#i.m fluff

The sound of running water echoed in the bathroom as you and Kyun stood shoulder to shoulder, brushing your teeth like a well-rehearsed ritual. Your elbows bumped now and then, toothpaste foamed at the corners of your lips, and you caught each other’s gaze in the mirror with a muffled snort.

“Don’t even start,” you warned, mouth full of foam.

He grinned, toothbrush dangling from his lips like a lollipop stick. “I’m just saying… you look real sexy with that mint mustache.”

You spat into the sink dramatically. “And you look like you’re about to sell me vitamins in an MLM scheme.”

He laughed so hard he choked slightly, pounding his chest with exaggerated flair. He sighed once he caught his breath. “You suck.” The unamused look on his face earning a laugh from you. 

Once the toothpaste was rinsed away and you began your skincare routine, he lingered in the doorway watching you, leaning on the threshold, arms crossed over his chest and bottom lip pinched between his teeth as he watched you intently before speaking up.

“Remind me,” he said, eyes twinkling, “Is this the serum that costs more than our electricity bill or the one that smells like fermented pear juice?”

You rolled your eyes but handed him the dropper. “It’s the one that keeps your skin soft enough for me to kiss. Sit.” You instructed him, pointing towards the toilet seat.

And he did—quietly, reverently. With his eyes closed, he surrendered to your touch, his posture relaxing beneath your hands like an animal finally safe enough to sleep. You pressed your fingertips into the gentle angles of his cheeks, smoothing moisturizer over skin already soft but always a little too dry around the temples. He leaned into it, the way one might lean into sunlight on a cold morning.

You worked carefully, massaging the cream upward along his jawline and over the bridge of his nose, your movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t speak, just let out the occasional sigh, lashes fluttering slightly but never opening. When you dabbed eye cream just beneath his lower lids, he muttered—halfheartedly, almost affectionately—something about being too pretty to need it, the corners of his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

“Skincare isn’t just for emergencies,” you murmured, thumb smoothing away the excess in soft arcs. “It’s maintenance. Like tending to a garden.”

He scoffed lightly but didn’t argue. When you finished, he reached for your hand and, without fanfare, brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to each knuckle—one after another like they were sacred. His breath was warm, his pace unhurried. The gesture wasn’t showy or romantic in the cinematic sense; it was quieter than that, more meaningful. Like he was trying to say something he didn’t yet have words for.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was soft—comfortable. The kind that came only when two people had nothing left to prove.

He rested his forehead against your sternum, arms looping loosely around your waist as you combed your fingers through his hair. 

-

By the time you both made it to bed, the lights were dimmed, while some random YouTuber ranted about conspiracy theories on your tv. Your body fit perfectly against his under the blanket, your legs tangled, your head on his chest.

“Today wasn’t terrible,” he murmured, voice low and a little scratchy from the hour, fingers drawing idle shapes on your upper arm—lazy spirals, the occasional circle that trailed off into nothing.

You exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that only comes at the end of a long, demanding day. “It was just... a lot. Like my brain’s still buffering.” you tilted your head to look at him.

That earned you a pause—brief but telling. His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure where to land. Then, he dipped forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The kind that wasn’t rushed or performative, just honest.

And then, right on cue: “You know what else is long?”

You groaned, forehead dropping to his chest. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m always serious,” he said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “I was building romantic tension. You ruined it.”

“You ruined it the second you turned a heartfelt moment into a dick joke.”

He wiggled his brows, smug. “Artfully.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Oh but you love it.” He rolled his eyes as he chuckled.

You giggled against his collarbone. “Touché.”

A quiet moment passed. His hand was still tracing patterns—now slower, more deliberate.

“You know,” you added, “I had that meeting this morning with the manager who still thinks ‘synergy’ is a personality trait. I was this close to faking a connectivity issue on Zoom.”

He snorted. “You should’ve. That’s self-preservation.”

“And then the train was late. Again. Sat next to a guy who kept coughing like it was his full-time job.”

“Maybe he was trying to court you. In 18th century plague language.”

You nudged him with your foot. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m multifaceted.”

“Mm. And how was your day, Casanova?” You asked, leaning up on his chest and cupping his face, rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

He sighed dramatically, gaze shifting to the ceiling as if to look back at the memory. “Well, I spilled coffee on myself at 9 a.m., nearly emailed a client a meme instead of a contract at 1, and accidentally joined the wrong video call where people were mid-argument about expense reports.” His brow twitched like he was fighting off a full-body cringe.

You tilted your head up. “So, wildly successful.”

He smiled. “All downhill until I got home to you.”

You stared at him for a second, skeptical. “You’re not about to set me up for another innuendo, are you?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I was debating it, but you looked too cute. I’ll save it for bedtime.”

“God help me.”

His hand began to roam—slowly, deliberately—across the dip of your waist. You shifted onto your side, the sheets rustling softly as your leg brushed against his. His eyes met yours just as your nose gently grazed his, your breaths mingling in the quiet.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, voice low, intimate. “It’s like you get more beautiful every time I look at you. It’s honestly exhausting.”

He inhaled sharply, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment before returning to you, darker now. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head, searching his face, the corners of your mouth pulling upward. “No, really. Your hands—God, your hands are stupidly perfect. And your eyes just ruin me. And that mouth?” You paused, letting the silence speak. “It’s the worst. I think about it constantly.”

A strangled groan escaped him before he dropped his face into the curve of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he exhaled hard. “You can’t say things like that while I’m doing everything I can not to lose my head.”

You smiled, fingers threading gently into his hair, your nails grazing his scalp. “Who said I wanted you to keep it?”

You straddled him before he could reply, your thighs bracketing his hips. His hands flew to your waist instinctively, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, voice low and frayed as he pressed his hips against yours with a slow, deliberate roll. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me.”

The tension between you was electric—each subtle grind a heady collision of restraint and want. His arousal, firm and insistent through the thin fabric between you, drew a soft, involuntary moan from your lips. The sound hung between you like a confession.

Your foreheads touched, breaths mingling, uneven and shallow. He was so close, too close, and still not nearly close enough.

“More,” he begged. “Please. I need to taste you.”

You nodded, heart pounding, and in one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back. Kyun eagerly pulled down your pyjama pants and slipped down between your thighs like it was second nature. He kissed your inner thighs with reverence, hands spreading you open, and when he finally tasted you, it was slow and deep, like worship.

You gasped, back arching off the mattress. “Oh, my God, Kyun—”

But he didn’t stop. In fact, he moaned into you, like you were his favourite meal, his reason for breathing. He lapped at you with long strokes, teasing and circling, sucking just hard enough to make your legs shake. His grip on your thighs never faltered. You were unravelling under him, tears in the corners of your eyes from the intensity, and he only pulled away to catch his breath and whisper, “You’re so good for me. Let me make you feel good. I love this—I love you like this.” Your legs were trembling, your fingers buried in his hair. He moaned again as he felt you come undone, like it was his orgasm, not yours, and he didn’t stop. Not right away. He licked you gently through the aftershocks, like he couldn’t bear to part from you.

He crawled back up your body, kissed your lips like he hadn’t just ruined you, then looked into your eyes with a flush across his cheeks and a desperate ache in his voice.

“I need you to touch me. I don’t even need to cum, I just need to feel you.”

You reached down to stroke him through his boxers, loving the way he trembled under your touch. “You’re perfect, baby,” you whispered, pecking his lips softly, “so perfect.”

He buried his face in your neck again, whispering filth and praise in equal measure, but it was the emotion behind his voice that really made your heart twist.

When his fingers slipped between your folds again, this time from above, he moved with such care—watching your face, praising your body, pressing kisses to your breasts while you clenched around him. You rode his hand slowly, every breath ragged, every sigh soaked in devotion. He talked you through it, murmuring how proud he was, how beautiful you were, how good you felt.

And you knew—more than anything—that he loved making you feel like this. Not just physically, but completely. Worshipped. Cherished. His.

His eyes, normally filled with mischief, now looked dazed—consumed by something heavier, needier. You’d never seen him like this: drunk on the taste of you, the high of your pleasure still thick in the air around him. His pupils were blown out, jaw slack as he panted. “You feel like something I shouldn’t be allowed to have.”

“You say that like I’m not already yours,” you whispered, voice trembling from the aftershock still rippling through you.

His breath hitched. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Kyun.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his forehead resting against yours as if the weight of that truth grounded him, sobered him from whatever haze your body had pulled him into.

“I want to give you everything,” he said quietly. You kissed him softly, coaxing him onto his back. As you straddled him again, the weight of your body made him exhale like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he laid eyes on you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, his jaw, the hollow of his throat—soft, slow. Your fingers ghosted over the waistband of his boxers, feeling how painfully hard he’d gotten, how he twitched under your lightest touch. You could feel his pulse beneath your lips, hammering as you licked a path down his chest.

He let out a strangled moan when your palm finally cupped him through the thin cotton, and his hips bucked instinctively. “Oh my God,” he whispered, eyes rolling back as you pressed your lips over the outline of his cock. “Don’t tease me. Not tonight. I’ll beg if I have to.”

“You don’t have to beg,” you said, biting gently at his hip. “You’ve been so good to me. Let me make you feel half as good.”

But he caught your wrist before you could pull his boxers down. “No,” he said, voice shaky but sure. “Not yet. I just want to feel you like this first.”

Your brows knit, but you let him tug you back up, guiding your hips to grind against him again. This time, it wasn’t playful. This was desperation—wet cotton dragging against his aching length, your own arousal soaking through the fabric. You moved together slowly, breath catching in each other’s mouths, every press of your bodies building a heat so sharp it was unbearable.

He gripped your hips tightly, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good. Even like this—I can’t take it. I need more.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He groaned, his voice hoarse and reverent. “I want to be inside you. I want to hear you cry my name again. I need to taste you again. Please. I need it. Let me.”

You’d never seen someone plead with so much adoration. And how could you say no?

You slipped his boxers down with a gentle tug, your fingertips trailing along his skin. He shivered under your touch, breath hitching as your hand closed around him. You stroked him slowly—curiously—watching his face for every flicker of pleasure. His head fell back against the pillows, lips parting around a low, unfiltered moan. He was beautiful like this, undone and trusting, all sharp lines softened beneath your hands.

“God,” you whispered, smiling through a quiet laugh, “you’re so cute.”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed but warm, and he reached for you. You leaned down and pressed your forehead to his, both of you breathing in sync, pulses drumming just beneath the surface.

Carefully, you positioned yourself above him, the moment stretching in the quiet hum between your bodies. When you began to sink down, both of you gasped—a mutual unravelling. The stretch was slow, willful, and overwhelmingly intimate. Your hands braced on his chest as you took him inch by inch, your bodies adjusting to each other with wordless understanding.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, almost tenderly, as though grounding himself. “You feel…” he couldn’t finish the thought—just groaned, deep and helpless.

You rested there for a moment, breathing heavily, your foreheads touching again. There was nothing rushed, nothing frantic. Just the two of you—bare, open, and impossibly close.

“I’ve missed you,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked to yours.

You kissed him slowly, tenderly. “Then don’t let go.”

“Has it been that long since we’ve fucked like this?” You asked, grinding your hips down softly, fighting your desperate need for friction. 

“A- a week.” he cleared his throat, clearly struggling to keep his composure when he felt you flutter around him. You smiled and began riding him. A symphony of moans flowing from the both of you, filling the room. The youtube video long forgotten but illuminating the both of you on your bed.

Your gaze glued down to him and he tried to keep eye contact but it was like he was under your spell. His head was thrown back on the pillow, face contorting and hands trailing to your waist like he still wanted to feel you if he couldn't look at you.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said. “You don’t know what it means to make you feel like that.”

“I do,” you whispered, rolling your hips and picking up your pace. “I feel it too.”

“You’re so good,” he whispered, words shaky— breathy. “So responsive. You open up for me so beautifully. That’s it—just like that.”

You could feel yourself tightening around him again, your stomach clenching with another release building too quickly. He stroked your hair with his free hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re doing so well. Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

And when you shattered, when he kissed your name into the curve of your shoulder, you didn’t feel like a body anymore—you felt like his home. A place he’d come back to again and again.

Because in that moment, the sex wasn’t the highlight. It was the way he saw you. The way he loved you—body and soul.

When you both came you sunk into his chest, melted into him and peppered soft— lazy kisses wherever your lips allowed and he dragged his hands up and down your back. 

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the slow rhythm of your breaths syncing back into harmony. The adrenaline had passed, the last tremors of pleasure still ghosting along your skin like a memory.

Kyun hadn’t let go of you once.

Your cheek was pressed to his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat anchoring you. His fingers, slow and unhurried, traced soft shapes along the bare skin of your back. He wasn’t saying much—but he didn’t have to. You could feel the love in every touch, every gentle squeeze of your waist, every press of his lips to your damp temple.

"You okay, baby?" he murmured finally, voice husky from exertion, but laced with a kind of sacred concern.

“Mhm,” you replied, too sated to form full words yet. “I’m good. You?”

“I’m perfect,” he whispered, like it was the only truth he knew. “You’re always so good to me.”

He reached over to the nightstand, pulling the drawer open with a quiet slide, and you watched through heavy-lidded eyes as his hand found the soft towel he always kept there, folded neatly atop a bottle of water and a spare hair tie—because of course it was. He always had everything ready, like loving you was something sacred he took seriously, like intimacy was a ritual he never rushed.

Now that warmth bloomed across your skin as he brought it to your inner thighs, his touch devoted but unhurried. He moved with quiet purpose, his fingers brushing over your most tender places with care—wiping away the mess with all the delicacy of someone handling something precious, something he didn’t just desire, but deeply respected.

As he worked, he murmured to you in a voice so low it was almost just breath: “You did so well for me, baby… so beautiful.” Each word fell like a kiss against your tired body, grounding you. Then came his actual kisses—first to the inside of your thigh, then to your knee, and finally to your ankle, soft and slow, like he was thanking every inch of you for letting him love you like this.

You couldn’t help it—you stared at him like you’d never seen anything so tender in your life. There he was, crouched at the edge of the bed with nothing but devotion in his posture and gentleness in his hands, and your heart ached with the weight of how much you loved him. Not just in the heady, breathless way from moments ago—but in the quieter, deeper way that lived in bone and breath and time.

“I think you were actually created in a lab,” you said, teasing but breathless. “No one is this thoughtful by accident.”

He grinned, and then climbed back into bed, gathering you against him like you were the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I’m just trying to earn my place next to the best person I’ve ever known.”

You snorted softly into his shoulder, even as your arms snuck around his waist. “God, you’re such a sap.”

“As if you’re not absolutely over the moon about it?”

“Unfortunately.”

He chuckled, then tilted your chin up with two fingers, studying your face in the low light like he was seeing it for the first time again. “You look so pretty right now,” he murmured. “Like my wife. My entire life.”

You kissed him—slow and deep and grateful.

Kyun held you close, tightly— possessively.

Married life, you thought, didn’t mean routine. Not with Kyun.

It meant comfort. Ease. A love that still surprised you, still made you nervous sometimes, still made you want to kiss him for hours just because you could.

“You know,” he said, rubbing your arm absentmindedly, “I’d marry you again tomorrow. Even if we’d just met today.”

“Yeah?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him. He turned the tv off before looking back at you. He nodded. “No hesitation.”

Your heart twisted sweetly in your chest. You settled deeper into him, murmuring, “Then it’s a good thing we already got it right the first time.”

So, you sit, thighs on either side of his waist, hands itching to run up his chest, but you hold back. Check-in's always come first, cuddling after. You settle for his hand instead, your fingers grabbing hold of his and lifting. His whole arm follows, then flops down when you release it, like a dead weight. You muffle your laughter and watch his lips twitch.

"Long day, hm?"

You clasp both his hands, thumbs tracing over his knuckles. He only lightly squeezes back. It's enough of an answer for you. You lead his hands to your waist, and this time, when you let go, he stays there.

Satisfied, you lean forward, testing when he'll break and open his eyes to look at you. Your hair brushes against his neck, and when you let one of your hands fall to cup his cheek, you feel him nuzzle just slightly into the touch.

"Look at me, baby," you plead gently, thumbing over his cheek in a touch so gentle it could only be reserved for him. He hums, a little raspy and discontented. You feel him squeeze your hips.

"Come on, baby. I'll recharge you," you promise. He frowns a little, but listens. When he opens his eyes, his eyelids still droop half closed, as if the tiredness weighs down so heavy that it becomes physically impossible to open them all the way.

"There you are." You smile, hoping he'll be able to soak up at least a fraction of your energy.

"Recharge me," he whispers. His eyes have an imploring shine to them, like you're the only person in the world that can make him feel alive right now.

You start with his lips—soft and slow and unrushed. He kisses back enough to let you know he wants this, but without the energy to lead it. You trail to his cheek and then up further, each kiss placed with determination but gentleness. You hear his breath soften, but more telling is his grip on your waist. It tightens just slightly with every couple of kisses.

When you circle back down, lips mapping out a path to his neck, his breath hitches. The kisses here feel more suggestive than the previous soft devotion. It becomes complete with your wandering hands, feeling out the definition on his arms, chest, stomach, all while his neck gets the most of your attention.

He gasps quietly when you kiss a particularly sensitive spot beneath his jaw. You smile against his skin, tempted to tease him more. But you promised to make him feel recharged—not test his limits of restraint—so you pull away after.

You notice the shift in his expression. The tiredness has lifted, and his eyes now hold a fondness that was previously concealed. You lean towards him again, nuzzle your nose gently against his and revel in the soft laugh that escapes him. You meet his gaze, eyes twinkling with a mix of adoration and endearment.

"I haven't told you, but…" he starts, but trails off halfway. You raise an eyebrow. "I really like you."

You snort. He has to keep his grip on your waist firm to prevent you from falling off his lap. Your laugh racks through your entire body. You're amused not because the confession is anything to laugh at, but because Changkyun has been your boyfriend for four years. It's certainly not the first time he's told you this. In fact, you can't count how many times he's told you he likes you, and it’s even harder to tally up his many I love you's.

"You've told me that a lot of times, Kyun," you say with a smile.

"Not today, I haven't," he counters seriously before his expression softens again.

He pulls you down for another kiss, and this one falls more equally between you two. There's fervor dripping from his lips, and you savour it like it's the first time he's ever kissed you like this. It's not, nor will it be the last. Your relationship is built on a surety that no matter how high or low the days are, you'll always come back to each other; for comfort, for company, for love.

© slytherinshua ── do not repost translate or copy　⸝⸝⸝　join my taglist!

@kstrucknet

Just as I took my seat, eyes skimming over the elegant layout of the room, there were many girls in the room chatting with their friends, but I just sat there and watch. Suddenly I heard some staff were talking and it seems that one voice is so familar. Heads turned. A tall figure quietly entered from the back.

Im Changkyun.

He walked down the aisle gracefully, dressed in the white button-up shirt with a blazer over it just same like me, offering subtle nods and small waves to fans and staff alike—lowkey but magnetic. As he passed each row, he paused to greet a few familiar faces:

“Hi, thank you for coming.”

“오랜만이야, 잘 지냈어?” (It’s been a while—how have you been?)

As he reached my row, a girl sitting right beside me stood up to adjust her seat, and in the shuffle, her lip gloss tumbled out of her bag—clattering onto the floor and rolling into the center of the aisle.

Without hesitation, he crouched down gracefully, picked it up, and handed it back to her with a soft smile:

“여기요.” (Here you go.)

“아, 정말 감사합니다” she replied, slightly flustered. (Ah, thank you so much!)

Then—he turned. He was right in front of me now. His gaze landed squarely on my face.

I quickly lowered my head, pretending to fix my jacket sleeve, hoping to avoid his eyes.

But he spoke.

“너무 예뻐.” (You’re so beautiful.)

For one second, it felt like all the blood in your body surged to your ears.

I bowed my head gently and smiled, my voice is no louder than a feather brushing across a violin string:

“아, 감사합니다…” (Ah, thank you…)

I tried to stay composed, but my fingertips trembled lightly on the armrest. He still hadn’t moved away. I slowly lifted my head—and saw him take out his phone.

His eyes were soft, but there was a playful mischief lingering behind his gaze.

He smiled faintly, held up his hand and made a “call me” gesture.

Then, he actually handed me his phone.

My eyes widened. For a moment, I bliked, stunned.

My heart was racing.

I was thinking:

"In front of all these people? Really? Me?"

But I nodded, keeping as cool as I could, and took his phone.

I tapped into the contacts app—though your hand was trembling just enough to make your thumb slide once or twice. Still, you typed in your number and, just before handing it back, saved your name:

Y/N

He stood quietly, watching me. There was a small smile on his lips—one I couldn’t quite decipher.

I returned his phone and said gently:

“Here you go.”

He glanced down at the screen and smiled.

“Y/N… I won’t forget this name.”

I was trying to act chill, but I knew my expression had already given away the shock and excitement. He grinned knowingly before heading to his seat.

I sat there frozen in my chair, eyes locked onto the silver screen like my life depended on it, pretending to focus on the pre-show countdown. But inside… my heart was beating so loud it echoed like a drumline.

My cheeks were warm. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

The lights dimmed. The first frame of the screen lit up slowly, and the theater fell into a sacred silence. Changkyun’s voice flowed from the surround speakers—deep, magnetic, like candles lighting one by one in the dark.

I were supposed to be focused on the film. But my peripheral vision kept being drawn to that familiar figure.

He sat two seats to the right and a little ahead of me, somewhere near the middle. Tall and composed, he radiated a quiet presence even while seated. At first, he was calm, watching his own story unfold on screen with focused eyes. His brows occasionally furrowed slightly, as if he was reliving a particular emotion.

But soon, I realized… he was also watching me.

I stole a glance at him through the reflection on the screen. As if sensing my gaze, he gently turned his head—his eyes found mine in the dim light.

I instinctively looked away, but in that moment—

I clearly saw the corner of his lips lift, just slightly, barely perceptible—but he smiled.

My heart leapt. I reached for your water bottle to hide the panic rising in your chest, but nearly choked trying to drink. Fumbling, I took a sip, trying to cool my burning cheeks. And just as I set the bottle down—

My phone buzzed.

I quickly glanced down. A new iMessage from an unfamiliar number:

💬 Y/N, you look like you’re in a movie.

My eyes widened, lips parted, hands frozen mid-air. I peeked in his direction—he sat reclined in his seat, phone loosely in hand, eyes on the screen, as if nothing had happened.

Biting your lip, I hesitantly typed back:

💬 This documentary is crazy… I can’t believe the you is sitting right in front of me.

Seconds later, he replied:

💬 Then I guess I should behave better. Or should I steal a glance again?

Me: “…!”

My cheeks flushed instantly, like steam would rise from my skin any second. I quickly flipped my phone face down on my lap and didn’t dare look at it again.

The lights hadn’t come fully back on yet. Credits were rolling up the screen, the his song fading out softly.

My eyes were a little misty. I dabbed at them gently with a tissue. Then, my phone buzzed again.

A message popped up—still from that same unfamiliar number, just recently saved as 창균 오빠🐈‍⬛💜:

💬 Don’t leave yet. Wait for me, please.

I stared at the message, and it was as if I could hear his voice whispering it directly into my ear. Just one simple sentence, but it stirred the air around my heart like a breeze over a quiet lake.

I bit your lip, didn’t reply. Just nodded slightly—even though I knew he couldn’t see it. I couldn’t help but feel the need to respond somehow. So I stayed in my seat, waiting while the rest of the audience began to rise and trickle out.

A few minutes later, the lights fully brightened. People were now filing toward the exits, chatting excitedly:

“Wow, Changkyun was incredible…” “That documentary was so touching!” “Did you see him say hi to me earlier?!”

I didn’t move. Head bowed slightly, waiting for the crowd to thin, sneaking glances toward the front.

He stood off to the side of the screen, chatting politely with a few staff members. He nodded, smiled with humility, low-key yet completely composed.

He responded to each warmly. His tone was gentle, unhurried, like a breeze at night:

“감사합니다, 와줘서 정말 고마워요.” (Thank you. I’m really grateful you came.) “오늘 밤 좋은 꿈 꿔요. 예쁜 밤 되길 바랄게요.” (Sweet dreams tonight. I hope you have a beautiful evening.)

From your seat, I watched him glow—not with the radiance of stage lights, but with the kind of warmth that feels real and safe.

He glanced at me every now and then, as if to make sure I were still there.

Finally, as the crowd dispersed, he slipped away from the attention and his gaze locked directly onto mine. He didn’t say a word, just walked toward me slowly, like each step was leading him down a path he already knew by heart.

When he reached me, he stopped and leaned in slightly, speaking in a soft voice:

“You waited. I’m glad.”

I nodded gently, my voice barely audible: “You told me to.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward—an uncontainable smile laced with something a little more serious behind his eyes. He glanced at my hand, then at your shoes, as if confirming something, and then asked:

“You free now?”

You blinked: “yeah, kind of.”

“그럼… 잠깐만요.” (Then… wait a sec.)

He turned around, walked to the last fan lingering for a selfie, and said gently:

“죄송해요, 오늘은 여기까지만 할게요. 조심히 가요.” (I’m sorry, that’s all for tonight. Please get home safe.)

The fan looked a little disappointed, but he smiled and patted her shoulder kindly, giving her a small bow.

Then he turned back to me.

“Shall we?”

In that moment, it didn’t feel like I were at the entrance of a movie theater.

It felt like I had stepped into a post-credit scene written just for me and him, Im Changkyun.

You’re sitting on the couch, starting to grow bored of the TV series you're watching. You look over to see Changkyun take off his headphones, taking a break from his game, and he says, “The boys are tired of gaming.” You nod, looking at the clock. It’s seven at night, and you smile as you see his eyes light up, “You know what we’ve never done?” You tilt your head at him, waiting for him to continue, and he smiles, “What do you say to us making cookies and fudge together, tonight?” You gasp, “We’ve never done that!” He stands up from his chair, and you get off the couch, pausing your show that was boring you to tears. You follow him into the kitchen and find the cookbooks. “What kind?” “Let’s go with two that are easy.” You nod, and both of you look through the recipes, “Oh, what about chocolate chip cookies?” He nods and shows you a recipe for chocolate fudge. You grin, “Oh, this is only five ingredients. It will be quick!” He nods, and you flip another page in yours. 

While he starts pulling everything out for it, he gasps, “We don’t have two.” You pout as you look up from your cookbook, “What do we have right now?” He shows you the nearly full containers of sugar and vanilla he pulled out. You move past him to search for other ingredients and find you have enough flour for the cookies. You check the fridge, “Oh, I guess we're going on a grocery trip first.” He hums, and you write down a list of everything that the two of you would need to bake. You follow him out the door, and he goes, “Do you think we need the car?” You shake your head, “It’s just going to be cans and some boxes.” You both walk to the store hand in hand. And he pulls you close to him every time a cold gust of snowy wind hits you. 

You both walk the isles and sigh, “You’d think it’d say baking goods on the signs.” You look down, not even scanning them, and he giggles as he goes, “It does.” You quickly look up to see the aisle you were about to pass, says, “Baking goods, oil, sugar, and coffee.” You shake your head, “Well, at least you saw it.” He laughs and leads you down the aisle, and he gets the cocoa from the top shelf as you find the correct chocolate chips. He asks, “Semi-sweet, right?” You nod and see it in the middle, “Big bag or little?” “Big bag, the best part of chocolate chip cookies is the chocolate chips.” You laugh as you agree, and he grabs two cans of sweetened condensed milk. While you get the baking powder and soda. 

You head to the refrigerated aisle and grab some butter and eggs, “Nothing else, right?” He shakes his head, “We have enough salt in our shakers.” You agree, and you take it to the cashier, and they ring you up, and you pay for the total. And then you both begin the walk home, “Oh, the snow stopped coming down, that’s nice.” He agrees, “But there’s more snow on the ground.” 

As you pass by the park, covered in blankets of snow. He goes, “You know how I grabbed sweetened condensed milk?” You nod, “Yeah.” He laughs as he tells you, “It was maybe a year ago now, but I used to think it was just solid milk in a can… Like the consistency of like pudding or jello or something like that.” You stop walking, confused, “What?” He shrugs, “What?” You ask, “You’ve never heard of people using it in their coffee or something like that?” He shakes his head, stopping in his tracks, too, “I drink my coffee black, and I’ve never watched a baking show.” You laugh, “Oh yeah, I forgot you’re weird like that. No sweetener, just coffee.” He pouts and says, “I am not weird. Almost everyone likes it like that!” You shake your head, “Uh, no? Have you ever heard of a frappuccino?” He rolls his eyes, and you gasp, “You rolled your eyes!” He sticks his nose up in the air, acting all high and mighty, “You’re just jealous 'cause you can’t drink it straight.” You set the groceries down while he’s still looking up, form a snowball, and pelt him with it. 

He gasps, looking down at the snow still on his jacket before locking eyes with you and dropping his bags down. You smirk and toss another ball in your hands, ready to throw before hitting his arm this time. “Oh, it’s on!” And he makes a snowball with ease and throws one back. You cackle as you yell, “Snowball fight!” The more you throw, the further you get from the groceries. You scream as he hits you with another snowball before throwing one back at him and missing. He cackles, and you scowl before grabbing another wad of snow and forming it before throwing it, this time landing and hitting his shoulder. He doesn’t miss with either of his snowballs, hitting you near the collar and on the side of the jacket. For every snowball you throw, he throws one back. 

Your fingers start feeling numb, so you give up after throwing another snowball at him. You sit down as the snowball lands in front of his shoes. He throws one back at you as you sit down and misses you completely. You giggle at the failed attempt before calling for a truce. He says it back as he walks towards you. And he leans down in front of you. You go, “Huh?” And he lifts your chin up and kisses you. If your cheeks weren’t rosy from the cold weather, they certainly were now. When he pulls away, he tells you, “That was fun.” You agree, and he goes, “Doesn’t it make sense for condensed milk to be solid?” You laugh, “It kind of does.” 

He smiles as he helps you up, and you ask, “You want to walk back home now?” He nods, and you both walk back to the grocery bags, “It didn’t seem like we were that far from them.” He laughs, “I didn’t think so either.” You trudge through the snow, and he goes, “You don’t think I’m weird for drinking black coffee, do you?” you shake your head, “No, I was just teasing. I think it’s cool that you do. I like my coffee with sweetener. And one of the sweeteners I’ve used around you is condensed milk. That’s why I was shocked that you’ve never seen me do so.” He laughs, “Oh! I thought that was canned milk.” You shake your head in disbelief, “While that may exist somewhere, I definitely get it from the jug.” He laughs, and as you pick up your groceries, you go, “You’re so silly. I love you so much.” He grins, “You are too! I love you so much, (Y/n).” You smile and kiss him before you both walk back to your apartment. 

As you set the groceries down and measure everything out, he asks, “Have you ever made cookies or fudge by yourself?” You shake your head ‘no’, “Do you mind if I call Ki?” You sigh in relief, “I was hoping you’d ask.” He laughs, which makes you laugh as he calls him up. He puts Kihyun on speaker after saying their hellos, “Yeah, Ki, we’re going to make cookies and fudge. Anything we should know?” He goes, “I don’t bake much, but please watch the pot and don’t turn the heat on high for the fudge.” You agree, and he continues, “And please, check that you’ve cooked the cookies before you turn off the oven.” “How do we do that?” He sighs, “You have to stick a knife into one of the cookies and make sure nothing gooey sticks to it. And if they’re golden brown, take them out.” You agree and make mental notes before thanking him, “Be careful, you two.” You hum, and he goes, “We will. I’ll see you on the weekend?” He goes, “Yeah, I’ll see you then! Take care!” You both tell him you will before he hangs up. 

You follow the other instructions to a T, adding in Kihyun’s instructions like they were sprinkles as you make the fudge and chocolate chip cookies. He pours more than half of the bag of chocolate chips into the batter and stirs it in as you plop them onto the tray. It sounds like rocks hitting metal, not like cookie dough landing on foil. You laugh, “How many did you put in?” He grins, “Enough to have one in every microbite.” You cackle, and he puts the first tray in. 

You make the fudge while you both wait, and he butters the pan as you stir it continuously for a minute. When it comes to a boil, you turn off the heat and pour it into the pan. You put it into the fridge, “We have to wait fifteen minutes to cut it, then we get to eat it in thirty.” He pouts, “That’s so long…” You agree, and a few minutes later, the first tray of cookies comes out perfect, just as Kihyun said, except for the chocolate coating the knife. You trade out the trays and sit down while you wait. “Are you excited for our first homemade desserts together?” He smiles, “More than.” 

You come back in when the bell rings, and you cut the fudge up as he places the small tray of chocolate chip cookies in. You put the fudge back in the fridge, and he pulls off a cookie for each of you off the first tray. You bite into it, and it tastes like a chocolatey heaven, with subtle hints of cookie. “Oh, these are so good.” He grins, and you both tap your cookies together, “We have to make these again!” He nods, and you both eat off the warm tray, waiting for the last round of cookies to finish and for the fudge to set.