𐙚 The CrewOne Cooking For You - Soft Hours 𐙚
Genre: Fluff, Slight Humor
It was supposed to be a chill night in. No glam, no plans—just Geonu insisting he was going to cook for you like a “real boyfriend.” You weren’t sure whether to feel honored or concerned.
He greeted you at the door with a proud grin, already wearing an apron with a cartoon bear on it. “I’ve got this,” he announced confidently. “You just relax.”
Relaxing was hard when, ten minutes in, he was cursing under his breath, scraping what looked like burnt onions out of a pan. You peeked into the kitchen and saw flour on the floor, noodles hanging halfway out of the pot, and what might’ve been tomato sauce splattered on the wall.
“Don’t panic,” he said quickly. “This is… part of the process.”
You leaned against the counter, trying not to laugh as he dumped something suspiciously chunky into a bowl. “Did the sauce just separate?”
He gave you a look. “It’s rustic.”
You bit your lip to keep from giggling. “Babe, that pasta looks like it’s been through something.”
“Okay, yes, it might be slightly overcooked. But it’s made with love,” he said, handing you a plate and looking far too proud of the mess.
You took a small bite. Chewed slowly. “Well. You definitely made something.”
He groaned, throwing his head back, but you saw the way he lit up when you leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“It’s terrible,” you teased gently, “but I love it. You’re cute when you try.”
He let out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling. “Next time, you’re helping.”
You poked his side. “Next time, we’re ordering in.”
But later, curled up on the couch eating takeout and wiping flour off his nose, you knew you’d remember this night more fondly than any perfect meal. It wasn’t about the food—it was the effort. And the way he looked at you like you were the reward.
When Jimin said he wanted to make dinner for you, you expected something simple—maybe ramen with an egg on top. What you didn’t expect was to walk into his place and smell garlic, butter, and something baking in the oven.
He met you at the door wearing a fitted black apron, his hair pushed back messily and a soft smile playing on his lips. “Welcome to my humble kitchen,” he said, his voice warm and slightly proud. “I hope you’re hungry.”
You stepped inside and were immediately floored. The dining table was set with real silverware, a candle flickering between two plates. From the kitchen came the sound of soft music and something sizzling on the stove.
“You did all this?” you asked, eyebrows raised.
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not a five-star meal, but I figured you deserved something better than takeout for once.”
When you sat down and took your first bite, you stared at him like he was magic. The food was actually good—tender chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables that still had a bite to them.
“Jimin, this is amazing,” you said, genuinely stunned. “When did you learn to cook like this?”
“I had to learn something while missing you,” he replied softly, giving your hand a squeeze across the table. “Figured it’d be worth it if it made you smile.”
You felt warmth flood your chest as you smiled at him, barely able to stop yourself from leaning over the table to kiss him. He met you halfway.
After dinner, you helped him wash the dishes, sleeves rolled up and shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing as he accidentally splashed soap bubbles onto your shirt.
And later, when he pulled you into his lap on the couch, hands warm against your waist and his voice soft in your ear, you realized this wasn’t just a cute date—it felt like home. Like something you could come back to over and over.
You woke up to the softest kind of morning—the air still cool, sunlight leaking in through the curtains, and the faintest scent of cinnamon pulling you out of bed.
Down the hall, Bain was already in the kitchen. He was wearing a loose hoodie and plaid pajama pants, barefoot and humming under his breath. The sight made your chest ache a little. His hair was slightly messy, and his smile only widened when he saw you leaning on the doorframe.
“Perfect timing,” he said, sliding the last slice of golden brown French toast onto a plate. “I was just about to come wake you up.”
“You made breakfast?” you asked, surprised and a little shy at the domesticity of it all.
“I wanted today to start soft for you,” he said simply. “No stress. Just sweetness.”
He plated everything with care—warm toast, sliced strawberries, a drizzle of honey instead of syrup. You both sat at the kitchen table, legs brushing under the wood, a quiet calm settling around you like a blanket. He kept looking at you between bites, eyes crinkling every time you smiled at the food.
“This is really good, Bain,” you said mid-chew.
He reached over to brush a crumb from your lip, thumb lingering just a second too long. “You deserve soft mornings like this. Always.”
After breakfast, he tugged you back to the couch, arms wrapped around you as you curled up against his chest. The plates sat forgotten in the sink. Time moved slow, and Bain made it feel like forever was something easy to reach for.
Siwoo wasn’t playing around. The second he stepped into your kitchen, he took control like it was a performance. Music on. Sleeves rolled up. Knife skills that were suspiciously good.
“Sit,” he told you, gesturing to the stool by the counter. “Let me spoil you.”
You raised a brow, amused. “You’re kind of intense about this.”
“It’s called effort, babe,” he said, already chopping vegetables with smooth, practiced motions. “You cook for me all the time. I’ve been planning this for weeks.”
Watching Siwoo in the kitchen was unexpectedly hot—focused, efficient, but still very much himself. He kept glancing at you like he was checking if you were impressed, then smirking every time he caught you staring.
The meal came together fast—creamy risotto with grilled chicken and roasted veggies on the side. The kind of dish that looked way too fancy to have been made in your kitchen.
When he finally set the plate in front of you, you blinked. “You did this?”
“From scratch.” He leaned in, bracing a hand on the counter beside you. “Try it.”
You took a bite. Your eyes widened. “Siwoo. This is restaurant-level.”
“I know,” he said with a proud tilt of his head. “But I’m not feeding just anyone.”
You laughed, cheeks warm. He was cocky, sure—but there was softness underneath it. The way he brushed your hair behind your ear while you ate. How he took your plate afterward and insisted on cleaning up without letting you move.
Later, when you ended up on the couch together—your head on his lap, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your arm—he whispered, “Next time, dessert.”
And somehow, you knew he didn’t just mean food.
The moment you smelled something burning, you knew Doyum was up to something.
You walked into the kitchen cautiously, only to find him staring at a smoking pan with genuine confusion. “Okay,” he said slowly, “that was supposed to be an egg.”
You blinked. “What were you even making?”
“Breakfast,” he said proudly. “I wanted to surprise you. Like—wake up to a hot meal, fall in love all over again, domestic vibes, you know?”
You looked down at the evidence: a tragically scorched egg, toast that had been buttered before toasting, and a cup of orange juice filled to the brim like he’d never poured a drink before in his life.
He gave you a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, it’s a mess. But it’s a cute mess, right?”
You laughed, reaching for him and tugging him by the wrist. “Come on, sit. I’ll handle the real food.”
“No, wait—I can still redeem myself,” he said quickly, bumping into you in the process and nearly knocking over the juice. “Just… give me, like, one more shot.”
“You already burned water yesterday.”
“Water is deceptive,” he argued, dead serious. “You don’t see it boiling until it’s too late.”
Despite yourself, you were giggling uncontrollably by the time he gave up and settled into a chair, watching you with stars in his eyes as you whipped up something edible.
And once you finally set the plates down and sat across from him, Doyum reached for your hand and squeezed it gently. “I might suck at cooking,” he said, “but I’d mess up breakfast for you every day if it means starting my morning like this.”
“Okay, so hypothetically,” Sangwoo said from the kitchen, “if you put metal in the microwave—like, just a little—how bad would that be?”
You bolted upright from the couch. “Sangwoo, what did you do?”
By the time you got there, the microwave was open, a metal spoon lying guiltily beside a bowl of half-melted instant mac and cheese. “It sparked a little,” he admitted. “But the pasta’s fine!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Were you trying to impress me or kill us both?”
“I was trying to be helpful,” he said, flashing you a charming grin that barely masked his embarrassment. “And technically, there was no fire. So, I think we’re still ahead.”
You sighed and took over without a word. He pouted like a kicked puppy, arms folded as he watched you remake the meal. “I just wanted to do something nice,” he muttered.
“You did,” you said gently. “You made me laugh.”
He perked up at that, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. “Even if I’m a disaster?”
“Especially because you’re a disaster.”
He rested his chin on your shoulder, swaying you gently as you stirred the pot. “You know, I’d totally survive the apocalypse if you were there to cook for me.”
You glanced back at him with a smirk. “Let’s just survive dinner first.”
By the time you sat down to eat together—his leg brushing yours under the table, his grin ever-present—you kind of forgot about the near-explosion. He might not be a chef, but he had something better: heart, effort, and the way he made you feel like even the worst mac and cheese came with love.
That was the first thing you heard when you stepped into the kitchen. Junseok stood at the stove like a man defeated, hair flopping into his eyes, a towel tossed over one shoulder like he was hosting a cooking show—except the counter was covered in chaos.
You froze. “…What happened?”
He turned to you with the most tragic expression you’d ever seen. “Babe,” he said gravely, “the pasta betrayed me.”
You blinked. “How—how does pasta betray—”
“I followed the directions!” he insisted, waving the empty box like it held answers. “Boil water. Add pasta. Stir occasionally. I did all that! But look!” He pointed at the pot, which was bubbling over slightly. “This is sabotage!”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You just… put too much in. That’s all.”
Junseok groaned like he’d been personally wronged by the universe. “I was making you a romantic dinner! Candles! Music! A mood! And now it’s all ruined because I thought an entire box of pasta would be fine for two people!”
You walked over, wrapped your arms around his waist, and leaned your head against his back. “It’s not ruined. It’s actually kind of perfect.”
He turned in your arms, looking at you like you were the only person in the world. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”
Junseok sighed dramatically, pressing his forehead against yours. “Then I guess we’ll survive this… pasta-pocalypse. Together.”
And when you ended up eating slightly-too-soggy noodles on the floor with flickering candles and his playlist still playing in the background, it felt kind of perfect anyway.
Junmin didn’t say much when you walked into the kitchen. He didn’t need to. His soft smile and the way he handed you a warm mug of tea said enough.
“I made something,” he said quietly, motioning toward the stove. “It’s not fancy, but…”
The smell was amazing—comforting, rich, and a little nostalgic. “What is it?”
“Soup,” he said simply. “My mom’s recipe. She used to make it for me when I was tired or having a hard day.”
You looked at him, heart tugging at the tenderness in his voice. “You think I’m having a hard day?”
“I just wanted you to feel taken care of.”
He ladled the soup into bowls and joined you at the table, sitting close, knees touching. The food was simple but warm and full of love—like him.
You noticed how he kept glancing at you as you ate, checking for your reaction without drawing attention to it. When you gave him a soft “This is really good,” his whole face lit up.
Junmin didn’t need big gestures. The way he leaned forward to brush your hair from your face, the quiet “you’ve been doing so well lately” he whispered when you were mid-bite—that was how he loved.
Later, when you curled up on the couch together under one blanket, your head on his chest, he whispered, “I like cooking for you. Even if it’s just soup.”
And you whispered back, “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
You found Hyunjun in the kitchen, focused and quiet, a little frown of concentration on his face as he carefully chopped vegetables. He didn’t notice you at first—his playlist was low, the soft sound of guitar filtering through the air.
You leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a small smile. “You’re working hard.”
He startled just a bit, then looked over with a grin that made your chest warm. “I wanted to have dinner ready before you got tired.”
You stepped closer. “What are you making?”
He motioned to the cutting board. “Stir-fry. It’s simple, but I like making it for you.”
You wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I like anything you make.”
He laughed softly, setting the knife down and covering your hands with his. “You always say that, even when I mess up.”
“Because you make it with love,” you said, pressing a kiss to his neck.
Later, you sat on the floor together with the food spread out in front of you. He insisted on feeding you a bite first, cheeks pink when you leaned forward dramatically just to tease him.
“This is your best one yet,” you said genuinely, licking your lips. “You’re getting too good at this.”
He gave you the gentlest look, like you’d just told him he hung the moon. “I just like the way you smile when you eat my food.”
And when you ended up tangled together on the couch, full and happy and quiet in each other’s warmth, you thought maybe this was your favorite kind of love—quiet, steady, and home.
The smoke alarm went off before you even made it to the kitchen.
You sprinted in, coughing, and waved a towel wildly at the ceiling while Rakwon stood there holding a frying pan like it had personally betrayed him.
“I swear,” he said over the blaring beep, “this was going fine five minutes ago.”
You finally managed to shut the alarm off and turned to face him. “Were you trying to deep-fry bacon?!”
“No?” he tried. Then added, “…Maybe a little.”
You looked at the stove. There were splatters everywhere. You couldn’t even tell what the original plan was. Something egg-adjacent? A pancake attempt? It was chaos.
“Okay, step away from the stove,” you said firmly.
He obeyed, holding his hands up in surrender. “I was trying to surprise you!”
“You surprised me, alright.”
“I wanted to be cute!” he pouted, flopping onto a stool and resting his chin in his hand. “Everyone else is always making their partner breakfast and looking all boyfriend-y, and I’m just… a hazard.”
You walked over and gently pulled him to his feet. “You are boyfriend-y. And very cute. And now you’re going to sit and keep me company while I make something before the house catches fire.”
Rakwon grinned, resting his chin on your shoulder as you got started. “Next time, I’m buying you breakfast instead.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Deal. Just… maybe leave the stove alone.”
But when you passed him a bite later and he made a big show of dramatically groaning at how good it was, you couldn’t help but laugh. Even if he was a walking kitchen disaster, he was your disaster.
You paused mid-step in the hallway. “Why?”
“Because I’m plating it and it’s supposed to look like one of those Pinterest posts!”
You bit back a laugh but stayed where you were. From the kitchen came the sound of rapid movement, the clatter of plates, and a very frustrated sigh. Then: “Okay. Now you can come in.”
You walked in to find Seunghwan standing proudly behind the counter, arms wide. “Ta-da!”
The pancakes were a little lopsided, one looked suspiciously burned on the bottom, and there were way too many strawberries piled on top—but it was… endearing.
He nodded enthusiastically. “For you.”
Your chest swelled. “It looks perfect.”
He smiled so big his eyes disappeared. “Really? Even though I may or may not have dropped one on the floor and had to start over?”
You walked over and hugged him around the waist. “Especially because of that.”
You ended up sitting side by side, legs bumping under the table, sharing pancakes and laughing when syrup ended up on your nose and he tried to kiss it off. And when the plates were empty and you were full of both food and affection, he tugged you into his lap on the couch and wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.
“You make my heart feel like breakfast,” he said randomly.
You blinked. “What does that even mean?”
He grinned. “Warm and sweet and like I want to wake up next to you forever.”
You weren’t sure what woke you up first—the smell or the sound. Pots clinking softly, the faint shuffle of feet, and something warm and buttery drifting through the air.
When you stepped into the kitchen, Yeonkyu froze. He was standing at the stove, wearing one of your aprons (that he’d definitely tied too tight), spatula in hand. His ears turned red immediately.
“I was… going to bring it to you in bed,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “You cooked for me?”
He gave a tiny nod. “I wanted to try. I watched a bunch of videos last night.”
You looked at the table. There was an omelet—slightly overcooked on one side—a plate of toast with way too much butter, and orange slices he’d cut into perfect little wedges.
Your heart ached in the best way.
“It looks amazing,” you said, walking over to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned even redder.
“I didn’t want it to be perfect,” he mumbled, “just… mine.”
He pulled out a chair for you, then sat beside you silently, watching as you took your first bite. His shoulders relaxed the second you smiled.
“It’s sweet,” you said, swallowing. “Like you.”
“I forgot salt,” he admitted.
You laughed and reached for his hand. “It’s perfect anyway.”
You ate while he stayed close, resting his head on your shoulder between bites, clearly more focused on you than the food. And when you were done, he quietly cleaned up before coming back to wrap his arms around your waist.
“I want to get better at it,” he whispered into your hair. “So I can always take care of you.”
And just like that, your whole morning was filled with warmth that had nothing to do with breakfast.
Wonbin didn’t say much as he moved around the kitchen, but there was something about the way he did it. Calm, patient—like he wasn’t just making food, but putting little pieces of himself into it.
You sat at the counter, watching him. “You’re making dinner?”
He nodded, focused on flipping something in the pan. “I thought it’d be nice. You’ve been working hard lately.”
You smiled softly, feeling your heart settle. “You’re too good to me.”
He looked up with a soft smile of his own, but quickly turned his attention back to the food. “I like taking care of you. Besides, it’s not anything fancy.”
The smell of garlic and spices started to fill the air, and you could hear the sizzle of the pan as he continued to work. Every now and then, you’d catch him glancing over at you with that little smile like he couldn’t wait to see your reaction.
Finally, he plated the food and set it down in front of you. The presentation was simple, but the colors were beautiful—everything looked like it was made with care.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said softly, sitting beside you and looking at you with soft eyes. “I hope you like it.”
You took the first bite, then looked up at him with a grin. “It’s perfect.”
He relaxed back in his seat, relieved. “Really?”
“Really,” you said, reaching over to take his hand. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
Wonbin squeezed your hand, his thumb gently stroking the back of it. “As long as you’re happy.”
And as you ate together, chatting softly and sharing little smiles, you realized that with him, the simplest things felt like the most precious.
