#bangchan fluff

The gravel crunched under the tires as the rental SUV finally rolled to a stop in front of the cottage. Chan killed the engine and for a long moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full: of pine sap, distant woodpeckers, the faint metallic tick of the cooling motor and the sudden, almost embarrassing awareness that this was real. You were here. Married. Alone. For ten whole days.

Chan turned to you first. His left hand still rested on the wheel; the new platinum band on his fourth finger caught a stray shaft of late-afternoon sun and threw a tiny prism across the dashboard. He noticed you looking at it the same second you did.

"Still feels weird" he murmured, flexing his fingers once like he was testing whether the ring would stay put.

You reached over and covered his hand with yours. Your own ring, thinner, more delicate, but matching, clicked softly against his.

"Good weird?" you asked.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. "The best kind."

Then he was out of the car before you could answer, rounding the hood with that quick, purposeful stride he always used when he was trying not to look nervous. He opened your door like it was ceremony. Offered his hand. You took it and let him help you down even though the drop was barely 10 cm.

The air smelled sharply of resin and damp earth. Somewhere a stream flows. The cottage sat maybe twenty meters ahead, dark cedar siding, wide windows framed in forest green, a generous wraparound porch already dusted with fallen needles. Smoke was supposed to curl from the stone chimney later; right now the sky was still too bright for that kind of coziness.

Chan didn’t let go of your hand. Instead he tugged you gently toward the front door, then stopped short on the bottom porch step. You felt the shift in him before he even spoke, the way his shoulders squared, the sudden sheepish tilt of his head.

"What?" you asked, already smiling.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Ears going faintly pink. "I, uh… I know no one’s watching. But I still want to do it right."

You blinked. "Do what right?"

He didn’t answer with words. In one smooth motion he bent, hooked an arm under your knees and the other behind your back and lifted. You yelped, more surprise than anything, then dissolved into helpless laughter as he carried you up the three steps. Your arms automatically wound around his neck; his hoodie smelled like the airport, your perfume, and him.

"Chan-"

"Tradition" he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were fighting a grin. "Can’t skip tradition on day eleven."

"Day eleven of forever" you corrected and felt the way his chest stuttered under your palms at the reminder.

He paused at the threshold long enough to nudge the door open with his foot. The hinges gave a soft, almost polite creak. Then he stepped inside, careful not to knock your head against the frame, and only set you down once he was fully over the line.

The moment your feet touched the wide-plank floorboards he kissed you. Not the quick, giddy ones from the past few days. This was slower. Deeper. His hands framed your face like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When he finally pulled back his forehead rested against yours.

"Hi, wife" he whispered.

Your heart did something ridiculous: tripped, then soared.

"Hi, husband."

He smiled against your mouth, small and private, then kissed you again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark rather than a paragraph.

Only then did he step back and actually look around. The cottage was exactly as the photos had promised, only better in person. Open-plan living area with a vaulted ceiling crossed by exposed beams. A stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. A kitchen island made from a single thick slab of walnut, still showing faint saw marks. Windows everywhere, floor-to-ceiling on the back wall looking straight into dense evergreens. The light inside was green-gold, filtered through needles.

Chan let out a low whistle. "This is… wow."

You wandered toward the windows while he went back outside to grab the suitcases. By the time he returned, two trips, stubbornly refusing your help, you had already kicked off your sneakers and were padding barefoot across the cool floorboards.

He dropped the bags near the couch, then came up behind you. Arms sliding around your waist. Chin hooking over your shoulder.

"Smell that?" he murmured.

You inhaled. Cedar. Woodsmoke from the last guests. Something faintly sweet, maybe wax polish. Underneath it all, him. Warm skin, faint traces of cologne that had survived twelve hours of travel.

"Yeah" you said softly.

He pressed his lips to the side of your neck. Just once. Lingering. "We’re really here."

You turned in his arms, hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heart was beating a little fast. "We are."

For a few minutes you just stood like that, swaying slightly, not quite dancing, just breathing each other in. Eventually hunger won out. You hadn’t eaten since the airport breakfast sandwiches.

Chan insisted on making dinner. You perched on one of the bar stools at the island and watched him move around the tiny kitchen like he’d lived there for years. He’d packed half the suitcase with groceries from a market stop an hour back: fresh vegetables, thick slices of hanwoo beef, garlic, gochujang, sesame oil, a bottle of soju wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t clink.

He hummed under his breath while he worked. Some melody you didn’t recognize, probably something he was still tinkering with in his head. Every so often he’d glance over at you and smile. Small. Secret. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were sitting there in his hoodie (the black one with the frayed drawstrings you’d stolen three years ago) watching your brand-new husband cook.

When the beef hit the hot pan the kitchen filled with sharp, caramelizing sizzle. You inhaled so deeply your eyes watered a little.

He laughed. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

He plated everything family-style: thin slices of perfectly seared meat, blistered shishito peppers, quick-pickled radish, steamed rice still sticking slightly to the sides of the pot. You ate at the little dining table near the windows as the sun dropped behind the ridge and turned the forest into velvet black.

After dinner you didn’t bother clearing the table right away. Instead Chan pulled you onto his lap on the wide leather couch. The fire he’d started earlier was crackling now, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and felt him exhale, long and slow, like he was finally letting the last of the city tension bleed out of him.

"Tell me something" he said quietly.

"Hm?"

"Anything. Just… talk to me."

So you did. You told him about the way your mom had sobbed when she saw you in the wedding dress for the first time. How your little cousin had tried to sneak an entire tray of macarons under the table. How you’d caught Chan’s youngest sister filming you both during the first dance and making kissy faces behind the camera.

He laughed, soft, rumbling, every time you got to a funny part. His fingers kept tracing absent circles on your lower back.

Eventually you ran out of stories and just listened to his heartbeat instead. After a while he spoke again, voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

"I keep thinking about the vows."

You lifted your head. "Yeah?"

He nodded. Eyes on the fire. "When I said ‘in all the chaos and all the quiet’… I didn’t know what the quiet would actually feel like. Not really. Not until right now."

You cupped his cheek. Thumb brushing the faint freckle under his eye.

"It’s nice, isn’t it?"

"More than nice."

He turned his head to kiss your palm. "I could get used to this."

You smiled. "We’ve got nine more days to practice."

His grin turned a little wicked. "Nine days" he echoed. "And nights."

You laughed and swatted his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, then tugged you closer until you were straddling him properly. The hoodie rode up your thighs; his hands found skin immediately: warm, possessive, but still careful.

"Not tonight" you murmured against his mouth. "Tonight I just want… this."

He searched your face for a second, then nodded. "Okay."

So you stayed like that, kissing slow and lazy, hands wandering without urgency, the fire popping every so often like it was keeping time. Eventually you migrated to the bedroom upstairs. It had a king bed made up with cream linens, a thick wool throw at the foot, and another wall of windows that looked out over nothing but treetops.

You changed into sleep clothes while Chan brushed his teeth. When he came back he was shirtless, sweatpants slung low. The new tattoo on his ribs: the tiny crescent moon you’d drawn on a napkin three years ago and begged him to keep forever, was stark against his skin in the low lamplight.

He caught you staring. "Like what you see, Mrs. Bahng?"

The name hit like a soft punch every time.

You crossed the room and slid your arms around his waist. "Very much, Mr. Bahng."

He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your mouth, gentle, lingering. When you finally crawled under the covers he followed, pulling you back against his chest the way he always did. One arm under your pillow. The other wrapped around your middle. His breath warm against your nape.

"Love you" he whispered into your hair.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Not even close. But tonight it felt different. Permanent. Etched.

You turned your head just enough to find his lips in the dark. "Love you too."

Sleep came slow and sweet, wrapped in laundry scented sheets and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The next morning you woke to birds and the smell of coffee.

Chan was already up, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing the soft gray hoodie you’d abandoned last night. He’d opened every window on the ground floor; cool morning air moved through the house like a sigh.

He handed you a mug without a word. Black. Two sugars. Exactly how you liked it.

You sat together on the porch steps while the mist still clung to the pines. Neither of you spoke for almost twenty minutes. Just sipped. Watched. Breathed.

Eventually he bumped your shoulder with his. "Walk?"

You nodded. So you walked. Hand in hand down the narrow dirt path that curved behind the cottage and disappeared into the trees. The forest smelled like wet bark and green life. Ferns brushed your calves. Chan didn’t talk much. Just pointed out little things: a woodpecker flashing red against a trunk, mushrooms the color of apricots growing in a fallen log, the way sunlight shattered through the canopy and landed in bright coins on the path.

At one point he stopped, crouched, and picked up a perfect pinecone. Turned it over in his fingers like it was treasure.

"Souvenir?" you teased.

He looked up at you, eyes soft. "For the studio. Put it on the desk. Every time I look at it I’ll remember this."

Your throat tightened. He stood, slipped the pinecone into his hoodie pocket, then pulled you close and kissed you right there in the middle of the path. Slow. Thorough. Like he had all the time in the world. Because for once, he did.

The rest of the day passed in that same gentle rhythm. Coffee. Breakfast (pancakes he insisted on flipping dramatically, nearly catching the ceiling fan). A long nap on the couch with your head in his lap while he scrolled through photos from the wedding on his phone, showing you his favorites and pretending he wasn’t tearing up at the candid of you laughing during your vows.

Late lunch turned into early dinner because neither of you wanted to stop touching long enough to cook properly. You ended up eating cheese and crackers and fruit on the rug in front of the fire, feeding each other bites and laughing when strawberry juice dripped on his chin.

Night fell soft and cool. You took a bath together in the deep clawfoot tub, bubbles up to your chin, his long legs folded awkwardly around yours, both of you giggling like teenagers when water sloshed over the side.

Afterward he wrapped you in the biggest towel like you were something precious, carried you to bed, and spent twenty minutes just kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Not trying to start anything. Just… worshipping.

When he finally settled behind you again, spooning close, his voice was rough with sleep and something deeper.

"Best decision I ever made" he mumbled into your shoulder.

You laced your fingers with his. Felt the rings click together. "Second best" you whispered back. "First was letting me steal your hoodie three years ago."

He huffed a laugh against your neck. "Fair."

And then you both drifted off to the sound of wind moving through the pines and the soft crackle of embers dying in the hearth downstairs.

The golden hour had stretched longer than usual that afternoon, painting the entire cottage in honey and amber through the tall windows. You’d spent most of the day barefoot, wearing nothing but Chan’s oversized black hoodie, the one with the faded logo across the chest and sleeves so long they swallowed your hands. It hit you mid-thigh when you stood still, shorter when you reached or bent. You hadn’t bothered with anything underneath. Not today.

Chan had noticed. He’d noticed the first time you stretched up to grab a mug from the high shelf and the hem rode up just enough to show the soft curve where thigh met hip. He’d noticed again when you leaned across the kitchen island to steal a slice of apple from the cutting board he was using, the fabric shifting, exposing skin that made his knife pause mid-chop. He’d noticed every single time you walked past him, slow, deliberate, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of his gaze dragging down your legs like a physical touch.

By four, the air inside felt thicker than the pine-scented breeze drifting through the open windows. The fire he’d built earlier had died down to glowing coals; neither of you had bothered to add more wood. You were both too distracted.

You were rinsing a glass at the sink when you felt him move behind you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just… inevitable. His chest pressed lightly to your back first. Then his hands, those beautiful, veined, calloused hands, slid over your hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under the hoodie’s hem. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, breathing you in, letting you feel how hard he already was through the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. "You’ve been staring all day."

His laugh was low. Rough. "Can you blame me?"

One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until his palm flattened against your stomach under the hoodie. The other stayed low, fingers splaying across the top of your thigh, not quite touching where you wanted him most. Teasing.

"You look…" He swallowed. Voice dropped even lower. "…like mine."

The words landed heavy in your belly. You turned in his arms. The glass clinked forgotten against the sink edge.

Chan’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, that familiar flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. He looked wrecked already and he hadn’t even kissed you yet.

You reached up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose. "Then take what’s yours, husband."

The word snapped something in him. He kissed you like he was starving, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the careful sweetness from the night before. His hands shoved under the hoodie immediately, rough palms skating up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him; he groaned into your mouth at the feel of bare skin, no bra, no barriers.

"Fuck" he breathed against your lips. "No underwear?"

"Thought you might like the surprise."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. Then he was lifting you, effortless, like you weighed nothing, until your thighs wrapped around his waist. The hoodie rucked up completely now, bunched around your ribs. Cool air hit overheated skin; you shivered.

Chan carried you the few steps to the sturdy oak kitchen table. He didn’t bother clearing the cutting board or the half-chopped vegetables. Just shoved them aside with one forearm, carrots rolling, knife clattering and set you down on the edge.

He stepped between your legs, hands immediately pushing the hoodie higher until it bunched under your arms, exposing you completely to him. His gaze raked down your body like he was trying to memorize every inch all over again.

"God…" His voice cracked. "Look at you."

You leaned back on your palms, thighs parting wider in invitation. "Like what you see?"

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he dropped to his knees, right there on the worn rug in front of the table and hooked your legs over his shoulders in one smooth motion. You gasped when his mouth found the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing just enough to sting. He worked his way up slowly, deliberately, kissing and licking and sucking marks into skin that would bloom purple by morning.

When he finally reached where you were already slick and aching, he paused, just long enough to meet your eyes.

"Been thinking about this since the second we walked through the door yesterday" he murmured, breath hot against you. "About spreading you out. Tasting my wife on my tongue. Making you come so hard you forget your own name."

Then he licked a slow, broad stripe up your center. Your head fell back on a broken moan.

Chan didn’t tease after that. He devoured. Tongue flat and firm, then pointed and quick, circling your clit with devastating precision. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, thick, curled just right and you clenched around them immediately. He groaned at the feel of it, the sound vibrating through you.

"Fuck, you’re so wet" he rasped between licks. "So fucking perfect."

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He only doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers pumping steadily, thumb brushing the sensitive spot just above where his tongue worked.

The table creaked under your shifting weight. Your heels dug into his back. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly until it snapped, sudden, blinding. You came with a cry that echoed off the high ceiling, thighs trembling around his head, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to hurt.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks faded and you were whimpering from overstimulation. Only then did he pull back.

His lips were swollen, chin glistening. Eyes wild. He rose slowly, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave prints. When he kissed you again you tasted yourself on his tongue, salty, intimate. You moaned into his mouth.

"Need you" you whispered against his lips. "Now."

Chan didn’t make you ask twice. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He fisted himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. "Condom?" he asked, voice gravel.

You shook your head. "I’m still on the pill. And we’re married now." You smiled, small and wicked. "I want to feel you. All of you."

Something feral flickered across his face. He lined himself up, notched the head against your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every ridge, until he was buried to the hilt. Both of you froze.

He dropped his forehead to yours. Breathing ragged. "Fuck…" The word was punched out of him. "You feel, shit, baby, you feel like heaven."

You clenched around him on purpose. He jerked. Swore under his breath in Korean, low, filthy things you only half-understood but felt everywhere. Then he started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you in a way that felt brand new even after years together. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones.

"Look at me" he breathed.

You did. His eyes were liquid dark, pupils swallowing the brown. Sweat already beading at his temples. That stupidly beautiful face flushed and focused entirely on you.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered, testing the words again like they were still new magic. "My wife."

He thrust harder on the next stroke. Deeper. You gasped. He smiled, slow, dangerous.

"That’s it. Let me hear you."

The pace built steadily. The table rocked beneath you now, wood groaning in protest. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red crescents across ink and skin. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you: long, punishing strokes that hit exactly where you needed, grinding his pelvis against your clit on every deep thrust.

"God, you’re so tight" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me. Always so ready."

You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle. He swore again, loud this time, head dropping to your shoulder as he drove in harder.

"Chan-"

"Say it again" he demanded against your neck. Teeth grazing your pulse. "Say my name."

"Chan" you gasped. "Husband, fuck, please-"

He lifted his head. Kissed you messy and desperate. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.

"Come for me again" he growled against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Wanna feel my wife fall apart."

The words, combined with the relentless pressure, the stretch, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe, sent you over the edge for the second time.

You shattered. Loud. Unrestrained. Back arching off the table, thighs shaking, walls pulsing around him so hard he nearly lost rhythm.

"Fuck, yes...fuck..." His voice broke. "That’s it, baby, milk me, fuck..."

He fucked you through it, harder, faster, chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping, breath coming in sharp pants against your throat.

"Where?" he managed, voice wrecked. "Tell me where-"

"Inside" you breathed without hesitation. "Want it inside. Want all of you."

That did it. He slammed in one last time, deep, grinding and came with a guttural moan that vibrated through both of you. You felt him pulse, felt the hot rush of him filling you, felt the way his whole body shuddered as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried deep, arms wrapping around you, pulling you up until you were sitting pressed chest-to-chest. His forehead rested against yours again. Both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

For long minutes there was only the sound of your breathing, the faint crackle of dying coals in the fireplace, and the occasional drip of water from the sink you’d never turned off.

Chan kissed your temple. Soft. Reverent.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered again, like he couldn’t stop tasting it.

You smiled against his cheek. "Mr. Bahng."

He huffed a laugh, still breathless, then kissed you properly. Slow. Lazy. Full of all the things neither of you needed to say out loud anymore.

Eventually he softened enough to slip out. You both winced at the loss. He glanced down between you, watched the slow trickle of his come leak out and made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.

"Fuck. That’s hot."

You laughed, swatting his chest weakly. "Perv."

"Your perv." He grinned. Kissed the tip of your nose. "Forever."

He helped you down from the table, legs shaky, thighs sticky then scooped you up bridal-style like he had on the threshold yesterday. You looped your arms around his neck.

"Bed?" you asked.

"Shower first" he decided. "Then bed. Then maybe round two."

You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

He carried you toward the stairs anyway. "I’ve got eight more days to make sure you can still feel me when we get home" he murmured against your ear. "Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be mine."

You shivered. Pressed closer.

"Good" you whispered back. "Because I don’t ever want to forget."

He kissed you again, right there on the stairs, slow and deep and full of promise.

Then he carried you the rest of the way upstairs, into the bathroom, under the warm spray of the shower where he washed you carefully, reverently, like you were something sacred.

And when you finally collapsed into the big bed afterward, clean, boneless, tangled together under the thick quilts, he pulled you close, lips brushing your shoulder.

"Love you" he murmured into your skin.

You turned just enough to find his mouth in the dark. "Love you too."

The forest outside was quiet except for the wind in the pines.

Inside, it was only the sound of two hearts beating in time. And the soft click of wedding rings brushing together under the covers.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“What’s that look for?” Chris asked eventually after y/n kept giving him shy glances 

“What look? I’m not doing anything.” y/n said, hardly even looking at Chris. Sometimes, his eyes just made her too nervous. They were always filled with so much affection for her, it was overwhelming. 

Chris pushes himself over towards his girlfriend who’s sitting on the couch cushion next to him, and raises a hand to her cheek. His palm is hot on her cheek, as he slowly rubs his thumb in a soothing motion, to get her to look at him. 

“You looked mad,” Chris said as he looked at his girl with such loving eyes. 

“I’m not mad.” y/n says as she looks up at him through her lashes. Still a little too shy to look at him properly. 

“I know you aren’t. You just had that look. Still feel like there’s something wrong.” he said as he kissed her cheek. 

“No, there’s nothing wrong.” y/n mutters as Chris brings his hand down off her cheek. The second his hand is off her cheek, Chris sees her face form into a small frown. Y/n’s eyebrows furrow just a smidge, and her lips form a small pout. She shyly glances at his face and then down to the hand that was just holding her cheek.

“Hey. There’s that face again. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, babygirl?” Chris chuckles but reaches his hand back for her cheek. 

The second his hand is back on her cheek, it's like y/n’s entire body relaxed. Her shoulders dropping, leaning her face into his touch, letting herself feel his big, warm hand be so soft on her cheek. 

“No, I’m really not mad. I just… I just wanted this. I wanted to feel your skin on mine, and know that you’re there.” y/n muttered shyly, hiding her face in her hands. “I think I also just really want a hug.” She giggles as she hides her face deeper, not being able to look at his loving eyes. 

“Aww. Babygirl, really? This is all you wanted? Just some physical touch. You are absolutely adorable.” He says, bringing his hands up to her wrist to reveal her face. “C’mon baby. Let me see that sweet face of yours.” He chuckles as he watches her hide her face for a few more seconds before finally giving into his wishes. 

Chris pulls her forward by her waist, maneuvering her around to sit right in his lap. Wrapping his muscular arms around her waist, and squeezing her in a bone crushing hug that they both needed so terribly. 

Y/n lets a little squeak as she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook where his neck and shoulder meet. Not being able to resist, she pressed light kisses to his neck. 

five years, in the grand scheme of life, was never an impossible distance. two grown hearts finding one another was hardly unheard of, hardly worthy of the weight chan insisted on placing upon his own shoulders. and yet, for him, the years carried meaning that numbers alone never could.

he had spent so much of his life becoming shelter. being the steady voice in crowded rooms, hands already reaching out to help before anyone thought to ask. draping his warm jacket over colder shoulders, tilting the umbrella a little more toward someone else. 

the quiet "i've got you" spoken so naturally it had become instinct instead of choice. somewhere along the way, he had stopped seeing himself as simply a man and had unconsciously settled into something broader or older, a person meant to look after everyone standing beside him, the one people leaned against when their own strength faltered.

and then there was you. twenty four.

you arrived without trying to change the shape of his world, carrying sunlight as though it had chosen your skin as its favourite resting place, laughter soft enough to resemble the first breeze slipping through open curtains on an early spring morning, your kindness never loud enough to demand attention but impossible not to notice once it wrapped itself around the room. there was something impossibly fresh about you, like rain still clinging to jasmine petals before dawn, or clean linen drying beneath an endless sky, or the sweet scent of peaches carried lazily through summer air. 

your voice never crashed into silence, because it settled there. as warm as honey stirred into tea, gentle enough that people found themselves smiling before they even realised why.

you were younger than jeongin, and he knew that. that single thought would ambush him at the most ridiculous moments.

he'd be rinsing vegetables in the kitchen. "...fuck." his ears would bloom pink before anyone had even spoken.

or .. he'd be driving home beneath amber streetlights, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the steering wheel until the thought wandered in completely uninvited. she's literally younger than jeongin.

"...jesus christ."

his entire face would scrunch as one hand flew instinctively to the back of his neck, rubbing at skin that suddenly felt far too warm, shoulders curling inward as if he could somehow hide from a fact that existed only inside his own head.

it wasn't your maturity he questioned, nor your heart, nor the way you moved through the world with quiet thoughtfulness that made even ordinary moments feel carefully held. 

when he looked at you, he never saw someone who needed raising or rescuing. he saw someone who offered warmth without expecting repayment, someone who listened with both ears and her whole heart, someone whose gentleness carried its own quiet kind of strength.

nope! it embarrassed him because his mind had spent years carefully placing himself into little boxes without him ever noticing.

leader, older brother, caretaker, hyung, safe place. and now, suddenly, his own heart had wandered somewhere those labels hadn't prepared him to go. it felt almost unfair, like discovering, after years of believing your hands were only meant to build homes for everyone else, that they were trembling because they wanted to reach for one particular person instead.

you, however, never seemed burdened by it. when you looked at him, you saw the way his eyes disappeared whenever he laughed too hard. the warmth of his palm instinctively finding yours in crowded places.

the comforting weight of his hoodie around your shoulders carrying traces of fresh detergent, cedarwood cologne, and the faint sweetness of vanilla that always seemed to linger wherever he had been.

you saw someone whose hugs slowed your heartbeat until it matched his, whose voice settled over tired evenings like blankets still warm from the dryer, whose quiet "you've eaten, right?" tasted more comforting than any homecooked meal ever could.

and perhaps that was why, little by little, the numbers began dissolving. because love, when it is patient enough, has a beautiful habit of making arithmetic feel remarkably small beside the feeling of finally being understood.

the years remained exactly where they had always been. only now, they no longer stood between you.

they simply rested quietly behind you both, while he reached for your hand with the same shy smile that still made his ears pink, wondering how something that had once embarrassed him so deeply had become one of the gentlest stories his heart would ever get to tell.

yang jeongin, of course, discovered your age gap almost immediately.

and, being the wonderfully insufferable younger brother he had always been, treated the information like a tiny treasure tucked safely into his pocket, ready to be pulled out whenever the room felt just a little too quiet.

only because few things in this world were as genuinely delightful as watching christopher bang, steady, dependable, and our composed christopher bang; forget how to function over something so painfully harmless.

dorm conversations could be about absolutely anything .. the weather, takeaway menus, whose turn it was to wash the dishes, before jeongin would look up with the picture of innocence painted across his face and murmur, "hyung .. she calls me oppa."

he continued. " .. should i start calling you ahjussi?"

the room would erupt before chan even had the chance to defend himself. laughter bounced off the walls, someone nearly choking on their drink while changbin slapped the table, felix already folded in half, wheezing loud enough to scare the neighbours.

and chan? he wouldn't even argue anymore. he'd simply let out the longest, most defeated groan known to mankind, burying his burning face in both hands as if the wooden dining table might kindly open up and swallow him whole.

"iyen-ah..." he'd mumble through his fingers, his australian accent growing thicker with every ounce of second hand embarrassment. "can you not?" which, naturally, only made everyone laugh harder.

you'd be sitting beside him, lips pressed together in a hopeless attempt to hide your smile, only for him to peek at you through the tiny gap between his fingers with the most betrayed little pout.

"..don't you dare laugh." you did anyway.

and despite all the "bullied in his own home," there was always the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. because if this was the price of loving you, well, he supposed he could survive being called old every now and then.

eventually, the jokes begin to fade. 

all the members notice the way his entire body seems to exhale whenever your name is mentioned. then his voice softens without permission, dropping into that warm, honeyed register that feels like coming home after a long day. then his eyes, always kind, become impossibly gentler when they find you across a room.

his actions .. ♡︎

he's unconsciously, hopelessly affectionate !!!!! a hand on your lower back, fingers laced together beneath the table, his chin resting on your shoulder while you both quietly exist beside each other, because to chan, closeness has always been its own love language <3 

his hugs feel less like being held and more like coming home. he wraps around you completely, one hand on your back, the other cradling your head, until the world grows quieter against the warmth of his hoodie.

overtime quickly becomes the only thing he genuinely resents. and that is a very big thing knowing chan. coming home long after midnight to find you asleep on the sofa waiting for him always leaves him standing frozen in the doorway, guilt settling heavily in his chest.

he never wakes you straight away though! instead, he brushes your hair away from your face, whispering tiny apologies into the silence, convinced he should somehow have found more hours in the day just to spend with you.

sometimes you wake anyway, smiling sleepily the moment you see him. his forehead immediately finds yours as he laughs under his breath, mumbling, "missed you so much," as though he'd been gone for weeks instead of a single afternoon.

minho once walks into the practice room expecting to find their leader working, only to discover chan quietly fting you while you bake cookies. he barely says anything beyond soft little reminders not to burn yourself, yet somehow hangs up looking more recharged than after any amount of coffee.

bini always knows when you've visited the company without anyone telling him. chan smiles at absolutely nothing for the rest of the day, and that's apparently all the evidence he needs!

whenever chan quietly slips away to have dinner with you, the members cover for him without hesitation. they absolutely do tease him relentlessly afterwards, of course.

he's so shamelessly domestic without even noticing it i swear! he replaces your empty shampoo, warms your mug before making tea, and folds your laundry despite your dramatic protests saying, "baby .. i'm already doing mine, i'll do yours too." with that :] smile of his.

he kisses your forehead more than anywhere else!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

on nights when sleep refuses to find him, you quietly curl beneath his arm by the window without saying a word. your presence alone slows his breathing enough for the weight on his shoulders to feel lighter.

　 ㅤ꯭yani ❤︎ hihello thank u for patiently waiting for this .. assignments decided to fmeintheassbutits ok ! i wanted to post this b4 stay day LOL so here u go !! the other members' ver.s might take longer though .. im sorry .. anyways ! my birthday is near👀👀 can anyb get me a puppym plushie please .. also !! qna event for 2k is open till 0801, so send in some asks pls <3

HEARTLIST 𑄝੭ @its-stayville-forever @box-troll @woozarts @katsukis1wife @nctly @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika @jeonginsbae @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @tricky-ritz @mangojellyyy @coquettecookiestay143 @hwangjoanna @jjuniebinnie @queenofdumbfuckery @wheresangel @warped-rabbithole @amarecerasus @straykiisses @hyunnerism @alisonyus @bangingchanxx @simpqueen2025 @pillbaby-main @chuahuahua @wheresangel @firstclassjaylee @shinwonderful @lolawritesforlove @hyunjinniemylove @babrieeee @midnite-fiction @eyisy @itsraininghyunebuckets @satan-223 @mikachux3 @itsraininghyunebuckets @lovelyjinirets @written-by-music ❤︎ get added!

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Sundays were your favorite.

Everyone else hated them because it meant the weekend was over, but every other Sunday meant catching your new neighbor in his garage with the door rolled open, grease staining his hands while he worked on whatever car currently had its guts spread across the driveway.

Was this borderline stalking? Probably

But he’d never introduced himself, and neither had you, and it had somehow been almost a month since he moved into the small corner house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Everyone in the cul-de-sac knows each other.

Except him.

He was still an enigma.

Instead of peeking through the blinds like a stalker, you convinced yourself that opening every blind in the house was a perfectly normal alternative.

And there he was, standing in the middle of his driveway with a phone pressed to his ear instead of working on the unfamiliar car sitting with its hood popped open.

He looked worn out actually. Still attractive, unfortunately. But exhausted.

The brutal summer heat probably wasn’t helping either, and before you could stop yourself, one singular thought drifted into your mind:

Is he staying hydrated?

Which immediately sparked an entire chain of questions that could only be answered if you actually spoke to him for once.

So now you were standing in your kitchen cutting apples and making lavender lemonade.

Generic? Maybe.

But it felt like a decent way to introduce yourself without sounding insane.

You definitely weren’t going to tell him you made it specifically for him, though.

You didn’t care much about presentation either.

The apple slices got tossed into a sandwich bag, and you poured two glasses of lemonade. Less in yours to make it look like you’d already been drinking it, and more in the one meant for him.

The outfit, though, took a little more thought.

It was way too hot outside for sweatpants, and if you were finally going to talk to him, the last thing you wanted was to sweat through your clothes.

So, summer shorts and a cute tank it was.

Nothing wrong with showing a little skin when your neighbor spent half his life shirtless in the driveway anyway.

𝜗𝜚

As you headed for the door, you peeked out the window one last time to assess his current predicament.

The phone was gone now, and half his body was buried beneath the hood of the car as he worked, completely unaware that you were seconds away from walking across the street with a quick pick-me-up and several weeks’ worth of curiosity.

The closer you got, the more clearly you could hear the soft spill of saxophones and low bass drifting from the garage speakers.

And unfortunately for your sanity, he looked just as good from the back as he did from the front.

“Jazz fan?” you asked softly, careful not to startle him beneath the hood of the car.

The reaction was immediate.

He jerked hard enough to smack his head against the underside of the hood with a loud clank.

“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step while rubbing the spot with grease-stained fingers.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” he laughed breathlessly, still wincing. “That’s my fault. I think I lost the ability to hear anything besides this engine like twenty minutes ago.”

Up close, he looked even more exhausted.

Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes, damp curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. There was grease smeared along his forearm, another streak near his jaw, and somehow the whole thing only made him more attractive.

Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d crossed the street carrying homemade lemonade just because he looked tired.

His gaze finally dropped to the midday snack in your hands. “…Is that for me?” he asked carefully, like he genuinely wasn’t sure.

“Uh,” you started, suddenly very aware of how suspicious this probably looked.

“I was already making some for myself,” you lied smoothly. “And you looked like you were one second from passing out, so…”

His gaze flicked between you, the lemonade, and the apples in the sandwich bag. “Right,” he said slowly, like he absolutely did not believe you.

Which was fair. Nobody casually made lavender lemonade in this economy.

Still, he took the glass from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second.

“Well,” he said, softer this time, “thanks. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that your entire nervous system had just short-circuited over brief hand contact.

He took a long sip almost immediately, and the faint tension in his shoulders eased a little.

“Okay,” he admitted after a second, glancing down at the cup, “this is actually really good.”

“Thank you,” you said, maybe a little too fast. The corner of his mouth twitched before the soft sound of saxophone filled the brief silence between you again.

You nodded toward the speaker tucked near the back of the garage.

“So you are a jazz fan.”

Chan glanced over his shoulder at the music before looking back at you. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone trying to figure out if you’re secretly eighty years old.”

That finally earned you a real laugh. Warm, low, slightly tired around the edges. “Jazz is timeless,” he defended.

“That’s not helping your case, actually.”

He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. You bring me lemonade and immediately start attacking me.”

“Keeps you humble, I think.”

“I don’t think I was arrogant to begin with.”

“You mow your lawn shirtless,”

It went completely silent.

Fuck. I said way too much.

Chan stared at you for two full seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched

“In my defense,” he said carefully, “it was ninety degrees.”

Chan took another sip of lemonade, “So you like watching your neighbors do lawn work?”

All of a sudden you were burning up. “I was curious that morning.”

“Mm.” Chan glanced down at the lemonade. “Curious enough to start bringing me refreshments.”

“I’m being neighborly,” you defended immediately.

Chan hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And the apples?”

“Also already cut.”

“Right.”

“You’re being really judgmental for someone accepting free lemonade.”

That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, like he was finally relaxing into the conversation instead of standing awkwardly inside it.

“Well, since we’ve both noticed each other and somehow still never spoken…” you said, “I think that makes us equally guilty.”

Chan’s smile widened behind the rim of his cup.

“Equally guilty, huh?”

“Painfully guilty.”

“Good to know I’m not the only terrible neighbor here.”

“You’re still worse,” you said. “You moved in and didn’t introduce yourself.”

“You watched me mow my lawn shirtless and didn’t introduce yourself either.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it immediately.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” you said, even though it absolutely was not.

Chan looked far too entertained by your suffering.

“So,” he said, leaning back against the car, “how long was I under neighborhood surveillance before you finally decided to talk to me?”

“Surveillance is a strong word.”

“That somehow sounds worse.”His laugh came easier now, lighter than before.

“For the record,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the garage, “you’re kind of hard to ignore.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That so?”

Heat rushed to your face immediately. “That sounded less embarrassing in my head.”

“Good to know my hard work is appreciated.”

“Your hard work?” you repeated incredulously.

“Maintaining a lawn is serious business.”

“You’re standing here covered in engine grease trying to flirt about landscaping.”

He blinked at you. "I'm not flirting.” The denial came way too fast to sound convincing.

You stared him for a second. "Sure."

His mouth twitched again before he looked away, suddenly seeming very interested in the rag beside him. "Okay, maybe a little."

The admission sounded accidental. Honest in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Like realizing he’d been charming without fully meaning to be.

He wiped his hand against the rag before finally holding it out toward you. “I should probably introduce myself properly before my neighbors start opening investigation files on me,” he said. “Chan.”

You told him your name, trying not to focus on how warm his hand felt when your fingers slipped into his.

“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles before letting go.

The gesture was brief enough that you could’ve imagined it. Unfortunately, your brain decided to replay it anyway.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, “what exactly are you working on?”

Chan glanced back toward the car like he’d almost forgotten it existed. “Customer’s car,” he explained. “Or… technically my friend’s customer. I’m helping him out.”

“Meaning you’re fixing someone else’s problem on your day off?”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds terrible.”

He laughed softly. “You get used to it.”

You watched him take another sip of lemonade before his shoulders relaxed again, just slightly.

“Long day?” you asked before thinking too hard about it.

Something flickered across his face then. Quick enough that you almost missed it.

“Long month,” he admitted instead.

The answer settled between you more honestly than expected.

And for the first time since moving in, the mysterious neighbor across the street stopped feeling mysterious at all.

Just human.

Right on cue, his phone started ringing again.

And just like that, the same expression from earlier returned. The softness in his face tightened almost instantly, exhaustion settling back over his features like something heavy and familiar.

Chan glanced at the screen and exhaled quietly through his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured, already reaching for it.

“No, you’re okay,” you replied quickly.

For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he answered the call with a tired, “Hey, Mom.”

Mom?

Your curiosity immediately sharpened, but you stepped back anyway, lifting a hand in a small goodbye to give him some privacy.

Chan glanced up from the call almost immediately.

“Wait,” he said quickly, covering the phone against his chest for half a second.

The suddenness of it made you pause.

“Thanks for the lemonade,” he added, softer this time. “And for finally introducing yourself.”

Something warm fluttered annoyingly in your chest. “Try not to die of heatstroke,” you replied.

A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “No promises.”

As you walked back across the street, you heard him sigh quietly into the phone behind you

“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Just bring her back. It’s fine. Thanks.”

Her?

Your steps slowed for only half a second before you forced yourself to keep walking.

It wasn’t your business.

Probably.

𝜗𝜚

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly after that.

You watered your plants. Folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for two days. Pretended very hard not to glance out the window every ten minutes.

Around an hour later, movement across the street finally caught your attention again.

A familiar older woman pulled into Chan’s driveway in a silver SUV. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

A little girl climbed out of the backseat holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, her tiny sneakers lighting up against the pavement with every step she took.

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Chan appeared from the garage almost immediately after hearing the car door shut.

The exhaustion you’d seen earlier softened the second the little girl spotted him.

“Daddy!”

She launched herself across the driveway at full speed, stuffed rabbit bouncing wildly behind her.

Chan barely had time to crouch before she collided into him, and just like that, the intimidatingly attractive mechanic across the street completely melted.

“Hey, bug,” he laughed softly, catching her against his chest with practiced ease. “Miss me already?”

The little girl nodded dramatically against his shoulder.

From your window, you watched him press a kiss to the side of her head before standing again, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The older woman said something to him then, too far away for you to hear clearly.

You watched see him sigh in response.

She reached up to squeeze his shoulder before heading back toward her car.

Mom.

Well that explained the grocery bags.

The little girl kept talking animatedly while he listened, nodding along despite the lingering exhaustion still written all over him.

And against your better judgment, something in your chest tightened at the sight.

You really tried not to stare after that.

Tried being the important word.

Because the next thing you knew, Chan was balancing the little girl on his hip while attempting to close the garage with the other hand, and she was very seriously holding his lemonade for him like it was an important assignment.

Your lemonade.

Which somehow made the entire thing feel weirdly intimate. The little girl took a curious sip from the straw before immediately making a face.

Chan laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired, polite kind he’d given you earlier, but something fuller. Easier.

The sound carried faintly across the street even through your closed window. Then, like she could feel herself being observed, the little girl suddenly looked up.

Directly toward your house.

Your body reacted before your brain did, ducking beneath the window.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to yourself from the floor.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted yourself just high enough to peek over the windowsill again.

He was already looking directly at your house. Specifically, at the exact window you’d just disappeared from.

Mortification hit instantly.

The little girl was still perched on his hip, tiny hands wrapped around the lemonade cup while she whispered something into his ear.

Chan started to smirk.

Oh god.

She definitely noticed you spying.

Before you could disappear for a second time, the little girl suddenly lifted her arm and waved enthusiastically through the window.

Bright, excited and completely unashamed.

Chan glanced down at her, then back toward your house, and to your complete horror, he smiled too. Soft and sleepy around the edges.

Well there went your ability to act normal around this family.

𝜗𝜚

Things only got worse the following evening. Or better. Maybe.

Unfortunately, the distinction was becoming harder to make.

You were dragging grocery bags out of your trunk when you heard tiny sneakers slapping against pavement.

“Hi!”

You looked up just in time to see the little girl from yesterday standing at the edge of your driveway.

Up close, she looked even smaller. Big dark eyes, messy curls, and the same stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm like it legally belonged to her.

Chan trailed a few steps behind her carrying two takeout bags and looking deeply apologetic already. “I’m so sorry,” he called out immediately. “She saw you and escaped.”

“I did not escape,” the little girl argued.

“You absolutely escaped.”

She ignored him completely and looked back at you instead. “Daddy said you made magic lemonade.”

You blinked once. Then slowly turned toward Chan. “Magic lemonade?”

Chan looked mildly horrified. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said it had flowers in it.”

“…That is unfortunately true.”

The little girl stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically like she was sharing a very serious secret. “Daddy talked about your lemonade all night.”

Chan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and genuine embarrassment. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the sky for patience. “I think that’s enough sharing for today.”

“I like your flowers too,” she added helpfully.

“Okay, seriously, whose side are you on?” Chan asked.

She gasped softly. “Yours.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You finally laughed, unable to help it anymore, and something in Chan’s expression softened immediately at the sound.

The little girl beamed proudly at the fact that she’d apparently succeeded in making everyone equally uncomfortable.

“I’m Jia,” she announced suddenly.

“Jia,” Chan repeated with the deep weariness of a man who knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “What do we say when introducing ourselves to strangers?”

She thought about it very seriously. “…My dad is twenty-eight?”

Chan closed his eyes. “That is not remotely what I meant.”

“You asked me to be polite,” Jia defended immediately.

“I did,” Chan agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d start listing my personal information like a tiny government employee.”

Jia looked completely unbothered by this comparison. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to laugh yourself into cardiac arrest in your own driveway.

“Twenty-eight, huh?” you repeated lightly before you could stop yourself.

Chan pointed at you instantly. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just processing the information I was given.”

“Against my will.”

Jia tugged on his sleeve. “Can we have nuggets now?” The dramatic betrayal faded from his face immediately.

“Yeah, bug,” he sighed softly. “We can have nuggets now.”And there it was again. That softness. The one that seemed to appear every time he looked at her.

You’d kill for him to look at you like that.

Which felt slightly dramatic considering you’d known this man for less than forty-eight hours.

But still.

Chan adjusted the takeout bags in one hand before nodding toward you.

“Sorry again,” he said. “She’s decided privacy is optional.”

“I heard that,” Jia informed him.

“I know you did.”

You smiled despite yourself. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think I’ve learned more about you in five minutes than I did the entire month you lived here.”

“That’s because my roommate keeps violating confidentiality agreements.”

Jia looked delighted by this accusation.

Before he could start ushering Jia toward the house again, you crouched slightly to her level. “Well, Jia,” you said seriously, “I should probably introduce myself properly too.”

Once you told her your name, Jia stared at you for a second before slowly lifting the stuffed rabbit into view. “And this is Leebit.”

“Leebit?” you repeated carefully.

Jia nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable name for a stuffed rabbit. “She’s sensitive.”

“I understand completely,” you replied.

Chan laughed quietly behind her, softer this time. “Okay,” he sighed, finally steering Jia back toward the house before she revealed his blood type next. “Dinner before you expose anything else about this family.”

“Bye!” Jia called, already halfway up the driveway.

Then she stopped suddenly and turned back around. “Wait,” she gasped dramatically. “We forgot to say thank you for the magic lemonade.”

Chan sighed toward the heavens. “It was lavender, Jia.”

“That’s magic to me.”

Honestly? Fair enough.

You smiled, folding your arms lightly against your chest. “You’re welcome.”

Jia beamed at you one last time before finally allowing herself to be herded toward the front door.

He lingered behind for half a second longer. The porch light caught softly against the tired edges of his face, but for the first time since you’d met him, he looked lighter somehow.

“Sorry in advance,” he said quietly, glancing toward the tiny chaos already disappearing inside the house. “She gets attached to people fast.”

Your stomach betrayed you instantly. “That makes two of us,” you almost said.

Instead, you just smiled. “I think I can handle her.”

Chan looked at you for a second too long before finally nodding once. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Chan.”

You spent the rest of the night trying not to think about them.

Which was difficult when your kitchen still smelled faintly like lavender and fresh lemons. Worse, every time you closed your eyes, your brain insisted on replaying tiny moments like an aggressively edited romantic comedy montage.

Chan laughing softly in the driveway.

Jia introducing Leebit with complete sincerity.

The way his face changed whenever he looked at his daughter.

By the time morning rolled around, you’d managed to convince yourself to act normal about the entire thing.

That resolution lasted until approximately 10:14 a.m. Because when you opened your front door to grab a package, Jia was sitting on your porch.

Alone.

Holding Leebit.

And coloring directly on your welcome mat with sidewalk chalk.

“Jia?” you blurted immediately, eyes widening.

She looked up from the chalk drawing completely relaxed, as if this had always been her porch too. “Hi,” she said happily. Leebit was tucked beneath one arm while pink chalk dust coated her fingers.

Your heart nearly stopped. “Why are you over here by yourself?”

Jia pointed vaguely behind her with the chalk, “Daddy’s sleeping.”

Oh.

“Jia,” you said carefully, crouching down a little, “did you sneak out?”

She gasped like you’d accused her of a serious crime. “No.”

A pause.

“I walked out.”

You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing at the worst possible time.

“Okay,” you said slowly, “that’s still not something you’re supposed to do by yourself.”

Jia considered this information while drawing another aggressively pink line across the concrete. “Daddy was sleeping,” she explained again, like that answered everything.

Which, honestly, explained enough.

Your gaze flicked across the street toward Chan’s house. The curtains were still closed.

A tiny thread of concern tugged at your chest.“How long have you been over here?” you asked gently.

Jia shrugged. “Since cartoons.”

That was not a measurement of time.

“Jia,” you said carefully, “what does that even mean?”

She blinked up at you like you were the confusing one.“The blue dog cartoons.”

…Still not a real answer.

Your concern must’ve shown on your face because Jia suddenly held Leebit out toward you reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said confidently. “I know where my house is.”

“That’s not my concern, sweetie,” you said gently. “Some cars drive really fast around here. What if you got hurt?”

Jia’s expression faltered slightly for the first time since you opened the door. “But I looked both ways,” she defended quietly.

Your heart squeezed a little. “I know you did, sweetie,” you replied softly. “But you still can’t leave the house without telling your dad, okay?”

Jia looked down at the chalk in her hand.“…Okay.”

And suddenly the situation felt a lot less funny.

“Come on,” you said gently, standing back up. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want your dad waking up and panicking because he can’t find you.”

Jia’s eyes widened slightly. “He’ll panic?”

“Absolutely.”

She looked genuinely thoughtful about this revelation before quietly gathering her chalk pieces into a tiny pile.

Leebit was tucked securely beneath her arm again as she reached for your hand without hesitation.

And that tiny, instinctive trust nearly took you out on the spot. Crossing the street with her tiny hand wrapped around yours felt strangely domestic. Girl, get it together.

The front door of Chan’s house was unlocked when you gently pushed it open, calling out a cautious, “Chan?”

No answer.

The house was quiet in that heavy, sleepy kind of way that suggested someone had crashed hard after being exhausted for too long.

Jia immediately slipped off toward the living room like this was a completely normal morning adventure.

You followed after her just in time to see him asleep on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes. Phone still in his hand.

The television played softly in the background to absolutely nobody.

The second Jia climbed onto the couch beside him, Chan jolted awake so fast it genuinely startled you.

“So sorry for the intrusion,” you blurted out immediately. This was definitely not how you envisioned the first time stepping inside his house.

Chan blinked at you for a second, still visibly caught between asleep and awake, before his gaze snapped toward his daughter.

“Jia.”

Uh oh.

“I went to visit,” she explained confidently from beside him.

“Without telling me?” The panic in his voice was subtle, but there.

Real enough that guilt twisted in your chest a little on Jia’s behalf.

Chan sat up fully now, running a hand down his face before looking back at you. “Did she cross the street alone?”

“Technically…” you started carefully.

“I looked both ways,” Jia added helpfully.

Chan stared at the ceiling for a long moment like he was asking the universe for strength.

“Don’t be too hard on her,” you said gently. “I already told her that was dangerous.”

Chan exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the panic easing from his shoulders.

Jia immediately took advantage of this. “See?” she said proudly. “I got lectured already.”

“That’s not exactly something to be proud of,” Chan muttered. Still, his hand found the back of her head automatically, smoothing down her messy curls just to reassure himself she was there.

The tiny gesture did something weird to your chest again.

This was probably a terrible idea, but your mouth was already moving before you could stop.“Hey, um…” you started awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“If you ever need extra rest or need to handle stuff around here, I can hang out with her for a bit.”

Chan looked at you like nobody had offered him that in a very long time.

Jia, meanwhile, looked ready to adopt you on the spot. “Really?” she gasped.

Chan blinked once before rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t have to do that,” he said softly. But he sounded tired enough that it almost hurt to hear.

Before you could respond, Jia spoke up from the couch.

“Nana’s been busy lately.”

Chan’s expression shifted instantly. Not angry. Just… exposed, somehow. Like a private part of his life had been accidentally placed on the table between all of you.

Jia, completely unaware, kept talking while hugging Leebit to her chest. “So Daddy’s extra tired now.”

Your heart squeezed painfully.

Chan let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face again.

“Nana?” you asked quietly.

Chan glanced toward you before answering. “My mother,” he said softly. Something in his expression gentled when he said it, but the exhaustion never fully left his face.“She usually helps a lot with Jia, but work’s been keeping her busy lately.”

Jia nodded solemnly from the couch like this was a very serious family meeting. You looked between the two of them for a moment.

Chan sitting there barely awake on the couch. Jia curled against his side with Leebit in her lap. The quiet television humming in the background.

The lived-in warmth of the house despite the exhaustion hanging over it.

It hit you suddenly then. He wasn’t distant because he was unfriendly. He was drowning. Working, parenting, moving into a new neighborhood, fixing cars on his days off, surviving on what looked like four hours of sleep and caffeine.

And somehow still managing to be gentle.

“The offer still stands,” you said softly.

Chan looked up at you immediately.

“Even if it’s just so you can nap without worrying she’s gonna escape and start another neighborhood tour.”

“I did not tour,” Jia argued sleepily.

“You trespassed.”

“I visited.”

The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.

Chan watched you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You barely know us,” he said finally.

“Yet,” you pointed out gently, “I’m kind of the only person you guys know in the neighborhood right now.”

Chan went quiet at that, because unfortunately, it was true.

The moving boxes still stacked near the hallway.

The unfamiliar street.

The exhaustion.

All of it suddenly felt a little heavier in the silence.

Jia leaned against his arm, already looking half-asleep again. His gaze dropped briefly toward her before returning to you. Something softer settled into his expression then. Not just appreciation, but relief as well.

“J-just let me know,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how personal this conversation had become. “No pressure or anything.”

Chan’s expression softened even further at the stumble in your voice. “Right,” he said quietly. “No pressure.”

But he looked at you like the offer meant more than you realized.

Sensing the sudden shift into dangerously intimate territory, you started backing toward the front door. “I should probably let you guys get back to your morning,” you said lightly.

Jia immediately looked disappointed, and Chan, somehow, looked a little disappointed too. Which absolutely did not help your situation.

“Wait.” Chan stood from the couch before you could make it more than two steps toward the door.

Jia immediately flopped sideways into the cushions the second his arm moved away from her, completely exhausted from what had apparently been a very eventful morning.

Chan glanced toward Jia briefly before looking back at you.

“At least let me repay you somehow,” he said. “You returned my runaway child.”

“That sounds way more dramatic than what actually happened.”

“Does it?”

You smiled despite yourself. “You really don’t have to repay me.”

“Maybe I want to.”

And suddenly the foyer felt a little too small.

Chan leaned lightly against the wall near the doorway, still looking half-awake. Somehow, it only made him more unfairly attractive.

“You like coffee?” he asked after a second.

“That depends,” you replied carefully. “Are you trying to bribe me into future babysitting?”

A tired laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe a little.”

“Then yes. I love coffee.”

“Good,” he murmured. “There’s a café like ten minutes from here. She likes the cake pops and I survive off iced americanos.”

“A balanced diet.”

“Exactly.”

His smile lingered this time. “Come with us sometime?” he asked.

The question landed so casually it took your brain a full second to process it.

Come with us?

Not me.

Us.

And somehow that made your chest ache even worse. “Yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”

His shoulders loosened almost immediately, like he’d been oddly nervous about asking. Which felt insane considering this man looked like that while standing barefoot in sweatpants at eleven in the morning.

Jia suddenly lifted her head from the couch cushions. “Can I get two cake pops?”

“No,” He answered instantly.

“One and a half?”

“That’s not a real number of cake pops.”

Jia thought about this carefully. “Then two.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and he looked over at you again with that same softened expression from earlier.

Like he was quietly cataloging every sound you made.

“Alright,” you said finally, forcing yourself to continue toward the door before your feelings developed a mortgage in this house. “I’ll let you guys rest.”

Jia waved lazily from the couch. “Bye.”

“Bye, Jia. Bye, Leebit.”

The stuffed rabbit stared at you with the same emotional support energy as before.

He walked you to the door despite looking seconds away from passing out where he stood.“Thanks again,” he said quietly once you stepped onto the porch.

“For returning your escape artist?”

“For…” He paused briefly, glancing back toward the living room. “Being nice to us.”

The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.

Your chest tightened a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

He looked at you for a moment like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Still going to.”

After you parted ways, reluctantly, you walked back across the street trying very hard not to replay the entire interaction in your head.

In which you failed immediately.

By the time you made it back inside your house, your brain had already decided to obsess over approximately seventeen separate things.

Chan asking you to get coffee with them.

Jia holding your hand without hesitation.

The way he’d said us.

The fact that his house already felt strangely familiar after only ten minutes inside it.

Which was absolutely not normal.

You dropped onto your couch with a dramatic groan, staring at the ceiling.

“This is how people end up emotionally attached to single fathers,” you informed yourself aloud.

𝜗𝜚

The front door clicked shut behind you, leaving their house quiet again aside from the low murmur of cartoons still playing from the television.

Chan stayed standing there for a second. Longer than necessary.

“Dad,” Jia said from the couch, “you’re staring at the door.”

“I know.”

He scrubbed a tired hand down his face before finally locking it, though the motion felt pointless considering Jia had apparently started wandering the neighborhood at sunrise.

His heart still hadn’t fully recovered from waking up and realizing she’d walked out.

Across the room, Jia hugged Leebit tighter. “She’s nice.”

His gaze drifted automatically toward the front window, then toward the house across the street. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “She is.”

The thing was, he’d noticed little details long before the lemonade.

It was hard not to.

You watered the flowers along your porch every morning before the heat got too bad, usually still half-asleep and wearing clothes that looked thrown on five minutes earlier.

Your car was the little dark-colored sedan with a small dent near the back bumper.

Sometimes you sang absentmindedly while bringing groceries inside.

Sometimes you sat on your porch at night scrolling on your phone with your legs curled beneath you.

And sometimes, when he worked in the garage with the door open, he could feel your eyes on him from across the street.

Not in a creepy way.

Like you’d been trying to figure him out from a distance the same way he’d been trying to figure you out.

He hadn’t expected the neighborhood to feel this lonely.

New house. New routines. New streets.

Most days it felt like he was still unpacking pieces of his life that no longer fit together properly.

Then somehow, within forty-eight hours, the neighbor across the street had walked into his garage with lavender lemonade and looked at Jia like she mattered immediately.

He’s fucked.

“Dad?”

He hummed tiredly from where his head rested against the couch.

Jia tilted her head up at him.“Can we keep her?”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “You ask that like she’s a stray cat.”

“Okay.....then can she come over again?”

He glanced toward the front window again before answering. The flowers on your porch swayed lightly in the summer heat, bright against the white railing.

Your curtains shifted, probably from you moving around inside. And for some reason, the thought settled warmly in his chest.

“Maybe,” he said finally. Jia grinned triumphantly before settling back against him.

The room went quiet again after that, filled only by cartoons and the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the heat.

His eyes drifted shut briefly. Only for a second, before his phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside him.

His mother.

He sighed before answering. “Hey, Ma.”

“Is Jia better?” his mother asked immediately.

Chan looked over at his daughter, currently half-asleep with chalk still smeared across one cheek. “She’s fine.”

His mother laughed softly through the speaker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help this weekend.”

Guilt hit instantly. “Ma, it’s fine.”

“Christopher.”

Ah. Full government name.

Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Seriously,” he murmured. “I’ve got it handled.”

His mother went quiet for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “You don’t always have to handle everything alone, you know.”

“Kind of hard,” he admitted quietly, “when you and Dad are basically my only support systems.” The words slipped out more honestly than he intended. Silence filled the other end of the call for a moment.

Then his mother sighed softly. “Christopher…”

He stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t meant it as guilt. Just fact.

Moving here had been necessary. Better schools. Better neighborhood. More space for Jia.

But starting over somewhere new while trying to hold everything together alone felt a lot heavier in practice than it had on paper.

Especially on mornings where his daughter wandered across the street while he accidentally passed out on the couch.

“You’re doing your best,” his mother said gently.

Chan laughed quietly under his breath.

“Yeah. Some days my best loses the kid before ten a.m.”

“And some days your best fixes cars until midnight and still makes dinosaur pancakes the next morning.”

His chest tightened unexpectedly at that.

Across the couch, Jia shifted sleepily against his side, still clutching Leebit by one ear. He smoothed a hand over her curls automatically. “I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want her growing up feeling like everything’s unstable all the time.”

His mother was quiet for a second before speaking again.“You know what she’s going to remember?”

Chan leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “What?”

“That her father loved her enough to keep trying even when things were hard.”

Well, that hit directly in the sternum.

He went quiet after that.

Because what was he even supposed to say to that?

His mother had always been unfairly good at reaching straight into the center of a problem and pressing on it gently until he stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.

“And,” she added after a moment, her tone shifting lighter, “your neighbor seems nice.”

Chan immediately frowned. “Jia talked to you already?”

His mother laughed outright this time. “Christopher, that child would leak classified military information for a fruit snack.”

Fair.

“She said the neighbor brought you lemonade.”

He stared toward the front window again before he could stop himself. “Lavender lemonade,” he corrected absentmindedly.

A pause, then, “You sound fond already.”

“Ma.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re definitely saying something.”

“Mm.” His mother sounded far too entertained. “And are you denying it?”

…Annoyingly, no.

“Christopher.”

He already didn’t like the tone of her voice.

“Don’t start planning your wedding in your head because a pretty neighbor brought you lemonade.”

“I am not planning a wedding,” he muttered immediately.

His mother hummed skeptically through the speaker. “You noticed she was pretty awfully fast.”

Damn.

“Ma.”

“I’m just happy you sound interested in something again.”

The teasing softened around the edges near the end of the sentence. Enough that his chest tightened a little. Because he knew what she meant. The last year had been survival mode.

Work.

Jia.

Bills.

Moving.

Rebuilding routines from scratch.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d stopped noticing things outside of necessity.

Then suddenly there was a woman across the street who sang while carrying groceries and crouched down to speak to Jia like she deserved full eye contact during conversations.

And apparently that had been enough to restart something in him. Which was terrifying, honestly.

𝜗𝜚

Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.

One: Jia had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.

And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.

“Dad,” Jia whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”

He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.

He barely had time to fully think and react before Jia started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.

“HI!”

Half the grocery store turned to look first. Then you glanced up in confusion before spotting them. And then you smiled.

God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem for him.

“Well,” you laughed softly as you walked closer, “there’s my favorite escape artist.”

“I didn’t escape today,” Jia informed you proudly.

“We’re aiming for growth,” Chan added.

Your eyes flicked toward him then, warm amusement immediately settling into your expression. “And look at that,” you teased lightly. “She brought her emotional support dad with her too.”

Chan stared at you for a second before an unwilling laugh escaped him.

Yeah. He was absolutely screwed.

"We ran out of dino nuggets," Jia explained gravely.

"Apparently it's a crisis," he confirmed.

“I can tell.” You dropped a few mangoes into your basket before glancing into their cart.

There were approximately six different snacks, apple juice, coffee creamer, and absolutely no actual dinner ingredients.

Your eyebrows lifted slowly. “Interesting grocery strategy.”

He looked down into the cart before sighing. “In my defense, she was helping.”

“I picked the Oreos,” Jia said proudly.

“Yeah?” A quiet laugh escaped you as Chan rubbed the back of his neck.

“I was supposed to stop by after work yesterday,” he admitted, “but I got home late and we ended up ordering takeout instead.”

Your expression softened immediately. “You guys eaten today?”

Chan blinked once. “That sounded vaguely accusatory.”

“That's not an answer.”

Jia raised her hand from the cart. “We had waffles.”

“Chocolate chip waffles,” Chan corrected weakly.

You stared at him for a second.

Then at the cart.

Then back at him again.

“You know what?” you said suddenly. “Come over for dinner tonight.”

Chan blinked.

Jia gasped, “Really?”

“Only if you want to,” you added quickly, looking back at him now. “I was already planning to cook anyway.”

Chan hesitated for maybe half a second before Jia answered for the both of them, "We want to."

"Jia."

"What? We do."

You laughed softly.

"Seven okay?

He nodded slowly.

"Y-yeah. Seven's good."

The conversation moved on easily after that. Way too easy.

Like this was normal.

As if people invited him and Jia over for dinner all the time.

As if he hadn't spent the better part of last year feeling isolated in ways he didn't know how to explain to anyone.

Neither of you seemed in much of a rush to end the conversation, but eventually the aisle ran out before the talking did.

"Don't let her convince you to buy more snacks," you called lightly before turning your cart away.

Jia giggled as he mumbled a distracted, "Okay." He watched you leave for a second too long.

“Dad?”

"Yes, bug?"

"Why haven't we moved?"

He blinked, finally looking down at her.

"What?"

Jia pointed in the direction you'd disappeared. "You stopped walking."

𝜗𝜚

By six-thirty, you had already changed outfits three times. Which was ridiculous. They were your neighbors.

Not royalty. Not a date.

Definitely not a date.

And yet your kitchen somehow looked like you were preparing for a full dinner party instead of feeding a tired mechanic and his tiny accomplice.

You checked the pasta sauce simmering on the stove for the fifth time before groaning dramatically into your hands. “Why am I nervous?” you demanded aloud to absolutely nobody.

Because realistically, the worst thing that could happen was Jia not liking the food.

Or Chan thinking this entire thing was weird.

Or realizing halfway through dinner that you were getting emotionally attached to his little family at genuinely alarming speed.

Okay.

Maybe there were several worst-case scenarios.

- - -

“No.”

Jia gasped from the middle of the living room floor. “But Leebit wants to come.”

Chan glanced down at the growing pile of stuffed animals beside her.

“Leebit can come,” he agreed carefully. “The other six absolutely cannot.”

Jia crossed her arms immediately. “They’ll feel left out.”

“They’re stuffed animals.”

“They have feelings.”

Chan rubbed a tired hand down his face before glancing toward the clock again.

Why was he nervous?

It was dinner. Just dinner.

With the neighbor. The very pretty neighbor.

…Okay, maybe that was part of the problem.

His gaze drifted toward the unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Was bringing wine too much?

Too formal?

Weird?

Did people even bring wine to casual neighbor dinners anymore?

He barely knew you, but somehow the idea of showing up empty-handed felt worse.

- - -

The knock at your front door came at exactly seven o’clock. Chan definitely seemed like the type to apologize for being thirty seconds late.

Your stomach flipped anyway.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself while smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your shirt. “Normal.”

Which immediately became impossible the second you opened the door.

Chan stood on your porch with one hand resting lightly on Jia’s shoulder.

Freshly showered. Dark curls still slightly damp.

Black t-shirt. Black jeans.

And somehow he looked even more unfairly attractive without engine grease smeared across his face. Which felt rude, honestly.

Jia, meanwhile, looked delighted to be there. “Hi!” she chirped instantly, holding Leebit up toward you like proof of life.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flicked back toward Chan just in time to catch him already looking at you.

Something unreadable softened briefly across his face before he held up the bottle in his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know if bringing wine was weird,” he admitted immediately.

Your heart did something genuinely embarrassing inside your chest. “No,” you said quickly. “That’s actually really sweet.”

He looked weirdly relieved by the answer. “Okay, good,” he laughed softly. “I stood in the grocery store for like ten minutes trying to decide.”

“Daddy almost bought flowers too,” Jia announced helpfully as she stepped past him into the house.

Chan froze.

You blinked.

Jia blinked back innocently.

“Jia.”

“What?”

Heat climbed straight up Chan’s neck as he shut the front door behind them. “I was not going to buy flowers.”

Jia looked deeply unconvinced. “You stared at them for a long time.”

“That’s because I couldn’t reach the wine.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Chan immediately looked both embarrassed and relieved that you were laughing instead of judging him.

“For what it’s worth,” you smiled, “I think flowers would’ve been nice.”

He stared at you for half a second too long. “Yeah?”

Jia, blissfully unaware of the psychological warfare occurring above her head, wandered farther into your house with Leebit tucked beneath one arm.

“Do you have toys?”

He sighed softly. “Jia.”

“What? I’m just asking.”

“It’s okay,” you said, smiling. “I don’t have toys, but I do have markers and coloring books somewhere.”

Jia’s entire face brightened. “For me?”

“For you and Leebit, if she wants.”

Jia looked down at the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.

“She does.”

Chan watched the exchange quietly, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked like he wanted to say something.

Like maybe thank you again.

Like maybe something else entirely.

Instead, he just followed you toward the kitchen, after getting Jia settled. “Need help with anything?”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, “You’re a guest.”

“I’m bad at that.”

“At being a guest?”

His mouth twitched, “At sitting still.”

You still shooed him away despite it all.

Unfortunately, he turned out to be exactly as incapable of sitting still as advertised.

You’d barely finished setting plates on the counter before he was beside you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up slightly as he glanced around for something to do.

“What can I help with?”

“You can sit down and relax for more than five minutes.”

"That's impossible."

A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you pointed toward the stove.

“Fine. Stir that for me.”

“See? This is why I offer help.”

He moved beside you easily after that, close enough that you became painfully aware of how little space your kitchen actually had.

Which had never been an issue before.

Now suddenly every movement felt catastrophically noticeable.

Especially when you turned at the exact same time he did.

He caught himself quickly, one hand bracing against the counter behind you to avoid knocking directly into you.

But it still left him close.

Very close.

“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.

“It’s okay,” your voice came out quieter than intended.

Neither of you moved right away.

Then Jia’s voice floated in from the living room.

“Daddy, Leebit wants juice.”

Chan blinked like he’d temporarily left his body. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back again. “Juice. Important.”

You stared very hard at the vegetables in front of you while he disappeared into the living room.

Unfortunately, the universe apparently wasn’t done with you yet.

Because ten minutes later, Chan reached around you for the spoon on the counter at the exact moment you bent down to grab something from the cabinet.

His hand brushed lightly against your waist.

Both of you froze instantly.

“Sorry,” he said again, this time sounding genuinely flustered.

“You’re okay,” you answered quickly.

He lingered for half a second before stepping back again, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

“Small kitchen,” he muttered.

“Apparently.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned back toward the stove like neither of you had just short-circuited over two seconds of accidental contact.

Neither of you spoke for a second after that.

The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, or maybe that was just you.

Chan busied himself with grabbing glasses from the cabinet while you focused very hard on stirring the pasta with too much force.

Which was ridiculous.

It was a hand brushing your waist.

Unfortunately, your nervous system seemed committed to disagreeing.

From the living room, Jia’s voice drifted toward the kitchen, “Daddy, Leebit needs to go potty!"

And just like that, the tension loosened slightly around the edges.

Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose beside you. "Bathroom?"

"First door down the hall."

“I should probably go handle that crisis,” he murmured.

“Probably.”

You risked glancing up just in time to catch him already looking at you again, seeing something softer flickered briefly across his expression before he disappeared back toward the living room.

You started setting the table while Chan helped Jia wash her hands in the bathroom. It gave you something to do with yours.

After the kitchen incident, your body still felt a little too aware of him. The brief brush of his hand. The way he’d stepped back so quickly. The way neither of you had really known where to look afterward.

You set down plates. Then napkins. Then adjusted the forks even though they were already straight.

Completely normal behavior.

From down the hall, you heard the faint rush of water, Jia’s tiny voice, then Chan’s quieter response.

You couldn’t make out the words.

Maybe that was worse.

Because even without hearing him clearly, you could still picture the patience in his face. The tired curve of his shoulders. The gentle way he spoke to her even when he looked like he was running on fumes.

You exhaled slowly and reached for the glasses to pour wine.

Dinner. Focus on dinner.

Jia reappeared first, climbing into one of the dining chairs while Chan lingered behind her in the hallway for a second.

Your gaze lifted automatically.

He’d rolled his sleeves up slightly while helping Jia wash off the chalk, exposing strong forearms, which unfortunately did not help your situation at all.

He caught you looking for a second before your attention snapped aggressively back toward the plates. Great.

"This looks really good," he said quietly as he stepped toward the table.

The sincerity in his voice caught you a little off guard.

"I-it's just pasta."

"Still," he murmured. And for some reason, the way he said it feel like he meant more than the food.

Jia looked between the two of you briefly before narrowing her eyes. “You guys are being weird.”

Both of you answered at the exact same time.

“We’re not.”

Silence.

Jia gasped softly. “That was the same voice.”

He immediately dragged a hand down his face while you nearly choked on air across the table.

“Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “Can we play detective later?”

"Mhm"

Dinner settled into something more comfortable and quiet after that.

Jia swung her legs lightly beneath the chair while absentmindedly feeding tiny pieces of bread to Leebit between her own bites of pasta.

“Daddy sleeps on the couch when he works too much,” she said suddenly.

Chan went still for half a second.

“Bug.”

Jia frowned slightly, confused by his tone. “What?” she asked softly. “It hurts your neck.”

The concern in her voice softened something in your chest immediately.

Chan looked down at his plate for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose.

“I didn’t know you noticed that.”

“I notice,” Jia informed him simply.

And somehow, that felt less like a joke this time.

Your eyes lifted toward him automatically.

He looked embarrassed.

Not because Jia had exposed him, but because someone else had heard it too.

“You should probably sleep in your bed more,” you said gently before thinking too hard about it.

His gaze flicked toward you briefly. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”

Silence settled briefly around the table after that, not awkward; just quiet in the way good conversations sometimes became.

The kind where nobody felt rushed to fill every second.

Jia eventually went back to eating, humming softly to herself while kicking her feet beneath the chair.

Chan watched her for a moment before glancing toward you again.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She overshares.”

“She gets that from you?”

His mouth twitched slightly.

“Definitely not.”

“Mm.”

Chan leaned back slightly in his chair then, studying you for a second over the rim of his glass.

“What about you?”

Your fork paused briefly. “What about me?”

“You know basically my entire life story already,” he said lightly. “Feels unfair.”

Warmth crept into your face immediately.

“I do not know your entire life story.”

“You know enough to ruin me in court.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you took another sip of your drink.

“Fine,” you conceded. “What do you want to know?”

Chan looked strangely thoughtful for a second.

Like he was trying to decide which question he actually cared about asking most.

You expected something casual. Favorite color. What you did for work.

Maybe whether or not you always invited near-strangers over for dinner after knowing them for less than a week.

Instead, Chan asked quietly, “Are you always this nice to people?”

The question caught you so off guard you actually blinked at him.

Across the table, his expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.

“I…” You let out a small laugh, glancing down at your plate for a second. “That’s kind of a heavy question for pasta.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t look away.

Jia hummed softly to herself beside him, completely absorbed in attempting to feed Leebit microscopic pieces of garlic bread.

You watched her for a moment before speaking again.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I guess I just think people should look out for each other.”

Your fingers traced lightly against the side of your glass.

“We stick together in our little corner of the neighborhood.”

The words settled softly between all of you.

Chan’s gaze held yours for a second too long afterward. Like maybe nobody had included him in something that gently in a very long time.

Jia yawned dramatically beside him a few minutes later, the earlier excitement of the evening finally starting to wear off.

Chan glanced down at her immediately. “You getting tired?”

“No,” she answered automatically.

Then she yawned again so hard her entire body folded forward.

You smiled into your drink while Chan shook his head softly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s convincing.”

Jia ignored him completely, leaning more heavily against his side instead. He adjusted without even looking. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.

You watched them while your heart pounded at the sight. "You can lay her on the couch if you want," you offered softly.

He glanced up at you.

"You sure?"

You nodded as you got up from the table, "I'll go grab her a blanket."

He watched you disappear briefly down the hallway before looking back at Jia curled sleepily against his side.

Something in his expression softened.

Not just because you offered, but because of how naturally you did it. Like making space for them in your home hadn’t required a second thought.

By the time you returned with the blanket folded over your arms, Jia was already half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder.

He looked up as you approached, “Thank you,” he said gently.

The sincerity in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You handed him the blanket and watched him lay his daughter down carefully across the couch, making sure to tuck Leebit beneath her arm before pulling the blanket over both of them.

The sight felt almost unbearably tender. So tender, that you had to force yourself to look away before your feelings developed roots in your living room.

So instead, you escaped into the kitchen under the excuse of cleaning up. Which would’ve worked better if he hadn’t followed you with the dirty dishes a minute later.

“You know,” you said as he set them beside the sink, “most guests usually pretend to relax after dinner.”

“I told you,” he replied quietly, rolling his sleeves up slightly again. “I’m bad at staying still.”

The kitchen felt smaller now.

Quieter too.

Without Jia’s constant chatter filling the house, every little thing suddenly felt more noticeable.

The clink of dishes.

The brush of his arm beside yours.

The way he kept drifting close without seeming to realize he was doing it.

You tried very hard to focus on packing leftovers into containers instead. “Take these home with you guys,” you said, sliding one of the lids into place.

He looked over immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second before softening slightly. “You always do things like this?”

“Feed people?”

“Take care of them.”

The question landed quieter than expected. Your hands paused briefly against the counter. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a second. “I like making people feel comfortable.”

He leaned lightly against the counter beside you, close enough now that you could smell soap lingering faintly against his skin underneath everything else.

“That explains Jia,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. You busied yourself with another container before looking over at him again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

“Why’d you move here?”

Chan went quiet. His eyes drifted briefly toward the living room where Jia slept curled beneath the blanket.

“Fresh start,” he answered finally.

The words were simple. But heavy enough that you didn’t push immediately.

Chan exhaled softly through his nose before continuing anyway.

“Things got messy where we were before.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And Jia deserved somewhere quieter than all that.”

Something in your chest ached a little at the honesty in his voice.

“You'd do anything for her,” you said softly before thinking too hard about it.

Chan looked at you immediately after that. Like the answer to that question was the easiest thing in the world.

“Without a doubt." The certainty in his voice settled heavily in your chest.

Your eyes drifted toward the living room automatically, toward Jia asleep beneath the blanket with Leebit tucked against her chest.

“She’s lucky,” you murmured.

Chan was quiet for a second beside you. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Something about the way he said it nearly took you out at the knees.

You focused very hard on snapping another lid onto a container before your face betrayed you completely.

“You make it sound easy,” you admitted quietly.

“What?”

“Being there for someone like that.”

Chan leaned back against the counter slightly, studying you with an expression that had gone softer somewhere in the middle of the conversation.

“It’s not easy,” he said honestly. “You just keep choosing them anyway.”

Your hands slowed against the container in front of you before you glanced back toward him carefully. “What happened to her mom…” you asked softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Chan went still.

Quiet in a way that immediately made you wonder if you’d crossed a line.

“You don’t have to answer that,” you added quickly.

He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the living room again to watch Jia. “No,” he murmured after a second. “It’s okay.”

The kitchen felt smaller somehow while you waited.

Chan rubbed a hand slowly across the back of his neck before speaking again.

“She left when Jia was two.”

The words were calm, and straightforward. Like he’d repeated them enough times that they no longer sounded sharp coming out, but something in his face still tightened anyway.

“At first it was supposed to be temporary,” he admitted quietly, at least that's what it seemed like. “Then it just… wasn’t.”

Your chest ached instantly.

Chan laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“I think I spent a long time trying to convince myself I could fix it if I just worked harder.” His eyes lowered briefly toward the counter. “Turns out relationships don’t work like cars.”

The honesty in his voice made something twist painfully inside you.

“Chan…”

He shook his head lightly before you could say anything else.

“It’s better now,” he said quietly. “Or at least… calmer.” His gaze drifted toward Jia again, softening immediately. “And she’s happy.”

The way he said it made it painfully obvious that Jia’s happiness had become the center of his entire world.

Even at the expense of his own.

Silence settled quietly between you after that. Not uncomfortable.

Just heavy in a way that made you suddenly very aware of how close he was standing beside you.

The sink ran softly while you rinsed out one of the pots, mostly just to give your hands something to do.

He stayed leaned against the counter nearby, arms loosely crossed now. Open in a way he probably wasn't used to.

“I didn’t mean to make things depressing,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before.

You looked over immediately. “You didn’t.”

His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.

“People usually get uncomfortable,” he admitted eventually. “Once they realize it’s just me and Jia.”

Your chest tightened slightly. “Why?”

He gave a small shrug, gaze dropping briefly toward the counter.

“Single dad thing, I guess.” A faint breath of laughter escaped him. “People either think you’re barely surviving or they start looking at you like you’re some kind of tragedy.”

You frowned. “That’s stupid.”

He looked genuinely caught off guard by how quickly you answered.

"I mean it," you continued softly. "You're a great dad, Chan."

He broke eye contact first, "I'm trying," he admitted quietly.

Something about the honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected, because he didn’t sound like someone asking for praise.

Just a parent who was tired.

The rest of the cleaning happened quietly after that.

Softer now, like something between you had shifted slightly without either of you fully acknowledging it.

Chan dried dishes while you put dishes away, the occasional brush of your arms still enough to make your heartbeat stumble embarrassingly fast. Neither of you mentioned it.

By the time the kitchen was finally clean again, the apartment had gone almost completely still.

Jia remained curled beneath the blanket on the couch, one tiny hand still wrapped around Leebit’s ear.

He glanced toward her before exhaling softly through his nose. “She’s out cold.”

“I think the pasta took her down.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes drifted toward the half-finished bottle of wine still sitting on the counter.

“You want me to head out?” he asked.

The question sounded polite, but not like he actually wanted to leave.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass before you answered.

“You can stay a little longer if you want.”

Chan looked at you then, something in his expression softened in a way that immediately made your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, the two of you ended up back in the living room with fresh glasses of wine while Jia slept peacefully nearby.

The television stayed off.

Neither of you seemed to mind the quiet.

He leaned back carefully into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched loosely along the cushion behind Jia while you sat a little farther down the other end.

Close enough to talk softly. Close enough to notice things.

Like how his voice got rougher when he was tired.

Like how he listened with his full attention whenever you spoke.

Like how neither of you seemed in much of a hurry for the night to end anymore.

The conversation drifted easily after that.

Slower than before. Less careful.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Or maybe the two of you had simply crossed whatever invisible line existed between strangers and something else entirely.

“So,” Chan murmured after a while, turning his glass slowly between his hands, “how’d you end up here?”

You smiled faintly. “In this house specifically?”

“In this aggressively nosy neighborhood.”

A laugh slipped out of you softly enough that Jia stirred slightly beneath the blanket before settling again.

Both of your eyes immediately flicked toward her. Chan’s expression softened automatically once he realized she was still asleep.

It did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system.

“I grew up around neighborhoods like this,” you admitted quietly once the room settled again. “Everybody knowing each other. Neighbors bringing over food, or having neighborhood cookouts. Somebody’s aunt always watching from a window somewhere.”

Chan huffed softly into his wine. “That last part definitely tracks.”

You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your glass.

“You’re never letting the spying thing go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

His smile lingered afterward. Softer now.

Less teasing than before. Like he’d relaxed enough to stop hiding behind it quite so much.

“I think I missed this,” he admitted after a moment.

Your expression eased slightly. “The spying?”

Chan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze drifted around the house briefly before settling back on you. “Just… this.”

The room. The conversation. The calm.

You understood immediately anyway.

Something in your chest tightened gently. “It gets lonely?” you asked softly.

Chan was quiet for a second. “Sometimes it feels like I only exist as somebody’s dad now.”

The honesty in the sentence settled heavily between you. He looked almost surprised after saying it out loud. Like he hadn’t meant to.

“Not that I mind being her dad,” he added quickly, glancing toward Jia again. “I just…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of work and bills and trying to keep everything together, I think I forgot how to be a person outside of taking care of everybody else.”

Your heart genuinely hurt for him then, because he said it so casually.

Like he’d gotten used to carrying that feeling around alone.

“Chan,” you said softly.

His tired eyes lifted toward you again.

The wine had loosened something in him tonight. Not enough to make him reckless.

Just enough to make him honest.

“You know what the weird part is?” he admitted quietly after a second. “I don’t even think I noticed how lonely I was until recently.”

Your chest tightened immediately. “Recently?”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his glass.

“Yeah.”

The single word landed warm. Heavy with implication neither of you addressed directly.

You looked down at your wine before smiling softly to yourself. “I think,” you admitted carefully, “sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget they’re allowed to want more than that.”

Chan went very still across from you. Like the sentence had landed somewhere deeper than you intended, or maybe exactly where you intended.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The house had gone completely quiet around you.

Just the faint hum of the refrigerator.

The soft ticking of your kitchen clock.

Jia breathing steadily beneath the blanket a few feet away.

Chan’s gaze stayed fixed on you longer than it probably should have. Not intense. Not even flirtatious, really. Just… searching.

“You always know the right thing to say,” he mumbled eventually, voice rougher now.

Warmth crept up your neck immediately. “No,” you laughed softly. “Most of the time I’m just hoping I don’t sound insane.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You don’t.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.

Like he wasn’t just reassuring you. He genuinely meant it.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.

You’re easy to talk to too,” you admitted quietly after a second.

Chan looked faintly surprised by that. “Yeah?”

You nodded once, tracing your thumb along the stem of your wine glass.“Most people don’t actually listen anymore. They just wait for their turn to talk.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose at that, gaze dropping briefly toward the floor.

“Occupational hazard, maybe.”

“Mechanics are good listeners?”

“Single dads,” he corrected softly.

Something in your chest shifted at the answer.

Chan leaned back further into the couch afterward, looking more relaxed now than you’d seen him all night, or maybe just less guarded.

“I think I forgot what it felt like to sit somewhere and not feel stressed the whole time,” he admitted after a moment.

Your eyes lifted toward him immediately. He sounded almost confused by the realization himself.

Before you could think too hard about it, the words slipped out, “You can come here whenever you need a break.”

He looked at you. Holding that steady kind of attention that always made you feel like he was listening to more than your actual words.

Your pulse stumbled almost instantly.

“That’s a dangerous thing to offer me,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught slightly at the softness in his voice. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Chan’s gaze lingered on you for a second. “Because I think I’d get used to it.”

The confession settled between you gently. Not flirtatious. Somehow worse.

Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately looked down into your wine glass just to regain composure.

He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late because a quiet laugh escaped him afterward, softer around the edges now.

“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “That sounded more intense out loud.”

“A little,” you admitted weakly.

His smile widened faintly. “The wine’s making me honest.”

“I think you were honest before the wine.”

Chan looked at you carefully after that. Like he was trying to figure out whether you understood how much he already meant every word he said to you.

The terrifying part was, you did.

Chan glanced away first this time, exhaling quietly through his nose before leaning forward to set his glass down on the coffee table.

“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”

Your eyebrows lifted immediately.

“Why?”

“Because Jia gets attached easily.” His gaze flicked toward the couch automatically. “And I didn’t want to assume…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t know. That we could just suddenly start showing up in your life all the time.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully at the wording.

Showing up in your life.

Like he’d already been thinking about the possibility.

“Chan,” you said softly, "you guys are not a burden to me."

Chan looked down briefly, thumb dragging once against the side of his glass before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You say things like that so casually,” he murmured.

Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why do you say that?”

His eyes lifted toward yours again, “You don’t realize what hearing that does to someone.”

Your heart stuttered.

From the couch, Jia shifted sleepily beneath the blanket with a soft little whine.

Both of your heads turned automatically.

Chan checked the time on his phone and immediately grimaced. “Okay,” he muttered quietly. “I definitely overstayed.”

“You didn’t.” The reassurance slipped out before you could stop it.

Chan looked at you for half a second before his expression softened again in that dangerous way you were rapidly becoming too attached to.

“Still,” he said gently, pushing himself up from the couch. “She’s gonna be impossible to wake up for school tomorrow if I don’t get her home.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly as the reality of the night ending settled in.

Suddenly, the house already felt quieter.

Chan crossed the living room slowly before crouching beside the couch. “Bug,” he murmured gently, brushing a curl away from Jia’s face. “Time to head home.”

Jia squinted up at him sleepily from beneath the blanket.

“M’tired.”

“I know.”

“Carry me?”

Chan’s expression softened immediately. “Always.”

Your heart nearly folded in on itself right there.

Jia lifted her arms sleepily toward him while he carefully gathered Leebit and the blanket first before reaching down for her.

Like this exact routine had happened a hundred times before.

Jia curled against his chest almost instantly after he picked her up, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Half-asleep already.

“Tell your neighbor thank you,” Chan murmured quietly.

Jia peeked one eye open toward you. “Thank you for pasta,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Her eyes drifted shut again immediately afterward. Chan adjusted her slightly higher against his chest before glancing toward you.

“Sorry again for staying so late.”

“Chan.”

He stopped immediately at your tone.

“You don’t have to apologize for being here.”

Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Like hearing it still caught him off guard.

masterlist | next

The front door of your apartment didn’t just open; it practically groaned under the weight of Christopher surrendering to gravity.

For three months, you had loved a ghost. You had loved a voice through FaceTime at 4:00 AM, a frantic text sent from a studio which was across the sea, a blurry selfie of a tired smile in a recording studio. But when the lock clicked and the heavy wooden door swung inward, the idol persona vanished. He dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood with a dull thud, not even bothering to kick off his sneakers before his eyes found yours.

"Come here," he breathed. His voice was raw, a low gravelly thing scraped raw from flights and rehearsals.

You didn't even have time to cross the kitchen before he closed the distance. Chan didn’t just hug you; he consumed you. His large, calloused hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off your feet until your legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling so deeply against your skin it felt like he was trying to memorize your scent all over again. He smelled like airport air, expensive cologne, and the distinct, comforting warmth that was just him.

"Three years," he muttered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear as he swayed you slightly, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged sighs. "Three years of this, and I still feel like I’m dying every time I have to leave you.... God, you’re so warm." he snuggles closer

"You're late," you whispered, though your fingers were already tangled deep in his messy, unstyled curls, pressing him closer.

"Traffic was hell, baby," he mumbled, a soft laugh vibrating against your collarbone. He set you down slowly, though his hands stayed firmly anchored to your hips, his thumbs rubbing small, possessive circles through the fabric of your shirt. His dimples finally peeked out, shadowed by a faint, attractive hint of stubble. "But I am entirely yours for the next forty-eight hours. No phones. No managers. Just you."

Before you could answer, his eyes scanned the living room, noticing the baskets of laundry you’d piled up and the slight clutter on the coffee table. You’d been working overtime too, trying to clear your own schedule so you could match his.

"Tell you what," Chan said, a mischievous glint cutting through the exhaustion in his dark eyes. "We do a quick reset. We clear the space, clear our heads, and then..." He leaned down, his lips brushing yours so lightly it was agonizing. "...we don't leave the house until Monday..except the date tonight, i made reservations..." you nodded kissing his cheek a unsaid 'thenks baby' in return.

The next hour was a whirlwind of domestic chaos. Chan refused to let you be more than three feet away from him. When you went to fold the laundry, he took the other side of the sheets, turning it into a game of tug-of-war until you were both laughing so hard your chest ached. When you reached up to dust the top of the bookshelf, two large hands suddenly clamped around your waist, lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing.

"Chan! Put me down, I'm going to drop the cloth!" you gasped, your fingers gripping his broad shoulders for balance.

"Nah, you're doing great up there, sweetheart. Keep going," he teased, looking up at you with a cheeky, upturned grin, his bicep flexing hard against your thigh to keep you steady. He kissed your waist line through your sweatpants before finally sliding you back down his front, letting every inch of his body friction against yours on the way down.

By the time the apartment was spotless, a light sweat had broken out over your skin, your hair tied up in a messy, loose bun. Chan was leaning against the kitchen counter, his oversized black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick veins and pale skin of his forearms. He was watching you, his gaze heavy and unblinking.

"I need a shower," you muttered, wiping a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "I'm gross."

"Me too," Chan said instantly.

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the bathroom. "The shower is barely big enough for one person, Chris. Go use the guest one."

You walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the steam slowly fill the small, tiled space. You peeled off your clothes, stepping into the spraying warmth, sighing as the tension of the last few weeks began to melt off your shoulders.

You’d barely finished rinsing your face when the bathroom door clicked open. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, you saw his tall, broad silhouette strip down without a shred of hesitation. The door slid open, a blast of cooler air hitting your skin before Chan stepped inside, immediately closing the space between you.

The shower was small. With Chan’s massive chest and broad shoulders inside, the world shrank until there was nothing but the sound of rushing water and his heat.

"I told you to use the other one," you complained weakly, though you didn't step back.

"Save water, love. It's the right thing to do," he murmured in that thick, sleepy Australian drawl he only used when he was completely relaxed. He took the bottle of shampoo from the ledge, pouring it into his palms before reaching out. His large hands slid into your wet hair, his thumbs massaging your scalp with an agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let your head drop back against his chest with a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut. "Okay, fine. You can stay."

"Thought so," he whispered. His hands moved down from your hair, his soapy fingers tracing the column of your neck, sliding over your shoulders. But as his hands moved lower, the domestic sweetness in the air began to shift. The water slicked his dark hair back, exposing the sharp, lethal line of his jawline. His gaze darkened, dropping to your lips.

"You know," Chan murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, thicker. He stepped closer, his wet chest pressing firmly against your back, pinning you gently against the warm, tiled wall. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you gasp. "I spent three hours on the plane thinking about how good it was going to feel to have you against these tiles."

A shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the water. You turned around in his grip, your front now pressed against his, your eyes locking onto his. "Oh yeah? Is that all you thought about, Chris?"

Chan leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot against your mouth. "No. I thought about how loud you’re gonna be when I finally get inside you. I thought about how much I missed hearing my name slip out of your mouth when you can't take it anymore."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands sliding down his wet chest, your fingers intentionally grazing lower, mapping the hard lines of his abdomen until you felt him twitch against your thigh. He was already rock hard, his heat pressing insistently through the rushing water.

"You talk a big game for someone who looks like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion," you teased, your voice dropping into a low, challenging purr. You arched your hips slightly, deliberately rubbing against him, watching his pupils dilate instantly. "Are you sure you can handle me right now?"

A dark, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His grip on your hips tightened until it almost bruised, lifting you slightly so you had to look up at him. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. I might be tired, but I’ve got more than enough energy to ruin you for the rest of the weekend. You think you can handle me when I'm like this? When I’ve been starving for you for months?"

"Prove it then," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs, your teeth catching your lower lip as you looked at him through wet eyelashes. "Stop talking and do something about it."

Chan let out a low, guttural growl, his forehead leaning against yours as he ground his hips into yours, making you whimper. "Not yet," he growled, his voice pure sin. "I’m gonna make you wait. I’m gonna make you beg for it tonight until your voice is as raw as mine. Now, please help me wash my back, beautiful, before I lose my mind and break my promise."

--

The cool bedroom air hit your damp skin, a stark contrast to the thick, humid fog you’d left behind in the bathroom. True to his word, Chan had kept his hands to himself after that agonizing shower—mostly. He’d given your hips one last, heavy squeeze under the rushing water before turning you around so you coulf wash his back, his low, rumbling chuckles vibrating against your palms every time you intentionally slid your hands a little too low.

Now, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, lazy shadows across the bedroom floor. You stood in front of the vanity mirror, the soft fabric of your outfit draped over the bed behind you. “A proper night out, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your wet shoulder before vanishing into his own closet. “Somewhere we can actually sit down, order a nice bottle of wine, and I can look at you without a clock ticking down.”

You chose a dress you knew he loved but rarely got to see you in. It was an elegant, emerald-green silk slip dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, stopping at your mid thighs. The back was entirely open, held together only by a delicate satin lace that required a frustrating amount of patience to tie by yourself.

As you stood there, trying to tie the strap behind, you caught sight of Chan’s reflection in the mirror.

He was leaning against the doorframe, already half-dressed in a pair of sharp, tailored black slacks. His satin ruby dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick veins of his forearms, a ring on his index finger, a silver watch on his wrist and glasses resting on his nose. He was holding a glass of water, but he hadn't taken a sip in minutes. He was just... staring.

His dark eyes traveled down the line of your spine, tracking the smooth expanse of your bare back where the green silk V-ed out. Chan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He mentally scolded himself, clenching his jaw as his eyes wandered lower, lingering on the way the silk clung to the curve of your hips. Get a grip, Christopher, he told himself fiercely. You promised her a nice dinner. Don't ruin it before you even make it to the restaurent.

But God, he loved you. It hit him in waves sometimes—not just a flutter in his chest, but a heavy, grounding certainty that settled deep in his bones. Looking at you right now, framed by the warm bedroom light, he didn't see a girlfriend of three years. He saw his future. He saw the woman he wanted to come home to when the stadium lights finally went dark for good. He was absolutely, unconditionally sure he wanted to marry only you.

"Need some help, baby?" his voice broke the quiet, his Australian accent thick and lazy as he set his glass down.

"Please," you sighed, dropping your arms. "This is actively trying to kill me."

Chan walked over, his footsteps soft against the rug. He didn't immediately touch the string. Instead, he leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your shoulder blades just a second before his lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between your shoulder blades. A helpless shiver ran through you.

"You look beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his hands finally coming up to gather the delicate satin lace. His fingers were large and calloused, but he handled the thread with an incredible, practiced gentleness. He slowly tied the back of the dress, his knuckles occasionally brushing against your bare skin, sending tiny electric shocks straight down your spine. he dropped another soft kiss—one on your shoulder, one at the base of your neck, another right in the center of your back.

When he finished, he stepped around to face you. His eyes were dark, full of an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"Now for the hard part," you murmured, pointing toward the edge of the bed where your heels were sitting. They were a pair of black, strappy stilettos with long satin ribbons meant to wrap around your ankles.

Without a word, Chan smiled—that soft, dimpled expression that always melted you completely—and knelt down on one knee on the floor right in front of you.

"Chris, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, but he caught your ankle, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin just above your heel.

"Shh. Let me," he whispered, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

You placed your hand on his broad shoulder for balance as he gently guided your foot into the shoe. He took his time, his large fingers carefully wrapping the thin ribbons around your ankle, crisscrossing them perfectly up your lower calf before tying them into a secure bow. He repeated the process with the other foot, his movements almost reverent. Before he stood up, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the top of your foot, his eyes locking onto yours with a look of pure devotion.

"There," he murmured, standing up and dusting off his slacks. He looked down at you, his hands instantly finding your waist, pulling you an inch closer. "Perfect."

You reached up, fixing the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his jawline. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Bang."

He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound, and leaned down to press a deep, slow kiss to your lips—one that tasted like a promise.

But just as he pulled away, a sudden, blinding flash of light illuminated the bedroom window, followed less than two seconds later by a deafening clap of thunder that literally shook the floorboards. Within moments, the sky completely opened up, a torrential downpour slamming against the glass so loudly it sounded like pebbles thrown against the pane.

Chan blinked, turning his head toward the window, then looked back down at your stunning dress and your perfectly laced heels.

"Well," he muttered, a wry, amused smile spreading across his face as the wind howled outside. "I reckun our reservations and plans are officially ruined."

The howling wind outside slammed sheets of water against the glass, but inside the apartment, the atmosphere had shifted into something entirely separate from the storm.

Chan looked from the window back to you, a soft, helpless laugh huffing from his lips as he took in the sight of you. You were still standing there in your stunning emerald silk dress and wrapped stilettos, looking like an absolute goddess with nowhere to go.

"Well, sweetheart," he murmured, his hands sliding down to your hips, his thumbs catching the hem of your dress just enough to lift it an inch. "I'm not letting this outfit go to waste. Change of plans."

Before you could ask what he meant, Chan hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You let out a gasped laugh, your hands instantly flying to his broad shoulders for balance as he carried you out of the bedroom and straight into the kitchen. He didn't set you down on the floor; instead, he hoisted you right up onto the smooth, marble kitchen counter. Your heels clicked against the edge, your legs dangling as he stepped between your knees, effectively trapping you.

"Stay right here," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that always made your stomach do a flip.

You watched, completely mesmerized, as Chan went to work. He completely transformed the room. He turned off the harsh overhead kitchen lights, leaving only the soft under-cabinet lighting. Then, he wandered around the apartment, gathering every single scented candle you owned. He lined them up along the counter and the dining table, striking a match until the space was bathed in a flickering, amber glow. The shadows danced over the sharp lines of his jaw and his tailored black slacks.

"Since I can't take you to a restaurant, I guess I'll just have to be your personal chef," he teased, walking back over to you and leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. He smelled like vanilla candles and pure sin.

He pulled ingredients out of the fridge, deciding on a quick pasta dish you both loved. As he chopped garlic and heated the pan, he refused to actually leave your side. Every single time he passed the counter, he stole a kiss. It started out playful, but it didn't stay that way. He’d lean in, his lips brushing yours, his tongue casually tracing your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper before he pulled back with a smirk.

"Chris, you're going to burn the food if you keep doing that," you breathlessy complained.

"Let it burn," he muttered, stepping right back into your space. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding up your thigh, his calloused thumb smoothing over the skin right above your knee. "Besides, I'm just tasting the appetizer."

You flushed, a heavy heat pooling in your lower stomach at his subtle dirty talk. To distract yourself from the way his hand was slowly wandering higher up your leg, you slid off the counter for a moment. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. You're lucky you're dating a professional."

Chan chuckled, watching you walk over to the bar cart. Before you had met him —back during your university days—you had worked as a bartender to pay the rent. You grabbed the shaker, the alcohol, and the bitters, your hands moving with an effortless, practiced rhythm. You mixed up two custom cocktails, keeping the alcohol content perfectly manageable since you both wanted to actually remember the night.

When you handed him his glass, his eyes darkened with pure appreciation. He took a sip, humming in approval. "God, you're amazing. Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?"

He didn't let you go back to the counter. Instead, he pulled you against his chest, his back to the stove while he stirred the sauce with one hand and kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist. The warmth of the stove combined with the heat of his body was intoxicating.

As you stood there, the flickering candlelight caught the slight dip of your collarbone and the soft curve of your side. You subconsciously shifted, trying to pull the silk dress tighter. Like anyone, you had your little insecurities—things you picked apart when you looked in the mirror too long.

But Chan noticed everything. He always did.

Feeling you tense, he set the wooden spoon down. He turned you around completely, his hands mapping the exact spots you tried to hide. He bent down, pressing his warm lips to the soft curve of your hip, then up to the slight dip of your waist, kissing every single inch of your skin with a fierce, worshipful reverence.

"Stop hiding," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough and thick. "You are so beautiful. Every single part of you. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes just for one second."

He pulled you back up, his hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you deeply, a quiet sigh escaping him. He rested his forehead against yours, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" Chan murmured softly, a sudden, gentle giggle bubbling up from his chest. He looked down at you, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "How unexpected all of this was. If you told me four years ago that we'd be here..."

"What, you didn't think we'd make it?" you teased, tracing the collar of his shirt.

"No, I mean—we were such idiots," he laughed, shaking his head at the memory. "We were literally best friends since child hood who only spoke on calls scared to face each other. I was so completely gone for you, but I was too terrified to say anything......remember how we used to talk to each other? Trying so hard to sound 'just like friends' while my heart was practically beating out of my chest every time you looked at me."

He giggled again, the sound rich and warm. "Man, we were so stupid. All those wasted months because we were both too scared to confess."

His laughter faded, replaced by a gaze so intense it made your knees feel weak. The playful boy vanished, leaving only the man who loved you entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with a slow, heavy finality.

"But I’m glad we got here," Chan whispered, his thumbs wiping a stray tear of happiness from your cheek. "Because now that I have you... I want no one else. Forever. It's only ever gonna be you, sweetheart."

The sheer intensity of his words left you breathless. You reached up, cupping his jawline, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a silent promise. When you finally broke away, your cheeks were flushed against the warm candlelight.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, we're never going to actually eat," you teased softly, playfully swatting his chest.

Chan let out a breathless laugh, stepping back just enough to let you move around the kitchen. The menu had completely evolved from just a simple pasta dish into an absolute feast. Together, you turned cooking into a coordinated dance. You rolled out dough to make a heart-shaped pizza—Chan insisting on crimping the edges perfectly—while a golden, seasoned chicken roasted in the oven alongside a crisp, fresh salad you tossed together.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled incredible. You carried the plates over to the candlelit dining table, the heavy rain outside providing a soothing backdrop to your makeshift indoor date.

As you ate, the conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from lighthearted banter into the deep, heavy layers of life and the future. Chan reached across the table, his fingers tangling with yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

"I want to grow old with you," he murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the tiny flames of the candles. "I want the quiet mornings, the wrinkly skin, all of it."

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest. "I want that too. And... I want a kid. Eventually."

Chan’s face instantly softened, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his features, making his dimples dip incredibly deep.

"I’d love a daughter," you admitted softly, feeling a bit shy but completely safe sharing it with him. "But honestly, it doesn't matter to me. As long as the kid is healthy."

"A little girl who looks just like you?" Chan breathed, his gaze turning incredibly fond. "God, I'd be wrapped around her finger. But you're right. Just healthy." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute certainty. "I want to marry you first. I want to roam the world with you, make a million memories, and establish our own rules. Like, if we ever have a huge fight—because we're human, we will—we promise to sort it out before we ever go to bed. No sleeping angry."

"Deal," you whispered, your heart swelling.

"And we need a bigger place," he continued excitedly, his inner producer and planner taking over. "We'll design it together. A massive bar for you, a studio space for me, and a huge backyard." He smiled, leaning over to lovingly serve another portion of pasta onto your plate.

As the dinner wound down and the plates were cleared, you still wanted something sweet. You walked over to the freezer and scooped a generous portion of vanilla ice cream into a small bowl. Instead of heading back to your own seat, you walked over to Chan, pulling him back into his chair by his shoulders.

Without asking, you turned and sank right onto his lap facing him, your emerald silk dress pooling over his tailored black slacks. Chan didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his large hands immediately found your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh gently as you settled against him.

"Sharing?" he grinned, his voice a low rumble against your lips.

"Maybe," you murmured, taking a bite of the cold ice cream before offering him some. As you pulled the spoon away, a tiny bit of ice cream lingered on your bottom lip. Chan leaned in instantly, his tongue darting out to lick the sweet cream right off your lips, his lips lingering for a soft, teasing pressure that made your stomach drop.

His hands wandered a little higher on your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, anchoring you tightly to his lap. You took another bite, but the combination of his warmth, the alcohol from the cocktails, and the sheer tension in the air made your hands a little unsteady. A drop of the rapidly melting ice cream escaped the spoon, trailing down your chin and slipping right down the column of your neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of your green dress.

You both knew how gravity worked. You both knew food didn't just magically spill like that unless a certain someone was plotting something entirely deliberate.

Chan caught it instantly. A dark, wicked grin spread across his face, his eyes darkening into pure, unadulterated hunger.

"Oh, you are a menace," he growled softly, the teasing Australian lilt completely vanishing into something raw and dominant.

He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Chan leaned forward, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back. He pressed his lips to the base of your throat, his warm tongue sliding upward, licking the melted ice cream off your sensitive skin. A sharp, gasping whimper left your lips as he followed the path with a sequence of open-mouthed, bruising kisses, his teeth gently nipping at the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

The cold sweetness of the ice cream was completely eradicated by the scorching heat of his mouth.

Realizing you were entirely finished with desert, you blindly reached back and set the bowl away on the table behind you. You let your head fall back completely against his broad shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands tightened on your thighs, his breath hot and demanding against your skin

Without a word, he hooked both hands under your knees, lifting you effortlessly along with himself off the dining chair, your legs wrapping around his waist. You gasped, both hands flying to his shoulders as he carried you through the candlelit living room toward the hallway.

"Chan—the ice cream—" you protested weakly, laughter bubbling in your throat... this was trouble, a likeable trouble.

"I'll get it later," he growled against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Right now, I'm starving for something else."

He pushed the bedroom door open, and the soft lamplight spilled across the rumpled sheets. He didn't put you down. Instead, he pressed you against the doorjamb, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so deep and hungry that your toes curled inside your heels. His tongue slid along your bottom lip, then swept inside, tasting the lingering sweetness of vanilla and chocolate. You melted into him, your fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He carried you to the bed, but before laying you down, he paused, letting you slide down his body until your feet touched the floor. His hands roamed your back, the bare skin of your backless dress heating under his palms. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze, and then leaned in to press your lips to the side of his neck.

Soft at first—a barely-there brush of your mouth. Then you parted your lips, grazing your teeth over his pulse point, and sucked gently. Chan's breath hitched, his fingers digging into your hips. You lingered there, tasting the salt of his skin, knowing you had to be careful. His fans would notice. They always noticed everything—a hickey on his neck during a live broadcast would send the internet into a frenzy. So you pulled back, leaving only a faint pink mark, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark and knowing. "Tease," he murmured, but there was nothing but approval in his voice.

His hand found the thin satin lace-up at the back of your dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, the bow unraveled, and the fabric loosened around your chest. He didn't rush. He slid the straps down your shoulders, the emerald silk pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your strapless stick-on bra, black lace panties, and heels.

He stepped back just long enough to shrug off his black button-up, his fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. The shirt fell open, revealing the defined lines of his chest and his toned abs. You didn't wait. You stepped forward, your hands sliding up his abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle flex under your touch. You pressed your lips to his sternum, then lower, kissing a path down his stomach. Your tongue darted out, licking a stripe across his abs, tasting the faint salt and heat of his skin. You sucked gently at the hollow beside his navel, and he groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're gonna make me lose it."

You looked up at him, a wicked smile on your lips, and continued your journey lower, your mouth trailing over the waistband of his slacks. But he stopped you, gripping your chin and tilting your face up.

"Not yet," he said, his voice roughened with want. "I want to taste you first."

His gaze dropped to your chest, where the stick-on bra held your breasts in place. A knowing grin spread across his face. "No straps," he observed, his thumb brushing the edge of the adhesive cup. "Clever."

He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours—a silent question that he never needed to ask out loud. You nodded, a soft "yes" escaping your lips.

He pulled the bra away in one smooth motion, the adhesive releasing with a quiet peel. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his stare. He didn't look away. He leaned in, his tongue flicking over one nipple, then drawing it into his mouth, sucking gently. You gasped, your back arching, and your hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

His other hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, and between your legs. He groaned against your skin as his fingers found you—soaked, slick, ready.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "I haven't even done anything yet, and you're already dripping. Is that all for me?"

You bit your lip, nodding, your breath coming in shallow pants.

"Good girl." He pressed a finger inside you, slow, then a second, curling them just right. At the same time, his mouth returned to your nipple, sucking and teasing with his tongue. The dual sensation sent a shock through your body. Your hands fisted in his hair, your hips grinding against his hand, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Chan—please—"

"Please what, baby?" He pumped his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. "You feel so fucking good wrapped around my fingers. Tell me what you need."

You couldn't form words. The pleasure was building too fast, a coil tightening low in your belly. Your thighs trembled, your moans turning into broken cries.

"That's it," he praised, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my hand."

And you did. Without warning, the orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing as you cried out his name. He didn't stop moving his fingers, guiding you through every wave, drinking in the sight of you undone.

When the last tremor faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious."

Then he gently pushed you fully onto the bed, spreading your legs open, and buried his face between them. His tongue swept through your folds, lapping up your release, his nose pressing against your clit. A strangled moan tore from your throat as he devoured you, his tongue dipping inside you, then dragging back up to suck gently on your clit. He worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, prolonging the aftershocks until you were a panting, writhing mess.

Only when your hips stopped bucking did he lift his head. He reached over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer, and retrieved a foil packet. With a grin, he tore the wrapper open with his teeth, spat it aside, and rolled the condom down his length. Even after all these months, the sight of him—thick, veined, impossibly hard—made your breath catch. He was huge, and no matter how many times you'd had him, it always surprised you. The way he filled you, stretched you, like he was made to fit inside you.

He hauled your legs onto his shoulders, leaning forward until the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push in—not yet. He held still, teasing, letting you feel the pressure, the promise.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft but dominant.

You nodded, and he thrust forward.

Slow. Deep. Inch by inch he sank into you, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the grip of your walls. You felt the familiar stretch, the slight burn that melted into pure pleasure. He paused when he was fully seated, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispered. "Every single time."

He began to move—long, languid strokes that hit so deep you could feel him in your throat. One hand held your calf, his lips pressing kisses to your shin, then your ankle, reverent and tender even as he fucked you. His other hand roamed your body, fingers tracing your waist, then sliding up to tease your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

A glance down and you saw it—a faint bulge in your lower belly, where his dick pressed against your insides from the inside. The sight sent a rush of heat through you. You arched your back, a moan spilling from your lips.

"Look at that," he breathed, his thumb pressing lightly on the bulge. "Look how deep I am inside you. You take me so fucking well, baby."

His pace quickened, but still controlled, each thrust deliberate. Your hands clawed at the sheets, your moans growing louder, more desperate.

"Faster," you begged, your voice cracking. "Please, Chan—faster—"

He obeyed. He pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips into the air before slamming back into you. The new angle was brutal—deeper, harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. His hand gripped your hip, the other pressed flat on the small of your back, forcing you to arch impossibly deeper.

"This what you wanted?" he growled, his voice low and filthy. "You wanted me to fuck you like this? To take you apart until you can't think, can't breathe?"

"Yes—angh..yes—fuck—chrisss"

He leaned over your back, his mouth at your ear, his thrusts pounding into you. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're close, aren't you? I want you to come. Come on my dick."

You were already there. The rough pace, his dirty talk, the overwhelming fullness—it sent you spiraling. You screamed his name as your orgasm crashed, your body trembling violently around him.

He didn't stop. He rode you through it, his own breathing ragged, until he pulled out with a shudder. He yanked the condom off, stroked himself twice, and came with a guttural groan, spilling into the latex. Then he collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Your body ached in the best way. Chan pushed himself up first, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"Stay there. I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the water run. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned between your legs, his touch tender. Then he wiped himself down, disposed of the condom, and slid back into bed.

He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. His hand found the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles where you'd arched hardest.

"Your back's gonna be sore tomorrow," he murmured into your hair.

You hummed, nuzzling into his neck. Your lips found his, a soft, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your mouth. "I love you so much."

You kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you too."

The marks on your neck were dark now, blooming like violets under your skin. He traced one with his fingertip, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest.

"Sorry about those."

"I'm not," you whispered, your eyes already heavy.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, his hand never stopping its soothing massage on your back. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek—it pulled you under.

Within minutes, you were both asleep, tangled together in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

--

You woke up slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the cracks of the blinds. As you shifted beneath the heavy duvet, a dull, deep ache resonated through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, lingering reminder of exactly how Chan had kept his promise to ruin you. You sat up slowly, clutching the soft blanket tightly against your chest to keep yourself covered.

A soft chuckle sounded from the side of the bed, and you turned your head to see Chan walking into the room. He had already showered, his messy curls damp, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. In his hands, he carried a tray loaded with a fresh breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a mug of coffee made exactly the way you liked it.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep. He set the tray down carefully across your lap, then climbed onto the mattress behind you.

As you reached for the coffee, taking a grateful sip, Chan shifted closer. His large, warm hands slid beneath the blanket, finding the bare skin of your lower back. His calloused thumbs began to work in slow, firm circles, expertly massaging the tight, sore muscles of your spine. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, leaning back into his solid chest.

"Sore?" he whispered, a hint of a smug, satisfied grin in his voice.

"Shut up," you muttered playfully, though you didn't pull away from his touch.

Chan just laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right against your back. He leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head before gently reaching up to brush a few stray tangled hairs away from your face. He watched you eat with a quiet, peaceful intensity, as if he still couldn't quite believe he had you all to himself for a little while longer.

You turned your head slightly, catching his eye, and leaned in to press a sweet, lingering kiss right against his dimpled cheek.

Chan’s smile broke wide and brilliant, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated affection. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as the quiet morning carried on, the rest of the world completely forgotten.

The End.