#han fluff

chan — 'she even loves the music that my band makes'

The couch at the studio has a permanent dent in the cushions from where you always slouched. You didn’t plan on becoming a fixture there — it just happened. His late nights turned into your late nights, his takeout orders became your takeout orders, and when you fell asleep for the first time waiting for him to finish editing, the studio stopped feeling like his workplace and started feeling like yours too.

At first, it was just weekend visits. dropping off lunch, then lingering a while till he finished up. Then the weeknights where you’d wait past midnight, because going home alone felt lonely and wrong when he was still working.

2racha—changbin and jisung— stopped asking why you were there (han occasionally slept on the other side of the couch anyway). Even the security guard waved you through without checking your badge.

Tonight was no different. You were curled under his hoodie, half watching some reality show on your laptop while Chan tweaked a vocal track for the third hour straight.

an intern had arrived an hour ago, all bright laughter and eager questions. You didn’t mind at first, Chan was patient with newbies, always explaining things twice if needed. But then her chair inched closer to his. Then she started getting touchy when it wasn't necessary.

Chan didn’t even look her way, just leaned back in his chair, occasionally putting space between them. You watched from the couch, the laptop screen long forgotten.

Then she asked the question, voice pitched too high, “So, are you single, or…?”

You held your breath without meaning to. chan’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Then he turned his head, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth twitched, jerking his thumb to your direction, “I’m married, actually,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The intern’s face froze. Her gaze darted to you, then back to Chan, like she was trying to reconcile the idea of him belonging to someone with the fact that you were just… there. Quiet, half buried in his hoodie.

Chan didn’t wait for her to recover. He tapped his wedding band against the edge of his laptop and nodded toward the door. “that's a wrap for today, you should head out. It’s late.”

minho — 'you got me trippin' in finesse'

you've learned to read Minho's body like a second language, he's a dancer after all. You know his tells before he even speaks.

the way his shoulders relax when he’s finally nailed a routine, the quick tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s impatient, the slight tilt of his head when he’s watching someone else move. It’s all punctuation in a conversation you’ve been having for months without saying a word.

You met at a studio mixer last summer, back when you were still just the barback for the afterparty, refilling drinks and dodging sweaty elbows. He’d been the one to notice you first, initiating a conversation with you over the counter.

Later, when the music switched to something slow and sultry, he’d pulled you onto the dance floor without asking, and you hadn’t protested.

Minho isn’t the type to flaunt things, though. He keeps his private life private, and you respect that, just a quiet understanding that some things don’t need an audience.

right now, you’re leaning against the doorway of studio 3, watching him run through a new routine with the team. Sweat glinting at his temples as he mirrors the others. You’ve seen this drill a hundred times, but it never gets old.

The music cuts abruptly mid step, and Minho’s gaze snaps toward the sound system — only to land on you instead. his expression turns into a soft smile, and you grin right back at him, raising your water bottle in a silent greeting.

One of the newer dancers, a woman with her hair tied in a tight topknot, follows his line of sight and raises an eyebrow.

Topknot leans into his space as he adjusts the music, her elbow brushing his arm. “You always this serious during practice?” she asks, he doesn’t look up from the playlist, just shrugs one shoulder.

Undeterred, she adds, “Bet you’re fun outside the studio, though. You ever take anyone out after hours?”

Minho’s fingers pause over the soundboard for half a second before he taps the play button again, letting the music swell back to life. He doesn’t answer her, just steps away to reset his position in the center of the room.

But topknot doesn't get a hint, it seems. She sidles closer, her voice dropping. “Come on, do you have a girlfriend or something?” She flicks her eyes toward you, still leaning in the doorway, and adds, “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You take a slow sip of your water. He’s never been one to entertain this kind of thing — not because he’s rude, but because he doesn’t see the point in feeding into games.

Still, you can tell the moment he decides to shut it down. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“nah,” he says, loud enough for the room to hear. “I already have someone.”

Topknot blinks, then laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. “Yeah? Where are they, then?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his chin toward you, and the smirk he’s been holding back finally breaks through. “Right there.”

changbin — 'guy.exe: 6 5'6 feet tall and super strong'

a matte black dumbbell rolled from Changbin’s grip and thudded against the rubber gym floor. He’d been at it for two hours— shoulders, back, arms, a relentless workout that left his top sticking to his skin in abstract patches of sweat. You watched from the bench near the water cooler, half hidden behind your phone, pretending to scroll while stealing glances at the way his muscles flexed under the lights.

Three years together, and the sight of him still made your pulse skip.

The gym was mostly empty, mid afternoon lull, just a few die hards and the staff wiping down machines. You’d come straight from work, still in your office slacks, your hair barely holding onto its ponytail. Changbin had texted earlier with a come keep me company and a winking emoji. who were you to turn down an excuse to watch your boyfriend work out?

A woman, early twenties, in one of those matching pink gym sets, hovered near Changbin’s bench while he adjusted the weight rack. You caught the tail end of her question, something about his deadlift form, but then she made her move. "Damn tho, you’re built like a god. Single?"

Changbin snorted, wiping his forearm across his forehead.. "Do I look single?" he said, shaking his head like the idea was ridiculous. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you standing a few feet away, there, and grinned. "That’s my girl."

The woman followed his gaze, blinking at you like she’d only just noticed the water cooler, the benches, the entire half of the gym you occupied. You raised your hand in a half wave. "Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.

You expected her to leave, but she just smirked, propping a hand on her waist. "Lucky girl," she said, loud enough for you to hear. then, to Changbin "You ever wanna trade up, you know where to find me." yikes.

Changbin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows did a little jump, He shot you a look—girl you seein' this?—before shrugging. "Nah," he said, casual as anything. "I’m good." He moved towards you and planted a kiss on your cheek, "Better than good."

hyunjin — 'hopelessly devoted to you'

You and Hyunjin had been neighbors in that crumbling apartment complex where the pipes groaned louder than the tenants, and your first real conversation happened because he'd left his studio door ajar.

The scent of paint had pulled you in like a lure, and there he was, sleeves rolled up, forearms smeared with charcoal, halfway through painting something that looked like a storm given human form. and you were mesmerized.

By the time you started dating, you'd learned to love the mess of him — the way his hair stuck up in every direction after hours of working, the paint streaks on his jeans, the fact that he'd forget to eat unless you nudged a takeout container into his line of sight. He balanced his chaotic creativity with a quiet steadiness that surprised you.

his art thrived on bold strokes and screaming colors, his love language was more subtle, warming your cold fingers between his palms, humming off key to your favorite songs while he cooked food for you, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade when he thought you were asleep.

The gallery showing was his first major one. You'd watched him prepare for weeks. frames piling up near the door, muttered debates about lighting choices at 3 am. When the invitations finally arrived, he'd handed yours over, "You don't have to come," he'd said, but you knew he wanted you to be there.

You'd kissed the worry from his forehead and tucked the invitation into your wallet, where it stayed until the corners softened from handling.

Now, standing near a table with a champagne flute you hadn't touched, you watched him work the room. Hyunjin moved through the crowd like water, slipping effortlessly between conversations without ever seeming anchored to any one group.

His laugh carried over the murmur of guests, and you felt that familiar warmth curl behind your ribs. This was his element, even if he'd never admit it. The way people leaned in when he spoke, how their eyes flicked toward his hands when he gestured — he commanded attention without trying, and you loved him most like this, alive with his passion.

The girl approaching him now had been circling for a while. You'd noticed her earlier, lingering near his largest piece, her head tilted in a way that suggested admiration.

When she touched Hyunjin's elbow, you saw him startle slightly before turning with that polite smile he reserved for strangers.

You couldn't hear them over the gallery's din, but her body language was clear. fingers tucking hair behind her ear, the slight lean forward. Hyunjin nodded along, hands stuffed in his pockets, already scanning the room for an exit.

You didn’t move, not yet anyway, because part of you wanted to see how he’d handle it.

That’s when he saw you. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, and something in his face shifted, relief.

You stood from the table, weaving through the crowd, the girl hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy tilting her chin up at him, one hand now resting on her collarbone.

“...really think we should discuss your technique, over some coffee?” she was saying as you slid into place beside him, close enough that your hip brushed his.

Hyunjin exhaled, barely audible, as you laced your fingers through his. His palm was warm, slightly damp from nerves, and you squeezed once, “Oh, he’d love that,” you said, sweetly. The girl blinked, her smile freezing as you added, “I’ll come too, I’m his girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked towards him. “she's my muse.”

jisung — 'everywhere I go I keep her picture in my wallet'

"Jisung." You poked his shoulder with your socked foot from where you were sprawled across the couch. "I will perish."

He didn’t look up from his phone, thumb scrolling lazily. "Dramatic."

"No, listen—" You rolled onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against the cushions. "My stomach is eating itself."

This time, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You just ate two hours ago."

"Snacks aren’t food," you said gravely.

Jisung sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. "Fine," he said, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. "But if I'm going out in the middle of the night, you're eating the weird gummy worms I pick out."

You grinned, kicking your legs against the couch cushions. "Deal."

The convenience store felt both too bright and eerily empty at 1 AM. Jisung grabbed a basket, tossing in the usual suspects, chips, chocolate, those inexplicably neon gummy worms, and went over to the counter to pay when the cashier leaned over the counter. "You again," she said, grinning. "Third time this week."

Jisung blinked, setting the basket on the counter "Uh, yeah."

she picked up the contents, scanning each one as she went on. "I mean, you could be here for the snacks or whatever ," she said, waving a hand, "or you could admit you keep showing up for the ambiance." Her grin widened. "And by ambiance, I mean me."

jisungs mouth gaped, "Oh no, no, I'm—Married. Very, extremely married." then he pulled out his wallet, flipping it to the clear plastic sleeve where a polaroid of both of you rested. one where you were kissing his cheek and he had a big, wide grin on his face, then pulled out his card to pay.

she blinked, her grin faltering for half a second before she leaned back, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalances as she took the card from his hand "Damn," she said, clicking her tongue. "Figures the cute ones are always taken."

The apartment was dark when he got back, you were still in your spot on the couch, waiting impatiently for him. "Finally"

Jisung let the door slam shut behind him, you barely had time to process the dramatic thud before he was crossing the room in three long strides, arms outstretched, the plastic bag dangling from one hand.

He crashed into you with the force of a man who’d just survived a warzone, his face buried in the crook of your neck before you could even ask what was wrong. “I got hit on,” he mumbled into your skin, voice muffled.

You blinked, arms frozen mid-air around him, the crinkling snack bag pressed awkwardly between your ribs. “...By who?”

“The cashier,” he hissed, His cheeks were still flushed, the tips of his ears pink like he’d sprinted home instead of walked. “you’re coming with me next time. No. More. Solo. Snack. Runs.”

felix — 'the perfect pair'

the first time Felix walked into the community kitchen, he nearly dropped an entire tray of freshly chopped carrots.

You'd been there six months already — long enough to know that the dented metal tray was older than both of you combined, and that the carrots were destined for a stew that would feed sixty. You lunged without thinking, catching the edge just as it tipped, fingertips brushing against his.

"Thanks," he said, his sleeves were already rolled up past his elbows, "I swear I'm usually better at carrying things."

Felix still drops things sometimes, never the carrots again, but last month it was a spoonful of cinnamon that poofed into a cloud across the counter. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, and he grinned like he'd meant to do it, like every little accident was just an excuse to hear you laugh.

Now, twelve months deep into this rhythm — Saturday mornings at the kitchen, Sunday afternoons tangled in his double bed, it's your little routine now.

This morning, he's leaning against the fridge, peeling labels off donated jam jars while humming off key. "Mrs. eom asked if we're doing the pumpkin soup again," he says, glancing at you. "Told her we'd have to check with the boss." He winks. You're not the boss. There is no boss. But this is Felix's favorite joke, his way of stitching you into the center of his stories, even when you're just scrubbing pans in the corner.

this new volunteer has been hovering around him all morning. You recognize the tilt of her head, she keeps finding reasons to step into his space, keeps finding reasons to strike up conversations, and he's too kind to turn her down on the get go.

she might've mistaked his kindness for something else though.

He's handing her a knife to chop chilis when she "accidentally" grazes his wrist. "You're always so patient with everyone," she says, he replies with a simple "thank you", polite as ever, but you could tell he was uncomfortable.

You don't move. Because Felix is already walking over to your station, he bumps his forehead lightly against your temple "Rescue me," he murmurs into your hair, and you can feel her stare burning holes in your back.

"Tell her yourself," you whisper, amused. you're already reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Felix exhales, relieved, before turning back to her with that easy smile.

"Oh! Almost forgot," he says brightly "This is my favorite person. The reason I never miss a Saturday."

And just like that, the room tilts back into place, Felix glowing like always, you beside him, and the quiet understanding that some things, like this kitchen, like his hand in yours, aren't up for grabs.

seungmin — 'I'd risk it all for you '

stadium lights blazed down, bright enough as if the sun was still up, turning the sweat on Seungmin’s skin into glitter. He wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of infield dirt in the process, and grinned at the roar of the crowd still thrumming through the stands. The mic in his hand was warm from being passed around, and the interviewer, was standing just a little too close. Her perfume was floral, aggressive.

"Kim Seungmin," she said, "Another incredible performance tonight. That last play — were you trying to give your fans a heart attack?"

Seungmin laughed, easy and practiced, the sound swallowed up by the noise around them. "Nah, just wanted to keep things interesting." He shrugged, adjusting the cap perched on his damp hair. The fabric of his jersey clung to his shoulders, heavy with sweat and adrenaline.

"Interesting is one word for it." She tilted her head, leaning in enough that the mic brushed his chest. "You’ve been on a hot streak this season. What’s driving you?"

Seungmin exhaled through his nose, a quick, amused breath. "Same thing as always," he said, gaze drifting past the interviewer's shoulder toward the stands. "Love of the game."

"That’s it? Just pure passion? No special someone in the stands tonight?"

Seungmin let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil — then, he spoke again, "Actually," he said slowly, "yeah. My girlfriend’s here."

The interviewer blinked. The mic slipped a fraction in her grip.

The crowd erupted, a collective 'ohhh' rippling through the stands. Somewhere in the noise, someone wolf whistled. Seungmin didn’t react, just kept that easy, knowing smile, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

"we've been together since college," he continued, voice carrying effortlessly over the din. The interviewer recovered quickly, professionalism snapping back into place, but her grip on the mic was tighter now.

“That’s sweet,” she said, and it wasn’t insincere, “Care to share more? The fans would love to hear.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicked back to where you were sitting — third baseline, five rows up, right where you always were, and his expression softened. “She hates when I talk about her in interviews,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But she’s the reason I don’t overthink pitches. And the reason I do stretch before games.”

The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to pivot back to safer baseball territory, but the cameraman beat her to it, swinging the lens abruptly toward the stands. The stadium screen flickered, then locked onto your face, blown up fifty feet tall for thirty thousand people to see.

Your lips parted in surprise, the nacho you’d been mid bite hovering forgotten in your hand. Seungmin’s chuckle echoed through the speakers, "There she is,"

A nearby fan elbowed you, grinning. "Girl, you’re famous now!" she stage whispered. Your cheeks burned, but you managed a small wave at the camera, awkward, The crowd ate it up, cooed like it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen.

On screen, Seungmin’s smile went crooked, like he was trying not to laugh at you. "See?" he told the interviewer, nodding toward the screen. "Told you she hates this." The mic caught the rasp in his voice, the one that only showed up when he was tired or fond. Tonight, it was both.

Jeongin — 'love struck girl, I'd tease her.'

"You would pick the one night we’re out of ice cream to confess you like me," Jeongin had said that night two years ago, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. He’d been holding a half melted pint of strawberry between you like a peace offering, or maybe a shield.

The confession had been an accident, words slipping out during one of those aimless midnight drives where the radio played nothing but old love songs and static.

You’d blamed the music, blamed the summer heat, blamed the way he’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

But Jeongin, ever meticulous, had pulled into the nearest convenience store parking lot, then returned with the ice cream as if that solved anything. but it only got that confession out of you that was begging to crawl out of your throat days prior.

Now, standing in the crowded glow of your friends apartment, you watch Jeongin from across the room. He’s holding a drink he hasn’t sipped yet, nodding as some woman you don’t recognize — a friend of a friend, probably — talks animatedly about something.

The way she gestures tells you it’s a story, not small talk. Jeongin’s always been a good listener, the kind who leans in just enough to make people feel heard, but tonight there’s a stiffness in his shoulders you recognize.

Hyunjin bumps your elbow with a fresh beer. "You’re staring," he sing songs under his breath.

You take the bottle without looking. "I’m observing."

"Same thing." He follows your gaze, then snorts. "Oh, her. She’s new. Felix invited her. Something about crypto startups? I tuned out after 'blockchain.'"

The woman— crypto girl —leans closer to Jeongin, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughs. You don’t move. Jeongin’s fingers twitch against his glass, then still.

Then, clear across the room "So… are you single?"

Hyunjin chokes on his drink.

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. For a second, he looks like he might laugh it off, might deflect like he used to when strangers flirted with him at bars back when you were just friends. But then his gaze flicks to you and his posture shifts.

"No," he says, quieter than usual. "I’m engaged."

Crypto girl’s eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I wouldn’t have guessed."

Before she can say more, you’re crossing the room, setting your beer down on the table beside Jeongin with a clink. "What wouldn’t you have guessed?" you ask, voice light.

Jeongin exhales, something close to relief. His fingers find yours without hesitation "That I’m taken," he says, squeezing your hand.

Crypto girl’s smile falters. "Ah. My bad." She retreats with a half hearted salute, already scanning the room for someone else to talk to.

Jeongin watches her go, then turns to you, sheepish. "Sorry."

"You’re apologizing for existing attractively now?" you tease, bumping his shoulder.

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb traces circles over your knuckles. "Shut up."

a/n: I hope at least one person gets all the lyrical references I made in this or I might just cry

But outside of that world?

He’s just a soft, sweet potato of a person. Cute, warm, and very much cuddly. Maybe that’s exactly why you find yourself admiring him so much.

Jisung sometimes struggles to express himself properly, yet he always manages to find his own way to let out what he’s feeling. And honestly, you find that incredibly admirable. When he gets frustrated, he rarely lashes out. Instead, the only thing you’ll notice is a small hint of aggression in the way he moves or sighs—nothing too harsh, just enough to show what’s going on inside his head.

And of course, you let him be.

To him, it simply looks like part of your personality. He assumes you’re naturally accommodating because you’re a foreigner, someone trying to respect the way he grew up and the culture around him.

For what it’s worth, Han Jisung usually speaks to you in straight English. That’s how Felix and Chan communicate with you most of the time anyway. Even though you’re half Korean, the Aussie duo knows you prefer speaking English since you spent most of your life outside Korea. And being the considerate people they are, they always choose whatever makes you most comfortable.

That trait is something the youngest member of 3RACHA picked up from Bang Chan.

Jisung saw how Chan quietly looked after you, how he adjusted things to make sure you felt included. Somewhere along the way, Jisung decided he wanted to do the same. Unfortunately, his clumsiness—and his obliviousness—never really went away.

You had told everyone before that you preferred speaking English not because you weren’t fluent in Korean. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Your Korean was actually very good. Your parents spoke it at home all the time, so you grew up understanding it naturally. But English just felt easier to you. It flowed more naturally.

Somehow, though, Jisung misunderstood that. And because of that misunderstanding, he eventually started speaking to you in straight Korean whenever he wanted to say something he thought you wouldn’t understand.

Little did he know, you understood everything.

One morning, for example.

“아침 일찍부터 이렇게 예뻐야만 하는 건가요?” (Do you really need to be this pretty early in the morning?)

He had said it the moment he spotted you stepping out of your dorm early that day. You understood every single word. And it made you blush.

Meanwhile, Jisung simply assumed you liked hearing him speak Korean.

Sometimes he would mix the languages without realizing it.

“여보, have you seen the music sheet Channie-hyung lent me last night? I can’t remember where I put it.”

You had to purse your lips together just to stop yourself from smiling. Of course, Jisung noticed the reaction immediately—and it only made him feel proud of himself.

“I placed it in your room earlier,” you replied after steadying yourself. “It’s in the drawer of your side table.”

Other times, he would say things that made your heart do things you weren’t prepared for.

“나와만 함께 있어 줄 수 없어? 매번 질투나게 하잖아.” (Can’t you just spend time with me? You keep making me jealous.)

He would say it whenever you were hanging out with Felix more often. Each time, the words would twist your insides and leave you feeling strangely floaty and giddy. Meanwhile, Jisung simply interpreted your reaction as you being charmed by his Korean accent. Which, to be fair, wasn’t completely wrong.

So when he asked you to be his date to a small party celebrating I.N’s birthday and graduation, you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

And that night, you showed up wearing the most beautiful dress Han Jisung had ever seen. The words slipped out before he could stop himself.

“너 정말 예쁘다. 네가 내 여자친구였으면 좋겠다.” (You’re so beautiful. I wish you were my girlfriend.)

He said it softly, almost breathless. And just like that, you melted where you stood. Your eyes stayed fixed on him, warm and bright, a wide smile spreading across your face. For a moment, Jisung could only stare back, as if the rest of the world had disappeared and it was just the two of you standing there.

He only snapped out of it when he heard you speak.

“You know…” you began gently. “내가 한국어를 할 수 있다는 거 알지?” (You do know I can speak Korean, right?)

And just like that, his entire world stopped. The color drained from his face first before it rushed back all at once, turning his ears and cheeks bright red. You burst into genuine laughter at the sight. He looked like someone had just dropped him into a completely different dimension.

“W–wait—what?” he stammered, struggling to form proper words as realization slowly crashed down on him. His eyes widened.

“Does that mean you understood everything I said before?”

He sucked in a breath before covering his face with his palm.

“Spot on, king,” you teased, giggling as he dragged his hand through his hair before burying his face again.

“You should have told me!” he groaned. “That was so embarrassing!”

He crouched down, hiding his face in his arms like the world had just betrayed him. You crouched down too, lowering yourself until your face was level with his.

“It wasn’t embarrassing,” you said softly. “If anything, you were cute trying to impress me with your Korean.”

You tilted your head with a teasing smile.

“And to be honest… it worked.”

Jisung responded with a soft, dramatic whine, still trying to process the fact that he had unknowingly confessed so many things in front of you. You watched him for a moment before speaking again.

“And about what you said earlier…” You paused.

“I don’t mind. 네 여자친구라는 게.” (Being your girlfriend, that is.)

Jisung groaned loudly, dragging his hands down his face.

“Can you let me breathe for a bit first?” he whined. “Let me recover from the first one before you drop another bomb on me, 아이구!”

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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

“Oh, you should’ve just said that then! He’s snackish,” you reply, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re positioned between Felix’s thighs, back to his chest, head lolled, letting him nibble on your neck as he pleases. The numbing agent in his saliva makes you feel slightly floaty. 

He is not actually putting any effort into it, like he does when he feeds. He just passively lets trace amounts of blood travel through his fangs every so often. Enough to satiate. Enough to satisfy neediness. 

Jeongin, sprawled across a couch and paying zero attention to you, mutters, “This is such a stupid show.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in over an hour, too enthralled to interrupt the stupid show beforehand. It’s not enough to dissuade you from chucking a throw pillow in his direction. 

Turning back to Chan, you reiterate, “Come join.” He opens his mouth to refuse, but you speak first. “You were up until noon yesterday, at least take a break. With us, preferably.” 

Against your neck, Felix nods his head as much as he can in his position. 

“No. I have work to do,” Chan replies. He doesn’t make a move to go do his work, though. It’ll be a back-and-forth conversation, then. He always breaks, nobody knows why he still insists on putting up a squabble over things like this. Appearances, probably. 

It takes a few seconds to fish the remote out of your pile of blankets, but eventually you find it and lower the volume. Everyone resolutely ignores Jeongin’s protesting groan. 

Felix finally disconnects and licks over his puncture marks. Their saliva contains healing properties, and it’s a general house rule that they don’t leave visible marks anywhere on your skin. A smattering of bite marks decorate your inner thighs – it’s a point of pride for a few select members. 

“Tastes good.” Felix says. He’s behind you, but you can hear the pout in his voice. “Get over here.” 

“It’s not healthy for more than one person to feed from you at a time. You’ll lose too much blood.” 

“He’s not sucking that hard,” Jeongin interjects, apparently now committed to the conversation  now that he can’t hear your cartoon. “Don’t,” a pointed look at you, “It’s too easy of a joke.” 

“You don’t like how I taste?” 

Chan throws a mirroring pointed look at Jeongin, his own silent plea not to take the bait. Then he turns back to you. “Honey, you know that’s not what I meant, but you’ll get lightheaded without food.”

Felix grabs a strawberry off the brownie-and-fruit plate beside the two of you. 

“You’ll get cold.” 

You shift to get comfier in Felix’s embrace and adjust the blankets draped across your lap. 

Twin pairs of footsteps creaking down the staircase interrupts any other argument Chan could put up. Han and Minho appear – Minho looking smug, while Han is smoothing down his hair. They’re both too enamored with each other to notice everyone else staring at them, watching their grand entrance. 

A few more steps down, one instance of Han nearly tripping down the stairs, and Minho finally looks up. He surveys the scene. Studies Chan’s stance. Glances over you and Felix. “Oh, are we snacking?” he asks.

Instead of verbally answering, you hold out your closest arm in offering. 

Han emits an incomprehensible noise that might not be words at all, then immediately turns into a blur. One moment he is still descending the stairs, the next he’s diving onto the floor and crashing into your side. 

For all his eagerness, Han takes great care not to harm you. 

He grasps your arm in his cold fingers, careful not to bend it uncomfortably, then sinks his fangs into the crook of your elbow. A slight prick of familiar pain sprouts in the seconds before his saliva takes effect. Soon enough, Han’s snuggling into your side, while Felix pulls you in closer with a gentle hum and reattaches himself. 

Minho follows Han to the ground, as he tends to go wherever Han goes. There’s another pinprick on your wrist when he joins in. 

The four of you settle into each other while a new episode’s introduction begins. Much to Jeongin’s delight, Felix reaches around to grab the remote off your lap and turn up the volume again. 

Chan releases a disbelieving sigh, but gives in anyway, just like everybody – including himself, if he’s honest – knew he would. It’s common knowledge he never stands a chance against any of you. As much as he would deny it if asked, he will actually do most things you want. 

He announces over the theme song, like it’s news, “Fine, but I still won’t feed. It’s the principle of it.” 

“You have too many principles of things,” Jeongin murmurs. 

It was barely audible, but Chan heard it just fine. Jeongin doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late. 

Chan crosses over to where Jeongin is splayed out, pauses in front of the couch, and lets his entire body weight fall on top of the youngest. A slight kerfuffle breaks out while he tries to take up as much of Jeongin’s real estate as he possibly can. Jeongin relents, accepting fate, and allows himself to be cuddled. 

The couch is definitely not big enough for two grown men to lay horizontal, but they make it work. While everyone else is distracted watching the screen, Jeongin presses a kiss into the top of his head and begins playing with the ends of his hair. Chan isn’t the only one whose appearances crumble nearly instantly. 

Over time and more episodes, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin all wander into the living room. Seungmin wordlessly takes up post with your other wrist and stays there, batting away Changbin when he tries to squeeze in. 

It’s comfortable, steady, domestic in a way that makes your thoughts fuzzy if you think about it too long – which might have something to do with the four vampires attached to you, but that’s neither here nor there. 

An hour later, Chan’s snores ring out through the room. They nearly drown out the speakers. Jeongin insists you pause the show for him while he carries the oldest to bed. Hyunjin insists he’s too old to be this invested – notably, it’s also the first time he’s spoken since he joined the cuddle pile. 

Now that he’s started talking, though, he keeps at it, whining to Felix, “You’ve had her neck forever! I wanna turn!” 

Felix’s grip on you tightens. His thighs move upwards to cage you further into him. Hyunjin gets the message. 

Night evolves into dawn, and the beginnings of early light seep through your curtains around everyone’s yawns. The living room divulges into darkness when a half-conscious Felix turns off the screen. Your marathon is finally over. Nobody paid any attention to the last few episodes anyway.  

Minho jostles Han awake, fangs still sunken in your skin. Sleepily, Minho licks over both his and Han’s marks and whisks away the younger man to bed. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until Felix has you pressed against his chest. He whispers, “C’mon, love, let’s go to bed,” into your ear, just for you to hear. 

Truthfully, he could have yelled it from the highest rooftop. He could have screamed it into a microphone. It wouldn’t make a difference. You’re the only person he wishes to hear him. Everything he speaks is for you and the other seven members of his house. And he’ll spend the rest of eternity grateful that you’re his.

☆ note: wrote this between clients, so if it's ass do not tell me, ty love u