DLMLU

Frank doesn’t notice her the first few meetings.

Not really.

The Tuesday night group meets in the basement of a community center that smells faintly like floor cleaner and old coffee. The chairs never match. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone always brings grocery-store cookies no one eats.

Frank sits near the middle. Not too close to the door. Not too far from it either.

He tells himself it’s about balance. In reality, it’s about not wanting to look like he might run.

He comes every week. On time. Quiet. Listening more than he talks.

The first time he notices her is because she laughs.

Not loudly. Not in a way that interrupts anyone. Just a soft, surprised laugh when an older man makes a dry joke about learning to grocery shop sober.

It catches Frank off guard. People don’t laugh much here.

The next week, he notices she sits in the same chair.

The week after that, he notices she actually speaks.

“My name’s Y/N,” she says, voice steady but careful. “I’m… coming up on five months.”

A few people murmur congratulations. Someone claps once.

Frank watches the way she nods like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise.

When it’s his turn, he clears his throat.

“Frank. Five months.”

It still feels strange saying it out loud. Like the number might disappear if he doesn’t say it quickly.

After the meeting, people linger the way they always do.

Frank usually leaves.

Tonight he doesn’t.

He’s pouring coffee he doesn’t want when she appears beside him, reaching for sugar packets.

“Do you actually drink that,” she asks, glancing at the coffee, “or is it just part of the ritual?”

He almost smiles. “Still deciding.”

“I tried it once. I thought I was going to die.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. I think it melted part of my tongue.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, surprised it came out at all.

“I’m glad there’s someone else around my age,” she says. “No offense to the retirees.”

“None taken.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just new.

“I’m usually bad at talking to people here,” she admits. “It feels like everyone already knows each other.”

“Same.”

“Okay good,” she says softly. “So it’s not just me being weird.”

“Not just you.”

And somehow, that becomes the first real conversation they have.

- - -

They start staying longer after meetings.

At first it’s just five minutes. Then ten. Then long enough that the parking lot empties around them.

One night she says, “I think I’m getting better at functioning.”

Frank glances at her. “That’s the point, I think.”

“Functioning or pretending?”

“Both,” he admits.

She nods. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

After that, it becomes part of the routine without either of them deciding it.

Same chair. Same time. Same quiet presence beside him.

Sometimes they talk after meetings. Sometimes they don’t. But she always ends up near him at some point. 

Coffee table, hallway, parking lot.

It doesn’t feel like anything is there at first. Just repetition.

- - -

Outside one night, she says, “Do you ever get tired of hearing everyone’s story sound the same?”

Frank considers it.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s not really about the story.”

“Then what is it?”

“Knowing that it’s not just you in this.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. I guess that part helps.”

- - -

Weeks pass the way weeks do when someone becomes part of a routine before you notice. They keep ending up next to each other after meetings.

Sometimes they talk in the parking lot until the cold pushes them toward their cars. Sometimes it’s five minutes. Sometimes it’s forty.

He learns she works retail and hates closing shifts but loves the coworkers who make it tolerable.

The conversations stretch longer each week.

Until one night, after a meeting about relapse triggers, she sits on the hood of her car and stares into the dark lot.

“Do you ever get scared it’ll just… sneak up on you?”

Frank leans against the car beside her.

“All the time.”

“I hate how quiet the thought is,” she says. “It’s never loud. It’s just… there in the back of my mind… all the time.”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s the worst part.”

She looks at him then like she trusts him with something fragile.

That’s the night they exchange numbers.

- - -

The texts start not long after.

At first it’s simple.

A text after a bad shift. A meme sent too late at night. A “meeting tonight?”A “drive safe.”

But then it changes.

“Bad shift.”“Want to talk about it?”

Or late at night

“Can’t sleep again.”“Same.”

- - -

Coffee after meetings becomes routine.

They sit in the corner of the cafe and talk about everything except recovery for two hours.

It feels normal.

Dangerously normal.

Frank starts saving a corner table.

She starts showing up ten minutes early.

One night their hands brush while walking to their cars. Neither of them pulls away right away.

She looks like she might say something.

Instead she says, “See you Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Tuesday.”

Everything feels slightly different after that

- - -

Winter comes. The routine stays steady, but more personal now without either of them naming it.

She starts showing up earlier.

He starts saving her seat without thinking.

They walk to their cars together automatically now.

One night it’s raining, and they end up under the awning after everyone else leaves.

She says, “We’re always the last ones here.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees.

“Is that weird?”

“No.”

“I like our little conversations after”

Frank smiles, “me too. They make these meetings somewhat bearable.”

She smiles back, “See you Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Tuesday.”

But it doesn’t sound as simple anymore.

- - -

One night a few weeks later she's quieter than usual.

Frank notices immediately. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says automatically. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t accept it right away.

“Tired or something else?”

She hesitates.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “I think I’m scared I’m going to mess up again.”

Frank doesn’t rush to answer. When he does, it’s careful.

“You’re here.”

She nods, but it doesn’t fully settle.

“I know,” she says. “That’s not always enough though.”

So they sit with it. No easy excuses. No reassurance.

Just the fact that neither of them leaves.

- - -

The next week she texts him earlier than usual.

“Are you going tonight?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Okay. Good.”

Frank stares at it a second longer than he means to.

He replies: “You coming?”

“Yeah”, she says. “I’ll be there.”

And she is.

But something feels slightly different after that

- - -

Then she misses a meeting.

He notices it halfway through when he’s already sitting down, already listening, already expecting her to walk in late like she sometimes does.

But the door doesn’t open.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

People miss meetings.

It happens.

Afterward, he stands near the coffee table longer than usual, like it might explain something if he waits.

She isn’t there next week either.

He starts to worry.

But there’s always a reason people miss meetings. Work, family, bad week, simply just couldn’t make it. 

It’s never simple though.

He tells himself it’s fine, that she's busy.

When she finally texts again, it’s late one night.

“Sorry. I’ve been all over the place.”

Frank looks at the message longer than he means to.

“You coming Tuesday?” he replies.

It takes a while for her to answer.

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

- - -

She does come back.

But it isn’t the same.

She sits in her chair, but it doesn't feel like it used to. She doesn’t look aimlessly around the room. She doesn’t make small comments under her breath anymore.

After the meeting, Frank waits for her like usual.

“You’ve been gone a couple weeks,” he says.

She nods once. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“Work got bad,” she adds, like it explains everything.

Frank studies her for a second.

“Just work?” he asks carefully.

She hesitates too long before answering.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just… work.”

He doesn’t push it. He knows better than that. But he also knows her well enough now to feel the difference.

Still, she smiles a little like she’s trying to fix it.

“I’m here now,” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You are.”

- - -

After that, something shifts again, but slower this time.

She still comes, but not early anymore.

She still talks, but less.

The messages come later. Then shorter. Then sometimes not at all.

Frank starts noticing small things he doesn’t know how to ask about.

Like how she starts sitting closer to the aisle.

Like how she leaves faster than she used to.

Like how she stops mentioning work at all.

One night, she stands beside her car and says, “I think I’m just tired.”

Frank nods. “Yeah.”

She looks at him like she wants to say more, but doesn’t.

Instead she just says, “See you Tuesday.”

But she says it differently this time.

Like she isn’t entirely sure she will.

- - -

The next Tuesday, she doesn’t show up again.

Frank waits.

Not obviously. Not dramatically.

Just… notices. Then waits anyway.

The door opens late a few times. Every time, it isn’t her.

Nobody ever notices. They don’t notice the way someone is missing.

After the meeting, he doesn’t leave right away.

He stays until the room is empty.

Then he leaves.

- - -

The following week, she still doesn’t come.

This time, he asks the group leader casually, like it doesn’t matter.

“Have you seen her lately, maybe on another night?”

The leader checks a list, shrugs slightly. “Haven’t seen her in a bit. People cycle in and out. Just the way these things work”

Frank nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

But he doesn’t believe that answer as easily this time.

- - -

Frank starts reading old texts between them.

He tells himself everything's fine.

People come back.

They always do.

But he stops looking at the door when it opens at meetings, he stops staying after waiting, he doesn't go to the cafe anymore.

- - -

His first shift back at the hospital comes sooner than he expects.

The ER feels exactly the same. Loud. Bright. Familiar.

He tries slipping back into the rhythm, it's hard.

There's people that don't want him there, he knows that. But there's also people who do want him there, and he knows that too.

By the end of his shift he feels like he might just have the hang of things again.

That everything will be okay.

Until a stretcher comes through the doors minutes before the end of his shift and a paramedic says her name.

Everything inside him drops.

He can’t be part of the team treating her. He knows the rules. Knows the boundaries.

So he stands across the room and watches while they work.

He tells himself to breathe. To stay professional. To stay steady.

He watches doctors he knows try and wake her.

Watch them cool her body, push narcan, flash lights over her pupils time after time.

Her pulse drops and rises over and over and over. 

At some point Robby kicks him out of the room, makes him go home, says “he isn't needed there”

- - -

He checks his phone the next morning.

A message from the meeting group chat.

“We lost one of our own this weekend.”

Frank reads it three times before it becomes real.

- - -

His rehabilitation period is over. He doesn’t have to go to meetings anymore.

The following Tuesday, he drives there anyway.

He takes the same seat.

The chair beside him stays empty.

When it’s his turn to speak, his voice is steady.

“My name’s Frank. I’m ten months.”

The group answers automatically, “Glad you’re here, Frank.”

He laughs to himself. 

It's almost a cruel sentence. 

He’s here.

She isn’t.

And when the meeting ends, he stays a little longer than he used to.

Just sitting there, like leaving first would make it real in a way he isn’t ready for yet.

The night shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical had turned into one of those shifts that felt three hours longer than it actually was.

By the time the clock crawled past ten, everybody looked worn thin. The residents were slower, the nurses station was buried in half-finished charting, and the entire ER had that heavy end-of-shift feeling where nobody wanted to speak unless absolutely necessary.

You were leaning against the counter inside the break room scrolling through your phone to see if you missed anything happening during your shift. Frank walked into the room beside you, pulling off a pair of gloves with an irritated snap.

“The nurse order that last CT?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She put it in wrong.”

“You scared her.”

“I corrected her.”

“You stared at her in silence for like fifteen seconds first.”

Frank looked at you flatly. “Because she ordered the wrong scan.”

You bit back a smile and looked back at your charting.

That was basically how the two of you functioned.

Half your conversations sounded like arguments to anybody else. Somewhere over the last few months, sarcasm had become the default setting between you. It was easier than acknowledging whatever this thing was sitting underneath it.

It started small.

Him stealing your coffee during double shifts without asking first.

You stealing his chair at the nurses station just to annoy him.

Frank automatically handing you the right thing during traumas before you even asked for it. You knowing exactly when he was about to lose patience with a resident and stepping in before he snapped at them.

Nobody really noticed how often you ended up next to each other.

But you did.

- - -

He didn’t come back the same way he left.

And the hospital didn’t know what to do with that.

You did.

You didnt him like he was fragile. You didn’t suddenly get careful with your words or start watching him like he might break in half. The others did that. You didn’t.

You just… stayed the same.

Still arguing with him in trauma rooms like nothing had changed. Still rolling your eyes when he got sharp with residents. Still talking to him like he was just Langdon, not Frank Langdon, senior resident who had been gone for ten months in rehab for stealing Benzos while everyone filled in their own version of what that meant.

And you could tell he noticed.

Because with everyone else, there was distance.

With you, there wasn’t.

Frank moved beside you, shoulder brushing yours while he reached for the computer.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“So are you.”

“I just finished charting.”

“Bullshit. You finished twenty minutes ago.”

You looked over finally. “Are you stalking my charting times now?”

“Unfortunately I know your habits against my will.”

“Sounds difficult for you.”

“It is.”

He said it completely serious, which made it worse.

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

Frank glanced at you for a second too long before looking back at the monitor.

The thing about him was that most people thought he was hard to read because he was sarcastic and constantly annoyed at everybody. But once you worked with him long enough, you realized he actually showed everything. Just in smaller ways.

The way he hovered after bad cases.

The way he got quieter when he was exhausted.

The way he always knew what to say to help a patient.

And the way, after he came back, he always seemed to end up near you without thinking about it. Like you were the only place in the hospital that didn’t feel… different.

You noticed all of it.

Apparently he noticed things too.

“You missed lunch again,” he said suddenly.

You frowned. “What?”

“You missed lunch.”

“How do you even know that?”

“You get meaner towards the end of the shift when you haven’t eaten.”

“I do not.”

“You threatened to throw a pulse ox at Ogilvie.”

“He would've deserved that even if I wasn't in a bad mood.”

Frank snorted softly under his breath.

That stupid little sound did something annoying to your chest.

There’d been moments before this too.

A month ago he’d grabbed your hand without thinking after a patient died under your care, his hand lingering a second too long after things calmed down. Neither of you said anything about it after.

A couple weeks later Dana asked if the two of you were secretly married because “nobody argues that much unless there’s tension involved.”

Frank nearly choked on his coffee.

You hadn’t looked at him for the rest of the shift after that because every time you did, he looked like he was trying not to smile.

- - -

Frank leaned back against the counter beside you.

“Tough day?” you asked.

Frank let out a quiet breath through his nose, eyes still on the floor for a second before he answered.

“Robby rode my ass all day.”

Your expression softened slightly. “About?”

“You know exactly about what.”

Right. His first day back.

Ten months gone and everybody in the hospital suddenly acting like they didn’t know where to look when he walked into a room.

Some people were normal about it. Some very much weren’t.

You leaned back against the counter beside him. “He was hard on you?”

Frank gave a humorless little laugh. “Harder than usual.”

“That’s saying something.”

“Mm.”

You glanced at him carefully. “And Santos?”

“She barely talked to me unless she had to.”

“Ouch.”

“She kept looking at me like I was gonna pop open a pill bottle any second.”

Your face twisted immediately. “Frank…”

“I know.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw tiredly. “It is what it is.”

No. It wasn’t. But arguing that with him right now wouldn’t help.

You stayed quiet for a second before taking another sip of your coffee and immediately grimacing.

Frank noticed.

“That any good?”

“No. Tastes worse every time somehow.”

“Lemme see.”

You handed him the cup without thinking. He took a sip, made a face instantly, then looked at you like you’d personally offended him.

“That is actually disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still drinking it?”

You shrugged. “Too tired to care.”

That finally got a real smile out of him.

Not big. Not performative. Just real enough that it actually changed his face for a second instead of just tugging at it.

The silence after that felt different.

Not awkward.

Just… heavier.

Frank was still standing too close. Your shoulder kept brushing his arm every time either of you moved. Neither of you fixed it.

You became very aware of how tired he looked.

Not sloppy. Just worn down. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble coming in darker along his jaw than it had that morning. His scrub top wrinkled from a fourteen hour shift.

“You should go home,” you said quietly.

“So should you.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

Frank looked at you then. Fully.

It hit harder than it should’ve.

Because suddenly it didn’t feel like the normal flirting and sarcasm you’d both been hiding behind for months. It felt like standing too close to something you’d both been avoiding on purpose.

“You keep doing that,” he said.

Your stomach tightened slightly. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

The way he said it made your chest go tight.

You looked down at the coffee in your hands. “You’re hard to read sometimes.”

“No I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Frank shook his head slightly. “No. People just don’t pay attention.”

The words settled between you.

Because the truth was, you did pay attention.

You noticed when he got quieter after losing patients.

You noticed he always ended up standing near you after rough traumas without seeming to realize he was doing it.

You noticed he watched you during procedures sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking.

And judging by the way he was staring at you now, he knew it.

The noise around you seemed farther away suddenly.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before coming back up.

“Like you already know what I’m thinking.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Maybe I do.”

He smiled at that. Tired and brief, but real.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

Frank stared at you another second before reaching over and taking the coffee from your hands, setting it on the counter behind you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant like he’d been secretly dreaming about it for months.

It felt more like restraint finally snapping.

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you against him hard enough to make your breath catch. You grabbed the front of his scrub top automatically, kissing him back before your brain fully caught up.

He tasted like bad coffee and mint gum and exhaustion.

The kiss got deeper fast.

Months of tension packed into one thing neither of you were pretending not to want anymore.

When he pulled back, barely, both of you were breathing harder.

“That’s been pissing me off for months,” he muttered.

You blinked. “What has?”

“Not doing that.”

You laughed softly, slightly breathless. “Very romantic, Langdon.”

“I’m exhausted. That’s the best you’re getting.”

His hand was still firm against your waist. Thumb rubbing once unconsciously against your side through your scrubs.

You looked at him for a second. Really looked at him.

And suddenly this didn’t feel random anymore.

It felt inevitable.

“You wanna come over?” you asked quietly.

Frank’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your place or mine?”

“Whichever has less chance of us falling asleep immediately.”

“Mine’s closer.”

“Okay.”

- - -

The drive to his apartment was quiet in a comfortable way.

Frank kept one hand loose on the wheel while the other rested against the center console near your leg. Every once in a while his fingers brushed your knee absentmindedly like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

His apartment looked exactly how you expected it to.

Messy, but functional.

Medical journals stacked on the table. Hoodie thrown over a chair. Half-finished takeout shoved in the fridge beside energy drinks and beer.

“You live like this?” you asked.

“I work sixty hour weeks.”

“Fair.”

The second the apartment door shut behind you, the tension came back immediately.

Frank looked at you for half a second before stepping forward and kissing you again.

Slower this time.

His hands slid under your top, palms warm against your stomach, dragging upward just enough to make you shiver.

He noticed immediately.

“You cold?”

“You know damn well that’s not why.”

That low laugh again.

“Just checking.”

You pushed his top up over his head, fingers dragging across warm skin and the hair on his chest. He watched your face while you looked at him instead of trying to act confident about it.

That felt weirdly intimate.

More intimate than the kissing honestly.

His hand settled at the back of your neck before he kissed you again, slower now, like he finally had time to.

The couch hit the front of your legs and Frank sat down without breaking the kiss. You went to sit on top of him, legs straddling him. One of his hands on your thigh while the other pushed through your hair.

“You have any idea how hard it’s been not touching you at work?” he muttered against your mouth.

You smiled slightly. “You touch me at work all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

His hand slid higher up your thigh above your scrub pants, slow enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You flirt with me constantly,” you pointed out softly.

“You flirt back.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Frank kissed you harder for that.

The tension between you had changed now. Less nervousness. More familiarity. Like both of you already knew each other too well for this to feel awkward.

By the time your scrub top came off, his breathing had gotten heavier. His hands moved over your skin slowly, like he was trying not to rush through any of it despite how long he’d clearly wanted this.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna say something?”

He looked at you for another second. “Nope.”

You laughed quietly.

His mouth dropped to your neck immediately after, kissing lower while his hand slid along your waist. The roughness of his palm against bare skin made heat curl low in your stomach.

Everything with Frank felt like that.

Not dramatic.

Not overly polished.

Just intense in this very real, very physical way that made it hard to think straight.

When he finally laid back against the couch cushions properly, both his hands gripped your thighs while he kissed down your chest, your fingers tangled into his hair automatically.

“Frank—”

“Mm?”

"Bed," you manage to pant, your voice thick with want.

He didn’t need to be told twice. In one swift motion, he hooks his arms under your thighs and hauls you against his chest, carrying you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants, earning a deep, guttural groan from him.

The moment your feet hit the floor, you shove him back onto the mattress, hastily removing your pants, straddling his hips as you finally get to see him fully. His toned chest, the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his scrub pants, the bulge straining against the fabric. You rake your nails down his chest, relishing the way his breath hitches, kissing down his neck.

Frank’s hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh as he grinds up into you, the friction making you throb. "You’re gonna kill me," he mutters, his voice strained. You smirk, rolling your hips against him, loving the way his eyes darken with lust. "Only if you’re lucky," you tease, before shoving his pants down just enough to free his cock. You stroke him once, twice.

He grunts, flipping you onto your back in one move, pinning your wrists above your head as he settles between your thighs. You wrap your legs around his waist, your underwear doing little to hide how wet you are. His fingers find the waistband, yanking them down in one rough motion, leaving you bare before him. His gaze rakes over you, dark and possessive, before he lowers his mouth to your pussy, his tongue swiping through your folds with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes your back arch off the bed.

"Frank—!" You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he fucks you with his tongue, circling your clit with just the right pressure before dipping his hand to fuck you with his fingers. You’re already close, your thighs trembling around his ears, but he pulls back just enough to smirk up at you. "Not yet," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. You whimper, but he’s already working his way up your body, kissing, biting, sucking his way to your mouth.

When he finally lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, you’re a trembling mess of need. He teases you for a second, dragging the tip through your wetness before pushing in with one hard thrust. You gasp, your nails digging into his back as he stretches you, filling you completely. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he pulls back and slams into you again, his hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that’s relentless and perfect.

One of his hands grips your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse spike with adrenaline. "You take me so good baby," he breathes keeping his eyes locked with your, his voice rough with pleasure. You moan, your legs tightening around him as he picks up the pace, his cock pumping in and out of you with a force that makes the headboard thud against the wall. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucks you, the combination of sensations sending you spiraling toward orgasm.

"Fuck, I’m close—" you gasp, your back arching as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

"Come for me, baby," he orders, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. The order pushes you over the edge, your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name, your orgasm ripping through you in waves. He follows you over the edge with a groan, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes, his forehead pressed to yours as he pants through the aftermath.

When he finally pulls out, he rolls onto his back, taking you with him so you’re sprawled half on top of him. You’re both breathless, your skin slick with sweat, your hearts pounding in sync. He presses a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"Worth the wait," he murmurs, and you can’t help but laugh, nuzzling into his chest.

The building always feels different after midnight.

During the day, JYPE is loud. Doors opening. Music overlapping from different practice rooms. Trainers calling corrections. Laughter that feels forced because everyone is tired but trying not to show it.

At night, it feels honest.

You’re sitting on the floor with your back pressed against the mirror, knees bent, staring at your reflection like it personally let you down. The fluorescent lights are too bright, showing your every flaw, every ounce of doubt sitting on your face. You replay the choreography in your head again and again, counting under your breath, shoulders tightening just thinking about the turn you keep messing up.

You don’t hear the door open at first.

But you feel it.

That subtle breeze flowing in the air.

Minho walks in quietly, as usual, like he doesn’t want to disturb something. He sets his bag down near the wall and catches your eyes through the mirror.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice calm.

You don’t look up “So are you.”

He steps further into the room, stretching his arms above his head slowly, muscles pulling under his black t-shirt. “You’ve been doing that same part for twenty minutes.”

“You’ve been watching me?” you ask, trying to sound annoyed instead of exposed.

“I notice things,” he replies simply.

There’s no teasing in his tone. No smugness. Just the truth.

You let out a frustrated breath and lean your head back against the wall. “I can’t get the timing right.”

He studies you for a moment before walking over and lowering himself to sit a few feet away from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth from him if you focus on it.

“You’re overthinking,” he says quietly.

You glance at him. “You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“The second turn,” he answers immediately. “You mix up your footing before you spin again. That’s why you’re late for the second one.”

You stare at him.

“…Shut up.”

His lips twitch slightly, almost a smile. “I’m right.”

You hate that he is.

You hate that he always sees what you’re trying to hide.

He stands up slowly and extends his hand toward you, palm open, steady, patient.

“Get up,” he says. “Again.”

You look at his hand longer than you should.

Then you take it.

-

You don’t remember when practicing with him became routine.

At some point, it just did.

Your trainee lineup kept changing, girls disappearing after monthly evaluations like erased pencil marks. Every time you started getting comfortable, someone left. Or got cut. Or stopped showing up.

It made everything feel unstable.

Minho was the only constant.

He was training for a project people whispered about in the hallways. A survival show. A possible debut. Something real.

You should've felt jealous.

Instead, you felt… safer around him.

He didn't sugarcoat things. He didn't give fake reassurance. When you messed up, he'd tell you. When you improved, he'd nod like he expected it all along.

And when you were overwhelmed, he stayed.

-

One evening after another girl from your lineup leaves, you find yourself sitting alone in the stairwell, phone in your hand, screen bright but unread. Your mom had texted earlier asking how things were going. You haven’t answered.

You don’t know what to say.

Footsteps echo from below.

You don’t look up.

The person stops one step beneath you.

“You always sit here when something’s wrong,” the voice says quietly.

You exhale through your nose, looking up and meeting Minhos eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

He climbs the last step and sits beside you, shoulders almost touching but not quite.

“I’m not,” he replies.

His voice careful.

You stare at the wall in front of you. “They’re not moving forward with the lineup.”

He nods once. “I heard.”

Silence settles between you, thick but not uncomfortable. You expect him to say something motivational. Something dramatic.

He doesn’t.

After a moment, he nudges your shoe lightly with his.

“You’re still better than half of them,” he says.

You look at him, eyebrows lifting. “That’s your version of comfort?”

“It’s not comfort,” he says, meeting your eyes directly. “It’s the truth.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten. He isn’t pitying you. He isn’t trying to make you feel better for the sake of it. He actually believes it.

You look away first.

-

It gets worse before it gets better.

Your team officially falls apart during a meeting that feels too polite to match the damage it does. Staff members smile in that careful, corporate way as they explain restructuring and timing and future possibilities.

You nod through it.

You thank them, bowing politely.

You walk out feeling hollow.

That night, Studio B is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Minho is already there when you arrive, stretching slowly in front of the mirror.

He looks at you once.

He knows.

“You’re leaving,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You nod, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “I think I should.”

He stops stretching.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s grinding his teeth.

“You could try again,” he says, but there’s something strained under his calm tone.

“I have been trying,” you whisper. “For two years.”

He steps closer. Not aggressively. Just enough that you feel the shift in space.

“You’re good,” he says firmly. “You know you are.”

“That doesn’t matter if they don’t think so.”

“It matters to me.”

The words slip out faster than he can stop them.

You both go still.

The room feels smaller.

“What?” you ask softly.

He looks at you, then away, then back again like he’s trying to decide whether to retreat or step forward.

“I mean,” he starts, exhaling slowly, “you matter.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“I can’t keep starting over,” you say, your voice breaking despite your effort to steady it. “Every time I think something’s happening, it falls apart. I’m tired of hoping.”

His expression shifts.

He looks almost hurt.

“So you’re just going to give up?” he asks, but there’s no accusation in it now. Just fear.

“That’s not fair,” you say frustrated. “You have something! You’re moving forward! I’m just stuck.”

“And you think I don’t want you there too?”

His voice rises slightly, emotion slipping through.

You stare at him. “What does that mean?”

He steps closer again. Close enough that the air between you feels charged.

“You think I stay late because I have to?” he asks quietly.

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says, and this time his voice isn’t controlled. It’s soft. Almost shaking.

Your eyes sting.

“Why?” you whisper.

He lifts his hand slightly, like he’s about to touch your arm, then hesitates. You see the hesitation. The internal battle.

“If you leave,” he says slowly, each word careful, “it’s going to feel like I lost something.”

Your chest aches.

“What?” you ask again, stepping closer without meaning to.

He looks at you in a way he never has before. No walls. No teasing. No sharp edges.

“I...”

His voice falters.

He swallows hard.

“I think I…”

Footsteps echo loudly in the hallway.

Voices.

Reality setting back into view.

His hand drops immediately. His posture straightens. The softness disappears like it was never there.

You step back too.

The moment collapses.

“I leave tomorrow,” you say quietly.

He nods once.

“Okay.”

It sounds wrong. Empty.

You wait for him to stop you.

He doesn’t.

-

The next morning, the lobby feels colder than usual.

Your bags straps digging into your palm.

He’s standing near the entrance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense.

“You’re really going,” he says.

His voice is low.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He walks toward you slowly, stopping close enough that you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes.

He didn’t sleep.

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into a hug.

Not awkward.

Not light.

His arms wrap around you fully, pulling you against him like he’s trying to memorize how you feel.

You freeze for half a second, then hold him back.

His heartbeat is fast against your chest.

“I’m not done,” he murmurs quietly against your hair.

His voice sounds different. Thicker.

You don’t know if he means with the group. Or with you. Or the words he didn’t finish.

You pull away first because if you don’t, you won’t leave.

He looks like he wants to say something else.

He doesn’t.

And you walk out before you can change your mind.

══════ ♫ ══════

(One Year Later)

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch.

When someone streamed the Stray Kids’ debut, you kept your phone face down on your bed for almost the whole performance before finally picking it up.

Just to look.

Just to see.

You didn’t expect it to hurt.

But it did.

Minho looked different on stage. Sharper. More defined. There was confidence in the way he carried himself now, like something inside him had settled into place. The camera loved him. The lights did too.

But what got you wasn’t the performance.

It was the small moments between the songs.

The way he laughed at something one of the members said.

The way he stood slightly to the side, watching everything with that familiar quiet focus.

He looked like he belonged there.

You closed the livestream halfway through because your chest felt tight in a way you couldn’t explain.

You were proud of him.

And it hurt.

-

Coming back to JYP wasn’t part of your plan.

But neither was leaving.

A year away gave you space to breathe. To think. To decide that you weren’t actually done; you were just scared of not progressing.

So when the opportunity came to audition again, for a new girl group project, you didn’t hesitate this time.

Walking back into the building felt surreal.

The same floors.The same faint smell of cleaning spray and sweat. The same sound of people working to achieve their biggest dreams .

But you weren’t the same person you were when you walked out.

You weren’t desperate anymore.

You were steady.

Prepared.

And then you saw him.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There was no slow motion moment.

He was just walking down the hallway with a staff member. His hair styled, dressed in black, phone in hand.

He looked up.

Stopped.

Completely.

You stopped too.

For a second, neither of you moved.

“You’re back,” he said finally.

His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it. Something almost disbelieving.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at you in a way that made your stomach flip.

“For good?” he asked.

“I’m trying again.”

There was a pause.

Then his mouth softened just slightly.

“Good.”

Not dramatic.

But the way he said it felt like something settling into place.

-

Things were different now.

He had schedules. Recordings. Fans waiting outside the building sometimes.

You had trainee evaluations again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like climbing.

You didn’t plan to start practicing together again.

It just happened.

One night, after your team had finished rehearsal, you stayed behind to run through a difficult section. Your transitions were rushed, your arms slightly off.

You didn’t notice him leaning against the mirror until he spoke.

“You’re pushing it too fast.”

You startled slightly, turning toward him.

“You’re busy,” you said instead of greeting him.

“I can still help,” he replied.

He walked closer, stopping just in front of you.

“Again,” he said quietly.

You rolled your eyes slightly. “You’re not my trainer.”

“No,” he agreed, stepping closer. “But you listen to me.”

You did.

That was the problem.

You started the choreography again, more aware of him watching this time. Halfway through, he stepped closer, circling slightly behind you.

“Your shoulders,” he murmured.

You felt the warmth of his hands before he touched you.

There was a slight hesitation.

Then his hands settled gently on your shoulders, adjusting your posture.

The contact was careful.

Almost restrained.

Your breath hitched without meaning to.

His hands stilled for half a second.

Then he corrected your stance and stepped back like nothing happened.

“Better,” he said.

But his voice was quieter than it was before.

-

You survived that month's evaluations.

Then the next.

Then the one after that.

The lineup stayed the same.

For the first time, it didn’t crumble.

One night after a particularly intense evaluation, you were sitting on the same staircase you always had, hands shaking slightly from adrenaline.

Your name hadn’t been called for elimination.

You made it through again.

But your chest still felt tight.

He found you there.

He always did.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, crouching in front of you.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He reached for your hand without overthinking it this time.

Just wrapped his fingers around yours.

Grounding.

The contact felt different now.

More intentional.

“You’re ready,” he said quietly.

“What if I’m not?” you asked, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be.

He held your gaze.

“You came back,” he said. “That already means something.”

You swallowed.

“I left when it got hard though,” you whispered.

He exhaled slowly.

“And then you came back.”

There was weight in the way he said it.

Like he was talking about more than just training.

══════ ♫ ══════

Your debut announcement came months later.

You read the final lineup on the screen three times before it felt real.

Your phone buzzed seconds later.

Minho: Proud of you.

Proud of you.

You stared at it longer than necessary.

You typed three different responses before deleting them.

You finally sent.

You: Thank you.

He replied almost immediately.

Minho: You worked for it.

Minho: I knew you could do it.

You read those messages before bed every night for a week.

-

Your first concert felt like standing inside a storm.

The crowd was louder than anything you’d ever experienced. The cheers were groundshaking, you could feel them vibrating through your body

When it ended, you cried.

Not pretty tears.

The kind that came from emotions deep inside your chest.

Backstage was chaotic.

Staff running around. Members hugging. Cameras flashing.

You slipped away to catch your breath.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting.

He had a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“You did it,” he said.

His voice was softer than the noise around you.

You laughed through tears. “I did.”

He stepped closer, looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You almost didn’t,” he said quietly.

You knew what he meant.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt full.

“I’m glad you left,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head slightly, stepping closer.

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have come back like this,” he explained. “You wouldn’t have been ready.”

You studied him carefully.

“And if I didn’t come back?” you asked softly.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I would’ve regretted not saying it,” he admitted.

Your heart stuttered.

“Saying what?”

He stepped closer, putting the flowers into your hands.

No hesitation this time.

“I liked you,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t. “Back then. I was trying to say it before you left.”

You felt your breath catch, your hands shaking slightly around the stems..

“I know,” you whispered.

He let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. “You’re supposed to say something after that.”

You stepped forward until there was barely space between you.

“I liked you too,” you said. “I just didn’t want it to be the reason I stayed.”

His eyes softened in a way you’d never seen before.

He nodded his head understanding. Taking one more step closer to you, until there was no longer any space between the two of you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly.

Carefully.

And that makes your chest feel like it might burst.

You nod, barely breathing. “Yes.”

The kiss isn’t sudden.

He leans in slowly, putting his hands around your face, cupping your jaw.

When his lips meet yours, it isn’t rushed or messy.

It’s warm.

It’s steady.

It’s everything you almost had a year ago; but deeper.

His hand slides from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you closer just slightly, and you feel him smile against your lips like he can’t help it.

And you realize you’re smiling too.

It’s not fireworks.

It’s not chaos.

It’s relief.

It’s the quiet, overwhelming joy of finally having something you both worked for. Separately and together.

When you pull back, you don’t move far.

Your foreheads rest together, breathing the same air.

He lets out a soft laugh, almost disbelieving.

“You’re really back,” he says.

You smile.

“I am.”

And for the first time since you met him in a practice room years ago, there’s no almost.

Just you.

And him.

The front door unlocks at 2:13 a.m.

Not 2:12.

Not 2:14.

You know because you’ve been staring at the clock on your phone for the last twenty minutes, pretending you’re not waiting for the sound of the front door opening. You told yourself you wouldn’t sit up for him this time. You told yourself you wouldn’t turn into that version of yourself again. But here you are, lights off, scrolling on your phone mindlessly, keeping your eyes on the top left corner. Heart beating like you just jumped off a plane.

The key jiggles twice in the door. Slightly getting stuck as it’s pulled out of the lock.

There’s the quiet thud of the door closing.

Silence.

Then the faint roll of suitcase wheels against hardwood flooring.

You don’t look back right away. You don’t want him to see it on your face. The relief. The anger. The stupid ache that never quite leaves.

“Hey,” he says.

His voice is softer than usual. Hoarse around the edges, like it’s been used too much.

You turn slowly on the couch. “Hey.”

He’s standing just a few feet away, one hand still wrapped around the handle of his suitcase. He looks thinner. Not drastically. Just sharper somehow. His jaw more defined. His collarbones more noticeable under the loose t-shirt he’s wearing. His hair is brighter than when he left. Freshly dyed for the last stretch of tour. There’s a faint smudge of eyeliner under one eye like he tried to wipe it off in a rush.

He looks unreal.

He also looks exhausted.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he says.

“I wasn’t.”

He glances at the floor, then back at you.

“Right.”

The suitcase tips onto its side. He doesn’t drag it further in. He doesn’t drop everything and cross the room like he used to. The first few tours, he would come home loud. Dramatic. Arms open, grin wide, like he was walking into a fan event instead of your apartment.

Tonight he just stands there like he’s not sure where to step.

“How was the flight?” you ask.

“Long.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Delayed in LA.”

“I saw.”

“You checked?”

“It’s public information.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “You’re bad at pretending you don’t care.”

“I don’t pretend.”

It comes out sharper than you realized.

He shifts his weight. “Can I…” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “Water?”

“Yeah.”

He disappears around the corner. You hear the cabinet open, then the fridge. The quiet clink of a glass against the counter. The sounds feel strange after months of watching him through a screen. On stage. In behind-the-scenes clips. In other people’s videos.

He comes back into the living room holding the glass but doesn’t sit. He just stands near the archway between the living room and kitchen.

“You look tired,” you say.

“You seem different.”

You frown slightly. “Different how?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes drag over your face like he’s searching for something. “Quieter.”

“I’ve always been quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He sits down finally, but not next to you. A cushion over from you. The distance, though small, feels intentional even if it probably isn’t.

“You eat?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Pasta.”

He nods slowly. “You hate cooking.”

You hum.

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. There’s something careful in the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s searching for something .

“Are you mad?” he asks.

Straight to it.

You inhale slowly through your nose. “Yes.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look surprised. “Okay.”

“Okay?” you repeat.

“Yeah. Okay.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “For what?”

The question is fair. That almost makes it worse.

“For being gone,” you say.

“It was a tour.”

“I know what it was.”

“You knew what it was before I left.”

There’s no bite in his voice. Just tired honesty.

You look down at your hands. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like something else.”

He watches you carefully. “Like what?”

“Like you left.”

“I did leave.”

“You know what I mean.”

He exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. A habit he falls into when he’s overwhelmed but trying not to show it.

“I called,” he says.

“Twice a week.”

“I texted every day.”

“You sent pictures.”

“I wanted you to see what I was seeing.”

“I didn’t want to see it,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

His eyes lift to yours. “What?”

“I didn’t want to see you smiling in cities I’ve never been to. I didn’t want to watch you being happy somewhere that I don’t exist.”

The words hang there between you, ugly and honest.

He blinks once. “You think you don’t exist there?”

“Do I?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Looks down at the floor.

That silence answers more than anything he could say.

“I talk about you,” he says finally.

“That’s not the same.”

“I FaceTimed you backstage.”

“Once.”

“I was busy.”

“I know you were busy.” Your voice shakes now, which annoys you. “You’re always busy.”

“That’s my job.”

“And what am I?”

The question slips out before you can catch it.

He freezes.

“You’re not a job,” he says carefully.

“Then why does it feel like I’m competing with one?”

His head lifts sharply. “You’re not competing.”

“It feels like I am.”

“With who? The fans?”

“With everything,” you whisper.

He leans back on the couch slowly. His expression shifts from defensive to something more conflicted.

“You think I don’t miss you?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s insane.”

“Is it?”

His laugh this time isn’t amused. “You think I stand on stage and magically forget about you?”

“I think you look really happy up there.”

“I am happy up there.”

There it is.

He seems to realize how that sounds immediately, because his expression tightens.

“I’m happy here too,” he adds.

“But differently,” you say.

He doesn’t deny it.

The air in the room feels thick now. Too heavy.

“I don’t want to fight the second I get home,” he says quietly.

“I don’t either.”

“Then what do you want?”

You don’t have a clean answer.

“I want to feel like you’re still mine,” you say finally.

His eyes soften at that.

“I am,” he replies without hesitation.

“But are you?”

Your question lingers.

He moves slowly, like he’s trying not to react too quickly. Sliding closer, sitting on the cushion right next to you. Close enough that you can see the faint bruise on his knee, from a fall during the concert he mentioned weeks ago.

“You don’t get to question that,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’ve never given you a reason to.”

“You leave for months at a time.”

“That’s not the same as leaving you.”

“It feels the same sometimes.”

His face shifts again. Hurt now.

“I don’t know how to fix that,” he admits.

That honesty cracks something in your chest.

You don’t want him to fix himself. You don’t want him to give up the stage. You just don’t know how to fit into a life that feels bigger than you.

He sits down next to you this time. Not touching. Just close.

“I don’t split myself on purpose,” he says quietly. “I don’t have two lives.”

“It feels like you do.”

He looks down at his hands. “When I’m there, everything is loud. It’s clear. I know exactly what I’m supposed to be. Here…” He trails off.

“Here what?”

“Here I’m just me.”

You swallow. “Is that bad?”

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “It’s just quieter.”

Quieter.

Like you’re the soft version of his world.

You nod slowly. “Maybe I’m scared of being the quiet.”

He turns to look at you fully now.

“I don’t want to just be the quiet,” you continue. “I don’t want to just be the rest stop before you go back to something brighter.”

His expression softens in a way that almost hurts.

“You’re not a rest stop,” he says.

“Then what am I?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he’s thinking.

“You’re the only place I don’t have to perform,” he says finally.

That shouldn’t hurt, it has no reason to. There supposed to be comforting words.

But it does.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re performing with me,” you whisper.

“I don’t.” He looks confused. “That’s the point.”

“But you light up differently out there.”

“That’s adrenaline.”

“It looks like more.”

He studies your face like he’s trying to see what you see.

“You’re comparing two different versions of me,” he says slowly. “Stage me and real me.”

“Which one is real?”

His head tilts slightly. “Both.”

“And which one do I get?”

He leans back, frustration flickering across his features.

“You get the one who’s tired and human and doesn’t know how to be perfect all the time,” he says. “You get the one who misses you at 3 a.m. in hotel rooms. You get the one who replays your voice messages because it’s the only quiet thing in my day.”

That makes your chest tighten.

But it doesn’t solve the distance.

“You don’t say that,” you murmur.

“I shouldn’t have to constantly remind you.”

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s less sharp. More heavy.

He looks at you for a long moment, then reaches out and takes your hand. It’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His fingers are warm. Familiar.

“I don’t know how to be in two places at once, to be two people at once,” he says softly. “But I’ve never once thought about not coming back to you.”

You search his face for any hesitation.

There isn’t any.

“I’m just scared one day you won’t,” you admit.

He squeezes your hand.

“Then tell me when you feel like that,” he says. “Don’t build a whole story in your head without me.”

You nod slowly.

He watches you like he’s waiting for something else.

“I’m still mad,” you say quietly.

He huffs a small breath of a laugh. “I figured.”

“But I’m glad you’re home.”

Something in his expression melts at that.

“I’m glad I’m home too.”

He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t pull you into him dramatically. He just sits there, hand still wrapped around yours, like he’s anchoring himself.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

The first few days after he comes home always feel fragile. Not bad. Just delicate. Like if either of you moves too fast, something will crack.

He sleeps a lot the first two mornings. Jet lag. Or maybe just exhaustion catching up with him now that he isn’t running on stage adrenaline and airport coffee. You wake up before him and watch the rise and fall of his chest for a few minutes before you get out of bed. He looks younger when he sleeps. Less sharp around the edges. Like the world hasn’t been pulling at him from every direction.

When he finally wakes up that first morning, he reaches for you without opening his eyes.

His hand lands on your waist, then tightens slightly when he realizes you’re there.

“You’re still here,” he mumbles.

“Where else would I be?”

He cracks one eye open. “You’ve been waking up before me.”

You give a small smile. “Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t. Instead he shifts closer, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. His voice drops lower. “I missed this.”

“This?”

“Waking up without worrying about the other side of the world.”

You let that sit for a second. “You didn’t miss me?”

He makes a soft sound against your skin, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting.”

“You are.”

He pulls back slightly so he can look at you. His hair is messy, eyes still heavy. It almost makes everything feel simpler than it is.

“I missed you,” he says clearly. “I just don’t want to wake up and immediately defend myself.”

“I’m not trying to attack you,” you say.

“I know.” He studies your face for a second. “It just feels like you’re searching for proof that I don’t care.”

You look away.

He exhales softly. “See?”

“I’m not searching for proof,” you say. “I just… don’t know how to feel normal again.”

“Normal doesn’t exist for us,” he replies. “You know that.”

That word. Us. It sounds steady coming from him. You wish it felt steady in your chest.

The rest of that day is easy. Almost suspiciously easy. You go out for coffee. He keeps his hood up and mask on, but a couple people still recognize him. They ask for pictures. He says yes. He always says yes. He smiles for them the same way he smiles on stage. Warm. Open. Bright.

You stand a few feet away while they take the photo.

You’ve learned not to hover.

When they leave, he comes back to you like nothing happened. “Sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“For making you stand there.”

“You didn’t make me.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You don’t like it.”

“It’s part of your life.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You hesitate. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push.

That night you cook dinner together. Or try to. He insists on chopping vegetables even though he’s half-asleep and almost cuts his finger twice. You take the knife from him and he makes an offended sound.

“I can cook,” he says.

“You absolutely cannot.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s honest.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “You’re meaner than I remember.”

“You were gone.”

He goes quiet at that, but then he nudges you again. “Okay. Fair.”

For a few hours, it feels like before. Easy teasing. Comfortable silence. Shared glances across the kitchen.

But later, when you’re lying in bed, he rolls onto his back and scrolls through his phone.

You know what he’s looking at without asking.

Clips from the last show.

Fan edits.

Photos from the tour account.

His face lights up in the glow of the screen.

You turn onto your side, facing away from him.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a minute.

“I’m tired.”

He hums softly. “You want me to turn it off?”

You want to say no. You want to be cool about it. Understanding.

“Yes,” you say instead.

There’s a pause.

Then the screen goes dark.

He sets his phone down.

He doesn’t say anything else, but you feel the shift. The small, almost invisible crack between you widening again.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

A few days later, something shifts..

He forgets you have dinner plans with your friend. You remind him that afternoon and he stares at you like you’re speaking another language.

“Tonight?” he asks.

“Yes. I told you before you left.”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“I was in the middle of rehearsals two weeks ago.”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t listen.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

You cross your arms. “Can you just come?”

“I’m exhausted.”

“So am I.”

He stares at you for a second. Not angry. Just frustrated.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll come.”

-

The dinner is awkward. He’s polite. He smiles. He answers questions about tour with just enough detail to be interesting but not overwhelming. Your friend leaves saying how lucky you are.

Lucky.

When you get home, he kicks off his shoes harder than necessary.

“You didn’t have to make me feel like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m failing at something.”

“I didn’t.”

“You looked at me like I disappointed you.”

“I was disappointed.”

“There it is.”

You run a hand through your hair. “You forgot.”

“I forgot one thing.”

“It’s not one thing.”

He goes still.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you forget pieces of this life when you leave for your other on.”

His eyes sharpen. “I can’t live in two places perfectly.”

“I’m not asking for perfect.”

“It feels like you are.”

The air thickens immediately after that.

“I just want to feel considered,” you say.

“You are considered.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m an afterthought when you’re gone?”

His expression shifts. “You’re not.”

“But I am,” you press. “You get busy and I get… scheduled.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” His voice is steady but there’s heat underneath it now. “You think I don’t feel guilty every time I miss something? You think I don’t sit in hotel rooms replaying conversations wondering if I said enough?”

You blink. “You don’t say that.”

“Because I don’t want you to carry it.”

“Then I carry the silence instead.”

That lands hard.

He turns away from you, running a hand over his face.

“I don’t know how to do this better,” he says quietly.

The honesty in his voice makes something in you crack.

“I don’t either,” you admit.

Nothing gets resolved. It just hangs there. Heavy in the air

-

That night he sleeps facing the other side of the bed.

He still reaches back at some point, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needs proof you’re there.

You don’t move away.

But you don’t move closer either.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

A week later is when everything finally breaks.

It’s stupid at first. It always is.

Laundry.

He offers to help. You let him.

He throws one of your sweaters into the dryer even though you specifically told him not to. When you pull it out, it’s smaller. Not ruined. Just wrong.

“It was an accident,” he says immediately.

“I told you.”

“I forgot.”

“You forget a lot.”

The words slip out sharper than you intended.

He goes very still.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you forget a lot of things.” You repeat,

“Like what?”

“Plans. Conversations. Things I say.”

“I was on tour, I was busy.” He says, like he’s said everytime.

“You’re not on tour right now.”

His jaw tightens. “So what, I’m supposed to remember every single thing perfectly the second I land?”

“No. But you could try.”

“I am trying.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

His voice drops lower. Quieter. More controlled. “You think I don’t notice how you’ve been looking at me?”

Your stomach drops. “Looking at you how?”

“Like I’m already halfway gone.”

You stare at him.

Because he’s right.

“You pull back first,” he continues. “Every time I get close.”

“I’m protecting myself.”

“From what?”

“From losing you.”

“I’m right here.”

“For now.”

There it is. The worst phrase you could’ve said.

“For now?” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did.”

Silence fills the room.

“I don’t know if this is sustainable,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“This. Us. Like this.”

He stares at you like you just knocked the air out of him.

“Are you serious?” he asks.

“I’m tired of feeling second.”

“You’re not second.”

“It feels like I am.”

“To what?” His voice cracks slightly. “To my career?”

“Yes.”

The word is out before you can soften it.

He laughs once, but there’s nothing amused about it. “That’s not something I can just turn off.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

You swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then he says it.

“I don’t know either.”

That’s the moment everything goes quiet.

Not explosive. Not dramatic.

Just heavy.

He runs a hand through his hair and steps back like he needs space to breathe.

“I love you,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a declaration. It sounds like a fact he’s holding onto.

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

He waits.

You don’t say it back.

Not because you don’t feel it. Because it feels too fragile to throw into the middle of this mess.

He nods slowly, like he understands more than you want him to.

“I’m going to shower,” he says.

He walks past you without touching you.

The bathroom door closes softly.

The water turns on.

And you stand there in the laundry room holding a sweater that doesn’t fit anymore, wondering if that’s what you are. Not ruined. Just stretched into something that doesn’t fit the same.

-

The shower runs for a long time.

Long enough for the anger to cool and the guilt to settle in.

You sit against the headboard of the bed, staring at nothing. The apartment feels too quiet without the water running, so when it finally shuts off, the silence hits harder than you expect.

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later. Steam rolls out into the hallway. He steps into the bedroom with a towel slung low around his hips, hair damp and curling at the ends.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He moves around the room like he’s memorized the layout. Opens a drawer. Pulls out sweatpants. Drops the towel. Pulls them on.

You’ve seen him like this a thousand times.

It still feels different tonight.

He finally glances at you. “You’re still up.”

“Yeah.”

He nods once, then sits on the edge of the bed, back facing you. His shoulders look tense. Not angry. Just weighed down.

You stare at the curve of his spine for a few seconds before you speak.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quietly.

“Like what?”

“For now.” You repeat your words from earlier.

He inhales slowly. You can see it in the way his back rises. “Then what did you mean?”

“I meant I’m scared.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

“Scared of what exactly? That I’ll wake up one day and decide I don’t want this?”

“Yes.”

He turns slightly, enough that you can see his profile.

“That’s not how this works,” he says.

“How does it work then?”

“You wake up every day and choose it.”

“And do you?”

His eyes meet yours fully now.

“Yes.”

The answer comes fast. No hesitation.

“And when you’re gone?” you ask.

“Still yes.”

You swallow. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

He studies you carefully. “You think I’m slowly detaching.”

“I think you get used to being without me.”

He lets that sit between you.

“I get used to the distance,” he says finally. “That’s not the same thing.”

The words hit somewhere deep in your chest.

“I don’t want you to get used to being without me,” you whisper. “I want you to need me.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly. “I do.”

“No. You’re independent. You’re strong. You handle everything. Sometimes I feel like I could disappear and you’d just… adjust.”

That hurts him. You can see it.

“You think I wouldn’t break?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know.”

He stands up abruptly and walks a few steps away before turning back to you.

“I don’t show every emotion the second I feel it,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You don’t answer right away.

He runs a hand through his damp hair. “When I’m on tour, I don’t have time to sit and spiral. I have to get up. I have to perform. I have to be there for seven other people who are just as exhausted as I am. That doesn’t mean I’m not missing you. It means I don’t have the luxury to fall apart.”

The word luxury makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not asking you to fall apart,” you say.

“But you want to see it,” he says. Not accusing. Just honest. “You want proof that I’d crumble without you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I just want to matter in a way that isn’t convenient,” you whisper.

He freezes.

“I have never loved you conveniently,” he says.

He walks back toward the bed and sits down again, next to you this time.

“You think this is easy for me?” he asks quietly. “You think it doesn’t mess with my head too? Leaving and coming back. Switching environments. Trying to be the person everyone needs me to be.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

There are dark circles under his eyes. There’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there years ago.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you say.

“Then stop acting like I’m choosing something over you.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“But you are.”

The honesty stings.

He exhales slowly. “When I’m there, I’m doing what I worked for my whole life. When I’m here, I’m with the person I love. Those aren’t enemies.”

“They feel like they are sometimes.”

“Only because you’re making them compete.”

You sit there quietly, absorbing it.

Maybe you have been.

Not intentionally.

But comparing the brightness of a stage to the softness of an apartment was never going to be fair.

He reaches out suddenly and takes your face in his hands. Not rough. Just firm enough that you can’t look away.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

“I love performing,” he says. “I love the stage. I love the energy. I love the noise. That’s part of me. But this…” His thumbs brush lightly against your cheeks. “This is the part that feels real when everything else fades.”

Your chest aches.

“Then why does it feel like you’re slipping sometimes?” you ask.

His expression softens.

“Because I’m tired,” he admits. “And because sometimes I don’t know how to land gently. I come home still moving at the speed of tour.”

You think about the first night. How distant he felt. How careful.

“I didn’t know how to reach you,” you say.

“You could’ve just grabbed me.”

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to feel needy.”

His mouth twitches slightly. “You are needy.”

You glare at him weakly.

He smiles faintly. “So am I.”

That catches you off guard.

“You don’t act like it.”

“Because I’ve had to learn not to.”

The vulnerability in that sentence makes your throat tighten.

“I need you,” he says quietly. “Not in a codependent way. But in a steady way. You’re the person I come back to. That’s all that matters.”

You search his face for exaggeration.

There isn’t any.

“I don’t want to lose myself loving you,” you whisper.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

Silence settles between you again, but it’s softer now.

He drops his hands from your face and leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“We’re not broken,” he murmurs.

“No,” you agree. “Just… different.”

You close your eyes.

“I don’t want to resent your dream,” you say quietly.

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I know.” He pauses. “But don’t turn it into something it isn’t.”

You sit like that for a while.

Eventually he shifts, lying back against the pillows. He reaches for you without asking.

This time you don’t hesitate.

You move into him.

He wraps his arms around you fully, pulling you against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“You still mad?” he asks softly.

“A little.”

“Good.”

You pull back slightly. “Good?”

“It means you care.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You’re impossible.” You hesitate. Then you say it. “I love you.”

His arms tighten around you slightly.

“I know,” he says first, teasing.

You pinch his side lightly.

He laughs quietly and presses his lips into your hair. “I love you too.”

It doesn’t fix everything.

It doesn’t erase the fear.

It just settles something for now.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

A month later, he leaves again.

Not for months this time. Just over a week.

It still feels longer than it should.

The night before his flight, you lie facing each other in bed. The room is dim. His suitcase is already half-packed near the door.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“So are you.”

He studies your face. “You’re spiraling?”

“A little.”

He reaches out and traces his finger lightly along your cheek. “Talk.”

“I hate this part.”

“The leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to get used to it.”

“You won’t,” he says.

“You sound very sure.”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

You swallow.

“Promise me something,” you say.

“What?”

“If you ever feel yourself pulling away… tell me. Don’t let me guess.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

“And if you ever feel like I’m suffocating you…”

“I’ll tell you.”

You hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“Don’t disappear while I’m gone,” he murmurs.

“Don’t forget me while you’re there.”

He smiles faintly. “Impossible.”

This time, you believe him a little more.

—

When he comes back from that trip, it’s easier.

Not perfect.

But easier.

You don’t fight the first night. You sit on the kitchen floor eating takeout straight from the containers. He tells you a funny story about something that happened during a performance. He exaggerates the story just to make you laugh.

You do laugh.

Really laugh.

He watches you like he’s memorizing it.

“You look happier,” he says.

“So do you.”

“Maybe we’re figuring it out.”

“Maybe.”

He reaches across the floor and takes your hand.

This time it doesn’t feel like anchoring.

It feels like choosing.

There are still days when you see him scrolling through tour clips with that distant look in his eyes.

There are still nights when he wakes up restless, like the silence is too loud.

There are still moments when you wonder if loving someone with a life this big will eventually make you feel small.

But he still comes home.

It never gets easier.

It’ll never get easier.

But you’re learning how to deal with the distance.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The lock clicks at 1:17 a.m.

You don’t look up right away.

You’re curled on the couch with a blanket over your legs, the TV playing quietly, lights dimmed to that soft amber glow he likes. The volume is low enough to feel like background noise, but not low enough to seem suspicious.

You’ve been pretending to watch for the last forty minutes.

Really, you’d been listening.

For footsteps in the hallway. For the elevator to ding. For that familiar sound of his key against the lock.

The door opens.

There’s the familiar shuffle of sneakers kicked off by the wall. The low exhale. The soft thud of his bag hitting the floor.

He walks over to use sluggishly.

“Hey,” his voice comes, rough and worn at the edges.

You finally turn your head.

He looks exhausted. Hoodie slightly damp at the collar. Hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. Eyes heavy, shadows underneath them from too many late nights.

But the second he sees you, something shifts.

And he smiles.

Not the performance smile. Just a soft one.

“You’re still up.”

You shrug lightly, like you haven’t been tracking the clock. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t believe you.

He knows you.

Still, he doesn’t call you out.

When he reaches the couch, he doesn’t sit.

He just stands there for a moment, looking at you. Taking you in.

“You waited?,” he asks quietly.

It’s soft. Certain.

You swallow. “I said I couldn’t sleep.”

He hums.

Then he bends down, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other slipping beneath the blanket to brush lightly along your knee. Just his fingertips.

Warm. Calloused. Slow.

“You’re terrible at lying to me,” he murmurs.

Your pulse jumps at the closeness. His scent wraps around you, faint sweat, and the subtle cologne you insisted he try that one time and now secretly loves.

“You look tired,” you whisper.

“Mm. Twelve hours in the studio.” He leans closer until his forehead brushes yours, just for a second. His hand remains on your knee, thumb tracing lazy lines through the fabric. “But coming home to you makes it better.”

The words are simple.

But the way he says them isn’t.

You feel it in your stomach.

He finally sinks down beside you. The couch dips under his weight. Immediately you feel the warmth of him along your side.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His arm slides around your waist, tugging you gently until you’re half draped over him.

You melt into him, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie. His chin rests briefly against the top of your head. His hands settle at your hips automatically, thumbs rubbing absent-minded circles.

“You eat?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You drink water?”

A soft huff of laughter vibrates against your hair. “Yes, mom.”

You pinch his side lightly.

He catches your wrist instantly.

Effortless.

The air shifts.

He doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb presses gently into your pulse point.

He watches your reaction.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

The exhaustion is still there, but beneath it something else flickers. Something darker. Heavier.

“You miss me?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer with words.

You lean forward and kiss him.

It starts gentle. Slow. Familiar.

But it deepens quicker than usual. There’s weight behind it. You feel it in the way his mouth lingers, in the way his fingers tighten slightly at your waist.

His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek before slipping into your hair. He tilts your head just enough to take control without forcing it.

You let him.

You always do.

He kisses you like he’s grounding himself.

You climb fully into his lap without breaking the kiss.

He exhales sharply against your mouth when your knees settle on either side of his hips. His hands spread back down across your back immediately, fingers digging in just enough to keep you steady.

His palms then slide slowly up your sides under your shirt, warm skin meeting warm skin. His thumbs brush just beneath your chest, testing reactions.

You shiver.

He notices.

When you pull back for air, your foreheads rest together. Your breaths slightly uneven.

“You’re warm,” you whisper.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs.

His hands drag down your back slowly, then back up. Mapping you. Feeling you. Making sure you’re real.

“You have no idea how hard it is,” he continues quietly, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, “trying to focus when I know you’re here, waiting for me.”

Your stomach tightens.

He kisses down your jaw, then your neck. Slow. Open-mouthed. Unhurried. He lingers beneath your ear long enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair.

You shift your hips without thinking.

Just a small movement.

But it’s enough.

His grip changes instantly.

One hand spreads across your lower back. The other tightens at your hip.

“You’re going to behave,” he says gently.

Steady. Controlled.

Your pulse quickens.

You press your forehead to his. “Make me.”

There it is. That tiny spark.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

His eyes darken, not angry, not harsh, just focused.

He stands without warning, lifting you effortlessly. You gasp softly as your legs wrap around his waist. His hands settle securely beneath your thighs.

Possessive. Not rough. Just sure.

He walks down the hallway slowly, like he’s in no rush. Like he enjoys the way you cling to him.

When he reaches the bedroom, he sets you down on the bed carefully.

Deliberately. Like you’re something fragile.

Then he steps back just enough to look at you.

Really look at you.

The soft light from the hallway spills in behind him. His chest rises and falls slowly. His hoodie clings slightly to his skin.

He reaches for the hem and pulls it over his head.

Unhurried.

Your breath stutters.

He notices.

A faint smirk touches his mouth.

“Still get shy?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer.

He climbs over you, bracing one hand beside your head. The other slides slowly up your thigh, squeezing gently before moving higher.

“I love that,” he murmurs.

The kiss this time is deeper. Hungrier. But still controlled. His tongue slides against your lip, asking for permission.

You give it to him.

When you tug at his waistband impatiently, he catches your wrists easily and pins them above your head with one hand. Not tight. Just enough to remind you who’s leading.

“Needy?” he asks quietly.

You nod before you can stop yourself.

His mouth drags down your neck again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“After I’ve been gone all day,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “you couldn’t wait?”

You whimper softly.

His free hand trails down your waist, fingers brushing against your skin. Your back arches instinctively.

“Easy,” he says, pressing you gently back into the mattress.

His fingers trace slow, tracing patterns along your skin. Every movement deliberate. Every touch measured. He watches your face as he does it, studying every reaction, every hitch in your breath.

When his mouth moves lower, kissing down your chest, your stomach, your hips, your breathing turns shaky and broken.

He lets go of his grip on your hands, bringing both of his own to grip your thighs, spreading them carefully, holding you exactly where he wants you.

Chan's lips brush softly against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm and teasing. He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire but softened by that familiar tenderness, checking in without words. You nod, your fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. He smiles faintly against your skin, then presses a gentle kiss right at the crease where thigh meets core.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, voice husky but laced with affection. His tongue flicks out, tracing a slow path along your folds, tasting you with deliberate care.

He starts with long, flat licks that cover every inch, savoring the way your body trembles under his touch. When he reaches your clit, he circles it lightly, building the pressure gradually, his mouth warm and insistent.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he breathes, voice husky.

Your hips buck instinctively, but his hands steady you, thumbs stroking soothing circles on your thighs. He doesn't rush.

He never does when he's like this, focused on drawing out every sensation, making you feel cherished even as the heat builds.

He sucks your clit gently between his lips, humming low in his throat, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves. One finger teases your entrance, sliding in just the tip before retreating, repeating until you're whimpering softly.

“Chan... please,” you breathe, the ache growing insistent.

He lifts his head slightly, chin glistening, and meets your gaze. “I know, baby. I've got you.” His finger pushes deeper now, curling to stroke that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

He adds a second, pumping slowly, his mouth returning to your clit with renewed focus.

Licking, sucking, alternating rhythms to keep you on the edge.

The pleasure coils tighter, your breaths coming in short gasps as he works you with patient precision. His free hand slides up your body, cupping your breast and pinching your nipple just enough to heighten everything.

You feel yourself clenching around his fingers, the tension snapping as your orgasm washes over you. Waves of bliss pulse through your core, your back arching as you cry out his name, thighs quivering in his grip.

He doesn't stop right away, easing you through it with softer licks and strokes until you're putty beneath him. Only then does he withdraw his fingers, kissing his way back up your body. Stomach, chest, and neck again, until his lips find yours in a deep, lingering kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy making your heart swell.

Chan shifts, pulling away for a moment, shedding the rest of his clothes with unhurried movements. His cock stands hard and ready, thick and veined, the tip slick with pre-cum. He strokes himself once, looking up to meet your eyes, before positioning himself at your entrance.

“Ready?” he asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer, pushing in inch by inch, stretching you deliciously.

“You okay?” he asks softly, always checking, his hand caressing your cheek.

“Yes,” you murmur, wrapping your legs around his waist. He nods, eyes locked on yours, and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel the stretch, the fullness.

A low groan escapes him as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours. He pauses there, forehead resting against your shoulder, breathing you in.

Then he starts moving, thrusts deep and measured, each one pulling a gasp from you. His hand finds yours again, lacing fingers together above your head as he rocks into you, the angle perfect for brushing that sensitive spot inside. Sweat slicks his skin, muscles flexing with every motion, but his pace stays controlled, building you both up together.

“Tell me how it feels baby”, he murmurs against your ear, nipping the lobe lightly.

“So good...,” you breath, and he continues with a deeper thrust, his free hand slipping between your bodies to circle your clit. The dual sensations push you higher, your walls fluttering around his cock as another climax approaches.

He senses it, quickening just a fraction, his breaths ragged.

“Come with me,” he says, voice strained with his own building release. You shatter first, pussy clamping down on him, milking every drop as he follows, thrusting deep and spilling hot cum inside you, filling you completely.

He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name as his body shudders.

The aftershocks fade, and Chan rolls to the side, pulling you with him into his arms. His hand rubs slow patterns on your back, lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, “I needed that. Needed you.”

The exhaustion in his voice now mixed with contentment. You nestle closer, feeling safe, the world outside forgotten in his gentle hold.

When he finally shifts, it is only to pull you into his chest more comfortably.

His hand moves automatically to your back, tracing slow, soothing circles.

“You waited up?” he asks again, voice softer now.

You hum against him, agreeing this time.

He presses a lingering kiss to your hair.

“Next time,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple, “I’m coming home earlier.”

But the way he tightens his arms around you and the slow drag of his hand along your spine says the night is not quite over yet.

━━━━━━ ❦ ━━━━━━

The rain starts before you wake up.

You don’t realize it at first. You only feel the difference. The air is cooler. The light coming through your curtains is softer, dimmer, gray instead of gold. When you finally open your eyes, the quiet tapping against your window pulls you fully into consciousness.

You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket closer to your chin. The world feels slower already. Like everything outside your apartment has decided to pause for the day.

You love days like this.

No expectations. No pressure. Just the sound of water against glass and the comfort of staying inside.

You eventually drag yourself to the couch with your blanket still wrapped around you. Your hair is messy, you’re wearing an oversized shirt, and you don’t even care. You make coffee, settle into the corner of the couch, and let your legs stretch out in front of you.

The rain gets heavier.

You scroll through your phone lazily, not really paying attention to anything. Just passing time. Just existing.

Then your phone buzzes.

Hyunjin.

You don’t even try to hide your smile.

Hyunjin: Are you awake or are you pretending to be productive today?

You snort softly.

You: I’m extremely productive. I’ve moved from my bed to my couch

Three dots appear immediately.

Hyunjin: Wow. Inspirational. Can I come over and witness this growth in person?

You hesitate for about half a second.

You: Only if you don’t complain about the weather

Hyunjin: I would never complain.

You shake your head.

You: Come over

Hyunjin: On my way. If I drown, remember me fondly

You set your phone down and glance around your apartment. It’s already tidy enough, but you fix the pillows anyway. You adjust the blanket. You check yourself in the mirror quickly and then pretend you didn’t.

The knock comes sooner than you expect.

You open the door and there he is.

Hair slightly damp. Hoodie darkened by rain. Eyes bright the second they land on you.

“You look cozy,” he says immediately, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“You look like you lost a fight with a raincloud.”

He gasps softly. “I survived the storm for you and this is how you greet me?”

You grab a towel and toss it at him. “Dry off.”

He laughs under his breath and runs the towel through his hair. You watch him longer than you mean to.

“What?” he asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He steps closer.

You instinctively step back.

He raises an eyebrow. “Why are you retreating?”

“You’re wet.”

“So? It’s rain, not acid.”

“You’re going to get the couch wet.”

He pauses.

Then he shrugs.

“Worth it.”

And before you can protest, he pulls you into him.

You squeak as his damp hoodie presses against your shirt, but his arms wrap around you so securely that the complaint dies in your throat.

He smells like rain and faint cologne.

“You’re cold,” you mumble.

“You’re warm. This is teamwork.”

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away.

After a moment, he leans back slightly, just enough to look at you.

“I brought snacks,” he says proudly.

“Of course you did.”

“I know what I offer in this relationship.”

“Oh really? Enlighten me.”

He starts counting on his fingers. “Beauty. Talent. Emotional support. Snacks.”

“In that order?”

“Depends on the day.”

You laugh.

He kicks off his shoes and finally sheds the damp hoodie, leaving him in a plain long sleeve shirt. He looks softer like this. Less dramatic entrance, more comfortable.

-

You both settle on the couch.

He immediately steals half your blanket.

“Excuse me,” you say.

“I was cold.”

“You’re always cold.”

“And you’re always dramatic.”

You gasp. “You are literally the most dramatic person I know.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “That hurts.”

You try to tug the blanket back.

He holds it firmly.

“This is unfair,” you say.

“Life is unfair.”

“Hyunjin.”

He sighs like you’ve deeply disappointed him and then lifts his arm.

“Fine. Come here.”

You slide closer and he wraps the blanket around both of you, pulling you against his side.

“There,” he says. “Compromise.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. He adjusts slightly so you fit better, his hand automatically settling at your waist.

“You’re clingy,” he murmurs.

“You pulled me over here.”

“I know.”

Silence settles between you, but it’s comfortable.

The rain grows heavier, tapping faster against the window.

He looks toward it for a second.

“I love this weather,” he says quietly.

“You do?”

“Yeah. It feels like the world is quieter. Like nobody expects anything from you.”

You glance up at him.

“That’s… surprisingly deep.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You also cried over a children’s last week.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “It had emotional storytelling.”

You laugh softly.

You grab the remote and turn on a random movie. Neither of you are really paying attention. It’s just background noise.

At some point, your fingers brush when you both reach for the snack bag.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he laces his fingers through yours.

He squeezes your hand gently.

You feel your chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with the blanket.

After a while, you shift so your legs are stretched across his lap.

He rests one hand absentmindedly on your shin, thumb moving slowly back and forth.

“You’re comfortable,” he says.

“Thank you?”

“No, I mean like physically. You’re very pillow shaped.”

You stare at him.

“Did you just call me a pillow?”

“In the best way.”

You pretend to be offended.

He notices immediately.

“I mean it,” he says softer. “You’re comfortable. I like being around you.”

That hits differently.

You look away first.

“You’re suddenly less funny,” you mumble.

He smiles slightly. “Good.”

The rain continues steadily.

You eventually get up to make some hot chocolate.

He follows you into the kitchen without even asking, leaning against the counter while you make some hot chocolate.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“You look cute when you’re focused.”

You glance at him. “You’re laying it on thick today.”

“It’s the rain. Makes me sentimental.”

“You were just calling me pillow shaped.”

“And I stand by that.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling.

When you hand him his mug, your fingers brush again.

He doesn’t look away this time.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You both walk back to the couch.

He sets his mug down and immediately pulls you back into his side.

“You’re very grabby today,” you say.

“I haven’t seen you all week. Let me live.”

You soften.

“I missed you too,” you admit.

He looks down at you. “You did?”

“No. I invited you over for the weather commentary.”

He squints at you.

“Be serious.”

You sigh and nod. “Yes. I missed you.”

His expression changes slightly. Less teasing. More sincere.

“I don’t like when we’re busy at the same time,” he says. “It feels wrong.”

You tilt your head. “Wrong?”

“Yeah. Like I’m supposed to tell you about my day and you’re supposed to tell me about yours. If that doesn’t happen, I feel off.”

Your chest tightens.

“You’re very attached,” you say softly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

He shrugs. “I was trying to be cool about it.”

“You’re not cool.”

He gasps again. “I am extremely cool.”

“You got soaked in the rain because you wanted a dramatic entrance.”

“That was cinematic.”

You laugh.

He watches you like you’re something delicate.

Something important.

-

Later, you order food.

He insists on paying.

“I invited myself,” he says.

“And?”

“So I’m contributing.”

“You always bring snacks.”

“And beauty and talent. Don’t forget.”

You roll your eyes again.

━━━━━━ ❦ ━━━━━━

The food arrives when the sky has shifted from gray to that darker shade that makes everything outside feel blurred and far away.

Hyunjin insists on grabbing it from the door.

“You’ll drop it,” you say.

“I would never.”

He absolutely almost drops it.

You don’t even say anything. You just look at him.

“That was a test,” he mutters, adjusting the bag carefully before walking back to the living room. “And it passed.”

“You nearly sacrificed our dumplings.”

“I would have caught them.”

“With what?”

He gives you a look but decides it’s better to let you have that one.

You both end up sitting on the floor instead of the couch, the coffee table pulled closer. The rain has softened to a steady rhythm now, not as loud as before, just background noise that fills the quiet spaces between movements.

You open your container first. The steam hits your face and you inhale automatically.

“Smells good,” he says, leaning slightly closer.

“You can’t steal mine.”

“I would never.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He steals one immediately.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You reach over and steal one back from his container. He doesn’t fight it. He just watches you with that soft, amused look he gets when he thinks you’re being cute but refuses to say it out loud.

You eat slowly. There’s no rush. No scrolling. No distractions.

At some points your knees bump into his.

Neither of you move away.

The apartment feels warmer now, faintly smelling like takeout and tea and fabric softener from the blanket behind you.

“You’re quieter,” you say after a while.

“I’m eating.”

“No, you’re thinking.”

He glances up at you. “Am I not allowed to think?”

“Not in my apartment.”

He huffs softly.

You take another bite, watching him from the corner of your eye. He looks relaxed. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just calm.

You realize you like him most like this. When he isn’t trying to be funny. When he isn’t exaggerating something for effect.

Just him.

He notices you staring again.

“What?”

“You’re in a weird mood.”

He leans back slightly on one hand, looking at you more directly now.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He studies your face for a second too long. It makes you shift slightly under his gaze.

“You get this look,” he says.

“What look?”

“This one.”

“That’s not helpful.”

He gestures vaguely toward you. “Like you’re overthinking something.”

You frown. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You pause.

Maybe you are.

The rain outside fills the small silence that follows.

You poke at your food instead of answering.

He doesn’t push you.

That’s something you appreciate about him. He teases. He jokes. He pokes at you. But when it actually matters, he doesn’t force anything.

-

After you both finish eating, he gathers the empty containers without being asked.

You blink. Shocked with his cleanliness.

“Who are you?”

“I have manners.”

“Since when?”

“Since I decided I want to be invited back.”

You watch him toss everything away, wash his hands, then walk back toward you.

There’s something slower about him now. Less teasing.

When he sits beside you on the couch again, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls the blanket over both of you and leans back, pulling you with him automatically.

You settle against his chest this time instead of his shoulder.

It feels different. Closer.

His hand rests at your waist again, thumb moving lazily back and forth against the fabric of your shirt.

The TV is still on, but neither of you are watching it.

The apartment feels dimmer. Softer.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You seem… somewhere else.”

You exhale slowly.

“I just like this,” you admit.

“Like what?”

“This. Us. Today.”

His fingers pause slightly before continuing their slow movement.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

There’s no dramatic shift. No sudden confession. Just something steady.

You tilt your head slightly so you can look at him.

He’s already looking at you.

Not intensely. Not overwhelmingly.

Just present.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” you say softly, “that out of everyone, we ended up here?”

He smirks faintly. “You mean lucky?”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“I’m realistic.”

You lightly press your palm against his chest.

“I’m serious.”

He looks at you again, softer now.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “I do think about it.”

“And?”

“And I don’t really question it.”

You wait for him to elaborate.

He does.

“I just… feel right when I’m here.”

You swallow slightly.

“That’s very simple.”

“I’m a simple person.”

“You are not.”

He smiles faintly. “Okay. Maybe not simple. But I don’t need it to be complicated. I love you. I love being here. I love days like this. That’s enough for me.”

There’s no performance in his voice. No joking tone covering anything up.

Just honesty.

You feel your chest tighten in a quieter way than earlier.

You shift slightly closer.

“I love you too,” you say, softer than before.

He looks down at you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t make a big deal of it. He doesn’t tease. He just nods slightly and presses his forehead lightly against yours.

“That’s good,” he murmurs.

You both sit like that for a while.

No talking.

Just breathing.

The rain outside slows even more, barely audible now.

You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His hand remains warm at your waist, occasionally tightening slightly as if to make sure you’re still there.

“You’re clingy today,” you mumble.

“You’re not complaining.”

You aren’t.

You close your eyes for a second.

When you open them again, the room feels heavier with the evening. The light outside almost completely gone.

You don’t know how much time has passed.

“You tired?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Go to sleep then.”

“You’re not leaving?”

He looks almost offended.

“In this rain? Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly.

He adjusts the blanket again, pulling it up higher around your shoulders. His movements are slower now. Careful.

You curl your hand into the fabric of his shirt without thinking.

He notices.

“Stay,” you murmur quietly, half embarrassed by how small your voice sounds.

He shifts slightly so you’re more secure against him.

“I’m here,” he says.

Not dramatic.

Not intense.

Just steady.

You relax almost immediately.

The rain starts again lightly, like it never fully left.

It feels like the day folding in on itself.

You think about how simple it was. No grand gestures. No big plans. Just food, teasing, warmth, conversation that drifted in and out without effort.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Hyunjin.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for coming over.”

He hums quietly. Then he shrugs lightly.

“Anywhere you are is better than being somewhere else.”

You lift your head slightly to look at him.

“That was poetic.”

He chuckles softly, “I didn’t even try.”

You shake your head but smile anyway.

He brushes his thumb lightly along your side again, absent and gentle.

You can feel sleep creeping in slowly.

Your body feels heavy in the best way.

“You’re warm,” he says quietly.

“So are you.”

He shifts his chin so it rests lightly against the top of your head.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, very quietly, almost like he’s saying it to himself, he says, “I like this.”

You don’t ask him to clarify.

You just nod slightly against his chest.

“Me too.”

The rain continues outside.

Inside, everything is still.

And you fall asleep knowing that tomorrow will be louder and busier and brighter.

But today was soft.

And he stayed.

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

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.

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

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.

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

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.

───────── ♡ ☔︎ ♡ ─────────

8:42 PM.

He said 8:30.

It wasn’t like Seungmin to be late. If anything, he was annoyingly punctual, the type to show up five minutes early and pretend he “just happened to be nearby.”

The rain had started lightly around eight, just a mist at first. Romantic, even. The kind of weather that made city lights look soft and blurred. You’d smiled when the first drops hit your sleeve. Now it was pouring.

You shifted under the tiny café awning, hugging your sweater tighter around yourself. The street was shiny with water, reflecting red brake lights and passing umbrellas. People rushed by, ducking into shops and taxis. Your phone stayed silent. You told yourself not to overthink it. He’s busy. He probably got held up. Schedules run late all the time. But he’d said it clearly that afternoon.

“I’ll come. 8:30. Don’t stand in the rain waiting, okay?”

You weren’t technically standing in the rain. Not fully. But the wind kept blowing it sideways, speckling your jeans and soaking the ends of your hair.

8:47 PM.

You opened your messages.

You: Are you still coming?

You stared at the typing bar, hoping those little gray dots would pop up instantly.

They didn’t.

Your chest felt heavier than it should. It was just a date. Just dinner. You hadn’t seen each other properly in almost three weeks because of promotions and rehearsals and everything else that came with loving someone who barely had control over his own schedule. Tonight was supposed to be yours.

At 8:52, you made the mistake of checking social media. A fan account had posted airport pictures, rehearsal clips, then something about an unexpected meeting added to their schedule. You stared at the timestamp. Two hours ago. Your stomach twisted. He didn’t tell me. You replayed your last conversation in your head, his smile, the way he squeezed your hand quickly before running back inside. “I said I’d come.”

But what if he couldn’t?

What if he forgot?

Or worse, what if it just wasn’t important enough to remember?

The rain came down harder, splashing against the pavement so loudly it almost drowned out your thoughts. A car drove too close to the curb and sprayed cold water against your legs. You flinched.

8:59 PM.

Your phone buzzed.

Seungmin: I’m on my way.

Your heart jumped painfully. You stared at the message.

On my way. No apology. No explanation.

Something inside you cooled. You typed back slower than you meant to.

You: Okay.

No heart. No smiley face. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But it did.

By 9:12, your fingers were cold. The café had closed ten minutes ago, lights off, chairs stacked. The barista had given you a sympathetic look while locking the door. You should’ve gone home. You knew that. But if you left and he showed up to an empty sidewalk, it would hurt him. And somehow, even in your frustration, you didn’t want to hurt him.

Headlights turned the corner. A black car stopped abruptly near the curb. The passenger door opened, and then he was there, hair damp, hoodie darkened at the shoulders from rain, breathing slightly heavier like he’d been rushing. He shut the door and jogged toward you, shoes splashing through shallow puddles.

“You’re still here.”

His voice wasn’t annoyed.

It wasn’t defensive.

It was relieved.

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your wet sleeves and shivering hands. His jaw tightened. “Why are you standing out here?”

“…Because we had plans.”

The words came out softer than you expected. Rain filled the space between you.

“I told you not to wait in the rain,” he said, brows pulling together.

You let out a small laugh. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He paused. Your voice didn’t sound right. He noticed. Of course he did.

“What happened?” he asked.

You swallowed. “You didn’t tell me you had something added to your schedule. I found out online.”

His expression flickered. “I didn’t know until last minute.”

“Okay.” Too quick. Too flat.

“You think I forgot,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. That was enough.

“I didn’t forget.”

“You were almost an hour late.”

“I know.”

“You just texted ‘I’m on my way.’”

“I was in the car,” he replied evenly. “I didn’t want to text you a whole paragraph while the manager was talking.”

“You could’ve told me earlier.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t know if it was confirmed. And I didn’t want to cancel unless I absolutely had to.”

Rain tapped against the metal sign above you. Your throat tightened. “It felt like I wasn’t important enough to know.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. His expression changed immediately.

Hurt.

Not angry. Hurt.

“Don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer.

“It’s hard not to think it.”

“I said I’d come.”

“And you were late.”

“I’m here.”

“You almost weren’t.”

The misunderstanding wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t screaming. It was quiet and heavy, both of you tired and stretched thin and scared of being the one who cared more. He took another step forward until there was barely space between you.

“Look at me.”

You did. Rain traced down his cheekbones. His eyes were steady. “I left the meeting early,” he said softly. “They weren’t happy about it. I told them I had somewhere to be. They said we could reschedule. I said no. I said I already promised someone.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to text you until I knew I could actually come,” he continued. “Because if I told you there was a chance I couldn’t, I knew you’d tell me to stay. And I didn’t want to stay.”

The tension inside you cracked. “But it still hurt.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t explain.”

“I’m explaining now.” His voice was calm but vulnerable. “I thought you’d trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Then why did you think I forgot?”

You didn’t have a clean answer.

Because I’m scared. Because your world is bigger than me. Because I don’t know where I fit sometimes.

You looked down. “I just… I miss you.”

The fight drained out of both of you. “I miss you too,” he said, simple and honest. He reached for your hands, wrapping his fingers around them. “You’re freezing.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

He stepped closer, pulling you under the umbrella he’d dropped. It barely covered you both, but it felt warmer. “I should’ve texted more,” he admitted.

“I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You waited almost an hour.”

“You said you’d come.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I said I’d come. Why would I lie to you?”

You looked up at him. You didn’t think he would. But fear is louder than logic. “I don’t know. I just get scared.”

“Of what?”

“That one day you won’t.”

The rain softened into mist. He stared at you for a long moment, then pulled you fully into him, one arm around your shoulders, the other steady at your back. You melted into his chest. His hoodie was damp, but he was warm.

“You’re not something I squeeze into my schedule,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re the reason I leave it. I don’t forget you. Even when I’m busy. Even when I’m tired. Even when everything’s loud. I just don’t always balance it perfectly.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered.

He pulled back slightly. “Then what do you need?”

“Just tell me. Even if it’s messy. Don’t let me find out from other people.”

“I’m sorry.” It was real.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“For thinking I wasn’t important.”

He brushed his thumb under your eye. “You are. You are.”

The city felt quieter. “Rain check?” he asked gently.

You laughed softly. “For tonight?”

“For tonight. The restaurant’s closed anyway.”

You glanced at the dark café. “Yeah.”

“But I’m not letting you go home like this,” he added. “There’s a convenience store down the block. We’ll get instant ramen and sit somewhere dry.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It does.”

“But I’ll take it.”

───────── ♡ ☔︎ ♡ ─────────

You ended up sitting at a table with an umbrella outside of the convenience store, sharing hot ramen from paper cups while the last of the rain faded. Your hair was still damp. His hoodie still smelled like detergent and rain. You leaned into him.

“This wasn’t how I pictured tonight.”

“Me neither.”

“Better?”

“…Different.”

You nudged him. He smiled softly. “I’m glad you waited.”

“I didn’t want to give up on you.”

“Don’t give up on me,” he said quietly. “Even when it’s hard.”

“Okay.”

“And I won’t make you stand in the rain again.”

“That sounds like a promise.”

“It is.”

“Even if you’re late?”

“I won’t be.”

“And if you are?”

He looked at you steadily. “I’ll tell you why.”

That was enough. You rested your hand against his, city lights reflecting in puddles, the air clean after rain. The night hadn’t gone the way you planned, but something about it felt stronger. Not perfect. But real.

He squeezed your hand softly. “I said I’d come.”

And this time, you believed him completely.