#chan fluff

“Bit scary, innit?” Chan murmurs into your ear as you round the corner into yet another dead end.

You sigh. “Not really. It’s a kids maze.”

Backtracking, you keep to your surefire plan: sticking right. It’s guaranteed to lead you to the centre… eventually. You’ve nothing to worry about.

“You know they say it’s haunted,” he says conspiratorially.

“Kids maze,” you reiterate. “For kids.”

“A haunted corn maze where!”–he pauses dramatically–“parents and big siblings go missing every year. Only the children ever make it back out… the children of the corn.”

He’s already giggling on the verge of breaking out into a full blown fit of laughter when you snort. It’s enough to push him over the edge. His rumbling laugh echoes out through the cool night, scaring off a crow and eliciting a responding fit of chuckles and giggles from others ‘lost’ in the maze.

“Real funny.”

“If you listen hard enough you can still hear their cries and screams,” he whispers, once again right behind you, his large hands gripping your shoulders as he steers you left.

“Uh-huh.” You shake him off and turn in the correct (i.e right) direction. “And if we can’t find the way out we’ll be dead… by dawn!”

“I’m glad you’re finally taking this serious–”

He’s cut off by a resounding scream mere feet away. Much to your embarrassment you jump. Chan pulls you close, arm wrapped protectively over your chest as he stares off into the dark rows of swaying corn stalks. His every muscle is tense as he angles himself ever so slightly in front of you. Silence settles around you, suffocating in its thickness, as clouds sweep over the moon.

Your heart is racing and you know it’s silly to be scared but you can’t help it. Clinging to Chan, you fiddle with your car keys, positioning them as little daggers between your fingers.

The breeze picks up.

A crow caws overhead.

A man’s hearty laugh, 

followed by a softer, uncertain laugh.

“Daaaaad!” a child yells. “You scared me!”

Time resumes and life returns to the field; shoes crunching dry corn stalks into gritty dust, whispers in the dark as couples tease one another for being scared, crickets chirping underfoot and owls hooting overhead. The dad and his child amble past just a row over, the boy still loud and jumpy but putting up a good front.

Chan relaxes, the muscles in his neck and arms unfurling. His hold on you remains, though now in a purely comforting way, no longer primed to throw himself in harm’s way.

“Bit scary, huh?” you ask, squeezing his bicep.

For a split second he tenses before laughing it off. “I told you to watch out for those children.”

“The children of the corn!” you say in your best Bela Lugosi imitation. “In the dark, in the night!”

“They’re coming for you and when they find you… they’re all going to laugh at you!”

You inhale sharply. “Sassy little kids…” Clutching your chest, you bow your head and fake hyperventilate, just for the melodrama of it all. “What monsters!”

“Yeah. They’re like adults, but smaller. You have to be careful.”

“Good thing I have a big, strong man here to protect me,” you say, batting your eyes as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’d feel pretty bad if I had to fight a kid, though.”

You snort. “I wouldn’t.”

He looks down at you, eyes wide and mouth agape. “What?”

“Like, an evil one. Obviously. Not just some random kid. A hellspawn.”

And when he ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’s you, mumbling something along the lines of ‘Now who’s the monster?’, you pull away from the warmth of his body and scoff.

“Damien! Or Malachi! Actual evil kids!” You gesture to the left and then to the right. “The corn kids! Are you telling me you wouldn’t fight an evil kid?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head with a little too much emphasis. Locking onto the quiver of his lips, how the corners are lifting imperceptibly, you roll your eyes. “Never.”

“Uh-huh,” you deadpan.

“Kids are people, too. They have rights.”

“What, are they Bond? They have a license to kill now?”

He’s chortling, jovial and optimistic as he points ahead, his finger skewed to one side. “Let’s turn up there.”

“You know another word for ‘left’ is wrong, as in ‘stop trying to make me turn left down the total wrong path, I won’t fall for it’.” 

“Who’s to say it’s the wrong way? We won’t know until we try it,” he says, his words carrying on the breeze.

Pressed to his side, you come to a stop at the intersection and look down both directions. Quiet. Eerie. Atmospheric. The perfect setting to try something new, to have an adventure. You’re here to have fun – not worry about getting lost. Getting lost is the whole point! It’s half the fun!

Entangling your fingers with his, you squeeze his hand and veer toward the left. “If we’re together, what’s the worst that could happen?”

He grins, pulling you back to press a kiss against your hair. “I’ll protect you, even from the evilest of kids.”

Heat tickles your cheeks and you cough, playing it off. “Yeah, well, good. Because I heard there’s children in this corn. Evil children.”

“Evil corn.”

“Haunted corn,” you add as you take your first official step toward the unknown.

“And haunted children,” he agrees, as silly as ever, his excitement bubbly and infectious.

He's grinning when you open the door, still humming with it - the stage, the crowd, and then, because apparently that wasn't enough, a gym session on top of it, like his nervous system filed a complaint and he decided the solution was more input. His eyes are too bright. His hands don't stay still. He kisses you like he's trying to pour the whole night into you, and for a second you let yourself enjoy it, because he's warm and alive and here.

Then you feel it-the way he holds his shoulder a half-inch wrong, the stiff hitch in his stride he's trying to walk through like it isn't there.

"Hi," he says, "I missed you," and reaches for you like something's about to happen, but you're already stepping back to look at him properly, and whatever he sees in your face makes his grin falter just slightly.

"Bath," you say.

"I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. Bath anyway."

He argues for exactly as long as it takes you to start running the water, which is to say, not very long at all, because some part of him, the part underneath the buzzing, is relieved to be told what to do instead of having to decide it himself. You add the muscle-relaxing foam you keep for exactly this kind of night, and when the tub is full you peel his clothes off him piece by piece, cataloguing the damage as you go: the reddened stretch of muscle along his shoulder blade, the way his calves have gone hard and locked, the bruise blooming somewhere he clearly hasn't noticed yet.

"You're not going easy on the encores anymore, huh," you say, keeping your voice light because if you let it go heavy he'll hear the worry in it and get defensive.

"Encores are easy," he says. "It's the choreo change they added Tuesday that's trying to kill me."

You get in after him, guide him back against your chest, and for a while he just breathes. The water and the heat start doing what they do-the room goes quiet, his shoulders drop half an inch, then another half inch, the buzzing underneath his skin slowly losing its charge. You work your fingers into his scalp, slow circles, no destination, and feel him go looser everywhere at once, like his whole body was waiting for someone else to say it was allowed to stop.

"You always know," he mumbles, eyes closed, head heavy against you.

"I've had practice."

"Mm. Lucky me."

You don't answer that one, because the honest answer is complicated; you're not sure luck is the word for a boyfriend who treats his own pain like background noise, who came here tonight thinking his body had one more thing left to give when really it had been asking, for hours, to be allowed to stop.

By the time you're both out and dry, most of the frantic energy has drained out of him, replaced by the particular heaviness that means he's about to feel every mile his body ran today. You sit him on the edge of the bed and get the kinesio tape, and he watches you tear the strips with the mild, drowsy interest of someone watching a familiar ritual.

"Shoulder first," you say, and he rolls it forward obediently, wincing when it clicks.

You work in silence for a few minutes, smoothing each strip along the muscle, anchoring the parts of him that have been carrying too much for too long. He's quiet in a way that isn't quite sleep yet, watching your hands.

"Doesn't it bother you?" He says eventually.

"Does what bother me."

"This." He gestures faintly at himself, at the tape, at the whole tableau. "Patching me up instead of - " he makes a vague gesture, "- benefiting. From having a boyfriend who's actually built for something."

You almost laugh, except it isn't funny, it's just very him - the idea that his worth to you is measured in what his body can produce rather than the fact that it's attached to him.

"Can I tell you the truth?"

"Always."

"It doesn't turn me off." You press the last strip down and smooth it flat with your thumb. "It scares me."

He goes still under your hands. "Scares you how?"

"I don't want to be one of those people," you say, and it comes out steadier than you expected, like you'd already rehearsed it somewhere in the back of your mind. "The ones whose partner dies on them. In them. At the worst possible moment, because he decided rest was for other people."

"That's - " He shifts to look at you properly, half-alarmed, half like he wants to argue you out of it. "That's not-you wouldn't say that to Hyunjin."

"No," you agree. "I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because Hyunjin doesn't run himself into the ground on zero sleep and pure vibes as a lifestyle choice." You keep your hands moving over his shoulder even though the tape's already done, because you're not ready to stop touching him yet. "Hyunjin shows up, does his part, goes home, and eats an obscene amount of food on his sofa with his feet up until his body forgives him. That's recovery. You don't have a sofa phase. You have a phase where you come here still vibrating and call it fine."

He doesn't say anything to that, which is how you know it landed.

"And the only reason Hyunjin gets to have his sofa phase," you add, quieter now, "is because people like you decide the hard parts have to get done by someone. I know that. I'm not asking you to stop being who you are. I'm asking you to let the stopping happen somewhere. Sometimes. On purpose, instead of only when your body finally forces it."

He's quiet for a long moment, turning that over with the particular slowness of someone whose adrenaline has finally, finally burned all the way down.

"I don't get it," he says finally, voice going soft and unguarded in the way it only does this late, this tired. "How you can look at me like this-wrapped in tape, half-dead, absolutely useless - and still want to be here."

"I'm not with you for what you can lift."

"I know. I know that. I just don't - " He stops, frustrated with himself, the words not quite arriving. "I don't know how to feel that the way you mean it. About myself, I mean."

"You don't have to tonight." You guide him down, get him settled against your chest, his bad shoulder carefully arranged so the tape doesn't pull. "That's what I'm here for. I'll hold the part you can't hold yet."

He goes quiet again, and you card your fingers slowly through his hair, the same unhurried rhythm as before, no destination, nowhere to be. You can feel the exact moment his breathing changes, gets longer, deeper, less like a body still bracing for one more rep and more like a body that has finally, finally been given permission.

"Thank you," he mumbles, already halfway gone.

"Sleep," you tell him, and he does - not because he decided to, not because some part of him gave itself the order, but because you're there, warm and solid and not going anywhere, holding the stillness for him until his body trusts it enough to stop fighting it.

You stay awake a little longer than he does, the way you always do, watching the tension finally leave his face in his sleep. Somewhere under all that armor is someone who has never once been taught that rest is something he's allowed to have without earning it first. You can't fix that in one night. But you can hold the door open a little, again and again, until maybe someday he walks through it on his own.

For tonight, this is enough. He's warm, he's breathing easy, and he's finally, finally still.

He told the truth, he had crazy work to do. Promo pics for the new album had been released and he didn’t even run to Bubble. All last night he’d been sending messages about working out, his need for exertion, exercise, to move his body, like he’d been talking about for a few days now. Surely he was expected to send more, or update his routine, but while one comeback approached, he found himself knee deep in another. 

The next one.

Do It wasn’t set to release for another month or so. 

Useless to fight him though, he did it to himself. He didn’t need to carry this burden alone, no matter if he thought he was supposed to, he had seven other members to lean on.

With how his body reacted to your gentle whisper, you quickly realize his message of, come here need help, received fifteen minutes ago would not go over well if answered by anyone but you.

“Chris?”

His fingers flexed. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Dropping his hands, he used to them to push his chair out from under his desk. Sitting back in his seat, he sprawled his legs in front of him, stretching them out like he’d been stuck in that spot from his first text to his last. Fingers gripping at the black joggers hugging his legs, he tipped his chin back, resting his head on the chair. 

He pouted his lips after a once over of your being. “C’mere,” he whispered, tapping his fingers on his lap. 

Kicking off your shoes, padding over to him in your socks, long sweatpants dragging on the tiled floor, you tossed your things on his desk and climbed into his lap, slotting your knees around his hips. Strong hands took you by the waist, fingertips pressing into your curves, pulling you closer until your chests were pressed together.

One hand took to your cheek, his thumb brushing under your lashes. “You were asleep,” he whispered.

Eyes flickering to his lips, you whispered, “No I wasn’t.”

His pout deepened, his gaze drawing over your heavy eyes. “Yes, you were. You close your eyes right now and you’re done. I know this face.”

Sliding your arms around his neck, you took a deep breath that triggered him to take one with you. “Okay, I was sleeping.”

He gave you the smallest shake of his head. “Don’t pretend just to make me feel better.”

Brushing your nose over his, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, you whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Both hands around your waist again, he tugged you closer if he could and adjusted in his seat, the slightest friction to your center causing you to flinch ever so slightly. Hooded eyes gazed up at you, the corners of his lips pulled down into the tiniest frown he had ever worn.

“Chris, it’s okay,” you assured him with a head shake and kiss to his cheek that made his eyes shut. “Come home. Leave all of this here, and come back to it when you’ve slept, and eaten something better than…” Glancing over your shoulder, his hold not letting you move very far, you caught a glimpse of the Monster cans and empty bags of snacks littering his work space.

When you faced him he wore the ghost of a smile. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” you mumbled, and he let out a quiet laugh. You scoffed, toying with long strands of hair hanging against his neck. “Sure, let my stress over your wellbeing be what amuses you, Christopher.”

Hands smoothing up your back to pull you down on top of him, he cracked a smile and leaned forward to catch your lips in a kiss. “‘M sorry,” he muttered between shared air.

Grasping him by the shoulders, you pressed your forehead to his and sighed. “I could’ve brought you dinner. Your brain works best after a proper meal, or after you’ve sweat it out, maybe you need to go down to the gym. Send some silly messages and thirst traps–”

He cut you off with a kiss. Lips tangling, he held you on top of him and slid his hands down to the curve of your ass, giving you a needy squeeze. Pressing his hips up into your own, his cock half hard, you gasped and he let out a heavy sigh. 

“That clears your mind,” you whispered.

He smiled, lips eager to be back on yours. “Also good for my health.”

Taking your hands to his cheeks, tipping his chin backward, you looked down at him and pursed your lips. “It is like… two forty seven in the morning.”

Glancing to his computer screen, his eyes narrowed when they met yours. “How’d you do that?”

You shrugged. “Intuition.”

He blinked. “Naturally.”

Sitting back on his lap, his disappointment evident on his face, you smiled at him and drug your hands down his chest. Taking a deep breath, his chest expanding as your fingers pulled at the waistband of his pants, he pulled his hands off your body and gripped the metal of the armrests your knees rested under. 

He grew harder beneath you, you could feel him. A one track mind jumping ship faster than you can say let me have you, and all because he wanted to do anything else but focus on his damn work that likely had been finished weeks ago. He couldn’t leave it alone, ever, not until it’d been released. Pushing himself until the very last second of every deadline to exist in his world– His twenty eight a strong fifty three when he sat at this desk.

Or any desk for that matter.

Admirable, really, but you needed him at twenty eight.

“You know what else she told me?” you asked, and he perked a brow. “My intuition?”

Chan breathed on manual, his gaze fighting to look at your hands, or your eyes, or your hips, or your fingers that toyed with the elastic of his joggers. “She’s scary sometimes.”

You smiled. “Is she ever wrong?”

“Fuck no,” he gasped as you tugged.

Working the stretchy fabric to his knees, exposing him and his need for you to touch him, throbbing, leaking, you reached for the waist of your own sweats and pulled them down. 

Whispering, “I knew what you needed,” in his ear as you settled yourself on top of him, his whimper as your slit kissed his tip ignited a fire in your belly, one that pulsed through your veins as you suck down onto his cock, the stretch too much without him prepping you first.

Too full, too big, too much, too much… To the hilt, you stilled.

You would not allow your brain to turn off.

As much as it fought with you, dizziness second nature when he pressed so deeply within you, you sucked in a trembling breath and released it all at once, sliding your arms over his shoulders, locking them behind his neck. 

His full, pink parted lips, he breathed through them, brows cinched in the middle, jaw slack, breath ragged. Blinking up at you, deep brown eyes glazed over and heavy, his own fatigue taunted him.

“Baby,” he whispered as his hands took their time sliding over your thighs and up your bare hips, sitting perfectly in the curve they made. Spreading his fingers, he grabbed handfuls of you and moaned unabashed, shifting you on his cock just a bit.

You both winced, but he whimpered.

Pressing kisses to his jaw as his head thrashed to the side, you grazed your tongue beneath his ear and gently caught his lobe between your teeth. Parting your lips to fan hot air over his neck, content as goosebumps erupted over his skin and he trembled, you flattened your tongue and danced it from his jaw to his collar bone. 

Hands gripping you tighter, sure to leave marks there for you to find tomorrow, he gasped through a whine and pushed up into you, acquiring the exact sound he yearned for.

“Baby, please.”

His tone. Never a beggar, a brat maybe, mastermind ragebaiter with a shit eating grin, but never one to beg.

Letting your lips trail up his jaw and pass over his lips with an obscene smack, you breathed him in and danced your fingers through his hair, combing it backward away from his face, letting your fingers graze his scalp, soothing him. 

“How do you want it?”

He gulped, looking at you like he could swallow you whole, but at the same time, he put his conscience in your pocket. “Just like th-this,” he whispered, tensing his fingers, moving them further back to grip your ass. “Don’t… Don’t fuck me.”

Tucking more hair behind his ears, you kissed the tip of his nose and brushed your cheek over his, laying your weight on top of him fully, one final little push to get him and keep him all the way in. 

“Don’t fuck you,” you repeated his words in case his muddled brain didn’t piece them together correctly. 

He grew hotter, his body heat having spiked since you sat on his lap, and you could feel him inside of you, pulsing, a need to move, to fuck. If you were at home he’d have you a sobbing mess by now. If you were anywhere else for that matter, or if he were in any other circumstance other than burn out.

Chan grasped control, he wanted it, he pursued it, stared it in the face, made it his bitch, but not tonight.

For once in his life he needed to release it.

Your fingers brushed his skin delicately while your gaze watched him suck down mismatched breaths. Laying your head down on his shoulder, kissing his cheek one more time, you smoothed a hand over his chest and thundering heart threatening to rip through the black tee he wore. 

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, fingers swirling in a circle in the valley of his chest. His brow furrowed. “I always am, Chris.”

His eyes fluttered open. “You say my name so pretty.”

Nudging his jaw with your nose, you sat up to meet him eye to eye. “Chris,” you whispered, kissing him once. He groaned deep within his chest, a rumbling that sent a shock to your core. “My Chris who works himself too hard. Chris who needs a break. A month-long vacation with his girlfriend who loves him, who’s proud of him, who needs him.”

He hummed, kissing you with fervor. “Where’re we going?” A heady sigh caught you both off guard, one that fell from his lips as he glanced between your bodies. “So wet, baby, fucking christ.”

You clenched around him without meaning to, and you both whined. He adjusted in his seat again, and your vision went blurry. 

“Chris,” you whimpered, grabbing onto him. 

“Kinda like torture,” he released his hold on you and gently smacked your ass with both hands before gripping back onto you, “But it’s too hot knowing your cunt’ll soak my cock no matter what.” 

Lips parting to speak, no noise came out. You had mere seconds until the thoughts in your head watered down to his name and his cum. Chan smiled, his spark returning tenfold.

“Answer my question, baby,” he cooed, hands massaging into your thighs, your hips. “Where are we going?”

Blinking emptily, locked in on his darkened eyes, his olive complexion, the obvious fact that he filled you entirely shocking the nerve endings of every compatible system, you whispered, “Anywhere… but here.”

“Hm,” he hummed, pushing his chair away from the desk. Holding you in his arms, he spun the chair around and carried you with him, smile growing as your legs wrapped around his waist. Splaying you backward on the black leather sofa, ensuring your head laid comfortably over the arm rest, he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, and pulled your sweatpants off of you entirely– without ever slipping out of your heat. “How’s this?”

Wrapping your arms around his back, pulling him down onto you, you breathed, “Perfect,” and caught his lips in a messy kiss as he pulled out of you, only to push back in with a moan. Closing your eyes, your body on fire, your thoughts a matter of nothing, you whispered, “Use me.”

His hand gripped your jaw. “No,” he grumbled, pressing his fingers into your cheeks. “Stay with me. Open.” 

Your lips parted, your tongue poking out, and he breathed through his amused pride. 

“Your eyes, baby, but good girl.” Meeting his gaze, you sighed, and he pouted. “You’re so sleepy,” he said softly, dancing his thumb against your skin, his hips in a steady motion, slow pulls of in, and out. And in, and out.

Your quiet, gentle whines, your tiny, unintelligible moans, like this, meant everything to him. Every hitch of his breath, every involuntary sound that melted from his lips, like this, meant it was real.

Bodies moving in sync, heavy sighs keeping time, sweat adorning your skin and his, parted lips brushing with every rock of his hips, drinking up every breath, every sound that slipped into the heat of the erotically charged air surrounding you– You’ve never been pushed over the edge so intensely, so powerfully, and Chan liked to toy with you.

But, this was different.

Eyes rolling back, toes curling, your body wrapped around him, clamping down on him everywhere. Mouth falling open, Chan kissed at the corners as you shook, body convulsing, euphoria washing through you, every limb, every vein. His name, on your lips like a prayer, a pathetic whimper to stagger his hips, his composure coming to a close as you squeezed him tight.

“Oh, fuck, good girl,” he moaned, nose pressed to your cheek as his thrusts grew sloppy riding you through your high.

Grasping handfuls of his shirt, you gasped, “Chris,” turning your head to kiss him rough.

Just as his tongue dipped out to meet yours, he groaned and grabbed onto you. Eyes screwing shut, he clenched his jaw and let out a broken moan as he spilled into you, tiny thrusts of his hips emptying himself entirely.

He curled up on top of you. Arms sliding around your back, head burrowing into your neck, your chest, he held onto you and eased his breath in time with yours, nirvana induced heartbeats pounding like no other.

Palms flat on his back, feeling each breath he took with the rise and fall of his ribs, the moment you felt as though you could move them, you drew small circles, and he picked up his head.

“Feel better?” you asked within a whisper.

Smiling, sleepier than ever, he hit you with a slow blink. “Come with me to work everyday.”

Breathing through a laugh, you drug a hand through his tousled hair, smiling as his eyes grew heavier. “Then you’ll get nothing done.” You grasped his cheek and brushed his lashes with your thumb.

He smirked. “That’s your dream.”

Pinching his cheek, you whispered, “This room isn’t soundproof during the day.”

“They’ve heard you before,” he teased, wiggling his brow, each blink growing longer and longer.

Scoffing, you brushed back his hair and said, “Jisung did, and that was one time, and it was an accident.”

Chan shrugged, shifting himself around you. Sitting up for all but three seconds, he grabbed ahold of your sweatpants and helped you back into them, situating his own. Settling beside you, cradling you in the nook of his body you curved perfectly within, he slid an arm under your head for you to lay on and wrapped the other around your middle. 

“What time is it?” you whispered through a yawn, knowing you’d both fall asleep here, then wake up to get a coffee from the corner cafe before he holed himself up in here for another twenty four hours.

“You tell me,” he said, voice deep, full of tired.

Closing your eyes, sinking against him, you whispered, “Three twenty nine.”

He picked up his head and squinted in the glow of his computer screen. He took a quick breath and scoffed, thoroughly amused. “Unbelievable.”

you watched the back of his head—the way his shoulders were hunched toward his ears, the tension visible in the line of his neck. he was drowning in this comeback. you knew how it went; the closer the date got, the more he disappeared into the music until there was nothing left of 'channie' and only 'bang chan the producer.'

it wasn't just today, either. it had been weeks of missed dinners and "i'm five minutes away" texts that turned into five hours of silence. your relationship had been shoved to the back burner so many times the pilot light was starting to flicker.

but you weren't the type to pick a fight over it. you knew him. you knew he didn't do it because he didn't care; he did it because he cared too much about everyone else—the members, the fans, the legacy. he was a perfectionist, and you were the person who understood that better than anyone. so, you just sat there, scrolling through your phone and watching the cursor on his screen move back and forth, back and forth.

it hurt, in a quiet, dull way, to be in the same room as him and still feel like you were miles apart. but you swallowed it down. he was stressed, and the last thing he needed was you adding to the weight on his back.

you leaned your head back against the cushion, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bass line acting like a lullaby. your eyes started to grow heavy. the studio was warm, and the lack of sleep from his late-night texts was finally catching up to you.

"chan?" you murmured softly, your voice thick with sleepiness.

he didn't even turn around. he just hummed, a distracted sound that meant he hadn't actually heard you.

"i'm gonna... just close my eyes for a second," you whispered, more to yourself than him.

he didn't respond. the only sound in the room was the clicking of his mouse and the rain that had started to smear against the high windows of the building.

the low, rhythmic thumping of the track finally pulled you under. your head lulled to the side, pressing against the cool leather of the sofa as you drifted into a shallow, restless nap.

a sudden, sharp chime from your phone jolted you awake. you blinked, disoriented by the dim studio lights, and fumbled for the device.

8:42 a.m.

"shit," you hissed, the word catching in your throat. your lecture started in eighteen minutes, and the university was at least fifteen minutes away on a good day. "channie, i’m so late. i have to go."

he didn't even flinch. his fingers were still dancing over the keyboard, eyes bloodshot and fixed on a wave file. "mhm. drive safe, baby," he murmured, his voice flat and robotic. he wasn't really there; he was somewhere inside the music, lost in a loop of percussion.

in a blind panic, you started sweeping your belongings off the coffee table. your notebook, a stray pen, your charger—you shoved them into your tote bag without looking, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. your hand brushed against a small, silver object near his keyboard, and you swept that in, too, thinking it was your own thumb drive.

"crap. have you seen my pen? the one—"

he shook his head, even though he hadn't really heard you. "check the bag," he muttered.

you decided you could come back and grab it later. you leaned over him, pressing a lingering, desperate kiss to his cheek. he smelled like caffeine and stale air. he leaned away slightly, not out of annoyance, but because you were blocking his view of the left monitor.

"bye, channie. i love you. eat the bagels, okay?"

"yeah, yeah. talk later," he muttered, already reaching for his headphones.

you rushed out of the building, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind you. the moment you stepped outside, the sky felt like it collapsed. the rain wasn't just falling; it was a vertical ocean, thick and grey, turning the parking lot into a blurred mess of asphalt and water.

you scrambled into your car, the interior immediately smelling like wet denim. you gripped the steering wheel, your heart hammering against your ribs. you hated this. you’d always hated driving in the rain—the way the world lost its edges, the way the tires felt like they were floating instead of gripping.

you looked back at the studio entrance, a part of you wanting to run back inside and beg him to drive you. just for twenty minutes. just so you didn't have to face the highway like this.

but you looked at the glow of his studio window on the third floor and shook your head. he was already drowning in work. he’d been up all night. the last thing he needed was to play chauffeur because you were "a little nervous" about some rain. you didn't want to be a burden. you didn't want to be another thing on his to-do list.

"get it together," you whispered to yourself, wiping the fog off the inside of the windshield with your palm.

you shifted the car into gear, the windshield wipers clicking at their highest speed, and pulled out into the downpour.

the knuckles of your hands were white, gripping the steering wheel so hard they cramped. the rain was a violent, drumming percussion against the roof of the car, deafening and relentless. every time a semi-truck passed in the opposite lane, a wall of muddy water slammed against your windshield, momentarily blinding you. your heart was a frantic bird trapped in your chest, fluttering against your ribs. you hated this. you hated every second of this drive.

then, the car’s bluetooth system chimed. the caller ID on the dashboard screen flashed: channie ♡

you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding, a small, hopeful smile twitching at your lips. maybe he’d snapped out of it. maybe he realized he barely looked at you before you left and wanted to say he loved you. you hit the 'accept' button on the steering wheel.

"what’s wrong, channie?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly as you squinted through the gray haze of the downpour.

"my flash drive," he snapped. his voice wasn't warm. it wasn't the voice of the man who tucked you in or called you 'baby.' it was sharp, jagged, and vibrating with a suppressed fury that made your stomach drop. "i need it. do you have it? you were in a rush, throwing your shit everywhere—did you take it with you?"

the light ahead turned red. you slammed on the brakes a little too hard, the car hydroplaning for a terrifying half-second before the tires caught. breathing heavily, you reached into the passenger seat and began frantically digging through your tote bag. your fingers brushed against cold metal.

you pulled it out. his silver drive. the one with the final masters. the one that represented months of his blood, sweat, and literal tears.

"oh my god, yeah, i do," you breathed, the guilt hitting you like a physical blow. "i’m so sorry, chan! i must have swept it up when i was grabbing my pens. i'm at a light now—can i give it to you right after my lecture? i'll drive straight back—"

"no!" he shouted, and the sheer volume of his voice through the car speakers made you flinch. "no, i—it’s due today. it’s due now. the engineers are waiting on those files. god, you’re always doing this."

the light turned green. you took your foot off the brake, your vision already starting to swim as the first hot tear tracked down your cheek. "doing what? it was an accident, i was just—"

"you're always so messy," he cut you off, the words coming out in a cold, rhythmic stream of resentment. "you’re cluttered. you’re all over the place. you don't think, you just move. i'm trying to hold a career together, i'm trying to finish this for the guys, and you’re just... you’re not focused enough. you're never attentive. you just come in here, distract me, and then leave with the one thing i actually need to do my job."

"chan, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. you reached up to wipe your eyes, but the movement made the car veer slightly toward the edge of the lane. you jerked the wheel back, your breathing becoming shallow and jagged. "i didn't mean to. i just wanted to see you. you asked me to come over."

"i asked you to come over to spend time, not to create more problems for me to fix," he ranted. he sounded so tired of you. so utterly finished with the 'mess' of your presence. "i’m so tired of dealing with your messes. i’m trying to focus on my career, but i’m constantly having to check behind you like you're a child—"

the rain was coming down even harder now, a literal curtain of water. you couldn't see the lines on the road. the tears were making everything a blurred, kaleidoscopic mess of red brake lights and gray asphalt. your chest felt tight, your lungs refusing to take in enough air.

"shit," you whispered under your breath as the car hydroplaned again, the steering wheel feeling loose and useless in your hands. you gripped it tighter, trying to blink away the moisture. "channie, i really am so sorry about the usb, but can we do this in a minute please? it’s raining and i’m driving and—"

"no, we’re doing this now," he shouted, his frustration peaking. "i'm tired of the excuses. i'm tired of you being 'sorry' every time you do something careless. grow up already! i have so much on my plate and you just add to it. it's like you don't even care about how hard i work—"

"i know, i know, i—"

you were looking at the dashboard, trying to find the button to clear the fogging windshield. you were trying to find the words to make him stop hating you. you were trying to stay in your lane.

you didn't see the black SUV that had lost control in the opposite lane. you didn't see it cross the median.

all you heard was a sudden, deafening blare of a horn.

"chan—"

the world turned into a cacophony of violence. the sound of metal screaming as it was crushed like paper. the shattering of glass, a thousand diamonds exploding into the air. your bag beside you was thrown, a sudden, brutal weightlessness followed by an impact that stole the very concept of breath from your body.

in the studio, chan heard it all.

he had been mid-sentence, his mouth open to deliver another stinging remark about your lack of responsibility, when the sound hit him through the phone. it wasn't a sound he recognized at first—it was too loud, too industrial. a sickening crunch. and then, the most terrifying sound of all: nothing.

it was a noise that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

just the faint, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain hitting a microphone somewhere far away.

his heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it stopped entirely. a cold, disgusting wave of nausea curled in his stomach, making him lightheaded.

"baby?" he asked. his voice was small now. the anger had vanished, evaporated by the sudden, chilling silence on the other end. "hey. that wasn't funny. pick up the phone."

nothing.

"baby? baby, answer me," he said, his voice breaking. he stood up so fast his chair flipped over behind him. he gripped the phone with both hands, pressing it so hard against his ear it hurt. "baby, please. talk to me. say something. i'm sorry, okay? i didn't mean it. just tell me you're there."

the line hissed with static. he could hear the rain. he could hear a faint, distant siren beginning to wail in the background of the call. then, a sharp click.

the line went dead.

chan stared at the screen. call ended. his fingers were shaking so violently he almost dropped the phone. he hit the redial button. his breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

ring. ring. ring.

"pick up, pick up, pick up, please god, pick up..."

“the person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a message…”

he hung up and called again. and again. and again. he didn't even realize he was crying until a tear hit the screen of his phone. he was already grabbing his jacket, his keys, his mind a blurred mess of every cruel thing he’d just spat at you.

he’d been so worried about a silver drive. he’d been so worried about a deadline.

he called again.

“the person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a message…”

he fell to his knees in the middle of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to your voicemail greeting over and over like a lifeline. his stomach twisted with a question that threatened to shatter his mind.

had his cruel words been the last thing you heard? his anger had been the last thing you felt?

the answer was yes.

the silver usb drive sat in the center of the mahogany desk like a jagged piece of shrapnel. it looked smaller than it had two weeks ago. less significant. it was just a bit of metal and plastic, slightly scuffed on one corner where it must have hit the pavement or the dashboard, but otherwise perfectly intact.

it was functional. it held the files. it held the "future" chan had been so desperate to protect that he’d sacrificed the only thing that actually mattered.

the comeback had happened, technically. the company had pushed it through because schedules were already locked, because the industry doesn't stop for tragedies, because the wheels of the machine keep turning even when the driver has been crushed.

but chan hadn't been there. he hadn't gone to the music shows. he hadn't sat in on the final meetings. he had become a ghost in his own life, haunting the halls of the building like a man waiting for a sentence that had already been carried out.

the studio was cold. he’d turned the ac down to sixty degrees days ago and just left it there, wanting the air to feel as biting and sharp as the guilt in his chest. it didn't feel like a place of creation anymore. it felt like a tomb.

the bagels were gone. he’d thrown them away in a fit of violent, shaking sobs three days after the accident, the plastic bag crinkling in a way that sounded like the crushing of metal. the coffee cups had stayed, though. he couldn't bring himself to move them.

there was a ring of dried brown liquid at the bottom of the one you’d sipped from—the one he’d ignored while he was working. he stared at it for hours sometimes, tracing the rim with his thumb, wondering if a single microscopic trace of you was still clinging to the ceramic.

one night, the silence had become too loud, and the mess he’d once scolded you for—the stray pens, the crumpled papers, the way you’d tuck your shoes under his desk—had started to feel like an accusation.

he’d grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner from the janitor’s closet and scrubbed every inch of the leather couch until his knuckles were raw and the room smelled like bleach and chemicals. he wanted to scrub away the memory of his own voice. he wanted to bleach the sound of his anger out of the walls.

but when he was finished, all he was left with was a sterile, empty room that didn't smell like you at all. and that was worse. that was infinitely worse.

the members tried. they always tried. they were his brothers, his family, but right now their presence felt like a suffocating weight. every time they looked at him with those soft, pitying eyes, he wanted to scream. he wanted them to hate him. he needed someone to tell him he was the villain in this story, because the version where it was "just an accident" was one he couldn't live with.

it was changbin and minho who came in today. they didn't knock; they knew he wouldn't answer anyway. they brought food in a plastic bag—something warm, something that smelled like ginger and soy—and set it down on the console. the same spot where you’d left his lunch.

"eat, hyung," changbin said, his voice low and steady. he reached out a hand, hovering it near chan’s shoulder but not quite touching. "you haven't left this room in twenty-four hours."

chan didn't look up from the usb drive. "i'm not hungry."

"chan, it’s been two weeks," minho said, his tone firmer, the kind of tough love he usually used to snap the members out of a funk. "the police report came back. the other driver was hydroplaning. it was the weather. it was the rain. it wasn't you."

the word rain triggered something in him. it felt like a physical strike to his jaw.

"don't tell me that!" chan roared.

he stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, a sound like a dying animal. he slammed his palm against the mixing console, the vibrations rattling the speakers.

"don't you dare tell me it wasn't me! i was on the phone. i was screaming at her. do you know what the last thing i said to her was? i told her she was a mess. i told her she was a distraction. i told her she didn't care about my work."

his voice cracked on the last word, crumbling into a jagged, wet sound. his chest was heaving, his vision blurring as the hot, stinging tears finally spilled over.

"i made her cry while she was driving on a highway in a monsoon because i was worried about a stupid piece of silver plastic," he choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the usb drive. "she was apologizing. she was saying she was sorry while she was trying to stay on the road, and i just... i kept going. i wouldn't let her hang up. i wouldn't let her breathe."

he sank back into his chair, his head falling into his hands. the bravado, the anger, the leader—it all vanished, leaving behind only the hollowed-out shell of a man who had broken his own world.

"i made the last thing she ever heard a lie," he whispered into his palms. "i told her she was a burden. she was never a burden. she was the only reason i was even doing any of this. and now i have the music, and i have the career, and i have this fucking drive... and i don't have her."

changbin and minho exchanged a look of profound, helpless sadness. there was no script for this. there was no leader-talk chan could give himself to fix it.

"she knew you loved her, chan," changbin tried again, his own voice thick with emotion. "she knew how stressed you were. she always understood."

"that's the problem!" chan sobbed, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him. "she always understood. she sat on that couch for hours just to see the back of my head. she took my shrapnel and she just... she smiled and told me she was proud of me. she deserved someone who would look at her. she deserved someone who would tell her the mess was the best part of his day. and i didn't do it. i chose this. i chose the work."

he reached out and grabbed the silver drive, his fingers curling around it so tight the edges dug into his skin. he wanted it to hurt. he wanted it to leave a mark.

"get out," he said, his voice suddenly cold and dead.

"hyung—"

"get out! please."

he didn't look up until he heard the soft click of the heavy studio door. alone again. the silence rushed back in, filling the spaces between his shallow breaths.

he looked at the computer monitors. the software was open, the project file for the lead single staring back at him with its colorful bars and complex waveforms. the music you had been so proud of. the music you had died for.

he picked up the usb drive and held it over the port. his hand shook so violently he couldn't line it up. he tried again, his teeth grinding together, a low noise of frustration building in his throat. he wanted to see the files. he wanted to see the mess he’d been so worried about.

but he couldn't do it. every time he moved the drive toward the computer, he heard the honk of that horn. he heard the sound of the metal. he heard the way the line went dead.

he pulled his hand back and threw the drive across the room. it hit the far wall with a dull thud and skittered across the floor, disappearing into the shadows under the leather couch.

chan didn't go after it. he just sat there in the dark, the blue light of the monitors reflecting in his hollow eyes. he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to your name. he knew it was useless. he knew the phone was sitting in a plastic evidence bag at the precinct, cracked and water-damaged.

he hit the call button anyway.

he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the ringing.

one. two. three.

“the person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a message…”

he didn't hang up this time. he let the beep happen. he sat there for a long time, the silence of the recording eating up the space in the room.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'm so sorry. the studio is clean, baby. it’s so clean. there’s no mess at all. and i hate it. i hate it so much."

he stayed on the line until the system cut him off, staring at the spot under the couch where the silver drive lay forgotten in the dust. he was a professional at making music, at layering sounds and fixing glitches, but he realized then that no amount of editing could fix a life.

the rain started to hit the windows again—a soft, rhythmic tapping that sounded like fingers against glass. chan flinched at the sound, pulling his knees up to his chest on the producer's chair. he was a man who lived for the beat, for the rhythm, for the sound.

but for the first time in his life, he just wanted the world to be quiet.

he reached over and clicked the power button on the console. one by one, the lights went out. the monitors faded to black. the hum of the speakers died.

and there, in the absolute darkness of the room where you used to wait for him, chan finally let out the breath he’d been holding since the crash. it wasn't a release. it was just a beginning.

the beginning of a year where the music wouldn't play, and the rain wouldn't stop, and the mess would be the only thing he ever wanted back.

the seasons had shifted, though chan only knew this because the light hitting the studio floor in the evenings was a different shade of gold. it was spring now. outside, the city was blooming, people were shedding their heavy coats, and the air probably smelled like wet earth and fresh growth.

but inside the four walls of his studio, it was still that gray, suffocating morning in february. for chan, the rain had never actually stopped.

he was stuck in a loop. it was like a track he’d produced where the skip was so subtle you didn't notice it until you realized you’d been listening to the same four bars for three months. his life was a sequence of "what ifs" that played on a constant, maddening repeat.

what if he hadn't sent that text at 3:00 a.m.? what if he’d let you sleep in? what if he’d just turned his chair around for five seconds when you walked in with those bagels? if he had just looked at you—really looked at you—he would have seen how tired you were.

he would have seen that you were rushing. he would have seen the silver drive sitting too close to your bag.

he spent a lot of time staring at the door. he’d sit in his chair, the one he used to spin around in to tease you, and he’d wait for the click of the handle. his brain knew you weren't coming back, but his body hadn't caught up yet.

every time the hallway quieted down, he’d find himself holding his breath, waiting for the sound of your sneakers or the soft hum of you humming one of his demos under your breath.

depression wasn't a weight for him; it was a thinning. he felt translucent. he’d stopped eating anything that required effort, surviving on protein shakes and the occasional granola bar minho forced into his hand. his skin was sallow, the dark circles under his eyes looking like permanent bruises. he looked like a man who was disappearing, and in a way, he was. he was fading into the static of your absence.

it was 4:00 a.m. on a tuesday when the silence got too loud again. the studio was dark, save for the low glow of his monitors and the tiny, blinking red light of his hardware. he reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact.

he knew it was full. the mailbox had been full for six weeks. he knew the phone was likely sitting in a cardboard box at your parents' house, or tucked away in a drawer at the police station, the screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. but the act of calling was the only thing that made him feel like he was still anchored to the earth.

he hit dial. his heart did that familiar, painful stutter as he waited through the rings.

“the person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a message…”

he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool edge of his desk. you used to have a personalized one, but deleted it because you hated the sound of your own recorded voice. he'd been there the day you tried to record it. he could almost see you saying it—the way you’d scrunched your nose in embarrassment, the way you’d laughed right after the recording ended.

"hey," he whispered into the mouthpiece. his voice was gravelly, unused for hours. "it’s me. obviously."

he let out a breath that sounded more like a shudder.

"i finished the track today, baby. the one you liked. the one with the heavy synth in the bridge. the members think it’s the best thing we’ve done in years. everyone is so happy with it. but i... i deleted your favorite part. that vocal chop you kept humming? i took it out.

"i couldn't leave it in. i didn't deserve to keep the version you liked. it felt like stealing. how am i supposed to put something out into the world that you were the only one who truly understood?"

he paused, listening to the faint hiss of the line. he liked to pretend he could hear you breathing on the other end, just listening to him talk like you used to while he worked.

"i'm so sorry, my love. i'm so sorry i called you a mess. i’ve been looking around this room, and i realized... i was the mess. you were the only thing in my life that made any sense. you were the only thing that wasn't a deadline or a chore or a performance. you were just... you. and i treated you like an inconvenience."

he felt a tear track down his nose and drip onto his hand, but he didn't move to wipe it away.

"i found your charger today. the one with the little yellow tape on the end so i wouldn't accidentally take it to the company. it was behind the couch. i tried to plug it in, just to see if it still worked, but then i realized i don't even have anything of yours to charge anymore. i just held it for a while. it still smells a little bit like that lotion you use. the vanilla one."

his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "i really like that one," chan added softly.

"if i promise to never skip a meal again, will you just show up in a dream tonight? just one? i just need to see your face without the rain. i just want to see you sitting on the couch again, even if you're not talking to me. i’d take you being mad at me.

"i’d take you never speaking to me again if it meant you were still driving that car. i would have given up the music, baby. i would have thrown the drive in the river myself if i’d known."

the line timed out, the automated system cutting him off with a cold, digital beep. chan didn't pull the phone away from his ear. he just sat there in the dark, listening to the dial tone.

he thought about the drive. the silver usb was back in his desk drawer now, tucked away like a shameful secret. he’d accessed the files, but he hadn't changed anything other than that one deletion. every time he opened the project, he saw the last save date. february 12th.

he hated that date. he hated the rain. he hated the way his coffee tasted now—bitter and metallic, like he was drinking the regret straight from the cup.

he stood up, his joints popping from hours of being curled in the chair. he walked over to the window. the city was quiet, the streetlamps casting long, lonely shadows across the pavement. it wasn't raining tonight, but the ground was still damp from a shower earlier in the evening. the reflections of the lights looked like streaks of neon tears on the asphalt.

he imagined your car on a night like this. he imagined you turning the heater on, singing along to the radio to try and ignore how nervous the wet roads made you. he imagined the exact moment he’d called you. the vibration in your cup holder. the way you would have reached for it, wanting to hear his voice, thinking he was calling to say something kind.

"i'm sorry i was the reason you were distracted," he whispered to the glass. "i'm sorry i was the last thing you had to deal with."

he walked back to the couch—the black leather one he’d scrubbed so hard it was now slightly discolored in patches. he lay down, pulling a hoodie over his head, trying to trap the stale air inside. he didn't sleep much these days.

when he did, he usually woke up reaching for his phone to tell you about a dream, only to feel the cold, empty space beside him and remember all over again.

it was a cycle. a loop.

three months. ninety days. two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours of replaying a ten-minute phone call.

chan closed his eyes and tried to remember the way you looked when you were laughing at one of his stupid jokes. he tried to focus on the sound of your voice instead of the sound of the crash. but the crash was louder. the crunch of metal was a permanent layer in the mix of his life now, a frequency he couldn't eq out.

he reached out and touched the spot on the floor where your bag used to sit.

"goodnight, baby," he murmured into the empty room.

he didn't expect an answer. he didn't even hope for one anymore. he just needed to say the words into the void, hoping that somewhere, in some version of the universe where he’d been a better man, you were tucked safely into bed, and the silver drive was nothing more than a piece of plastic on a desk.

but in this world, the drive was on the desk, and chan was on the floor, and the rain was waiting just outside the window to start all over again.

he fell into a fitful, shallow sleep around 5:30 a.m., his hand still clutching the phone. he dreamt of the studio, but it was filled with water. he was swimming toward the couch, trying to reach you, but the harder he kicked, the further away the couch drifted. you were sitting there, holding the usb drive, pointing at the door. your lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

it’s okay, you were saying. it’s okay, channie.

but it wasn't. it would never be okay.

when he woke up two hours later to the sound of the cleaning crew in the hallway, the first thing he felt was the crushing weight of the daylight. another day of being the person who stayed. another day of being the reason you left.

he sat up, rubbed his face with his hands, and looked at his phone.

152 unread messages from the members. 0 from you.

he stood up, walked to the desk, and turned on the monitors. the hum of the fans filled the room, a low, constant drone that sounded like a mourning song. he opened the project, highlighted the entire vocal track of the new song, and lowered the volume by three decibels.

it sounded emptier. hollower.

"perfect," he whispered, his voice breaking. "it sounds just like the house."

he stayed there for the rest of the day, a ghost working on a ghost of a song, waiting for the sun to go down so he could call your voicemail and apologize for the things he’d said when the world was still bright.

six months. a half-year of the world tilting on an axis that felt permanently wrong. for chan, the passage of time wasn't measured in months or weeks anymore, but in the slow, agonizing evaporation of his own edges.

the fire that had fueled his anger in the beginning—the hot, white-hot rage at the driver, at the rain, at his own reflection—had finally burned itself down into a cold, gray ash.

what was left was the deep quiet.

it was a silence that lived in his bones. it wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the absence of weight. he felt like a hollowed-out tree, still standing but entirely empty on the inside. he was back to work at the studio because the company demanded it and because his members needed him, but the "bang chan" everyone knew was gone.

the man who used to stay up until dawn obsessing over the frequency of a snare hit, the perfectionist who wouldn't let a single breath go unedited, had been replaced by someone who just... didn't care.

his desk was a disaster. it was a crushing, bitter irony that he couldn't stop thinking about. for years, he’d teased you—sometimes gently, sometimes sharply—about your mess.

he’d laugh at the way your bag always overflowed with receipts and loose pens, or how you’d leave half-finished cups of tea in every room. he’d called you cluttered. he’d told you that you needed to be more focused.

now, he was the one living in a wreck. his studio was littered with empty energy drink cans and crumpled snack wrappers. there were stacks of lyric sheets with coffee stains on them, most of them half-finished and abandoned. he’d forget to save files. he’d lose his keys twice a day.

he was messy in every sense of the word, his brain too clouded with grief to maintain the rigid structure he’d once used to define himself. he had become the very thing he’d used as a weapon against you on that last morning, and every time he looked at the chaos on his desk, it felt like a ghost was laughing at him.

it was a tuesday evening when it happened. he’d dropped his phone—again—and it had skittered across the floor, sliding deep into the dark gap beneath the black leather couch.

chan sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from his soul. he got down on his hands and knees, pressing his cheek against the cold floorboards to peer into the shadows.

his fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. he thought it was his phone, but when he pulled his hand back, he was holding a cheap, blue ballpoint pen.

he froze.

he knew this pen. it was the one you’d been frantically looking for right before you left for your lecture. he could still see you in his mind's eye, patting down your pockets, huffing in frustration because you were already late. you’d asked him if he’d seen it, and he hadn't even looked up from his monitor. he’d just muttered something under his breath without a second thought.

you must have dropped it right there, next to the couch where you’d been napping.

chan sat back on his heels, the pen clutched in his palm. it was just a piece of plastic, worth maybe fifty cents, but to him, it felt like a holy relic. he brushed the dust off it with the hem of his hoodie, his thumb tracing the teeth marks on the cap where you used to chew on it when you were stressed.

he felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest—the first real feeling he’d had in weeks. it wasn't the dull ache of depression; it was a stabbing, vivid grief.

he tucked the pen into the front pocket of his hoodie, right over his heart. he didn't even go back for his phone.

he walked over to his desk and sat down. for six months, the silver usb drive had stayed in his drawer. he’d touched it, moved it, even held it against his forehead while he cried, but he hadn't plugged it in. he couldn't bring himself to look at the data. it felt too much like an autopsy.

but tonight, with your pen in his pocket, he felt a strange, quiet pull.

his hands shook as he opened the drawer. the drive caught the light, its scratched surface a testament to the violence it had survived. he didn't let himself think. he just shoved it into the port.

the computer chirped. the drive icon appeared on the screen, labeled simply: CB97_FINAL_MASTERS.

chan clicked through the folders, his breath hitching as he found the project file from that morning. the file he’d been screaming about. the file he’d valued more than your safety.

he hovered the cursor over the file properties.

last saved: february 12, 2026. 9:02 AM.

the air left his lungs in a rush. he remembered the timeline. he’d called you at 8:52 am. he’d spent ten minutes tearing you apart, telling you how your lack of focus was ruining his career, how your messiness was a burden he couldn't carry anymore.

the timestamp on the save was three minutes before the call ended. three minutes before the sound of the crash.

he realized then that while he was shouting at you, you hadn't just been listening. you had reached into your bag, found the drive, and—despite the rain, despite the terror of driving, despite the tears he was making you cry—you must have been thinking about him.

you had probably been checking your bag at the red light, making sure the important little thing was safe, perhaps even planning how to get it back to him as fast as possible.

you were caring for him while he was destroying you.

chan clicked the file open. the digital workspace loaded, the familiar wave files of his members' voices blooming across the screen. he hit play.

it was the track you liked. the one with the synth bridge. but as the music filled the studio, it didn't sound like a hit song anymore. it sounded like a funeral march. every beat was a heartbeat he’d helped stop. every lyric was a word he’d wasted.

he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. the blue light of the monitors washed over him, making his skin look ghostly. he felt the weight of the pen in his pocket, a tiny, physical pressure against his ribs.

"i'm so sorry," he whispered into the empty room. "i'm so, so sorry."

he didn't turn the music off. he let it loop. he sat there for hours, listening to the perfection he’d demanded, realizing that it was entirely worthless. the mix was clean. the vocals were crisp. the transition he’d been so worried about was seamless.

and he would have traded every single note of it to have one more "messy" afternoon with you. he would have traded his entire career to see one more half-finished cup of tea on his console.

as the sun began to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the cluttered studio, chan didn't move to clean up. he didn't reach for an energy drink. he just reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the blue pen.

he realized then that the "bang chan" he was supposed to be—the leader, the perfectionist, the producer—was a lie. the mess was the truth. the clutter was the life. you had been the only one who lived in the real world, and he’d been too busy trying to polish the edges of a song to notice that the world was beautiful because it was broken.

he finally reached out and clicked 'save' on the project. not because he wanted to work on it, but because he wanted to update the timestamp. he wanted to move past february 12th, even if it was only by a fraction of a second.

the computer chirped again.

last saved: august 20, 2026. 5:44 AM.

chan let out a long, shaky breath. he stood up, his legs stiff, and walked toward the door. he didn't turn off the lights. he didn't tidy the desk. he just kept his hand on the pen in his pocket and walked out into the quiet hallway.

for the first time in six months, he didn't feel like he was drowning in the rain. he just felt tired.

he walked down to the parking lot, the morning air cool and crisp against his face. it wasn't raining. the sky was a pale, clear blue, the kind of color you used to say looked like fresh ink.

he got into his car and sat there for a moment, looking at the empty passenger seat. he reached into his pocket, pulled out the blue pen, and set it carefully in the cup holder.

"we're going home now," he murmured.

he started the engine and drove out of the lot. he drove slowly. he stayed in his lane. he didn't check his phone. he just watched the road, the blue pen rattling slightly in the plastic holder, a small, messy piece of you finally coming home.

the quiet was still there, but as he drove through the waking city, it didn't feel quite so deep. it felt like a beginning. a messy, cluttered, imperfect beginning.

and for now, that had to be enough.

the date on the corner of his monitor felt like a heavy weight, though the numbers themselves were small. february 12th. one year.

chan stood by the window of the third-floor studio, his forehead resting against the cool glass. outside, seoul was being swallowed by a familiar, grey downpour. the rain streaked down the pane in jagged lines, blurring the world into a smear of neon signs and headlights.

he watched the cars crawl along the wet asphalt below, their brake lights glowing like embers in the mist.

a year ago, the sight of the rain would have sent him into a spiraling panic, his lungs tightening until he couldn't draw air. now, it just felt like a quiet companion. the sharp, stabbing agony that had defined the first few months—the kind that made him want to claw his own skin off just to escape the guilt—had finally settled into something different.

it was a dull, permanent ache. it was a part of him now, like a break in a bone that never quite knit back together right. he didn't fight it anymore. he just carried it.

he turned away from the window and looked at his desk. it wasn't the sterile, bleached workspace of six months ago. there were loose papers scattered everywhere. a half-empty bag of pretzels sat next to a stack of external hard drives. three different colored pens—none of them his—were rolled into the groove of the console.

he’d stopped trying to scrub the mess away. he realized, with a clarity that only comes through total wreckage, that the mess was the point. a life without clutter, without distractions, without someone accidentally taking your usb drive because they were rushing to be somewhere important... that wasn't a perfect life.

it was just a lonely one.

he walked over to the console and sat down, but he didn't sit in the producer’s chair. he sat on the edge of the black leather couch, the one that still had a tiny, faded water stain from a cup of tea you’d spilled two years ago.

he pulled a notepad toward him. he’d been writing a song for weeks. it wasn't for the next album. the company didn't know about it, and he wasn't sure he’d ever release it. it wasn't for the fans, and it wasn't meant to be a chart-topper.

it was just for the chaos. it was a song about the way your laugh sounded when you were mid-sentence, the way you’d always lose your keys in the bottom of your bag, and the way you’d apologize for things that weren't your fault.

it was a song for the girl who made his life beautiful by making it complicated.

as he looked over the lyrics, the studio door opened. it wasn't a soft, hesitant knock. it was the loud, unmistakable sound of seven people who didn't know how to be quiet if their lives depended on it.

"breakfast is here!" han’s voice bounced off the acoustic foam walls before he was even fully in the room.

chan looked up as the members piled in, one by one, carrying bags of food and cardboard carriers of coffee. minho was at the front, looking as unbothered as ever, while felix trailed behind him with a wide, bright smile that seemed to challenge the gloom of the weather outside.

"we decided the studio needed more people," hyunjin said, dropping a stack of napkins onto the console without asking. "and more food. mostly more food."

seungmin and i.n. started clearing a space on the large wooden table in the corner, pushing aside chan's notebooks and cables with a reckless lack of concern that would have made the old chan go ballistic. changbin followed them, already tearing into a bag of pastries.

"sit down, hyung," felix said, gently grabbing chan’s arm and pulling him toward the table. "you haven't eaten anything but coffee today. we checked your trash can."

chan let out a soft huff, a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. "you guys are invasive, you know that?"

"it’s in our contracts," lee know replied dryly, handing chan a plain paper bag. "open it."

chan took the bag. he could feel the warmth through the paper. he opened it and looked inside. it was a bagel. toasted, with just a bit of cream cheese melting on the edges. simple. unremarkable.

it was the first thing he’d been offered on that morning a year ago.

the room was suddenly very full. seungmin was arguing with han about a melody they’d heard on the radio, while hyunjin was trying to show i.n. something on his phone. changbin was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten donut, and lee know was watching them all with that quiet, observant smile he wore when he was content.

chan sat there, the bagel in his hand, and for the first time in three hundred and sixty-five days, the air in his lungs didn't feel like lead.

he looked at his members—his brothers. they knew. they knew exactly what today was. they knew why the rain felt heavier and why the silence in the studio had been so thick lately. they hadn't come here to give him a speech or to tell him it was time to move on. they had just come to bring the mess back into his life.

they had come to be the distraction he once thought he hated.

"hey, chan-hyung," seungmin called out, leaning across the table. "han thinks the bridge in that new track should be faster, but i think it needs to breathe more. what do you think?"

chan looked at han, who was already nodding aggressively. "it needs energy, hyung! like a heartbeat!"

"no," chan said, his voice quiet but steady. he felt the eyes of all seven of them drift toward him. "seungmin is right. it needs to breathe. you can't rush the important parts."

the conversation erupted again, louder this time, as they debated the merits of tempo and emotion. chan found himself joining in. he corrected han on a technical point, laughed when changbin made a self-deprecating joke, and even nudged i.n. when the younger boy tried to steal a piece of hyunjin's breakfast.

it was a strange, soaring feeling. it wasn't that the sadness was gone—it would never be gone—but it was as if the room had expanded enough to hold both the grief and the life at the same time. he felt light.

he felt like he was allowed to be in this moment, even though you weren't. that he was allowed to breathe. allowed to live.

he realized that the best way to honor the love you’d given him wasn't to stay frozen in the second you left, but to live the way you’d always wanted him to.

he took a bite of the bagel. it tasted like salt and bread and a memory that didn't hurt as much as it used to. it was a tribute. it was a quiet promise.

they stayed for over an hour, turning the studio into a chaotic den of crumbs and loud voices. by the time they started packing up to head to their own schedules, the room felt different. the once ugly silence had been broken, replaced by the lingering warmth of people who loved him.

"see you at practice, hyung?" felix asked, pausing at the door.

"yeah," chan said, nodding. "i'll be there in twenty minutes."

once the door clicked shut and the hallway faded into silence, chan walked back to his desk. he picked up the silver usb drive—the one that had been the catalyst for his nightmare.

he didn't feel the nausea anymore. he didn't feel the urge to throw it across the room. he just looked at it. he saw the scratches. he saw the wear and tear. he saw the physical evidence of a day that had broken him.

he plugged it into the computer.

he navigated to the project file—the one with the synth bridge, the one you’d loved. he hit the spacebar.

the music filled the room. the bass was deep, the synths were shimmering, and the vocals were clear. but this time, he didn't hear the screech of tires over the melody. he didn't hear the sound of the metal crunching during the chorus.

he just heard the music.

he leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. he let the sound wash over him, every note a reminder of a time when the world was bright. he realized that he didn't have to delete your favorite parts to be sorry. he didn't have to punish himself to prove he loved you.

loving you was the legacy. the mess was the legacy.

outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady drumming against the glass. but inside, chan was just breathing. he was sitting in the middle of a messy studio, with crumbs on his desk and lyrics about a girl who chewed on her pens, and for the first time in a year, he wasn't waiting for the crash.

he was just listening to the song.

he reached out and turned the volume up, just a little bit, until the music was louder than the rain. he stayed there until the track ended, and then, with a hand that didn't shake, he hit play again.

and when he closed his eyes, you were smiling softly right next to him.

🏷️ ( stray kids / general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae

he appeared in the doorway, looking entirely too comfortable in an oversized grey hoodie and black sweatpants. his hair was a mess—curly and wild, clearly the result of him running his hands through it all day while working in his home studio. he leaned against the doorframe, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"you’re officially stuck with me," he said, his voice dropping into that low, rumbly register that always made your stomach do a weird little flip. "is that such a bad valentine's day outcome?"

you rolled your eyes, though you couldn't hide the smile. "i had reservations, channie. real, adult reservations at a place that doesn't serve instant ramen."

"hey, my ramen is legendary," he defended, walking over to the cabinet. "plus, the rain is saving you from a mediocre date. consider it a divine intervention."

you sighed, turning off your phone and tossing it onto the counter. you and chan had been friends for years—the kind of friends who knew each other’s coffee orders by heart and could communicate entire sentences with just a look.

you spent most of your free time here, in his space, but tonight felt... different. maybe it was the holiday, or maybe it was just the way the storm seemed to shrink the world down until it was just the two of you in this apartment.

"it wasn't a date," you corrected softly. "it was just... a thing. to avoid being alone today."

chan paused, his hand hovering over a bowl. he didn't look back at you, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed just a fraction. "you don't like being alone?"

"not today," you admitted. "it’s a bit pathetic, i know. the commercialism gets to me."

chan finally turned around, leaning back against the counter. his expression had softened, the playful spark replaced by that deep, grounding intensity he only ever showed when he was really listening. "it's not pathetic. everyone wants to feel like they’re someone’s person. especially when the whole world is shouting about it."

he walked over to the window, watching the rain lash against the glass. "it’s really coming down. i doubt the power is going to hold much longer. the lights have been flickering in the studio for the last twenty minutes."

as if on cue, the kitchen light overhead buzzed, dimmed, and then died. a second later, the hum of the fridge cut out, leaving the apartment in a heavy, sudden silence. the only light left was the faint, blueish glow of the streetlamps filtering through the rain and the dim screen of your phone.

"great," you whispered. "now it’s a horror movie."

"not a horror movie," chan said, his voice coming from the darkness. you heard him rummaging through a drawer. "more like... a camping trip. stay there, don't move. i don't want you tripping over the stools."

you heard the strike of a match. a tiny flame bloomed in his hand, casting long, dancing shadows against his face. he lit a thick vanilla candle on the counter, then another, and another. soon, the kitchen was bathed in a warm, amber glow.

it was beautiful, honestly. the way the candlelight caught the golden undertones of his skin and made his eyes look like liquid honey. you felt your heart rate pick up, a rhythmic thumping in your chest that had nothing to do with the storm.

"better?" he asked, sliding a candle toward you.

"much," you said.

"come on," he gestured toward the living room. "it’s going to get cold in here without the heat. let’s move to the sofa. i’ve got the heavy blankets."

you followed him, the small circle of candlelight guiding your way. he piled a mountain of quilts onto the floor in front of the sofa, creating a sort of makeshift nest. it was a classic chan move—always making sure everyone was comfortable, always taking care of the details.

you sat down, pulling a wool blanket over your shoulders. chan sat beside you, so close that his arm was pressed against yours. in the quiet, you could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"it’s quiet," you murmured. "no music, no computers. when was the last time you were actually this still?"

chan chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. "honestly? i can't remember. there's always a beat in my head or a deadline to hit. it’s... it's kind of nice. the world stopping for a bit."

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of your blanket as he adjusted it for you. "are you warm enough?"

"yeah. i'm good."

you both lapsed into silence, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling. the rain was a constant, rhythmic drumming on the roof, creating a cocoon-like feeling. being this close to him, wrapped in the scent of vanilla and his specific cologne—something woody and clean—made your head feel a little light.

"you know," chan said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. "i was actually worried about today."

you turned your head to look at him. "why? you hate valentine's day. you always say it’s just a saturday with better chocolate."

he laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. he was staring at his hands, his fingers tracing the pattern on the quilt. "i do. but i didn't like the idea of you being out with someone else tonight. i kept looking at the clock, thinking, 'she’s probably getting ready now,' or 'she’s probably at dinner now.' it was... irritating."

your breath hitched. "irritating?"

"yeah," he breathed. he finally looked up, his gaze locking onto yours. the vulnerability in his eyes was raw, stripped of his usual leader-of-the-pack confidence. "i'm a terrible friend, aren't i? i should be happy you're out there finding someone. but when the storm hit and i realized you couldn't leave... i felt this massive wave of relief."

he reached out, his hand hesitating before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his touch was feather-light, but it felt like electricity.

"i was relieved the world stopped," he confessed, his voice shaking just a fraction. "because it meant i finally got you all to myself. no distractions. no dates with guys who don't know how you like your coffee or what movies make you cry. just us."

the air in the room felt thick, charged with years of unspoken words and "almost" moments. you could feel the heat radiating from him, the magnetic pull that had been drawing you toward him since the day you met.

"chan," you whispered, your voice trembling. "you don't have to be a... a friend about this. not tonight. not really. not ever."

he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. you could feel his warm breath on your lips. "i've been trying to tell myself that for a long time. but i was scared. if i told you how i felt and it wasn't what you wanted... i couldn't lose you. i'd rather have you as a friend than not have you at all."

"you’re never going to lose me," you said, reaching up to cup his jaw. his stubble prickled against your palms, a grounding sensation. "you walk in, and my heart beats differently, chan. it’s always been you. the thing i had tonight? i only agreed to it because i was trying to prove to myself that i didn't spend every waking moment thinking about you."

chan let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. "so i'm not the only one?"

"no," you laughed softly, a tear pricking at the corner of your eye. "you’re definitely not the only one."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, a slow, beautiful smile spreading across his face. it wasn't his "idol" smile or his "producer" smile. it was just chan—the boy who stayed up too late, who cared too much, who had been holding your heart in his hands without even knowing it.

"well then," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "i guess the storm was on my side after all."

when he finally kissed you, it wasn't like the movies. there were no fireworks, just a deep, overwhelming sense of finally. it was warm and slow, tasting like the tea you’d shared earlier and feeling like every "home" you'd ever searched for. he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he were afraid you might disappear if the lights came back on.

you pulled back just a few inches, both of you breathless, the candlelight flickering in the reflection of his eyes.

"happy valentine's day, channie," you whispered.

he chuckled, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, tucking your head under his chin. "best one yet. and we didn't even need the fancy reservations."

"i don't know," you teased, snuggling into his chest. "i'm still waiting for that legendary ramen."

he squeezed you tight, his heart beating a steady, rapid rhythm against your ear—a rhythm that matched your own perfectly. "coming right up, princess. as soon as the water boils."

outside, the storm continued to rage, the wind howling against the brick of the building. but inside, in the glow of the candles and the warmth of the blankets, everything was perfectly, wonderfully still.

LEE KNOW ── #FAKE IT UNTIL YOU MAKE IT

the neon sign above the entrance flickered in a rhythmic, aggressive shade of fuchsia, casting a glow over the crowd that spilled out onto the sidewalk. it was valentine's day, and the city was acting like it. every restaurant in a five-block radius was packed to the gills with couples wearing forced smiles and stiff formalwear, all of them chasing a romantic high that felt more like a logistical nightmare.

you and lee know stood at the back of the line, looking like the only two people who hadn't gotten the suit and tie memo. you were just hungry. you’d spent the day helping him move some heavy equipment in the studio, and by 7:00 p.m., your stomach was making noises loud enough to rival the city traffic.

"this was a mistake," minho muttered, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black denim jacket. he shifted his weight, his eyes scanning the packed interior of the lounge. "we should have just ordered chicken and stayed on the floor of the apartment."

"you were the one who said you wanted a 'real' meal, lee minho," you reminded him, huddling closer to him to avoid a passing group of teenagers. "besides, it’s cold out here. if we leave now, we’ll just be starving and cold."

he let out a disgruntled "tsk," but he didn't move away. in fact, he stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours in a way that felt entirely too intentional for a "just friends" outing. "i’m giving it five more minutes. if that hostess doesn't look at us, i’m stealing a bag of breadsticks and leaving."

as if she’d heard the threat, the hostess—a woman who looked like she’d been dealing with valentine’s disasters for ten hours straight—tossed her hair and checked her tablet. she looked at the couple in front of you, shook her head, and then her eyes landed on you and minho.

"the 'sweetheart's ultra-luxe' reservation for two?" she asked, her voice hopeful. "table for... the hwang-kim party?"

minho opened his mouth to say no, we’re just two idiots who forgot what day it was, but then he looked at the line behind you, then at the cozy, candle-lit booth being held open near the window. he glanced at you, a mischievous glint suddenly sparking in his dark eyes.

"yes," minho said, his voice dropping into a smooth, confident tone that made your head spin. "that’s us. we’re a little late, apologies. right, darling?"

your brain short-circuited. darling?

the hostess didn't even wait for a confirmation from you. she practically sagged with relief. "oh, thank goodness. the hwang-kim party is the only one we held the window for. please, follow me."

as she turned to lead the way, you hissed under your breath, grabbing the sleeve of minho's jacket. "minho! what are you doing? we aren't the hwang-kim party. we're going to get arrested for identity theft over a steak."

"shh," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "do you want to eat or do you want to stand in the rain? just play along. it’s a bit. a performance. think of it as practice for my next music video."

"you don't have a next music video that requires pretending to be a hwang!"

"you don't know that," he countered, sliding into the plush velvet booth and gesturing for you to sit opposite him. "now, look romantic. people are watching."

the table was decorated with a ridiculous amount of rose petals—so many that they were actually getting in the way of the silverware. there was a single, tall candle in the center and a small card that read: celebrating 500 days of pure bliss!

you stared at the card, then at minho, who was currently unfolding his napkin with the grace of a prince.

"500 days of bliss, huh?" you teased, trying to settle your nerves. "you’ve been holding out on me, mr. hwang."

"it’s been the best 500 days of my life, pumpkin-pie," he said, his face perfectly serious, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

"pumpkin-pie? really? that’s the best you’ve got?"

"don't criticize the script, kim," he warned, leaning across the table and taking your hand. his palm was warm, his fingers calloused from hours of dance, and the sudden contact made your heart do a frantic little jump. "the hostess is coming back with the 'special valentine’s cocktail.' look at me like i’m the only man in the world."

the hostess arrived with two bright red drinks topped with umbrellas and heart-shaped cherries. "here is your love potion to start the evening! and as part of the ultra-luxe package, our photographer will be around shortly to capture a memory of your milestone."

you choked on your water. "a photographer?"

"yes, honey-bunny," minho said, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "we need to document our 500th day. we can put it right next to the portrait of our three cats."

the hostess beamed and left. as soon as she was out of earshot, you tried to pull your hand back, but minho didn't let go.

"honey-bunny is where i draw the line," you whispered, though you were laughing now. "this is too much. we’re going to get caught. what if the real hwang-kim party shows up?"

"then we’ll act like they’re the imposters," minho said simply. he picked up his love potion and raised it in a toast. "to us. and to the free appetizers we’re about to receive."

the night progressed into a surreal blur of bits. because the reservation was for a high-end package, the restaurant pulled out all the stops. they brought out a giant seafood tower that you and minho definitely hadn't ordered, and a waiter insisted on describing the "oceanic passion" of the oysters.

every time a staff member walked by, minho ramped up the performance. he fed you a piece of calamari with a look of such exaggerated devotion that you almost snorted your drink. he called you "my treasure," "my little kitten," and at one point, "my sweet, sweet cinnamon roll."

it was hilarious. it was classic minho—using his sharp wit everything into a game. you leaned into it, too, batting your eyelashes and calling him "my knight in shining denim."

but then, the activities started.

"it’s time for the 'how we met' quiz!" the hostess announced, placing a small chalkboard on the table. "the couple that gets the most matching answers wins a bottle of champagne!"

you looked at minho. he looked at you.

"okay," he whispered. "first date. go."

"the arcade," you whispered back. "last october."

"no, make it more romantic. a rainy night at the han river," he corrected. "i gave you my jacket. very cliché. write it down."

you wrote it down. for the next twenty minutes, you played the game with the other three couples in the window section. minho was surprisingly good at it. he guessed your favorite flower correctly (though he claimed he only knew it because you’d mentioned it once three years ago), and he correctly identified the song you’d most like to dance to.

when the hostess asked, "what is the one thing your partner does that makes your heart melt?", you hesitated. you were supposed to write something fake. something cheesy.

you looked at minho. he was already writing, his brow furrowed in concentration, the candlelight catching the curve of his eyelashes. he looked so handsome in the dim light, the playfulness of the evening softening into something more intimate.

you wrote: the way he looks at me when he thinks i’m not looking.

when the hostess revealed the boards, minho’s answer for you was: when she laughs at my jokes even though they aren't funny.

the room went a little quiet for you then. the bit felt like it was starting to fray at the edges, the lines between acting and reality blurring into a messy, warm puddle in your chest.

the climax of the "ultra-luxe" experience was the shared sundae. it arrived in a giant glass bowl, overflowing with whipped cream, sparklers, and two long spoons.

"you have to share it," the waiter insisted, leaning in. "it’s the soulmate's swirl. you have to use the same spoon at least once."

"oh, absolutely," minho said, his voice a little lower now. he took a spoonful of chocolate ice cream and held it out to you. his hand was steady, but his gaze was intense, focused entirely on your face.

you took the bite, your heart hammering against your ribs. "it’s... it’s good," you managed to say.

"is it?" he asked. he took a bite from the same spoon, his eyes never leaving yours. the sparklers on the table were fizzing out, leaving only the soft glow of the candle between you. the noise of the crowded restaurant seemed to fade into a dull hum, leaving just the sound of your own breathing.

for a moment, he didn't say a cheesy pet name. he didn't crack a joke. he just sat there, holding the spoon, looking at you with an expression that was terrifyingly sincere.

finally, the check came—pre-paid by the mysterious hwang-kim party (you felt a pang of guilt, but minho promised to leave a massive tip for the server to make up for the karma).

the cold air hit you both as you stepped out onto the sidewalk. the rain had stopped, leaving the streets shimmering under the streetlights. the fuchsia neon sign was still flickering, but it felt less aggressive now.

you walked in silence for a few minutes, the adrenaline of the fake date slowly wearing off, leaving a strange, heavy tension in its wake.

"well," you said, trying to break the ice. "that was... a lot of ice cream, sugar-plum."

minho didn't laugh. he stopped walking, turning to face you near a quiet storefront window. the reflection showed the two of you—side by side, looking like a couple even without the rose petals.

"you can stop now," you said softly, looking up at him. "the hostess isn't watching. we’re back to being just us."

minho shoved his hands back into his pockets, but he didn't look away. "what if i don't want to?"

your heart stopped. "what?"

"the pet names were stupid," he said, his voice raspy, the way it got when he was tired or being unusually honest. "and the rose petals were annoying. but the rest of it..."

he took a step closer, closing the gap between you. "i didn't want the night to end. and it wasn't because of the free seafood tower."

"min..."

"i've spent the last two years perfecting the art of being your best friend," he continued, his gaze searching yours. "i’ve gotten really good at hiding how i feel behind jokes and being an idiot. tonight... tonight was the first time i didn't have to hide. even if i was pretending to be someone else, the way i was looking at you? that wasn't for the hostess."

he reached out, his hand hovering near your cheek before he finally let his fingers brush against your skin, just like he had in the restaurant. but this time, there was no audience.

"i don't want to go back to the bit," he whispered. "i don't want to pretend that my heart doesn't skip a beat every time you laugh. i'm tired of being a good actor."

you felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the stupid love potion cocktails. you reached up, covering his hand with yours, leaning into the touch. "you were a terrible actor anyway, minho. i always knew you liked me."

he let out a short, dry chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "oh, really? then why did you let me suffer for 500 days of 'pure bliss'?"

"i was waiting for you to stop being a coward," you teased, though your voice was shaky with emotion.

minho smiled—a real, private smile that was meant only for you. he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm in the cool night air.

"fair point," he murmured. "guess i'll have to make up for lost time. but for the record? if you ever call me 'sugar-plum' in public again, i’m leaving you at the bus stop."

you laughed, pulling him closer by the lapels of his jacket. "deal. but i think 'my treasure' has a nice ring to it."

"don't push it," he said, but he was already leaning in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was a thousand times better than any "ultra-romantic" reservation could have provided.

it wasn't a performance. it was just minho. and it was exactly where you were meant to be.

CHANGBIN ── #ANTI-ROMANTIC

"it’s a scam," changbin had grumbled into the phone three days ago, his voice echoing with that signature raspy conviction. "the whole day is just a giant marketing trap designed to make single people feel like losers and couples feel like they have to spend their entire savings on dead flowers. it's gross. i’m protesting it."

you had laughed, leaning against your headboard. "so, no chocolate for you then?"

"absolutely not. unless it’s the protein kind," he countered. "look, let’s just hide out. come over to my place on the fourteenth. we’ll get the greasiest takeout we can find, watch something with zero romantic subplots—maybe just explosions and car chases—and ignore the rest of the world. total anti-valentine’s blackout. you in?"

"i'm in," you'd promised.

and you were in. except, as you stood in front of changbin’s apartment door now, you realized the "blackout" was a bit of a lie. even the hallway of his building seemed to smell faintly of the expensive floral arrangements being delivered to other units.

you knocked, and the door swung open almost instantly. changbin stood there, looking far more put together than someone hosting a casual protest. he was wearing a clean, structured black knit sweater that made his shoulders look twice as wide, and he’d clearly done something to his hair—it was swept back, soft and dark.

"you're late," he said, though his eyes lit up the second they landed on you. "the protest was supposed to start ten minutes ago."

"sorry, the 'romantic commercialism' traffic was a nightmare," you joked, stepping inside.

you stopped in your tracks. changbin’s living room didn't have heart-shaped balloons or rose petals—that would be too obvious—but it was... different. the lighting was dim and warm, a few high-end candles flickering on the coffee table (which he usually used as a footrest). the air smelled like expensive sandalwood and citrus instead of his usual gym-bag-and-laundry scent.

"you've been busy," you noted, nodding toward the couch.

it was covered in the thickest, softest blankets he owned. and on the coffee table, arranged with a precision that borderlined on obsessive, was a spread that definitely didn't look like a last-minute decision.

there were three different types of snacks, but not just any snacks. he had found those specific honey-butter chips you liked that were always out of stock, a bowl of the exact brand of dark chocolate sea-salt caramels you’d mentioned once months ago, and a stack of those weirdly expensive imported sodas you loved.

"i just... i had to go to the store anyway," changbin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he closed the door. "and they were on the way. don't look at me like that."

"binnie, these chips are from that specialty market on the other side of town."

"it's a nice drive," he defended, his ears starting to turn that endearing shade of pink. "sit down. i already picked the movies. no rom-coms. i checked the descriptions for keywords like 'long-lost love' or 'soulmates' and blocked them all."

you sat on the plush sofa, sinking into the cushions. changbin joined you, sitting just a little closer than usual. he handed you a heavy, wrapped box—plain brown paper, no ribbons, no hearts.

"here," he said, staring intensely at the tv screen as he handed it over. "it’s not a valentine’s gift. don't even call it that. it’s just... a 'thank you for helping me with that lyric project' gift. that’s all."

you carefully unwrapped it. inside was a high-quality, weighted sleep mask and a pair of top-tier noise-canceling earbuds. things you had complained about needing because your neighbors were loud and you’d been struggling to sleep.

your heart squeezed. it was thoughtful. it was practical. it was so very changbin.

"bin, this is too much for a 'thank you' gift," you whispered.

"just take it," he grumbled, though his eyes were soft. "i can't have my best friend walking around with dark circles under their eyes. it ruins my aesthetic."

he started the first movie—a high-octane thriller that involved a lot of yelling and very little dialogue. for two hours, the only sound was the crunching of chips and the occasional "whoa" from changbin during a stunt. but as the night went on, the "anti-romance" facade started to crack.

whenever you reached for a snack, changbin was already holding the bowl out to you. when you shivered slightly as the ac kicked in, he didn't just tell you to grab a blanket—he leaned over and tucked the edges of the one you were already using around your feet, his hand lingering for a second too long against your ankle.

by the time the second movie started, the atmosphere in the room had shifted. it was heavy, quiet, and undeniably intimate. the explosions and car chases felt like background noise to the way your shoulder was pressed against his bicep, and the way he’d gradually rested his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers inches away from your hair.

halfway through the film, you felt his head tilt toward yours.

"you okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that you felt in your chest.

"yeah," you said, turning your head to look at him. "just... thinking."

"about what?"

"about how much effort you put into hating this holiday," you teased softly. "the candles, the specific snacks, the carefully curated 'non-romantic' playlist i saw on your phone earlier... you’re the most romantic anti-romantic person i’ve ever met, seo changbin."

changbin went still. the glow from the tv cast shadows across the sharp line of his jaw and the softness of his lips. he let out a long, slow exhale, finally dropping the act. he turned toward you fully, his knee brushing against yours.

"i told you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "i hate the holiday. i hate the expectations. i hate the idea that i have to buy a certain card or go to a certain restaurant to prove something."

he reached out, his fingers finally making contact with your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. his touch was tentative, almost shy, which was a stark contrast to his usual bravado.

"but," he continued, his gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "if today was just an excuse to get you to sit on this couch with me for six hours... then maybe it’s not so bad."

you felt your breath hitch. "oh, binnie."

"this is the best date i've ever been on," you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "and we didn't even leave your living room."

changbin let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his hand sliding down to cup your neck. his thumb stroked your jawline, sending waves of heat through your entire body.

"good," he whispered. "because i’ve been sitting here for three movies trying to figure out how to tell you that i don't want to protest anymore."

"no?"

"no," he breathed, leaning in until your foreheads touched. "i think i’m ready to cave. i like you. and not in a 'best friends who hate valentine’s day together' kind of way. in a 'you spare me a glance and my brain chemistry changes' kind of way."

the irony of the night finally settled between you—the failed blackout, the thoughtful gifts, the way he’d tried so hard to pretend he didn't care when, in reality, he cared more than anyone.

"i like you too, bin," you murmured. "even if you are a terrible liar."

he grinned—that wide, genuine smile that always made his eyes crinkle—and then he closed the distance. the kiss was just like him: warm, steady, and full of a strength that felt like it could protect you from anything. it tasted like chocolate and the citrus scent of the candles, and it felt like the end of a very long, very loud protest.

when he pulled back, his ears were bright red, but he didn't look away.

"so," he said, his voice a little shaky. "does this mean i have to buy you flowers tomorrow?"

you laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. "maybe just the protein chocolate for now."

he squeezed you closer, his chin resting on top of your head as the credits began to roll on the screen. "deal. but for the record? i still hate the holiday. i just really, really love you."

HYUNJIN ── #SAFETY NET

the joke had started less than a year ago, over a shared plate of greasy fries at a late-night diner. "if we’re both single by valentine’s day," hyunjin had said, pointing a fry at you with a dramatic flourish, "we have to be each other’s date. no excuses. a safety net for the lonely."

you had laughed, thinking it was just another one of his whims. but as the years passed, the safety net pact became a staple of your friendship. it was a comfort, a guaranteed plan in a world of uncertainty.

this year, however, the air felt different.

hyunjin had been unusually quiet about his plans as february approached. usually, he’d be complaining about the lack of inspiration or teasing you about your own dating life. but this time, he was focused. he had spent weeks in his studio, the smell of oil paint and expensive candles following him everywhere.

when the fourteenth finally arrived, he texted you a simple address and a time: 7:00 p.m. dress up a little, but not too much. i want us to be comfortable.

you arrived at a small, secluded bistro tucked away in an alleyway lined with fairy lights. it was the kind of place that didn't advertise, the kind of place you only knew about if you were looking for it.

hyunjin was already there, sitting at a corner table. he looked breathtaking. he was wearing a silk black button-down, the top two buttons undone, and a silver necklace that caught the light every time he moved. his hair was styled in soft waves, framing his face perfectly. when he saw you, his eyes widened slightly, and he stood up to pull out your chair.

"you look... beautiful," he whispered, his voice like velvet.

"thank you," you said, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "you don't look too bad yourself, hwang. quite the effort for a safety net date."

he let out a soft chuckle, settling back into his seat. "well, if we're going to do this, we might as well do it right. i didn't want us to just go through the motions."

as the night went on, the conversation flowed with the same easy rhythm it always had. you talked about his latest paintings, the choreography he was struggling with, the books you’d been reading. but beneath the familiar banter, there was a tension you couldn't ignore.

every time your hands brushed over the breadbasket, or every time he caught your eye and held the gaze a second too long, the air seemed to thicken. you noticed he wasn't checking his phone. in fact, he’d turned it off completely and set it face down on the table.

"so," you said, swirling the last of your drink. "did you get any other offers this year? i saw some of the staff at the company looking at you pretty hopefully last week."

hyunjin looked down at his plate, a small, secretive smile playing on his lips. "a few," he admitted. "nothing serious. i told them i already had a commitment i couldn't break."

"really? i had a few invites too," you said, watching him closely. "a guy from my art history class was pretty persistent about a gallery opening tonight."

hyunjin’s head snapped up, his brow furrowing. "and? what did you tell him?"

"i told him i had a prior engagement with my safety net," you teased. "i couldn't leave you hanging, could i?"

the playfulness left his face, replaced by an intensity that made your heart skip. he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. the candlelight reflected in his dark eyes, making them look like deep pools of ink.

"was that the only reason you turned him down?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "because of the pact?"

you swallowed, the weight of the question settling in your chest. "i... i don't know. i guess i just didn't want to be anywhere else."

the silence stretched between you, filled only by the low hum of the restaurant’s music. you took a breath, deciding to push the boundary. "jinnie, are we doing this because we’re single and it’s february fourteenth? or are we doing this because... because we actually want to be here, with each other?"

hyunjin didn't look away. he reached across the table, his fingers grazing your hand before he fully covered it with his own. his palm was warm, and his touch was certain.

"i’ve been counting down the days," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "i didn't care about the pact. i haven't cared about the pact since we made it."

your breath hitched. "what?"

"i used the pact as an excuse," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "this entire time, i’ve been turning down everyone else. i’d make sure my schedule was clear. i’d wait for this day because it was the one day i knew for sure i could have you to myself without feeling like i was overstepping."

he let out a shaky breath, a rare moment of vulnerability breaking through his polished exterior. "i didn't want to be a safety net. i’ve been waiting for an excuse to actually call you mine. i’ve been in love with you for... god know how long, and i was too terrified to say it without the joke to fall back on if you didn't feel the same."

your heart was racing so fast you were sure he could hear it. you looked at your joined hands, then back at him. the longing in his eyes was so raw, so beautiful, it made your chest ache.

"hyunjin," you whispered. "you’re the most observant person i know. how did you not see that i was doing the exact same thing?"

his eyes widened. "you were?"

"i haven't looked at anyone else since that night in the diner," you admitted, a small laugh escaping you. "i turned down that gallery invite because the thought of spending valentine’s day with anyone but you felt... wrong."

hyunjin’s face transformed, a bright, radiant smile breaking across his features. he stood up, not caring about the other diners, and walked around the table to stand beside you. he took both of your hands, pulling you up to face him.

"so," he said, his eyes shimmering with joy. "no more pact?"

"no more pact," you agreed, looking up at him.

he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. "good. because i have a lot of lost time to make up for."

he kissed you then—a slow, deep, and incredibly tender kiss that felt like all the unspoken words of the last three years finally finding their home. it tasted like the sweet wine you’d shared and the quiet relief of finally being known.

when he pulled back, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your face with a look of pure adoration.

"happy valentine’s day," he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek. "my actual date."

you smiled, leaning into his touch. "happy valentine’s day, hyunjinnie."

he led you out of the restaurant, his hand firmly interlaced with yours. the safety net was gone, but for the first time, you weren't afraid of falling.

HAN ── #FAKE DATING

han had always been a little too impulsive for his own good. it was one of the things you loved about him—and one of the things that currently had you sitting in a cramped booth at your favorite cafe, staring at him in utter disbelief.

"you told them what?" you whispered, your voice cracking.

jisung winced, hiding his face in his palms so only his messy, blonde-streaked hair was visible. "i panicked! okay? we were all in the group chat, and minho was being... well, minho. he started teasing me about how i was going to be the only one at chan’s valentine’s party without a date. and then hyunjin joined in, and i just—i couldn't help it! i told them i already had someone."

you rubbed your temples. "and that someone just happened to be me?"

"you're my best friend!" he squeaked, finally peeking through his fingers. his cheeks were dusted with that faint, squirrel-like flush that always made it hard to be truly mad at him. "you’re the only person i’m comfortable enough with to even pretend to be romantic with. please? it’s just one night. just one party. we go in, we act cute, we leave, and then we break up peacefully in two weeks."

you looked at him—really looked at him. jisung was a whirlwind of energy and anxiety, a genius producer who could write a masterpiece in thirty minutes but couldn't navigate a social situation without overthinking it. you’d had a crush on him since the day you met him at an open mic night, but you’d buried it deep, fearing that losing his friendship would be like losing a limb.

"one week," you said, pointing a finger at him. "if we’re going to convince the guys—especially minho and seungmin—we need to be airtight. they’ll sniff out a fake in five seconds."

jisung’s eyes widened, then filled with a spark of genuine excitement. "bootcamp. we need a 'how to be in love' bootcamp."

the week that followed was the most confusing, heart-stopping, and strangely domestic seven days of your life.

jisung took up the task with the same intensity he took a new track. he showed up at your apartment every night with a notebook and a pen. you spent hours on your floor, back-to-back or side-by-side, memorizing the trivial details of each other’s lives that you didn't already know.

"okay," jisung said on tuesday, tapping his pen against his chin. "what’s my coffee order when i’m stressed?"

"iced americano with two extra shots, but you only drink half because the caffeine starts giving you the jitters and you forget where you put the cup," you answered instantly.

he grinned, a bright, lopsided thing. "correct. and my favorite comfort food when it’s raining?"

"jjajangmyeon, but only from that place with the yellow sign."

"nice. we’re good at this."

but then the questions got harder. the practice shifted from facts to feelings.

"we need a 'how we fell in love' story," jisung murmured on thursday night. he was leaning against your sofa, his legs tangled with yours under a shared blanket. the room was quiet, lit only by a single lamp. "the guys will ask. they’re nosy. especially chan. he loves that sentimental stuff."

you swallowed hard, staring at your knees. "well... it should be something believable. something that sounds like us."

"maybe... it was that night at the studio?" jisung suggested, his voice dropping an octave. "the night we stayed up until 4 a.m. trying to fix that bridge on the song? you fell asleep on the swivel chair, and i remember thinking... i remember thinking you looked so peaceful. like the only quiet thing in my loud world."

your heart did a violent somersault. "jisung, that’s... that’s really specific."

"it’s a good lie, right?" he asked, looking at you. the light caught the golden flecks in his eyes. he looked nervous. "it sounds real because it’s based on a real night. even if the falling in love part is the fake bit."

"yeah," you whispered, your chest aching. "it’s a great lie."

the physical practicing was even worse for your sanity. jisung insisted you needed to be comfortable with casual touch. he’d hold your hand while you watched tv, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a way that felt way too practiced to be fake. he’d rest his head on your shoulder, or tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin just a second too long.

by friday, you didn't know where the act ended and the truth began. every time he looked at you with that soft, scripted devotion, you had to remind yourself: he’s just a good actor. he’s just protecting his pride.

finally, the night of the party arrived, and the atmosphere at chan’s apartment was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and cheap valentine’s chocolate.

jisung was a nervous wreck. he spent the entire car ride over chewing on his bottom lip, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. but the moment you stepped through the door, his performer persona snapped into place.

he slid his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "ready?" he whispered against your hair.

"ready," you lied.

the guys were ruthless from the start.

"so! the mystery couple finally appears," minho teased, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk that told you he was already looking for a crack in the facade. "i thought jisung made you up, honestly. like an imaginary friend."

jisung laughed, a loud, confident sound. he pulled you closer, kissing the side of your head. "why would i make up someone as perfect as her? i was just keeping her for myself for a while. didn't want you guys scaring her off."

you played your part perfectly. you laughed at his jokes, you finished his sentences, and you even told the 4 a.m. studio story with such conviction that even you almost believed it. when hyunjin cooed over how romantic it was, you felt a twinge of guilt, but the warmth of jisung’s hand on your back was distracting enough to drown it out.

as the night went on, the display of affections grew more intense. it had to. the guys were watching.

at one point, jisung was sitting on the couch with you between his legs, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both talked to seungmin. he was playing with your fingers, drawing little invisible circles on your palm. his breath was warm against your neck, and every time he laughed, his chest vibrated against your back.

"you guys are actually kind of gross," seungmin noted, though he was smiling. "i’ve never seen jisung this... quiet. you usually don't stop talking, but you've spent half the night just looking at her."

jisung stilled. he didn't make a joke. he didn't deflect. he just looked at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "yeah," he murmured. "i guess i have."

the air in the room suddenly felt too thin. you needed to leave. you needed to get out before you broke down and admitted that this fake week was the best week of your life.

"i'm going to go get some air," you whispered, sliding out of his hold. "it’s a bit hot in here."

you made it to the balcony, the cool february air hitting your face like a splash of cold water. the city was glowing below you, a million lights for a million people who probably weren't pretending to be in love with their best friends.

the sliding door creaked open behind you. you didn't need to turn around to know it was him. jisung’s presence always felt like a low-frequency hum in the air.

"hey," he said softly. he came to stand beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing. he’d taken off his jacket, leaving him in just a black t-shirt that showed the nervous tension in his arms.

"we did it," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "mission accomplished. minho totally bought it. you’re officially no longer the lonely friend."

jisung didn't answer. he was staring out at the skyline, his jaw set.

"jisung?"

"i'm a liar," he said suddenly.

you chuckled nervously. "well, yeah. that was the point of the week, remember? we’re both liars. we’re apparently very good ones."

"no," he said, finally turning to look at you. the light from inside the apartment spilled across his face, highlighting the raw, terrified honesty in his expression. "i'm a liar because i told you we were practicing. i told you we needed to learn each other's coffee orders and comfort foods for the bit. but i already knew them. i’ve known them for years. i just wanted an excuse to talk about them with you."

your heart stopped. "what?"

"the studio story?" jisung continued, stepping closer. he was trembling, just a little. "the night you fell asleep in the chair? i didn't think you looked peaceful. i mean, you did, but... i stayed up the rest of the night because i couldn't stop looking at you. i wrote three songs that night, and every single one of them was about how much i was failing at being just a friend."

you couldn't breathe. the balcony, the party, the noise—it all faded into nothing.

"every lie i told tonight," jisung whispered, reaching out to take your hand. his palm was sweaty, his pulse racing against yours. "every time i told them how i fell for you, or why you're amazing, or how i want to spend every second with you... none of it was part of the script. i wasn't acting, angel. i was just finally saying the things i was too scared to say without a fake reason."

he looked down at your joined hands, his voice dropping to a vulnerable crack. "i don't want to break up in two weeks. i don't even want to go back inside as your fake boyfriend. i just want to be yours. for real. no more practicing."

the silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever heard. you looked at him—the boy who panics in crowds, who writes the most beautiful melodies, who had spent a week practicing how to love you when he’d already mastered it years ago.

you reached up, cupping his face. his skin was hot under your fingers. "jisung," you breathed. "you’re an idiot."

he winced. "i know, i—"

"you’re an idiot because i’ve felt the same," you said, a small, tearful laugh escaping you. "i wasn't being a good friend this week. i was being a girl who finally got to hold her favorite person’s hand and was terrified of the moment she had to let go."

jisung’s eyes widened, hope flooding into them so fast it was almost dizzying. "you... you mean it? you aren't just saying that so i won't walk into traffic out of embarrassment?"

"the bit is over, jisung," you said, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt.

when he kissed you, there was no audience. there was no minho to impress, no hyunjin to convince. it was just jisung—the real jisung—kissing you with a desperate, shaky relief that told you exactly how much he’d been holding back. it tasted like the cool night air and the lingering sweetness of the party drinks, and it felt like the most honest thing you’d ever experienced.

he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, his hands gripped tightly around your waist.

"so," he murmured, a shy, genuine grin finally breaking across his face. "does this mean i don't have to break up with you in two weeks?"

"if you try to break up with me," you threatened playfully, "i’m telling everyone you actually like pineapple on pizza."

jisung gasped, his eyes sparkling. "you wouldn't. my reputation!"

"try me, hanji."

he laughed, a bright, clear sound that echoed over the balcony, and pulled you back into his arms. inside, the music was still playing and the guys were still laughing, but out here, the act was finally over. and the truth was so much better.

FELIX ── #GRAND GESTURE (...GONE WRONG)

felix had been acting strange for two weeks.

it wasn't the usual "felix" strange—not the playful, high-energy spontaneity that usually involved him dragging you to a new cat cafe or insisting on baking three batches of brownies at midnight.

this was a quiet, vibrating sort of nervous energy. he was constantly checking his phone, whispering into his headset during dance practice, and looking at you with a gaze so intense yet so fleeting that you started to wonder if you’d accidentally offended him.

"you’re doing that thing again," you’d said to him yesterday, catching him staring at you while you were both sitting on the studio floor.

"what thing?" he’d asked, his voice dropping into that deep, honeyed rumble that always made your pulse skip a beat.

"the staring. and the fidgeting. are you okay, lix? you’re not getting sick, are you?"

he had flushed a deep, rosy pink, shaking his head so fast his blonde hair whipped around his face. "no! no, i’m great. better than great. i just... i have a lot on my mind. big plans, you know? big things."

you hadn't known. but today, february 14th, you were starting to get the picture.

it had started with a note slipped under your door at noon. it was written in his neat, looping cursive on stationery that smelled faintly of vanilla. meet me at the old observatory park at 6:00 p.m. dress warm. - lix.

then came the texts. at 2:00 p.m.: don't forget! and don't be late! i have a surprise!

at 4:00 p.m.: actually, maybe dress a little fancy? but also warm. fancy-warm.

at 5:30 p.m.: i'm so nervous i think i might actually evaporate. see you soon.

you had laughed, shaking your head as you pulled on a thick wool coat over your favorite dress. typical felix. he loved the drama of a surprise, the aesthetic of a moment. he was a boy made of stardust and sunshine, and he always wanted everything to be perfect for the people he loved.

the problem was the weather.

the forecast had promised a clear, crisp winter night. instead, as you stepped out of your apartment, the sky was a bruised, heavy purple. by the time you reached the park, a biting, slushy rain-snow mix had begun to fall, whipped around by a wind that felt like it was made of needles.

you shielded your eyes, looking for him. the park was nearly empty, the usual valentine’s couples having fled for the safety of indoor restaurants. then, you saw it.

on a small hill overlooking the city lights, there was a setup that looked like it had been ripped straight from a high-budget romance film. there was a white lace tablecloth draped over a folding table, a candelabra (the candles long since extinguished by the wind), and a trail of rose petals that were currently being washed away into a nearby gutter.

and in the center of it all was felix.

he looked devastating. he was wearing a sharp, tailored black coat that was currently soaked through, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead in wet clumps. he was holding a massive bouquet of lilies—your favorite—but the wind had battered them so badly that half the petals were gone, leaving behind sad, green stalks.

he didn't see you at first. he was frantically trying to relight a candle with a soggy matchbook, his hands shaking so hard he dropped the matches into a puddle. he let out a sound—a small, frustrated sob of a laugh—and slumped into one of the folding chairs, burying his face in his hands.

your heart didn't just break; it shattered into a million pieces of pure affection.

"lixie?" you called out, your voice barely audible over the wind.

he jumped, his head snapping up. when he saw you, he didn't give you that bright, sunshine smile. instead, his face fell even further, his bottom lip trembling.

"no, no, no," he groaned, standing up and trying to block the table with his body as if he could hide the disaster. "you’re early. or i’m late. or the sky is broken. angel, don't look. please don't look."

you ignored him, trekking through the slushy grass until you were standing right in front of him. the fancy dinner was a total wash. the gourmet appetizers he’d clearly spent hours preparing were covered in a film of icy water. the rose petals were just pink smears on the ground.

"felix, you're shivering," you said, reaching out to grab his hands. they were like ice.

"it was supposed to be perfect," he whispered, his dark eyes brimming with tears that weren't just from the rain. "there was going to be music. i had a playlist. i had a speech. i even bought these stupid expensive candles that were supposed to be wind-proof. they lied, angel. the shopkeeper so lied."

you looked at the ruined table, then back at him—wet, freezing, and looking like a lost puppy who had tried to build a kingdom and failed.

and you started to laugh.

it wasn't a mean laugh. it was a soft, bubbly sound of pure adoration. you couldn't help it. the sheer him of the situation—the over-the-top effort, the bad luck, the sweet, earnest heart behind it all—was more romantic than any successful dinner could have ever been.

"why are you laughing?" he asked, sounding genuinely pained. "i look like a drowned rat and your dinner is literally a soup of rainwater and expensive cheese."

"lix," you said, stepping into his space and wrapping your arms around his waist, soaking your own coat in the process. "look at me."

he looked down, his lashes heavy with droplets.

"i don't care about the table," you said, smiling up at him. "i don't care about the music or the wind-proof candles that failed. do you honestly think i need a rooftop spectacle to enjoy being with you? we spent four hours last week arguing over which cat breed is the most polite while eating cereal out of the box. that was my favorite night of the year."

felix let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping. "but it's valentine’s day. i wanted to give you the world. i wanted to show you... i wanted to prove it."

"prove what?"

he looked away, his grip tightening on the battered bouquet of lilies. "that i’m worth it," he whispered. "that i can be the guy who does the grand gestures. that i'm not just... just your friend felix who makes bad jokes and loses his keys."

the rain was coming down harder now, but neither of you moved.

"felix," you said, your voice softening. "you’ve been overcompensating all week, haven't you? all the secret phone calls and the nerves... you did all this because you thought a 'normal' night wouldn't be enough?"

he finally looked at you, the vulnerability in his gaze raw and stinging. "i was terrified," he admitted, his voice cracking. "i’ve wanted to tell you how i feel for so long. but every time i thought about just... saying it... it felt too small. you’re so amazing, and i’m just me. i thought if i didn't make it a spectacle, if i didn't make it a moment you’d never forget, then you wouldn't see how much i actually love you. i thought i had to make it big so you’d know it was real."

you felt a lump form in your throat. the boy who the whole world adored, the boy with the voice of a god and the heart of an angel, was standing in the rain thinking he wasn't enough.

"felix, listen to me," you said, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look you in the eye. "you could have told me in a grocery store aisle. you could have told me while we were stuck in traffic. you could have told me over a text message at 3:00 a.m., and it would have been the most important thing i’ve ever heard."

you stood on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead against his. "i don't love you for the grand gestures, lix. i love you because you're the person who knows exactly how i like my tea. i love you because you always make sure i'm walking on the inside of the sidewalk. i love you because you're you."

felix’s breath hitched. "you... you love me?"

"of course i love you, you big idiot," you laughed, tears finally mingling with the rain on your cheeks. "why else would i be standing in a freezing park in february watching a candelabra drown?"

a slow, shaky smile finally began to spread across felix’s face—the first bit of sunshine to break through the storm. he dropped the ruined lilies onto the table and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around in the slush.

"you love me," he shouted, his voice echoing off the empty observatory walls. "she loves me!"

"put me down!" you shrieked, laughing and clinging to his neck. "you’re going to slip!"

he set you down but didn't let go. he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his body finally beginning to warm up against yours. "i’m so sorry about the dinner," he murmured against your skin. "and the lilies. i’ll buy you new ones tomorrow. a hundred of them."

"no more grand gestures for at least a month," you joked, pulling back to look at him. "my heart can't take it."

felix laughed, a deep, resonant sound that felt like a warm blanket. he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, damp velvet box. "i was going to wait until the dessert course, but since the dessert is currently a puddle..."

he opened the box. inside was a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny sun charm and a tiny moon charm intertwined.

"it’s not a spectacle," he said, his voice quiet and sincere. "it’s just a reminder. that no matter the weather, i'm always going to be here. whether it's sunshine or... well, this."

you let out a shaky breath as he slid the bracelet onto your wrist. "it’s perfect, felix. it’s better than the dinner."

he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "can i kiss you now? even if i taste like rain?"

"i'd be offended if you didn't."

when he kissed you, it wasn't like a movie. it was cold and wet and your teeth clinked together because you were both shivering, but it was the best kiss of your life. it tasted like relief and love and the beginning of something that didn't need rose petals to be beautiful.

he pulled back, grinning like a madman, his freckles standing out vividly against his pale, wet skin. "so... since the dinner is obviously a bust, are you okay with 24-hour convenience store ramen and watching a cartoon in our pajamas?"

"that," you said, taking his hand and leading him back toward the park exit, "sounds like the best valentine's date in history."

as you walked away from the ruined table and the melting rose petals, felix squeezed your hand, swinging your arms between you. the grand gesture had been a total disaster, but as you looked at the boy beside you, you realized that the "mess" was exactly what made it real.

"hey, angel?" he called out as you reached the car.

"yeah?"

"i really, really love you."

SEUNGMIN ── #EMERGENCY CONTACT

the restaurant was the kind of place that tried too hard to be exclusive—dim lighting that made it impossible to see the menu, waiters who spoke in hushed, judgey tones, and a price tag that made your eyes water.

you sat across from your date, a guy named minjun who had spent the last forty-five minutes talking exclusively about his crypto portfolio and the specific specs of his new car.

you had been trying to be a good sport. it was valentine’s day, after all, and you’d been single for a while. but as minjun started explaining the "philosophy of the grind" while chewing with his mouth open, you felt a familiar buzzing in your purse.

you slipped your phone out under the table. one new message.

seungmin [7:42 p.m.]: how’s the disaster going? on a scale of 1 to 'i want to jump out of a bathroom window,' where are we?

you nearly snorted. seungmin always knew. he had been your best friend for years, the calm, observant anchor in your chaotic life. he’d been the one to help you pick out your outfit for tonight, all while wearing a look of mild, focused disapproval that he claimed was just "skepticism of men in finance."

you typed back frantically under the tablecloth.

me [7:44 p.m.]: sos. he just used the word "synergy" to describe our potential. i'm at a level 12. please, for the love of everything, send a rescue flare.

your phone vibrated almost instantly.

seungmin [7:45 p.m.]: fifteen minutes. tell him your house is on fire. tell him your cat is having a mid-life crisis. just get to the sidewalk.

true to his word, fourteen minutes later, a familiar silver car pulled up to the curb just as you were making your awkward, hurried escape from the restaurant. you didn't even wait for the car to come to a full stop before you were pulling the door open and diving into the passenger seat.

the air inside the car smelled like seungmin—clean laundry, coffee, and a hint of that expensive cologne he pretended he didn't care about. the heater was blasting, a sharp contrast to the biting february wind outside.

seungmin was leaning back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, looking at you with a raised eyebrow and a smug, lopsided grin. he wasn't dressed for a date; he was wearing a simple cream-colored hoodie and his glasses, looking effortlessly comfortable.

"synergy?" he asked, his voice dripping with that dry, sharp wit you loved. "really? that’s a new low, even for your taste in men."

"don't start," you groaned, leaning your head back against the headrest and closing your eyes. "it was a nightmare. he ordered for me, seungmin. he ordered the salad. who orders a salad on valentine's day?"

seungmin let out a short, melodic laugh as he pulled away from the curb. "a man who doesn't deserve to sit across from you. lucky for you, your 'rescue flare' has better taste."

"where are we going?" you asked, watching the city lights blur past. "anywhere but back to that neighborhood. i think i saw three different couples wearing matching sweaters on the walk out."

"we are going to wash away the bad vibes," seungmin declared, his eyes fixed on the road. "we are going to do the most un-valentine's day thing possible. no candles, no slow music, and definitely no talk of crypto."

twenty minutes later, you were standing in a neon-lit, slightly grimy 24-hour bowling alley on the outskirts of the city. the air smelled like floor wax and cheap nacho cheese. a group of teenagers was screaming at a nearby lane, and a flickering arcade machine in the corner was playing a loud, repetitive jingle.

"bowling?" you asked, taking the heavy, neon-orange shoes seungmin handed you.

"bowling," he confirmed, tying his laces with methodical precision. "nothing says 'i hate romance' like heavy spheres and the sound of falling wood. also, i’m going to beat you, which will be the cherry on top of your terrible night."

the next two hours were a chaotic, competitive blur. seungmin, despite his calm exterior, was a ruthless bowler. he stood at the end of the lane with the focus of a professional athlete, his brow furrowed as he sent the ball spinning toward the pins with terrifying accuracy.

"look at that form," you teased, watching him get his third strike in a row. "you’re really taking out your frustrations on those poor pins, kim seungmin."

he turned back to you, wiping his hands on a towel, a playful glint in his eyes. "i'm not frustrated. i'm just focused. your turn, synergy. let's see if you can break fifty."

you didn't break fifty, but you did manage to knock over a few pins by accident. by the time you were finished, your side hurt from laughing and the disaster of earlier that evening felt like a distant, blurry memory. the bad vibes had in fact been thoroughly washed away by greasy fries, loud music, and seungmin’s constant, sharp-tongued commentary.

after bowling, you ended up in a 24-hour convenience store, sitting on the curb outside with two cups of instant ramen and a bag of sour gummies. the city was quiet now, the early morning chill settling into the air.

"better?" seungmin asked, blowing on his steaming cup.

"much better," you said, looking at him. the neon sign of the store cast a blue glow over his face, making his features look sharp and thoughtful. "thanks for coming, seungmin. seriously. i don't know what i would’ve done if i’d had to stay for the dessert course."

"you probably would’ve ended up invested in a multi-level marketing scheme by midnight," he muttered, though there was a softness in his voice he usually tried to hide.

"i mean it," you said, your voice growing quiet. "you always do this. you always know exactly when i’m reaching my limit. you know the exact movie to put on when i’m sad, you know exactly what kind of coffee i need when i’ve stayed up too late... you’re the only one who actually knows what i need before i even have to say it."

you felt a rush of genuine affection for him, a warmth that had been building in your chest for years. "you're like my personal psychic. how do you always get it right?"

seungmin went still. he didn't laugh. he didn't make a sarcastic comment about your poor life choices. he slowly set his ramen cup down on the sidewalk, his jaw tightening.

"is that what you think it is?" he asked. his voice was different—no longer playful, no longer teasing. it was heavy, strained with a frustration that had clearly been bubbling under the surface for a long time.

you blinked, confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere. "what do you mean?"

seungmin stood up abruptly, pacing a small circle on the pavement before stopping in front of you. he looked down at you, his eyes dark and intense behind his glasses.

"i don't 'get it right' because i’m psychic," he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he probably intended. "i get it right because i’ve spent every single day of the last three years paying attention. i know what you need because i’m the only one who actually cares enough to look."

you felt your breath hitch. "seungmin—"

"no, listen," he interrupted, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. he looked like he was vibrating with a sudden, uncontrollable energy. "i’m the one who rescues you. i’m the one you call when your dates are a disaster. i’m the one who makes you laugh when you’re crying. i’m the one who knows everything about you."

he stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. "so tell me. if i’m the one who always gets it right... why are you going out with those other people?"

the question hit you like a physical weight. the air between you suddenly felt electric, charged with all the things seungmin had never said out loud. the silence of the parking lot felt deafening.

"why them?" he asked again, his voice dropping to a low, pained whisper. "why him tonight? why any of them, when i’m right here? what am i missing?"

you looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. you saw the raw vulnerability in his face, the exhaustion of a man who had been pining from the sidelines for far too long.

"you aren't missing anything, seungmin," you whispered, standing up to face him. "i think i was just... i was scared. i was scared that if i admitted how much i relied on you, and if it didn't work out... i’d lose the only person who actually sees me."

seungmin let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping as his anger faded into something much more tender. he reached out, his fingers hesitating before he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face. his touch was light, but it felt like everything.

"you aren't going to lose me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "you couldn't lose me if you tried. but i’m done being the emergency contact, pup. i want to be the reason you don't need one."

you felt a tear prick at the corner of your eye as the weight of his words settled in. "i think i’ve wanted that for a long time," you admitted, your voice trembling.

seungmin’s expression softened into a look of such pure, heartbreaking relief that it made your chest ache. he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. the scent of the convenience store and the cold night air faded away, leaving only the sound of his breathing.

"good," he whispered. "because if you go on one more date with a crypto bro, i might actually lose my mind."

you laughed, a small, choked sound, and reached up to pull him closer. when he kissed you, it wasn't like a movie—it tasted like sour gummies and felt like the end of a very long, very exhausting race. it was grounded, steady, and certain. it felt like seungmin.

he pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "so," he said, the familiar lopsided grin returning to his face. "was this better than the salad?"

"way better," you whispered.

"perfect," he said, taking your hand and leading you back toward the car. "now let’s go home. and tomorrow, i’m deleting all those dating apps off your phone. consider it part of my psychic services."

you leaned your head on his shoulder as you walked, the bad vibes of the night officially gone, replaced by the one person who had always known exactly where you belonged.

I.N. ── #CASE STUDY IN LOVE

it started on monday with a single, perfectly folded origami heart tucked into the pages of your macroeconomics textbook. you had been sitting in the back of the library, the quiet hum of the heater the only company for your late-night study session, when you found it.

there was no name, just a short sentence written in neat, black ink: “don’t work too hard. your brain needs a break as much as your heart does.”

at first, you thought it was a prank, or perhaps a misplaced note from a couple sitting at the desk before you. but then came tuesday.

when you arrived at the small, tucked-away cafe near the edge of campus—the one jeongin had recommended because the baristas were discreet and the booths were high enough to hide a famous face—there was a drink already waiting for you at your usual corner table.

it was your exact order: an iced oat milk latte with just a hint of vanilla. resting against the cup was a small polaroid of the sunrise, the colors of pink and gold bleeding into one another. on the back, the same handwriting: “i saw this and thought of you. have a bright day.”

by friday, you were losing your mind. you had received a hand-poured candle that smelled like the rain, a vintage bookmark from a shop you’d mentioned once in passing, and a series of notes that seemed to know exactly what kind of day you were having.

"it's creepy, isn't it?" jeongin asked, leaning back against the velvet cushions of the booth. he was wearing a heavy oversized hoodie and a beanie pulled low over his forehead, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. he looked every bit the quiet, handsome boy-next-door, far removed from the sharp, charismatic stage presence he held as i.n.

he reached out, poking at the latest gift sitting on the table—a small, silver keychain of a telescope. "i mean, who even gives a telescope keychain? that's so specific. are they stalking your syllabus? are they in your astronomy elective?"

you sighed, pulling the keychain closer to you. "it’s not creepy, innie. it’s thoughtful. i told you, i was complaining about the star-mapping project last week. whoever this is... they listen. i mean, y'know, it's cute."

jeongin’s nose crinkled, a look of skepticism crossing his face. he crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he examined the tiny telescope. "i don't know. it seems a little try-hard. and look at this handwriting. it’s too neat. nobody is actually this organized. they’re probably a nerd."

"you're just being a hater," you teased, nudging his foot with yours under the table. "i think it’s romantic. it’s like a mystery. i’ve spent half my lectures looking around the room trying to see who’s watching me."

at that, jeongin went unusually still. his gaze flickered to yours, his dark eyes searching your face for a heartbeat before he looked away, focusing intently on his own drink. "and? did you see anyone?"

"no," you admitted, slumping back. "that’s the frustrating part. but they left a note today saying the 'final clue' would be revealed tonight. they gave me an address."

jeongin straightened up instantly, his protective streak flaring. "an address? where? you aren't going alone. what if it’s some weirdo who wants to steal your kidneys?"

"it's an apartment complex, jeongin," you said, holding up the slip of paper. "it’s actually very close to your dorm. i was thinking maybe you could walk me? you know, as my official detective partner?"

jeongin grumbled something under his breath about "lame romantic tropes," but he stood up, adjusting his mask. "fine. but if it’s a guy in a trench coat, i’m throwing my shoe at him and we’re running."

the walk was quiet. the february air was crisp, the scent of winter lingering in the streets of seoul. jeongin stayed close to you, his shoulder occasionally bumping yours as you navigated the familiar path toward the dorm buildings. he was uncharacteristically quiet, his usual playful banter replaced by a focused, almost nervous energy.

"you okay?" you asked, glancing at him. "you've been acting weird all day. are you really that worried about my secret admirer?"

"i just think you deserve someone who doesn't hide behind paper hearts," he muttered, his voice muffled by his mask. "someone who can actually show up and be there for you. what good is a candle if the person isn't there to hold the match?"

"wow, that was almost poetic," you noted, a teasing lilt in your voice. "are you sure you aren't the one writing these notes?"

jeongin let out a sharp, nervous laugh. "me? please. i have a reputation to uphold. i'm far too cool for that."

you reached the lobby of the building. it wasn't a random apartment; it was the secure entrance to the complex where the stray kids members stayed. your brow furrowed as you looked at the paper.

"unit 402," you read aloud. "innie... that’s your floor."

"is it?" he asked, his voice pitching a little higher than usual. "man, small world. must be a neighbor. maybe one of the managers?"

you led the way to the elevator, your heart beginning to pound in a rhythmic, frantic beat. the mystery was coming to a head, and a part of you was terrified that the person behind the door wouldn't be someone you liked half as much as you liked the boy standing beside you.

the elevator dinked at the fourth floor. the hallway was dimly lit and silent. you walked toward unit 402, but just as you reached for the doorbell, you noticed something. there was a small envelope taped to the door handle.

it was the same stationery. the same neat, black ink.

“the mystery ends where the truth begins. turn around.”

you froze. the paper felt heavy in your hand. slowly, you turned around.

jeongin wasn't standing behind you anymore. he had stepped back toward the center of the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. he had pulled his mask down, and his face was flushed—not from the cold, but from a deep, shimmering heat that seemed to radiate from him.

he looked vulnerable. his usual confidence had evaporated, leaving behind a boy who looked like he was holding his breath.

"innie?" you whispered.

he didn't say anything at first. he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound sketchbook. he flipped it open to the very last page and held it out.

resting on the page was a matching silver charm—not a telescope, but a tiny, intricately carved star. and right below it, in the handwriting you had spent all week dreaming about, were the words: “i didn’t want to be a detective. i wanted to be the one you were looking for.”

your breath hitched. "it was you? all of it?"

jeongin took a tentative step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "i was so jealous of myself," he admitted with a shaky laugh. "sitting in that cafe, listening to you talk about how thoughtful the admirer was... i wanted to scream. i wanted to tell you right then. but i was terrified that if i told you as just 'innie,' your friend... it wouldn't be enough. i wanted to see if you liked the parts of me that aren't on a stage."

he closed the sketchbook, holding it against his chest like a shield.

"i spent the whole week watching you find those notes," he continued, his voice dropping to a soft, raspy whisper. "and every time you smiled at a scrap of paper i wrote at 2 a.m. in the dorms, my heart felt like it was going to burst. i’ve been in love with you for a long time, baby. and i’m tired of being the detective who helps you find other people. i just want to be yours."

the silence of the hallway felt heavy and sweet. the clues—the polaroid, the telescope, the rain-scented candle—all clicked into place. they weren't random gifts; they were pieces of a conversation you’d been having with him for years, things he had tucked away in his mind because every word you spoke mattered to him.

you stepped closer, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch the sleeve of his hoodie. "you're such a dork, yang jeongin. you really let me think i had a stalker for five days?"

"i preferred the term secret admirer," he teased, though his eyes were still searching yours for an answer. "so? what’s the verdict? does the detective get the girl, or are you going to keep looking for that guy in the trench coat?"

you didn't answer with words. instead, you stood on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the warmth of his hoodie. he let out a long, shuddering breath of relief, his arms winding around your waist and pulling you so tight against him that you could feel the frantic thumping of his heart.

"i think the detective is exactly who i was looking for," you murmured against his shoulder.

jeongin pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining with a brilliance that rivaled any stage light. he reached out, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. after a moment, he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

it was real and warm, every bit perfect you'd imagined kissing yang jeongin was like.

"happy valentine's day," he whispered as against your lips. "i have the matching card for that silver star, by the way. but i think i’ll keep that one for the first real date."

"oh? and when is that?"

he grinned, that bright, infectious smile that always made your world feel a little bit more stable. "how about now? we’re already at my place. i have snacks, zero romantic movies, and i don't have to wear a mask."

as he led you into the dorm, his hand firmly entwined with yours, you realized that the mystery wasn't about finding a stranger. it was about realizing that the person who knew you best was the one who had been holding your heart all along.

the notes were over, but as jeongin pulled you onto the sofa and handed you the final card—which simply read “mine”—you knew that the real story was just beginning.

"by the way," he said, opening a bag of chips and leaning his head on your shoulder. "the telescope keychain? i actually thought that was pretty clever. i’m keeping that point."

"you're still a hater, innie."

"yeah," he whispered, kissing the top of your head. "but i'm your hater now."

🏷️ ( general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @unlikelypainterpeacekitten @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae