#changbinangst

The first time you met his parents properly, nothing felt wrong.

That was the problem.

Changbin had warned you it would be casual — just dinner, just family, just introductions that didn’t mean anything too heavy — and you had believed him because he looked too relaxed in the passenger seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping lightly against your thigh whenever the traffic lights turned red. His hair had fallen slightly across his forehead that day, soft brown strands brushing his eyebrows in a way that made him look younger than he actually was, and when he smiled at you, it was the same smile he gave you at home. Easy. Certain.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he had said when you went quiet halfway through the drive.

“I’m not,” you replied, even though you were.

He reached over without looking, fingers brushing yours briefly before settling back on the wheel. “They’re going to like you,” he added, like it was already decided.

You didn’t answer that.

His apartment was already familiar to you by then, but his parents’ home wasn’t. It was quieter in a different way — not empty, just careful. The kind of quiet that made you straighten your posture without realizing it. His mother opened the door before you could even raise your hand to knock properly, and the warmth of her smile made you relax for half a second before she was already pulling you inside, speaking too quickly for your brain to fully catch up.

“Ah, so this is her,” she said, looking at you in a way that wasn’t sharp, just observant. “You’re prettier than in photos.”

Changbin groaned softly beside you. “Mom.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

His father appeared behind her a moment later, calm and polite, greeting you with a small bow of the head that made you mirror it out of instinct. “You must be tired,” he said, already stepping aside to let you in further. “Come in, dinner is ready.”

Everything after that felt normal in the most dangerous way.

You took off your shoes neatly. You followed Changbin to the dining area. You sat when they told you to sit. You smiled when they looked at you. His mother placed dishes on the table one after another like she had been preparing them all day, occasionally asking you questions that sounded simple but lingered longer than expected — where you were from again, how long you planned to stay in Korea, whether your family visited often.

You answered carefully at first, then more naturally when Changbin’s foot nudged yours under the table like a reminder that you didn’t need to be perfect here.

He was sitting close enough that you could smell the faint cologne he always used, something clean and slightly sweet underneath the scent of food. His hair was parted messily now, falling across his forehead every time he leaned forward to reach for something, and at one point he brushed it back with the back of his hand while listening to his father talk about work. His lips, slightly fuller when he wasn’t speaking, curved easily whenever he laughed at something his mother said, and each time he looked at you, it was brief but steady, like a quiet check-in: you okay?

You always nodded.

At first, it was just dinner.

Changbin’s mother asked if you liked the food, and when you said yes, she smiled like that mattered more than it should have. His father asked about your work, and when you explained it, he listened properly instead of interrupting, which made you more comfortable than you expected. Changbin stayed between you and the conversation sometimes, translating when your Korean slipped or slowing things down when questions came too fast.

“Don’t overwhelm her,” he said lightly at one point when his mother started talking about future plans too quickly, and she waved him off with a small laugh like he was still a child complaining at the table.

“I’m not overwhelming her,” she said. “I’m just curious.”

“She’s not an interview subject,” Changbin muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

You smiled at that, because it sounded like him — protective.

Still, somewhere between the second and third dish, something shifted slightly, not in what was said, but in how it was said. His mother started asking more follow-up questions than necessary, small things that lingered a second too long. His father began nodding more thoughtfully when you answered, like he was placing your words somewhere in his mind instead of just hearing them.

And Changbin, who had been relaxed at the start, started eating slower.

You noticed it first when his hand, resting near his plate, stopped tapping like it usually did.

“You’re quiet,” you whispered under your breath when his mother stood up to bring more food.

He glanced at you, expression unreadable for a second before he leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Just full,” he said, but his eyes didn’t match the sentence.

You nodded anyway.

Because nothing was wrong yet.

That was the truth you kept returning to.

Nothing was wrong.

After dinner, his mother insisted you sit longer, asking more casual questions now — things about your daily routine, your plans, your impressions of Korea. She laughed often, touched your arm lightly when she made a point, and told you more than once that you were easy to talk to, which should have made you feel comfortable.

But there were moments, small and unspoken, where her gaze lingered just a second too long after you answered something.

Moments where she would look at Changbin instead of you after speaking.

Moments where she would smile and say things like, “It must be hard being far from your family,” in a tone that sounded kind but felt like it was leading somewhere you couldn’t quite see yet.

Changbin answered most of those moments for you without being asked, his voice steady but slightly more careful than before. When his father asked if you planned to stay in Korea long-term, Changbin answered before you could, laughing lightly as if it was obvious.

“She likes it here,” he said. “Right?”

You nodded, because it was easier.

But when you glanced at him after, he was already looking at his plate again.

On the drive back later that night, he was quieter than he had been on the way there.

His hand rested on the gear shift, fingers tapping once, then stopping. His hair had fallen forward again, shadowing part of his face under the dim streetlights, and you watched him for a while before speaking.

“Did I say something weird?” you asked.

He blinked, then shook his head quickly. “No. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “It just felt… different.”

He reached over then, not looking at you, fingers brushing the back of your hand briefly like a reflex. “You did fine,” he said after a pause. “They liked you.”

You let out a small breath. “You say that like you’re trying to convince me.”

He finally glanced at you then, and for a second his expression softened into something almost familiar again, almost like before dinner had happened. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m just telling you.”

You nodded, leaning back into the seat.

Outside, the city moved past in soft streaks of light, and Changbin kept driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near yours like it always did.

But neither of you said anything for the rest of the ride.

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reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡. i honestly want to know what you guys think about it. Sorry for the short chapter but suspense must be placed ❤️

‎requests are open.

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