Just a Little Duck

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Most of your nights ended the same way.

You would be in bed, lights off, scrolling without really paying attention, when your phone buzzed on your nightstand. Not a text. Not a call.

A voice memo.

It was never surprising. If anything, you expected it. Han worked best at night, and when he worked, he sent things to you. Unfinished verses. Half-formed choruses. Random melodies he thought would disappear by morning.

You had been his first listener for years.

Sometimes he would send a quick message first. “Don’t judge this one.” Or, “I hate the second line, ignore it.” Other times he would just send the audio with no warning, like he trusted you to understand without context.

You always did.

You would put your headphones in, close your eyes, and picture him in the studio. Hoodie on. Chair pushed too far back. One hand tapping against the desk while the other hovered over the recording button. The soft hum of equipment in the background. The quiet pauses between lines when he was deciding whether to keep going.

You never really thought about how intimate it was.

It was just your normal.

You weren’t a part of his idol life. You had your own schedule, your own job, your own life that had nothing to do with comeback dates or livestreams. When you sat in that studio or listened through your phone speaker, you weren’t listening to Han from Stray Kids.

You were listening to Jisung, your best friend.

The version who forgot to eat when he got stuck on lyrics. The one who stared at the ceiling when he was doubting himself. The one who would glance at you after playing a track and say, “Be honest,” like your opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.

And maybe it did.

That night, you were already under your blankets when your phone buzzed at 2:47 a.m.

You smiled without meaning to.

You reached for it, unlocked your screen, and saw the notification.

Han: |Voice memo — 3m 12s|

No caption.

You settled deeper into your pillow and pressed play.

At first, it was just slow music humming through your speakers. Soft. Slower than his usual tempo. A little choppy, like he had not decided what the song wanted to be yet.

You could hear the faint creak of his chair. The sound of him adjusting the mic.

Then his voice came in.

Low. Careful.

“If I say it out loud, will you disappear.

If I let you hear it, will it change what we are.”

Your eyes opened.

You stayed still, listening.

The melody was simple, almost fragile. There was something about the way he sang it that felt closer than usual, like he was not performing even for you. The lyrics were about waiting. About loving someone quietly because the risk of losing them felt worse than staying silent.

You told yourself not to overthink it.

He wrote about love all the time.

Still, your chest felt tight by the end of the memo.

You replayed it once more before setting your phone down.

You didn’t text him about it. You rarely did right away. Sometimes he fell asleep after sending them. Sometimes he stayed up and waited for your response.

You turned onto your side and stared at the wall.

It sounded like it could be about you. Hoped it was about you.

But that would be ridiculous.

You pushed that thought away.

It was just another late night demo.

It had to be.

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Weeks passed like normal. He sent other snippets. Shorter ones. A rap verse he was excited about. A chorus he couldn’t decide on. Nothing like the 2:47 a.m. track, but you didn’t bring it up.

Then one afternoon your phone started blowing up.

Social media notifications. Clips being reposted everywhere.

Han had uploaded a new song to YouTube.

He did that sometimes. Songs that weren’t on music services. Tracks that felt more personal. Less polished. Things he just wanted to share directly.

You opened the video without thinking too much about it.

The title didn’t give anything away.

The thumbnail was simple. Just him in the studio, head slightly tilted down, headphones around his neck.

You pressed play.

That soft music played through your phone again.

Your stomach dropped.

It was cleaner now. Layered. Produced. But it was the same melody. The same one from that night.

Your hand tightened around your phone as the lyrics continued.

You pressed your lips together and kept listening.

“I said you would always be my home,

But I never asked if I could be yours.”

You remembered that. A conversation from a night a few months ago.

You had been sitting on the studio floor at almost one in the morning. You had teased him about living there permanently because he spent more time there than anywhere else. He had laughed and said, “You’re my real home.”

No one else knew that conversation happened.

The song ended softly. No big vocal run. No dramatic finish. Just the music fading out.

Your screen filled with comments almost instantly.

People calling it his most vulnerable work. People guessing who it was about. Some joking. Some serious. Threads already forming with theories.

You stared at the screen.

He had never told you he was posting it.

He had never said that demo was turning into something public.

Your phone buzzed again.

His name.

Han: Did you listen.

Not even a question mark.

You swallowed before replying.

You: Yeah.

A few seconds passed.

Han: And.

You: It’s good.

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Han: I almost didn’t upload it.

Your heart started beating harder.

You: Why did you?

A pause.

Han: Felt honest.

That was all he said.

You stared at the message, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You (typed): Was it about me?

The words sat there in the text box.

You deleted them.

Instead you sent,

You: I’m proud of you.

He reacted with a small heart.

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After a few days, something shifted.

He was busy, of course. Schedules, practices, filming. That was normal. But the way he talked to you felt more cautious. Like he was stepping around something fragile, like one wrong word might crack everything open.

He stopped sending late night demos.

When you mentioned the song, he changed the subject.

You told yourself it was nothing.

But the space between you felt louder than usual.

It took almost three weeks before you saw him in person again.

The studio felt the same. The same dim lighting. The same faint smell of his cologne mixed with iced coffee. The same couch you had fallen asleep on too many times to count. The same low hum of equipment in the background.

He was already there when you walked in, headphones around his neck, fingers resting on the keyboard like he had been playing something but stopped when he heard the door.

He smiled when he saw you.

It was softer than usual. Almost careful.

You sat down in your usual spot. He adjusted his chair slightly without looking at you, making room like it was automatic. Like his body already knew where you belonged.

For a few minutes, you talked about normal things. Work. A funny comment someone left. A random story about one of the members messing up choreography.

You both laughed.

But the song hung in the air anyway.

You could feel it sitting between you.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Was it about me?”

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. Not accusing. Not angry. Just honest.

His hands stilled on the keyboard.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the keys, then at his hands, then finally at you. His jaw tightened slightly like he was debating whether to lie.

“I didn’t think you would recognize it that fast,” he said softly.

Your stomach dropped.

“So it was.”

He nodded.

“I changed some lines,” he said. “I thought that would make it safer.”

“Safer for who.”

“For you.” He swallowed. “For us.”

The word us made your heart stutter.

You felt your chest tighten.

“I wrote it because I didn’t know how to say it to you,” he continued. His voice was quieter now, almost fragile. “I thought if I just kept it in songs, it wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“Ruin what.”

He looked up at you then, really looked at you.

“What we have.”

There it was.

He ran a hand through his hair, bouncing his leg up and down. A nervous habit he always had when he felt cornered by his own feelings.

You stood slowly and walked over to where he was sitting in his chair. Close enough that you could see the faint dark circles under his eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of him.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. The words came out steady, but his hands were trembling slightly. “And I didn’t want to lose you by saying it out loud.”

The confession settled between you, heavy but not suffocating.

You felt strangely calm.

“You think I didn’t know?” you asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised.

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “You are not just my best friend. You are everything steady in my life. If this went wrong, I would lose that. I would lose you.”

His expression shifted. Something soft. Something relieved.

He stood slowly from his seat, hovering just barely over you now. Close enough that you could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“I didn’t want to pressure you by releasing it,” he said quickly. “I didn’t think about how it would feel on your side. I just wanted to be honest somewhere. Even if it wasn’t directly to you.”

“You could have been honest with me.”

He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m better at writing things than saying them.”

You stepped even closer. There was barely any space left between you now. You could hear his breathing.

“Then say it now.”

He hesitated for half a second. Like he was letting himself fall.

Then he did.

“I love you.”

No music. No recording light blinking red. No hiding behind lyrics or layered instrumentals.

Just him.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

For a second he just stared at you, like he needed to make sure you were real. Like he was waiting for you to take it back.

When you didn’t, the relief on his face was immediate. Almost overwhelming. His shoulders dropped. His eyes softened in a way you had never seen before.

He leaned his head down slowly until you could feel his breath against your lips.

“Can I kiss you.”

You nodded.

He cupped both hands around your face, thumbs resting gently near your jaw. Careful. Like you were something fragile.

The kiss was soft at first. Testing. A question.

Then it deepened just slightly, not rushed, not dramatic. Just warm and certain and real. Years of almosts and what ifs finally collapsing into something steady.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His hands didn’t move.

“It won’t be easy,” he said quietly. “It can’t be public. There will be rumors. And I’ll be busy. A lot.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I have been loving you in secret for years.”

His lips curved into that real smile. The soft one that never made it to interviews. The one only a few people ever saw.

He leaned in again, brushing his nose lightly against yours like he still couldn’t believe it.

And for the first time, nothing between you felt unspoken.

—

Later that night, your phone buzzed again.

2:47 a.m.

You laughed softly before opening it.

Han: |Voice memo — 3m 12s|

You pressed play.

That familiar tune flowed through your ears. Softer this time. More certain.

Then his voice.

“This one is ours,” he said at the beginning.

And this time, he wasn’t afraid of you hearing it.

The kitchen is dark except for the soft glow of the fridge. Minho is barefoot, wearing one of your t-shirts that’s just a bit too short on his arms, rummaging for something edible at 2:37 a.m.

You feel a stupid smile tug at your lips before you even speak.

“Stealing my strawberry yogurts again?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He just turns his head slightly to look at you with that expression that says, And what are you going to do about it?

“Yours taste better” he mumbles, spoon already in his mouth. “It’s called stealing with love.”

You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist and rest your chin on his shoulder. He smells like his mint shampoo and a little like dried dance practice sweat from a few hours ago.

“It’s not fair you look this cute when you’re robbing me” you murmur against his neck.

He lets out a low little laugh, the kind that barely makes a sound.

“Shut up and help me decide if I should open the last ramen or if we keep surviving on love.”

(Ramen wins. Ramen always wins.)

You pull back just enough for him to nudge the fridge door closed with his elbow, and the click of the light going off leaves you both in semi-darkness, only lit by the slice of moonlight slipping in through the half-open window. Minho turns around with the ramen packet in one hand and the spoon in the other, a little streak of yogurt still at the corner of his mouth. He looks at you like you’re the one intruding on his secret mission, but his eyes are warm in that way he saves for these dead hours of the night, when the world is off and it’s just the two of you.

“Okay, chef” you say, stealing the spoon from his hand so you can wipe it clean with your thumb, a gesture so casual you don’t even think about it. “But if you cook it, I demand extras: egg, green onion, and that spicy sauce that makes you cough like a dragon.”

He rolls his eyes, but another laugh slips out, this one rougher, as he sets the packet on the counter and flicks the stove on with a click. The water starts to warm slowly, and you hop up onto the kitchen island, legs dangling like you don’t have three days’ worth of sleep debt. Minho moves with that easy grace of his, precise and catlike, dropping the block of noodles into the water and stirring them with a random fork he’s fished from somewhere.

“You know what the worst part is?” he says suddenly, not looking at you, focused on not burning anything. “If it wasn’t you, I’d have kicked anyone else out of the kitchen for interrupting my sacred midnight ritual.”

“Liar” you shoot back, reaching over to steal a strand of hair that’s fallen over his forehead. “You let me stay because you don’t want to eat alone. Admit it: you’re a cat pretending to be independent, but you always end up looking for your human.”

Minho turns then, steam curling up between you like a soft fog, and pins you with that look of his, half teasing, half promise. He sets the fork down, steps closer and stops between your knees, hands braced on the counter on either side of your hips. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his body against yours, and the smell of ramen blends with that mint-and-dance scent that already has you hooked.

“Maybe” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his nose to brush yours. “But only because my human knows exactly how to make me purr.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you kiss him, slow and lazy, like time has decided to stop in this messy kitchen. He sighs against your mouth, a low sound that vibrates in your chest, and for a second you forget the ramen, the stolen yogurt, and the clock ticking past 2:45. When you pull back, he’s the first one to smile, that crooked little grin that lights up the room more than any bulb.

“Now the ramen’s definitely going to burn” he says, but he doesn’t move, just steals another quick kiss before going back to the stove like nothing happened.

You end up eating sitting on the floor, backs against the cabinets, steaming bowls in your hands. He gives you the last piece of egg with his chopsticks, and you tell him that ridiculous thing that happened to you today, laughing at how absurd it sounds at this hour. Minho listens, nodding, head tilted so it can rest against your shoulder, and when you’re done, you stay there a little longer in comfortable silence, just the ticking of the clock and your breaths in sync.

“Come on” he whispers finally, getting to his feet and tugging you up by the hand. “Bed. I’ve got dance at 7, and you have to pretend you’re sleeping when I leave.”

You let yourself be pulled along, but not without first stealing one last yogurt from the fridge “for revenge.” He pretends to be offended, but by the time you’re in the hallway he’s already wrapping his arms around you from behind again, voice low:

“I love you, thief.”

And you, with your head against his chest:

“Love you too, thieving cat.”

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22

It’s that glimmer of gratitude you resolve to cling to throughout his inevitable goading. 

No wonder he came to check on you. It’s his room. You’ve been gone far too long to feasibly be “plugging your phone in.” In your defense, you did start charging your phone, but you also happened to get distracted. 

He flops down on his stomach next to you with a force akin to a small earthquake. The mattress dips and jostles you closer until your arm is pressed against his, and you promptly disregard every thought you’ve ever had. Instead of scooting away, he drapes that arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“I wasn’t drooling,” you mutter, then mentally kick yourself for it. You pray he can’t hear the blood rushing in your ears. 

To anyone else, anyone who didn’t know the extent of your unrequited love, you two must look like a couple. Cuddled against each other, easy familiarity, so close it hurts in every way possible. 

He’s mere inches away. If he wanted, he could lean in and easily close the gap between you. 

Instead, he just laughs in your face, like the terrible friend he is. Trying to ignore your heart skipping a beat at the sound, you burrow closer into his embrace, reveling in as much of him as he’ll let you have. 

His chest vibrates when he speaks again. “I had a good time last night.” He pairs his kind words with a rude poke to your side. 

A good time is underestimating it, at least for you. Innie claimed that the rest of the guys were always hogging up your free time, and he missed his best friend. He booked a reservation at an Italian restaurant notoriously hard to get into – but he’s an idol, of course he has connections like that. 

If this were a romance movie, one of you would have confessed. Preferably him, to spare you the embarrassment. But it’s not, and at the end of the night, he dropped you off at home with a beaming smile and the memory. 

If this were a romance movie, now would also be a pretty good time for a confession. 

You look up at him. He’s looking back at you. 

The entire world shrinks to only him, and his eyes, staring into yours. “Yeah?” you ask, breathless. 

He grins. “Yeah,” his voice is low. His eyes drop down to your lips, and suddenly his hand is cupping your chin, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. 

Then, he clears his throat, the sound piercing. He shakes his head, as if to snap himself out of a thought, then whispers, “You had something.” He doesn’t remove his thumb. 

As if on cue, Seungmin walks past his open doorway headed towards the kitchen. He peeks inside, and immediately freezes in his tracks while his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the scene before him. 

Cuddled against each other. Easy familiarity. So close it hurts. 

Before he says anything too incriminating – and thus ensuring his death by your hands – he’s interrupted by a wild-eyed Changbin barreling past him and into Jeongin’s room, yelling “Chan’s buying us food! Get up! Hurryhurryhurry!”

An outraged, “The fuck I am!” sounds from the living room. 

Thirty minutes later, Chan buys everyone dumplings from Changbin’s favorite spot. 

At the restaurant, Jeongin steals a dumpling off Changbin’s plate rather unsuccessfully. The plop as it lands on the table alerts Changbin to the attempted thievery, and naturally, Jeongin winds up in a headlock as punishment. They go back and forth exclaiming, “Say you’re sorry!” and “I didn’t even do anything!” until Chan looks like he’s about to start sprouting grey hairs. 

“He’s such an idiot,” Seungmin says beside you. 

“I know,” you sigh. “I want his balls in my mouth.” 

Seungmin freezes with a steamed bun inches away from his lips. “Please,” he deadpans. “Never speak to me again.” 

Hyunjin proves himself nearly useless. However, he’s a lot better than your complete uselessness, so you find yourself taking his advice a few days later. 

“What does painting my feelings even mean?” you ask. Hyunjin sits across from you, concentrating on his own canvas like he’s the one about to confess via acrylic paint. Maybe he is; he and Changbin have been acting particularly married lately. A variety of paint tubes sits on the table between you two. “What color are my feelings?” 

Hyunjin snorts. “I don’t know, what color do you think pabo is?”

“Green?”

With a small grin, Hyunjin slides a pigment labelled Permanent Green closer to you, then subsequently dodges it when you hurl it back at him. Shame. He exclaims something about Changbin killing him if any more paint spills in their dorm, but you’re not listening, instead choosing to stare down at your canvas as if it will unveil its secrets if you simply look at it long enough. 

Hyunjin had sworn on his life that painting your love and gifting it to Jeongin would work, and the boy would swoon in your arms upon receiving it. He claimed there was no possible way he could miss the hint of his obviously-in-love best friend creating art for him. It is romantic, if nothing else. The only problem is you have no idea where to start. Or end. Or anything in between. Both of you, apparently, drastically overestimated your love’s ability to be painted. 

You stare longer, but the canvas unabashedly remains blank. 

“What comes to mind when you first think about him? Any special memories between you, anything you like to do together?” he asks. “If you say something nasty I’m kicking you out.” 

Jeongin brought you to a flower field a few weeks beforehand. He plucked a daisy, tucked it behind your ear, and smiled brighter than the sun. You want to keep being the reason he smiles like that. Back at home, you pressed the daisy as a keepsake. 

It might not be the idyllic, romantic embodiment Hyunjin probably hoped for, but it’s a lovely memory regardless. A flower field is fairly easy to paint, right?

Hyunjin gives his stamp of approval to your idea, as well as a five-minute-straight monologue about how cute you and Jeongin are together, your nerves about your gift heightening with each “you’re made for each other!” 

What if he doesn’t even like it? What if he doesn’t know the meaning behind it? What if he does know the meaning behind it?

As much as Hyunjin woes about his own love life, you feel justified wallowing in his presence a bit longer. 

“Can we please not talk about this? I don’t really want to think about how he’ll probably reject it.”

Hyunjin drops it for all of two minutes – just enough time for you to barely dip your paintbrush into Radiant Blue and cover most of the canvas in broad, sweeping strokes. 

“I think he loves you,” he says, without looking up from his own canvas. 

The paintbrush slips out of your fingers. Blue paint splatters across your jeans, and stains the floor where the brush lands. Hyunjin sees it, purses his lips, but thankfully doesn’t say anything else about his own impending doom. 

“He does not,” you assure him once you stop air from going down the wrong pipe. 

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, somehow loudly. “Do you want a list of reasons why I know he is? For one, he wouldn’t shut up about those flowers you picked for him.” The same flowers you chose to paint. He tacks on, “It was gross.” 

Your heart sinks at the implication you wish was true. “That was as friends,” you mutter, like a child who got told no. Hoping Hyunjin would take the hint, you pick up your paintbrush from the floor and continue swiping it across the canvas, trying to fix the parts that are streaky from the fall. 

He either did not get the hint or is flat out ignoring it. “I don’t take just friends to pick flowers,” you bite back the urge to point out Jeongin only knew about it because Changbin took Hyunjin, “and spend the next three hours talking about how pretty she looked.” 

“He did that?” Heat rises to your cheeks. 

He nods. “He only stopped because Minho threatened to tape his mouth closed.” 

The next hours are spent in relative silence as you two paint. As grateful as you are to avoid speaking about Jeongin, you’re unable to stop thinking about him – about if Hyunjin was exaggerating, about Jeongin’s reaction, about either possibility of him accepting or rejecting it. 

A flower field is not fairly easy to paint, as evidenced by Hyunjin’s snorting laughter when you finally show him your canvas. It’s not winning any awards anytime soon, but you thought it was alright, at least. 

“A child could have done a better job!” he exclaims. “An actual child!” He dodges yet another paint tube – when did he get so good at that? Through laughter, he says again, “It’s proof he loves you if he actually displays it anywhere.”

Unfortunately, Hyunjin made sure to be there while you gift it to Jeongin. 

“I love it!” Jeongin looks like you awarded him the moon and stars, rather than – you’ll admit it now – a pretty terrible painting. “Thank you!” 

And he walks away, admiring it. 

Hyunjin will not let this go for a long time. 

You’re staring at Jeongin making downright sinful noises doing pushups and debating when exactly in your life you lost your mind. You must have at some point, as only an insane person would agree to Chan asking you to accompany them to the gym.  

Jeongin does another pushup, grunting, and all rational thoughts leave your brain. 

Down. Up. Grunt.  

Would he make the same sounds if–  

“You know, they say those work better if you actually lift them,” Chan takes the bench next to you, carrying his own dumbbells orders of magnitude heavier than the ones laying abandoned by your feet. 

“Hm?” 

Jeongin finishes his set, and as if in slow motion, strips off his shirt. Sweat glistens on his chest, even in their gym’s terrible lighting. Good god. It would’ve been kinder if Chan punched you in the sternum and called it a day. 

Chan’s laugh breaks through the Jeongin-brain fog clouding your mind. You wrench your eyes away from the, quite frankly, ludicrous display going on to glare at him. 

“You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin there.” He seems more amused than he should. 

“Why does everyone keep saying I drool? It’s gross and I don’t do it.” 

“Yeah, it is gross, isn’t it?” Chan pauses to take in your expression, and lets out a deep sigh. “Look, you should just tell him, rip off the band-aid, you know? Have you tried anything like that?”

“I’ve tried, but I don’t know, something in me freezes up every time I try and I end up gaping at him like a fish.” 

Even before this week, you’ve tried so often, but the words always die in your throat. It’s harder than it seems, confessing your undying love to your best friend. 

Chan’s staring at you like you grew a second mouth, one that said something stupid. 

“What?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing, just remembering similar conversations.” He glances across the room, where Jeongin’s in position to start doing pushups again. God save everyone. “I think you should tell him though. Now.” 

“Are you cra–”

“Now. Re-rack your weights first.” He lifts his dumbbells off the floor and turns his attention towards the wall-to-wall mirror, shutting you out of the conversation and leaving no room for debate. 

Your heartbeat thunders in rhythm with your footsteps. 

Jeongin drops down with a dramatic sigh — seriously, an all-out punch would’ve been kinder, Chan — once he sees you approach. Then, he rolls on his back on the probably grimy, definitely sweaty floor and exclaims “There you are!” with a huge smile. 

“Help me up?” he holds his hands out in the air for you to take. 

Of course you do. 

Of course he doesn’t let go once he’s standing. 

Once again, his intense gaze burns straight through you. You’re all but positive your confession is written on your forehead, with how intently he’s looking at you, as if nobody else exists. 

You can’t tell him. Not here. Not in a gym. Not with Chan watching. 

“Are you finally going to join me? I could use the motivation,” Jeongin winks, still holding your hands in his. Your heart drops to your stomach and your stomach jumps up to your throat. 

He could get you to agree to anything, internal organs all out of balance as they are. 

“Y-yeah. Sure.” Hopefully you could claim the sweat forming is from exercise. 

His resulting smile could blind the dead. “Awesome! I’ll get set up!”

With that, he drops your hands and turns his back to stride towards a machine. Finally, you can breathe normally again. You trail after him, glancing back at Chan on the way. He looks like he expected absolutely nothing less out of that whole situation. 

“I think that’s a biohazard,” Seungmin informs, taking a seat next to where your head so elegantly landed when you flopped face-down on their couch. “I mean, I’ve seen Felix stay in that exact spot for, like, two days straight. And he’s gross, so just imagine what’s still in the cushions.” 

“Can’t move,” your reply is muffled. You’re not even lying this time – your bones are pudding only hours after working through Jeongin’s push day routine with him. 

“Your funeral, I guess.” 

The couch is unfairly comfortable, honestly, and you have half a mind to succumb to the sleep threatening to pull you under. But, you can tell Seungmin is enjoying the silence, which just won’t do. Not on your watch. 

“You ever see Innie working out?” you ask, not bothering to move your face away from the couch in any way to help him understand you. 

“All the time. Hey, can I borrow your phone? Mine’s dead.”

“It’s on the coffee table.” Truly, if you could move your arms at all, you would hand it over. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? He’s like a statue.” 

Seungmin releases a sound like he’s dying around the sound of him typing. “Did you come here just so I could suffer with you?” 

“And he has abs!”

Seungmin leans forward, then he gently sets your phone back down. “I will smother you until you stop talking,” he deadpans. 

“I’ll cook dinner for you if I can keep going.”

“You were saying something about his abs?”  

Fifteen minutes and twenty instances of Seungmin asking what you’re making later, you have enough feeling in your arms to begin dinner preparation. 

Your phone pings with a new text once the chicken is almost finished cooking on the stovetop.

Innie: I would hope so :)

Opening your messaging app reveals the answer. The horrible, terrible, no-good answer. 

You: I like you. 

Innie: I would hope so :)

Seungmin. You’re going to kill him. The fanbase will understand. He’s had it coming for a while, anyway. 

Seungmin’s food burns while you’re contemplating revenge. 

He eats it without complaint. 

On screen, Princess Peach cuts in front of Wario inches away from the finish line, and Minho damn near throws his controller at you. Before you can start the typical I’m-the-Best-Bow-at-My-Feet speech, Han steps outside of his room with a guilty expression rarely seen outside courtrooms. 

“I talked to Innie,” he admits. 

Ice forms in your stomach. 

“That’s my cue,” Minho says, gets up, and retreats into his own room. Bastard. 

Han sits beside you, hanging his head so he does not have to look you in the eye. 

“Why,” you croak. 

“I thought I was being helpful! I asked if he was interested in anyone, you know, to get the ball rolling!” At that, he looks up at you, eyes almost comically wide. “But he acted like I was dumb for even asking.” 

“Why.” 

Han steamrolls on with his explanation. “I mean, no offense or anything, but you are pretty obvious about it! I thought he knew already, honestly.” 

The ice transforms into a category 5 winter storm. You had been trying not to think about that, but he’s right. Anyone with eyes can clearly see how you act around Jeongin. He must know. He’s being nice by not outright rejecting you. 

Han only coos “I’m so sorry,” tone as gentle as the hand he places on your knee, in response to your considerations.

Together, you and Han formulate A Plan. It goes like this: Forget about Your Feelings for Innie. Not that you want to, but even you have limits on how far your delusions go. 

It’s a great plan. It will work flawlessly.

The plan goes to shit the next day. 

Felix invites everyone over for a movie night at Chan and Jeongin’s dorm – artfully avoiding Changbin’s question of whether or not he actually had permission to do so. Han assures you Jeongin already has plans, so you won’t have to worry about seeing him or speaking to him or being around him at all, really. 

For some reason, Jeongin had hung up your painting in their living room, and it practically stares you down as you settle into your blankets across from it. Heaviness weighs on your body, but a night with your friends might be the distraction you need to forget about it for a while. 

Unless those friends make you talk about it. 

Halfway through the first movie, Minho, never one to beat around the bush, pauses it and says, “You look sad.” He’s met with noises of agreement from nearly everyone else.  

“I just - I don’t know what to do about Innie,” you say, unwilling to look at anyone’s face for fear of seeing your own patheticness validated. You pick a spot on the carpet and focus all your attention into picking at the fraying fibers. “I think I have to give up on him.” 

Admitting it is a weight off your shoulders and a boulder on your chest. You’ve already had this conversation with Han, but here, speaking it into a room of your closest friends, makes the words real. Too real to take back, to brush off as anything else. 

Nobody’s said anything. Usually, at this point, Hyunjin would be offering unrealistic advice, or Seungmin would be telling you nobody wants to hear it. Something’s wrong. You look up. Half the room is staring at you.

Half the room is staring behind you. 

“Ouch,” sounds from the doorway into Jeongin’s room. “Don’t give up on me yet.” His tone is lighthearted on the surface, but everyone in the room knows him well enough to hear the strain underneath it.

Every muscle in your body freezes. Unable to move, you and Felix are now locked in a horrible staring contest. He looks as scared as you feel. 

No. 

There’s no possible way to get out of this. 

No. 

It’s far too late to try to play it off as anything other than a confession. He would see straight through you. He always does when you’re lying. 

Nononono. 

How do you even explain that you’ve been unashamedly pining to the point everyone else is sick of hearing it, all to no avail? That you know he knows and now you’ve broken the silent “don’t talk about it to let her down easy” strategy he had going on. 

You cannot be here. 

You cannot turn around to face the consequences of your careless speaking. 

You cannot stay in this room, on this street, on this planet with Jeongin. 

Mechanically, on legs you pray aren’t actually shaking even though your cells are vibrating, you get to your feet. Something akin to, “Ihavetogobye,” spills out of your mouth, before you rush out the door without turning around. Without once looking back at Jeongin, or his insisting that you stay. 

Jeongin studies his members, all sitting (or – in Changbin’s case – laying across Hyunjin’s lap), all staring back at him with nearly identical pitiful expressions. After running a hand down his face, as if he could wipe away the memory of what you said, he asks the room, “Does anyone want to tell me what that was about?”

Instead of actually answering his question, Chan just responds, “Dude.” Like dominoes, most everyone echoes the sentiment, dread growing in Jeongin’s stomach after every one. Rarely is nobody willing to outright tell him what he did wrong. Usually they jump at the chance to embarrass him. 

Jeongin flops to the floor, right where you were sitting. “Dude what?,” he groans and tries to ignore the pain sprouting in his butt from his theatrics. “What did I do? Why is my girlfriend giving up on me?”

Han’s jaw audibly pops as it falls open. 

A silence unlike anything Jeongin has ever known descends upon the dorm. 

Even Hyunjin has stopped poking Changbin in the side to get a rise out of him. Jeongin is fairly certain it’s not this quiet even when nobody’s home. Once, when Chan was fed up with them, he had snapped that the next person to make a single sound would be doing everyone’s dishes for a month. This is quieter.

Seven twenty-something men collectively deciding to embody statues cannot mean anything good. They could hear a pin drop outside. 

Until Seungmin starts giggling into his palm. To his credit, he does attempt to stifle it, but his laugh practically echoes in the silence. 

Changbin begins laughing too. He rolls over to muffle the sound by hiding his face in Hyunjin’s stomach. His attempts are useless. Less than useless, because Hyunjin is ticklish and smacks him with a shriek that might be, “Stop it!” Changbin rolls back over, now nothing blocking his increase in volume. His shoulders shake the louder he gets. The whole thing only eggs Seungmin on, and soon enough, Seungmin, Changbin, Han, and Minho are in various stages of laughing at Jeongin. 

Jeongin, baffled, asks, “What is happening?” 

“Girlfriend?” Felix clarifies.

“Yes?” Jeongin feels like he’s missing a crucial piece of information. 

Seungmin’s face is lit up with pure joy. He would give kids on Christmas morning a serious run for their money. “How long,” he pauses to wipe an honest-to-God tear from his cheek. “How long has that been going on?” 

“I don’t know, a week? Maybe two?” 

“Two?” Chan chokes on the word. “Dude.” 

Jeongin has to be on the world’s worst prank show. A camera crew must be incredibly well hidden. “What is happening?” he asks again. 

Hyunjin finds his words first. “Did you ever… tell her you’re dating?” 

“Of course,” comes Jeongin’s easy reply. He bites back, What kind of question is that? 

Hyunjin’s cocked eyebrow causes him to reconsider. The dates, the gifts, the… everything. He can’t recall outright saying, “We are in an exclusive romantic relationship,” but you have to know. He asked you out! Didn’t he? Yes. He did. Weeks ago. You said yes. 

Wait. 

You said yes to him asking, “Do you want to be with me?” over pasta and, admittedly, maybe one too many glasses of wine. There’s room for misinterpretation there. Clearly. 

“Oh.” Jeongin blinks slowly. “A lot of things are starting to make sense.” 

Seungmin guffaws again. Minho mutters, “Yeah, I bet they are.” Chan looks like he’s regretting choosing Jeongin for the group. 

It’s ironic, in a way, that you end up at a familiar walking trail you and Jeongin visit often when either one of you needs fresh air. You didn’t even mean to come here, but you shut their front door behind you, and next thing you knew you’re wiping away tears and settling against a tree a short distance from the path. Wind blows through the trees, its accompanying chill biting at the wetness near your eyes. 

You can’t dodge Jeongin’s calls forever. His contact photo constantly lighting up your screen is making it incredibly hard to forget he – and by extension, your feelings currently lodging themselves squarely in your throat – exists. 

You have no right to be upset, not when you were too much of a coward to actually confess anything to him at all. Not when you willingly let every opportunity to tell him pass you up. Not when you just left. Who gives someone a painting and expects them to read four layers deep into it? Who goes to Han for rational advice?

Hell, Seungmin was the most direct with him. That’s a new low. 

Behind you, footsteps you could pick out of a lineup crunch over leaves. 

“Hey,” his voice is soft, almost lost in the breeze. Your refusal to meet his eyes doesn’t deter him, instead he just sits on the dirt across from you, the tongue of his shoe nearly touching yours. “Look at me, please.” 

He looks like he always does, and it’s a twist of the knife. Something should be different, there should be some sign advertising the loss he’s about to hand you. His oversized hoodie, his hair overdue for a trim, same softness in his eyes. So much like your Jeongin, the one you cannot reconcile with the Jeongin who knows and doesn’t love you how you want. 

But he is still your Jeongin, sweet and caring for the hard moments, so his face drops when he sees your red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. He takes one of your hands in his, and you let him, because this might be the last time he does. 

“I have been reliably informed that I misread what our relationship is,” he says. 

A single choked laugh escapes your throat. “I know, it’s okay. You don’t have to sugarcoat, I can handle anything you tell me.”  

“That’s not what I meant. I…” he starts, then stops again. His cheeks grow pinker by the second. He looks to the sky, then back at you. “I thought you were already my girlfriend.” 

Well. 

Almost anything. 

What? “You – what?” 

What? 

If he seemed embarrassed ten seconds ago, he does doubly so now. He’s about to start shrinking in on himself. “Please don’t make me say it again,” he groans. 

“Say it again.” You need to make sure you aren’t hearing things before getting your hopes up too much and shattering your emotions twice in a row. 

“Remember that night we went out to dinner at that Italian place?” 

Through your haze, you nod back at him. 

“I asked you to be my girlfriend that night. At least, I thought I did. Now, I don’t think that actually happened.” 

Blood roars in your ears. Your thoughts transform into TV static. “You want to date me even after everything that happened this week?” you ask through a tongue that suddenly feels too big for your mouth.

“Especially after everything that happened this week.” His answer is immediate. 

Jeongin grins tentatively and takes a risk. He scoots closer towards you, and seeing you not make to move away from him, fully commits to sit next to you, wrap his arm around you, and pull you into his side. It’s a position you’ve been in so many times before, familiar and new, but now he’s yours and you’re his, like flowers blooming intertwined.

Warmth blossoms and spreads throughout you. The cold winds don’t seem so bad anymore. You’d stay out here forever, as long as your Innie keeps holding you. As long as he keeps knowing you and loving you because of your flaws, not despite them. 

“Innie?” 

He presses a kiss into the top of your head, and you have to fight not to derail your train of thought. “We’ve been dating for a while and you never tried to kiss me?” 

He groans and lets his head drop onto the top of yours. “I thought you wanted to take it slow, I don’t know. I was trying to respect that.” 

You’ve waited long enough.

“Will you kiss me now?” 

The weight on your head disappears. You look up at him. He’s looking back at you. 

This time he doesn’t pull away or snap himself out of it. 

When he leans in and closes the gap between you, it’s absolutely nothing like you’ve dreamed about. No dream, no fantasy could compare to him, real and yours and kissing you like he won’t ever get another chance. Like he also cannot believe you’re letting him. He moves slowly, savoring your first kiss as long as possible.

Eventually, he has to pull away, keeping his eyes closed for several seconds after. He doesn’t go far, keeps his head inches away, enough to breathe without putting space between you. “D’you want to go back to the dorm?” he sighs against your lips. 

“No,” you whisper back. 

“Me neither.” 

With a relieved grin, he brings you into him again. 

everyone else stays up waiting for you two to stumble giggling back into the dorm, met with thunderous (ha) and noisy (ha ha) applause and several wolf whistles. seungmin leads them in a "jeongin! jeongin!" chant.

ily if you made it this far this was abandoned for a reason

It starts with a photo he almost doesn’t post.

Chan’s sitting on the studio floor, back against the couch, phone balanced on his knee. The room smells like instant coffee and the lemon cleaner the staff uses at night. It’s late. Too late. His shoulders ache, and his head’s been full of noise for hours.

You’re across from him, cross-legged, scrolling through your phone. You’re wearing his hoodie again. The gray one that’s technically still in his closet, even though it keeps ending up on you.

“You done?” you ask, not looking up.

“Almost,” he says. He angles his phone, frames the empty studio, the half-finished track on the screen. Safe. Normal. Nothing that says too much.

Then you lean over, resting your chin on his shoulder without thinking about it. Your weight is light, familiar. He still freezes every time, like his body hasn’t caught up with how natural this feels.

“Post it,” you say. “You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes.”

He laughs quietly. “I’m thinking.”

You hum, the sound soft, and pull back. “About?”

He doesn’t answer. He posts the photo.

The comments come in fast. Fans praising his work ethic. Jokes about him living in the studio. Someone asking who took the picture. He watches them scroll, chest tight for no real reason.

You see it on his face. You always do.

“You don’t have to,” you say gently.

“I know.” He locks his phone and sets it aside. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you reach out and lace your fingers with his, careful even though there’s no one else in the room.

“We’re not a mess,” you say. “We’re just… not loud.”

That’s one way to put it.

Being with you has been a series of small things. Shared meals at odd hours. Your name saved under a nickname no one else knows. Him walking half a step behind you in public, not because he wants distance, but because he’s learned where the cameras usually are.

Sometimes it hurts more than he expects.

Like today, when he posted a picture of his lunch. Just a bowl of pasta. Fans noticed the extra plate in the corner of the frame. They always notice.

You’d joked about it, but later, when he caught you staring at your phone a little too long, your smile had slipped.

“Hey,” he’d said, tilting your face up. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated. “I just… I don’t want to feel like a secret forever.”

The word had stuck with him.

Now, back in the studio, he stands and holds his hand out to you. “Come here.”

You raise an eyebrow but take it. He pulls you up, wraps his arms around you, presses his forehead to yours. No rush. No cameras.

“I can’t give you everything,” he says quietly. “Not yet. But I don’t want to hide you. Not from my life.”

Your eyes soften. “Chan, I don’t need a headline.”

He smiles a little. “Good. Because I was thinking something smaller.”

He picks up his phone again, opens his story. This time, he doesn’t overthink it. He snaps a photo of your hands intertwined, resting on his knee. No faces. No context. Just warmth.

He shows you before he posts it.

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He watches your face, searching. “Is that okay?”

You nod, eyes a little shiny. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

He posts it.

The reaction is slower this time. Curious. Gentle. Some fans guess. Some pretend not to see it. The world doesn’t end. Nothing breaks.

You squeeze his hand. “Soft launch,” you say, teasing.

Chan laughs, relief washing through him. He pulls you back into his chest, chin resting on your hair.

“Soft,” he agrees. “But real.”

It’s one thing Hyunjin doesn’t ask for often, unless he’s exhausted from work and feeling incapable of pulling himself together enough to get to bed. This time, however, he hasn’t been to work in a week.

No, this desire of his came from the fact that for the past seven days, you two have been glued to each other like never before, spending every waking moment together. Dates, nights out followed by cuddling in bed with the show you were currently binging, pillow forts, cooking together – you name it.

Taking time off to be able to spend it with one another, doing whatever your hearts desired while not having to worry about other people for a bit, just disappearing for a while, was the best idea you two have had in a while.

The look on his face, so soft, so defeated, makes you coo. You set the hairdryer aside and reach to cup his face, thumbs rubbing the apples of his cheeks tenderly. “My big, clingy baby. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

Then, you lean in to pepper kisses all over his skin, not leaving any of his features unattended for long. Hyunjin completely melts at the touch, eyes fluttering shut like he hasn’t felt your lips in ages, and not just the half an hour he spent bathing.

“Come on, let me dry your hair.” You smile, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his pillowy lips, wet from the way he keeps licking them. The water from his hair was starting to drip down your hands, and then his neck, shoulders and shirt. “But only if you let me style it however I want.”

His eyes open slowly, half-lidded gaze landing on your face, cheeks rosy from the heat and his inability to admit he loves being treated like this."...Fine. But no mohawk this time!”

Your giggles flow through the bathroom, a clear sign of no promises being made as he hands you a towel, and you get to work. After getting most of the water off with said towel, you turn on the hairdryer and start running your fingers through silky, black hair that has grown so much in the past six months, resembling some sort of mullet you adored.

Eventually, Hyunjin walks away from the safe haven named you, more specifically between your thighs, to go and open the bathroom door, not wanting you to suffocate in the compact room. When he returns, his hands land on the cold marble of the counter, right next to your bare thighs, the soft skin kissed by the hem of one of his shirts.

When he turns around, broad back greeting you with a flutter in your chest, you try to keep quiet and focus on blow drying the back of his head. But he keeps rambling, and you can’t help but respond, and soon, you’re laughing away at something one of your friends did the other day as she tried to reach you over Facetime.

“Stop moving!” You scold lightly, moving the hairdryer away, but not before the hot air hits him right in the face for the fifth time in the past two minutes, making him pull the funniest expressions.

“But you’re talking to me! I’m being polite!”

You shake your head, giggling, and tap the top of his head with the brush, which has him grinning like a little kid.

No more than five minutes later, you both can finally breathe more freely as the hairdryer is unplugged and set aside, grateful for the open bathroom door helping the air circulate.

Hyunjin doesn’t even bother looking past you, in the mirror, before leaning in to press a kiss to your lips, tenderly cupping your face in one of his big hands.

You smile into the kiss, before one of your hands lands on his shoulder to push him halfheartedly. “No distracting the stylist.”

He grins, chasing after your lips when you turn your head to reach for the hair oil, surprising you with another kiss right as you face him again. “I’m tipping you in affection, okay?.” He mumbles right over your lips, nipping down on your bottom one just for a moment before pulling away.

With an affectionate eyeroll, your fingers grab his chin, gentle as always, angling his head before you pour a tiny amount of oil in your palms to tame his frizzy locks.

For the next few minutes, Hyunjin is silent as you play with his hair, styling while planting the occasional kiss on his forehead, to which he closes his eyes and smiles, so content and relaxed he never wants you to stop.

You play with the gel, giggling and smiling to yourself at whatever you’re doing, thankful he’s not yet able to see his reflection and ruin the surprise. Fluffing and lifting his hair, sculpting it with entirely too much enthusiasm.

With his eyes still closed, Hyunjin hums under his breath. “Why does it feel suspiciously high?”

You pause, trying to stifle a laugh as you pull your sticky fingers away, turning to the sink to wash off the remaining gel. “No reason. None whatsoever.”

When you’re done, you wipe your hands on the big t-shirt you were wearing and grin. “Alright. Ready to see how you look?”

Hyunjin nods and finally opens his eyes as you move your body out of the way, so he can have access to the mirror. For one moment, he just blinks, trying to regain his words.

His silky, freshly cleaned hair has now been molded into an abstract masterpiece, the type only you could have come up with. The strands are spiked straight up, but only the front of his hair – the back was none of your business, apparently. It looks like it’s trying to defy gravity, with the determination of a man who isn’t yet ready to accept adulthood.

His doe eyes meet yours, and he slowly raises a lone, dark brow, not as flabbergasted as you thought he’d be. “Why…did you make me into a cartoon villain with no fashion sense?”

You laugh, nearly doubling over and falling off the counter as his big hands land on your thighs to steady you. “Baby, it’s abstract! Art!”

Hyunjin makes a face, reaching up to touch his poor hair. “It doesn’t even move. How much gel did you use? The whole thing?”

“A respectable amount.” You pout and shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest in feigned offence.

“You mean too much.” He clarifies, leaning closer to the mirror like that alone could somehow help him blink away the monstrosity that became of his hair. He’s not mad – he could never – but he’s definitely teetering on the edge of a meltdown.

Scooting away, his warm hands leave your skin as you jump off the counter and briefly leave the bathroom, letting Hyunjin chuckle at himself in the mirror while shaking his head, set on eventually making his spiky hair move.

Before he can notice, you lift your now retrieved phone and snap a quick photo from the doorway, perfectly timed, grin on full display, nose almost touching the glass. Nothing could paint a more endearing picture than this.

His sixth sense seems to tingle, because he turns his head instantly, meeting your eyes with the tiniest frown that doesn’t do anything but make you feel even more love for him. Because that smile? It's still there.

“Delete that.” Hyunjin tries to protest, pouting, but you shake your head, hiding your phone behind your back with an innocent smile of your own.

“Nope.” You reply serenely.

“Baby – “

“Hyune, no.” You cut him off, using that same, slightly whiny tone as him. “This is too cute to get rid of, accept it.”

But knowing Hyunjin, he won’t ever accept such an embarrassing photo to exist without a fight. It’s one thing for you to take silly pictures of him while he’s unaware, another to shamelessly point a camera in his face when he’s right in front of you.

That’s exactly why it doesn’t take you long before you’re running out of your shared bedroom, just barely managing to escape his claws and the torturous tickle attack that would surely end with your phone in his possession.

Your laughter echoes through the home you built together as you go down the stairs, with him, and his still unmovable hair, hot on your trail.

“You’ll never catch me alive!” You say laughing, risking a glance over your shoulder just to end up squealing once you notice he’s closing the distance fast.

Hyunjin chuckles, endeared by your baseless confidence. “Oh, but I will. And you’ll feel sorry for running in the first place when I get my hands on you.”

“Guess I was talking too much, huh?” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours, eyes soft. “You can interrupt me like that anytime.”

LEE MINHO ── .⟡ 이민호

When you kiss him, his eyes widen for a split second before he quickly recovers, smirking.

“Well… that’s one way to shut me up,” he teases, voice low but his ears are bright pink. You try to pull back, embarrassed, but he tugs you back by your wrist and kisses you again — slower this time.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart,” he says, trying to sound confident, though his heart’s pounding hard enough to betray him.

SEO CHANGBIN ── .⟡ 서창빈

You barely press your lips to his before he lets out a noise — somewhere between a gasp and a surprised laugh. “Wait— wait— you just— kissed me?” His face turns red immediately, and he hides it behind his hands.

You giggle, and he groans, peeking through his fingers. “You can’t just drop that on me like it’s nothing! My heart’s doing gymnastics right now!”

He eventually pulls you close again, shyly kissing your forehead. “Do it again… but maybe warn me next time?”

HWANG HYUNJIN ── .⟡ 황현진

He freezes, eyes fluttering shut mid-breath as your lips meet his. When you pull back, you’re not sure if he’s breathing. Then he smiles — soft, almost dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that,” he whispers, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers.

He leans back in and kisses you again, slower, deeper. “Now that it’s happened once… I’m not letting it be the last.”

HAN JISUNG ── .⟡ 한지성

You kiss him on impulse while you’re both laughing about something dumb, and he completely short-circuits. He just stares, blinking, mouth open.

“Wait. Did— did that actually happen? Are you—”

You laugh, leaning in again, and he immediately melts into it, hands awkwardly hovering before settling on your waist. When you pull back, he grins like an idiot.

“I’m never shutting up about this,” he warns. “Ever.”

LEE FELIX ── .⟡ 이 필릭스

He goes perfectly still, freckles bright against his flushed cheeks. “Y/N… did you just—?” His voice cracks adorably, and you nod, suddenly shy.

He breaks into the softest smile, eyes shining. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

Then he wraps his arms around you in a warm hug and kisses you back, featherlight. “You taste like sunshine,” he says, half-joking — but his tone is full of wonder.

KIM SEUNGMIN ── .⟡ 김승민

You kiss him unexpectedly while he’s teasing you, and when you pull away, he raises a brow, completely unfazed. “So that’s your way of winning an argument?”

You cross your arms, flustered, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “It’s effective,” he admits, leaning closer. “But next time, maybe I’ll kiss you first.”

You barely have time to respond before he does exactly that — calm, sure, and entirely in control.

YANG JEONGIN ── .⟡ 양정인

He goes from confident to flustered in an instant. One second he’s joking around, the next his entire face is red.

“I—I didn’t think you’d actually do that!” he stammers, covering his mouth.

You giggle, and he groans, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay— hold on— I need a second.” Then, after a deep breath, he looks at you shyly.

Of course Chan made us a jacket. Something to keep us warm, like a big hug from him. It’s also one of the most obviously skz pieces out of the bunch, which definitely tracks bc he has to stake his claim while taking care of Stay.

Naturally Lee Know is giving us plushies of his cats, we know he adores them so why wouldn’t he want to share them with all of us in some way?

Changbin and his subtle Dwaekki slides, because isn’t it just like him to want to provide comfort and support? And he does it without being super obvious or flashy while still very iykyk.

Of COURSE Hyunjin gives us a chain. Of COURSE he has the key to the locks. It’s so aggressively him I could sob. The dramatic symbolism, the vague possessiveness, it’s so romantic and artsy PLEASE.

Han and his hat absolutely slay me because I imagine it’s basically what he’s like as a friend. He’s right there for you, keeping the sun out of your eyes, covering a bad hair day, or just chilling. At the same time unbearably silly and creative to make you smile.

Felix is making us friendship bracelets and you cannot change my mind. I can absolutely see him sitting down and making those embroidery thread bracelets for his friends, so of course that’s what he’s essentially doing for us now. It’s so warm and sweet of him and I could sob over my sweet lil baby brother.

Not Seungmin making us the PERFECT PuppyM plushie. Something comforting for us to hug, because he can’t hug us all himself. (We all know he’s a big softie you can fight me on this.)

And finally I.N and his little phone cardholder. There he is, fitting seamlessly into our lives, never getting in the way but always there. Helping us keep track of the important stuff. Putting his face on there in the silliest and most subtle way he can, so we think of him every time we see it.