Sweet
Dreamcatcher's Dami x M!Reader
Note: Hey! Sorry for not updating for like a month-ish, and May will be the worst month yet personally. But appreciate everyone for waiting, and I will be trying to get all the requests here!
Also, happy 800 followers!
For the first time in a while, Dami wakes up to silence. Not the eerie, post-apocalyptic kind, but the kind of silence that has birds chirping somewhere far off, a breeze politely brushing the curtains, and not a single person yelling about makeup calls or dance rehearsals.
12 pm
No alarm. No schedule. No morning manager texts with twenty exclamation marks and a picture of her half-asleep face attached. Just… the countryside.
Dami sits on the edge of the futon, stretching her arms above her head as the sunlight slips through the wooden blinds and kisses her skin like it’s apologizing for yesterday’s heatwave. Her hair’s a little messy, one sock's missing, and her bucket hat is tossed haphazardly on the windowsill like it, too, needed a vacation.
“So,” she says to the room, which contains nothing but a suitcase, a folded map she still doesn’t know how to read, and one very confused-looking butterfly that’s been following her since last night, “what do people even do out here?”
She grabs her phone. Barely any signal. Of course.
And honestly, good.
She didn’t come out here to scroll through news articles or check her tagged posts. She came here because something inside her—something small and sharp—had been aching for quiet. For stillness. For a chance to hear herself think without the echo of someone else’s voice layered on top.
Still, she hadn’t exactly planned anything. One minute she was signing off her final company commitment with a polite bow and a box of donuts, and the next, she was staring out the window of a bus heading toward some random, green-splashed town with more cows than people, with now waking up after an interesting sleep in a small inn.
Her stomach growls. Loudly. Dramatically. Like it also wasn’t expecting to be in the middle of nowhere this morning.
Dami pats her hoodie pocket, pulling out the scrap of a tourist brochure she’d snagged from the bus stop. The ink’s smudged, one corner’s ripped, and the translation is… well. Creative.
She reads aloud.
“‘Try taste our sweet store candy: handmade with love and sugar of honest heart.’”
She blinks. Then reads it again.
“Sweet store,” she murmurs, narrowing her eyes at the fuzzy little photo beside the text. It shows a small, wooden-fronted shop with faded awnings, jars of pastel-coloured candy lined up on the window display, and a blurry figure sweeping the porch like they’re trying not to be in frame.
It’s oddly charming. Like something out of a slice-of-life drama where everyone has a tragic backstory and nothing really happens except people discovering the meaning of life through tea.
Dami pulls on her bucket hat.
“Alright,” she mutters, half to herself, half to the moth still chilling by the curtain, “let’s go and get sugar rush.”
The wooden door creaks when she pushes it open, and a small brass bell tinkles from above—soft, delicate, the kind of sound that makes you instinctively lower your voice even though no one’s around. The place smells like nostalgia and melted sugar, warm and heavy, clinging to the air like a childhood memory that refuses to fade.
Shelves line the small space, some slanted from age, others patched up with duct tape and what she assumes is leftover washi paper. Glass jars filled with brightly coloured sweets gleam under the filtered morning light—barley candies, flower-shaped jellies, dried persimmon gummies, and those ridiculously addictive sesame crisps that break your teeth but heal your soul.
It’s quiet, except for the low whirr of a fan in the corner and the soft crackle of something cooking behind the counter.
And then she hears it.
That very familiar string of muffled curses.
“Motherf—hot—why is everything so sticky—”
She rounds the corner just in time to see you—you, apron on, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from the steam of whatever candy cauldron you’ve got bubbling away. You’ve got your hair slicked back with a fork (an actual one, probably stolen from last night’s takeout), and your fingers are expertly folding a ribbon of molten sugar onto a wooden board with practiced ease.
“Wow,” she says before she can stop herself, leaning against the counter. “You actually did it.”
You jerk at the voice, almost drop your taffy paddle, and turn with the slow, wide-eyed look of someone who just saw their midterm professor walk into a karaoke bar.
“…Yubin?” Your voice cracks a little on the last syllable.
She grins. “Told you I’d haunt you eventually.”
“You—you’re here?” You look around like you forgot where here is. “In this town? In my shop??”
“Your shop,” she repeats, letting the words roll off her tongue. “Didn’t expect to see you here either. Last I checked, you moved out of our hometown right after middle school. I figured you’d be somewhere in the city by now, overworked, underfed, and buried in a pile of part-time jobs.”
“I was,” you say, still trying to process the fact that Dami, middle school buddy/crush turned K-pop idol, is standing in your candy shop like she just walked in off a sitcom set.
“But then my aunt handed me the keys to this place last year and dipped to Jeju, so now I’m here. Day job: sugar gremlin. Night job: dying over assignments.”
Dami’s laugh is quiet, a little nostalgic. “So we both escaped.”
You blink. “Huh? What do you mean?”
She shrugs, walking slowly around the small shop, fingers skimming along the counter. “Contract ended. No rush to renew anything. Figured I’d disappear for a week. Rest. Breathe. Maybe find myself in a bag of chestnut toffee.”
You smirk. “That one’s on that shelf on the left, right next to the emotional damage gummies.”
Her eyes light up. “Ooh, limited edition?”
“Hand-pulled bitterness,” you say with mock pride. “Best seller. The damn kids kept buying it for challenges.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, grinning like it’s still math class and you’re trying not to get caught passing notes behind your textbooks.
“Small world, huh,” she finally says.
“Stupidly small,” you reply.
And just like that, the years between middle school and now feel like they’ve folded into something softer. Like saltwater taffy stretched thin but never snapped. You both left the same town. Took different trains. Ended up back at the same platform anyway.
“Hey,” she says, suddenly sheepish. “You mind if I hang out a bit? I didn’t really have a plan for the day.”
You glance at the clock. Your next batch of plum jellies still needs to set, and your current batch is probably imploding as you speak—but honestly?
“Only if you help wrap these,” you say, nudging the pile of cooling candies toward her.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re putting the idol to work?”
You toss her a spare apron. “You’re the one who walked into my shop, miss.”
Dami catches it midair, laughter trailing behind her like powdered sugar in the wind, and just like that, your quiet little candy shop becomes something warmer.
-
If there was a camera in the shop right now—just one, even a dusty old CCTV one—you’re pretty sure this moment would go viral. Dami, former girl group cool-icon, multi-talented performer, deadpan queen of stage presence… is currently fighting for her life against a roll of wax paper and losing.
“Why is it curling like this?” she mutters, brow furrowed, as the sheet she’s trying to cut keeps flipping back onto itself like it has a grudge. “The hell is this? Did you curse it?”
You, very professionally, do not laugh.
At least not out loud.
You’re by the counter, refilling the sesame crisp jars, trying to focus on literally anything other than the sight of her trying to measure and fold wax paper with all the grace of a kitten learning to walk on ice. Every few seconds she mutters something to herself—some half-hearted insult aimed at the paper, your shop, or gravity—and it takes every ounce of willpower not to burst into full, wheezing laughter.
“I thought idols were supposed to be good with their dedicate hands,” you say mildly, glancing over just in time to see the tape dispenser get caught in her sleeve. "…and not cursing."
“I was,” she shoots back, trying to wrangle it off with one hand. “This is bullshit. You’re sabotaging me. This is revenge for the time I told everyone in class you had a crush on that substitute teacher.”
Your eyes narrow. “You mean Ms. Park? The one everyone had a crush on?”
“She wore collared shirt and glasses,” she deadpans. “To be fair, it was the look.”
"Still is, you know that." You scoff and toss her the little candy label stickers. “Here. Just put these on the wrappers. It’s harder to mess that up.”
“You say that like it’s hard,” she mutters, peeling one off with exaggerated care.
You both settle into a rhythm—her sitting at the low table, tongue peeking out a little in concentration as she sticks labels onto neat little plastic-wrapped candies, and you at the counter, folding paper boxes while the soft hum of an old fan and the distant chirp of birds fills the air.
It’s oddly peaceful. Domestic, almost. If someone walked in, they’d probably mistake you two for co-owners or an old married couple running a family shop passed down for generations.
“How long have you been here now?” she asks suddenly, her tone gentler this time.
You pause, thinking. “About…nine months? Moved in right before spring. My aunt used to run this place, but her knees started acting up. Gave me the keys, said, ‘It’s your problem now, kiddo,’ and ran off to Jeju with her yoga group.”
Dami huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right. You always said you wanted something quiet.”
“I said I wanted peace,” you correct her, holding up a half-folded candy box like it’s proof. “Didn’t realize peace included burning my hands on hot syrup every week.”
She smiles, but there’s a softness behind it now. “Still… I get it. The quiet. The slowness.”
You glance at her, noticing the way she’s leaning slightly forward now, elbows on her knees, the faintest crease between her brows.
“Was it hard?” you ask, voice lower.
She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Doesn’t deflect with a joke this time.
“Maybe a bit,” she admits. “It’s weird. You’re surrounded by people all the time, but… you get so used to performing, it’s like you forget how to just be. No cameras. No pressure. Just… existing.”
You nod, slowly. “Well, you’re existing now. And apparently waging war against packaging.”
"Shut it…" She snorts. “It’s humbling.”
"Well, you're welcome, missy." You throw a jellybean at her. She dodges it with the reflexes of someone who’s been through years of dance practice and too many fan-thrown plushies.
“Ya,” she says, suddenly grinning. “Remember that time we had to do that candy fundraiser in school and you accidentally dropped a whole tray of lollipops down the stairwell in front of everyone?”
You groan. “Please don’t bring that up. I’m still emotionally scarred.”
“I think you cried.”
“I twitched,” you say defensively.
“You sobbed.”
You stare at her. “You’re never helping in this shop again.”
She laughs—really laughs—and the sound fills the little space like something old and familiar, something you didn’t know you missed. You lean back against the counter, watching her with an amused smile and a warmth settling quietly in your chest.
It’s strange.
How someone can be gone for years, grow up into someone bigger, brighter, more distant—and yet still sit here, in your little candy shop, struggling with tape and teasing you like no time passed at all.
Maybe the universe isn’t so bad.
Maybe it brought her back right when you both needed something sweet.
-
By day two, you’ve already made a sign that reads:
“Yubin’s Specials – Limited Edition”
You prop it up right outside the door.
She sees it.
She groans.
“You’re seriously using me as clickbait,” she says, holding a tray of chestnut taffies she just helped wrap.
“Of course I am,” you say proudly. “And you’re doing amazing, Lee Yubin.”
“You didn’t even…fcking…train me.”
You shrug. “Trial by sugar.”
It turns out people really like candy made by a former Dreamcatcher member. Even if her wrappers are a bit lopsided and she keeps messing up the ribbon curls. Tourists stumble in with giddy grins, locals pretend not to fangirl too hard, and somehow even the old grump from the vegetable stand next door stops by for two packs of barley candy and whispers, “Wasn’t she on TV?”
You nod solemnly. “She’s our intern now. We pay her in red bean mochi and my yapping.”
Dami, who’s been quietly tying goody bags in the back, shouts, “I heard that!”
And so, business booms.
Your little shop starts getting lines out the door. A couple from Seoul asks if this is the place that sells Dami’s Panda Honey Drops.
You blink. “That’s not a real thing.”
They pull up a blog post on their phone on Dami's Insta.
...Okay, apparently it is now.
Meanwhile, Dami slips further and further into her “intern” role. You catch her giving free samples to a group of shy high schoolers, writing little notes on wrappers like “Don’t forget to rest” and “Fighting! ”. They leave with red cheeks and stars in their eyes.
“You’re stealing my customers,” you tell her.
She looks too smug. “Your fault for using me as clickbait.”
“You’re fired.”
“You can’t afford to fire me,” she says, stretching with a yawn. “The people love me. I’m your brand now.”
"Tsk." You try to glare, but end up grinning instead.
The rest of the day is a blur of sugar, laughs, and the occasional candy-stick swordfight during slow hours (you lost, tragically). By the time the sun starts setting, the shop’s pretty much wiped clean.
You hang the "Closed" sign and wipe your hands on your apron. “We survived another day, Yubin.”
She stretches again, slower this time, her frame outlined by the golden hour light streaming in through the door. “You’ve got a good thing here,” she murmurs. “It’s cozy.”
“Cozy?” you echo. “That’s your review?”
She shrugs. “Cozy. Honest. Kind of… nice.”
You blink at her. That was a bit more real than expected. But before you can say anything, she’s already slipping past you to hang up her apron.
“Where you going?” you ask.
She turns around with that trademark poker face, then lifts her brows. “Obviously to help you out in the neighbourhood, boss. You said this gig comes with overtime two days ago.”
You snort. “Of course. It’s not a full experience unless you also carry bags of flour for Mrs. Hwang and untangle Mr. Jang’s fairy lights that have no business being up in spring.”
She grins. “Lead the way, boss.”
So you both head out to the warm neighbourhood. A few kids run past with grape lollipops from your shop still clutched in sticky hands. A dog you only kinda know jumps up on Dami and she laughs, crouching down to ruffle its ears.
Mrs. Hwang waves from her porch and hands you a small plate of rice cakes. “For the idol girl. Tell her thank you for helping me bring in my laundry yesterday.”
You smile. “She’s right here, you know.”
Mrs. Hwang squints. “You won’t pass it on?”
“Ma’am, she’s—never mind.”
Mr. Jang yells from two houses down. “I tell you two, those lights are seasonal! They just work better than the porch lamp!”
“They blink like a horror movie!” you shout back.
Dami’s laughing the entire time, shoulders shaking, eyes bright. Not in that polite, polished way for cameras, but in the way you remember from middle school—when she fell off the jungle gym and laughed before she even hit the ground.
And you realize… she fits here.
A little too well.
Like she’s always belonged in the quiet lull between candy jars and nosy neighbours. Like maybe this week off wasn’t a random break, but a breadcrumb trail back to something she forgot she needed.
Later that night, you’re both back at the shop.
She’s lounging at the back table again, sipping warm barley tea, while you log sales for the day. The numbers are ridiculous. You glare at her from behind your laptop.
“You made more money for me in two days than I did in a whole month,” you say flatly.
“I accept my payment in roasted rice crackers and lifelong bragging rights.”
You throw her one from the snack shelf. She catches it easily, smirking.
You watch her for a moment. The way she sits so comfortably in this space, even after years of stages and screaming crowds. The way she hums under her breath without realizing it.
“Hey,” you say softly. “You really okay out here in the middle of nowhere?”
She looks up. Meets your eyes.
“Yeah,” she says after a second. “It's nice.”
And somehow, it would be nice to have her here with you too.
-
The next morning, you woke up to birds chirping way too cheerily for someone who spent all night boiling malt candy until their soul nearly evaporated. You barely cracked your eyes open before tossing a hoodie over your head, grabbing a cooler, and jogging to her place and banging on Dami’s dorm door like the tax collector.
She groaned from the other side. “It’s not even 9 am.”
“Exactly. Prime beach hour. Let’s go.”
You didn’t wait for her to protest.
Half an hour later, you were both trudging across soft sand, you with your cooler slung over your shoulder, and Dami squinting at the ocean like it personally owed her money.
“What are we doing here?” she muttered.
“Shut up and relax,” you said, tossing her a can from the cooler. “That’s an order.”
She looked down at the cold beer in her hand, eyebrow raised. “Is this really allowed?”
“Do you see cops?”
“No—wait, actually, that guy over there—”
“That’s a fisherman, Yubin.”
“Same energy.”
You rolled your eyes and sat down first, your legs stretched out toward the water. The tide was lazy today, dragging the foam in and out like it was breathing. Beside you, Dami plopped down with a sigh so dramatic it could've won an award.
Then she opened the can.
And for the first time in days—maybe weeks, maybe months—she really breathed.
The kind that filled her lungs, her chest, her ribs. Not just the automatic inhales for survival. No, this one was different. Deep. Slow. Like she hadn’t realized how little air she’d been taking in until now.
Her eyes drifted toward the horizon. “God… it’s quiet here.”
You cracked your own beer open with a soft hiss. “That’s why the shop is here.”
She sipped. Then again. “This might be the best thing I’ve tasted all year.”
You nudged her shoulder with yours. “It’s not the beer. It’s peace, Yubin.”
“Cringe.”
You both laughed. But then, slowly, it settled. The silence. The soft rhythm of waves brushing the shore. The clink of aluminium as your cans tapped the ground.
And her voice came quieter this time. Less of a joke. “I’ve been thinking.”
“You think?”
"Shush, you." She ignored you. “What if I didn’t go back?”
You blinked. “To Seoul?”
She nodded, eyes still on the sea. “To that life. Schedules. Spotlights. Deadlines. Everyone watching everything I do… waiting for the next thing to eat me alive.”
You stayed quiet. Let her talk.
“I could stay,” she said softly. “Here. In the countryside. Wake up when I want. Help out. Run a small café maybe. Or just… nothing at all. Isn’t that enough?”
You took a slow sip. “You’re drunk.”
“I’ve had three sips.”
“Exactly. Drunk. Aren't you lightweighted?”
She turned to look at you fully now. “I’m serious.”
So were you. Because you leaned in just a little, reached out, and smacked her on the head.
Harder than you meant to.
She yelped. “What the hell?!”
“You don’t get to say that like it’s simple,” you snapped. “Like you’re just tired of singing and poof—you’re gone. You worked your whole life for this. And now what? You want to throw it away because you got a week off and tasted quiet?”
Her expression shifted. Something between hurt and frustration. “You think it’s that easy for me to let go? You think I haven’t been thinking about it for months? Every single day? When I wake up feeling hollow, go to sleep feeling watched, smile until my jaw hurts because someone says I’m their happiness and I don’t even know how to find mine anymore?!”
You froze.
The beach didn’t.
Waves kept folding into themselves. The wind teased your sleeves. The gulls cried like nothing had happened.
But something had.
“…Yubin.”
She shook her head, looking away. “I’m tired,” she said again. “Really tired. And I know I joke about retiring, but it’s not a joke anymore. I want to stop. And this place… this stupid, quiet, peaceful place… it’s the first time I felt like I could breathe.”
You stared at her. At the way her fingers curled around the can like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. At the sea salt sticking to her lashes. At the familiar slouch of her shoulders—the one you remember from middle school, when the world was too much even then.
And you got it.
Of course you got it.
You just hated that you got it.
“…Then stay,” you said finally. Your voice barely louder than the tide. “But don’t stay just because it’s easier. Stay because it’s right. Stay because this is where you heal, not where you hide.”
She didn’t answer for a while. But she didn’t move either.
The beer grew warm in your hands. A breeze passed, cool and calm. And the sun, despite everything, kept rising.
-
You knew she was leaving the moment she woke up early without you knocking.
The sun wasn’t even up yet, just that soft grey light smudging the edge of the sky. You were already at the shop, brewing tea and boxing up the last batch of barley and chestnut candies from the night before. Dami came in, hair still a little damp from the quick shower you assumed she took to hide the puffiness in her eyes.
You didn’t say anything.
Just slid over the warm cup.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
You smiled. “So. You’re ditching me.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Like you didn’t say yesterday that I shouldn’t stay just to hide.”
“I meant it. Still doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
Dami smiled into her cup.
The next hour passed the same way the last few days had—quiet banter, easy rhythm, sugar and wrappers and sweet scents hanging in the air. Except now, the silence had a ticking clock beneath it. You felt it in every glance. Every pause.
When the bell above the door jingled, you looked up mid-wrap and nearly dropped the entire tray.
Because walking into your shop was Dreamcatcher’s Jiu In the flesh. And not just her—soon behind came a few more heads peeking in. Siyeon waved politely. Yoohyeon smiled wide and said, “Ooh! It smells good in here!” like it was a surprise your candy shop did what it said on the tin.
You blinked at them. Then turned to Dami with your most exaggerated fake scowl. “So this is the kind of company you’ve been keeping, huh? Surrounded by literal beauties while I’ve been over here stirring malt syrup and burning my fingers.”
Dami, bless her, turned a shade redder than the strawberry jellies. “Shut up,” she muttered.
You grinned.
“Seriously though,” you leaned back, arms crossed, “you didn’t tell me they are this pretty. Makes me feel like the ugly duckling.”
JiU chuckled as she stepped further in. “You must be the friend she wouldn’t shut up about all week.”
You shrugged. “Guilty.”
There was a calm in Dami’s expression now. The quiet kind of peace that comes after a storm. After words were said and decisions were made. She helped you pack the final tin of candies—her batch, the ones she kept burning the first day until she learned how to mix in rhythm with yours.
You handed it to her.
“This is for the road,” you said softly. “Don’t eat them all in one go. Maybe share with your unnies if they behave.”
Dami took it. Her hands lingered against yours just a second too long.
Then she hugged you.
Not quick. Not awkward. Not half-hearted.
No, she buried herself into your hoodie, arms tight around your middle, like she was trying to memorize the way you felt. Like if she let go too soon, she’d forget how you laughed when she burned her first sugar pull. Or the way you dragged her to the beach and told her to breathe like it mattered.
And it did. It mattered more than she’d ever say aloud.
“…You sure?” you whispered.
Her answer came against your chest, muffled and soft. “Yeah. I think I gotta come back.”
You nodded, even if she couldn’t see it.
Even if some part of you screamed to hold on.
“Just know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “if you ever wanna come back—not just for a week, not just for candy—you’ve got a place.”
She looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy but smiling. “You’d take me in like a stray cat?”
“I’d exploit you like an unpaid intern again.”
She smacked your arm. “You’re the worst.”
“You hugged me for a full minute, dummy.”
“Shut up. You're lucky you're cute.”
"Wait huh-" Before you could question, she playfully pushed you back and walked out, ignoring the blushes crept to her cheeks.
The others waved their goodbyes, polite and sweet, as Dami stepped outside. The car door shut with a gentle click, and just like that—she was driving off, a blur of black van and sunlight catching on the windshield.
You stood there for a while.
Letting the silence settle. Ignoring the tears left your eyes.
Letting the wind carry away whatever she left behind.
The candy shop was quieter now. But your fingers still smelled like sugar, and your chest still felt full.
Because sometimes, even goodbyes can taste sweet.
Especially when you know it’s not the last one. Just… not yet. Not today.
Maybe you will actually tell her next time she comes back.
