#dino fluff

You tuck your face into his chest so no one will recognize you in case you get caught.

"Nothing exciting. Groceries and sleep," another says. "You?"

Chan's chest rises and falls rapidly. You rest a hand on top of his heart and rub your thumb along his shirt. Gradually, his heartbeat slows a fraction.

You smile into his chest while he presses a silent kiss to your head. His hands rub your waist as you both listen to the footsteps pause.

"Pretty much the same except I have to visit my sister too," the first one replies with a laugh.

"What's up with your sister?" the other asks. There's a clunking sound, and you figure one of them got something from the vending machine.

"It's her birthday."

"Ah, wish her a happy birthday for me."

"Will d…"

Their voices and footsteps fade slowly as they leave.

A full minute passes until Chan releases a deep breath. You peer up at him for the first time, and despite having been in a precarious situation, a small giggle escapes your lips. A rush of excitement and fondness floods your body. There's always a thrill of doing something forbidden, and kissing your idol coworker definitely falls under that category.

Chan smiles and joins in your soft laughter.

"You're so cute," he murmurs while reaching out to cup your cheeks. He pulls you close and slots his lips with yours. It's embarrassing how quickly you melt into his muscular body. You hold onto his wrists to keep yourself upright.

"Congratulations, Channie," you whisper after you pull away for air.

"My number one supporter." He kisses you again. Slow, deep, and knee-buckling.

"I dunno about that," you respond. There are his brothers and his fans who cheer him on just as much as you.

"I do," he says. "And to say thanks, how about a date this weekend, baby?"

"Don't you have practice?" you wonder, sliding your hands up his arms to circle his neck.

"I do, but I'd still like to take you somewhere," he says.

"If you insist," you say, "but I'm treating you!"

Chan shakes his head and rubs his thumb along your bottom lip. "You can treat me with more kisses."

"That doesn't count!"

"Well, there's no way I'm letting these pretty hands"—he grabs your hands from around his neck—"touch your wallet. Not when I'm around."

You roll your eyes playfully. "We'll see."

Chan laughs and looks at you challengingly.

"We will," he says, followed by a short kiss. "We'd better get back now. I'll wait a bit before I come in."

You nod, then slip from the shadows.

By the time Chan comes back, the rest of the members are waiting to give a final thanks to their fans.

"Dino!" Seokmin exclaims.

"Sorry," Chan answers and joins his team on the corner.

Soonyoung grabs him around the shoulders and shuffles him in frame. He hugs his brother affectionately.

"You didn't get lost, did you?" he teases the youngest.

Chan smiles and shakes his head. "No. Just had to celebrate with something sweet."

"Did you eat it already? Was it good?" Wonwoo asks.

For a second, Chan's eyes snag on yours from across the room. The mischievous glint in his eyes has your cheeks warming before he even speaks.

Chan smiles. "It was really good."

Taglist: @christinewithluv, @lockburn-castle, @maknae00, @morklee02, @kittyhui, @aeerio, @cherrylovescheol, @toplinehyunjin, @verogonewild, @livelaughloveseventeen, @shinwonderful, @gyuguys

or maybe you're still groveling a little bit for forgetting his birthday. he'd been hurt about it, sure, but he'd forgiven you after you surprised him with breakfast (and, maybe more importantly, the genuine apology that came attached to it). over the past week, you've been doing everything you can to make it up for him... and only recently let it slip that seungkwan yelled at you for forgetting. which, chan knowing his friends, did lead to him asking seungkwan exactly what he said to you.

your smile falls a little, and he knows you're beating yourself up more than you need to be. "he was. i just--"

"you've never been good with dates and you said your boss has been hounding you," he says. "i should have known something was wrong when you didn't say anything. i'm not mad anymore." he reaches out, taking your hand. "i mean it."

"still, i should have seen my reminder--"

"i love you," he says firmly, squeezing your hand. "and if i was upset, i'd tell you."

you pout a little, but take his hand so that you can kiss his knuckles before letting go. "i'm surprised seungkwan's the only friend i've heard from."

chan just smiles, ignoring the fact that his entire group chat was lit up with different reactions when he dropped the 'i think they forgot my birthday' text. it was a mixed bag between anger (seungkwan, mainly) and a few genuinely worried reactions before jihoon sent a single text telling chan to talk to you before he worked himself up any further.

"hey." you say, softly. "i'm sorry."

he frowns at you. "don't look so sad or i'm going to have to fight seungkwan for hurting your feelings. i don't know if i could take him if he's still mad."

something about that earns a soft chuckle from you, and chan smiles in turn at finally lightening your mood. "alright. i don't wanna ruin your night anymore." you let out a sigh. "but if you end up not liking this place... we can go wherever you want."

he'll take you up on that. "i love you," he says. "i'm setting an alarm for you on our anniversary."

He knew the exact moment you walked into the apartment. At this point, it was as if he had a sixth sense for your presence, a Y/N sense, if he had to name it.

Not that it was hard to tell when you did, since every face in the room turned the moment you walked in. Most people already knew who you were, and those who didn’t? Well, their expressions made it very clear: they were dying to find out.

There was this energy about you that demanded attention, even when you weren’t trying. It wasn’t just the way you carried yourself—though that certainly played a part—it was the way people gravitated toward you, their eyes lingering, their conversations subtly shifting as if they were waiting for you to say something, to do something.

And he, well, he had always been attuned to it. To you. Even before he truly understood why.

Tonight, when you walked through the doors of his apartment looking absolutely breathtaking, Chan felt his head spin. It could have been the ten shots of tequila he’d been forced to drink after losing some random game against Yeonjun a couple of minutes ago, but he knew it wasn’t.

That was simply the effect you’d had on him since the day he first laid eyes on you during orientation day, two years ago. You had been in charge of welcoming the freshmen to their dorm building, and when you smiled at him like he was the most important guy there, he was a goner.

Of course, he knew you were probably just doing your job as a sophomore, but still, your smile had been stuck in his mind ever since.

“Pathetic,” he heard Seungkwan’s voice, followed by a slap on the back of his head.

Chan barely flinched, too busy pressed against the wall watching you every move as you wave through the crowded room like you owned the place. For him, in a way, you did. You weren’t loud about it, didn’t strut around making a scene, but there was an undeniable pull to you, one that made people shift to make space, one that had them leaning in, hoping for even a sliver of your attention.

And him? He was no better than the rest of them.

He tore his gaze away just long enough to shoot Seungkwan — who was looking at him like he was the saddest excuse for a man to ever exist — a glare. Vernon was right beside him, looking high enough to be in another dimension, and yet, was still wearing the same expression as the eldest of the three. 

“What?”

Seungkwan sighed dramatically, crossing his arms. “You look like a lovesick puppy. Again.”

It was no secret to anyone that Lee Chan had a huge, enormous and gigantic crush on you. If he was being honest, by this point, it was a surprise you didn’t know—which he had some doubts—, since he wasn’t exactly very skilled at hiding it.

Not that he was openly hitting on you whenever he had the chance, because that was far from his reality. Very far, really. He had never done so and whenever he had a chance to be near you or participate in the same conversation as you, he would turn just as red as the lipstick you were wearing tonight, not to mention the stuttering he didn’t even know he had. 

It was a mess. He was a mess. 

Not that he would admit that to Seungkwan, anyway. 

Chan scoffed, forcing himself to straighten up. “I do not look like a lovesick puppy.”

Seungkwan snorted. “Yeah, and I’m a backing vocal for Beyoncé.”

“You do,” Vernon stated, deadpanned. “Mingi just asked me if you were okay because, and I quote, ‘Chan looks like he just got hit by a truck.’”

Yeah, he was that obvious.

He watched as Seungkwan tilted his head to the side, nudging him with his elbow. “Chan-ah, are you seriously gonna spend the rest of your college years pining after this girl?”

His face flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration tugging at him. Chan opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he wasn’t pining? That he wasn’t completely, utterly, hopelessly gone for you? Even he wasn’t delusional enough to deny it.

Seungkwan, apparently sensing his internal struggle, let out a long-suffering sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

Chan scowled, lifting his drink to his lips only to hide his face and Vernon chuckled, clearly enjoying the way his younger friend was unraveling under the pressure of their teasing.

“Just go talk to her,” he said, voice slow and lazy. “She doesn’t bite, dude.”

“Easy for you to say,” Chan muttered, his eyes flickering back to you, who were now chatting with your friends in the corner. “She’s your friend.”

Oh yeah, there was also this little detail: you were Vernon’s classmate. 

Not only were you both seniors, you were also majoring in the same program, meaning you shared the vast majority of your classes. Chan knew you were in the same study group and that you were paired up for most of the projects, which had led to a friendship that he very much envied.

You might think that having a mutual friend would make things easier for him, but you’d be completely wrong. Soon he discovered that Vernon wasn’t willing to help. Not because he didn’t believe Chan had a chance with you, but because he insisted that Chan should grow a pair and talk to you himself.

Which of course, he had already shown incapability of doing so thousands of times. 

Seungkwan clicked his tongue. “You really are pathetic.”

“Hyung—” Chan groaned.

“I mean, come on,” his eldest friend cut him off, trying to finish his point. “You can deadlift three plates but you can’t say one sentence to a girl you like?”

Chan glared at him again. “That is not the same thing.”

“Yeah, one requires actual effort,” Vernon added, scoffing.

By now, he was used to all the teasing from his friends. It didn’t keep him from wanting to strangle them any less though. 

Either way, there wasn’t much he could do. It wasn’t just about the amount of courage he had or how much effort he put into it; crushing on you for the last two years had felt like playing a game he was destined to lose. Even though in the deepest desires of his mind he was your boyfriend, that role was already filled by someone much older than him.

A Marine dude, apparently. His name? Chan didn’t care. 

Not only was he the luckiest dude on the planet by having you as his girl, he was also tall, strong and a walking definition of everything Chan wasn’t: confident, assertive, and the complete opposite of the shy mess he’d been around you since day one. He would probably kill Chan if he could peek into his brain and see all the dreams he had about you over the years. 

The guy also irritated the fuck out of him. Something about his attitude, his hundred tattoos, the fact that he was probably three times his height and the way he marked his territory by walking you to every class, every day. Like, damn, dude, we get it, she’s yours. At least let the rest of us appreciate the divine gift the universe sent us by looking at her.

Every time Chan saw him, he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of the competition. The worst part? You didn’t seem happy with him and everyone knew it. And even though it was clear from every word and every look that you were completely unaware of Chan’s feelings, the thought of you with someone else — someone like him — made his insides twist in ways he didn’t know he could feel.

“She has a boyfriend,” Chan finally said, feeling the bitter taste on the tip of his tongue as he did. 

“So?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow. “I don’t see him here. Do you?”

He directed his last question to Vernon, who just shrugged and shook his head. “Nope.”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes darting toward you again. Sure enough, there was no sign of your boyfriend. Not that he was about to get his hopes up. He had enough self-awareness to know he was probably just grasping at straws, because even if he never existed at all, Chan still wasn’t sure he’d have the guts to walk up to you.

“Look, man,” Seungkwan stared again, breaking through his dark thoughts. “You’ve gotta stop comparing yourself to him. You’re Lee Chan. You have a million things going for you, and besides…” He paused for effect. “You’re way better looking.”

“Thanks for the support,” Chan replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Seriously, dude,” Vernon chimed in. “You’re smart, funny, and way more likable than that guy. You just need to show her that.”

Chan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “It's not that simple, guys.”

“It is that simple,” Seungkwan shot back. “You’re making it complicated.”

Before Chan could argue, the music shifted, the bass thrumming through the floorboards, and a new wave of partygoers stumbled in, laughing and chattering loudly. His attention snapped back to you, just in time to see you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your lips curling into a soft smile at something one of your friends said. The sight alone made his pulse quicken.

Then, as if you could feel his eyes on you, your gaze flickered up and locked onto his.

He froze.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t just a glance that skimmed over the room, landing on him by chance. No, this was intentional. You looked at him like you had known he was there all along, like you’d expected to find him in that exact spot, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand and his friends at his side.

And then, as if to send him straight into cardiac arrest, your lips — marked by the most beautiful shade of red he had ever seen — curved into a smile.

For a split second, it felt like the entire world blurred, muffled voices fading into static. Your eyes lingered, holding his in a way that sent a rush of heat down his spine. Then—just as quickly as it happened—, you turned back to your friends, your fingers wrapping around the red cup in your hand and leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.

He was sure he had just checked off a box on the list of clichés where the lovestruck fool forgets how to breathe. His fingers tightened around the cup in his hand, his heartbeat hammering so loudly he was certain Seungkwan and Vernon could hear it.

Chan looked away just a second before he heard, “She’s coming over,” announced Vernon, and for once, his voice didn’t sound amused. It sounded almost surprised.

He blinked, breaking free from whatever trance he had fallen into. “What?”

Seungkwan’s hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him once. “She. Is. Coming. Over.”

He barely had a second to react before you started making your way through the crowd, weaving between bodies with practiced ease, heading straight toward them. The air in the room seemed to thicken with every step you took in his direction, and though he told himself to stay cool, to not let it show, he knew the battle was already lost. His grip tightened, his pulse a frantic rhythm beneath his skin.

Seungkwan shifted beside him. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he muttered, half under his breath.

“Act normal,” he whispered to himself. Or at least he thought so. 

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Vernon mumbled. 

Chan shot him a glare, but before he could tell his friend to shut the hell up, you were there, standing right in front of him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of your perfume, something so sweet and heady that made his head spin.

“Hello, boys,” you greeted them, your voice light but with a touch of something so soft and delicate that made his breath catch.

Trying to play it cool, Chan swallowed hard as he forced himself to meet your gaze. Up close, you were even more mesmerizing, your eyes alight with something he couldn’t quite place, the corners of your lips curving into the kind of smile that made his stomach flip.

“Hey,” he managed to say collectively with the other two, his voice steadier than he felt.

Beside him, Seungkwan looked like he was barely restraining himself from narrating the entire interaction like he was watching some kind of reality TV show on Netflix: Lee Chan’s Inferno, the live show. 

Your eyes flickered between the three of them briefly before settling back on Chan. 

“Nice party,” you said, flashing them a smile as you nodded towards the crowd of people scattered around their apartment. “Full house, I’ve been told.”

It was the first party the three of them had thrown since Vernon and Seungkwan became seniors and he a junior. They hadn’t expected it to be a great success, but judging by the number of people in their apartment right at that moment, it seemed they had been wrong.

“Thanks,” they chorused in perfect unison. You let out a small laugh, raising your eyebrows in curiosity. 

“Are you guys okay? What are you drinking?” He knew you weren’t just talking to him, but Chan was pretty sure his soul was leaving his body slowly but surely. “I know for a fact Hansol is just as high as Namsan Tower.” 

It wasn’t just that you were standing in front of him, looking every bit like you walked straight out of his dream, it was the way you were looking at him. Like you were actually interested in what he had to say, like he wasn’t just another person in this house, and like you weren’t effortlessly stealing the air from his lungs.  

Meanwhile, his brain? Completely fried.

Your laugh—soft, amused and way too pretty—sent something dangerously warm through his chest. You tilted your head to the side, as if you were analyzing his face. 

“What’s your name?”

His world seemed to stop for a second.

Even though the two of you weren’t close, or even friends, he was sure you knew his name. I mean, Vernon was one of his best friends. You were Vernon’s friend. You knew his name… right?

This was the worst possible scenario. The girl he had a crush on bigger than the entire Asian continent didn’t know his name? Yeah. The ground could open up and swallow him whole right now, and he wouldn’t even fight it.

This couldn’t be happening.

“You don’t know my name?” He didn’t even know he could finish a whole sentence around you, let alone a question, his voice somehow steady despite the absolute horror pooling in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Seungkwan and Vernon exchanging a surprised and amused look, definitely holding back laughter.

“Oh, I know your name, Channie.” Your lips twitched, like you were trying not to laugh. “Just making sure you're still sober enough to remember it.”

Chan felt his face heat up instantly, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over him all at once, brain barely registering the sweet way you said his name. Seungkwan outright cackled, slapping his knee, while Vernon just shook his head with a knowing smirk.

“Oh.” Was all Chan managed to say at first, his brain short-circuiting at the way you looked at him, teasing, confident, completely in control of the situation. “Chan. Lee Chan.”

You tilted your head, clearly enjoying his reaction. “Good.”

Suddenly, Chan was painfully aware of how close you were. Close enough that he could count the faint shimmer of highlight on your cheekbone, see the way your lashes fluttered when your gaze briefly flickered down to his mouth? No. He had to be imagining that. Maybe he had had a little too much tequila. Maybe it was time to put his cup down, go to his bedroom and sleep.

He blinked. Then, realized he had been silent for far too long. 

“I—uh—” he started, then immediately hated himself for it. He could already feel the tips of his ears getting hot from how red they possibly were.

“He’s fine,” Seungkwan answered for him. “We’re all fine.”

You just smiled again, that knowing, unreadable smile that sent Chan’s pulse into overdrive. “If you say so.”

Vernon cleared his throat. “So, uh…” he was clearly trying to fill the awkward silence that Chan had created. “Are you having fun?”

“I just got here, actually,” you said, taking a slow sip from your cup. They already knew that, yet they nodded anyway. “But everyone else seems to be having a lot of fun.”

The four of you glanced around the packed apartment, noting also the constant flow of guests coming and going through the front door. Some faces were familiar to Chan, ones he had seen somewhere on campus, while others were completely new. The living room was almost unrecognizable with the couch pushed aside to make room for a dance floor. A mini bar had been set up in one corner with beer and even more booze filled the kitchen for those who wanted specific things. 

Everywhere he looked, people were jumping, grinding, kissing, chatting animatedly, smoking and drinking, while plastic cups littered the floor alongside crushed cigarette butts, joints, and scattered snacks trampled underfoot. Chan was so absorbed in your presence that he didn’t even think about the mess he’d eventually have to clean up after the party was over. 

The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat and perfume, and honestly, Chan was surprised none of the neighbors had called the police yet. Sure, the homecoming parties that were happening around campus this time of year were always packed, but this one was on another level, and he felt very proud of it.

The music thumped steadily, neon lights casting shifting colors over the crowd. Then Seungkwan threw out another question for you, so casually that Chan almost missed his intention. “Did you come alone?”

“Well, I came with Nayoung and Dahyun,” you replied, shrugging. “But I lost them somewhere by coming here to talk to you guys.”

Seungkwan shot Chan a look—one that screamed don’t mess this up—before turning back to you with a knowing smile. “Ah, so you chose to be here with us instead of running off to find them?”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I guess I did.”

Chan, who had been determinedly sipping his drink to avoid making a fool of himself, nearly choked. His mind latched onto your words like they meant something far deeper than casual conversation.

Seungkwan smirked. “Makes sense. We’re a great company.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“So your boyfriend’s…” Vernon trailed off.

“Not here.”

The words slipped out of your mouth like a subtle declaration, and just like that, Chan felt the weight of it. Your boyfriend wasn’t here. For some reason, the confirmation made him feel a little lighter, though he knew that was dangerous territory. 

He had no right to feel relieved. You weren’t his, after all.

Seungkwan raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Really? No boyfriend? That’s new.”

You shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by his teasing tone. “He’s busy with something, I guess.” 

You glanced down briefly, scratching behind your ear before your eyes flicked over to Chan again, catching his gaze for a fraction of a second before he quickly looked away, embarrassed by the sudden spike in his heartbeat. 

“Ohhh,” Seungkwan dragged out, exchanging another look with Vernon. “So you’re free to enjoy the night however you want.”

You let out a hum, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words. “I suppose so.”

Chan took another sip of his drink, trying to play it cool once again, but his grip was a little too tight around the cup. His mind was running a mile per minute, filled with thoughts he probably shouldn’t be having.

“You seem awfully interested in that drink.” You pointed to his cup, raising a curious eyebrow and shifting your weight to one leg, one hand resting on your hip. “What are you drinking?”

Chan glanced down at the red cup in his hand like he’d never seen it before. In truth, he had no idea what was in it, he’d grabbed it off the counter earlier when someone shoved it at him, too distracted by your presence to care.

“Uh…” He swirled the liquid inside, like that would magically tell him what it was. “Something… alcoholic?”

Seungkwan groaned beside him. “Wow. Smooth.”

You chuckled, the corner of your lips quirking up. “That’s very specific, Channie.”

Chan nearly choked. The way you said his name so casually, so effortlessly, made his brain short-circuit again. 

Everything he wished for — right after you, of course — was that he had scientific explanations for the way his body and brain reacted to your actions and words. And even then, maybe it wouldn’t be enough for him. 

I mean, Chan was a popular guy. A lot of people knew him around the campus. Hell, he was the current best dancer on the program since Xu Minghao had graduated, packing the school theater every time he performed, and he also wasn’t exactly unknown among girls; he wasn’t particularly proud of it, but he had a reputation.

So why was it that, whenever he was around you, he acted like a complete loser?

It was a case to be studied closely and for days, perhaps years.

Seungkwan, probably sensing that Chan was never going to get a full sentence out at this rate, answered for him. “Tequila. Too much tequila. Yeonjun was bullying him a little.”

At the mention of Yeonjun, you hummed in amusement, your lips pressing together like you were holding back a laugh. Then, without warning, you reached forward and plucked the cup from his hands, bringing it to your lips for a sip. You pulled a slight face at the taste, but to Chan’s absolute horror (and delight), you took another small sip before handing the cup back to him.

“Sounds about right,” you mused, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb. “And how’s that going for you?”

Chan blinked. 

“Oh, you know…” he forced out, voice slightly rougher than intended, “just trying to stay upright.”

It was a miracle. He had managed to form a coherent sentence.

You laughed, and Chan felt like he had just been hit with a wave of relief. The sound was like music to his ears. “Well, that’s an important skill to have.”

Seungkwan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like pathetic, but Chan was too busy trying to figure out if you were just being nice or if there was something more behind your words.

“So…” you mused, drawing out the word as if weighing it in your mind. “You having fun?”

Fun. Right. That was why he was here. “Uh. Yeah. It’s a party, so… yeah.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That convincing, huh?”

Chan cleared his throat, trying to wrest away the heat creeping up his neck. “I mean, yeah. I’m having fun.” He nodded a little too enthusiastically as if trying to convince both of you.

You just hummed, unconvinced, tilting your head just slightly. The way your eyes scanned his face sent his brain into overdrive. Was he being obvious? Did you know?

But before he could embarrass himself further, the speakers erupted with the unmistakable intro of Livin’ On A Prayer by Bon Jovi, and the entire room burst into excited screams. Just like you, who threw your head back and let out a moan of happiness.

Chan was certain he felt his entire body shiver at the sound, his mind drifting to places it definitely shouldn’t. He was pretty sure he was already halfway to living on a prayer. 

“I love this song,” you said, eyes lighting up and a smile so radiant it nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Two seconds later, and before any of them could say anything, Dahyun called your name from across the room. “Come dance with us.”

You turned your head slightly, offering her a small nod of acknowledgment before looking back at them.

“I have to go.” You pointed with your thumb over your shoulder at your friend like they haven’t seen her there, shattering Chan’s dream of spending more than ten minutes near you. “See you guys around.”

His heart sank a little at your departure, the moment slipping away faster than he could grasp it. He opened his mouth, almost as if to protest, but the words never made it past his lips. He was still fumbling, unsure of what to say or do in this kind of situation.

But then you gave him one last smile—quick, but enough to leave him breathless—and started to turn away. You took a few steps forward, then stopped, turning around and staring directly at him; not at him, Vernon and Seungkwan, just him. 

“I love your shirt, by the way.”

And just like that, you were gone, moving through the crowd again, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and his mind reeling, staring in astonishment at the Kurt Cobain shirt he was wearing.

Seungkwan snorted beside him, pulling him out of his daze. “You’re hopeless.”

Chan, still staring after you, muttered, “I know.”

You had disappeared from the party half an hour ago, using the excuse of heading to the bathroom, only to end up on the balcony of one of the bedrooms with an unlocked door.

To be honest, you weren’t really in the mood for partying tonight, but after Nayoung and Dahyun insisted so much on getting you out of your room, despite your repeated insistence that you weren’t affected at all by the recent events in your life, you eventually agreed to join them.

So far, it had been a lot of fun; you’d danced with your friends, played beer pong and pool with people you didn’t even know and a couple of people you did know. But when everyone decided it was time to start a game of seven minutes in heaven, you knew it was time to get away, especially since the only person you wanted to kiss wasn’t in the circle and was clearly avoiding you, as he always did.

That person was currently somewhere in the living room, probably laughing at something his friends said, or even kissing someone in the coat closet, completely unaware of how much space he took up in your thoughts.

With a sigh, you sat down at the railing, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. The music from the party thumped through the walls, muffled but still loud enough to remind you of the chaos inside. You were fine with missing the game, better than sitting there, pretending you wouldn’t feel a pang of jealousy if someone else pulled his name. 

That last one, of course, was a scenario you created in your own head where he decided to show up and play just because the universe hated you that much. 

You weren’t even sure when it had started, this thing. The way your eyes always searched for him in a crowd, the way your heart did that stupid little skip whenever he smiled at you, especially at times when he didn't seem to realize he was smiling. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to make itself known and now was the perfect opportunity for it, considering all circumstances. 

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed the door creak open behind you until the warmth of another presence filled the space.

“I was wondering where you disappeared to.”

It was nearly two in the morning when Chan finally decided he’d had enough of the party. You had disappeared a while ago to God-knows-where, and even though your friends were still in the living room playing seven minutes in heaven, he was pretty sure you’d gone home without them. Your boyfriend had probably swung by to pick you up at some point—like he always did—and Chan miraculously hadn't noticed.

All night long, he had watched you from afar, dancing and playing games with his friends. You were laughing with Vernon, teasing Seungkwan, and even giving Yeonjun a hard time. You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there somehow. But every time his gaze lingered on you, he felt that familiar twist in his stomach. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly, but the kind of longing that made his chest tighten in a way that hurt.

You were surrounded by his friends, sure, but in his mind, you were still just very much out of reach.

Now, Chan was exhausted, tired of feeling like a failure for not having the courage to approach you, even just to start a conversation. He hadn’t taken Vernon’s advice, hadn’t shown you how much better he could be than your boyfriend. So, instead of dwelling on it any longer, he simply said goodbye to everyone and headed to his bedroom.

After cursing himself for forgetting to lock the door, Chan headed inside, silently thanking the universe that no one was there. Everything was in place, neat and undisturbed, clearly showing it hadn’t been used as a place for a couple to make out, or worse. After finally locking the door behind him, he sat on the edge of the bed, calmly taking off his shoes as he recapped the night in his head.

He sighed, lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Seungkwan was right: this was getting pathetic, really. He had talked to people all night, joked around, even had a decent time despite the chaos around the apartment. But when it came to you, his heart always raced in a way that made him second-guess every single move.

He was such a big fool.

A fool for you, apparently.

For a brief moment, Chan watched as the long curtains that divided the room from the balcony swayed in the wind, revealing a figure sitting on the railing.

When the fabric shifted again, his breath caught in his throat. It was unmistakably you perched on the balcony railing with your legs dangling over the edge, one hand resting casually against your knee. Even under the dim glow from the city lights below, he knew that silhouette by heart. He didn’t know how long you had been out there, but seeing you, calm and distant and seemingly lost in thought, entirely unaware of him, rooted him to the spot.

He hesitated. Again.

The cool night air slipped into the room, sweeping the curtains aside and making them billow like they were inviting him forward. For a brief moment, Chan considered staying put, convincing himself that you probably just needed some space, some quiet time away from the party. But the thought of you sitting out there by yourself pulled at him, tightening something deep in his chest. It felt like the universe was placing a second chance right in front of him, daring him not to waste it this time.

Before he could overthink, before doubt could drag him back down, Chan pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room toward the balcony.

He reached the balcony door quietly, not wanting to startle you. The breeze hit his face as he stepped outside, the sound of music and laughter from the party still faintly echoing in the distance. Chan took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, but it was hard when you were so close, when all it took was one glance to unravel him completely.

You looked like an angel sitting there, and his brain nearly short-circuited when he noticed you were wearing the hoodie he had left on the chair earlier that day.

Chan never really liked people invading his space — especially his room — and even less so when they were uninvited. If it had been anyone else, he probably would have kicked them out on the spot. But this was you. Not only did it not bother him, but he found himself loving the sight of you in his clothes. 

“I was wondering where you disappeared to.”

You turned your head at the sound of his voice, blinking in surprise at his appearance. “Chan?”

The way your voice sounded when you said his name — disbelieving — made it seem like you were the one wondering if he was real, not the other way around. And he couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Hey,” Chan managed to say, words just loud enough to be heard over the distant music. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, offering a small smile. “Yeah. Just needed a break. Parties aren’t really my thing.”

Chan hesitated for a beat before leaning against the railing beside you. His posture was a little stiff, like even though it was his bedroom, he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there, intruding on your moment alone. Yet, somehow, your presence made him and the space feel calmer.

“I get it,” he said quietly, his gaze shifting down to the street below. “I kind of feel the same way sometimes. All the noise, all the people, it’s a lot.”

You chuckled softly, turning slightly toward him. “You? A dance major?”

He really wanted to use this opportunity with you to make a good impression and follow his friends’ advice. But when he looked at you again, his brain went into a tailspin trying to process the way his hoodie looked on you, as if they’d been made for you just as much as for him.

Still, Chan forced himself to get the words out.

“Yeah. Well, dancing is… different,” he admitted, glancing at you with a small, almost sheepish smile. “It’s loud, sure, but it makes sense, you know? It’s the kind of noise I can control.”

You hummed in understanding, swinging your legs slightly. “And parties?”

“Not so much.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the distant music from the party below blending with the rustling trees. The longer Chan stood beside you, the more his nerves settled, though that didn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest. He had spent so long watching you from a distance, convinced that any moment spent too close would give him away. And yet here you were, wrapped in his hoodie, on his bedroom balcony, as if you belonged there.

Chan opened his mouth, but nothing came out, as usual. He was already surprised that he had managed to form other sentences before, since his brain was still trying to catch up with everything that’s happening.

God, you were standing in his bedroom—his bedroom—at two in the morning.

He couldn’t help but wonder if you had any idea what you did to him with just a small action. 

You shifted a bit, looking at him out of the corner of your eye, the breeze tugging at your hair while you analyzed his well-defined profile.

You’d known Chan and his friends long enough to recognize their signature chaos. They moved like a unit, very loud, unfiltered, and unapologetically themselves. Each one matching and amplifying the other’s quirks without a single trace of embarrassment. It was refreshing. Maybe that was why you liked being around them so much; they weren’t like the typical guys you met on this campus.

Every now and then, you’d end up hanging out with one of them. Sometimes it was Vernon, your friend, your classmate, basically unavoidable. Other times it was Seungkwan, who somehow knew everyone and always drifted into whatever group you were in.

Lee Chan, however, was the one you barely ever heard speak. You could never tell if he was always that quiet… or if he just became that way around you. You suspected it was the last one.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” The question left you in a light tone, trying to keep the mood casual, though there was an underlying curiosity in your voice.

Chan laughed under his breath, running a hand through his hair, a little embarrassed but still amused by it. He scrambled for words, anything to not look like a complete idiot. “I—uh. No, I mean, I do. Sometimes. I talk.”

Brilliant! Just brilliant.

For someone who was usually a yapper, he had become an expert at being at a loss for words around you. Before this moment, Chan hoped you wouldn’t notice, but your question showed him that was clearly not the case.

Your lips twitched, like you were trying not to laugh. But it wasn’t in a cruel way, not like you were laughing at him. “That’s good to know,” you replied, nodding like you were filing the information away for later.

He couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips, even with the awkwardness hanging in the air. Only this time, it wasn’t heavy. You didn’t make him feel self-conscious. If anything, you made him feel noticed, and something about that sent a slow warmth spreading through him.

“I promise I can carry a conversation most of the time,” he defended himself, shoulders lifting in a small shrug, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Just… not always the best at small talk.”

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow at him, teasing. “Small talk is overrated anyway.”

Silence settled between you, strangely comfortable. From where you stood, the cheers of the crowd faded into the background with each new pair being chosen, distant enough to feel like the two of you were sealed off from the rest of the world. Right here, it was just you and him, standing at the edge of something Chan couldn’t quite name. 

He shifted slightly, his fingers grazing the concrete railing as he debated whether he should say more, whether he should push this moment just a little further or not, since you seemed to be enjoying your own company until a few minutes ago, even if it was in his room. 

The only thing he didn’t want to do was let it slip away.

So instead, he asked the question that had been circling in his mind the moment he spotted you through the curtains. “So, uh… how did you find my room?”

Chan watched as you suddenly froze, eyes widening as his question sank in. Your gaze followed his, tracing down to the hoodie hanging loosely on your frame, and the realization hit you. A soft laugh slipped past your lips and it sent his pulse straight into overdrive.

“Oh shit.” You blinked rapidly, the disbelief written all over your face. You seemed to realize the absurdity of the situation at the exact same moment the words slipped past your lips, your gaze flickering between him and the hoodie. “Wait, no—” you rushed out, clearly flustered. “I wasn’t snooping or anything, I swear. I didn’t even realize this was your room. I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t come in here to—” 

“You just… what?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could catch them. 

He was still trying to process all of it. you, standing in front of him, frustration and embarrassment coloring your face, and wearing his hoodie of all things — did he stress that enough?

Chan had spent the entire night convinced he’d already ruined every chance he might’ve had with you, and now here you were, undoing every conclusion he’d drawn.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. There was no way this could be less embarrassing. “I was looking for a quiet place to hide from the whole seven minutes in heaven thing. I found an unlocked door, thought it was an empty guest room, and uh… turns out, it wasn’t.”

He stared at you, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “And the hoodie?”

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips. “It was on the chair. It was cold. Thought it looked comfy.”

It was comfy. But that wasn’t the point.

He swallowed, trying not to let the warmth spreading through his chest take over his whole body. This—you—was the last thing he expected tonight. And yet, here you were, standing in his room at two in the morning, looking impossibly good in his clothes. Maybe the universe was on his side after all. 

You stayed seated there, looking at him like you weren’t sure if you should stay or go. And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the way you were looking at him, but for the first time all night, Chan didn’t feel like running away.  

Instead, he exhaled, leaning back as he met your gaze. “Well,” he murmured, forcing a small smirk. “It looks better on you anyway.”

He had no idea where this sudden courage was coming from. Maybe it was the alcohol still lingering in his system, even though hours had passed since his last drink. Maybe it was the cool night air. Whatever it was, he was just glad he had found the nerve to flirt with you. Even if just a little bit.

Your lips twitched, and for a second, he thought you might say something. But then you just shook your head, voice quieter now, almost shy. “I’m sorry for invading your space. Do you want me to leave?”

Chan swallowed hard. He knew what the right answer was. Knew what Vernon and Seungkwan would tell him to do. Knew that you still had a boyfriend. But with you standing there, wearing his clothes, looking at him like that. Yeah. He was completely screwed.

“No, stay,” he blurted out, a little too eagerly. Then, realizing how desperate he must’ve sounded, he cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “I mean… if you want to.”

You tilted your head, watching him in that way that made his stomach flip. “You sure?”

Chan let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. Still, he wanted to make sure. “Yeah. Unless you want to go back?”

You glanced toward the door, as if weighing your options, before exhaling a small laugh. “Not really.”

He tried not to read too much into it. He tried not to let the fact that you were still standing there, apparently in no rush to leave, get to his head. “Then stay,” he said again, softer this time.

You held his gaze for a moment, something unreadable flickering in your eyes.

“Okay,” you said at last. Then your lips curved into a teasing smile. “But only if I get to keep the hoodie.”

Chan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. Like he could ever say no to you. “Fine. You can keep it.”

You grinned. “Thanks, Chan.”

“I mean… I might have to fight you for it later.”

“Oh, I’d win,” you shot back without hesitation, a smug little smirk playing at your lips.

And god, Chan believed you. Because you would only need to say the words and that hoodie would be yours forever.

There was a comfortable silence between you after that again, just the weight of the night settling in. The distant cheers from downstairs had died down a little, and the music had shifted to something slower, more subdued. It felt like the whole world had softened around the edges just for you and him. 

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, studying him like you were trying to figure out a puzzle, and Chan felt his pulse jump all over again. He didn’t know what it was about you that made him so nervous. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself or the way your eyes were holding an amused curiosity whenever you looked at him. 

Or maybe — just maybe — it was simpler than that. Maybe it was because he wanted to be on the receiving end of the softness you reserved for your boyfriend.

At the thought of him, Chan’s expression faltered slightly, and he turned away, gripping the railing a little tighter than necessary. He had no right to feel the way he did, no right to want things he couldn’t have. But he was here now, alone with you in the quiet of the night, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that things were different.

Chan turned to you again, watching as you stared out at the horizon now. He didn’t know what he was expecting when he spoke next, but the words left his mouth before he could stop them. “So where’s your boyfriend?”

If you were surprised by the question, you didn’t let it show. He saw you lowering your head and letting out a not very happy laugh through your nose. 

The truth was, you were surprised by his question, but at the same time, you weren’t. Jongin wasn’t exactly known for being non-territorial; he was always where you were, and when he couldn’t be, he made sure to show up at some point. But the way Chan’s question slipped out so easily, so curious, paralyzed all your instincts—the ones that told you to take it slow, to breathe between the end of your relationship with Jongin and the leap you were considering to take when you agreed to come here tonight.

And then, the confession slipped out of your lips before your brain could stop it. “He’s...not my boyfriend anymore.”

Chan’s eyes widened slightly at your words. His stomach churned with an uncomfortable mix of relief and confusion, and he blinked a few times, processing your words. 

Would he go to hell for feeling immensely happy with that confession you had just made? Probably. And he would slow dance with the devil, grinning from ear to ear nonetheless.

“Not your boyfriend anymore?” he repeated after you. “Why not?”

You shrugged, a casual motion that didn’t match the weight of your words, finally looking up to meet his gaze again. “Didn’t want to be, I guess.”

That was only half true, and you knew it. It wasn’t like you wanted to be his girlfriend either. But still, you weren’t the one who ended things by cheating on him with his step sister. You’d probably still be with him if he hadn’t decided to put an end to it in the worst way possible, even if your heart was beating for someone completely different already. 

Was it weird that you felt relieved to be cheated on, because it finally gave you a reason to leave?

“Then he’s an idiot,” Chan muttered with no hesitation. Like it was a fact, not a judgment. 

When you looked at him, his eyes were filled with genuine empathy. You smiled gratefully, appreciating his compassion. Not wanting to weigh the moment, you let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

Chan frowned slightly. “I doubt it,” he said, before adding, “But why?”

You shrugged again. “It wasn’t like I was dying to stay in that relationship, you know.”

The way you said it, almost too calmly, threw him off. I mean, he knew you weren’t very happy in your relationship; it was evident in your body language around Jongin. But he didn’t expect it to go as far as you wishing you weren’t actually in it. 

He wanted to ask more, to understand what had happened, but a part of him feared that prying would make him sound even more pathetic. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from pressing on, his voice low and a little uncertain. “Wait, so you didn’t want to be with him either?”

You didn’t hesitate, your expression not betraying any emotion, but your voice was a little more sharper when you replied. “Not really. I didn’t even like him in the end. I guess I just stayed longer than I should have because it was… comfortable.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a great reason to stay.”

Chan bit his lip, trying to digest your words. Part of him wanted to reach out, to comfort you somehow, but he didn’t know where to start. The realization that you were no longer with him, the guy who seemed to have always been in the picture, stirred something in him, like a sense of hope he wasn’t prepared to feel tonight. But he kept it buried, not wanting to come off too eager, too quick to assume.

“It wasn’t,” you admitted. “But it’s hard to walk away from something when you don’t have a reason big enough to leave.”

“And what finally made you leave? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“You’re funny.” You smiled, head tilted to the side as you locked gazes with him. “I’ve never really got to actually talk to you before. Yet, here we are,” you gestured to the space between you with your hands. “I like this side of you. Curious and talkative Chan.”

“Yeah?”

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, even though a smile tugged at his lips. He was happy that being alone with you had finally awakened that side of him: more talkative, made him braver, lighter, more him.

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I do.” Then you sighed, before saying, “To answer your question: he cheated on me with my step sister.”

His eyes widened and suddenly he was back to not knowing what to say, so he stayed quiet for a moment. 

Chan’s brain raced, his heart pounding. Was it bad that the idea of you being available—of there being a chance for something, whatever it might be—be the only thing that appeared in flashing neon signs in his head? 

Either way, he was glad you had gotten out of a relationship that clearly wasn’t good for you. He was happy that you had gotten rid of the asshole who was known for only dating girls ten years younger than him, the asshole who never let you breathe.

“Why did you date him anyway? Guy’s a jerk.” The words escaped his mouth before he could even control them. 

“He gave me just the right amount of attention, at the right time,” you answered without hesitation, shrugging again. “Have you ever heard ‘We accept the love we think we deserve’?”

Chan frowned, processing your words. Well, that was sad. The way you spoke about it, almost like you were talking about a lesson learned the hard way, made him feel a pang of sympathy for you.

“I’ve heard of it,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” you continued, eyes searching his face. “I didn't realize I deserved more until the moment I woke up from the trance I’d been stuck in for two years.”

Listening to you confess to him all of this without thinking twice and sounding so sincere, made his stomach twisted with something like a mixture of frustration and admiration. He could see how hard it must’ve been for you, but at the same time, something in him wanted to protect you, to offer the kind of attention and care that wasn’t half-hearted, something real and full of understanding.

Something you truly deserved.

“You do deserve more,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm. “Everyone does. And if you want it, you can have it. No one should make you feel like you don’t.”

Chan hoped you understood the undertone of his words. Though he was genuine in what he said, he wanted to be everything you deserved—the more you could and should have. God knew how much he wanted it, and how far he would go to show you that. But in that moment, he also wanted to offer words of comfort, to be the shoulder you might need.

You didn’t say anything for a while, just standing there, letting the noise of the party hum around you both. Finally, you exhaled. 

“It’s hard to let go of what you’ve known, even when it’s not good for you,” you admitted, almost like you were talking to yourself more than him. “But sometimes, I guess you need to make space for something better, even if it’s scary.”

His heart beat faster at your words. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he knew one thing: this conversation, this moment between you, felt different than anything he had experienced with you before. 

“Do you think…” he started, and then stopped, unsure of what to ask. He was afraid that anything he said might ruin the moment.

“Maybe,” you murmured quietly, though your voice didn’t waver, eyes locked on his. “Maybe I need to stop accepting what I think I deserve and start going after what I actually deserve.”

Chan swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. The air between you felt charged now, heavier than it should have been. He felt as if he were teetering on the brink of something, something he was not afraid to jump into and also couldn’t stop himself from wanting, hoping you wished the same, even if he was too crazy or delusional to consider that possibility. 

Just as he was about to say something, he suddenly felt light raindrops hitting the spot where the two of you were standing on the balcony. The first few drops were light, barely noticeable, but within seconds, the drizzle grew heavier, the scent of rain taking over the air. 

Chan watched you look up, your eyes tracing the sky as it darkened, the city below shimmering through the mist. When you turned back to him, he was staring at you, not at the rain, not at the sky, but at you. You met his gaze, and for a split second, everything else faded; the sound of the rain, the distant hum of the city below, even the pounding of his own heart. 

He blinked, breaking the spell, his gaze flickering toward the curtain of rain before inevitably returning to you. “Maybe we should go inside,” he suggested, the hesitance in his voice sounding less like uncertainty and more like an offering. Chan was trying to give you an escape, if you wanted it.

You nodded slowly, and without saying a word, you jumped off the balcony railing, following him inside. You looked around the dark room for a second, before saying, “Maybe I should go. I don't want to hold the party host down with me.”

Chan turned to face you, his eyes softening as he took in your words. There was something about the way you spoke, in the tiny pause, the quiet wobble of your voice, that made him want to step closer, to reassure you that you weren’t an inconvenience. If anything, you were the one person he wanted there, more than anything, more than anyone.

“You’re not holding anyone down,” he said, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “If anything, it’s me who should be worried about keeping you from having fun.”

“Never,” you replied, sounding casual, though something in your voice slipped past his understanding. Particularly when you added, “Besides, the person I wanted to kiss isn't even downstairs.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart giving a sharp, startled kick. At this point, a heart attack felt like a valid possibility. He blinked, not quite sure if he had heard you correctly, but the way your gaze held his, steady and unflinching, told him that he hadn’t misheard.

Chan cleared his throat, his voice coming out a little too thick for his liking. “Oh? And, uh… who exactly were you hoping to kiss, if not...?” He trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence, not sure if he even wanted to know the answer.

As the curtain moved in the wind, bringing the streetlight into the room, he saw a mischievous smile grow on your lips.

What the hell was happening? Was his brain betraying him? Was he imagining this moment? Had he passed out on the bed when he went to his bedroom and was now in a dream, after spending ninety percent of his energy thinking about you at the party he should have been enjoying with his friends? 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you answered, and turned your back to him, eyes immediately darting to the shelf of his trophies from dance competitions and photographs. 

Yes, I do! I want to know! Chan wanted to shout, but contained himself. 

Instead, he stood there for a moment, unsure whether to follow up with another question, or to let the silence stretch on. The way you spoke, so casually and yet with that playful glint in your eye, made everything feel… electric. 

So he simply watched you there, in his room, moving without hesitation, slowly walking over to his shelf, running your finger along the wood and observing each one of his trophies, medals and pictures with meticulous care. 

He couldn’t help but think—and wish too—that he could get used to this scene.

The golden plaques gleamed under the dim light, each one marking a victory of his. Some were polished to perfection, while others bore the faintest scratches, proof of the years Chan had spent chasing dreams in the dance field. Your gaze drifted to the framed photographs beside them, each snapshot telling a different story of his life. 

There were several photos of him as a little kid, beaming as ever, dressed in performance clothes, on stage, with a medal around his neck. In another, he stood beside his previous performance group, whom you recognized as Kwon Soonyoung, Wen Junhui, and Xu Minghao, their grins wide and carefree. There were also photos with his parents and grandmother, and some with what looked like his younger brother.

Chan was probably the cutest kid you had ever seen, and that realization made you smile genuinely.

“Lee Jung Chan?” you read aloud, curiosity threading through your voice as your eyes went back to his children’s dance trophies. Your fingers brushed over the small golden plaque, the engraving slightly worn from time. 

Behind you, he let out a soft chuckle. “It’s my name on my family tree. The government name is just Lee Chan.”

“You went by your full name back then?”

He shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Only because my mom insisted. She said it sounded more professional, like I was already a star or something.”

“It’s cute,” you remarked, throwing him a look over your shoulder. “You were so cute.”

“Yes, well, the kids used to call me Jimmy Neutron.”

You laughed, turning fully to face him. Neither of you had noticed how close you were until you did. If you reached out your arms, you’d only be able to touch each other slightly. But even though both of you thought about it, neither of you made any move to change your positions, continuing your conversation. 

“What? Jimmy Neutron?”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair as if reliving the embarrassment. “Yeah. They said my head was too big for my body. And, you know, the spiky hair didn’t help.”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress another laugh. Chan holded his breath at your movement, forcing himself to look elsewhere, forcing himself not to think about your lips or else his blood would rush south.

“I can totally see it now,” you teased, releasing your lip from your teeth and looking between him and the photo on the shelf.

He narrowed his eyes at you playfully. “Wow, okay. I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

“I am!” You held up your hands in defense. “I just think it’s adorable. And look at you now. You certainly grew into it beautifully.”

Chan smirked, tilting his head and crossing his arms. “So you're saying I look beautiful now?”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the trophies. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Jimmy Neutron.”

He laughed, stepping up beside you as his eyes skimmed over the shelf briefly, before turning back to you. “Yeah, but I kinda see it. My head was huge.”

You tilted your head, studying one of the photos of him mid-dance, his tiny frame caught in motion. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and black fingerless gloves, hair is slightly messy and spiky, adding to the fun and carefree to his edgy look. His bright smile revealed a gap between his teeth, and you thought to yourself that you’ve probably never seen anything so lovely before.

“Well, I think you were adorable,” you said under your breath, your finger tracing the edge of the frame. “And talented, obviously. All these trophies…”

He shrugged, a little bashful. “My grandmother was really proud of them. She used to polish them every weekend.”

Your smile softened. “She sounds sweet.”

“She is,” he replied, voice tinged with fondness. “She used to call me ‘our little star.’”

Something about the way Chan said it made warmth bloom in your chest. You turned toward him, and he was looking at you again, his expression unreadable but undeniably intense. The streetlights made his features look even more defined, shadows deepening along his strong jawline. 

If there was one thing you knew about Lee Chan, it was that he was a star. Every performance he was part of filled the university theater, without failure. Not to mention the countless admirers he had on campus, and with good reason.

Watching him do what he loved was a pleasure simply because he was that good. Confident and unwavering, he dominated the stage effortlessly, as if wrapped in a bubble no one could pierce. It was mesmerizing to witness.

“You still are, you know,” you said gently. “A star.”

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Just studied you like he was trying to figure something out. Finally, a small, shy smile tugged at his lips. “I think I prefer when you call me cute.”

“Duly noted.”

Chan exhaled a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned against the desk beside the shelf. “You know, I don’t usually let people snoop around my room like this.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder again, your fingers still lightly tracing over the edge of a picture framed. “Oh? Am I special, Channie?”

You didn’t need to say his name that way, or shape the word with your lips like that. His eyes dipped to your mouth, and a flicker crossed his expression. His eyes met yours.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, you are.”

To mask the fact that your breath hitched slightly, you offered him a playful smirk. “Good to know.”

As Chan moved to sit on the edge of his bed, you continued the exploration of his shelf, eyes stopping at a picture frame in the middle where he was standing between what seemed to be his parents, both of them kissing his cheek sweetly. 

“Is your father a dancer too?” you asked, running your fingers over his face on the picture. 

“Yeah. My dad and my mom,” he explained. “They kind of stopped after I was born.”

“Wow. It’s in your blood, then.”

Chan nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. My dad always says I got his footwork, but my mom says I got her rhythm.”

You leaned against the table by the shelf, watching him as he spoke. “So they gave it up for you?” 

He paused, considering, then nodded. “Yeah. My dad started teaching instead, and my mom focused on raising me. They never made me feel like I took anything away from them, though.”

“That’s love.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Another comfortable silence settled between you as you turned back to the photos, your fingers absently tracing the edges of the other frames. One photo in particular caught your eye. It was from the exact same day you first noticed him, during the university’s annual arts week in your sophomore year.

He was dressed in a white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, black dress pants, and his hair dyed a faded dark blue. You knew he had worn a tie too because he had taken it off during the performance.

Out of the four members in the unit, he immediately stood out to you. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why, but it was as if no one else existed on that stage besides him. Your eyes were locked on him and no one else, watching in awe as he moved across the stage, completely captivated.

“I was there that day, you know?” you pointed out, showing him over the shoulder the photo you were referring to. 

Chan’s eyes widened as he stared at it. It was one of the images from his first big performance at the university’s annual arts week back in his freshman year, a moment that had felt like a turning point for him, when everything had clicked. He hadn’t realized anyone had been paying attention back then, least of all you.

“You were?” His voice held a note of surprise. There was something so disarming about the way you were looking at the photo, and then at him.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze before turning back. “Yeah. I was in the back, by the side stage,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You were… mesmerizing.”

He felt a warmth spread through him at your words. Chan hadn’t expected to hear something like that, especially not from you. 

“Really?” He couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. His brows lifted slightly, as if he was trying to picture it. “How come I didn’t see you?”

“I don’t think you noticed anyone that night,” you teased. “You were in your own world up there.”

He hummed, eyes flickering back to the photo. “Maybe,” he mused, then glanced at you again, a slow smile crept onto his lips. “So, you’ve been watching me all this time, noona?”

There was a teasing edge to his voice and you exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“No?” He titled his head. “Then how would you put it?”

He saw you hesitate for a second, fingers still resting on the shelf. Then, meeting his eyes, you admitted, “I noticed you. That night, and every time after that.”

Chan felt his breath catch in his throat.

There was something about the way you said it—so simple, so honest—that made his heart stutter. 

You noticed him. 

Not just that night, but every time after. 

He had spent years analyzing every interaction you two had ever had. Every glance, every small word, every time you did so much as acknowledged his existence. And now? Now you were standing here, saying things that made his heart race like it was the easiest thing to do. 

How did he end up here?

Chan felt lightheaded.

He wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t rare for him to be speechless around you, so there he was again, standing in front of you, feeling like the floor beneath him wasn’t quite solid anymore.

“You noticed me,” he echoed, more to himself than to you.

You nodded, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the photo before you finally pulled your hand away. “Yeah,” you confirmed, laughing softly. “I did, Channie.”

Chan swallowed. Hard. He wanted to ask why. What was it about him that had caught your attention? Was it his performance? His presence? Something else entirely different?

But instead, he found himself saying, “I wish I’d noticed you in the crowd.”

Your lips parted slightly, but instead of speaking, you simply smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

His fingers twitched at his sides. God, he wished he could go back in time to that night so he could scan every face in the crowd to find you standing by the side stage, maybe watching him with that same look you had now. You weren’t even dating Jongin at the time, and if your words were any indication of what he was imagining, maybe he had missed an opportunity by acting as though you were unattainable. Maybe he had lost precious time.

Chan watched as moved away from the shelf, turning to him entirely. His breath hitched slightly as you stepped closer, each movement deliberate, unhurried. You didn’t hesitate as you sank down beside him on the bed, the space between you shrinking just enough to make his pulse quicken.

The room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside had dulled, leaving only the two of you in this charged silence.

He forced himself to breathe, to act natural, even as every fiber of his being buzzed with awareness of your presence beside him. You were close enough that he could catch the faintest trace of the sweetness of your perfume again, making his head spin in the best way.

His eyes stayed fixed on you as you pressed your hands into the mattress and stared at the wall ahead, as if you were deliberately avoiding his gaze for reasons he couldn’t name. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhmm.”

You wet your lips, a brief hesitation before finally voicing the thought that had lingered in your mind all night. “Were you avoiding me tonight?”

Chan felt his heart slam against his ribs. “I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped himself because, well… yeah, he had been avoiding you. But only because every time he looked at you, he felt like his brain melted, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to not make a fool of himself.

You smirked, clearly amused by his silence. The question seemed to be answered to you. “That’s what I thought.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t avoiding you, I just—” He paused, eyes lifting to the ceiling and then settling on you again. Halfway through, Chan decided that it was no longer the time to second guess things, so he simply admitted, “You make me very nervous, noona.”

You wished you had an explanation for the way you shivered slightly when he called you noona. But instead, you chose to ignore the feeling, letting the sensation fade into something softer, something more curious. 

“I make you nervous?” you repeated, tilting your head slightly as your eyes widened. “That’s a first.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You say that like it’s impossible. I bet–I know I’m not the only one.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know… you’ve always seemed so confident. Especially on stage.”

“That is just an act,” he confessed. “On stage, I could pretend to be someone else for a little while. But you?” He turned to you. “You’re real. You’re right here.”

And he still couldn’t believe it, the words leaving his lips as if he were pinching himself to prove that this was really happening and not just a fever dream.

Hearing him, you wondered what Chan would think if he knew how your stomach was doing backflips because of the way he was looking at you like you were something impossible and unreal  all at once. 

You hadn’t expected this and most certainly didn't expect him to say something so… vulnerable. Something that made your heart race so fast with all the implications of his words.

“I didn’t mean to make you nervous, Channie,” you whispered, your voice softer now, sounding like you were trying to defend yourself. You had never looked so cute as you did now.

“I don’t think you can help it,” Chan tried to explain, letting out a breathless chuckle. “You know, you probably didn’t know this, but I had a, um… a crush on you.”

Okay, he knew he was straying from the truth. But there was a limit to his courage, and even though he had sensed a bit of flirting between you, he wasn’t about to risk rejection after the nice conversation you’d had tonight, because maybe he was just imagining things.

And he wanted you to walk away from here at least as friends rather than leave an awkward situation for the two of you. He’d rather have you like this than not have you at all. That was why he decided to test the waters with that small lie.

Your lips parted slightly at his confession, your mind racing to process what he had just admitted. “You… had a crush on me?” you repeated, almost like you were trying to make sure you’d heard him right.

Chan nodded, his expression somewhere between amused and nervous. “Yeah. A major one,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Something inside you fluttered at the thought. It seemed like every word that came out of Chan’s mouth was meant to surprise you, even if you didn’t believe he was doing it on purpose. You hadn’t expected this at all, not from him, least of all, not tonight. 

“You’re bullshiting me, aren’t you?” you accused, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Nope. Dead serious.”

“But you never said anything!”

“Didn’t think you’d be interested.” He shrugged. Then he nudged you with his elbow, playfully. “Plus you had a boyfriend.” 

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned into silence. 

Didn’t think you’d be interested?

It was absurd to hear those words coming from him, the same person who had commanded every room he walked into without even trying, the same person who had owned the stage so effortlessly that you couldn’t take your eyes off him. 

What would he say if you opened your mouth to confess that you’d realized you weren’t happy in your old relationship the moment you started noticing him everywhere? Noticing his smile, the way he blushed when you talked to him, the way he seemed so unreachable, like he wasn’t the least bit interested in getting to know you, always running away when you were around. 

Maybe that should’ve been your first clue that he had a crush on you too. But perhaps you were too caught up in your own melancholia to notice.

So, instead of spilling out, you decided to test something. “Is it just in the past?” 

Chan’s brows lifted slightly, caught off guard by your question. “What?”

“Your crush.”

“Uhh..”

“Because it would be so sad if it was” you said before you could stop yourself, eyes searching for his. 

“Really?”

You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head with a small smile. “Mhmm.”

He swallowed hard, his brain short-circuiting at your response. Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, this was not what Chan had expected. Maybe he was in a dream. A very lived one, but still, a dream.

“You—” He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like he had forgotten how to speak. “You think it would be sad?”

You hummed. “Yeah. I think it would be a shame if something like that just… faded away.”

Chan's heart was doing something ridiculous in his chest, and he wasn't sure if it was panic or hope or a chaotic mix of both. He should say something. He should joke about it, keep it light, make sure this moment didn’t carry more weight than it should. But he couldn’t because the way you were looking at him right now felt dangerous.

“Would it?” he managed, clearing his throat in the process.

Your smile again, nodding. 

He let out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really know how to mess with a guy’s head, huh?”

“Maybe,” You grinned, leaning in just a little. “But only when it’s fun. Besides who says you’re not messing with mine too?”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

You didn’t say anything else and Chan stared at you for a long moment, his mind racing with a million things he wanted to say, a million things he wanted to do. But instead, he smiled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real. That this moment was real.

He was messing with your head? That’s a first. 

“Noted,” he simply murmured.

“What about now?” You looked at him expectantly, not letting silence settle between you.

Chan inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “Now?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. You nodded once more. Chan’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second before he recovered. “Are you asking if I still have a crush on you, noona?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to mask the way your heart had started hammering. “Forget it,” you muttered, getting up from the bed. 

He reached out, closing his hand around your wrist, and gently pulled you back to sit on the bed again. For a second, it felt like the world had stopped moving. It all faded into nothing. It was just you and him, standing there in this uncertain space that he used to call his bedroom.

Chan’s throat went dry, and he swallowed hard. His first instinct was to joke, to brush it off, to act nonchalant, as he always did. But the look in your eyes—quiet, expectant, tinged with something dangerously close to hope—left him no room to lie.

And before you could escape the moment, Chan leaned in ever so slightly, just enough that you felt the warmth of him beside you. “For the record,” he started, voice lower now, just for you. “Some things don’t change that easily.”

You turned to look at him, and for the first time that night, you weren’t sure who was more nervous: you or him. 

You held his gaze for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small smile curled at the corners of your lips. “Good.” 

Chan blinked. You were going to give him a whiplash. 

“Good?”

You nodded, shifting just a little closer, the space between you growing small. “Like I said: it would be really sad if it had faded away.”

A few seconds passed, he just stared at you, his heart pounding, his pulse roaring in his ears. He could barely think, could barely breathe. “Are you messing with me?” he asked, a nervous chuckle slipping out.

“What do you think?” you asked, biting your lip, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re trouble.”

You grinned. “Only when it's fun, remember?”

“Noted.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. This time, there was something different in his voice, something lighter, something hopeful.

You kept your lip under your teeth for a second, analyzing him carefully. For the first time, Chan didn’t feel intimidated by your gaze. He didn’t feel exposed. Quite the opposite, his skin felt like it was on fire, but for a very good reason.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips for a fraction of a second. If he hadn’t been watching you so closely, he would’ve missed it.

You were too close. Or maybe not close enough.

“Chan.”

“Yes, noona?”

“Do you wanna kiss me?”

He felt every neuron in his brain misfire at once, completely abandoning him at the worst possible moment.

Did he hear you right?

Did you—did you really just ask him that?

But the way you were looking at him—head bent to the side, eyes locked onto his with quiet amusement—made it clear that he hadn’t.

His fingers twitched against his knee, his pulse hammering in his ears so hard he was sure you could hear it. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Suddenly, every single response he could think of felt either too much or not enough.

He could feel the warmth radiating off of you, the way your gaze never left his, searching, waiting.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat again, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I—um—”

“Because you keep looking at me like you do,” you continued, “and if you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I just thought I’d ask.”

He was absolutely, utterly doomed.

He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Noona, you can’t just ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” Chan let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head.

You grinned. “Is that a yes or a no?”

You were still watching him, waiting, and damn it if he didn’t want to kiss you more than anything. He always had. But now? With you looking at him like that, teasing, testing, daring him? It was like he was malfunctioning. 

Yeah, he was probably overthinking this. Hell, scratch that, he was definitely overthinking this. But the truth was, this wasn’t just some random moment to him, with a random person. It was you. And you weren’t just anybody to him. 

He didn’t want to screw this up.

But at the same time…

God, he wanted to kiss you. More than he would like to see the sun rise again. 

So, he took a breath, gathering every ounce of courage he had left, and finally, finally, he answered.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice quiet but steady. “I really, really want to kiss you.”

Your smile turned softer, less teasing now. “Then what are you waiting for?”

That’s all it took.

Chan closed the space between you, his hesitation melting away the second his lips brushed against yours. It was slow, tentative at first. He wanted to memorize the feeling of your lips, engrave it into his memory in case he never got the chance to do it again. But when you responded to him, when your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in just a little closer, something inside him snapped completely.

He exhaled sharply against your lips before deepening the kiss, his hand moving to the back of your neck as he tilted his head, molding himself to you like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life, and not just two years of it.

If the party outside still carried on, now it felt absolutely muted. The only thing that existed was your lips against his, the way they fit together, your fingers threading through his hair, the soft sound you let out when he nipped your bottom lip.

Chan was dizzy. Overwhelmed. 

And completely, absolutely ruined for anyone else. 

Your fingers dung into his tight, searching for support, and you felt him groan against your lips. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a reaction deep within you. His hand slipped from the back of your neck into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head to the side, and that was it. You were lost too.

When a soft gasp left your lips at the feeling of him pulling your hair slightly, Chan saw the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue past your parted lips, teasingly, deliberately, claiming the space with an intoxicating slowness. They way kissed you left you breathless, lightheaded, as if he’d stolen the very air from your lungs. 

Your knees bumped against his as you tried to move closer, and instead of pulling away, Chan only tightened his grip on you, his arm slipping from your hair to your waist. In one smooth motion, he guided you into his lap, pulling you over his legs until you were straddling him. 

A surprised giggle bubbled from your lips at the sudden shift, but he didn’t falter, if anything, the sound only seemed to spur him on. His hands settled firmly on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as if committing your shape to his memory.

One kiss bled into the next, and then another, and another, until the only force pulling you apart was the desperate need for air. Your forehead rested against his for a fleeting moment, both of you panting, neither willing to let go.

Then, with a boldness that sent heat surging through you, you leaned in, taking his bottom lip between yours, sucking gently as your hips rolled forward in an instinctive motion. A groan tore from both of you at the same time at the feeling of you core meeting his half hardened cock for the first time.

Chan’s head tipped back, his throat exposed to you, a silent invitation too tempting to ignore. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below his perfect jaw, feeling the way his pulse leapt beneath your lips. His hands traveled slowly and torturously from your hips to your thighs, hovering just above the hem of your skirt, while you traced your tongue over the skin of his neck, giving it a playful nip with your teeth.

His breath hitched at the feeling, gripping on your tights for dear life as his heart raced like crazy. The fire in his veins was undeniable, every inch of him consumed by you. Your touch, the way your lips moved, was driving him to the edge of something he wasn’t sure he could come back from.

As Chan looked at you, his eyes begging to close in pleasure, he was sure his pupils were dilated at the scene before him and the fact that you looked like a goddess on top of him.  

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispered, a rasp of desire that sent a thrill racing through you. 

Your response to his words was to rock your hips against his, feeling his full hardness now pressing your folds through his pants and listening to him whine, breathy and desperate. At the sound of it, you couldn’t help but sink your teeth into his neck, sucking to ensure you left a mark, to ensure everyone saw what you had done to him.

Chan’s breath came in uneven, his body shuddering beneath you as your lips lingered over the mark you’d left on his skin. His hands tightened around your tights, fingers twitching like he was resisting the urge to take things further, to let his restraint unravel completely.

“Fuck,” Chan rasped, his head tilting forward until his forehead rested against yours, his eyes squeezed shut. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You hummed against him, dragging your lips up toward his ear, reveling in the way he shivered beneath you. “What do you want, Channie?” you teased, nipping at his earlobe.

Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing along the defined ridges of his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, his hands now gripping your thighs like they were the only things keeping him grounded, like he was afraid you’d slip away. 

His eyes fluttered open, dark and desperate as they locked onto yours. 

“You,” he admitted, breathless, “I just want you.”

The raw honesty in his words sent another shiver down your spine. “Then take me, baby,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his jaw, the ghost of a challenge in your voice.

Chan groaned, his hands sliding up from your thighs, gripping your waist with a reverence that made your pulse stutter. His thumbs traced slow, teasing circles against your skin, his restraint evident in the way his fingers flexed but didn’t pull you closer.

“You really are on a mission to kill me, aren’t you?” he whispered, his breath deliciously warm against your lips.

You smirked, tilting your head just slightly, an exhalation away from his mouth. “What gave it away?”

He exhaled sharply, his patience snapping like a thread. One moment, you were teasing him, savoring the slow burn, and the next, he was kissing you like he’d been starving for you his entire life. His lips crashed against yours, desperate, all-consuming, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you flush against him.

The heat between you flared, intoxicating and undeniable. Your fingers slid up his chest, tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, breathy moan from his lips. The sound sent a thrill through you, your body pressing closer, chasing the feeling of him, the warmth of him, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that existed.

His hands roamed your body, slipping beneath your shirt, his touch searing against the bare skin of your inner thighs. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, mapping out every inch of you like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to memorize it, in case this was the last time he’d ever get to.

Your hips rolled instinctively again, pressing down against him, and Chan groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin. “Fuck,” he breathed, his head falling back as he sucked in a sharp breath.

You leaned in, pressing another set of kisses to the column of his throat. “Too much?” you teased, your voice sultry, full of mischief.

Chan’s jaw clenched as he let out a breathless chuckle. “Not even close.”

His hands traveled higher up your thighs, and the moment his index finger traced a slow line over the fabric of your already-soaked panties, a moan slipped from your lips into his. He grunted something unintelligible as he tugged your panties to the side, his fingers finally feeling how wet you were beneath them. Then, he dragged his touch torturously up to your stomach before slipping inside the lace, and you instinctively lifted your hips, giving him better access to where you needed him most.

“Are you this wet for me, noona?” he asked, pulling back to meet your gaze. Two of his fingers pushed inside you, while his thumb circled your most sensitive spot and you cried out. “Is this all because of me?”

You nodded desperately, almost missing the disbelief in his eyes that only fueled the intensity between you. It heighted every touch, made you move in sync with him, your teeth sinking into your lip as he worked you over with deliberate precision, taking his time to drive you absolutely crazy with his fingers moving into and out of you.

“I want you to sit on my face.” His voice didn’t waver; it was an order wrapped in certainty, his eyes darkened with something you’d never seen in him before, something you instantly craved. The sheer weight of it dragged a whimper from your lips.

Still, you can’t help but think about his safety.

“Are you sure?” The words slipped out on a shaky exhale, your breathing already unsteady.

Both of his hands returned to your thighs, slowly trailing up to your ass beneath your skirt. 

“Never been more sure in my entire life. Please” 

“Fuck. Okay.”

You got off him for a moment, quickly slipping off your boots as you stepped out of the bed. You pulled off your skirt and panties, while Chan got up to remove his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the room. Then he returned to the bed, sitting comfortably and leaning back on his elbows, his gaze never leaving you. His eyes burned with desire as he watched you slowly take off his hoodie before taking your sweet time freeing your breasts from the tight black corset, clearly on purpose.

When your breasts finally spilled free, his mouth parted slightly, eyes locked onto your hardened nipples as if it were one of the seven wonders of the world.

“Come here, baby.”

You slowly crawled across the bed toward where he was lying close to the headboard, and Chan helped you position yourself on top of him. Each of your thighs settled on either side of his head as you both adjusted, ensuring the position was comfortable for both of you.

“You have the prettiest pussy,” he whispered against you, followed by a groan, and you felt his breath hit your entrance, making you tremble slightly.

You knew that you were so fucking wet that even in the dim light of the room, you were sure he could see your folds glistening. But instead of feeling embarrassed, a thrill ran through your body when you glanced down and saw Chan licking his lips, his eyes locked onto your core just inches from his face. He stared at you like you were the most delicious meal he was ever going to have in his life.

“You smell delicious, noona.” The way he spoke made you moan softly, your hands instinctively moving to squeeze your breasts. “Bet you taste even better.”

Chan gripped the back of your thighs, pulling you closer until your heat was right in front of his face, his eyes drinking in the sight. His lips found your inner thigh first, sucking a mark into your soft skin, slow and deliberate.

When he finally placed his lips exactly where you needed him, your hands flew straight to grip his hair, holding tightly between your fingers as your legs trembled from the indescribable sensation of his mouth on you. Still, Chan sensed that you were trying to hold back, worried about hurting him, so as soon as you shifted just an inch away from his face, he pushed you back down, holding you tight against him.

The gasp that left your lips was a sound you’d never made before, completely immersed in the pleasure he was giving you. His nose nudged against your clit, his tongue gathering your arousal before his mouth moved over you with deliberate hunger, like a man who had been starving for far too long.

“So good, Channie,” you cried out, body almost falling forward. “Holy fuck!”

The way Chan’s mouth moved on you was pure, unrestrained hunger, and it felt so good that, only for a moment, you entertained your brain with the idea that his mouth was made to do exactly what he was doing: eating your pussy. His lips cupped your clit, his tongue circling the sensitive bud with slow strokes, alternating with long, deep sucks that made you shiver around him.

His tongue circled your entrance, sliding in as more of your slick spilled into his mouth, all for him to savor. The taste of you—god, he never wanted this to end. All day, every day, Chan was sure he could do this for the rest of his fucking life. All he wanted was to drown himself in this, inside the wet dream that was you with your pussy right in his face.

Your hands pulled his hair tightly after one particularly harsh suck on your clit, back arching deliciously. Your moans were the only sound filling the room and Chan was pretty sure this was the soundtrack of paradise and he couldn’t wait to get there.

When his hands moved to your ass, squeezing tightly, it was as if the last shred of self-control in his body had evaporated. You started to rock your hips instinctively, grinding against his face desperately to chase your release while his nose offered you the most earth-shattering sensations.

“Oh my god, Chan,” you choked out, closing your eyes shut.

“Hmm.” His hum sent vibrations through your core and suddenly you had to use his shoulders for balance or you would have fallen forward on the bed.

Chan was certain he had died and gone to heaven the moment you started grinding against his face. He could feel your legs tense around his head, and when he opened his eyes to take in the scene above him—hands traveling up your body until they reached your breasts, squeezing them tightly—the way your face crumpled and the sounds escaping your parted lips, Chan knew he was in love.

He was done. Gone.

There was no one else for him in this world.

Only you.

You.

You.

You.

You bucked your hips against his face with more urgency as his thumbs rolled over your nipples in the most delicious way. His other hand found your neck, wrapping around it and squeezing lightly, and your head fell back, granting him free access to do whatever he wanted with you. At that moment, the familiar, intoxicating tingling built in the pit of your stomach, moans and sighs spilling from your lips more desperately and loud as you tightened your legs around his head.

“Hmm, suffocate me, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick and low.

That was all it took for your orgasm to crash over you in the most intense way, your mind bubbling with euphoria, completely lost in a haze of pleasure.

Chan licked and sucked up every last drop, swallowing your release in loud gulps as if it were the only thing capable of keeping him hydrated. As you let go of his shoulders and collapsed onto the bed beside him, your legs, weak as jelly, trembled uncontrollably, matching the shivers that ran through the rest of your body.

When you looked at him, you saw the dazed, blissed-out expression on his face mirroring your fucked-out one, like he were the one who had just come. His red lips were parted, his chin glistening, and you couldn’t resist the dopey smile on his face. Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his, tasting yourself on him. With a strength you didn’t even know you had, especially right now, you pulled him on top of you, parting your legs so he could fit there.

Chan barely had time to register the movement before letting out a small chuckle. He broke the kiss for a second, brushing your hair from your face to meet your eyes, your pupils blown wide with a desire that was reflecting his own.

He could only be dreaming.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your lips.

Normally, words like that spoken so close would have made you shy. But right now, you could feel his hard length—aching, neglected, and probably leaking—pressing against your inner thigh through the fabric of his pants.

Your hands traveled from his chest to his pants and you fumbled with his belt, struggling for a moment until your fingers remembered how to work. You unfastened his zipper, hands moving with growing urgency each passing second. As you pushed his pants down, your fingers traced the firm and defined lines of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hips, and the soft hair on the back of his thighs.

The moment you managed to free him from his underwear, Chan’s cock rested on your hip, hard and thick. He groaned at the feeling of your skin against him and you arched into him, desperate to feel more, to press him even more against you, to take him in.

“Wanna ride you, Channie,” you told him, leaning forward to kiss him again. You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around his cock, feeling him thick and burning hot against your palm.

Chan let out a shaky breath at your words, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively. His forehead pressed against yours, eyes flickering between yours and your parted lips, as if trying to ground himself, trying to believe that this was actually his reality and not just another figment of his imagination.

“You don’t have to feel obligated, baby.”

“I want it.” You batted your pretty eyelashes at him, and he was lost. “Please.”

“Okay, noona.”

Your fingers brushed over his jaw, tilting his face up to meet your lips in another deep, searing kiss. Every part of you was incredibly drawn to him, turned on by him, the heat between you almost unbearable now. Slowly, deliberately, you rocked your hips forward, savoring the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

“You were driving me insane,” he groaned, his hands tightening their hold on you.

You smiled, feeling the way his pulse raced beneath your lips. “Good. Now lay back for me, baby.”

Chan didn’t argue. He shifted slightly, scooting back and patting his thighs in invitation for you to hover over his cock. The dim light cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the curve of your back and the way your hair fell around your shoulders. He watched you, his breath catching in his throat as you met his gaze. He lay back and propped himself up on his elbows again, anticipation thrumming through his veins.

You moved with a slow, deliberate grace, straddling him once again, your bare pussy covering his length. The feeling of his cock against your lips sent a shiver down your spine, and you also felt him trembling a little beneath you.

You paused, savoring his gaze locked on you. His eyes were filled with a mixture of desire and adoration. Smiling down at him, you slid your pussy against his cock, feeling his head rub on your clit. A simultaneous moan escaped from both of you. The next second, his lips were on your breasts, sucking and squeezing the flesh with both hands, clearly impressed by how responsive and sensitive you were to his touch.

After a particularly harsh suck, he released your nipple with an audible pop, the sound echoing in the still-charged air. A smile spread across his face as he watched the flush recede from your skin, leaving a rosy imprint in its wake.

“Beautiful.” He licked your nipple one more time, gaze locked on yours, as he said, “There’s a condom on the nightstand.”

He didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact, the intensity in his gaze holding you captive.

“Didn’t you wanna take me raw, Channie?” You pouted, sliding forward again. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean.”

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat working as he fought for control. Your words, so casually spoken, were a potent aphrodisiac, fueling the fire that already burned within him. The feel of you against him, the heat radiating from your core, was intoxicating, clouding his judgment, making it hard to think straight.

The thought of skin on skin, of being completely, utterly connected to you, was a temptation he wasn’t sure he could resist. His gaze drifted up to your lips, then lower, tracing the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts, the way your hips moved against his. He could feel himself hardening even more, his body betraying his attempts at restraint.

“Fuck, noona,” He breathed. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“So?” you purred, meeting his gaze.

“I’m clean too. Put it in. Please.” The words were a raw plea, a confession of his surrender.

Another soft moan escaped you as you took his cock in your hand, lining him up with your entrance. You lowered yourself onto him inch by inch. The way he fit inside you felt achingly right, as if your bodies had been carved for each other.

Chan groaned as you took his full length in, his hands instinctively reaching for your waist, holding you tight against him. He looked up at you, his eyes darkening with passion, while you pushed him just a little to lay down so you could use his chest for support. 

“Fuck,” he cursed out, griping your sides. “You feel so good.”

You began to move, slowly at first, teasing him with each gentle sway of your hips. The rhythm between you built, a slow, sensual dance that sent waves of pleasure crashing through your bodies. Chan’s hands tightened on your waist, guiding you, encouraging you, as he moaned softly, his head falling back against the pillows.

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, voice rough. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.” He arched his back, pushing himself further into you. His hands moved from your waist to your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he urged you on. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Another slow smile spread across your face. The power you held over him was intoxicating to you, maybe even a little dangerous to your ego. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

You increased the tempo, your hips moving with a newfound urgency of driving him to the edge. The rhythm between you grew harder, more intense, driven by pure need.

You knew you were already close, that the precipice of orgasm was just within reach. The feeling was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to consume you entirely. Chan’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the tension building within him too, the pressure mounting with each thrust.

You continued to move, faster now, your bodies locked together in a frenzy of desire. The world seemed to fade away, the only thing that mattered was the feeling of him inside you, the heat, the overwhelming pleasure. You were lost in the moment, consumed by the fire that burned between you.

A low moan escaped your lips as he pressed against you, his fingers tracing tight circles around your most sensitive spot. 

“Fuck, Chan,” you screamed, your head falling back, eyes closing as the pressure began to feel exquisite.

He peppered kisses across your chest and neck, his touch alternating between quick pinches and slow, tantalizing rolls of his thumb against your clit. Without warning, his hips surged upwards, driving him deeper inside you. You cried out his name again, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“That's it, baby,” he commanded, “scream my name.”

One arm snaked around your waist, bringing you against him, while the other braced him against the mattress. He began to thrust into you, a relentless rhythm that belied the fact that you were supposed to be the one in control. But neither of you cared. His cock felt so incredibly good inside you, your pussy clenching around him in a tight embrace.

“Chan!”

The head of his cock found that sweet spot deep within you, and he immediately noticed your reaction, repeating the movement, again and again, until stars began to burst behind your closed eyelids.

The more Chan rhythmically rubbed your clit, the more you felt yourself tightening around him, your release imminent. His breath hitched as you reached your peak, your body shuddering with release. He cried out your name, his own release following close behind as spilled himself inside you. You collapsed against him, your bodies still trembling, your hearts pounding in unison.

The world dissolved around you, the only thing that existed was the two of you, connected in the most intimate way possible, lost in a sea of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His arms wrapped around you comfortingly, as if he were afraid you’d run away, and you buried your face in his neck, trying to regulate your breathing and savoring the aftershocks, the incredible feeling of your skin melded together.

Still buried inside you, Chan could hardly believe any of this was real. The reality of you, of this, was almost too much to comprehend. He felt the warmth of you surrounding him, the gentle pulse of your muscles contracting around him, a constant reminder of the incredible intimacy you shared. He looked down at you, your face flushed and relaxed, your eyes closed in contentment.

He traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb, marveling at the softness of your skin. It was real. You were real. And you were here, with him, wrapped in the aftermath of a moment that had left both of you breathless.

Chan wanted to stay like this forever, locked in this perfect intimacy, lost in the wonder of you. And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would do anything to keep it. 

He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, before confessing, “I wanted this for so long.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, and you met his eyes, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Mmm,” you hummed, snuggling closer to him. “Me too.” 

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, and Chan blinked. “Really?”

Certainly, he hadn’t expected that. He thought he was the only one clinging to this moment, the only one so deeply affected by it, that he was certain he was thoroughly gone for anyone else. The fact that you felt the same way, that you’d wanted this just as much as he had, sent a fresh wave of warmth through him.

You nodded, your smile widening. “Really, really,” you confirmed, fingers tracing the line of his beautiful jaw. “I’ve been wanting this… for longer than I care to admit.” 

He felt a blush creeping up his neck, a mixture of pleasure and disbelief swirling within him. 

“Wow,” he breathed.  “I...I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what?” you teased, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

He hesitated, suddenly feeling shy again. “Didn’t think you felt the same way. I thought… I thought you were just a little bit out of my limit, I guess.”

Looking away for a moment, Chan suddenly felt fascinated by a stray thread on the sheet. Saying that out loud sounded ridiculous, he knew. Seungkwan and Vernon would probably laugh at him if they could hear him now. He was a grown ass man; a successful dancer, yet he felt like a nervous teenager confessing his feelings for the first time to the girl he had a silly little crush on.

Except it was no longer silly for him anymore, and he was sure the feeling burning in his chest was much bigger than a crush. Love? He preferred to think about it after the effects of the afterglow had worn off.

His mind was filled with something else. For instance, the fact that, once, he’d been so sure you were out of his reach, so convinced that he was lucky just to be in your orbit. To know that you felt the same way, that you saw him as an equal, was both exhilarating and terrifying.

You gently cupped his face in your hands, turning his gaze back to yours. “Out of your limit?” you echoed. “Channie, I’m so in your limit that is actually embarrassing. I’ve always been in your limit.”

He raised an eyebrow, another flicker of disbelief in his eyes. “Always?”

“From the moment I saw you on that stage, two years ago,” you confessed. “I saw something in you, something special. Something… that made me want to get to know you better.”

Chan chuckled, a self-deprecating sound. “And you weren’t scared off by my… awkwardness around you?”

You laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. “Your awkwardness is part of your charm,” you teased. “Besides,” you added, leaning in to whisper against his lips, “I can be pretty awkward myself sometimes.”

He grinned, his earlier shyness melting away. “Is that so?”

You nodded, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Absolutely. But you’ll have to stick around to find out just how awkward I can be.”

He chuckled, his arms tightening around you. “I think,” he said, his voice laced with affection. “I’m willing to take that risk.” Then he paused, a shadow crossing his face briefly. “Can I ask you something, tough?”

“Mhmm.”

“Jongin. Why… why did you date him?”

You sighed a hint of weariness in your eyes. You should have seen it coming.

“Honestly?” you began, “Because at the time, I didn’t think you were interested too.” You met his gaze, your eyes filled with honesty. “Like I said earlier, he showed me the kind of attention I thought I needed. He was… persistent. And you,” you paused, choosing your words carefully, “you seemed… distant. You ran away whenever I tried to talk to you. At least now I know why.”

He winced slightly, recognizing the truth in your words. He’d been so afraid of rejection that he’d inadvertently pushed you away. “I… I was an idiot.” 

You smiled sadly. “We both were,” you shrugged. “But,” you added, a brighter note entering your voice, “we’re not idiots anymore.” You leaned in, kissing him softly. “And now,” you gave him another peck, “I have exactly what I want.”

Chan cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “Me too.” He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked, your voice muffled against his chest.

“For giving me a second chance.”

You pulled back slightly, searching for his eyes. “You don’t have to thank me, baby,” you said softly, with a teasing smile playing on your lips. “You just came inside me, I think you earned it.”

A slow grin spread across his face, a mixture of amusement and pure adoration. His eyebrows raised suggestively.

“Oh, is that how it works?” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “So, every time I…you know…” 

You laughed, playfully shoving him in the chest. 

“Don’t get any ideas, Jimmy Neutron,” you said, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed your words. “I’m a tough negotiator. You’ll have to work a lot harder than that to earn my gratitude.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. I’m a very hard worker. And, I’m more than happy to put in the overtime for you.”

“We’ll see about that,” you whispered against his lips, though the smile playing on your face suggested you were more than willing to let him try. “You’re incredible, Lee Chan. Don’t ever forget that.”

He smiled, his heart overflowing with love. “I won’t,” he promised. “Not anymore.”

Not even seconds before he fully opened his eyes, Chan already had a smile on his face.

His arm instinctively reached for you, only to find you already curled against him, leg thrown over his, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your hand sprawled across his bare chest like it had always belonged there. His shirt — the one you’d stolen off the floor around 3 a.m — was hanging loosely on your body, oversized, and entirely too intimate. Your soft breath tickled his chest, and he couldn’t help but smile wilder, fingers lazily tracing circles on your bare shoulder. 

He loved that sight. Your sight. It felt like a livid dream.

Except he knew this wasn’t a dream because last night replayed in his mind on repeat. Every whispered word, every touch, every breathless plea. He had thought about it for so long, imagined it in so many ways and scenarios. Yet, nothing compared to the reality of holding you now.

Morning light slipped through the gap in the curtains, bathing the room—and you—in a soft golden glow. Chan swore he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you in that moment: peaceful, warm, and completely wrapped up in him. His heart swelled as he took in the way your lashes fluttered slightly, the way your fingers still clutched at his arm like you never wanted to let him go.

God, only if you knew.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, tightening his arm around your for a bit. You only stirred slightly, nuzzling closer to him with a soft sigh. Chan chuckled under his breath, his hand running down your back soothingly. He wanted to stay like this forever, stay with you here forever. But he also wanted you to feel welcomed in his house, to make you never want to leave.

So carefully, Chan slid out from under you, heart pounding as he sat at the edge of the bed. You curled into the warm spot he left behind, sighing softly like his scent comforted you. He had to bury his face in his hand to keep from screaming into them.

With a quick look around his room — the clothes on the floor, shoes scattered as if they had been thrown off their feet, the hoodie you’d worn discarded on his desk chair — and exhaled a shaky, lovesick breath.

Yeah, he was a total lovesick puppy, and honestly? He didn’t mind admitting it one bit.

Taking just one more look at you sleeping in his bed, dressed in his clothes, looking very much like an angel sent from up above, Chan smiled. He took a mental picture of the sight, hoping it would be the first of many, then slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door without a sound.

The first thing he saw when he entered the kitchen was Vernon pouring cereal like a man who hadn’t slept in three days and was on the verge of starvation. Seungkwan was slumped over the counter, half-dead, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Both looked up when Chan walked in wearing nothing but sweats and a very evident bruised neck.

Seungkwan squinted. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Chan asked, voice definitely not and octave higher. The look on their faces said it all; they already knew he had something to say. He was terrible at pretending to be nonchalant. 

“Like you’re thrilled to be alive,” Vernon added, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. “Did you see god or something?”

Very close. 

Chan opened the fridge just to have something to hide behind. “I didn’t see God. I just… had a very good night.”

Seungkwan snorted loudly. “You? A good night? With who? Your pillow?”

“Actually…” Chan closed the fridge door, trying his absolute hardest to be casual. “Y/N and I—”

They both rolled their eyes as if to say, ‘here we go again with this subject,’ and Chan did his best to hide the smile threatening to appear on his lips, along with the urge to shout to the four corners of the apartment about what had happened last night. Of course, he held back, because you were sleeping like an angel in his sheets, and he would never risk disturbing you.

“Chan, seriously,” Seungkwan said, exhausted. “It’s time to let it go. You couldn’t even speak in front of her last night.”

Vernon nodded. “Pretty sure her boyfriend came to pick her up anyway.”

“Could you let me finish?” Chan huffed, arms crossing over his bare chest. “As I was saying, Y/N and I… we kinda talked. A lot. And then we… uhm… we—”

“Are you high right now?” Seungkwan cut in.

He blinked. “What?”

“Why are you referring to you and Y/N as ‘we’?”

“Because… last night we finally…”

Vernon stared at him, monotone as always. “You didn’t.”

“I DID!” Chan whisper-yelled, pointing vaguely toward his bedroom. “She was wearing my hoodie and then we talked and the she kissed me and—”

Seungkwan burst into laughter so loud it echoed. “Okay, sweetheart. I love you, but you dreamed that. No way Y/N was in your room last night.”

“I didn’t dream it!”

“You definitely did,” Vernon said, crunching cereal like this was a court trial. “You were drunk. Did you use that thing I bought Wednesday? Seungyoun said the trip was insane—”

Chan groaned. “Guys, I’m serious.”

Seungkawn patted his shoulder sympathetically, shooting his voice like he was speaking to a child. “It’s okay, buddy. One day you’ll kiss her for real. Just maybe not in your dreams next time. Okay?

He opened his mouth to argue, but footsteps echoed down the hallway, making Vernon and Seungkwan look over and watch intently. It didn’t take long for Chan to notice their eyes growing wide in their socket, almost popping out. Vernon dropped the cereal bowl, while Seungkwan looked like his soul had been yanked straight out of his body and shoved back in, choking violently on his iced coffee.

And there you were.

Smiling shyly. Sleepy-messy hair. Bare legs. Chan’s oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder like it was made for you. Blinking in the sunlight and looking way too soft and way too pretty for this hour, and for anyone else’s eyes; he should be the only one allowed to see you like this from now on.

You walked over to Chan like it was the most normal thing in the world, wrapped your arms around his neck, and stood on your toes to peck his lips. 

“Morning,” you murmured against his lips. 

He smiled into the kiss. Vernon and Seungkwan were nothing but white noise now. “Good morning, beautiful. Sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.” Then you finally noticed the two frozen men staring at you. “Oh—hi. Good morning. Do you guys have coffee?”

Seungkwan made a noise so high-pitched only dogs could hear it.

Vernon blinked slowly. “Bro.”

Chan shrugged at them with a smug little smile, arm slipping around your waist. From now on, it was the one place it belonged.

“Told you.”

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“Pathetic,” he heard Seungkwan’s voice, followed by a slap on the back of his head.

Chan barely flinched, too busy pressed against the wall watching you every move as you wave through the crowded room like you owned the place. For him, in a way, you did. You weren’t loud about it, didn’t strut around making a scene, but there was an undeniable pull to you, one that made people shift to make space, one that had them leaning in, hoping for even a sliver of your attention.

And him? He was no better than the rest of them.

He tore his gaze away just long enough to shoot Seungkwan — who was looking at him like he was the saddest excuse for a man to ever exist — a glare. Vernon was right beside him, looking high enough to be in another dimension, and yet, was still wearing the same expression as the eldest of the three. 

“What?”

Seungkwan sighed dramatically, crossing his arms. “You look like a lovesick puppy. Again.”

It was no secret to anyone that Lee Chan had a huge, enormous and gigantic crush on you. If he was being honest, by this point, it was a surprise you didn’t know—which he had some doubts—, since he wasn’t exactly very skilled at hiding it.

Not that he was openly hitting on you whenever he had the chance, because that was far from his reality. Very far, really. He had never done so and whenever he had a chance to be near you or participate in the same conversation as you, he would turn just as red as the lipstick you were wearing tonight, not to mention the stuttering he didn’t even know he had. 

It was a mess. He was a mess. 

Not that he would admit that to Seungkwan, anyway. 

Chan scoffed, forcing himself to straighten up. “I do not look like a lovesick puppy.”

Seungkwan snorted. “Yeah, and I’m a backing vocal for Beyoncé.”

“You do,” Vernon stated, deadpanned. “Mingi just asked me if you were okay because, and I quote, ‘Chan looks like he just got hit by a truck.’”

Yeah, he was that obvious.

He watched as Seungkwan tilted his head to the side, nudging him with his elbow. “Chan-ah, are you seriously gonna spend the rest of your college years pining after this girl?”

His face flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration tugging at him. Chan opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he wasn’t pining? That he wasn’t completely, utterly, hopelessly gone for you? Even he wasn’t delusional enough to deny it.

Seungkwan, apparently sensing his internal struggle, let out a long-suffering sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

Chan scowled, lifting his drink to his lips only to hide his face and Vernon chuckled, clearly enjoying the way his younger friend was unraveling under the pressure of their teasing.

“Just go talk to her,” he said, voice slow and lazy. “She doesn’t bite, dude.”

“Easy for you to say,” Chan muttered, his eyes flickering back to you, who were now chatting with your friends in the corner. “She’s your friend.”

Oh yeah, there was also this little detail: you were Vernon’s classmate. 

Not only were you both seniors, you were also majoring in the same program, meaning you shared the vast majority of your classes. Chan knew you were in the same study group and that you were paired up for most of the projects, which had led to a friendship that he very much envied.

You might think that having a mutual friend would make things easier for him, but you’d be completely wrong. Soon he discovered that Vernon wasn’t willing to help. Not because he didn’t believe Chan had a chance with you, but because he insisted that Chan should grow a pair and talk to you himself.

Which of course, he had already shown incapability of doing so thousands of times. 

Seungkwan clicked his tongue. “You really are pathetic.”

“Hyung—” Chan groaned.

“I mean, come on,” his eldest friend cut him off, trying to finish his point. “You can deadlift three plates but you can’t say one sentence to a girl you like?”

Chan glared at him again. “That is not the same thing.”

“Yeah, one requires actual effort,” Vernon added, scoffing.

By now, he was used to all the teasing from his friends. It didn’t keep him from wanting to strangle them any less though. 

Either way, there wasn’t much he could do. It wasn’t just about the amount of courage he had or how much effort he put into it; crushing on you for the last two years had felt like playing a game he was destined to lose. Even though in the deepest desires of his mind he was your boyfriend, that role was already filled by someone much older than him.

A Marine dude, apparently. His name? Chan didn’t care. 

Not only was he the luckiest dude on the planet by having you as his girl, he was also tall, strong and a walking definition of everything Chan wasn’t: confident, assertive, and the complete opposite of the shy mess he’d been around you since day one. He would probably kill Chan if he could peek into his brain and see all the dreams he had about you over the years. 

The guy also irritated the fuck out of him. Something about his attitude, his hundred tattoos, the fact that he was probably three times his height and the way he marked his territory by walking you to every class, every day. Like, damn, dude, we get it, she’s yours. At least let the rest of us appreciate the divine gift the universe sent us by looking at her.

Every time Chan saw him, he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of the competition. The worst part? You didn’t seem happy with him and everyone knew it. And even though it was clear from every word and every look that you were completely unaware of Chan’s feelings, the thought of you with someone else — someone like him — made his insides twist in ways he didn’t know he could feel.

“She has a boyfriend,” Chan finally said, feeling the bitter taste on the tip of his tongue as he did. 

“So?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow. “I don’t see him here. Do you?”

He directed his last question to Vernon, who just shrugged and shook his head. “Nope.”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes darting toward you again. Sure enough, there was no sign of your boyfriend. Not that he was about to get his hopes up. He had enough self-awareness to know he was probably just grasping at straws, because even if he never existed at all, Chan still wasn’t sure he’d have the guts to walk up to you.

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He quickly understood that what he had felt wasn’t his own emotions, but yours. It had made him smile. The more he concentrated the more he noticed, and as time went on, the better he got to know you, the easier it was to distinguish where your feelings ended and his own began. 

It was complex, especially on the days where you were happy and he was annoyed or the other way around. When he had met his 12 older brothers they had all looked at him with a bit of pity, but he didn’t really mind. He knew you were okay, and as long as you had more happy days than sad, he wasn’t really in a position to complain, even if it would take him a while to find you. 

Chan did his best to be as happy and as content as he could. It helped that he did something he absolutely enjoyed, being on that stage was where he belonged. And all he did was hope that he got to rub off on you a little, he hoped he would be able to lift your moods on the days where you felt a little sad or discouraged. 

You had always been a happy kid, so when you turned 13 and nothing happened, much like Chan you just shrugged and kept living that sweet life of yours. 

When he joined Pledis however a change happened, and that’s where you discovered just what bound the two of you together. 

He was more nervous than he had been previously, there was joy as well, but a lot of uncertainty that left you wondering just what he was up to. 

Your uncertainty didn’t come before later in life, when it was time to pick just what you wanted to do with your life, and by then he was happy, ecstatic might even be a better word for it. He felt on the top of the world, and you couldn’t help but be jealous of him. He seemed somewhat care free, as if he had everything figured out. 

As the two of you grew older, you did your best to track his emotions, hopefully to find some sort of pattern. And although most of those around you claimed it was a task without much purpose, you knew it was all you had to go for in the end. 

Whoever he was, he was nervous to the point of nauseating around the time of award season, music not movies, so by instinct alone you had to assume he worked in the industry somehow. And with that tiny bit of information you had decided to do what you did best, which was fashion, more in particular styling. 

You hoped that following your dreams would allow him to feel the difference in your mood, especially since your parents hadn’t been that thrilled by your change from law to, what up until then, had only been a somewhat expensive hobby. 

You hoped you could make him as proud as he made you. And you couldn’t wait to tell him that he was the reason you had the guts to follow your dreams 

Chan had suffered from a severe amount of anxiety and nausea the past few weeks, and luckily it seemed as if it finally came to a stop last night, when the little silk sheet he liked to call your emotions that wrapped around him, had transformed from anxiety to relief and gratitude. 

“How are you doing today?” Wonwoo looked at him with a subtle smile all while his eyes held a bit of worry. 

Chan smiled brightly. “It seems like it’s all over” he sent his hyung a beaming smile, one that was so contagious that the older man couldn’t help but return it. 

“That’s good Dino” 

He nodded along, somewhat lost in thought as he looked to the floor. “Yeah it is. Sometimes I can't help but wonder what makes her have such strong emotions” he shrugged, but for no particular reason. 

“Imagine how she feels, our lives are chaotic and emotional enough, you know? And we know what causes the anxiety and the nerves and the happiness and sadness. Imagine feeling it all and not knowing the cause of it” 

Dino sighed. “Yeah, she doesn’t have it easy being bound to me” 

Wonwoo smiled as he shook his head. “No, none of them have it easy with the thirteen of us. But if you look close enough to those who have already found their other halves, it’s not like they’re a walk in the park either” 

And as if it had been planned Ruby and Woozi entered the room, currently in what felt like a heated argument. “I’m not saying that it’s bad, I’m just saying that it feels wrong” Ruby said as she walked away from her soulmate, he was right behind her rolling his eyes dramatically. 

“You just don’t see the vision yet! If we slow it down too much it won’t end up matching with the lyrics” 

“Then change the lyrics!” Ruby yelled back, as she grabbed a water bottle right as Woozi buried his face in his hands, letting out a sound that could only be described as frustration. 

As quickly as they had appeared they were gone again. 

“I’m sure yours will make your life a living hell in no time” Wonwoo said as he bumped shoulders with Chan. He responded by laughing. 

Chan looked for you everywhere he went, he looked at every person in every room that he entered, he looked at every soul he passed on the streets, desperately hoping that some day he would feel that connection, that pull that people often described. 

And that day wasn’t any different, so he did not see where he was going as he did his best to scan every face in the crowd, while he walked down the street. That was where he bumped into you. 

You had dropped your bag, your iced americano and the few folders you were currently carrying. Almost silently swearing, but he heard you, and every hair on his body stood up as he looked at you. He felt the silk sheet of your emotions, the panic with a hint of embarrassment. 

Both feelings that perfectly matched the red stained cheeks on the woman who kneeled down before him to pick up her things. 

He smiled behind his mask as he felt his heartbeat quicken, as he felt the gratitude, the all consuming happiness that blossomed in his own chest, and then he felt the love he so instantly felt for you, the need to protect you, to scoop you up and hold you close. 

He watched as your breath quickened, how your hand started to shake as you reached out for the folders currently laying spread on the sidewalk, and he smiled as he realized you felt his emotions in real time. 

However his own feelings were so overwhelming, he couldn’t feel yours yet. Or maybe they just mirrored his own so perfectly, maybe that was why it felt so all consuming. 

He crouched down to meet you, to help you, and that was when you scooped up your things, muttered a small ‘sorry’ before you stood, turned and all but ran from him. 

All he could do was look after you, and that was when the nausea and the devastating heartbreak you felt, hit him. 

You had never looked at him, you hadn’t felt the pull, and now you thought he felt it towards someone that wasn’t you. Chan wasn’t quite sure if it was your heart or his own that he felt breaking inside of his chest. 

As soon as the initial chock had disappeared he chased after you down the street. 

Up until that day you had never had a panic attack, but you were pretty sure you were currently having one. It was as if the air itself didn’t bring enough oxygen to your lungs. You had run to the nearest café, so desperate to find somewhere secluded, away from prying eyes. 

You had slid your body down a wall in the back. Luckily it didn’t really seem like anyone noticed you, so you had crouched over and buried your head as you finally allowed the tears to roam freely. 

You felt his confusion, his own heartbreak. But you managed to push it all away as you for once allowed yourself to wallow in your own self pity. To ignore his emotions and only feel your own. 

He had felt love, all consuming love, and it hadn’t been directed at you. You bit down on your tongue in an attempt to stifle the scream that threatened to spill from your lungs. 

Then you felt a set of hands on you, almost peeling you from the wall you sat up against. The world around you had gone quiet, and not just because the pumping of your blood was all you could hear, no, the whole café that had been buzzing with life just a few seconds earlier was now completely silent. 

You were pulled into an embrace and for once you allowed someone to comfort you as you broke. 

“It’s okay, I’m right here” a voice whispered as a hand stroke your hair. You clung to the strangers shirt and it wasn’t before a tear landed on your forehead you realized that whoever this was, they too were crying. 

It was a strange enough situation that you managed to pull yourself out of your emotions and finally look at the person comforting you. 

Eyes filled with tears met yours. “Hello princess”. The man said the words, as he used his hands to remove your stray hairs from your face. 

His eyes were kind, and his smile looked almost nervous. You felt a little panicked, being in another man's arms like this, until you felt the pull towards him. The need for having him even closer, of being near him. 

Despite everything inside of you screaming to stay close to him, to breathe him in, you pulled away. It could’ve only been a few minutes since she had felt the love blossom in his chest, and yet here he was, as heartbroken as her, worried, nervous. But still comforting you. 

You looked away from him, as you tried to pull away even further, but he only put two fingers beneath your chin and once again forced your eyes to lock with his. 

“Don’t you dare let your mind go there. All the feelings you felt from me were feelings towards you. It’s always been you, it will always be you and no one else” 

You shook your head in confusion and he let out what could almost be described as a small chuckle. He looked down at his legs that stretched around your body on the floor, currently covered in the coffee you had spilled all over the place not long again. 

You let out a gasp. And his smile grew. “There it is,” he said as a single tear escaped his eye. 

You flew from where you sat on the floor to his arms that quickly caught you. He didn’t falter, he only pulled you as physically close to him as he could. 

The silken sheet that wrapped around the two of you was beaming with a mixture of pride, exhaustion, pure happiness and a love neither of the two of you had ever felt before. 

He laughed a little. “Sorry for bumping into you” 

“Oh please never apologize for that” You said as you rested a hand on his cheek, he melted into your touch. He was so beautiful, so incredibly put together, hair perfectly in place, styled to absolute perfection. 

You cleared your throat, as you tried drying your eyes. “God I’m so sorry, I must look like an absolute mess” 

He grabbed your wrists and stopped your fussing as his smile grew. He was absolutely radiant. 

“You are utter perfection, princess” 

The heat rushed to your face at the nickname, and he laughed. It was so contagious that you too chuckled a little as he pulled you into his chest. 

“A car is on it’s way, I’ll make sure to get you cleaned up so you look presentable before work” 

He took your hand and pulled you from the floor in a quick and easy motion. His hands found your waist instantly as he pulled you into him. 

“Actually I don’t have work today” You said with a small smile. 

You had spent the morning giving out resumes as usual, in the hopes of landing an internship somewhere in the city. You had just heard back minutes before the two of you had collided. Hence the victory ice americano. 

“Oh yeah? Neither do I” he said as he pulled his jacket off and draped it over your head. You didn’t really question him, but just raised a brow. He had given you a small nod as if to say: Just trust me. So that was exactly what you did. 

The streets were filled with noise and the two of you were ushered to the car as voices all around screamed one name: Dino. 

When the door to the town car closed behind the two of you, you pulled the jacket from your face, and suddenly you realized exactly who it was that was sitting next to you. You finally realized exactly who your other half was. 

“Holy shit” you said in a small voice. 

“Sorry about that” He said with an almost embarrassed voice. 

“Holy shit!” You almost yelled and he chuckled, but you felt how nervous he was, how the fear crept up on him. 

“No - it’s not you, it’s not that there’s a problem with your life, it's just…” 

He looked at you with those big eyes, as you felt how he tried to squish the fear and worry down within himself. 

You smiled at him, took his hand and took a deep breath. “It’s just… You’re basically my boss” 

Confusion colored that silk sheet of his emotions, and then he laughed. So loud, and so genuine that you couldn’t help but laugh along with him. 

He had taken you back to his apartment, made sure that your name and photo was given to security, and they were informed that you should always be allowed, even if he wasn’t home. It had been pretty smooth sailing from there. 

You had told him how you that morning had landed an internship at Hybe, within his crew. He had felt pride at that, at how you had followed your dreams and had succeeded in them without anything to help you, except your own talent. It reminded him of himself. 

The two of you had agreed to keep your bond secret for now, none of you wanted to think that this was nepotism or that you had gotten the job through him. Least of all you since you had used blood, sweat and tears to stand up to your parents to get them to allow your career change. 

That night you had spent in his bed, first fully clothed, later in the night with absolutely nothing between you. You felt like home here, in his arms, in the darkness of his room when the curtains were drawn. 

“I’ve never felt more at home, nor more safe in my entire life” you said as your head rested on his chest, listening to the heartbeat of your lover beneath that incredibly toned chest of his. 

He kissed your forehead. “It’ll be my life's mission to always have you feel like this” and you knew he meant what he said. You could feel it. 

The next morning Chan had left the comfort of your now shared bed to go and make breakfast. He had texted Joshua in a panic, begging him for his best breakfast recipes, and he had given them. But as soon as the older man had started asking questions, he hung up the phone. 

It definitely didn’t look that pretty, but he hoped you could recognize the effort he had put into it. 

It was dark when you woke, the curtains were still drawn and the duvet was still warm. You smiled as you reached out an arm to grab onto your other half. But the other side of the bed was cold, as cold as it was every morning when you rolled over and hoped the dreams you had of him were real. 

You curled around yourself. Once again hugging your legs, pulling them into your chest, as you felt the loss of him ripple through you. 

You were used to this, you were so used to dream of him, and then waking up to once again being alone. But it had felt so real, you had been so sure it was actually him this time. 

You heard the crash of a plate somewhere, but chose to ignore it. It wasn't until the lights turned on around you, that you realized it had in fact happened. 

He felt your happiness, and smiled to himself. You were awake, and what perfect timing it was. He plated the last few things and walked towards the door. 

Then the sadness, the panic and the loss hit him. For a second or two he had been confused until he remembered those stings of sadness and heartbreak he would sometimes feel in the mornings. He knew them too well, he had the same dreams of you more often than he liked to admit. 

He dropped the plate, he didn’t even care if it broke, if all of his hard work had been for nothing. He just ran to you. 

He turned on the light and pulled the duvet from your warm naked body, and pulled you to him for the second time in less than 24h. 

“Princess it wasn’t a dream. I’m right here” He took your head between his hands and looked at you, nodding with you as he kissed away your tears. 

You chuckled as a tear slid down your cheek. He felt your embarrassment, and rolled his eyes. 

“You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. You hear me?” he squished your cheeks together and kissed your mouth. You laughed as you pushed him away. He only pulled you with him back onto the mattress. 

“I think your breakfast is ruined” He said as you nuzzled into his side. You took a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry, I just… I thought it had all been a dream” 

He kissed your forehead. “Don’t apologize princess, had the roles been reversed I think I would’ve panicked just the same” 

He rolled over you so you were laying flat on your back, him carefully positioned on top of you, to make sure he wouldn’t crush you with his weight. 

“Now it’s time for my breakfast” He winked at you before he dived down under the duvet, letting his mouth loose on your body. 

He was definitely real. 

The days after you met continued much like that first day of yours. The two of you being cooped up in his apartment, getting to know one another and just enjoying each other's mind, body and soul. 

When you started at Hybe at first you were a little worried, but luckily for you the two of you were on different floors or other ends of the building most of the time. You got to know the men and women around you, without them being biased towards you. 

You had an instant connection with Pink, and it made sense to you when you found out that she was bound to Hoshi, your other half's best friend. Of course the two of you would vibe with one another. 

Throughout the last few weeks you had met a few of the guys, and today Seungkwan popped his head into the room that you and Pink were currently occupying. He sent a quick glance your way and you introduced yourself with a smile. 

“Practice might run a little late today, so Hoshi sent me to say you could just join us in the practice room when you’re done here” 

Pink nodded and thanked him for the information. When the door closed behind him you waited a few seconds before you turned to her. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” 

She nodded as she packed a few more things down into the giant suitcase she used to carry all her stuff. 

“What’s with the flowers?” 

Pink froze and slowly turned towards you. 

“What?” she had such a serious look on her face you were scared you had said something wrong. 

“Th-the flowers that follow Seungkwan everywhere? I was just wondering if-” 

You didn’t even get to finish the sentence before you were pulled by your wrist from the room. 

Up two floors and down a hall you had never stepped foot on before. Pink opened the door and Chan’s eyes found yours instantly, he had no doubt felt you panic just seconds before, because he had looked like he was just about to run out the door to find you. 

The thirteen of them stood up on a line and looked between you and Pink. “She’s one of yours” she gestured towards you. 

The boys looked from one to another, and just as Chan was about to step forward and come clean. Vernon took a step, he then proceeded to pinch his chin, and when you didn’t even flinch he muttered a small. “No not mine” 

He did a little pout as he muttered a small sorry to the woman who was just walking around getting pinched randomly. 

“What food do you crave?” Mingyu said, and much like the maltese he embodied he crooked his head a little to the side. 

“B-breakfast” you said as a blush crept up your neck. You couldn’t help it, you looked for him everywhere you went. And there he stood, all nonchalant, with that damn smirk on his lips. 

The room erupted with screams and scolds and envy. But he only stepped towards you as he slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you into him. Kissing your neck tenderly. 

“Everyone, meet my princess” he said with pride, and you felt your knees give in beneath you. 

“Oh that’s disgusting! I’m NOT calling her that” Hoshi said as he walked towards Pink. 

“How did you even find out? We’ve been fucking amazing at hiding it these past few weeks” Chan said as he felt your love wash over him. 

“She commented on Kwan's flowers” and the room was then a choir of ‘ahhhhhh’s of understanding. 

You furrowed your brows at Chan and he just nodded to Seungkwan who took one of your hands. 

“Just walk through them,” he said with a gentle smile and a little nod. 

And as you did, dark red chrysanthemums blossomed at your feet. You giggled and Chan was there by your side in a second. Plucking you one before gently pulling you into his arms. 

“They’re my favorite” you said as you smelled the flower. 

“And you’re mine”

✦ taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @zaycie @lveegsoi @hellaboredd @loudpeachdetective @why4anne @why-did-i-just-do-this @ramyeonzwithspam @floating-moon-dust @skyearby @acourtofmoonlightandstars @stormy1408 @tunafishyfishylike @sol3chu @blvengene @fics-lovebot @fangirl125reader @fabulousarepo4 @tunafishyfishylike @meowstake @chaseyui @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @dcrlingyou @dy-kyeom @unusuallyshy @littlemoonfairy02 @melovehao @kwonhs96 @juju-227592 @strwberrymuffins @mute-chaos @girliepop-is-in-the-house @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @wonznme

Until one overcast Tuesday, when a battered rental car turns off the highway into a tiny coastal town that has never quite made it onto the maps. The tyres crunch gravel as it slows in front of a modest home with weathered shutters and a battered welcome mat.

The door opens. A woman steps out, opens her arms with a kind smile.

“Welcome home, Channie.”

And Lee Chan, international motorsport darling, smiles and leans into his grandmother’s hug like he’s fifteen again. Like he never left. 

You unlock the bakery door at six on the dot, as you always do. The old brass handle sticks a little, like it’s testing your patience before the day’s even begun. You jiggle it the way your grandfather taught you — two short pulls and a push — and the door eases open with a creak and a sigh. The bell overhead jingles, soft and familiar. You can hear the wood floors settle beneath your steps, like they’re stretching awake too.

The air inside is still and cool, faintly sweet with yesterday’s sugar and spice. You breathe it in, flip the switch behind the counter. The front window glows with another slow-pouring sunrise, and you move through the bakery with practiced ease: switching on the coffee machine, checking the overnight proof, tying your apron in a knot at your back.

Twenty minutes later, your cousin Mina arrives, balancing a travel mug between her teeth and texting with both hands. She’s a year or two younger than you, spent her whole life in Seoul, only making it here for holidays. But she’s taking a semester out of university, and had decided she wanted to spend it here, working with you; you were more than happy to have an extra pair of hands,  

“You’re unreal,” she says, eyeing the trays already lined up and ready to go. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Not really,” you answer with a small smile, brushing flour from your hands.

She slips behind the counter, stifles a yawn, and starts prepping the front case with practiced efficiency. You like Mina. She doesn’t ask too many questions, knows how to read your silences, and never complains about the hours. The two of you have always been close, but especially more so recently. Still, you know she won’t stay forever — this is a layover, not a landing.

“Is Mrs. Kwon picking up her cake today?” she asks, tapping notes into her phone.

You nod. “Before nine, apparently. The lemon one with the raspberry filling.”

Mina groans in appreciation. “You spoil these people.”

You smile faintly and go back to glazing the croissants. The radio murmurs quietly in the background, playing something soft and acoustic; you keep the volume low in the mornings. 

By seven, the door opens for the first customer. Then another. Familiar faces with familiar orders, some of them you have ready before they even arrive. Mr. Han gets two plain bagels and a double shot of espresso. The new mom with the stroller asks for a half-dozen mini muffins. The routine is soothing, in a strange, bland way. 

You’re behind the counter wiping crumbs from the display glass when the bell chimes again.

You glance up absently, expecting the man who always forgets his wallet or the teenager who pretends not to know the clearly labelled prices and tries to wrangle a discount. But it’s not either of them.

It’s someone else.

Tall. Lean. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

He slips through the door like he isn’t sure he belongs here, like the bakery might spit him back out again if he steps too far in. A dark hoodie drawn up around his face, baseball cap shadowing his eyes, but you’d know that walk anywhere.

It’s not exactly in the way he moves — it’s slower now, heavier somehow — but in the posture he hasn’t grown out of. The slightest slouch, the hesitant pause just inside the threshold, like he’s waiting to be told off for tracking mud on the rug. Like he’s twelve again, and you’ve just dared him to sneak a cookie from your parents’ kitchen.

You go still.

The cloth in your hand hangs limp, forgotten. Mina keeps talking beside you, some passing comment about the coffee filter, but her voice sounds like it’s coming through a wall.

He hasn’t seen you yet. His eyes are glancing over the bakery, no doubt taking in all the changes over the past ten years. The freshly painted walls, the new tables – new to him, anyway, because they’re actually chipped with use. 

He’s moving closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to make a sound. His right wrist is bandaged. Not the flimsy kind you’d buy at the drugstore, but thick medical wrap that comes from a hospital. There’s a split-second where you’re not sure if it’s really him. Where you think: no, he wouldn’t come back. He’s not real.

But then he looks up, right at you, and you’re fifteen again, standing in your driveway, watching him throw his duffel bag into the backseat of a taxi. 

Now, his mouth parts like he might say your name. Like it tastes strange after all this time.

“Oh,” he says softly. 

Just that. Like he’s surprised, but how can he be? You weren’t the one to leave everything you’ve ever known without a second glance. Your stomach flips, but you feel it first in your hands: the old familiar ache, the sting of betrayal.

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

“Chan?” Mina’s voice breaks the silence beside you. She sounds starstruck. “Oh my god — you’re — wait, you’re here?”

He lifts a hand awkwardly, offering a small, sheepish wave. “Hi. Mina. Yeah.”

Her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. You barely hear her chatter. Something about the race, the crash, I can’t believe you’re here, do you need anything?

But your eyes haven’t moved, and neither have his.

You realise belatedly that you’re gripping the cloth in your hand so tight it’s damp with your palm sweat. And your breath is caught halfway down your throat, frozen.

He takes a step forward, then hesitates. Rocks backwards on his heels.

“I – didn’t think you’d be here,” he says. Quiet. Careful.

You blink once, slowly. “This is my family’s bakery.” Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, sudden bitterness injected into your next words. “Or did you forget? It’s been a while, right?”

That silences him. His lips part, like he might respond, but nothing comes out. And anyway, you don’t give him the chance: you turn your back and walk into the kitchen.

The bell jingles a beat later, the door closes, and it’s like the entire bakery exhales.

You turn around, stare at the empty space where he stood. It’s ridiculous, really, the way it feels like a ghost just left the room. It’s been ten years since he was home, six since you saw him in person. There’s no reason for your chest to be as tight as it is. No reason for your throat to ache as much as it does.

“Are you okay?” Mina asks, not cautiously but gently. Still behind the counter, one hand hovering near the register like she’s unsure whether to approach or pretend she didn’t just witness a moment crack open in real time.

You force yourself to move, folding the now-wrinkled cloth in your hands, brushing a nonexistent crumb from the counter. Determinedly, you avoid her gaze and clear your throat. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Was that really — ”

“Looked like it.”

Mina hesitates, studying you with shrewd eyes. “It’s been a while for you guys, huh? You were pretty close, I remember.”

You nod. “Yeah. He grew up next door, remember?”

She breathes out a low whistle. “He’s, like… huge now. Formula One.”

“Town’s pride,” you agree wryly, focused on lining up the pastry tongs in the display like they might suddenly matter.

“Did you know he was back?”

“Nope.” The word comes out flatter than you intended.

You see the moment she clocks your expression, the stiffness around your mouth and shoulders, and wisely decides not to push further. Instead, she turns back to the espresso machine, fussing with the filter like nothing happened.

You stay behind the counter for another five minutes. Maybe ten. Long enough to fill two orders, fake a smile, refill the sugar jar, and pretend your hands aren’t trembling just slightly when you reach for the brownie trays.

Eventually, you say, “I’m going to go over the invoices. It’s slow enough, can you handle the front?”

Mina glances around the empty shop. “Sure. Take your time.”

You nod, already untying your apron. You hang it on the hook behind the kitchen door, push through to the back hallway, and let it close behind you with a soft click.

The office is really just a glorified storage room with a desk shoved between racks of extra baking supplies and boxes of paper cups. It smells like vanilla extract and cardboard. You sit down, straight on the floor, and press the heels of your hands to your eyes.

It was summer the last time he came home. Right before he left for Europe — before the big contracts and the press and the noise. You don’t mean to remember, but memory has teeth, and it sinks them in without asking.

It’s ten years ago. You are sixteen, and your best friend is leaving for Europe tomorrow to become a star. 

That’s what everyone keeps saying, anyway – a star, a rocket, the hometown lad who’s going to make it. The kind of future people only speak of in hushed, wistful tones, as if it’s too bright to look at directly.

Still, somehow, he’s just Channie. All long gangly limbs and grease-smudged hands from fixing up his grandfather’s old car in the driveway.

You bring him lemonade in a chipped glass and sit on the front step. The ice is already melting, dribbling condensation down your palm, but you still pause for a moment before heading over, watching him from the porch, bent over the open bonnet. His hair curls damply at the nape of his neck from the heat, and there’s a streak of oil across his cheekbone, but he hasn’t noticed. He hums under his breath while he works, something upbeat and off-key, the same as always when he’s concentrating.

You sit on an old cardboard box next to where he’s working, legs tucked under, pretending not to watch him. Pretending you aren’t memorising the shape of his shoulders, the slope of his nose, the way his hair glints slightly under the sun. Pretending this isn’t one of the last afternoons you’ll ever have like this.

“Want to try?” he asks, grinning, holding the wrench out to you.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t even know what part of the car that is.”

“Neither do I,” he says breezily, flashing that infuriating, magnetic grin. “But you’re smarter than me, so figure it out.”

He doesn’t say he’s scared to go. You don’t say how much you’ll miss him. 

You just hand him the lemonade. 

He lifts it in a silent toast before taking a sip, then sets it on the edge of the porch. The ice clinks.  “Not bad,” he says, pretending to be critical. “Still too much sugar.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re too much sugar.”

He smirks, looking far too pleased with himself. The sunlight catches the curve of his cheek. He’s always been beautiful in a way you can’t quite explain — too much energy, too much hope, too much everything.

You sit there for a while like that, not speaking. Just watching the sky begin to shift towards evening, the air heavy with heat, the garden next door humming with insects. Tomorrow, he’ll be on a plane. And it’s only the beginning, you have no doubt. He’ll work his way up until he's in places with names you’ve only seen on maps. Circuits you’ve only seen on TV, when he’s forced you to watch the races with him.

You want to ask him if he’s nervous. You want to tell him you’ll be here when he comes back. 

But the words lodge in your throat. Instead, you throw a crumpled up paper ball at him, call him a nerd, and when it’s time to get home, you just tell him you’ll see him tomorrow.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

You let the memory fade. You push it down, bury it beneath to-do lists and receipts and invoices.

You’re still working in the back room when the frustration bubbles over, sitting behind your ribs like steam under pressure. A little anger, a lot of hurt, but mostly it’s just something hot and unsettled that won’t leave you alone.

A sudden thought occurs to you, and you unlock your phone and scroll straight to the name. It’s a little early for him to be off work, but you call anyway.

Surprisingly, Vernon picks up on the second ring. “Hey –”

“Did you know?” you snap, skipping the greeting altogether.

There’s a pause. “…About what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you say. “Did you know he was coming back?”

Another pause, a longer one that tells you what you already know. You can almost hear the wince through the phone. “Yeah.”

You close your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. “Jesus, Hansol.”

“You only call me Hansol when you’re mad.”

“Well, I am mad. He showed up at the bakery, Hansol!”

“I figured.” 

“And he had the audacity to be surprised I was here.”

He sighs. “Look — I didn’t think he’d go straight to the bakery.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew how you’d react.”

“You mean like this?”

“Yeah. Exactly like this.”

Your throat tightens. “You should’ve told me anyway.”

“I know.” His voice is gentler now, like he’s soothing a ruffled animal. “But it wasn’t my news to deliver.”

“He ghosted me,” you say. The words come quieter, smaller, echoes of an old hurt. “For years, Hansol.”

“I know.”

“And you’ve still been in touch with him all this time.”

“Yeah.”

Something cracks inside you.

You’d already known that, somewhere in the back of your mind. That Chan had never left Vernon the same way he’d left you. You’d suspected, anyway – but you had determinedly never brought it up to Vernon. Never wanted to explain that Chan had stopped replying to you. 

Vernon must’ve worked it out eventually, maybe by the look on your face whenever someone brought him up. So the words Lee Chan, Formula One, anything like that, they were all taboo. 

It hurts more than you thought it would, though, to have it confirmed. To know that Chan had ways back to you, and never took them.

“You’re mad at me,” Vernon says, matter-of-factly.

“No. I mean… yes. But not like that.” You exhale, deep, and rub your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

A beat.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You lean back in the office chair, let your head hit the wall with a soft thud. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You can just… be mad for a bit.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You called me Hansol. You literally just said the words, I am mad. Quote unquote.”

“Fine. I’m mad.”

He laughs under his breath, and it’s warm, even through the line. The sound is familiar, grounding. Vernon is good at that. The kind of person who stays steady when your world feels like it’s shifting under your feet.

“He looked like hell,” he offers quietly.

That throws you. “What?”

“Chan,” Vernon says. “He looked awful.”

You stay quiet.

“Are you going to talk to him? Properly?”

You don’t answer right away. You press your knuckles to your mouth, heart still racing like you’re standing face-to-face with him again. 

Eventually, you whisper, “I don’t know.”

Vernon hums. “Want me to come by later?”

You shake your head, then remember he can’t see that. “No. I think I just need to sit with it for a while.”

“Okay. Call me if you change your mind.”

“Okay.”

You hang up. Breathe in deep for a second — you can hear Mina talking to a customer, the faint sound of the coffee machine. The tinkle of the bell. Your world is still moving, even if the sight of one face sends it tilting on its axes. 

It takes a few minutes before you stand, but you tug at your sweater, clear your throat, and walk back out into the scent of cinnamon and sugar.

The sun’s dipped low by the time you flip the sign to Closed!, and the last rays spill gold through the front windows, catching the flour dust that dances in the air. You sweep slowly, distracted, then lock up behind Mina with a promise to text her if you need anything.

Your feet carry you down the main street on autopilot, past shuttered storefronts and quiet porches. You tuck your hands into your coat pockets as you walk. You’ve been taking the same route for your walk home as long as you can remember. Past the corner store with the faded awning. Past the hardware shop where Mr. Kang waves at you. Past the tall picket fence where the ivy always grows wild in late spring.

You’ve lived your whole life in this town — the rhythm of it is stitched into your bones. Your parents had moved here not long after you were born, drawn home to help your grandparents with the bakery. They took over when you were fourteen and your grandparents passed within days of each other. 

Now, the place is yours — at least temporarily while your parents are abroad.

You tell yourself you’re walking to clear your head, to shake the tension out of your shoulders and forget. But every step seems to walk you further into memory, like the sight of his face today just dredged up everything you’d worked a decade to bury.

He used to bike beside you on this street, sneakers scuffed and laces half-untied, hair sticking up in three different directions. He always carried a bottle of orange soda in his backpack, along with a mass of crumpled homework papers and some screws he’d stolen from his grandfather’s shed.

You remember racing each other from the bakery to the school — loser had to carry the winner’s bag the next day. You almost always lost. He almost always carried your bag anyway.

Your shoes scuff against the sidewalk now, slow and steady. Grown-up steps. Quiet ones.

It’s strange, how the town stayed the same. Even stranger how you’ve stayed in it. You’d always planned to leave. Thought maybe you’d study history, or literature. You talked about the big cities to your mother, as if it were a real plan and not just something plucked from a daydream.  Chan was always leaving anyway, travelling here and there for karting competitions — he’d come home every time brimming with stories about all the places he’d seen, and it had only fuelled your ideas.

But then your dad got sick. Then your mom got tired. Then the bakery needed someone to keep the ovens running.

And somehow, you were the one who stayed. 

Somehow, he was the one who left.

You’ve been staying above the shop since you’ve been in charge of it — maybe a year, now. It used to be storage space, but you’d cleaned it out, made it a home, only making the occasional trip back to your parents’ to check on the house.

Your parents’ house looks the same, except the flowerbeds have gone a bit wild since your parents left with two suitcases in hand. At first, it was for treatment, for your father. Then he’d gotten better, and your mother had come into some big inheritance, some great-aunt. 

They’d set aside some money for you, told you to leave to wherever you wanted to be. They’d hire someone to take care of the shop. They themselves had undertaken a world tour. All the places they’d saved postcards from in a shoebox under their bed. You were happy for them — still are — but the silence in the house had felt heavier than flour sacks, so you’d made your own home above the bakery.

You’re not really sure why you haven’t left yet. You have the money, and no shortage of dreams from your teenage years, and yet.

You pass by your parents’ house, loop back round to the bakery. You let yourself in, kick off your shoes next to Mina’s, drop your keys into the bowl with a soft clink. The house smells like lemon cleaner and faint cinnamon, leftovers from the bakery that cling to your clothes.

You don’t turn on the lights right away, just sit down heavily on the edge of the couch. You don’t even cry. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling. But your chest feels full, and your throat feels tight, and you’re tired in a way that sleep won’t fix.

You close your eyes, and memory slips in again.

F1 MEDIA ZONE, 6:12PM — MAY 13TH, 2018 

[Transcript: Post-Race Interview — McLaren’s Lee Chan Wins the Spanish Grand Prix ]

INTERVIEWER: Lee Chan, what a drive! You’re a Formula 1 Grand Prix winner! Twenty years old, second year in the sport – how does it feel?

CHAN (beaming, voice slightly hoarse): I – honestly, I don’t even have the words. I keep thinking someone’s going to tell me to wake up. It feels unreal. But also, like… everything I’ve worked for finally came together today. It’s the best day of my life.

INTERVIEWER: You looked tense out there, especially with Hamilton breathing down your neck in the last stint. What was going through your head?

CHAN (laughs breathlessly): Pure panic? No, um – okay, yeah, a little bit of panic. But mostly, I was just thinking: don’t waste this. The team gave me an incredible car. I had – the strategy worked perfectly… I just had to bring it home. And I did. I can’t believe I did.

INTERVIEWER: You’ve had podiums before, but a win – that’s a whole new level. Tell us more about what this means to you personally.

CHAN (hesitating): It’s – well, it’s everything. I left home when I was sixteen to chase this. Left a lot of people I cared about. It wasn’t very easy, so this win – it’s not just mine. It belongs to every version of me that thought I wasn’t good enough. And – well. My parents, of course. Friends, family… someone back home who believed in me way before any of this seemed real.

INTERVIEWER (softly): Someone special?

CHAN (nods, looking off-camera for a moment): Yeah, um. My best friend, back then. She used to say I was born to drive. I don’t know if she still watches, or even remembers saying it. But I remember. And I hope she saw today. I hope she knows I never forgot.

INTERVIEWER: That’s beautiful, Chan. I think a lot of hearts just melted. Huge congratulations again – Lee Chan, race winner, at just twenty years old. Enjoy every second of it.

CHAN (smiling through it): Thank you. I will.

It’s mid-afternoon and you’re standing behind the counter, wiping flour off your hands, but the taste of the fresh pastries feels distant on your tongue. Your mind keeps wandering back to last night, the memory of watching that interview live for the first time – it was 2018 then, and you and Chan hadn’t talked in two years, but you knew he meant you. Who else could it be?

You’d felt warm on the inside, when he’d talked about you. A quiet, golden warmth that pulsed like pride — and a sting beneath it, sharp as citrus, when he said “I don’t know if she still watches.” You’d watched. You always watched, even though it left you with bitten lips and a stomach that churned.

And then just a few hours after he’d given that interview, Chan had called you, the same night he won, voice still electric from his victory, saying all he could think about when he won was home. All he could think about was you. And that had been the real beginning of the end. 

The bell above the door jingles softly, and Mina calls from the register, “Hey, someone’s here for you.”

You glance up, finding Vernon leaning casually against the counter. “No discounts on your coffee today,” you say, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “You don’t deserve it.”

Vernon shoots you a look. “Just thought I should check if you were still standing.”

You roll your eyes but feel a wave of relief flood through you. Vernon is a steady presence, one of the few people who can cut through the quiet tension in your chest without even trying. You talk about small things at first, the slow morning, the bakery’s new display, Mina’s latest playlist, but Vernon’s gaze stays gentle, patient, as if waiting for you to say what you really want.

Finally, you relent. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Vernon’s smile falters just a bit. “I don’t think he knew how.”

You nod slowly. “But still. He doesn’t get to just show up and expect me to —”

“I know,” Vernon says softly. “You don’t owe him anything.”

The bell jingles again, somehow sharper this time, and your body stiffens. This time, you know before you even look who it is. The air in the bakery shifts, the warmth suddenly feeling heavier, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Vernon straightens and greets him with a calm, “Hey.” It’s clear they’ve already met up since Chan got back.

You press your gaze to the counter, your hands clenched tightly around the towel. “I’m just gonna…” you murmur, already stepping back. “Check inventory. Mina’s here. She can help you both.”

Neither Vernon nor Chan says anything to stop you as you slip away to the back room. The quiet hum of the ovens and the distant chatter of customers fade behind the door, leaving you alone with your pounding heart.

From your place against the wall, you hear their voices, low and muffled so Mina can’t hear, but unmistakable through the thin walls.

“She’s never going to forgive me, is she?” Chan’s voice is rough, raw with something like regret.

There’s a pause, and then Vernon replies, steady and with more than a little reproach. “She was your best friend, Chan.”

The Chan you knew was a lot more hot-tempered. Would have snapped back a hasty retort, but when you strain your ears, all you hear is a faint, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You lean against the wall, the chill of it seeping through, the coolness grounding you. Still, memory slips in, uninvited: the sun, soft and golden on your faces. The mingled scent of fresh bread and sun-warmed grass. Pavement chalked with childhood and the echo of Chan’s laugh skipping through the air like a stone across water.

It all feels impossibly small now — a life pressed between the pages of your memory, fading at the edges, too fragile to touch without tearing. You’d poked at it only barely, with careful hands, over the past ten years. But here he is, stepping back into your world like he never left, dragging everything back with him.

The soft tap of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You open your eyes to see Vernon standing just outside the door, hesitation flickering across his features.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, though the weight in your chest makes it hard to breathe. “I’m fine. Just… needed a moment.”

He doesn’t push. Instead, he offers a small, understanding smile before slipping away, leaving you alone again with the quiet hum of the bakery’s kitchen. As he leaves, you take a deep breath, dust down your apron, readying yourself one again for the sight of pitifully repentant brown eyes. 

You step out of the back room, brushing flour from your hands like you’re trying to wipe away the heaviness clinging to your chest. The bakery is quieter now, the lunchtime rush just a memory, and Mina wipes down tables with practiced efficiency.

Chan is still there, leaning awkwardly against the counter, eyes flickering to you the moment you appear. For a heartbeat, the space between you feels like an electric current – charged, uncertain, full of words neither of you knows how to say.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost tentative.

You meet his gaze with a steadiness you don’t feel. “Hi.”

He shifts, glancing away, then back. “Thanks for… letting me hang around.”

You fold your arms, wary. “You’re a paying customer. I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Chan smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I guess not.”

The bakery door jingles again, and Vernon slips out, giving you both a quiet nod before disappearing into the daylight. Traitor.

“About yesterday,” Chan tries, voice soft.

You don’t look up. “Mina’s already taken your order, right?”

He pauses. “Uh, yeah. Listen, I just... I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You smile without warmth. “Likewise.” Mina ducks into the kitchen, sensing the shift in the air. “But this is my family’s bakery,” you say flatly, finally turning to face him. “Of course I’m here.”

He winces, just barely. “Right. Yeah. That was stupid.”

Chan shifts his weight, eyes sweeping the bakery’s interior again. They linger at where you know the framed photo is, your mother’s shelf on the corner — it’s him, maybe eight or nine, in a plastic go-kart helmet, grinning too big. His eyes aren’t on the camera, though, they’re on you beside him, where you’re cheesing at whoever’s taking the photo.

He stares at it for a moment too long.

You lean a hip against the counter, crossing your arms. “What do you want, Chan?”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s still trying to figure it out. “Nothing. I just... wanted to say hi.”

“Well. You’ve said it.” You tilt your head. “Anything else?”

He swallows. “And I thought maybe we could talk.”

You let out a quiet laugh -– dry, sharp. “Now you want to talk.”

“___, please. I know I messed up.” He cuts off as Mina re-emerges, holding out a warm croissant and coffee awkwardly.

Your voice cuts in immediately, crisp and cool as morning air. “You’re holding up the line.”

He looks behind him, startled: there’s no one there. But he can take a hint, especially one as blatant as that. He nods, and he pivots to leave. You breathe out shakily, the moment he’s gone.

You’ve never been so cruel to him before.

Allowing Mina to live with you while she works for your bakery has been both a wonderful and terrible decision. On the bright side, she’s a great cook. And she’s clean. On the downside, she’s known you nearly your whole life, so she can read you like a book, even — or especially — when you don’t want to be read. 

You’re half-watching some shitty TV show, curled into the corner of the couch with your knees tucked up, a soft throw blanket tangled around your legs, while Mina paces barefoot in the small kitchen, grumbling to herself.

“Where are the good mugs?” she calls, opening cabinets like she hasn’t been living here for ages. “The tall ones with the speckles.”

You raise your voice just enough. “Top shelf, behind the box of chamomile.”

She pauses. “Why are they all the way back there?”

“Because you never put them away right.”

“False. I’m an excellent putter-awayer.”

“Literally yesterday you –”

Mina appears in the doorway with a mug in each hand and an exaggerated frown to cut you off. “Okay, wow. Attacked in my own home.”

“My home,” you correct automatically, lips twitching.

“I am family.”

She hands you one mug, and it’s hot enough that you have to shift your grip quickly. The smell of peppermint and honey wafts up. It’s soothing, somehow. Mina plops onto the couch beside you and throws her legs across your lap like she owns the place. You don’t push them off, just tuck the edge of the blanket over both of you and exhale.

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl upward.

Mina doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the silence stretch comfortably for a few minutes — which is exactly how you know she’s going to bring up what she’s been dying to bring up. Honestly, you’re surprised she lasted this long. 

Eventually: “So, ah… how’s your blood pressure? Stable?”

You groan and lean your head back against the cushion.

She bumps her foot gently against your hip. “You wanna scream into a pillow? Eat an entire cake with your hands?”

You squint at her. “I worry about your coping mechanisms. Not that I need them,” you add quickly, blowing on your tea. “I’m fine!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She has that annoying grin on her lips. “You know, you always blink too fast when you lie.”

You glance over. “No, I don’t.” 

She just waits.

It takes you a minute and a half to fold. “Okay, but — he looked the same. I mean, different, obviously. But the same.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She pauses. “Honestly, I don’t even know what happened between you guys.”

You shrug. “I don’t know what there is to talk about. We were best friends. He left. The end.”

“You’re shit at this, you know that?” She pokes you with a sock-covered toe, and you swat it away. “There’s a lot more to it than that. You used to practically bite your own tongue off every time someone brought up Formula One.”

You close your eyes for a moment. “I mean, you already know he left in 2014. For Europe. We talked for a little while. Calls, texts. But by the next summer…” Your voice trails off.

Mina waits, patient.

You clear your throat. “By the next summer, I’d stopped expecting to hear from him. Figured I was just a, you know. Pit stop on the way to bigger things. He started F1 a couple years later. Like, 2017.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“Then 2018 happened,” you continue quietly. “His first win was in Spain, and I was – I was watching the interview live. He mentioned me. I don’t think he meant to, really, it just slipped out.”

Mina’s eyes widen. “You never told me that.”

You nod. “He said something about someone back home.”

“After ghosting you?” 

You snort. “That’s not the worst part. The worst part is that he called me that same night.” You kind of enjoy the way her jaw drops. “He said he couldn’t stop thinking about home. About me. That he’d messed up by not keeping in touch, and that he was sorry. And so he asked me to come see him race in Monaco.”

Mina exhales slowly. “And you went.” It’s not a question.

You nod. “He paid for my flight and everything. Sent someone to get me from the airport, he was in practice or something. But then we went out for dinner, we walked for hours, and it was all fine? It was good, even. Like, we were just suddenly best friends again. So quickly. We barely even talked about why he stopped texting.” You pause. “The rest of the weekend he got busy, which was, obviously. Qualifying. He texted me and said after the race we’d celebrate. Sunday morning, he texted me the time he’d pick me up from my hotel.”

You swallow. “I stood outside the hotel for two hours. And then I, um. Went to the restaurant, just in case.”

Mina winces, like she already knows the ending.

“He was there. So was, well — everybody. His whole team, so many other people I didn’t know, it was some sort of party.” In case it wasn’t clear enough already, you add: “He forgot about me.”

She puts her mug down harshly on the coffee table.

“He texted the next day. Said he was sorry.”

“I’m sorry but — what the actual fuck,” she blurts, sitting upright. “You fly all the way to Monaco for this man and he forgets you’re there?”

You swallow. “It was a big day for him. Another win.”

“I don’t care if it was the Second Coming of Christ, he invited you. He promised you!”

Your smile is brittle. “Yeah, well. I blocked his number after that. Haven’t heard from him since.”

The silence that follows is heavier now; not because there’s nothing left to say, but because saying it out loud feels like scraping at an old wound. 

It stings a little more when you think about how you’re not telling her the whole truth.

Finally, Mina lets out a long sigh. “He’s so stupid.”

You snort. “That’s generous.”

“So fucking stupid.”

You both laugh, but it fizzles out quickly, and you find yourself looking out the window, past the condensation fogging up the glass, toward the sleepy streetlights that line the quiet road. You know if you walk north for ten minutes, take a couple lefts, stop at the house with the green door, you’ll find the Lee residence, exactly how you remember it.

“I just don’t know what he wants,” you say softly.

“Then ask him.”

You look over. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not. But neither is staying angry forever.”

You sigh, finishing the last sip of your tea. It’s gone cold. “If he really wanted to talk, he’d come back. Properly.”

“I think he’s trying.”

“Then he should try harder.”

Mina grins. “I’ll support you either way. I’m just saying — maybe let him say the whole apology before you throw him in the industrial mixer.”

You elbow her lightly. “You’re lucky I love you.”

She gasps, hand to heart. “Did you just admit that out loud?”

“I take it back.”

“Too late. Recorded for posterity.”

She leans back, stretches like a satisfied cat, and then perks up suddenly. “Oh — we still need more milk, by the way. And eggs. And it’s your turn to grocery day.”

You groan. “How are we always out of milk?”

“Because you drink too much tea.”

You sigh dramatically, dragging the blanket off. “Fine. You coming?”

“No, I just remembered I have to, like, reorganise the spice shelf. By intensity.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if you believe.”

You pull on your coat, muttering to yourself, and she calls after you with a sing-song voice as you grab the keys: “Don’t do anything stupid at the supermarket!”

You give her the finger without looking back, and her laughter follows you out the door.

The grocery store hums with that low, constant buzz of fluorescent lighting and old refrigerator units. Everything smells faintly like citrus cleaner over the vague scent of fish — comforting, in a strange, back-home kind of way.

You pull your sleeves down over your hands as you make your way down the baking aisle, basket swinging against your hip. Apples. Eggs. Milk. Brown sugar if it’s on sale. You check each item off mentally like a chant, trying to keep your thoughts focused, forward-facing.

You pass a few neighbors, offer polite nods. Mr. Kim from the post office gives you a wave from behind a cart full of canned goods. One of the high schoolers from the bakery’s after-school rush nearly crashes into you with a tower of instant noodles. You step aside without thinking, slipping into the produce section.

The lemons are too green and the apples are soft around the stems. Your grandmother would never have bought fruit like that, you remember her teaching you to spot these tricks when you were a little girl. But luckily, she’s not here, and the apples are on sale, so you take them anyway.

You’re debating reaching for a bag of spinach when you hear it — the tail end of a familiar voice.

“…Told you I’d carry it. You shouldn’t be lifting —”

“I once carried your grandfather’s luggage through three airports with a bad hip. I’ll be fine with a bag of rice.”

You know that voice.

It’s unmistakable — warm and brisk, with just enough sharpness to cut through snow. You hear it at the bakery almost weekly, asking for oat buns or ginger tea, always accompanied by some sweet story about her youth or a gentle complaint about Chan not calling often enough, to which you always attempt a wooden smile in response.

Mrs. Lee. Chan’s grandmother.

And then the other voice — his voice — responds, lower, quieter. “Still. You don’t have to do everything.”

He’s with her.

They come into view before you can even think about ducking out the aisle — they round the corner, their cart half-full and one wheel squeaking against the tile. Mrs. Lee has on her usual thick green coat; Chan walks beside her, hoodie pulled up over his ears, cap tucked low. He’s not limping today, but he still walks carefully.

You think you’ll be fine, invisible in your corner, if you just keep your head down. If you just wait —

Her eyes find yours instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart!” she says, her face brightening with familiarity. “How nice to see you!”

You smile before you can help it. Her voice always does that — pulls something softer out of you, even when you’re bracing for impact. You step forward. “Mrs. Lee.”

She reaches for your hand with both of hers, squeezing gently. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Have you been well? Everything’s okay at the bakery?”

You smile again, smaller now. “Of course.”

She tsks at you. “Those pastries are divine. That raspberry tart last week nearly brought me to tears.”

“Tell that to Mina,” you say. “She says we’ve ruined her for store-bought desserts.”

“Good girl, that Mina,” she says with fondness. Then she glances back, patting her grandson’s arm. “You remember my Channie, of course.”

You meet his eyes.

There’s a beat of silence. He looks the same as the other day. Uncertain, awkward, a little drained. The brightness that once lived so easily in his expression feels muted now, like a light behind frosted glass.

He nods once. “Hey.”

Your reply is automatic. “Hi.” It hangs there, too short, too clipped. Too small for what it’s standing in front of.

Mrs. Lee doesn’t seem to notice. “We’ve just been picking up a few things. He insists on cooking for me while he’s here. You should see the state of my kitchen. He made kimchi stew last night and used every single pot I own.”

Chan mutters mutinously. “She only owns, like, four pots.”

“And he left all of them in the sink,” she says, ignoring him entirely. “Anyway — are you here for bakery supplies?”

You shake your head. “Oh no, just stuff for home. The bakery stuff we get wholesale. Delivered in bulk.”

She sighs. “You work so hard, darling. You’ve kept it so alive. Your grandparents would be proud. And your parents are, of course.”

Your throat tightens a little. You’ve heard those words before, but somehow they always hit the same. You manage a quiet, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Lee presses a hand to her chest, then suddenly casts a shrewd glance between you and Chan, something unreadable in her gaze. 

“You know,” she says slowly, “I was just telling Channie earlier — he ought to be doing something while he’s here. No good brooding around the house. He might be a superstar out in Europe — ” Chan cuts in with a borderline whine of Grandmaaa, but she keeps going. “— but he should do something useful with his time while he’s here, no?”

You have no idea where this is going. “Um,” you say intelligently, “yes. Right.”

She barrels on, unbothered. “I thought, wouldn’t it be lovely if he helped you out for a while? Just for the holidays. He’s got two working hands — well, one. But the bandage will come off in a couple days.”

You blink. “Oh, that’s — really not — I couldn’t —”

“He wouldn’t be in the way,” she interjects, suddenly all brisk encouragement. “You’ve always been so organised. You could tell him exactly what to do. A few mornings a week, maybe. He could help lift things, put those muscles to work. Fetch deliveries —”

Chan’s frowning now, looking increasingly panicked. “Grandma, I —”

“You said you wanted to be useful,” she says brightly, swatting him on the shoulder. “Didn’t you say that? Hm, Lee Chan?”

“I — well, yes — but Grandma — ” He fumbles helplessly. 

“You could use the help, couldn’t you? Christmas rush, all those cakes and pastries. No need to pay him, even, he makes enough money.”

You open your mouth — you want to say no. The word is right there, polite and simple. You can feel it rising. But her eyes are shining with hope, and her hand is still resting lightly on your arm, and you can already hear Mina’s voice in your head: You’re incapable of disappointing a grandmother. It’s your fatal flaw.

So instead, you say, very quietly, “I guess we could use someone to carry deliveries.”

Mrs. Lee beams. 

“But I will pay him,” you say quickly, avoiding his gaze. “It’s only fair.”

“Perfect! It’s settled, then. You two swap phone numbers or whatever it is you young ones do these days, and you can set it all up properly.”

Chan glances at you, eyes searching — not afraid, exactly. Just wary. Like he doesn’t know what this means. You look away, because you don’t know either

“Six sharp,” Mrs. Lee says meaningfully, patting his arm. “She’s always there by six.”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Don’t be late.”

He nods once. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

Mrs. Lee leans in for another hug — you return it immediately.  Chan doesn’t say anything else as they leave. Just one last glance, unreadable, before the sound of their footsteps fades down the aisle.

You stand still for a long time after they’re gone. Only when your hand starts to cramp around the shopping basket do you move again, slowly, like waking from something you’d rather not have dreamed.

Flour. Eggs. Milk. Carrots. A boy with a name you stopped saying out loud years ago.

The world is still dark when you unlock the bakery door, the brass handle sticking the way it always does, two short pulls and a push. The bell overhead gives its soft morning jingle. The floor creaks under your steps like an old friend, stretching awake. The ovens hum low in the background, radiating warmth into the cold winter air.

Everything feels the same. That’s the problem.

You move through the routine automatically — lights, proofed dough, apron tied, music set to its lowest murmur. The calm before opening is your favourite part of the day, the moment where the bakery belongs only to you. Flour on your hands, steady breath, nothing reaching you from the outside world.

But today isn’t like every other day.

You keep glancing at the clock, and with every tick closer to six, your shoulders draw tighter.

At 6:01, the door jingles.

His footsteps are careful, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid the bakery itself might reject him. When you finally glance up, you catch him hovering just inside the doorway — hair tucked under a beanie, hoodie sleeves shoved up past his elbows, the bandage on his wrist stark against the soft fabric. He looks out of place, totally unsure.

“Morning,” Mina chirps from the counter. She got here early for once, just five minutes ago, but clearly determined to play referee. “You’re right on time!”

Chan offers a small, sheepish smile. “Morning.”

You don’t say anything. Just nod once, brusque, and turn back to the tray of rolls you’re shaping. Mina, undeterred, claps her hands together. “Okay, orientation day! We’ll start simple. You can help me stock the front case, and if you’re nice, maybe she’ll let you roll some dough later.”

Chan chuckles softly, following her toward the display. His laugh is quieter than you remember, like he’s holding it back.

You keep your eyes fixed on the dough in front of you, knuckles pressing in harder than necessary.

The entire first hour crawls.

Chan shadows Mina while she explains the espresso machine, the pastry labels, the way regulars take their coffee. She over-explains everything — louder, brighter than usual — and you know it’s because she feels the silence pressing in around the three of you.

He doesn’t argue, never interrupts. Just nods, listens, makes a few attempts. When he fumbles with the coffee machine, Mina brushes it off, and he smiles like he’s grateful for her cover.

You avoid them both. You keep yourself in the kitchen as much as possible, taking longer than usual to weigh ingredients, fussing with oven timers you don’t need to fuss with. You only step into the front when Mina calls for you directly, and even then, your words are short, clipped.

“Need another tray of croissants.”

“Don’t forget to wipe the glass.”

“Careful with the brioche — it tears easily.”

You don’t look at him when you speak, and he doesn’t push. He doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t make jokes, doesn’t remind you of who he used to be — who you used to be. He just nods, obeys instructions like this is any other job.

It should make things easier. It doesn’t.

By mid-morning, the bakery fills with its usual rhythm. The bell rings steadily. Mr. Han collects his bagels and double espresso. Mrs. Kwon picks up her cake. A couple of teenagers order muffins and giggle too loudly in the corner.

Mina handles the register with her usual chatter, drawing out smiles from the customers. Chan hovers beside her, passing boxes, wiping counters, keeping his head down.

From the kitchen doorway, you find yourself  watching once or twice, without even meaning to.

He’s careful with the customers. Polite. He doesn’t offer too much of himself, politely but tactfully brushes off any mention of racing as quickly as possible. But he remembers details quickly — which orders come with lids, which bags need extra napkins. He falls into rhythm faster than you’d like.

You retreat before he notices you watching.

Nearing noon, the rush dies down. You’ve been in the back for nearly half an hour, organising invoices that don’t really need organising, when you catch the sound of voices carrying through the thin wall.

Mina’s voice, bright and easy: “You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”

A low chuckle. “Thanks. High praise.”

“You really remember everything I tell you.”

“Comes with the job, I guess. Used to having engineers shouting at me through radio for two hours straight.”

“Right. Whole different world.”

A pause. The sound of something being wiped down, cloth against glass.

Mina again: “It’s weird, though. You don’t feel different. Not really. You’re still the same Channie I remember at New Year’s when we were kids.”

You frown at that, because you couldn’t feel more opposite. He’s different – he’s so different. 

Another pause. He speaks softer now. “I don’t feel the same.”

Silence stretches. You realize you’re holding your breath.

“She’s still hurt, you know.” Mina, gently. “And from what I’ve heard, you fucked up.”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Yeah. I know.”

You press your palms flat against the counter, staring at the neat rows of receipts like they’re going to split open and tell you what to do. Your chest is tight, too full, and you don’t know if it’s anger or something else entirely.

When you finally walk back out, both of them straighten a little too quickly. Mina offers you a wide smile, forced at the edges. Chan doesn’t meet your eyes.

You clear your throat. “We’ll need more sandwich loaves for tomorrow. I’ll start the dough now.”

Your voice is steady. Your hands aren’t.

The rest of the day blurs together — flour on your apron, the steady hum of the ovens, Mina’s chatter trying to fill every gap. Chan stays quiet, steady, folding into the background. When the clock finally hits closing, you’re more exhausted than usual. Not from the work, but from the way every silence felt heavier than it should.

You hang up your apron and retreat upstairs without waiting to see if he’ll say goodbye.

If he does, you don’t hear it.

The entire first week with him in the bakery doesn’t pass cleanly, but in uneven stretches — too fast in the rushes, unbearably slow in the silences. 

He arrives on time every morning. Sometimes a minute early, sometimes right as the clock flips to six, but never late. Always with damp hair, like he showered just before leaving, always with the same grey hoodie and a wool beanie tugged low. He doesn’t greet you with more than a quiet “morning”. You never give him more than a nod. That’s all.

Mina fills the air for both of you, as though she’s been cast in the role of cheerful background noise. She explains every part of the shop to him in ridiculous detail, snorting when he fumbles with the espresso machine. “See? A natural,” she says dryly, though the counter is wet and the milk jug is crooked. He just shakes his head, smiling faintly.

You keep your distance, letting them orbit in the front while you anchor yourself in the kitchen. The dough keeps you steady. Measuring, folding, kneading. The hum of the ovens, the scrape of bowls, the faint crackle of crust as bread begins to rise. These sounds are yours, familiar and grounding. You keep to them as if they can drown out the sound of his voice.

When you do step out front, it’s only because Mina calls you: “We need more croissants,” or “Do you want to check the cookies?” You give instructions without looking directly at him, and he follows them without complaint, wordless.

The customers take to him faster than you expect. Mrs Lee stops by like a proud grandmother, scolds him for not doing enough. Mrs. Kwon beams when he carries her cake box out to the car. The new mother blushes when he holds the door open. Even Mr. Han, who grumbles at everyone, gives him a curt nod one morning. Chan doesn’t charm them, not in the way you remember him charming crowds, but he listens carefully, remembers details, catches on to regulars easily. 

Midweek, Vernon comes by. He leans against the counter like he always has, grin tilted toward you.

“No discounts,” you mutter, though it comes out more tired than sharp.

“Rude,” he says, then glances past you. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

Chan looks up from wiping crumbs off his palms. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Vernon grins, easy, like nothing between them has shifted. “So this is what you’re up to now.”

“Just helping out,” Chan says. His voice is quiet but he’s still smiling.

Vernon orders coffee and sits down. They talk while Mina fusses with the register, their voices weaving into something old and familiar. You drift into the kitchen, but their words follow you anyway.

“Remember the summer carnival?” Vernon says. “You burned, what, a hundred churros in one go?”

“Eighty,” Chan says, and his laugh is low, fond. “You still ate them.”

“Free food’s free food.”

Their laughter blends, and you press your palms against the cool counter in the back, something tight curling beneath your ribs. When you bring out a tray of rolls, Vernon catches your eye. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in his gaze that feels like he sees too much.

You ignore it, stacking rolls into the case with steady hands.

The week continues like that.

He never pushes conversation with you. He never even tries. He just takes whatever tasks Mina gives him — sweeping, carrying trays, boxing pastries, scrubbing the glass until it shines. He moves carefully, as though trying not to leave fingerprints.

He thanks Mina when she praises him, and once or twice, he thanks you, so softly you almost miss it.

“Thanks for letting me be here,” he says one afternoon while wiping down tables.

You don’t answer. You tie your apron tighter and walk into the kitchen.

He doesn’t call after you.

It’s New Year’s Eve, but by the time the last customer leaves, the street outside is already quiet. The main street shutters early on New Year’s Eve, windows glowing with the soft light of families and small gatherings, televisions flickering blue behind curtains. You can hear faint music from somewhere down the block, muffled laughter spilling into the cold. The air is sharp with winter, still carrying the smell of fried batter from the food stall someone set up near the pier.

Mina begged off hours ago, rushing home to change for a party she’d tried and failed to convince you to go to. She’d left with glitter on her eyelids and a dozen reminders to “text me at midnight” and “don’t work too hard.” She kissed your cheek, hugged you quickly, and disappeared into the night.

Without her, the bakery feels too big. The silence is heavy, every sound amplified — the scrape of chairs on wood, the swish of your rag against the counter, the muffled pop of a faraway firework.

You assume Chan’s already gone too. He’d vanished into the back not long after Mina, said something about wiping down the last trays. You assume he’d slipped out after that. That would’ve been easier.

But when you step out of the kitchen, he’s there.

He’s in the corner, half-shadowed, standing in front of the shelf your mother cluttered years ago with mismatched frames. (You’ve been strictly banned from removing any, even though there are a few too many of you gap-toothed to be comfortable.) Chan doesn’t touch them, just stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, gaze fixed on a single photo.

You know which one without looking.

Two kids squeezed together in plastic helmets, sunburned cheeks and ridiculous grins. His gaze angled toward you, yours tilted toward the camera, both of you caught in that brief, blinding moment when you thought the world was yours.

The sound of your wry voice startles him. “Not exactly the most flattering picture of me.”

He jerks like you’ve caught him stealing. Turns too quickly, wide-eyed, shoulders taut. “Sorry,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “I wasn’t —” His voice stumbles. “I was just looking.”

You rest the rag on the counter, leaning against it. “Everyone does. It’s the only picture of you in here.”

Something flickers in his expression: amusement, but softened, wary. “And your mom never took it down?”

“She likes it. I’ve been expressly forbidden from touching it.”

He nods, eyes shifting back to the frame. His voice is quieter now. “That was the summer we tried to build our own kart, right? Out of scrap wood and… what was it? That busted lawnmower engine?”

The memory sneaks a laugh out of you before you can stop it. Unspooling before you can stop it. The two of you crouched in the heat, your hands black with grease, his laugh echoing against the shed walls. His grin, the way he swore you’d go faster than anyone else in town.

 “God, we nearly set the shed on fire.”

The sound pulls a grin out of him, fleeting but boyish, the kind you used to see every day. “Worth it.”

For a moment, the years fold in on themselves. You’re fourteen again, and the air smells like gasoline and sugar, and the whole summer stretches out ahead of you. For a moment, it feels easy.

But the silence that follows is heavier than before.

He shifts his weight, thumb rubbing at the seam of his hoodie pocket. His voice is rougher when he speaks again, suddenly catching your eyes with a determined look. “Listen, I just — I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything, rooted to the spot.

“I — I really fucked up. I know that. I ghosted you, and after,” he swallows thickly, and you hope he’s not about to bring it up, but you know he is. “After,” he continues, “that night, I —”

“Chan.” You cut him off, sharper than intended. He blinks, startled, but you keep your tone steady. “What do you actually want?”

He stops. Looks at you, then down, then back again, eyes searching.

“I don’t want it to be like this anymore.”

Your chest tightens. “What’s this?”

He gestures between you, helpless. “This. Awkward. All these silences. You won’t even look at me half the time. And I get it — I earned that. But it wasn’t always like this. We used to —” His voice falters, and he glances at that photo. “I mean, shit, ___, we used to be best friends.”

The ache hits sharp, like a bruise pressed too hard. The truth tastes bitter when you say it. “We can’t be best friends. We’re not fourteen anymore.”

He flinches, just barely, but nods. “I get it,” he says softly. “I do.”

A beat of silence stretches. The clock ticks too loud behind you. Somewhere outside, another firework pops, the echo rolling over the water.

He wets his lips, tries again. “But… can we at least, you know, try again? Can we at least try to be friends again?”

The words land heavy. You stare at him, caught between instinct and exhaustion. You want to say no. You should say no. That would be safer, simpler. But something shifts in you — not forgiveness, not yet, but the relief of finally loosening a grip you didn’t realise was clenched so tight.

You hear your voice come out quieter than you mean it. “…Fine.”

He exhales, a sound close to a laugh, relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. For the first time all week, he looks less like a man bracing for impact and more like someone who’s allowed to breathe. “Really?”

“Don’t get too excited,” you mutter, tugging at the knot of your apron. “We’ll start with acquaintances. Maybe graduate to friends later.”

It pulls a crooked smile out of him.

You glance toward the window just as a spray of red light bursts above the town, reflected in the glass. Another follows — gold this time, scattering sparks across the dark. Somewhere down the block, cheers rise faintly, muffled through the cold. 

The bakery is quiet, but it doesn’t feel suffocating anymore.

You untie your apron and hang it on its hook. The heaviness hasn’t gone — you still feel the weight of everything unsaid — but it’s shifted, easier to carry.

It still feels dangerous, letting him in even this much. But as you flick off the lights and step toward the stairs, you realise your chest doesn’t ache the way it did before. For the first time in years, you feel just a little lighter.

And when he whispers a quiet “thank you” into the dark, right before he slips out, you let yourself hear it. And you even let yourself answer, voice low in the quiet shop:

“Happy New Year, Chan.”

It’s been a couple weeks. The New Year rush — or whatever rush a small town like this can muster — has died down. You and Chan have been… well. You’ve been friendly. 

It’s nothing, especially compared to what you used to be. But you don’t go ice cold when he opens his mouth, you don’t avoid being in the same room as him. You don’t pointedly ignore his every word. Instead, you hand him a tray of muffins, and he catches your glance with a familiar, easy grin. When he helps roll dough at the counter, you keep to your side, moving around each other like old habits, careful not to get in the way. It’s weird, to say the least. Awkward, uncomfortable, but so much lighter than the weeks before.

The lull between the morning rush and the after-school crowd is Vernon’s favorite time to wander in. He pushes the door open with the usual blank expression, cap pulled low, earbuds slung around his neck.

“No discounts,” you call from behind the counter before he even speaks.

“Wow,” he says, hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Cruel greeting for your most loyal customer.”

“You don’t even buy anything half the time.”

“Emotional support counts as currency.” He leans his elbows on the glass case, scanning the neat rows of bread. “Speaking of support — how’s the grad school thing?”

You freeze, the rag in your hand catching on the counter’s edge. “What grad school thing?”

“The one where you’re supposed to be applying for a master’s.” His voice is too casual to be accidental, his eyes uncharacteristically challenging.

From the corner, you catch Chan glance up from where he’s re-stocking napkins. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands still for just a beat too long.

You clear your throat. “I haven’t… decided yet.”

Vernon tilts his head. “That’s a different way of saying ‘I’m dragging my feet.’”

“I’m busy, Hansol.” You gesture to the counter, the racks, the whole shop. “This place doesn’t run itself.”

“Not the Hansol,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, before continuing. His tone softens, the teasing gone. “You love the bakery, I know that. But it’s not your whole life either.”

You scoff, too loud. “Well, actually —”

“No, seriously.”

You glance over at Mina for moral support but she only snorts at you, and mouths he’s got a point.

Traitor. 

Vernon raps on the counter once and sighs. “Look, I’m just saying — don’t trap yourself just because you’re comfortable.”

The words linger, heavier than you want them to. You stick your tongue out at him, childishly mutinous, and busy yourself wiping crumbs that aren’t there. He scrunches his nose at you, and goes over to the counter to order himself a coffee instead.

You feel Chan beside you before you hear him. You can feel his eyes flickering between you and the counter he’s pretending to wipe; you can feel the urge he’s literally biting down. 

You sigh, and throw down your cloth to face him. “Go ahead,” you say. “Ask.”

He doesn’t even pretend not to know what you’re talking about. “What are you applying for? Where? Is it literature? Education? When’s the deadline? Are you gonna do it? You should do it. You really should.”

“That’s a lot of questions,” you say, dryly. “What makes you think I should do it?”

You know why Vernon wants you to do it — he thinks you’re wasting your potential. Mina wants you to do it because you’ll move to the city and be closer to her. Your parents want you to do it because they’re finally financially stable enough to have the bakery taken care of. And you know why you want to do it.

You want to know why Chan wants you to do it.

He grins sheepishly and continues a little more hesitantly. “You… you used to talk about moving to the city. Teaching, or publishing, right? And writing on the side. I remember you saying you’d write one book, even if no one read it. Just so you’d know you could.”

The memory is so sharp, you nearly wince. You remember it too — thirteen, stretched out on the grass behind the library, your heads tipped back toward the stars while you spoke your dreams into the summer air.

You haven’t written in a long time.

You force a scoff, masking the ache. “Wow, you remember that? That was, what — half a lifetime ago. Don’t take teenage me too seriously.”

He looks at you with wide eyes, like he’s just fucked up severely. So you roll your eyes, let the corner of your mouth tug up into a smile. “Relax. I was joking.”

It takes him a second, but he laughs softly, ducking his head. Still, you can tell he doesn’t quite believe you. You glance over, and realise Vernon has been watching the exchange with raised brows, but he doesn’t comment. He just collects his coffee, offers you a small smile that says we’ll circle back to this, and slips out the door.

The bell chimes shut behind him, leaving you with Mina’s chatter and Chan’s silence — careful, but entirely inescapable.

The bakery is quiet in the way Wednesday afternoons often are. The morning rush has long since passed, leaving only a few loaves on the racks and the smell of sugar still clinging to the air. Mina is humming in the kitchen, elbows-deep in batter, while you linger behind the counter absently.

Chan is at the tables again, careful and methodical as always. He doesn’t just push in the chairs — he likes to straighten them, align them perfectly with the edges. The awkwardness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s shifted into something softer, less tense. You can share a space without flinching. 

And for once, you find yourself giving into your curiosity.

You set the rag down and glance over at him, trying to ignore his exposed forearms. “So.”

He looks up, brow raised.

“Formula One.”

His hands pause mid-wipe. “What about it?”

You shrug, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know. You’ve been all over the world. Bahrain, Silverstone, Monza.” You determinedly avoid saying Monaco. “The whole deal. You think I don’t notice when customers ask for your autograph?”

The corner of his mouth tugs, faint but amused. It’s annoyingly attractive. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t,” you say quickly, too quickly, then sigh. “I mean — I do, but not like that. I’m just… curious. A normal amount of curious.”

He sets the cloth down, shifts his weight. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then:

“It’s strange,” he says slowly. “I spent years thinking I’d never be enough unless I made it. Unless I won. And then when I started winning, it was just… louder. More cameras, more pressure. It didn’t feel like what I thought it would.”

You watch him, surprised by his honesty. 

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask.

His eyes flick up. “What?”

“Here. The town. Us.” The last word slips out before you can swallow it back, and you immediately look away. “Never mind.”

But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. He only nods. Says a quiet, solid, “Yes.”

You pretend you don’t hear it. Still, somehow, the silence that follows isn’t awkward this time. It’s heavy, yes, but not unbearable. 

You clear your throat, trying to shift it lighter. “Remember when you tried to get me into racing? That summer you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “You mean the summer you got sick of me coming over to yours to watch the races on your TV?”

“That one,” you say, and you can’t help the small grin tugging at your lips.

“Your TV was just so much bigger,” he shrugs. “What was a guy to do?”

It’s 2012, mid-afternoon, the kind where the air buzzes with heat and cicadas, and you’re sprawled on the floor of your living room. Your TV is not playing your favourite show, much to your annoyance — instead, race cars shoot across your screen while you yawn pointedly.

Chan, on the other hand, sits cross-legged, leaning forward like the screen holds the secret of the universe. You lie on your stomach, chin propped on your hands, half-listening, half-dozing.

“Look at that cornering,” he says, eyes wide. “Did you see that? He’s pushing way beyond the limit — ”

“You sound like an old man watching golf,” you mumble, eyes half-shut.

He ignores you, rewinding thirty seconds just to watch the overtake again. His hands mimic the wheel, his whole body leaning as though he can feel the G-force through the screen.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, rolling onto your back. “You’ll never drive like that.”

He twists toward you, grinning too wide, eyes shining in that way that always makes you believe him, even when you shouldn’t. “Wanna bet?”

You toss a pillow at him, but he just laughs, dodging it easily.

The memory fades, leaving the two of you smiling quietly at nothing in particular.

“You really thought you could do it back then,” you say, shaking your head. “Thirteen years old, acting like the world was already yours.”

“It wasn’t acting,” he murmurs. “I had to believe it. Otherwise, what was the point?”

The earnestness in his tone pulls you up short. You look at him — really look — and for the first time in years, you see the boy who swore he’d touch the stars, no matter how far he had to go.

“Guess you were right,” you admit, softer than you mean to.

He only nods once, a small acknowledgment, before looking back down at the table he’s polishing.

The air feels different after that. Even lighter, even warmer, even if neither of you say anything more. Mina’s humming filters through from the kitchen. You pick up the rag again, wiping at a spotless patch of counter, but your chest doesn’t feel so tight anymore.

For the very first time since he came back, the silence between you feels almost like it used to.

Mina is sprawled across the couch, socks mismatched, eyeliner smudged, the second bottle of wine dangerously low. Vernon sits on the rug with a beer; Chan is at your side, sipping slowly.

It’s Mina who starts the conversation, of course.

“Confession time,” she announces, sloshing her glass. “First kisses. Who was it, where was it, rate it out of ten.”

You groan. “Mina —”

“No, nope, not getting out of this. We’re doing it.”

She goes first, spinning out some story about a boy from her apartment building — a bus stop, strawberry gum, awkward but sweet. “Five out of ten,” she concludes dramatically.

Vernon shrugs when it’s his turn. “Summer camp. Truth or dare. She was nervous, I was awkward, it was over in three seconds. Four out of ten.”

Mina claps her hands. “Cute. Okay, now —” Her gaze swivels between you and Chan, eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me you two were each other’s first kiss. Oh my god, were you?”

The denial is instant.

“What? No!” you blurt.

“No,” Chan says, sharp.

The room stills. Vernon raises his brows. Mina gasps.

“Seriously? Not even once?”

“Not even once,” you say firmly, heat rising in your cheeks. “Mine was —” You wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

Chan’s face suddenly relaxes into something mischievous. “Wasn’t yours Kwon Soonyoung in kindergarten?” He laughs, way too cheerfully. “He almost bit your lip open. Don’t you remember?”

You do remember, regretfully.  

Mina pouts. “Boring. Okay, then you” — she jabs her finger at Chan — “spill.”

He takes a beat too long, setting his glass down. “I don’t remember.”

Mina scoffs. “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

He shrugs, trying for casual. “It wasn’t important.”

“Oh my god, of course you’d say that,” you mutter. And then it hits you. A flicker of memory. You snap your fingers. “Wait. I do remember. It was — oh my god — it was Ryujin. From middle school.”

Vernon barks out a laugh, nearly spilling his beer. “Holy shit, yes. Behind the bleachers. You dragged me with you to ‘keep watch.’”

Chan groans. “Don’t start.”

“No, no, this is too good.” Vernon points, grinning wide. “You were so nervous you made me stand guard, like the vice principal was gonna come arrest you. And then two minutes later you come out looking like you’d just run a marathon.”

You’re already laughing, wine bubbling in your chest. “Shin Ryujin — fuck, that’s amazing.” You cast an aside to Mina, who looks puzzled. “She was like, the most popular girl in middle school. But after they kissed — ” You cackle at the memory, falling sideways, and Vernon takes over, less hysterical but still appropriately amused.

“After they kissed,” he tells Mina, “She was obsessed with him, but he went away for a karting competition and she told everyone her boyfriend was going to win because she only dated winners.” He pauses. “That was the only karting competition he ever lost.”

Chan rubs his face with one hand, ears red as the rest of you fall into more laughter. “It was middle school. It doesn’t count.”

“Oh, it counts,” Vernon says, grinning. “Especially because after the kiss, you tripped over the bench trying to leave. You nearly broke your nose, man.”

You double over laughing, the memory too vivid now — gangly limbs, nervous energy, the overblown drama of being fourteen.

Mina slaps the couch, delighted. “That’s incredible. Best story yet. Ten out of ten for comedy.”

Chan shakes his head, muttering, but the reluctant curve of his smile gives him away.

The laughter lingers, warm and contagious, until Mina slumps back against the cushions with a sigh. “God, I wish I had a story like that. No, my problem is the opposite. There was this guy back home — incredible kisser. Like, life-changing. And I was an idiot and didn’t get his number.”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift. “What, you never saw him again?”

“Nope.” She groans, throwing her head back. “Still think about it sometimes. Like, what if that was it? What if that was the best kiss of my life and I just let him walk away?”

Vernon snorts. “You were drunk, Mina. Everyone kisses better after tequila.”

“No, I’m telling you,” she insists, sitting up, earnest now. “It was unreal. Like…” She trails off, then points between the three of you. “Wait! Best kiss you’ve ever had. Go.”

The question hits like a stone dropping into a pond. Vernon rolls his eyes, easy. “None worth bragging about.”

Mina presses him, and he just shrugs. “Maybe, like, my college ex, when we got together. We kissed on New Years’ — after tequila,” he adds pointedly, to Mina, who just giggles “and there were fireworks in the back and shit. It was nice.”

Mina’s gaze swings to you. “Well? Best kiss?”

Your pulse stutters. For one terrible second, you see a hotel corridor in Monaco, hear the rush of his laugh, feel the way the world tilted when he kissed you first.

You clear your throat too quickly. “Uh — don’t really… think about it.” You reach for your glass, fumbling. “Anyway, didn’t you say we were rating them? You both skipped that part.”

Mina blinks, distracted by her own rules. “Oh, right — mine was a solid nine. Point five. Minimum.” She launches into a tangent about technique versus chemistry, Vernon groaning theatrically. The conversation slides away with her momentum, and you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

But you don’t look at Chan. And he doesn’t look at you.

And that is louder than anything else in the room.

The sunlight next morning is cruel.

It slants in through the kitchen blinds, cutting stripes across the counter, illuminating every abandoned glass and empty plate from last night. Mina groans loudly from the couch, arm flung over her face.

You shuffle in, clutching a glass of water like it’s holy. “Told you not to mix wine and beer.”

“Don’t.” She sits up slowly, hair a mess, mascara smudged in raccoon rings. “Don’t use that tone. I am delicate.”

“You’re loud,” you mutter, setting the glass down in front of her.

She downs half of it in one go, then sighs dramatically. “So. Are we gonna talk about it?”

You freeze. “Talk about what?”

“The weirdness,” she says, too casual. “Last night. You and Chan.”

Your stomach flips. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was drunk,” she admits. “Not blind. The air was weird. And I am an empath. I feel it.”

You busy yourself with stacking dishes, too harshly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Mina watches you, head tilted, patient. “So you’re just… gonna keep doing this? Acting like he’s not the elephant in the room?”

You slam a plate down harder than necessary. “He is the elephant in the room. He left, Mina. He left for years.”

“But you’ve started again,” she reminds you. “You agreed to that.”

“I know! But he shows up here like nothing happened —”

“But something did happen.” Her voice is soft, but steady, reading between the lines. “You told me he forgot you in Monaco. Made you wait. And yeah, that sucks, but… that can’t be the whole story. That didn’t ruin a decade and a half of friendship.”

The words hit sharp against your chest. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

Mina leans forward, eyes narrowing. “What aren’t you telling me?”

You want to deflect. Joke. Walk away. But the pressure in your chest is too tight, the years of silence too heavy. So finally, you let out a bitter laugh. “Fine.”

She sits back, waiting.

“Before the race,” you say, voice low, “in the morning, we had breakfast. After, before he left for the paddock, he kissed me.”

Mina’s eyes widen.

“He was buzzing, high on adrenaline, saying he felt like he could do anything. He’d qualified pole. And then he just —” You cut yourself off, throat tight. “It was stupid. Fast. But it… it meant something to me. And I thought —” You stop again, shaking your head. “Well. Doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Mina’s voice is careful. “And after?”

You swallow hard. The memory claws back whether you want it or not: the chaos of the race, the hours you spent waiting outside the hotel restaurant, the ache in your chest when he never came.

“I was so excited, you know? And I waited for him. Two hours. And when I finally went to the restaurant, saw the whole party, he actually saw me. He ran after me. I thought — God, I thought he cared enough to explain. I hoped he would. But instead we fought.”

Mina doesn’t interrupt.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “He said he wanted to forget the kiss. That it wasn’t anything. That we’re in different worlds and I shouldn’t think about it.”

The words taste just as bitter now as they did then.

Mina exhales, slow. “Shit.”

You laugh again, humourless. “Yeah. Shit.”

Silence fills the kitchen, heavy but not suffocating. Mina studies you, eyes softening. “You’ve been carrying that around for years.”

You shrug, defensive. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Maybe not. But no wonder it’s weird. You never let yourself say it out loud. Not even to me.”

You sink into a chair, suddenly exhausted. “Because saying it makes it real. And if it’s real, then it means he —” You break off, biting your tongue. “God, I hate talking about this.” 

“It means he hurt you,” Mina finishes gently.

It’s a few days later. You’ve made Mina promise to not say a word — not even Vernon knows about Monaco — but you still catch her glaring at Chan on occasion. Luckily Chan himself remains utterly clueless.

The bell above the bakery door rings with its usual cheerful chime, but the voice that follows makes your chest loosen before you even turn around.

“Ah, there she is. My favorite baker.”

“Mrs Lee!” you say, already smiling.

Chan’s grandmother sweeps in, bundled in her winter coat, scarf trailing. She moves slower these days, but her presence fills the shop just the same — warm, commanding, familiar. You’ve seen her often over the years, more than you ever saw Chan, and every visit has been the same: she treats you like family.

You come out from behind the counter to hug her. She smells faintly of laundry powder and the toffees she always carries in her pocket.

“You didn’t call,” you scold gently. “I’d have set something aside.”

“Nonsense. I like to see what’s fresh,” she says, patting your cheek. Then she peers past you, eyes narrowing. “There he is. Hiding in the corner.”

Chan looks up from where he’s stacking trays, startled. “Grandma.”

“Don’t Grandma me. Come here.”

He obeys, wiping his hands on a towel before crossing the shop. She fusses immediately, tugging at his sleeve, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. “Still too thin. And why are your hands so dry? You need hand cream.”

“Grandma,” he mutters, embarrassed.

You bite back a laugh, ducking behind the counter again.

She turns back to you, eyes bright. “You take good care of him, don’t you?”

The question catches in your throat. You manage a polite smile. “He takes care of himself.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Still. I’m glad he’s here. Feels right, doesn’t it? Seeing him back in this shop.”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can.

Chan clears his throat, steering the conversation away. “Did you come for bread, Grandma?”

“Of course. And for you.” She softens, her voice fond. “Always for you.”

You slip away to wrap up a loaf, giving them the moment. Over the counter, you catch pieces of their conversation: her asking about his work, him answering politely, carefully. He looks younger in front of her, less guarded, even when he squirms under her fussing.

When you return with the loaf, she squeezes your hand as she takes it. “Thank you, dear. It’s so nice to see the two of you together again.”

Your throat tightens, but you just nod. 

The weight of her words lingers even after she leaves, the bell chiming softly behind her. You busy yourself with rearranging the pastries, but you feel his eyes on you, warm and unreadable. Neither of you says anything.

It’s 2018, and the streets of Monte Carlo are alive, every window glowing with celebration, every bar spilling champagne-soaked voices into the night. Cars line the boulevards in glittering rows, cameras still flashing as if the race hasn’t ended hours ago.

And you stand outside the hotel, clutching your phone, trying not to look like you’re waiting.

At first it’s easy. You’re buzzing too, high on adrenaline from watching him win. P1. First place. Lee Chan, the boy you’ve known since you were children, has conquered Monaco. You screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, clapped until your palms hurt, felt pride bloom in your chest so huge it almost lifted you off your seat. Had dashed home to change, wondering the whole entire time if he would kiss you again.

Of course he’s late. He’s been swallowed by reporters and teammates and champagne bottles. Of course he has. But he promised you. He looked you in the eye before the race and kissed you and then said, let’s talk about this later, when we go out to eat.

So you wait.

You check your phone again. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.

The early pride in your chest begins to cool into something else. You shift from foot to foot, aware of the guests who slip in and out of the glass doors, their eyes flicking toward you and away again.

You tell yourself he’ll be here soon. You picture his grin when he finally rounds the corner, breathless apologies tumbling from his mouth. You rehearse the way you’ll roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed even as you forgive him.

Another half hour. Your legs ache. The night air is heavy with salt and perfume. A tourist couple laughs as they pass, arm in arm, and you feel suddenly, horribly exposed. Like everyone can see you for what you are: a girl waiting for someone who isn’t coming.

The thrill drains slowly, replaced by a hollow ache. The adrenaline that carried you through the day finally burns out, leaving you cold.

By the time you hit two hours, you can’t take it anymore. You go to the restaurant yourself, a last shred of hope — that there was some miscommunication, that he meant for you to meet him there instead.

When you get there, you realise it was a mistake. 

What looks like the entire McLaren team is there, laughing, eating, and at the head of the table, laughing carelessly: your best friend.

You shove your phone into your pocket, wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself, and walk away.

The restaurant noise fades behind you. The streets blur together. You tell yourself you’ll catch a cab, go back to the hotel, sleep it off, pretend this night never happened.

Then you hear it.

“Wait — ___!”

Your name, cutting through the hum of the city.

You turn, and there he is — hair ruffled, shirt half-tucked, chest heaving like he’s sprinted the whole way. His eyes lock on yours in the glow of the streetlamp, desperate.

“You’re leaving?”

Your throat closes. You force the words out anyway. “I waited for two hours, Chan.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry — ” He reaches for you, but you step back.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than you intend, but your chest is burning. “You begged me to come here. You said you wanted me. And then you forgot I even existed.”

“I didn’t forget,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words. “I swear I didn’t. It was chaos — the team, the press, they wouldn’t let me leave —”

“You didn’t forget?” Your laugh cracks, bitter. “Because that’s exactly what it feels like. It feels like you flew me all the way here just to kiss me” — he flinches — “and then forget about me.” 

His hands drop helplessly to his sides. For a moment, all you can hear is the echo of laughter spilling from the restaurant down the block, muffled and cruel.

Then he blurts, too fast: “About the kiss —”

Your breath catches. “What about it?”

He drags a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but you. “It wasn’t — I wasn’t thinking. It was adrenaline. Heat of the moment. It doesn’t mean anything. We’re still us, right?”

The words slice through you clean.

You blink at him, the world tilting. “Not anything?”

“I didn’t mean —” He breaks off, groaning. “I just don’t want you to… read into it. It was stupid. A mistake. We’re from different worlds, right? We’re friends.”

Your chest tightens so hard it hurts to breathe. You want to scream, to shove him, to make him see what he’s just thrown away. Because you did read into it. You spent every minute of the race with your lips still tingling, replaying the way he leaned in, the reckless joy in his smile. 

And now he’s telling you it meant nothing.

Your voice shakes. “You know what hurts, Chan? Not that you kissed me. Not that you made me wait. It’s that you can look me in the eye right now and pretend none of it mattered.”

His face crumples, guilt written plain. “That’s not what I —”

“Don’t.” You swallow, forcing the lump in your throat back down. “Don’t try to fix it. You’ve already said enough.”

You turn before he can stop you. The sting in your eyes blurs the lights of the street into streaks of smeared gold.

“Goodnight, Chan.”

He calls your name again, desperate, but you don’t stop. The music and laughter from the restaurant swell behind you, drowning his voice until it disappears into the night. 

And you let it.

Outside, the street is quiet, windows glowing soft yellow, muffled laughter drifting from a house down the block.

Mina insisted earlier that tonight calls for a celebration —“a real one, not just tea” — because after weeks of dragging your feet and months of second-guessing, you finally submitted your master’s applications. A small thing, technically, just buttons pressed on a glowing screen. But your hands had shaken when you did it, and Mina had squealed so loud Mr. Han had turned his head outside the window.

Now, inside, there’s a half-empty bottle of soju on the counter and three mismatched mugs. Mina clinks hers against yours with such force it sloshes over the rim. “To the future,” she declares grandly.

You laugh despite yourself, the sound startling in your throat. “Don’t jinx it.”

Chan, leaning against the counter with his mug, echoes softly, “To the future.” His gaze lingers on you, not the drink.

You look away.

The first round is light, easy. Mina tells stories from Seoul, imitating professors until you’re doubled over, and Chan is groaning like he wants the ground to swallow him. You let yourself laugh, let yourself forget for a moment that the boy beside you once broke your heart so cleanly you can still feel the scar.

But Mina knows when silence shifts, when the air thickens too heavy to laugh through. She drains her mug, stretches, and announces she’s going to bed, her grin deliberately wicked. “Don’t stay up too late, party animals.”

And then she’s gone, leaving just the two of you in the warm, quiet kitchen.

The soju bottle gleams faintly in the lamplight, condensation slick on the glass. Your mug rests on the counter, your hand curled loosely around it. His wrist rests only inches from yours.

He breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing it,” he says, voice low. “Grad school. You’ll finally leave.”

“I haven’t gotten in yet.”

“You will.” His certainty lands too heavy. “You always do.”

Something catches in your chest. You tip the mug back instead of answering, the burn sharp against your throat.

The silence that follows feels different. Thick. Heavy. Like you’ve stepped onto the edge of something fragile. And maybe it’s the soju, warm in your blood, or maybe it’s just exhaustion from years of carrying too much in silence, but you finally let yourself look at him.

It’s a mistake.

His eyes are on you, warm, brown honey, unguarded in a way you haven’t seen in years. His mouth is parted like he was about to say something but thought better of it. There’s a softness there — so, so careful — that makes your pulse kick hard against your throat.

For a breath, you let yourself remember what it was like when you didn’t flinch at closeness. When it was natural.

Chan leans in, just slightly. Enough that you know what he’s asking.

And you want it. God, you want it. But you pull back first — too sharp, too quick, your mug nearly toppling against the counter.

His expression shutters instantly.

“Don’t,” you say. Your voice comes rough, scraped raw.

Something flickers in his face — confusion, hurt — before his jaw sets. “Why not?”

“Because this is insane.” You laugh once, brittle. “You and me? After everything? You think we can just… pick up where we left off?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” he says quietly.

“Exactly.” You push the mug away. The scrape echoes in the small room. “It’s never simple with you.”

The fight sparks quick.

“I’m trying,” he says, louder now. His hand curls into a fist against the counter. “I came back, didn’t I? I’m here. I’m standing in this bakery every day trying to prove —”

“Prove what?” The anger surprises you with its sharpness. “That you can show up when it’s convenient? That it takes a crash and your grandmother for you to talk to me again? That ten years of silence just… disappear because you’ve decided you feel guilty?”

“You blocked me! You refused to talk to me!” His voice climbs with yours, hotter than you expect. “Don’t act like you don’t know what it meant for me to leave. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always had a choice,” you snap. “You just didn’t choose me.”

The words land like a blade. He freezes. His entire face drains of color.

“That’s not true,” he says, but it’s fragile, barely there.

“Isn’t it?”

And then, like something breaking open inside him, he blurts it out: “I kissed you in Monaco because I’ve always wanted to.”

The air fractures.

You don’t move. The memory surges without mercy — the faint hotel smell, the warmth of coffee in your throat, his hand trembling against your cheek, the press of his mouth against yours like it meant something bigger. You’d told yourself you imagined it. That it hadn’t meant what you thought.

Your breath snags. “Don’t.”

“I have to.” His voice cracks, raw. “Because I messed it up. I kissed you and then I panicked. I let racing come first. I let everything come first. And I ruined it. I ruined us. I know that.” He swallows, hard. “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

You laugh once, sharp and bitter. “Sorry doesn’t fix it.”

“I know.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “But that's all I’ve got. And I need you to know that I —” He falters, chest tight, and then says it anyway. “I never stopped caring about you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Don’t, Chan.”

“Why not?” He swallows. “I’ve liked you since — fuck, since we were twelve, ___. And you didn’t like me back then, not like that, but now — don’t pretend with me. Why can’t we?”

“Because it’s not fair!” The words explode out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t get to swoop in here with your apologies and your sad eyes and your bandaged wrist, and expect me to — what? Forgive you? Pretend you won’t leave again the second someone dangles another championship in front of you?”

His voice breaks. “That’s not what I want anymore.”

“It’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

He steps forward without thinking, reaching for you, but you recoil, retreating until the counter digs into your back.

“I can’t trust you. Not with this. Not with me.” Your voice drops, small and broken. “We’re from different worlds, right?” 

The silence that follows is suffocating. Or it would be, if you let it settle, but you don’t wait for him to answer. Your body moves first — out of the kitchen, up the narrow staircase two at a time, heart thundering in your ears.

He calls your name once, low and desperate, but you don’t stop.

The apartment upstairs is dark except for the glow of the streetlight leaking through the curtain. You pass your room, and crack Mina’s door open; she’s asleep, her breath even, tangled hair spilling over the pillow. You slip beneath the covers carefully, curling yourself small on the edge of her bed. 

The first sob cracks out of you before you can swallow it, muffled against the blanket.

Mina stirs, half-asleep, mumbling something incoherent. Her arm shifts across your shoulders, warm and heavy. Instinct, not thought. The way she used to when you were kids sharing one bed on summer holidays.

It breaks something open. You bury your face deeper in the pillow and let the tears come. Quiet, ragged, until exhaustion pulls you under.

Downstairs, the bakery is silent. The soju bottle still sweats on the counter, the mugs abandoned. And Chan stands alone in the dim light, staring at the photograph on the shelf – two kids with grins far too wide, believing the world would never change.

The morning comes, but he doesn’t.

At six on the dot, the very first day of February, you unlock the bakery door with two pulls and a push. The bell gives its soft jingle, the floor creaks the same way it always does. The ovens hum, the air fills with the scent of proofed dough and sugar. Everything feels familiar, routine.

Except for the empty space at the front.

No damp hair tucked under a beanie. No careful step over the threshold. No quiet morning spoken like he doesn’t quite deserve to say it.

You tell yourself it’s a relief. The silence is easier without him standing inside it. You move faster than usual, as if speed alone can fill the gaps — croissants brushed with egg wash, bagels lowered into boiling water, flour scattered over the worktop.

But your eyes betray you. Every time the bell rings, your head lifts too quick, heart stuttering in your chest. Customers filter in — Mr. Han with his espresso, Mrs. Kwon collecting her usual cake. Normal. Ordinary. Nothing out of place.

No Lee Chan.

By ten o’clock, you’ve stopped expecting him.

It’s early afternoon when the door opens again, the bell chiming soft against the stillness. Mrs. Lee steps inside, wrapped in her thick green coat, scarf tucked under her chin. She always carries warmth with her, even in the cold — a brisk kindness that smells faintly of ginger and peppermint.

“Sweetheart,” she greets, her face brightening as she approaches the counter. “I thought I’d stop by before the weather turns. It smells divine in here.”

You smile, automatic, as you wrap a paper bag of oat buns for her. “Fresh out of the oven.”

She leans closer conspiratorially, lowering her voice like you’re sharing a secret. “Don’t tell him, but I like yours better than my Channie’s. He means well in the kitchen, but you’ve seen the state of my pots after he’s through.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “He used every pan in the bakery once, when we were kids. Just to fry one egg.”

She chuckles, eyes crinkling. “That sounds about right.” Her tone softens then, something fond but wistful. “He enjoyed being here again. You could see it in him, even if he didn’t say much.”

You go still. “He… told you that?”

“Of course.” She adjusts the bag in her hands, voice gentle. “He didn’t say it outright, but I could tell. He’s lighter around you. He hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

The words sting and soothe in equal measure. You grip the edge of the counter, steadying yourself. “Is he —” You hesitate, swallow. “Is he coming in tomorrow?”

Her eyes flicker, just for a moment, before she lays a hand over yours. Warm, steady. “Oh, sweetheart. Didn’t he tell you? He left this morning. Back to Europe. There were things he needed to sort out.”

The bakery feels colder all at once.

“He’ll be back,” she adds quickly, misreading the look on your face. “I’m not sure when, of course, but this is his home. Always will be.”

You nod, but it feels like your body’s moving without your consent. The silence presses down heavily, louder than the hum of the ovens, louder than the muffled chatter of customers at the tables.

Mrs. Lee squeezes your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’ve done so well here. Your grandparents would be proud. And your parents too, of course.”

The familiar ache rises in your throat, but you manage a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she says briskly, as though sensing something aching beneath your skin and deciding not to press too hard. She tucks the bag of buns into her tote and straightens her coat. “I’ll see you soon, darling.”

The bell jingles behind her, and then you’re alone again.

You’re fifteen, standing barefoot on the curb outside your house. The pavement is hot enough to sting, but you don’t move. The taxi idles at the end of the drive, engine thrumming, exhaust curling thick into the summer air.

Everyone in town has been talking about him for weeks — how he’s leaving, how he’s destined for bigger things, how it was always written for him. They say it like they’re proud. Like you’re supposed to be proud too.

But all you can think about is how small you feel, watching the trunk close around a bag that looks too big for his shoulders.

You try to memorise him, because it feels like if you don’t, you’ll lose more than just this day. The sun in his hair. The hoodie he wears even though it’s blistering hot. The way he bites the inside of his cheek, pretending not to be nervous. His grandmother is fussing, tugging at zippers, smoothing his sleeve again and again — but he isn’t really listening. He’s already halfway gone.

And you’re just… there. A few feet away. Close enough to touch him, but rooted to the spot. 

Then, suddenly, he’s moving — closing the distance in three quick strides. Before you can breathe, he pulls you into a hug. It’s clumsy, rushed, but it sears into you all the same. His hoodie smells like soap and summer heat, his arms strong and fleeting around you, and you let yourself melt into it for half a second before he pulls away again, too fast, like he’s afraid to linger.

He gives you a crooked grin, casual, as if that hug didn’t just shatter you. He lifts one hand in a half-wave.

“See you soon,” he says. As if the words don’t cost him. As if they don’t gut you.

“Don’t forget about me,” you say, attempting a grin.

He scoffs, pokes your forehead. “As if I could.”

And then he turns. The car door shuts; the engine roars, gravel crunches, and the distance between you grows.

You don’t call after him. You don’t cry. You just stand there, sun beating down, fists curling tighter and tighter at your sides until your nails bite so deep into your palms you finally feel something sharp enough to hold on to.

You're alone again.

author's note: this is a behemoth of a fic and i hope to finish it one day. but for now we leave it here!!! the longest fic i've ever posted, and it's not even the full thing. in all honesty, i wish i'd had more time this summer to truly do this fic justice, bc this is NOT something i'm proud of. and i apologise that this is not as f1-esque as i originally intended (it might be more so in part 2! who knows! not me!!). i do have an f1 jeonghan fic also in the works but it probably won't be out anytime soon, if ever. as always, thank you for reading!!

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The bathroom feels warm and humid from the shower you just took. Standing in front of the mirror, you grab the blowdryer and bring it up to your head when a larger, warm hand wraps around yours and gently pulls the appliance away.

"Let me do it for you baby. Let me take care of you tonight." Chan whispers in your ear before picking you up and seats you on the counter before wiggling to stand in between your legs.

His hands are gentle as he begins to dry your hair, softly running his fingers through your damp locks as he lets the warm air dry them.

You sit there, eyes tired but happy as you look up at him. He looks so handsome, you think when he suddenly peers down at you.

"What are you thinking?" He asks, his voice merely above a whisper as he turns off the blowdryer. You shake your head, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek, his stubble grazing your fingers. "Nothing." You reply, making him smile and lean down to kiss you softly before resuming to dry your hair.

ೃ⁀➷(a/n): Inspired by this tiktok.

Likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!