#christopher bahng

That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.

That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.

Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.

All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.

Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.

They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.

You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.

Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.

It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.

Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.

Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.

It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.

When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.

You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.

That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.

Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?

The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—

“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.

Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.

It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.

“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.

“Sleeping beauty… All good?”

“All good…”

God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—

“Channie…? Are you good?”

You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.

You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.

The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.

Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.

Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.

So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.

“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.

It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.

“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”

You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.

Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.

“There’s… they found out.”

He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.

You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.

Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.

“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”

He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?

“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”

You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.

“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”

“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”

Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.

“You remember the first time we talked about this?”

How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.

You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.

You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.

Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.

You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.

Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.

So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.

“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”

“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”

“Channie. Listen.”

That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.

“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”

You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.

Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”

“I know, Channie…”

“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”

Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”

“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”

He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?

He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.

“No one has that power over us.”

Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.

“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”

“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.

Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.

It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.

He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.

“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”

A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.

A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.”

Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.

“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”

—

A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.

The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.

No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.

Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.

The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:

You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.

The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.

Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.

More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.

“Chris—”

His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.

Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.

“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.

What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.

The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?

Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.

“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.

I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…

He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.

Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.

Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.

The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.

The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.

And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”

Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.

“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”

You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.

“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.

He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.

You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.

“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.

“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”

“I wish I could.”

“But you can’t, Channie…”

And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.

Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.

But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.

You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.

He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.

Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.

You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.

“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”

The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.

—

Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.

Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.

You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.

Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.

You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.

When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.

Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.

He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.

You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?

“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”

Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”

The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”

Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.

“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”

“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.

“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”

“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”

Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:

🫧 260223

🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.

🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.

🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.

🐺: Diabolical.

🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face

🐺: Respect boundaries please

You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”

“Christopher, are you serious—?”

“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”

Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.

“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.

Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”

“Then it goes bad.”

You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.

“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”

“She sounds badass.”

Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”

His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?

“What would that be, Christopher…?”

“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”

He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.

“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."

The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.

All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.

Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.

"Channie, 'm eating..."

"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."

"That's what she said."

"Minx..."

You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.

Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.

A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.

Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.

This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?

New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.

No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.

Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I need a shower," you muttered, wiping a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "I'm gross."

"Me too," Chan said instantly.

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the bathroom. "The shower is barely big enough for one person, Chris. Go use the guest one."

You walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the steam slowly fill the small, tiled space. You peeled off your clothes, stepping into the spraying warmth, sighing as the tension of the last few weeks began to melt off your shoulders.

You’d barely finished rinsing your face when the bathroom door clicked open. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, you saw his tall, broad silhouette strip down without a shred of hesitation. The door slid open, a blast of cooler air hitting your skin before Chan stepped inside, immediately closing the space between you.

The shower was small. With Chan’s massive chest and broad shoulders inside, the world shrank until there was nothing but the sound of rushing water and his heat.

"I told you to use the other one," you complained weakly, though you didn't step back.

"Save water, love. It's the right thing to do," he murmured in that thick, sleepy Australian drawl he only used when he was completely relaxed. He took the bottle of shampoo from the ledge, pouring it into his palms before reaching out. His large hands slid into your wet hair, his thumbs massaging your scalp with an agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let your head drop back against his chest with a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut. "Okay, fine. You can stay."

"Thought so," he whispered. His hands moved down from your hair, his soapy fingers tracing the column of your neck, sliding over your shoulders. But as his hands moved lower, the domestic sweetness in the air began to shift. The water slicked his dark hair back, exposing the sharp, lethal line of his jawline. His gaze darkened, dropping to your lips.

"You know," Chan murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, thicker. He stepped closer, his wet chest pressing firmly against your back, pinning you gently against the warm, tiled wall. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you gasp. "I spent three hours on the plane thinking about how good it was going to feel to have you against these tiles."

A shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the water. You turned around in his grip, your front now pressed against his, your eyes locking onto his. "Oh yeah? Is that all you thought about, Chris?"

Chan leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot against your mouth. "No. I thought about how loud you’re gonna be when I finally get inside you. I thought about how much I missed hearing my name slip out of your mouth when you can't take it anymore."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands sliding down his wet chest, your fingers intentionally grazing lower, mapping the hard lines of his abdomen until you felt him twitch against your thigh. He was already rock hard, his heat pressing insistently through the rushing water.

"You talk a big game for someone who looks like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion," you teased, your voice dropping into a low, challenging purr. You arched your hips slightly, deliberately rubbing against him, watching his pupils dilate instantly. "Are you sure you can handle me right now?"

A dark, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His grip on your hips tightened until it almost bruised, lifting you slightly so you had to look up at him. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. I might be tired, but I’ve got more than enough energy to ruin you for the rest of the weekend. You think you can handle me when I'm like this? When I’ve been starving for you for months?"

"Prove it then," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs, your teeth catching your lower lip as you looked at him through wet eyelashes. "Stop talking and do something about it."

Chan let out a low, guttural growl, his forehead leaning against yours as he ground his hips into yours, making you whimper. "Not yet," he growled, his voice pure sin. "I’m gonna make you wait. I’m gonna make you beg for it tonight until your voice is as raw as mine. Now, please help me wash my back, beautiful, before I lose my mind and break my promise."

--

The cool bedroom air hit your damp skin, a stark contrast to the thick, humid fog you’d left behind in the bathroom. True to his word, Chan had kept his hands to himself after that agonizing shower—mostly. He’d given your hips one last, heavy squeeze under the rushing water before turning you around so you coulf wash his back, his low, rumbling chuckles vibrating against your palms every time you intentionally slid your hands a little too low.

Now, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, lazy shadows across the bedroom floor. You stood in front of the vanity mirror, the soft fabric of your outfit draped over the bed behind you. “A proper night out, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your wet shoulder before vanishing into his own closet. “Somewhere we can actually sit down, order a nice bottle of wine, and I can look at you without a clock ticking down.”

You chose a dress you knew he loved but rarely got to see you in. It was an elegant, emerald-green silk slip dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, stopping at your mid thighs. The back was entirely open, held together only by a delicate satin lace that required a frustrating amount of patience to tie by yourself.

As you stood there, trying to tie the strap behind, you caught sight of Chan’s reflection in the mirror.

He was leaning against the doorframe, already half-dressed in a pair of sharp, tailored black slacks. His satin ruby dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick veins of his forearms, a ring on his index finger, a silver watch on his wrist and glasses resting on his nose. He was holding a glass of water, but he hadn't taken a sip in minutes. He was just... staring.

His dark eyes traveled down the line of your spine, tracking the smooth expanse of your bare back where the green silk V-ed out. Chan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He mentally scolded himself, clenching his jaw as his eyes wandered lower, lingering on the way the silk clung to the curve of your hips. Get a grip, Christopher, he told himself fiercely. You promised her a nice dinner. Don't ruin it before you even make it to the restaurent.

But God, he loved you. It hit him in waves sometimes—not just a flutter in his chest, but a heavy, grounding certainty that settled deep in his bones. Looking at you right now, framed by the warm bedroom light, he didn't see a girlfriend of three years. He saw his future. He saw the woman he wanted to come home to when the stadium lights finally went dark for good. He was absolutely, unconditionally sure he wanted to marry only you.

"Need some help, baby?" his voice broke the quiet, his Australian accent thick and lazy as he set his glass down.

"Please," you sighed, dropping your arms. "This is actively trying to kill me."

Chan walked over, his footsteps soft against the rug. He didn't immediately touch the string. Instead, he leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your shoulder blades just a second before his lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between your shoulder blades. A helpless shiver ran through you.

"You look beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his hands finally coming up to gather the delicate satin lace. His fingers were large and calloused, but he handled the thread with an incredible, practiced gentleness. He slowly tied the back of the dress, his knuckles occasionally brushing against your bare skin, sending tiny electric shocks straight down your spine. he dropped another soft kiss—one on your shoulder, one at the base of your neck, another right in the center of your back.

When he finished, he stepped around to face you. His eyes were dark, full of an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"Now for the hard part," you murmured, pointing toward the edge of the bed where your heels were sitting. They were a pair of black, strappy stilettos with long satin ribbons meant to wrap around your ankles.

Without a word, Chan smiled—that soft, dimpled expression that always melted you completely—and knelt down on one knee on the floor right in front of you.

"Chris, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, but he caught your ankle, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin just above your heel.

"Shh. Let me," he whispered, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

You placed your hand on his broad shoulder for balance as he gently guided your foot into the shoe. He took his time, his large fingers carefully wrapping the thin ribbons around your ankle, crisscrossing them perfectly up your lower calf before tying them into a secure bow. He repeated the process with the other foot, his movements almost reverent. Before he stood up, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the top of your foot, his eyes locking onto yours with a look of pure devotion.

"There," he murmured, standing up and dusting off his slacks. He looked down at you, his hands instantly finding your waist, pulling you an inch closer. "Perfect."

You reached up, fixing the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his jawline. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Bang."

He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound, and leaned down to press a deep, slow kiss to your lips—one that tasted like a promise.

But just as he pulled away, a sudden, blinding flash of light illuminated the bedroom window, followed less than two seconds later by a deafening clap of thunder that literally shook the floorboards. Within moments, the sky completely opened up, a torrential downpour slamming against the glass so loudly it sounded like pebbles thrown against the pane.

Chan blinked, turning his head toward the window, then looked back down at your stunning dress and your perfectly laced heels.

"Well," he muttered, a wry, amused smile spreading across his face as the wind howled outside. "I reckun our reservations and plans are officially ruined."

The howling wind outside slammed sheets of water against the glass, but inside the apartment, the atmosphere had shifted into something entirely separate from the storm.

Chan looked from the window back to you, a soft, helpless laugh huffing from his lips as he took in the sight of you. You were still standing there in your stunning emerald silk dress and wrapped stilettos, looking like an absolute goddess with nowhere to go.

"Well, sweetheart," he murmured, his hands sliding down to your hips, his thumbs catching the hem of your dress just enough to lift it an inch. "I'm not letting this outfit go to waste. Change of plans."

Before you could ask what he meant, Chan hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You let out a gasped laugh, your hands instantly flying to his broad shoulders for balance as he carried you out of the bedroom and straight into the kitchen. He didn't set you down on the floor; instead, he hoisted you right up onto the smooth, marble kitchen counter. Your heels clicked against the edge, your legs dangling as he stepped between your knees, effectively trapping you.

"Stay right here," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that always made your stomach do a flip.

You watched, completely mesmerized, as Chan went to work. He completely transformed the room. He turned off the harsh overhead kitchen lights, leaving only the soft under-cabinet lighting. Then, he wandered around the apartment, gathering every single scented candle you owned. He lined them up along the counter and the dining table, striking a match until the space was bathed in a flickering, amber glow. The shadows danced over the sharp lines of his jaw and his tailored black slacks.

"Since I can't take you to a restaurant, I guess I'll just have to be your personal chef," he teased, walking back over to you and leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. He smelled like vanilla candles and pure sin.

He pulled ingredients out of the fridge, deciding on a quick pasta dish you both loved. As he chopped garlic and heated the pan, he refused to actually leave your side. Every single time he passed the counter, he stole a kiss. It started out playful, but it didn't stay that way. He’d lean in, his lips brushing yours, his tongue casually tracing your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper before he pulled back with a smirk.

"Chris, you're going to burn the food if you keep doing that," you breathlessy complained.

"Let it burn," he muttered, stepping right back into your space. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding up your thigh, his calloused thumb smoothing over the skin right above your knee. "Besides, I'm just tasting the appetizer."

You flushed, a heavy heat pooling in your lower stomach at his subtle dirty talk. To distract yourself from the way his hand was slowly wandering higher up your leg, you slid off the counter for a moment. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. You're lucky you're dating a professional."

Chan chuckled, watching you walk over to the bar cart. Before you had met him —back during your university days—you had worked as a bartender to pay the rent. You grabbed the shaker, the alcohol, and the bitters, your hands moving with an effortless, practiced rhythm. You mixed up two custom cocktails, keeping the alcohol content perfectly manageable since you both wanted to actually remember the night.

When you handed him his glass, his eyes darkened with pure appreciation. He took a sip, humming in approval. "God, you're amazing. Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?"

He didn't let you go back to the counter. Instead, he pulled you against his chest, his back to the stove while he stirred the sauce with one hand and kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist. The warmth of the stove combined with the heat of his body was intoxicating.

As you stood there, the flickering candlelight caught the slight dip of your collarbone and the soft curve of your side. You subconsciously shifted, trying to pull the silk dress tighter. Like anyone, you had your little insecurities—things you picked apart when you looked in the mirror too long.

But Chan noticed everything. He always did.

Feeling you tense, he set the wooden spoon down. He turned you around completely, his hands mapping the exact spots you tried to hide. He bent down, pressing his warm lips to the soft curve of your hip, then up to the slight dip of your waist, kissing every single inch of your skin with a fierce, worshipful reverence.

"Stop hiding," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough and thick. "You are so beautiful. Every single part of you. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes just for one second."

He pulled you back up, his hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you deeply, a quiet sigh escaping him. He rested his forehead against yours, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" Chan murmured softly, a sudden, gentle giggle bubbling up from his chest. He looked down at you, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "How unexpected all of this was. If you told me four years ago that we'd be here..."

"What, you didn't think we'd make it?" you teased, tracing the collar of his shirt.

"No, I mean—we were such idiots," he laughed, shaking his head at the memory. "We were literally best friends since child hood who only spoke on calls scared to face each other. I was so completely gone for you, but I was too terrified to say anything......remember how we used to talk to each other? Trying so hard to sound 'just like friends' while my heart was practically beating out of my chest every time you looked at me."

He giggled again, the sound rich and warm. "Man, we were so stupid. All those wasted months because we were both too scared to confess."

His laughter faded, replaced by a gaze so intense it made your knees feel weak. The playful boy vanished, leaving only the man who loved you entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with a slow, heavy finality.

"But I’m glad we got here," Chan whispered, his thumbs wiping a stray tear of happiness from your cheek. "Because now that I have you... I want no one else. Forever. It's only ever gonna be you, sweetheart."

The sheer intensity of his words left you breathless. You reached up, cupping his jawline, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a silent promise. When you finally broke away, your cheeks were flushed against the warm candlelight.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, we're never going to actually eat," you teased softly, playfully swatting his chest.

Chan let out a breathless laugh, stepping back just enough to let you move around the kitchen. The menu had completely evolved from just a simple pasta dish into an absolute feast. Together, you turned cooking into a coordinated dance. You rolled out dough to make a heart-shaped pizza—Chan insisting on crimping the edges perfectly—while a golden, seasoned chicken roasted in the oven alongside a crisp, fresh salad you tossed together.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled incredible. You carried the plates over to the candlelit dining table, the heavy rain outside providing a soothing backdrop to your makeshift indoor date.

As you ate, the conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from lighthearted banter into the deep, heavy layers of life and the future. Chan reached across the table, his fingers tangling with yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

"I want to grow old with you," he murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the tiny flames of the candles. "I want the quiet mornings, the wrinkly skin, all of it."

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest. "I want that too. And... I want a kid. Eventually."

Chan’s face instantly softened, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his features, making his dimples dip incredibly deep.

"I’d love a daughter," you admitted softly, feeling a bit shy but completely safe sharing it with him. "But honestly, it doesn't matter to me. As long as the kid is healthy."

"A little girl who looks just like you?" Chan breathed, his gaze turning incredibly fond. "God, I'd be wrapped around her finger. But you're right. Just healthy." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute certainty. "I want to marry you first. I want to roam the world with you, make a million memories, and establish our own rules. Like, if we ever have a huge fight—because we're human, we will—we promise to sort it out before we ever go to bed. No sleeping angry."

"Deal," you whispered, your heart swelling.

"And we need a bigger place," he continued excitedly, his inner producer and planner taking over. "We'll design it together. A massive bar for you, a studio space for me, and a huge backyard." He smiled, leaning over to lovingly serve another portion of pasta onto your plate.

As the dinner wound down and the plates were cleared, you still wanted something sweet. You walked over to the freezer and scooped a generous portion of vanilla ice cream into a small bowl. Instead of heading back to your own seat, you walked over to Chan, pulling him back into his chair by his shoulders.

Without asking, you turned and sank right onto his lap facing him, your emerald silk dress pooling over his tailored black slacks. Chan didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his large hands immediately found your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh gently as you settled against him.

"Sharing?" he grinned, his voice a low rumble against your lips.

"Maybe," you murmured, taking a bite of the cold ice cream before offering him some. As you pulled the spoon away, a tiny bit of ice cream lingered on your bottom lip. Chan leaned in instantly, his tongue darting out to lick the sweet cream right off your lips, his lips lingering for a soft, teasing pressure that made your stomach drop.

His hands wandered a little higher on your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, anchoring you tightly to his lap. You took another bite, but the combination of his warmth, the alcohol from the cocktails, and the sheer tension in the air made your hands a little unsteady. A drop of the rapidly melting ice cream escaped the spoon, trailing down your chin and slipping right down the column of your neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of your green dress.

You both knew how gravity worked. You both knew food didn't just magically spill like that unless a certain someone was plotting something entirely deliberate.

Chan caught it instantly. A dark, wicked grin spread across his face, his eyes darkening into pure, unadulterated hunger.

"Oh, you are a menace," he growled softly, the teasing Australian lilt completely vanishing into something raw and dominant.

He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Chan leaned forward, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back. He pressed his lips to the base of your throat, his warm tongue sliding upward, licking the melted ice cream off your sensitive skin. A sharp, gasping whimper left your lips as he followed the path with a sequence of open-mouthed, bruising kisses, his teeth gently nipping at the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

The cold sweetness of the ice cream was completely eradicated by the scorching heat of his mouth.

Realizing you were entirely finished with desert, you blindly reached back and set the bowl away on the table behind you. You let your head fall back completely against his broad shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands tightened on your thighs, his breath hot and demanding against your skin

Without a word, he hooked both hands under your knees, lifting you effortlessly along with himself off the dining chair, your legs wrapping around his waist. You gasped, both hands flying to his shoulders as he carried you through the candlelit living room toward the hallway.

"Chan—the ice cream—" you protested weakly, laughter bubbling in your throat... this was trouble, a likeable trouble.

"I'll get it later," he growled against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Right now, I'm starving for something else."

He pushed the bedroom door open, and the soft lamplight spilled across the rumpled sheets. He didn't put you down. Instead, he pressed you against the doorjamb, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so deep and hungry that your toes curled inside your heels. His tongue slid along your bottom lip, then swept inside, tasting the lingering sweetness of vanilla and chocolate. You melted into him, your fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He carried you to the bed, but before laying you down, he paused, letting you slide down his body until your feet touched the floor. His hands roamed your back, the bare skin of your backless dress heating under his palms. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze, and then leaned in to press your lips to the side of his neck.

Soft at first—a barely-there brush of your mouth. Then you parted your lips, grazing your teeth over his pulse point, and sucked gently. Chan's breath hitched, his fingers digging into your hips. You lingered there, tasting the salt of his skin, knowing you had to be careful. His fans would notice. They always noticed everything—a hickey on his neck during a live broadcast would send the internet into a frenzy. So you pulled back, leaving only a faint pink mark, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark and knowing. "Tease," he murmured, but there was nothing but approval in his voice.

His hand found the thin satin lace-up at the back of your dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, the bow unraveled, and the fabric loosened around your chest. He didn't rush. He slid the straps down your shoulders, the emerald silk pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your strapless stick-on bra, black lace panties, and heels.

He stepped back just long enough to shrug off his black button-up, his fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. The shirt fell open, revealing the defined lines of his chest and his toned abs. You didn't wait. You stepped forward, your hands sliding up his abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle flex under your touch. You pressed your lips to his sternum, then lower, kissing a path down his stomach. Your tongue darted out, licking a stripe across his abs, tasting the faint salt and heat of his skin. You sucked gently at the hollow beside his navel, and he groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're gonna make me lose it."

You looked up at him, a wicked smile on your lips, and continued your journey lower, your mouth trailing over the waistband of his slacks. But he stopped you, gripping your chin and tilting your face up.

"Not yet," he said, his voice roughened with want. "I want to taste you first."

His gaze dropped to your chest, where the stick-on bra held your breasts in place. A knowing grin spread across his face. "No straps," he observed, his thumb brushing the edge of the adhesive cup. "Clever."

He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours—a silent question that he never needed to ask out loud. You nodded, a soft "yes" escaping your lips.

He pulled the bra away in one smooth motion, the adhesive releasing with a quiet peel. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his stare. He didn't look away. He leaned in, his tongue flicking over one nipple, then drawing it into his mouth, sucking gently. You gasped, your back arching, and your hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

His other hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, and between your legs. He groaned against your skin as his fingers found you—soaked, slick, ready.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "I haven't even done anything yet, and you're already dripping. Is that all for me?"

You bit your lip, nodding, your breath coming in shallow pants.

"Good girl." He pressed a finger inside you, slow, then a second, curling them just right. At the same time, his mouth returned to your nipple, sucking and teasing with his tongue. The dual sensation sent a shock through your body. Your hands fisted in his hair, your hips grinding against his hand, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Chan—please—"

"Please what, baby?" He pumped his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. "You feel so fucking good wrapped around my fingers. Tell me what you need."

You couldn't form words. The pleasure was building too fast, a coil tightening low in your belly. Your thighs trembled, your moans turning into broken cries.

"That's it," he praised, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my hand."

And you did. Without warning, the orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing as you cried out his name. He didn't stop moving his fingers, guiding you through every wave, drinking in the sight of you undone.

When the last tremor faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious."

Then he gently pushed you fully onto the bed, spreading your legs open, and buried his face between them. His tongue swept through your folds, lapping up your release, his nose pressing against your clit. A strangled moan tore from your throat as he devoured you, his tongue dipping inside you, then dragging back up to suck gently on your clit. He worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, prolonging the aftershocks until you were a panting, writhing mess.

Only when your hips stopped bucking did he lift his head. He reached over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer, and retrieved a foil packet. With a grin, he tore the wrapper open with his teeth, spat it aside, and rolled the condom down his length. Even after all these months, the sight of him—thick, veined, impossibly hard—made your breath catch. He was huge, and no matter how many times you'd had him, it always surprised you. The way he filled you, stretched you, like he was made to fit inside you.

He hauled your legs onto his shoulders, leaning forward until the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push in—not yet. He held still, teasing, letting you feel the pressure, the promise.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft but dominant.

You nodded, and he thrust forward.

Slow. Deep. Inch by inch he sank into you, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the grip of your walls. You felt the familiar stretch, the slight burn that melted into pure pleasure. He paused when he was fully seated, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispered. "Every single time."

He began to move—long, languid strokes that hit so deep you could feel him in your throat. One hand held your calf, his lips pressing kisses to your shin, then your ankle, reverent and tender even as he fucked you. His other hand roamed your body, fingers tracing your waist, then sliding up to tease your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

A glance down and you saw it—a faint bulge in your lower belly, where his dick pressed against your insides from the inside. The sight sent a rush of heat through you. You arched your back, a moan spilling from your lips.

"Look at that," he breathed, his thumb pressing lightly on the bulge. "Look how deep I am inside you. You take me so fucking well, baby."

His pace quickened, but still controlled, each thrust deliberate. Your hands clawed at the sheets, your moans growing louder, more desperate.

"Faster," you begged, your voice cracking. "Please, Chan—faster—"

He obeyed. He pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips into the air before slamming back into you. The new angle was brutal—deeper, harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. His hand gripped your hip, the other pressed flat on the small of your back, forcing you to arch impossibly deeper.

"This what you wanted?" he growled, his voice low and filthy. "You wanted me to fuck you like this? To take you apart until you can't think, can't breathe?"

"Yes—angh..yes—fuck—chrisss"

He leaned over your back, his mouth at your ear, his thrusts pounding into you. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're close, aren't you? I want you to come. Come on my dick."

You were already there. The rough pace, his dirty talk, the overwhelming fullness—it sent you spiraling. You screamed his name as your orgasm crashed, your body trembling violently around him.

He didn't stop. He rode you through it, his own breathing ragged, until he pulled out with a shudder. He yanked the condom off, stroked himself twice, and came with a guttural groan, spilling into the latex. Then he collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Your body ached in the best way. Chan pushed himself up first, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"Stay there. I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the water run. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned between your legs, his touch tender. Then he wiped himself down, disposed of the condom, and slid back into bed.

He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. His hand found the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles where you'd arched hardest.

"Your back's gonna be sore tomorrow," he murmured into your hair.

You hummed, nuzzling into his neck. Your lips found his, a soft, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your mouth. "I love you so much."

You kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you too."

The marks on your neck were dark now, blooming like violets under your skin. He traced one with his fingertip, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest.

"Sorry about those."

"I'm not," you whispered, your eyes already heavy.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, his hand never stopping its soothing massage on your back. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek—it pulled you under.

Within minutes, you were both asleep, tangled together in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

--

You woke up slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the cracks of the blinds. As you shifted beneath the heavy duvet, a dull, deep ache resonated through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, lingering reminder of exactly how Chan had kept his promise to ruin you. You sat up slowly, clutching the soft blanket tightly against your chest to keep yourself covered.

A soft chuckle sounded from the side of the bed, and you turned your head to see Chan walking into the room. He had already showered, his messy curls damp, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. In his hands, he carried a tray loaded with a fresh breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a mug of coffee made exactly the way you liked it.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep. He set the tray down carefully across your lap, then climbed onto the mattress behind you.

As you reached for the coffee, taking a grateful sip, Chan shifted closer. His large, warm hands slid beneath the blanket, finding the bare skin of your lower back. His calloused thumbs began to work in slow, firm circles, expertly massaging the tight, sore muscles of your spine. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, leaning back into his solid chest.

"Sore?" he whispered, a hint of a smug, satisfied grin in his voice.

"Shut up," you muttered playfully, though you didn't pull away from his touch.

Chan just laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right against your back. He leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head before gently reaching up to brush a few stray tangled hairs away from your face. He watched you eat with a quiet, peaceful intensity, as if he still couldn't quite believe he had you all to himself for a little while longer.

You turned your head slightly, catching his eye, and leaned in to press a sweet, lingering kiss right against his dimpled cheek.

Chan’s smile broke wide and brilliant, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated affection. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as the quiet morning carried on, the rest of the world completely forgotten.

The End.

You and Chan were elbow-to-elbow in the kitchen, washing the dishes together. The atmosphere was serene with the warm water flowing, plates softly clinking while some soft music played in the background and it was almost cute—until he opened his damn mouth.

“I mean, it’s not that deep,” he said, rinsing a plate. “You’re just too sensitive sometimes.”

You froze, the dish soap slid off your hands then slowly you turned to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

Chan didn’t catch the red alert in your tone. “Like, not in a bad way…just that you take things too personally. It’s not always about you, y’know?”

You set the plate down a little too hard and cross your arms.

“Christopher Bahng,” you said calmly, “if you value your ability to sleep tonight, you might want to rethink what you just said.”

“I’m just saying,” Chan continued, not reading the room at all, “you overthink stuff and make drama out of nothing.”

Hannah paused her scrolling and looked toward the kitchen, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. The tension between you and Chan was so thick, she could feel it from the couch.

You narrowed your eyes. “So, let me get this straight. I voice a concern, and your first instinct is to call me sensitive?”

“I’m just saying it’s not always that serious.”

“Shut up, Chan!”

Silence. Like you could hear the silence. Even Berry stopped padding around.

Chan’s mouth opened, offended. “What—?”

“Shut. Up.” you repeated, tone sharp as a knife. “You do this every time. You brush me off and act like I’m the one being dramatic when you can’t communicate like a grown adult”

Hannah perked up from the couch, eyes sparkling. She threw her phone down and yelled, “You go, girl! Yeah, tell him to shut up!”

Berry barked excitedly, tail wagging as if she’s saying she’s also in your team.

Chan’s eyes widened as he turned to his sister. 

“Stay out of it!” Chan glared at her.

“NO,” she shouted back. “She’s making valid points.”

You smiled at Hannah. “See? Even your sister agrees with me.”

“You’re my sister! Why are you cheering for her?!” he whined at Hannah.

“Because this is a historic moment,” Hannah grinned. “Like bro, you never let anyone talk to you like that. Finally someone’s calling you out, and it’s my future sister-in-law? I’m THRIVING.”

Chan gestured at her wildly. “You’re supposed to be on my side! I’m your brother!”

“Exactly,” she said. “And I’ve wanted to say this to you for years. Let her finish.”

You tried not to laugh as you watched the siblings bicker.

Chan’s expression softened as he turned to you, voice low and sincere. “Baby, I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before you could answer, Hannah threw up her hands, dramatically gasping. “She’s not falling for this! Nope. You get away every time, Channie oppa.”

She stood up suddenly and approached you. “Y/N, c’mon you’re sleeping with me tonight.”

You blinked in surprise, then grinned. “I’d love that, Hannah!”

Chan’s jaw dropped like Hannah just committed a federal crime. “Why are you being a homewrecker right now?!”

Hannah squinted her eyes at him and said, “Because you don’t deserve her and her cuddles tonight. This is your punishment, now go sleep alone.”

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “My own blood turned on me.”

You threw the dish towel at his chest. “Think before you speak next time, fiancé.”

“Babe—”

“Nope,” Hannah cut in. “Don’t ‘babe’ your way out of this.”

She looped her arm through yours and started guiding you away, “Come on, Y/N. We’re having a girls’ night. I’m talking facemasks, hot gossip from work, and stuffing our faces with snacks. Oooh snacks— wait let me grab some.”

She let go of you and started rummaging aggressively through the kitchen cabinets. You couldn’t help but smile at her determination, your heart softening a little. When you glanced back, you saw Chan leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, staring at you sadly.

You stepped closer to him, “You want to marry me, right?”

“Of course,” he answered immediately.

“Then you don’t get to dismiss me like I’m overreacting. We solve problems together. No gaslighting. No brushing off. If I tell you something bothers me, it means I trust you enough to be vulnerable about it.”

“Yes baby… you’re right. I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.” He wiped his hands and stepped toward you. “Really. I didn’t mean to make you feel invalidated.”

You just looked down.

Chan pulled you into a warm hug. “I’ll do better. Promise.”

You let him hold you for a second, then whispered in his ear, “Damn right you will.”

“You’re not sensitive. You just feel things deeply, and that’s one of the things I love about you,” he said before pressing a kiss on your forehead gently.

Hannah raised her head from the pantry. “But you’re still sleeping alone tonight.”

Chan threw a kitchen towel at her without looking.

You just chuckled, “You’re lucky you’re cute. And that your sister’s on my side.”

Hannah yelled from the pantry, “I found the Cheetos! Let's go!”

Chan threw his head back with a groan. “She’s mine, Hannah!”

Hannah popped her head out, balancing bags of popcorn and chips in one hand and cookies and drinks in the other. “Not tonight, she’s not. You had your chance, Mr. Big Mouth.”

You gave Chan a wink and followed her, and Berry followed right behind you, making it clear whose side she was on.

------------------

Permanent Taglist:

Bang Chan liked to think he was a composed man.

As a leader, as a producer, as a father—he prided himself on being dependable, steady, in control.

But that image shattered instantly the moment he walked into the living room that evening.

Because standing there—no, wobbling there—was his daughter.

Dressed as a little wolf.

Specifically his own beloved character, Wolf Chan.

“…What.”

His voice came out quieter than he intended, like the air had been punched out of him.

You stood beside her, phone already in hand, clearly waiting for this exact reaction. “Surprise?”

Chan blinked once.

Twice.

He looked at his daughter again.

She had on a soft gray onesie with little paw mittens, a fluffy tail sewn onto the back, and—God help him—a hood with small wolf ears that kept slipping slightly over her eyes.

“…What,” he repeated, this time with more emotion.

“Baby Wolf Chan,” you said proudly, crouching down to adjust the hood. “Do you like it?”

Your daughter let out a tiny, proud “Awooo!” that sounded more like a confused squeak.

Chan physically staggered back a step.

“No,” he said immediately.

You frowned. “No?”

He pressed a hand to his chest like he was in pain. “I don’t like it.”

Your heart dropped for half a second—

—and then he lunged forward, scooping your daughter into his arms so fast she squealed.

“I love it,” he groaned, nuzzling his face into her cheek. “I love it too much. This is dangerous. This is actually dangerous.”

You snorted. “Cuteness aggression?”

“I’m going to explode,” he said seriously, hugging her tighter—but still gentle, always gentle. “I’m actually going to explode. Why is she like this?”

Your daughter giggled, grabbing onto his hoodie strings with her mitten paws.

“Because she’s your daughter,” you said.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Chan replied, staring at her like she’d personally ruined his life.

-

Chan sat down on the couch with her still in his arms, staring at her like he was trying to memorize every single detail.

“She has a tail,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“She has paws.”

“Yes, Chan.”

“She just barked at me.”

“That was an awooo.”

He looked at you, eyes wide. “She awooo’d at me.”

Your daughter, as if understanding she was the center of attention, lifted her arms and made another tiny “Awoo!”

Chan made a strangled noise.

“Oh my God.”

He buried his face into her shoulder, mumbling something incoherent.

You laughed. “You’re not handling this well.”

“I’m handling this too well,” he shot back, lifting his head. “That’s the issue. I have too much love in my body right now.”

He poked her little mitten paw.

“Look at this. Look at her. Why is she so small?”

“She’s literally a toddler.”

“She’s smaller today.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is,” he insisted. “She got smaller. And fluffier. And—” he squeezed his eyes shut—“I can’t do this.”

Your daughter leaned forward and bonked her forehead against his chin.

Chan froze.

“…She just headbutted me.”

You grinned. “Wolf behavior.”

“I raised her wrong,” he said immediately, but his voice was full of fondness.

-

“Okay, okay,” you said, clapping your hands. “Stand up. We’re doing a photoshoot.”

Chan didn’t even argue. That’s how you knew he was completely gone.

“Do I get props?” he asked, already adjusting her hood again.

“Yes,” you said, tossing him a small Wolf Chan. “Hold this.”

He took it carefully, placing it in your daughter’s lap.

She immediately tried to eat its ear.

“Accurate,” Chan nodded.

You started snapping pictures.

“Chan, look here—”

He turned, but not before kissing her cheek.

Click.

“Chan, serious face—”

He tried. He really did. But your daughter grabbed his nose with both mitten paws.

Click.

You burst out laughing. “That’s the one.”

“I can’t be serious,” he complained. “She’s holding my nose hostage.”

Your daughter squealed triumphantly.

“Say awooo!” you encouraged.

“Awoo!” she chirped.

Chan lost it again.

“I’m done. I’m actually done. I’m not surviving this.”

He hugged her tightly, rocking slightly side to side.

“You’re too cute,” he mumbled. “You’re illegally cute. I’m calling the authorities.”

-

At some point, Chan just… stopped functioning normally.

He sat on the floor with her between his legs, hands hovering around her like she might suddenly vanish.

“Don’t let anyone see her,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“They’ll steal her.”

“Chan.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “If anyone sees this—this tiny wolf situation—they’re going to try to take her. I would.”

You laughed. “You already have her.”

“I would take her again.”

“That’s kidnapping.”

“It’s worth it.”

You shook your head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

He looked down at her again.

She was busy trying to chase her own tail.

“…She doesn’t even know she’s cute,” he whispered.

“That’s the cutest part.”

“I can’t handle that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s too much.”

-

“Okay,” Chan suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “We need to train her properly.”

You blinked. “Train her?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “She’s a wolf. She needs to awooo correctly.”

Your daughter looked up at him like she understood.

“Awoo,” he demonstrated, softly.

She blinked.

“Awoo,” he repeated.

“Awoo!” she replied, louder this time.

Chan gasped.

“Did you hear that?!”

“I heard it,” you said, laughing.

“She’s learning so fast,” he said, voice full of pride. “She’s a genius.”

“She said one word.”

“It’s an important word.”

Your daughter clapped for herself.

Chan clapped too.

“Good job, baby,” he said, kissing her head. “Best awooo ever.”

-

It happened when she got sleepy.

One moment she was running around in her little Wolf Chan outfit, the next she was waddling back toward Chan, rubbing her eyes with her mitten paws.

“Up,” she mumbled.

Chan froze.

“You want me?” he asked softly.

She nodded, reaching for him.

That was it.

That was the moment.

He picked her up gently, cradling her against his chest.

She immediately tucked her face into his shoulder, her little tail resting against his arm.

Chan didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t speak.

You watched quietly.

“…She’s falling asleep,” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“In the Wolf Chan costume.”

“Yeah.”

He swallowed.

“This is the cutest thing that’s ever happened in human history.”

You smiled.

“She trusts me,” he said, voice softer now.

“She does.”

He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Hey,” you said gently.

He shook his head. “No, I mean it. Look at her. She’s so small. And she’s mine.”

“And mine,” you added.

“And yours,” he corrected quickly.

There was a pause.

“She’s our little wolf.”

You nodded.

“Our little wolf.”

-

Later, after you changed her out of the costume and put her to bed, Chan stayed in her room longer than usual.

He stood by the crib, just watching her sleep.

You leaned against the doorframe.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He nodded, but didn’t look away.

“She was so happy today,” he said.

“She was.”

“She loves you,” he added.

“And you.”

He smiled slightly.

“I think I love her more every day.”

“That’s how it works.”

He finally turned to you.

“…What if I run out of space?”

You blinked. “What?”

“For loving her,” he said, completely serious. “What if there’s too much?”

You walked over, taking his hand.

“That’s not how love works.”

He squeezed your hand.

“Good,” he said softly.

-

As you both turned to leave, a tiny voice stopped you.

“…Awoo.”

You both froze.

Slowly, you turned back.

Your daughter was still asleep.

But somehow—half-dreaming—she had made the softest little awooo sound.

Chan covered his mouth.

“No,” he whispered. “No, she didn’t just do that.”

You laughed quietly. “She did.”

He looked like he might cry.

“I’m not strong enough for this,” he said.

“Yes, you are.”

He shook his head, smiling helplessly.

“…Our little wolf.”

You leaned against him.

“Our little wolf.”

And from that day on, Chan never fully recovered from the cuteness aggression.

Not when she wore the costume again. Not when she randomly awooo’d in public. Not even when she grew older.

Because to him she would always be his little wolf. And honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.