what happens when you go on a date, get the guy's number, decide to call him thanking him for the night and it ends up being the wrong number? at least the voice on the other end of the phone was apologetic and seemed nice about it. the cherry on the top was that this new mystery man you met over the phone asked to get you coffee since he felt bad that you were given the wrong number on a supposedly “great” date. he calls it a not-a-date, but what if it turns out being something completely different.
Pairing: Lee Chan x f!Reader
Genre: chan is whipped from the start, wrong number trope, friends to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, mutual pining
Word Count:13.4k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: heavy making out at the end, a little explicit but No Smut!!!!!! Just the kissing that's about it!
A/N: funny enough, this fic started being centered around a completely different seventeen member but as I kept writing I realized it NEEDED to be Chan! I hope you guys love it and once again thank you sm for all the love on my other stories! I'm so glad you all like my work :)
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The date went better than you could have ever expected it to. The conversation was light, friendly, and full of laughter. Every awkward pause you’d braced yourself for just… never came. Instead, everything flowed so easily it almost caught you off guard.
And somewhere between the second round of laughs and the way he remembered little details you mentioned in passing, you realized you were genuinely, completely into him.
Walking away from the night, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head—the jokes, the glances, him giving you his phone number and the feeling that something had just clicked. You felt it deep down: the date hadn’t just gone well… it had gone really well.
You plop down on your couch the minute you get home, your roommate Jun baking something very sweet smelling in the kitchen.
“He finally gave you his number!” You hear him cheer from your shared kitchen.
“No more Instagram DM for me!” You yell back, cheerfully.
You pull your phone out of your bag, still smiling to yourself as you unlock it. His number sits there at the top of your recent contacts, and for a second you just stare at it. Then, before you can overthink it, you hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” a voice answers.
“Hey! It’s me,” you say, your voice warm, a little excited. “I just wanted to say thank you again for tonight—I had a really great time.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“…I’m sorry,” the voice slowly, confusion thick in his voice. “I think you might have the wrong number.”
Your smile falters, but you shake your head instinctively, even though he can’t see you. “No, I don’t think so. This is the number you gave me—at dinner? Earlier tonight?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” he says, sounding almost apologetic now. “I definitely didn’t go on a date tonight.” He lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Honestly, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so I think I’d remember.”
“Yeah… I think you’ve got the wrong number,” he adds gently.
The warmth from earlier drains out of you all at once, replaced by a sinking, hollow feeling. “I—um… I’m so sorry,” you mumble quickly. “That’s my mistake.”
“No worries,” he says kindly. “I’m sorry someone gave you the wrong number after a date.”
“Yeah… me too.” Your voice is small now. “Sorry again.”
You hang up before he can say anything else.
For a moment, you just sit there, phone still in your hand, staring at the screen like it might somehow fix itself if you wait long enough. The laughter, the easy conversation, the way it all felt so real—it crashes into the reality settling in your chest.
Jun peeks out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “So?” he asks, grinning. “How’d the call go?”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight.
“…He gave me the wrong number.”
The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and just like that, the perfect night doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.
Jun’s grin drops almost instantly. “Wait—what?” He steps fully into the living room now, brows knitting together. “Why would he do that? That’s… that’s such a weird move.”
You shrug, but it’s tight, defensive, like you’re trying to hold something in. “I don’t know.”
“No, seriously,” Jun presses, clearly baffled. “Everything you told me sounded great. Who has a good date and then gives a fake number? That’s just—” he shakes his head, frustrated on your behalf “—that’s an asshole move.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. It is, isn't it?”
The sweetness in the air from whatever he’s baking suddenly feels overwhelming. “I’m just gonna… go get ready for bed,” you mumble, already standing.
Jun’s expression softens. “Hey… I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, before slipping down the hall into your room.
The routine feels automatic. Wash your face. Change into something comfortable. Brush your teeth. All the little steps you usually do without thinking now feel strangely heavy, like each one is giving your brain more time to replay the night.
The laughter. The eye contact. The way it all felt so easy to you.
By the time you crawl into bed and turn off the light, your chest still feels tight. You stare up at the ceiling, phone resting beside you, the glow of it faint in the dark.
That’s the part that keeps poking at you. It didn’t feel fake. He didn’t seem disinterested. If anything, he seemed just as into it as you were.
You roll onto your side, grabbing your phone again before you can talk yourself out of it.
The number is still there.
Your thumb hovers for a second… then you open a new message.
You: Hey… this is the girl who called a few hours ago.
You pause, chewing on your lip, then keep typing.
You: Can I ask—what’s your name?
You stare at the message for a long second, your heart doing that annoying, hopeful little flutter despite everything.
And just like that, you’re left lying in the quiet, staring at your screen, waiting.
You blink at your screen, surprised at how quickly he replied.
You: Hey, Chan… I’m really sorry again about earlier. I didn’t mean to call you out of nowhere like that.
There’s a short pause before the typing bubble pops up again.
Chan: It’s okay, really. It was a little confusing, but not in a bad way lol
You let out a small breath, tension easing just a bit.
You: Still… I feel bad. That must’ve been weird.
Chan: I mean, I was definitely wondering when I apparently went out on a great date tonight
He giggles slightly over the phone, it was cute.
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head into your pillow.
You: Yeah… lucky you, apparently you’re very charming
Chan: Hey thanks! I’ll take your word for it :D
There’s a lightness to it now, the awkwardness fading into something almost… easy.
Chan: But seriously, I’m sorry that happened to you. Getting the wrong number like that kinda sucks
You hesitate, then type anyway.
Chan: Like I said, I haven’t really been on a date in a while, so I don’t totally know what being stood up or anything like that feels like
You stare at that for a second, then respond.
You: It’s not a great feeling, I’ll say that
There’s a pause after that—long enough that you wonder if the conversation is about to fizzle out.
Then your phone suddenly starts ringing.
Your heart jumps a little as you sit up and answer.
“Hey,” his voice comes through, clearer now, a little warmer than before. “I figured texting might be a bit… impersonal, given the circumstances.”
You smile faintly, pulling your blanket around you. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
There’s a small beat, then he continues, a hint of amusement in his tone. “So… I was thinking. I kinda feel bad that your night ended like that.”
“You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“No, I know, I know. I don’t have to,” he says. “But—okay, hear me out—based on the area code in your number, I’m guessing we’re probably not that far from each other.”
You pause. “…Yeah, I think so.”
“So,” he goes on, a little more casually now, “maybe we could hang out sometime? You know… so you can at least get a proper ‘date’ experience.”
You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “A proper date?”
“Well—not a date,” he quickly corrects, a laugh slipping into his voice. “I mean—like, not officially. Just… hanging out. Totally normal. Very casual. Not a date at all.”
You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound breaking through the heaviness that had been sitting in your chest all night.
“Right,” you say, playing along. “Definitely not a date.”
“Exactly,” he says, mock-serious. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
There’s a small, comfortable pause after that, the kind that feels easy instead of awkward.
“Okay,” you say finally, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Chan replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Then it’s settled. Not-a-date it is.”
“That’s a bold ask of you Chan, whom I accidentally just met, over the phone, a few hours ago!” A slight laugh escapes your mouth.
“Well you don’t know me yet, do you?”
You tilt your head against your pillow, smiling despite yourself. “That’s kind of my point.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, like he’s just proven something. “So this is a great opportunity for you to find out.”
“Oh, is it?” you tease. “And what if I decide you’re weird?”
There’s a beat. “Then I’ll be very offended,” he says, completely straight-faced. “But I’ll respect your decision.”
You laugh softly, the sound quieter now, more relaxed. “Good to know.”
“And what if I decide you’re weird?” he adds.
“Too late,” you shoot back. “You already offered to hang out with me. That says more about you than it does about me.”
“So,” he continues, “just to clarify… on this completely-not-a-date, what do you usually like to do?”
You think for a second, tracing invisible patterns on your blanket. “Hmm. I don’t know… coffee’s always safe. Or walking around somewhere. I like low-pressure things.”
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “What if we do both, coffee then a walk? Very casual. Very not a date.”
“I’d like that. What about tomorrow? 3pm?”
You hear a slight little “Mhm” over the phone.
You shift slightly under your covers, realizing the tight, disappointed feeling from earlier has almost completely faded.
“Hey,” he adds, a little softer now, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad you texted.”
Your chest does that small, annoying flutter again.
“…Yeah,” you admit. “Me too.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time the clock creeps toward 1:30, you’ve already been up for hours—awake, pacing a little, checking your phone more than you want to admit. The plan is simple. Casual. Not a date.
The front door clicks open, and Jun walks in, dropping his bag by the door. “I’m home—” he starts, before spotting you hovering near the hallway mirror. He pauses. “…Oh, this is happening today.”
You turn, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. “Yeah. 3pm.”
Jun just stares at you for a second. “I’m still trying to process how we got here,” he says slowly. “You went from getting a fake number to… making plans with a completely different guy in, what, a few hours?”
You wince a little, grabbing your hairbrush off the dresser. “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“It is worse,” he says, walking further in. “Who is this guy again?”
“Chan,” you reply, like that explains anything.
Jun blinks. “Right. Chan. The accidental stranger.”
You let out a small laugh, shrugging as you run the brush through your hair. “I don’t know. I was sad, okay? And it just… happened. I figured I’d do something just… on a whim for once. No overthinking, no planning everything out.”
Jun leans against the wall, arms crossed, still clearly trying to make sense of it. “This is very unplanned for you.”
“I know,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “That’s kind of the point.”
He studies you for a moment longer, then sighs, shaking his head with a small smile. “Alright. Fair enough. But if he turns out to be weird, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
By 2:15, you’re getting ready.
Nothing over the top—just simple. You pull on a pair of jeans, a baby tee, and throw on a zip-up. Casual. Comfortable. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second, adjusting the sleeves.
Not a date, you remind yourself, yet your stomach flutters anyway.
You grab your phone, keys, and do one last quick check—hair, outfit, everything—before heading out.
Jun peeks out from the living room as you pass. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will,” you promise, slipping your shoes on.
“And if he’s secretly a serial killer—”
“I’m leaving,” you laugh, cutting him off as you open the door.
“Good luck!” he calls after you.
You step outside, the air fresh, your nerves buzzing just under the surface.
It’s strange. Less than 24 hours ago, you thought the night had ended in disappointment.
And now you’re on your way to meet someone new—someone unexpected.
Someone you don’t know at all.
You take a small breath, a smile slowly forming as you drive toward the coffee shop where Chan is waiting.
Your fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel as you pull into the coffee shop parking lot a few minutes early. The place looks relaxed—people sitting by the windows, the bike path just off to the side like he mentioned.
Your phone buzzes just as you turn off the engine.
Chan: Hey, I’m already inside. Grabbed a table so we can decide what to get before we head out to walk.
You exhale a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
You: Okay, perfect. I’m walking in now—jeans, white baby tee, gray zip-up
There’s no time to overthink it after that. You grab your bag, step out of the car, and head toward the entrance, the low hum of conversation growing louder as you push the door open.
You glance down at your phone as you step inside, thumbs hovering like you might send another message—I’m here—but before you can, something makes you look up.
Across the room, a guy is doing the exact same thing—phone in hand, just lifting his head.
There’s a brief second where neither of you moves, like your brains are catching up at the same time.
Then he gives you a small, easy smile and a quick wave, like there you are.
And it clicks, that’s him.
You weren’t sure what you were expecting—but it definitely wasn’t… this.
He’s really beautiful. Effortlessly so. The kind that makes you pause for half a second longer than you mean to, your brain scrambling to recalibrate.
Hair long, to his shoulders with layers and perfectly blonde. Super kind features on his face with a few little tattoos on his arms and his hands.
You feel it immediately—that tiny jolt of surprise, of sudden awareness—as you take a few steps toward him, hoping it doesn’t show too obviously on your face.
As you get closer, he’s already standing, slipping his phone into his pocket like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm—familiar now, but different in person. More real. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you echo, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stop in front of him.
He glances at you for a second, like he’s taking you in the same way you just did, then lets out a soft, amused breath. “I have to say… I’m kind of excited for this not-a-date.”
You huff out a quiet laugh. “That’s good, because it would be awkward if you weren’t.”
“Yeah, I’d be off to a terrible start,” he agrees easily. Then he gestures lightly toward the counter. “But before we get too far into anything—I’m buying your coffee. So you should tell me what you want.”
You blink. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I want to.”
You shake your head, already reaching for your wallet. “No, seriously, I can just—”
“Nope,” he cuts in, already half-turning toward the register. “Not happening.”
You sigh, but there’s a smile behind it. “You’re stubborn.”
You give in with a small shake of your head. “Fine. I’ll take… an iced latte.”
“Solid choice,” he nods, like he approves, before heading off to the register.
You watch him for a second—how easily he moves, how natural he seems—before catching yourself and looking away, tucking your hands into your sleeves.
A few minutes later, he’s back, holding out a cold cup toward you.
You take it, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thank you.”
There’s a small beat, then you glance toward the door, lifting the cup slightly. “Want to get walking?”
“Yeah,” he says, already turning with you. “Let’s do it.”
—-------------------------------------------------------------
The walk starts easily, the kind of conversation that doesn’t need forcing.
“So,” he says after a few steps, glancing over at you, “are you from around here?”
“Kind of,” you reply, adjusting your grip on your iced latte. “I grew up about an hour away—still in the state. Close enough that everything feels familiar, but not too close.”
“After college, I just… didn’t want to move back home,” you continue. “But I also wasn’t ready to go super far. So this felt like a good middle ground—close to the city, but still my own space.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small smile forming. “That makes sense. It’s a good balance.”
“What about you?” you ask. “Are you from here?”
“Not originally,” he says. “But I ended up staying in this area for pretty much the same reason. It’s close enough to everything I need.”
You glance at him. “For work?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I work in the city. I’m a dance instructor—and I actually help run my friend's business.”
You turn your head a little more fully now, interest immediately piqued. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little more casually than you expect. “I teach classes, choreograph, manage a few teams… that kind of thing.”
“That’s actually really cool,” you say, genuinely. “What kind of dance?”
“A mix,” he replies. “Mostly hip-hop, but I branch out depending on what I’m working on.”
You take another sip of your drink, glancing ahead for a second before looking back at him. “Okay, that’s definitely more interesting than anything I do.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I doubt that.”
“No, I’m serious,” you insist lightly. “You help run a whole business. That’s impressive.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hint of appreciation in his expression. “It keeps me busy. The commute’s not bad either, which is why I stay out here.”
You nod, the conversation settling into that same easy rhythm again as the two of you continue down the path, steps naturally falling in sync.
He glances over at you after a moment, a small, curious smile on his face. “So what about you? What do you do?”
You shift your cup between your hands. “I help do PR type stuff for a local company.”
“Oh?” he says, interest there. “What kind of company?”
“Small operations-based business,” you explain. “I do a mix of things—scheduling, coordinating, making sure everything runs smoothly day-to-day. It’s not super glamorous, but…” you shrug a little, smiling, “I like it. It keeps me busy.”
“That sounds important, though,” he says. “You’re basically the reason things don’t fall apart.”
You laugh. “I mean… I like to think so.”
“No, seriously,” he adds. “People underestimate how hard that kind of work is. Keeping everything organized, dealing with people, making sure nothing slips through the cracks—that’s a lot.”
You glance at him, a little surprised by how genuine he sounds. “Okay, wow. You’re giving me more credit than anyone has given me since I started a year ago. I basically got this job right out of college.”
“Hey! Someone has to,” he says simply.
You smile into your drink, taking a small sip. “Fair enough.”
The conversation keeps flowing after that, light and unforced. You drift into talking about random things—favorite coffee orders, how busy workweeks get, the best and worst parts of your jobs, and how neither of you expected to be doing what you’re doing right now. Somehow, everything circles back to laughter more often than not, and the walk doesn’t feel like a walk so much as just… talking while moving forward.
By the time the path curves slightly, the noise of the road fades and a small pond comes into view just off to the side, tucked behind a patch of trees and a worn wooden bench.
Chan slows. “We can sit for a minute if you want.”
“Yeah,” you say, realizing your legs are actually more tired than you expected. “That sounds good.”
You settle onto the bench, angled slightly toward the water. The surface ripples gently, catching bits of sunlight. For a moment, neither of you speaks—just a comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward.
Then you turn toward him again, curiosity returning. “So—”
He immediately lets out a soft breath, almost like he knows a question is coming. “Okay, I feel like that’s going to be something serious.”
You laugh. “It’s not serious.”
You smile, leaning back slightly. “What’s your favorite thing to choreograph?”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Oh—uh.” He shifts a little, caught off guard in a way that makes you smile more. “I don’t know why that made me nervous.”
“That made you nervous?” you tease lightly.
“I think you might just make me nervous.” He laughs quietly to himself while looking down at his hands that were playing with his rings.
You feel a blush creep up on your face as well, but decide not to think anything of it.
He exhales, then looks out toward the pond for a moment like he’s gathering his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer, deciding to not even answer the question you asked.
“I actually really like spending time with you.”
You pause slightly, the shift in tone catching you off guard.
“It’s been a while since I’ve just… hung out with someone like this,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s suddenly aware of himself. “And I know it’s not a date—” he adds quickly, almost reflexively, then huffs a small laugh at himself “—but I think I’ve just been kind of stuck in my routine lately.”
You listen quietly, letting him continue.
“So yeah,” he says, a little more steady now. “I guess I just wanted to say that. I hope we can keep being friends after this.”
The word friends settles between you both, simple and unassuming.
You both sit there for a second, looking out at the pond like it suddenly became very interesting. A duck drifts across the water. Somewhere behind you, someone laughs on the bike path.
And yet neither of you speaks.
Chan clears his throat lightly, like he’s trying to reset the moment. “You know?”
“Yes! Yeah.. Friends,” you repeat, a little too quickly.
You take a sip of your iced latte just to give your hands something to do. It suddenly feels like you’re hyper-aware of everything—how close he’s sitting, how the sun hits his profile, how relaxed he looks now that he’s not talking.
And somehow everything feels like it did.
“You’re… really easy to talk to,” he says after a moment, still looking ahead.
You blink at that. “Oh. You too.”
Another one that stretches just a second too long.
He nods slowly, like he’s processing his own words now. “Yeah.”
You glance at him again, and he happens to glance at you at the same time.
There’s a beat where neither of you looks away immediately.
“Oh,” you say softly, like you’re breaking your own thought.
“Yeah,” he replies, a little quieter.
And suddenly the air between you feels… different again.
Not uncomfortable. Not bad.
You adjust your zip-up sleeves, looking back out at the water. “We should probably get going soon if we’re still walking.”
“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. Maybe too quickly. He stands first, like that solves something. “We should.”
You follow him up from the bench, smoothing your jeans, grabbing your cup.
For a moment, neither of you moves forward right away.
Then he steps back onto the path, and you fall into place beside him again.
But this time, the space between you feels a little more intentional.
Like both of you are quietly pretending you don’t notice it.
—-------------------------------------------------------------
The walk back feels faster than the way there.
Maybe because the conversation shifts again—back to lighter things, safer things. Ridiculous childhood stories, him teasing you about how seriously you take iced lattes, you firing back that his “not-a-date” terminology is legally suspicious at this point.
By the time the coffee shop comes back into view, the earlier tension has softened into something more manageable. Familiar again. Almost normal.
He slows when you reach the parking lot. “This is you?”
You nod, pointing toward your car. “Yeah, right over there.”
“Cool,” he says, falling into step beside you without hesitation.
It feels strangely natural now—him walking you all the way over, like it’s something he’s done before. Like it’s something he’d do again.
You stop beside your car and turn toward him.
“Thanks,” you say simply, then let out a small breath, a little more honest than you planned. “I actually… really needed today.”
His expression softens immediately. “Yeah?”
There’s a short pause, then you step forward and wrap your arms around him in a light hug.
It’s quick, easy—no overthinking. Just warmth and gratitude and something that feels oddly grounding.
“Thank you,” you say again, a little quieter this time.
When you pull back, he looks at you for a second like he wasn’t entirely prepared for that, then lets out a small laugh.
“I was going to say,” he starts, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I would give you my number if you didn’t already have it.”
“But since you do already have it,” he continues, a bit more playful now, “I guess I’ll have to come up with something else impressive.”
Your laugh turns a little more flustered at that. “That’s—” you shake your head, smiling despite yourself, “that’s a dangerous thing to say.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed. “What? It’s true. If this was an actual date, I would’ve definitely given it to you by now.”
Your brain feels as if it is breaking down at that comment.
“Oh my—” you let out a small, embarrassed laugh, covering your face for half a second. “Okay, stop. That’s not fair.”
He’s smiling now too, clearly amused by your reaction. “What? I’m just being honest.”
“Yeah, well,” you mumble, still smiling as you look away for a second, “you’re doing too good a job at it.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves.
Then, before you can think too much about anything, you step forward again and hug him one more time—quick, slightly tighter this time.
“Bye, Chan,” you say softly.
“Bye, y/n” he replies, voice just a little warmer.
You pull away, finally getting into your car before your brain can fully catch up with everything that just happened.
He steps back as you open the door, giving you a small wave.
And as you drive off, you can still feel the smile you can’t quite get rid of.
—---------------------------------------------------------
By the time you get to your apartment door, your phone is already buzzing.
Before you even get the chance to reach for it, the front door swings open.
Arms crossed. Barefoot. Staring at you like he’s been personally holding onto a storyline all afternoon.
“You’re alive,” he says flatly.
You blink. “Hi to you too?”
He steps outside, leaning against the doorframe. “You didn’t text me. At all. I thought you got kidnapped. Or murdered. Or kidnapped then murdered.”
You laugh, grabbing your bag. “I literally went on a walk.”
“People get murdered on walks,” he says, completely serious. Then he squints at you. “So. How was it?”
You pause halfway through the kitchen, and that question is all it takes.
“Oh my god,” you say suddenly, words spilling out before you can stop them. “It was actually really good. Like, really good. We talked the whole time, like there wasn’t any awkward silence at all, and he just—he listens, like actually listens, and he looks at you when you talk like he’s interested and not just waiting for his turn to speak—”
Jun slowly straightens up.
You keep going, barely noticing. “And we walked by this pond and just sat there for a while and it was so easy? Like I didn’t feel like I had to think about what I was saying and it just—”
Jun tilts his head. “Was he cute?”
“Oh—” you say too quickly, then immediately try to recover. “I mean—he’s… nice-looking, I guess.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “That is not an answer.”
He quirks up his eyebrows in an expression that you know means he doesn’t believe you whatsoever.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine.”
Jun raises his eyebrows expectantly.
You hesitate just a second too long.
“…Yes,” you admit finally, quieter now.
Jun nods slowly like he’s just confirmed a scientific hypothesis. “Mm.”
You glare at him. “Don’t ‘mm’ me.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m just saying. That explains a lot.”
You push past him into the living room, still trying to pretend you’re normal about this, but Jun is already following behind you like a shadow with opinions.
“So,” he calls after you, “when are you seeing Cute Mystery Man again?”
“…We’re friends,” you say carefully.
—-----------------------------------------------------------
You spend the rest of the night on the living room couch with Jun, half-watching a movie you’re not really paying attention to, the other half of your brain replaying the day and wondering—more than once—if you should text Chan first. By the time Jun finally goes to bed, you’re still staring at your phone, this time in your own bed, thumb hovering over his chat. Eventually, you give up, shut the lights off, and decide to sleep it off instead.
Except your screen lights up again.
You freeze for half a second, checking your hair, before answering. “Uh—hello?”
His face appears on screen, slightly softer lighting, like he’s already in bed or just settled somewhere. “Hey.”
You sit up a little. “Why are you calling me this late?”
He blinks like the question is obvious. “I missed talking to you.”
That alone makes you pause.
Then he continues, casual but direct. “I couldn’t stop thinking about today. I had a really good time.”
You feel your face warm a little. “Yeah… me too.”
There’s a small smile that shows up on his end. “Good. I was hoping I wasn’t just imagining that.”
“No, it was real,” you say, settling back against your pillow. “Definitely real.”
“Okay,” he says simply, like that settles something. “Good.”
A comfortable pause follows, and then the conversation slips right back into place like it never stopped. He asks what you’re doing, you tell him you were literally about to sleep, he laughs and says that’s “a very responsible post-not-a-date schedule,” and you joke telling him he’s the one calling you at midnight.
He starts talking about random things again—music he’s been working with, a class he taught earlier, a funny moment with one of his students. Every so often, his tone shifts just slightly—softer, a little more personal.
“You’re easy to talk to,” he says at one point.
You smile into your pillow. “You said that already.”
“I know,” he replies, then adds quickly, “as a friend.”
Later, when you mention something funny Jun said earlier, he laughs and goes, “Your roommate sounds kind of intense. In a good way.” Then immediately, like he catches himself, he adds, “Not that I’m jealous. Just observational.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” he insists lightly. “We’re just friends. I’m not competing with your roommate.”
“Competing?” you repeat, amused. “I promise, you are not competing with my sweet sweet best friend, Junhui.”
“You’re the one making it weird.” he says, shrugging a little while laughing.
“I’m not making it weird,” you say, smiling now.
He pauses, then rolls his eyes jokingly. “Whatever.”
Then, after a beat, softer again: “But I’m glad we’re talking.”
And even though he keeps slipping in little reminders—just friends, not a date, nothing serious—the way he keeps calling anyway makes it feel like he doesn’t actually want the conversation to end at all.
Eventually his voice softens, like the night is catching up to him too.
“Hey,” Chan says, a little quieter now, “you should probably sleep.”
You glance at the time and realize he’s right. “Yeah… I should.”
He nods slightly on the screen. “I’ll let you go then.”
There’s a small pause, like neither of you fully commits to hanging up immediately.
He gives a small smile. “Goodnight.”
“And hey,” he adds quickly, like it’s almost an afterthought but not really, “text me tomorrow when you wake up so I know you didn’t fall asleep mid-conversation and disappear.”
You laugh softly. “I can manage that.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow.”
For a second, your screen just reflects your own face in the dark.
Then you drop your phone onto the bed and immediately roll over with a quiet, giddy laugh that you try—and fail—to contain. You bury your face in your pillow, kicking your feet slightly like that somehow helps regulate whatever is happening in your chest.
Because there is absolutely no denying it.
Which would be fine—normal, even—except for one small, inconvenient detail:
That’s what he said. That’s what you mentally agreed to. That’s what you’re supposed to keep in mind. You stare up at the ceiling, still smiling too much for someone who is supposedly going to sleep.
“Just friends,” you whisper to yourself, like saying it quietly enough will make it easier to believe.
But your phone lights up again on the bed beside you—just a notification this time—and even that makes your heart jump a little too fast.
You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You already know you’re in trouble.
—------------------------------------------------------
You wake up the next morning still half-wrapped in sleep and the memory of the night before sitting very clearly in your mind. For a second you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, until it clicks—text me when you wake up so I know you didn’t disappear.
You sit up immediately and grab your phone.
The second you hit send, your screen lights up.
You freeze for a second, then laugh quietly to yourself.
You: did we just wake up at the same time??
Chan: I think so lol
Chan: that’s a little suspicious
You smile, rubbing your eyes.
You: or just unfortunate timing
Chan: or fate
Chan: but I’ll go with timing so you don’t get scared
You snort softly at that, still sitting up in bed.
Chan: I’ve got to head out soon, but have a good day today
Chan: and I want to hear about it later
You pause for a second, the wording making your heart do a small, familiar jump, before he quickly adds—
You: of course
You: I’ll report back with my extremely exciting daily activities!
Chan: perfect
Chan: I’ll be waiting for the thrilling update :P
You can practically hear the smile in it.
And even though the just friends reminder is still there, the way he keeps showing up in your phone already makes it feel a lot less simple than that.
—------------------------------------------------------
Your day turns out to be exactly what you told him it would be—work, a quick iced latte on your lunch break, more work, then coming home to an exhausted Jun who looks like he’s been personally betrayed by capitalism. You help him make something easy to eat, listen to him complain for a bit, and eventually retreat to your room while he dramatically declares he is “never working again” for the third time this week.
You decide to call Chan first this time.
It rings once… twice… then stops.
A text pops up almost immediately.
Chan: teaching rn, can’t pick up. I’ll call you when class is over :)
You stare at it for a second, then smile to yourself and set your phone down.
About an hour later, it lights up again.
You answer quickly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath like he just moved from one thing to another. “Sorry about that, class ran a little over.”
“That’s okay,” you say, shifting to get comfortable. “How was your day?”
Before he can answer, there’s a loud voice in the background.
“WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”
Chan immediately turns his head. “No one.”
“NO ONE?” the voice repeats, closer now. “You don’t have no one. You have me.”
A second later, another guy leans into frame—smiling, clearly amused, way too comfortable on camera.
“Ohhh,” he says, pointing like he’s just solved something. “It’s a pretty girl, isn’t it?”
You let out a surprised laugh.
Chan groans. “Soonyoung—go away.”
“Pretty girl,” Soonyoung repeats, ignoring him completely. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew those.”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung leans closer to the camera. “Hi, pretty girl. I’m Soonyoung. I haven’t seen him talk to a pretty girl since early college, so this is historic.”
You’re laughing now, covering your mouth slightly. “Hi.”
Chan reaches over and gently pushes him out of frame. “Ignore him.”
Soonyoung’s voice still carries from off-screen. “Bye, pretty girl!”
The call finally settles again, and Chan reappears, slightly exasperated but clearly trying not to smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “That’s Soonyoung. He runs the dance business with me… and he’s also my roommate. And unfortunately my best friend.”
“I like him,” you say, still smiling.
“Of course you do,” Chan mutters, shaking his head. “Everyone does. That’s the problem.”
You’re still smiling when you settle back against your pillow. “So… how’s dance stuff going today?”
Chan shifts a little, like he’s walking somewhere between rooms. “Good. Busy, but good.” He glances off-screen briefly. “We finished a routine earlier that I think you’d actually like.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll send you a video later.”
He hums in agreement, then adds, a little lighter, “You should come to a class sometime.”
You blink. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs immediately. “Why not?”
“I haven’t done dance since middle school,” you say honestly. “And even then it was… questionable at best. I would not survive your classes.”
“That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re for all levels.”
“You say that now,” you counter. “But I feel like I’d show up and immediately become everyone’s cautionary tale.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says, amused.
He leans a little closer to the camera. “I can teach you sometime. Just… casually. No pressure.”
“…Yeah?” you say, slower.
“Yeah,” he confirms simply, like it’s not a big deal at all.
You don’t immediately say no.
Instead, you just smile a little. “Okay. Maybe.”
“Maybe is fine,” he says, like he’s already won something.
Before either of you can continue, there’s movement off-screen again and another voice calls out.
“Chan! Next group is here!”
He turns his head. “Yeah, I’m coming!”
Then back to you, a little apologetic. “I have another class starting.”
“Oh—okay,” you say quickly. “Go, don’t worry.”
He nods. “I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you reply, softer. “Later.”
There’s a small pause where neither of you hangs up right away.
The call ends, and you’re left staring at your screen for a moment longer than necessary, still thinking about how casually he just offered to teach you—like it meant nothing at all. But then again, teaching people was just his job, and you guys were just friends.
—------------------------------------------------------
Days pass like that—easy, consistent, almost automatic.
You text every morning and every night without thinking about it anymore. Some days it’s just short check-ins, other days it turns into long FaceTime calls where you’re both half-laughing at nothing and talking over each other like you’ve known each other for years. It doesn’t feel new anymore. It just feels… normal.
Chan sends you videos constantly. Clips of choreography he’s working on, snippets of him and Soonyoung messing around in the studio, and occasionally videos of their friend Minghao—who he always refers to as “our studio’s golden child”—dancing like he was somehow born already in rhythm. He tells you how Minghao basically walked into the studio one day after moving to the city, said he wanted to dance, and never really left, becoming an instructor and one of their closest friends in the process.
You start recognizing Chan’s world through your phone screen. The studio, the chaos, the jokes, the way he and his friends all seem to orbit around each other effortlessly. And somehow, you’re included in it now too—just from the outside looking in.
The strange part is that neither of you ever really brings up hanging out again in person.
Not because it feels wrong—just because it doesn’t feel urgent. Life is busy, routines settle in, and the calls fill in all the gaps anyway. It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’re already part of each other’s daily rhythm without needing to physically be in the same space.
It almost feels like a relationship sometimes—the constant communication, the inside jokes, the way you both naturally reach for your phones when something happens during the day.
Because you’re just friends.
And that’s what it’s always been.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re at home, half-listening to Jun sing along to the songs he was playing while cleaning, while you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone, when it buzzes again—this time with Chan’s name lighting up the screen.
Chan: are you doing anything tonight?
You glance toward Jun, who is now dramatically flopped on the couch like he’s been personally defeated by the existence of cleaning.
You: depends
You: how illegal is what you’re about to ask me
Chan: i just got out of a night class and i was wondering if you wanted to come over
You blink at the message, then type slowly.
Chan: yeah
Chan: i just feel like hanging out
There’s something about how casual it is that makes it feel even more sudden. You haven’t seen him in person in over a week—just calls, texts, FaceTimes that somehow became part of your routine without either of you acknowledging it.
Jun watches you from the couch. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like you’re about to do something questionable,” he says immediately.
Chan: no reason
Chan: just tired of talking to you through a screen
That makes you laugh out loud.
Chan: ok good
Chan: i’ll send you my address
Chan: text me when you get here so soonyoung doesn’t see you
You: why do i feel like soonyoung is a hazard
Chan: if he sees you he will talk to you for an hour minimum
You laugh, shaking your head.
You: and that’s bad because…?
Chan: because then i will lose you for the rest of the night
You pause at that, then type with a grin.
You: possessive for a friend
There’s a beat before he responds.
Then another message comes through quickly, like he’s redirecting the entire conversation on purpose.
Chan: anyway
Chan: come over
You glance at Jun again, who is now sitting up slightly like he senses drama.
“What?” he asks suspiciously.
You stand up. “I’m going out.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “At night?”
“It’s fine,” you say, grabbing your jacket.
“Is it Chan?” he calls after you immediately.
Jun leans back. “Be safe!”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you leave.
Shockingly, Chan’s place isn’t far.
You text him when you arrive like he asked.
Chan: don’t move i’m coming down
You’re still standing in the hallway, phone in hand, when the apartment door swings open before Chan even reaches it.
A man pops into view with way too much energy for this time of night, eyes lighting up the second he sees you.
“So this is you!” Soonyoung exclaims, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. “The pretty girl from the phone!”
Behind him, you hear Chan’s voice immediately: “Soonyoung—”
But Soonyoung is already fully committed.
“Oh my god, you’re real,” he says, stepping closer like he’s inspecting a legend. “He was so annoying about you. Do you know how weird it is hearing someone who claims they have no friends suddenly talk about one person every single day like—”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly from somewhere behind him.
Soonyoung ignores him completely, turning back to you. “Anyway, I just need you to know, he is—like—chronically single. Not even in a sad way, just in a ‘I forget dating is a thing’ way. And I’m not saying you need to fix that or anything, but also—” he gestures vaguely at you, “you’re very pretty, so statistically this is a good development for him.”
“Okay,” Chan cuts in again, sharper now.
Soonyoung barrels on. “And he talks about you like you’re already part of the friend group, which is weird because he barely talks about anything, but suddenly it’s like ‘she said this’ and ‘she did that’ and I’m like, who is she and why is she more interesting than me—”
That’s when Chan steps in.
He grabs your wrist—not rough, just decisive—and pulls you gently but firmly past Soonyoung’s ongoing monologue.
“Sorry,” Chan says under his breath as he guides you away, already half-laughing at the situation.
“Chan—” you hear behind you, still talking, “I like her! She seems nice! Don’t mess this up!”
Then the door shuts behind you.
Chan’s room is immediately calmer. Familiar. This time you are seeing a lot more of it than what you have seen from through your phone screen. Clean, organized—white walls, soft lighting. A few framed photos on the wall: him with friends at the studio, candid shots mid-laugh, dance moments frozen in motion. His desk is neat but covered in choreography notes, diagrams, and formation sketches that look half artistic, half mathematical.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hallway.
“Sorry about him,” he says immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. “He has no filter.”
You’re still smiling a little. “I noticed.”
He groans quietly. “He’s usually worse.”
You step further in and he immediately walks over to his bed, dropping down onto it like it’s his default position in life. Then he pats the space next to him.
You sit carefully on the edge first, then relax a little as he shifts to face you.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, more genuine now. “He gets… excited.”
“I gathered that,” you reply, amused.
“He likes teasing me,” Chan adds. “A lot.”
You glance toward the door. “He also thinks you’ve been emotionally unavailable your entire life.”
Chan makes a face. “That’s not—no. That’s not accurate.”
You laugh, and he does too, a little reluctantly.
Then he leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling for a second before glancing at you again.
You look back at him, curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.
“Have you… ever been in a relationship before?”
Chan blinks like he wasn’t expecting that question to land so gently in the middle of everything. He shifts a little, then exhales through his nose.
“Yeah,” he says. “Once in high school. It didn’t really last long. Like… barely counts.”
You nod slightly, listening.
“And then there was one in freshman year of college,” he continues. “That lasted into sophomore year.”
He pauses, gaze dropping for a second like he’s deciding how much to say.
“Then she cheated on me,” he adds, more matter-of-fact than emotional, but quieter now. “After that… I just kind of stopped trying.”
Your expression softens a little, but you don’t interrupt.
He leans back on his hands again. “And I got busy. Dance, work, the studio. It just… wasn’t something I went out of my way to look for after that.”
There’s a small pause before he lets out a short laugh.
“Soonyoung likes to say I ‘never get any play,’” he says, shaking his head. “Which is—”
His eyes widen slightly like he’s just heard what he said from the outside.
“I mean— I don’t— I don’t want—” he starts quickly, sitting up a little. “Not that I don’t want— I just— that’s not—”
You burst out laughing immediately.
“Oh my god,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” he says way too fast.
“You are absolutely panicking.”
“I’m just—clarifying,” he insists, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because that sounded like I—like I’m trying to—”
“Relax,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I know what you meant.”
He pauses, still slightly tense, then slowly looks at you.
“…Okay,” he says cautiously.
You’re still smiling at him. “That was very funny though.”
He lets out a quiet breath, clearly relieved, then drops back onto his bed again like he’s giving up on the situation entirely.
The tension melts out of the moment again, settling back into something easy.
But now there’s something different about the air between you—not heavier, not awkward.
A comfortable silence settles over the room after that, neither of you rushing to fill it.
You both end up absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of his comforter—him tugging at a loose thread, you smoothing out a wrinkle, like your hands need something to do while your brains quietly reset from the last few minutes.
It’s… easy. In a way that almost feels dangerous if you think about it too long.
You glance at him. “Are we actually having ice cream or was that just a motivational speech earlier?”
Chan huffs a small laugh. “We are.”
“Good,” you say, leaning back slightly. “Because I was promised ice cream.”
He nods like that settles an important agreement. “I’ll get it.”
He pushes himself up from the bed. “I think Soonyoung stocked some in the kitchen. I’ll go grab it.”
You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
He’s barely made it two steps toward the door when it swings open again.
He leans into the room like he owns the space, eyes immediately landing on you like he never left the conversation in the hallway.
“Hi again, pretty girl,” he says, way too casually.
Chan stops mid-step. “No.”
Soonyoung ignores him entirely. “I just came to check something important.”
You blink. “What’s that?”
He points dramatically at you. “Are you planning on corrupting him or is this just a natural development?”
“Okay,” Chan says, already moving toward him. “Out.”
You can’t help it—you start laughing again, sinking a little into the bed as the two of them start bickering like this is normal background noise in their lives.
Chan finally manages to guide Soonyoung out of the doorway with a firm hand on his shoulder.
Soonyoung leans back just enough to look at you again. “Anyway, bye pretty girl. Protect him or don’t, I’m not your boss.”
Then he starts down the hall.
“Her name is y/n!” Chan yells after him, looking back at you with an embarrassed smile.
You smile back at him as he walks out of the door into his hallway.
The ice cream ends up being its own little moment.
You sit on his bed with the container between you, talking like you’re still on the phone even though you’re right there in the same room—passing the tub back and forth, laughing about random things that don’t matter. At one point you mention, very casually, that cookie dough is your favorite flavor, and Chan just nods like it’s normal information to store away, even though he says nothing about it.
You don’t notice him remembering it.
He watches you more than he eats, like he’s trying to memorize the way you laugh mid-sentence or how you absentmindedly tap your spoon against the side of the container when you think. Like you might not be here later if he stops paying attention for too long.
By the time you check your phone and realize how late it’s gotten, you already know you should leave.
“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, setting the ice cream down.
Chan’s face immediately shifts. “Why?”
You blink. “Because I have work in the morning.”
“That’s… not a good reason,” he says, leaning forward slightly like he’s trying to physically argue with the concept of time.
You laugh. “It’s a very good reason.”
He sighs dramatically, falling back against his pillows. “You’re abandoning me.”
You look at him as his head hits his pillows, frame laying down across from you. Your brain floods with unfortunately inappropriate things while you decide to answer before your brain goes any farther.
“I’m going home,” you correct him, still smiling.
“This feels like abandonment.”
“I am not,” he says immediately, then pauses. “Okay, maybe a little.”
You stand up anyway, stretching slightly. “I’ll come back another time.”
That softens him just a bit. “Yeah?”
He hesitates, then stands too, walking you toward the door like it’s suddenly become a much bigger deal than it should be. The energy between you shifts—still light, but quieter now, a little more reluctant to break.
At the doorway, there’s a small pause, your bodies a bit closer than you both seemed to intend.
“Text me when you get home,” he says.
Neither of you moves right away, that is until he gives you a light hug. This time, a lot longer than the hug after you got coffee. He didn’t seem to want to let go.
Then, finally, you step out.
And of course, when you make it to the living room—Soonyoung is still there.
“Yes,” you say quickly, already laughing a little at how predictable this is becoming.
He tilts his head. “Before you go, important question.”
You pause. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”
He ignores that completely. “Do you think my roommate is hot?”
You hear Chan’s voice, behind you, immediately seeming panicked. “Soonyoung—”
Soonyoung points at you like this is serious research. “Be honest. Scientific data.”
Your face warms instantly. “I— I have work in the morning, I really need to go—”
“That’s not an answer,” Soonyoung insists, grinning now.
“That can be her answer!” Chan says, already stepping closer like he’s about to physically remove him again.
You take that moment to slip past them both, still flustered and laughing. “Bye!”
“Bye, pretty girl y/n!” Soonyoung calls after you again, still amused.
And as you make your way out the door, you hear Chan’s voice behind you—half embarrassed, half resigned, like he’s already planning how to deal with all of this tomorrow.
When you finally get home, the apartment is quiet in that end-of-night way that makes everything feel slightly softer. You kick off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and take a second to just breathe.
Your phone lights up on the counter.
You hesitate before opening it.
Unknown: hey this is soonyoung 😭
Unknown: i’m sorry about earlier at the door
Unknown: chan made me take your number so i could apologize properly lol
You stare at the screen for a second, then let out a slow laugh through your nose.
Soonyoung: also for the record i still stand by everything i said
Soonyoung: you are still a pretty girl and he is still weird about you 👍
You cover your face for a moment, laughing harder now as you sink onto the couch.
Soonyoung: anyway goodnight
You’re still smiling when you type back.
You: i think i’m already involved in too many secrets for one night
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Soonyoung: welcome to the family
You laugh again, shaking your head as you set your phone down.
And right as you’re about to get up and get ready for bed, another notification lights up your screen—this time from a very familiar name.
Your phone lights up again before you even stand up.
You sit back down almost automatically, like your body already knows what this is.
You: yeah
You: just got soonyoung’s apology text btw
Chan: so he did text you?
You: yes
You: he said you “made him” take my number
There’s a pause long enough that you can practically imagine Chan staring at his screen in silence.
Chan: that’s not what happened
Chan: okay it’s kind of what happened
You laugh out loud now, leaning back into the couch cushions.
You: why are you like this
Chan: i didn’t trust him to behave
Then his next message comes in softer.
You glance at the clock. You are. But you don’t really want the conversation to end.
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.
You hesitate for a second, thumb hovering.
That makes you smile again.
A typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears.
You: yeah
You: just checking
There’s a beat before he replies.
You: i’m literally lying on my couch
That makes your stomach do that annoying little flip again while you stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.
Chan: text me tomorrow when you wake up
You smile, softer this time.
Chan: and I won’t forget cookie dough exists
You: wait… why did you say that
You narrow your eyes at your phone like it personally offended you.
Chan: you already knew that
You laugh under your breath, setting your phone down but not fully letting go of the feeling in your chest.
—-----------------------------------------------------------
A week passes in much the same rhythm—texts that start in the morning and somehow stretch into the night, FaceTime calls that begin as quick check-ins and slowly turn into both of you getting too comfortable to hang up first.
Somewhere along the way, it shifts a little. Chan starts falling asleep on calls, head tilting down mid-sentence until you realize he’s gone quiet, and you follow not long after.
Once, you wake up in the morning still connected, his face turned slightly away from the camera, already awake again like he never left.
It becomes normal in a way neither of you really comment on.
You also end up over at their place again when Soonyoung insists he cooked “a life-changing meal” and refuses to accept no for an answer. That night you properly meet Minghao too—less chaotic in person than Soonyoung, but just as easy to laugh with. The three of them treat it like nothing unusual, like you’ve always been there, and it turns into a long, loud “friend” dinner that somehow ends with you laughing so hard your stomach hurts and Chan quietly sliding you extra food without making a big deal out of it.
Then, a few nights later, your phone buzzes again.
Chan: you still want me to teach you how to dance?
You don’t even hesitate this time.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Chan: what kind of dance experience do you have?
You stare at the screen for a second, then laugh a little to yourself.
You: uh
You: contemporary and ballroom… like years ago
You: very “i did it as a kid and never looked back” level
Chan: i can work with that
A second later, he sends an address.
Chan: come tonight if you’re free
Still, you grab your things not long after, curiosity outweighing hesitation.
When you walk into the studio, it’s already lively—but not in the way you expected.
Soonyoung is halfway out the door, jacket on, talking loudly about something. Chan is beside him, waving like he’s mid-conversation with someone.
“Oh, hey!” Minghao calls when he sees you first. “You made it!”
Soonyoung turns too, grinning. “Pretty girl!”
You pause, confused. “Wait—where are you guys going?”
Soonyoung points vaguely toward the exit. “Life. Chaos. Freedom. You know.”
Minghao laughs. “We thought you were just coming for Chan's torture session, so we’re leaving you to it.”
“Torture session?” you repeat.
“Dance session,” Soonyoung corrects immediately. “Same thing sometimes.”
Before you can ask more, Chan appears from inside the studio, towel over his shoulder, like he’s just finished dancing himself.
Sweat drips slightly from his temple to his neck, his long hair slightly damp on the edges. It would be a crime to say he looked really good like this, but it also wouldn’t be a lie.
Minghao nods. “We’re being kicked out, basically.”
Chan doesn’t even deny it.
“I wanted to focus,” he says simply.
Then, looking at you a little more directly, adds, quieter but very clearly amused, “and I wanted you to myself.”
The room goes silent for half a second.
Your brain fully short-circuits.
Soonyoung immediately gasps like he’s been personally betrayed. “OH? YOU HEARD THAT?”
Minghao laughs as he starts pulling him toward the door. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving right now.”
Soonyoung points dramatically as he’s dragged out. “I SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE—”
The door finally shuts behind them.
Chan looks back at you, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“…Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
You exhale a small laugh, still a little flustered. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I thought it would be more efficient this way.”
“Efficient,” you repeat, shaking your head.
He steps a little closer toward the open space of the studio floor.
“Ready?” he asks, like nothing strange just happened.
You glance around once, then back at him.
“…Yeah,” you say, still recovering. “Teach me.”
Practice starts simple. Chan has you doing basic warm-ups first—stretching, posture checks, small steps across the floor while he corrects your stance with light taps to your shoulders and a few quiet “no, higher” or “relax here.”
It’s casual at first, almost relaxed, like he’s just easing you into it. Then it slowly shifts into something more structured as he starts breaking down ballroom form, guiding your steps with careful instructions.
“Just so you know,” he says at one point, stepping back to look at you, “I do not specialize in ballroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds reassuring.”
“But,” he adds immediately, like it solves everything, “I am good at everything. So you’ll be fine.”
You laugh. “That’s not how teaching works.”
“It is in my world,” he replies easily.
That gets another laugh out of you, and it’s easy—too easy—how quickly the tension between instructions and jokes keeps you relaxed even while your focus stays on him.
Then he steps closer again.
“Okay,” he says, a little more focused now. “Let’s fix your frame.”
He gently adjusts your arms first—lifting them slightly, guiding your elbows into position. His hands are steady as he checks your posture, moving slowly so you can follow without thinking too much.
“Like this,” he says quietly.
You nod, trying to match it.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stay there.”
“I’m trying not to,” you say, laughing a little under your breath.
He steps in closer again.
“Now,” he continues, voice calmer, more deliberate, “this is the position for ballroom hold. You’re the follower.”
Before you can respond, he moves into place.
His hand settles lightly at your lower back—steady, guiding, warm through the fabric of your clothes. At the same time, your hand naturally comes up to his shoulder. His other hand meets yours, fingers aligning as if it’s something practiced even though it isn’t.
For a second, everything stills. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
How his eyes are on you instead of anywhere else.
Neither of you moves right away.
Chan’s voice drops slightly, softer than before. “Like this.”
He clears his throat softly.
“Your posture is better,” he says, but it sounds distracted.
“Yeah?” you reply, quieter than before.
A faint tapping sound starts somewhere outside the studio.
Both of you notice it at the same time.
It starts soft, scattered against the windows, just enough to catch your attention but not enough to fully interrupt the moment. Chan’s eyes flick briefly toward the glass behind you, then back to you like he forgot to fully finish the thought.
“It’s raining,” you say softly.
But neither of you moves out of position.
Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder without meaning to. His fingers at your back shift a fraction, like he noticed but didn’t correct it.
Chan’s gaze drops for a second—your eyes, then your mouth—and something in the space between you tightens again.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
He notices, because, of course he does.
But he doesn’t step back.
The distance between you shrinks without either of you actively closing it, just inevitability building slowly in the silence, in the rain, in the way your bodies already know the shape of this position too well.
Just enough that it changes the air.
Just enough that everything stops again.
The rain outside gets a little heavier, filling the room with a soft, steady rhythm against the windows. Inside, everything else feels frozen.
Chan exhales slowly, barely audible.
He stops just short, a breath away.
His eyes flick up to yours, searching, restrained, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Neither of you says a word. Not about what almost happened, not about what’s already happening in every space between you.
Finally, he eases his hand at your back—just slightly, like he’s forcing himself to reset.
Like it’s a decision to step back from something he almost didn’t.
The rest of the lesson doesn’t go back to how it started.
There’s no more easy laughter, no teasing back and forth, no casual corrections that come with jokes attached. Instead, everything feels more measured—careful in a way neither of you acknowledges. He still guides you through the steps, still adjusts your posture when needed, still counts under his breath, but the space between you never quite returns to what it was before.
Even when you’re moving across the floor, there’s an awareness sitting underneath every instruction. Like both of you are actively pretending nothing shifted, while simultaneously being unable to forget that it did.
Chan’s voice stays steady, but quieter.
You respond the same way.
It’s not uncomfortable exactly, it is just heavy with everything neither of you are saying.
By the time he finally calls it, the rain outside is still coming down hard—thicker now, tapping steadily against the windows and spilling into the streetlights beyond the glass.
He glances toward it, then back at you, exhaling lightly through his nose.
“Well,” he says, trying for normal, “we’re probably going to have to run to our cars.”
You follow his gaze and let out a small, slightly awkward laugh. “Yeah… I don’t think running is going to do much for either of us at this point.”
He huffs a quiet laugh too, but it doesn’t fully reach either of you the way it usually would.
“No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves right away.
Then he grabs his jacket, and you reach for yours at almost the same time, and even that feels like it carries more weight than it should.
You both end up giving up on the idea of “running.”
By the time you step outside, the rain is too heavy for it to matter anyway—cold, steady, relentless. It hits the pavement in sheets, soaking through the edges of your jackets almost immediately as you walk side by side toward the parking lot at a normal pace, neither of you pretending anymore that urgency will change anything.
When you reach your cars, you both stop without needing to say it. The distance feels slightly awkward now, like the space is doing something neither of you is acknowledging.
“Drive safe,” Chan says first.
“Yeah,” you reply. “You too.”
There’s no hug. No lingering smile. No teasing goodbye like before. Just a brief exchange that feels completely different from the last time you stood in front of each other like this.
You reach for your door handle.
But you don’t get to open it.
Chan’s voice cuts through the rain, sharper than before.
You pause, hand still on your car door, and turn back.
He’s standing there getting soaked, long blonde hair damp now, jacket darkened from the rain, looking less calm than he did a few minutes ago.
There’s a tightness in his expression you haven’t seen before—not anger, but something closer to frustration held too long.
“So are we not going to talk about what just happened in there?” he asks.
You don’t need him to clarify, you know exactly what he means.
You don’t answer right away, because honestly, you don’t know what to say.
The rain keeps falling around you, running cold down your sleeves, but you barely feel it. All of your attention is stuck on him—standing a few feet away, completely drenched, looking like he’s trying not to fall apart and not doing a very good job of it.
Chan exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I know I didn’t imagine that,” he says, voice lower now, more certain. “In there. I know you felt it too.”
Your throat tightens slightly, as he takes a step closer.
The space between you shrinks in the rain.
“Tell me,” he says, and there’s something unguarded in his expression now, something honest in a way you haven’t seen before. “Did you notice? Or did I just—” he lets out a short, almost disbelieving laugh, “—make a fool of myself this whole time?”
You shake your head slightly, still trying to catch up.
He continues anyway, like once it’s started, he can’t stop it.
“I was supposed to meet you once,” he says. “That’s all. That’s what it was supposed to be. You were just—someone I met in a coffee shop. A friend. That’s it.”
“But from the second you walked in… I didn’t want it to just be that.”
His eyes flick away for a second, then back to you, glassy now—not quite tears, but close enough that it changes the air completely.
“I just—” he shakes his head slightly, rain dripping from his hair, “—I didn’t mean to feel like this. I just wanted to meet someone normal. Someone I could talk to. And then you walked in and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore, I just—”
His voice breaks off for a second.
And when he looks at you again, it’s quieter.
“Did you feel it too?” he asks. “Or was I the only one who made this complicated?”
That lands heavier than anything else.
The rain doesn’t stop. It just keeps falling harder around you both as you close the space between.
“Chan,” you say softly, like you’re grounding him.
You reach him, close enough now that you can see how much he’s trying to hold himself together.
And then you don’t overthink it.
You just lean in and kiss him.
It’s gentle at first—uncertain, careful, like you’re both still testing whether this is real or not.
When you pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead almost stays close to yours.
Neither of you speaks for a second.
Then he lets out a quiet, shaky laugh.
“…Okay,” he whispers, like that somehow confirms everything.
And then he kisses you, no hesitation left.
It’s like something inside him finally gives up holding itself together—like everything he’s been swallowing for days, weeks, maybe longer, just breaks open at once. His hand comes up to your face instinctively, pulling you closer like he’s been trying not to do exactly that for far too long.
You don’t hold back either.
All the tension from the studio, the almost-moments, the silence, the late-night calls, the way he looked at you like he was always just one second away from saying something he shouldn’t—it all collapses into this.
It’s heated, unsteady in the best way, like neither of you is remembering how to be careful anymore.
The rain soaks through everything, but neither of you steps away.
His other hand finds your waist, firm, grounding, like he needs to make sure you’re actually there and not something he’s imagined through too many sleepless nights and too many calls that ran too late.
When you finally break apart just enough to breathe, it’s not far.
Foreheads almost touching again, breaths uneven, both of you a little breathless like you ran without moving.
Chan’s eyes stay on yours, softer now—but no less intense.
“I—” he starts, then stops like the word isn’t enough.
You can feel it too clearly now. Not confusion. Not uncertainty.
He exhales, almost laughing at himself, but there’s no humor in it—just disbelief.
“I think I’ve been in trouble since the coffee shop,” he admits quietly.
You let out a small breath, your hands still lightly holding onto him like letting go would undo something neither of you wants undone.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think you have.”
That earns a faint, almost relieved smile from him.
And as the rain falls around you both, you realize that maybe this is exactly what was supposed to happen when you were given that wrong number.
—-----------------------------------------------
A day or so later the air is soft, calm. You’re in Chan’s room again, but this time there’s no rain, no rushed confessions, no chaos in the hallway. Just the two of you, his door shut, the world outside paused for a while. At some point conversation had faded into something easier, and now you’re laying close enough that it stops being “close” and starts being inevitable.
He’s hovering over you slightly again, like he keeps forgetting he doesn’t actually need to keep distance anymore.
You pull back from a kiss just enough to breathe, but you don’t really let go of him. A light push lands on his shoulder, more playful than anything, and your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing lightly along his sides like you’re testing how real this all still feels.
Chan inhales sharply, catching your wrist just for a second—then not stopping you.
“You’re very bold today,” he says, voice low, a little amused.
You tilt your head up at him. “Am I?”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning in again like he can’t help himself.
You laugh softly against his mouth. “You’re the one who keeps leaning in.”
“Because you keep doing that thing,” he says, glancing down at your hands under his shirt, “where you act normal and then do that.”
“I am normal,” you say immediately, far too seriously.
He pauses, then gives you a look.
“You’re literally touching me right now.”
“You’re not complaining,” you point out.
“I’m not,” he admits, far too quickly, then clears his throat like he needs to recover his dignity. “I’m just… observing.”
He leans down again, kissing you once more—this time lighter, teasing, like he’s trying to interrupt your sentence on purpose. When you pull away again, you don’t go far, still smiling.
“You know,” you say, “for someone who acts like he’s in control, you’re kind of really bad at resisting me.”
Chan exhales a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours for a second.
“I’ve noticed,” he says. “It’s becoming a problem.”
“A problem?” you repeat, amused.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing you again briefly, like he can’t stay away for more than a few seconds. “Very distracting problem.”
He kisses you again, between his words.
When he pulls back this time, he’s smiling a little more now—softer, less guarded.
“I’m not good at pretending I don’t like you,” he admits.
You brush your thumb lightly along his jaw, still close.
“Good,” you say. “Because you’re really bad at it.”
It’s mid-kiss—soft, unhurried, Chan braced above you on the bed, one hand planted near your shoulder, the other still lingering at your waist—when the doorknob clicks.
Neither of you reacts fast enough.
Soonyoung walks in mid-sentence, then freezes.
There’s a beat of absolute silence.
Chan jerks so hard he practically falls off the bed.
He lands half on the mattress, half off it, scrambling upright immediately like the floor personally offended him. You, on the other hand, are laughing too hard to sit up properly, covered by the blanket, still trying to process the sheer audacity of what just happened.
Chan is already sitting up, red in the ears. “What are you doing here?”
“I LIVE HERE,” Soonyoung says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he looks between you both again. “Also—hi—hi—okay, I knew she was into you.”
You’re still laughing, wiping at your face slightly as Chan runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to restart his entire existence.
“That is not what you should be focusing on right now,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung ignores him completely.
“I knew it,” he repeats, turning to you now like this is a shared accomplishment. “You two were so weird about each other for weeks. I literally told Minghao this was going to happen.”
At the mention of Minghao, Chan groans louder. “Please stop talking.”
Soonyoung steps further into the room anyway, completely unbothered. “I also want credit for emotional matchmaking because this—” he gestures broadly between you and Chan, still half on the bed, still very much recovering from falling off it, “—this is insane.”
“I think you broke him,” you say lightly.
“I did not break him,” Soonyoung corrects. “He was already like this. I just witnessed it.”
Chan finally stands, pointing toward the door with the kind of exhausted calm that only comes from knowing he lost control of the situation ten seconds ago.
Soonyoung grins. “I’ll go. But just so you know—” he leans back slightly, still smug, “—I was rooting for this.”
Then he leaves, just as casually as he entered.
The door clicks shut again.
Chan stands there for a second, staring at the space Soonyoung just occupied, then slowly turns back toward you.
“…Don’t,” he says immediately.
You laugh softly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he replies.
“I am absolutely thinking it.”
He exhales, then shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming despite himself as he walks back toward the bed.
“You’re never coming over again,” he mutters.
“You say that a lot,” you point out.
He climbs back onto the bed and hovers back over you.
“…And you never listen,” he says softly.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------
