#changbinimagine

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It started with a sneeze.

Okay—seven of them.

"Ahh…CHOO! AH-CHOO! AHCHOO!" You were on your fifth sneeze when Chan's head suddenly spun around like a creature-seeking canine from an F-movie.

"Six…" he wheezed, gawking.

"AH-CH—"

"SEVEN!" he bellowed, his finger shaking in accusation at you for summoning the devil or something.

You flinched. "Bro. Allergies."

Chan took a step back like you had the plague. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. That was seven. That's the sneeze curse. You're cursed now. Do you feel it? Do you feel the evil inside you?"

".I feel like punching you."

"Exactly!" he wheezed. "The curse is taking hold!"

You rolled your eyes, but too late. Chan was already in knight defense mode. He grabbed a colander from the kitchen and jammed it onto his head like a helmet.

"I am your knight. I shall protect you from the darkness!" he declared, striking a dramatic pose with a broom as his sword.

You just stared. "You okay?"

He charged at you and swatted at a decorative plant. "EVIL! Begone, leaf demon!"

"Chan, that's IKEA."

He didn't care. He clung to you all day long like a melodramatic madman. When you tripped over your own shoe, he yelled, "THE CURSE IS STRIKING!" and threw himself onto the floor to "soak up the bad luck."

When the microwave beeped, he wrestled it. "DON'T YOU DARE CURSE HER SNACKS!"

When you sneezed once more in the afternoon, he dramatically clutched his chest and said, “It’s worse than I thought. We have hours left before you transform into a were-pigeon.”

“…A what now?”

“A PIGEON, Y/N. HAVE YOU NOT STUDIED THE LEGENDS?”

By evening, he had built you a “curse defense fortress” out of couch cushions and covered you in garlic cloves like some weird vampire burrito.

You let out a sigh, reclining in the pillow cave, garlic dangling around your neck, Chan pacing in front with a spatula raised high. "I'm not cursed, you know."

Chan stopped. Looked at you. Squinted. "Wait. Are you sure?"

"Dude. Allergies."

".Oh."

Beat.

".Can I still use the colander helmet?"

You sighed once more. "Only if you stop calling me 'Cursed One.'"

Chan smiled, offering you a garlic clove like it was a rose. "Deal."

And peace was restored like that.

---

Y/N were just trying to enjoy their cereal in peace. That is it. Just cereal. Just fuel.

But no. The world had other ideas.

Because a TEENSY spider, literally the same height as a sprinkle, fell off the ceiling like it was being sent on an errand for some nefarious bug kingdom.

Y/N screamed like in a horror movie. The spoon flew out of their hand, the milk splattered, the cereal backflipped.

Felix burst out of his room in a complete state of panic, wielding a banana like a club.

"WHO DIED? IS THE HOUSE ON FIRE? IS IT GHOSTS AGAIN?"

“It’s worse,” Y/N whispered. Their eyes were locked on the spider. “It’s a spider.”  

Felix blinked. “A what?”  

“A SPIDER. IT LOOKED ME DEAD IN THE EYES.”  

The spider just sat there on the floor like it owned the place. It didn’t even move. Just vibed. Like it was mocking them.  

Y/N narrowed their eyes. “We’re going to war.”

Felix nodded. “I’ll get the spoons.”  

In less than five minutes, the apartment turned into a battlefield. Couch cushions were walls. The coffee table was the war room. Spoons became swords. Felix wore ski goggles and a hoodie cape. Y/N had a colander on their head and a fly swatter in hand like a knight.

Felix whispered like it was a spy movie. "You take the left flank. I'll go under the couch."

Y/N army-crawled across the carpet, muttering battle mantras.

"Do you see it?" Felix asked.

"It's by the plant. Staring at us. Judging us."

"Oh it's ON."

Felix launched a sock grenade.

Y/N let out a war cry and charged with the swatter.

But the spider… disappeared. It jumped. It TELEPORTED. One second it was there, next second it was not.  

They both screamed and bolted to the kitchen.  

Felix jumped in the sink. Y/N climbed on the counter like the floor was lava.  

“IT’S A WIZARD SPIDER. WE’RE DEALING WITH DARK FORCES.”

That's when they realized it was time to make a hasty retreat. They stuffed a bag with some crackers, one charger for their phones, and like seven spoons (you never know), and ran straight to Chan's place.

Chan opened the door, hoodie-clad and in slippers, sleepily blinking.

"Why do you two look like you survived a war?"

Y/N was dripping with sweat. "There's a spider in our apartment.".

Felix acted out dramatically. "A hard one. It JUMPED."

"It TELEPORTED," Y/N corrected.

"It might be immortal."

Chan blinked again. "You ran here. because of a spider?"

Y/N nodded gravely. "Our apartment belongs to it now."

Chan was still stuck, absorbing the fact that his two best friends had run out of their home for an insect.

Then he saw the banana still in Felix’s hand.  

“And the banana is for…?”  

“It’s our emergency weapon.”  

Chan turned around and walked back into the apartment. “You two are sleeping on the couch.”  

“Fine,” Y/N huffed, flopping onto the cushions dramatically.  

“But if that spider follows us,” Felix added, “I’m moving to the moon.”

Later that night, they all sat and watched a movie while Y/N and Felix huddled under a blanket, whispering about "spider surveillance" and "revenge plans."

Chan just shook his head and muttered, "I need new friends."

Back at the apartment…

The spider sat majestically upon a pillow throne.

A teeny-tiny crown made of cereal crumbs sat atop its head.

The spoon was resting in a plant pot, like a sword in stone.  

The spider had triumphed.  

Han had just gotten done working a long day. He was weary but happy, and now he was finally unwinding with the rest of Stray Kids. The mood was casual, and the drinks? Oh, way too many for Han.

As Y/N sat stuck at work, typing away on her desk, her phone rang.

Han: Y/NNNNN  u smell like. flowers and choco milk. i miss u.

Han: I'm gonna marry u and also a hotdog. But u first.

Han: What's ur address? Wait no. What's MY address???

Y/N blinked. "Oh no. He's that drunk."

She immediately called him. "Han, where are you?"

"Babeee~ I'm at… the magical place… with the boys! Chan-hyung is my babysitter"

"Send me the address before you turn into a full raccoon."

Somehow, he did. Y/N zoomed by, praying that he hadn't climbed onto a table or tried to rap to a police officer.

She parked and spotted Chan outside with a bed-tousled grin.

"Thanks for not killing him," Y/N said, giving Chan a relieved look.

"He sang 'Baby Shark' four times and tried to kiss a pizza box. Good luck.".

Han stumbled out, smiling. "Y/N!!! You came!!! Are you a taxi? You're the prettiest taxi ever."

"Get in the car, Romeo."

The drive home was wild. Han leaned in every 5 seconds. "Kiss now?"

"No."

"Kiss now?"

"No!"

He loudly sang Wheels on the Bus, then gasped at a random license plate. "MAGIC NUMBERS. 3794. That's my new rap name."

In the house, Y/N got him to sit on the bed. "Stay. I'll get water."

But no. The baby clung to her like a lost duck.

"Drink the water and sleep," she told him, handing him the water.

"But I wanna have a PILLOW FIGHTTT!!"

"No."

"Fine! Then… pick-up lines!" He hurled a pillow in the air and yelled, "Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you got FINE written all over you!"

"You already said that one."

"I NEED TO SEARCH MORE!" He grabbed for his phone.

Y/N groaned. "If you sleep now, I'll give you lots of kisses in the morning."

He blinked. "Lots?"

"Like, a whole bunch."

".Okay," he whispered and flopped like a log onto the bed.

Y/N tucked him in with a smile. No matter how ridiculous he was, she loved every weird, goofy thing about him.

The city was too damn loud for a wedding.

Y/N sat in the back room of the rooftop wedding venue, surrounded by champagne glasses and draped racks of bridesmaids' gowns. Her own wedding dress felt like armor rather than elegance—tight, unyielding, and uncourteous to breathing.

Outside, the sound of a live band echoed something slow and soothing, forks clinking resounding among buildings. Her parents were probably grinning at wedding guests, business partners raising their glasses, applauding one another as though they were marrying each other.

And in a way… they were.

Y/N looked down at her shoes.

White sneakers.

The one article of her dress she'd actually chosen on her own. And the only item that, oddly, made her feel herself.

A soft knock interrupted her spiral.

“Yeah?” she called, not bothering to fix her hair again.

The door creaked open. A staff member poked in. “There’s… someone asking to see you. Said you’d know him. He’s not really dressed for this crowd but… he looked pretty desperate.”

Y/N frowned. “Name?”

“Didn’t give one. Brown hoodie. Kind of sarcastic? Looks like he listens to sad music at 2am.”

Her heart stopped.

“…Let him in.”

A minute after, Seungmin appeared, slightly out of breath, his hoodie thrown open over a rumpled t-shirt, hair tousled by the wind.

He was completely out of place—and completely perfect.

She got up slowly. "You… shouldn't be here."

"I know."

"My parents—"

"Hate me," he filled in. "Yeah, I know that too. But I couldn't let today go down without at least trying."

Y/N looked at him.

He massaged the back of his neck. "Alright, I get it. It isn't Hollywood. I'm not going to make a love declaration and have everything fixed in one take. But I needed you to hear me—I would have married you a thousand times over. Even if we were alone in some noodle place with bad lighting and plastic flowers on the table."

Her eyes hurt, and she looked down again—those sneakers still peeking out from under the gown.

He took another step closer.

"I know I'm too late," he completed softly.

But then—her voice broke through the silence.

"Not if you run."

He opened his eyes in shock. "What?"

She looked up at him, her own eyes now shining. "If you're serious. If you meant that. Then run with me. Now."

Seungmin was frozen in place. "Y/N…"

She grabbed a jacket thrown over a chair and strode straight to him.

"You said you would have married me in a ramen shop," she said to him. "Well, you might have to have a gas station wedding if we leave right now."

He grinned.

Then he grabbed her hand, pulled her close, and breathed, "Best wedding ever."

They ran.

Down the stairs, through the back alley of the building, past a waiter calling out, "Miss! Your veil!"

She laughed. Laughed like she hadn't in months.

They sped down two blocks on his beat-up old scooter, helmets entwined over her hair. They flew off into the sky as it turned to gold, leaving behind the rooftop, the dress, the crowd, the expectations.

And when the city finally yielded to nothing but desolate streets and vast sky, Seungmin pulled over the car.

She turned to glance at him, her face rosy and her smile unashamed, her eyeliner smudged and her heart still pounding.

He leaned over and kissed her.

It wasn't good. It was wind-chapped and shakey and possibly even too rushed.

But it was real.

And for once, she did not have the sensation of running away.

The noise of the front door opening cut the warm hush in the apartment. Y/N's head turned from the couch, her face creasing with a bright smile as she watched Changbin step in, towel wrapped around his neck, shirt clinging to him from the gym. His end-of-the-gym flush would've received a teasing comment from her any other day, but today it did not.

Changbin's eyes immediately found hers. She smiled — but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

His steps slowed as he approached, a crease forming between his brows. “You okay?” he asked, voice soft but cautious.

Y/N nodded quickly, waving a hand toward the hallway. “You should shower first. You’ll catch a cold.”

He hung back, clearly eager to ask more, but then nodded and went into the bathroom. The door closed with a click, and Y/N let out a shaky breath, fists clenched tightly in her lap.

---

When he returned, hair dripping wet and a new shirt clinging loosely to his body, the table was already set. She was sitting across from him, silently spooning rice into his bowl. He noticed the way she avoided his eyes.

He reached out and grasped her hand across the table softly.

Her eyes met his — stunned for a moment — but when he gave her a tiny reassuring squeeze, she could only manage a thin smile.

They ate dinner silently. No jesting today. No teasing on his post-workout hunger and her spicy kimchi.

Simply quiet. Companionable, yet… tense.

When they'd eaten dinner, Changbin pushed back from the table, settling in to turn in for the night when her voice stopped him.

"Bin… can we sit for a minute?"

He spun around, eyebrows creasing. There was an edge in her voice — a brittle thin crack under the surface. He didn't say anything, just nodded and headed to sit on the couch. She sat down beside him, stiffly a bit, hands writhing in her lap.

He waited.

A few strained seconds ticked by before she said anything.

"I was offered a transfer," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "For work.".

His eyes didn't leave hers. "Where?"

She swallowed. "Tokyo."

There it was.

She lifted her eyes, moist but not shattering. "It's a fantastic big opportunity. I didn't ask for it — they just… made the offer, and I… I think I'm going to take it."

Silence.

"I'd be gone at least a year," she continued. "We'd have to do long distance, and I know it's impossible, and I understand if—"

"Y/N."

She stopped herself.

He held out a hand, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. "You don't owe me an apology."

"But—"

He turned to face her. "I just… I need a little time to process it."

Her heart fell, but she nodded. "Okay. I understand. I'll sleep in the guest room tonight, give you space."

He let her go. And maybe that was the worst agony of all.

It was long past midnight when she felt the door creak open. The bed dipped behind her, and a comforting arm slid around her waist.

She didn't move, but her breathing gave her away.

"I know you're up," Changbin whispered into her shoulder.

Her lips trembled. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know," he whispered, pulling her in closer. "How much time do we have?"

She turned over in his arms, finally looking up at him. "Two months."

His eyes searched hers, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So then I'm going to spend every waking moment of it with you. No walls, no space."

"Bin—"

He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "I am not crazy. I am not even upset… well, perhaps a bit. But I have always had faith in us, Y/N. A year apart will not scare me. Not when I know I am going to love you for the rest of my life."

Tears streamed down her face, but for the first time that day, her smile was real.

Minho shut the front door harder than he intended. His keys clattered into the entryway bowl as he slipped off his shoes, his jaw clenched and his face strained.

"Hi baby, you're back—"

Not now, Y/N," he said curtly.

The edge in his voice echoed through the apartment. He didn't yell often—practically never, really—but today had been too much for him. All the tension he had bottled up for weeks released at once, and unfortunately, Y/N bore the brunt of it.

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, blinking once, then again, simply looking at him. Tears did not well up in her eyes. Words of anger were not spoken. She merely looked at him, not in sadness or shock—but understanding.

He stepped into the bedroom in silence, leaving a thick silence in his wake.

Y/N breathed softly and turned away from the stove. She'd started cooking when he was still gone, and now she was merely putting some finishing touches on his favorite meal—seasoning lightly, placing it on a plate, arranging it all carefully. She knew he didn't mean it. He wasn't upset with her. He was upset with the world. With the pressure. With all of the noise in his mind.

When Minho came out of the bedroom a while later, his shoulders were slumped, and guilt numbed him. He saw the table laid out with food, and the familiar scent of his favorite food wrapped around him like a warm hug. And there she was, placing a glass of water on the table as if everything was fine.

He parted his lips, voice tinged with regret. "Y/N, about earlier, I—"

"Shh," she whispered, moving near him. She took his hand, her fingers wrapping around it. "Eat first, Min. Then we can talk."

He blinked at her, somewhat dazed and somewhat moved. She smiled at him weakly, one that showed she wasn't rejecting his apology—only deferring it for the time being.

He sat. He ate silently. Slowly. The food was ideal, as always. Yet this time it had a different taste—like warmth. Like patience. Like love.

When he was done, she took him over to the couch and sat down, pulling him close so that his head lay on her chest. She wrapped her arms around him and gently stroked his hair with her fingers, calming him with each caress.

Now," she whispered, "talk to me. Whatever it is, I'm here. Always. No judgment.".

It took him a few seconds. Then he opened his mouth, and it all came out.

The constant expectations. The need to keep calm. The anxiety about not being good enough. The days he questioned himself. The nights he could not sleep because his mind could not rest. The way he hated losing control like in the past. The guilt. The shame.

His voice cracked halfway through, and tears began to fall, warm and quiet. Y/N didn't say anything—just pulled him closer, running a hand through his hair as if to say, you're safe here.

He wept longer than he thought he would. Perhaps it wasn't today alone—perhaps it was all of it that accumulated.

At last, his breath steadied. His tears ceased to flow. His inner turbulence gradually calmed.

Minho tilted his head a little and looked up at her. "Why?" he whispered. "Why didn't you get angry when I shouted at you?

Y/N smiled and swept a loose hair from his forehead. "Because I saw your eyes," she whispered. "And I knew you weren't yelling at me. You were yelling at all the things you'd been carrying by yourself.".

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy.

"A woman knows a man's hurt and anger," she went on. "Some get offended. And some… they decide to understand. I know you, Minho. I know your heart. I knew you needed just someone to stay calm when you couldn't. And I'm that someone."

That did it. Something inside him collapsed in the best possible way. He buried his face in her chest again, exhaling in a breath that sounded like release. Like home.

When midnight came, he finally sat up, his cheeks a little pink from crying and hugging. He looked at her with sleepy eyes and a lopsided smile.

It started with spaghetti.

Literally: sugar spaghetti.

Hyunjin had spent the night at home alone and half-heartedly motivated after seeing a five-minute cooking video. He styled his hair up like a pro chef, listened to classical music for ambiance (aka fake Gordon Ramsay energy), and whispered things like "Yes, chef," in the mirror.

He boiled water, added way too many noodles, and sprinkled what he thought was salt confidently.

Spoiler alert: It was sugar.

By the time Y/N got home, the apartment smelled… sweet?

Hyunjin spun around dramatically, ladle in hand, apron on backwards, and a proud smile on his face. “You’re just in time for my debut dish.”

Y/N blinked at the plate he slid across the table. “…Is that dessert?”

“Spaghetti,” he said proudly. “Hyunjin-style.”

They chomped down, expecting death. But somehow… it wasn't awful. It was like someone tried to make dinner but accidentally invented a new food style. It was sweet and salty and… confusing. Like spaghetti in a fever dream.

Y/N laughed so hard they nearly choked. "Alright, alright, I'm signing you up for the neighborhood cooking competition."

"What?!"

"Just for the laughs. Come on, imagine this. You and your sugar noodles on national television."

"Absolutely not—"

He made it through round one.

No one understood how. The judges called his dish "an abstract deconstruction of a childhood memory" and gave him a standing ovation. One of them cried. It was probably the raw onion garnish, but still. He advanced to the next round.

Hyunjin lost it.

He begged Y/N to pull him out, but they just cheered him on, fully invested in the chaos. “You’ve already committed culinary crimes. Finish the job.”

So now—somehow—he was in the finals.

And he still didn’t know how to make rice.

---

Hyunjin stared at the timer ticking down on the big LED screen. Fifteen minutes left.

Around him, the other competitors were moving like a pro—flipping, slicing, searing. He was holding a spoon like a bizarre utensil. 

"Chef Hyunjin, what is it that you're making today?" the host said, bursting forth like a kitchen demon. 

Hyunjin plastered on a grin. "Oh, yes. A dish from my family. Very mysterious. Much. uh. emotion."

He spun around to his station, which looked like a tornado of food had swept through it. There were three pans on the stove, crackling. He had no clue what was in any of them.

Y/N sat in the audience, trying not to allow out shouts of laughter. Hyunjin shot them a look.

Then came the curse of all quizzes:

"And what kind of rice will be served with your dish?"

Hyunjin flabbergasted. "Rice?

The host nodded. "Yes. We understand you're doing a fusion dish based on rice."

".Right," Hyunjin answered slowly. "Of course. I love rice. Massive fan. Eat it daily.".

He turned to the rice cooker like it had personally wronged him. He’d watched *exactly* one rice tutorial on YouTube and remembered *none* of it. So he pressed random buttons, added some broth (was it beef? who knows), a questionable amount of soy sauce, and—for flair—a slab of butter.

The rice cooker beeped angrily.

Hyunjin pretended it was applause.

“Smoked rice,” he muttered. “We’re getting fancy today.”

---

Ten minutes left.

His rice cooker steamed like a dragon, but he did not care. He added sauce to his unknown meat, sprinkled on a garnish from someone else's table, and used a "rustic" plating style, which literally consisted of making it look somewhat sloppy on purpose. 

Time was up.

He stepped back, wiping away simulated sweat and executing a theatrical bow to the judges as if on Broadway. The audience politely clapped. Y/N double-thumbed him up with a "you're doing great sweetie" look.

The judges hesitantly bit down.

Silence.

And then the head judge: "This is… bold."

Another judge nodded. "I don't know what I was expecting. But I wasn't expecting this. And for some reason, I'm alright with that."

"The rice," said the third judge slowly, "is an emotional journey."

Hyunjin blinked. "Wait… do you like it?"

The head judge smiled. "We don't just like it. We love it."

Hyunjin looked like he'd just passed out. "I—what?"

"You've won," the host exclaimed dramatically. "Chef Hyunjin, you are this season's Cooking Champion!"

Y/N screamed.

Hyunjin dropped his ladle.

It started with Jeongin's stomach growling like a cranky lion on a peaceful evening.

  "I'm hungry," he grumbled, flopping off the couch like a sad burrito. Y/N was in her room, probably scrolling on her phone or plotting world domination—he didn't care. All he cared about was his stomach flipping and the leftover takeout that had mysteriously vanished. (Spoiler: he ate it last night.)

So, being the brave guy that he was, he offered to cook.

Step 1: Eggs. Piece of pie, right?

No.

The first egg cracked well. The second? Not really. It dripped down the side of the bowl and splattered on the counter.

"Whoops," Jeongin shrugged, wiping it off with the cuff of his hoodie like a kitchen pro.

And then there was the seasoning. Salt? Yes. Pepper? Yes. Except. the lid on the pepper hadn't been screwed on properly. One adamant shake and—boom—Jeongin had just seasoned the entire kitchen counter.

He looked at the mess. "Okay. That's fine. It's got personality."

He pulled out a pan and turned on the stove.

Problem: egg had already been left in the stove burners.

He didn't know.

So when the stove came on, a small sizzle turned into smoke rising like the bad guy in an action flick. Jeongin went haywire.

"Oh nononono—"

He grabbed a glass of water and threw it at the stove, because heaven forbid what normal people do. The stove hissed at him as if scolding and released even more smoke.

In comes Y/N rushing downstairs like an Olympic sprinter.

"What happened?!"

"Babe, the stove's possessed!"

Y/N rushed over, turned off the stove, and grabbed a dish cloth to waft the smoke away. Except that her exaggerated arm movements made the cloth fly out of her grasp and land square on the burner.

They both froze, as it started smoking again.

"OH MY—"

She grabbed the tongs, grasped the cloth like it was a grenade, and shoved it into the sink. She ran the faucet at full blast and the cloth sizzled like restaurant fajitas.

The universe had clearly lost hope for them.

Enter Chan.

He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, face blank, lips pinched into a line that bellowed: "Why is this my life?"

There was smoke. There was egg on the floor. The entire room smelled of burnt pepper and disappointment.

"Corner. Both of you," Chan ordered, already rolling up his sleeves.

"But hyung—"

"Corner."

Jeongin and Y/N crept to the corner like scolded children. Arms crossed, faces pouty.

"This is your fault," Y/N whispered.

"My fault?! You're the one who ignited a fire with a dish towel!"

"You're the one who scrambled eggs like it was a science experiment!"

Chan, on hands and knees cleaning up the warzone, sighed deeply. "I leave you two alone for one hour."

"Babe, next time, you cook," Jeongin said dramatically, still with his back to the room.

"Deal. But you're doing the dishes for the next week."

Jeongin groaned.

And in the midst of the mess, the burnt eggs, and the time-out corner, Chan realized something: these two were destined to be a couple.