#han angst

You, Chan and Jisung met in college, you were all in the same major and clicked instantly.

Bonding over deadlines and late nights in the campus' studio.

You like to believe the friendship is strong — platonic, a testament that boys and girls can truly just be friends.

Choosing to ignore the way they both exist around you, the soft touches that linger seconds too long. Times when hugs between you when their hands were dangerously low.

You were celebrating — Jisung finished a track hes been trying to nail for weeks, calling for celebratory drinks!

The night was going perfect — drinks, dancing, all sorts of things.

All of their friends were there, Felix, Seungmin —

Hyunjin.

Hyunjin who you may have drunkenly hooked up with once.

But its in the past! You've spoken about it and chose to forget about it.

Chan and Jisung seemingly haven't.

When you first told them about it they were pissed, rightfully so, — now whenever you're near Hyunjin they suddenly act like your personal bodyguards who know no boundaries.

A sudden hand snaking around your waist — chaste kisses pressed to your cheeks, Jisung's fingers looped through your belt loop pulling you to his side, Chan's hand going dangerously close to your ass.

You may not be the smartest but you are not oblivious.

Poor Hyunjin is though.

And one thing you absolutely love to do is tease your best friends.

You can feel their eyes staring daggers into you from across the bar, glancing back when you stand dangerously close to Hyunjin, whispering in his ear.

Only after you drag Hyunjin to the dance floor do they actually intervene.

Pulling you out of the bar, making up an excuse of you being drunk when you haven't had a lick of alcohol, tonight at least.

You don't even try to complain — you can feel the tension as soon as you step into the car, Chan's grip on the wheel tight, his knuckles turning white nearly.

Jisung's leg is bouncing, the usual cheeky grin on his face vanished, staring ahead at the long empty road ahead.

You don't know what to do or say, not expecting them to act like this — maybe get a little annoyed but this was another level.

The sight of them in front of you, pissed — arguably jealous, whether they deny it or not — fuck its turning you on.

You cant help but clench around nothing — squeezing your thighs together — trying to relieve any of the heat between your legs, failing miserably.

You assume its just gonna be an awkward drive home — that they will end up acting like this never happened like they always do, like how they always play off their jealousy and protectiveness and say its normal and friendly.

Then your phone buzzes.

Hyunjin.

The buzzing makes the whole car go scarily quiet, which is a mammoth task considering it was already quiet — but every outside sound, the engine buzzing, the birds outside — it all mutes.

The ringing fills the car for a minute before you answer instinctively.

"Hyune?"

The boys cant hear what hes saying — a faint recognition of his voice registering

A moment passes before Jisung reaches back and snatches your phone from you. Before you cant even protest Chan is pulling over to a deserted part of the road.

"You think you can just — fuck think that you can be a slut around Hyunjin and let you get away with it?" Chan's hips crash against yours — his cock pounding into your swollen cunt.

You try to moan but its just muffled — your mouth stuffed with Jisung's cock in front of you.

Jisung's back is pressed against the window — the whole car hot, windows fogged up, Your fingers digging into Jisung's thighs as Chan pounds into you from the back, his fingers digging into your hip, sure to leave a mean bruise tomorrow.

Every so often a car runs past — you can barely process it — feeling so incredibly full — Jisung's thick cock heavy in your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat every time Chan's hips meet yours.

"You — think H-hyunjin can fuck you like this, sweetheart?" Chan words come out shaky and out of breath, his pace never wavering — his hands all over you, keeping you in place for him and Jisung, completely malleable under them.

Jisung lets out a guttural moan, his hips thrusting up, pushing his cock further in your mouth, watching as tears fall from your eyes.

It's all too much — the sensation of Chan fucking into you — his cock hitting that gummy spot with insane precision , and Jisung whining and groaning under you — the taste of his cock filling all your senses.

Your whimpers muffled by Jisung's cock — the vibrations only droning him on — his fingers lacing through your hair, pushing your head down further onto his cock.

The action makes you clench hard around Chan — pulling a string of curses from him. His hand kneading the plush of your ass, soothing the previous red marks.

Your nail's dig into Jisung's thighs — the pain pulling a pathetic groan from him, bucking his hips deeper into your mouth, your tongue pressing on the sensitive vein of his cock only pulling more sweet sounds out of him. Looking up at him with your glossy eyes — your cheeks tear stained only makes him go even crazier.

Chan can feel you clenching around him, your legs basically useless at holding you up — relying on Chan to keep you up, His pace only growing rougher and meaner — your tight cunt sucking him in with every thrust.

You cant say that your about to cum but he can tell — your whines growing louder and broken.

"You wanna cum, sweetheart?" He says in a faux concerned tone, his actions the opposite.

You can barely process his words, moaning on Jisung's cock in response.

"Not till we say, angel." Your whole body giving out — the denial only making you crave it even more.

Jisung's close — you can feel him twitching in your throat — his hand pushing your head down onto his cock, fucking your mouth.

"Taking it — shit, so well, princess — gonna swallow it okay, gorgeous?" Jisung's words come out breathless, barely holding on. His orgasm comes crashing as you moan around his cock.

Jisung's thrusts into your mouth halt as his cum shoots down your throat — the warm liquid coating your throat.

Suddenly Chan's hand presses on the back of your neck, holding onto it — pulling you off Jisung's cock. Jisung takes no time to flip you over onto your back, your head resting on his thighs, his finger immediately going to your tits. His thumb grazing over your nipples briefly before twisting on the sensitive buds, pulling on them.

The sudden change of position only makes Chan go deeper in your gut, his tip grazing over your cervix with every deep thrust, His palm presses on your stomach over the visible bulge created from him in you.

Your orgasm is so close — you can barely even process anything but the intense pleasure and the denial of it — Chan's pounding into your pussy and the tight coil in your cut is the only thing you are even registering.

"Look, Channie — she looks so much better when stuffed full of us — mouths open begging for my cock again." Jisung's voice hangs in the air — you barely even hear his mocking words, letting out a pathetic whimper in response only making him flick on your nipples.

A deep broken groan escapes from Chan — the sound of skin slapping echos in the car, the whole vehicle shaking from how hard hes pounding into you.

"You wanna cum, sweetheart? Who do you belong too — fuck, who does this pussy belong too, say it and we'll let you cum, yeah?"

Desperate incoherent pleas escape your lips but that's not enough — Chan's not taking that as an answer, neither is Jisung.

"Cmon, angel you can do better than that —" Jisung's voice is laced with a condescending tone.

"please — you!! Both of y-you — all yours — mphh!" Your voice cracks — your throat sore and voice broken, Chan mumbles something under his breath you cant make out.

"Thats it — cum for us, that's it— good girl." Chan drags it out, your orgasm ripping through you at his words, clenching around his cock — whimpering and mumbling nonsense.

The feeling of you creaming all around his cock sends Chan over the edge — his thrusts growing sloppy and lacking any sense, his cum shooting into your pussy — fucking it deeper into you and through your orgasm.

His cock stays inside you, you can feel him thick and heavy inside you still when Jisung reaches over for the console grabbing your phone bringing it back to you.

"Enjoy the show Hyune?"

general taglist: @nanilis @hoonsocks @sweethoons @beomiracles @izzyy-stuff @yvampyr @kookiesnkim @owlieuwu @seungminsslut @hyukascampfire @yawngnab @hoonicon @rianzysworld @soobabbee @nainai112 @drkbl00d @lottiesls @xhoinicx @b4echo

skz taglist: @emotional-zebra @geni-627 @emmalovesjisung @volcanohan @channlust @kloversung

What you have with Jisung wasn’t exactly planned, if anything, it surprised you as much as it surprised him. You began as a fan, of course you did — finally meeting face to face with your idol at a fan meet — but then, it developed. You visited once, twice. On the third time, he knew who you were, interest picked in. His caresses lingered, hands resting on yours; seeking the warmth a second longer than intended. Pouty, sulking when the staff would ask you to move on to the next member, pretending there wasn't a burn in his chest at the sight of them treating you merely as a fan when he could do so much more than that.

So — this little exchange started after he accidentally slipped his number under a water bottle he decided to gift you with, because you seemed too out of breath that evening. It must’ve been because he’s your idol, that’s right. He was just worried, human nature — but now that he’s got you like this — it might be the opposite. His obsession grew each time he brought you over to his dorm, not caring if you decided to leak his address overnight. As long as he got his hands on you before sunrise.

Longing is what he’d call it. Maybe you fed his ego excessively, that he can not bring himself to awake anymore without your praises living rent free on his mind. 

You’re his biggest fan, he supposes. Not the other way around.

Never, he has decorum.

That's why he rejects your advances, denying the fact that your relationship could take a step further than this. His company wouldn't allow him either, perhaps he wouldn't allow it himself. He gets distracted enough for what it is, you'd just foil his schedule.

However, on each night he'd deny you, you'd find him knocking on your doorstep the very next hour. Mumbling soft apologies, soothing your cries with a promise of fucking the pain away.

You fuck. That's all.

He doesn't love you as much as he likes how you feel glued to his body.

How you calm his constantly running mind by dragging your fingertips on his scalp — lips finding his — shutting him and his toxic thoughts up for good. That's what he likes about you. The attention of a fan.

Feeding your delusions with the steps he takes closer, proximity getting louder when your back hits the couch; not bothering to take it to the bedroom; cause as long as it's him, it's enough.

That's how he assumes you perceive him.

—

You haven't seen him since forever. On tour, he couldn't care to text you anymore by the fifth stop. Never inquiring about your day. Never even hearing from him, except for the few times he'd wake up hard — jerking off to the sound of your voice scolding him for bothering you at whatever time of the day he would call you.

Assuming that he found another pitiful fan's emotion to toy with, you decided to move on. There were no chances with him, too busy to at least send a good morning text. The idea did bother you at first, but you've grown desensitized to his absence. Mentally. Physically — you craved him — much to your disapproval. Drowning in the attention of men that actually desire you in a romantic aspect. Though, the spark is absent. It's not the same.

Ironic, it's painfully one-sided.

Being the individual on the other side of the spectrum, guilty, you find yourself getting ready for another date. The end of tour date completely flies out of your mind, the notification getting lost in the sea of uncleared messages from people you wouldn't even dare to consider as acquaintances.

Ten in the evening, you're about to leave your house. Also ten in the evening, someone abruptly knocks on your door, the pattern of the thuds awfully familiar. Silly, an inside joke between the two of you, so that you wouldn't mistake each other for unwanted attention.

You gulp, hesitant in the way you approach the door. Hand hovering above the handle. He knocks harder, his forehead dropping on the surface, sighing a call of your name. Hearing it despite the heavy rainfall outside of your windows. Rain.

It's raining!

You rush to open the door, being met with a drenched Jisung. He's breathing heavily, as if he ran here when he could've called a taxi.

“My god– let me get you a towel,” you panic, knowing his aptitude to fall sick. However, he halts you, taking a sudden hold of your wrist. Your lips part, surprised with the roughness in which he's gripping you through the tremor in his freezing body.

He thinks… he's shaking for another reason.

“Don't go,” Jisung begs, pulling you closer towards him, “wait a bit.”

Your eyes meet in the dimly lit hallway, the weight of your breathing matching his with the building tension. He inches forward, gently clicking your door shut, and it feels louder than any barring assertiveness could be.

His gaze drops to your face, properly looking at you, checking if his memory did you justice during those torturous long months. “You're dolled up,” he comments in a low hum, staring at your lips when you press them together. Gulping in the same way you do when you're hesitant to give yourself away. Defensive. He doesn't like how you're setting your guard up. A wall constructing itself between you.

You bite on your tongue, “I'm going on a date.”

His mouth dries, brows knitting in abrupt rigidity. Though, he was expecting it. He's been nothing but an asshole. “You are?” he asks, tone rising a pitch. A pathetic pitch. “With who?”

Your gaze narrows, he's in no position to request those answers out of you. You still respond, shrugging. “A coworker. I've been seeing him for a while.”

The outfit you're wearing tells him enough to wonder what you were going out to do with that coworker. Exhaling, he uses that opportunity to breathe you in on his next inhale, subconsciously pinning you to the wall every time he decides that the distance is too much for to bear.

“Jisung–” you call when he presses you to the wall, caging you in order to keep your figure in place. Here, with him.

“Don't go,” this time — it's a demand. Palms sliding down your waists, taking their original positions before the tour began. You writhe, frown matching his.

“You can't tell me not to–”

Not after constantly rejecting you. Breaking your heart, just to glue it back together with the excuse he misunderstands for affection.

“I know…” his lips, flimsy and warm, make contact with the skin of your neck. You almost fold. “I'm sorry,” there he goes with the apologies. A kiss turns into two, till he's pampering light smothers to the swell of your cheek. Stopping right before your mouth, forehead softly colliding with yours.

Your next pant is shaky, because you're sure that the tears began to fall. All that's spilling something already said, but it somehow carries a sentiment of being bottled up. He knows what he did — what he is doing wrong — when his thumb finds the running tear, wiping it off with such fondness, that you could mistake it for love. If you knew better.

He hushes you, cradling your face through your quiet sniffing. Eyes refusing to lock with his no matter the consequences. “Don't cry, please.” It pains him to see you upset because of him. He's the root of your problems, well aware of that. Well aware that he shouldn't have encouraged this to begin with, that you should've stayed idol and fan. But now he can't bring himself to, not when his lips touch yours. Slow, engraving the sensation in his brain. Sighing contentedly when you don't shoo him away, chasing the feels of you by squeezing a tad harder.

He tilts his head, using his hand to guide you the way in which he wants the kiss to evolve. It's sweet, he tastes sweet. Probably because you like him too much for your own good, everything he does is sweet. Even when he hurts you like this, then comes back running to fix things up. His clothes stick to his skin, wetting you in the process when he shoves you deeper onto the hard surface, the coldness on both sides sending a shiver across your nerves. “I missed you,” he whispers against your mouth. You choose to swallow the sound, finally parting your lips to grant him access. He groans, no hint of hesitation. His tongue peeks out of his mouth, taking a tentative lick at your bottom lip. Testing the waters when he bites on the soft tissue, earning an irritated noise out of you. He could giggle, sucking on the pain he's caused.

Your palm slides to his nape, threading your fingers through his wet hair, tugging at his roots — this time, he moans. Higher pitched, more sensual when he releases your face. “Bedroom–” he pants, a growing desperation etching on his features. It's mutual, feet quickly leading you to the confinement of your room. It's got to be his favorite place on Earth. Everything here is so you, he could bury himself within your built fortress and never dream of seeing sunlight. Reminding himself that you're just a fan whenever the desire pops up. He still finds himself caving in, the temptation you provide more torturous than his packed schedule. Hence, why he decided to ignore you while he was away. He couldn't bring himself to close his eyes without being hit with the thought of you.

You, you, and you.

You plague his mind, a constant melody refusing to wear off his brain. He felt like he was going nuts, but trying to live without your presence proved to be more insane. He can't do it. He tried. He knows his excuses are merely excuses.

You're his problem, and yet, you're his solution.

You stumble on the carpet, legs fumbling when his fingers lock with yours, squeezing your palm. You fall onto the bed, he stays standing, blinking in sudden contemplation. “I'll get water everywhere–” he mentions, staring down at his drenched figure. Grinning, he finds the hem of his shirt, rucking it up to flash a sliver of his waist. “Guess, I'll have to take it off.”

You grunt, rolling your eyes at his teasing. Grabbing him by the cloth, you push him forward. He lands on top of your body, not caring if he does get the water anywhere. You need him. Clasping his lips to yours, nose bumping in the process. He makes a surprised noise, lips gaping for your tongue to dive inside; widened eyes relax, his eyelids dropping into a lazy stance. Needy, just as you are when your palms explore the curves and lines of his body. “Get rid of it,” you mutter into his mouth, drawing out a silent whine from him as you tug at his damp shirt.

“I can't if you grip onto me like that–” he replies, though deciding to make no attempt at separating. Kneeling on top of you, he jerks your body back so that you're flat on the mattress, dragging your legs around his waist. His hips roll into yours, bulge grinding against the warmth of your core. You both gasp, the sensation something you fantasized about during his absence. The perfect piece to your puzzle.

Sitting up, he struggles to get rid of the sticky fabric. Though — the wait is worth it — he's bigger. The muscles defined under your lampshade, months of hard work paying off. And his tattoos… you bite on your cheek, nails grazing the ink, exploring the lines as if it was the first time. He twitches under your gaze, grabbing your wrist above his chest, stopping you right before you discover his thrumming heartbeat. Using his grip to pin your wrist above your head, hungry eyes drifting to your attire. To the hint of cleavage, and the meat of your thighs spilling out of your dress. He sighs, trembling in self control, an endeavor at keeping the pace slow — real.

“You were planning on leaving the house…” he mumbles, zipper coming undone, the dress loosening around your chest, “like this.” He blinks, lashes fluttering rapidly in his daze, a flush creeping on his face; unable if to tell if it's from the simmering jealousy, or the intoxication you drug him with. “To meet him?” It's an accusation.

You scoff, head turning to face the ceiling instead of him. Disbelief washing over you.

He rolls his hips again, coaxing a successful reaction out of you when your brows twitch in concentration. His fingers spasm on your stomach, the urge to rip off that dress off you curling his joints. “Is it serious?” he questions, forcing you to look at him; fingers digging in your cheeks. “You and that coworker, I mean.”

“Jisung,” it's a beg, a reprimand, “why do you care?”

Slapping his hand away, your finger points at his chest, your accusatory tone louder than his. “You are the one who keeps denying our relationship. You are the one who said to strictly keep it as a fuck. And, you're the one who stopped answering to my texts— don't give me that jealous boyfriend bullshit–”

He chews on his lips, a period of silence passing through as he nods. Accepting, he pulls back, letting go of the warmth you provide. “You're right,” half expecting him to take his shirt and leave, but he flips you over instead. Heaving your body upward, you can hardly react before your dress slips off, gasping at the rush of cold air meeting the bare skin. “I'm in no position to.” he admits, arms enveloping your waist in an embrace. His hair tickles your shoulder, goosebumps rising on the area. “Let me at least do what I'm best at…” Jisung kisses your nape, a dot of contact, tracing the curve of your spine. “Am I allowed this much, after so long?”

You should push him away, curse him to fuck off and to leave you alone. That you actually hate his group, and wish to never hear from any of them, or see him ever again. But that'd be a lie, the truth unveiling with an arch of your back, heart fluttering when he kisses you so sweetly. The coil in your stomach deepening with an unclasp of your bra, the ease in which he does it familiar. Gentle hands drop the fabric to your knees, picking it up and discarding it somewhere around the room. There's a plea of your name, then a please. A prayer you find yourself granting; allowing the first noise to fly out of your mouth when he holds you closer — scared that you'll change your mind if he happens to let you go — he doesn't want to. He wouldn't dare to, not even in his craziest dreams.

He breathes in your scent, infatuated with the beads of sweat that cracks at your back, warm tongue lolling out to catch them. You giggle, the sensation ticklish, and he returns the smile. His lips curl against your neck, fingers scooting to the lace of your panties. Satisfaction settling in when Jisung takes in the colour of your underwear.

Not matching, you mustn't be that into him then.

Such a foolish conclusion, but it sends a ripple of relief to his heart, the tension in his stomach uncoiling just a bit. Mumbling a soft noise by your ear as you keen into his touch, palm resting on his; guiding him lower under the seam. He whines, finding you soaked.

“I've been dreaming of this,” his voice breaks with the first contact on your slit, spreading the wetness with his finger, driving up till he finds your clit. “The way I treat you…” a roll on your clit, the pressure providing you with a glimpse of heaven, but his words bring you back to the harsher reality. “Do hate me… I–”

He's scared, the question slipping out on impulse. Regretting the sentence as soon as it voiced out, stilling completely, awaiting your answer. However, you tug at his wrist, gifting him with silence. Somehow, it hurts more than any rejection would. So, he indulges, digits running past your lips — prodding at your hole.

Okay.

He slips inside, drawing out the prettiest gasp from you. Though, all of you are pretty to him. If he was asked what he found the most endearing, he wouldn't be able to choose. Maybe he finds you the prettiest when you're sprawled out, holes stuffed with himself, used and wrecked. Or maybe, he finds you the prettiest when you're on top, maneuvering him and toying with each part of his body to your whim. Maybe, he found you the prettiest when you cause his heart to skip a beat, the skin of his palms getting sweaty just from the sight of your laughter from one of his poor–unfunny jokes.

He can't tell, but he curls his fingers with the sole purpose of hearing that sound part from your lips again. It does. He whines, hot and breathy in your ear, covering the squishy lobe with his mouth — nipping at it. “Han…” he hardly hears it, lost in the squelches that come out with every pump of his fingers, juices flowing past the fabric of your panties.

His erection rubs on your rear, grasping the line of sanity left in him to bring himself to be patient. He's got to be, that's the one effort of consideration he shows you when all he does is take, take, and take. You suck him in, welcoming the hook of his digits with a hitch of your own, knuckles whitening on his wrist, controlling the pace until it's too much. Releasing your grip, allowing him to take care of you exactly how he desires.

This might be your worst and best decision yet.

“Fuck–” you curse when the heel of his palm caresses your clit, applying enough force to have you trembling in his hold. Teetering over the edge when he suddenly stops. Halting all movement. “What—”

The query is left unanswered, his actions speak louder. Jisung drops you down the mattress, lying flat on your back. He kneels up to your thighs, kicking them apart for him to nestle in. You gasp at the haste in which he gets down, dying to have a taste of what he's been missing.

His eyes stay on you, locked on your face along the first lick. Tongue flat on your leaking cunt, you arch, having forgotten just how good he is with his mouth as he wraps it around your clit. “Ahh…” it's a cry, the back of your palm landing flat on your lips with the purpose of muffling the inevitable sounds.

Jisung groans at the taste, catching the dripping liquids with a lack of shame, hips buckling onto the mattress. He missed this. Missed you. He already told you, but the words aren't enough to express the extent to which he was craving this. Craving you. In his brain, this is sexual. Logically. However, the tightness in his chest whispers otherwise, warning him to step away before it's too late.

He dives deeper.

Nose bumping on your clit, trailing his path to your clenching hole. Breathing you in, he spreads you apart on his fingers, providing him a much needed sight. He's hard, painfully so. Throbbing in his pants with every huff you steal, each time you'd jerk towards him, or the shakiness in which your thighs circle his head. Moaning. You or him? Both — the tip of his tongue explores the familiar walls. “She missed me too— missed this so much, didn't she–?” he blabbers, not even talking to you anymore, madness drowning in your pussy.

You curse, again. Fingers threading through his hair, disheveling him further with the harsh tug on his scalp. Jisung riles in it, nearly cumming on the spot as you jolt towards his face, grinding your adorable clit on his nose. Suffocating him, he should've seen white, however — he sees you — just you. God, it must've been the distance.

For that very reason, he shouldn't separate from you anymore. Never, then his brain will finally be able to function properly.

His fingers run to your nub, rubbing in small-quick circles, tongue fucking you with more depth. Aiming to reach your approaching orgasm. He knows you're close, your reactions something he learned by heart. Not willingly, at least, that's how he tries to pass it as. Hooking his arm under your thighs, hoping to get you impossibly closer, tongue pulling out to replace it with his pumping fingers; latching the wet muscle on your clit instead. You hiccup, heels thrashing for any sort of support, milking his fingers.

He sighs, content. Gaze heavy on the tiny pout that creeps at your lips, fingers leaving the warmth of your core. Cleaning you up with his mouth, earning a headshake from you, which he dutifully ignores. Because he's sure of what you like, submitting to your nonverbal wishes. A weak hand taps on his shoulder, encouraging him to come forward. He does, palms laying flat on your hips, mouth level to yours.

Wet lips collide with yours, lacking the softness of earlier. More confident, hotter. Cocking his head to the side, he allows his tongue to slide inside, having you taste yourself on him. You hum, saliva pooling at the seam of your mouth, but none seem to care. If anything, he licks at it, slurping the drool that threatens to spill from your mouth with disgusting vigor.

Unbuckling his belt, he might actually die if he isn't fucking you by the next minute, the wet patch on his pants revealing just enough. The pants fall alongside his boxers, kicking them somewhere off the bed. Your hand reaches for him between your tangled bodies, but he catches you, aware of what you have in mind. “Another day,” he mumbles through the kiss, lapping at your tongue. “Need to be inside, now.”

He's desperate, the slide of his cock on you is desperate. Coating himself in your wetness, he slaps the tip on your clit. You involuntarily bite on his lip, he moans, chasing the ache with a clash of teeth. He can't afford to tease any longer, tip prodding in. You both let out a relieved breath on the first few inches. Palms finding themselves on his shoulders, holding on for support to ease the dull burn.

“Shit, shit—” he gasps, bottoming out. “Fits perfectly, she remembers me so well,” he's talking nonsense, nonsensical comments filling your hearing. Whining like a virgin boy at the feels of your pussy enveloping him. His forehead rests against yours, holding eye contact with his slow pace, needing it to prevent himself from cumming on the spot. You can't look at him when he stares at you with such affection, your heart may mistake it for something else. Something that he denies you on each try. Though, it's hard not to stare when he looks so delicious.

His bangs stick to his forehead, sweat dripping down his skin. Lips parted, swollen and red, marked with the traces of your teeth. You blink away, but he follows the narrow of your eyes. Arms caging you in his prison, refusing your detachment. Dragging you back from the growing distance with a particularly harsh thrust, snapping you back to reality with a smack on your cunt.

It's intimate, he makes the act intimate with the heat in which he presses his lips to your temple. Pouty against your cheek when you try to give yourself space. The lack of it is what he desires. To not have a centimeter left between the two of you. Selfish, because he's the one who insists on maintaining your relationship as it is.

Fine.

Jisung sits up, withdrawing from your cunt. You make a confused sound, uncertainty settling in. He grabs onto your hips, rolling your body so that you're on your stomach instead, a surprised, “Oh–” gaping out of your throat. One second you're empty, and the next he fills you to the brink. The position applies a force on your lower belly, punching against the bulge he creates with every thrust. “Fuuuckk… Ji–” sobbing into the sheets. He leans forward, chest glued to your back.

“Feels good?” he asks, brows furrowed in concentration. Plowing your back, his lips curve upwards with your feverish nodding. Picking his pace, he gives up on self control. Praying to wash off the feelings in his heart with the drags of his heavy cock. Pulsating inside, your cunt grips him, reminding him that this is in fact — just a fuck.

But then, your phone rings, flashing the name of a guy he doesn't recognise. Too fucked out to realize, the wet slaps of his hips on your ass dominates your ringtone, Jisung the only one who noticed. Just a fuck. His frown deepens, thrusts growing hesitant for a second; grabbing your phone; he picks up the call. Setting the device next to a discarded pillow, he fucks harder. Drawing out the tiniest sobs from you, his pants getting heavier.

He's jealous. Jealous that you were going on that date, when all he did on tour was think about you. He knows that he's an asshole for not reaching out, for keeping you in the dark for months without updates. The distance brought out unwanted emotions, ones that he hoped to bury the second he lands back home. Except that you're the first place he visited as soon as he left that airport. Perhaps, you're home.

His feet urged him here, to you, with the excuse of sex. Hence why he chooses to nestle his face on your shoulder, vulnerability stabbing him in the heart. For the first time in a while, he actually feels like he's not lying, “I like you.”

Three simple words. Three words in excess.

“Jisung–” he punches his cock to your guts, cutting you off mid-sentence, “–mhm!”

“Not yet,” he grunts, “not here. Not with my dick inside.” Ironic, since he's brought up the confession. His arms wrap around your waist, fucking you like a rabid animal despite the soothe of his voice. “Let me take you on a date, a better one than he ever could,” he inhales, whole body trembling. “Then, I'll ask you out. Properly ask you out.”

“Please, let me.” His arm draws from your waist, bicep meeting your chin, lifting you up with him. “Will you– shit, stop clenching down like this… can't muster a word— too good,” his voice is pitched higher, cock throbbing dangerously. He has to count his breathing, stomach twisting in uncontrolled pleasure.

“Yes–” you fold, arching onto him. Hard not to tighten up, pleasure scooting up your entire being. You could cry, you probably are. He bites on your shoulder, doing absolutely nothing at masking his pitiful sounds. Slipping out with the wetness drooling on his cock, just to slide back in with practiced ease. “Hannie, please, cum inside–”

He halts briefly, unsure, the nickname causing his heart to flutter. You take his wrist, bringing his fingers to your aching clit. “I'm on pills, just— do it inside, need to feel you fill me,” you plea, your needy tone tilts him over the edge.

He whimpers, surely with the aim of waking up your neighbors. Deft fingers work on your clit, awakening your orgasm. Still thrusting in, dragging it out for the both of you, refusing to let go yet. You cry, matching his sobs on your skin, a hot-wet mess behind you.

You fall forward, nearly hitting your head against the headboard if it wasn't for him supporting you up. Gently laying you on the pillows, dropping next to you, the heave of his chest is erratic, trying to calm down. His gaze meets the lit screen of your phone, grinning. The call was hung upon. Satisfied, he rolls to your side, hugging you closer. You grunt lightly, sore and tired. Jisung's eyes travel downwards to notice his cum oozing out of your cunt, tempted to push it back in with his fingers, but he holds it in. Your expression is too peaceful to bother.

“Are we… going to mention the confession?” you question, turning to face him.

His eyes widen, a glimpse of flush enrobing his cheeks. “Nopes,” shaking his head. Finger clasping on your lips before you can continue, hushing you. “Date first, confession second. Forget I said it, it was during the heat of the moment and I—”

“And you decided to take the call from my coworker?” you lift a brow, almost laughing at the expression that washes on his face.

“You knew?”

“I'm not deaf… or blind?”

“Oh. Are you mad–”

Your fingers brush aside the stray strands near his temple, raking through the damp locks. Shifting an inch towards him, your breathings mingling. Ignoring his question, your eyes flutter shut, serenity threading in.

He stares, staring hard enough to punch holes at your head. Fear of rejection kicking in. 

Please.

“I like you too.” The confession is hardly a whisper, but he hears it — loud and proud in his ears.

You can hear his excitement, even if it's wordless. You point at him, tsking. “Don't get too excited, it means nothing before that date.”

He smiles, lowering his head till he's resting on your chest, mushing his cheek within the plush comfort. Sighing happily, “Fair enough.”

—

permanent taglist: @lilyxii @princesskrystix

But lately, it wasn’t just that.

He’d been distant. Not unkind. Just… elsewhere. Every conversation felt like you were knocking on a door he no longer heard you through.

You chalked it up to work, because it was work. He’d been spending long hours writing, recording, tweaking things late into the night, and barely looking up from his laptop when you came in. You were used to it, in a way. This was Jisung. He went hard when inspiration struck. He burned hot, fast, and completely.

Still, it stung in a way you didn’t want to admit.

Especially with your birthday just a few days away.

You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d made a quiet decision not to bring it up. Part of you thought it would be sweet if he remembered on his own, if he had something planned, something thoughtful, even small. Jisung wasn’t extravagant. He didn’t do grand gestures. But he knew you. He always knew you.

So you waited.

And waited.

Each day passed without a mention. No little comments. No suspicious texts. No asking if you were free. Just his head down, pen scratching across paper, headphones on, a world away.

But today, Tuesday, you couldn’t take the silence anymore. You weren’t going to outright ask him if he remembered. That would be pathetic, you thought. That would make it worse if he didn’t. But you could be subtle. Casual. Just ask if he had Friday off. Plant the seed. Give him a chance.

It was late afternoon when you walked into his studio. You could hear the low hum of a beat looping in the background, his fingers moving fast over his keyboard, pausing every so often to scribble something into his notebook. His back was to you, hunched slightly, hoodie pulled up over his head.

He didn’t hear you come in.

You walked over quietly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek lightly against his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away.

Yet.

"Hey, baby," you said softly, your voice almost lost in the music. "Do you have Friday off?"

You didn’t mention why. You didn’t want it to sound like a trap.

He didn’t turn around. Just shrugged, his fingers still moving.

"I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a lot going on right now."

You blinked. Pulled back a little. That was it? No follow-up? No “why do you ask?” Not even curiosity?

You bit your lip and tried again, stepping around him this time so you were facing him. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy from staring at the screen too long. You leaned down, gently trying to kiss his cheek, but he shifted just as you did, and your lips landed awkwardly at the corner of his jaw.

You let it slide. Forced a smile.

"Really no plans this weekend? Not even a day off?"

He finally looked up. Annoyed. The kind of look you’d only seen when he was dealing with customer service or slow Wi-Fi.

"Can you not right now?" he snapped, rubbing his temple. "I’m in the middle of something."

You blinked. Stunned for a second.

"I was just asking—"

"Yeah, and I said I don’t know." He exhaled hard, clearly irritated. "Why are you pressing me about this? I’m busy."

That one landed like a slap. You took a step back, arms folding tightly over your chest. You felt like you were shrinking.

"Sorry for bothering you," you said coldly, the tightness in your throat giving you away. "God forbid I ask my boyfriend a simple question."

You turned before he could say anything else, before the anger on your face melted into something worse. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want him to know.

The door slammed behind you harder than you intended. The echo rang down the hallway like a warning bell.

You stood there, frozen, in the hallway. Alone.

And that's when it hit you.

He’d forgotten.

He really, truly had forgotten.

Your birthday was in three days.

And Jisung, the boy who once remembered the exact day you first cried in front of him, the boy who had surprised you with ramen at 1AM because you offhandedly said you missed home, had forgotten.

Your chest burned.

You didn’t cry right away. You refused to. Crying meant giving it weight. It meant making it real. And maybe, maybe this was still salvageable. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe this was just a bad moment, a bad hour.

But the more you thought about it, the more the silence over the past week screamed in your ears.

Not one hint. Not one look. Nothing.

-

The house was quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that felt like tension stretched too thin. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavier.

You’d noticed it growing for a while now, the slow fade of warmth, like a candle burning down to its last inch of wick. Jisung had been lost in his work lately, immersed in melodies and metaphors, his mind trapped in the small studio tucked at the end of the hall.

He’d always done this. You knew his process. He dove headfirst into his music, sometimes forgetting meals, forgetting sleep. You’d loved him for that. For how deeply he loved creating. For how earnestly he got caught up in the things that mattered to him.

But this time… something was different.

This time, you felt like a stranger to him while he buried himself in lyrics.

And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Your birthday was in just a few days.

That tiny fact sat in the back of your mind like a needle under the skin. Small. Sharp. Unshakable.

You didn’t need much. You weren’t the type to demand gifts or parties or posts with long, poetic captions. What you wanted, what you hoped for was that he’d remember. That he’d do something meaningful, something that showed he still saw you.

You had convinced yourself that he did.

Even after the way he snapped earlier that day, the way he brushed you off when you asked if he had Friday free, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.

You had to. Because if he had forgotten, if he truly wasn’t planning anything… then what did that say about the two of you? About how far you’d drifted without realizing it?

That evening, the house remained mostly silent.

You moved around the bedroom without saying much, folding laundry you didn’t have the energy to care about, rechecking a calendar you’d already memorized. You hadn’t seen him much since the argument. He stayed locked away in his studio, headphones on, music leaking faintly through the door like a barrier between you.

You had hoped stupidly, maybe that he’d come out and say something. Apologize, even a little. Ask what was wrong. Notice that you’d been quiet too. That you didn’t eat dinner. That you didn’t sit on the couch like usual waiting for him to finish work.

But none of that happened.

It was nearly midnight when he finally came into the room. You were already in bed, the blanket pulled up to your chest, your body curled to one side, eyes closed. You weren’t asleep, not even close.

He moved quietly, but you heard every step. The rustle of his hoodie dropping to the floor. The faint creak of the mattress as he slipped in beside you.

You waited.

Your heart thudded.

Then, slowly, you inched toward him.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t push your luck with words this time. You just slid closer and gently wrapped your arm around his waist, your face nestling near his shoulder. A quiet attempt at truce. A silent please let’s forget the fight.

But before you could even settle into the comfort you craved, he flinched.

And then he sighed. Loudly.

“Seriously?”

The word hit you like a slap.

Your body stilled. “...What?”

“When I’m working, I really need you to not be all over me,” he said, voice flat, frustrated. “It throws me off. I was just about to write something important earlier and you came in, touching me, kissing me and I completely lost the line I had in my head.”

You pulled back slowly, staring at him in the dim lighting. His profile was hard. Tired. Detached.

You blinked once. Twice. Trying to process what he’d just said.

“I distracted you…?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out another sigh and turned his back to you.

“I just… I’d appreciate it if you could give me space when I’m in work mode. That’s all.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You lay there, staring at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath.

There was something hollow in your chest. A yawning emptiness where warmth used to live.

All day, you had been convincing yourself that this was just stress. That he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean to be cold or distant. That it wasn’t personal.

But this, this wasn’t just stress.

This was dismissal.

And that, somehow, hurt more than him forgetting your birthday.

Because this wasn’t about one day.

This was about being made to feel like you were in the way. Like your affection was an inconvenience. Like loving him gently, quietly, earnestly was a problem.

You blinked away the heat in your eyes and rolled onto your other side, facing the wall.

You didn’t say goodnight.
You didn’t touch him again.
You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Lying there in the dark, you played the moment over and over in your head.

You weren’t sure what stung more:
That he hadn’t tried to fix the argument.
That he’d called your love distracting.
Or that he didn’t even realize he’d hurt you.

You thought about how he used to pull you into bed and kiss you like he couldn’t wait to tell you everything he’d written.
You thought about the nights when he would bring his lyric notebook to the couch just to be next to you.
You thought about the quiet way he used to hold your hand while working, like even in silence, he wanted to be tethered to you.

Now… you were a distraction.
And worse, someone who made you feel too much for wanting to be close.

You clutched the edge of the blanket and closed your eyes.

You didn’t want to cry.
You didn’t want to give it that power.

But the tears came anyway silent and slow, soaking into your pillow like an open secret.

In that moment, you realized something heartbreaking:

It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday.

It was that, lately, he’d forgotten you.

-

You woke up the next morning feeling like you hadn't slept at all.

Your eyes were sore, your body heavy from the weight of unshed words and smothered cries. There was a dull ache behind your ribs that hadn’t gone away since last night, since he turned away from you after telling you that your love was distracting. Since you’d reached out for comfort and got a complaint instead.

You lay still in bed, watching the gray morning light bleed into the room. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood floor. The clink of a mug. A spoon against a bowl.

Your heart didn’t race. It slowed. Because nothing felt worse than knowing he was acting like everything was fine.

And it was then that the decision made itself:
You wouldn’t say a word.
Not out of pettiness.
Not out of spite.
But because you had said enough.
And he had heard nothing.

Let him feel the silence he gave you. Let him hear it this time.

You walked into the kitchen wrapped in a hoodie, your face blank, your mouth a hard line. He was standing by the stove, eating cereal straight out of the bowl, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up briefly.

"Morning," he said, like nothing had happened.

You nodded once, tight, and opened the fridge. You could feel his eyes linger on you for a second too long like he was waiting for you to say more. But when you didn’t, he just turned back to his screen.

You didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask about his schedule.
Didn’t try to sit close.

You took your yogurt and left the kitchen, eating alone in the living room with the TV off and your thoughts screaming.

The silence grew louder as the hours passed.

He didn’t notice it at first. You were usually quiet in the mornings anyway. He probably assumed you'd snap out of it, give him a kiss on the cheek, ask how the lyrics were going, sit beside him with your head on his shoulder.

But you didn’t.

And by mid-afternoon, it had become clear that this wasn’t just a quiet morning.

You walked past him in the hallway when he emerged for coffee. He smiled faintly and said, “I think I figured out that chorus.”
You gave a nod that didn’t reach your eyes. No follow-up.
You didn’t even glance at him.

He paused. Just for a second.
And then kept walking.

By evening, you heard the subtle tone in his voice shift. A flicker of unease.

He called from the kitchen, “Hey… you want me to make pasta or something?”

You didn’t respond.

“...Y/N?” he tried again.

You were in the bedroom, folding the same shirt over and over just to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted.

He peeked into the room, holding the bag of pasta in his hand.
You didn’t look at him.

“I’m making something to eat,” he said slowly, carefully. “Do you want any?”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t even shrug.

He exhaled sharply, clearly irritated now. “Okay. I’ll just leave you alone then.”

And he did.

The rest of the day passed the same way.
Cold. Wordless. Wide.

You were in the same rooms but worlds apart.
He started watching you more carefully. Furtively.
He asked small things throughout the day "Did you do the laundry already?" or "Hey, have you seen my hoodie?"
Each question met with nothing but the silence you were buried in.

You saw confusion start to shift in his face. His brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled taut. He’d ask something, and when you didn’t answer, his eyes would narrow slightly like he was starting to notice that something was wrong but still couldn’t connect the dots.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because to you, the answer was obvious.
You were bleeding right in front of him, and he was asking why the floor looked red.

You were brushing your teeth late that night when he leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.

"Are you gonna stay mad forever?"

You blinked once and spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiped your mouth without answering.

He waited.

"I seriously don’t know what I did," he said, his voice cracking a little with frustration. "If you’re not gonna tell me, how am I supposed to fix it?"

You turned off the bathroom light and walked past him.

The door didn’t slam this time.
It clicked shut, soft and final.

By the time Thursday night arrived, he looked exhausted. You couldn’t tell if it was from the studio or from trying to figure out what had changed. Probably both.

You sat on the couch with your arms crossed, the TV playing something you weren’t even watching.

He stood in the doorway for a while, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Then finally, he said it.
“I’m gonna go to the practice room for a bit.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“Maybe you just need space or something,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep bothering you.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.

Space?

That’s what he thought this was about?

He thought you were ignoring him because you needed air? Not because he’d forgotten the one day you were silently hoping he’d remember? Not because he’d made you feel like loving him was a chore? Like your affection was an obstacle?

You blinked at the screen, your eyes glassy. The show kept playing. You didn’t even know what episode you were on.

He waited a moment longer.

Then the door shut.

And suddenly you were alone. Again.

The tears finally came, thick and hot, as soon as his footsteps faded. They weren’t quiet this time. You choked on them, the kind that made your chest heave and your throat close. Your hands shook.

Because you were tired.

Tired of giving the benefit of the doubt.
Tired of excuses.
Tired of being too scared to say it’s my birthday tomorrow and you’ve done nothing.
Tired of hoping he would see you, without you having to beg for it.

How could he not know?

How could he be so oblivious?

And still… you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.

Because wasn’t that the whole point?

You wanted to be chosen. Not reminded.

You wanted him to remember, not be told.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow, when you woke up…

It would be your birthday.

And you had no idea if he would know it.

The practice room lights were dim, buzzing faintly overhead like the last nerve in Jisung’s mind, frayed and twitching. He stepped inside without much thought, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his whole body. His legs gave out near the far wall, slumping down onto the cold wooden floor beside Hyunjin, who looked like he’d just finished drowning in sweat and choreography.

Jeongin was sitting criss-cross at the center of the room, stretching lazily with one earbud still dangling from his hoodie. Felix lay flat on his back beside him, chest heaving with tired breaths, while Minho scrolled through his phone like he hadn’t just danced for two hours straight.

The energy in the room was comfortable. Familiar. But the second Jisung sat down, it shifted.

Hyunjin glanced at him sideways. “What are you doing here?”

Felix sat up halfway, his brow scrunched. “Don’t you usually spend your days off with Y/N?”

“Wait—yeah,” Jeongin chimed in, tossing his head back. “Isn’t this, like, a once-in-a-blue-moon thing for you to be here on a day off?”

Jisung didn’t respond at first.

He exhaled hard and let his head fall back against the mirror. “She’s not talking to me.”

That caught their attention.

“What?” Hyunjin blinked.

“Like... ignoring you ignoring you?” Felix asked, scooting closer.

“Yeah. Since yesterday. Full-on silent treatment. Not even a shrug. Just—blank face. No words.” Jisung pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And I swear to God it’s driving me insane.”

“Damn,” Jeongin muttered under his breath.

Minho looked up from his phone. “Did you do something?”

Jisung shook his head instantly. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? I don’t know.”

Jeongin snorted. “That’s not convincing.”

“I didn’t, though!” he snapped. “Like—okay, yeah, maybe I was kind of short with her the other night, but I was working. She came into the studio while I was trying to get this chorus down and I got frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t say anything bad.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“She tried talking to me a couple times that day and I just—I asked for space. I was in the zone.” Jisung rubbed his temples, groaning. “She knows how I get when I’m writing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And then she just stopped talking to you?” Hyunjin asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. Didn’t even respond when I asked what she wanted for dinner. Hasn’t said a single word in two days. Like, is that normal?”

Felix frowned. “Sounds like she’s hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t get why,” Jisung said, his voice raising without him meaning to. “I didn’t yell at her, I didn’t say anything cruel, I just... I was working! I asked for space!”

Jeongin gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Okay, but did you look at her?”

Jisung paused. “What?”

“I mean... when she came to see you, when she tried talking to you—did you actually look at her? Like—her face? Her energy? The way she was holding herself?”

Jisung frowned, caught off guard. “I mean... not really? I was focused.”

Felix leaned forward, soft but serious. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Silence fell for a moment. The kind that starts to crawl into your chest when people say things you aren’t ready to hear.

“You probably said something you didn’t even notice,” Hyunjin said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You do that when you’re in work mode. You push people away without meaning to.”

“I was just trying to finish my song,” Jisung muttered. But even he could hear the defensiveness in his voice.

Minho finally chimed in. “Then maybe ask yourself what’s more important—your music, or the way you treat the person who’s always there supporting it.”

The words hit harder than Jisung expected. They weren’t said harshly. Just plainly. Truthfully.

And they made his stomach twist.

He hated the idea that he had done something careless. That while he was focused on not forgetting a lyric, he might’ve forgotten her. Forgotten how hard she tried to love him even when he was too preoccupied to notice.

Jisung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together tightly.

“She looked so blank,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize how... quiet she really was. I thought she just needed space.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe she was waiting for you to realize something.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Jisung blinked down at the floor, the thought nagging at him like a weight on his back. He hated the way it made his chest feel tight. The way guilt started to form like smoke in his lungs.

And then..

Hyunjin, ever the emotional antenna in the room, turned to him with an almost casual question.

“So, anyway—what do you have planned for her birthday tomorrow?”

Jisung looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Her birthday,” Hyunjin repeated. “Tomorrow, right?”

Jisung laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not tomorrow. It’s next week or something. The—uh—the 11th, right?”

“Tomorrow is the 11th,” Jeongin deadpanned.

Jisung froze.

His hands went numb.

He instinctively pulled out his phone, thumbing the lock screen, eyes scanning the date like it had betrayed him.

Thursday, July 10th.

Tomorrow: Friday, July 11th.

His world tilted.

“No…” he breathed. “No way.”

Felix’s face fell as realization hit him too. “You didn’t…?”

Hyunjin stared at him in disbelief. “You forgot her birthday.”

“I—” Jisung's voice caught in his throat. “No—I didn’t—I just—I thought—shit—”

The words splintered into chaos. He dropped his phone. His mind was spinning.

It wasn’t just the date. It was everything. The way she came to him asking if he was free Friday. The way she tried to kiss him, twice. The way she’d softened into his side that night in bed, begging silently for him to hold her. The way she hadn’t said a word since.

The way she hadn’t cried. Not where he could see.
But oh god, she had cried, hadn’t she?

He missed all of it.

He missed her.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Minho stared at him, arms folded. “Now do you get it?”

“She was trying to see if I remembered,” Jisung muttered, like he was trying to convince himself the sky was blue. “She didn’t even say it out loud. She just… asked if I had Friday off.”

“That’s the worst part,” Felix said gently. “She didn’t want to remind you. She wanted you to care enough to remember.”

A punch to the gut wouldn’t have hurt as much.

Jisung buried his face in his hands.

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin muttered. “Kinda bad.”

He didn't even argue.

Because he could see it now, all of it.
Her silence wasn’t punishment.
It was heartbreak.
It was the sound of someone giving up.

And tomorrow, her birthday, she’d wake up in a house full of silence, thinking the person she loved most in the world didn’t remember or care enough to say a single word.

The second the realization hit, Jisung couldn’t sit still.

He shot to his feet like the floor had burned him, nearly tripping over Felix’s outstretched legs. The others barely had time to register his panic before he was already moving, storming out of the practice room, heart pounding in his chest, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.

He barely heard Jeongin’s “Hey—where are you going?”
Didn’t stop to explain.
Didn’t even breathe.

He’d forgotten.

Your birthday.

Tomorrow.

No, today. It was past midnight now.

He had forgotten your birthday.

The one day he was supposed to remember. The one day you never reminded him of because you always wanted to be seen without having to ask.

And instead of showing you love, he’d brushed you off. Pushed you away. Told you that your affection, your literal presence was a distraction.

It made him sick to think of your face in that moment now. The softness of your voice when you asked him if he was free. The way you leaned in, tried to kiss him. How your touch lingered on his shoulder like you were silently begging him not to let go.

And he had.

Without a second thought.

He hurt you.

The company doors banged shut behind him as he ran into the cool night air.

The streets were mostly empty, the last few buses rumbling past. He tugged his hood up and darted toward the only place that made sense, the only place he could think of at a time like this:

Your favorite bakery.

Even though he knew it was close to closing. Even though the odds were against him.

He didn’t care. He had to try.

He arrived, chest heaving, legs burning, and nearly slammed into the glass door.

Inside, the lights were still on. But barely.

The workers were already cleaning up, putting chairs on tables, wiping down the counters. Their eyes shifted to him the second he pushed the door open.

He could see it on their faces. That “please don’t walk in” expression masked with tired politeness.

“Can I get a cake?” he blurted, breathless.

One of the girls forced a smile. “We’re just closing up, I’m sorry—”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t be here this late unless it was an emergency. I forgot something really important. Someone’s birthday. Someone I love.”

Something in his voice must’ve hit them.

Because after a beat, the girl sighed, glanced at the display case, and muttered, “I think we have one left. Lucky night, I guess.”

Jisung’s heart flipped.

She returned a second later with a small cake box in hand.

Your favorite flavor.

He could’ve cried.

He ran the whole way home. The cake safely in his arms. Careful. Intentional.

When he got back, the apartment was dark. Quiet.
You were already asleep.

He peeked into the bedroom, you were curled up, turned away from the door, your shoulders tense even in rest.
You looked… small. Worn out.

The guilt twisted inside him like a knife.

He closed the door gently. Didn’t make a sound.

Then he stared at the living room and kitchen like they were a blank canvas.

And he got to work.

He didn’t sleep.

He blew up balloons some crooked, some lopsided. He taped pictures of the two of you on the walls, printed ones he’d taken in secret during your late-night snack runs, your beach trip, even that one where you were brushing your teeth with a scowl.

He strung up a makeshift “Happy Birthday” banner, cut by hand with scraps of colored paper. He’d messed up the “R” three times. It still looked wrong.

He pulled out the small gifts he’d forgotten he had been meaning to give you, the lyrics he’d scribbled in the back of a notebook weeks ago, inspired by something you said while laughing. A hair clip you pointed at in a store once. He wrapped them in old sheet music.

He wrote a letter. Messy. Panicked. Honest. Full of crossed-out words and a giant smudge where he wiped his eyes.

He arranged it all by the time the clock hit 1:00 a.m.

And then he collapsed on the couch mid-balloon. One still half-inflated in his hands.

He didn’t hear the bedroom door creak open.

Didn’t feel the light of the hallway hit his face.

But the moment you moved,
He did.

His body shot up like he was jolted back to life.

There you were.

Standing in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, the expression on your face carefully blank, but your eyes spoke volumes.

You were still upset.

Rightfully.

You hadn’t forgotten. You hadn’t forgiven.

But he didn’t care if you hated him for another hour, another day, a week he had to show you something real now.

“Wait—don’t look yet!” he rushed, nearly tripping over a balloon.

You blinked slowly, unimpressed.

He walked up to you, gently reaching his hands to cover your eyes. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t soften, either.

He felt the chill in your posture. The hurt still lingering in your shoulders.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just... let me try.”

He guided you, quietly. Carefully.

His hands shook.

He stopped you in front of the living room, heart pounding against his ribs.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Now.”

He removed his hands from your eyes.

The lights were low. The table was covered in flickering tea candles. The little cake, topped with your favorite frosting. Photos taped to balloons hovered above.

Your name was scrawled across the banner in bright colors. The gifts sat nearby. His letter peeking out from under them.

He stepped in front of you.

“Happy birthday,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I know this doesn’t fix it, but I needed you to know, I know now. And I’m not going to forget again.”

You stared.

Expression unreadable. Chest tight.

He could see your jaw twitch like you were trying not to smile. But your eyes were glassy. The corners of your mouth shifted ever so slightly. You nearly cracked.

Nearly.

But the silence remained.

Because what he hurt wasn’t something decorations could patch up.

And still, you stood there.

Looking at him.

Looking at the effort.

The mess.

The truth.

And for the first time in days,

You didn’t look away.

The soft flicker of candlelight painted the room in warm hues, casting shadows over the clumsy decorations, the carefully placed gifts, the melting frosting on your cake.

It should have felt special. Thoughtful. Sweet.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

Jisung stood just in front of you, his breathing uneven. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked nervous. Not in the cute, shy way he usually did when he surprised you, but the kind that made his whole frame feel like it was waiting to collapse.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t move.

Your arms remained crossed, your expression unreadable, carefully neutral, but your eyes were fixed on him. Not the decorations. Not the cake. Not the pictures or the presents.

Just him.

And that silence, heavier than any door slam or raised voice, pierced deeper than either of you were ready to admit.

He finally swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night working on this.”

You blinked slowly. Once.

“I ran all the way to the bakery before they closed,” he added, as if that explained anything. “They only had one cake left. I—I begged them.”

Still nothing.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something, anything to tell him he was getting through. That he hadn’t completely shattered the fragile thread between you.

But your face remained calm. Distant.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”

You finally moved. Not toward him.

Just your head, tilting slightly.

Your eyes flicked over the decorations. The half-deflated balloon on the couch. The misspelled banner. The crumpled wrapping paper around a small box. The cake. The candles, now half-melted.

And then back to him.

A beat passed.

And then your voice quiet, hoarse, deliberate cut through the air.

“You didn’t mean to forget,” you echoed, almost to yourself. “But you did.”

Jisung flinched.

Because hearing it said out loud like that made it feel real all over again.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse. You didn’t cry.

You just told the truth.

And somehow, that hurt more.

“I know,” he whispered, guilt tightening in his chest like a fist.

You finally stepped forward, walking past him, not bothering to ask if you could. You stood before the table, staring down at the small cake in the center. Your favorite flavor.

It looked perfect.

But it felt... wrong.

Uncomfortable.

Artificial.

You were quiet for a long time before you spoke again.

“You know what hurt the most?” you asked, eyes still on the table.

Jisung slowly turned to face you, but didn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t that you forgot the date,” you said, voice trembling just enough to betray your restraint. “It’s that I came to you, twice, and you didn’t even look at me.”

He said nothing.

“I asked if you were free,” you continued, quieter. “And you brushed me off. I tried to kiss you, and you called me a distraction. You said you almost forgot your lyrics like I was in the way.”

The words cut like glass.

“And then you came to bed,” you said bitterly, shaking your head, “and instead of pulling me close, you scolded me again. You didn’t notice that I didn’t say anything back. You didn’t ask why I turned away.”

Jisung’s voice caught. “I didn’t know—”

“I know you didn’t,” you snapped suddenly, turning to face him now, arms still crossed but your chest rising fast, “because you didn’t care to know. You were too wrapped up in your music to notice that I was hurting. That I was right there in front of you, trying everything I could to be seen.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

“I didn’t want cake,” you said, softer now. “I didn’t want decorations or balloons or even a gift.”

Your voice cracked just slightly.

“I wanted you to remember me.”

A silence fell over the room that made even the candles seem to quiet.

Jisung’s heart felt like it had dropped out of his body.

Because now he saw it.

All of it.

This wasn’t about a forgotten birthday.

It was about what that forgetfulness meant to you.

That in the middle of his chaotic, music-fueled mind, you had fallen out of focus. And not just the date, you. Your presence. Your love. Your place beside him.

And the worst part?

You hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t begged.

You’d just gotten quiet.

And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but it sounded so small now. So empty in the shadow of everything you’d just said.

You looked at him for a long, long moment.

There was something raw in your expression now. Not anger. Not even sadness.

Just tiredness.

And then you gave a faint shrug.

“I know you are,” you said. “But I’m still hurt.”

You turned back toward the hallway slowly.

And before you walked away, you added one final thing,

“I don’t need grand gestures, Jisung.”

You paused.

“I just need to know I matter without having to remind you.”

And then you left him standing there.

Alone in a room full of balloons.

-

Morning came heavy.

The early light filtered in through the curtains in faded strips, casting muted patterns across the floor and walls. You were already awake, had been for hours. Lying still in bed, eyes on the ceiling, a dull ache stretching across your chest.

You hadn’t slept much.

Even after he decorated the night before. Even after the surprise. The effort.

The reminder that he cared, but only after he realized he’d forgotten.

There was something deeply hollow in the pit of your stomach. Something disappointment couldn’t fully name.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you.

It was that he didn’t see you when you needed him to.

And you weren’t sure a cake at 1:00 a.m. was going to fix that.

When you finally got up, you didn’t say a word.

You padded into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the decorations still up. They felt… false. Like remnants of something built on guilt rather than intention.

Jisung was already awake, curled up on the couch, eyes half-lidded and red from lack of sleep.

He sat up immediately when he heard you.

"Morning," he said, softly cautiously.

You didn’t respond. Not even a glance in his direction.

He frowned but didn’t push.

You passed him, quiet as ever, and walked to the kitchen. The clatter of a mug on the counter was the loudest sound in the apartment. You poured yourself water. That was it. No breakfast.

He stood a minute later, stretching awkwardly. He hovered, just a few steps behind. Like he wanted to be close but didn’t know if he had permission anymore.

The silence between you was crushing.

He trailed you throughout the day, always within sight. Always trying to stay near you like he could fix the damage just by being close.

He didn’t go to practice. Didn’t write. Didn’t open his laptop or touch his notebook.

Instead, he lingered.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hovering.

When you sat on the floor to organize a drawer you didn’t really need to organize, he sat a few feet away, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to you. Quietly hopeful. Painfully anxious.

You didn’t speak.

When you changed rooms, he followed.

Not in an overbearing way just enough to make it known he was still there. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how.

By the time afternoon crept in, you were still silent.

You didn’t eat.

Not out of pettiness, but because your emotions were so knotted, so close to the surface, that even chewing felt like a chore. Food would make this real. Food would be you accepting the day.

And right now, you weren’t ready.

Jisung noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything.

He just... watched you.

With a kind of quiet panic in his eyes that made it clear he was spiraling inside.

By late evening, the tension had become a third person in the room breathing heavily, sitting between you on the couch, pressing against your sides.

You were scrolling absently on your phone. You hadn’t spoken in hours.

He was next to you, knees pulled to his chest, a small cushion hugged against his stomach. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. He looked miserable, but kept pretending to be calm.

Then, in the quiet, your stomach growled.

Loudly.

Painfully loud in the dead silence.

You immediately stilled, eyes widening.

Jisung’s head whipped toward you.

There was a pause.

A long, too-long beat where his mouth twitched, like he was fighting it.

And then he laughed.

Not obnoxiously. Not teasingly.

But a soft, breathless, startled kind of laugh. Like the kind that slips out when the universe plays a joke on you.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he knew he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.

And for just one second, you cracked.

Your face twisted as you tried to stay stern. Tried to keep the front up. But the ridiculousness of it all, the dead silence, your growling stomach, the haunted look on his face, broke something loose.

You choked on your own breath, and suddenly a small laugh escaped you.

Not a big one. Not even a full sound. But enough.

His eyes softened instantly.

The tension snapped not fully, but just enough for the room to breathe again.

He stood, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might still bite. Then walked toward you, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "Look, I know you’re still pissed. And you should be."

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.

“I’ll apologize as many times as you want. I’ll keep groveling for the rest of the year if I have to,” he said, gently, kneeling in front of you now. His hands rested on the couch cushion beside your legs, not touching you. Just near.

“But right now… I need to celebrate you. Just a little. Just today. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t let yourself breathe. And I know I ruined the start of your day, but I’m begging you, please let me try to salvage the end of it.”

You blinked at him. Slow. Guarded.

“I know I messed up,” he said again, voice shaking. “But you don’t deserve to be hungry on your birthday. You don’t deserve to sit here feeling invisible. You deserve cake and your favorite food and someone telling you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”

His throat bobbed.

“I’m that someone. I swear I am.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. But your lip quivered.

And he saw it.

He saw that flicker. That tiny unraveling.

So he slowly reached out his fingers brushing yours, tentative, waiting for rejection.

But you didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

He let out a shaky breath, and his grip tightened slightly around your hand.

“I’m ordering your favorite,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting you lift a finger tonight. You’re going to eat, and if you want, we’ll sit in silence. Or we’ll watch that show you love. Or I’ll leave after. Whatever you want. Just… let me be here for you. Like I should have been from the start.”

Another pause.

Then, barely audible

“Please.”

The air between you had shifted, slightly, like clouds parting just enough for a patch of sun to warm the skin. Still cloudy. Still heavy. But there was warmth now. And that was a start.

You watched him as he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the food delivery app. “Your usual?” he asked gently, cautious but hopeful.

You nodded.

But just before he tapped the screen, you spoke, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“…Add a brown sugar bubble tea.”

He looked up at you, surprised.

Your eyes met his briefly.

A small corner of his mouth lifted, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if a smile was allowed, but when you didn’t pull away, it widened with quiet relief. That moment, tiny as it was, cracked something in both of you.

He tapped a few buttons and said, “Large brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, 50% sugar, less ice. Right?”

You nodded again.

“…Thank you,” you added softly.

His eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. “It’ll be here soon,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table.

Then he moved slowly like approaching a fragile edge of ice.

He sat beside you, close enough to feel his warmth again, but not crowding you. Not forcing anything.

And then, gently, he leaned his head on your shoulder. Slowly tilted further down until he was lying across the couch, his legs curled and head tucked carefully against your side. One arm draped loosely across your lap, his grip feather-light. His face pressed into the hem of your hoodie.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against you. “God, I’m so sorry.”

The words were hoarse. Choked.

Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just real.

Repeated again, like a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You ran your fingers through the sleeve hem of your hoodie for a moment, eyes staring past him, before you finally said, “I know.”

He turned his face a little, just enough to glance up at you.

“I forgive you,” you murmured, after a beat. “But I need you to know that you really, really hurt me.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded slowly.

You kept your voice steady. Firm but not harsh.

“I wasn’t even upset about the birthday anymore,” you said quietly. “You know I’ve never cared about birthdays that much.”

You paused.

“But when I asked if you had Friday off, you barely looked at me. And then I tried again, and you told me I was distracting you. Like I was bothering you. Like I was some kind of obstacle in your way.”

Jisung’s eyes dropped. His fingers curled tighter against your lap. He stayed completely still.

“That’s what hurt,” you said, voice finally cracking slightly. “Not the forgetting. But the pushing away. Like I was too much. Like I was getting in the way of your real priorities.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed, I should’ve stopped and seen you.”

“You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking to you,” you added, looking down at him. “I was right there. And you didn’t even ask.”

His chest rose sharply, his lips pressing into a thin, broken line.

“I’ve been kicking myself for that for two days,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking, ‘Why is she being so cold?’ And I didn’t even consider that it was because I had gone cold first. I made you feel like a burden when you were just trying to love me.”

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes softened at that.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re not a burden. You’re my peace. My home. And I treated you like you were noise.”

That hit something in you. Hard.

Because that was the truth you had no words for until now. You hadn’t wanted flowers or presents, you’d wanted to be met. To be held in mind and heart like you always did for him. You were asking to be cherished, just for a moment. And he hadn’t shown up.

But now, here he was.

Curled around you like an apology with a heartbeat.

You let your hand fall gently to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands.

And you finally said, “Just… don’t let me feel like that again.”

“I won’t,” he said immediately, his voice thick. “I swear, I won’t.”

You tilted down slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were red. Teary. He looked so small, so ashamed, but so present.

“I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even when I’m stupid. Especially then.”

You gave him a small, tired smile.

“You are stupid,” you whispered.

He exhaled a breath of a laugh. And then looked at you again, this time with a question in his eyes.

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently, and kissed him.

Not soft.

Not dramatic.

But real. Lingering. Quietly desperate.

His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer, holding you like something he thought he’d lost. He kissed you back like he was still apologizing through every movement like he didn’t deserve you, but would spend the rest of his life making it up.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, barely audible.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time all day, you smiled.

“I still want that bubble tea,” you whispered.

He laughed into your shoulder, voice warm now, full of the relief he hadn’t dared hope for hours ago.

“You’re getting it,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll buy you ten. I’ll buy the whole damn shop.”

“You better,” you muttered, resting your hand over his.

And for the first time in days, the silence between you didn’t ache.

It simply held.

//

a/n: for 🌺 anon.

masterlist.

You’d always been on the larger side, ever since you were a child. Whilst boys were crushing on your friends, you fell easily into the role of the funny one, the one there to break the ice. As you grew up, you got used to watching from the sidelines as girls got the guys they liked, and you didn’t.

It wasn’t that nobody ever liked you. At least, that’s what your friends insisted.

“You just don’t notice it.”

“You’re intimidating.”

“People assume you’re already taken.”

The excuses changed depending on who was saying them, but none of them ever felt true. The truth was much simpler. You weren’t the girl people noticed first. So eventually, you stopped expecting them to notice at all… Which was why meeting Han felt so ridiculous.

People like Han weren’t supposed to exist in your life. He was famous, and not to mention beautiful - the kind of beautiful that made people stop walking when he appeared on a screen. Even before he debuted, before the awards and world tours and screaming fans, he’d been attractive. The cameras only amplified it. You, meanwhile, worked a normal job, lived in a normal flat, and spent most evenings convincing yourself that takeaways counted as cooking. Your worlds should never have crossed. Yet somehow, they did.

It started when your company partnered with his agency for a promotional campaign. You’d been assigned to help coordinate schedules. It was nothing glamorous - mostly emails, spreadsheets, and trying not to scream whenever deadlines changed at the last second.

The first time you met him in person, you’d expected arrogance, or at least indifference. Instead, he walked into the conference room, immediately bowed to everyone present, and introduced himself as though nobody knew who he was.

“Hi, I’m Han.”

As if he wasn’t one of the most recognisable idols in the world.

The room practically melted around him, colleagues flocking to meet his every whim (not that he had any, he was too humble for that). You remained determinedly professional… For approximately seven minutes. Then he ruined that professionalism you were striving for by making a joke. A joke that your brain found funny enough to snort out loud at. Before you could die of embarrassment, Han was grinning and chuckling at your reaction.

Before long, he was sitting beside you instead of across the room. The whole thing felt suspicious, especially when he was even more kind than he had first appeared.

Months passed as the campaign continued. You had expected to work quietly in the background, taking notes and turning them into ideas for him to pitch to his management. Han, however, seemed to have other ideas. It started with him constantly finding reasons to talk to you, about both work and you. He’d stop by your desk, drinks in hand for both of you, like he was the employee. You were mortified the first time he did it, telling him that it should have been the other way around, but he’d simply smiled and carried on each day like he hadn’t heard you the first time.

The time at your desk coincided with evening text messages about work-related questions that absolutely could have been emails. The conversations developed into an easy friendship when he’d ask how your day was or remember details from previous conversations.

The first time he brought you a snack without asking what you liked, you nearly accused him of witchcraft.

“You remembered my favourite snack?”

He looked genuinely confused and slightly offended. “Of course I remembered.”

He said it like it was obvious, as though remembering things about you wasn’t unusual.

You spent weeks convincing yourself he was just friendly - months, actually - because the alternative was absurd. The alternative was believing that someone like Han, who was handsome, talented, and adored by millions, might actually enjoy your company. So, whenever your colleagues raised their eyebrows, you ignored them. Whenever he sought you out in a crowded room, you dismissed it. Whenever your stomach fluttered, you told yourself it meant nothing.

Then came the night everything fell apart. Or rather, everything changed.

The team had gone out after a successful event. Most people were drinking, and music played softly in the background. You’d shaken your head and smiled softly to yourself as you realised it was Han’s music playing, before slipping outside for air, enjoying the peace and quiet.

A few minutes later, the door opened behind you, and Han stepped onto the balcony. You immediately sighed and turned back to the view, avoiding his gaze.

“There are like thirty people inside.”

“And?”

“Yet somehow you found me.”

He smiled. “I was looking for you.”

Your heart betrayed you with a violent thud, and you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth his simple words brought to you. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath you, and you found yourself wanting to know-

“Why?”

The question came out before you could stop it, and you regretted asking when Han went quiet, face solemn when you glanced at him quickly from the corner of your eye.

“Do you really not know?”

You laughed - a short, humourless sound. “No.”

He stared at you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked frustrated.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe someone could like you?”

The words hit harder than they should have, and you tensed at his directness. Years of being overlooked surfaced instantly, and you crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to put a barrier between yourself and the awkwardness you felt as you replied.

“Because that’s not how my life works.”

Han’s expression softened immediately, and you hated how close his pity looked to kindness.

“You think I haven’t noticed you making yourself smaller in every room you walk into?” he asked quietly.

Your throat tightened enough that you couldn’t answer. For years, without realising it, you’d learnt to make yourself small, to blend into the background rather than risk standing out and attracting attention.

Han took a step closer, and your breath hitched as he started talking, taking another step towards you with every compliment he gave you.

“You make everyone laugh.”

“You’re kind.”

“You’re smart.”

Your eyes burned, and you felt the need to interrupt him, not knowing how to process what he was saying.

“Han—”

“And you’re beautiful.”

The words stole every thought from your head, and you actually laughed at the impossibility of the situation; at the fact that this man had come into your life months ago and was now calling you beautiful when no one else ever had before.

Han didn’t laugh with you; he simply looked at you. His gaze was steady, his eyes certain. His expression showed that he couldn’t understand why you were questioning it, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world to you.

The silence stretched between you before Han closed the final distance between you, reaching to slide his fingers between your own gently before asking:

“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you to notice I’m flirting with you?”

Your jaw dropped at his words, and Han groaned dramatically and covered his face.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

Despite yourself, another laugh escaped - a real one this time - and when Han peeked through his fingers and saw you smiling, his own grin returned instantly. He leaned against the railing, tilting his head at you as he spoke again.

"So."

"So."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Now that we've established what I think about you..."

Your heart began hammering. "Right."

His eyes met yours, and suddenly this felt very real. You could no longer tell yourself that he was just being nice, no longer write off his seeking you out.

"I like you," he said quietly.

The words settled over you, no room for misunderstanding, and it felt even scarier than all the flirting you’d missed.

You looked down at where your fingers were still laced together. "I don't really know what to say."

"That's okay."

"No, it's not."

You laughed nervously. "I should probably have a normal response."

Han's expression softened. "There's no normal response."

You took a breath, then another, trying to shift the heavy sensation in your chest. It was something you'd been carrying for weeks – months, maybe – without ever properly acknowledging it.

"I think..." you started.

The words immediately disappeared, doubt catching your tongue and forcing the words back. Han waited patiently, though, face calm and eyes understanding.

You tried again. "I think part of the reason I didn't realise you were flirting..."

Your fingers twisted together as you forced the second part of your sentence out, your face heating at your own honesty.

"...was because I couldn't imagine why you'd flirt with me."

His face fell slightly, but you hurried on. "I know you must hate it when I say things like that."

"I do."

"I know." You smiled weakly, barely holding eye contact. "But it's true."

The confession tasted awful. It was embarrassing, leaving a new feeling of vulnerability, but you had to be honest. Han remained quiet, listening to what you had to say.

"Every compliment just got filed under 'Han is nice.'"

A small laugh escaped him. "That explains a lot."

"Right?"

"A concerning amount, actually."

You laughed, but your smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "Because if I admitted you might mean it..." Your voice softened. "I'd have to admit that I wanted you to."

Han froze, expression shocked. The words hung in the air, and your heart immediately tried to evacuate your body.

"Oh, God." You covered your face, releasing his hand as you did so. "I wasn't planning on saying that."

Han's eyes widened. "You weren't?"

"No."

"You just accidentally confessed?"

"Apparently."

A grin began spreading across his face, and you groaned.

"Please don't look so happy."

"I can't help it."

"Han."

"You like me."

Your entire face burned. "You already knew that."

"I suspected." He pushed himself away from the railing. "But hearing it is different."

You peeked through your fingers and smiled at the look of pure delight on Han’s face.

"You really had no idea?" he asked.

You lowered your hands. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

Han shook his head. "Incredible."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

The two of you laughed, and as it faded, you realised that he was suddenly standing closer. Not close enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you could see the warmth in his eyes and the way he looked at you. Like he genuinely couldn't believe this was happening either.

"You know," he said softly, "I've liked you for a while."

Your stomach flipped. "How long?"

Han winced. "Long enough that your colleagues threatened intervention."

You burst out laughing, but you felt your face flush bright red at how oblivious you must have really been.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Oh, my God."

"They were tired of seeing me all the time."

You shook your head and giggled. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city lights still glowed around you, and music still drifted faintly through the doors, but it felt different now than a few minutes ago. Like maybe the lights were that little bit brighter, the music that little bit sweeter.

You swallowed before reaching out and taking his hand once again. His eyes immediately dropped to where your fingers intertwined, and you were over the moon to see a smile tug at his lips.

"Hi," you said softly.

Han laughed. "Hi."

"I like you, too."

His smile grew. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His fingers squeezed yours, and for a second, he looked so ridiculously happy that you couldn't stop smiling back.

The second you walked back into the party together, every coherent thought vanished from your head. Han was still smiling - not his usual bright, mischievous smile – but a softer one. The kind that kept appearing every time he looked at you (which was constantly).  The noise of the party washed over you as people greeted you both.

Someone called Han’s name from across the room, and he answered without taking his eyes off you. You tried not to notice, but you failed. Completely.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, and his expression immediately softened.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look overwhelmed.”

“Maybe because you confessed your feelings to me ten minutes ago.”

His ears turned pink; the sight made something warm bloom in your chest.

“Fair.”

Before you could react, his hand settled gently against the small of your back. The touch wasn’t possessive or demanding. It was almost hesitant, as if he were checking whether you would pull away. You didn’t, and Han visibly relaxed.

“Come on.”

You followed him farther into the room and quickly discovered that, now that he’d admitted his feelings, he apparently had no intention of pretending otherwise. At all. When people spoke to you, Han drifted closer. When the crowd became busy, his hand found your waist. When somebody squeezed between you, he immediately moved back beside you again. You weren’t even sure he realised he was doing it. It seemed instinctive, natural even. As though being near you was simply where he wanted to be.

The longer the evening went on, the bolder he became.

At one point, you were standing beside the drinks table listening to a story from one of your colleagues. Han appeared beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. You tried (and failed) not to react as his hand brushed yours. Once. Twice. A third time. Until eventually his fingers hooked loosely around yours.

Your entire train of thought derailed as you stared at your joined hands, Han following your gaze.

“Oh.”

He sounded completely unashamed. “Sorry.”

He made absolutely no effort to let go.

You looked up. “Han.”

“What?”

“You aren’t sorry.”

A grin spread across his face. “No.”

You laughed despite yourself.

The colleague speaking to you rolled their eyes dramatically. “Are we interrupting something?”

Both of you froze, and Han looked delighted. You, on the other hand, wanted the floor to swallow you whole. The colleague laughed and wandered away before either of you could answer. The moment they disappeared, Han leaned closer.

“I think they know.”

“You think?”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. God. You were never going to survive this.

As the evening continued, more people joined conversations and drifted away. Han never strayed far. Not once. If he were talking to somebody else, he somehow remained beside you. If someone pulled him into another conversation, his hand would find your arm before he moved away. There was always a brief touch, always a silent reassurance that he’d be right back.

And every single time, he came back.

You were standing with a small group near the balcony doors when somebody asked Han a question. His answer was automatic, distracted, because he was looking at you. Again.

You finally shook your head. “What?”

His smile appeared instantly. “I like looking at you.”

The conversation around you stopped dead. Your eyes widened at the same time that Han realised what he’d said, tips of his ears turning red.

The group immediately erupted into laughter. “You are down catastrophically.”

Han groaned. “I’m aware.”

“You said that out loud.”

“I’m aware.”

You covered your face, but he gently pulled your hands away, murmuring, “Don’t hide.”

“I’m hiding.”

“No.”

“Han.”

His grin softened, and for a brief moment, with everyone else fading into the background, he squeezed your hand. Just once. A quiet little gesture that somehow felt more intimate than all the flirting. The party continued around you, yet somehow, the two of you seemed caught inside your own little bubble. One where every smile lasted too long, every glance lingered, and every accidental touch became deliberate.

Hours passed far more quickly than they should have. Eventually, you checked the time and realised how late it was.

“I should probably head home.”

Han looked disappointed immediately. The expression appeared so quickly that you almost laughed. “Already?”

“It’s late.”

“You’ve become incredibly responsible.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Certainly not me.”

You rolled your eyes, but he smiled. Then, without thinking, his hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The tiny movement made your pulse stumble.

“Can I walk you home?”

The question came out quieter than everything else he’d said all evening. For the first time since his confession, he actually seemed nervous.

You looked at him, at the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours, at the hopeful expression he was trying and failing to hide. Suddenly, the answer felt easy.

“Okay.”

His entire face lit up, and the smile that followed was so bright it was impossible not to smile back.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Han.”

He laughed before he squeezed your hand once more and reached for your coat.

"Wait here for a minute?"

You nodded.

The work party was beginning to wind down. People were collecting coats, finishing drinks, and exchanging goodbyes.

Han smiled. "I'll just say goodbye to your colleagues before they think I've kidnapped you."

You laughed. "Very considerate."

"I know." He leaned down slightly. "Don't disappear."

The warmth that had become so familiar over the last few weeks spread through your chest.

"I won't."

Satisfied, Han headed across the room, immediately getting intercepted by three different people. You smiled to yourself and wandered towards the front door, eyes on his face as he laughed at what one of your colleagues had said.

It still felt surreal - the fact that Han liked you, that he held your hand without hesitation, that he looked at you the way he did.

You were so distracted by your thoughts that you almost didn't notice someone approaching. A woman stopped beside you. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked like every inch of her was perfectly styled, an expensive-looking dress adorning her perfect figure. She was the kind of woman who seemed effortlessly put together.

She smiled, and at first glance, she seemed friendly.

"You must be Y/N."

"Oh." You smiled politely. "Yeah."

"I'm Ara."

You didn't recognise the name. "Oh, nice to meet you."

Her smile remained in place, though something about it felt slightly forced. "I've known Han for years."

"Oh." You brightened immediately. "Really?"

"Since before all this."

You nodded. "That's nice."

Ara glanced across the room to where Han was talking, then back at you. "So, how did this happen?"

Something about her tone made your stomach tighten.

"What?"

"You and Han."

She gestured vaguely between you.

You laughed awkwardly. "I don't know."

"No, seriously." Her smile sharpened. "I genuinely don't understand."

The warmth in your chest began cooling. "Oh."

Ara folded her arms. "I mean, Han's always had options."

You stared at her. The comment landed heavily, and you instantly started doubting yourself yet again. Maybe she didn't mean it badly? Maybe—

"He usually dates models."

Never mind.

Your stomach dropped, and you looked away, from both her and Han. "Oh."

Ara gave a small shrug. "Not that looks are everything."

The classic phrase people said right before making looks everything. You suddenly felt very aware of yourself - of your dress and the body contained in it, and of every insecurity you'd managed to ignore tonight.

"I just think everyone's surprised."

She said it casually, like she was discussing the weather. As if she wasn't twisting something sharp directly into your ribs.

Your throat felt tight. "Right."

"Like genuinely shocked." Ara laughed lightly, continuing. "I mean, when he first mentioned you, I thought he was joking."

The words hit harder than you wanted them to, because they sounded suspiciously similar to things you'd told yourself. Things you'd believed. Things you were still trying to unlearn.

She tilted her head. "Don't you think it's strange?"

You frowned. "What?"

"That someone like Han would suddenly be interested in someone like—"

She stopped, looking you up and down, her perfectly manicured eyebrow arching in thinly veiled disgust. The unfinished sentence somehow hurt more than if she'd said it.

For a second, you couldn't speak. Your chest felt hollow. This was exactly what you'd always feared everyone was thinking. Exactly what the cruel voice in your head whispered whenever Han looked at you. The only difference was that now someone had actually said it aloud.

Ara sighed dramatically. "I'm just looking out for him."

Your jaw tightened. "Looking out for him?"

"Of course." She smiled again. "I'm his friend."

Friend.

The word felt ridiculous. Friends didn't speak about people like this.

"You know," she continued, "I just think he's getting caught up in attention."

Your eyes snapped back to hers. "Attention?"

"Well." She shrugged. "People like being needed."

The implication hit immediately - that Han pitied you, that he was rescuing you, that whatever existed between you couldn't possibly be real. Your stomach twisted painfully, and for a moment, you couldn't think of a response. You couldn't figure out what to say, because part of you hated how much it hurt, how easily her words found every insecurity you'd ever had.

By the time she walked away, your stomach felt sick. You hated how much her words hurt, hated that a stranger had managed to find every insecurity you’d spent years burying.

Han appeared across the room, smiling as he looked for you. For one awful second, relief had surged through you. Until he reached her, and she smiled up at him. Until he pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek. It was a normal greeting between close friends, a completely innocent interaction. But through the lens she’d handed you? It looked devastating.

She fit beside him, looked right beside him. They looked like celebrities did in magazines and couples did in advertisements. Ara looked like a girl who always got chosen. And suddenly you were fifteen again, standing against the wall at a school dance, watching somebody prettier get everything you’d secretly wanted.

The ache in your chest became unbearable, and you made the quick decision to leave. You slipped out before Han could reach the door, before he could find you. Before you could embarrass yourself any further.

The cool night air hit your face immediately. You walked faster, then faster still. As though distance could somehow stop the hurt. Your phone buzzed once in your pocket, but you ignored it. You ignored it the next four times they buzzed, too.

By the time you reached your flat, your eyes were burning. You kicked off your shoes and immediately headed for your bedroom. Your phone was buzzing nonstop now, and you finally gave up, pulling it out of your pocket with a frustrated groan.

Han: Where did you go?

Han: I can’t find you.

Han: Are you okay?

Han: Did something happen?

Han: Please answer.

You stared at the screen, reading the messages again and again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, then locked the phone instead, because what were you supposed to say?

Your friend pointed out everything I’ve spent my entire life believing about myself, and now I think you’re going to realise she was right?

The thought was pathetic, humiliating even. So instead, you curled up beneath your duvet, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Your phone rang again and again, the screen lighting up over and over until eventually it stopped. Silence settled over the room, only broken by your uneven breathing. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry or to think. Willing yourself not to imagine Han laughing with her right now, no doubt looking at her the way someone should.

Your phone buzzed one final time, and you froze at the voicemail notification.

Han.

You knew it would be him, just like you knew you shouldn’t listen. The sensible thing would be to delete it, to ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Instead, ten minutes later, you found yourself staring at the notification like it had personally offended you. Then another five minutes passed, followed by another. Eventually, you decided that you couldn’t avoid it any longer and, with a shaky breath, you pressed play.

For a second, there was only background noise – music, voices, the sounds of the party. Then Han sighed, and your chest tightened instantly.

“Hey.”

His voice sounded breathless, like he’d been moving around looking for you.

“I don’t really know if you’re listening to this, but I’m hoping you are.”

There was more muffled noise followed by a door opening somewhere in the background. The music became quieter, and you realised that Han had clearly stepped outside.

“You disappeared.” His voice softened as he continued, “And that’s not like you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’ve checked every room in this building.”

A small laugh escaped him, but it sounded tired.

“I even checked the bathrooms.”

His tone changed to a more serious one. “I know something happened. Maybe I’m wrong, but you looked different before you left.”

There was a pause, and it was long enough that you could hear him exhale.

“If somebody said something to you…” His voice faltered. “…I need you to tell me.”

Your throat tightened painfully because somehow, he knew. Not what, but that something had happened.

The recording crackled slightly as he shifted the phone, and his voice came through the phone again, quieter this time.

“I know you don’t see yourself the way other people do.”

Tears immediately blurred your vision. You hated how quickly they came, and you hated how accurately he’d hit the wound.

“But I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because every time you laugh, I want to be the reason. Every time something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. And when I walk into a room…”

His voice softened even further.

“…you’re the person I look for.”

You couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, too warm. The voicemail continued regardless.

“No matter how many people there are. No matter how famous they’re supposed to be.”

He paused again at the end of the phone before letting out a soft sigh.

“I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

The words landed directly in the centre of your chest. There was no hesitation or embarrassment, just certainty in his voice, as though they were the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.

The recording went quiet for a moment, and when Han spoke again, his voice sounded smaller somehow. More vulnerable.

“I don’t know why you left. I just know that you looked upset… And I hate the idea of you sitting alone somewhere thinking you have to deal with that by yourself.”

Your vision blurred completely at his words, and you were struggling to hold back your sobs as you finished the message.

“If you want space, I’ll give you space. But please don’t think you have to disappear.”

The final words came softly, almost hesitantly.

“As much as you don’t seem to believe it… I really, really like you.”

There was a brief silence from the other end of the line before he huffed out a small, nervous laugh.

“God, that sounded awful.”

Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. The recording ended a second later, and your room fell silent once again. You stared at your phone through tear-filled eyes. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how loudly that cruel voice echoed in your head, you couldn’t stop replaying one thought.

Han had spent the entire evening surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the industry. And yet when he’d realised you were gone…

You were the person he’d looked for.

The following morning, your thumb hovered over Han’s contact. You should call him; you knew that. You should tell him what happened, what she’d said. Give him a chance to explain.

Instead, you scrolled past his name, past the missed calls and the messages. And stopped on another contact.

Sarah.

You hadn’t spoken properly in months - years, maybe – not beyond birthday messages and the occasional comment on social media. But she’d been there for all of it: school, college, the endless years of being overlooked. If anyone would understand why you were spiralling, it would be her.

So, you called her.

The line rang twice before she answered.

“Hey, stranger.”

Her cheerful voice almost made you cry.

“Hi.”

Immediately she paused. “Oh.”

You heard concern enter her voice.

“What’s happened?”

The words poured out before you could stop them, and you found yourself telling her everything. You told her about meeting Han and working together. About the flirting that you’d mistaken for kindness until the confession. Your voice had cracked as you told her about the party and Ara, about the comments that had left you cut up inside.

Sarah listened quietly throughout, only making the occasional noise to show she was still there. By the end, your throat hurt, and you sat anxiously as silence stretched between you before she finally spoke up again.

“Can I be honest?”

Something in her tone made your stomach drop, and you sat up straighter in preparation.

“Sure.”

A sigh crackled down the line before she started talking. “I think that girl was harsh.”

You nodded immediately. “Exactly.”

“But…”

The word hit like ice water. Your grip tightened on the phone as you waited for her to carry on.

“Sarah?”

She hesitated long enough that you already knew you weren’t going to like what came next.

“I kind of understand what she meant.”

The room suddenly felt very still.

“What?”

“I’m not saying she’s right,” Sarah said quickly. “I’m just saying…”

She trailed off, then tried again.

“Han’s a celebrity.”

You stared at the wall, feeling the pain creep back into your chest, into your heart. “And?”

“And look at the women around him.”

Your chest tightened because you knew where this was going. You hated that you knew.

“Sarah—”

“They’re gorgeous.”

There it was. The familiar ache, the familiar humiliation. The same thing you’d heard your entire life. They were different words, but the message was always the same.

Sarah laughed awkwardly before continuing. “You’ve always been insecure about this stuff.”

The comment stung because she sounded so certain, like she’d always known. Like everyone had.

“I mean…” She hesitated but decided to continue. “You remember school.”

Your stomach dropped because, of course, you remembered school. You remembered everything. Every dance. Every crush. Every time a boy wanted one of your friends. Never you.

“You were always the funny one.”

Funny. Always funny, but never pretty. Never desirable.

Sarah continued speaking, oblivious to the emotional turmoil she was causing for you. “People loved you because you were easy to be around.”

The words landed wrong, terribly wrong. People loved you because—

Because what?

Because you made them look better? Because you were safe? Because nobody had to compete with you?

A memory surfaced suddenly from when you were sixteen. You were sitting at lunch, listening while your friends complained about boys asking them out. You’d laughed along, making jokes, playing your role as the harmless one. The funny one. The one nobody worried about.

Sarah sighed, bringing you back to the present.

“I’m just worried you’re getting your hopes up.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

There was another pause as Sarah debated what to say.

“What if he likes the attention?”

The words hit like a slap. “What?”

“You know how kind people can accidentally lead someone on.”

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest. “He told me he likes me.”

“He might think he does.”

You closed your eyes, a horrible feeling growing in your chest now. It wasn’t sadness but recognition, because suddenly you weren’t hearing Ara anymore in your head. You were hearing Sarah. And the more she talked, the more something felt wrong.

“Look,” Sarah continued gently, “you’ve never been the type guys go for.”

The room went silent, and your mind ground to a halt. She’d said it so casually, so naturally, as though it were an established fact. As though she wasn’t saying something devastating. As though she’d always believed it.

You thought back over years of friendship, or what you’d assumed was friendship. You thought about all the jokes she’d made. The compliments that never quite felt like compliments. The way she’d introduce you with a “This is my friend. She’s hilarious.”

Never beautiful, or gorgeous.

Never anything else but funny.

The realisation settled slowly, painfully. You’d always thought that Sarah understood your insecurities, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d helped build them.

Your eyes burned, but on the other end of the line, Sarah kept talking. “You can’t be too proud about these things.”

The phrase caught your attention immediately.

“You’ve got to be realistic.”

Realistic.

Another word you’d heard your entire life. Realistic meant knowing your place, meant expecting less. Realistic meant understanding that some girls got chosen and others didn’t.

You stared at the dark screen of your television at your reflection, and for the first time, another thought crept in. A horrible one. One that hurt more than Ara’s cruelty.

Do they keep me around because I’m safe? Because standing next to me makes them feel prettier? Because I’m useful?

You remembered every time you’d laughed at yourself first. Every joke you’d made at your own expense. Every moment you’d made yourself smaller so everyone else could shine.

Sarah was still speaking when you realised you hadn’t heard a word she’d said for nearly thirty seconds.

“…are you there?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.

“We’re just worried about you.”

We - not I -as though there had always been a group discussion you weren’t part of.As though everyone had reached the same conclusion about you years ago.

You swallowed hard, then looked down at your phone. At the unanswered messages waiting from Han. The voicemail you’d listened to three times already. The man who had spent months choosing your company, looking for you, remembering things about you, caring about you. As you sat there, a question popped into your mind about Sarah.

If someone genuinely cared about you, would they be speaking to you like this? Or had you spent years mistaking familiarity for friendship?

The answer sat heavily in your chest, because for the first time, Sarah sounded an awful lot like the girl at the party.

And neither of them sounded anything like Han.

The first day after the party, you told yourself you just needed time - time to think, and to calm down. To get your head straight before you spoke to Han again.

When the receptionist called to tell you he was downstairs asking for you, you took a shaky breath and said you were in a meeting. It was a blatant lie; you sat at your desk staring blankly at an unopened spreadsheet while your colleague went down instead.

You hated yourself for it.

But not enough to stop.

The second day, he came back. The third day, too. By the fourth, people in the office had started teasing you about it. They weren’t malicious in their teasing; they just walked around with knowing smiles, jokingly asking questions about why a world-famous idol kept appearing at the reception, looking disappointed.

You laughed it off, tried to change the subject. You avoided looking out the window whenever he arrived. But every evening your phone still lit up.

Han: Hope your day wasn’t too awful.

Han: You looked after yourself today?

Han: I miss talking to you.

Han: Did I do something wrong?

That one sat unread for nearly an hour before you finally opened it.

Did I do something wrong?

The answer was no, because Han really hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the problem. If he’d hurt you, this would have been easier, or if he’d lied or mocked you or revealed himself to be cruel, you could have walked away angry. Instead, he’d been kind, but every cruel thing anyone had said about you had started sounding louder than his kindness.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Mentally. The constant battle in your head was becoming unbearable - one side replaying Han’s voicemail, the other replaying what Ara had said, the way Sarah had agreed. You were assaulted with every school memory you’d spent years trying to forget.

“Be realistic.”

“Look at the women around him.”

“You’ve never been the type guys go for.”

At some point, the fear stopped being about whether Han liked you and turned into something much uglier. It became about what would happen when he stopped liking you, because he surely would. Sooner or later, once the excitement wore off, he’d realise. Once he looked around and saw all the women who fit naturally into his world - the women who didn’t have to worry about angles in photographs, the women who looked effortless.

The women who belonged.

You found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror one morning, staring at every part of yourself. All you could see was your every flaw, every softness, every insecurity. The comments echoed again and again in your skull, poisoning your mind and your eyes and twisting your own body into a source of disgust so profound that you felt sick to your stomach.

By lunchtime, you’d convinced yourself there was only one solution.

Change.

Immediately.

Drastically.

At first, you were just skipping meals. It was nothing major in your mind, just breakfast becoming coffee and lunch becoming “I’m not hungry.” Dinner became something small, easy to control from the safety of your own flat.

The first day of your new routine felt awful; the second was worse. By the third, hunger had become something you almost welcomed. It was a strange sort of punishment. Proof you were trying, fixing yourself. Every ache in your stomach became evidence that you were finally doing something. You were finally becoming better, more worthy of Han’s attention and a place in his world. The scale became the first thing you checked every morning, the number determining your mood for the entire day. If it dropped, relief flooded through you, and if it didn’t, panic followed.

Soon, your entire life began revolving around it. It was an ongoing mess of calories, numbers, and portion control. Excuses became second nature. You stopped meeting friends after work, stopped accepting invitations, and stopped doing things you enjoyed. Everything became secondary to becoming someone who belonged beside Han. It’s all that mattered to you. In your mind, you needed to be the kind of person that nobody would question or laugh at. Someone nobody would pull aside at parties and warn away.

A few weeks after the party, you were sitting alone at your kitchen table when your phone buzzed again.

Han.

You almost ignored it until your eyes landed on the preview on your screen.

Han: I’m worried about you.

Your chest tightened painfully, so you locked the phone, setting it face down as you tried to focus on anything but the man waiting at the other end for a reply.

A few seconds later, more messages arrived. Guilt mixed with panic, and you froze when you read his words.

Han: If you need space, I’ll respect it.

Han: But please stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

Your throat burned with emotion because he wasn’t supposed to notice. Nobody had ever noticed. Sure, people noticed when you were funny or when you were useful, and they definitely noticed when you were making everyone else’s lives easier.

They just didn’t notice when you were quietly falling apart.

Yet somehow Han had.

And that made ignoring him infinitely harder.

You pushed away from the table and headed for the bathroom. The scale sat waiting in the corner, calling out to you. You stepped onto it immediately, heart pounding, and watched the numbers settle slightly lower than they had been the day before. It was a tiny amount – barely anything – yet relief flooded through you so intensely that it was almost embarrassing.

There.

See? It was working!

You just had to keep going. Keep trying. Keep fixing yourself. Then maybe one day you’d be the kind of person who deserved someone like Han.

The thought felt comforting for all of three seconds before another memory surfaced of Han’s voice from the voicemail.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. At the tired eyes and the dark circles sat underneath them. The tension in your shoulders made you look small, a perfect manifestation of the way you’d spent the last week shrinking your entire life down to a number on a scale.

For the first time, a quiet, uncomfortable question appeared.

If Han walked through the door right now and saw what you were doing to yourself, would he think you were becoming someone worthy of him? Or would he be heartbroken that you believed you had to?

The wine had been a mistake; you’d known that when you’d poured the second glass and became certain by the third. But for the first time in days, your thoughts had felt quieter. Not gone, just blurred around the edges.

The scale hadn’t given you the result you’d wanted that morning. You’d spent the entire day carrying that disappointment around with you, letting it grow larger and larger until it consumed everything else. By the evening, your flat was silent except for the television playing something you weren’t really watching.

The Sharpie had appeared almost absentmindedly. One moment, it was sitting in a drawer. The next, it was in your hand.

You stood in front of the mirror wearing only a robe, slightly open at the front. You were staring at yourself as you had weeks ago, eyes critical and expression judgmental. The same way you had every day for the last week.

Only this time, you’d started drawing.

It was just a few marks at first – lines, shapes, outlines. An impossible version of yourself sketched directly onto your skin. You drew a body that took up less space that nobody would question. A body that belonged beside Han. The alcohol made it easier to pretend, to stand there and imagine everything outside those lines simply disappearing.

As though life could be that simple.

As though years of insecurity could be solved with a marker pen.

You were so focused on your reflection that the knock at the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your heart stopped when it was followed by another, this time louder. You dropped the Sharpie immediately, and panic surged through you because nobody visited unannounced. Nobody.

You fumbled the robe closed and tied it so quickly your fingers slipped twice. There was another knock, and you called out this time.

“Coming!”

Your voice sounded strange, even to your own ears. It was too high, too breathless. You hurried to the door, mentally running through the possibilities of who it could be. Maybe it was your neighbour, or a delivery? Anyone but-

“Han?”

You’d opened the door and froze. Han stood on the other side, and for a second, neither of you spoke. His hair was slightly windswept, jacket hanging open. He looked as though he’d come straight from somewhere else, straight to you.

Your stomach dropped as you realised that this was the first time you’d seen him in weeks, and you weren’t ready for it. It hadn’t been long enough, you hadn’t dieted enough yet. Hadn’t lost enough weight to belong at his side.

“What are you doing here?”

The words came out sharper than intended, a consequence of your inner panic.

Relief flashed across his face despite your tone, like he’d genuinely been worried you wouldn’t answer.

“Hi to you too.”

You tightened your grip on the door. “Han.”

“I got your address from your colleague.”

Of course he had. You made a mental note to murder that colleague later.

“What are you doing here?” you repeated.

His smile faded slightly, realising you weren’t happy to see him, even now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You immediately looked away. “No, I haven’t.”

The lie was pathetic, and you both knew it.

Han sighed. “You have.”

An awkward silence settled between the two of you; you didn’t know what to say, how to get out of this without admitting the truth. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too bright. You felt too exposed. Every second he stood there increased your awareness of what was hidden beneath the robe - the marker pen lying abandoned in the bathroom, the lines still covering your skin.

Your pulse hammered. “I’ve just been busy,” you tried.

Han stared at you, then snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh almost escaped you. His expression softened, concern replacing frustration.

“You disappeared.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“You stopped answering my messages.”

“I know.”

“You won’t see me.”

“I know.”

The quiet honesty seemed to catch him off guard. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Han took a careful step closer.

“Talk to me.”

The gentleness nearly broke you. You looked down at the floor, hiding the glassiness in your eyes.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because if you started talking, everything would come out: Ara, Sarah, the dieting, the spiralling. The fact that every time you looked at him, all you could think was that eventually he’ll realise they’re right.

Your eyes burned, and you shook your head. “Please just go home.”

Han’s face fell, and the sight hurt more than you expected. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, and panic sealed your throat shut as it stopped at your neck. You already knew what he’d see but prayed that it was something – anything - else.

A dark line of marker was visible above the collar of your robe, just enough to be noticeable.

Han frowned. “What is that?”

Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed as you lied again before they moved lower to where another black line disappeared beneath the robe near your ankle.

The colour drained from your face. “No.”

Han’s voice was careful now – confused, concerned when he asked, “What happened?”

You instinctively pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the lines from view, even though it was too late. “It’s nothing.”

The concern on his face deepened. It was the kind of concern that comes from realising something is very wrong. Not physically, but emotionally… Mentally. The silence stretched, and for the first time since arriving, Han looked genuinely frightened.

Not of you; for you.

“Can I come in?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Because suddenly all your excuses felt exhausted, all your energy gone. Standing there under his worried gaze, you realised something.

For weeks, you’d been trying desperately to become someone worthy of Han. Meanwhile, Han had spent those same weeks trying desperately to reach the person he already cared about.

The person standing in front of him now.

Not some future version, or some smaller version.

Just you.

The realisation hurt enough to make the tears in your eyes finally spill over, and Han’s expression immediately crumpled.

“Oh.”

His voice softened.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The endearment shattered what little composure remained. You looked away, embarrassed by the tears, but Han didn’t move, and he didn’t judge or look disgusted. He simply stood there, waiting, like whatever was hidden beneath the robe wasn’t what mattered. Like the thing he cared about was the fact that you’d been hurting alone.

The moment you stepped aside, Han entered the flat without hesitation. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, neither of you spoke as you stared at the floor, and he watched you carefully. The silence felt fragile, like just one wrong word could shatter it entirely. You stood awkwardly in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Terrified of saying anything at all.

Han looked at you for a long moment, then quietly said, “Come here.”

And somehow that was your undoing – not because of the words, but because of the gentleness. The patience. The fact that he wasn’t angry. You crossed the distance before you could stop yourself, and the second his arms wrapped around you, a sob tore from your throat.

Han held you immediately, firmly. You felt safe in his arms as one hand slid to the back of your head, the other settling around your shoulders. You buried your face against him, and for the first time in over a week, you stopped trying to hold yourself together. Everything hurt - your chest, throat, head – from the exhaustion of carrying so much shame around every second of every day. Han just held you through it, asking no questions and making no demands, just providing a steady warmth that you could sink into.

Until that horrible voice slithered back in.

He can feel you.

You froze.

He can feel how big you are.

Your stomach dropped.

He can feel every fat bit of you.

Immediately, panic flooded through you, and you pulled away so suddenly that Han nearly stumbled.

His hands fell away instantly, confusion crossing his face. “Hey—”

You took another step back, then another. “No.”

Your breathing became uneven. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

You shook your head violently. Han looked completely lost now, concern replacing confusion.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been avoiding me for over a week.”

You looked away. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s obviously not true.”

You started pacing. The energy felt trapped beneath your skin, like if you stood still for even a second, you’d explode. Han watched carefully, waiting for you to speak. The patience only made it worse, because eventually there was nowhere left to run. Nowhere left to hide.

“It was that party.”

The words came out suddenly, surprising even yourself.

Han straightened, though, latching onto your sudden outburst. “What about it?”

You laughed miserably because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. “Your friend.”

Immediately, understanding flashed across his face. You could see that he didn’t understand fully, but enough to help. Enough to get to the bottom of what had been affecting you for weeks.

“Who?”

Ara’s name left your mouth, and Han’s expression darkened instantly.

“What did she say?”

The question was a catalyst to your pain, and everything came spilling out. You told him about the comments she’d made, the implications. You mentioned the warnings that she’d given and explained the way she’d looked at you and how she’d made you feel. You sobbed as you recounted the way you’d watched him hug her afterwards and suddenly felt fifteen years old again, watching prettier girls get everything while you faded into the background.

By the time you finished, your eyes were burning, and Han looked furious. You laughed shakily and dragged a hand through your hair.

“You know the worst part?”

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I believed her.”

The confession hung in the room, raw and ugly. You swallowed hard, knowing that you needed to continue. You wanted him to finally understand after hiding for so long.

“Then I called Sarah.”

Han frowned, confused. “Is that your friend? The one from school?”

You nodded, feeling sick as you admitted, “She agreed.”

The silence that followed was deafening, because saying it aloud somehow made it real. Han stared at you, mouth hanging open, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Meanwhile, the words you’d spent all week swallowing came rushing out.

“I’ve spent my whole life being the funny friend. The one everyone likes but nobody wants.”

You winced as your voice cracked when tears blurred your vision again, but you had to finish now that you had started.

“And maybe they’re right.”

Han immediately shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe they are.”

“No.”

You laughed bitterly. “Han, look at your life.”

His expression hardened. “I’m looking at you.”

The tears spilt over once again, quieter this time, more resigned. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

The desperation in his voice caught you off guard. You were expecting frustration, maybe anger, but instead, he seemed to genuinely want to know. So, you told him everything, the words tumbling out between sobs.

“I’ve… drawn out in Sharpie - where I’d take the scissors. If that’s what it took for me to look in the mirror.”

Han’s face drained of colour, and your chest hurt at the horror on his face.

“I’ve done every diet to make me look thinner.”

A tear rolled down your cheek as you asked the question that had plagued your mind your whole life.

“So why do I still feel so goddamn inferior?”

The room went completely silent. For a moment, Han didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at you. You could see that he was heartbroken by your words, by your pain. It looked like hearing your words caused him his own physical pain. Then, his gaze slowly dropped. To your robe. To the marker visible at your collar, your wrists, and your ankles.

Realisation dawned on his face, and you let out a shaky laugh.

“There.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric.

“That’s what’s under here.”

Han closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his jaw jumping. When he looked at you again, his eyes were shining with grief.

“You’ve been carrying this by yourself?”

The question broke something inside you, because even after all of that, he wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. He hadn’t confirmed that the girls had been right. He was just sad that you’d been hurting.

You nodded, a tiny movement, but Han still saw it. His shoulders fell, as though the answer hurt him, before he slowly crossed the room. He was giving you enough of a chance to stop him, you realised. But this time, you didn’t want to.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the moisture in his eyes, hear his uneven breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I wish you could see what I see.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks because after weeks of starving yourself and hiding while you tried to become someone else, Han wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was looking at you like your pain was the thing breaking his heart.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood in the middle of your living room, tears drying on your cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Han was close enough to touch, to see every flicker of doubt crossing your face.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered.

His expression softened. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to.”

You swallowed. The shame was still there, sitting heavy and familiar in your chest, but for the first time all week, there was something else alongside it.

Trust.

Slowly, Han reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours, warm and steady, as he gently pulled you towards the mirror hanging in your hallway.

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror, tugging on your hand with a gentle “Come here.”

You hadn’t looked in this mirror for weeks, preferring to restrict your view of yourself with the mirror in the bathroom. That one already gave you enough to critique, without bringing your whole body into view.

Immediately, your stomach twisted. “No.”

Han squeezed your hand gently, eyes imploring you to trust him. “Please.”

You took a deep, steadying breath before you stepped in line with the mirror, eyes slowly raising to land on you both in the reflection. You could see your red eyes. Your tear-stained face. His worried expression.

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

His voice was so quiet it almost hurt. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, Han loosened the belt of your robe. His eyes never left your face, checking. Waiting to see if you were okay with this.

When you didn’t pull away, the fabric slipped from your shoulders, leaving you in a simple vest and underwear. You immediately wanted to hide, to cross your arms and curl in on yourself until you disappeared. Han gently caught your wrists before you could, gently stopping you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Your eyes filled again. “Han—”

“Please.”

The look on his face stole the rest of your words. He wasn’t looking at you with revulsion, or with judgment, but with an almost desperate need for you to see yourself differently. For you to appreciate yourself as he did.

Slowly, he turned you towards the mirror, and you tried looking at the floor. He noticed immediately, gently bumping your shoulder.

“Look.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I hate what I see.”

The words came out broken, raw from their honesty. Han’s jaw tightened, and he stepped behind you. You couldn’t help but tense as one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other lifting to your shoulder. His touch was gentle, reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing into his grip more.

“You see flaws,” he said softly as you stared stubbornly at the floor. “Because they’re there.”

The hand resting on your shoulder squeezed softly.

“I see somebody who always takes care of everyone else.”

A tear slipped down your cheek at his words, and his fingers traced lightly along your arm as he carried on softly.

“I see somebody who makes people feel safe.”

You shook your head, but his grip tightened slightly around your hand. He wasn’t letting you retreat or disappear. His gaze met yours through the reflection.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you did. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you.

“I love your smile. The real one that you try to hide when you’re embarrassed.”

Your throat tightened, a shaky laugh escaping you. His own lips twitched in response to the noise.

“There it is.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, immediately looking down again. Han sighed, before gently tilting your chin upwards.

“Stay with me.”

The plea in his voice was unmistakable.

Stay with me. Believe me. Please.

His hand settled against your side, warm through your skin, and instead of criticism, instead of the catalogue of faults you’d expected, he spoke with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

“I love how soft you are.”

You immediately tried looking away, and Han caught your eye again.

“No.”

The word was gentle but firm.

“You don’t get to run away from that one.”

Fresh tears filled your eyes because he wasn’t saying it despite your body. He was saying it because of it.

As though softness wasn’t something shameful.

As though it was something worth loving.

His forehead creased. “You spend so much time being cruel to yourself. Would you ever speak to somebody else the way you speak to yourself?”

You didn’t answer because you knew the answer.

Never.

His hand squeezed yours. “You are kind.”

Another squeeze.

“Funny.”

Another.

“Beautiful.”

Your eyes closed immediately, and Han made a quiet sound of frustration. Not at you, but at the wall of disbelief you’d built around yourself. When you opened your eyes again, he was already looking at you. His eyes hadn’t left you since you’d stepped in front of the mirror, watching you with nothing but patience – like he would have stood here all night if he had to.

“You keep waiting for me to change my mind.”

The words landed directly in your chest. You’d been waiting for it since the moment he confessed. Waiting for reality to catch up, for him to realise he’d made a mistake.

Han’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to.”

Your breath caught, but he carried on regardless. “I’m not looking at you and wishing you were somebody else.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek, and he wiped it away gently. “I’m not standing here imagining a different version of you.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I’m standing here looking at you.”

The room felt impossibly quiet as you stared at your reflection, at the woman you’d spent years criticising.

Years shrinking.

Years apologising for.

And for the first time, you weren’t seeing her entirely through your own eyes. You were seeing her through Han’s - through the eyes of someone who had searched an entire party looking for her. Who had shown up at her workplace every day. Who had tracked down her address because he was worried. Who looked at her now as though she was worth every bit of that effort.

Han brushed away another tear before he moved to rest his forehead on your own.  “You don’t have to become somebody else.”

His eyes searched yours, begging you to believe him.

“You never did.”

That night, after all the tears and confessions and raw honesty, the distance between you and Han felt smaller than it ever had before. You were still standing in front of the mirror, still emotionally exhausted and feeling vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. But this time, you had Han next to you, brushing a final tear from your cheek. Neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say right then, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm and safe in a way that you only felt with him.

His eyes drifted briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Slowly, he lifted one hand to cradle your face. The touch was impossibly gentle, as though you were something precious or breakable. His other arm wrapped around you, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t desperate or urgent. It was soft; the kind of kiss that felt like a question and an answer all at once. You melted into it almost immediately. All the months of uncertainty, the weeks of pain and days of spiralling seemed to quiet down for those few moments. Han kissed you like someone who wanted you to understand something, like he was trying to communicate every reassuring thing he’d said that evening without using words.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and a small smile touched his lips.

“There you are.”

Your eyes immediately filled again, and Han laughed softly.

“No more crying,” he said.

“I’m trying.”

“You are terrible at it.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you, and his smile widened.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him when he looked at you like you were beautiful.

After that night, things didn’t magically become perfect. Years of insecurity don’t disappear overnight, but they become easier to carry when you aren’t carrying them alone anymore.

Han remained stubbornly, consistently present. The following week, you were there when he confronted Ara. You’d tried to avoid the conversation, but Han hadn’t allowed it.

“You’re coming.”

“Han—”

“You’re coming.”

And so, you had.

The woman looked uncomfortable the second she realised why she was there. Han wasn’t cruel - that wasn’t who he was - but he was firm. Disappointed. Protective in a way that made your chest ache. By the end of the conversation, there was no confusion about where he stood.

He chose you.

Openly.

Without hesitation, embarrassment or apology.

Talking to Sarah was harder - far harder - because, unlike Ara, Sarah had been part of your life for years. You’d spent so long believing she was your friend that accepting the truth felt almost like grief.

Han sat beside you before the call, supportive in his silence with his hand resting over your own. He was a quiet source of strength in a painfully illuminating conversation. For the first time, you noticed things you had overlooked for years. The dismissiveness, the backhanded compliments, and the subtle ways she’d always encouraged you to expect less from yourself.

By the end of the call, your hands were shaking. You stared at the blank screen afterwards feeling strangely hollow.

Han immediately pulled you against him. “You okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head before laughing. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

His arms tightened around you, and for the first time, ending the friendship felt less like losing something and more like putting down something heavy you’d been carrying for years.

The first time Han told you he loved you was six months later.

You were sitting together on his sofa, neither of you doing anything particularly interesting. A film was playing in the background, and your head was resting on his shoulder.

It happened so casually you almost missed it.

He kissed your forehead, smiled, and just… said it.

“I love you.”

As natural as breathing, as saying good morning.

You froze instantly, and Han immediately noticed. Panic surged through you, your brain racing.

Too fast.

Too much.

What if he means it now but not later?

What if I don’t deserve it?

What if—

“Hey.”

Han’s voice interrupted the spiral immediately. You looked up, and he was smiling softly. He wasn’t offended by the hesitation, or upset, or frustrated. He was just patient like always.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he explained.

Your throat tightened. “What if—”

“Don’t.”

His hand found yours.

“What if I scare you away?”

His expression melted completely. “You won’t.”

“What if—”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made your eyes sting. Han kissed your forehead again, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. You laughed in spite of yourself, and Han grinned at you fondly.

“There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, and Han smiled.

“I love you,” he murmured.

The words felt less frightening the second time. Less like pressure and more like a promise.

And eventually, when you said it back, his smile was so bright it looked painful.

As your relationship deepened, intimacy became another place where Han’s patience showed itself.

When you were physically intimate together for the first time, he seemed far more focused on making sure you felt safe, wanted, and comfortable than anything else. Every hesitation was met with reassurance, every moment of insecurity was met with kindness. The same man who had stood beside you in front of the mirror was still there, still looking at you with the same affection, still treating your body as something worthy of care and admiration.

Afterwards, wrapped together beneath blankets, you found yourself tracing patterns across his arm, feeling content in the silence that enveloped the room. Han pressed a kiss into your hair, then another, and another, until you laughed and shoved his shoulder.

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Han.”

“No.”

You groaned, and he grinned before pulling you closer, as though even after everything, he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have you there. And for once, lying safely in his arms, you found yourself thinking something that would have seemed impossible a year earlier.

Maybe you weren’t the only lucky one.

Maybe you were worth someone feeling lucky enough to have you.

a/n: so I think this is the angstiest, yet realest, fic I've written yet? what do we think? lmk in the comments bcos I love hearing all your thoughts xo

you find yourself spending more time at the dorms, but not in chan’s room. you find yourself in the kitchen with changbin at odd hours, or sitting in the studio while he works on tracks. changbin doesn't look at you the way chan does lately. he doesn't treat you like you're fragile or decorative. he challenges you. he asks for your opinion on a beat and actually listens when you give him a technical answer.

one night, it’s 2am. you’re in the kitchen with changbin, sharing a late-night snack and laughing so hard your ribs hurt. changbin just told a story about a recording session gone wrong, and for a moment, you forget the leaden feeling in your chest.

"no way," you gasp, leaning against the counter. "did he actually say that?"

changbin is grinning, his eyes bright. "i swear! i couldn't even look at him for the rest of the day."

the kitchen door creaks open. you freeze, your laughter dying in your throat as chan walks in. he’s rubbing his eyes, looking exhausted, but he stops when he sees the two of you. his gaze flickers from your flushed, happy face to changbin, who’s still leaning toward you.

"oh," chan says, his voice flat. "i didn't know you were still up."

"couldn't sleep," you mumble, the old wall of coldness snapping back into place. "just getting some water."

"we were just talking about the session from today," changbin adds, oblivious to the shift in energy. "she actually had a really good idea for the bridge on the new track."

chan’s eyebrows twitch. he looks at you, then back at changbin. "is that so? i thought you were too stressed with work to think about music stuff."

"it was just a small suggestion, chan," you say softly, heading toward the door. "i'm going to bed. night, binnie. night, chan."

you slip past him, avoiding his eyes. chan stands in the kitchen, watching you go. he likes that you're friends with his members—he really does. but a tiny, poisonous seed has been planted. he remembers how you’ve been too tired to talk to him for weeks. he remembers how you haven't laughed like that with him in a long time.

he looks at changbin, who’s already going back to his food, and then at the empty doorway where you just stood.

"she's been stressed," chan mutters to himself, trying to kill the thought before it grows. "she's just tired."

but as he heads back to his room, he can't stop thinking about the way you looked at changbin.

the idea is rooted now—a dark, stinging thought that maybe you aren't pulling away from everything. maybe you’re just pulling away from him. and the worst part is, he has no idea why.

LEE KNOW

after that night, the kitchen island—once your favorite place to watch him—feels like a crime scene. every time minho looks at you, you wonder if he’s actually seeing you, or if he’s still just marveling at the fact that his trophy can speak.

the doubt settles deep into your bones. you start to think that maybe he’s right—maybe you are high maintenance, or maybe the only reason you’re even in this room is because of a face you didn't choose. you stop dressing up for him. you stop talking about your ambitions or the books you’re reading. if he thinks there isn't much going on behind your eyes, maybe it’s easier to just let him believe it.

you start pulling away, physically and mentally. you don't know what to do, but you can't bear the though of losing you. when he tries to pull you into his lap, you make an excuse about having a headache or needing to finish a project for work.

"you've been working a lot lately," minho observes one evening, leaning against the doorframe of the living room as you stare blankly at your laptop. "are you that stressed?"

"yeah," you mumble, not looking up because you know if you meet his eyes, you'll see that amused smirk. "just a lot on my plate. i'm tired."

"don't overdo it," he says, his voice softening. "you'll get wrinkles."

he thinks he’s being funny. he thinks it’s a lighthearted jab. to you, it’s just another reminder that your value is tied to your skin. you don't even respond, just tap aimlessly at the keyboard until he leaves the room.

you find yourself gravitating toward the practice rooms more often, but you aren't there for minho. you’re there for han. jisung is loud, chaotic, and seemingly always in his own head, but when you talk to him, he actually listens. he doesn't look at you like you’re a delicate porcelain doll; he looks at you like a comrade.

you and jisung start spending hours sitting on the floor of the studio, sharing headphones and talking about everything from deep-seated anxieties to the stupidest memes you found at 3 a.m. with him, you feel like you don't have to "prove" you have a brain. he just accepts it.

one afternoon, you’re in the middle of a heated debate with jisung about song lyrics. you’re gesturing wildly, laughing as you point out a flaw in his logic.

"no, listen!" you exclaim, grinning. "if you use that metaphor there, it ruins the entire flow of the second verse!"

jisung narrows his eyes, a playful grin on his face. "okay, genius, what would you put there instead?"

you lean in, scribbling a suggestion on his notepad. for a moment, you feel light. you feel like yourself.

the door swings open, and minho stands there. he’s carrying two iced americanos, his expression unreadable. his eyes immediately lock onto how close you’re sitting to jisung—how your shoulder is brushed against his.

"oh," minho says, his voice sharp. "i thought you were at the library."

the laughter dies instantly. you pull back, the heavy, dull weight returning to your chest. "i finished early. jisung needed help with a bridge."

minho walks over, setting the coffees down with a bit more force than necessary. "since when are you a lyricist? i thought you told me you were too exhausted to even think."

"i'm just helping a friend, minho," you say quietly, standing up and brushing the dust off your jeans. "it's not a big deal."

"it's cool, hyung," jisung says, sensing the tension. "she’s actually really good at this. she sees things i totally miss."

minho’s jaw tightens. he looks at you—really looks at you—and for the first time, he isn't smirking. he sees the way you look at jisung with an ease you haven't shown him in weeks. he sees the notepad full of your handwriting.

"i'm sure she does," minho says, his voice dripping with an edge you can't quite place. "i just didn't realize you two were so... compatible."

you don’t look at him. “he’s easy to talk to.”

“i’m not?” he reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch possessive. usually, this would make you melt. now, it just feels like he’s marking his territory on a prize he’s afraid of losing.

"i'm going to get some air," you mutter, grabbing your bag. "see you at home."

as you walk out, minho stays behind, staring at the notepad. at your messy scrawl next to jisung’s lyrics. the thought that someone else—someone like jisung—might know you better than he does is starting to burn.

he thinks you're slipping away, and the worst part is, he still doesn't understand that he’s the one who pushed you.

CHANGBIN

after that day in the gym, something in you shifts. the weights clanking in the background of your mind feel like they're crushing the person you thought you were to him. you stop asking him to go to the gym with you. you stop wearing the cute matching sets he liked, opting for oversized hoodies that swallow you whole.

if he thinks you’re just a "pretty girl" whose personality was an unexpected bonus, you’d rather just hide the... bonus away. what else are you meant to do? bring up your concerns are ruin what you have with him. no matter how upset you are with him, at the end of the day, you love him more than words.

you start staying late at the company, not even because you have work, but because going home to changbin feels like walking back into a display case. you tell him it’s just a busy season, that you’re drained from staring at screens all day.

"you're always so wiped out lately," changbin says one night, his voice thick with concern as he watches you pick at your dinner. "you sure you're okay? maybe you need to get back to the gym, get those endorphins going."

"i'm fine, changbin," you say, the name feeling formal in your mouth. "just tired. my head hurts."

"you've had a headache for two weeks," he notes, his brow furrowing. "do you need a massage? i can—"

"no, it’s okay," you cut him off, standing up to clear your plate. "i just need sleep."

you find yourself hanging out in the common room more, where felix is usually found baking or playing games. felix is different. when he talks to you, he asks about your day and actually remembers the small details—the project you're stressed about, the book you mentioned months ago. with felix, you feel like a person, not a "buy one, get one free" deal.

one night, you’re sitting on the floor with felix, helping him frost a batch of cupcakes. you’re covered in flour, laughing as he tries to show you how to make a perfect swirl.

"no, you're doing it too fast!" you giggle, leaning over to guide his hand. "you have to be gentle with it."

felix laughs, his deep voice vibrating in the small space. "i'm trying! i just don't have your artist's touch, i guess."

he looks at you, his eyes soft and genuinely appreciative. "i really like talking to you. you always have the best perspective on things. i was telling binnie hyung the other day that you're one of the smartest people i know."

your heart twinges. "you told him that?"

"yeah," felix says, nodding. "he just kind of shrugged and said, 'i know, she's great, right?'"

the door opens and changbin walks in, still in his workout clothes. he stops when he sees the two of you on the floor, surrounded by frosting and cupcakes. he looks at your messy hair, your flour-smudged face, and the way you’re sitting so comfortably close to felix.

"you're still up?" changbin asks, his voice tight. "i thought you were going to bed early because of that headache."

the laughter vanishes. you pull your hand away from felix’s. "i felt a bit better. felix needed help."

"right," changbin says, crossing his arms. he looks at felix, who is still grinning at you. "must be some miracle cure. you've been way drained to even watch a movie with me for days, but you have energy for baking?"

"it’s just cupcakes, bin," felix says, sensing the sudden coldness. "we were just hanging out."

"i can see that," changbin mutters. he looks at you, his eyes searching yours for the person he thought he knew. but all he sees is a wall. "i'm going to shower. don't stay up too late. you wouldn't want to be too tired for work tomorrow."

he walks away, his footsteps heavy. you look back at the cupcake in your hand, the frosting now looking a lot less appetizing.

"you okay?" felix asks softly.

"yeah," you whisper, though your chest feels like it's being squeezed. "i'm fine."

you realize then that changbin isn't just confused—he's starting to get suspicious. but how do you tell him that the reason you're distancing yourself is because he made you feel like your only real value was the one thing that will eventually fade?

HYUNJIN

since that night, you feel like you're wearing a costume. every time you put on makeup or pick out an outfit, hyunjin’s words echo in your head: it’s okay if she’s a bit simple. you find yourself staring at your reflection, wondering if he even sees you when he looks at you, or if he's just admiring his own taste in, like, arm candy.

the distance you put between you is subtle at first. you stop sending him the little poems you write or the articles you find interesting. why bother, if he’s just waiting for you to be "more than a visual"? you start declining his invites to help him with his art or fashion projects, using the same excuse every time.

"i'm just tired, hyunjin," you say over the phone, your voice flat. "work is draining me lately. i think i just need to be alone."

"again?" he sighs, and you can hear the pout in his voice. "you've been like that for two weeks. you’re missing the best lighting for the sketches i wanted to do of you."

of me. not with me. it hurts to realize he views your presence as a prop for his inspiration. "sorry. i’ll text you later," you mumble before hanging up, the silence of your room feeling safer than his studio ever could.

you find yourself spending more time at the dorms when he's busy, but you end up tucked away in the corner of the lounge with jeongin. the youngest has a way of being blunt and real that feels like a lifeline. he doesn't treat you like a "pretty girl" or a "doll." he treats you like an older sister, a friend, someone whose brain he actually respects.

you and jeongin start a routine of playing video games or debating the most random topics—philosophy, space, the best way to cook ramen. with him, you feel sharp. you feel seen.

"no, listen," you say, leaning forward as you and jeongin sit on the floor, controllers in hand. "if the universe is expanding, then technically everything is getting further away from us at all times. that’s terrifying."

jeongin scoffs, eyes glued to the screen. "or it’s poetic. it means we have to hold onto what we have even tighter." he glances at you, a genuine, toothy grin on his face. "you think about the weirdest stuff. i like it."

you feel a rare warmth in your chest. "thanks, innie."

the front door clicks open. hyunjin walks in, looking tired but stylish in a long coat. he stops when he sees the two of you. his eyes move from the scattered snack bags to the way you're sitting—shoulders relaxed, laughing with his youngest member.

"you're here?" hyunjin asks, his voice laced with confusion. "i thought you were too exhausted to leave your house. you told me you were going to sleep."

the warmth vanishes. you stiffen, the tired mask sliding back into place. "i just needed some air. jeongin asked for help with a level."

"she's actually cracked at this game, hyunjin-hyung," jeongin says, not picking up on the frost in the air. "she figured out the boss's pattern in like two tries. she’s hella smart."

hyunjin’s expression darkens. he looks at you, then at jeongin, a flicker of something like jealousy—or maybe just hurt—crossing his face. "is that so? i didn't realize you were in the mood for games. you haven't even answered my last three texts."

"i was distracted," you whisper, standing up and handing the controller to a confused-looking jeongin. "i should go. i really am tired."

"i'll walk you out," hyunjin says, his tone clipped.

as you reach the door, he grabs your arm gently, pulling you to a stop. "what's going on? you're too tired for me, but you have energy for innie? you're acting... weird."

"i'm just acting the way people like me act, hyunjin," you say, your voice trembling. "simple, right? easy to read."

he blinks, looking genuinely stung. "oh. wait, i told you i didn't mean it like that. why are you still holding onto that?"

"because you haven't stopped believing it," you murmur, pulling your arm away.

you leave him standing in the hallway, his reflection caught in the mirror by the door. he’s the visual, but for the first time, he feels like he’s the one who can’t see what’s right in front of him.

HAN

after the arcade, everything jisung does feels like it has a footnote attached to it. when he calls you cute, you wonder if he means you're a good accessory. when he compliments your outfit, you wonder if he’s just relieved you’re still maintaining that look he bragged about to the guys.

you start to feel like you’re performing. if he thinks girls who look like you are "watery" and "boring," you feel this exhausting pressure to be constantly on—to be funny, to be nerdy, to prove you have a soul. but the more you try, the more you realize how unfair it is that you have to audition for a position you already hold. eventually, you just stop.

because maybe he's right. maybe that's all you are. just a pretty face.

you stop suggesting games. you stop sending him long voice notes about your theories on the shows you watch together. the distance is a slow bleed, and jisung, for all his social anxiety, is hyper-aware of shifts in energy.

"hey, are you mad at me?" he asks one night, leaning over the back of the couch to look at you. he has that wide-eyed, nervous look he gets when he’s overthinking. "you’ve been... quiet. did i do something?"

"i'm not mad, sungie," you say, keep your eyes on your book. it's the truth—you aren't mad. you're just hurt, and you're scared to lose him. scared to bring anything up. scared you'll get dismissed. you love him too much for that. "i'm just tired. work is a lot right now."

"are you sure? because you haven't even roasted me for losing that match earlier," he tries to joke, but his voice is thin. "if you're mad, just tell me. i can fix it."

"i'm not mad," you repeat, finally looking up. "really. i'm just drained."

he doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go, retreating to his room to game. you feel a pang of guilt, but it’s drowned out by the memory of him calling you a fucking hidden character unlock.

you find yourself going to minho’s apartment more often. it started when you offered to help him with some chores, but it turned into sitting on his floor with soonie, dongie, and dori. minho doesn't demand depth from you. he doesn't talk about aesthetics or first impressions. he just hands you a cat treat and asks if you want tea.

one afternoon, you’re at minho's, laughing as dori tries to fight a feather wand you’re holding. minho is sitting at the table, watching you with that quiet, sharp gaze he has.

"you look better today," minho says. "jisung said you were becoming a hermit because of work."

"it’s just peaceful here," you murmur, scratching soonie behind the ears. "no expectations. just cats."

minho hums, walking over to sit on the floor near you. "jisung’s an idiot. he’s been moping around the dorm because he thinks you’re losing interest. he thinks he’s not 'exciting' enough for you anymore."

you look away, the feather wand falling still. "that’s not it."

the door to minho’s apartment swings open. jisung is there, eyes bright with that frantic energy he gets when he’s been pacing. he looks at you, then at minho, then at the cats.

"oh," jisung says, his voice small. "i didn't know you were coming here. you told me you had to stay late at the office."

the lie tastes like copper in your mouth. "i finished early. minho said dori was acting up, so i came to help."

"right," jisung says, rubbing the back of his neck. "cool. cool." he walks in, but he stays near the wall, looking at the two of you on the floor. "you never come over to play games with me anymore. i thought you were too tired for anything."

"playing with cats isn't exactly high-energy, hanji..." you say softly.

"i guess," he mutters. his eyes land on minho, who is leaning back on his hands, looking entirely too comfortable. "i just didn't think you and minho-hyung were that close. i thought you said his jokes were mean."

"they are," you say, a small, genuine smile flickering on your face. "but at least they’re honest."

jisung flinches. he doesn't know what you mean, but he feels the weight of it. he sees you sitting there with his hyung, looking relaxed and real, and he remembers how you used to be that way with him. it feels like forever since then, and it feels like there's a pit in his stomach.

"i'll leave you to it, then," jisung says, turning toward the door. "i just... i was gonna ask if you wanted to go to that new arcade, but never mind. have fun with the cats."

he leaves before you can answer. minho looks at the closed door, then back at you.

"you should probably talk to him," minho says, though his voice is neutral. "he thinks you're gonna dump his ass."

you sigh, squeezing your eyes closed. "i'm not planning on that."

minho raises an eyebrow. "i know. does he?"

you look at soonie, who is purring contentedly under your hand. you love jisung—you do—but you wonder if you’ll ever be able to go back to the arcade without feeling like you’re just part of the scenery.

FELIX

the weeks following felix’s confession are a blur of quiet heartache. you don't want to be distant; you still love the way his eyes light up when he sees you and the way he hums when he’s happy. but every time he calls you his angel, you wonder if he’s talking to you or the doll he thought he was buying into. the mention of the bet sticks in your throat like broken glass.

a bet.

the reminder makes your eyes sting. because what if you were overreacting? what if you were reading too much into it? what if it was just some stupid guy thing?

you can’t bring yourself to be vulnerable with him anymore. if you show a flaw, will he think you're finally becoming too much to handle?

the brownie on your plate remains untouched. you keep staring at the crumbs, wondering how many of the sweet moments you’ve shared were actually part of a test to see if you were more than just your face. it makes you feel like your entire relationship was built on a foundation of low expectations.

you don't want to be mad at felix—he’s so kind, so gentle—but the thoughts are already burned into your brain. you start to feel like you have to overcompensate for your looks just to prove you’re still tolerable. every time you do your makeup, you feel a surge of guilt, like you’re reinforcing the very stereotype he used to dismiss you.

you start spending less time in the kitchen. the scent of baking, which used to be your favorite thing about his apartment, now makes your stomach turn.

"you're so quiet today, angel," felix says, sliding onto the bench next to you. he reaches out to take your hand, but you’re already standing up to clear your plate. "is everything okay?"

"i'm just tired, lix," you say, the lie coming out easier every time. "work is just draining the life out of me. i think i just need some space to clear my head."

felix’s face falls, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. "oh. okay. do you want me to come over later? i can bring dinner?"

"no, it's okay. i think i just need to be alone for a bit."

you don't go home, though. you find yourself at the studio, sitting in the corner of hyunjin’s workspace. he’s the only one who doesn't make you feel like you're on display. maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to have people stare at your face while they ignore your heart.

one night, as hyunjin is cleaning his brushes, you finally let the question slip. your voice is small, almost lost in the hum of the air conditioner. "hyunjin... was there really a bet? about me? about how long it would take for him to realize i was... too much?"

hyunjin freezes, his back to you. he lets out a long, heavy sigh and turns around, his expression pained. "oh god, he told you about that? he has no filter sometimes."

"so it's true?"

hyunjin winces, sitting down on the stool across from you. "i wasn't part of it, for the record. i hated that they did that. it was just... stupid locker room talk at the very beginning. the guys thought you looked like the type of girl who would be impossible to keep up with. they didn't think felix would last two weeks because you seemed so out of his league."

"it still feels like they were waiting for me to fail," you murmur, hugging your knees to your chest. "like my personality was just a flaw they were waiting to discover."

"hey," hyunjin says softly, leaning forward. "felix didn't mean it like that. he was just scared of how much he liked you. by the time you guys actually went on your second date, he was already obsessed. he wasn't betting on anything then; he was just falling."

"it still hurts," you mumble. "that he looked at me and thought 'empty' before he even heard me speak. you get it, don't you? how people just... stop at the surface?"

hyunjin's gaze softens, a look of profound understanding crossing his features. "i get it more than anyone. it’s exhausting, having to prove you’re human every single day just because you’re nice to look at. you and i... we have to work twice as hard to prove there’s a soul behind the face."

you find comfort in hyunjin's company over the next week. you talk about art, about the frustration of being underestimated, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like a person, not a "secret."

but felix is starting to notice. he sees your name popping up on hyunjin's phone. he sees you leaving the dorms late at night when you told him you were sleeping.

one evening, you’re walking out of the studio with hyunjin, both of you laughing about a smudge of blue paint on his nose. felix is standing at the end of the hallway, a box of your favorite cookies in his hand. his eyes are wide, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

"you said you were too tired to see anyone," felix says, his voice thick with hurt. "i thought you were at the library."

"i finished early, lixie," you say, your heart sinking. "hyunjin was just showing me his new piece."

felix looks between the two of you, his heart visible on his sleeve. "i just wanted to bring you these. i thought you were stressed. but you look... you look fine."

he turns and walks away before you can say anything. hyunjin looks at you, then at felix’s retreating back. "you should go after him," he whispers.

you stand in the hallway, torn between the boy who loves you but didn't see you, and the friend who sees you but can't fix the hole in your heart. as you watch felix disappear, you realize that by trying to protect yourself from being too much, you might have finally become exactly what the bet predicted: a girl who was too hard to hold onto.

SEUNGMIN

since that night, every interaction with seungmin feels like you’re sitting for an exam you didn't study for. if you’re too quiet, are you being "boring"? if you talk about your day, are you being "self-absorbed"? the domestic silence you used to love now feels suffocating, like a countdown until he decides the risk is no longer paying off.

you start pulling away, the rejection of his words manifesting as a physical barrier. you stop sitting at his feet. you stop asking to hear his demos. when he tries to show you a new verse, you just can't bring yourself to listen; all you hear is the scratching of that pen, reminding you that he once thought you were essentially a waste of a face.

"are you still feeling off?" seungmin asks one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder as you stare at a blank document on your laptop. "you've been like this for over a week. just work?"

"yeah," you lie, your heart hammering against your ribs. "it's just a lot of data entry. my brain is kind of fried. i'm just... really tired, seungmin."

he sighs, a small sound of disappointment. "i was hoping you'd look over these new verses with me. i tried a different rhyme scheme, and i wanted to see if you caught the subtext."

"i really can't," you murmur, not meeting his eyes. "i'm too drained to even read right now."

he looks at you for a long moment, his gaze concerned and searching. "alright. get some rest then, okay," he says, soft and understanding.

the next night, you find yourself in chan’s studio. you had gone to drop off some food, but you saw the absolute state of his digital folders and his physical archives.

knowing chan, he’d never get around to fixing it, so you sat down and started helping. it was mechanical, logical, and—most importantly—it didn't feel like an audition for your own intelligence.

"wait, if we move the raw files into the year-coded folders first, the metadata will stay intact," you explain, pointing at his screen.

chan looks at the monitor, then at you, a look of genuine relief and awe on his face. "wow, i’ve been staring at that mess for three hours and couldn't figure out where to start. your brain works so fast, seriously. you're a lifesaver."

you feel a small, genuine flush of pride. "it’s just organization, chan."

"no, it’s the way you approach it. it's so logical," chan says, leaning back in his chair. "i really appreciate you taking the time to do this, especially since you've been so busy."

the door to the studio swings open. seungmin is standing there, his coat still on, looking like he just arrived from the dorms. his eyes sweep the room, landing on you sitting in the chair next to chan, the two of you hunched over a complex spreadsheet of file names.

the air in the room turns ice-cold.

"seungmin," chan says, oblivious to this. "look at this. she’s literally saved my life tonight. i was about to delete half my hard drive out of frustration."

seungmin doesn't smile. his eyes are fixed on you, cold and hurt. "is that so?" he asks, his voice low. "i thought you said your brain was fried. i thought you were too 'drained' to even read a few lines of lyrics yesterday."

you shrink back into the chair, the familiar weight of shame returning. "i... chan needed help, and this is just... it's just filing, seungmin."

"filing," seungmin repeats, the word dripping with bitterness. "so you have the mental energy to reorganize hyung’s entire life at midnight, but you don't have the energy to talk to me?"

"seungmin, hey, it's not like that," chan tries to interject, sensing the frustration in his tone.

"it’s exactly like that," seungmin says, looking directly at you. his jaw is set, his hands clenched in his pockets. "you just don’t have that sort of time for me, huh?"

he doesn't wait for an answer. he turns on his heel and walks out, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes your chest ache. you stare at the screen, the logical rows of files now a blurred mess through your tears.

chan looks at you, his expression softening into deep concern. "did something happen between you two? he's never been that... sharp with you."

"i don't know," you whisper, though you know exactly what happened. seungmin is jealous because he thinks you’re giving your intellect to someone else, while you’re just trying to find a place where your mind isn't being graded.

I.N.

after that night on the ferris wheel, the world feels a little colder. you find yourself looking in the mirror and wondering if you look empty-headed today.

you start to question every conversation you’ve ever had with jeongin—was he actually listening, or was he just waiting for you to finish talking so he could go back to looking at you?

you don't leave him. you love him too much to let go, even if staying means carrying this heavy, jagged secret in your chest. instead, you just stop trying so hard. you stop sharing your deep thoughts with him. you let him believe you're "tired" from work, a lie he accepts easily because it fits into his busy schedule.

"you've been sleeping a lot lately," jeongin notes one afternoon, found you curled up on the sofa. he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch light and affectionate. "work must be really draining you, huh?"

"yeah," you whisper, closing your eyes so he can't see the sadness there. "i just don't have much to say lately."

"that's okay," he says, kissing your temple. "you look cute when you're sleepy."

it hurts. it hurts that it's like he's perfectly fine with you being quiet and empty" as long as the view stays the same.

you find yourself seeking out seungmin more often. it starts when you join him at a library café, both of you working in silence. seungmin is the one who notices when you’re actually thinking. he’ll look up from his books and ask you questions that require real answers—questions about logic, about the world, about your actual opinions.

one evening, you and seungmin are sitting in the dorm lounge, deeply immersed in a crossword puzzle that’s notoriously difficult.

"four down," seungmin mutters, tapping his pen against his chin. "a nine-letter word for 'a state of near-unconsciousness or insensibility.'"

"lethargy?" you suggest, leaning over his shoulder.

"too short," he counters. he thinks for a second. "stupor? no. oh, wait—inanition?"

"no, it’s 'ebullient' if we change the across word... wait, no, it's 'lassitude,'" you say, your eyes lighting up as the pieces click together.

seungmin grins, a genuine look of impression on his face. "lassitude. that's it. i never would've gotten that. you have a really impressive vocabulary."

you feel a rush of warmth that has nothing to do with your looks. "thanks, seungmin. i just read a lot."

"i know you do," he says simply, turning to the next page. "you're one of the few people i can actually do these with without getting frustrated."

the door opens, and jeongin walks in, dropping his bag by the coat rack. he sees the two of you huddled over the paper and stops. he’s used to you being "tired" or "out of it" when he comes home, but here you are, animated and sharp with seungmin.

"hey," jeongin says, his voice a bit strained. "i thought you said you were going to take a nap because your head ached."

the light in your eyes dims instantly. "it felt better," you say, your voice dropping back into that neutral, quiet tone. "i just needed a distraction."

"you're doing the crossword?" jeongin asks, walking over. he looks at the complex grid, then at you. "i didn't think you liked those. they're kind of... intense, aren't they? i usually just do the word searches."

"she's actually better at it than i am," seungmin says, not looking up. "she has a very 'well-spoken' mind, remember?"

seungmin is quoting what you told him about the ferris wheel—the one person you finally broke down and vented to. jeongin flinches at the word, a flicker of recognition and guilt crossing his face.

"i'm gonna go to our room," you say, standing up quickly. "i think the headache is coming back."

jeongin watches you walk away, then looks at seungmin. his hyung is still looking at the crossword, but his expression is stern.

"what?" jeongin asks, feeling defensive. "i was just surprised. she's always so low-energy with me lately."

"maybe it's because you told her you didn't expect her to have much value besides her face," seungmin says, finally looking up. his voice is cold. "she isn't low-energy, jeongin. she’s just hiding from you."

jeongin stands in the middle of the room, the silence of the dorm suddenly feeling very loud. he squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face. “oh, shit.”

You tried again, gentler, stepping inside. “You’ve been at it for hours. You should at least drink some water.”

Nothing. Just the click of his mouse, the scratch of his pen over yet another page of lyrics he’d probably end up scrapping.

Your chest tightened, but you crossed the room anyway, placing a glass on his desk, right beside his clutter of crumpled paper. “You don’t have to finish everything in one go, you know. It’s okay to take a break.”

That got a reaction. A scoff. He leaned back just enough to drag his hands down his face, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and for a moment you thought maybe he’d actually listen. Instead, he muttered, “Can you not? I don’t need this right now.”

The words were sharp enough to sting, but you forced a small smile. “I’m not trying to nag you, I just, I worry. You’ve barely slept.”

“God, just stop!” His chair screeched as he spun to face you fully, his voice suddenly raised, laced with irritation that cut deeper because it was him. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re always hovering, always fussing, it’s suffocating, Y/N. I don’t need you breathing down my neck every time I sit down to work!”

The room went still. Your heart thudded painfully, his words ricocheting in your head, bruising more than you wanted to admit. For days you’d been patient, kind, swallowing down the ache of being ignored. But this, this was him twisting the knife.

You blinked, throat tight. “Suffocating?” you repeated, your voice trembling at the edges. “You’ve been shutting me out for days, Ji. I’ve been trying to be there for you, and you call that suffocating?”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “You wouldn’t understand”

That was it. Something in you snapped. Before you could stop yourself, your palm cracked against his cheek, the sound echoing in the cramped studio.

He froze, eyes wide, lips parting in shock.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you spat, voice shaking but loud now, raw with anger you’d been choking down. “Don’t you dare make me out to be the problem when all I’ve done is love you, even when you treat me like I’m nothing! You think I like begging for scraps of your attention? You think it doesn’t kill me to watch you run yourself into the ground while I stand here invisible?”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off, the words spilling fast, venomous and broken all at once.

“No, fuck you, Jisung. I’ve put up with your silence, your mood swings, the way you act like music’s the only thing that matters, fine. But don’t you dare call me suffocating when I’m the only one who’s still trying to reach you! You want to push me away? Congratulations, you’re doing a bloody brilliant job.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He sat there, cheek reddening where your hand had landed, chest heaving like he’d been punched instead of slapped. You stood rigid, your own hands trembling, fighting the lump in your throat.

For the first time in days, he finally looked at you. Really looked.

Jisung’s lips parted, maybe to apologise, maybe to defend himself, but you weren’t interested in hearing it. Not anymore.

You shook your head, bitter laughter spilling out despite the tears burning your eyes. “Save it. Whatever excuse you’re about to give me, I don’t want it. Not after that.”

“Y/N, wait—” He half-rose from his chair, voice suddenly softer, desperate even, but the sound only made the ache in your chest worse.

“No,” you snapped, grabbing your bag from where it was slung by the door. Your movements were sharp, mechanical, like if you stopped for even a second you’d crumble. “You don’t get to spit venom at me for days and then decide when I’m allowed to walk away. Not tonight, Jisung. Not anymore.”

You didn’t look back as you stormed out of the studio. The slam of the front door rattled the flat, and only then did you let your breath hitch, shoulders shaking as the silence outside pressed in.

Your phone was already in your hand before you could think, your thumb hovering over one contact, the only person you trusted enough right now. Felix picked up on the second ring, his voice warm and instantly soothing, like sunlight after a storm.

“Y/N? Everything okay?”

The lump in your throat threatened to strangle you, but you forced the words out, low and cracking. “Can I, can I stay at yours tonight? Please?”

There was no hesitation. “Of course. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

You shook your head quickly, even though he couldn’t see. “No, it’s fine. I’ll grab a cab. Just… I can’t be here. Not with him.”

Felix didn’t push, didn’t ask for details, just hummed gently like he already knew more than you wanted to say. “Seungmin won’t mind. You’ll have my bed, yeah? I’ll stay on the sofa. Just… get here safe, okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Thank you, Lix.”

You ended the call before your tears could choke you completely. By the time you pulled your shoes on and stepped into the night air, the chill biting at your skin, you felt hollow.

Behind you, muffled through the door, you thought you heard Jisung’s voice calling your name , frantic, pained, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even slow down.

Because right now, the thought of seeing his face again felt unbearable.

The dorm was quieter than you expected when you arrived, but the door opened almost instantly, Felix’s smile greeting you like a blanket of warmth against the chill of the night.

“Y/N,” he breathed, pulling you straight into a hug without a single word more. He smelled like vanilla and laundry powder, and for the first time all evening you felt your shoulders loosen, the tension beginning to melt away.

“You’re freezing,” he scolded lightly, tugging you inside. “Should’ve let me come pick you up.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice wobbled. You managed a small smile. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Felix said, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’re family. You never have to ask.”

From the sofa, Seungmin raised an eyebrow, controller in hand. “Took you long enough. I was about to claim Felix’s bed for myself.”

You let out a small laugh, shaky but real, and Seungmin’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

“Come sit,” Felix said, steering you toward the sofa. “I’ll make tea. Min, move over.”

Seungmin sighed like he was being forced into hard labour but shifted, patting the cushion beside him. “He’s going to make you drink his weird chamomile-honey concoction, you know. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You rolled your eyes but sat anyway, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. “Could be worse. Could be your coffee.”

That earned a scandalised scoff. “My coffee is perfection.”

Felix called out from the kitchen, “Your coffee could strip paint off the walls, mate.”

The playful bickering was exactly what you needed, the heaviness in your chest easing bit by bit with each teasing jab. When Felix returned, balancing three mugs, he handed you yours first, his expression softening. “Drink. It’ll help.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. For the first time since storming out of Jisung’s flat, you felt… safe. Wanted. Seen.

The night stretched on with the three of you curled up in the living room. Seungmin continued his game, narrating dramatically just to make you laugh, and Felix kept fussing, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, topping up your tea, leaning against you like a human comfort pillow.

At some point, Seungmin paused his game and nudged you gently. “You’re smiling again. Took us, what, half an hour? Not bad.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at your lips. “Guess you two aren’t the worst company.”

Felix gasped in mock offence. “We’re amazing company! Don’t downgrade us.”

By the time Felix all but shoved you into his bed and insisted you take it, you were giggling through your protests. Seungmin was already curled up in his own room, muttering something about “children who don’t know how to share,” and Felix lingered in the doorway, offering one last reassuring smile.

“Sleep, yeah? We’ve got you.”

Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, the warmth nudging you awake. For a blissful moment, wrapped up in Felix’s blanket and cocooned in the soft smell of his vanilla, you forgot everything, the fight, the slam of the door, the sting in your palm.

Then your phone buzzed against the nightstand.

You blinked blearily at the screen, the glow blinding in the morning light. And froze.

37 missed calls. 14 texts.

All from Jisung.

Your stomach dropped, the peaceful haze shattering instantly. You scrolled through the notifications, each one worse than the last.

Y/N, please pick up.

I’m sorry.

Where are you? Are you safe?

I’m losing my mind. Just tell me you’re okay.

Please, don’t do this to me.

The knot in your chest tightened. For a second, you almost considered ringing him back. Almost. But then the memory of his voice, sharp, cruel, spitting the word suffocating at you, came rushing back, and the anger flared hot again.

With a sigh, you typed a short reply.

I’m safe. Don’t worry.

It took less than a minute for your phone to buzz again, his reply almost instant.

Where are you? I need to see you.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but lying wasn’t worth the energy. If he wanted the truth, he could choke on it.

At Felix and Seungmin’s.

The typing bubbles popped up immediately. Then disappeared. Then popped up again. Finally, his message came through:

…You stayed with Felix?

You rolled your eyes, tossing the phone back onto the mattress. Of course that’s what he latched onto. Not your safety, not how hurt you’d been, but Felix.

“Morning.” Felix’s voice came softly from the doorway, his hair still sticking up from sleep. He held two mugs, the familiar sweet smell of honey tea drifting across the room. “You slept like a rock. How you feeling?”

You sat up, taking the mug gratefully. “Better,” you admitted, managing a small smile. “Thanks for… everything last night. Both of you.”

Felix grinned, his freckles crinkling. “Anytime. You know we’ve got you.”

Your phone buzzed again, face down on the blanket, but you ignored it this time. The weight of Jisung’s name on the screen felt like too much to deal with right now.

Felix noticed, eyes flicking to the phone before back to you. “He’s been blowing up your phone, huh?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip of tea. The warmth was grounding. “But he can wait. I’m not ready to hear it. Not yet.”

Felix’s smile softened, almost protective. “Then he waits.”

An hour went by and you sighed and finally reached for your phone again, thumb swiping over the flood of unread messages.

Answer me. I can’t stand thinking of you at their dorm. With him.

You exhaled sharply, tossing the phone back onto the bed like it had burned you.

“Prick,” you muttered under your breath.

From the kitchen, Felix’s voice floated over, sing-song and cheerful. “Did you just call me a prick?”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Not you, don’t worry. Someone else.”

Felix peeked around the corner, grinning. “Good. Because I made pancakes and I’d be offended if you were slandering me before breakfast.”

The sight of him — messy hair, flour dusting his sleeve, that boyish smile — eased something in your chest. For a moment, you let yourself forget about the phone buzzing endlessly beside you.

But you knew Jisung wouldn’t let it go. Not when his last words still hung in your head like a weight:

I can’t stand thinking of you at their dorm. With him.

The phone buzzed again. And again. The insistent vibration seemed louder in the quiet dorm bedroom, rattling against the wood of the nightstand until it felt like it was drilling into your skull.

Felix had retreated back into the kitchen to finish breakfast, humming something under his breath, and for a moment you considered just leaving the call to die like the last thirty-seven had.

But something in you, whether it was guilt, or exhaustion, or the tiniest thread of leftover love tangled up with all the anger, pushed your hand toward the screen.

You swiped to answer.

Silence. Then a sharp inhale.

“Y/N?” Jisung’s voice cracked on your name, hoarse, like he hadn’t stopped speaking it all night.

You closed your eyes, leaning back against the headboard. “I’m fine.” Your voice was flat, deliberately so. Detached.

“That’s not what I—” He stopped himself, exhaling like he’d been punched. “Where are you? Are you, are you really at Felix and Seungmin’s?”

The edge in his tone made your jaw clench. “Yes. I told you that already. Why, is that a problem?”

There was a pause on the other end, thick with tension. “Of course it’s a problem,” he snapped, his words tumbling out faster now. “You storm out, you don’t answer me all night, and then I find out you’re staying at his place? With Felix?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see. “Unbelievable. You push me away for days, call me suffocating, and now you’re jealous because I went to the one person who actually made me feel like I mattered?”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, Jisung,” you cut in, your voice rising. “What’s not fair is you treating me like a burden and then acting like you’ve got some claim over where I go, or who I turn to when I can’t even breathe in the same flat as you.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and for a moment he was silent. You could almost hear the thoughts crashing through him, the way they always did when he was cornered, the excuses he wanted to make, the apologies he didn’t know how to voice.

Finally, he whispered, raw and uneven: “Do you have any idea what it does to me? Knowing you’re with him instead of me?”

Your chest tightened, but you forced steel into your tone. “Maybe now you’ll understand what it felt like to watch you shut me out every single night. To sit in that flat and feel like a stranger to you. At least Felix doesn’t make me feel like I’m invisible.”

The line went quiet. You could picture him perfectly, pacing the studio, tugging at his hair, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its anger, but it carried something else. Something fragile. “Do you… like him?”

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before scoffing in disbelief. “Are you serious right now? You think this is about Felix? God, Jisung. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Your work, your stress, your feelings, your jealousy. Did it ever once cross your mind how I felt these last few days?”

“Of course it did,” he shot back, desperate. “I just, I didn’t know how to stop. I thought if I got it perfect, if I finished the track, then maybe—” He broke off, voice catching. “I thought you’d be proud of me.”

The confession hit you like a blow, but anger flared hotter beneath it. “Proud of you? Jisung, I’ve always been proud of you. But what the hell is the point if you destroy us in the process?”

On the other end of the line, you heard the sound of him collapsing into a chair, a shaky breath rattling out of him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so low you almost missed it. “I don’t know how to do this without ruining everything.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between you. Heavy. Fragile.

Finally, you said, softer now but still firm: “I don’t need perfect songs, Ji. I just needed you. And last night… you weren’t there.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “I’m staying here tonight too. I need space. Don’t come looking for me.”

The sharp inhale on the other end told you he wanted to argue, to beg, to promise the world. But for once, he didn’t. The line stayed quiet except for his ragged breathing, and it was enough.

You ended the call before he could say more, your chest heaving as the silence of the room swallowed you again.

From the kitchen, Felix’s gentle voice called, “Pancakes are ready!” as if the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

And you realised, for now, at least, you weren’t ready to hear another word from Han Jisung.

It had been two days since the fight. Two days since you’d slammed the door on Jisung and found refuge in Felix and Seungmin’s dorm. They hadn’t pried, not really, though Felix’s hugs lingered a little longer than usual, and Seungmin’s sarcastic jabs were just gentle enough that you knew he was trying to keep you laughing.

But the ache in your chest hadn’t gone away.

When you finally went back to your flat, it felt strange, too quiet, too heavy. You hesitated at the door, half-expecting Jisung not to be there.

Except he was.

The moment you stepped inside, you saw him: slouched on the sofa, hoodie pulled up, hair sticking in all directions. His phone was on the coffee table, screen dark, but the way his head snapped up told you he’d been waiting.

He looked awful. Tired, pale, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. And the moment his gaze landed on you, relief flooded his features so strongly it almost knocked the air out of you.

“Y/N,” he whispered, standing too fast. His voice cracked like he hadn’t used it in hours.

You set your bag down carefully, arms crossed as if they could protect you. “I’m not ready for this, Ji.”

“I know,” he said quickly… “I just… I couldn’t stay away. Not without fixing this. Not without you.”

The silence stretched, heavy. You wanted to scream at him, to throw every word he’d hurt you with back in his face. But when you saw the way he was trembling, like he was barely holding himself together, something inside you softened.

He took a tentative step closer. “I was a dick. I know I was. I shut you out, I snapped at you, I said things I can’t take back. And you didn’t deserve a single bit of it.” His voice wavered, and he bit down hard on his lip. “I’m so scared of failing, of letting people down, that I ended up… pushing away the one person who’s always been there for me. I don’t know how to forgive myself for that.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Do you even realise how cruel you were? I tried so hard, Ji. I was patient, I was quiet, I brought you food, I tried to love you through it all, and you called me suffocating.”

He winced like you’d physically hit him again. “I didn’t mean it. God, Y/N, that word’s haunted me since it left my mouth. You’re not suffocating. You’re the only breath I have half the time.”

The raw honesty in his tone cracked something in you. Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. “Then why did you treat me like I didn’t matter?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he said simply, voice breaking. “Because I thought shutting you out would protect you from how messed up I get when I’m working. But all I did was hurt you. And it kills me, knowing I made you run to Felix instead of me.”

Your laugh came out wet and shaky. “Of course you’d bring up Felix.”

Jisung’s mouth twitched, half a smile, half self-loathing. “I was jealous. I am jealous. But I don’t blame you. If anyone deserves your time, it’s him. He takes care of you when I don’t.”

You shook your head, stepping closer now, voice soft. “I don’t want Felix, Ji. I wanted you. I still do. But I can’t keep chasing you through closed doors.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His grip was tentative, trembling, but warm. “Then let me open them. Please. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Just… don’t give up on me.”

Something inside you finally cracked. With a sob, you stepped into his arms, letting him pull you tight against his chest. The smell of him, faint cologne, fabric softener, and the familiar warmth of home, hit you all at once, and you clutched at him like you might drown if you let go.

“I hate you sometimes,” you mumbled into his hoodie, voice muffled by tears. “You make me want to scream.”

“I hate me too,” he murmured back, pressing his face into your hair. “But I love you more than I can stand.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down his cheek. He leaned into your touch like he’d been starved for it, eyes closing.

“Then stop shutting me out,” you whispered. “Let me in. Even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

His eyes opened, shining with determination beneath the exhaustion. “I will. I promise.”

For the first time in days, when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft. Apologetic. Full of all the words he hadn’t managed to say.

And when you curled up together on the sofa afterwards, tangled in each other like you were afraid to drift apart again,

You sat there in his arms for a long while, the silence finally soft instead of suffocating. His fingers traced small circles against your back, steady and grounding.

But eventually, Jisung shifted, his voice low and careful. “Y/N… about what happened the other night. The slap.”

You stiffened, pulling back just enough to see his face. He didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked ashamed.

“I deserved it,” he admitted, eyes dropping. “I hurt you, and I deserved worse than that. But I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to hit me to get me to listen. You shouldn’t have to.”

Your chest tightened. Guilt prickled under your skin, not because he didn’t deserve the wake-up call, but because you hadn’t wanted it to come to that either. “I shouldn’t have done it,” you whispered. “I was furious, and I lost control. I don’t want us to ever get to that point again.”

He cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “Then we don’t. We talk. Even if it’s messy, even if it’s ugly. We find each other before it gets that bad.”

A small, shaky laugh escaped you. “Communication. What a concept.”

He smiled, soft and self-deprecating. “Guess we’re still learning.”

You leaned into his touch, the weight in your chest finally easing. “Then let’s keep learning. Together.”