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You and Minho finally have some free time together, after weeks of insanely busy schedules, your plan was to just catch up watch a movie and eat snacks.
Into the evening one thing lead to another and you somehow ended up on minhos lap, bracing yourself by holding onto his shoulders with your nails digging into them.
Everything is was feeling amazing and you could tell that the both of you were close to cumming. That feeling was soon interrupted by Minhos phone ringing.
He stopped your bouncing and took a second to catch his breath before checking his phone, seeing his managers name on the screen he apologized and then awncered the call.
The phone call had been going on for longer than you wanted it to, but you had an itch that needed to be scratched. You bounced up and down testing to see how he'd react. Surprisingly you didn't get a glare or a playful tap on the ass you got ignored by your own boyfriend.
You decided to keep riding him at a quicker pace while leaving soft kisses down the side of his neck.
He tilted his head to back and his grip on your hip tightened.
His manager kept talking about a bunch of shit he couldn't care less about. He was trying to replying with his little "mhms" but his mind was wondering.
You let out a tiny breathy moan into his ear and he couldn't help but thrust his hips up a bit.
Your nails dug into his shoulders which made him physically react, his head tilted back and he covered his mouth with the hand that was previously on your hip.
He pressed mute oh his phone, when it was safe he was letting out the filthiest moans while gripping onto you "yes jagiya keep going I'm gonna-" *his back arched as he spilt into you.
When his phone call finally ended and you were laying down next to him he pulled you into him, wrapping his big arms around you.
"You suck" he said with that stupid smirk on his face
────── y/n has been playing genshin with “Chris” who she met one day on the game. They’ve been voice chatting and playing together everyday. She’s an open book but chris.. she doesnt actually know anything about him.
pairing: felix x fem!reader drabble, insecurities/comfort friends to lovers, smut summary: felix has been your friend long enough for you to be certain he would never feel the same... or so you thought.
wc: 1.8k
You’d known Felix almost as long as you’d been a college student. You met in some gen ed that neither of you were actually interested in taking, but nonetheless both needed the credits. You were pleased to find that he was an exceptional project partner – easy to work with and more importantly, actually did the work. So, it became a bit of a routine to partner up with each other when you had the option.
Group projects turned into study sessions, study sessions turned into brief coffee runs, coffee runs turned into takeout boxes and movie nights until you and Felix were practically inseparable. Inseparable, to the point that even after graduating, you didn’t bother promising to keep in touch – it was a given.
If you’d asked any of your friends, a particularly eloquent (and perhaps poetic) one (hyunjin) may even say you orbit each other, like two planets that, by the laws of nature, must abide by the gravitational pull that brings you together as if it’s inevitable. When you needed a pick-me-up? Felix was there with his signature brownies and a grin, ready to listen or try to make you laugh. When he was drunk and needed a ride home? You just so happened to be in the area.
So, in compliance with the universe's demands, you fell for him. Hard. It was difficult not to when he was one of the only men in your life who truly showed you what it looks like to be cared for unconditionally, and what it feels like to receive such selfless acts of kindness. How could you not fall in love with him when he was everything you didn’t know you were looking for?
And yet… the two of you, like stars, seemed to constantly dance around each other–like the gravity that pulled you was so intense that to completely obey it would be risking too much–all that you have in each other. You were fairly certain, after all, that he danced this way because he enjoyed the game; your company was a comfort, but not a forever home. While you danced with the hope of something more, you were insistent (despite your friends’ protests) that you were alone in your hidden feelings. It was as if the universe, in a unique kind of cruelty, was showing you exactly what you could not have by dangling it right in front of your face.
“We’re just friends, Seungmo.” You insisted again, exasperated.
Seungmin leveled you with a look, unimpressed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. I’m telling you–I just about gag every time I’m around you guys. I’ve never seen two people flirt so aggressively with one another and then insist in the same breath that everything I’m seeing–reality, mind you–is a lie.”
You sigh, “I think you just like the drama of it all–the idea that he might like me back. Which we all know he doesn’t.”
Seungmin shakes his head, glancing up at the ceiling as if trying to muster strength. “Look, I’m not gonna speak for him because I don’t have a death wish but I’ll just say this: I’m his roommate, y/n. His roommate. You think I don’t hear things?”
You blanch. “Wait, what? That’s so gross why are you–”
“I meant he tells me things. And I listen. That’s all.” His mouth twists into a judgmental half-smile, “Tsk, tsk. You and your depraved mind.”
Your face flushes. “You made it sound so misleading!”
He laughs, getting up from his spot on the carpet of his shared apartment with your crush. “That was all you. I didn’t say anything.”
“That’s the problem!”
A familiar voice interrupts your argument. “What sounded misleading?”
Felix.
“Nothing–” You say at the same time Seungmin says, “Just something I said.”
Felix pauses for a moment before squinting his eyes, “...What did you say?”
You widen your eyes at Seungmin in warning–NOT. A. WORD.
Seungmin glances at you then defiantly answers, “I said that because I’m your roommate, I hear things from you.”
Felix’s brows narrow a fraction as he replies, “About…?”
Seungmin stares at him briefly before darting his eyes over to you, then back at Felix, raising a questioning eyebrow.
For a moment there’s a silent conversation between them, one you can’t decipher in their facial expressions alone, but you can tell Felix isn’t thrilled.
Finally, he swallows thickly then speaks, “y/n, what... did he tell you…?”
You blink, surprised. “Nothing, really, just what he already told you. And before we weren’t really–well, it’s nothing, seriously.”
He sighs, almost as if he’s relieved.
After giving Seungmin a light smack on the arm, he says with his usual grin, “Just ignore him, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.” With a laugh he adds, “So, what've you been up to, pretty girl?”
At that, Seungmin sighs and walks away, muttering something about “not being witness to this”, slamming the door to his room behind him.
Your cheeks are still red from the compliment, but you can’t help disclaiming with a shy laugh, “I’m not really all that special, but thank you anyway…” You pause, “Wait, that sounded like I was fishing for compliments, sorry. I just mean like… you’re sweet. Thanks, Lixie.”
Felix’s brows furrow and he quickly approaches you, sitting right next to you on the floor.
“Hey, look at me, yeah?”
You timidly lift your gaze, feeling a sense of shame wash over you.
“You are pretty, y/n. You’re beautiful. Seriously, don’t say stuff like that anymore, alright?”
You glance away muttering a soft, “Sorry, I know it’s kinda annoying…”
Tentatively, as if asking a silent permission, he places his hand on your arm. “Y/n, angel, I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. And… you don’t need to apologize, I’m not annoyed. If you need to be reminded that you’re drop-dead gorgeous, I don’t mind. I like being here for you.” His thumb rubs calming circles on your skin. He continues, his eyes meeting yours in determination, “I mean it. And as long as you don't mind... I'd say it anyways.”
He swallows, glancing down at your lips before meeting your eyes again. Barely above a whisper he says, “I like what I see.”
You stare at him incredulously, “What?”
His eyes dart back to your lips, and he unconsciously leans closer, his voice growing huskier, deeper, “I said,” his palm hesitantly slides down to your waist and he squeezes it lightly, “I like what I see. A lot.”
You unconsciously lean into his touch, moving your mouth closer to his. “Then maybe you should kiss me.”
His lip quirks up as he closes the gap between you, his lips pressing against yours with a sense of urgency, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw. As he kisses you, he lets out a soft huh, as if a question he’d long held had been finally answered. His hand grasping your waist moves to your hips, squeezing as he lets out another sigh, then gently, tentatively his fingers sneak under the hem of your shirt, as if he needs to touch you skin-to-skin everywhere. You feel as if you’re a banquet, and he’s a starving man, desperately trying to reign in his greed for more, more, more.
Abruptly, his lips leave yours and you can’t help the sound of protest you make.
“I know, baby, I know.” He murmurs, his mouth moving to kiss your jaw reverently, then moving to your neck.
He pauses there, his teeth gently grazing your pulse point, eliciting a gasp from you. You feel him grin against your throat as he gently licks, then bites–immediately soothing it with another lick before sucking.
His fingers under the hem of your shirt begin to slide upward, and he mutters a soft, “...Can I?”
You arch your body into his palm, “Please.”
He laughs, almost giddy, “Atta girl… I’ll take care of you–” He leans in and kisses your collarbone, “--And I’ll show you just how long I’ve been wanting to do this. Fuck, you’re so beautiful, you know that, pretty girl?”
You sigh against his touch, nodding, “I need you, Lixie. Please.”
He groans kissing you again, licking your lip to gain entrance to your mouth. His wandering hand slides further up your stomach until it’s splayed across your breast, and it’s then he squeezes again and murmurs, “I can’t believe you’re real oh my god–”
His words are interrupted with a gasp as he feels your fingers run against the waistband of his jeans and boxers, your fingertips teasing.
“H-hold on sweetheart–” He stutters as your hands run up and down his chest, then begin tracing the v-line low on his stomach.
His hand finds your wrist and he gently pulls it away, earning a pout from you.
“Sweetheart–just–I don’t wanna cum yet–” He laughs self-deprecatingly, “And if you keep doing stuff like that I seriously think I’ll–” He pauses, licking his lips. “I wanna make you feel good first angel. Please?”
His hands caress your thighs in question, and when you nod, he grabs at them, leaning in to whisper, “Not here.”
When you whine he smiles pleadingly, “I wanna give you the princess treatment, love. I’m not tasting you while you lie on the living room carpet.”
Begrudgingly you nod, and in between kisses and messy footsteps, you stumble to his bedroom. Closing the door with his foot, he leads you to the edge of his bed, easing you onto the mattress.
His tongue peeks out of his lips as he stares at you for a moment, “I’m trying to be a gentleman–I am, y/n–but God. I’ve dreamt of this. You–exactly like this.”
His hands slide up to your thighs, slowly spreading them apart.
“Can I, angel? Please?” He asks.
You lift your hips off the bed in answer, and watch as he slowly slides your shorts and panties off and discards them onto the floor.
His eyes are nearly pitch black with desire as he gazes at you. His hands spread your legs further, pressing against your inner thighs to hold you.
When he tastes you, he moans, muttering nonsensical sweet nothings and compliments in between confessions.
You cry out as he learns exactly how you like it–soft and teasing, then rough–his fingers and mouth working in tandem.
“Please–oh my god, Lix–I need to feel you–” You moan, “Don’t stop–fuck–”
“Cum for me baby, you can do it–”
When you reach your high, he smiles softly, continuing his ministrations with a gentle, “Good girl. So stunning, just like this.”
And when he slides into you?
“You take me so well–fuck, baby–”
And now you’re certain the universe is at work, the way you pull him in and he slides into you, like you were made for each other–like two puzzle pieces connecting.
And when he moans against the crook of your neck when he finishes inside you, you finally understand–you always wanted each other. You just didn’t know it yet.
a/n: this is my first time writing officially and posting a drabble for skz lol! ik it's really short but oh well lol. i feel like it's not v good but whatever! lmk what y'all think divider cred: @pixopix
summ: your prize for winning a beer pong game was getting shared by two frat boys upstairs. consider it one of the house privileges.
⋆ pairing: frat boy!chan x f!reader x frat boy!jisung
⋆ genre: smut (minors dni)
⋆ tags/cw: college au, threesome, rough sex, dom!chansung, pet names (baby, good/pretty girl), alcohol mention, kissing, dirty talk, degradation, praise kink, oral fixation, fingering, tit play, nipple play, hair pulling, ass slaps, oral (m!receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected sex, semi-public sex
⋆ words: 2.8k
a/n: UGH. here i am with the most mouth-watering, toe-curling fic i’ve posted so far. idk what possessed me while writing this request, but i’m honestly grateful it did lol. yes, the jisung favoritism is still painfully obvious (my bad), but chan in this one??? insane. don’t know why i haven’t written him before. hope you enjoy those two men sharing you!!! >_<
the bass from downstairs rattled the cheap picture frames hanging on the hallway walls. the smell of cigarettes and cheap liquor was strong, making your head feel lighter. laughter echoed from every corner of the house.
but none of it held your attention for long because your eyes were fixed on han jisung.
he stood across the beer pong table with that stupid, cocky smile you wanted to wipe off his face, lazily rolling the ping pong ball between his fingers while the crowd around you shouted over one another.
the grin on his face only widened before he tossed you the ball with an easy flick of his wrist, leaning back against the wall behind him, completely relaxed.
“last cup, baby,” he called, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “you miss, you drink. make me proud and don’t miss your shot, jagi.”
his words were dripping with teasing flirtation, making you roll your eyes. even if the heat in your lower abdomen just kept building every time your eyes locked in his.
“you’re so annoying, hannie,” you teased, giggling at his offended expression.
you glanced down at the ball, turning it between your fingers while focusing on the last red cup sitting alone at the opposite end of the table.
and maybe it was the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your system or the way jisung kept looking at you with that smug expression. either way, your thoughts felt hazy.
before taking the shot, your gaze drifted across the room, landing immediately on christopher.
he was sprawled across one of the couches with a drink in his hand, surrounded by half the fraternity. one arm rested along the back of the couch, his legs spread comfortably, messy blond hair falling into his eyes.
he’d been watching the entire game, his eyes never leaving you. he tilted his head slightly, that lazy smile on his face making your heart skip a beat.
“watch this,” you mouthed, knowing he would read your lips.
without hesitating, your wrist snapped forward. the ball arced cleanly across the table before dropping straight into the center cup, beer splashing over the rim.
the crowd roared behind you. one of your friends threw an arm around your shoulders before practically lifting you off the floor, laughing like you’d just won a championship instead of a stupid drinking game.
before you could even catch your breath, jisung’s hand was wrapped gently around your wrist, pulling you out of the whole crowd.
“c’mon, let’s get out of here,” he murmured, leaning close enough for only you to hear. “there’s less people upstairs.”
you laughed, breathless. you knew damn well neither of you had any intention of talking. he intertwined his fingers with yours and started leading you toward the staircase before anyone could stop you.
and right before disappearing into the hallway, you looked back, searching for christopher. as always, he was already looking at you with one eyebrow raised.
you tipped your head toward the second floor, blinking with a flirtatious smirk on your face. the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, knowing way that always made your knees feel loose.
he barely nodded, letting you know that the message was received.
the music faded with every step upstairs. the hallway felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos below, the music little more than a muffled thump beneath your feet.
some doors were slightly open while others were locked, giving you a vague idea of what could be happening there. neither of you paid them much attention.
with little grace, jisung pushed open the first empty room he found and slipped you inside after him. you kicked the door shut behind you, the loud slam echoing through the hallway.
the second the door shut you were on him.
your mouths crashed, wet and urgent. jisung groaned into the kiss like he’d been starving for it all night, teeth catching your lower lip, sucking hard enough to sting, the sound vibrating against your tongue.
everything felt desperate, needy. his hands shoved under your top without ceremony, palms burning against your skin, sliding up your ribs until his thumbs pressed into the soft underside of your breasts.
“slow down, ji,” you mumbled against his mouth, a shaky smirk on your lips. your voice was already fading away, panting for air.
but he didn’t waste time.
jisung bent, palms sliding under your tights and lifting you like you weighed nothing. a small whimper slipped from your lips at the sudden movement, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back.
the thick, clothed line of his cock pressed hard against your cunt through his jeans, the pressure relentless. you began to feel impatient, your hands roaming along his back, scratching loosely.
your body hit the wall, the impact forcing a whimper from your throat. jisung rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, grinding the rigid length against you, gasping and groaning obscenities. the friction dragging low moans and whines out of you, your thighs trembling around him.
“fuck, you’re driving me crazy. been staring at you all night,” he muttered, biting the side of your neck hard enough to make you whine. “let’s do something about it, yeah?”
with a grin on his face, he carried you to the bed and dropped you onto the mattress. the springs squeaked under your weight, bouncing. you pushed up onto your elbows just in time to see him crawling over you, eyes dilated.
he yanked his shirt off and tossed it aside, careless. his hands were quickly at your top, dragging it up and off, gaze dropping to watch the way your tits moved with the motion.
he reached for your bra next, fingers hooking the straps and pulling them down your arms in one slow drag. with a smooth motion he unhooked the clasp, throwing your bra far, far away.
both of you were breathing hard. you reached for the back of his neck and dragged him down into another kiss, messy and deep. jisung groaned against your mouth, the sound raw.
“fuck this,” he panted. “come here, baby.”
his mouth was on your tits before you could catch your breath. your face scrunched when he sucked one of your nipples, his tongue flicking fast and erratic, teeth scraping just enough to make your back arch.
“you sound so pretty,” he said, voice muffled against your breast. “wanna hear more of it.”
his free hand squeezed the other breast, thumb rolling over the stiff peak while his hips ground down on your crotch, seeking more friction. you could easily feel how hard he was, the thick ridge of him dragging against your cunt through too many annoying layers.
“ji- shit… please, s-slow down,” you breathed, finger twisting into his hair. your voice sounded broken, eyes blurred.
he left your breast with a short pop, leaving a deep, fast kiss on your lips before switching sides, sucking even harder. the wet sounds his mouth filled the small room.
you moaned loudly, biting your lower lip when you felt his free hand slide down your stomach, popping the button on your shorts and shoving inside. he dragged two fingers above your soaked panties, the warmth sending a sick thrill through him.
“mmmh- stop teasing,” you begged, your wet eyes looking at his.
“y’know your wish is my command, baby.”
he shoved his hand inside your panties right away, finding you already slick when he dragged his fingers through your folds. the amusement and arousal painted across his face.
it was too much, he couldn’t hold back any longer.
he bit his lip before pushing two fingers in without warning. you moaned and whimpered loudly, hips jerking up to meet his fast paced thrusts.
jisung cupped one of your tits in his hand, pinching and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. his cock throbbing inside his pants, screaming for attention.
“already this wet? we’ve barely started,” he teased, a pout on his lips. he pumped his fingers faster, curling them on every pull. “chris’s gonna lose his fucking mind when he feels this.”
and like you had summoned him, the door clicked open.
unbothered, jisung looked over his shoulder. that wide heart-shaped smile growing on his face when he found christopher closing the door behind him with deliberate calm, leaning back against it. your cunt clenched around jisung’s fingers, expectantly.
christopher’s eyes traveled over the scene: your bare chest, jisung’s fingers still buried inside you, the small tears threatening to roll down your cheeks any minute now. he smirked slowly, hungry.
“started without me,” he noticed, tilting his head. his eyes fixed on you.
you lifted your head, voice hoarse. “thought you’d never get here...”
his smile sharpened at your words. he pushed off the door and crossed the room quickly. his hand found jisung’s shoulder, squeezing once, firm, before sliding down to cup your face, squeezing your cheeks.
“missed you too, baby,” he left a peck on your swollen lips.
jisung pulled his fingers free with a wet sound, sitting back on his heels with his chest heaving. a satisfied grin on his shiny, wet lips. both of you looked at christopher when he stripped his own shirt off, revealing his toned chest.
he approached the bed with a couple strides, immediately reaching for your shorts, yanking them down your legs along with your panties in one smooth, fast motion.
jisung drooled at the view of your naked body, his hand caressing his crotch, feeling the sick urgency of being buried inside you.
“want you on your knees. now,” his tone left no room for argument.
you slid off the bed eagerly, obedient. christopher sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread. he tugged you between his open legs, unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his cock with ease.
it was already hard, thick, and flushed, the head glistening. you felt your mouth watering at the obscene sight. he wrapped a hand around the base, jerking it lazily with a smile on his face, his eyes never leaving yours.
his hand went to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, tapping the tip of his cock against your lower lip teasingly. your cheeks flushed violently at the shameless action.
“open your mouth, pretty girl,” he demanded, his fingers tangling in your hair. “want you to take it all.”
and you did without hesitation, desperate for the feeling of him fucking your mouth until your brain melts.
your eyes sparkled with excitement when his cock slid slowly inside, letting you feel every inch until the head nudged the back of your throat. the full feeling lit you on fire, the heat on your lower abdomen bursting.
“there you go,” he cooed, his thumb stroking your cheek. “just like that, good job.”
you watched him nod to jisung, who was almost in a trance watching the scene developing in front of him.
you could hear him unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans behind you, his warm hands brushing along your back until his fingers dug down on your hips, possessive.
a sharp inhale left you when he dragged you backwards until your ass was pressed against his dick. his hands caressed your thighs, pushing them apart gently, barely holding himself together when he saw your entrance willing for him and only him.
“gonna fuck you while you suck him,” jisung purred, voice bright and filthy. “ready for that, pretty girl?”
a small nod was all he needed. you sobbed aggressively when jisung’s blunt head nudged your soaked, slippery hole. losing your mind every time his free hand squeezed your ass, licking his lower lip.
jisung sank deeper, thrusting in hard until he felt the flushed head of his cock poking your cervix harshly. the stretch punched a moan out of you that vibrated around christopher’s length, making him hiss with pleasure.
“god… look at you. bet you’re dying for me to come in your mouth,” christopher hummed, smiling smugly. his grip on your hair tighter.
you nodded too quickly, too desperately. hollowing your cheeks, you shoved forward onto his cock, not stopping until your nose brushed the trimmed hair at his base. he petted your hair delicately, gripping your hair hard to guide your head in short, deep, controlled thrusts that matched jisung’s pace.
his hips stuttered, your gagging noises arousing him even more. the warm, slick feeling of your mouth sucking his length so eagerly dragging groans and whines out of him. he wouldn’t last any longer if you kept doing it this good.
“y-yeah, eyes on me, pretty girl,” he panted, biting his lower lip, frowning. “wanna see your cute face when i come in your mouth.”
your eyes were pinned on his aroused expression, fighting the urge to roll them back with every stimulus both of them gave you.
some tears started to fall down your cheeks when his thrusts began quicker, chasing his own orgasm now.
his hand gripped on the bedsheets under him, shutting his eyes tight when he started spilling into your mouth. hot pulses hit the back of your throat, making you choke with the big load that was sliding down it.
“shit- wanna see you swallow it,” he whined, releasing the grip on your hair slowly and pulling out his dick with a soft pop.
you did it, swallowing all of it with effort until there was nothing left. you opened your mouth shakily, peeking your tongue out for him. and christopher could just come right there just from that obscene image of you.
and even when you started panting for air, jisung didn’t let you catch a break at all.
the slow thrusts he maintained for a while started to grow a brutal pace, hips slapping against your ass, making it recoil. his smirk growing at the wet sound of your cunt taking him loud and obscene.
“mmh- so tight. made for my dick,” he panted, slapping your ass twice, making you cry loudly. “you must like being used like this, huh?” his voice was lewd, nasty. “our little frat house toy.”
his words hit somewhere deep and hot inside you, making your cunt clench around his cock even tighter. he reached around to rub your clit in tight circles, his fingers were relentless, slick with your arousal. the sensation of his cock pounding into you quickly unraveling you.
christopher caressed your face, shoving his thumb inside your parted mouth. your eyes darted at him, half-lidded.
“look at you, dripping down his cock already,” he mocked, drinking in every inch of your face.
“oh shit- you’re milking me so fucking hard,” jisung huffed, giggling breathless at your broken, incoherent moans. “be good and come for me, baby.”
your eyes rolled back when his pace became even wilder, messier. it was almost animalistic, making you whimper with each deep, erratic thrust.
“it’s- s’too much, jisung…” you cried, your face scrunched, drooling over christopher’s fingers. “fuck, feel so full… mmh- so, so c-close...”
his free hand slid up your spine and fisted in your hair, pulling your head back further until your throat was exposed. he leaned in, leaving some open-mouthed kisses and sucking your skin before his teeth scraped the shell of your ear.
your legs went numb when your orgasm hit sharp and sudden, thighs shaking, a broken sound tearing out of your abused, sore throat. your whole body was shaking, your hands closed into fists while your head dropped down, shut your wet eyes close.
and jisung fucked you through it, his pace never faltering, until your cunt stopped fluttering around him. his hands brushing your back, soothing you until you came back from your high.
“oh shit-” his legs jerked, hips chasing you. “gonna cum inside you, fuck- you’re milking me…” he babbled, whispering low on your ear.
his whole body was shaking, overstimulated, his only thought being the feeling of your pussy gripping him desperately, completely soaked. his hands went to your tits, squeezing them and using them as support.
his cock twitched helplessly inside you, pulsing as he spilled deep inside you. his fingers dug into your breasts hard enough to leave red marks on them. it was messy, you could feel it leaking down your thighs already.
“you did a good job,” christopher praised, his voice warm, soothing. “shower’s down the hall. we’ll clean you up.”
jisung pressed a kiss on your cheek, way softer now, while pulling out of you gently. a wicked smile across his face when he saw the mess he created between your legs. he ran a hand through his sweaty hair, sighing loudly.
“then… we can go home and do whatever you want,” he blinked, sticking his tongue out a little, teasing.
you laughed, hoarse, and let them pull you upright between them after getting dressed up again. christopher’s arm stayed around your waist while jisung’s fingers laced through yours.
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𓈒𓏸. • cw ⁀➴ 1 twink joke, crack, fluff, mpreg (only for someone special who keeps saying she’ll get Seungmin pregnant), 6ss
[ eyisy’s note. ] Honestly I went to visit my baby cousin today and I fried so I wanted to make this for chan but yani hit two k so then I decided to make this for her before the actual fic she deserves for the 2k and her birthday (the theme is so low quality but I cba to fix it don’t even joke lad.)
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★ Synopsis: It was one of those weeks where you felt like were drowning. Luckily, your silent cry for help was answered.
★ Pairing: Lee Know x reader
★ Additional information: Written in 2nd person, can be read as platonic or romantic, soft Lee Know, discussion of mental health struggles
You couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you try, you just… couldn’t.
For the past few days, you've barely left your bed. The only time you have left was to use the bathroom when your bladder was about to explode. You ignored your body's warnings last time, and you ended up with a kidney infection. Never again.
In the meantime, all you did was either stare at the ceiling or doomscroll for hours on your phone until you got bored. You haven’t eaten and you barely slept. You haven't had a shower and were still in your clothes since Tuesday. It was Friday.
You felt like a prisoner in your own mind. Every insecurity. Every irrational thought. Your mind felt like a void that was ready to swallow you whole if you didn't swim to the surface. Sometimes, you consider letting it consume you.
Maybe that would be better than–
*Ding*
Your phone went off as a new message came in. The last thing you wanted to do was be social. That's why you have been ignoring calls and text messages. However, you found that to be a mistake when you finally picked up your phone to check.
>> Minho (8:42PM): I know you've been ignoring my messages.
>> Minho (8:44PM): I'm coming over there.
You went to respond. To try and tell him he doesn't need to, but he beat you to it.
>> Minho (8:45PM): Don’t try to tell me not to come. I'm already on the way and will be there in twenty minutes.
You groaned. Of course, you forget what happens when you ignore your stubborn companion, Lee Minho. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Laying there. Practically melded to the bed, letting the thoughts in your head almost consume you. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to get up.
Twenty minutes had gone by when you suddenly heard a knock at the door. You didn’t get up to answer it. Maybe if you ignored it, he would eventually go away after a few tries. That he would go home.
It was wishful thinking… but you hoped anyway.
That hope died when you heard a key turning the lock to your front door. You cursed yourself internally. You had forgotten that you gave him a spare key whenever he wanted to come over. In this very moment, you were now regretting.
You heard the door opening and closing, followed by the sounds of footsteps. Minho could be heard calling your name. You didn’t say anything at first. He was going to find you in here eventually.
“In here,” you announced, quietly. Your voice was weak from lack of use.
Footsteps came closer until they stopped in front of your bedroom. Your bedroom door slowly creaked open. You looked at him, but only for a second before you looked away. Your eyes didn’t linger for too long, but enough to catch a glimpse of the concern on his face.
You turned on your side, back facing him, “What are you doing here?” you mumbled. You already knew why, but you asked anyway. He stepped closer to the bed.
“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering any of my messages, so I was worried something was up,” Minho replied earnestly. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I can see that I was right.”
You let out a huff. “Guess you are,” you retorted. “I'm fine. Can you go now?”
“When was the last time you showered or ate?” he asked.
“You saying I smell?” you scoffed. Your response was met with silence. You sighed, voice quieter now. “Tuesday…”
He let out a hum of acknowledgement. He then gets up and heads to your bathroom. You could hear the sound of a faucet turning on, followed by the bath being filled up. Cabinets were being opened and things were being moved around.
What exactly was he doing?
You heard the faucet being turned off. He returned from the bathroom and sat on the bed. You still haven’t moved. A warm hand was placed onto your back.
“I prepared a hot bath for you,” he muttered. “Do you think you can get up?”
You tense up. “I… can't,” you whispered. He let out a sigh.
“Just try, okay?” he asked. Your eyes teared up. Easier said than done.
“It's hard,” you choked out.
“I know… but you can either try and push through… or let your thoughts win and the bath get cold,” he explained. “I can't help you make that decision. I can guide you, sure, but only you can help yourself because if not you… then who else?”
You let out a shaky breath. “I…” you tried to speak, but nothing came out. He rubbed gentle strokes into your back with his hand.
“Just because it's hard… does not mean it's not worth doing,” he assured. “So just try, okay?”
Silence settled into the air. His words reverberated in your head. You contemplated. About what you were going to do next. About whether you were going to take his advice. If you were going to try.
You sighed. “... okay,” you whispered. You couldn’t see it, but he smiled.
“Good,” he replied. Minho got up and walked to your side. He held out a hand. “Come on. The water is going to get cold.”
You look up at him, then down at his hand. Your hand reached out and grabbed his. He squeezed it, having a strong grip on it now. You sat up slowly before getting out of your bed. A hand grabbed your waist when your legs wobbled from lack of use.
“I've got you,” he whispered. You nod.
When you were steady, he led you by the hand to the bathroom. You were surprised at what you found. The bath was filled with hot water. There was a bottle of body wash with a clean towel and washcloth sitting close by. The sink was arranged with your skincare, toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash.
Your eyes stung with tears. “Thank you,” you breathed out. He grabbed your shoulders.
“It was nothing,” he replied. “Someone I loved needed help, and I was doing what I was supposed to.” He smiled. “Now go bathe, stinky.”
You let out a watery laugh. The sound made his chest warm. His eyes were filled with fondness and adoration. He had squeezed your shoulders before leaving the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, leaving you alone.
The bathroom was silent, other than the quiet sloshing of the water in the tub. You peeled off your clothes, letting them pile up on the floor. You stepped into the tub and lowered yourself in.
The hot water felt heavenly on your tired body. You let out a soft groan of relief. Before you became too comfortable, you picked up a washcloth and lathered it up with body wash. The sweat and dirt were thoroughly scrubbed off your skin, leaving you clean.
Satisfied, you put the cloth aside and settled into the water. You almost forgot how soothing a hot bath could be. It was relaxing and you already started feeling better. Your mental struggles weren't going to magically disappear with a single session of self-care. It was a start, though.
You must've drifted to sleep because you were woken up by a soft knock on the door. You underestimated just how tired you were. Your eyes opened and you sat up in the tub.
“Come in,” you called out.
Minho came in, holding something. “I brought you clean clothes,” he said, placing the clothes on the toilet lid. “Meet you in the kitchen when you're done.”
“Okay,” you replied. He nodded, his lip curling up. He crouched down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
You watched as he stood up, grabbed your dirty clothes, and then left the bathroom. The bathroom was silent once more. You could stay here all day if you wanted to, but the water was getting cold. That, and the thought of your skin pruning up had you getting out of the water. You pulled the drain plug and then stepped out.
The chilly air hits your wet skin, so you quickly dry off and get dressed. You dragged yourself to the sink and stared at the toiletries. You did the bare bones of your skincare. Only washing your face with cleanser and moisturizing afterwards. That was all you could muster for now.
You went through the motions of oral hygiene: Flossing, brushing your teeth and tongue, and finishing off with mouthwash. You'll admit, you felt better. It was a start. You looked up and stared at the mirror.
Your appearance improved. You still had darkened under-eyes from lack of sufficient. That was to be expected, though. Overall, you looked and felt better. You nod in approval and leave the bathroom.
The first thing you noticed was the messy bedroom you left was now clean. Trash thrown away. Bedsheets made and pillows rearranged. You admired the cleanliness for a moment. Your admiration was interrupted by the smell of food reaching your nose.
On cue, your stomach grumbled. You had no appetite for some time, so you didn't bother with eating. Now, it was catching up to you. You moved to the kitchen, your mouth watering. Your empty kitchen table is now covered with different food items.
Minho looked up when he saw you and smiled. “I ordered some food,” he explained. “I would’ve cooked dinner, but… that would've taken too long.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
You shouldn't be surprised at the gestures. You knew what kind of person he was. Despite what others might think, those close to him knew his heart. Soft and full of kindness. It didn’t stop you from staring in shock. At the extent he went just to take care of you.
Your eyes stung again, but you willed them away. “That's okay. I don't mind… I–” you rambled. You paused and took a breath. “Thank you… really.”
He nodded. His expression was unreadable, but the fondness in his eyes was enough to go by. He cleared his throat before it got awkward. “Let's eat,” he declared.
The two of you sat down at the table. He lets you help yourself to the food first. His eyes watched you closely. He waited for you to start eating before he helped himself. You ate in silence. It was comfortable. It felt unnecessary to fill it with empty and meaningless conversation.
When you were both done, he cleaned up and put the dishes in the sink, despite your protests. It was late, the clock reading quarter past ten. He went ahead and washed the dishes, while you brushed your teeth once again in the bathroom.
You walked into the living room when you caught a glimpse of a bag on the couch. Was he planning to stay overnight? Not that you minded him staying over. If anything, you were pleased to spend more time with him.
He must've noticed you saw his bag when he walked. “I hope you don't mind me staying for the night,” he explained. “I didn't want to just… leave you alone again.”
You smiled. “No, I don't mind,” you replied. “Only if you share the bed.”
“Share the bed?” Minho repeated, raising a brow. You nod.
“Mhm,” you hummed.
“Alright, then,” he replied. “But don't get mad when I randomly kick in the middle of the night.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “Then I'll just kick you off,” you retorted. “Now, hurry up. Exhaustion is catching up to me and I want to sleep.”
Your hand grabs his bag, while the other grabs his as you drag him into the bedroom. He excuses himself to your bathroom to shower and settle down. You waited in bed, trying not to fall asleep. It was tough. You even watched TV to occupy yourself.
He returned, refreshed and in a separate set of clothes. You pat the open spot next to you in the bed, an invitation to lay down. He accepted and laid down beside you. You looked over at him, to which he mirrored.
“Hi,” he whispered.
A giggle left you. “Hi,” you replied, looking back at the TV. He did the same.
“Found anything interesting to watch?” He asked.
“Just reruns of movies we've watched before. Nothin’ new,” you answered. He hummed.
The two of you watched whatever movie you landed on after scrolling through options. You weren't paying much attention at this point, but he looked over at you again. He watched every expression that appeared on your face. You looked better. He turned his head back towards the screen.
Minho knew your problems weren't going to be miraculously fixed overnight. That simply was not plausible. However, seeing you more lively made a wave of adoration wash over him. With a little help and guidance, he knew you were going to be okay.
Minho was pulled out of his thoughts when a sudden weight appeared on his shoulder. His head turned as he looked down at the source. You had fallen asleep and your head landed on his shoulder. He huffed out of amusement.
“The movie just started, and you've already fallen asleep?” he asked, tutting. “What am I going to do with you?”
He leaned down and placed a soft kiss onto your head. He grabbed the remote to turn off the TV, pulling the blanket up and over both of you. It took a bit of shuffling until he was comfortable enough.
“Sleep well,” he whispered before closing his eyes and going to sleep.
There’s no worse feeling than love unrequited. From the dull ache that never goes away to being haunted by words unsaid or never sent, one-sided love is its own brand of heartbreak. So, of course, it would manifest as a disease. Sure, flowers blooming in one’s chest from love sounds romantic, but the tone changes when that metaphor becomes real. Those flowers can overtake a person’s lungs, leaving them no room to breathe. Not to mention, options are limited. In the best-case scenario, it was all a misunderstanding, and the love wasn’t one-sided. Otherwise, the patient is forced to choose between surgically removing the flowers, along with the love and memories of their love interest, or letting their love suffocate them, taking it to the grave.
When the members of Stray Kids are forced to live this as their reality, both as the patient and the love interest, how do they handle it? Will they stick to their choices, or will they be forced to live their life in regret?
Chan:
❉ Forget-Me-Nots | meaning: true love, faithful devotion
When Chan falls for a collaborating producer, it’s not because of their looks. It couldn’t be; he’s never formally met them, but he knows them. He knows the work ethic they have, which is strikingly similar to his. He knows their habits. He knows how well they communicate, even if only through email. So, when he starts coughing up Forget-Me-Nots, he’s not even surprised that it went that far.
Minho:
❉ Ivy | meaning: everlasting love
Minho likes to consider himself close friends with Twice’s choreographer. In fact, he sees them as so close that he refuses to believe there could ever be anything more between him. He never thought Hanahaki was something he’d go through, but between the way he closes himself off and keeps people at a distance, coughing up Ivy leaves was rather inevitable.
Changbin:
❉ Pink Cyclamen | meaning: deep affection, bittersweet, all good things must end
Everyone knows that Changbin takes amazing care of his body, so it’s no surprise that he sees a massage therapist weekly. It becomes a routine. So much so that he’s shocked, and a little sad, to see them miss a few sessions. When he overhears their coworkers discussing how ill they are, he makes it his mission to keep a check on them. That’s what a good friend would do, right? Little does he know, he’s only worsening their condition.
Hyunjin:
❉ Red Anemone | meaning: grief, death, forsaken love
Hyunjin had thought everything was fine between himself and his close friend, even after he’d rejected their love confession. Everything had seemed normal for the longest time. So, how does he handle it when regret hits him head-on?
Jisung:
❉ Butterfly Weed | meaning: heartbreaking sense of solitude or rejection
Jisung has had feelings for Minho ever since they met; it was just too easy to fall for the older man. He’s raved and ranted to his best friend about it more times than he could count. Except he doesn’t know that it’s silently killing them. He doesn’t see them hiding the bloodied Butterfly Weed petals. They’ve gotten too good at hiding their feelings just to keep seeing him happy.
Felix:
❉ Yellow Tulips | meaning: hopeless affection
Unrequited is always painful, sure, but at least most people can believe at one point or another that they have a real chance. When a fan’s affection for their favorite idol makes love bloom in the wrong way, they know they can’t give up his music, the comfort he brings, no matter how hopeless their love is. So, what else do you do on your deathbed besides living out your biggest dreams? When they book flights and buy tickets to Stray Kids’ next fanmeet, all just to meet him in person one time, Felix gets an experience he’ll never forget.
Seungmin:
❉ Wisteria | meaning: love, admiration, endearment
There’s one skzigi that Seungmin just can’t stand. They’d delivered one sarcastic remark, and he’d been giving it back tenfold ever since. They worked fine with the other members, so he just couldn’t understand why they couldn’t give him that same treatment. That still didn’t confuse him half as much as he started coughing up Wisteria petals.
Jeongin:
❉ White Chrysanthemums | meaning: grief
Jeongin’s childhood best friend had always been special to him. Neighbors for as long as they could remember, they were inseparable. That is, until he moved to Seoul to follow his dream of becoming an idol, leaving them both mourning their time together. When he starts coughing up white chrysanthemum petals, he’s completely unaware of his best friend doing the same thing back in Busan.
⋆｡°✩ ───────────────── ✩°｡⋆
a/n: i knowww i need to work on meddling skzoos but i've just lost all of my motivation 😭 this is my last ditch effort because angst is my comfort zone lolllll also ik hyunjin's little blurb is like super duper short but i fr couldn't say anything else or it would spoil the entire plot. i hope the descriptions make sense 😭 i feel like i'm horrible at writing summaries but they must be done. also just a psa that these will be one-shots! no sequels for any of these fics
SUMMARY - how many tries will it take for naeyoung to agree on a date with bang chan? and what happens when naeyoung ends up falling for chans charm and big biceps?
AUTHORS NOTE - my precious jinnie bb is woojin btw 😭. i love this series so far 🥹
Warnings: Mentions of death, depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and miscommunication.
Author's note: I've always wanted to write a fic about them, never thought it would end up being an angsty one, but here we are. I wrote this after being sick and having a crazy fever dream about these two, so this isn't exactly my best work.
Author's note²: English is not my first language. Feel free to correct any mistakes made.
Author's note ²'⁵: I feel like i need to address to those who may not be familiar with Kim Hyunjin that she has always been associated with cats, that's why it kind of is important here.
11/10/1998
Hyunjin doesn't know how long he has been standing there, staring at the same spot. Sometimes, he thought that if he stared for long enough, the concrete would just disintegrate and disappear.
It was a weird feeling, reading his first name on a tombstone, but still being alive, or at least partially so.
The routine was the same. Every sunday Hyunjin would come by to keep her company, he would stare, then cry and leave whenever the sadness started to turn into anger.
The familiar feeling started to build under his skin as his eyes stayed fixed on the writing at the stone.
Kim Hyunjin
"Beloved friend and daughter"
+ 15/11/1980
☆ 30/11/1997
The name and the numbers stared back at him, cold and final.
He was breathing heavily, the realization that nothing would change dawned on him once again. He placed down the bouquet he had brought with him gently, despite how hard he had held onto it just a second ago.
Just a few more minutes passed, just enough for his sadness to turn into denial and then into an all-consuming rage. It was all he needed to leave, enough fuel to bike all the 10 kilometers back home.
15/10/1998
What is a person, if not memories?
The phrase had been echoing on his mind ever since Heejin said it in her speech at Hyunjin's memorial.
He never really left that day. He has been living there ever since it happened. He remembers every little word said, every person that attended, who cried, and who didn't.
Everyone says there's five stages of grief, but in 11 months of trying, he never made it past denial.
And right now, he stares at one of the dozens of letters Hyunjin had sent him. He had read them a million times, but it always felt comforting and equally gut-wrenching in some weird but good way.
The handwriting was pretty, sometimes messy and nonsensical, like she was writing her thoughts as they came on a personal diary, but they were letters Hwang used to receive weekly, sometimes daily.
Three soft knocks on the door took his attention away from Kim's words. His mom opened the door slowly, her head peeking in as she searched for him on the familiar space, the desk, surrounded by letters and other stuff Kim had given him.
"Hello, dear." her eyes scanned the scene. It was pitiful. "You haven't left your room today. Wanna go out for a walk?"
Her tone was soft, so soft that it wouldn't be heard if it wasn't for how quiet Hwang's room was.
He didn't answer right away. He couldn't even look at her right now. His eyes were red, teary, and his breathing uneven.
"There's a cat outside." it was all he needed to say.
Of course, she thought, every now and then, the neighbor's cat would run away to simply sit outside on their front yard. It felt like a sick joke, and Hwang couldn't take it.
"I'll let you know when he's gone"
He nodded, holding his breath.
22/10/1998
When the news about Hyunjin's passing broke at school, everyone was shocked. The school council planned several meetings about depression, grief, and mental health awareness.
It was too late.
It was infuriating how long people would let things go on before taking action.
Hwang didn't attend any of the meetings or mentioned what happened at all. That got him a few dirty looks, curious eyes and a bunch of gossip about how "unfazed" he looked
Hwang Hyunjin was not unfazed. He was calamitoustly devastated.
Being thrown at sea without warning and sinking continuously for so long, you could never get back up
That's exactly how life felt after that.
Hwang snaps out of his thoughts as he reaches his destination. The bouquet in his hand was neatly wrapped, and the flowers were so perfectly picked they looked fake.
His hands shook as he reached to place the bouquet at the grave. The day had been colder than usual, but he still made the effort to show up.
"I hope you can forgive me." his breathing and the wind were the only things heard for a couple of seconds. "I miss you"
13/04/1997
"Come on, Hwang, it's not a big deal!" Kim tried to console Hwang after his team lost their soccer game.
"It definitely is. It's embarrassing." he tossed his backpack aside, laying down on the grass beside her. "I scored an own goal, I made them lose!" He added, more dramatic than before.
"So what? That's not a crime." she tilted her head just enough to look at his face. "You went there and tried your best, that's enough." he felt her fingers wrap around his cheeks, squeezing it gently. "Smile, Hwang. I'll always love you, even if you suck."
He pushed her hand away, mumbling something about her being silly. She just smiled like always.
It was their regular thing, Hwang would come over to Kim's house, spend the whole day there, and eventually end up laying down with her as they watched the stars in the backyard.
It was their sacred place. A lot happened there ever since they became best friends in third grade.
They were each other's first kiss at Kim's old tree house.
They saw an eclipse for the first time there, too.
They shared secrets, stories, dreams, and plans.
Hwang once had to reject Kim's love confession right below the place they once kissed in. He said he didn't want to ruin their friendship, even though he loved her so much he could explode.
It felt right at the time. He regrets it now.
11/11/1997
November 11th, 1997, the last time Hwang saw Kim.
Things got different after Hyunjin lost her mom at the end of February. It was so sudden Hwang didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything for weeks. And when he finally did, Hyunjin didn't say anything back
If he was being honest, they weren't talking much even before that. He had gotten caught up in practice and classes. He barely had time to hang out or text people
And for some reason, when Kim Hyunjin, his best friend in the whole world, couldn't understand how busy he was, he got angry. So, instead of being ignored, he started to ignore her. When she eventually started to reach out again, she was met with absolute indifference.
One day, after another lost game, the third just this month, Hwang stormed out the field with so much anger his whole face turned red.
He just didn't notice Kim followed him all the way to the locker room.
"Hwang, wait!" The sweet and soft voice called out, making his anger subside even if just for a second. But he ultimately chose to keep walking until there was nowhere else to go.
"You never answer my texts," she stated, not angry or loud, just sad. "I've sent you letters, I know you get them"
Hwang had his forehead pressed against a locker, fighting against the sudden urge to sob. He felt like a failure, as an athlete and as a person. He felt the first stream of tears starting to flow.
"But that's not what im here for." he felt her hand squeezing his shoulder gently, the slight pressure enough to give him some reassurance. "I know you feel like you failed. You always dreamed of being part of the team, I know how much it matters to you. I know what it feels like to fail and lose hope, but you don't have to feel that way, I don't want you to" listening to her felt like being given medicine, it felt like hope and understanding. "You can not hide under the pressure. Don't let it consume you. But you don't have to suppress it. You can let it out. It's okay to admit defeat."
Hwang couldn't quite understand how it happened, but Kim managed to make him face her, he could see could sad she looked, how drained she was, how much she had changed since the last time he really looked at her. When her lips touched his, a mix of emotions erupted from his confused heart. Fear and excitement were just a few of them.
"I'm not asking you to make me a priority, or to reciprocate my feelings, I just need you to pretend for that small amount of time, for just a few fleeting seconds, that you love me more than anything in the world" she kissed him again, sweeter this time, longer. "You deserve better, Hwang. So much better"
15/11/1998
"I'll never be able to say how sorry I am for everything"
Hwang stared at the date that haunted him.
"But I loved you, Hyunjin. Maybe not in the way you needed me to, but in the only way I knew. I was foolish, stupid, and selfish, so young and self-centered. I forgot to look at you past the idealized version of you I wanted to keep"
He struggled to take a breath, his vision blurry from all the tears.
"There isn't a day where I don't miss you, all of you. The ups and downs. Your cat stickers, your messy hair, your sweet laugh... everything"
His feet were starting to feel numb after standing there in the cold for so long.
"I love you, and I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me, wherever you are"
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Crown Prince Bang Chan is having a normal day... until he isn't.
He narrowly avoids his death, and suddenly he's on the run with nowhere to go. He escapes into the Black Forest and finds a cottage full of kindness, magic, and seven men who refuse to turn him away.
❄◌✴︎˚Chan｡✴︎◌❄
All his life, Prince Chan has been told how beautiful he is with his ebony hair, his plump lips as red as a rose, and his skin as white as snow.
But even so there are more important things to concern himself with. He does his best to be a good person and cultivate his interests, knowing that beauty can only take you so far. Plus, regardless of others’ praise, Chan trusts his family above all, and his stepmother is always willing to point out his flaws. By age 26, Chan’s father has been gone for over ten years, and he is sure that most compliments he receives are a result of his status as future king rather than his appearance.
One day, he’s called to the stable and runs into the famed Huntsman. While he tends to be away from court for long periods at a time, he’s always made time for the prince. Chan has always loved to hear about the adventures he goes on, hunting for unique and mysterious game. So, when the man invites him on a stroll through the woods, Chan is more than happy to accompany him, as he has many times before. Once the palace walls are out of sight, the Huntsman quiets and turns to him.
Chan smiles up at him, about to ask why they were stopping, when the man roughly grabs him by the throat and thrusts him back against the trunk of a tree. Chan struggles as he’s lifted off his feet; he scratches at the hand holding him in a futile attempt to loosen the grip. The Huntsman’s other fist raises, a large hunting knife in hand.
“Please!” Chan barely chokes out. Tears streaming down his face, he uses what little air he has left to beg for his life. “D-don’t kill me!”
The Huntsman stares down at him, and Chan thinks he might see a hint of empathy in his eyes, though his sight is already starting to darken.
This is it, Chan resigns himself to this fate. He lets his arms fall, his legs go still. He knows this isn’t something the Huntsman decided to do on his own. He has no reason to. It’s not his fault. With the last of his strength, Chan meets the Huntsman’s eyes and gives him a watery smile.
In the next second, Chan’s feet hit the ground. Unable to hold his own weight, he folds in on himself. The Huntsman kneels beside him, actually rubbing his back as Chan gulps in breath after breath.
After a few moments, he realizes the other man is speaking. “I’m so sorry, my Prince. The Queen, she said I had to do it! But you don’t deserve to die like this, not by my hand.”
Chan tries to raise his head and is helped along by the Huntsman, who shifts to face him fully. The hands that were poised to kill him, mere moments ago, cup his cheeks delicately.
The Queen? No, he thinks, not just the Queen, but my stepmother. My stepmother tried to have me killed. How could she do such a thing? Why? What have I done to deserve this?
“How could I harm such a beautiful man?” The Huntsman nearly sobs. His thumbs gently swipe the tears still falling from Chan’s eyes. “A man so kind as to offer me a smile as I take the life from him. I cannot. You must flee. The Queen will not stop until you are gone. I will tell her I finished the job, but you must go and never return.”
Chan finally starts to feel like himself again, no more stars swimming in his vision. He looks at this man, his would-be killer, and all he can feel is thankful. He clearly was more than capable of killing Chan, and he chose not to. He’s offering him the chance at a life that his stepmother would deny him. He swallows, and immediately regrets the sting of it in his damaged throat.
“Thank you,” he rasps. “Thank you for sparing me.”
He allows the Huntsman to help him to his feet. He only wobbles a bit before trying to take a step back, forgetting the tree at his back.
“I do not deserve your thanks,” the Huntsman murmurs, head dipping low. “Go now. Find the spring to the east and follow it a ways until you’re a good distance from the palace. I’ll do what I can for you there.”
Chan simply nods in return and stumbles in the direction the man indicates. When he’s been walking a few minutes, he hears the squeal of a boar, likely taken down by his would-be executioner. He shudders.
He also realizes that if he runs into a wild boar, the Huntsman’s kindness could be all for naught. The beasts are dangerous and territorial. Chan speeds up the best he can in hopes of finding somewhere to hide and camp for the night soon.
ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ
Shelter is harder to find than Chan had hoped. He ends up climbing a tree beside the river in hopes of avoiding any nighttime predators. Sleep has never come easily to Chan, not since before his father died. Feeling as he does, he doesn’t even pretend to try to sleep. He sits on his branch, alert and listening for any sign of pursuit or wild animals.
The Huntsman told him that he would cover for him, but what if the man had another change of heart? Or if the Queen didn’t believe him with no body to show for it? It’s not worth the risk of letting his guard down.
Come morning, Chan is exhausted. He climbs down the tree just after first light and rinses his face in the chilly water. He continues his trek, unsure of what he’ll do if he can’t find shelter tonight.
Luckily, Chan enjoys exercising, so his walk through the woods is less uncomfortable than it could be. After a while, he begins singing to himself to pass the time, glad that being choked doesn’t seem to have caused any lasting damage. He picks up an audience when he takes a break around midday. A few birds, a squirrel, and even a bunny all stop, seeming to just enjoy his song. On the next, the birds accompany him, harmonizing and adding a melody to support his lyrics.
He loves it.
Soon, though, he realizes he should get moving again, especially considering the growling of his stomach. He turns to the animals, nodding to each, including the fox, chipmunks, and deer that seem to have joined the party as well. “Goodbye, friends. I’ve so enjoyed your company, but I need to keep walking now. I must find food and somewhere safe to sleep.”
There’s a buzz amongst them, almost as if the animals are communicating with each other. When Chan stands to get on his way, the deer moves into his path, and he’s pretty sure she shakes her head ‘no.’ He’s befuddled, unsure if he should try to side-step the doe, or wait until she’s ready to move. A few squirrels run up to him next, their little arms full of a few nuts and berries. They hold them out like an offering to him, before setting them at his feet.
Profoundly confused now, Chan sinks down to sit on the ground once more. “These are for me?” he asks the critters, and this time he’s positive that the doe nods her head in assent. He reaches out tentatively and takes the food. Tears welling in his eyes, he offers them all a radiant smile. “Thank you! This is so kind.”
He recognizes the berries, thankfully, and is sure they’re safe to eat. He struggles to shell the nuts, and one of the chipmunks appears, taking one and chewing until the gap is big enough to pry it open. Chan sheepishly trades him for the nut in his hand, so he can eat the open one. The other chipmunks join the first so that they can prepare the rest for him.
Once his meager meal is done, Chan looks around at all his woodland friends. He thanks them again, and asks, “You don’t know of a nice cave or abandoned hut in the area that I could sleep in tonight, do you?”
Glances are exchanged among the animals, and a fox comes to stand in front of Chan. He throws his head toward the right and turns around. He takes two steps before looking back at Chan.
“Oh!” Chan scrambles to his feet and looks around. “I’m supposed to follow you, right?”
The fox yips softly and starts to walk. Chan watches long enough for the doe to get impatient; she nudges him in the back with her head as if to say ‘yes, dummy, now hop to it!’
So Chan follows. Some of the animals follow along with him while others scurry off to do whatever else they planned to do with their days. Chan sings another song, hoping that his new friends will accept it as payment for their help. The birds continue to sing along, and after an hour or so, they come upon a cottage.
Chan knocks on the door, but receives no answer. An encouraging look from the fox leads him to turn the door handle. With a small bow of his head, the fox trots off, and Chan enters the house.
The interior looks well lived in, if a bit messy. Chan wanders through the house in search of any occupants and finds none. It's larger than he'd expect for a house out in the middle of the nowhere. He decides to wait for them to return and ask if he can stay until he figures out his next move. The nearest kingdom is a ways away, and he doubts he could just keep walking until he gets there, even with the help of the forest’s fauna.
So he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Come nightfall, Chan is incredibly bored. He’s spent so much of the day sitting and taking in the cottage with it's ample seating and plenty of knick knacks. His stomach is rumbling, and he has no idea if anyone actually lives here at present. There is some dust on the shelves, and while it doesn’t seem like it has been long since people had been here, that doesn’t mean they intend to return. That in mind, he decides that looking around is not so much snooping as it is investigating his environment.
He starts in the living room, looking for anything that might indicate a date. When he doesn’t find anything, he heads to the kitchen. The dishes in the sink don’t seem that old, but they don’t smell great and neither does the full trash. The cabinets are well stocked, and nothing appears to be spoiled. Seeing that makes Chan’s stomach twist in hunger again.
He glances at the door then at the quickly dwindling daylight out the window and makes a decision. He takes out a small a bit of bread, and a few pieces of dried meat. After his lunch of nuts and berries, it feels like a feast. He takes his plate over to the sink and decides to do all of the dishes to thank the homeowners for sharing their food, especially since he didn’t give them the chance to offer or decline.
After the dishes, he takes out the trash, finding where they put it outside fairly easily despite the dark. Then while he’s at it, he decides to straighten up a bit; there are utensils, spices, and other kitchen paraphernalia strewn about the room all willy nilly, and Chan can’t help but want to put everything right. Those instincts lead him to straightening things up in the living room as well, and before he knows it, the whole lower level of the cottage is in much better shape than when he found it.
Chan finds that he’s tired, both in body and mind. It may not be wise to sleep in an unknown person’s home, but he trusts that the fox brought him here for a good reason and that the owner will appreciate the work he did.
So, Chan lays down on the couch. Despite the exhaustion, he doesn’t actually think he’ll sleep anyway. His thoughts are consumed with the woman who’d raised him since his father died, albeit she’d never been particularly affectionate, or even particularly nice to him. Still, she was his only family, and she’d arranged to have him murdered. He doesn’t even understand why. He agreed to let her lead as regent until at least his 30th birthday, and even then, they were to do so in tandem, as she taught him the things you can only know by doing. Did she hate him that much? Why?
These questions and more swirl around his head, yet somehow he manages to drift off just a few minutes after laying down.
synopsis: felix was in the middle of a meeting with his mafia board members, and you decided to just storm in wearing something unexpected.
cw: MDNI, mafia stuff (duh), mentions of arranged marriage, reader is a brat lowkey lol, she’s also a little isolated so i can’t blame her, exhibitionism, dom!felix/sub!reader, office sex (technically speaking), vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (don’t!), p.i.v, pet names (angel, princess, good girl, and a lot more lol)
let me know if i’m missing anything!!
wc: 2775
a/n: the people have spoken!! enjoy this mafia!lix fic because i’m just a girl who can’t help herself 🫠🫠 also this fic is rather short because 1) i just wanted to write the smut and 2) this is more of a concept fic sooooo if i have more ideas to develop the au then maybe i will😅 anyways, if you enjoyed it, leave a reblog, comment, and a like! your support is always appreciated <333
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You are married to the most formidable crime lord in all of Korea: Lee Felix. At least that’s what the people who work for him think. What they don’t know is that when it comes to you, he has the biggest soft spot. So he is the least scariest person ever to you. He can say no to negotiations, but he can’t say no to you. So many gifts, money, affection, and attention were all just handed to you on a silver platter, that you might as well be spoiled rotten. Sometimes, Felix’s men couldn’t comprehend how on Earth you managed to become his wife. Yes, your marriage was arranged by your super rich father, but your personality shouldn’t work well with Felix’s.
Felix was all no-nonsense. The most dangerous man in the country. He was ruthless with his rules, his orders, and his actions towards his enemies. No one dared to cross him otherwise that could mean their demise. But you? You always crossed the lines Felix’s men weren’t ever allowed to cross. You pranced around the tower, wore whatever the Hell you wanted, said whatever you wanted without any filter, and caused whatever chaos as long as it didn't end up spilling the mafia’s secrets to the public.
Which you obviously wouldn’t ever do. You were reckless, but you were always a good girl first. Actually making Felix mad was the last thing you’d ever want to do, so you stayed in whatever bounds Felix put you in, which were some of your college friends who he deemed trustworthy and your father.
But you had to admit, sometimes things do get boring every now and then. Sometimes, you didn’t just want to stay in the penthouse. Sometimes, your friends were busy with their own lives, and sometimes, your father was too tipsy to pick up the phone. Sometimes, you just wanted Felix to hold you, touch you, kiss you, fuck you. You just wanted Felix instead of some other thing or person to keep you company.
You were in the penthouse, sitting on the couch and wearing nothing but your blue silk nightgown. You were idly scrolling through the streaming services on the flatscreen TV, figuring out what movie to watch. Anything to pass the time until Felix gets home, you kept thinking to yourself. However, there was nothing to actually watch. All the movies on the screen were just nothing burger films or movies you had seen before. Maybe you’d be willing to put on some Disney movie if Felix were holding you close now, but he wasn’t there so there’s no real point. Not even some cheap porn on the screen could make you feel anything but frustrated because there wasn’t a Felix with you who would’ve gone faster than your fingers.
You sighed, and pulled out your phone to look at the time. It was 11:30 PM.
“How long is that stupid meeting?!” You cried out.
You groaned and stood up before throwing your phone into the sofa blanket. You wanted to stomp your feet, throw anything at the walls, and just about anything to take your frustration out. However, you knew that doing that would just make Felix upset, and it wouldn’t get you what you wanted. You huffed before seeing the new shopping bag that was still sitting on the vintage white arm chair next to the couch. It’s been there since you came back from the shopping center earlier in the day. A lightbulb turned on in your head.
Looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.
x•x•x•x
Felix was in the middle of another one of his late night meetings with his mafia executives and henchmen, and his head was killing him. The hours were dragging on, no one could come to an agreement for how to deal with the illegal trade issues, the race with the rival gangs, and how much money to pay the police chief to keep his lips shut. If anything, all Felix wanted to do at the moment was to just forget about the deals for a few hours and go back upstairs to the penthouse to see you. His sweet wife, always so devoted and so good to him. You always looked at him with such wide eyes and blushed like a newly wedded bride every time he looked at you.
Suddenly, the doors to the large conference room opened, and all the men turned their heads to see what seemed to be Aphrodite herself. Speak of the devil. Felix’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There you were, wearing a cute, glittery red mini dress that almost left very little to the imagination. The hem was where a belt should be, and your breasts were threatening to spill out of the top. Your makeup was bold with the red eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner, and sinfully glossy lips. Your luscious hair was in a blow out style, and your red heels made your lovely legs longer.
Felix takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure at your unexpected presence. The men even tried to keep their eyes away, as their hearts heavily pumped all the blood rushing down their bodies.
“Darling, what brings you here?” He asked.
A wide smile formed on your face, and you wasted no time to run up to him just to kiss his face.
“Hi, Honey,” you giggled, nuzzling your cheek against his. “I was just missing you.”
“Missing me, eh?” Felix asked, “You missed me so much that you look like you’re about to go clubbing?”
You playfully scoffed and crossed your arms, fully feigning offense.
“I wanted to surprise you!” You said, “You like the dress?”
“Like it?” Felix asked. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You almost landed in his lap, and more red flushed up your cheeks. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling all that sweet jasmine perfume. “I think liking it would be an understatement, Angel.”
His lips brushed against your skin, coaxing a giggle out of you. You couldn’t help but squirm with the way his hands travelled down to your hips, heat flushing all the way to your cheeks. His hold on you tightened, and the butterflies deep in your tummy fluttered.
“Uhh, Boss?” A man asked, who was sitting across the table. Felix immediately looked away from you and faced the other seven men in the room, who just looked surprised at their boss being physically affectionate with you. “What about the meeting?”
Felix cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes, Hyunjin,” he said, “My apologies, everyone, but we can continue the discussion another time. You’re all dismissed.”
“But, Sir,” another man stood up. He had straight black hair with a white streak and eyes shaped like a fox’s. “Our rivals are already ahead of us in the trade. If we don’t—”
“I’m very aware, Jeongin.”
Felix’s voice was firm and sent shivers down everyone’s spines. Even you swallowed heavily from his serious tone, but also you couldn’t help but feel a little bit giddy. Felix was always sexy when he was firm and commanding.
“I’m aware of our situation, but like I said, we can continue the discussion later.”
You sucked in a breath when his fingers tightened on your waist.
“Besides,” Felix said, leaning close to your ear to plant a tender kiss. “I have a much more urgent matter right now.”
Pink flooded the apples of your cheeks, and you squirmed in his lap again. Meanwhile, all the men in the room looked at you and Felix a little dumbfounded. You surely must be a brave one to distract the big bad boss. But of course, the men had to walk out the office door, leaving you and Felix alone to your own devices. Once the door closed, a smirk grew on Felix’s face.
“Very bold of you to come here and interrupt my meeting like that, Angel,” Felix said. “I was in the middle of an important deal.”
“Whaaaattt, I just wanted to see you,” you said, playing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “Plus, it was getting late, and the bed got cold.”
Felix chuckled. You always were the needy type, and who was he to not indulge his princess? Especially when you put in so much effort into your current, glittery appearance.
“Awww, my poor Angel,” he cooed, as he caressed your cheek with his knuckles. “Couldn’t stand a day without me? The penthouse was awfully quiet, I bet. Not much to do with yourself, while I was slaving away in the conference room, right?”
You nodded, and Felix held your cheek gently.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, “Bet you couldn’t even touch yourself properly because your needy self is used to me.”
Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt a twitch in between your legs. Felix’s hand was on your bare, plush thigh, threatening to slip underneath the hem of your dress and find the wettest and tiniest piece of lace. Your breathing got a little heavy, more heat pooled down to your core, and the way your pupils dilated wasn’t lost on Felix at all. He gently bit on your collarbone, making you whine.
“No,” you said, “It’s not the same without you…”
Felix kissed your pouty lips, tasting the sweet frosting-flavored lipgloss. You gasped and eagerly kissed him back. Your fingers found their way home in his blonde hair, and Felix pressed your body further against his. You whined at the feeling of his leg in between your thighs, rubbing against your core. You couldn’t even handle the way your sensitive breasts rubbed up against his hard chest.
“Is that right?” Felix asked, his deep, Australian accent sending vibrations straight from your spine to your clit. “My cock’s better than those fingers of yours?”
He rolled his hips, and you moaned at the feeling of the hard tent in his pants against you. He was harder than the pistol in his holster. As if you weren’t already wet, you were damn soaking. Felix could feel it, too. Of course he could. He could even see it spill down to your bare thighs. It only made him want to tease you more.
“Yes, Felix!” You whined, feeling another thrust of his clothed tent. “I need you! Please!”
Suddenly, Felix picked you up and plopped you onto the tabletop. He pushed your legs apart, revealing the sliver of your red lacy panties.
“You want me, Angel?” He asked, “Well, I’ll give it to you.”
Felix didn’t waste any time to pull down your panties right before shoving two of his fingers inside of you. You whined loudly and arched your back against the mahogany wood. Your pussy immediately clenched onto Felix’s fingers, and more of your wetness dripped and oozed onto his hand, the more he thrusted them in and out.
“Awww that’s it,” Felix cooed. He loved watching your face all flushed with need and pleasure. Especially when he knows he’s hitting the right spots over and over again. Even your pretty areolas couldn’t help but pop out of your dress, which made Felix’s mouth water. “My pretty little distraction’s taking my fingers so well, isn’t she?”
He pushed his fingers in harder, forcing a loud moan out of you.
“Felix!” You whined.
“So tight, Baby,” he hissed, “Squeezing my fingers so much, and it’s not even my cock. My poor Angel must’ve been very desperate then.”
“So desperate.”
You couldn’t even think straight. The tips of his fingertips were so precise in hitting your sweet spot repeatedly, and you could only feel the build up in your warm gut.
“Honey!” You whined, “I’m about to—”
Felix immediately pulled his fingers out of you, leaving your poor, pretty cunt to cry and clench over air. You whined and tears broke out of your ducts.
“Feeeelliiixxxxxx,” you cried.
“Don’t worry, My Dearest Wife,” Felix said. He stepped a little away from you to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. Another jolt went through your body at the sound of his gun hitting the wooden floor. “I’ll give you what you want. Just be patient like a good girl.”
Once he undid his zipper, Felix pulled out his thick and hard cock. You trembled at the way it was pointing at you, like it was ready to just burst at any moment. Felix inched closer to you, but you wanted him closer. You pulled on his black tie and wrapped your legs around his waist. Felix couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“So eager,” he said, caressing your heated cheeks. Felix leaned in to give you another deep kiss. You kissed him back, and you moaned against his lips as your cunt rubbed against the tip of his hard cock. “Come on, Angel, take me in then.”
Felix thrusted his hips, pushing his cock inside of you. The two of you moaned, and Felix’s grip on your waist tightened before he kept going and faster. You whined and cried, and you weakly grabbed onto the back of his white button down shirt, pulling down the fabric for dear life. He felt so damn good. Way better than any of your fingers or toys ever could.
“Felix!” You cried, as your sopping wet pussy clenched onto his cock, squeezing it tightly and refusing to let go. “Oh my god!”
“Yes, my good sweet angel,” Felix deeply moaned into your ear, which gave you more chills. “You feel so good. I almost forgot that you like to be such a disrupter.”
“I’m not!”
Another moan was forced out of your lungs, and you saw more stars with every hit on your cervix. Felix even reached his thumb down to rub your clit, which only made you wetter.
“Oh, but you are, Angel,” Felix said, as he pressed the pad of his thumb on your sensitive bud, making you squeak and wince. “My poor men just wanted to have an important meeting like the good businessmen they are, but of course, you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. My needy girl couldn’t wait for her husband to come home.”
You whined again, and you could’ve sworn he was getting bigger the more he thrusted inside you. His grip on your hips was bruising, and he was on the verge of bursting. You were so damn dizzy, for you just took whatever he was giving you, like always.
“Felix!” was all you could scream out with your high-pitched, needy voice.
“That’s right, my sweet wife,” Felix said, “My good girl. Wanna cum?”
You cried out another moan. The pressure in your stomach was getting too much, and you weren’t so sure how high up in the galaxy you could go with every time Felix’s dick would hit your sweet spot. Felix rubbed his thumb against your clit once again to add in that extra stimulation.
“Cum, Angel,” Felix ordered.
White was all you could see within the next second. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and you spasmed all over Felix’s cock. It wasn’t even long before he busted and released all of his white, hot cum inside of your greedy walls. Once the two of you climaxed, you both stopped moving and allowed your chests to heave against each other. Felix was still lodged inside of you, and damn, did it still feel so good.
“Hi, Honey…” you said breathlessly.
Felix laughed lightly, and he caressed your cheek.
“Hi, Angel,” he said, “It felt good?”
“Yes,” you nodded, “Like always.”
Felix’s lips met yours for a deep kiss, and you kissed him back.
“Good,” he said.
“Can you come home now?”
You tugged on his tie, playing with it like it was some kind of cat toy. God, you were so cute, and he was so damn soft for it. Felix was the strongest man in all of Korea, but you were his only weakness. If anyone else dared to lay a small flick on you, they would probably be executed on the spot. Felix couldn’t help it when he nuzzled his nose against yours.
“If I come home now,” Felix said, “Will you promise to not interrupt my next meeting?”
“But, Feeelliiixxxxx,” you pouted.
“I know, I know,” he laughed before kissing your forehead. “A lot to ask. My pretty little distraction.”
“Hey!”
“Am I wrong?”
“Ugh, fine. I’ll be good tomorrow.”
“That’s more like it,” Felix kissed your pouty lips once more before picking you up, carrying you in his arms bridal style. “Alright, Angel, let’s go home.”
summary: jisung waits for you to come back from work… and is very excited when you do.
genre: fluff!
warnings: jisung is kinda stupid but a sweetheart, he swears in alien language 😭, other then that i don’t think there’s anything else.
word count: around 500.
a/n: I LOVE ALIENSUNG !!!! he’s so cute :p
requested?: yes/no
skz m.list | main m.list
jisung didn’t know how the world worked. and you didn’t know how to explain it to him. he was always touching things and asking what they meant.
“what does this do?”
“that’s a toaster.”
“what do you do with… toaster?”
“put bread in it. and let it be toasted.”
“what is bread?”
let’s just say… it got annoying at times. overly annoying. but you dealt with it. because you didn’t want him wandering the world. that would be ten times would be worse. you couldn’t imagine him out in the wild.
he didn’t like being alone. he hates when you worked. but he had things to do! he could watch the tv or play the video games or fiddle around with the microwave. but it was boring. too boring.
after five million kajillion babillion hours (two hours), you finally came home, to him… sitting right at the front door.
“jisung! what are you doing there?” you asked, a bit frightened at his figure just sitting there, his little antennas perking up as his face changed from sadness to excitement.
“waiting! i got bored. everything’s boring when you aren’t here! you need to stop working! oh you got food! i’m very hungry. i did not eat anything.” he said, standing up from his sitting position as he grabbed onto your arm, jumping up and down a couple times.
you smiled softly as you took off your shoes, putting down your bag as the alien dragged you into the flat.
“so i’ve been thinking we need to watch a show, and eat our food. and then we can play a game and snuggle a bit and then go for a walk!” jisung added, walking into the living room as he took the bag of takeout from your hands, placing it on the coffee table.
he excitingly opened the bag, his antenna’s moving around, as if they were trying to smell the chinese food. immediately he grabbed one of the containers, opening it up and using his hands to shove food into his mouth.
“ji… you’re supposed to use utensils.” you muttered, looking up at him as he shoving another handful of the chow mein into his mouth.
“this is funner.” he responded, his words muffled as his cheeks filled with the noodles.
you looks away, shaking your head slightly as you giggled at him.
“let’s play minecraft!”
“you’re washing your hands first.”
“no…”
“yes. basic hygiene is a must in my house.”
he frowned as he stood up, alien language escaping his lips as he stomped to the bathroom. you sighed and rolled your eyes at his childish behaviour.
three twenty nine - bang chan x fem!reader
Chan is burnt out and working late...
Unable to get anything done, he calls you to come help him and you know exactly what he needs...
wc: 2.7k.
warnings: explicit sexual content, he's a little subby (?), fluffy as hell, p in v, unprotected (do not do that), kinda public sex in the studio, i call him chris i'm one of those girls sors, if i missed anything let me know!
His head hung over his notebook, fingers knotted in his white blonde hair. Eyes squeezed shut, unmoving, Chan didn’t even flinch when the door you stormed through slammed into the wall, closing with a swift click.
A curve in his broad shoulders down his back made your nose scrunch. He’d been sitting here too long.
Hours ago he sent you a text, one short and sweet— don’t wait up for me i’ve got crazy work to do.
Answering him with the sweetest, i’ll leave the door unlocked, you expected a stern response in regards to your safety, but received nothing.
He didn’t even read the message.
He told the truth, he had crazy work to do. Promo pics for the new album had been released and he didn’t even run to Bubble. All last night he’d been sending messages about working out, his need for exertion, exercise, to move his body, like he’d been talking about for a few days now. Surely he was expected to send more, or update his routine, but while one comeback approached, he found himself knee deep in another.
The next one.
Do It wasn’t set to release for another month or so.
Useless to fight him though, he did it to himself. He didn’t need to carry this burden alone, no matter if he thought he was supposed to, he had seven other members to lean on.
With how his body reacted to your gentle whisper, you quickly realize his message of, come here need help, received fifteen minutes ago would not go over well if answered by anyone but you.
“Chris?”
His fingers flexed. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Dropping his hands, he used to them to push his chair out from under his desk. Sitting back in his seat, he sprawled his legs in front of him, stretching them out like he’d been stuck in that spot from his first text to his last. Fingers gripping at the black joggers hugging his legs, he tipped his chin back, resting his head on the chair.
He pouted his lips after a once over of your being. “C’mere,” he whispered, tapping his fingers on his lap.
Kicking off your shoes, padding over to him in your socks, long sweatpants dragging on the tiled floor, you tossed your things on his desk and climbed into his lap, slotting your knees around his hips. Strong hands took you by the waist, fingertips pressing into your curves, pulling you closer until your chests were pressed together.
One hand took to your cheek, his thumb brushing under your lashes. “You were asleep,” he whispered.
Eyes flickering to his lips, you whispered, “No I wasn’t.”
His pout deepened, his gaze drawing over your heavy eyes. “Yes, you were. You close your eyes right now and you’re done. I know this face.”
Sliding your arms around his neck, you took a deep breath that triggered him to take one with you. “Okay, I was sleeping.”
He gave you the smallest shake of his head. “Don’t pretend just to make me feel better.”
Brushing your nose over his, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, you whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Both hands around your waist again, he tugged you closer if he could and adjusted in his seat, the slightest friction to your center causing you to flinch ever so slightly. Hooded eyes gazed up at you, the corners of his lips pulled down into the tiniest frown he had ever worn.
“Chris, it’s okay,” you assured him with a head shake and kiss to his cheek that made his eyes shut. “Come home. Leave all of this here, and come back to it when you’ve slept, and eaten something better than…” Glancing over your shoulder, his hold not letting you move very far, you caught a glimpse of the Monster cans and empty bags of snacks littering his work space.
When you faced him he wore the ghost of a smile.
“You’re gonna kill me,” you mumbled, and he let out a quiet laugh. You scoffed, toying with long strands of hair hanging against his neck. “Sure, let my stress over your wellbeing be what amuses you, Christopher.”
Hands smoothing up your back to pull you down on top of him, he cracked a smile and leaned forward to catch your lips in a kiss. “‘M sorry,” he muttered between shared air.
Grasping him by the shoulders, you pressed your forehead to his and sighed. “I could’ve brought you dinner. Your brain works best after a proper meal, or after you’ve sweat it out, maybe you need to go down to the gym. Send some silly messages and thirst traps–”
He cut you off with a kiss. Lips tangling, he held you on top of him and slid his hands down to the curve of your ass, giving you a needy squeeze. Pressing his hips up into your own, his cock half hard, you gasped and he let out a heavy sigh.
“That clears your mind,” you whispered.
He smiled, lips eager to be back on yours. “Also good for my health.”
Taking your hands to his cheeks, tipping his chin backward, you looked down at him and pursed your lips. “It is like… two forty seven in the morning.”
Glancing to his computer screen, his eyes narrowed when they met yours. “How’d you do that?”
You shrugged. “Intuition.”
He blinked. “Naturally.”
Sitting back on his lap, his disappointment evident on his face, you smiled at him and drug your hands down his chest. Taking a deep breath, his chest expanding as your fingers pulled at the waistband of his pants, he pulled his hands off your body and gripped the metal of the armrests your knees rested under.
He grew harder beneath you, you could feel him. A one track mind jumping ship faster than you can say let me have you, and all because he wanted to do anything else but focus on his damn work that likely had been finished weeks ago. He couldn’t leave it alone, ever, not until it’d been released. Pushing himself until the very last second of every deadline to exist in his world– His twenty eight a strong fifty three when he sat at this desk.
Or any desk for that matter.
Admirable, really, but you needed him at twenty eight.
“You know what else she told me?” you asked, and he perked a brow. “My intuition?”
Chan breathed on manual, his gaze fighting to look at your hands, or your eyes, or your hips, or your fingers that toyed with the elastic of his joggers. “She’s scary sometimes.”
You smiled. “Is she ever wrong?”
“Fuck no,” he gasped as you tugged.
Working the stretchy fabric to his knees, exposing him and his need for you to touch him, throbbing, leaking, you reached for the waist of your own sweats and pulled them down.
Whispering, “I knew what you needed,” in his ear as you settled yourself on top of him, his whimper as your slit kissed his tip ignited a fire in your belly, one that pulsed through your veins as you suck down onto his cock, the stretch too much without him prepping you first.
Too full, too big, too much, too much… To the hilt, you stilled.
You would not allow your brain to turn off.
As much as it fought with you, dizziness second nature when he pressed so deeply within you, you sucked in a trembling breath and released it all at once, sliding your arms over his shoulders, locking them behind his neck.
His full, pink parted lips, he breathed through them, brows cinched in the middle, jaw slack, breath ragged. Blinking up at you, deep brown eyes glazed over and heavy, his own fatigue taunted him.
“Baby,” he whispered as his hands took their time sliding over your thighs and up your bare hips, sitting perfectly in the curve they made. Spreading his fingers, he grabbed handfuls of you and moaned unabashed, shifting you on his cock just a bit.
You both winced, but he whimpered.
Pressing kisses to his jaw as his head thrashed to the side, you grazed your tongue beneath his ear and gently caught his lobe between your teeth. Parting your lips to fan hot air over his neck, content as goosebumps erupted over his skin and he trembled, you flattened your tongue and danced it from his jaw to his collar bone.
Hands gripping you tighter, sure to leave marks there for you to find tomorrow, he gasped through a whine and pushed up into you, acquiring the exact sound he yearned for.
“Baby, please.”
His tone. Never a beggar, a brat maybe, mastermind ragebaiter with a shit eating grin, but never one to beg.
Letting your lips trail up his jaw and pass over his lips with an obscene smack, you breathed him in and danced your fingers through his hair, combing it backward away from his face, letting your fingers graze his scalp, soothing him.
“How do you want it?”
He gulped, looking at you like he could swallow you whole, but at the same time, he put his conscience in your pocket. “Just like th-this,” he whispered, tensing his fingers, moving them further back to grip your ass. “Don’t… Don’t fuck me.”
Tucking more hair behind his ears, you kissed the tip of his nose and brushed your cheek over his, laying your weight on top of him fully, one final little push to get him and keep him all the way in.
“Don’t fuck you,” you repeated his words in case his muddled brain didn’t piece them together correctly.
He grew hotter, his body heat having spiked since you sat on his lap, and you could feel him inside of you, pulsing, a need to move, to fuck. If you were at home he’d have you a sobbing mess by now. If you were anywhere else for that matter, or if he were in any other circumstance other than burn out.
Chan grasped control, he wanted it, he pursued it, stared it in the face, made it his bitch, but not tonight.
For once in his life he needed to release it.
Your fingers brushed his skin delicately while your gaze watched him suck down mismatched breaths. Laying your head down on his shoulder, kissing his cheek one more time, you smoothed a hand over his chest and thundering heart threatening to rip through the black tee he wore.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, fingers swirling in a circle in the valley of his chest. His brow furrowed. “I always am, Chris.”
His eyes fluttered open. “You say my name so pretty.”
Nudging his jaw with your nose, you sat up to meet him eye to eye. “Chris,” you whispered, kissing him once. He groaned deep within his chest, a rumbling that sent a shock to your core. “My Chris who works himself too hard. Chris who needs a break. A month-long vacation with his girlfriend who loves him, who’s proud of him, who needs him.”
He hummed, kissing you with fervor. “Where’re we going?” A heady sigh caught you both off guard, one that fell from his lips as he glanced between your bodies. “So wet, baby, fucking christ.”
You clenched around him without meaning to, and you both whined. He adjusted in his seat again, and your vision went blurry.
“Chris,” you whimpered, grabbing onto him.
“Kinda like torture,” he released his hold on you and gently smacked your ass with both hands before gripping back onto you, “But it’s too hot knowing your cunt’ll soak my cock no matter what.”
Lips parting to speak, no noise came out. You had mere seconds until the thoughts in your head watered down to his name and his cum. Chan smiled, his spark returning tenfold.
“Answer my question, baby,” he cooed, hands massaging into your thighs, your hips. “Where are we going?”
Blinking emptily, locked in on his darkened eyes, his olive complexion, the obvious fact that he filled you entirely shocking the nerve endings of every compatible system, you whispered, “Anywhere… but here.”
“Hm,” he hummed, pushing his chair away from the desk. Holding you in his arms, he spun the chair around and carried you with him, smile growing as your legs wrapped around his waist. Splaying you backward on the black leather sofa, ensuring your head laid comfortably over the arm rest, he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, and pulled your sweatpants off of you entirely– without ever slipping out of your heat. “How’s this?”
Wrapping your arms around his back, pulling him down onto you, you breathed, “Perfect,” and caught his lips in a messy kiss as he pulled out of you, only to push back in with a moan. Closing your eyes, your body on fire, your thoughts a matter of nothing, you whispered, “Use me.”
His hand gripped your jaw. “No,” he grumbled, pressing his fingers into your cheeks. “Stay with me. Open.”
Your lips parted, your tongue poking out, and he breathed through his amused pride.
“Your eyes, baby, but good girl.” Meeting his gaze, you sighed, and he pouted. “You’re so sleepy,” he said softly, dancing his thumb against your skin, his hips in a steady motion, slow pulls of in, and out. And in, and out.
Your quiet, gentle whines, your tiny, unintelligible moans, like this, meant everything to him. Every hitch of his breath, every involuntary sound that melted from his lips, like this, meant it was real.
Bodies moving in sync, heavy sighs keeping time, sweat adorning your skin and his, parted lips brushing with every rock of his hips, drinking up every breath, every sound that slipped into the heat of the erotically charged air surrounding you– You’ve never been pushed over the edge so intensely, so powerfully, and Chan liked to toy with you.
But, this was different.
Eyes rolling back, toes curling, your body wrapped around him, clamping down on him everywhere. Mouth falling open, Chan kissed at the corners as you shook, body convulsing, euphoria washing through you, every limb, every vein. His name, on your lips like a prayer, a pathetic whimper to stagger his hips, his composure coming to a close as you squeezed him tight.
“Oh, fuck, good girl,” he moaned, nose pressed to your cheek as his thrusts grew sloppy riding you through your high.
Grasping handfuls of his shirt, you gasped, “Chris,” turning your head to kiss him rough.
Just as his tongue dipped out to meet yours, he groaned and grabbed onto you. Eyes screwing shut, he clenched his jaw and let out a broken moan as he spilled into you, tiny thrusts of his hips emptying himself entirely.
He curled up on top of you. Arms sliding around your back, head burrowing into your neck, your chest, he held onto you and eased his breath in time with yours, nirvana induced heartbeats pounding like no other.
Palms flat on his back, feeling each breath he took with the rise and fall of his ribs, the moment you felt as though you could move them, you drew small circles, and he picked up his head.
“Feel better?” you asked within a whisper.
Smiling, sleepier than ever, he hit you with a slow blink. “Come with me to work everyday.”
Breathing through a laugh, you drug a hand through his tousled hair, smiling as his eyes grew heavier. “Then you’ll get nothing done.” You grasped his cheek and brushed his lashes with your thumb.
He smirked. “That’s your dream.”
Pinching his cheek, you whispered, “This room isn’t soundproof during the day.”
“They’ve heard you before,” he teased, wiggling his brow, each blink growing longer and longer.
Scoffing, you brushed back his hair and said, “Jisung did, and that was one time, and it was an accident.”
Chan shrugged, shifting himself around you. Sitting up for all but three seconds, he grabbed ahold of your sweatpants and helped you back into them, situating his own. Settling beside you, cradling you in the nook of his body you curved perfectly within, he slid an arm under your head for you to lay on and wrapped the other around your middle.
“What time is it?” you whispered through a yawn, knowing you’d both fall asleep here, then wake up to get a coffee from the corner cafe before he holed himself up in here for another twenty four hours.
“You tell me,” he said, voice deep, full of tired.
Closing your eyes, sinking against him, you whispered, “Three twenty nine.”
He picked up his head and squinted in the glow of his computer screen. He took a quick breath and scoffed, thoroughly amused. “Unbelievable.”
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Summary: the water is somewhere that you never intended to return to... until you met Chan.
Warnings: PTSD, mentions of death and lost loved ones, panic attacks, anxiety, cheating [emotionally, not physically]
Word count: 19.7k.
a/n: this is the fic I was inspired to write on holiday and it was only ever meant to be one part but it seems I'm incapable of writing one shots anymore so this will probably be either three or four parts? And buckle up, because we're about to get messy [and not in a fun way]
The sun was too bright. It bounced off the water in sharp white flashes, glinting over the packed resort pool until it looked less like a place to cool off and more like something hostile—loud and shimmering and endless. Children shrieked as they cannonballed into the deep end, inflatable toys drifted past in a lazy parade of neon colour, and the smell of chlorine clung to the air so thickly it sat in the back of your throat.
You sat on the edge of your lounger with your sandals still on, fingers curled so tightly around the towel in your lap that your knuckles had gone pale.
“Come on,” your boyfriend groaned for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes. He stood in front of you in damp swim shorts, hair slicked back from where he’d already gone under once. “You’re seriously not getting in?”
You forced a smile that felt as brittle as it probably looked, stating, “I said I’d sit here.”
His sister was already waist-deep in the water, waving toward you. His dad floated nearby with a drink balanced on the side of the pool, and his mum offered you a soft little smile, like she was trying to smooth over the awkwardness with politeness alone.
Your boyfriend, on the other hand, just huffed, refusing to drop the matter.
“You can’t even stand in the shallow end?” he asked, incredulous, like you’d announced you were afraid of air. “It’s a pool, not the Atlantic.”
Your stomach turned at his words, anxiety creeping up your throat.
“I don’t want to,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the tiled floor beneath your feet.
He laughed. Not a kind laugh, not even a disbelieving one. It was mean around the edges, sharpened by embarrassment because his family was watching and you weren’t doing what he wanted.
“God, you’re such hard work sometimes.” He dragged a hand over his face and looked over his shoulder toward the others as if inviting them in on the joke. “She’s acting like she’s gonna drown in four feet of water.”
The words hit harder than they should have, because that was exactly it, wasn’t it? Not the four feet of water, not really, but the way your lungs still seized at the sight of water and the echo of screaming and the memory of your mother’s hand slipping from yours beneath dark water when you were too young to understand why she wasn’t coming back up.
But your boyfriend already knew all of that.
He knew because one night, months into your relationship, you’d cried in his arms and told him the truth. About the lake and about the panic attacks. About how your mother had dived in after you and never made it back to shore. About the guilt that still lived inside your chest like something rotten and permanent.
Yet he still smiled now, cruel and careless.
“Babe,” he said in a mocking, syrupy voice, crouching in front of you, “it’s not deep-water trauma if you’re literally sat next to a kiddie pool.”
His sister went still, and his parents shifted awkwardly where they now sat side by side on the pool's edge. Even other families were starting to look over.
You felt your face burn with humiliation, the sting so sudden it made your eyes ache. “Stop.”
“What?” He shrugged. “I’m trying to help you get over it.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh my god,” he scoffed. “Do you know how dramatic you sound? You’ve made the whole thing weird.”
His mum murmured his name under her breath—sharp, warning—but he ignored her.
“You can’t avoid water forever just because of some childhood thing with your mum,” he said. “It happened years ago.”
Some childhood thing.
The world seemed to narrow around those three words, and you felt your throat close over the lump in it. You looked down at the towel in your lap because if you looked at him, you were going to cry, and you would rather die than do that in front of his family, in front of a hundred strangers, in front of everyone.
Before you could think of a reply, movement came from the lifeguard chair.
You’d noticed him earlier, of course. It was impossible not to. Tall, broad-shouldered, sun-browned skin, dark curls damp at the temples from the heat. He wore the red resort lifeguard shirt with the sleeves pushed up, mirrored sunglasses hooked into the collar, and a whistle resting against his chest. He’d spent the last half hour scanning the water with practised focus, occasionally blowing a sharp blast at children who ran too close to the slippery edge.
Now he was looking directly at you, no - your boyfriend- and he’d clearly heard enough. Your boyfriend, however, either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he carried on with his verbal assault.
“Seriously,” he said, straightening up again. “My little cousins are braver than you.”
You stood too quickly, nearly tripping over the lounger in the process. “I’m going back to the room.”
He rolled his eyes. “There she goes.”
The words chased after you like waves crashing onto the shore in a storm – brutal and unforgiving.
“Are you kidding?” he called, loud enough that several people turned to look. “You’re actually sulking now?”
Your vision blurred. You kept walking, heart hammering, pulse roaring so loudly in your ears it almost drowned out the pool noise behind you. You made it halfway across the pool deck before your breathing started to go wrong. It was too fast, too shallow, panic rising in a wave so familiar it was almost mechanical.
Not here. Please, not here.
You veered toward the quieter side of the resort, past a line of sun loungers and potted palms, and ducked behind a low wall near the outdoor showers where fewer people passed. The second you were out of sight, your knees buckled, and you sat down hard on the warm tile, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes.
Breathe.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
It didn’t work. Your chest kept tightening, each breath snagging before it could fully fill your lungs. All you could smell was chlorine, suncream, and hot concrete. All you could hear was water slapping against tile, your boyfriend’s voice in your head, and underneath it all that old memory—cold black water, your own childish screaming, your mother disappearing beneath the surface.
“Hey.”
The voice was low and careful, close enough to make you flinch, and you looked up, eyes wide.
It was him. The lifeguard.
Without the chair between you, he seemed even broader. The red shirt clung slightly to his chest from the heat, and he’d crouched down a few feet away instead of looming over you, forearms resting on his knees. Up close, his face was softer than you’d expected—strong jaw, tired eyes, an expression pulled tight with concern and something that looked a lot like anger on your behalf.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, his hands lifting a little, as if he didn’t want to spook you. “I know I’m probably overstepping. I just—” He exhaled through his nose. “You looked like you needed a minute.”
You swiped at your face, mortified. “I’m fine.”
He gave you a look that made it clear he didn’t believe you for a second, but he didn’t call you on it.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Then I’m just sitting here while you’re ‘fine.’”
Despite everything, your laugh came out broken and unwilling, more of a watery exhale than anything else. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and held out a small paper cup of water—probably grabbed from the station on his way over.
“You don’t have to take it,” he said, “but it might help.”
Your fingers shook when you accepted it. “Thanks.”
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the resort felt muted here, softened by the wall and the hum of cicadas in the palms.
“I heard some of what he said,” the lifeguard admitted at last, voice tight. “Enough to know he shouldn’t have.”
Heat flooded your face again, this time with shame. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not.”
You stared at the rippling surface of the water in the paper cup as you muttered, “It is when everyone’s looking at you like you’re insane for not getting in a pool.”
“You’re not insane.”
His voice was firm in a way that made you finally look at him. He’d shifted slightly at some point, one forearm draped over a raised knee, expression steady and open. There was no pity in it, which somehow made your chest ache more.
“People are scared of water for all sorts of reasons,” he said. “And even if you weren’t— even if you just didn’t feel like swimming—that should’ve been the end of the conversation.”
Your throat tightened, finally feeling understood in a way that you hadn’t all holiday.
“He knows why,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part.”
Something flickered across his face—anger, unmistakable this time, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “I guessed.”
You laughed once, bitterly. “He thinks if he mocks me enough, I’ll magically get over it.”
“That’s not how trauma works.”
“No?”
“No.” His mouth tipped into the faintest, humourless smile. “I spend all day stopping drunk tourists from doing stupid things in water. Trust me, I know fear when I see it. Yours isn’t ridiculous. It’s real.”
The simple certainty of it nearly undid you, and you looked away quickly, blinking hard, but not before he noticed.
“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Look at me a second?”
You didn’t know why, but you did as he asked.
“If you don’t want to go anywhere near that pool,” he said, “then don’t. You don’t owe anyone a performance because they bought a family holiday package.”
A tiny, hysterical laugh escaped you at that, and his expression warmed a little, like he’d been aiming for exactly that.
“I’m Chan, by the way,” he added. “In case I’m going to be the weird resort employee giving pep talks behind the showers.”
You almost smiled properly this time. “That’s a very specific job title.”
“It’s seasonal.”
That did it. A real laugh slipped out, small and surprised, and Chan’s shoulders relaxed like he’d won something.
“There you go,” he murmured.
Your pulse was finally slowing, breaths evening out one by one. You took a sip of water, the paper cup cool against your mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you said after a moment. “You probably have actual emergencies to deal with.”
“I’m off duty in ten.” He glanced toward the pool through the gap in the wall, then back at you. “And unless someone’s actively drowning, I think this counts as more important.”
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, too deep for someone you’d only met five minutes ago.
You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck here with his family for another week.”
Chan was quiet for a beat. “Are they all like him?”
You thought of his mother’s expression, the way she’d said his name in warning. His sister going awkwardly silent. His dad pretending not to hear.
“No,” you said. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded slowly, as if filing that away. “Then maybe talk to the ones who aren’t.”
“And say what?”
“The truth.” His jaw tightened. “That he’s using the worst thing that ever happened to you as a punchline.”
The bluntness of it made you flinch—not because it was wrong, but because it was exactly right. Footsteps sounded from somewhere nearby before you could reply, and both of you looked up instinctively. You were relieved that it wasn’t your boyfriend, just random holidayers passing without stopping.
Chan stood, then hesitated.
“I should get back before my boss notices I’ve disappeared to bully guests into hydration.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced down at you with a look you couldn’t quite read. “But if you want…” He gestured vaguely toward the quieter end of the resort. “There’s a little cove beach about five minutes down the path past the tennis courts. Hardly anyone uses it this time of day. No pool noise, no crowds. You can still sit near the water without feeling like you’re in the middle of a circus.”
Your brows lifted. “You tell all the crying girls behind the showers about your secret beach?”
His mouth curved, slow and crooked and devastatingly kind. “Only the ones whose boyfriends are idiots.”
The laugh that escaped you this time felt almost normal, and Chan’s gaze dipped to your face for half a second, as if to check whether you were really okay now, before he met your eyes again.
“You don’t have to be brave for anyone today,” he said quietly. “Just get through it.”
Something about the way he said it—as if getting through it was enough, as if surviving counted—made your chest ache.
“Thanks,” you said, and this time you meant much more than the paper cup of water.
He gave a short nod, then started to step away before pausing.
“And for what it’s worth?” he added, looking back over his shoulder. “I don’t think your mum would want the person she loves most in the world to spend her life being ashamed of being scared.”
Your breath caught. Before you could answer, before you could explain, he was already walking back toward the pool, whistle bouncing lightly against his chest, shoulders squared with purpose.
You sat there for a long time after he left, staring at the sliver of bright blue sky between the palms and trying not to cry all over again—this time for an entirely different reason. When you finally stood and made your way back around the wall, the pool came into view again in a riot of sunlight and noise. Your boyfriend was in the water, laughing with his sister like nothing had happened, but the second he saw you, his grin twisted.
“Well?” he called. “Finished having your little tantrum?”
Across the pool, Chan’s head snapped up from where he stood by the lifeguard chair. This time, he didn’t look away, eyes tracking your movement back towards your boyfriend, whose question had been loud enough for a few people to glance over. Not everyone, but enough. Enough to make your skin prickle all over again.
You stop when you get to your chair. Your boyfriend is leaning against the edge of the pool, forearms braced on the hot tile, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. His sister is hovering awkwardly beside him, and his mum has gone very still in her sun lounger, sunglasses lowered just enough that you can feel her watching over the rim. Across the pool, Chan is back by the lifeguard chair, one hand resting on the rail, attention fixed squarely on you.
You don’t know if it’s the panic still clawing at the inside of your ribs, or the humiliation, or the simple fact that you’re tired—so tired—of being made to feel small, but something in you finally snaps.
“No,” you say.
Your boyfriend blinks. “What?”
“No, I’m not done sulking, if that’s what you want to call it.” Your voice shakes at first, but only for a second. “I’m upset because you’re being cruel.”
His expression changes instantly—half surprise, half irritation. “Oh my god, I was joking.”
“You were mocking me.”
“Babe—”
“In front of your family,” you cut in, louder now. “About something you know is traumatic for me.”
The word hangs there – traumatic – and his sister’s face drains of colour as his mother sits up straighter. Your boyfriend—who clearly didn’t think you’d actually say it out loud—looks around like maybe if he pretends hard enough, no one will have heard.
“Can we not do this here?” he mutters.
“No, actually, I think here is fine, seeing as you didn’t have any issue doing it here five minutes ago.”
A tiny silence falls over the people nearest to you. It’s not enough to draw the whole pool’s attention, but enough that your boyfriend’s ears start to go pink.
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” he says, but there’s still an edge of defensiveness there, as if your hurt is inconvenient to him. “I just thought if I pushed you a little—”
“You don’t get to push me about this.” Your hands are trembling, but now it’s anger rather than panic. “You know exactly what happened to my mum. You know why I hate deep water. And you still stood there and laughed at me for it because you wanted me to get in a pool.”
His mum closes her eyes for half a second, like she physically cannot bear to hear the rest.
Your boyfriend straightens, water sloshing around his waist. “Okay, that’s not—”
“It is,” you say. “And I’m not going to stand here and let you act like I’m overreacting because you decided to turn the worst thing that’s ever happened to me into a joke.”
That lands, and it lands hard enough that his whole posture changes. The irritation drains from his face, replaced by something more uncertain. His sister is looking at him like she doesn’t recognise him, and his mum has now taken her sunglasses off entirely, staring at him with open disappointment.
He notices their expressions, and suddenly, all that swagger collapses into something smaller, uglier, embarrassingly boyish.
“Okay,” he says, climbing out of the pool in a rush that sends water splattering over the tiles. “Okay, shit. I— I’m sorry.”
You just stare at him, and he rakes both hands through his wet hair, glancing quickly at his family, then back at you, his face flushing darker by the second.
“No, seriously, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dropping. “I was being a dick. I know I was. I just…” He gives a weird, awkward laugh that makes your stomach turn. “I thought if I made it less serious, maybe it would help? Which—yeah, obviously that sounds stupid now.”
It sounds stupid because it is stupid, you think to yourself, resisting the urge to show your thoughts on your face.
He’s standing there dripping pool water at your feet, visibly embarrassed, trying very hard to salvage the moment now that he’s realised everyone thinks he’s an arsehole.
“I shouldn’t have said any of that,” he adds quickly. “I know what happened. I know it’s serious. I’m sorry.”
The deck feels too hot under your sandals, your skin too tight. You can feel Chan still watching, can feel the weight of his disappointment before you’ve even made your decision because if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t want a dramatic fight. You don’t want his family to spend the next week walking on eggshells around you, or looking at you with pity, or whispering about the argument over dinner. You don’t want to be the reason the holiday curdles on day one.
So, you swallow everything that still wants to scream and say, quietly, “Okay.”
Your boyfriend blinks. “Okay?”
“I accept your apology.”
Relief floods his face so fast it makes something in your chest go cold.
“Right,” he says, laughing once under his breath as if the worst has passed. “Right. Good. Thank you.”
Thank you, as though you’ve done him a favour.
He reaches for your hand, maybe to smooth it over, maybe to project normalcy in front of his family, and after a brief hesitation, you let him take it. His fingers are damp and cool from the pool. You hate how natural it probably looks from a distance—your silence, his hand in yours, the neat little ending to something that doesn’t feel ended at all.
His mum gives you a small, apologetic look from her lounger but says nothing, and when you glance up, across the bright expanse of water, noise, and bodies, Chan is still there by the lifeguard stand. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something unmistakable in his face now—something shuttered and disappointed and maybe a little resigned, like he’d hoped for something different from you and hates himself for hoping in the first place.
Heat rushes to your face, the colour of shame, and you look away first.
That night, you can’t sleep. The room is too warm despite the air conditioning, and every time you close your eyes you’re back at the pool—your boyfriend’s voice, your own anger, Chan watching from across the water with that look on his face when you accepted the apology. Your boyfriend is asleep beside you, one arm flung over the pillow, breathing slow and even like nothing happened at all.
You stare at the ceiling for a long time before you carefully slip out of bed.
The resort is quiet at night in a way it never is during the day. Most of the families have retreated to their rooms, and the pathways are lit only by low golden lamps set into the stone walls, moths circling lazily around them. Somewhere in the distance you can hear the muted thump of music from the hotel bar, softened by sea air and palm trees.
You follow the path Chan mentioned, almost without thinking, past the tennis courts, then farther, past a row of shuttered beach kiosks, and down a narrow stone walkway half-hidden by overgrown plants until the resort opens up into a tiny cove tucked away from everything else. It’s beautiful - smaller than the main beach, hemmed in by dark rocks and silvered under moonlight, the sea stretching out in soft black ripples that catch the light every time they fold toward shore. The best part is that there are no children. There’s no shouting or splashing, just the hush of waves and the salt-heavy breeze lifting your hair from your neck.
You kick off your sandals and sit in the cool sand. For a while, you just watch the water, thinking. At night it looks nothing like a swimming pool - nothing like the lake - and yet your body still doesn’t know the difference. Even from here, dry and safely on shore, your chest tightens at the thought of going in. Of sinking. Of not being able to feel the bottom beneath your feet. Of the sudden drop into dark water and the cold panic of a child who didn’t understand why everyone was screaming.
You hug your knees to your chest and stare at the tide. Your mother loved the sea. That’s the part that always hurts the most—the unfairness of it. She loved water in all its forms. The beach, lakes, swimming on holiday. She used to drag you in with her, laughing when you clung to her shoulders, promising she wouldn’t let go.
And she hadn’t.
She’d held on as long as she could.
Your throat burns at the memory, eyes watering with unshed tears even years later.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the dark, not even sure what you’re apologising for anymore. For surviving. For being scared. For not trying harder. For the years you’ve spent avoiding every body of water deeper than your knees because the idea of learning how to trust it again feels like a betrayal somehow—as if being less afraid would mean losing the last proof of what happened.
A wave crawls up the shore and retreats again. You wipe your face with the heel of your hand and let yourself think the thought you’ve been refusing to think all evening:
Maybe you don’t want to be afraid forever.
Not because your boyfriend mocked you, not because anyone thinks you should be over it, and not because you owe anyone bravery. Because you’re tired. You’re tired of panic and shame and rearranging your life around the possibility of water, tired of feeling like twelve years old every time someone says "pool".
You look out at the black line of the horizon and think of Chan’s voice—steady, patient, unflinching.
You don’t owe anyone a performance.
Maybe not, but maybe you do owe yourself a chance.
By the time you make it back to the room later that night, your mind is made up.
The next morning, you linger by the pool until you spot him.
Chan is crouched near the shallow end, speaking to a little boy with bright orange armbands who seems determined to launch himself headfirst into the water without waiting for his dad. Chan says something that makes the kid giggle, taps the top of his floatie in warning, then straightens with a smile that fades the second he notices you standing there.
Maybe not fades, just shifts.
His expression goes a little cautious, like he’s not sure whether you’re about to thank him, ignore him, or tell him to mind his own business forever. You almost do turn around, but then he walks over anyway, towel slung over one shoulder, whistle catching in the sun.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
For a second, neither of you says anything. The pool behind him is busy again—children shrieking, adults talking too loudly, someone dropping a plastic cup—but somehow the space right around the two of you feels strangely still.
Chan tips his head. “You okay?”
The question is simple, but there’s no judgement in it. No pointed reference to yesterday. Just quiet concern.
You nod. “Yeah. I mean—mostly.” You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and immediately wish you had something better to do with your hands. “I wanted to ask you something, actually.”
His brows lift a fraction. “Sure.”
You glance at the water, shifting away slightly when some of it splashes up and over the edge, then back at him before you can lose your nerve.
“Would you…” Your throat tightens. “This is going to sound stupid.”
“It won’t.”
You give a tiny, humourless laugh. “You don’t know that yet.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Fair point.”
You draw in a breath. “Would you maybe teach me?”
He stills, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you see it. The tiny shift in his face, and the way his attention sharpens all at once.
“Teach you what?” he asks gently, though you think he already knows.
“How to…” You gesture vaguely at the pool, mortified. “Be in the water without completely losing my mind.”
Understanding settles over his features, and then, because the universe clearly enjoys humiliating you, he glances over his shoulder toward the lifeguard stand and says, “I work late tonight.”
The embarrassment is instant and brutal.
What were you thinking?
He’s working. He’s being polite. You’ve just cornered a resort employee and asked him to fix years of trauma because he was nice to you for ten minutes behind a wall.
“Oh my god, no, forget it,” you say quickly, stepping back. “Sorry. That was weird of me. I didn’t mean—”
You turn before he can see the heat flooding your face, but you only get one step because his fingers close lightly around your arm. It’s not enough to trap you, just enough to stop you from bolting.
“Hey,” Chan says.
You freeze, eyes wide, and his hand drops away almost immediately, like he only wanted to catch your attention. When you look back at him, his expression is somewhere between apologetic and amused.
“That’s not what I meant.”
You blink. “What?”
“I’m not saying no.” His voice softens. “I’m saying I work late, so if we do it, it’d have to be after hours when the pool’s closed.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly ajar in embarrassed understanding, and Chan’s mouth curves, small and warm when he adds, “Which, honestly, is probably better, isn’t it? The pool’s quiet at night - no kids jumping on you, no audience, no one getting in the way. Just you, me, and the shallow end. We can take it as slow as you need.”
Something in your chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.
“Oh.”
His smile deepens just a little, like he knows exactly how ridiculous that sounded coming out of your mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. “Oh.”
“I thought you were trying to let me down gently.”
“I gathered.”
You cover your face with one hand for half a second. “Please pretend that didn’t happen.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, far too pleased with himself.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and the sound seems to soften him all over again.
“I’d be happy to help,” he says more quietly. “Really.”
You lower your hand slightly, just enough to see him from above your fingers, and your cheeks warm again. This time, it’s from the gentle, kind smile on his face as he watches you freak out.
“Only if you’re sure,” you say. “I don’t want to make your life harder just because I had some dramatic moment on a beach last night.”
His expression changes at that, the smile dropping into something more serious.
“This isn’t dramatic,” he says. “And it’s not making my life harder.”
He glances toward the water, noting the way you subconsciously edge away when it crests the pool's side, then back at you.
“If you want to try,” he says, “I’ll be there. We’ll start with sitting on the edge if that’s all you can do. Or standing in the shallow end for thirty seconds. Or just putting your feet in. Doesn’t matter. We go at your pace.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly; you hadn't expected this level of understanding from a practical stranger. You nod once because you don’t trust your voice, but Chan notices anyway.
“So,” he says lightly, as if you haven’t just handed him something fragile and terrifying. “Meet me here at nine tonight? After my shift?”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
He takes a step backwards toward the lifeguard stand, then pauses, gaze flicking briefly to where your boyfriend is laughing with his dad near the far side of the pool. When he looks back at you, there’s a tiny crease between his brows.
“Does he know?” he asks.
You follow his glance and immediately understand what he’s asking.
“That I asked you for lessons?” you say.
Chan nods, and you hesitate before you decide on the truth. “No.”
He’s quiet for a moment, weighing something, then he just says, “All right.”
You didn’t get a lecture, nor did you get his opinion. Just that one steady answer, like whatever mess that might create is your choice to navigate.
“I’ll see you tonight, then,” he says.
As he walks back to his post, shoulders broad in the morning sun, whistle bouncing softly against his chest, you realise two things at once:
The first is that you’re terrified.
The second is that, for the first time in years, being terrified doesn’t feel exactly the same as wanting to run.
You spend the whole day trying not to think about nine o’clock.
It doesn’t work.
Everything seems to bend around it—the hours at breakfast, the heat-heavy afternoon by the pool, the strained politeness from your boyfriend that somehow feels worse than another argument would have. He acts as though yesterday has been neatly folded away and packed up, with all apologies and easy smiles and occasional squeezes to your knee, as if he’s owed forgiveness simply because he asked for it.
You give him nothing he can call rude, nothing he can use to start another scene, but your mind is elsewhere all day. It’s focused on nine o’clock, when the pool will be quiet. Nine o’clock, when you’ll have to stand in front of Chan and admit that despite all your brave words on the beach last night, you’re still terrified. Nine o’clock, when you’ll have to find out whether you can actually do this.
By the time the evening drags itself toward sunset, your stomach is in knots.
You tell your boyfriend you’re tired after dinner and want an early night. He doesn’t question it—just kisses your temple and says he might stay for another drink with his parents. The ease of it makes guilt prick at you, even though you’re not doing anything wrong. Even though all you’re planning to do is stand near a pool and try not to panic. Still, your pulse is racing by the time you slip out of the room in shorts and an oversized T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower you took mostly to give your hands something to do.
The resort is quiet again, soft with night and warm salt air. The pathways glow amber under the low lights, and by the time you reach the pool, the noise of the day is gone entirely. Like the rest of the resort, it looks different at night. Bigger, somehow. The floodlights underwater cast wavering ribbons of pale blue over the empty pool floor, and without the chaos of children, splashing, and voices, the silence makes every ripple seem louder. Deck chairs sit abandoned in neat rows. A maintenance cart is parked near the far fence. Somewhere in the distance, music drifts faintly from the bar, but here it’s mostly just the hum of insects and the occasional slap of water against tile.
You stop at the gate, suddenly unsure if you can do this after all.
“Thought you might bail.”
You turn. Chan is leaning against the fence a few feet away, arms folded loosely across his chest, dark hair still damp from what was probably a post-shift shower. He’s changed out of the red lifeguard shirt and into a faded grey T-shirt and black shorts, but there’s still a whistle hanging from his fingers, spinning idly on its cord.
Your heart gives one stupid, disloyal kick that you choose to ignore.
“I nearly did,” you admit.
His mouth curves. “Yeah?”
“Three times on the walk here.”
“That all?”
You huff out a laugh, more nerves than amusement, and his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he says, pushing off the fence. “You came. That’s enough for tonight already.”
The words settle something in you, if only by a fraction.
Chan unlatches the gate and holds it open for you. “No pressure, okay? We’re not trying to achieve anything miraculous. We’re just seeing what feels manageable.”
You nod, though your throat is already tight with panic.
He seems to notice, eyeing the pool for a second before asking, “You want to sit first?”
“Probably.”
“Good call.”
He leads you to the shallow end, where the steps slope gently into the water rather than drop straight in. There are two towels folded on the ground nearby and a pair of resort pool floats stacked against the wall, like he’d prepared for several possibilities and didn’t want to overwhelm you by mentioning any of them.
That realisation does something strange to your chest.
Chan sits on the edge first, feet in the water, then pats the tile beside him. “Come here.”
You lower yourself down carefully, close enough that your shoulders almost brush but not quite. The water gleams below you, soft and blue and deceptively calm, and your stomach flips. Chan doesn’t say anything for a minute. He just lets you look in silence.
“Tell me what’s happening in your head,” he says eventually.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “That feels like a dangerous question.”
“Mm. Lucky for you, I’m very qualified in dangerous poolside conversations.”
You glance at him, and he’s smiling a little, but not enough to make it feel like a joke at your expense. Just enough to take the edge off. You look back at the water.
“It’s stupid,” you murmur. “I know it’s a pool. I know I can stand up. I know you’re here. I know nothing bad is going to happen.”
“But your body doesn’t care what you know.”
You nod.
He bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. “Then we listen to your body, not the part of your brain trying to bully it into behaving.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly, and you stare harder at the water so he won’t see.
“My chest feels tight,” you say after a moment. “And my hands are sweaty. And I keep thinking if I put my feet in, I’m going to panic and make an idiot of myself.”
“You’re allowed to panic.”
You frown. “That doesn’t sound very encouraging.”
“It’s not meant to be encouraging.” He turns slightly toward you, one knee drawn up onto the tile, voice gentle and matter-of-fact. “It’s meant to take the pressure off. If you panic, you panic. Nothing terrible happens because you panic. We stop, we breathe, we try again another day if you want to. That’s it.”
It sounds so simple when he says it. Not easy, but simple. Maybe even manageable… eventually.
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He nods toward your legs. “First task: no water yet. Just move closer to the edge.”
You glance at him. “That’s the task?”
“That’s the task.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You’re setting the bar very low.”
“I’m a generous teacher.”
You shift carefully until your thighs are almost flush with the edge, calves hovering just over the surface. The water glows under your feet, close enough now that you can feel the coolness rising off it. Your pulse jumps, heart leaping into your throat, and Chan notices your breathing change instantly.
“Look at me.”
You do, eyes fixing determinedly on his face.
“Good,” he says softly. “Don’t look at the water for a second. Just me.”
There’s something dangerously easy about that - about the steadiness of his face in the dim pool lights, the calm certainty in his expression, the way he says things like he’s already decided he can hold this together for both of you if he has to.
“Take a breath in,” he says quietly.
You do.
“And out.”
Again.
He keeps talking you through it until your shoulders start to loosen, until the hard thud of your heartbeat eases enough that you can hear the crickets again, the distant hush of the sea beyond the resort walls.
“Better?” he asks.
“A bit.”
“That’s enough.” His gaze flicks down toward the water and back. “Want to try dipping your toes in?”
You look at the pool like it’s personally offended you. “No.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You hug your arms around yourself. “I hate that I’m like this.”
The firmness of it catches you off guard. You glance at him, and he’s already looking back at you with that same quiet intensity he had behind the showers yesterday.
“You’re not difficult for being scared,” he says. “You’re not weak, or pathetic, or ridiculous, or whatever else you’ve been telling yourself.” His jaw tightens slightly. “And if someone else has been telling you that, they’re wrong.”
The silence that follows feels strangely fragile, strangely healing to the week you’re having.
You drop your eyes to your hands. “You make it sound very simple.”
“It isn’t simple.” His voice softens again. “It’s just true.”
Something in your chest twists painfully, but before you can say anything, he nudges your ankle lightly with his knuckles. “Come on. Toes.”
You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m right, though.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Mm. Feet in the water.”
You glare at him weakly, but he only lifts his brows and waits. So, you brace your hands on the warm tile, inch your hips a little closer to the edge, and lower one foot. The second your toes break the surface, your whole body locks. The water is cool – not freezing or shocking - just cool enough to make your skin tighten. Your breath catches anyway, a hard, involuntary jerk in your chest, and you snatch your foot back so quickly that droplets scatter across the tiles.
Chan doesn’t react except to say, very calmly, “Okay.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I literally just proved that I can’t.”
He smiles, infuriatingly patient. “You touched the water.”
“For half a second.”
“That still counts.”
You stare at him, but he just stares back, entirely unbothered.
“Again,” he says.
You make a face. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Chan.”
“One foot. Three seconds this time.”
You want to tell him no. You want to get up and walk away and tell yourself you tried, which is more than anyone could have expected, and go back to your room and hide under the covers with your pride in tatters. Instead, you lower your foot again, counting the seconds, pulse pounding in your throat. When you reach three, you yank it back up and suck in a breath so sharp it almost hurts.
“There,” Chan says immediately, before you can spiral. “Three seconds. You’re still alive. Very inconvenient for your dramatic exit plan.”
A startled laugh escapes you. It’s ridiculous, really, how much easier it is not to fall apart when he says things like that—when he lets you keep your dignity and your fear at the same time.
“Again?” he asks.
You close your eyes. “You’re not going to stop asking, are you?”
“Nope.”
“You’re awful.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
This time, when you put your foot in, you leave it. Your muscles stay tense, but the panic doesn’t spike quite as hard. The cool water laps around your toes and the ball of your foot, harmless and gentle and entirely unlike the memory your body keeps trying to drag over it.
“Good,” Chan murmurs. “That’s good.”
You don’t know why the praise makes your face warm, but it does. It also gives you the confidence to slowly and carefully lower your other foot in, too. The pool ripples around your ankles, and your hands clench against the tile, knuckles turning white. Your breathing is shallow again, but both feet are in the water now. You haven’t bolted, and Chan is sitting close enough that if you turned your head even slightly, your shoulder would press into his.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No.”
His laugh is quiet and fond. “Honest. I like it.”
“I feel like I might throw up.”
“Also useful information.”
You shoot him a look, and he grins outright this time, all warmth and teeth and moonlit amusement, before softening again when he sees you shiver.
“Here,” he says.
Before you can ask what he means, his hand closes gently around your wrist. It’s not tight or sudden, just enough to make sure you’re with him before he moves your hand from the tile to his forearm instead. Your breath catches. His skin is warm from the night air, solid under your fingers, and the gesture is so matter-of-fact—so practical, really—that it takes your brain a second to catch up to the fact that you’re touching him.
“If you need to anchor yourself, use me,” he says quietly. “Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough that you feel something real.”
You swallow. “Okay.”
His gaze flicks over your face, checking, before he nods toward the water. “Can you keep your feet there for ten seconds?”
You tighten your fingers around his forearm and nod.
“Good girl,” he says absentmindedly, like the words are only encouragement, only instinct, only a soft reward for cooperation. The effect is catastrophic, though. Heat rushes up your throat so fast it almost knocks the air from your lungs, and Chan realises what he’s said a second too late.
His eyes widen, just slightly. “Sorry.”
You stare fixedly at the opposite side of the pool. “It’s fine.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Wasn’t meant weirdly.”
“That’s making it worse.”
That does it—he laughs, quiet and helpless, and the sound cracks the tension just enough that you laugh too, horrified and breathless and still gripping his arm like it’s the only stable thing in the world.
“Ten seconds,” he says, recovering.
You somehow make it to twelve, and by the end of the hour, you’re still only on the steps. But your feet are in, then your ankles. Then, after nearly ten minutes of talking and breathing, and one brief, humiliating wobble that has you clutching both his arm and his shoulder while he steadies you with warm hands at your elbows, you manage to sit on the second step, the water reaching just below your knees.
It feels impossible, until slowly, it doesn’t. It’s still not easy, but it feels more possible than an hour ago.
You sit there, trembling from the effort of it, staring down at your own legs beneath the wavering waterline as if they belong to someone else.
“I’m in,” you whisper.
Chan, who is crouched in the water beside you with his shorts soaked to mid-thigh because at some point he stepped in without making a big deal of it, looks up with a grin so bright it almost undoes you.
“You are.”
You laugh shakily, somewhere between delighted and on the verge of tears. “I’m actually in.”
“You’re doing really well.”
You scrub at your face with your free hand before any tears can escape. “Don’t be nice to me right now. I’m trying very hard not to have a breakdown.”
“Who says I’m being nice?” he asks. “I’m just being accurate.”
You make a strangled sound that might be a laugh.
The water shifts around your calves as you adjust your footing on the step. You’re still scared—your pulse hasn’t dropped below mildly alarming all night—but it’s no longer the kind of fear that owns you completely. It sits beside something else now. Pride, maybe. Relief. The dizzy disbelief of discovering you can survive something you were certain would destroy you.
Chan leans his forearms on the edge of the step beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch again.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks lightly.
You turn to look at him. His hair has fallen into his eyes, damp from where he’s been splashed, and there’s a smear of water along one cheek catching the pool light. He looks tired in the soft, late-night way people do after long shifts and too much heat, but his attention is still fixed entirely on you, patient and warm and steady as ever.
Your chest does something inconvenient once again.
“Tomorrow?” you echo.
“If you want.” He lifts one shoulder. “No pressure. But you’ve done the hardest part now.”
“I have not.”
“You came back.”
The simple certainty of it hits harder than it should, and you look down at the water before he can see too much on your face.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I did.”
For a moment neither of you moves. The night air wraps warm around your damp skin, the water lapping softly against the step. Somewhere beyond the fence, a burst of laughter drifts from the hotel bar and fades again, leaving only the hush of the pool and the strange, suspended feeling of being tucked outside the rest of the world.
Chan shifts first, pushing to his feet and offering you his hand.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you out before your legs stop working, and I have to explain to resort management why I drowned a guest in six inches of water.”
You laugh and take his hand. His fingers close around yours—warm, firm, callused in a way that makes your pulse stumble for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with fear—and he steadies you as you stand. The water slides off your skin as you step onto the tile, leaving your legs cold and goose-bumped in the night air. For a second, you don’t let go, and neither does he. It lasts only a heartbeat before Chan clears his throat and releases your hand, bending to grab a towel from the ground. He holds it out to you without comment, but there’s a faint pinkness high on his cheekbones that wasn’t there before.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
“Mm.”
You dry your legs slowly, trying very hard not to think about his hand or the way he’d said "good girl" like it meant nothing, while Chan gathers the rest of his things with suspicious focus. When you’re done, he walks you back to the gate. You pause there, towel still clutched in your hands.
“I really did think you were going to say no this morning,” you admit.
Chan huffs a laugh. “I know.”
“That was humiliating.”
“It was a little funny.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re the worst.”
“Yet here you are, voluntarily scheduling more time with me.”
You open your mouth, then close it again, because annoyingly, he has a point.
His smile softens at whatever expression crosses your face. “Get some sleep,” he says. “Your body’s going to feel all of this tomorrow.”
“Oh, good. Something to look forward to.”
“Absolutely.”
You hesitate. “Chan?”
“Yeah?”
The words catch in your throat for a second, before you clear it, murmuring, “Thank you. For… not making me feel stupid.”
Something shifts in his expression—something quieter than teasing, more careful.
“You never were,” he says.
Your chest aches, but before you can embarrass yourself by reacting too visibly, you nod and step back through the gate, asking, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He leans one arm against the fence, looking at you through the bars with a smile that’s small and tired and unfairly lovely.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees.
And as you walk back through the sleeping resort with damp hair at your neck and chlorine still clinging faintly to your skin, you realise you’re smiling. It’s not because you aren’t scared anymore or because everything is suddenly fixed. It’s because for the first time in years, the water doesn’t feel like something that only takes from you.
Tonight, it gave something back.
The next day, everything hurts, and not in the dramatic sense. It’s more in that faintly humiliating way that reminds you just how tense your body had been the night before. Your calves ache. Your shoulders ache. Even your hands ache from how hard you’d clung to the pool edge, to Chan’s arm, to anything that felt solid enough to trust.
You catch yourself smiling about it over breakfast and immediately wipe the expression off your face when your boyfriend looks up. He’s in an irritatingly good mood. Maybe because yesterday at the pool ended without a proper fight, or maybe because he thinks his apology fixed everything. Maybe it’s because he has no idea that while he was asleep, you were sitting on the second step of the resort pool with water up to your knees and Chan’s hand warm around your wrist, learning how to breathe through panic.
Whatever the reason, he’s all easy affection that morning—nudging your foot under the table, stealing fruit from your plate, draping an arm around the back of your chair while he talks to his dad. The version of him other people like. The version that makes you feel slightly insane for being hurt at all. But now that you’ve seen the other version—that sharp, mocking cruelty he slips into when you’re vulnerable—it’s impossible to fully relax into this one.
The difference is there all day in ways you can’t stop noticing.
Your boyfriend reaches for you because he assumes you’ll meet him halfway, whereas Chan reached for you because he could see you were struggling. Your boyfriend teases you when you’re uncomfortable and calls it helping, but Chan lowers his voice, slows his movements, and watches your face as if your fear is something to handle carefully rather than something to laugh at. Your boyfriend touches you as if affection is automatic, casual, and expected whilst Chan touches you like he’s asking a question every time, even when he doesn’t say a word.
By the time the sun starts to set, you feel raw from the comparison and guilty for even noticing the differences. And worse yet, guilty for looking forward to nine o’clock with the kind of nervous anticipation you should not be feeling for another man.
Dinner drags. Your boyfriend’s mum asks you if you slept better, and there’s enough kindness in the question that it almost makes you feel worse. Your boyfriend squeezes your thigh under the table while he tells some story about a man at the beach bar spilling beer down himself, and everyone laughs, and you smile when you’re supposed to, and all the while the clock above the restaurant entrance keeps inching forward.
At eight-forty, you tell them you’re exhausted and heading up.
Your boyfriend catches your wrist before you can stand. “You okay?”
The concern in his voice is just convincing enough to make you hesitate, your guilt increasing slightly.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”
He searches your face for a second before he lets go. “Come find me if you can’t sleep?”
You nod because it’s easier than doing anything else, mind already elsewhere.
Chan is already poolside when you arrive. Tonight he’s in a black sleeveless top and dark swim shorts, one hand resting on the metal handrail at the shallow end as he tests the water with his foot. He glances up at the sound of the gate and his whole face changes when he sees you— a quiet easing of his shoulders, a warmth settling into his expression that makes your stomach flip.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
His eyes drop briefly to the oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, then to the towel in your arms, then back to your face. “You came back.”
You huff a laugh. “You say that like you were taking bets.”
“I was.” He reaches down to pick something up from the ground. “Won twenty euros off myself.”
You snort, and the grin he gives you in return is soft and immediate, there and gone in a blink before he gestures with the thing in his hand.
A pool noodle.
You stop walking. “No.”
Chan looks down at it, then back at you. “Yes.”
“No.”
He moves until he’s in front of you. “It’s not even an embarrassing one. It’s blue.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It kind of does.”
You stare at him, scandalised, but he just lifts his brows and twirls the noodle once like this is an entirely reasonable way to greet someone you are trying to coax through years of trauma.
“Be nice,” he says. “I’m a professional.”
“You are a lifeguard bullying me with flotation devices.”
“Exactly. Professional.”
The laugh that escapes you loosens something in your chest before you’ve even reached the edge. He notices, his expression softening as he falls into step beside you.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks. “Body okay after last night?”
The question catches you off guard a little. “You mean emotionally or physically?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
You think about it. “Physically, I think I pulled a muscle in my hand from grabbing you like you were a rescue buoy.”
Chan’s mouth twitches. “That’s fair.”
“And emotionally…” You glance toward the water, then away again. “I’ve been trying not to think about this all day.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound surprised. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Six,” you say. “Maybe seven.”
“Okay.” He nods once, as if six or seven is perfectly workable. “That’s fine.”
The ease of it makes your chest tighten unexpectedly, brain drawing yet another comparison before you can stop it. Because your boyfriend would have laughed at a number like that. Would have told you that you were psyching yourself out, that you needed to stop overthinking and just get in. He would have turned your fear into a challenge, something to conquer quickly or be embarrassed by. Chan just takes the number and builds around it.
“Same rules as yesterday,” he says as you reach the shallow end. “Nothing heroic. We stop whenever you need. If all we do tonight is sit on the step and swear at me for an hour, I’ll count it as quality time.”
You glance at him. “Quality time?”
His mouth curves. “Poor phrasing.”
You smile despite yourself. He sets the noodle aside and crouches to unroll two towels, one close to the steps and one a little farther back.
“You thought ahead again,” you say quietly.
Chan glances up. “I like options.”
No fuss, no big deal made of it, but you can see the evidence anyway—he’d brought extra towels, a bottle of water, the stupid noodle, all arranged as though he’d been thinking about what might help you long before you got here. Your throat goes tight at his consideration.
“Hey,” he says, catching your expression. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’ve just solved world peace because I remembered towels.”
A laugh slips out of you, damp around the edges. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise either. Annoying habit.”
He says it lightly, but it still lands somewhere deep. You shake your head slightly as you lower yourself to sit on the edge, and he drops down beside you with easy familiarity, close enough that your thighs nearly touch. The pool glows softly beneath your feet, still and blue and deceptively harmless.
Your stomach knots, your breath coming quicker than it had moments ago. Chan notices the shift in your breathing almost immediately.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Different plan tonight.” He angles his body toward you, forearm braced over one bent knee. “We’re not just doing feet and knees. I want to get you standing in the shallow end.” Every muscle in your body locks in panic, and your face must give you away because he adds, quickly, “Not straight away. Not without warning. And not without me right there.”
You stare at him. “Standing.”
“In water that barely comes above your thighs.”
“That’s still standing.”
“Very observant.”
“Chan.”
He grins, but it’s gentler than teasing. “I know. We’ll build to it.”
You look back at the water. The steps are wide and shallow, descending in soft blue stripes until the floor levels out. You made it to the second step last night. Below that, the third step. Then the flat, shallow end.
It doesn’t look far, but that’s almost the worst part. The most humiliating.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can.” His voice is calm and certain. “The question is whether tonight is the night you want to try.”
There’s no challenge in it, no pressure. Just a question, placed carefully in your hands. You take a breath, and then another, forcing yourself into some semblance of calm. You were doing this for your mum, but also to prove something to yourself.
“…Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
You ease your feet into the water, and this time the cold barely makes you flinch. Chan watches your face rather than the pool, tracking every reaction with that same quiet focus that made you trust him last night.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That was easier.”
“A little.”
“A little counts.”
He moves first, sliding into the pool with a soft splash and turning to face you from the second step, water soaking the hem of his top and darkening it where it clings to his chest. He braces one hand on the edge beside your hip and offers you the other.
“Come here.”
Your eyes drop to his hand, cataloguing the warm skin, long fingers, palm up and waiting. Something inside you twists, but you ignore it as you place your hand in his. His fingers close carefully, not too tight, just enough to anchor you, and he steps back one pace so you can lower yourself onto the second step like you did last night. Water laps around your knees, then your thighs. Your pulse jumps, but not enough to tip you over the edge.
Chan’s thumb’s stroking once over the side of your hand before he seems to realise he’s doing it, automatically reacting to the changes in your body’s posture. He stops his thumb’s path immediately, but your breath catches anyway.
“Sorry,” he says, voice low.
“It’s okay.”
The words come out too fast. He glances up at your face, and for one strange second the air between you feels warmer than the night should allow, but then he clears his throat and shifts into something more practical.
“Right. Next part.” He turns and braces both hands under your elbows. “I’m going to help you stand. You’re not doing it alone.”
Your stomach drops. You look down at his hands where they wrap around your arms—solid, warm, impossibly steady. Even through the thin cotton of your T-shirt, you can feel the heat of his palms.
“Chan…”
“I know.” His voice softens. “I’ve got you.”
Three words – simple, quiet, and certain.
Another difference supplied by your brain: Your boyfriend says things like relax, stop overthinking, don’t be dramatic. Chan says I’ve got you.
Somehow it makes all the difference.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Good girl.”
The words slip out so naturally that you see the moment he realises. His eyes widen a fraction; yours do too.
Chan exhales sharply through his nose. “I need to stop saying that.”
“Yes,” you say faintly.
He bites back a smile. “Probably.”
You’re blushing so hard you can feel it in your ears, which is honestly almost useful because it distracts you from the panic for half a second.
“Ready?” he asks.
No. You nod anyway.
“On three. One… two… three.”
He doesn’t pull you up so much as guide you through it, his hands firm at your elbows, body close enough that if you lose balance you’ll go straight into him instead of the water. You push to your feet on shaking legs, water sliding down your thighs as you rise from the step to the shallow floor.
The second you’re fully upright, your body goes rigid. Your hands fly to his arms, and Chan catches you immediately, one hand leaving your elbow to settle at your waist while the other stays braced around your forearm.
“Breathe,” he says.
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this—”
“I know.”
“I really hate this.”
“I know.”
The water only comes to the top of your thighs. You can feel the pool floor solid under both feet. Chan is right in front of you, close enough that your knuckles are digging into his biceps, close enough that if you lean forward even a little, your forehead would hit his collarbone. None of it matters to the panic trying to claw its way up your throat.
Your breathing goes sharp and ragged, your vision narrowing, but you still feel the moment Chan’s hand tightens very slightly at your waist—not restraining, just grounding.
“Look at me.”
You can’t, eyes fixed on the water lapping at your thighs, mind racing with ‘what ifs’.
“Hey.” His voice drops, gentler. “Look at me.”
Somehow, you do. The world narrows to his face. Dark eyes steady on yours, wet hair curling at his forehead, mouth set in soft concentration.
“Good,” he murmurs. “There you are.”
Your fingers tighten on his arms, unable to speak through the panic that has you in a chokehold.
“Can you feel the floor?”
You nod jerkily.
“Good. Push your feet into it for me.”
You try, and your legs tremble so hard you’re sure he can feel it.
“That’s it.” His thumb presses once into your side through your shirt, grounding. “You’re safe.”
You shake your head, tears springing to your eyes before you can stop them, barely choking out, “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.” He doesn’t hesitate. “But you are.”
The tears spill over. It’s mortifying, really, how hot and immediate and impossible to hide they are.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out.
Chan’s whole expression softens at your words, at the sight of tears running down your face.
“No,” he says quietly. “None of that.”
He shifts closer without thinking, one hand sliding more securely around your waist while the other comes up to cradle the back of your head for a second—not forcing, just resting there, his palm warm against your hair like he’s shielding you from the world.
“Breathe with me,” he says.
Your boyfriend gets uncomfortable when you cry. He goes stiff, impatient, embarrassed. Tells you not to or asks what’s wrong in a tone that makes it clear he wishes you’d stop before anyone notices.
Chan doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away or make your tears feel ugly. He just keeps one hand steady at your waist and the other warm at the back of your head and breathes in slowly until your body starts to follow.
“In,” he murmurs.
You drag in a shaky breath.
“Good. Hold it.”
You do.
“And out.”
Again, and again.
He stays with you through every awful, splintering second of it, voice low and even, until the panic ebbs from something catastrophic to something survivable. Your grip on his arms loosens by degrees as your breathing steadies. The tears stop falling, though your face is still damp and your chest still aches with the effort of holding yourself together.
“There you go,” Chan says softly.
You sniff, humiliated. “This is so embarrassing.”
“It isn’t.”
“I’m crying on you in a resort pool.”
“Would it help if I cried too?”
A startled laugh escapes you, wet and broken and ridiculous. Chan smiles immediately, relief flickering over his face like he’s been waiting for exactly that sound.
“See?” he murmurs. “Much better.”
You become abruptly aware that one of your hands has slid from his bicep to the front of his shirt, clutching a fistful of damp fabric right over his ribs. His other hand is still on your waist, fingers spread wide and warm through the cling of your soaked T-shirt. You’re even more aware that you’re standing very, very close to him. Too close, probably. Close enough that your next breath brushes the hollow of his throat. Heat floods your face at the proximity, and Chan seems to realise it at the same moment. His hand at the back of your head drops first, then the one at your waist loosens a fraction, not leaving, just giving you room to decide what you want.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
You should step back. Instead, you nod, eyes fixed on the hollow of his throat. You can feel his gaze linger on your face for one dangerous second before he forces his attention downward, toward your legs in the water.
“Right,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “You’re standing. That’s huge.”
You look down too, almost startled to find your body still upright in the pool.
“I’m standing,” you echo.
“Mm.”
“And I didn’t die.”
“Proud of you for that, actually. Makes my job easier.”
You laugh, wiping clumsily at your cheeks with the back of your hand.
Chan catches your wrist before you can smear chlorinated tears all over your face. “Here.”
He lets go of your waist long enough to swipe a towel from the edge and dab carefully under one of your eyes, then the other. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle it nearly undoes you all over again.
“You don’t have to do that,” you mumble.
“I know.”
“But you are.”
“Also true.”
His thumb brushes once beneath your eye as he lowers the towel, catching the last dampness at the corner. He pauses there, just for a heartbeat, and your breath snags, but then he’s stepping back. It’s just enough for you to feel the loss of his warmth immediately.
It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does.
“Okay,” he says, all business again in a way that feels suspiciously deliberate. “New challenge.”
You blink. “There’s more?”
“You’re doing great. I’m capitalising on it.”
“That sounds evil.”
“It’s motivational.”
He reaches for the abandoned pool noodle and holds it out to you.
You stare at it, refusing to reach for it on principle. “I hate that thing.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I absolutely do.”
He grins. “Hold it under your arms.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Chan—”
He waits you out, like he knows you’ll give in if he stares at you long enough. He’s right, anyway, because you’re glaring as not even a minute later, you’re reaching out to take the noodle. He’s smiling as he helps position it behind your back and under your arms, his fingers brushing your sides as he adjusts it. The touch is brief, practical, but your whole body still goes hyperaware.
“There,” he says, stepping in close again. “Now all I want is one foot off the floor.”
You look at him like he’s insane. “One foot?”
“One.”
“That feels like a gateway drug to drowning.”
“It’s literally not possible to drown in water up to your thighs while I’m standing right here.”
You glance pointedly at the noodle. “Feels patronising.”
“It’s adorable, actually.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not leaving.”
He’s smiling when he says it, but his hands settle lightly at your waist anyway, thumbs resting just above the line where your soaked T-shirt clings to your hips. He’s not holding you in place. He’s just there - warm and steady and impossible not to notice.
Your pulse jumps. “Chan.”
“Mm?”
“Your hands.”
He glances down as if he’s only just realised. “Would you prefer I moved them?”
The answer should be yes, and it should be immediate. Instead, you say, far too quietly, “No. I think it’s helping.”
Something flickers across his face, gone too quickly to name.
“Okay,” he says just as quietly, keeping them there.
“Lift your right foot,” he says after a moment.
You do, just an inch off the pool floor, and immediately lurch. Chan catches you before the panic can spike, hands firming at your waist, body stepping closer until the noodle presses awkwardly between you and his chest.
“There,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Your fingers clutch at his shoulders on instinct. “You really do say that a lot.”
“Because it’s true.”
You don’t know what to do with the way that lands.
“Again,” he says.
This time, you lift your foot and hold it for 2 seconds. Then three. Then, after several increasingly incredulous attempts, you manage five full seconds balancing with the noodle under your arms and Chan’s hands steady at your waist, his body close enough to catch every wobble before it turns into panic.
By the time he coaxes you into lifting both feet—just for a breath, just enough for the noodle to take your weight while he keeps one arm locked around your middle—you’re shaking with effort and fear and adrenaline.
“I can’t, I can’t—”
“You can. It’s one second. I’ve got you.”
His forearm tightens around your waist as both your feet leave the floor for the briefest moment. The world tilts as water presses higher against your body. Your stomach flips, your hands clutching at him so hard your nails must be digging through his shirt. But then your feet are touching down again.
You gasp, and Chan’s face breaks into a grin so bright it steals the breath you were trying to recover.
“You floated.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“For one second!”
“That is still floating.”
You stare at him, chest heaving. Then, helplessly, you start to laugh. The sound comes out half-hysterical, half-disbelieving, but it’s real. Chan laughs too, his hands still on your waist, your fingers still hooked around his shoulders, both of you standing too close in the softly lit shallow end while the water ripples around your thighs.
“I hate you,” you tell him breathlessly.
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admit, still laughing, “I really don’t.”
The words slip out before you can stop them, and silence falls. Not total silence—the pool still hums softly around you, water licking at the tile, insects singing in the hedges—but the kind of silence that feels suddenly full. Chan stills, his grin fading. It doesn’t fade into anything bad, just into something smaller and more careful. His eyes search your face for a second too long.
You hear what you said, and heat floods every inch of you.
“I didn’t mean— not like— I mean obviously I don’t hate you, but—”
“I know,” he says quickly, though he sounds a little wrecked around the edges himself.
“Right.”
“Right.”
Neither of you moves. His hands are still on your waist, your hands are still on his shoulders, and for one impossible second, all you can think about is how easy it would be to close the tiny space left between you.
Chan seems to think it, too.
You see it in the flick of his gaze to your mouth. The sudden tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flex once, involuntarily, against your sides before he steps back so abruptly the water splashes around his knees.
“Okay,” he says, a little too briskly. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”
You blink, disoriented. “Oh.”
Not because you disagree. Your legs are trembling, and your nerves are frayed raw. You probably couldn’t do another minute even if you wanted to. Something in your chest sinks at his words, though, and Chan seems to hear it in your voice because his expression softens instantly.
“Not because you did anything wrong,” he says, gentler now. “You did really well. Better than really well. But you’re exhausted.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right.
You nod and try to smile. “Yeah. Okay.”
The distance between you feels strange now as he helps you back toward the steps. Strange and too noticeable. He keeps a hand at your elbow, then your back as you climb out, steady and careful as always, but there’s a new restraint in him that wasn’t there before—as though he’s suddenly very aware of every place he touches you.
It makes you ache in ways you do not want to examine.
Once you’re sitting on the edge wrapped in a towel, Chan hauls himself out beside you, water streaming from his clothes. He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead and exhales.
“Proud of you,” he says quietly.
The simple sincerity of it nearly hurts. Your boyfriend says nice things when he wants something. When he’s smoothing something over. When he needs you to stop being upset. Chan says them like they’re facts.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He glances over. “You don’t have to thank me every five minutes, you know.”
“I know. But I want to.”
His mouth twitches. “Annoying.”
You smile into your towel.
For a minute, you just sit there shoulder to shoulder, the silence between you softer now, less charged than it was in the water but no less intimate for it. Your damp arm brushes his every now and then, and each accidental touch feels louder than it should. Finally, Chan tips his head back to look at the stars above the pool enclosure.
“Can I ask you something?”
You hesitate. “Depends on what it is.”
He turns to look at you. “Why are you doing this?”
The question lands somewhere tender. You know what he means. Not why are you in the pool tonight, exactly, but why now. Why him. Why after years of refusing even the shallow end, you’ve suddenly decided to try.
You stare at your wrung-out towel for a long moment, trying to find the right words, before settling on, “I’m tired of being scared. When I came to the cove the other night, I kept thinking about my mum.” Chan says nothing, just waits. “She used to love swimming,” you continue quietly. “Loved the sea, loved lakes, all of it. She was always trying to get me into the water with her.” Your throat tightens. “And after she died trying to save me from the one thing she loved so much, I think I started treating being afraid like… I don’t know. Like it was proof that it mattered. Proof that I hadn’t forgotten what happened.”
The words sound childish out loud - shameful, almost - but Chan doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tell you it’s irrational, doesn’t rush to fix it. He just turns a little more toward you, forearm resting against the tile behind your back, and listens like every word matters.
“I know that doesn’t make sense,” you say.
“It makes perfect sense.”
You look at him. His face is open in the low light, eyes steady and unbearably kind.
“Trauma isn’t logical,” he says. “Half the time healing feels like betraying it. Like if you let yourself get better, you’re saying it wasn’t that bad, or that the person you lost matters less now.”
Your chest squeezes because, finally, someone understands.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Exactly.”
Chan nods once, slow. “But that’s not what it is.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice is quiet, certain. “Learning to be okay in water doesn’t erase your mum. It doesn’t cheapen what happened. It just means the worst day of your life doesn’t get to own every day after it.”
The tears come back so suddenly you laugh under your breath at your own hopelessness, but Chan doesn’t tease this time. He just takes the towel from your hands, folds it over once, and presses it gently into your lap before opening his arms a little. The gesture is so small, so careful, that it takes you a second to understand what he’s offering.
Your breath catches as soon as your brain catches up.
“You don’t have to,” he says softly. “Only if you want to.”
Your boyfriend hates when you cry. He’ll pat your shoulder awkwardly, or kiss your forehead, or tell you it’s okay in a tone that clearly means please stop. Comfort from him always comes with a trace of impatience, as though your feelings are a problem to solve quickly before they become inconvenient. Chan just waits - no pressure, no embarrassment, no expectation.
You move before you can overthink it. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other around your waist, pulling you carefully into his chest as if he’s done it a hundred times and still knows enough to be gentle. The damp cotton of his shirt is cool against your cheek. Under it, he’s all solid warmth and steady breathing and the slow, grounding thud of his heartbeat.
And the second he tightens his arms around you, something in you gives way. A sort of soft, exhausted sort of breaking open as you let your forehead rest against his shoulder and breathe. Chan’s hand slides up your back in long, slow strokes.
“That’s it,” he murmurs into your hair. “You’re okay.”
Your fingers curl in the fabric at his side. No one has held you through this in years, not properly. Not without rushing you, talking over you, or trying to make you feel less messy than you are.
Chan doesn’t seem bothered by messy at all. He just holds you, warm hand moving steadily over your back, chin resting lightly against your hair for one brief second before he seems to think better of it. His body curved around yours in a way that makes the world feel small and safe and frighteningly easy to stay in.
You don’t know how long he lets you sit there tucked against him. It’s long enough for your breathing to slow, for the tightness in your chest to loosen. Long enough that when you finally pull back, blinking at the damp patch you’ve probably left on his shirt, you feel wrung out and strangely weightless all at once.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
Chan looks down at you, one arm still around your waist as though he hasn’t quite noticed it’s there. “You have got to stop apologising to me.”
You laugh weakly. “I cry on you a lot.”
“You’ve cried on me twice.”
“In two days.”
“Mm. At this rate I’ll have to start charging.”
You snort weakly at that, wiping at your cheeks where you can feel your tears finally drying. Chan smiles, and only then seems to realise he’s still holding you. His arm slips away slowly, reluctantly enough that you’re not sure whether you imagined it.
“You should get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Your boyfriend will wonder where you are.”
The reminder hits like a bucket of cold water.
Your boyfriend.
The person waiting back in your room. The person whose hand you still hold at dinner. The person you are, technically, very much still here with.
Guilt twists low in your stomach, and Chan must see something change in your face because his own expression shutters a little—not cold, not unkind, just careful again. Professional, almost.
“Yeah,” you say, voice suddenly thin. “I should go.”
He nods and stands, offering you a hand up from the tiles. You take it, and he steadies you like always, palm warm around yours, but neither of you lingers this time.
At the gate, you pause.
“Tomorrow?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Chan’s eyes lift to yours, but there’s a beat of silence this time where there’s usually certainty.
He recovers quickly, softly murmuring, “If you want.”
You nod quickly, certain.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I want.”
Something flickers across his face at that—something bright and dangerous and gone too quickly to name.
“Then tomorrow,” he says.
You walk back through the sleeping resort with your hair damp at the ends and your chest aching in two entirely different ways. One for the girl you were in the water tonight, crying and shaking and brave anyway, and one for the boy waiting by the pool after hours with towels and patience and open arms, who holds you like your fear is something precious enough to protect instead of something ugly to be embarrassed by.
By the time you reach your room, you already know this is becoming dangerous, but not because of the water.
Because of Chan.
The next morning, your boyfriend notices before you do - not the lessons, obviously, and not Chan - just the distance.
It starts over breakfast when he reaches for your hand across the table and you give it to him a second too late, your mind somewhere else entirely—still caught on the memory of cool water at your thighs and Chan’s arms around you on the poolside, the steady weight of him, the quiet certainty in his voice when he told you that the worst day of your life didn’t get to own every day after it.
Your boyfriend frowns at your lack of reaction, your lack of response.
“You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
The question should feel kind, and it almost does, except there’s something searching in it now, something newly attentive in a way that makes you instinctively want to hide.
“Just tired,” you say, because that’s become your answer for everything.
He hums like he doesn’t fully believe you but drops it for the rest of breakfast.
Later, by the pool, he tries again, though.
You’re lying on your lounger with a book open in your lap, not really reading, when he appears dripping wet at your side and leans over to blot cold water across your bare stomach with one hand.
You jerk hard enough that the book slips from your fingers. “Jesus—”
He laughs. “Relax, baby, it’s just water.”
Your whole body is suddenly tense, heart thudding from the shock of it, but he notices too late.
The grin fades a little. “Hey. I was messing around.”
“I know.” You sit up, forcing your shoulders to unclench. “Can you not do that?”
He rubs the back of his neck, awkward. “Right. Sorry.” There’s an awkward pause before he says, “You’ve been weird with me.”
The bluntness of it catches you off guard, and you look up. He’s still standing there in damp swim shorts, hair dripping onto the tile, expression caught somewhere between concern and irritation—as if he hasn’t yet decided whether your distance is something to be patient about or something to take personally.
“I haven’t,” you say, and hate how unconvincing it sounds.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “You have.”
You close the book in your lap. “I’m just tired.”
“That’s not all it is.”
His voice is softer than it was the other day. There’s no mockery or edge, just a kind of restless frustration, like he knows he did something wrong and now doesn’t know how to fix it because you won’t tell him how.
You should probably feel sorrier for him than you do. Instead, all you can think about is the way Chan notices things. The way he clocks every shift in your breathing, every tightening of your fingers, every flicker of panic before you’ve even found the words for it. The way he doesn’t wait until you’re flinching to ask what’s wrong. Your boyfriend only notices once the distance affects him.
That thought is so sharp and unfair and true that guilt immediately follows on its heels.
“I said I’m fine,” you murmur.
His jaw tightens at your words before he argues, “You’re not, though.”
The words land between you with surprising force, and before you know it, he’s crouching in front of your lounger, forearms resting on his knees. For a second, you can see the boy you first fell for—the one who was all warmth and charm and easy confidence, the one who made you laugh until your ribs hurt and kissed you like you were precious. The version of him you keep trying to reconcile with the one who stood at the edge of the pool and laughed at your grief.
“I know I was a dick the other day,” he says, quieter now. “I do know that. And I’m sorry. But you’ve barely looked at me since.” Your throat tightens, and he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture familiar enough to ache. “Talk to me.”
You almost laugh, because now he’s asking for honesty, after proving what he does with your vulnerability when it’s inconvenient to him. Still, you can’t exactly say that, not without tearing the whole week open.
Instead, you settle for, “I’m trying.”
His expression softens immediately, relief flickering through it. “Okay.”
It shouldn’t be enough - it isn’t enough - but he smiles like it is, like this is progress. Like if he’s gentle now, if he watches his tone and keeps his hands soft and his jokes harmless, then the damage might quietly unmake itself.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe, if Chan didn’t exist, you would let it.
By evening, you’re so wound tight with guilt and anticipation that you feel vaguely ill.
Your boyfriend keeps touching you - not in a way that’s aggressive, or even unusual. It’s a hand at the small of your back as you walk into dinner, fingers brushing your thigh under the table, a kiss pressed to your temple when you excuse yourself to get another drink. Normal, affectionate things. The kind of touches that once would have soothed you without thought.
Now they just make you aware of every difference.
Your boyfriend touches like he assumes access, but Chan touches like he’s asking permission even when his hands are already on you. Your boyfriend apologises and then expects your warmth back as proof he’s been forgiven, whereas Chan comforts you like there’s nothing for you to prove at all. Your boyfriend notices when you go cold, unlike Chan, who notices before you freeze.
It’s unbearable, really, how impossible it is to stop measuring them against each other.
At eight-fifty, you stand from the table and murmur something about needing the loo before bed.
Your boyfriend glances up. “Want me to come with you?”
The question makes you blink. “To the bathroom?”
He laughs. “No, idiot. I mean after. We could go for a walk or something.”
The easy affection in his voice twists the guilt deeper into your ribs.
“I’m really tired,” you say. “I think I’m just going to sleep.”
He looks disappointed, but only for a second. “Okay.”
Then, because apparently the universe isn’t done punishing you, he catches your hand and pulls you down just enough to kiss you. It’s soft, familiar. Perfectly normal. But all you can think about is how wrong it feels to be kissed by him while your pulse is already racing for someone else.
You pull away first, and your boyfriend searches your face for a beat, brows drawing together.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie tastes awful. “Just tired.”
Always tired, but you just don’t want to admit what you’re tired of yet.
He lets you go, and you leave before he can ask anything else.
Chan is in the water when you arrive. He’s waist-deep in the shallow end, dark swim shorts hanging low on his hips, one hand braced on the edge as he stretches the other shoulder across his chest. His hair is damp and curling at the ends, and when he hears the gate open he looks up with a smile that starts small and then warms all the way through when he realises it’s you.
“Hey.”
You stop dead at the edge. It’s not fair, really, that someone should look so at home in water. He’s not just comfortable in it, but part of it somehow, like it answers to him. Like it knows him. The pool lights ripple silver-blue over the planes of his shoulders and chest, catching in the droplets running down his neck, and for one awful second your brain offers up the deeply unhelpful thought that drowning in him might actually be worth it.
You clear your throat. “Hi.”
Chan’s smile turns suspiciously amused. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No,” he agrees, pushing off the wall and wading toward the steps. “But whatever it was, it made you go pink.”
Heat floods your face immediately, proving his point, and he grins at your reaction.
“Cruel,” you mutter.
“Says the girl who stared at me like I’d just risen dramatically from the sea.”
You make a strangled noise of horror. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says lightly, and the words hit with enough force that you have to look away.
He notices that too, and his expression shifts, some of the teasing falling away as he climbs out of the pool and grabs a towel from the lounger. He rubs it briskly through his hair, then drapes it around his neck and comes to stand in front of you.
“You okay?”
The gentleness in the question almost undoes you on the spot.
“Yeah.” You hesitate. “Maybe.”
Chan’s brows lift a little. “Boyfriend?”
Your laugh is short and humourless. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
The answer is so soft, so immediate, that your chest squeezes. You stare at him, and Chan seems to realise how that sounded a second too late. His mouth opens, then closes again, and he glances down at the towel around his neck like it’s suddenly become very interesting.
“Come here,” he says instead, stepping aside to let you through the gate.
You follow him to the shallow end in silence. Tonight the towels are already laid out, but so is the stupid blue noodle, floating innocently near the steps like it has every intention of ruining your dignity for a third consecutive night. There’s a bottle of water waiting by the edge too, beads of condensation shining on the plastic.
“You did all this before I got here?” you ask.
Chan shrugs one shoulder. “I had time.”
The understatement of it makes something ache under your ribs. He had time, so he spent it getting things ready for you. No one has ever prepared for your fear before. Managed it, maybe. Tolerated it. Worked around it. But prepared for it?
Never.
You swallow hard and look away before your face gives you up, but Chan notices anyway. He doesn’t comment; instead, he crouches in front of you and says, “Tell me where we’re starting tonight.”
You blink. “What?”
“Anxiety level. Body stuff. Head stuff. Give me the report.”
There’s something so absurdly tender about the matter-of-fact way he says it that you almost laugh.
“Uh.” You think about it. “Head stuff is bad.”
“Define bad.”
“I spent most of dinner feeling guilty.”
His expression stills. “About this?”
You nod, and Chan sits back on his heels, eyes on your face. You rush on before he can say anything. “I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I know it’s just swimming lessons, technically, and I know my boyfriend doesn’t own every minute of my time, but I also know if he knew I was sneaking off every night to be in a pool with another guy he would absolutely not be thrilled, and—”
“Hey.”
Your mouth snaps shut; Chan’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the spiral instantly. “You don’t have to justify it to me.” You look at him, and his jaw is tight in a way that tells you he’s choosing his words carefully when he says, “If you want to stop because it feels wrong, that’s your call. I mean that. I’ll respect it.” His gaze holds yours. “But if the only reason you feel guilty is that he’d be upset you’re doing something kind for yourself with somebody who isn’t him… I don’t think that’s the same thing.”
The air leaves your lungs in a shaky rush, and you sink down onto the edge of the pool and stare at your knees as you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Chan sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You’re learning to swim.”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“Correct.”
He waits a beat, then adds more softly, “Do you want to be here?”
The answer is immediate enough to startle you.
“Yes.”
His shoulder nudges yours. “Then be here.”
Your eyes sting, but you nod anyway.
“Good.” He stands and offers you his hand. “In we go.”
Tonight, he gets you farther than you think is possible.
He doesn’t rush you, and you quickly realise that Chan has a gift for making progress feel accidental, like he’s tricking your body into trust one tiny choice at a time. First it’s the steps again, just to settle you. Then the second step. Then standing, his hands braced warm and steady at your waist before you’ve even fully risen, like he knows exactly which second your fear will peak and intends to be there before it does.
“Breathe,” he murmurs as your fingers clamp onto his shoulders.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re hyperventilating prettily. Different thing.”
You glare at him, panicked and scandalised all at once. “Did you just call me pretty?”
Chan’s eyes widen. “I—” The flush that climbs up his throat is almost enough to make you forget you’re in a pool. “I meant— no, I mean, yes, obviously, but that’s not—” He drags a hand over his face. “Can we pretend I’m better at words than this?”
A startled laugh breaks out of you, sharp enough to shake your shoulders, and just like that, the panic ebbs.
Chan points at you accusingly. “You’re evil. You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Mm. Sure.”
Still blushing, he slides one hand more securely around your waist and steadies you while you stand in the shallow end, water kissing the tops of your thighs.
The contact is immediate and electric.
You’ve been here before, in this exact position, but tonight you’re too aware of it - of his palm spread warm against your side, of the wet cling of your shirt where his fingers press through it, of how close he has to stand to keep you balanced, chest almost brushing yours every time you wobble.
And you do wobble.
A lot.
Each time, Chan catches you without hesitation, one hand at your waist. The other finds its place on your arm, your back, your hip—wherever you’re tipping, wherever your body reaches for help before your mind can stop it. There’s no awkwardness in it from him, no self-conscious pause, just immediate support. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to gather you back in every time the water scares you.
“Okay,” he says after a while, once your breathing has settled. “Tonight I want to try floating properly.”
You stare at him in horror. “Properly?”
“Mm-hm.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Chan, I only just stopped crying on you every five minutes.”
“And I’m very proud of your growth.”
You splash him weakly, but he just grins and catches your wrist before you can do it again, fingers wrapping around it with an ease that makes your stomach flip.
“Listen to me,” he says, gentling immediately when he sees your face change. “I’m not letting go of you.”
The words land low and deep.
You swallow. “At all?”
“Not unless you ask me to.”
He steps closer as he says it, hand sliding from your wrist to your waist, thumb pressing lightly into the damp cotton at your side. His other hand comes up to cup just beneath your shoulder blade. Your pulse jumps.
“We’re doing it on your back,” he says. “You’ll keep one arm around my neck if you want to, and I’ll hold the rest of you. All you have to do is lean.”
You laugh once, hollow with nerves. “That sounds like a terrible plan.”
“It’s a great plan.”
“It sounds like drowning while hugging you.”
“Very rude way to describe my teaching methods.”
Despite yourself, you smile, and Chan’s gaze flicks to your mouth for the briefest second, before he’s clearing his throat and saying, a little more roughly, “Come on. Trust me?”
The question cracks something open in your chest when you realise that you do trust him - maybe more than you should when you barely know him. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone when your soul recognises them.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
Chan nods once, slow and serious, like he understands the weight of what you’ve just given him.
“Arm around my neck,” he says softly.
You obey before you can think too hard about it. Your hand slides over the damp slope of his shoulder, then around the back of his neck. His skin is warm and slick under your palm. You can feel the wet curls at his nape, the flex of muscle when your fingers tighten.
Chan’s breath catches - only for a second – before his hand settles more securely at the middle of your back, spanning almost the full width of it, while the other hooks under your knees.
Your eyes widen. “Chan.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
There it is again: I’ve got you. No impatience, or embarrassment, or challenge. Just him, gathering your fear into his hands and holding it steady.
“Lean back,” he says.
Every instinct in your body screams no. Your fingers knot tighter at the back of his neck, your free hand grabbing his shoulder. Chan shifts closer until your chest is nearly flush with his, giving you nowhere to fall but into him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’m not letting you go.”
Your breathing turns shallow.
“Look at me.”
You do, taking in the closeness of dark eyes, wet lashes. Pool light catches silver-blue over his cheekbones. Every bit of his attention is fixed on you as if there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
“Just me,” he says softly.
And somehow, impossibly, you lean.
At first it’s barely anything. Just a hesitant angle backwards, your body rigid with resistance. Chan follows every inch of it, one arm supporting your back, the other still under your knees, keeping you half-curled against him as the water rises higher around you.
“Good,” he says immediately. “That’s good.”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
He smiles. “I know.”
“Everything in me is screaming.”
“Mm. Mine too.”
Your eyes snap to his, and Chan looks horrified at himself for about half a second. “I meant because I’m worried about you.”
“Right.”
“Shut up and float.”
You laugh, which ruins your concentration completely, and the sound turns into a startled gasp when your shoulders touch the water. Panic flares, but Chan tightens his hold at once, his forearm firm under your back, his hand sliding up between your shoulder blades so your head never gets close to the surface.
“Hey, hey.” His voice drops low. “You’re okay. Stay with me.”
Your body is trembling now, stretched awkwardly between wanting to curl back upright and the support of his arms keeping you open. Your arm around his neck is practically strangling him. Your legs are still half-bent over his supporting arm.
“I can’t do it.”
“You are doing it.”
“I’m literally clinging to you.”
“Excellent instinct.”
“Chan—”
“You’re floating.”
You stare at him. The water cradles more of your weight now than his arms do. Not all of it, not yet, but enough that you can feel the difference—the strange buoyancy under your back, the way the pool holds you instead of swallowing you.
Your mouth parts, breathing, “Oh.”
Chan’s smile is immediate and soft and so stupidly proud it makes your chest hurt. “Yeah. Oh.”
You’re still gripping him like a life raft, but for one suspended, impossible second you become aware of everything all at once: the water under you, the arm around his neck, his palm spread broad and warm between your shoulders, the other braced securely beneath your knees, his face so close above yours that if you tipped your chin up even slightly your nose would brush his jaw.
“I’m floating,” you whisper.
His voice comes out quieter than before - reverent, almost – when he murmurs, “You are.”
You don’t know how long you stay like that. It could just be ten seconds, or it could be an entire lifetime compressed into the shape of one trembling moment in a dark resort pool.
Eventually Chan says, “Think you can try straightening your legs?”
You laugh weakly. “Absolutely not.”
“Fair.”
He helps you sit up slowly, carefully, drawing you back against his chest until your feet find the pool floor again. For a second your back is pressed to the front of him, his arm still curved around your middle from where he’s been supporting you, your wet hair catching against his jaw.
Neither of you moves for a minute before you turn your head to look at him and realise just how close he is. His mouth is barely inches from yours, and your breath catches. Chan’s eyes drop to your lips, the hand around your waist tightening—just once, involuntarily.
But then footsteps sound somewhere beyond the fence.
You both jerk apart, your heart slamming against your ribs. Chan turns first, scanning the dark pathway beyond the pool with the quick alertness of someone used to checking for trouble, but the sound is already fading again—just a couple passing by on the path outside, laughing quietly to themselves, oblivious.
Still, the moment is broken.
You swallow hard and look anywhere but at him.
“Sorry,” you murmur, because apparently humiliation has not cured you of apologising for things that aren’t your fault.
Chan scrubs a hand over his wet hair. “Don’t.” His voice is rough. You glance up, and he looks as rattled as you feel. “Maybe,” he says after a second, forcing some steadiness back into his tone, “we stick to less romantic-looking teaching positions.”
The laugh that escapes you is breathless and mortified. “Was that romantic-looking?”
“I was literally carrying you in a moonlit pool.”
Well, when he puts it like that—
You cover your face with both hands. “Oh, my god.”
Chan laughs too, quieter this time, but there’s something fragile underneath it. Something almost relieved.
“Come here,” he says gently, and reaches for you again before the embarrassment can swallow you whole.
This time he doesn’t pull you into his arms; he just takes your hands. He threads his fingers carefully through yours and steps backwards through the water until your arms are stretched between you, your bodies a safe distance apart.
“Better?” he asks.
“No,” you admit.
His mouth twitches. “Honest.”
“Always.”
“Good.”
He squeezes your hands once, grounding. “Try floating again. This time with me in front of you instead of under you. I’ll hold your hands the whole time.”
You stare at him. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It sounds fake.”
“Do you trust me?”
The question still does something dangerous to your pulse.
“Yes,” you say, too quickly.
Something flickers across his face before he nods. “Then let me show you.”
It’s somehow harder and easier all at once. Harder because you don’t have the full support of his arms around you anymore. Easier because he doesn’t ask for much—just a small lean back, just enough for the water to take some of your weight while his fingers stay locked around yours, his voice guiding you through every awful inch of uncertainty.
“I’m right here,” he says when your eyes squeeze shut. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You make a shaky sound that could be a laugh or a cry. “Chan.”
“Mm?”
“If I drown in three feet of water, I’m haunting you.”
“Bit unfair, considering I’d be the one doing CPR.”
You snort, and your body loosens by a fraction.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good.”
He praises you constantly in that low, warm voice—every tiny success, every extra second you manage, every time you don’t bolt. And each time he does, something in you glows a little brighter with it. Not because you need approval, exactly. But because Chan never makes praise feel conditional. He gives it freely and sincerely, like he wants you to know he sees every inch of the effort it costs.
By the end of the lesson, you can float for a few seconds at a time while holding his hands. It’s not graceful, but it’s enough. Enough that when you finally stand upright again, shaking and breathless and stupidly proud, Chan actually laughs and scoops you into a quick, impulsive hug before he seems to think better of it. It lasts maybe two seconds, but it’s long enough for his wet chest to press against yours. For your arms to come up around him automatically, and for both of you to freeze when you realise what’s happening.
Chan pulls back first.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, though he’s smiling too hard for it to sound convincing. “That was— you just looked really pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased with myself,” you say, still dazed.
“You should be.”
His hands are still on your upper arms, and your fingers are still resting against his ribs where they caught on his shirt during the hug. But then, beyond the fence—
Movement.
Not loud enough to break the moment, and not close enough for Chan to notice, but it’s close enough that when your gaze lifts over his shoulder, your stomach drops clean through the floor.
Your boyfriend is standing on the path outside the pool gate.
He must have come looking for you, and for one horrible second, he just stares. He can’t hear what you’re saying through the fence and the water and the distance, but he can definitely see enough. You in the pool after hours. Chan’s hands on your arms. The two of you standing too close in the dark, wrapped up in your own little world.
Your pulse spikes so violently you nearly flinch.
He doesn’t call out, doesn’t storm in or even make a face. His expression just shifts—confusion first, then something flatter and harder to read—and then he turns and walks away. He’s gone before you can do anything but stare.
“Hey.” Chan’s voice pulls you back, and you blink and look at him too quickly. His brows knit together at once as he asks, “What happened?”
You realise, dimly, that your face must have changed. You force your eyes away from the empty path beyond his shoulder and back to him. “Nothing.”
Chan doesn’t believe you for a second, but he doesn’t push either. At least, not immediately. Instead, he glances once over his shoulder, sees only darkness and the empty walkway, and looks back at you with that quiet, searching concern that always makes lying feel impossible.
“Talk to me.”
Your throat tightens. You know you should tell him, but the thought of saying it out loud—my boyfriend just saw us, my boyfriend thinks I’m cheating, my boyfriend might be hurt, angry, suspicious, all because I came here, because I wanted this, because I wanted you—makes panic rise too fast to handle.
Instead, you shake your head, voice coming out thin when you ask, “Can we just… Can we not do this right now?”
Chan stills. The concern in his face softens into something gentler, more careful. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, okay.”
You look down at the water, ashamed. Chan’s fingers tighten very slightly around your upper arms, just once, before he lets go and steps back enough to give you air.
“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he says. “But you’re not leaving this pool looking like that without at least letting me know if you’re okay.”
The tenderness of it nearly breaks you all over again.
You laugh once, unsteady. “You’re really annoying.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
That drags a real laugh out of you, small and shaky and grateful. Chan smiles, relieved enough that it makes your chest hurt.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Out you get.”
He helps you back to the steps with a hand at your back and another around your wrist, steady as ever, like he can feel the tremor that’s worked its way through you and has already decided you won’t have to carry it alone. As he walks you to the gate a few minutes later, shoulders brushing under the warm night air, you can feel the shape of the problem waiting for you back in your room.
Your boyfriend knows something now - maybe not everything, maybe not even enough - but enough to ask questions. Enough to look at you differently. Enough to make tomorrow impossible to avoid.
Chan pauses at the gate and studies your face for a moment. “You sure you’re okay to go back?”
No, you think. Not even slightly.
You nod anyway, but he doesn’t believe it for a second.
“Liar,” he says softly.
Your eyes sting. Before you can stop yourself, you reach for him. Your fingers catch lightly around his wrist for half a second, as if touching him might hold you together long enough to make it back to your room. Chan stills instantly, his gaze dropping to your hand, then lifts to your face.
Something in his expression goes warm and helpless all at once.
“You can text me through reception if you need me,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You can do that?”
“One of the perks of being criminally charming with the night staff.” A laugh escapes you despite everything. He turns his hand beneath yours until your fingers slide into his palm instead, squeezing once—firm and grounding and far too intimate for something so small.
“Go,” he says softly. “Before I decide you’re not going back at all.”
Your breath catches. Chan seems to hear the way it changes because his eyes drop to your mouth. Again. The space between you narrows without either of you moving. You can feel it—the pull of it, heavy and electric and terrifying in its inevitability.
The near-kiss arrives so slowly it almost doesn’t feel real.
Your fingers tighten in his, his thumb drags once over your knuckles, your chin lifts before you’ve consciously decided to move. Chan’s free hand comes up, not quite touching your face, just hovering at your jaw like he’s one second away from crossing a line neither of you can uncross.
But then he stops.
His eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, the heat is still there, but now buried under restraint so obvious it makes your chest ache.
“You should go,” he says, voice low and wrecked.
You can’t tell whether he’s talking to you or to himself, but you let go and turn and walk back through the sleeping resort with your heart somewhere in your throat and your boyfriend waiting at the other end of the path.
When you get back to the room, it’s empty.
For one disorienting second, you think maybe he’s asleep in the bathroom or out on the balcony with the door shut, but then you hear voices drifting from the little seating area outside and step back into the corridor to find his parents there instead.
His mum looks up from her book first. “Oh, sweetheart. There you are.”
You force a smile that feels brittle around the edges. “Hi.”
“Have you seen him?” his dad asks casually. “He said he needed a walk.”
Your stomach drops, but you try very hard not to let it show.
“No,” you say, and it comes out thinner than you want it to. “I thought he was here.”
His mum gives you a sympathetic little frown. “He seemed upset about something.”
Guilt slices through you so quickly it steals your breath as you say, “Oh.” You tuck your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the warm night air. “I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just needed to clear his head.”
“Probably,” she says kindly. “Try not to worry.”
You nod, murmur goodnight, and slip into the room before your face can give you away.
But worry is exactly what you do.
You sit on the edge of the bed for ten full minutes, still damp at the ends of your hair, staring at your phone in your lap and trying to decide what to do. Text him? Call him? Pretend to be asleep when he gets back? Pretend you don’t know he saw you?
In the end, cowardice wins, and you send one single message: Are you okay?
It sits there undelivered for so long your chest tightens before it eventually goes through. You wait for his reply, but it never comes.
You don’t sleep properly. Every time footsteps sound in the corridor outside, you jolt awake thinking it might be him. Every time a door slams somewhere in the resort, your heart leaps into your throat. You keep imagining him drunk at a bar, furious and hurt and humiliated, replaying the sight of you in the pool with Chan over and over until it becomes something uglier than it was.
And the worst part—the part you can’t escape—is that you don’t even know how to defend yourself against it, because even if nothing happened, you wanted it to. You wanted Chan’s hands on you, wanted the way he looked at you. You wanted that almost-kiss at the gate enough that your whole body still aches with the absence of it.
You fall asleep sometime close to dawn with your phone clutched in one hand and dread sitting like a stone in your stomach. When you wake, the other side of the bed is still untouched. For one long second you just stare at it. The pillow still plumped, the duvet smooth. There’s no sign that he ever came back at all.
Panic rushes through you so quickly you nearly drop your phone in your scramble to check it. Nothing - no messages, no missed calls. You call him, and it goes straight to voicemail. The next attempt yields the same result, and your pulse starts to race.
By the time you’ve washed your face and thrown on a sundress over your swimsuit, you’ve convinced yourself of six different disasters. That he’s passed out somewhere. That he’s been in a fight. That he’s gone home without telling anyone. That he hates you. That this is all your fault. That somehow, impossibly, you’ve ruined everything in the span of a few nights by wanting the wrong person to hold you in a swimming pool.
His mum is already downstairs at breakfast when you arrive, and one look at the empty chair beside his dad tells you what you need to know. He’s still not back.
“You heard from him?” you ask, trying and failing to sound casual.
His dad shakes his head, but he doesn’t seem especially alarmed. “He’s twenty-four, not twelve. Probably crashed in one of the lads’ rooms after too many drinks.”
His mum gives him a look. “He could have let someone know.”
“Yes, he could,” he agrees, and then turns to you with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. “But I really wouldn’t panic yet, sweetheart.”
Too late.
You spend breakfast barely tasting anything, picking at fruit and toast while your phone sits face-up beside your plate like an accusation. Every time it lights up with some useless notification, your stomach lurches. Nothing from him. When his younger sister suggests heading down to the pool after breakfast, you hear yourself say yes before you’ve really thought about it - maybe because sitting still feels impossible, or because your nerves are already so frayed that fear has nowhere left to land.
Maybe because some reckless, aching part of you knows Chan will be there.
The thought steadies you in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.
By the time you reach the pool, the sun is already hot enough to turn the tiles warm under your sandals. Families fill the loungers. Children shriek in the shallows. Music drifts faintly from the bar. And there, high on the lifeguard chair with sunglasses on and one knee drawn up, is Chan.
Your breath catches as he spots you almost immediately. Even from a distance, even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, you see the exact moment he recognises you. His posture changes – straightens, sharpens. His gaze follows you all the way to the loungers with a kind of quiet focus that makes your skin hum. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t smile. Not with your boyfriend’s family right there.
But when you glance up again a minute later, he’s still watching, and somehow, absurdly, that’s enough.
a/n: *whispers* reader's boyfriend is a prick, pass it on. Also, I am not condoning cheating in any way, shape, or form. And no, I don't think Chan would pursue someone who's taken irl, either. This is fiction. Part Two coming soon xo
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