#changbin fluff

Changbin listened to all your opinions and concerns, he thought them through carefully. So carefully indeed, the real estate agent had thought you both were a couple looking for a home. There was a blushing mess after having to explain that one — the agent couldn't believe you two weren't together.

You both agreed on a house eventually. It had to be the both of you because Changbin insisted on purchasing a home that you would like too, after all you were his best friend and definitely going to be spending a lot of time there anyways, "What's the point of me buying it if you don't like it enough to want to stay there forever?" were his words. He knew you weren't exactly sure what he meant by that but you had fun helping nonetheless.

Once he signed the papers for the house, he had begged you to come shopping with him for the house. It didn't take much convincing cause you liked spending time with him anyway.

Changbin pushes the cart, trailing behind you like a lost puppy. He did make a list of stuff that he needed and you both were following it to a T. The next thing on the list is curtains, Changbin liked his privacy so curtains are very much needed for his first night at the house.

It didn't take long to find the section for curtains, he looks around for a short moment before turning back to you. His eyes soften slightly. You look at the selections of curtains, made of different or similar fabrics and all the colors you could possibly want. He really didn't care about curtains right now when you asked of his preference for the house.

    “What do you suppose is nice?” He asks, leaning on the cart. You scoff a little.

    “You keep asking what I think is good. It's your house Changbin.” You remind him for like umpteenth time.

    “Our house.” He smiles, correcting you as if the statement was true enough to be used as an excuse. You roll your eyes.

    “My name's not even on the papers,” you say.

    “That's because you refused, Y/N.” You pout, well he wasn't lying... He did want to put your name on the papers, making it officially 'our house' but you declined. People were already getting the wrong ideas of your relationship, living together would just make it worse.

And if any of you were to end up in the sea of dating again, it would be really weird to explain to the new partner.

    “Well?” He nods his head gesturing to the curtains. You sigh, knowing that he would keep bugging until you tell him which ones you liked most. Well there was one set of curtains that you thought would look nice with the living room...

You pick them up and show it to him. The curtains are sheer, silk and yellow with soft swirly embroidery at the bottom.

    “These would look nice in the upstairs living room.” You say, envisioning them up on the windows already.

    “Yellow?” he questions, not in a way that's belittling your choice but rather in a way of wanting to know all the little reasons why you chose those curtains out of all the others so he can keep that in mind for future reference.

    “Yellow... Yellow's a happy colour.” You answer softly. He looks at you, patiently waiting for more. So you explain further, “they'll look good there cause the windows are facing east. When the natural light of dawn comes in they'll make the room brighter. Lively and happy. It'll wake you up in a good mood too.”

You give him a small smile, always grateful that Changbin never thought of you weird even though you liked the little details everyone tend to overlook. He returns you smile and inches closer to grab the curtains.

    “It's settled, we'll be getting these. Now which do you think would look best for the primary bedroom?” He drops them into the cart full of the stuff he put in only if you liked them. You shake your head slightly but comply giving your opinion.

The rest of the day went just the same, he asked what you liked fot pretty much everything. At this point it seemed like you were at the store looking for furniture and decor for you, not him. He seemed genuinely happy letting you pick out everything even though you told him it would be better if he just picked out stuff he liked. He only shrugged and answered with "I like everything you picked out." You stopped complaining after that.

In the car he thanks you for your help as he drives down the calm road.

    “But I did all the work!” You sigh, sitting back in the passenger seat. He chuckles.

    “I guess you did.” He hums as a train of thought passes. He turns to look at you teasingly, “I'm guessing that means I should give you a reward then?”

You flush slightly. “I—I— Eyes on the road mister!”

He chuckles again but complies, his eyes back on the road where they're supposed to be. You make a face when he's not looking. Your chest feels strange but you ignore it.

    “Where are we going?” You ask when you notice this was not the way to your apartment. He glances sideways at you for a just a small moment.

    “To get you a reward for helping,” he says, tone causal and chill.

    “I'm not a dog. I helped because I wanted to.”

    “Doesn't mean I don't get to spoil you a bit for helping.” He says as he pulls up to the parking of that one ice cream shop he knows you can't resist. You lips part for a second.

    “I... I guess I do deserve a reward sometimes,” you say quietly. The quickness made you wonder if self-esteem was in the room— or in this case car — with you because you just folded under zero pressure. Changbin grins, cheekily.

    “That's a good girl.” If he wasn't buying you ice cream right now you would have definitely hit him. Instead,

    “Seo Changbin,” you warn, eyes narrowing. He holds his hands up in quick surrender.

    “Relax bunny.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. “Your usual madam?”

    “Of course.” You couldn't help but smile at his silly antics, he bows before heading to the shop.

The soft music of the playlist you and Changbin made almost 10 years ago for driving together floats through the now silence, you guys update it every year with your current tastes. Now thinking of it you guys haven't updated it yet for this year. You should bring it up to Changbin.

You open your phone to notice missed texts from your friend. You open it up; Halin's asking to hang out today. That was almost 8 hours ago.

    Me: Halin I'm so sorry! I was

    helping Changbin with

    furniture shopping... 🥲

Halin's response comes quick.

    Halinie: i figured as much haha

    you've been spending a lot of

    time with him lately 👀

    ↑ you thumbs down to this 👎

    Halinie: hope you had fun

    though!! we can always hang

    out another time

    me: thanks for being

    understanding 🥹 i'm free next

    weekend if that's fine we can

    meet then?

    Halinie: ofc?? i won't be

    missing any chance to see your

    sexy face 🤭

    Halinie: and tell Bin I said hi

    lol

    me: you know just how to make

    me blush you annoying brat 🙈

    me: i will<3

Hm. Maybe you have been spending a lot more time with Changbin lately... but you wanted to. The driver door opens, reveling Changbin. He slips in his seat before holding up the paper cup with your ice cream to you. You take it eagerly.

    “Binnie, thank you!” Your eyes sparkle at the cold treat in your hand. You waste no time taking a bite, it was definitely what you needed after being dragged to many different stores all day.

    “You're very welcome.” He looks at you for a split second longer before eating his own ice cream. You take another bite.

    “Harin says hi,” you say, not really caring that your mouth is full.

    “Harin?”

    “Yep. I was just texting her. Oh by the way Binnie, we should update this playlist, we have yet to.”

    “Alright, whatever you want.” He smiles looking forward.

⪩⪨

He had asked you to help him unpack, of course you said yes. How could you not? He's your best friend ...and well lately you've been missing him more than usual. You just couldn't go more than 3 days without seeing him or else you'd get extra clingy the next time you saw him. It didn't concern you. He's your best friend, it's normal for best friends to want to see each other often. Right?

Unpacking was calm in your chaotic way. He did most of the heavy lifting and building of the furniture while you helped him figure out where exactly he should place everything.

    “And remind me, how is this me helping again?” You ask, tilting your head. Your legs swing slightly off the edge of the countertop you're currently sitting on.

There are a few boxes littered around the room that are labeled kitchen. The room is lit up by the two tall windows on the far right. Changbin finishes setting up the coffee machine before standing next to your legs.

    “You're keeping me company, I consider that helping.” He smiles widely as if that was an answer. You cross your arms at your chest.

    “Yeah? Well I don't think that counts.”

    “Really? But you look so cute just sitting here, gives me all the motivation to finish faster so I can just admire you,” he teases, leaning against the counter.

    “Bin, you can't just say things like... that!” You divert your eyes, flustered. He just laughs. Your lips form into an annoyed pout. “Surely you're going to let me do something.”

You hop off the counter, he doesn't stop you. You walk over to one of the boxes and open it up. There's a few dishes and cutlery inside.

    “Like putting away these...?” You turn to him, holding a dish. “I'm not taking no for an answer.”

You stick your tongue out at him before you begin putting the dishes in their respective places. He watches you for a minute with a fond smile on his lips that you didn't get the chance to see. He walks over and you both out everything away like a team.

    “See? We go much faster when I help.” He pats your head and you make a face, annoyed by how much you like that.

You guys move on to the living space. Changbin was pissing you off with his stupid jokes so you threw packing beans at him while he laughed.

During the whole unpack duty, you felt your heart clench multiple times. It was strange, really strange—especially when you started to notice things that you hadn't noticed before... Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, always looking when his muscles flexed. You notice how his dark blue almost black shirt seems tighter around his biceps, did he get ever bigger? Why was that even a question in your mind— Snap out of it!

The living room starts to look like a home as the boxes begin to leave, a home with small hints of both of you. Hm. That shouldn't feel as good as it did...

    “Is it straight?” You ask over your shoulder as you hold the painting steady and in place while balancing on a stool. Changbin takes a look.

    “Tilt it a little to the right,” you do as he instructs. “A little more...”

    “Is it good now—?” You freeze cause you feel him right behind you, one of his hands rest on your back in a respectful place. He gently pulls your right arm with his free hand to even out the painting.

    “There.” He says and takes a few steps back. You let out a breath you didn't know you had begin holding. You quickly get off the stool, afraid you might fall because of your suddenly wobbly legs.

    “Thanks for you help, Y/N.” He grins. You look away.

    “Yeah. No problem...” You don't get why you're so flustered.

    “Ah! By the way, I have something for you.” With that he heads to the bedroom.

You're not sure what this something was. It better not be some sort of reward like last time — this time you wouldn't be swayed so easily. Changbin returns not long after. He holds out his fist, waiting. You almost roll your eyes when you realize, you hold your palm out to receive whatever this thing was. He drops a key in your hand and smiles as you understand what it was.

    “Come over whenever you want, bunny.”

⪩⪨

A movie night. That's what he said this was. Just a normal night with him like the many times you hung out in this house with him. Its been weeks since you guys had decorated the place, Changbin had grown accustomed to the new space in the days leading up.

He is excited for your arrival, he hums a small tune as he gets the snacks ready. A mixture of both your favorite sweet and salty treats that you guys especially enjoy while watching stupid comedy movies. And of course he couldn't forget your favorite must need drink, hot chocolate. You don't care if it's winter, summer or any time, hot chocolate was life. Strange thing yes, but your consistent and he likes that about you.

He hears the front door open, he's not alarmed though, he gave you your own key the same day you came to help him unpack. He hears you shuffling your shoes off to change into your house slippers he keeps by the door just for you.

    “Bin?” Your sweet voice calls out to him. His chest flutters.

    “I'm in the kitchen!” He calls back as he pours the chocolate drink into the matching mugs. Your footsteps tells him that you're coming this way. His heart picks up. It's just a normal movie night, he tells himself. And yet he can't help but feel giddy by how domestic this situation can be interpreted to. He definitely wouldn't mind playing house wife if that's what you wanted.

You appear in the doorway, a slight smile on your face. You are in some long pj pants, a hello kitty tank top, and your face is bare. Something in the air tells him that this is not going to be just some normal movie night.

    “Bin..?” You break him out of his weird trance.

    “Y/N. Hi,” he says as his face breaks into a smile. He notices the plastic bag that you're holding.

    “I brought oreos.” You say, holding up the bag. You walk further into the kitchen and sniff the air. “Is that hot chocolate?”

You can't keep the smile off your face when he nods. You walk up and peer over, your matching mugs are full with the delicious chocolatey drink.

    “Help me carry these to the living room?” You nod once and grab the tray of treats along with the oreos.

Carefully, you follow Changbin up the stairs. You notice that the living room was already fixed for your movie night, a ton of blankets and pillows for comfort lay on the couch in a semi neat uniform. After placing the tray of snacks down and the cocoa, you and Changbin make yourselves comfortable. The movies were prepicked from an earlier hangout, so there was no time wasted trying to figure out what to watch.

There is a gap between you both as the screen glows brighter for the intro of the movie, a respectable gap. A very normal gap, one that is usually there when you sit on this very couch together. It wasn't even a foot apart, hardly eight inches—yet to him you felt too far away. He wanted to sit closer.

As the movie progresses and the snacks drain, the gap lessens by a little. He's not sure if he's being subtle or not. You don't seem to notice, it was just a little scoot anyways... Changbin can hardly focus now, the sound of your little laughs at the silly dialogue, how cute you look in your pjs being so comfortable around him — your facial features being illuminated by the screen in front seemed to be more interesting. Before he knows it, the movie had already ended.

He blinks when you catch him looking. Your brow raises as if waiting but you don't say anything. You both reach for the remote at the same time and your fingers brush. You yank your hand back at the same time he does at the current that flows through your arms.

    “I-I thought you didn't hear me.” You say flustered, not really looking at him. Well he didn't, you didn't need to know they though. Changbin mumbles an apology before putting on the next movie on your marathon list.

His mind drifts, wondering what would happen if he just confesses to you right then and there, tell you that he likes you and had liked you for awhile now.

The feelings.. they just happened. It was a well known silent rule not to fall for your best friend, not to cross any lines. And yet here he was definitely willing to cross the line. The problem was were you willing to as well?

Changbin had observed your behavior for weeks now, something definitely changed. He was almost 90% sure you reciprocated his feelings. The way you held your breath when he was near, your lingered gaze on him, flushing at the slightest touch—it almost made him giddy because they were signs you could have liked him back. Was he really willing to risk everything on just mere little signs?

Halfway through the second movie as Changbin has internal battles with himself, you are full of junk food, in the company of your favorite person ever while watching your favorite genre, completely content. Your eye lids feel heavy. You blink the sleep away, trying to stay awake. It's futile cause they just droop again. You take a small look at your friend wondering when he had gotten so close.

Changbin bites the inside of his cheek, the actors on the screen are speaking but he doesn't hear a word they say. He runs a hand through his hair, fuck it.

    “Y/N, I want to talk about some—” His sentence is cut off in his throat, he makes a soft noise of surprise when the weight of your head falls onto his shoulder.

You had fallen asleep. A soft smile forms on his lips as amusement leaves his nose. Your face is adorable. The situation has prevented him from saying his true feelings... He doesn't feel angry or even disappointment. Perhaps it had just saved him from devasting rejection.

His lip twitches. He shouldn't... Changbin moves his arm to wrap around you, against his better judgement. You move closer in your sleep, resting your head on his chest. His heart picks up which was silly because he was the one who wrapped his arm around you first. It wasn't his first time hugging you, yet if feels different somehow. Changbin rests his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He was indeed cooked.

©2026 imbaebi — all rights reserved, I don't allow copy of my work, no translations or reposts whatsoever without my consent. Inspiration is one thing, plagiarism is another. my fics are made by ME, there may be mistakes along the way but that just means I'm human. reblogging is very appreciated, help a writer out and reblog !!

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perm taglist (I do have a skz taglist as well) — ;

He checks your reactions constantly. And not just when his lips are your skin, but all the time.

It’s subtle, almost unfairly so. A quick glance, just casually making sure you’re okay whenever or wherever you are. He’s always reading you, and somehow managing to do it perfectly (which is more than mildly terrifying for someone who struggles to read themselves half the time).

Then, when he notices something, he fixes it. Like your shirt when it gets twisted, or your hair when it falls in your face, or the way you’re sitting on him if it looks uncomfortable. He never points it out, never makes it a thing. Just adjusts and moves on. Like taking care of you is second nature for him, as if it's something he's been doing without thinking for years.

It’s unsettling in the most disarming way possible, because it means you can't actually hide as easily as you thought you could.

And then there are these little pauses. The ones where he just...looks at you. Not in a dramatic way, not even enough to call him out on it. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. So, in retrospect, it shouldn’t matter.

But holy shit, it does. It matters a lot.

Small things. Easy to miss. Unless you’re looking for them. And now, unfortunately, you are.

Why is it unfortunate?

Because the more time you spend with him, the more details reveal themselves. Details you really really like.

You’d think being best friends with him for so many years, you would’ve clocked at least some of these already. But the closer you get, the more you realize you were too caught up in your own head, too focused on yourself to really see him before.

And now that you do, there’s no unseeing him. There's no denying just how intense your feelings for Changbin have become, and how scarily fast they're starting to grow.

“You’re staring again,” he says casually from his spot next to you on the couch.

“No, I’m not,” you shoot back, a little too quick. “I was zoning out, and you just happened to be there.”

“Mhm,” he hums, clearly entertained by your weak excuse, finally turning his head to look at you.

Fuck, he's got that look in his eyes. The one that says you’ve amused him, and thus captured his entire attention.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t ‘mhm’ me.”

“Why not?” He leans in, way too easily, like your answer won’t change anything anyway.

“Because…” your voice falters, pulse beginning to spike.

“Because…?” he echoes, softer now, his lips hovering just short of yours.

There’s no rush; there never is. Just this quiet certainty that something is about to happen. It feels so familiar by this point, and it pulls you into the moment without any effort.

And like always, you can't help but go quiet under his gaze.

Changbin’s eyes scan over your face for a mere moment before he leans in further. Again, something easy to miss if you didn’t already know what he's doing.

He’s reading you.

And maybe that’s what makes this so damn frustrating. Because that part clashes with everything else about him during moments like this.

Honestly, he’s looking at you like he’ll have you no matter what you say, no matter what you do. Like one way or another, he’s going to kiss you, and you won’t dare stop him.

But underneath all of that confidence, there’s respectful restraint.

You’ve always had an out. You still do. Even now, when the back of his fingers gently drift over your leg, and your brain short-circuits.

He’s patient. Respectful. Somehow able to make you feel like the most desirable person in the world while never making you feel guilty for stopping him halfway.

You exhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed as he closes the distance, his lips brushing yours in that annoyingly gentle way he does before he actually kisses you properly.

And sure enough -- there it is. Your bottom lip caught between his teeth before he closes the space completely, guiding you back toward the couch with steady, careful pressure.

His hand finds your lower back, warm and sure, fingers spreading over the fabric of your shirt as he eases you backward, slowly crawling his way on top of you.

Your back meets the couch, soft and quiet, and he follows, catching himself before his full weight lands on you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still at your back.

You expect a pause. There isn’t one. His lips never leave yours.

If anything, the kiss deepens. Your hands find his shirt without thinking, his shoulders something solid to hold onto as everything narrows down to the rhythm of his breathing and the slow, steady press of his mouth against yours.

You let yourself sink further into the cushions, the space between you shrinking as you tug him down by his collar, bringing him closer.

And yet still, you sense restraint.

Somewhere in the way he kisses you, in the way his hands hold you, there’s a quiet implication that it's hard for him to fully let go.

Like you could ruin him without even trying.

His weight against you is everything in this moment, as his lips trail to your neck. The change draws a quiet breath from you. Your hands slip into his hair and your body arches into his.

Even now, there’s no rush. No sudden push for more. No impatience. Just the warmth of his lips against your skin and the occasional nibble just below your ear.

With his lips still buried in your neck, both his hands find your waist. He adjusts you underneath him with easy control, guiding your hips so they align with his. Your body follows his lead as he settles between your legs, finally able to create friction with a subtle jerk of his hips, moving against you with a deep inhale.

That pulls a breathless reaction from you in form of his name, the small moan leaving your lips before you can stop it.

He stays there, every movement slow and controlled, letting the moment stretch on instead of rushing past it. A small rut of his hips, a firm squeeze of your waist, a gentle groan into your neck.

For the past month, this has been the line. Where your thoughts start to race faster than you can keep up, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything. Every place he touches, every shift of pressure, every curve and fold of your body beneath him -- until the awareness turns overwhelming, and you can’t stop thinking about how big you must feel under his hands.

Usually you just press against his chest, pull away or push him off, laugh or ask him to stop.

And he always listens. Changbin has never once insisted on going further than you felt comfortable. Never once made you feel like you owed him anything for the way he touches you. Actually, he’s the opposite. He's frustratingly patient.

That should make this easier, right? That should be enough to quiet the doubt in your heart and anxiety in your head.

But it isn't.

Something quiet and mean formed in your mind years ago, and it never really left. The kind of thought that doesn’t feel like a thought anymore, but rather self-hate you learned as fact and never questioned.

Your body isn’t the kind people want. You're not sexy. You never were and you never will be. He's not enjoying this. He's tolerating your figure because he has to. He would prefer someone else, someone...smaller.

Even with Changbin borderline worshipping your curves every chance he gets, believing someone actually craves you doesn't come easily.

But you desperately want to believe Changbin wants you and to show him how badly you want him too. If anything, you don't want whatever this is that you have with him to fizzle out just because you're self-conscious about letting him fuck you.

So, you won't stop him this time. Even though he'll probably cringe at seeing you naked and you'll probably be permanently traumatized, it's better to be judged and laughed at than end up alone, watching him walk away.

Changbin stills. Then he lifts his head from your neck and gently smiles down at you.

For a second, you think he’s just pausing to look at you because he does that sometimes, although you still aren't sure exactly why.

But then his hands slip away, he leans down and kisses your nose and then your cheek.

When you blink, he’s already pulling away, sitting up, and offering you a hand to help you do the same.

Your stomach drops as he guides you upright with an easy, careful lift. “I didn’t say stop.”

“I know, but that’s usually where you ask to stop, so..."

The words hit harder than they should.

Usually.

Of course, he’s been paying attention. Tracking your boundaries even when you don’t say them out loud. Memorizing the exact point where your breathing changes, where your hands get tense, where you start to get stiff.

“I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for," he says, gently tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“But aren't you at least a little disappointed?"

He frowns, confused. “Why would I be?”

“I mean…I’m not exactly delivering on the whole friends-with-benefits thing.”

Little by little, the confusion folded in his brow smooths out. His gaze lingers on you a fraction longer before he looks away, the softness in his expression pulling back and replaced with something more guarded and more distant.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“For what exactly?”

“Making this awkward.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never…done this before, if you couldn't tell.”

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it's heavy.

"Me neither."

You've made him upset. He's upset at you.

“But,” you add quickly, filling the space before it stretches too far, “I'm ready to take things to the next level now. I won't make you wait any longer, I promise."

“Yeah,” he says immediately, running a hand through his hair and over his jawline. “I get it. I mean, it's fine. I don't mind waiting."

But it doesn’t feel fine. And it definitely doesn’t sound fine.

"Changbin, I'm sorry if I frustrated you by always making us stop in the middle. I was just, you know, nervous. But I'm okay now."

You take his hand and place it on your upper thigh, but the moment you see his thumb on a stretch mark, a flicker of self-consciousness runs through you, even as you try to hold his gaze and pretend it doesn’t matter.

He sighs, "I'm glad you're not nervous anymore." He pulls his hand away. "But I'm not feeling it today."

Then he stands, gathering himself with his hands in his pockets.

"Actually a bit tired. I think I’ll head out early."

And then he leaves.

Not abruptly. Not coldly. He still presses a kiss to your forehead and reminds you to text him when you go to bed, still smiles before closing the door.

But something’s different.

And it stays different.

For weeks.

::

It’s not like Changbin to avoid you. And technically, he isn't.

He shows up every few days, jokes around before dropping onto the couch, eats your food, watches your TV, listens to your day. So, on the surface, everything seems okay.

But it’s not.

He hasn’t once tried to kiss you since that night, let alone make out with you. Every time you try to start anything, he shuts it down before you can even kiss his cheek.

It’s never obvious. Never enough to call him out without sounding ridiculous. He’ll laugh it off, redirect, brush your hand away like he just wasn’t paying attention, act like it doesn’t matter.

But it does. It really does. Because he used to meet you halfway – no, more than halfway.

And now…he just doesn’t.

He’s still kind. Still Changbin in all the ways that made you like him in the first place. He sits next to you, walks with you, talks like nothing’s changed.

But something definitely has.

It's as if he’s overthinking every inch of space between you instead of just existing in it. His eyes don’t linger on you the way they used to, although he's still reading you every chance he gets. But it feels…different now.

The way he looks at you is different.

It was subtle enough that you doubted yourself at first, but once you noticed it, you couldn't deny it. Something changed. But he never told you what it was!

And now it's messing with your head in bigger and bigger ways. Replaying conversations. Overthinking pauses. Inserting meaning into silences that used to feel safe.

Something is going down between you two, and you keep waiting for him to bring it up, but Changbin isn't addressing it directly like he usually does.

Not that you’ve tried to address it either, but that's his job! You're the chaotic, insecure, avoidant one, and he's the calm, responsible, communicative one!

Your lips press together as the realization settles uncomfortably in your chest. This isn’t just him being busy, or distracted, or giving you space.

He's…pulling away. But can you really be surprised? This wouldn't be the first time someone's gotten tired of you, after all.

Damn it, of course, he’s tired of trying. It's all because of you!

How many times did he lean in, touch you like you were something worth wanting, only for you to hesitate? To cut him off? To make him second-guess?

You drag a hand over your face, pacing your room like that’s going to chase the thought out of your head. Obviously, you're never going to be that girl, anyway. A guy like him? Wanting you like that? Wanting you at all?

That was already pushing it.

And yet somehow, you still managed to fuck it up.

You had something with him, something at least semi-real. Perhaps the realest thing a girl like you will ever get the chance at having. And you let it slip through your fingers before you even let yourself fully have it.

And even worse…you might’ve ruined the best friendship you’ve ever had, too.

You swallow hard, pacing slowing to a stop.

It can’t stay like this. One of you has to confront things. If he won't, then you will. The only other option is to keep guessing and spiraling and filling in blanks with the worst possible explanations and then crashing out.

But for once, you don’t want to be passive about it. You don’t want to wait for him to fix it, or pretend it’ll go back to normal if you ignore it long enough.

You have to be the one to say something. Even if it’s awkward. Even if you say it wrong. Even if it makes your chest feel like it’s about to cave in and all your coping mechanisms malfunction.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself.

No jokes this time. No deflecting. No pretending this is anything less than what it is. The conversation you should’ve had weeks ago needs to happen today.

Your fingers hover over your phone for a second before you finally type out a text, simple and to the point:

[y/n] can we talk? actually talk?

You stare at it for a second, heart pounding like you're being chased by a madman. And then you hit send.

[binnie] Sure. When?

[y/n] tonight. my place? ill order pizza

[binnie] 👍

::

When he knocks, you don’t hesitate. You open the door with a small, sweet smile, doing your best to act like the bath robe you're wearing isn’t suspicious – it’s completely normal to answer the door like this at 10:58pm on a weeknight.

Changbin gives you a flat smile in return. It’s more than you expected, if you’re being honest.

“Come on in,” you say, stepping aside to let him pass.

The moment feels way too formal. You’re both used to Changbin just letting himself in because your space has also become his at this point. But now there’s a pause and a politeness that wasn’t there before. It makes your skin itch.

He toes off his shoes and follows you to the living room, to the place where you usually hang out and to the couch where you usually…well, where you used to spend most of your time together.

Watching him drop into that spot on the couch feels almost surreal after weeks of it being mostly empty. There’s something strangely comforting about seeing him settled into your space again, like nothing’s changed. Especially there. That exact spot.

The one that started all of this.

You didn’t tell him to sit there, and maybe it’s better that way.

You lower yourself beside him, leaving a small gap between your knees, your hands already fidgeting with the tie of your robe because if they don't do something, you might go insane.

“So,” he says, looking over at you with little expectation, “what’d you want to talk about?”

You’re not surprised he isn’t expecting much from this conversation. Not like you’ve ever been the confrontational type. And you haven't exactly given him a reason to think you’d suddenly sit him down and say what actually needs to be said. But you’re trying to be better. At least, for him.

“I’ll just get straight to the point if that's okay, umm,” you clear your throat. “Recently, I feel like you’ve been pulling away.”

Oh shit, you didn't know the shift in his face would be so immediate. Something flickers in his eyes. Was that guilt? Maybe he's just a little caught off guard. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, waiting to see where you’re going with this.

So you keep going.

“And I know why.”

“You do?” he swallows.

You nod. “Yeah. And…I want you to know that, I'm ready.”

There’s a pause. “Ready for what?” he repeats slower, trying to understand what you mean.

Instead of explaining with words – because you've used enough of them already – you stand in front of him and let the robe slip from your shoulders and fall quietly to the floor.

The moment remains suspended for several seconds as he takes in your body wrapped up in familiar black lace, black buckles around your thighs, and a black mini skirt resting just above your ass.

And all of a sudden, he's taken right back to that first night.

To the first time you danced for him. The first time he felt himself get addicted to your weight on his lap. His heart starts racing automatically in anticipation, and his skin starts reacting as if you're already on top of him. Even his scalp starts tingling like your fingers are already threaded throughout his hair, gently pulling it to tilt his chin and capture his lips. Oh god, his lips are dry. He runs his tongue over them once, twice, hoping it doesn't make him seem like he's drooling (but it wouldn't be a lie).

Fuck, you're beautiful. But it’s not just that you look good. It’s not the way you’re dressed, or how much skin you're showing, or how sexy you are when you get dolled up for him.

It’s you. All of you.

The way you’re standing there, a little tense, a little eager, hands fidgeting with the strap of your bra like you’re trying to hold yourself together. The way your eyes don’t quite stay on his and the tips of your ears get warm under his gaze.

You look so nervous. You look so real. You look so fucking pretty.

His gaze lingers longer than it should, considering your relationship is unclear and you don't belong to him in any sense. But you're here right now, allowing him to see you like this, and his eyes begin softening without him realizing it. He’s taking you in, piece by piece, not to judge, not to compare…just to see you.

And all he can think is how unfair it is that you don’t seem to understand what he’s seeing.

How can you stand there, right in front of him, and not realize that there’s nothing for him to pick apart? There's nothing to fix. Nothing to hesitate over. Nothing to hate. Nothing to laugh at.

All he can do is gawk and stare at you. Just you. Perfect, beautiful you.

You want to shrink under his gaze and run away, because it feels like it’s been minutes of you just standing here, practically naked, while he sits there unblinking, jaw open, eyelids fluttering, and wrists limp.

But you're not going to run away this time. If you back out now, you really will lose him forever. You have to see this through to the end, all the way…even if it's scary.

You step closer before you can overthink it, closing the space and settling into his lap. Maybe if you recreate the moment when everything felt right, it’ll fix everything that went wrong.

“I won’t pull away this time,” you whisper softly. “I won’t stop you. Do whatever you want to me. Just please don't leave.”

Your lips meet his, and for a second he just lets it happen.

Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slips loose, and he seems to melt underneath you. His shoulders drop while his body becomes completely unguarded, following your every lead without hesitation. His eyes roll back in his head, and his hands firmly latch onto your ass, kneading and pulling you further onto his lap.

But just as your hips roll against him, his breath hitches and his body flinches, like he's been startled out of a daydream.

“Wait, wait,” he suddenly mutters into the kiss, pulling back just enough to break the momentum, hands easing you back with a careful touch. “What’s happening right now?”

Your confidence – which wasn't much to begin with – immediately falters. “I told you, I'm ready to let you go all the way.”

“Why are you suddenly offering to do that?”

“I don't want to upset you anymore,” you reply slowly, eyes falling, words much quieter than you mean them to be.

“So, let me get this straight. I got upset, and your first reaction is to let me fuck you?”

“Well…yeah?”

You're not sure exactly what reaction you were anticipating, but a fond chuckle was definitely not it. And in some weird way, it makes you think he understands you more than you understand yourself right now.

Changbin laces his fingers behind your ass so you can sit against them comfortably, adjusting you in his lap and looking up at you with gentle – dare you say – loving eyes.

When you’re settled, he tips his head back slightly, his usual, gentle smile that you've missed so terribly finally appearing in all its boyish glory.

“Do you think I was upset because you always stopped us before we had sex?”

You shrug. “What else would it be?”

“Actually, I was upset because you think we have a friends with benefits relationship,” he explains kindly.

“Isn't that what this is?”

“I guess for some people, it could be. But that's never how I saw us. And I never wanted that.”

“You never wanted me?”

“No, that's not what I meant! I want you, believe me. Like, holy fuck, I want you. But I thought we were dating,” he admits bashfully. “So, when you said we were just friends with benefits, it kind of broke my heart a little bit.”

“Oh…oh!”

It lands all at once, and you freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of everything at once: the way you’re sitting in his lap, his hands on your ass, what you’re wearing, what you were just trying to do.

Any left over confidence drains from your face so fast, immediately turning into visible embarrassment. You let out a nervous laugh, gesturing vaguely down at yourself and how absurd this all looks.

“So this was probably not the right idea, huh?” you say, half joking, half cringing.

“I mean, I'm not mad about it,” Changbin smirks playfully, exaggerating a lip bite just to make you giggle for real. “But I also don't want you to do it because you think sex will fix me being upset about something.”

“Sorry.”

“And to be clear – look at me,” he gently cups your cheeks, holding your eyes intentionally focused on his, “I'm not upset at you. I'm just…disappointed that we misunderstood each other this whole time.”

“Yeah, well that one was on me,” you say with a sigh, relaxing into his arms and dropping a little closer to his chest.

“No, I should have done a better job at treating you like my girlfriend instead of my friend I make out with.”

“You do treat me like a girlfriend,” you insist, mindlessly fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, just above the waistband of his sweats. “I'm just not used to being one.”

That makes him pause. Not in a bad way, just in a thoughtful way. Leave it to Changbin to actually take you seriously instead of letting your casual comment pass.

His expression softens, and he tilts his head cutely as if something has just clicked into place.

“Okay,” he says slowly, wrapping his arms around you again, tighter this time. “Then what are some things I can do to make sure you feel like my girlfriend?”

It’s an honest question. Just one you weren't necessarily prepared for. He already knows you way better than you know him, so to see him trying to understand you better than he already does makes your heart swell.

Without even thinking about it, your body leans into him, less guarded, more natural. Your hands find his skin absentmindedly, fingers brushing the back of his neck, then playing with his hair as if the very action soothes your nerves. Everything slows, your heartbeat, your thoughts, his eyelids when he blinks up at you.

“Could I come over to your place more often?”

“Of course, baby,” he says easily. “You can come over whenever you want even if I’m not there. Do you want a key?”

“Oh, well, maybe I don’t need quite that much right now,” you answer shyly, the offer sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Got it. I’ll get you a toothbrush and some hair ties for the bathroom. How does that sound?”

You beam. “That’s perfect.”

You're not sure who leans in first this time. Perhaps it doesn't really matter when his lips land on yours, somehow sweeter and softer than they've ever felt.

It starts small, just a quick peck. Then another. And another. Neither of you ready to stop, but smiling too much to take it seriously.

His lips brush yours again, lingering this time, and the moment naturally deepens into something slower and warmer. His smiles are still there, pressed between each kiss, undeniable.

You feel it then.

The way he pulls you closer, arms wrapping around your back, not letting any space exist between you if he can help it. His hold tightens until all of you is pressed against him.

And for once, your thoughts don’t spiral.

You don’t think about how your body must feel squished in his arms. Or how long you’ve been sitting in his lap. Or whether you should get up and give his legs a break.

None of it.

All you can focus on is the way he laughs softly against your mouth, a quiet, breathy giggle slipping into the kiss when you nuzzle his nose. The way his arms hold you close as if they'll never let you go.

And for the first time, a part of you feels beautiful and wanted simply because you are.

::

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m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ

Midterm days always transform the lecture hall into something close to a battlefield.

Not the loud, explosive kind. No. This one hums with a quieter tension. Chairs scrape against tile. Backpacks unzip and zip again. Someone in the back mutters a prayer to whatever academic deity handles statistics and cognitive theory.

You sit two rows from the front with your pencil already lined perfectly against the edge of your notebook. Your posture is calm. Composed. The picture of a student who absolutely did not spend three consecutive nights rereading every chapter until the words started dancing on the page.

Professor Kim stands at the front of the room with a stack of midterms in his arms.

The stack might as well be a pile of loaded weapons.

“Overall,” he says, adjusting his glasses as he looks over the class, “I was impressed.”

A collective sigh ripples through the room. Impressed is good. Impressed means survival.

He starts calling names, and one by one people shuffle up to grab their papers, some looking hopeful, others already defeated. A guy two seats behind you gets his exam and immediately groans.

You barely hear any of it. Your attention drifts two rows over.

Seo Changbin.

Your academic nemesis. Your intellectual parasite. The human embodiment of a smugness.

He sits slouched in his seat like this entire class is mildly entertaining background noise. Dark hair, sleeves rolled up, thick forearms resting on the tiny arm desk, the furniture not designed for people built like him. His pencil spins between his fingers lazily.

He turns his head and catches you looking. His mouth tilts upward.

You snap your gaze forward immediately, jaw tightening.

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

“Y/N.”

You stand instantly and walk to the front. Professor Kim hands you your exam, and you flip it over before you even reach your seat. A bright red 100% beams up at you from the top corner. Heat blooms in your chest.

Victory. Pure, glittering victory.

You press your lips together, but it doesn’t stop the smile threatening to split your face in half. As soon as you sit, your shoulders do a tiny shimmy. A silent celebration. A restrained little dance of academic superiority that no one notices except maybe the girl beside you who glances over like you’ve lost your mind.

Perfect score. Again.

You smooth the paper on your desk and inhale slowly through your nose. Then, very casually, very deliberately, you turn your head again. Time to see the damage.

Changbin is already walking back down the aisle toward his seat. And he’s smiling.

No. Not smiling. Smirking.

Your eyes narrow.

He reaches his desk, turns slightly, and lifts his exam in the air like he’s presenting a trophy. Your gaze locks onto the number at the top. 102%

One hundred and two percent. One zero two. 

You stare, unblinking.

He wiggles the paper slightly between his fingers. Then he sits, completely unbothered, crossing one ankle over his knee as if he didn’t just commit a war crime against your academic pride. Your silent victory dance dies a tragic death.

The rest of class passes in a blur of barely contained rage. You hear none of the lecture. Not a single word about neural pathways or behavioral reinforcement. The only thing echoing in your skull is 102% flashing like a neon sign.

Extra credit. Extra credit he apparently knew about. Extra credit no one told you about.

When the class finally ends, chairs scrape across the floor as people pack their bags and shuffle toward the exit.

Your notebook snaps shut with the force of a courtroom gavel.

Professor Kim barely has time to sit down at his desk before you’re standing in front of him.

“Professor.” Your voice is tight. Very tight.

He glances up calmly. “Yes?”

You place your exam on his desk. “One hundred percent.”

“Yes,” he says pleasantly. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” A pause. “But I have a question.”

He folds his hands on the desk. “Go ahead.”

Your eyes narrow. “What,” you say carefully, “was the extra credit?”

Professor Kim blinks once. Then he leans back in his chair like someone settling in for entertainment. “Well—”

“Because,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now, “if there was extra credit available, I would have liked the opportunity to complete it. And I’m fairly certain that offering one student additional points that weren’t made available to the entire class is a little questionable academically speaking, and not to mention extremely unfair given the competitive structure of your class. And if the grading scale allows students to exceed the maximum score then logically that should have been communicated beforehand because otherwise it skews the curve entirely and—”

You stop, only because Professor Kim raises a single hand. “May I speak now?”

You inhale. Long. Slow. Through your nose. “Fine.”

He smiles faintly. “Mr. Seo came to my office hours last week.”

Your head tilts.

“He asked if there was any extra credit he could complete to deepen his understanding of the material.”

Your eyes narrow further. “And?”

“I gave him a short research assignment. Five pages analyzing the practical applications of cognitive bias in courtroom testimony.”

You blink. Five pages. That little—

Professor Kim continues, unfazed. “He turned it in two days later. It was excellent. I awarded him two additional points.”

Your jaw tightens. You look down at your perfect exam. Then back up at him. Then down again. A slow burn creeps up your spine. “I see.”

Your gaze shifts to the left.

And there he is, leaning against one of those awful little chair-desk combo things that universities insist on buying in bulk. One hip propped against the side, arms crossed loosely.

He’s eating an apple. Crunching into it like the most relaxed man alive while chaos unfolds three feet away. His eyes meet yours. He chews, swallows, and then his mouth curls upward into the most unbearably smug grin you have ever seen.

Your eye twitches. “You asked for extra credit,” you say slowly.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Seemed like a good idea.”

“You wrote a five page paper.”

“Six actually.”

Another bite of the apple. Another crunch.

Your professor quietly swivels his chair away and pretends to look at his computer. Coward.

You step closer to Changbin. “You couldn’t just take the hundred.”

He tilts his head. “And let you win?”

Your hands clench at your sides. “That wasn’t winning.”

“Sure it was.”

He tosses the apple core into a nearby trash can without even looking. It lands perfectly. Then he straightens, pushing away from the chair-desk combo, towering just slightly over you as he leans in with that same infuriating grin. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “You still did great.”

Your eye twitches again. “I’m going to beat you on the final.”

His smile widens. “Looking forward to it.”

Then he grabs his backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and strolls past you toward the door like he didn’t just ignite a fresh chapter in your decade-long academic war.

You stand there, gripping your exam, staring after him.

Unbelievable.

And yet somewhere, buried underneath the irritation clawing at your ribs, there’s another feeling you refuse to examine too closely. Because when he smiled like that, leaning in close enough that you could smell apple and something warm and clean on his skin…

You should let it go.

That would be the mature thing to do. The adult thing. The very psychologically informed thing, considering you are literally studying human behavior for a living.

Instead, you storm out of the lecture hall three seconds after Changbin leaves.

The hallway outside is loud with the usual post-class chaos. Students cluster in groups, comparing grades, groaning, celebrating, debating whether the exam was unfair.

You barely register any of it. Because your eyes are locked onto the broad back moving down the hallway ahead of you.

Your grip tightens on your exam. “Seo!”

He doesn’t even slow down.

You quicken your pace until you’re practically power-walking through the crowd. Students part around you like startled fish as you close the distance. “Changbin!”

That gets him. He turns halfway around while still walking backwards, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Yes?”

You catch up with him in three strides. “You’re unbelievable.”

He tilts his head, looking genuinely curious. “For doing extra work?”

“For doing secret extra work.”

He snorts. “There’s nothing secret about office hours.”

“You knew no one else would ask!”

“Sounds like a strategic advantage.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” you repeat.

“Yes.”

You step closer. “I got a hundred.”

“Congratulations.”

“You got one hundred and two.”

“Also congratulations.”

Your voice climbs higher. “You didn’t earn two extra points. You manipulated the system.”

“I wrote six pages.”

“You changed the grading structure!”

“I used initiative.”

“I would have used initiative if I had known!”

“Skill issue.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

Students begin flowing around the two of you as the hallway clears, giving your argument a strange little stage in the middle of campus traffic.

Your voices overlap now. “You always do this—”

“Always do what?”

“You turn everything into a competition.”

“You started the competition.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You’re the one who keeps raising the bar!”

“You’re the one who keeps chasing it!”

Your steps shift unconsciously. You’re closer now, though neither of you seems to notice.

“Because you keep cheating,” you snap.

“I’m not cheating.”

“You exploited a loophole!”

“You didn’t ask!”

“I shouldn’t have needed to!”

“You sound like you’re mad because you didn’t think of it first!”

Your breath catches slightly because that might be partially true. You both step closer again without realizing. Your voices are faster now, overlapping, words spilling out in a rapid fire exchange that barely leaves room for breathing.

“You act like you’re some academic prodigy—”

“You act like you’re the only smart person on campus—”

“I never said that!”

“You don’t have to say it!”

“You’re impossible!”

“You’re predictable!”

“You’re arrogant!”

“You’re competitive!”

You both stop. Because suddenly you’re standing inches apart. Close enough that your voices don’t need to be loud anymore. Close enough that you can see the tiny crease near his eye when he squints. Close enough that whatever laundry detergent he uses somehow slips past your defenses.

Your brain stalls. Changbin’s mouth opens slightly like he’s about to say something. Then he seems to realize how close you are too.

Both of you step back at the same time. A synchronized retreat. Your hand flies to the strap of your backpack. His fingers rake awkwardly through his hair. You glance down the hallway like maybe someone saw that. A group of freshmen walk past laughing about something completely unrelated. No one is watching. Which somehow makes it worse.

Changbin clears his throat. You adjust the sleeve of your sweater even though it does not need adjusting. Silence stretches between you for a second. Then he says, casually, “You going to the party tonight?”

Your eyes flick back to him. “What party?”

“My frat’s.” He says it like it’s obvious. Which it kind of is.

SKZ. Technically it’s a Greek organization. A fraternity with letters and bylaws and house meetings and all that traditional nonsense. In reality it’s just a house full of extremely chaotic men who somehow run the most legendary parties on campus.

You cross your arms. “Oh. That.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Yes. That.”

You tilt your chin upward with practiced dignity. “I don’t go to frat parties.”

“Right.”

“I have better things to do.”

“Of course.”

You glance away. “But my friends wanted to go.”

He nods slowly, like he’s processing important academic data. “Your friends.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re just accompanying them.”

“Obviously.”

“Out of generosity.”

“Exactly.”

Changbin’s mouth twitches. “Well,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, “I’ll be there.”

“I figured.”

“It’s my house.”

“Yes. I know how fraternities work.”

“Good.”

You both stand there for another awkward second. Neither of you seems entirely sure how this conversation is supposed to end.

Finally you turn. “Whatever,” you mutter. “Enjoy your two extra points.”

“I will.”

You start walking down the opposite end of the hallway. He heads the other direction.

Three steps later you hear his shoes slow behind you.

You don’t turn. You absolutely do not turn.

But behind you, Changbin glances back over his shoulder. Just once. Watching you disappear into the crowd with that determined stride like you’re marching toward battle instead of your next class.

And despite the argument. Despite the rivalry. Despite the fact that you just threatened academic war over two stupid points, a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth before he turns back around and keeps walking.

Jia is holding your face hostage. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Her fingers are clamped around your chin while she squints at you with the focus of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. The bedroom smells like hairspray, setting spray, and the faint sugary perfume Sana insists on wearing even when she’s just going to the grocery store.

“Stop moving,” Jia says.

“I’m not moving.”

“You’re breathing hard.”

“I can’t control it.”

“Then stop glaring.”

You try to glare less aggressively. It does not work.

The four of you are packed into your bedroom like a chaotic beauty salon. The vanity is buried under a battlefield of makeup palettes, brushes, mascara tubes, lip glosses, and the empty iced coffee Jia finished fifteen minutes ago but refuses to throw away.

Jisoo sits cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, watching the process like it’s a live sporting event. Sana is kneeling on the floor beside your closet, currently wrestling with a hanger that seems determined to keep the little black dress it’s attached to forever..

“Soooo, you started a fight,” Jia says, dabbing concealer beneath your eye with ruthless efficiency.

“I did not start a fight.”

“You chased him out of class.”

“I followed him.”

“To yell at him.”

“To ask a question.”

Jia leans back slightly to admire her work. “You started a fight over two points.”

“Two unfair points.”

She snorts. “Still two points.”

You glare at her.

“Sweetheart,” Jia says, grabbing a fluffy brush and dusting powder across your cheekbones, “he wrote a paper.”

“A secret paper.”

“There is nothing secret about office hours.”

“Stop siding with him.”

“I’m not siding with him,” Jia insists. “I’m just saying the man played the game.”

She pauses. Then her mouth curls slightly. “And also he’s a total hottie.”

Your glare intensifies, but you don’t deny it. You do, however, point a mascara tube at her like a weapon. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m encouraging you.”

“There is nothing to encourage.”

“Mm.”

“Jia.”

“He’s hot.”

“Jia.”

“He’s smart.”

“Jia.”

“He’s built like a brick wall.”

“JIA.”

She bursts out laughing.

Jisoo pipes up from the bed. “I think he likes you.”

Your head snaps toward her so fast Jia almost pokes you in the eye with eyeliner. “What?”

Jisoo shrugs. “I mean, it makes sense.”

“It makes no sense.”

“He goes out of his way to compete with you.”

“That’s because he’s annoying.”

“Or,” Jisoo says thoughtfully, “he likes you.”

“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It’s extremely dumb.”

Jisoo tilts her head. “Chan thinks so too.”

Silence falls over the room. You blink. “What?”

“My boyfriend,” she says helpfully.

“I know who Chan is.”

Chan. As in Bang Chan. As in SKZ fraternity president. As in Changbin’s literal frat president and housemate.

Your voice climbs several octaves. “WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO CHAN ABOUT THIS?”

Jisoo blinks at you, completely unbothered. “What?”

“You can’t just casually discuss my academic rivalry with his friend group!”

“I didn’t know it was classified information.”

“It’s not classified it’s just—” you sputter.

She looks genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because that’s humiliating!”

“But Chan asks about you sometimes.”

“WHY?”

“Because he thinks the rivalry is funny.”

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“He said you two argue like an old married couple,” Jisoo adds cheerfully.

You scream into your hands.

Sana finally untangles the little black dress and holds it up triumphantly. “Okay but hear me out,” she says.

You peek through your fingers. “What.”

She shrugs. “You guys should just have sex.”

The room goes completely still. You stare at her. She stares back, perfectly serious.

“It would fix the tension,” she continues. “Sex solves a lot of problems.”

You lower your hands slowly. “Sana.”

“Yes?”

“I will push you down the stairs.”

She gasps dramatically. “You would not.”

“You suggested I sleep with my academic nemesis.”

She waves a hand. “Enemies to lovers.”

“That is not happening.”

“Sexual tension though.”

“There is no sexual tension.”

Jia snorts. “Please.”

“None.”

Sana tosses the dress at you. “Put it on.”

You catch it reluctantly. “This is too short.”

“That’s the point.”

“This is inappropriate for a frat party.”

“Nothing is inappropriate for a frat party.”

You sigh heavily and stand. “Fine.”

Ten minutes later you’re squeezed into the little black dress while Jia fixes your hair and Jisoo insists on adding lip gloss.

Sana steps back to admire the final product. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Changbin’s gonna lose his mind.”

“He will do no such thing.”

“You look hot.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Hot and angry,” Jia adds.

“Stop saying hot.”

“Hot.”

“JIA.”

“Okay okay.”

Eventually the four of you pile into the Uber you ordered.

The driver is weird immediately. He keeps trying to make conversation while staring at Sana in the rearview mirror. “So you girls headed to a party?” he asks.

“No,” Sana says flatly.

“You’re dressed pretty fancy.”

“Funeral.”

He pauses. “Oh.”

“Very tragic.”

The driver keeps talking anyway, which earns him progressively more aggressive side-eyes until the car finally pulls up in front of the SKZ fraternity house.

Music pulses through the walls, and lights glow from every window.

You climb out first. Jia stumbles slightly behind you, Jisoo thanks the driver politely, and Sana leans down toward the open window. “And if you keep staring at girls in the mirror like that,” she says sweetly, “I’m giving you one star and writing a very detailed review.”

The man goes pale. “Have a nice night!” He speeds away so fast the tires squeal.

Sana flips off the disappearing car. “Creep.”

Bass vibrates through the sidewalk. Voices and laughter spill from the front yard where clusters of people already gather under string lights. People are cheering loudly inside, and the unmistakable smell of cheap alcohol floats through the warm night air.

You adjust the hem of your dress. Totally normal. Totally fine. Totally not thinking about a certain smug psychology major who lives here.

You march toward the front door, your friends trailing behind you. And you absolutely, completely, definitely do not notice Seo Changbin standing on the front porch steps.

He’s leaning casually against the porch railing as your group walks up. The porch light casts a warm glow across the steps, music vibrating through the wood beneath his sneakers while people filter in and out of the front door behind him.

He spots you immediately, his expression shifting and his posture straightening slightly. Then his mouth curls into that familiar, irritatingly confident smile. “Well,” he says, pushing himself off the railing.

Your friends slow behind you, sensing entertainment approaching.

Changbin looks over the group of you politely first. “Ladies,” he says. Then his eyes land on you, and stay there. “You all look wonderful tonight.” The words are addressed to everyone, supposedly.

His gaze drifts down before he can stop it, clocking the hem of your dress. The very short hem of your dress.

Heat rushes to your face instantly. Your hand flies down to tug the fabric lower even though it absolutely will not get any longer no matter how much you bully it.

“Don’t,” you mutter.

“Don’t what?” he asks innocently.

“Look.”

“I’m just greeting my guests.”

“You’re staring.”

Behind him the front door swings open and the rest of his friends spill onto the porch like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

Minho appears first, effortlessly cool as always with a lazy smile. Then Hyunjin. Buzzcut Hyunjin. The shaved hair somehow makes him look even sharper, cheekbones cutting through the porch light like someone sculpted him with a chisel. And finally Chan, who practically lights up when he sees Jisoo.

“Hey!” Chan says immediately, stepping forward.

Jisoo beams and throws her arms around him. The two of them hug like people who actually enjoy each other’s company, which makes Sana gag quietly beside you.

Minho nods toward you with a small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Hyunjin walks straight over and pulls you into a quick hug. “You look nice tonight,” he says when he steps back. There’s a tiny bit of playful emphasis on nice.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Thank you.”

Hyunjin glances at your dress. “Very nice.”

“Okay,” you say dryly.

Changbin shifts beside him. It’s subtle. So subtle most people wouldn’t notice. But you do. He casually steps forward just enough that his shoulder bumps lightly into Hyunjin’s arm, forcing the taller man to shift half a step to the side. It looks accidental, but it absolutely isn’t.

Hyunjin glances down at him. Changbin pretends to examine something across the yard. Minho watches the exchange with visible amusement. Chan, meanwhile, looks delighted by the entire situation.

“Oh this is great,” he says, clapping his hands once.

Everyone turns toward him. He gestures between you and Changbin like he’s introducing a show. “I love seeing you two together.”

You and Changbin both freeze.

“What?” you say.

“What?” Changbin echoes.

Chan beams. “You guys going at it is my favorite thing.”

Your brain stalls. “Excuse me?”

“The arguments!” Chan says cheerfully. “The debates! The academic warfare!”

Jisoo nods enthusiastically beside him. You whip your head toward her. She gives you a bright thumbs up.

Changbin slowly turns his head toward Chan. “You enjoy that?”

“Very much.”

“You enjoy watching us argue.”

“It’s incredible,” Chan says. “The energy. The tension. The intellectual combat.”

Minho snorts quietly.

Chan claps his hands again. “Come on. Start debating.”

You blink. “What?”

“Start debating.”

“How can we just start argu—”

Hyunjin suddenly raises his voice. “SHOTS!”

The word slices through the porch like a starting pistol. A cheer erupts from inside the house.

Hyunjin disappears through the doorway for three seconds and reemerges with two green bottles held triumphantly in the air. “Important question,” he announces. He lifts one bottle in each hand. “Chamisul.” Then the other. “Or Jinro?”

You answer instantly. “Chamisul.”

“Jinro,” Changbin says at the exact same time.

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

“Jinro is terrible.”

“It’s literally smoother.”

“Chamisul has a cleaner finish.”

“Jinro has better balance.”

“Better balance?” you scoff. “It tastes like watered-down ass.”

“Chamisul tastes like actual ass.”

“Then you should love it.”

“Maybe. Depends who’s offering.”

“Shut up. Chamisul wins taste tests.”

“Among people with bad taste.”

You step closer. “It’s the best-selling brand.”

“Marketing.”

“Popularity matters.”

“Quality matters.”

Your voices climb higher as you talk faster. “You clearly don’t understand alcohol distribution economics—”

“You clearly don’t understand flavor profiles—”

“You’re defending Jinro like they’re paying you—” “And you’re trashing it like it keyed your car.”

Chan looks like Christmas morning. His eyes are shining. “YES,” he whispers excitedly.

You and Changbin now standing far too close again while passionately debating Korean liquor brands.

Hyunjin slowly raises the bottles. “Well,” he says thoughtfully. “Looks like we’re doing both.”

You regret coming to this party.

Not in the life-choices kind of way. But in the very specific way that creeps in when you find yourself sitting on the floor of a fraternity living room at midnight, slightly buzzed, surrounded by a ring of loud, half-drunk people chanting at a spinning glass bottle like it’s a ritual object.

How does this happen every time? How does every party in the history of human civilization eventually collapse into spin the bottle?

The SKZ house living room has been rearranged to accommodate the chaos. The couches are pushed against the walls, leaving a wide clearing on the rug where the game has formed naturally like a whirlpool of bad decisions.

Music still thumps faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, but here the focus is entirely on the circle. A bottle lies on its side in the middle of it. And the circle is very, very full.

You sit on your knees between Sana and Jia, which is a deliberate tactical choice because your dress is criminally short and the last thing you need is flashing half of Changbin’s fraternity by accident.

Your knees press into the carpet. Sana leans comfortably against your shoulder, clearly thriving in this environment. Jia is sipping something out of a red cup and watching everything with the calm amusement of someone observing a nature documentary.

Across the circle sit the rest of the SKZ boys and their collection of friends and party guests.

Minho is lounging with one arm draped over the back of the couch behind him, looking like he accidentally wandered into the game but decided to stay for entertainment.

Hyunjin sits cross-legged nearby, buzzcut hair somehow making his already dramatic expressions even more dramatic. A few random girls from campus are scattered around the circle too, giggling and whispering.

And directly across from you—

Changbin.

Because the universe has a sense of humor.

He sits with one knee bent and one arm draped casually across it, posture relaxed, expression amused. His eyes flick toward you occasionally. Just enough to be annoying.

You look away every time.

This game has been going for a while. The bottle spins. People cheer. Someone gets dared to take a shot. Someone else gets dared to text their ex. At one point Hyunjin is forced to bark like a dog for thirty seconds, which he commits to with disturbing enthusiasm.

The energy in the room grows louder and messier as drinks disappear and laughter gets easier. Then the bottle spins again. It slows, wobbles, and then stops, directly pointing at Changbin.

The room erupts immediately.

“OHHHHHH!”

“Let’s go!”

“Bin! Bin! Bin!”

A girl sitting two spots away from Minho leans forward eagerly. She’s pretty. Very pretty. Long hair, glossy lip gloss, the confident energy of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing at a frat party.

The girl who spun the bottle grins wickedly.

Changbin lifts an eyebrow. “Dare.”

“Alright. I dare you to let Yuna kiss you.”

The pretty girl immediately scoots forward.

You hate it. The feeling hits you so suddenly and violently it almost makes you dizzy. It’s irrational. It’s childish. It’s absolutely none of your business. And yet something sour twists in your stomach as she leans closer to him, smiling like she already knows this is going to happen.

You look away. Because watching that would be ridiculous. And embarrassing. And you definitely don’t care enough to sit there and witness—

Your eyes flick up despite yourself, and you see it. The girl is leaning forward to kiss him. But Changbin isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at you. His eyes meet yours for half a second. Then he turns his head slightly at the last moment. The girl’s lips land on his cheek instead. A quick, harmless peck.

The room explodes with laughter.

“Dodged!”

“Coward!”

Changbin leans back with a grin like it was completely accidental. “Sorry,” he says easily. “Missed.”

The girl laughs it off, shoving his shoulder playfully.

You’re still staring at him. He glances back at you again, and this time he doesn’t look away. You break eye contact first.

The bottle spins again. More laughter. More dares.

The night keeps unraveling.

When it's Sana's turn she reaches forward, grabbing the bottle. She spins it hard. The bottle whirs across the carpet, green glass catching the light as everyone leans forward to watch where it lands.

It slows, and then stops completely, pointing at you. Your stomach sinks.

The circle erupts again.

“OHHHH!”

“Y/N!”

You slowly look up.

Sana is already grinning. “Truth or dare,” she sings.

You stare at her.

Your brain runs the calculation immediately. Truth is not an option. Absolutely not. Sana is a menace. She will ask something terrifyingly specific like “Which person in this room would you hook up with if you had to choose?” or “Be honest, who in this circle do you secretly like?”

You straighten your shoulders. “Dare.”

The grin on Sana’s face somehow gets bigger.

Jia snorts quietly beside you. “Bold choice,” she murmurs.

You narrow your eyes at her.

Sana leans forward, elbows on her knees, clearly savoring the moment.

The entire circle has gone quiet. Even Chan and Jisoo look over from where they’re sitting on the couch watching the game.

Sana tilts her head. “Well,” she says sweetly. “I dare you…” She drags the pause out just long enough to make your stomach drop. “…to spend seven minutes in heaven...” A chorus of gasps and laughter ripples through the circle. Your brain freezes. Then she finishes the sentence. “...with Changbin.”

The room explodes.

“YES!”

“OH MY GOD!”

You whip your head toward her.

“Sana—”

She just beams at you.

Across the circle Changbin sits very still, looking straight at you.

You immediately try to stand up and leave the circle, which is the worst possible move because it only encourages them.

“Oh no you don’t!”

“Seven minutes!”

Hyunjin grabs Changbin by the shoulders and shoves him forward while Minho stands up and gestures dramatically toward the hallway like a game show host presenting a prize.

“Pantry’s free!” Minho announces.

“Pantry?” you repeat weakly.

“Yes,” Chan says cheerfully. “It’s the biggest small room we have.”

“That sentence doesn’t make sense.”

“It’ll fit two people.”

You open your mouth to protest. Sana simply grabs your arm and hauls forward.

“Have fun!” she sings.

Before you can fully object, the group herds both you and Changbin toward the kitchen like extremely enthusiastic cattle ranchers. Someone opens the pantry door.

“Seven minutes!”

Then you’re pushed inside.

The door shuts behind you, and the room goes quiet. Well, mostly quiet. You can still hear muffled laughter and music from the living room through the wall, but inside the pantry the sound dulls into a distant thump.

The space is small, designed for one person reaching for cereal boxes, not two fully grown adults who have spent the last several years academically threatening each other. Shelves line the back wall, stacked with snacks, ramen packets, bags of chips, random kitchen supplies, and a suspiciously large amount of instant noodles.

You take a careful step forward. Something crunches beneath your shoe. “What was that?”

Changbin glances down.

You shift your foot. Another crunch. “Great,” you mutter. “You should really clean this better.”

He leans slightly, peering at the floor. “I think Jisung just sweeps everything in here instead of using a dustpan.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You think this is bad?” he snorts. “You should see his room under a blacklight."

You wrinkle your nose and shuffle again, trying to find a spot that doesn’t sound like you’re walking on broken crackers.

Your shoulder brushes his chest. Changbin inhales sharply.

Your head snaps up. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Don’t sigh like that.”

“I didn’t sigh.”

“You literally just sighed.”

“I inhaled.”

“Like you’re annoyed.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

“Well it sounded like you were annoyed.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

Changbin blinks at you. “You’re the one who started talking.”

“I’m responding to your attitude.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“You absolutely do.”

“You’re the one who’s snapping.”

“You sighed!”

“I breathed!” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly baffled. “This is insane.”

“You’re insane.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“You existed in a judgmental way.”

“I was standing still!”

“In a judgmental posture!”

“What does that even mean?”

You cross your arms. “It means you’re judging me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“You sighed when I touched you.”

“I did not sigh because you touched me.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really.”

“Because it sounded like you were deeply inconvenienced by my presence.”

“You’re the one who’s been acting like this entire party is beneath you.”

“It is beneath me.”

“You came anyway.”

“My friends dragged me.”

He slaps his hands over his face .

“At least I didn’t try to kiss random girls.”

He drops his hands. Your words hang in the air. Your brain catches up with your mouth half a second too late. Oops.

Changbin tilts his head slowly. “What?”

You immediately look at the shelf behind you like the ramen packets are fascinating. “Nothing.”

“You just brought up the girl from earlier.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You shrug stiffly. “I just said you tried to kiss someone.”

“I did not try to kiss someone.”

“She leaned in.”

“And I turned my head.”

“After she got close.”

“I turned my head before.”

“You still let it happen.”

“I got kissed on the cheek.”

“That’s still a kiss.”

“That’s barely a kiss.”

“You seemed fine with it.”

“I wasn’t fine with it.”

“You didn’t look particularly distressed.”

“Because it was a joke.”

“Right.”

He stares at you. “You looked away.”

You blink. “What?”

“You looked away when she leaned in.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I was looking at something else.”

“Like the floor?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you didn’t want to see it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Because it looked like you cared.”

“I did not care.”

“You sounded like you cared just now.”

“I’m making an observation.”

“You’re jealous.”

You choke. “I am not jealous.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I absolutely am not.”

“You brought it up out of nowhere.”

“Because it was relevant.”

“How was that relevant?”

“You’re the one who kissed someone.”

“I did not kiss someone.”

“You were involved in a kiss.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You could have stopped it.”

“I did.”

“Barely.”

He stares at you for another second. Then suddenly he laughs. A short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the shelf, “you’re mad about something that didn’t even happen.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re definitely mad.”

“I’m analyzing the situation.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not!”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

You open your mouth. Then pause. Your brain stalls because the answer sitting there is deeply inconvenient. You snap your mouth shut again.

Changbin watches you carefully. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

Your face feels hot. “You’re arrogant.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Push people.”

“I ask questions.”

“You poke at things.”

“You poke at things too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because—” You stop.

He waits. “Because what?” he asks.

Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “Because you make everything a competition!”

His eyebrows lift. “You’re the one who’s been competing with me for years.”

“Because you’re annoying!”

“Or maybe,” he says slowly, “you just like arguing with me.”

You scoff. “I do not like arguing with you.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Changbin.”

“Y/N.”

“You deliberately get under my skin.”

“You react every time.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“You could ignore me.”

“I tried.”

“You failed.”

“Because you keep doing things like getting 102%!”

“You could’ve asked for extra credit.”

“You know I would have if I knew!”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you didn’t tell me!”

He stares at you for a second. His voice drops slightly. “You think I didn’t tell you on purpose?”

Your arms tighten across your chest. “You like beating me.”

“I like challenging you.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No,” he says quietly, “it’s not.”

You glare at him.

He pushes off the shelf slightly. “You know why I asked for extra credit?”

“Because you’re competitive.”

“Because I knew you’d get a hundred.”

“That doesn’t—”

“I knew you’d ace the exam,” he continues. “So I asked for something extra.”

“That’s still competing.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You stare at him. “Then what is it?”

He hesitates for just a second. Then he says it. “I like keeping up with you.”

The words land softly between you. “That’s still competition.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“But that’s not the reason.”

Your heart starts beating faster. “Then what is the reason?”

Changbin looks at you like he’s deciding something. Like he’s weighing whether or not to say something dangerous. “You really don’t get it?”

“No.”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“That I like you.”

The pantry goes completely silent. “What?”

He huffs out a breath like he’s been holding that in for years. “I like you,” he repeats. “Have for a while.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Your brain tries to rearrange every argument, every conversation, every moment you’ve had with him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because we fight all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not how liking someone works.”

“That’s exactly how it works when the person you like refuses to admit they like you back.”

Your eyes widen. “I do not—”

“You’re jealous of a girl kissing my cheek.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You brought it up twice.”

“That’s because—”

“Because you like me too.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You step closer without realizing. “You are unbelievably confident.”

“And you’re unbelievably oblivious.”

“I am not oblivious.”

“You can’t even see that I like you, Y/N.”

“I-I’m frustrated.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

“Because you like me.”

“That’s not—”

You stop. Because you’re standing inches apart again. Because he’s looking at you in that focused way that makes your thoughts scatter.

Your voice drops. “I hate that you might be right.”

Changbin smiles slightly. “So you do like me.”

You glare weakly. “Maybe.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just confirming.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like insufferable.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Seven minutes in heaven,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips again. “Right.”

You’re still standing far too close to him. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it did earlier.

The party outside is still going. You can hear it faintly through the walls. Music, laughter, someone shouting about more drinks. But it feels very far away.

Right now there is only this small pantry. And Changbin. And the words that just came out of his mouth.

Your brain is still trying to process that when he shifts his weight slightly. Just a small movement, but it brings him half a step closer.

Your back lightly touches the shelf behind you. A bag of chips crinkles softly somewhere near your shoulder, but neither of you looks away.

Your heart is beating in your throat.

“So,” he says again quietly.

“So,” you echo.

Your voice sounds thinner than you meant it to.

Changbin studies your face like he’s memorizing something. His eyes flick between yours, lingering there, searching. Then they drop, just briefly, to your mouth. The movement is small but it hits you like a spark to dry paper.

Heat climbs up your neck instantly. Your fingers tighten slightly where they’re resting against the shelf behind you. Changbin leans forward slowly, giving you every chance in the world to stop him.

His voice drops softer than before. “Can I kiss you?”

The question hits you like a shockwave. Your brain freezes completely.

You stare at him, then your head nods automatically before your mouth can catch up.

Changbin doesn’t move. His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Use your words,” he murmurs.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

The corner of his mouth curves. “Good,” he says quietly. Then, softer. “C’mere, baby.”

The word hits your chest like someone dropped a stone in still water. Every thought you had dissolves instantly.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down, crashing your lips into his.

The impact surprises both of you. Changbin makes a small sound against your mouth, half startled, half something else entirely, before he reacts. And when he reacts, he reacts fully.

His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you, kissing you back just as hard. It’s hungry. Like both of you have been standing at the edge of this moment for years and someone finally pushed.

Your back presses harder against the shelf as he leans into you. Your fingers slide into his shirt collar, gripping the fabric. Changbin’s hand tightens at your waist. Your lips move against his, slow at first and then faster as the rhythm finds itself. The faint taste of soju lingers on his mouth, warm and sharp and entirely distracting.

His thumb shifts against your side. You feel the movement through the thin fabric of your dress and your breath catches. Changbin pulls back just barely, just enough for his forehead to rest lightly against yours. His voice is low when he speaks. “You okay?”

You nod immediately. 

“Say it.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

The second the word leaves your mouth he kisses you again. Your head tilts instinctively as his hand slides from your waist up along your back. His fingers press lightly against the curve of your spine, guiding you closer. Like you weren’t already practically climbing him.

Your lips part and the kiss changes again, softening for a moment before building back into something heavier. Your hand slides from his collar into his hair, and you tug slightly. Changbin exhales against your mouth. The sound sends a shiver straight down your spine.

Your body shifts forward without thinking, pressing closer to him. Changbin’s other hand moves. It settles against your hip first, then slides just slightly lower to grip your ass.

You gasp softly into the kiss.

He does it again. Just a little squeeze.

Then suddenly you’re half lifted just enough that your balance shifts and your back presses fully into the shelves behind you.

Your brain has stopped producing coherent thoughts entirely. All you can focus on is the way he’s kissing you. The way his breathing is uneven. The way your name slips out of his mouth when you tug his hair. One of his hands is pawing at your thigh now.

Your brain briefly sparks back to life. “Changbin—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your mouth.

You forget what you were going to say, so you kiss him again instead. His hand tightens against your thigh as your leg instinctively hooks slightly around his. And that’s exactly the moment the pantry door flies open.

Bright kitchen light floods the small room.

“TIME’S U—”

Hyunjin stops mid-sentence and Sana freezes beside him.

You’re pinned against the shelves, hair messy, dress slightly crooked, and Changbin’s hand very clearly gripping your thigh, his other hand very obviously groping your ass.

The silence that follows is profound.

Then Hyunjin slowly leans his head into the doorway and shouts toward the living room—

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT.”

The living room erupts instantly. Someone, probably Chan, starts clapping like a maniac.

Sana gasps dramatically and slaps both hands over her mouth, though her eyes are absolutely sparkling with satisfaction. “I KNEW IT,” she shrieks.

You’re still pinned against the pantry shelves. Changbin is still very close. Your lips are still parted from the last kiss. And for half a second neither of you move.

Then Changbin sighs, deeply inconvenienced that the moment got interrupted.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. “You okay?” he murmurs quietly.

You nod automatically, still slightly breathless.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Then he turns his head toward the doorway where Hyunjin and Sana are still standing like two extremely nosy gargoyles. “Are you two done?” he asks flatly.

Hyunjin leans further into the doorway like he’s watching a movie. “No.”

Sana crosses her arms proudly. “I told you this would happen.”

“Please leave,” Changbin says.

“Absolutely not.”

You groan and try to hide your face against Changbin’s shoulder. “This is humiliating.”

Changbin looks back at you. Then looks at the increasingly crowded doorway. Then back at you. Something decisive flickers across his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. “We’re not doing this here.”

Before your brain can process what that means, his hands move. One arm slides firmly around your waist and the other grabs behind your knees. Then suddenly the world tilts.

You squeal. Because in one very confident motion Changbin lifts you off the ground and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“CHANGBIN—!” Your protest dissolves into chaos as he pushes past Hyunjin and Sana.

You’re very aware of two extremely important things right now. One: you are upside down over his shoulder. Two: your dress is very short.

Your hands immediately fly behind you to cover your ass. “OH MY GOD PUT ME DOWN!”

“No.”

“Changbin!”

“Relax.”

“You’re showing everyone my entire ass!”

He barrels through the living room like a man on a mission. People scatter out of the way. Changbin barely slows down, but halfway through the room he suddenly realizes something. Several guys glance over as he passes. Which means several guys are looking directly at you. Which means—

“Oh hell no.”

His hand immediately moves. He shifts you slightly higher over his shoulder and slaps his palm protectively over the back of your dress, covering your butt.

“Eyes forward!” he barks loudly at the room.

Someone laughs. “Changbin—”

“Look away from my girlfriend!”

Your hands pause where they’re still trying to tug your dress downward. Girlfriend??? Changbin continues marching toward the stairs like he didn’t just drop that word in front of half the fraternity.

Minho’s voice floats from the couch. “You're parading her around. Where are we suppose to look?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

You’re still hanging over his shoulder. “Did you just call me your girlfriend?”

He takes the stairs two at a time. “Yes.”

You blink. “Since when?”

“Since about ten seconds ago.”

“That’s not how that works!”

“We kissed.”

“That’s not legally binding!”

“We made out.”

“That’s still not—”

He reaches the top of the stairs. “Hold that thought.” He walks down the hallway, doors on either side, then kicks his bedroom door open, finally setting you down.

The moment your feet hit the floor you whirl around to face him. “You cannot just declare me your girlfriend!”

He shuts the door behind you, locks it, then turns to you, confused. “Why not?”

“Because that’s insane!”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me!”

“You started it.”

“You called me baby!”

“You liked it.”

“That’s not the point!”

He watches you pace for about three seconds before pushing himself off the door. In two steps he closes the distance between you again. “You didn’t say no,” he says quietly.

Your brain trips again. “That’s not the argument.”

“You didn’t stop.”

“Because you were kissing me!”

“You kissed me harder.”

“That’s—”

“You grabbed my hair.”

Your face feels very warm.

Changbin’s mouth twitches. “Also,” he adds casually, “you were jealous earlier.”

“I was not jealous.”

“You were.”

“So were you. Outside. With Hyunjin.”

He steps closer again. “Yeah,” he continues softly, “I was.”

You squint at him. “You're a hypocrite.”

“Maybe.”

“You can't just call me your girlfriend like that.”

His grin returns. “Well,” he says. “We can discuss the details.”

Your stomach flips. “Changbin.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re insane.”

“You make me insane.”

His hand reaches out, settling gently against your waist again.

Your heart does that annoying flutter again. “You carried me upstairs like a caveman.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.” Changbin’s smile softens slightly.

Then he leans in.

The party’s bass thumps through the floorboards, a distant heartbeat that feels miles away now. Up here, in the quiet of his room, the only sound is your own breathing, ragged and syncopated with his. His lips are on yours again, his hands framing your face.

You break the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. They’re dark, intent, studying you with a focus that used to make your competitive blood boil during finals week. Now, it makes something else simmer low in your belly.

“So,” you say, your voice a little husky. “Your room is surprisingly clean for a frat house.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I have a system. Unlike your ‘organized chaos’ approach to note-taking.”

“My system works,” you counter, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt. “I beat your grade in our Developmental Psychology course.”

“By half a point,” he murmurs, letting you tug the fabric up. “And I let you.”

You laugh, a real, unfiltered sound. “You let me? Changbin, you practically had a meltdown when the grades were posted.”

He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head, and then he’s just there. Bare-chested. The lights from the window stripe across his skin, and you see him. You’d felt the strength in the pantry, but now you’re looking at it. His shoulders are broad, solid, the kind that carry weight easily. His biceps are defined, flexing as he tosses the shirt aside, the muscle rolling under smooth skin. His pecs are firm, a masculine plane that your eyes want to map. His abs aren’t washboard, but they’re there, a taut landscape you can imagine the heat of.

He looks at you like he’s never seen a naked woman before. His gaze travels down your own body—you’ve already shed your dress and underwear at this point—and lingers on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist

It’s not a leer. It’s reverence. It’s hunger.

“You’re staring again,” you whisper.

“Hell yeah I am,” he responds, his tone low and serious. “I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

You snort and step closer, your own hands settling on his waist. His skin is warm, alive. You feel the hard muscle beneath, the latent power in his frame. “Then let me stare at my boyfriend,” you say, and your eyes drift lower. He grins at your acceptance.

His jeans are unbuttoned next, and he helps you by kicking them off along with his socks. He stands before you completely naked. And he’s hung.

The word flits through your mind, clinical and then instantly molten. It’s a pretty cock, really. Thick, with a gentle curve, fully erect and standing proud against his stomach. The sight makes your mouth go dry, your own pulse thrumming between your legs.

“Holy shit,” you say, your voice breathy. You reach out, letting your fingertips trace the hot, silken skin from his hip down to the base of his shaft. He shivers, a full-body tremor.

He catches your hand, brings your palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It’s pounding. “You make me nervous,” he admits, the confession stark in the quiet room.

“You’re perfect,” you assure him. You lean in, kissing his collarbone, tasting salt and skin. “Just stop thinking.”

You guide him backwards until his knees hit the bed, and he sits down. You stand over him, looking down at his beautiful, exposed body. The power dynamic has shifted. You’re in charge now, and the look in his eyes—submissive, eager, utterly trusting—makes you feel powerful in a way grades never could.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his lap, but not letting him inside yet. Your knees bracket his hips, and you lean forward, your breasts pressing against his chest. You kiss him again, deep and slow, your tongue exploring his mouth. His hands come up to cradle your back, then drift down to your ass, gripping you with a possessiveness that surprises you.

“I wanted this,” he murmurs against your lips, “for so long. Even when I was arguing with you about cognition and shit.”

“You just wanted to win,” you tease, grinding your hips down against his erection. The contact is electric for both of you. You feel him jump against your core, and a sharp, sweet ache blossoms inside you.

“I wanted you,” he insists. His hands move to your thighs, urging you up slightly. “I wanted to see that fire in your eyes directed at me. Like this.”

You rise up on your knees, positioning yourself. You’re both slick, ready. You take his cock in your hand, guiding it, feeling its weight and heat. You look him in the eye. “No more arguing.”

“No more arguing,” he agrees, his voice strained.

You sink down.

You take him inside you in one smooth, decisive motion, and the fullness is immediate, shocking, perfect. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that makes your vision blur for a second. A choked gasp escapes your throat, and beneath you, Changbin groans, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands flying to your hips to steady you, to hold you there. “You’re…God, you’re so tight.”

You’re motionless for a moment, both of you suspended in the sensation. You feel every inch of him, the pulse of his blood, the subtle twitch of his muscle.

Then you begin to move.

You rock your hips, a slow, experimental roll. The friction is exquisite, a building heat that coils tight in your core. His fingers dig into your skin, urging you on. You find a rhythm, up and down, each descent a delicious shock of penetration, each ascent a tantalizing withdrawal.

His head falls back, his eyes closed. “You feel unbelievable,” he murmurs. “Better than winning.”

You smile, a wicked, triumphant smile. “I am winning.”

You lean forward, changing the angle, and his cock hits a new, deeper spot inside you. A sharp cry punches out of you, and your rhythm falters, becomes frantic. He responds, his hips rising off the bed to meet your thrusts, to drive himself deeper.

The careful control evaporates. It’s just sensation now, a feedback loop of pleasure. His hands roam your body—your breasts, your nipples which harden under his touch, your back, your ass. Every touch fuels the fire.

You’re panting, sweat glistening on both your bodies. The distant music is gone, replaced by the sound of skin sliding against skin, of wet, intimate friction, of your mingled breaths and soft, urgent moans.

“Changbin,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “I–I’m close.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his own voice thick.

You force your eyes open. His gaze is locked on you, fierce, possessive. The academic rival is gone. This is a man seeing the woman he desires completely undone by him.

It’s that look that sends you over.

The orgasm builds like a wave, cresting from that deep, touched spot he’s now hammering relentlessly. It crashes through you, a detonation of pure, white-hot pleasure. Your body convulses around him, clamping down on his cock, and you cry out, a loud, unashamed sound that the room absorbs. “Oh fuck, yes!”

Your climax triggers his. His hips piston upwards, driving into you through your contracting muscles, and he shouts, a guttural, victorious roar. “Shit! Oh my God, baby.”

You feel him swell, pulse, and then the hot rush of his release filling you. He holds you tightly against him, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

For long moments, you stay like that, joined, trembling in the aftershocks. The world slowly filters back in—the bass from downstairs, the cool air on your sweat-sheened skin, the heavy scent of sex.

You finally slump against his chest, your head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close. His breathing is still ragged.

“Half a point,” he whispers into your hair, his voice drowsy and satisfied.

You laugh, a weak, breathy thing. “Still arguing?”

“Just establishing the record,” he says. His hand strokes your back.

Your lungs are still working to find a steady rhythm, your heart hammering against his chest where you’ve collapsed. Changbin’s arms are wrapped around you, a warm, solid cage. His breath is a warm gust against your temple. The world is soft and hazy, your body humming with a deep, satisfied ache.

You feel him still inside you, a gentle, fading pulse. The connection is intimate, profound. You don’t want to move. But then, you feel him move.

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest. “I think…” he murmurs, his voice still thick with pleasure, “I think I need a more thorough examination.”

His hands, which had been resting gently on your back, suddenly become firm. He shifts, and before you can process it, he’s rolling you with a decisive strength that leaves you breathless. You’re flipped onto your back on the mattress, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin. He follows the motion, his body separating from yours with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush.

He’s above you now, propped on his elbows, looking down at you with that same reverent, hungry gaze. The post-coital softness in his eyes is already sharpening into something new, something intent.

“I think,” he begins, a smirk playing on his lips, “that I need to study this pretty body some more”

You laugh, a little shaky. “Is that your way of saying you’re not done?”

“I’m saying,” he says, lowering himself so his chest brushes yours, “that I’m gonna eat that little pussy until you’re begging me to stop.” His lips find your neck, a slow, open-mouthed kiss that sends a fresh shiver down your spine.

His mouth begins a slow, deliberate journey. He kisses your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder. Each kiss is soft, but purposeful. His hands are mapping your body. They skim over your ribs, your waist, the outer curve of your hip.

His lips move lower, tracing the line between your breasts. He nuzzles there, his breath hot. “You argued so well in PSY 301,” he whispers, his voice a tactile murmur against your skin. “All that fire. I wanted to know what it felt like beneath me.”

He closes his mouth over one nipple.

The sensation is electric, direct. It’s not just the suction, the gentle pull. It’s the context. This is Changbin, your rival, the guy whose competitive glare you’ve stared down across lecture halls. Now his focus is entirely, devastatingly, on your pleasure. He suckles, his tongue circling the hardening peak, and a moan escapes you, high and helpless.

He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attentive worship. His hand comes up to cradle the first, his thumb stroking the wet, sensitized skin he just left. You arch into him, your hands finding his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. You tug lightly, and he groans against your flesh, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.

“You’re so thorough,” you pant.

“I’m a perfectionist,” he replies, his mouth releasing you with a soft pop. He looks up, his eyes glinting. “You know that.”

He continues his descent. His lips and tongue chart a course down your sternum, over the smooth plane of your stomach. He pauses at your belly button, dipping his tongue inside for a fleeting, ticklish moment that makes you gasp and squirm.

“Ticklish?” he asks, grinning.

“Shut up,” you retort, trying to keep your voice steady even as your body is trembling under his systematic exploration.

“Noting that for later,” he says, his tone mock-serious.

His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them gently. He settles between your legs, his broad shoulders framing your view. He’s looking at you, at the heart of you, with an expression of pure, focused awe. It’s disarming. And exhilarating.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, the words simple, stark, and utterly believable.

He doesn’t dive in. He approaches. He kisses the inside of one thigh, high up, near the crease of your hip. His lips are soft, his breath warm. He does the same to the other thigh. The anticipation is a tight coil in your belly, winding tighter with every second of his deliberate delay.

Then he leans in, and his mouth finds you.

The first touch is not his tongue, but the soft pressure of his lips against your outer folds. A kiss. A tender, almost chaste kiss that is somehow more intimate than anything before. You cry out, a short, sharp sound.

He kisses you again. And again. Slowly, softly, building a rhythm that makes your hips lift off the bed, seeking more.

You can hear the unmistakable sound of his mouth exploring your wet cavern, still flooded with his thick cum.

His tongue emerges, a hot, wet point that traces a slow, languid path from bottom to top. It’s a sweeping examination, broad and gentle. You feel every millimeter of the contact, the silken-rough texture of his tongue against your most sensitive skin. He repeats the motion, slower, applying a little more pressure.

“Changbin,” you breathe, your head thrashing back into the pillow.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against you. “I got you, baby.”

He focuses. His tongue finds your clit and circles it, a slow, perfect orbit, strings of both your releases sticking to his pump lips. The pressure is exquisite, building a steady, mounting pulse of pleasure that radiates out through your entire lower body. He doesn’t rush. He varies the speed, the pressure, occasionally flattening his tongue to lick broad strokes that make your toes curl.

One of his hands comes up to rest on your lower stomach, a warm, heavy weight that anchors you. The other hand joins the work, his fingers sliding gently, so gently, inside you. You’re so slick, open, and his two fingers penetrate easily, a slow, curling invasion that matches the rhythm of his tongue.

The dual sensation is overwhelming. The internal pressure of his fingers, curling and searching, and the external, precise focus of his mouth. He finds a rhythm, his fingers moving in a slow, corkscrew motion inside you while his tongue flicks and presses against your clit. The pleasure is no longer a wave; it’s a plateau, a high, steady plane you’re suspended on, and he’s keeping you there, deliberately, expertly.

Your hands are fists in the sheets. Your back is arched. Sounds are coming from you—whimpers, moans, fragmented words. “Don’t…stop…please…”

He doesn’t. He listens. He learns. He adjusts the angle of his fingers, and suddenly they’re brushing a spot that makes your entire body jolt, a bright, sharp spark of electricity in the constant glow. He catches it, and he targets it, his fingers rubbing that spot in a firm, circular pattern while his tongue’s pace quickens, becoming more insistent.

You’re babbling. “Right there…there…Bin, fuck…”

His only response is a low, approving hum that vibrates through your core.

The plateau begins to tilt. The steady pleasure sharpens, focuses into a single, burning point. It’s growing, consuming. Your muscles are taut, your breathing is ragged gasps. You’re hovering on the precipice, and he’s holding you there, teetering, with the perfect, unrelenting combination of his mouth and his hand.

“I’m…I can’t…” you choke out.

He pulls his fingers out, slowly, and the sudden emptiness is a shock. But his mouth doesn’t stop. His tongue becomes more aggressive, faster, a relentless, pinpoint stimulation. He slips one finger back inside, just one, and presses directly on that magical spot while his tongue dances over your clit.

The orgasm doesn’t crash. It unfolds. It blossoms from that deep, internal point and spreads outward in a slow, inexorable wave, radiating through your pelvis, your stomach, down your legs, up your spine. It’s a full-body dissolution. You don’t scream; you release a long, shuddering sigh, your body melting into the bed as the pleasure washes through you, wave after wave, each one triggered by his unceasing, devoted attention.

He gentles his touch as you peak, his tongue softening to gentle laps, his finger still inside you, a steady, comforting presence. He lets you ride the sensation down, until you’re just a trembling, boneless heap on the sheets.

He finally lifts his head. His lips are glistening, his eyes are dark with satisfaction and something else—a deep, possessive pride. He crawls up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, as he moves. He settles beside you, propped on his side, looking at your flushed, spent face.

“Conclusion,” he says, his voice rough but smug. “You loved that.”

You can only manage a weak, breathy laugh. Your body feels like liquid gold. “I guess you do know how to use that mouth for good.”

“I’m very thorough,” he teases, his hand stroking your hip. “Gotta get top marks.”

You giggle, turning your head to look at him. His cock, which had softened, is hard again, thick and impressive against his thigh. The sight sends a fresh, low thrum of desire through your exhausted system. “Round two?”

He groans, leaning closer. “I think I’m in love.” 

You squeak before he kisses you. His body rolls over you, his weight settling between your legs again. This time, there’s no slow movements. There’s intent. He’s hard again, fully, and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance, which is swollen, sensitive, and utterly ready for him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him. He sinks into you.

It’s different this time. The joining is smoother, deeper, because you’re both so needy, so wet. There’s no shock of newness, only a profound, familiar fullness. He fills you completely, and you moan, a low, satisfied sound.

He doesn’t start pounding immediately. He begins with slow, deep strokes, each one a long, drawn-out glide that reaches the deepest parts of you. His arms are braced on either side of your head, his body caging you. He’s looking down at you, his eyes capturing every twitch of your face, every gasp.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of his control.

You can only nod, your hands clutching his biceps, feeling the muscles work as he moves. The rhythm is agonizingly perfect. Each thrust is a slow build, a retreat that makes you ache, and a return that floods you with heat. The friction is a constant, sweet burn, building on the lingering echoes of your first climax.

He changes angle slightly, and the head of his cock brushes that same deep spot his fingers found. A sharp, bright pleasure arcs through you. “There,” you gasp.

He focuses on it. His thrusts become more targeted, shorter, but harder, driving into that spot with a precision that makes your vision blur. The slow burn turns into a fire. Your moans become constant, a low, pleading soundtrack to his movements.

“Tell me,” he grunts, his control slipping. His pace is increasing. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Full,” you pant. “Hot…so deep…Changbin, please…”

“Please what?” he asks, driving into you, his body starting to sweat.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, your own hips rising to meet him, the rhythm becoming frantic, syncopated. “Just…more.”

He gives you more. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, changing the angle again. The penetration becomes even deeper, even more intense. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and urgent. He’s losing his controlled rhythm, giving in to the raw need. His thrusts are powerful, almost punishing, but each one sends a bolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

You’re climbing again. The second peak is rising faster, fueled by the first, by his relentless focus, by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him inside you. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your cries are incoherent.

He sees it in your face. His own eyes are wild, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Come for me,” he commands, his voice a rough growl. “Come for me again, pretty.”

Your second orgasm hits, not with a slow bloom, but with a sudden, violent detonation. It claws its way up from your depths and erupts, a convulsive, shaking wave that locks your body around him. You scream, a raw, unfiltered sound that he swallows with a fierce kiss.

His own control shatters. Your contraction around him triggers his release. He drives into you one last, deep, grinding time, and holds there, buried fully. You feel him swell, pulse, and another hot rush floods inside you. He shouts, a guttural, triumphant sound against your mouth, his whole body shuddering as he empties himself into you. 

He collapses onto you, his weight a heavy, welcome burden. You’re both trembling, slick, fused together. He nuzzles your neck, his breath hot and fast. “Thank you Spin the Bottle,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and triumph.

𖤘 join the taglist !

Changbin makes it his personal mission to see how red he can make you in a single day.

You could be doing something completely normal—scrolling on your phone, concentrating on a game, finding your new outfit for tomorrow—and he’ll just lean on his his hand, staring at you like you’re the most fascinating person in the world.

“What?” you ask after you catch him staring.

He smirks.

“Nothing, i’m just thinking about how cute you are when you’re focused. Your eyebrows do this cute little scrunch thing.”

You immediately lose all focus on whatever task you were doing.

“Binnie,” you groan, trying—failing—to hide your flustered face behind your phone. “Stop staring at me like that, you’re weird.”

“Yah! how am I weird?” he asks, offended but joking. “A man can’t compliment his beautiful girlfriend?”

You pause at that. “That’s not—you can’t just say it like that!” you stutter out.

He sits up straighter on the couch, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Like what? i’m just saying facts my love.”

You groan louder now, sliding down further into the couch. “Ugh, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re gorgeous.” He says. No teasing in his voice. Just simple and certain.

That makes it worse.

You risk a glance at him, only to find him already watching you with that soft, fond expression he gets when he thinks you’re not looking.

“See?” he says, pointing at your face. “You’re blushing again, I didn’t even do anything big.”

“You just called me gorgeous!”

“Yea, and?” he grins. “I’m not lying.”

You grab the nearest pillow and throw at him. He catches it easily while laughing.

“I’m serious,” he continues, slowly scooting closer to you until your knees were touching. “You don’t understand how pretty you are when you get all flustered. Your eyes get all shiny and you start talking faster and—”

“Stop describing it!” you whine, stopping him from continuing and covering your face with both hands after dropping your phone.

He gently grabs your wrist, and tugs your hands down just enough so he can see you.

“Don’t hide,” he says softly. “I like seeing you.”

Your heart flips at that.

For a moment he just looks at you—no jokes, no dramatic reactions. Just steady, calm admiration.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Mm, thats the sixth time today.”

Your jaw drops, “Yah! you’re counting?!”

“Of course I am, it’s my mission.”

You turn your body away from him, trying to act annoyed, but he notices the tiny smile you can’t suppress.

He wraps his arms around your waist, putting his face in your neck, his voice dropping to a playful murmur.

“Don’t worry. You can be annoyed all you want, I have all day.”

Minjoo decided he liked Changbin before you did.

Which was unfair, because you’d spent months reminding yourself you didn’t have time for anything complicated. You had a six-year-old, a job that didn’t care about your sleep schedule, and a life that ran on sticky notes and leftover mac and cheese. Dating wasn’t supposed to fit in there.

And then Seo Changbin showed up with a grocery bag in one hand and a stupidly gentle smile in the other, and your kid looked at him like the universe had finally delivered something worth believing in.

—

Changbin came over the first time and took his shoes off at the door without being asked. He greeted Minjoo like he was a person, not an accessory.

“Hi,” he said, crouching to Minjoo’s height. “I’m Changbin.”

Minjoo stared at him, chin tilted, eyes serious like he was doing a full background check.

“You’re big,” Minjoo announced.

Changbin blinked, then laughed, warm and easy. “Am I?”

Minjoo nodded again, solemn. “Like… superhero big.”

Your stomach tightened, half fond, half terrified. Because Minjoo didn’t do this. He didn’t attach.

Changbin glanced up at you like he was asking permission to respond right.

You gave a tiny nod.

Changbin turned back to Minjoo and said, “Well, I’m not a superhero, but I can open jars. That’s kind of the same thing.”

Minjoo’s eyes widened.

Then he leaned in and poked Changbin’s arm like he was testing a mattress.

Changbin went still, but he didn’t pull away.

Minjoo poked again. Then pressed his little palm there, fascinated.

“Mom,” Minjoo said, awed, “he’s hard.”

You nearly swallowed your own tongue. “Minjoo..”

“It’s okay,” Changbin said quickly, cheeks pink, laugh trapped in his throat. “He means the muscle.”

Minjoo nodded like you were the one being weird. “Yeah. Your arm is hard.”

Changbin flexed just a little, like he couldn’t help it.

Minjoo gasped like he’d witnessed magic.

“No way.”

“Way,” Changbin said, grinning.

Minjoo poked his bicep again and then looked up at Changbin with worship in his eyes.

“I wanna be like you.”

It was cute.

It also made something in your chest squeeze so hard it hurt.

Because that sentence came with stakes.

Changbin’s expression softened. He didn’t get cocky. He didn’t puff up. He didn’t treat it like a compliment.

He treated it like a responsibility.

“Okay,” Changbin said, still crouched down. “But if you’re gonna be like me, you gotta do the most important part.”

Minjoo leaned in. “What?”

Changbin tapped his own chest. “You gotta be kind.”

Minjoo blinked, processing.

Then, very seriously, “I’m kind.”

Changbin nodded like that mattered. “Good. Then we can work on the muscle stuff too.”

Minjoo’s eyes went enormous.

—

Changbin came over again a few days later, this time wearing a sleeveless shirt because it was hot outside, and because he probably didn’t realize he was walking into a trap.

Minjoo took one look at him and his whole face lit up.

“Binnie!” he shouted.

You froze mid-sink rinse. “Minjoo..”

Changbin froze too, eyes wide like he’d been gifted something dangerous and precious at the same time.

“Binnie?” he repeated, voice cracking.

Minjoo nodded like it was official paperwork. “Changbin is long. Binnie is better.”

Changbin pressed his lips together hard, like he was trying not to smile too big and scare the moment away.

“Do you… like it?” Minjoo asked, suddenly cautious.

Changbin’s eyes softened so much it almost made you look away.

“I love it,” he said quietly. “Can I call you Minjoo-ie?”

Minjoo’s suspicious little stare returned, like he was weighing the trade.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

Changbin smiled so bright you could practically feel it in the room.

—

Minjoo’s favorite activity quickly became Checking Binnie’s Muscles.

It happened in the living room while you were folding laundry. It happened in the kitchen while Changbin cooked like he belonged there. It happened once while Changbin was tying his shoes and Minjoo decided the calf muscles needed investigation too.

“Minjoo,” you’d say, trying to sound stern, “we don’t just touch people whenever we want.”

Minjoo would look at you, offended. “But he’s Binnie.”

Changbin would lift his hands like he was surrendering. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

And then he’d look at Minjoo and add, “But Mom’s right. We still ask first, okay?”

Minjoo would sigh like the burden of consent was exhausting. “Fine.”

Then he’d pivot back to Changbin, big eyes shining.

“Can I touch your muscles?”

Changbin would flex dramatically like he was in a superhero movie. “Only if you promise to do three push-ups.”

Minjoo would drop to the floor immediately.

His push-ups were… more like determined flops.

Changbin cheered anyway.

“THAT’S ONE!”

“THAT’S TWO!”

“BRO, YOU’RE STRONG!”

Minjoo would giggle so hard his face turned pink, then crawl back like he’d just completed military training.

“Okay,” Minjoo said, breathless. “Now can I touch?”

Changbin would stick his arm out like it was a prize.

Minjoo would press both hands to his bicep like he was holding a sacred object.

And Changbin, this big, loud, intimidating man on stage, would just sit there patiently while your six-year-old examined him like a museum exhibit.

You’d watch it from the couch, laundry in your lap, heart doing strange things.

Because it was sweet.

But it was also something you’d wanted for Minjoo so badly it scared you.

Someone safe.

Someone steady.

Someone who didn’t talk down to him or disappear.

Changbin didn’t act like he was doing you a favor by caring.

He acted like Minjoo mattered to him.

And that was… terrifying.

—

One night, after dinner, Minjoo was on the couch with a blanket and sticky fingers. Changbin sat on the floor with him, letting Minjoo rest his feet on his thigh like it was normal. Like Changbin had always been part of your living room.

Minjoo yawned and blinked slowly at Changbin.

“Binnie,” he mumbled, sleepy.

“Yeah?” Changbin answered instantly.

Minjoo touched Changbin’s forearm again, softer this time. Not curious. Not excited.

Comforting.

“You’re strong,” Minjoo whispered.

Changbin smiled. “You’re strong too.”

Minjoo shook his head, eyelids heavy. “No. Like… strong strong.”

Changbin’s smile faltered slightly, the softness in his eyes turning careful. “Do you mean big?”

Minjoo nodded. “I want strong like you. So I can protect Mommy.”

Your throat tightened so fast you had to look away.

Changbin went still. Then he reached up and gently ruffled Minjoo’s hair.

“Hey,” he said softly, “you already protect her.”

Minjoo frowned. “How?”

Changbin nodded toward you. “You make her laugh. You listen when she talks. You tell her when you’re scared instead of hiding it. That’s protecting.”

Minjoo considered that, like it was new information.

Then he whispered, “But your muscles are still cool.”

Changbin’s laugh burst out, warm and helpless. “Yeah, they are.”

Minjoo yawned again and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Changbin’s shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times.

And Changbin didn’t look at you to ask if that was okay.

He already knew.

Because he’d been paying attention.

He just wrapped an arm around Minjoo gently and held him like he wasn’t afraid of being needed.

You stood in the doorway, heart thumping.

And you realized you hadn’t felt this kind of safe in a long time.

—

After you tucked Minjoo into bed, Changbin lingered in the hallway. He kept his voice low so it wouldn’t carry.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your eyes stung. “He doesn’t… do that with people.”

Changbin’s expression softened. “I know.”

You swallowed. “So I’m scared.”

He nodded like that made sense.

Then he stepped closer, slow, careful. Not crowding you.

“I’m not gonna be another person who leaves,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. “You can’t promise things like that.”

“I can promise effort,” he replied. “I can promise I’ll show up. I can promise I’ll do it right or I won’t do it at all.”

You stared at him, throat burning.

“And,” he added, voice gentler, “I can promise I’m not here because Minjoo likes my arms.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Changbin smiled. “Okay… maybe a little.”

You shook your head, laughing through the ache.

Then he reached out, hesitated, and finally took your hand.

—

In the living room, you heard a sleepy little voice from Minjoo’s bedroom.

“Binnie?”

Changbin’s head snapped toward the door instantly.

“Yeah?” he called softly.

There was a pause, then:

“…Goodnight.”

Changbin’s face softened into something so tender you almost couldn’t look at it.

“Goodnight, Minjoo-ie,” he whispered.

Then he turned back to you, still holding your hand, and said quietly, “I’m gonna keep earning that.”

Your heart gave a painful little twist.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Then… we’ll let you.”

And from behind the bedroom door, your son mumbled, half asleep, like he’d already made up his mind days ago, “Binnie’s strong.”

Changbin huffed a laugh, eyes shining.