𝓥𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏

chan — 'she even loves the music that my band makes'

The couch at the studio has a permanent dent in the cushions from where you always slouched. You didn’t plan on becoming a fixture there — it just happened. His late nights turned into your late nights, his takeout orders became your takeout orders, and when you fell asleep for the first time waiting for him to finish editing, the studio stopped feeling like his workplace and started feeling like yours too.

At first, it was just weekend visits. dropping off lunch, then lingering a while till he finished up. Then the weeknights where you’d wait past midnight, because going home alone felt lonely and wrong when he was still working.

2racha—changbin and jisung— stopped asking why you were there (han occasionally slept on the other side of the couch anyway). Even the security guard waved you through without checking your badge.

Tonight was no different. You were curled under his hoodie, half watching some reality show on your laptop while Chan tweaked a vocal track for the third hour straight.

an intern had arrived an hour ago, all bright laughter and eager questions. You didn’t mind at first, Chan was patient with newbies, always explaining things twice if needed. But then her chair inched closer to his. Then she started getting touchy when it wasn't necessary.

Chan didn’t even look her way, just leaned back in his chair, occasionally putting space between them. You watched from the couch, the laptop screen long forgotten.

Then she asked the question, voice pitched too high, “So, are you single, or…?”

You held your breath without meaning to. chan’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Then he turned his head, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth twitched, jerking his thumb to your direction, “I’m married, actually,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The intern’s face froze. Her gaze darted to you, then back to Chan, like she was trying to reconcile the idea of him belonging to someone with the fact that you were just… there. Quiet, half buried in his hoodie.

Chan didn’t wait for her to recover. He tapped his wedding band against the edge of his laptop and nodded toward the door. “that's a wrap for today, you should head out. It’s late.”

minho — 'you got me trippin' in finesse'

you've learned to read Minho's body like a second language, he's a dancer after all. You know his tells before he even speaks.

the way his shoulders relax when he’s finally nailed a routine, the quick tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s impatient, the slight tilt of his head when he’s watching someone else move. It’s all punctuation in a conversation you’ve been having for months without saying a word.

You met at a studio mixer last summer, back when you were still just the barback for the afterparty, refilling drinks and dodging sweaty elbows. He’d been the one to notice you first, initiating a conversation with you over the counter.

Later, when the music switched to something slow and sultry, he’d pulled you onto the dance floor without asking, and you hadn’t protested.

Minho isn’t the type to flaunt things, though. He keeps his private life private, and you respect that, just a quiet understanding that some things don’t need an audience.

right now, you’re leaning against the doorway of studio 3, watching him run through a new routine with the team. Sweat glinting at his temples as he mirrors the others. You’ve seen this drill a hundred times, but it never gets old.

The music cuts abruptly mid step, and Minho’s gaze snaps toward the sound system — only to land on you instead. his expression turns into a soft smile, and you grin right back at him, raising your water bottle in a silent greeting.

One of the newer dancers, a woman with her hair tied in a tight topknot, follows his line of sight and raises an eyebrow.

Topknot leans into his space as he adjusts the music, her elbow brushing his arm. “You always this serious during practice?” she asks, he doesn’t look up from the playlist, just shrugs one shoulder.

Undeterred, she adds, “Bet you’re fun outside the studio, though. You ever take anyone out after hours?”

Minho’s fingers pause over the soundboard for half a second before he taps the play button again, letting the music swell back to life. He doesn’t answer her, just steps away to reset his position in the center of the room.

But topknot doesn't get a hint, it seems. She sidles closer, her voice dropping. “Come on, do you have a girlfriend or something?” She flicks her eyes toward you, still leaning in the doorway, and adds, “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You take a slow sip of your water. He’s never been one to entertain this kind of thing — not because he’s rude, but because he doesn’t see the point in feeding into games.

Still, you can tell the moment he decides to shut it down. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“nah,” he says, loud enough for the room to hear. “I already have someone.”

Topknot blinks, then laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. “Yeah? Where are they, then?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his chin toward you, and the smirk he’s been holding back finally breaks through. “Right there.”

changbin — 'guy.exe: 6 5'6 feet tall and super strong'

a matte black dumbbell rolled from Changbin’s grip and thudded against the rubber gym floor. He’d been at it for two hours— shoulders, back, arms, a relentless workout that left his top sticking to his skin in abstract patches of sweat. You watched from the bench near the water cooler, half hidden behind your phone, pretending to scroll while stealing glances at the way his muscles flexed under the lights.

Three years together, and the sight of him still made your pulse skip.

The gym was mostly empty, mid afternoon lull, just a few die hards and the staff wiping down machines. You’d come straight from work, still in your office slacks, your hair barely holding onto its ponytail. Changbin had texted earlier with a come keep me company and a winking emoji. who were you to turn down an excuse to watch your boyfriend work out?

A woman, early twenties, in one of those matching pink gym sets, hovered near Changbin’s bench while he adjusted the weight rack. You caught the tail end of her question, something about his deadlift form, but then she made her move. "Damn tho, you’re built like a god. Single?"

Changbin snorted, wiping his forearm across his forehead.. "Do I look single?" he said, shaking his head like the idea was ridiculous. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you standing a few feet away, there, and grinned. "That’s my girl."

The woman followed his gaze, blinking at you like she’d only just noticed the water cooler, the benches, the entire half of the gym you occupied. You raised your hand in a half wave. "Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.

You expected her to leave, but she just smirked, propping a hand on her waist. "Lucky girl," she said, loud enough for you to hear. then, to Changbin "You ever wanna trade up, you know where to find me." yikes.

Changbin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows did a little jump, He shot you a look—girl you seein' this?—before shrugging. "Nah," he said, casual as anything. "I’m good." He moved towards you and planted a kiss on your cheek, "Better than good."

hyunjin — 'hopelessly devoted to you'

You and Hyunjin had been neighbors in that crumbling apartment complex where the pipes groaned louder than the tenants, and your first real conversation happened because he'd left his studio door ajar.

The scent of paint had pulled you in like a lure, and there he was, sleeves rolled up, forearms smeared with charcoal, halfway through painting something that looked like a storm given human form. and you were mesmerized.

By the time you started dating, you'd learned to love the mess of him — the way his hair stuck up in every direction after hours of working, the paint streaks on his jeans, the fact that he'd forget to eat unless you nudged a takeout container into his line of sight. He balanced his chaotic creativity with a quiet steadiness that surprised you.

his art thrived on bold strokes and screaming colors, his love language was more subtle, warming your cold fingers between his palms, humming off key to your favorite songs while he cooked food for you, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade when he thought you were asleep.

The gallery showing was his first major one. You'd watched him prepare for weeks. frames piling up near the door, muttered debates about lighting choices at 3 am. When the invitations finally arrived, he'd handed yours over, "You don't have to come," he'd said, but you knew he wanted you to be there.

You'd kissed the worry from his forehead and tucked the invitation into your wallet, where it stayed until the corners softened from handling.

Now, standing near a table with a champagne flute you hadn't touched, you watched him work the room. Hyunjin moved through the crowd like water, slipping effortlessly between conversations without ever seeming anchored to any one group.

His laugh carried over the murmur of guests, and you felt that familiar warmth curl behind your ribs. This was his element, even if he'd never admit it. The way people leaned in when he spoke, how their eyes flicked toward his hands when he gestured — he commanded attention without trying, and you loved him most like this, alive with his passion.

The girl approaching him now had been circling for a while. You'd noticed her earlier, lingering near his largest piece, her head tilted in a way that suggested admiration.

When she touched Hyunjin's elbow, you saw him startle slightly before turning with that polite smile he reserved for strangers.

You couldn't hear them over the gallery's din, but her body language was clear. fingers tucking hair behind her ear, the slight lean forward. Hyunjin nodded along, hands stuffed in his pockets, already scanning the room for an exit.

You didn’t move, not yet anyway, because part of you wanted to see how he’d handle it.

That’s when he saw you. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, and something in his face shifted, relief.

You stood from the table, weaving through the crowd, the girl hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy tilting her chin up at him, one hand now resting on her collarbone.

“...really think we should discuss your technique, over some coffee?” she was saying as you slid into place beside him, close enough that your hip brushed his.

Hyunjin exhaled, barely audible, as you laced your fingers through his. His palm was warm, slightly damp from nerves, and you squeezed once, “Oh, he’d love that,” you said, sweetly. The girl blinked, her smile freezing as you added, “I’ll come too, I’m his girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked towards him. “she's my muse.”

jisung — 'everywhere I go I keep her picture in my wallet'

"Jisung." You poked his shoulder with your socked foot from where you were sprawled across the couch. "I will perish."

He didn’t look up from his phone, thumb scrolling lazily. "Dramatic."

"No, listen—" You rolled onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against the cushions. "My stomach is eating itself."

This time, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You just ate two hours ago."

"Snacks aren’t food," you said gravely.

Jisung sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. "Fine," he said, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. "But if I'm going out in the middle of the night, you're eating the weird gummy worms I pick out."

You grinned, kicking your legs against the couch cushions. "Deal."

The convenience store felt both too bright and eerily empty at 1 AM. Jisung grabbed a basket, tossing in the usual suspects, chips, chocolate, those inexplicably neon gummy worms, and went over to the counter to pay when the cashier leaned over the counter. "You again," she said, grinning. "Third time this week."

Jisung blinked, setting the basket on the counter "Uh, yeah."

she picked up the contents, scanning each one as she went on. "I mean, you could be here for the snacks or whatever ," she said, waving a hand, "or you could admit you keep showing up for the ambiance." Her grin widened. "And by ambiance, I mean me."

jisungs mouth gaped, "Oh no, no, I'm—Married. Very, extremely married." then he pulled out his wallet, flipping it to the clear plastic sleeve where a polaroid of both of you rested. one where you were kissing his cheek and he had a big, wide grin on his face, then pulled out his card to pay.

she blinked, her grin faltering for half a second before she leaned back, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalances as she took the card from his hand "Damn," she said, clicking her tongue. "Figures the cute ones are always taken."

The apartment was dark when he got back, you were still in your spot on the couch, waiting impatiently for him. "Finally"

Jisung let the door slam shut behind him, you barely had time to process the dramatic thud before he was crossing the room in three long strides, arms outstretched, the plastic bag dangling from one hand.

He crashed into you with the force of a man who’d just survived a warzone, his face buried in the crook of your neck before you could even ask what was wrong. “I got hit on,” he mumbled into your skin, voice muffled.

You blinked, arms frozen mid-air around him, the crinkling snack bag pressed awkwardly between your ribs. “...By who?”

“The cashier,” he hissed, His cheeks were still flushed, the tips of his ears pink like he’d sprinted home instead of walked. “you’re coming with me next time. No. More. Solo. Snack. Runs.”

felix — 'the perfect pair'

the first time Felix walked into the community kitchen, he nearly dropped an entire tray of freshly chopped carrots.

You'd been there six months already — long enough to know that the dented metal tray was older than both of you combined, and that the carrots were destined for a stew that would feed sixty. You lunged without thinking, catching the edge just as it tipped, fingertips brushing against his.

"Thanks," he said, his sleeves were already rolled up past his elbows, "I swear I'm usually better at carrying things."

Felix still drops things sometimes, never the carrots again, but last month it was a spoonful of cinnamon that poofed into a cloud across the counter. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, and he grinned like he'd meant to do it, like every little accident was just an excuse to hear you laugh.

Now, twelve months deep into this rhythm — Saturday mornings at the kitchen, Sunday afternoons tangled in his double bed, it's your little routine now.

This morning, he's leaning against the fridge, peeling labels off donated jam jars while humming off key. "Mrs. eom asked if we're doing the pumpkin soup again," he says, glancing at you. "Told her we'd have to check with the boss." He winks. You're not the boss. There is no boss. But this is Felix's favorite joke, his way of stitching you into the center of his stories, even when you're just scrubbing pans in the corner.

this new volunteer has been hovering around him all morning. You recognize the tilt of her head, she keeps finding reasons to step into his space, keeps finding reasons to strike up conversations, and he's too kind to turn her down on the get go.

she might've mistaked his kindness for something else though.

He's handing her a knife to chop chilis when she "accidentally" grazes his wrist. "You're always so patient with everyone," she says, he replies with a simple "thank you", polite as ever, but you could tell he was uncomfortable.

You don't move. Because Felix is already walking over to your station, he bumps his forehead lightly against your temple "Rescue me," he murmurs into your hair, and you can feel her stare burning holes in your back.

"Tell her yourself," you whisper, amused. you're already reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Felix exhales, relieved, before turning back to her with that easy smile.

"Oh! Almost forgot," he says brightly "This is my favorite person. The reason I never miss a Saturday."

And just like that, the room tilts back into place, Felix glowing like always, you beside him, and the quiet understanding that some things, like this kitchen, like his hand in yours, aren't up for grabs.

seungmin — 'I'd risk it all for you '

stadium lights blazed down, bright enough as if the sun was still up, turning the sweat on Seungmin’s skin into glitter. He wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of infield dirt in the process, and grinned at the roar of the crowd still thrumming through the stands. The mic in his hand was warm from being passed around, and the interviewer, was standing just a little too close. Her perfume was floral, aggressive.

"Kim Seungmin," she said, "Another incredible performance tonight. That last play — were you trying to give your fans a heart attack?"

Seungmin laughed, easy and practiced, the sound swallowed up by the noise around them. "Nah, just wanted to keep things interesting." He shrugged, adjusting the cap perched on his damp hair. The fabric of his jersey clung to his shoulders, heavy with sweat and adrenaline.

"Interesting is one word for it." She tilted her head, leaning in enough that the mic brushed his chest. "You’ve been on a hot streak this season. What’s driving you?"

Seungmin exhaled through his nose, a quick, amused breath. "Same thing as always," he said, gaze drifting past the interviewer's shoulder toward the stands. "Love of the game."

"That’s it? Just pure passion? No special someone in the stands tonight?"

Seungmin let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil — then, he spoke again, "Actually," he said slowly, "yeah. My girlfriend’s here."

The interviewer blinked. The mic slipped a fraction in her grip.

The crowd erupted, a collective 'ohhh' rippling through the stands. Somewhere in the noise, someone wolf whistled. Seungmin didn’t react, just kept that easy, knowing smile, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

"we've been together since college," he continued, voice carrying effortlessly over the din. The interviewer recovered quickly, professionalism snapping back into place, but her grip on the mic was tighter now.

“That’s sweet,” she said, and it wasn’t insincere, “Care to share more? The fans would love to hear.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicked back to where you were sitting — third baseline, five rows up, right where you always were, and his expression softened. “She hates when I talk about her in interviews,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But she’s the reason I don’t overthink pitches. And the reason I do stretch before games.”

The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to pivot back to safer baseball territory, but the cameraman beat her to it, swinging the lens abruptly toward the stands. The stadium screen flickered, then locked onto your face, blown up fifty feet tall for thirty thousand people to see.

Your lips parted in surprise, the nacho you’d been mid bite hovering forgotten in your hand. Seungmin’s chuckle echoed through the speakers, "There she is,"

A nearby fan elbowed you, grinning. "Girl, you’re famous now!" she stage whispered. Your cheeks burned, but you managed a small wave at the camera, awkward, The crowd ate it up, cooed like it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen.

On screen, Seungmin’s smile went crooked, like he was trying not to laugh at you. "See?" he told the interviewer, nodding toward the screen. "Told you she hates this." The mic caught the rasp in his voice, the one that only showed up when he was tired or fond. Tonight, it was both.

Jeongin — 'love struck girl, I'd tease her.'

"You would pick the one night we’re out of ice cream to confess you like me," Jeongin had said that night two years ago, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. He’d been holding a half melted pint of strawberry between you like a peace offering, or maybe a shield.

The confession had been an accident, words slipping out during one of those aimless midnight drives where the radio played nothing but old love songs and static.

You’d blamed the music, blamed the summer heat, blamed the way he’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

But Jeongin, ever meticulous, had pulled into the nearest convenience store parking lot, then returned with the ice cream as if that solved anything. but it only got that confession out of you that was begging to crawl out of your throat days prior.

Now, standing in the crowded glow of your friends apartment, you watch Jeongin from across the room. He’s holding a drink he hasn’t sipped yet, nodding as some woman you don’t recognize — a friend of a friend, probably — talks animatedly about something.

The way she gestures tells you it’s a story, not small talk. Jeongin’s always been a good listener, the kind who leans in just enough to make people feel heard, but tonight there’s a stiffness in his shoulders you recognize.

Hyunjin bumps your elbow with a fresh beer. "You’re staring," he sing songs under his breath.

You take the bottle without looking. "I’m observing."

"Same thing." He follows your gaze, then snorts. "Oh, her. She’s new. Felix invited her. Something about crypto startups? I tuned out after 'blockchain.'"

The woman— crypto girl —leans closer to Jeongin, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughs. You don’t move. Jeongin’s fingers twitch against his glass, then still.

Then, clear across the room "So… are you single?"

Hyunjin chokes on his drink.

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. For a second, he looks like he might laugh it off, might deflect like he used to when strangers flirted with him at bars back when you were just friends. But then his gaze flicks to you and his posture shifts.

"No," he says, quieter than usual. "I’m engaged."

Crypto girl’s eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I wouldn’t have guessed."

Before she can say more, you’re crossing the room, setting your beer down on the table beside Jeongin with a clink. "What wouldn’t you have guessed?" you ask, voice light.

Jeongin exhales, something close to relief. His fingers find yours without hesitation "That I’m taken," he says, squeezing your hand.

Crypto girl’s smile falters. "Ah. My bad." She retreats with a half hearted salute, already scanning the room for someone else to talk to.

Jeongin watches her go, then turns to you, sheepish. "Sorry."

"You’re apologizing for existing attractively now?" you tease, bumping his shoulder.

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb traces circles over your knuckles. "Shut up."

a/n: I hope at least one person gets all the lyrical references I made in this or I might just cry

“You’ve been quiet for, like, ten whole minutes,” he says, his voice low and teasing, cutting through the quiet. It’s smooth, like he’s strumming a chord that resonates in your chest. “What’s up? You plotting something over there?”

You glance up, catching the smirk tugging at his lips. “Me? Plotting?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just sitting here, minding my business. You’re the one looking like trouble.”

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that makes your stomach flip. “Trouble? Nah, I’m an angel,” he says, but the way his eyes linger on you, dark and intent, tells a different story. He shifts closer, just enough that his knee brushes against yours, and the contact sends a spark skittering across your skin.

“Angel, huh?” you murmur, setting your phone down on the coffee table. You lean forward, closing the gap between you, your voice dropping to match his. “Then why do I feel like I’m about to get into trouble?”

His smirk widens, and he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s dying to solve. “Maybe ‘cause you like it,” he says, voice dipping lower, a playful challenge woven into every word. “Admit it—you’re into the chaos.”

You don’t answer right away, letting the tension build. Instead, you shift closer, your knee pressing against his thigh now, deliberate. His eyes flicker down to the point of contact, then back up to meet yours, and the air feels heavier, electric. “Maybe I am,” you say softly, your lips curving into a smile. “But only ‘cause it’s you.”

Something shifts in his expression—something softer, warmer, but still edged with that teasing spark. He reaches out, his hand finding your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. The touch is gentle, but it lights you up, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice husky, like he’s confessing a secret.

Before you can respond, he leans in, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, soft and tentative at first, like he’s testing the waters. But the moment you kiss him back, it’s like a dam breaks. The kiss deepens, slow but hungry, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. Your heart’s pounding, a wild, erratic beat that echoes in your ears, and every nerve in your body feels alive, buzzing with the heat of him. He tastes like mint and something faintly sweet, maybe the soda he was sipping earlier, and it’s dizzying, like you’re spiraling into a haze you don’t want to escape.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing a little harder. His thumb traces slow, lazy circles on the side of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “You good?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

“More than good,” you whisper, your voice shaky but honest. Your hands are resting on his chest now, and you can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palms, grounding you even as your head spins.

He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping smile that always makes you weak. “Good,” he says, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “’Cause I’m just getting started.”

You laugh, the sound light and breathless, and swat at his chest playfully. “You’re such a tease,” you say, but there’s no heat in it—just affection, warmth. He catches your hand, intertwining your fingers, and tugs you gently until you’re straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of him. His hands settle on your hips, steady and warm, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Tease, huh?” he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. “Says the one who’s been driving me crazy all night.” His hands slide up your sides, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the bare skin just under the hem of your shirt. The touch is light, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch, to make your skin prickle with heat.

“Chan,” you murmur, half warning, half plea, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

“What?” he teases, leaning in to brush his lips against your jaw, soft and fleeting. “You can handle me, right?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. His lips trail lower, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss there, his breath warm against your skin. It’s gentle, unhurried, but it sends a jolt through you, your fingers tightening in his hair as you tug lightly. He hums against your neck, the vibration making your pulse race, and you can feel his smile against your skin.

“You’re too good at this,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, gripping lightly as his lips move along your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“Only ‘cause it’s you,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, everything slows. The city outside fades to nothing, the soft hum of the lamp the only sound in the room. His eyes are dark, intense, but there’s something soft in them too, something that makes your heart stutter. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he adds, quieter now, like it’s a secret meant just for you.

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. Instead, you lean in, kissing him again, slower this time, savoring the way his lips move against yours, the way his hands tighten on your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you. His fingers slip under your shirt again, tracing the curve of your spine, and every touch feels like a spark, igniting something deep in your core. It’s not frantic, not rushed—just a slow, consuming heat that builds with every brush of his lips, every glide of his hands.

Your hands roam too, slipping under his hoodie to find the warm skin of his back, your fingers tracing the lines of muscle there. He makes a low sound in his throat, half groan, half sigh, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing you’re getting to him just as much as he’s getting to you. His lips find yours again, and this time the kiss is deeper, hungrier, but still soft, still controlled, like he’s savoring every second of it.

When you finally pull back, both of you are flushed, breathing a little heavier. He rests his forehead against your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin as he lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in it—just a smile, warm and real.

You grin, running your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly to make him look at you. “Worth it, though,” you say, your voice soft but playful.

He lifts his head, eyes sparkling as they meet yours. “Yeah,” he says, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Definitely worth it.”

He looked beautiful in the soft, ugly parking-lot lighting. Which was unfair.

Cap low over his forehead. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair messy from wind and seawater. His smile was there, touched with the kind of tired happiness that comes after a day well spent. 

He’d only had one drink hours ago and switched to water after, but the day had been long – sun, swimming, driving, making sure everyone was where they needed to be, checking maps, checking reservations, checking on members, checking on you every ten minutes like you might evaporate.

You stepped closer. “Baby.”

His head lifted immediately. “Hm?”

“Let me drive.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wanna drive?”

“You're tired. And I'm sober too.”

“It’s okay. I can do it.” 

“I know that you can,” you said softly. “But you don’t need to. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just tried to unlock the car with the house key.”

Chan let out a soft laugh, head dropping for a second, and you saw it then: the real exhaustion under the playful refusal. The kind he always ignored.

You reached for his wrist.

His fingers turned instinctively, fingers sliding through yours like they belonged there.

Your voice dropped so only he could hear.

“Chris.”

That did it. It always did.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You reached up, face leaning in towards his, and smoothed a thumb under one of his eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone all day. Please let me take care of you for twenty minutes.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Small. Barely there.

That look he only got when you slipped past the leader everyone knew and spoke to the man underneath it all. 

He glanced down at your joined hands, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Then he sighed through a smile and leaned his forehead against yours. 

From the backseat, Felix made a scandalized little sound. “They’re being cute again.” 

“They can do that any other time,” Han whined. “I wanna fall into bed.” 

Chan huffed a laugh through his nose and pulled back.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You know the route?”

You nodded and held out your hand.

After a second, he dropped the keys into your palm. 

“Okay.”

You smiled and tipped your head towards the passenger side. “Go on then.”

Chan blinked at you once, clearly too tired to argue, then shuffled around the front of the car without protest. 

As he turned, you gave him a light, friendly smack on the butt. 

He stopped mid-step and turned back, scandalized. “Hey.” 

“Passenger princes don’t talk back, baby,” you said sweetly, opening the driver’s door. 

Chan shook his head under his breath, smiling now despite himself, and slid into the passenger seat. 

You settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat back from where Chan had it too far for your comfort. His cologne lingered in the fabric, mixed with salt air and the faint scent of sunscreen. 

From the backseat, Han gasped dramatically. “She’s driving?” 

“Oh, you’ll survive,” you said, fixing the rearview mirror until Han's face appeared in it. “If not, you’re also welcome to walk back.” 

He slumped lower in his seat, arms folding across his chest in exaggerated sulkiness. “ ‘was just saying, your driving is kind of scary.” 

“You don’t even have a license,” you said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, Jisung.” 

“That’s why my opinion is pure,” Han said, reaching for the seatbelt with a pout. “Unbiased. Untainted by experience.” 

Felix laughed so hard he immediately yawned afterward, eyes watering. 

Chan’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

–––––

Five minutes later, Han was dead aleep.

The road curved dark and quiet along the coast, the sea only visible in flashes between trees.

Chan sat in the passenger seat with the chair leaned farther back than he ever let himself do. 

But he kept looking at you.

Every time you glanced over, his eyes were already there.

He had one arm folded across his middle, the other tucked between you on the center console where his fingers occasionally squeezed yours. Not out of nervousness, but out of habit.

The boys in the back had gone from loud to silent with shocking speed. 

Han was asleep first, cheek smushed against Felix’s shoulder, mouth slightly open. 

Felix lasted another three songs before his head tipped sideways onto Han’s hair. 

You glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly laughed.

“Look.”

Chan turned his head. 

His smile came slow and helpless.

“They always act tough,” he said quietly, “then become babies after one drink.”

You smiled as well. “You gonna carry them inside later?”

“The hell I will.”

You hummed innocently. “But they’re your babies.”

“They’re adults,” he said at once. “Heavy adults. They just happen to complain a lot and expect to be pampered.” 

“You raised them that way.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He gave a soft scoff but didn’t argue harder than that. 

Sleep was already pulling at him now, loosening every sharp edge. Without the need to steer, navigate, count heads, answer questions, make decisions, remind people to hydrate, remember where everyone left their bags—

There was nothing left for him to hold up.

No leader face.

No responsibility voice.

Just your boyfriend, warm, happy and slowly falling asleep in the passenger seat. 

His thumb traced over your knuckles once. Twice.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I’m appreciating.” 

“You should rest those eyes, not look at me.”

“Can’t help it. You look really pretty when you drive.” 

You laughed under your breath. “That’s the sleep talking, babe.” 

“No.” His eyes were half closed, voice low and certain. “Been thinking it for ten minutes.” 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Like looking at you.”

You stopped at a red light. The intersection was empty, traffic signal glowing red over the quiet road.

You looked over at him again. 

He was already looking at you.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

His fingers brushed your cheek first, palm settling there gently like he wanted to hold your face for a second before anything else. His thumb swept once across your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. 

Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

Soft.

Unhurried.

Sleepy in the sweetest way. 

You froze for half a heartbeat before kissing him back, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other moving to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, lips slow and gentle on yours.

As he pulled away, your stomach flipped so hard it made you forget where you were. 

When you opened your eyes, it took you a second to remember the car, the road, the sleeping passengers.

You turned your head.

Han was still dead asleep against Felix, entirely unaware of the world. 

Felix hadn’t moved at all, breathing deep, arms wrapped around his folded jacket like a stuffed animal. 

You let out a slow breath and looked back at Chan. 

Who looked impossibly soft like this.

Hoodie half-zipped. Curls messy beneath his cap. Lips parted slightly with sleepiness.

And his eyes – so full of love – it made something in your chest ache.

“Tired?” you asked softly. 

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Your chest ached in that familiar way.

Even now.

Even here.

Even with his members unconscious in the back and the day finally over, he was still holding the invisible strings of everyone else’s comfort.

You reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I’ve got them,” you said. Then softer, “I’ve got you too.”

He went very still.

Then exhaled like he’d been waiting all day to.

When the light changed, you gave him one last smile before turning back to the road and easing the car forward. 

“You’re cute,” he mumbled after a minute. 

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

“You happy?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

He leaned his head against the window, still watching you.

“My girlfriend’s driving me home~”

You snorted. “That’s all it takes?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Christopher.”

“She smells nice too.”

“You’re half-asleep.” 

“I’m in love.”

The words came so simply, so sleep-heavy and sincere, that your chest tightened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed your hand back once, then his grip loosened as sleep began pulling him under, yet still holding onto your hand like he didn’t know how not to.

"hey ! i'm chan," his voice a low melodic hum, "i guess we'll be sharing this flat."

you shuffled your feet awkwardly and offered a smile, "oh- hi ! i'm y/n, it's nice to meet you, uh — chan."

and that was how you ended up sharing a university flat with the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever laid eyes upon.

chan was a great flatmate — exceptional, honestly. he possessed a kindness that felt both effortless and deeply intentional, manifesting in the smallest, sweetest gestures. he would offer to buy your groceries, even arranging them in the pantry. once he learnt about your favourite snacks — always in the grocery list you gave him before thanking him profusely — he'd make sure to keep them stocked. it became a routine; the comforting crinkle of a fresh bag of chips waiting for you, or the silent, sweet reminder of a fresh water bottle left by your bedroom door to ensure you stayed hydrated.

naturally, you did your best to reciprocate. you kept the common areas spotless and grabbed his favorite coffee on your way home. you’d pick up little things here and there — a candle he liked the scent of, or a new dish soap — hoping your actions spoke louder than your words. but mostly, you tried to be a 'good' flatmate by hiding the massive crush you had developed on him.

was it really your fault though ?

was any human being actually designed to withstand this much temptation ?

he was just the perfect blend of genuine kindness and pure devastation. it was impossible for you to function with him in your line of sight. when he lounged around in a tank top, it was like a master class in human anatomy — every muscle sculpted and defined. and god bless whoever invented the compression shirts he wore for his gym sessions, because wow — the way the fabric clung to his frame should have been a public health hazard. then there was the way he’d just settle onto the sofa, knees wide, manspreading. it was enough to make your brain short-circuit every single time. you had never felt this distracted, this enamoured by someone, but he — he was all you could think about. in a flat meant for two, chan had somehow managed to take up every inch of your headspace.

but you couldn't bring yourself to act on it.

of course the guy was a fucking michelin star meal and you'd love to eat him up — but you were convinced he was just being the world’s nicest guy. you weren't about to ruin a perfectly good living situation because you were delusional. your heart was screaming for him, but your logic was playing it safe.

today was supposed be no different. the lectures had been long and you were exhausted, to say the least. since chan was usually stuck in his own classes at this time, you figured the apartment was your private sanctuary. you had traded your denims and jacket for a soft oversized shirt with nothing underneath, heading to the bathroom to wash your face.

but as you turned towards the sink, your brain short-circuited. your eyes hit a pair of solid, damp legs first. before you could even process why there was a person in your 'empty' home, your gaze traveled upwards, and —

oh.

chan stood in front of you, fresh out of the shower with nothing but a towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. his blonde wet hair was slicked back as tiny droplets of water were racing down his torso, tracing the deep, insane curves of his muscles before disappearing into the folds of the towel.

you were pretty sure you were salivating.

in fact, you were reasonably certain your soul had actually left your body and was currently vibrating somewhere on the bathroom ceiling.

mortified by the fact that you were blatantly staring, you snapped out of the stupor. a string of frantic, nonsensical apologies tumbled from your lips as you bolted for your room, slamming the door shut with a deafening thud.

the next day, you changed your entire routine to avoid him at all costs. you left for university before he woke up and returned when he had left for his late-evening gym sessions. you couldn't bare to meet his eyes and you needed distraction from the mental loop of his damp, glistening skin.

so you drowned yourself in academics, joined debate club, and loaded yourself with every co-curricular possible. slowly and gradually, you became a ghost in your own house, even timing your bathroom and kitchen runs so as to not run into him.

but your body was a complete traitor to the cause. the ache between your legs was constant — a heavy, pulsing reminder — that your self-control was hanging by a thread. it got so bad you had to start wearing a bra at home because your nipples would literally perk up the second you heard his voice.

chan would try to catch you, his brow furrowing as you’d give him a quick, breathless smile before rushing to your room. little did he know, you were terrified that if he said your name in that low, honeyed tone — if he even stepped an inch too close — you’d actually moan right there over the toaster. even your own fingers were unable to ease this ever-present tension.

you had to do something. anything.

and you did.

you ordered a dildo.

a dildo — based on your entirely unintentional mental measurements from the shower incident.

it became your nightly ritual — your reward for a day of acting like his presence didn't wreck you. you would wait for the tell-tale sound of the front door clicking shut as he headed to the gym, and then you’d finally let yourself go. it was the only way to flush the tension out of your system, a desperate attempt to reset your brain so you could wake up the next morning and pretend you weren't dying to have the real thing.

then he posted on instagram.

a video of him working out.

bare chested.

the way that this man managed to find you despite all your attempts to evade him was fucking hilarious. by the time your last lecture ended, you were a wreck. sitting through a double-period of microeconomic theory while your skin felt three sizes too small, was a brand of hell you wouldn't wish on anyone. you practically ran home, bolted into your room, and reached for the silicone substitute. it wasn't him — it could never be him — but it was the only relief you had.

you kicked off your sweatpants, falling back onto the bed and shoving your underwear aside. wetting your fingers, you worked to spread your own slick, the friction of your touch only making the ache worse.

"mmmmh — fuck fuck fuck — chaaaaan," you whimpered into the mattress, your voice cracking as you shoved the silicone deep, trying to mimic the heavy, rhythmic stretch you craved. in delusion of taking him in one go, impressing him, what slipped your mind was the amount of time that had passed.

you didn't hear the front door.

you didn't hear the heavy thud of his gym bag.

as chan unlocked the door of the apartment, he couldn't help but think about the last time he had seen you, let aside talk. as he walked past your bedroom door, he froze. a series of sounds filtered through the wood—stifled, breathless moans, to be precise.

he knew he should walk away.

he knew he shouldn't linger by your door.

he knew he definitely shouldn't look for the slight, accidental gap in the doorframe.

but it didn't stop him.

and how fucking glad he was for that lapse in judgement.

because the view that met him was nothing short of ethereal.

you were sprawled on the bed, hands between your plush thighs. he watched in awe, as your juices dripped onto the sheets from your glistening folds.

you were burying a dildo deep inside your pussy.

well, 'burying' was an understatement — you were ramming the silicone into your cunt, your hips arching off the mattress as you babbled something incoherent into the pillows. your expression was a blurred mask of ecstasy and ache, hanging somewhere between heaven and hell.

chan stood rooted to the spot, his lungs burning as he tried to catch the broken syllables falling from your lips. he strained to listen, his heart hammering against his ribs until — finally — the sound crystallized.

"—aaan, ch-chan—oh fuuuck—nghhhh," your muffled moans tore through the quiet of the room.

the realisation hit him like a physical blow.

chan had spent weeks wondering why you were so painfully shy around him. he had seen you with your friends — laughing, vibrant, and quick-witted. he had even sat in the back of the lecture hall during your last debate, watching in awe as you stood perfectly confident, articulate, and eloquent.

so why did you turn into a mumbling, avoiding mess the second he entered a room? why did your words always fail you when it came to him?

looking at you now, hearing the way you sobbed his name into the mattress, the answer finally clicked.

you weren't afraid of him.

you were starving for him.

the same girl who sat in the library for hours, head tucked over a textbook, was now squirming at the thought of him over her.

the same girl who spoke with such fierce intelligence at the debate podium was currently ruining herself to the thought of him railing her into oblivion.

the same girl who had become a ghost in their shared home was moaning his name into a lonely mattress.

the same girl chan had fallen for was shoving a dildo inside herself, wishing it was him.

yes — chan had fallen. hard.

at first, it had been simple, friendly affection. but then he saw the quiet, caring way you moved through his life. he noticed the way you’d bring him coffee without being asked, the way you genuinely listened when he talked about his day, and how you kept the apartment feeling like a home. you would cook his favorite meals when he was stressed and tell him to rest in that soft, sweet voice of yours whenever he overdid it at the gym.

then, weeks ago, he had heard a faint moan through the walls. it had been the most intoxicating sound he’d ever heard. ever since that night, he had been haunted by it, silently praying that one day, you would finally let his name slip past your lips in that same tone.

that day had finally come.

and chan was beyond elated.

he slowly moved into the room and settled on the chair opposite to the bed. his hand subconsciously moved to his bulge, as he drank in the sights of you. oblivious to this audience, you continued to chase your peak, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back.

all of a sudden, the dildo — absolutely covered in your slick — slipped out of your hand.

your eyes flew open as you reached out for it, but the breath left your lungs the moment you saw him. you were met with chan's sultry gaze locked onto you — or rather — onto your cunt.

"c-chan," you scrambled to sit upright gasping as you squeezed your thighs shut and snatched the discarded blanket to cover yourself. you fumbled the toy behind your back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "w-what are you d-doing here ?"

"i heard a sound — my name," he rasped, his voice vibrating with hunger, "my name — dropping from your lips."

"i-it's n-not what it l-looks like —,' you stuttered, as you tried to claw back some shred of dignity.

"what is it then, sweetheart ?" he purred, as he rose from the chair with a fluid, lethal grace, closing the distance between the seat and the edge of your mattress.

you tried to scramble for an excuse — any lie that could explain why you were moaning his name in the dark — but every thought evaded you. under the weight of his stare, your mind was totally blank. when the silence stretched on, his eyebrow quirked up, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"i'll tell you sweetheart — ," chan breathed raggedly, coming to hover over you that made you instinctively shrink back into the pillows. his hand reached out behind your back to retrieve the pink silicone, slippery from being buried in your pussy for so long. he brought it up, holding it inches from your face, "you were stuffing your sweet little pussy with this, imagining it was me who was thrusting into you, weren't you ?"

a hot, involuntary blush crept up your neck as your breath hitched. it was maddening — how were you more on edge from his words alone than you had been with the toy ? your brain was short-circuiting, unable to fathom a single lie.

you whispered, "m-maybe — ", holding your breath in hopes of easing the tension in the room.

"aww — i'll give you the real thing, sweetheart," he cooed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "but i need a promise."

at this point, you would have given him your soul, if he had asked for it.

"i need you to throw this thing away, hm ? — ," he said, tossing the pink silicone aside with a dull thud against the carpet, "— if you need anything in that pretty pussy, you come straight to me. i'll give you anything you need — my fingers, my tongue, my cock — okay sweetheart ?"

every word in your vocabulary evaporated instantly. the only thing left in your brain was a frantic, rhythmic yes-yes-yes-yes-yes. you nodded quickly, your body practically vibrating with the need for him to follow through.

to chan, you were fucking adorable. even in the most compromising situation of your life, you were all pink and bashful, staring at your hands like they were the most interesting thing on the planet.

"you'll be the death of me — you know that ?" he groaned, a softness lacing his words, his head thrown back, the veins in his neck strained as he fought for a shred of his own self-control.

you were hit with another bout of shyness, unable to meet his gaze. you felt raw, exposed, and entirely at his mercy. he leaned forward, the mattress dipping under his weight. one hand reached out to tenderly cup your face, his palm warm against your flushed skin, while his other hand found the curve of your waist, anchoring you to him.

"can i kiss you, sweetheart?" he murmured, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

you whispered, "y-yes, please".

chan tasted like coffee and raspberries — a sharp, sweet addiction. his lips met yours in a searing kiss that swallowed your gasp whole. as your mouths moved in tandem, your skin prickled with a sudden, electric heat. when his tongue swept into your mouth, you couldn't help but arch into him, seeking more of that friction. his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against his solid frame as your tongues swirled together in a feverish dance. he caught your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it until you were dizzy.

the kiss broke, but only so his lips could trail a path down your throat. you bared your neck for him, your head falling back as you exhaled a shaky, broken breath.

then, the hand cupping your jaw began its slow, torturous descent. it traveled down your abdomen, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt until he hiked it up, baring you to the cool air. the second his bare skin finally made contact with your dripping heat, you went dizzy with pleasure.

"oh fuuuuuuuuck", chan growled sinfully, gazing at you as your juices coated his fingers, "is this all for me — sweetheart?"

"y-yes channie —", you mewled desperately, the nickname slipping out in a desperate, broken breath as your hips bucked into him instinctively, " — all f'you, always."

"such a needy fucking baby" chan chuckled, softly tapping your cunt before abruptly pulling his hand away, making you whine audibly.

before you could beg protest, you heard the sound of a zipper sliced through the air. you watched mesmerized as chan discarded his denim and shirt in a few fluid motions, standing before you in nothing but his boxers.

you were certain you were drooling.

while you were busy worshiping his immaculate frame with your eyes, chan moved. he gripped your thighs with a strength that left no room for argument, dragging you toward him until you were perched at the very edge of the mattress. then, he reached into his boxers and freed himself.

the dildo had been a joke. a pale, static imitation.

he was jacked.

his cock was heavy and stone-hard, already weeping a bead of stray precum that you desperately wanted to catch with your tongue. the sight of the broad mushroom tip and the thick, pulsing vein mapping the underside was enough to make your brain malfunction.

chan bent forward, his fingers firm as he grasped your chin and tilted your head back. your lips met in a ferocious, hungry kiss—one that tasted of long-overdue desperation. while he kept you anchored to his mouth, his other hand worked the buttons of your shirt with a frantic precision. when the fabric finally gave way, freeing your breasts, he pulled back just enough to swallow hard at the sight.

"you're out of this world," he whispered, reverantly, as he pressed sweet kisses to your breasts, sucking and biting at the nipples, " just ethereal, sweetheart."

as he leaned over you, his cock grazed against your wet pussy. the contact was electric, a sliding friction that made you bite your lip so hard you tasted copper as you struggled to hold back a shattered moan.

"ch-chan, p-please—p-pleaseeee," you nearly sobbed, your body trembling because he was right there, so close, yet still not where you needed him to be.

"you look so pretty begging — fuck — i'll give it to you, yea ? baby has been so good — fuck, such a good, patient baby."  he gripped his length, deliberately rubbing the broad head against your sensitive folds, making you squirm and whimper against the sheets.

"can you take it, sweetheart?," his silky voice wrapped around you, "can your little pussy really take all of me ?"

oh he would be the cause of your fucking demise — you were certain.

you choked back a sob, a desperate whine vibrating in your throat, "mmmh yesss — p-practised for you c-channie — p-practised to take y-you in one go."

chan’s breath hitched, and for a second, he looked like he was about to cum just from your words.

you had practiced.

for him.

he swore in that moment, he was hopelessly in love.

"yeah ? thank you, sweetheart," he cooed, his eyes darkening with a mix of affection and raw lust. he caressed your lower lip, slipping his thumb inside your mouth, and you instinctively parted your lips to take him in. "shall we put that practice to use now ?"

"fuckfuckfuckfuck — jesus fucking christ — you're so wet, baby, so good" chan groaned as he thrust into you, his cock diving into your wet cunt and good god, your soul might just have ascended. the stretch was agonizingly perfect and his veins provided a friction against your walls that no silicone could ever replicate.

"s'big s'big  — nnnnnnnghh — so fuckin' big c-channie," you sobbed, suckling desperately on his thumb as your nails dug crescents in his shoulders.

"yea ? feels good sweetheart, hm ?" he grunted, panting as he continued to slam his cock into you. he used both hands to wrench your thighs even wider, making sure he could bottom out with every punishing, beautiful thrust.

"so good c-channie — ca-can feel you in my stomach — ohhhh goddd," you moaned loudly, breathless with the feeling of him against your fucking cervix.

with every thrust, you could slowly feel the coil of pleasure tighten in your abdomen. clinging harder to him, you frantically mewled, "c-close chan — fuuuuuck — i'm g-gonna c-cummmm."

the confession was all the motivation he needed. he sped up, hitting you with an unparalleled force that made the headboard rattle against the wall. he could feel his own orgasm looming as your walls began to pulse, sucking him in with a desperate, rhythmic grip.

"cum for me sweetheart, give it to me," chan panted, as he felt you tightening around him, "just like that baby, cream my cock — fucking christ —  yes baby, yes."

the coil finally snapped. a blinding wave of pleasure enveloped you as your orgasm hit, your internal muscles clenching around him in a frantic, liquid sequence. you felt chan’s pace falter, his breath hitching as he reached his own limit.

" sweetheart, my baby — fuuuuuck i'm close." he huffed, his grip on your thighs tightening until his knuckles were white.

"give it to me channie — need your cum in me, baby — please pleaseeee," you whimpered, craddling his face in your hands.

you egged him on, your voice a broken whisper as you helped him chase the peak.

chan looked down into your eyes, his gaze softening with a sudden, overwhelming heat as he saw you smiling through tear-stained eyes and swollen lips. the sight was his undoing. fire pooled in his abdomen and he let out a low, guttural growl as his cum spurted inside you, coating your walls. you couldn't help but feel your eyes roll into the back of your skull as you felt him fill you to the brim.

the silence was heavy, broken only by both of you trying to catch your breath. chan lingered for a minute, his forehead resting against yours, before he slowly pulled out.

the loss of him was immediate, and you couldn't help the small, needy whine that came out as he moved. you just lay there, dazed, watching as a mess of him and you started to coat your thighs.

"i've got you, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice still low and raspy.

he grabbed a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom. he took his time cleaning you up, his hands gentle as he wiped your skin. he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered — and for him, you were.

when you were finally tucked under the covers together, chan pulled you into his chest. his thumb was just tracing patterns on your skin as your hands carded through his hair.

"you know i've wanted you for a long time, right?" he said, his voice low. "the coffee, the snacks — i-i was trying to get your attention." you hid your face in his neck. "it worked. clearly." he chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest. "good. because i've been losing my mind living with you and not being able to touch you."

chan pulled back just enough to look at you. "so... we’re not just roommates anymore, right ? i want you to be my girlfriend. for real."

you looked up at him and finally smiled. "yeah. i'd like that."

"good," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you again, those dimples finally showing. "no more hiding in your room then."

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