#soft coverage

The arena is already shaking before he even comes on.

You feel it through the concrete floor backstage, through the metal bench you’re perched on, through your ribs. Bass thumps like a second heartbeat. Someone nearby is counting down under their breath. A stagehand jogs past, radio crackling.

Then the lights drop.

The scream that follows is deafening.

You lift your head instinctively, eyes snapping to the monitor mounted on the wall. For a split second, it’s just darkness and noise—then the spotlight hits center stage.

Han Taesan steps into it like he was born there.

The crowd loses its mind.

He’s dressed in black, of course. Guitar slung low, jacket hanging loose, hair already a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it. He grins as the noise crests, head tipping back slightly as if he’s soaking it in.

You smile despite yourself.

That’s him. That stupid, unreal confidence. The way he doesn’t rush the moment, lets them scream until they’re breathless before he even says a word.

“Good evening,” he says into the mic, voice smooth, teasing.

The reaction is feral.

You shake your head softly, fond. You’ve seen this a hundred times—soundchecks, rehearsals, smaller venues before the tours got bigger, louder. Still, there’s something about seeing him like this, commanding thousands of people at once, that makes your chest feel tight in the best way.

He launches into the first song, and the arena moves with him.

Lights strobe. The crowd jumps. He paces the stage like it’s an extension of himself, voice roughening on the chorus, eyes sharp and alive. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt almost immediately.

You lean closer to the screen without realizing it.

Halfway through the set, you notice the shift.

It’s subtle—just a glance toward the edge of the stage, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. You know that look. You’ve seen it when he’s about to do something reckless. Something he knows will make people lose it.

“Oh no,” you murmur.

Sure enough, he jogs toward the front, still singing, and before security can fully close in, he hops down into the pit.

The scream that erupts is almost painful.

The camera scrambles to follow him, the image shaking as he lands right against the barricade. He doesn’t miss a note. He leans in close to the crowd, mic in one hand, the other braced casually against the railing.

Hands reach for him instantly.

At first it’s just fingertips brushing his arm, grabbing at his sleeve like proof he’s real. You tense, eyes glued to the screen.

Then it escalates.

Someone’s hand slides along his forearm and stays there. Another grips the side of his jacket, tugging him closer. Fingers flatten briefly against his chest, right over his heart.

Your stomach twists.

Taesan laughs into the mic.

Not nervous. Not uncomfortable. He laughs like he’s enjoying himself, like the attention is a current he knows how to ride. He leans closer, voice dropping lower as he sings directly into the crowd, eyes half-lidded, dangerous and playful all at once.

You straighten, arms crossing tight over your chest.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He lets it happen—lets them touch him, lets the moment stretch, feeds off the noise as the crowd screams his name like they own it. Someone grabs his sleeve again, bolder this time, and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

He smirks.

Your jaw clenches.

You tell yourself it’s fine. This is what being a rockstar looks like. This is the line between performer and audience blurring, the intimacy people pay for. Still, jealousy sparks hot and bright in your chest, impossible to ignore.

That’s your boyfriend.

The camera zooms in just as he tilts his head back, singing the last line of the chorus with his eyes closed, hands still within reach of strangers.

You look away for half a second—then force yourself to look back.

Finally, he pushes off the barricade, laughing breathlessly as security closes in. He vaults back onto the stage in one smooth motion, barely breaking stride. The crowd roars even louder, victorious.

He finishes the song glowing, triumphant, completely at ease.

You are not.

Backstage, someone cheers. Someone else claps. You stay silent, eyes still fixed on the screen as he blows a kiss into the crowd and moves on to the next song like nothing just happened.

He comes offstage buzzing.

You hear him before you see him—laughter, breathless talking, the scrape of boots on concrete. The curtain shifts and then he’s there, flushed and glowing and grinning like the night personally did him a favor.

“Did you hear that crowd?” Taesan says to no one in particular, tugging an in-ear loose. “They were insane—”

Then his eyes land on you.

His grin softens automatically. Like muscle memory.

“There you are,” he says, voice dropping into that familiar warmth. He starts toward you without thinking, arms opening just a little. “I was looking for—”

You don’t let him finish.

You grab his wrist.

Not rough. Just firm enough to stop him short.

He blinks, surprised. “Uh—hi?”

You turn on your heel and start walking.

“Wait,” he laughs, stumbling a half-step to keep up. “Where are we—?”

You don’t answer. You just keep pulling him down the hallway, past open doors and road cases and people who are too busy to question it. Someone calls his name. Someone else gives you a knowing look.

Taesan’s still laughing, confused but clearly entertained. “Okay, okay, I know I did great, but this feels aggressive.”

You find the storage closet and shove the door open. He barely has time to react before you tug him inside and shut it behind you.

The noise of backstage dulls to a muffled hum.

Taesan leans back against the wall, breathless now for an entirely different reason. He looks at you, eyes bright, lips still curved in a smile.

“…What was that for?”

You stare at him.

He waits.

You wait longer.

His smile starts to falter. “Why are you looking at me like that.”

“Oh, now you notice,” you say.

He squints. “Notice what?”

“You,” you snap. “Being very friendly with your fans.”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then—slowly—a grin creeps back in. “Ohhh.”

“Ohhh nothing,” you say. “You were letting them touch you.”

“I was in the crowd,” he says reasonably. “That happens.”

“They had their hands all over you.”

“They were excited.”

“You laughed,” you accuse. “You leaned in. You did that stupid little smirk.”

“My stupid little smirk?” he repeats, offended. “That smirk has a name.”

“Yeah?” you challenge. “What is it.”

He thinks. “Fan service.”

You scoff. “I hate fan service.”

He laughs outright now. “You loved fan service when it was paying for dinner.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It wasn’t them grabbing you like you were—” you gesture vaguely, frustrated “—like you were up for grabs.”

He steps closer, hands sliding easily onto your waist, thumbs settling like they’ve always belonged there. His tone softens, but the teasing spark stays.

“I wasn’t up for grabs,” he says. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point.”

He tilts his head. “What is the point, then?”

You glare up at him. “You enjoyed it.”

He doesn’t deny it immediately. That alone tells you everything.

“…It’s loud,” he says finally. “It’s a rush. It’s not personal.”

“Didn’t look very impersonal when that one person had their hand on your chest.”

He winces. “Okay, yeah, that one was—”

“Bold.”

“Very bold.”

You cross your arms. “You didn’t stop them.”

He sighs, smiling despite himself. “You’re jealous.”

“I am observant.”

“You’re jealous,” he repeats, delighted.

“I’m territorial.”

“That too.”

You step closer, invading his space on purpose. “They don’t know you. They don’t get to touch you like that.”

His grip on your waist tightens just a fraction. He’s staring at you now, something soft and unmistakably lovestruck settling into his expression.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I could hear ten thousand people screaming my name out there.”

“And yet?”

“And yet this is scarier,” he finishes, smiling.

You fight the urge to smile back. “You think this is funny.”

“I think,” he says, leaning in, “that you dragging me into a closet because you’re mad I’m hot is kind of adorable.”

“I’m not mad you’re hot,” you snap. “I’m mad other people noticed.”

He laughs, low and fond. “That’s worse.”

“You’re mine,” you say, firm.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats easily. “Han Taesan. Boyfriend. Taken.”

You search his face for smugness—but all you find is sincerity, steady and warm.

“…Still annoying,” you mutter.

He grins. “Still jealous.”

A knock echoes faintly through the door.

“Taesan,” someone calls. “We need you.”

He sighs dramatically but doesn’t move, eyes still locked on yours, hands still warm on your waist.

“See?” he says softly. “World wants me.”

“And?”

“And I want you,” he finishes. “Even when you’re glaring at me.”

You roll your eyes—but you don’t pull away.

The knock comes again, louder this time.

“Taesan,” the voice says. “For real. Two minutes.”

He glances at the door, then back at you, entirely unbothered. “They’re impatient tonight.”

You snort. “Shock.”

“They miss me,” he adds smugly.

“Oh my god.”

He laughs, then stills when you step closer again. Really close this time. Close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows that only shows when he’s paying attention.

“Don’t get cocky,” you say. “You were this close to being in serious trouble.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“For… existing?”

“For letting strangers act like they had a claim on you.”

Something in his expression shifts—not defensive, not dismissive. Thoughtful. He tightens his hands on your waist, grounding you both again.

“They don’t,” he says. “You know they don’t.”

You nod once. “Still didn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he says gently. “That’s fair.”

You blink. “…That’s it?”

He smiles. “What, you wanted me to argue?”

“A little,” you admit. “So I could win.”

He laughs. “You’re already winning.”

You roll your eyes, then reach up, fingers brushing over his shoulder. You kiss the fabric of his jacket there—deliberate, unmistakable.

“That’s where someone grabbed you,” you mutter.

His breath catches. “You’re keeping track?”

“I have eyes.”

You kiss his arm next. Then his chest, right over his heart, like you’re drawing invisible lines only you’re allowed to cross.

“They don’t get to leave anything behind,” you say. “No memories. No claims. No—”

You look up at him.

“No this.”

He’s staring at you like you just rewired his brain.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, awed.

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he corrects. “You get all intense and bossy.”

“I am not bossy.”

“You dragged me into a closet.”

“Because you deserved it.”

He laughs softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “You know what I was thinking out there?”

You squint. “If this is about the crowd—”

“I was thinking,” he interrupts, “that I can’t wait to tell you about it after.”

You pause. “Why?”

“Because you always listen,” he says simply. “You don’t scream. You don’t grab. You just… see me.”

The jealousy loosens its grip, just a little.

Still—you tilt your head. “You still enjoyed it.”

He hums. “I enjoyed performing.”

“Liar.”

He grins. “Okay, fine. I enjoyed being wanted.”

You huff. “Unbelievable.”

“But,” he adds quickly, squeezing your waist, “being chosen is better.”

You look at him then—really look. No stage lights. No crowd. Just him, warm and familiar and entirely yours.

“You’re mine,” you say again, quieter but firmer.

His smile turns soft around the edges. Lovestruck. Gone.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hell yeah I am.”

You kiss his lips then—brief but certain. Not rushed. Not shy. Just enough to make your point.

When you pull back, he’s smiling like he just won something important.

“Han Taesan,” he says, mock-serious. “Property of one very jealous person.”

You scoff. “Watch it.”

He laughs, then nods toward the door. “Come stand side-stage with me.”

“So I can supervise?”

“So I can behave,” he says, eyes glinting. “Because I know you’re watching.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the door, “you’re coming with me.”

The noise floods back in as the door opens. The tour rolls on. The world waits.

But his hand stays firmly on your waist as you step out together.

And this time?

Everyone can tell who he belongs to.

creds: gradient lace by @cursed-carmine, red line by @bhavihelps, hearts by @uzmacchiato, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haeonniie ⸝⸝ @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

Winter arrives quietly.

It slips into the city without asking permission, frosting rooftops and sidewalks, softening the sharp edges of everything familiar. Strings of golden lights loop around lampposts and storefronts, blinking patiently as though they know people will eventually look up. The air smells like sugar and coffee and cold metal—December in its truest form.

You notice it most at night.

From your apartment window, the street below glows with reflected light, snow catching on coats and hair, laughter curling up into the dark like smoke. You press your palm to the glass, feeling the chill seep through, and think—absentmindedly, achingly—this would be prettier if Martin were here.

The thought settles in your chest and refuses to move.

Martin has always loved winter in theory.

He likes the idea of it—the aesthetics, the warmth people find in each other, the way cold weather gives everyone an excuse to be closer. But in practice, winter means longer rehearsals, year-end performances, travel that leaves him exhausted and half-asleep in the back of vans with his hood pulled over his eyes.

This December is no different.

Every time you meet him, it’s between schedules: ten minutes in a practice room hallway, a rushed coffee before he disappears again, late-night messages when neither of you can sleep. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve always understood his world.

Still, understanding doesn’t make the quiet less loud.

On the first real snowfall, you’re alone in your kitchen, stirring cocoa on the stove. The radio hums softly in the background, some cheerful holiday song playing that makes you roll your eyes and smile despite yourself. Outside, flakes drift lazily past the window, thick and slow, like the sky is taking its time.

Your phone buzzes on the counter.

Martin: Guess what.

You grin, already warming.

You: You finally escaped rehearsal?

Martin: No 😔 Martin: But it’s snowing outside the studio. The big kind.

You imagine him there: leaning against the window, hair slightly damp from practice, eyes softer than usual as he watches the world slow down for once.

You: You always said you liked snow.

Martin: I like it better when I can share it.

The spoon in your hand stills.

You swallow, heart tightening just a little.

You: Come over, then.

Minutes pass. You don’t expect a yes. You already know the answer before it comes.

Martin: I wish.

You turn the stove off and stand there for a long moment, cocoa forgotten, the apartment suddenly feeling too big and too empty. Outside, the snow keeps falling—unbothered, unapologetic.

As Christmas approaches, the world gets louder.

Shopping bags pile up by doors. Children tug at their parents’ sleeves, pointing at lights and decorations with wide-eyed wonder. Everyone asks the same question with the same expectant smile: What do you want for Christmas?

You never know how to answer.

Because the truth is simple to the point of absurdity. You don’t want anything shiny or expensive or wrapped in paper. You don’t care about stockings or ornaments or what’s waiting under the tree.

You just want Martin.

You want him sprawled on your couch, stealing the warmest blanket. You want his cold hands tucked into your sleeves. You want his laughter echoing through your apartment, warm and familiar and real.

You want him here.

Christmas Eve arrives wrapped in silence.

Snow has piled up along the sidewalks, turning the city into something almost unreal. Your apartment glows softly—tree lights twinkling, candles flickering gently on the table. You’ve gone all out despite yourself, like part of you still believes magic might show up if you prepare for it.

You hang mistletoe in the doorway and laugh at your own foolishness.

“Like that’s going to work,” you murmur to yourself.

Your phone lies face-up on the coffee table. No new messages.

You try to distract yourself—folding laundry that doesn’t need folding, adjusting ornaments that are already perfectly straight. Outside, bells ring somewhere in the distance. Children laugh. The world feels full.

Your apartment does not.

You’re standing beneath the mistletoe, arms crossed, when doubt finally creeps in. Maybe this is just how it is. Maybe loving someone means accepting their absence, especially during moments meant to be shared.

Then—

A knock.

It’s soft at first. Almost hesitant.

Your heart stutters.

Another knock follows, louder, more certain.

You don’t breathe as you cross the room. You don’t think. You just open the door.

Cold air rushes in—and with it, Martin.

He stands on your doorstep, hair dusted with snow, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His coat is half-zipped, scarf wrapped crookedly around his neck—the one you gave him, the one he wears even when it doesn’t match.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then he exhales, laughing breathlessly. “Hi.”

Your chest aches.

“You’re—” You stop, because words feel too small.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m late. And I’m probably insane for coming out in this weather.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “What are you doing here?”

His gaze softens completely.

“I didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize I missed this,” he says. “I don’t care about the presents. Or the tree. Or anything else.” He takes a step closer. “I just wanted you.”

The door closes behind him, sealing out the cold. Your apartment feels warmer instantly, like it recognizes him.

You don’t remember who moves first—but suddenly his arms are around you, strong and familiar, pulling you close. His coat is cold, but his body is warm, solid, real.

You press your face into his scarf and breathe him in.

“This,” Martin murmurs against your hair, holding you tighter, “is all I need.”

The lights glow softly around you. Snow continues to fall outside. And for the first time all season, your heart is quiet.

Christmas, you realize, has already arrived.

creds: heart by @anitalerina, snow lines by @saradika-graphics, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the user directory to be added!!]

By the time you decide that cooking will be the best possible way to confess to Kim Woonhak, the sun is already lowering behind the buildings outside your kitchen window. The evening light stretches across the counter in long warm bands, illuminating the evidence of your decision: flour dusted everywhere, a mixing bowl that is slightly too full, a stick of butter that has softened more than intended, and a recipe open on your phone that you have reread so many times the instructions have started to lose meaning.

This plan exists because of one very specific observation.

Kim Woonhak loves food.

He doesn’t just like it in the casual way most people do. He lights up around it. He remembers flavors and places and ingredients with an enthusiasm that makes every conversation about snacks feel like a discovery. You have watched him interrupt stories because someone nearby opened a lunch container. You have seen him become deeply invested in arguments about seasoning powders and noodle textures. During group study sessions he will wander off mid-problem if someone mentions they brought homemade desserts.

Once, a few months ago, someone at the next table opened a container of fried rice and he immediately leaned over with the curiosity of a detective following a lead.

“Homemade?” he asked.

When they said yes, his entire face brightened in a way that felt almost ridiculous for fried rice.

You remember thinking at the time that if anyone ever wanted to impress him, food would probably work.

Your friend, who has been observing the current situation with great skepticism, clearly does not think this is the logical path forward.

“You know,” they say while leaning against the counter and watching you measure flour for the second time, “there is a much simpler way to confess to someone.”

You continue stirring the batter with intense focus.

“You could tell him you like him.”

You glance up briefly.

“That sounds terrifying.”

Your friend gestures toward the kitchen.

“And this doesn’t?”

“It’s strategic,” you say firmly, even though the batter looks suspiciously thinner than the recipe suggested.

They peer into the bowl.

“Are they supposed to look like that?”

“They look fine.”

“They look… enthusiastic.”

You ignore that comment and keep mixing. The recipe insists the cookies are easy. The recipe is extremely optimistic. Somewhere along the way you become fairly certain you used a slightly incorrect measurement for sugar, and the scoops of dough end up larger than the recipe recommended because the tablespoon you grabbed might actually be a serving spoon.

When the tray slides into the oven, you crouch in front of the glass door with your friend beside you, both of you watching the dough begin to spread.

Your friend tilts their head.

“Are they supposed to spread that much?”

“They’re supposed to spread a little.”

“That looks like a lot more than a little.”

The cookies eventually come out golden but very flat. A few have merged together as if they lost interest in personal space halfway through baking. One of them looks vaguely like a strange geographic shape.

Your friend pokes the edge of one carefully.

“Are we sure this is the right color?”

You taste a small piece and consider the flavor.

It’s sweet, slightly caramelized from where the sugar browned more than intended, and softer than you expected.

“…It’s good,” you decide.

Your friend raises an eyebrow.

“Is it good or is it ‘I’ve spent two hours on this so it has to be good’?”

You take another bite, thinking more carefully.

“No, it’s actually good.”

They still look doubtful but step aside when you start arranging the cookies in a container. You stack them in a way that hides the slightly chaotic shapes. Once the lid snaps shut, the whole idea suddenly feels real in a way that makes your stomach flip.

The next afternoon you carry the container in your bag like it contains something fragile.

Your friend walks beside you toward the park where everyone usually gathers after school. It’s the same place people always end up when no one has specific plans: a slightly uneven stretch of grass with worn benches and a broken vending machine that has been out of order for months.

You spot Woonhak and his friends immediately.

They’re sitting in their usual loose circle on the grass. Sungho is explaining something animatedly while Jaehyun laughs beside him. Riwoo appears to be reenacting something that happened in class with exaggerated movements while Taesan watches with the patient expression of someone used to this kind of chaos. Leehan sits slightly apart on the bench scrolling through his phone but occasionally glances up to comment.

Woonhak is sitting near the center with an open bag of chips beside him, passionately arguing about snack seasoning like it is a very serious topic.

Your steps slow.

Your friend notices immediately and nudges your shoulder.

“You’re not allowed to run away.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re walking like my cat does when we walk to the vet's office.”

Before you can respond, Woonhak looks up.

His face brightens the moment he spots you.

“Hey!” he calls.

Something in your chest flips at the easy warmth in his voice. The others greet you casually, shifting to make room in the circle. You sit down, trying to focus on breathing normally while the conversation continues around you.

It only takes about thirty seconds before Woonhak notices the corner of the container in your bag.

His attention sharpens immediately.

“What’s that?”

You hesitate briefly before pulling it out.

“It’s something I made.”

The reaction is immediate.

“You made food?” he says, leaning closer with obvious curiosity.

Sungho peers over his shoulder while Jaehyun looks equally interested.

“Is it for everyone?” Jaehyun asks hopefully.

Woonhak points at the container with mock seriousness.

“Important question. Is it sharing food or is it specifically-for-me food?”

You glance at him and then at the others watching the exchange.

“It’s for you.”

The group erupts into protests about fairness, but Woonhak ignores them completely. He takes the container carefully and opens it with the focused attention of someone unwrapping a gift.

Inside, the cookies sit in their slightly unusual shapes.

“They’re homemade,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed.

“They’re a little experimental,” you admit.

He studies one of the cookies with interest.

“This one looks like a map.”

“That’s because two of them fused together,” your friend whispers in your ear, snorting.

Woonhak takes a bite.

You watch his expression nervously as he chews.

Your friend leans toward you and whispers that if he collapses they will both deny involvement. The moment stretches just long enough for your nerves to spike.

Then Woonhak’s eyebrows lift slightly and a smile spreads across his face.

“These are really good.”

The relief that floods through you is immediate.

“Really?”

“They’re soft,” he says, already reaching for another one. “And the edges taste kind of caramelized.”

“That’s because the sugar almost burned,” your friend mutters again, causing you to lightly nudge them.

Woonhak laughs at that and takes another bite anyway.

His friends watch him with growing disbelief.

“You’re not even going to share?” Sungho asks.

“These were clearly a gift,” Woonhak replies with great seriousness. “It would be disrespectful to ignore that.”

He glances back at you then, still smiling, and something about the way he looks at you makes your nerves shift into something warmer.

“You made these yourself?”

You nod.

“I remembered you like desserts.”

Leehan looks up from his phone.

“He talks about desserts every day.”

Woonhak nudges him lightly with his shoulder before turning back to you.

“Well, I’m really glad you did,” he says.

For a moment you just sit there while he eats another cookie, clearly enjoying it, and the simple happiness in his expression makes your courage return. You take a small breath.

“I was actually hoping I could cook for you again sometime.”

He looks at you with interest.

“Again?”

“Maybe we could get lunch together,” you continue, trying to keep your voice steady. “Or cook something together. I just thought it might be fun.”

The group grows quieter as the meaning settles.

Woonhak stares at you for a second before a slow grin spreads across his face, the kind that starts in his eyes.

“Wait,” he says softly. “Is this your way of asking me out?”

Your ears feel warm.

“…Maybe.”

He laughs quietly, clearly pleased, and leans back slightly on his hands.

“I was wondering how long it would take you.”

You blink.

“What?”

He shrugs a little, looking almost sheepish.

“You keep bringing me snacks during study sessions and asking about what food I like. I figured you were either planning something… or conducting a very detailed food survey.”

Your friend makes a quiet choking sound beside you.

“And you didn’t say anything?” you ask.

“I liked seeing what you’d come up with,” he admits, smiling again. “Also I was hoping you’d ask me out first.”

Your brain takes a second to process that.

“So… you wanted me to?”

“Of course,” he says easily. “I’ve wanted to hang out with you properly for a while.”

Behind him, Jaehyun groans dramatically.

“You both took this long to figure it out?”

Riwoo points accusingly.

“I told you they liked each other.”

Woonhak ignores them and reaches into the container again before holding one cookie toward you.

“You should have one too,” he says.

You take it, smiling despite the chaos around you.

“So that’s a yes?” you ask.

He looks at you like the answer is obvious.

“That’s a very enthusiastic yes.”

Then he adds, with the same bright excitement he had earlier,

“But next time we’re cooking together. If you’re going to confess with food, I feel like I should contribute.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You cook?”

“Not yet,” he admits, grinning. “But I’m very motivated now.”

The late afternoon sun turns the park warm and golden while his friends continue arguing about the cookies beside you. Woonhak sits comfortably next to you, still smiling as he reaches for another one, and the ease between you makes the whole plan feel less like a risky confession and more like the beginning of something you both had been waiting for.

creds: lace by @cursed-carmine, cookies by @dividersnook11, line by @angeliicide, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The door clicks softly when it opens, almost hesitant, like it knows the hour is too late— or too early— to be making noise, especially the dreaded chime of the keypad.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, a blanket tangled around your legs, your sweatpants rolled up to you knees as if you were a pirate, the TV long gone to a silent, dim screen and the blare of your playlist in the background.

You squint up at the ceiling, eyes barely open, as another heavy metal track crashes into your skull like it personally hates you.

“Who the fuck—” you mumble hoarsely, not even finishing the sentence.

Curse Spotify's autoplay feature.

The only light left is the small lamp in the corner, sat on the side table casting a warm, tired glow over the horrendously disorganised room you swore you’d clean before he got back. A hoodie is half hanging off the armrest, a mug sits abandoned near the edge of the table, and there’s something on the counter you definitely meant to eat hours ago.

Guess that's out the window.

Your phone rests on your chest, screen dark now, though you remember watching, waiting for that last message.

Landed.

You must’ve drifted off after that.

There’s a soft click at the door. You hear it and register it, but your brain, still foggy and sleep-heavy, doesn’t fully process it. It just files it somewhere in the background between the music and your slow, blinking thoughts.

Then a thud follows—muted, like something heavy being dropped without much care left to give—and your brows pinch faintly as you shift, turning your head just a little while the music continues to blare like nothing important is happening at all.

A few slow steps follow, dragging and uneven, like whoever’s walking hasn’t quite remembered how walking works yet. There’s a pause after that, long enough to feel deliberate, and then—

“...seriously?”

His voice cuts clean through the noise, low and rough and so tired it almost sounds offended.

Your brain finally catches up.

Oh.

Before you can even react, the music abruptly cuts off mid-scream, leaving the room in sudden, blessed silence that settles over everything like a weight. You exhale without meaning to, shoulders loosening slightly as the quiet sinks in.

“Thank—” you start, voice scratchy and half-formed, but the word dies in your throat as the couch dips beside you.

Warmth presses in behind you almost immediately, an arm sliding around your waist before you can fully turn, pulling you back into something solid and familiar. The movement is slow, unhurried, but certain—like he already knows exactly how you’ll fit.

You let out a quiet, surprised breath. “…Sungho.”

A soft hum answers you, right against the back of your shoulder, low and warm and there.

“I’m home.”

His voice is quieter now, closer, the words brushing against your skin as he settles in. You shift slightly, just enough to glance back at him, and yeah—he looks exactly how he sounds. Exhausted in a way that goes past surface-level tired, hair messy, uniform wrinkled, eyes barely open like he’s running on muscle memory alone.

“You turned it off,” you mumble, blinking at him.

“Was hurting me,” he replies immediately, like that was a personal attack.

You huff out a weak laugh. “It was hurting me too.”

“Why was it on?”

“Spotify betrayed me.”

“Mm. I’ll file a complaint.”

There’s something so dry about the way he says it that your smile lingers for a second longer than it should— but it softens almost immediately when his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer like he’s already done talking for the night.

He presses his face into the back of your shoulder, breath warm and slow, and just stays there—no rush, no explanation, just quiet presence. You can feel the way he breathes you in, steady and grounding, like he’s been missing something he couldn’t quite name until now.

Your hand lifts without thinking, fingers slipping into his hair, and the reaction is immediate. He exhales, long and quiet, his entire body relaxing like something just clicked back into place. The tension drains out of him in a way that’s almost visible, his shoulders dropping as he leans further into you.

“Tired?” you murmur.

A soft sound hums against your shoulder. “Missed you,” he corrects, voice barely above a whisper now.

You smile, eyes falling shut for a second. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I can tell.”

He shifts closer— if that’s even possible— his grip firming just slightly around your waist. His fingers curl faintly into your shirt, like he needs something to hold onto, something solid after hours of nothing but distance.

Your hand keeps moving through his hair, slow and gentle, and he leans into it like he’s been waiting for it.

“Did you sleep?” you ask after a moment.

“A bit.”

“You’re lying.”

“Mm.”

“Sungho.”

There’s a pause before he answers, quieter this time, like the truth slips out before he can stop it. “Couldn’t. Not properly.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

His fingers tighten just a fraction where they’re curled into your shirt. “…bed’s too big without you.”

The words land gently, but they settle deep. You don’t tease him, don’t laugh—you just shift closer, pressing back into him as your hand softens in his hair, thumb brushing lightly against his scalp.

“Then sleep now,” you murmur. “You’re home.”

A quiet hum follows, softer than before— relieved.

His arm slides from your waist to your stomach, pulling you in tighter, like he’s making sure you stay exactly where you are. His face tucks deeper into your neck, breath warm and steady against your skin, and you tug the blanket up over his shoulders, smoothing it down instinctively.

“Did you eat?” you ask.

There’s a beat before he answers. “…no.”

You sigh, already expecting it. “Sungho—”

“Don’t,” he mumbles, voice lower now, slower, already slipping toward sleep. “Later.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he beats you to it.

“Five minutes,” he adds, a little quicker, like he knows you too well.

You snort softly. “That’s never five minutes.”

“Mm. Still counts.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile in his voice, and you shake your head, but your fingers don’t stop moving through his hair.

“Fine,” you whisper. “Five minutes.”

He exhales, deeper this time, like that alone settles something in him. His weight sinks fully against you now, heavier, warmer, his breathing evening out almost immediately. Every so often, his fingers twitch faintly against your shirt— like he’s checking, even in sleep, that you’re still there.

You shift just enough to get comfortable, resting your head lightly against his as the quiet settles properly over the room. No music. No noise. Just him, warm and steady against you.

“Welcome home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but his grip tightens slightly, and he presses closer, face tucked securely against you like he belongs there.

Which he does.

Time passes without you really noticing how much. Your eyes drift shut again, slower this time, the warmth pulling you under gently.

And just before sleep takes you, you hear it— soft, slurred, half-asleep.

“…missed you.”

Your lips curve faintly, your hand giving one last slow pass through his hair.

“I know,” you mumble.

And this time, when you fall asleep, it’s quiet— and warm.

creds: plane by @thecutestgrotto, blue lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

“—and I told her that is literally not my problem,” you finish, your voice carrying just enough emphasis to make your point as you nudge a loose pebble forward with the toe of your shoe. It skips along the path in uneven little hops, disappearing into the grass at the edge, and you follow it with your eyes for a second before glancing back at him.

Sungho lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh beside you, the sound warm and unfiltered, like it slipped out before he could stop it. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” you protest immediately, turning toward him as you walk, your steps angling just slightly into his space. “Okay, fine, maybe I didn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s what I meant.”

“That’s worse,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting as he looks at you, eyes narrowing just slightly in mock judgment. “You meant it.”

You bump your shoulder into his in retaliation, the contact light but deliberate, and he absorbs it easily, shifting just enough so you don’t lose your balance. His arm brushes yours on the way back, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary, like neither of you is in a rush to pull away.

“You would’ve said the same thing,” you insist, folding your arms loosely.

“I wouldn’t,” he replies, but there’s a hint of a smile still tucked into his voice.

“You literally would.”

“I literally wouldn’t.”

“You’re fake,” you decide, giving him a look. “You act all nice and then come complain to me about everyone like it’s your full-time job.”

Before you can finish, his hand comes up and flicks your forehead—quick, precise, and annoyingly effective.

You stop mid-step, staring at him in disbelief. “Did you just flick me?”

“It was a tap,” he says, completely unbothered.

“You flicked me.”

“You survived.”

“You’re actually the worst,” you mutter, but the indignation doesn’t stick, dissolving too quickly into a laugh as you step into him again, your shoulder knocking lightly into his.

He just shakes his head, amused, but when your arms brush again as you fall back into step, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he adjusts slightly so it happens more easily, more naturally, like your proximity has become something expected rather than accidental.

The path stretches ahead in a soft curve, lined with trees that scatter the late afternoon light into shifting patterns across the ground. Leaves rustle faintly overhead, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the low hum of other people passing by, but it all feels far away, like the space around you has narrowed into something quieter, more contained.

You keep talking—about nothing, about everything—your words overlapping, interrupting, circling back. There’s no clear beginning or end to the conversation, just a steady flow that carries you forward, step by step, your strides occasionally falling out of sync before correcting themselves again without thought.

At some point, the rhythm slows.

Not all at once, but gradually, your steps growing heavier, your energy dipping just enough that it shows in the way you drag your feet slightly against the path.

“Why is this park so big?” you groan, tilting your head back briefly as if the sky might offer an answer. “I thought this was supposed to be relaxing.”

“It is relaxing,” Sungho replies, though his breathing has deepened slightly too, his hand briefly pushing through his hair before falling back to his side. “You’re the one turning it into a workout.”

“I didn’t sign up for cardio.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘let’s walk more.’”

“I didn’t think ‘more’ meant this much more.”

A quiet laugh slips out of him, softer now, and his gaze drifts off the path for a moment before settling on a quieter patch of grass just ahead, tucked slightly away from where people usually pass.

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward it. “Sit.”

He steps off the path first, the shift from pavement to grass barely affecting him as he drops down without hesitation, one hand bracing behind him before he settles fully, legs stretching out slightly as he looks up at you.

You stop a few steps away.

The grass looks… green. Too green. Suspiciously green.

Sungho watches you hesitate, his expression shifting into something amused, curious. “…What?”

You glance down again, then at your jeans, smoothing a hand over them like that might reinforce your point. “I’m not sitting there.”

He lets out a short laugh, disbelief threading through it. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“It’s grass.”

“And these are my jeans.”

“You wore them to a park.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to ruin them.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he’s already given up trying to understand you. “You’re unbelievable.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you step forward, closing the distance between you in two quick movements, your shadow falling over him as your hands come up to rest on his shoulders. They’re warm under your palms, solid, grounding, and for a second he goes still again, like he senses what you’re about to do but doesn’t quite believe it.

Then you shift your weight—

and lower yourself into his lap.

The world narrows instantly.

His hands hover for a fraction of a second, uncertain, before settling at your waist, fingers splaying lightly against the fabric of your top. You can feel the hesitation in the way he touches you, careful at first, like he’s testing the reality of it.

“You—what are you doing?” he asks, a quiet, breathy laugh escaping him as he looks up at you.

You adjust slightly, your knees pressing into the grass on either side of him, your balance shifting until it feels steady. “Problem solved.”

“That was your solution?” he repeats, still sounding a little caught off guard.

You shrug, a small movement that brings you just a little closer. “It works.”

“Do you want me to get off?” you add after a second, already shifting your weight like you might move.

His grip tightens instinctively, fingers pressing just slightly more firmly into your sides. “…No. It’s fine.”

There’s a pause.

A small one.

But it lingers.

Then you relax into it, the tension easing from your shoulders as the moment settles into something quieter, something that feels less like a joke and more like something you’re both choosing to stay in.

The snack comes out almost absentmindedly, pulled from your bag and opened between you, the soft crinkle loud in the closeness.

“Here,” you murmur, holding it up.

This time, he doesn’t tease.

He just takes one gently, his fingers brushing yours in the process, the contact soft and fleeting but enough to send a small, quiet awareness through the space between you.

You don’t pull the packet away.

You leave it there, hovering between your bodies, close enough that he doesn’t have to reach far, close enough that every time he takes something, his knuckles graze your fingers, light, unintentional touches that build into something more noticeable the longer they happen.

The conversation fades.

Not awkwardly—just… naturally.

Like words aren’t necessary right now.

A breeze passes through, lifting a few strands of your hair and carrying with it the faint scent of grass and water, and for a moment, all you can really focus on is how close he is—how steady his hands feel at your waist now, how his thumbs rest there without moving, like he’s aware of every small shift you make.

“Did you even have any?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter than before.

You blink, dragged back into the present. “Yeah.”

He gives you a look, unconvinced, before gently taking the packet from your hands and holding it instead, tilting it slightly toward you. “Eat.”

You hesitate for half a second before reaching in, your fingers brushing his as you do, slower this time.

Neither of you pulls away.

Your hand lingers just slightly against his, resting there without thinking, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just lets it stay.

The quiet stretches, soft and full.

You reach up again after a moment, more careful this time, brushing a barely-there crumb from the corner of his lip. Your thumb lingers, the pad of it warm against his skin, and his breath catches just slightly, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s okay,” he replies, just as soft.

Neither of you moves right away.

The world feels still in that moment—like everything has slowed down just enough for you to notice the way his eyes stay on yours, the way your hand hasn’t quite pulled away yet.

Then you drop it, and the moment loosens, but it doesn’t disappear. It stays, tucked quietly between you.

When the snack is gone, you let out a small sigh, leaning back slightly. “Okay… now I’m actually stuck.”

He glances up at you, amusement returning in the curve of his mouth. “You’re not stuck.”

“I’m not stepping on the grass.”

“You’re already in the grass.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

You give him a look, but there’s no real bite to it anymore. “Are you going to help me or not?”

He studies you for a second, something thoughtful flickering across his expression, before his hands shift, sliding from your waist to under your thighs.

The movement is firm, secure.

And then you’re lifting.

“Wait—Sungho—!” you laugh, your hands tightening on his shoulders as your balance shifts, your body tipping forward just slightly before he steadies you.

“I’ve got you,” he says, laughing too, his voice warm and a little breathless, like the effort matters less than the fact that he’s doing it.

“You better not drop me.”

“I won’t.”

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t—okay, maybe a little.”

“Sungho!”

“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, smiling as he lowers you back down onto the path.

Your feet hit the ground, but your hands don’t leave him immediately.

Neither do his.

For a moment, you’re just… there.

Close.

Then, slowly, his hand slides down from your waist, finding yours like it’s been looking for it all along, his fingers threading between yours with a quiet certainty.

You glance at him. “…You’re doing that now?”

He squeezes your hand lightly, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles. “You don’t like it?”

You look away, but your grip tightens just slightly in return. “I didn’t say that.”

The lake comes into view gradually, the trees thinning out as the path opens up, revealing the water stretched wide and calm, reflecting the soft gold of the evening sky. The air feels cooler here, tinged faintly with the scent of water, and the sounds of the park fade into something distant and muted.

Swans drift across the surface, their movements slow and effortless, leaving gentle ripples in their wake.

You nudge him lightly. “Look.”

“I see them,” he says, but his fingers tighten around yours just a little, like he’s more aware of you than anything else.

You both slow without saying it, your steps easing into something quieter as you watch the swans glide.

“They look like they know they’re pretty,” you murmur.

“They probably do.”

“That’s annoying.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I’m not jealous of a swan.”

He hums softly, unconvinced, but he doesn’t push it, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand again.

You lean into him without realizing it, your shoulder resting against his arm, your steps naturally adjusting to match his.

The water ripples gently. The light softens.

And somewhere between the warmth of his hands, the quiet closeness of the moment, and the way your steps fall so easily into sync— it's like you were always meant to be.

creds: lace by @cursed-carmine, leaves by @strangergraphics, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the living room floor, catching in the soft, cream-colored fur of Taesan's ears. He was curled at one end of the couch, a book open in his lap, but his nose— pink and twitching— gave him away. He wasn't reading. He was listening to you hum in the kitchen.

You appeared in the doorway, a plate of grapes in hand. His ears swiveled toward you instantly, one flattening slightly in that bashful way he did when he was caught paying attention.

"You're staring," he murmured, not looking up from his book.

"You're adorable," you countered, setting the plate on the cushion between you as you settled in beside him. "There's a difference."

He finally lifted his gaze, a slow, deadpan blink that was his version of an eye roll. "I'm a grown man."

"Who thumps his foot when the Wi-Fi goes out."

His cheek twitched. He hated that you noticed everything.

Before he could retort, you leaned over and plucked a single, plump grape, holding it up to his lips. He glanced at it, then at you, a flicker of warmth in his dark eyes.

"I can feed myself," he said flatly.

"I know." You didn't lower your hand.

A beat. Then he sighed— a soft, defeated huff that made his ears droop just a little. He leaned forward and took a delicate bite from your fingers, his nose briefly brushing your knuckles. He chewed, swallowed, and his expression never softened from its usual stoic mask.

Except for the quiet, involuntary crinkle at the bridge of his nose. The one he only got when something was reallygood.

"See?" you whispered, grinning.

He snatched the plate and pulled it onto his own lap, turning a page of his book with pointed focus. But when you snuggled into his side, tucking your head under his chin, he didn't push you away. His arm came around your shoulders, careful and certain, and one of his long ears curved down to rest lightly against your hair— a silent, private touch only you would understand.

"You're still a menace," he muttered into your temple.

"Your menace," you corrected, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart beneath his hoodie.

His lips brushed the top of your head. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The soft, pleased flick of his tail against your leg said it all.

creds: bunny by @issysh3ll, lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

creds: please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝@haeonniie ⸝⸝ @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]