"not this time. it's... well, just open it."

you watched him, suddenly feeling a little shy. you’d spent the last three weekends hunched over a crochet hook, watching endless youtube tutorials and swearing at tangled yarn until your fingers cramped. it wasn't perfect—the stitches were a bit uneven in places, and one of the ears was slightly more lopsided than the other—but it was made with a lot of love and an embarrassing amount of patience.

chan pulled the item out of the bag, and for a second, he just went completely still.

it was a small, plush wolf—a homemade wolf chan. you’d even managed to find a tiny scrap of black fabric to give him a little hoodie that matched the one chan was currently wearing.

"you made this?" chan asked, his voice barely a whisper. he held the wolf like it was made of glass, turning it over in his large hands. he poked the lopsided ear, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. "wait, did you actually crochet this yourself? like, from scratch?"

"yeah," you mumble, looking down at your shoes. "i know it's a little wonky. the tutorial was in spanish and i don't actually speak spanish, so i just kind of guessed halfway through. and i think i stuffed the head too much, so he looks a bit... intense. but i wanted you to have something to keep you company when i'm not here."

chan didn't say anything for a long moment. he just kept staring at the little wolf, his thumb rubbing over the yarn. when he finally looked up, his eyes were shimmering with that specific, soft look that always made your knees feel a bit weak. it wasn't just a "thanks" look; it was the look he got when he was genuinely overwhelmed.

"it's not wonky," he said firmly, though his voice cracked just a tiny bit. he stood up, the chair rolling back with a loud click, and stepped into your space. "it's the best thing i've ever seen. look at his little face. he looks just like me when i'm stressed."

"he looks like he’s had six espressos, chan. just like you."

he laughed, a real, belly-deep sound that seemed to chase the exhaustion right out of the room. "okay, fair point."

he set the wolf down right in front of his main monitor, tucked between his interface and his speakers. "there. now he can judge my mixing decisions. 'chan, that kick is too loud,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, making you giggle.

then, his expression shifted. he reached out, taking your hand in his and running his thumb over the small red mark on your index finger where the needle had nipped you. "is this from making him?"

"maybe," you admitted.

chan sighed, pulling you into his chest. he smelled like expensive cologne and stale coffee, a scent that shouldn't work but somehow felt like the safest place on earth. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist and squeezing tight.

"you're too good to me," he mumbled into your skin. "i'm sitting here losing my mind over a bridge that won't work, and you're at home stabbing your fingers with needles just to make me a little mascot."

"i just wanted you to smile, channie. you’ve been looking so tired lately."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your hips. the dim studio lighting made the moment feel heavy, intimate in a way that made your pulse jump. "i am tired," he confessed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "but honestly? seeing this... seeing you... it's better than sleep."

he looked back at the little wolf chan on the desk, then back at you, a mischievous little glint entering his eyes. "though, i have to say, he's much softer than i am. does this mean i have competition for your attention now?"

"don't be jealous of a ball of yarn," you laughed, swatting at his chest.

"i'm a very competitive person," he joked, but then his smile softened again, turning into that quiet, sincere expression that felt like a hug. "thank you. seriously. i’m never taking him off this desk. if the building catches fire, i’m grabbing the laptop and the wolf, in that order."

"glad to know i'm at least top two," you teased.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like the lingering sweetness of his earlier coffee and something uniquely him. when he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath warm against your face.

"you're number one," he whispered. "the wolf is just a very close second because he was made by you."

he squeezed your hand one last time before sitting back down, but he didn't go straight back to the music. instead, he picked the wolf up again, adjusted its tiny hoodie, and gave it a little pat on the head.

"alright, wolf chan," he muttered to the plushie, "let's finish this track so i can go home with the person who made you."

you sat on the couch in the back, watching him work with a newfound energy, the little yarn wolf standing guard over the sliders and knobs. it wasn't a professional piece of merch, and it wouldn't pass a quality check in a store, but seeing the way chan kept glancing at it with that goofy, smitten grin made every cramped finger and tangled thread worth it.

LEE KNOW

minho’s apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft thud of a cat jumping off a counter. he was sitting on the floor, intensely focused on brushing dori, who was purring loud enough to vibrate the floorboards. he didn't even look up when you sat down beside him, though the corner of his mouth hitched up in a tiny, almost invisible greeting.

"you’re late," he remarked, his voice smooth and teasing. "soonie and dongie already gave up on you. they’re napping in the bedroom because you weren't here to entertain them."

"i had errands," you lied badly, feeling the weight of the small gift box in your bag. "and i brought something. for you. well—mostly for you."

minho finally paused, setting the brush down. he leaned back on his palms, eyeing you with that sharp, cat-like curiosity of his. "a peace offering? what did you do? did you accidentally delete my gym playlist or something?"

"just open it, lee know."

you pulled the box out and handed it to him. he took it, his long fingers nimble as he pried the lid off. inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a handmade leebit keychain.

you had spent hours on it. it wasn't the official plastic kind; it was sewn from soft, cream-colored felt with little hand-embroidered eyes and that signature grumpy-yet-cute expression. you’d even stitched a tiny heart on the back, hidden under the cotton tail.

minho went silent. his usual quick-witted wall of snark seemed to hit a snag. he picked it up by the metal ring, letting the little felt rabbit dangle in front of his face. he poked the bunny’s cheek, then looked at the slightly crooked stitching along the ears.

"it's... a rabbit," he said flatly, but his ears were starting to turn a tell-tale shade of pink.

"it's leebit," you corrected, feeling a flush of heat creep up your own neck. "i made it myself. i know it's not perfect—the ears are kind of different lengths and i think i used the wrong shade of thread for the nose, but—"

"it looks like it’s judging me," minho interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. he looked at you then, his dark eyes searching yours. "how long did this take you?"

"too long. i poked myself with the needle like ten times. sewing is way harder than it looks in those aesthetic hobby videos."

minho looked back at the keychain. he didn't laugh or make a joke about how "ugly" it was, which was what you had actually prepared yourself for. instead, he carefully hooked the ring onto his finger, watching the little bunny swing back and forth.

"you’re a dummy," he murmured, his voice lacking any real bite. "you should’ve just bought one if you wanted me to have a keychain."

"but that wouldn't be from me, would it?"

minho huffed, a soft sound that was more of a fond exhale than a sigh. he reached out and, instead of taking the gift away, he grabbed your hand, turning it over to look at your fingertips. he found a tiny, faded red dot from a needle prick and ran his thumb over it, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"you’re clumsy," he said, though he didn't let go of your hand. "don't do it again. i don't need felt rabbits that cost you your blood."

"you don't like it?" you teased, though you could see the way he was already trying to find a place for it.

"i didn't say that." he stood up, crossing the room to where his keys were sitting on the kitchen island. you watched as he methodically threaded the leebit onto his heavy ring of keys, right next to his car fob. it looked a little ridiculous—this soft, handmade, slightly wonky bunny hanging next to his sleek metal keys—but he didn't seem to care.

he walked back over, dropping back down onto the floor beside you. dori immediately crawled into his lap, and minho began absentmindedly stroking the cat’s ears while keeping his other hand close to yours.

"it’s going to get dirty," he noted, staring at the keychain. "felt is a magnet for cat hair. it’ll probably look like soonie in a week."

"i can make you a new one if it gets gross."

"no." he looked at you, his expression softening into something rare and vulnerable, the kind of look he usually reserved for his three cats when he thought no one was watching. "i want this one. it has character. it looks like it’s been through a war, just like its creator."

"hey!"

he chuckled, a low, private sound. he leaned in then, bumping his shoulder against yours. "thank you. really. it’s... it’s cute. even if the ears are lopsided."

"i think the lopsided ears give him personality."

"sure," minho smirks, finally letting a bit of his usual mischief back in. "it matches you perfectly then."

you went to swat him, but he caught your wrist, pulling you closer until your foreheads were almost touching. the teasing light in his eyes didn't fade, but it was joined by something much warmer, much more solid.

"it’s the first thing i’m going to see every time i leave the house," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "so you better be ready for me to text you every time i look at it."

"i think i can handle that."

"good," he murmured, before leaning in to close the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that felt like a quiet "thank you" and a promise all at once.

when he pulled back, he glanced at the leebit keychain again and then at dori. "don't tell the cats, but this might be my new favorite thing in the apartment."

CHANGBIN

the gym bag was heavy on changbin’s shoulder when he walked through the front door, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead from a particularly brutal late-night session.

he looked like he’d been through the ringer, but the second he saw you sitting on his floor surrounded by bits of black and pink yarn, his entire face shifted. that tired, heavy-lidded look vanished, replaced by a curious, slightly lopsided grin.

"what’s all this?" he asked, dropping his bag by the door with a dull thud. he walked over, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and peered down at the chaos of your workspace. "are you starting a textile factory in my living room?"

you laughed, quickly trying to scoop up the scrap pieces. "it's just a project. i was trying to finish it before you got back, but you're early for once."

"early?" he scoffed, checking his watch. "it's almost midnight. i think i'm right on time for whatever mischief you're up to."

he sat down on the floor across from you, his legs folded comfortably. he didn't care that he was sweaty or that the floor was covered in fuzz; he just wanted to be in your space. he watched you for a moment, his eyes darting between your hands and the slightly lumpy shape hidden behind your back.

"come on, show me," he nudged, his voice dropping into that playful, whiny tone he used when he wanted to get his way. "i've been lifting heavy things for three hours, i think i deserve a reward."

you sighed, though there was no real frustration behind it. "okay, fine. but you have to promise not to laugh. i'm still learning how to do the structure properly."

you slowly pulled the item from behind your back. it was a handmade, crocheted dwaekki—but it wasn't just a simple doll. you had turned it into a small, plush weights-lifting buddy. the dwaekki was wearing a tiny, crocheted black headband, and you had even managed to stitch two small gray dumbbells that were permanently attached to its little paws.

changbin’s reaction wasn't immediate. he just stared at it, his mouth falling open slightly. then, he reached out, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate as he took the doll from your hands.

"no way," he breathed, his voice thick with genuine shock. "you made a buff dwaekki?"

"he’s a gym rat," you explained, your voice a little shy as you pointed out the details. "see? i tried to give him slightly broader shoulders by adding extra stitches in the rows, and i used a metallic yarn for the dumbbells so they’d look like real iron. he’s supposed to be your workout partner for when you’re at home."

changbin was quiet, his thumb tracing the tiny headband you’d carefully sewn on. he looked at the stitching—which was tight and neat, evidence of the hours you’d spent hunched over a lamp—and then he looked at the weights.

"look at his little gains," changbin whispered, a huge, face-splitting grin finally breaking out. he looked like a kid on christmas morning. he held the dwaekki up at eye level, making it 'flex' its little stuffed arms. "he’s literally me. he’s perfect. look at the definition on his ears!"

"it’s just yarn, bin. there's no definition."

"to the untrained eye, maybe," he countered, holding the plushie to his chest. "but i can see the hard work. i know how much effort goes into making something like this."

he looked at you then, and the playful energy settled into something much deeper. changbin had always been the one to provide the 'strong' energy—the one who protected, the one who worked out to stay sturdy for the people he loved—but receiving something that acknowledged that part of him in such a soft, domestic way clearly hit him hard.

"you really sat here and did all this for me?" he asked, his voice softening. "how many times did you have to redo those arms? i know how perfectionist you get."

"four times," you admitted. "the first version looked more like a pig-rabbit with a giant marshmallow. i had to keep adjusting the tension."

changbin let out a soft, breathy chuckle and leaned forward, pulling you into a hug that smelled like salt and citrus. he was warm—radiating heat from the gym—but it felt like home. he kept the dwaekki tucked between you, the little yarn dumbbells pressing into your shoulder.

"thank you," he murmured against your hair. "seriously. i'm going to put him right on my bedside table. or maybe i'll take him to the studio so i can show chan and han that i have the coolest partner in the world."

"please don't take him to the studio, he’s probably going to fall apart if you handle him too much."

"he’s built different, just like his dad," changbin joked, pulling back to look at you. he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your face. "i mean it, though. i love it. i love that you put so much of your time into something just to make me smile."

he leaned in and pressed a firm, sweet kiss to your forehead, then another to your nose. "i was actually having a really frustrating session. my reps felt heavy, my mind was all over the place... but i come home to this? it’s like all the stress just evaporated."

he picked up the dwaekki again, making it do a little dance on his knee. "we're going to be the strongest duo in the k-pop industry. just me and yarn-bin."

"is that what you're naming him?"

"obviously. he needs a strong name." changbin grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "and since he’s always holding those weights, he’ll never skip arm day. he’s an inspiration to us all."

you couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. even though he was a world-class rapper and a literal powerhouse, he was currently losing his mind over a six-inch tall ball of pink yarn and stuffing.

"i'm glad you like him," you said, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"i don't like him," changbin corrected, pulling you closer until you were tucked under his arm. "i love him. but i love the person who made him way more. so, you win."

he spent the rest of the night showing 'yarn-bin' around the apartment, taking pictures of the doll 'lifting' his actual protein shaker and sending them to the group chat, ignoring the flurry of 'you're so whipped' messages that immediately came back.

and as you watched him, tired but beaming, you realized that no matter how big his muscles got, he’d always have the softest heart for anything you made for him.

HYUNJIN

the sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, honey-colored glow across hyunjin’s living room. he was sitting on the floor in front of a blank canvas, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched out some loose, flowing lines.

the smell of linseed oil and turpentine always seemed to cling to him, a scent you had grown to associate entirely with his creative process.

you walked in quietly, trying not to disturb his flow, but he noticed you immediately. he always did. he set his charcoal pencil down, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he wiped his hands on a stray rag.

"you’re back," he said, his voice light and melodic. "i was starting to think the art supply store swallowed you whole. did you find the brushes you were looking for?"

"i did," you said, sitting down on the rug beside him. "but i also spent the last week working on something else. a little surprise."

hyunjin’s eyes sparked with instant interest. he was someone who lived for aesthetics, for beauty, and for the thought behind a gesture. he leaned in, his long hair falling over his shoulder as he tucked it back behind his ear. "a surprise? for me?"

you reached into your bag and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped bundle. inside was a handmade jiniret beret. it wasn't just a hat; you had spent hours knitting the soft, white wool, making sure the tension was just right so it would sit perfectly.

on the side, you had meticulously embroidered a tiny jiniret face, complete with the little beauty mark under the eye. you had even added two small, pointed ferret ears that stood up subtly from the top of the beret.

as you handed it to him, hyunjin’s breath hitched. he took it with both hands, his fingers brushing over the soft yarn. he didn't say anything at first, just stared at the embroidery, his eyes tracing every single stitch you had made.

"you made this?" he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "the embroidery... it’s so small. and you even got the mole right."

"i wanted you to have something you could actually wear," you said, feeling your heart flutter at the way he was looking at it. "i know you love berets, and i thought a jiniret one would be cute for when you’re painting or just hanging out. the wool is really soft, i made sure of it."

hyunjin didn't just look at it; he treated it like a piece of high art. he turned it over, looking at the inside, seeing the neatness of your work. he looked back at you, his expression softening into that deep, soulful look that always felt like it was searching your very heart.

"this is beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "the fact that you took the time to knit this... to do the embroidery... it’s more than just a hat. it’s like you gave me a piece of your time. and that’s the most precious thing."

"it’s just a beret, hyunjin," you teased softly, though your chest felt tight with affection.

"no, it's not 'just' anything," he countered, shaking his head. he immediately pulled his hair back into a low tie and placed the beret on his head, adjusting it in the mirror leaning against the wall.

he tilted his head, watching the little ferret ears perk up. "how do i look? do i look like a proper artist now?"

"you look like the cutest artist in the world."

hyunjin turned back to you, a bright, genuine laugh escaping him. he crawled over the short distance between you on the rug, framing your face with his hands. his palms were still a little stained with charcoal, but you didn't care.

"i’m never taking it off," he declared, his eyes shining. "i’m going to wear it to practice. i’m going to wear it when i go for walks. i want everyone to know that my favorite person made this for me."

"it might get hot in the dance studio," you pointed out, laughing.

"then i’ll just sweat for the sake of fashion and love," he joked, but then he grew serious again. he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. "thank you. truly. it’s so me, but it’s even more you because i can feel how much you cared while you were making it. it’s my new favorite thing."

he leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that tasted like the quiet of the evening and the sweetness of the moment. when he pulled back, he was still smiling, the little jiniret ears on his head making the whole scene look like something out of a dream.

he spent the next hour trying to paint a portrait of the jiniret beret itself, insisting that such a masterpiece deserved its own canvas.

for hyunjin, it wasn't about the gift itself—it was about the fact that you had seen him, understood his style, and put your own heart into creating something just for him.

and to him, that was everything.

HAN

jisung was slumped on his bed, surrounded by a mountain of tangled headphones, half-finished lyric sheets, and empty snack wrappers. the room was dim, lit only by the soft, warm glow of a desk lamp, and he was staring at his laptop with a look of utter defeat.

he looked like a squirrel who had forgotten where he hid his nuts for the winter—vaguely panicked and very overwhelmed.

"han?" you called out softly, stepping over a stray hoodie on the floor.

he jumped about six inches into the air, his eyes wide as he scrambled to pull his headphones down around his neck. "oh! hey! i didn't... i was just... you know, music stuff. big brain moves. very productive."

"you were staring at a blank document for ten minutes, weren't you?"

he deflated instantly, his shoulders slumping. "fifteen. the lyrics just aren't lyric-ing today. i feel like my brain is made of mashed potatoes."

"well, maybe a change of pace will help," you said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching into your bag. "i finished that thing i was telling you about. the project i was keeping secret."

jisung’s ears perked up. he was always a sucker for surprises, his curiosity being one of his most endearing (and sometimes chaotic) traits. "the top-secret mission? the one that made you ignore my memes for three hours straight last tuesday?"

"exactly that one."

you pulled out a small, handmade quokka pouch. it was made of a fuzzy, caramel-colored sherpa fabric that felt like a cloud. you’d sewn it by hand, adding a little zipper across the top of the head.

the face was the best part—you’d used black beads for the eyes and pink felt for the cheeks, giving it that classic, wide-eyed han quokka expression. inside, you’d tucked a few of his favorite honey candies just for good measure.

as you handed it to him, jisung didn't move for a second. he just stared at the little fuzzy face in his palms, his mouth slightly agape.

"is this... me?" he asked, his voice cracking a little. he squeezed the pouch, his eyes lighting up as he felt how soft it was. "wait, it’s a pouch? i can actually put stuff in here?"

"yeah. i thought you could use it for your in-ears, or your guitar picks, or just... snacks. it’s not perfect, the zipper was a nightmare to sew in and i think one of the cheeks is a little higher than the other, but—"

"it's literally the greatest thing i've ever owned," jisung interrupted, his voice hushed with genuine awe. he started petting the fuzzy fabric, a huge, gummy smile spreading across his face. "you made this? with your actual hands? like, with a needle and thread and everything?"

"i did. i have the battle scars to prove it."

jisung looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch. he looked like he was about to burst into tears or start dancing, and with han, it was usually a 50/50 shot.

instead, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you in a messy, enthusiastic hug that sent you both toppling back onto his pillows.

"you're the best," he muffled into your shoulder, squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe. "seriously. i was feeling so stuck and gross and uninspired, and then you just... you walk in with a fuzzy version of my face. how am i supposed to be sad now?"

"i'm glad you like it, hanji."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shimmering with that soft, vulnerable affection he usually tried to hide behind jokes and loud noises. he reached out and poked your nose, your smile turning a little shy.

"i'm never letting anything happen to him," he promised, clutching the pouch to his chest like a treasure. "i'm going to take him everywhere. he's going to be my emotional support quokka. if i'm in the booth and i can't hit a note, i'm just going to look at his little bead eyes for strength."

"just don't get him dirty. sherpa is hard to wash."

"i will protect him with my life," jisung declared, his dramatic flair returning. he sat back up and immediately started emptying his pockets, carefully tucking his favorite picks and a crumpled-up lyric scrap into the pouch. "see? he’s already helping me organize my life. he’s a miracle worker."

he looked at you then, the playful energy settling into something quieter. he reached out, taking your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.

"thank you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "i know how much work goes into stuff like this. the fact that you spent your time making a tiny, fuzzy me... it makes me feel really, really loved."

"you are really, really loved, you idiot."

he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the cramped room. he leaned in and pressed a quick, messy kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead, his nose cold against your skin.

"well, the mashed potatoes in my brain are starting to feel like actual ideas again," he joked, picking up his pen and pointing it at the pouch. "me and the quokka are going to write a masterpiece now. stay and watch?"

"wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

he spent the next two hours working, occasionally stopping to pet the pouch or show it a line he’d written to see if it 'approved.' and as you sat there in the quiet hum of his room, watching him finally find his flow again, it seemed that sometimes the best way to fix a creative block was just a little bit of handmade love—

and a lot of fuzzy fabric.

FELIX

the kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, buttery scent of baking that always seemed to linger in felix’s apartment like a permanent hug. he was bent over the counter, his tongue poking out just a little as he carefully piped tiny white flowers onto a batch of chocolate brownies.

he looked soft—wrapped in an oversized cream sweater, his hair a bit messy from a long day of rehearsals, and a smudge of flour decorating the tip of his nose.

"you’re just in time," he chirped, not looking up but recognizable by the bright, honeyed tone of his voice. "i’m just finishing the last few. i made these especially for you because i know you had a stressful week."

you leaned against the kitchen island, watching him. felix was always the one giving—the one baking, the one checking in, the one pouring his entire heart into making sure everyone else felt seen and loved. it made your heart ache in the best way, and it made you even more nervous about the lumpy, soft shape currently hidden in the deep pocket of your cardigan.

"actually, 'lix, i have something for you too," you said, your voice a little quiet.

he stopped mid-piping, his head snapping up. his eyes, wide and sparkling with that genuine, childlike curiosity he never seemed to lose, locked onto yours. "a gift? for me? but it’s not my birthday. or a holiday. or even a friday—wait, it is friday. but still!"

"it’s just a little thing. i’ve been working on it for a while."

you reached into your pocket and pulled out a handmade, crocheted bbokari sun-hat. it was tiny—not meant for a human, but sized perfectly for the little bbokari plush he kept on his bed.

you had used a vibrant, sunshine-yellow yarn for the base, and you’d even managed to crochet a tiny white daisy to stick on the brim. the stitching was a little tight in some places and a bit loose in others, and the daisy was definitely more of a... suggestive flower shape than a perfect one, but it was bright and cheerful, just like him.

felix’s reaction was immediate and visceral. he didn't just smile; he beamed, his entire face lighting up like a switch had been flipped. he dropped the piping bag—thankfully on the parchment paper—and wiped his hands frantically on his apron before reaching out.

"oh my gosh," he breathed, his voice dropping into that deep, rumbling register that usually meant he was feeling something very strongly. he took the hat from your palm as if it were made of spun gold. "you made this? look at the little flower! look at the yellow! it’s so... it’s so bright!"

"it's for your bbokari plush," you explained, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. "i thought he looked a little lonely on your bed, and i know how much you love the sun. it's not the best quality, i'm still a beginner, and the daisy is kind of a mess, but—"

"it is perfect," felix interrupted, his voice firm but incredibly soft. he walked around the counter, clutching the tiny hat to his chest. "it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me. do you have any idea how much i love it? i can feel the sunshine in the yarn."

"really?"

"really." he grabbed your hand, his fingers warm and slightly sticky from the frosting. "come on, we have to go put it on him right now. he’s been waiting for this his whole life."

he practically dragged you to his bedroom, his excitement so infectious you couldn't help but laugh. he grabbed the yellow chick plush from his pillows and sat on the edge of the bed, his movements careful and focused as he settled the handmade hat onto the plushie's head. he adjusted it, tilting it slightly to the side so the wonky daisy was front and center.

"look at him," felix whispered, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. "he looks so stylish. he looks like he’s ready for a picnic in the park. he looks like... he looks like he's loved."

felix turned to you then, his expression shifting from playful excitement to something much more tender. he reached out and took both of your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.

the room was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the oven timer, but the air between you felt thick with everything he wasn't saying.

"thank you," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble. "i know you’ve been busy. i know you’ve been tired. the fact that you sat down and moved your fingers like this, row after row, just to make something that would make me smile... it means everything to me. it really does."

"i just wanted you to feel as special as you make everyone else feel, felix."

his lower lip trembled just a tiny bit, and before you could say anything else, he lunged forward, wrapping you in a hug that felt like being enveloped in a warm cloud. he buried his face in your shoulder, his arms squeezing tight. he smelled like vanilla and cocoa and that clean, floral scent that was just felix.

"you're so sweet," he mumbled into your neck. "i don't deserve you. i'm going to keep this hat forever. i'm going to tell everyone who comes over that my favorite person made this for my favorite chick."

"you're going to make people think i'm a professional crocheter, 'lix. please don't let them look too closely at the stitches."

he pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders, his gaze intense and sincere. "the stitches are my favorite part. they show where you were thinking, and where you were working hard. every little mistake is just a part of the story. i think it's art."

he leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as sweet and warm as the brownies cooling in the kitchen. it was a slow, lingering moment, full of the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from knowing someone truly cares about the little things. when he pulled away, he was still smiling, his eyes locked onto yours.

"now," he said, standing up and pulling you with him, "as a thank you, you have to be the first one to taste the brownies. and then we have to take a million photos of bbokari in his new hat to send to the members so they can be jealous."

"i think hyunjin might actually cry if he sees it," you joked.

"good," felix laughed, leadng you back toward the kitchen. "let him be jealous. he doesn't have a handmade hat made with love."

he spent the rest of the evening alternating between feeding you bits of warm brownie and posing the plushie in different spots around the apartment, insisting that the 'lighting' was better in the living room for a photoshoot. he looked bright, happy, and utterly smitten with a tiny piece of yellow yarn.

with felix, it didn't matter if you gave him something expensive or something made of scraps. as long as it came from the heart, he would treat it like the most important thing in the world.

SEUNGMIN

the library at the company building was deserted, the long rows of bookshelves casting deep shadows across the carpet. seungmin was tucked away in his favorite corner, a stack of vocal sheet music and a lukewarm americano on the table in front of him.

he looked incredibly focused, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he marked up a bridge with a red pen. it was one of those rare moments where he looked peaceful—no cameras, no teasing members, just him and his music.

you stepped into the light of his desk lamp, holding a small paper bag like it contained a live bird. "still at it?"

seungmin didn't jump; he was too composed for that. he just looked up, his eyes softening as he took in your presence. he leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight, and tapped his pen against his chin. "i could say the same to you. shouldn't you be heading home? the last shuttle left twenty minutes ago."

"i stayed late to finish something," you said, pulling out the chair across from him. "actually, i finished it for you."

seungmin’s brow arched. he had that classic, skeptical look on his face—the one he wore when he was trying to figure out if you were about to prank him or say something incredibly sincere. "for me? is it a list of all the times i've been right this week? because that would be a very long document."

"keep dreaming, seungmin."

you reached into the bag and pulled out a handmade puppym scarf. you had spent the last two weeks knitting it, opting for a high-quality, cream-colored wool that was thick and incredibly soft. at each end of the scarf, you had needle-felted a small, round puppym face. you’d worked painstakingly on the eyes to make sure they had that specific, slightly judgmental but adorable puppy stare that everyone associated with him.

as you laid it across the table, seungmin’s red pen rolled away, forgotten. he didn't say anything for a long moment. he just reached out, his long fingers brushing against the wool. he picked up one of the ends, staring at the needle-felted face you’d spent three nights perfecting.

"you made this," he said. it wasn't a question; it was a quiet realization. he looked at the stitching, then at the little felt ears. his expression was unreadable at first—the typical seungmin poker face—but then his ears started to turn that vibrant shade of pink that always gave him away.

"i know you're picky about fabrics," you said, feeling a sudden rush of self-consciousness. "i made sure it wasn't scratchy. and i know it's a bit... cute. maybe too cute for you to wear out, but i thought since the weather's getting colder, and you're always complaining about the draft in the vocal rooms..."

"it's not too cute," seungmin interrupted, his voice a bit lower than usual. he picked up the scarf and began to wind it around his neck, his movements slow and deliberate. he tucked his chin into the soft wool, looking at you over the top of the cream-colored fabric. "it's perfect. the tension in the knitting is actually very consistent. did you block the wool after you finished?"

you blinked, taken aback. "i—yeah, i did. how do you even know what that is?"

he gave a small, smug shrug, though his eyes were shining with something much warmer than his usual sarcasm. "i pay attention. besides, if you're going to give me something handmade, i have to appreciate the technical skill involved."

he adjusted the ends so the puppym faces were visible on his chest. he looked ridiculous and incredibly endearing all at once—the serious, stoic vocalist wrapped in a fluffy, handmade puppy scarf.

"it smells like you," he noted, his voice muffled by the wool.

"is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"it's a 'stop talking so i can enjoy it' thing," he countered, though a small, genuine smile finally broke through his defenses. he reached across the table, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. "thank you. seriously. i know how much time this takes. it’s much better than the store-bought ones."

"you're just saying that because you don't want to hurt my feelings."

seungmin let out a short, dry laugh. "have i ever hesitated to hurt your feelings when your singing is flat? no. i'm saying it because it's true. this is... it's special."

he stood up, gathering his sheet music and his empty coffee cup. he didn't take the scarf off. in fact, he tucked the ends into his coat as he put it on, making sure the little puppym faces were still peeking out just enough.

"come on," he said, nodding toward the door. "since you missed your shuttle making me a masterpiece, i guess i have to walk you home. it's only fair."

as you walked through the quiet halls of the building, the air was crisp and cold, but seungmin seemed perfectly content. he kept his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked deep into the scarf. every time he caught his reflection in the glass doors or the elevator mirrors, he’d linger for a second, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"you're going to wear it to the dorm, aren't you?" you asked as you stepped out into the night air. "the members are going to lose their minds."

"let them," seungmin said, his voice steady. "they’ll be jealous. jeongin will probably try to steal it, but i’ll just tell him it’s a restricted item. only for people who are always right."

you snorted, nudging his shoulder. "oh, shut up. you are not always right."

"okay. just most of the time."

he stopped walking for a second, turning to face you under a flickering streetlight. the wind caught his hair, but the scarf stayed firmly in place, keeping him warm. he looked down at you, his gaze quiet and intense.

for all his teasing and his sharp tongue, seungmin was someone who felt things very deeply, and you could see the weight of his gratitude in the way he looked at you now.

"really, though," he whispered, stepping a little closer until your coats brushed. "thank you for seeing me. and for... this. i’ll take care of it. i promise."

he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow and sure. he tasted like black coffee and felt like the soft wool of the scarf—warm, comforting, and solid. when he pulled back, he didn't move away, staying close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"now let's go," he moped, though his eyes were bright. "if i stay out here any longer, the wool might get damp, and then i'll have to make you knit me a backup."

"don't push your luck, seungmin."

"too late," he teased, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you along the sidewalk. "i've already decided you're making me matching mittens next."

you complained the whole way back, but the way he kept glancing down at the little puppym faces on his chest told you that he wasn't going to be taking that scarf off for a long, long time.

I.N.

the company dorm was uncharacteristically quiet when you arrived, the rest of the members either still at the studio or out grabbing food. jeongin was sprawled on the living room sofa, his legs hanging over the armrest as he scrolled through his phone.

he looked like he’d been through a long day of choreography—sweatpants on, hair a bit flat from a beanie, and a tired sort of peacefulness in his expression.

when he saw you walk in, his entire face transformed. his eyes crinkled into those sharp, fox-like crescents, and his dimples made a sudden, prominent appearance. "you’re finally here! i was about to start eating the couch cushions out of boredom."

"i brought a distraction," you laughed, tossing your bag onto the coffee table. "and no, it’s not snacks, so stop looking at the bag like that."

jeongin sat up, his interest piqued. he was the maknae, but he often carried himself with a lot of maturity; however, when it came to you and anything you did for him, he turned back into a curious kid in an instant. "if it’s not food, it better be good. did you get me that game i wanted?"

"better," you said, pulling out a small, soft bundle.

it was a handmade foxy.ny plushie—but it was different from the ones you could buy. you had used a soft, peach-colored minky fabric that was almost velvety to the touch. you’d spent hours hand-stitching the white patches on the face and the belly, making sure the proportions were just right.

your personal favorite part, though, was the outfit. you’d dressed the little fox in a tiny, hand-sewn version of jeongin’s favorite blue denim jacket, complete with a little white hoodie underneath.

jeongin’s jaw dropped. he took the plushie from your hands, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric. he held it up, turning it around to look at the tiny jacket. "no way... you made the jacket? even the little hood?"

"yeah," you admitted, feeling a bit of heat rise to your face. "the denim was a nightmare to sew because it's so thick at that scale, and i think the sleeves are a tiny bit too long, but i wanted him to look like you. i even gave him your eyes."

jeongin didn't say anything for a second. he just stared at the fox, his thumb rubbing over the tiny denim collar. he looked up at you, his expression soft and a little dazed. "this is... insane. i can't believe you actually sat down and sewed a tiny jacket for a fox just because of me."

"i know it's a bit childish, but—"

"it's not," jeongin interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. he stood up and pulled you into a tight, exuberant hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. he smelled like laundry detergent and the faint scent of the skin cream he used. "it’s the coolest thing ever. seriously. i’m going to put him on the top shelf of my desk so he can watch me sleep."

"he might get dusty up there."

"then i'll buy him a tiny umbrella," he joked, pulling back to look at you. he was beaming, his dimples deeper than ever. "thank you. i know you've been working on this for weeks. every time i asked what you were doing, you'd get all suspicious and hide your hands."

"well, i didn't want you to see the messy prototype. it looked like a potato with ears."

jeongin laughed, a bright, clear sound that always made your heart skip. he sat back down on the couch, pulling you down beside him. he kept the foxy.ny plushie in his lap, his hand resting protectively over its head. "i'm going to take a picture of this and send it to my mom. she's going to be so jealous."

"don't you dare," you groaned, hiding your face in his shoulder.

"too late," he teased, already pulling out his phone. "she needs to know that i'm being well taken care of."

he spent the next twenty minutes posing the plushie in different spots, making it 'wave' at the camera and pretending it was judging his choice of tv show.

he was so genuinely happy, so proud of this little lumpy thing you’d made him, that you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief.

after a while, the playful energy settled. jeongin leaned back against the cushions, pulling you into his side. he tucked the plushie under his arm and rested his head on yours, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

"really, though," he whispered, his voice sounding a little tired but incredibly sincere. "thank you. i know being an idol means i'm always busy and away... and sometimes i feel bad that you do so much for me. but things like this? they make me feel like i'm always home, even when i'm not."

"that was the goal, innie."

he leaned down and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to your temple. "mission accomplished."

as the door finally clicked open and the sounds of the other members returning filled the hallway, jeongin didn't move. he just held you closer, clutching his tiny fox companion, looking entirely content to stay right where he was.

and when hyunjin eventually burst into the room and immediately shrieked, "is that a tiny denim jacket?!", jeongin just smirked, held the plushie higher, and said, "yeah. and you're not allowed to touch it."

You and Seungmin had a morning work routine for the days he was home and had a normal schedule at the company. You wake up to the same alarm and then he whines about laying in bed for five more minutes before pulling you closer in his arms and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. Five minutes turns into ten and then sometimes turns into twenty. And you let him every time, which is why your alarm is set earlier than it should be. 

When the two of you finally get up, you get ready for your day together. Standing next to each other in the bathroom as you brush your teeth, you giggle at his bed head, and he scowls at the way you seem too happy to be out of bed. 

And when you change out of your soft pajamas, he’s suddenly awake, like he’s never seen you change in front of him before. His eyes linger on you, hands reaching to touch you, his lips finding any bare skin he can kiss before you push him away with a joking scold.

“You need to get dressed too before we’re both late.”

“Can’t help but be distracted when you’re so beautiful.”

A smirk on his face as he replies to you and like clockwork every morning you roll your eyes at him with a smile on your face before heading to the kitchen. 

The two of you eat breakfast together at the dining table while the coffee machine brews Seungmin’s morning coffee for him to take in his usual tumbler he brings to the company. The one with a fading Pochacco sticker you had put on it years ago and he never removed. 

While you eat, the two of you talk about what the day has in store for you. He tells you about his schedule for the day, if he’ll be home on time or if he’ll be back late.

“We have a lot of interviews and promotional videos to shoot today. But even with a packed schedule we’re supposed to finish on time so I should be back at a decent time tonight.”

“Should we order takeout instead of cooking dinner then?”

“Let’s see how I feel when I get off.”

And then he listens attentively while you tell him about yours.

“Oh that new girl is working again today.”

“The one that thinks she knows everything but is always messing up and won’t own up to her mistakes?”

“Yup she’s the one. I cannot wait to go in today.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“You know it.”

And when you both finish eating and discussing the future of your day, you clean up after the two of you while Seungmin packs your lunch bag and makes sure nothing is missing from either of your work bags. 

Eventually the company driver calls to tell Seungmin they are waiting outside, a warning for the both of you to start heading out the door soon. He grabs his coffee and both of your bags before heading towards the door. 

He throws both bags over his shoulder and bends down to slip on his shoes while he waits for you. And when you appear in front of him while he is still bent down, he always grabs your shoes off the rack and helps you put them on. 

“I can put on my own shoes, you know.”

“You say that every morning yet you still let me help you.”

“It’s because I like seeing you on your knees.”

“Shut up.”

When he straightens up, he always finds you standing in front of him with a smile on your face. 

“Have a good day at work Minnie.”

“You too pup.”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulls you in for a gentle kiss. His lips always soft against yours and tasting slightly of coffee. You always pull away first. If you don't, Seungmin would have the both of you stuck at the entrance of your front door while he kissed you endlessly. 

And when you finally pull away from his lips, he always leans in to give you another quick peck before you scold him for the second time of the morning. 

“Min, we have to leave now.”

“Don’t deprive me of my morning good luck kisses.”

“They’re just morning kisses, no good luck to them.”

“You don’t know that. My day is always terrible without them.”

“You’re such a dork.”

The two of you leave your apartment with huge smiles on your faces and entwined hands. And when you both make your way downstairs to the company car, Seungmin places a final kiss to the back of your hand. His grip loosens and he hands over your bag that he always carries down for you. 

“I love you. Text me when you get to work.”

“I love you too. And I always do.”

He gets into the car and looks at you one last time. You blow him a kiss and wink at him dramatically which causes him to laugh as he shakes his head at you. He should be used to it by now, you do it every morning when he leaves, but it always makes him smile. 

And when the door shuts and the car drives away, the two of you finally part ways for the morning. 

Mornings with Seungmin are always the same, ran like clockwork, yet the two of you never get bored of it. 

₊⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆₊

Unlike most mornings which are set with a routine, night time with Seungmin is always different. 

Sometimes he gets to come home on time so you get to wind down together, sometimes he has to stay late and by the time he gets home you are already in bed, and sometimes he doesn’t come home, having to fly out for a schedule. 

Today you get off of work an hour earlier than usual. Your boss letting you go home early after you had to clean up a huge mess your new coworker caused. 

You were aware Seungmin was going to have a busy day today. And when he barely texted you throughout the day, you knew it was busier than he had expected. 

So with your extra time, you decide to surprise Seungmin with some kimchi jjigae for dinner. Stopping by the grocery store on the way home you grab all the ingredients you need to make his favorite dish. 

When you get home, you change into some comfier clothes and start cooking. You finish cooking right as you get a text from Seungmin, letting you know that he is wrapping up and will be on the way home soon. 

Settling onto the couch, you scroll aimlessly on your phone as you wait for him to get home. The pot of stew sits on the stove on low to keep it warm. 

Soon enough you hear the clinking of keys and the sound of the front door opening. Turning your head towards the door you spot Seungmin as he enters your shared apartment. His hair is still styled from his full day of filming but he’s wearing the sweats he left the apartment in this morning.

You can tell he’s had a rough day by the way his shoulders look tense and the way he mutters curse words to himself as he accidentally drops his keys and struggles to take off his shoes, almost tripping over his own feet.

But the minute he looks up and spots you on the couch, his shoulders relax and his eyes soften, a smile forming on his face just at the sight of you. 

He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way over to you. He plops down next to you on the couch and before you can welcome him home he's grabbing your waist and pulling you into his lap. Both of your knees are on either side of him as you face him. 

“Long day?” You ask quietly, reaching up to mess up his professionally styled hair. 

He only hums quietly in response, pulling you closer as his arms wrap around you tightly. He lets out a long sigh as he buries his face into your neck. 

He relaxes into your touch as you play with his hair and the two of you sit quietly for a while before you break the silence. 

“I made kimchi jjigae for dinner.”

At the sound of your words he pulls away to look at you, his brows furrowed in disbelief. 

“No you didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t joke about a serious thing like kimchi jjigae. Followed your mom’s recipe that she sent me a while ago too so I hope I did it justice.”

His eyes light up like you just told him a miracle happened. 

“I love you.”

“Because I surprised you with your favorite meal?” You giggle out, an eyebrow raised. 

“Well that’s just a bonus. I love you because you always know how to make me feel better after a tiring day.”

“I just made dinner and then sat on the couch.”

“And I love that about you.” 

“You know, you’re extra cheesy today.”

“Just missed you is all.” He whispers, leaning forwards to brush his nose against yours softly. His lips ghosting over yours as you smile at each other. 

“We saw each other this morning.” You move your hands to cup his face, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. 

“And that was so long ago.”

You can’t help but tilt your head back as you let out a loud laugh at his response, causing his lips to turn down in a pout.

“Sorry sorry. Needy Seungmin is such a rare sight, he surprised me. I missed you too Minnie. Missed your silly update texts to keep me going.” Leaning forward, you gently press your lips to his to wipe away his pout. And when you pull away, he has a soft smile on his face.

You’re about to ask him if he wants to eat dinner but he cuts you off by placing his lips on yours again, catching you by surprise. The kiss is delicate and gentle, like he’s been yearning for your touch. Not in a desperate way but in a way that he was glad to finally be home, to finally be with you. He’s kissing you like it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his life. 

He unwinds his arms from around you, placing his hands on your waist as he pulls you even closer. Deepening the kiss as his fingers creep under your shirt, his cold hands coming in contact with your warm skin causing your breath to hitch. 

You can feel him smile against your lips at your reaction. Your hands move up to mess with his hair again as you kiss him back. Your lips move in sync, the both of you lost in each other’s touch and forgetting about the horrors of the day that just passed. Only present in each other's embraces. 

Seungmin breaks away first for once and you're the one left to chase after his lips, greedy to feel more of him. And he welcomes your lips back with a laugh and smile. 

“The food is going to get cold,” he mumbles, his lips still brushing against yours, kissing you between every word.

“It’s okay,” you mummer against his lips. “The stove is on low.” The two of you fall back into the kiss, your lips moving against each other tenderly and full of love.

He pulls away again after a while, his breathing is short as he pants slightly for air. His cheeks dusted with pink and his swollen lips glisten with a slight sheen of saliva. His once styled hair is now a tousled mess and he looks at you with hooded eyes. 

“Now who’s the needy one?” He teases, his swollen lips pulled into a smirk. 

“Shut up.” You whine. This time it's your turn to bury your face into his neck, hiding your face from his teasing stare. 

“You hungry?” He asks. His hands, still under your shirt, reach up to rub your back. 

“Not yet,” you mumble into his neck. “Just want to sit here with you for a bit first if that’s okay.”

“That’s more than okay with me.” He whispers and he can feel the way you smile against his skin at his answer. “So how was your day? How was the new girl?”

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” you groan out. Leaning your head back to look at him. “I’ll rant all night long and then we would never go to sleep.”

He lets out a quiet laugh at your reply, leaning forwards to press a kiss to your forehead. 

“I would listen to you complain about everything and anything every night if you let me.”

Nights with Seungmin are always different, never the same, yet the two of you never had a single complaint.

He dropped his bag by the doorway and kicked of his shoes, trying to keep as quiet as possible as he eyed you sleeping soundly on the couch.

Despite his efforts, you started to rise sleepily, pushing yourself up onto your elbows as you squinted at him.

"mmsorry... was trying to stay awake..." You mumbled distractedly, trying to blink the sleep from your eyes.

His eyes had gone soft the minute he saw you, but he melted even more at your words.

"Aw baby... you know you didn't have to do that." He walked over and stopped in front of you, placing a hand on your cheek.

You lent into his touch, staring up at his gorgeous but tired face.

"I wanted too... I missed you. Haven't seen you all day."

He frowned at your words. He'd had to leave early due to a photoshoot, so he left before you woke up. He hated doing that. During comeback season, he found himself missing the slow mornings, where he’d cling to you and beg for ‘just five more minutes’ (even though it often turned into more like an hour).

He missed the way you’d be cooking breakfast and he’d come wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck as you laughed and tried to shake him off.

He missed the way you’d both curl up on the couch, plates on your lap, and put on a bad comedy show. You’d always tease him for laughing at the bad jokes and he’d attack you with kisses all over your face in return.

He missed the way you’d lean into his shoulder afterwards, giving him the kind of quiet affection you could only give to someone you truly trust.

To put it simply, he missed you.

“Jinnie? Whats wrong?”

Your concerned voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he was surprised to learn that his eyes had filled with tears.

“Sorry, I-“ he swallowed, his voice wobbly, “I just missed you too.”

He was being stupid. He knew that. But as he stared down at you, with your hair sticking out at odd angles, your pretty eyes still hazed over with sleep, and his t-shirt hanging loosely from your frame, he realised he didn’t care.

You tugged at his hand, bringing him closer to you.

“Come sit.” You shifted so there was room for him, and he collapsed onto the couch with you, immediately bringing his arms around your shoulders.

You lay yourself on top of him and cupped his face with your hands, tracing his features; a small smile played on your lips.

“My pretty boy, don’t cry.” You giggled at him, brushing a thumb under his eye where a stray tear escaped.

“Can’t help it. Love you too much.” He flirted playfully, making you smile.

“So dramatic~” you lay your head on his chest, close enough to hear his slow heartbeat, “but I love you too.”

His smile went from teasing to soft in seconds as he placed a small kiss on the top of your head.

With one hand wrapped around your waist, he brought a hand to your head, stroking it absentmindedly. Occasionally, he’d scratch gently, making you hum in pleasure.

Eventually, his gentle voice cut through the silence, “So what did you do today, baby?”

After a long pause awaiting your response, he looked down, only to see your eyes closed where you lay, letting out soft, even puffs of breath every few seconds.

He huffed out a small laugh, placing a hand protectively on the back of your head.

“Long day too, hm?” He whispered, his eyes starting to close too.

There, the two of you fell asleep in each-others arms, surrounded by your own bubble of peacefulness.

Funnily enough, this was the best sleep Hyunjin had had in awhile.

Maybe you should fall asleep on the couch more often?

I fear I write like a wattpad writer but thats okay 🥲 back too my roots

Minho was used to having airport crushes.

Sometimes he'd be in line while admiring someone in front of him. Some person checking their baggage. Random people drinking overpriced coffee. Even some fan waiting for him, maybe. It was normal. He liked to think that it was even part of the nature of his job.

However, those crushes would last minutes at most. He'd see somebody, think "cute", walk away and never see them again, not even give a second thought to it. But he never experienced being stuck with his airport crush for 12 hours and thirty two minutes. Though, given his luck, he's not surprised the prettiest person he ever met was his assigned flight attendant. Of course.

"Why are you pretending to sleep?"

"I'm not pretending to do anything."

"So you talk in your sleep now? Good thing you're an idol. You would've gone bankrupt by now if you were an actor."

Lee Know opened his eyes to glare at his friend, Hyunjin, who was obviously having the time of his life.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing, I'm just watching." Hyunjin replied amidst the chips he was eating "You avoiding Y/no is pretty entertaining. It's like watching animal planet."

Minho closed his eyes again, sighing in annoyance. "Who even is Y/n?"

"The flight attendant? How come you don't know the name of your own crush? They have a huge name tag with their name on it."

That made Minho reopen his eyes real quick.

First, to hit Hyunjin. Second, to make sure you didn't hear nor say anything. Third, to check if that really was your name.

You were refilling Jeongin's glass with water, a huge smile plastered in your lips. And a tag with Y/n L/n written on it. Shoot, he really missed that.

"Was their smile so blinding you couldn't even read their name?"

"I'm never sitting next to you ever again." Minho replied, stealing the chips from his band mate. More three hours until the end of the flight. He was going to die.

"You should just talk to them. All that fan service and you still can't flirt?"

Maybe he'd kill Hyunjin first and only then die. That felt more like it.

He looked at you once again. You were breathtaking, it was genuinely unfair. Soothing voice, the posture of a miss universe and that goddamn smile. He's sure you alone brought a lot of loyal clients to your airline. At least he knows that he for sure would pay a couple of bucks on a flight just to see you again.

And then you turned away from Jeongin, heading to the end of the corridor. Also known as where he was.

"I'm going back to sleep." Minho closed his eyes before you noticed him looking at you "Don't talk to me."

"You're such a loser."

"Shut up."

For ten hopeful yet foolish seconds, Minho expected everything to be okay. He could fake sleep, you'd pretend you believed him because you were professional and nothing else would go wrong. But for that, Hyunjin would have to be quiet.

"Y/n! Can you come here, please?"

Oh, damn him.

Minho opened his eyes only to see you pushing your cart towards him while Hyunjin was grinning like the devil, folding a small piece of paper. There was no time to strangle his friend, Lee Know had to run away immediately. The moment he tried to get up to go to the bathroom, you were already next to him, making him stumble back to his seat.

That was the worst day of his life.

"Hi, Y/n!" Hyunjin said happily. Way too happily. That could not be good. "Can you give me another bag of chips? My friend here just stole mine."

You just giggled lightly (your laugh was prettier than every song he ever listened to) and nodded, offering a new package to Hyunjin.

Okay. Maybe that was it. There was this low, nearly impossible, chance of Hyunjin not teasing Minho this one time. Maybe he really just wanted food. Maybe he was going to let it pass and-

"Thank you! And this" he gave you the small paper he was holding, shortly looking at the older man while doing so "is for you. Maybe check it out after your shift is over."

And then proceeded to wink at you.

He was so dead meat.

You seemed confused, to say the least, but politely smiled and put the paper in your pocket before going to the other sector of the airplane.

The moment you were gone, Minho got up to find the best angle to hit Hyunjin.

"What the- Why are you hitting me?!"

"Why did you do that??" Minho replied a bit too loudly, not caring that he accidentally woke Felix up.

"You weren't going to do so yourself!"

"Me not doing anything didn't mean you could flirt with them in front of me!"

"What?! I wasn't - stop hitting me! - I wasn't flirting! It was your number in that paper!"

Minho's hand freezes in the air, his eyes getting slightly bigger "what?"

Hyunjin sat straighter in his seat, side-eyeing Minho while trying and failing to open his bag of chips.

"I wrote your number on the paper and gave it to them. I also wrote that it was your contact so they wouldn't misunderstand it. I try to make a good action and this is how you thank me, really..."

Lee Know stopped paying attention to his friend's rant after that. You had his number. You could text or call him any time from now on. You both actually had the chance to talk to each other.

But maybe you'd forget it. You could be not interested. You could find him creepy. God knows what would happen now. So he was trying his best to chill and not overthink it.

However, the moment the boys were getting out of the plane and your team was biding them goodbye, he is pretty sure the smile you gave him was bigger than the one the others received. And when he looked at Hyunjin and he was nodding proudly, saying something about how the lunches were worth it, Minho is already thinking how he'll apologise to him if, when, you send a message.

Masterlist | you'll probably like: It's a secret

Daily click

Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @sleepyleeji @jinnie-ret @sheraayasherrecs @rockstarkkami @urlocalmultigroupfan @aeinzzzketchup @queenofdumbfuckery @sarita-sunday @lezleeferguson-120 @chimmyn0chu @sspersonally @enhacolor @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

Dividers by @/knightlittle | images 1, 2 and 3

seo changbin

hwang hyunjin

--------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

You slipped inside carrying a crinkled paper bag, the scent of homemade kimchi jjigae flooding the room before you even spoke. Chan’s gaze snapped up and locked.

This wasn’t your first drop-by. Almost a year into dating, you’d built a quiet ritual: he drilled until his legs gave out, you showed up with hot food and the smile that made exhaustion worth it. But today…

Today felt different.

You wore his gray Sydney hoodie—the one with the faded logo he lived in on long-haul flights. The sleeves swallowed your hands; you clutched the bag with fabric-bundled fists. Your hair was twisted into a messy bun, stray wisps glued to your sweaty forehead. No makeup. No filter. Just you.

Chan’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.

“Brought reinforcements,” you announced, hoisting the bag like a trophy. “Your mom sent a new recipe. Said you’re looking too skinny on lives.”

He laughed, but it came out raspy. You crossed to the soundboard, set the bag down, and started unpacking containers with that calm efficiency he adored. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t “Stray Kids leader being cute with his girlfriend” content. It was just the two of you.

Chan stayed rooted, cataloging every motion. The way you folded back the lid like it was fragile. The way you wiped the rim with your pinky so it wouldn’t drip on the desk. The way you bit your lower lip when you concentrated—like when you were untangling work spreadsheets or hunting for his lost keys.

He knew these details by heart. But today they landed differently.

You turned to dig cutlery from your backpack, humming the chorus of Case 143,gloriously off-key. Chan’s mouth curved without permission. You always botched his parts. Called it “artistic interpretation.” He called it selective deafness. You’d bicker, laughing, until he sang the line in your ear until you nailed it.

Now, watching your back, hoodie slipping off one shoulder as you rummaged, he understood.

It wasn’t cinematic. No slow-motion, no swelling strings. It was the way you moved through his space—the studio where he spent sleepless nights writing lyrics about loneliness and pressure—like you belonged. Like the chaos of his life suddenly made sense with you inside it.

He fell,truly, irrevocably,in love right there, standing among tangled cables and half-empty water bottles, watching you line up containers with the same care you used to coil his earphones on tour. It wasn’t what you did. It was how you made him feel… home.

Chan inhaled, the air thick in his lungs. He remembered your real first meeting—not the official dinner-and-flowers date, but the real one. You were a marketing intern at JYP, tasked with proofreading video subtitles. He met you in a hallway when you dropped an avalanche of papers and swore softly in Portuguese. He knelt to help; you looked up, eyes wide, then laughed and threatened, “Tell the boys I curse in Portuguese and I’ll kill you.”

He never told. But he kept the accent, the laugh, the way you rolled your r’s when nervous. Kept everything.

You started texting. First work stuff. Then music. Then everything. He sent 3 a.m. lyric scraps. You fired back two-minute voice notes ordering him to sleep. He sent photos of the members passed out on the studio floor. You sent pics of your cat stealing your side of the bed.

Then, one rainy September night, he asked you for coffee. Not a date—just coffee. You showed up with crooked glasses, rain-soaked hair, and he knew. He wanted to see you like that every day.

Now, almost a year later, here you were. In his studio. With his mom’s jjigae. In his hoodie.

“Chan?” You turned, two spoons in hand. “You okay? You’re staring like I grew a third head.”

He blinked, heart slamming so loud he swore you could hear it.

“I’m great,” he said, softer than intended. “Just thinking you look gorgeous in stolen hoodies.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks pink.

“It’s comfy. And it smells like you.”

Chan crossed the room in three strides. His hands found your waist on instinct, tugging you close. The hoodie drowned you; he loved it. Loved that you claimed his clothes like they were yours. Loved that you showed up unannounced with home-cooked food because he forgot meals. Loved that you murdered his melodies yet understood their meaning better than anyone.

He dipped his head, nose brushing yours. You smelled like kimchi, like the rain outside, like the birthday perfume he gave you—the one you swore was “too fancy for every day” but wore anyway.

“S/n,” he whispered against your forehead, lips grazing warm skin. “I love you, you know?”

You tilted your face up, startled by the sudden weight in his voice.

“I know,” you answered, fingers toying with the hem of his(now your) hoodie. “You say it all the time.”

“No. Like… really” He dragged in a breath, words heavy. “I looked at you just now and thought: that’s it. It’s her. Forever.”

The studio fell silent. Just the low hum of the AC and his pulse thundering.

You smiled—the small, private one that never made it to fan photos or lives. The one that crinkled the corners of your eyes.

“Christopher Bang,” you teased, full-naming him. “You’re getting corny in your old age.”

He laughed, the sound bouncing off empty walls. But he didn’t let go. He never would again.

You sank to the floor, backs against the mirror, sharing jjigae straight from the container. You scooped, blew gently, fed him. He mirrored you. An old, wordless dance. You never needed much conversation. You never had.

“Your mom added extra chili,” you said, wiping sauce from your lip with the back of your hand. “Said you’re getting too ‘soft’ lately.”

Chan snorted, nearly choking.

“She saw the fancall where I cried?”

“Of course. Called me immediately to ask if you were sick.”

He shook his head, still chuckling. You reached out, thumb brushing a rice grain from his cheek. The touch was so natural, so you, his chest ached again.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You are okay, right? You’re… different today.”

Chan looked—really looked. At your work-tired eyes, at the hair you hadn’t bothered to fix, at the way you held the spoon like an extension of yourself. At everything he knew by heart that somehow still felt brand-new.

“I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “In a way I didn’t know was possible.”

You blinked. Twice.

“Chan…”

“Wait.” He caught your hand, lacing your fingers. “I loved you before. I know that. But today… today it clicked. You’re here, in my studio, with my mom’s food, in my stolen hoodie, murdering my song… and I thought: that’s it. No going back.”

You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.

“You’re scaring me,” you said, but you were smiling.

“Good scared or bad scared?”

“Good.” You squeezed his hand. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”

He laughed. And cried. Just a little. One stubborn tear he couldn’t catch. You wiped it with your thumb, like always.

“Idiot,” you murmured, fond.

“Your idiot.”

You finished eating in comfortable quiet. When the container was empty, you stood, packed everything with your usual tidy grace. Chan watched from the floor, back against the mirror, thinking how his life was a rollercoaster—tours, schedules, deadlines, pressure, fans, antis, sleepless nights—and how you were the only constant. The only thing that never shifted, even when everything else crumbled.

You returned with a water bottle, slid down beside him, and rested your head on his shoulder.

“You know,” you said softly, “I realized something today, too.”

“Yeah?”

“On the subway coming here, a girl recognized me. Asked if I was Bang Chan’s girlfriend. I said yes. She went—” you pitched your voice high—“Wow, you must be so lucky" And I thought: Lucky? I wake up at six to make coffee for this guy because he forgets to eat. I fold his laundry because he leaves it everywhere. I listen to him ramble about mixing until four a.m. and pretend I understand.” You turned to him. “But then I walked in, saw you sweaty and exhausted and still smiling at me… and I thought: No. I’m not lucky. I’m happy.”

Chan’s heart stopped. Then raced. Then stopped again.

“You’re happy with me?” he whispered.

“More than I thought I could be.”

He pulled you into his lap without warning. You squeaked, surprised, but settled, knees bracketing his hips, hands on his shoulders. The hoodie rode up, revealing pajama pants underneath. He laughed.

“You came in pajamas?”

“They were comfy,” you defended, flushing. “And I was lazy.”

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your mouth. Slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that didn’t need words. When you parted, you pressed your forehead to his.

“Chan,” you said, serious again. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise that when we fight and we will, you’re stubborn as hell,you’ll remember this moment. This studio. This jjigae. This hoodie. And remember we always come back here.”

He nodded, throat tight.

“Promise.”

You stayed until sunset bled out and the studio went dark, lit only by emergency strips. Until the boys crashed back in, loud and starving, and found you both asleep against the mirror, the gray hoodie draped like a blanket.

Later, when Changbin snapped a photo and posted it on Bubble with the caption leader’s too in love, send help, Chan would look at you laughing with sauce on your lip and think: right there. In that sweaty studio, with the stolen hoodie and his mom’s kimchi jjigae.

That’s where he realized he never wanted to live without this. Without you.

And the craziest part? You had no idea.

But now you did.

And that changed everything.

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰:

The rain fell in a fine mist outside, the kind that fogged the car windows and turned the asphalt into a glossy mirror. Minho leaned back in the driver’s seat, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes, lids half-closed as he waited for the light to change. The dashboard clock read 23:14. He’d just finished an extra recording session for the upcoming comeback, body heavy with fatigue, mind still looping choreography transitions only he seemed to notice. The boys had left hours ago; he’d stayed behind to polish a move no one else caught,except him.

His phone buzzed in the cradle. A text from you.

You: Here. Side gate. Brought an umbrella, but it’s more of a sieve.

Minho’s mouth curved without permission. You’d been dating just over three months—long enough for him to know you hated being late, not long enough for the flutter in his stomach to fade every time your name lit the screen. It was new. Fragile. Good.

He eased forward, wipers dancing to the rhythm of the rain. The JYP parking lot was nearly empty, just a few staff cars and neon reflections in the puddles. There you were, leaning against the gate, plastic bag in one hand, a hole-riddled umbrella in the other, hair plastered to your forehead. You wore his oversized denim jacket—the one he’d lent you on a chilly autumn night and never got back—and gray sweatpants with a rip at the knee you insisted “added character.”

Minho pulled up beside you, rolled down the window, and raised a brow.

“You look like a drowned cat.”

You stuck out your tongue.

“And you look like you slept on the couch again. Get in before I freeze.”

He laughed, killed the engine, and stepped out. The rain had thickened, drumming impatiently on the hood. Minho snatched the useless umbrella from your hand tossed it in the back seat. Instead, he shrugged off his own jacket and draped it over your shoulders, tugging the hood up to shield your hair.

“Come on,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Before security thinks I’m smuggling a fan.”

You slid in, the scent of rain and cheap perfume (the one you wore because “it fits the budget”) flooding the car. Minho circled back, settled behind the wheel, and cranked the heat. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that only existed when two people already felt safe enough not to fill every second with words.

You rummaged in the bag, pulling out a red-lidded plastic container.

“Brought kimbap,” you announced, proud. “Made it this morning. Tuna, carrot, spinach, and that kimchi you like. No cucumber, I promise.”

Minho stared at the container, then at you. Something in his chest shifted.

You’d met by accident. You worked at the basement café in the JYP building,the one only staff and the laziest idols frequented. He went almost daily, always ordering the same: black Americano, no sugar, 7:12 a.m. sharp. You took the order without looking up, but one day you dropped the cup, coffee exploded across the counter, and you swore so softly he almost missed it. Almost.

“Shit,” you muttered, wiping with a rag. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said, eyes on his phone. “Happens.”

But it happened again the next day. And the next. Until one morning you handed over the coffee with a sticky note: “Sorry for the mess. Free tomorrow?” He laughed. Kept the note in his wallet. The next day, he ordered a latte just to see your face.

You started talking. First about coffee. Then music. Then cats,you had three, he had three, and the names were ridiculous enough to become an inside joke. He gave you a ride on a rainy night. You accepted. He drove you home. You invited him up “just to see the cats.” He went. You watched Studio Ghibli until 4 a.m. He crashed on your couch. You stole his jacket. He never asked for it back.

Three months later, here you were.

Minho popped the lid; the scent hit immediately: warm rice, tuna, fermented kimchi. Perfect. He pinched a roll between his fingers, bit down, and closed his eyes.

“How do you do this?” he asked, mouth half-full.

“Do what?”

“This.” He waved the kimbap. “It tastes like a restaurant, but it’s… home. It’s you.”

You shrugged, cheeks pink.

“My grandma taught me. She said good food is 70% technique, 30% love. I just… think of you when I make it.”

Minho stopped chewing.

He’d heard “I love you” before. From fans. From exes. From friends. But never like this. Never with this brutal simplicity. You weren’t even looking at him,you were fiddling with the radio, hunting for a song that wasn’t an ad and that made the words truer. No audience. No filter.

He swallowed. The taste lingered, now mixed with something sweeter.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

You turned.

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

You did. Your eyes were tired,you’d worked all day, studied at night, rolled kimbap at 5 a.m. because you knew he’d be recording late. But they still sparkled. Like he was the best part of your day.

And that was it.

Not a grand moment. No fireworks, no swelling soundtrack. Just you, in the passenger seat, rain-soaked hair, his jacket slipping off your shoulder, offering homemade kimbap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like caring for him was as easy as breathing.

Minho realized, with a clarity that hurt, that he was in love. Not the “I like you” of early dates. Not the “you’re cool” of good morning texts. Real, bone deep love. The kind that made you want to wake up early just to watch someone sleep. The kind that made you memorize the way they laughed when drowsy. The kind that made you want to shield someone from the entire world even knowing they could handle it alone.

He dropped the kimbap back in the container, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and leaned over. You froze, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Minho cupped your face with both hands,gently, like you were glass and kissed you.

It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was clumsy, tasting of tuna and kimchi, noses bumping because you hadn’t practiced enough. But it was perfect. Because it was you.

When you parted, you were red to the tips of your ears.

“Wow,” you whispered. “What was that?”

“I love you,” he said. Simple. Direct. No fluff.

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Like… now?”

“Like now. Like since you spilled coffee on me and didn’t apologize properly. Like since you stole my jacket and never gave it back. Like since you made kimbap without cucumber because I complained once.” He laughed, breathless. “I love you, s/n. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

You were quiet. One second. Two. Three.

“I…” your voice cracked. “I love you too. But you’re scaring me, Minho.”

“Good scared or bad scared?”

“Good.” You smiled, eyes glassy. “But if you cry, I’m laughing.”

He laughed. And didn’t cry. But almost.

You stayed in the car another hour. Eating cold kimbap. Listening to the rain. Talking about everything and nothing. You told him your newest cat shredded the couch. He told you Changbin tried ballet and nearly snapped his ankle. You laughed until your stomachs hurt.

When the rain stopped, Minho started the engine.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Home,” you said. “Mine. The cats miss you.”

He nodded. Drove in silence, right hand on the gearshift, left hand holding yours. The route was memorized,he knew every pothole. But tonight it felt different. Like the world had color.

You reached your building. You got out; he followed. Climbed the stairs,the elevator was broken again. On the third floor, you unlocked the door and three furballs came sprinting: Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, meowing like you’d been gone for years.

Minho kicked off his shoes, hung the wet jacket on the hook. You went to the kitchen, clicked on the kettle. He leaned in the doorway and watched.

You stirred mugs, humming the new comeback track—off key, as always. Your hair was still damp, his jacket slipping down your arm. The cats wove between your legs. The kitchen was tiny, cluttered, full of spice jars and fridge photos. It was so… you.

And he realized again, with a force that nearly floored him: he wanted this. Every day. Wanted to wake up to you grumbling because a cat stole the blanket. Wanted to fight over dishes. Wanted to burn rice making kimbap together. Wanted to grow old in this mess, with you.

You turned, two mugs in hand.

“Chamomile,” you said. “For sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

He took the mug but didn’t drink. Just stared.

“What?” you asked, worried.

“Marry me.”

You dropped the mug. Hot tea splashed the floor; the cats scattered.

“MINHO!”

“Not now,” he corrected, laughing. “I’m not insane. But… one day. When we have time. When I don’t have to hide you from fans. When I can give you a real ring. Marry me.”

You stood frozen, tea pooling at your feet, eyes wide.

“You’re serious?”

“More serious than I’ve ever been.”

You inhaled. Exhaled. Then ran and launched yourself at him arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

“Yes,” you whispered in his ear. “A thousand times yes.”

He held you tight, like you might vanish. Like the world might end right there.

You cleaned the tea together. Laughed. Argued because you grabbed the wrong towel. He carried you to the couch. You watched Spirited Away for the thousandth time. Fell asleep tangled, Dori purring between you.

The next morning, Minho woke to sunlight on the window. You were still out, face smushed into the pillow, hair a bird’s nest. He watched you a long time. Then grabbed his phone, snapped a photo. Didn’t post it. Kept it for himself.

Later, when the boys asked why he was grinning like an idiot, he’d blame the comeback. The choreo. The coffee.

But the truth was simpler.

It was you.

With homemade kimbap, a stolen jacket, and a “yes” that changed everything.

And he never asked for the jacket back.

He never wanted to.

𝐒𝐞𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐧:

The Seoul winter arrived early that year, with a wind that knifed through the studio 3Racha’s cracked windows and sent lyric sheets fluttering like startled birds. Changbin sat in the swivel chair, headphones draped around his neck, black hoodie shadowing half his sweaty forehead. The clock on the wall read 03:42 a.m.—Thursday bleeding into Friday; he’d lost track. The cursor blinked on his laptop, waiting for a rap verse that refused to be born. Chan had crashed two hours earlier, muttering, “You’re gonna burn out, Binnie,” and Han had sprinted for the last subway. Left behind: just him, the silence, and the echo of beats that wouldn’t lock in.

The door creaked.

Changbin didn’t look up. Just rasped, “If that’s you again, Jisung, I swear I’m locking this damn door.”

“It’s not Jisung,” your voice answered, low and amused. “It’s the delivery girl for energy drinks and bad decisions.”

He spun the chair so fast he nearly toppled. There you were, leaning against the frame, convenience-store bag in your left hand, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in your right. The gray wool coat (his, lent during a rehearsal night when you showed up “for moral support”) swallowed your shoulders, and the ridiculous pink-striped scarf,your stubborn accessory no matter the outfit,was wrapped up to your nose. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, stray strands glued to your cheek by the cup’s vapor.

Changbin’s heart slammed so hard it hurt.

You’d been friends for two years. Two years, three months, eleven days,he counted because that’s the kind of thing he did in secret. It started when you joined as a temp production assistant, hauling cable boxes and cursing under your breath because “no one warned me idols double as personal organizers.” He laughed. You glared. Then laughed with him. Then it became routine: you bringing coffee when he forgot meals, him driving you home when the subway shut down, trading playlists at 4 a.m. because neither of you could sleep.

Friends. That’s all.

But it wasn’t.

“Brought reinforcements,” you said, lifting the bag. “Red Bull, Pocari, those seaweed chips you inhale like rice, and hot chocolate for me. I’ll share if you beg.”

Changbin swallowed hard. He wanted to say you didn’t have to, but what came out was:

“Are you insane? It’s minus five out there.”

You shrugged, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut with your heel.

“I know. But you sent a voice note at 2:30 a.m. saying you were stuck on the beat and ‘the universe hates you.’ I don’t ignore existential drama.”

He laughed, but it wobbled. You crossed to the desk, set the bag down, and perched on the edge, legs swinging. The studio smelled of stale coffee, sweat, and now hot chocolate and your perfume,that cheap floral you’d worn since college, the one he secretly associated with home.

You unwound the scarf, folded it neatly, and laid it on his backpack. Then you unpacked: Red Bull, Pocari, chips lined up like soldiers. You extended the can.

“Drink. Before you pass out.”

Changbin took it but didn’t open it. He just stared. At the way you bit your lower lip when thinking. At the way you arranged snacks in perfect rows before eating, like a ritual. At the way you looked at him—not as Seo Changbin of Stray Kids, but as Binnie, the guy who scribbled verses about insecurities at 3 a.m. and still laughed at your terrible jokes.

He realized, right then, for the first time, that he was screwed.

It wasn’t a pretty moment. No soundtrack, no slow-motion. Just you, sitting on the studio desk, his coat slipping off your shoulder, offering Red Bull like it was the most natural thing in the world. And him thinking: I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And you’ll never know.

Because you didn’t feel it. Not like that.

Or did you?

Because there were the things you did.

Like showing up at 3 a.m. with seaweed chips because he sounded “sad in the voice note.” Like keeping his hoodie for weeks and returning it smelling of fabric softener and your scent. Like sending 7 a.m. memes captioned woke up thinking of you (and your rap that still sucks) Like laughing at his jokes even when they bombed. Like staying until the end of rehearsals just to say “you killed it” even when he knew he’d flubbed half the choreo.

And there were the things he did.

Like saving every text. Like writing entire verses about a girl who “smells like hot chocolate and trouble.” Like lying to the members that “it’s just friendship” while keeping a photo of you asleep on the studio couch as his hidden lock screen. Like feeling his chest cave in every time you mentioned some guy hitting on you at work.

He cracked the Red Bull. Took a sip. The bitterness burned.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly serious. “You okay?”

Changbin blinked. Snapped back.

“Yeah. Just… stuck.”

You slid off the desk, pulled up the chair beside him. Too close. Your knee brushed his. He froze.

“Let me hear it,” you said, grabbing the headphones. “Maybe I can help.”

He hesitated. Then hit play.

The beat exploded,heavy, aggressive, a distorted piano sample he’d slaved over for hours. You closed your eyes, nodding to the rhythm. He watched. Watched the way your brow furrowed when something didn’t fit. The way you tapped your foot in perfect time. The way you opened your eyes at the end and said:

“It’s fire. But it’s missing… soul. It’s technically perfect, but it sounds like you’re mad at someone. Who pissed you off?”

He laughed. Bitter.

“No one.”

“Liar.” You nudged his arm. “I know you, Binnie. You only write like this when you’re holding something in. Spill.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It’s… complicated.”

You waited. Didn’t push. Just sat there, looking at him with eyes that saw through every layer of “tough leader” and “confident rapper.” And he almost said it. Almost spilled it’s you, you idiot. You drive me crazy. You make me want to be better and feel like I’ll never be enough.

But he didn’t.

Because you were his friend. Because you laughed at his jokes. Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate. Because if he said it and you didn’t feel the same, he’d lose everything.

So he lied.

“It’s the comeback. Pressure.”

You nodded. Didn’t buy it. But didn’t press.

“Okay. Then let’s fix it.” You stood, leaned over the soundboard, and started twisting knobs like you owned the place (and you kind of did, because he’d taught you on those sleepless nights when you “just wanted to see how it worked”). “Kill the piano. Add a vocal chop here. Drop the kick. It’s too in your face.”

He obeyed. And it worked. The beat breathed. It had soul.

You grinned. Proud.

“See? Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you’re overdoing it.”

He looked at you. At the way you leaned over the desk, his coat slipping, hair falling in your face. At the way you looked at him like he could do anything.

And he realized, for the second time, that he was in love.

But this time it hurt more.

Because you didn’t know.

And you never would.

You stayed in the studio until sunrise. Working. Laughing. Eating cold chips. You fell asleep on the couch, curled in his coat, pink scarf as a blanket. He draped his spare hoodie over you. Watched. For hours.

When you woke, he pretended to be asleep in the chair. You poked his shoulder.

“Hey, lazy. Breakfast.”

He opened his eyes. Smiled. Pretended everything was fine.

You hit the basement cafeteria. You ordered an oat-milk Americano. He got black. You stole his spot in line because “you’re too slow.” He let you. Because it was easier than admitting he wanted you in front of him all day.

On the way back, you stopped at the elevator.

“Hey,” you said, serious. “Thanks for last night. Really. You’re… important to me.”

Changbin’s heart stopped.

“You too,” he managed, voice cracking.

You smiled. Stepped into the elevator. Doors closed.

He stood there. Staring at his reflection in the metal.

And realized, for the third time, that he was in love.

But this time, he decided to bury it.

Because friendship was better than nothing.

Because you showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate.

Because you laughed at his jokes.

Because you were the only person who made the studio feel less empty.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he never said it.

He locked the love in a corner of his chest, next to the verses he’d never show, the photos he’d never post, the voice notes he’d never send.

And moved on.

Because that’s what friends do.

But at night, when he was alone, he’d open his phone notes and type:

“She showed up at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate and a smile brighter than sunrise. And I realized I’ll love her forever. Even if she never knows.”

He’d save it.

Never send it.

Never expect a reply.

Because some things are safer when they stay in the heart.

Even if it aches.

Even if he never says it.

He loves you.

And for now, that’s enough.

𝐇𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧:

The night air was sharp with the bite of early winter, the kind that slipped under collars and made the city lights blur behind a veil of breath. Hyunjin—Hwang Hyunjin to the world, Jinnie to exactly three people—stood on the narrow balcony of his dorm, sketchbook tucked under one arm, charcoal smudging his fingertips like bruises. The clock on his phone read 02:07. He’d been drawing for four hours straight, chasing a shape that refused to settle: a curve of a jaw, the tilt of an eye, the exact fall of hair across a forehead. It wasn’t for an album cover. It wasn’t for a fan sign. It was just… something he couldn’t let go.

The dorm behind him was quiet,rare. Chan was passed out over his laptop, Felix had crashed on the couch with earbuds still in, and the rest had scattered to their rooms after a twelve-hour dance practice. Hyunjin had stayed up because sleep felt like a betrayal of the image burning behind his eyes. He needed to get it down before it vanished.

His phone buzzed against the railing.

You: Still awake? I’m outside. Brought hot chocolate and a scarf you left at my place last week.

Hyunjin’s mouth curved—slow, involuntary. You’d been dating for four months, give or take. Long enough for him to know you hated the cold but refused to wear gloves because “they ruin the aesthetic.” Long enough for him to memorize the way you said his name when you were tired: softer, like you were tasting it. Not long enough for the jolt in his chest to dull every time your name lit the screen.

He typed back with one thumb, charcoal smearing the glass.

Hyunjin: Balcony. Door’s unlocked.

Thirty seconds later, the sliding door whispered open. You stepped out in an oversized cream coat his, actually, the one he’d draped over you during a late night walk and never reclaimed and wool socks pulled over your jeans. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot, strands escaping like they were trying to reach the stars. In one hand: a thermos. In the other: a striped scarf that smelled faintly of your vanilla shampoo and his detergent.

“You’ll freeze,” you said, voice hushed so you wouldn’t wake the dorm. “It’s minus three.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. He was staring really staring. The balcony light caught the frost on your lashes, the flush on your cheeks, the way you held the thermos like it was a peace offering. You looked like a painting he hadn’t earned the right to finish.

You noticed the sketchbook.

“Working?” you asked, nodding at the open page.

He flipped it shut before you could see. “Trying.”

You didn’t push. You never did. Instead, you unscrewed the thermos, poured steaming hot chocolate into the lid, and handed it over. “Extra marshmallows. You said you were craving sweet after practice.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours. The warmth seeped through the metal and into his bones. He drank slow, savoring the burn on his tongue, the sugar rush, the fact that you’d walked twenty minutes in the cold because he’d mentioned once, in passing, that he missed dessert.

You leaned against the railing beside him, scarf dangling from your fingers. “Put this on. Your neck’s red.”

Hyunjin obeyed, letting you loop the scarf around him. Your knuckles grazed his throat accidental, then not. You tucked the ends into his hoodie, smoothing the fabric like you were dressing a child. He caught your wrist.

“Stay still,” he murmured.

You froze, eyes wide. “What?”

He didn’t explain. Just studied you: the slope of your nose, the freckle just above your left eyebrow, the way your lips parted when you were nervous. He’d drawn you before secret sketches hidden in the back of his notebook, never shown. But tonight, under the weak balcony bulb and the indifferent city glow, you looked… inevitable.

Hyunjin let go of your wrist, flipped the sketchbook open, and started drawing. Fast. No hesitation. The charcoal scratched across the page, building your silhouette in bold, messy strokes. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him work, breath fogging between you.

Minutes passed five, maybe ten. The hot chocolate cooled in his hand. His fingers cramped. But he couldn’t stop. Every line felt urgent, like if he paused, the moment would shatter.

Finally, he turned the page.

You leaned in. Gasped.

It wasn’t a portrait. It was you but more. The curve of your smile when you were trying not to laugh. The way your eyes crinkled when you were sleepy. The exact angle of your head when you were concentrating. He’d captured the scarf mid-flutter, the steam from the thermos curling like a promise. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw, unfinished, smudged in places. But it was alive.

“Hyunjin…” you whispered.

He closed the book. Set it on the railing. Turned to you fully.

“I get it now,” he said, voice low.

“Get what?”

“Why I can’t sleep. Why I keep drawing the same curve over and over. Why I save your voice notes even when they’re just ‘don’t forget to eat.’” He laughed, shaky. “It’s you. You’re the shape I’ve been chasing.”

You blinked. “I’m… a shape?”

“You’re everything.” He stepped closer, hands finding your waist under the coat. “I thought I was in love with art. With beauty. With the idea of capturing something perfect. But it’s not the idea. It’s you. You’re the reason I can’t stop drawing. You’re the reason I want to wake up at 3 a.m. just to watch you steal the blanket. You’re the reason I—” His voice cracked. “I’m in love with you, s/n. Not the way I thought I would be. Not slow and safe. Like… like I’ve been holding my breath for four months and you just let me exhale.”

You stared. The city hummed below distant cars, a siren, someone’s dog barking. But on the balcony, it was just you and him and the frost and the charcoal dust on his fingers.

You reached up, cupped his face. Your thumbs brushed the smudges under his eyes.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

“Scared you’ll say it’s too fast.”

You smiled small, real, the one that made his chest cave in.

“It is too fast,” you admitted. “But I’ve been in love with you since you drew my coffee cup with a tiny crown on it and pretended it was an accident. Since you let me cry on your shoulder after my exam because you didn’t know what to say but stayed anyway. Since you learned how I take my tea and never forget.” You leaned in, forehead to his. “I love you, Hyunjin. Messy, sleepless, charcoal-stained you.”

He kissed you then. Not soft. Not careful. Like he’d been starving and you were the first real meal in months. Your back hit the railing; the scarf fell to the floor. His hands slid under the coat, finding warmth, finding you. You tasted like hot chocolate and winter air and the promise of tomorrow.

When you broke apart, you were both breathless.

“Inside,” you panted. “Before Chan wakes up and murders us for noise.”

Hyunjin laughed loud, free, the sound echoing off the brick walls. He grabbed the sketchbook, the thermos, your hand. You stumbled through the door, kicking off boots, shedding coats. The dorm was dark, but he knew the way past the kitchen, down the hall, to his room. He locked the door behind you.

You flopped onto his bed, coat half-on, hair a mess. He stood over you, sketchbook still clutched to his chest.

“Pose,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Now?”

“Now. Before I forget.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed propped on one elbow, chin in hand, coat slipping off one shoulder. He sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, opened to a fresh page, and drew. Faster this time. No hesitation. The lines flowed like they’d been waiting years.

You watched him. Really watched. The way his tongue poked out when he concentrated. The way his hair fell into his eyes and he didn’t bother pushing it back. The way his fingers moved like they were dancing.

“Tell me something,” you said softly.

“Hm?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t look up. “Because you see me.”

You frowned. “Everyone sees you. You’re—”

“No.” He met your eyes. “They see Hyunjin. The hair. The face. The stage. You see me. The guy who burns rice. Who cries at animated movies. Who draws at 2 a.m. because he’s scared of forgetting how light hits your cheekbone.” He tapped the page. “You’re not a muse. You’re the reason the muse exists.”

You sat up, crawled across the bed, and kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. Like you were memorizing him too.

Hours later, the sketchbook lay forgotten on the floor. You were asleep against his chest, one leg thrown over his, his coat draped over both of you like a blanket. Hyunjin stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.

He thought about the first time you met. You were a junior art director at a photoshoot—sent to “supervise” because the concept was “ethereal.” He’d been in a bad mood, hair too long, makeup too heavy, exhausted from a 16-hour day. You’d handed him a bottle of water and said, “Your left eyebrow is smudged. Want me to fix it?” He’d snapped, “I’m fine.” You’d shrugged, walked away. Later, he found the water bottle with a tiny doodle on the label: a cartoon version of him with a speech bubble that said “I’m fine.”

He’d laughed. Kept the bottle. Found you at crafty the next day. Apologized. You’d smirked, “Took you long enough.”

Now, four months later, you were here. In his bed. In his life. In his art.

Hyunjin reached for his phone, opened the camera, and took a photo: you asleep, mouth slightly open, his coat swallowing you. He set it as his lock screen. Didn’t care if the members saw.

Morning came too soon. The dorm stirred—Chan’s alarm, Felix’s groan, the smell of instant coffee. You woke up panicked.

“Shit, I have work—”

“Call in sick,” he mumbled, pulling you back.

“I can’t—”

“You can. One day. Stay.”

You hesitated. Then texted your boss some excuse about food poisoning. Curled back into him.

The day blurred: breakfast in bed (burnt toast, shared yogurt), sketching each other on the same page until the lines overlapped, dancing in the living room to a playlist you made, kissing against the fridge when Seungmin walked in and screamed.

By evening, you were on the balcony again. The city sparkled below, alive and indifferent. Hyunjin had a new sketchbook yours, actually, the one you’d left in his bag weeks ago. He flipped to a blank page.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

You did.

He drew quickly: your profile against the skyline, the coat collar turned up, the scarf he’d never returned. When he finished, he tore the page out and folded it into a tiny square.

“Open.”

You took it, unfolded it. Inside was the drawing—and a note in his handwriting:

“You are my favorite unfinished masterpiece. Let’s keep adding lines. —H”

You looked up, eyes shining.

“Hyunjin…”

He kissed you before you could finish. The city kept moving. The dorm kept breathing. But on that balcony, time stopped,just long enough for him to know.

He was in love.

Not with the idea of you.

With the real, messy, hot-chocolate-carrying, scarf-stealing, heartbeat-sharing you.

And he’d spend the rest of his life trying to draw it perfectly.

Even if he never quite could.

© 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎, 𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕.

Sorry the text looks all squished together like this, I used the browser so I could make the title colorful and it ended up messing up the fic’s formatting 😭 but I hope it didn’t, like, annoy you guys. If you could leave a comment, send me ideas, or give it a like, I’d really appreciate it 💕

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The music was loud enough to to feel it through your heels.

a stupid senior year party, and a shit long week.

Which was probably why nobody had stopped you from accepting your fourth - fifth or even sixth shot of vodka which burned down your throat everytime.

You'd lost count somewhere between rolling your eyes at strangers and loudly declaring that the playlist sucked, coming alone was a wrong choice you knew that, but the week had been an endless race of undone non ending stuff.

your peace was ruined when some senior year guy tried to hit on you.

You were halfway through arguing with the guy whose name you'd already forgotten when a familiar voice cut through the noise

"Having fun, sunshine?"

You groaned before even turning around... atleast he was better than the senior guy, though you would rather die than ever say it out to him.

I was chris, christopher to be specific.

Of course.

"There he is," you announced dramatically rolling your eyes. "My least favorite person."

Chan folded his arms his eyebrow raising. "You look drunk."

"And you look annoying."

The guys around you laughed...

Chan didn't.

His gaze swept over the group, lingering just long enough to make them shift uncomfortably.

"Come on lets get you home sunshine."

"No." you voiced, no way in hell.

"You're barely standing sunshine."

"I am standing."

and right after, you stumbled sideways.

His hand caught your waist steadying you before you hit the floor

The worst part was how steady he felt.

"You asshole." it came out more slurred than you had anticipated

"That's not my name, sunshine." a smirk formed, god this freak was the universes favourite. You hated him for how smug yet kind he was yet annoyed the fuck outta you, and you would be lying if you said you didnt like his attention, blame your brain for it, all the endless nights you laid on your bed having to help yourself cause of this freak. ugh

You pointed at him.

"Stop calling me sunshine."

"No." he shrugged

"Menace."

"Nope sunshine."

"Control freak."

"freak would be accurate you know, sunshine." he smirked

Your glare would have been devastating if you weren't swaying... worse your ears were burning up

Chan sighed..

Then he started guiding you away... you were too drunk for your own good

You protested the entire journey.

And well he ignored every word.

Outside on the balcony, the cold air slapped your face, in a good way.

you hated how much it helped.

"You always do this," you muttered placing your index finger on his chest

"Do what?" his hand wrapped gently around your wrist pulling you closer and trapping you between his arms

you let him do that, having no strength left in yourself anymore

"Act like you're responsible for everyone yet only annoy the hell outta me, you hate me that bad huh? you always smile at all other women but me. Fucker"

His expression softened... slightly, the guilt of realising you think he hates you when he has liked you since the 1st year of uni, he liked to tease you as a way to be around you, and cause he found it cute when you would shut him up with your own comebacks

he slowly brushed the hair out of your face, tilting your chin up

"i dont hate you y/n, i never did. its quite the opposite.... and someone has to look after the drunk menace, after all she can be overly breath taking dressed so well, and those eyes. god y/n i could never hate you" he whispered against your lips

You stared at him.

That stupid face. That stupid jawline. That stupid concern. And the stuff he was saying right now, that he could never hate you, then what exactly are y'all.

It was infuriating, to a point you wanted to press your lips on his plump plush lips, and the alcohol in your system wasn't really relping the thoughts running wild of wanting his mouth on your neck, and everywhere one could.

"You know," you slurred, "I hate how nice you are..." you added trying to change the topic

Chan laughed quietly, understanding that you didnt wanna dwell on that topic, so he didnt push it.

"I know." he whispered

"No. Like really hate it."

You poked his chest, again

"You make me angry."

"Okay." he grinned

"And you're fucking beautiful like i wanna have y-." by the time you realised what you said it was too late.

His eyebrows shot up.

You looked horrified.

Then annoyed.

Then horrified again.

"Forget I said that."

"Can't. Sunshine complete the damn sentence"

"Yeah wanna kick you in the balls chris."

chan tilted his head and raised his eyebrow, then moved closer to your ear "sunshine, if you want me, learn to voice it. I will only give you what you want after you ask."

and with that he backed off

For a second neither of you spoke... your eyes wide

Then his thumb brushed over your lips, and you slightly bit on it

The moment stretched... he didn't move his hand

Before Chan stepped back after a fraction of second

Like he'd touched something sacred, the realization hit both of you at once...you were drunk.

Very drunk.

Your frown appeared instantly.

"Why'd you move freak?" your hand fisting his tank top pulling him closer

"Because you're drunk." he said, now keeping a safe distance between y'all

"I was having a moment christopher."

Chan rubbed his face.

You you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck

"You are unbelievably irritating chris, you rile me up and back off."

"I didnt mean to y/n i swear"

"No, listen."

You pointed dramatically again.

"You're irritating because everytime you wear these fucking tanks i am riled up. worse? I cant do a shit about it.. so if you dont plan on helping me or liking me not as a fwb and a fling but as someone serious for your considration stay away from me."

His expression changed.

Softened.

You looked away.

"There are days I want to throw something at you... or pull your hair apart"

Chan nodded.

"Fair."

"And other days..." Your voice dropped. "Other days you're all I think about."

Silence.

Then chan grabbed your face, making you face him

"i like you since 1st year sunshine, only you. And will always be you."

you looked surprised, he liked you from 1st year, woah.

"can i be yours yn? i will continue irritating and loving you always"

he was serious, fuck

in an intrusive desicion, your lips were on his, he reciprocated at instant, a low moan escaped him as you bit his lower lip slipping your tongue in, his one hand slid up your throat wraping gently, not choking but a slight pressure his other hand wrapped around your waist pulling you closer, your fingers in his hair tugging slightly, as he pulled away letting you breathe he rested his forehead against yours smiling, the innocent dimple smile like he hadnt just left you breatheless.

"so is that a yes baby?" he whispered

you hummed and he smiled and hugged you kissing the top of your head

Just warm.

Safe.

His chin rested on your head.

"Let's get you home, sunshine."

You groaned playfully

"Stick to baby or yn chris"

"you like it sunshine, admit it"

you just hummed to it a small smile forming

And this is how the man you believed hated you with all his life ended up as the love of your life, afterall life is unpredictable.

the end

a/n: should i write smut fic for this, as a continuation?