#lavender's work

"Gorgeous," he growled against your neck earlier, hands roaming every curve like he was memorizing terrain. "Fucking gorgeous."

Now you're both wrecked, skin flushed and sensitive, the room thick with the smell of sex and musk. You came hard—twice already—arching beneath him while he praised your body in that raspy voice, telling you how good you feel, how tight, how perfect.

He slows his thrusts but doesn't stop, hips rolling deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"Chan," you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can't—"

"We aren't done yet," he cuts you off, voice rough and commanding. He grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his, pupils blown wide with lust. "I want to hear you scream my name one more time."

He drives into you harder, angling his hips just right, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight, frantic circles over your sensitive clit. The pressure builds fast, too fast, your body still trembling from before.

"Chan!" It tears out of you—loud, desperate, raw. "Chan, fuck—"

"That's it," he groans, losing his rhythm, chasing his own release now. "One more. Louder."

You give him everything. Screaming his name like a prayer, like a curse, your climax crashing through you in violent waves. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck, groaning long and low against your skin as he spills inside you.

For a moment, it's just panting breath and racing hearts.

Then he lifts his head, grinning that devilish grin. "Told you we weren't done."

The sound of the front door clicking open was the only warning you had before his voice, laced with the exhaustion of a long day at the studio, drifted down the hallway. "Jagiya, I'm home. I brought takeout."

Your heart gave a little flutter of nervous anticipation. This was it. The moment. You had debated telling him over the phone, texting him a picture, but you wanted to see his face. You wanted to witness the exact second his world shifted.

"Living room!" you called back, your voice a little shakier than you intended.

You heard him set the bags down in the kitchen, the rustle of plastic, and then his footsteps were coming closer, slow and deliberate. He appeared in the doorway of the living room, his hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, a tired but fond smile already on his lips as he looked for you.

"Hey, you. Long day. I was thinking we could just—" He stopped.

The words died on his tongue, and his entire body went still. He was frozen in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, his eyes wide, locked on you. On the swell of your stomach.

For a long, drawn-out moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The dust motes danced in the sunbeams, the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen, but all of it faded into a distant hum. There was only the space between you, and the profound, earth-shattering shift in his expression.

It wasn't shock, not exactly. It wasn't confusion. It was… awe. A raw, unfiltered, almost religious reverence. His gaze traveled from your face, down to the gentle curve, and back up again, as if he were trying to memorize every single detail. He looked at you as if you were a masterpiece, a divine creation he couldn't believe he was witnessing.

He took a hesitant step into the room, then another, his movements slow, deliberate. He stopped just before you, his eyes never leaving your middle. He didn't speak. He just looked.

Then, so carefully, as if you were made of spun glass and the slightest touch might shatter you, he reached out. His long, slender fingers, the same ones that danced across canvases and brought art to life, trembled slightly as they came to rest on your belly. The touch was feather-light, a question more than a statement. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of your dress, and you placed your own hand over his, lacing your fingers together.

"Hi," you whispered, your eyes stinging with tears.

He finally dragged his gaze up to meet yours, and the emotion swimming in his dark irises was so overwhelming it nearly took your breath away. There was love, so deep and vast it felt like an ocean, but there was something else too. A vulnerability you rarely saw in him. A fear so profound it was humbling.

"Hi," he breathed back, his voice thick with unshed tears. He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his hand still s possessively, reverently, over your stomach. "Is this…? Are we…?"

"We are," you confirmed softly. "He or she is about the size of a lemon right now. But apparently, I'm showing a little earlier than most."

A shaky laugh escaped him, a puff of air against your skin. "A lemon," he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow circle over the fabric. "My god." He pulled back just enough to look down again, his expression one of pure, unadulterated wonder. "You're… you're glowing. And you're so… beautiful. I don't have words."

The days that followed were a blur of quiet intensity. Hyunjin became your shadow, your devoted guardian. He was no longer just your boyfriend; he was a man possessed by a new, all-consuming purpose. And that purpose was you, and the life you carried.

His sketchbook, once filled with abstract concepts and moody landscapes, was now exclusively dedicated to you. He would find you in the most mundane of moments—curled up on the sofa reading a book, stirring a pot of soup in the kitchen, simply standing by the window—and he would freeze. His eyes would glaze over, his artist's mind capturing the line of your body, the way the light hit your skin, the soft curve of your belly.

He would sit for hours, charcoal flying across the pages, not just creating images, but immortalizing moments. There were dozens of sketches of your profile, your hands resting on your stomach, the gentle slope of your back as you slept. He was obsessed, not in a suffocating way, but in the way of a man who had stumbled upon a truth so profound he had to document it, to prove to himself that it was real.

One evening, you found him in his studio, surrounded by a half-finished oil painting. It was you, standing in a shaft of golden light, just as you had been that first day. But in his version, you were ethereal, almost divine, your belly luminous, your expression serene. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

He was staring at it, his brow furrowed, a deep sadness etched into his features that had nothing to do with the art itself.

"Jinnie?" you said softly, stepping into the room.

He jumped, turning to you with a guilty start. "Oh. Hey. I didn't hear you."

"You've been in here for a while," you said, moving to stand beside him, your gaze on the painting. "It's incredible, Hyunjin. It's… how you see me?"

"It's how you are," he corrected, his voice low. But the melancholy didn't leave his eyes. He turned away from the canvas, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of agitation. He walked over to the window, staring out into the darkening city.

"What's wrong?" you asked, following him. "You've been… quiet. Distant, even though you're right here."

He was silent for a long time, his shoulders tense. You could see the war waging inside him, the struggle to voice whatever was haunting him.

"I'm scared," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"Scared of what? The baby? Being a father?" you asked gently, placing a hand on his arm.

"No. Not that," he shook his head, turning to face you. His eyes were glistening, filled with a deep, existential dread. "I'm scared of this. Of us. Of this happiness." He gestured vaguely between you, then at your stomach. "It feels too big. Too perfect. I look at you, and I see this… this miracle. This whole future we're building. And I just… I don't know if I deserve it."

Your heart ached for him. This was the core of his fear, the vulnerability he had been hiding behind his charcoal and paint. The artist who saw beauty in everything couldn't accept that he was worthy of it himself.

"What are you talking about?" you murmured, cupping his face in your hands. "Of course you deserve this."

"No," he insisted, his voice cracking. "I'm moody. I get lost in my own head. I'm selfish with my time, with my art. I'm not… I'm not some perfect, easy person to love. And this… this is so pure. So good. What if I mess it up? What if I'm not enough for you? Or for them?" His eyes flickered down to your stomach. "What if my darkness is too much for all this light?"

Tears finally spilled from your eyes, tracking down your cheeks. You pulled his face down, pressing your forehead against his, just as he had done that first day.

"Listen to me, Hwang Hyunjin," you said, your voice fierce with love. "You don't have to deserve happiness. Nobody does. It's not a prize you win for being good enough. It's a gift you accept. It's a home you build."

You pulled back, forcing him to look at you, to see the conviction in your eyes. "You're not dark. You're deep. You feel things more intensely than anyone I've ever met. That's why you're an incredible artist. That's why you love so completely. Yes, you get lost in your head, but you always find your way back to me. Your art isn't selfish; it's how you make sense of the world, and you share that beauty with everyone."

He was shaking, silent tears now streaming down his own face.

"This baby," you continued, placing his hand back on your belly, "is going to be so lucky to have you. They're going to have a father who teaches them to see the magic in the everyday, who shows them how to create beauty from their feelings, who loves them with the same fierce, awe-inspiring devotion you've shown me. You don't have to be perfect, Hyunjin. You just have to stay."

He let out a ragged sob, collapsing against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He held you like you were his anchor in a storm, his lifeline. And in a way, you were. You were his proof that the light was real, and he was worthy of standing in it.

"I'll stay," he promised against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll always stay."

He jumped, yanking off his headphones. “Whoa, you scared me. Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He grinned, that familiar, sunny grin that always made your stomach flip. Now, it just made you want to cry.

You couldn’t just say it. So, you held out the plastic stick.

He took it, his brow furrowed in confusion. He turned it over in his hands, his eyes scanning it. “What’s this? A new kind of thermometer?” He squinted at the little window. “Oh. Oh.” His eyes widened, and for a split second, you saw it—a flicker of pure, unadulterated panic. It was there and then it was gone, swallowed by a wide, disbelieving grin.

“Are you serious?” He laughed, a high, nervous sound. “No way. We’re… we’re having a baby?” He scrambled to his knees, his hands finding your waist and pulling you down to the floor with him. He buried his face in your stomach, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “A tiny little Ji-sung or a tiny little you running around, destroying my gear and keeping me up all night. This is insane.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief washing over you so fast it made you dizzy. He was happy. He was laughing. This was okay.

“Yeah,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “A baby.”

He looked up, his eyes sparkling. “We’re gonna be the coolest parents ever. I’ll write lullabies. They’ll be bangers.” He was still joking, still deflecting with humor, but you were too relieved to care. You saw the joy and grabbed onto it, ignoring the shadow you’d seen in his eyes just moments before.

The next few days were a whirlwind of Han’s particular brand of chaotic excitement. He came home with a baby-sized Stray Kids hoodie. He started narrating his production process to your stomach. He was a whirlwind of energy, a force of nature preparing for a hurricane. But you started to notice things.

He was quieter when he thought you weren’t looking. You’d wake up in the middle of the night to find the spot beside you cold, the light from his studio spilling into the hallway. One night, you got up to find him hunched over his computer, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. He wasn’t making music. He was on a parenting forum, reading a thread titled “Top 10 Things You NEED for a Newborn (You’ll Probably Forget #7).” He had twenty other tabs open: “Pregnancy Nutrition: The Definitive Guide,” “Common First Trimester Complications (Don’t Panic),” “How Swaddling Mimics the Womb.”

He didn’t notice you standing there. He just kept clicking, his face a mask of intense concentration, his thumb worrying his bottom lip. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He was researching. He was preparing for war.

He never said a word about it. During the day, he was the same, sunny Han, albeit a bit more attentive. He’d bring you water without you asking. He’d rub your feet when you complained they were sore. He’d stopped buying spicy raymeon, claiming he was “trying to be healthier,” but you knew it was because the smell made you nauseous. He was taking care of you, but he was doing it silently, methodically, like he was checking off a list.

The breaking point came two weeks later. You were sound asleep, dreaming of something vague and pleasant, when you were woken by a soft, desperate sound. You blinked your eyes open. The room was dark, but the moon cast a soft glow through the window. Han was sitting up in bed, his back to you, his shoulders hunched. He was shaking.

“Ji-sung?” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

He flinched. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” His voice was rough, brittle.

You sat up, placing a hand on his back. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the fine tremor running through him. “You’re crying. What is it?”

He let out a shuddering breath, and the dam broke. He turned to you, his face a mess of tears in the dim light. “I’m scared,” he choked out, the words torn from his throat. “I’m so, so scared.”

Your heart ached. You pulled him into your arms, and he collapsed against you, his face buried in your shoulder. “Of what? Of being a dad? You’ll be great.”

“No,” he sobbed, shaking his head. “Not of being a dad. Of failing. Of being… not enough.” He pulled back, his eyes wild with a fear so deep it took your breath away. “What if I’m a terrible father? What if I mess them up? I’m already a mess. I have anxiety, I forget to eat, I work myself to the point of exhaustion. How am I supposed to be responsible for a whole person? What if my anxiety is… genetic? What if they get that from me? What if I can’t protect you? What if something happens during the pregnancy and I can’t do anything?”

The words came out in a torrent, a confession he’d been holding back for weeks. All the quiet research, the late nights, the forced cheerfulness—it was all a cover for this. This overwhelming, paralyzing fear.

“Oh, Ji-sung,” you murmured, cupping his face in your hands. “None of that is going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I read about it. The risks. The things that can go wrong. I feel so helpless.”

You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, salty kiss tasting of his tears. “You’re not helpless. You’re here. You’re already being a father by worrying this much.” You took his hand and placed it flat against your still-flat stomach. “This isn’t a test you can fail. There’s no right way to do this. We’re just going to figure it out together.”

He looked down at his hand on your stomach, and a fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes. He leaned down, slowly, and pressed his forehead against the fabric of your nightshirt, right over your belly. He closed his eyes, and you felt him take a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m sorry for being scared. I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for being a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” you said softly, stroking his hair. “You’re Han. You feel everything so deeply. That’s not a weakness. It’s your superpower. You’re going to love this baby with every fiber of your being, and that’s all that matters.”

He stayed like that for a long time, just breathing, his forehead pressed against you as if he could draw strength from the life growing inside. The fear didn’t vanish overnight, but it began to change. It morphed from a paralyzing terror into a fierce, protective instinct.

The next day, he was different. The manic energy was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady calm. He was still researching, but now he’d share his findings with you, his voice low and serious. “Did you know they can hear our voices from around 18 weeks? We should start reading to them.” He bought a book of children’s poems, and every night, he’d lie with his head on your lap, reading aloud in his soft, melodic voice, one hand resting possessively on your stomach.

You heard the front door open, his cheerful call of “I’m home! And I brought your favorite tteokbokki!” followed by the rustle of a plastic bag. Panic seized you. You quickly snatched the test, wrapped it in a wad of toilet paper, and shoved it into your pocket before walking out of the bathroom, trying to school your features into something resembling normalcy.

He was in the kitchen, setting the container on the counter, his back to you. He turned with a bright, sunny smile that made your chest ache. “There’s my girl. You look tired. Long day?”

“Something like that,” you managed, your voice thin.

His smile faltered slightly as he got a better look at you. He closed the distance between you, his gentle hands coming up to cup your face. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’re pale.”

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t just say the words. So, you did the only thing you could think of. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the crumpled wad of toilet paper, placing it in his open palm.

He looked at it, confused. “Uh… a gift?”

“Just… open it,” you whispered, your eyes squeezing shut.

You heard the rustle of paper, a moment of silence, and then a sharp, in-drawn breath. You forced your eyes open to see him staring at the little plastic stick, his face a canvas of shock. His brow furrowed, his lips parted slightly. He looked from the test to you, then back again.

“This… this is a joke, right?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “I’m sorry, Innie.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just kept staring, and you watched as the initial shock morphed into something else—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty. He looked so young in that moment, so utterly out of his depth. He was the baby of his group, the beloved maknae, and right now, he looked every bit the part.

“I… I don’t…” he stammered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not… I’m not ready for this. I’m just a kid myself.”

The words were a punch to the gut, exactly what you’d been dreading, but you couldn’t blame him. It was the truth.

“I know,” you said softly, your voice breaking. “We can figure it out. Whatever you want to do, I’ll—”

“No,” he interrupted, his gaze finally hardening with resolve. He looked down at the test again, his jaw tightening. “No. I need to think.”

He spent the rest of the evening in a quiet daze, but it wasn’t a cold silence. It was a processing silence. He ate the tteokbokki he’d brought you, feeding you bites with a distant, thoughtful expression. He was quiet, but he didn’t leave your side, his hand finding yours and holding on tight, as if anchoring himself to you.

The shift happened a week later, at your first official appointment. The doctor handed you the grainy, black-and-white ultrasound photo, and you watched as Jeongin stared at it. He was silent, his thumb tracing the outline of the tiny, jellybean-shaped blur. Then, he looked up at the screen where the live image was moving, a little flicker of a heartbeat pulsing on the monitor.

Something in his face changed. The fear, the uncertainty, the boyish panic—it all just… vanished. In its place was a fierce, protective fire you’d never seen before. He was no longer looking at a problem; he was looking at his child.

“Is that… the heart?” he asked the doctor, his voice low and serious.

The doctor pointed. “That’s it right there. Strong and steady, just like it should be.”

Jeongin’s hand tightened in yours. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen for the rest of the appointment. On the drive home, he was quiet again, but this time it was different. He was determined.

That night, he became a man on a mission. He pulled out his laptop, a notebook, and a pen. “Okay,” he said, all business. “We need a plan. First, nutrition. What can you eat? What can’t you eat? I read that folic acid is important. Are you taking prenatal vitamins? Which ones? We need the best ones.”

For the next three hours, he grilled you. He asked about every symptom, every craving, every ache. He made lists of questions to ask the doctor, researched the best maternity pillows, and compared car seat safety ratings with the intensity of someone studying for a final exam. He was trying, with every fiber of his being, to be ready.

At the next appointment, when the nurse brought out the needle for a blood test, you flinched. Without a word, Jeongin was there, taking your other hand and interlacing your fingers. He looked straight into your eyes, his own gaze steady and reassuring. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m right here. Just squeeze my hand. Don’t look.” He held your gaze, a small, brave smile on his face, and you knew he was trying to be braver than he felt, for you.

One evening, you were curled up on the couch, your head in his lap. He was reading a book on pregnancy out loud, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He stopped mid-sentence, and you looked up to see him staring at your stomach, a soft, wondrous expression on his face.

“What is it?” you asked.

“I just… I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his free hand coming to rest gently on your belly. “I was so scared. I thought I was going to ruin everything because I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“And now?” you prompted, covering his hand with yours.

He looked at you, his eyes shining with a love so deep and profound it took your breath away. He wasn’t the same boy who had walked in a month ago, terrified and uncertain. He was still Jeongin—your sweet, goofy, loving Jeongin—but he was stronger now, steadier. He had grown up overnight, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. For you. For your family.

“Now,” he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips, then another to your stomach. “Now I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both have everything. I’m going to be the best dad. I promise.”

Another pause, then slow and deliberate: "A kiss."

You blinked. "...What?"

He was already leaning over the table, lining up his shot like he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of your comfortable routine. "On the lips."

The worst part? He sounded completely serious.

You laughed immediately, a little too loudly. "You're ridiculous. Fine. Deal. You're not winning anyway."

***

At first, the game proceeded normally. The familiar rhythm of shots, the occasional miss, the comfortable banter.

Until he started hovering closer when it was your turn, reaching around you to "fix" your aim, his chest brushing against your back. His voice dropped lower, quieter, right by your ear as he offered "helpful" suggestions. Every time you messed up—which was happening more frequently now—he just hummed softly, a sound that said he expected nothing less.

Suddenly, the angles on the table weren't the only thing throwing you off your game.

Meanwhile, Changbin was playing perfectly. Each shot was calculated, precise, executed with an unnerving calm that made your increasingly flustered state even more frustrating.

"You're concentrating too hard," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck as you leaned over for a particularly tricky shot. "Relax your shoulders."

You jumped, nearly knocking the cue ball. "I know how to play pool, Changbin."

He chuckled, stepping back but still too close. "Could've fooled me."

The game continued in this new, charged atmosphere. Every brush of his fingers against yours as you passed the cue stick sent electricity through you. Every time he leaned in to "help," your heart hammered against your ribs. And he knew it. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

The final ball dropped with a sharp crack that echoed in the sudden silence. You stared at the table, at the perfect trajectory he'd achieved, at the empty pocket where your last hope had vanished. Then at him.

Changbin didn't celebrate, didn't gloat. He just set the cue down, leaned against the table with arms crossed, and looked at you.

"So."

Your stomach did an elaborate flip. You scrambled to recover, to regain the upper hand, to pretend this wasn't happening.

"Yeah, yeah, congrats. Anyway, about that bookcase—"

He cut you off with a step forward. "You said whatever I want."

"Within reason," you shot back quickly, your voice higher than you'd intended.

"This is within reason." Another step.

Now you were the one backing up without meaning to, your retreat slow but steady as he advanced.

"It was a joke, Changbin."

"Didn't sound like one."

Your back hit the wall before you realized, the cool surface made you jump, but there was nowhere else to go. He was right there now—close enough that you couldn't ignore the intensity in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth.

But instead of rushing it, instead of closing the distance immediately? He leaned in just enough to make your breath catch... and then—

"What, you scared now?" he teased, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that smirk you knew too well.

You shoved lightly at his chest, your fingers brushing against firm muscle. "You're annoying."

"And you're stalling." He tilted his head, the smirk growing as his eyes glinted with mirth. Then he added playfully, "C'mon, it's just a kiss."

And then he did something that shouldn't have worked—something that should have made you laugh or push him away for real.

He exaggerated it. Puckered his lips dramatically, leaning in with a playful expression like he was making fun of you, like this was all just a big joke.

"Pay up."

You rolled your eyes. Muttered something under your breath about immature man-children, before sighing.

It’s supposed to be quick; just enough to get him off your back, to pay the debt, and move on. You leaned in, pursing your lips slightly, aiming for a brief, meaningless peck.

But the second your lips touched...everything shifted.

His hand was suddenly in your hair, fingers lacing through the strands, steady and firm. The other came to rest at the small of your back, pulling you in, closing the space you were about to create.

And when you tried to pull back startled by the intensity, by the sudden warmth spreading through your chest, he didn't let you. Not immediately.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that left you breathless, that spoke of months—maybe years—of suppressed want. Your hands, which had been poised to push him away, instead found their way to his shoulders, clinging to him as your knees went weak.

When he finally did pull back, it was only enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing was ragged, matching your own.

"That wasn't part of the deal," you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

A slow smile spread across his face. "You didn't say it couldn't be."

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. You could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your back. Your mind raced, trying to process the shift—from roommates to whatever this was in the span of thirty seconds.

"Changbin..." you started, biting your lower lip. What could you say? That you hadn't expected it? That you hadn't wanted it? Both would be lies.

"Binnie," he corrected softly, his thumb stroking small circles on your back. "Call me Binnie."

You blinked up at him. "I've always called you Changbin."

"Not anymore." His eyes searched yours, looking for something—permission, understanding, you weren't sure what. "Not after that."

A laugh escaped you, slightly hysterical. "We made a bet. I lost. That's all this was."

"Was it?" He leaned in again, not to kiss you this time, just to rest his cheek against yours. His voice was low, intimate. "Because I've been wanting to do that for months,” he whispered in your ear.

Your breath hitched. "Months?"

"Since Yongbok's birthday party. When you wore that black dress." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "You were dancing with Hyunjin, but you kept looking over at me. And I thought...maybe..."

You remembered that night. The black dress you'd bought on impulse, the way his eyes had followed you across the room, the electric current that had passed between you when you'd briefly spoken. You'd dismissed it as alcohol-fueled imagination.

"I didn't think you noticed," you admitted quietly.

"I notice everything about you." His fingers tightened slightly in your hair. "The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. How you always order the same drink when we go out. That little noise you make when you're about to say something you think is controversial."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "That's very detailed."

"I'm a detailed person." He smiled, a genuine, soft smile that transformed his entire face. "But mostly, I notice how you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I don't—"

"You do." He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your jaw. "And I'm done pretending I don't notice too."

This time when he kissed you, it was different: slower, more exploratory. There was no pretense of a bet to be paid, no game to be won. Just the two of you, finally acknowledging what had been simmering beneath the surface of your friendship for months.

Your hands slid from his shoulders to his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape. He made a soft sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a hum, and pulled you closer until there was no space left between you.

The bookcase in the corner seemed to mock you from its cardboard prison. This whole thing had started with your scheme to get him to build it for you, and now... Now you were making out against his wall like a teenager, your carefully constructed boundaries crumbling like dust.

When you broke apart this time, both breathless, reality began to creep back in.

"The bookcase," you said, and immediately wanted to kick yourself. Of all the things to say.

Changbin laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made his eyes crinkle. "The bookcase," he repeated. "Right." He stepped back, taking your hand instead. "Come on."

He led you to the corner of the room where the box stood like a monument to your failed plan. He crouched down, reading the side of the box.

"BILLY? You made me play for a BILLY bookcase?" He looked up at you, mock offended. "I was expecting at least something more impressive. HEMNES, maybe."

You swatted his arm. "It's practical. And it matches my decor."

"Practical," he repeated, shaking his head as he stood up. "Of course you'd choose practical over romantic." He paused, then grinned. "Still a deal's a deal. I'll build it."

"Now?" you asked, surprised.

"Now." He glanced around the room. "But first, we need tools. And space. And probably alcohol, because IKEA instructions are written by sadists."

The next hour passed in a comfortable haze of wine, laughter, and occasional frustration with missing dowels and confusing instructions. You found yourself watching his hands as he worked—the way his fingers moved deftly to tighten screws, the strength in his forearms as he positioned pieces.

"What?" he asked, catching you staring.

"Nothing," you said quickly. "Just... you're good at this."

He smiled, a little shyly. "I like building things. Making something solid out of nothing." He paused, then met your eyes. "Like us."

Your breath caught. "Binnie..."

"I know," he said quickly, holding up a hand. "Too soon. It's just... I've been thinking about this for a while. About us."

"You have?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

"All the time." He set down the screwdriver, turning to face you fully. "I just didn't know how to say it. Didn't know if you felt..." He gestured vaguely between you. "This."

"I didn't either," you admitted. "I mean, I knew there was... something. But I thought it was just me."

"Definitely not just you." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I almost told you that night at Yongbok’s party. But Hyunjin got to you first, and then you left early, and I thought..."

"You thought what?"

"That I'd missed my chance." His fingers lingered against your cheek. "That you saw me as just a friend. Younger. Not..."

"Not what?" you pressed gently.

“Not someone you could want like that."

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. "Oh, Binnie. That's never been it. It was never about your age. It was about..." You struggled to find the words. "About ruining what we have. About making things awkward if it didn't work out."

"Would it be awkward?" he asked quietly. "Now?"

You considered it, really considered it—the possibility of losing this comfortable routine, this easy friendship if things went wrong. But then you looked at him and realized you were already risking more by not trying.

"No," you said softly. "I don't think it would."

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn't. Instead, you met him halfway, your lips finding his in a kiss. This time, when you pulled apart, there was no awkwardness, no uncertainty. Just the quiet acknowledgment that something had shifted between you, irrevocably.

"We should finish this," you said, gesturing to the half-built bookcase.

"We should," he agreed, but made no move to continue. Instead, he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb. "But first, I need to know something."

"What?"

"Are we doing this?" he asked, his eyes searching yours. "You and me. For real."

You took a breath, then let it out slowly. "Yeah," you said, a smile spreading across your face. "We're doing this."