#{fills}

The first time you mentally write “I can’t do this anymore” is on a Tuesday at 11:27 a.m.

The second time, at 3:02 p.m.

By the third, you don’t even check the time. You just know you get back to your place, close the door behind you, and it feels like the whole world stays out there on the other side—but not in a good way. More like if someone rang right now, you probably wouldn’t open.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. Drop your bag on the floor. You almost drop yourself there too, stuck somewhere between crying and sleeping for fifteen hours straight.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket.

You ignore it.

It vibrates again. And again. You sigh, defeated, and pull it out. Screen lit up: Binnie 💕.

—Yeah? —you answer, trying to sound normal, like your throat isn’t tied in a knot.

—Hey —his voice is warm and a little breathless, like he’s walking fast—. Are you home yet?

You lie on instinct.

—Yeah, yeah, been home for a while.

—Liar —he replies instantly, no malice, just that grounded certainty of his—. If you were, you’d be spamming dumb stuff in chat.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Say nothing.

Changbin needs exactly two seconds to switch his tone.

—Baby?

You kind of hate him for that word. Because it makes everything in you loosen. Your jaw, your shoulders, your whole armor.

—I’m tired —you finally manage. It’s the only thing you can articulate.

—“I didn’t sleep much” tired or “I don’t want to exist” tired? —he asks bluntly.

You laugh, but it sounds wrong.

—The second one.

There’s a brief silence on the other end. Not an awkward one; it sounds like someone making a decision.

—Okay —he says—. Then don’t hang up.

—Changbin, you don’t have to—

—I said don’t hang up.

You hear his pace pick up, street noises, a car passing too close. You let yourself fall onto the couch without even taking your shoes off, phone pressed to your ear, your gaze lost somewhere on the wall.

—Tell me what you see —he demands suddenly.

—What?

—In your living room. Tell me what you see.

You sigh, but you obey.

—The couch. Coffee table. My dirty shoes on the rug. A half-dead plant.

—That plant’s not dead —he answers immediately—. It’s just going through a rough patch. Like you.

You close your eyes.

—Changbin…

—Keep going —he insists, gentle.

—The TV off. A blanket all bunched up. —You pause—. And my laptop on the kitchen table staring at me like I owe it money.

You hear something like a tiny laugh on the other end.

—Ignore it —he says—. You don’t owe it anything today. You only owe me.

—So possessive.

—Yup. Hold on five minutes. I’m close.

—Don’t come over, seriously. I just want to sleep.

—Perfect —he cuts you off—. You sleep with me next to you. Multitasking.

You don’t even have the energy to argue. You rest your head on the back of the couch, phone still pressed to your ear. He doesn’t hang up. Neither do you. You can hear his footsteps, a few muttered “sorry”s when he bumps into someone, the beep of a crosswalk.

Four and a half minutes go by.

Your doorbell rings.

—Open —he says, like he’d timed it.

You drag yourself to the door. You don’t look in the mirror. You don’t want to see your face. You open.

Changbin is there, cap pulled low, mask tugged down to his chin, wearing an oversized black hoodie and holding a white bag in each hand.

—Hi —he says, and the soft smile he gives you makes you want to cry on the spot.

—…Did you rob a store? —you ask, eyeing him up and down.

—Consider this an at-home rescue mission —he lifts the bags—. Premium emotional support.

He puts the bags down on the floor just so he can come closer to you. He doesn’t ask “can I hug you?”. He doesn’t need to. His arms wrap around you with that steady firmness only he has, pulling you tight against his chest.

You don’t remember exactly when your breathing starts to ease, you just know that it does.

He smells like fabric softener, wet pavement, and something sweet you can’t name. You nuzzle in a little more without meaning to, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.

—I’m sweaty, sorry —he mumbles, not letting go.

—I don’t care.

You feel him smile against your temple.

—Good, because I wasn’t planning on letting go anyway.

You don’t make the easy kidnapping joke. You don’t feel like it. You just nod against his chest, fingers clenched in the back of his hoodie.

After a while—time you can’t really measure—he pulls back just enough to see your face.

—Hey, pretty tired face —he says, his thumb brushing your cheek—. Can I come in or are you gonna leave me in the hallway doing exposure therapy?

You move aside so he can step in. He grabs the bags, leans down to press a quick kiss to your hair as he passes, like he’s staking a claim.

—What did you bring? —you ask, following him into the living room.

—The basics —he answers, unloading everything onto the table—. Food, sugar, carbs, more sugar… and something so you don’t have to think.

He opens one of the bags and pulls out a pack of your favorite snack, a bottle of your go-to drink, and a box of ice cream you recognize instantly.

—You shopped like you’re my mom —you mutter.

—Your mom doesn’t hug you like this —he shoots back, not even bothering to deny it.

Your chest gives that annoying small jolt.

—You’re so dramatic.

—And you’re shaking a little —he points out, no sugar-coating.

You look at your hands. You hadn’t even noticed until he said it. Changbin doesn’t comment further. He just takes your hands in his, squeezes them, brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

—We’re gonna do something —he says, like he’s suggesting a game—. You do nothing productive. I do literally everything else.

—You don’t have to—

—Shhh —he hushes you gently—. You’re not in charge today. Today you have less say than a hater in the comments.

You can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes, and that alone earns you a satisfied smile from him.

—First: hot shower —he lists, raising one finger—. Second: comfy clothes. Third: we eat what I brought. Fourth: we watch something so dumb and ridiculous you either laugh your face off or fall asleep. Fifth: if you feel like talking, we talk. If you don’t, we don’t.

—And you? —you ask—. What’s your role in this master plan?

—Being here —he says, like it’s obvious—. As a pillow, a heater, and a weighted blanket if your brain gets too heavy.

His words hit you with the same softness he says them. You swallow.

—I don’t want to be a burden —you murmur, barely thinking.

Changbin blinks once. Then leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

—Listen to me —he says, using that tone he pulls out in the studio when something has to be perfect—. You are never a burden. You’re… —he searches for it—. A team effort. Sometimes you carry for both of us, sometimes I do. Today it’s my turn. Period.

You close your eyes. Breathing gets a little easier.

—If you want to cry, cry —he adds quietly—. I’m not scared of that. I’m only scared of you going through it alone.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He feels how your breathing turns uneven and says nothing, just holds you closer, one hand at the back of your neck, the other drawing slow circles on your spine.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, standing in the middle of the living room with the whole world reduced to his chest and your head. Long enough for the knot inside you to loosen, not completely, but enough to let a bit of air through.

Eventually you’re the one who pulls back, nose red, eyes puffy. He looks at them like they’re the most normal thing in the world.

—You look gorgeous like this too —he jokes softly—. “I cried but I’m still here” aesthetic.

—Shut up —you say, giving his arm a weak little punch.

—Doctor’s orders —he ignores the protest—: shower. I’ll set up base camp.

—Base camp?

—Blankets, pillows, plushies, food within arm’s reach. A nest.

—A nest?

—A giant nest for you and me. Come on, move your ass.

You let him handle everything while you shower. The hot water drags out a few more tears you’re not quite sure are sadness, relief, or just exhaustion. You change into comfy clothes—the kind of old T-shirt you wouldn’t wear in front of most people, but with Changbin you do.

When you come back to the living room, you find exactly what he promised: coffee table pushed aside, couch buried under blankets, cushions everywhere, your plushies lined up like an audience, and on the table a parade of food: tubs of rice, chicken, snacks, ice cream.

—You robbed half the grocery store —you comment.

—Lies, this is a rescue operation —he puffs his chest—. Rescue mission: you.

He jerks his chin toward the couch.

—Come here.

You flop down next to him. Instantly, he wraps a blanket around you, tugs you into his chest and makes space for you under his arm like you’re a piece that slots perfectly into place.

—Movie or stupid show —he asks, remote already in hand—. How many brain cells do you want to use today? One to ten.

—Zero.

—Perfect, trashy reality show it is —he nods, pleased.

He puts on something so hilariously bad it pulls a laugh out of you almost immediately. He glances sideways, smiles small, and rests his chin on the top of your head.

—If you laugh three times in a row —he says—, I’ll kiss you.

—And if I don’t?

—I’ll kiss you anyway, just with more theatrics.

You don’t even make it two minutes into the show before you’re laughing. He follows through: one kiss on your cheek, another on your temple, one more at the corner of your lips.

—That was four —you point out.

—I’m overpaying —he replies—. Long-term investment.

Time blurs a bit after that: eating in bits and pieces, laughing at things that really aren’t that funny, falling quiet when your mind wanders off and him, without a word, just tightening his arm around you a little, reminding you you’re still here. That he’s still here.

At some point his fingers start tracing slow lines along your forearm.

—What were you thinking about so much today? —he asks quietly—. Only if you want to say it.

You stare at the screen for a few more seconds, watching strangers make drama that isn’t yours.

—That everyone’s moving forward and I’m not —you admit, voice dull—. That I’m always tired. That I don’t know if what I’m doing is worth anything. That… —you swallow the rest.

Changbin nods like it’s a list he already knows.

—Okay —he says—. Well, today I was thinking about how quiet you were, and that’s not normal for you. I was also thinking about how you made me laugh when I was thinking all that same crap. And I figured it was my turn to pay you back.

—It’s not that simple —you mumble.

—I know. —He makes a small face—. I wish I could just ctrl+Z your sadness. But I can’t. So I do the human version: stay, listen, hug, feed.

—You sound like a tutorial —you say.

—“How to take care of your favorite person: step 1, don’t leave them alone when they say they’re done existing” —he lowers his voice like a narrator—. Step 2: build them a nest. Step 3: remind them they’re breathing, even when it annoys them.

You laugh softly and he relaxes a little more.

—I love you even when you hate everything —he adds, almost like the thought slips out.

You tense for a second. Not because of the words themselves, but because of how he says them. Like a simple fact that needs no fanfare.

—You don’t have to—

—It’s not “have to” —he cuts in, turning his head to look at you—. It’s just true. I love you when you’re funny, productive, and shiny. And I love you when you’re sad, quiet, and curled up in a ball. I don’t want only the pretty half.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. You just turn a bit more into him, hide your face in his chest and let your hand search for his under the blankets. You find it. He laces your fingers together like he’d been waiting.

—Let’s promise something —he suggests—. Whenever either of us gets the “I can’t do this anymore” thought, we send it to the other. No explanation needed if we don’t feel like it. Just… code red.

—Code red? —you echo.

—Yeah. So the other one knows to bring ice cream, blankets, and emergency hugs.

—You turn everything into a plan —you mutter, but you squeeze his hand.

—I have to —he says—. If I don’t, I get nervous. And if I get nervous, I talk even more. Nobody wants that.

—I do —you reply, without thinking too hard.

You feel him smile against your hair.

—Then I’m staying —he whispers—. Even if you don’t talk, even if you fall asleep, even if you just breathe. I’ll stay today, tomorrow, the day after… even if it’s in the hallway if I have to.

You lift your head.

—You gonna stand guard in my hallway?

—If I have to, yeah —he shrugs—. I’ll bring a speaker with my voice recorded saying “I’m proud of you” on loop.

—That’s torture —you say, but your heart tightens in a different way.

—Torture you deserve —he jokes.

The show goes on, but you’re barely watching it now. You’re watching how his lashes lower when he laughs, how his hands are always moving—petting you, fidgeting with the blanket, constantly checking that you’re still there.

At some point, exhaustion wins. You don’t notice exactly when your eyes close; you just feel your mind start to float and somehow Changbin notices before you fully do.

—Go to sleep —he murmurs, turning the volume down even more—. I’ll keep watch.

—Don’t go —you mumble, half-asleep.

—I don’t know if my contract was clear enough —he laughs softly—, but I’m not going anywhere. Never in the middle of a code red.

You feel a light kiss on your forehead. Then his arms loosening just enough for you to get comfortable, his breathing settling into a steady rhythm by your ear.

As you finally let yourself drop fully into sleep, your mind still a little noisy but, for the first time all day, a bit less cruel, one last clear thought slips through:

You’re not alone in this.

Your personal code red is right there, wrapped up in your blanket, breathing in sync with you. And even if tomorrow the weight comes back, even if the laptop keeps staring from the table, today—at least today—you have a nest. And a Changbin who isn’t going anywhere.

“lix!” you cry out, jumping out of the warm cocoon of blankets you had been under to run to him. you envelop him in a hug, hands tight around his back just the way you know he likes it. he nuzzles his face into your neck, no doubt smelling his own shampoo that you had borrowed when you took a shower while waiting for him to come back. he’s still sniffling, his chest rising quickly with every inhale, and there’s a tightness in your chest as if his tears had been your own.

“baby, you okay?” you ask gently, not expecting an answer right away. he usually wants a few moments to calm down before speaking, and even though you know he could talk now you would never force him. sure enough, he takes several deep breathes before pulling back to wipe his tears, linking his hands with yours after.

“‘m ok, it’s just.” he pauses to sniffle a little bit and scrunch his nose, making an endearing sad picture that you want to capture forever and frame on your wall. “happy tears. stay are so sweet.”

his voice is deeper and more gravelly than usual from singing all night and then crying, and it vibrates from his mouth through your linked hands all the way through your entire body. it takes all of your self control not to coo at him being so cute. you frame his face with both of your hands instead, using your thumbs to wipe away the salty tear tracks on his cheeks. he rewards you with a blinding smile that lights up the entire room, toothy and bright eyed. seeing him smile brings you a relief you didn’t know you needed since he came through the door and you feel like you can breathe easier. you walk him gently backwards until he reaches the bed, and he falls into the covers with a giggle. you can’t help the fond smile that takes over your face as you lean over to push his hair out of his eyes before situating the blankets around him until just his face is peeking out. he should probably take a shower, but it can wait until the morning.

“lixie, you’re a burrito,” you tease, and he rewards you with another laugh. you swear, a fairy is born every time this boy laughs, that’s how special he is. you would turn making him laugh into a full time job, if you could. who needs paychecks when you have felix’ laughs?

“i’m gonna get you some water, okay?” you say, knowing that he probably cried and sweat out all the water in his body today.

“no, i wan’ you to stay,” he says, slurring a bit, tired now and voice even deeper than usual. “missed you.” he lifts a weak hand up to your face before you can move, and you hold it there against your cheek with both of yours. his hand is warm and solid and it grounds you a little.

“i missed you too,” your eyes well up with happy tears now but you will them away. you can’t both be crying. “i’ll be right back, lix. go to sleep, i’ll be here when you wake up.”

he pouts but nods and you take that as permission to flit around the room in a daze, too caught up in the notion of felix needs me to properly focus on anything you’re doing. you place a bottle of water and your spare packet of ibuprofen on the table next to the bed, knowing that he wakes up with headaches after crying.

when you get back to the bed, he’s already asleep. soft snores escape his mouth in puffs, and you’re surprised there isn’t already a line of drool making its way into his pillow. he looks so peaceful, his sharp features smoothed out with sleep and his cupid’s bow lips still formed into a little pout. you brush his bangs off his forehead again with gentle fingers, careful not to wake him. when he feels your touch, his lips stretch into a smile and he mouths your name, turning towards you a little , and you feel like your heart is going to burst right out of your chest from how much it swells. it’s times like these where you still can’t believe he is yours to keep and to touch and to love, but you can’t dwell on it or you’ll drive yourself crazy. you snuggle up into him, knowing he likes to wake up to you on top of him, and you fall asleep to the song of his heartbeat in your ear.

post concert series masterlist