wonyyluvs

"Half Past Midnight "

Woozi × Reader | Soft angst to comfort | Established relationship

a/n: kinda rushed this, I'll post a "woozi's pov" soon! i didn't know what else to write about hehe. Hope you like it <3

The first time he told you he was scared of love, it wasn’t poetic.

There were no candlelit confessions, no dramatic sighs or confessions whispered into the darkness. It was just him, sitting on the edge of his studio couch, eyes tired, fingers tapping against his knee, and voice soft with exhaustion.

"I don’t want to ruin the one thing I know I’m good at," he said, looking down. "And sometimes, being in love… it feels like I might have to choose."

You were curled up beside him, your legs tucked beneath you, the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his closet pooling around your arms. You didn’t speak right away. You just looked at him. Not with sadness, or pity, but with understanding.

You knew how much his music meant to him. How it wasn’t just a job, or a dream, but a part of him. It was in the curve of his fingers when they danced across the keyboard. In the way his face softened when he talked about melodies and progressions. In how his eyes lit up when a track finally came together.

He loved music the way the ocean loved the moon—constant, quiet, deep.

So you never asked him to choose.

Not once.

You became a quiet fixture in his life the same way a favorite melody settles into the heart—subtle, warm, permanent.

You didn’t wait for invitations to show up at his studio anymore. You knew the code. You knew when not to disturb him and when to slip in with takeout or coffee and leave it by the desk. Sometimes, you'd fall asleep on the couch while he worked, lulled by the soft echo of bass through the walls. Other times, he'd pause to glance back at you and just… smile.

He didn’t say much, but you always heard him loud and clear.

He'd come home late most nights. Half past midnight, or later. You never complained. Your body adjusted, naturally syncing to the rhythm of his life.

He always found you.

Sometimes asleep on the couch, your phone still open to a playlist you’d made for him. Sometimes curled up in bed, a book resting on your chest. Sometimes awake, waiting for him with a sleepy smile and a bowl of warm soup.

“You’re still up?” he’d ask, voice rough from the night.

“Always,” you’d mumble, arms reaching out instinctively.

He’d melt into your embrace like he’d been holding his breath all day.

It wasn’t always easy.

There were days when you missed him. Days when you felt clingy, or when your fingers hovered over your phone, wondering if it was okay to text again. There were moments of doubt—not in him, but in yourself. Wondering if you were being too much, asking too little, hoping too quietly.

But never, not once, did you think he didn’t love you.

Because Woozi didn’t show love with grand gestures or flowery words. He showed it when he let you into the quietest parts of his world. When he played you unfinished demos and watched your face as you listened. When he started keeping your favorite snacks in the studio fridge. When he kissed your forehead before leaving and whispered, “I'll try not to be too late tonight.”

He loved you the way he loved music—deliberately, deeply, and without distraction.

One night, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making tea, your hair tied up messily, an old hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You leaned back into him without a word.

“I was thinking about what I said. That time in the studio,” he said, voice low against your neck.

You turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I thought love would be a distraction. That it’d take me away from everything I’ve worked for. But it didn’t.”

He paused, then added, “You didn’t.”

Your eyes softened.

“I never wanted you to choose,” you whispered. “I just wanted to be beside you while you chased what you loved.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You are what I love.”

Your breath caught, heart swelling with a warmth that settled into your bones.

He turned you around then, gently, holding your face in both hands. His thumb brushed under your eye, tender.

“I love you” he said. “I love you so much, darling.”

There would still be late nights, and busy seasons, and moments when the world pulled him in different directions.

But no matter how far the music took him, he always came back to you.

And you—soft, patient, unwavering—you were always there. Waiting. Loving him not despite his passion, but because of it. Loving all of him. Even the parts he once feared no one could love properly.

In the silence between his verses, in the breath between your kisses, in the space where love meets purpose—you both found something rare.

The weight of words

part 11

-enhypen

● how they try to apoligize

pairing: enhypen x gn!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft reconciliation

warnings: mentions of crying, emotional arguments, hurt feelings, not proofread, lowercase intended, heavy themes of regret and emotional tension, all ends softly but with realistic emotional weight

a/n:

this is part two to the angst fic where the reader has a big fight with each member. this time, it’s about how they try to make things right. each apology is quiet, a little messy, and very human. it’s not instant forgiveness, but it’s a step. hope it feels like a soft exhale. thank you for all the love on part one!! I suggest you read part one before this one.

heeseung:

he hears the door click open—quiet, hesitant. you step in, still wearing the hoodie from earlier, head down, and his heart sinks. the puffiness around your eyes says everything he’s been trying not to think about. you don’t say a word. just toe off your shoes slowly and walk past him. heeseung doesn’t stop you. doesn’t know how. he’s not angry anymore. he’s just… tired. hurt. scared of how far you had to go just to escape him. he watches you disappear into the bedroom and stares at the floor, jaw clenched. he’s never hated silence more.

you’re in the kitchen, barely looking up as you make tea, and heeseung lingers at the doorway. he’s been trying to find the words for hours, but they all feel too small. finally, he steps behind you—arms slow, unsure—wrapping you into a loose hug from behind. you pause. “i didn’t mean it,” he whispers, voice rough. “i didn’t mean any of it.” your hands still tremble around the cup. he doesn’t ask for forgiveness, not yet. he just stays there, hoping you’ll let him hold on a little longer.

jay:

the key turns slowly in the door and jay immediately sits up straighter. the anger in him burned out hours ago—now replaced by guilt and something hollow. you walk in like a ghost. like your soul was somewhere else for hours and your body is just catching up. you don’t even glance at him. you go straight to the sink, grab a glass, and stand there in silence. he watches the way your hands shake slightly. the way your eyes are still a little red. he opens his mouth to say something. anything. but the words die in his throat. he’s too late.

he finds you sitting on the couch, knees tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. his voice is soft when he speaks. “i was wrong.” you don’t look at him. not right away. but he kneels beside the couch, gently placing his hand near yours—not touching. not pushing. just waiting. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds. “i just… got overwhelmed. but that’s not your fault.” your eyes flick toward him, just briefly, and for now, that’s enough.

jake:

he fell asleep waiting for you. only for a second. but when he blinks awake, you’re there again—standing by the door, staring down at your phone like it’ll give you answers. your eyes are swollen. jake knows what crying looks like. you finally move, walking into the kitchen without meeting his eyes. he doesn’t call your name. doesn’t say he’s sorry. he’s scared his voice might make it worse. so he watches you disappear behind the fridge door and pretends like his heart isn’t shattering in his chest. he’s never wanted to hold you more—but right now, he’s the reason he can’t.

you’re folding laundry in the bedroom, avoiding his gaze. jake walks in slowly, watching your movements, quiet and small. he doesn’t say anything at first—just reaches for a shirt in the basket and starts folding with you. a quiet peace settles in the air, awkward but tender. “i hate that i made you cry,” he mumbles eventually, not looking up. “i was frustrated, but i should’ve protected you. not hurt you.” you glance over at him, and his hands are still shaking a little. he meets your eyes and smiles—just a little. hoping you’ll let him try again.

sunghoon:

the door opens and he doesn’t even turn. he just listens. to your steps. your bag hitting the floor. the way you pause like you’re waiting for him to speak. he doesn’t. he’s not angry anymore—but he still doesn’t know how to fix what he broke. when he finally glances over, his breath catches. your face is pale. your eyes tired. your mouth pressed into that thin, trembling line you always do when you’re trying not to cry again. and he knows. he knows you cried. out there. alone. because of him. and the weight of that feels heavier than anything he’s ever carried.

you’re brushing your hair at the mirror when he walks in. he doesn’t say a word—just walks up behind you slowly and rests his forehead gently against your shoulder. “i missed you today,” he says, almost like a confession. your hand stills, your reflection blurry through your tears. he doesn’t ask you to turn around. he doesn’t expect you to forgive him yet. he just stays there, holding the silence with you, hoping it starts to feel like warmth again.

sunoo:

he’s on the couch, lights dimmed, phone untouched. hasn’t moved since you left. and when you walk in—quiet, slow, hurting—he freezes. you don’t even say hi. just walk straight to the bathroom and close the door behind you. the faint sound of water running echoes through the walls. but all he hears is how quiet your footsteps were. how your eyes didn’t shine the way they usually do. he hates himself for it. hates how easily he said something so awful. and now all he can do is sit there, staring at the locked door like it might undo everything.

sunoo is sitting on the floor by your door when you come out of the bedroom. he looks up fast—hopeful, then guilty. “hi,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t deserve anything louder. you blink at him, tired. guarded. he holds up a small bowl of cut fruit, carefully arranged like always. “i don’t know what to say,” he admits. “but… i thought maybe this was a start?” you take the bowl wordlessly, fingers brushing his for half a second. it’s not forgiveness. not yet. but it’s not rejection, either.

jungwon:

you left for three hours. he counted. and when you come back, the apartment doesn’t feel warmer. if anything, it feels colder. you don’t say anything, and neither does he. you avoid his eyes, go straight to the bedroom, and shut the door gently—too gently. like even closing something too loud might make the hurt worse. jungwon swallows hard, staring at the hallway. the fight plays on repeat in his head. the look on your face when he crossed the line. he never used to be the person that hurt you. now, he’s not sure who he is anymore.

you’re folding blankets on the couch when you feel arms wrap around your waist—tight, desperate. jungwon buries his face into your back. “i’m sorry,” he says, barely above a breath. “i didn’t mean it. i was scared, and i took it out on you.” you freeze. he holds you tighter. “please don’t leave again without telling me. i didn’t know what to do.” your hands slowly relax around the blanket. you don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away. and that, to him, is enough to hope again.

ni-ki:

he hears the door and his head snaps up. but you’re not the same girl who stormed out. you’re slower. quieter. your eyes don’t meet his, and your shoulders look heavy—like you’re carrying too much. ni-ki opens his mouth, but then closes it again. what’s he supposed to say? sorry? please don’t hate me? you walk past him, clutching your phone like a lifeline, and disappear into your room. the door doesn’t slam. it just… closes. softly. and that’s what breaks him. the quiet. the distance. the proof that you’re still here—but something between you isn’t.

he’s sitting beside you in the hallway, backs pressed against the wall. you’re both quiet, knees drawn up. then, softly, he places something between you. your favorite snack. “i don’t know how to talk about feelings like you do,” he murmurs. “but i know i made you feel alone. and i hate that.” your hand reaches for the snack, brushing his. your fingers linger. it’s wordless, the way you let the silence settle between you without walking away again. he closes his eyes. maybe tomorrow, you’ll talk. for now, this is enough.

tags: @imzhouxinyu @xo4everr

The weight of words

part 1

-enhypen

● when arguments turn into breaking points with enhypen

pairing: enhypen x gn!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort (minus the comfort)

warnings: not proofread, lowercase intended, emotional pain, mentions of arguments and breakups, this is fictional and for dramatic effect.

summary: it starts small—an argument here, a weird silence there. but suddenly, they’re saying things you never thought you’d hear. and you’re standing there wondering when forever turned into this. it’s messy, it’s painful, and it kind of feels like the end.

heeseung:

“you’re not the same person i fell in love with.”

his voice is low, cold in a way you’ve never heard before. and it’s terrifying, how quickly he shuts down. your mouth opens slightly, stunned silent—because heeseung’s the one who always held your face in his hands and promised forever. now he won’t even look at you. he doesn’t mean it—he’s angry, overwhelmed, saying whatever will hit the hardest. but he doesn’t stop himself. not even when you back away, tears already pooling in your eyes. “okay,” you whisper, voice cracking. “then i guess there’s nothing left to say.” the door clicks shut behind you, and still, he stays frozen.

jay:

“you’re always too much. always needing something. i can’t breathe.”

you stare at him from across the kitchen, heart in your throat, chest tightening like it’s physically caving in. jay’s eyes are stormy, but his words—his words are cruel. like he wants to wound you. and he does. you take a shaky breath, not trusting your voice to hold steady. “sorry,” you mutter, turning away quickly. “i didn’t realize loving you was exhausting.” your steps are quiet, careful, like you’re scared of breaking. he doesn’t follow you. he doesn't say your name. he just stares at the floor while the silence wraps around his throat.

jake:

“you’re so sensitive, i can’t even talk to you anymore.”

he says it fast, frustrated, voice raised. but it still echoes loud in the apartment, heavier than either of you expected. and it breaks something in you—something you didn’t even realize was holding everything together. your jaw tightens, breath caught halfway between a sob and a scoff. “then don’t,” you reply, barely above a whisper, eyes glistening. “you don’t have to talk to me at all.” the front door closes with a soft thud behind you. jake stands in the silence, every second without you twisting into regret—but he stays still, stupidly thinking you’ll come back on your own.

sunghoon:

“god, you’re so fucking annoying when you act like this.”

he throws the words out without thinking, running a hand through his hair like you are the problem. your face drops immediately, like something in your chest just split. you weren’t even yelling—you were trying to explain how you felt. and now, suddenly, you’re “annoying.” you blink a few times, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i hope you feel better after that,” you say softly, reaching for your keys. “because i don’t.” you’re gone before he can turn around, the door shutting behind you like punctuation. he’s alone. and it hits him way too late.

sunoo:

“i don’t know why i even bother with you sometimes.”

he regrets it the second he says it—but his pride doesn’t let him take it back. and you hear it. all of it. every crack in his voice, every ounce of bitterness he tried to spit out. your entire body goes still. “wow,” you breathe out, laughing through the pain. “okay.” there’s nothing left to say. you walk away slowly, like if you move too fast you’ll fall apart entirely. sunoo watches the door close, jaw clenched. he wants to run after you. wants to say he didn’t mean it. but he just stands there, afraid you won’t believe him anymore.

jungwon:

“maybe we should just stop pretending this is working.”

it’s not like him to raise his voice. it’s not like him to give up. but this fight is different. it’s layered, messy, and he’s tired. you blink, looking up at him with wide, broken eyes. “is that what i’m doing?” you ask softly. “pretending?” your voice wobbles, and he flinches, realizing what he’s implied. but it’s too late. you’re already walking away—out of the kitchen, out of the room, out of his reach. the silence that follows is suffocating. he doesn’t chase you. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t think he deserves to.

ni-ki:

“you’re so clingy. do you ever stop needing me for one second?”