neither looks back.

But you do and you realize something wild.

Even without meeting, they noticed each other.

Because Minho’s thumb freezes on the spine of the book. His head tilts, just slightly, like something in the air pulled tight for a second. And Jisung, halfway to the counter, glances to the side with a confused flick of his brow, like he’s walked through a room where someone had just whispered his name.

You wait until they’ve both gone to breathe again.

That night, you sleep in Minho’s hoodie again. The fabric smells like green tea and the faintest trace of his shampoo. You bury your face in it and sink.

And you dream.

You’re standing in a space that feels both enormous and small. The walls are soft like memory. The lights dim like an old café. There are no doors, but there are two windows—and beneath each, a boy.

Jisung sits on the right. Headphones around his neck, legs bouncing. There’s a nervous energy around him, like he’s waiting for music to start again. But his eyes are thoughtful. Sharper than usual.

Minho sits on the left. Cross-legged. A cat on his shoulder. Silent.

They don’t look at you. They look at each other. And for a moment, the dream tilts.

Jisung speaks first. “So. You’re the one.”

Minho shrugs. “Am I?”

“You’ve got that vibe. The quiet one. The slow burn.”

“You’re not slow.”

“Yeah,” Jisung says, smiling faintly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Minho pets the cat. Doesn’t smile. “You kissed her,” he says.

“So did you.” Silence. “She comes to me when she wants to laugh,” Jisung says. “To flirt. To feel wild.”

Minho’s eyes don’t waver. “She sleeps next to me when she can’t breathe.”

Jisung nods, like that makes sense. “She could love both of us.”

“She already does.”

They both look at you now. You feel it—the weight of two completely different kinds of love.

Fire and stillness.

Sunlight and midnight.

And then Jisung asks the one question you can’t answer. “Can you love us both… honestly?”

You wake with a gasp, chest feeling tight, the dream clinging to your skin like mist.

And you know.

This is no longer about choosing.

This is about building something that’s never been built before.

Even though as an idol, you had conflicting schedules, you always made time for him. Your group wasn’t as big- but you still loved preforming. Your dorm is always loud, and messy. Being in a group with 10 other girls who are always in the dorm was hard, so you took refuge in the small home you both owned. But it felt less like home lately.

Something broke inside after a month of the neglect. You hadn’t talked in 5 days, and the distance was killing you. Just as you went to call him, a text arrived from him. It was simple, short.

my love in every universe❤️🦊: im coming over. we need to talk.

You quickly typed out a response, something about if everything was okay, but didn’t get an answer. You were still in your practice clothes, after a long dance practice when he knocked, and you let him in. “Hi!” You said happily, pulling him in for a hug, but he didn’t move, just standing there. He pulls back, letting you shut the door.

Jeongin takes in a long, deep breath. “Listen, I want to make this quick.” He runs a hand through his hair. “My manager talked to me a month ago. They found out about us.”

Your face drops. “No.” He nodded, stepping back. “We were careful. How did they find out? It wasn’t from my manager?” You move to sit on the couch and he follows.

He shakes his head. “I had given her my phone for a live, and a text from you came in. I had to tell them everything.”

“Are they telling my manager?” You ask quietly.

Jeongin nods. “They already know. Listen, we’re both going to lose our jobs if we dont do this.”

You shook your head no. “My group will understand, I’m sure Chan can help-“ he stops you.

“He tried. Im sorry love. We have to break up.” Your face dropped. Jeongin tried to pull you in, but you pushed him away, eyes welling with tears.

“I only have a year left in my NDA, so do you. Is there-“ The face Jeongin gives you is an answer enough.

“I love you.” He whispered. You stilled.

“Not enough to fight for us apparently.” His expression crumpled as your tears started to fall. “3 years, and your giving up? What happens when we cant preform because of this-“

Jeongin cuts you off. “This hurts me too, y’know?” His voice was raw, unfiltered. “I didnt want to. I argued for days.” He sniffled, and then continued. “Chan says I’m a shell of myself. Please, just let me go.”

The vulnerability in his voice made you pause. “Is this what you really want? Our careers over us?” He nodded slowly, and then you stood up, legs shaking. “Fine. Get out. I’ll bring you your stuff by Monday.” He scrambled to stand.

As he walked to the door, he cast her a final glance. “In another universe.” He whispered, before walking out quietly, the door shutting with a small click, everything unspoken being spoken in the silence then.

••••••••••••••

1 year, 2 days later

“You’re just going through the motions!” Minhos voice cuts through Jeongin, each word sending a wave of fatigue through him. Jeongin stood up fully, taking a deep breath.

“We’ve been going for 9 hours straight.” His voice was bitter, and went into the silence like a knife. “You expect us to not be exhausted?” He gestured to his fellow members, whereas Felix was draped across the floor, Hyunjin across the couch, Jisung gulping down water.

Chan sat up from his position on the floor, seeming to have had enough. “Hes right. We’re done for the day.” Multiple cheers went up from the members, but the Maknaes mind was filled with thoughts of you. Today was the day your NDA ended.

As soon as he exited the building, your phone began to ring. It was an unknown number. You moved to answer it, and the voice ok the other end of the line shocked you.

“Hello?” Jeongins voice rang through.

“Jeongin? Why are you-“

“Can I come over?” He said quietly. You remembered within seconds.

He's referring to a little thing the two of you have going. A thing where the two of you play games together, most of the time games neither of you have played before. It started when Seungmin had invited you, his best friend, to play among us with him and the boys. It was a lot of fun, and ever since the two of you have been playing together regularly. Usually with Hyunjin, Han, Jeongin, or Felix, sometimes Minho, and once in a blue moon someone will drag Chan or Changbin in too.

"Oh, yeah?" You ask, a little surprised at his choice, "I didn't think you'd be into that."

"Well you're wrong." He shakes his head and sighs at you before staring back at his hands that still tap on the table. "Sooo? Come on, say yes."

You roll your eyes as you go to grab the plates to set the table. "Yeah, of course we can play."

And so the two of you did. It had taken you a bit to get adjusted and play through the tutorial but the two of you were actually quite enjoying running your little farm together. Though admittedly neither of you were very good, both messing up pretty frequently at the start. Forgetting when stores close, running out of stamina far more times than would be socially acceptable.

Seungmin has taken to doing the hard part, clearing and cleaning up the overrun farm. While you get to chat with all the villagers. Frequently interrupting his work to force you both to watch cutscenes. One cutscene in particular threw you both off, the scene of Linus digging in the trashcans in town.

"Hey... I've been doing that too! That's my trash Linus!" Seungmin rants, kicking his feet. "What do you mean it's dirty? It's free stuff..."

His one sided conversation makes you laugh, leaning your head against your palm as you watch him and not your own screen.

"Uhhh y/n...?" Seungmin takes you out of your daze a while later. "It's 1:30, where are you?" You look at his character on his screen, now in the farm house in bed, then over at your own in the middle of town right as it passes out.

"Ah fuck, not again."

"Hey y/n?" Seungmin says, voice excited. "Come look, come look!"

"I'm kinda in the middle of fishing Minnie, what is it?" You say, trying to look over at his screen, but he covers your eyes before you can actually see anything.

"No you have to come see yourself! We can fish together after." He gets up and turns you back to your own screen. "Please? It'll just take a second, I swear."

"Okay, yeah fine." You put your hand over his on your shoulder and move your character with the other, wandering on back to your shared farm. "Up here?"

You feel him rest his head gently atop yours, "Yeah, a little to the left." His slender finger points at the screen. "There! I made that! For us!"

"Oh is it a chest?" You ask as you move your other hand to your keyboard and click on the chest to find it's already half filled with a bunch of materials.

"You kept complaining about running out of inventory space, so I made a chest." His arms naturally wind around your shoulders and his cheek rubs against your hair. "You can use whatever you want from it."

You feel your face heat up. Seungmin is normally affectionate but he's gotten especially cuddly with you lately. Ever since playing the game really. His arms are warm against you, the whole room just feels a little too hot. You look away a moment before refocusing on the game. "Isn't it your stuff though?"

"Yeah, but like... you can have it." His hands slide up your collar and rub your neck once before slipping away as he returns to his own screen. "I want you to have it."

"Oh..." You refuse to look at him, he doesn't need to know how red your face is right now. "Thank you Minnie."

When the two of you finally make it to exploring the caves Seungmin takes up the job of being your defender, he fights off all of the monsters while you do most of the ore mining. When you guys leave the cave despite you offering to give him half of your loot he only asks for a few ores.

You tend the crops, he does the cleaning up. You give gifts to the villagers, Seungmin laughs at you when they hate your gift. Seungmin digs in the trashcans, you laugh when the villagers call him out or when he ends up just getting the expected yet utterly disappointing broken CD. Seungmin places every piece of furniture you guys get in the most absurd and inconvenient places he can find, then gets disappointed when they disappear.

Overall, the community center is where the two of you have the most fun. Seungmin has turned it into a little competition, each time you compete to complete it first and whoever does is supposed to get the prize. However, you've begun to notice that if it's a good prize Seungmin never actually takes it for long. He lets you live in your state of being a loser just long enough to see you sulk before giving you the prize anyway so you'll smile at him.

This one time was different. Seungmin could have easily beat you to this bundle, he's far better at fishing. Yet, he had stopped fishing all of a sudden. It allowed you to finish it first.

"Seungmin! Minnie I did it! I got the bundle!" You leap out of your chair and cheer, you finally got one!

Seungmin just watches, silent but smiling wide as you celebrate all by yourself.

Eventually the two of you manage to get the farm cleaned up. Your crops have become more consistent, you've gotten better at fishing and cave exploring, you have bigger inventories, and your tools are upgraded. Everything feels like it's going shockingly well.

"Hey do you know where the prismatic chard is?" Seungmin asks one day while you are continuing your game. You're not at the farm but you walk back to check the chest for it. Yet before you can look a pop up shows across the screen.

'MiniMong has asked you to marry him, will you accept his offer of marriage?' 

You can feel your face heat up even worse than the last time as you stare blankly at the message. You slowly look over at Seungmin to see him staring back at you, not the game. His cheeks are a little flushed. He looks at you like he just handed you a knife and is hoping you don't stab him with it. Doubt with the slightest glimmer of hope roll around like two cats fighting in his beautiful dark eyes.

"Was that an accident?" You ask quietly, wondering if perhaps he was just holding the item and accidentally clicked on your character. Maybe he didn't know what it did. Maybe he did it as a joke. It isn't exactly unlike him to freeze like this out of embarrassment, not necessarily because he is actually nervous.

"No..." he says even quieter, glancing at your screen before looking at you. He takes a shaky breath and continues, playing with his fingers as he speaks slowly.

"I wanted to play this with you because I wanted to spend time with you. Just you. Not with the other guys getting in the way. I like pretending I'm racing you to finish a bundle to see you sulk, just to give you the reward anyway so you smile at me. I like watching your face more than the cutscenes. I like seeing how excited you get when you catch a fish. Every time I do something I want to tell you so you'll be proud of me. Everything I get I wanna give to you. I've had feelings for an embarrassingly long time and I don't want to be just your best friend anymore, I want an upgrade. Haven't I earned it yet?" The question is asked like he's been trying really hard to convince you to say yes. Like this wasn't sudden at all.

You stare at him wide eyed, not quite knowing how to respond. "Why didn't you tell me before?" You're blindsided really, you thought he was just being cute. Seungmin's always being cute. You didn't even consider he was trying to court you. Strange method and all.

"Wanted it to be a surprise. The second I learned you could propose to players I wanted this to be how I confessed. Be my girlfriend? Please?" He gets up and kneels in front of you on the floor. He holds your hands with both of his. It almost feels like a real proposal, you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. "I'll be a good video game husband too. I don't wanna marry an NPC, say yes, please." He tries to sound playful, nonchalant, but the desperation is clear in his eyes and even more with every sweet please that falls from his lips. Really, how could you say no?

You smile at him, toothy and silly. "I'll be your girlfriend Minnie, I feel the same." You squeeze his hands in your own as you see him relax, a breath releasing as he looks at you with a mix of affection and relief.

However, suddenly he smirks at you. Kissing you, quick and brief on the cheek before clicking the yes button on your screen on your behalf. "Gonna be my wife too." His smile is goofy, filled with the signature mischief you should expect from him.

It prompts an exasperated chuckle from you, you shake your head. "I think I can live with that." He smiles at you, pausing the game and pulling you half on top of him on the floor to cuddle with him. A hand on your back and a finger twirling in your hair. "But..."

He quirks a brow, pausing briefly as his arm wraps fully around your waist. "But...?"

"Now I can't marry Harvey..." You tease, pretending to sulk about what would have been your lovely NPC boyfriend. He glares, flicks your forehead almost instinctually.

"Hey!" You go to tickle him but before you can even touch him he flips you over, grabbing both of your hands and pinning them above you on the ground.

"You do realize your little NPC boyfriend won't be able to do anything for you right? Like he's basically useless aside from a few cutscenes and a kid." You gasp, slightly offended at the drag, but he continues before you can say anything. "He won't bring you nice things, won't kill monsters for you when you suck at it, won't laugh at your silly jokes or make you feel better when you forget the time and lose some of your shit again."

You stare up at him, it's not unlike Seungmin to joke like this but for some reason he actually seems a little riled up about it. His eyes narrow a bit as he leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "He's a doctor, sure, but will he understand you like I do?" He asks and his hands shift, one now taking hold of both of yours as the other slides down to your face, finger brushing your lips hesitantly. "He might kiss you but will you feel it like I can make you feel it?"

Your eyes widen as his face leans a bit closer to yours, breath ghosting across your lips, warm and unfamiliar. "Will it feel as good?" His eyes are on your lips now, barely open while his own lips get even closer, brushing against his finger he still has pressed against your soft skin. "Will it feel as soft?" The question is breathy, barely there as his finger slips to your chin.

His lips meet yours naturally the second it does. Not harsh, not fast. Soft, gentle, warm, perfect. Shaking just slightly, though you're not sure if it's nerves or excitement. It's always hard to tell with Seungmin. Your head tilts almost as if on instinct, not quite deepening the kiss but reciprocating by pressing your lips against his a little more. His lips lift into a beautiful smile in the kiss, you feel the breath of relief as he laughs a little against you before pulling away a bit.

"See y/n?" He lets go of your hands as you stare up at him with flushed cheeks, his newly free hand slides to your waist. "You want me, not an NPC." He smiles at you, genuine, not cocky like you would expect from him. "You wanna have me. That dumb doctor won't make you happy. I'm gonna make you so happy."

His smiling lips press softly against yours once more, you pull him into you fully by the collar and he barely manages to not crush you by resting his other arm on the ground by your head. He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips with a breathless chuckle. "Video game or real life, I'll make you the happiest."

He deepens the kiss then, lips pursuing yours again and again. He tests several angles searching for what gives him most access, desperation showing more and more with every part of his lips. It still isn't enough, your hand flies to his hair while you hum against his lips. In response his hand grips your waist a little tighter and his tongue tentatively slips to brush against your lips. The small gasp you let out and the tiny pull of his hair encourage him, he presses it between your lips and the moan he gives you as your tongue meets his rumbles against your chest.

By the time you part he's panting, looking down at you like he'd been waiting to do that for a little too long. When he catches his breath a bit, he lays his head on your chest and wraps his arms around your stomach. Mumbling against the fabric of your shirt in a way that is so adorable, and so Seungmin. "Also... his mustache looks stupid."

SKZ Works

Taglist: @my-neurodivergent-world @possum-playground @m-325

♪♪

Where have you been? Do you know if you’re coming back?

We were too close to the stars I never knew somebody like you Fallin’ just as hard I’d rather lose somebody than use somebody Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise

I see my reflection in your eyes

the first time chan felt it was the night before the survival show.

in a matter of hours, he’d have to show his group to the world, prove that the boys he himself had chosen and prepared were worth supporting. as confident as he was about everyone’s skills and likeability, there was someone that worried him.

not because chan doubted him or doubted his abilities, no. it was because chan loved him.

not romantically, of course not. chan wasn’t in a position in which he could get that close to people, he hadn’t been in a long time, and as sad as that sounded, it was what kept him safe.

thanks to his self-made defence mechanism, his perfect technique of faking trust and attachment while his heart was isolated, chan barely remembered the last time he’d shook before an evaluation, afraid that yet another one of his friends would be ripped away from him.

but now the feeling was consuming him all over again.

tomorrow. tomorrow the first episode of the survival show was coming out, the nine boys that spent the last months building something together laid bare for the world to judge.

everyone would see them, criticise them or praise them. love them or hate them. and chan could deal with it — he’d been posting music with 3racha long enough to learn to ignore hurtful comments, to differentiate words that sought being helpful from those that only wanted to destroy — but maybe the other members couldn’t.

and realistically, he knew that they had each other. they would help themselves overcome the struggles and finally become the long awaited group they strived to be. 

they would be fine. 

chan held onto that thought and repeated it like a mantra, the words engraved in his brain as a last attempt to shake off the nerves that had a firm grip on his body. but his mind wouldn’t stop worrying about him.

felix, his aussie mate, one of the newest additions to the team and the only member that barely knew korean.

the thing is, felix was charming, everyone that met him could see that. a walking sunshine with a deep voice that didn’t match his bubbly self but made him all the more attractive, that’s what he was to anyone that didn’t know him, and what he’d been to chan when they first met.

but now, that boy was everything to him — well, maybe not everything, but right now he was 1/8 of all chan cared about. and the most special 1/8, in the leader’s opinion. in felix, chan found a reflection of his home, a way that the universe had found to bring his childhood back to him. 

chan didn’t know what would happen if he lost him.

maybe the viewers would be disappointed by his inability to clearly communicate in korean, or jyp himself. a k-pop idol that only spoke english sounded strange, undoable. but felix was felix, and chan was sure that he’d win the audience over just like he’d settled into the members’ hearts effortlessly.

he was a kind and pure soul, always making others laugh and smile even if he couldn’t do it with words. plus, he never gave up. every day after practice, the boy sat down with his textbooks, trying to learn the language he was now surrounded by.

and everyone helped him. the members knew enough english to talk to him, which was a huge help. even lee know, who had been with them for a fairly short time and didn’t yet have that much of a knack for english, had become felix’s personal korean teacher.

so why did chan feel so nervous at the though of exposing him to the world? he felt like a little kid showing his parents a drawing, both excited and afraid to get their reactions. it was so contradicting. part of chan wanted to keep felix safe, away from any possible criticism, but the rest of him needed to show his aussie gem to the world.

｡｡｡

fate repeated itself in the worst way possible.

just when the group was getting over minho’s elimination, jyp tore felix away from them. 

chan remembered the shock in everyone’s eyes, he kept replaying the image in his head. all the boys had been hurt and appalled, refusing to believe that this was happening all over again.

but felix- chan didn't think he’d ever forget the pain he saw in the younger’s face. the boy’s expression had crumbled as soon as he’d comprehended the news, and all for what? because he couldn’t yet speak korean well?

chan hadn’t known what to do with himself when felix started crying. he’d failed him, in very way possible, and could only offer empty promises that he’d try to fulfill with everything he had 

“always find me, yeah? i’m not gonna leave you behind”

he had meant the words, with all his heart, but ultimately he knew that it wasn’t up to him. how could jyp do this to him after all he’d gone through? 8 years of being isolated from his childhood, from love, from his home, and jyp was now tearing him apart from the one person who gave that all back to him.

the leader didn’t know how or when, but to him felix had become someone to brag about, to show off. every time chan looked at him, dancing and singing and interacting lovingly with the members, he felt a newfound sense of pride and happiness.

it’s not that he didn't feel the same about the other members, because he was proud of them, indescribably so. but it was different. with felix had come a protectiveness that the others hadn’t raised in him, probably because they didn’t need chan quite as much.

felix was aussie as well and chan was the only one who could truly understand him, both literally and figuratively, because they’d left the same things behind. so chan had refused to let the younger be like him, vowed to never let the spark in his eyes fade.

felix had become chan’s home, and now that the world would had had its say in their future, he lost him.

that was the first night chan cried himself to sleep with the freckled boy in his mind, and little did he know it wouldn’t be the last.

｡｡｡

“congratulations. stray kids will debut as nine”

the room broke into cheers, loud laughs echoing through every corner as the boys were finally granted their dream. no one knew who to hug first. but felix? he ran straight to chan.

the leader had the biggest smile on his face and felix knew that since his elimination until today, he probably hadn’t stopped pulling strings to make everyone debut together.

felix didn’t even get to say ‘thank you’ because everyone was screaming in the background, jisung sounding like a weird mix between a dinosaur and a sheep, so he just held tight onto chan and hoped the message was clear.

the last few days, he had been terrified. chan had basically adopted him for the last months and he didn’t know what to do when he lost both the team and his aussie bro. 

maybe he’d gotten too attached because, after all, the leader was the only one felix could truly be himself around, no language barrier to worry about.

or maybe he just felt special because chan had thoughtlessly pulled felix into his group, purely because he wanted to, and the younger hoped that it wasn’t just because of their hometown or because chan felt like he had to protect him.

it was strange, but felix both loved and hated the thought of being so close to chan because of australia. in a way, both of them saw a piece of home in each other, and that sounded pretty nice, but felix really hoped chan saw past that. 

he wanted to be someone the leader saw talent in and was proud of and someone that added enough to the team to become special — which he guessed he was, because chan wouldn’t just work so hard to take someone back to the team he’d earned just because of some silly emotional attachment.

felix held back tears as chan hugged him back. he hadn’t been this happy in a long time. a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders now that he was no longer on a tightrope towards his dream, afraid to fall into nothingness with every step he took.

“i promised i wouldn’t leave you,” chan whispered, giving felix a last squeeze before pulling away. the younger never wanted to let go, but the rest of the team — his team — was waiting for them both to join the celebratiom.

from that day on, felix made a promise to himself. nothing would ever separate him from his team again. and as much as he told himself that it was because of everyone, he knew deep down that the one he never wanted to lose was the leader.

｡｡｡

“again!” minho yelled, his tired voice cutting though the loud music in the practice room. stray kids were practising for a new full album, had been for a few weeks, and the air was tense. not in a way that foreshadowed a fight, they never took it that far anymore, but it was clear that no one wanted to spend a minute longer in there.

it didn't help that they had been stuck on the same song the whole day. 3racha had joined the practice late, their own producing session having dragged on more than expected, and they were struggling to keep up with the dance. everyone understood the feeling of having a bad day, so they kept quiet, but their exhaustion was getting increasingly obvious. 

“it’s not even that hard,” seungmin complained playfully at some point, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. his voice meant to be teasing, of course, but to the three boys that couldn’t seem to comprehend the new choreography it only served as a reminder of their failing attempts at learning it.

“shut up,” hyunjin whispered so only the singer heard, gently nudging him and earning a mumbled apology. it was clear in 3racha’s eyes that they were totally done with today, no one wanted to discourage them even further.

the trio had been working nonstop, but they didn’t want to use that as an excuse because to be fair, everyone had. minho, hyunjin and yongbok had come up with tons of choreography that they had to teach the rest, and no one saw them complaining.

but the others knew that they were dragging themselves to he ground. it was obvious in the way changbin had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping every time he messed up, and in the way jisung’s eyes had looked glossy when he’d stepped into the practise room like he’d cry at any moment. it was nothing new to see 3racha worn down, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch.

one of them seemed to find the choreo particularly hard today, and it was chan. with how little sleep he’d gotten lately, it wasn’t surprising that his head couldn’t seem to wrap around the dance, messing simple details in every run-through. it was so frustrating to him, and sad to the others.

the leader’s eyes kept fluttering shut in between breaks, and the dark circles under them didn't help to make him look like less of a zombie. each time he missed a step and was the reason that everyone was held back from going home, he felt ready to burst into tears.

it had been a long time since he last felt so useless, but he knew that now was not the time or place to drown in self pity. he had kept it together the whole day, through the tiring session with han and changbin that had admittedly gotten them nowhere and now through the never-ending dance practice, so he hoped no one would notice just how much he felt like a failure.

and while the others resigned themselves to feel bad for the entirety of 3racha, there was a pair of eyes that had been set on him the whole day.

chan didn’t notice, too focused on doing his best — his best that today was clearly not good enough — and not falling asleep on his feet, but then minho called the end of practise, totally aware that their progress had been little to none but unable to push the members anymore, and while most of the members grabbed their bags and quickly exited the room, eager to finally go home, felix followed chan.

the leader’s vision had started to blur at some point and he really didn't want to deal with passing out, so he grabbed his phone and went to sit on the couch, planning to act like he was making a call so that he’d have time alone, but someone plopping down next to him shook him out of his daze.

when he looked up, his eyes met felix, who was looking at him so warmly. the care and worry in the younger’s gaze made him want to cry, and he had to turn his head away with a shaky sigh.

“what?” he asked, his voice embarrassingly unsteady as he tried to keep his emotions in check. he never seemed to manage to hide anything from felix, and he didn’t know whether to love or hate that.

“don’t what me,” felix said in english, running his hand down chan’s back in a way that made the leader’s heart skip a beat. it did that so often lately, but chan never wanted to think deeply about it, knowing that he’d find feelings he wasn’t ready to confront.“what’s going on?”

honestly? everything. the producing session had been a mess and dance practice had been even worse. he felt dead on his feet, too, but that only affected him, so it was fine. the rest however must’ve been so annoyed by his lack of utility today. 

“i- i keep m-messing up,” he replied, choking on a sob and hiding his face in his hands. he’d tried his best to hold it back but the tears were already spilling, leaving cold trails on his cheeks.

he felt felix wrap an arm around his shoulders, the younger’s head resting coming to rest against his. “no you don’t”

he said softly, and chan almost believed him. “you’re just tired today, it’s okay”

hesitantly, felix reached up to pull chan’s hands away from his face, smiling when the older let him, but his expression quickly fell as soon as he saw the leader’s face. in a matter of seconds, chan had gone from looking tired to looking absolutely broken, and felix wanted to cry with him. in an idol’s life it was normal to have days in which no progress was made, but it was rare to see chan so worked up over it.

“why are you so upset?” he asked, gently brushing away the leader’s tears. it was useless as they kept falling, but chan still leaned into the touch, his body shaking. the gesture felt weirdly intimate to felix, even though it would’ve been normal if he did it with any other member, but he didn’t question why. he already knew the answer anyway.

“i d-don’t know-” chan sniffled, rubbing a hand over his cheek in an attempt to stop the tears. “n-nothing went w-well today and… a-and i held a-all of you back”

he felt bad unloading all of this on felix but he also felt like he could trust him, almost like he wouldn’t mind listening to him. and yeah, he didn’t. 

“but you didn’t,” the younger promised, rubbing chan’s back again. “bin and hannie were tired too, none of us mind you having bad day”

despite knowing that the words were probably true, chan shook his head. “i-it’s not just a b-bad day,” he said, his voice cracking. “i’ve been messing up so much— i c-can’t do anything right lately”

this shocked felix. lately? what did lately even mean? in his eyes, chan did nothing but be perfect every day, whether that be creating music or as a person. he could understand the older being upset over today but he felt that chan was blowing it out of proportion, like he so often did when it came to berating himself.

“what are you saying?” felix asked, maybe a bit too bluntly by the way the leader immediately looked away from his eyes. “no- look at me.” chan did. “there’s nothing you’re doing wrong”

the way i see you is wrong, chan thought suddenly, the words popping up in his mind like a jumpscare. what the fuck? they weren’t even talking about feelings— and he didn’t see felix any way, he was his best friend. right.

“you can’t say that after seeing me dance today,” chan said, chuckling a bit. really, it was almost funny how bad he’d managed to be in practice.

“but i can say it after seeing you be perfect every day” felix replied quietly, staring straight into the leader’s eyes before realising what he’d just said. 

“no wait- i mean!” he stumbled over his words, flustered. “you’ve been working really hard and still looking out for us— yeah, that. you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do.”

he mentally patted himself on the head, proud of his quick save, but when he looked back to chan, the leader’s cheeks had a subtle flush to them.

must be from crying so much, he thought, feeling sad for the leader all over again. that’s when he remembered that chan hadn’t replied to him. he was just staring at felix, his expression a mix of surprised and grateful, though there was still doubt clouding his eyes.

then, he smiled, looking unusually shy as he averted his gaze. “thanks” he mumbled quietly, hiding his face behind his hands once more. felix worried that he’d start crying again but instead he just whined, the way he did when stays left cheesy pick up lines during his lives. 

“you can’t just say that,” chan complained, voice muffled behind his hands. “it’s not— ugh”

felix laughed, the sound echoing in the empty room, and it did nothing to ease chan’s feelings. his heart was doing somersaults and all because what, felix had called him perfect? it didn’t help that the younger still had his hand on his back from earlier, tracing shapes mindlessly.

or not so mindlessly.

eventually, the younger’s laugh died down, but he had a permanent smile on his face. seeing chan like that wasn’t usual, but for some reason he really liked it. “cute” felix thought.

“STOP!”  

oh fuck. he did not just say it out loud did he.

“stop what?” felix asked, playing dumb while trying to come up with an excuse. he couldn’t, not with chan staring at him with flushed cheeks and eyes still glossy from his breakdown earlier.

“nothing.” chan pouted. he was sure he’d heard felix call him cute but maybe he just misunderstood him. his brain short circuited half of the time he was with the younger anyways so it wasn’t a surprise. he kinda wanted felix to find him cute tho… what was wrong with him?

“anyways,” felix patted chan’s shoulder, interrupting the sudden silence that made him feel awkward, “you got the point?”

“that i’m perfect? yeah”

“stop” felix groaned. now it was his turn to blush. “but yeah. i mean it, don’t beat yourself up over silly mistakes”

“got it,” chan mumbled, still a bit upset, but being with felix had really done the job of cheering him up. without thinking, he pulled the younger into a hug, breath catching in his throat when the other returned it instantly. 

if he had any tension left in his body, it melted away in felix’s arms that were holding him even tighter. turns out he didn’t need alone time, just his personal sunshine.

his personal sunshine that wasn’t really his.

chan pulled away, albeit reluctantly, when the dancer started to play with his hair. he knew that it wasn’t on purpose, that it meant nothing because felix was felix and he took any chance to be affectionate with anyone, but he was dangerously close to letting himself believe that he was special to the boy. 

the walk home was pretty quiet, surprisingly so. nothing was ever quiet when those two were together but chan was completely lost in his thoughts. his mind had become a whirlwind of contradicting emotions, spinning around felix. 

he was only pulled back to reality when his hand accidentally brushed against the younger’s, though by the fifth time it happened he wasn’t sure of it being unintentional anymore. he didn't want to look up, not ready to face felix after having unraveled in front of him so easily earlier.

but the dancer seemed to have had enough, and when they both got to into the elevator of chan’s dorm he took matters into his own hands. carefully, he moved his hand to chan’s face, turning it towards him. he didn't need the older to speak because his expression said enough, but felix couldn’t stand it.

the way the leader kept avoiding his eyes like they hadn’t just shared a precious moment, like felix hadn’t accidentally showed his whipped self without hesitation.

oh. maybe it was because of that. maybe chan had found it weird, gross even, that one of his teammates, the one that was supposed too be his best friend, was head over heels for him. 

when chan didn’t respond to his pleading look, felix let his hand fall, pretending that the way the older wordlessly walked out of the elevator and into the dorm didn't hurt him.

felix didn't think that what he had said was enough to give away his feelings for the leader, but it was the only explanation for his distant behaviour.

what he didn’t know was that back in his room, the same thoughts haunted the leader. chan hadn’t realised it until today, but he was truly on the edge of falling for felix in a way he’d never fallen for anyone before.

and it terrified him.

｡｡｡

the next day chan avoided felix with every fibre of his being. he knew it was wrong — specially after the younger had stayed behind yesterday, surely tired and out of patience but still doing his best to comfort the leader — but he needed to sort out his feelings.

he couldn’t fall in love with one of his teammate, it would ruin everything he had worked so hard for. the sole fact that he even allowed himself to begin to feel like this disgusted him.

he just needed some time to work around his feelings, maybe distance himself from the younger even if just thinking about it hurt until he found a way to avoid everything that made his heart flutter. 

then he just needed to make himself fall out of love.

but it was hard. each time he looked around the studio or the practice room or really anywhere, he caught felix staring at him. and not lovingly, not angry and not confused — he just looked heartbroken.

and the members noticed, too. how the aussie duo hadn’t shared more than a few longing glances during the day, how their sunshine seemed to be in a trance, like someone had stolen his soul, and how the leader barely looked up from the ground.

they knew both of them had stayed in the practice room alone yesterday, and they were worried that maybe a fight had broken out. except no one believed that chan could ever fight with felix.

to the leader, the day went by in a blur, and it was his fault. this time it truly was him who had cause the heavy atmosphere, who had filed felix’s eyes with pain despite promising himself that he wouldn’t ever lose him again.

now he felt further away from him than he ever had before.

when the night fell once again and everyone went to sleep, chan stayed awake in his room, deep into the late hours. he would’ve never thought himself capable of racing this point, would’ve never believed it if someone told him that love could cause this much pain.

and while it could, it definitely could, it wasn’t love that was hurting anyone, it was him. him who always managed to mess up every special relationship, who was so scared of being hurt that he pulled away first and did the damage himself.

he could lie, of course, say that he was doing it for the sake of the group. that his feelings had no room in the world he and the members had built together and would only break their bond. 

but deep down, he felt selfish. if he confessed, admitted to his silly crush that he only now saw had been developing from the very beginning, he’d lose felix, maybe even the group.

he was scared of the possibility of the younger looking at him with disgust in his eyes, but somehow seeing him in pain was even less bearable.

he only had three options. confessing, pulling away, or acting normal while his feelings ate him up inside.

the first one was impossible, it would spark every bad outcome chan feared, but the second one had hurt them both badly and i had only been his choice for a day. he couldn’t keep doing it, felix didn’t deserve it.

but he didn’t know how to keep going on as normal either. the thought of falling harder for felix while the other only saw him as a brother made his chest feel tight and his eyes well with tears for the second night in a row. 

felix would find someone someday, and chan wouldn’t know how to deal with it — how to be the supportive friend the younger would need — if he still hoped he belonged to him.

for the first time ever, chan wished he hadn’t opened up to felix. if he had only kept himself together the night before, he wouldn’t have cried in felix’s arms, wouldn’t have let himself feel the younger’s warmth and wouldn’t have realised that he loved him.

ignorance is bliss, but chan had never known it until now.

。。。

‘there’s a live scheduled in an hour, be ready’ 

chan had been staring at the message for the last five minutes. a live wasn’t a problem, it was something that everyone enjoyed every once in a while, but this one would be very different.

‘you and felix will chat with stays about the upcoming album’

in a way, he found it as an opportunity to apologise to the younger, let him know that nothing was wrong between them. he could even just pull out the ‘i was embarrassed after my breakdown’ card and hope that it would work. 

that had happened before, after all, but felix had never been quite so upset after it. the memory of the boy looking so drained the day before still haunted chan, and he needed to fix it, however he could.

he didn’t give his outfit much thought, instead spending half an hour and the walk to the company rehearsing how he would approach and interact with the younger. he never had to fake anything in front of felix, the atmosphere between the two always honest and easy, but he’d carelessly ruined that.

when he opened the door to the room in which they would hold the live, he froze. felix was already there, one of their stylists doing his makeup. chan wasn’t sure why, shouldn’t they look natural in a morning live?

but when his eyes really focused on the dancer, he got his answer. even with what looked like a few layers of concealer, his face was visibly tired. his eyes also looked slightly puffy, like he’d been crying, and chan hated that he knew it was his fault.

“hi,” he said, standing awkwardly at the doorstep. the other two clearly hadn’t noticed him until now because they startled out of whatever conversation they’d been having. the stylist whispered something to felix, her eyes soft but encouraging as she gave the boy a gentle pat on the shoulder before she stood up. she walked out, barely sparing chan a glance. what was that about?

stepping into the room, chan greeted felix again, his heart twisting painfully at the poorly concealed sadness in felix’s expression. but the younger still tried to put on a smile. 

“hyung, ready for the live?” he asked, his voice deeper than usual and slightly rough.

chan had to keep himself from frowning, but he nodded, opening instagram.

so pretty!

our lixie looks tired :(

chan write to me on instagram, i have something to tell you pls

the comments were nothing out of this world, except those that expressed stay’s concern for felix. it was okay, that’s what they told the public, but okay was the worst word to describe felix right now.

throughout the live, their interactions seemed normal, casual, but both boys felt the tension behind every sentence that left their mouths. there was a particular comment that caught chan’s eye and wouldn’t leave his mind.

chanlix are really like brothers! you can tell felix always looks up to his big bro

right. brothers. the word hurt chan more than he wanted to admit, specially because he knew that that’s probably what he was to felix. if only he could reciprocate that…

for the next hour, chan paid half a mind to the live and really thought about the conversation he needed to have. ‘do i just say sorry? i can’t lie to him but the truth is even worse… just lie, chan, its not like you can mess things up much more’

and then the moment arrived. after a few cute goodbyes and a big hug, the live ended, and felix didn't waste a minute before scurrying to his feet, ready to bold out of the room.

but chan held onto his hand, and didn't the touch burn

“wait” he pleaded, his voice trembling. there goes any attempt at a logical and calm conversation. “lix i-” he paused, trying to keep his emotions in check. “i’m so sorry”

he got that much out before he just started crying. not loud, not evident, just quiet tears rolling down his face, but he was so clearly scared. he was afraid that felix would just walk away on him, leaving him with the apology weighing down on his heart like he honestly deserved.

instead, felix sat down next to him again, looking at the ground while trying not to let the leader’s tears affect him. 

“don’t be,” he said, his voice painfully cold. but it was only emotionless because otherwise he’d break. “i know it’s my fault” 

his fault? how could felix think it was his fault?

chan looked at him through teary eyes, now holding tight onto his hand. “y-your fault? how is it y… i a-am the problem lix” he said sadly, unable to stand the though of felix blaming himself for something he should’ve controlled.

still, the dancer shook his head. he looked directly at chan for the first time that day, and his cheeks were drowned with tears too. 

“you didn't force me to love you, hyung”

to love you. that’s what felix had said wasn’t it? chan couldn’t believe his ears, convinced his mind was playing some stupid trick on him again. “n-no” he sobbed, rubbing roughly at his eyes. the tears were making it hard to see. “d-don’t lie”

but when felix only pulled his hand away and turned his back to him, shoulders shaking with emotions that couldn’t be faked, chan realised that both of them were trapped in the same nightmare.

the nightmare of loving someone you shouldn’t, someone who could never love you back. except both of them had gotten it wrong.

they had thought they’d spend forever together without ever really reaching each other. like the moon and the sun, the world had pushed them together, created them to balance each other out, but they’d been to scared to see it.

“lixie,” chan said, grabbing felix’s arm and desperately trying to make the boy face him. he didn’t budge.

“i love you too”

that did the trick. felix quickly turned around, staring into chan’s eyes like he was trying to take a look into his soul, find any trace of a lie. there wasn’t. only the leader’s true feelings laid bare for him to see.

the realisation made him cry harder. he couldn’t believe that they’d kept everything hidden for so long, trying to avoid breaking their bond when the only thing the lies were doing was weaken it.

“h-hyung” he choked out, fingers grasping chan’s hoodie like he’d disappear if he let go. “i w-was so s-scared… i didn’t know tha-”

he didn’t have time to finish before chan pulled him into a kiss.

the older’s lip met his with a hint of desperation, and the boy melted. his hands found their way to chan’s hair, getting tangled in the soft locks and trying to pull him impossibly closer. they felt like two souls that had been caged for the longest time, an invisible string pulling them together until the restraint snapped.

no words were shared. this time not because they were afraid, but because it wasn’t needed. their actions said enough, their tears expressed feelings nothing else could. and the way they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other now that there wasn’t a barrier separating them was the universe’s way of letting them now they’d chosen the right person.

the sun and the moon, they were meant to be.

@lixiesstorys happy stay day pookie! i hope you like this! you don’t know how hard it was not to give you spoilers or ask for help writing

it felt weird to write friends to lovers and i don’t think i did it right, i kinda wanna do a second version that’s better. i didn’t proofread at all so there must be sm mistakes

thanks to @starlostastronaut for making this event, it was fun! happy bday!

dividers by @/uzmacchiato

Life could be hectic. Troublesome. Devastating.

Today, however, was going to be the opposite.

Relaxation was the only goal in your mind.

A carefully planned day, designed to ease your mind and let all worries go.

Chan, ever the workaholic, was in much need of a self care day, or at least a proper day off.

As stubborn as he tried to be, he could not resist your puppy eyes and finally gave in.

His plans might have been more towards the "pampering you" than the "pampering myself", but you'd take what you could get with him.

Everyone helped get things ready.

All the members saw how hard their leader worked so they wanted him to have the relaxing day he deserved (and perhaps getting some embarrassing pictures to force him to stop making them work at night was an added bonus).

I.N brought you masks, carefully spending an entire day selecting the very best.

Did he get a pineapple flavoured face mask? Absolutely.

Some chocolate-flavoured nourishing lipstick? It was totally innocent.

Not a single chocolate blowjob comment had been made.

Definitely not by Han, who most certainly did NOT buy a cheesecake one for himself.

Lee Know even pitched in with a fluffy WolfChan headband in exchange for blackmail material pictures.

Why he had that, no one knew.

Not to mention, that he even offered to let you take care of his babies for the night.

When you gracefully declined you weren't sure if he was relieved or offended.

Probably both.

How could you refuse his babies?

Then again, it was more of a polite offer than a real one.

Probably.

Who knew what went on in his head?

Seungmin got you a literal mountain of pillows, fluffy or plain ones.

All incredibly soft and some even worked themselves up.

He also chose to get you a couple blanket-hoodie, pink and fluffy as Changbin suggested.

Was he going to demand pictures?

What kind of question is that?

Of course.

It's Seungmin who we're talking about.

While you were out shopping for binge eating snacks with Changbin, Han curated the evening marathon plans.

Unsurprisingly, it was filled with fun comedies, k dramas and, of course, Studio Ghibli and Harry Potter.

When you came back, Hyunjin even took the creative liberty to re-arrange your "horrifyingly neat" room into a cozy living room, straight out of a Pinterest moodboard.

Glowing lights were everywhere, with soft and fluffy blankets offering perfect places to cuddle up in no matter what you wanted to do.

Watch a movie? The couch was ready with blankets and popcorn holders (to which Changbin objected as he had bought way too many snacks to hold 'em in there).

Cook something? Hyunjin had gotten you heart shaped tools "for the romance".

It all inspired relaxation and romance.

From the heart shaped pillows to the cute blankets laying around.

It was perfect.

No seating had snacks out of reach, as you could just stretch your arm out to get something to eat.

Changbin sat down and tried every single seating to ensure that and called it "Binnie's Top Guaranteed Ensurance"... it was too cute to argue its reasoning.

When the anticipated night finally came, Chan stepped in your house without any grand expectation.

Yeah some popcorn, maybe a blanket more than usual.

Instead, he soon noticed you had locked in for real.

Your house had gotten a big makeover he couldn't explain and you... you looked so cute and lovely, all wrapped in a giant blanket-y hoodie, waiting for him to join you in the other half.

When he had finally put it on, or put himself in it to be honest, you threw yourself on the couch, dragging him with you.

Chan, losing his balance, fell ungraciously on top of you and you both exploded in a fit of laughter and peppered kisses all over.

"You're just too cute!" He said, as he cuddled you and covered your whole face in light kisses, barely touching your skin.

It was like he got the zoomies for you, which was probably accurate.

As you both had Howl's Moving castle in the background, you started applying a facemask on him.

"Stop moving" you threatened him.

The intimidation might have worked better if you hadn't had a matching WolfChan headband and a green cream all over your face.

"I'm not moving" he chuckled, smiling widely with his dimples deepening.

He totally was.

After some playful wrestling, you managed to force him still.

A bit of face mask fell on his lips and, before you or his brain could stop him, Chan licked it clean.

His expression turned confused for a few seconds.

"Is... is there... pineapple in my facemask?" He muttered, struggling to believe what his tasting buds were telling him: "There... There is pineapple. In my facemask"

Just then you decided to get the guys their reward, snapping a picture of him with your phone.

His face was covered in an orange, grey-ish blue headband with wolf ears on his head and his half of the pink hoodie fully covering his body.

The confused and traumatised face was simply the cherry on top.

As Chan lunged towards you, trying to delete the already sent (and saved in the member's galleries) photo, you both laughed and smiled.

All worries had gone away.

Life could be hard. Tiring.

However, in those little specks of time, where only you and him existed (together with suspicious masks, tons of snacks and days worth of movies), it was good.

Life was really, really good.

|| Bonus ||

Hyunjin had suggested painting each other's nails, as you had met each other outside of a nail salon, so you both thought to yourself: “How hard could it be?”.

STAY had a wild day trying to figure out what kind of spoiler he was showing off.

On his nails were some deformed dogs who were meant to be little replicas of WolfChan.

Most STAY thought he was hiding a child or spoiling a comeback.

Little did they know, you simply over estimated your nails art skills.

Chan didn't make the same mistake and simply painted yours with a basic colour.

It was supposed to be a Stray Kids red.

… He thought he was supposed to dilute it so it mostly came out with weird bubbles and lines.

Truthfully, it looked more like a used tampon than an elegant manicure.

Nevertheless, neither of you was going to rub it off anytime soon and whenever you held hands, you couldn't care less about the used tampons and deformed dogs on your nails.

The only thing about your fingers that bothered Chan, was the lack of a wedding band.