#softasapril

It slips out on a random Tuesday night.

You’re both on the couch in his apartment, legs tangled under a blanket, half-watching some cooking show neither of you is really paying attention to. The kitchen light is the only one on, soft and golden, and Chan’s arm is slung around your shoulders, thumb rubbing absent circles on your upper arm.

You’ve been dating for five weeks—five weeks of late-night texts, stolen kisses in the hallway, him bringing you coffee on his way home from the studio, you stealing his hoodies and pretending you’re not obsessed with how they smell like him.

Five weeks is not long enough for I love you.

You know that.

He probably knows that.

But then he turns his head, presses a lazy kiss to your temple, and murmurs against your skin, “You’re so comfortable. I could stay like this forever.”

Your heart does something ridiculous—trips over itself, swells, aches all at once—and before your brain can catch up, the words fall out.

“I love you.”

The second they leave your mouth, the world stops.

Chan freezes.

You freeze harder.

Your face burns so fast it feels like someone lit a match under your skin. You jerk upright, blanket slipping off your lap, hands flying to cover your mouth like you can shove the words back in.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, horrified. “I didn’t—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—well, I did mean it, but not like—not right now, I just—shit. Forget I said that. Please. I’m so embarrassed, I—”

Chan is staring at you, eyes wide, lips parted.

You’re already scrambling off the couch, blanket dragging behind you like a cape of shame.

“I should go,” you mumble, grabbing your phone from the coffee table. “I’m gonna go. I’m sorry. I ruined it. I—”

He catches your wrist before you can make it two steps.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft but firm. “Hey. Come here.”

You can’t look at him. Your cheeks are on fire. Your stomach is in knots.

He tugs gently until you’re facing him again, then cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he’s wiping away tears that aren’t even there yet.

“Baby,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You do—barely. Through your lashes, because if you make full eye contact you might actually combust.

Chan’s expression is… soft.

Not panicked.

Not awkward.

Just… warm. Like he’s looking at the best thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What?”

“I love you too,” he repeats, slower this time, like he wants to make sure every word lands. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it without scaring you off. I thought maybe I’d wait another month or five. But… yeah. I love you.”

You blink.

Once. Twice.

“You’re not just saying that because I said it first and you feel bad?”

He laughs—quiet, fond, the sound that always makes your chest feel too full.

“No. I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve loved you for longer than five weeks. Probably since the first time you laughed at one of my terrible jokes and didn’t leave.”

Your eyes sting.

You laugh, shaky and wet.

“I’m still so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” He pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. “It’s the best thing I’ve heard all week. Maybe all year.”

You hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping around his waist like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

“I really do love you,” you mumble into his hoodie. “A lot. Like… stupid amount.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of your head. “I love you stupid amount too.”

You stay like that for a long minute—just breathing each other in, the TV murmuring in the background, the kitchen light painting everything soft and safe.

Eventually he pulls back just enough to look at you properly.

“So,” he says, smiling that crooked smile that always gets you. “Does this mean I get to say it whenever I want now?”

You groan, burying your face in his chest again. “Please don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late.” He squeezes you tighter. “I love you. I love you. I love—”

You cut him off with a kiss—quick, desperate, laughing against his mouth.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.

When you finally pull away, both of you are grinning like idiots.

“Happy?” he asks, brushing your hair back.

You nod, cheeks still pink but lighter now.

“Very.”

“Good.” He tugs you back down onto the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Because I’m not letting you leave tonight. We’re staying right here. And I’m gonna keep saying it until you believe it.”

You curl into his side, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—steady, sure, yours.

“I already believe it,” you whisper.

He kisses your hair again.

“I love you.”

You smile into his hoodie.

“I love you too.”

And for the first time in a long time, the words don’t feel scary.

They just feel right.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

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It was the second week of July, heavy downpour filling the heart of Seoul. This city was known for its bustling and lively streets but due to the rain, the people seemed to prefer home that day. The sidewalks were empty, the Korean convenience stores open despite the stubborn showers, the tranquility of the moment interrupted by the roars of bikes in the distance.

There, walking through the sidewalks was a man deep in thought. He was a small artist and producer, Christopher Bang Chan or as his fans would call him, CB97. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his black joggers, his black shirt completely drenched along with his hair but that didn't bother him. All he could ever stare at was the pavement below whilst he walked.

Christopher looked lost in his own world, a world of darkness perhaps. It was difficult being an aspiring artist with so much hope with almost no recognition for your works. He had no inspiration to rhyme symphonies nor any motivation to write melodies. He needed some spark in his life, he was 27 for God's sake! Yea, he'd never held a girl’s hand, only admired from afar. He questioned his life choices, questioning whether being a producer would help him flourish but he never gave up, he didn't want to, he couldn't, it was all he knew how to do after all.

His headphones were on, listening to the song, “Still with you” By Jungkook. He felt inspired by the song sometimes, Jungkook was after all his biggest inspiration. As he walked, he passed by a park, his eyes falling on a girl.

“날 바라보는 희미한 미소 뒤편에(Behind the faint smile looking at me)”

As he looked over her features, he felt as if he was falling into a warm void of butterflies, eyes not leaving her figure. Her eyes fell on him, a sparkle within them that he wanted to desperately be the reason for. A soft smile graced her lips, the sight of it temporarily making all his heavy heartedness fade away.

“아름다운 보랏빛을 그려볼래요(I want to draw a beautiful purple color)”

The soft light from the street lamp casted a faint purplish hue on her soft skin as it passed through a purple glass. He thought she just looked unreal, God really did take his time sculpting her, making sure she'd even leave angels in shame. He wanted to capture this moment forever in a song, listen to that hypnotic melody that would perfectly symphonize her smile and successfully rhyme the way her eyes sparkle like it held the whole galaxy in them.

“서로 발걸음이 안 맞을 수도 있지만(Although our steps may not match each other)”

She looked just as mesmerized, in love with the way his hair looked perfectly messy because of the rain, his shirt clinging perfectly to his built figure and the admiration overflowing in his gaze. She took slow steps closer to him before her brain could realise, and so did he. Her steps were graceful and beautiful but his were hesitant and shaky, scared of scaring her away. He was taller than her, her forehead perfectly reaching his lips which made his heart race. As she looked up at him with those sparkly eyes, he let out a shaky breath, unable to deny the somersaults his heart was performing.

“그대와 함께 이 길을 걷고 싶어요(I want to walk this road with you)”

He felt himself involuntarily wrap his arms around her waist, his breath uneven which worsens when she wraps her arms around his neck gently. There's only a few inches between their faces, but one thing was clear for him, maybe he found a muse, maybe he wouldn't be lost anymore, maybe he found a solace in his internal and eternal storm. Their lips slowly meet, a soft exchange of feelings between strangers, an admission of love between complete aliens that knew this feeling was just right.

𝘩𝘪, 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

・・・・・・・・・・ main: @softasapril

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O1. Mood Boards !

O2. Reblogging my works from my main account @softasapril

You used to flinch at everything.

A brush of fingers on your arm, a hug from a friend, even the wind sometimes felt like too much.

You explained it once—early on, voice small: “It’s not you. It’s just… loud. Inside my skin.”

Chan listened.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t joke.

Just nodded and said, “Okay. You set the pace.”

Months passed like that.

He kept his hands to himself unless you reached first.

He asked before sitting close.

He learned your signals: the tiny shoulder twitch when someone got too near, the way your fingers curled when you needed space, the soft exhale when you felt safe enough to lean in.

Tonight you’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching the city lights through the window.

Chan sits on the other end—far enough that you don’t feel crowded, close enough that you feel him there.

The TV is muted; some random music show flickers silently.

You’re quiet for a while.

Then, slowly, you slide one foot across the cushion until your socked toe touches his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t comment.

Just lets you stay.

A few minutes later you shift again—your knee brushes his.

Still nothing.

He keeps watching the screen, calm, steady.

You swallow.

Then—heart loud in your ears—you lift your hand and place it on top of his where it rests on his leg.

Palm to back of hand.

He freezes for half a second—not from discomfort, but from surprise.

Then his fingers turn slowly, carefully, until your palms meet.

He doesn’t squeeze.

Doesn’t pull.

Just lets your hand rest in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breathing evens out.

You stare at your joined hands—his bigger, warmer, steady—and feel the usual static under your skin quiet down.

Not gone.

Just… softer.

Chan’s thumb moves once—tiny, barely-there stroke across your knuckle.

You don’t flinch.

You turn your hand instead, lace your fingers through his.

He exhales—soft, relieved.

You lean your head sideways until it rests against his shoulder.

He doesn’t tense.

Doesn’t rush.

Just tilts his head so his cheek presses gently to your hair.

No words.

Just hands held.

Shoulders touching.

City lights flickering outside.

You whisper—barely audible:

“Only you.”

He turns his face just enough to press the lightest kiss to the top of your head.

“Only me,” he murmurs back.

And for the first time in years,

touch doesn’t feel like a warning.

It feels like home.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

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There’s a particular kind of silence that settles over a briefing room right before everything goes wrong.

You’d learned to recognize it over the years. The specific quality of air when a mission is about to become a problem, something too still, too careful, like the room itself is holding its breath. You’d felt it in Marseille right before the extraction went sideways. You’d felt it in Prague two seconds before your handler’s voice crackled off comms entirely.

You feel it now, sitting in the third chair from the left in Sub-Level 2, watching Director Yoon click to the next slide.

The slide has two photos on it.

One of them is you.

The other is Lee Minho.

“Codename: Stitch,” Director Yoon says, gesturing to you with the laser pointer. Then she moves it to him. “Codename: Thread.” A pause. “Effective immediately, you’ll be operating as a joint unit under the Meridian protocol.”

The silence after that is a different kind. The kind that comes from two people in the same room deciding, simultaneously, not to say what they’re thinking.

You glance sideways. Minho is already looking at you and the expression on his face is exactly what you’d expect — nothing. Controlled, clean, every reaction filed somewhere behind his eyes where you can’t reach it. It’s infuriating precisely because you know you’re doing the same thing.

“With respect,” Minho says, looking back at Yoon. His voice is polite in that way that means the opposite. “Is there a reason you’re pairing two solo-track operatives on a joint assignment.”

“There’s always a reason,” Yoon says. “I’m not required to share all of them.”

“The op?” you ask.

She clicks forward. The next slide is a photograph of a man in his mid-fifties, silver-haired, the kind of face that looks trustworthy in the way only practiced liars manage. Below the photo: Viktor Selim. Arms broker. Six countries, fourteen aliases.

“Selim is attending a private auction in Vienna in eleven days,” Yoon says. “He’s brokering the sale of a weapons guidance system stolen from a NATO facility in Gdańsk eight months ago. The buyer is unknown. The system ends up in the wrong hands and we’re looking at a regional destabilization scenario with global implications.” She clicks again. The next slide is an invitation — cream colored, embossed — for something called the Weiss Foundation Gala. “The auction is embedded within this event. Invitation only. Donors, diplomats, very old money.”

You already see where this is going.

“The cover,” Minho says flatly.

“Married couple. Recently relocated to Geneva. He’s a private equity consultant, she works in art acquisition.” Yoon doesn’t blink. “You’ll have eleven days of joint preparation. Backstory, behavioral alignment, social conditioning. The legend is already built. You just have to inhabit it.”

Another silence.

“When do we start,” you say. Not a question.

The apartment they put you in for prep is in the 4th arrondissement, which means Yoon either has a sense of humor or genuinely believes proximity to good pastry will improve your working relationship. You’re not ruling either out.

Minho gets there first. You know this because when you let yourself in with the key card there’s already a coffee on the kitchen counter — one cup, not two — and a folder open on the table, and his jacket draped over the back of a chair like he’s lived here for years. Like he’s already decided which parts of the space are his.

You drop your bag by the door, clock the apartment in about four seconds — two exits, good sightlines from the main windows, second bedroom door half open — and then look at the coffee.

“you could’ve made two,” you say.

“I didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

“We were on the same flight.”

“I got off faster.”

You look at him. He looks at you. This is how it usually goes.

You’d met Minho eighteen months ago during a joint debrief after an op in Jakarta where your paths had overlapped by about forty minutes of real time and considerably more in the aftermath. You’d reached the same conclusions via slightly different routes and submitted reports that were nearly identical in structure, almost word for word on the key assessments. Director Yoon had apparently flagged this as remarkable.

You’d found it annoying.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t, and that was somehow worse — the particular irritation of encountering someone who thinks the way you do and having nowhere to put the friction of it. You could argue with someone sloppy. You could dismiss someone reckless. Minho was neither, which meant every disagreement you had with him was a real one, fully loaded, no cheap exits.

“What’s the social schedule,” you say, pulling out the chair across from him.

He slides the folder toward you. “Three pre-gala events. A private dinner on the eighth, a gallery opening on the tenth, the gala itself on the eleventh. Selim attends all three. He’ll be vetting potential buyers at the dinner which means we need to be visible and credible by then.” He leans back. “The legend says we’ve been married four years.”

“I know what the legend says.”

“Then you know we need a working shorthand by the eighth.” A slight tilt of his head. “That’s six days.”

“I’m aware of how numbers work.”

He almost smiles. Doesn’t reach anything. “you keep doing that.”

“Doing what.”

“Saying things I’ve already accounted for, like you’re correcting me.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You’re not.”

You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary, then look down at the folder. “The gallery opening. What’s the objective.”

And like that, you’re working. Which is the only thing you’ve ever been any good at.

The behavioral conditioning, as Yoon calls it, is a clinical way of describing something that is profoundly strange in practice.

You have to learn each other. Not the op-relevant surface stuff — you already know his field record, his response times, his preferred sidearm, the three languages he’s fluent in and the two he just functions in. You know his codename and his clearance and the general architecture of how he moves through a problem.

You don’t know how he takes his coffee (black, no exceptions, you find out on day one) or what he does when he can’t sleep (reads, apparently, actual novels, nothing useful) or the way he goes very quiet right before he says something that lands.

He doesn’t know those things about you either and you can feel him cataloging them. The same way you are. It’s like being studied by someone using the same methodology you use, which means you can see every observation as it’s being made, and it makes your skin feel strange.

“The story of how we met,” he says on the second evening. You’re both at the table, files spread out, working through the social logistics. “Yoon’s team has a version in the legend packet.”

“I read it.”

“Do you like it.”

You glance up. “It doesn’t matter if I like it.”

“It matters if you can deliver it convincingly.” He sets down his pen. “The dinner is a small room. Twelve, maybe fifteen people. Someone will ask. Probably more than once.”

You look at the legend packet. The official story has you meeting at a charity function in London, introduced by a mutual friend. It’s fine. Clean. Completely forgettable.

“It’s too smooth,” you say.

“Agreed.”

You look up again. He’s watching you.

“Couples fight about how they met,” you say. “Not seriously but — one person always remembers it differently. Small things. Who spoke first, what the other person was wearing. It’s not a problem, it’s texture. Makes it real.”

Minho is quiet for a second. “So we adjust the legend.”

“We keep the frame, change the details. Give ourselves something to disagree about.”

“What do we disagree about.”

You think. “You thought I was with someone else when we met. Spent the whole conversation being careful about it. Found out later I wasn’t.”

Something shifts briefly in his expression. “And your version.”

“I knew you thought that and I didn’t correct you because I wanted to see what you’d do.”

The shift again. Harder to read this time.

“that’s very you,” he says.

“It’s also very you,” you say. “You’d have done the same.”

He looks at you for a moment. “probably,” he says. And then he picks up his pen and you go back to work and you don’t examine why that exchange feels like it settled something.

The first real test is a dry run at a restaurant on the fifth day — one of the agency’s consultants playing a suspicious contact, stress-testing the cover.

You’d agreed beforehand: minimal physical contact, only what’s natural, let it develop in the room instead of choreographing it. You’d both made this point separately, at almost the same time, and there’d been a short pause where you both registered that.

The consultant’s name is Mr. Park and he’s good. Warm and probing in equal measure, the kind of social pressure that doesn’t feel like pressure until you’re halfway through the main course and realize he’s gotten considerably more out of you than you intended.

He asks how you met. Minho tells the London story — their version, the one you’d built — and does something small with it, a slight smile at a specific detail, like the memory has texture. You pick it up without thinking, add the correction about what you were actually wearing, which contradicts what he said, and his eyes cut to you with exactly the right quality of fond exasperation.

“she always does this,” he tells Park.

“You’re wrong,” you say pleasantly.

“I’m not wrong, I was there.”

“So was I, that’s my point.”

Park laughs. The conversation moves on.

Afterward outside on the street Minho stops walking for a second. You stop too.

“the detail about the dress,” he says.

“What about it.”

“That wasn’t in the legend.”

“No.”

He looks at you. “It was good.”

You start walking again. “I know.”

He falls into step beside you and you’re almost to the corner before he says, quietly: “you picked up on the smile.”

“You did it on purpose.”

“I wanted to see if you’d catch it.”

“I caught it.”

“you did,” he says. And there’s something in his voice that isn’t quite the usual temperature, something slightly less managed, and you decide not to look at him for the rest of the walk back.

Six days of this and you know things about Lee Minho you didn’t want to know.

You know he gets up before you every morning, not by much but enough. You know he makes noise in the kitchen on purpose because he figured out on day two that you wake up disoriented and the sound gives you a second to orient before you have to be a person. You know this because you’d do the exact same thing and you recognized the logic of it immediately and it made you furious.

You know he doesn’t argue for the sake of winning. He argues when he thinks something matters. His threshold for what matters is very high and very specific and it lines up with yours in a way that should probably be classified.

You know that the thing that reads as coldness from the outside isn’t coldness. It’s precision. He doesn’t waste warmth on things that don’t warrant it, which means when it appears it’s real, and you’ve started noticing when it appears.

This is a problem.

Not a mission problem. The mission is, professionally speaking, going fine. The cover is solid. You move well together in social environments which neither of you had been certain about, given that you’d never operated in the same room for longer than a debrief. The professional problem is actually the personal one — somewhere in six days of learning the shape of each other, the dislike had started to change texture.

It was still there. That was the thing. You still found him aggravating in all the specific ways you always had — the absolute certainty in his own assessments, the way he sometimes got to a conclusion a second before you and didn’t announce it but you could tell, the complete lack of wasted motion in everything he did that made you want to introduce some chaos on principle.

But underneath that, or alongside it, something else had moved in.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. You were both, you suspected, pretending very competently that it wasn’t there, which was both a professional strength and a significant personal failing.

The dinner is on the eighth. A private house in the 16th, candlelit and expensive, twelve people including Viktor Selim and a woman you identify within four minutes as his security lead despite the evening gown.

You and Minho arrive slightly late, which is correct for the cover — established couple, comfortable, not performing eagerness. He has his hand at the small of your back when you walk in, which is also correct, the exact degree of casual familiarity that reads as long term, and you’re aware of it in a way you shouldn’t be, or at least not this much.

Selim is across the room. You see him register you both in the first sweep he does of new arrivals — assessing, not suspicious, just the automatic cataloging of a careful man.

“he’s looking,” Minho says, very low, close to your ear. Not a whisper, just quiet. The kind of thing that looks like intimacy from across a room.

“I know. Don’t react to him yet.”

“I know.”

You take a glass from a passing tray and turn slightly toward Minho, angling yourself so Selim has a profile view. “He’ll come to us,” you say. “He’s that kind of man.”

“How long.”

“Forty minutes. He wants to watch first.”

Minho makes a small sound that means he agrees and you have a brief strange moment of registering that you’ve developed a communication system that runs on sounds and small movements and you’re not entirely sure when that happened.

Selim comes over in thirty five minutes, which is close enough that you file it as a minor win. He’s charming in that specific way that means he’s done it thousands of times. He asks the right questions — what brings you to Paris, how long in Geneva, do you know the so-and-sos in Zurich. Minho handles the business detail, you handle the social warmth, and it works the way things work when two people have divided a task correctly without discussing it.

At some point Selim says something mildly dismissive about art acquisition — your cover’s profession — in the way that men like him sometimes do, a light condescension dressed up as a joke, and you feel Minho’s hand shift slightly against your back.

Not much. Just — present. A small pressure that says I noticed, I’m here, do you want to handle it or should I.

You handle it. Smooth, smiling, precise enough that Selim adjusts his register for the rest of the conversation without quite knowing why.

Later in the car Minho says: “the hand thing.”

“What hand thing,” you say. Even though you know.

“When he made the comment.”

“I noticed.”

“And?”

You watch the city go past outside the window. “It was useful.”

“It wasn’t calculated,” he says. “I want to be accurate about that.”

You turn your head. He’s looking out his own window.

“okay,” you say.

“I’m just — noting it.”

“noted,” you say, and somehow that word carries a lot more than it should, and you both let it sit there for the rest of the drive.

The gallery opening is easy, comparatively. You’ve got Selim’s measure now and he’s warming to you — to the cover — the way marks do when they’ve decided you’re safe. The danger zone is always after that, when they start talking more freely, because free-talking men sometimes say something that makes them remember they should be careful.

You manage it. Minho manages it. You do the thing where you bicker mildly about something minor — this time whether you’d been to this particular artist’s last show — and Selim watches with the indulgent look people get watching other people’s long marriages, which means the cover is doing exactly what it needs to.

What isn’t supposed to be happening is that the bickering is, increasingly, just you two talking. Overlapping, correcting, building on what the other said — the line between performing it and just doing it has become something you’re having trouble finding.

In the car again. It’s become your space, the car. The in-between.

“you told him we’d been to Lisboa in April,” Minho says.

“The legend has us in Lisboa in April.”

“He might verify.”

“I know. I already laid a trail. The hotel, the restaurant, the gallery we supposedly visited. It’s clean.”

A pause. “when did you do that.”

“Before the dinner.”

Another pause, different quality. “you didn’t mention it.”

“You’d have done it yourself if I hadn’t.”

“That’s not the point. We’re operating jointly. You should have—”

“I would’ve told you if you’d asked,” you say, and there’s more edge in it than you intended. “I wasn’t hiding it, I just—” You stop.

“you just what,” he says. His voice has changed. Still even, but different even.

“I’m used to working alone,” you say. True. Also not the whole truth.

“So am I,” he says.

Silence. The city moves past. You’re tired in that specific way you get after hours of being on — performing, maintaining — and the tiredness has apparently decided to affect your defenses because you say, before you’ve decided to: “You were right about the Lisboa detail. I should’ve told you.”

He doesn’t say I know or yes you should have, which is half of what you’d expected.

He says: “I’ve been doing the same thing. Two items I didn’t table. I’ll send them over tonight.”

You look at him. He’s looking forward, profile clean in the passing streetlights. “okay,” you say.

“We work better when we’re actually joint,” he says. “I don’t love it either but it’s true.”

“I know it’s true.”

“Then we should act like it.”

“Agreed,” you say, and somehow that sits easier than it should, and you both let the rest of the drive go quiet.

The night before the gala, neither of you sleeps much.

You know this about each other because you’re both in the kitchen at 2am, and the difference between this moment and the first evening is significant enough that you both notice it and neither of you says anything.

He makes two coffees this time without being asked.

You sit at the table with the operation files spread out even though you have them memorized, because having something to look at makes the sitting easier.

“Contingencies,” Minho says.

“If the security lead makes us, we’re tourists. Lost the invitation, a friend got us in, we don’t know Selim.”

“If Selim makes us.”

“Mission’s burned and we get out. The system’s not on-site tonight, it’s in transit. Yoon has the intercept team on the transport route.” You pause. “The gala is just the intelligence layer. Selim’s contact, the handoff protocol. We’re not extraction, we’re information.”

“right.” He wraps both hands around his mug. “And if something else goes wrong.”

You look up. “Define something else.”

He looks at you over the rim. “The cover. If someone pushes harder than expected on the personal detail.”

“We hold. The legend is solid.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says, and his voice has the quality it gets when he’s decided something matters.

You hold his gaze. The kitchen is quiet. It’s 2am and you’re eleven days into an op and the line between cover and something else has been blurring for days in a way that is operationally inadvisable and you know it and so does he.

“Minho,” you say.

“I’m aware,” he says. “I’m not — I’m not doing anything with it. I just think we should name it so it doesn’t become a variable we’re not accounting for.”

This is such a him thing to say. Name the variable. Account for it. Don’t let it run loose in the margins.

“fine,” you say. “it’s a variable.”

“yes.”

“It doesn’t affect the mission.”

“no,” he says. “but it’s there.”

“it’s there,” you agree.

And then you both go back to the files and the kitchen stays quiet and neither of you does anything about the variable, because you are both, above everything else, professionals.

But it’s there. You both know it. And somehow that’s enough for right now.

The gala is beautiful in the way that things built for the purposes of concealment often are — every surface worth looking at, every detail designed to direct the eye away from whatever’s actually happening underneath.

You understand this. You’ve been doing the same thing for eleven days.

You arrive as the Leins. That’s the legend’s surname — you’d found it mildly annoying when you first read it in the packet and you’ve never said so. Minho, you suspect, feels the same. He’d also never said so.

The room is large, high ceilinged, full of people doing what people do at these events — performing their own legend, everyone with a version of themselves calibrated for the occasion. You move through it well. You always have, both of you, and together you’re better at it than either of you alone, which is something you’d have resisted admitting three weeks ago and which is now simply true.

Selim is at the far end of the room. He sees you and raises his glass, which means you’ve cleared his vetting process, which means the last eleven days worked.

“there,” Minho says quietly.

“I see him.” You’re watching the room, not Selim specifically — the contact will come to Selim, not the other way around. “The contact arrives within the first hour. Yoon’s brief said Selim doesn’t like to wait.”

“Northeast corner,” Minho says. “The man in the grey jacket. He’s been watching the entrance.”

You find him. Clock him. “He’s not the contact.”

“No, he’s the advance. Contact comes after the advance confirms the room.”

“Ten minutes,” you say.

“Eight,” Minho says.

You don’t argue. Minor point.

It’s seven minutes.

The contact is a woman, which you’d both flagged as a possibility in your respective assessments and which Yoon’s briefing had listed as unlikely. She moves to Selim smoothly, the greeting warm enough to read as social, and you reposition without discussing it — you drift right, Minho drifts left, covering angles.

This is the part you’re good at. Not just the social performance, though you’re good at that too. The spatial awareness, the way you read a room’s geometry and slot into it, covering angles without referencing each other because you don’t need to. You’ve done this in other configurations, other teams, other ops, and it’s never felt quite like this — the particular fluency of two people thinking the same way.

You get the contact’s name from a greeting exchange close enough to catch. Minho gets her associate’s name from the man she arrived with. You don’t compare notes because you don’t need to — you’re both noting everything and you’ll debrief in the car.

Selim drifts toward you thirty minutes later, warm, relaxed, the ease of a man who thinks he’s read the room correctly.

“the Leins,” he says, and that small possessive — already abbreviated to a group noun — means you’ve been accepted.

Minho puts his hand at your waist and it’s the cover, entirely the cover, and you lean into it the minimal degree that reads as habitual, that reads as four years, and you feel rather than see the slight shift in how he holds himself — the precise millimeter adjustment that looks like ease but isn’t, that looks like unconscious comfort but is something slightly more deliberate and slightly less calculated than either of those things.

The conversation with Selim runs twenty minutes. You gather what Yoon needs. It’s enough.

The car again.

You give Yoon’s team the verbal summary over comms — names, logistics, confirmation of the handoff timeline. Six minutes. When you’re done Minho drops the earpiece into his jacket pocket and the silence is different from mission silence. It’s the silence that comes after.

“good,” he says.

“Yes.”

“The contact’s name checks against a flag in the German database. Yoon will have it.”

“I know. I flagged it while you were getting the associate’s ID.”

He nods. You watch the city again. You’ve watched this city go past so many times in this car that you know the route back in your bones.

“After the debrief,” Minho says.

You glance over.

“We’ll be reassigned. Separately, probably.” He’s looking out his window. “Yoon said the joint unit was specific to Meridian.”

“I know.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I wanted to name that one too,” he says. “so it’s not—” He pauses, which is unusual for him, Minho who is always precise with language. “so it’s not a variable we’re not accounting for.”

You look at him. The streetlights move across his face and you’ve spent eleven days learning the architecture of his expressions, the small tells, the places where the control doesn’t quite reach.

“That’s a different kind of variable,” you say.

“yes,” he says. “I know.”

“Minho.”

“I’m not—” He stops again. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just being accurate.”

“You’re always being accurate.”

“it’s a failing,” he says, and there it is — the thing underneath the precision, a small dry humor that surfaces when his guard is at low tide, that you’ve come to catalog the way you catalog everything — carefully, and with more attention than you intended to give it.

“It’s not a failing,” you say.

He looks over.

“It’s annoying,” you say. “but it’s not a failing.”

Something changes in his face. Not much. Enough.

“after the debrief,” he says again.

“after the debrief,” you agree.

The car keeps moving. The city keeps going past. You don’t do anything about the variable because you are almost back to the apartment and the debrief is tomorrow and there are procedures to follow, reports to file, a mission to close properly.

But after the debrief.

You’re both accounting for it.

and somewhere in the space between cover and collapse, the line disappears — not with a dramatic crossing but with the quiet, certain recognition that two people who think in the same sharp register have, without meaning to, started thinking of each othher.

© softasapril — 2O26

BANG CHAN : 방찬 — Denial

Chan still sets two alarms every morning.

One for him.

One for you.

The second one rings at 7:14 a.m.—the exact time you used to groan, roll over, and mumble “five more minutes, Channie” into his neck.

He reaches across the empty side of the bed without thinking, fingers searching for hair that isn’t there, skin that’s gone cold.

The alarm keeps going.

He doesn’t turn it off.

He just lies there listening until it dies on its own, then whispers “sorry, baby” to the ceiling like you might hear it from wherever you are.

He still cooks breakfast for two.

Scrambled eggs the way you liked them—extra pepper, no chives because they “taste like grass.”

He plates yours first, sets it on your spot at the table, even pours the orange juice into your favorite glass with the tiny chip on the rim.

Sometimes he talks to the empty chair.

Tells you about the new track he’s working on, how the bridge still doesn’t feel right, how he wishes you were here to hum the melody until it clicks.

When the food gets cold he eats yours too—slowly, like if he finishes every bite you’ll magically appear to scold him for double portions.

He still keeps your side of the closet untouched.

Your hoodies hang in the same order you left them.

The black one you stole from him is still folded at the bottom of the pile—he can’t bring himself to hang it up because it still smells like your shampoo.

Every night he pulls it out, presses his face into the collar, inhales until his lungs burn, then folds it again with shaking hands.

“I’ll wash it tomorrow,” he tells the dark room.

Tomorrow never comes.

He still checks his phone for your goodnight text.

The last one sits unread at the top of the thread:

“don’t stay up too late genius ♡ sleep well i love you”

He reads it every night before he forces himself to close his eyes.

Sometimes he types replies he’ll never send.

“I’m trying.”

“I miss you.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

He deletes them all.

If he sends them, it becomes real.

And it can’t be real.

You’re just late.

You’ll walk through the door any second now, laughing, saying you got stuck in traffic or fell asleep on the subway again.

He leaves the hallway light on.

Just in case.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

LEE MINHO : 이민호 — Anger

Minho punched the mirror the day after the funeral.

Seven years of ballet-perfect control shattered in one swing—glass everywhere, knuckles split to the bone, blood dripping onto the tiles in perfect crimson circles.

He didn’t feel it.

He only felt the rage boiling under his skin, the kind that tastes like metal and makes your vision tunnel.

He’s angry at the driver who ran the light.

He’s angry at the doctors who couldn’t do more.

He’s angry at the sky for being blue the day they buried you.

He’s angry at the cats for still purring like nothing happened.

He’s angry at himself for not being there, for not holding your hand in that last second, for every time he told you “five more minutes” when you asked him to come to bed.

He’s angry at you.

Not loud, screaming anger.

Quiet, vicious, bone-deep anger.

How dare you leave first.

How dare you make him stay behind in a world that keeps turning without you.

How dare you smile in every photo on his phone when he can’t see that smile in real life anymore.

He stopped dancing.

The studio he used to live in is locked.

The pointe shoes you bought him as a joke still sit in their box—untouched, pristine, mocking him every time he walks past the shelf.

He can’t move like he used to.

Every stretch reminds him of mornings when you’d sit on the floor and watch him warm up, chin in your hands, telling him he looked like a painting.

Now the mirror is covered with a sheet.

He can’t look at himself.

He doesn’t recognize the eyes staring back.

He stopped eating properly.

Not on purpose—just… food tastes like cardboard.

Soonie sits on the counter and stares at him while he pushes rice around the plate.

He snaps at the cat once—“What are you looking at?”—then immediately feels sick with guilt and buries his face in Soonie’s fur until the shaking stops.

He still talks to you.

Not out loud.

In his head.

Sharp, biting monologues he would never say if you were here.

“You promised you’d stay longer.”

“You said we had time.”

“You left me with the cats and your stupid plants and no instructions.”

He waits for you to answer back the way you always did—quick, teasing, calling him dramatic.

The silence is deafening.

He hates you for it.

He loves you more than he can breathe around.

The anger keeps him alive.

When it fades, he’s terrified of what will be left.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

SEO CHANGBIN : 서창빈 — Bargaining

Changbin makes deals with things that can’t answer.

He talks to the sky every night at 11:11 p.m.—the time your last message came through: “don’t wait up, I’ll be home soon ♡”

He stands on the balcony regardless of weather, arms crossed tight, whispering the same thing every time:

“I’ll never complain about your cold feet again.

I’ll never steal the blankets.

I’ll never skip leg day if it means you come back.

Just let her walk through the door.

Please.”

He starts going to the gym at 3 a.m.

Tells himself if he lifts heavier, if he pushes until his muscles scream louder than his thoughts, the universe might take pity.

He benches 180 kg like it’s nothing now.

He doesn’t feel stronger.

He just feels empty.

He keeps your gym playlist on repeat.

The one you made for him—loud, angry girl music mixed with his favorite rap tracks.

Every time “WAP” comes on he laughs until he cries because you used to scream the lyrics while spotting him, making the whole gym stare.

He still spots himself in the mirror.

Pretends you’re behind him counting reps.

“One more, Bin. You got this. I believe in you.”

He finishes the set.

Looks in the mirror.

You’re not there.

He drops the bar too hard.

The clang echoes like a gunshot.

He leaves offerings.

Your favorite iced latte on the kitchen counter every morning.

A fresh pack of the gum you chewed obsessively.

The hoodie you always stole from him—folded on your side of the bed.

He talks to the empty room while he does it.

“If you come back I’ll never tease you about your sweet tooth again.

I’ll buy you all the pastries.

I’ll never skip a date night.

I’ll never let you walk home alone.

Just come back.

Please.”

He starts wearing your ring on a chain around his neck.

The one you gave him when you got matching promise rings.

He clutches it when the grief hits hardest—like a lifeline.

He bargains with it.

“If I keep this close, if I never take it off, if I stay exactly the way I was when you loved me—will you come back?”

The metal stays cold against his skin.

No answer.

He still doesn’t take it off.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

HWANG HYUNJIN : 황현진 — Depression

Hyunjin stops painting.

The studio he spent years perfecting is silent now.

Canvases lean against the walls—half-finished portraits of you, sketches of your hands, your laugh lines, your eyes when you’re sleepy.

He hasn’t touched a brush in four months.

The paints have dried in their tubes.

The room smells like dust and turpentine and grief.

He sleeps in your clothes.

Not just hoodies—everything.

Your old t-shirts.

Your favorite pajama shorts (he has to tie them tight so they don’t fall off).

Your scarf that still smells faintly of your perfume.

He wraps himself in you every night and pretends the warmth is yours instead of just cotton and memory.

He doesn’t cry anymore.

The tears dried up somewhere around month two.

Now he just sits.

On the floor of the studio.

Back against the wall.

Staring at the last painting you ever saw him finish—a portrait of you laughing in sunlight.

He hasn’t covered it.

He can’t.

But he can’t look away either.

He talks to you in his head constantly.

Quiet conversations no one else hears.

“Did you see the moon tonight? It’s the same color you always said looked like spun sugar.”

“I made coffee the way you like it. Too sweet. I hated it. But I drank it anyway.”

“I miss your voice. Even when you were yelling at me for leaving paint on the couch.”

He stopped going out.

His friends come by.

They sit with him in silence when he can’t speak.

They leave food he doesn’t eat.

They hug him when he lets them.

He always ends up crying after they leave.

Quiet.

Exhausted.

The kind of crying that feels like bleeding out slowly.

He still wears the necklace you gave him.

A thin silver chain with a tiny star charm.

You said it was because he was your brightest one.

He holds it between his fingers when the dark gets too heavy.

Whispers to it like you can hear.

“I’m trying to be okay.

I’m trying so hard.

But it hurts to breathe without you.”

He doesn’t know how to live in a world where you don’t exist.

He doesn’t want to learn.

So he sits.

In the half-dark.

Surrounded by unfinished paintings.

Wearing your clothes.

Holding your star.

Waiting for a sign that never comes.

Hoping tomorrow will hurt a little less.

Knowing it probably won’t.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

HAN JISUNG : 한지성 — Acceptance

Jisung still writes songs about you.

Not the dramatic, heart-shredding ones he wrote right after.

Those stay locked in a folder labeled “do not open.”

These are quieter.

Gentler.

Melodies that feel like holding your hand in a crowded room.

Lyrics that don’t beg you to come back—they just remember you were here.

He released one last month.

No big announcement.

No music video.

Just a simple acoustic track on SoundCloud titled “Starlight.”

He didn’t tag it.

Didn’t promote it.

But people found it anyway.

Comments flooded in:

“Who’s this about?”

“This made me cry in the shower.”

“I lost someone too.”

He reads every single one.

Doesn’t reply.

Just sits with them.

Lets them exist beside his own grief.

He keeps your favorite mug on the shelf above the sink.

Blue with a tiny chip on the handle.

He drinks from it every morning—black coffee, no sugar, the way you used to tease him about.

He tells the mug good morning.

Tells it about the new melody stuck in his head.

Tells it he’s trying to be kinder to himself.

He visits your grave on the 14th of every month.

The day you left.

He brings one sunflower—your favorite.

Sits on the grass.

Talks.

Not like he’s expecting an answer anymore.

Just like he’s updating you.

“I finally fixed that bridge in the song you hated.”

“I ate vegetables today. You’d be proud.”

“I laughed yesterday. It felt weird. But good.”

He’s learning to live beside the grief instead of under it.

Some days are still heavy.

Some days he wakes up reaching for you.

But most days now he wakes up, looks at the empty side of the bed, and whispers:

“Good morning, baby. I’m still here.”

He keeps your photo in his wallet.

The one of you mid-laugh at the beach, hair wild, eyes crinkled.

He looks at it when he needs reminding that joy existed.

Still exists.

Even if it’s quieter now.

He’s not okay.

Not fully.

Maybe not ever.

But he’s breathing.

He’s writing.

He’s living.

And every note he plays

Every sunrise he watches

Every breath he takes

is proof that love doesn’t end when someone leaves.

It just changes shape.

And he’s learning—slowly, painfully, gently—

how to carry yours forward.

Without you.

But never without you.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

LEE FELIX : 필릭스 — Bargaining

Felix still lights a candle every night at 7:07 p.m.

The time your last photo together was taken—both of you laughing in a convenience store parking lot, faces lit by neon and streetlights.

He bought the same brand of candle you always chose—lavender, the cheap kind from the corner mart that smokes too much.

He lights it with the same lighter you used to steal from him, the one with the tiny star sticker you put on it.

He sits on the floor in front of it, knees to chest, and starts bargaining the way people bargain with gods they don’t believe in anymore.

“If I never complain about your cold hands again, will you come back?”

“If I learn to make your favorite latte exactly right—no foam, extra vanilla—will you walk through the door?”

“If I stop humming when I’m nervous, if I stop biting my nails, if I become quieter, smaller, better—will you forgive me for not holding you tighter that last night?”

He makes lists.

Actual lists on scraps of paper he keeps in a shoebox under the bed.

“I’ll donate half my clothes.”

“I’ll volunteer at the animal shelter every weekend.”

“I’ll never raise my voice again, even when I’m frustrated.”

“I’ll be kinder to everyone, even the people who don’t deserve it.”

He crosses things off when he does them.

The list gets longer.

Nothing gets crossed off enough times to bring you back.

Some nights he bargains with objects.

He holds your favorite mug—the one with the chipped handle—and whispers:

“If this mug never breaks, if it stays perfect forever, will you come home?”

He sleeps with it beside his pillow.

It hasn’t broken yet.

You still haven’t come home.

He talks to the flame.

Tells it about the new freckle he found on his wrist that looks like yours.

Tells it he’s sorry for every time he was too tired to dance with you in the kitchen.

Tells it he’d give up music if it meant one more morning waking up to your sleepy “five more minutes, Lix.”

The candle burns down every night.

He blows it out at 7:07 a.m. the next morning.

Starts again at 7:07 p.m.

He knows it’s irrational.

He knows the flame doesn’t hear him.

He knows bargains don’t bring people back.

But stopping would mean accepting.

And he’s not ready.

So he lights the candle.

Every single night.

And waits for the universe to change its mind.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

KIM SEUNGMIN : 김승민 — Depression

Seungmin’s voice has changed.

Not dramatically.

Not enough for most people to notice.

But you would have.

You always noticed the tiny things—how his tone lifted half a note when he was teasing, how it dropped when he was tired, how it cracked just slightly when he said your name after being apart for too long.

Now it’s flat.

Careful.

Like he’s measuring every word to make sure it doesn’t hurt coming out.

He speaks less in group settings.

When he does, it’s polite.

Measured.

Safe.

He stopped singing for fun.

The shower concerts you used to record secretly are gone.

The late-night covers he’d post on his private account—stopped.

He still sings for work.

But it’s mechanical.

Perfect pitch.

No soul.

He keeps your toothbrush in the holder.

Next to his.

Doesn’t touch it.

Doesn’t throw it away.

Just lets it sit there—bristles still slightly bent from the last time you used it.

Sometimes he stares at it for minutes at a time.

Doesn’t cry.

Just stares.

He stopped wearing colors.

Everything is black, gray, navy.

Not dramatic mourning clothes—just absence of light.

You used to tease him about his “emo phase” when he wore black too much.

He hasn’t worn white since the funeral.

He reads the books you left unfinished.

Marks the pages you dog-eared.

Finishes them slowly.

When he reaches the last page he closes the book, places it back on the shelf exactly where you left it, and starts the next one.

He doesn’t skip ahead.

Doesn’t read faster.

He reads like he’s walking through a museum of your mind—careful, reverent, terrified to miss a single detail.

He still sets the coffee maker for two cups every morning.

Drinks yours when his is gone.

Tastes like nothing.

He drinks it anyway.

He doesn’t talk about you in past tense.

Not yet.

When someone asks how you’re doing, he says “she’s resting.”

They nod awkwardly.

He doesn’t correct them.

At night he lies on his side of the bed—your side still empty—and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn’t cry.

The tears dried up months ago.

Now he just exists in the quiet.

Breathing shallow.

Waiting for the ache to become familiar enough that it stops feeling like dying.

It never quite does.

But he keeps breathing anyway.

Because stopping would mean the end of every place you ever touched.

And he’s not ready for that.

Not yet.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

YANG JEONGIN : 양정인 — Acceptance

Jeongin doesn’t visit the grave every week anymore.

He used to—rain, shine, schedules be damned.

He’d sit on the grass until his legs went numb, telling you about the new song he was working on, the dumb thing Seungmin said, how he still can’t fold fitted sheets the way you taught him.

Now he goes once a month.

On the 17th.

Your favorite number.

He brings one thing each time.

A single sunflower when it’s sunny.

A tiny umbrella when it rains.

A warm latte when it’s cold.

He places it carefully against the headstone, sits for a while, then leaves.

No long monologues.

No tears.

Just quiet company.

He started wearing your ring again.

Not on his finger—the chain around his neck.

He tucks it under his shirt when he’s on stage.

Pulls it out when he’s alone.

Holds it like a worry stone when his hands shake during recordings.

He sings again.

Not just for work.

For himself.

Late at night in the studio after everyone leaves.

Songs you loved.

Songs you hated.

Songs you never heard.

He records them anyway.

Saves them in a private folder labeled “for her.”

He might release them one day.

He might not.

Either way—they exist.

And that’s enough.

He laughs more now.

Not forced.

Not hollow.

Real, surprised laughter when Changbin trips over his own feet or Felix burns toast again.

It still catches him off guard sometimes—how joy can sneak in beside grief without apology.

He lets it stay.

He keeps your favorite photo on his lock screen.

The one of you mid-laugh at the beach, hair wild, eyes crinkled.

He doesn’t change it.

Doesn’t hide it.

When people ask who it is, he says “someone I loved.”

Present tense.

Always present tense.

He still sleeps on his side of the bed.

Leaves your side open.

Sometimes he reaches across in the middle of the night—habit, muscle memory.

His hand meets empty sheets.

He doesn’t flinch anymore.

Just exhales.

Pulls the pillow you used to hug close to his chest.

Breathes in the faint trace of your shampoo that’s almost gone.

He’s learning that grief isn’t a tunnel with light at the end.

It’s a room.

Some days the walls close in.

Some days the ceiling feels higher.

Some days he opens a window and lets the sun in.

He’s learning to live in the room.

Not to leave it.

Not to pretend it’s not there.

Just to live in it.

With you.

In every song.

In every laugh.

In every quiet morning he still sets two coffee mugs out.

Because acceptance isn’t forgetting.

It’s remembering.

And choosing to keep breathing anyway.

For you.

With you.

Always you.

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

Happy belated Valentine's Day !

end note:

If you made it this far… thank you. Truly.

Writing (and maybe reading) these stages wasn’t easy. Valentine’s Day can feel like a spotlight on everything that hurts — the love that stayed, the love that left, the love that never quite arrived. Some days it’s roses and confessions; other days it’s quiet rooms and old messages you can’t delete. I wanted to honor all of it here. Not just the pretty parts, but the messy, aching, grieving ones too.

Grief doesn’t always mean someone died. Sometimes it’s grieving who you used to be with them, or who you thought you’d become together. Sometimes it’s grieving the version of love you were promised but never got. And that’s okay. It’s allowed to hurt this much, even on a day the world tells you to be happy and in love.

If any of these words felt too close, too raw, too familiar — I’m holding space for you. You’re not dramatic. You’re not “too much.” You’re just human, feeling something real in a world that rushes past feelings like they’re inconvenient. Take your time with the ache. Let it sit. Let it breathe. It doesn’t have to be fixed today, or this week, or even this year.

And if you’re in a softer place right now — if your heart is full, or healing, or just quietly okay — I’m so glad. You deserve that gentleness too.

Thank you for letting me put these pieces of hurt and hope into words. Thank you for reading, for feeling, for staying even when it stung. If this special helped you feel a little less alone in your own stages… that’s more than enough for me.

Wishing you love in all its forms — the kind that stays, the kind that teaches, the kind that eventually lets you go. And most of all, wishing you peace, even on days when peace feels far away.

With all my heart (the bruised and beating parts included),

April @softasapril

February 2026 ♡

──────────────────────────── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𖹭

taglist: @karlee10261990 ; @cliosunshine ; @leewayout ; @sugaspice-andeverythingnice ; @geni-627 ; @niku0704 ; @supernaturalsunny ; @doliveiraa ; @i-like-pandas5 ; @iconicallyher ; @stronglychanbiased ; @mimiopla1 ; @emeraldgem22 ; @skzfangirl143

Minho wakes up to the smell of coffee and the unmistakable sound of someone who is definitely not you rummaging through the kitchen cabinets like they’re trying to start a demolition derby.

He groans, rolls over, pats the empty side of the bed—cold—and cracks one eye open.

The bedroom door is ajar.

Light spills in.

And there, framed in the doorway like some cursed K-drama plot twist, stands… a guy.

Tall.

Like, noticeably taller than Minho (which is already offensive).

Broad shoulders, messy dark hair that falls the exact same way yours does when you first wake up, same sleepy eyes blinking at him, same mole under the left eye.

But male.

Very male.

Minho sits up slowly, blanket pooling around his waist.

“…Babe?”

The tall stranger rubs the back of his neck—your nervous habit—and winces.

“Yeah. Hi. So. Funny story.”

Minho stares.

The stranger—you—steps fully into the room. Voice is deeper, rougher around the edges, but still unmistakably yours.

“Remember when I told you yesterday when I arrived that I was walking home from the convenience store last night. Some drunk old lady with glowy hands yelled ‘May you understand your lover better!’ at me, threw what felt like glitter in my face, and now poof. Woke up like this.”

Minho blinks once. Twice.

Then he looks you up and down—slow, deliberate.

You’re wearing his biggest hoodie (still too short on these longer arms) and your pajama shorts that now look comically small. Your legs are longer. Your hands are bigger. You’re towering over the bed like some unfairly attractive basketball player who just rolled out of his boyfriend’s dreams.

Minho’s brain does a quick system reboot.

“…You’re taller than me.”

You grimace. “I know. It’s disgusting.”

Minho swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands up, and—yeah.

You’re taller.

By a solid three inches.

He tilts his head back to look at you properly.

You look down at him.

The silence stretches.

Then you say, deadpan:

“Is this your bisexual awakening? Do I have to be afraid you’re gonna leave me for a man now?”

Minho chokes on air.

You keep going, gesturing at your new body with both hands.

“I mean—look at me. Jawline. Shoulders. I could probably bench press you. This is prime boyfriend material. If you’re suddenly into guys, I get it. I’m hot.”

Minho’s face flushes from neck to ears.

He grabs a pillow and chucks it at your chest.

You catch it one-handed. Effortlessly.

“Stop,” he hisses, mortified. “You’re—you’re still you. Just… taller. And deeper. And—fuck, your voice is doing things.”

You grin—slow, cocky, new deep timbre making it ten times worse.

“Things, huh?”

Minho points at you accusingly. “Don’t start. I’m having a crisis.”

“You’re having a crisis?” You step closer—looming now—and Minho has to tilt his head further back. “I have a dick, Minho. A whole dick. I checked. It’s there. I panicked in the bathroom for twenty minutes.”

Minho’s eyes widen.

Then he snorts.

Then he starts laughing—helpless, shoulders shaking.

You stare at him, betrayed.

“You’re laughing? I have a penis and you’re laughing?”

“I’m sorry—” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “It’s just—you said ‘I checked’ like it was a science experiment. And now you’re standing there in my hoodie looking like you could model for Calvin Klein and you’re mad I’m laughing?”

You cross your arms (bigger biceps, Minho notices immediately and hates how much he notices).

“I’m having an identity crisis and you’re ogling my arms.”

“I’m not ogling.”

(Pause.)

“Okay, maybe a little ogling.”

You groan, drop onto the bed, and bury your face in your hands.

Minho climbs up beside you, straddling your thighs carefully (you’re so much longer now it’s ridiculous).

“Hey.”

You peek up, face flushed.

He cups your cheeks—bigger jaw under his palms—and leans down so you’re eye-level.

“I’m not leaving you for a man,” he says seriously. “Even if that man is currently you. I love you. Girl you, boy you, tall you, short you, screaming-at-plants you. All versions.”

Your eyes soften.

Then you mutter, “But I’m taller than you now.”

Minho smirks. “Yeah. And it’s hot. I’m having thoughts.”

You choke. “Minho!”

“What? I’m honest.” He leans closer, nose brushing yours. “You’re still my person. Just… with bonus height and a deeper voice that’s doing illegal things to me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself—deeper, rougher, and Minho’s pupils dilate instantly.

“Stop being attracted to me,” you whine. “This is temporary. Twenty-four hours.”

“Plenty of time,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. Then the other corner. Then full on the lips—slow, curious, like he’s mapping the differences.

You kiss back, hesitant at first, then deeper.

When you separate, you’re both breathing harder.

Minho rests his forehead against yours.

“Still you,” he whispers. “Still mine.”

You smile—small, shy, even with the new face.

“Still yours.”

He kisses you again—quick, playful.

“Now get up. We’re spending the day inside. No one gets to see my boyfriend looking this good except me.”

You snort. “Boyfriend?”

“Until midnight.” He grins. “Then you’re back to girlfriend. But right now? I’m enjoying the upgrade.”

You shove him off gently (way too easy with these new arms).

“Upgrade? Rude.”

“Compliment,” he corrects, already tugging you toward the bathroom. “Come on. Shower. Then breakfast. Then I’m going to stare at you inappropriately for the next twenty-three hours.”

You laugh—loud, deep, real.

And as he drags you into the bathroom, still bickering, still teasing, still completely in love, still teasing, hands wandering just enough to make it clear he’s very much enjoying the temporary “upgrade”—

“Honey don’t touch my dick this is new to me”

You realize:

Even like this—

He’s still looking at you like you hung the moon.

Boy or girl.

Tall or short.

You’re still his.

And he’s still yours.

(He definitely takes sneaky photos all day.

For “blackmail purposes,” he claims.

You let him.)

(He also definitely calls you “handsome” at least twelve times before lunch.)

(You pretend to hate it.)

(You don’t.)

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

taglist: @karlee10261990 ; @cliosunshine ; @leewayout ; @sugaspice-andeverythingnice ; @geni-627 ; @niku0704 ; @supernaturalsunny ; @doliveiraa ; @i-like-pandas5 ; @iconicallyher ; @stronglychanbiased ; @mimiopla1

A/N : Reader has on her/his wrist a timer, that's why she/he knows it's for 24 hours

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© ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ : @softasapril — 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘺, 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘈𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 — 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡

The dorm living room looks like a pastel war zone.

Blankets and pillows are piled into a massive nest on the floor, fairy lights are strung haphazardly across the ceiling (Changbin’s idea, “for the aesthetic”), empty soju bottles roll gently whenever someone moves, and the TV is stuck on the menu screen of some horror movie no one’s actually watching anymore.

You and Felix are sitting side by side in the middle of the chaos—matching Hello Kitty pajama sets you impulse-bought online together two weeks ago.

Pink shorts with white polka dots, oversized white t-shirts with Hello Kitty’s face taking up the entire chest, and little red bows on the collar.

You both look ridiculous.

You both love it.

Seungmin, sprawled on his back with an empty beer bottle balanced on his stomach, is the first to speak.

“You two are so fucking embarrassing.”

Hyunjin snorts into his pillow. “Seriously. Matching pajamas? At a sleepover? Just date already.”

You roll your eyes and shove another piece of convenience store kimbap into your mouth.

“We’re best friends,” you say around the rice. “Best friends do cute shit.”

Felix nods enthusiastically beside you, cheeks already flushed from the soju.

“Yeah. It’s platonic. Super platonic. Hello Kitty is for everyone.”

Minho, sitting cross-legged and somehow still elegant even in Mickey Mouse pajamas, raises one perfect eyebrow.

“Platonic,” he repeats slowly. “Right.”

Jeongin, half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder, mumbles without opening his eyes:

“Boobs and Hello Kitty. Boobs and Hello Kitty. Just kiss.”

Chan laughs so hard he almost chokes on his water.

“Jeongin, go to sleep.”

“I’m just saying,” Jeongin mutters, already snoring again.

You and Felix exchange a look—quick, practiced, the kind of look that says they’re idiots, right?

But neither of you says anything.

Because lately… the line has been blurring.

You catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking.

He catches you wearing his hoodies even when he’s not around.

You both laugh too long at each other’s jokes.

You both get weirdly quiet when someone else flirts with the other.

But admitting it?

No.

Too scary.

Too permanent.

Better to stay in the warm, safe bubble of “best friends who are maybe a little too close.”

The night goes on.

More soju.

More teasing.

More terrible karaoke.

Eventually the energy crashes.

One by one the others pass out:

Changbin snoring like a chainsaw on the couch.

Hyunjin curled into a ball under three blankets.

Seungmin somehow managing to look elegant even while drooling on a pillow.

Chan and Jeongin tangled together like puppies.

Minho is the last to go down—he just closes his eyes and stops moving, like a cat deciding it’s nap time.

It’s past 3 a.m.

Only you and Felix are still awake.

You’re both sitting on the floor now, backs against the couch, legs stretched out, sharing the last bottle of peach soju between you.

The room is quiet except for breathing and rain tapping the windows.

Felix takes a sip, passes it to you.

You take a sip, pass it back.

He’s looking at you—really looking—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, hair messy from someone (probably Hyunjin) ruffling it earlier.

“You look cute in Hello Kitty,” he says softly.

You smile, feeling brave from the alcohol.

“You look cuter.”

He laughs—quiet, shy.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

Silence again.

The bottle passes back and forth.

Then Felix says—voice barely above a whisper:

“I think about you a lot.”

Your heart trips.

“Like… how?”

He swallows.

“Like… more than best friend a lot.”

The room feels smaller.

You stare at him.

He stares back—scared, hopeful, drunk enough to be honest.

You set the bottle down.

Lean closer.

“Me too,” you whisper.

His eyes widen.

“Really?”

You nod.

He lets out a shaky breath—like relief and panic at the same time.

Then—before either of you can overthink it—he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss is messy.

Drunk.

Clumsy.

Perfect.

Lips soft and unsure at first, then deeper when you both realize the other isn’t pulling away.

His hand finds your cheek.

Yours finds his hair.

When you separate, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard:

Felix whispers, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

You laugh—soft, teary.

“Me too.”

He kisses you again—slower this time, savoring.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Does this mean… we’re not just best friends anymore?”

You smile—wide, stupidly happy.

“I think we’re dating now.”

He grins—bright, blinding, Felix at full power.

“Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh again.

He pulls you into his lap, arms tight around you, face buried in your neck.

You stay like that—cuddled up in matching Hello Kitty pajamas, surrounded by sleeping friends, rain outside, hearts racing.

Someone (Changbin) snores loudly.

You both giggle.

Felix kisses your shoulder.

“Best sleepover ever,” he whispers.

You nod against his chest.

“Best sleepover ever.”

And somewhere between the alcohol, the chaos, and the quiet confessions—

You both finally stop pretending.

When the others wake up in the morning and see you two asleep tangled together, still in Hello Kitty, holding hands even in sleep—

They don’t even tease.

They just smile.

They knew.

(They’ve known for years.)

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

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