#oddinary hours

"let me see," he murmurs, his voice low and serious. he guides you to the sink, turning on the cold water and holding your hand under the stream. he inspects the tiny cut with the intense focus of a surgeon, his brow furrowed. "okay, apply pressure here. keep it elevated above your heart." he grabs the first aid kit (which he keeps fully stocked) and applies a hello kitty band-aid he bought specifically for you because he thinks it's cute.

while holding the gauze to your finger to stop the bleeding, he starts humming the melody of the demo you were listening to, but he changes the lyrics to be about how the knife is "naughty" and "in time-out." it makes you giggle through the sting.

you are officially banned from the kitchen for the night. he positions you on the counter, kissing your knuckles. "no sharp objects for you for at least 24 hours. i'm serious." he finishes cooking the pancakes himself, feeding you the first bite to make sure you're okay.

two days later, an amazon package arrives. it contains a pair of professional-grade, cut-resistant chef gloves. "put these on," he says, dead serious. "every time you chop. i'm not negotiating."

lee know

it's a lazy sunday morning. minho is already awake, feeding soonie, doongie, and dori. you're still half-asleep, shuffling out of the bedroom in your oversized socks to get water. you're scrolling on your phone, not paying attention to the rug that doongie bunched up earlier. your foot catches, and you go down hard, scraping your knee against the rough carpet and knocking over a stack of magazines.

the crash makes him jump, but when he sees it's just you tripping over air, he sighs. loudly. he doesn't rush over; he saunters, looking down at you with a mix of judgment and concern, hands on his hips. "gravity works, you know. it's a law of physics. you should try respecting it."

despite the sass, he crouches down immediately. his hands are incredibly gentle as he inspects the carpet burn. "you're clumsy," he mutters, but he goes to the bathroom and comes back with antiseptic and a cotton pad. he cleans the scrape with precision, blowing on it softly when the alcohol stings. he wraps it neatly, his touch lingering for a second longer than necessary.

he threatens the rug. literally. he hits the bunched-up fabric. "bad rug. you attacked her. i'm going to feed you to dori." the absurdity of seeing lee know fight a piece of home decor makes you forget your knee is throbbing.

he scolds you the entire time he’s patching you up, but then he goes to the kitchen and makes you a cup of coffee, bringing it to you on the couch. "next time, lift your feet. i'm not carrying you to the hospital if you break a leg." (spoiler: he absolutely would carry you, and he'd probably threaten to fight the rug).

he spends the afternoon aggressively applying double-sided tape to every single rug in the apartment. "try to trip now," he challenges. "the floor is basically glue."

changbin

you're trying to fix a button on his favorite shirt—the one he popped because his arms are getting too big. you're sitting on the sofa, tongue poking out in concentration, trying to push the needle through the thick fabric. the needle slips, pricking your thumb deep enough that a single, bright drop of blood wells up instantly.

he's sitting next to you on his phone, but he sees the flinch. he gasps louder than you do. he physically recoils, his eyes going wide. for a man who loves dark concepts and raps aggressively, he is surprisingly weak to seeing your blood. "ouch! baby! oh my god, that looks deep! are you okay??"

he hovers frantically, hands fluttering around you but afraid to touch the injury. "do we need a doctor? should we ice it?" he looks a little pale. eventually, he grabs a tissue and wraps your entire hand, not just the finger, the whole hand, as if you lost a limb in battle. he holds your hand with both of his, treating it like it's made of glass.

he starts flexing his bicep distractingly close to your face. "look at this instead. don't look at the blood. look at the gainz. is it working? are you distracted?" (it works because he looks ridiculous trying to flex while holding a tissue).

he refuses to let you finish sewing. "leave it. i'll buy a new shirt. it's not worth the bloodshed." he kisses the bandaged finger repeatedly, pouting. "does it still hurt? do you need anything? i'll carry your bag today so you don't strain it."

he buys you a thimble. actually, he buys you five thimbles in different sizes. "wear them on all fingers," he instructs. "like armor."

hyunjin

you ordered some new art supplies for him as a surprise. the box arrives, and you're excited to open it before he gets home. you grab a pair of scissors and try to slide them through the heavy packing tape. the scissors slip, and you get a nasty, stinging paper cut right across your palm from the cardboard edge. you hiss in pain just as hyunjin walks through the door.

he sees you clutching your hand and the box on the floor. his eyes go wide and instantly watery. "nooo! your poor hand!" he drops his bag and rushes over, looking at the tiny, thin cut like it's a personal tragedy of shakespearean proportions. "why is the world so cruel to you??"

he doesn't care about the medical part as much as the emotional comfort. he holds your hand gently, bringing it up to his face to inspect it closely. he kisses your wrist, your uninjured fingers, your palm (avoiding the cut carefully). "i'm so sorry. i bet it stings so bad." he runs to get a band-aid but spends five minutes choosing the cutest pattern because "a boring beige one won't make it feel better."

he starts dramatically re-enacting how he thinks the cardboard attacked you, treating the box like a villain in a movie. "how dare you bite my love! you villainous box!" he pouts until you laugh.

he treats you like a porcelain doll for the rest of the day. he opens the box for you. he opens your water bottle. he opens the door. "don't use that hand! you're injured! just sit there and look pretty while i do everything."

he buys a box cutter with a safety guard and hides all the scissors. "from now on, i open the boxes. i have the reflexes of a dancer. you are too delicate."

han

it's movie night, and you're making popcorn and tea. the kettle whistles, and you reach over to grab it, but you're distracted by jisung yelling at the tv from the other room. your hand brushes against the hot metal of the toaster oven you just used. it's a minor burn, just a red mark, but it stings sharply. "ow!"

panic mode activated. he hears your yelp and comes sprinting into the kitchen, sliding in his socks. "what?? what happened?? are you dying??" he sees you holding your hand and his brain short-circuits. "hot! cold water! where is the water? ice? no, not ice, cool water!" he spins in a circle before realizing the sink is right there.

he drags you to the sink and turns on the tap, holding your hand under it. he's rambling nervously the whole time to distract himself. "i told you that toaster was evil. it’s plotting against us. is it blistering? do we need aloe? i think we have aloe. wait, is that expiration date from 2019?"

he starts telling you a completely nonsensical story about a squirrel he saw earlier that day to keep your mind off the stinging. "it was doing parkour, babe. literally backflips. i think it was training for the olympics."

he makes you sit on the couch with a cold pack while he finishes making the snacks. he keeps glancing over at you with big, guilty boba eyes even though he didn't do it. he refuses to let you near the toaster again for a week. "i'll make the toast. you just sit there and be safe." (he burns the toast, but you eat it anyway because he looks so proud).

he unplugs the toaster oven. "it's in time out." he then goes around the kitchen unplugging everything else that generates heat, just in case.

felix

you're rushing to get ready for a date. you're running around the bedroom looking for your other earring, moving too fast. you turn a corner too sharply and stub your toe violently against the leg of the heavy oak dresser. the pain is blinding for a second, and you let out a strangled cry, hopping on one foot.

felix is sitting on the bed putting on his shoes. he winces immediately, his face scrunching up in genuine sympathy pain. "oh, baby! no! that sounded loud." he's off the bed instantly, his hands reaching out to steady you so you don't fall over.

he guides you to the bed and sits you down. he kneels on the floor to inspect the toe, his touch feather-light and reverent. "is the nail okay? is it throbbing?" he looks genuinely heartbroken that you are in pain. he runs to the kitchen to get an ice pack wrapped in a soft towel.

he uses his deep voice to soothe you, murmuring compliments. "breathe with me. you're so brave. you're doing so good. look at me, sunshine." the rumble of his voice is physically calming.

he glares at the dresser like it personally offended his ancestors. "bad furniture." he massages your foot gently once the pain subsides. later, you catch him trying to subtly shift the dresser a few inches to the left so it's not in the walkway anymore. he brings you a brownie as a "recovery snack" because sugar fixes everything.

the next day, you notice he has put corner guards (the bubbly foam kind meant for babies) on the legs of the dresser. and the nightstand. and the bed frame.

seungmin

seungmin just finished mopping the kitchen floor. he warned you it was wet. he even put a chair in the way as a barrier. but you, distracted by a text, walked right past the chair and slipped. you didn't fall completely, but you caught yourself on the counter hard, bruising your hip and elbow.

he is leaning against the fridge, watching the whole thing happen in slow motion. he doesn't gasp. he just stares at you for a solid three seconds of silence. then he chuckles, a low, dry sound. "i put a chair there. you walked around the chair. to slip on the floor i told you was wet."

despite the roasting, he walks over and helps you straighten up, his grip firm on your arm to steady you. he checks your elbow, pressing on it methodically to make sure nothing is broken. "it's just a bruise. you'll live. but your dignity might not recover from that slide."

he gets you an ice pack but continues to tease you about your lack of coordination for the rest of the night. "do you need a helmet to walk to the bathroom? should i install handrails?" later, when you're cuddling, he rests his hand gently over the bruised hip, protecting it without saying a word.

he immediately pulls up a video on his phone of a penguin falling on ice. "look. twins." you're too busy laughing and hitting his arm to feel the bruise on your hip.

he buys an actual bright yellow "caution: wet floor" sign like janitors use. he sets it up in the kitchen every time he cleans. "since you ignore chairs, maybe you'll respect official signage."

i.n

you're eating dinner together—something crunchy like fried chicken or chips. you're laughing at something he said, and you accidentally bite down hard on your own lip/tongue. the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth instantly, and your eyes water from the sharp pain. you stop chewing abruptly, hand flying to your mouth.

he stops chewing immediately. he grimaces, his nose scrunching up because he knows exactly how much that hurts. "eugh. i felt that. did you bite it hard?"

he hands you his glass of cold water immediately, pushing it into your hand. he watches you intently, his playful maknae vibe gone for a second. "don't talk. just drink. swish it around. let me see?" he leans across the table to inspect the damage, frowning. "it's gonna swell."

he starts making silly faces, puffing out his cheeks or crossing his eyes, trying to make you laugh without opening your mouth. "does it hurt? blink twice for yes. blink three times if i'm handsome."

he realizes you can't eat the crunchy food anymore because it hurts. without asking, he swaps his bowl of mashed potatoes or soup with your plate of fried chicken. "eat the soft stuff. i'll eat the chicken." it's a quiet, practical sacrifice, but he steals glances at you to make sure you aren't still in pain.

The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Minho chopping vegetables in the kitchen. It was a domestic sound, usually comforting—a signal that the day was over and safety had begun—but tonight it felt like a countdown. The scent of sesame oil and stew filled the air, rich and warm, but it only made the nausea churn violently in your stomach.

You sat on the living room couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, trying to make yourself as physically small as possible. You had angled your body carefully away from the open-concept kitchen, keeping your hair draped over the left side of your face like a heavy, protective curtain. You stared at the turned-off TV screen, watching the reflection of the room behind you, waiting for the inevitable.

"Dinner in ten," Minho called out. His voice was light, casual, humming with the satisfaction of a man who enjoys feeding his people. "Doongie is trying to steal the beef, so it might be nine."

"Okay," you replied. You flinched internally before the word even fully left your lips. Your voice came out strained, a little too high, a little too brittle—a cracked note in a perfect melody.

The chopping stopped instantly.

The silence that followed was deafening, heavier than any shout. You squeezed your eyes shut, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You knew Lee Minho. You knew that he noticed everything, a shift in the wind, a change in your breathing pattern, a tone that was half an octave off. He could read the atmosphere of a room before he even stepped fully into it.

"Y/n?"

His footsteps were silent on the hardwood floor. He didn't stomp; he prowled. There was no warning sound, just the sudden, overwhelming pressure of his presence shifting from the kitchen to the living room. You felt him standing behind the couch before you saw him—a radiating heat, a sudden static in the air. A hand, warm and firm, rested on your shoulder. It wasn't a comfort; it was an anchor.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. It was a command wrapped in velvet, low and absolute.

You hesitated, gripping your knees tighter, and that was your second mistake. Minho didn't wait. He moved around the sofa with fluid, predatory grace, crouching down in front of you so he was eye-level. He reached out, his fingers gentle but unyielding, and tucked the curtain of hair behind your ear.

The exposure felt like a burn. The bruise was blooming across your cheekbone, an ugly mottling of deep purple and sickly yellow that stood out starkly against your pale skin, accompanied by a small, jagged cut at the corner of your lip where the skin had split.

The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. The warmth of the kitchen vanished, replaced by a cold, suffocating vacuum.

Minho didn't gasp. He didn't shout. He went terrifyingly, completely still. His eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or softened by affection, turned completely black. The pupil dilated until there was no iris left, just a void of cold, calculating fury. It was the look of something ancient and dangerous waking up.

He reached out, his thumb hovering over the bruise, shaking slightly. Not from fear, not from disgust, but from the Herculean effort of restraining his own violence. He traced the outline of the injury without actually touching it, as if mapping the pain onto his own soul.

"Who did this to you?"

His voice was a low rumble, barely a whisper, but it vibrated through your bones. It was the voice of a predator realizing something had dared to touch what was his. It wasn't a question of if there would be consequences, but when.

"Minho, it was just an accident," you lied, your voice trembling, desperation clawing at your throat. "I fell at the station, the stairs were slippery—"

"Don't," he cut you off. His gaze snapped to yours, sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't lie to me. Not about this. That is not a fall. That is a hand."

He stood up slowly, the domesticity of the evening shattered beyond repair. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. For a moment, he looked like a stranger, someone capable of burning the world down just to keep you warm, someone who would paint the streets red to ensure you never bled again.

"I asked a question," he said, his jaw clenching, a muscle jumping frantically in his cheek. "And I won't ask it again. Who?"

lee know

he sends you random photos of his cats with weird, nonsensical captions just to distract you from a bad day at work or university.

if you’re sick, he’ll cook enough food to feed a small army and then act like it was just leftovers he didn't want to waste.

he’ll sit in the same room as you and read a book in silence, making sure you don't feel lonely without forcing you to interact.

you’ll wake up to find your laundry folded, your favorite meal in the fridge, and your water bottle refilled with electrolytes.

your calm, undemanding presence is what helps him drop his guard and admit that he actually feels terrible when he's sick and prickly.

him grumbling that your hands are too cold, but then reaching out to pull them against his chest to warm them up anyway.

changbin

he uses his "binnie" aegyo only for you when he sees you’re getting too serious or stressed, just to make you crack a smile.

if someone is bothering you, he’ll stand just a little closer to you, letting his physical presence do all the talking so you feel safe.

he’ll give you a piggyback ride to the couch if your legs are tired or if you’re feeling too lazy to move after a long day.

he’s the first one to tell you how proud he is of you for even the smallest achievements on your "bad days."

you provide the "unlimited" affection he craves. when he’s feeling down, you let him cling to you as much as he wants.

you holding him during a rare quiet moment, letting him ramble about his insecurities until he falls asleep mid-sentence because he feels so secure with you.

hyunjin

he’ll draw little sketches of you on the margins of his lyrics sheets and give them to you as "healing charms" when you're feeling low.

if you’re upset, he’ll go out and buy a single flower that reminded him of you, presenting it dramatically like a scene from a romantic drama.

he’ll let you use his shoulder as a pillow during long car rides, and even if his arm falls asleep, he won't move an inch.

if you’re hurt, he’ll make your room look like a spa; dim lighting, soft blankets, and your favorite scents.

you listen to his long explanations of why he's upset without judgment, and then you gently stroke his hair while he cries it out.

sharing a pair of earbuds in the dark, listening to a slow playlist while he traces patterns on the back of your hand.

han

he creates custom playlists for every "mood" you might have; one for when you’re angry, one for when you’re crying, and one for when you just need a hug.

if you’re feeling antisocial, he’ll order your favorite takeout and set up a blanket fort in the living room for a "no-talking" movie marathon.

he’ll share his favorite hoodies with you, claiming they "smell like him" so you won't feel lonely when he's away on tour.

if you're stuck in bed, he’ll bring his laptop over and you’ll spend hours watching bad movies or gaming together.

when he retreats into his "blanket nest," you don't try to pull him out. you just crawl in with him and bring snacks that are easy to eat.

a quiet "thank you for staying" whispered into your shoulder when the lights are off and the rest of the dorm is asleep.

felix

he’ll leave little post-it notes with motivational quotes in his messy but cute handwriting on your mirror or laptop.

if you have a nightmare, he’ll talk to you in his lowest, softest voice until your heart rate slows down and you fall back asleep.

he’ll hold your hand under the table during busy group dinners if he notices you’re getting overwhelmed by the noise.

pure warmth. he’ll make you his signature brownies and hand-deliver them with a side of "deep-voice" bedtime stories.

you remind him that he doesn't have to be the sunshine for everyone today. you take care of the "heavy" emotions for him.

him tucking his face into the crook of your neck and letting out a long, shaky breath as he finally lets his "happy mask" slip.

seungmin

he’ll hum your favorite songs softly while you’re trying to sleep, his voice acting like a natural lullaby to calm your mind.

if you’re struggling with something, he’ll sit down and help you work through it logically, taking the mental load off your shoulders.

he’ll tease the other members if they’re being too loud while you’re resting, acting like the dorm’s self-appointed "quiet police."

he might tease you for being "clumsy" or "weak," but his eyes are full of genuine concern the entire time he’s fixing your problem.

when he’s pushing himself too hard, you’ll "accidentally" need his help with something that requires him to sit down and relax.

him finally admitting he's tired by resting his chin on your shoulder and letting out a tiny, soft sigh that only you can hear.

i.n

he’ll give you his "bread" cheeks to squish whenever you’re feeling stressed, knowing it’s your favorite way to decompress.

if you’re sad, he’ll stay by your side and offer you his favorite stuffed animals, insisting they have magical healing powers.

he’ll send you silly selfies with weird filters throughout the day just to remind you that he’s thinking of you.

he uses his youthful energy to keep you from sinking too deep into a bad mood. he’ll be extra "cute" or clingy just because he knows it makes you smile.

you treat him like the adult he is, while still giving him the "maknae treatment" he secretly loves.